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  For Ramzi and Faiza, who made it all possible.

  For Hind, who hears every heartbeat.

  For Zein and Layla. I did my best.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a true story, though some names have been changed.

  PROLOGUE

  I was seven years old when members of the Muslim Brotherhood assassinated Anwar Sadat, and his vice president, Hosni Mubarak, took over, in 1981. I was a thirty-seven-year-old bookseller with ten bookstores, 150 employees, two master’s degrees, one ex-husband (from here on known as Number One), one second husband (Number Two), and two daughters, when Mubarak was removed from power in 2011.

  But our story begins long before the Egyptian revolution, and before the series of uprisings known as the Arab Spring. For most of my life, I have lived in Zamalek, a neighborhood on an island in a river surrounded by a desert: coordinates thirty degrees north, thirty-one degrees east. Zamalek, a district of western Cairo, reclines in the middle of the Nile. Legend has it that Cairo is named after the planet Mars, Al-Najm Al-Qahir, which was rising on the day the city was founded. She is known as al-Qahira, the feminine for “vanquisher.”

  On Zamalek’s main pedestrian and traffic artery, 26th of July Street, stand two sister buildings called the Baehler mansions. Their high ceilings, courtyards, and stucco flourishes suggest a glorious past. Air-conditioning compressors tenaciously cling to balcony railings, loose cables collect dirt and scraps of paper, and laundry hangs in the heat. A string of businesses lines the street: Nouby, the antiques dealer; Cilantro, the coffee shop; Thomas Pizza; the Bank of Alexandria; and a windowed corner store, Diwan—the bookstore that my sister, Hind, and I founded in March 2002. In the years after, Hind and I opened sixteen locations (and closed six) across Egypt, but each one of our stores emulates the look and feel of this one, our flagship, our firstborn.

  Hind and I conceived of Diwan one night in 2001, over dinner with our old friends Ziad, Nihal, and Nihal’s then husband, Ali. Someone posed the question: If you could do anything, what would you do? Hind and I offered the same answer. We would open a bookstore, the first of its kind in Cairo. Our father had died recently from a merciless motor neuron disease. As lifelong readers, we had turned to books for solace—but our city lacked modern bookstores. In Egypt at the turn of the millennium, publishing, distribution, and bookselling were worn-out from decades of socialism gone awry. Beginning under the rule of Gamal Abdel Nasser, the second president of Egypt, through Anwar Sadat (the third) and then Hosni Mubarak (the fourth), the state’s failure to address the population boom led to illiteracy, corruption, and diminished infrastructure. In an effort to suppress dissent, each political regime had taken control of cultural output. Writers became government employees; literature died many successive slow and bureaucratic deaths. Few people in Egypt seemed interested in reading or writing. Starting a bookstore at this moment of cultural atrophy seemed impossible—and utterly necessary. To our surprise, our dinner companions were equally interested. That night, we became five business partners: Ziad, Ali, Nihal, Hind, and me. In the months that followed, we discussed, networked, and planned incessantly. Then, Hind, Nihal, and I got to work. And it was through that shared toil that we became chosen sisters, the three women of Diwan.

  As people, Hind, Nihal, and I could not have been more different. Hind is private and fiercely loyal, Nihal is spiritual and generous, and I’m a doer. As business partners, we tried to be better versions of ourselves, failing more often than not. We divided work based on preference and passion: Hind and I were best with books, and Nihal was best with people. These divisions were never clear-cut. We all found common ground in language. We devoted our attention and our labor to words. We were proud of Egyptian culture and eager to share it. We had no business plan, no warehouse, and no fear. We were unburdened by our lack of qualifications, and we were ignorant of all the challenges that lay ahead. We were young women—I was twenty-seven, Hind was thirty, and Nihal was forty. Over the next two decades, we would hold one another’s hands through marriages, divorces, births, and deaths. We would confront the difficulties of running a business in a patriarchal society: navigating harassment and discrimination, cajoling bureaucratic despots, and becoming fluent in Egypt’s censorship laws in the process.

