the sea had a quiet gift of dissolving any worries the second your feet slipped under its cool cyan skin. swollen with heat, the ground shimmered yellow flecks as the late afternoon sun spilled across the shore. they pooled into gold at the hem of the arching waves, as if trying to carry all the gold in its arms before reluctantly letting go. wind skimmed across the water with gentle, careful fingers, coaxing ripples into laughter, as stray, salty droplets of the mediterranean were thrown into the air. beautiful and

like any other normal summer day in egypt.

my family, having spent the night before travelling for 4 hours on the road, began gearing up in anticipation for the day that was to come in the hotel room we booked. yells echoed, clothes tossed everywhere in a futile attempt to find swimsuits, sunscreen streaks left around the furniture as marks of a violent war of lathering it on the children, and my grandma frantically cutting up fruits and fino¹ sandwiches, in fear we’d begin our day on an empty stomach. beautiful and

like any other normal summer day in egypt.

we finally arrived at the entrance of the beach, gusting out of the hot jeep car like air escaping a balloon. we chased the direction of the breeze threaded with familliar freska² calls, oblivious to the attire of the people at the beach in our haze to finally touch the inviting waters.

we were abruptly stopped.

a life guard comes forward, looking at my mother and sister clad in their cheerful brurkinis, then my sun-safe swimsuit, and shakes his head ferociously.

“mamnoo3 el mohagabat” he said, flicking his head towards the bikini-clad women behind him.

no hijabis allowed.

that was it. an egyptian, discriminating another egyptian with his same background, same mother tounge, same family tables, same overpacked bags, same fretting grandmother, chased the same coasts every summer, whispered the same prayers, and carried the same intensity in their hearts.

but this was all overlooked because of a cloth. a material light enough to slip into a pocket, yet somehow heavy enough to outweigh my worth. this flimsy material went agaisnt egypt’s carefully curated image of modernity in a new era desperation to be a white-passing country, comfortably distant from its own people.

i was segregated by my own race, and it was like any other normal summer day.

I was only eight when this happend, and this was only the begining.

from a birds-eye view, this may seem like nothing more than a bad day, being banned from the beach isn’t that serious to call it a case of segregation; but its much deeper than that.

egypt has long carried racism in its culture. we discrimnate each other for miniscual tweaks in our accents, for coming from different parts of the country, and for simply having different features, albeit the same blood under it all.

one cannot pin this to a difference in class or social prejudice (although that in itself is deeply ingrained and equally unnaccaptble). our family was part of the same social class just like every other that summer day, and yet the treatment was incomparable.

my mother, doing her best to lighten the mood, consoled us by saying resorts like these didn’t want to “scare” other customers, specifically the few foriegn ones, in order to protect business.

scare them from what? our identity? who we are?

how can we openly claim that we are an islamic country, and simultaneously ban hijabis access to somewhere as common as a beach?

at this point, it’s starting to seem like we are the ones who are scared of our own identities.

we are the ones who cannot sit comfortably in our own skin and religion, and have to appeal to other egyptians on how 'less egyptian' we are.

like some sick twisted game of who can abandon their identity the most, in fear of seeming “backwards” or not “fashionable enough” or, god forbid, too bee’a³ for modern egypt.

the never-ending strive for a western lifestyle.

i once heard someone say:

"if you want to wear the hijab in egypt and still be seen as a modern, forward-thinking woman, wear it as a turban instead. people will think it's spanish. they'll think it's fashion."

your classism disgusts me.

and the discrimination is not limited only to the beach or sahel, hijabis are found themseleves to be excluded from certain swimming pools, restaurant, cafes, events, job opportunities (specifically in media) and sometimes even friend groups.

just to reiterate; the only difference between a hijabi and the next egyptian girl is A CLOTH.

this essay wont negate the fact that hijabi fashion is slowly starting to become more prevalent, with more local brands opening and providing clothing specific to gen z hijabis and modern fashion trends.

but the underlying tone of what it means to be a hijabi is always there, forever embedded in egyptian identity.

after all, when we have a mainstream media which always portrays the hijabi as a lower class woman, with broken english, a mediocre job and trashy, mismatched clothing, it becomes difficult to seperate fiction from real-life perception.

¹ Fino (فينو): the better version of a baguette.

² Freska (فريسكا): a beloved egyptian beach snack made of crisp wafers filled with honey, nuts, sesame etc, commonly sold by vendors along the coast.

³ Bee'a (بيئة): an egyptian slang term that literally means "environment," but is commonly used as a derogatory label for someone perceived as "trashy," "uncultured," or from a lower socioeconomic background. its meaning is rooted in class prejudice rather than the person's actual character.

the following is what it means to me, as someone who's always felt like i belong everywhere a little, but nowhere entirely.

- Daytona ༄

i was born

as a translation between two mother tongues.

two shores separated by a sea

i've spent my whole life ferrying across.

the price of every crossing

is that something never makes it to the other side,

left behind on the shore

for the tide to reclaim.

the joke,

that leaves me breathless in one language,

barely earns a smile in the other.

the poem,

that sends me wandering through the abandoned corridors of my soul in one language,

loses its rythm in the other.

the feeling,

that swells in my chest beyond what it can hold in one language,

loses its pulse in the other.

and somewhere in between

what i mean and what i say,

i wonder how much of me

gets lost too.

perhaps thats why i never found the original text that makes up who i am,

for i have only ever existed

in translation.