Building a New Life in Cairo

The following essay is from Zezi Shousha, a writer, poet and book editor, who wrote about the challenges of making the move from a small village in Egypt where she grew up to the city of Cario to pursue a literary life and find a place for herself. In this essay she talks about the problems that arose for her and other women like her who set off on their own to build an artistic life in the capital. 

A note from the author:

I was young, a primary school student, when our school organized a trip to Cairo from Shubra Mellas, the village where I lived. Early on, my eyes opened to this vibrant, colorful world, with its amusement parks and games and girls who spoke freely. A magical, luminous world that drew me to it with all its strength. I kept this cheerful image of Cairo, tucked it away inside me, but it kept coming to me in my dreams. Then when I finished high school, my dream of coming to Cairo was on its way to being fulfilled when I was informed that my high school score qualified me to enroll in the Faculty of Mass Communication at Cairo University. But my family was strongly against my leaving the village. I fought a tremendous battle with my family to allow me to move to Cairo, and the more they were stubborn, the more I clung to this desire, until they gave in to my wish, fearing that I would run away and cause them an indelible shame if they did not acquiesce.

In short, when I think about the real reason that drove me to come to Cairo, I conclude that “freedom” is the central reason for which I made this trip to the capital. The village is a closed, stifling world; patriarchal authority knows no bounds, and no one can stop it. Life in the village is a curse for a girl who thinks and feels her worth. In Cairo, too, there is patriarchal authority, but the difference is that here in Cairo, there are paths you can take and turns you can make to escape. The village is a limited world; when you make a mistake, patriarchal authority will kill you.

In my first years here in Cairo, I lived in the midst of devastating conflicts. My family put tremendous psychological pressure on me, as if they were constantly telling me: You are still here among us. You are not allowed to make mistakes. And, from their perspective, wrong means deviance or establishing a relationship with a man outside the conventional framework of marriage. Aside from the pressure from our families, we girls living abroad in Cairo suffered from bullying due to our rural origins, which were sometimes looked down on by the sophisticated city. It was a difficult period, yet despite that, I wasn’t sad. On the contrary, I was happy and eager to discover a world different from the one I grew up in.

The following is the story of my early years in Cairo and my friend Asmaa who came to Cairo for many of the same reasons as I did: to gain a measure of freedom that helps us feel that life has beautiful things and is worth living. We came to Cairo to escape the male power. In rural Egypt women are too often treated as a curse or a disgrace. Asmaa loved poetry; she attended poetry evenings more often than the poets themselves. She was drawn to this world. No doubt she had wonderful times here in Cairo, but Egyptian families have a big problem with girls. There are pains that can never be healed, especially those caused by parents. 

–Zezi Shousha

The Assassination of Asmaa Mansour

The woman from Shubra (in her fifties) was the most truthful person ever—straightforward, with no patience for small talk or fake pleasantries. But she knew how to push you to the edge in a hellish city like Cairo. With her sharp voice, she said, “Before you move into my house, I’ll send a copy of your ID to the police station.” In reality, she wanted to send you yourself—that was her deep-seated desire, though I could never fully understand why. You needed to know this, because no personal documents in Egypt go to the police for no reason, especially if they belong to a Mughtariba (a young woman living away from her family—how I hate this label) in the roaring capital. Your presence is suspicious because you have “escaped” the authority of your family—something unwelcome here, even despised. They will try to erase this ambiguity, and in the process, they will kill your spirit. You will feel naked and violated, even by insects. And if they fail to understand you—if you don’t willingly hand yourself over—you will be branded, night and day. You are guilty no matter what. And the woman from Shubra—ah, the woman from Shubra—wanted to open this file and close it by sending it to the police. I knew her; she liked purification.

I haven’t seen this woman yet, but I surely will. I might surrender myself to her, since she haunted my waking and sleeping hours. Besides, I wanted to close this file, too. Sooner or later, we would all surrender ourselves to the woman from Shubra, and she would know exactly what to do with us. We, the guilty ones—who had left our distant homes at dawn and come to the city to taste life, to utter a word, to see ourselves in the mirror of existence. But whenever we reached out to pluck some fruit—any fruit—our hands bled, and our feet burned to charcoal. My foot was a piece of darkness; my hand, severed.

