Routledge Handbook on Contemporary Egypt 2020039864, 2020039865, 9780367179014, 9780367694395, 9780429058370

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ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK ON CONTEMPORARY EGYPT

Investigating key features of contemporary Egypt, this volume includes Egypt’s modern history, politics, economics, the legal system, environment, and its media and modes of cultural expression. It examines Egypt’s capacities to meet developmental challenges, ranging from responding to globalization and regional competition to generating sufficient economic growth and political inclusion to accommodate the interests and demands of a rapidly growing population. The macrohistory of Egypt is complemented by the microhistories of specific institutions and processes that constitute separate sections in this handbook. The chapters revolve around political economy: it is shaped by the people and their abilities, political and legal institutions, organization of the economy, natural and built environments, and culture and communication. Politics has been overwhelmingly authoritarian and coercive since the military seized power in 1952; consequently, the contributions address both the causes and consequences of unbalanced civil–​military relations, military rule, and persisting authoritarianism in the political society. This multidisciplinary handbook serves a dual purpose of introducing readers to Egypt’s history and contemporary political economy and as a comprehensive key resource for postgraduate students and academics interested in modern Egypt. Robert Springborg is Adjunct Professor at the School of International Studies at Simon Fraser University and Nonresident Research Fellow of the Italian Institute of International Affairs. Formerly he was the Muhammad bin Issa (MBI) Al Jaber Professor in Middle East Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies and Director of the American Research Center in Egypt. Amr Adly is Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science at the American University in Cairo. He worked as a nonresident scholar at the Carnegie Middle East Center. He is the author of Cleft Capitalism (2020) and State Reform and Development in the Middle East (2012). His works have been published in a number of peer-​reviewed journals. Anthony Gorman is Senior Lecturer in Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Edinburgh. He is the author of Historians, State and Politics in Twentieth-​Century Egypt (2003), and (with Monciaud) The Press in the Middle East and North Africa, 1850–​1950 (2018). He

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continues to work on a history of the Middle Eastern prison, and aspects of the Greek presence of modern Egypt. Tamir Moustafa is Professor of International Studies and Stephen Jarislowsky Chair at Simon Fraser University in Vancouver, Canada. He is the author of the award-​winning book, The Struggle for Constitutional Power: Law, Politics, and Economic Development in Egypt (2007), and the co-​editor of Rule by Law: The Politics of Courts in Authoritarian Regimes (2008). Aisha Saad is Research Scholar in Law and the Bartlett Research Fellow at Yale Law School. Dr. Saad was previously Assistant Professor of Public Policy at the American University in Cairo where she helped launch the Center for Sustainable Development and the region’s first Masters in Sustainable Development. Naomi Sakr is Professor of Media Policy at the Communication and Media Research Institute, University of Westminster, researching Arab journalism, cultural production, and human rights, including pan-​Arab screen media for children. Her books include Transformations in Egyptian Journalism (2013) and reports on media laws and governance in the Arab region. Sarah Smierciak completed a DPhil in Oriental Studies and an MPhil in Development Studies at Oxford University on a Rhodes Scholarship. In 2016 she was awarded a Fulbright Grant to conduct research in Istanbul with Syrian and Iraqi communities. She is currently based in Cairo where she writes freelance political economy analysis and is finishing a travel guide to Egypt for the “Moon” series.

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ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK ON CONTEMPORARY EGYPT

Edited by Robert Springborg, Amr Adly, Anthony Gorman, Tamir Moustafa, Aisha Saad, Naomi Sakr, and Sarah Smierciak

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First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Robert Springborg, Amr Adly, Anthony Gorman, Tamir Moustafa, Aisha Saad, Naomi Sakr, and Sarah Smierciak; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Robert Springborg, Amr Adly, Anthony Gorman, Tamir Moustafa, Aisha Saad, Naomi Sakr, and Sarah Smierciak to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Springborg, Robert, editor. | Adly, Amr, editor. | Gorman, Anthony, 1959– editor. | Moustafa, Tamir, editor. | Saad, Aisha, 1987– editor. | Sakr, Naomi, editor. | Smierciak, Sarah, 1989– editor. Title: Routledge handbook on contemporary Egypt/edited by Robert Springborg, Amr Adly, Anthony Gorman, Tamir Moustafa, Aisha Saad, Naomi Sakr, Sarah Smierciak. Other titles: Handbook on contemporary Egypt Description: London; New York, NY: Routledge/Taylor & Francis Group, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Subjects: LCSH: Law–Egypt–History. | Popular culture–Egypt–History–21st century. | Egypt–History–20th century. | Egypt–History–21st century. | Egypt–Politics and government–20th century. | Egypt–Politics and government–21st century. | Egypt–Economic conditions–21st century. Classification: LCC DT77 .R68 2021 (print) | LCC DT77 (ebook) | DDC 962.05–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020039864 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020039865 ISBN: 978-0-367-17901-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-69439-5 (pbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-05837-0 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Newgen Publishing UK

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CONTENTS

Notes on contributors 

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Introduction  Robert Springborg

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PART I

History 

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Introduction: Occupation, independence, revolution  Anthony Gorman 1 Building the Egyptian state? Infrastructural systems, education, and urbanization (1919–​2011)  Mohamed Gamal-Eldin

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2 The ideological roots of authoritarianism in Egypt  Roel Meijer

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3 Egypt’s foreign policy from Faruq to Mubarak  Nael Shama

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4 Activism and contentious politics in Egypt: The case of the student movement  Hatem Zayed, Nadine Sika, and Ibrahim Elnur 5 Framing the past: Historian, state and society  Anthony Gorman v

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Contents PART II

Politics 

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Introduction: The evolution of military rule in Egypt  Sarah Smierciak 6 Genesis of coup-​proofing in Egypt: Civil–​military relations under King Faruq and beyond  Hicham Bou Nassif

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7 The fingers of the “invisible hand”: Egypt’s government institutions  Jan Claudius Völkel

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8 Islamism in Egypt  Noha Mellor

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9 Civil society and revolution (2000–​present)  Hafsa Halawa

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10 Egypt’s post-​uprising foreign policy  Timothy Elhami Kaldas

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PART III

Economy 

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Introduction: A brief history of nation, state, and market  Amr Adly 11 State–​business relations in neoliberal Egypt: The global political economy of subordinate integration  Roberto Roccu

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12 Why Egypt’s trade policy failed to improve its external competitiveness  194 Chahir Zaki 13 Egypt’s foreign direct investment regime: Evolution and limitations  Mohammed Mossallam

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14 The political economy of workers’ remittances in Egypt  Ayman Zohry

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15 Encroachments: Land, power and predation  W. J. Dorman

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Contents PART IV

Law and human rights 

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Introduction: Law, courts, and human rights  Tamir Moustafa

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16 Judges, elections, and constitutional politics after the 2011 Revolution  Jeffrey Adam Sachs

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17 Lawyers and politics: Lawyering and counter-​lawyering in Egypt  Heba M. Khalil

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18 Law, exceptional courts and revolution in modern Egypt  Ahmed Ezzat

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19 The Egyptian human rights movement: Between political autonomy and accommodation of authoritarianism  Bahey eldin Hassan PART V

Natural and built environments 

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Introduction: Visions and realities of the struggle for development  Aisha Saad 20 Sustainable water resource management in Egypt  Richard N. Tutwiler

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21 Egypt’s conflicting urbanism: Informality versus new desert development 348 Deena Khalil 22 Livability of Egyptian cities  Ibrahim Rizk Hegazy

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23 The cultural heritage of Egypt’s cities: Burden or resource?  May al-​Ibrashy

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PART VI

Media and popular culture 

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Introduction: Divergent trajectories of creativity and coercion  Naomi Sakr

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24 The culture police: Manning the barricades of allowable art and culture  401 Ramy M. K. Aly 25 Media ownership in Egypt (2000–​2020): Categories and configurations  412 Tourya Guaaybess 26 Tweeting the revolution: The evolution of social media use in Egypt’s turbulent times  Rasha Abdulla

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27 Ring-​fenced religion? Egypt’s religious media between faith and politics 435 Ehab Galal 28 Cooperativism, revolution and the ‘digital turn’: Assessing recent Egyptian film collectives  Viola Shafik

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29 The rise of indie music from the heart of Tahrir Square: Politics and popular music in Egypt  Nadine El Sayed

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Index 

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CONTRIBUTORS

Rasha Abdulla is Professor of Journalism and Mass Communication at the American University in Cairo. She is the author of eight books and monographs, and numerous research articles and book chapters. She is an international consultant to clients such as UNESCO, the Carnegie Foundation, and the World Economic Forum, and is a former member of the United Nations Multistakeholder Advisory Group of the Internet Governance Forum (IGF MAG). Her research on social media and political activism leading to and during Egypt’s revolution won her the American University in Cairo (AUC) Excellence in Research Award. Amr Adly is Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science at the American University in Cairo. He worked as a Nonresident scholar at the Carnegie Middle East Center. He was a fellow at the Center on Democracy, Development, and the Rule of Law at Stanford University. He is the author of Cleft Capitalism (2020) and State Reform and Development in the Middle East (2012). His works have been published in a number of peer-​reviewed journals. Ramy M. K. Aly is Assistant Professor of Anthropology and head of the Anthropology Unit at the American University in Cairo. He previously lectured at the University of Sussex (UK). His first monograph Becoming Arab in London: Performativity and the Undoing of Identity (2015) is the first ethnographic account of gender, race, and class practices among British-​born and raised Arabs in London. His research engages with the anthropology of ethnicity, migration, and diaspora; anthropology and media studies; cultural studies and youth cultures. He is also the co-​editor of The Routledge Handbook of Middle Eastern Diasporas (forthcoming) with Dalia Abdelhady. W. J.  Dorman previously taught at Edinburgh University both in politics and Islamic & Middle Eastern studies, as well as in the School of Government and International Affairs at Durham University. His PhD thesis, completed at the School of Oriental and African Studies under the supervision of Charles Tripp, was joint winner of the 2008 Leigh Douglas Memorial Prize awarded by the British Society for Middle Eastern Studies. Prior to doctoral studies, he worked at the US Department of State.

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Ibrahim Elnur was the chair of Political Science Department at the American University in Cairo from 2013 to 2016. He was previously the director of the Middle East Research Awards at the Population Council in Cairo and the cofounder and coordinator of the Group for Alternative Policies for Sudan. He is the author of Contested Sudan: The Political Economy of War and Reconstruction (2009). Nadine El Sayed is Associate Professor of Practice at the American University in Cairo (AUC), having previously been a member of AUC Adjunct Faculty, a senior editor at Springer Nature, and a journalist, who was twice nominated for the Anna Lindh Mediterranean Journalist Award. She holds an MA in media management and a PhD from the University of Westminster (UK) and was deputy managing editor of Egypt’s leading English-​language magazines, Egypt Today and Business Today. She founded 19TwentyThree, an online magazine for women, and has contributed writing and research to a range of outlets, from Open Democracy to DW-​TV Arabia. Ahmed Ezzat is a PhD candidate at the University of Cambridge. He studies legal history of modern Egypt at Cambridge’s Faculty of Asian and Middle Eastern Studies. He studied LLM in human rights conflict and justice at The School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London. Ezzat’s research interests include Islamic law, juridical institutions, and law and moral regulation in modern Egypt. He worked previously as Egypt researcher at Amnesty International and as a human rights lawyer and legal director at the Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression. Ehab Galal is Associate Professor in the Department of Cross-​Cultural and Regional Studies at the University of Copenhagen, where he leads a three-​year research project (2019–​2021) on links between media use and political action among Arab diasporas in Europe, focusing on users of Bahraini, Egypt, Syria, and Tunisian media. His research on the mediation of cultural, religious, political, and transnational identities and discourses through transnational Arab TV content has included a focus on Islamic-​oriented programming and his publications, in both Danish and English, include the edited collection Arab TV Audiences (2014) as well as numerous journal articles and book chapters on transnational media and religion. Mohamed Gamal-​Eldin holds a PhD in urban environment history in a dual degree program at New Jersey Institute of Technology (NJIT) and Rutgers-​Newark. His doctoral dissertation examined the confluence of urban, environmental, and technological factors with the social history of the Suez Canal cities from 1856 to 1936. His research interests focus on the development of secondary/​peripheral cities in urban history of the Middle East in the 19th and early 20th-​century Middle East, specifically focusing on Egypt. Anthony Gorman is Senior Lecturer in Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Edinburgh. He is the author of Historians, State and Politics in Twentieth Century Egypt (2003), and (with Didier Monciaud) of The Press in the Middle East and North Africa, 1850–​ 1950 (2018). He continues to work on a history of the Middle Eastern prison, the anarchist movement in the Eastern Mediterranean before 1914, and aspects of the Greek presence of modern Egypt. Tourya Guaaybess is Maîtresse de conférences at the Research Centre on Mediations, University of Lorraine, and former Acting Director of the university’s Information and Communication Department. She was a Marie Curie fellow at the Robert Schuman Centre x

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for Advanced Studies in the European University institute in Florence (2001–​2003), Invited Professor at the University of Kyoto (2010) and visiting researcher at the University of Oxford in 2015. She has published numerous books and articles on the political economy of media and journalism in the Arab world, including National Broadcasting and State Policy in Arab Countries (2013), for which she wrote the chapter on Egypt. Hafsa Halawa is an independent consultant working on political, social, and economic affairs and development goals across the Middle East and North Africa, and Horn of Africa regions. She has previously held positions in government, the United Nations, INGOs/​NGOs, corporate multinationals, and think tanks. Bahey eldin Hassan is Director of the Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies, an independent regional nongovernmental organization that aims to promote human rights and democracy in the Arab region. Hassan is a journalist by profession, lecturer, author, and editor of published articles, papers, and books on challenges to human rights and democratic transformation in the Arab region. Some of his publications appear at the New York Times, The Washington Post, OrientXXI, and The New Arab. Ibrahim Rizk Hegazy is Associate Professor of Urban Planning and Design in the Department of Architecture at Mansoura University in Egypt. He was awarded his PhD by the University of Liverpool in 2010. Dr.  Hegazy has extensive experience in planning, development, and environmental management and assessment acquired through formal training and research in the UK. He has published more than 40 research articles and supervised more than 30 Master’s and PhD theses in architecture and urban planning. In late 2018 he joined the Department of Urban and Regional Planning in the Faculty of Architecture and Planning at King Abdulaziz University in Jeddah. May al-​Ibrashy is a licensed architectural engineer with almost 30 years of field experience in conservation and heritage management in Historic Cairo. She is currently the founder and chair of Megawra-​Built Environment Collective, a twin institution consisting of Egyptian nongovernmental organization and consultancy working on issues of the built environment. She coordinates Athar Lina, an initiative run by Megawra-​BEC in partnership with the Egyptian Ministry of Antiquities and Cairo Governorate that conserves the heritage of al-​Khalifa in Historic Cairo and conceives of it as a driver for community development. She is also Adjunct Lecturer of Architecture at Cairo University and the American University in Cairo. Timothy Elhami Kaldas is a risk advisor and Nonresident Fellow at the Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy. His recent research and writing on Egypt examines regime survival strategies, political economy, sectarian tensions, and foreign relations. Kaldas has authored a chapter entitled “The discourse about migration and Islam in France” in Looming Shadows: Migration and Integration at a Time of Upheaval (2012). His writing has appeared in a number of publications including The Guardian, Bloomberg, CNN, Buzzfeed, and World Politics Review. Deena Khalil is a development planner and urban researcher who is currently a post-​doctoral fellow at the School of Humanities and Social Sciences, American University in Cairo. She holds a PhD in development planning from University College London and an MA in economics of international development from American University in Cairo. Prior to this, Deena was the Research and Advocacy Unit manager at Takween Integrated Community Development, xi

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an urban development consultancy focusing on underserved communities and urban issues in Egypt. Heba M.  Khalil is a PhD candidate in sociology at the University of Illinois Urbana-​ Champaign, USA. Before that, she worked for human rights and legal aid organizations in Cairo, including the Hisham Mubarak Law Center and the Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights. She holds an LLM in international human rights law from the University of York, UK. Her research focuses on the political economy of Egypt, popular mobilization, rural politics, and legal activism. In her dissertation she explores the social histories of Egyptian lawyers and their changing relationships with politics and the nation. Roel Meijer is Associate Professor in the Department of Philosophy, Theology and Religious Studies at Radboud University, Nijmegen. He is the author of The Quest for Modernity (2002), and has edited several volumes, including The Muslim Brotherhood in Europe (2012), The Crisis of Citizenship in the Arab World (with Nils Butenschøn) (2017), and The Middle East in Transition (2018). His latest publication is the Routledge Handbook of Citizenship in the Middle and North Africa (2020) (edited with James Sater and Zahra Babar). Noha Mellor is Professor of Media at the University of Bedfordshire, UK, and Adjunct Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at Stockholm University, Sweden. She has published widely on topics related to Arab media and political Islam. Her books include Voice of the Muslim Brotherhood (2017), Political Islam and Global Media (2016), Reporting the MENA Region (2015), and Arab Media (2011). Mohammed Mossallam has a PhD in economics from The School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) University of London where he studied the effect of Bilateral Investment Treaties on the policy space of developing countries (Egypt, Bolivia, and South Africa as case studies). Mossallam’s previous roles include working at IFC (World Bank) where he focused on project finance and private sector development with an emphasis on social sectors (across the Middle East and North Africa [MENA] region). He also held the role of a policy officer at the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, where he was responsible for evaluating the impact of debt, investment, and trade policies on economic and social justice in Egypt. Tamir Moustafa is Professor of International Studies and Stephen Jarislowsky Chair at Simon Fraser University in Vancouver, Canada. He is the author of the award-​winning book, The Struggle for Constitutional Power: Law, Politics, and Economic Development in Egypt (2007), and the co-​editor of Rule by Law: The Politics of Courts in Authoritarian Regimes (2008). Hicham Bou Nassif is Assistant Professor of Government at Claremont McKenna College, California. He is the author of Endgames, Military Response to Protest in Arab Autocracies (2020). His work on civil–​military relations and contemporary Arab politics has appeared in various academic journals, including Democratization, The International Journal of Middle East Studies, Political Science Quarterly, The Middle East Journal, and The Journal of Strategic Studies. Roberto Roccu is Senior Lecturer in International Political Economy at King’s College London. He has published extensively on the political economy of neoliberal reforms and popular uprisings in the Middle East and North Africa, especially with reference to Egypt, the xii

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European Union’s promotion of economic reforms in its neighborhood, and critical theories of International Relations and International Political Economy. He is the author of The Political Economy of the Egyptian Revolution (2013), and has recently co-​edited (with Leila Simona Talani) The Dark Side of Globalisation (2019). Aisha Saad is a research scholar in law and the Bartlett Research Fellow at Yale Law School. She holds a DPhil in geography and an MPhil in nature, society and environmental policy from Oxford University, as well as a Doctor of Jurisprudence (JD) from Yale Law School. Dr. Saad was previously Assistant Professor of Public Policy at the American University in Cairo where she helped launch the Center for Sustainable Development and the region’s first Masters in Sustainable Development. Jeffrey Adam Sachs is Lecturer in the Departments of Politics and History and Classics at Acadia University, where he specializes in judicial politics and Islamic law in the Middle East. He has a PhD in Islamic studies from McGill University (2015) and has published articles in such places as Law & Social Inquiry and Law & Society Review. Naomi Sakr is Professor of Media Policy at the Communication and Media Research Institute, University of Westminster, researching Arab journalism, cultural production, and human rights, including pan-​Arab screen media for children. Her books include Transformations in Egyptian Journalism (2013), two others on Arab television (2001 and 2007), and two edited collections on women and media and Arab media and politics (2004 and 2007). She has co-​authored and co-​ edited books on children’s screen culture with Jeanette Steemers (2017, 2019), co-​edited Arab Media Moguls (2015), and written reports on media laws and governance in the Arab region for UNESCO, UNDP, and others. Viola Shafik is a filmmaker and scholar. She has authored Arab Cinema: History and Cultural Identity (1998/​2016) and Popular Egyptian Cinema: Gender, Class and Nation (2007) and edited Documentary Filmmaking in the Middle East and North Africa (2020). Her latest project is ‘Embodying Revolution-​Representing Revolution.Theories of Arab Revolutionary Documentary’. She has directed My Name Is not Ali (2011) and Arij –​Scent of Revolution (2014), has lectured at the American University in Cairo, Zürich University, Humboldt University, Ludwig Maximilians University, and worked as a consultant for La Biennale di Venezia, the Berlinale, Dubai Film Festival, Rawi Screenwriters Lab, Documentary Campus, and the World Cinema Fund. Nael Shama is an independent political researcher and writer. His research focuses on the international relations and comparative politics of the Middle East. He is the author of Egyptian Foreign Policy from Mubarak to Morsi (2013), Egypt before Tahrir (2014), and The Stagnant River (in Arabic, 2016). He has written many papers on foreign policymaking in Egypt, civil–​military relations in the Middle East, and Islamist politics that were published in Le Monde Diplomatique, Reuters Opinion, and Al-​Jazeera, among many others. Nadine Sika is Associate Professor of Political Science at the American University in Cairo. She was a Humboldt Foundation visiting fellow at the Stiftung Wissenschaft und Politik in Berlin. She is the author of Youth Activism in Egypt (2017) and the co-​editor (with Eberhard Kienle) of The Arab Uprisings (2015). She is the books review editor of Mediterranean Politics and a member of the board of directors of the Egyptian Center for Public Opinion Surveys (Baseera).

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Sarah Smierciak has spent the better part of a decade living and researching in Egypt. She completed a DPhil in Oriental Studies and an MPhil in Development Studies at Oxford University on a Rhodes Scholarship. In 2016 she was awarded a Fulbright Grant to conduct research in Istanbul with Syrian and Iraqi communities. She is currently based in Cairo where she writes freelance political economy analysis and is finishing a travel guide to Egypt for the “Moon” series. She speaks fluent Egyptian Arabic and Spanish, and intermediate Turkish. Robert Springborg is Adjunct Professor in the School of International Studies at Simon Fraser University and a nonresident research fellow of the Italian Institute of International Affairs. Formerly he was Professor of National Security Affairs at the Naval Postgraduate School, the MBI Al Jaber Professor in Middle East Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies; and Director of the American Research Center in Egypt. His most recent book on Egypt is Egypt which was published in 2018. Richard N. Tutwiler is an anthropologist specializing in sustainable development and natural resource management in the Middle East and North Africa. He has been a resident research manager in the region for over 30  years. His current research focus is on building sustainable communities in the face of climate change. Previously he had served as a leader of the Natural Resource Management Program at the International Center for Agricultural Research in the Dry Areas (ICARDA) and Director of the Desert Development Center at the American University in Cairo. Dr.  Tutwiler is presently a visiting scholar at the Middle East Center, University of Washington. Jan Claudius Völkel is a senior researcher at the Arnold Bergstraesser Institute, Freiburg, focusing on contemporary developments in the Middle East and North Africa. He was a visiting professor at Cairo University (2013–​2017), and conducted a research project on “The role of national parliaments in the Arab transformation processes” as Marie Skłodowska-​Curie Fellow at the Vrije Universiteit Brussel (2017–​2019). Since 2016, he is a fellow of the Arab German Young Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Chahir Zaki is Associate Professor of Economics at the Faculty of Economics and Political Science, Cairo University. He is also the director of the French section at the faculty. Chahir works also for the Economic Research Forum (Cairo, Egypt) as a Nonresident Senior Economist and as a consultant for several international organizations. He has written numerous papers published in refereed journals on international trade, trade policy, trade in services, applied economics, and macroeconomic modeling. Hatem Zayed is a doctoral student at the School of International Service in American University, Washington D.C. His research interests include civil society–​state relations, as well as civic and political participation more broadly. He has worked as a researcher in two projects at American University in Cairo—​one with a focus on areas of youth inclusion and exclusion in Egypt, modalities of youth participation, and student union activism in public and private universities; and another on civil society assimilation and adaptation in Egypt. Ayman Zohry is an expert on population and migration studies based in Cairo, Egypt. He is the founding president of the Egyptian Society for Migration Studies (EGYMIG). Dr. Zohry is also Adjunct Professor of the American University in Cairo.

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INTRODUCTION Robert Springborg

Egypt is particularly suitable for a substantial, inclusive handbook to serve the dual purposes of introducing readers to the country’s recent history and contemporary political economy, and serving as a textbook for relevant courses. Egypt is a remarkably salient country due to its unique cultural heritage, its geographic location at the hinge between Africa and Asia, its long history of regional political and economic centrality, and its site as a battleground for contending global powers from Roman times until today. As the largest Arab state with a population of 100 million as of 2020 —​forecast to surpass that of both Russia and Japan in a generation—​and as a bulwark of what remains of an Arab state system now under threat from internal conflicts, extra-​state, and extra-​regional challengers, Egypt’s fate is intertwined with and substantially determinative of the Arab world’s future. A strong, stable, and prosperous Egypt would support revitalization of an Arab world presently beset with a host of difficulties. A weak, unstable, and more impoverished Egypt would augur ill not only for the wider Arab future, but also for many other African and Asian states currently confronting rapid population increases, inadequate economic growth, eroding domestic institutions, regional instability, and an increasingly hesitant and conflicted globalization. In summary, Egypt is a prominent actor and bellwether in its immediate region and beyond. This is reflected by the current competition for influence within it between both regional and international actors, as well as by fulsome support for it by a remarkable array of the latter, including the United States, European Union, Russia, China, and the leading international financial institutions, all of which are seeking to bolster the country’s authoritarian government, largely out of fear of the consequences of its collapse. Those fears have been substantially magnified by the 2020 global pandemic, the economic consequences of which are devastating for Egypt, dependent as it is on tourism, remittances, the regional oil economy, and access to global financial markets. This handbook focuses on Egypt’s capacities to deal with the manifold development challenges it confronts, and hence assesses its strengths and weaknesses in the face of globalization and internal pressures resulting from population increase, economic stagnation, and widespread political discontent. Those capacities are centered on the country’s political economy, but not limited to it, as they are also the product of the many forces that shape the country’s people and their abilities, including its history, present political institutions and organizations,

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Robert Springborg

the organization of its economy, its natural and built environments, as well as its culture and the channels through which it is shaped, key of which are communications through a diverse media that has long been a leading force in the Arab world. Important in its own right for an understanding of contemporary Egypt, history has also been vital in the formation of these more specific institutions and processes, as is demonstrated by the treatment of them in the volume. Reflecting both the diversity of causes of Egypt’s contemporary standing and its future prospects, as well as the predominant influence of politics in shaping the economy and society, this handbook is inclusive of a range of relevant topics while seeking to relate them to the central role of politics. Those politics have been overwhelmingly authoritarian and coercive since the military seized power in 1952, thereby establishing one of the world’s most durable and thoroughgoing systems of military rule, with virtually unparalleled influence over the economy and society. The handbook thus addresses both the causes and consequences of unbalanced civil-​military relations, military rule, and persisting authoritarianism in the political society, and therefore is relevant to other states that share at least some of these characteristics. The handbook consists of six parts, each edited by a prominent scholar of Egypt in the relevant discipline. Part I, edited by Anthony Gorman, takes up the events, forces, and features of the country’s history that have significantly contributed to shaping what it is today. It is introduced by Gorman’s essay in which he traces Egypt’s modern history, indicating which features of that history are particularly relevant to understanding the contemporary situation. Subsequent chapters focus on the expansion of state power and capacities from 1919 (Chapter 1), ideological sources and underpinnings for authoritarianism (Chapter  2), foreign policy from Faruq to Mubarak (Chapter 3), political activism with special reference to student movements (Chapter 4), and the state’s role in the emergence and development of the profession of historian (Chapter 5). Part II is devoted to politics. Editor Sarah Smierciak introduces the topic with an overview of the evolution of the military’s rule from when it seized power in July 1952 until now, when it has reestablished its absolute preeminence in the wake of the July 2013 coup in which it overthrew the one-​year old Muslim Brotherhood-​dominated government. The chapters in this part investigate in detail topics she raises, including the legacy of coup-​proofing that dates back to King Faruq (Chapter 6), constitutional and operational relations between the military and civilian governmental institutions (Chapter  7); the roles of and restrictions on alternative political voices (Chapter  8), including those of civil society in general and the Muslim Brotherhood and state sponsored religious institutions such as al Azhar in particular (Chapter 9), and, finally, foreign policy and its subordination to domestic political and economic imperatives (Chapter 10). The economy is the focus of Part III. In his introductory chapter, editor Amr Adly describes the phases through which the economy has passed since 1952. He emphasizes the impacts of the legacy of nationalism on economic models, especially but not limited to the Nasser era, the constraints and opportunities flowing from the international context, and the persisting inability of state institutions to formulate and manage economic policies to produce adequate rates of growth. Subsequent chapters in this part evaluate the impacts of Egypt’s subordinate role in the global political economy (Chapter 11), of trade policy and its failure to stimulate sufficient exports (Chapter 12), of foreign direct investment (FDI) on the overall economy (Chapter 13), of worker remittances and their macro as well as micro economic consequences (Chapter 14), and of the limiting effect on economic growth of the profound scarcity of a vital input into production—​suitable land made available under reasonable, predictable conditions (Chapter 15). Part IV focuses on the legal system, including the formation, interpretation, and adjudication of law within the overall frameworks of constitutions and courts, as well as the impacts of 2

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Introduction

the legal–​judicial system on human rights and citizenship. The introductory chapter by editor Tamir Moustafa traces the historical evolution of constitutions, legal frameworks, courts, and the legal profession and assesses how the present legal framework has been shaped by politics. The chapter argues that these legal institutions advance “rule by law,” although they are also occasional sites of resistance, but less so recently. Subsequent chapters in this part deal with an important institution, dynamic, or a constituency which engages those institutions. These include the role of administrative courts and the Supreme Constitutional Court in impeding a transition to democracy after 2011 (Chapter  16); the role of lawyers in political processes including their practices within the contexts of uprising, transition and consolidation of current rule by the military (Chapter 17); institutionalization of the state of exception in Egypt’s legal system in order to achieve state dominance over society and serve specific political and economic interests (Chapter 18); and the human rights movement (Chapter 19). In Part V, the natural and built environments are addressed, with particular attention being given to problems with urban planning and the proliferation of satellite cities, preservation of cultural heritage, and the causes, consequences and means of combating desertification and environmental degradation, with special attention given to water management. The introductory chapter by editor Aisha Saad takes up the issue of the role of the natural and built environments in the overall political economy and how in turn the political economy impacts those environments. She reviews challenges facing the natural environment from desertification, water scarcity, pollution, and biodiversity loss; notes that new cities in the desert have largely remained “ghost cities;” and illustrates how preservation of built heritage becomes an asset for some and a burden for others. Subsequent chapters in this part discuss the issue of the intensifying water shortage and the government’s response to it (Chapter 20), the dualism of informal urbanization occurring alongside and indeed faster than construction of “new communities” (Chapter 21), challenges to the government and private sector of creating “livable” environments in both long-​established and newly built urban areas (Chapter 22), and the perennial exclusion of citizens from preservation policies and actions in urban Egypt (Chapter 23). The last part of the book (Part VI), edited by Naomi Sakr, is concerned with media and popular culture. In her introductory essay she describes Egypt as having long been an “early adopter” of new forms of both “big” and “small” media, the terms referring to the “distinction between vertical communication that is professionally produced and a horizontal form based on active popular participation.” She proceeds to chronicle the modern developments of both forms and the political, economic and regional conditions which shaped them, concluding with an assessment of the impacts of military rule on the media since 2013.The following chapters in the part commence with an investigation of the evolution of censorship of art and culture from monarchial rule to the present (Chapter 24). The next subject to be taken up is media ownership from 2000 to 2020, reflecting as it does changing power relations within the political elite and the consolidation of control by the military and security agencies from 2013 (Chapter 25). The social or “small” media and its role in the country’s turbulent politics from prior to the 2011 uprising are then presented (Chapter 26). The remarkable importance of religion, both Islam and Christianity, in the media is the subject of Chapter 27, which investigates not only the state’s and established Islam’s roles in dealing with religion in various media, but also those of the Muslim Brotherhood, salafis, and Christians, the last including both institutional and private actors. The final two chapters (Chapters 28 and 29) deal with film and music, respectively. The focus of the first is on the role of collectives in producing Egyptian films and the latter is focused on the emergence of “indie” or popular, independent music and its interaction with politics. Just as the subjects covered in this handbook on contemporary Egypt are diverse, so too are the contributors. Women and men, Egyptians and non-​Egyptians are editors and chapter 3

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writers. From an academic perspective, possibly the most relevant aspect of diversity is age, with the contributors being drawn from three successive generations of scholarship that have emerged over the past half century or so. As a member of the oldest of those generations, I can attest that the enthusiasm, knowledge, and insightful analyses contributed to the collective project by younger editors and authors have provided me with great pleasure and new insights into a country that has fascinated me for more than 50 years. In summary, this handbook represents a diverse, collective undertaking, in terms of contributors, topics, and approaches that will help readers better understand contemporary Egypt and the historical, political, economic and cultural forces that determine what it is and is likely to become.

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PART I

History

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INTRODUCTION Occupation, independence, revolution Anthony Gorman

At the beginning of the 1880s, Egypt was formally part of the Ottoman Empire with a population of under 7 million people; by the end of the 20th century, it was a modern independent state of 70 million (and now 100 million) people. Over this period, its history has been punctuated by four significant episodes of political upheaval. The first, the British occupation of 1882, resulted in its ultimate incorporation as a protectorate of the British Empire in 1914. The second—​the 1919 Revolution, the nationwide protest calling for the end of the occupation and the recognition of national sovereignty—​resulted in a recasting of Egypt’s relationship with Britain and qualified independence. The third—​the July 1952 Revolution, the seizure of power by the military—​replaced an unloved monarchy and an ineffective political class with a republican government with a radical agenda. Finally, the January Revolution of 2011 saw the overthrow of an increasingly debilitated, discredited regime and launched the country into another period of political instability. Each of these upheavals were preceded by periods of political struggle when the record of the existing order was found wanting and the popular aspirations for freedom, and political and economic reform proved a greater force. In the aftermath of these changes, the political contest was followed by an assertion of authoritarian politics as the new regime sought to address questions of political legitimacy, economic prosperity and national identity. In navigating this course from Ottoman province to independent state, Egyptian rulers and society have engaged in a negotiation, at times constructive and at others destructive, to construct not only an effective political and economic order but also to situate the country in relation to a rich history that stretches from Pharoanic times to the Ottoman and British colonial legacies and encompasses the Arab, Christian and Muslim dimensions of its culture.

Occupation The foundation of modern Egyptian statehood was laid by Muhammad Ali (r. 1805–​1848), first as Ottoman governor and then as confirmed hereditary ruler during the first half of the 19th century. By the second half of the 19th century Egypt had established itself as an effectively autonomous province although still formally a part of the Ottoman Empire on its own path of development. In the 1870s this local project reached a political and economic crisis that prompted the rise of the Urabi movement that sought to resist the increasing foreign influence in the country and the autocracy of the Khedive. The confrontation provoked the invasion of 7

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British forces in 1882 that, after defeating local forces in the field, reinstalled the compromised Khedive Tawfiq and began the first phase of British occupation known as the veiled protectorate. British control of Egypt relied on a relatively small military force and an administration consisting of members of the traditional political class, largely made up of landowning families, coopted by the British authorities and supported by British advisers under the supervision of the British representative and arch imperialist, Lord Cromer, for much of the period. A new constitution promulgated in 1883 would be the basis of government for the next 40 years. The priorities of the administration were first to focus on putting Egyptian finances in order and then to oversee an extensive programme of public works and infrastructure including irrigation works, railways and prisons, that aimed to support a productive colonial economy and a vision of law and order. However, the end of the 19th century, rather than simply a period of colonial quiescence as it has sometimes been characterised, was a time of great social dynamism in which nascent political ideas and cultural expression were energised by an active press that expressed a multiplicity of voices in Egypt and much discussion about its future (Booth and Gorman, 2014, pp. 1–​27). The character of British authority and Egyptian political aspirations for independence were ignited dramatically in 1906 with the Dinshaway affair, when a number of peasants were hanged for defending their village against pigeon-​shooting British officers. This brutal British response roused a depth of nationalist feeling in which young nationalists such as Mustafa Kamil and others took the lead in establishing political parties and agitating for the nationalist cause. The move was met in time by a sustained period of repression in which newspapers were closed, parties banned and nationalists imprisoned or deported. With the outbreak of World War in 1914, Britain asserted its dominance by formally declaring Egypt to be a British protectorate and replacing the absent Abbas Hilmi II, the last Khedive of Egypt, with his more amenable uncle Husayn Kamil as its first modern Sultan.

Independence with reservations: The settlement of 1923 The end of war saw the quick resumption of Egyptian demands for national independence. Only days after the formal hostilities ended in November 1918, Sa‘d Zaghlul with a number of colleagues, principally drawn from large landowning families, formed a delegation (wafd) to present their national demands to the British government. London’s refusal to entertain their petition, much less negotiate a settlement, and its decision to arrest and deport the members of the Wafd in March 1919 triggered the 1919 Revolution, a period of sustained protest across the country calling for British withdrawal. Invoked as a manifestation of national unity and the desire for independence, the 1919 Revolution would be put down by the British, lead to the Milner Commission of enquiry, intermittent negotiations between the British and Egyptian politicians, and ultimately the British unilateral declaration of February 1922 that announced the end of the protectorate and granted Egypt self-​government and the right to a constitution. In March 1922, Sultan Ahmed Fu’ad, successor to Husayn Kamil, became King Fu’ad and a committee was appointed by the Egyptian government though no doubt under some British influence to deliberate over a new constitution (Vatikiotis, 1991, pp. 274–​279). Inspired by the Belgian constitution, it proposed a bicameral parliament, the lower chamber elected by universal suffrage and the upper chamber partly appointed by the monarch and partly elected by a narrower franchise. In place of a weak Khedive was set a strong constitutional monarch—​a departure from contemporary European practice—​with considerable powers to form and suspend governments, dissolve parliament, approve bills and declare martial law. The decision of 8

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the constitutional committee to reject a separate parliamentary representation for the Christian community was an important assertion of a single national identity. Before the war the divisive British practice of favouring Copts in government employment had fuelled serious divisions between the Muslim and Coptic communities. The spirit of the 1919 Revolution that invoked the unity of cross and crescent would thereafter be challenged by expressions of sectarianism during times of national instability. However, the settlement of 1923 represented a decidedly ‘ambiguous independence’ (Goldschmidt, 1988, p. 55). Although it laid the foundation of an independent Egypt, the British declaration had insisted on maintaining significant reserve powers under the new arrangements. Pending further negotiation, London would effectively control Egyptian defence and foreign policy, maintain responsibility for the security of the Suez Canal and the Sudan and for the protection of foreign interests and minorities. Nevertheless, it signified some progress on the protectorate. The constitution of 1883 had only provided for a weak consultative body and the subsequent establishment of various representative bodies formalised a system of indirect elections that favoured the notability. Among other things, the new constitution contained a section on the ‘Rights and Duties of Egyptians’ and spoke in terms of the rights of freedom of speech and of association and raised expectations on the role of the ballot box and a free press. Culturally the 1920s were marked by a celebration of Pharaonicism, of native Egyptian culture dating back to ancient times. Captured in the statue Nahdat Misr (‘Awakening of Egypt’) of Mahmud Mukhtar and the mausoleum of Sa‘d Zaghlul, it projected a specific sense of Egyptian territorial nationalism. By the beginning of the next decade, this cultural phase, if it ever was broad, had begun to shift towards an increasing affiliation with Arab culture and an interest in Islamic history (Gershoni and Jankowski, 1986; Smith, 1973). The term of the first Egyptian government elected under the new constitution soon illustrated something of the methods of rule and limitations on authority. Installed as Prime Minister at the head of a Wafdist government in January 1924, Sa‘d Zaghlul showed himself ready to draw from the armoury of British occupation in cracking down on political opposition and particularly the nascent communist and labour movements (Gorman 2010, p. 163). More serious from a point of view of national standing were the limits of the authority of the Egyptian government vis-​à-​vis British priorities. On 19 November, Sir Lee Stack, the Sirdar, the Commander of the Egyptian Army, was assassinated in Cairo. The British reaction echoed, in tone if not substance, its harsh response to the Dinshaway affair. The High Commissioner Edmund Allenby demanded an apology from the Egyptian government, the payment of a large fine, and the withdrawal of all Egyptian officers from the Sudan while additional British forces were landed in Alexandria (Berque, 1972, p. 389). Rather than simply accede to such humiliation, Zaghlul resigned from office on 24 November and was replaced by the pro-​Palace government led by Ahmad Ziwar. The affair made clear the continuing influence of the British government which would intervene on specific issues, as on this occasion, as well as in the ongoing negotiations about the future relationship between Britain and Egypt. The interwar period also showed the strong role played by the palace. Parliamentary politics throughout the so-​called liberal period remained largely confined to the political interests of the landowning elites and their allies, and the political contest between the mass-​supported Wafd and the other minor parties, in concert with the agency of the palace. From 1922 until 1952, 30 different governments were formed.Yet while governments changed, the parliamentary dynamics remained the same. Coalitions were as often based on personalities and the result of short-​term political calculation. The political game was exacerbated by the interfering ways of King Fu’ad, facilitated by a constitution that gave him very considerable powers, that saw him suspend it on a number of occasions and even replace it 9

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in 1930 with a more restricted vote and Isma’il Sidqi as Prime Minister.This attempt to monopolise political power was ultimately defeated and the 1923 constitution was restored. Thereafter the parliamentary game resumed. While the settlement of 1923 offered an impression of new beginnings, in other ways Egyptian governments were happy to embrace and extend British strategies of rule. The press law was a case in point. Already before the British occupation a Publications Law had placed various restrictions on press freedom in 1881. Although applied in varying fashion during the early years of the occupation, the law was reinstated and reinforced in early 1909 as part of an attempt to suppress the rising nationalist movement. After 1923, now with an elected Egyptian government in place, the powers of the press law were regularly enhanced, and the suspension even banning of opposition party newspapers became a routine phenomenon during the 1920s and 1930s, on the grounds of the danger they posed to the safety of the state. A penal provision and special prison regime were legislated for journalists found guilty of illegally criticising the government or the king (Gorman, 2010, pp. 161–​165). Despite the aridity of parliamentary politics that characterised the interwar period there were indications within Egyptian civil society that new forces were organising. The formation of the Egyptian Socialist Party, subsequently the Egyptian Communist Party, in the early 1920s, spoke in the name of class and anti-​colonial struggle. However, hampered by its large foreign membership and a weak urban proletariat, the party would be effectively repressed by the government in the mid-​1920s, only to re-​emerge as a strong if fragmented oppositional force in the years after 1945 (Ismael and El-​Sa’id, 1990, pp. 17–​31). The establishment of the Society of the Muslim Brotherhood in 1928 by Hasan al-​Banna, a schoolteacher from Ismailia, signalled the rise of a modernist Islamist movement. A response to the abolition of the Caliphate by Kemal Atatürk in 1924 and the perceived threat of secularism and Western missionaries, the Society grew over the next two decades through a combination of adept political manoeuvring, a well-​ organised structure and membership, and a general retreat from the secular nationalism that had been dominant in the 1920s. Another party, Young Egypt (Misr Fatat) was based on a mixed programme of nationalist, socialist and fascist elements. Elsewhere across Egyptian civil society, other social interests were organising. The nascent pre-​war labour movement had played a significant role in the mass protests of 1919 in calling for workers’ rights and an improvement in working conditions. While government gave some recognition to their claims, the establishment of the Labour Conciliation Board proved unsatisfactory in protecting workers (Beinin and Lockman, 1988, pp. 110–​120). Trade unions would continue to struggle for legal recognition, something not achieved until 1942 by a Wafdist government (Beinin and Lockman, 1988, pp. 291–​294). Women activists had also been notable participants in the 1919 revolution, calling not only for national independence but also for the right to citizenship. Disappointed by the negative response from the mainstream nationalist movement, the Egyptian Feminist Union was formed in 1923 to advance women’s rights, and in the 1930s was active in supporting the cause of Palestine and international peace (Badran, 1996, pp. 223–​250). Since the political declaration of 1922, the future relationship between the Egyptian and British governments had been a matter of continued stalemate. After the failure of several Egyptian governments of different complexions to make any progress in negotiations, there was finally some movement in 1936. The death of King Fu’ad and the accession of his young, more pliable son, Faruq, to the throne in April as well as the election of a Wafd government in May provided the necessary impetus in Cairo. In London concerns about the geopolitical situation in Europe and the possibility of hostilities with Germany focused minds. Styled as a defensive alliance between two equal partners, the 1936 Anglo-​Egyptian Treaty would provide the legal 10

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basis for the presence of British forces in Egypt for the next 20 years and secure its use as a base for Allied operations during the war, despite Egypt remaining formally neutral for much of the conflict. A more specific Egyptian gain was British support to abolish the Capitulations, the system of legal and economic privileges that foreign nationals living in the country had long enjoyed. These were abolished at the Montreux Conference in 1937, with the Mixed Courts, the judicial system that had facilitated foreign penetration of the Egyptian economy, set to expire in 1949. Both steps represented a significant dismantling of the legal legacy of the colonial regime. No progress was made on the contentious issue of Sudan.

The coming revolution The outbreak of Second World War in 1939 put many pressing and important political and economic questions on hold but the Allied conduct of the war made the real balance of power in the country quite clear. The infamous February 1942 incident, when British tanks surrounded Abdin Palace and forced Faruq to appoint a reliably pro-Allied Wafdist government, stoked further nationalist resentment.With the end of hostilities in 1945 Egyptian demands for British withdrawal resumed with greater enthusiasm and purpose.The period was characterised by increasing political violence that included the assassination of two Prime Ministers, the first Dr Ahmad Mahir, who was struck down by a young nationalist in February 1945 just after securing parliamentary support for an Egyptian declaration of war on the Axis. Public protest and labour disputes became increasingly common forms of popular mobilisation. At the beginning of 1946 large demonstrations that brought together a united front of communists, workers and students calling for the departure of British forces were organised in Cairo, Alexandria and cities in the Delta and resulted in violent clashes and the death of many protesters (Abdalla, 1985, pp. 62–75). A wave of strikes launched by textile workers in Mahalla al-Kubra and Shubra al-Khayma served as the prelude to a summer of industrial unrest across the country (Beinin and Lockman, 1988, pp. 345–349). The continuing presence of British forces was not the only issue. Egyptian attempts to promote economic development during the interwar period had produced only modest growth. The reliance on the cotton crop after the boom at the turn of the century meant little was achieved in promoting agricultural diversification. Moreover, there had been only limited progress in industrialisation. Bank Misr, the flagship project founded by Tal’at Harb in 1920, the creation of the Egyptian Federation of Industries (1922) and the tariff reform of 1930, all aimed at promoting national economic development, had been unable to compete with foreign economic interests (Vatikiotis, 1991, pp. 324–​326). The Great Depression had also demonstrated the vulnerability of the Egyptian economy. Industrial production had been stimulated during the war but in 1945 it still only represented 15% of GNP and then mostly comprised non-​manufactured goods. The cuts to production that followed led to increasing dissatisfaction, while poor management, low productivity and high transport costs deterred foreign investment. The impact of these combined failures in economic policy produced a general decline in the standards of living for most Egyptians over the period 1910–​1950, mounting indebtedness and increasing inequality. Nor had there been adequate investment in the human resources of the country. Progress in raising educational standards was slow. Elementary schooling, declared free and compulsory by constitutional right in 1923, was not systematically implemented and in 1950 only 30% of Egyptian children were receiving it (Vatikiotis, 1991, p. 470). The appointment of strongman Isma’il Sidqi as Prime Minister at the beginning of 1946 signalled the impending clash between an authoritarian government and an increasingly militant opposition. Sidqi moved against the left in the summer, closing down progressive organisations 11

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and arresting many activists. In 1948 his successor, Mahmud al-Nuqrashi, sought to dissolve the Muslim Brotherhood, then perhaps half a million strong, and paid for it with his life. An already difficult situation was further destabilised by the issue of Palestine where Egyptian troops committed in the field in May 1948 had been defeated by Zionist forces. The subsequent scandal of defective arms at home was further testimony to an increasingly discredited order. Always an important marker of the health of the body politic, the state of Muslim-Copt relations was also under significant pressure (Gorman, 2003, pp. 169–172). In January 1950, the Wafd formed government for the last time. Always a broad coalition, it was now headed by an increasingly conservative leadership but activist membership; this last term of government would see these contradictions come to the fore. Again negotiations with the British government broke down, this time over the future of Sudan, and Prime Minister al-​Nahhas, put under increasing public pressure to deal with the national question, abrogated the 1936 treaty in October 1951 amidst large public demonstrations. Calls were made for an economic boycott on British goods and armed clashes between British and Muslim Brotherhood irregulars broke out in the Canal Zone (Gordon, 1996, pp.  20–​27). The confrontation between British troops and Egyptian police defending a police station in Ismailia on 25 January 1952, which resulted in about 50 Egyptians being killed, crossed a line. The consequent riots and the burning of central Cairo the following day seemed to target foreign businesses. The Wafd government was dismissed and a period of political stasis set in that demonstrated the patent political bankruptcy of the ruling class. Political change arrived in July 1952. The architects of the new order were neither Islamist nor communist, although they were influenced by the ideas of both tendencies, but came from the military. Under the terms of the 1936 treaty, the Egyptian army was allowed to increase its numbers (effectively doubled) and expand its recruitment of officers from the ranks of middle-​ class Egyptian families. Among the first intake, graduating in 1938, was Gamal ‘Abd al-​Nasir. Stung by the humiliating defeat in Palestine in 1948 in which he took part, Nasser soon after had begun to organise a small group, to be known as the Free Officers, to plan how Egyptian national fortunes might be restored. On the night of 22 July, Nasser and his co-​conspirators seized power, securing the strategic military and civilian installations and arresting politicians and senior military officers. A virtually bloodless coup, the July Revolution or ‘Blessed Movement’, would radically transform the political landscape of Egypt. The entry of the military into politics was not unprecedented in the region.The Turkish Republic had been set up by Kemal Atatürk at the head of nationalist forces after the First World War, and Iraq had experienced the first of many military coups in 1936. However, in Egypt this was a first, made possible by the diminished profile of British troops in the country and fading public confidence in the palace and the political class. Perceived as a more national even representative institution less riddled with the hierarchies of traditional Egyptian society, the intervention of the military in 1952 would put the armed forces at the centre of national politics, a position that it still holds. Fronted by the older and popular Mohammad Naguib, the real direction behind the new regime lay with Nasser and his younger colleagues, all men in their early 30s whose authority would be formalised in the Revolutionary Command Council (RCC). Styling itself as the embodiment of the popular will, the new regime would implement an early land reform that indicated something of its economic priorities while the hanging of rioting workers at Kafr al-​ Dawwar in August revealed its authoritarian tendencies. The details of its political programme were far from clear but its members shared a collective patriotic vision. Over the next three years the old political system would be overhauled. The King was sent into exile within days although the monarchy would survive and was kept in place by a Regency Council until July the next year, when a republic was established, with Naguib as its 12

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first president. Court actions were pursued against old regime politicians and many were effectively debarred from public life. In January 1953, political parties, with the notable exception of the Muslim Brotherhood, were banned and a series of government parties established—​the Liberation Rally (1953), the National Union (1957) and the Arab Socialist Union (1962)—​ that reconstituted political activity. After an initial period of conversation if not cooperation, the Muslim Brotherhood was itself banned following an assassination attempt on Nasser in Alexandria in 1954. Within the ruling group itself, a brief contest for power between Naguib and Nasser in March 1954 saw the former outmanoeuvred, marginalised and, after his implication in the assassination plot, ultimately placed under house arrest. Nasser consolidated his control as prime minister, formally retiring from the military in 1955 to become a besuited politician. In January 1956 a new constitution was passed which gave the presidency extensive powers and Nasser was subsequently confirmed in office in a plebiscite with 99% endorsement, a position he effectively held until his death. After an occupation of more than 70  years, the withdrawal of British forces, negotiated by agreement in 1954, finally took place in April 1956. Their brief return a few months later during the Suez crisis saw Britain’s reputation fall into steep decline but resulted in a diplomatic triumph for Nasser. His decision to nationalise the Suez Canal in July 1956 in response to the refusal of American finance for the building of the Aswan Dam inaugurated a programme of nationalisation from the late 1950s and the early 1960s that included banks, companies and industries. State-​led capitalism and import substitution industrialisation became hallmarks of economic policy and highlighted projects such as the Helwan steelworks as indications of a modernising economy. The Suez affair also gave great impetus to the cause of radical Arab nationalism. A decade earlier, the formation of the Arab League in March 1945, in which Egypt played a leading role, had presaged the potential benefits of regional solidarity for a post-​war future. After 1952, the early Egyptian nationalist rhetoric of the regime gave way to broader terms of reference: the Arab world, Africa and the Non-​Aligned movement. The Egyptian embrace of its Arab identity looked far beyond the institutional framework of the Arab League to a more radical vision of the Arab mission. Emboldened by the events of 1956 Nasser was able to speak on the international stage with great power, establishing a close relationship with the Arab masses and reproving conservative Arab leaders. The short-​lived experience of the United Arab Republic (1958–​1961) and the heavy Egyptian commitment to supporting republican forces in Yemen during the 1960s testified to a radical commitment even as it demonstrated its limitations. The great political and economic changes that occurred in Egypt in the two decades after 1945 effected a major transformation in the character of Egyptian society. The multi-​ethnic population at the beginning of the century, most evident in the cities, which itself had been a product of Ottoman and Mediterranean cultures and the colonial legacy, gave way to a more narrow, national and Arab community. The embrace of Arab nationalism as a dominant political ideology appeared to exclude the communities of Greeks, Italians, Armenians and others that had long lived in the country. Moreover, the policies of state development and nationalisation marginalised private interests and made business, the economic sector in which many were involved, increasingly difficult. The reasons for these changes were not confined to Egypt. The establishment of Israel and dispossession of the Palestinians in 1948 had begun a process that made the position of Jews in the Arab world increasingly precarious. The Suez crisis which saw the expulsion of those holding British and French nationality exposed the contradictions between Old World pluralism and the new national order that was a symptom of the process of decolonisation. Nevertheless, for Egypt the departure of these resident communities had 13

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negative consequences. It deprived the country of much entrepreneurial talent and experience and the loss of a culturally diverse society that would have political implications.

The coercive state The Nasser presidency enjoyed not only very considerable popular support but also presided over a significant extension of its coercive power in dealing with opposition. The origin of the security organs of the modern Egyptian state could be traced back to the 19th century. Particularly during the years of the protectorate, the British had further developed the means to deal with political dissidents, through censorship of the press, imprisonment and deportation of activists, and banning of political parties. These tools of state, particularly evident in the period after 1909, were taken up with enthusiasm by Egyptian governments after 1923, first in the suppression of the left and increasingly of critical voices in the press. The regime of repressive press laws developed during this period and the nationalisation of the press in 1960 offered even greater scope for the restriction of political criticism. Political imprisonment became a major coercive feature of the Nasserist state. During the Second World War, security concerns had required the mass incarceration of Italian male residents as enemy aliens but the practice of internment was applied on an increasing scale to domestic political opponents in the immediate post-​war period, particularly in dealing with the communist movement, the Muslim Brotherhood and Zionist activists. Restrained by a certain respect for the law before 1952, this instrument became a more integral and less inhibited part of dealing with political opposition after the July Revolution. When the capacity of the prisons of Tura and Abu Za‘bal outside Cairo, and Hadra in Alexandria, proved insufficient, a network of internment camps (mu‘taqalat) such as Wahat were brought into operation (Gorman, 2007, pp.  131–​32). The chief target of this policy was initially the communist movement whose members were persecuted with vigour, and particularly from 1959, despite Egypt becoming closer to the USSR, until 1964 when prisoners were released on condition of dissolving the party in exchange for the opportunity of working with the regime as individuals. After 1954 the Muslim Brotherhood suffered a similar campaign of repression, with many of its members imprisoned and tortured in Egyptian prisons. The suspension of a citizen’s constitutional rights and due legal process through the use of an emergency law became a standard instrument by which to neutralise political opposition and avoid accountability from the 1950s. The use of martial law in fact had been well established by the British who applied it continuously during the period 1914–​1923. Consistent with the constitutional changes of 1923, British martial law was abrogated but was quickly replaced by an Egyptian martial law in June of the same year (Berque, 1972, p. 283).Thereafter it was used as an instrument to maintain control for short periods during times of political volatility, such as the critical months of May 1948 and January 1952. However, the State of Emergency Law passed in 1958 would be applied with much greater regularity, being kept in force, with regular renewal, for almost the entire period 1967–​2011 (save for a break late in Sadat’s presidency) (Gorman, 2017, p. 61). Since 2011, the State of Emergency law has continued to be used liberally by the Egyptian state (Auf, 2018). By the mid-​1960s the economic successes of the Nasser regime were beginning to fade and criticisms of the Egyptian state as a collaboration between the military and economic technocrats, of an out-​of-​touch managerial elite that contained rather than maximised popular participation, and as an instrument of oppression were increasingly heard (e.g. Abdel-​Malek, 1968). The spectacular Egyptian defeat by Israel in June 1967 with the loss of the Sinai and the destruction of the Egyptian air force on the ground laid bare the gap between the rhetoric and 14

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reality of the Nasserist state. Diminished, Nasser remained in office until his sudden death in September 1970, leaving behind a mixed legacy that could point to some significant social and economic achievements but which had greatly consolidated an authoritarian state in which political life was closely controlled.

Sadat as president The accession of Anwar Sadat to the presidency as sitting vice president following the sudden death of Nasser in September 1970 followed constitutional procedure. In other respects, the elevation was unexpected. Sadat had a record of courage and experience as a young activist and had served as editor of the newspaper, al-​Gumhurriyya, one of the early mouthpieces of the new regime, and as speaker of the United Arab Republic (UAR) Assembly. However, as the regime moved politically to the left in the 1960s, his conservative views had seen him marginalised from the centre of power and his appointment as vice president in 1969 owed as much to his perceived lack of political threat to Nasser. Once in office, however, Sadat showed himself to be a talented tactician with a penchant for bold initiatives. In May 1971 he purged his Nasserist adversaries by announcing a Corrective Revolution, an action dressed up as being consistent with, but modifying, the ideas of the July Revolution. A  new constitution was once again used to launch a new political project proclaiming a ‘state of laws’, an implicit critique of some of the authoritarian excesses of Nasser’s rule. Political prisoners were released, sequestered property restored, and censorship relaxed.The Muslim Brotherhood detainees were one group that benefited from this policy on the basis of an agreement made between Sadat and its leadership to operate unofficially in return for a renunciation of the use of violence. For Sadat it had the benefit of counteracting the opposition of the Nasserist left. Sadat’s dismissal of Soviet advisors in 1972 signalled the beginning of a major realignment in foreign policy. The successful crossing of the Suez Canal by the Egyptian army in October 1973 to launch a surprise attack on Israel proved another bold move. Like the 1956 war, the October War did not end in an Egyptian military triumph but it yielded a diplomatic dividend, restoring Egyptian prestige regionally and consolidating Egyptian relations with the Arab world. Sadat had secured his political position but there were still significant domestic issues to address. He sought to revive both economic and political life through a policy of liberalisation. His chief economic initiative was the infitah, an opening of the Egyptian economy towards the West by drawing on the new availability of Arab oil money, Western technological expertise and the export of Egyptian labour, especially to the Gulf (Tsourapas, 2018). After the nationalisations and the state-​led development of the Nasser era, the policy led to the revival of the private sector through the privatisation of state properties and greater opportunities for investment. This economic liberalisation was matched by a political one. In 1974 Sadat instigated a slow process of dismantling the Arab Socialist Union (ASU) by allowing members to present themselves as affiliated to one of three political platforms: left, centre and right.The initiative resulted in a victory in the relatively open parliamentary elections of 1976 for the National Democratic Party (NDP), the centre platform, that Sadat had associated himself with. The presidency itself remained untouched by this reform but these changes had opened up greater political space for discussion and some criticism of government policies in a way not seen since 1952. The following year legislation was passed allowing the establishment of new political parties, even though it was quite restrictive in its terms. The move allowed for the political resurrection of some figures from the pre-​1952 era. The presence of former Wafdist Fu’ad Sirag al-​Din, at the 15

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head of the new Wafd, and Misr Fatat activist and leader, Ibrahim Shukri, now leading the new Labour Party, recalled the political battles of the late monarchy. After the repressive atmosphere of the Nasser period, the policies of economic and political liberalisation initially won considerable support but ultimately would lead to unintended consequences. The opening of the economy was marked by financial malpractice and rampant speculation that exacerbated the gap in living standards between the rich and the poor. The inequities so caused and the government programme of austerity, particularly the lifting of subsidies, demanded by the International Monetary Fund, showed the limitations of public patience. The bread riots of January 1977 witnessed several days of rioting and battles between demonstrators and police in the streets of Cairo that shook the presidency. Subsidies were quickly restored and economic liberalisation was subsequently put on the back burner.Thereafter changes in the relationship between public and private sectors were handled more cautiously. While Sadat adopted a strategic retreat on the economic front, he saved his boldest political move by flying to Tel Aviv in November 1977 to negotiate a peace treaty with Israel. The initiative came out of Sadat’s frustration with the lack of progress in peace negotiations and at least began with a broad agenda of peace, namely the return of all territories of Egypt and Syria occupied by the Israelis and a settlement for the Palestinians. Faced with opposition from the Israeli government in recognising Palestinian demands, Sadat ultimately gave priority to Egyptian interests and accepted the return of the Sinai and a peace treaty with Israel, signed in March 1979. The move placed Sadat on the international stage where he was celebrated as a man of peace and, with Menachem Begin, awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. However, in Egypt he was roundly criticised especially by the left and an increasingly active Islamic movement, as well as being condemned throughout the Arab world, with Egypt being ejected from the Arab League. In response to this domestic criticism, Sadat began to backtrack on the political freedoms that he had been promoting. Over the next two years he sought to silence his critics and assert his presidential authority by clamping down on Islamist and leftist opposition, imprisoning many opponents and hobbling the press (Baker, 1981). He further risked igniting sectarian tensions by accusing Copts of wanting to set up their own state in Upper Egypt. Politically isolated, he was assassinated by militants of Islamic Jihad in October 1981 at a military parade that was commemorating the triumphant crossing of the Suez Canal eight years before.

The long Mubarak presidency Husni Mubarak ascended to the presidency, as Sadat had done before him, as the sitting vice president, a position which he had held since 1985, following the death of the president. Mubarak had been the commander-​in-​chief of the air force during the October War but otherwise seemed to have neither political ambition nor political following. In terms of public persona, he contrasted strongly with Sadat’s flamboyant, bold style, projecting a cautious, low key, managerial personality with poor English. Yet, despite his unobtrusive profile, Mubarak would serve as the president of Egypt for almost 30 years, a period longer than the terms of his two predecessors combined. After an initial honeymoon period in which he sought to lower the political tensions created during Sadat’s last months in office, Mubarak set about consolidating his position in office by employing a number of strategies. He continued to depend on the NDP as the official vehicle for political support and guaranteed its parliamentary majority through a series of restrictive electoral laws. Electoral politics became a means to manage political opposition with non-​ government parties making little progress against a system that was meant to control, contain or 16

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exclude them. Opposition candidates of all ideological persuasions were routinely intimidated or disqualified from standing for election, local and international monitoring of the electoral process was hindered, and judicial supervision resisted. Assisted by the control of media, the manipulation of the election process and the state of emergency provisions, the ruling NDP would continue to dominate successive parliamentary elections, or, when the party performed poorly, as they did in the elections of 2000, would woo successful independents to the party by extending various material benefits. The manipulation of the electoral process was effective in containing the threat posed by the Muslim Brotherhood as an unofficial opposition but the broader challenge posed by Islamists required a more complex strategy. Restrained following the circumstances of Sadat’s death, radical Islamist forces had begun to conduct public demonstrations against the regime by the summer of 1985. By the end of the decade, this would develop into a violent confrontation between the Egyptian government and an Islamic insurgency that represented a greater domestic threat than either Nasser or Sadat had faced. Egyptian support for the United States (US)-​led invasion of Kuwait in the Gulf War in 1991 further antagonised Islamists. During the period 1990–​1998 the militant Islamic groups battled with government security forces not only in Upper Egypt but within the capital itself. Mubarak himself came close to being assassinated in Addis Ababa in 1995. Ultimately the insurgency was suppressed after hundreds of Islamists were killed or imprisoned, while other casualties included political figures and intellectuals, as well as innocent bystanders and visiting tourists. The militants were ultimately defeated by force of arms but the regime recognised the growing influence that Islamic politics was enjoying, and particularly the threat of the Muslim Brotherhood. Its semi-​legal status was maintained although there was an oscillation between state toleration and harassment of activists and publications, often corresponding with the electoral cycle. On the other hand, Mubarak recognised the need to accommodate Islamic sensibilities and sought to conciliate moderate Muslim opinion by closing down night clubs, making alcohol more difficult to obtain, sponsoring moderate Shaykhs such as Shaykh Sha‘arawi, and maintaining good relations with al-​Azhar. Strategies from the Nasser era continued to be used although with declining effect. The Egyptian Trade Union Federation (EFTU), formed in 1957, had served as the basis of regime control of the labour movement. Initially it had presided over an improvement in the standard of living among workers but over time, particularly after the liberalising economic policies of the regime launched after 1970, the conditions of workers came increasingly under pressure. In the 1990s, a number of unofficial strikes and attempts to launch independent unions would seek to resist government efforts to engage with a market economy. Professional associations were also a site of political struggle as opposition parties sought to use syndicates representing professions such as lawyers, engineers and doctors to pursue their political agenda. Government sought to counter this by putting onerous conditions on the legitimacy of elections to association boards. In limiting real avenues for genuine democratic input, the regime necessarily had to rely on other means to sustain its position. One was a circle of pro-​business interests, the so-​called crony capitalists, who were favoured in the programme of economic liberalisation, and the licensing of large development schemes, such as the Toshka Project and the building of new cities around Cairo that were used to project state power and authority, in return for their political backing. The support of the military, a central element of the regime since 1952, was sustained by according it a special place in the economy, affording particular privileges to the officer class and maintaining a close relationship with the United States that ensured its access to the latest weaponry. 17

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The other element was Egyptian foreign policy, which was both an asset and a liability. Despite the strong criticism of the peace treaty with Israel, Mubarak had respected its terms and was able to point to the return of Sinai as one clear national benefit. The Camp David treaty had brought Egypt ineluctably within the American orbit—​Egypt was now America’s second ally in the region—​and this provided an important source of political capital and secured access to American arms and financial backing. Such a relationship, however, obliged Egypt to support the American-​led Operation Desert Storm to eject Iraqi forces from Kuwait in 1991, an unpopular move in the eyes of many Egyptians. Nevertheless, Mubarak skilfully used the 1980s to rehabilitate Egypt in the eyes of the Arab League where it resumed some of the influence it had enjoyed earlier, and made the most of the role Egypt could play in the Oslo Process of 1993 as mediator between the Israeli and US governments and the Palestinians. Despite Mubarak’s skill in maintaining policies that did not enjoy full support of the population, among them the Egyptian position on Palestine, forces within civil society were starting to build some momentum in opposing the regime. In the summer of 2004, Kifaya (the Egyptian Movement for Change), a coalition of liberals, progressives and leftists, emerged calling for democracy and political reform at home and peace abroad. In 2005 another domestic issue provided an opportunity for continued protest. Since the time of Nasser, presidents had been confirmed in office by plebiscites, invariably endorsing the incumbent with barely credible high levels of support. However, under pressure from the international community Mubarak was forced to hold a multi-​candidate election in September 2005 in which a number of other candidates also stood for presidential office. Kifaya was successfully able to use a referendum on constitutional changes and the presidential election itself to articulate political criticism and social demands even if the movement failed to attract critical support to make a greater impact. While the result of the election was again testimony to the way in which the government was able to manipulate opinion through the use of media and the intimidation of and restrictions on opposition candidates, the occasion offered some space for discussion about the difficult conditions of political life and the character and conduct of the presidency. Mubarak’s victory was little surprise but on a very low voter turnout (24%) (Blaydes, 2011, p. 116). However, the re-​election of a 77-​year-​old president brought the matter of succession to the fore in a way that had not been seen before, given the premature death of Nasser and assassination of Sadat. Throughout his presidency Mubarak had chosen not to appoint a vice-​president but there were signs that he was grooming his son Gamal as his successor and favouring young technocrats, a prospect which caused increasing alarm among political opposition and even within regime circles, particularly the military. The uncertainties surrounding the succession, intractable economic problems and continued dissatisfaction with aspects of Egypt’s regional policy all became factors in fomenting a volatile political atmosphere. The beginning of a long series of labour strikes and protests at Mahalla al-​Kubra from 2006 and the formation of the April 6 Youth Movement in 2008 to support workers signalled a broadening of a base of dissatisfaction (Beinin, 2012, pp. 328–​336). The shocking killing of Khaled Said by police in Alexandria in June 2010 was yet another reminder of the police brutality that was increasingly employed by the regime. On 25 January 2011 a mass demonstration was called in Tahrir Square as a collective protest against the ongoing authoritarianism and declining standards of living. As Police Day, it recalled the occasion when Egyptian policemen stood their ground against British troops in Ismailia in 1952, but it also marked the last months of a disintegrating political order. Mubarak stepped down 17 days later. 18

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Conclusion Since the days of the British occupation Egypt has proceeded on an unsteady political course. For the first half of 20th century the dominant political issue was the continuing British presence and the demand for national independence. Against this backdrop a tradition of elitist politics was maintained, employing some of the tools used by the British, and facilitated by a self-​serving monarchy and an interfering British government. After both world wars, Egypt engaged in a political re-​evaluation, firstly through the 1919 Revolution that resulted in a qualified Egyptian independence and then, after the Second World War, following an extended period of political instability, the overthrow of the old order. With the toppling of the monarchy and the final withdrawal of British forces in the 1950s, Egyptian governments had greater freedom in plotting the post-​colonial course of the country. Since 1956 Egyptian politics has been dominated by a strong presidential system where authority has been maintained through the close control of political and economic life with the backing of the military and the support of foreign allies, for a time the Soviet Union but in recent decades, the United States. Challenged at times by social forces, chiefly by liberal, socialist and Islamist voices, the regime has been able to assert its control by a combination of coercion, cooptation and, at critical times when needed, concession. With the end of the Mubarak era, the country again engaged in a turbulent and often violent political contest during which the claims of different sectors of society clashed against the power of authoritarian government. ​ The chapters that follow explore different dimensions of the historical development of Egyptian state and society since it gained independence in 1923. Mohamed Gamal-Eldin discusses the record of public services, and specifically of water, transport and education, examining the record of state rhetoric and actual performance in providing basic facilities for its citizens. Roel Meijer explores the historical development of different Egyptian political currents contrasting the elitist ideologies of reformists and liberals with the exclusivist and collectivist visions of Islamists. In his contribution Nael Shama scrutinises the character and conduct of Egyptian foreign policy, seeing it as reflecting the particular character of individual presidencies rather than the expression of an institutional tradition. The chapter by Hatem Zayed, Nadine Sika and Ibrahim Elnur focuses on the student movement as a case study of a social movement discussing its role from the 1930s until the present as an arena of political contest and how it has engaged and developed according to the political conditions of the time. In the final chapter of this section, I  explore the development of modern Egyptian historiography and examine the role of the historian during the course of the 20th century not as a disinterested observer of the national history but as a dynamic player in the institutional and intellectual life of the country.

