![]() The girl had written a long, brilliant paper about the conditions in the district where she lived, and then went on to speak more broadly about the state of the country and developments in the region. A student in the Arabic class she taught handed in an essay she’d written, just an ordinary homework assignment, the kind all students did. She’d only made a mistake once, a few days ago. Her response each time was to turn the question around on whoever was asking and follow their reply-whatever it was-with a wink, a shy smile, and the reliable phrase: “That’s who I voted for, too.” Things had gotten to the point where she often relied on an old trick to avoid answering. In recent months the question “Who did you pick?” had spread like the plague, but she was cautious, wary, and knew it was better to keep quiet. ![]() If she was honest with herself, she was too scared. She too had chosen the pyramid symbol on her ballot, but unlike the old woman, she never admitted who she’d actually voted for, not to anyone. Politics had eaten away at people’s heads until they in turn had begun to devour one another. Things weren’t what they used to be, she thought, and they weren’t going to get better any time soon. The young woman patted the old woman’s shoulder consolingly. 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. My neighbor told me if that’s the way it is, I should file a complaint with the Gate. They tell me the same thing and won’t let me have any bread, either. The next morning I go out early, to the bakeries in the market, but turns out they heard what happened, too. 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. He gets real mad, flashes his teeth, and tells me, ‘I know your kind, the whip is what people like you deserve. “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. In a thick Southern accent, the old woman began her story. She sympathized with the old woman and asked in surprise whether bread, too, was really now that hard to come by. 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. 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 turned halfway around, quickly sizing him up with a sharp glance, and seeming to find him acceptable, she launched headlong into conversation. Given her sturdy build and the milky whites of her eyes, Yehya guessed she was from the far south. The woman was dark, just like her clothes slender and elderly but naturally strong. 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. He had no idea when it would finally happen. ![]() The young man standing behind him asked what time the Gate opened, and Yehya shrugged. 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. In front of him stood a tall woman, her eyes darting around. His body felt heavy, but he didn’t move from his place in the queue. The sun was beating down on his left side, dividing him in two just as it did every day in the noon heat. Some inexperienced soul-probably someone who had never been to the Gate before-was overcome with boredom, got discouraged, and left. 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. 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. She is a columnist at the independent Egyptian newspaper Al-Shorouk, and has published two short story collections as well as a number of nonfiction works, including The Power of the Text, Beyond Torture, and The Temptation of Absolute Power. Aziz works in the General Secretariat of Mental Health and at Cairo’s Nadeem Center for the Rehabilitation of Victims of Violence. The following is from Basma Abdel Aziz’s novel, The Queue.
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