Destined to Return

Cairo is a loud place of contradictions: enchantment and frustration; nationalism and departure. Ultimately, when I was away, its cacophonous din seemed to be calling for me. Now that I am here, the noise is so much more than dissonance: it is the ramblings of an irrelevant regime, the chants of protesters, the cat-calls from young shabab on the street, and the whispers of lovers in hidden parks. The contradictions might make Cairo's music sound off-key, but, if I listen closely, I can hear the harmony.

I made the decision to move to Cairo early on in my last year of college. The move was not spurred or influenced by employment, but rather, a call to embrace my culture and witness revolution. I spent from January 25th-February 11th clutching my pillow while staring open-jawed and teary-eyed at Al-Jazeera live stream. The revolution that culminated with the removal of then-President Hosni Mubarak accomplished more than just a social political victory; the revolution brought together the Egyptian diaspora in a previously inconceivable way. The revolution, the martyrs, the violence, and the hope made us forget about Egypt's many faults and remember what it is that keeps our hearts yearning for بلدنا –our country. After all, “Once you drink from the Nile, you are destined to return.”

The Egyptian connection around the world was electrifying. I like to think that optimistic revolutionaries, dreamers, 20-somethings, and weathered sages everywhere felt their worldview change: there is hope for the determined and hopeful. Diaspora Egyptians, my family and I included, felt a stabbing pain of shame for being absent. I already knew that I was going back, but now I was relentless in my pursuit of purpose there. I will vote. I will ask questions. I will listen. I will contribute. I will drink the tap water.

All idealism and theorizing aside, there is something sobering about a one-way flight away from home. I spent months wishing I was in Cairo, hours reflecting on childhood memories, and days fantasizing about how meaningful each experience was bound to be. But, my airplane ride over was melancholy and full of doubt: why did I leave? I kept asking myself. Four months later, I still repeat this tired question, but I ask it in reassurance rather than uncertainty. Every stroll down Cairo's busy streets will undoubtedly frustrate or enchant; yet, it is always the enchanting moments that deserve to be remembered.

Five times a day, my enchantment starts with just one voice. One voice that beckons me awake, and one voice that compels me to turn off my music. It is the voice that permeates even the darkest alleys, that travels amidst the beige, satellite studded rooftops, and that seeps through my leaking windows. Soon, the asynchronous mosques in the city endearingly known as the city of 1000 minarets will broadcasting their calls. One chimes in. Then another. Mere seconds apart.

Come to prayer, come to prayer.

In rounds, they go off, and soon I can't hear anything except a din of faith: "Prayer is better than sleep."

On most days, the call to prayer falls into the background of daily routine, or we laugh at how out of sync the mosques are, but sometimes the beauty and awe are palpable. Palpable, like the dust and corruption that taint daily life. Palpable, like the tension in the quiet days before the revolution's one-year anniversary.

For many foreigners and Egyptians alike, Cairo is a place of contradicted emotions. Ultimately, we are all called back to this place of spirituality, hypocrisy, beauty, and disintegration. I have fallen in love with it's antiquated charm, and that love is never easy.