Las Vegas Diaries — The Dial

“These days I have no passport, no documents. And even if I manage to get one, I cannot return to Egypt.”

NOVEMBER 18, 2025

In Islamic mythology, everyone in Paradise is 33 years old, considered the perfect age and the peak of physical and mental maturity. Two months before his 33rd birthday, a writer from Egypt who had spent a year in prison for writing a novel arrived in the United States on a one-way ticket in a journey of exile and self-reinvention. These are excerpts from his journals from that time.

July 17, 2018

I was thirsty, but I couldn't leave my place in the passport line. Forty-five minutes passed before I reached the officer’s kiosk. I handed him my passport and asked where the Muslim room was. I meant the interrogation room all my friends have used since traveling to the United States after 9/11. He smiled, shook his head, and said, “We won’t need that.”

I walked out into the arrivals hall, and the first thing I did once I was outside was light a cigarette. I smoked greedily, filling my lungs with the heavy air of New York City, breathing freely at last.

Ten minutes later, he smiled again and told me I had to go there.

Since my first visit to the United States in 2008, I have been stopped and detained in that room every time I visited. Once, they kept me for more than four hours, long enough to miss my connecting flight and spend the night sleeping on the cold floors of John F. Kennedy Airport in New York, waiting for a morning flight to Austin, Texas.

This time, I came prepared: no connecting flight, no expectations. I planned to crash at Mona’s apartment in Queens, then take a night bus to Syracuse to reunite with Yasmin.

I entered the Muslim-and-Latino room. Surprisingly, they didn’t keep me long. I walked out into the arrivals hall, and the first thing I did once I was outside was light a cigarette. I smoked greedily, filling my lungs with the heavy air of New York City, breathing freely at last.

No more unknown phone calls.

No more censorship officers living inside my head, pouring fear into every word before it could become a sentence.

I missed you, America.

July 24, 2018

Today, I went to the lake with Yasmin and Candace. The past few days have felt like drifting through a dream. I kept telling Candace, “I still can’t believe I’m here, finally, with Yasmin.”

I feel guilty that it took me so long to leave Egypt, while Yasmin endured her pregnancy alone in the cold of Syracuse. Yasmin tells me stories of brutal winters, snow reaching up to her knees. Once, while she was pregnant, she slipped and fell on the ice. She couldn’t even cry; her tears would have frozen if she had.

But now it’s summer, and the university town is half empty, with many restaurants closed. We walk a lot, eat, and eat again. I don’t have plans; the joy of the present is all I need for tomorrow.

July 27, 2018

We traveled by bus from Syracuse to Washington, DC. It was a harsh trip. Yasmin’s back ached from the long hours, the weight of her seven-month pregnancy pressing heavily on her body.

It rained most of the way. Through the window, we watched a deer stranded on a small green island between the highways, its body trembling against the blur of asphalt and mist.

When we arrived at the train station, we were greeted with politicians and gods, carved in marble and bronze. It was still raining. The asphalt glistened like black glass, catching the blurred reflections of domes and columns. From the old streetlights, flowerpots swung gently in the mist.

Union Station rose before us like a Roman dream. Above the entrance, statues stood guard — Archimedes, Apollo, Themis — watchful gods of a nation that once imagined itself both eternal and new.

No hands were stretched out to us. The air smelled rustic, damp with fragile promises.

August 7, 2018

We sleep on an air mattress. It’s all we can manage for now. Yasmin, eight months pregnant, complains of back pain almost constantly. I’m stretching every connection, every resource, trying to find enough money to buy a proper bed with a decent mattress.

Two years ago, I could not have imagined this — back when we were begging the prison guard for just one more minute together.

The sleepless are always on call, alert and unconscious at once.

We have a large window in our living room. From the eighth floor, we can see a stretch of green trees reaching all the way to the horizon.

Finally, we are together. At least free, and they say here that Virginia is for lovers.

Two years ago, I could not have imagined this — back when we were begging the prison guard for just one more minute together.

August 11, 2018

In the morning, I went out to get breakfast from the supermarket. There were two roads: one where pedestrians walked along a narrow sidewalk beside speeding cars heading for the highway, and another that cut through wild, greedy green and growing everywhere with boldness. I chose the second path.

As I walked through the woods, I saw a man crossing the trail dressed in a military uniform from the 19th century. I smiled, assuming he was a drunk who had gotten lost, waking up still wearing his costume from last night’s party.

