Amongst the deaf of Egypt’s Sinai peninsula
Fingertips pressed together in a twisting motion to indicate “lemon”; an energetic motion of both wrists to say “bread”, suggestive of how flatbread dough would be thrown into the hot embers of a desert fire to cook; a hand drawn across the cheek to indicate “man”, on the presumption that all men have beards. These are just some of signed words used by a single Bedouin tribe in Egypt’s Sinai peninsula, the triangle of desert and mountain that marks the meeting point of Africa and Asia, the Suez on one side of the peninsula, the Gulf of Aqaba on the other.
In a fascinating article for Usbek and Rica, Jenna le Bras explores lokha torsh (the local name for the sign language) as a phenomenon deeply anchored in Bedouin society – both shaped by its culture and shaping it in turn.
The first written record of the sign language’s existence crops up in travellers’ accounts from a few centuries ago. But in terms of scientific work on the language, lokha torsh is essentially newly discovered. An Israeli academic who has coined the name ABSL (Al-Sayyid Bedouin Sign Language) for the signed language used by Bedouin in the Negev desert – outside Egypt – cautions against imagining lokha torsh and ABSL as mere variations of each other. Some signs are similar; others are completely different. “It would take years of study on the ground” to even begin to understand the language’s origins and interconnections, she says.
There is a particular practical reason for the prevalence of lokha torhsh in Egyptian Sinai. Over time, marriage between cousins has tended to re-enforce genetic traits rather than dilute them. Rates of hereditary deafness are extremely high.
“Blood ties are important for us Bedouin,” explains Mohamed, one of those interviewed in the article, himself a deaf man of 40. Mohamed’s grandfather and uncle were deaf before him. He is now married to Husseina, his uncle’s daughter. The article begins with Mohamed and Husseina’s deaf child Salah complaining of a buzzing sensation in his ears. His parents rush to a local doctor hoping the call of the muezzin has miraculously awakened their child’s hearing – only to discover it’s an insect trapped in his ear.
As he is being interviewed, Mohamed’s mobile rings. He passes it to his wife, who acts as translator between the spoken word she can hear, and her husband signing his responses, arranging the logistics for a tourist trip. It’s an intimate scene. But le Bras draws out a larger point about how deafness is treated in Bedouin society: the sense of solidarity – she cites the Arabic term aṣabiyyah – which means it is common for deaf and non-deaf to be paired up, in both familial and professional situations, as needed.
Taking tourists out into the desert Mohamed is paired up with non-deaf Brahim. It’s a multilingual context: often English, sometimes Russian, sometimes Hebrew. “We are all used to working in several languages,” Brahim explains: “so I barely count lokha torsh as extra.”
On the first night of Ramadan, le Bras observes a vibrant conversation amongst members of Mohamed’s family as part of the festivities. “And yet,” she writes, “it all takes place in near silence. Stifled laughter, barely aspirated syllables….”. Many young people have smartphones. But their interactions on Tik Tok or other social media are mostly through emojis.
At the local school, 60 kilometres away, there has been a class for deaf children since 2017. It hasn’t been easy. When she first arrived, the new teacher found the textbooks had turned to dust. The sign language she had learned was classical Arabic rather than Bedouin. Even now, only five children regularly attend. “Formal education isn’t a priority” amongst the Bedouin, the article explains.
Then there was the time a charitable association decided to distribute hearing aids locally. Hundreds of hearing tests were done. Gilly, a retired British ballerina, drove to Cairo to order the aids. “It was fantastic,” she says, “we felt part of something useful.” But the aids were never worn. Emira, a local social worker, admits it was naïve to imagine turning up with a whole bunch of new gizmos would change things: “we should have stayed by their [the locals’] side… proposed hearing therapies.” The list of those who got the hearing aids bears a familiar name: Mohamed, husband of Husseina.
They are still there, in Mohamed and Husseina’s home, packed safely in a box. Why weren’t they used? The noise was too much for Mohamed, his wife explains. As for the children, wouldn’t they just have broken, or filled with dust? What language would they be expected to speak, anyhow?
The article concludes, powerfully, on the perspective involved. What the association imagined as a miraculous technological solution to the problem of deafness was viewed by others as an answer to a problem which didn’t exist. “Why complicate life when we have no problem communicating anyhow?” Husseina says.
Language, after all, takes many forms.
The original article ‘Sur les traces d’une nouvelle langue des signes née au cœur du Sinaï’ by Jenna Le Bras was first published by Usbek & Rica in French in their Futur magazine in 2024 and republished online on March 10, 2026. It was a finalist for the 2026 True Story award.
Usbek & Rica is a French language publication oriented towards writing about the future. You can also read its manifesto.
Summary by Charles Emmerson