“This house is calling me,” I told myself when I read the ad and saw the photos. “A residence for female students and working women in Shubra, Cairo… clean and close to the metro. Call this number if interested.” I was living in the city center, surrounded by something artificial that I wanted to escape. I told myself I would go to Shubra, keep moving away from this wrecked place, until I returned to my village. This way of thinking meant that my desire for death was strong—because I would inevitably return to my village as a corpse.

The house in Shubra was on Badran Island. When my connection to it was severed, I had the overwhelming feeling that the house existed nowhere except in the chest of that woman with the hoarse voice—like the rattling of old cars bouncing over the city’s endless potholes. And the woman, oh, how true she was when she told me she had sent my ID to the police station. The house was hidden, with no sign to indicate its presence, as if it belonged to the unknown. It was a multi-story building, mostly abandoned. I climbed to the top floor with a young woman in her twenties. It was separated from the rest of the house by an iron gate, locked with an enormous padlock—like the “lock of the world.” Behind that gate was another iron door, slightly less menacing, followed by a wooden door.

I felt as if these doors would never end, that I had come into this world only to stand before locked doors for the rest of my life. My back bent like an old woman’s. I aged in front of those doors. I was sweating despite the cold. When I finally entered, desperate to sit on any chair after that terrifying ordeal, the young woman didn’t let me be. She took me by the hand to the balcony, saying, “Look at the beautiful view.” But there was nothing—just Ramses Metro Station. I don’t know why, in that strange evening light, the image of train tracks filled my mind. Those rails crush the little years that are my life, and the train exiles me from myself.

I imagined rubbing my hands over the rain-soaked buildings until only mud remained, and I had no choice but to sink into it. The apartment—contrary to what the girl had told me on the phone—was empty, except for a few pieces of furniture. The three other girls she had mentioned were nowhere to be seen, nor was there any sign they had ever lived there. When I asked, she ignored me. Then she closed the windows and sat beside me, ready to interrogate me. I told her every detail she had a right to know if I were to stay there. But she wasn’t satisfied—she wanted more. She wanted to strip me down, to see my entire life, to expose my faults, or—to be precise—my scandals. That was what the tall young woman wanted. No, that was what the city wanted from us.

She examined my ID as if she wanted to read my past, to pierce through it to my very blood. The act of checking my ID has always terrified me. It will always—because I was guilty. I was naked and humiliated in front of this girl, so much so that I felt my body was full of holes, my veins shredded. I tried to patch those holes, to fill them with broken sentences about my work as a journalist and my reputation as a poet. But none of it mattered—it was trampled under the girl’s feet and under the feet of the city. I was naked. Nothing could cover me. Anyone could reach into me and take what they wanted, or crumple me up like a dirty piece of paper. The world’s knife was at my throat.

From the other room, I heard the landlady’s voice instructing the girl: “Take a copy of her ID. Ask her when she’s moving in.” The woman wasn’t interested in money—which was strange. She only wanted me. I asked again about the three girls. To get rid of me, the young woman finally said, “They left to visit home.” I chose a room and agreed to bring my things the next day. She seemed doubtful I would return and kept talking, sharing personal details about her life to make me feel at ease. But I wasn’t paying attention. I rushed out, as if I were escaping. She locked the doors tightly behind me—sealing them off for the crushing emptiness.

The next day in the afternoon, the woman called me: “I sent your ID to the police station. For my safety and yours.” She said my name as if addressing a criminal. Then she told me she was expecting me that day, that she had prepared my room. There was no escaping her now. I had to go. My ID was at the police station. I had to go so I could know my fate, receive it—once and for all. The second time, I realized the woman, hidden like fate itself, had taken what she wanted from me, and that there had never been a place to stay. She told me that after preparing the room, she had decided the furniture was unsuitable for me. I thanked her and left.

