Introduction

"A simmering, wide-ranging collection of informative nonfiction. Our verdict: Get it." —Kirkus Reviews

Two schoolgirls in Yemen skip class, and wander into a yellow circus tent. A woman in Beirut is heartsick, waiting for her kidnapped parrot to return. A Jordanian man curses his loud, ignorant neighbors during a maddening, hot summer stuck in his Amman apartment.

This is an ambitious collection of short memoirs from 35 countries, a first-class ticket around the world to make friends with 41 real-life strangers, an ensemble that offers a contemporary view of Muslim cultures around the world. Each story reveals a depth of human experience in a way that you can’t help but recognize your own. An antidote to apathy in a world increasingly at odds with its own values, this book is one we didn’t know we needed until we found it.

“In these stories, we encounter death and destruction…but we also see love, resilience, and courage... stories that examine the internal wars fought by many people: to cope with emerging sexuality, straight and queer; to gain the acceptance of a community into which one has migrated or fled or sought asylum… the pains of growing up, the riotous adventures of childhood, the safe and loving arms of mothers, fathers, uncles and aunts, and always, the question: what and where is home?” Bina Shah, from her foreword in The Ordinary Chaos of Being Human.

The talented writers you'll meet: Hanan Al-Shaykh, Leila Aboulela, Indlieb Farazi Saber, Abeer Y. Hoque, Kamin Mohammadi, Ali Bader, Sholeh Wolpé, Youssef Rakha, Threa Almontaser, k. eltinaé, Sepideh Zamani, Medina Tenour Whiteman, Saedia Rouass, Asma Elbadawi, Hisham Bustani, Noreen Moustafa, Samina Hadi-Tabassum, Shokouh Moghimi, Barrak Alzaid, Lydia Abedeen, Duaa Randhawa, Ameena Hussein, H. Masud Taj, Neymat Raboobee, Mona Merhi, Samini Najmi, Criselda Yabes, Tharik Hussain, Marina Reza, Naazish YarKhan, Wasan Qasim, Shiraza Ibrahim, Fatima Muhammed, Amika Elfendi, Salahdin Imam, Wardah Abbas, Shirazuddin Siddiqi, Samia Ahmed, Erda? Göknar, Summi Siddiqui, and Amira Pierce.

“A collection that throbs with an authentic, earnest vulnerability. It is more soul-baring dinner conversations with fascinating strangers than a detached observation piece.” —Amanda Chin

“Each story is raw and beautifully written. This anthology is worthy of applause.” —Valerie Joy

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Excerpt

Introduction

I could lie. I could fudge a polite, digestible story about my clear-eyed, cloud-free path to celebrating the symphony of voices in this collection. But here’s the truth. It has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I have been afraid to reveal how vulnerable my learning process has been, yet I’ve realized that I must. After all, I have asked the writers in this book to be that vulnerable: to share their most fragile moments—the blind corners, the velvety revelations, the mud-spattered terrain of their lives’ most pivotal moments. I should show them the same respect they’ve given me.

But first, some context. When I started this project in 2015, I was consumed by the fact that so many Westerners are entirely unaware of the breadth of cultural differences coming from Muslim worlds. That so many people are clueless about the tapestry of centuries-old cultures existing under the shroud of stereotypes perpetuated by the media post-9/11. The way that the media operates to disseminate these limiting ideas, whether intentional or not, is just one brick in the wall of racist systems operating to keep power, privilege and attention for those who already have it—and to keep it away from those who don’t. In the simplest terms, not enough people from enough different backgrounds get the space to speak. And that needs to change.

In this book, I’m focusing on just a small piece (well, 1.8 billion people small) of an incredibly intricate global problem—one that I’m still working to understand myself. Without having perfect clarity about the systems maintaining an imbalance on the global stage, I am certain of one thing. People’s lack of awareness about (and I mean truly seeing and acknowledging) people different from themselves is a contributing factor to major societal and geopolitical problems—at minimum, it comes to poor distribution of wealth and power, at maximum, it comes to the killing of perceived enemies in the quest for that wealth and power.

