Mama and I sit watching TV until the call to prayer. It sounds from the mosque across the river and echoes into the house. The president had issued a decree banning mosque speakers above a certain decibel, but they had become louder again after a few months of quieting down. It’s the most pertinent daily reminder of the increasing antagonism between the Brotherhood and the state. Mama prays but shakes her head every time the muezzin begins to warm his voice into the loudspeaker. Her neck tenses and she shuts her eyes for a moment. God had helped her in the years since Baba left, but it didn’t mean religion had to be imposed like this. They didn’t have to force it all down our throats.
When the massacre had happened, even Amina the housekeeper said she was against this new Islam. She had missed work that day and come on Saturday instead. Mama was still asleep when the doorbell rang. I stuck my head out of the window. Who? She waved and called her name. Mama is sleeping. I can wait. Do you want to leave her a message? I’m coming to work. Today is your day? I didn’t come on Wednesday because of the accident. I buzzed her in. The back steps are narrow. She clasped one side of her galabia in one hand and put her other on the black metal banister. She heaved herself up onto the first step. Paused, and looked up at me. She was already out of breath. I know that she walks twenty minutes to the bus stop from her house. Takes one bus then another. The second drops her off five minutes away. It takes her twenty more minutes to walk those five minutes. She lives in a shed on the roof of a building with a single lightbulb and no running water. I looked at her with a pained expression on my face. I didn’t want to watch her climb the two flights but also felt I should. Can I help? God bless you. I moved my head in awkward acknowledgment. Took half a step back. Watched as she labored her way up.
Amina changed out of her galabia, shielded by the door of the broom closet. I sat in the kitchen. She asked when Mama would wake. I shrugged. Maybe an hour? She went to the fridge. Opened it, peered inside. Amina knew she could have whatever she wanted. She took out four eggs. Maneuvered them into one hand. Opened the drawer of the fridge with the other. Took out two baladi breads. Nudged the fridge door closed with her voluminous hip. She paid no notice to me as she went to the stove. Put the eggs down on the counter. Barricaded them with the bread. Oil. Salt. Pepper. Cracked the eggs into the pan and let them fry on the highest heat, the oil splattering everywhere. Turned the left burner on and put the bread on the flames. As she was flipping it over with her fingers, Mama walked in. It was early for her. She had slept badly. She was wearing her red satin robe, one Baba had brought back from a trip. She asked how we were as she went to the counter. Unplugged the kettle. Took it to the sink. Filled it with water. With her back to Amina, she asked how she was. So you didn’t come on Wednesday? Mama had started to ask questions like this. Questions that were weighted. Questions that had already been answered. Questions that pretended to pose themselves but were rather statements, usually of disapproval. She said them with her neck tensed and slightly shaking. Amina turned off the stove and told Mama that she would never believe what she had been through. They had surrounded her whole neighborhood and every single building, armed, masked special 777 forces and tanks. Weapons like we have never seen before.
The massacre had taken place in the early morning on the eastern bank of Luxor, just before Hatshepsut’s Temple. The cruise ship had been approaching the city when the gunmen opened fire. Forty-five minutes of continuous rounds. Sixty-two people killed. Dozens injured. Within minutes of the attack, the message circulated through Cairo’s state security headquarters. Special forces were dispatched to all the Islamist strongholds. Amina’s neighborhood, across the river from our island, was the first place sealed shut. We heard sirens that morning but didn’t know what they were. The neighborhood was nicknamed the Islamic Republic. Kandahar. I could see it from my bedroom window, the beginning of it, right across the river. It extended for miles. Amina said they had been stuck in their room for two days until they cleared them. It was Al-Gamaa Al-Islaamiya, she said. Not the Brotherhood. Mama looked with brows raised and asked what the difference was. This was another of those shrouded statements. Amina put her hands to her hips. Of course there is a difference, a vast one. The Brotherhood doesn’t believe in violence. Mama tilted her head sideways and looked at her sternly. Amina was quick to blurt, Not all of them. I swear Sayed had nothing to do with this. Many of the Brotherhood are denouncing violence, they are beginning to, the groups are different now, separate. Mama had never trusted the husband. He had come to the house when Amina was sick to collect her salary. He had a wild beard and glum face. Carried a short stick. Didn’t look women in the eye. Wouldn’t shake hands. Mama had warned Amina she had to be careful what she was dragged into, but Amina insisted she had nothing to do with any of his business. After the bombings began, she said that even her husband was having second thoughts about the Brotherhood, even the nonviolent faction of them. He was thinking of leaving them altogether. Many of their members had left. Mama told her that she had to realize that I went to university right near the site of the last bomb. Even though it was aimed at tourists, it might easily have hit me. Amina shook her head and asked God the Greatest to erase and forgive these words. Allah protect the girl. Mama poured the hot water into her mug. She seemed on the verge of an emotion I had never seen from her before. Anger? I imagined this as a scene in my film and picked up a Biro from the table, making a note on the back of my hand. I watched as Amina tore a strip of bread and dipped it into the pan, scooped out a piece of fried egg, then circled the bread in the oil. She stuffed her mouth and chewed. Mama took a sip of her coffee and shook her head.