Meet the New Boss: A tale of military extortion

On the way back from Ain Sokhna close to 11 pm on Friday night, 23 September 2011, I was stopped by a group of army personnel. I was in the company of a male Egyptian friend and a female Australian friend (the significance of gender soon to be elucidated). They searched thoroughly through every piece of trash in my mess of a car and came up with an unopened bottle of alcohol kept in a back pack in the trunk of the car. 

“We found this,” the soldier promptly reported as he held up the cheap bottle. I carelessly remarked, “This is a closed container of alcohol.”

They continued to rummage through the car, over and over again with much redundancy. 

When they were done, one of the army personnel said they had to confiscate and break the bottle. I could not tell if he was an officer or a conscript, since he was wearing army pants and a designer shirt but in all likelihood, he was an officer since he had the freedom to do so. I once again emphasized that it was a closed container which meant they had no right to do so. 

The officer responded, “If there’s a closed one here, it means that another was consumed there.”

It may be pertinent to point that neither I nor my company had consumed any alcohol earlier. 

I responded, “the law says that …” and before I had completed the sentence, the officer said, “Don’t talk to me about the law, I’ve been up since 6 am in the morning doing this.”

I did not care for the bottle in any way, but my concern was for being a victim of illegitimate abuse. I insisted that he had no legal ground for confiscating the bottle, and he insisted he didn’t care much for legitimacy. 

“Where did you buy this?” he asked.

“Duty free,” I said.

“Do you have your passport to prove it?”

“No.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

“I could have bought it from Egypt and paid 3000 LE in customs for all you care,” I said.

My friend spoke to the officer, aggressively opposed to his actions. The officer in retaliation said that he could just through it up in the air and smash it if he wanted to. My friend said he couldn’t do that, but I on the other hand agreed with the officer. 

“You can do whatever you want because you’re carrying a gun, but not because you have a right to,” I said.

He said that nothing can be done by force and that he had his orders. He went on to say, “I have orders to confiscate any drugs, electric shock, alcohol and condoms.”

“Condoms?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “just earlier today we stopped 73 cars and the women were all complaining when we confiscated their electric shocks.”

“I understand about electric shocks and drugs, but the rest of your instructions are illegal. How do I know you really have orders to confiscate these items?” I asked.

He said, “It’s simple we wait for a military truck that transfers you to C28, the prosecution for military intelligence and then you get to find out.”

“You want me to go to military prosecution infamous for locking up 12,000 people unjustly where trials are done in an officer’s mess for this?” I responded.

“What trials?” he said, “Don’t believe all that you hear.” 

“You and I both know this is what happens,” I responded.  “I’m not going to waste my time waiting for that truck when we both know that you do not have the right to confiscate alcohol if it’s in a closed container. Besides, if I knew I was doing something wrong, I wouldn’t have argued with you for so long, and more importantly if you knew you had a right to do what you’re doing, you wouldn’t have been so patient and civil in this conversation.”

We talked for around 30 minutes. It was the same old technique used by Egyptian police to blackmail passersby on the road. The idea as I learned from earlier encounters was that the security personnel would use threats of time wasting and hassles in order for you to bribe them. 

The officer held on to the alcohol bottle, and said that he had to destroy it. He said he’d pour it all out to show us that he was actually getting rid of it. What did he think we were suspicious of? Whatever suspicions we may have not have of him trying to take this bottle for him and his buddies were asserted.

I explained to my Australian friend what was going on and translated some of the conversation.

Me and my Egyptian friend quarreled and were intent on not allowing this abuse of power. Many words were exchanged. Despite the absurdity of the situation, I noticed that the army officers were still new at this. They exerted too much effort searching the car, something the police would have been more efficient at. They also couldn’t maintain that balance between power and abuse. They were too civil at times and too threatening at times. 

In a few months, they would perfect these attacks. After enough abuses they would find out that they need to exert less effort searching the cars, they need to be less tense when issuing threats and they would get what they wanted easily from those who cared more for their time than they cared for the rule of law. 

