by Tom el-Rumi

For Egyptian cinemagoers, the must-see film in theaters this summer is “Asal Eswed” (Molasses), a witty comedy starring the ever popular Ahmed Helmy. Helmy plays Masri al-Arabi, an Egyptian who, after 20 years of living in the US is making his first trip back to his home country, as a camera-wielding tourist ill-prepared for what he would find on his return.

Masri’s naivety and misadventures as an Egyptian lost in his own country provide an effective vehicle for airing the many humorous and often unnoticed contradictions in Egyptian society, while his patchy Arabic, silly name, and Helmy’s ability as an exponent of classic slapstick guarantee that the laughs come thick and fast in packed-out cinemas up and down the country.

There is another reason for the film’s popularity, however: Masri’s sense of estrangement on returning to his homeland resonates with an increasing number of Egyptians who have shared in this feeling of alienation as they, or one of their family members, return to Egypt from abroad. An estimated 3 to 5 million Egyptians are currently living abroad, while many more have repatriated over the last 20 years and many of them can see in Masri’s exaggerated debacle something of what they too have experienced on coming home.

One of those currently living abroad is Sam. I first met Sam (short for Samer, although noone ever called him this) when, after going through my own period of readjustment on returning to the West after a year living in Egypt, I stumbled into his hookah bar craving something to remind me of the cafés which line Alexandria’s corniche. Sam moved to the US 28 years ago, married, and settled down in a medium-sized city, where he founded and runs the hottest sheesha lounge in town. Sam welcomed me and my friends into his café with true Egyptian hospitality, and I have been a regular customer whenever I’ve been in town ever since. Shortly before I came back to Egypt, I gave him my mobile number and promised that if he ever came to Cairo to visit, then I would show him around the city he grew up in and left almost three decades earlier.

In spite of having recently watched and laughed along to Assal Eswed, Masri’s identity struggle could not have been further from my mind when I received an unexpected call from Sam, who in his flawless southwestern accent informed me he had finally made it to Cairo. It wasn’t until we finally reunited that I was struck by how hard coming back was proving to be for my friend. As I greeted him and made small talk about his journey in Arabic, there was a visible discomfort etched in Sam’s face. “It’s so strange hearing and speaking Arabic with you” he broke off in English. I responded in my finest Egyptian, pointing out that this isn’t the first time he’s heard me speak his mother tongue. “Of course. It’s not you, it’s just been so long. Over 20 years.”

As we chatted in the familiar surroundings of an upmarket hookah garden, along with another long-term Egyptian expat who returned to Egypt permanently several years ago, Sam’s list of complaints about his homeland and disparaging anecdotes about the strange ways of its people were in abundance. So imbalanced was his perspective, so exaggerated his negativity, that I was unsure whether he was trying to persuade me of Egypt’s ills or trying to convince himself. Sam wanted to make it clear that returning to Egypt was more of an inconvenience he had to endure in order to see his family rather than an opportunity for him to reengage with his roots, but in his over-enthusiasm he was betraying an insecurity; coming back had clearly stirred unexpected feelings.

As we moved from trendy café to spit-and-sawdust street restaurant and were joined by more thirtysomething Egyptian men, English quickly disappeared from conversation and complaints about the traffic and chaos were replaced by fond memories of summers in Alexandria and the annual bittersweet anticipation of Ramadan. Sam grew more relaxed and enthusiastically entered into the joking and laughter, taking moments to explain punchlines I had failed to grasp as we used rough baladi bread to soak up some classic Egyptian molokheyya. For me, it felt like in those moments Sam had truly returned. Watching and listening, there was none of Masri’s awkward misunderstandings that made for such good comic fodder in Assal Eswed – Sam looked like he was at home.

Leaving the restaurant, Sam answered a call from his wife and son, still in the US. He was clearly moved by the sound of his young son’s voice and showed me photos of the boy, Yaser, playing with his favorite Toy Story action figures. “Does he speak Arabic?” I ask. Sam shook his head. “No. Not yet. I want him to learn. I should do something about that.” The look in his eyes helped me realize that although a part of him will always be essentially Egyptian, for Sam, as for many, home may no longer be the country you grew up in nor the language you spoke as a child. Sam may never really return to Egypt.

On the ride home, we passed a cinema swamped with brightly lit billboards of Masri al-Arabi half clad in a traditional galibeyya and half in the cheque shorts and a smart white shirt. “My family say I should see this film, they say he’s like me” Sam said, turning to me. Not quite ya Sam, not quite.

Tom El Rumi: An Arabic-crazy Brit living in Cairo and loving it. The name refers to the eggplant, not the poet.

His website can be found here.

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