Bangor Primary School library, with its gleaming rows of white iMac G4s and even whiter students, had three books about Egypt.
There was a colourful, glossy story book covered in the visage of King Tutankhamun called ‘Wonders of Egypt’. Full of amulets, canopic jars and cartouches, it spoke of the exotic treasures of an ancient civilisation.
‘There’s a Pharaoh in Our Bath!’ by Jeremy Strong recounted the story of a misplaced Pharaoh living in someone’s house, reminding me vaguely of my father, who was equally swarthy and stoic.
The most wonderful however was called ‘Daily Life in Ancient Egypt’. Unlike the previous two books, it offered realistic, lifelike paintings of Egyptians going through the tasks of their lives. They played ball games, they chatted in the streets of Memphis and Karnak, they had tan, beautiful faces, their eyes like golden almonds emblazoned in black kohl.
In the heart of Sydney’s Sutherland Shire, Bangor Primary, ‘ever shining,’ since 1984, was a bastion of suburban predictability. The school body of around 500 students broke for recess at 10:15 and lunch at 1. They emerged from Anglo-Saxon middle-class parentage of stiff, aloof tempers. We would play Tony Hawke's Pro Skater on my friend Josh’s PlayStation and ride our Razor scooters around the streets, where lawns were manicured to perfection. The neighbourhood fell quiet by 8pm.
The library books were a portal to another, more vibrant world, and I would take them home to pore over the images with loving affection.
The Mummy was a fun movie, but it reminded me of the knock-off Adidas tracksuits my church friends wore
All I knew of Egypt, was absorbed from family photos, from dad’s stern expectations, mum’s cooking and the sound of my sisters laughing. I learned Egypt from the teenagers at our weekly church service, who, in their fake Adidas tracksuit pants and Fila bum bags were more Chicago than Cairo.
I learned Egypt from a home video of my mum surprising my auntie Esmet in her Egyptian apartment in the late 80s. Mum is in a red power suit and Esmet in pink tracksuit pants. They both explode into incredulous, weeping laughter at a homecoming they only imagined in their dreams.
When, at nine years old, I began to see the posters emerging for Universal Picture’s The Mummy, I was enchanted. This was not the Egypt of my picture books, but an opulent portrayal of my heritage brought to life with all the spectacle of Hollywood.
For it was other Egyptians I wanted to see, Egyptians who might look like me and prove, for good, that I was worthy of my majestic, noble heritage.
The Mummy was a fun movie, to be sure, but it reminded me of the knock-off Adidas tracksuits my church friends wore. They were nice, but there was something, well, dubious about it all, something fundamentally ‘off’.
For one thing, there were no actual Egyptians in any of the key parts of the film. Anglo-Saxons played the two leads, Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz, with the latter ostensibly performing the role of a half-Egyptian, half-British woman. The closest we get to authentic portrayal of modern Egyptians occurs in the second half of the film, where Weisz problematically sheds her pencil skirts and starched shirts for the quasi-Oriental allure of flowing fabrics and jangling jewellery, going ‘native’ as she reconnects to her roots.
There was limited use of the Arabic language throughout the movie and the sets and backdrops were a random assortment of Oriental scenes: sand-swept temples, seedy belly dancing parlours, a CGI Nile River. As I would discover on later trips to Egypt, all of these bore little resemblance to the actual landscapes and iconic locations of Cairo.
The mediocre ‘Egyptian’ cinema continues in 2001’s The Mummy Returns, in its sequel (and a vehicle for a naked Dwayne the Rock Johnson), 2002’s The Scorpion King and in Ridley Scott’s 2014 Exodus: Gods and Kings.
In that film, director Ridley Scott chose to brown-face the White Australian actor Joel Edgerton so he could play the role of Egypt’s King Ramses.
In defence of his decision, Scott told Variety: “I can’t mount a film of this budget… and say that my lead actor is Mohammad so-and-so from such-and-such. I’m just not going to get it financed.”
With all this in mind, my experience of watching Marvel’s Moon Knight, was a striking one.
Moon Knight director Mohamed Diab has taken pains to depict Cairo as the sprawling, modern metropolis that it is
Moon Knight tells the story of Marc Spector, played by Oscar Isaac, who is a human vector or avatar for the Ancient Egyptian God Khonshu. Fast-paced and exciting, it’s a slightly erratic production from the Marvel Cinematic Universe with all the special effects that can be expected from this genre of popcorn TV theatre.
This series is a first on many counts. For one thing, this Egyptian-themed series accurately portrays the city of Cairo. Moon Knight director Mohamed Diab has taken pains to depict it as the sprawling, modern metropolis that it is. This is a departure from the staged, static backdrop of dusty streets and nondescript sandy ruins of previous Egyptian-themed movies.
Moon Knight offers a celebratory, triumphant portrayal of Egyptians themselves. There are numerous actual Egyptian faces throughout the movie, tan and pale, black and brown. Amr Al-Qadi, Zizi Dagher, Ahmed Dash and Hazem Ehab, all Egyptian actors, appear in the series, and one of the key characters, Layla El-Faouly, an adventurous Egyptian archeologist, is played by Egyptian-Palestinian actress May Calamawy.
When she sprints off to kick arse, I cried tears of gratitude and appreciation
There’s also the Egyptian pop music of the series. The offerings are varied and include the contemporary ‘shaabi’ street-style pop of artists like Mohammed Shakosh, Enaba and Ahmed Saad, as well as more iconic and classical offerings, from the likes of the diva Warda.
It makes sense that the film should leverage the cultural currency of Egyptian pop. The Egyptian music industry is lucrative and influential, turning out beloved hits across the Arab world and the diaspora.
As well as seeing Egyptians, hearing Egyptians speak was equally powerful. Egyptian Arabic is specific and noticeable, and the mangled phrases of non-Arabic speakers shouting ‘ekhlas’ or ‘emshee’ in their broad, off-note accents never hit the right note.
In one of the closing scenes of the series, Layla, donning the golden wings of the Goddess Taweret, is asked, in Arabic and by an Egyptian girl in the streets of Cairo, whether she is ‘an Egyptian superhero’.
When she says yes, and then sprints off to kick arse, I cried tears of gratitude and appreciation.
This is the Egyptian myth I have been waiting for – except this time, it feels real.
