A Tale of Two Countries
By Sabri Bebawi
THE NY TIMES-PENDING
I was born six years after the end of World War II, not in Europe or America, but in a land steeped in ancient heritage and political upheaval—the United Arab Republic, known today as Egypt. Now, decades later, I find myself living in a place that was once my dream: the United States of America. Yet, the longer I live here, the more I am haunted by a strange déjà vu. What I left behind has followed me. Or perhaps, I have come full circle.
In Egypt, I grew up under the rule of President Gamal Abdel Nasser. He was a dictator by every Western definition, ruling with an iron grip, quashing dissent, and centralizing power. And yet, he loved his country fiercely. His nationalism was not performative. Nasser sought to elevate the dignity of ordinary Egyptians, to cast off colonial influence, and to give his people a sense of ownership over their own destiny.
His methods were often harsh. He expelled thousands of foreigners and even long-term residents. But he did so without spectacle or cruelty. There were no camps. No dawn raids. No children in cages. Even when I disagreed with his actions, I never doubted his motives. Nasser ruled with a misguided but sincere sense of care for his people.
Now I live in the United States, a country I chose, and a country that once promised liberty, inclusion, and respect for all. But under the presidency of Donald Trump, I witnessed a different kind of authoritarianism—one cloaked not in purpose, but in self-interest.
President Trump also expelled immigrants. He targeted families, legal residents, asylum seekers—many of whom had lived here peacefully for years. But unlike Nasser, he did not act with the dignity of a statesman. Instead, cruelty became the point. People were arrested, humiliated, and detained without due process. Camps were built. Children were separated from their parents. Fear became a tool of governance, wielded not to protect a nation, but to please a base.
And so, I carry a heavy burden—a kind of spiritual exile. I am a naturalized citizen of the United States, but I often feel like a subject, not a participant. The ideals I once believed in—justice, compassion, the moral arc of democracy—feel fractured, if not forgotten. I find myself asking questions I never thought I’d ask: Should I stay in a country that no longer respects its own values? Or return to a homeland where religion governs law and dissent remains dangerous?
Neither option offers comfort. Egypt has become more rigid, more theocratic, less free. But America, too, feels more divided, more angry, more unsure of itself. I dream of Europe—Portugal, Spain, Greece—countries that, while imperfect, still seem to honor human dignity. But I live on a modest income. My health is failing. Emigration now feels more like fantasy than plan.
And so I remain. A witness. A participant in name. A stranger in spirit.
But I also write—because silence is not an option. I write to remind others, perhaps even remind myself, that democracy is not guaranteed. That nationalism without empathy is dangerous. That freedom erodes not only through legislation but through neglect.
I have lived under two leaders who claimed to love their nations. One governed with vision, the other with vanity. One sought unity, the other division. Neither was a true democrat, but only one left his people with a sense of dignity.
I am not naïve. I know every country struggles with its contradictions. But I also know that a nation is more than its leader. A democracy is more than its laws. And a citizen, however weary, still has a voice.
I have lived in two countries. Two systems. Two histories. I carry them both. And despite everything, I still believe there is something worth salvaging here—if only enough of us stay awake to what we are becoming.