There are sounds that shape us before we understand them. They echo through our souls, without us realizing it, without us controlling it. The Zaghrouta is one of them. But for all the right reasons.
Whether I realized it, or just refused to admit it, a Zaghrouta was never just a sound. There was always something captivating about it. The high-pitched, synchronized sound patterns born from women’s tongues dancing lightly in their mouths, that vibrate through generations and generations, and pierce through noise like a blade of joy. In ancient Egypt, women would ululate to summon blessings, rain, and sustenance from the gods.
A sacred plea that has survived conquest, colonization, and modernity. Through it all, women kept calling out, sometimes in circles of laughter, sometimes in grief. Always to mark a passage: a crossing from one state of being to another. What once rose as a call to the heavens now bursts forth in our streets and homes, carrying the same joy, hope, and resilience.
I’d hear it often growing up; from women in glittering, colored dresses, red lipstick and gold jewelry, waiting outside a hair salon to celebrate their bride as she emerged in white; or in hotel lobbies as they watch the bride descend the stairs on her father’s arm, Zaghroutas rising in harmony, complementing the Zaffa’s Mezmar and Tabl; in hospitals when delivering the news of the arrival of a healthy baby would be first heard by a Zaghrouta that would echo through the building, breathing a breeze of relief and joy, not only to family waiting patiently behind the doors, but also the sick and anxious residents of the building.
A Zaghrouta could proudly shake a humble stadium hall from a mother celebrating her child’s first win, just as it could thunder across the world in the Olympics, from the lips of a champion in her fifties, bronze medal in hand. And sometimes, it puzzled the heart: mothers of martyrs ululating through tears at funeral processions, sending their sons to their final abode.
Zaghroutas are fascinating. A woman would initiate the Zaghrouta and soon after, like an heirloom, Zaghroutas would be passed from one woman to another, until they formed a chorus. Bells of joy, an outcry of pride, an invitation to belonging. But they always felt distant; It was for others, not me.
For women with wrinkled hands and stories as old as time. For aunts. Those who hold dearly to their past with all its traditions, what our generation would shrug off as outdated. Too traditional, too loud, too cringe. I would roll my eyes when my mom would attempt one, the same way you look at someone who claps when a plane lands. We are cool, above all that. And whenever I tried, with friends or at family gatherings, it felt performative, silly. Zaghroutas were not for me; or so I thought. Until very recently, at my dear friend’s wedding
A few days before my friend’s wedding, at the Henna, me and my friends joked that all we could do was clap. We couldn’t dance, didn’t know the lyrics, and definitely couldn’t ululate. We tried copying other women, watching their tongues, but our attempts ended in awkward noise, nothing close to a real Zaghrouta. We gave up, deciding to leave it to other women.
But then the wedding day came. My beautiful friend, in her white dress, sitting next to the love of her life in their Katb Ketab. The Sheikh pronounced them husband and wife, and something in me overflowed, when shortly, tears skipped my eyes. My chest tightened with joy too big for silence, and before I knew it, my right hand rose to my mouth, my tongue dancing on its own, my voice carried me, and a Zaghrouta burst out. Loud, full, unrestrained. It didn’t feel borrowed, or forced, or performed. It felt earned. It was a declaration of joy too big, it was not to be celebrated partially or in silence. This Zaghrouta was special. It taught me that I am allowed to feel it all, with my whole being. My friends joined, then the others, and together our voices weaved into one chorus. A tapestry of joy.
The day after the wedding, I, very proudly, approached my mom. “I now know how to Azaghrat, wanna see?” Took a deep breath, looked straight ahead, placed my right hand above my lips, my tongue moving, but it was horrible. I braced for disbelief, like the look parents give when you insist there’s a ghost under the bed. Instead, my mom said, “It will come. It comes from the heart. Wait until joy finds you again.”
And I realized she was right. A Zaghrouta is not something you perform. It is something you surrender to. You cannot half-feel it. It demands your whole being. It isn’t cringe. It is collective joy, raw and unpolished. It is belonging.
This entry is a top ten place winner of Egyptian Streets’ 2025 “Timeless Tales: Cultural Heritage Writing Competition,” in partnership with FairTrade Egypt and Bibliothek Egypt. Entries featured first-person narratives of Egypt’s cultural heritage through Ancient Egypt, Coptic, Islamic, Jewish traditions, and tangible/intangible expressions. Winners were celebrated at Bibliothek Egypt in October 2025, with 13 top stories published on our platform.
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