I looked from the hotel terrace to find flocks of black
niqabs moving everywhere, interrupted by the waitress’s poor English and fake
smile, I looked at a face covered by tons of white powder under Egypt’s harsh
sun, the poor girl looked like a demon in a Japanese Opera.
I smiled sadly, touched my aging skin and remembered. At
school I was called Bint el Turkiyya, because of my fair complexion. My friends
loved the idea that I was different, kept repeating: el Turkiyya, el Turkiyya.
My mother “ el Turkiyya” died when I was 3, left me few Turkish words, not
enough to make me non- Egyptian. My father used to hide me in his hugs and murmur
“tell them Egypt’s greatest Sultana was just like you, “Turkiyya””.
During the university years my complexion and Arabic tinted by a French accent
were embarrassing, as these were the early years of the furious revolution. Brunettes were
filling the lecture halls enthusiastically; their skin, dark eyes and wavy hair
were celebrated and associated with Nefertiti and Cleopatra. My skin was a
reminder of Imperialism. I was a “refused beauty”!
I touched my cheeks, still trying to wipe his first kiss. He
was an opportunist, a parasite from the countryside, who knew that Cairo
expelled her Pashas, and the chairs became empty. At first he could not believe
that he possessed that blonde girl with her Foreign accent, he worshipped my
white skin, but his touches were irritating, quick, shaken and rough as if he
was stealing, as if he did not believe that could ever have the right to touch
me. For him I was his share from the Revolution. All of this became disgusting;
he got bored from the refined lady that he married, from his own feeling of
inferiority. The pale and fair complexions left and as I had always been considered
one of them I had to follow. I left.
