My parents spent their first six years post-migration to Australia immersing themselves in their new culture. A series of transient forces saw them trade their life in a small country town by the Nile delta for a new beginning in Whyalla. It wasn’t until I was born that they realised their responsibility to recreate a sense of Egypt for their children. This meant a childhood tinged with the sounds, scents, and colours of my parents’ motherland. The sound of Umm Kulthum’s strong voice on cassette. The scent of toum and vinegar teasing the fatta we would be having for dinner. The colours of khayyamiya decorations attempting to replicate an Egyptian Ramadan within the walls of our living room. The fruits of such efforts blossomed into moments where my mouth formed the difficult sounds of my second language, where the jokes of Adel Imam masreheya’s were not lost in translation, and my hips moved along to the beat of Nancy Ajram songs. As I’ve entered adulthood, I’ve become more aware of the nuances inherited from my parents. No longer did I look at their faces searching only for the genetic links…
