Why being half Emirati and half Egyptian is my superpower

Nour Ibrahim at the age of 11 celebrating her first UAE National Day in Dubai. Nour Ibrahim / The National

I’m half Emirati and half Egyptian. My mum is Emirati, and my dad is Egyptian. It’s a mix that seems to spark curiosity, especially when people ask, “Are you more Emirati or more Egyptian?”

For the longest time, I felt like I needed to pick a side. My identity felt like something I had to explain or justify. Growing up, I was caught between two very different worlds – or so I thought. In the summer of 2010, I was in Alexandria, standing on the beach, listening to my dad tell the story of Al-Shatir Hassan, this legendary fisherman who outsmarted the sea. My dad painted such a vivid picture that I could almost hear Hassan laughing as he rode the waves. The salty breeze, the sound of the waves and the glow in my dad’s eyes – it all felt like home. I didn’t realise then that that summer would be my last real goodbye to Egypt.

A few months later, everything changed. My brother was born, and soon after, we moved to the UAE to start a new chapter. It wasn’t an easy journey. Uprooting our lives in Egypt and settling into a new country came with its own set of challenges. I missed Egypt more than I thought I would. The winters here weren’t cold the way they were in Alexandria, where you’d wrap yourself in blankets and drink hot sahlab as the rain tapped against the windows. The people here weren’t loud like Egyptians, whose laughter and voices filled every space.

On top of that, I switched schools and even curriculums, which was overwhelming for a 10-year-old. I had to learn a new dialect because I worried I wouldn’t fit in if I didn’t. Speaking Egyptian felt like a giveaway, like a sign that I didn’t fully belong. My mum, though, made the transition easier in her own way. She would tell me stories about her childhood in the UAE, about her love for the desert and the strength she found in community. Through her stories, I started to see the UAE not just as a place we moved to but as a place where I could belong.

The writer as a one-year-old with her father in Satwa, Dubai. Nour Ibrahim / The National

Slowly but surely, Dubai became my home. I started to make more friends in school and, to my surprise, no one really cared if I spoke in a Khaleeji or Egyptian dialect. What mattered was how we connected, not the words we used. I adapted without losing the essence of who I was. I picked up the Emirati dialect until I was fluent, but I never forgot my Egyptian roots. I learnt to navigate the calm, composed gatherings in the UAE just as easily as the loud, chaotic reunions in Egypt.

Adapting taught me empathy. Moving to the UAE and finding my place here showed me how to relate to people from all walks of life. Whether I’m sharing a laugh over a plate of fateer in Egypt or sipping Arabic coffee in the UAE, I’ve learnt to find connection in the little things that bring us together. I even mastered cooking both koshari and harees – because nothing connects you to your roots quite like food.

These experiences gave me a skill I didn’t realise was so valuable: the ability to adapt anywhere. Whether I’m navigating Alexandria’s vibrant chaos or the sleek, fast-paced energy of Dubai, I know how to blend in and make a space feel like home. As a journalist, this has become one of my greatest strengths. It’s not just about writing stories but also understanding people, seeing the world through their eyes and finding the universal themes that tie us together.

Looking back, I see how both worlds shaped me. Alexandria gave me resilience, and Dubai taught me ambition. My dad’s stories of fishermen and my mom’s memories of the UAE weren’t just anecdotes – they were lessons on how to navigate life’s challenges.

Now, when someone asks me, “Are you more Emirati or more Egyptian?” I don’t hesitate. I just smile and say, “I’m lucky to be both.”