Sugar Street

119

The streetcar was packed. There was not even room left for riders to stand. Although squeezed in among the others, Kamal towered over them with his lanky physique. He assumed the other passengers were also heading for the celebration of this national holiday, the thirteenth of November. He looked around at their faces with friendly curiosity.

Convinced that he believed in nothing, he still celebrated these holidays like the most ardent nationalist. Buoyed by their common destination and mutual Wafdist allegiance, strangers discussed the political situation with each other. One said, "Commemoration of our past struggle is a struggle in every sense of the word this year. Or it ought to be."

Another observed, "It should provide a response to Foreign Secretary Hoare and his sinister declaration."

Aroused by the reference to the British official, a third shouted, "The son of a bitch said, '… we have advised against the re-enactment of the Constitutions of 1923 and 1930.' Why is our constitution any business of his?"

A fourth reminded the crowd, "Don't forget what he said before that: 'When, however, we have been consulted we have advised…' and so on."

"Yes. Who asked for his advice?"

"Ask this government of pimps about that."

"Tawfiq Nasim! Have you forgotten him? But why did the Wafd enter into a truce with him?"

"There's an end to everything. Wait for the speech today."

Kamal listened and even took part in the discussion. Strangely enough, he felt just as excited as the others. This was his eighth commemoration of Jihad — or Struggle Day. Like the others, he felt bitter about the political experiments of the preceding years.

"I experienced the reign of Muhammad Mahmud, who suspended the constitution for three years in the name of modernization, usurping the people's liberty in exchange for a promise to reclaim swamps and marshlands. I lived through the years of terror and political shame that Isma'il Sidqy imposed on the nation. The people placed their confidence in these men and sought their leadership, only to find them odious executioners, protected by the truncheons and bullets of English constables. Conveyed in one language or another, their message for the Egyptian people has been: 'You're minors. We are your guardians.' The people plunged into one battle after another, emerging breathless from each. Finally they adopted a passive stance of ironic forbearance. Then the arena was empty except for Wafdists and tyrants. The people were content to watch from the sidelines, whispering encouragement to their men but not offering any assistance."

His heart could not ignore the life of the Egyptian people. It was aroused by anything affecting them, even when his intellect wandered off into a fog of doubt.

He got out of the streetcar at Sa'd Zaghlul Street and joined an informal procession heading toward the pavilion erected for the holiday celebrations near Sa'd Zaghlul's home, the House of the Nation. At ten-meter intervals they encountered groups of soldiers with stern but dull faces. They were under the command of English constables. Shortly before reaching the pavilion, he saw Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, Ridwan, and a young man he did not know standing together, talking. They came up to greet him and stayed with him for some time. Ridwan and Abd al-Muni'm had been law students for about a month, and Ahmad had begun the final year of secondary school.

In the street Kamal could view them as "men". At home he always thought of them as young nephews. Although Ridwan was exceptionally handsome, his companion, whom he introduced as Hilmi Izzat, was equally good-looking. They demonstrated the truth of the saying: "Birds of a feather flock together."

Ahmad was a source of delight for Kamal, who could always anticipate some entertainingly novel observation or action from him. Of all his nephews, he felt closest spiritually to this one. Although he was shorter and plumper, there was a physical resemblance between Abd al-Muni'm and Kamal, who could love the young man for that reason, if for no other. It was this nephew's certainty and fanaticism he found offensive.

Approaching the huge pavilion, Kamal looked around at the swarming crowds of people, pleased by the astonishing numbers.

After gazing at the platform where the people's spokesman would soon deliver an address, he took his seat. His presence at a crowded gathering liberated a new person from deep inside his alienated and isolated soul, a new individual who was throbbing with life and enthusiasm. While his intellect was temporarily sealed up as if in a bottle, psychic forces ordinarily suppressed burst forth, eager for an existence filled with emotions and sensation. They were incentives for him to strive harder and to hope. At times like these, his life was revitalized, his natural impulses were free to express themselves, and his loneliness melted away. He felt linked to the people around him, as if sharing in their lives and embracing their hopes and pains. It would have been unnatural for him to adopt this life permanently, but it was necessary every now and then to keep him from feeling divorced from the daily routines of the people. For the time being he would postpone consideration of the problems of matter, spirit, physics, or metaphysics, in order to concentrate on what these people loved and hated… the constitution, the economic crisis, the political situation, and the nationalist cause. There was nothing strange about shouting slogans like "The Wafd creed is the nation's creed!" after having spent the previous night contemplating the absurdity of existence. The intellect can rob a person of peace of mind. An intellectual loves truth, desires honor, aims for tolerance, collides with doubt, and suffers from a continuous struggle with instincts and passions. He needs an hour when he can escape through the embrace of society from the vexations of his life. Then he feels reinvigorated, enthusiastic, and youthful.