  From the beginning, we knew that our bookstore couldn’t be a relic of the past. It had to have a purpose and a vision. Every aspect had to be intentional, beginning with the name. One afternoon, our mother, Faiza, listened politely as Hind and I grappled with this dilemma. Underwhelmed by our suggestions, and eager to return to her lunch, she proposed “Diwan.” She enumerated its translations: a collection of poetry in Persian and Arabic, a meeting place, a guesthouse, a sofa, and a title for high-ranking officials. “Diwani” was a type of Arabic calligraphy. She paused, then added that the word worked phonetically in Arabic, English, and French. She returned to the plate in front of her. We were dismissed.

  Empowered by our name, we approached Nermine Hammam, a graphic designer also known as Minou, to help us build our brand. Her humor was swift and biting, her gummy smile all-knowing. Minou asked Hind, Nihal, and me to describe Diwan as if she were a person. We told her that she was a person, and this was her story:

  Diwan was conceived as a reaction to a world that had stopped caring about the written word. She was born on March 8, 2002—coincidentally, International Women’s Day. She is larger than the space she occupies. She welcomes and respects others in all their differences. Like a good host, she invites patrons to stay a while longer in her café. In principle, she is anti-smoking; she knows that most places in her homeland aren’t, but she is resolved to stand for better. She has nobler ideals than her surroundings permit. She is honest, but she will not punish thieves. She is sincere, and insists on weeding out those who aren’t. She doesn’t like numbers. She doesn’t like the binary world that surrounds her, and she is set on changing it, one book at a time. She believes that North and South, East and West are restrictive terms, so she offers books in Arabic, English, French, and German. She brings people and ideas together.

  Minou translated our description into a logo. She wrote D-I-W-A in an eccentric black font, adding the “N” in Arabic. This last letter—a nod to nuun al-niswa and nuun al-inath—genders verbs, adjectives, and nouns to the feminine. Minou surrounded the entire word with tashkeel, or diacritics.

  Not only did Minou design a logo, she created a brand that could grow and change. She invented ways for Diwan to spread: bags, bookmarks, cards, candles, wrapping paper, pens, pencils, and wallpaper. The Diwan shopping bag became a cultural status symbol on the streets of Cairo. In later years, when I glimpsed one of our bags on a London street, or a New York subway, the feeling was electrifying.

  In the two years following the revolution, as the Muslim Brotherhood rose to power, Cairo transformed into something almost unrecognizable—and I began to consider leaving. The prospect was extremely painfu
l, but after years of running Diwan in postrevolutionary chaos, I was running on empty. I’d begun to realize that as long as I stayed in Cairo, I existed only in relation to my bookstores. I could never extricate myself. And after fourteen years of giving myself to the shop, I had to draw a line in the sand—I surrendered my role as one of Diwan’s managers. After a brief stint in Dubai with Number Two, Zein (now sixteen), Layla (now fourteen), and I moved to London. While I no longer manage Diwan—Nihal took over—I keep returning to those years in my mind, feeling some mix of longing and relief.

  Hind, my soul mate and my savior, never speaks about that time; she has chosen silence over reminiscence.

  * * *

  Diwan was my love letter to Egypt. It was part of, and fueled, my search for myself, my Cairo, my country. And this book is my love letter to Diwan. Each chapter maps a section of the bookstore, from the café to the self-help section, and the people who frequented them: the coworkers, the regulars, the floaters, the thieves, the friends, and the family who called Diwan home. Those of us who write love letters know that their aims are impossible. We try, and fail, to make the ethereal material. We strive against the inevitable ending, knowing that everything is transient. We choose to be grateful for the time, however brief it may be.