I knew that the price for my time was the bottle, and it’s a price I would be willing to pay in different circumstances. But with that price, I would have given up my rights and the rule of law which I wasn’t willing to give away. I was ready to wait it out and perhaps even risk the chance of facing military prosecution with falsified charges because I didn’t want to willingly give up my right and succumb to military extortion.

My Australian friend had stood at a distance and hadn’t engaged the officers in any conversation. 

“This is ridiculous,” she finally said addressing the officer in English. 

“No this is not ridiculous,” responded the officer looking surprised. I was surprised too, for other reasons. I had not expected the officer to understand the word ‘ridiculous’ and hadn’t expected him to respond in English.

He then stood there for five seconds trying to find the words to convince her of his position, but found none. He then handed her the cheap bottle saying, “A gift for you.” 

I Too Had Hopes And Dreams

"Don't look at me this way, I too had hopes and dreams," that's what I told him as he stared back at me. I had a look of sorrow and disappointment on my face and I expected him to have the same look on his, yet his face was filled with contempt. I waved my left hand slowly and he waved his right, I moved my head to the right and he moved his head to the left. Whenever I would make a move he'd do the same move albeit inverted in a way, but when it came to the facial expression, no matter what I did, he'd still have that look of contempt on his face.

I felt sorry for him and he felt contempt for me. I looked for all the possible futures and he looked for all the possible pasts and with all these possibilities, we found ourselves in an impossible situation of having to live with each other. He's like an old companion, who shadows me wherever I go but could never really turn into a friend.

Of course I wouldn't always see him and on many occasions I would only just remember him and hear his voice. One such occasion when I hear his voice is whenever I open the fridge door. He tells me to drink from the bottle directly while causing my thoughts to drift to unsubstantiated fears of contamination. It's always him that tells me that it doesn't matter if I infect another, trying to convince me that it's okay if those I love share what I may suffer for if they discovered what I might have, they'd let me suffer too and in all likelihood disown me.

Every time I use a fork or a spoon that will be used by someone else other than me I feel that same struggle and that same inner fear, the fear that someone will contract the virus. I've read so much and I know that this is highly unlikely but when I look into the spoon that same contemptuous face stares back and tells me different. He also reminds me that people won't shake my hand even though they can't contract the disease, he tells me that they won't want me around even if I'm wrapped in a sterile wrapping. Sometimes I'd listen to him till he wears me down and sometimes he'd listen to me till I wore him down, for there was no escape from our joint fate.

I remember the time we went to Dubai after I had landed my dream job in one of the largest architectural firms there. It was perfect, a new life and a new chance to start over without the fear of being discovered, without the instability caused by that constant fear of having to spend the rest of my life in quarantine. In short it was the chance to start living out my dream. I arrived on a visit visa that lasts three months but should be changed to a residential visa. I was in a hurry to make that move and settle down. I had left everything behind in Egypt, and I wasn't really prepared to look back, and even my old companion had disappeared for a long time and I thought I had left him back there.

But one day, well into my second month of stay in Dubai I went out with an acquaintance from work. We went to a nightclub. I can't remember much about it except that it was mostly blue and dimly lit. A band was playing for the first half of the night as we drank our beers followed by tequila shots. When we had lost our senses enough they switched to a DJ with loads of house music and everyone was dancing. The loud music and the drinks made me feel like I was in a dream. I heard the words I said as if spoken by a stranger as I talked to random people at the club. I was aware of what I was saying and yet I seemed to be just an observer, looking at myself from behind a glass. I headed to the bathroom and as the sound of loud music became distant I became more and more aware of that voice. It sounded familiar to me and not quite me. Dazed and drunk I looked into the mirror and I caught a glimpse of that familiar face that I knew all too well. It was only a moment and it felt like a dream to have seen him after a long time. I shook it off though and went back to dancing.

We left the night club and I was half drunk and half sleepy but we decided to have a little snack. We walked down a street with lots of food shops to choose from, but I discovered that this wasn't the only thing in plenty. The street flooded with a plethora of prostitutes. I didn't know if my mind was playing tricks on me or if these were really women who sold pleasure, and so I asked my friend, and he confirmed that they were.

