As you approach your front door after a day's work, you notice a black rubbish bag propped up in the corner, half-hidden by the plastic refuse bin that is already full of items that were once edible, but as a result of exposure to room temperature, grimaces of distaste and cockroaches doing the tango on them, and because a certain person forgot to deposit the foodstuffs into the refrigerator before retiring for the night, these same items are not only unpalatable, but also a microbiologist's dream. Never mind the defunct combestibles, what about that suspiciously familiar piece of fabric that is almost crying for attention out of the hastily tied black rubbish bag? It looks just like, nay, it is your favourite jacket. You undo the bag and retrieve the beloved garment. You wonder why your spouse insists on putting it out for collection by your friendly zabbaal. So, the old jacket smells rather musty, and the oil that was spilt on it while you were maintaining the exercise bicycle retains a certain pungency. You put the jacket on. So there is a hole in one of the elbows. Well, that is air conditioning at no expense to the environment. Suddenly, you feel that your presence and movements are under scrutiny. The next-door neighbour is watching you through their slightly ajar front door. You sheepishly greet your neighbour, who eyes you up and down in the knowledge that you are acting contrary to spouse's wishes. How on earth does the neighbour know that the jacket you are tentatively trying on has been put out for the rubbish man? You slip the key into your own front door, whereupon spouse looks disapprovingly of your attire. Resistance is useless. That jacket has got to go. It belongs in the bin. Thou good and faithful servant, you have served your purpose, now you are destined for the tip. Merci and bonne nuit. You were happy in that jacket. It felt like a second skin. It was so comfortable that you did not know you were even wearing it. Think of the stories it could tell if it could speak, such as the one about the drenching you received at Ghamra metro station the day the sky opened up and the rain brought Cairo to a near-standstill. What about the time you knocked over the oil can when you were sorting out that squeaky exercise bicycle? The stain says it all: the curses, the recriminations, the apologies and assurances that such an occurrence would not be repeated. Oh well, farewell, dear jacket! The ancient Egyptians believed that garments had lives of their own. They even said that items of clothing knew when they were consigned to the rubbish. They claimed they could hear the old linen skirt and cloak whisper something on the lines of 'We who are about to be thrown away, salute thee, Sky Goddess Nut'. No, really, I am not making this up. It's somewhere in the Wallis Budgie edition of the Book of the Dead, in hieroglyphs and everything. Suspension of disbelief aside, consigning that old jacket to the refuse pile feels like casting a chapter of your life into the dustbin of your personal history. The expression, 'dustbin of history', is said to have originated in Russia in 1917. During the Second Congress of the Soviets that was held in October of that year, representatives of all Russian parties were asked to ratify the Bolshevik coup of a few days before. Does not “ratify" strike you as odd? Surely, one ratifies a treaty or an agreement, but a seizure of supreme political power by a then obscure organisation without so much as a by your leave before the event? It is as if you have taken your neighbour's car without his consent, and call upon the residents of your apartment block to say you were entitled to steal the vehicle. Anyway, those who objected to the coup on the grounds that it was illegal (According to which authority?) walked out of the congress. As they were leaving the assembly, Leon Trotsky shouted after them: “You are pitiful isolated individuals; you are bankrupts; your role is played out. Go where you belong from now on – into the dustbin of history!" In 1982, US President Ronald Reagan used this phrase in his speech to the British Parliament, when he said: "... freedom and democracy will leave Marxism and Leninism on the ash heap of history." No apologies to Trotsky, then. The late Libyan leader Muammar Gaddhafi said in a speech in March 2011, speaking of those countries that attacked Libya during the enforcement of a no-fly zone, "This assault ... is by a bunch of fascists who will end up in the dustbin of history." Talking about the “dustbin of history" is all very well, but what happens to its contents? Besides, no one has suggested whether the “dustbin" should be an enormous skip, because there is a lot of history about, especially in these days of the Internet. Since we are living in an age of greater environmental awareness and the moral and economic necessity of recycling, what happens to the contents of the “dustbin of history"? Are they recycled and resold as environment friendly shopping bags and ideologies for future generations to corrupt, misinterpret and use as excuses for pre-emptive strikes and large-scale slaughter? What about a new theory of history? A community experiences a trend of events and their consequences. The leaders of that community formulate means of arresting that trend and controlling it to work in their favour. The community grudgingly buckles down and gets used to the idea. The leadership exploits the system to such an extent that the community say, enough is enough. A new train of events is set in motion by the community. The leadership falters and is supplanted by a new group of leaders who formulate means of arresting that trend and controlling it to work in their favour. And so on, as previous ideas and thrown into the dustbin of history. Then someone rummages around and finds something of interest, and never mind the holes and oil stains. It might serve purpose again, but don't tell the wife.
