Hatred of the Written Word
Wednesday.
It has been two and a half months since Alaa’s arrest.
Resistance sometimes takes the form of a cupcake and candle to insist on celebrating your eight year old’s birthday. Resistance is the creative right to entertainment, crafting chess pieces out of bottle caps, playing cards out of medicine packaging.
While I have claimed that “not writing” is a politically viable position—the right to be silent, the right to withdraw—I have second thoughts, as I grapple with a conflicting sense of editorial responsibility and desire.
I am not family. I live elsewhere. I am not able to talk to Alaa. Yet, we are in conversation.
Do you have any complaints?
The prosecution asked him on Monday.
State security prosecution does not allow lawyers to consult any documents during the investigation, to make a copy, or keep a record of the defendant’s statements, therefore Alaa’s words are reconstructed later, through the efforts of his family and lawyers. In prison, Alaa is forbidden to write.
I edit his words, with liberty:
I have a complaint regarding the Torah Maximum Security Prison 2.
I am deprived of the rights listed in the Prison Law.
I am deprived of the right to adequate health protection during the months of winter.
I am denied the right to exercise for two hours.
I am denied the sun.
I am deprived of hot water.
I am deprived of the means that would allow me to heat water for hot showers.
The prison administration does not provide us with mattresses or standard issue pillows.
We sleep on concrete benches.
With no insulation, the cold seeps into our bones.
What is more important to me, though, is being deprived of “the written word.”
I have not been allowed books or magazines.
My right to subscribe to newspapers, or to deal with the prison library, is denied.
After two months and ten days of repeated complaints.
Of my family bringing forward, complaints, petitions, requests
to the authorities in charge of prisons
to those who oversee the Ministry of Interior and its work,
it is evident to me that this is more than just a security matter,
it reveals terror and hatred
of the written word.
The terror
controls the mind of the Egyptian state,
it has spread to all its corners.
I don’t see any rationale or reason for my detention
except the written word,
especially as I was arrested at the same time as scholars and researchers of some renown.
And, since following my arrest, the state has detained journalists known for their professionalism.
Hatred of the written word has taken hold of state institutions—
institutions of security and of executive power.
It is a strange case, this one, since the founding fathers of Egyptian culture, such as Rifa’a al-Tahtawi participated in the drafting of curricula for military schools and academies. He had an instrumental role in translating military manuals, geography, and European history for military education. This work propelled society toward modernity.
Until recently, in order to join these institutions, it was requisite to demonstrate sound judgment and insight, the ability to think critically, the skill and capacity for self-expression: prospective candidates were required to be well-rounded individuals, cultured, informed.
In countries of the advanced world—critical institutions attract and employ—experts
in various scientific fields—
candidates who have practical experience—theoretical knowledge
—in the strategic sciences—
who are then able to make decisions and present strategic analyses.
—in the case of military leadership—
experts in environmental science and the management of natural resources.
Social science, and psychology experts
—in the case of the police.
For a long time, it was the case here, too.
Suddenly the state is hostile—toward this.
The attempt to reproduce and reproduce molds that do not think
and are unable to debate
presents a fundamental threat to society.
Whether we accept or reject, are with or against.
Since, the authorities—that govern us—embody in this moment
the mind—that manages and determines the fate, our fate
—of society—and not just us, the prisoners.
When I demand my right to read and write
I am not demanding a luxury.
I demand to be enabled to live
at this time
in this century.
And to be allowed to protect my basic abilities,
and to participate to the best of my capacity
in the ongoing project of revival and development of the Egyptian state,
even as it falters.
If the prosecution prevails in enabling my rights
then this victory is not for my person
but for the written word.
We must restore the stature of the word,
to guarantee the right of the written word
and its protection,
realizing that it does not present a threat to society,
but is needed
for its evolution, its advancement.
Alaa also requested that the prosecution continue its investigation into the accusations leveled against him in more detail, and to present any evidence—should it exist or be found—to end this grievance and to dismiss his case.
The prosecution decided to extend Alaa’s detention for another fifteen days pending investigation.
Sarah Rifky is a writer and curator from Cairo living in Somerville, MA. She writes essays around art, as well as non-fiction stories, and has contributed to publications including Art in America, Art Agenda, Bidoun, the Exhibitionist, and Mada Masr, among others. She is co-editor of Thresholds 47:Repeat, Positionen: Zeitgenössische Künstler aus der Arabischen Welt and Damascus: Artists, Tourists and Secret Agents. She wrote The Going Insurrection (2012). A journal and non-profit artistic platform are both named after “Qalqalah,” the eponymous protagonist of two of her stories. Rifky is a Ph.D. candidate in History, Theory and Criticism, and the Aga Khan Program for Islamic Architecture at MIT.