Most foreigners, even those who stay for a while and learn the language, have similar experiences being treated as Khawagas (the Arabic equivalent of gringo) in Egypt. You get stares everywhere you go, often peppered with a healthy dose of English phrases ranging from the innocent (Welcome in Egypt!) to the amusing (How can I take your money? and I love you! are my personal favorites). As a Westerner in Egypt, it's assumed you're made of money (which, comparatively, is often close to the truth) and so are constantly offered opportunities to rid yourself of your burdensome cash.
Often the first line in a conversation with a stranger on the street here is, Where are you from?(Sometimes I answer this and then ask, And where are you from? to which they laugh and say, Egypt, of course!) In America, this question is often considered impolite because everyone in America is from somewhere else and the assumption that someone looks different and so is not from here is unacceptable. Not so in Egypt. While the Egyptian identity is complex and multi-faceted, there seems to be an inherent concept among many Egyptians about what an Egyptian looks and sounds like. Some of my halfsie friends (half Egyptian, half American or European) are infuriated when they don't fit seamlessly back into society here and have to explain that they are, in fact, Egyptian.
Personally, I've begun to blend in pretty well. My Syrian, Lebanese and Italian pedigree gives me an ambiguously Mediterranean complexion. I've grown a light beard. I've learned not to overreact to unusual sights like a family of six on one motorbike. I've picked up some of the subtle non-verbal sounds and signals that Egyptians use constantly. And my Arabic has improved to the point where I can navigate almost any situation.
Sometimes--when I'm in a particularly touristic location or with one or more foreigners--all of that means nothing and people just know I'm not from here. But more often these days, I am taken for an Egyptian until I open my mouth. At that point, people ask directly, Where are you from? to which I vary my response depending on the situation. With authorities or people I'm likely to meet repeatedly, I respond with the truth and indulge in their flattery of my Arabic skills. With others--sometimes for fun, other times for the sake of privacy--I switch between two adopted nationalities: Spanish (I lived in Madrid for four months and speak the language) or Syrian (my grandfather's original nationality). Recently, however, people have begun to preempt me with the simple question, Syrian? to which I happily respond affirmatively. I'm not sure whether it's my appearance or accent or what, but every time it happens I become more confident in the Syrian part of my identity!
Being Syrian in Egypt
Being Syrian in Egypt has several effects. First, it makes people speak to me exclusively in Arabic rather than try out their English on me when they know I am coming from America. The Syrian dialect is considerably different from Egyptian, so Egyptians often take my poor pronunciation and limited vocabulary as a manifestation of that difference.
Second, my Syrian self is welcomed much more warmly than my American self. This is a matter of culture, history and politics. Arab culture, though modern in many ways, still values close personal ties as it did a few hundred years ago when tribes were the primary form of organization. There's a saying that goes something like: Me and my brother against my cousin; me and my cousin against the stranger. In my experience, there is an unspoken hierarchy of preference: Egyptians, then Syrians and other Arabs, followed by non-Arabs (and within that last group probably non-Arab Muslims and Westerners first followed by non-Western non-Muslims). When I introduce myself as American, Egyptians are almost always warm and welcoming, responding with the customary compliment The best people! There is then invariably discussion of US foreign policy, Hollywood blockbusters, or work visas.
As a Syrian, though, I am embraced as brother. Part of this is simply that Syrians are Arabs and most of them are Muslim. But Syrians have a special place in Egyptians' hearts. The two countries were united for four years back in the 1950s under Nasser's pan-Arab project, and during protests in the past year, the unifying chant of Egypt and Syria are one hand has been heard often. Both countries have traditionally been centers of power and learning in the region. An Egyptian once even told me that Egyptians think Syrian women are the most beautiful and Syrians think the same of Egyptian women. I'm not sure about that last one, but it does seem to be true that Egyptians have a stronger affinity for Syrians than for any other one people in the world. Lucky me!
Finally, being Syrian in the current political climate elicits sympathy and discussion of the revolution in that country. This has created some challenging linguistic situations for me, as I'm not certain of the most convincing and authentic way to express grief and hatred in Egyptian Arabic, a language that is big on phrases. (A quick example: when somebody dies, the traditional term of consolation in English is I'm sorry, which Egyptians find very strange--unless the person offering condolences was responsible for the death. Instead, they use a call and response that translates roughly to you May your life be long.) So when Egyptians learn I'm Syrian, they usually say what I assume is something nasty about Assad and then I feel unable to respond appropriately. Or they start talking about the details of recent events, which I usually don't follow very closely, and so I become lost.
A few weeks ago, I found myself in one of the more difficult of these situations. I asked a stranger on the street about a protest down the street, and before answering he said, You're not from Egypt, where are you from? I told him I was Syrian and to my utter surprise he responded, Me too! Where are you from?! Shit! I thought, but I recovered and told him Aleppo where my grandfather was born and where I visited relatives two years ago. It turned out he was from Homs, and he had left two months earlier. We talked a little about the events there, about which again I was inadequately informed for a good conversation, and then he asked, So where exactly in Aleppo are you from? I rolled off the name of my cousins' neighborhood, and then found an exit from the conversation before he asked me for the street name.
Despite a few incidents like this, I've found it extremely interesting that people regard me as Syrian and gratifying in a place where identity is so important and the language is so difficult.
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