Talk like an egyptian... Or Walk

"This is Christine, my Egyptian friend!"

It's an introduction I have heard since I was a little girl. Since that age when kids started to get wind of the world outside of their home, school, neighbourhood, city; when they've started to absorb the mythology handed down to them through TV and parents/caregivers. It's the preface that prepares me for the inevitable questions about riding on camels, or the incredulous remarks about the corpses of others (i.e mummies).

"Egypt, I've always wanted to visit," the gentleman declares with a  smile.

Ah yes, one of the most common reactions I get, which notifies me right away that the person who has made this claim has clearly never visited--or even spoken to anyone who has.

"...the pyramids, how are they? I've always been amazed by them..."

And I have always been amazed by how unimaginative people's references are as soon as they hear mention of a place they've only ever heard about in mythical ways. I give in, stitching together an equally generic response--replete with cheesy pun--about how no matter how many times you see them, they never get old.

"I've been everywhere--from Sri Lanka to Jordan to Samoa--but Egypt and The Serengeti are still on my list."

At this, my interest returns. Surely someone this well-travelled, with enough familiarity of places the average Canadian snowbird wouldn't normally consider, might have a slightly more nuanced view than that offered by movies like The Mummy.

"Do you speak the language?"--and before I could answer-- "Say something in egyptian!"

I pause and consider my options. It would be so much easier to let this man babble on about the mythical Egypt he has seen in movies, and besides, I'm starting to grow weary. Acting as ambassador to a place I myself am hardly familiar enough with is tiring. Being "the first (second, or third) Egyptian I've ever met!" is diminishing. I don't want to perform the "subaltern stereotype squasher" role into perpetuity. But a huge part of me understands that staying quiet and letting the lazy stereotypes get swapped around is fraught with its own dangers.

***

Earlier, a friend of a friend is delighted to learn that I have just returned from Cairo.

"My mom is going there with a bunch of her friends in a few months. I'm so jealous."

I smile and say something in agreement. I imagine what it would be like if my own mother did things like travel the world with her friends. The idea comforts me, though I know the likelihood of it playing out in reality is slim.

"...Yeah they're going on a whole tour of the area. Jordan, Egypt, Jerusalem..."

The warm thought bubble suddenly bursts and I find myself biting back the urge to launch into a diatribe about the Israeli occupation. I stay quiet, and the shame from that nestles itself into the heart of my conscience, where it resurfaces in this moment of exchange.

***

I am in the middle of correcting this man, of explaining the difference between Egyptian and Arabic, of clarifying that I am not a Muslim and that not all Egyptians are, of debunking his cartoonish version of a vivid place fresh in my memory, when he says it:

"Can you walk like an Egyptian?'

***