By Mariam Sidani | Staff Writer

‘Asal Aswad’, a film about a love that runs deep. A love that glows fiery red. A love rooted in soil that births sacred olive trees and wizened rippled dates.

The movie follows Masri, a man in his twenties who came back to Egypt to visit old friends after twenty years in America. This film is a core part of my childhood; watching it on repeat was a part of my after-school regime. I watched it for the first time when my family and I came back from Canada, a similar situation of sorts. It broke the stigma of Arabic Cinema as a child who grew up with Western-centered media. I was used to my grandma watching Egyptian black and white movies with jokes I didn’t understand and accents I didn’t pick up. So, as a child at the ripe page of seven, it opened up the notion of “Egyptian films” for me. Masri arrives at the airport— after laughing himself senseless to classic Egyptian comedies on the plane— with his American accent, long hair, Bermuda shorts, and camera strapped across his shoulder. He expects the Egypt of his youth, with the familiar roads, the fava bean vendor around the curb, and the whole romanticized package. But he’s naturally struck with the truth, witnessing bribery and corruption from the waiting line in customs to finding a hotel room. What was once patience and hoping for the best, turns to resentment, anger, and utter frustration towards his country. The film depicts the emotional turmoil of going back to a homeland which is not even a semblance of what was expected. He’s attached to this mental image that he loved endlessly and put on  a pedestal his whole life. He sees his elaborate plans and the sites he wanted to see dwindle away in the all too familiar state of all our nations.

Then after meeting with his childhood mates, he comes to love the country for what it is. He lives amongst them, tastes their food, gets sick from drinking the Nile water, and realizes that if life be indulgence, his past life was merely looking at a shadow of what was deliciously savored in his homeland. The country he loved as a child didn’t warp completely; there are some things that remain. The core still lives, and it lives through the people who make life worth living and give context to culture. He rediscovers Egypt in a new eye, an eye free of the whims of childhood, but perhaps an eye willing to see beyond present circumstance? 

There is a dialogue where Masri is in the living room with his friend’s family, and he has an outburst when his return to America is declined. He curses his luck, points out all the holes in the nation, claiming that they merely pretended to be happy. To which they reply with their concept of utter faith: ‘Things will undeniably get better’. And even if they don’t, there is deep, rooted contentment and acceptance to present circumstances. That concept is very hard to grasp, especially to other civilizations used to wading the sea alone. Civilizations so used to drowning, that floating seems like drought. 

There is a precious, precious air of unison: the warm hum of family dinners, neighbors being closer than brothers, sharing date cookies with everyone on the street on the holidays, the hearty laughs and lively music, the call to Friday prayer, and the freshly pressed olives that taste of history itself.

Such sentiment is worth more than life. I would live merely just to honor it, for it is more than just listing phrases which evoke a fuzzy feeling; they represent depth that only shows itself when it’s ripped away. Masri was on his way back to America when he realized that he doesn’t want to live a half-life of convenience if it would be reminiscent of death. 

The title translates to bittersweet. A home that is whipped and mutilated, but what are we without it?