I took two more steps, turned to look back again, and he was gone.

Maybe I was the drunk one.

I bought what I needed from the supermarket and, on the way back this time, I took the asphalt road.

What kind of faith is kept alive by reenacting a civil war? By dressing as slave owners and holding 19th-century rifles?

At a crossroads, I suddenly saw seven or eight men crossing, all dressed in the same 19th-century military uniforms. Some carried old rifles. They marched with eyes looking to the skies, then disappeared into the forest.

At first, I thought there must be a festival or parade. But why would they carry real rifles at a celebration?

Yasmin explained that it was probably part of a historical reenactment. The area where we now live had witnessed several battles during the Civil War.

Later, I read more. Historical reenactments are a tradition here. Some participants become amateur historians, digging through records to reconstruct the life of a specific soldier — learning his biography, embodying his role, memorizing the position he fought in during the battle.

But I still wondered: Why would anyone want to reenact a war? It’s certainly not to learn from it.

In the 1948 novel Christ Recrucified by Nikos Kazantzakis, villagers reenact the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, a ritual that spreads across the cities of the Eastern Mediterranean. But that’s a religious act, performed by believers to keep faith and memory alive.

What kind of faith is kept alive by reenacting a civil war? By dressing as slave owners and holding 19th-century rifles?

Maybe it’s not about individuals at all. Maybe it’s about nations, or the many nations within the American nation. I’ve read about similar reenactments performed by Indigenous communities, where they restage their own defeated wars against the white settlers.

A shared faith, perhaps. One that transcends race or color. A faith not in victory, but in war itself.

August 16, 2018

I began taking unplanned wandering tours. The city is full of museums; it was built to be a museum. Nothing proved this more clearly than the American family I saw at an intersection: The father was pointing at a street corner, declaring proudly, “Here . . . our Constitutional Court!” while the mother and their teenage daughter argued over which museum they should visit next.

I had visited most of them back in 2008, during previous trips. But now I wasn’t a tourist. I needed to create my own museum, collecting gems and secrets from neglected corners. So I walked without a map, crossing streets at random, resting on wooden benches scattered across the small parks that sprouted between rivers of asphalt.

At the square, I leaned toward the statue to read the plaque. I remembered: still horse, death in bed; raised legs, death in battle. I didn’t see any statues of women. No artists. No poets. Just soldiers and politicians.

As I wandered, I stumbled upon a large red house. A small, almost invisible banner claimed it was a museum, the Phillips Collection, a private collection turned public, much like the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum in Cairo.

I entered because it was free.

At the entrance, I noticed several lovely pieces by Joan Miró. Then I stepped into another room and gasped. Before me hung “Luncheon of the Boating Party” by Pierre-Auguste Renoir. I start taking pictures of every corner of the canvas, until I realized how stupid that was. I put my phone in my pocket and simply stood there, smiling widely, happily.

September 28, 2018

I became a father for the second time.

But this time, it felt different. I chose it. I was there, with Yasmin, when Sina arrived.

It was a stressful week, full of pain and sleepless nights. Just the two of us, alone, moving through the cold and snow to bring Sina into the world.

I have an American daughter now. To register her birth, I had to fill out endless forms and pages of questions about her parents and grandparents, their ethnicity, skin color, and identity. All in official terms I had never seen before, words I couldn’t fully understand.

I joked with Yasmin:

“We’re from Egypt, Africa. But we met and named her after Sinai, which is in Asia. Maybe she's transcontinental?”

Yasmin sat up in bed, her voice sharp with exhaustion.

“Ahmed, no joking. Not on these forms. According to federal guidelines, we’re white. Egyptians. Levantines. White.”

We named her after Sinai — the place where we first met, where we longed to be.

The baby and I are bound forever. We share the same birthday. I turned 33 the day she was born. There’s an old story about an old woman who came to the Prophet and asked if she would enter paradise.

“No,” he said. “Old women don’t go to paradise.”

She almost cried. Then he smiled. “No one is old in paradise. We’ll all be young there.”

They say everyone will be 33 in the afterlife because in Islam that’s when you have the perfect body and a mature mind. I look at my body and see no perfection; my mind is clouded by American legalized weed. Still, it’s something to hold on to.

