Trigger Warning: This article contains stories of assault, slavery, and murder. Disclaimer: The Coptic Narrative Project has written consent to share the story of this individual and their family anonymously. The names and face revealing pictures of real people will not be used.
Where are you really from? I really dread this question.
Not because I am ashamed of where I come from, but because I have yet to understand my own identity. It shouldn’t be that hard to know where I come from, right? Yet, it is a little complicated. I thought that I would share my thoughts, and perhaps through writing about it, I would find enlightenment somehow.
Brace yourselves, this is about to get messy.
My parents, who are Coptic Orthodox by creed and blood, immigrated to Canada from Sudan. The Coptic people are indigenous to Egypt, and once upon a time my Coptic parents’ ancestors were Egyptians who “immigrated” down to Sudan. The reason why I placed the word immigrated in quotations is to be explained further in this narrative. My father was a first-generation Sudanese man from his father’s side, as his father immigrated to Sudan when he was young. My father’s mother and my mother’s mother were sisters (I know, I know, but it was a thing back in the day to marry your cousin I guess) and my grandmothers were 5th generation Sudanese women. My mother was a 6th generation Sudanese woman. You get the point.
My mother’s great, great, great grandfather from her mother’s side migrated to Sudan as the agriculture and economy were better than Egypt’s at the time. He got to Sudan and thought to tell his cousins to reach as well since he was really fond of the land. One of the cousins happened to be my mother’s great, great, great grandfather from her father’s side, and was a farmer who followed suit and made his way down to Sudan soon afterward onto the great land. Basically, both of my grandparents’ families, from my mother’s side, had entered Sudan during the same generation.
My Grandmother and Grandfather
For more information about my grandmother’s story from my mother’s side, there is an article written based on an oral history interview done by Mary Beshay. Click here to check out some of my family’s story. That article goes into my family’s heritage, my grandmother’s childhood memories, and life in Sudan. This article is a follow-up to Mary’s article and is more about my personal identity crisis, which includes stories from my grandmother that struck me vigorously. Since it had such a great impact on me and my idea of identity, some stories left out from Mary’s article are documented in mine.
I was present during the interview that took place between my grandmother and Mary. I heard first-hand the storytelling my grandmother did of my family’s history, and I was in awe. Many of what was told to Mary was new to me as well.
It breaks my heart to know that I almost carried on in life without listening to my own family’s history, knowing NOTHING about where my family came from.
Many generations have passed down stories, upon stories, upon stories. Here we are distracted by social media, by what celebrities are having for breakfast, and not taking a moment to listen to our own narratives and document them for our own descendants. I feel absolutely guilty.
I digress. After the interview took place, Mary and I had to step out for fresh air. It was a heavy story and I was left shocked. Mary and I expected an anticlimactic story about immigration and childhood friendships, such as, “Oh, I used to skip rope with my cousin.” Turns out there was more to my family than that.
I was taking notes during Mary’s conversation with my grandmother and the first thing I wrote in my notebook as an observation was her hesitation to state someone’s religion.
“Don’t say Christian, so no one causes a problem.”
She was so focused on being politically correct, and we could tell she was afraid of opening up completely. Some stories she wanted to hide, not because they were too personal, but because she was worried that they would become a problem. Mary and I had to spend a few moments explaining to her that it’s okay to speak our truth as Copts and tell our stories. We explained to her that our people’s stories have been kept out of literature for too long and now Mary is offering up a platform for them to tell these oppressed stories (shout out to the Coptic Narrative Project!). Soon enough she was convinced that telling these stories were okay and eventually opened up about more than we ever expected.
I’ll begin with “the Mahdi”. Oh, “the Mahdi”. “The Mahdi” was the title my family gave to Mahdist Sudan, led by Muhammad Ahmad bin Abd Allah who claimed himself to be the “Mahdi” of Islam, which is the “guided one”, that would rule a few years before the end of the world. This was from 1881 to 1898 and the world still hasn’t ended yet (awkward). Whenever my family spoke of that time, they would all stop and say, “Oh, the Mahdi” angrily. I knew that I had to investigate why the slightest mention of that time would spark such a negative reaction.
As mentioned before, my grandmother’s great, great grandfather from her mother’s side came into Sudan because the agriculture and economy were better than Egypt’s at the time. He came in during the Mahdist State and was a sailor who called on my maternal grandfather’s ancestors, farmers, to also come into Sudan to take advantage of the wealthy and prosperous land. The sailor would sail within Sudan and become loved by the Mahdist as he would give them rides on his boat, even though there was great conflict between the Mahdist and Anglo-Egypt. His daughter was 5 years old when she was married legally to her cousin because the Mahdist would come by and claim virgins for themselves. However, if they had paperwork that their daughter was married then the Mahdist wouldn’t claim her.
