"I AM NOT AYMAN!"

Anonymous—Egypt—Age 22

The protagonist's inability to translate his web-based identity into the real world parallels the essayist's own self-censorship. For while she offered what is most likely a fictionalized account, the contributor nevertheless insisted that her piece be published anonymously.

THE SCREECH OF TIRES SNAPPED HIM BACK TO ATTENTION, RE-placing the thoughts buzzing around his brain with an anxious immediacy. He stared at the cab driver behind the wheel, her mouth opening and closing over and over for no apparent reason. Her fillings flashed silver at him every few seconds. Her windows were up, rendering her comically mute despite her traffic-induced rage. He had had enough. He would walk the rest of the way. As he did, his mental disarray did not prevent him from giving due respect to the nonexistence of traffic laws in Cairo.

He approached the alleyway that served as one of the city's pickup spots, noting with equal amounts of jealousy and fear the men standing around. They swaggered, clothes torn and tight in the style associated with male homosexuality. Their faces attempted rebellious outrage with courage implied in their plucked eyebrows and slightly rouged cheeks, these visible signs distinguishing them from "real men." And yet he imagined he could detect in them an uncertainty—trepidation born from knowing that others had been taken away for doing just this on other Mondays, Wednesdays, Anydays. He imagined he could see in their cocky stances a readiness for flight.

He had picked this particular spot knowing that it was slightly less conspicuous than others, just in case it were to turn out that he had been tricked all along, and that he had cultivated a relationship with a decoy. He saw Tariq standing a few meters away, wearing the blue striped shirt he had been told to look out for. Never in their online conversations had he shared with Tariq a picture of himself, preferring safe anonymity to the promise of future intimacy. He had not worn his blue-striped shirt, telling himself he did not like the way it looked on him. He could do enough recognizing for both of them.

He held back, trying not to stare at the man he had been talking to for the past eight months. They had planned numerous meetings before. He had many times approached the date with queasy anticipation, calling it off at the last minute. A fictitious business trip one time, an imagined death in the family another. Tariq's patience had brought him here today. A vice informant would not wait this long, he told himself. An informant would not invest so much time creating plausible details.

Or would he? He looked around once more, suspicious, trying to find ill will lurking in the faces subjected to his exacting scrutiny. He cleared his throat. Then he took what he imagined some novelists he had read meant by "a measured breath." Sweat trickled into his eyes, a burning rivulet of building anxiety he was trying to keep under control. He turned toward Tariq, preparing for a step, only to be rooted to the spot when their eyes met. Tariq smiled tentatively, hesitated, and then started forward, perhaps deciding that the physical description traded online so many times matched enough to counter the absence of blue stripes.

He felt panic rising in him. His eyes searched frantically in Tariq's clothing for telltale signs of hidden handcuffs, a gun, something, anything out of the ordinary. He debated what to do, realizing that he was out of time when Tariq stopped in front of him, smiling shyly. "Ayman?" He had forgotten for a moment that he had never given his real name (yet another safety measure). He looked around frantically, switching his gaze from one potentially menacing figure to the next in the gloomy dark. He was suddenly screaming, his lungs expelling the night's mistrust in hot, hysterical denial:

"I am not Ayman! I am not Ayman! Get away from me, you faggot!"

He turned around, not noticing everyone around him likewise fleeing, the disturbance upsetting a confidence made fragile by stories of baton rapes, capture, jail, and ruined lives. Like a flock of nervous gazelles prepared by natural selection for a life of constant victimization, they ran. He eventually flagged down a cab. His ragged breath and frenzied thoughts slowed down to normalcy. He got home, turned on his computer, and started an email:

"Tariq habibi—sorry I couldn't make it." He paused, searching. Would Tariq believe that the person he met earlier tonight was someone else? He decided, just in case, to erect one more barricade against identification. "One of my patients needed an emergency C-section. Maybe we can try this again soon? Yours, Ayman." An ob-gyn, he mused. He would read up on the field tomorrow, to be able to speak authoritatively about it the next time they chatted online.

He turned his computer off, realizing for the first time how tired he was. He sat hunched over for a while, thinking about the events of the night. He looked around his apartment—a testament to how diligently he had disguised his "criminality" from everyone around him out of fear of imprisonment or worse. His apartment, he thought, was very masculine. He bought furniture only in muted, dark colors, fearing his neighbors (all potential informers) might find his tastes too flamboyant for a man. Expensively framed prints of female nudes decked his walls, replacing the Playboy and Haifa Wahbi posters of his college days.

His daytime persona, too, was carefully designed to project straightness. He had cultivated a gruff rumble of a voice, so different from the soft-spoken stereotype Egypt had of its gay men. He went to the gym religiously, a result of once having been called a sissy by a drunk in the street. He looked over at his computer, the only vehicle through which his sexuality could find expression—as long as it remained unclaimed by a name, a picture, an address, or any other carelessly overlooked detail.

