Introduction to 3J Stories
Salam,
For the past two years working as a tour guide in Amman I’ve met hundreds of tourists from all around the world, my optimum goal was to share our culture through food and historical tales about our region, whether it was architectural, religious, or cultural stories. I always felt like I would get drafted into “demonizing” Western colonialism or talk about our typical enemy which is the Israeli occupation of the Palestinian’s lands. After a while, I noticed how it grew on me and my message was gradually turning into a hateful ideology to the West and that’s not something I am willing to spend hours of my life doing. So I’ve decided to rather “humanize” us, the Arabic and Islamic nations. Simply because the power of a loving and peaceful message is much stronger than that of a hateful one to an enemy that deserves this hatred, but for my good and my peace, I am no longer interested in such an approach.
From now on I am going to try my absolute best to learn about my past and present, by sharing stories about historical figures and interesting stories that I’ve been gathering all my life and reflecting on the connections I’ve made here in Amman, Jordan. There are many talented individuals in this densely diverse city, I will be sharing tales of friends and people I’ve met in my expedition here in Jordan.
We will start with a series of 10 stories as the beginning of a hopefully longer journey of storytelling. The videos will be uploaded and edited on our YouTube channel and shorter ones on our Instagram account.
Alongside that, I’ll be uploading blogs talking about how I feel about everything that I and the guest discussed and sharing my experience.
The whole concept is to hopefully spark some kind of community where we raise the quality of content that aims to show the beauty of the Arabic language, and Islamic beliefs and grow the fields of rich culture that I belong to.
Finally, whether you're an Arab by birth, an Arabic speaker who loves this culture, or just a lover of exploration of other cultures, please share your opinions and suggestions with me.
Thank you.
What does it mean to be an Arab?
The short answer is, I don’t have the slightest clue. This is just a humble attempt to understand my identity by writing down my thoughts.
I was born in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, to an extremely patriotic Egyptian father who served in the Egyptian army. Both my parents are Alexandrians who have hardly ever left Egypt. All my dad wished for was to return to his homeland with as much money as he could make working as an accountant in Saudi Arabia.
His plan wasn’t perfect because he married a Palestinian lady, born and raised in Saudi Arabia, with most of her family living in Jordan. Her identity is structured as a Palestinian/Jordanian that belongs to two places only: Palestine “whenever it’s liberated” and Saudi Arabia. The plan started to dissolve after having my brother and me in ’96 and ’98, respectively. In an attempt to give me a better education than they had, I was sent to a British school, or what we call in Saudi Arabia an international school. I was surrounded by foreign Arabs whose parents, like mine, wanted a better education for their children. None of us were Saudi Arabian because a “foreign Arab can never get a Saudi passport,” but most of us spoke a Saudi Arabian dialect, desperately trying to fit into a community we would never truly belong to.
I remember in fourth grade, we went to Jordan for my uncle’s wedding. I was introduced to my cousins from my mother’s side, who seemed very comfortable being Jordanians. Unlike me, who didn’t speak their dialect or look like them due to my slightly darker skin. To them, I was the son of an Egyptian man, or as most of my mother’s family called him, “Amo eltabakh” (Uncle the chef), which is my father’s family name. I was very embarrassed by this because having a family name like “the chef” was apparently funny and a reason to be picked on, although my father was an accountant, not a chef, and in a better financial and social status than the majority of them. However, due to some mythical hierarchy, an Egyptian is considered lower than a Palestinian refugee in Jordan. This dilemma continued with me for a while, trying to distance myself from my father’s family name and his Egyptian background, which was indirectly shamed by many.
As a child, I tried hard to talk like my Jordanian/Palestinian family members, and then we had to go back to Saudi Arabia, back to our normal life. Returning to school, I spoke in a Jordanian dialect, and my foreign Arab friends picked on me for not speaking Saudi like them, although none of us were Saudi Arabian. I was very confused about who I was and who I wanted to be. At home, my father would get infuriated if we spoke in a Saudi Arabian accent. To him, Saudis were ignorant and wouldn’t accept us; we were only Egyptians, nothing else. My mother couldn’t care less, perhaps because she’s just like me but older—not knowing where she belongs.
