Africa’s February is neither hot nor cold, just like the beautiful springtime in the homeland.[1] From Cairo to Port Said, along the two banks of the canal, the fields are flooded with misty morning fog. It is planting season. Through the date palms with leaves like peacock feathers, farmers could be seen everywhere, coaxing their oxen to plow the fields. Close behind them trail flocks of snowball-like white birds, unafraid of people and leisurely searching for insects turned up from the soil. No wonder Egyptians call this bird “farmer’s friend.” Now and then, you can see camels strutting proudly into the fields to deliver fertilizer, bellowing ga-ga like wild geese crying in the night. Peeking out at the edge of the village and above roof corners are trees bearing white flowers—like apricot blossoms, yet not quite.

I cannot help but think of the homeland, far away in Asia. Surely, at this time of the year, it must still be snowing? In Asia, when people talk about Africa, it always feels so far away, as far away as the stars in the sky. I flew across thousands of mountains and ridges, across oceans and seas, and landed in this corner of the African continent. Its scenery, its people — they all seem novel and curious. I peer out my window at the canal and see the coming and going of ship sails. Perhaps this is the Suez Canal that has so commanded the world’s attention?

The Egyptian friend accompanying me to Port Said says, “Not yet. Up ahead, that’s the city of Ismailia, where the Suez Canal Company was located. Just wait until we get past the city…”

The Suez Canal leaps abruptly into view. A fine, jade-blue river—how deep, I do not know. As soon as the wind picks up, waves form in the heart of the canal, clapping huala-huala against the yellow sand on either bank. I stop the car and stand on the bank under a date palm, gazing out, listening in a reverie to the sounds of the water. It feels as though I am standing on the seashore. Understandably, for the water flows from the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, naturally sharing in certain shades of the sea’s colors and borrowing a few notes from the music of its tides.

The canal is not too wide. On the opposite bank in Sinai is a stretch of flat sand. An Arabian steed gallops over it, the color of its rider’s fluttering headscarf clearly distinguishable.

The Egyptian friend abruptly asks, “Aren’t you from Asia?”

I reply, “Why, yes.”

He remarks with a smile, “We are close neighbors.”

I say, “Well, neighbors are neighbors, but I’m afraid we are not so close by.”

He says, “Why not?” He points to the other side of the canal, “Look, isn’t that Asia?”

My heart lights up as it suddenly dawns on me. This bank of the canal is Africa, and the opposite bank, Asia. Oh, so very close. At this moment, the sun is rising out of Asia and shining onto Africa. The morning fog enshrouding Africa dissipates, the vast earth now painted with a layer of gold, gleaming. I cannot help but exclaim, “This truly is a beautiful land!”[2]

 “But there are also wounds.” My Egyptian friend says, “You cannot see them, but they remain deep within us.”

He then continues in a resentful tone, “Just think. This land is Egyptian land. But after the British built a road on it, you had to pay them just to take a walk. The canal was dug by Egyptians, but the British did not care how much blood you shed or how much money you spent—the canal’s net annual profits of thirty to forty million pounds all disappeared into their pockets.[3] You could be living in your own home, leading your life, and if the British soldiers thought you were too close to their barracks, they could force you to move. If you didn’t pack up, they would shoot you dead. But Egyptians know what freedom is. From 1951 to 1952, insurgencies rose up one after another. We assaulted British garrisons and resisted British rule. The dead fell, and the living stepped forward to continue the fight… How can we forget these wounds?”

Hearing this, I say, “Naturally, wounds should not be forgotten. But, today, these wounds must have scarred over and healed.”

“There are still some that have not healed,” my Egyptian friend responds.

He is referring to Port Said. This great Mediterranean port was badly damaged in the war, especially in areas along the coast. As everyone knows, Port Said is not only the gateway to the Suez Canal, but also used to be the most beautiful seaside resort town in Egypt. All along its expansive coastline, clustered like lush layers of clouds and greenery, once stood countless exquisite homes built to provide scape from the summer heat. Now, you can’t find a thing, just a scorched piece of land. When the breeze blows in from the sea, you can smell the scent of burnt earth.