But the abandoned house followed me everywhere. In my moments of depression, I longed for it. It was salvation—a house outside of life, unreachable by anyone. It was isolation, the color of a shroud, like the mornings in my distant village. And the woman—ah, the woman—she let me go because she knew I would return to her eventually, seeking deliverance.

At that time, I was captivated by the house in Shubra and by the woman who had openly revealed a truth other landladies merely concealed. I had lived in eleven other houses before, and not once had any of those women mentioned “the police,” even though sending IDs to them was an unavoidable procedure. But for the woman from Shubra, it was her duty—one she carried out with the strictness and fury of a woman who was crushed in her youth.

The woman from Shubra revived in me the painful sense of being a fugitive, and something new crept into me—that I was being pursued by the police. When I found the strength to break out of this circle of doom, I would sometimes go to the Nile, feeling its waters dissolve my name, carrying me along its unknown journey. Other times, I wandered through the markets, letting myself get lost in the crowds. This is how I wanted to disappear, while Asmaa Mansour had decided to return to her village in the south—without knowing that this decision would be her death.

Six years ago, I lived in Beit Ramsis in downtown Cairo. The house was spacious, consisting of five rooms, each with four girls. Without realizing it, we were the most famous women in the city—our lives on display, a hallmark of houses for Mughtariba women in the capital. I felt my life was plundered, that I was exposed to everyone against my will. Fear gnawed at my bones. It was in this atmosphere that Asmaa Mansour arrived—a young woman in her early twenties, with a sculpted body and a tormented face. Terror radiated from her eyes and gripped her heart, leaving her perpetually on the edge. I always felt she needed someone to reassure her, otherwise, she would fall into a deep abyss. Later, I realized that Asmaa had been hurt to such an extent that any attempt to get close to her, even with kindness, would shatter her.

How did this young woman become so fragile? When did the fiery arrow of anger pierce her heart? Asmaa stayed in my room overlooking the Music Institute, and we quickly became friends. Over time, what bound us became greater than friendship—we occupied the same psychological space, tormented by existential and emotional pain, seeking refuge from the world. We spent our days hiding and running away until we no longer recognized ourselves. I saw death in Asmaa’s eyes, and she saw dogs tearing at my flesh. We both knew the other’s fate—she was destined for death, and I was destined for the stray dogs.

On the street, she would cover her face with the edge of her headscarf, clinging to me as if trying to hide within me—afraid that someone from her village, or her brother, might spot her and drag her back to her family. When we attended poetry evenings, she would hide her face or slip away whenever photos were taken. Asmaa lived with a constant sense of danger, a curse that marked her very existence. She kept shrinking away until death claimed her.

I remember that morning as I remember my own name—it is etched onto my skin. Its fiery eyes nearly burned me. When I recall it, fog descends all over me. It has become part of my life. In early January 2023, my racing heart woke me as if someone were pounding on my chest. I felt that a part of me had been severed. I couldn’t even bear to look at myself in the mirror. The circle of doom had tightened its grip on me. The walls of my room overlooking the Ministry of Interior building closed in. Everything was lying in wait for me—even the distant trees. Something unknown was creeping toward me, but by the time it reached me, it had lost its voice.

I stumbled into the street, trembling. I thought of calling a friend to confirm I was still alive, but fear had stolen my voice. I went to Ghouria, that bustling district, absorbing its colors to dispel the darkness inside me. I watched a woman flitting about lightly and playfully, hoping the crushing fear in my chest might lift. The evening arrived quickly, offering me its condolence. Cairo’s daylight is a scalpel—it leaves nothing unopened—while night, my intimate friend, liberates me from this reality. I went to “Arabesque,” my favorite café on winter nights. The evening was tender, but it stood before me like a person sobbing uncontrollably. I found myself reaching out into the void—like a blind woman searching for a hand to help her cross the street—until my phone’s ringing startled me.

