An Apartment Called Freedom

Ghazi A. Algosaibi

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781317847960
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Anthropology
• Index: Social Sciences

First published in 1996. The writer was in Cairo in the period with which the novel deals. None the less, all the characters and all the events are the product of his imagination. Furthermore, incidents portraying real personalities mentioned in the novel are also fictional.

CHAPTER ONE

August 1956

His mind was full of questions but he could find no answers. Now the captain of the aircraft was troubling him with another one. Maybe this was the thinking behind the competition, to keep the passengers occupied with one simple question so that they would not be bothered with more questions which could be in their minds. Still, it seemed a bit odd: ‘How much fuel is this aircraft carrying?’

Passengers were told that the one who got the correct answer or the nearest to it would receive a prize. The steward passed along, each passenger took a form.

Fuad concentrated. ‘How many gallons of fuel does this aircraft carry?’ It had never crossed his mind before to wonder. Would it be possible to make an analogy with a car? He knew a car could easily have 20 gallons in the tank but an aircraft was carrying over 100 passengers with all their luggage, some of it very heavy like his own. He smiled as he remembered his baggage: four heavy suitcases apart from his considerable hand baggage. His brother Khalil had said ‘Are you going on a trip to the moon? To the North Pole? Why all this luggage?’

But his mother had insisted that he should take with him everything he might need in ‘the land of strangers’. Hence the bathroom towels, packets of tea, blocks of toilet paper, tins of biscuits and chocolate, a tiny radio. He smiled as he remembered all these things but then frowned as he imagined himself standing before Customs at Cairo Airport.

He had heard about these Customs officials, how they opened all the luggage and turned everything out, and then they would not let you through until you had paid up. This payment was really perplexing. His brother Nasir had said to him, laughing, ‘Just imagine – you’re going to Cairo to study law and you’ll start your life there with a bribe, something illegal! Can’t you just see yourself in a police cell? Do you know what the punishment is for a bribe? A year in gaol, at least.’ He laughed.

But it wasn’t funny at all; it was really serious. Friends who were old hands in passing through Cairo Airport said that bribery was unavoidable and bribery was a crime. It was true that he had never heard of anyone being arrested at Cairo Airport on a charge but… who knows? He remembered Nasir cackling on. ‘I really don’t know how you are going to make out in Cairo, if you drown in a little puddle like that! I just wish I could be there to watch you in action. Immigration. Customs. You’ll really get in a mess!’

It seemed like a big joke to his two brothers, but Fuad couldn’t see the funny side. After all he was still only sixteen, twenty years younger than Nasir and ten years younger than Khalil. They were used to going abroad but it was his first trip on his own. Up to now there had always been someone older with him to take charge of the arrangements, and to handle the red tape. Even when he had left Bahrain Airport everything had been arranged for him and Nasir had even taken him to the aircraft door. But now he was alone. He now had to rely on himself and to remember that a new phase in his life was beginning. He had become a man who had to face strangers and confront problems as men did.

Foreign parts? Strangers? But, he was going to Cairo: how could Cairo possibly be a place of strangers? Cairo was the capital of the Arabs and the centre of the civilization of Islam. Egypt was God’s land. Cairo was the Mother of the Universe, as the Egyptians called it. (Funny, they also called Cairo ‘Misr’, the word for Egypt, too!) Cairo was Cairo of Gamal Abdul Nasser, of The Voice of the Arabs, of the struggle against Colonialism, it was the city of hope. Cairo represented the nationalization of the Suez Canal. When this came to him every fear disappeared, the worried inner voices were stilled. He felt warmth coursing through his veins. It was only a few weeks since the nationalization and the memory of that historic speech was engraved on his soul. He could still hear ringing in his ears that strong, vibrant voice.

‘Decree from the President of the Republic for the nationalization of the Suez Canal Company, an Egyptian joint-stock company.’

The Suez Canal? No, it was The Canal For Getting Rid of Colonialism, The Canal Leading to a Sunlit Tomorrow, which is being made for all the Arabs by the Egyptian Revolution.

And now he was on his way to the Cairo of the Revolution, the Cairo of Gamal Abdul Nasser. His feelings were in turmoil. He would be in the same city as Gamal Abdul Nasser… Who knows, perhaps he would even one day be on the same street as the President. He might even see him in the flesh, might even shake his hand, or talk to him. Why not!? Had not Gamal Abdul Nasser replied to all the letters which the students had sent him from the secondary school in Bahrain? Had he not sent them a picture of himself if they had asked? The signature was just a rubber stamp but it was the signature. He must have signed the original himself.

Fuad’s smile became broader as he recalled Mr Headley, their English language teacher. He would fly into a rage every time Nasser was mentioned, so the students would happily infuriate him by evoking Nasser whenever they could. Mr Headley would come into the classroom and find written on the board ‘Long live Gamal Abdul Nasser!’ He would then turn to the class. ‘I know it would be a waste of time to ask who did this. The writing is ugly, and ‘Long live …’ is not written like that. Then he would sigh and clean the board. But one day he came in and found a picture of Nasser on the wall. Calmly he walked over with the famous coolness of the English, took it off the wall and placed it on the table in front of him. ‘The owner of this … thing … can collect it after I leave.’