"It's a form of tourism over here, it' not exactly legal, but the government doesn't stop it either," he said.

"Yes, but how does it work here?" I asked.

"Simple, you just walk up to them and ask 'how much', and they'll tell you their prices, but alternatively they may give you a piece of paper with their number and you can call them and negotiate a price," he responded.

"Why would they give you a piece of paper instead of just talking?" I asked.

"Well lately the police have been harassing them and asking questions whenever they talked to people so they talk on the phone instead to steer clear from trouble, but it's all just for show anyway," he replied.

"But isn't it dangerous to do that, considering they might carry AIDS?" I said as my phobia started to take its old shape.

"That shouldn't be a problem here if they have a residential visa, because everyone gets an HIV test and has to pass before they're granted the visa, if they test positive, they have to leave the country or are deported or something"

This piece of news awaked my long dormant old companion who seemed to have been determined to visit me that night. He awakened frightened and frightened me to death. What if they were on visit visa or if they had engaged in their activities with clients that were on visit visa and carried the virus, I thought to myself.

I started dreading the blood test and I was once more surrounded by that feeling of instability. Once more my old companion surfaced and looked at me with contempt. By the end of the visit visa my fear had turned to a living nightmare thanks to my old companion who seemed to have never left me from that day. I eventually listened to him and turned down my dream job, opting to live obscurely in reality. He won that time and continues to survive as long as I'm ignorant as to whether I carry the virus.

So there we were right where we started, facing each other through a body length mirror, looking at me with contempt for blowing away his dream, he had hopes to be somewhere safe with all that he ever dreamed of. He's such an odd character, this old companion, he speaks with such contempt about those carrying the virus, and yet he doesn't want me to try and find out if I have it or not. It's as if he's stealthily willing the virus to spread if I actually do have it and willing me to live in utter fear if I don't.

The odd thing about him too is that he's right about a great many things, about how people will treat me and how they will put distance between us, even my closest friends and he's right about how my life will never be the same and none of the normalcy which I enjoy now will be taken when I cross that gate. But the only reason that's true is because of him. Yes, it's because of how he feels, and how he can never accept me. It's his desire to be in denial, even though he's my own denial.

He's taken me down a spiral of despair. He's taken me to judge, he's taken me to deny and he's taken me to look upon others with disgust. He's taken me to phobia and he's taken me to mania and all the time I knew I wasn't in the right places.

It's a horrible thing to live in fear, and worse yet to be judged by someone living inside you. But even with this fear and discomfort, I think it better and more bearable than for everyone to know and never let you forget the discomfort of their harsh judgment. Even my old companion inside, who is me, thought of everyone that had the virus with disgust and blamed them for their misfortune without even knowing their story. But he knew mine and never dared blame me.

If people should find out, like my mirror companion they won't care about my story and they will blame me and judge me and punish me. They will punish me not knowing that I have enough punishment to bear and that I carry a burden with me that they can't ever imagine, not considering that I too had hopes and dreams that have diminished with the impossibility of achieving them. There's a bit of comfort with my old companion for he knows that even with his harsh judgment some cases are beyond his evil reach. Those children bearing the virus from their mothers, children abused at a young age, those who have been raped and those whom others' neglect transferred the virus into their blood stream. My old companion cannot blame those but I know that some of these people look for forgiveness from others even though they shouldn't need any.

Once in a while when I look into a shiny spoon or a shiny doorknob or a reflective glass he stares at me with disgust, but at the same time urging me to remain in hidden shame. He is my fear and he embodies all what I fear if I find out I'm infected. How I wish I could kill him, but that would mean killing everyone who would look at me with disgust; how I wish he would change, but that would mean changing everyone around who lacks sympathy or understanding; the understanding that I too have hopes and dreams and without their help, they are crushed.

This story is a work of fiction sent in to the "Creative Art Competition" organized by UNAIDS as a part of the 2007 World AIDS Campaign, the category was 'Journalism and Creative Writing'.