We, the Prisoners

Dear Alaa,

At every attempt to write to you, we fail.
All those torn papers. The shame!
Shame, Alaa, the one that creeps into the soul and penetrates the bones.
What to write to you when you dwell in your prison free while we are the actual prisoners?
We are the prisoners, Alaa, because no matter what we do, we feel as if we have abandoned you, as if we have turned away from you and hid behind the pettiness of this world, its false smiles, and shriveled faces!

Walking down our dark streets is a luxury, Alaa.
An extravagance, when you are confined between four walls. To sit at the dining table, knowing you are on a hunger strike, is a blessing. To find a hospital to accommodate us while you struggle with the diseases of your prison is a privilege. It is an indulgence to even be able to write to you.
Will you forgive our luxuries? Even the tears we shed, at this moment, luxury.

You drove us to the mirror, Alaa. We look into it every morning, yet we cannot see ourselves. Your strength reveals our weakness.
There was a march yesterday demanding your freedom. Some of us joined, and others were hesitant. Perhaps on account of an entry visa to Egypt, or perhaps because the clouds were foreshadowing rain, or because hope is lost. Is all that not humiliation in itself?

Tell us, Alaa, where should we find hope?
Tell us, where should we find courage? Your courage.
Here, we are making films, writing articles, reading poetry, rejoicing at one award, being disappointed by another, attending a festival, boycotting another, participating in a demonstration, organizing another, taking part in an uprising, and fleeing another. And you, over there, are without a pen. Forgive us for failing, again and again, for remaining helpless before the obstinacy of your captors.

Alaa, in our mirrors, there is only you.
Your face haunts us. Your smile kills us.
And your mother standing in front of your prison.
And Sanaa’s voice calls you to life.
And her grief, and yours.
Theirs is freedom, and we are the prisoners.
Freedom is yours, Alaa, and all the prisoners of conscience wherever they are. Yours is freedom, and we are the prisoners.

The other day, water ran out, and we couldn’t wash away our weariness. We complained. We rebelled. We protested, and then we remembered you. We saw you in our mirror and were taken by shame. From our weakness. Before your might. We imagined you falling in your prison’s washroom as your soul expired. We envisioned them pumping water in your veins against our will and yours.

Alaa, if you don’t know it, you should be aware that you are the unbearable mirror. You are the brave, and we are the cowards. You have become the star, the shelter, the hope, and the courage to our darkest nights. We measure what we do in balance with your actions. We know you didn’t look for such responsibility; we are the ones to ask from our souls, thoughts and actions, and dreams and imaginations. We ask our lives to rise to meet you. We may not be able to force your captors to set you free, but we certainly have the power to see the world with your eyes, free, beautiful, just, extended, and inclusive. As you like it to be. As you see it. For you. For your son. For your family. For us. For all the prisoners of conscience from the Gulf to the Atlantic and beyond, for their courage, resistance and radiant intransigence, for Egypt, the Arab world and this little blue planet.

May peace be with you, Alaa.
And praise, and eminence, and prayers, and hope, and light, and this whole earth and all the sky, with you.
May you forever be free, and we will undoubtedly reunite.