A woman told me: “You are an important man who writes in the papers and talks on TV. They say President Mubarak and Prime Minister Nazif listen to you. So please do not let my husband divorce me because of a butane gas cylinder.” I did not understand what a man like me who writes things that the officials do not read had to do with her divorce. The 30-year-old woman who came with her son all the way from Sharkia thinks I am so close to the president and the prime minister that we play backgammon together everyday. So I took a deep breath and crossed my legs to look like the big officials so as not to disappoint her. But then I leaned down and listened attentively when she started to cry. She said with a quavering voice: ‘My husband kicked me out. He told me he married me so that when he comes home at 11 p.m. from the three different places that he has to work for in order to make ends meet he would have a good meal, not some cheese and cucumber.” I asked her if she meant that he does not give her enough money to buy food. She said: “That is not it. The problem is that I have been unable to cook anything for 25 days because I cannot find one butane gas cylinder for my stove. I do not mind paying the 25 pounds to get one. One day I had to queue for so long to buy one until I fainted. I woke up to find myself on the pavement with my blouse open, as if I was raped for trying to cook some rice for my family.” She went on: “I never thought that a butane gas cylinder could turn my life into hell. I did not complain when they said we cannot buy a loaf of bread without a ration card. Nor did I complain when the water stopped coming out of the taps. I filled jerry cans from the street pumps for that. But what do I do now with this butane gas problem that will be the cause of my divorce?” I could not utter a word.