October 6, 2018

I came out of the metro station and was immediately confronted by rows of military trucks and armored vehicles. Their massive frames blocked the view ahead, swallowing the clean streets and the neatly arranged flower beds that, in this city, bloom no matter the season.

Americans are deeply sensitive about their symbolic figures, their ayatollahs in judicial robes, their immaculate founding myths.

For a moment, the scene reminded me of Cairo during the revolution, except there was no revolution here. No chants. No banners. Just American soldiers standing in full combat gear.

I later learned there were protests planned — maybe still happening — against the appointment of a Supreme Court judge with a history of sexual assault allegations. Apparently, this was enough to summon the armored muscle of the empire. Americans are deeply sensitive about their symbolic figures, their ayatollahs in judicial robes, their immaculate founding myths.

But what struck me was the scale of military presence. I’d never seen this many American weapons in a place that shouldn’t be a place of war.

• There was no enemy. Only citizens. Only doubts.

• The recent past always reappears, not as memory, but as corpses bombed by catastrophe.

May 5, 2019

I am overwhelmed by the love and generosity we’ve received in Las Vegas. Leaving behind friends and familiar faces to move to the far West felt risky. But instead of loneliness, we encountered warmth and acceptance.

People smile easily. And instead of just chatting about the weather, they introduce themselves with their name, gender and sexual orientation. They’ll compliment your hair or find ways to make small, lovely gestures.

For the next two years, I will be a City of Asylum fellow at the Black Mountain Institute at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. I’m surrounded by writers and artists, especially younger ones who are still uncertain about their path, still shy about sharing their plans.

We’re living now in a one-bedroom apartment. The bed is huge. Sina sleeps beside us in her crib. It’s the fourth home we’ve lived in, and we hope to move to a bigger place by August.

There’s still a long road ahead. I’ve begun a daily routine that includes at least five hours of reading and writing in English. In my first month here, I had to read at a big event during the Believer Festival. I panicked. I didn’t want my first public interaction with the city and its people to be embarrassing. I was lucky: Hanif Abdurraqib agreed to join me. I read my short text in Arabic, and Hanif read the English translation.

July 1, 2019

At night, we often realize we’re out of milk or diapers for Sina. The closest pharmacy is a 10-minute walk on Fremont Street. I walk there in my pajamas, surrounded by drunk people and partygoers. By the second or third visit, the cashier starts to recognize me. Out of all the bizarre and chaotic figures he sees each night, I guess I stand out. I’m the one in line holding baby formula. As a French writer once said, “Parents are the adventurers of modern times.”

The heat is brutal. This city isn’t made for walking. Still, part of my daily routine is walking from home to Fremont Street, drifting from one casino to the next. I pass by giant tanks full of sharks, half-dressed dancers, machines that never stop blinking and ringing.

October 16, 2019

I was in New York City for a public reading event and a lecture at New York University. Fadi came down from Connecticut to meet me. We spent three nights doing what we’ve done for the past 14 years, wandering around the city, smoking whenever we stopped to rest, talking endlessly about everything.

We were high, or drunk, or both, walking through the cold on the High Line in Chelsea. And I told him I am going to write my first English novel about this park. It struck us: How did we end up here?

Fadi is one of those people whose notes and suggestions have deeply shaped my writing since my first novel. In every book I’ve published there’s always a thank you to him. He’s doing much better than when I last saw him, in Paris in 2015. He’s teaching French literature and history to American students while finishing his PhD, working on Napoleon and the French campaign in Egypt.

We were high, or drunk, or both, walking through the cold on the High Line in Chelsea. And I told him I am going to write my first English novel about this park. It struck us: How did we end up here?

Two men from villages near Mansoura, brought together through literature and art circles. We took our first steps in Cairo — me, a young journalist looking for work; him, a literary critic who would later teach Arabic to non-Arabic speakers. And now, here we were, walking among skyscrapers worth billions, without a destination, without a way back home. How did we get here? And how did we make it, even, with empty pockets?

We laughed hard for no reason. One of those times when the laughter takes over and doesn’t let go. One of the best laughs I’d had for a long, long time.

October 20, 2019

We went to San Francisco for a friend’s wedding. The amount of wealth and power on display — in the city, in its people — is provocative.

I’m exhausted most of the time. From parenting. From worrying about the future. From standing in front of the gate of the law for years. First in Egypt, with the court case and prison. And now here, waiting for papers and a green card. Black Mountain Institute has been kind enough to help. The lawyer advised me not to apply for asylum but instead for an EB-1 visa. They believe I qualify for permanent residency as a person with extraordinary abilities.

