“It’s about time to flip that narrative.”

Mostafa’s Story

Growing up with stories and culture around me

My father would come home every day with one or two books in hand, as far back as I can remember. Over time, this habit left us with a vast library spanning various genres, including philosophy, literature, poetry, science, history, religion, and everything in between. My father’s intention was to instill a love for reading in me, so he made me an offer: he would double my pocket money if I read a certain number of pages in the books and explained the ideas to him.
Initially, I embarked on this reading journey with a focus on the monetary incentive. I would diligently read ten pages, carefully summarize the concepts, and then present them to my father in a storytelling manner. True to his word, he would double my pocket money as promised. After repeating this process day after day, something magical happened – I became genuinely captivated by the books. My motivation shifted from earning money to gaining knowledge.

My grandmother played a pivotal role in nurturing my storytelling passion. While my father was at work all day, and my mother busied herself with household tasks, my grandmother eagerly awaited my stories. Every evening at 5 pm, I would sit with her and recount the tales I had read and discovered that day. She would respond with enthusiasm, saying, “Allah, your stories are beautiful, my dear,” and encourage me to share more. This transition, from doing it for the money to finding immense pleasure in the praise and the act of sharing knowledge, was transformative, and it made me feel truly fulfilled.

Ever since I was a little kid, stories have played a significant role in my life. My grandmother, who always treated me as her favorite grandson, would often bring out the family photo album and share stories with me about her father, brothers, mother, uncles, and other relatives, including those who had passed away and those I had never met.

One vivid memory I cherish is riding in a cart with Uncle Essam to the farm, where we would recite poetry and discuss the enchanting world of Adaweyya and Egyptian folklore. Uncle Essam had a group of friends who would come over to our house almost every night of the week. They would hang out, play chess, sing, and just have a great time. During these gatherings, they introduced me to the rich tapestry of Egyptian folklore music and the songs of legends like Karim Mahmoud, Abdelmotalib, Abdelhalim, Oum Kulthoum, Abdelaziz Mahmoud, and many others in the world of Egyptian arts and music. It wasn’t a formal or academic introduction; it happened naturally and mixed with jokes, laughter and stories, reflecting the true essence of our society.

I developed a deep fondness for these songs, and I found that I enjoyed them even more when I experienced them in the company of Uncle Essam and his friends than when I listened to them alone in my room or on my computer. These seemingly small moments left a profound impact on my taste in music and even the way I perceive life itself.

Realizations of the importance of stories in a collective level

Until that moment, I had never truly realized the significance of the stories and individuals in my life. I felt blessed and cherished them, but I considered stories as something ordinary, not particularly exceptional. This perspective remained unchanged until the revolution unfolded, and it exposed me to a new reality.

Egypt had always been like the air I breathed—ever-present but often unnoticed. Years passed, my father passed away in 2002, and my grandmother in 2010. Then, in 2011, the revolution happened. I hailed from a Cairo neighborhood called Saft El-Laban. When I ventured into Tahrir Square during those historic times, I encountered people from all corners of Egypt, each with their unique backgrounds, social classes, religious affiliations, and more—a true reflection of Egypt’s diversity.
However, upon returning home and tuning in to the media coverage, I was struck by a stark disparity. The narrative projected by the media did not capture the essence of our collective dreams and aspirations. It seemed that international media coverage was hijacked by individuals from privileged backgrounds who were fluent in English, thus projecting their perspective rather than the true one. Similarly, in the local media, those with connections to media outlets received disproportionate coverage and exposure. It left us feeling underrepresented and overlooked. It was during this time that I realized the immense importance of storytelling and narrative. It truly is everything; if your story and narrative remain unknown, you remain unknown. This realization underscored the shortcomings of the revolution; the stories and narratives were distorted and failed to represent the vast majority of people who had ignited the revolution. Consequently, it lost momentum and succumbed to the authorities’ suppression.

Why do Egyptians care to tell their stories?

Fast forward to 2017, I arrived in Washington DC to pursue my studies, an experience that profoundly transformed my perspective on life in many ways. However, upon arriving here, I couldn’t help but notice that Egypt seemed to be everywhere I turned. Whether in mentions, statues, signs, or crafts, Egypt’s presence was undeniable. But it left me pondering, which Egypt? It appeared to be predominantly the Egypt of antiquity—a place shrouded in mystery, existing some 10,000 years ago, with its mummies and pharaonic statues. Yet, this portrayal didn’t align with the Egypt I just left behind.

Modern Egypt is a vibrant, living society with its unique perspectives on life and how to navigate it. Despite Egypt’s ubiquitous presence, there exists a significant underrepresentation of what Egypt truly embodies today. Moreover, wherever I go, I encounter Lebanese, Syrian, Turkish, Afghan, Ethiopian restaurants sharing not just their cuisine but also the stories of their societies. Surprisingly, Egyptian establishments are notably absent in this landscape. We are not here, not sharing our stories, not presenting our rich culinary heritage, not showcasing our music and art, nor conveying our contemporary perspectives on life.
It’s about time to flip that narrative.

_______________________

Telling stories is rather a survival need

We are all part of a diaspora, having left loved ones behind and carrying with us the weight of various traumatic experiences. This shared background has sometimes led to suspicion among us, with some assuming the worst in those around them. In a city like Washington DC, where many come from regions of political upheaval and uncertainty, this suspicion can manifest as a belief that others may be informants, government spies, or agents of some sort. You might find this funny of an exaggeration but I assure you this exists, it has happened to me.
Our collective migration here, largely influenced by the Arab Spring and its aftermath, instilled in us the feeling that perhaps nothing is truly worth it. Unfortunately, this sentiment has sometimes resulted in unkind actions and attitudes within the Arab community here. We often interact with exclusion and aggression, driven by our own personal struggles. These actions can lead to hostility and isolation among us, exacerbating feelings of loneliness and estrangement in our adopted society.

وان قيل تاه وضل، وصار الوحيد الاذل، انا وكل الناس هذا الوحيد

When you’re suddenly separated from your circle of friends, the power to narrate your own story is often wrested from your grasp. Consequently, your sense of self becomes shaky, and your entire identity is thrown into question. You begin to ponder, ‘Who am I?'”
I’ve witnessed the unfortunate consequences of people being disconnected without reason, left in isolation and abandonment. It’s during these times that individuals start to doubt their self-worth and lose their confidence, sometimes spiraling into the depths of depression, not long after experiencing social exclusion. This should not be the case.

It’s imperative that we come together, starting from a place of kindness, love, and acceptance. It’s a matter of survival to connect through shared passions such as music, poetry, and art—a space where we can connect on a deeply human and spiritual level.
What do friends provide for each other? They create a space for us to share our stories. They connect with us on a profound emotional level through poetry, music, and intellect. They allow us to express our narratives, whether through spoken words, songs, poetry, or simply by sitting together and listening to music. This is a fundamental human need for surviving the challenges of reality.
Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to find a group of friends who come together to connect through music, poetry, art, laughter, and fun. This space has become essential for us to recharge and feel connected to our inner selves and the people around us.