His Silent Tears

For three days, Ramy lay on the couch. It wasn’t the most comfortable couch, not for a child, an adolescent, and certainly not for a man of his size. He didn’t have anything to eat, nor did he utter a single word. More importantly, he didn’t shed a tear, but his friends knew him. They understood him all too well; they took turns guarding the balcony. One would go to rest on the opposite couch from Ramy, while the other two kept each other busy so he wouldn’t sneak behind them. If it ever got to that, it was a two-man job to attempt to restrain him. Ramy's physical strength, combined with the simmering rage, made him dangerous. Ramy was the kind of man who fired first and asked questions later; he is conservative in that way.

He could’ve been home, in the warm embrace of his mother, in the company of his innocent sister, or with the solace of his wise father, but it wasn’t time yet. It wasn’t a decision he took; it was a decision made for him, and he was in no place to fight it. He barely recalled what happened. His friends informed his mother of his whereabouts, and she accepted it. She knew that in such circumstances, his friends could take better care of him than she ever could. She knew his father wasn’t the best of shoulders to lean on when you needed a hug. She knew his sister was way too young to understand what her older brother was experiencing. As for herself, his mother, the one that birthed him, she also needed to grieve.

It was the mid-nineties in Egypt, and Salsa was the new thing to do. Yet another trend, one that followed the rock and metal mania and preceded the religious chic movement. From head banging to hip shaking, a truly colourful society mired in intrigue and contradictions. Ramy wasn’t a trend kind of guy, and many of these trends were not a good fit. Heavy-metal anger suited moody middle-class guys who thought they were angry; Ramy’s anger was way too real. Neither was he a good candidate for the Muslim chic movement for two simple and equally compelling reasons. One, he was too hedonistic to be pious, and two, he happened to be an Orthodox Copt. Ramy wasn’t much of a dancer either; he took himself too seriously, but then he latched to Salsa. It provided a pretext for his favourite pastime activity, chasing women.  

Ramy was good at chasing women. Obviously, he had other redeeming qualities. He never bragged about it, but you could see it. And then why wouldn’t he? He was a charmer and a privileged middle-class young Egyptian man, even if he didn’t recognise himself as one. In his mid-twenties, he worked all day and partied all night. As for sleep, a little bit of it goes a long way. There will be plenty of time to sleep when we die; that was his motto. He was fatalistic this way, not about sleep, but death. It helped that Cairo never sleeps, but then why should it? Cairo is a self-propelling, self-regulating system. A city that sleeps is a city that is governed by logic and rationale, whereas Cairo is a city governed by love and longing. 

He didn’t mind that his dancing was mediocre; he never expected to be a dancer per se. And though he didn’t care, he kept at it. It mattered to him how people saw him, and yet he carried himself with an air of not giving a fuck. A perfectionist at heart, even if he understood that life itself is deeply flawed and far from perfect. On the dance floor, he was clunky and awkward, but he did a great job pretending to be having fun. His friends, equally bad but less caring about their image, loved to tease him. They knew not to take it too far. He was too good of a friend to push too much. There was also his tongue, faster than lightning and sharper than a whip. We all made sure not to be on the receiving end of this weapon. No one ever saw him in a fistfight, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine.

It became their thing to do, Ramy and his buddies, twice a week in the Black Fat Pussycat club. It was in Zamalek, far from where he lived in Heliopolis, but next door to the office where he worked. He had just started his career and was trying to make a name for himself and not for his short temper. Unlike the West, there were always more guys than girls on the dancefloor. It’s understandable in a society that viewed women as a liability. A locale where guys and girls hung around together was no place for a woman carrying the honour of her family in her groin. If the place happened to be a dance club where they drank and gyrated against one another, that’s even worse. Black Fat Pussycat catered to the often forgotten, liberal Egyptians. Or as the rest of the society refers to them as Westernised Egyptians.

