How I'm Treated as a Blonde White Girl in Egypt (Spoiler alert: it’s probably not what you’re thinking, because #whiteprivilege)

Before I went to the international job fair at the University of Northern Iowa last January, I had absolutely no inclination to travel to Egypt whatsoever. I actually hadn’t thought about Egypt since back in Elementary school when we learned about the ancient Egyptians. Pharoahs and mummies, you know the drill. Then about thirteen years later, I get offered a job to teach and I went “What the hell? Let’s do it.”

Ok it wasn’t that quick of a decision. I had to call my parents first of course, and have a mini conference on everything the three of us collectively knew about Egypt. The amount of information at our disposal about Egypt was embarrassingly limited—we all could say “camels, pyramids, and sand” very confidently. After that, not much. 

“It’s obviously not a stable area,” said my dad. We had no specific examples really, but we knew about ISIS, and beheadings, and other vaguely remembered gruesome events. Google kind of helped, but I only saw western media portrayal of about two or three of these violent incidents, nowhere near where I was to potentially going to live. I didn’t have any other solid job offers at the time, and it was this or teach somewhere in America, which at the time felt like failure. “I came to this job fair dammit, I’m coming away with a super cool job and an adventure of a lifetime” was the thought in my head. So I took it with a huge amount of pure excitement and literally nothing else. My parents have always known they can simply advise, not tell, in matters of my life, so they went with it (bless their worried souls.)

That summer was filled with anticipation, but of what specifically I still wasn’t sure. There was absolutely no reliable information being presented. My family (loving, smart, wonderful) had never been there. They knew as much as our media liked to tell them, and the narrative was consistently grim. “Be careful,” “Are you sure?” and “Oh honey, we are just so worried about you.” was the general input from parents, cousins, aunts and uncles. Friends my own age simply expressed awe or jealousy, happy for me and wishing they could do something similar. This disparity between reactions was interesting, but still neither camp was giving me much to go on. Communicating with my future school was not an easy feat either. With the time difference and how busy they were preparing, I didn't have much input from them other than what paperwork to have ready.

So my summer, despite the huge change coming up, was pretty basic. See friends, hang out, be lazy. When people asked if I was worried, I could easily say “Nope.” Because I wasn’t. What was there to be nervous about? I didn’t know a thing, and ignorance is bliss (TM Merry Buelken). My only nerves came from worrying about what to pack, and if I would be able to find real friends in my time here. Other than that, I was open and ready.

Now I have been here for about two months, and I’m happy to say I have had none of the negative experiences that my family had been worried about. There are no violent riots, no thieves or street harassers. The only time I see the police out is when a big soccer match is about to go on, and even then they just want to take selfies with me. (Side note: Seriously though, the cops here are a bunch of young boys, it is terrifying for an entirely different reason than I had expected. Do you want your teenage son running around your city in paint ball gear as your protector? I didn't think so! They are a bunch of goofs, and wave a LOT as I walk by.)

The people are nothing if not generous and warm...maybe even too warm, like when I get kissed on both cheeks by my loving school matrons (like janitors, except more like moms who clean the school and nap during classes). I get stared at no matter what, because Americans are interesting, and blondes even more so. I’ve lost count of the times I have been called beautiful (the extent of any cat calling I have even seen, but also women tend to gush around me as well) but other than that I feel safer than I ever thought possible. Cairo, and Ma’adi in particular, is a lovely place to live and explore if you are an expat. Any time of the day, I can roam freely with no worries, and it feels more like home everyday. There are endless shops and restaurants, and the weather is always perfect for walking around, so it's pretty nice.

Which is why I was so confused initially at my roommate’s problems. While I would go out alone and go unmolested, taken care of or even spoiled (did I tell you the time I got free printing, or a free taxi ride?), my roommate was consistently bringing back news of another taxi driver ripping her off, another person trailing her to ask if she was a prostitute, and car horns and unpleasant things being said to her. I was generally confused, because this was not my experience at all. “Are you being...nice?” I asked to my retroactive shame and chagrin, wondering “What are you doing wrong?” instead of trusting her account. Then we got to the bottom of this day and night difference, and it surprised me more than it should have.

