There are places that shape our identity; we are influenced by them, and they leave their imprint on our lives. Our relationship with them changes according to events and details. We remember places and their connection to people and moments. We live in the shadows of our memories, through our different lives and their various stages—from childhood and adolescence to youth and beyond.

I grew up in Cairo. There, I was raised. I remember myself with friends, family, and strangers alike, until I came of age. I roamed its streets throughout my teenage years and youth. I carry contradictory feelings toward Cairo—somewhere between love and hatred, between pride and belonging on the one hand, and rejection and anger on the other. I resent how it distorts me, erases my identity, and imposes a uniform mold on me and other citizens. It is difficult to express our differences, our uniqueness, or even our vulnerabilities. Cairo is a city harsh on the poor and on strangers—a city where parts of it have become real estate bubbles, isolating the wealthy from their surroundings, which may include poorer or less privileged classes. I live in a harsh society that separates, marginalizes, and looks down upon those who are different, weaker, or foreign.

We often use the name “Egypt” to refer to Cairo, reducing the nation to its central city, where all ministries and government institutions are concentrated. Yet despite the centralization of many aspects of Egyptian life in Cairo, Egypt is a diverse society, rich in subcultures. Arab Islamic culture dominates and controls the public sphere, even though local languages such as Nubian, Beja, and Amazigh exist—they are not taught in schools. Instead, they are passed down from generation to generation through limited social circles.

I confront the city with a mixture of love and resentment. Like any woman, I face frequent sexual harassment; some statistics indicate that 99% of women in Egypt experience harassment. The number is shocking, and the idea that all women suffer from it is deeply discouraging.

In addition to this, I face racism because I am Black. Between racism and harassment, I am constantly met with unfriendly stares and offensive words. I belong to a minority—or to one of Egypt’s indigenous populations: the Beja, the Amazigh, and the Nubians. I am Nubian. I cannot know the size of my community, as the number is withheld for security reasons; the authorities do not disclose it, just as they do not disclose the number of Christians or other minorities. This information is concealed for political purposes. As Nubians, we possess a rich culture, a unique language, and distinctive traditions. Yet Egyptian public opinion views us through a fragmented, folkloric lens filled with stereotypes. They see us only as loyal servants, incapable of mastering Arabic, poorly educated, loud in our celebrations, living in colorful homes—detached from the course of civilization. I believe Egyptian society suffers from anti-Blackness, yet it avoids acknowledging this deep-rooted problem. Nubians are seen as socially inferior and confined to service professions. I am deeply offended when I am called, in the street, by the names of African football players, or labeled with insults such as “the doorkeeper” or “the servant.”

Our awareness of this racism emerged from such experiences. We began with online campaigns, then moved to actions on the ground to combat racism—such as the campaign led by Nubians against cartoonist Fatma Hassan in 2014, who habitually distorted the image of Nubians and spread stereotypes about them. The pressure continued until she apologized. I was among those who encouraged filing a lawsuit against her to establish a legal precedent. However, the majority of Nubians chose to end the crisis with the apology alone.

Our lives are difficult under the weight of racism. Despite this, we strive to secure our rights and legitimate aspirations. In 2013, during the work of the Committee of Fifty—the constitutional drafting committee—I joined the advisory committee to assist the Nubian representative in the constitution, Mr. Haggag Oddoul. We succeeded in passing several articles, including an anti-discrimination clause that incorporated color, race, and geographic origin, thereby protecting Nubian rights. We also introduced provisions for the development of remote areas and the right of return to Nubians’ historical lands beyond the High Dam.

We are a generation intoxicated with hope, chasing dreams that fate refused to fulfill. These provisions were never integrated into Egypt’s legislative framework. They were written into the constitution but never implemented. For instance, the anti-discrimination article required the establishment of a commission to combat discrimination, yet it has not been created to this day. Likewise, the article concerning the return to historical Nubia was a transitional provision to be implemented between 2014 and 2024, but it was not enforced. Nubians remain in an endless state of negotiation with the authorities; in fact, the authorities have encroached upon Nubian rights. President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi issued decrees designating Nubian lands as military border zones unfit for residence or movement (Presidential Decrees 444 and 355), in violation of constitutional provisions. This prompted Nubians to file a case before the Supreme Administrative Court.

Returning to my vision of Cairo, I seek to create a narrative about the oppressed and marginalized in this city—those who suffer from oppression, inferiority, and discrimination. It is impossible to ignore two key components of Cairo: migrants—whether non-Egyptians who sought safety in Cairo after their countries were ravaged by conflict and war, or internal Egyptian migrants who came in search of better opportunities for work and education. As a middle-class Black woman, I identify with the experience of Sudanese people who fled the horrors of war—or even those who came before it. Anti-foreigner sentiment in Egypt intensified following the arrival of Iraqis after the invasion of Iraq, as well as Syrians, Sudanese, and Yemenis who arrived at different times. A nationalist, anti-immigrant discourse has spread, promoting fears of cultural change, economic decline, and threats to Egypt’s security.

Perhaps the most violent government action against migrants was the raid on the sit-in organized by Sudanese migrants in 2005 in front of the UNHCR. Police forces dispersed the protest, killing 26 people, most of them children. Voices from the affluent residents of the upscale Mohandessin district described them as dirty, accused them of public indecency, and claimed they were tarnishing the image of the neighborhood. The violent dispersal of the Mustafa Mahmoud sit-in was not the only such act; there continue to be organized inspection and arrest campaigns, alongside widespread resentment blaming migrants for rising living costs—ignoring that it is often greedy Egyptian landlords who raise rents. Meanwhile, people overlook the fragility of the economy, currency collapse, and rising inflation.

I spoke with a Sudanese woman about her life in Cairo—what troubles her and what gives her hope. She had lived her entire life in Egypt, arriving at the age of six and leaving at twenty-three. I admired her approach to confronting racism. As a child, other children used to call her “Shikabala,” after one of Egypt’s most famous football players, and she was happy with it because he was successful. “What’s wrong with being called by his name?” she said. “I know they mean my dark skin, not his skill.” She said she loves Cairo, but Cairo rejects her. Her days are filled with noise and constant battles, whether explicit or subtle—verbal abuse from Egyptians and sexual harassment intertwined with anti-Blackness. Yet she also acknowledged that some Egyptians still carry compassion. Some pray for peace in Sudan and wish her well. That, to me, represents the balanced Egyptian personality—free from harassment and racism.

I believe I intersect with Sudanese migrants through shared experiences of race, color, and gender. However, I cannot deny a fundamental difference: I am Egyptian, with a clear legal status. Yet even when a police officer stops me and I present my ID, I am still asked, “Are you Egyptian?” I do not deny that racism has intensified with the increase in the number of Sudanese, but that is not their fault. The blame lies entirely with racists who take pleasure in humiliating others—and worse, in creating a public opinion hostile to migrants.

Between suffering due to color, geographic origin, religion, and gender, many women have experienced violence and abuse. Despite all this, they still see Cairo as home—however harsh it may be. Despite everything they have endured, it remains a city they feel they belong to, always holding a place in their hearts. It is not only the conqueror of enemies; at times, it is the conqueror of its own people.