References Abdalla, Ahmed (1985). The Student Movement and National Politics in Egypt, 1923–​1973. London: al-​Saqi. Abdel-​Malek, Anouar (1968). Egypt: Military Society. New York: Random House. Auf,Youssef (2018). The state of emergency in Egypt: An exception or rule? Atlantic Council 2 Feb 2018. www.atlanticcouncil.org/​blogs/​menasource/​the-​state-​of-​emergency-​in-​egypt-​an-​exception-​or-​rule/​ [accessed 31 May 2020]. Badran, Margot (1996). Feminists, Islam, and Nation. Cairo: AUC Press. Baker, Raymond William (1981). ‘Sadat’s open door: Opposition from within’, Social Problems, 28:4 (April), 378–​384. Beinin, J. (2012). ‘Egyptian workers and January 25th:  A social movement in historical context’, Social Research, 79(2), 323–​348.

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Anthony Gorman Beinin, Joel and Zachary Lockman (1988). Workers on the Nile:  Nationalism, Communism, Islam, and the Egyptian Working Class, 1882–​1954. London: I.B. Tauris. Berque, Jacques (1972). Egypt, Imperialism & Revolution. trans. Jean Stewart, New York & Washington: Praeger. Blaydes, Lisa (2011). Elections and Distributive Politics in Mubarak’s Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Booth, Marilyn and Anthony Gorman (2014). The Long 1890s in Egypt: Colonial Quiescence, Subterranean Resistance. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Gershoni, Israel and James P. Jankowski (1986). Egypt, Islam and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1900–​1930. New York: Oxford University Press. Goldschmidt Jr.,Arthur (1988). Modern Egypt: The Formation of a Nation-​State. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Gordon, Joel (1996). Nasser’s Blessed Movement, Egypt’s Free Officers and the July Revolution. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Gorman,Anthony (2003). Historians, State and Politics in Twentieth Century Egypt. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Gorman, Anthony (2007). ‘Regulation, reform and resistance in the Middle East prison’, in F. Dikötter & I. Brown (eds.), Cultures of Confinement:  A History of the Prison in Africa, Asia and Latin America. London: Hurst, pp. 95–​146. Gorman, Anthony (2010). ‘Confining political dissent in Egypt before 1952’, in L. Khalili and J. Schwedler (eds.), Carceral Practices:  Prisons and Policing in the Middle East and North Africa. London:  Hurst, pp. 157–​173. Gorman, Anthony (2017). ‘The British legacy in the Middle East’, in N. A. Butenschon & R. Meijer (eds.), Citizenship in the Middle East and North Africa. Leiden: Brill, pp. 41–​66. Ismael, Tareq Y. and Rifa’at El-​Sa’id (1990). The Communist Movement in Egypt, 1920–​1988. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press. Mitchell, Richard P. (1969). The Society of the Muslim Brothers. London: Oxford University Press. Nasser, Gamal Abdel (1959). The Philosophy of the Revolution. Buffalo, NY: Smith, Keynes & Marshall. Smith, Charles D. (1973). ‘The “crisis of orientation”: The shift of Egyptian intellectuals to Islamic subjects in the 1930s’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 4(4), 382–​410. Tsourapas, Gerasimos (2018). The Politics of Migration in Modern Egypt: Strategies for Regime. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vatikiotis, P.J. (1991). The Modern History of Egypt:  From Muhammad Ali to Mubarak. 4th ed., London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson.

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1 BUILDING THE EGYPTIAN STATE? Infrastructural systems, education, and urbanization (1919–​2011) Mohamed Gamal-​Eldin

Introduction This chapter looks at the historical relationship between water, transportation, and education in Egypt during the long 20th-​century and their evolution to the near contemporary. It links infrastructural projects, primarily transportation and water services, with the urban/​local and national scale to state/​nationalist policies—​like Egyptianization of the state bureaucracy and Nasserist social policy—​in order to examine the way in which various service sectors evolved in relation to the central government’s plans, as well as the ways in which the state fell short of its objectives.The Egyptian urban environment, both in big cities and peripheral towns, became a space where state services, such as infrastructure, and from mid-​century, free and universal education, were first applied and displayed the tensions between state provisioning, both access and success. Urbanization, as a lens of analysis, makes transparent the inequality that was already characteristic of Egypt from precolonial rule, but had been further afield in the rural landscape. Education became an important part of urban life in 20th century Egypt, with the expansion of schools and universities. The state promised education as a way of out of poverty and a means to advance the nation, but it fell short when graduates could not find work or were severely underemployed. Examining the 20th-​century history of education highlights the challenges of creating urban centers where equitable state services were provided, whether infrastructural or educational. Moreover, a thorough look at the proposed initiatives relating to urban infrastructures and education policy, as conceived by planners, policymakers, and engineers, and the actual improvement and access to resources that occurred in practice, will shed light on how it challenged the rhetoric that was voiced by Egyptian leaders throughout the 20th century. Corruption, mismanagement, and the rise of privatization under Husni Mubarak became factors in the inability of the state to demonstrate its hegemony. For example, the various attempts to harness nature by way of controlling river water flow and the execution of the High Dam at Aswan and national water policy (i.e., the early Aswan Dam and the Nasserist High Dam and Mubarak-​era Toshka

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project) fell short of the promised goals of development and universal access to water and electrical power resources across the Egyptian state. Further, a semi-​independent Egyptian state began to invest in both infrastructural projects and, with the decline of British colonial rule, education. Education became an integral expenditure; the Egyptian state increased its spending on education to levels that were not seen since prior to its occupation in 1882. To understand the creation of the national education system, transportation, and water/​sewage infrastructure, I will briefly trace the historical contours from the 19th into the 20th century. This will lead to the period post-​1952 coup, the expansion of state services, and the need to staff state institutions with trained citizens that spurred the growth of the university system under the successive rule of Gamal Abdul-​Nasser, Anwar Sadat, and, finally, Husni Mubarak. The state claimed that all of these initiatives would improve the nation, economy, and bring about progress. Whether it was through the construction of a hydroelectric dam at Aswan or expansion of education, these types of large-​scale projects were used to assert the power of the state. Building the necessary systems and networks to keep up with the growth was left to the future.Thus, the provisioning fell short in the arenas of water management, infrastructural projects, and the expansion of the education systems. An analysis of these three sectors of the Egyptian state will provide us with a better understanding of the capacity of the state and its inability to make good on certain schemes. Even a policy like free universal education and employment in the government became a double-​edged sword, as it removed some societal inequities, but was not sustainable forever. Promises of success from education did not fuel economic growth for many citizens who were overqualified, underemployed, and underpaid; it led to the state becoming the largest employer of Egyptian graduates. State failure to improve the domestic situation led to unfulfilled, incomplete, and underinvested projects and citizens. This chapter is divided into two sections. The first section looks at the linkages between infrastructural projects of water, sewerage, and transportation systems. By examining these networks side by side with one another, it emphasizes their uneven development and the fallacy of a hegemony of centralized state systems. Comparing the differing attitudes between the British colonial authorities and the independent Egyptian state on ideas of human development versus capitalist extraction and state infrastructure allows an examination of the similarities and differences between the two systems of rule. Adjacent to these infrastructural networks was the evolution and growth of the Egyptian education system. Its development in this period would be deemed essential to the state and building of an independent Egyptian nation.Yet, toward the end of the period of study overcrowding in classrooms, underfunding of the system, the rise of private institutions, and unemployment among graduates would lead to a decrease in standards in public education. The differences between reality and the promises by the state then come into full focus.

Infrastructure Water and sewerage systems The development of the modern Egyptian state has depended on its ability to control and manage Egypt’s supply of Nile water. Already in the 19th century as an Ottoman vice-​regal province, Egypt had begun expanding and improving its network of canals and drainage system (Fahmy 2002, pp. 1–​37; Mikhail 2017, pp. 38–​81).This was linked to what Immanuel Wallerstein calls the “incorporation” of the Ottoman Empire and Egyptian province into the larger economic world system (Wallerstein 2011). With the rise of Muhammad ‘Ali (ruled1805–​1848) and his consolidation of power, his rule was marked by a growth in agricultural production 22

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and industry. During his rule, the Egyptian state began to grow and monopolize the production and export of the cash crop long-​staple cotton, a plant that demanded a lot of water. This in turn required an expansion of agricultural land and improvement in water systems (Mikhail 2011). As part of this major investment in state infrastructure in the 19th century, a number of large projects were completed: Alexandria was linked to the Nile by the Mahmudiyya Canal in 1822, the building of the Nile Barrage north of Cairo on the Delta was completed in the 1870s, and the construction of the Suez Canal connecting the Red Sea to the Mediterranean opened in November 1869. In addition, the Ismailiyya Canal brought Nile waters to the canal zone. While fresh water for drinking was traditionally linked to charitable institutions through the creation of fountains (sabil) and employment of private water carriers, the latter part of the 19th century witnessed the development of water networks and, in certain areas, sewage lines. This period is the beginning of the transition from private entities responsible for certain utilities to state management of the said utilities. Yet, networks, like water and sewerage, were not a fully connected network but developed piecemeal—​first, to the elite homes and then, only much later, to the poorer neighborhoods.1 Neighborhoods where foreign residents and the upper class lived were the first to be linked to the water and sewage system. As such, provision of water was a local task and uneven in terms of implementation.There was no overarching central network that connected all neighborhoods.The building of infrastructure, in Egypt and globally, was intimately related to ethnicity and class (Gandy 1999). In 1865 the Cairo Water Company was founded to provide water to some residents of the city. In the canal zone, the Suez Canal Company (founded in 1859) brought piped freshwater to the cities of Port Said, Ismailia, and Suez (Ismail 2018; Gamal-​Eldin 2019, 184–​207). Along the canal, the European neighborhoods and Canal administrative offices, where the foreign employees of the Canal Company worked, were provided first with water and sewerage connections. It was only much later, well into the 1930s and 1940s, that the Egyptian neighborhoods received the same type of infrastructural investment. Similarly, in Cairo, a networked and unified water system was late to develop. Throughout the 19th century, Egypt’s urban areas grew in population, forcing towns and local water providers to improve services (Berque 1972). In the rural environment, the land was worked upon toward capital accumulation and controlling the Nile waters. The British occupation in 1882 accelerated the production of cash crops and took a particular interest in the cotton crop. Its need for perennial irrigation required an increase of canals and drains across most of Lower Egypt as well as in parts of Upper Egypt where sugar was grown. As such, controlling the flow of the Nile waters from the south at Aswan became a priority and in 1902 the first Aswan Dam was opened.The engineering of the Nile at Aswan with a new dam slowed the flood waters down and allowed the Egyptian state to control the water to the growing urban centers. Urbanization meant that cities needed even more water and foreigners, and middle-​and upper-​class Egyptian neighborhoods began equipping their domestic spaces with indoor plumbing (Berque 1972). In 1906 the Cairo Governorate opened a sewerage company and soon connected Cairo’s water service to an artesian well that residents found had bad taste (Ismail 2018), but it was not until after World War I and the end of the protectorate that state investment began to target the expansion of water and sewerage in urban areas. In Cairo, for example, the state attempted to keep up with population growth by linking new residential quarters to the main water supply. Yet, this was slowed by the Main Drainage Department, which was evident through a complaint of “lack of money” (Report on Egypt in 1921, p. 59). While, in the new suburban towns of Heliopolis and Helwan the private companies provided water and sanitation, elsewhere water supply and canal maintenance were under the auspices of the Ministry of Public Works, private water sellers, and local municipalities. A British report described work to be done in Alexandria on the sewer system as follows, 23

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“[l]‌ow level main sewer has been completed and work is in course of the execution for the completion of some of the main arteries of the main drainage scheme” (Report on Egypt in 1921, p. 59).Yet, water supply was not available to everyone. Without large-​scale investment in older neighborhoods linked to the central system, the lack of a unified system created vast inequities spatially throughout the cities of Egypt that remain to this day. Nasserism was the ideology that with investment, restructuring, and management by the state of private enterprise, one could theoretically find a more equitable distribution of resources between elites and peasants. Under its impact the state redistributed land to the peasant (fellah) and once again put its hope in large-​scale infrastructural projects that could lead Egypt into the future. The Suez Canal Company and waterway was nationalized in 1956, and shortly thereafter construction on the Aswan High Dam started opening in 1970. The building of a larger dam south of Aswan to replace the first Aswan dam (1899–​1900) was to be a major infrastructural project after independence, which would signify the benevolence of the state to provide electrification and to control the annual flood. It was a major ideological project connected to the larger goals of Nasser to redistribute land and raise Egyptians’ living standards. In the end it would be built with money and expertise from whichever Cold War power that would fund it. The number of users connected to water supply across the larger urban areas doubled from 1952 to 1963 (ElShahed 2019). In 1965 the Cairo Water Company was removed from the Ministry of Public Works and established with its own separate organizational structure and three years later the General Organization for Greater Cairo Water Supply (GOGCWS) was created, separating infrastructure related to water maintenance from the Ministry of Public Works in order to better manage the hydraulic systems at a state level, which meant even more control of water, sewerage, canals, and sanitation. The state further worked to control who had access to water and how much (Barnes 2014). However, this enhanced authority led to new areas and forms of corruption and logjams in a system that made agricultural production for the Egyptian farmer increasingly difficult. Well into the Sadat and Mubarak eras, the state has continued to closely manage water infrastructure systems. As new suburban districts (6 October, 10 Ramadan, Sadat City) around the outskirts of Cairo and in the south of Egypt around Qena developed, so did the necessity for water supply and urban infrastructure (Sims 2014). This meant building homes and settlements over farmland and expanding infrastructure into these new residential zones put even more pressure on freshwater resources through the increase in population. In the south of Egypt the Toshka project highlighted the failure of the Mubarak-​led state to make good on the promise of creating a new town and agricultural development. Nile waters were to feed this new development and the desert would bloom.Yet, as Sims (2014) has astutely argued, these land reclamation projects seemed designed to enrich builders but then come to nothing. Sims has shown how new developments were built by the state and developers to meet policy goals for providing housing to the middle class and the poor, yet without investment by interested buyers a lot of these areas sit as ghost towns (Sims, 2014). Patterns of urban development due to the growth of the old urban cores required the expansion of infrastructure into the periphery of cities. In some places, like the Fifth Settlement east of Cairo, it is when new residents moved in slowly and only recently—​over the last decade and a half—​that these suburbs have begun to fill. New housing built under Sadat and Mubarak regimes has remained empty for a number of reasons, but mostly has been due to the inability to convince people to move so far away from work (Wahby 2018, Raymond 2000). Even so, water and sewerage infrastructure expanded into the areas in anticipation. In 1985 with foreign investment from the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), a multinational project (Egyptian-​American-​British) to build a new tunnel under the Nile from east to west linked to a new sewerage cleaning plant was developed 24

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to upgrade the sewerage system in expectation of Cairo’s continued growth. Known as the Greater Cairo Sewerage Tunnel, the project is still not fully complete and some components are still being added today and would be one of the world’s largest tunnels for moving sewerage (Sims 2014).This was yet another example, similar to the transportation systems, of the Egyptian state contracting foreign corporations to engineer a major state public works project. While the Egyptian state has posed as the major investor in infrastructural projects, it continues to turn to foreign entities to complete projects. It appears that the state may believe that the scale and finances needed to complete a similar multi-​decade project would be too onerous.Yet, it may be argued that it sets up the perfect scenario for the continual enrichment of a few regime loyalists who are intermediaries between the foreign direct investment and the local projects, such as the late real estate magnate Talaat Moustafa. Despite its importance to the well-​being of its inhabitants, the Egyptian water system has been managed poorly by the state. This important resource and related infrastructure continue to be emblematic of the inability of the state to provide basic services across the entire nation. Similar to other sectors in which the state is the main actor, it has continued to be unsuccessful in managing water resources and the upkeep of infrastructure.

Transportation and rail networks The moving of goods and people has been an integral part of social and economic life in Egypt. Before the 19th century the main modes of transportation were by animal (camel and donkey) on land and by boat on water (Nile). In 1856 Egypt was one of the earliest adopters of the railroad when Said Pasha (r. 1856–​1863) granted a concession to Robert Stephenson, a British national, to establish the Egyptian National Railways (ENR). In time, the train would link towns in the south, the Delta, and Suez.The growth of the railway would continue into the 20th century, with millions of passengers and goods being moved along the tracks to the coast and on to Europe. The network would expand connecting smaller nodal points in the Delta and Upper Egypt with one another, and with Cairo and Alexandria. By 1914, ENR controlled 2,735 km of rail (Toledano 1998, p. 261). The railway would play a part in the imagining of an Egyptian nation in both the political and cultural spheres.2 The railway provides services to foreign travelers, and all classes of Egyptians could afford rail travel, with carriage designated by fare type. Originally designed with a monumental neoclassical façade and entrance and an exposed iron shed in the mode of French railway stations, Bab el Hadid station in central Cairo became an important landmark of the city and nation.3 Additionally, the rail network was an agent of action against and tool to support the movement of 1919 protesters, to delay movement of peoples and merchandise.Yet, as the century progressed and it expanded to over 10,000 km and the number of passengers increased, the railway slowly fell into disrepair, even with foreign direct investment to upgrade railcars and make track improvements.4 The inability of the Egyptian state to provide safe and reliable travel was evidenced by one deadly train accident after another in the 1990s, with ten major train incidents in the decade. (http://​news.bbc. co.uk/​2/​hi/​middle_​east/​1831616.stm). The deadliest accident would occur in 2002 near Al Ayyat in Upper Egypt when 370 Egyptians were killed (www.nytimes.com/​2002/​02/​20/​international/​hundreds-​killed-​in-​train-​fire-​in-​egypt.html). Such incidents called into question not only the failure of the Egyptian National Railways’ operations but also demonstrated a failure of governance by the state. Moving from railways, which linked Egyptian city centers to the local level within the cities, this section historicizes the tramways, and later the underground subway system, that would come to dominate the urban movement. In 1896, in Cairo a tram network of eight lines was 25

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built, connecting the core of Cairo (at Ataba Square) with its growing suburban enclaves (Abu-​ Lughod 1971, pp. 133–​138). Lines connecting the city with Helwan and Heliopolis were privately funded by the corporations given concessionary rights to build these two towns. Baron de Empain, the entrepreneur of Heliopolis, created the suburban area as a bastion for foreigners to escape the city (Moore 2014, pp. 97–​102).5 As Jason Moore has traced, the lines spread out across the city of Cairo: By the Great War, tramways crossed Cairo, with lines penetrating deep into the “traditional” city from El Musky to El Azhar Mosque and south to El Manshiya and El Hayatim, and providing means of mobility from “old Cairo” to the bucolic rural lines of Giza and northern Shubra. Moore, 2014, p. 84 In other Egyptian cities tramways were the earliest form of inner-​city transport. In Alexandria the tram provided a means for passengers to move around the city after they arrived on the train from Cairo. It became a central mode of transportation for urban dwellers of all classes, which provided transportation to work and across the town. Port Said’s tramway ran through the center of town connecting it with the port on to the cemetery, which was a popular destination for passengers waiting for their ship to embark. E.M. Forster in his travel guide to Alexandria in 1922 suggested the use of the tram for those who visited the seaport by highlighting a sight of importance next to each tram stop (Forster 2014, pp. 209–​222). In Cairo the tramway line was in some places the precursor of the later underground and aboveground Metro routes that connect the downtown stations with the districts of Helwan, Heliopolis, and el-​Marj. The construction of the Cairo Metro system began in 1982 and the first line opened in 1989. Currently work is being completed on lines 3 and 4. As it stands the track length runs 77.9 km, with stations connecting the east bank of the city with the west bank all the way into Giza (https://​cairometro.gov.eg/​en/​about/​1). As such, the transportation infrastructure, while maintaining an expansive network, is confined within the core urban environment and has yet to be expanded to the outer rim of Cairo’s newest neighborhoods, further exacerbating the inequality of resources and access between the lower class and the elites. Busing, although available, is limited to a few state-​owned bus lines, private buses hired by businesses and universities, and the informal sector of minibus drivers.

Education In this section, the education system is studied from its early history and the ups and downs of the expansion in the long 20th century. Through an exploration of the resources around education and the gaps that developed, we can better understand the ways in which the state’s rhetoric did not match the reality—​as when universal employment for university graduates was still promised well into the 1980s.The predecessors to the modern university system that would develop in the 20th century were found in al-​Azhar institution for Islamic studies, the Medical School founded by Clot Bey in 1826 and the Dar al-​Ulum (Teaching College) in 1871. The last two trained students who were primarily Azhar graduates with a strong command of the Arabic language and higher training. Early education was completed in a local kuttab where one would memorize the Qu’ran and other texts. In the 19th century two new institutions opened up new avenues for Egyptian students:  government schools and private schools, such as the Islamic Benevolent Society of ‘Abd Allah al-​Nadim in 1879 and the Coptic Benevolent Society founded in Cairo in 1881 (Ener 2003, p. 102).These schools began training students in Western 26

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languages, engineering at the government school and sciences and literature at private schools, some founded by individual Egyptian benefactors and missionary schools. In 1923 the new Egyptian constitution guaranteed free and compulsory elementary education. This was in stark contrast to the meager spending by the British colonial authorities since the start of the occupation in 1882. Lord Cromer during his tenure spent no more than 1% of the annual budget on education (Reid 1990, p. 18). The 1923 constitution led to a large increase in elementary education, but not all school-​age children were included, thereby leaving part of the population outside of the classroom, with only 50% of all school-​age children being in primary school in 1952 (Metz 1990). Elementary education helped to guarantee a bare minimum of literacy and learning. Moreover, curriculums in elementary (madaris awwaliyya) and primary (madaris ibtida’iyya) schools differed and primary schools charged fees, making it available to only those who could afford it. (The fees were not removed until the 1950s under Gamal Abdul Nasser.) The private institutions created during the 19th century, from benevolent schools to technical institutions for boys and girls, continued to be an important space for the training of students. Yet, Egyptian institutions of higher education, outside of the historically strong religious avenues, were beginning to take shape so much so that by the 1930s the Egyptian state worried about the growing class of unemployed students.6 The expansion of education during the interwar period could not keep up with the job availability, leaving highly educated Egyptians unemployed or underemployed. At the turn of the 19th century and into the 20th century, an initiative spearheaded by private Egyptian citizens established the framework for a national university, which would in time become an integral state institution. Nationalists and reformers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, such as Jurji Zaydan, in a 1900 issue of al-​Hilal argued for an “Egyptian College School” that would train native Egyptians in Arabic along the lines of European universities and schools of higher education. Mustafa Kamil, the founder of the Nationalist (Watani) Party, in 1907 also used his newspaper al-​Liwa to demand an institution of higher education in Egypt (Reid 1990). These thinkers viewed higher education as a means to educate Egyptians and lead to the path of freedom from the colonizer. In 1908 a private institution, but a fully Egyptian project, finally opened as the Egyptian University, with the assistance of Khedive ‘Abbas Hilmi II who was a known nationalist sympathizer. He named his nephew and future king Ahmed Fuad as the first rector of the university from 1908 to 1913. First, a private institution, it was made a state institution in 1925 (Reid 1990, p. 1). In 1940 it would be renamed Fuad I University in honor of the deceased Egyptian king. After the Egyptian revolution of 1952, the university was brought further under the state control with Law No. 504 that gave the Ministry of Education power to appoint departmental deans (Reid 1990, p. 171). Furthermore, its renaming as Cairo University demonstrated the new direction that the institution would take as the university expanded into satellite campuses across Egypt. The buildings and design of the campus would express through its monumental main hall and theater, and picturesque landscape, the connection to ideas of modernity and progress that was to be inculcated as inherent in this modern education. The university offered courses not only in sciences but also in literature, law, history, and geography—​subjects very much different from the classic Islamic modules of education, which was structured around Qur’an and Hadith sciences, syntax, and also sciences like algebra and astronomy. While memorization of the classical Islamic texts was a prerequisite for admission to al-​Azhar, Arabic was the only requirement at Cairo University. In 1942 Faruq I University (which would be later renamed as the University of Alexandria in 1952) was opened, followed by Ain Shams (originally called Ibrahim Pasha al-​Kabir) in 1950. Across Egypt branches of Cairo University would open and regional universities gradually began to appear across the nation, starting with Asyut University 27

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Mohamed Gamal-Eldin Table 1.1  Number of Egyptian students in a university or institute of higher education (Maftsir 2019, pp. 834–​835) Year

Students

1953–​1954 1965–​1966 1972–​1973 1982

68,000 173,000 223,000 480,000

(1957), followed by a series of new universities opening in the 1970s: Tanta University, Mansura University (1972), Zagazig University (1974), Helwan University (1975), and Minya University, Minufiyya University, and Suez Canal (Suez) University (1976). The picture has been fully reversed in the revolutionary age where higher education has taken a successful leap forward with the collapse of the class, the establishment of social justice, and of equal opportunity. Quoted in Reid, 1990, p. 174 Enrollment in higher education shows that the growth at first was steady between 1908 and 1925, but after 1925, and particularly during the period of Nasserist rule, the number of students in these universities increased dramatically (see Table 1.1). The opening of universities outside of Cairo, in Alexandria and other towns of the Delta and in the south with one of the earliest institutions in Asyut, was very much connected to the large landowning elites and the rising middle class. The university became a mechanism of social mobility to a secure landing spot for employment after graduation, even though access to the university was not universal until the rule of Nasser, when schools stopped accepting fees for tuition. On July 26, 1962, in a speech marking the tenth anniversary of the Free Officers coup, Gamal Abdul Nasser made it official with a guarantee that graduates would have a job in the public administration. Further tuition was heavily funded to allow both men and women the chance to study (Reid 1990; Maftsir 2019, p. 834). Female enrollment grew particularly faster during the Nasser and Sadat years, with an increase in enrollment of women in higher education (Maftsir 2019, p. 835). The most popular career path was teaching and pharmacology. This added to the burden of the state to take on new employees, but it offered new opportunities for those who previously did not have the means prior the chance to graduate and earn a steady income. The number of enrolled students at Egyptian universities, colleges, and technical institutes has continued to grow, but jobs have simultaneously become more difficult to attain, leaving graduates overqualified and underemployed. The utopian Nasserist language of “the collapse of the class, the establishment of social justice, and of equal opportunity” did not bear fruit for the majority of Egyptians (Reid 1990, p. 174). By 2009/​2010 there were 1,932,774 students enrolled at 20 state universities and 60,148 students attending the growing sector of private universities.7 These latter institutions, such as the German University in Cairo (founded in 2002), which was created through a partnership between the Egyptian state and German university institutions, and Misr University for Science and Technology (founded in 1996), gave Egyptian students, who could afford the fees, a new option for a higher degree. Since the early 1990s these private universities have grown in number, filling out the growing suburban landscape of Cairo with new educational spaces.With 28

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the growth of education under the Nasser regime onwards, its importance became central to everyday life for a large majority of urban Egyptians.Yet, due to the differentiation in fees based on which faculty one entered, those who could not pay were pushed out of the more prestigious departments of study even with state subsidies. Rising from half-​million students in 1982 to nearly 2 million students, the campus became a central place of political and social organization (Bayat 2012).8 During the first decade of the 21st century, universities like Cairo University, Al-​Azhar, and the American University in Cairo became important sites of protest against the United States invasion of Iraq in 2003 and in support of Palestine. While not directly challenging the state, these protests demonstrated a growing dissatisfaction with the authoritarian rule of Husni Mubarak prior to January 2011. Nestled into the urban fabric of Cairo these urban universities were places to be policed and surveilled. Similar to the Egyptian University’s place in the 1919 revolution, the campus continues to be a site filled with political and social power. Furthermore, economically, for many Egyptians education remains an important avenue out of poverty and the best route for a job. Yet, education unfortunately has not closed the gap between the elite and the poor, or even between the middle class and the rich. The state’s lack of provisioning toward educational resources has allowed for the rise of private universities that have become an important space for social mobility and maintenance of elite status quo. It further highlights the discrepancy between what the state offers and what they can actually provide.Yet, Egyptian students remain resilient and use every resource possible to make up for the inadequacies of the state.

Conclusion This chapter demonstrated the change in expenditure and increase in all service sectors from early 20th century into the 21st century. The lack of spending in education between 1882 and 1919 is evidence of the colonial regime’s focus on economic extraction to the detriment of education and the introduction of universal education in the 1923 constitution was a reaction to the colonial stranglehold on educational spending. In the 1920s with increased independence and the support of Egyptian political parties, the nascent sovereign Egyptian state under Wafdist rule started to focus more on education. This was in tandem with the continued development of water and transportation systems across the urban landscape of Egypt and was part of the dramatic move of populations to the urban cities of Egypt. This resulted in a tension between the demand for urban expansion and the requisite infrastructural projects—​like water, sewerage, transportation, and rail services—​and the need to meet the political purposes of the state-​led project. As such, this chapter used urbanization as a lens to link all the sectors and their uneven development and relationship with the state over the 20th century to paint a nuanced portrait of the dreams and failures of development through multiple eras of political rule. It is this gap between the vision of large-​scale projects and the actual outcome that has left Egyptians as both optimistic and pessimistic about the future and of the capabilities of the state. The development of water infrastructures across Egypt has historically centered around large-​scale projects. Whether related primarily to the needs of the state to increase agricultural output through perennial irrigation or to control the Nile waters south of Aswan, or to control flooding and to provide electrification, the Egyptian state has used these projects to project power and to supply electricity for the growing urban spaces. Each has fed into the idea that the Nile waters are some sort of panacea for the turbulent postcolonial transition. Yet, access to water and sewage infrastructures has remained uneven, with elite and some middle-​class neighborhoods receiving connections to the networks first and those at the lowest rung of society finding unique ways to secure access to the water infrastructure (Wahby 2018). 29

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Additionally, public transportation systems have fallen into disrepair and not been able to keep up with urban sprawl and suburbanization. Aging railcars, the slow expansion of the underground metro, and limited bus systems have left citizens struggling to find alternative means of mobility. For example, when the American University in Cairo moved out to the Fifth Settlement neighborhood in the eastern desert of Cairo, public transportation was not easily accessible.9 As such, the private university has had to rely on busing students into campus. The distancing of essential institutions has gone hand-​in-​hand with the prioritization of security. Both state and private entities have moved to make difficult any access by the general public to institutions, such as the university, by moving them further out from the center of Cairo and to the suburban districts that now ring the old core. The urban as such becomes a site of contestation between the goals of the state and the reality of continued inequality of access to infrastructure services and education.

Notes 1 Even today those on the lower rungs of society have to find their own means to connect to basic utilities. 2 In particular, Youssef Chahine’s film Bab el Hadid (Cairo Station), 1958, highlights this new sense of connection through the train, the station, and the synchronized clock (see also Barak 2013). 3 Today it has been updated with a neo-​Islamic mishmash of designs that are meant to link the station to an Islamic past. 4 The Japanese government has been a major supplier of materials and technology since the 1960s. 5 See Abu-​Lughod (1971, pp. 133–​138) for a detailed description of the tramway lines throughout Cairo. 6 Some estimates have it that in 1937 nearly 11,000 students were unemployed (Erlich 2005). 7 Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS) www.sis.gov.eg/​newvr/​ egyptinfigures/​pages/​E13.htm (accessed January 31, 2020) 8 Also see Chapter 4 on the history of the Egyptian student movements. 9 The American University in Cairo had been in central Cairo, adjacent to Tahrir square since its establishment in the 1920s. The move could be connected to a good deal for a large expanse of land in New Cairo and rising density in downtown Cairo.

References Abu-​Lughod, Janet, 1971. Cairo:  1001 Years of the City Victorious, Princeton, NJ:  Princeton University Press. Afridi, Momina and Berrwin, Amal, 2017. “Tracing Egyptian Education Policy in Changing Eras and Regimes: From 1954 to 2011,” in Rowhea M. Elmesky, Carol Camp Yeakey and Olivia Marcucci (eds.), Advances in Education in Diverse Communities: Research, Policy and Praxis, vol. 12, Bingley, UK: Emerald Publishing, pp. 59–​76. Barak, On, 2013. On Time:  Technology and Temporality in Modern Egypt, Berkeley, CA:  University of California Press. Barak, On, 2014. “Times of Tamaddun: Gender, Urbanity, and Temporality in Colonial Egypt,” in Nazan Maksudyan (ed.), Women and the City, Women in the City:  A Gendered Perspective to Ottoman Urban History, 1st edn., New York: Berghahn Books, pp.15–​35. Barnes, Jessica, 2014. Cultivating the Nile: The Everyday Politics of Water in Egypt, New Ecologies for the Twenty-​First Century, Durham: Duke University Press. Bayat, Asef, 2012. “The ‘Arab Street,’ ” in Jeannie Sowers and Christopher J. Toensing (eds.), The Journey to Tahrir: Revolution, Protest, and Social Change in Egypt, New York: Verso, pp. 73–​84. Berque, Jacques, 1972. Egypt: Imperialism & Revolution, New York: Praeger. Ener, Mine, 2003. Managing Egypt’s Poor and the Politics of Benevolence, 1800–​1952, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Erlich, Haggai, 2005. Students and University in 20th Century Egyptian Politics, London: Routledge. Fahmy, Khaled, 2002. All the Pasha’s Men Mehmed Ali, His Army, and the Making of Modern Egypt, New York: American University in Cairo Press. Forster, E.M., 2014. Alexandria: A History and Guide, London: Tauris Parke.

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Building the Egyptian state? Gamal-​Eldin, Mohamed, 2019. “Cesspools, Mosquitos and Fever: An Environmental History of Malaria Prevention in Ismailia and Port Sa’īd, 1869–​1910,” in Onur Inal and Yavuz Kose (eds.), Seeds of Power: Explorations in Ottoman Environmental History, Manchester: White Horse Press, pp. 184–​207. Gandy, Matthew, 1999. “The Paris Sewers and the Rationalization of Urban Space,” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 24(1): 23–​44. Ismail, Shehab, 2018. “Epicures and Experts: The Drinking Water Controversy in British Colonial Cairo,” Arab Studies Journal, 26(2): 9–​43. Maftsir, Sharon, 2019. “Emotional Change:  Romantic Love and the University in Postcolonial Egypt,” Journal of Social History, 52(3): 831–​59. Metz, H., 1990. Egypt: A Country Study, Washington, DC: Library of Congress, retrieved from: http://​ countrystudies.us/​egypt/​ (accessed May 25, 2020). Mikhail, Alan, 2011. Nature and Empire in Ottoman Egypt: An Environmental History, New York: Cambridge University Press. Mikhail, Alan, 2017. Under Osman’s Tree: The Ottoman Empire, Egypt, and Environmental History, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Moore, James, 2014. “Making Cairo Modern? Innovation, Urban Form and the Development of Suburbia, c. 1880–​1922,” Urban History, 41(1): 81–​104. Reid, Donald M., 1990. Cairo University and the Making of Modern Egypt, Cambridge Middle East Library 23, New York: Cambridge University Press. “Report on Egypt in 1921,” Political and Military Situation in Egypt, 1923, Qatar Digital Library, Mss Eur F112/​263 (accessed May 25, 2020). Sims, David E., 2014. Egypt’s Desert Dreams: Development or Disaster? New York: American University in Cairo Press. Toledano, Ehud, 1998. “Social and Economic Change in the ‘Long Nineteenth Century,’ ” in M.W. Daly and Carl F. Petry (eds.), Modern Egypt, from 1517 to the End of the Twentieth Century, vol. 2, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 252–​284. Wahby, Noura, 2018. “The Role of the State in Urban Development: The Case of Urban Waterscapes in Cairo, Egypt,” DPhil Dissertation, University of Cambridge, 2018. Wallerstein, Immanuel, 2011. The Second Era of Great Expansion of the Capitalist World-​Economy:  1730–​ 1840s, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

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2 THE IDEOLOGICAL ROOTS OF AUTHORITARIANISM IN EGYPT Roel Meijer

Introduction This chapter focuses on the ideological roots of authoritarianism in Egypt from the beginning of the 20th century to the assassination of Sadat in 1981. The main question raised is why authoritarian tendencies have been so strong in this period. To be sure, there have been liberals in Egyptian history, but their liberalism has been highly ambivalent. It is mostly elitist and exclusivist and seldom democratic and inclusive. Although the term “the people” became common at the end of the 19th century and popular sovereignty was used to justify political power, this is seldom put into practice. Mobilization is used for specific goals, and political participation was almost always avoided and seldom institutionalized. Even after social reform was recognized as the only way to eliminate “poverty, disease and ignorance” (faqr, marad, jahl) in the 1930s and 1940s, political participation was distrusted. The massive uprisings of 1919 revolt, the 1935 student movement, the 1945–​1946 workers and students movement, the March crisis of 1954, the students movement of 1968 and the 1970s and the “bread riots” of 1977 did not lead to democratization. This was not only because of the vested interests of large landowners, or later the military and centralized authoritarian political organizations. Most ideologies of this period had also strong authoritarian strains and discouraged political participation and democratic involvement. In this chapter, I will trace this authoritarian ideological streak through the different definitions of “the citizen.” During the early period of the monarchy, citizenship was elitist and political rights were restricted to the happy few. This changed as soon as the middle classes emerged in the 1930s and laid claim to rights. As a result, during the second half of 1930s, the definition of “the citizen” became a highly contested issue (Meijer 2017, 2020). To what extent should people have political rights and in what form? Should they include social and economic rights? A question that constantly returned was under which conditions rights should be extended. Should full citizenship rights be postponed until citizens had become “civilized,” as liberals argued, or should they depend on peasants becoming members of the modern working class, as socialist and communists argued, or be socialized into an Islamist movement, as the Muslim Brotherhood or become a cadre member of the leftist or an activist of the Islamist vanguard? The July Revolution marked another turning point when social rights finally prevailed over democratic rights.

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The ambivalence of liberalism Unsurprisingly Lord Cromer, the British consul-​general of Egypt from 1883 to 1907, did not consider Egyptians capable of ruling themselves, let  alone understand democracy. Only the British had the necessary administrative skills and experience to run a modern country (Owen 2004, pp.  243–​249; Gorman 2017). At the same time he tried to help the fellahin with the five-​feddan law. This paternalist tradition, minus the racist ideas, found response among many Egyptian intellectuals. The Islamic reformer Muhammad ‘Abduh (1849–​1905) argued that because of their rationality only the elite had the right to lead the country; the common people (‘amma) needed a long period of education before they could become full citizens (Meijer 2018). ‘Abduh also argued in favor of the “just despot” to make necessary reforms (Abduh 1970). This idea of the elite was taken over by the liberal Umma Party during the first decade of the 20th century. Constitutions were meant to restrict the irrational autocratic tendencies of the ruler. Culturally the Umma Party was inclusive, in the sense that it allowed everyone to become Egyptian as long as he or she had the required qualifications to join the elite (Gershoni and Jankowski 1986, p. 16). In contrast, the Watani Party, led by Mustafa Kamil, which was a middle-​class (effendi) party, was populist, pro-​Ottoman, and sought support from the French (Goldschmidt 1988, pp. 44–​52). The major break in this period is the Revolution of 1919. This was not so much because it demanded complete independence (istiqlal tamm) from the British as its major goal. Rather its unique character lay in its demand to act in the name of the people and orchestrated mass mobilization.The Wafd Party gained its broad legitimacy through the tawkilat, the popular petition demanding from the British to allow a delegation (wafd) to travel to Versailles to negotiate for complete independence (Deeb 1979, p. 43). To sustain its level of mobilization, it organized local committees throughout the country. Moreover, the Wafd advocated universal suffrage. Egypt’s first mass movement was however not pluralistic. Like all Egyptian political organizations of the time it claimed to be the sole representative of the people (Deeb 1979, p. 126). The Wafd’s main rival, the Liberal Constitutionalist Party, was in many ways a continuation of the Umma Party (Shiliq 2010). It helped draw up a democratic constitution that hemmed in the power of the king; in practice its power was based on paternalism and patronage of the large landowners. When it became clear that the Wafd would win all free and fair elections after the heavily rigged elections of 1925, 1926, and 1929, the Liberal Constitutionalists started to support a restrictive electoral law that linked suffrage to taxation and age (Deeb 1979, pp.  182–​186). Its leading intellectual Muhammad Husayn Haykal (1888–​1956) represented the elitist, anti-​democratic tendency in liberalism (Smith 1983), which was shared by other liberal intellectuals like Ahmad Amin (1886–​1954). Their liberalism was limited to freedom of personal opinion. They believed in “leaders of opinion” (Shepard 1980, p. 88). Ordinary Egyptians were regarded as by nature submissive, passive, and conservative (Gershoni and Jankowski 1986, pp. 37–​38). Elitism, however, was not limited to the liberals but was also reflected in the writings of some of the most famous early Egyptian socialist intellectuals. Salama Musa (1887–​1958), a Fabian socialist, for instance, abhorred the ignorant masses who he believed were “irrational” and driven by prejudices and must be led by the modern educated elite who had experienced a modern education (Egger 1986, pp.  92–​93). In contrast to the conservative liberals, who propagated a gradualist evolutionary change, he believed that the only way the problem of ignorance and superstition could be solved was to transform Egypt from an agrarian society into an industrialized society by means of state (ibid., p. 154).

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Egyptian politicians were even less reserved in their support of autocracy. Isma’il Sidqi (1875–​1950), the “strong man” of Egypt and advocate of big business and landed interests (Tignor 1984, p. 150), was perhaps one of the best examples of unabashed autocracy. Already after the first Wafd electoral victory in 1924 he came to the conclusion that universal suffrage was a mistake. He criticized the Wafd for basing its mandate on the mobilization of the “rabble.” Not only did he hold the common liberal view that Egyptians were too ignorant and politically immature for universal suffrage (Badrawi 1996, p. 40), but he was also one of the first to believe in the rule of experts and professional economists and administrators. Order, security, and efficient administration were more important than representation. “Those most qualified for such a task” should be assigned the duty of running the country (Badrawi 1996, pp. 65–​67). Hoping to take on this role himself, he believed that Egypt could only flourish under a “benevolent tyranny” (Badrawi 1996, p.  98). Sidqi became notorious for drawing up a new constitution that adopted a two-​tiered electoral system that limited suffrage and allowed the majority of the Senate to be appointed. He founded his own party to support this highly autocratic system. Sidqi’s example was followed by other would-​be strong men who worked through the monarchy to gain power. ‘Ali Mahir (1882–​1960) became the Royal Advisor and was in and out of office between 1936 and 1952 as minister and prime minister. In contrast to Sidqi, Mahir understood the importance of the new middle-​class movements that emerged in the 1930s (Tripp 1993). They provided him with the means to influence the debate on citizenship that now acquired a reformist social dimension (Meijer 2020). Through them he was able to build a large right-​wing, anti-​Wafdist network. One of its members, Young Egypt, a patriotic society founded by Ahmad Husayn (1911–​ 1982) in 1933, would influence the Free Officers.Typical for right-​wing movements it called for “efficient” rule (Jankowksi 1975, p. 37) and attacked the parliamentary system for dividing the country in antagonistic parties (Jankowski 1975, p. 56). At the end of the 1930s it condemned the parliamentary system outright and called for a revolution (inqilab) (Jankowski 1975, p. 64). The Muslim Brotherhood was another organization that was drawn within the orbit of the Palace and held anti-democratic ideas. Founded in 1928 by Hasan al-​Banna, it was an Islamic revivalist movement that turned Islam into a political ideology, claiming that Islam was a “total system” (nizam kamil) that had a solution for all problems in life. It condemned the parliamentary system for its partisanship or “partyism” (hizbiyya) and established an organization, the Tanzim, which was highly centralized and hierarchically ordered. “Listening and obedience” (al-​sam‘ wa-​l-​ta‘a) was used as a disciplinary rule. Before World War II, it focused on moral and spiritual regeneration, but gradually it became politicized, calling for an Islamic state (Lia 1998).

Social citizenship and its contenders After World War II, due to the corruption of King Faruq and his growing unpopularity, authoritarianism became less linked to the monarchy and more focused on changing the entire system, including the monarchy. In contrast to the 1930s, solutions for the eternal problem of “poverty, disease and ignorance” were sought not only in the establishment of a new conservative political order but also in the establishment of an inclusionary society through democratic and social reforms. Solutions were sought in the expansion of civic, political, social, and economic rights (Meijer 2020). This discourse of inclusionary citizenship was promoted by the liberal think tank the Society of National Renaissance (Meijer 2002, pp.  37–​65), socialists such as Rashid al-​Barrawi (1907–​87) (Meijer 2002, pp. 66–​95), liberal Wafdists of the Wafdist Vanguard such as Muhammad Mandur (1907–​1965), liberal Islamist thinkers such as Khalid Muhammad Khalid (1920–​1996), and secular liberals such as Louis Awad (1915–​1990) (Schrand 1994). The 34

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communist movement also gave it a strong impulse (Meijer 2002, pp. 106–​123) as well as the Islamist thinkers who focused on social justice (Picchi 2020). Typical of the broader focus on citizenship was Khalid Muhammad Khalid’s book Citizens Not Subjects (Muwatinun, la ra’aya, 1951)  and Sayyid Qutb’s Social Justice in Islam (Qutb 1953). The new focus found political expression in the students and workers’ movement of 1945–​1956 (Beinin and Lockman 1988, pp. 335–​349; Abdalla 1985, pp. 62–​79). However, even among the more radical inclusionary movements and thinkers, the tendency to work for but not with the people because of their “ignorance” was strong. The battle between the more authoritarian and the autocratic tendencies reached its peak after the military took power in July 1952, when each vision tried to win the Free Officers over to its side. At first ‘Ali Mahir’s conservative revolutionary current dominated the political scene. He was used by the military to push aside the Wafd and abolish the Constitution of 1923, but as he opposed the land reform he was unable to maintain his position (Vatikiotis 1978, pp. 130–​131). The democratic reformists were as unsuccessful in getting their ideas across because they advocated a return to the parliamentary system. Their broad front, consisting of democratic liberals, the Wafdist Vanguard, the Egyptian Bar Association, the Teacher’s Syndicate, most of the university students, the left-​wing movements and even the Cavalry and Artillery units of the Army, failed to force the military to return to the barracks during the March Crisis of 1954 (Kandil, 2012, pp. 30–​35; Beattie 1994, pp. 88–​99; Gordon 1994, pp. 127–​137; Abdalla 1985, p. 120). Finally, the Muslim Brotherhood did not succeed to harness the officers to their vision of an Islamic republic and become their ideological guides. Many intellectuals who joined the new regime believed in the “benevolent dictatorship,” an idea that had become popular with the decline of the parliamentary system but can be traced back through Young Egypt, Isma’il Sidqi, the Liberal Constitutionalists to Muhammad ‘Abduh. By the end of the 1940s, even the liberals who had helped the military to demolish the Wafd such as the legal scholar ‘Abd al-​Razzaq Sanhuri (1895–​1971) had come to address social justice (Shalakany 2001). But it was especially the younger generation, such as Rashid al-​Barrawi, who were willing to work with the new regime as individuals to promote social and economic reform. Often these intellectuals rationalized their support for authoritarian social and economic reforms with the argument that society first had to be “modernized” before it could be democratized. Moreover, why would they hesitate to support the new regime if also foreign powers thought a benevolent dictatorship was necessary to break the stalemate produced by parliamentary system? (Beattie 1994, p. 102). The left supported the military after Suez crisis in 1956 because of its foreign policy until the conflict between Abdel Karim Qasim and Nasser in 1958 (Botman 1988, pp. 140–​143).

Social freedom under Nasser The Free Officers are usually considered lacking in a political program when they took over power in 1952 (Beattie 1994, p. 112; Baker 1978, pp. 42–​3;Vatikiotis 1978, p. 53). In the words of Waterbury (1983, p. 64), theirs was a case of “ideology catching up with practice.” But this is only true insofar as specific circumstances such as the nationalizations as a result of the Suez Canal crisis allowed the state to acquire a public sector. The Free Officers were part of a much larger global trend toward state-​led reformist policies in the 1940s and 1950s.These were based on the broadening of political participation, social emancipation and inclusion, creation of an internal market, import substitution, nationalizations, implementation of welfare policies in the form of universal education, and provision of social services and housing. In the deterministic vision of history of the times, Nasser believed that the military constituted the vanguard that 35

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inaugurated a higher phase of history that would bring these reforms about. In The Philosophy of the Revolution, he stated that after the political revolution of 1919, “the second revolution is social” (Nasser 1959, p.  36). Sovereignty, independence, and economic development and empowerment of the middle classes were regarded as a condition for economic development. As Rashid al-​Barrawi wrote in the first book legitimating the revolution, the military coup brought Egypt “in accordance with the spirit of the age” (ruh al-​‘asr) and the “complete support of the people” (al-​ta’yid al-​sha‘bi al-​shamil) (al-​Barrawi 1952, pp. 28–​29). As the representative of the middle classes, the military coup was not only a historical necessity but also a “social necessity” (darura ijtima‘iyya) (ibid., p. 224). Historical determinism laid the ideological legitimation of the new social contract based on efficiency and social freedom trumping political freedom. The social contract Nasser brought about is considered as a classic exchange of political rights for social and economic entitlements. It has been called in the past the populist authoritarian pact (Hinnebusch 2000), and more recently the “effendi social contract” (Shechter 2020). The measures taken by the regime are well known and ranged from land reform, expansion of employment, expansion of secondary and university education, installing free health services, and public housing projects to food subsidies for the poor (Beattie 1994, p.  128; Waterbury 1983, pp. 57–​82). The public sector became dominant after the nationalization of foreign companies in 1956 and the sequestration of large Egyptian companies in 1961. Institutionally, the number of ministries doubled between 1952 and the end of the 1960s. A whole range of new organizations were erected to take over the economy, such as the Social Services Council, the Economic Agency, the Industrial Bank, the Permanent Council for the Development of National Production, the new Ministry of Industry (Meijer 2002, pp. 173–​207; Beattie 1994, p. 145), most of which had already been established well before the nationalization of the Suez Canal crisis. As Ayubi and Waterbury point out, not only did the focus on technocratic efficiency enhance the process of depoliticization and demobilization, but it also replaced parliamentary democracy and became an ideology in itself (Ayubi 1980, p. 168; Waterbury 1983, p. 63). As such, it stood at the end of a long chain of different trends that undermined deliberation and participation, starting with the exaltation of elitist rationality (‘aqliyya) of Muhammad ‘Abduh and the rule of experts of Isma’il Sidqi, to the widely optimistic expectations of state “planning” (tarshid and tawjih) (Meijer 2002, pp. 178–​186) of Salama Musa and Rashid al-​Barrawi, to the cult of management embodied by ‘Aziz Sidqi, who in 1956 became the Minister of Industry and evolved into Nasser’s “industrial czar” (Waterbury 1983, p. 69). Propaganda of the feats of the engineers who created Tahrir Province, ran the Suez Canal Authority, and built the Aswan High Dam further promoted the unhampered rule of scientific expertise with the general public (Baker 1978, p. 75). Naturally, the military themselves were part of this technocratic rationality and efficiency (Beattie 1994, pp. 128–​129). Under the name of efficiency democracy was criticized as a system that led to endless debates and bickering. The military could gratefully use this critique in promoting national unity and establishing unified political organizations to replace the hizbiyya (partisanship) of the monarchy. It was believed that sound criticism should be confined to like-​minded people who worked for a common goal within the same political organization.The slogans of the new political organizations gave an indication of their apolitical nature. Liberty and democracy were always hemmed in by terms to limit its reach. For instance, the Liberation Rally, founded in 1953, had as its slogan “unity, liberty and work”; its successor, the National Union (NU), had as its slogan “socialism, cooperativism and democracy” (Beattie 1994, pp. 128–​129). None of these organizations were established with the intent of mobilization or participation. 36

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It is only with the July socialist decrees of 1961 that Nasser realized the need for both a political organization and a political ideology as a counterweight to the military and the technocrats (Kandil 2012, p. 56). The National Action Charter of 1962 deepened the social contract in extending social and economic rights for the classes that benefited from social reforms and the expansion of the public sector, but the political organization it produced, the Arab Socialist Union (ASU), failed to produce a political concept or a structure to organize political participation and channel grievances. This failure is usually seen as the result of the power struggle between leaders of the ASU and the intelligence services (Beattie 1994, pp. 169–​175) over who would dominate this organization (Kandil 2012, p. 59). However, the strong emphasis on social rights in this period further undermined democratic rights which had already been severely suppressed by the discourse of efficiency and national unity. The central term that was supposed to transcend the perceived contradiction between democracy and social rights was “social freedom.” Nasser firmly believed that “social freedom” (hurriyya ijtima‘iyya) supersedes “political freedom” (hurriyya siyasiyya). Without the first, the second, he argued, gives full reign to feudalism and monopoly capitalism to dominate society (Ginat 1997, pp. 21–​23, 36). The National Charter adopted in 1962 further elaborates on the nature of social freedom. It clearly intends to have the last word on the decades-​long debate on citizenship by clearly defining it in terms of social rights (Hanna and Gardner 1969, p. 354). It states that unlimited political freedom had produced a “sham democracy,” the “forgery” of elections, orchestrated by the “reaction” (Hanna and Gardner 1969, pp.  350–​351). “Social freedom,” the goal of Arab socialism, on the other hand, guaranteed “freedom from exploitation,” a “fair share of the national wealth,” and “freedom from all anxiety” (Hanna and Gardner 1969, p. 354). Nowhere are political rights clearly defined. As in the liberalism of the monarchy, “ignorance” of the majority of the people (Hanna and Gardner 1969, p. 353) was used as an excuse to delay participation. When it became clear that ASU was dominated by the middle classes rather than by peasants and workers, who were supposed to constitute 50% of the members of the ASU basic committees, and give Arab socialism its impetus, a new vanguard was established in the form of the leftist Vanguard Organization. Recruited from among communists and leftists who were released from prison during the first half of the 1960s (Ginat 1997, pp.  73–​6; Ansari 1986, pp.  89–​92), it was meant to create a secret cadre that would ideologically deepen the socialist revolution and infiltrate social institutions such as trade unions, factories, syndicates, bureaucracy and the ASU itself (Kandil 2012, p. 59). Lutfi al-​Khuli played a key role in mobilizing leftist intellectuals to debate the socialist transition in the monthly al-​Tali’a (Ginat 1997, pp. 55–​63). The Vanguard Organization was also active in the second land reform (Ansari 1986, p. 93; Beattie 1994, p. 166) and in the trade union movement (Pripstein 1997, pp. 74–​77, 82–​91). However, typical of the surveillance state, both the Vanguard Organization and the Higher Committee for the Liquidation of Feudalism (HCLF) that was to root out the kulaks were taken over by the intelligence services (Ansari 1986, pp. 97–​110). Greater participation of workers in the Egyptian Trade Union Federation (ETUF) was only reached after the Vanguard Organization was disbanded (Pripstein 1997, pp.  94–​99). The activities of the HCLF were gradually dismantled after the 1967 defeat (Ansari 1986, pp. 141–​151). It is only after Egypt’s militarily disaster of 1967, from which Arab socialism never recovered, that the democratic ideals of the prerevolutionary days reemerged. This was mostly due to the revival of the student movement. Since 1954, it had gone into hibernation, its union had been turned into an apolitical organization, only providing welfare services, while its activities were controlled by “guides.” The student demonstrations of February 1968 challenged Nasser’s concept of social freedom head-​on by demanding freedom of speech, political participation, and 37

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an end to the police state (Abdalla 1985, pp.  138–​148). Hilmi Mourad, the liberal Minister of Information, openly criticized Nasser’s concept of social freedom for smothering all self-​ expression (Abdalla 1985, pp. 142–​143). The argument of the state against activism was that the battle for the homeland took precedence over students’ and workers’ demands (Abdalla 1985, p. 155). In this repressive sphere, the main alternative to the authoritarian social contract and social freedom was the Islamist social pact developed by Sayyid Qutb (1906–​1966) in the 1960s. While in the 1950s he had supported the idea of social reform in his book Social Justice in Islam (Picchi 2017), after the suppression of the Brotherhood by Nasser in 1954 and the torture of its members in prison, Qutb developed a potent alternative that upstaged the Nasserist social contract by promising not a social contract with the state but with God. God’s sovereignty (hakimiyya) replaced a nonexistent people’s sovereignty. Reflecting the mood of the times, it was revolutionary and visionary (Kepel 1985). It ended the political ambiguity of the older Muslim Brotherhood that could support the monarchy while promising a new society. In contrast, Qutb’s vision appealed to the youth through its radical rejection of meaningless terms as social freedom. Qutb’s ideology, however, also reflected the apolitical totalitarian tendencies of the time. National unity became unity of God (tawhid), and liberation could only be achieved through complete submission to God. Along the same lines, the social and political exclusion of “feudalists” and “monopolists” was matched by the exclusion of the unbelievers (kuffar) (Kepel 1985).

Sadat’s corrective revolution Nasser’s death in 1970 and Sadat’s “corrective movement” (haraka tashihiyya) of 1971 severely revised Nasser’s social contract without completely dismantling it. What Sadat did was to shift the debate on citizenship to the right, undermining the central concept of social freedom and the alliance of working forces without completely dismantling it. He did this in several steps: first by eliminating the leadership of the ASU as “power centers,” then starting the October War in 1973, to finally come around to his major political innovation, the open door policy (infitah), to liberalize the economy, laid down in 1974 in the October Paper. This policy did not challenge the dominance of the public sector and the benefits (makasib) of the revolution directly, but acknowledged the sanctity of property as a means to attract foreign investment and technology. In this process, civil and political rights of citizenship were expanded without openly challenging the social rights of the National Charter. Accordingly, private property was better protected, the market economy was stimulated, imports were liberalized, joint ventures with foreign companies were stimulated, and the five-​year planning was almost abandoned. More specifically, Law 43 promoted foreign investment in the newly free zones along the Suez Canal. To attract foreign investment and gain the confidence of Egyptian private sector, Sadat promised to install the rule of law. He was supported in this endeavor by the Bar Association, which was revived. In this newly liberalized atmosphere, political prisoners were freed and the families of prisoners who had died were allowed to seek legal redress from the state (Baker 1978, pp. 143–​157). As part of this process, politics was liberalized. After the leftist leadership ASU was eliminated, new elections were held and in 1975 it was divided into three “tribunes” (manabir) as a first step toward liberalization and return to party life. Typically, while intellectuals supported liberalization, labor and peasant organizations opposed democratization for the same reasons that Nasser had opposed democratization; they feared that it would lead to return of the capitalists and the erosion of “the benefits of the revolution” (Waterbury 1985, p. 358). Finally, in 1976, new 38

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political parties were allowed to establish themselves, and the Wafd was reconstituted. A brief period of relative political freedom and freedom of the press ensued, only to be abruptly ended with the 1977 “bread riots” (Waterbury 1983, pp. 366–​367; Baker 1978, pp. 164–​165). One of the last liberal rights to be adopted was the right of movement and travel without an exit visa (Baker 1978, p. 156). Authoritarianism remained, of course.The power of the military even increased after the dismantlement of the ASU. Liberal political reform ended in 1979 with the critique of the peace process and the increasing critique of the infitah policy. Salaries were eroded through inflation and public services deteriorated. Ideologically, presidential paternalism replaced scientific socialism. Without strong political institutions, Sadat was the center of a new social contract. According to this highly diversified social contract, each social class had its separate bargain with the state. The working class retained the public sector which was not privatized. The possibility to benefit from the oil boom and migrate temporarily to the Gulf countries acted as a safety valve. The upper middle class was allowed access to foreign higher education, the new sources of income the infitah provided, the possibility to import luxury products, and the new right to acquire foreign currency and travel abroad. The lower classes and the poor depended increasingly on food subsidies. Although left-​wing intellectuals retained their influence in the newly liberated public sphere, they lost their political influence. The Islamic movement also was to benefit from the new social contract. In return for their release from prison in the 1970s, they agreed not to engage in politics. To begin with, the Muslim Brotherhood had the tremendous task of coming to grips with its own past and deal with the legacy of Sayyid Qutb. This was taken care of in the publication Preachers not Judges (Du’a la quda) (Zollner 2009). The greater space for civil society that the open door policy provided allowed the movement to rebuild its infrastructure and establish its hold over the lower middle classes and the poor as well as to provide the social services that the state increasingly was unable to deliver. The infitah allowed its members to enter the business world, buttress the movement financially, and create an Islamic economy, while the greater freedom allowed the Jama’at at the universities to push out the left and take over student unions. Due to the tremendous expansion of universities, especially in Upper Egypt, the state was gradually unable to control the movements and whole new subcultures were established that took Qutb’s idea into different directions and developed new ideas concerning ideal communities, solidarities, and activism that were in opposition to the state. The Jama’at developed an activism based on the practice of hisba, commanding good and condemning evil (Meijer 2009). The Society of Muslims, led by Shukri Mustafa, eventually retreated into the desert to establish purified Muslim space untarnished by the state and an unbelieving society (Kepel 1985, pp. 70–​102). This also explains why the Islamist movement was given such a leeway in the 1970s by the authorities. The absorption of politics by religion and the negligence of the issue of participation and democratization in the pursuit of personal virtue and communal solidarity (Meijer 2018) did not pose a political threat to the state.

Conclusion Egypt’s ideological authoritarian roots are deep and diverse. In this chapter, I have tried to show that they go back to the notion of the benevolent ruler, elitism, and a deep distrust of the people steeped in ignorance, as well as an emphasis on social rights at the expense of civil and political rights. In classic Islam this is represented in the division between the khassa (elite) and the people (‘amma). In Islamic reformism it is reflected in Muhammad ‘Abduh’s division between the people with rationality (´aql) and the ignorant, dependent on holy texts for salvation. This 39

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tradition was continued by westernized liberals, whose liberalism was mainly limited to the elite who were “civilized”.Their liberalism was directed at the curtailment of the power of the ruler, but when the choice was posited between mass participation and seeking support from the ruler and the British, they chose for the latter. Authoritarianism was taken a step further by political leaders such as Isma’il Sidqi, who no longer believed in liberal inclusion but argued in favor of efficiency and competence as opposed to the emotionalism of the masses on which the power of the Wafd was based.When the social issue emerged in the 1930s and new movements arose, such as Young Egypt and the Muslim Brotherhood, which had rejected the parliamentary system, manipulators in the service of the monarchy such as ‘Ali Mahir added populism to authoritarianism. It is only when a much broader concept of citizenship was introduced in the 1940s that new liberal, socialist, and communist ideas of social rights were added to the previous notions of political and civil rights. Social reform became the dominant theme, which was expressed in Islamist as well as secular terms. This new, more inclusive concept of the citizen would provide the ideological foundation of the social contract of the Free Officers. In this new equation the emphasis in the National Charter was on social rights as represented in the concept of “social freedom.” Civil and political rights were largely neglected. Moreover, in Nasserism, political rights were almost obliterated by technocratic specialism, top-​down planning, and the dominance of the intelligence services and the military. A new phase in the definition of citizenship was inaugurated by the student movement of 1968. During Sadat regime the balance in rights would be redressed in favor of civil and political rights.The result was a new differentiated social contract in which each class and profession would make a separate deal with the state, including the Islamist movement. None of them would lead to a greater democratic participation. It was the beginning of liberalized authoritarianism.