My roommate is black, and I am white. My whiteness acts as a shield while her blackness acts as a target. Sometimes the reactions we receive when together are actually comical. More than once people have been defiant, not believing that my roommate was American, but happily accepting my nationality as a matter of course. It doesn't help that the black women most Egyptians are used to seeing are, in fact, prostitutes--refugees from Nigeria who are usually supporting a child on their own. “No really,” we both say, “We’re BOTH American!” And we laugh, and they laugh, but at the back of my mind this leaves me with a feeling of unrest. I get to feel recognized, proud of my home and a representative of it. And my roommate has to convince, debate, and sometimes give up on convincing them altogether.

My white privilege back home is something easy to forget if I don’t stay vigilant. No matter how many blacklivesmatter twitter accounts I follow, articles I read from black feminists, or news reports I watch on the daily murders of black men, it doesn't change the fact that I get to navigate a primarily white landscape as a white person. However, my privilege is enhanced tenfold here—which I find ironic, and maybe you’re right there with me. I’m in Africa, just in case you’d forgotten. I had been told that I might be a target here for what I look like, but in reality I feel as safe as back home, because people here straight up love white Americans. No really, I’m not lying! As long as you are a (white) American (and maybe being a woman helps too), they are eager to talk, they ask for pictures, and once they feel comfortable around me I can’t seem to make the women stop calling me beautiful and hugging me. Honestly, it’s a pretty hug and compliment friendly place.

However, my happiness is always tinged with #whiteguilt, as I realize all these things as tokens of my white privilege. I’m beautiful because I’m pale, or like one of the printer/copier workers said “Nour” or “light.” She literally pointed to my face, pointed to a florescent light on the ceiling, and exclaimed "Same!" with a huge smile on her face. I’m stared at in curiosity, fascination, and sometimes admiration. My roommate deals with more irritation and feelings of unease than I ever have to. Nowadays even, my roommate prefers to travel with me, rather than without me. When we are together people know she is American more easily, and she gets better treatment as a result.

Luckily, once she can convince them she is American and they hear her accent, all the interest I get is heaped onto her as well—America means money, Hollywood, and celebrity, and everyone likes that. So it comes back to blackness being something that is targeted, not nationality. The fact that people here don’t think black people come from America is staggering, and pretty telling as well. If you think how whitewashed our television and movies are isn’t important, I’d say our experiences here should tell you otherwise. They literally don’t think black people come from America. AT ALL! It’s insane! But I digress/ramble. (BUT SERIOUSLY, WHAT EVEN?!)

Basically, I just want people back home to know that where I live is pretty wonderful, with a big fat caveat. When it comes to hospitality and kindness Egypt is up there with the best. However (here comes the caveat), if you are black, you might have more trouble than I have. It seems obvious to me that the message America is sending worldwide about black people is hurting them, and not just at home. My roommate is beautiful, whip smart and impressively confident. But she and I shouldn't have to convince people of that. And people here aren’t all unkind at first, and she has met some great and educated people. But it is something I now think about often. If my white privilege follows me around the world, then her blackness will also act as something harmful..EVEN IN AFRICA. (So much capitalization in this post, sorry not sorry...) 

I don't want to scare black Americans from coming here though! In fact, the more that are able to come here and spread a different narrative, the better! To anyone who wishes to come here, I hope they do, knowing some key facts. The things you need to worry about aren't as foreign as you might think. People will try to scare you about terrorism or kidnapping. But it seems the biggest problems you might face, you are already facing back home in the states. Catching a cab is still hard for a black person, even in Africa.

To my family, I hope you all know I am safe and sound over here, getting hugs and kisses on the literal daily, and I honestly feel like a celebrity when I go outside. This has some downsides, but at least I can catch a cab.

An Interesting Morning

Thursday September 24th 2015: 6 AM

I woke up feeling horrible, like I needed several more hours before I could possibly be expected to function. I’d been on vacation a few days and already my habit of waking at 5:30 was ruined, and my body wanted to wake up around 11. But it was time to get up if I wanted to see today’s big event.

I heard the phone ring, half of me not really understanding the sound while the other half understood full well and chose to ignore it—“If I’m late, so be it” said this side of myself, the usual master of my mental reins.

