✨ “And a scent of my alleyway, bring me.” Perhaps this line from Palestinian composer and singer Faraj Suleiman’s song Jibli Ma’ak (A Handful of Air) perfectly captures the hardships of immigrants and their unyielding desire to hold onto their homeland and carry it in a scent, a handkerchief, or a dish. In Ramadan, this longing becomes a mission, the goal of which is to use every ounce of creativity to reclaim a lost homeland and bring remnants of collective identities to Cairo’s lively Ramadan nights.

In numbers: Beyond sonic metaphors lies a considerable figure that reflects the sheer scale of the demographic shift in Egypt. Right now, immigrants and refugees in Egypt are estimated at some 9 mn, representing roughly 8.7% of the country’s population, according to a report by the International Organization for Migration. These immigrants did not come to Om El Donia empty-handed; they arrived with suitcases filled with memories, traditions, dialects, and dishes, turning Egyptian streets into a melting pot of cultures — one in which both a desire to assimilate and a resolve to maintain one’s identity intertwine.

On nostalgia, consumerism, and everything in between

There remains a desire to regain a sense of belonging to distant homelands — manifest in the simplest of things. This desire is often reflected in consumption patterns, specifically in nostalgic consumption — where consumption is less about materialism and more about a vessel through which one can connect to their roots, through food.

Small details can make the homesick feel at home. Sahar Mohammed, a Yemeni journalist living in Egypt, told EnterpriseAM that when she suggested to her mother that they go to a major retail chain to stock up for Ramadan, her mother was steadfast in her response: “We’re going to the Yemeni spice shop.”

Despite a slew of high-quality Egyptian products, visiting the Yemeni spice shop was an indisputable decision — it was an intimate ritual. The search for Bhajia spices (Yemeni falafel), niche soups, traditional legumes, or the Indian rice prevalent in the West Asian Arab country thus represented a journey whose destination was, as Suleiman put it, the scent of an alleyway from home. For Yemeni immigrants, we were told, flexibility regarding clothing or dialect may be fine, but the Yemeni kitchen? That’s a line they wouldn’t cross.

This robustness has led to a significant boom in Yemeni trade in areas where immigrants from Yemen are concentrated. It has also reshaped the social life of Yemenis; for instance, Yemeni coffee shops in El Eshreen in Faisal have transformed from spaces serving only drinks into the community’s largest social hubs — a sanctuary for those torn away from home.

On finding “wanas”

For Sudanese immigrants in Cairo, Ramadan is all about the “lamma” (gathering), a notion aptly reflected in the tradition of “bisaat” — which translates to the mat or carpet and represents an extended seating arrangement where neighborhood men gather daily in the streets to share dishes and juices with neighbors and passersby alike, Sudanese photographer Ola Ahmed tells us.

It’s a tradition similar to the Egyptian charity tables, but for Ahmed, the communal preparation rituals feel different. To bring that ritual to life, Ahmed turns his table in Cairo into a bridge for closeness, bringing together Sudanese and Egyptian friends and family to break bread (and share a few secrets from the Sudanese kitchen).

A Sudanese Ramadan would be incomplete without “El Helwu Murr” — a beverage that’s essentially a blend of ground corn, aromatic spices, and herbs, and no iftar table in Sudan can go without it. Yet due to high costs and the difficulty of obtaining the necessary ingredients in Egypt, it’s often replaced by classic Egyptian Ramadan drinks such as Tamr Hendi. For Ahmed, Egyptian Ramadan extended beyond Tamr Hendi: “We’ve started buying decorations like the Egyptians and merging into their atmosphere.”

The craving for connection is key. Speaking to EnterpriseAM, a Moroccan woman living in Cairo stated that what she’d missed most about the Holy Month was the social intimacy, which led her to accept iftar invitations from people she barely knew. “I was sitting at a lone table in a Maadi restaurant; an Egyptian family spotted me and made a kind offer for me to join them. I carried my plate and sat with them,” she told us. This heartfelt support extended to her home, where her Egyptian neighbors surprised her with a “fanoos” (Ramadan lantern) as a gift, making her feel that she was now a part of Cairo.

On reverse nostalgia

“I shared an apartment with a Palestinian youth, and we began forming a small circle of Palestinian and Syrian friends who gather in Ramadan around one table, cooking together… and longing for home together,” Yazan Emad, a Palestinian plastic surgeon who spent six Ramadans in Cairo, tells us. These moments, far from the West Bank, reshaped his experience of the Holy Month.

Today, the number of Palestinians in Egypt is smaller than other communities, making these meetings more difficult to organize, Emad tells us. Back in Nablus, Emad had an interesting feeling: he was surprised to find himself missing Ramadan in Cairo — its restless crowds and those familiar yet disparate friends who had become part of his Ramadan rituals.

This, it seems, is a feeling experienced by some who have returned to their homelands, where places no longer seem as they once were and they discover that a part of them now belongs elsewhere — a place once imagined as a pitstop.

Ramadan is a language in and of itself

Ramadan classics such as Wahawy ya Wahawy or Ramadan Gana are no longer confined to Egyptian streets, they’ve become cross-border anthems, with Levantine, Yemeni, Sudanese, and other dialects singing along. This alchemy has produced a state of cultural hybridity, where words like integration or assimilation move beyond their academic definitions to become a lived reality, manifest in the streets and on dining tables.

The influence is mutual: While migrants and refugees have been influenced by Egyptian visual identity — be it through clothing, decorations, or lanterns — Egyptian society has, in turn, embraced their culinary cultures. The sharing of food and cooking traditions is one of the most prominent and visible cultural contributions of immigrants and refugees, according to a study by the Egyptian Cabinet’s Information and Decision Support Center.

… Markedly evident in Egyptians’ palates, as they increasingly embrace folk foods from Sudan, Syria, Yemen, and a slew of other homelands. The study confirms that acculturation in Egypt isn’t limited to immigrants, but extends to its people, allowing those far from home to adapt to a new way of life, without abandoning where they came from.

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