(t)read lightly...
an introduction, a warning, and two kisses on each cheek
I have always wanted something like this for myself. I spent my entire adolescence dreaming of being heard. I’d tell college admissions officers, high school teachers, and people at job interviews, “I will not allow myself to die until I tell my story.” They’d nod, offer me the opportunity, and then I’d never show up. I lacked conviction. I kept telling myself that I would do it someday. I erased deadlines thousands of times and ignored the post-its on the walls that screamed: DOING NOTHING IS A CHOICE. I’d come up with excuses: I’m depressed, I’m going through a breakup, my mom pissed me off, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I have to shower first, I’m too stupid, I’m boring, I’ll do it over the weekend—wait, no, over the summer, etc.
There were a few bumps along the way (marijuana addiction, heartbreak, failing math class seven times, etc.). Ironically, the world keeps smiling at me, and for the first time, I’m starting to smile back. I feel like I’m in a television sitcom. I wake up every morning with the will to live. I fill the space around me with echoes of my laughter until people start raising their eyebrows in confusion: where is this coming from?
I don’t want to come off as fake-deep, but it took thousands of fuck-ups for me to get here. Not only that, but the conversations with my friends about those mistakes were among the most essential catalysts for rewiring my perspective. An abundance of apologies, crying spells, and reciting soliloquies of profanity during Zoom sessions with my therapist (God bless her) were all key ingredients to my happiness today. The best and most important aspect of my growth has been my ability to say: I AM WRONG, AND I AM SORRY (confidently while slowly removing the stick out of my ass). #accountability #DBT #battlingnarcissism #bpdprincess
#itsokaytobewrongaslongasyoudontdoitagainandifyoudojustdontdoitagainfr
If I'm being quite frank, I'm framing everything for you through rose-colored lenses. Don’t worry. I still cry myself to sleep sometimes when I remember shit like the time I settled for that ONE situationship or how my closest friends lowkey don’t trust me because I have a compulsive lying issue. All in all, I'm learning to take things one step at a time. My in’s and out’s this year include: thinking five times before doing shit like sending essays to people when I’m anxious, taking my meds ON TIME, working on my DoorDash addiction…….
AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST…
Surviving Egypt. Yes, Egypt. Thank you to all of my loyal parasocial acquaintance story-likers. I am finally here and studying at the American University at Cairo (Lord, thank you, too).
God, I’ve been fucking dreaming about this since I was fourteen. Finally, I have returned to the homeland. You don’t even fucking know. You won’t know how good it is to be here until you hop on that 10-hour economy flight, pop melatonin, wake up, and walk out of the Cairo airport. It was like being in a movie. I was so giddy, giggly, and happy to be here. At the same time, I panted and grunted across baggage claim with four fucking suitcases filled with too many of my hair products, Bengay and other OTC medications for my elderly relatives, and an unnecessary amount of makeup.
The man who was responsible for escorting me and the rest of the international students to campus scanned his eyes across my belongings. “Yalla, ya bent balady1,” he said and immediately bent down to pick up two of my bags. Now, THAT wouldn’t happen to you in America2. You could literally be getting stabbed to death in public, and Americans would just walk on by with their heads down. Maybe they’d be a little pissed about you being in the way, but that’s the only thing they’d feel about your situation.
At 6 AM, in the customs line, I found myself among irritable Egyptians, receiving attitudes from all sides, yet I ignored them. My only desire was to inhale the low-quality, polluted air and marvel at the size of the sun.
My physical presence in this country somehow triggers fireworks of endorphins through my blood. I am filled with love for everything. I am so good at passionately hating, yet somehow, I cannot find an ounce of that feeling within me right now. With its vast quantities of what may seem to be imperfections, this country never fails to exude this weird, exceptional, remedial kind of warmth.
Egypt’s imperfection is quite validating for someone like me. Many Egyptians, especially the rich ungrateful cunt nepotism babies,3 go on tangents about how dirty, loud, inconvenient, expensive, and boring it is to live here. It’s understandable. Egypt is far from perfect; at times, it feels like I'm inhaling smoke, and we rank second in the world regarding debt. There are so many things to be said about what needs to be fixed here, but I am not as brave as Onijah Ahmed4. I am also not going to start criticizing this country as someone who has spent her ENTIRE life living in the big, bad West. If I am going to live here, I must live every day without expectation. As someone who (barely) reads postcolonial literature,5 it would be incredibly fucking inappropriate to go around waving my finger, bitching and moaning at everybody here.
The only thing I can do is love—and I think I am doing pretty well at that so far. I squeeze my 9-year-old cousin's cheeks every time I see him. My voice rises an octave as I gasp in awe at the stray cats and dogs. I laugh whenever I cross the street because it feels like I’m in a video game6. I moan when I bite into shawarma sandwiches. I give bigger tips, which doesn't sound very pleasant, but it matters. I eat well. I actually ATTEMPT to do my Arab political science readings. I try to befriend strangers, but I risk rejection. I drag other non-Egyptian students with me to places in the city that classist Egyptians and racist foreigners avoid. I document as much as I can, and I zoom in on random shit in hope of seeing more. And most importantly, I never stop saying how much I fucking LOVE it here.
Egypt has me in her arms. She caresses me and softly whispers in the dialect of my household back in Astoria, NY. Her words echo colloquially, surrounding me and reminding me I am home. I belong. I look around and recognize every face as it reflects my features. I am no longer the only girl in hijab walking down the street. I laugh louder now because everything is funnier when spoken in my dialect. I am in her arms; there is no room to be ashamed. My family now goes beyond my mother, father, and brother. It extends into aunts, uncles, and first, second, and third cousins. The number of seats at the table this Ramadan will increase. I don’t need to go to a specific store to buy chipsy bel shatta wel lamoon. I can eat Koshary at thousands of restaurants. The Athan7 now echoes across the streets that I walk on.
I am HOME.
ok now that you are done reading i need you to go back up to that little email thing and/or share this with your friends, in your family groupchat, talk shit about it, repost it on your story and say i am amazing, etc. the world needs to know how amazing it is to be in Egypt and if you do this just think of it as charity to a third world country that desperately needs tourism because its in a disgusting amount of debt. thank u. long live the middle east. 
“Come on, daughter of my country.” Ugh, it was so on point, sexy, and condescending (I wasn’t attracted to him, I was ovulating).
I’m exaggerating a little bit because two of my peers helped me drag my heavy ass suitcases across campus, and they were American. Shoutout Ethan and Elias. We need more real men like you in this world.
WHO, BY THE WAY, are most likely, maybe, possibly the children of evil upper-class fuckers who exploit, steal, kill, and oppress everyone and their mom. It’s not even a joke. Ask any informed Egyptian who doesn’t own a luxury-brand car or bag.
My sister in (bipolar disorder) struggle
listen. Put me in a classroom, and I’ll do the work; it’s just really hard to read a book sometimes.
Guys, we literally don’t have street lights here, and it's so funny. I low-key hope it never changes. IDGAF KILL ME (I fully recognize this is a safety issue).
aka the call to prayer in Muslim culture, for those of you who are uneducated.
The rites of spring bring new life