References Abdalla, Ahmed (1985). The Student Movement and National Politics in Egypt. London: Al Saqi Books. Abdel, Nasser Gamal (1959). The Philosophy of the Revolution. Buffalo, NY: Smith, Keynes & Marshall. Abduh, Muhammad (1970). “Only a Just Despot Will Ensure the Renaissance in the Orient,” in Anouar Abdel-​Malek (ed.), Contemporary Arab Political Thought. London: Zed Press, pp. 39–​41. Ansari, Hamied (1986). Egypt: The Stalled Society. Albany: SUNY Press. Ayubi, Nazih N.M. (1980). Bureaucracy and Politics in Contemporary Egypt. London: Ithaca. Badrawi, Malak (1996). Isma‘il Sidqi, 1875–​ 1950:  Pragmatism and Vision in Twentieth Century Egypt. Richmond: Curzon. Baker, Raymond, William (1978). Egypt’s Uncertain Revolution under Nasser and Sadat. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Al-​Barrawi, Rashid (1952). Haqiqa al-​Inqilab al-​Akhir fi Misr. Cairo: Maktaba al-​Nahda al-​Misriyya. Beattie, Kirk J. (1994). Egypt during the Naser Years: Ideology, Politics and Civil Society. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Beinin, Joel and Zachary Lockman (1988). Workers on the Nile:  Nationalism, Communism, Islam and the Egyptian Working Class, 1882–​1954. London: I.B. Tauris. Botman, Selma (1988). The Rise of Egyptian Communism, 1939–​1970. Syracuse:  Syracuse University Press. Deeb, Marius (1979). Party Politics in Egypt: the Wafd and its Rivals 1939–​1939. London: Ithaca Press. Egger,Vernon (1986). A Fabian in Egypt: Salamah Musa and the Rise of the Professional Classes in Egypt, 1909–​ 1939. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Gershoni, Israel (1981). The Emergence of Pan-​Arabism in Egypt. Tel Aviv: The Shiloah Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies. Gershoni, Israel and James P. Jankowski (1986). Egypt, Islam, and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1900–​1930. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gershoni, Israel and James P. Jankowski (1995). Redefining the Egyptian Nation, 1930–​1945. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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The ideological roots of authoritarianism Ginat, Rami (1997). Egypt’s Incomplete Revolution: Lutfi al-​Khuli and Nasser’s Socialism in the 1960s. London: Frank Cass. Goldschmidt,Arthur Jr. (1988). Modern Egypt: The Formation of a Nation-​State. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Gordon, Joel (1992). Nasser’s Blessed Movement: Egypt’s Free Officers and the July Revolution. New York: Oxford University Press. Gorman, Anthony (2017).“The British Legacy in the Middle East,” in Roel Meijer and Nils A. Butenschøn (eds.), The Crisis of Citizenship in the Arab World. Leiden: Brill, pp. 41–​66. Hanna, Sami A. and George H. Gardner (1969). “U.A.R. National Charter, 1962: The Necessity of the Revolution,” in Arab Socialism. Leiden: Brill, pp. 344–​372. Hinnebusch, Raymond A. (2000).“Liberalization without Democratization in ‘Post-​Populist’ Authoritarian States,” in Nils A. Butenschøn, Uri Davis and Manuel Hassassian (eds.), Citizenship and the State in the Middle East: Approaches and Applications, Albany, NY: SUNY Press, pp. 123–​145. Jankowski, James P. (1975). Egypt’s Young Rebels:  “Young Egypt”:  1933–​ 1952. Stanford, CA:  Hoover Institution Press. Kandil, Hazem (2012). Soldiers, Spies and Statesmen. London: Verso. Kepel, Gilles (1985). The Prophet and the Pharaoh. London: Al Saqi Books. Khalid, Khalid Muhammad (1951/​1960). Muwatinun la ra’aya. Cairo: Dar Wahba. Lia, Brynjar (1998). The Society of the Muslim Brothers in Egypt: The Rise of an Islamic Mass Movement, 1928–​ 1942. Reading, MA: Ithaca Press. Maghraoui, Abdeslam M. (2006). Liberalism without Democracy: Nationhood and Citizenship in Egypt, 1922–​ 1936. Durham: Duke University Press. Meijer, Roel (2002). The Quest for Modernity: Secular Liberal and Left-​Wing Political Thought in Egypt, 1945–​ 1958. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Meijer, Roel (2009). “Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong as a Principle of Social Action: The Case of the Egyptian Jama’a al-​Islamiyya,” in Roel Meijer (ed.), Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement. London: Hurst, pp. 189–​220. Meijer, Roel (2017). “Citizenship, Social Pacts, Authoritarian Bargains and the Arab Uprisings,” in Roel Meijer and Nils A. Butenschøn (eds.), The Crisis of Citizenship in the Arab World. Leiden:  Brill, pp. 67–​105. Meijer, Roel (2018). “The Political, Politics and Citizenship in Modern Islam,” in Nils A. Butenschøn and Roel Meijer (eds.), The Middle East in Transition:  The Centrality of Citizenship. Cheltenham:  Edward Elgar, pp. 179–​202. Meijer, Roel (2021). “The Transition from Colonial to Authoritarian Pacts,” in Roel Meijer, James Sater and Zahra Babar (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Citizenship in the Middle East and North Africa. London: Routledge, pp. 85–99. Owen, Roger (2004). Lord Cromer: Victorian Imperialist, Edwardian Proconsul. Oxford: Oxford University  Press. Picchi, Margherita (2017). “Islam as the Third Way:  Sayyid Qutb’s Socio-​ Economic Thought and Nasserism,” Oriente Moderno, 97: 177–​200. Pripstein Posusney, Marsha (1997). Labor and the State in Egypt: Workers, Unions, and Economic Restructuring. New York: Columbia University Press. Qutb Sayyid (1953). Social Justice in Islam. Translated by John B. Hardie. New York: American Council of Learned Societies. Schrand, Irmgard (1994). Louis ‘Awad: Ein ägyptischer Kritiker under Denker des 20. Jahrhunderts”Striter für einenn säkularen Staat. Hamburg: Lit. Shalakany, Amr (2001). “Between Identity and Redistribution:  Sanhuri, Genealogy and the Will to Islamise.” Islamic Law and Society, 8(2_​: 201–​244. Shechter, Relli (2021). “The Egyptian Middle Class and the Nasserist Social Contract,” in Roel Meijer, James Sater and Zahra Babar (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Citizenship in the Middle East and North Africa. London: Routledge, pp. 144–156. Shepard, William (1980). “The Dilemma of a Liberal: Some Political Implications in the Writings of the Egyptian Scholar, Ahmed Amin (1886–​1954),” in Elie Kedourie and Sylvia G. Haim (eds.), Modern Egypt: Studies in Politics and Society. Bath: Frank Cass, pp. 84–97. Al-​Shiliq, Ahmad Zakariyya (1981/​2010), al-​Ahrar al-​Dustiriyyun, 1922–​1953. Cairo: Dar al-​Shuruq. Smith, Charles D. (1983). Islam and the Search for Social Order in Modern Egypt: A Biography of Muhammad Husayn Haykal. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Terry, Janice (1982). The Wafd, 1919–​1952: Cornerstone of Egyptian Political Power. London: Third World Centre.

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Roel Meijer Tignor, Robert T. (1984). State, Private Enterprise, and Economic Change in Egypt, 1918–​1952. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Tripp, Charles (1993). “Ali Mahir and the Politics of the Egyptian Army, 1936–​1942,” in Charles Tripp (ed.), Contemporary Egypt through Egyptian Eyes. Essays in Honour of P.J. Vatikiotis, London: Routledge. pp.  45–​71. Vatikiotis, P.J. (1978). Nasser and His Generation. London: Croom Helm. Waterbury, John (1983). The Egypt of Nasser and Sadat:  The Political Economy of Two Regimes. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zollner, Barbara (2009). The Muslim Brotherhood: Hasan al-​Hudaybi and Ideology. London: Routledge.

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3 EGYPT’S FOREIGN POLICY FROM FARUQ TO MUBARAK Nael Shama

Introduction Egypt’s prominence in the Middle East is self-​evident. Over the past century or so, Egypt took part in, if not shaped, most major developments in the region. A review of the determinants, nature, and dynamics of its foreign policy over the long years from acquiring nominal independence in 1922 to the outbreak of the 2011 uprising reveals a number of primary features. First, geopolitical realities molded much of the aspirations and threat perceptions of Egyptian policymakers. A  fertile valley separated by two vast deserts, Egypt’s relative isolation, and its uninterrupted unity throughout the millennia of history shaped its distinct national, largely homogeneous, identity. Its central position in the Arab world, as well as being the most populous Arab country (nearly one-​quarter of Arabs are Egyptians), owning the most potent army in the region, and enjoying a massive cultural appeal, propelled it to play a leading role in pan-​Arab politics.The fact that throughout history most invasions and threats—​by Babylonians, Assyrians, Persians, Arabs, Turks, and Israelis—​came from the East led to special attention to, and wariness of, developments in the Levant, Fertile Crescent, and Persian Gulf regions. Furthermore, because the Nile River is the primary source of life for Egyptians, maintaining cordial relations with countries of its African hinterland, especially Sudan and Ethiopia, was always deemed crucial to Egypt’s national interests.1 Second, the objectives of Egyptian foreign policy were invariably linked to internal factors, primarily economic and developmental needs. In fact, all Egyptian leaders after 1952 justified their foreign policies by stressing how economically beneficial they were to society (Lorenz, 1990, p. 116). Meanwhile, they used, often in an excessive manner, their foreign policy successes in order to consolidate power at home. Nevertheless, the disparity between foreign policy ambitions and the cost of these ambitions set up a mode of dependency that placed constraints on Egyptian decision-​makers. This dependency was compounded by Egypt’s own economic troubles, caused by limited resources, especially arable land and water resources, a chronic balance of payments deficit, a population explosion, high poverty rates, a glaring inequality of incomes, and rampant corruption and management inefficiencies. Third, the foreign policy decision-​making process in the period from 1922 to 1952 was extremely primitive and unsophisticated. After 1952, it became more multifaceted and highly centralized, yet it was dominated by the leader at the expense of other institutions, such as the 43

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Foreign Ministry, the parliament, and the cabinet. Political and economic orientations, state ideologies, and crucial foreign policy decisions, including those of war, peace, and alliance, were determined by the president, often disregarding the preferences of political, diplomatic, and military elites. Public opinion, the press, political parties, and pressure groups played little or no role in the formulation of foreign policy. This gave not only considerable freedom of action to the leader, but also deprived the process of the virtues of professional debate and consultation. In turn, centralization bred personalization, reducing Egypt’s relationship with other states, especially in the Arab world, to personal affinity, or lack thereof, between Egypt’s ruler and the heads of these states. Fourth, the nature and impact of identity on the orientation of Egyptian foreign policy varied widely over the years from 1922 to 2011, from Egyptian nationalism in the liberal age (1922–​1952), Arabism under Gamal Abdel-​Nasser (1954–​1970), and a Western-​oriented, Egypt-​firstism under Anwar Sadat (1970–​1981). Then, dispassionate realpolitik reigned under Hosni Mubarak’s three-​decade rule (1981–​2011). This mirrored the wider theoretical debates about Egypt’s identity among Egyptian thinkers who have, over the 20th and 21st centuries, entertained, promoted, and debated two main arguments about the nature of Egypt’s identity. The first group of intellectuals has asserted that Egypt is essentially an Arab and Islamic country that is an integral part of the wider Arab and Islamic nation, with which it should interact, socially, politically, and ideationally. Enamored of Western values and modes of thinking, however, the second group of intellectuals have maintained that Egypt had since ancient times been a Mediterranean country, geographically and culturally (Shama, 2019, p. 98). The title of President Sadat’s memoirs, In Search of Identity, may represent a subtle hint to the intensity of such debates.

Foreign policy in the liberal era An active, well-​defined, and full-​fledged Egyptian foreign policy did not arise before the Free Officers, led by Colonel Gamal Abdel-​Nasser, took power in a bloodless coup in 1952. Under military occupation, and with a gullible, sluggish, and ambitionless monarch, King Faruq, at the helm, Egypt was politically preoccupied with internal power struggles among three main power centers: the monarchy, political parties (most notably, the Wafd), and the British. Foreign policy was geared toward only two desired objectives: putting an end to the British occupation and maintaining the unity of Egypt and the Sudan. In a letter sent in 1950 to his British counterpart, the Egyptian Foreign Minister Mohamed Salah El-​Din acknowledged that his country’s foreign policy: [I]‌s a very limited one, and can almost be resolved in these two questions now under discussion, the question of evacuation and that of the unity of Egypt and the Sudan under the Egyptian crown. Quoted in Heikal, 1978, p. 718 Both issues required reaching a final political agreement with the British, but progress in political negotiations was slow, and subject to recurrent setbacks, due to the vast asymmetry of power that existed between the two parties and the frequent petty bickering among Egyptian politicians over cabinet posts. Thus, the Anglo-​Egyptian relationship often turned conflictual. That conflict “was so central to political life in Cairo that it informed all aspects of Egyptian foreign policy in the postwar era” (Doran, 2001, p. 99).

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In the 1930s and 1940s, Cairo’s regional policies were shaped in part by its deep hostility toward British schemes, while simultaneously being constrained by its status as an occupied state. Naturally, as long as it remained occupied by British forces, Egypt could not pursue an entirely independent foreign policy.This and the conflicting interests among the country’s main political actors—​the British, the Palace, the Wafd, and the smaller political parties—​explain Egypt’s reluctance to resist the Ottoman’s seizure of the Red Sea town of Taba in 1906, to condemn the French suppression of the 1925–​1927 Great Syrian Revolt, and to play an active mediatory role in the conflict between Saudi Arabia and Yemen in the early 1930s (Lawson, 2005, pp. 46, 58). However, the occupation did not abort the rise of indigenous perceptions of threat and aspirations of leadership. In 1931–​1932, for instance, Egypt strongly opposed Turkey’s proposal that its former ruler Khedive ‘Abbas Hilmi II (1892–​1914) become King of Syria (Lawson, 2005, p. 47). More importantly, at a few critical moments after the 1936 Anglo-​ Egyptian treaty, which granted Egypt formal independence but prolonged the presence of British troops in the country, Egypt embarked on serious external ventures to boost its posture vis-​à-​vis other contenders for regional leadership, primarily Jordan and Iraq. Between 1943 and 1945, for instance, Egypt exerted strenuous diplomatic efforts to found a regional political organization, the League of Arab States, which would assert its supremacy in the Arab World. Egypt’s last-​minute decision to participate in the 1948 Arab–​Israeli confrontation is another case reflecting the contours of this nascent foreign policy. Again in 1950, Cairo proposed the creation of an Arab security arrangement, the Arab League Collective Security Pact (ALCSP), in order to thwart a potential Iraqi–​Syrian union that would have undermined Egypt’s regional influence. The pact also sought to replace the network of British military bases in the Middle East with a new indigenous Arab order (Doran, 2001, p. 103). In brief, Egypt’s external relations before 1952 were mainly hostage to its problematic, and recurrently confrontational, relationship with Britain. Still, Egypt’s aspirations to play a central role in regional politics propelled it on some occasions to take independent political initiatives that aimed at protecting its position from challenges posed by other regional powers.

Nasser’s revolutionary foreign policy The 1952 coup ushered in a new phase in the history of Egypt’s regional and international relations. From 1955 to 1967, Egypt followed a vigorous, bold, hegemony-​seeking foreign policy in the Arab world, underpinned by Arabism, anti-​imperialism, and Third Worldism. The new policy was catalyzed in part by regional factors and external threats, including the Arab–​Israeli conflict, the dynamics of the Cold War, the high penetration of the Middle East by superpowers, intra-​Arab relations and polarizations, and the rise of scores of independent states in Asia and Africa, but it was also motivated by Nasser’s own idiosyncrasies, worldview, and political perceptions. Nasser was confident, ambitious, charismatic, confrontational, and occasionally reckless, and he envisaged a leading role for Egypt in the Arab world, Africa, and the Islamic world, the three circles of foreign policy activity he had identified in his book The Philosophy of the Revolution (Nasser, n.d., pp. 68–​88). However, it was only by the end of 1954, a year that witnessed at home the sidelining of powerful contenders for power, such as General Mohamed Naguib, the Muslim Brotherhood, the landed bourgeoisie, and the Wafd, as well as the signing of the Anglo-​Egyptian Treaty (which ended Britain’s military presence in Egypt), that Nasser became the undisputed leader of Egypt. Impatient for effecting significant foreign policy change, Nasser was clearly eager to enter the fray of regional politics. In the eventful year of 1955, the contours of the new foreign policy began to emerge, symbolized by three main events.These were Nasser’s active participation in the Afro-​Asian Conference in Bandung, 45

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which put down the roots of the Non-​aligned Movement by a tripartite initiative of Yugoslavia, India, and Egypt; Nasser’s fierce opposition to the British-​designed Baghdad Pact (a military alliance comprising the United Kingdom (UK), Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Pakistan) and his efforts to replace it with an indigenous security order under Cairo’s leadership; and the announcement of the Soviet-​inspired arms deal with Czechoslovakia, which marked the onset of Egypt’s two-​ decade association with the Soviet bloc (Warburg, 1983, pp. 128–​9). These momentous developments highlighted Cairo’s desire to pursue an independent and leadership-​oriented foreign policy, but they were also a product of Nasser’s own threat perceptions of a number of regional developments and his inclination to take risks in response to international stimuli (Shama, 2014, p. 29). “I don’t act, I react,” he once said (Hinnebusch, 2002, p.  101). For example, an unanticipated Israeli military raid in 1955 on the Gaza Strip (then under Egyptian control) stirred Nasser’s sense of insecurity, and, in the following year, Washington’s refusal to finance the High Dam in Aswan, a megaproject that symbolized the Egyptian yearning for national development, was interpreted by Nasser as a direct attack on his regime. A gambler by instinct, Nasser reacted to the United States (US) move by nationalizing the Suez Canal Company, the last bastion and symbol of foreign domination in Egypt.The decision engendered in October 1956 an invasion by Britain and France (along with Israel, itself worried about Nasser’s ambitions and unpredictability).Yet, ten days into fighting, decisive US and Soviet pressure imposed a ceasefire and forced a withdrawal of foreign forces, while Egypt kept ownership of the canal. With Egypt’s military defeat swiftly turning into a political victory, the gamble turned out well, paving the way for Nasser’s rise to regional stardom.This unleashed in the Arab world hasty comparisons between Nasser and the legendary 12th century Arab military leader Saladin, and raised fanciful expectations of Nasser’s ability to vanquish the “malign” plots of outside powers and liberate Arab societies. Nasser in turn used Arab nationalism, the ideology that asserts that Arabs constitute one nation and promotes Arab unity, as a unifying and legitimating ideology. Pan-​Arabism certainly preceded the advent of Nasser, but his poignant use of its ideals gave it new impetus and appeal, and his agenda was aided by scores of nationalists and leftists. There is little doubt that this choice of ideology originated from Nasser’s own convictions, but he also relied on it as a political tool to undermine opponents and project Egyptian influence in the region, often through meddling in the internal affairs of other Arab states. In fact, over the course of Nasser’s rule, some of Cairo’s most virulent foreign policy struggles were not conducted against superpowers or Israel, but rather against other Arab states or leaders who threatened Egypt’s supremacy in the Arab state system (Dawisha, 1976, p.  75). Ironically, people made little contribution to what is sometimes depicted as Nasser’s “republic without people” (jumhuriyya bila jumhur). The revolution came, to all intents and purposes, from above:  it was state-​led, centralized, and personalized. Meanwhile, Nasser’s attempts to balance interests and ideology frequently went awry.  Though on the whole pragmatic and sensible to the rules and constraints of realpolitik, interests often took the backseat, giving ideology the upper hand in the choice of strategies, policies, and allies. Indeed, once an instrument of projecting influence, pan-​Arabism soon turned into a constraint that curtailed Egypt’s ability to maneuver in regional politics (Hinnebusch and Shama, 2014, p. 87). Hostage to his zealous audience—​the masses at home and in the wider Arab world whom he spoke to over the heads of their rulers—​and probably blinded by his early foreign policy triumphs, Nasser committed three major mistakes in foreign relations in the decade from the late 1950s to the late 1960s. Keen to maintain his status in the Weberian sense,2 where authority derives from the charisma of the leader, and under pressure from a group of staunch Arab

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nationalist Syrian military officers, he agreed to establish in 1958 a constitutional merger with Syria, in what was known as the United Arab Republic (UAR). Hastily arranged, and without taking into account the various political, economic, and psychological differences between the two nations, the union came to an early end in September 1961. The following year, 1962, Egypt’s wide military involvement in Yemen to support its nascent republic against royalist forces, supported by Saudi Arabia and other Arab monarchies, proved to be Nasser’s Vietnam—​a protracted and costly war of attrition. And, more importantly, Nasser committed in 1967 his gravest miscalculation in foreign policy, one which undermined his authority, chipped away at his heroic stature, and tainted his legacy. The 1967 crisis began in mid-​May with recurring media reports of an imminent Israeli attack on Syria. Knowing the perils of war, Nasser had since 1956 striven to avoid an escalation of tensions between Arab states and Israel. Y   et, under vociferous attacks from his Arab foes, whose radio stations accused him of hiding behind the “blue shirts” of United Nations (UN) peacemaking forces (stationed in Sinai), and of fighting his Arab brethren in Yemen instead of coming to the aid of the beleaguered Syrians, Nasser felt he had to react.3 Yet, lacking effective military and foreign policy strategies, and relying on incomplete and misleading information, he improvised. Amidst a media fanfare, Nasser in the span of ten days closed the Gulf of Aqaba against Israeli shipping, asked the UN peacekeeping troops to leave and re-​militarized Sinai by deploying large military forces in the peninsula. Undoubtedly, these measures were meant not to be led into battle with Israel as much as to preserve Nasser’s legitimacy in Egypt and the Arab world (Shama, 2014, p. 33). However, in the absence of a well-​defined plan, his risk-​ taking approach backfired badly. The massive Israeli air strike on June 5 was very effective, practically destroying Egypt’s air force and paving the way for a complete Israeli seizure of the Sinai Peninsula. Israel also occupied Syria’s Golan Heights, Gaza, and the West Bank, including Jerusalem. In a display of historic irony, Nasser’s ten-​year quest for independence from foreign domination came to naught; the war invited back foreign occupation, and subsequently increased Egypt’s dependence on the Soviets and wealthy Arab states. The enormity of the humiliating defeat in 1967 exposed yet again the huge gap between what Nasser’s Egypt sought to achieve and what it was capable of doing. In the post-​defeat Arab summit held in Khartoum, Egypt acquiesced to pull out its troops from Yemen in exchange for the largesse of Saudi Arabia, Egypt’s erstwhile adversary, needed to replenish its losses and fund its war efforts. Egypt waged a war of attrition against Israel in 1968–​1970. But the grim defeat left deep scars and wounds on the nation’s psyche, engendering ubiquitous expressions of grief and bereavement as well as soul-​searching questions among intellectuals about the country’s true identity and the orientation that its foreign policy should assume. It would take a few years before the ramifications of these debates would have a direct bearing on the country’s foreign relations. Undoubtedly, Nasser’s initial foreign policy successes were facilitated by the setup of Egypt’s authoritarian system which gave the president freedom to take quick decisions free from any institutional constraints. The role of the foreign ministry was marginal, limited to gathering information and implementing presidential directives. This applies to Nasser’s venerable minister Mahmoud Fawzi. As Wilton Wynn wrote, Fawzi [H]‌ad little to do with policy. He was an aide rather than an adviser to Nasser. But when Nasser decided on a policy in international affairs, Fawzi implemented it with admirable skill. As someone has said, ‘Nasser acts and Fawzi makes it legal.’ Quoted in Ayubi, 1994, p. 14

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But precisely this flawed institutional setting, where “individuals, more than the so-​called institutions dominate … the political system” (Ayubi, 1994, p. 9), led to later setbacks.A decision-​ making process that is overly centralized, lacking institutional depth, devoid of debate, dissent, and accountability, and mired in one person’s views was hardly a “process” in the strict sense of the word, and therefore it was bound to cause unintended results and ultimately fail. The defeat and its repercussions took their toll on the appeal of Nasserism, Egypt’s leadership credentials, and Nasser’s health. On September 28, 1970, Nasser died. He was succeeded by his vice president, Anwar Sadat.

Sadat’s “electric-​shock” foreign policy A veteran Free Officer, Anwar Sadat was part of Egypt’s political elite in the 1950s and 1960s, but he remained largely in Nasser’s shadow. Sadat, however, was not unambitious or compliant as his rivals initially thought. In May 1971, he preemptively got rid of the Nasserist old guard, who had in his first months in power interfered in the way he ran foreign affairs. In his first three years in office, Sadat remained faithful to the type of foreign policy designed and implemented by Nasser, with the exception perhaps of his decision in July 1972 to suspend the Soviet military presence in Egypt.4 Yet, after 1973, Sadat changed Egypt’s official name, flag, and national anthem. By the end of the decade, he had also restructured its political, economic, and foreign policies: from central state planning and a one-​party system to a multiparty political system and an open-​door economic policy (Infitah), from alignment to the Soviet camp to a strategic alliance with the United States of America (USA), from acting like a revisionist state to a status quo power, and from war to peace with Israel. In terms of leadership style, Sadat was a pragmatic realist. He had no penchant for pan-​ Arabism, socialism, or any grand ideology. He was also adventurous and flamboyant in style, as well as grossly optimistic and impatient. His foreign policy was therefore replete with theatrical performances and dramatic U-​turns, an approach that is commonly dubbed as “electric-​shock diplomacy.” Confronted with the daunting challenge of restoring Egyptian sovereignty over its occupied territories, the Egyptian army, in coordination with Syria, waged a blitzkrieg offensive against Israel in October 1973. The war shook the regional status quo, exposed Israel’s tenuous grip on Egyptian land, and bolstered Sadat’s legitimacy at home. Immediately after the war, Sadat began to consider peace options. As a result, he inched closer to the USA and further away from the Soviets and radical Arabs. Only the Americans, he reckoned, would have the leverage to force a negotiated Israeli withdrawal from Sinai. Sadat frequently said that “99 percent of the cards of the [Middle Eastern] game lie in the hands of the Americans” (Jewish Telegraphic Agency, 1977). For him, Egypt’s enrollment in the American camp would be “a ticket to generous American aid and technology” (Shama, 2014, p. 35). He even, quite unrealistically, entertained the wish that Egypt would ultimately outbid Israel as Washington’s primary ally in the Middle East. Egypt concluded two disengagement-​of-​troops agreements with Israel in 1974 and 1975 (the latter without Syria’s involvement). Yet thereafter, Sadat’s patience was growing thin. He had grown jaded about Israel’s intransigence and the international community’s dwindling interest in peace in the Middle East. Without preparation for the public or consultation with diplomatic and military elites, Sadat decided to visit Jerusalem in 1977, pursuing for the first time direct political negotiations with Israel, the country which Egypt had fought four times in 30 years (1948, 1956, 1967, and 1973). Long and arduous negotiations culminated in the signing of the Camp David Accords and the Egyptian–​Israeli Peace Treaty, in 1978 and 1979, 48

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respectively, which restored Egyptian sovereignty over Sinai and ushered in an age of peace between the two countries. As a result of its unilateral peace with Israel, Egypt forfeited its position of leadership in the Arab world. It was expelled from the Arab League, whose headquarters was transferred from Cairo to Tunis. Yet, Egypt’s ostracization did not concern Sadat much. Unlike Nasser, who believed that Egypt’s leadership of the Arab world required the pursuit of a constantly dynamic foreign policy, Sadat viewed it as a natural attribute, considering that Egypt did not always have to force Arabs to defer to its agenda since they would ultimately understand its ways and follow in its footsteps. For Sadat, Egypt’s leadership was “a structural property, not a behavioral attribute” (Dessouki, 1991, p. 167), and so his foreign policy was more circumscribed and inward-​looking than that of Nasser. Essentially, raison d’état replaced raison de la nation as the driving motive of Egypt’s foreign policy. The four central aspects of change under Sadat—​the turn to the West, rapprochement with Israel, limited transition to democracy, and the radical overhaul of economic policy—​were intrinsically part and parcel of one overarching package. To attract foreign investments, Egypt needed to shun socialism and open its economy, and to nurture a strategic partnership with the USA, and the West in general, Egypt felt compelled to project the image of a modern, democratic country. The strategy of trading Cairo’s geopolitical weight for material benefits worked out well; Egypt soon became the second largest recipient of US aid worldwide (American Chamber of Commerce). The massive change in foreign policy after 1973 could be attributed to rising economic needs at home. Years of spending on the war effort that drained resources and a population explosion, including a massive youth bulge, had strained the Egyptian budget. Suffice it to know that from 1900 to 1990, Egypt’s arable land grew by only 25%, while its population increased by 380% (Ghorbal, 1990, p. 309). Meanwhile, the misadventure in Yemen, the struggle against Israel, and the occupation of the Sinai, which cost Egypt a decline in oil and tourism revenues and the loss of Suez Canal income from 1967 to 1975 (some $300 million annually), had taken a great toll on the Egyptian economy (Kanovsky, 1970, pp. 279–​285). And so, by 1975, it was clear that the “primacy of economics has become undisputed” in Egyptian politics (Waterbury, 1976, p. 293). It is therefore widely argued that Sadat’s peace with Israel was predominantly driven by economic motivations (Dessouki, 1984, p. 124; Doran, 2001, p. 115; Shama, 2014, p. 36). In tandem, recurrent student protests became a feature of Egyptian politics during 1968–​ 1973, a reminder to the regime that “it had to change its ways [and] that it was no longer omnipotent, as it used to be” (Ajami, 1981, p.  87). Furthermore, the massive bread riots in January 1977, the largest internal threat to the legitimacy of the state since 1952, sent shockwaves through the ruling establishment, including Sadat’s own position. Peace and economic opening were his answer to the rising frustrations and demands of a restive population. There was also fatigue, and the bitter realization that Egypt had paid its fair share, that the cost of its commitments to Arab causes—​thousands of martyrs and an economy in shambles—​had far outweighed the dividends. From a different perspective, however, Sadat’s set of new policies were designed with an eye on the changing nature of state–​society alliances in Egypt. According to this view, Sadat wished to appease the new capitalist class who favored the shunning of state-​led, socialist socioeconomic plans, pursuing cordial relations with the West and oil-​r ich Gulf states, and the ending of the state of war with Israel. According to Kazziha (1979, pp. 87, 92), Sadat’s new disposition “ought to be considered in relation to the evolution of a new ruling class under Sadat with its special vested interests, privileges, and ambitions.” Sadat’s policies, he posits, were “geared to satisfying the newly emerging bourgeoisie.” 49

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In the last years of Sadat’s presidency, Egypt became a status quo power, rotating in the US orbit and tied to the interests of conservative states, particularly the Gulf states, the Shah’s Iran and Israel. This was the product of the interplay between regional developments and personal preferences. After the oil boom of the 1970s, the center of gravity in Arab politics had shifted from “thawra” to “tharwa” (revolution to wealth). The nationalist fervor had waned, giving way to more pressing material needs and pragmatic orientations. Seeking partnership not domination, Sadat “not only adopted but embraced and intensified” (Nour and Pinkele, 1983, p. 264) the inclination toward acting like a status quo power that promoted peace and became a bulwark against Soviet penetration of the region. Moreover, distasteful of revolutionary politics, and harboring anti-​Soviet sentiments, Sadat opted for political negotiations, economically oriented policies and compromise. The ease with which Sadat managed to upend Egypt’s foreign policy outlook highlights how, as under Nasser, the process was centralized and prone to the worldviews, or whims, of one man. Only two aides, for instance, knew in advance of his decision to expel the Soviet military advisors in 1972, and only his foreign minister was informed about his intention to visit Jerusalem in 1977 (Heikal, 1978, p. 714). Although three ministers resigned in protest at his go-​ it-​alone peace with Israel (foreign ministers Ismail Fahmy and Mohamed Kamel, and Minister of State for foreign relations Mohamed Riad), this did not translate into a serious bureaucratic lobbying effort that could hamper, or mitigate, the excesses of Sadat’s approaches. Sadat’s life journey, a series of remarkable twists and turns, also ended dramatically. On October 6, 1981, he was assassinated at the hands of a group of Islamic fundamentalists in a military parade commemorating the 1973 War. In the trial, his assassins professed that they were provoked by his friendship with the Americans and the Israelis, a clear reminder of how foreign policy triumphs and defeats can make or break Egyptian rulers. Sadat was succeeded by his vice president, Hosni Mubarak.

Mubarak’s foreign policy The major priority of Mubarak in his first years in power was to return Egypt to the Arab fold without jeopardizing its peace treaty with Israel. He thus made conciliatory moves toward Arab states, capitalizing on developments on the Palestinian question and the Iraq–​Iran War. By championing Palestinian rights and backing Iraq, Mubarak took pains to prove that Egypt’s peace commitments did not hinder its capacity to espouse pan-​Arab causes. The purposeful efforts of the Egyptian diplomacy to break out of isolation in the Arab sphere gradually bore fruit. Cairo was readmitted to the Islamic Conference Organization in 1984. Jordan restored its diplomatic relations with Egypt in the same year, and a thaw in ties with Gulf states, Iraq and the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) took place in the early 1980s to mid-​1980s. Before the end of the decade, Egypt’s membership of the Arab League was restored, and the organization’s headquarters was transferred back to Cairo. Meanwhile, Egypt’s peace with Israel was kept, but without the euphoria or bragging of the late 1970s. Instead, an era of “cold peace” ensued after Sadat’s departure. Mubarak exhibited an unwavering reluctance to visit Jerusalem, froze scores of bilateral treaties with Israel, and tolerated expressions of popular discontent against Israel. Egypt also clashed diplomatically with the Jewish state on several occasions. Perturbed about Israel’s nuclear arsenal, located a stone’s throw from the Egypt–​Israel border, Egypt sought in 1994–​1995 to force the Israeli government to sign the nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty (NPT). Also, in order to encourage a balanced, final Israeli–​Palestinian settlement, it aimed to impede the accelerating pace of Arab economic

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opening to Israel in the 1990s. On these issues, no doubt, Mubarak was motivated by a deep-​ seated concern that Israel’s future role in the post-​peace era might overshadow Egypt’s stature and influence in the Middle East. Episodes of rising Arab–​Israeli tensions, witnessed frequently in Mubarak’s first two decades in office, such as the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982 and the Palestinian uprisings in 1987 and 2000, posed a threat and an opportunity to Egyptian policymakers. On one hand, it exposed Egypt’s impotence against Israel’s aggressive moves, sending a reminder that the hawkish policies of yesteryear were an anachronism. But, on the other hand, it presented an opportunity for Egypt to reenergize the peace process and emphasize its credentials as the only peace broker in the region with ties to both Arabs and Israelis. And therefore it was Egypt’s resort town of Sharm El-​Sheikh that became the principal venue for Mideast peace negotiations for much of the 1990s and 2000s. Although Mubarak was keen on maintaining Cairo’s strategic relationship with Washington, he tried in the 1980s to exercise more independence and mitigate his predecessor’s excessive reliance on the USA. For instance, he refused to grant military facilities to the US army at the Red Sea base of Ras Banas (Shama, 2014, p. 39). He also distanced himself from Washington’s hostile policies toward Gaddafi ’s Libya and Saddam’s Iraq. It could be argued that bilateral relations were freed from the distorted effects of Sadat’s personal aura, becoming “more regularized and institutionalized” (Dessouki, 1991, p. 177), and more based on “order and predictability” (Cantori, 1986, p. 333). However, the end of the cold war, the rise of the USA as the sole superpower in the international system, and Mubarak’s aversion to confrontation with Washington limited Egypt’s political options. And so Egypt’s political and military dependence on the USA was perpetuated, despite its diplomatic attempts to join new economic blocs (with the European Union, Mediterranean states, and eastern and southern African nations) and to strengthen ties with Russia and China. Overall, Egyptian–​American relations were deepened and broadened under Mubarak, comprising an annual aid package of some $1.3 billion, multiple trade agreements, joint military exercises, and regular presidential summits. The Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1990 was a blessing in disguise for Egypt. Although the repercussions of the crisis took a toll on its fatigued economy, Egyptian diplomacy exploited the opportunity to its own interests. Egypt actively took part in the US-​led multinational force formed to liberate Kuwait, contributing the second largest military force next to the US. In return, around one half of its massive $40 billion foreign debt was waived by the USA, France, Germany, Japan, Saudi Arabia, and the World Bank. Egypt also received new loans from the International Monetary Fund (IMF) worth at least $9 billion (Cantori, 1993, p. 349). Furthermore, Egypt proved its indispensability to the USA and Western powers and its centrality in the region. For example, the notable participation of Egyptian troops provided a much-​needed legitimizing cover for US troops stationed in Saudi Arabia, home to the Muslim holy shrines. To be sure, Egypt’s response to Saddam’s bellicosity was not only motivated by economic considerations. There was much more at stake. Concerned by the rise of Iraq and its conspicuous ambitions to play a hegemonic role in the region, Cairo was wary of seeing its political influence in the Arab state system eclipsed had Iraq been allowed to swallow Kuwait. It is true that Egypt gave up its erstwhile desire to dominate the region in which power had become diffused, opting instead for a collective Arab leadership, centered on the Cairo-​Riyadh-​ Damascus axis5 and based on mutual interests. Still, it was bent on obstructing the emergence of other hegemons who might undermine its influence. Under Mubarak, domestic determinants played an increasing role in the shaping of foreign policy. After the Iranian revolution in 1979, Sadat’s assassination in 1981, the birth of Hamas

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in 1987, and the rise of violent Islamist movements at home from the 1970s onward, fears of political Islam rose exponentially, engendering a foreign policy that was obsessed with regime security calculations. Mubarak harbored feelings of suspicion toward Hamas and Hezbollah, attempted to roll back Iranian influence, and invested widely in antiterrorism efforts. After the failed assassination attempt by militant Islamists on his life in Addis Ababa in 1995, he declined, in fear of his life, to visit sub-​Saharan African countries for an entire decade. Ahmed Abou El-​Gheit, his foreign minister from 2004 to 2011, laments at length how this long absence greatly undermined Egyptian interests in the African continent, the locus of intense Egyptian diplomatic activity under Nasser (Abou El-​Gheit, 2013, pp. 33, 311, and 320–​321). Moreover, rising socioeconomic troubles at home exacerbated the drive from geopolitics to geo-​economics in foreign relations (Said, 1995). Egypt’s dependence on the assistance emanating from the Gulf region (in the form of aid, investment and tourism, and Egyptian workers’ remittances) intensified, while Egypt ratcheted up its political support for Gulf states against Iraqi and Iranian threats. This growing interdependence led some scholars to conclude that Egypt had become a kind of Gulf country (Said, 1995, p. 24; Fandy, 2009). In contrast to the drama embodied in Nasser’s fervor and Sadat’s flamboyance, Mubarak pursued a quiet diplomacy, underpinned by moderation, caution, and gradualism. As early as 1983, he told journalists that he “[did] not prefer and [was] disinclined to rely on” the approach of electric-​shocks, to which Sadat had grown accustomed (quoted in Zahran, 1993, p. 165). Mubarak’s preoccupation with internal stability, inexorably, led to a lethargic foreign policy, often bordering on inaction (Vatikiotis, 1991, p. 455). His foreign minister from 1991 to 2001, Amr Moussa, described him as a peaceful and unambitious man, who had a tendency to retire and avoid confrontations (Moussa, 2017, pp.  555 and 565). Abou El-​Gheit concurred. He wrote (El-​Gheit 2013, p. 350) that Mubarak’s foreign policy behavior was governed by three traits:  “[c]‌aution, then caution, and finally caution.” And so the bitter joke about Mubarak’s foreign policy was that “Mubarak hasn’t done anything wrong. But then again he hasn’t done anything” (Hopwood, 1993, p. 187). Indeed, Mubarak’s Egypt gradually turned into a stubborn and lifeless status quo power, with few ambitions and aspirations. To be sure, longevity in office comes at a cost, replacing political strategy with security approaches, substituting dynamism with stagnation, and reinforcing an instinctive inclination to avoid risk at any cost. Towards the last years of Mubarak’s tenure, Egyptian foreign policy had lost much of the appeal it had in the 1980s and early 1990s, when it was still perceived as “the first among equals” in the Arab world (Cantori, 1993, p.  351). Substituting impact with rhetoric, equating movement with risk, and seeking scapegoats for its regional failures (Shama, 2009), Egypt sometimes seemed “like an aging movie star” (Alterman, 2005, p. 357). Mubarak acknowledged, and took advantage of, the tripartite nature of Egyptian–​American relations, whereby purely bilateral issues are inevitably tied to Israel. Since the 1970s, in many US circles, the quality of Washington’s relations with Cairo was measured by Egypt’s closeness to Israel. This explains why Mubarak responded to George W. Bush’s pressure in 2004–​2006 to reform Egypt’s political system by warming up his country’s ties with Israel, through upgrading the joint security cooperation and concluding economic deals with Tel Aviv. This is yet another example that shows how Egyptian rulers used foreign policy in order to augment their domestic power and prolong their rule. Ironically, Mubarak, who had been a survivalist with a long experience in omnibalancing between external and internal pressures, made a grave miscalculation that triggered a backlash. While appeasing Washington, the Israeli factor arguably contributed to the popular discontent that fueled the uprising in 2011 which unceremoniously ended his tenure as president. 52

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Notes 1 As Waterbury notes (1979, p. 63), “No other major river valley is shared by so many autonomous actors, and no other downstream state is so utterly dependent for its livelihood as Egypt is upon its river.” 2 Max Weber’s oft-​cited typology of forms of authority includes three types: rational-​legal, traditional, and charismatic.The charismatic form rests on the exemplary character of a leader who utilizes his charisma to lead his/​her nation. 3 The 1960s had been a period of intense rivalry between Arab republics and Arab monarchies in what was called the Arab Cold War (Kerr, 1971). 4 The motives for the decision are unclear, but they range from being a result of growing Egyptian–​ Soviet differences, constituting a part of Egyptian war preparations or making positive overtures to the Americans. 5 Egypt’s relations with Syria were severely strained in 2006. In the “new Arab Cold War” that ensued, the region was divided between two axes: the first comprised Egypt, Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Kuwait, and Jordan, while the second included Syria, Qatar, Hamas, and Hezbollah (as well as non-​Arab Iran).

References Abu al-​Ghayt, A. (2013). Shahadaty: Al-​siyasa al-​kharijiyya al-​misriyya, 2004–​2011 (My Testimony: Egyptian Foreign Policy, 2004–​2011). Cairo: Nahdat Misr. [In Arabic] Ajami, F. (1981). The Arab Predicament: Arab Political Thought and Practice Since 1967. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Alterman, J. (2005). Dynamics without Drama: New Options and Old Compromises in Egypt’s Foreign Policy. Cambridge Review of International Affairs, 18(3), 357–​369. American Chamber of Commerce in Egypt. Egypt-​U.S. Business Data. Available from www.amcham.org. eg/​information-​resources/​trade-​resources/​egypt-​us-​relations/​us-​foreign-​assistance-​to-​egypt [accessed 24 January 2020]. Ayubi, S. (1994). Nasser and Sadat:  Decision Making and Foreign Policy, 1970–​1972. Lanham, MD and London: University Press of America. Cantori, L. (1986). Egyptian Policy under Mubarak: The Politics of Continuity and Change. In: Robert Freedman (ed.), The Middle East after the Israeli Invasion of Lebanon. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, pp. 323–​344. Cantori, L. (1993). Unipolarity and Egyptian Hegemony in the Middle East. In: Robert Freedman (ed.), The Middle East after Iraq’s Invasion of Kuwait. Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, pp. 335–​357. Dawisha, A. (1976). Egypt in the Arab World: The Elements of Foreign Policy. London: Macmillan. Dessouki, A. H. (1984). The Primacy of Economics: The Foreign Policy of Egypt. In: B. Korany and A. H. Dessouki (eds.), The Foreign Policies of Arab States, 1st ed. Cairo: AUC Press, pp. 119–​146. Dessouki, A. H. (1991). The Primacy of Economics:  The Foreign Policy of Egypt. In:  B. Korany and A. H. Dessouki (eds.), The Foreign Policies of Arab States:  The Challenge of Change, 2nd ed. Boulder, CO: Westview Press, pp. 156–​185. Doran, M. (2001). Egypt: Pan-​Arabism in Historical Context. In: L. C. Brown (ed.), Diplomacy in the Middle East: The International Relations of Regional and Outside Powers. London: I. B. Tauris, pp. 97–​120. Fandy, M. (2009). Is Egypt a Gulf State? Al-​Masry Al-​Youm, 11 March. Available from https://​ to.almasryalyoum.com/​article2.aspx?ArticleID=202322 [accessed 29 August 2019]. Ghorbal, A. (1990). A Look Ahead—​Problems and Prospects. In: I. Oweiss (ed.), The Political Economy of Contemporary Egypt. Washington, DC: Center for Contemporary Arab Studies, pp. 309–​313. Heikal, M. H. (1978). Egyptian Foreign Policy. Foreign Affairs, 56(4), 714–​727. Hinnebusch, R. (2002). The Foreign Policy of Egypt. In:  R. Hinnebusch and A. Ehteshami (eds.), The Foreign Policies of Middle East States, 1st ed. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, pp. 91–​114. Hinnebusch, R. and Shama, N. (2014). The Foreign Policy of Egypt. In: R. Hinnebusch and A. Ehteshami (eds.), The Foreign Policies of Middle East States, 2nd ed. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, pp. 75–​103. Hopwood, D. (1993). Egypt: Politics and Society, 1945–​1990. London: Routledge. Jewish Telegraphic Agency (1977). Sadat Says the U.S. Holds 99% of the Cards in the Middle East. March 28. Available from www.jta.org/​1977/​03/​28/​archive/​sadat-​says-​the-​u-​s-​holds-​99-​of-​the-​cards-​in-​ the-​middle-​east [accessed 15 January 2019]. Kanovsky, E. (1970). The Economic Impact of the Six-​Day War:  Israel, the Occupied Territories, Egypt, Jordan. New York: Praeger.

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Nael Shama Kazziha, W. (1979). Palestine in the Arab Dilemma. London: Croom Helm. Kerr, Malcolm. (1971). The Arab Cold War: Gamal ʼAbd al-​Nasir and his rivals, 1958–​1970, 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lawson, Fred. (2005). Reassessing Egypt’s Foreign Policy during the 1920s and 1930s. In: A. Goldschmidt and A. Johnson (eds.), Re-​Envisioning Egypt, 1919–​1952. New York: The American University in Cairo Press, pp. 46–​67. Lorenz, J. (1990). Egypt and the Arabs:  Foreign Policy and the Search for National Identity. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Moussa, Amr (2017). Kitabiyya (My Book). Cairo: Dar Al-​Shuruq. [In Arabic] Nasser, Gamal Abdel. Falsafat al-​thawra (The Philosophy of the Revolution). Cairo: Maslahit al-​isti’lamat. [In Arabic] Nour, S. and Pinkele, C. (1983). Camp David and After: Foreign Policy in an Interdependent Environment. In:  C. Pinkele and A. Pollis (eds.), The Contemporary Mediterranean World. New  York:  Praeger, pp. 257–​275. Said, A. (1995). From Geopolitics to Geo-​Economics: Egyptian National Security Perceptions. In: J. Leonard, S. Limone, A. Said, and Y. Sayigh (eds.), National Threat Perceptions in the Middle East. New York: United Nations, pp. 17–​30. Shama, N. (2009). Egypt’s Pathetic Foreign Policy. Daily News (Egypt), 1 January. Available from https://​ dailynewsegypt.com/​2009/​01/​01/​decoding-​egypt-​egypts-​pathetic-​foreign-​policy/​ [accessed 25 August 2019]. Shama, N. (2014). Egyptian Foreign Policy from Mubarak to Morsi:  Against the National Interest. London: Routledge. Shama, N. (2019). Between Alliance and Entente:  The Egyptian-​ Greek-​ Cypriot Partnership. In:  Z. Tziarras (ed.), The New Geopolitics of the Eastern Mediterranean: Trilateral Partnerships and Regional Security. Nicosia: Peace Research Institute (Oslo) & Friedrich Ebert Stiftung, pp. 95–​110. Vatikiotis, P. J. (1991). The History of Modern Egypt:  From Muhammad Ali to Mubarak, 4th ed. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Warburg, G. (1983). Egypt’s Regional Policy from Muhammad Ali to Muhammad Anwar Al-​Sadat. In: C. Pinkele and A. Pollis (eds.), The Contemporary Mediterranean World. New York: Praeger, pp. 124–​148. Waterbury, J. (1976). Egypt: The Wages of Dependency. In: A. L. Udovitch (ed.), The Middle East: Oil, Conflict and Hope. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books. Waterbury, J. (1979). Hydropolitics of the Nile Valley. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press. Zahran, G. (1993). Man yahkum misr? Dirasa fi sun’ al-​qarar al-​siyasi fi misr wa al-​’alam al-​thalith (Who Rules Egypt? A Study in Political Decision-​Making in Egypt and the Third World). Cairo: n.p. [In Arabic]

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4 ACTIVISM AND CONTENTIOUS POLITICS IN EGYPT The case of the student movement Hatem Zayed1, Nadine Sika, and Ibrahim Elnur

Introduction How do student movements influence contentious politics within a polity, and how, on the other hand, do the dynamics of contention within an authoritarian regime influence student activism on campus? Findings from in-​depth interviews and focus groups, as well as a reading of historical records of student activism in Egypt, demonstrate two trends: first, when political opportunities permit, student activism is able to transcend campuses and play an essential role in mobilizing citizens at large. Second, when political opportunities are limited, during specific historical moments, students focus on university-​level demands or remain docile. This was traced to moments of limited political opportunity—​due to an increase in perceived threat from the regime as well as reduced public support for activism. In this chapter, we argue that student movements’ contentious activities are influenced by the political and social structures of authoritarianism in Egypt and are connected to broader government policies toward youth. The connection between student movements and broader youth movements has been debated in the literature. For instance, Bayat (2010, p.  29) posits that movements in general should not be identified in terms of their actors but rather by “the nature of their claims and grievances.” Thus, while students are usually young, they ought to be treated as a different category from youth owing to their unique grievances. He sets student movements apart from youth movements by defining them as the embodiment of “the collective struggles of a student body to defend or extend ‘student rights,’ decent education, fair exams, affordable fees, or accountable educational management” (Bayat 2010, p.  29). Other scholars, however, look at student movements in the Arab world specifically as major driving forces of change and regime opposition. Such literature situates student movements in a historical context and perceives them as an early form of youth activism (Ottaway and Hamzawy 2011). In this chapter, both approaches will be considered as we recognize that student grievances are not necessarily shared by a broader category of youth, but that they can also affect and be affected by external political and social grievances. The chapter will first provide a brief review of the development of the student movement since the 1930s until the 2011 uprising. It will then delve into the factors that rendered the years 55

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that followed the 2011 uprising precarious for student activity. The chapter will also examine patterns in student activity against a backdrop of broader state–​youth relations and government policies toward youth.

The early stages of student activism In the first half of the 20th century, student activists were encouraged by the political elite to participate politically and to demonstrate against colonialism. Students participated in the 1919 Revolution against the British occupation of Egypt and continued to be well connected to the Egyptian nationalist movement throughout the early 1900s (Anderson 2011). The first student union was established in 1935 under the auspices of the Wafd. By November 1935, opposition groups mobilized for street rallies against the British and the Wafdists. However, instead of fighting them, the Wafd establishment was soon to co-​opt different students and mobilize them for its own advantage. “On 13 November … about 2000 students, armed with sticks, pieces of iron and stones, marched from the university … Shouts of ‘Down with England’… and ‘We want the 1923 Constitution’ were heard” (Erlich 1989, p. 112). Other students were soon to join, leading to the most violent demonstrations of the Egyptian nationalist movement during the interwar period. “It was an exclusively student movement whose energy, erupting suddenly, turned immediately and temporarily into a most effective political factor” (Hadai 1989, p. 112). The apogee of student activism was in 1946 when the student movement became united after continued fragmentation between Wafdists, communists and Islamists. At this time, all students from different political backgrounds joined to develop the National Front of All Students of the Nile Valley. This movement asked for “complete evacuation of the whole of the Nile Valley, without concessions, or even negotiations, while refusing to enter upon any alliance with Great Britain” (Erlich 1989, p. 157). These events led university students to further join workers and labor unions to oppose continued British control over their country (Anderson 2011).

Student activism under Nasser: The peak of influence? As soon as Egypt gained its independence, the newly founded regime tried to co-​opt university students through financing and controlling universities. This was evident in the 1950s, which witnessed a shrinking of political space and a tightening of freedom of expression (Abdalla 1985). As the military came to power and dissolved independent political parties, participation in political life decreased substantially. Only sporadic political action among students materialized as Nasser succeeded in diverting student activities into state-​sponsored events (Anderson 2011). The 1967 defeat marked the end of political dormancy among students and catapulted the issue of freedom of speech to the fore by shedding light on the failings of the military regime. Abdalla, for instance, argued that “the student uprising of February 1968 was the most vocal expression of public unrest following the defeat of 1967” (Abdalla 1985, p. 147).This era of political organization among students was triggered by a spontaneous strike that took place on 21 February 1968, in which workers in Helwan took to the streets to protest the lenient verdicts handed out to Egyptian Air Force officers who were seen as the main culprits behind the death of thousands of Egyptian soldiers and as responsible for the resulting defeat of the Egyptian army in 1967. The protests escalated and transformed into a greater uprising in which students from universities in Cairo and Alexandria played a significant role. Unsuccessful attempts by the regime to contain the student movement started on campus, with deans of schools calling on students to restrict their protests to the confines of university campuses. As the attempts to contain the protest failed, the regime was forced to make concessions. Nasser ordered the 56

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retrial of the officers who were accused of negligence, and formed a new cabinet, comprised mostly of civilians. He also promulgated the 30 March Program which aimed at reforming the political system. Another wave of protests, however, took place in November 1968 after the announcement of a new education law that was not viewed favorable by students. The ensuing effort made by the regime to tighten its control over universities however backfired—​creating fertile ground for student movements in the years to come (Abdalla 1985, p. 175). These contentious events were significant challenges to the regime. In fact, the student movement was at the forefront of contesting the state monopoly over public space. The November 1968 demonstrations led to the eruption of a sustained and influential student movement that lasted till the mid-​1970s. According to Gervasio: The strengthening of the regime’s grip on the universities, far from producing the desired result, encouraged the students to wriggle out of the regime’s ideological containment and prepared the soil for the emergence of a more militant student movement in the years that followed. Gervasio 2010, p. 179 The post-​November 1968 period marked an important shift from the state attempts to monopolize and control the political public space to a policy of “licensing” political activities. The university campus was predominantly the stage on which youth articulated their demands for freedom of expression, for the right to peacefully protest and assemble, and for the liberty to hold public debates on campus, among others. However, calls for change extended into the political arena, with youth demanding the establishment of a constitutional court, the separation of powers between the executive and judicial branches of government, and the institution of a truly representative parliament (Abdalla 1991).

Sadat and a new wave of student activism In line with broader reforms on the political level, Sadat emphasized the role of students in the future leadership of the country and announced that he would be canceling the university guards, the security personnel, and the interference of professors in student union affairs (Erlich 1989). The direct result was the increased politicization of the student body by 1972, where student activists contested Sadat’s war policies through street demonstrations culminating in the January 1972 riots. In organizing these riots, a congress for the national committee of students called on students to form committees for the defense of democracy. White-​collar unions and journalists followed suit. Two weeks later the movement was crushed and over 200 students were arrested. As a consequence, student contention increased, which led Sadat to shut down universities for a month. Secret police and soldiers have since been present in universities. Among the many variables that sparked student reaction was Sadat’s speech on 13 January 1972 in which he justified his lack of action against Israel. In his speech, he described the next year as a “foggy” one and explained that a war with Israel was unlikely given Egypt’s tenuous position and inability to fend off a retaliatory attack from the United States should Egypt attack Israel. The student protests called for the return of occupied Egyptian territory and for war against Israel. They were forcefully dispersed the next day (Abdalla 1991). Further student activism and protests lasted through the summer of 1972 and into the academic year 1972/​1973. At this point, political polarization among the students was tangible and three main groups espousing different political ideologies took shape. The first was the 57

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leftist group that had organized the 1972 protests, the second was the Nasserites, and the third was the Islamist group. This last group, known as al-​Gama’a al-​Islamiyya, would soon rise to prominence on college campuses throughout Egypt (Williams 2016). However, with the advent of the October war, Sadat decided to stop prosecuting the students and ordered their release, which dissolved some of the tensions that had developed between the regime and the student movement. The October war marked an end to the student riots of the 1972/​1973 wave and the multiparty policy that proceeded quieted campus activism as students started joining new political parties (Williams 2016). Later in 1977, students were active participants in the bread riots, the largest riot that Egypt had seen since the monarchy (Shehata 2008). At this point, the regime used various divide and rule methods to contain the movement. When leftist groups became heavily involved in university politics, Sadat encouraged the emergence of Islamic student groups in universities. This led to increased Islamist power on campus, where they won the elections of the various student unions. In the wake of the Camp David peace accords, the Islamists turned against Sadat, aligning with leftists (Shehata 2008). In response, Sadat passed a bill regulating student activities through providing the university administration with powers to interfere in the results of student union elections. In addition, political parties were banned from being present on campus. This was later extended under Mubarak, who barred Islamists from running in student union elections (Shehata 2008).

Student activism under Mubarak Unlike the more organized movements that took place under both Nasser’s and Sadat’s rules, only sporadic student demonstrations took place under Mubarak. Further, none of them evolved into full-​fledged uprisings or extended beyond university campuses. Instead, short-​lived reactions to political events were more common. Mass demonstrations, for example, took place in solidarity with the Palestinian people during the two intifadas, and in 1991 in opposition to Egypt’s involvement in the Gulf war. In 2003, scattered protests took place in reaction to Egypt’s position on the invasion of Iraq. Overall, as Okasha (2014) asserted, the Mubarak era ushered in a period of latency among university students because of the regime’s restrictions on student movements and constant monitoring of universities. Under the Mubarak regime, universities were tightly monitored and collective organizing and public debates (let  alone overt political activity) of every kind were proscribed. Student union elections were rigged. Deans and presidents were vetted by the intelligence services and appointed based on their political loyalty to the regime. And all appointments, conferences, invitations to visiting speakers, and travel to academic events abroad required a security clearance from those services (Lindsay 2012). The ruling National Democratic Party (NDP) continued to control universities as it did during Sadat’s presidency. Under Mubarak, the NDP was able to dominate student clubs and to mobilize students who wanted to become student representatives in the unions. Student union leaders were mainly members of the NDP or closely aligned to the party. Student activism during this time has been perceived by scholars—​especially those concerned with the activism that started to develop during and after the American invasion of Iraq—​to have mainly focused on student-​related matters (Shehata 2008; El-​Mahdy 2009; Abdel Rahman 2014). In addition, the role of student activism at the time was essential for the development of the so-​called pro-​ democracy movement. In Egypt, students started to be aware of their own internal struggle against regime control of public university campuses (Gorgas 2013). By the mid-​2000s an independent student movement was in the process of freeing the student body from the NDP’s hold on power in various student activities and in the student unions.The 58

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movement’s call for independence was not only directed at the NDP, but also at the Islamists and the Muslim Brotherhood. For instance, a participant in a focus group discussion noted: [W]‌e established a parallel student union to avoid the corruption of the electoral process of the ordinary student union, which was largely funded by the NDP.  The parallel union would sideline Ikhwani [Brotherhood] groups to ensure that SU representation was not politicized.2

The rise and fall of student activism post-​January 25 From 2011 to 2013, student activism reached a new apogee:  students from all political backgrounds mobilized for their causes, political parties were allowed to function on campus, and lawsuits against the presence of security forces were on the rise. Moreover, students and even faculty organized regular protests and demonstrations against senior administrators with links to the former regime who were implicated in corruption and political repression in universities (Lindsey 2012). This activism sometimes took the shape of violent confrontations with administrators, sit-​ins, and clashes with campus security and military forces. Nonetheless, protests were rarely coordinated and never evolved into concerted action toward broad-​based reform. Three major gains were secured by the student movement in the aftermath of the January 25 uprising. First, months after January 2011, a decree was passed to outlaw any national security apparatus in all public universities. Second, the student charter, written in 2011, allowed for further liberty and freedom in student organization.Third, a law was passed allowing faculty to directly elect the positions of dean and chair of any department as well as the university president (Abd Rabuh 2014). These three developments allowed for more freedom and liberty within campus, and empowered students to have a say on the future of their university. However, in 2013, the level of security in universities returned to the pre-​2011 conditions—​ if not worse. This period witnessed a concerted clampdown on campus activism. Following the ouster of Mohamed Morsi, the student group “Students against the Coup” had staged regular protests on university campuses across Egypt and particularly in Cairo University and Al-​Azhar University (Dunne and Bentivoglio 2014). As a result, police often entered campuses and engaged in clashes with students, which led to the arrest of 1,352 students in the 2013/​ 2014 academic year, 257 of whom were arrested on campus. In November 2013, a protest law came into effect announcing a two-​year prison sentence for those who would “violate public order.” Moreover, many public universities instituted bans on all political activity and demonstrations that applied to both Muslim Brotherhood (MB)-​affiliated groups and others. In response, protests persisted as the university constituted one of the last remaining arenas for expressing dissent. At least 16 students were killed on campus during the 2013/​2014 academic year and hundreds of students were arrested or expelled. Demonstrations against repressive university policies and in opposition to the regime took place during the first week of classes in October 2014 (Dunne and Bentivoglio 2014). Eventually, this had an impact on the shape of student union organizations, as students refrained from demonstration on external issues relating to national political and socioeconomic conditions and focused more on protesting for the release of their colleagues and friends who had been detained as a result of their student activities (Abd Rabuh 2014; Ahmed 2014). Moreover, much student activism merely took the shape of rallying support for assisting the detained students (through helping them prepare for exams, assisting the families of the detained students when necessary, etc.). 59

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As for private universities, while many only began to appear in the early 2000s and were known to be apolitical, students started to become more politically involved, not only in national political affairs, but also in student-​related problems within their universities, calling for more rights and freedoms on campus. At the American University in Cairo, campus activism manifested in students’ questioning the ties that senior university administrators had with members of the former regime, and in strikes against tuition rises in addition to a lack of transparency in the university’s finances. A series of protests demanding better working conditions for workers also took place. Similarly, in the German University in Cairo (GUC), students protested against the death of soccer fans in Port Said and called for the overthrow of the military regime. When two students were expelled from the university for clashing with the head of the disciplinary committee, a hunger strike and sit-​in followed (Roscher 2015). As private universities are not organized by the same laws that regulate public universities, they thus had different experiences in the past few years.Yet, they faced another set of difficulties instead, some of which will be touched upon in the upcoming sections. The following sections will present results of field research underpinning this inquiry.3 Interviews and focus group discussions with student activists confirm that student participation in universities has undergone different phases since 2011, where freedom of participation experienced a peak in 2011–​2013 and then became precarious and even dangerous in the following years. This has in turn discouraged many students from participation and has placed several others at risk of detainment. Such reflections will be discussed and positioned within a longer history of student activism in Egypt.

Student activism as viewed by others Interviewees and participants in focus group discussions agreed that student activism, and activity more generally, has decreased after 2013. A major driver of reduced student activity is how university administrations view it, something which in turn impacts the perceptions of the general public as well as other students. One participant mentioned that many students do not view the student body in a positive light and that at times this may threaten their legitimacy. “It is common that someone tells us that nobody ‘just does things’ without a motive –​implying that there is some kind of hidden agenda behind our participation.”4 This perception may be fueled by university administrations or by external media actors. Another participant in a focus group stated that students intentionally avoided political affiliation to ensure that their objectives are not confused with those of political actors beyond the university walls.5 This participant explained that student unions from different universities sometimes worked together to lobby for or advocate some changes in laws regulating student activity and that they ensured that no political aims are reflected or voiced when making student-​related demands. However, despite students’ efforts to avoid politicization, the student body has historically been a target for strong political actors outside the university walls. One interviewee, who had participated in student bodies during the 1960s and the early 1970s, explained that political groups, such as the Muslim Brotherhood, leftist groups, and pro-​regime groups, among others, would compete to attract students and gain their support, and that these dynamics have increased in recent years.6 Other interviewees confirmed that it was historically the case that powerful political parties, like those associated with the Muslim Brotherhood, would involve themselves in student activities which created heightened sensitivity and “carefulness” post-​ 2013. It is in these moments that nonpolitically aligned student organizations have been vulnerable. It was argued that the university administration does not distinguish between different 60

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types of student activity. In order to prevent more politicized forms of activism, linked to the greater political environment outside of the school, they have indiscriminately curtailed student organization in general.7 These perceptions can be contrasted with how student activism was viewed in the late 1960s and the early 1970s by both the administration and the general public. Indeed, as articulated by a former Cairo university activist, who was previously a member of the student union in the late 1960s and the early 1970s: I became so influential at times that I  used to feel more powerful than members of Parliament. Members of the University administration would not pass decisions without seeking our consent or permission.This made us feel valued by the university and by other students.8 He emphasized that students had a strong influence on the streets, and thus on the regime, to the extent that he attributes Nasser’s declaration of resignation in June 1967 to their demonstrations. However, he and his colleagues also collectively participated in the demonstrations protesting the resignation itself, thus reflecting support for Nasser despite disagreement with some of his decisions. Additionally, students were very influential in calling for reform on campus. The interviewee cited examples of the activity undertaken by students during Nasser’s presidency as well as after, including the writing of a student decree that organized the roles and responsibilities of students and faculty, successfully removing the campus guard/​security, and creating an administration for student care as well as several bodies that could improve the learning environment on campus.