What I’m probably most afraid to admit, however, is that the underlying impetus for this book is a blind faith that most people desire connection with each other, above all else. The path is undeniably complicated, but the ground rules are simple. If we want to quit hurting each other, we have to start by getting to know each other better. Does that sound patronizing? Finger wagging? Frankly, it sounds like the kind of thing I tell my two small boys on a daily basis. But when I see the hate repeatedly playing out in the papers in the same patterns, I really can’t help but feel like it’s the adults that are acting like children. I do understand it is a stretch to believe connection is possible when people are under fire. Hope and faith can feel like a luxury when you witness people (or even feel, yourself) becoming violent because your family is suffering and your home is threatened… I think that’s why some of the people closest to me say my view is oversimplified, naïve even. But is it? Are we not the most evolved species? Have we not figured out how to get to the moon and back? I think we can do this.

For me, one of the best ways to get to know a culture different from my own is by reading personal stories. Reading, imagining, marinating in the experiences of another is one way to lift the fog. So, for this book, I imagined indiscriminate points of light shining around the planet, like stars dazzling the night sky. The collection would be bound by universal experiences that would simultaneously reflect the nuance and wealth of world cultures—its diverse beauty set beside its diverse madness, all mixed up together in one book: The Ordinary Chaos of Being Human.

Still, the project has been full of nail-biting, tail-chasing pitfalls.

One of the biggest conundrums in making this book came with the need to use the label “Muslim.” Do a Google search for books with the word “Muslim” in the title and you’ll get a similar list as you do when you search with the word “Christian.” They are all books focusing on faith. But this book is not about religion, and I did not require writers to identify with Islam or to write about their faith. It was also impossible to say this book was by Muslim writers because people from the Muslim worlds featured in this book are a mosaic. They are atheists, agnostics, pagans, Muslims of all sects and, sometimes, all of the above at different times in their lives. Some, in fact, follow other faiths altogether even though they were born in predominantly Muslim countries. I found myself asking how I could possibly celebrate the multiplicity of Muslim experiences with a one-word label that would simultaneously diminish their diversity. Also, many writers from Muslim worlds were wary of the label, of having to defend themselves under it, and prefer largely to portray themselves as they are, period. So it became a collection of intimate stories written in the context of many Muslim worlds, the plurality of “worlds” being imperative to the conversation. It became clear that the fundamental goal was to celebrate voices around the world just as they are, without further stifling them with labels that they may or may not want to use themselves. Like a person’s sexual identity, or any other imperceptible layer of identity, one’s religious or spiritual path is a personal matter. We should all have the choice: to keep that layer quietly in our hearts, or to wear it proudly on our sleeves. Through these stories, you get to know the writers as if you’re meeting them for the first time in person. Some will share their religion, and some will not.

As the submissions rolled in for the book, I also feared inappropriately treating certain key subjects because of my limited knowledge about the countries and cultures appearing in the book. I haven’t been to many of the places featured, and I really should take a class to properly appreciate the Quran. But I did know that it wasn’t my place to choose or reject stories for the writers’ opinions, for the way they represented their country—or for their interpretation of Islam. In the end, I saw that the selection process was simple: I chose writers for their ability to convey their own personal truth, whatever that may be. These are stories of the heart, written to be shared, heart to heart.

From extraordinary situations to quite ordinary ones, each story in this collection illuminates a very particular world, which may have nothing to do with being Muslim at all. Because this is also a book about being the feminist, devout, queer, rebellious, loving, winning and losing heroes in the stories of our lives. The result reveals identities that are immeasurable, limitless, undefinable, and an incredible opportunity for readers everywhere to empathize with staggeringly diverse perspectives from around the world.

