CHANGING SUITS:
Uncovering identity, layer by layer, under the galabeyah

By Juliet Frerking

I traveled to Alexandria to swim in the ocean, sleep on the beach, and eat copious amounts of fish. The train ride from Cairo to Alexandria was arduous—hot, sticky, smelly—and the sight of the gleaming ocean, albeit lined with bits of trash and hoards of tourists, was enough to invigorate and excite us for a swim. We noticed, however, that all the Egyptian women were sitting fully veiled in black, underneath billowing orange umbrellas. The solution to our worries came to us in the form of a galabeyah vendor. After the requisite 10 minutes of bargaining, the three of us emerged from the negotiation armed with three oddly patterned robes to wear over our swimsuits.
Next came the task of changing. I went to summer camp and pride myself on the ability to get in and out of a swimsuit discretely in a matter of minutes. Doing so beneath what was essentially a slippery bed sheet was a task. My body became my enemy underneath the
galabeyah. Things refused to go in their respective places, fabric shifted awkwardly to the right, rearranging was tedious. The three of us, me more so than the others, looked not unlike people in straightjackets with our arms inside our garments, pulling, tugging, and grunting. Soon we heard the sound of giggling, and the orange tent next to us revealed two Egyptian women and their daughters. Grinning, they befriended us, tried to feed us, and told us where to change.

The changing room was small, dark, and filled with women all consumed with the same goal—wriggling into a swimsuit and then donning the galabeyah. This time I was successful, and I left the dank room for the blindingly bright beach. Suddenly, for 10 LE, I was an Egyptian. I was invisible. I looked like everyone else. I was free to look at anyone I wished because people were no longer staring at me, the khawaggaya. Unlike the beaches of Southern California, no one was secretly eyeing one another to see how they looked in their swimsuits.

In the Mediterranean, language barriers were erased, and I played the universal “run toward the wave and laugh” game with Egyptian and Sudanese children. The galabeyah, however, quickly proved to be restrictive. My motions were jerky and repressed by the cut of the fabric. I pulled myself ploddingly through the ocean, weighed down by the extra baggage that absorbed the water around it. Was it better or worse to wear one? Did I feel liberated from society’s demands that I look like an actress on Baywatch, or was I forced to cover my body because what is natural is also indecent?

I found myself wondering what was under other women’s galabeyahs. Would you bother to pick out a blue swimsuit to match your eyes, one with extra support and darts to make you 10 pounds lighter?

I saw a little girl digging in the sand with her brother, wearing a bright pink two-piece with ruffles. When she is older, will she get frustrated that her mother forces her to wear a shapeless sheet to cover herself or will she whine that “everyone else is wearing one, why can’t I wear a galabeyah yet?”

We dragged ourselves out of the ocean. Laughter ringing in our ears and mildly euphoric from the freedom of the sea, our emotions were immediately quelled by the silence and apparent disapproval of our friends from one umbrella over. I looked down to see that my galabeyah was clinging to me indecently, leaving little to the imagination. Though I tried to lie in the sun and dry out, one of the mothers sharply pulled the fabric back down to my ankles, telling me that men will look at my calves. Slightly annoyed at her perception of me and unconcerned about anyone looking at my lower leg, I glanced away to catch several lecherous looks from Egyptian men. She was right.

In the changing room, I took off my salt-soaked galabeyah and prepared to rinse off in the showers. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was shocked by my own nudity. Though I was still wearing a bathing suit, one considered modest by American standards, I suddenly recoiled against this image of myself—the unadulterated, natural me. Uneasy, I dressed and walked back out to the beach, wearing a skirt and long-sleeves.

Here in Egypt, I live in the middle. Not a tourist, not a resident. I work in an office where I am the only non-Egyptian. I buy my food from local vendors, but I still pay foreigner prices. I know better than to wear a tube top, but I balk at wearing the hijab. Every day I butcher the language, walk in a shop where women don’t go, get annoyed that a guy is not allowed upstairs, and assume people will be patient with me or understand some English. Living in Egypt is a self-reflective process—donning the galabeyah at the beach allowed me to step into that world for a moment, only to re-examine my own perceptions and judgments. Only to, once it started weighing me down, take the galabeyah off.

At the time of this writing, Juliet Frerking had recently graduated with Honors in International Relations and a minor in Arabic from Stanford University. She currently works in Egypt as a Presidential Intern at American University in Cairo. Contact her at frerking@aucegypt.edu.