To Fit in or Not to Fit In

The Wild Card

Being a foreigner in Germany has a special kind of charm. No, seriously, it does. Between the lingering stares and the ever-classic “But where are you really from?” interrogation, you become an expert in dodging cultural misunderstandings with all the elegance of a cat tripping over its own tail. The dream of seamlessly fitting into German society—especially after years of learning the language and even having an Abitur—well, that fantasy didn’t just die; it was buried within my first month here. Welcome to Germany, where the trains sometimes run on time, but good luck booking an appointment at the Bürgeramt before you hit retirement. Spoiler alert: you won’t.

You see, I came to Germany with all these romantic notions—charming cities, delicious food, people who’d welcome me with open arms because they’re so worldly. And then I arrived. Let’s talk about the food for a moment. If you have a deep appreciation for potatoes—boiled, mashed, fried, sautéed—you’ll do just fine. German cuisine has a certain… utilitarian charm. It’s straightforward, hearty, and rarely tries to surprise you. Currywurst, for example, is essentially a sausage with ketchup and a dash of curry powder, but it’s treated with the reverence of haute cuisine. And when it comes to drinks, water is available, technically—but if you order it over a beer, don’t be surprised if you're met with the same look you'd get if you asked for a fork at a sushi bar.

And oh, the people. The lovely, cynical, perpetually pessimistic Germans, whose favorite pastime seems to be sighing deeply and listing everything wrong with the world. I used to think I was a realist—now I know I’m an amateur. The cynicism here is on another level. It’s almost impressive how they can turn any conversation into a declaration of impending doom. If I hear another “Tja, ist halt so,” I just might throw a tantrum.

Then there’s the so-called efficiency. Germany’s known for its precision, right? Well, not when you’re drowning in a bureaucratic maze so convoluted it could bring a minotaur to its knees. Just when you think you’ve got everything sorted, surprise! There’s another form you didn’t know existed, another appointment you need to book, and another office that only accepts walk-ins on alternate Thursdays—assuming you’ve already waited months just to get a spot. Efficient? Only if you consider soul-crushing patience a national requirement.

Let’s talk about the fun part: identity. In Egypt, I was just me—Shaden, who loves to cook, has a questionable addiction to sugarcane juice, and occasionally gets mistaken for being serious when she’s just existentially confused. In Germany, however, I’ve become an anthropological artifact. “Do you really fast for a whole month? That must be bad for your health!” I’m frequently informed. I’m sure they mean well, but being a Muslim woman abroad is like walking around with a flashing neon sign that says, “Ask me about my culture so you can then argue with everything I say.”

The classic “But where are you really from?” is a rite of passage for every foreigner in Germany. I can try answering with a simple “Egypt,” but that’s merely the trailer. What they’re actually after is the full-length documentary of my existence, complete with deleted scenes and director’s commentary.

Then there’s the art of the backhanded compliment, delivered with the perfect blend of patronizing enthusiasm and misguided fascination. “Wow, you’re so progressive for someone from Egypt!” I can almost hear the unspoken subtext: how did you manage to escape the great desert of oppression? As if Egypt is little more than a dystopian mirage on the edge of their worldview. It’s not that they mean harm—they genuinely believe they’re being insightful. What they don’t realize is that, in their eyes, I’ve been unwittingly promoted to the role of cultural ambassador for all Egyptians, Arabs, and, when the occasion calls for it, the entire Global South.

Heaven help me if I don’t play along for once. Push back even slightly, and suddenly I’m the sensitive foreigner who can’t take a compliment. Because nothing says “welcome” quite like being told my accent is cute, my skin tone is exotic, and my existence is unexpected.

Then there’s the language hurdle. “Wow, your German is so good for a foreigner!” they exclaim, as if I’ve just cracked the Da Vinci Code. But the moment they hear even the faintest trace of an accent, they switch to English faster than I could say “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” It’s not just about helping me out—it’s about reminding me, in the gentlest way possible, that I’ll never really belong.

Through it all, I find myself constantly oscillating between disbelief and bemusement. Germany, the land of precision and efficiency, somehow managed to streamline bureaucracy into a Kafkaesque nightmare. And socially? It’s like everyone collectively agreed to be allergic to warmth. Community? Good luck. Your neighbors are more likely to call the police if your laughter gets too loud than to invite you over for coffee. Don’t you dare mess up the trash sorting system, either, or you might just trigger a national crisis.

Balancing my Egyptian identity with the pressure to assimilate here is a lot like trying to balance an elephant on a seesaw—it’s heavy, awkward, and someone’s going to end up on the ground crying—and it’s pretty easy to guess who.

Then, there’s the main character of this story—loneliness. There’s a special kind of isolation that comes from being thousands of miles away from home, surrounded by people who can’t understand your jokes because they’ve never watched El-Nather. It’s almost romantic, this constant feeling of being an outsider, as if I’m living in a Wes Anderson movie, but without the pastel colors and quirky soundtrack.

It creeps in during those long, grey winter months, where the sun decides it has better things to do than rise, and you find yourself questioning everything—my identity, my purpose, and why Germans put mayo on everything. Seriously, why?

Living in Germany has a way of making me miss Egypt in ways I never expected. It starts small—like realizing that silence can be deafening. In Egypt, even at 2 a.m., life hums around me with a chaotic, comforting rhythm. The relentless symphony of car horns, street vendors auctioning their wares as if my soul is part of the deal, and stray cats loudly resolving their disputes beneath my window—these things I once dismissed as noise now feel like the heartbeat of life.

I miss the audacious hilarity of life in Egypt—the sheer spectacle of someone casually parallel parking on the sidewalk for a “quick errand” or the shopkeeper who acts like my request for a discount has personally ruined his day, only to bid you a heartfelt farewell as you leave. Haggling isn’t just about prices; it’s a full-fledged sport, complete with theatrical sighs, moral debates, and an inevitable sense of camaraderie by the end.

