ANYONE VISITING El-Gozlani family’s modest flat in Kerdassa is accustomed to hearing 60-year-old Aisha Abdel Salam Saleh sitting in her room, sweet-talking one of her three sons. She could be murmuring to Mohammed, her eldest, about God; to Essam, the middle child, about her fondest memory of him as a kid; or to Abdullah, her youngest, about why he can’t decide on which faculty is best for him.

When she finishes with the boys, the tiny woman sometimes heads back to her large, sparsely furnished living room. The family doesn’t get many guests, so that’s where her husband, El-Hajj Nasr El-Din El-Gozlani, 70, spends his days in a large bed, his aluminum walker at his side.

Little conversation passes between the two. Instead, she sits on the floor near him, reading from an open mos’haf (Qur’an) on its wooden stand. El-Gozlani says he likes the fact that he receives as much sawab (blessings from God) just by listening to his wife recite as she receives for making the effort.

Later, when she tires of reading, Saleh retreats to her bedroom to sit on her prayer mat and have an even longer talk with God.

The only problem is that while God might be listening, her sons aren’t: The three boys are split among two prisons, each serving time on charges of terrorism.

“God is my only companion these days after they snatched my sons from me one after the other,” Saleh says. “Their punishment is more tolerable than mine, which is to face the possibility of death without any of them sitting at my bedside.”

Mohsen Allam/Egypt Today Nasr El-Din El-Gozlani fought for years for his sons’ rights to continue their educations behind bars.

For Saleh and El-Gozlani, life as they knew it came crashing to an end when their three sons, all alleged members of the Egyptian-born extremist group Al-Jihad, were tried along with 57 others and sentenced to terms ranging from a few years to life in prison in a series of rapid-fire trials. Ayman El-Zawahri, now Al-Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden’s number two, but then the undisputed leader of Al-Jihad, was sentenced in absentia to death by hanging in one of the proceedings that followed.

Some of those sentenced were charged with simple membership in a terrorist organization, others with plotting against the government of President Hosni Mubarak. Mohammed, Essam and Abdullah faced the additional charge of planning a bombing campaign against tourists in Cairo’s fabled Khan El-Khalili commercial district.

Spend even a few minutes with them, and it’s clear El-Gozlani and Saleh have almost diametrically opposed views of the world and of their sons’ places in it. The pain they share is the single delicate thread that keeps their marriage together.

Saleh is convinced of her sons’ innocence. El-Gozlani is equally certain the younger two boys were made scapegoats for the actions of Mohammed, denying him grandchildren to keep him company as his days on earth wind to a close.

In the meantime, El-Gozlani sits and wonders where things went wrong while his wife rages against what she says is the injustice of it all.

“Mohammed, my eldest, was arrested before,” she admits. “They said he had burned down video-rental shops. But I swear he did nothing! He was just hanging out with those who did. Anyway, he was sentenced to three years in jail. Then, the security police started paying us regular visits, so the Old Man” as she consistently refers to her husband “feared for himself and came here to stay away from trouble. I joined him only when he got sick. I don’t know what happened. We’re peaceful people by nature; we mind our own business.”

Peace was shattered in 1996, when State Security officers picked up all three El-Gozlani boys in quick succession, taking them to Lazoughly and Gaber bin Heyan police stations for questioning. Eventually, the three were charged with membership in Al-Jihad, a banned terror group, and of plotting to bomb Khan El-Khalili.

The arrest, El-Gozlani says, “was a complete shock to me. It was Mohammed, my oldest son, who led the others down this path. He’s always been labelled as a jihadi. He was a lawyer and wanted to join up with the human-rights lawyers [active in the Islamist movement]. I told him, ‘No, stay away from trouble. I don’t want you to be arrested or shot.’

“But he didn’t listen. His two brothers, though, are innocent. They had no idea about the plot, they weren’t involved in anything.”

All three were tried by a military court. Mohammed and Essam were sentenced to 15-year terms, while Abdullah, the youngest, was declared innocent, then promptly detained again, the family alleges, because State Security feared he was a threat to national security. Mohammed and Essam were first sent to Cairo’s maximum-security Tora prison, then transferred to the even tougher Abu Zaabal, where they’ve remained ever since.

Abdullah, El-Gozlani says, “has been in all kinds of prisons. The reception prison, El-Fayoum Prison, Damanhour, now Wadi El-Natroun. It’s one of life’s little ironies I never knew the name of a single prison, and now I’m a walking encyclopedia.”

El-Gozlani has repeatedly petitioned for Abdullah’s release to no avail there’s no appealing a military court ruling. He asked the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights for help, but found they were as powerless as he was.

