Responsibility
Many years ago when I was living in Cairo, I was in a car accident. Car accidents are common there. Drivers are quick and crazy, the lights don’t work and the traffic cops are poor fellahin (farmer boys) doing their national service. They’re bussed in every morning, dropped at intersections and picked up sometime in the evening, driven back to their barracks. They might not ever work the same intersection again and most of them are half-dead from heat exhaustion.
I loved driving. I loved weaving in and out and winning those little car arguments. On my long drives to work (teaching short story writing to U.S. soldiers), I used to blast a tape of Alannis Morrisette I’d been given by the actor playing Toby Belch in a touring production of Twelfth Night and feel the (metaphorical) wind in my hair.
On my route to work, there was one bad turn, left across a busy intersection. This afternoon, I though the boy soldier had motioned for me to go but I was probably too quick off the mark anyway. Although there were no more cars coming the other way, a motorcycle was and I didn’t see it. I don’t think the traffic cop saw it either. As I turned, the motorcycle plowed straight into the side of my car, probably doing sixty, and flew into the air. I lost control of the car and ran into a lamppost, a little bumped, terrified but more or less unhurt.
Within seconds a mob had gathered. They surrounded the man lying in the road, they surrounded me. They tried to pull me from the car while I tried to see if the motorcyclist was alive. They tried to grab my keys. They screamed for someone to get my father. They screamed at me that I had killed him. I started screaming too and pushing people away. This actually made things marginally better. But once I had started screaming I couldn’t stop.
Then, through the crowd came a tall, calm Egyptian man who told me he was a driver at the Swedish embassy and had seen my diplomatic plates and stopped to help. He carried me through the crowd, put me in his car and used his cell phone to call the British Embassy. While we waited, he locked me in the car and stood outside to keep the mob at bay. By the time the troops had arrived (a pale Ed, a fierce looking Barry and the British consul), the injured man had been taken to hospital and the crown had more or less dissolved. We spent hours in the police station while they argued about whether I should be arrested. Being arrested in Egypt is no joke. I’d have been better off taking my chances with the mob. We were finally allowed to go and I spent the next few days wrapped in blankets and crying. After a few days, I heard that the motorcyclist was going to be fine. I don’t remember if I was ever told his name, or how badly he had been hurt. I was told not to go to the hospital, that I absolutely should not claim responsibility for this, that under Egyptian law that would make me liable for all sorts of vague but ominous things. I did as the consul advised and forgot.
Tonight I read Helena a lovely book called The Day of Ahmed’s Secret, which is about a boy in Cairo. The illustrations are wonderful: accurate and evocative. We’ve read it dozens of times but tonight, I started thinking about this man and what might have happened to him. Where he had been going that afternoon. If he had actually recovered fully or if he still struggled. What effect this accident might have had on his family, on his income, on not just his life but on the lives of those around him.
The more I thought, the more horrified I was that I had never done anything for him. I who had so much — I could have done something. I should have done something. I don’t like to think of myself as self-centered, although I undoubtedly am, but so utterly self-centered? So selfish that my fear of arrest or censure had overriden me so completely? It doesn’t actually matter whether he was at fault or I was. We crashed. He came out worse. I had the protection of my car, my nationality, my diplomatic status. He did not. I should have done something.
I cannot raise my children to be considerate, thoughtful, brave or honorable if I am not. And right now, I don’t feel like I am any of those things. But I am going to try and fix this now. I will let you know if I manage it.
Wow, Stunts, what a powerful story. How are you going to look into this? I think you did the right thing back then — and I think the Egyptian driver was an angel sent to help you. How much worse your story might have been. Maybe now that you’re a safe distance from the accident — physically and emotionally — you can try to track him or his family down, but I would advise against direct contact. Maybe you can enlist someone just to find out in an oblique way what happened to him….
Thank you for your kind words. The plan is to go through the embassy — and see if someone there can help us track him down. It’s just that — well, there are things one does in life that one regrets later, but that you chalk up to experience. This does not feel like a simple life lesson — it feels like something left undone.
I admire your courage to share this story – and to follow your heart years later to do what you feel is undone. I wish for the best for you – please keep us posted.
I often feel like this — though I don’t think anything quite so terrifying or life altering has ever happened to me. I want to go back and find out what happened to the person with whom I intersected briefly, but memorably, even if the results aren’t good for me. (I’m also the sort of person who peels off a band-aid long before the cut can be healed.) I’m very curious about what you will do next.