I chose stories about uncomfortable situations, like prickly moments with neighbors which reveal something about ourselves or the surrounding community, as in “Summer’s Ruin” and “Those Eyes of Hers.” I chose “The Unfinished Report,” not because of the backdrop of the Iranian revolution, but because the writer revealed a moment of naïve bravery in her childhood so vividly, I felt like I was right there with her when she was lost in the rain. I included “From Sulu, a Farewell to Dad” for the author’s plight to know her father before his death. I chose “Khaleh Mina” for the meaningful portrayal of the safe, warm feeling of being mothered by an aunt. My appreciation for “Islam and the End of the World” had little to do with its Cairo setting or 9/11 subtext, and everything to do with a man struggling to find himself. And I had to include “Pink,” not only for the brutal account of something so many women won’t dare speak of, but also for the testimony of friendships women are capable of. I chose writers who conveyed their emotions so clearly, it was like reading their hearts. I also included writers whose points of view I didn’t necessarily agree with, because they were so unapologetically sincere. I found the honesty disarming, and for me, that commanded respect.

The writers in this book are people you might not ordinarily get to meet, and while their backgrounds and perspectives may vary greatly from yours, there is a touch point. It’s the human emotion we all experience in our lives’ most pivotal moments. I believe that getting to know the wealth of other worlds through its storytellers is instrumental in breaking down centuries-old walls between people. Personal stories like these have the power to make up our collective world history, with its glorious cast of very different characters striving to know and understand each other—as long as we keep writing and reading from the heart.

—Marguerite Richards, 2024

Chapter 1.

Love and Ruin in Aida

Noreen Moustafa revisits the memory of a young summer love in Montazah, a heritage landscape now under deconstruction in her ancestral Egypt. Here, she recognizes the value of personal storytelling as a way of building our collective history.

by Noreen Moustafa

From my most beloved cove, I try to get my bearings. I imagine myself as a pin on the map, where the Mediterranean edges the tip of Alexandria in Egypt. Buoys and boats bob in the distance as if to tell me my desire for stability is futile. It has been years since my teenage love ended, but today I struggle to accept its erasure. Although I grew up in Los Angeles, I spent my childhood summers in Alexandria. And strangely, it was there on Aida Beach in Montazah that I felt the freest. It is where I felt the whole sun shine on my face, let the sea carry me, and where I had my first summer romance. It was not the profound love I’d know later in life, but because summer love is fleeting, every moment burned like a dying star and loaded encounters densely strung over three months left their mark. And when the season was over, it was okay. I was okay. I didn’t need it to last. But standing here today, I realize I thought Aida always would.

Montazah, built in 1892, was once a royal complex and spans 360 acres. On the grounds are two palaces and five beaches. Aida is one of them. After the revolution of 1952, the Egyptian government acquired the complex. The largest palace became a museum, and the massive gardens were opened to the public for a fee. And lining this gulf, where palm and pine forests meet the sea, 896 small beach cabins were built. Wealthier Egyptians, acting in class solidarity, scooped them up quickly. Seeking refuge from the heaving public beaches on the corniche, these families kicked off decades of treasured summer memories beyond the palace gates. And of all the private beaches there, Aida became the place to be as a teenager in the nineties.

Long before we dreamed of revolution and the Arab Spring, Aida was the setting for our small rebellion. It’s where we blurred the line between the public and private self to find ourselves. For a long time, I couldn't talk about what Aida meant to me. But now that it’s become a place that can only be visited in words and in memory, I am compelled. Aida is in ruins.

This summer, I am in Alexandria visiting family—this time with my husband and two children. Egypt, in general, has taken on more Western characteristics, and today's teens have long since moved on from that beach. But for me, the pull of Aida remains. And so, upon arriving, I arranged a visit, despite the warning that Montazah “is being worked on.”

The main gate looks the same as we drive in, but the unpaved roads create disorienting dust clouds around the car. I ask the driver to drop me off at what I think is the entrance to Aida. "Wasn’t this where the mini mart was?” I wonder. On foot, amidst all the construction, I recognize where the security post had been and recall the day my older cousin Mandy forgot her membership card.