A youth from Port Said is our guide for the day. Mohammed is tall, with a fine little mustache on his upper lip. He is a native to these parts. During the occupation of Port Said by the British and French invaders, he led a band of youths to engage in covert resistance, and so has a firm grasp of the goings-on at that time. Listening to the torrential stream of words from his mouth, it is as if I am seeing for myself the vicious battle that the people of Port Said endured.

“It was November 1956. After the enemy used more than some seven hundred planes to carpet-bomb us savagely, they began to airdrop enemy paratroopers. Fortunately, the people of Port Said had received all sorts of weaponry from the government, so they could work in concert with the Egyptian army to eliminate them. Those who landed first were not British or French soldiers, but Algerians. The enemy forcibly used Algerian lives to sap our strength—see how vicious the enemy is! But their viciousness was to no avail. They bombed us again and again, airdropping wave after wave of paratroopers, and still, they failed. As ever, Port Said remained in our possession.[4]

“One day, the enemy planes came again to bomb us. The situation was tense. Suddenly, we saw many speedboats appearing on the Mediterranean, rushing toward us. It must be the enemy coming ashore. In haste, someone grabbed binoculars to get a better look and couldn’t help but let out a cry. The boats bore Egyptian flags—reinforcements were arriving. Ecstatic, everyone sprinted towards the speedboats. But when they had reached the shore—huah!—men leapt from the holds, firing a sweep of bullets as they rushed at us. My God! Who could have thought that the enemy would use such a despicable tactic to invade Port Said?

“The enemy proceeded to set fire to everything. All along the coast, smoke and flames shot up into the sky. When night fell, the whole port glowed red, the sea and sky burning the color of blood.

“Still, the enemy could not occupy the whole port in one go. Every street, every building, every doorstep, became a new battleground. At one intersection in the city center, next to a fountain, an Egyptian officer held back the enemy for six hours, fighting all by himself. And even when the enemy succeeded in occupying the entirety of Port Said, they could not subdue the hearts of its people. Invading soldiers would sometimes disappear without a trace, and once they vanished, their corpses would never be found. At times, rebellions broke out, with even Egyptian kids in their early teens daring to toss hand grenades at our adversaries.

“The enemy began a bloody campaign of repression, arresting residents indiscriminately. On one occasion, they raided the home of an electrician and found an Egyptian flag pasted to the wall. The British soldiers barked out, ‘Tear it down!’

“The electrician was sitting at the table, eating Egyptian bread with his wife and children. Hearing these shouts, he stood up calmly, unshaken.

“The enemy raised a gun to the electrician’s chest and yelled, ‘Will you tear it down, or won’t you? If you don’t tear it down, I’ll shoot you dead!’

“The electrician turned his gaze to his wife and young, still uncomprehending children. They stared back with horrified eyes. His face ashen, the electrician raised both his hands and looked at them, then cried out with a trembling voice, ‘I was born with these two hands not to rend myself, but to tear you asunder!’ Then he fell to the ground, slowly, in front of his loved ones.”

At this point, Mohammed paused, continuing only after he had mastered his emotions, “But the Egyptian flag could not be torn down. Come nightfall, it would be posted all throughout the city streets. The flags would be removed, only to appear again the following day. The enemy was never able to determine who was behind this campaign.”

In fact, it was Mohammed himself. He had managed to acquire a hundred thousand prints of the Egyptian flag. Every night, many youths came to collect them in secret, posting them all over town and even writing Zhou Enlai’s name everywhere.

Mohammed looks straight off into the distance, recalling, “At the sight of these three words—‘Zhou En Lai’—our hearts lit up and our confidence was reinforced. These three words reminded us that our struggle is supported by the very best friends on this earth.”[5]

Of course, we also support the Egyptian people’s post-war reconstruction, and it is deeply moving to see scenes of Port Said being rebuilt.[6] Mohammed takes us along the coast to the western quarter of the city. From afar, one can see a vast stretch of ruins now densely studded with white wooden posts, forest-like, all belonging to newly reconstructed buildings. In addition to workers, many Egyptian students traveled great distances to lend a hand. The materials themselves also come from afar. Several days ago, in the Western Desert, I remember seeing people digging up stones and sifting sand, saying it was for building houses. Arriving at Port Said today, I can now see where those trainloads of stone are unloaded, one after the other.[7]

Finally, we arrive at the bustling harbor. Docked at the port are warships and commercial boats. A row of fishing boats is moored along the shore, and fishing nets of every color—purple, yellow, black—bake in the sun on their decks. A few men sit around the dock to fish, leisurely watching the lines they have cast.

