The girl I once was: An Egyptian feminist becomes a mother

“Do you want to keep it?”

Those were the doctor’s first words at the health clinic in Bologna. I had shown her a picture of the pregnancy test I took to make sure I understood what it meant. Her question caught me by surprise. In Cairo, I would have never been asked that question. It was new for me to have my bodily autonomy acknowledged.

After years of introspection and dismantling patriarchal norms in my family and my society, applying the lessons imparted to me by White feminism, unconsciously denying myself the pleasure of motherhood, rejecting the joy and support from my family.

I discovered I was pregnant at five weeks. The midwife told me people usually share the news after twelve weeks, just to be safe. Her voice, along with the many others in my head and those of my family, was a constant companion throughout my pregnancy.

For as long as I can remember, these voices—the ‘people,’ or the ‘others,’ in my head that I feared—be it my parents, teachers, or religious figures, kept me in line with the rules, always questioning the validity of my opinions. After all, you don’t want them to think you’re a bad girl. And what would they say if you came home too late? This back-and-forth became a long-standing battle between what I felt was right and what they said was wrong.

I was a teenager when I started reading and getting involved with various civil society groups involved with women’s rights. I’m from a family of strong women, and I found myself repulsed by the condition of women in Egyptian society. I began to question, push, and undermine the boundaries of what was expected from me as a young woman. I joined one initiative after the other during my adolescence, my extracurriculars culminating in a postgraduate program abroad in gender studies.

I left home because I needed to separate myself from the internal battling voices instructing me what I should and shouldn’t do with my life. My time abroad introduced me to Western feminist schools of thought, but my friends and colleagues exposed me to the theories, experiences, and solutions derived from the Global South. By the time I graduated, I had worked out that the cornerstone of feminism was at the intersection of solidarity, care, and justice.

I should have taken the time to process the news of my pregnancy, but my first instinct was to put the baby first. This meant new rules, drastic life changes: quitting nicotine, drinking, and enjoying sandwiches with tons of mayonnaise. Most importantly, I learned how to say no. By sharing the news of my pregnancy, I could set new boundaries—an acceptable excuse for any inconvenience I may have caused, if you will.

In “How to Mend: Motherhood and Its Ghosts,” Iman Mersal shares her life before pregnancy. Her experience was almost identical to mine, a life so unhealthy that we both felt guilty upon discovering we were pregnant, as though not looking after ourselves was the first maternal mistake we had made. If we didn’t change our habits immediately, our bodies would have birthed children with an array of health problems.

Western feminist movements—even the most radical of them—deny the uniqueness of motherhood as an experience. These feminists, she argues, believe that any discussion of motherhood as a particular experience only contradicts their demands for gender equality.

There are two defining features of our shared experiences. First, we’re both Egyptian. Second, we each spent our pregnancies, and later birthed our children, abroad, where access to affordable and immediate healthcare did not substitute the care and support we would have received back home.

In Egypt, motherhood is highly regarded and appreciated, and widely considered one of the most noble accomplishments in a woman’s life. I often critiqued this collective belief in favor of women having the right to choose what they want for themselves. And, besides, motherhood is not the highest achievement I’m capable of—women are more than their ability to reproduce.

But, there I was, after years of introspection and dismantling patriarchal norms in my family and my society, applying the lessons imparted to me by White feminism, unconsciously denying myself the pleasure of motherhood, rejecting the joy and support from my family. I denied myself special treatment, including the benefits I was owed by law in Italy, like designated seating on public transport and skipping the queue in bureaucratic offices.

Instead of taking up more space, I found myself shrinking to half my size. I didn’t want to be accommodated, helped, or cared for because—in my mind—this indicated some sort of defeat that vindicated the patriarchy, making me another burden in the workplace. I smiled and told others I was feeling great, I didn’t need to sit down, thank you. I pushed myself to my farthest limits because I didn’t want onlookers to think that I wasn’t not strong enough.

But pregnant women deserve to be accommodated. I deserve a seat on that bus.

After nine weeks, I returned to Cairo. I needed to be with my family, to feel loved and grounded by them. Their care exceeded my expectations. I was sent food, picked up and dropped off by relatives and friends, offered to be taken to appointments, and had all of my errands done for me. Old colleagues and acquaintances went out of their way to be there for me in ways I would have never imagined in Europe. But, of course, with great care comes greater involvement.

In our world, care is not transactional; it’s not a paid job. Mersal’s book highlights how Western feminist movements—even the most radical of them—deny the uniqueness of motherhood as an experience. These feminists, she argues, believe that any discussion of motherhood as a particular experience only contradicts their demands for gender equality.

Suddenly, everyone around me became a licensed doctor, doula, midwife, nurse, and nutritionist. Suddenly, everyone knew better than me.

“Are you sure you can eat that?”

“Wow, your gynecologist must be super chill!”

“You’re joking, you won’t actually do that, right?”

“Do not move. Do not carry that. Do not pick it up.”

“I can hear the baby crying inside your belly because it’s not well fed.”

I never tolerated anybody’s opinions about my body—each comment accompanied by the kindest smile. Yet I found myself trying to defend every action and decision, to prove that I was not harming the baby, and occasionally reminding them that I was a capable person, too—and not just a vessel for another life.

I always wanted to be a mother. Even when I was at my most radical and rebellious, I told myself these maternal desires conformed to the status quo of the nuclear family. I soon realized that by choosing what to do with my body—whether that be to create life or not—motherhood was central to my rights as an Arab woman and a feminist. Being in a safe, loving relationship with a partner who felt like an equal allowed me to confidently believe that motherhood doesn’t have to replicate the patriarchal systems I was raised under in Egypt. I have learned, and I am still learning, how to find the good in both of the worlds I now occupy, be it in Cairo or Bologna, and to accept the nurture I deserve.

Pregnancy has been one of the more difficult, yet rewarding, experiences of my life thus far. Carrying my child has taught me how to revisit my values, reflect on them thoughtfully with all that I’ve learned since I was a young girl, and understand those values in an entirely new light. I wish I could tell myself, fourteen and angry, ready and eager, that I don’t have to choose between motherhood and my feminism.

When my baby was born, he wrapped his tiny hand around my index finger, and I knew I would provide him with a love free from judgement, free from expectation. He could be who he pleased. My feminism—rooted in community, even when it asks me to set aside my individuality—has guided me toward this understanding of unconditional love.