“Noreen, listen.” Mandy linked her arm with mine, pulled me close to her side, and whispered, “When we walk past the guard, talk to me in English and don’t meet his eye.”

“Wait, why?” I laughed, always a little nervous about breaking the rules.

“Trust me,” she said. And I did. Completely. Mandy was my cultural attaché, the sister I never had, and long the key to my Egyptian heritage.

As we approached the checkpoint, she hoped that my American accent would be enough of an indicator to the guard that we belonged.

“And then I was all like, no way,” I said in my best valley girl impersonation.

Once past his station—nothing more than a white plastic chair under a faded orange beach umbrella—we exhaled in relief. We were now in Aida. A different world. We’d usually get there around 4 pm, when the sun began its long, western slouch. Warm but not scorching. The sparkling sea’s surface shined like liquid silver and weak waves curled on the sand. The smell of tanning oil combined with barbecued kofta hung in the air. And under the shade of arching pine trees, the elderly sat in a circle, their unsteady hands cradling tiny cups of hot tea. Under their feet lay a carpet of brittle pine needles. Comically oblivious to all the sticks stuck in their sandals, they chatted about their good old days: the brilliance of Abdel Halim-Hafez, the easy elegance of Souad Hosni. Unaware that we would eventually join their nostalgic ranks, we breezed past them. Our generation’s slice of Aida was beyond the grass lawn.

The epicenter of our social activity was the winding sidewalk parallel to the shore. Different cliques dotted the path, sitting or standing in clusters. The kids showed off their private educations—chatting in English, flirting in French, and comparing fashion statements acquired abroad. Mandy flitted down the path, pausing every five feet to greet friends with a double-cheek kiss as if we were on the French Riviera. I trailed behind her, rolling my eyes at their accents, the speedos, the designer handbags. I was American and that was enough to make me feel superior. Globalization was already on the march but my musical taste, shoes, hairstyle, you name it, was at least a year ahead of their trends. But despite all that, I still wanted to fit in. On this day, Mandy found her friends in their usual spot on the sidewalk. After five rounds of bisous, I removed my sandals and shoved my feet into the sand—past the hottest layer, down to where it was cool. I was ready for my guava juice and wondered how long it would be until we were in the water. The chit-chat began as it usually did, with gossip.

“How about Dina?” Eman said.

“She’s fine. But did you hear about Khaled?” Mandy asked.

“He went to rehab,” Mona jumped in. “You didn’t know that?”

“Amira’s brother?” I gasped. The better the gossip, the more we’d fidget with our juice box straws.

“Yeah, both of them don’t come to Aida anymore. He was addicted to this cough syrup that’s illegal now,” Mandy said.

“Cough syrup? Illegal?” I couldn’t help but laugh, unaware that abusing codeine cough syrup was rampant among Egyptian teens. It was an over-the-counter solution for those desperate to escape their realities and had recently been banned. I dismissed it as another nebulous restriction in Egyptian society, another ridiculous rule. Like when Mandy told me not to snap my fingers a certain way in public because that was a “belly dancer move.” Or how she laughed at me when I tried to sit next to the taxi driver when the back seat was full. "Only boys sit there. Come here, sit on my lap.” Okay, noted—no snapping, no front seat, and no cough syrup allowed. In Aida, I didn’t have to worry as much about these constant corrections to my behavior, these invisible rails that kept me in line. It felt like beyond that orange umbrella, we were outside of jurisdiction.

When the sweat began to collect on our brows, we headed for the shore. We made a pile of our clothes and rushed into the glistening water in our suits. While Mandy and her friends resumed their chatter treading water, I floated on my back, listening to the underwater crackle instead. Once out, the girls would put on their sheer cache maillots and parade on the 200-meter sidewalk until their swimsuits dried. It was hard to understand why the conservative customs of dress didn’t apply here. How could we be so free?

“Like, why do you guys even bother wearing these coverups?” I asked.

“Because bikinis are haram,” Mona giggled.