It was in that dance club that Ramy saw her for the first time. Tall, slim with flattering curves, wild brown hair, and eyes accentuated by kohl. She could’ve used mascara, but she preferred the smoky look. It fit her elegant hippie style. From a distance, one would think she’s Spanish rather than Egyptian, but then what truly distinguishes the two? A Spanish woman looks like a less oppressed version of an Egyptian woman. She was most certainly attractive, but her beauty wasn’t the intimidating type. She was the best dancer on the floor, and she knew it. Everyone eyed her, and she knew it, and yet that brought her a degree of humility that only added to her irresistible allure. 

Ramy wasn’t easily intimidated, but then he was. It wasn’t her looks, her sensuality, or her ability as a dancer that shook his self-confidence. Normally, he went after dancers at his level or lower. A clever manoeuvre to mask his awkward steps, but with this one, his true colours as a dancer will be out there for everyone to see. He was torn between his self-conscious human and self-assured beast. As always, when Ramy is in doubt, his beast takes the reins and runs. 

“Who knows this girl? I have to dance with her!”

“Which girl you speak of, Ramy?”

“Can you please not be an idiot right at this very second? I refuse to point at her. The only girl worth looking at on the dance floor, you syphilitic moron.”

“Amira, of course. She’s really cool. Come let me introduce you before more honey drips out of the garbage dump that is your mouth.”

His friend went to say hello and invited Amira to their table. She grabbed her beer and came to join the table of guys. Her walk was as elegant as her dance, so unassuming you couldn’t help but stare at her. Quiet, soft-spoken, and generous with her smile. An assuring smile that conveyed peace, acceptance, and a soul full of life. She saw Ramy for who he was: a giant ball of emotions disguised by facial hair, a provocative smirk, and a piercing gaze that sees the hidden truth of life’s lunacy. 

“Can we have the next dance?”

“I don’t see a reason why not!” 

“I must warn you, I’m a terrible dancer.”

“In that case, I have a small request.”

“I can do two small requests or one big one.”

“Only one small demand, wiseguy, try and have fun.”

Once the song playing was over, they headed to the dance floor. As the first note echoed in the club, her smile grew wider. “This is my favourite song.” He smiled in silence and extended his hands to hold hers. It was also his favourite song, but he wouldn’t admit it. He feared she would find him boring, unoriginal, or worse, corny! As far as he was concerned, it was a matter of time before she walked out of his life as elegantly as she walked in. His game plan was to postpone this inevitability for as long as possible. One song, one dance, a fleeting moment that flew by and yet felt like an eternity. The club was empty, and the music stopped; only they could hear it. It was the two of them. Did he know how to dance but didn’t know it, or was there someone else who took over? He led, and she followed. He half-turned her, and she was by his side as he held her arms. Two steps back and one step forward, their eyes locked together. She gazed upwards to meet his eyes. He was melting away, and so was she. If only he could stop time, but then time stops for no one. 

“I have to…would like to see you again.”

“I would like that too. Let’s meet again, wiseguy.”

They agreed on a date, a time, and a place. In three days, but then he counted it as 69 hours. By the time I get home and sleep, a few more hours will have passed, he assured himself. He didn’t dare ask her for her number; he feared it would come across too forward, so he was left counting the hours. On the day of their agreed date, as he was about to step out of the office, an emergency call from an important client. Obviously, only Ramy would have been able to deal with it. He tried to wiggle out of it, but naturally, he couldn’t. He had no means of letting her know he would be late, so he drove like a maniac across Cairo, hoping fate didn’t blow his chance. He made it, eventually, 77 minutes late. He was getting really good at counting time. She wasn’t there, and he had no means to know if she even made it there, to begin with. Desperate and angry at himself and at life, he called his friend, the same one who introduced him to Amira. 

“Man, I had a date with Amira and got stuck at work. I didn’t have her number to apologise.”

“Wouldn’t you say your dancing skills are no match, Ramy?”

“Wouldn’t you say you’re a descendant of a line of whores and pimps?”

“That’s the only type of person who can befriend an ape like yourself.”

“Indeed, a friendship made in heaven, a son of a whore and a monkey.”

“This son of a whore happens to have her number!”

“You do realise that son of a whore is not a reference to your mother. It’s all you; you just happen to be a demonic genetic deviation. It happens.”

