Fahmy left the house happy. He went at once to al-Azhar, where he met with his colleagues on the supreme student committee. They were discussing arrangements for the enormous, peaceful demonstrations the authorities were allowing so that the nation could express its delight. It had been decided that representatives of all segments of the population would participate.
The meeting lasted quite a while. Then the participants separated, each going off about his business. Fahmy rode over to Ramses Square in front of the central railroad station, after learning of his assignment to supervise the groups of students from the secondary schools. Although the tasks he was customarily assigned could be considered rather secondary, compared with those of the others, he undertook them with precision, care, and joy, as though each was the happiest moment of his life. Even so, his industry was accompanied by a slight feeling of discontent, which he did not share with anyone else, originating from his conviction that he was less daring and forward than his other comrades. Yes, he had never hesitated to attend a demonstration the committee supported but he became discouraged when the trucks carrying soldiers appeared, especially once shots were fired and victims started to fall. One time he had sought refuge in a coffee shop, trembling. Another time he had run so far he ended up in the cemetery for theology students. What was he compared with the man who had carried the flag in the Bulaq demonstration, or massacre, as it had come to be called? That fellow had died a martyr, clasping the flag with his hands, standing his ground at the head of the procession, shouting at the top of his lungs for everyone to stand firm. What was Fahmy compared with that martyr’s companions who had rushed to raise the flag again only to be shot down around him with their breasts decorated heroically by bullet holes? What was he compared with that martyr who had grabbed the machine gun from the hands of the enemy at al-Azhar? What was he compared with all those men and the others whose heroism and martyrdoms were always in the news? Heroic acts appeared to him to be so dazzling and magnificent that they were breathtaking. He frequently heard an inner voice daring him to imitate the heroes, but his nerves had always let him down at the decisive moment. When the fighting started, he would find himself at the rear, if not hiding or fleeing. Afterward he would regain his determination to double his efforts to struggle tenaciously, but with a tortured conscience, an anxious heart, and a limitless desire for perfection. He would console himself at times by saying, "I'm just an unarmed warrior. Even if stunning deeds of heroism have passed me by, it’s enough that I've never hesitated to throw myself into the thick of the fray".
On his way to Ramses Square, he began to observe the streets and vehicles. It appeared that everyone was heading his way: students, workers, civil servants, and ordinary folk, riding or walking. They had a relaxed look about them, appropriate for people going to a peaceful demonstration sanctioned by the authorities. He too felt the way they did. It was not the same as when he had searched for the appointed place with an excited soul and a heart that pounded hard whenever he thought about perishing. That was in a former time. Today he went along, feeling secure, with a smile on his lips. Was the struggle over? Had he emerged from it safely with no losses or gains? No gains?… If only he had suffered something like the thousands who had been imprisoned, beaten, or wounded slightly by gunfire. Wasn't it sad that security should be the reward for a person with a heart and enthusiasm like his? He was like a diligent student unable to obtain a diploma.
"Do you deny you're happy that you're safe? Would you have preferred to be a martyr? Certainly not… Would you have liked to be one of those wounded but not killed? Yes. That was in your reach. Why did you recoil from it? There was no way to guarantee that the wound wouldn't be fatal or the imprisonment temporary. You don't regret your current deliverance, but you wish you had been afflicted in some way that wouldn't interfere with this happy ending. If you ever engage in another struggle like this again, you had better have your fortune told. I'm going to a peaceful demonstration with a calm heart and an uneasy conscience".
He reached the square around one o'clock. It was two hours before the demonstration was due to commence. He took his place at the spot assigned to him, the door of the railroad station. There was no one in the square except for supervisory personnel and scattered groups from various religious factions. The weather was mild, but the April sun poured down on those exposed to its scorching rays. He did not have long to wait, for groups began to throng into the square from the different streets leading to it. Each group went to the location where its banner was displayed. Fahmy set to work with pleasure and pride. Although the task was simple, consisting of nothing more than the organization of each of the schools behind its banner, Fahmy was filled with pride and conceit, especially since he was supervising many students who were older than he was. His nineteen years did not seem like much in a mass of students with twisted mustaches going on twenty-two or twenty-four.
He noticed eyes that were looking at him with interest and lips that were whispering about him. He heard his name, accompanied by his title, being repeated by some tongues: "Fahmy Ahmad Abd al-Jawad, representative of the supreme committee". That touched the strings of his heart. He pressed his lips together to keep them from smiling, out of concern for his dignity. Yes, he must look the part of a representative of the supreme committee by being serious and stern, as was only proper for the elite corps of young freedom fighters. He wanted to leave room for the imaginations of those looking at him to guess what deeds of heroism and valor were concealed behind his imposing façade. Let the spectacular deeds he had been unable to carry out in reality be performed in their imaginations. He had no desire to discourage them but was stung by the unvarnished truth. He had distributed handbills and been part of the rear guard. That was all he had been. Today he was entrusted with supervision of the secondary schools and had a leadership role. Did others think he had played a more important part than he did himself? How much respect and affection they were awarding him… They had not had a meeting without taking time to hear his opinion.
"Oratory? There was no need for you to deliver speeches, isn't that so? You can be great without being an orator, but what a pity it will be for you on the day the supreme committee appears before the great leader if, when the orators try to outdo each other, you take refuge in silence. No, I won't remain silent. I'll speak. I'll say exactly what I feel, whether or not I excel at it. When will you stand before Sa'd? When will you see him for the first time and feast your eyes on him? My heart is pounding and my eyes long to weep. It will be a great day. All of Egypt will come out to welcome him. What we're doing today will be like a drop of water in the sea compared with that time. O Lord! The square’s full. The streets feeding into it are fulclass="underline" Abbas, Nubar, al-Faggala. There’s never been a demonstration like this before. A hundred thousand people, wearing modern fezzes and traditional turbans-students, workers, civil servants, Muslim and Christian religious leaders, the judges… who could have imagined this? They don't mind the sun. This is Egypt. Why didn't I invite Papa? Yasin was right… A person forgets himself in a crowd of people. He rises above himself. What are my personal ambitions? Nothing. How my heart is pounding. I'll talk about this for a long time tonight and after that too. Do you suppose Mama will tremble with fear once again? It’s a magnificent spectacle, which humbles a person and calms him. I would like to be able to gauge its impact on those devils. Their barracks overlook the square. Their cursed flag is fluttering in the wind. I see heads in the windows there. What are they whispering to each other? The sentry’s like a statue, seeing nothing. Your machine guns did not stop the revolution. Do you understand that? Soon you'll be seeing Sa'd return victoriously to this square. You exiled him by force of arms and we are bringing him back without any weapons. You'll see, before you evacuate".