This was all I needed to ready myself. I left the room and inched my way toward the stairs. I took a second to marvel that this was the first I had left my bedchamber in two weeks, but I did not dwell on the thought. I could not let it stand in the path of my escape from this ponvatil. Then, carefully, I guided myself to the ground floor. Once there, I discovered torn fabrics, destroyed or missing furniture, broken windows and shattered bits of pottery all over the floor. I could feel hope escape my body, as despair crept in. Who had done this to all of our things? Had they reached the supply of silver coins that Yakko had saved? We would be ruined without that money!
But then I caught myself. No, we would not. This had probably been done by angry or confused reformists. Or perhaps they had been chased into the house by a few Kapbaji militiamen, and when they hid, the Kapbaji tore apart the area in search of them. This is the sort of thought that might have devastated me into seclusion, but I finally knew better. The only way to prevent militia from entering my home was to call against them in the street. Thus I strolled through the room—becoming more comfortable with walking now—and stepped out of the front door.
The chill of winter was heavy and harsh at that moment, but on that day it awakened me, invigorated me. I was then breathing the air of active reformists! This was Ilepyan fresh air! In a moment, my dizziness and head pain dissipated, and I felt stronger than ever. I walked briskly out to Trafqha Street, just as I had a month and a half ago, and discovered that it was the middle of a dark afternoon. There was still no way to know for how long I had slept, but the more important fact was that I had come to a night protest in the middle of the day! I felt sheepish but, more than that, I felt frightened. I had to return to the house now and wait for night, but what if I lost my nerve at night?
Just as I was thinking this very thought, however, I turned out onto Trafqha Street and discovered something incredible. Although it was not yet three hours past noon, there were dozens of men in the streets. I heard a few cries and chants, and saw a few men running through the crowds, but most men ambled slowly west chatting casually to the man on his right or his left. What had happened? Were they Kapbaji? No, I the chants I heard were distinctly reformist. They appeared to be completely safe. What had happened?
“Yahram alu,” I called. The strength of my voice surprised me. A few men in my vicinity glanced at me before taking up the call themselves. I heard it spread throughout the street and beyond.
If this is how small, quiet Trafqha Street looked, how would Maidia Street? I pushed my way through the crowds, feeling more strength with every step I took. I turned north onto Malkholm Street, where there were perhaps hundreds more people. I asked a man if everyone was headed toward Maidia Street. He confirmed that they were, in fact. So I continued north, passing people on my left and my right, made my way briefly west on Pariatt Street before finally arriving in the very middle of Maidia Street.
Here I had arrived, in the very center of the city, the very point of the most reformist activity and sectarian fighting. The street was actually two roads, running on either side of a large park green and garden. This was a plaza used to host official city gatherings, large market days and, over the past year, great popular protests. The Apgha—the seat official residence and office of the mayor and aldermen—was a few blocks north of Pariatt Street, and I expected that this was the center of the day’s actions.
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