Increased restrictions on student activism Following several waves of protest and heightened levels of student activism, student unions in public universities across the nation were canceled in 2013 by university administrations. In some universities, parallel unions were formed to fill the void, as was the case at Ain Shams University and Cairo University. However, this was not the case in all universities. The Student Union (SU) at al-​Azhar University was completely dormant for two years following 2013. A member of the last active SU explained that this could be attributed to the strong political presence of the Azhar SU, which was usually diverse in character where students with different political and ideological backgrounds worked together. He added that: [T]‌he cancellation was to put some pressure on the students because we were very active, we played a role in many protests internally and externally, and we would always write political press statements to condemn certain acts or support others.9 When asked about how participation in the SU changed over the years, he explained that: After the revolution, we were not scared to speak, and while some students would be harmed outside of university due to engagement in political protests, we felt safe on campus. There was never a case where we couldn’t release a press statement or protest. Things improved even more in Morsy’s year, as there was less danger in going to the street, even though there were problems in other areas. This all changed in Adly Mansour’s year. It was either you express an opinion supporting the regime or you don’t speak at all.10 61

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It is evident from the field research that movements which challenge student-​related grievances, with a more reformist approach, are usually responded to more lightly than movements concerned with nonuniversity-​related issues. For instance, interviews with members of the SU at the American University in Cairo revealed that they enjoyed the most liberty among other universities, perhaps due to the fact that all of their efforts have gone to student-​related issues (tuition, budget transparency, etc.). In contrast, several cases of curtailment were documented in the GUC and the British University in Egypt as they were somewhat linked to national-​ level political issues. For instance, an SU member in GUC mentioned that upon the death of a GUC student in violent events that followed a soccer match, the SU had requested to hang the student’s photo in the university instead of Hosny Mubarak’s photo.11 The administration refused this request due to concerns that it would encourage further protest on campus. Some students did in fact protest the regime’s reaction to the violence that followed the soccer match and were expelled.12 Many other examples reflected increased restrictions on student activity. For instance, an active SU member at GUC explained that in 2011, when students demanded to review the SU regulatory law in GUC, the administration stopped the process and sent letters to the students’ parents urging them that they should advise their children to stop student activity. Later in the year, the SU was dissolved and a new election was announced. The voter turnout in the new election was very low due to abstention of most students. The newly formed SU designed parallel elections, which attracted 2,082 student voters, while the official elections only attracted 200 students.13 One interviewee affirmed that student inclusion was conditional upon alignment with the administration, and that whenever a disagreement occurred, prosecution was sure to follow. To support this argument, he cited an example of the SU president of the British University in Egypt, who was expelled and had to appear in court for protesting against the university laws organizing student activity. He also cited an example at Misr International University, where students went on strike in 2013 to protest the death of a colleague in a car accident inside the campus, and the university security resorted to violent methods to end the action. GUC also witnessed a similar experience, when a student died as a result of a collision with a university bus, leading to protests in the university, which were in turn met with violence from the university security, and the expulsion of those who participated in the strike.14

Towards a “reformist” approach The Ain Shams University SU, which participated in the formation of a parallel student body until the SU was reenacted, decided to focus more on student-​related concerns.Yet, while their work was not threatening, members also faced constraints after 2013. “There are too many security concerns and too much censorship, many events are cancelled because the university is afraid of having too many youth in one place … youth organization is forbidden.”15 While permission was not required for most activities during the 2011–​2013 period, no student activity could be organized afterward without a security permit, which was difficult to obtain according to the interviewees. Participants agreed that it is not only political participation that is curtailed by university administrations. At times, standard student activities, such as job fairs, or events by student clubs, are cancelled or face difficulty in securing permits simply because they will bring together a large group of students. One participant argued that “youth organization in all its forms is forbidden,” even if it is for only the purpose of speaking to a large group of students on a nonpolitical activity.16 This has driven students to find alternative means of participation and to reconsider approaches adopted in 2011–​2013. A member of the SU explained that “the SU always used 62

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to be in opposition, but we found out that we should have entered the unions from a reformist perspective,” implying that adopting such an approach would have a more useful impact.17 Another SU member at Cairo University, who participated in the SU through their membership in the students’ branch of a certain political party in Egypt, explained that following 2013, most of the SU activity had been related to demonstration in solidarity with detained students. This participant explained that despite their revolutionary background, membership in an influential political movement, and active participation in the January 2011 uprising, they believe that these approaches need revision. The interviewee emphasized that “there is a difference between courage and suicide, if you can’t do it now, then don’t go and commit suicide for a cause that won’t remember you.”18 They further added that they reached this conclusion because many friends and colleagues are currently detained due to their participation in protest, and thus further protest would not be a remedy. They believe that a radical approach would cause greater student exclusion, and that students should continue to work within the system to solve its weaknesses. It is due to this approach that some chose to participate in the 2015/​2016 SU elections, which had been boycotted by many due to amendments in the student law that placed restrictions on who was able to run. They explained that the participation rate was very low and that voter turnout was expected to be also low, but were still insistent on running so that “it is not a total sham.”19 Another participant expressed his/​her concern that adopting a reformist approach might place the student body in a position where they are targeted by the state as “cosmetic allies.”20 State policies have repeatedly absorbed youth who are pro-​regime and included them in different avenues of participation and decision-​making processes to reflect in the media that youth are engaged in politics. This is a consequence that was feared by some participants in our research. However, other participants believed that adopting a reformist approach is necessary, and that it is the best method to be heard and absorbed by the state—​and that being reformist does not necessarily mean being pro-​regime.21

Connecting the student movement to a broader policy toward youth Successive regimes in Egypt have adopted similar cooptation methods to manage the threat of youth activism by creating government-​controlled avenues of participation away from student unions or off-​campus activism. One example of this is the Council of Youth and Sports which was established by Sadat in 1979.22 After Mubarak became president, he upgraded the Council to a ministry. The 1980s and the 1990s did not witness much youth contention, as their activism was kept behind closed university doors. However, in 2000, youth policy started to change with Gamal Mubarak as the new rising star in politics.When Gamal Mubarak began to rise to prominence on the political scene, his father stressed that young people might pose a serious threat to the economic and political stability of Egypt if they were ignored. The Egyptian government established the “Future Generation Foundation” as a vehicle through which young people could be incorporated into policy making circles. This foundation was mainly managed by Gamal Mubarak in an effort to appear as a champion for youth grievances (Zahid 2010). The first decade of the new century was also marked with increased youth street contention. In 2004 the Kifaya movement was established. It brought many young people to its ranks, who established their own youth movements afterward, the first of which was the Youth for Change movement. Like his predecessor, Mubarak used various strategies to coopt the “liberal” containable youth, while, on the other hand, he used force and imprisoned “radical” youth who were perceived as uncontainable (Abdelrahman 2015). 63

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After the ouster of Mubarak in February 2011, the Supreme Council of Armed Forces and Mohamed Morsi used the same policy of coopting young liberal or nonradical Islamists and excluding and using force against radical leftists or young people who refused to cooperate with the rulers (el-​Bendary 2013). In the same manner, since the ouster of Morsi in 2013, the regime from Adly Mansour (interim President) to Abdel Fattah al Sisi has been coopting young liberal or Salafi Islamists, who support the current regime, while using excessive violence against young people of the opposition. Youth interviewed as part of field research for this chapter agreed that the government divides youth, who engage in either civic or political participation, into two main categories. The first are the young people who obey the authoritarian structure, want to work within it, and can be coopted within the regime. These young people are the ones whom the regime can easily contain and co-​opt through developing policies regulating political participation, along with economic, cultural, and social participation. Young people of this sort are the ones who participate in development non-​governmental organizations (NGOs), who belong to political parties, whether from the “tolerated” opposition or from pro-​regime parties. These young people accept the boundaries of the state laws, and rules, and agree to work within these boundaries. On the other hand, young people who are perceived by the regime as “radical” or those who want to move beyond the authoritarian structure in which they live are the ones that the regime tries to directly exclude from economic, social, cultural, and social participation. In trying to contain the second type of young people, the regime utilizes various methods. One method is to coerce them through either using direct physical force or through imprisoning them without due process of the law.

Conclusion The rich history of the student movement in Egypt has seen many transitions, linked to the political situation of each time period. Despite usually adopting a reformist approach, student movements in Egypt have sometimes contested decisions linked to war, socioeconomic concerns, or lack of political freedom, and have at many times been very influential. In comparison with student activism during the Nasser and Sadat years, which could be characterized as being active in both national-​level political affairs and student-​related issues, activism during the Mubarak regime could be characterized in terms of dormancy and acquiescence, where very little student activity was present and those who were active were screened heavily by security, which maintained a tight grip on universities. In stark contrast, the period between 2011 and 2013 witnessed an increase in mobility in and out of universities, where students were able to freely make their demands with little or no fear. Curtailment of student activity returned once more after 2013, where the regime’s fears of certain groups in the political opposition led it to mainstream its strict security regulations in all universities without exception, setting conditions for participation and student activity that impede engagement to the extent that remaining docile has become a favored option for many students in Egyptian universities. In explaining such transformation, and through the historical analysis and results of the interviews and focus group discussions presented here, we have highlighted a number of patterns characterizing each historical time period. First, the greater the threat posed by students toward the regime, the more likely it is that student activity will be curtailed within the university. Through the record of the student movement history in Egypt, it could be argued that the time period in which students were most influential was that of the late 1960s and the early 1970s.Yet, while students were active in resisting certain state or university policies, the ideology 64

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adopted by the more powerful student organizations at that time was not far from alignment with the state. This is reflected, for example, by students’ participation in the demonstrations protesting Nasser’s resignation. Second, support from the general public and other students is key in sustaining student activity. Illustratively, support for student activity from external political and social actors in Egypt in the 1960s and the 1970s was more significant than for modern-​ day student movements—​as reflected in the strong relationship formed between students and the labor movement. This meant that students in the 1960s and the 1970s had more resources and more influence. Yet, once the vision of the student movement was at odds with the state’s vision, curtailment of student activity was intensified, as can be seen from Sadat’s position on student activity. Modern-​day student movements in Egypt share more characteristics with student movements of the mid-​1970s onward than with the period between 1968 and 1972, as their ideologies and goals are very different from the current regime’s vision—​positioning them as more of a threat to the state. In reaction to this threat, the space allowed for student movements has become limited once more.Third, student activism does not stop altogether, but it assumes different shapes and forms. Students look inward, toward exclusively student-​related grievances, and adopt more reformist—​as opposed to radical —​approaches in times of shrinking spaces for student activity. It is in these moments, when students look inward to student-​related grievances, that their activism departs most from broader youth activism/​movements in Egypt. This can partially be linked to government, as well as university administration, policies to co-​ opt and direct student activity —​but it also reflects strategic decisions by student activists to regain influence and trust of both the administration and the student body.

Notes 1 Zayed conducted research for this chapter while working as a researcher in the Political Science Department at the American University in Cairo. 2 Focus Group, Cairo, Egypt 2 May 2015. 3 As part of an EUFP7 research project entitled “POWER2YOUTH (P2Y),” grant ID: 612782, field research was conducted between April 2015 and May 2016. Seven in-​depth interviews were conducted (in Arabic) with student union (SU) members and five focus group discussions were held with 36 active youth —​some of whom were active in student unions during the time of the field research. Five out of the seven interviewees had experience in SU participation before 2013 and thus were able to reflect on the contrast between the 2011–​2013 period and the post-​2013 period. Some participants in the in-​depth interviews and focus group discussions referred to their understanding of SU activity before the 2011 revolution where some students were preelected into their positions by the university directly and where sham elections took place with very little participation (whether as voters or candidates) from the student body. 4 Interview, Ain Shams University Student Union, 15 July 2015. 5 Focus Group Discussion, 19 April 2015. 6 Interview, Cairo University Student Union, 13 March 2016. 7 Interview, Ain Shams University Student Union, 15 July 2015. 8 Interview, Cairo University Student Union, 13 March 2016. 9 Interview, Azhar University Student Union, 11 July 2015. 10 Ibid. 11 Interview, German University in Cairo Student Union, 21 July 2015. 12 In February 2012, a riot occurred following a football match between two Egyptian teams. Seventy-​ four people were killed in this riot. Interviewees mentioned that they were protesting an unconvincing response by the regime —​as no investigation took place on absent security measures that day. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 Interview, Ain Shams University Student Union, 15 July 2015. 16 Ibid. 17 Interview, Cairo University Student Union, 27 August 2015.

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Hatem Zayed et al. 18 Ibid. 19 Interview, Cairo University Student Union, 17 November 2015. 20 Interview, American University in Cairo Student Union, 10 June 2015. 21 This opinion was expressed in two interviews—​Anonymous, Cairo University Student Union, 17 November 2015, and Anonymous, Ain Shams University, 15 July 2015. 22 Youth Policy. Retrieved October 25, 2015, from Egypt:  www.youthpolicy.org/​factsheets/​country/​ egypt

References Abd Rabuh, Ahmed (2014). Al-​Gami‘a wa’l-​Siyasa. El Malaf El Masry, Ahram Center for Political and Strategic Studies, 2nd ed., pp. 5–​7. [Arabic] Abd Rabou, Ahmed (2016). “Democracy as Student Mobilization,” in Eid Mohamed et al. (eds.), Education and the Arab Spring. Rotterdam: Sense Publishers, pp. 51–​67. Abdalla, Ahmed (1985). The Student Movement and National Politics in Egypt: 1927–​1973. London: Al Saqi. Abdalla, Ahmed. (1991). “Students and Politics in Egypt,” Sina Printing. [Arabic] Abdelrahman, M. (2015). Egypt’s Long Revolution: Protest Movements and Uprisings. Routledge Studies in Middle Eastern Democratization and Government. London: Routledge. Ahmed, Nuran (2014). Al-​Haraka al-​Tulabiyya wa’l-​Mashhad al-​Siyasi ba’d 30 Yunyu. El Malaf El Masry, Ahram Center for Political and Strategic Studies, 2nd ed., pp. 8–​11. Anderson, Betty S. (2011). “The Student Movement in 1968,” Jadaliyya. www.jadaliyya.com/​pages/​index/​ 838/​the-​student-​movement-​in-​1968 Bayat, Asef. (2010). “Muslim Youth and the Claim of Youthfulness,” in Linda Herrera and AsefBayat (eds.), Being Young and Muslim: New Cultural Politics in the Global South and North. New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 22–​47. Dunne, M. and K. Bentivoglio (2014). “Egypt’s Student Protests:  The Beginning or the End of Youth Dissent?,” Carnegie Endowment, October 2014. http://​carnegieendowment.org/​syriaincrisis/​?fa= 56984 El-​Bendary, M. (2013). Egyptian Revolution: Between Hope and Despair, Mubarak to Morsi. New York: Algora Publishing. El-​ Mahdy, R. (2009). “Enough! Egypt’s Quest for Democracy,” Comparative Political Studies, 42(8), 1011–​1039. Erlich, H. (1989). Students and University in 20th Century Egyptian Politics. London: Routledge. Gervasio, G. (2010). Al-​Haraka al-​Markisiyya fi Misr 1967–​1981. National Center for Translation, Cairo (translated from the Italian original copy: Intellettuali e marxismo in Egitto). Gorgas, J.T. (2013). “The Limits of the State: Student Protest in Egypt, Iraq and Turkey, 1948–​63,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 40(4), 359–​377. Lindsey, U. (2012). “Freedom and Reform at Egypt’s Universities,” Carnegie Endowment, September 2012. http://​carnegieendowment.org/​files/​egyptian_​universities.pdf Okasha, K. (2014). “The Strategy of Securing Universities,” El Malaf El Masry, Ahram Center for Political and Strategic Studies, 2nd ed., pp. 12–​15. Ottaway, Marina and Amr Hamzawy (2011). “Protest Movements and Political Change in the Arab World,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, vol. 28. https://​carnegieendowment.org/​files/​ OttawayHamzawy_​Outlook_​Jan11_​ProtestMovements.pdf Roscher, F. (2015). “German University: Egypt’s Students Cry Foul,” Handelsblatt Today. www.handelsblatt. com/​today/​politics/​german-​university-​egypts-​students-​cry-​foul/​23505114.html Shehata, D. (2008). “Youth Activism in Egypt,” Arab Reform Initiative. www.arab-​reform.net/​publication/​ youth-​activism-​in-​egypt/​ Williams, J. (2016). “Egypt’s Decades-​Long War on College Kids.” www.vox.com/​2016/​2/​1/​10887708/​ students-​jail-​egypt Zahid, M. (2010). “The Egyptian Nexus: The Rise of Gamal Mubarak, the Politics of Succession and the Challenges of the Muslim Brotherhood,” The Journal of North African Studies, 15(2), 217–​230.

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5 FRAMING THE PAST Historian, state and society Anthony Gorman

Introduction In the course of the 20th century, modern Egyptian history as a field and practice underwent a process of transformation that reflected changes in both state and society at large.Various intellectual, institutional and political elements were agents of this complex process. On the level of intellectual exchange, one of these was the impact of the principles of Western scholarship on local traditions of recording and interpreting the past. As the product of an institutional context, most often in an education system in which the study of history is practised as a form of knowledge, the emergence of an Egyptian academic practice has also been strongly influenced by the particular character and purpose of public educational systems and particularly universities. Yet, while the historian is most easily defined in academic terms, not all those who write about the past are institutionally bound. Working historians from outside the university, including journalists, lawyers and political activists, have made important and sometimes pioneering contributions to the field where they have been able to pursue projects less constrained by institutional perspectives. Finally, the power and attitude of the state has played a central role in determining the limits of historical scholarship. As a discourse of legitimacy, political authority has at times explicitly encouraged, and sometimes discouraged, historical works through political pressure or financial incentives, although ultimately it would arguably have a greater negative effect on the work of historians by controlling access to important archival materials. The product (usually) of the work of individual writers and researchers, historical scholarship is also a public and social form of knowledge that necessarily has reflected different political and social perspectives across Egyptian society and reproduced its character, hierarchies and tensions. In bringing these different strands together, this chapter seeks to illustrate how Egyptian historians and their works have constituted a field of intellectual and political interpretation that engages with the broader arena of national political discourse.

Development of the profession At the beginning of the 20th century, certain important elements for the development of a local academic tradition of historical scholarship were already in place. The record of historical works that had appeared in previous decades—​ranging from the chronicle form employed by 67

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‘Abd al-​Rahman al-​Jabarti and Mikha’il Sharubim and the encyclopaedic khitat of ‘Ali Mubarak to the historical romances of Jurji Zaydan and the nationalist accounts of Mustafa Kamil—​was testimony to a dynamic local practice (Crabbs 1984; al-​Shayyal 1962a, 1962b). These traditions would be influenced by European scholarly practices as taken up and adapted in a series of state cultural and bureaucratic bodies established in Egypt in the 19th century. An early example was the School of Languages (Madrasat al-​Alsun) first set up in 1835 with the main task of teaching and the translation of European works into Arabic (Crabbs 1984, p. 71). Later during the 1870s, under the energetic leadership of ‘Ali Mubarak as the Minister of Education, more specialised institutions would nurture this emerging tradition. The creation of the National Library (Dar al-​Kutub) in 1870 and the Dar al-​Ulum the following year provided, respectively, a research resource and an institute to train Arabic teachers for the state education system where history was also taught (Kalmbach 2014). The creation of the Higher Teachers College (originally the Khedivial Teachers College) in 1880 offered a more modern curriculum. Based on a European model, it supported a two-​year programme of study for secondary school graduates and would graduate some of the first professional historians (Gorman 2003, p. 49). Alongside these state institutions operated a number of learned societies that enjoyed state support but in a more elite social context. Prominent among these was the Institut d’Égypte, first set up in 1859 as the Institut Egyptien, and modelled on the original Napoleonic creation, which brought together a select number of predominantly foreign resident scholars and dilettantes that served as a forum for research, discussion and publication across a wide range of disciplines (Gorman 2003, pp.  45–​49). The Royal Geographical Society by contrast was established by Khedive Ismail in 1875 with the more specific focus to encourage the study of Africa although it would later expand its mission (Reid 1993). Restricted in their membership and audience, these societies would nevertheless contribute to the development of an indigenous scholarship. The establishment of the private Egyptian University in 1908 represented yet another important step in the emergence of a national academic tradition. The product of a campaign by leading Egyptian figures with the support of the palace, and a reaction to the British neglect of education in the country, it would function as a significant instrument for national intellectual development. Initially, the university relied predominantly on foreign scholars and was the subject of many attempts by foreign governments to influence appointments (Reid 1991, pp. 22–​26). The creation of the public Egyptian University in 1925 would mark a significant elevation in its status as an educational institution. From its position as the first modern state university in Egypt, it would become a central institutional site of cultural production and an engine of Egyptian intellectual life in the discipline of history and across the arts more generally. With the subsequent expansion of the university system, it would serve as a model for later universities. The other significant driver in the development of a modern historical scholarship was the opportunity for Egyptian students to undertake study abroad. From 1826, the year of the first formal student mission to Europe, the experience to study abroad had been an important route in the training of many future Egyptian bureaucrats, state officials, educators and academics. Most often as postgraduate study, this practice was continued into the 20th century by the Ministry of Education and other government departments in relevant fields, as well as being taken up by self-​funded individuals. Students of history were most often sent to British universities, such as University of Liverpool, University of London and University of Birmingham, while a minority went to France and elsewhere. The time abroad exposed Egyptian students to the culture of European academic institutions, consolidated their language skills and provided them with the opportunity to form personal and professional connections and, in time, return 68

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to Egypt to take up positions as teachers and practising historians. This programme would continue until the 1952 Revolution after which time history students were less favoured for funding than those in other disciplines.

The royalist school From the beginning of the 1920s, these different state-​sponsored elements would form the basis of a modern historical scholarship. The initiative, however, would be taken up by the newly enthroned King Fu’ad who employed the resources of the palace and his personal influence to promote a school of history dedicated to his rule and that of his ancestors. The so-​called royalist school would engage the talents of foreign scholars and local officials to produce a large number of diplomatic histories and collections of documents, such as consular correspondence, for publication. The scholars were predominantly French and Italian, but British and American historians also participated. Foremost among the group was Angelo Sammarco, an Italian scholar and librarian of Abdin Palace, who authored and edited a large number of works dedicated to 19th century Egypt as well as to the contribution of Italians to Egyptian history (Sammarco 1937a, 1937b; Di-​Capua 2009, pp. 118–​119). George Douin and Edouard Driault produced edited volumes of consular correspondence and diplomatic reports, particularly drawn from Italian and French state archives. Others specialised in royal biographies. Henry Dodwell, professor of history at the University of London, wrote a glowing account of the rule of Muhammad Ali (Dodwell 1931), while Pierre Crabitès, an American judge of the Mixed Courts, produced a biography of Ibrahim and a strong defence of Khedive Ismail (Crabitès 1933, 1935). Collaborative volumes bringing together the work of Egyptian officials and European scholars were also a favoured format. L’Egypte—​a historical and geographical survey of the country that published in 1926 on the occasion of the International Congress of Navigation in Cairo—​brought together the contributions of Egyptian officials (Yusuf Qattawi 1926), while the Precis de l’histoire d’Egypte (Divers Historiens, 1932–​1933), a four-​volume collected work of European scholars, foreshadowed the most ambitious work.This was Histoire de la nation égyptienne, a grand survey of Egyptian history that covered the period from ancient times until 1937 in seven large-​format volumes (Hanotaux 1931–​1940). Edited by Gabriel Hanotaux, a former French Foreign Minister, it comprised the works of French scholars and officials who collectively emphasised the wise rule of the royal family and was marked by an effusive dedication to Fu’ad himself (Gorman 2003, pp. 15–​22). Its tone and its use of French language were clearly designed for a specific audience.

The academic tradition The perspective and style of historical scholarship represented by the royalist school would be challenged in time by an academic tradition that was emerging from the Egyptian university system. The first Egyptian modern historian appointed at the Egyptian University and a central figure in this process was Muhammad Shafiq Ghurbal. Born in Alexandria in 1894, Ghurbal had completed his studies at the Higher Teachers College in Cairo in 1915 then had been awarded a government scholarship to study at the University of Liverpool, where he graduated in 1919. He soon returned to Britain to undertake further study at the University of London where he obtained his Master of Arts (MA) under the supervision of Arnold Toynbee. The fruit of this work, a study of Muhammad Ali published in English in 1928 (Ghurbal 1928), would establish his credentials in the field and serve as an important basis for his appointment at the Egyptian University in October the following year. In 1935, his promotion as the first Egyptian professor 69

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of modern history to replace an English historian of Europe signalled the recognition of both Ghurbal’s standing and that of modern Egyptian history as a subject. Over the next 20 years and more, Ghurbal would exercise an important influence as a teacher, supervising students such as Ahmad al-​Hitta and ‘Ali al-​Jiritli who would produce pioneering studies on Egyptian agriculture and industry. Ghurbal’s own list of publications was relatively modest, but his career as a university administrator and an advisor in the Ministry of Education spoke a great deal about a broader professional and political involvement (Gorman 2003, pp.  22–​24; Choueiri 1989, pp. 65–​67). Shafiq Ghurbal was only one of a number of this first generation of Egyptian modern historians. Others included Muhammad Rif ‘at, also a graduate of the University of Liverpool during the First World War, who took up a history post at the Higher Teachers College on his return to Egypt. The author of an Egyptian history textbook that appeared in 1920, significantly written in Arabic, he later taught at the University of Alexandria but arguably had greater influence in education policy, ultimately serving as the Minister of Education in 1952 (Gorman 2003, pp. 22–​23). A third figure, Muhammad Sabri, a student at the Sorbonne where he obtained his doctorate in 1924, made an important contribution to the field of modern history during the interwar period. However, his decision to publish in French during much of his career inevitably limited his Egyptian readership, while his irregular academic career probably limited his influence (Gorman 2003, pp.  25–​6). Despite these different profiles, collectively these three figures would play a crucial role in the Egyptianisation of the field (Gorman 2003, pp. 22–​28). In the 1940s, university education in Egypt was expanding with the establishment of the universities of Alexandria (1942) and Ain Shams (1949) creating corresponding opportunities for professional historians. During the 1950s and the 1960s, Cairo University (formerly Fu’ad I University and originally the Egyptian University) produced history graduates working under Ghurbal, Fu’ad Shukri and later Muhammad Anis. However, Ain Shams University would be more pioneering in the historical scholarship it produced. Its leading figure was Ahmad Izzat ‘Abd al-​Karim, a historian of Egyptian education who had studied at Cairo University during the 1930s where he obtained his doctorate. From his initial appointment at Ain Shams as an Associate Professor in 1950 until his retirement as Rector some 20 years later, ‘Abd al-​Karim would oversee a generation and more of historians, all influenced by his commitment to sound historiographical technique but also reflecting in their choice of topics the influence of the political changes occurring in Egypt at the time (Contu 1985). At the weekly research seminar ‘Abd al-​Karim first organised in 1955, papers were presented on hitherto neglected areas of research, such as the labour movement in Egypt, landownership and the peasantry, as well as Arab history (A’da’ al-​Siminar 1976). These subjects were taken up in masters and doctoral studies by future historians such as Ra’uf ‘Abbas, ‘Asim al-​Disuqi, ‘Ali Barakat and others who produced important studies through the impressive use of primary sources that opened up new areas of research (Gran 1978; Abbas 1967).

Beyond the academy The universities were not the only places in which historical scholarship was being produced. Some practitioners outside the academy were playing a pioneering role in applying ideas later taken by their academic counterparts. In the 19th century, this function had been performed in different ways by religious scholars, such as ‘Abd al-​Rahman al-​Jabarti, and later by the emerging profession of journalism by Jirji Zaydan and others (Crabbs 1984, pp. 43–​ 66, 191–​195). In the 20th century, political activists and other socially engaged intellectuals 70

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would come to play a similar role. Foremost among these “amateur” ’ historians was ‘Abd al-​Rahman al-​Rafi‘i, a long-​standing member of the Watani Party who maintained a lifelong commitment to the nationalist cause. Born in Cairo in 1889 and a lawyer by training, al-​Rafi‘i was imprisoned for nationalist activity during the First World War. He enjoyed a minor career as a politician, being elected to parliament in 1924, and later to the Senate before briefly serving as a minister in 1949. However, he is better known for his work as a historian and a pioneer of the national school, a project which he began in the late 1920s and which would occupy him for the next 30 years. Beginning with a two-​volume history of Egypt from Mamluk times to the rise of Muhammad Ali, al-​Rafi‘i went on to produce a more expansive multi-​volume account of Egyptian history from the beginning of the 19th century. Separate monographs framed around biographies of Muhammad Ali, Mustafa Kamil and Muhammad Farid supported the national narrative until 1919. Thereafter volumes dedicated to the 1919 Revolution, the interwar period and the 1952 Revolution and its aftermath followed. Al-​Rafi‘i’s work broke new ground by focusing on the rise of the nationalist movement in leading the struggle against the British and embodying the desire for political independence rather than focusing on the deeds of its ruling dynasty. While he himself gave more prominence to the role of the Watani Party—​more mainstream and academic versions of the nationalist narrative would give greater credit to the Wafd, evident initially in the early work of ‘Abd al-​’Azim Ramadan (Meijer 1985; Ramadan 1968, 1973; Gorman 2003, pp. 115–​122)—​al-​ Rafi‘i nevertheless deserves credit for recasting the historiographical landscape. His work was also notable because he took up a focus on modern and contemporary history well before his institutional colleagues. With the exception of Muhammad Sabri’s early work on the 1919 Revolution, which in any case had been written in French and very soon after the events, academic historians were slow to take up the 20th century Egyptian history as a subject of study. While perhaps not the most technically sophisticated of historians, al-​Rafi‘i nevertheless used the freedom outside of the academy to pioneer a historical interpretation that still informs our understanding of the period, an achievement that was recognised with his award of the State Prize for Social Sciences in 1960 near the end of a life of prodigious activity (Gorman 2003, pp. 84–​88; see also Di-​Capua 2004). The innovative, even vanguard, role that historians working outside of the academy could play in modern Egyptian scholarship was also evident in the application of Marxist thought, and more particularly of historical materialism, to national history. Socialism as an ideology had first enjoyed some influence in Egypt before the First World War when it was popularised by thinkers such as Salama Musa and Shibli Shumayyil. However, it was not until the 1950s, and then still outside of the academy, that it came to be applied explicitly in modern Egyptian histories in a way that challenged the (by then) dominant liberal nationalist narrative. In the works of communist activists Ibrahim ‘Amr (1957, 1958), Shuhdi ‘Atiyya al-​Shafi‘i (1957) and Fawzi Girgis (1958), historical analyses using a Marxist framework were published that engaged with the feudal nature of Egyptian society, the dynamics of imperial rule in Egypt, and the relationship between the nationalist, anti-​colonial and class struggles (Beinin 1987). From the early 1960s, these ideas would come to exercise a considerable influence on some academic historians, being particularly championed by Muhammad Anis at Cairo University in the press and elsewhere (Crabbs 1975, pp.  393–​394). They were also taken up in different ways by younger historians who examined the economic aspects of British rule and reconfigured the leadership of the national struggle to include the communist movement (Gorman 2003, pp. 122–​131). The stronghold of Marxist historiography, however, remained outside of the academy and was most evident in the works of writers such as Rif‘at al-​Sa‘id, communist militant, journalist and politician (al-​Sa‘id 1987–​89; Gorman 2003, pp. 94–​95). By the 1970s and the 1980s, the social 71

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school, a broad synthesis of the national and socialist school, would become the dominant framework within history departments.

State authority and historical scholarship The difference between these schools of interpretation was partly about the way in which the Egyptian state and national community were defined, and the mechanisms of historical change explained. However, these not only reflected international and local understandings of intellectual currents but also offered a discursive vocabulary for political legitimation. For this reason the role played by political activists in introducing new interpretations to Egyptian history points to the significance of historical scholarship as a political discourse and resource. In this contest to create and propagate different interpretations of the national history, the state and state actors have played a key role. In the interwar period, Fu’ad had employed the services of loyal functionaries and foreign scholars, and the prestige of learned societies, to support historical work that promoted the standing of the ruling dynasty and of himself. With the overthrow of the monarchy in 1952, the revolutionary Egyptian government sought to use history as a means of reinforcing its own legitimacy. In his Philosophy of the Revolution published in 1953, Nasser had called on historians to research the July Revolution and this theme would be taken up in fuller measure in the National Charter of 1962 (Gorman 2003, pp. 54, 57). Rather than employing the services of foreign scholars as Fu’ad had done, the Nasser regime adopted a more institutional approach that drew on the resources of the state bureaucracy, particularly the newly created Ministry of Culture, the formulation of education policy and an active commitment to publication. Moreover, the aim was not simply to propagate a crude official view, although at times this was certainly the case, but rather to win over elements within the academy and intelligentsia in promoting particular patterns of historical interpretation. The establishment of educational institutes dedicated to specific elements of state policy was one way of prosecuting this policy. Since the creation of the Arab League in 1945, Egypt had increasingly embraced the Arab dimension of its identity and in an increasingly radical form. In 1953 the Institute of Higher Arabic Studies was set up in Cairo by the Arab League, headed by Arab nationalist and educator Sati‘ al-​Husri to provide a programme of studies and research environment dedicated to Arab nationalism (Gorman 2003, pp. 62–​63). Three years later, al-​ Husri stepped down to be succeeded by Shafiq Ghurbal as the director of the Institute. This Arab line remained dominant during the 1960s in school and university curricula and a proliferation of textbooks were produced to cater to the demand. The Institute of African Studies at Cairo University represented another academic initiative that aligned with political priorities. Originally established as the Institute of Sudanese Studies in 1947 as an indication of Egyptian aspirations towards its southern neighbour, its reconfiguration and rebranding in 1955 spoke of wider Egyptian ambitions for the continent at large (Gorman 2003, p. 64).The Higher Institute of Socialist Studies was yet another creation set up in the mid-​1960s, which in like manner would seek to provide an academic setting for the study and research of the brand of socialism embraced by the regime after 1962 (Gorman 2003, p. 65). Less as an educational institution and more as a think tank, the Centre for Political and Strategic Studies (CPSS) at al-​Ahram formed following the defeat of Egypt in the 1967 War was originally given a policy role. In time it would also seek to educate the public and its history unit would be responsible for publishing a series of studies with a national focus, notably anniversary works on the 1919 Revolution and 1952 Revolution, as well as a number of significant monographs (Gorman 2003, pp. 66–​67). These institutional and academic frameworks were dedicated to nurturing a milieu focused on aspects of international and domestic policy that employed for the most part established 72

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academic historians to take on the teaching and research tasks. Other government initiatives demonstrated more specific attempts to forge an official national history. In early 1957, the Minister of Culture, Fathi Radwan, announced plans to rewrite Egyptian history although this seems not to have gone ahead (Gorman 2003, p. 56). However, in 1962 as part of the manifesto laying down a new framework for government policy, the National Charter presented an account of the history of Egypt from ancient until modern times written from the people’s perspective in which the army as a “tool of the popular will” had taken power in 1952 (Gorman 2003, pp. 56–​57). The following year (1963), the Ministry of Culture announced the formation of a project to rewrite modern Egyptian history. A committee comprising 20 academics under the direction of the minister was delegated with the task to be carried out along “objective lines” to engage with issues that historians had thus far neglected, such as feudalism, national and foreign capitalism and the working class. Among historians themselves the project received a mixed response. Some saw the opportunity to bring a socialist interpretation to modern Egyptian history as a means of fostering a real engagement of the universities with society and revolution, while others feared the implications of an official national history. In a series of meetings held at the Egyptian Association for Historical Studies in 1965, distinguished members of the academic profession and others came together to discuss different aspects of Egyptian history within the context of this project. However, despite much discussion, little progress was made in pursuing this grand vision and the attempt to herd academic historians towards a collective national view was ultimately dropped (Gorman 2003, pp. 57–​59; Crabbs 1975, pp. 395–​397). Ten years later in October 1975, now under a different president, another plan was announced, this time to produce a history of the July 1952 Revolution. Headed by Vice President Husni Mubarak, a sign of its political significance, the committee constituted a range of politicians, military officers and academics. From the last category, only two modern historians were included: Ahmad Izzat ‘Abd al-​Karim, now retired but the senior figure in the field, and Gamal Zakariyya, a Gulf specialist. In the months and years that followed, the activities of the committee were regularly reported in the press, setting out details of the formation of various sub-​committees, the proposed collection of written materials and the schedule of interviews of the participants in historic events. Over time the initial suspicions of some that the purpose of the committee was an attempt to block independent analysis of the Revolution as well as a means of discrediting Nasser and to ensure that Sadat was favourably represented seemed confirmed. ‘Abd al-​Karim himself withdrew from the committee and, with Mubarak’s elevation to the presidency, its activities were sidelined.The committee was ultimately dissolved in 1985 and the hopes held for at least a systematic collection of relevant historical documents disappointed (Gorman 2003, pp. 67–​70).

A gendered perspective By the 1980s, the study of modern Egyptian history was well established within the history departments of many Egyptian universities. Its primary focus was the emergence of the national community and the Egyptian state, even if this was constructed in different ways and examined through different political and socio-​economic frameworks. With few exceptions, academic historians were from middle and lower middle-​class backgrounds, male, and, particularly in the field of modern history, of Muslim background. The profile said something about the character and predilections of academic history and its practitioners.1 The gendered character of the profession owed much to the legacy of female education in Egypt. Educational opportunities for girls had long lagged behind those for boys, with 73

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corresponding consequences for literacy and professional advancement. Even as late as 1952, female literacy stood at only 14%, still well behind its male equivalent (39%) (Reid 1991, p. 113). Places in higher education were even more limited.Women were not fully able to enrol at the Egyptian University until 1929 and the doors of the Dar al-​Ulum were not open to them until 1953 and at al-​Azhar not until 1962. However, the incorporation of the Women’s Training College into Ain Shams University as the Women’s College (Kulliyat al-​Banat) in 1956 had marked an important step in affording some access to university education. The first woman to be appointed to an academic history post in Egypt was Zayna Ismat Rashid, who after graduating from the University of Liverpool took up a position at Ain Shams in 1950. Women were studying in greater numbers during the 1950s and the 1960s, but even in the 1980s they had made few inroads into the public Egyptian university system as working academics (Gorman 2003, pp. 36–​39). In time the relative absence of women in history departments and the neglect of women as a historical subject provoked a response from outside of academic history.2 The establishment of the Women and Memory Forum in 1995 represented an important advance in seeking to represent the voice of women in Egyptian history. Co-​founded by Dr Hoda Elsadda, later a professor of literature at Cairo University, it called for a multidisciplinary forum for a critique of the male perspective on history and an exploration of new methodologies and frameworks to capture the historical female presence (Gorman 2003, p. 107). It remains active in publication and maintains a library, documentary centre and oral archive (Women and Memory Forum). At the end of the 20th century the academic historian stood on a sound professional if not financial basis. For years the Egyptian Association (originally Royal Association) for Historical Studies, originally founded by Shafiq Ghurbal in 1945 under the auspices of the Ministry of Education, had served as a venue for its members to meet and debate the issues of the field.The Association owed something to the tradition of the older learned societies, although it was more open in its membership, but over time it adopted a more academic profile, holding conferences and promoting its scholarship through the Egyptian Historical Journal (al-​Majalla al-​Tarikhiyya al-​Misriyya). For long, centrally located in rather shabby rooms in Bustan St, near Midan Tal’at Harb, it suffered from chronic financial difficulties, surviving only through an annual Ministry of Culture grant and its own fundraising. Its relocation to a new purpose-​built building in Madinat Nasr in 2001 due to a significant donation from Shaykh Sultan of Dubai seemed to signal a new phase of activity (Gorman 2003, pp. 41–​42).

The constraint of the archive The interplay between state authority and academic history most evident during the Nasser era continued to operate thereafter, although with less public drama. Historical scholarship functioned not only as an academic medium but also as a discourse of political legitimation. At an international conference held in Cairo in the summer of 1987, titled “Commitment and Objectivity in Contemporary Egyptian Historiography”, a large number of Egyptian and foreign scholars explored the tension between scholarly method and political perspective and influence (Abdalla 1988). In the pages of the press, the public appetite for history remained undiminished. A long-​ running series, Al-​Ahram: A Diwan of Contemporary Life, authored by Yunan Labib Rizq and based on material drawn from al-​Ahram appeared in Arabic and English for a number of years. Regular historical features were published in party publications, such as al-​Wafd, al-​Ahali and the Coptic Watani, the last characteristically giving great emphasis to the national unity of the 1919 Revolution across national spectrum. 74

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However, one of the most pervasive, if not mundane, issues that has complicated the relationship between state authority and the working historian has been the matter of access to the national archives. Since at least the 1820s when Muhammad Ali decided to establish a repository of records in the Citadel, the state has recognised the importance of maintaining an official record to document its decisions and actions. From that time on, it has sought to exercise its control over these historical materials to facilitate or hinder the work of historians. A hundred years later, his descendant King Fu’ad allowed access to official state papers to historians of the royalist school, while those not so favoured were barred from such privileges (Gorman 2003, pp. 20, 74). The reorganisation of the archives in Abdin Palace in 1932 was motivated by a similar desire to promote scholarship sympathetic to the royal dynasty (Di-​Capua 2009, pp. 91–​140). The importance of maintaining a national archive was soon recognised by the republican regime which passed a law in 1954 setting up the National Archive (Dar al-​Watha’iq) on a new basis and renewing the state commitment to the collection and maintenance of documents from all periods (Di-​Capua 2009, p. 294). In the following years as the collection of both books and archives expanded, the original site of the Dar al-​Kutub at Bab al-​Khalq was found to be inadequate and was moved to a new site on the Corniche which opened in 1971. Yet despite its claim to making the national archives available to researchers, the situation for working historians has been far from satisfactory. Part of this has undoubtedly been the result of the complicated nature of the state bureaucracy and the separate arms of the administration. While the National Archives serve as the main repository, other important records are held at Abdin Palace, in the Citadel at the Dar al-​Mahfuzat al-​ʿUmumiyya (Mestyan 2014) and other places. Material relating to post-​1952 matters has remained largely unavailable and has constituted a serious obstacle to historians of the period, a state of affairs bewailed by Ra’uf ‘Abbas in his introduction to a collected edition marking the 40th anniversary of the Revolution (Abbas 1992, pp. 6–​7; Gorman 2003, p. 76). Concern for the safety and access to national historical records has not only applied to government papers. The preservation and publication of the personal papers and memoirs of notable Egyptian figures have also been regarded as an important part of maintaining the national cultural legacy. In the summer of 1962, this issue was taken up by Professors Muhammad Anis and Ahmad Abd al-​Rahim Mustafa who lobbied the Ministry of Culture on the subject of the ownership of the private papers of former national figures, such as Sa‘d Zaghlul and ‘Abd al-​Rahman Fahmi. The campaign resulted in the establishment of the Centre of Documents and Contemporary History of Egypt within the Ministry of Culture, entrusted with the mission to dedicate itself to the publication of documents on pre-​1952 history as well as to provide a research environment for research students (Gorman 2003, pp. 74–​75).

Documenting the January Revolution The eruption of the January 2011 Revolution demonstrated once again that the framing of national history and the access to archival material remain an ongoing issue for historians and their work. Sensing the historical nature of the events, Muhammad Sabir ‘Arab, the head of the National Archives at the time, quickly sounded out interested parties regarding the viability of forming a group of specialists entrusted with the collection of documents about the January Revolution. Established in March 2011, the committee, later known as the Revolution’s Documentation Committee, brought together a number of historians, political scientists and other specialists, who subsequently set up a series of steering committees. Rather than write a 75

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history of the events, the Committee’s stated aim was to collect relevant materials from a wide range of political actors, including oral testimonies, press sources, non-​government organisations and social media, and make them available online to all (Mourad 2011). The origins of the project once again pointed to the critical position of the national archives as a repository of historical materials and the persistent concern of historians and other researchers about accessibility to its holdings. During the turbulent period between 2011 and 2014, the issue of the post of the director of the National Archives itself took on aspects of the political struggle. When in June 2013 the appointment of Dr Khaled Fahmy, Professor of Arabic literature at Minufiyya University and supporter of the Muslim Brotherhood, was announced, it provoked a wave of protest and alarm about the safety and the integrity of the national historical record. Concerns were raised by (another) Professor Khaled Fahmy of the American University in Cairo and others that the security services files regarding the alleged crimes of the Muslim Brotherhood might be at risk (Fahmy 2013b). Indeed, such was the extent of the fears expressed about the collection that there were calls for the military to take over the administration of the archives, a view that mirrored the political scene at large (Ahram Online 2013). The political instability of the post-​Mubarak era also made clear the need to ensure the physical protection of the intellectual heritage of the country. This was dramatically illustrated with the burning of the library of the Institut d’Egypte in January 2012 during political disturbances, which resulted in the loss of a considerable part of the collection of books and records of one of Egypt’s great learned societies (Ahram Online and MENA 2012). In January 2014, a bomb placed at the central police station caused considerable damage to the National Library and Archives at Bab al-​Khalq and again emphasised the need for adequate protection (El-​Aref  2014). The status of the national archive collection continues to be an issue of concern for both local and foreign historians and researchers. In a forthright criticism of the prevailing culture of the National Archives that he saw as obsessed with the security of the material before anything else, Khaled Fahmy (American University in Cairo) appealed in the press that the body transform itself into a place for research and the generation of knowledge (Fahmy 2013a). This concern with security and the chronic underfunding of the National Archives, as compared to the lavish financial support available to the Bibliotheca Alexandrina (Ali 2012), has without doubt seriously diminished its value to historians and hindered much historical research.

Conclusion The development of historical scholarship and production of historical knowledge in Egypt during the long 20th century have been the product of a confluence of intellectual trends, institutional cultures and political circumstances. Academic historians themselves have been formed by their intellectual environment and the institutional requirements of the university. Non-​ professional historians have complemented and at times inspired their professional colleagues in bringing broader perspectives and interests to their work. Both groups have reflected political and social trends within society. State authority has played a significant but not always dominant role in determining the character of historical scholarship through its support of educational and cultural institutions and in regulating access to historical materials, explicitly or by default, for researchers and historians.This complex intellectual, social and political matrix in which the production of historical knowledge occurs will continue to determine contested interpretations of the past into the future.

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Notes 1 Studies on the modern history of the Coptic community and of Muslim–​Christian relations have noticeably not been taken up by university historians but left to those working outside of the universities, such as Tariq al-​Bishri (al-​Bishri 1982; see also Gorman 2003, pp. 150–​53). 2 The pioneering work of Latifah Muhammad Salim (1984) and Amal al-​Subkhi (1986), both junior professors in provincial universities, should be noted here (Gorman 2003, p. 111).

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Anthony Gorman Fahmy, Khaled (2013b). “Who Is Afraid of the National Archives?”, 16 June. http://​english.ahram.org.eg/​ News/​74092.aspx [accessed 23 April 2020] Ghorbal [Ghurbal], Shafik (1928). The Beginnings of the Egyptian Question and the Rise of Mehemet Ali. London: George Routledge. Gorman,Anthony (2003). Historians, State and Politics in Twentieth Century Egypt. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Gran, Peter (1978). “Modern Trends in Egyptian Historiography: A Review Article”, International Journal of Middle East Studies 9(3), 367–​371. Hanotaux, Gabriel (ed.) (1931–​1940). Histoire de la nation égyptienne. 7 vols., Paris: Libraire Plon. al-​Hitta, Ahmad (1950). Tarikh al-​zira‘a al-​misriyya fi ‘ahd Muhammad ‘Ali al-​kabir. Cairo: Dar al-​ma’arif. al-​Jabarti, ‘Abd al-​Rahman (n.d.). ‘Aja’ib al-​athar fi al-​tarajim wa’l-​akhbar. 3 vols., Beirut: Dar al-​faris. Jirjis, Fawzi (1958). Dirasat fi tarikh misr al-​siyasi, mundhu al-​‘asr al-​mamluki. Cairo: al-​Dar al-​misriyya. Kalmbach, Hilary (2014). “Training Teachers How to Teach: Transnational Exchange and the Introduction of Social-​Scientific Pedagogy in 1890s Egypt’, in Marilyn Booth and Anthony Gorman (eds.), The Long 1890s in Egypt: Colonial Quiescence, Subterranean Resistance. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 87–​116. Meijer, Roel (1985). ‘Contemporary Egyptian Historiography of the Period 1936–​1942: A Study of Its Scientific and Political Character’. MA thesis, University of Amsterdam. Mestyan, Adam (2014). “Dar al-​Mahfuzat al-​‘Umumiyya (Cairo)”, HAZINE, 3 March. http://​hazine.info/​ 2014/​03/​03/​daralmahfuzat/​ [accessed 24 April 2020] Mourad, Mary (2011). “We Will Document Egypt’s Revolution, Not Dictate the Story: AUC Professor”, 28 May. http://​english.ahram.org.eg/​News/​13026.aspx [accessed 23 April 2020] Mubarak, ‘Ali (1889/​1890). Al-​Khitat al-​tawfiqiyya al-​jadida li-​misr al-​qahirah wa muduniha wa biladiha al-​ qadima wa’l-​mashhura. 20 vols., Bulaq, 1306 AH. Qattawi,Yusuf [Cattaui Pacha, Joseph] (ed.) (1926). L’Égypte, Aperçu historique et géographique gouvernement et institutions vie économique et sociale. Cairo: L’Institut Français. al-​Rafi‘i, ‘Abd al-​Rahman (1939). Mustafa Kamil, ba‘th al-​haraka al-​wataniyya. Cairo: Matba‘at al-​sharq. al-​Rafi‘i, ‘Abd al-​Rahman (1941). Muhammad Farid, ramz al-​ikhlas wa’l-​tadhiyya, tarikh misr al-​qawmi min sanat 1908 ila sanat 1919. Cairo: Maktaba Mustafa al-​Halabi. al-​Rafi‘i, ‘Abd al-​Rahman (1947–​1951). Fi ‘aqab al-​thawra al-​misriyya. 3  vols., Cairo:  Maktaba al-​nahda al-​misriyya. al-​Rafi‘i,‘Abd al-​Rahman (1957). Muqaddamat thawrat 23 yuliu 1952. Cairo: Maktabat al-​nahda al-​misriyya. al-​Rafi‘i, ‘Abd al-​Rahman (1959). Thawrat 23 yuliu 1952 –​tarikhna al-​qawmi fi sabi‘ sanawat 1952—​1959. Cairo: Maktabat al-​nahda al-​misriyya. al-​Rafi‘i, ‘Abd al-​Rahman (1987). Thawrat 1919, tarikh misr al-​qawmi 1914–​1921, 4th ed. Cairo:  Dar al-​ma‘arif. Ramadan,‘Abd al-​’Azim (1968). Tatawwur al-haraka al-wataniyya fi misr 1918–​36. Cairo: Dar al-​katib al-​‘arabi. Ramadan, ‘Abd al-​’Azim. (1973). Tatawwur al-haraka al-wataniyya fi misr mundhu ibram mu‘ahada 1936 ila nihaya al-harb al-‘alamiyya al-thaniyya. Beirut: al-​Watan al-​‘arabi. Reid, Donald M. (1991). Cairo University and the Making of Modern Egypt. Cairo: AUC Press. Reid, Donald M. (1993). “The Egyptian Geographical Society:  From Foreign Laymen’s Society to Indigenous Professional Association”, Poetics Today 14(3), 539–​572. Rifaat [Rif‘at] Bey, Muhammad (1947). The Awakening of Modern Egypt. London: Longmans, Green. Sabry, M. [Muhammad Sabri] (1919–​1921). La Revolution égyptienne. 2 vols., Paris: Librairie J. Vrin. al-​Sa‘id, Rif‘at (1987–​1989), Tarikh al-​haraka al-​shuyu‘iyya al-​misriyya, 1900–​1940. 5 vols., Cairo: Shirkat al-​amal. Salim, Latifah Muhammad (1984). Al-​Mar’a al-​misriyya wa al-​taghyir al-​ijtima‘i 1919–​1945. Cairo: al-​Hay’a al-​misriyya al-​‘ama li’l-​kitab. Sammarco, Angelo (1937a). Gli Italiani in Egitto:  Il contribuo italiano nella formazione dell’Egitto moderno. Alexandria: Angela Procaccia. Sammarco, Angelo (1937b). Le règne du Khédive Ismaïl de 1863 à 1875. Cairo: Institut français d'archéologie orientale. al-​Shafi‘i, Shuhdi ‘Atiya (1957). Tatawwur al-​haraka al-​wataniyya al-​misriyya 1882–​1956. Cairo: Dar Shuhdi. Sharubim, Mikha’il (1898–​1900). Al-​Kafi fi al-​tarikh misr al-​qadim wa’l-​hadith. 4 vols., Bulaq: al-​Matba’at al-​kubra al-​amiriyya. al-​Subkhi, Amal Kamil Bayumi (1986). Al-​Haraka al-​nisa’iyya fi misr ma bayna al-​thawratayn 1919 wa 1952. Cairo: al-​Hay’a al-​misriyya al-​‘ama li’l-​kitab. Women and Memory Forum, www.wmf.org.eg/​en/​ [accessed 1 May 2020]

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PART II

Politics

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INTRODUCTION The evolution of military rule in Egypt Sarah Smierciak

The 2013 coup catapulted the military to the fore of Egyptian politics in a manner not seen since the last successful military takeover in 1952. For many decades before 2013, the armed forces’ political engagement had been, instead, as understated as it was ubiquitous. Indeed, since the founding of the republic 60 years prior, politics and the military have been deeply intertwined—​the latter dancing between the background and the foreground, but always muscularly present. Contemporary politics in Egypt cannot be disentangled from the 1952 anticolonial movement led by the Free Officers—​the clandestine group of junior and mid-​ranking officers who overthrew the British-​backed monarchy. Their seizure of power ushered in a political system underpinned by the Egyptian Armed Forces (EAF) that persists today. With the exception of the brief post-​2011experiment with democracy, all of Egypt’s presidents have stemmed from the military, and each executive has relied heavily on a hand-​picked social base within the EAF for support. Executive decisions made by all of Egypt’s presidents, from Mohammed Naguib to Mohammed Morsi and Abdel Fattah al Sisi, have taken into account the threat of a disgruntled military brass (although some more successfully than others); and alongside any action that might have worked against the favor of senior officers, came a well-​planned trade-​ off—​often in the form of economic incentives and a growing portfolio of entitlements. This constant bargaining between president and military has shaped the foundation of Egypt’s politics, and institutions, since the start of the nominal republic in 1953. Gamal Abdel Nasser began the trend of appointing officers to high-​ranking civilian posts within the government, and set the precedent of a one-​party dominant state alongside an empowered Ministry of Interior to counter the military’s influence, which would continue until 2011. Anwar el Sadat went to great lengths to rein in the political powers of the military, and in the process further inflated the civilian security apparatus, planted the seeds of Military Inc., and midwifed both gangs of crony capitalists as well as the infitah, or “economic opening,” they exploited. Hosni Mubarak amplified Sadat’s approach to balancing power—​increasing the capabilities and purview of the civilian security forces, exponentially expanding entitlements for the military, and cultivating his own set of businessmen cronies. Since Abdel Fattah al Sisi assumed the presidency in 2014, the militarization of politics has become more pronounced than any time in the last half century. This domination of the political sphere has spread like a virus (always present, but relatively dormant) into the state’s institutional foundations—​into the economic, legal and traditionally civilian bureaucratic arenas. 81

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To better understand the roots of this state of affairs, the following introduction to contemporary politics in Egypt traces the historical evolution of military rule from 1952 to the 2011 uprising and its aftermath, outlining the causes and consequences of the military’s permeation throughout Egyptian politics and beyond.

Nasser and the Free Officers The militarization of Egyptian politics after the Free Officers’ 1952 coup was not inevitable. Egypt’s first president, Major General Mohammed Naguib, had every intention of sending the military back to the barracks and returning the country to civilian rule. A hero of the 1948 war in Palestine, Naguib was selected by the Free Officers to act as their nominal leader in the hope that the high-​ranking 51-​year-​old would provide legitimacy for the young officers who had seized power. The relatively conservative leader staffed his cabinet with civilians and, unlike Nasser and his faction within the military, showed little desire to eliminate existing political groups (Harb, 2003). Naguib had his own supporters within the military who stood behind this more inclusive approach to defining Egypt’s newfound independence—​one that backed the creation of a multi-​party democracy.

Naguib and Nasser: 1952–​1954 This schism between Naguib and Nasser—​the latter the founder and actual leader of the Free Officers—​led to a power struggle that served as the first stepping stone to the militarization of Egyptian politics. Immediately following the overthrow of King Farouq in 1952, Nasser and his fellow Free Officer leaders formed a Revolutionary Command Council (RCC) with 14 members to serve as an interim government of sorts. As de facto leader of the military junta, Nasser forcibly retired or otherwise sidelined thousands of military officers who either disagreed with his vision for a military-​led revolutionary regime, or perhaps agreed too strongly and harbored their own political ambitions. This latter group was often the target of “sugarcoated purges,” whereby Nasser sent potential political competition to work instead as his underlings in the state bureaucracy (Kandil, 2012, p. 16). On the civilian front, the RCC issued Law No. 179 of 1953, which dissolved all political parties and replaced them with a single platform, the Liberation Rally (LR) (Mansfield, 1973, p.  673). Nasser became self-appointed Secretary General of the LR, and used the body to both “fill the political vacuum” (Harb, 2003, p. 277) and consolidate a support base to counter Naguib. The monarchy died its official death in June 1953, and the republic was born, with Naguib as Egypt’s first president. Nasser simultaneously set about grooming a “security coterie out of his most loyal lieutenants” (Kandil, 2012, p. 41). He used his first official post as Minister of Interior in June 1953 to study the components of the civilian security apparatus in order to improve and reorient it to serve the maintenance of his envisioned regime. After a brief tenure, Nasser passed his position on to a trusted fellow RCC member, Zakariyya Muhieddin, who also served as director of the Military Intelligence Department (MID). Muhieddin set about creating or redefining the three security and surveillance organizations that would form the “mainstay of Egypt’s new political order,” (ibid, p. 20), or Nasser’s imminent regime. The new spy chief established the General Investigations Directorate (GID)1 with the aim of surveilling political dissent; created the “first civilian intelligence agency,” the General Intelligence Service (GIS), with the help of select MID officers; and laid the groundwork for the President’s Bureau of Information (PBI), which served as the president’s personal intelligence collecting organization (ibid). 82

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The struggle between the factions of Nasser and Naguib—​the de facto and de jure leaders of Egypt’s new order—​came to a head in the March 1954 Crisis. On February 25, Naguib tendered his resignation in response to the RCC’s unconcealed efforts to exclude him from decision-​making and relegate him to the role of titular ruler. The cavalry, Naguib’s main support base within the military, staged a mutiny in opposition to his resignation. After a standoff between military factions supporting Naguib on one side and Nasser on the other, the latter prevailed and the RCC announced Naguib’s removal. The RCC, however, had miscalculated the level of popular support their intended puppet ruler managed to accumulate, particularly with the formidable Muslim Brotherhood, and massive protests erupted in the streets demanding Naguib’s return. The protests succeeded in the short term, Naguib was reinstated as president, and his supporters in the cavalry demanded a full military withdrawal from politics (ibid, pp. 32–​35). However, as Kandil writes, paraphrasing the leader of the cavalry mutiny, Ahmed al-​ Ansari, the “cavalrymen underestimated the ferocity of the new security elite who stood to lose from democracy; they were the ones who paved the road to authoritarianism…” (ibid, p.  34). In a clever counterattack, the RCC killed the prospect of democracy through an overdose of it in the form of the March 25 decrees. The motive behind the decrees—​which not only reinstated parties of the ancien régime, but also banned Free Officers from participating in impending elections—​could scarcely be interpreted as anything other than a provocation. Indeed, as the alleged architect of the decrees, Free Officer Salah Nasr, wrote in his memoirs, the goal was to foment “a revolution against the [pro-​democracy] revolution” (cited in Kandil, 2012, p. 36). Using the mobilizing capacity of the Liberation Rally, Nasser and his new security elite orchestrated their desired demonstrations against the decrees, which had become confused with President Naguib (though he had no hand in creating them). Nasser also managed to entrap the Muslim Brotherhood in a deceitful détente for long enough to consolidate power and hammer the final nail in Naguib’s coffin, before initiating the most brutal crackdown the Islamists had ever seen. By June 1954, Nasser had succeeded in neutralizing all pro-​Naguib elements through imprisonment and/​or dismissal, and began his generally uncontested rule, sharing power only with his subordinate security cronies and friend, Abdel Hakim Amer, whom he named Chief of the Armed Forces (Mansfield, 1973, p. 685). Nasser officially assumed the title of president in June 1956 by public referendum, immediately dissolving the RCC and appointing select members to his cabinet (ibid, p. 686).

Nasser and Amer: 1954–​1967 While the conflict between Nasser and Naguib defined the political landscape for the first two years of Egypt’s independence, the rivalry between Nasser and Amer would shape much of Nasser’s remaining tenure. It was this second power struggle that birthed a fundamental feature of Egyptian politics: the officers’ republic, or “the self-​perpetuating military networks that permeate virtually all branches and levels of state administration and of the state-​owned sectors of the economy” (Sayigh, 2012, p.  3). While Nasser planted the seeds of the phenomenon by calling on officers to execute his “revolution from above” and appointing an ever greater number to high-​ranking civilian posts, the protracted power struggle with Amer meant he also had to provide sizeable carrots, so as not to be outdone by the army’s “Santa Claus” (Kandil, 2012, p. 51). Amer took the prerogative of appointing his favorite officers to coveted civilian positions in the bureaucracy and state-​owned enterprises, ignoring Nasser’s requests that officers officially leave the armed forces upon assuming civilian posts (Sayigh, 2019, p. 157). 83

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With both leaders contending for the officers’ loyalty, the military became increasingly politicized, and politics increasingly militarized. Military officers sat at the heart of the ruling elite under Nasser, occupying the posts of prime minister, vice president, and speakers of the parliament (Harb, 2003). They also controlled the Liberation Rally (1952–​1956) and its successor the National Union (1956–​1962). The density of this overlap between individuals with one foot in the military and the other in the traditionally civilian political sphere meant that “Nasser had no political revolutionary party to keep the military in check,” and despite the trappings of parliament and political organizations, his revolutionary party remained “none other than the military itself ” (Kandil, 2012, p. 42). Indeed, the two leaders had their power bases in different sectors of the security apparatus, which itself largely consisted of military officers—​Nasser in the President’s Bureau of Information (PBI), the Ministry of Interior’s GID, and the police force; and Amer in the military and civilian intelligence agencies—​the Military Intelligence Department (MID) and GIS—​as well as the military police (ibid, p. 55). The creation of the Arab Socialist Union (ASU) as the sole political party in 1962 was Nasser’s first major step in attempting to reduce the influence of Army Chief Amer, and the military in general, in the prevailing governing order. While Nasser still stacked all but 25% of the ASU’s Executive Committee with officers, civilians filled the lower ranks. Moreover, the officers’ dominance of the Executive Committee would gradually decrease over the years, reaching a low of 49% by Nasser’s death in 1970 (Harb, 2003, p. 279). Born out of this power struggle, the ruling “party” proved less of a genuine representative platform than “an insular base of political opportunists, thriving on patronage and supervised by an expanding security elite” (Kandil, 2012, p.  61)—​a legacy that would persist throughout the tenures of the subsequent presidents, Sadat and Mubarak, with the ASU’s successor, the National Democratic Party (NDP). The War of 1967 proved a turning point in the domestic tussles between the factions of Nasser and Amer—​and a death knell for the latter. Following Egypt’s devastating defeat, Nasser set about depoliticizing the military (and demilitarizing politics) in earnest, expelling Amer and his clients from all sectors of the regime. Nasser replaced Amer with General Mohammed Fawzi, and “purged the ranks of the military leadership of all opposition to him,” exchanging them for young officers whose loyalty to the former Army Chief had not yet been cemented (Harb, 2003, p. 281). The army would now report directly to the president, rather than act as an autonomous agent; and within the cabinet, the number of officers decreased substantially, from 66% in 1967 to 21% in 1970 (Kandil, 2012, p. 92). In the economic sector, control over the 367 state-​owned enterprises that had blossomed to execute Nasser’s industrial revolution was shifted from Amer’s appointees to Nasser’s ASU clients. The now-​uncontested President also bolstered the civilian security while sidelining the military, creating new institutions to take the place of the latter on the domestic scene—​ most notably the Central Security Forces (CSF), which assumed the military police’s riot control function. Unfortunately, demilitarizing politics did not translate to a reduction in the severity of the security state, and instead simply transferred the monopoly of violence from one body of control to another:  “[t]‌he shift from military-​based to police-​based political control had only just begun” (ibid).

Sadat Just when Nasser had succeeded in consolidating control, his death heralded yet another power struggle between military men—​this time between Nasser’s Vice President and fellow Free Officer, Sadat, and Nasser’s closest confidants, particularly Ali Sabri. Sabri, Minister of Air 84

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Defense, former Prime Minister, and leading figure in the ASU, did not think highly of Sadat, and assumed his tenure would be brief. Sadat was widely believed to have been chosen by Nasser as vice president not for his impressiveness, but rather his submissiveness, and seemed a safe choice for interim president. As president, Sadat promised to share power with the ruling elite, naming Sabri his vice president and ceding to him the authority to sit in on cabinet meetings, while agreeing not to attend himself (Tignor, 2016, p. 68); however, these gestures soon proved disingenuous. Sadat immediately began making overtures to the United States to counter Sabri and his close ties with the Soviet Union. To neutralize Sabri and his leftist supporters, Sadat called on more conservative Free Officers and other military actors for help, before turning against the latter (Hinnebusch, 1981, p.  445). When he had cultivated sufficient support, Sadat dismissed Sabri on May 2, 1971, ostensibly due to fundamental differences with respect to foreign policy—​particularly concerning Sadat’s proposition for resumption of traffic in the Suez Canal in exchange for a partial Israeli withdrawal from land taken in the 1967 War—​although that issue was but one of many sources of tension between them. Sadat’s ultimate success in sidelining Sabri and his supporters marked a turning point in Egypt’s post-​Nasser political trajectory: “[i]‌n defeating Sabri, he defeated an alternative conception of the political system which could have made the president accountable to a wider collective leadership of equals ensconced in other power centers of the bureaucratic state, notably the [ASU]” (Hinnebusch, 1981, p. 444). With Sabri dismissed, Sadat immediately set about neutralizing other threats to his authority. Upon learning the intelligence community had been monitoring him, Sadat responded by dismissing the Minister of Interior, Sharawi Gomaa. In protest, six top ministers—​members of Nasser’s inner circle including the Minister of War, Mohammed Fawzi, Minister of State for Presidential Affairs, Sami Sharaf, and other military men—​resigned, along with three members of the eight-​member ASU Executive Committee, including the party’s Secretary General and the Speaker of the National Assembly (Anderson, 1971). The men overestimated their influence on the masses—​fully expecting their resignations would prompt a public outcry for their reinstatement and weakened confidence in Sadat (Tignor, 2016, p. 75). Instead, no popular opposition emerged, and eager to avoid a similar fate, other members of the ruling elite remained quiet.

Shifting the centers of power Building on the voluntary resignations by top ministers, Sadat initiated his “Corrective Revolution,” with purges in all tiers of government—​from cabinet to police and intelligence, to parliament, the singular political party (the ASU) and provincial governors—​ replacing incumbents with handpicked appointees. To fill their shoes, Sadat pardoned over a thousand officers and intelligence members who had been blamed for the defeat in 1967, ensuring their release from prison and leaving them eternally indebted to him. To similar effect, he reinstated judges and political prisoners who had fallen out of favor with the Nasser regime (Tignor, 2016, p. 76). As part of his 1971 “Corrective Revolution,” Sadat set about shifting power from its traditional base in the military to the civilian Ministry of Interior. Police officers, rather than military officers, would now be the favored recipients of top government offices; and the Ministry of Interior’s body dedicated to rooting out political dissent, the GID, became the top security agency—​after being cleansed of former military officers—​under the new name:  the State Security Investigations Sector (SSIS) (Kandil, 2012, p.  108). The SSIS would also extend its reach over the armed forces, and increasingly monitor internal military developments. 85

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Sadat’s consolidation of personal power via the imprisonment of opponents and the creation of new patronage networks throughout Egypt’s top institutions took on new strength with the 1973 War. His political, if not military, victory catapulted the relatively new leader to the position of national hero in the eyes of many, and those who blamed him for the military failures of the war were swiftly silenced. Riding high in popular opinion, Sadat initiated his infitah, or “economic opening,” in 1974. He began cultivating a new (largely) civilian power base that owed its loyalty, and newfound riches, entirely to him. At the core were three men who had married into the Sadat family—​construction mogul, Osman Ahmad Osman, and two men from the landed elite, Sayyid Marei and Mahmoud Abu Wafia—​as well as an obedient vice president, the former Air Force Commander, Hosni Mubarak (Hinnebusch, 1981, p. 447). This new presidential circle represented a major shift away from the days of Nasser when top positions were populated by military appointees with relatively long tenures to execute his “revolution from above.” Of the ministers appointed by Sadat after 1974, fewer than 8% had roots in the military, compared to the 38% of ministerial military men whom Sadat had inherited from Nasser in 1970 (ibid, p. 448); and in Sadat’s last cabinet, only two ministers (the Ministers of Defense and Foreign Affairs) had military backgrounds (Springborg, 1987, p. 5). This trend similarly took effect in local government, with the number of military-​affiliated governors dropping to fewer than five by 1980, compared to all but four (of 26)  in 1964 (Springborg, 1989, p. 96). Replacing these military men were members of Sadat’s new power base—​the infitah bourgeoisie and police officers. Along with this shift in top-​level appointee demographics, the turnover rate of cabinet members greatly increased, with each year under Sadat seeing three times as many ministers on average than under Nasser (Hinnebusch, 1981, p. 445). This constant flow of high-​ranking officials in and out of office created a system in which each sought first and foremost to hold on to his post (and the privileges that came with it), rather than risk taking a position contrary to Sadat’s line. The same political logic applied to parliament, which became “viewed by members more as a channel to cultivate strategic personal connections higher up than as a base from which to challenge government decisions in the name of alternative conceptions of public policy” (ibid, p. 449).

Building a party of patronage To populate parliament, Sadat turned again to his burgeoning capitalist class and police partners who would lead his new political party. At the ASU’s National Congress in July 1975, Sadat secured the nomination for a second term and continued his project, which began with the Corrective Revolution, of carving out authority—​this time focusing his attention on the ASU. Under the guise of expanding political participation, Sadat sponsored the creation of political platforms, or “embryonic political parties,” under control of the ASU (Tignor, 2016, p.  127). Sadat placed civilian confidant Marei at the head of the newly created Committee on the Future of Political Work to oversee the creation of three platforms—​all of which, still, were led by members of the established security apparatus. Representing the left was the National Progressive Union Party led by Khaled Muhieddin; and the right, the Liberal Socialist Organization led by Mustafa Kamel Murad—​both former Free Officers. The Egyptian Socialist Party (the future NDP) represented the center party and was led by Mamduh Salem—​Sadat’s recently appointed Prime Minister and member of the ASU’s Executive Committee, who had previously held posts as Minister of Interior (1971) and Police Commander in Alexandria (1964). In June 1977, Sadat abolished the ASU and took direct control of the centrist party, renaming it the National Democratic Party (NDP) (Tignor, 2016, p.  129). The NDP and other two 86

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political platforms became official parties shortly thereafter with Law No. 40 of 1977. Sadat’s NDP was essentially “a carbon copy of the ASU,” inheriting its six million members, occupying the same headquarters and receiving state funding (Kandil, 2012, p. 165). And like the ASU under Nasser, Sadat utilized this army of clients to counter the political weight of the military.