He wondered at times whether he overreacted, whether what he had to fear was more in his head than a real threat. He was well aware that his paranoia knew no bounds, and yet he saw it as more of a protective mechanism than an oppressive one. He knew, despite his wonderings and what-ifs, that his secret must never know another. He thought of the recent Queen Boat incident. He reminded himself of the harsh sentences handed down to the young men captured that day, the forced anal exams used to "prove" homosexual conduct, the bogus charges of prostitution and drug possession. He turned off the lights on his nudes, his brown leather couches, his sports magazines, and made his way to the bedroom.

It was the time when he felt least alone, lying in the dark as he was now, imagining all of the men like him dreaming impossible dreams. Sometimes he imagined ridiculous happy endings for all of those sad little lives in their little Cairo flats. He never dared think of one for himself, though, lest his dreams lead to incautious action. He had long ago resigned himself to a life of missed connections and fleeting intimacy. He wondered for a short moment how he would explain his many fabrications to Tariq if and when they met at last. Would that entire cities, countries, governments could change for them! He rolled over, closed his eyes, and turned himself off.

MONOLOGUE WITH THE PRINCE

K.N.—Saudi Arabia—Age 25

Lately, against a backdrop of soaring unemployment and a massive youth bulge (in a country suffocated by octogenarian royals), the regime's corruption and mismanagement have increasingly jeopardized even this basic social bargain. Our next essayist paints a vivid portrait of the impact of this breakdown on Saudi youth.

I FELT SO LUCKY WHEN I WAS SELECTED FROM AMONG THOUsands of students to be one of six representing my university at the Expeditionary Forum for National Dialogue. The Forum was supposed to tackle issues of tolerance, development, and—remarkably for Saudi Arabia—free expression. As its name suggested, the central theme of the Forum was dialogue. I was thrilled to get a chance to express myself in a public setting, if just this once.

But it was not meant to be. Just before we headed to the Forum, a senior university official warned us to be very careful about what we said. "Better yet," he admonished us, "don't say anything at all." The Forum is just a "formality," he explained, so best not get too excited thinking it was going to change anything in this country.

He was right. Before we were even allowed to enter the conference center, one of the Forum leaders—a ridiculous figure with a stern face—appeared before us to set the "ground rules." "I warn you," he yelled. "I warn you to measure every word before uttering it." Some dialogue.

The sessions themselves consisted of one official after another lecturing us. The agendas and topics of discussion were all preset and non-negotiable. The first speaker was the minister of education, Dr. Mohammad al-Rasheed, pontificating on the finer points of state education policy. I was briefly heartened to see a few students raise their hands after his talk was over. Would they actually challenge him? Would they question the repressive nature of Saudi universities?

If only. The "questions" were actually expressions of the most nauseating flattery prewritten by the Forum organizers. (Still, you had to admire the students for reading the dull queries as earnestly and diligently as they could.) The Forum only went downhill from there—one self-important government deputy minister and policy adviser after another droned on and on at us for what seemed like an eternity.

The headline session, billed as the most important, hosted His Royal Highness Abdul-Majeed bin Abdul-Azeez al-Saud, prince of Mecca. A few minutes before the prince's arrival in a seemingly endless convoy of black Mercedes sedans, we were ordered to leave the main conference room and move up to the second-floor balcony area. When we arrived there, we found ourselves surrounded by dozens of security officers, both uniformed and plainclothes, all armed to the teeth. It seemed as though there were more policemen than students! It was hot and claustrophobic on the balcony, while the floor below was almost empty save for a few Forum leaders and journalists.

His Royal Highness gave a speech you could read in the opinion pages of any third world newspaper, repeating the usual clichés: "We have to thank God that our country is one of the best in the world, for the wisdom of our royal family, and for the wise government officials who provide us with security and safety around the clock ..." And on and on. (As for reform, he explained that it was coming but that it would call for patience, a lot of patience, because change comes slowly....)

While the prince was ranting and raving about the many blessings of Saudi life, I heard the voice of the Egyptian comedian Adil Imam saying his famous comic phrase: "There she goes again!" At first, I thought I was daydreaming—only to find out that the voice was coming from my friend Mansour's cellular phone. He played that clip over and over. My attempts to stop him were in vain. I thought we were all about to get into big trouble. But, hey, that was Mansour's way of "dialoging" with the Prince. He inspired other students, who played the sound of fireworks on their phones. In our culture, this signals that the speaker is lying. Suppressed laughter was heard. The officers started getting suspicious but eventually decided it was just a matter of kids being kids.

A few minutes later, the prince finished his speech and left without addressing questions or comments.

I did not find a way to express myself freely until I started my own blog about a year after the Forum. On my blog, I can share some of my viewpoints and feelings—even though what I publish constitutes less than a fifth of what I actually think. My friends and family members are concerned about my activities in the Arabic blogosphere. They remind me of the many Arab bloggers who are jailed—or worse—for committing political thought crimes on the Internet. Some of those jailed for thinking inappropriate thoughts are kept imprisoned even after finishing their long sentences.

I appreciate my friends' concern, but I do not understand how a human being can live without expressing himself. How long can we endure this suffocating atmosphere? Although we live in a country whose oil incomes rank as highest in the world, prices are soaring, unemployment among the youth is high, and even those who find jobs are barely able to make ends meet.