Sama Farrag Mama always told me I look just like her, though I never really felt like I do on account of her being blonde and having green eyes and me being as brunette as they come. People would tell me, “Enty ezay shabah mamtek keda?” And I started hearing it more and more often the older I got. Now at twenty-six, I’ve come to the realization that I am the spitting image of my mother. I didn’t dye my hair, nor did my eyes magically change color, but I have become more like her than I’ve ever been. I remember watching her get ready to go out as a kid as she put on silver hoop earrings and Mac’s Ruby Woo, hearing her on the phone with her friends, and watching her cook lunch, and I slowly morphed into her through all those things. I will never make macarona bashamel any other way (three bouillon cubes instead of one, 4 tablespoons of butter, and a dash of cinnamon), and I will sometimes catch myself saying “laa bethazari” using her cadence when a friend spills a particularly juicy piece of gossip. There is no family heirloom that has been passed down from my great-great-great-grandmother, and unfortunately she gave all of her cool Y2k clothing away, but what she did pass down was…her. I wear my hair up the way she used to and say certain words the same way she does. I think that eventually we all turn into our mothers—we inherit their little quirks and habits until one day we catch our reflection in the mirror and see them staring back at us.
So She Says
“Elly etlasaa mel shorba, yonfokh fel zabady.”
“El haraka baraka.”
And my personal favorite—”El erd fe 3ein ommo ghazal.”
There’s nothing quite like an Egyptian adage—you grow up hearing them constantly (usually from your mom.) The real shock is the first time one subconsciously slips out of your own mouth. You’re giving a friend advice or reacting to some drama, and suddenly you pause—because that sounded exactly like her. Somewhere along the way, without noticing, you memorized them all. And just like that, you’ve officially entered the I’ve-Turned-Into-My-Mother Club.
Take a Jacket
One time in third grade, my friend’s mom dropped us off at the club, and she got into a massive fight with taunte at the gate because she refused to take a jacket. It was warm, it was sunny, and in our eight-year-old minds, the idea of carrying extra layers was nothing short of oppression. Now, in my twenties, I catch myself doing the exact same thing. Someone mentions it might get chilly, and suddenly I’m saying, “Just bring a jacket… you never know.” And every time the words leave my mouth, I have the same realization: somewhere down the line, I became the taunte.
Heavy on the Garlic
My mother is Palestinian, so you just know we were eating well. I grew up eating hefty amounts of olive oil and in a household where garlic is never optional. If a dish only called for two cloves, she’d add five and wait for the magic to happen. Throw in onions, whatever vegetables are around, maybe some chicken, or maybe just rice. Cook enough to feed a small village even if it’s just lunch for three people. Eventually you realize that there’s a reason all your friends loved coming over for lunch, and you carry it with you in your heart. Serve hot, don’t skimp on the garlic, and always make a little extra—leftovers are part of the plan.
Smells Like Home
The scents your mother loved somehow settle into your own collection without you noticing: the warmth of sandalwood, the soft sweetness of jasmine, and the subtle spiciness of oud. Over time, you realize your favorites echo hers, not because you consciously copied them, but because taste travels through generations. Wearing them feels like carrying a part of her presence with you, a memory distilled into scent. My signature scent is the scent I remember my mom wearing while she dropped me off at school in 2007. Hypnotic Poison by Dior—it contains notes of crisp autumn air, Nescafe Gold, and Nancy Ajram on the radio. In a way, each bottle becomes a bridge between past and present—a small but intimate legacy passed down with ease and instinct.
Muscle Memory
You notice this in little and far too subtle moments. Standing at the bathroom mirror, brush in hand, you tap it twice against the edge of the palette before lifting it to your cheek—pause. Tap, tap. The sound is soft and automatic. You freeze for a second, brush hovering, because you’ve seen that before. Not here. Not now. Somewhere else. The way your mother tilts her head when she laughs, the way she plays with her thumbs when she’s nervous or bored, and the way she always taps her make-up brush twice before applying blush. As a kid, you’d mimic her because it felt strangely calming to mirror her, and as an adult, you catch yourself doing the same things because they’re familiar.
I Get It From My Momma
Remember that one specific flower your mom doodled on the back of a tissue box whenever she was on the phone? Yeah. One day you’re on a call, pen in hand, and by the time the call ends, you see the exact same flower. Where do you keep your plastic bags? In other plastic bags. Thank you for that one, Mama. My mom always kept the TV on in the background, so now I always keep something on in the background. “Old habits die hard,” people say, but these ones don’t really die; they just find a new place to live.