In the library he had a few outstanding friends like Darwin, Bergson, and Russell, but in this pavilion there were thousands of friends. If they seemed mindless, they still collectively embodied a commendable natural alertness. In the final analysis, such people were as responsible as intellectual giants for shaping the events of history. In his political life Kamal loved and hated; he felt pleased and annoyed. Yet as an intellectual skeptic, he thought nothing mattered. Whenever he confronted this contradiction, he was overwhelmed by anxiety. No sector of his life was free from contradictions and therefore from anxiety.

For this reason, his heart yearned intensely to achieve a harmonious unity both perfect and happy. Where was this unity to be found? He felt that the life of thought was unavoidable for him so long as he had a mind with which to think. Yet that did not keep him from considering the opposite style of life toward which all his suppressed and ignored vital impulses pushed him as if toward a secure rock surrounded by surging water.

Perhaps for causes like these Kamal found this gathering splendid. The larger the crowd got, the more magnificent everything seemed. He waited for the leaders to appear with as much fervor and impatience as the rest of the audience.

Abd al-Muni'm and Ahmad sat next to each other, but Ridwan and his friend Hilmi Izzat were either strolling back and forth in the central aisle of the pavilion or standing at the entrance, where they chatted with some of the officials in charge of the festivities. The two certainly were influential young men. The crowd's whispers created a general hubbub. From the far seats occupied by young people there rose a clamor punctuated by yells. Then a loud cry washeard from outside, making heads turn toward the entrance. Everyone stood up and released a deafening roar. Mustafa al-Nahhas appeared on the dais, where he greeted the multitudes with his sincere smile and mighty hands.

Kamal watched the Wafd Party leader with eyes that had temporarily lost their skeptical look, although he wondered how he could believe in this man after ceasing to believe in everything else. Was it because the man was a symbol of independence and democracy? In any case, the warm relationship between the leader and the public was obvious and worth seeing. It had doubtless been a significant factor in the formation of Egyptian nationalism.

The atmosphere was charged with enthusiasm and ardor. The officials wore themselves out quieting the audience so that a reciter could chant some appropriate verses from the Qur'an, including "Prophet, goad the Believers to fight" (8:65). People had been waiting for this call, and their shouts and applause rang out in response to it. Some of the more sedate deplored the outburst and demanded that the audience be silent out of respect for God's Book. Their protest awakened old memories for Kamal of a time when he had been numbered among these pious souls. He smiled and immediately was reminded of his special world, so full of pairs of contradictions canceling out each other that it seemed empty.

The leader rose to deliver his address, which was clear, effective, and delivered in a resonant voice. Lasting for two hours, it concluded with an open call for the use of force and an unambiguous appeal for revolution. The crowd's excitement reached a fever pitch. People stood on the chairs and yelled with wild enthusiasm. Kamal shouted as passionately as anyone else. He forgot he was a teacher who was expected to maintain his dignity. He imagined that he had been transported back to the glorious revolutionary dayshe had heard about but had not been privileged to experience. Had the speeches back then been as forcefully delivered? Had the crowds received them with comparable enthusiasm? Had death seemed insignificant for those reasons? No doubt Fahmy had been in a gathering like this once and had then rushed off to death and immortality or annihilation. Was it possible for a skeptic to become a martyr?

"Perhaps patriotism, like love," he thought, "is a force to which we surrender, whether or not we believe in it."

The passionate outbursts were intense. The chants were ardent and me tiacing. Chairs rocked with the motion of the men standing upon them. What would be the next step? Before anyone knew what was happening, throngs of people were heading outside. As He left his place, Kamal looked around, searching for his young relatives, but found no trace of them. He left the pavilion by a side door and then walked briskly toward Qasr al-Ayni Street to get there before the crowd. On his way he passed by the House of the Nation and, as always, gazed at it, moving his eyes from the historic balcony to the courtyard, which had witnessed such momentous events in the nation's history. The building had an almost magical fascination for him. Here Sa'd Zaghlul had stood. Here Fahmy and his comrades had stood. On this street bullets had lodged in the breasts of the martyrs. His people were in perpetual need of a revolution to combat the waves of oppression that prevented their rebirth. Periodic revolutions were necessary to serve as a vaccine against this dread disease, for tyranny was the nation's most deeply entrenched malady.

