We sit, the three of us, in the slowly filling amphitheatre of the appointed place. The evening service begins in an hour. The girls, so pretty in the new dresses we bought together this morning, sit quietly beside me, unsure about being in a Christian place of worship. I have told them that we will meet their mother here soon.
Eleana is so much better now than she was. She asked me just now if Christians believe Jesus is God. I explained to her that they believe he was the son of God, sent to spread God’s message of love and peace. She asked me if this was true.
Dear God, what is the truth – about anything? I feel so adrift, so unsure. It is as if my life has lost all reference, and that all the ideas and beliefs that anchored me are eroding away like sand in the tide.
I looked into her eyes. So innocent still, despite everything she has endured. So trusting. In Islam, I said to her, we recognise Jesus as one of the most important of the Prophets of God. But we believe that he was a man like any other, not the son of God.
And then the inevitable question: but we and the Christians, is it the same God we worship?
Yes, I said. Of course it is.
Eleana smiled. She does not do it often, but she has a lovely smile. I like this, she said.
And to this God of ours, as I sit here and watch the Copts slowly trickle into this amazing place – an entire cathedral built into a cave in the Moqattam cliffs – I must entrust myself.
Today, just a few hours ago, I watched my friend, the mother of these two beautiful girls, risk herself for me. And then saw her taken away by the police. There was nothing I could do.
That is what I tell myself, but it is not true. At first she begged me not to go. She seemed convinced that something bad would happen. But once I had explained to her the reason I was here in Cairo, what had happened yesterday – I told her the truth – and that I had to go, she desisted. It was she who suggested that we switch places. In fact, she insisted. It seemed a good plan, and the chances that anyone could possibly have known about the rendezvous seemed so remote, I acquiesced. I flashed that signal to Claymore almost instinctively, once I knew that we were both being watched. It was not premeditated, and I did not tell anyone about it after.
Samira and I agreed that the girls and I would dress as tourists, and she would go ahead and seek out Claymore, dressed in my burqa. If, after making contact, everything seemed safe, I would come to them, and Samira would take the girls and leave. If there was a suggestion that we were being watched, she would get him a message to meet me here, then leave quickly. I should never have agreed to it.
Allah, most merciful, please protect my friend Samira.
I sit here and I realise that I have abandoned myself. If Samira tells the police we are meeting here, I am done. There is nowhere else to run. But what would become of these little girls?
Surely Samira will be able to claim innocence. I should have rehearsed it with her, as a contingency. I have forgotten my training. But I simply did not believe that anyone could possibly have known. I was sure we were not followed. Very soon after I arrived with the girls, I saw you there, Claymore. You were standing near the pyramid. You were alone. I saw no sign of the man who was following you yesterday – the pale, sickly one. I signalled to Samira and she started towards you. Then I saw them, the two policemen. I tried to signal to Samira, but by then she was too far away, lost in the crowd. There is no use pondering it, now. It is my fault, my failure. I pray that she is released unharmed. There is nothing left to do but wait and hope.
The service is about to begin. The place is almost full. I have watched each person enter the cathedral. Claymore, you are not here. Oh, God, will I ever see you again?
Wait. I see someone.