Just then, a group of muscular boys with blown-up arms walked by. The girls looked at each other instead of at their inflated biceps, and then to the floor. Gyms had started to pop up around town and many guys had taken to weightlifting. Pumping iron apparently helps alleviate the malaise of growing up amidst diminishing job and marriage prospects.

We’d spend the afternoon feeling each other’s eyes on our backs but never making contact. But eventually, when families with young kids and the elderly would go home, the mood on the beach would change. We'd form desegregated huddles when the sun was low and the tide began to come out again. We had safety in numbers as passersby couldn’t identify the couples amongst us. Someone started playing music from an iPod plugged into a boombox and jokes gave way to playful shoves or any other excuse to touch. We moved to the music, never really dancing but swaying—anything to relieve the tension. At the purple arrival of dusk, there didn’t seem to be an adult in sight. Every night, Aida was ours.

When I noticed two people surreptitiously holding hands under a towel, I felt the electric exchange as if my own hand was being held. Every glance was charged, and this bit of spark gave an edge to our banter. We had many things to work out from the frivolous to the existential and talked for hours. Then Mandy’s boyfriend appeared, a silhouette on the sidewalk. Their smiles beamed across the distance, their connection unmissable even though they never touched. I smiled too, caught in their radiance. Love is so great it doesn’t have to be your own to be moving.

That summer, I served as an alibi for Mandy who, like many of her friends, would meet her secret boyfriend at Aida. Like vines seeking light, they weaved and coiled their way through repression. Dating doesn’t exist in Egyptian society. The expectation is a formal engagement sanctioned by your parents, should you wish to get to know a potential spouse. These evening encounters didn’t come easily though, and I marveled at how Mandy set up her dates.

She could speak so softly on the phone that she was inaudible to anyone in the room—and yet, entirely understood by the person on the line. It was amazing. Concealing her mouth using the receiver, she could also prevent any lip-reading by her older brother. There was a rush of excitement at the end of each clandestine call, a sense of accomplishment. Egyptian boys had their tricks too. In the age before caller ID, the number of times you let the phone ring served as a code. When Mandy’s boyfriend wanted him to call her, he would call the landline and let it ring just once. If it was urgent, he would wait until someone answered and then hang up. What a thrill it was when my uncle would shout in frustration, “Who keeps calling and hanging up?” I knew it meant we would be going back to Aida soon. Back to our seaside paradise. My uncle would joke, “Every night, Auntie Aida, Auntie Aida. Why don’t you go visit your real aunts?” I loved those aunts, of course, but nothing compared to the beach. The more freedom and flirtation I experienced there, the more stifling every other experience in Alexandria felt. In Aida, I didn’t have to carry the burden of representing my parents and wasn’t subject to constant public scrutiny. After all these summers here, I had finally found my own foothold.

And when I met Gogo, I had to be there every day. His actual name was Mohammed because…of course, it was. His nickname suited him because of his fixed smile and buoyant energy. His eyes seemed to rest on me a little too long in a way I liked. His smile automatically drew one out of me. Every time. And when our eyes did meet, a darting energy set off in my body like a pinball machine lighting up. Just knowing an Egyptian boy with features like mine had a crush on me instantly healed years of insecurity. I delighted in his curly-haired attention and brown-skinned humor. No longer self-conscious about the fullness of my lips, I smiled broadly.

“Oh Noreen, he’s very cool. He has been going to English school his whole life. You guys match very well, wallahy.” Mandy’s endorsement was clear and then her girlfriends chimed in.

“Yes, go for it. He’s not judgmental at all. And he has an energy, mesh keda?” Mona looked to Eman for confirmation.

"Yeah, it’s his personality. He’s attractive for sure,” she said, applying her lip gloss while talking.

There was much talk about how lucky I was that he was so open-minded. I was meant to feel lucky that Gogo would look past my frequent cultural errors. I see now that part of Mandy’s enthusiasm was also her growing desire to be alone with her boyfriend. And eventually, the night came when we’d separate, each with our respective companions.

“I’ll meet you guys at the mini mart at 9 pm,” Mandy said. “Gogo, take care of her, okay?” ?

