Tarek returned to his leather chair, the presenter’s words still ringing in his ears. The country had been through tumultuous times in recent years, though he’d tried to keep his distance from it all. Just like everyone else, he’d heard about the Disgraceful Events when they occurred, or perhaps shortly after they began. But he hadn’t been there, didn’t know much about it, and had never been interested in finding out more. He’d heard passing comments from colleagues and acquaintances, neighbors, and fellow passengers on public transport, and had formed a vague image of the Events, hazy in the details but enough for him to participate when people brought it up in conversation. If asked, he would produce an opinion about how certain people — who were angry about being forced to follow the strict order the Gate had imposed soon after it appeared — had caused an unnecessary uproar. They’d rejected its new rules, and wanted to create a different, less authoritarian system, as Tarek had understood. They’d wanted a more lenient regime, one perhaps more tolerant, but, in Tarek’s personal opinion, it was also less stable.
The Events had begun when a small group of people held a protest on a street leading to the square. There weren’t many of them, but they boldly condemned the Gate’s injustice and tyranny. Their demands were lofty, the stuff of dreams, another doctor told Tarek during one of their night shifts together: the protestors called for the dissolution of the Gate and everything it stood for. Before long, others joined the demonstrations, too. They chanted with passion, their numbers grew, and the protest started to move, but they were quickly confronted by the Gate’s newly formed security units. These accused the protesters of overstepping their bounds, and said they wouldn’t tolerate such insulting behavior. Then the forces attacked, to “return people to their senses,” beating them brutally. When the injured protestors scattered in retreat and ran into the side streets, they were accused of “spreading chaos,” and attempting to undermine the blessed security that had finally — thankfully — returned under the Gate’s rule.
The protesters quickly regrouped and met the security forces again, in a street battle that lasted for four days. More and more people fell. The Quell Force had been created to suppress this kind of riot and was better armed than any government agency before it. On the final day, it cleared the square effortlessly, wiping out everyone at the rally in just a few hours. In the end, the Gate and its guardians had prevailed, and they emerged stronger than before.
Tarek had never questioned the Gate’s definitive and crushing triumph. But he wasn’t altogether enthusiastic about it, either, particularly given the sorts of injuries he’d attended to in the emergency room. He’d seen firsthand the how the Gate had secured its victory, and he knew that such opposition wasn’t likely to build again.
The Gate had come into power many years earlier, in the wake of a popular uprising known as the First Storm. Tarek had never been one for history, but he remembered reading about these winds of change that had once swept the whole country. Ordinary people rose up, defeated the security forces on the streets, overcame the old guard’s defenses, and nearly forced the ruler to surrender. But unfortunately — or perhaps it was fortunately? — things hadn’t continued as they’d begun. The movement fractured before it was able to overthrow the regime. Some people used the gains they’d made to secure their own position and power. Others continued the fight against the regime, leaving a path of destruction in their wake. Some armed themselves in anticipation of a counterattack. Still others were wary because the ruler might manage to remain in power, and slipped away to make their own private deals with him.
Soon the situation unraveled, and different groups who had taken part in the First Storm accused one another of betrayal. They were so entrenched in their own conflicts that they forgot about the ruler, who started to rally his inner circle and regained influence on the ground. While the people were distracted with their squabbles, the old guard regrouped and began to rebuild. Not long after this, the Gate appeared.
Tarek stood up from his chair. He felt drained, even though he’d barely accomplished anything since arriving that day. He scanned a page from the file in front of him again, for this patient whose problems he didn’t entirely remember, and then asked for permission to leave early, with an excuse about a cough he said had lingered for days.
THE QUEUE
In the fierce heat, Yehya stood in a long queue that extended from the end of the wide street all the way to the Gate. A whole hour and he’d moved no more than two steps forward, and that wasn’t because there had been progress at the front of the queue. Some inexperienced soul — probably someone who had never been to the Gate before — was overcome with boredom, got discouraged, and left.
The sun was beating down on his left side, dividing him in two just as it did every day in the noon heat. His body felt heavy, but he didn’t move from his place in the queue. In front of him stood a tall woman, her eyes darting around. She wore a flimsy black galabeya and a black veil, which hung alongside her bare neck, mingling with the wrinkles and creases it fell across. The young man standing behind him asked what time the Gate opened, and Yehya shrugged. He had no idea when it would finally happen. But he still left his house each morning, dragging his feet and his stomach and his pelvis, all of it heavy, to stand in the queue without ever reaching the Gate.
The woman was dark, just like her clothes; slender and elderly but naturally strong. Given her sturdy build and the milky whites of her eyes, Yehya guessed she was from the far south. She turned halfway around, quickly sizing him up with a sharp glance, and seeming to find him acceptable, she launched headlong into conversation.
She’d arrived at the Gate yesterday, she said; she came to file a complaint and get a certificate notarized while she was there. She fell silent for a moment, to give him the opportunity to ask her what the certificate was for, but Yehya said nothing. She started up again, despite his indifference, saying that for the first time in her life she hadn’t been able to buy government-made baladi bread, the kind she’d bought for years without fail. She looked at him again, expecting to have aroused his curiosity, but he was preoccupied and hadn’t followed what she was saying. Annoyed, she turned away and looked around again, then picked up her story where she’d left off, finding more attentive ears among her other neighbors.
The plump woman in front of her adjusted her turquoise veil with both hands and stepped closer — the subject of an official complaint had won her over. She had a young face, despite how heavy she was; she was maybe thirty years old, with thin eyebrows, a sharp nose, and well-cared-for skin. She sympathized with the old woman and asked in surprise whether bread, too, was really now that hard to come by. In a thick Southern accent, the old woman began her story.
“That low-down son of a bitch, that man, I was a customer of his for ten years, and every day I get my bread from him, so what happened, eh? I go just like I do every morning, to get my two pieces of baladi bread, and he asks me, ‘Who did you pick?’ I tell him I checked the box next to the candidate with the pyramid symbol. He gets real mad, flashes his teeth, and tells me, ‘I know your kind, the whip is what people like you deserve. Lady, didn’t I give you the purple list so you’d pick one of those candidates?’ So I shut up and hold out a one-pound note, but he throws it on the ground, snatches back both pieces of bread, and shouts at me, ‘We don’t have any bread! And don’t come back!’ The nerve of that man! So I go to the European bakery, but it was all shut down. The next morning I go out early, to the bakeries in the market, but turns out they heard what happened, too. They tell me the same thing and won’t let me have any bread, either. My neighbor told me if that’s the way it is, I should file a complaint with the Gate. Told me I needed to apply for a certificate — I forget what it’s called — the one with a government stamp, ’cause they’ll be sure to ask me for one when my complaint gets investigated.” She shoved her hand into her vast galabeya and pulled out a small piece of cardboard, the words Certificate of True Citizenship written upon it.