Once we had a new cleaning lady who stole from Mama. She never came back but the police caught her. Mama and Baba took me with them to the prison to see her. They wanted to make sure she was the right thief. We went in Baba’s car, over the bridge, past buildings, until we were far, where the desert was. They took us inside. We went up dirty stairs. It was dark and smelled of pee. She was in a small room behind bars like a cage. There was a wooden stool like Abdou used to have and a dirty red towel hung from the wall. When she saw Mama she started crying and saying sorry. Sorry. I am sorry. The policeman shouted to her shut up. He used the bad word. She kept crying, sorry. Mama turned her face away and took my hand. She squeezed it and pulled me. I didn’t know if she had accepted her sorry. I wanted to ask but my lips were sealed. The prison was frightening. People were screaming and shouting from places I couldn’t see. One man looked at us from behind bars and roared like a lion. His hands were black. We went down and waited for Baba in the car. Later I heard Baba say that they had gone to her house in the night and taken her away. They made a racket so that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. They took her away in front of her children. What would they do with her? He didn’t answer. Every time I see a policeman going into a building I think maybe they will take someone away. In class I write a story called The Disappearing People. I write about going to the prison. I write about the people they take away. It happens only at night. My teacher gives me zero out of ten and says I shouldn’t be writing such things at my age. At home I cry to Mama and show her the story. She reads it and sits without saying a word on my bed. I think she is angry. It scares me when Mama is angry. Sometimes she shouts when she is angry and sometimes she is just quiet. The quiet angry is much worse.
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The teacher writes a date on the blackboard. The Independence of Great Britain. We don’t have to remember it this term, we will come back to it later. A boy in the front puts his hand up. He is from India. Nanchal is the only one who asks questions. He asks about the Independence of Egypt. The teacher tells him we will be concentrating on British history for now. Nanchal tells her that he has already learned these things in India. It is his first year at school with us. He thought that in Egypt he would learn new things. He is eager to learn about Egypt and its great civilization, eager to learn about when Egypt stopped being a colony. I have never heard the word eager before. The teacher tells him to see her after class.
At break I go to the bars shaped like an igloo. The boy from primary five with a ponytail is hanging upside down. I tell him Baba is away on business. He doesn’t care. I watch him. He pushes his waist into the air and swings. His arms fly and move in circles. Again. He twists and jumps into the air. He lands next to me. I notice his shoes. They are not proper shoes and he has fluorescent laces. They call me Chief, he says. His hands are on his hips. I look at him and don’t know what to say. He tells me he saw God earlier. He was wearing white and blue stripes and had on spectacles. He was writing in a big book like the headmaster’s one. What was he writing? The secrets of life. He asks me where Baba is. I think maybe he is in Geneva. I ask him if God can see everything. Does God know where everyone is and what they are doing? God was very busy today. How does he know God is writing the secrets of life if he doesn’t know Arabic? God was not writing in Arabic. The language of the book is English. Our teachers tell us this too. Every morning they read from the Bible and talk about God. I tell Chief about the writing on Abu Ali’s door. It’s the words of God and it’s Arabic. Mama says it’s bad. His dad says the same thing. His dad works at the American embassy. I tell him that Uncle says the people at the American embassy are spies. Baba too. He knows lots of spies. Once after a trip I heard him tell Mama about meeting a famous Egyptian spy. But the Egyptian spies are not bad like the American ones. Uncle and Baba said the American spies at the embassy are trouble. The only embassy we go to is the English one, and I don’t think they are spies. They take us there for school on the queen’s birthday. We have to dress smart and sing to God so that he saves the queen. Otherwise she might die. Mama makes me wear shiny shoes and a red dress with frills. I ask her not to make me wear shiny shoes. Please not the dress with frills. The other girls wear what they want. She doesn’t care what other people do. We are not other people. We are not English. I know she wouldn’t like it if I had a boy friend with a ponytail. If Baba were here he wouldn’t mind. He would tell Mama to relax and that a little bit of mischief builds character. When Baba was a boy he used to take books from the library and hide them under his shirt. He also used to write things on his arm in tiny writing before tests. Grandmama told me. Baba laughed when I asked if it was true. I tell Chief about going to the desert with Baba. He has a big tile factory in the desert and we ride his Jeep fast up and down the dunes. Maybe he could come with us to the desert when Baba came back? Baba would like him. He says it would be awesome and asks when he’s coming back. My shoulders drop. I stare at him. I don’t know. He’s late. He shrugs. It will be awesome. I repeat the word awesome to myself as we go back up to class. When I say awesome in front of Mama later she tells me to mind my language.
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The teacher tells us to curve our letters. Relax your hand. She looks over our shoulders. She slaps a wooden ruler on her palm. Taps the wall. Doorknob. Dictionary. Desk. Another desk. My desk. My handwriting is too small. It won’t do. She gives me another sheet. Make your letters bigger. She tears one boy’s paper. He is a disgrace. Go and wash your hands. We laugh. She claps her hands. Silence. The girl in the front giggles. Her father is the Ambassador of England. The teacher never tells her off. Mama says my handwriting is like Baba’s. I try to make it bigger. We hand in our sheets. For the rest of the class we will be writing a letter. We can write it to anyone we know. On the blackboard she writes: Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Grandmother, Grandfather, Uncle, Aunt, Teacher, Friend. I wonder if I should write a letter to Mama. Mama is always writing letters. Sometimes when she is having her siesta I go through the drawers of the bookshelf and find letters. Some of them are to Baba. I don’t know if they are letters she gave Baba or not. One of them is about money. I don’t know if they are new letters or old letters. I showed Dido a letter once and he shook his head hard and said Mama was upset. It explained a lot but maybe I was too young for these things. Dido’s real name is Dawood but everyone calls him Dido. He is the oldest cousin and says my school will repress me. It is the only thing left of the monarchy and colonialism. Mama and Baba are antirevolutionary for sending me there. Where did their nationalism go? He also says the Palestinians are our brothers. I need to remember these things even if I don’t understand them yet. When I’m older I will thank him. He pats my head. Dido is my favorite cousin. Maybe I should write my letter to him. I look at the lines of my notebook for a long time.