To get to Cairo, Reem and her family travelled for a week over hundreds of kilometres along one of today’s most hazardous migration paths. They first walked on the supposed “safe passage” from North to South Gaza. “Stop and they will shoot you,” she said, recalling how they could not attend to the scores of injured and dead on the streets. The passage was a trap, she believes, set up by Israeli forces to intimidate and attack Palestinians. Having survived, Reem and her family then paid thousands to enter Egypt through the Rafah border, around 320 kilometres from the Egyptian capital. 

We met in an apartment-turned-boutique in an upper middle-class neighbourhood. Every day, hundreds of families from Gaza were showing up at this volunteer-run organisation in the hopes of securing clothes, food, and housing. 

Standing on the balcony, Reem squinted at the uninspiring, half-occupied buildings around us. She was struck by the pollution; how the air seemed to have a permanent murkiness to it. “The Cairo filter on Instagram is real!” she joked, and I laughed, agreeing. Looking out at Cairo was like piercing through layers of grey. It had taken time for me to get used to the feeling of dirt settling on my skin each day—a combination of desert dust whirling in from the city’s outskirts, and soot from the unceasing traffic and construction. 

“What about you? Why are you here?” Her question made me pause: Singapore is my home. I came to Cairo, to a place so distant and starkly different from home, by choice. Reem’s question almost made me feel ashamed. Palestinians embody loyalty and rootedness to the land of their birth. 

Many of Cairo’s newer residents had to flee home due to difficult circumstances; they found refuge in the Arab world’s largest metropolis. My husband, our toddler and I had no reason to run, but found in Cairo the freedom to live outside the status quo, and an opportunity to disentangle ourselves from the shackles of an all-too-familiar, secular and Western-centric world. The privilege inherent in our ability to live outside of the system is not lost on me; in Cairo deep polarities exist and mingle, and unequal realities greet you everywhere you go. 

“Why are you here?”

Greater Cairo sprawls over 5,000 sq km—over six times the size of Singapore—and has a population of around 22m. It is home to 9m international migrants from 133 countries, of which almost 800,000 are registered refugees from over 62 nationalities. Um Al Dunya, they say. Mother of the world. A popular phrase tossed around romantically by tourists to describe Egypt, but also wielded by the government to fuel nationalism and stir pride in the country’s past. Its capital is crumbling under the weight of its own burgeoning population and a laundry list of domestic ills, yet incessantly expanding to receive others.

The ashwa’iyat, or informal housing settlements, along Cairo’s Ring Road were originally the colour of dusty brick. With the building of the new Grand Egyptian Museum, the buildings were repainted to appear more appealing to tourists who have to pass the road to reach the museum and the Giza Pyramids. All photographs courtesy of Zafirah Mohamed Zein

Migration and the associated concepts of mobility and transnationalism have intrigued me since I was a young girl. My father was a ship captain, and I spent a chunk of my childhood at sea, which cemented my love for travel. My core childhood memories include watching my mother bending over baskets of colourful vegetables in a bustling Mumbai market, before being pushed over by a passing cow; being passed around and having my cheeks squeezed by random shopkeepers in Hong Kong; and playing deck hockey on board a ship with a kid-sized stick the crew had made for me. 

For subscribers only

Subscribe now to read this post and also gain access to Jom’s full library of content.

Subscribe now Already have a paid account? Sign in