A ululation is a wail that has learned to dance

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In Tahrir Square, I had a date.

He suggested meeting in front of KFC, a fast-food landmark in a square where meaning shifts with time and with whoever occupies it: protesters, tourists, or those whose passion speaks different languages, gestures, and notes.

In that corner, amid the rush of passersby, I realized we weren’t alone. Others like us lingered quietly, not out of sight, but easy to overlook if you didn’t know what to look for.

He greeted people, stopping to chat, sometimes introducing me, often not. Then a queen approached. Her name was Sabah, like the famous diva. Short, stout, with a body that may have once been sculpted by the gym but had since softened. And she knew that softness made her even more desirable. She looked me over, her expression a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
“Do you have the password to the club?” she asked.

The club—that’s what they called it. A public secret, known by many, acknowledged by none. That was before 2011, before the collective lost its name and scattered in new directions.

“What’s the password?” I hesitated.

Without warning, she broke into a ululation, a sharp, beautiful cry that cut through the noise of the square. Heads turned. She didn’t care about the shock of onlookers. Her ululation was perfect, wild and free. That was the password.

*

When I was thirteen, my father left for a work trip to Cairo. A trip he would never return from.

The details of that day are blurry, but some moments are vivid. I remember standing there, reticent, as my younger sisters hugged him goodbye. My mother nudged me forward, urging me to embrace him too.

An hour before the news came, I was listening to Mariah Carey on a cassette tape. I allowed myself to turn up the volume because my father wasn’t there. Her voice soared, screaming the pain of love lost, of a longing so deep it consumed everything. Then the phone rang.

That moment I remember clearly. My mother wailed, a sound so primal, so raw, that it’s forever etched in my memory. Neighbors rushed in. One older woman who lived upstairs, usually distant and composed, looked at my mother first, then at my sister, and finally at me. And then burst into tears.

*

That night, my date drifted off with someone from Tahrir. He didn’t say it was a hookup, but I understood. I was left with his friend Amr, a skinny, dark-skinned boy with a soft voice. He liked older men, men his father’s age. As if chasing a version of love that didn’t come with the condition of being a real man.

The night thinned, its boundaries gave way, and I found myself inside something larger than my original intention. He took me to the cafés of Korba, where different groups gathered—people from downtown, others from the city’s edges, melting together into a strange, exquisite blend.

In Cairo, there are two kinds of people: those with cars and those who walk.

As we strolled through Heliopolis, a car full of boys cruised by. They called out, their teasing quick and knowing. One of them asked me bluntly which one of them was my type.

One of them was stunning. He wore thick, nerdy glasses that made him more attractive. His clothes were simple but carefully chosen, the kind of person that didn’t try too hard because they didn’t have to. I finally pointed at him, naively, and they laughed and said things I didn’t understand.

For a moment, it felt like that was where I belonged. But then, just as suddenly, I didn’t.

*

When my father died, we sold his silver car.

It was new, barely used. At thirteen, I was far from driving age, and we needed the money. That car was my only prospect of driving, and when it was gone, so was the dream.

When I moved to Cairo, the thought of driving terrified me. The streets were chaos, and everyone behind the wheel seemed to scream, curse, and rage. I couldn’t imagine becoming one of them. I couldn’t imagine raising my voice.

But later, in the cars of my friends, it was us against the world. We cruised from Dokki to downtown, from there to Nasr City. One of my friends yelled playful provocations at men walking by, comments about their swagger, their build, that bounce they thought no one noticed. It was a kind of revenge for the slurs and stares we endured when we walked the streets. Some men laughed, others cursed. A few played along.

Another friend stuck his head out the window and unleash his flawless ululation.

One night it was my turn do was my turn to do something edgy. I hesitated to ululate, I hadn’t mastered it. I leaned out of the car and poured out a wail, a sound of grief, mourning. People jumped, startled by a voice they knew too well, a voice that meant some tragedy had struck.

This time, it wasn’t just sorrow. It carried a force that interrupted the night, that unsettled the street. It didn’t ask for pity. It announced itself throughout the city like a hag mocking her audience.

Inside the car, we burst out laughing.