Dear Shaimaa al-Sabbagh,
I think of you often. You visited me in my dreams several times despite the fact that I never met you in person. I met you through the photos of your death. The day I saw the well-known picture of you, I remember crying. It wasn’t the first time I cried for a stranger, but it was the time that impacted me the most.
I memorized that picture of you and your party colleague, whom I later discovered was named Sayyed Abu el-Ela, as you shared your final moments with him. He embraced you like he could keep the blood flowing inside your body, like he could save you. I wished that he had.
There is a certain kind of painful beauty in your picture. I remember thinking that you died standing, and what a beautiful way to die. Even in death, your head was held high. Even in death, you were standing. It doesn’t matter that your body was supported by another. What matters is Islam Osama’s picture of you on Jan 24, 2015, when life wasn’t the same anymore.
I was around 13 years old when you died, and believe me when I say that something died in me. No one managed to understand my tears back then, for who would cry for a stranger. They didn’t realize that the moment I saw your picture, a connection was established between us two. And I cried for you, but I also cried for Egypt.
The blood on your cheek felt like the blood tainting Egypt’s history. It felt like a reminder of Egypt.
It was then that I realized that I see Egypt in you, dear Shaimaa.
I saw Egypt in these final moments where your friend was trying to keep you standing so you don’t fall to the ground and announce your death. It reminded me of how hard Egyptians are trying to keep Egypt standing so it, too, doesn’t fall to the ground. Because another fall would lead Egypt to the grave, and I hope that Egypt has a different fate.
All your friends said in interviews that you were optimistic. They said that you were convinced that Egypt would soon move beyond its sad history. I feel ashamed to tell you that we did move past our history, but our movement wasn’t that of progress. It was one of forgetfulness. For now, many Egyptians choose to forget what happened, but I refuse to forget you.
“She was the only beautiful thing in my life. And after her, there is nothing beautiful around,” Sayyed Abu el-Ela said in an interview while talking about you, his dear friend. For a moment, I allow myself to feel like him. I allow myself to believe that your existence, even if unknown by me for a while, was a beautiful thing in my life that suddenly disappeared after I was introduced to it.
Your friends said that you refused to run away when police started firing birdshot. You stood your ground, and that was the end, and yet I refuse to believe that. I refuse to believe that your existence ended, for I think of you often.
I think about your son, Bilal, sometimes too. Bilal, who lost his mother and had to navigate life without her, feels like how many of us lost the Egypt we wished to know and are now navigating life without it. I told you that I see Egypt in you.
Your pictures haunt Islam Osama, the photographer who took them, like a ghost, and they haunt me, too. I can bring your image to the front of my mind from the depths of my memory, as if it was never pushed to the background. I can remember the look on your face, the blood on your cheek, and the hands keeping you upright. I can remember these details as if I was there, and I’m thankful that I wasn’t there. I’m ashamed to admit that I would have been one of those who encouraged you to run.
I have fear in me, but I don’t see it in you.
I try to keep thinking of this picture of you standing even in death, for it doesn’t announce your death firmly; it only hints at it.
I also try to forget the following moments that have been retold hundreds of times. I try to forget how you were put in a chair in a café as your friends begged for an ambulance. I try to forget how help arrived too late.
I try to forget your injuries sometimes. They said that birdshot lacerated your heart and lungs. The image is too terrifying to hold close to my heart. But I try to paint this image with colors. I try to imagine that out of your injuries, flowers were born. Red flowers, to be exact. I chose red because of the red nail polish you had on that day. I can still remember every single detail in this picture where you were carried by a friend and your red nail polish was glaring at the screen.
I hope that these red flowers will shine brightly in the history of Egypt so that you are never forgotten.
I will never forget you, Shaimaa al-Sabbagh. I’m 23 years old as of today, and not a year has passed without me thinking about you. Sometimes I ask myself what would you think of Egypt if you were still here today. I find a satisfying answer in how I imagine that you would have stood your ground once more, despite millions of Egyptians running away from facing the truth.
What a beautiful human you are. I use “are” because, in my mind, you never died. Your living memory healed your injuries and kept you breathing, kept you standing, like the end never came.
When people remember you today, they mention that you were a poet; it feels fitting that someone as beautiful as you would write poetry. I searched for your poetry and found a translation on ArabLit of your poem “A letter in my purse.”
I stopped reading at the very beginning when I read the following lines: “But when lost, there was a problem / How to face the world without her”. Tell me Shaimaa, how to face the world without you? How to face Egypt with you not in it, and with your memory forgotten by millions? At least, I will always remember you.
I also stopped at the lines saying “Anyway, she has the house keys / And I am waiting for her” because in a way, I’m waiting for you.
I just don’t know what I’m waiting for.
Am I waiting for your memory to abandon me like it has been abandoned by groups of people? Or am I waiting for people to start remembering you?
One thing that I’m sure of — one thing that isn’t tainted by the question of waiting — is that I see Egypt in you, Shaimaa.
Yours,
A friend you have never met