Chapter 5 from the novel Suleiman and The Subaltern: Notes on Love, Body, and Exile” (Beirut: Dar Marfaa, 2025)
Who is God, and what does He look like?
“There is nothing like unto Him” (42:11)
That’s the answer I found in the Qur’an. The questions spin endlessly in my mind, always stopping at the conclusion that He exists. It must be so. God cannot be viewed simply as magnificent. It’s more than that–there just isn’t anything like Him.
I know these things may seem childish, but I can’t help it—let me state the obvious.
So tell me, God, why did You make life this way? So harsh, and evil? You could’ve made things clearer, and humans simpler. Why all this suffering, love, grief, and monotony? Why nothingness… and then, infinity? What does it mean to live life alone, only to die?
And where can I possibly find answers to such trivial questions as these?
Death. Oh, God. Why death?! It’s such a savage and unfair fate.
I search for its meaning through my writing. Sometimes, I even try killing it. Or killing myself.
And while we are on the subject, why is there a resurrection after death? Why does He insist that we live?
The divine self is nothing like the human self. That’s obvious. But as we agreed–there’s no harm in raising these existential thoughts–they’re nested deep inside all of us, unanswered.
We measure our self-worth by how others see us. So, what about God? Does He judge His self-worth by looking at the universe, humanity, or nature? Does He fear loneliness like I do? The obvious answer is no. He doesn’t fear, because He is brave. He is The Self-Sufficient and The Generous. Or again, like He said Himself:
“There is nothing like unto Him.” (42:11)
Then, why eternity? Eternity, for the sake of rewarding the righteous with Paradise? But that’s such a predictable and boring end. What about eternal torment–hell. Now that’s brutal. What have humans done to deserve such everlasting punishment?
Millions murdered. So what?! There are billions of them. Wouldn’t it have been better if God had killed the murderers. Or at least set a limit–a specific number of how many lives one can take. Whoever goes beyond that, would be killed.
I guess it’s just pretentious teenage angst. If God killed the murderers and punished them, then why are Israel and Suleiman* still walking free? The truth is, if we take it that far, God would start a war against mankind. He would kill those who reject or curse Him—and they are many.
**********
The first disbeliever I ever met was Tamer. He was a thirty-something, lanky, unemployed guy who had returned to our neighbourhood after seven years in maximum-security prison. The day I saw him, he was standing there in the alley outside the carpentry shop where my friend Magdy works. He’s the guy who does the finishes on furniture, coats and polishes bedroom and living room sets, stuff like that.
I used to go with Magdy to work sometimes, help him sand down some chairs, and when payday turned around, we’d split the money. That evening, I was there, and I saw Tamer standing with a sword in hand, his arms flailing and shouting: “Fuck you God, You motherfucker,” “You sons of bitches!”
He looked at us and kept on with his blasphemies.
Truth is we were indeed sons of bitches–just sitting there, listening, and watching him. None of us stood up for God, not even God Himself, who left Tamer with his profanities and sacrilege. At the time, I was against his heresy and silently sought His forgiveness.
But now, I ask Him: Why don’t You create a whole different type of life? Something beyond death and resurrection–where one team ends up in heaven, and the other in hell. Create something new, a different human with different traits, choices, and abilities. What if the dick was under the neck, instead of down by the stomach? Maybe a different being with other desires. Something beyond money, women, children and fortune. Sorry, I put money before women. My bad. Fuck money.
Let me rewrite that.
New desires: women, then women, and then their breasts, waists, eyes, lips and thighs… And then… screw money and our constant search for fortune.
It’s the cycle of life. It begins, then ends. Every thousand years or so God creates a new version of physics, swaps out the laws of nature, and rewrites the whole blueprint of how the universe works. I asked Him about emotions and unrequited love:
“Why can’t physics heal our broken hearts?!!”
“Dude, calm down. We’ll find you a woman to love, who actually loves you back. Anything so you can give our asses a break from your endless whining.”
That’s how my horny friends used to tease me when I got into my bouts of nothingness. But the truth is—I wasn’t a Nihilist. Just talking, defying what they were too stupid to understand.
Anyway, one day I was riding the Cairo metro.
Cairo: this monstrosity of a city. It dwarfed me, obliterated my worth and deprived me of my reason for being, if I were naive enough to believe I had one in the first place. My body bristled in the face of it—and so did Big Ramy’s and his friends, despite their frames carved like Greek gods. It didn’t matter if you were a man or a mouse in Cairo; we all turned to mere insects under its overpasses, fear, and dust. That day, like every day, I saw millions of bodies rushing, stumbling, and cursing in this immense city of filth and despair.
I got off at the Saint Teresa station, walked around in Shubra’s alleys for a bit before I met one of my research friends, Mena. We spoke about writing and research, nodded through a couple of practical things, and then our meeting came to a quick end.
I hopped on the subway to get back and saw thousands of lifeless faces as lost and numb as mine shuffling by. So, I got off and hailed a taxi instead. I almost got run over by some maniac as I went into the car, but thank God. I was heading to my friend’s place in October Gardens.
Doing errands in Cairo devours your day: endless waves of people running just like you, dissolving between the endless traffic, choking buildings, and the infinite number of bridges.
As the afternoon rush hour was looming, the taxi came to a halt, and I was overcome by a terrible fear that it was a police checkpoint, but luckily, it was only a minor congestion. I wasn’t scared of getting arrested per se, but rather getting arrested in Cairo. Think about this phrase: “The City Swallows Its People,” and you’ll understand what getting arrested in Cairo is like–the State swallows the body–you vanish, and no one will ever find you.
Habiba, this old and frail woman from my neighbourhood, never found the body of her lost son; it was routine. Impossible to imagine the number of mothers all over Cairo searching for their disappeared children. The sheer misery of it.
The car started moving again, slowly, and as we caught speed, my fear began to fade. It wasn’t like that when I was in Lebanon. There, checkpoints were fewer, and no one ever asked you who you were. They just glanced at you—sometimes nodding, sometimes waving you on. Even if they asked you something, there was never any fear because taking you in wouldn’t mean disappearing, vanishing, or being devoured by the State.
I got off on the Ring Road, but there was still a little ways to go. The Ring Road would be a good place for suicide. It was wide as hell, and the cars flew by in six lanes from every direction. Crossing the road was like playing a game; I was the target, and the drivers were speeding bullets—one wrong move and I was done for. So, how was I supposed to cross? And if dying was my goal, could I even fail?
All morning, my body had been trapped, making the rounds–searching for death. The darkness of life had overcome me; it whispered in my head and told me to kill myself. It was simple: I’d get hit by a car and liberate it from the authorities, at least the worldly ones. Were there authorities in the afterlife? Maybe. I didn’t know, but I thought it was time to find out. The world was a void, and this was my chance to make my body follow suit.
“Is there a way out? A way to salvation?”
I hesitated, another way perhaps? Other than getting run over by cars on the Ring Road, which would shatter my bones and make them fly in the air. Because even after death, I wanted my body to exist, not be crushed, turned into nothing. But more importantly, I wanted to know the difference between life and death.
Beneath God’s wicked dusk, in a world paved with evil by divine design, I decided to start playing and began to cross the street in three stages. Took four steps–stopped–and at the right moment, moved again. Four steps, stop. Third time was the charm: my last chance to go through with it. I stopped, perplexed, and looked towards the cars. A black sedan, the answer to my prayers, was approaching fast, but I couldn’t see its plate because my vision was as bad as Nourhan’s, the girl who once wrote me a love letter. I moved, hesitated, and my legs froze. Stopped, then moved again. The cars were roaring, deafening, and despite my yelling: “I’m almost there. I’ll be there in five minutes!”
He couldn’t hear me.
Grilled chicken was waiting for me.
**********
My friend Abd El-Rahman sat across the table. We shared some food, and I began telling him about my angst, petty thoughts on suicide, lost love, the Ring Road, and the speeding cars. He was indifferent to anything and everything I said, just gorging on the tahini, bread, chicken, and salads without a word. And honestly? He was right to ignore me.
I reminded him–as much as I reminded myself–that not long ago, there had been a serious attempt to rid the world of the source of my misery: my body. It was in the Port Said Prison, where I was kept in a small and sweaty underground cell for nearly thirty days. We were packed together, eight bodies of various sizes and ages. A prison that caged both body and soul. One that urgently, boldly, and seriously brought forth the idea of an end—of suicide: the killing of the body.
I remembered how that morning, the sun was burning, and the prison guards had called my name. I was to be transferred to the maximum security Gamasa Prison. Back then, living conditions at Gamasa were considered to be better for political prisoners than at other places. So, I was feeling joyful when I stepped out and waited in a massive holding cage. It wasn’t until late afternoon that they suddenly came, called out our names, and informed us that the transfer had been cancelled. The joy I had felt escaped me, and I returned–from I don’t know where–miserable, broken, and determined to die. That’s how bodies were handled in prison—like puppets, moved around at the whims of those in power.
It was time for me to strike back. All I needed was a thin rope, tied tight around my neck. Then, the body would cease. But I needed to focus. The thing is, in prison, failing at suicide wasn’t just a failure—it was a crime. If you survived, they’d punish you severely and take you in for questioning. But everyone knew what that really meant.
They handcuffed you, beat you, then moved you to another overcrowded ward where whoever was in charge made sure you got extra attention. You were deprived of sleep and beaten by the other prisoners if you dozed off. The other inmates followed orders willingly. They hit you more, made you clean up after them, and watched your every move to make sure you didn’t ever try ending your life again. That was their logic–no life, no death, only control. A life where you lived worse than an animal, yet stuck in a human body. It was unbearable. And killing oneself, even more so.
I was intent on not failing, that was for sure.
“You remember how serious I was.”
“I know, you’re stubborn as a mule,” he replied as he nibbled away at the chicken.
But I remember how much I was longing for death, and with the night almost over, I began untying the end of the cloth I had lying around. It was strong and big–like my dick. That’s a joke. Mine is bigger.
The next morning–whether it arose from the sky, fate or injustice–a State informant would come in to find a rope wrapped around my neck, my body unmoving. My body wouldn’t belong to them anymore, so he wouldn’t drag me or beat me. Instead, he’d go report it to his superiors. More deadbeat officers would rush in and try to shake me to my senses, but it’d all be in vain. In another world, my body would have already departed, finished its sentence, and been moved from their authority to the divine one.
Even after death, the body never truly rests; it just gets passed along from one authority to the next. That’s what I think.
The prison administration would call the prosecution office, and tell them, “Body number 5 is dead.” That’s what they’d say. Then they’d come, clipboard in hand, to do their job. They’d examine my body for a bit and write a report stating: Death by suicide, which would be true. The thing is, though, that I was never tortured by any of the guards themselves–the way prison depletes your life of meaning was already torture enough.
Because of my death, the whole prison would go on lockdown. Nobody would be allowed out, not even to shit, piss, or shower. Picture this: some young guy spent the whole night having a sex dream about Salma Hayek, cumming all in his underwear and over his pubes. He wouldn’t be allowed out to clean himself. Because of my body’s death, his own body would be left filthy and impure. But maybe–maybe my death would give him an idea. If he followed suit, he’d be liberated and rid himself of the prison’s filth. Whereas from where I stood in this vast open space: freedom. I mean, if you could even call it that. I was calling on all prisoners to kill themselves.
After finishing all the standard procedures and paperwork, they’d call my mother.
“Your son is dead. Come collect his body.”
There’d be crying and wailing. She might even lose her mind at the news of her beloved boy being gone.
The same boy who, once every week or two, when she came to visit, would remember what he looked like only when he saw himself reflected in her eyes—clearer than any mirror ever could. Her embrace in that prison was so warm and sincere, like it could dissolve all my worries. But it only ever lasted an instant, until the guards came back. There would be one final visit, dear mother—the day you’d come to collect what remained of me—I know it would be hard. But it would be only one day. One day to retrieve my lifeless body. And One day to bury me.
I felt so much shame–watching her come and visit me like that–her body frail, hunchbacked and worn down. Four times a month she made that journey, waited for hours just to see me for a minute or two. I used to convince myself that killing my own body would finally give hers some rest. That it would be an act of mercy, for both of us.
But I never said goodbye to all my beautiful imaginary girls: the dancing sensations, goddesses of seduction, and the superstars that I’d meet at night or in the showers. I worshipped them: licked their bodies, inhaled their breasts and came all over them. I believed those fantasies damaged my mind.
“Pray,” I told myself. “Talk to God. Read the Qur’an.”
I thought maybe it would redeem me when I met Him. It’s what a faithful believer like me believed, someone who in recent moments had been swept up by doubts, and spiraling questions of metaphysics. It was better than obsessing over women’s breasts and waists.
No, actually—who was I kidding?
Nothing was better for me than a woman’s waist or breasts.
The dementia had already begun. These were the final moments. Everything was in place and my skinny neck was in the rope.
“Dude! I’m full, really. You eat it or just put it in the fridge.”
“No, we can eat it tonight,” he said with a half-assed laugh.
The argument was about who would eat the last chicken leg.
He looked at me, and said: “Go on, finish your suicide stories,” teasing me and smirking while picking up the remaining chicken leg.
“The movie is over,” I said, mocking him and myself.
“The truth is,” he said, stone-faced, “that you’re a coward who doesn’t really want to die.”
He didn’t even flinch when he said it.
Frankly, he was right.
*******
The third time I came close to ending it was in Beirut, after I’d left the prison that was Egypt. It was on the corniche at night, but as usual in my case, the third time was never the charm. It was like what my friend had said—I didn’t really want to die. If I did, I would’ve already done it. But the truth was that I was a failure, a bullshitting, down-and-out lunatic who talked to himself because he had no friends.
That evening, my head throbbed, and I left my apartment unsteady. Whenever grief gripped me, it always started in the sole of my right foot–pain so sharp, it spread upward until I couldn’t walk. As for my heart, it ached as if it had been hit by a Molotov cocktail, burning like a cigarette in my soul.
But what did I know about cigarettes? I’d never really smoked. And to be honest, I shouldn’t make comparisons about things I didn’t understand.
We have already agreed that everything in this life—its time, place, seas, trees, roses, flavours, humans, and Jinn—everything mirrors everything else. Nothing stood apart. I no longer saw any beauty or meaning in the world’s existence. I stopped believing that there was any depth, wonder, or purpose left in people, or in nature, or in anything at all.
The only thing I never tired of was women. Their beauty, charm, mystery, and logic-defying existence. Even when they resembled each other, they never lost their meaning.
Inside my head, it felt like a rebellion was raging—clashing slogans refusing to quiet down and shut up. There were no honest relationships left, and no one I could speak to without putting up an act. Not even the beautiful refugee that my heart had fallen for was spared. She had started spiralling out of control, her sharp and jarring ingratitude, scraping my nerves, putting me on edge.
That very day, Miss D told me bluntly, “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
Two days later, she apologized, “I’m sorry. I’ve been quite stressed these days.”
It wasn’t her pussy that made me stay. Rather, it was the absurdity of everything around me—the eternal void, the grief that had moved in ages ago and made a home in my chest.
I slammed my hand, and the arm of the office chair snapped off. That was the last thing I did at home before heading down to the corniche. Something felt off, like I’d stumbled into some forgotten African town still haunted by its colonial past. Streets filled with people, servants and dogs—white, brown, tan—trailing behind and serving without names, recognition or thanks.
In those fancy Beirut apartments that stretched for hundreds of meters, there was always a small space in the kitchen less than two meters in breadth: that was where the help lived. Enslaved, invisible. It was fucked up. All of this evil, absurdity, rot and injustice.
It lived inside me, took root, and ate away at whatever hope I had left for a just world. It carved me hollow—day in and day out—until there was nothing left but ruin.
That night, I circled around manically on the corniche like a mad blossom caught in a breeze. I’d already walked back and forth more than fifty times when I stopped on the sidewalk, and people started to notice my uneasiness.
“Who’s this lunatic?”
“It must be exhausting walking in circles like that.”
“Why is he pacing so much? What’s wrong with him?”
Their whispers clung to me. The pounding in my head grew louder, a relentless drum. My leg, heavy with pain, forced me to sit down. But I couldn’t stay still, so I stood up again. Crooked. Dizzy. Swaying. I kept walking.
The cars in Beirut were slower than in Cairo. So, the option of suicide by getting runover was out of the question. The sea, however—still wild, was still willing. I climbed down onto the rocks, slipped, stumbled, and steadied myself. Then, I looked up at the moon and down at the waves. The water rushed beneath my feet like I was a Pharaoh who couldn’t swim, waiting for Moses to part the sea.
But it wasn’t Moses who came. It was Suleiman who showed up instead.
“You coward! Go big or go home!”
“You’re a scumbag. A piece of shit! Remember why you came here, and just fucking jump!”
I always said that suicide isn’t bravery. So, I wonder if I actually wanted to kill myself. Maybe I just wanted them to mourn and write about me in the papers.
“Egyptian Writer Dies by Suicide in Exile.”
They would have to print my name, which I have even started to forget. Exile is just another word for death. A quieter one.
“He died while already living in death.”
A miserable headline, a news item that would provoke pity, discourse, maybe even some philosophical debate—a performative grief. Perhaps it would echo Sarah Hegazi’s tragedy, with swarms of sad reactions, tears, prayers, and emojis.
Truth is, only my mother would truly grieve. Maybe five of my friends, or six at most. Definitely no more than seven. Most people would just laugh it off or love me, in the same breath, they hated me.
Amidst all this fakeness, how could I ever know who actually loved me? Everyone was chasing recognition—but it was a delusion, a scam. I pictured the lamentations and aftermath of my imagined death: People would repost my writings and books with heartfelt captions, sharing the same pieces they ignored and scrolled past while I was alive.
Of course, they wouldn’t have access to everything. I would still have my unpublished writing, which was already translated into English. And of course, there was my novel—this stupid ramble, who would ever publish it? I still haven’t entrusted it to anyone, least of all my friends in Beirut who are too far up their own asses to go through my writing.
I used to think I would leave a note, entrust some people I know with a couple of whathaveyous that might be important.
“Forgive me. Pray for me. Publish what’s left of my thoughts, and my petty takes on power, the body, the self, capitalism, relationships, love, consumerism and suicide.”
Or whatever else they stumbled across, for that matter. But I’d insist they attach a pretty photo of me to accompany it. One where my hair flowed lightly in the wind, just something that provoked a feeling or two, and let out the pent-up tears.
They might even find this letter, which I wrote that night. The words spilled out of me as if they had escaped from the mind of a neutered cat:
My love. I don’t even know who I’m writing to anymore! Imagine this, my angel—One morning not long ago, I went to the Tunisian Embassy. I wanted to ask them some questions about how to leave. I didn’t even know why I did it.
“What do you need from me, so that I can leave this place?”
It’s how I lost hope. I had no job waiting for me there and no tourist visa, either. Just this quiet little fantasy where I had fooled myself into believing that maybe, just maybe, I’d find a human being. It didn’t have to be a solution, or anything like that–just a person. That’s how my madness and mania works–it tricks me into hope. I’m either refused, ignored, or misunderstood. But I’m a loving person, kind, sensitive, maybe even a bit foolish too. But still, I’m speaking from experience when I say that it isn’t enough. It is never enough.
You’ve ignored me, just admit it. It’s like you’ve told me, deliberately or not:
“Go ahead. Fire yourself up, burn, and then some. Go roam the streets all alone with your miserable memories and pent-up tears. Go on–blame the night, the moon, the faces–faces that don’t love you. Blame yourself for everything and then do it again. Remember how my eyes made you melt with all their grace, their softness and their goddamn familiarity. Remember how much you trusted them.”
I try to tell myself that you didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it. That you were just scared, anxious, beautiful, and like always, running away. Anyway, this is my letter to you (I don’t think I’ll send it). I want you to feel something. Fear, maybe. Because I’m writing this in earnest. So, think, imagine–do all of it.
Look at me, giving you advice. Let the harm reach you–it’s my harm. The one I never had the courage to inflict, ever since I glimpsed your sincerity and beauty. It’s like that time you told me that you were afraid of hurting me. But what are you doing now with your silence, if not denying my existence?
This torment, punishment, was never yours to bear. It’s mine, I swear. Every inch of me is to blame–my tongue, eyes, laugh, heart, body, even the creases in my shirt.
I mean, sure, I know how to iron a shirt, how to rip it apart and how to stitch it back together. But how do I fix myself? My body? My soul?
I’ve accepted the fact that I’m unloved. But how can I accept not being loving, and not being human? Because I was human once. I walked, talked, laughed, hell, I even danced. And I did all that beside someone who made me feel safe. You.
That’s what your presence did to me. With everything about you, and in you, you reassured me. Especially your lips, which shackled me. Not with iron, as you’d expect, but with something far more dangerous: safety.
And that wasn’t like me.
These words, don’t take them personally. Don’t think they were ever meant for you or against you. They’re just how I’ve been keeping myself company. Easing my own loneliness. A way of postponing the relief I know my tears will bring.
I guess, I know it’s selfish. Or, maybe not. I don’t really know anymore. All I know is I’m trying to hold something together. Anything. Even just a fleeting smile that doesn’t carry the weight of this oppressive world. Or something that keeps people from asking:
“What’s wrong with you?”
“When will you stop moping around like this?”
Like the sadness was ever mine to control. I’ve had nothing to do with it. Still, I wonder–how did I get here so quickly? How did I end up writing to you?
Maybe it started the night we watched that movie together at my place. Since then, I’ve been writing you letters every night. One after every time we met. Sometimes, I wrote more than one, as if I were writing what I couldn’t say. But you’d already read them in my eyes, anyway.
There aren’t that many–twenty or thirty at most. But I don’t think I’ll ever send you any of them. Not ever. No matter what happens. No matter how much my loneliness tempts me. No matter how drunk I get. (Maybe once I’ve left this place. Or right before I die.) But I think that after this morning turns to day, I won’t write another thing. How could I? You can’t imagine how much dignity, love, and chaos burns inside me.
I remember that time you embarrassed me, and I just kept quiet. Didn’t say a word.
I told myself, “It’s not her fault. She’s spoiled and all she knows is innocence, wit, and charm.”
I believed it. Still do. Maybe there were other moments, but what mattered most was that I recognized the worry in your eyes. The anxiety behind your grace. I wasn’t greedy. You were the most beautiful of women and your eyes were just too much for someone like me.
And who was I?
An idiot. A broken man. A guy who failed at existence. Still—I kept wanting to see you—your shoulders, hair, skirt, and the nail polish on your sexy feet. That’s how far I let myself go, that’s how I gave up my pride and kept writing to you, just so I could keep seeing you. All for you. Or for the pain. I don’t know anymore.
The pain always hits me sideways. It comes every time before the moon, and after it, in a strange form, gnawing at me, choking me. It crawls inside me, and splits me into pieces until I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know how to resist the pain. Even drinking used to leave me high, drunk and numb—stopped being a sedative or relief. It has turned into a coffin I bury myself in, slowly without mercy.
Day after day, I drift through the nothingness in my head, bleeding into the void. Too scared to move. Too scared of prison. Too scared of that guard’s stupid face. Every day, I eat whatever—anything, whatever is in front of me. I swallow without tasting to the point where I begin to wonder if I’m actually swallowing myself. I wouldn’t taste like anything, just unsalted and loveless misery.
Now, I’ve tried writing to you, free of anxiety, with words as calm as your footsteps. I don’t want you to ever worry, because I’m really terrified of worrying you. I’m scared shitless of you becoming like me—agitated, troubled and adrift.
All I want is for you to live with love. To hold onto it and embrace it. Because I’m sure it’s a calm and safe feeling. Or else why would losing it feel like this much terror? And no—I’m not even asking you to respond. Even if I ever send you this, you needn’t reply. I’m sick, cursed, like a small forgotten piece of Lego that’s been stepped on by the feet of God. The same God who has cast me out.
Or maybe I’m just a little kid who’s scared of confessing to you in this letter that I love you. I mean it. It’s too late to pretend that I don’t care. Too late to run away. You know, there was a moment—a weak, terrifying moment—when I almost sent all this to you, begging for help. But what kind of help would I even ask for?
Maybe, just this: Please don’t cut me off. Let me keep seeing you. I probably would have said something pathetic along the lines of:
“You’re my goddess of seduction and healing. I hate myself. So please don’t leave me alone with this sickness of loving you.”
Last time, I said we could just be friends. After you gave me that warm hug, it felt like you had forgiven me. I begged you not to cut me off, and for us to maintain nothing more than our friendship and our connection. Because I wasn’t capable of violating love.
Love comes easily for those who fuck around, but for me, it’s not an easy thing. It’s not something I can fake or throw away. I don’t even know how I ended up this soft and fragile, because I’m known, believe me, for being strong, confident, and as proud as the ocean.
It’s just all these disappointments, and maybe it’s your breasts too. Maybe that’s all it is. I don’t know anymore.
*******
Beirut society, the way I saw it, stood on pillars of consumption. Attractive, deceitful appearances. Slogans plastered on walls, while the actual principles they claimed to stand for were wiped away long ago. Lies, deception, a kind of pragmatism and cruelty dressed in good manners, yet it erased the other entirely. No one answered to anyone. A cold ingratitude, cloaked in polite phrases:
“It was just a misunderstanding.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
Revolution, human rights, animal rights. Somehow, the animals seemed to be more important than humans. Some of those human rights organizations, freedom of expression groups–were nothing more than polished gangs of corruption and immorality. In public, in front of donors and journalists, they paraded their humanity and said all the right things with big, beautiful words. But behind closed doors, they did whatever the hell they wanted. I’ve dealt with a couple of them, and so have some other people I know. We all agreed that these institutions pursued nothing but profit, and were businesses that gave no actual regard for either rights or humans.
“Man—you’re a fucking coward.”
I must have cursed myself more than I could count that night. I was furious—on the run from myself, my family, love, fate—even God.
Is this what life was meant to be?
“Do it now,” I told myself.
“Take the plunge. You won’t even feel the cold.”
You’ll find others drowning, too. Migrants from Libya, Egypt, and Lebanon trying to reach Italy, Greece, and Cyprus. But don’t look at them, even if you recognize someone—don’t offer them any hope. If you can, drag them down with you. If not, focus on saving your own body from sinking. You’ll fail, and they’ll fail, and that’ll be it.
*******
The revolution failed, prisons were unlocked, and money was stolen. Politics turned into a lucrative business. Some Egyptian politicians inside and outside turned it into a hustle; another group lay around doing nothing. While the others tried to keep breathing and working, they ended up flirting with suicide.
I belonged to this last group—the ones who tried to flee over the past few years. Tens of thousands had fled Egypt, attempting to liberate themselves from prison. I was one of them. Escape was the only option. I knew so many young people who crossed the borders on foot, climbed over fences, cut through barbed wire until they reached Belgium, the Netherlands, some place—anyplace—that would stamp their papers and call them refugees. That was the dream. Not freedom, not dignity. Just to be human, to live as a refugee, a second-class citizen. Even if it became a third-class life, or fourth-class, it was still better than being a madman in prison.
A few weeks back, I spoke to some of my exiled friends:
“So,” I asked, “what do you guys think of politics these days?”
“Are we going to just stand by and watch?”
“Shouldn’t we try to do something, to make a change?”
I pitched the idea, tried to get a conversation going, but no one had the time.
Work, studies, travelling, and paperwork.
Money to make, bills to pay. Despair to manage. The selfishness required to get ahead. That was when it hit me—that I should write something about selfish exile. That kind of exile where resistance loses its collective meaning and becomes about personal salvation. The search for safety, money, titles, and degrees, all while saying: to hell with politics. To hell with sacrifice.
I should write that article soon, but first, I need to find a platform that’ll pay me well for it.
At least I tried to stay positive. Tried hard to give a damn. Until one day I met a kind, good man from an Egyptian village who chanted, “Long live hope!”
So, of course, Suleiman snatched him up. That was it; there was no point in trying—I realized that. So, I replaced politics with bodies—with watching women, observation had turned into obsession and a kind of study. At times, it felt like I was punishing, humiliating, and taking revenge on my own skin. Lashing out, cursing everything, being enraged, getting drunk, then crawling out of loneliness through masturbation or sex.
A belly dance, a nibble on my nipple. I thought coming up with sexual fantasies was easier than inventing political ones. So much simpler, pleasurable, and best of all, it was harmless. The body tensed up for a bit after some mental gymnastics, but that was about it. But politics? Politics meant prison and the killing of the body. It made you want to hang yourself, get run over by a car, or flee–get deported, then flee again until you reached the edge of the sea and tried to drown yourself. But even at that, you failed.
Because I was a coward, a pussy, I decided I wouldn’t kill myself that day. Maybe, the next day, or at thirty or forty. Who knew?
I fell asleep, oddly reassured by the thought of a temporary death, if I didn’t wake up–fine– death would have caught me off guard. No drama. What a fucking joke!
Then, I made up my mind–I would outrun the Angel of Death, go find him, and summon him myself. Why should I wait for his ambush? I could end it myself before he even got the chance.
Then I imagined God asking me: “Why did you kill yourself?”
And I’d say: “I beat You to it, God, before You could kill me.”
With a smug little grin.
Pathetic.
Of course, everyone knew that God forbids suicide. It’s Haram. Unforgivable. Suicide made you an apostate. That’s what they always said.
Heaven or hell? The living would argue a lot about my fate after I died… No, I didn’t want that. I didn’t want my death to become a theological debate about where my soul landed. No, I wouldn’t kill myself. I wanted a proper, mournful eulogy with beautiful commemorations, and memories. So I had to think of something else–something honourable, something great. Then, it came to me: I’d die a martyr for a just cause.
So, I returned to my old stance, defending slogans on the meaning of sacrifice, solidarity, defending justice and confronting oppression.
There I was, on a god-awful day, standing face to face with death outside the American Embassy in Lebanon. Ready to die a martyr for Palestine. Only yesterday, Israel bombed the Baptist Hospital in Gaza.
I shouted: “Death to America!”
Hurled rocks, ran from the tear gas and bullets, cursed because I inhaled the gas.
I came back, took photographs, and chanted again: “Fuck Israel! Fuck America!”
Threw more stones, choked again, and ran. That was me for hours–begging my body not to give out, not to take any blows that would shut it up forever. But as usual, I failed. Failed to reclaim justice, failed to get myself silenced.
So maybe, yeah. Maybe it really would be better to just kill myself. Easier. And honestly, I didn’t give a fuck about the debate. I wouldn’t be around to hear it anyway.
I was relentless in my search for death. I was even more committed than Suleiman. I, at least, only tried to kill myself, not others, like he did. I couldn’t go on. I’d kept my distance from evil, danced with it, and now I’ve even written about it. I made up my mind: I would kill myself. Final decision.
Then, the phone rang and snapped me out of my lunacy. I silenced it, but then I heard my friend Mustafa’s voice cut through:
“Dude! Where are you? Another earthquake just hit. Did you feel it? I was so scared, we almost died!” He rambled on in panic.
No. I hadn’t felt it. I wasn’t at home. I was by the sea, waiting for the Angel of Death. But he was taking his sweet time. He didn’t show–or maybe he did. But I was too scared to face him. Maybe, I flinched. Froze. Stayed.
So now what? What would it take to beat the fear? To choose staying–for real? Or to finally choose leaving?
Eventually, I found it—the answer. It was simple, just like I’d said before. I thought it through carefully. Drew up the scene of my death and recorded it here in writing. This way, I’d at least written my story about death. Maybe even given it some depth and meaning. That’s what I hoped. It had taken a lot of willpower, commitment, control, genius, and a particular kind of stupidity.
Then, I had another idea: what if one month after publishing this whole ramble, I bought an explosive suicide belt, strapped it to my ass and planted it inside me? Or maybe even before publishing.
The headline would read: “The novelist who blew up his own ass.”
That would sell better. The publisher could slap it on the book cover. A sick hook. Irresistible. That was the death scene I imagined: my finale.
Now, I was really ready to go—let the car flip with my body in it. I’d fall asleep at the wheel and never wake up. Or maybe a Houthi ballistic missile, fired from Yemen targeting Occupied Palestine, would go astray–take a wrong turn mid-air and land right on my bed in Beirut. For them, these things were routine.
But really—why all the drama? Let’s just say I was dead already—dropped dead by a heart attack while fucking the air. Or to be fair, let’s call it what it was—a murder.
God had killed me four times before. Once through sickness, once through war, once in prison, and once at sea. God, where’s my grave, where’s my body?
“Mustafa, wait for me at your house,” I said. “I’m on my way. I’m starving.”
Suicide doesn’t die. It just waits. I was bound to return to it again–after the next heartbreak, the next failure, the next time someone left me. I didn’t say anything.
*Suleiman is a symbolic name used here to refer to a tyrannical and autocratic leader.