Foreign friends and police partners The October War did more than improve Sadat’s image in domestic popular opinion; it also paved the way for a new relationship with the United States and Israel—​one that offered both political and economic support to Sadat’s regime, while simultaneously reducing the importance of the military. Along with strengthened ties to the United States came a nascent relationship with Washington, DC-​based international financial institutions (IFIs), which would play a defining role in the fundamentals of Egypt’s political economy for decades to come, persisting to the present day. Egypt’s first negotiations with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) for a substantial loan package commenced in 1976. And the popular response to the short-​lived agreement heralded a new phase of Sadat’s police state. The January 1977  “Bread Riots”—​country-​wide protests that erupted after the government, following IMF loan conditionalities, lifted subsidies—​led Sadat to realize he had far to go in replacing the military’s might. Unable to contain the protests with the Ministry of Interior’s CSF, Sadat was forced to call on the armed forces—​which he had been systematically undermining—​to save him. General Gamasi, Sadat’s “yes-​man” and then Army Chief, agreed to deploy his troops, but demanded the decision to lift subsidies be revoked. To Sadat’s great luck, the military returned to the barracks after restoring order. But the incident taught the President that if he did not want to rely on the goodwill of the top brass for regime stability, he would have to create a stronger alternative, and he immediately set about tripling the CSF from 100,000 to 300,000 strong (Kandil, 2012, p. 168). The door that was cracked open between Sadat and the United States following the cessation of hostilities with Israel in 1973 was kicked down entirely by the Camp David Accords in September 1978. When Sadat signed the controversial peace treaty with Israel, he faced little challenge despite widespread opposition. By this time,“the state had become his state” (Harb, 2003, p. 283).Through his successful “divide and conquer” strategy and the “constant reshuffling of high command” (Springborg, 1989, p. 97), Sadat managed to push through deeply contentious measures such as his pact with Israel and 1974 infitah. Army Chief Gamasi, for example, learned that loyalty was worth little to Sadat if not complete: after faithfully stepping in to save the President during the Bread Riots, he found himself sacked just a year later for expressing opposition to the treaty (ibid).

Planting the seeds of Military Inc. Peace with Israel, Egypt’s greatest foe, also had far-​reaching implications for the role of the military in general. Sustaining the military’s substantial budget and manpower made little sense—​particularly after the US pledge to supply $1.3 billion in annual military aid.The decade following peace with Israel witnessed Egypt’s military force nearly cut in half (Springborg, 1989, p. 95), and the strategy toward financing the EAF became one of promoting self-​sufficiency. This phenomenon would expand as Sadat pursued a renewed agreement with the IMF, which demanded fiscal austerity. As Sayigh notes, “[f]‌rom placating the EAF officer corps in the wake of the Camp David Accords with Israel, the focus of economic activity shifted to ensuring their living standards at a time of budgetary constraints” (Sayigh, 2019, p. 20). Sadat authorized the 87

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Ministry of Defense (MOD) to produce a broad range of goods needed for the officer corps (food, clothing, etc.), and established a number of military-​affiliated agencies to do so. This phase marked the true beginning of Egypt’s “Military Inc.”—​the expansion of the military’s economic interests deep into civilian sectors (Springborg, 2011, p. 397). By Presidential Decree No. 32 of 1979, Sadat established the National Service Projects Organization (NSPO) at the MOD “to study and implement works and projects for ministries, [governmental] authorities, local government, and public sector companies” (cited in Sayigh, 2019, p. 90). Originally created to absorb officers no longer needed in active military duty, the NSPO would evolve into a major military economic actor—​a fact demonstrated by the organization’s contemporary self-​description as having been established “for the sake of achieving the relative self-​sufficiency of the Armed forces requirements as well as locally and internationally marketing the surplus” (NSPO, 2017). Alongside the creation of the NSPO, the armed forces were granted economic independence, including permission to open accounts in private banks—​allowing income from the military’s economic activities (from weapons to garment production) to be “off budget,” and flow into its private coffers (Harb, 2003, p. 285). While the military’s economic empire did not blossom until after Sadat’s death, these institutional foundations would serve as important vehicles for the phenomenon when the time came. Despite the economic incentives, Sadat’s fraught relationship with the military caused by his quest for regime preservation may have ultimately resulted in his demise. On the anniversary of the war that simultaneously solidified Sadat’s authority and embittered both foot soldiers and top brass, disgruntled military men shot down Sadat in a fusillade of bullets. Some argue that Sadat’s death at the October War parade had many military conspirators—​not only the colonel from Military Intelligence, Aboud Zumur, who orchestrated the attack with other disaffected military men, but also the inspectors who failed to ensure live ammunition did not enter the parade area (e.g. Kandil, 2012, p. 172). Only adding to the apparent complicity of higher-​ups in the armed forces, the military reacted to such suggestions by Sadat’s nephew, then an MP, by trying him in military court for “propagating rumors about the Egyptian armed forces” (cited in Amer, 2009). The young Sadat served a year in prison, and the case remained closed. Through the creation of a civilian power base in the Ministry of Interior and infitah bourgeoisie, along with a lucrative relationship with the United States, Sadat succeeded in politically marginalizing the military—​a Pyrrhic victory if we are to believe it ultimately led to his assassination. In any case, his successor inherited a largely de-​militarized political system, a ruthless security state, a sprawling web of state-​dependent capitalists, and an unprecedented partnership with the United States. During his 30-​year tenure, Mubarak would largely reverse the first trend, while expanding the latter three.

Mubarak On the occasion of Sadat’s assassination, the President was flanked by the two men—Vice President Mubarak to his right, and Defense Minister Abdel Halim Abu Ghazala to his left—​ whose rivalry would define Egypt’s political arena for nearly a decade.  Abu Ghazala became for Mubarak what Amer was for Nasser: a charismatic Field Marshal who rivaled the President by using the power of his position to cast a substantial patronage network in the military and beyond.

Abu Ghazala: 1981–​1989 For the first five years of Mubarak’s presidency, the two men battled for authority on fairly equal footing. Mubarak had sympathies toward the military, whose status he witnessed degraded 88

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during Sadat’s tenure, and was glad to reinstate it as a respected pillar of society with increased political involvement. Abu Ghazala took advantage of this opening, perhaps with too much zeal—​encroaching on the authority of the civilian cabinet, and at times, even eclipsing the President himself. However, when Mubarak felt his Army Chief had gained too much influence, he used his presidential powers to replace senior officers in 1983—​sidelining those loyal to Abu Ghazala, while simultaneously creating a new corps indebted to him (Springborg, 1989, p. 100). The following year, Mubarak dismissed Abu Ghazala from the ruling NDP’s Political Bureau, citing a Sadat-​era law that states active military officers cannot join political parties (ibid). Protests by CSF conscripts in 1986 altered this delicate balance of powers. If the 1977 Bread Riots forced Sadat to acknowledge the military’s superior might to his paramilitary favorite (the CSF), the CSF Riots proved that the Ministry of Interior’s civilian security force was not only incapable of replacing the military as protector of the regime, but was itself a threat to regime survival. Abu Ghazala’s swift suppression of the riots elevated his position vis-​à-​vis the President and expanded his portfolio of authority.That year, the Army Chief led delegations to the United States to discuss bilateral relations concerning both military and civilian issues; and domestically, he grew the military’s economic initiatives deeper into civilian arenas: [T]‌he opening ceremonies for new military undertakings, including chicken farms and new cities in the desert became occasions on which the appropriate ministers had to tag along behind Abu Ghazala to give their blessings to his latest encroachments into their domain. Springborg, 1987, p. 7 Abu Ghazala managed to achieve such incursions into the civilian economic spheres not only owing to his elevated political status, but also as a result of external pressures on Mubarak to reduce the defense budget. This, as also happened (albeit to far lesser degree) under Sadat, “inadvertently encouraged the growth of a largely off-​budget military economy” (Sayigh, 2019, p. 20). By the early 1980s, inflation had “ravaged military salaries” (Springborg, 1987, p. 6), and alternative money-​making opportunities were needed to assuage a disgruntled corps. With this aim in mind, Abu Ghazala revitalized Sadat’s NSPO as his central organization for executing the military’s economic activities, expanding its prerogatives into land reclamation, agriculture and urban development (ibid, 11). The NDP-​controlled legislature, for its part, facilitated the military’s civilian economy activities, extending the EAF’s customs exemptions on arms to include imports of civilian goods as well (Law No. 186 of 1986). The ascendant Abu Ghazala began his fall from grace in 1988, when he was implicated in a scandal involving the attempted smuggling of missile parts into Egypt from the United States (Kandil, 2012, p.180). While his alleged involvement proved inconclusive, Mubarak seized the opportunity to put his subordinate in his place, removing Abu Ghazala from office in 1989, and replacing him with the former Army Chief ’s long-​time adversary,Youssef Sabri Abu Taleb. Mubarak proceeded to oversee a smear campaign against Abu Ghazala involving accusations of corruption and womanizing, ultimately leading to the latter’s departure from public life (Abul-​Magd, 2017).

Tantawi and ERSAP: 1991–​2000 Abu Ghazala’s downfall signaled the start of a second phase in Mubarak–​military relations, one “centered on a simple trade: the military could increase its economic engagement in return for staying out of politics” (Sayigh, 2019, p. 21). In May 1991 Mubarak appointed a compliant Mohammed Tantawi to the post of Army Chief, where he would remain for the next two 89

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decades. Tantawi’s appointment coincided with the initiation of the Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment Program (ERSAP)—​the agreement with the World Bank and IMF that would shape the next decade of Egypt’s economic decisions. Together, these two developments paved the way for the largest expansion of the officers’ republic yet. To win favor with the senior officer corps,Tantawi “oversaw a veritable mushrooming of the officers’ republic,” establishing the norm of putting military officials out to pasture in sinecures within the state bureaucracy and state-​owned enterprises (Sayigh, 2019, p.  21). Additional unofficial pension boosters, or “loyalty allowances,” were granted to politically abstinent officers (Sayigh, 2012, p. 4). As under Nasser, this infiltration of state bureaucracy by a loyal army also helped police dissent within civilian circles, and functioned as a form of security for the regime. Alongside these tactics to win over individual officers, Mubarak also created new incentives for the formal military institution—​not least of which included granting the armed forces greater purview over state land, which it used to generate substantial income. Additional laws were passed to exempt all MOD-​affiliated bodies from sales tax (Law No. 11 of 1991), and facilitate noncompetitive contracts for the MOD and Ministry of Military Production (Law No. 89 of 1998) (Sayigh, 2019, pp. 39–​40). These developments took place in the framework of ERSAP, which created openings for both individual officers and the military institution to exploit their authority. “A class of ‘neoliberal officers’ was born” out of this renewed push for a “free market,” which nontransparent actors commanding large portfolios of privilege could navigate well (Abul-​Magd, 2017, p. 113). Further budgetary pressures heightened by ERSAP also propelled the military deeper into production of civilian goods for increased profits.The military’s foray into such economic activities under Abu Ghazala with the NSPO—​although at the time described as a “colonization of the industrial sector” (Springborg, 1989, p. 111)—​paled in comparison to its developments in the 1990s. The NSPO became just one of many military-​affiliated bodies with dozens of factories that shifted toward civilian production (Abul-​Magd, 2017, p. 122). At the same time, Mubarak, like Sadat before him, empowered the civilian security apparatus to prevent renewed competition from the military. Between 1988 and 2002, Ministry of Interior expenditures—​which included spending on the police, the surveillance SSIS, and paramilitary CSF—​increased from 3.5% to 6% of gross domestic product (GDP) (Kandil, 2012, p. 195). The SSIS and CSF would work together to control political participation, training and deploying thugs (respectively) to influence voting, and deciding who was allowed to run. The SSIS permeated the state’s institutions and civil society: it “scrutinized nominees for cabinet positions, parliament seats, governorships, university chairs, editorial boards, public-​sector companies and banks, and, of course, the military” (ibid, p. 197). On the political front, Mubarak stacked the top positions of his inherited party, the NDP, with career politicians, replacing many of the infitah capitalists from the Sadat era. He had hoped to empower the state bureaucracy and keep the increasingly influential businessmen in check. Instead, the remaining NDP capitalists became the bureaucrats’ patrons, offering lucrative incentives in exchange for facilitating business; and Mubarak used his presidential authority to cultivate his own set of cronies.

Gamal and friends: 2000–​2011 Egypt’s political economy in the 2000s was largely defined by the ascendancy of Mubarak’s son, Gamal, in the NDP. Gamal’s rise heralded a “second round” of neoliberal reforms and marked the “third phase” of Egypt’s military economy, opening even more doors into the world of civilian business (Sayigh, 2019, p. 21). 90

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As his son expanded his political influence, President Mubarak sought to appease the military with additional incentives in both official and unofficial realms. Retired generals were increasingly granted high-​ranking posts, such as that of provincial governor—​with military brass representing 18 of 27 governors by 2011 (Abul-​Magd, 2014). A new slate of laws expanded military prerogatives for profit, most notably granting still more control over state land (Presidential Decrees 152 and 153 of 2001), and exempting all military-​affiliated bodies (including hotels, cinemas, etc.) from sales and real estate tax (Law No. 17 of 2001; Law No. 196 of 2008) (Sayigh, 2019, p. 40). In less formal arenas, the armed forces were allowed to simply appropriate state-​ owned enterprises during the privatization push:  “[a]‌udaciously using their membership in the privatization committee, the generals seized many public enterprises that were up for sale and transferred their ownership to the various military entities” (Abul-​Magd, 2017, p.  126). The “liberalizing” project itself also created opportunities for Military Inc. as EAF-​led factories teamed up with foreign partners—​drawn to Egypt in greater numbers by Gamal’s cosmopolitan image and reform promises—​to benefit from their capital and technology. Still, the rise of formidable civilian competition in the form of Gamal and his fellow crony capitalists disrupted the military’s once undisputed primacy in the world of rents. Alongside increased gains from the reforms of the 2000s, the army also experienced growing threats. On the one hand, the military enjoyed opportunities to initiate new economic endeavors. On the other hand, “[t]‌enders of privatization are excludable goods” (Marshall and Stacher, 2012, p.1)—​and cosmopolitan elites posed a direct challenge to military elites hoping to command the rent windfalls from underpriced sell-​offs of public assets. Furthermore, generals knew that were Gamal to succeed his father as expected, the military would become ever more displaced from its privileged position and substituted by the increasingly favored civilian business elite. This calculation was undoubtedly considered when generals decided to “support the people” in the 2011 uprising.

Revolution and counterrevolution: 2011–​2019 When the military refused to defend Egypt’s aging autocrat in 2011, they were doing what they had been trained to do for the past three decades: protect their interests. Only now, the officer elites were thrust on the stage they had been manipulating from behind the curtains. After taking power in 2011, the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF) expressed little opposition to the dissolution of the civilian-​led NDP (by this time colonized by Gamal’s support base). Meanwhile, the military expanded its reach in a number of arenas—​breaking strikes with their own police rather than the traditional riot-​control body, the CSF, and increasing their purview over the justice system by sending a greater number of civilians to military tribunals (Abul-​Magd, 2015). SCAF also made clear that the army’s economic interests would not be compromised. As SCAF member and assistant to the Minister of Defense for financial affairs, General Mahmud Nasr, explained in 2012: [O]‌ur money does not belong to the state; it is the sweat of the ministry of defense from the revenue of its enterprises…We will not allow the state to intervene in it… We will fight for our economic enterprises and we will not quit this battle. Cited in Abul-​Magd, 2015, p. 3 When the Muslim Brotherhood candidate Mohammed Morsi became Egypt’s first democratically elected president a few months later, he knew better than to confront the juggernaut and instead, like all presidents before him, attempted to appease the EAF. Morsi made a number 91

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of concessions, and in the process, a number of enemies within the opposition. The controversial 2012 Constitution expanded the Military Judiciary’s purview for trying civilians to include any “crimes that harm the Armed Forces”—​an ambiguous clause open to abuse (Youssef, 2012); and in 2013, under pressure from the MOD, Morsi backed down on plans to transfer the Suez Canal Zone to civilian management, instead allowing the military to maintain its long-​standing control over the lucrative projects there (Sayigh, 2019, p. 22). But at the same time, in an effort to contain the felool (remnants of the Mubarak regime) and consolidate power, the Muslim Brotherhood (MB) government stepped on delicate toes. For one, the 2012 Constitution reaffirmed the President’s role as Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces (the first time a civilian held the post); and Morsi’s comfort in the position displeased his (ostensible) subordinate, Sisi—​whom Morsi had promoted from the head of Military Intelligence to Army Chief in August 2012.Then in June 2013, Morsi appointed seven Muslim Brotherhood members (and one highly controversial Islamist) to governorships across the country (Michael, 2013)—​posts traditionally occupied by military and police retirees. Security men still held on to around one-​third of the 27 governorships, but were now officially outnumbered. Around the same time, rumors emerged that Morsi had been considering replacing Sisi with a more amenable army chief; but before he could get around to it, Sisi ousted Morsi instead (Hendawi, 2013). On June 30, Tamarod—​a “grassroots” movement that turned out to be backed by both members of the civilian and military security institutions as well as big businessmen favored under Mubarak—​staged wide-​scale protests protected by tanks and Sisi’s powerful endorsement. Three days later, the EAF apprehended Morsi and brought him to a military prison; and six weeks after that, security forces “cleared” the anti-​coup protests in Rabaa and Nahda Squares, massacring some 1,000 civilians in the process. In one of the military-​appointed government’s first moves after the bloody “clearing of the squares,” the governorships were repopulated with enforcers of the security state, with the appointment of 19 generals-​cum-​governors (17 military men and 2 police) and the ousting of the Islamists (Kirkpatrick and El Sheikh, 2013). Sisi officially assumed the presidency in June 2014, bringing both continuity and change. In the economic realm, Sisi named the EAF leader of his national mega-​projects, most notably the $58 billion new administrative capital and the $8.5 billion second Suez Canal (Saba, 2019). These projects and less grandiose ones have “sharply enhanced the military’s gate-​keeping role and rent-​seeking activities” (Sayigh, 2019, p. 237). In the security realm, Sisi has taken measures to rebalance the rivalry between the EAF and the Ministry of Interior in the former’s favor, while simultaneously encroaching on the judiciary. In October 2014, Sisi issued Presidential Decree No. 136 of 2014 that empowered the armed forces to assume greater policing functions alongside the Ministry of Interior—​returning the EAF to levels of domestic security involvement not seen since 1952—and expanded military jurisdiction over civilians. In the first three years following the decree, some 15,500 civilians were sent to military tribunals (Human Rights Watch, 2018). The 2019 constitutional amendments enshrined the supremacy of both the president and the military—​giving the former greater authority over the judiciary and extended terms, while naming the latter custodian of the state with even more power to mete out punishment to civilians (ibid, 2019). The necessity of striking a balance between the two pillars of political power was reaffirmed with article 234 that made permanent SCAF’s once-​temporary right to approve the president’s pick for army chief.

Conclusion Since the founding of Egypt’s nominal republic in 1953, the country’s political economy has been underpinned by rivalries between the president and the military. The conflict that began 92

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with Naguib and Nasser—​later replaced by a power struggle between Nasser and Amer—​took on a new face under Sadat in his brief contest with Sabri and subsequent strategy of cutting down the tallest poppies before they could challenge him. Mubarak had an Amer of his own in the shape of Abu Ghazala, before he successfully neutralized his rival, not without having to compromise with other military brass. And Morsi replaced the aging Army Chief Tantawi with the apparently supportive Sisi, before suffering a betrayal worthy of a Shakespearian drama. To varying degrees, each president has pursued a dual policy of appeasement and containment—​g ranting economic incentives to individual officers and the military establishment as a whole, while cultivating an alternative power base in a civilian security apparatus and a web of cronies within the ruling party (first the ASU and then the NDP).The foundations laid by these constant negotiations had created an unshakable portfolio of privileges for the military elite, alongside a brutal security state and corrupt political system, by the time Egypt’s streets erupted in 2011 and the first civilian president was elected in 2012. When SCAF relinquished the presidency to Morsi, they did so with the expectation that the prudent Brotherhood would safeguard military privileges. But despite the implicit power-​sharing agreement, moves by the MB government suggested the Islamists might gradually wear away at the supremacy of the officers’ republic—​a prospect that proved unacceptable. The current president–​military power struggle has yet to reveal its true colors, and a new saga may still unfold. For the time being, however, Sisi has been successful at utilizing historic strategies of regime maintenance: doling out economic incentives to the EAF, courting partnerships with major civilian capital holders, enhancing a ruthless security state, and neurotically reshuffling top command to prevent any rising stars from outshining him.

Note 1 This body would become the State Security Investigations Sector (SSIS) under Sadat in 1971.

References Abul-​Magd, Z. (2014). Egypt’s Adaptable Officers:  Power, Business, and Discontent. Italian Institute for International Political Studies (ISPI). Available from: www.ispionline.it/​sites/​default/​files/​pubblicazioni/​ analysis_​265_​_​2014.pdf [accessed 4 January 2020]. —​—​—​(2015). Egypt’s Military Business:  The Need for Change. Middle East Institute, 19 November. Available from: www.mei.edu/​publications/​egypts-​military-​business-​need-​change [accessed 5 January 2020]. —​—​—​ (2017). Militarizing the Nation: The Army, Business, and Revolution in Egypt. New York: Columbia University Press. Amer, P. (2009). Truth and Secrets:  The Sadat Assassination Trial 24 Years on. Egypt Independent, 6 December. Available from: ww.egyptindependent.com/​truth-​and-​ secrets-​sadat-​assassination-​trial-​24-​ years/​[accessed 3 February 2020]. Anderson, R. H. (1971). Six Quit Egyptian Cabinet in a Major Political Shift. New York Times, 14 May. Available from:  www.nytimes.com/​1971/​05/​14/​archives/​six-​quit-​egyptian-​cabinet-​in-​a-​major-​ political-​shift-​3-​high.html [accessed 4 February 2020]. Harb, I. (2003). The Egyptian Military in Politics: Disengagement or Accommodation? Middle East Journal, 57 (2), 269–​290. Hendawi, H. (2013). Disputes between Morsi, Military Led to Egypt Coup. Associated Press, 18 July.Available from: https://​apnews.com/​5b00986869134d62a19834efa21d6cfc [accessed 1 February 2020]. Hinnebusch, R. A. (1981). Egypt under Sadat:  Elites, Power Structure, and Political Change in a Post-​ Populist State. Social Problems, 28 (4), 442–​464. Human Rights Watch (2014). Egypt: Unprecedented Expansion of Military Courts. Human Rights Watch, 17 November. Available from:  www.hrw.org/​news/​2014/​11/​17/​egypt-​unprecedented-​expansion-​ military-​courts [accessed 6 February 2020].

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Sarah Smierciak —​—​—​(2018). Egypt: Events of 2017. Human Rights Watch. Available from: www.hrw.org/​world-​report/​ 2018/​country-​chapters/​egypt [Accessed 5 February 2020]. —​ —​ —​(2019). Egypt:  Constitutional Amendments Entrench Repression. Human Rights Watch, 20 April. Available from: www.hrw.org/​news/​2019/​04/​20/​egypt-​constitutional-​amendments-​entrench-​ repression [accessed 2 February 2020]. Kandil, H. (2012). Soldiers, Spies, and Statesmen: Egypt’s Road to Revolt. London: Verso. Kirkpatrick, D. and El Sheikh, M. (2013). Appointment of 19 Generals as Provincial Governors Raises Fears in Egypt. New York Times, 13 August. Available from: www.nytimes.com/​2013/​08/​14/​world/​ middleeast/​egypt.html [accessed 5 February 2020]. Mansfield, P. (1973). Nasser and Nasserism. International Journal, 28 (4), 670–​688. Marshall, S. and Stacher, J. (2012). Egypt’s Generals and Transnational Capital. MERIP Middle East Report 42, no. 262. Available from: www.merip.org/​mer/​mer262/​egypts-​generals-​ transnational-​capital [accessed 26 October 2019]. Michael, M. (2013). Clashes Erupt in Egypt over Islamist Governors. Associated Press, 18 June. Available from: https://​apnews.com/​a34d9b4441e044f984c64b2495d335bc [accessed 21 December 2019]. NSPO (2017). About NSPO. National Service Project Organization. Available from: www.nspo.com.eg/​nspo/​ index.html [accessed 20 December 2019]. Saba, Y. (2019). Almost Half of Land Sold for First Phase of Egypt’s New Capital. Reuters, 5 December. Available from:  www.reuters.com/​article/​us-​egypt-​new-​capital/​almost-​ half-​of-​land-​sold-​for-​first-​ phase-​of-​egypts-​new-​capital-​idUSKBN1Y919C [accessed 20 January 2020]. Saliba, N. E. (1975). The Decline of Nasserism in Sadat’s Egypt. World Affairs, 138 (1), 51–​59. Sayigh, Y. (2012). Above the State: The Officers’ Republic in Egypt. Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Available from:  https://​carnegieendowment.org/​files/​officers_​republic1.pdf [accessed 23 October 2016]. —​—​—​ (2019). Owners of the Republic: An Anatomy of Egypt’s Military Economy. Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Available from: https://​carnegie-​mec.org/​2019/​11/​18/​owners-​ of-​republic-​anatomy-​of-​egypt-​s-​military-​economy-​pub-​80325 [accessed 23 January 2020]. Springborg, R. (1987). The President and the Field Marshal:  Civil-​Military Relations in Egypt Today. MERIP Middle East Report, No. 147. —​—​—​ (1989). Mubarak’s Egypt: Fragmentation of the Political Order. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. —​—​—​(2011). Economic Involvements of Militaries. International Journal of Middle East Studies, 43 (3), 397–​399. Tignor, R. (2016). Anwar Al-​Sadat: Transforming the Middle East. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Youssef, N. (2012). Egypt’s Draft Constitution Translated. Egypt Independent, 30 November. Available from: www.egyptindependent.com/​egypt-​s-​draft-​constitution-​translated/​ [accessed 8 January 2020].

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6 GENESIS OF COUP-​PROOFING IN EGYPT Civil–​military relations under King Faruq and beyond Hicham Bou Nassif

Introduction From the 19th century onward, the Egyptian Armed Forces (EAF) have played a significant role in shaping the political history of the country. It was a junior officers’ coup in 1952 that established a republican authoritarian order on the ruins of the monarchy. And it was the EAF’s rout by Israeli forces in 1967 that precipitated Egypt’s retreat from Arab leadership in regional affairs. The Egyptian military’s improved performance in the 1973 Arab–​Israeli War allowed President Anwar al-​Sadat to declare victory and eventually make peace with Israel. During the 2011 popular uprising, the military’s refusal to crush the demonstrations all but guaranteed the end of the Hosni Mubarak regime. Likewise, the military’s overthrow in 2013 of the first civilian president of the Egyptian republic throttled Egypt’s fledgling post-​authoritarian order. Throughout these decades, officers assumed roles of de facto political influence, threatening to intercede in domestic politics and indeed doing so at times. To be sure, the military’s political clout has shifted according to changing circumstances and alliances in Cairo, but it has remained ever-​present. As testament to the officers’ political dynamism, every modern political leader in Egypt has taken steps to protect his rule from military power grabs. The first coup in the modern history of Egypt dates back to the Ahmad ʿUrabi movement in 1881. Thus, both the khedives, who came to power after ʿUrabi’s rebellion and ruled Egypt from the late 19th century onward, and the British, who defeated ʿUrabi in the 1882 Anglo-​ Egyptian war and occupied Egypt afterward, were aware of the disruptive capacity of the armed forces. After 1882, the British directly controlled the Egyptian military, and worked to marginalize it politically and keep it undermanned, underequipped, and weak. The EAF nevertheless remained a dormant threat for two reasons. First, the Egyptian population, including the rank-​ and-​file of the military, was largely anti-​British. Second, the 1936 treaty between Egypt and the United Kingdom gave the former control over the armed forces and opened the doors of the military academy to Egyptians hailing from the lower middle classes. Consequently, insulating officers from the body politic at large became impossible.These factors altogether suggest that Faruq, who became the king of Egypt in April 1936, could not have been oblivious of his 95

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officers as latent and potentially dangerous players in Egyptian politics, certainly not after coups began unfolding in neighboring countries such as Iraq (1936, 1941) and Syria (1949). Indeed, Faruq was keen on being personally popular with his generals from his early years on the throne. Egypt’s defeat in the 1948–​1949 war in Palestine complicated Faruq’s efforts to win the loyalty of his officers while simultaneously heightening the necessity of tightening his grip over the armed forces. A good starting point for understanding civil–​military relations in Egypt before the 1952 Free Officers’ coup is the power triangle formed by King Faruq, senior officers in the EAF, and the cabals of politicized mid-​ranking and junior officers who joined the armed forces after 1936. In order to nurture bonds of friendship with officers, Faruq frequently invited generals to banquets in his palace and remained in permanent touch with his loyalists in the armed forces. He also attended officers’ club ceremonies, supervised training maneuvers, and demanded to be kept informed about military preparedness and morale. In 1939, when the government decided to reduce the salaries of public servants, the officers pleaded with Faruq to exempt them from the new measures, which he did (Salem, 1996, p. 838). In the wake of the 1948 conflict in Palestine, Faruq recruited a team of German experts to train locals in military industry and missile production (Husni, 2001, pp. 251–​252). In brief, the king used both ideational and material incentives to promote military loyalty, and was never indifferent toward his armed forces, though never as talented in coup-​proofing as the officers ruled Egypt after 1952.

Faruq’s coup-​proofing Coup-​proofing is a set of measures that governments take to prevent officers from orchestrating successful putsches. A common strategy, for instance, is for autocrats to buy the loyalty of their officers, which could take the form of turning a blind eye to corruption or giving retired generals sinecures in ministerial, diplomatic, or gubernatorial positions. Rulers can also foster obedience by inculcating ideological loyalty or by counterbalancing the armed forces with loyalist para-​military units to deter potential coup-​plotters. Faruq’s coup-​proofing efforts combined all such methods.

Fostering ideological bonds with the throne The struggle against British occupation animated Egyptian politics from 1882 onward, and anti-​ British attitudes in the Egyptian street found vibrant echoes in the military, especially among mid-​ranking and junior officers (Husni, 2001, pp. 12–​13). Faruq tried to forge an ideational bond with his subjects by framing himself as a patriot bent on achieving independence, an effort which met with initial success (Salem, 1996, p. 856). ‘Abdul-​Fattah Abul-​Fadl, a military officer appointed in 1966 as deputy-​director of Egyptian General Intelligence, wrote in his memoirs that Faruq’s ascent to the throne in 1936 unleashed a wave of optimism in Egypt and eagerness for national liberation (Abul-​Fadl, 2001, p. 24). Free Officers Mohammad Naguib and Khaled Muhieddin also noted that the EAF were originally devoted to Faruq under the impression that he was a strong nationalist who loathed foreign occupation. Until the mid-​1940s, being “pro-​Faruq” was tantamount to being “anti-​British” (Naguib, 2010, p. 14). In a report written in 1943, the British ambassador to Egypt admitted that the military was staunchly loyal to the king (Salem, 1996, p. 850).This was true, at the time, and Faruq easily mustered enough support in the armed forces to create the Iron Guard, a group of military officers whose task was to assassinate the king’s political enemies. 96

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However, Faruq’s popularity would be short-​lived among young officers, who gradually realized that the king was more opposed to Egypt’s leading nationalist party, the Wafd, than to the British. Throughout Faruq’s years in power, the independence that Egypt had won from Britain in 1922 remained largely nominal. Britain stationed troops in the Suez Canal and intervened in Egyptian politics, both domestic and foreign. It was the Wafd, not the throne, that spearheaded the patriotic struggle to oust the British from the Canal region in the 1940s and 1950s—​a precondition for Egyptian independence. To be sure, the Wafd’s nationalist credentials were blemished when its leader Nahhas Pasha accepted the premiership with British support in 1942. With that said, it was also a Wafdist government that unilaterally abrogated the 1936 agreement with Britain in 1951 and facilitated guerilla attacks against British troops stationed on Egyptian soil. The Wafd government also instructed Egyptians working in the Canal to boycott the British base there, which led to a paralysis of British commercial activities in Suez. On January 25, 1952, the British ordered the Egyptian police in Ismailia to evacuate the Canal region, but the Wafd government instructed the police to disobey and defend its position. Seventy Egyptian policemen died in the ensuing clash. Outraged, Egyptians took to the streets in protest and clamored against the king, who appeared to be conspiring against the Wafd while the party was confronting foreign occupation. In a major blunder, Faruq dismissed the Wafd government only two days after the Ismailia incident at the height of nationalist tensions against the British, confirming his image as a pliable client of a foreign power rather than as a national hero (Hamrush, 1992, p. 173). The 1949 defeat of Arab forces in Palestine destroyed whatever remaining credibility the king still enjoyed among military officers. As the leader of the most powerful Arab county, Faruq felt compelled to intervene in the Palestinian conflict. His Arab and Islamic credentials were on the line (Husni, 2001, p. 244). But when Egypt’s armed forces were roundly defeated, their fiasco compounded the humiliation stemming from British occupation. Every available memoir published by Free Officers highlights its author’s outrage in the wake of the disaster in Palestine. Mohammad Naguib, for example, who had fought bravely in the war and made a reputation for himself as a courageous military leader, said that he returned from Palestine thinking that the enemy truly responsible for the Egyptian military’s misfortune resided in Cairo and not in Israel “ʿAdduwona al-​raʾisi laysa huwa al-​yahud biqadr ma huwa haʾulaʾ al-​rijal al-​ladhina yartakibuna khalfa dhuhurina al-​atham wal-​mubiqat” (i.e. “Our main enemy is not the Jews as much as those who commit grievous offenses behind our backs.” Naguib, 2010, p. 19). Naguib’s statement was a blistering critique of not only the political elite but also his fellow senior military officers.This argument found wide support in the armed forces and gained particular strength among mid-​ ranking and junior officers who blamed the king, as well as their military superiors, for the loss. The notorious defective arms scandal which erupted in 1950 only exacerbated the officers’ alienation from the king and the military hierarchy. It was indeed rumored after the war that the king and his advisers had profiteered by cutting deals that provided the Egyptian military with malfunctioning weaponry. Whether Faruq and his protégés were truly involved in such arms deals remains controversial even to this day, but this did not matter in the charged political atmosphere of the time. The military had been routed, and scores of officers blamed the king for corrupting their equipment and recklessly sending troops into a war they were not ready to fight. Jamal Hammad, a founding member of the Free Officers, wrote in this regard: The 1948 defeat and the rising awareness of the corruption and decadence surrounding the armed forces and the society at large created an ideational bond between nationalist officers of different political tendencies. It was this bond that formed the pillar upon which the late Gamal Abdul Nasser founded the Free Officers’ movement, 97

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which he created in September 1949 and which counted among its members the conscious vanguard of the nationalist elite in the military. Hammad, 2010, p. 207 Another founding member, ʿAbdul-​Latif al-​Baghdadi, similarly recounted: We officers in the armed forces came back from the war [in Palestine] feeling ashamed because of its outcome, though we fought valiantly—​but we did so using decrepit weapons… . We became completely convinced that a radical change in Egypt and the Arab world was necessary if we were to lead a dignified life. This is why we worked for revolution in Egypt. Patriots in the military founded the Free Officers to trigger the change we needed. Al-​Baghdadi, 1977, p. 29 On the other hand, memoirs of Free Officers such as ʿAbdul-​Latif al-​Baghdadi and Ahmad Hamrush (as well as Jamal Hammad) suggest that Egypt’s severe landownership inequality aggravated disaffection in the armed forces. The mid-​ranking and junior officers mostly hailed from the lower classes and were thus mostly sympathetic to the plight of millions of landless peasants toiling on the estates of absentee landowners (ibid, p. 67).The royal family was a symbol of the land problem: King Faruq himself was one of the largest landowners in the country, and the aristocrats who controlled most of the arable land were historical allies of the monarchy (Hamrush, 1992, pp. 256–​257; Hammad, 2010, pp. 542–​543). Finally, the liberal lifestyle of the royal family, including that of the king, offended the religious and conservative sensibilities of his officers as well as his subjects at large (Hammad, 2010, p. 290). In summary, the mid-​ranking and junior officers were not wedded to Faruq by any ideational affinity. Instead, by the end of the 1940s, the king came to represent for the young officers of the Egyptian military everything that was wrong in Egypt. This alienation translated into tension along generational lines in the officer corps because the older top brass supported the status quo while their younger subordinates rejected it. In this sense, the junior officers reflected the emotions and aspirations of their countrymen far better than the loyalist generals. In the words of Egyptian scholar Anwar ʿAbdul-​Malek, the activist mid-​ranking and junior officers in the Egyptian military were in “complete harmony with Egyptian social reality” (ʿAbdul-​Malek, 1968, p. 45).

Promoting the material interests of the military elite Faruq relied on controlling the military by wedding generals to his regime, and he used his constitutional power to appoint commanders of the armed forces as a trump card to keep them in line (Vatikiotis, 1961, p. 41; Gordon, 1996, pp. 37, 56, 117; Dekmejian, 1971, p. 20). Upwardly striving senior officers knew that promotion to the highest ranks was, ultimately, dependent on royal benevolence (Salem, 1996, p. 895). An incident on the eve of the 1952 coup illustrates this point. General Fuʾad Sadiq was an Egyptian senior officer who had proved his valor in the 1948 war in Palestine.The Free Officers, who respected him, offered him the leadership of their movement. Originally, Sadiq lent them a favorable ear; but when it became known that the king was considering him for chief of staff, Sadiq abruptly ended his negotiation with the Free Officers, who then approached Mohammad Naguib—​the popular infantry commander known for being the only general critical of the king. The king also took pains to shield his generals from prosecution as long as they remained politically reliable. In effect, allegiance to the throne put officers above the law. Following 98

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the 1948 war, during the investigation into the defective arms scandal, the prosecutor general removed both the EAF’s commander, Field Marshal Mohammad Haidar, and chief of staff, Field Marshal ‘Uthman al-​Mahdi, from power until his inquiry was finished. The two generals, however, were Faruq’s protégés and were swiftly cleared of suspicion by the king and returned to their leadership roles in the military (Hamrush, 1992, p. 151). Faruq further protected them from calls to be held accountable for their roles in Egypt’s defeat, even if they were found innocent of the profiteering charges. The generals were his men and untouchable as such (Husni, 2001, p.  309). The commander of the Border Guards, Major General Hussein Sirri ‘Amer, stands as another example. The notoriously corrupt commander was known for abetting cross-​ border drug trafficking, yet he was shielded from prosecution because he enjoyed Faruq’s favor (Naguib, 2010, p. 22). Furthermore, the king lavished favored senior officers with high salaries and prestigious titles such as Bey or Pasha—​the ultimate signs of social distinction in pre-​1952 Egypt (Salem, 1996, pp. 839, 853). There is a consensus among Free Officers who published memoirs that the Egyptian high command overwhelmingly supported Faruq until his sudden overthrow. It is important to keep in mind that the 1952 coup was, above all, a young officers’ revolt. The Free Officers numbered no more than 90 (i.e., only 4% of the military’s officers at the time; Salem, 1996, p. 24). Two-​ thirds of the conspirators occupied junior positions (e.g., lieutenants and captains), while the others were mid-​level officers (e.g., majors and lieutenant-​colonels). And they all tended to be ardent nationalists, leery of their superiors for being too comfortable with the British authorities in Egypt, including the much-​hated British military mission in Cairo. For instance, in his memoirs, the first leader of the Egyptian Republican Guard, Free Officer ‘Abdul-​Muhsin Abul-​ Nur, laments the fact that senior officers would side with their British counterparts in disputes against the younger patriotic officers (Abul-​Nur, 2001, p. 16). The British, the young officers believed, had deliberately kept the Egyptian military ill-​trained and ill-​equipped.The monarchy and the senior officers, in their estimation, had acquiesced to a status quo that was insulting to the military and to Egypt’s national pride. On the other hand, the young officers were convinced that their superiors had won their positions only because they were the king’s cronies, and thus viewed them as unimpressive—​ indeed, incompetent—​from a professional perspective. In this regard, the young officers were on the mark. Mohammad Haidar, the commander of the armed forces, was originally a police officer who spent a good part of his career supervising prisons. ʿUthman Mahdi, the military’s chief of staff, was, above all, a creature of the royal palace and lacked military experience (Hammad, 2010, p.  249). The same holds true for Faruq’s brother-​in-​law, Ismael Shiri, whom the king appointed Minister of Defense on the eve of the coup. Former deputy director of Egypt’s General Intelligence ‘Abdul Fatah Abul-​Fadl remembers in his memoirs feeling astonished, as a young officer on his way to fight in Palestine, when the general leading the Egyptian contingent opined that Zionists were no stronger than criminal gangs in Egypt’s countryside. Abul-​ Fadl knew this was not true, and wondered whether the high command had even bothered to collect data on the enemy (Abul-​Fadl, 2001, p. 42). Ahmed Mortada al-​Maraghi, the last interior minister under Faruq, relates in his memoirs that the German experts hired by the king to train the troops struggled to accomplish their mission because the top brass were so deliberately obstructive. Relations between the German attachés and the Egyptian generals deteriorated, as the former concluded from their inspection tours that the armed forces were ill-​trained and poorly led (Al-​Maraghi, 2009, p. 44). The academic literature is in general agreement that most officers in the high command of the Egyptian military prior to 1952 obtained their positions through family connections and social class rather than through professional merit, which infuriated their subordinates (Baker, 1978, p. 20; Copland, 1969, p. 79). 99

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In contrast with the pervasive lack of talent at the top, Nasser and his colleagues could count among their ranks some of the most promising young officers. Free Officers Salah Salem and Kamal al-​Din Hussein had proven their mettle in Palestine and were rewarded with exceptional promotions after the war. Nasser himself gained a reputation for courage and cool-​headedness under fire after his company was encircled in Falujah, and he was assigned to teach in the military academy after the war. Although Free Officer ‘Abdul-​Hakim ‘Amer went down in history as the incompetent commander who botched the 1967 war, he had shown exemplary courage in Palestine and was chosen as one of 26 officers out of a thousand to attend the Staff College. He then taught at the army’s school of administration (Abdul Nasser, 2005, p. 25; Baker, 1978, pp. 52–​53). By any professional standard, the Free Officers were overachievers. And they found their superiors lacking. Many of the Free Officers, furthermore, appeared to hold onto their professional grudges long after the 1952 coup. In his memoir, published in 2010, Free Officer Jamal Hammad still fulminated against the pre-​1952 Egyptian top brass, to whom he invariably refers as “stooges of the royal palace” (Hammad, 2010, p. 221); “ignorant, dictatorial, obsequious, and fawning on the British military mission” (ibid., p. 37); “rotten” (ibid., p. 240); and “obsequious to the king and his corrupt courtesans” (ibid., p. 216). Along similar lines, Free Officer Ahmad Hamrush maintained that with the exception of Mohammad Naguib, the generals serving under Faruq were merely a “tool the king used to dominate the armed forces and the people…and [an] obstacle for radical change in the armed forces and society” (Hamrush, 1992, pp.  212–​213). Mohammad Naguib himself declared that his fellow generals indeed lacked both patriotism and competence (Naguib, 2010, p. 16). For his part, Nasser blamed Egyptian senior officers first for the defeat in Palestine, and only then Arab and British leaders. Nasser described the Egyptian top brass as such: …[O]‌verfed, lazy and selfish, and they spent their time eating, drinking, carousing, smoking hashish, and engaging in many different forms of tyranny and corruption. They were fawning and subservient to the British Military mission, and a disgrace to the uniform they wore. They spent money that belonged to the Egyptian Army on food and drink for themselves. Hashim, 2011, p. 67 Note that the Free Officers’ first communiqué, published on July 23, 1952 immediately after the triumphal coup, accused the military elite of being “either ignorant or traitors or corrupt” (Al Baghdadi, 1977, p.  57). This was consistent with the deep generational cleavage in the officer corps as well as the anti-​Faruq convictions of the officers. A favorite of the king, the aforementioned Major General Sirri Hussein ‘Amer, had become the bête noire of the Free Officers. Nasser, in fact, tried unsuccessfully to assassinate him on January 7, 1952, and ‘Amer was sentenced to life in prison after the monarchy fell. Unsurprisingly, officers above the rank of lieutenant-​colonel were dismissed after the Free Officers seized power in 1952.

Counterbalancing Two counterbalancing schemes were concocted in the very last year of Faruq’s reign. In May 1952, the king sent a medical delegation to the Congo in order to recruit 3,000 mercenaries as a private guard.The explicit aim of the king’s guard was to act as a counterweight to the regular military and protect the monarchy from potential coup-​plotters. Upon arrival in Egypt, however, the Congolese contingent proved unruly and was quickly repatriated (Salem, 1996, p. 886). 100

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The experiment failed. That same year, interior minister Ahmed Mortada al-​Maraghi devised more elaborate counterbalancing plans. Al-​Maraghi successfully lobbied the king and the prime minister for the creation of a 30,000-​strong militarized special security corps (Quwwat Amn Khassa) modeled upon the Italian Carabinieri (Italy’s national gendarmerie) with the purpose of checking the armed forces. Al-​Maraghi was planning to provide the new force with armored vehicles and helicopters. He succeeded in securing an agreement with the United States to equip his troops, but Faruq was overthrown before the project came to fruition (Al-​Maraghi, 2009, p. 56). Faruq also failed to cultivate a robust intelligence apparatus to infiltrate the armed forces. British authorities founded the first modern secret police in Egypt following the assassination of Egypt’s Coptic Prime Minister Butrus Ghali Pasha in 1910. They sent some police officers to train in Europe, and worked to expand informant networks. Yet the Central Special Office remained understaffed and underfunded until the fall of the monarchy. Owen L. Sirrs relates the complaint of a police officer named Salim Zaki, who operated in Cairo in 1925, about the poor conditions hampering the work of intelligence-​gathering: … Salim Zaki warned his superiors that his Cairo Special Branch lacked sufficient officers and suffered poor morale. He noted that on one surveillance assignment, ‘I had to send three of my officers to carry the watch while they were disguised in filthy clothes, and they spent several nights in dirty and unhealthy quarters of the city. Some are still suffering.’ Staffing wasn’t the only problem, either. Zaki wrote that he lacked adequate funds to pay informants or reward witnesses. Therefore, he was not surprised … that we are having nobody to come and supply us with information as regards the bombs that are being thrown every now and then. Sirrs, 2010, p. 15 The conditions did not change with the ascension of Faruq to the throne in 1936. Ahmad Hamrush notes in his memoirs that on the eve of the 1952 coup, there were only 15 officers serving in Military Intelligence, some of whom had actually joined the conspiracy against the monarchy. Similarly, the political police was manned by no more than 24 officers, who were forbidden to intervene in military affairs. Neither Military Intelligence nor the police used rewards or private incentives to recruit agents within the officer corps, greatly limiting their ability to monitor the armed forces (Hamrush, 1992, p. 147). Unsurprisingly, critical information about the officer corps was scant. The memoirs of Karim Thabit, Faruq’s advisor and a politician and minister, are rife with indications of weakness in the king’s security apparatus. Revealingly, Thabit writes that on July 16, 1952, only a week prior to the coup, both the chief of staff and the director of Military Intelligence expressed confidence that nothing unusual was going on in the armed forces. Tellingly, Faruq was convinced that the faction loyal to his protégé, Sirri ‘Amer, was powerful, and that anti-​regime officers were few and discredited. In reality, the exact opposite was true. Erroneous intelligence misled the king to underestimate the power of his opponents in the armed forces (Thabit, 2000, pp. 456–​457). Although a leak may have revealed the names of Nasser and his associates to Faruq shortly before they launched their coup, it came too late. It is significant that none of the Free Officers were ever arrested for planning a military takeover, although the anti-​regime political activism of some of their founding members (e.g., ‘Abdul-​Latif al-​Baghdadi) stretched back to 1940, 12 years prior to the coup. Add to this picture the fact that the police had no special loyalty or attachment to the throne. In the last years of the monarchy, police officers complained increasingly about poor wages, lack of paid holidays, and scarcity of appointments to prestigious bureaucratic positions (Al-​Gawadi, 101

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1999, pp.  372–​373). Police officers, clamoring for better work conditions, actually went on strike in 1947. The king used the military to forcibly break apart the police protests, alienating the police in the process (Al-​Maraghi, 2009, p. 56). If one also considers the fact that Egypt’s two main political groups at the time, the Wafd and the Muslim Brothers, were both anti-​Faruq, it becomes clear that the king had no paramilitary, intelligence, police force, or party machinery to counter the military, should it decide to move against him. The Free Officers’ success was in large part due to Faruq’s counterbalancing failures.

Beyond Faruq: Coup-​proofing under Nasser The Free Officers framed their 1952 coup in Egypt as an epochal turning point. They quickly argued that their takeover had morphed into revolution. In practice, however, Egypt’s post-​ 1952 strongmen were fearful that a cabal of officers would do to them what they themselves had done to Faruq. And despite the ideological divergence between the deposed king and the successor regime of Gamal Abdul Nasser, there were some elements of continuity in terms of coup-​proofing methods, only with far greater efficiency and sophistication. Gamal Abdul Nasser’s career can be divided into four parts: plotting military takeover (1949–​ 1952), consolidating power (1952–​1954), personalizing power (1954–​1967), and achieving full control (1967–​1970). In the first phase, Nasser conspired against King Faruq and his protégés in the armed forces. Immediately after the 1952 coup, the situation in the Egyptian officer corps became particularly fluid, and Nasser came close to losing the cutthroat competition with his military opponents. Nasser clashed first with the popular colonel Rashad Mhanna, backed by the artillery officers, then with Major General Mohammad Naguib and Major Khaled Muhieddin, both of whom enjoyed wide support in the military, especially in the mechanized brigades. With Mhanna, Naguib, and Muhieddin out of the way, Nasser sacked his former associates in the Revolutionary Command Council one after the other, until power resided with himself, and the commander of the armed forces, Field Marshal ‘Abdul-​Hakim ‘Amer. The defeat of 1967 provided Nasser with the opportunity to sack ‘Amer, the lifelong friend-​turned-​rival, as well as ‘Amer’s loyalist faction in the military, and to replace them with more professional officers. From the beginning to the end, then, Nasser’s most dangerous competitors for power were military officers. Waterbury (1983, p. 336) notes correctly that Nasser was suspicious of the armed forces “from the outset,” because there was no reason why other officers would not plot to seize power the same way he had done. At the same time, Nasser’s most crucial support came from the armed forces, and his survival depended, above all, upon his ability to manage civil–​military relations and coup-​proof the officer corps.

Fostering ideological bonds Nurturing loyalty through ideological posturing proved an enduring aspect of coup-​proofing in Egypt. As mentioned previously, Faruq played this card ineffectively. Nasser was far more successful in garnering loyalty after taking aim at the former imperial masters of Egypt. In so doing, Nasser sought to place himself within the lineage of the great Egyptian nationalists, building upon the unfinished work of Ahmad ‘Urabi, Mustafa Kamel, and Sa’d Zaghlul (ibid, p.  321). Lest we forget, Egyptians overwhelmingly opposed British and French colonialism in the Middle East, and Western support for Israel only deepened their resentment. Nasser presented himself on the public stage as a Bismarckian figure of sorts, who would unite the Arab world and lead the attack on its oppressors. Crowds took to the streets in different Arab capitals to declare their allegiance to Nasser, upon whom hopes for unity and progress rested. 102

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Conservative Arab regimes appeared especially beleaguered when radical officers overthrew the Iraqi monarchy in July 1958. For a while, Nasser flattered Egyptians into thinking of their country as a latter-​day Prussia around which the Arab world would coalesce. Egypt, Nasser repeatedly boasted, had become the leader of the Arab world. After decades of marginalization, Egypt’s newfound importance meant that what it said or did mattered. In the words of Nasser, “[w]‌hatever we say here in Egypt has repercussions everywhere” (Youness, 2012, p. 321). Furthermore, Nasser used anti-​communism to strengthen his legitimacy. Throughout most of Nasser’s tenure, especially between 1952 and 1964, the repression of Egyptian communists continued unabated, and part of Nasser’s normative appeal stemmed from his image as a Muslim ruler shielding Egypt’s Islamic identity and heritage from the assault of a foreign, godless ideology. According to Nasserite propaganda, the communists were “the biggest regressive force in the Arab fatherland,” who “[felt] solidarity with reactionary forces because they [knew] that Arab Socialism rings the death knell for both” (ibid, p. 566). Indeed, communists were no less than “the vanguard of the enemies of the Arab Revolution” (ibid, p. 572). Furthermore, as a beacon of atheism, the Soviet Union was masterminding a “vast conspiracy against the Prophet and the Koran…and a large onslaught on Islam” (ibid, p. 119). The Nasserite regime framed itself as a bastion against communism as well as Western imperialism. Nasser’s ideological campaigns proved successful: although he was never short on competitors in the armed forces, Nasser also secured a devoted following within the military that shared his worldview and trusted his fundamental integrity. For instance, intelligence officer and head of the Presidential Information Bureau (PIB), Sami Sharaf, refers to Nasser in his memoirs as a “father and teacher” (Sharaf, 2014, pp.  12, 14). General Madkur Abu al-​’Iz, who served as commander of the armed forces, labeled Nasser a “giant,” whereas general Ahmad Ismael, who served as Egypt’s war minister in 1973, referred to Nasser as the most important of all Egyptian leaders, stating that “whoever comes after him is a far second,” although Nasser had actually discharged Ismael twice from senior positions in the armed forces (Gallad, 2013, pp. 102–​103; al-​Gawadi, 2001, p.  117). Other fervent endorsements abound in the memoirs of Egyptian officers who served under Nasser.

Promoting material interests Throughout Nasser’s years in power, a small coterie of high-​ranking officers controlled the key positions in the Egyptian state and kept an unchallenged grip on them.Writing in 1962, Anwar ʾAbdul-​Malek noted that the Egyptian officer corps had become “organically integrated” into Egypt’s economic, administrative, and political circles (‘Abdul-​Malek, 1968, p.  XIX). Beʾeri (1970, p. 429) concurred that Nasser’s officers benefited immensely from their access to prized civilian positions. And so does Waterbury, who wrote: From their positions of power, the senior officers were able to trade on their influence, pocket kickbacks on everything from citrus exports to arms purchases, and acquire property and income through appropriations or management of sequestered properties. There were no checks against any of these abuses… . Waterbury, 1983, p. 337 Inevitably, the excesses of the elaborate patronage system facilitated the advancement of regime loyalists at the expense of professional officers, with deleterious consequences on the fighting capacity of the EAF. But as long as officers showed loyalty to the regime, they faced as little accountability for their actions as they had under Faruq—​a continuity well illustrated by the 103

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career of Major General Sudqi Mahmud as leader of the Air Force. Although Egypt scored a major political victory in 1956 against the joint British–​French–​Israeli attack in Suez that year, the actual military performance of the EAF was mediocre. The Air Force was destroyed in the early hours of the conflict before the pilots could even participate in battle. And yet rather than dismiss Sudqi Mahmud for this swift routing, his political superiors retained him in this position until 1967, when the Air Force was destroyed once again at the very beginning of the battle with Israel, allowing Israeli pilots to crush the Egyptian forces retreating from Sinai (Al-​Gamsy, 1977, p. 128). Sudqi Mahmud held onto high office despite the military disaster in 1956 because he was not a political threat. The same held true for Major Generals Mohammad Fawzi and Mohammad Sadiq, who were promoted to commander of the armed forces and chief of staff, respectively, even though they had held some responsibility for the defeat of the armed forces at the hands of Israel in 1967 (Huweidi, 2002, p. 201). Both officers were regime loyalists and, as such, were protected from the ordinary process of accountability. “Al-​walaʾ qabla al-​kafaʾa” (“loyalty trumps competence”) remained a staple of civil–​military relations under Nasser in direct continuity with the monarchical years (Al-​Hadidi, 1974, p. 14). Other examples of political favoritism influencing the military command structure abound. In 1960, two military ships assigned to accompany Nasser’s trip to Casablanca got jammed on the way to Morocco, and Nasser’s own ship, al-​Hurriyya, came back to Egyptian shores unprotected. Nasser asked the commander of the EAF, Field Marshal ʿAbdul-​Hakim ʿAmer, to fire the leadership of the navy for its negligence, but when ʿAmer did not comply, Nasser let it go (Fawzi, 1988, p.  34). In a similar vein, Colonel Zaghlul ʿAbdul-​Rahman, the Egyptian military attaché in Lebanon and an inveterate (and unlucky) gambler, faced little reprimand for his brazen misuse of military funds to pay his debts to Lebanese casinos in 1962. When ʿAbdul-​ Rahman confessed his wrongdoing to EAF commander ʿAbdul-​Hakim ʿAmer, the latter forgave him and, astonishingly, kept him in his post. ʿAbdul-​Rahman went back to gambling, however, and lost another colossal sum, agreeing to sell the names of the Egyptian secret agents operating in Syria to the Saudi government in order to come up with the cash to pay his debts, which later created a public relations fiasco for Egypt (Nutting, 1972, pp. 314–​315).

Counterbalancing Creating competing security agencies in charge of controlling the armed forces and one another sat at the heart of Nasser’s coup-​proofing strategy. ʿAbdul-​Hakim ʿAmer was originally Nasser’s man in the armed forces before relations between the two erstwhile friends soured in the 1960s. But Nasser counterbalanced the armed forces with a sprawling intelligence apparatus headed by security czar and close ally, Zakariya Muhieddin; the interior ministry, invariably headed by a military officer, including Nasser himself; and the Arab Socialist Union, led by ʿAli Sabri, and established in 1962 to provide the regime with a civilian ally against the armed forces (Sharaf, 1996, pp. 228–​229). Nasser’s innovation in crafting a counterweight to the armed forces was striking, and his efforts in this regard began almost immediately after the successful Free Officers’ coup. In 1953, the Republican Guard (RG) was established, and so was the National Guard (NG). The latter ostensibly delivered training for Egyptians eager to fight the British in Sinai, and the RG was put under the commandership of Free Officer ʿAbdul-​Muhsin Abul-​Nur, who would later serve as a close assistant of Nasser. In effect, both the RG and the NG provided the regime with loyalist forces directly answerable to the presidency and thus ready to be used against potential adversaries. In December 1953, Zakariya Muhieddin established the General Intelligence Service (GIS) as a civilian agency reporting directly to the presidency. Furthermore, the General 104

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Investigation Directorate (GID) was strengthened and expanded; in contrast to the GIS, the GID fell under the authority of the Ministry of Interior. In 1955, Nasser added yet another organization to his ever-​expanding security sector: the aforementioned PIB headed by Sami Sharaf. And in 1963, the Arab Vanguard (Al-​Taliʿa al-​ʿArabiyya) was established and tasked in penetrating the state apparatus and writing reports denouncing potential subversive activities. If one adds the Military Intelligence Department (MID) to the equation, the complexity of the Nasserite security sector becomes clear. Unsurprisingly, there was little sympathy between these various organizations all competing to outbid one another and prove their loyalty to the regime. Tension was particularly palpable between the armed forces, on one hand, and the GID and the PIB on the other. In fact, ʿAbdul-​Hakim ʿAmer instructed Sami Sharaf not to recruit informers from the armed forces or the MID, but Sharaf ignored him and soon created a loyalist network of officers who became the regime’s agents in the military (Sharaf, 2014, pp. 29–​46).

Conclusion Contrary to widespread perceptions, coup-​proofing in Egypt did not begin with the Free Officers’ regime. King Faruq feared military power grabs and tried to retain the loyalty of his officers with plum appointments and nationalist rhetoric. The king also agreed on a plan to create a praetorian guard in order to counterbalance the armed forces. Of course, none of these efforts stopped Gamal Abdul Nasser and his colleagues, who were exceptionally determined conspirators, while Faruq himself was extremely unpopular after the 1948 war in Palestine. In the wake of their successful coup, the Free Officers used coup-​proofing tactics reminiscent of Faruq’s, though with far greater skill and efficiency. To be sure, there were fundamental ideological divergences between the Egyptian monarchy and the radical populist regime helmed by Nasser. There were also glaring rifts between Nasser’s orientations in domestic and foreign policies, on one hand, and the following tenures of Anwar al-​Sadat and Hosni Mubarak, on the other hand. And yet the elements of continuity between these different administrations in terms of coup-​proofing are undeniable. The fact is that once a control mechanism is set in place, it tends to endure. Although coup-​proofing measures are not set in stone, their impact tends to last and what happens first informs in part what comes next.

References Abul-​Fadl, ‘A. (2001). Kunto Na ʾ iban Li-​Ra ʾ Is al-​Mukhabrat. Cairo: Dar al-​Shuruq. ʿAbdul-​Malek, A. (1968). Egypt, the Army Regime, the Left, and Social Change under Nasser. New  York: Random House. Abdul Nasser, G. (2005). Falsafat al-​Thawra. Cairo: Maktabat Madbuli. Abul-​Nur, ʿA. (2001). Al-​Haqiqa ʿAn Thawarat 23 Yulyu, Mudhakkarat ʿAbdul-​Muhsin ʾAbulnur. Cairo:  al-​ Hay’a al-​Masriyya lil-​Kitab. Al-​Baghdadi, ʿA. (1977). Mudhakkarat Abdul-​Latif al-​Baghdadi. Cairo: al-​Maktab al-​Masri al-​Hadith. Al-​Gamsy, ʿA. (1977). Mudhakkarat al-​Gamsy, Harb October. San Francisco, CA: Dar Bouhouth al-​Charq al-​Awsat al-​Amirikiyya. Al-​Gawadi, M. (1999). Mudhakkarat Qadat al-​Mokhabarat wal-​Mabahith, al-​ʾAmn al-​Qawmi li Masr. Cairo: dar al-​Khayyal. Al-​Gawadi, M. (2001). Mudhakkarat Qadat al-​’Askariyya al Masriyya 1967–​1972, Fi ʾʿAqab al-​Naksa. Cairo: Dar al-​Khayyal. Al-​Hadidi, S. (1974). Shahid ʿAla Harb 67. Cairo: Dar al-​Shuruq. Al-​Maraghi, A. (2009). Ghara ʾib Min ‘Ahd Faruq. Cairo: Dar al-​Shuruq. Baker, R. (1978). Egypt’s Uncertain Revolution under Nasser and Sadat. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Be’eri, E. (1970). Army Officers in Arab Politics and Society. New York: Praeger.

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Hicham Bou Nassif Copland, M. (1969). The Game of Nations: The Amorality of Power Politics. New York: Simon & Schuster. Dekmejian, R. (1971). Egypt under Nasir: A Study in Political Dynamics. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Fawzi, M. (1988). Harb al-​Sanawat al-​Thalath, 1967–​1970, Mudhakkarat al-​Fariq Mohammad Fawzi Wazir al-​Harbia al-​Asbaq. Cairo: Dar al-​Wihda. Gallad, M. (ed.) (2013). Mushir al-​Nasr, Mudhakkarat Ahmad Ismael, Wazir al-​Harbiyya Fi Maʿrakat October 1973. Cairo: Dar Nahdat Masr. Gordon, J. (1996). Nasser’s Blessed Movement:  Egypt’s Free Officers and the July Revolution. Cairo:  The American University in Cairo Press. Hammad, J. (2010). Hammad, Asrar Thawrat 23 Yulyu. Cairo: Dar al-​ʿ Ulum Lil-​Nashr Wal-​Tawziʿ. Hamrush A. (1992). Thawrat Yulyu. Cairo: Al-​Hay ʾa al-​Markaziyya lil-​Kitab. Hashim, A. (Fall 2011). The Egyptian Military Part One: From the Ottomans through Sadat. vol. XVIII, No. 3, Middle East Policy Council. Husni, H. (2001). Sanawat Ma ʿal-​Malik Faruq, Shahada lil-​Haqiqa wal-​Tarikh. Cairo: Dar al-​Shuruq. Huweidi, A. (2002). Khmasun ʿAman Min al-​ʿAwasif, Ma Ra ʾaytuhu Qultuhu. Cairo: Markaz al-​Ahram lil Tarjama wal-​Nashr. Naguib, M. (2010). Kalimati…lil Tarikh. Cairo: al-​Maktab al-​Masri al-​Hadith. Nutting, A. (1972). Nasser. New York: E.D. Nutton. Salem, L. (1996). Faruq,Wa Suqut al-​Malakiyya Fi Misr, 1936–​1952. Cairo: Maktabat Madbuli. Sharaf, S. (1996). ʿAbdul Nasser: Kayfa Hakama Masr. Cairo: Madbuli al-​Saghir. Sharaf, S. (2014). Sanawat Wa Ayyam Maʿ ʿAbdul Nasser, Shahadat Sami Sharaf, al-​Kitab al-​Awwal. Cairo: al-​ Maktab al-​Masri al-​Hadith. Sirrs, O. (2010). A History of the Egyptian Intelligence Service:  A History of the Mukhabarat, 1910–​2009. New York: Routledge. Vatikiotis, P.J. (1961). The Egyptian Army in Politics:  Pattern for New Nations? Bloomington, IN:  Indiana University Press). Waterburry, J. (1983). The Egypt of Nasser and Sadat:  The Political Economy of Two Regimes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Youness, S. (2012). Nidaʾ al-​Shaʿb.Tarikh Naqdi li al-​Ideologia al-​Nasiriyya. Cairo: Dar al-​Shuruq.

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7 THE FINGERS OF THE “INVISIBLE HAND” Egypt’s government institutions Jan Claudius Völkel

Introduction Following the putsch of the Free Officers in 1952 to end the British-​supported monarchy, the Egyptian Armed Forces (EAF) have come to “consider themselves to be nation-​builders” (Shama, 2019, p.  8). All presidents until the ouster of Hosni Mubarak in 2011 had military backgrounds, and particularly since the tumultuous intermezzo of Muslim Brotherhood rule, officers have expressed a “natural” responsibility to protect Egypt from political decay. Article 200 of the Constitution, amended in 2019, makes it clear: EAF’s task is not only to protect the country and to preserve its security and territorial integrity, but also “to safeguard the constitution and democracy, to preserve the basic infrastructure of the civil state, the gains of the people and the rights and freedoms of individuals” (State Information Service, 2019, author’s own translation). Yet, behind this apparently altruistic motivation, the army has amassed economic and political privileges that it is not willing to give up. The control, and increasing manipulation, of the country’s government institutions is an important part in this endeavor. The constitution’s amended article 200 “puts the military effectively above the constitution and allows the generals to intervene in politics at any time if they see any of these aspects at risk” (Achrainer, 2019). Under current President Abdel Fattah al Sisi, this control has massively expanded, and now includes nearly every sector, whether the state bureaucracy, political parties, business associations, universities, the media, or civil society: “No one can be sure to be in office tomorrow if the military intelligence does not approve,” testified a former member of the Egyptian parliament (Author interview in Cairo, 11 April 2018). In this climate of fear, every member of government institutions is warned to remain loyal and “not to fall out of line” (Noll, 2019, p. 17). The deep state, consisting of the EAF, the intelligence services, and the presidency at its core, is the “veritable elephant in the rooms of those institutions” whose “hulking presence is officially recognized by none, known to all, and accommodated by just about everyone. It sits atop these institutions, crushing effective performance of governmental functions” (Springborg, 2018, p. 53). Being surrounded and supported by certain business leaders, media representatives, intellectuals, and other public figures who benefit from their proximity to the regime, this deep 107

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state is the invisible hand that steers the country from the back, using the government institutions as its fingers. The control of government institutions, whether on the national or the local level, fulfills an important role for securing and expanding the deep state’s prerogatives: lucrative jobs are given to senior members of the EAF and its affiliated entities, political decisions of crucial importance are taken first and foremost in the army’s interest, and substantial resources are generated for the deep state’s representatives on various levels.Thus, government institutions are not only the fingers of the deep state’s invisible hand that steer the country’s fate, but they also feed the deep state’s insatiable stomach.