I should have told Asmaa that her decision to return to her village meant nothing but certain death. I should have sensed her hurried steps on that road and stopped her before she reached the end. But I, too, was feverish in my escape, scattering myself across streets and cafés so no one could catch me. Her death is the bloody World Cup—her death subtracted from my life and my death. You are a blue, bitter word, O death of Asmaa. “She was taking a photo while walking through her village. As she stepped back, the canal swallowed her, and she drowned.” This is how my friend told me over the phone. This is how the bitter life dissolved in the muddy canal waters. The body’s tremors and shivers ceased. The chains around her neck and feet melted away. Hurt appeared as blue bruises across her body—the hurt from those near and far. Unspoken words were buried with her, along with the small dreams of a young woman in her twenties who longed for self-fulfillment and joy. What remains, then?

How did Asmaa spend the final months of her life in the grip of that oppressed family from the South, branded with shame since the moment she left the village? I can imagine, now and always, the family’s inspections of her body and soul—their vigilance for any gesture or movement that might reveal what drove Asmaa to migrate to Cairo. They would never believe that a dream had brought Asmaa to the capital—because it is not the right of a southern girl to dream. To be precise, it was not only the dream of fulfillment that drove my friend to rebel, but the desire for life itself. She was a daughter of the South, and I am a daughter of the Delta—ten years older. But I know nothing in my life but the spiritual killing, burial and crushing that oppressed Egyptian families practice—routinely—against daughters who dare to stray from the path drawn for them in advance.

Where, then, could this young woman seek refuge after becoming a prisoner of the authority of a southern family convinced that their daughter’s presence alone in the capital would bring them an indelible shame? If the sense of shame is what sets fire to their chests, should we simply surrender and believe this absurd story of death?

A year before her death, despair had gripped Asmaa’s heart. The newspaper where she worked did not list her among the appointed staff, which meant she could not obtain a journalist union card. That card was her salvation—it would allow her to hold up her identity to her family and claim a sliver of freedom, enabling her to walk the streets like other people without hiding her face. But, as is known, those in charge do not concern themselves with such matters. When her family learned she had been excluded from the union list, they seized the opportunity to bring her back. The twenty-five-year-old could not resist their authority. She was forced to return—gathering what belongings she could from the women’s residence, preparing to depart. They took her by force, because in their blind logic, she would bring them shame and turn their name into gossip.

A week after her death, the words of our mutual friend over the phone wove a shroud around my body. “Asmaa was killed. I advised her before her trip that returning home posed a danger to her life, but she didn’t know where to escape. Maybe she realized there was no way out. The story of the canal wouldn’t convince a small child—it was fabricated by the family after the news reports claiming Asmaa had committed suicide appeared on news websites. The family flew into a rage and threatened everyone until they deleted the articles.”

In the days that followed, I was bombarded with phone calls from the family of my murdered friend. The man boiled with fury, as if he wanted to stretch his blood-stained hand to seize me. His question coiled around my neck: “Who harmed Asmaa? Who did she meet? You were the closest to her.” When the eldest sister sensed that the father’s aggressive approach would lead them nowhere, she took on the role of investigator. She told me that Asmaa had been suffering from a severe psychological condition before her death. In their attempt to absolve themselves of the crime and pin it on some random stranger, she said, “Asmaa always used to say that someone had inflicted great harm on her. Do you know who it was?” The sister persisted in her inquisition for more than a month, employing every method of emotional blackmail—like telling me, “If you’re truly sad about your friend’s death, then you must reveal who harmed her.” Grief had silenced me. I couldn’t tell the sister that the harm Asmaa suffered was embedded in her very existence in this corner of the earth, with all its bloody legacy that turns our lives—us women—into hell.

Perhaps I should have told her that Asmaa’s face was nearly erased from how often she hid it behind her veil, terrified that her brother might catch sight of her in the labyrinthine streets of Cairo, where we lose ourselves in the crush of crowds. I should have told her many things—even that I know the truth, and that she should mourn forever for this gratuitous killing of her young, hopeful sister, and that the murderer should dig his own grave. But I couldn’t. And that sister couldn’t stop chasing me—just like the woman from Shubra to whom I will surrender myself, so she can release me from this guilt: my very existence.