Berkley Center

Beards and hijabs, skirts and niqabs: the symbols of devotion, freedom, culture, oppression, or fashion, depending on which op-ed you're reading. What one can and cannot wear on his or her body is the topic of conversation du jour in Egypt. However, there is still one beard of relative importance to me that has been left out of the conversation so far: mine.

I started growing a beard before I left for Cairo because I wanted to fit in with the locals. Since high school, my appearance has almost always included some form of scruff, but the first time I ever committed to full beard-dom was in preparation for my trip to Cairo. After hearing horror stories from a Coptic Christian friend of my uncle, I was prepared to change almost anything about my appearance and demeanor in order to blend in with the Cairean locals. In addition to growing my beard, I changed my name to the ambiguous ‘John’, I stashed my Star of David necklace in my safe, I told people on the street that I was Lebanese, and I resolved to never talk about religion or politics in public.

The first couple of months went swimmingly. Due to the beard, I was mistaken for a local religious Muslim many times, garnering me cheaper prices at the stores and less harassment when we paid taxi drivers. As long as I didn't speak too much Arabic, I had them convinced that I was Egyptian, or at least of Arab descent. But as I became accustomed to people treating me like a Cairean, I found that I started acting more like a Cairean. I had a short temper, because the residents of this monstrous, anonymous, hodgepodge city wait for no man. I cut in front of people whenever they weren't moving fast enough. I littered when trashcans were too inconveniently located. I ignored men passed out barefoot in the middle of the sidewalk. —I couldn't be bothered. I spoke loudly and rudely about the lack of leadership, right in front of the people in charge. How else could I have gotten anything done here? I showed up late without concern for the wasted time of others, because Caireans don't care about anyone's time but their own. And I justified it all by telling myself that this is what it takes to survive in Cairo.

But about two weeks ago, one of my friends asked me why I always talked about how much I dislike living in Cairo. I love the friends I'm making, and I’m having a wonderful experience studying over here. It is true, —unfortunately, —that the American University in Cairo is a total logistical nightmare, but that was expected. The pollution is bad, but again, expectedly so. I sat moodily the rest of the night trying to find an answer that let me off the hook, but it all kept coming right back to me. The only possible explanation was that I reviled Cairo because of whom it turned me into. I am only human. I admit it. I am partially a product of my environment, and the environment in Cairo has groomed me to be a jerk. Any egotistical, self-interested tendencies that I managed to suppress in the United States were coaxed out of me by the constant reinforcements of the dynamics of life in Cairo. I take responsibility for my weaknesses, but Cairo was a necessary factor in my transformation, so it isn't totally off the hook either.

For my Eid break this weekend, my friends and I escaped to Istanbul. As we were wandering towards the Blue Mosque one day, a beggar came up to me asking for charity. As in Cairo, I brushed right past his outstretched arm, and inserted a, “No, sorry. I can't today,” mid-sentence, without missing a beat. Five paces later, the empathetic part of my brain (that I worked so hard to repress) finally registered the words he was saying. “Wait, did you say ‘water’?” I asked, as I turned around. He pointed to my water bottle and nodded. “Of...…of course you can have my water bottle. Sure, here, take it.” I handed him my $0.30 water bottle and—, embarrassed, —brushed off his fervent blessings as we walked away. What kind of a person doesn't give a poor thirsty man a drink of water? What have I become?

Immediately upon my return to Cairo I announced the death of John Moskowitz. He had served me well, but with less than two weeks left, the time has come to let him go. I shaved off my beard, I pulled my Star of David out of the safe, I announced to my friends that I would appreciate it if they started calling me ‘Yonatan’, and I swore to be a caring human being for the remainder of my time in Cairo. Like in those bad 1980s cop shows, I'd been undercover too long. I could no longer recognize the difference between who I was pretending to be and who I really was. If I act like a jerk, speak like a jerk, and think like a jerk, I'm not just pretending to be a jerk anymore.

I am now happily beardless after my symbolic shearing, and I'm striving to retrain myself to care about other people again. I failed a great test of will, but I am not alone. Even the great Rabbi Hillel had to remind his students, "In a place with no humans, we must strive to be human.” I didn't strive. I didn't succeed. Now I just hope that it isn't too late to spread some ‘Yonatan love’ over here before I head home.

To me, my beard was not a sign of my religiosity. It wasn't forced upon me, and it wasn't cultural, fashionable (heavens, no!), or a tribute to my freedom. My beard was a symbol of personal weakness, and of a willingness to sacrifice my sensitivities in order to get what I wanted. I will probably grow another beard eventually, but next time it will be a voluntary, isolated change in my appearance, not just one of a number of sacrifices to Cairo’s more animalistic spirits.

Disclaimer: I do not claim that Cairo is representative of Arab or Egyptian culture in general. I do not speculate on how important (or unimportant) the influences of Islam, Christianity, Judaism, Egyptian culture, poverty, overcrowding, or corruption are on the dynamic of life in Cairo. I just point out that I was not strong enough to resist the pull of the baser selfishness that is encouraged by this mix of influences (whatever they may be).