Unwelcome Here

By Sally Bishai

Everyone knows how Black Americans were barred from certain lunch counters and water fountains in the recent past. But what people may not realize is that this appearance-based discrimination has not gone the way of the cavemen—even though the whole “judging by looks” thing is obviously a relic of more Neanderthal times.

See, the “cavemen,” whom I do NOT believe came from apes and tadpoles and whom I am not even sure I believe in, had to judge at first sight because if they didn’t, they could be eaten by some scary animal, or else killed by a poisoned spear or arrow or whatever weapons they had back then.

Makes sense, doesn’t it?

In the world of communication theory, we also have several notions that fall nicely into step with the aforementioned cavemen one, although my modern brethren generally tend to couch positive and negative discrimination in such terms as “energy-saving frameworks for determination” and the like, suggesting that a person may shy away from a person of certain races because of their previous negative experiences with them.

As with the cavemen thing, it makes sense, although this “assuming the worst” (or best, for that matter) mentality may cause us to miss out on a wonderful friendship or opportunity.

But that’s not what today’s topic is (surprise, surprise).

Rather, I wanted to share a tale from my last trip to Egypt. Don’t tune out just yet, the moral of the story is actually universally generalisable.

Anyway, there I was. In the city of my dreams, the place I’ve been haunted by since childhood, and longed for twice as long. Alexandria!

Despite a 6-year absence from my honorary hometown, not much had changed there.

The foul (fava bean, pronounced “fooool,” not like “foul,” as in, erm, horrible) sandwiches at Lotfi’s cart were still kind of horrible, the scent of jasmine still assaulted my nostrils in the best possible manner, once I got within a mile of Abdo, a flower-wreath vendor whom I’d been seeing next to my friend’s apartment since I was about five.

Some things changed, however. The percentage of women who had elected to don the higab (veil) had leapt exponentially, and more of those women than I had expected were cloaked in head-to-toe black (abaya/shroud, face mask, gloves… check my blog for a photo), in the Muslim Brotherhood style.

A friend there even told me that over 97% of Muslim women were veiled now, making the unveiled—either Christians or tourists—stand out even more.

I didn’t realize the implications of this until my friend Samia and I went shopping. I had determined to buy a new blouse to wear under my favorite black suit, and Samia immediately whisked me off to the most fashionable store she could think of.

While I didn’t find anything that caught my eye just there, I did find some shoes in the store next door. The store owner, whilst wrapping up my new 3-inch-heels, referred me to yet another store, when I told him what I’d been looking for.

He was right. I fell in love with an orange sequined tank top in the store window and bustled in for a closer look.

I pointed the shirt out to the lady behind the counter, who’d been eyeing me and Samia suspiciously since she first laid (beady) eyes on us.

I didn’t know what the problem was… After all, Samia and I were not only better-dressed, but obviously more wealthy than any of the dour-faced, veiled women around us. And I don’t look SO foreign that someone would automatically peg me an American or non-Egyptian.

The lady behind the counter shook her head and frowned sternly at me.

Maybe my accent was worse than I had imagined? I nudged Samia to say it for me.

“No, that shirt is not for you,” the lady said. I was speechless. How did SHE know? And furthermore, how did she know it was even for me?

“Uh… well, it’s not for me, it’s for her,” I said, struck by a flash of insight; maybe the matron didn’t think the shirt would fit me, so I foisted it off on my anorexic-looking friend, Samia.

No go.

“No, that is not for you. How about that?” she asked, gesturing to a navy abaya. I frowned, not bothering to tell her that I was unveiled for a reason, and that reason was that I wasn’t Muslim.

I must’ve hesitated too long, because a girl came up and snatched the shirt from me, after a token “You’re not getting that, are you?”

My jaw struggled to stay off the floor.

The lady turned away and rang MY tank top up for the girl. Who was veiled.

Samia grabbed my arm and steered me outside before I could give the matron a piece of my mind.

“Look, there’s nothing you can do. That’s just how it is. You knew that,” she said in a quiet voice.