“Min aynaya leh tneen,” he responded, shorthand for “she is dearer to me than both my eyes.”

Was it he who was so romantic or the language? I couldn’t be sure, but I was enthralled. I felt so looked after but also nervous. Alone with my first Egyptian boyfriend, I leaned into a more feminine energy than I was used to. After observing Mandy and her friends for weeks, I had taken on some of their affects—more hair twirling, giggling, and playful eyebrow-raising. I’d also become very good at applying kohl eyeliner which felt transformational.

Gogo was 17 years old and about to join the Faculty of Engineering next year at my father’s alma mater. In Egypt, the title of ‘bash mohandas' — sir engineer—was as esteemed as ‘doctor’, and Gogo exuded a confidence that seemed to justify the misogyny I observed around me. He walked chest first and I’d never seen someone wear a t-shirt so well. Sitting on the sand, I badly wanted to rest my head on his shoulder. “Maybe men were meant to take care of women?” I thought, instantly abandoning any early feminist ideals I may have had for his affection. Just for a chance at belonging.

“You know what ‘thanaweya amma’ is, right?” he asked, spinning his zippo like a wheel on his index finger.

“No.” Here I was again, clueless.

“You see, that’s why I like hanging out with you!” His laughter seemed exaggerated, especially since I had no idea what he was talking about. “It’s the only thing people talk about here. My family has been pressuring me about this test since I learned how to walk.” He struggled to swallow the bitterness on his tongue.

“Oh, so it’s a test? Like a school test?” I could tell this was important to him and so I leaned in.

“Yeah, so at the end of high school, you take this state test to see what you can study. It’s not like you can study whatever you want.” I must have looked confused so he continued. “There are only 22 public universities in all of Egypt. They have to make it as hard as possible. They have to block us.”

“Block you? You think they don’t want people to go to college?” I was still naïve enough, and programmed as an American, to believe that anyone in the world could become anything they wanted to be.

“Noreen, there are over 60 million people in Egypt. Not everyone can be a lawyer or doctor. Basically, this test determines your life.”

I felt so stupid. There was so much I didn’t understand. He must’ve sensed my embarrassment when he pivoted.

“Anyway, have you ever been to a concert?” he asked. “They keep saying Metallica will play here but I doubt it.” Instead of Waiting for Godot, in Egypt, year after year, they waited for Metallica. We both knew they weren’t coming.

His dimples returned when we chatted about music. We were mutually fascinated and small exchanges like this turned us into bridges. Then there were the nonverbal exchanges. We’d often go swimming as a group but once we were far enough out, Gogo and I would find each other. We were still kids, choking on salt water as we tried to dunk each other down. Our bodies slipped past one another like shiny fish in a bucket. Taking turns diving down, we’d time who could hold their breath the longest, bringing up handfuls of sand as proof we’d touched the floor. From there, Alexandria’s skyline stretched infinitely to the right of us. And at sunset, when the city lights would turn on, I’d often think that no one but us has this view right now.

One night after a swim, Gogo and I decided to venture out into the dark, away from the brightly-lit sidewalk of Aida. Past the green lawn where the elders sat and through the part of the pine forest that served as a parking lot. Our exploring brought us to a cluster of cabins that appeared to have been unoccupied this season and to another smaller beach. It was so dark that the sea was barely decipherable from the sand, except where the moon glistened.

Perpendicular to the sea was a very tall wall, creating a cul-de-sac. I leaned against the wall as Gogo pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Since we were alone, I asked if I could have one, then watched his fingers fumble to open the lid and slide two out. He put one behind his ear and then, instead of handing me the second, moved his hand toward my mouth. He traced the outline of my lips with his finger. I smelled tobacco and tasted salt. My whole body tingled, yearning to respond, but I had to hold back. I had been holding back for weeks. He smiled and it was automatic, I smiled back. My hair was still wet from our sunset swim and I felt myself tremble, but not because I was cold. Restraining myself was more than a mental effort. My body was fighting itself. As the tension and desire became too much to bear, he parted my lips with his finger and kissed me. I feigned protest, as a good Egyptian girl should. Then, as a floodgate collapses, I gave in.