Egypt’s government institutions under EAF control The “Nasserist era” that followed the Free Officers’ putsch in 1952 resulted in a radical restructuring of the state and society under the banner of independence and self-​determination.While the initial years under President Mohamed Naguib were still comparatively moderate, the Free Officers set up a strictly hierarchical system once Gamal Abdel Nasser became the country’s president. In an effort to immunize themselves against potential coup d’états, Egypt’s presidents tried to curtail the army’s power through coup-​proofing strategies. A  complex network of intelligence services and security units, which partly blended into each other and mixed elements from the military, the police forces, and civilian intelligence, was set up to snoop on each other.These included the General Investigations Department—​later renamed the State Security Investigations Service, and after 2013, the National Security Agency—​the General Intelligence Directorate (GID), and the Military Intelligence. Meanwhile, to quell any potential civilian unrest, Nasser had decreed guaranteed jobs for any graduate from university and even secondary school, resulting in an overinflated public administration. While this practice was officially abandoned in the early 1990s (Binzel, 2011, pp. 8–​9), its results are widely visible until today. From the different ministries at the national level down to the local units of the central administration, all offices are overstaffed (Barsoum, 2018, p. 772). However, the job security for employees comes with a price: low salaries and, as consequence, little motivation. Against this background, Bremer (2016, pp.  89–​90) identified a “vicious triangle” of bad governance, human resource management, and financial management in Egypt’s public administration, which mutually reinforce themselves and make the system highly resistant to reform. They also disincentivize creativity and reward conformity. As an example, recruitment processes follow wasta (connections) instead of merit-​based principles; this wasta leads to high levels of corruption from the state’s top entities down to public hospitals, schools, and universities (Dixon, Bhuiyan, and Üstüner, 2018, p. 762). Until Mubarak’s ouster in February 2011, the symbiosis of inept civic institutions and the army as éminence grise (Hill, 2013) seemed to work fine: the president, always stemming from the military, was the nexus between both, although Mubarak tried to move the generals away from politics, granting them increasing economic benefits instead. This looked like an unshakable perpetuum mobile, yet was massively interrupted when ordinary citizens demanded their democratic say in 2011 (see ­chapter 9 in this edition). The period 2011–​2013 would become crucial for Egypt’s further development, as the Muslim Brotherhood’s ascendancy threatened much of the army’s long-​cherished prerogatives. Although the army and Islamists seemingly entered a Faustian pact in the beginning, the increasing attempts by newly elected President Mohamed Morsi to reduce the army’s control over politics and the economy provoked the military’s resistance, keenly assisted by the police and old elites within the government’s administration. The police temporarily withdrew from 108

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the streets, leading to a sharp increase in crime rates (Bremer, 2015, p. 99), and the administrative old guard apparently torpedoed Morsi’s government by intentionally disturbing the distribution of electricity and gasoline during the last months of his presidency (Korotayev, Issaev, and Shishkina, 2016, p. 346). Both developments resulted in the people’s waning appreciation of Morsi’s government and his eventual ouster by the army on 3 July 2013, after the Tamarod (“Rebellion”) mass protests—​a movement that was itself facilitated by the army’s intelligence service (Wessel, 2018, p.  364). This was a masterpiece of the army’s ability to sugarcoat its hidden self-​interest. As Egypt’s then army chief, General Abdel Fattah al Sisi, phrased it on the day Morsi was arrested: “The armed forces couldn’t plug its ears or close its eyes as the movement and demands of the masses [called] for them to play a national role” (cited in Lakhal, 2014, p. 142). Yet, in contrast to official rhetoric, Egypt today is the opposite of what protesters had hoped for. Nathan Brown (2014) described Egypt’s post-​2011 governmental structures as “balkanized set of institutions,” hinting at a high level of fragmentation instead of cooperation among the various governmental units. The Egypt Country Report of the Bertelsmann Transformation Index 2020—​a democracy index that measures political and economic transformation around the world—​identifies “a lack of coordination and inefficiency, redundancies, or conflicting and counterproductive policies. Moreover, different parts of the government frequently compete for competencies and the leadership’s approval, instead of effectively supporting and complementing each other” (Bertelsmann Foundation, 2020). However, these institutions cannot act as they please; rather, they have to follow the deep state’s directives, and under President Sisi, this increasingly means following the army.

The national level: Constitutional stipulations versus political realities The Constitution, written in 2014 and amended in 2019 according to the instructions of the GID (Middle East Monitor, 2019), describes Egypt as a “democratic republic” (Article 1) in which “[s]‌overeignty belongs to the people alone” (Article 4); its “political system is based on political and partisan multiplicity, the peaceful transfer of power, the separation and balance of powers, authority going with responsibility, and respect for human rights and freedoms” (Article 5). On paper this is correct: Egyptians are invited to elect the president (every six years since the 2019 amendments) and the parliament (every five years) in ostensibly competitive elections; the prime minister and his currently 30 cabinet ministers plus three state ministers are responsible to the parliament’s 596 deputies. A total of 23 government entities and 234 independent public agencies implement the state’s policies, plus a hardly comprehensible number of local units, which are divided into 27 governorates and 323 service directorates (Barsoum, 2018, p. 773). In reality, however, the military is now irrefutably above the law: it has its own judiciary and cannot be held responsible either by civilian judges or by political actors such as parliament and auditing organizations. With thousands of EAF retirees being posted in leading management positions in government units, ministries, state agencies (including intelligence services), local administration, and public enterprises, the armed forces steer political decision-​making and interfere in the government institutions’ developments, from the top of the political pyramid down to local administration. This “securitization of policymaking” leads to a “depoliticization of policymaking”:  it is not political disputes that inform policymaking, but non-​transparent deep state interest. This increases the already high level of incoherence between the different government units through a rising level of “stove-​piping” (Springborg, 2018, p. 56), and the promotion of people according to their connections, rather than their merits. 109

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The presidency Head and heart of Egypt’s political system is the president. The presidency itself “is the equivalent of a substantial ministry, staffed at the higher levels by military officers” (Springborg, 2018, p. 42). President Sisi is a career officer who headed the Military Intelligence before becoming Field Marshall and Minister of Defense under Morsi. Sisi “fully dominates the political scene, relying on a small inner circle of military aides and security men to run the state behind a façade of civilian technocrats” (Noll, 2019, p. 18). In contrast to his predecessors Sadat and Mubarak, he has kept his close ties in the military and “remains in daily contact with his old army buddies, who are now handling the sprawling affairs of state” (Springborg, 2018, p. 37). He ensures his continuing control of the intelligence services also through personal meddling, such as through the appointments of his two sons, Mahmoud and Hassan, as leading figures in the GID (Middle East Monitor, 2018). Mahmoud has since been removed from his post, reportedly over dissatisfaction about his multiple failures in quelling protests and criticism against his father, and—​according to sources from within the GID—​because Mahmoud’s leadership style provoked much opposition within the entity (Mada Masr, 2019). Still, Hassan remains in his post, as does one of Sisi’s closest confidants, Abbas Kamel, who has served as the GID chief since early 2018. The president also appoints the prime minister, who then proposes the ministers to parliament (2014 Constitution, Article 146). The nomination of ministers and their top aids often seems based on “personal trust between the ministerial candidate and the prime minister or president of the republic” (Noll, 2019, p.  16). But as quickly as ministerial top servants are appointed, they can also be dismissed. Traditionally, if public criticism is tolerated, it is never against the president, but only against the prime minister or members of his cabinet. However, there seems to be some dissatisfaction lately within the military with Sisi:  out of fear that imprisonments like that of former Chief of Staff Sami Anan, or the house arrests of former Defense Minister Sedki Sobhi and Chief of Staff Mahmoud Hijazi, could also hit other military members (Al-​Khatib, 2019), but also out of concern over the prolonged economic crisis. This has increased the pressure on Egypt’s economy, including military companies. On 20 September 2019, the country’s largest protests broke out since 2013, triggered by an Internet video by a former army contractor who pilloried the rampant corruption and the army’s direct involvement in it. While the regime responded with a new wave of mass arrests, the quick spread of protests across the country made some observers even speculate “that the military deep state, and those who brought Sisi to power, might be looking for a new figurehead” (Ardovini, 2019). Whether this is true or not, the growing pauperization of large parts of the population fuels the overall dissatisfaction with the president—​not least from the almost 7  million Egyptians working in the civil service who used to be the core of the middle class, but have seen their economic situation deteriorate, particularly since the start of Sisi’s tenure (Springborg, 2018, p. 42). If Sisi loses their loyalty, then his rule might come under increased pressure. Indeed, the regime has increasingly distanced itself from the citizens. While Sisi occasionally presents himself as a “caring father” and pious middle-​class Egyptian, his decision to build a New Administrative Capital (NAC) far outside Cairo illustrates the core interests of the regime. Coordinated by the army and its various economic branches, mainly the Armed Forces Land Projects Agency (Sawaf, 2016), the NAC is constructed without external control and transparency. The regime has started to urge foreign embassies to move to the NAC as otherwise the regime could no longer guarantee security for the diplomatic missions. In this gated community, the regime is among itself, away from the majority of Egyptians who struggle for their daily income. As Dunne (2018, p. 355) put it: NAC will serve “as a metaphor for Sisi’s most 110

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impressive achievement, if it can be called that: rebuilding the wall of fear separating citizens from the state.” Thus, Sisi has chosen to be the antipole to Nasser: while the latter understood himself as leader of the people, Sisi will be the president who abandoned them.

The ministries Legal stipulations favor military-​ led ministries over their civilian counterparts, especially concerning the Ministry of Defense’s (MoD) virtual monopoly on the management of land that other ministries have to obey. This superiority affects various ministries, including the Ministry of Housing, Ministry of Land Reclamation, Ministry of Local Administration, Ministry of Petroleum, and Ministry of Supply. Local businessmen often refer to the Ministry of Defense, instead of the Ministry of Trade and Industry or the Ministry of Finance, when aiming to obtain permissions and licenses, paying bribes for quick responses. Additionally: [P]‌ublic sector and government agencies are no less afflicted:  insiders confirm that the Housing Ministry, for example, has routinely paid bribes amounting to millions of Egyptian pounds to MOD officers in return for approving land use applications for publicly funded schemes. Sayigh, 2019, p. 316 The Ministry of Agriculture’s General Authority for Fish Resources Development lost 75% of its budget during 2014–​2016 after the MoD had set up a parallel National Company for Fishery and Aquaculture, which henceforth dominated fisheries all over Egypt (Sayigh, 2019, pp. 261–​262). Boosted by legal privileges, which also include tax exemptions and other fiscal advantages, the MoD lists a long range of “national projects” on its website, which are not defense-​related whatsoever, from housing to health care, the construction of roads, bridges and tunnels, the operation of seaports, food security, and the improvement of slum areas. It also rehabilitates sport facilities, museums, and ancient excavation sites. Projects are mainly executed by its National Service Projects Organization (NSPO), a unit founded in the 1980s that reportedly runs 21 military-​aligned production sites. This is in addition to the Ministry of Military Production (MoMP), which oversees 20 firms producing tanks, heavy vehicles, and weaponry, but also non-​military goods, such as food items, household appliances, and agricultural machines. Their revenues reportedly quintupled from the start of Sisi’s de facto tenure in 2013/​2014 to 2018/​ 2019, reaching LE 15 billion (ca. $840  million; Dunne, 2018, p.  356). In the same period, the Engineering Authority of the Armed Forces (EAAF) has reportedly executed more than 10,000 governmental development projects worth LE 2.7 trillion (ca. $150 billion), and another 4,131 projects are planned (Noll, 2019, p. 19). One of their most visible projects has been the Suez Canal Corridor Development Project, executed in close cooperation with the military-​ dominated Suez Canal Authority (Marshall, 2015, p. 14). The MoD’s rising economic activities do not only harm similar activities of civil ministries. They also channel profits into the EAF circles, while economic risks remain imposed on the public. For instance, the Ministry of Finance (MoF) had to pay off $600 million for the MoD’s overdue loan repayments in March 2019 that resulted from insufficient returns on investment (Sayigh, 2019, p. 242). Also the MoMP has needed MoF subventions, reportedly adding up to LE 3.6 billion ($190 million) from 2010 to 2015. Even after the MoF wrote off LE 1.15 billion from the MoMP, the latter nevertheless has continued to suffer losses of over LE 960 million since then (Sayigh, 2019, p. 50).While the MoF runs a special office within the MoD, this office 111

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allegedly “simply reports overall expenditure and income, suggesting that its main task is to balance the books rather than conduct detailed audits” (Sayigh, 2019, p. 309). As the third military-​leaning business institution besides the MoD and MoMP, the state-​ owned Arab Organization for Industrialization (AOI) supervises another 12 companies at least. The AOI, established in 1975, is under close control of the EAF: the ministers of defense and military production are permanent members of its nine-​person supreme committee (Reuters, 2018), besides the president, the prime minister, four other ministers, and the EAF’s chief of staff. The AOI’s current chairman is Lieutenant General Abdelmonem Ibrahim Eltarras. Irrespective their financial problems, the defense-​related ministries have notably gained the upper hand also over the Ministry of Interior (MoI), which President Mubarak had increasingly favored.The MoI’s “budget and manpower grew at faster rates than the MOD’s throughout [the last two decades of Mubarak’s tenure]” (Sayigh, 2019, p. 201).While the army counted a total of approximately 460,000 personnel, among them 325,000 conscripts, the police forces consisted of more than 1 million officers (Mellor, 2015, pp. 84–​85). After 2011 and the discrediting of the police forces in particular, the MoI came under stronger influence of the Muslim Brotherhood (Dawoud, 2015) than the rivaling army-​related ministries, which in their substance remained unchanged. Having demonstrated major problems in bringing the country’s ongoing security problems under control, the MoI under Sisi has lost substantial authority over intelligence agencies, which are now more directly under the military’s control (Springborg, 2018, p. 37). The Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) has likewise come under the army’s control. After Nasser militarized this core department through the appointment of many officers to diplomatic posts, foreign ministers and top representatives were later generally career diplomats from a professionalized corps. Still, under Mubarak the GID gradually tightened its control over the MFA’s internal processes, and with Sisi’s presidency, investigative media reports speak about increasing conflicts between Foreign Minister Sameh Shoukry and Egypt’s various security apparatuses (Soliman, 2017). Although the MFA officially negates such claims, incidences in the ministry’s headquarters in central Cairo and in embassies such as the one in Washington seem to confirm that intelligence services increasingly interfere in diplomatic activities without prior MFA consent (Elmenshawy, 2017). According to Sayigh (2019, pp. 164–​165), EAF retirees occupy a substantial number of influential positions in a number of general authorities (GAs) under various ministries. As illustrated in Table 7.1, this applies in particular to the large infrastructure and economy-​oriented Ministry of Transport (11 out of 11 GAs with influential officers), Ministry of Trade and Industry (6/​9), Ministry of Electricity and Renewable Energies (4/​6), and also smaller ministries with competence in important social concerns, such as the Ministry of Education (2/​2) and Ministry of Awqaf (Religious Endowments, 1/​1), and not least the Ministry of Investment and Ministry of International Cooperation (2/​2) as well as the Ministry of Tourism (1/​2), important to generating substantial external revenues. While the Minister of Defense always comes from the EAF, a number of other ministers also have had a military background, such as the Minister of Transport in 2015/​2016 (Major General Saad al-​Gayoushi), the Minister of Local Development since 2018 (Abu Bakr el-​Guindi), and the Minister of Supply and Internal Trade since 2017 (Ali Mseilihi), as well as his predecessor Mohamed Abu-​Shadi, both of whom expanded the MoD’s involvement in, for instance, meat and wheat production, import and distribution (Sayigh, 2019, pp. 265–​268). Here, the MoD successfully pushed out the Ministry of Supply and Internal Trade, as it did with the Ministry of Health in the area of production and trade of medical drugs and technology (Sayigh, 2019, pp. 268–​270), or the Ministry of Telecommunication and Information Technology in the lucrative market of mobile communication (Sayigh, 2019, pp. 271–​272). 112

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Table 7.1  EAF retirees as heads of general authorities (GAs) under various ministries (2014–​2019)

GAs

113

••••• ••••• •••

••• ••• ◦◦◦

••• •◦◦

••• ◦◦◦ ◦

Civil Aviation

Housing, Utilities & Urban Communities

Education

Investment & Intl. Cooperation

Health & Population

••◦

••◦

••

••

•◦◦ ◦◦

Source: Adapted from Sayigh (2019, pp. 164–​165). • EAF retiree as head, deputy head, or on board of directors ◦ no known EAF retirees

Finance Tourism

•◦

•◦

Awqaf

•

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Ministry Transportation Trade & Electricity Agriculture Industry & Renewable Energy

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While not among the list of ministries with former military men in influential positions, the Ministry of Planning, Monitoring and Administrative Reform plays a special role through its formal task of overseeing the state bureaucracy and coordinating reform and anticorruption efforts. Corruption is indeed a major problem within Egypt’s public administration—​ the Ministry itself has identified an “abuse of authority, nepotism, and profiteering from the public service” (Dunne, 2018, p. 358).Yet, this problem does not only refer to the lower ranks, where staff often struggle with insufficient wages and expect baksheesh (gratuities), but also includes higher ranks. However, the Ministry has become somewhat sidelined by the Administrative Control Authority (ACA). This official anti-​corruption agency—​which reports directly to the president and allegedly has a 1,700 person staff—​is an interesting case because despite its civilian appearance, it “has always been led by men from the military or intelligence services, and most of its personnel come from the military and the police” (Noll, 2019, p. 2). Occasionally ministers and other high-​ranking representatives have come under investigation, such as the former Minister of Agriculture, Salah Helal, who was arrested in September 2015 by ACA officers and eventually sentenced to ten years imprisonment. In December 2016, ACA officers arrested Gamal al-​Labban, head of the State Council’s procurement department, and shortly after Wael Shalaby, Deputy Chief Justice—​both accused of having received bribes worth several million Egyptian pounds. While Shalaby reportedly committed suicide in his cell few days later, al-​Labban received a life sentence plus a fine of LE1 million (approximately $55,000; Noll, 2019, pp. 16–​17). Military entities are meanwhile excluded from the ACA’s inquiries since a law issued in 2017. This leads the government’s official anti-​corruption strategy, enacted in 2014 in response to pressure from the IMF, grosso modo ad absurdum. Still, the ACA is a major recipient of international development funds, and the regime uses it as proof for its seriousness in tackling corruption (Noll, 2019, pp. 23–​25). It is thus an important cornerstone of the regime’s power-​ securing strategy: it keeps opponents under control and contributes to the regime’s revenue generation from abroad.

Parliament A considerable problem within the ongoing securitization of politics has been the dissolution of political structures without the introduction of new ones. This especially plays out in parliament. The ban of Mubarak’s National Democratic Party (NDP) in 2011 and the Muslim Brotherhood’s Freedom and Justice Party (FJP) in 2013 dismantled Egypt’s only effective parties with functioning organizational structures, extensive social roots, and political know-​ how. Irrespective of their ideology, the ban of both meant a substantial loss of parliamentary experience and institutional memory. Not only parties were banned, but also the whole parliament was dissolved between 2012/​2013 and 2015, and was reinstated only in January 2016 after highly manufactured elections. The NDP was the dominant actor in parliament during the Mubarak era, at times occupying 90% of seats, and the FJP dominated the 2012 chamber with 213 deputies (out of 508). An additional 107 seats went to the Salafist al-​Nour Party, meaning 63% of parliamentary seats belonged to Islamist factions. In contrast, the current parliament, elected under a revised electoral law in 2015, is dominated by 350 independents, approximately 58% of the total 596. The New Wafd Party, a reformed offspring of the Wafd Party (founded in 1919), is the only party in parliament with historical experience, but has only 36 deputies. The Free Egyptians Party (founded in 2011, 65 deputies) and especially the Nation’s Future Party (founded in 2014, 53 114

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deputies) must be seen as subverted, if not created by, the GID (Bahgat, 2016). However, the other two intelligence services did not remain silent and started to compete for their own influence in parliament as well: the General Intelligence Agency triggered the formation of the pro-​ Sisi “For the Love of Egypt” bloc under the leadership of former intelligence officer (first in the GDI and then the Military Intelligence) Major General Sameh Saif al-​Yazal. “Concurrently, a number of high-​ranking leaders were removed from the National Security Agency in what was considered another harsh blow orchestrated by Military Intelligence” (Atef, 2016). The lack of functioning parties in the current parliament is problematic as it leaves most members of parliament (MPs) deprived of supporting party networks and ideological fundamentals. MPs are largely left on their own while preparing meetings, attending sessions, informing the public, and working for their constituency. A “training institute” has been set up within parliament in 2016, but it is still in its infancy and so far is unable to provide substantial support for either MPs or staff members. The lack of support for MPs also leaves them structurally disadvantaged compared with the overstaffed ministries. Most MPs therefore simply follow the guidelines coming from the government, or the various intelligence bodies. This hinders independent, critical parliamentary oversight of government business. While opposition under Mubarak had some room to maneuver, opposition is practically non-​existent in the current parliament. And if someone dares to speak out too vocally, Parliament Speaker Ali Abdel ‘Al silences them, if even in unlawful ways, as has happened with former MPs Amr Elshobaki or Mohamed Anwar al Sadat (Völkel, 2017, pp. 610–​611; Author’s interviews in Cairo with current and former MPs, April 2018). Therefore, parliament fails in one of its core functions, which is overseeing government, and instances of serious scrutiny are rare, especially of army affairs. The 2014 constitution confirms that the military budget remains outside parliamentary control, and objections to the gradual expansion of MoD and MoMP engagements into civilian areas are absent. In contrast, MPs often praise the army, and the EAF’s mega projects, like the extension of the Suez Canal or the NAC, remain beyond parliamentary scrutiny. If criticism arises, like in the case of Sisi’s controversial new civil service law in 2015, initial resistance within parliament usually still results in eventual adoption. In the case of Law 32/​2014, which rules out third-​party litigation against direct allocation of governmental contracts without public tender, this reportedly happened after the Minister of Parliamentary Affairs had personally “clarified the ‘importance of the law’ to legislators” (Transparency International, 2018, p. 13).

Judiciary Egypt’s judiciary was traditionally seen as surprisingly independent under Mubarak, especially in the higher courts, which often ruled in the interest of the defendants. However, after 2011, the judiciary increasingly struggled with attempts by the Muslim Brotherhood to replace high-​ ranking representatives and send veteran judges into early retirement. The mass verdicts against members and supporters of the Muslim Brotherhood—​as well as unaligned oppositionists—​ after the 2013 coup quickly evoked the impression that at least some judges acted out of a feeling of personal revenge. On top, the new regime’s selection of Adly Mansour, former president of the Supreme Constitutional Court, as interim state president brought the judiciary as an institution under the pressure to support the new rulers. Few members of the former regime have been convicted for committed crimes, despite widespread corruption and police brutality. And if loyalists were convicted, their verdicts were very often “overturned on appeal due to prosecutorial ineptitude” (El-​Ansary, 2017, p.  25). The pressure on the judiciary to defend the new rulers further increased after the assassination of Prosecutor General Hisham 115

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Barakat in June 2015. After highly criticized trials for unfairness and the use of torture, dozens were sentenced to death or life imprisonment, and nine of them were executed in early 2019 (Michaelson, 2019). It seems that some members of the judiciary “confuse the rule of law with the rule of judges” (Risley, 2016, p. 9). While there are different factions within the judiciary (Pioppi, 2013), regime-​critical lawyers experience difficult times. Since the 2013 coup, a reported 80 judges have been removed from office, in which the prosecutor general—​de jure an independent unit, de facto highly politicized—​has played a major role.Thus, today’s judiciary has become a bulwark of the regime against its critics, silencing oppositional voices with harsh verdicts while reprieving members of the old/​new regime. Swamped by the masses of cases resulting from the government’s clampdown against opponents, criticism against the extension of military judiciary in civilian cases has been minimal from within the judiciary. Only occasionally dissent is voiced, such as in the “Tiran and Sanafir” dispute regarding two islands in the Gulf of Aqaba which the government decided to cede to Saudi Arabia in 2016. After a lengthy legal battle, the Supreme Constitutional Court eventually overruled the prior annulment of the agreement by the State Council’s Administrative Court (Sullivan and Verticelli, 2017, p. 245). The revenge against Sisi’s intra-​judiciary opponents came promptly: the “Chief Judicial Appointments Law” 13/​2017 was allegedly enacted to prevent Yahya al-​Dakroury, in charge of the initial rejection of the deal, from becoming the president of the State Council (Mamdouh, 2017). The judiciary’s subjugation under the regime has been further intensified through the constitutional amendments enacted in 2019, which “grant the president broad and unchecked supervisory powers over the judiciary and the public prosecutor” (Human Rights Watch, 2019). In addition, it weakens the comparatively independent State Council and shifts important parts of its administrative judicial oversight to the newly founded Supreme Council for Judicial Bodies and Entities, in which President Sisi as chairperson wields a major influence (Achrainer, 2019).

The local level: Much of the same The military’s dominance reaches down to the local level, in a strictly hierarchical top-​down manner. While the 2014 Constitution (Articles 175–​183) calls for a strengthening of the self-​ administration of villages (qura), cities (mudun), and governorates (muhafazat), not much has happened in reality (Springborg, 2018, p. 58). Law 43 on local administration, issued in 1979, still awaits a highly needed revision by parliament. The revised bill was put to debate in parliament on 22 December 2019, but then after unexpected resistance—​especially from the Nation’s Future Party—​was shelved until further notice, indefinitely postponing the eventual conduct of the long-​awaited elections of Local Popular Councils (LPCs) from the village to the governorate level (Mada Masr, 2020). Since these councils were dissolved following the 2011 uprisings, the governors and their local executive councils—​both appointed and controlled by the president—​take decision without any external control. Although LPCs never had any tangible power, since 2011 local representatives no longer even have a voice (Völkel, 2015, p. 358). With the opaque, uncontrolled military influence also on the local level, corruption seems to flourish, and reportedly two-​thirds of governmental corruption in Egypt occurs at the governorate level and below (Springborg, 2018, p. 24). The Ministry of Local Development (MoLD), also heavily staffed by former military or intelligence officers, lacks competence vis-​à-​vis the line ministries which often have their own representatives in the governorates and channel money into the localities (Barsoum, 2018, p.  778). By maintaining the influence of various ministries on local affairs, the military and

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police counterweight each other, guaranteeing the president’s interest “that neither gains absolute, direct control over local administration” (Springborg, 2018, p. 53). The MoLD meanwhile remains largely in charge of technical support and is otherwise an important vehicle for the regime to generate support from international donors who are involved in the promotion of decentralization (Bremer, 2015, p. 92). Under Sisi, a majority of the 27 governors are retired army or police officers (Al-​Monitor, 2019). They appoint all village heads and other local positions and thus ensure the central government’s firm control of local posts and developments. Additionally: Retired officers hold an even-​larger proportion of the subordinate posts of deputy governor, director of the governor’s office, and secretary-​general and assistant secretary-​ general of the governorate local council. This whole range is broadly replicated at the lower administrative levels of “centers,” cities, urban boroughs, and villages. Sayigh, 2012, p. 14

Conclusion The lack of effective institutions is the ideal breeding ground for personalist, kleptocratic, and corrupt leadership, which perfectly plays into the hands of the deep state and the army circles. After the short intermezzo of Muslim Brotherhood rule, which threatened to substantially reduce the benefits of the old Mubarak loyalists, the coup against Mohamed Morsi in 2013 set the tone for unprecedented countermeasures. Under President Sisi, the EAF has regained immense power, both in political and economic matters. This can be seen in all of the country’s branches of government and central institutions—​in the presidency and its cabinet, the legislative, judiciary, and local government. The increasing control of government institutions is crucial for the deep state in three aspects: first, it ensures that all relevant decisions are taken in the interest of the deep state—​ prolonging and increasing its power—​and eliminates potential opposition, which has lost almost all ground in Sisi’s Egypt. Second, it enables the deep state to exploit Egypt’s economy excessively and bar any public control, while leaving the economic risk to the civil authorities and, in the end, the public. Third, it offers a multitude of possibilities to provide merited members of the EAF with lucrative jobs and prestigious positions, which also secures their loyalty during their active duty. Despite occasional signs of fissures within the regime, a breakup of this system appears highly unlikely in the near future. Even if Sisi might fall one day, the system can be expected to endure.

References Achrainer, C. (2019). Constitutional Reform in Egypt: More Time for al-​Sisi, More Power for the Military. BTI Blog, 12 April. Available from https://​blog.bti-​project.org/​2019/​04/​12/​constitutional-​reform-​ egypt-​time-​al-​sisi-​power-​military [Accessed 28 January 2020]. Al-​Khatib, T. (2019). Sisi, the survivor? Qantara, 9 October. Available from https://​en.qantara.de/​content/​ protests-​in-​egypt-​sisi-​the-​survivor [accessed 27 January 2020]. Al-​Monitor. (2019). Sisi favors security appointees for Egypt’s governorships. Al-​Monitor, 8 December. Available from www.al-​monitor.com/​pulse/​originals/​2019/​12/​egypt-​appoints-​security-​military-​ leaders-​mostly-​as-​governors.html [accessed 12 January 2020]. Ardovini, L. (2019). Egypt’s protests uncover deep cracks in al-​Sisi’s strongman façade. The Conversation, 29 September. Available from https://​theconversation.com/​egypts-​protests-​uncover-​deep-​cracks-​in-​ al-​sisis-​strongman-​façade-​124354 [accessed 16 November 2019].

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8 ISLAMISM IN EGYPT Noha Mellor

Introduction This chapter discusses Islamism in Egypt, focusing on the main Islamic actors competing for political power. Islamism here refers to political Islam and the underpinning assumption that there is “no distinction between the religious and political realms” (Eickelman & Piscatori, 1996, p.  46). This also encompasses the use and interpretation of religious discourse and symbols as well as the “control of the institutions” that generate such symbols (Eickelman & Piscatori, 1996, p.  5). The mediators of the language of political Islam include traditional clerics, intellectuals, preachers, as well as official institutions such as al-​Azhar. Because Egypt is characterized as a “constitutional theocracy”—​where Islam is defined constitutionally as the source of law interpretations—​legal codes are often vague, thereby marking a struggle over the power of interpretation between the judicial institutions on the one hand, and state and private Islamic actors on the other hand (Hirsch, 2010, p. 245).1 Political Islam then is analyzed as a form of political power, understood as a multidimensional concept that encompasses setting a political agenda as well as shaping meaning in society (Lukes, 2005). An integral part of the power of political Islam is its ideology, defined as the set of beliefs and values disseminated and enforced through various institutions such as the family, education, mosques, and media. While the Egyptian state can exercise coercion, it has had to negotiate some of its power with religious groups and institutions, such as al-​Azhar, Salafists, and the now-​banned Muslim Brotherhood (MB). Among the official Islamic actors in Egypt, there are al-​Azhar, Dar al-​Ifta, and the Ministry of Religious Endowments (Awqaf), in addition to nonstate political actors such as the MB. There are also other Islamic groups that historically profiled themselves as apolitical including Sufis, some Salafist groups, and independent preachers. Those traditionally apolitical groups, however, shifted their policies post-​2011 and announced their participation in the political sphere in order to curb political domination by the MB. In this chapter, I will focus on the power dynamics among the mainstream Islamic institutions in Egypt, the MB, and Salafists— excluding (for the most part) violent Jihadist groups. I will then briefly discuss those Islamic actors’ relationships with other religious minorities before concluding with an outlook for the future of those actors.

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State institutions: Al-​Azhar, Dar al-​Ifta al-​Misriyyah, and Awqaf Al-​Azhar, as a state institution, does not only represent the mainstream Islamic ideology in Egypt, but has also been instrumental in supporting, or conversely, challenging, various state policies. The status of al-​Azhar as a beacon of mainstream, modern Islamic thought cannot be understated: al-​Azhar is entrusted with training imams and preachers and attracts students from Asia, Europe, South Africa, and Russia (Hiroko, 2015).The head of al-​Azhar, or the Grand Imam, currently Sheikh Ahmed al-​Tayeb, has a lifetime appointment as the leading religious official in Egypt, in addition to his role in international fora as al-​Azhar’s representative. Affiliated with al-​Azhar is Majmaa al-​Bohouth al-​Islamiyya, or the Center for Islamic Research, founded in 1961, with members appointed by the Grand Imam and the government. The Center is tasked with nominating the Grand Mufti of Egypt, but the President has to approve this appointment. The Grand Mufti heads Dar al-​Ifta or the Egyptian Fatwa Council (set up in 1895) and is responsible for issuing fatwas/​rulings on points of Islamic law. Finally, the Ministry of Awqaf (Religious Endowments) is entrusted with the administration of the public mosques. Historically, these institutions have had to fight for their autonomy from the previous regimes, which resorted to igniting competitions among them. For instance, when al-​Azhar set up its own international academy to train imams and preachers from around the world in 2018, the Awqaf followed suit by launching its own International Awqaf Academy in 2019. Awqaf has also been an avid supporter of President Abdel Fattah al Sisi’s call for a renewed Islamic discourse (Eltohamy, 2019). Moreover, when al-​Azhar launched in 2015 the online Observatory for Combating Extremism—​a website hosting articles that respond critically to radical fatwas—​it competed with the Dar al-​Ifta al-​Misriyyah and the Grand Mufti responsible for issuing general fatwas. Nasser (1954–​1970) sought to assert his control over al-​Azhar by introducing the 1961 reform that gave the President the authority to appoint al-​Azhar leaders. Al-​Azhar Supreme Council was also reorganized to allow the government to appoint some of its members as well as its director and to form the Center for Islamic Research. In return, Azhar University was allowed to expand its faculty structure to include many secular colleges such as medicine and engineering (Moustafa, 2000). In al-​Azhar’s official magazine, some Azharites defended the new law arguing that it preserved the status of al-​Azhar as a “refuge for national revolutions” (Al-​ Azhar Magazine, 1956, p. 480) The then head of Azhar University, Mohamed al-​Bahai, argued that the new law would allow the institution to expand its influence across the Islamic and Arab world (Al-​Azhar Magazine, 1961, p. 667). Other Azharites, however, rejected the government’s involvement, such as Sheikh Abdel Hamid Kishk, who was later jailed for two years in 1966. The subsequent resignations of some Azharites led to the reduction in the number of faculty members between 1959 and 1963 (Moustafa, 2000). President Sadat (1970–​1981) sought to gain the support of mainstream Islamic institutions, including Dar al-​Ifta and al-​Azhar, in addition to allowing Islamic societies such as the MB and Salafist groups to operate freely on university campuses in a bid to repudiate Nasserism and promote the economic infitah. Nonetheless, the relation between mainstream Islamic institutions and Sadat oscillated between supporting and opposing certain policies. For instance, the former Grand Mufti Gad el-​Haq (died 1996), head of Dar al-​Ifta, issued an edict legitimizing the peace treaty with Israel in 1979, but he later issued an edict opposing Sadat’s policy of family planning. Moreover, the then Grand Imam Abd al-​Ḥalim Maḥmud (1973–​1978) called for the implementation of Sharia law including Islamic punishments and criticized Sadat’s infitah policy and the adoption of materialistic culture which, in his view, would damage Egyptian values (Albo & Meital, 2014, p. 172). 121

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During Mubarak’s era (1981–​2011), the government sought to demonstrate its religious credentials in a bid to appeal to the increasing Islamism in society. Consequently, it transferred significant duties to al-​Azhar, which, together with Dar al-​Ifta, sided with the government in its battle against Jihadist radical groups in return for greater autonomy and a say in censoring print and electronic media (Barraclough, 1998; Moustafa, 2000). For example, in 1989, the then Grand Mufti Sayyed Tantawi, who later became the Grand Imam in 1996, issued a ruling to legitimize savings certificates, claiming that they aligned with Islamic teachings and did not fall under usury prohibition (Graham, 2010). However, this support was not entirely assured; when the Egyptian government prepared a draft law in 2001 to bring zakat2 money collected by the Islamic charities under its control, Tantawi (by this time Grand Imam) defied the new law “arguing bluntly that the people did not trust the government as they trusted religious institutions” and the government withdrew the draft bill (Kodmani, 2005, p. 10).3 One issue that often divided the above state institutions was the legitimacy of state leaders, particularly in the wake of the 2011 uprising. The former Grand Mufti, Ali Goma’a, offered political support to Mubarak’s regime when he renounced the 2011 uprising, arguing that it was haram to protest against President Mubarak, whom he deemed the legitimate ruler. In 2013, however, the current Grand Mufti, Shawqi Allam, announced that the protests of June 30 against President Morsi were religiously legitimate because they were not violent. Conversely, a group of Azharites known as Jabhat Ulama al-​Azhar (the Azhar Scholars’ Front) led by the MB supporter, Yehia Ismail, upheld Morsi’s rulings during his presidency (2012–​2013), including his constitutional amendment (discussed below). The Front was originally formed in 1946, but was reconstituted in 1967 as a private organization, and issues statements and fatwas that often oppose official policies as well as the Grand Imam (Brown, 2011, p. 8). Consequently, the Front was banned by the state in 1998 and was officially dissolved in 2000. Leading members of MB were said to be affiliated with the Front, such as the MB mufti Abdel Rahman al-​Barr, who was a member of the Front board in 1995. The organization still operates, mostly online, and following the overthrow of Morsi, it announced that Morsi was the legitimate president, with some of the Front’s clerics joining the MB and Salafists in their sit-​in at Raba’a Mosque in 2013. They rejected al-​Tayeb’s decision to take sides with the military and asked him to resign (Mominoun Without Borders, 2017). Meanwhile, other Azharites, such as the former Mufti Ali Goma’a, supported the suppression of the Islamists and MB gathered in Raba’a Mosque, calling them Kharijites, or defectors (Wagih, 2018). Following the 2011 Revolution, a heated debate emerged concerning the role of faith in defining how the Egyptian state should work, as well as the role of al-​Azhar in modern times. Efforts were made to amend Article 2 of the Egyptian constitution, which dated back to the 1980 constitution establishing the Sunni Islamic jurisprudence as the basic guideline for legislation. Article 7 was added with the 2012 constitutional amendments made by the Brotherhood during its brief tenure, giving al-​Azhar institution the power to define Islamic law. Those who supported the removal of Article 7 argued that al-​Azhar has been penetrated by Salafist and MB members (Arafat, 2017, p. 42), and the Grand Imam, al-​Tayeb, was criticized for permitting MB supporters into his inner circle, such as his former deputy Abbas Shouman who was a strong supporter of Morsi (Dawoud, 2015). Al-​Tayeb acknowledged that both Salafist and MB members have dominated al-​Azhar institutions and that the Brotherhood tended to embrace new students, pay their fees, and offer them a range of services in order to buy their loyalty; they would even pay those students a daily fee to take part in the Brotherhood demonstrations (Maged, 2015). The debate ended with keeping Article 2 intact in the 2014 constitution while removing Article 7, although still affirming al-​Azhar’s independence and entitlement to financial support from the state (Parolin, 2014). 122

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Sisi’s relationship with al-​ Azhar has been fraught with difficulties, especially with his repeated call for a “revolution in religious discourse,” and revising Islamic curricula in al-​Azhar institutions, which several Azharites have pushed back against (Maged, 2019). Sisi’s call for a religious revolution has been promoted in the mainstream media under the title “tajdid al-​khitab al-​ deeni” (the renewal of the religious discourse) (Mourad & Bayoumy, 2015). Several intellectuals, such as Islam al-​Behairy, accused al-​Azhar’s canonical books of serving as the inspiration for extremism, pointing to old edicts on the killing of non-​Muslims. It is no secret that al-​Azhar’s clergy and professors are generally unhappy with this call for renewal of its curricula, but the institution has reluctantly announced work on modifying its textbooks, as well as setting up an online observatory to refute militants’ propaganda (Samir, 2006). Most recently, in January 2020, al-​Azhar held an international conference under the auspices of Sisi to debate the call to renew Islamic thought (Ahram Online, 2020). Egyptians inside and outside Egypt took to social media platforms to circulate clips from the event featuring intense discussion between the Grand Imam and the head of Cairo University, Mohamed al-​Khusht. The discussion centered on the role of turath (the legacy of past Islamic thought) in this “renewed” Islamic discourse, with al-​ Khusht stressing the need to sift through this turath while the Grand Imam argued that it is as usable today as it was in the early Islamic era.The debate demonstrates the tensions surrounding the specific interpretations of this renewal process. Moreover, Sisi clashed with al-​Azhar in 2017 after al-​Azhar refused to issue a fatwa to annul the current practice of “verbal divorce”—​in which a Muslim man can divorce his wife by simply telling her without a written document to that effect—​contrary to Sisi’s explicit request to revisit this practice in light of the rampant divorce rates. It was also claimed that Sisi was unhappy with al-​Azhar’s increasing independence, and the suspicions that al-​Azhar’s global activities aimed to shield the institution against criticism from the Egyptian authorities. Al-​Tayeb was subsequently banned from traveling on official trips in 2019 without prior permission from the state (Eltohamy, 2019).

The Muslim Brotherhood The Brotherhood’s long history and ideational package—​understood as its unique discourse, positioning, and narrative—​distinguish it from other Islamist groups. The movement has been characterized as being personality-​centered, with a narrative firmly established on its founder Hassan al-​Banna. This was why the death of al-​Banna in 1949 was seen as the first step toward the disintegration of the group (Mitchell, 1993), especially following the repressive measures of Nasser’s regime. At the time the MB was launched in 1928, the stage was set for a movement that appealed directly to the lower classes that seemed detached from, and excluded by, the secularist parties. It was also a time when the Sufi orders were losing their authority, and an increasing number of village people moved to towns and urban centers (Zaki, 1965, p. 230). The aims of the movement, however, were deliberately ambiguous to allow it to freely oscillate between being a religious movement if the government was strong, and a political movement, when the government appeared weaker (al-​Bishri, 2002, p. 121). The MB’s international network, which began at al-​Banna’s time with a few branches set up in Arab countries, has massively expanded since Nasser’s crackdown on the Brotherhood in Egypt. Al-​Banna’s son-​in-​law, Said Ramadan, was instrumental in setting up the nucleus of this international network when he fled to Switzerland in 1958 (Johnson, 2010). Following Nasser’s persecutions, many MB members fled to Saudi Arabia, and the Saudi ruler welcomed them as he could use them in his soft war against Nasser. The MB was active in writing epistles and books from their new refuge, which were distributed all over the Arab and Islamic world 123

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(al-​Zaidy, 2000, p.  272). Members from the Gulf States were also said to be represented in the Guidance Bureau (the MB’s governing council), but these members and other supporters in the Gulf “were always deployed to collect money for the international network of Ikhwan [The Brotherhood]” (al-​Oteibi, 2011, p. 32). Other MB members in Europe formed organized networks funded by Gulf wealth.When the former MB leader, General Guide Mustafa Mashur, fled Egypt following the assassination of Sadat in 1981, he settled in Germany and arranged a conference for the international network (al-​Tilwai, 2016). It has also been argued (e.g.,Vidino, 2010) that the MB has links with the European Assembly of Muslim Imams, launched in 2008 as part of the Federation of Islamic Organizations in Europe, which, in turn, is regarded as an umbrella group for the MB, and primarily funded by Gulf sources. During Mubarak’s rule in 1984, the then MB General Guide, Omar al-​Tilmisani (d. 1986), saw the general election as a golden opportunity for the MB to join parliamentary life: The parliamentary session had just ended and thinking began on the new parliamentary elections. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, had the Ikhwan let it slip from their hands, they would surely have counted among the ranks of the neglectful. Cited in El-​Ghobashy, 2005, p. 378 The Brotherhood’s collaboration with other political parties, such as the liberal Wafd, the Socialist Labor, and the Liberal Party, was justified as being necessary because, at the time, the Brotherhood was prohibited from forming its own party.There were general questions for both the government and al-​Azhar to justify why Sharia was not fully applied in Egypt, and why Islamist movements were banned from forming political parties (Mellor, 2017, p. 163). The MB secured significant gains in the parliamentary elections, even though it was in coalition with other political parties. The group won 7 parliamentary seats in 1984, which increased to 35 in 1987, and fell to 17 in 2000, but rose again to a massive 88 seats in 2005. Collaboration with other political parties forced the MB to surrender to the wishes of the people, and hakimiyya (or the highest political and legal authority) of constitutions, although they announced that their manifesto had an Islamic marj’iyya (religious references) (al-​Shobki, 2006). However, the MB never clarified how the religious marj’iyya would be articulated and organized, al-​Azhar’s role in it, nor how to reconcile public votes (rule by the people) with Islamic marj’iyya (Abdel Maguid, 2010). During the 1990s, there were several veteran members who entertained the idea of forming a formal political party, affiliated with the MB, but the General Guide rejected it.The dissenting member, Abu al-​Ela Madi, decided to move on with the idea and applied to form the al-​Wasat (Center) Party, together with other breakaway members. This application angered the then General Guide, Mustafa Mashur, who threatened to dismiss Madi’s supporters from the ranks of the movement and offered to help the government find reasons for rejecting Madi’s petition to form his party. The state, instead, referred Madi and his group to a military tribunal (El Ghobashy, 2005, pp. 386–​387). When the al-​Wasat Party crisis erupted in the mid-​1990s, the leadership circulated a paper discussing the reasons behind the rebellion, blaming it on the inadequacy of “ikhwan cultivation,” rather than on the rigid hierarchy and lack of debate within the MB (Hamama, 2016). The al-​Wasat affair sparked resentment among both the veteran and young members regarding how strategic decisions were taken within the MB. The former MB member, al-​Sayyed Abdel-​ Sattar al-​Meligi, for instance, sent a letter to the former General Guide Mahdi Akef in 2007, complaining about what he called “luxury Ikhwan,” which referred to those who accumulated wealth in the name of Da’wa, and refuted any transparency in the way they spent their money 124

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(Hassan, 2016, p. 12).The MB’s internal selection mechanisms also came under scrutiny in 2009 at the time of the General Guide elections. Mohamad Habib, the then Deputy General Guide, expected to be nominated as the leader of the movement during that period. However, he felt several of his colleagues in the Guidance Bureau “were plotting” to elect another candidate, Goma’a Amin. Khairat al-​Shater, the MB financier who was incarcerated at the time, rejected that nomination and the current General Guide, Mohamed Badi’e, was chosen instead (Habib, 2015). The election resulted in the withdrawal of leading members such as Mohamed Habib and the concentration of power within the MB’s conservative wing (Tammam, 2010). This prompted several young members to openly criticize the way the elections were run and to express their dismay in interviews with mainstream media or on individual blogs. Following the 2013 coup, Egypt—​along with Saudi Arabia and the UAE—​outlawed the Brotherhood movement, accusing it of having links with terrorism, and requesting their closest allies, the United Kingdom and the United States, to follow suit. The Egyptian Minister of Awqaf “dismissed thousands of imams who lacked proper licenses and banned Friday prayers in small and often unregistered mosques sometimes controlled by the Brotherhood” (Lang, Awad & Katulis, 2014, p. 13). Since 2013, the MB leadership has heavily depended on its international network to reach out to members in Egypt and abroad, but the movement has witnessed a conflict over strategy and mission, especially between those in Egyptian prisons and those who managed to flee Egypt.

Salafists: The ambivalent revolutionaries Several Salafist associations emerged at the turn of the 20th century, chief among them al-​Jam’iyya al-​Shari’iyya (JS) (or Society of Religious Legality), which was set up in 1912 and embraced all four Islamic schools of thoughts (i.e., Maliki, Shafi ’i, Hanbali, and Hanafi). A former member, Hamed al-​Feqqi (d. 1959), left the group and formed his own Jama’at Ansar al-​Sunna al-​Muhamadiyya (AS) (Society of Supporters of Muhammad’s Tradition) in 1926 to promote the Hanbali school of thought. The two societies were forced to merge in 1967 and only separated in 1972 when Sadat allowed the establishment of Islamic societies (Moustafa, 2000). During Sadat’s rule (1970–​1981), several other Salafist groups emerged, particularly on university campuses. Al-​Gama’a al-​Islamiyya was one of them and it included figures such as Abdel Moneim Abul Futuh and Essam al-​Irian, who both moved to the MB which sought to extend its influence over student groups. Some second-​level leaders of those student groups refused to join the MB and created their own organization, or what was later known as the Salafist Da’wa in Alexandria, in 1982 (Steuer, 2017). In the 1980s, another major Salafist group was formed in Cairo in addition to other small Salafist groups and independent preachers. The Cairo-​based Salafist group diverged from the Alexandria group in political matters; while the Alexandria group declared its disinterest in political participation and endorsed Mubarak as the legitimate leader, the Cairo group was more politicized and supported protests against the government. Meanwhile, students in Upper Egypt, particularly Assiut University, formed their own group, embracing radical measures to ensure political reforms, and applying Sharia. From them, several Jihadist groups emerged, such as the al-​Jihad group led by Aboud Zumur, who was implicated in Sadat’s assassination in 1981. Other Jihadist groups adopted violent actions until the end of the 1990s, targeting Copts and tourists (Steuer, 2017, p. 5). The JS and AS are by far the most important Salafist societies in Egypt given their long historical roots, and they are also known for their ties with the MB as well as Gulf states, particularly Saudi Arabia. For instance, AS was nicknamed “the religious embassy of Saudi Arabia” 125

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due to its “strong Wahhabi bent” (Kepel, 1984, p. 184). During Morsi’s rule, a member of JS, Talaat Afifi, was selected to serve as the Awqaf minister. Following the 2013 coup, the Egyptian government froze the assets of numerous Egyptian Islamic charities, including some of the JS and AS branches that were allegedly controlled by the MB. Nonetheless, both JS and AS still maintain their charitable operations compensating for the lack of state services in poor neighborhoods. Additionally, the JS announced in January 2020 its financial contribution to the Tahia Misr fund (Long Live Egypt Fund) overseen by Sisi. The Salafists’ provision of welfare services, including health clinics and educational centers and even private mosques (Hassan, 2016, p. 20), has secured them a vast support base especially in poor neighborhoods. There are no reliable figures about the number of Salafists’ supporters, but the former MB member and former presidential candidate, Abdel Moneim Abul Futuh, claims that the Salafists outnumber MB members by 20 to 1 (Egypt Independent, 2011). Salafist charities have hundreds of branches across Egypt. For example, according to JS’s website, the society has more than 1,100 branches across Egypt, supports more than 188,000 families, and has 53 institutes educating future preachers. Moreover, AS owns a strong network of charities, schools, mosques, and libraries; however, some of its mosques have recently been put under the supervision of Awqaf (Mounib, 2009, pp.  28–​ 9). Mainstream Egyptian media claim that the Salafists still control hundreds of mosques (Laban, 2018); for instance, one leading figure in the Alexandria Salafist faction claims that his group controls 3,000 mosques compared to only 300 mosques in 1981. On the other hand, there are around 110,000 state-​controlled mosques staffed by only 60,000 imams hired by Awqaf, which makes it impossible for the state to oversee activities in all public mosques, let alone private ones (Laban, 2018). Fearing that the MB would monopolize the political scene in the wake of the 2011 uprising, Salafist groups decided to form political parties. The Alexandria Salafist group formed al-​Nour Party in June 2011, led by Emad Abdel Ghaffour, while the Cairo-​based group formed al-​Fadila Party, which later changed its name to al-​Asala Party. Members of the radical al-​Jihad group, such as Aboud Zumur and Tariq al-​Zumour, released from prison in 2011 and soon formed their own al-​Binaa wal Tanmiyya Party (BwT). Al-​Nour had its most followers in Alexandria, al-​Asala’s followers were based in Cairo, and BwT had strong support in Middle Egypt (Steuer, 2017, p. 5).The three parties formed a coalition between 2011 and 2012, dominated by al-​Nour Party, but during the presidential elections in 2012 the coalition collapsed after each party backed a different presidential candidate: al-​Asala supported Morsi and the MB, while al-​Nour and BwT supported Abdel Moneim Abul Futuh who broke away from the MB to compete with Morsi. Generally, Islamic political parties—​al-​Nour, al-​Wasat, BwT, al-​Asala, and the MB’s al-​Hurriyya wal ‘Adala, or Freedom and Justice Party (FJP)—​supported a parliamentary system but disagreed about the mechanism to apply Sharia: while al-​Asala, al-​Nour, al-​Fadila, and BwT preferred to base all legislations on Sharia, al-​Wasat preferred to legislate according to public interests and needs.They also disagreed about the role of the state in applying Sharia: some of them (e.g., MB and al-​Nour) assigned the legislative power to the parliament, while BwT endorsed the setup of independent religious institutions responsible for applying Sharia in the public sphere. The Salafist groups also responded to the 2013 coup in different ways and were affected accordingly. Al-​Nour Party was critical of Morsi’s rule (2012–​2013) and it later supported the military overthrow of Morsi along with what was known then as the new road map to save Egypt from the MB. On the other hand, al-​Watan joined the MB National Alliance to Support Legitimacy, and because of this, the party was clearly weakened after the 2013 coup. Similarly, the leader of BwT, Tariq al-​Zumour, along with Aboud Zumur and other members fled Egypt following the 2013 coup because they participated in Raba’a Square protests; the al-​Zumours now allegedly move between Turkey and Qatar. 126

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After adopting the new constitution in 2014, several court applications were filed calling for the dissolution of al-​Nour Party, but all complaints have so far been rejected by tribunals. In 2015, al-​Nour Party continued its political campaigning and took part in the 2015 parliamentary elections, winning 12 seats—​a significant regression from the 111 seats it won in the 2012 elections. The party officials blamed hostile media coverage and “unfair electoral laws” for their loss, but some commentators attributed this loss to the disappointment of al-​Nour’s voters who thought that the party “sold out the Islamist cause and the Salafist cause” (Linn & Linn, 2015). The party also supported Sisi in the presidential elections in 2018, declaring its full support for the incumbent as “the best candidate,” and launched a campaign to help mobilize voters to participate in the presidential elections (Abdel Rahman, 2018). Other Salafist groups include Salafyo Costa, which is comprised of young men who declared themselves a modern Salafist group in 2011 with a mission to spread a culture of dialogue and coexistence in the Egyptian streets. There were, moreover, some revolutionary Salafists who formed small, organized movements, such as the group calling itself Hazimoun, which supported Hazim Salah Abu Ismail. Abu Ismail clearly endorsed the 2011 Revolution against Mubarak, and later attempted to run in the presidential elections in 2012. He was barred from the contest on the grounds that his mother carried American citizenship, which goes against the law that states both parents must be Egyptian citizens only. Abu Ismail is the son of a prominent MB member, but he embraced Salafism and did not affiliate himself with the MB (Lacroix, 2012, p. 7). He was sentenced to five years in prison in 2017 for inciting violence in December 2012, when he and his supporters besieged a court in Cairo where some of his followers were being tried. Thus, similar to the MB, Salafist parties generally faced internal tensions, mostly due to the dominance of leading figures (clerics), each with their own followers. However, unlike the MB, power was not concentrated in one central section of the organization, but rather distributed among different parties.

Islamists and religious minorities The Islamists’ call to implement Sharia, in a state whose constitution draws on Islam as the main source of legislation, has resulted in an intense debate about the rights and status of non-​ Muslim groups including the Shiites, Sufis, Copts, and Baha’i. The Copts are said to constitute around 10–​15% of the population, or approximately 10–​15 million people (Nasreddine, 2018), although the Coptic community claims the actual figure is much higher. The Shiite population is estimated to be between 800,000 and 2 million people, although no official census data exist to verify their actual number. The Sufi groups are estimated to have increased from around 60 during the 1950s to around 77 Sufi tariqa/​doctrine today, having branched out from six main tariqas (Hassan, 2019). The majority are registered with the Awqaf and their activities are overseen by the Supreme Council of Sufi Orders, established in 1903, and whose membership includes representatives from al-​Azhar University, Awqaf Ministry, the Ministry of Culture, and the Ministry of Interior (Harvard Divinity School, 2020). Attacks on Coptic churches as well as Sufi and Shiite mosques testify to the ongoing interreligious conflicts. For instance, in 2017, two Christian churches along with a Sufi mosque were bombed (Nasreddine, 2018). The Da’wa clerics forbid congratulating the Copts on their Christmas celebrations, which implies that citizenship for them is defined only in terms of coexistence with other religious minorities and not as the basis for equality among all religious groups in society (Shlatah, 2016, pp. 124–​125). However, al-​Nour Party conceded to including a few Coptic members in its council in order to sidestep the legal prohibition of setting up political parties based on religious ideologies. Still, many of the Coptic members later left the party 127

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on the grounds of ideological differences and because of the backlash from within the Coptic community (Shlatah, 2016, p. 127). On the other hand, the Sufis hardly opposed the successive regimes, including suppression of some groups such as the MB (Mounib, 2009, p. 24). Sufi leaders announced their foray into politics in 2011, with the establishment of several political parties affiliated to Sufi groups, such as al-​Tasamoh al-​Igtima’ai (Social Tolerance), al-​Tahrir al-​Misri (Egyptian Liberation), I’tilaf al-​ Sufiyiin al-​Misriyin (the Coalition of Egyptian Sufis), and al-​Nasr Party. A recent analysis declared the end of Sufi political parties, especially after 2013, in contrast to the Salafist parties which managed to sustain their political presence (Rushdi, 2018). One reason for this, according to a Salafist leader, was because Sufis did not want a clash with the authorities, and the political sphere requires participants to be able to protest and challenge the government. Another reason was, arguably, that Sufi parties depended on members of the intellectual elites rather than appealing to the working class, as the Salafists do. Sufis, in addition, did not have a public presence in the form of welfare projects such as those provided by the Salafists, nor did they have the financial ability to pay for them (Rushdi, 2018). The Shiite celebration of Ashura, marking the martyrdom of Hussain, the grandson of the Prophet, is usually prohibited in Egypt in order to avoid agitating sectarian tensions between them and the Salafist clerics, who often attack Shiites and their practices. In 2013, 15 Egyptians were suspected of attacking a Shiite cleric in Giza, after alleging that the cleric attempted to proselytize Shiite teachings (Ezzat, 2013). The incident came after a state-​orchestrated incident of stirring up sectarianism, when the MB President Mohamed Morsi and a rally of MB and Salafists gathered at the Cairo Stadium, denouncing President Bashar al-​Assad of Syria for his massacres of the Sunnis. The MB’s stance toward the Shiite minority remained mainly ambivalent, although hostile at times in order to appease the Salafists’ increasing influence. Several Salafist groups including the Alexandria-​based Da’wa fostered close relationships with Saudi clerics who followed the late Saudi Mufti ibn Baz’s fatwa that the Salafists should not join the MB, especially if the latter sides with the Shia in Iran (Shlatah, 2016, p. 147). Al-​Nour Party also requested the coordination of Da’wa activities across Egypt to combat “Shiite proselytization” (Abdel Rahman, 2015). The Awqaf responded in 2015 with an investigation into the spread of Shiite practices in state mosques, while al-​Azhar’s Grand Imam announced that Egyptian Shiite clerics were banned from traveling to Iran. Finally, the Salafists reject Baha’ism as a legitimate religion to be protected by the constitution (Shlatah, 2016, p. 128). The Da’wa has declared Baha’is a threat to national security, and argues that they should be charged with treason (Egypt Independent, 2012). The MB does not approve of Baha’ism either; in 2006, the MB members agreed with the ruling party to draft a law criminalizing Baha’ism, and branding the Baha’is apostates (al-​Jarida, 2009). Interestingly, the Coptic community has expressed an ambivalent approach with regard to the Baha’is’ rights: on the one hand, the Coptic community is supportive of improving the Baha’is’ rights, but the Church as a whole does not regard legalizing Baha’ism as a priority, perhaps because it may open the door for other groups such as the Protestants, whose number ranges between 1 to 2 million (Sada al-​Balad, 2018), to request an official status (Scott, 2010, p. 175).

Conclusion The successive Egyptian governments have sought to tighten their grip on the religious sphere, partially to monitor and curb the power of religious actors (as Nasser did), or to form a new base of supporters (as done by Sadat), or to allow those religious actors to substitute for the state’s welfare programs (under Mubarak). 128

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Al-​Azhar’s relations with the government have oscillated between support and defiance of state policies and political ideologies, and are likely to continue to do so. In October 2019, the Supreme Council of al-​Azhar announced the new Department of Political Science at al-​Azhar University, officially launched in 2020. A high-​ranking official at al-​Azhar University told the press that the new department will revive the political role of al-​Azhar from which “several ministers graduated,” and that the new department will likely have “a profound impact on the development of students’ political ideas” (El-​Balad, 2019). As for the MB, the future is uncertain, given the perpetual fissures within the movement. There are some observers who expect the division within the movement to “lead either to self-​destruction, an internal coup, or Western intervention by pressuring for reconciliation” (Tadros, 2015, p. 16). Another scenario is for the MB core membership to embark on a revisionist exercise by evaluating its successes and failures, both regionally and globally. This process allegedly began in 2017 when a group of young MB members, who were serving life sentences in an Egyptian prison, announced their own ideological and political revisionism. Two of those detainees told the press that they fundamentally disagreed with al-​Banna’s vision of a centralized movement whose aim was to control the political power in the region, and that the MB’s various committees were never monitored by external authorities, thus opening the floodgates for further divisions (Khayyal, 2017). In September 2019, the MB international network announced a conference in Turkey to discuss the future of the group. The challenge with such revisionism is that it is unlikely to create consensus within the movement—​between an old guard that clings to al-​Banna’s traditional messages and a new guard that seeks to part company with the past and start afresh. As the MB is now banned in several countries, it has little prospect of returning to the Egyptian political scene in the near future. Meanwhile, the military, led by Sisi, has tightened its grip over the country—​politically, economically, and even culturally.The national referendum held in 2019 regarding a set of constitutional amendments has allowed Sisi to extend his term to 2024, and to run for one more 6-​year term after that. In the cultural sphere, the Egyptian television production of miniseries has been subjected to the military and security advisers’ supervision of plots and scripts, aiming to glorify the security forces while vilifying exiled opposition such as the banned MB (Walsh, 2019). The parliament is also considering banning religious parties—​citing Article 74 of the amended 2014 constitution, which prohibits political parties from being established based on religious ideology. The dilemma, however, is that Article 2 of the constitution confirms that Islam is the main religion of the state, consequently, appearing contradictory to Article 74.Thus far, the only dissolved Islamist parties are al-​Wasat, FJP, and al-​Watan as they have been inactive for several years, while the leaders of the BwT have been on Egypt’s designated terror list since 2018. The parliament has proposed a new bill to regulate the registered 112 political parties, of which 90 are not represented in parliament, and may also consider banning or abolishing existing religious parties including al-​Nour, thereby ending Islamists’ official participation in Egyptian politics.

Notes 1 Such discord is evident in the interpretation of Sharia in matters pertaining to forming political parties, spending zakat money on political campaigning, the legitimacy of state leaders, and the relations with other faith groups, to name but a few examples. 2 Zakat is a mandatory donation of 2.5% of profits paid annually, with the aim of diverting this money to eliminate poverty (Ismail, 2018, p. 2). 3 There are around 5,000 zakat committees in Egypt, and 25,000 associations collecting zakat, which amounted to approximately 3.7% of the gross domestic product (GDP) in 2013, or around $10 billion (Ismail, 2018, pp. 3–​4). In the wake of the 2011 uprising and the emergence of a plethora of political

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Noha Mellor parties, there was a heated debate about whether Islamist movements such as the MB or Salafists should be allowed to divert part of their zakat collection to fund their political campaigning. Several Azharites opposed using zakat in this way, but advised Muslim citizens that they could still offer voluntary donations to their parties (Abdel Rahman, 2011).