After rolling around in bed a few minutes, I heard the phone again, insisting I get myself up for goodness sake. So I did, but I didn’t like it.

“Merry?” But it didn’t sound like Merry. In Egypt, my name sounds like Melly, rhymes with Jelly, the “L” sound much easier for my Arabic speaking hosts to grapple with. That hard r never stood a chance.

“Yep” I forced out, though I couldn’t find it in me to use any punctuation.

“You are coming?” All her sentences flip up at the end, a higher pitch letting me know a question mark was there, whether it was a question or not. It adds a certain urgency to all situations, and can be confusing while also endearing.

“Yeah!” I added an exclamation point this time, trying to sound awake and match her level of energy.

“Come now? Yes? Quickly?!” I had been worried this would happen. The time I was told to show up had been “Six and a half” and it was only 6:05. Egyptian time flows differently than American time, in sporadic spurts and stops. Sometimes it seems gooey and unimportant, barely moving along, other times fluid and unexpectedly quick—and apparently right now was time to go, our pre-ordained schedule all but forgotten.

I had agreed about a week before this to participate (or on look as it were) in this religious event. Eid is a major Islamic holiday, and every year they sacrifice sheep or cows (or both) in honor of the time Abraham was willing to sacrifice his only son. While the idea of killing animals up close and personal doesn’t appeal to me per se, I recognize my hypocrisy as an all-around hamburger lover and self-described carnivore; so I pumped on the breaks of my moral shock center and took a big step back from my cultural high horse. If you consider the alternative, i.e. killing your only child, killing and eating a sheep or cow isn’t really so bad. Plus, once they kill the animal they cook and share it with family, friends, and the poor. Charitable, though definitely more graphic than the typical American community service session.

When Rania, the doorman’s fifteen year old daughter, had brought up this festival to me, the idea of seeing something so totally different was thrilling, and the invitation to be a part of their lives heartwarming.

However, 6 am felt far too early, and my heart only felt the burn of last night’s fried chicken.

At her panicked tone, I rushed to get dressed. Jeans, long sleeved shirt, hair up in inevitably messy bun. Flip flops and I was out the door, after manically knocking on my roommate’s door and shouting out the change in plan. I was out and down the stairs to the seventh floor, the elevator having been broken on the 8^th and 9th floors basically since we moved in a month ago.

The building we live in has a charming way of just barely working at any given time. It’s beautiful and definitely the most interesting place I’ve ever lived. But as it is older than me and my roommates’ age combined, it likes to surprise us with black outs and flooded bathrooms. I feel like I’m being tested whenever I have to light the stove, hunkering down with my head in the opening, holding my breath to avoid the gas fumes and praying to any god that cares to listen to please not let me leave this world like some Hansel and Gretel witch. And don’t get me started on the low (nonexistent?) water pressure of a 9^th floor shower in Egypt. One too many times I’ve had to rush the end of my shower, once again imploring any god above to give just one more minute of running water. I’m usually much more forgiving of these quirks, seeing as how I am young and just happy to be here. But again…6 AM. So at the time, I was muttering less than flattering words as I hustled down the two already sweltering hot flights of stairs.

The inside of our apartment, while reminiscent of somewhere Batman might live, is deceptively pretty. Just when you think you're living in luxury, BAM--no water. Cest' la vie.

I made it down to the ground floor (that’s 1^st floor my fellow Americans) and walked the last set of stairs down to -1 floor (or basement if you will). The smell of the cow had been faintly perceptible up 9 floors, the whole stair well connected to where it was being stored. But here was the real deal, unaware of the fate it was about to face, munching on some hay and looking at me with very little interest in its doleful brown eyes.

As I stood there a moment, I debated taking a picture of the still living bovine. But I found myself thinking that if this guy was going to be dead within the half hour, I’d rather not. It felt like snapping a shot of a death row inmate—a bit insensitive at least. Also, “Hey look, this is the cow that’s dead now!” didn’t seem like a thing I wanted to have to say later.

Luckily I didn’t have time to dwell on this too long, as Rania came running into the basement, headscarf (or Talha) and long dress fluttering behind her. She disappeared around the corner into her home, a simple two room, open air attachment to what was essentially a basement garage. She lives there with her mother, father, and three younger siblings. It’s no castle, but they are always quick to invite me in for tea or some seriously mouthwatering food.

