On these pages three years ago, I shared my experience from a summer spent studying Arabic in Beirut, Lebanon. During that summer, I became immediately aware of pervasive anti-Semitic sentiments, which included a program leader who boycotted Starbucks because of its Jewish ownership; university-area bookstore windows stocked with "How the Jews Made the Holocaust," among other incendiary titles; and a lawyer in a barbershop who shared with me his wish that Hitler had "finished the job." Sensing potential danger--including among the well-educated individuals with whom I primarily associated--I hid my Jewish identity throughout the summer.

When I arrived in Cairo last August on a yearlong study fellowship, however, I decided to change my strategy. In the true spirit of cross-cultural exchange for which the U.S. State Department was financing my living expenses, I chose to share my Jewish identity as frequently as possible, particularly with my Egyptian classmates. Thus, when one student shared his belief that the Holocaust's historicity is controversial, I spoke of the survivors I know from my synagogue in New York and recommended some books. When another student extemporized on vicious Jewish control of world affairs, I provided a previously unthinkable moment of discomfort--"Excuse me," I said, "I'm Jewish"--before challenging the merits of his argument. And when people asked where I had been during the first week of April, I told them quite honestly that I had been observing Passover. In Israel.

Each time I told another Egyptian classmate that I was Jewish, it was as though I'd entered the next stage of a strange social experiment. In most circumstances, I was the first Jew my friends had ever met, and, after the initial shock, the revelation of my Judaism often piqued their interest. Prefacing their ensuing questions with a sincere, "I don't mean to offend you," they would pepper me with questions regarding all aspects of Jewish life and practice. Some conversations lasted for hours, and many frequently sought to establish Jewish-Muslim common ground.

Upon telling an Egyptian friend that I was Jewish, two questions most commonly followed. Given the political context, the first question was unsurprising: "So you're Israeli?" No, I would say. Just as being Muslim doesn't necessarily make you Saudi, being Jewish doesn't make me Israeli. At times, this would lead to a conversation on Jewish cultural affinity for Israel, as well as the relevance of Jewish holy sites in Jerusalem. It was a viewpoint of which my Egyptian friends were certainly aware, but had never previously encountered from an actual Jew.

The second--and more common question--was, alternatively, confounding: "So you're not allowed to marry non-Jews?" I was never able to ascertain whether this free association derived from film portrayals of Jews, or whether it was the consequence of the pernicious view of Jews as exclusivist. If being Jewish is important enough to me, I would say, then I need to marry a Jewish woman in order to have a Jewish family. I would further discuss the challenges of insuring Jewish continuity as a religious minority in the United States--a conversation with which Egyptian Christians often identified. Egyptian Muslims also understood, and frequently admitted, that they preferred dating and marrying other Muslims for similar reasons.

Of course, my candor was not always welcome. My landlord, for example, was a supporter of the Muslim Brotherhood and, while I was moving in, shared with me his view that, "There is one Jewish policy: dominating the Middle East." There would be no useful Jewish-Muslim dialogue between us, I concluded at that moment, so I told him that I was Christian.

In another incident, a Coptic NYU professor who had returned to Cairo to teach during her sabbatical, knowing that I was Jewish, asked me whether I was going home for Christmas. I reminded her that I don't celebrate Christmas, and she proceeded to tell me how ridiculous I was for not having a Christmas tree. She then accused "you people" of inventing Chanukah to replace Christmas. "Are you accusing me of stealing Christmas?" I asked her. "Yes," she said, without a hint of irony.

In my experience, however, these were the exceptions. At the American University in Cairo--where the student body is largely affluent, decently connected, in-touch with popular culture, and fluent in English--students were overwhelmingly intrigued by the rare open Jew in their midst and curious to learn more. They asked excellent questions, were honest about the negative portrayals of Jews with which they were raised, and were open to having those portrayals challenged.

I do not pretend that these interactions hold the key to resolving any conflict. In a country where the state-run television airs a 41-part series based on "Protocols of the Elders of Zion," and in which the state-run newspapers frequently feature stereotypically negative portrayals of Jews, this sort of micro-level, grassroots activism will only go so far. However, by engaging with Arabs directly--putting aware Jews among them and promoting cultural exchange--we can begin the process of shaking the Middle East from the street-based anti-Semitism that has become all too comfortable. At the very least, we can foster an environment in which Egyptian university students have American Jewish friends.