That was as good of an apology Ramy would have ever given, and that was good enough for his friend. He gave him the number, not that he ever had the intention of withholding it. That would have been a petty thing to do, and even Ramy and his colourful mouth weren’t deserving of such torture. He held the phone and stared at the keys. She didn’t give me her phone number; she could’ve, but she didn’t. For all I know, she didn’t even show up for our date. And what would her family say? Who’s this guy? Why is he calling you at home? And He’s Christian. You dance with him! Shouldn’t you be dancing with a prospective groom rather than waste your time on a relationship that expired before it even started? Thoughts ran wild in his mind, thousands of reasons why he shouldn’t call, all convincing, all compelling. His mind was made; he wasn’t going to call.

“Hello! Can I speak to Amira, please?”

“Yes, one second.”

“Ramy, are you OK?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Because we were supposed to meet, and you didn’t show up!”

“But you didn’t give me your number?”

“I think offering it without you asking would’ve been a bit desperate, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t think I stood you up!”

“It didn’t even cross my mind. I was worried sick you got into an accident.”

“It was work. I’m really sorry, Amira. I made it to our date, but an hour late!”

“You don’t need to be. I knew something serious kept you from being on time. I’m sorry I couldn’t wait for you. I was alone and felt uneasy.”

“How did you know I’m not simply a jackass that stood you up?”

“It’s the way you looked into my eyes as we danced. I knew you would never hurt me. When will you take me out to make up for today?”

They fell in love because love is rational that way. People, society, rules, dogma, religion, and everything else vanished, but how they felt towards each other. Ramy changed. His gaze got softer, and his tongue got kinder. He floated rather than walked. He sang rather than talked. He loved rather than fought. And all those walls crumbled away into an ocean of passion, unencumbered by the brutality of life. As for Amira, she radiated even more, if that was at all possible. Her happiness overtook her simmering anxiety and swinging mood. Her change may not have been as apparent to strangers as Ramy’s was, but her family saw it, and so did her close friends. When she loved, she loved, and she was very much in love. 

Contrary to their expectations, everyone celebrated their relationship. That extended to his orthodox Christian family and her Muslim family. A love story within its folds had the potential for a Shakespearean drama, but no one fought them. Ramy’s mother loved Amira deeply, and not for lack of understanding of the social complexity. It didn’t arise from a naive sense of existence or an unjustified hope of a better tomorrow. She loved her because she couldn’t not love her. She loved her for who she was and for how she transformed her son. She loved her for the happiness she brought into his eyes and the joy she brought to their house. It wasn’t Ramy’s first involvement with a Muslim girl, but it was the first time his mother endorsed it. Even Amira’s father welcomed Ramy into his home. An oddity for a Muslim man, a normalcy for a loving father. Yes, they were modern Muslims, but that went beyond modernity. 

In a conservative society, love falls in line with societal norms. In a conservative Muslim society, the love of someone is an extension of our love for God. A philosophical definition that means everything and nothing exactly as intended. In the case of Amira and Ramy, both families gave in to the certitude of love. We can ridicule love all we want, all day, every day, but there is nothing more delicious to watch than pure love. Ramy, himself, was a cynic who saw love as a work of fiction, something to write about or, worse, sing about. That changed with Amira, and he had the foresight not to fight it. The question of religion, however, remained alive in both their minds. Their families might have accepted their love, but for this love to reach the natural conclusion expected by society and by the loving couple was something different. Amira had a plan, nevertheless. They had to escape their home, their country and their loved ones. Admittedly, as far as plans go, it was a cliche, but cliches are such for a reason: they work.

Neither of them was observant or cared all that much for religion. At least, that was the case for Amira. Ramy, on the other hand, was a fully-fledged atheist. He could have chosen to convert, even if only administratively, to appease society and be able to be with the woman of his dreams, but he would never do that. Ramy resented the subtle discrimination, the diminished opportunities, and the silenced screams of Egyptian Christians. He resented an injustice, audacious enough to present itself as a divine privilege. Converting to yet another religion he didn’t believe in was a testimony of defeat that went beyond Ramy’s ability to compromise, and compromise was never his greatest skill. Her conversion would have been even more complicated. A capital punishment to her and a shame upon her family. It’s these subtleties that ensured love fell in line with what society expected!

