Chapter Two: "Winds of Change"
They say a man can get used to anything. They lie.
---
The days that followed the job interview were indistinguishable from one another.
Yusuf woke early, drank the cup of tea his mother placed before him, and stepped out into a city that swallowed him, wore him down, then returned him in the evening exhausted.
New interviews, old rejections. Long waits in cold hallways, then the phrase "We will contact you" — a bell that never rang.
But something was changing in the world outside.
At first, the signs were subtle: bread prices rising, longer queues outside bakeries, fragmented news on television about emergency government meetings.
Then they became clearer: power cuts lasting hours, shortages of basic goods, faces in the street increasingly shadowed by worry.
One evening, Yusuf sat with his mother in front of the television. The newscaster read the bulletin in a formal tone: "new austerity measures," "review of subsidy policies." Big words that meant little, but the numbers flashing on the screen were clear: prices were rising, purchasing power was falling.
His mother looked at him:
— "Yusuf… prices are soaring. Vegetables cost three times as much. Meat… don't ask."
— "I know, Mama."
— "What will we do?"
He was silent. He did not know the answer.
---
At the university, the atmosphere had shifted. Students gathered in hushed groups. On the walls, small handwritten signs began to appear: "No to price hikes," "The people demand." Some were torn, as if someone had tried to remove them.
He met Fouad in the back courtyard. They sat on an old stone bench.
— "You saw the signs?" Fouad asked.
— "Of course."
— "Many are talking about protests. It's started in the capital. They say it will reach us soon."
Yusuf looked at the sky. It was gray, as usual.
— "Do you think it will change anything?"
Fouad shook his head:
— "I don't know. But people are exhausted. They want their voice to be heard."
At that moment, Samer passed by. He was almost running, his face flushed, his hair as disheveled as ever. His perpetual smile was different this time—something of both excitement and anger in it.
— "Did you hear? Transport workers' strike next week. And students in several faculties have decided to join."
— "And you?" Yusuf asked.
— "I'll go, of course. We can't stay silent forever. I'm tired of sitting at home waiting for an opportunity that never comes." He gave a short laugh. "At least in the street, I'll be doing something."
Yusuf looked at him, then at Fouad. They exchanged a quick glance.
— "We'll see," Fouad said quietly.
They parted with a promise to meet after lectures. Samer waved as he walked away:
— "Don't take too long to decide. We might run out of time."
---
Days passed. The news surged like a wave that would not recede. Television broadcast images from different cities: massive protests, loud chants, security forces confronting them, sometimes with tear gas.
People in the neighborhood began speaking louder. In the cafés, discussions revolved around politics, the economy, and the uncertain future.
One day, Yusuf went out to buy medicine for his mother. She had been complaining of chronic headaches lately—perhaps from worry, perhaps from fatigue. He walked toward the pharmacy.
The main street was more crowded than usual. Loud voices in the distance. An unusual human swell.
Along the way, he passed a bakery. The queue stretched for dozens of meters, people's faces weary, an elderly woman leaning against a wall, a man cursing under his breath.
Someone said to the baker: "When will this end?" The baker shrugged: "Don't ask me. I just sell what comes to me."
Yusuf approached the square. He saw a large crowd. Signs raised, chants rising and falling. The words echoed in the air like a mournful song.
He stood on the opposite pavement, watching.
Between him and them lay a wide street. He felt relatively safe. But he did not know that safety was an illusion.
Suddenly, everything changed.
A gunshot rang out in the air. Not a warning shot—loud, close. People began running in all directions. Tear gas canisters exploded here and there, white smoke covering the area. Screaming, crying, the pounding of feet.
Yusuf tried to move away. He wanted to run toward the pharmacy, away from the chaos. But the crowd swept him along.
He found himself in the middle of the square, surrounded by frightened faces and panicked eyes. For a moment, he felt he was dreaming, that this wasn't really happening.
But the smell of gas and blood was real.
He heard a cry for help nearby. He turned and saw a young man his age fallen to the ground. He was clutching his leg, blood seeping through his fingers. He looked at Yusuf with eyes pleading for rescue.
He hesitated. Fear gripped him. But something pushed him forward. He bent down, trying to help him up.
— "Come… I'll help you…"
But before he could finish, he heard another loud sound. Then he saw a shadow running past him. When he looked up, the wounded young man had fallen again. Blood now covered his chest.
