I ask my mother to tell me the story of Egyptian Cinderella, one of the bedtime stories she used to tell us when we were kids. She looks confused.
“Do you mean Karamillah? That’s not a Cinderella story,” she says. “She marries a policeman, not a prince.”
(My mother says being an officer in Egypt is a good living. I suppose marrying a policeman is more practical than marrying a prince.)
“Karamillah was a little girl who lived with her mother and father. But her mother died, and her father remarried. The woman he married had two daughters of her own who were close to Karamillah’s age.
Karamillah’s new stepmother didn’t like her, and treated her very badly. She was jealous because her own daughters were plain, where Karamillah was very beautiful and very kind. All their neighbours, all the people in their village, loved her.
Before she died, Karamillah’s mother had bought and raised a little ‘igla, a buffalo calf, which she gifted to Karamillah when she was old enough to look after it. Every day the little girl wandered the fields with her calf; she would feed it, bathe it, and take good care of it, just as her mother taught her to.
After her mother died, her stepmother, glad to be rid of her during the day, would wait until the father left for work then would rush her out of the house. The only food she allowed her to take for the day was a piece of flatbread, a piece of cheese, and some mikhalil—pickled olives, cucumbers and turnips. The stepmother never allowed Karamillah any other food; her jealousy drove her to keep the girl malnourished and ill.
And so Karamillah would take her calf and meagre food, and would spend the entire day outside. She would wander over the fields, letting her calf graze as they went. One day, exhausted, she sat under a tree and began to cry.
Her calf turned to her and said, ‘My dear, what’s the matter?’
Karmillah showed the calf her meagre food.
يا عَجِلتي، يا رباية نِنّتي
شُفتي همّا بيكلو ايه، وبتديني أنا أكل إيه؟
My calf, raised by my cherished mother,
See what her daughters eat, and what she gives me to eat?
The calf nuzzled her. ‘Put your food under my hoof, and see what happens.’
Karamillah placed the food on the ground and sat back. The calf began stomping on it.
As she watched, the food which had been bland and dry began to transform. The calf turned her bread into duck meat, her cheese into beef, and made a banquet of other delicious foods out of the mikhalil.
So Karamillah was able to eat her fill, and be satisfied.
Every day she grew more beautiful than the day before. Her stepmother was mad with rage. ‘I give that girl bread and mikhalil. I feed my daughters only the best food. How is she still so much more beautiful than they are?’
The stepmother decided to send the younger of her two daughters out with Karamillah to discover her secret.
When they left the house and began wandering the fields, Karamillah turned to her stepsister and said, ‘I’m going to show you a secret. Please don’t tell your mother.’
The girl agreed, and watched as the calf transformed the meagre meal into a luscious banquet. The two sisters ate their full, and were satisfied.
When they returned home that evening, the stepmother pulled her daughter aside. ‘So?’ she asked. ‘Who is giving her the food that keeps her looking healthy and nourished? Who has she been talking to, who has she been sitting with?’
The younger daughter said, ‘By god, mother, nobody at all goes to her and she speaks with no-one. She ate only the food you gave her.’
The stepmother seethed. ‘I know you’re lying to me. Get out of my sight, imshi.’
The next day the stepmother sent her elder daughter out instead. As Karamillah had done the day before, she asked her elder stepsister not to speak of what she saw. The stepsister agreed, and both girls ate their fill.
The stepmother questioned her daughter when they got home. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Who is giving Karamillah food?’
The elder daughter replied, ‘Who? More like what. It’s the calf, it produces wondrous food from beneath its hoof. You think the food you make us is good? Your food’s complete rubbish compared to what the calf makes her.’
‘So it’s that calf of hers,’ the stepmother said. ‘Well, well.’
The stepmother waited a few days, then paid a visit to the local ruqaq-maker.
‘Make me three kilos of ruqaq bread,’ she told the woman. ‘But make it dry, as dry as you can get it to be.’ The stepmother took the dry ruqaq bread back to the house and spread it under her mattress.
When Karamillah’s father came home that night, she lay down, and pretended to be sick.
‘I’m in such pain,’ she told him, turning over on the mattress. Each time she moved, the ruqaq under her would crack, and she would cry out ‘Oh! My bones! My poor back!’ Her husband sent for the doctor.
‘You must tell him I’m sick,’ the stepmother whispered to the doctor, once her husband moved out of earshot. ‘You must tell him I won’t get better until I eat the heart and liver of Karamillah’s calf.’