While my grandmother’s ancestor was giving ship rides to Mahdists as they conquered parts of Sudan and married off his daughter at a young age, my grandfather’s great grandmother’s husband was killed in front of her for being Coptic. He was held in the air and a spear was stuck through his body before her eyes. The image was painted worse when my mom described it, but I’ll leave it at that. It was after that when she married my grandfather’s great grandfather.
The 5 year old girl did not move in with her husband until she got her period at around 12 years old. My grandmother was on a phone call with her brother during her interview with Mary to confirm some facts about the Mahdi. During this call she said in Arabic, “Oh yes, and my great grandfather was a slave-trader.” Mary and I instantly turned to each other with wide eyes thinking that perhaps we didn’t understand her Arabic correctly.
As soon as she hung up her phone I asked for clarification, “Your great grandfather sold Black people?”
“Yes, but he was nice to them. He used to let them eat with the family and never treated any of them with force.”
Mary and I were still frozen. It took us a moment to continue speaking to her. Mary turned to me shaking saying she thinks she is going to cry. I felt the same. Here I was, a dedicated ally to the Black Lives Matter movement, angry at systemic racism that was rooted in slavery, and finding out my own ancestor traded people.
“I didn’t see it because it stopped all of a sudden—” she was referring to the attempt by the British authorities to ban slavery in 1899. The British had made it illegal in the early 1800s, but a British General came in 1962 and found that there were still slave traders in Khartoum. Turns out my grandmother’s great grandfather’s family were defiant and did not want to end their slave trade, but my grandfather himself eventually stopped it.
“Later when the slaves had families of their own, they would visit my grandmother’s home for tea.” It bothered me that my grandmother was justifying the slave-trade further.
“It was not like the movies right now. No! The slaves were never treated like that. They were only domestic.”
I asked, “So not like the Americans? Because they’re still killing Black people.”
“No, not like the Americans,” she confirmed.
What happened to the slaves after they were traded? They were treated nicely in my grandfather’s home, but what about the other places they were sold too? I was shaken by the whole conversation. I saw Mary was too. I left Mary and my grandmother to get water and catch my breath.
When I returned 3 minutes later, the topic had changed. My grandmother was telling Mary about the time that she was assaulted by Sudanese police officers for being light-skinned. She retold her story in rather heavy detail that I would rather not retell.
Then, she went on to talk about how my grandfather was wrongly jailed and that sparked their initiative to immigrate. Stories and stories of their experience that I did not know of before. Many that I would have to write in a novel and not just this article. I am happy to finally hear these stories though, despite how heavy they were.
“Where are you really from?”
I really dread this question. I want to say that I am Sudanese because I’ve grown up with Sudanese culture, traditions, practices, and cuisine. But, after learning of my family’s history, I feel like an imposter. I can’t say I am Egyptian either because I only ever learned/experienced Egyptian culture from friends but have never practiced it much at home. When modern day Egypt was established (Egyptian Revolution 1952), my Coptic family was already in Sudan for almost 80 years. The only thing that I can say with confidence is that I am Coptic, indigenous to the land that is now named Egypt. However, I don’t personally feel as if I am an Egyptian. Where do I stand?
I have no trouble saying that I am Canadian. But why do I still have a hard time with the “really from” part of the question? Do I just say it’s none of their business and then walk away?
Recently I was at a dinner party (pre-COVID) with a group of Egyptians who were talking fast, in Egyptian Arabic, and I couldn’t understand their dialect. I asked them to clarify, and they followed-up questioning whether I spoke Arabic or not. I told them that I did, but Sudanese Arabic.
“Wait, you’re from Sudan?” One of them asked.
“Yes.” I did not hesitate.
“So, you’re Sudanese?”
“Yes.” Again, I did not hesitate.
“I’ve never met a real Sudanese person before.”
Am I a real Sudanese person though? Sudan is incredibly multicultural right now so I could easily just say yes, but I struggle to. Technically, I am really from Egypt, but I don’t personally identify as such. I have spent my whole life in Canada, but it’s only been a place of migration and not where I’m really from.
“Where are you really from?”
I really dread this question.
The Coptic Narrative Project would like to thank the contributor for her bravery in sharing her struggle.
For more information on Sudanese History and Coptic Sudanese History:
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