We slid down the wall to the sand and kissed for who knows how long. Lost in our own world, in Gogo’s embrace, I barely heard the muffled thump that made him pull away. It took me a few seconds to figure out what was going on. Sitting on the sand in the darkness, I could just make out the contrast of four laced-up, black leather boots. Lifting my eyes, I saw their uniforms next. Two army officers had jumped over the wall against which we were sitting.

“What are you doing here? Get up!” One officer barked, grabbing my arm with such violent force that, in one move, I was on my feet. I felt dizzy as the officer twisted my arms behind my back, the Arabic stinging my ears.

“Let go of her!” Gogo yelled, at which the officer tightened his grip.

In my charmed life until then I had never been in danger, but I recognized the moment when it came. The second officer grabbed Gogo, bent his arms back, and painfully forced them toward his neck. I saw my fear mirrored on his face. Bursting into tears, I bucked and twisted, trying to free myself of the officer's painful grip. He snapped me back upright, repositioning himself so that he could bind my two wrists with just one of his hands. Then, with his second hand, he reached down my shirt. I was wearing my swimsuit beneath the shirt. He cupped my breast and pulled me closer, his damp breath on my neck. I froze in terror.

“Stop struggling, prostitute,” he whispered in Arabic. “You didn’t mind this from your boyfriend.”

My body exploded in rage. I flailed even more desperately. I cringe now recalling my words, indicative of what I imagined to be my only source of power.

“Get your hands off me! I’m American!” I howled in Arabic. “Amrekanaya! You better let me go!”

Disturbed by all the noise, a middle-aged man rounded the corner to see what was happening. He began shouting at the officers, who disappeared as quickly as they had materialized. The officer who had been holding Gogo had stolen the cash in his pocket. Was that what this was all about? Money? Did they want to pleasure themselves? Or to punish me? Perhaps there was no difference between the two. Gogo thanked the man; together they cursed the crooked officers. I wondered how he managed to get words out as I felt my throat close in shame. They were two men at ease in a world they understood—and I did not. I stood there rooted to the spot unable to look the older man in the eye. I felt foolish for ever having felt free. For believing this beach was mine as the waves rolled on indifferently. I didn’t even feel like my body was mine anymore. The way the officers had appeared out of nowhere filled me with a terror that authority was, in fact, everywhere. Years later, I realized how that fear changed me. It had made me more Egyptian.

In stunned silence, Gogo and I made our way out of the dark and back to the sidewalk, towards the mini mart. Gogo, wracked with guilt, vacillated from extreme anger to disappointment that he couldn’t protect me. He sat me on the steps of the mini mart, trying to console me but did not touch me. I could not be touched. He went inside to get us something to drink. How was that going to help? I didn’t want juice and he could do nothing for me. I wanted to go home—my real home. I squinted as my eyes, welling with tears, adjusted to the store’s fluorescent sign that buzzed above me. I could never tell anyone, apart from Mandy, what had happened. And I never did.

Adrift amongst the current destruction, I retreat again into memory, recalling how I told the story to Mandy that night. Huddled on the steps, we cried as customers stepped over us to get to the shop. Gogo kicked rocks in the distance, smoking and pacing, consumed by an anger that had nowhere to go. I laugh now thinking of how we told the story to each other thereafter. With each recounting, we were braver and tougher than we'd been. We had avoided detention and injury, after all. Just by continuing our romance there, we were rebels. Still, we didn’t push our luck and stuck to the sidewalk, along with our comrades in love, for the rest of the summer.

