Arab Women Uncut

Me: A 20-year-old first generation Arab-American woman, born in California, living in Chicago, and on my way to Egypt to visit family.

I land in Cairo, brother by my side, and we both set out to receive our uncle, whom we haven’t seen in four years. This wouldn’t be my first time in the Middle East—I have been coming here my entire life, and every time I have been utterly fascinated by the reality of different worlds, of going from cars and subways to donkeys and carts; from walking freely in my neighborhood to needing a man to walk with me whenever in public.

I know that I must be a spectacle to the average Cairene: I look Arab, but something doesn’t fit. My hair is dyed all kinds of different colors, I’m wearing a David Bowie T-shirt with brown corduroys, and I have piercings in places they wouldn’t even dream of. The true shocker, however, comes when I open my mouth and out comes a beautiful medley of perfectly-spoken Arabic, idioms and all. I am, as some call it, a walking paradox of human existence, living in that grey area where nothing makes sense; a hybrid of some sort.

Anyways, this story isn’t about me and my neo-Arabness. It’s about something I witnessed in the Egyptian countryside that has become a part of my thought process, always in the background of my mind. My aforementioned uncle is co-owner of the family’s tobacco business that has its headquarters in a small rural town about an hour away from Cairo.