Yes, I knew that a Christian couldn’t be the dean in a college, I knew that a Christian could be kidnapped in a village, or shoved on a city bus, but I had no idea that my being unveiled could make me less likely to buy an orange-sequined tank top!

The more I thought about it—the more I was able to picture the thousand little indignities that Christians in Egypt have to go through in the course of a normal day—the angrier I got.

Until I realized that I’m usually on the other end of the very same equation; when I go shopping for a Chanel lipstick, the attendants trip over themselves to help me out, but snub someone who’s wearing tattered jeans and a t-shirt.

When I go into a store in a less-exalted part of town, the owner looks infinitesimally less on- his-guard, upon seeing my benign countenance.

And the greeters at Sam’s Club never even hazard a glance at my store membership card. (Oh, they don’t look at anyone’s, do they..)

So why should I be so annoyed that, for once, my race (or lack thereof), my financial status, or my relatively non-threatening appearance didn’t save me?

Because.

Being denied a job or the guarantee of safety makes the discriminated-against feel like he’s suffering for an actual cause. But there’s nothing noble about being denied an orange sequined tank top because I happen to have been the only girl in the store who wasn’t veiled. (Apart from Samia, obviously.)

Don’t ask me what my point is in shedding the light on this maybe singly-occurring event, and don’t expect me to be able to give you any form of statistic on its happening within The Dear Land (as Egyptians call their home).

Although I should tell you right now that a non-Samia friend in Alexandria has recently informed me that this is actually beginning to happen a lot, and that people are starting to call the higab “the mark of the beast,” hearkening back to Revelations (in the Bible) where it says that you can’t buy or sell without the mark. (Hey, it could be true, and just because I think that may be taking it a bit far doesn’t mean that I’m right…far be it from me to stand in the way of anyone’s imagination..)

Do expect me to keep up my campaign of shedding the light on these inequalities, no matter how small they may be.

And expect me to keep praying for and working towards the day when all citizens of Egypt will be treated equally, when all religions will be equally accepted in America (ahem, ACLU..), and when all humans are valued for the mere fact that they were made in the image of a Creator who has carved us in the palm of His hand.

From LaGuardia to Cairo International: International Perspectives on the Cross

By Sally Bishai (03/15/2006)

If you ask me what my nationality is, I’d have a hard time answering you. That’s because there are about fourteen hundred things to consider in the composition of my answer.

For example, I was born in the United States, but Americans generally don’t consider me “one of them,” despite the fact that I grew up with them and know more about them than they probably do.

My parents are from Egypt, and have lived here longer than they have there, but again, when I go to Egypt, the Egyptians there—despite my perfect Arabic and the fact that I probably stick closer to “the Egyptian Manifesto” than the people living in Port Saiid, Alexandria, or Heliopolis—generally don’t consider me “one of them.”

My exclusion from these categories is fine.

I—and others like me—have a totally separate culture from the accepted and traditional (and I don’t mean that in a generational sense) “Egyptian” and “American” and even “First-generation American” ones.

Other categories I don’t really fall neatly into include the “Coptic” culture, mostly because 1- I was not raised with Christian Egyptians of any denomination (though I myself am actually Protestant, and not a member of the more numerous Coptic Orthodox faith) and 2- because I much prefer to steer clear of this designation because I feel as though it only widens the gap between Muslim and Christian Egyptians, on several different levels.

For example, the disparity between Christian and Muslim Egyptians seems to be increasing in an official sense, what with the recent parliamentary win of 88 seats by the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, as opposed to the fact that there are less than 10 Members of Parliament in Egypt who are Christian.

On the other hand, though, this divide seems to be decreasing in social circles as the new generation of young Egyptians—equipped with a technology that wasn’t present when our parents were twentysomethings—takes a more active role in fighting for democracy, equal rights, improved conditions, and a new Egypt.

To give you an example, such popular bloggers as Egyptian Sandmonkey, Big Pharaoh, Gr33n Data, and Free Copts collectively draw over 100,000 visitors to their sites per month, which indicates that there is a huge interest in the cultural, political, and news events that these writers cover.