And someone else running away. Someone holding something in their hand. Something shiny.
He froze for a moment. Then screams.
— "Dead! Someone's dead!"
Yusuf stood stunned, staring at his bloodstained hands. The blood of the young man he had tried to help. He couldn't believe it. This couldn't be happening. He was just passing through. Just wanted medicine for his mother.
Then he heard a voice behind him:
— "You! Don't move!"
He turned. A man in uniform, his face tired, his eyes sharp. He was pointing a gun at him.
— "Hands up!"
Yusuf tried to speak:
— "I… I was helping… I tried…"
— "I'll tell you once. Hands up."
Other men surrounded him. His hands were bound quickly. He was pulled away from the scene, shouting:
— "I didn't do anything! I was just helping!"
But no one was listening.
---
He was detained for three days.
The room was small, dark, with no window except a small opening high in the wall that let in a little light and air. A narrow stone bed, a thin blanket insufficient for warmth. The smell of dampness and mold filled the place.
The first day, he was in shock. He sat on the bed, eyes open in the darkness, trying to understand what had happened.
He had been in the street, looking for medicine for his mother. And now he was here, accused of killing a young man he had never known.
He repeated to himself: "This is a mistake. This cannot be happening."
But the cold walls reminded him that it was real.
On the second day, the interrogators came.
A long interrogation in a narrow room, bright light aimed at his face. Repeated questions:
— "What is your name?"
— "Yusuf."
— "What were you doing in the square?"
— "I was passing through. I wanted to buy medicine for my mother."
— "Who killed the young man?"
— "I don't know. I saw someone running away. I was only trying to help the wounded."
— "Why are your hands stained with blood?"
— "From helping him. He was bleeding."
— "That's what you say. But witnesses saw you leaning over him, and then he died."
— "False witnesses! I didn't kill him!"
The interrogation continued for hours. The same questions, the same answers. The investigator sometimes slammed the table, sometimes fell silent, looking at him with long stares as if trying to read beyond his words.
On the third day, Yusuf felt his strength beginning to fade. Little food, sleep nearly impossible.
Thoughts crowded his mind: his mother alone, not knowing where he was. Fouad searching for him. The work with Mukhtar Mahmoud halted. And the accusation hanging over him like a sword that had not yet fallen.
Then suddenly, the cell door opened.
— "Yusuf? Come out."
He rose slowly. Outside, the investigator from the second day stood waiting. He looked at him with a gaze not devoid of exhaustion.
— "You're being released. On bail."
— "But… I didn't…"
— "Don't say anything. Just go out. Someone is waiting for you."
In the station lobby, he saw Fouad. And another figure he had not expected: Mukhtar Mahmoud.
The two stood when they saw him. Yusuf had not expected to see Mukhtar Mahmoud there. The man who never left his shop, who spent his time among wood and tools, had come himself to witness his release.
Fouad stepped forward and embraced him warmly.
— "Thank God. We were so worried about you."
Mukhtar Mahmoud placed his hand on Yusuf's shoulder. He said nothing. But Yusuf felt everything in that heavy hand.
On the way home, Fouad explained:
— "We searched everywhere for you. When we heard the news, we went to a lawyer. We paid the bail with money from Mukhtar Mahmoud and from neighbors. The evidence wasn't enough. The lawyer said there were witnesses who saw the real killer running away. But the case is still pending. You're only out on bail."
— "What does that mean?"
— "It means you're not completely free. You have to report to the station weekly. Any travel outside the city requires permission."
Yusuf fell silent. He felt the world closing in around him.
---
At home, his mother was waiting at the door. When she saw him, she wept. She held him for a long, long time. She asked nothing. She only clung to him, as if afraid he would disappear again.
In the evening, she sat beside him. She was quieter than usual. She looked at him with her tired eyes.
— "Yusuf… I am afraid."
— "Don't be afraid, Mama. Everything will be fine."
— "Don't lie to me. I know what happened. The neighbors told me. Accused of murder… my son… my little son…"
She wept again. Yusuf took her hand. It was cold, trembling.
— "Mama, I am innocent. I was only helping. They will prove it."
— "I know you're innocent. But the world does not always work with justice. Your father used to say that."
She paused for a moment, then added:
— "Yusuf… you must think about your future. This country… there is no safety in it."
He looked at her. He knew what she meant.
— "Don't talk like that. You are with me. We will get through this."
