On his way to the office that morning he walks by the mosque and the government buildings that are wrapped in barbed wire, guarded by nervous young police officers and soldiers in helmets and riot shields. Something’s afoot, of that there’s no doubt.

*

He avoids the government district that evening, even though he can feel the vibration of the demonstrations all the way to his balcony on the other side of the city. He doesn’t avoid it because they told him to, but because he’s waiting for Yassim to come back.

But Saturday goes by without a word from him, and Jacob reads the text from last weekend over and over again, weighing every possible scenario. Maybe it wasn’t even Yassim who sent that text. Why did he take that for granted? It was from an anonymous number. When he analyzes it more closely he realizes it doesn’t say it’s from Yassim anywhere.

He can’t believe he’s been so stupid, so terribly naive that he allowed such empty hope to dictate how he lives his life. At half past seven he feels completely dejected. He drinks half a bottle of wine on the balcony with disappointment pounding inside him. He considers taking a taxi, but by this time it’s just as fast to walk. If he can’t have Yassim, at least he can have the uprising.

*

He’s almost to Martyrs’ Square when the extent of the protests, the extent of the rally, becomes clear to him. Thousands of people pouring into the square in front of the mosque: students, families with children, masked men with their upper bodies bare and stones in their hands. And everywhere armed police officers dressed in black. Barbed wire and smoke. He moves towards it, feeling as if nothing matters now, and he just wants to be part of something, feel something, finally see something.

He walks straight into the crowd, moving with them across the square. Notices families with children becoming more rare, until finally the crowd consists of only young people with angry faces chanting slogans. The masked faces become more frequent, as do the hands holding rocks. He feels his pulse start to race, but he wants to follow through, wants to see what this is, what it will lead to. So he lets the crowd sweep him towards the government district; he can feel himself becoming a part of it, can feel the sweat running down his neck and mixing with other people’s sweat. Everywhere are flags, posters, slogans, songs, drums. It’s so deafening that he doesn’t hear his phone ringing in his pocket. But he feels it vibrating. And he manages to free an arm despite the press of people, gets a hand into his pocket, takes out the phone and pushes it to his ear.

‘Where are you?’

He can barely hear, but it’s a voice he’d recognize anywhere. Yassim.