Big words. So many big words. They worry me. They exhaust me.

April 11, 2020

The past few days have been exhausting and distressing on multiple levels. Life in Las Vegas during the COVID-19 pandemic feels dim. No parties, no glowing lights to brighten the way.

Last night I had a dream: I was on my way to my office at the university. But as soon as I entered the building, I found myself in a hospital. They told me there was an emergency medical training drill. They asked me to enter a room, where I found a doctor, who was a Korean American lady who I occasionally see around. She’s a food critic, but in my dream she was wearing a doctor’s uniform, her hair dyed blond, as if in disguise.

She asked me to sit on the bed and take off my clothes. Then she asked if I’d been feeling any pain or discomfort lately.

I was both embarrassed and aroused.

She began pressing different parts of my body with her fingers, and with each touch, she asked the same question:

“On a scale from one to 10, how much does this hurt you?”

I kept answering, “Zero . . . zero . . .,” trying to speed up the process so that I could leave. Suddenly, an alarm rang. She said, “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

There was a fire, but I wasn’t afraid. I sat and waited, as smoke clouded the room.

April 20, 2020

Today I saw a small group of people in front of the federal courthouse, demonstrating with MAGA signs and shouting about freedom, claiming that COVID was a hoax. A blond woman held a sign that read “End the Lockdown.” Next to her, a Black man stood with another sign that read “Lock Her Up.”

May 30, 2020

I went to a Black Lives Matter demonstration. We went first as a family — me, Sina, and Yasmin, who was buzzing with adrenaline and nostalgia for the revolution days. But as we got closer, Yasmin and I began to notice the hidden police cars, how officers were stationed on top of many of the buildings. It felt like a classic ambush. We stayed for a few minutes, then I walked them back home. The plan was: I go today, she goes tomorrow.

As I was trying to figure out how to protect Sina from the gas, I noticed Yasmin was crying. I thought something had happened. But through tears and a faint smile, she said, “The smell reminds me of the revolution.”

When I returned to the protest, I saw Harrison and other friends. Everything felt both new and strangely familiar. The way the police spread out, how they organized themselves, photographing protestors with their phones — they were following the same manual. I knew Egyptian police had been trained with Americans for decades, but I hadn’t realized just how similar their playbooks were.

Tension started to rise. I couldn’t risk staying. I’m a legal resident, here on university sponsorship. I told my friends I had to go, and they understood.

A couple of hours later, at home, Yasmin and I started hearing the sound of gunshots. On Twitter, social media and local news, we saw that the Las Vegas police were cracking down on the protest. Then we smelled it: tear gas.

As I was trying to figure out how to protect Sina from the gas, I noticed Yasmin was crying. I thought something had happened. But through tears and a faint smile, she said, “The smell reminds me of the revolution.”

What a past. Egypt . . . what a country. Only in memories does it return, as a beautiful disaster.

June 8, 2020

I was surprised while talking with Harrison, who was in high school during the Iraq War, to learn that he — like most in his class, school, and town — believed Saddam Hussein was behind 9/11. It seems that narrative was a central part of the war propaganda machine at the time.

I kept asking him “How?” Of all the accusations you could make against Saddam, claiming he supported fundamentalist groups like al-Qaeda made the least sense. No one in Egypt or the Arab region would have believed that. I had never heard such a thing in my life, except as a fringe conspiracy theory. I’m amazed by the American media machine and its power to construct a completely alternate reality, and I wonder in a couple of years what it could do to me.          

September 8, 2020

Our application for permanent residency was denied. In their letter, they claimed that the articles I published — or that were published about my work — did not appear in reputable outlets. They asked for evidence that The New York Times, The Washington Post, Rolling Stone, and more than 30 other articles in American and international outlets, including academic journals, are considered legitimate publications.

The lawyer has asked me to get letters from librarians at various universities confirming that The New York Times is a reputable publication. I feel like my life in recent years has become a Kafka story, where a petitioner approaches the gate of the law seeking justice, only to wait forever at its threshold.

September 26, 2020

For my birthday, I did one of the most American things: I went to the desert with my friend Sin. We set up two tables, lined up a few empty bottles and practiced shooting with a 9mm handgun.

