The Search for Belonging

by Dina Mousa (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Korea South

The aromatic spices of the souk, the colorful lanterns of Ramadan, sailing the calm waves of the Nile river on a falouka. Millions of people dream of visiting Cairo, my city, where I was born and grew up. I, on the other hand, had one dream, to leave the ugly place. Tourists see the exotic aspects of the city. They’re happy to pay triple the agreed-upon price to get off a camel while touring the Pyramids of Giza. As a local, I didn’t see what tourists sought in the ancient city. Growing up in Islamic Cairo district, or old Cairo as Egyptians call it is nothing like growing up in a grassy backyard of a suburban house, where birds land on friendly visits to eat from the bird feeders. I lived in the crammed neighborhood of Al-Saida Zaineb, historically known as the neighborhood of the beggars. The clashes and the screeches of sword fights under my window used to wake me up every other day. Children wake up on phrases like “Good morning,” I woke up on crude curses of angry men. Blood flowing in the street, shattered glass, an open wound on the head of the trouble-makers which in many cases were teenagers, were all familiar sights, just another day in the street. I yearned to see a wide-open garden and flowers blooming instead of the cemented walls that blocked the view of the smoky yellow sky and the graveled ground. I wished for a place where I could walk safely without being groped, flashed, and catcalled. “I want to travel,” I said to my family. Their mocking laughter echoed the room for a couple of minutes. “Women don’t travel alone.” My father said. “Learn how to cook and get married and have kids.” My mother said. “I don’t want any of that,” I said as I heard my favorite sound of all, airplane flying over the area. “Why do you have to be so different? Can’t you be your like sisters, normal?” My mother would say over and over. She wasn’t mean-spirited, she is traditional like most Egyptians. Being different didn’t bother me; it was the burning urge in my chest of not belonging, the need to search for something else. Despite all odds, I leaped into the unknown and travel to the land of morning calm, South Korea. I didn’t speak the language, and when I tried to pronounce the phrases from the traveler’s booklet, my words were met with giggles. “Waygokun.” The old auntie stirring the flat tray of spicy ttokkboki, told her daughter, who flipped pajeon like a professional pancake flipper. They smiled at the foreigner who they thought was teaching English, like the swarm that flooded the country a few years earlier. The old auntie appreciated the effort of me trying to speak her language, instead of just pointing at the menu pictures. She served me a generous portion of the steamy rice cake, and it came with an egg on the top, on the house. Korea was heaven for those such as myself, who couldn’t fit in in their native land, so they, too, came searching for a place where they wouldn’t be bullied for their social awkwardness. All foreigners were awkward, right? Yet, I couldn’t fit. I was the exotic thing white English teachers I met along the road marveled at with their stupid questions regarding my oriental culture. I walked barefoot on the soft grass of the Olympic Park east of Seoul. I laid flat on a smooth soil. My lungs still wished for clean air as the yellow dust was on the rise. Not all foreigners were made equally, even in a peaceful country like S. Korea, the tune of my brown skin mattered, being a mix of African-Middle Eastern mattered, the size of my waist determined my place in the society. One thing gave me comfort, the double portion of spicy ttokbokki that burned my face with every bite, yet was the tastiest food I ever had and the welcoming smile of the old auntie that warmed the snowy winter. Here I am still searching for belonging and always moving toward the unknown.