Over the course of our conversations, it quickly became clear that El-Gozlani is a moderate Muslim with a sharp sense of humor. Niqab is not a fard (religious duty) unless the woman is a “femme fatale,” he says with a smile, like one of the knockouts of yesteryear, “maybe Brigitte Bardot or Sophia Lauren,” he explains with a chuckle. Educated in Catholic schools, El-Gozlani says he has nothing against other religions or peoples and absolutely rejects violence as a means of social or political change.

State Security already knew that, he says with confidence, and he claims not to mind their watchful eyes.

“Actually, the State Security officers are really quite nice and decent. I’m not being sarcastic I mean it. They have never done anything bad or demeaned us. They investigate people before they do anything, so they know that I’m against any kind of illegal act. Had I known that any one of my sons was following a different path, I would have been the first to stand against him. I would have forced him back onto the straight and narrow.”

Saleh will hear none of that. The only path her boys have ever followed, she cuts in, is that of Allah.

“What crime did they commit? What sin?” Fury flashes in her eyes as she continues: “But what can I say when their own father claims it’s all because Mohammed led the other boys astray? People are confused: None of my sons have done anything! They’re being jailed because of their intentions, and that’s unconstitutional. Even the judge who tried them said theirs was a case in which not a single bullet was fired. There’s no evidence against them!

“My eldest son told them he’s not a qiyadi (a leader in the jihad). He told the court, ‘I’m a person who wants to build, not destroy. We have a tourist district in our neighborhood and we’ve never hurt anyone there. Why would we want to bomb the Khan?’ ”

As Saleh sees it, her son’s only crime was being a committed Muslim, teaching local children and teenagers from a book called Raheeq El-Makhtoum. (The Sweetness of the End).

“It’s a book about the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH) that teaches people how to be better Muslims, how to treat their moms, wives, colleagues and strangers, how to stay away from the darkness of disbelief. That’s why they accused him. I can’t stand against my son when he’s following the path of Allah. Of course I’m heartbroken about what happened to all of them, but, at the end of the day, I have inner peace, knowing deep inside my heart they did nothing that upsets God or violates the principles of His religion. I sleep with Allah in my heart; He keeps me company.”

Later, her daughter Samia says Saleh never sleeps. Instead, she spends each night praying and crying, crying and praying until the rising of the sun.

“There’s no sleep in this world, my child,” Saleh eventually admits. “I sit on my prayer mat and beg God to help me fight the devil inside me so I won’t slip into depression. I want Him to keep me as strong as true believers like the Prophet Jacob, who was so deeply wounded when they took his son from him that he wept for years for his beloved Joseph and nearly lost his sight. Only prayer could comfort him and strengthen his faith and patience.”

That’s why, she says, “I never stop praying. My prayers give me solace, and I keep comforting them, telling them I love them and that I’ll be there. Terrorists or not I don’t care what others say about them. I know they’re good people. Who could know better than the woman who gave birth to them?

“Do you have children?” Saleh asks. “You know how it feels when your son is an hour or two late coming home? You’re beside yourself with worry, right? Well, I’ve spent seven years without seeing my boys, without knowing how they sleep and eat. Seven whole years! That’s Hell on earth!”

Tears are frozen in her eyes as we talk, never quite welling over, but betraying her apparent strength. As strong as she may appear, the sleepless woman’s physical strength has been failing her of late, her neck crackling with tension every time she moves. A damaged cartilage, her doctor says.

“When they were arrested, I couldn’t sit or hold myself upright. I used to lie on the ground, tossing and turning, only one sentence in my mouth: ‘Ya Rab (My Lord), keep them safe, be their support, stand by them against all the tyrants on earth.’ Sometimes, they seem so far away; other times, I can feel their breath in the room with me.”

As for El-Gozlani? His fight to free his youngest son has taken a toll on his health: A stroke has left his speech slurred and denied him the use of his right arm and leg.

“I went to Kasr El-Aini Hospital, and the doctor wrote a report about my condition. I pled with the president and the interior minister to have mercy on a disabled old man and release my third son, who was already declared innocent, so that he would support me and help me in my sickness. I’m a cripple. I need him by my side to help me sit and stand.”

With no relief in sight, El-Gozlani says he’s done as much as he can to make certain his son will have a life when he’s eventually released from detention by trying to help him obtain an education from behind bars.

“He was 17 when they arrested him,” the elderly man says quietly. “He sat for his [thanawya amma] exam in prison and passed, so I applied to Cairo University’s Faculty of Law for permission to enroll him as a student. But he didn’t like it, so he sat for thanawya amma again and then enrolled in Beni Suef University’s Faculty of Commerce. Again, he didn’t like it. He’s still not settled on a faculty, so I’ve stopped spending my money on applying to universities he never attends.”