  1

  THE CAFÉ

  To the uninitiated pedestrian, Diwan was just one of several shops behind the Baehler mansions’ ornate exterior. The traditional royal-blue street sign read Shari’ 26 Yulyu, 26th of July Street. We’d placed our logo, in formidable black text, on the building’s façade. A supplicant jacaranda bowed over the shop entrance. The glass front door, which faced the street corner, was adorned with modern Arabo-Islamic designs and a long silver handle.

  Inside was an oasis from the hot, traffic-choked street. Strains of Arabo-jazz, Umm Kulthum, and George Gershwin were underscored by the mechanical din of air-conditioning units. Beneath a mighty wall with signs for recommendations, bestsellers, and new releases, Arabic and English fiction and nonfiction books cascaded from floating shelves. Visitors could either walk through the doorway on the right to the book section, past the cashier and stationery, or enter the left doorway into the multimedia section, a curated collection of boundary-crossing film and music: experimental and classic, Eastern and Western.

  During the research phase of setting up Diwan, I’d read an article stating that most people turn right upon entering a bookstore. Swayed by this observation, we placed the book section of Diwan to the right. There, the windows looked out onto the adjoining courtyard rather than the main road, making it the quieter part of the store. High ceilings lined with tracks of incandescent lighting illuminated mahogany wood shelves with a matte-steel trim—a marriage of old and new. The books were split into two categories. On the left were our Arabic books, which Hind stocked. On the right were the English books: my domain. We placed our modest selection of French and German titles in the multimedia section. A nearby entryway led to the café, the central hearth of the store.

  Customer-service staff circulated through the rooms dressed in Diwan uniforms: a navy-blue polo shirt with our logo stitched in beige on the left-hand side, and beige pants with the pockets sewn shut to prevent theft. They offered their knowledge, trying to strike a balance between eagerness and professional distance. Their job was more demanding than that of booksellers elsewhere, especially when we first opened, when most customers were completely unfamiliar with Diwan’s approach.

  I understood their confusion.

  Before Diwan, there had been three kinds of Egyptian bookshops: those mismanaged by the government; those affiliated with particular publishing houses; and the small local shops, which primarily sold newspapers and stationery. The government bookshops left the strongest impression on me. As a university student, I used to take taxis to Cairo’s city center, where the Armenians once ran guilds; the Italians, department stores; and the Greeks, groceries. I would travel along the main roads of my city, all named after dates of historical significance. (26th of July Street was formerly called Fouad I, after the first king of modern Egypt. It was renamed for the day Fouad’s son, Farouk, left the country on his royal yacht, during the 1952 revolution led by Nasser [the son of a postal worker] and Mohamed Naguib, who would become Egypt’s first president.)

  Downtown, I would enter tomb-like shops lined with books encrusted in dust. There were plenty of shelves but very few signs. Each shop seemed to have one man at the front desk, sipping tea and sleep-reading a newspaper. I’d request a title, and the man would slip his bare foot partially back into his sandal, leaving his cracked heel to press upon the floor. Without lowering the radio, he would heave himself up, disturbing the settled particles on the creaking boards beneath him.

  * * *

  Why were these bookshops so decrepit? The answer is, in part, historical. In Egypt, the past lives within the present, often revisiting it in disguise and never fully disappearing. Establishing Diwan forced us to acknowledge the histories of publishing and bookselling, histories that continued to dictate the contemporary industry. In 1798, the Napoleonic expedition gave Egypt its first two printing presses, one in Arabic and one in French. In 1820, Muhammad Ali, the Albanian Ottoman ruler and the father of modern Egypt, had an industrial printing press installed in the neighborhood of Bulaq (named after the French beau lac). Under his rule, publishing became a propaganda tool.

  In the latter half of the nineteenth century, the government relaxed its monopoly on publishing, and then censorship, especially after the British occupation of Egypt in 1882. The upper echelons of society had the means and the interest to invest in print media. By 1900, a barrage of journals—political, social, and feminist—were being published, for consciousness-raising, profit, or both. Newspapers and periodicals published speeches, manifestos, and novels that were first serialized, then made into books. Decades of powerful writing followed from the hands of Egypt’s literary masters.

