Mostafa Safa

My name is Mostafa.

I was 14 years old and was studying at Ghobeiry school. Speaking of which, I wasn’t a very good student. My family would have liked it if I was as successful in school as I was at making my friends laugh. But I was much more interested in drawing. I had a sketchbook that I used to fill up with caricatures and representations of political figures from that time. From the president, the United Nations Secretary General, to the main leaders at the time. I would crookedly enjoy their inconsistencies and their weaknesses.

I also had a passion for the cinema. Whenever I would have enough savings, I would head straight to the Rivoli - there in Down Town - to watch a movie. I would often go in the company of either my best friend, Hisham or my eldest sister. I recall once watching Hitchcock’s “The Birds” with her.

One evening, in September 1975, as I was heading to my uncle’s place in Ras El Nabeh to sleep over, I ran into my friend Hisham, who suggested we go catch a movie. It did not take much persuasion for me to change my plans.

As we were on the verge of entering the movie theater of the Rivoli, gun shots broke out. The two of us rushed out trying to find shelter. As soon as he had reached safety, Hisham looked back and noticed that I was no longer behind him. He spent the night searching for me, refusing to face the reality and the prospect of having to break the news to my mother. However, early on the next morning, looking all shaken and disoriented, he stepped into my house in Chiah.

My mother and my two sisters were having breakfast in the backyard when the floor crumbled beneath their feet. Yet shortly after this shock, they gathered whatever strength they had left, and started visiting morgues.

But, I was nowhere to be found. There were not even any remains.

My name is Mostafa Safa. My story does not end here.