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.