The doctor did as he was told. And so Karmillah’s father asked his daughter to send for the butcher.
‘No!’ Karamillah replied. ‘This calf was a gift from my mother. I won’t do it.’
The stepmother, still tossing and turning on her mattress, moaned louder in pretend pain. ‘Oh! My poor head, my poor feet!’
This went on for several days while Karmillah’s father continued trying to convince his daughter to slaughter her calf for her stepmother’s cure. Eventually she gave in to the pressure of her father’s wishes.
The butcher came, with his apron and freshly sharpened knives. But when he tried to cut the calf’s throat, none of his knives worked, no matter how hard he tried.
Karmillah’s father sent for different people, different knives. Nothing worked. Finally he gave up, and sent for his daughter instead. ‘The calf refuses to be slaughtered,’ he told her.
Karamillah turned to the calf and whispered,
يا عَجِلتي، يا رباية نِنّتي
إندبحي وما تِنْسِلخيش
My calf, raised by my cherished mother,
Be slaughtered and don’t be skinned
The butcher tried again, and this time the calf was slaughtered with ease. But when he came to skin it, the skin could not be removed for love or for money. The father once again called for Karamillah.
‘Oh Karamillah!’ he said. ‘The calf refuses to be skinned.’
So Karamillah turned to her calf and quietly said,
يا عَجِلتي، يا رباية نِنّتي
إنسِلخي وما تتقطعيش
My calf, raised by my cherished mother,
Be skinned and don’t be cut
The butcher skinned the calf, easily and precisely. But he could not slice through the meat. He sharpened all his knives and tried again; the father gathered all the knives in the village and tried them. None of them made a single slice. For a third time, the father called for Karamillah.
يا عَجِلتي، يا رباية نِنّتي
إتقطعي وما تِستويش
My calf, raised by my cherished mother,
Be cut and don’t be cooked
The calf was cut, and the meat distributed among the villagers. The father kept the heart and liver to cook for his wife.
The villagers cooked and ate the meat that had been gifted with no problem. But the heart and liver could not be so much as warmed up, no matter how long the father kept them in the pot, no matter how high he turned up the heat on the stove. Defeated, he presented the raw meat to his wife, and she ate with glee.
But her glee was short-lived. Weeks passed; the calf was gone, but Karamillah continued to grow more beautiful and more liked by the villagers.
‘What am I going to do with this girl?’ the stepmother raged. ‘I need to get rid of her!’
In desperation she sought out Uminah El-Ghūla, the ancient and powerful Demon Mother who lived in a nearby village disguised as an old woman, and made a deal with her. ‘Karamillah must never return to my house,’ the stepmother said. ‘Will you eat her and rid me of her once and for all?’
‘Fine,’ Uminah El-Ghūla agreed. ‘Send her to me.’
The very next morning the stepmother carried out her plan. ‘Karamillah,’ she instructed. ‘Go to Uminah El-Ghūla and tell her I want a sieve.’
So Karamillah set off. As she walked, she came across the sesame seller.
‘Come, my dear,’ he called out to her. ‘Good morning!’
‘Good morning,’ she replied. ‘May your morning be filled with jasmine and rose.’*
‘See here, I have a few sesame seeds,’ he told her. ‘If the amount increases, I’ll take half, and you can take half.’
‘God willing they’ll increase,’ she said, ‘and they will be blessed.’
The man looked at his sack of sesame seeds, and found the bag had indeed become full. ‘Look at that! Well then, you’ll take half, and I’ll keep half.’
Karamillah smiled. ‘Thank you, but I don’t want half. I’ll take what you can fill in my pockets, and a handful above that, and god bless the rest of your wares for you.’
She filled her pockets, took some more in hand, and continued walking. Shortly after she came across four roses.
She called out a greeting to the first rose. ‘Good morning, White Rose!’
‘Good morning Karamillah,’ said the white rose. ‘Water me, and may your skin become fair in my likeness.’ So Karamillah watered the white rose, and found her skin had lightened.
She next greeted the red rose. ‘Good morning, Red Rose!’
‘Good morning, Karamillah!’ it replied. ‘Water me, and may your cheeks blush and your lips become red in my likeness.’ So Karamillah watered the red rose, and found her cheeks flushed and her lips reddened.
She looked to the blue rose, and called out a greeting. The blue rose returned her greeting and said, ‘Water me, and may your eyes become blue in my likeness.’ So she did, and her eyes turned blue.
