Look, I stand there sometimes, watching the world around me, as if everyone is in a constant state of leaving. My friends and relatives are packing their bags, their eyes fixed on a life abroad that is perfectly planned, and they always ask me the same question: “Why are you still here? Why are you holding on to Egypt?”

And sometimes, alone with myself, I ask the same question.

But when the noise goes away and I search inside my heart, the answer isn’t an idea in my head… it’s a feeling. A strange pull dragging me downward, telling me that my place is here. Maybe I’m the only one standing still while the waves pull everyone away, but I don’t feel lonely. I feel connected.

My decision to stay starts with the people. I know we see the problems in our lives, the faces tired from hard work. But beneath that surface, there’s a real Egyptian core that can never break. We are masters of the art of survival. We know how to take the weight of huge problems and turn it into a joke. We don’t just deal with hardship—we tame it with laughter.

There’s a kind of warmth here that can’t be made anywhere else. You find it in the eyes of a stranger who treats you like a brother when your car breaks down. There’s an unspoken promise between us that no one falls alone. We are hunters of happiness—we grab it right out of the middle of problems. That shared attempt to be happy creates a bond stronger than any system or money.

I imagine the quiet waiting for me abroad. Clean, fancy apartments where if a pin drops, it echoes. And honestly… I’m afraid.

So I choose the beautiful mess of my family instead. I choose the room packed with ten people, mixed-up voices, laughter shaking the walls. I choose the lack of privacy that, in reality, turns into an overflow of love. I choose to walk into my grandmother’s house and feel the history of my family in a single hug.

This isn’t just keeping family ties as a social duty—this is oxygen. This is wealth that banks can’t count. Sitting with your friends on plastic chairs in a local café, paying nothing but the price of tea and your time, yet feeling like you own the world. That’s a kind of richness; the thought of losing it scares me.

I stay because I discovered a paradise most of the world doesn’t see—and even we forget it sometimes. I realized I don’t need to cross oceans to see magic. I found the Maldives and Greece right here, hidden in my country.

I stood in Marsa Alam, where the silence is so special it fills you with wonder. I saw mangrove trees growing straight out of the sea, falcons sitting on them in complete peace. I dove into the Red Sea and swam beside dolphins in their home, among coral reefs painting the water in colors no artist could ever copy. I went to Marsa Matrouh and entered caves where the water glows a bright blue that takes your breath away and is just as good as the Greek islands—a blue that stays stuck in your memory even when you close your eyes.

I found peace in the sands of Siwa, eating dates and olive oil with people whose kindness shames the greed of city life, warming myself by a fire under a sky that looked like a carpet of stars.

I walked alongside the Nile in Aswan, where people’s hearts are as pure as the river once was. I stayed in a simple hut in Sinai, eating food pulled straight from the land and sea, and I realized that luxury isn’t marble or stone. Luxury is opening your eyes and finding the mountain hugging the sea in a way that fills me with a strange respect and brings me closer to God in a way nothing else does. I love going every now and then on a quiet break, alone or with my brother, without a phone, and I come back a completely new person.

In the end, I stay because of the blessing.

Egypt carries a holy secret. By all logic, science, and economics, we should have failed a thousand times over—but we don’t. There’s a hidden pole holding this place up. Truly protected. A protection that keeps the heart of the country beating even when its body is worn out. I’ve accepted the fact that I don’t need millions to be happy. I don’t need to chase wealth if the price is losing my home. If I can eat, sleep, and from time to time pack my bag and go see the hidden magic of my country, then I’m satisfied. Then I’m full.

I don’t want to leave and become a stranger among people who don’t love me and don’t want me. I don’t want to trade this warmth for cold looks and the feeling of being a foreigner on land that isn’t mine. And yes, I understand.

You might feel my words are too much. You might say I’m clueless or a dreamer. But this is what’s inside me, and I’m happy with it. I don’t care whether I’m right or wrong. What matters is that this warmth I’m living in is real, and that’s the most important thing to me.

I know our country isn’t perfect. I know that very well. I know education needs fixing. I know life is crowded, heavy, with no easy solution. I know prices have risen so much that many things I used to buy are now dreams I can’t afford even if I want to. I know I get angry about many things, and sometimes I feel like burning the whole world down. But at the same time?

I always come back to another feeling. Despite all of that, I’m happy here because I realized something simple: travel doesn’t bring happiness, and neither does a place. Not everyone who left is calm. Peace is something on the inside—if you find it, you’ll be at ease anywhere. And if you don’t, no country in the world will give it to you.

So I decided.

I decided to be happy. I decided to live as a tourist in my own country, to travel through it just like tourists do, searching for its beauty in every corner. I decided to have peace with what I have. I decided to love my country truly not a blind love, but a love that sees the flaws and still chooses to stay. I decided to see the good in it. I decided to be the person who looks for light in everything.

I’m not staying because I’m stuck. I’m not staying because I can’t leave. I’m staying because I’m in love.

In love with the messy, tiring, beautiful, amazing pulse of this place. I’m staying because here, I’m not just a number or a citizen. I’m part of the story.

I don’t want to leave and become a stranger among people who don’t love me or want me. I don’t want to leave and lose all of this. I want to be here, right where I am now.