Ismailia

We were all sitting on a big kelim (كليم) or rug under a mango tree in one of Ismailia’s many mango groves. Me, Cole, our three kids, my parents, and my youngest brother Salah. My dad proposed playing fawakeh (\فواكهfruits) as we waited for our feteer (فطير) and mango juice. A classic game we played growing up where each person identifies themselves with a fruit and then everyone together starts a gentle body-tapping rhythm by slapping their thighs twice, then clapping their hands twice, then snapping their fingers twice. As your snapping your fingers you say your fruit name followed by whoever you’re tagging next. And it has to be in tune with the snap-snap of your finger. Very simple and surprisingly entertaining. Amina eagerly joined. Sina watched a few rounds to get the hang of it. And Rawy threw dirt up in the air like it was confetti. I could barely feel July’s sweltering heat tapping away under the trees’ cool shade. Even if others disagreed, no one complained as we slurped away at our deliciously thick mango juice.

You can’t be in Egypt in the summer and not experience the tangy sweetness that is mangoes. As kids, when it was mango season, it meant taking off your shirt and sitting with a few friends or relatives and as a collective slurping away – as politely as possible – at them mangoes. I’m proud to say all my kids are very enthusiastically being inculcated into this and many other mango traditions.  

I recently learned that mangoes were introduced in Egypt by Orabi – the famous Egyptian military officer who led the 1882 revolt against Khedive Tawfiq and his British cronies. The revolt failed miserably and turned the British’s de facto meddling of Egypt into de jure occupation. Boots on the ground and all. Poor Orabi was exiled to the British colony of Ceylon – contemporary Sri Lanka. When later in the early 1900s, he asked for clemency, the British granted him his request. He packed up what was left of his dignity and returned home an old man with a mixed legacy and a pocket full of mango seeds.

But if mangoes are an inseparable part of Egyptian summers, it is particularly so for Ismailia as marked by their annual mango festival. Ismailia is a city in north-eastern Egypt and is famous for things other than its mangoes. Interestingly, it is the city where Hassan El Banna first founded the Muslim Brotherhood back in 1928. It’s named after Khedive Ismail and lives right along the Suez Canal. That’s the thin strip of water connecting the Red Sea to the Mediterranean and separating the only part of Egypt that falls in the Asian continent– the Sinai Peninsula - from the rest of the Africa-bound country. The city’s location right alongside the canal is not coincidental. In 1863, it was created for the French to set up shop while the canal was being constructed. The entire city’s economy is intricately tied to the Canal.

At any rate, we have relatives there – my dad’s cousins – and I have fond memories visiting the city growing up. Quiet wide roads. Luscious trees. Old French villas. But it’s been a while. The last planned trip was in 2014 when my in-laws were in Egypt for our wedding. But Cole had issues with his Kenya visa (our honeymoon destination) so he couldn’t go and I stayed with. So neither him nor the kids had ever visited. And given Cole’s exceptional love of mangoes – and the fact that we always try to visit different parts in Egypt with the kids – we planned a day trip to Ismailia.

Ismailia in the 1930s

A mere hour and a half car-ride from Cairo and we were at the grove being greeted by a very cordial teenager as she led us through her family’s property and guilelessly embodied the stereotype of people of Ismailia being exceptionally hospitable.

As we transitioned to our next stop – the newly minted Suez Canal Musuem, we unfortunately forgot our basketful of mangoes that my mom, Salah, and Cole had picked themselves! The museum was fun, which isn’t something one can easily say about any museum in Egypt. There is often so much content and not enough “marketability” of said content that the experience ends being overwhelming. This museum though was evenly paced, had a hologram of Khedive Ismail as he wrangled with De Lesseps over ownership of the canal, and little clip on the story of Aida. Typically, I don’t have a very high opinion of Khedive Ismail but the trip left me wondering if his intentions were good despite his legacy of crippling Egypt with debt.

I really wanted to visit Tabat Al-Shagara – an Israeli military base in northern Sinai east of the canal. It was set up after Israel occupied Sinai in 1967. After Egypt penetrated the Bar Lev line in 1973 and reseized Sinai, the Israeli base was quickly abandoned leaving behind tanks and dormitories and all. The site now stands as a historic open-air museum commemorating this moment and I was curious to see if it amounted to much. But we needed to take a ferry to cross into Sinai and with everything going in Gaza and along the border, ferry-rides were severely restricted to foreigners (aka Cole). So it didn’t work out this time.

Instead, we went over to my dad’s cousin’s house. They had a fish feast ready for us that all the adults relished while the kids eyed warily and eventually begrudgingly ate. Amidst the clitter clatter of spoons as dishes were past back and forth I asked my dad’s cousin if they had always lived in Ismailia. She nonchalantly said yes always other than when they were displaced (اتهجروا) when she was little and then again when she went to college in Cairo. It took me a moment to process because I didn’t usually hear the word “displaced” in this context. After Israel occupied Sinai in 1967, the Egyptian government ordered residents of all cities along the Canal - Ismailia being one of which - to temporarily move away for security reasons. Ismailia governorate shared a border with North Sinai and only the canal separated the two. So from 1967 till the mid-1970s my dad’s cousin had to leave her home because of the occupation. That was the displacement she so casually referenced.

It struck me how personal an impact it must have had for them and how sheltered even us Cairenes were from this moment. Part of it is generational I’m sure – my parents probably processed this information differently than I am now though they themselves were kids then. (I wonder if they were as struck by my aunt’s offhand tangential reference to a major historical event that somehow seamlessly weaved into her own story of her life? I should’ve asked.)  But part of it is just sheer proximity. We learn about 1967 in our school books. We know Israel occupied Sinai. And we even know about the bravery of the frontier Canal cities and what they had to go through. But we didn’t all experience it the same. And in 2024, almost 60 years later, I feel like I’m internalizing this piece of information differently. It’s been whisked in with an intimate family moment and now lays as a hodgepodge memory swirling in a part of my brain that isn’t just “news” or “history”. I wonder if that’s how many people are feeling watching all the reels coming in from Gaza and now Lebanon on Instagram or Tiktok. Somehow it all feels more personal.

The comment washed over me as the delightful family chatter continued. We lounged afterwards and were treated to coffee and the most scrumptious desert - balah-el-sham (بلح الشام) – my and Beano’s favorite. My parents relived school and early adulthood memories and the sitting area was filled with their easy laughs and chuckles. I felt warm and bubbly with vicarious nostalgia and found myself wondering if any of this was going to stick in my kids’ memories.

After we said our goodbyes, my aunt’s kids and grandkids – so our second cousins? – took us on a sunset falouka-ride in Timsah lake near where it opened on the Canal. It was loud and boisterous and you can see Sinai right across on the other side. An hour later, we were on the road again heading back to Cairo, Cole and I daydreaming about an alternative dimension – or possibly sometime in the future? - where we could see ourselves settling in somewhere like Ismailia.