If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English

by Noor Naga

No place is better than any other, we only think it is.

I’m caught between my desire to understand and my desire to appear as though I already understand.

This is what he was like, what I liked about him: a transparency that seemed at times a failure of imagination but at other times a form of respect.

Disillusionment. That sheepishness, afterward, at having been caught believing.

QUESTION: Is it arrogant to grieve the loss of what you never had?

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

What are borders, anyway? Just lines in the sand. What are citizens? Just people fucking within the same lines in the sand—and their children and then their children,

THE END IS ALSO A BEGINNING, of rummaging through memories.