Being called home
What is it about motherhood that makes you want to commune with your ancestors?
On every visit to Egypt as a child, I would hold my metaphorical breath until we came home to Ottawa. Afraid that this was the trip where my mother would decide, you know what? I’ve been away long enough. It’s time to move back.
Between games with my cousins, I would watch Mama furtively. Deep in conversation with an aunt or a friend from her before life. Inevitably they would start discussing new suburbs springing up on the outskirts of one Egyptian metropole or another. DANGER! DANGER!
“What do you think?” an aunt would ask, “would you like to live here?” and the taste of bile would rise up into my throat.
Egypt was crowds and constant honking horns and 5 lane roads with no traffic lights that had to be darted across like videogame characters jumping levels.
Egypt was the absence of cheddar cheese—my favourite of all the cheeses. It was intense heat. It was impromptu markets and streets with no names and goods with no price tags.
Most of all, it was a riddle I couldn’t solve.
In Ottawa, I was competent. I knew how to bike to the grocery store and buy the milk my mother had requested. I knew how to get on a bus or ask a question.
In Egypt, all bets were off. There was no way to follow a map to a location because the road signs were either non-existent or long gone. There was no way to walk into a store and buy a thing because nothing was tagged, which meant you needed to talk to the vendor, who would realize you weren’t from there and rip you off.
Egypt was a cauldron of energy, a burst of light and colour so strong you had to shield your eyes as if staring straight at the sun.
Egypt was, but really Egypt is.
Because we are here again, landed in Cairo a day ago, to heat radiating from the ground and honking horns and the brightness, the BRIGHTNESS, of Africa. This must be where the sun first rose. This must be home.
Have you been to Egypt? Have you been to the country of your family’s origin? How does it feel?
I have lived in the US most of my life and until they hear my name, most people assume I'm white American but "home" is still Iran even though I haven't been back since my childhood. When I see videos of Tehran, it looks so different than what I remember, but the feeling is still "oh, that's home". When Israel (and US) were bombing Iran recently, the rage and despair I felt at my "home" being destroyed was so intense. I don't think I will ever live there again but it will always feel like my home in a way that no other country can ever feel.
Your writing is so beautiful and I found myself trying to put it in a genre as I was reading this. It defies being categorized for me. How would you describe your writing?