“My eldest brother lives in the US. He went to study there and then settled down. I’m sure if I explain to him how I feel about you, he will understand. We can go there, and he would help us find our way.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t tell your father we plan to elope?”

“I don’t know that for sure, but we are very close, and I’m his baby sister.”

“Amira, if he tells your dad, then even the little bit of freedom we enjoy here would be taken away.”

“We can choose somewhere else to go, but then we would be completely on our own.”

“I would rather go somewhere else than be at the mercy of your brother.”

“My brother is not like that. I’m sure he will love you when he sees how happy you make me.”

“It’s supposed to be me who looks after you and not your brother looking after the both of us.”

“You do know I love you more than anything or anyone in this world.”

“And I, you, my princess. Give me some time to figure this out. We will keep your brother as a last resort.”

They chose to live the moment life granted them. They were wise enough to postpone their worries until they had the time to deal with society. For the moment, the same society they feared gave them a reprieve, and they accepted it. Until one night in the very place where they first met, Black Fat Pussycat. A young man approached their table. A Colombian tourist who ached to move his waist and was directed to the very spot Ramy and Amira loved so much. A Latin man is everything Ramy is not, nor will he ever be, slick, suave, and a smooth talker. “Would you mind sharing this dance with me?” Amira looked at Ramy and saw he didn’t mind, so she went for it. The tourist, not understanding what is socially acceptable in Egypt or trying to see how far he could go, made every second count. 

There is much to say about modernity and freedom of expression. About feminism and equal rights. About feminine power and choice. It might be the case that a Latin man can watch his woman in a sensual dance with another man and be OK about it, but that’s not an Egyptian thing, nor will it ever be. It took everything in Ramy’s will to maintain an outward look of so-called modernity. He was forced to subscribe to an imported idea of civility, and he had very little choice. He hoped she would pull away. He wished she would stop. He imagined her walking away. The dance came to its natural conclusion, and so did the night. As Ramy drove her back home, there was very little he could say. He knew his temper, and the only thing he could muster was his silence. “It’s a good thing you’re off to Alexandria tomorrow morning. I need a few days to cool off.”

Amira went to see her cousins in Alexandria, and Ramy cooled off. They talked. She explained, and so did he. He understood, and so did she. It was all water under the bridge, and they couldn’t wait until they reunited—so much so that she decided to drive at night rather than wait until the next morning. She couldn’t wait any longer, but he was protective of her.

“Baby, don’t drive at night. One more night won’t kill us. Come tomorrow.”

“I’m a strong, independent woman who needs to see her man as soon as possible because she can’t possibly function without him any longer.”

“Do you realise the…”

“So if I decide to drive at night to be with you, not even you can tell me otherwise.”

“Ms. Independence, please call me as soon as you arrive in Cairo…no, as soon as you leave the highway.”

Ramy hung up and focused his attention on his work. He wasn’t going to sleep knowing she was taking the desert highway, a good distraction for a man who resigned himself to love and work, and nothing else mattered. He was carried away with work when, all of a sudden, he found himself struggling for air. He stood up, headed to the window for fresh air, and realised it was well beyond the required time to finish the 100-mile stretch. Instantly, he had a bad feeling as he dialled her cellphone. 

“Yes, hello!”

“Who is this? Where is Amira?”

“Hi. Yes, Amira had an accident. We found her injured in her car on the side of the road and now taking her to the hospital!”

“Can I talk to her?”

“I don’t think so. She’s in a great deal of pain.”

“What’s the name of the hospital you’re taking her to?”

“The closest hospital is one day hospital.”

“OK, but what’s the name of the hospital?”

“That is the name, One Day Hospital.”

“Is that a…I’m coming right away.”