She greeted the yellow rose, who said, ‘Water me, and may your hair become yellow in my likeness.’ So she did, and her hair turned blonde.†
Karamillah left the four roses and walked uninterrupted until she arrived at Uminah El-Ghūla’s house. She knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ she heard. ‘The door’s open.’
Kamilah went inside. ‘Good morning, Uminah El-Ghūla.’
‘Good morning, Karamillah. What do you want?’
‘My stepmother sent me to ask for a sieve.’
‘Fine,’ said Uminah El-Ghūla. ‘Clean my house, then I will give you a sieve.’
Within half an hour, Karamillah had the house clean and sparkling, smelling like fresh jasmine.
Uminah El-Ghūla looked around. ‘Very well. Bathe me and remove the nits from hair, then I will give you a sieve.’
Karamillah bathed the old woman and began brushing and cleaning her hair. For each nit she removed, she bit into a sesame seed from her pocket and exclaimed jokingly, ‘Oh Uminah El-Ghūla! Your nits are delightful!’
Uminah El-Ghūla quirked her mouth, showing a shadow of a smile. ‘When you are done, go to the kitchen and cook a cup’s worth of the rice you will find in the cupboard beside the stove.
If the rice softens, you may call out to me. If it does not soften, do not call out. Stay there until I come for you.’
Karamillah did as she was told. Within minutes, the rice had softened. ‘Uminah El-Ghūla, Uminah El-Ghūla,’ she called out. ‘The rice is done.’
Uminah El-Ghūla was impressed. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
Uminah El-Ghūla took Karamillah by the hand and led her to a deep, deep well. She lowered them both down and sung out:
يا بير، يا بير
إمليها دهب و حرير
Oh Well, oh Well,
Cover her with gold and silks
يا بير، يا بير
إمليها ألماز ولولي ومرجان
Oh Well, oh Well,
Cover her with diamonds and pearls
يا بير، يا بير
إمليها من جميع الحاجات الحلوة إلي فيك
Oh Well, oh Well,
Cover her with all the riches and wonders you have
Karamillah came out of the well more lovely to behold than ever before. She sparkled and twinkled in the jewels that adorned her face, hands and feet. She shimmered in the silks that clothed her body.
Uminah El- Ghūla handed her a sieve. ‘Here. Go back to your father’s wife and give this to her.’ So Karamillah thanked her, and left.
As she walked along she caught the eye of a tall, handsome police officer. He followed her all the way back until he discovered where she lived. Then he left, going back the way he came.
Karamillah started to open the door to her house. She heard her stepmother call out: ‘Is that the door? Who’s there?’
‘It’s just me, stepmother!’
The stepmother was furious. I told Uminah El-Ghūla to eat her! she thought to herself. Why the hell is she back?
‘Here’s the sieve you wanted.’ Karamillah walked inside. The stepmother almost choked when she saw her: fair-haired, fair-skinned, covered in jewels and silks.
‘What is this?’ she demanded. ‘Who made you look like this? Who gave you these things?’
‘Uminah El-Ghūla did,’ was the reply.
The stepmother called her elder daughter. ‘Go to Uminah El-Ghūla immediately. Give her back the sieve and ask her why she didn’t do as I asked.’
The stepsister went, walking along the same path Karamillah had taken earlier. She came across the sesame seller.
‘Come, my dear,’ he called out to her.
‘What the hell do you want?’ she snapped at him.
‘I have a few sesame seeds,’ he said. ‘If the amount increases, I’ll take half, and you can take half.’
‘Oh, please,’ she scoffed. ‘They’re not going to increase.’
The man looked at her. ‘Go, then,’ he said. ‘May God close doors in your life.’
She walked on, soon passing the four roses.
The white rose called out to her. ‘Water me, and may your skin become fair in my likeness.’
The stepsister replied blithely, ‘What do I care if you’re watered?’ She didn’t notice her hair turn white.
The red rose spoke. ‘Water me, and may your cheeks blush and your lips become red in my likeness.’
The stepsister shook her head. ‘Do I look like I have time for you?’ As she spoke, her eyes became red and bloodshot.
The blue rose was next. ‘Water me, and may your eyes become blue in my likeness.’
‘Leave me alone! I’m busy!’ the stepsister shouted, and her skin became blue and mottled.
Finally the yellow rose spoke, and when the stepsister refused, her teeth turned yellow.
