The House of Jasmine by Ibrahim Abdel Meguid Read Free Book Online

bridge, the Central Police are forming a thick wall, blocking the far end. They raise their bamboo sticks in the air and hold their shields in front of them. There are numerous boxes filled with tear gas canisters at their feet. The voices of police chiefs are heard from behind them, shouting into megaphones and asking us to disperse before we expose ourselves to danger. The whole thing seems funny. Our demonstration actually stops, following a signal from Sayyid Birsho, who is still up on somebody’s shoulders. He moves as if he were on the back of a trained dancing horse, as if he were swimming on a series of synchronized waves. The air is becoming very cold, coming in from the port on our left and slapping our faces. The little kiosk shop at the bridge entrance is closed, and the blare of a radio is coming from inside. A popular Shadia song is on the radio. Shadia’s voice is very beautiful. The owner must have closed down in a hurry. “They dress in the latest fashion. We live ten to every room. . . ” We chant after Sayyid Birsho. A long time passes. We don’t cross the bridge, nor do the Central Police advance towards us. It’s very strange. Sayyid Birsho shouts some greetings to the Central Police.
    â€œWhat a guy!”
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œThat’s Sayyid Birsho. Don’t you know him?”
    The voices are coming from behind me. Sayyid Birsho is advancing while Muhammad Qandil sings on the imprisoned radio: “Hey beautiful, say good morning, hey beautiful, look at me. . . ” I am determined to follow Sayyid Birsho. The tear gas canisters explode in our faces and blue smoke fills the air. Many are dispersed in the alleys of Kafr ‘Ashri , but the main body of demonstrators remains strong, inching forward, the bridge shaking under our feet. The bamboo sticks sink into our bodies as we plunge into the wall of policemen. One of them attacks me. He is not taller than I am, but the stick raised above me makes him a giant, a vulture on the attack from a mountaintop. I catch the stick with my left arm, bend down, and lift him up between his legs. I find him light as a feather, and maybe because I am right next to the railing, I find myself throwing him in Mahmudiyya Canal. I hear his body splash into the stagnant dirty water.
    It is as though I have found the answer. We are a huge number, and the policemen have no choice but to flee. Every dozen or so of us are carrying one of them and throwing him into the stinking water, causing the rest to run and hide in the streets of Basal Port. Our flood advances to Saba’ Banat Street, moving away from the old bridge—God only knows how it withstood all this.
    I’m now at quite a distance from Sayyid Birsho, trying to push through the crowds with my shoulder and arms in order to get closer to him. What kind of jinni is he who has not fallen or stopped chanting? My height allows me to see that the stores on both sides of the street are closed. There is a single deserted tram on the street, the windows of which were smashed by the demonstrators as they passed. I hear Sayyid Birsho forbidding such acts of destruction. His voice is now clear to me because I’m close enough to him. The demonstrators burned down Labban police station after passing it and finding it surrounded by the Central Police. Once again, I catch myself looking at the high windows where there are still more pretty women and girls.
    Then Manshiyya Square opens before us, and there’s a chilly draft, and large mobs coming from the direction of ‘Urabi Square. They are students from the school of engineering, the school of arts and letters, commerce, law, the whole university, as I learn from bits and pieces of conversation flying around me. “We, the students and the workers, against the capitalist coalition. . . ” I chant more slogans after Sayyid Birsho, and see the happiness on the faces around me as we read the approaching signs: