1

I clearly remember how the nightmare began.

Abdel Aziz and I were coming out of his apartment on Qasr al-Aini Street, walking along in an unusually serene state of mind, on our way to have a drink in a place near Falaki Square. Suddenly I had a whimsical desire to hold his hand. Something may have sent a shiver of fear up my spine, and I wanted to cling to him.

It might have been the first time I had held his hand in front of people in the street, and the strange thing was that he didn’t move his hand away or discourage me, as I had expected. We held each other’s hands and my fear, which had no known cause, evaporated. The next moment rough hands came down on our shoulders. We turned in surprise to make sure it wasn’t just a prank by some annoying friends. They asked us for identity papers, still holding on to us as if we might run off if they let go. For a moment I felt guilty: maybe they had appeared out of nowhere to punish us just because I had reached out my hand to my friend and he had held it.

“May I know who you gentlemen are?” asked Abdel Aziz, before taking out his identity card.

He spoke excitedly and with confidence, while I was struggling to hide the fact that I was trembling.

“No need to hurry, my dear. You’ll find out everything in good time,” replied the one who seemed to be senior.

Then he looked behind him and we noticed there was a police truck not far off. The man called over someone called Hayatim. I recognized Hayatim from a distance—a pale, plump young man with thin eyebrows that looked as if they had been drawn on with a ballpoint pen. Hayatim, a name usually given to girls, was his nickname. I don’t know his real name. He was their guide that night.

Hayatim came over, walking confidently between two security men in civilian clothes. “Which one do you mean?” Hassan Fawwaz asked him.

Hayatim pointed toward me without looking at me, as if he were slightly embarrassed. “But I don’t know that other guy,” he said. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him.”

The man in charge looked at me. “Are you gay?” he asked, using the English word and speaking rapidly in order to confuse me.

“What does that mean?” I answered in a trembling voice.

“Okay, come along with us, my dear, and we’ll tell you what it means.”

Then he looked at Abdel Aziz and gave orders to his men: “Bring that one too and we’ll see what’s up with him.”

In less than five minutes we were inside the truck, among more than ten other men. Our gentle world receded into the distance with each passing moment while the nightmare spread its black wings over everything. I clung to my friend’s hand in the darkness of the truck.