The Foreign Service Journal, April 2012

about,” he growled. “What has Ahmed been saying to you? He’s a traitor, a subversive, and we know he talks to you. We’ve seen him.” With a quaver in his voice, Marwan replied: “Oh, we play backgammon once in a while on the slow days. We talk about the weather and smoke. That’s it.” “I don’t believe you, grease mon- key,” snarled the man as he released Marwan. “Let me make something very clear. We have our eye on your friend. And if we get any indication that you are involved with him, it will be very bad for you, habibi.” The man then turned his back, mo- tioned to his companions, and made his way out of the garage, kicking an oil pan and slamming the door behind him, leaving Marwan shaking. The following day, he returned to his garage. As he opened the door, he looked over his shoulder. He was wor- ried. There were rumors of a large demonstration today. Marwan was de- termined to keep the garage door closed today. He was not interested in getting in the middle of anything. Around 10 a.m., as Marwan worked, he began to hear shouting in the distance. It grew steadily louder. The front edge of a raucous crowd began to pass his shop. He spotted Ahmed toward the front of it. “Ahmed!” he shouted. Ahmed did not hear him. Marwan ran to Ahmed. “Ahmed, you fool!” he yelled. “What are you doing? You’re going to get yourself killed!” Ahmed continued marching. Mar- wan scurried to keep up. “Marwan, friend,” he responded. “We are taking our country back. The Leader has to go.” “Go back to your shop,” pleaded Marwan. “It’s too late for that.” Ahmed walked on, leaving Marwan standing on the side of the road staring after him. Marwan watched him dis- appear in the throng and shuffled back to his garage. The morning wore on, and Mar- wan couldn’t focus. What was hap- pening to the country? No one had ever really complained about things before. Why now? His thoughts were interrupted by the snap of firecrackers. Or at least they sounded like firecrackers. Pop! Pop! Pop-a-pop-pop! Marwan heard screaming. He looked through the glass window of his garage door. He saw people running up the street away from the center. As the popping con- tinued, Marwan backed away from the door. After five minutes that seemed like an eternity, the popping stopped. The screaming was replaced by a more subdued wailing. Marwan edged to- ward the door and opened it. He took a few cautious steps toward the street. A young man jogged toward him and away from the center of town. Mar- wan grabbed his arm as he went past. “What is it?” “The police! We gathered in the square, and they shot at us! Tear gas and bullets! They fired at us! Several people were hit!” Marwan turned pale. He released the man’s arm and retreated into his shop, then called it a day. It was a long walk home. When he arrived and walked through the door, his wife, Leyla, ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Thank God you’re home,” she repeated over and over as she fought back tears. “I was so worried.” “About me?” said Marwan incred- ulously. “Why?” “Didn’t you hear?” Leyla asked. “The police opened fire on the pro- testers today in the city. Your shop is so close, and you walk home. I was so worried.” “I’m fine. I’m home. I’m fine,” Marwan reassured her. Leyla stepped back from Marwan and took his face in her hands. “Marwan,” she said quietly. “Yes?” “They killed Ahmed.” Marwan felt his legs go limp, and he grabbed for the arm of the chair they kept at the entrance, a chair purely decorative placed without the slightest intent that anyone would ever sit in it. Marwan slumped heav- ily into it in stunned silence. Leyla put her arm on his shoulder. He flinched, placed his elbows on his knees, and let his face drop heavily into his cracked, oil-stained hands. After a minute, Leyla went into the kitchen. Marwan sat in the good chair that was never meant to be used for quite some time. Ahmed was a dreamer. But he didn’t deserve to die. He wasn’t violent. He was opinion- ated. Was that a crime? Marwan couldn’t eat. He couldn’t play with the kids. They teased him, pulled on his sleeves. But he couldn’t help looking at them and wondering what the future held for them. Was this all there was? They gained no ad- vantage by being born to him. He thought back to what Ahmed had told him: “They don’t have any more right to rule us than we have to rule them.” Marwan needed to sleep. He woke up the next morning and readied himself for work. He usually managed to do so without waking Leyla. Not so today. Leyla raised her- self on her right elbow as he buttoned 46 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / A P R I L 2 0 1 2 Watching the crowd, Marwan couldn’t remember ever seeing such a demonstration — and he was 30.