I don’t know if it was the lingering effect of the COVID lockdown or the spirit of living in the American West, but the best part of the trip was watching the sunset. It’s not something you just see but something that presses into you.

You start to understand the madness of the old “prospectors.” If you are alone in these mountains, working day and night under the sun, trying to find gold or silver, and end every day with the same crashing sky pressing into you at sunset, for sure it will drive you crazy.

January 27, 2021

Adam now has long, curly hair. He sent me pictures of himself riding his new bike. My relationship with his mother has been much better lately. But still, what else can I do except wait, holding on to the hope of seeing him again, on a day I am no longer sure will ever arrive?

It has been two years since I last saw him, and I do not know when, or if, I will be able to meet him again. These days I have no passport, no documents. And even if I manage to get one, I cannot return to Egypt. Lately, I have started to feel a cold knot in my stomach when I think about that moment. I am afraid that when the time comes, we may stand in front of each other in silence, searching — he for a father, and I for a son.

June 24, 2021

I didn’t expect this project to lead me to such secretive places or help me uncover so many layers of Las Vegas history and its people.

So I proposed something else. Rather than dwelling on the past, why not focus on the present? An exiled writer arrives in Las Vegas, tries to make sense of it, to find his place within the city’s history and social fabric.

When Robin first approached me months ago, she just wanted to make a documentary about my story, the prison, the case, the exile. I told her we’d probably end up with a typical “talking head” film. Me sitting in front of a camera recounting events from my past in Egypt  with no real visual language to match the story.

So I proposed something else. Rather than dwelling on the past, why not focus on the present? An exiled writer arrives in Las Vegas, tries to make sense of it, to find his place within the city’s history and social fabric.

We ended up meeting several times. Funnily enough, I was often the one asking her questions, about her childhood in Las Vegas and about the city’s history.

Eventually, we began work on a short documentary centered around the official historical narrative of Las Vegas and how that narrative is curated and reflected in its museums. We had a few pleasant shooting days. I didn’t just visit the museums — they gave me the VIP tour.

At the Atomic Museum, my guide was a retired man who had spent his entire life working at the nuclear testing site outside Vegas. As our tour ended, he turned to me and said out of the blue: “So, you’re a writer.”

“Yes.”

“You know, I was born in New Mexico. My parents didn’t realize it at the time, but I was born the same week the first-ever atomic bomb was tested at the Trinity site. Not only that, they were living in the closest town to the testing area. They only found out later, when the government asked them to relocate. And I grew up to study nuclear physics — and spent my whole life working at that nuclear testing site.”

“Hmmm. That’s . . . impressive.”

He looked at me for a moment. “So, you’re a writer; tell me, what do you make of that?”

We were standing in a room where a replica of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima sat in the middle. Surrounding it were various objects, including Japanese traditional cloths hanging on the wall.

I asked him, “What are these clothes doing here? Are they from the explosion site?”

“Oh, no,” he said casually. “They’re just Japanese clothes. We added them to enhance the exhibition atmosphere.”

“Uhh . . . do you get many Japanese visitors?”

“Oh, yeah. And funnily enough, they’re the only ones who’ve ever asked the same question you just did . . . about the clothes, I mean.”

“Quite an impressive coincidence. What do you make of that as museum tour guide?” I asked.

He just avoided my eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

July 23, 2021

I went with Malike to the Hoover Dam. I was surprised we made it that far, and that deep. When I first met her two years ago, I saw her as a passionate, kind, and intelligent filmmaker. Her proposal for collaboration sounded generous but unlikely to happen. She wanted to buy the film rights to Rotten Evidence, my memoir about reading and writing in prison, and my novel And Tigers to My Room. I thought, OK, but deep down, I didn’t believe that ship would ever sail.

The dam itself is massive — concrete on a scale that feels unreal. They call it an engineering miracle, designed in the Art Deco style. But all I could think about was the desperate American workers, walking hundreds of miles under the Nevada sun, trying to survive the Great Depression by coming here to build this thing.

And yet, here we are. She bought the rights in February, and I received the highest advance I’ve ever been paid for anything I’ve written. Now here we are, with her film crew, walking through the body of the Hoover Dam, shooting footage. As a kind gesture, they even allowed us into the dam’s tunnel areas usually closed to the public.

I’m still not sure if we’ll secure full funding for the project. However, for now, we have enough to develop the script and use these three days of filming in Las Vegas to create a trailer that we can use to apply for grants and garner additional support.

