If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English

by Noor Naga

Perhaps, had it not been for this moment, we would never have come to love each other. But it was the look on her face in the grim street light. I could see her multiplying that small injustice a hundred times over, calculating its true scale across a life span. She was from America, rich, obviously, but it seemed she could still be horrified by the wanton exercise of power, and this singled her out from the others. I felt somehow that she was on my side.

Let me ask you: Is it possible to contemplate a thing—any thing at all—without sadness?

He doesn’t have to. We hide our finances from each other but the numbers chafe between our bodies while we sleep, so that we wake up full of static, agitated, zapping everything we touch.

Only now, looking back, do I realize how terrible it is to subsist on just enough, without the joy of beautiful things.

Instead here I am standing on the 6th of October Bridge praying for a glimpse of her in the distance, clothed, in broad daylight … At this point, even that would be enough. I don’t need to reinsert myself into her life, so long as she is safe and happy, so long as I can know she is safe and happy. And if she is not … If she is not, all I need is a glimpse.

Those outside of a language, of a culture, see furniture through a window and believe it is a room. But those inside know there are infinite rooms just out of view, and that they can always be more deeply inside.

if it’s true, I don’t think I can do it. I can’t do any of these things. My grandmother spoiled me by giving me a pride beyond my means. She raised me to believe that wherever I went I would be recognized, I would be rewarded, celebrated, and only now do I see. It was an accident, but she handicapped me to a lifetime of scoffing at the very things I need. There is such a thing as princely poverty.

I want to remind everyone that this is memoir, not fiction, and it is the special power of memoir to archive our most private personal dramas—for which there is often no other place of safekeeping. Meaning, you don’t have to approve of how the writer remembers or processes the death of someone she knew. We are not here to therapize. We are here to listen and bear witness.