On March 29, 2008, I, an American student, entered an Egyptian home and met three Muslim women. One was entirely enveloped by the niqab, her eyes the only distinguishable feature. Another greeted us without any covering, quietly retreating due to her lack of English. And the third wore a colorful hijab matching her conservative dress, and became our friend.

An Egyptian Home
His name was Mohammed. His head was barely visible as he waited for us at the top of the stairs. “Wageih, Wageih,” he squealed, his open mouth revealing the tips of his three incoming pearly-whites. In queue behind Wageih, we ascended the last couple steps until Mohammed was no longer a staircase taller than us, but a mere toddler at our knees. With one large swoop Wageih secured the four-year-old in his arms. He kissed Mohammed several times, uttering Arabic sweet nothings in his ear. Remembering his guests, he turned around motioning us forward, “Come, come, my friends,” he said.

We hesitated, frozen in our exhaustion and permanently planted at the entrance to his house. Yet a fearful excitement was beginning to melt away the nerves. This was more than just an entrance into a home; it was a true cultural immersion, a glimpse into the Egyptian way of life. The toddler’s charm proved irresistible – his flawless brown skin and dimpled smile shattered our hesitation and lured us in. I stepped forward. This was the road less traveled. This was an Egyptian home.

It was a moderately sized room. The floors were padded with intricately designed carpets. Hues of deep reds and purples combined with royal blues permeated every inch of the floor. A couch was herded in the corner.

“This way, my friends,” Wageih motioned, falling back into the routine of tour guide. The next room housed the computer, two speakers, and an Arabic keyboard. Four armchairs lined the far wall. Long cushions bordered the rest. A bookshelf scattered with books stood in the corner. The rest of the walls were bare except for a familiar papyrus painting: the first love story of Egypt.

The housed seemed to be empty except for Wageih and us. We sat at the edge of our padded armchairs thoroughly entertained by Mohammed’s antics. Ten minutes later Dourwma, Wageih’s second oldest daughter, quietly entered the room, her bare feet noiseless against the thick carpets. Her beautiful face was encompassed by a red and blue patterned hijab. It covered her hair and neck, and matched her loose fitting dress.

“Hello,” she said, lightly nodding her head. “Would you like some tea or coffee?” she asked, before further conversation.

“No thank you,” I said, full to the brim with chicken kebabs.

“Turkish coffee for a long night?” she insisted.

“O.K, some coffee,” we conceded.

Waiting for her to return, I peered into the living room and quickly drew back. I was met by a pair of eyes. There was a thin strip running in between her eyes but the cloth of her niqab concealed the rest of her face. Her husband sat behind her, buried in the stodgy couch. She sat on the floor erected against the couch, looking into a cloth crib that held her infant child. Meanwhile, Mohammed was gleefully chasing his life-size ball around the house.
She was his eldest daughter, Wageih explained, 21 with two kids.

Dourwma returned with a tray of steaming coffee and a jar of sugar. Behind her an older woman – Wageih’s wife – came in. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a bun, her clothes a similar design to Dourwma’s robe. “Selamaleku” she said, greeting us in Arabic.

“She no go to school, no English,” Wageih said. I looked at mother and daughter, two women, separated by more than just a generation. Dourwma was literate, knew English, and proudly wore her hijab. Wageih’s wife was uneducated, illiterate, and was not wearing the hijab. Meanwhile, the eldest daughter remained outside, her cautiousness or her husband holding her back. She lived vicariously through Mohammed, her only indirect interaction with us.

Wageih had four daughters. His eldest daughter with two sons. Dourwma was 19 but did not want to get married until she finished her studies, Wageih had explained to us.

The Difference of Choice

I traveled to Egypt during spring break and was confronted with wide ranging variations on the concept of veiling. While most women keep their heads covered, some of their traditional robes have been replaced with Western wear: jeans, long skirts, patterned dresses, blouses and most distinctively, decorative shoes.

It’s a fusion of Western and Arabic culture. Our driver, Wageih, took us through the chaotic streets of Cairo where women in a patchwork of Western clothes and the traditional hijab would walk hand in hand with women wearing the full niqab. Sporadically, a woman would abstain entirely from Muslim dress yet remained conservatively clothed. In a way, the hijab has become a sort of fashion icon; advertised on billboards and sported as a trendy style. Blues, oranges, reds, and purples were splashed on the patterns of women’s headscarves, breaking the monotone hues of blacks and browns.

