To Live in Egypt as a Georgian Arabist

 To live in Egypt as a Georgian Arabist is not merely to observe history — it is to walk inside it. I arrived in Cairo not as a tourist, but as a witness, and perhaps — a returnee.

The Mamluk dynasty, which shaped so much of Egypt’s medieval strength, included among its most respected warriors Georgians taken as boys from the Caucasus, trained in arms and language, then elevated to the ranks of commanders. This is no abstract history to me — it is a whisper I hear in Cairo’s stones, in the echo of Arabic that flows through my voice when I speak.

Arabic is not foreign to me. It is a second skin, a language I wear with gratitude and responsibility. In Egypt, my years of study became daily dialogue — on the streets, in souks, in mosques, in silence. The language no longer lived only in books; it lived in people, in gestures, in poetry shouted over coffee and in calls to prayer at dawn.

To be a Georgian Arabist in Egypt is to see connections that few suspect — not only between cultures, but across time. I felt the resonance of Caucasian presence in Egyptian soil — not in monuments, but in memory. And I, living in that land for a significant period, added my own quiet chapter to that story.

There are cities one visits — and there are cities that speak to you before a word is spoken. Cairo belongs to the latter. In Old Cairo, where the minarets draw shadows on ancient stone, I felt time slow down. The calligraphy carved in doors and mosques was not only religious — it was diplomatic. In a society where pride is quiet and respect is wordless, I learned that the tilt of a head, the length of eye contact, and the poetry in everyday speech communicate more than any official language.

Arabic, in this setting, is not just functional. It is a ceremonial act — a language of identity and belonging. In diplomacy, where words are weighed, Arabic offers both precision and metaphor. One phrase can be direct and poetic at once. One word can bridge differences if spoken with the right intention.

I remember standing in Al-Azhar, listening to the Qur’anic recitation echoing through marble halls. I didn’t only hear it — I felt it. In Cairo, language has gravity. The street vendor, the imam, the student — all are orators of their own world. To engage with them as an outsider is a privilege. To respond in their language — with their rhythm — is a quiet form of cultural respect.

Cairo teaches you to speak before speaking.

It teaches that listening is not passive.

And that the first true sentence is always light falling on old walls, at dusk.

I did not just observe this — I lived it. I studied it. I spoke it. I was part of it.

To be a Georgian Arabist in Egypt is not simply to understand Arabic culture — it is to feel it move within you, in language, memory, and silence.

— Vakhtang Imerlishvili

Orientalist, Arabist