Then there’s the communal living, where borrowing sugar somehow turns into a full-scale interrogation about one’s love life, and relatives who haven’t seen me in years still manage to squeeze in a critique of your weight during their emotional “welcome back” speech.

The absurdities are what make Egypt, Egypt; the cab driver who nearly dodges a three-car collision while dishing out unsolicited yet oddly profound relationship advice, the grocer who knows my family tree better than I do, the late-night koshary runs where the streets are alive with Abdelbaset Hamouda blaring from a rusty car, kids chasing after a deflated football, and elderly women cutting in line with the moral authority only decades of practice can perfect.

Even the mundane felt alive—grocery runs turned into social events, a simple cup of tea stretched into an hours-long symposium of laughter, existential debates, and inevitable political shouting matches, because in Egypt, if we’re not arguing about politics, are we even friends?

Here in Germany, everything is efficient, silent, and often cold. Strangers pass you like shadows, eyes averted, with no intention of asking how one takes their coffee or why one is standing in line with only two apples in their cart. The absence of connection becomes a void, a quiet reminder that, despite the precision and order, something crucial is missing.

it’s not just that life is quieter here—it’s that it feels like it’s waiting for me to earn my place. Every interaction feels like an audition, every step a test of my ability to fit into their carefully crafted puzzle. I miss Egypt because, for all its flaws, it doesn’t just tolerate me; it embraces me. It pulled me into its mess and reminded me that even in chaos, there’s belonging.

Germany’s obsession with perfection, its flawless trains and spotless streets, makes me invisible in its efficiency. But Egypt, with its cacophony of imperfections, makes sure I’m never unseen. You’d trade all the order in the world for one late-night argument about politics over tea.

Now, don’t get me wrong—Egypt is a magnificent mess. The government seems locked in a never-ending competition with itself to see just how much worse things can get. Corruption is so deeply embedded that it might as well be a national pastime—and the economy? Let’s just say your money loses value faster than you can blink.

Traffic operates on a unique blend of divine intervention and sheer audacity, where stop signs are mere suggestions and pedestrians cross the street with the confidence of someone who’s made peace with their fate. The trash situation could pass for a modern art installation, and the grinding poverty mixed with mind-numbing bureaucracy ensures that even the simplest tasks feel like an endurance test. It’s chaotic, frustrating, and at times soul-crushing. But it’s our mess.

Somehow, in the middle of all that mess, there’s a soul—a kind of magic that refuses to be extinguished. It’s the way the pandemonium feels like home, how every street corner hums with life, no matter how flawed or frenzied. It’s waking up to the sound of Fairuz wafting through the air, her voice wrapping around you like a warm, nostalgic hug. Fairuz in the morning isn’t just music; it’s a ritual, a quiet assurance that somehow, you’ll survive the day. And when the night comes, Umm Kulthum takes over, pouring her voice out of a distant balcony like a collective heartbreak anthem. You don’t even have to be in love—or heartbroken—to feel like she’s singing directly to your soul.

I miss Egypt because it’s alive. It’s messy, chaotic, deeply flawed—but it has a pulse, a raw energy that makes it feel real. Germany, on the other hand, is like an over-polished IKEA showroom— efficient, orderly, and suspiciously quiet. Trains predictably never run on time, queues are perfectly organized, and everything is neatly in its place.

But it’s all so sterile, like everyone’s afraid to step out of line. Sure, the precision is nice, until one starts longing for the chaos of a street vendor shouting prices while kids chase after a ball in the middle of traffic, and people crowd around like they don’t even notice the mess.

Here, though, people seem perfectly fine with a system that clearly doesn’t work for everyone. There’s no real desire to open up. It’s as if the comfort of the status quo is more important than actually addressing the cracks in the foundation. It’s not just about being efficient; it’s about being too comfortable in a broken system, and that’s somehow more depressing than any chaos I could find back home.

Egypt may drive me insane, but it loves me back, wrapping itself around me, flaws and all. Germany, for all its precision, often feels like it’s waiting for you to justify your place within its perfectly organized framework. In that contrast, I realize something deeply, irrevocably true: I’d rather belong to a mess that claims you as its own than a masterpiece that holds me at arm’s length.

Egypt isn’t just a place; it’s a memory that lingers like a bittersweet love affair. Thinking of it morphs me into an old soul sitting in a dimly lit room, nursing a cup of tea, reminiscing about a long-lost love I’ll never quite get over. One won’t remember the fights or the flaws; instead, one recalls the way its chaos held one close, the mornings that began with Abdel Halim Hafez serenading one’s dreams, and the nights when laughter and the clinking of tea glasses became the soundtrack of belonging.

It’s the hum of a city that never truly sleeps and a people who find beauty—even humor —in the most ridiculous of circumstances. It’s the kind of longing that fills my chest with both warmth and an ache, a love story that’s far from perfect but entirely unforgettable. These are the things that make Egypt feel like a living, breathing memory—a place where even the smallest, most obscure traditions feel like an anchor to something that makes Egypt more than a place. They make it home.

Sure, I could call my family, but there’s only so much virtual comfort you can get from hearing, “You should come back to Egypt, it’s safer here,” before it turns into an existential crisis. The loneliness here isn’t just about missing people, though. It’s about missing a place where I’m not a curiosity, where my identity isn’t constantly being negotiated and questioned.

So, to fit or not to fit in? Honestly, at this point, I’m leaning towards the latter. Fitting in here feels like giving up chunks of myself just to make other people comfortable. Honestly? I’d rather be lonely than shrink. Germany may be where I live, but it’s not home. Home is where I don’t have to explain why I exist.

Text by Shaden Ali