— "I am old, my son. My age does not matter. But you… you are young. You have a life ahead of you."
He did not answer. He only held her hand until she fell asleep.
---
In the following days, Yusuf reported to the station every Monday. He stood in long queues, waiting his turn to press his fingerprints on a paper, then left. He felt the eyes of those around him: some curious, some sympathetic, some accusatory.
In the neighborhood, the neighbors' gazes had changed somewhat. Some were still friendly; others avoided looking at him. Abu Ibrahim, one of the neighborhood elders who sat on his chair outside, still smiled at him as usual. But Yusuf felt that even that smile had become different.
At the carpentry shop, Mukhtar Mahmoud received him as always. No questions, no comments. He simply gestured toward the table where the work waited. In Mukhtar Mahmoud's silence, Yusuf found relief. It was the only place where he did not feel accused.
One day, while he was working, Mukhtar Mahmoud spoke suddenly. A few words, but heavy:
— "The world turns. One day for you, one day against you. What matters is that you do not stop."
Yusuf looked at him, surprised that the old man had spoken so suddenly, and saw a deep wisdom in what he had said. He did not comment. He simply returned to his work.
---
Weeks passed. The situation in the country worsened. The protests did not stop; they expanded.
News spoke of arrests, of injuries. Power cuts became daily. Queues for bread and food stretched for hundreds of meters. Neighbors spoke in whispers of dark days ahead.
Amid all this, his mother grew weaker. She could no longer rise early to prepare his tea. She spent most of her time in bed, breathing with difficulty. The cough never left her.
Yusuf tried. He went to several pharmacies. He asked for medicine for shortness of breath, for antibiotics, for anything that would ease her suffering. Each time, the answer was the same: the medicine was unavailable, or its price was astronomical.
He tried to take her to the hospital. After several tests, they discovered a malignant tumor in her stomach.
It was the worst news Yusuf had ever received. The tumor was in its final stages, impossible to treat. Even if treatment were possible, its cost was beyond anything Yusuf could bear.
The news crushed Yusuf.
He sat in his mother's empty room. He did not move for hours. His hands over his face. He did not cry. He was simply there.
Still, he clung to the hope that she might survive through a miracle. But life's path is full of sorrows.
One night, as he sat beside her, she opened her eyes with difficulty. She looked at him for a long time. Then she whispered in a faint voice:
— "Yusuf… in the dresser drawer… under the clothes… there is an envelope."
He rose, opened the drawer. He found an old yellow envelope. Inside was a sum of money—not large, but enough. On it, his mother had written in her trembling hand: "For travel."
He returned to her. She was smiling.
— "I saved it for you… for a long time… from your father's money… and from mine… I knew this day would come."
— "Mama, don't talk like this. You will get better. We'll spend this on your treatment."
She gripped his hand with a strength that belied her frailty.
— "No. This is for you. Not for treatment. I am leaving. Do not cry. Life is like this. But you… you must live. Travel. Go where there is safety."
She wept. She wept until exhaustion overcame her and she fell asleep.
In the morning, what he had feared came to pass.
She did not wake up.
---
The funeral was simple. Fouad, Mukhtar Mahmoud, Abu Ibrahim, some neighbors. The sky was gray, drizzling slightly. Yusuf stood before the grave, watching the earth cover the one who had been his whole life. He did not cry. He had exhausted his tears the night before.
After the funeral, he returned home. The house was empty. No sound. No smell of food. No question about his day. He sat in her room, breathed in the scent of her clothes, remembered every morning she had woken him, every evening she had waited for him at dinner.
He sat in her room for an entire night. He breathed the scent of her clothes. He remembered her words: "Travel. Go where there is safety." At dawn, he knew what he would do.
In the morning, Fouad came. He sat beside him in silence. Then he said:
— "You can't stay here."
Yusuf looked at him.
— "I know."
— "We need to think seriously about leaving. This time, seriously."
— "I know."
— "Together. We'll do it together."
Yusuf looked at his friend. In his eyes, he saw a determination he had never seen before. And a sorrow that mirrored his own.
— "Why are you doing this with me?"
— "Because you're my friend. And because this country… there's no future here for people like us."
They fell silent. Then Fouad began explaining:
— "I heard about a way. Someone I know has traveled this route before. It's… not entirely safe, but it's the only option."
— "By sea?"