She walked faster to get away from the roses. She had thought she was going the right way, but soon found the path becoming narrower, the trees denser. She came across locked fences and tall gates that forced her to change her direction several times, almost going around in circles, until at last she found Uminah El-Ghūla’s house. She knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ she heard. ‘The door’s open.’
The stepsister went inside. ‘Take your sieve,’ she said abruptly. ‘My mother wants to know why you didn’t do what she asked.’
‘Fine,’ said Uminah El-Ghūla. ‘Clean my house, then I will tell you the reason.’
Rather than cleaning, the stepsister made the house a mess. She knocked over the ola on the kitchen table, spilling the jug’s water everywhere. She tore through a curtain and ripped open a sack of flour.
Uminah El-Ghūla looked around.
‘Well, old woman?’ the girl said. ‘What’s the reason you didn’t do what my mother wanted?’
‘Bathe me and remove the nits from hair, then I will tell you the reason.’ Uminah El-Ghūla replied.
Instead of bathing her, the stepsister rubbed dirt on Uminah El-Ghūla, and picked roughly at her hair. ‘Your nits are so disgusting,’ she said, scowling.
Uminah El-Ghūla twisted her lips. ‘Go to the kitchen and cook a cup’s worth of the rice you will find in the cupboard beside the stove. If the rice softens, you may call out to me. If it does not soften, do not call out. Stay there until I come for you.’
The stepsister went to the kitchen and sullenly tried cooking the rice, but it would not soften. After an hour, she grew frustrated and shouted, ‘The rice won’t cook, I don’t know why. Can you come here?’
Uminah El-Ghūla came to the kitchen and looked at the rice, uncooked on the stove. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
She took the stepsister by the hand and led her to the well. She lowered them both down and sung out:
يا بير، يا بير
إمليها ثعابين وصراصير
Oh Well, oh Well,
Cover her with snakes and cockroaches
يا بير، يا بير
إمليها براس وخنافس
Oh Well, oh Well,
Cover her with brass and beetles
يا بير، يا بير
إمليها من جميع الحاجات الوحشة إلي عندك
Oh Well, oh Well,
Cover her with all the horrible things you contain
The stepsister came out of the well screaming, shaking bugs and snakes off herself. She was covered head to toe in dirt and mud. She ran from Uminah El-Ghūla as fast as she could, all the way back to the house. Her mother yelped when she saw her.
‘My baby! Who did this to you?’
‘Uminah El-Ghūla did,’ came the sobbing reply.
The stepmother took her daughter to the sink and washed away the mud, picking cockroaches out of her newly-whitened hair and stinking clothes. ‘That’s it,’ the stepmother declared. ‘I’m done with that evil old Demon.’ She forbade her daughter from ever returning to Uminah El-Ghūla’s house, a request the daughter was all too happy to oblige.
Later that night when Karamillah’s father came home from work, he found a tall, handsome gentlemen waiting for him.
‘Good evening,’ the stranger in his living room said. ‘I’m here to ask you for Karamillah’s hand in marriage.’
It was the police officer who’d seen Karamillah walking home. The father agreed, and the two were married shortly after. They lived in peace and prosperity, and were blessed with many children.”
‡.وتوتة توتة، خلصت الحدوتة
* Egyptian greetings don’t follow the same format as English-language ones. In Egyptian, a person will greet you with sabah el-kheir, which literally translates to ‘morning of good’; the most common reply to this is sabah el-nour, which translates to ‘morning of light.’ More fanciful replies can be used:
– sabah el-ful: morning of jasmine
– sabah el-ward: morning of rose
– sabah el-ishta: morning of cream
And so on. In the story Karamillah actually replies to the sesame seller’s ‘morning of good’ with Sabahak ful, wu ward, meaning ‘Your morning is jasmine, and rose’, doubling as an expression of welcome and an endearing compliment.
† Yes, the roses basically turned her into a white woman as a reward for her kindness. Don’t come at me, I didn’t write this story and neither did my mother. If you need someone to blame for Egypt’s warped beauty standards, look no further than British and French invaders and the long-term ongoing effects of colonisation.
‡ The traditional way to end a children’s story. It roughly translates to ‘And with that, the tale is finished’.
This story was narrated to the author by her mother, Badria, in Egyptian Arabic. A lot of the nuance is lost in translation.
Cover image © Baghdady/Hella Ibrahim
About the author
Hella Ibrahim is the founder and editorial director of Djed Press.