According to Magdi Abdelhadi, a BBC Arab analyst, there is a push to revive Islamic traditions in the midst of growing rejection towards Westernization. While Egyptian women have the choice to cover or not to cover, “more and more professional and well educated women – doctors, broadcasters, engineers, lawyers – say they have donned the ‘veil’ voluntarily.” Thus a new generation of Muslim women find themselves at an intricate crossroad, attempting to find the balance between tradition and modernization.

“My Wife and my Wife”

For the past three days, as Wageih took us around Cairo, the name Eileen kept streaming in and out of conversations. From what I could gather she was a Belgian woman, and a close friend of Wageih, that had at one point stayed at his house. But a flip through some picture albums quickly dispersed my naïve confusion. There was a picture of Wageih in the middle of two women. “My wife and my wife,” he chuckled, pointing at the two women, one his tall white European girlfriend, the other, his Muslim wife. And he wasn’t the only one laughing.

I paged through the rest of the album. A white face would peer out of a blanket of brown figures – Eileen. I pulled the photo album closer. I glimpsed over my shoulder, worried I held incriminating evidence or hurtful images. But Dourma nonchalantly looked on with me.

“She comes twice a year,” Dourma told us.

“When is she coming?” Wageih asked Dourma.

“In June,” she replied, smirking at her dad’s lack of memory.

A Cultural Exchange

“You are Demetri, right?” Dourwma asked, familiar with the several emails he and I had sent while arranging our trip to Egypt. “I read all your emails,” she laughed, “many of them.”

“She teach me English,” Wageih smiled. His broken English and limited vocabulary was sufficient to effectively guide us around Cairo.

“Where did you learn English?” I asked her.

In university she said. This was her second year in school. “I wanted to learn Spanish,” she explained, “but here it’s not like America where you study what you want.” You need a certain score. She scored a 93 but needed a 94 to be able to learn Spanish. “All my dreams whew,” she sighed, as she flicked her hands upward. “But I am a writer,” she told us, “I do journalism.”

“Me too,” I exclaimed, ecstatic to find an Egyptian colleague. I asked her what she wrote about and if she had been published.

“It’s very hard to get published,” she said.

“Do you blog then?” I asked her.

“What?”

“Blog,” I said, “write articles and put them on a website.” She shook her head no.

“It’s a way to publish your own stuff. You should start one, I will teach you.” I attempted to open my wordpress blog, but was hindered by the lethargic Internet connection. I tried to hide my frustration, but she could tell.

“It’s so slow today, I don’t know why,” she interjected. “It’s usually not that slow.”

“You can write anything you want, in any language here,” I explained. She seemed overwhelmed yet curious. It was a new way of approaching her love of writing – self-publishing. She didn’t seem too sure of the concept, skeptically eying my blog. “Will you do it?” I asked her.

“Yes” she meekly replied, not fully convincing me, taking another glance back at the computer.

Dourma was an aspiring writer with a brilliant grasp on her culture and even the nuances of American culture. Her curiosity and humble perseverance defy the illiteracy rates that plague Egypt. She is pushing forward in the face of high illiteracy rates. (Statistics on the White House Conference on Global Literacy 2006 reported 56.4% of female illiteracy as opposed to 32.8% of male illiteracy.) Education has become an important asset in Arab societies, more so than class or wealth. And to Dourwma, the veil seemed to be no impediment to her education and success.

We visited a papyrus museum store the day before and met another aspiring journalist. I never asked for her name. She was curious to find out what I had written and what I was interested in. I asked her if she had been published. Yes she said, modestly brushing off her publications as insignificant. She followed me the entire time, as I walked around the store utterly divided over which papyrus painting to spend my money on. Her long jean skirt trailed the floor as she walked a half step behind me. “I like you,” she told me, “I will ask my manager to give you a big discount.” She smiled, her rounded eyes emphasized within her ornate hijab. She asked for my email address and promised to write once she created her own account. My inbox is still empty.

After picking out five papyrus paintings, I was hoping my new friend would like me enough not to make me broke. The manager was a short, gentle woman who to my relief was a good friend of Wageih and extended their friendship to us American tourists, giving us a huge deal on the 11 paintings we purchased. Three men sat behind the counter. She would utter Arabic to them and immediately they would search for the ones we wanted, start wrapping our paintings, or seemingly laugh on cue. She was the owner of the business and was well respected by her workers.

Beyond the Veil

I met five women, each with a different mentality and drive, yet all a glimpse into the complexities that plague and influence Egyptian women. A passionate and independent writer; a shy, compliant wife; a subservient, traditional wife and mother; a curious, humble saleswoman; and a kind, self-sufficient head of business. These women are behind a veil that is their tradition, their culture, their way of life.