— "Yes. Boats. They leave from the nearby coast. No one guarantees arrival, but some do."
— "How much does it cost?"
— "Five thousand. Per person."
Yusuf whistled. It was a huge sum.
— "You have your mother's money. And I've saved some. We can sell what we can. Mukhtar Mahmoud will help. Maybe it will be enough."
Yusuf thought for a long time. He looked at his mother's photo on the wall. He remembered her words: "Travel. Go where there is safety."
Finally, he said:
— "Let's do it."
---
The preparations began. The following weeks felt like a long dream, filled with endless small details.
Yusuf sold some of the household furniture. The old television, some pots, the wall clock that had stopped working years ago. With each item he sold, he felt he was losing a part of his memory. But memory does not feed.
Fouad gathered information. He returned one evening with sparse but sufficient details:
— "I asked the person I know. He said the journey is in about a month and a half. It departs from the western coast. We need to be ready."
— "And how do we ensure we're not caught?"
— "Nothing is guaranteed. But he said there will be someone to guide us. The important thing is to trust each other."
Yusuf looked at his friend. In his eyes, he saw a mixture of fear and hope.
— "Do you know what this means?" he asked.
— "I know. A gamble."
— "And we're poor at gambling."
Fouad paused for a moment. Then he said:
— "But staying here is certain death. At least out there… there is hope."
Yusuf looked out the window as usual. The sky was gray. The same color every day.
— "We'll do it."
---
In the final week before the journey, Yusuf met Mukhtar Mahmoud for the last time.
The shop was quiet, the saw silent. They sat on two wooden chairs in the corner.
— "You're traveling?" Mukhtar Mahmoud asked.
— "Yes."
The old man was silent for a long time. Then he rose, opened an old drawer, and took out a small envelope. He placed it in Yusuf's hand.
— "Take this."
— "Mukhtar Mahmoud… I can't…"
— "You can. You are my brother's son. And if my brother were alive, he would be the first to help you."
Yusuf looked at the envelope. It was heavy.
— "I will return it when I arrive… if I arrive."
— "Do not return it. Just live. Live and honor yourself. That is all I want."
Yusuf embraced him. He felt the old man's roughness, the scent of wood that never left him.
— "I will never forget you."
— "Do not forget yourself. That is what matters."
Before he left, Mukhtar Mahmoud said to him:
— "Do not forget where you came from. But do not let that stop you from going where you want to go."
Yusuf left the shop and closed the door behind him. He knew he would not return.
---
On the last night in the house, Yusuf sat alone. The house was nearly empty. One bed in his room, some clothes, a photo of his mother and father, the small notebook he sometimes wrote in.
He walked through the rooms for the last time. His mother's room: an empty bed, an old wardrobe, a lingering scent. He stood for a long time, remembering. Every morning she had woken him, every evening she had waited, every laugh, every tear.
His room: scattered books, the notebook, photos. He opened the notebook, read some old lines. Then he closed it and placed it in his bag.
He looked out the window for the last time. The neighborhood he had lived in his entire life.
The familiar sounds: a child crying on the ground floor, a distant street vendor shouting, the heavy silence of night.
The memories: his childhood in this alley, his simple toys, his first day of school.
He stepped out. Locked the door. Placed the key under the small mat at the entrance. His mother's habit. If she returned, she would find it.
But he knew he would not return.
---
At midnight, Fouad arrived. Together, they took an old taxi to the meeting point. It was on the outskirts of the city, a place out of sight.
Others were there: tired faces, silent. Young men their age, a man in his forties with his teenage son, a lone woman wrapped in a black shawl. No one looked at anyone else.
Everyone was lost in their own silence, in their waiting, in their irreversible decision.
Yusuf sat on the ground, leaning against a small rock. He looked at the sky. The stars were there. The same stars he had seen thousands of times. They had not changed. He had.
Fouad sat beside him. They did not speak. They did not need to. Everything had been said in the days past. Now was the time for silence.
They waited for hours. No one knew exactly how long. Time at night has a different taste—slower, heavier. But they did not grow restless. They knew this waiting was part of the journey. The journey they had thought about for so long, discussed repeatedly, finally decided upon.
They were not afraid. Neither Yusuf nor Fouad. The life they had lived, what they had seen, what they had been through—it had hardened their hearts. Not cruelly, but calmly. The calm of one who knows the worst has already happened. The calm of one