Blog Post #3: From Darkness to Light

My mother told me before she died that her biggest regret in not taking me to Egypt was that I never got to meet my paternal grandmother, Sania.

The name “Sania,” means brilliant in Arabic and it is clear that my mother found that a suitable title for a woman she fondly remembered as a faithful and devoted Muslim with a kind and generous heart. As I began to pursue a religious vocation, my mother remarked that, if there is a gene for faith, I must have taken after my Egyptian grandmother. 

I could not help but think of Sania, and the rest of my Muslim relatives in Egypt, when I witnessed the harassment of Arabs and other Muslim people, living in the United States, in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

These devastating attacks were a defining moment for my emerging sense of self. I am part of a generation that came of age on that dark day. As an American and native New Yorker, the loss suffered by those attacks was incalculable. And yet, I could not help but notice the violence that followed not only in the unending war begun in the Middle East but in what began to occur on the streets of our own towns and cities with increased frequency.

In the days and weeks that followed, the image of American Arabs and Muslims boarding buses and subways with small American flags in their backpacks, in order to prove fidelity to the country and avoid retribution, was one I have never forgotten. Amid that climate of fear, I remember thinking to myself, “that could be me.” The only reason I escaped that same prejudice was that I happened to be born with lighter skin tone than Americans typically associate with Arabs. I am also well aware that had I not legally changed my name from Haggagi to the far more innocuous, Shoemaker, in a post-9/11 world, I would continue to be subject to scrutiny each and every time I tried to board an airplane. My features and name, that don’t tell the whole story of my identity, shield me from a great deal of burdens others with a similar background have to bear each and every day. 

The shock of 9/11, coming just a year after my mother’s untimely death, spurred me to wake up and continue to struggle with my conflicted sense of self. The darkness of those early days of the 21^st-century, while upending, ultimately pushed me towards the light. In the years that followed, study at Harvard Divinity School and a year of work abroad in a “favela” on the western outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, would help me to begin to embrace the diversity of my life’s story. The interfaith setting of a divinity school as well as life in a country such as Brazil, that is just as racially mixed as Egypt, left indelible marks that continue to inform my Christian identity and practice of ministry.

As I began to embrace and increasingly value my multi-faith background, I began to increasingly try and build bridges of reconciliation and understanding – across lines of religious difference – wherever and whenever possible. These interfaith ministry connections were enormously life giving for me.

By the time I got ordained and married, I was in a new place and yet, I had lost touch with my biological father. It had been years since we last talked. But somehow, some way, Hamada tracked me down. 

He called me, out of the blue, one afternoon when I was in my late twenties and we caught up… on a lot. In that single phone call, I told him that my mother had died, that I had gotten married, and that I was now an ordained Episcopal priest (not exactly a dream occupation for the first-born son of a Muslim man). In turn, he would share that he had fathered more children and had married a second wife. I was now the oldest of seven. Pretty unbelievably, we both hung in there with one another. That call, coupled with the encouragement of my wife and mother-in-law (whose own father had abandoned her in childhood), led to a decision to make a trip to Egypt for the first time. 

While still anxious, at the age of 30, I said “yes” to Egypt not only out of a desire to finally see this motherland of mine and reconcile with my father but also because I desired to be in relationship with my six half-siblings, Yousra, Hend, Nour, Sama, Yehia, and Hamza.

As someone raised as an only-child, I yearned to meet and get to know each of them. I wanted to try and build a connection. 

And then, just as I was about to depart for this long awaited trip to Egypt, at the age of 31, on January 25th, 2011, history intervened.

The seemingly invincible Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, who had ruled the country with an ironclad grip since nearly the day I was born, was forced from power the same day my wife and I were to board our plane for Cairo.

The Egyptian Revolution had begun in Tahrir Square that quickly overwhelmed the government.

Cairo was in chaos and my trip simply could not happen but channels of communication had been reestablished with my father. 

When my son Malcolm was born, while I was serving as a priest in Burlington, NC, my biological father, and an uncle, Rabia, came to visit to celebrate with us. My son was Hamada’s first grandchild. 

Shockingly, Hamada was jailed by the Egyptian government shortly after his trip to Burlington. While he was imprisoned, my two daughters were born and time marched on. These years left me wondering again if my father would ever see me set foot on Egyptian soil.

What finally spurred me to try again and plan for this impending trip will be the subject of my next post.