I didn’t know then that the next time the Army would try to take Aida from me, they’d win. Coming here today, I expected to find my summertime playground a bit more run-down than last time. Instead, I’m scanning the beach for any orienting landmark at all. The acres of rare pines and palm trees that once surrounded the mini mart are razed. The shop itself, gone. I make my way toward the shore in a stupor. I recognize the remains of the sidewalk amongst various piles of broken rock because of its zig-zag pattern I used to trace with my fingers. I read the other piles like grave markers, and they tell me what has come of the beachside cabins. All leveled in the name of development. Progress.

Some green shutters, hanging crookedly off their hinges, remain amid the rubble. Tattered awnings violently snap in the wind as if to warn me not to take another step. The government had forced the evacuation of the cabins despite over 200 lawsuits brought against them. Legal contracts simply dissolved. Landmarks of my personal history, in turn, demolished. Diggers and cranes parked in the wings promise more destruction. My mind begins repopulating the shore just as it was when I was fifteen. Like a movie director creating a scene, I put everything in its proper place. The responsibility to recall every detail is overwhelming but a clear picture comes into focus. I see children running out of the water, their tan skin glistening and feet gathering more and more sand. I hear their parents calling them in for lunch. My stomach cramps as I remember the hunger that comes after a full day of swimming. Or maybe it’s the gutting loss leaving me sick and empty.

There may be something about being Egyptian that always has us looking back. A wistful longing for the past hangs heavy in the air—a deep-rooted nostalgia stemming from pride in our history. But our cultural inheritance also weighs heavily. Does our greatness exist only in the past? Must it? A new museum in the capital has been built to showcase Egypt’s ancient artifacts yet no structure exists to honor our desire to be free. If the recent past is to have its place in the grander story of Egypt, we need to share and record the truth of our lives. And assign agreed-upon meaning and value to the experiences and places that shaped us before they vanish. We are walking monuments, crumbling in our own ways, holding on to the unspoken. I want to leave a trace, my mark on Aida, to honor young love that wasn’t given public space to thrive. There isn’t even a tree left here at this beach on which to carve my name. So instead, facing the water, I write my name in the sand and step back, welcoming its erasure by the waves. For as indifferent as it is, the sea is at least a steady witness to love and ruin in Alexandria.

Back at Mandy’s house, where I am staying on this visit, I tell her what I’ve seen.

“At least they didn’t take the sea away,” I say, trying to laugh.

“Well, they’ve taken away our view of it on the corniche,” she sighs.

She means the dozens of coffee shops, mini-malls, and an actual circus that have disfigured the city’s famed seaside road. On the way home, the driver told me blankly that there is no return. “Alexandria has been bought and sold.” The Army’s Engineering Authority promises that the new commercial structures in Montazah will be a boon for tourism and expects locals to applaud. A yacht dock, shopping center, and luxury resort are coming soon.

Noreen Moustafa was born in Los Angeles, California to Egyptian parents. She is a writer and a news/documentary producer who seeks to inform and inspire with integrity. She began her career at Vice President Al Gore’s Current TV, working on the Emmy-nominated and Peabody award-winning international documentary series, Vanguard. Next, she joined The Young Turks as a producer, helping bring ‘the world’s biggest online news show’ to television. Later, she worked as a producer for both Al Jazeera America in Los Angeles and at Al Jazeera English headquarters in Doha, Qatar. She is currently living in Florence, Italy with her husband and two children, and working on a memoir. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. The Ordinary Chaos of Being Human is an exploration of the human condition through experiences led by people from diverse places. What are the moments in this book that were most touching to you?

2. In her foreword, Bina Shah writes that “this is a collection with bite, with an edge, cooked al dente, as it were, not pabulum that is easily digested.” How do you think she means this? Can you name any examples of stories ‘with bite’?

3. Was there a place/country in this book that became more familiar to you after reading any of these stories? Or any that changed a misconception you had about it originally?

4. Many of these stories are childhood memories. Why is it that our childhood memories leave an indelible mark on our present and who we are as people? Which memories in the book spoke to you?

5. Bina Shah also writes in her foreword that “the stories in this book do not challenge stereotypes, and instead they challenge the assumption of responsibility for those stereotypes.” Discuss what you think she means by this. Do you agree?

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