Doaa and her family hadn’t been paying close attention to the Egyptian news since they were too busy watching the daily horror show that was the destruction of their own country. But on June 30, 2013, the first anniversary of the inauguration of President Morsi, mass demonstrations in Cairo and Alexandria against his rule had reached a level that they couldn’t ignore. Growing frustration and disenchantment with the government brought millions of people to the streets, complaining that the revolution that had brought down President Mubarak two years before had now been hijacked. Living standards were deteriorating, secular politicians were being alienated from their own government, and Morsi’s draft constitution had an Islamist slant that troubled much of the population. Egyptians began to worry their country could unravel violently the same way that Syria had. The protests in Egypt continued for four days. Then, on July 3, 2013, eight months after the Al Zamels had arrived in Damietta, Mohamed Morsi was ousted by the army. General Abdel Fattah el-Sisi orchestrated the coup that swept Morsi out of power, and overnight, attitudes toward Syrian refugees in the country changed, swept up in the same wave that overthrew Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood. Since Morsi had been welcoming to Syrian refugees, people believed they were part of his movement and were his supporters.
Doaa’s family could do nothing but watch as Egyptian news anchors began to label Syrians as potential terrorists who were allied with the extremists that were emerging in Syria. And if they weren’t terrorists, then they were considered Morsi supporters. Allegations arose that the Muslim Brotherhood had paid Syrian refugees to join demonstrations in support of Morsi. Youssef el-Husseini, a well-known state TV talk show host, delivered an ominous message to Syrians: “If you are a man, you should return to your country and solve your problem there. If you interfere in Egypt, you will be beaten by thirty shoes.” In Middle Eastern culture, hitting someone with a shoe is considered to be belittling, and to Syrians, hearing this threat was both frightening and insulting. Egypt’s open-door policy came to an end with an announcement that a visa would be required for any Syrian to enter the country, and any Syrians already in Egypt who didn’t have the proper residency paperwork would be arrested and possibly deported.
The atmosphere in Egypt for Syrians changed dramatically during this time. They got no more friendly greetings in the streets, just cold stares. The aid they used to receive from the local Muslim Brotherhood community dried up, and instead locals in the street told them that they were ruining the country.
The girls began to get harassed whenever they left the house. One day, Doaa was walking to the supermarket with her mother when a man on a motorbike slowed down and rode close to them. He leaned over, almost touching Doaa, and taunted, “Hey, girl, would you marry me?” Then to Hanaa, he called, “Would you let me marry her? She is very beautiful.” He leered at Doaa, ogling her body up and down and making kissing sounds. Doaa could smell his sour breath and recoiled from him, disgusted and afraid. The man circled them twice on his motorbike, then drove away, laughing at their fear. Doaa and her family had been aware that sexual harassment was pervasive in Egypt but had never experienced it themselves, and now it seemed that it was predominantly directed at Syrian women. Doaa and her sisters no longer felt safe in their neighborhood. What had once been a country of refuge was now just one more place of menace for Doaa and her family.
Bassem, meanwhile, had grown desperate in his love for Doaa. One day, one of his flatmates came to the Al Zamel apartment to tell Hanaa that he thought Bassem was going to kill himself if he couldn’t marry Doaa and that he’d seen a bottle of poison in Bassem’s room. When Hanaa went to check on him, at the door he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Bassem had become pale and thin, and Hanaa pushed her way past him and into his room and found the bottle of rat poison.
Furious, she scolded him, “You can’t do this to yourself.” She waved the bottle in his face. “Men can’t be like this.”
He looked down at the ground, ashamed. He told her he didn’t want to live if he couldn’t be with Doaa. “I’m going back to Syria to fight if she does not accept my proposal. There’s nothing else here for me.”
From the quiet certainty about him when he told her this, Hanaa believed that he would actually do it. Bassem already felt like a son to her, and she couldn’t bear the thought of his dying in the war. She tried to encourage him to have faith: “Be patient! Maybe she’ll change her mind, but in the meantime you must be strong.”
Hanaa took the bottle of rat poison with her when she left, promising to check back in on him, then promptly threw the bottle away.
When Hanaa returned home that evening, she sat Doaa down in the common room and described to Doaa the lengths Bassem was prepared to go to convince her of his love, including taking his own life. She took Doaa’s cold hands in hers. Doaa’s hands were always icy when she felt exhausted or worked too hard. “When a man humiliates himself for a woman, it means he truly loves her,” Hanaa said. “Will you at least think about accepting his engagement?”
Hearing about Bassem’s desperation made Doaa feel guilty. She didn’t want him to be miserable, but she also didn’t like the pressure his actions put her under. “I don’t deserve this,” she told her mother, “and I don’t want his love.” Saja, overhearing, interjected, “I wish someone would do that for me. He must really love you.” But Doaa ignored her sister. She refused to be pressured or cajoled into accepting any man.
The following day, when Doaa left the apartment, she was surprised to see Bassem dressed in a new suit with his hair freshly groomed, smelling of aftershave. “Doaa,” he said, “I know what I did was wrong. You don’t deserve that kind of pressure. Please forgive me.”