Kamal's participation in this patriotic holiday had successfully reinvigorated him. Nothing mattered to him except the need for Egypt to reply emphatically and decisively to Hoare's declaration. He held his tall, slender body erect and his large head high as his feet pounded against the pavement. He had lofty affairs and significant deeds on his mind as he passed by the American University campus. Even a teacher occasionally had to join a revolution with his students. He smiled almost in despair. He was an instructor with a big head, destined to teach the fundamentals of English and nothing more, even though this language had introduced him to countless mysteries. His body occupied a tiny space on the swarming surface of the earth, while his imagination spun round in a whirlpool embracing all the secrets of nature. In the morning he asked what this word meant and how to spell that one. In the evening he pondered the meaning of his existence this riddle that follows one puzzle and precedes another one. In the morning his heart was ablaze with rebellion against the English but in the evening it was chastened by a general feeling of brotherhood for all mankind as he felt inclined to cooperate with everyone in order to confront the puzzle of man's destiny.

He shook his head rather forcefully as if to expel these thoughts. As He approached al-Isma'iliya Square he could hear people shouting. He realized that the demonstrators had reached Qasr al-Ayni Street. The combative spirit animating his breast made him hesitate. Perhapshe would join in the day's demonstrations after all. For too long the nation had patiently endured the blows it received. Today it was Tawfiq Nasim, yesterday Isma'il Sidqy, and before that Muhammad Mahmud. This ill-omened chain of despots stretched back into prehistory. "Every bastard has been deluded by his own power and has claimed to be the chosen guardian for us children…. Not so fast! The demonstration is raging ahead furiously, but what's this?"

Disturbed, Kamal turned to look back. The sound he heard shook his heart. As He listened intently, the noise of shots rang out once more. He could see demonstrators in the distance, milling around chaotically. Groups of people were rushing toward the square, while othersheaded for the side streets. English constables on horseback were galloping in the direction of the demonstrators. The shouting grew louder. Screams mixed with angry voices, and the firing became more intense. Kamal'sheart pounded as, overcome by a troubled rage, he worried with each beat about Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, and Ridwan. Turning right and then left, he noticed a coffeehouse at the corner nearby and made for it. The doors were almost closed, and on entering he remembered the pastry shop in al-Husayn district where he had first heard gunfire.

There was pandemonium everywhere. Initially the rapid firing was frightening, but then the shots became less frequent. The sound of breaking glass was audible as well as the neighing of horses. An increase in volume of the furious voices showed that rebellious bands were dashing at breakneck speed from one location to the next. An elderly man entered the cafe. Before anyone could ask him what he had seen, he exclaimed, "The constables' bullets rained down on the students. Only God knows how many were hit". He sat down, breathing hard, and then added in a trembling voice, "It was treachery pure and simple. If their goal had been to break up the demonstration, they would have fired into the air from their distant positions. But they escorted the demonstration with calculated calm and then stationed themselves at the intersections. Suddenly they drew their revolvers and began firing. They shot to kill, showing no mercy. Young boys fell writhing in their own blood. The English were beasts, but the Egyptia n soldiers were no less brutal. It was a premeditated massacre, my God."

A voice called out from the rear of the room, "My heart told me that today would end badly."

Another answered, "These are evil times. Since Hoare announced his declaration, people have been expecting momentous events. Other battles will follow. I promise you that."

"The victims are always students, the most precious children of the nation, alas."

"But the shooting has stopped. Hasn't it? Listen."

"The main part of the demonstration is at the House of the Nation. The shooting will continue there for hours to come."

But the square was silent. Minutes dragged by heavily, charged with tension. Darkness began to fall, and the lamps in the coffeehouse were lit. There was total silence, as if death had overtaken the square and the surrounding streets. When the double doors of the coffeehouse were opened wide, the square — empty of pedestrians and vehicles was visible. A column of steel-helmeted policemen on horseback circled it, preceded by their English commanders.

Kamal kept wondering about the fate of his nephews. When traffic in the square hesitantly picked up again, he left the coffeehouse and hurried off. He did not return home until he had first visited. Sugar Street and Palace of Desire Alley to reassure himself that Abd al-Muni'm, Ahmad, and Ridwan were safe.

Alone in his library, his heart filled with sorrow, distress, and anger, he did not read or write a single word. His mind was still roaming around the House of the Nation, thinking of Hoare, the revolutionary speech, the patriotic chants, and the screams of the victims. He found himself trying to recall the name of the pastry shop where he had hidden long ago, but memory failed him.