How can we talk about trauma?

Nadine Labaki has become one of the most celebrated Arab storytellers of contemporary cinema, in part because of the particular ethics with which she approaches trauma.

She is less interested in explaining the circumstances that produced a character's suffering than in observing how that character moves through the world while carrying it. The character is not presented simply as a symbol of the refugee crisis or childhood poverty. He is angry, funny, stubborn, affectionate, perceptive, and capable of making mistakes.

Labaki moves the camera away from catastrophe and toward personhood. Instead of asking, “How can I show the audience how terrible this situation is?”, her filmmaking asks something closer to, “Who is this person living inside this situation?” Her use of non-professional actors, improvisation, handheld camerawork, and attention to small everyday interactions all contribute to that objective.

The trauma is part of the character's reality, but it is not the character. Listening becomes an artistic practice in itself. To listen responsibly is to recognize that a person may tell their story differently depending on how safe, understood, or exposed they feel, and how far their little experiences are valued. 

The time and effort behind this newsletter come from the Egyptian Streets team of independent, grassroots journalists. By subscribing for just USD 1.66 per month (EGP 80), or as little as USD 0.84 per month (EGP 40) for students (paid annually), you’re directly supporting the creation of content like this and helping sustain independent media in Egypt.

Support our work and subscribe by clicking here.

Stories of trauma ask something different of the person telling them. They ask us to approach another person's suffering without confusing access with ownership, and without assuming that because a story can be told, it necessarily should be told in full.

When writing about sexual violence experienced by refugees in Egypt, for example, the most powerful approach is not always to place the survivor's pain directly before the reader. Sometimes the story is carried through the voice of someone who works closely with survivors, allowing the reality of the violence to be acknowledged without requiring those who experienced it to repeatedly expose themselves.

To tell the story only through the violence would be to flatten a person's existence into the worst thing that has happened to them. A more careful form of storytelling considers the landscape around the trauma, such as the circumstances that may have made someone vulnerable, the systems they encounter afterward, and the often invisible work of surviving and rebuilding.

The person becomes more than a victim within the narrative. They become someone situated within a complicated world, carrying an experience that is significant but not sufficient to define the whole of their life.

Read the article here.

In The Beggar, Naguib Mahfouz narrates trauma through the fragmented consciousness of Omar El-Hamzawi, using internal monologue and stream-of-consciousness techniques to reveal a psychological crisis that cannot be fully expressed through conventional narration. 

Mahfouz portrays his trauma as an ongoing state of mental and emotional disconnection. Omar’s thoughts repeatedly move between memories, desires, fears, and observations of the present, creating a narrative that reflects the instability of his inner world.

The external events of the novel are often less significant than Omar’s reactions to them. His consciousness becomes the primary setting of the story, and the reader experiences his dissatisfaction from within rather than simply being told that he is unhappy.

Read more here.

When Abdallah’s father discovers he stole his gun, he ties up his son and dangles him down a well. The event in itself is traumatic, yet the book does not treat traumatic events as standalone moments. They are intertwined and layered on top of other experiences, so that even when Abdallah recollects the incident, he narrates it through a stream of consciousness rather than a perfectly articulated memory.

A stream of consciousness is an especially effective literary technique for depicting traumatic experiences, and Jokha Alharthi executes it brilliantly in Celestial Bodies. Unlike traditional linear narrative, which presents events in a neat, chronological sequence, a stream of consciousness mirrors the non-linear, fragmented way the human brain actually processes terror.

Trauma continually bleeds into a character's present moment rather than remaining safely trapped in their past.

Read more here.

Ablozé’s background is super interesting; he moved from Damascus to study classical music in France, and eventually landed in Cairo. You can hear all three of those places in his music, but it never feels forced or messy.

His music builds a real sense of mood. It feels like a late-night drive through a city that's both familiar and far away. He blends subtle classical guitar loops with smooth, low-key electronic beats. It's got that bittersweet, nostalgic feel of Levant music, but packaged in a fresh, modern groove.

Listen here.

Set during the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon at a private school in the mountains outside Beirut, the film takes place entirely on a single school day. While jets fly overhead and teachers debate whether to evacuate, 11-year-old Wissam is preoccupied with a much bigger emergency, such as working up the courage to pass a love note to his classmate Joanna before the school year ends. 

Nadine Labaki has a remarkably intimate way of portraying trauma. The world may treat Wissam's life as disposable, but the film does not. His little heart—its fears, attachments, hopes, and capacity for love—is treated as something worthy of attention in its own right.

His childhood does not disappear simply because the world has become brutal; instead, it becomes more visible.

Watch it here.

The Sicilian Sandwich brings together the simple, bold flavors of Sicily in every bite. Bresaola, roasted marinated vegetables, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, provolone, mozzarella, and fresh arugula come together on focaccia, finished with pesto and a light drizzle of honey. It’s a colorful mix of savory, fresh, and sweet flavors that captures the warmth and character of Sicilian food.

Find out more here.

If you're looking for a night that's actually funny and not just the same recycled jokes, you need to go see Play Crowd. It’s the new show by Alaa El Sheikh, who is easily one of the sharpest comedians in Egypt right now, and the format is just fantastic.

Instead of standing on stage and delivering a rehearsed monologue, Alaa blends his best material with completely unscripted, high-energy crowd work. Half the show is basically made up on the spot using whoever is sitting in the room. Because of that, every single night is completely different, totally wild, and genuinely unpredictable. 

Find out more here.