Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Taking my hand, Ibrahim led me through more narrow streets where barefoot children
stood in the doorways, waving as we passed. Coptic priests sauntered like bearded angels
through the shadows and religious icons hung from ropes slung across the streets. In the
sprawl, donkey carts, driven by small boys, delivered yet more rubbish for the locals to sift
through.
After some time we stopped before the face of a half-finished apartment block, and
Ibrahim led me up a forbidding set of stairs, loose wires dangling down like dead spiders'
legs. On the second floor, we arrived at a wooden door, already hanging open.
'Yasser?' yelled my guide - and, at once, a man approached from the shadows within.
Barefoot, in old grey trousers and a sleeveless vest, he had one of the saddest faces I'd
ever seen. He extended his hand in embarrassed welcome. 'Come in,' he said, staring at
the ground as he spoke.
'
Shaay?
' he asked, unable to look me in the eyes.
'Thank you,' I replied, and he shuffled away to make it.
When he returned, I sat on a low sofa, on which were arranged a collection of brightly
coloured stuffed toys. The living room was tiny, barely enough space for the sofa and a
small table - and it was only when Yasser opened the curtains, allowing daylight to spill
in, that I understood the reason for his shyness. He was hideously disfigured.
As he turned to us, I couldn't help but look at the scars across his face. Several of his fin-
gers were missing, and for the first time I realised he had been walking with a pronounced
limp. Nobody said a word, as if daring me to ask. I turned, instead, to Ibrahim.
'You wanted to understand the Copts,' he said. 'Well, here's a Copt. Ask him anything
you want. Ask him why he is the way he is. He won't mind.'
In the window, Yasser stood with shards of light across his ruptured features. On the
wall behind him was a large poster depicting the Last Supper. Sensing my reluctance to
ask, he began to speak. 'It was a Tuesday,' he said, softly. 'The 8th of March 2011. I was
driving back from my work as a garbage collector. It was late, almost midnight, when they
stopped me in the road. A gang of men, all of them Muslims, all of them with big beards,
even though they were young. They can't have been more than twenty-two, twenty-three.
One of them asked if I was a Christian or Muslim.' He paused, the memory so painful to
bear. 'I couldn't lie. I told them I was Christian.'
Yasser faltered, turned away from me and stared out of the window. Raising a stumpy
hand, he wiped away a tear. As he began to shake, Ibrahim went to his shoulder, whis-
pering some words of consolation into his ear. Whatever he said, it seemed to give Yasser
strength. He left the window and came to sit beside me.
'I didn't know at the time what had happened. There had been fighting between the
Muslims and the Copts, after our boys made a protest against the Muslims burning our
churches. That was when the Muslims started to attack our areas. They dragged me out
