A man with a briefcase tries to barrel his way onto the car. A couple of the women block his entrance while others shout him out. None of it fazes the old lady, who continues reading the Quran.
Just before the third stop, she stows her holy book and extends a hand so I can help her to her feet. She gestures at the doors. “Sadat.”
Together we step into a crowd swollen by the crossing of two Cairo subway lines. People push past us as we stand in the middle of the platform, but she holds my arm until Adam arrives. Before she releases me, I place my hand on top of hers and smile. “Shokran.”
She gives me a gentle pat and smiles back, and then she is gone.
CHAPTER 18
The graffiti around Tahrir Square (actually a circle) reminds me of the East Side Gallery in Berlin. My parents took an anniversary trip to Germany and Mom returned with a whole series of photos of the art that has been painted on a long segment of what was once the Berlin Wall. Tahrir feels more immediate and raw but bears a lot of the same themes. Portraits of the people killed during the January 25 revolution. Caricatures of Hosni Mubarak—the president deposed by the revolution—that depict him swinging from a noose. Che Guevara with a long beard and a Muslim prayer cap. There is even one of Barack Obama as the tap of a bloody shower, representing the United States’ support for the Mubarak regime. I don’t understand the revolution enough to grasp the role my own country played, but clearly some Egyptians think it was not a good one.
“The government tries to paint over these works, as if removing the images will remove our memories,” Adam says. “But the artists keep returning.”
I’m snapping a shot of Snow White toting a machine gun when a police officer approaches us. I slip my phone into my bag as he and Adam exchange words. Adam gestures toward me and I recognize a word that sounds like American. Finally he digs into the pocket of his jeans and hands over a couple of bills.
“What just happened?” I ask as the officer walks away.
“He pretended to believe I am your tour guide,” Adam says. “And he said he could make our protection a priority, to keep others from thinking we are trying to incite protest. For a price, of course.”
“And you just paid him like it’s no big deal?”
“What would you have me do?”
I shake my head. “This place is so messed up.”
“And America is perfect?”
“No, but it’s not like this.”
“Just remember, after your country witnessed a revolution in Egypt, we watched what happened in Ferguson,” he says.
“That was one city.”
Adam’s eyebrows lift. “Was it?”
The backlash from Ferguson spread, prompting an entire movement to protect black Americans from police brutality, so no . . . it wasn’t just one city. The corruption here in Egypt isn’t better or worse than back home. It’s just different. But the people’s response to corruption in both countries seems universal. “The whole world’s pretty messed up, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Adam says, then offers me a smile that makes my toes curl. “But there is also kindness everywhere.”
True to the police officer’s well-funded word, no one hassles us as we walk along Mohammed Mahmoud Street, looking at the images on the wall surrounding the American University of Cairo. Adam translates the words scrawled with the images.
Down with Mubarak.
Be afraid of us, government.
Glory to the martyrs.
It is still January Revolution.
“Even though they knew it would be dangerous, my parents brought us to the square so my sister and I could witness history as it was being made. My mother painted Egyptian flags on our cheeks and we danced when the Mubarak regime fell,” Adam says. “Then Morsi, the next president, was removed. Now our leaders seem to be more concerned with eliminating opposition than meeting the demands of the revolution, so I fear we are back where we began. Those who led the uprising are in jail or have fled the country, and I do not think the people can rise up again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
We stop at a tiny bookshop squeezed between a restaurant and a pharmacy, where I buy a photo book of revolution graffiti, including some of the art that’s already been whitewashed away. We sit in the bookshop’s café, sipping coffee and karkadeh, and Adam asks me about Ohio.
“Well, we don’t have nearly as much sand and it’s very green,” I say. “Lots of farms and forests, and my town is right on Lake Erie, which is one of the Great Lakes.”
I search the Internet for pictures of downtown Sandusky and Adam’s eyes widen. “The buildings are so small and the streets so clean. And no traffic.”
“We do get some traffic in the summer when the tourists come to Cedar Point.” I bring up pictures of the amusement park and explain that it holds world records for the roller coasters. I tell him how Sandusky was once a stop on the Underground Railroad and how it was also home to a prison for Confederate officers during the Civil War. After meeting Aya, I put more personal pictures on the new phone, so I show Adam my house, my friends, and Owen.
“He is my ex-boyfriend,” I say. “We’ve known each other since we started school, but we dated for three years.”
Adam sits back in his chair and toys with his coffee glass. He doesn’t look at me and I can feel him pulling away. “That is a long time.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you loved him?”
“Yes.”
“Were you going to be married?”
“No. And we will be going to different colleges next year, so we would probably have broken up anyway,” I say. “My religion has a lot of the same rules as yours. Some people choose to follow them. Some don’t. As I loudly mentioned at the train station, Owen and I followed the rules.”
Silence sits between us and I pull my lower lip between my teeth, willing Adam to say something. Anything. What if the way I feel about him is all in my head? What if the reason I like him is because he’s the only guy I know in Egypt?
“Do you love him still?” he asks.
I love the way Owen’s smile always felt like sitting in the sun. I love how unapologetic he was about telling groan-worthy jokes. I love that he was a great listener. I love that he always respected my personal boundaries. He was the perfect first boyfriend. But he didn’t break my heart. “He will always be my friend.”
Leaving me no hints as to whether he is satisfied with my answer, Adam digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He taps a few icons and then hands me the device. On the screen is a picture of him posing with three other guys.
“Bahar is on the left. He studies medicine at Cairo University,” he says. “This one with the beard is his brother, Omar, who works as a baggage handler at the airport. And Magdi, on the right, repairs computers at a shop not far from here.”