The dam itself is massive — concrete on a scale that feels unreal. They call it an engineering miracle, designed in the Art Deco style. But all I could think about was the desperate American workers, walking hundreds of miles under the Nevada sun, trying to survive the Great Depression by coming here to build this thing.

One of the workers at the site told us that some men died while pouring the cement and their bodies were never recovered. The Bureau of Reclamation claims this is a myth. Still, I touched the concrete, the flesh of those who built this place melted into the very thing they were building, while the names of their bosses and the symbols of national pride still hang above their tomb.

August 11, 2021

My mom died.

During a phone call with Bilal Fadel, he shared what he said was his best advice for dealing with grief, which goes something like this: Go outside. Find a park. Choose a tree. Watch it, really observe it. Try to communicate with it.

Then walk up and press your back and shoulders against the trunk. Repeat this, repeat it, hit the tree with your back and shoulders until you feel the pain begin to move through you. Let it pass. Stay like that until it eases.

Then sit. Lean into the tree. And if you can, fall asleep hugging it.

September 21, 2021

I feel horny most of the time, often over things that are deeply depressing. I move through the entire spectrum in a single day. I wake up and decide to buy a dress and wear it. By noon, I’m drifting at the office in a waterfall of sadistic fantasies. At night, I smoke and drink until I can finally knock myself out and sleep.

I know the five stages of grief. But I don’t remember horniness and sexual obsession being one of them. It’s like I’m turning into one of Freud’s hysterical women from the 19th century.

March 24, 2022

Today, I was walking with Sina in the park in Las Vegas when I came across one of those small plaques people install next to a tree, as a gift, a memory of a loved one, a reminder. It read “I lived a life of endless possibility.”

May 24, 2022

I went with Harrison and Mike to a small nearby town called Searchlight. I had read a book about the town’s history, written by Harry Reid, the former Senate majority leader. My anarchist friends in Las Vegas call him “the king” and blame him for creating the Clintons and corrupting Obama.

I first asked “Who is he?” The anarchist, who also is a porn film director, looked at me in disbelief. “What are you talking about? You live next to his son.”

On the way, I saw small homes, trailer parks, kids walking under the sun and dust with nowhere to go, women pushing strollers over unpaved roads. The poverty was shouting at every corner, as were the Trump and MAGA signs.

That was two years ago, when I discovered that my neighbor back then, the one with whom we spent the quarantine, talking across the divider between our balconies, the one with whom I watched Liverpool games and talked about football and the Egyptian player Mohamed Salah, was Harry Reid’s son.

In Searchlight, we first visited the local museum, filled with relics and artifacts from the mining era — a whole museum built to display matchboxes from the 1920s and candle lamps once used by gold and silver prospectors. Then we went to the cemetery. On the way, I saw small homes, trailer parks, kids walking under the sun and dust with nowhere to go, women pushing strollers over unpaved roads. The poverty was shouting at every corner, as were the Trump and MAGA signs.

The cemetery itself was just an open area atop a small hill, with no sign, no decoration, just scattered graves. I could notice:

• Symbols of mining: a pickaxe, a pan, and a shovel — an homage to the town’s origins, you could see them on graves or just decorating the graveyard space.

• Bill Roy Hudgens’s grave, marked by a simple granite slab. Behind it stands a weathered box, maybe once a shrine.

• A paired plot with Deanna Reid Miller and Brooke Edna Jones resting side by side, watched over by chairs placed for visitors.

• The grave of Marvin D. Marshall Sr., trimmed in white stones with a wooden cross and plastic roses.

There were no grand memorials here.

August 9, 2022

Another book I wrote in Arabic is coming out next week. I think this novel might be the last one I write in Arabic for a while, which fits perfectly with its title, The Happy Endings. I’ve started writing more in English. So far, I have two or three terrible short stories, and I’ve published a few articles with editing help from either Christin or Jonathan, depending on the piece.

I also made the decision to apply for an MFA. After spending months learning coding and data analytics, I realized how misguided that path was for me. I fell into the hype about becoming a priest of code, speaking in algorithms; I was overwhelmed by data and pressured by the demands of marketing and capital. In the end, there’s no real guarantee in it, and it left me feeling disconnected from everything.

What I want is a job that allows me to engage more with people and the world I live in, something in teaching or education, or ideally in the cultural sector — which doesn’t exist here — or at a local nonprofit. A job that leaves room for my two hours of daily writing and the 30 pages of required reading I assign myself.

