international airport, who had access to the entry visas processed at the airport.
‘How far do you want me to go back?’ Fathi asked, his tone already implying futility.
‘Start with the American invasion of Iraq and work your way up to the present.’
‘Have you any idea how many entries that is?’
‘I know how fast you work when you have the right amount of motivation,’ said Makana.
The flow of traffic slowed to a halt as they approached Midan Tahrir, the sun glinting off the cars like molten iron, that locked solid in a matter of minutes. Makana climbed out of the Datsun as the horns began their unorchestrated keening and set off on foot. Skirting the side of the fenced-off area in front of the Nile Hilton, he found himself forced to walk in the road by the uneven pavement and the sheer weight of numbers. In the mid-nineteenth century this was the site of the Khedive’s army barracks. The hotel was constructed in the Fifties, ushering in a new era of modernity with the promise of American luxury available right there on your doorstep. The gardens in front of the hotel, once popular for family gatherings, had since been fenced off – nobody really knew what for, which led most people to the obvious conclusion, which was that large spaces were unpopular with a government concerned about crowd control.
It took him ten minutes to reach Bab al-Luq and the building on Midan al-Falaki. The entrance was on a corner, and although the elegant staircase had seen better days it was kept neat and clean. On the third floor the door, as always, stood open. Makana wandered in through an unmanned reception area into the main office, which was illuminated by windows made grimy by the traffic. The space was divided by tables and desks that had been pushed into place to use the maximum floor space. They were all covered in heaps of paper and computers, although few people were in evidence. They seemed to keep irregular hours, coming and going according to their own schedules. Makana had no idea what they all did, or how it all fitted together. The sign on the door informed visitors that the office was occupied by something called the Masry Info Media Collective , MIMIC for short. As Makana understood it, a collective meant nobody was in charge. Sami Barakat had explained it to him. They gathered the news and fed it out to agencies around the world. ‘In the old days every agency would have its own correspondent in every part of the world. Nowadays they can’t afford it, so they depend on local sources, which is good for us.’ Sami grinned. ‘And gives us an outlet abroad, which means we can get around the state controls in this country.’
‘Except that nobody here reads Japanese or whatever language your stories are published in.’
‘It’s true we have little influence locally, but that will come. Give it time.’
Sami and his wife Rania shared an area on the left-hand side of the L-shaped room. They had more space to themselves, which reflected a certain seniority. Over the years, Sami had become known as a voice of dissent. He was clever enough to be able to avoid trouble with the authorities most of the time, although a couple of short spells in prison were unavoidable for anybody in the sector. In recent years he had become something of a focal point for the younger generation.
Makana found his friend leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, talking on the telephone. You could never tell with Sami whether it was a social call or professional. There didn’t seem to be much distinction. They were talking about the war in Iraq. When he saw Makana, Sami cut short the call and invited him to sit, which was a nice gesture except that all the chairs appeared to be taken. Makana leaned on the windowsill.
‘Our brothers in Iraq are suffering terribly. This war is aimed not only at taking control of their wealth and natural resources, but destroying their past. The Ministry of Oil was the first place the
‘How far do you want me to go back?’ Fathi asked, his tone already implying futility.
‘Start with the American invasion of Iraq and work your way up to the present.’
‘Have you any idea how many entries that is?’
‘I know how fast you work when you have the right amount of motivation,’ said Makana.
The flow of traffic slowed to a halt as they approached Midan Tahrir, the sun glinting off the cars like molten iron, that locked solid in a matter of minutes. Makana climbed out of the Datsun as the horns began their unorchestrated keening and set off on foot. Skirting the side of the fenced-off area in front of the Nile Hilton, he found himself forced to walk in the road by the uneven pavement and the sheer weight of numbers. In the mid-nineteenth century this was the site of the Khedive’s army barracks. The hotel was constructed in the Fifties, ushering in a new era of modernity with the promise of American luxury available right there on your doorstep. The gardens in front of the hotel, once popular for family gatherings, had since been fenced off – nobody really knew what for, which led most people to the obvious conclusion, which was that large spaces were unpopular with a government concerned about crowd control.
It took him ten minutes to reach Bab al-Luq and the building on Midan al-Falaki. The entrance was on a corner, and although the elegant staircase had seen better days it was kept neat and clean. On the third floor the door, as always, stood open. Makana wandered in through an unmanned reception area into the main office, which was illuminated by windows made grimy by the traffic. The space was divided by tables and desks that had been pushed into place to use the maximum floor space. They were all covered in heaps of paper and computers, although few people were in evidence. They seemed to keep irregular hours, coming and going according to their own schedules. Makana had no idea what they all did, or how it all fitted together. The sign on the door informed visitors that the office was occupied by something called the Masry Info Media Collective , MIMIC for short. As Makana understood it, a collective meant nobody was in charge. Sami Barakat had explained it to him. They gathered the news and fed it out to agencies around the world. ‘In the old days every agency would have its own correspondent in every part of the world. Nowadays they can’t afford it, so they depend on local sources, which is good for us.’ Sami grinned. ‘And gives us an outlet abroad, which means we can get around the state controls in this country.’
‘Except that nobody here reads Japanese or whatever language your stories are published in.’
‘It’s true we have little influence locally, but that will come. Give it time.’
Sami and his wife Rania shared an area on the left-hand side of the L-shaped room. They had more space to themselves, which reflected a certain seniority. Over the years, Sami had become known as a voice of dissent. He was clever enough to be able to avoid trouble with the authorities most of the time, although a couple of short spells in prison were unavoidable for anybody in the sector. In recent years he had become something of a focal point for the younger generation.
Makana found his friend leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, talking on the telephone. You could never tell with Sami whether it was a social call or professional. There didn’t seem to be much distinction. They were talking about the war in Iraq. When he saw Makana, Sami cut short the call and invited him to sit, which was a nice gesture except that all the chairs appeared to be taken. Makana leaned on the windowsill.
‘Our brothers in Iraq are suffering terribly. This war is aimed not only at taking control of their wealth and natural resources, but destroying their past. The Ministry of Oil was the first place the
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