One of the students raised his hand. ‘Mr Headley, did you hear Gamal Abdul Nasser’s speech yesterday? He was speaking for more than three hours!’

‘I feel sorry for those who had to listen!’

Another schoolfriend said, ‘Look, Mr Headley! A picture of Gamal Abdul Nasser! Would you like to see it?’

‘No! No! I know what he looks like and I don’t want to see his picture. I thought that sending out pictures was something that only actresses did!’

Then the whole class would enthusiastically debate Nasser and the students would have killed three birds with one stone: they would defend Arab Nationalism; they would annoy their colonialist teacher and the hour would pass.

However these pleasant memories could not make Fuad forget practical considerations. Would anyone meet him at the airport? Where would he meet his friends who had gone ahead of him to Cairo? He did not know their address.

His father had sent a cable the week before to Mr Shareef who would be looking after him in Cairo. Surely Mr Shareef would send someone to meet him if he did not come himself. Anyway Fuad had the address in Dokki. He could go directly there if he had to. As for a place to stay, Mr Shareef would be bound to have arranged something. His Bahraini friends would be in the apartment blocks run by the Islamic Conference, and it would be easy to get the address from Mr Shareef or the Islamic Conference itself. The whole thing would be a breeze.

But in his heart he knew that it was not going to be simple. He imagined himself alone in Cairo with its three million people. How many people did he know there? Ten, at the most. He could see himself wandering lost in quarters of the city that had such weird names. ‘Al-Agooza!’ What kind of a name was that? He wondered where the name had come from. Had there been an old, grey-haired lady living in that quarter as the translation suggested? Or was it that that was the oldest quarter of Cairo? What was the story behind ‘Nawal Street’ where Mr Shareef lived? Was there a woman called Nawal? And what about ‘Garden City’? How could Gamal Abdul Nasser allow the English name when the colonial era was over?

He thought of how well he knew Cairo before he had even seen it. He had seen the city in films and newspapers and people had told him about it. His Egyptian teachers in the primary and secondary schools had loved talking about Cairo. He had acquired a mass of information. The Andalucia Gardens were the most beautiful in the Middle East. The Zoo was the second biggest in the world after London’s. There was an astonishing clock made of flowers in Cairo, a clock that talked. In Helwan there was a Japanese garden the like of which did not exist even in Japan. And as for the capital of Bahrain, you could put it in any one of Cairo’s streets. You could hide it in the middle of the Shubra quarter and not be able to find it.

And what about the girls? All as beautiful as film stars, like his favourite, Iman. And they were emancipated like all girls in films and in the stories of Ihsan Abdul-Quddus. In Bahrain a girl from a well-known family had refused to wear the abbaya and this had caused a great uproar. No girls went unveiled in Bahrain except a few Christians and Jews from Iraq. In Cairo they were all unveiled except girls from the country districts and old women. And who wanted them to be unveiled? He concentrated on this delicious theme. Would he have his own girlfriend? Would they go together to the Metro Cinema? To the Andalucia Gardens? To the Zoo? How would he find her? The university was co-ed so there should be no problem. But he had a year ahead of him in college before the university and the college was not co-ed. But he might get to know a girl in the residential block or nearby. He had heard that a number of friendships had grown from a smile which had been carried, like a butterfly, across the street, from one balcony to another.

But there was one thing he would never do, and that was to go with prostitutes, no matter how attractive. Some of them were young, nice girls and you could hardly tell them from ordinary girls. But he knew that he could never love a body that could be bought for just a few dirhams. He recalled ‘Grandol’, the red-light district in Bahrain, one of the most hateful gifts left behind by colonialism, the panic that had seized him a few months ago when one of his friends had suggested they visit one of the houses there. He would have a girlfriend in Cairo but he would never make a friend of a whore.

But he had to address again the problem of the visa. He had none but he hoped he could get an emergency one at the airport and later get his residence permit. Why worry? Mr Shareef would organize ‘everything’, he had assured his father a number of times. Fuad had known Mr Shareef for three years. He had been headmaster of the secondary school. Everyone said he had been the most energetic headmaster the school had ever known. During his short time in Bahrain he had quickly established solid ties with many people and he had got to know Fuad’s father and they had become friends and he had persuaded his father to send Fuad to school in Cairo. But Mr Shareef was very strict. Would he be able to enjoy his stay in Cairo with a supervisor such as he?

Fuad’s thoughts were interrupted by the steward asking him if he had filled in his form. He had as he scribbled down ‘10,000 gallons’. Would he be the winner? And what would be his prize? He decided that he would make the competition the omen for the journey: if he won or was close this would be a sign that all would turn out well; but if he did not win… then there would be a big hassle with the visa, Customs and where to stay.

