I visited my uncle a few days ago.
My uncle’s well-off, and I ask him for help whenever things get tight.
I received a call from my aunt the other day. She told me that my uncle didn’t want me to visit anymore.
“Why? Is he ashamed of me?” I asked.
“He just doesn’t want you to visit anymore.”
“Give me his number. I’ll call him.”
“Why? What are you going to say? I don’t want you to upset my brother.”
My other uncle is a millionaire. He lives in Omraniya. He owns a bakery and a couple of workshops. He attends auctions.
When I went to him for money—my mother had called him beforehand—he gave me a measly 100 LE.
“I don’t want anymore women coming here,” he snarled. “From now on, I’ll send money with my brother Mohamed.”
Despite being rich, my uncle hasn’t helped my mother move out of the tiny, prison-like room she lives in.
And this, after she had been a landlord of two apartments: a two-bedroom and a one-bedroom.
Everything was sold when my brother and I were in jail.
She had to sell my dowry too to be able to pay the lawyers.

Nobody stood by her.
When she asked my uncle for her share of the inheritance so that she could hire a lawyer for us, he asked her to give up her share and receive only 1,000 LE in return.
“You can cry, moan, or shout about it, but 1,000 LE is all you’re getting,” he said.
She wasn’t able to pay the lawyers in the end.

You see, we were in a lot of trouble, my brother and I.
My brother was arrested 10 days before I was.
He was found with 25 kilos of marijuana.
I was found with two 1/2 kilo packs of hashish and ten kilos of marijuana.
Mother tried to get at least one of us out.

I was engaged at the time.
I was getting my furniture upholstered on a Thursday, but I got arrested Wednesday.
Whenever my fiance asked where I was, Mother would tell him I was at my aunt’s because she wasn’t feeling too well.
“She’s at her other aunt’s now because she isn’t feeling too well.”
“Tell him the truth, mama,” I said. “I’ve already been in jail for 3 months now”.
She did what I asked.
“Why didn’t you tell me your brother dealt drugs?” he said. “We’ve been together for 3 years.”
“That’s just how life is. We should each go our separate ways.”
He left me during the investigation period.
He visited me after I had been in jail for a year.
“I love you and I want you back. Our apartment is still there with all the furniture you picked out. I want us to get back together.”
“No,” I said. “You left me before I even received my sentence. Now you want to get back together after I got ten years? Don’t fool yourself. You go about your life and I’ll go about mine.”

I have many more stories.
After I was released, a woman staying at my mother’s made fun of the fact that I went to jail: “What’s up, ex-con?” she would say.
Whenever I get into a fight with anyone, they always bring up the time I did in jail.
I’m depressed because of everything that’s happened so far.
I’ve seen many things in jail.
I was once held in the execution chamber as disciplinary measure.
I had a friend named Noha there, God rest her soul.
She was held there too for three days.
One woman gave me tea, another gave me cigarettes.
I was in my bra and underwear because it was hot.

We were seated on a rug that was full of cat hair. It made me itch like crazy.
When it was night, all the prisoners went to sleep, but I couldn’t.
I finally nodded off around 1:30 am, but then I heard a voice.
Someone calling my name. I got scared.
I was up for the rest of the night.
When the guard opened the door the next morning, I begged her to lock me up elsewhere. I just couldn’t spend another minute in that room.