My mother was born in Cairo, Egypt on the twenty-second of February, 1972. The following is an interview between my mother and I, transcribed but also transmuted. Transcribed by way of me writing down my mother’s voice. Transmuted by way of the recollection of memory altered once collected, told, and written. I have removed myself from the interview and re-imagined my mother’s answers as the ultimate truth. Here, I exist in her retelling; in her memory. I carve out, through my mother’s words, a proposition in which a term such as ‘diaspora’ unhinges itself from the subaltern and into a Global Majority. Here, the diaspora is rendered with the validity of a lived experience. This is especially critical for me as is the case with––I assume––a large majority of Coptic Egyptians who also exist, absolutely and truthfully, in diaspora.
Mother: We first migrated to Amman, Jordan. I think it was in 2007. You were six years old and your sister was four. We stayed there for four years.
We went back to Egypt for a year but then we migrated to Dubai, United Arab Emirates in 2011.
We were planning on staying in Egypt.
We have been in Dubai since then.
We came to Dubai on the night of the 25th of January, 2011. On the night of the revolution.
An infamous date. We were on the last flight out of Cairo.
Mother: When we came to Dubai, we were planning on staying for only two weeks but when the revolution happened we had to stay in Dubai for another three months. We went back to Egypt only for a month or so to close some accounts in Egypt.
Your sister and you were not in school from January to September. But we still did homework.
Mother: Before we migrated to any country, I needed to visit the church in the country first. I needed to know the people of the church, the priest of the church.
I needed to get a sense of the support system in place for us.
If there is no church––no support system––I cannot live in the country / I cannot
live in the country.
Mother: One of the most magical things of the Coptic Orthodox Church is that if you go to a church in Jordan, Canada, or anywhere really, it is the same: the same environment, the same feeling, the same rituals.
The same religious rituals.
Some things differ from church to church of course, such as the food of the church or the people to some degree.
The Christian women in Egypt are the most creative. Siyyami [lent] food in church at some point doesn’t even taste Siyyami. You begin to doubt if you really are fasting.
The church and its rituals /
its religious rituals
has been the same for the past few hundred years.
Perhaps the only difference between Coptic churches outside of Egypt and Coptic churches in Egypt is that the Copts in diaspora are not as many as the Copts in Egypt.
So, the influences of some things––of all things, really––onto the church differ. Some of the services provided in church and its funds, differ of course. In Egypt, there is a large network also of the monasteries and the churches. In many ways, this network is our bread and butter.
I rely on the Coptic church not only as a support system but as an anchor. It is how we continue.
Mother: I find that communing together is one of the most joyful experiences.
/اللمة/.
In Jordan, all of our close friends were from church. We came together to cook, break fast, and celebrate.
It was the most joyful / the most
joyful.
Food always brings back memories.
And scents; scents trigger memories.
Every Christmas in Jordan, we would all gather at our house. We would cook and bake, and this is something I carry with me.
I love
/اللمة/.
I love celebrating life.
During Easter, I would again invite people over to gather and weave palm tree leaves.
Play charades, even.
Eat, laugh.
When we came to Dubai, I recollected these memories. It was difficult to reconcile these experiences as only memories at first.
But then again, I turned to the church.
And, found community.
And again, I would invite people from church over for Christmas and Easter to break fast together and to craft with palm tree leaves.
Play charades, even.
Eat, laugh.
I enjoy
/اللمة/
because I enjoy seeing everyone happy. I would check on the kids and make sure they ate and had games to play with. If they were happy and their parents were happy, I was happy.
Of course, this changes over the years because of migration.
People, they come and they go.
People come for a short while and leave.
This is difficult.
But, I relish the memory. I recollect the memories.
I assume this is why a Coptic church anchored where I live is necessary for me. It is a sense of community / of
belonging.
From Egypt to Jordan to the United Arab Emirates––and some odd places in between––I look for the church to anchor us. To build memories within and around the church.
And, I carry these memories.
I carry them so that I am able to carve out new ones within my community.
Or over the years, communities.
It is what I enjoy. But, it is also more than that.
It is what I require.
Egypt Migrations is always looking for people to contribute to our digital initiatives. Please contact team@egyptmigrations.com if you would like to join or support the organization.
Andrew Riad is a writing intern at Egypt Migrations. A Coptic Nubian Egyptian artist and poet, Riad is exploring the intersection of poetry, research and law. He works with textiles, text, filmography, photography, found objects, and culinary practices to undo a monolithic history and propose a [re]imagined and [re][un]written history revealing silenced narratives. Riad is a graduate of New York University Abu Dhabi (May, 2022) with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Literature and Creative Writing and Legal Studies and a current MFA (poetry) student at Pratt Institute (May, 2025).
Egypt Migrations 