As a young woman who had just graduated from university in Egypt and recently decided to wear the hijab, I often heard Hamza’s name mentioned in our middle-class home, whether by my father, who keenly followed her shows and discussions with leading clerics, or my mother, who saw Hamza as an example encouraging me to explore the media field and become a presenter like her someday.
Both Copts and Muslims say Egypt is our mother because she gives us life, because she is our source, because she is so inextricably linked with religion and identity. But the diaspora often has to make sense of faith in an increasingly secularized world.
Adel hasn’t known what it’s like to travel from one country to another, talk to people from other cultures, learn new skills like diving, enjoy the taste of sushi, smell the warm air or feel the sun.
The Balaha case has become an allegory for the zero-sum game that revolutionary Egyptian artists face in today’s Egypt: a choice between death, exile, incarceration or silence. Of the group, five were released, one died and only El-Behairy remains behind bars five years later.
In the 1920s and ’30s, a handful of women reciters were able to hold down positions in radio and freely broadcast their voices. They would taste short-lived fame, become figures of colossal repute in their professions, and — if only for a brief period — reshape Quran reciting in Egypt.
Egypt's President Sisi has long sought to cast himself as a second Gamal Abdel Nasser. But, as rare public protests early this week illustrated, Egyptians now appear to have lost patience with the performance.
The mangoes were not as good as they usually were. One of my favorite varieties, the Alfons — a cousin of the Indian Alphonso — was bitter and inedible, while the reddish Naoumi carried a muted sweetness that left me craving a phantom taste. The Fas variety — the father of Egypt’s mango — was stained by sunburn. Something was wrong.