References Abdel Mon’eim, Intisar (2011). Hekayti am’a al-​Ikhwan: Muzakarrat ukht sabeqa. Cairo: al-​Ha’ia al-​Masriyya lil-​Kitab. Abdel Rahman, Waleed (2011). Infaq amwal al-​zakat fi taasees al-​ahzab al-​jadeeda youtheru jadalan. Al-​Sharq al-​Awsat, 22 April 2011. https://​bit.ly/​2qEUfPv Abdel Rahman, Waleed (2015). Sheikh al-​Azhar yahmel ala ‘ateqohu mowajahat al-​tashiyo’. Al-​Ahsarq al-​Awsat, 29 June 2015. https://​bit.ly/​2uCeWdz Abdel Rahman, Waleed (2018). al-​Salafiyoun yosajelloun houdoran lafitan khilal al-​iqtria’a al-​r iyassi. Al-​Sharq al-​Awasat, 28 March 2018, Issue 14365. Abdel Maguid, Wahid (2010). Al-​Ikhwan al-​Muslimun bayna al-​Tareekh wal Mustaqbal. Cairo: Dar al-​Ahram. Ahram Online (2020). Al-​Azhar to hold international conference on renewing Islamic thought. 25 January 2020. http://​english.ahram.org.eg/​NewsContent/​1/​64/​362243/​Egypt/​Politics-​/​AlAzhar-​to-​hold-​ int%E2%80%99l-​conference-​on-​renewing-​Islam.aspx Al-​Azhar Magazine (1956).Vol. 29, issue 5, 3 December 1956. Cairo: Al-​Azhar Al-​Azhar Magazine (1961).Vol. 33, issue 6, November 1961. Cairo: Al-​Azhar Al-​Bishri, Tariq (2002). Al haraka al siyassiya fi misr. Cairo: Dar al Shorouq. Albo, Moshe & Yoram Meital (2014). The independent path of Shaykh al-​Azhar ʿAbd al-​Ḥalīm Maḥmūd. Die Welt des Islams, 54: 159–​182. Al-​Jarida (2009). Misr tatargi’ ‘an manh al-​bahai’yeen haq al-​diyana. Al-​Jarida (Kuwait), 3 May 2009. www. aljarida.com/​articles/​1461725304220548500/​ Al-​Oteibi, Abdaulla B. (2011). Al-​Ikhwan al-​Muslimun wal Saudia. In al-​Ikhwan al-​Muslimun fi al-​khaleej. 2nd edn. Dubai: Al-​Mesbar Studies & Research Center, pp. 7–​56. Al-​Shobki, Amr (2006). Moustaqbal Jama’at al-​Ikhwan al-​Muslimin. Cairo: Al-​Ahram Centre for Political and Strategic Studies. Al-​Tilawi, Ahmed (2016). al-​Tanzeem al-​dawli wal abwab al-​khafiyya li azmat Ikhwan masr. Noonpost, 13 February 2016. www.noonpost.com/​content/​10233?amp Al-​Zaidy, Mufi d (2000). Al-​tayyarat al-​fi kriyya fi l khalij al-​arabi 1938–​1971. Beirut: Center for Arab Union Studies. Arafat, Alaa Al-​Din (2017). The Fall of Islamism and Prospects of Democratization. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Brown, Nathan J. (2011). Post-​Revolutionary al-​Azhar. Working paper, September 2011, Washington DC: Carnegie Endowment. Dawoud, Khaled (2015). Al-​Azhar vs TV shows. Ahram Weekly, Issue 1241, 9–​15 April 2015. Egypt Independent (2011). Salafis outnumber Muslim Brothers 20-​to-​1, says presidential hopeful. Egypt Independent, 3 July 2011. www.egyptindependent.com/​news/​salafis-​outnumber-muslim-​brothers20-​1-​says-​presidential-​hopeful Egypt Independent (2012). Baha’is threaten Egypt’s national security. Egypt Independent, 18 Feb. 2012. www.egyptindependent.com/​shahat-​bahais-​threaten-​egypts-​national-​security/​ Eickelman, Dale F. & James Piscatori (1996). Muslim Politics. Princeton, New Jersey:  Princeton University Press. El-​Balad (2019). Inshaa qism al-​oloum al-​siyasiyya bel Azhar. 22 October 2019. www.elbalad.news/​4029108 El-​Ghobashy, Mona (2005). The metamorphosis of the Egyptian Muslim Brothers. International Journal of Middle East Studies, 37: 373–​395. Eltohamy, Amr (2019). Egypt’s president is reportedly concerned that Al-​Azhar’s increasing international activity is working to insulate itself from the Egyptian government’s control. Al Monitor, April 7, 2019. https://​bit.ly/​35UaRTv Ezzat, Dina (2013). Sectarian hanging, Al-​Ahram Weekly, Issue 1154, 27 June -​3 July 2013, http://​weekly. ahram.org.eg/​News/​3142.aspx Farghaly, Maher (2019). Jadal al-​Manabei’. Al-​Marjei’, 25 February 2019. www.almarjie-​paris.com/​6921 Graham, David A. (2010).Tantawi may have been moderate, but he was ignored. Newsweek, 11 March 2010. https://​bit.ly/​367Lxtg

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Islamism in Egypt Habib, Mohamad (2015). Mohamad Habib’s memoirs, episode 5. al-​Shorouq, 18 February 2015. Hamama, Mohamad (2016). Kayfa ykhnuq ukhtubut al-​gama’a nafsuh? 10 February. www.islamyun.net web forum [accessed on 22 April 2016]. Harvard Divinity School (2020). Sufism in Egypt. Religious Literacy Project, https://​rlp.hds.harvard.edu/​ faq/​sufism-​egypt Hassan, Ammar Ali (2016). Al-​Mujtamei’ al-​Ameeq lil Ikhwan wa-​Salafieen fi Misr. Alexandra: Bibliotheca Alexandrina. Hassan, Salah Eddin (2019). Kharitat al-​turuq al-​sufiyya fi masr. Al-​Marjei’, 25 February 2019. www. almarjie-​paris.com/​6923 Heikal, Mohammad Hassanien (1988). Kharif al-​Ghadab. Cairo: Al Ahram. Hirschl, Ran (2010). Constitutional Theocracy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Ismail, Zenobia (2018). Using Zakat for International Development. K4D Helpdesk Report. Birmingham: University of Birmingham. Johnson, Ian (2010). A Mosque in Munich: Nazis, the CIA and the Muslim Brotherhood in the West. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Kepel, Gilles (1984). Muslim Extremism in Egypt:  The Prophet and Pharaoh. Berkeley, CA:  University of California Press. Khayyal, Mohamad (2017). Al-​Shorouq tohawer Ikhwan-​al-​moraja’at fil sogoun. Al-​Shorouq, 24 August 2017. https://​bit.ly/​2mNoOAV Kodmani, Bassma (2005). The dangers of political exclusion: Egypt’s Islamist problem. Carnegie Papers, number 63, October 2005. https://​carnegieendowment.org/​files/​CP63.Kodmani.FINAL.pdf Kushimoto, Hiroko (2015). Azharisation’ of ʿUlama training in Malaysia. In:  Masooda Bano & Keiko Sakurai (eds.), Shaping Global Islamic Discourses. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Laban, Salah (2018). Masajid tahta saytaret al-​salafiyyin. Tahrir News, 17 May 2018. https://​bit.ly/​3jRWFjo Lacroix, Stéphane (2012). Sheikhs and Politicians:  Inside the New Egyptian Salafism. Policy Briefing, Doha: Doha Brooking Institute. Lang, Hardin, Mokhtar Awad & Brian Katulis (2014). Fragmenting under Pressure  –​Egypt’s Islamists since Morsi’s Ouster. March 2014. Washington DC: Center for American Progress. Linn, Emily C. & Nicholas Linn (2015). The Nour Party goes dim. Egypt’s last Islamist party is clinging to life. But how much longer? Foreign Policy, 21 November 2015. https://​foreignpolicy.com/​2015/​11/​ 21/​the-​nour-​party-​goes-​dim-​egypt/​ Lukes, Steven (2005). Power –​ A Radical View. 2nd edn. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Maged, Amany (2015). In search of “renewal”  –​Al-​Azhar is at the center of an escalating controversy. Ahram Weekly, Issue 1229, 15–​21 January 2015. www.masress.com/​en/​ahramweekly/​110157 Maged, Amany (2019). Wrangles over renewal. Ahram Weekly, Issue 1423, 20 December 2018–​2 January 2019. http://​english.ahram.org.eg/​NewsContentP/​48/​320872/​-​-​/​Egypt-​Wrangles-​over-​religious-​ discourse.aspx Mellor, Noha (2017). Voice of the Muslim Brotherhood. London: Routledge. Mitchell, Richard P. (1993). The Society of the Muslim Brothers. Oxford: Oxford University Press (originally published in 1969). Mominoun Without Borders (2017). Al-​Hala al-​Deeniyya fi Masr.Vol. 1.Tunis: Mominoun Without Borders. Mounib, Abdel Moneim (2009). Kharitat al-​Harakat al-​Islamiyya fi Misr. Cairo: Arab Network for Human Rights. Mourad, Mahmoud & Yara Bayoumy (2015). Special report:  Egypt deploys scholars to teach moderate Islam, but skepticism abounds. Reuters, 31 May 2015. https://​reut.rs/​2NDHQ5i Moustafa, Tamir (2000). Conflict and cooperation between the state and religious institutions in contemporary Egypt. International Journal of Middle East Studies, 32: 3–​22. Nasreddine, Hala Nouhad (2018). Ethnic/​Religious Communities in Egypt: Grievances and Inclusive Prospects. Issue Brief, Rice University’s Baker Institute for Public Policy, 10.05.18. Parolin, Gianluca P. (2014). The 2014 constitution of Egypt: An overview. IEMed Mediterranean Yearbook Med. 2014. Barcelona: IEMed. Rushdi, Amr (2018). Limaza fashal al-​Soufiyya fi momarasat al-​Siyasa? Aman, 19 January 2018. www. aman-​dostor.org/​6014 Sada al Balad (2018). An interview with the president of the Protestant Community of Egypt, Andrea Zaki. 31 December 2018. www.elbalad.news/​3636404 Samir, Samir Khalil (2006). Training European imams is Islam’s toughest challenge. Asia News. https://​bit. ly/​2PcfJNy

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Noha Mellor Scott, Rachel M. (2010). The Challenge of Political Islam. Non-​Muslims and the Egyptian State. Redwood City, California: Stanford University Press. Shlatah, Ahmad Zaghloul (2016). Al-​Dawa al-​Salafiyya al-​Sakandria. Beirut: Centre for Arab Unity Studies. Steuer, Clément (2017). Current developments in the Egyptian Salafist Scene. Observatoire du monde arabo-​ musulman et du Sahel. Fondation pour la Recherce Strategique, March 2017. https://​bit.ly/​2JeDCjL Tadros, Samuel (2015). The Brotherhood Divided. Hudson Institute, 20 August 2015. www.hudson.org/​ research/​11530-​the-​brotherhood-​divided Tammam, Hossam (2010). The Salafization of the Muslim Brothers. Alexandria: Bibliotheca Alexandrina. Vidino, Lorenzo (2010). The New Muslim Brotherhood in the West. New  York City, NY:  Columbia University Press. Wagih, Ahmad (2018). Salafism’s many faces. Journal of the Oasis International Foundation, 27, 23 October 2018. www.oasiscenter.eu/​en/​salafism-​egypt-​every-​aspect-​explained Walsh, Declan (2019). Egypt’s soap opera clampdown extends el-​Sisi’s iron grip to TV. NY Times, 3 April 2019. www.nytimes.com/​2019/​04/​03/​world/​middleeast/​sisi-​egypt-​soap-​opera.html Zaki, Mohamed Aboulkhir (1965). Modern Muslim Thought in Egypt and Its Impact on Islam in Malaya. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of London, London.

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9 CIVIL SOCIETY AND REVOLUTION (2000–​PRESENT) Hafsa Halawa

Introduction Over the last 20  years in Egypt, civil society has experienced various iterations of freedom, repression, and crackdown. The alternating cycles led to a large amount of organizing, resulting in the 2011 uprising. However, civil society was quickly depressed by both countering political narratives and a military apparatus that closed down civic space during the post-​2011 transition period, which has now culminated in the largest crackdown against civil society in Egypt’s modern era under current president Abdel Fattah al Sisi. A generational awakening—​similar to that of 1948 and led by the invasion of Iraq in 2003—​brought about a new form of civil society in the country.This type of civil society was no longer comprised primarily of socialists or traditional left-​wing activists, but rather morphed into a more varied and richer cross section of the population that better mirrors society. From this effervescence of civil society and its diversification came a more calculated and broadened focus that ultimately propelled the country toward the 2011 uprising. Amid this new wave also came novel forms of civic engagement through the use of technology of the digital era, most notably social media. In addition, a new wave of speaking truth to power through local mainstream media (both written and television/​radio) was a major part of the changing societal fabric in the lead up to 2011. While Egypt’s civil society has been hailed as ushering in a new opening for fundamental freedoms, it is also the sector that has been punished the most for it. Even as early as May 2011—​ with what became the infamous “NGO Trial” of local and foreign civil society workers—​a security crackdown began to target a more liberal, secular and forthright movement that has never wavered in its call for accountability and transparency in governance. Furthermore, as the post-​2013 order seeks to reestablish the autocratic policies of the past with an even harsher crackdown on fundamental freedoms, movements and organizing, Egypt’s civil society has all but surrendered itself—​moving underground or abroad in haste, while continuing to try to move the discussion on the rights agenda, or impose itself among Egypt’s governing elite. As the net widens to ensnare some business elite deemed unsupportive of the military’s new regime, or even regime members who have “turned” on the president, the role of civil society becomes evermore threatened, although evermore urgent.1

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Ultimately, 2011 gave civil society a historic opening it had never experienced before and has forever changed the sector within the country. As the nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), community groups, activists, social movements and coalitions that comprise Egypt’s civil society bore the successes of the Arab Spring, they have since borne the brunt of responsibility for alleged failures and found themselves trapped between their core goals and fighting against conspiracy theories that surround them.

A new face for civil society in Egypt (2000–​2011) The preparation for, and openings created in, 2011 brought about a generational shift in civil society. Since 2000, older personalities—​those historically famous as regime challengers embodied in the prerevolutionary period’s older liberals, including fervent leftists and feminists—​ gave way (not always smoothly) to young, tech-​savvy, and some Western-​educated, rights-​led campaigners. This new generation was buoyed by political openings and sought to involve themselves in their own interpreted course for change the country was on. With this renewed charge of civil society, a broader agenda emerged that moved the focus from simply social or economic rights to political rights, and issues such as the role of women and policy engagement alongside the traditional messaging defined by the period of Arab–​Israeli tensions.2 Much like historically powerful political moments, civil society becomes defined and powered by specific events that bring into the fold a new generation of actors. For many of the older generation activists—​not only in Egypt but across the region—​the events in 1948 and the creation of the state of Israel spurred on a leftist-​aligned liberal movement that brought about a complimentary rebirth in socialist politics.3 While many historical actors4 remain active to this day in Egypt’s changing civil society sphere, they have largely been displaced by a more powerful group momentum of young people, who themselves have been spurred on by the United States (US)-​led invasion of Iraq in 2003. The evolution of civil society over the past 20  years has by and large done away with personality-​led movements that are determined by the psychology and power of one famous face. Rather, it has become a movement pushed forward by a collective of actors. These actors are notably younger, gender-​representative, egalitarian rather than socialist and encapsulate a plethora of political ideologies. At some periods, these groups have also integrated Islamists, who have their own grassroots activities that do not typically overlap with the new generation of post-​2003 activists.5 While there were still protest movements on labor rights issues—​and indeed, these are the moments that most attracted the state’s attention—​the message has been one of inclusion, reflecting a broader shift in the social fabric across the country that was later apparent in the heyday of Tahrir Square. Not only younger in age, but more representative of Egypt’s eclectic background, the movement engaged a larger number of women, Coptic Christians, members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) community (albeit quietly), and a growing diversity in socioeconomic backgrounds. A wider number of affluent and materially comfortable people have shifted focus and even engineered diverse movements away from their traditionally capitalist careers to pursue agendas within civil society.6 This allowed a significant portion of Egyptian society to prepare and build strength in the emerging movement that eventually toppled Hosni Mubarak in 2011. This rebirth attracted hordes of young people and had in it a burgeoning student movement that spanned major universities across the country.7 When the US and its allies invaded Iraq in 2003, the movement shook the regime, with the largest scale protests within the country since the infamous 1977 bread riots. As the protests reflected, Egypt’s civil society movement was not 134

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merely defined by internal issues or questions of its own status and rights of civilians, rather—​ as civil society across the region coalesced with the birth of digital activism—​regional issues became just as attractive to fight for. It is within the university campuses during 2003 that the 2011 uprising can be said to have been truly born. From this outburst of anger came great signs of strength in mobilization. Major activist groups Kefaya (Enough) and April 6th were created in 2004 and 2008, respectively. In the same decade, prominent civil society groups, such as the Cairo Institute for Human Rights (CIHRS), the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR), and later Nazra for Feminist Studies, the Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights (ECESR), and the Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression (AFTE), were also created.They joined older institutions such as the Ibn Khaldun Center and the Hisham Mubarak Law Center—​along with their founders Saad Eddin Ibrahim and Ahmed Seif among others—​in bringing some of Egypt’s most prominent human rights issues to the fore of public debate. Media also saw its own “boom” during the period 2000–​2010, as prominent opposition or growing dissident media such as “Egypt Today,” “Cairo Times,” “Daily News Egypt,” “Egypt Independent,” and others exploited a soft opening for freedom of expression in the country. While most “opposition” media was more safely printed in English, some Arabic media outlets—​ such as Al-​Masry Al-​Youm and Al-​Dostour—​also encouraged opposition to the Mubarak regime as the social fabric began to show significant cracks.8 As the regime sought to control this new explosion of organized civil society, television slowly became more open and independent journalists flooded a number of privately owned television channels. The labor union protests in el-​Mahalla el-​Kubra—​an industrial city in the Nile Delta—​in 2008 proved an inflection point for the wider movement,9 alongside the anger that poured out towards the regime over the handling of the Rafah border during the Gaza War of 2008. The regime was caught off guard as groups mobilized, moving deftly across Egypt and threatening the stability of a country Mubarak had touted as being unaffected or driven by politics.10 Signals emerged of a growing maturity within the movement and wider civil society, and a new chapter began to emerge. Prior to the region’s outburst that began with the self-​immolation of a street vendor in the Tunisian town of Sidi Bouzid in December 2010, Egypt’s wider civil society movement coalesced around the political opposition, dissidents in the diaspora, and independent actors—​ political, social, and media figures. The moment of Khaled Said’s death by torture at the hands police officers in June 2010 allowed all actors to mobilize around one core issue: a desire to bring an end to police brutality in the country. Benefiting from the birth of Facebook and Twitter, the connectivity of social media, and the freedom provided through online access to a variety of media, groups responded with an outpouring of support. The leaked photos of Said’s mutilated body and disfigured face in particular spread like wildfire across Egyptian social media circles, and the regime found it impossible to control.This increased anger toward state behavior was exacerbated by the November 2010 parliamentary elections (the infamous “Ahmed Ezz” elections).11 Tunisia provided the spark that ignited a movement, but the uprising that followed in 2011 was arguably anticipated some years earlier by development experts who had focused on Egypt’s increasing wealth disparity for years.12

2011 Uprisings: Civil society and the capture of the public space On January 25, 2011, spurred on by anger on the streets of Tunisia that had resulted in the removal of the then President Zein el-​Abedine Ben Ali, tens of thousands of Egyptians took to 135

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the streets around their country to protest police brutality on Police Day. Civil society actors, led by April 6th, the National Association for Change, and the Kefaya movement, were at the forefront of these protests, having spent months preparing for this very moment by exploring opportunities for funding and support. Although it should be noted that what would eventually ensue in the 18 days to come was not expected by the activist/​civil society movement, the opportunity presented itself to capitalize on the death of Khaled Said through the use of Tunisia’s own uprising to bring out ordinary Egyptians to join a more traditional protest movement. The overthrow of Hosni Mubarak on February 11 created an ideological split for a number of actors who had formed the wider protest movement and beyond—​with new actors identifying themselves as revolutionary “civil society” (Halawa, 2017). Much has been written on the tussles that ensued between political figures and activists, or activists who struggled with the decision of whether or not to join political parties, or ally with opposing political groups such as the Islamists. Amid the battle for the country’s identity was a revolution that delved deeper into personal identity, upending traditions, and stereotypes from the home to the street.Young people everywhere began to find voice against familial, cultural, political, and historical patriarchy and traditions as they searched for new roles to play, recalibrating relationships and searching for professional satisfaction in a “revolutionary” role. In a move against the historic tide of civil society engagement, they looked to take control and change realities, rather than simply lead the charge in opposition and hold those in power accountable. Tahrir Square became not only the icon of the protest movement, but also the center of that public space. “Tweet-​ups” (online to offline gatherings), “nadwas” (seminars), and political meetings were regularly held in the square regardless of whether protests were continuing or not. With time, traditional social gatherings within the public space expanded: the public space was suddenly everywhere, and the gatherings were wherever the public decided. Civic engagement, too, expanded well beyond the protest centers. As protests continued, tens of thousands of NGOs were created, and events such as the “Tahrir Lounge”—​a debate and discussion forum both online and physically created originally in the square—​expanded across the country. Political bureaus opened up all over the country and became public spaces that attempted to build the bridges between politics and civil society. In parts of Upper Egypt, public squares and mosques would convert into venues for evening debates and discussion with a variety of actors—​although more dominated by politicians as elections neared. Town hall events organized by local civic actors became commonplace, and media thrived on newfound freedoms to engage in debates on a multitude of issues, notably as politicians became directly accessible and—​for a short period—​accountable.13 Civil society also took an increasingly local approach. While the broader political identity of the country was concentrated in the hands of prominent political and civil society figures, the wild expansion of the sector meant that community-​level engagement became a popular focus of civil society groups, creating a great shift in the landscape. Local charities and groups began to open up new conversations.This encouraged civic actors to focus on community efforts to both raise awareness of political issues and address conventional problems such as access to water, economic empowerment, youth activism, and political organizing. Many of these new civic actors went on to form an integral part of local political activism away from Cairo. Over 120 civil society groups registered in one form or another to monitor or observe the first free elections in the country’s history for parliament (both a lower and an upper house,

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together constituting some 650 members of parliament [MPs] with elections lasting for almost six months), in 2011/​2012 (Halawa, 2013; Masoud, 2013). Elsewhere, education, health, sectarianism, environment, and economy all became topics of discussion—​on local and national agendas—​as new actors threw themselves into the civil society field. Part-​time professionals, private sector philanthropists, and longtime activists all began to work together in a new civil society space that encompassed all parts of society, development structures, and backgrounds. It also led to significant local funding into civil society and political organizing. Groups were supported both by a strengthened diaspora that reconnected with the country and the expertise and newfound commitment from those who chose to return to the country on the back of Mubarak’s ouster.The heyday for civil society groups of 2011–​2013 was not only due to the massive public space that opened up as the political system shifted and responded to the revolution, but also due to the integration of all types of actors keen to participate in civic engagement across the board. There came a new sense of ownership of the public space, as citizens thrived on the openness and freedom that came about—​allowing them to discuss politics, critique politicians and policy, engage in civic duty such as voting in free and fair elections, and directly participate in civic engagement through various NGOs. By its peak in mid-​2012, there were thousands of new NGOs and civil society groups working all over the country on a variety of issues.This also included the Islamist civil society agenda, where hundreds of groups were supported by ideologically aligned nations.14 However, the success would prove short-​lived. At times, certain agendas—​notably the fight against FGM that kicked into high gear with gender equality gaining prominence within the wider civic engagement agenda—​clashed with such conservative positions, creating periodic tensions.15 As politics became an identity issue, at times even the fight for the public square became a fight among “revolutionaries,” rather than a concerted effort against the ancient régime (led by the military apparatus) who sought to recapture such space. The myth that Egypt’s protest center had at one point been a homogeneous and united space was dispelled as early as March 2011 with the debate over the suggested constitutional amendments that were put to a successful referendum vote that month. As the transition went on, the polarization spread and entrenched itself—​the most liberal of civil society actors were not immune. Through political missteps, civic miscalculations on the part of opposition and dangerous isolationist politics by the Muslim Brotherhood, the openings for the “counter-​revolution” took hold by early 2013 and eventually would work to reverse the events of 2011. As the politics got uglier and Egypt’s security forces maneuvered themselves back into positions of strength, Egypt’s civil society space found itself at the mercy of the military and political actors who had failed to—​or strategically chosen not to—​safeguard the gains of 2011. On July 3, the military—​led by defense minister Abdel Fattah al Sisi—​took hold of the country by removing Mohamed Morsi in a popularly supported coup d’état. The social fabric began to split, and polarization between those who supported Islamism and those who did not increased, resulting in a toxic transition. The state’s security actors manipulated the public space to gain the tafweed (“authorization”) to conduct violent raids and attacks on opposing protests. The clearing of the Brotherhood protest centers in Raba’a and Nahda Squares on August 14, 2013 became the defining moment of Sisi’s presidency.16 At the time, civil society attempted to continue working before conditions became too difficult to sustain. Eventually, as the Sisi presidency took hold, survival became the only concern for active civil society members. For the rest, the 2011–​2013 period would become but a memory as they retreated either at home or abroad, to focus on safer, apolitical, ambitions.

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The crackdown begins: The NGO Trial and Case 173/​2011 Egypt became a regional voice and leader in successful uprising and transition between 2011 and early 2013, and Egyptian civil society actors became well-​known faces of the world’s most celebrated revolution. The voice now carved out for civil society engaged an affluent, English-​ speaking sector that articulated advocacy positions well. Coupled with the influx of diplomatic missions and expanded teams and support through development programs, foundations, funding, and aid to support the transition, civic engagement simply exploded in Egypt. Million-​ plus US dollar grants were offered, with little to no conditionality, and the mass funding coupled with little to no focus from the authorities on the expanding sector created room for hundreds of civil society organizations.17 Aided by a weak legislative framework that was in practice abandoned during the transition period, organizations were met with little oversight or regard for official paperwork.18 At the same time, the security apparatus became less visible in their control of civil society, and the various iterations of government seen during that time were lax in implementation of regulations and laws that governed both social gatherings, freedom of association and civil society. However, this period of truce between civil society and the security apparatus did not last long. In December 2011, police raided five international NGOs across their headquarters in Cairo after having referred an investigation into foreign funding and foreign NGOs working on political and social rights in the country to the Justice Ministry. The raided NGOs included the National Democratic Institute (NDI), the International Republican Institute (IRI), the Konrad Adenauer Foundation, Freedom House, and the International Center for Journalists (ICFJ). In the weeks that followed, hundreds of NGO workers were questioned by security forces before a total of 43 were transferred to felony criminal court in February 2012 on trumped-​up charges related to registration and receipt of illegal foreign funds. Of the 43, 17 were Egyptian, and the majority of the foreigners were American citizens. The case itself, No. 173/​2011, became a huge sticking point in the long-​standing US–​Egypt relationship, even after the US government was able to negotiate the removal of its citizens from the country following the start of the criminal trial at the end of February 2012 (although one American citizen remained in-​country for trial). The trial lasted 18 months, and in June 2013—​with polarization within the country between Islamists and non-​Islamists reaching close to its peak—​the 43 NGO workers were all found guilty of alleged administrative crimes, and sentenced to between one and five years in prison (almost all Egyptians on trial were given suspended sentences of a one-​year hard labor sentence) (Loveluck, 2013). International NGOs were not the only targets of the state. As an investigative judge told the author in the trial during questioning: “first we deal with the international organizations, and then we turn our attention to the local groups.”19 Case 173/​2011 has remained open following the first verdict in June 2013 and has since been used over the years to sanction and develop a broader strategy that has targeted local NGOs and their workers, albeit in a different manner.20 The images of NGO workers in criminal felony trials have mostly been replaced with travel bans, freezing of assets, and corporate and civil proceedings related to taxation. Still, the effect on the sector is nevertheless chilling and the pressures continue.

Surviving repression in Sisi’s Egypt: The post-​2013 order Egypt’s civil society has been ravaged by perceived security threats, growing paranoia and conspiracy theories, violence, and a rampant crackdown to expel voices of dissent, particularly following the overthrow of Morsi in 2013 and its violent fallout. It is notable that the Middle 138

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East generally has struggled with maintaining a vibrant civil society, with shrinking space, a natural consequence of authoritarian leadership that has defined the region for decades. However, in the face of growing domestic security concerns, a misunderstood relationship with the international community—​notably Western donor partners—​and instability created by the Arab uprisings in neighboring countries (including traumatic civil wars), Egypt under President Sisi is more intent than ever on making a vocal civil society disappear. Sisi continues to argue that the public must choose between a false binary of security and democracy.This began with the violence against the Muslim Brotherhood protest camps and the call for a mandate to “protect the country from terrorists” in July 2013.The resulting incident—​ the violent clearing of the Raba’a and Nahda protest squares that allegedly killed over 1,000 people in one day and caused significant social unrest for months after—​became the event that has defined the Sisi presidency.21 As the regime crackdown on the Brotherhood continued, the attack extended to civil society in a brutal fashion. The story of civil society in this era is one of enforced disappearances, torture, pretrial detentions that last years, closure of organizations, banning of foreign collaboration and/​or funding, harassment, freezing of assets, and travel bans. As the case of 173/​2011 remains open to target local NGOs and their workers, hundreds find themselves part of the ensuing crackdown, and compare life in Cairo now to being an “open-​ air prison” (Amnesty International, 2018). The shrinking space has been characterized by conspiracy theories of insidious foreign involvement in internal domestic politics to push forward regime change, and the closure of the public space by the regime in an attempt to regain control of the people. The ensuing crackdown has both closed the civic space that emerged in 2011 and destroyed much of traditional civil society that had existed for decades. Organizations like CIHRS were targeted and forced to close, while others such as the Arabic Network for Human Rights Information (ANHRI), EIPR, and Nazra have been subjected to constant harassment and legal battles. As the law is developed to further hinder assembly and associations, board members, donors, management, and staff have all been subjected to rounds of questioning, frozen assets, and blocked activity. All investigations are conducted under Case 173/​2011, of which the mandate for investigation is routinely (and many argue illegally) renewed to allow investigations to continue, and to ensure that orders on travel bans and asset freezes remain unchallenged.22 This does not only affect well-​established NGOs. Smaller local organizations have also been forced to cease operations due to a lack of accessible funding or ability to conduct trainings.The state security apparatus now has a wide network of hotels and other town hall gathering areas reporting on possible convenings, and blocking access to buildings.23 Prominent politicians such as Mohamed Anwar Sadat and Dr Ziad Bahaa El Din have also had to cease activities of their respective NGOs in Assuit and Menoufia owing to security pressures.24 Even the international community has had to halt its operations in Egypt. After years of successful support from 2011, the UNDP discontinued its Electoral Support program in Egypt in 2016 after trainings were subjected to police harassment, and judicial attendees were threatened into nonattendance (this, despite a host country agreement and approved project documents with both the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Development).25 Since 2013, a security official from the General Intelligence Apparatus has been appointed within the Ministry of Foreign affairs to engage with international civil society groups, including the United Nations (UN). The new structure has witnessed continued harassment of UN staff, threats made against UN directors of various agencies, and the direct appointment of Egyptian officials to serve in UN offices (running against a long-​standing UN rule). For other international organizations, the resulting crackdown has forced them to close and move operations, many to Jordan or Tunisia, despite attempts to sustain activity amid the new threats. International 139

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IDEA, International Federation for Electoral Systems (IFES), and others have either moved their office locations and even ceased activities in/​on Egypt or remained in-​country in name only. For international donors, legislative amendments have squeezed their ability to support local civil society.There is no longer funding for activism in its pure form as seen during 2011–​2013, and funding for more traditional civil society such as legal protection and support, women’s rights, or active charitable work has also hugely diminished. Foreign missions in-​country have found themselves routinely harassed by both security and the Foreign Ministry, accused of illegally funding civil society; and at times, the mere association with them has produced dangerous outcomes for local organizations.26 Such a crackdown has also extended to both media and more local forms of civic engagement. In December 2019, Egypt’s most prominent independent media outlet, Mada Masr, was raided and its editor-​in-​chief was arrested along with three other journalists (Africa Times, 2019). While they were all released hours later following intervention from the US government,27 it is a common occurrence. Egypt currently has one of the highest number of journalists in jail (CPJ, 2019). Other small media organizations, such as Menassa and Bashkatib, work through informal networks, using social media to disseminate their reporting in an attempt to remain active, although content is vastly reduced as the crackdown on activity and funding creates a distinct air of fear, forcing civic actors to self-​censor, use pseudonyms, or temporarily halt activity in response to particularly sensitive political moments. For local charity organizations outside of Cairo, high levels of security harassment have forced them to close. This includes women’s rights organizations and orphan shelters—​including those religious organizations endorsed by the church, as well as charitable efforts such as water access, health provisions, and basic access to services.28 Counterterrorism and anti-​assembly laws invoked in Egypt in recent years have gone even further to move against both public forms of dissent and organized civil society (Mada Masr, 2015). Banned public protest, continued trials of civilians in military courts (Fouad,, 2014), new severe penalties in the penal code related to foreign funding (Gehad, 2014), a severely repressive redrafted associations law (UN OHCHR, 2016), and criminalized activity pertaining to interaction with foreign missions, organizations, and delegates have all contributed to a stifling closure of public space and civil society. Egypt’s post-​2013 governments and a resurgent and powerful security apparatus have used the country’s heightened polarization to further increase their rhetoric on the need for security and stability. Such an argument has come, openly, at the cost of democratic reforms, transitional justice, and accountability for the numerous accusations levied at the former regime of Hosni Mubarak. In the wake of the 2013 coup and the military’s accession to power, in-​fighting, incoherency, and contradictions in messaging are now the cornerstones of Egyptian domestic policy. A rampant security sector that has remained unchecked now acts with unprecedented impunity, with scores of young students, activists, and human rights defenders disappearing in a campaign to silence protesters (Trafford & Ramadhani, 2016). The arrest, torture and death of Italian PhD student Giulio Regeni in January 2016 highlighted the increasingly violent approach exercised by the security apparatus in closing down the public space (Walsh, 2017).The continued enforcement of indefinite pre-​trial detention, mass trials, military trials for civilians—​now including scores of university students from the student protests of 2014 and hundreds of actors engaged in human rights or media—​and numerous arbitrary death sentences with a lack of transparency and due process in the courts has led many civic actors to flee the country in self-​imposed exile. Those who remain have either abandoned their previous jobs in search of safety or taken a quieter and deliberate low-​ profile approach to their work and research in order to stay out of the line of fire.

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Conclusion The region has experienced a turbulent ride since 2011, and in 2019 resurgent activist movements have reoccupied public space, reflected in the protests in Sudan, Algeria, Lebanon, and Iraq. Civil war still rages through major parts of the region, geopolitical proxy wars are affecting the international and regional foreign policy, and domestically, rising extremism is insufficiently dealt with, merely used as an excuse to defend repression. Civil society in Egypt is faced with many problems. The government—​led by a powerful intelligence apparatus and military leadership—​ continues to repress any dissenting voices. President Sisi has benefited from an international community that continues to struggle to look beyond a refugee crisis, a protracted civil war in Syria, and a geopolitical cold war with Iran. As a result, Sisi has successfully curated the image of a stable leader in an unstable region, committing human rights abuses largely unchecked and without significant international criticism. In Egypt, a vicious crackdown continues that threatens not only those “politically dangerous” NGOs but also all development groups caught in the spillover. Nevertheless, civil society remains in part quite resilient.Those groups that continue to work, even under the harshest repression by the Sisi regime, cause problems for the president—​even if only related to bad public relations. The exposing of deplorable human rights treatment—​ notably with respect to those in detention—​has reached the highest levels of the UN, among other international arenas, as Egypt’s diaspora community supports friends and civic actors who remain in-​country.29 Through private sector involvement, start-​ups and entrepreneurship, and apolitical educational programs (e.g., a climate rights-​based approach, rather than a human rights-​based approach), there is room to absorb various civil society programs, provided that they themselves mold accordingly to their new reality. In doing so, it must be recognized that none of this will make any difference to the state of civil society if the question of legitimacy of the state itself is never addressed, and a successful opposition is not built against it. A repressive cycle will continue until there is a firm alignment of the international community’s development and foreign policy goals, and serious international pressure is put on the regime.

Notes 1 Notable arrests and freezing of assets since 2014 include owners of bookstore chain, “Alef,” the English-​ language newspaper Daily News Egypt, and Arabic print newspapers Al-​Masry Al-​Youm and Mada Masr. More broadly, the security apparatus has wedged out owners of popular TV networks such as “Al Hayat Network,” “Dream TV,” and “ONTV” as they look to secure the domestic narrative and close the space for freedom of expression. 2 As social movements such as Kefaya and April 6th were created, still focused on socioeconomic rights and status, a plethora of new NGOs were created from 2003 with more diverse agendas.These included the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, Nazra for Feminist Studies, the Arab Network for Human Rights Information, the Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights, and more middle-​class organizations such as the Economic Research Forum, and the Center for Egyptian Women’s Legal Assistance.There was also a renewed focus on quasi-​state organizations such as the National Council for Human Rights and the National Council for Women. 3 Across the region, notably in the Levant, a wave of political activists formed new socialist parties. Some, such as in Iraq and Syria, were born from university student movements.While Egypt already had a rich socialist history in its civic engagement, the Nasserite socialist movement created in the 1950s went on to define socialist politics in the country for the decades prior to the 2011 uprising. 4 This includes the likes of Ahmed Seif, Aida Self el Dawla, Mona Makram Ebeid, and Saad Eddin Ibrahim, among other well-​known activists.

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Hafsa Halawa 5 The role of Islamists, particularly the Muslim Brotherhood, in civil society in Egypt has been widely contested. Some argue that Islamists, by the nature of their exclusionary and conditional participation in social life, do not qualify as “civil society” (e.g., Zubaida 1992, p. 9). The focus of this chapter is on the civil society actors that emerged in the lead up and immediate aftermath of the 2011 uprising. For Islamists’ role in Egypt’s civil society, see Noha Mellor’s chapter in this edition. 6 This includes prominent politicians such as Mohamed Anwar Sadat. Other middle-​class Egyptians abandoned successful private sector careers and founded charitable organizations; this included sector-​ specific such as the “Coptic Orphans” charity, Hoda Badran, and the Arab Alliance for Women. Others such a Ragia Omran, Hafez Abou Saada, and Dr Ihab El Kharrat (among many others) complimented lucrative careers with significant support to the civil society sector through their expertise on issues related to sexual health, LGBT rights, women’s rights, and human rights agendas. 7 Much like other countries, activism on university campuses in Egypt spurred on political activity. Mass protests organized by student unions across the country—​in private and public universities alike—​in response to the Iraq invasion laid the groundwork for a growing protest movement.This then expanded with the addition of social movements Kefaya and April 6th and went on to reorganize at historical moments such as the Gaza War of 2007. Furthermore, the student movement was empowered by the National Syndicates, particularly those with strong socialist components such as the Press and Engineering Syndicates. 8 The use of Arabic media as a form of opposition found little favor with the regime. Dissident journalists such as Hisham Kassem and Ibrahim Eissa were routinely harassed by the state. Eissa was eventually arrested and detained in a court case instigated by the state in 2007 (CPJ, 2008). 9 During the Mahalla protests, workers who were part of “illegal” trade unions (“illegal” because the state only permits its own trade unions) organized a general workers’ strike. The protests began in Mahalla (where the heart of the state’s textile industry is located) on April 6, 2008. It was named by protestors the “Egyptian Intifada,” and there was extensive use of social media in the lead-​up to the protests to gather support and rally workers to strike. While police gathered in downtown Cairo that day to prevent protests from spreading to Tahrir, university students from Ain Shams, Helwan, and Cairo Universities joined the general strike, protesting in solidarity with the striking workers. 10 The protests over the closure of the border crossing between Egypt and Gaza led to the arrest of hundreds of protestors. Originally organized at the Rafah/​Gaza border by activists, the Muslim Brotherhood joined Kefaya and April 6th in organizing hundreds of protests across Cairo, Alexandria, Tanta, and other cities. 11 Under the auspices of steel mogul Ahmed Ezz—​a close ally of Gamal Mubarak and, at the time, the ruling NDP party’s secretary-​general—​the elections were organized across the country and deemed fraudulent. From the outset, the country required “voting cards,” issued by local police precincts, and thousands complained in the run-​up to the elections that they had been denied their voting card. As elections were held, observers and members of the public noted the closure of poll stations for hours on end—​later discovered to have been the time when ballot stuffing was occurring. Furthermore, many reported being unable to cast a ballot, or having their ballots deemed ineligible if they voted for candidates not from the ruling NDP party. 12 The UNDP’s Arab Human Development Report of 2002 (UNDP, 2002) has provided strong context and background to the uprisings—​not just in Egypt but across the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region, and its continued iterations since have continuously provided the context that explains the reasons behind much of the anger that led to the series of uprisings. 13 This is most famously recounted in the role taken on by TV anchors Yosri Fouda and Reem Magued of ONTV who interviewed a series of politicians and security actors, including ruling members of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces. They are most famous for their panel on March 2, 2011, that included businessman Naguib Sawiris, dentist and novelist Alaa El Aswany, and then acting Prime Minister Ahmed Shafiq. The debate resulted in Shafiq’s immediate resignation. 14 As per court documents (not public) seen in Case 176/​2011 by the author that detailed a list of over 5,000 NGOs deemed by the state to be “Islamist” civil society groups, although most were deemed “Salafi ” organizations that had received foreign funding mainly from Gulf States. The same court documents list over 78,000 NGOs registered in the country as of July 2011. 15 Most Islamist charitable organizations were ideologically Salafi and leaned a wide range of their ground support to the Brotherhood and political Salafi parties. On the ground research in Upper Egypt conducted by the author during 2011–​2012 (NDI, 2011) showed that tensions increased between Salafi groups and the Brotherhood once they assumed power. As the liberal parties politically

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Civil society and revolution (2000–present) challenged the Brotherhood, they exposed a large charitable network—​part of the social arm of the Brotherhood’s political Freedom and Justice Party—​that was promoting free FGM procedures through makeshift medical camps across the south of the country (Tadros, 2012). 16 Although violence between groups pre-​ dates the Raba’a massacre. The first major civilian-​ on-​ civilian violence was witnessed in December 2012 outside the Presidential Palace as Brotherhood supporters clashed with protestors over the Constitutional Declaration of November 2012. In addition, state-​sponsored violence against protests had been a long-​running theme of the uprising itself. Major moments during the transition period include the Maspero Massacre, October 2011; Mohamed Mahmoud, November 2011; Cabinet clashes, December 2011; and the cycles of violence over the Port Said Football massacre that began in February 2012. Prior to the Raba’a Massacre itself, both police (military and interior) and the presidential guards had engaged in violent confrontations with Brotherhood protestors at the Raba’a and Nahda protest camps following the removal of Morsi. Two notable events on 8 and 27 July 2013 resulted in hundreds of deaths. Furthermore, violence between the state and Brotherhood protestors did not end with the Raba’a massacre. In the days that followed, hundreds were killed at the siege at Fatah Mosque in Cairo, while violence lasted for weeks in suburbs of Cairo and Giza, notably Kerdasa district. The Brotherhood and its Islamist allies are alleged to have been responsible for a weeks-​long campaign torching and burning Christian houses of worship (EIPR, 2014; HRW, 2014). 17 The US government, through the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), National Endowment for Democracy (NED), Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor (DRL), and other agencies and organizations provided up to US$60 million in a number of grants—​although the bulk of these funds went to US organizations supporting local NGOs in the country. Furthermore, other government agencies, such as the Department for International Development (DfID), Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (Sida), Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA), and European states—​including Germany, the Netherlands, Norway, and Denmark—​increased budgets two-​to threefold in international development, following the uprisings and Egypt was named a priority country for the Middle East. Foundations such as Open Society Foundations gave more than US$10 million in 2011 to Egyptian NGOs. Other foundations such as the German Stiftungs and think tanks based in the United States expanded their research and policy in the country.The electoral process received support from the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), International Foundation for Electoral Systems (IFES) and the International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance (IDEA). 18 The law at the time that governed the sector was Law No.84/​2002 on nongovernmental organizations. Although rules were stringent within the law, there had been years of inactivity in implementation. The security sector oversaw civil society through general harassment and bribery tactics that were generally deemed manageable. As the transition required attention elsewhere, and there was a general removal of police from the streets throughout the Brotherhood time in leadership, and the security forces’ monitoring of civil society—​while still there—​was de-​prioritized. Any focus that existed in that period was on foreign-​funded entities, and foreign organizations. Following 2013, that would change significantly as the domestic civil society sector would become subject to a definitive crackdown. 19 Comments made during judicial questioning of the author (Defendant No.28), January 16, 2012. 20 The case continues against local civil society even after a sustained international campaign to end the treatment of Egypt’s civil society actors. This, despite a retrial and exoneration of the 43 local and foreign workers found guilty in 2012 in the NGO trial, which concluded in December 2018. The case itself has ensnared dozens, if not hundreds, of secular civil society actors; however, the main crackdown since 2013 has been against any and all groups affiliated with the Muslim Brotherhood. 21 The Egyptian government disputes these figures, although reports from Human Rights Watch and Amnesty claim that up to or over 1,000 people were killed in that single day (EIPR, 2014; HRW, 2014). 22 In 2016/​2017 a number of prominent rights actors launched court appeals against travel bans and asset freezing. While many have been unsuccessful to date, the attempts continue with more hearings expected throughout 2020 (Business and Human Rights Resource Centre, 2017). 23 The UNDP had to cancel a number of judicial trainings related to electoral support in 2015 to be held in Aswan after police stormed the hotel and forced the cancellation of planned trainings. The major hotel chains in Cairo are well-​manned by intelligence and police officers, and many local NGOs acknowledge that there are informants within their staff that provide details on convenings, meetings, and trainings at regular intervals (series of author interviews with civil society actors in Cairo, 2012–​ 2018, including personal experience of the author).

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Hafsa Halawa 24 Author interviews with organization leaders in 2017, Cairo, Egypt. 25 The project documents are not public and are agreed between the UN and the host nation.The author has spent many years in both the UN and the international donor community and has seen these documents first-​hand, while also regularly attended meetings between agencies, security and government officials between 2012 and 2017 in Egypt. 26 Author interviews with civil society actors and first-​hand involvement in the international donor community between 2012 and 2017. 27 Author interview with US diplomat, December 2019. 28 Most of these activities were conducted outside of Cairo by the network of thousands of Brotherhood charities. Since 2013, by extrajudicial mandate, the government has enforced a heavy crackdown on Brotherhood business and charitable entities. This includes hospitals, schools, charities providing free medical and basic services, and businesses like pharmacies, exchange shops, bookstores, and supermarkets (which offered subsidized goods—​Al Masry Al Youm, 2018). Such is the latest update, although the committee itself is subject to a constitutional challenge at the Supreme Constitutional Court that has not yet been heard. 29 Following the death of former President Mohamed Morsi in detention in May 2019, a UN Report (among others) has raised the awareness of prison conditions in Egypt (Callamard, 2019).

References Africa Times, “Egypt Releases all Detained Mada Masr Journalists”, Africa Times, 25 November 2019. https://​africatimes.com/​2019/​11/​25/​egypt-​releases-​all-​detained-​mada-​masr-​journalists/​ Al Masry Al Youm, “Egypt Seizes Funds of 1,589 Alleged Muslim Brotherhood Leaders, Supporters”, Al Masry Al Youm, September 2018. https://​egyptindependent.com/​egypt-​seizes-​funds-​of-1589alleged-​muslim-​brotherhood-​leaders-​supporters/​ Amnesty International, “Egypt:  Open Air Prison for Critics”, Amnesty International, September 2018. www.amnesty.org/​en/​latest/​campaigns/​2018/​09/​egypt-​freedom-​of-​expression/​ Bassiouni, C., Chronicles of the Egyptian Revolution and its Aftermath: 2011–​2016. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Business and Human Rights Resource Centre, “Egypt:  The Responsibility of Banks for Asset Freeze Orders against Human Rights Defenders”, Business and Human Rights Resource Centre, 2017. Callamard, A., “Egypt:  ‘Credible Evidence’ That ‘Brutal’ Prison Conditions Prompted Morsi’s Death, Thousands More at Risk”, Special Rapporteur on extrajudicial, summary or arbitrary executions and the UN Working Group on Arbitrary Detention, 8 November 2019. CPJ,“Eissa Gets Two Months in Jail”, 29 September 2008. https://​cpj.org/​2008/​09/​eissa-​gets-​two-​monthsin-​jail.php CPJ, “China, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Egypt Are World’s Worst Jailors of Journalists”, Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), 11 December 2019. https://​cpj.org/​reports/​2019/​12/​journalists-​jailed-​china-​turkeysaudi-​arabia-​egypt.php HRW, “Egypt” Hundreds Still Held over Gaza Protests”, 4 March 2009. www.hrw.org/​news/​2009/​03/​04/​ egypt-​hundreds-​still-​held-​over-​gaza-​protests EIPR, “The Weeks of Killing: State Violence, Communal Fighting and Sectarian Attacks in the Summer of 2013”, EIPR, 18 June 2014. https://​eipr.org/​en/​publications/​weeks-​killing. Fouad, A., “Military Trials in Egypt Undermine Civil Law”, Al-​Monitor, 12 November 2014. www.al-​ monitor.com/​pulse/​originals/​2014/​11/​egypt-​military-​trials-​undermine-​judiciary.html Gehad, R., “Egypt Amends Penal Code to Stipulate Harsher Punishments on Foreign Funding”, Ahram Online, 23rd September 2014. http://​english.ahram.org.eg/​NewsContent/​1/​64/​111488/​Egypt/​ Politics-​/​Egypt-​amends-​foreign-​funding-​law-​with-​harsher-​puni.aspx Halawa, H.,“Explaining the ElectoralVoting & Counting System in Egypt”, 27 February 2013. www.scribd. com/​document/​127542711/​Explaining-​the-​Electoral-​Voting-​Counting-​system-​in-​Egypt?utm_​ medium=twitter&utm_​source=twitterfeed Halawa H., 2017 “Civic Activism in Flux:  Egypt and the Middle East, Adapting to Tragedy”, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 17 March. Halawa, H., “After the 2011 Revolution:  Divisions in Postprotest Pathways”, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 2019. Hellyer, H.A., A Revolution Undone: Egypt’s Road beyond Revolt. 2016.

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Civil society and revolution (2000–present) HRW, “All According to Plan:  The Rab’a Massacre and Mass Killings of Protesters in Egypt”, Human Rights Watch, 4 August 2014. www.hrw.org/​sites/​default/​files/​reports/​egypt0814web_​0.pdf Kenner, D., “The Death of Egypt’s Free Press” , Foreign Policy, 5 October 2010. https://​foreignpolicy. com/​2010/​10/​05/​the-​death-​of-​egypts-​free-​press-​2/​ Kirkpatrick, D., Into the Hands of the Soldiers: Freedom and Chaos in Egypt and the Middle East. 2018. Mada Masr, “License to Kill?”, Mada Masr, 21 August 2015. www.madamasr.com/​en/​2015/​08/​21/​feature/​politics/​license-​to-​kill/​ Masoud, T., “Arabs Want Redistribution, So Why Don’t They Vote Left? Theory and Evidence from Egypt”, Harvard Kennedy School, April 2013. NDI, “Preliminary Statement of Egypt Parliamentary Elections”, 16 December 2011. www.ndi.org/​sites/​ default/​files/​Egypt-​Preliminary-​Statement-​Round2-​121611-​ENG.pdf Soueif, A., 2012. “Cairo: My City, Our Revolution”, UK: Bloomsbury Publishing. Stille, A., “Who Murdered Giulio Regeni?”, The Guardian, 4 October 2016. www.theguardian.com/​ world/​2016/​oct/​04/​egypt-​murder-​giulio-​regeni Tadros, M., “Mutilating Bodies: The Muslim Brotherhood’s Gift to Egyptian Women”, Open Democracy, 24 May 2012. www.opendemocracy.net/​en/​5050/​mutilating-​bodies-​muslim-brotherhoods-​g ift-toegyptian-​women/​ Loveluck, L., “Egypt Convicts US NGO Workers”, The Guardian, 4 June 2013. www.theguardian.com/​ world/​2013/​jun/​04/​egypt-​convicts-​us-​ngo-​workers-​sam-​lahood Trafford, R., & Ramadhani, M., “Ruling by Fear: Egyptian Government ‘Disappears’ 1,840 People in Just 12 Months”, The Independent, 10 March 2016. www.independent.co.uk/​news/​world/​africa/​egyptian-​ government-​disappears-​1840-​people-​in-​just-​12-​months-​ruling-​by-​fear-​a6923671.html UN OHCHR “Egypt NGO Law:  UN Expert Warns about Growing Restrictions on Civil Society”, UN OHCHR, 11 October 2016. http://​ohchr.org/​SP/​NewsEvents/​Pages/​DisplayNews. aspx?NewsID=20665&LangID=E UNDP, “Arab Human Development Report of 2002: Creating Opportunities for Future Generations”, 2002. http://​hdr.undp.org/​sites/​default/​files/​rbas_​ahdr2002_​en.pdf Walsh, D., “Why Was an Italian Graduate Student Tortured and Murdered in Egypt?”, New York Times, 15 August 2017. www.nytimes.com/​2017/​08/​15/​magazine/​giulio-​regeni-​italian-​graduate-​student-​ tortured-​murdered-​egypt.html

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10 EGYPT’S POST-​U PRISING FOREIGN POLICY Timothy Elhami Kaldas

Introduction Throughout its modern history, Egypt has been adept at juggling a complex and competing set of alliances, constantly revising how it triangulates its international partnerships to maximize support, advance its interests, and secure rents.This has allowed the country over the past several decades to cast itself at various times as a revolutionary leader, center of stability, and guardian of the status quo. Egypt’s strategic location and size have made it a country of interest for thousands of years. This has been both a blessing and a curse as it has allowed Egypt to exploit its position to profit from trade through its territory, while also being a target for various powers seeking to secure such profits for themselves. In the view of most Egyptians, since the waning years of ancient Egypt’s civilization until the overthrow of a monarch beholden to his British patrons in 1952, Egypt has not been ruled by Egyptians.1 This has contributed to deep suspicion of foreign interests who seek to exert outsized control over Egypt’s affairs, and helped nationalist officers secure popular support following their seizure of power in a coup d’état in 1952. This suspicion of foreign designs on Egypt has helped form a foreign policy that consistently seeks to have alternative bases of support from allies, and pursues international aid in a manner that minimizes concessions. Egypt’s ability to maintain competing friendships has resulted in international partners accepting the country’s refusal to make substantive concessions in exchange for aid out of fear that Egypt will turn elsewhere if aid is not forthcoming. Many of the country’s foreign policy decisions have been inspired by rent seeking. Examples include Gamal Abdel Nasser turning to the Soviets to equip and modernize Egypt’s military; Anwar Sadat’s pivot to the United States and suing for peace with Israel, which brought in substantial international assistance and direct military aid from the United States; and Hosni Mubarak’s decision to participate in the US-​led coalition to expel Iraq from Kuwait, which led to a large portion of the country’s external debt being forgiven, thus extricating Egypt from a looming debt crisis. Domestic actions have also at times been undertaken to attract external rents. Sadat’s infitah was largely designed to draw in capital from Arab Gulf states (Ikram, 2018), while Sisi’s coup d’état came with tens of billions of dollars in assistance from Egypt’s Gulf allies who were committed to quashing the Muslim Brotherhood (MB) (Bowker, 2013). In both cases, the funds were squandered unproductively and treated as grants to prop up the government’s finances, rather than as investments or loans meant to aid in reforming Egypt’s economy. 146

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Throughout these policies, we still see Egypt hedging its bets and avoiding dependence on a single ally or set of allies. While depending on support from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), Nasser unified Egypt with Syria and formed the United Arab Republic to prevent Syria’s communists from coming to power and displacing the Baath Party, thereby denying the Soviets a satellite in the heart of the Arab world and pleasing the Eisenhower White House. In that year, Nasser used increasingly bellicose rhetoric condemning communists and claiming that they were reactionary Zionists (Schayegh, 2013). Sadat, after expelling Soviet advisors, called on them to come to Egypt’s aid when Egypt started to lose ground in its war with Israel in 1973.The USSR attempted to do so, pressing the Americans to help create a corridor to relieve Egypt’s third army, which was surrounded by Israeli forces in the Sinai. Kissinger refused and raised US nuclear readiness to DEFCON 3. Following the ceasefire, Sadat once again turned on the Soviets and embraced the United States. After signing a peace deal with Israel without the support of its Arab allies that had suspended oil exports to assist their Arab neighbor, Egypt was expelled from the Arab League.While Sisi has happily accepted Gulf aid, he has refused to offer substantial assistance in the Saudi-​led war against Yemen’s Houthis, and has endorsed Syria’s Bashar al Assad, while Saudi Arabia and the UAE worked to overthrow him. Egypt has been a central player in the region’s diplomacy. Cairo is home to the League of Arab States and has been a fixture in the ongoing negotiations between the Israelis and Palestinians. In recent years Egypt has acted both as a party to and negotiator in the Libyan conflict to its west. The country’s diplomatic corps is recognized as one of the best in the region, and foreign ministry civil servants are among the best paid in Egyptian government. This continues to be the case despite the fact that Egypt can no longer be described as a regional power. Part of Egypt’s keenness on involvement in the region is because much of the country’s rents depend on successfully positioning itself as an active regional player (Dessouki, 2014). During Mubarak’s tenure this was largely achieved by serving as an Arab mediator in the Arab–​Israeli conflict, and maintaining open lines of communication between the US and various Palestinian factions. Under Sisi, Egypt has secured a great deal of Western support on account of branding itself as a pillar of stability in a region awash with turmoil. Meanwhile, Gulf patrons have invested in an alliance with Egypt, seeing their neighbor as a partner in their struggle against the MB and the group’s regional patrons, Qatar and Turkey. While Egypt’s current position in the regional political landscape has settled into a fairly familiar trajectory, there was a period of uncertainty regarding where Egypt’s leaders may take the country following the uprising that overthrew Mubarak. While the military preserved the status quo, Egypt’s transitional period meant the country’s leader had to be more domestically focused. As Egypt turned inward to manage its transition, new external challenges emerged that would have to be addressed. To the south, Ethiopia began construction of the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD). On Egypt’s western border, Libyans overthrew their dictator and a series of militias emerged governing various corners of the country.The uprising that overthrew Mubarak came to inspire others throughout the region. Some were quashed quickly and brutally as occurred in Bahrain, while others have led to protracted civil wars, which in turn have morphed into proxy wars between the region’s competing powers—​as is the case in Syria, Yemen, and Libya.

Foreign policy under the Muslim Brotherhood While some worried that the Brotherhood coming to power could result in a radical shift in Egypt’s foreign policy, for the most part the Brotherhood offered restrained and modest adjustments to the country’s historically status quo-​oriented positions. On no other issue was 147

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there more concern than with respect to Egypt’s future relationship with its eastern neighbor, Israel. Some feared that the Brotherhood, long critical of the Camp David Accords, might move to scuttle the treaty and end diplomatic relations with Israel, which has been a bedrock of US policy in the region since the agreement was secured in 1979. Following the signing of the treaty, Egypt received tens of billions of dollars in economic and military assistance from the United States, including an annual grant of $1.3 billion to buy American weapons that it continues to receive to this day (Sharp, 2019). The fact that Gaza is governed by a Palestinian offshoot of the MB, Hamas, exacerbated concerns of a realignment. However, the Brotherhood was careful to promise to respect the Camp David Accords in a meeting with former US President Jimmy Carter (Pfeiffer, 2012), and later pledged not to subject the agreement to a national referendum, which could have risked Egypt withdrawing from the historic peace treaty with Israel (Bar’el, 2012). Early into his presidency, Mohammed Morsi further assuaged concerns about how relations with Israel might be affected by a Brotherhood government when he successfully mediated a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas in November 2012. His efforts won praise from US officials, including President Barack Obama (Ninan, 2012). Israel’s deputy prime minister, Dan Meridor, responded to Morsi’s success in mediating a ceasefire by confirming that despite changes in Egypt’s government, Israel could continue to engage with its neighbor (Khalaf, 2012), adding “[w]‌e may have created a new architecture of Egypt-​Israel common interest” (Mitnick, 2012). Additionally, under Morsi, Egypt continued to disrupt tunnels for smuggling goods between the Sinai and Gaza.While part of this moderated posture vis-​à-​vis Israel may have been a product of the Brotherhood behaving pragmatically, it is also possible that these steps were in part due to a worry that Egypt’s military would not tolerate a substantive disruption to the post-​Camp David status quo, which has guaranteed peace and secured for the Egyptian Armed Forces considerable economic incentives (Morsy, 2014). On other fronts, the promise of a revolutionary foreign policy following the overthrow of Mubarak was extinguished before the Brotherhood came to power.The first post-​Mubarak foreign minister, Nabil al Araby, appeared to believe in an openness to new relationships and sought to improve ties with Iran at the beginning of his tenure. However, Egypt’s military rulers were uninterested in any reorientation, and quickly scuttled Araby’s efforts (Shama, 2013). There has not been an Egyptian ambassador to Iran since diplomatic ties were severed in 1980. For Morsi, too, it was important to avoid being seen as pivoting toward Iran and compromising ties with the United States and Gulf allies who sought to contain Iran as a regional power and support the rebels fighting Assad’s Iranian-​backed forces (Esfandiary, 2012). President Morsi made a historic stop in Iran soon after taking office to briefly attend a Non-​Aligned Movement conference in Tehran, spending only four hours on the ground (Abdo, 2012). He was the first Egyptian president to visit Iran since the 1979 revolution. Still, Morsi made a point of wisely hedging and forcefully expressed solidarity with the Syrians fighting to overthrow Iran’s ally in Damascus, Bashar al Assad. The comments were so politically sensitive that the Iranian press deliberately mistranslated them and changed Syria to Bahrain when broadcasting Morsi’s remarks in Farsi (Dehghan, 2012). Despite the anticipation among some, Morsi’s visit to Iran did not precipitate a normalization of ties between the two countries (Shama, 2013). In fact, shortly before being overthrown, Morsi attended a rally at Cairo stadium in which clerics called for Egyptians to join a holy war in Syria to topple Assad and described Shiites as “filthy” and “nonbelievers.” When Morsi took the stage, he announced his intention to cut ties with Assad’s Iran-​backed government in Damascus and said nothing against the violently sectarian rhetoric that came from previous speakers. A week later, Shia worshippers were attacked in a village outside Cairo. Four were 148

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beaten to death by the mob. While official anti-​Shiite sentiment was nothing new for Egypt’s government, the level of the incitement under Morsi was particularly alarming (Bengali, 2013). Morsi’s strong anti-​Assad position was likely also bolstered by his ties to the MB, whose Syrian branch had been in a struggle against Assad’s rule (and that of his father) for decades. While the early years after Egypt’s 2011 uprising failed to deliver a true rapprochement with Iran, the absence of a more forceful rupture reflected the fact that fundamentally Egypt did not share its allies’ stake in the regional rivalry as Iran’s actions did not directly threaten any vital Egyptian interests (Kaldas, 2017). This distinct outlook would continue to temper Egypt’s willingness to support its allies in their confrontations with Iran in future years. One area where the Morsi year differs significantly from the years before and after his brief tenure as President was with respect to Egypt’s relations with the Gulf. Mubarak had been aligned with Saudi Arabia and the UAE in their antagonism toward Qatar, whose popular satellite news channel, Al Jazeera, was (they believed) interfering in their domestic affairs by broadcasting critical coverage in Arabic into homes in their respective countries. During the uprising against Mubarak, Al Jazeera cheered on the protestors in Tahrir, being among the first media outlets to refer to the demonstrations as a revolution, while Saudis and Emiratis looked on with apprehension and demanded the United States stand by their ally, Mubarak (Landler, 2011). Aside from their opposition to Mubarak’s toppling, Saudi Arabia and the UAE also had a historically antagonistic relationship with the Muslim Brotherhood. Moreover, their Gulf rival, Qatar, had decided to align itself with Islamist parties, not least of which the MB, throughout the region following the 2011 uprisings (Morsy, 2013). Cognizant of Gulf fears that popular resistance might spread to their countries, Morsi made a point of stating that he had no desire to export Egypt’s revolution, signaling to the Gulf that Egypt would not become a new Iran seeking to spread revolutions under Islamist leadership. Morsi also made his first official trip as President to Riyadh (Saleh, 2012). While tensions remained, Saudi did follow through with the $4 billion in assistance it had pledged a few months prior. The UAE for its part prosecuted a suspected Brotherhood cell that it alleges sought to topple the government, and was accused by Morsi of conspiring with members of the Egyptian intelligence against the Brotherhood. This of course would prove to be true as Saudi Arabia and the UAE were enthusiastic backers of the coup d’état against Morsi conducted in July 2013. Meanwhile, Qatar backed the new Brotherhood government and provided $5 billion in assistance on top of pledging to invest $18 billion over five years (Awad, 2012). For Qatar, becoming the patron of Egypt’s new Islamist government was an opportunity to amplify the small monarchy’s reach as it sought to position itself as a regional power, despite its size. Qatar’s ambitions only further intensified hostility toward it by Saudi Arabia and the UAE. Early into Egypt’s uprising, Turkey’s then Prime Minister and current President, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, lent his endorsement to the revolutionaries. In a televised address to members of his Justice and Development Party (AKP), Erdogan conveyed a message to Mubarak saying, “[l]‌isten to the shouting of the people, the extremely humane demands. Without hesitation, satisfy the people’s desire for change” (Villelabeita, 2011). Needless to say, after witnessing Erdogan’s crackdown in Turkey on government critics, these words ring exceptionally hollow (the unfortunate reality is that many world leaders have reduced their rhetoric on human rights to exercises in hypocritically trolling rivals). Following the overthrow of Mubarak, Erdogan made a point of visiting Egypt as well as Tunisia and Libya. As Soner Cagaptay argues, “[h]‌e presented Turkey as a model for modern Islamic democracy and secularism” (Cagaptay, 2019). The latter frustrated Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood. During his visit, Erdogan held a private reception with the MB leaders and 149

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urged them to adopt a secular constitution (Kessler, 2011). The Brotherhood again was dismissive of advice from the leader of Tunisia’s Ennahda Islamist party, Rached Ghannouchi, who insisted on the importance of forming coalitions with Egypt’s secular parties. During his visit to Cairo, Ghannouchi presciently warned that “51% is not enough to rule,” and that Islam could “become a cause of fragmentation not unity.” While discussing the importance of consensus, he noted “constitutions are built upon what is agreed not what is disagreed upon” (Hearst, 2012). Indeed, Morsi’s failure to build the coalition government he originally promised, coupled with the majoritarian approach the Brotherhood took to writing the constitution, frightened much of the non-​Islamist opposition and contributed to their parties’ eventual decision to back a military overthrow of the Brotherhood a year later. Despite the Brotherhood rejecting Erdogan’s advice, the Turkish Premier continued to support them. Erdogan lauded Morsi for withdrawing Egypt’s ambassador during Israeli airstrikes on Gaza, and at one point suggested a Turkish–​Egyptian alliance in the region;Turkish officials tried, though ultimately failed, to help Morsi’s government negotiate a bailout with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) to secure needed economic relief; and ahead of Morsi’s ouster, Erdogan sent his intelligence chief to meet with Morsi—​some suspect to advise the President on how he might avert a coup. All of this ultimately proved futile and would later exacerbate tensions with the government that came to replace Morsi soon after (Cagaptay, 2019). While Egypt was focused on managing its internal transition and restructuring its government, a potential threat emerged in the south: Ethiopia broke ground on the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam in 2011. To avoid being subject to an Egyptian veto, the Ethiopian government opted to self-​finance the dam as International Financial Institutions would have required approval of downstream countries and respect for the 1959 Nile Water Agreement, which granted Egypt the right to veto upstream projects (Kaldas, 2019). While Morsi had little success in talks with Ethiopia, he did a fair bit of damage from Cairo. In June 2013, he held a meeting with political leaders to discuss the dam and what could be done. He failed to inform the participants that the meeting was being aired live on State TV. They suggested an array of hostile actions ranging from backing rebels in Ethiopia who could sabotage the dam to air strikes (Stack, 2013). A week later Morsi himself delivered a speech in which he pledged, “if our share of Nile water decreases, our blood will be the alternative.” This understandably was taken by many as a threat of war to which the Ethiopians responded by summoning Egypt’s ambassador in Addis Ababa to clarify the government’s position. Ethiopia’s foreign ministry also condemned the “violent rhetoric” and insisted that “any suggestions of war or sabotage were unacceptable” (El-​Behairy,  2013). On the whole, Morsi’s year in office combined relatively cautious actions on the Israel–​ Palestine portfolio and reckless rhetoric when it came to Syria and Ethiopia. His actions vis-​ à-​vis Israel and Palestine comforted a number of governments, but his statements on Syria and Ethiopia alarmed many who worried he was threatening to embroil Egypt in military action on multiple fronts. While it is likely that his words would not have been followed up with acts, his time in office was too brief to fully assess the extent to which his threats were hollow. Morsi took office on June 30, 2012 and exactly one year later large protests erupted against his rule, initially calling for early elections, but quickly shifting to a call for his removal from office.While some suspected a conspiracy early on, it has since become clear that the protests and the Tamarod movement that called for them were connected to plans by the military and other security agencies in coordination with opposition figures and business elites to overthrow Morsi in a coup d’état, which was executed on July 3, 2013, led by the Morsi-​appointed defense minister, Abdel Fattah al Sisi.