An excellent site that provides feeds to these and other Egyptian blogs—not to mention a great house blog—can be found at the mega-popular Manal and Alaa’s Bit Bucket ( www.manalaa.net. ).
An army of advocates for equality and free speech do not a democracy make, however; this may be because Egypt is rife with corruption, bribery, and bureaucracy. Meaning, if they don’t like how you look—or what you’re wearing—they can pull you aside, make you wait 10 times as long, or even deny you service.

And when I say “what you’re wearing,” I’m not talking about the higab. (Although keep your eyes open for “Unwelcome Here,” which will actually discuss this practice.)

Rather, I’m talking about the cross.

It’s very interesting to me how one symbol can mean so many things to so many different people.

For Madonna, it’s a fashion to be worn—en masse, perhaps—on a chain.

For millions in Egypt, however, it’s the only thing standing between them and a great job, or even being assured a hassle-free walk down the street.

I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that last time I went to Egypt, in the summer of 2005, I was advised to hide the diamond-and-white-gold cross hanging around my neck until we had passed customs and security in the airport.

The reason? “They can charge you more money if they see that…”

Well, the creation is almost two inches long, and looks as expensive as it was; surely they would (mistakenly) get the impression that I’m wealthy, and tax accordingly? That must have been what got me this free advice. But maybe not…

“What about this?” I asked, holding out my branded wrist. A shake of the head. “Hide that, one, too.”

I did, feeling like the worst sort of traitor. (I wasn’t so spineless later on, however, and roamed the streets of Cairo and Alexandria freely, and wasn’t bothered by anyone.)

On the other hand, on a 2005 trip to New York, I was pulled over by the security people, who delighted in opening every single one of my bags, from my purse to my suitcase to my camera bag. They made me do aerobics with some metal-detector thing, riffled through my belongings, then walked off, having left everything out of the bags, from socks to toothpaste to the 12-inch on Asagio Basil Wheat that I had just gotten from Subway.

I was puzzled as to why they would do this—I don’t even look Arab!—when I noticed that I was wearing a gold necklace bearing my name in Arabic.

I decided to do an experiment, and made sure to very visibly wear the diamond cross on subsequent trips. All three times I did, I was left alone. The one other time I wore the Arabic “Sally” necklace, I got the same deluxe search as before.

So basically, for my own protection, I had to hide the cross in Egypt, so I wouldn’t be discriminated against, and flash it loudly in America, to “prove” I wasn’t in league with “The Terrorists.” (If that’s not racial profiling, I don’t know what is.)

I can’t say how sad it makes me that the cross is a threat to some people (whether in Egypt or even America.. revisit “Not Ashamed” for more on that).

It also depresses me that many Westerners assume that 1- Anyone wearing a cross is automatically not a terrorist, and 2- Anyone who knows Arabic (or is a Muslim) is.

Have they never heard Hala Sarhan’s ponderances of whether “adult nursing” should be a part of Islam? Or anything out of Dr. Wafa Sultan’s mouth?

But this isn’t about Muslims criticizing or questioning their own religion. It’s about racial profiling, having freedom of religion, and the different meanings that one symbol—two intersecting lines—can have to the world.

More Jesus Films?

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Egyptian producer Mohammed Ashub is planning to make an Arabic-language film about Jesus.

Interesting to note that 1- some Muslim clerics claim it’s forbidden to depict any of the prophets, from Adam to Muhammed to Jesus, and 2- Ashub plans to screen the film with some of the brass in the “Egyptian Coptic Christian Church.” Not sure if this means Coptic Orthodox, or representatives of all the Egyptian Christian churches.

Just in case you slept through “King of Kings,” and “Jesus Christ Superstar,” “The Last Temptation of Christ,” “The Passion of the Christ,” “The New Testament,” and “The Robe,” there are actually several films out there depicting Jesus, not to mention countless works of art. (Not to say I approve of all of these depictions, or the storylines, flights of producer’s fancy, etc.)

The film is slated to be “far more expensive” than the average Egyptian film, so I can’t wait to see it…