‘May God open it before your face, my son!’ He recalled how his mother had called to God for him as she embraced him in tears before he set out. She repeated her prayer and embraced him again. And for the tenth time she asked him if he had written down that verse from the Holy Koran. ‘Dearest one, have you written down the ayya?’

His mother would never let anyone travel unless they had written on the wall the verse from the Noble Koran. ‘He who gave you the Holy Koran will return you to your abode.’ His mother had an unshakeable faith that anyone who wrote this verse must return home safely from any journey, God willing. This time she had been more insistent than usual and would not be calmed until he had written it three times.

Fuad was astonished that he had been able to part from her: what would his life be like without her smile in the morning and her care throughout the day, the stories she would tell in the evening? The way she doted on him was bantered about at home even by his father who seldom went in for jokes. It seemed to Fuad that his mother’s tendency to spoil him increased as he grew older: the favoured, stifled, youngest child. Sometimes he thought that his mother believed he was no more than five years old and never would be, that his height of six feet was no more than a disguise, behind which hid her young child, Fuado, as she would call him.

This journey had created tension between his parents. ‘Abu Nasir, how can you let Fuad live by himself in Egypt?’

‘Fuad has become a man.’

‘A man? He is still a child of thirteen.’

‘Woman, is your son getting younger or older? He’ll soon be seventeen, or he may already be seventeen. Have you forgotten that I married you when I was younger than he is now?’

‘But Abu Nasir …’

‘That’s an end of it, he will travel by himself.’

‘May God open it before your face, my son!’

Fuad felt reassured: what a beautiful expression that was of his mother’s.

But: open what? The world. Cairo. Studies. The gateway to the future?

He tried to read the book which had lain neglected at his side but it was impossible to concentrate. His brain buzzed with so much else. He had not slept all night, sleep had never come easily to him. He always had to spend some time on his bed turning restlessly and thinking: for half an hour, sometimes much more. He always envied people who could drop off to sleep as soon as their head touched the pillow: wasn’t there anything that worried them? Didn’t they have anything to think about?

The pilot was now announcing the result of the competition. The winning number was many times greater than the one he had written down. The prize for the winner was a set of luggage. At this Fuad smiled since the luggage he had was more than enough. Then he became apprehensive since he had decided that the result of the competition would be a kind of omen for the whole journey. He looked at his watch: a few minutes before eight. The plane was making a slow descent and he looked down. He saw the barren, fawncoloured desert, as far as the eye could see. Where was the Nile? Where were the Pyramids? Where was Garden City. How could the aircraft descend to Cairo without the passengers being able to see the Nile?

The door was opened and an official came aboard, wearing a black uniform and carrying a ‘Flit’ gun. Before this there had not been a single fly on the aircraft. He strode down the aisle, spraying from his gun and causing sneezes with every squeeze of the Flit. Behind him swarmed clouds of flies which had entered the aircraft with him and which were apparently immune to Flit. The official then disembarked, followed by three more officers in smart uniforms and stern faces. Immediately Fuad began to feel guilty: he had brought a radio with him and there was that visa problem. Also he had concealed in his pocket fifty Egyptian pounds in contravention of currency regulations. He quickly put these thoughts out of his mind and recalled that he had come to a revolutionary country ruled by a revolutionary army. It was battling against dangers imposed by the colonialists. The aircraft bringing him to Egypt had the name of Cyprus on it but it was owned by a British company. These officers, for sure, were the guardians of the revolution against conspiracies being brought in aboard colonialists aircraft. They would not be concerned with his ‘tiny’ crime. At this thought he began to relax, as the officers moved amongst the passengers, peering into every face. As they came to him he smiled but no one returned his smile. After an interval of staring silently at their faces they allowed the passengers to disembark.

His heart began to race: so this was Cairo, and the start of the great adventure. The first impression that leaped to his mind was that he had never seen an airport as large as this. He had seen the airports at Dhahran, Kuwait, Beirut and Damascus but none of them was as huge as this. And none had such swelling crowds of people as now engulfed him. Some wore uniforms, some wore ordinary clothes and all were talking at the same time.

He found himself in the queue formed before the passport window and was delighted to see that the officer was smiling and completing each passport within moments. As he found himself before the officer Fuad was planning to explain that he had arrived without a visa because there was no Egyptian Consulate in Bahrain and he wanted to get an emergency visa. Instead he found that he did not dare to speak, and so he handed over his passport to the officer who flicked through the pages twice coldly.

‘Where’s the visa?’

‘I have come from Bahrain …’

The officer interrupted him. ‘Go back to the end of the queue!’

He obeyed...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Table of Contents
• 1. August 1956
• 2. October–November 1956
• 3. November–December 1957
• 4. February–March 1958
• 5. May 1958
• 6. November 1958
• 7. April 1959
• 8. June 1959
• 9. September 1959
• 10. November 1959
• 11. December 1959
• 12. February 1960
• 13. April 1960
• 14. August 1960
• 15. September–October 1960
• 16. December 1960
• 17. February 1961
• 18. April 1961
• 19. June 1961
• 20. August 1961
• 21. September–October 1961