I only had a moment to wait before Rania came back, in her hand a black and white patterned Talha.

She shooed me up the stairs ahead of her, obviously in a hurry but for what I wasn’t sure. Then before I had time to register what was happening, I was being dressed in the Talha, the poor girl faced with the task of covering a German sized head with a handkerchief aspiring to greater things. We met her mother and friend Rahma at the door (her mother re-doing the application of the Talha with only a little more success than Rania) and we hurried out into the early morning street.

Now, I had not suspected even for a minute that I would be attending an Islamic service while I lived here. Didn't even cross my mind. But as we strode hand in hand toward the tower of their neighborhood mosque, I realized this was not going to be the case.

The neighborhood Mosque, right outside our building. It is a two minute walk, maybe three. The daily prayers are easily heard in my bedroom, even the 4am one! (That took a while to get used to...)

In the evenings and nights, the tower is lit up with green neon lights. Green is an important color in Islam, and is seen all over the city.

Here is another tower lit up at night, but a closer view. All of them have the neon lights, but some seem to have slightly different designs for their towers.

I’m not sure how much of this I thought at the time, or how much was afterwards. But in retrospect I wonder about the implications of being invited to their prayers. Walking around the men’s section and entering the separate women’s section, I could have contemplated that I was the only foreigner, though no one seemed to respond with surprise at my presence. And despite kicking off my shoes and kneeling head to the ground, it just reminded me of Christian church services back home. It was a large group of people throwing their thoughts to their higher power all at once; the hush and the reverence, the feeling of belonging to a community, and the ritual repetitiveness of their movements—I could see a direct reflection to Catholic masses I attended as a child, as well as other Christian masses I’d seen. I wonder now what the speaker was talking about, but I doubt it was very different from a gospel reading back home, the Bible and Quran stemming from the same Abrahamic roots. I know I certainly noticed that the Talha was becoming hotter than I had expected it would be, and I was impressed with the front row spot they must have saved for me. I went with the flow as best as I could, hoping not to make a fool of myself, my thoughts probably amounting to “I hope this is how you’re supposed to bow” and “please don’t let this be an hour long prayer.”

My fears of an hour in a Talha went blessedly unrealized though, as it was over surprisingly quickly. I think I had actually just made it in time for the end, because it had been in full swing when I got there, and probably had been going on for some time before I arrived.

Candy was passed around, though Rania, Rahma and I all gave our pieces to Rania’s youngest sister Joudy—because any two year old who can wait patiently through church deserves ALL the candy—and then the two girls led me out. We walked quickly back to the pile of shoes, walked back around past the men still listening outside, and I caught a glimpse of the Shiek, what I assume is the equivalent of a priest or pastor.

Joudy, all dressed up for the special day! She was NOT about this 6 am life, which I respected.

While the men were right in front of him as he spoke into a microphone, the women’s section had simply been facing a loud-speaker, out of sight. At the time I remember feeling how this separation of the sexes would be a reason to never get into Islam as a religion for myself. Similar to how Catholicism doesn’t allow women to be priests, it just didn’t feel like something any creator of a universe should be bothered with. Personal religious musings aside though, it had been a peaceful and meditative gathering, and I had liked the chance to see behind the scenes. It made me feel connected to the community, the part of religion I always appreciate the most.

A quick minute and we were back at our building, walking around the side to once again see the fated cow. As a quick side note, I had been told the name of this particular cow the night before, despite protesting that I didn’t want to know its name if it was going to be killed right in front of me. Luckily, it was a name I could neither pronounce nor remember, so my personal attachment to the cow was successfully limited to “Aw, it’s cute.”

 A group of men and boys were all standing close around it, with a handful of girls standing farther away but close enough to see the upcoming events. We were encouraged to go closer, though I was hesitant. Mohammad, a boy of maybe 14 or 15 years old with very good English speaking skills, proudly told me that he would be the one cutting the cow’s neck that day. I struggled to respond with enthusiasm to match his own, managing an “Oh wow!” Imagining the boy in front of me killing this giant beast worried me, but I supposed this group knew what they were doing.

