Summer heat mounts against my skin, and mourning comes in the form of a Facebook message. I’m on the highway, about 65 kilometers into an unseen future, when my phone chimes. The words are cast in playful pinks and unassuming blues: el-bakaa l’Allah, habibti—‘eternity is for God, darling.’ It is a condolence native to the Middle East, dealt to those grieving the loss of someone dear. I had not lost someone, or rather, I wasn’t yet aware of who I had lost. A phone call revealed the grisly details: a crash on the North Coast highway, talks of late-night speeding and whiskey-wastedness. A friend, along with one other, had lost their lives in a street race. Their car was totaled with nothing of its back seats remaining but skid-burnt fabric and charred metal. This was the third person I knew, personally, to die on Alexandria’s Sahel (North Coast) road. All the deceased had been my age, in their roaring 20s with big dreams and ephemeral furies, thinking the world could be taken on with a cigarette and a good time. There is no gap in socioeconomic tragedy, no discrimination; there…