With that, Saleh cuts in, jumping to her son’s defense. It’s not that Abdullah’s ungrateful or indecisive, she says, but that he doesn’t want to exhaust his parents physically or financially, especially given that they’re still paying for Essam’s education. A first-year engineering student when he was arrested, Essam has since transferred to the faculty of literature.

“You have to file a lawsuit to plead for your sons’ right to sit for exams and continue their studies,” Saleh complains. “We’re too old to keep running in circles. It’s draining financially, mentally and physically.”

How does it feel to be the father of an accused terrorist? El-Gozlani answers the question with a question of his own: “Do you know how it feels to be a Muslim living in the land of a Jewish ally? You don’t have a clue! Let me give you a hint: People boycotted me, preferring to stay away from trouble me, that is. I kept my distance, too. After all, I don’t want to cause problems for anyone. You never know. If I get close to someone it could make him suspect.”

In the meantime, he says, God provides. “We’re in no need of money, alhamdulilah. I have a piece of land and I rent out my carpentry workshop to keep the house running.”

God, his wife adds, also stood at her side when her sons were sentenced. “While women were screaming and rolling on the floor after we heard the sentences, I kept praying: ‘God! Show me the wonder of Your power against everyone who harmed my sons and bring Your vengeance on them. You destined us for this fate, so keep Your eye on them and me.”

She almost smiles as she describes the calamities that soon befell her sons’ enemies: “The one who laid his eye on them and reported them to State Security lost his sight. Another had a heart attack. Even their father, who stood against them, who led a path different from theirs, suffered his fate.”

Her voice dripping bitterness, she explains that “When they first arrested Mohammed, the Old Man kept screaming at him, ‘You go to suspicious places! You hang out with suspicious people!’ My son reassured him: ‘No I don’t, Dad.’ But he insisted on his theory. Informers used to hover around the Old Man like flies when he complaining to his friends. They took the Old Man’s own words and reported them to the police. And of course everything he says is wrong!

“Listen, my sons are princes. They would never harm a fly. Their tongues drip with sweetness. They know their religion and fear Allah in everything they do. They all pray and stare at their feet out of modesty when they walk.

“Nowadays, they call everyone committed to following God’s path a terrorist. And somehow the ones wearing necklaces and dancing with women are the ones who are wonderful and acceptable. That’s what our country has become, my child, may God protect our youth and Ummah from the devil’s seduction.”

Saleh went seven years without seeing her boys, saying she was denied permission to visit until the last Eid. “They were in good spirits, satisfied with God’s will. I’m grateful to Him for that,” she says, even as she complains that she can deliver food to them only once a month and can visit them now only on special occasions such as the Eids and Mother’s Day.

Even then, the authorities can change their minds about visitation at the last minute.

“We were allowed a visit for Mother’s Day,” she explains, “but they kept us waiting for hours, then asked us to leave without seeing them. ‘Those are the orders,’ they said. At least they let us leave some food. And what can we do? We abide only God’s orders. Anyway, we’ll try our luck on Mulid Al-Nabi (the Prophet’s Birthday). Then there will be the long, cold days until the next Eid when I can see them again.”

Saleh has become a lioness among the mothers she meets during her trips to prison, teaching other parents how to behave. “I tell them, ‘Never cry in front of your son. Never. Your tears burn your son’s heart. Don’t collapse in front of him. You’ve got to encourage him, support him; otherwise, once you leave, the picture of his weeping mother will torture his poor soul.’ I keep yelling at them, ‘Are we visiting our sons to make it harder on them? Or easier?’

“‘In front of your boy, stand strong, smile, tease him, show mercy on him. Then when, you go home, sit on your prayer mat and complain to Allah. You can cry as much as you want with Him He knows we’re weak, and He is all strength.’ ”

Even Saleh, though, will admit it’s sometimes hard to practice what she preaches.

“I’ll never forget one of the mothers who kept yelling after we were denied the last visit, ‘I know I won’t see them again!’ Call it a mother’s intuition she died two days later.”

Does she think she’ll live to see her boys in her own home one day? “Blink, and God changes the world,” she says simply. “They’ll see the light when God wishes them to. Until then, we have to accept His will.”

She seems to soften for the first time as she turns to look at her husband in his bed. “As you can see, we need someone of our own flesh and blood to stay with us. My five daughters are all married and have their own families to take care of. Life treats you roughly when you don’t have your sons next to you.

“Every time I stare at the wall that separates us in the prison visiting area,” she suddenly adds, “I feel like tearing it down. When I leave them, I wonder whether I’ll ever see them again. All I know is that I needn’t worry: They’re in God’s safekeeping.”  et