November 14, 2022

I went to a Halloween pumpkin patch with Yasmin and Sina; it’s become one of our favorite American fall traditions. A lovely family space, with kids running and playing everywhere. Yet, in the middle of all that joy, there he is: the big guy with his fucking big gun hanging from his belt, on full display. He’s not smiling, not even when his daughter runs to him, beaming after winning a fishing game. He just pets her head, and then looks around to ensure that his image as a big tough man is not scratched.

Though we’re in an open-air space, the tension he creates, with the gun around all these kids, his stinky fragile masculinity, all of that is sucking the air from the space.

February 14, 2023

Finally, the work permit arrived after five years of living here and paying taxes. Now, the hardest part is getting a passport. I am not sure if the Egyptian embassy is going to renew it.

March 5, 2023

We traveled, the three of us, to Washington, DC. My short film For Vegas was showing at the Independent Film Festival. But that is not what stayed with me from the trip.

Sometimes when she argues with her mother, she insists on it. She says, “No. I am American.” She says it with pride, or with defiance, or both.

It was Sina. The light in her face, the way her eyes opened to everything. Her joy was effortless. I watched her closely, trying to hold the moment in place. I wish I could travel with her more, take her farther, show her the world before it grows too distant or too rigid.

I see the children here, the people, too, and how narrow their world often becomes. I know she is one of them. She knows it too. Sometimes when she argues with her mother, she insists on it. She says, “No. I am American.” She says it with pride, or with defiance, or both.

I only know that I want to give her something more. The rest of the sentence. The rest of the world.

June 1, 2023

In my walk on Oakey Street, where all the old fancy homes that I love are, I passed a family of three near a public park. The father, mother and child were living in their car. I didn’t tell Yasmin about what I saw, but since then, all I see is our family sliding down that slope, eventually ending without a home. Such fears are no longer the stuff of nightmares but a reality that thousands face each and every day.

I am gaining weight and losing control over my body. Suddenly, I feel it’s aging quickly or transforming into another phase, and I can’t stop eating bread. I survived all temptations, drugs and addictions, except my addiction to bread and French fries. How come there is no rehab to help you overcome this addiction?

September 11, 2023

It’s been about a month since I returned to life as a student. Overall, I enjoy the experience. My only complaint is that I wish I had more control over my time and rhythm. We’re often forced to read a lot in a very short period, and sometimes I just want to read slowly, to drift and dig deeper into my research.

I find the elective classes more engaging than the workshop or creative forum courses. My cohort is diverse and interesting and feels surprisingly coherent.

In Professor John Hay’s class, I learned that before the Civil War, only one person in the United States had a PhD.

October 22, 2023

Recently, our university president sent out a campuswide email that says, “While I don’t pretend to understand all of the nuances and variables involved in this long-standing conflict, we must and do condemn acts of terrorism.” It isn’t just ignorance. It’s surrender. A refusal to engage.

So many of the institutions that should be engaging — academia, cultural organizations, publishing houses — are instead helping to police dissent. Censoring speech. Guilt-tripping intellectual resistance. Universities, once spaces for research, debate and discovery, are closing their doors to understanding and opening their stages to propaganda.

I can’t stop thinking about this same university — UNLV — which in 2008, just months after Israel’s war on Lebanon, hosted both Lebanese novelist Elias Khoury and Israeli writer A.B. Yehoshua for a major public event.

That was possible then.

So many of the institutions that should be engaging — academia, cultural organizations, publishing houses — are instead helping to police dissent. Censoring speech. Guilt-tripping intellectual resistance.

Now? Now they won’t even pretend to understand.

December 7, 2023

Yesterday, we had a shooting on the campus, someone entered one of the buildings and killed three academic staff. I wasn’t on campus. Everyone is in trauma mode, and I’m still in denial.

April 2, 2024

A secret is not what you want to conceal but something you want to reveal, but cannot.

June 20, 2024

Yasmin and I are walking like children toward a new level of our relationship, a new world. Again and again, I am learning how to speak about myself and my feelings.

