Between Two Skies: An Egyptian Heart in Albany

by Walid Abdallah

When I first arrived in Albany, New York, in the winter of 2014, I felt as if I had stepped into a painting. The air was sharp and cold, the kind that wakes the skin and clears the mind. Snow clung to the sidewalks along Madison Avenue, and the bare trees reached into the sky like ancient calligraphy.

My first home was Casey Hall, an old house with wooden stairs that sighed under each step, and walls that seemed to hold the laughter, worries, and dreams of the many who had lived there before me. From my window, I could see a street lined with stately houses, their porches dusted in white, and beyond them the slow rhythm of a city that felt both foreign and full of promise.

I had come carrying more than luggage. I brought my Egypt with me—its warm light, its crowded streets, its layered history. I had never thought much about my “identity” back home; I simply was. But here, in America, every introduction was a small act of translation. My name, my accent, my traditions—suddenly, they were not invisible threads in the fabric of everyday life. They were questions, curiosities, and sometimes, misunderstandings.

One evening, I was invited to the International Night at the College of Saint Rose. I hesitated at first. Would I be the stranger in the room? Would my story matter among so many others? Still, curiosity led me there.

The hall was alive with sound and color. Music from far-off lands mingled with the scent of unfamiliar spices. Tables were draped with flags, each a silent ambassador of a place and its people. I met Ahmed from Morocco, who spoke of his grandmother’s courtyard shaded by orange trees. Maria from Colombia laughed as she described the street festivals that painted her city in the colors of fire and flowers. Ravi from India told me of Diwali nights that turned darkness into a constellation of light, and Mei from China spoke of the Spring Festival with its dragon dances and the red envelopes that carried blessings.

And then there was me—an Egyptian in America, speaking of the Nile’s steady flow, of Cairo’s restless nights, and of the scent of cardamom drifting from a small kitchen. As I spoke, I realized I was doing more than telling a story; I was carrying my homeland into that room, placing it beside all the others.

That night, I saw something remarkable. We were not competing to be heard. We were weaving a tapestry—each thread different in color and texture, but together forming something larger than ourselves. For a few hours, we belonged not to one nation but to a shared space that honored all.

Yet, between these moments of warmth, there were shadows. Once, a cashier asked me where I was “really from,” as though my presence required proof. Another time, someone mimicked my accent on the bus, a small mockery that stayed with me longer than I wanted to admit. These were the quiet reminders that no matter how far I reached, I would still be marked as different.

But Albany also gave me gifts. In Washington Park, I found a bench where I could sit for hours, watching the seasons change. In the snow, I learned patience. In the spring blossoms, I learned renewal. I made friends who tasted my cooking with curiosity, who asked about Ramadan not out of politeness, but to understand. In their homes, I felt the beginnings of a new kind of belonging.

I began to see that living between cultures was not about replacing one identity with another. It was about holding both, letting them meet without losing their shape—like two rivers flowing into the same sea. In Egypt, I was simply Egyptian; in America, I became something more complex: an Egyptian who was learning to live, work, and dream in another tongue, under another sky, without abandoning the first.

On my last week in Albany, the International Student Office organized a farewell. We stood in a circle, passing around a single candle. Each of us was asked to share what we had learned during our time here. When it was my turn, I held the candle for a moment, feeling its warmth.

“I have learned,” I said slowly, “that belonging is not something you are given. It’s something you build—stone by stone, heart by heart. And it can be built anywhere, if you choose.”

The room was silent for a breath, then filled with soft applause. In that moment, I understood that I was leaving with more than memories. I was leaving with a bridge—one that connected the streets of Cairo to the snow-covered sidewalks of Albany, the call to prayer to the tolling of church bells, the Arabic in my heart to the English on my tongue.

When I boarded the plane home, I looked down at Albany from above. The streets and rooftops grew smaller, but inside me, they remained vivid. I was returning to Egypt, but I was also carrying Albany with me.

And perhaps that is the truest meaning of living between two skies: you belong not entirely to one, but to both. You learn to carry each within you, so no matter where you stand, you are always home.