Every Man in This Village Is a Liar_ An Education in War - Megan K. Stack [90]
Some people argue that the popularity of political Islam is exaggerated. Others say that groups like the Brotherhood are only powerful because repressive rulers have shut down every single public platform except the mosque. But that night showed a simpler truth: These people were profoundly religious. Poor and abused, they passed faith from one generation to the next because it was the only precious thing they could bequeath. They didn’t trust the greedy, potbellied suits in the capital—those people meant corruption and sin. They rallied to the Islamists who came from their towns and mosques because they felt at home with them and recognized in their piety a reflection of their own moral values. The people weren’t stupid; they knew these Brothers represented problems, too. But this was their life, the devil they knew. I thought about the powerful Christian movements back home. Could Americans see nothing of ourselves here?
A sheikh from the ancient Al Azhar university warmed up the crowd, his voice rising and dropping in evangelical waves. He preached politics, preached Islam, preached divine intervention. He was calling down God, calling out the vote. He was magnetic.
“Corruption is a disease that has destroyed our country. Those who accept life without religion have accepted annihilation.”
“We will not compromise, we will not bow down. We’ve come to hate low voices. Every minute that passes is too much time.”
He steered his talk from heaven to earth and back again. The townspeople were instructed to bring twenty other voters to the polling stations. If the government stole the election, he pledged, the Brotherhood would go to court.
“They might mock us for it, but we’ll pray to God to send his wrath,” the cleric said. “We will shout, ‘God is on our side,’ and he will compensate us for what’s happening.”
When the candidate took the stage, a murmur passed through the crowd. Heshmat peered down through spectacles, a lone tuft of hair clinging to his shining scalp and a shabby wool blazer drooping from his shoulders.
“Who are they, and who are we?” he demanded of the crowd. “They are the princes, the sultans, they have the money. They make shows with music. They play politics but all they’re really good at is putting more brass on their shoulders.”
“The youth of this nation are just sitting in coffee shops, jumping into boats, trying to get to Italy,” he said. “Are we a country without natural resources?”
“Yes,” I muttered to Hossam.
“Are we a country without a professional class?”
“Pretty much.”
“Are we a country of politically immature people?”
We laughed quietly.
“Are we going to take that talk from the government?” Heshmat thundered on. “How dare they say that?”
A single voice rose like a wisp of smoke from the crowd.
“Inshallah …” God willing.
The night exploded into voices. The men sprayed fake snow into the darkness, poked fingers to the sky, and hollered, “Victory is for Islam!” They spread out and marched aimlessly, as if it didn’t matter where they went—as if they owned the whole town, as if the vast stretches of country beyond had already fallen into their laps, a rich gift from God.
The banners passed. “Islam, we are for you.” “May you make a staircase of our skulls and go high to glory.” “If your banner gets thirsty, our youth will give their blood.”
Such a thing seemed possible in this strange witching hour, that their skulls could pile one atop the other, that they could clamor to the sky. I tried to imagine what they imagined; tried to feel the fire of faith when you had nothing else to hold.
The rally was over soon. A man from the stage gave a gentle reminder to the silent women:
“Now the sisters have to wait a bit aside until the people leave,” he said. “Then, they can leave after.”
People first, I wrote, women second.
Like so many other Egyptians, Heshmat had fallen under the