  Everything changed after the revolution of 1952. When Nasser took over the presidency in 1956 (as the only candidate on the ballot), he set into motion a range of political initiatives that altered the landscape of Egypt: exponentially improving access to housing, education, and medical care; but also rescinding citizenship from, and deporting, large numbers of foreigners; setting up bureaucracies to mimic those of the British; curtailing civil liberties; and instituting decades of military control. By the 1960s, he’d enlisted the book industry to publish titles that promoted Egypt’s new socialist vision and the broader goal of Arab nationalism. But his regime lacked the infrastructure to implement this vision. By 1966, publishers had accumulated staggering deficits, and under the state’s motto “a book every six hours,” their warehouses overflowed with unwanted titles. Books were printed on poor-quality paper. Covers were flimsy and frequently tore off. There were no literary agents, bestseller lists, or marketing departments. Book signings and book launches were unheard of. Books were delivered from publishers in bundles tightly wrapped with string that left scars on the covers, or in repurposed cardboard boxes that had once held cigarette cartons. This was the landscape that Hind, Nihal, and I had entered. Undaunted, we began to work with this chaos, and against it.

  Even before we’d opened the Zamalek shop, practical Hind had systematically isolated and addressed seemingly every obstacle. Around us, a reformist optimism was sweeping the landscape. New investment laws had revitalized the stock exchange. Large numbers of Egyptians who had studied abroad returned eager to take part in their country’s future. We were on the verge of an artistic and cultural renaissance—even though we still lacked basic modern amenities. Like bookstores.

  Hind helped us ride this wave by solving problems early and often. She visited other bookstores and publishers, taking note of what they offered and asking questions. On these scouting missions, Hind made herself small, subdued, and unthreatening. Other business owners met her inquiries with skeptical and sometimes patronizing responses; she remained unfazed. While speaking to
a publishing manager, she discovered that few locally printed book jackets carried ISBNs (an International Standard Book Number identifies every published book). In Egypt, ISBNs were generated one at a time by national libraries, which granted approval only to titles that didn’t antagonize the prevailing government. Independent publishers creatively evaded censorship by forgoing the ISBN altogether or “borrowing” the ISBNs of already published titles. Egyptian authors sometimes published in other countries. The absence of those numbers meant that the process of invoicing, dispatching, and tracking books was subject to serious margins of error. National bestseller lists couldn’t be compiled. Back at Diwan, Hind faced this hellish realization with characteristic patience. She created a manual for transliterating authors’ names and titles into our English-language-based computer system, which covered every probable formation. By adopting this phonetic system, we were able to generate house codes for our Arabic books.

  Then, she ventured into the great unknown: sales figures. Bookstores in Egypt had traditionally used manual registers or handwritten receipts. No one knew precisely what they were selling, so no one knew how to stock well. Anyone who did track sales figures kept them secret. Hind defied convention by compiling these numbers and then publishing Diwan’s bestseller lists, inciting competition between publishers and authors and introducing readers to new books. This was just the beginning. I never really knew of Hind’s plans until after she’d succeeded in them. We both shared a belief that doing preceded talking.

  Cairo’s depleted bookselling industry had fostered two primary types of readers: those resigned to the broken system, and those, like Hind, Nihal, and I, who wanted an alternative. Diwan’s customers held an array of assumptions and attitudes about bookstores. It was our job to detect, and sometimes dispel, their biases. Seasoned readers found their haven here: buying new and selling used books, recommending new titles, and participating in the wider conversation. They personally sought out us owners to discuss errors in customer service and share grievances. They were eager for Diwan to succeed and maintain its standards. To this day, I receive emails and messages on social media from customers who are upset about shipping delays or other issues. Some still want one of the founding partners to personally oversee a sale.