This is the mouth of the Suez Canal. The sunken ships that had been blocking the waterway have almost all been removed. Just today, an Italian ship passed through the canal,  the first to enter since the war.

Mohammed pats me on the shoulder and asks, “Do you happen to know of a man named de Lesseps?”

I have heard of him. A Frenchman, I believe. There are those kinds of people who credit him with the work of building the Suez Canal, even erecting a huge bronze statue of him at the canal’s entryway. Mohammed seems particularly keen on de Lesseps and insists on taking us to have a look at the statue. But when we get there, only a broken pedestal remains. Monsieur de Lesseps is nowhere to be seen.

Mohammed says, “This gentleman, he really doesn’t know how to have a little fun! He played a big joke on several generations of people, insisting that it was he who had dug the Suez Canal. Well, we thought that we’d like to play a little prank on him in return. So we slipped just the tiniest pinch of dynamite under his feet. And as it turns out, he got all worked up, leapt three feet in the air, and flew into a stormy rage.”[8]

A nearby fisherman chimes in, laughing, “Seeing the way that he jumped, I thought he was a champion diver about to vault himself into the sea. But wouldn’t you know—he ate shit! And there he lies to this very day, gnawing at wood.”

I follow the man’s gaze and spot two wooden boats moored to the dock. Atop them, face down, is the bronze statue, stretched out horizontally where it happened to fall.

“At long last,” I say, “He now lies prostrate at the feet of the Egyptian people, with no choice but to confess his wrongdoings.”

On the road back to Cairo, day is drifting into night. We are still moving along the Suez Canal. To the west, a boundless lake thick with reeds. The sun, having risen in Asia, now sets over the lake in Africa. Half the sky burns with a red cloud-glow, and into this glow soar a few white seagulls. Across the banks of the canal, in Asia, a stretch of lights has already flickered on.

Glancing up at the stars as they appear in the sky, my Egyptian friend asks, “Can you see the same stars in China?”

I answer, “Yes, we can.”

You must know, dearest Egyptian friends, that we live under one and the same sky.

——

[1] The word for “homeland” used by Yang Shuo here is 祖国 zuguo, which is commonly translated as “the motherland,” even though the term in Chinese is ungendered. I have chosen to translate it here as “homeland” to give the sense that Yang Shuo is thinking about home, while retaining the term’s political meaning.

[2] The word for “land” used here by Yang Shuo, 国土 guotu, literally means “national land,” or “territory.”

[3] Prior to its nationalization in 1956, the Suez Canal was operated by the Suez Canal Company, a joint-stock company headquartered in Paris, with majority ownership held by European shareholders.

[4] At the time, France was waging a separate colonial war in Algeria against an Algerian independence movement supported by Nasser’s Egypt. France deployed its Algerian-based forces to the Suez in support of the Franco-British invasion of Port Said (Deac 2006). Some of these forces likely consisted of Algerian auxiliaries (Hautreux 2013).

[5] Zhou Enlai was the first Premier of the People’s Republic of China from September 1954 until his death in January 1976. He was known for being a charismatic statesman and diplomat, who played an important role in China’s foreign relations throughout his political career.

[6] China joined in global condemnation of the Tripartite Aggression and announced its readiness to intervene if called upon, stating that 250,000 Chinese had volunteered to take part in the Egyptian resistance effort. It moreover donated to Egypt the equivalent of USD 4.7 million in direct financial aid (Haddad-Fonda 2013).

[7] Western Desert is the label applied to the vast stretch of the Egyptian Sahara situated directly to the west of the Nile River, several hundred kilometers from Port Said.

[8] Ferdinand de Lesseps (1805-1894) was a French diplomat who, with European backing and a labor force largely composed of conscripted Egyptian workers, spearheaded the construction of the Suez Canal (1859–1869). A statue of him erected in 1899 at the canal’s entrance was destroyed during the Suez Crisis (The Contested Histories Initiative 2023).