In 2015, the situation in Saudi Arabia changed dramatically. In my last year of high school, King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia died. He was replaced by King Salman, or should I say MBS, Muhammad Bin Salman, his son and the crown prince. He introduced a rule that forces “Arab foreigners” and anyone who’s not Saudi by birth to pay for residency, which was more than what my father could afford. So, we had to quickly find a university in a Western country to leave. All the years of education in international schools were supposed to allow us to access higher education in a prestigious university since we were students of both IGCSE and SAT, the British and American curriculums I studied for 12 years. I started looking for a country to study in with a logical price. The choice was Germany, a great European country with many opportunities. After hearing stories from my mother’s Sudanese friend whose son was a medical student in Saarbrücken, this became my dream. When you study in Germany, you could return to Saudi in a few years with a strong bachelor’s degree and hopefully a German passport that would open doors the weak Egyptian passport couldn’t. I got a notebook, drew the German flag and map on the first page, and started learning German. But this dream quickly faded as my visa was rejected for reasons unknown.
I grew up a little and gave up on my European dream before it even started. I went to a university in northern Cyprus, where all Arabs were seen as inferior to the Turks and Cypriots. We were mostly looked at as either refugees or barbaric people wanting to destroy their wonderful Turkey. Although we were in an international university that allegedly had to be in English, many lecturers and professors spoke little to no English or at least wouldn’t even attempt to speak the language we paid to be lectured in.
I tried to learn Turkish but never had the will to master it, maybe because I knew and believed that the Cypriots wouldn’t ever accept me. Living in Cyprus for six years, I never felt like I belonged. The only thing that made it easier was my friends, mostly Arabs but from a wider circle. We had Syrians who came from Syria because of the war, Egyptians who moved here because of political opinions that weren’t accepted back in Egypt, and Libyans trying to get a higher education to help fix their country. Many others were like me, foreign Arabs in Gulf countries—Syrians who identified as the sons of Zayed, the ruler of UAE, or Egyptians, Palestinians, and Syrians who thought they were Qataris because they were born there. Only then did I realize my situation wasn’t rare. There are hundreds if not thousands, of people like me who have no idea about their identity and attempt to stick to any richer country simply because they were born there.
When I was 21, I remember thinking about the broader image. Am I the Saudi who was never accepted? The Palestinian Jordanian who everyone thinks is just an Egyptian trying to be one of them? Or the Egyptian who is always looked at by other Egyptians as a privileged Saudi-raised kid? Or perhaps the Arab that can never be a Turkish Cypriot? That’s it—an Arab. That’s the answer to all my questions. I’m just simply an Arab. All of my identities are Arabic; my language is Arabic; my heritage is ultimately pure Arabic.
Right? I still don’t know, but after graduating from Cyprus, I had to come to Jordan because my Turkish visa was rejected again for no logical reason. Here in Jordan, I thought I’d finally connect to my family as a grown man who isn’t trying to be anyone he isn’t. I am an educated Arab man with a bachelor’s in architecture and will easily find a job. Then I was slapped with rejection again because my father isn’t Jordanian. I can only be a son of a Jordanian woman—literally, that’s what it says on my ID card. So I started exploring the rights of sons of Jordanian women cardholders and found out it’s not that great. I am not the priority because I am not Jordanian and can never be Jordanian. But all I want is to be in a place where I belong, my own country, and my people. Wait a second, I am Egyptian. Why don’t I just go back to Egypt? For two reasons: firstly, Egypt doesn’t have a strong economy, and anything I do there will be a million Egyptians who would do it for less money. Secondly, the moment I step foot in Egypt, I have to join the army, which is compulsory for all Egyptian men between 18-30 years.
My anxiety and depression took over because I’ve never in all my 25 years felt like I belonged. I was always an outsider, regardless of my continuous attempts to seek belonging. Until October 7, 2023, the day the Palestinian resistance struck the Israeli occupation. On that day, I felt connected to a cause. I felt something I’ve never felt before. I felt like I found myself. I belonged to this cause, the cause of liberation—not of Palestine, but of myself, the liberty of Omar Eltabakh, the Arab, the storyteller who aims to achieve one thing: to share the story of who we are as Arabs and Muslims with the world. From that day, I decided I’d never look for a group to fit into. I don’t need to. Matter of fact, I shouldn’t fit in, because whoever fits into a group becomes them and only what that group believes, and I am definitely not that.
I am a representative of Muslims on the widest spectrum, and among Muslims, I represent Arabs. Among Arabs, I represent Egypt and Palestine, among Egyptians and Palestinians, I represent the people of the two cities closest to my heart, Alexandria and Jaffa. Within these two beautiful cities, I represent my two families and among them, I am the result of my parents and life experiences. Finally, within myself, I represent Muslims and Arabs. You see, the answer is very simple—I am me, I represent Omar.