CAIRO — I was in Alexandria last year during Ramadan, and was struck by a sign advertising a Maa’idat Al-Rahman (charity iftar) in the Asafra district. The sign read in large, clear letters: “The Table of the Merciful for the Servants of the Merciful.” I had never seen such an eloquent phrasing at the entrance of a charity iftar for the sunset breaking of the daily Ramadan fast.
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Usually, these entrances only bear the name of the host — if it’s a political campaign — or the name of a deceased person whose family sponsors the meal as an ongoing charity for their soul. Sometimes, there’s simply a greeting for individuals who’ve been fasting. But for the residents of this modest neighborhood to choose the phrase “Servants of the Merciful” was an invitation devoid of any discrimination.
A Maa’idat Al-Rahman for all Servants of the Merciful — fasting and non-fasting, Muslim and non-Muslim alike. This thought took me back to Ramadan two years ago when a Christian friend told me he wanted to try breaking his fast at one of these charity iftars one finds all around Cairo. I wasn’t surprised by his interest, but rather by his hesitation. He was afraid to go alone and asked me to accompany him to avoid any uncomfortable situations.
A free meal is a free meal
His reason wasn’t to share in some kind of national unity experience — both of us often mocked the media’s simplistic portrayal of Muslim-Christian relations in Egypt, especially in times when extremists stoked the fires of hatred. Instead, he was simply hoping for a tasty free meal that his Muslim colleagues at work loved to talk about.
The “free” part, seeing the entrenched economic crisis, is also the reason I like going to these charity iftars.
So we agreed to head to the Sayyida Zeinab district, where we found a modest but uncrowded Maa’idat Al-Rahman.
As we approached, my friend pulled down the sleeves of his shirt to conceal the cross he has tattooed on his right wrist. I tried to dissuade him, knowing the tolerance of the locals in a historic neighborhood like Sayyida Zeinab, but his anxiety won out.
Escaping the ghosts of the past
My friend’s family hails from a small village near Al-Kosheh in Dar El-Salaam, Sohag—a place infamous for the massacre of Christians and a stronghold for Islamist movements in the 1990s.
My friend knew neighbors and relatives who were victims of terrorism — some were killed, others were beaten, and many had their homes and businesses looted. His immediate family remained trapped in their home due to open threats from extremist groups. Eventually, they fled to Cairo, carrying their trauma with them.
Growing up, my friend constantly compared the hateful narratives he heard at home about “the other” to his actual experiences forming friendships at school and university. He adopted a radical stance against his own family, defending Muslims in their household debates — where survivors of sectarian violence from Upper Egypt mingled with merchants of bigotry and division in the capital.
He would tell them that Muslims don’t perform ablution with the blood of their sacrificial animals on Eid. That his Muslim female friends who wore the hijab were clean and did not wear the head covering to hide lice in their hair — and that many Muslim women didn’t wear the hijab at all.
The emperor of Ethiopia in Egyptian hospitality
Instead, my own family comes from Harat Al-Nasara (The Christian Alley) in the Ramses quarter of Cairo — a place where a fair-skinned Christian could live next to a dark-skinned Muslim from Nubia. A potential breeding ground for discrimination, whether due to religion or race. Yet, for some reason, such tensions never took root there, from the 1940s to the present day.
One of the most amusing stories I heard growing up was from 1959, when Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia, visited Egypt for the first time. He met President Gamal Abdel Nasser, who had invited him in an effort to ease tensions between the two countries, as Egypt was harboring Ethiopian students who opposed the Emperor’s rule. Pope Cyril VI also invited Selassie to stay at the Coptic Cathedral in Harat Al-Nasara to mend ties between the Ethiopian and Egyptian churches.
Upon his arrival, the Emperor entered the Christian quarter in a grand procession, warmly welcomed by the neighborhood’s residents, who cheered from their balconies and threw flowers in celebration. Haile Selassie mistakenly assumed that the dark-skinned Nubians watching from above were part of the Ethiopian rebel community living in Egypt. Deeply moved by their gesture, he told the Egyptian official accompanying him that he was willing to make peace and arrange for their safe return to Ethiopia. The Egyptian official chuckled and replied, “Your Holiness, those aren’t Ethiopians. They’re Egyptians—Muslims, actually.”
The fake Christian and the fake Muslim
It is important for this story to know that I was born with a greenish birthmark on my right forearm that resembles the small cross Egyptian Christians tattoo on their wrists. Because of it, I’ve had my share of odd encounters — like when an overenthusiastic Christian zealot eagerly asked which church I attended, only to lose all interest when I told him I was Muslim. Or when a devout Muslim, thrilled to see me praying at the mosque, grew dismayed after hearing my full name, which included distinctly Christian-sounding elements.
The Muslims in this country get privileges even when they’re pretending to be Christian!
Returning to the recent quest for the Iftar meal, My friend and I entered the Maa’idat Al-Rahman, leaving behind our historical and social baggage. The host welcomed us with a warm smile and blessings for our fasting. My friend discreetly checked that his sleeve still covered his tattoo before shaking the man’s hand. I extended my own bare hand without hesitation.
The host’s eyes lingered on my birthmark for a fraction of a second before his smile widened. He clapped me on the back and personally seated me at the head of the table—leaving the actual Christian to sit among the Muslim diners.
I glanced at my friend, who had now realized the foolishness of hiding his cross — but too late. Throughout the meal, my plate remained full. Before I could finish a piece of chicken, it was replaced with a fresh serving of pasta. Before my rice ran out, it was replenished with stuffed pastries, all at the host’s insistence.
After the meal, at a nearby café, my friend joked about the over-generous host’s treatment of me. “The Muslims in this country get privileges even when they’re pretending to be Christian!”
I joked that we should try the experiment elsewhere. He wasn’t interested, demanding that I buy him food to make up for the kofta that had been snatched from his plate and placed on mine.