The hospital was located outside of Alexandria on an off-branch of the highway that led to the Northern Coast resorts. Almost 100 miles away from Cairo. Amira never even got close to Cairo; she barely left Alexandria. A lonely structure that stood in the middle of the desert. There was barely enough light at the intersection to show the exit leading to the hospital, but it was not enough to show you the way. Too far from the city and far enough from the road for either to light upon the secluded building. Understaffed and under-equipped, and more so than hospitals in the city. It was better prepared than an ambulance and less capable than a private clinic in a ritzy neighbourhood in Cairo or Alexandria. 

My entire body was shaking. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t drive, nor was I able to think. It was very late, the middle of the night, so I called Hany. I was scared, I’m often scared, but this was different. I learned to suppress my fear, but this time I couldn’t. I asked him to get ready; that I was on my way. I didn’t get into details, nor did I need to. I thought I would have him drive, but I didn’t. I needed the distraction of the drive, and I needed Hany to be with me. I needed him with me because a part of me feared the worst. It’s this assured voice in the back of our minds that traverses time and space to see what we don’t want to acknowledge. An insistent voice that you might be able to ignore but you can never silence. I saw the pain I was about to endure, and I knew I couldn’t do it on my own. 

At the hospital, a doctor explained to Ramy what had happened. The front tyre blew up, and the car flew in the air. It rolled five times before it landed on the side of the road. She was lucky there was a car behind her that spotted the accident and acted swiftly. No, they left already, but we have their details and communicated them to the authorities. No, we are not in a position to share their details with you. You will need to ask the police if you want to get in touch with them. We are doing everything we can to save her life, Sir. Unfortunately, at this point, she’s in incentive care with professionals, so you won’t be able to see her just yet. I will give you updates as they become available. What can you do right now? I suggest you pray. It will help you and her.

As Ramy received the rundown of what happened, Hany stayed close enough to his friend so he wouldn’t feel alone but not too close to pry. Rage, anger, and fear as wide and deep as the ocean took over Ramy. He heard everything the doctor had to say, but he didn’t see him. He wanted to blame him for what happened; he wanted to attack him for the pain Amira endured, but he knew it wasn’t his fault. He wished he could punch him, or better punch the wall, but he had more common sense than to do that. He started walking to the door; he needed to be alone. Hany didn’t follow him and opted to let him have this time to himself. Hany understood his role was to be close by and not be all over his friend. He opted to let his friend process his anger.

Outside, Ramy kept walking. He stopped where the light ended, and darkness began. He wished he could go further into the darkness to scream, but he didn’t. He wanted to smoke or thought he did, but he didn’t. He expected to pace back and forth and let go of his frustrations, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked into the dark sky and pleaded with the very deity he didn’t believe in. God, please save her for me. No, not for me; I don’t deserve her. Save her for her. She deserves to live. Maybe she doesn’t pray, but I know she believes in you. Save her for her family and her friends. For her good heart and kind soul. Save her and I shall spend the rest of my time praying to you. Save her, and I will make up for every sin I made. Save her, and I won’t miss a service, I won’t skip a prayer, and I won’t doubt you ever again.

There he was, in a purgatory of light and darkness, between belief and denial. A little child pleading with the highest authority of the universe. Ridden with fear, clinging to hope, clutching at straws, and refusing to accept the voice inside of him. The voice that knew too well the dream was over. Time slipped through his hands, and he thought he had gotten much better at counting time. Hany came to tell him one of the doctors stepped out to give an update. He didn’t need to hear it, but he followed his friend anyway. His tears were not seen, his cries were not heard, and his prayers were not answered, that much he knew. So much can happen in a day. You can fall down or fall in love in a day. You can find a way and lose it in a day. You can make a fortune or squander it in a day. 

That day, in the One Day Hospital, Ramy lost a part of his soul. It took the entire security staff to stop him from storming into the operating room. They might have restrained his body, but they couldn’t save his broken heart. Amira suffered a severe concussion, a punctured lung, and heavy internal bleeding. We tried all we could, but her soul now is with her creator. The doctor tried to be empathetic in his delivery, but it felt rehearsed. A standard format that starts and ends the same way, and in the middle, they sandwich in the actual reason of death. As a non-family member, Ramy was denied the ability to see her and say goodbye. A soulmate is not a kinship recognised by the state of the Arab Republic of Egypt.