How (Not) To Vote

Illustration by Bouklao Illustrations

I wake up in an afflicted cold sweat; raspberry ice-cream and amorality seep through my pores. My thoughts are absorbed by my pinky finger; the irony of its namesake florescent shade is not lost on me…

DAY ONE

"You have to go vote for Sisi today!"
"I'm not voting Mum"
"Do you not care about the security of this country!"
"You watch too much TV"
"What! If you do not vote you are not my son anymore"…

I wouldn’t say I’m completely apolitical, I understand that by choosing not to vote and indulging in any bored or disgusted feelings I harbor towards the mechanics of Government I only further exemplify an apathy that benefits both parties. My issue is my overwhelming belief that the Egyptian military has always been pulling the strings in the country from the time of Nasser until the last few years of Mubarak’s era… and why would they wanna stop there.

Sisi’s presidential campaign intentionally or otherwise began before SCAF hopped onto the Tamarod bandwagon, when discussions took place with Saudi and other Middle Eastern nations that held a sway to ensure that the army had the people's support, financing, and no heavy international consequences if they decide to go and stage a coup and not have it be called a coup. Cue red, black and white hearts in the air and Sisi posters everywhere.

Hamdeen Sabahi, I don’t even know what the fuck a Hamdeen Sabahi is, it seems like his only policy is not being Sisi. There’s a sense of inevitability about it, surrounded by four hostile nations and rife poverty, Egypt’s fate for the meantime will always be in the hands of those who think with some foresight of future security and not with near-sighted revolutionaries.

So my options are vote for the inevitable winner Sisi and Sisi wins, vote for Hamdeen just to put a miniscule dent into Sisi’s glooming pharaoh complex and Sisi wins, don’t vote and Sisi wins, or draw a penis on the ballot slip and Sisi wins. Ain’t no democracy like a democrasisi. So I have no intention of being part of the façade, but what I do have is free will and a long standing issue with any authority, so if Egypt can’t decide their own fate, at least I can decide my own, which is to not bother with the indignity of a vote. 

However, my decision to abstain from voting has now become a question of allaying the parentals, and not politics.

Mother has likened herself to an extremist dictatorship over the phone, she is telling me I have no choice but to vote for Sisi if not for the sake of Om el Donya, my home for the past 10 years, then for the sake of my actual Om, who has told me when the macarona is ready for the past 20 years.

Night comes and I still have not voted, I smugly feel that I have gotten my own way and mother has respected my decision not to. I think I’m in the clear. I am wrong. There is still another day of voting to go…

DAY TWO

The rumor mill is churning, and word on the street is that those who don’t vote will face a 500 LE fine, or they’ll be sent to prison, or get a virginity test to make sure they haven’t been fucked.

Night comes, I still have not voted, I have not got the call from mother forcing me to. I go to sleep safe in the knowledge that I have done nothing to affect the outcome of the country's security.

DAY THREE

The voting period, it turns out, has been extended an extra day to the delight of patriotic parents everywhere. Two hours before voting deadline and I receive a call. It is father. He has heard of my intentions and has called me ignorant. I am to meet him downstairs along with my brothers immediately to go vote. I stall for as long as possible, not being able to find a jacket, until the driver has been summoned to retrieve me. It’s okay though, I still have one more trick up my sleeve.

“Oh, oh.”

“Fi eh, Timmy?” father exclaims upon entering the polling station.

“My beta2a is broken, I don’t think I can vote”.

Ha you didn’t see that one coming did you Baba! Did you Sisi! That’s one vote you won’t be get…

Before I have time to bask in the glory of my sabotage, Baba is already chatting away gallantly to the judge present with my broken beta2a in his hand. It is so decrepit, part broken-off, part sellotaped together, that most of my name, some of the ID number and the address aren’t even shown. And yet somehow, after Baba’s schmoozing, the judge gives it the okay. Thank god Mubarak’s days of corruption are over.

After a prolonged signing of the identification books where I did my best to do an ‘impression’ of a khawaga who can’t read or write Arabic, they hand over the slip and walk over to the separators with pen in hand. Unfortunately it’s not just Sisi and Sabahi staring at me, there’s also Baba, looming over.

I surrender. I take the slip in to the middle of the room for all to see, elaborately dip my finger in the pink ink and sign a massive heart over Sisi.

“AHO! AHO! MABSOT! AHO! SISI! SISI! SISI YES!” I scream whilst saluting with my sullen finger to the gawking crowd, smack the slip back onto the table and stroll out.

Father has decided to reward our compliance with dessert at the Mariott, Zamalek, the former palace of our last king nonetheless. Sat dejected, and aggrieved that I did not stand my ground, father turns to me to put things into perspective, “You know, I could have just flushed you down the toilet when you were born.”

Egypt doesn’t have free will and neither do I, but what I do have is ice cream. Thanks Baba.