Where we stood initially, hesitating to go closer. You can seen a gaggle of kids to the side, and that's where I stood later.

Once Mohammad’s mother and father arrived back from the Mosque service, it was time. The group surrounding the cow closed tighter, and with a quick set of well-timed movements, they fought as one to trip the cow to its side. At this point, I moved closer to see. I almost took a video, but again was struck by how inappropriate it felt. (“Let’s watch this cow die on my phone!” No thanks.) So I watched, impressed with the strength and coordination of the men holding the cow down, obviously not an easy task.

Getting in position, Mohammad in the purple shirt.

With a quick, slushy sound, Mohammad made the cut. I heard the cow react with a wet groan, and the men shouted as Mohammad had to go back in and cut some more, the first cut not being deep enough. The cow kicked and bucked, blood flowing out of its neck all the while. It was not a quick death, and as it continued fighting the men kept a tight grip on the ropes binding its feet to keep it from flailing too much. It didn’t seem the best way to die by any means, but I couldn’t say that every burger I had ever eaten had met a comfortable death either, so again I tried not to think too deeply on possible moral objections.

The cow, all tied up and bleeding out now. Mohammad circling back to watch as the older men dealt with the cow thrashing.

Mohammad practically skipped over to me, blood on his shirt and arm, and deliberate points of blood on his forehead where he had placed his bloody finger prints. He told me how once you kill the animal, it is tradition to put the blood on your face. “OH HOLY CRAP NO” was my eloquent thought as he tried to offer his bloody palm for my own face’s application, but I think I declined calmer than that. Hopefully.

 Now, this moment, of a smiling boy after completing something so important to him, I felt comfortable taking a picture of. He quickly put more blood on his face before I took the picture, smiling so happily that I couldn’t help but join in.

I mean...can you say HAPPY?

The cow was still slowly dying at this point, and I walked back to where Rania and Rahma had stayed the whole time. The big event was over, and my body quickly remembered it was still very early. Checking my phone, only 25-30 minutes had passed since I had woken up, yet so many new things had happened in front of my eyes. They would drain the cow of all blood now, making sure “the microbes and bacteria were all safely out of the meat” as Mohammad put it, and they would cut, cook, and serve it later.

Rania was the only Egyptian person I saw that morning who displayed any unease about killing the cow, and it was mostly her reaction to the sight of blood, rather than empathy for the animal. This was a predominant feeling of the day, leading up to and during, that struck me as utterly different from American sensibilities. While eating meat is acceptable, even praised, back home, the act of hurting any animal is generally looked at with sadness or even guilt. Other than experienced hunters or dedicated vegetarians, people tend to like the “out of sight, out of mind” approach when it comes to being a meat eater. However here, where animal loving has yet to become a trend, Egyptians were nothing but excited and eager about the act and the following meat. I still can’t decide which mindset is “better,” or if you should even try to compare. It was simply surprising to see so many children shouting and cheering around a cow as it was sliced up, acting as if they were on a carnival ride.

What I do know is that the moment Mohammad was cutting the sharp knife deep across the cow’s neck, I didn’t see malice or an enjoyment in the cow’s pain. What I saw was a physically difficult task being fulfilled with pride, and the outcome helping the entire community come together and eat. I couldn’t find anything wrong with that.

Well, other than it happening so early in the morning. No matter what, I think holidays should be celebrated in the evening, and that is something I won’t budge on. But I was infinitely happy that I had the chance to experience everything I did. Waking up for a surprise Mosque visit, my first time wearing a Talha, seeing a cow sacrificed at the hands of what I assume is a high school freshman, then crawling back into bed after writing this blog post up. It was definitely an interesting morning.

So I'm in Cairo!

This blog will be a place for me to write up any significant events that happen during my time here in Cairo. Most of you know I'm a teacher, a first year teacher at that, and I'm teaching 5th grade Language Arts at Global Paradigm School. It's been a trip so far, but I have one month under my belt and I can't wait for more!

Posts will most likely not be consistent, as most of my posts are pictures/statuses I put on Facebook. But I'll post updates of the written variety here, if I ever find the need.

Perhaps I'll decide to use this blog more, or not. We'll see! For now, some pics from my first couple weeks--just a few!