September 6, 2024

I stayed in bed after I woke up; in front of me I saw my friend “7oda” face as I saw him in 2013 for the last time, before I lost him under the Red Sea water in 2013. I had a very lucid dream — every detail felt unbelievably vivid and alive. I was in a garden, like the one at the Swiss Club in Cairo, though it could have also been the Hunting Club in Dokki, where I used to take Adam to teach him how to ride a bike. There were tables and chairs scattered around, and people were drinking beer or coffee. It was sunset.

I was sitting with “7oda”; I was overwhelmed with joy to see him. I couldn’t believe he was alive. But he told me he wasn’t, that he was still dead and had only come for a short visit. I told him, “Me too. I no longer live in this place or this time.”

October 9, 2024

I attended a Las Vegas court hearing for Joshua Robles, a 17-year-old arrested by the Metropolitan Police Department, accused of planning a terror attack in support of the Islamic State in Las Vegas. The evidence in the case includes an ISIS flag found in his home and some materials allegedly intended for a terrorist attack.

It was my first time in an American court. All courts carry this invisible authority. You feel it in the air, but you cannot quite explain where it comes from. When I told the court officer I was a writer interested in the case, he directed me to a bench reserved for the media.

Joshua has no connection to Arabic or Islamic culture. I had read about his arrest, which — suspiciously — was not carried out by the FBI but by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police, who promoted it as a Las Vegas police takedown of ISIS.

It was my first time in an American court. All courts carry this invisible authority. You feel it in the air, but you cannot quite explain where it comes from. When I told the court officer I was a writer interested in the case, he directed me to a bench reserved for the media. Sitting next to me was a photographer from the Las Vegas Review-Journal.

The judge’s name was Erika Ballou. She had Halloween decorations in her hair. The courtroom held several other defendants, accused of violent crimes, assault, and theft. They were seated in silence and with a kind of quiet dignity. Then they were all removed from the room before Joshua arrived. He stood before the judge, his wrists and ankles bound. The judge then did something I never imagined any judge could do: She apologized for not having had time to read some papers they sent to her late, and for that they all agreed to postpone the session.

January 11, 2025

I was in New Orleans attending the Modern Language Association (MLA) Convention. The members had proposed a vote on divesting from and boycotting the Zionist regime in Israel. As expected, the MLA’s Executive Council refused to allow it. In response, a group of scholars organized a performance during which they lay on the ground, pretending to be dead, in solidarity with the actual victims in Gaza.

But the most unforgettable performance happened during the lunch break, when I spotted the Indian literary critic Gayatri Spivak. I walked over to her table to introduce myself. Before I could finish my sentence, she cut me off: “I am having my lunch.”

In front of her was a white plate with medium-sized lettuce; she was eating it leaf by leaf. Next to it sat a small bowl with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream, slowly melting.

I will definitely use this scene in a short story.

January 28, 2025

On the anniversary of Egypt’s January 25, 2011, revolution, I am now attending a meeting with fellow graduate students to discuss ways to escalate pressure on the university administration. For years, we’ve been trying to establish a union for graduate student workers. We’ve followed every legal step. Over the past few months, I joined my colleagues in visiting departments across campus, collecting signatures. According to the law, we need 30 percent of graduate students — or 750 students —to sign cards in support of forming a union. We gathered almost double that — around 1,400.

I feel like I’m circling the same loop. Fifteen years ago, I was in the exact same position in Egypt. The country was suffocating, every path to peaceful change was blocked, and I was swinging between despair and nihilism.

Now it’s the university’s turn, along with the state’s higher education board, to count the cards and certify the union. But they refuse to respond to our requests. The purpose of today’s meeting is to explore what forms of escalation we can take next.

I feel like I’m circling the same loop. Fifteen years ago, I was in the exact same position in Egypt. The country was suffocating, every path to peaceful change was blocked, and I was swinging between despair and nihilism.

April 8, 2025

Usually, I try not to complain to my father. I am, after all, a grown man now, with gray in my hair, and I should be the one taking care of him. But today, on the phone, I broke down. I collapsed into a miserable monologue about my fears — about deportation, about being targeted for my writing and for my expressions of solidarity with Palestine on campus. ICE has already revoked the visas of four students at our university.

I told him about my recent fight with Adam, and how difficult it has been to maintain this fragile father-son relationship through video calls alone, especially now that he is entering his teenage years.

Later, I received an email inviting me to contribute a chapter to a collective book about America, written by non-American writers. I wonder, can I still write freely about my America in a time of war?

There is no longer beauty or consolation except in the gaze falling on horror.

✺ Published in The Dial