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Counterrevolutionary foreign policy While primarily a domestic affair, Morsi’s overthrow had important international dimensions. Toppling the Brotherhood and reestablishing the direct primacy of the Egyptian Armed Forces in Egypt’s ruling circle fundamentally undercut Qatar’s effort to establish a powerful alliance of Islamist-​ruled Arab states. At the same time, the move strengthened Saudi Arabia and the UAE’s effort to roll back Qatar’s position in the region and oppose the rise of Islamist parties. Moreover, the enormous sums of money lavished on Egypt’s new rulers by Saudi, the UAE, and Kuwait helped secure their position and delay painful reforms that were urgently needed but could undermine the popularity of the nascent counterrevolution that had staked its legitimacy on the popular mobilizations that began on June 30. Initially Qatar sought to temper the damage of the coup on its relationship with Egypt. Al Jazeera broadcast a message reportedly from Qatar’s foreign ministry promising that “Qatar will remain a supporter of brotherly Egypt.” Meanwhile, Qatar’s ruler, Emir Tamim bin Hamid Al Thani, sent his best wishes to Egypt’s new interim President Adly Mansour (Law, 2013). Needless to say, this effort was short-​lived. Following the coup, Qatar’s media outlets, Al Jazeera Arabic and Al Jazeera English, were banned and blocked from airing in Egypt. Some of their journalists were arrested and held for over a year in a series of sham trials that attracted international condemnation that continued until the defendants were released. Qatar requested Egypt return the funds that it had lent Egypt and deposited at the Central Bank of Egypt to prop up the country’s reserves, and Egypt did so while receiving substantially more from a new coalition of Gulf patrons (Gowely, 2014). This Gulf support helped Egypt deflect pressure following the coup and pursue a ruthless campaign of repression against the MB and other regime critics, including many who initially supported the coup. The New York Times Cairo bureau chief at the time, David Kirkpatrick, argues that some US officials gave a yellow light to coup conspirators, particularly Sisi, in 2013. He claims official US opposition to a coup was communicated in a manner that lacked the enthusiasm needed to meaningfully deter one, assuming they might have been able to do so in the first place (Kirkpatrick, 2018a). After the coup, however, many in the US Congress called for applying the Foreign Assistance Act, which requires Congress to suspend aid to “the government of any country whose duly elected head of government is deposed by a military coup or decree” (Fisher, 2013). Still, the White House appeared reluctant to make any substantive cut in its aid to Egypt. As with past administrations, the Obama administration maintained an aversion to cutting aid and losing access and “influence” in Cairo. Interestingly, one of the most formidable defenders of US aid to Egypt turned out to be Israel’s allies in Washington. The American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) in particular lobbied forcefully to kill proposed amendments in Congress that would have suspended aid to Egypt (Hudson, 2013). While Morsi won some kudos over the ceasefire he had negotiated between Hamas and Israel the previous year, the Egyptian military has a much longer working relationship with Israel; and despite being historic adversaries, the two have built up far more trust between them than the Brotherhood could hope to secure in the foreseeable future. There are no exemptions in the Foreign Assistance Act in the event that the State Department determines a coup has occurred. As a result, the State Department’s Spokeswoman Jen Psaki explained, “it is not in our national interest to make such a determination. We have determined we are not going to make a determination” (Pecquet, 2013). This was how the administration opted to avoid triggering the law, since it likely concluded making such a statement was easier than trying to untenably argue a coup had not taken place. A few weeks later, Egyptian security forces massacred over 800 protestors in a matter of hours while clearing a pro-​Morsi sit-​in 151

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at Rabaa el Adaweya Square in Cairo (Shakir, 2014). The massacre eventually led the Obama administration to partially suspend military aid to Egypt as well as restrict which weapons Egypt could purchase, while eliminating a favorable financing system that was in place. That said, the aid suspension was a symbolic slap on the wrist meant to signal some degree of displeasure without significantly disrupting the bilateral relationship between Egypt and the United States. Muddling the message shortly after the suspension, US Secretary of State John Kerry visited Sisi and said the decision was “not a punishment,” and “a very small issue” (Hawthorne, 2014). Indeed two weeks before the massacre, Kerry insisted that the “[Egyptian] military was restoring democracy” (Kirkpatrick, 2014). The failure to get cabinet members to communicate critical messages to Cairo was a persistent issue confirmed in interviews with US officials (Kirkpatrick, 2018a). Kerry was committed to the foreign policy tradition that entrusted authoritarians with maintaining stability in the region. While the aid suspension was relatively small, Egyptian officials nonetheless moved to dramatically diversify the country’s weapons purchases to insulate themselves from future attempts by the United States to pressure them with threats of withholding arms. Between 2014 and 2018, Egypt was the third largest arms importer in the world (Maged, 2019). During that period, much of the weapons purchased came from Russia and France, moving away from Egypt’s dependence on US-​made weapons (Sharp, 2019). One byproduct of the fight over US assistance to Egypt was President Sisi’s warm relationship with Israeli leaders, particularly Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu (Entous, 2014). The two reportedly speak quite frequently, and Israel has been extremely flexible about the movement of Egyptian military hardware in Sinai, despite heavy restrictions in the Camp David Agreement (Mada, 2019). The Egyptian Armed Forces are embroiled in a fight against militants in Sinai, most notably a local affiliate of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS).There have also been reports of Israel carrying out airstrikes in Sinai to support Egyptian operations against ISIS (Kirkpatrick, 2018b). This level of coordination and trust is unprecedented in the history of relations between the two countries. Following the overthrow of Morsi, there was a substantial rise in militancy in the Sinai. Egypt accused Hamas of supporting these militants, which added to tensions with the Brotherhood-​ affiliated group. While there are credible reports of such coordination in the past, Hamas has moved to crack down on Gazan militants seeking to operate in the Sinai and cut ties with militant groups there. This has helped improve relations with Cairo, as has Hamas’ renunciation of links to the MB in an effort to extricate itself from the Sisi government’s war on the Brotherhood at home (Wermenbol, 2019). The leader of Hamas, Ismail Haniyeh, went so far as to prohibit members of the group from commenting on anti-​Sisi protests that took place throughout Egypt on September 20, 2019, which reportedly was met with appreciation from Egyptian intelligence. Regular visits of Hamas leaders to Cairo for coordinating with Egyptian security officials resumed in 2017 (Mohsen, 2019). While Egypt can afford to pressure Hamas for a time, the reality is that they both have a strong interest in close coordination. Hamas can help Egypt control security threats in the Sinai, which has been a major challenge for Egypt’s military and security forces. In turn, Egypt can loosen control over what goods Hamas can bring into the Gaza strip, both through the official border crossing at Rafah and through a series of tunnels running between the Sinai and Gaza, which the Egyptian military has had fluctuating enthusiasm for destroying. Finally, access to and influence over the leadership of Hamas as well as the Palestinian Authority and Palestinian Liberation Organization are central to Egypt’s perceived strategic value to the United States and other Western governments that depend on Egypt to act as an interlocutor and mediate

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conflicts when they arise. While Egypt’s relations with Israel have improved, the Sisi regime has also rebuilt ties with Hamas to balance its interests on the eastern border. Sisi’s efforts in balancing interests can also be observed in Egypt’s relationship with Gulf allies attached to the Saudi-​Emirati axis in the region. Egypt continues to maintain a degree of autonomy from its Gulf patrons on a number of foreign policy challenges. While the three countries were united in their priority of quashing Qatar’s regional ambitions, Egypt continued to eschew confrontation with Iran, which formed the basis for a divergence from Saudi Arabia and the UAE in a number of theaters.When Saudi Arabia launched air strikes in Yemen in 2015, there were many who suspected Egypt would be expected to support the new Saudi campaign and join its coalition. This worried some as Egypt’s last engagement in Yemen, during Nasser’s presidency in the 1960s, was a disaster and is referred to by many observers as Nasser’s Vietnam. The war Saudi Arabia launched against Yemen’s Houthis was primarily an effort to fight what Riyadh saw as Iranian proxies on Saudi Arabia’s southern border and another example of Iran’s expanding footprint in the region. Between Egypt’s bad history in Yemen and the regime’s relatively muted concerns about Iran and its ambitions, Sisi opted to severely limit Egypt’s participation in the Saudi-​led coalition, contributing four warships to monitor the seaways west of Yemen, particularly Bab el Mandab. Bab el Mandab is a vital waterway for Egypt as it is a strait through which ships must pass in order to reach the Suez Canal (Farouk, 2015). Ironically, while Egypt was reluctant to deploy troops on the ground in Yemen, Qatar sent 1,000 to support the Saudi-​led coalition (Bayoumy, 2015). Adding to the convoluted alliances in the conflict is the fact that the government supported by the Saudi-​led coalition, which included the UAE, includes the Islah Party, an MB affiliate in Yemen, which apparently was a source of discomfort for Emirati officials who withdrew their forces from Yemen in 2019. Qatar’s participation in the coalition ended after Saudi Arabia and the UAE led a group of countries to impose a blockade on Qatar in the summer of 2017 (Yaakoubi, 2017). On June 5, 2017, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, the UAE, and Bahrain cut diplomatic ties with Qatar. Saudi Arabia sealed its land border with Qatar and all the participating countries blocked Qatar’s access to their airspace and territorial waters. They accused Qatar of supporting terrorist groups, cozying up to Iran and using its media outlets in a hostile manner to target them (Wintour, 2017a). Two weeks into the blockade, Qatar was given ten days to comply with an ultimatum that included shutting down Al Jazeera, expelling Turkish troops, downgrading engagement with Iran, and ending contact with the MB (Wintour, 2017b). Since Morsi’s overthrow, many Brotherhood members fled Egypt and moved to Doha. A number of Brotherhood members and supporters also worked with Al Jazeera Arabic. While Saudi Arabia, the UAE and Bahrain also expelled Qatari nationals from their respective countries, Egypt did not join them. The reason was quite simple. There are over 200,000 expatriate Egyptian workers in Qatar who remit back to Egypt valuable hard currency and support many Egyptian families (Abouelenein, 2017). Moreover, there are relatively few Qatari nationals residing in Egypt, and Qatar has over $1 billion in investments in Egypt. Along similar lines, despite a fierce war of words between Egypt and Turkey, the two countries have robust and growing trade relations that exceed $5 billion in value (Fouad, 2019). Another instance where differing levels of concern over Iran led to Egypt’s refusal to support its Gulf partners was in the case of Lebanon. In November 2017, Lebanon’s Prime Minister Saad Hariri, who is also a Saudi citizen, was summoned to the Saudi royal court and forced to resign in a televised address on a Saudi channel from Riyadh. In his address he cited threats to his life and condemned Iranian interference in Lebanon through Hezbollah and throughout

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the region (Ignatius, 2017). After the kidnapping and forced resignation of the Lebanese Prime Minister, things managed to get more bizarre. When Houthis fired a rocket at Riyadh, Saudi Arabia announced that Lebanon had declared war, citing Hezbollah’s “aggression”—​Hezbollah, being a central player in Lebanon’s government (Perry, 2017). Central to all this was a Saudi effort to push back at Iranian influence in Lebanon and create a crisis for Hezbollah, which Saudi’s Lebanese allies had been unable to rein in on their own. Egypt did not support its ally. In an interview Sisi called for calm, insisting “we don’t want to add more instability and fighting. This message is for everyone [emphasis added].” He went on to explain “the region cannot take anymore turmoil” (Gamble, 2017). Following the interview, Sisi sent his foreign minister, Sameh Shoukry, on a tour of Arab capitals to communicate his view on the crisis (Kaldas, 2017). In emphasizing that his message was for everyone, Sisi made it very clear that he was telling his allies in Riyadh that he did not support their actions. Sisi’s independence is also clear when it comes to Egypt’s policy with Lebanon’s neighbor, Syria—​another theater in which Saudi Arabia, the UAE and Qatar are largely aligned, though with some differences in the rebel militias they support. In this case, Egypt has gone beyond neutrality. Sisi has defended Assad’s place in Syria and insisted on the importance of “national armies,” confirming he was referring to the military under Assad’s command (Kessler, 2017). Sisi’s sympathy with Assad is unsurprising as Sisi likely sees them as both embroiled in similar fights against militant Islamists. Sisi has emphasized the importance of Arab armies exercising sovereignty over their territory and sees the fight against Assad as an effort by Islamists—​and thus, in Sisi’s eyes, terrorists—​to seize control of Syria. At the UN, Egypt exemplified its strategy of hedging in its foreign relations when it voted for a pair of resolutions on Syria: one put forward by the French and backed by Egypt’s Western and Gulf allies, and another proposed by Russia and firmly opposed by those same allies. Saudi Arabia’s UN envoy called Egypt’s vote for the Russian resolution “painful.” One of the most important differences between the two draft resolutions is that the Russian resolution did not call for the end of the aerial bombardment of Aleppo (Mada, 2016). A regional proxy war in which Sisi has been more willing to get directly involved is the one taking place along its western border in Libya. Since the overthrow of Qaddafi in 2011, no faction or government has been able to exert full control over all of Libya’s territory. The country has an array of militias operating there. For a time, ISIS also established a foothold, and recently groups of mercenaries from Russia and Syria have been brought to participate in the fighting. Egypt has multiple concerns when it comes to Libya. For one it shares a massive desert border with Libya that is largely uninhabited, which has made effectively policing the border virtually impossible. Following the fall of Qaddafi, truckloads of illicit weapons made their way from Libya to Egypt (Abdellah, 2017), and the large desert area has been a fertile territory for militants, adding to the challenges to Egypt’s security forces who are also battling insurgents in the North Sinai (Springborg, 2019). In addition to direct security concerns, there is a political dimension to Egypt’s interest in Libya. The UN-​recognized Government of National Accord (GNA) based in Tripoli includes the MB-​affiliated Justice and Construction Party (Glenn, 2017). Cairo is averse to sharing a border with a country governed by the Brotherhood, even if only in part. As far as Sisi’s government is concerned, the Brotherhood is not only a political rival, but also a security threat. Egypt’s security establishment sees the Brotherhood as the foundation of militant groups with whom they are currently fighting. Sisi has joined the UAE in offering support to former Libyan officer, General Khalifa Haftar and the Libyan National Army under his command. Egypt, the UAE, and France among others have violated the arms embargo on Libya to supply Haftar’s forces. It appears that Sisi sees in Haftar a bit of himself: a senior military officer fighting Islamist militants and seeking to establish 154

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a form of authoritarian stability over his country. As Wolfgang Mühlberger (2016, p. 101) argues, Egypt is “reproducing two of its domestic policy lines in Libya: its policy of equating political Islam with Jihadism and its logic of seeing the army as the central pillar of statehood.” However, it is worth noting that Haftar’s coalition depends on Salafi fighters, and Libya lacks a history of a powerful military institution in domestic political life (Qaddafi feared that a strong military could threaten his grip on power, so kept his army weak). While the Emirati air force is actively supporting Haftar in Libya, Egypt appears for now to be limiting its involvement to diplomatic support, weapons, and funding (Wintour, 2019). Egypt’s concerns about Libya likely escalated toward the close of 2019 as Turkey signed an agreement with the GNA over gas exploration rights in the Mediterranean, which would overlap with the waters that Egypt, Cyprus, and Greece had already laid claim to for gas exploration.The three previously butted heads with Turkey over its claims to Cypriot territorial waters on behalf of Turkish Northern Cyprus.Turkey’s new gas deal with the GNA came with a pledge to defend the UN-​backed government (Cupolo, 2019), and Turkey has since deployed Turkish advisors and Syrian militia fighters to Libya to support the GNA’s forces (Kirkpatrick, 2020). Attempts at negotiating a political settlement or even a durable ceasefire have failed repeatedly. The fact that both sides have an array of foreign patrons willing to continue to support them reduces natural incentives for reaching a settlement and artificially allows both to continue to fight using foreign resources, regardless of their organic support on the ground. Another foreign policy challenge that Sisi has long struggled to find a viable strategy to overcome is the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam. Sisi has adopted a far calmer tone in discussing the dam compared to Morsi, regularly insisting that the matter will be resolved through diplomacy. In 2018, in an odd effort to convince the public of his efforts, Sisi insisted during talks in Cairo that Ethiopia’s Prime Minister, Abiy Ahmed, swear to God in Arabic, a language Ahmed does not understand, that he would never do anything to harm Egypt (Ismail, 2018). Central to the impasse between Egypt and Ethiopia has been that neither party has real leverage over the other. By self-​financing, Ethiopia has been able to construct the dam without consultations or approval from any other affected party. Ethiopia has pursued a strategy of building facts on the ground that Egypt has been forced to accept, leaving Sisi to negotiate on managing the dam as opposed to his likely preferred action of vetoing construction in the first place.This fait accompli has put Ethiopia in a fairly strong position, and years of talks have failed to deliver any concrete progress on the main point of contention: managing the flow of water through the dam, particularly during periods of extended drought. Ethiopia would like to fill the reservoir as quickly as possible so that the dam can start producing electricity, which Ethiopia intends to export to neighboring countries. Meanwhile, Egypt fears that if the dam is filled too quickly, the disruption to the flow of Nile waters will cause Egypt to lose its guaranteed volume of water, leading to desertification of arable land along the banks of the Nile, as well as accelerated salination of farmland in the Nile Delta where sea waters from the Mediterranean have been encroaching. Adding to Egypt’s diplomatic challenges in resolving this dispute was the strained relationship between Egypt and Sudan under Omar Al Bashir, who supported the GERD project and at one point even offered to donate Sudan’s unused share of Nile water to allow Ethiopia to accelerate its fill schedule (International Crisis Group, 2019). However, the reality is that Sudan’s underdeveloped irrigation networks mean that the country does not use its share of Nile waters in the first place, and thus has already given Egypt a larger share than the 1959 treaty allots. Since Bashir’s overthrow in 2019, Sudan has taken a more neutral position as the country’s new government appears to hope to avoid antagonizing its neighbor to the north. Egyptian officials have long requested third-​party mediation to help compensate for their lack of direct leverage over their Ethiopian counterparts. Ethiopia’s government, for its part, 155

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consistently refused external mediation as officials likely suspected that such mediation would strengthen Egypt’s position and force them to make larger concessions. While Ethiopia successfully rebuffed repeated efforts by Egypt to involve the World Bank, Sisi successfully persuaded US President Donald Trump to get involved and he tasked his Secretary of the Treasury, Steven Mnuchin, to oversee talks between Egypt, Ethiopia, and Sudan. Despite some delays, the United States claimed that the talks finally delivered a breakthrough with the three countries agreeing on a formula for calculating the fill schedule. This has since been cast into doubt. They were scheduled to sign a final agreement in February 2020; however, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo has warned talks may drag on for months longer and Ethiopia opted to skip what were billed as the final round of talks held in Washington at the end of February (Meseret, 2020;Widakuswara, 2020). A successful conclusion of the talks would be a major diplomatic victory for Sisi who has been cultivating a positive relationship with Trump since he was campaigning for the US presidency in 2016. Alternatively, failure on an issue rightly viewed in Cairo as a vital national interest would be the most significant foreign policy loss of Sisi’s presidency to date.

Conclusions As one can see, Egypt’s government is tasked with balancing an array of interests and needs in a volatile region. Meanwhile, the country’s economic weakness requires its leaders to regularly seek foreign patrons while attempting to mitigate foreign control. By and large, Egypt has been remarkably adept at striking this balance. In a rare example of the government’s agility, it has been ready to pivot and juggle an array of competing alliances that help Egypt maintain its role as a strategic ally to many, while avoiding becoming a submissive client of anyone. Interestingly, this approach is largely unaffected by who occupies the presidential palace. Even during the Brotherhood tenure, Egypt’s foreign policy remained largely consistent. It is possible that if the Brotherhood had been left to rule for longer, this may have slowly changed, but with the exception of which side Egypt was aligned with in the Gulf dispute there were no significant indications of a new course. The biggest difference witnessed was a tendency for more bombastic public remarks as took place regarding Ethiopia and Syria toward the end of Morsi’s time in office. Countless foreign government officials who deal with Egypt are consistently frustrated with the challenging relationship they have with Egypt. They complain of Egypt’s sense of entitlement when it comes to assistance, and frequent refusal to back them on their respective priorities. Ultimately, however, they often concede that Egypt has been exceptionally successful at maintaining diverse and robust support from an array of competing allies, despite its vexing and, at times destabilizing actions. Moreover, their fear that Egypt may side more strongly with one of their adversaries, with whom Cairo is also aligned, has prevented them from allowing disagreements to lead to a larger rift or even more robust criticism. This not only serves Cairo’s interests but, at times, has helped the Egyptian public avoid calamitous engagements, such as a more involved deployment supporting the Saudi campaign in Yemen. This does not mean that Egypt is always able to get something for nothing. At times its vulnerabilities can lead to undesirable concessions.This was most visible when President Sisi agreed to transfer sovereignty of the strategically significant islands, Tiran and Sanafir, to Saudi Arabia. At the time, Saudi had pledged to invest heavily in Egypt alongside giving Egypt an extremely low interest loan to finance petrochemical imports. Meanwhile, Egypt had significant arrears with energy companies that had contributed to fuel shortages and electricity blackouts that—​ aside from compromising public faith in the government—​were harming Egyptian industries. The move was extremely unpopular, including among many of Sisi’s more staunch supporters, 156

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but despite some foot-​dragging and legal challenges, sovereignty over the islands was ultimately delivered to Egypt’s patrons in Riyadh. The limits of this approach may also impact one of Egypt’s most pressing foreign policy challenges at the moment, negotiating a peaceful compromise over GERD.Talks in Washington are dragging and reports indicate that Egypt is not finding the support from the White House or from its Gulf allies that it had been hoping for (Mada, 2020). Ultimately, however, Egypt’s strategic significance and its sheer magnitude mean foreign powers will almost certainly work to protect it as much as is necessary to prevent a real crisis. In many capitals, the view is simply that Egypt is too big to fail and the prevention of such is in everyone’s interests. This status of a necessary, but frustrating, partner not only guarantees Egypt a share of protection and support but also reflects Egypt’s inherently weak position. Currently, Egypt’s best-​case scenario is to be a fiercely independent client rather than the regional power it once was. So long as authoritarian mismanagement and poor governance undercut its economy and development, while a bloated and politicized officer corps is more fixated on domestic rent-​seeking rather than its primary responsibility of the national defense, Egypt is unlikely to break out of those limits in the coming decades.

Note 1 How one defines an “Egyptian” of course is a serious debate beyond the parameters of this chapter and so I defer to popular public sentiment because just as nations are imagined communities, the political consequences of believing that Egypt has spent two millennia ruled by foreigners depend more on the reality of that popular belief than the historicity of that belief.

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PART III

Economy

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INTRODUCTION A brief history of nation, state, and market Amr Adly

Framing of the discussion This section examines the evolution of Egypt’s political economy in modern times. It tackles the power dynamics that have framed and governed the production, distribution, and consumption of economic value. Needless to say, economic transaction, even under the freest market setting, cannot exist in the absence of some governance structure that sets the rules for that transaction. Such governance is provided on both national and international levels through various channels, including conditionality, transnational, and supranational arrangements for the movement of goods, services, capital, and people in addition to ideational linkages (Stallings, Haggard and Kaufman, 1992). In taking up economic governance, this section therefore deals with Egypt’s economy in its broader regional and international contexts. It problematizes how power structures and practices, including the state, the incumbent regime, and informal power dynamics, govern economic activity, providing both opportunities for and constraints to socioeconomic development. The section pays close attention to developments that followed the attempted transformation from state-​led development initiated under President Nasser to a more market-​based development model since the mid-​1970s. However, much of the analysis goes back into earlier periods. The brief, but consequential experience under Nasser is often brought into the picture. Sound, comprehensive analysis also requires reference to prior attempts at economic modernization in the 19th and early 20th centuries, when Egypt was integrated into the Europe-​dominated division of global labor, thus raising pressing questions about the national political and economic independence and social development. Making sense of the development of Egypt’s economy in modern times is no easy task. Despite cumulative improvements in some basic socioeconomic indicators, such as life expectancy, per capita income, and educational attainment, the evolution of the economy has not been linear. Egypt’s linkages with the external world have varied considerably, usually in tandem with changes in domestic governance structures, ruling elites, and sociopolitical coalitions. For instance, Egypt moved from a free market setting prior to independence to a state-​led development model in the 1950s through the 1970s, and then reverted to a market-​led development scheme. Despite this oscillation three predominate patterns prevailed throughout most of the modern period. 163

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First, Egypt’s development model and performance were closely related to the country’s political position in the world order. The struggle for independence from British occupation (1882–​1956) shaped much of the path of domestic development, state–​economy relations, and economic nationalism (Goldberg, 2004; Tignor, 1984; Vitalis, 1995). Following the 1952 overthrow of the British-​backed monarchy and full independence in 1956, Egypt’s position in the nonalignment movement, coupled with championing of decolonization and anti-​imperialist policies in Middle East and North Africa (MENA), Africa and beyond, influenced domestic policies and institutions as well as external trade and aid partners. Not surprisingly, the shift back into a more open-​market setting under President Sadat happened with the realignment of the country’s foreign policy to the West and the signing of the peace treaty with Israel (Hussein, 1982, 443). In the same vein, recent developments in the aftermath of the 2011 uprising reveal how inseparable geopolitics has been from economics as well as the organic ties between domestic and external factors. Second, despite the uneven path that policies and institutions have taken in Egypt, the country’s overall economic and social performance has been modest, especially compared to other countries in the Global South. At no moment has Egypt witnessed a radical redefinition of its mode of insertion into the global division of labor in any manner comparable to East and Southeast Asian economies, for example. Socioeconomic indicators show that especially since the 1950s, consistent and incremental improvements have occurred on many fronts, but not in dramatic upward shifts. Egypt has remained a factor-​based economy whose role in the global division of labor is stuck in the supply of low-​value added primary materials or low-​ skilled and labor-​intensive goods and services. Natural gas and oil have replaced the central position that cotton had occupied in the 19th century through the 1950s. Added to this is Egypt’s privileged position as a recipient of recycled oil-​based rents through regional political-​ economic mechanisms of intergovernmental aid, investment flows, and workers’ remittances (Aarts, 1999; Fargues, De Bel-​Air and Shah, 2015). Third, typical of late late-​developers, the state has been central to framing and directing the production, distribution, and consumption of economic value since intensifying formal independence in the mid-​1930s. This is a trend that started with the 1936 treaty granting the Egyptian state a broad mandate in economic policy making and that opened the door for the Egyptianization of modern sectors, protection of nationally owned industries, and raised questions about land reform, urbanization, and industrialization (Abdulhaq, 2016). The trend subsequently intensified with Nasser’s state-​led development model, which came to be dominated by the public sector as of 1961. Ironically, the economic opening (infitah) under Sadat and subsequently under Mubarak, only contributed to the reconfiguration rather than a dramatic reduction in the role of the state vis-​à-​vis the market. International conditionality, the adoption of policies inspired by neoliberalism, and the increasing globalization of the economy did not mean a smaller role for the state. The state remained central to the capitalization of often politically connected big businesses through generous subsidies, below market-​rate land plots, selective protectionism, shady privatization of state-​owned assets, and last but not least the increasing dominance of a profit-​oriented military-​controlled civilian economy (Mitchell, 1999; Adly, 2012b; el-​Tarouty, 2013; Roccu, 2013). Drawing on these three analytical characterizations, the following subsections proceed chronologically and from a political economy perspective through Egypt’s long journey of economic modernization.

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History: Top-​down modernization As with other cases on the periphery of the capitalist system, questions surrounding modernization in Egypt came in the context of forceful integration into the European division of labor in the 19th century (Hourani, 1981; Ayubi, 1995). Even though many historians trace the birth of modern Egypt to the French expedition (1798–​1801), it is difficult to outline a single critical juncture in such a long process (Gran, 1998). Throughout the 19th century, Egypt was integrated into the European movement of goods, people, technology, and capital through many channels, ranging from exporting agricultural materials and importing weaponry and European emigrants to borrowing capital to military conquest and occupation. This lengthy process created an increasing awareness among the people of Egypt regarding their position in the Europe-​dominated world order. The question of socioeconomic and cultural “progress” came to the fore by the middle of the 19th century. Naturally, nationalism was a force to be reckoned with. However, more importantly the increasing integration of Egypt (and the people who became Egyptians by the late 19th century) impacted heavily how domestic political, social, and economic institutions evolved. One of the main challenges was to make expressions of modernity more Egyptian. This applied to the semi-​colonial state since the British occupation in 1882, as well as to the modern sectors of the economy that were dominated by foreigners and residents belonging to ethno-​religious minorities (Abdulhaq, 2016; Beinin, 1998;Tignor, 1983). Egyptianizing the modern economic sectors was the same process of modernizing the Egyptian economy. From the 1850s until the 1950s, Egypt was Europe’s “cotton farm.” High-​ quality cotton constituted 90% of the country’s total exports (Goldberg, 2004). Issawi (1947, 163–​164) observed that Egyptians had a small share in occupations in “modern” sectors, that is, nonagricultural in the late 1930s: whereas 59% of them worked in agriculture, just 10% of them could be found working in industry and transportation, 6% in commerce and finance, and 5% in services. Conversely, 24% of foreigners worked in industry, 22 and 20% commerce and finance, respectively. Modernization meant diversifying away from cotton into industry, which also implied urbanization. All these issues became entangled with the country’s independence movement after World War  I. Following the 1919 popular revolt against the British occupation, which had become an official protectorate in 1914, the first wave of Egyptian economic nationalism was unleashed. There was a convergence between the demands of an independent, sovereign Egyptian state and the ability to use public policy for economic modernization via industrialization. Egypt became formally independent in 1922, although with a continuing British military presence. In 1920, Bank Misr was established by a number of these Egyptian nationalists. It stood as the country’s first major modern institution to be fully owned by Egyptians (Tignor, 1984). The bank played an active role in fostering modern industries, especially textiles and modern services, like the creation of a national air carrier and movie-​making, all bearing the name of Misr (the Arabic word for Egypt). Even though Egypt remained reliant on cotton exports throughout the interwar period, the first wave of economic nationalism led to the emergence of an Egyptian big bourgeoisie that invested in non-​agricultural activities.

Economic nationalism intensifying Following the botched tripartite aggression in 1956, Egypt gained its full independence. This major change in the country’s international political status proved very consequential for its political economy. On the one hand, it inaugurated a process of state-​led Egyptianization that

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targeted property and enterprises owned by British, French, and Jewish interests (perceived as supportive of Zionism) (Tignor, 1984, 135–​136; Beinin, 1998,67, 87). These sequestered assets would become the nucleus for Nasser’s public sector in 1957. On the other hand, the country’s hard-​won independence meant a bigger role for the state in the delivering of economic and social development, defined primarily in terms of heavy industrialization. It is noteworthy that the military takeover of 1952 had already tackled the question of land reform by issuing the first round of land redistribution from the landed aristocracy to small and middle peasants. This round was followed by three others through the 1950s and 1960s, resulting in a significant redistribution of cultivable land and the creation of a stratum of middle peasants (Hansen, 1991, 127). Egyptianization and sequestering of foreign-​owned assets opened the way for the outright nationalization of major private enterprises in key modern sectors in the early 1960s as the country took a more pronounced socialist turn. By 1961, it was hoped that Arab socialism would supply the Nasserist regime with the ideological ammunition to push forward with its sociopolitical and economic plans within Egypt as well as regionally. The first Soviet-​style five-​year plan was adopted in 1960. This happened in a context of huge public investment in the Aswan Dam, with extensive Soviet involvement as well as building of major projects in areas of heavy industrialization. It was another example of that period’s top-​down modernization efforts led by a growing state bureaucracy in direct control of economy’s modern sectors including cement, petrochemicals, iron, and steel, as well as construction and services like banking, insurance, and transportation (Waterbury, 1983). The Egyptian regime also sought to institutionalize its rule by the establishment of the Arab Socialist Union as a state party that could reach out to social constituencies supportive of the regime, namely, middle and small peasants, public-​sector workers, and students. Bianchi (1989) labeled Nasser’s regime “populist authoritarianism,” where the autocratic style of ruling was combined with policies of redistribution and distribution through rounds of land reform and nationalization of privately owned assets in addition to universal education and the expansion of public-​ sector employment. To be clear, Egypt never evolved into a welfare state. It was closer to an employment-​fare state where job security, access to subsidized services and goods, and other entitlements were granted to those working for the state (el-​Meehy, 2010). The process of state-​led modernization enabled the creation of state-​dependent constituencies whose fates were tied with Nasser’s moral economy on the one hand and the continued public-​sector-​dominated model on the other hand (Bayat, 1993). Both elements would be shaken severely with the hurdles that the Nasser regime faced first with a series of regional mishaps stretching from the short-​lived unity with Syria (1958–​1961), the Yemen war (1962–​1967), and the catastrophic 1967 defeat by Israel. These exacerbated many of the inherent limitations of import-​substitution as the easy phase of industrialization seemed to have been exhausted by the end of the first five-​year plan in 1965 and the state ran into trouble deepening the industrialization drive. Moreover, contradictions between the requirements for capital accumulation while upholding the distributional coalition the regime had created proved particularly problematic (Bradley, 1983). These were not however the only limitations that faced Egypt’s state-​ led development model. The import-​substitution industrialization strategy enabled some upgrading and contributed to the creation of a national market. Both were inseparable from nation-​building as well as the nourishment of state-​dependent working and middle classes. However, the model contributed little to the redefinition of Egypt’s mode of insertion into the global division of labor. Industrialization was inwardly oriented and was largely shielded from foreign competition. Typical of import-​substitution in the Global South of the time, it proved to be import-​ intensive as domestic industries had to import technology and capital goods in order to be 166

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able to produce consumer goods for local consumers. Overall, Egypt remained dependent on exporting raw materials, with oil replacing cotton as the most significant commodity. It is also noteworthy that the Cold War provided Egypt with a receptive context for rent generation as early as the 1960s, which the Aswan Dam, supported by the Soviets, exemplifies. Despite the push toward a state-​led development model, the Egyptian economy retained a private sector, especially in agriculture and micro and small enterprises in urban areas. Private-​ sector micro and small (and to a lesser extent medium) establishments were left to not only operate, but to dominate key sectors like wholesale and retail trading as well as construction. In 1973, after almost 15 years of state-​led development, the private sector still supplied 56.18% of total output compared to 43.8% for the public sector. Small private producers dominated agriculture (98%), trade (60%), and housing (88.2%) and had a significant presence in light manufacturing and services (O’Brien, 1966, cited in Waterbury, 1983, 160). They dominated labor-​intensive manufacturing sectors like leather, furniture, wooden products, clothes and apparels, and printing (Abdel-​Fadil, 1980, 82). This was to prove consequential when Nasser’s successor Anwar al-​Sadat opted for partial liberalization and expansion of the private sector in the mid-​1970s.

The 1970s: A shift to the right Following the 1973 war with Israel, Nasser’s successor Sadat (1970–​1981) sought a peaceful settlement with it. This went hand in hand with the realignment of Egypt’s position in the Cold War with the Western bloc, severing ties with the Soviet Union. This geostrategic shift had an economic motive behind it. In the wake of the 1973 oil shock, triggered by the Arab oil embargo during the war, Sadat hoped to secure capital inflows in the form of aid and investments from the oil-​r ich Arab countries. This required a rapprochement with the West on the one hand and the creation of a domestic regulatory and political environment recipient to foreign inflows on the other hand. It was within this context that Sadat issued his October paper in 1974 on the first anniversary of the crossing war against Israel, in which he set a plan for the partial liberalization of the Egyptian economy after two decades of state-​led development. The October paper aimed precisely at offering incentives to Arab and foreign investors in the hope of drawing some of their capital surplus to Egypt. In 1977, Sadat paid a historic visit to the Israeli Knesset. By 1979, Egypt was the first Arab country to have concluded a peace treaty with Israel. The Egyptian economy was in shambles after six years of war with Israel that had consumed much of the country’s resources. Low rates of savings and investment were hoped to be overcome by the provision of guarantees and incentives to private foreign investors. This was done with the first investment code Law No.43 of 1974 (see ­chapter 13 in this volume). In turn, Egypt witnessed some massive inflows of capital, but things did not exactly go according to Sadat’s plan for a number of reasons.To start with, investment was not the main channel through which Egypt was reintegrated into the capitalist division of labor. It was rather through a variety of external rents. These included massive intergovernmental aid from the rich Gulf countries in the 1970s, which came to a halt in 1978 with the Egyptian–​Israeli peace accords but was replaced by Western aid, namely, from the United States (Hussein, 1982). Not all rents were public, however. Workers’ remittances, which are essentially private incomes and savings, came to play a significant source of Egypt’s foreign-​currency earnings (Fargues, De Bel-​Air and Shah, 2015). Millions of Egyptian workers ended up in the population-​scarce, oil-​r ich countries of the Persian Gulf, as well as Libya and Iraq (in the 1980s). The short-​term labor migration and the absence of a promise of naturalization created large inflows of remittances back home, 167

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which were crucial in relaunching Egypt’s economy and fueling the hike in consumption and imports during infitah (see ­chapter 14 in this volume). Next to aid and remittances, the end of hostilities with Israel allowed Egypt to expand oil production and exportation, with the recovery of the fields in the Sinai as well as the fees emanating from the re-​opened Suez Canal since 1975. Both sources are typical rents. The reintegration into the capitalist division of labor through rentier sectors in the international and regional political economies would prove very consequential for the country’s long-​term development path. Part of the reintegration process also involved elements of hierarchy through the conditionality of international financial institutions. Access to rents in the 1970s was neither sufficient nor constant enough to tackle Egypt’s deep problems with accumulation and development. State finances were a point of profound weakness with a huge public-​sector wage bill and generous universal subsidies, inherited from Nasser’s time but also expanded under Sadat in an attempt to legitimize his rule. In 1976, the IMF was brought on board. An agreement was signed with the Egyptian government according to which the first ever IMF-​sponsored austerity program was adopted in Egypt.The increase in prices of some basic goods was not welcomed. In January 1977, Egypt witnessed large food riots that forced Sadat to rescind the earlier decisions and to bring the IMF deal to an effective halt.The riots, which lasted for almost a week and resulted in tens of fatalities, overwhelmed Sadat and led him to call in the army to quell unrest, for the very first time since 1952. The events of 1977 would prove too traumatizing for the authoritarian regime in charge until 2011. The fear of another episode of these would dissuade Sadat (until his violent death in 1981) and then Mubarak to avoid any radical or abrupt fiscal or economic measures that might have adversarial distributional consequences to the extent of endangering their rule. The dynamics that governed the 1970s influenced the process of market-​making in Egypt all the way until the 2011 revolution in three respects. First, the pace, scope, and scale of liberalization, deregulation, and privatization would be subject to concerns and calculations of regime survival (Soliman, 2011; Kienle, 2004). This would mean the subjection of fiscal and monetary restructuring and state–​economy relations to clear political rather than economic rationales. This regime aimed at controlling the distributional consequences of privatization by transferring state-​owned assets to loyal cronies, who would in turn invest in the consolidation of its rule as well as the enrichment of the ruling incumbents (King, 2009; Adly, 2012a, 2012b; Chekir and Diwan, 2014). Second, Egypt was a case of liberalization without liberals from the 1970s through the 21st century. Neither Sadat nor Mubarak was ideologically vested in bringing about free markets in Egypt. Whichever measures they undertook were guided either by the search for external or internal rents or in response to fiscal and economic crises. Geopolitics played a crucial role here, starting from the US military and economic aid since the late 1970s to the IMF leniency under US pressure. Perhaps the most dramatic of these instances was the Paris Club deal of 1991 according to which more than 50%of Egypt’s external debt was cancelled (Ikram, 2007, 150). This was in return for its prior participation in the US-​led coalition against Iraq for the liberation of Kuwait. This would continue until the last decade of Mubarak’s long rule, when for the first time a coherent team of neoliberal-​oriented technocrats and businessmen-​turned-​ politicians would dominate economic policymaking, albeit briefly. Third, market-​making in Egypt was a contentious issue. The mix of chronic fiscal and economic crises and rounds of austerity and privatization of state-​owned assets meant a slow but consistent erosion in the standard of living of Nasser’s state-​dependent middle and working classes (King, 2009). The dismal development performance, partly due to the reintegration through rent rather than genuine trade and capital movement, created too many losers over the 168

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long term and too few winners (Henry and Springborg, 2010). Compounded by the regime’s authoritarianism, corruption, and irresponsiveness, Egypt’s liberalizing dictator Mubarak was progressively presiding over an ever narrower, more hollowed out constituency. These groups were prone to challenging the regime and when contingent factors were ripe, a full-​fledged popular uprising swept Mubarak aside. In light of these three points, the coming subsections depict Egypt’s journey with market making, under the auspices of the IMF, World Bank, the United States Agency for International Development, and the European Union Commission with a focus on its development outcomes.

Redefinition of state–​economy relations Following Sadat’s assassination in 1981, Mubarak attempted to stabilize his rule by refraining from any abrupt economic or political moves. He also tried to distance himself from Sadat’s legacy of cronyism, corruption, and consumption-​driven infitah. Through the 1980s, Mubarak reemphasized the role of the public sector, without reversing earlier liberalization measures.The official rhetoric talked about a productive infitah, which meant offering subsidies and incentives to manufacturing and agricultural activities instead of the earlier episode that was driven by imports, brokerage, and speculation. Actually, Mubarak capitalized on the renewed access to oil-​ based rents due to the second oil shock of 1979. The inflow of rent (coupled with borrowing from abroad) could keep the regime afloat without having to tackle any of the structural issues that marred the economy (Soliman, 2011). This remained the case until the oil glut of 1986 that led to a sudden drop in Egypt’s rent revenue and placed the economy and the state into a deep crisis. Without sufficient rents, Mubarak had to revive talks with the IMF. A deal was signed in 1987, but the regime was too vulnerable to carry on with austerity. This was possibly due to the riots of 1986 in which central security forces—​originally in charge of quelling urban unrest—​were the ones to riot against the regime. For the second time in less than ten years, the regime had to deploy the military in Cairo, this time to contain the mutiny by paramilitary troopers. The only viable option was an unprecedented expansion in foreign borrowing, principally from European commercial banks at high interest rates. This proved to be a dangerous path due to the Egyptian economy’s weak capacity to generate foreign currency earnings that would have been adequate to service its growing foreign debt. This was an effect of the reintegration of Egypt into the capitalist division of labor through rent rather than trade or investment. Now, it was debt that replaced rent but with no promise of sustainability. In 1989, the Egyptian state was nearing bankruptcy. It could only be saved by geopolitics. In August 1990, Saddam Hussein’s Iraq invaded Kuwait. Egypt joined the US-​led international coalition and in return received a handsome write-​off 50% of foreign debt and the rescheduling of the other half, while having access to generous grants from the Gulf Cooperation Council countries (Ikram, 2007, 150). Egypt’s global patrons, adamant on treating the origins of the crisis, coupled debt relief with a stand-​by agreement with the IMF and long-​term involvement of the World Bank in a structural adjustment program that took off in 1990. While the IMF engagement could fix many of the macroeconomic imbalances (e.g., bringing down inflation, slashing the budget deficit by instilling hard-​budget constraints on state owned enterprises (SOEs), and devaluing the exchange rate), the World Bank was in charge of overseeing a privatization program. Law No. 203 of 1991 was the first piece of legislation that aimed at restructuring the country’s SOEs. It offered a variety of options ranging from divestiture, privatization, and managerial restructuring. The privatization drive went rather slowly through the 1990s for fear of arousing unrest among 169

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the ranks of state-​employed workers. It only finally took off in 2004 under the Ahmed Nazif cabinet (Hanieh, 2013, 50–​52; Roccu, 2013, 44–​45). Even though the privatization of SOEs proceeded rather reluctantly in the 1990s, private sector expansion went quickly. As early as the 1980s, Egypt’s economy was dominated by private sector enterprises of varying sizes and legal statuses. According to the World Bank (2009, 26), the private sector produced around 75% of Egypt’s non-​hydrocarbon gross domestic product (GDP) and around two-​thirds of the total output. Private sector enterprises successfully expanded their shares in key sectors. For example, privately owned enterprises pushed their share in the manufacturing sector from 58% in 1991 to 79% in 1995/​1996 and by 2001 it was 85% through 2010. The story is not much different in the construction sector where the share of the private sector grew from 71% in 1991 to 88.4 and 89.1% in 2006 and 2010, respectively. Its share in tourism, including restaurants and hotels, was 85% in the early 1990s and 99% in 2010. The private sector has always been dominant in the retail and wholesale trade. The private sector also overtook the public sector in total investment (Central Bank of Egypt cited in Adly, 2017, 6). Similarly, according to World Bank statistics, gross capital formation in the private sector rose from 7% in 1990–​2000 to 10.3% in 2001–​2010, whereas gross capital formation in the public sector declined from an average of 14.7% in the first period to 8.7% in the second period. The same trend applied to employment. By 2007, the overall share of the private sector, including wage laborers, the self-​employed, and employers, stood at 65.3% versus 34% in the public sector (CAPMAS, 2007, cited in al-​Merghani, 2010, 144–​146). The role of the Egyptian private sector becomes even more apparent given the limited role of foreign direct investments (FDIs) in non-​extractive sectors. The ratio of net FDI to GDP averaged 1% in the period between 1989 and 2004.The exception that proves the rule was the period between 2005 and 2009, where the ratio increased to 5% of the GDP. Moreover, around half of the net FDI has been concentrated in extractive industries, with minimal presence in or linkages with important sectors like agriculture, tourism, and manufacturing (Hanafy, 2015, 21). It is however noteworthy that this broad domestic private sector was an amalgam of very different organizational, financial, and legal entities that shared in common only the private ownership of the means of production. Next to a few large, often family-​owned, diversified conglomerates, Egypt’s private sector was overwhelmingly made up of small and microenterprises which made up 98% of all firms. Their number was estimated at 2.34 million firms, or 4.3 million if the informal sector is included (Stevenson, 2011, 80–​81). The majority of these market actors were necessity-​driven entrepreneurs and the self-​employed who were often involved in the production and exchange of low-​productivity and low-​value goods and services for survival. Informalization of economic establishments as well as of employment was the other coin of the liberalization process. It could be considered market-​making from below where massive urbanization, the retreating share of agriculture in total employment, and the shrinking role of the public sector, more and more Egyptians became increasingly dependent on the market for their livelihoods (Assaad, 2010, 34–​37; al-​Mahdi and Rashed, 2010, 94). Here, more and more people were integrated into the expanding market but in a suboptimal manner as they lacked the financial, physical, human, and sometimes sociopolitical capital in order to fully, effectively, and formally engage in the production of value-​added goods and services. This proved to be politically ominous for the Mubarak regime. In contrast to market-​making from below, Egypt’s big private sector was often a case of market-​making from above where political connections played direct and indirect roles in capital accumulation as is discussed in the next subsection on the rise of Egypt’s new bourgeoisie. 170

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The reemergence of an Egyptian bourgeoisie By the 1990s, Egypt had a class of large, concentrated, and family-​owned business conglomerates (Adly, 2017). Typical of contexts where markets emerge out of a previous phase of state-​led development, the state would play a key role in the capitalization, hence creation of these private actors (Khan and Jomo, 2000). It might be safe to refer to them as Egypt’s big bourgeoisie that witnessed a reemergence for the first time since the 1950s and 1960s when Nasser’s regime subjected large private property held by foreigners and a bit later Egyptians to nationalization, sequestration, and redistribution. The capacity to accumulate capital, acquire market shares, and generate profits was closely related to state action (and sometimes inaction as in not tackling monopolistic positions and practices or tolerating tax evasion or avoidance). In the 1980s, the Egyptian big bourgeoisie emerged out of a variety of socioeconomic actors. Some emanated from the pre-​1952 private sector, which survived Nasser’s days by relocating outside of Egypt or by submerging into trade and service sectors that were largely informal (Waterbury, 1983,160; Zaki 1999,74). Others sprang out of the state bureaucracy, mainly public-​ sector managers, former military, intelligence, and police generals and other top bureaucrats who could use insider information in order to access critical assets and information. Beside these two, Samia Imam (1986) talked about a third “parasitical” layer that made use of the increase in private consumption and the flow of workers’ remittances and foreign aid to indulge themselves in brokerage and speculation. It is noteworthy that market-​making did not only involve state-​business informal networks. This was exactly the context in which the legal and regulatory frameworks for the military civilian economy were laid (Springborg, 1989; Abul-​Magd, 2017). In the context of demobilization after the peace accords with Israel, a mounting fiscal crisis and external rent inflows, Sadat sought the granting of financial and economic autonomy for the military in order to generate its own revenues. Through the 1980s, factories of the military production authority (and then ministry) started expanding into markets for civilian goods and services.The National Service Projects Organization was created in 1979 and by the 1990s ran businesses in unrelated sectors ranging from agriculture, cement, fertilizers, construction, mineral water, and foods production among others (Sayigh, 2019). Those were instances of corporatization of military-​ owned enterprises and organizations which were financially autonomous, unaccountable to any state authority and legally sanctioned to seek profit and to enter into partnerships with private domestic and foreign capital. Added to this formal empire, the military retained its heavy institutionalized presence in the state civilian bureaucracy, especially in areas of land planning, regulation, and allocation, as well as transportation and communication. These informal networks extended into the business sector and came together to constitute what Yezid Sayigh (2012) called “the officers’ republic”. Counterintuitively, the expansion of the military’s formal and informal economic empire since the 1980s and through 2011 went hand in hand with the emergence and consolidation of the big bourgeoisie. This challenges the liberal common wisdom about the crowding out effect. Conversely, there seemed to have been some de facto division of labor, with Mubarak standing as arbiter in thorny issues like public land management and the regulation of some “sensitive” economic sectors from the national security angle. Even before the takeoff of the privatization drive in the 1990s, state subsidies, protectionism, and weak anti-​monopoly regulation played a role in allowing politically connected businesses (or at least non-​adversarial to the ruling regime) to grow and expand in the 1980s. In the 1990s, the relatively large-​scale privatization of SOEs and the expansion in allocating state-​owned land in the desert at below-​market rates were critical in the creation of the current private conglomerates in sectors like agribusiness, construction, cement, and manufacturing (Mitchell, 171

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1999; Adly, 2012b; el-​Tarouty, 2016; Roccu, 2013). Despite rampant patronage, rent seeking, and cronyism, many of these private businesses grew less dependent on state rent over time. Many became genuine market actors interested in producing for exchange and making profits, rather than just investing politically in drawing state rent. Several also underwent significant transnationalization in the 21st century, especially amid the increasing financialization of big capital worldwide before the meltdown of 2008 (see Adly, 2017). All of this meant that Egypt’s big bourgeoisie, regardless of its origin and initial dependency on the state, grew increasingly autonomous economically, organizationally, and financially. It was hence no surprise that some of the components of that class would assume an explicit proactive political role under the Nazif cabinet (2004–​2011). The Ahmed Nazif government that dominated the economic scene during Mubarak’s last decade comprised many things. First, it comprised the biggest representation of businessmen-​ turned-​ politicians in Egypt’s contemporary history. Together with neoliberal-​ oriented technocrats with dense ideological and professional ties with IFIs and international investment banks, that team dominated critical areas of economic policymaking (Roccu, 2013; Soliman, 2011). Second, the Nazif economic team had pronounced neoliberal inclinations. They operated under the ideological hegemony of neoliberal globalization and possessed a full-​fledged political project that aimed at redefining Egypt’s position in the global division of labor and state–​economy modes of articulation. This is how they ended up introducing large-​scale reforms to the banking sector, the stock market, public land management, and taxation to name the most relevant. Third, their neoliberal project was intimately related to the political ascent of Gamal Mubarak in an attempt to have him succeed his aging father (el-​ Khawaga and Ferrié, 2010). Considering all of these factors together, one can understand how market-​making from above involved liberalization and deregulation, intensified privatization with increasing instances of corruption, state capture, and conflict of interest together with an attempt at the renewal of the authoritarian regime through some dynastic succession in an essentially republican system. Despite some successes in promoting non-​oil exports, attracting FDI, and generating high growth rates, the succession project proved to be a liability for the liberalization of Egypt’s economy. Rejecting Mubarak senior and junior would become the common cause of a wide array of political protest movements in the 2000s. In parallel, intensified privatization and liberalization gravely alienated public-​sector workers and civil servants who expanded their own industrial action and socioeconomic protest during the same time (Beinin and Duboc, 2015; Beinin, 2016). Both forms of protest merged in 2011 to bring down Mubarak, his business cronies and the first (and so far last) attempt by the big bourgeoisie to reconfigure the county’s political economy since 1952.

A not-​so-​successful case of integration Egypt’s journey of reintegration into the global division of labor was overall not fruitful. The country failed to upgrade into higher value niches in international trade, its share of FDI remained dismal throughout most of the period, and its socioeconomic development record was unimpressive (Achcar, 2013). Even though it would be too much to blame this all on the ideological and policy effects of neoliberalism, external constraints in the form of conditionality and intensifying competition in globalized markets put pressure on Egypt and many of its lower and lower-​middle income counterparts. For a country like Egypt, being a rule-​taker in the global system did not provide room for the building of badly needed institutional capacities for development. Eventually, development had to be subjected to requirements of liberalization 172

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rather than vice versa. However, this does not mean that domestic actors, state as well as non-​ state, had no agency. Domestic institutional legacies of state–​economy relations were not conducive either for the coordination of upgrading or for the creation of competitive advantages. According to official statistics, poverty rates in Egypt have consistently climbed since the late 1990s. Growth rates were not much higher than population growth. This does not indicate that the economy was not growing, rather that many Egyptians do not receive their share of this growth. However, poverty was exacerbated by social marginalization and rising inequality in the distribution of income and assets (Tsuchiya, 2016). Unemployment and underemployment among the educated youth (and especially females) were a sign of the inability to engage a majority of Egyptians in the creation and hence distribution of economic value.The state also lacked the institutional and political capacities to assume a meaningful redistributive role due to a long-​lasting legacy of dependency on external rents instead of taxes (Soliman, 2011). The hegemony of neoliberalism did not help much in this regard, with the exclusive emphasis on building state capacities in areas of private property and contract enforcement while undercutting the state role in the redistribution of income and wealth.

2011: A revolution without rupture Following the deposition of Mubarak in February 2011, Egypt went through what was supposed to be a transitional period to democratic rule. The Supreme Council of the Armed Forces managed the transition, often through some tension-​r idden cooperation with the most organized opposition groups, namely, the Muslim Brotherhood. Given the weakened capacity for repression, socioeconomic, political, and sectarian protest exploded. The revolution had the immediate (and predictable) negative impact on the economy. Macroeconomic indicators deteriorated significantly, capital flight intensified, and the country’s foreign reserves dwindled (Adly and Meddeb, 2020). Despite raging protests and a series of fairly free plebiscites in 2011 and 2012, no radical change happened in public policies, in state structures governing the economy, or in property rights (Bayat, 2017). The Council pushed back against the institutionalization of strikes, protest, or independent unionization. It sought the stabilization of private property through settling disputes with Mubarak-​time domestic and foreign investors. The Brotherhood, during their short reign (2012–​2013) followed suit (Adly, 2017). The goal was to restabilize the economy through securing inflows of foreign capital, aid, credit, and investment. The IMF negotiated with both governments, but neither was capable of introducing austerity measures due to political volatility and uncertainty (Joya, 2018). Eventually, the revolution did not bring about any meaningful change in the socioeconomic realm. On the one hand, those who exercised power after 2011 were generally conservative on these fronts. They subscribed to some variant of neoliberalism and accepted Egypt’s deep dependencies on the international and regional economies and wished not to disrupt earlier patterns of interaction. On the other hand, revolutionary groups had no vision for social or economic change. They did not establish any ideological or organizational linkages, not to speak of enduring alliances, with the local socioeconomic protests that overwhelmed the country after the revolution (Bayat, 2017). The electoral advances made by the Islamists soon redefined the polarization from one around the revolution into an Islamist/​non-​Islamist divide that ended up with the mass protests of June 30, 2013, calling for the deposing of the Brotherhood-​backed president Mohamed Morsi through a military takeover. The collapse of the post-​2011 political trajectory created a ripe context for a full authoritarian restitution. This time, the military was the key state actor that worked on the institutionalization of the new authoritarian regime. This was an unintended consequence of the 2011 173

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revolution itself, which managed to tear down the Mubarak regime and to disrupt its patronage and crony networks within the state and economy. The old ruling coalition died. The military was no longer a single powerful actor among others, including the police, the ruling party, and the big business cronies. This time, these others were relegated to junior partners to the one sovereign actor that emerged more powerful after the tumult that followed 2011 (Stacher, 2015). This shift had its deep political-​economic implications, not only domestically but also regionally and globally. Under the military-​backed regime of el-​Sisi, Egypt was reinserted into the global division of labor through foreign aid and debt (Adly, 2020). Regionally, the country’s dependencies on the GCC oil-​r ich countries, namely, the UAE and Saudi Arabia, were deepened. Inter-​governmental in-​kind and cash aid extended a lifeline to the Egyptian regime in critical years following the takeover in 2014 and 2015. Egypt received around 23 billion dollars during these two years, notwithstanding the financing of arms purchases by the Gulf patrons during the same time (Reuters, 2015; Colonna, 2018).Workers’ remittances picked up in importance, rendering continued access to GCC labor markets as important as ever, especially amid declining international oil prices. Domestically, repression was vital given the imposition of austerity measures, especially with the adoption of the IMF-​sponsored program in November 2016. According to Barayez: Rounds of fuel and food subsidy cuts, raising the prices of public services, and imposing consumption taxes were all made possible by employing the highly-​efficient repressive machine against larger social constituencies that have hardly been political, let alone oppositional to the regime. This implied that repression was not only being applied in many policy fields ranging from politics to economics. Barayez, 2019 These domestic changes were critical for the redefinition of Egypt’s position in the global economic order. It is not exaggerated to maintain that unlike the last decade under Mubarak and his neoliberal economic team, Egypt is being reinserted through external debt rather than foreign investment. It is an exact and full reversal of the earlier period (2004–​2009). Foreign debt had been stagnant under Mubarak with a declining ratio to GDP, whereas net FDI inflows soared to unparalleled levels in Egypt’s contemporary economic history. It has been the opposite since 2016. Repression is so crucial for keeping the cost of borrowing low and for securing the very access to foreign borrowing for that matter. Intensified austerity under the IMF auspices and increased foreign borrowing might give the impression of a deepening commitment to neoliberalism. This has however come hand in hand with an expanding role of the military civilian economy and an unprecedented dominance of some of the key economic sectors, state structures, and development strategies.This was dubbed as statist neoliberalism or military-​led capitalism, in which features of neoliberalism would coexist with features of statist policies, primarily in the guise of a huge and expanding military economy (Joya, 2017; Khalil and Dill, 2018). Undoubtedly, this could only be understood in conjunction with the reconfiguration of the ruling regime in the aftermath of the 2011 Revolution and the “popular coup” of July 2013.

Conclusion and section structure This introductory chapter has provided a condensed portrait of Egypt’s modern political economy. It has linked the country’s economic structure and socioeconomic development

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record with two key variables: power dynamics linking the state to the economy and Egypt’s position in the global division of labor. It also explored the elements of continuity and rupture in Egypt’s attempted socioeconomic modernization, often top-​down and authoritarian, since the early 19th century onward. Overall, Egypt’s long journey has promised much more than what was delivered. No radical redefinition of the country’s position in the global economic order took place. This was the cause and effect of the absence of any significant restructuring into higher value-​added goods and services. More recently, Egypt’s reintegration into the world political-​economic order has been reliant on rent and debt more than trade and investment. As much as this was a result of the country’s subordinated incorporation into the neoliberal globalized economy, it reinforced domestic nondevelopmental power configurations (see ­chapter 11 in this volume). This section on Egypt’s political economy consists of five chapters besides the introduction presented here. The chapters tackle aspects of the evolution of Egypt’s economy in modern times as part of a complex international and regional order while focusing on the social and economic development outcomes. Chapter 11 by Roberto Roccu examines the evolution of state–​business relations in Egypt under the aegis of neoliberalism. It offers a historic background to state–​economy relations within Egypt and how they have been intimately related to the country’s insertion into the regional and global economic and geopolitical orders. Picking up this thread, the following three chapters expand on Egypt’s intercourse with the broader regional and international orders. Chahir Zaki (Chapter 12) tackles foreign trade, with an eye on the reorganization of Egypt’s economy since infitah in 1974. Mohammed Mossallam (Chapter  13) shifts the focus from the movement of goods and services into that of capital, primarily in the form of FDI. He provides an account of a newly researched topic on the foreign investment regime, especially the dense web of investment agreements that Egyptian governments became entangled in since the 1970s. Labor–​capital exchange is the focus of the following chapter (14) by Ayman Zohry, who sheds light on workers’ remittances and their position in Egypt’s political economy. Zohry depicts how Egypt was inserted into the oil-​ dominated regional political economy through the exportation of semi-​and low-​skilled labor since the first oil shock of 1973 and how this has been related to developments in the country’s economy, society, and culture. The three chapters above deal with the movement of goods, people, and capital. The final chapter (15) by W. J. Dorman sheds light on land as a means of production but as an object of authoritative allocation. W. J. Dorman discusses from a historic perspective land management in modern Egypt from a political-​economy angle and addresses the implications it had on socioeconomic development.

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11 STATE–​BUSINESS RELATIONS IN NEOLIBERAL EGYPT The global political economy of subordinate integration Roberto Roccu

Introduction Transformations in state–​business relations in Egypt since the infitah reforms of the 1970s have received substantial attention in scholarly literature.This has not failed to note ebbs and flows in the role of private business in the Egyptian political economy, from junior partner of the army-​ dominated public sector in the 1980s and the 1990s to key decision-​maker in the 2000s to a renewed subordination in the wake of the 2011 uprisings.These relations are very well captured in the vast literature on crony capitalism in Egypt (Adly 2009; Chekir & Diwan 2014), which has correctly emphasised the extent to which success in the private sector appears to be strongly correlated with links to the regime and the military (Eibl & Malik 2016). While undoubtedly warranted, this attention to how the private business sector is simultaneously empowered by and subordinated to traditionally dominant forces within the regime risks downplaying the extent to which economic reforms adopted since infitah have significantly altered the structure of the Egyptian economy. This aspect is instead well captured by the literature discussing how processes of neoliberal restructuring have transformed the Egyptian economy (Mitchell 1999; Joya 2020). These economic reforms must also be located in a broader context, which considers how technological transformations commonly associated with globalisation have ‘demanded’ a specific restructuring of economies, especially but not exclusively in the Global South (Roccu & Talani 2019). By connecting these three bodies of research on crony capitalism, neoliberal restructuring and globalisation, this chapter suggests that a study of continuity and changes in state–​business relations that does not pay sufficient attention to economic reforms, and to the broader international and transnational processes within which these reforms occur, is bound to be limited in its scope. The nature and content of reforms are essential not only to make sense of the rise or fall of specific sectors and businesses, but also to ascertain how the state—​lest we forget: the first term in ‘state–​business relations’—​is itself transformed by the reforms it adopts.The broader context of globalisation is also crucial, as it enables us to locate transformations in state policy and state–​business relations within the international and transnational processes that shape them. 179

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This permits us to see both how crony capitalism is not entirely endogenous in its genesis and sources, and how some of its main beneficiaries are not necessarily located within Egypt. In light of this scope, this chapter makes three main claims. First, it identifies an underlying continuity with respect to the implications that the direction of policy change has for the state: over the past four decades and a half, economic reforms inspired by neoliberal principles have hollowed out the capacity of the Egyptian state to steer and direct the economy. Even under President Sisi, when undoubtedly there has been an attempt to recapture and redevelop this capacity, these efforts encounter significant policy constraints, as discussed in the final section of this chapter. At this stage, it is important to distinguish between state and regime.The former ‘is a (normally) more permanent structure of domination and coordination’ than the latter (Fishman 1990: 428), but it might well be possible that actions and policies aimed at consolidating a regime might weaken the state, advertently or inadvertently (Soliman 2011). Second, with reference to the business community, the chapter shows a compresence of transformation and continuity. The former refers specifically to which factions of Egyptian business have been empowered during different phases of the long (and ongoing) economic restructuring. These changes are however predicated on a position of economic and political subordination of private business not only to the regime but also to international and transnational forces, related, respectively, to Egypt’s subordinated insertion within an originally United States (US)-​led but currently shifting international political order, and to the subordinate integration of some of its economic sectors within value chains dominated by transnational corporations. Third, the chapter also identifies a very significant transformation in context, especially in the wake of the 2011 uprisings.This has to do with the much more prominent role that countries from the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) have taken throughout the Arab world, and especially in Egypt. This is visible in both the international (i.e., inter-​state) and the transnational channel, with the latter one showing the heightened centrality of Gulf investment to the functioning of the Egyptian economy (Hanieh 2018). As a result of this shift, not only is Egypt’s integration in the global economy increasingly articulated through the Gulf, creating another layer of subordination and dependency, but Gulf actors have also increased their scope for autonomous action within the region in general, and within Egypt have become crucial to determining which sections of the private sector are empowered or marginalised in the current conjuncture. In advancing this threefold argument, the chapter proceeds as follows. The first section reviews the trajectory of the Egyptian political economy over the past four decades, and how this has been interpreted by the crony capitalism literature, which primarily focuses on domestic dynamics. In line with the argument above regarding the importance of the global context, the second section outlines an approach to the political economy of reforms that is rooted in an understanding of globalisation as a structural process of qualitative transformation of the world economy, which must be understood in terms of pre-​existing international dynamics. Based on this approach, the third section re-​interprets evolutions in state–​business relations in Egypt since infitah as inserted within processes of subordinate integration in the global economy.

Neoliberal reforms and crony capitalism The historical trajectory of state–​business relations in republican Egypt can only be understood when related to the economic nationalist tendencies that had emerged in various guises during the colonial era (Vitalis 1995; EzzelArab 2002). It was also through an invocation to these that Nasser nationalised the Suez Canal and then nationalised the vast majority of foreign-​owned businesses in the wake of the conflict (Ikram 2006: 5).When it became apparent that the ‘extraversion’ (Bayart & Ellis 2000) of the indigenous business class, cultivated during decades of direct 180

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and indirect colonial rule, could not be reversed in a few years, and that in fact it predisposed its main components against state-​led development tout court, Nasser undertook another wave of nationalisations in 1960–​1961, this time targeting the local business class (Ikram 2006: 6–​8). It is during the 1960s that the state was at the very heart of Egypt’s productive structure, and that its indigenous business class was at its weakest. The catastrophic defeat in the 1967 war and Nasser’s death in 1970 galvanised wealthier sections of the Egyptian population, which built their argument for liberalisation also on the undeniable limitations of state-​led industrialisation (Hinnebusch 1993). It is within this socio-​economic context that we should see Sadat’s infitah. This provided a fresh opportunity for ‘redeveloping’ an Egyptian private sector, which to a significant extent—​in light of the overpowering position and the role of the state within the political economy—​was effectively ‘engineered’ by the regime, much like the stratum of public sector managers with a technical education that emerged in the 1960s (Hinnebusch 1985). As a result, this ‘new’ private sector, which often included families with a prominent position in the colonial economy, was constitutively subordinated to the dominant army-​led component within the Egyptian capitalist class. As a result, also the accrual of benefits, in the form of licences, investment opportunities and ultimately profits, was fundamentally dependent on cultivating good relations with the regime and the public sector. For this reason, Ayubi (1995: 352) presented the private sector emerging out of liberalising reforms throughout Arab republics as a ‘junior partner’ in the ruling coalition. This hierarchy within the ruling coalition went unchallenged with the passage from Sadat to Mubarak, and is visible in the rather inconsistent commitment to the liberalising principles of infitah. In this respect, the slow implementation of reforms and the recourse to compensatory measures were also dictated from below, with the 1977 bread riots warning against sweeping and fast-​paced reforms (Seddon 1990). In the wake of the 1987 fiscal crisis, however, and especially since the 1991 Stand-​By Arrangement with the International Monetary Fund (IMF), reforms became increasingly unavoidable, and a more systematic process of structural adjustment began, leaving behind the ‘dilatory reforms’ of the 1980s (Richards 1991).This is not to imply that after this moment of ‘reckoning’ (Amin 1995:  16) reforms proceeded unopposed. However, from here onwards one can more clearly see how economic policies began to be more consistently informed by the Washington Consensus principles (Williamson 1989). This neoliberal turn had also implications for state–​business relations. Privatisations and the allocation of desert land on the one hand, and the various dimensions of liberalisation on the other hand, created conditions for the strengthening and diversification of the business interests of the infitah bourgeoisie (Mitchell 2002: 282–​287), and for the emergence of a second wave of private business groups (Roll 2010). Two more tendencies in state–​business relations are visible during the 1990s and the 2000s. The first is concerned with the much stronger presence of transnational capital (often in joint ventures with local partners because of legal restrictions), usually from the US, European or Gulf-​based corporations (Springborg 1987; Hanieh 2011). The second is related to the exit of prominent figures from the military with a view to exploit their political connections towards building a business empire as private citizens (Abul-​Magd 2017; Sayigh 2019). This is another prominent mechanism highlighted in the literature on cronyism in Egypt, although the most egregious and most consequential channel remained the presidential one. While most of them had developed a successful career in transnational corporations, Gamal Mubarak’s associates were also among the greatest beneficiaries of the second wave of privatisations in the late 1990s and early 2000s, which put Egypt in fourth place among the countries with the highest privatisation receipts to gross domestic product (GDP) ratio, exactly in the same years when Central and Eastern European countries are subjected to infamous shock therapy reforms (International Monetary Fund [IMF] 1998: 52). 181

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One of the political consequences of this economic rise was that this group of people around the president’s son took control not only of key sectors of Egypt’s productive economy (Ahmed Ezz in steel, for instance), but also of the ruling National Democratic Party, thus becoming key decision-​makers in the ‘businessmen cabinet’ led by Ahmed Nazif in the 2004–​2010 period (Soliman 2011). In policy terms, this also translated into a dramatic acceleration of economic reforms along a neoliberal path pursued with clearly predatory purposes. For the first time since infitah, the political relevance of a section of the Egyptian business class was perceived as threatening the consolidated hierarchy within the ruling coalition. This produced a struggle between the presidential palace, amassing ever greater wealth built on an ever thinner and flimsier social base of support, and the army, still with strong connections to its own section of the business community, an important base in the productive economy, and with a much clearer grip on the pulse of Egyptian society, but marginalised and threatened by the latest bout of reforms. While primarily driven by dynamics of popular revolt from below, the contingent outcome of the 2011 uprisings should also be seen in light of these intra-​elite tensions. Indeed, these also help us make sense of the post-​Mubarak era. Four trends have characterised this decade. First, the army has assumed a renewed, and indeed possibly unprecedented, role as an economic actor in the Egyptian economy, most notably as partner for transnational corporations with business interests in Egypt (Springborg 2011; Marshall & Stacher 2013). Second, and as a corollary to this trend, civilian components of the ruling coalition, including the private sector, have been relegated again to a subordinate position (Adly 2019). Third, the removal of the presidential component from the business class entails much less autonomy for the regime as a whole from the army, which in turn means that the ‘surviving’ business class is now much more directly subordinated to the army than the regime itself. Fourth, there is a reorientation towards the Gulf, which is partly related to the West’s disengagement and partly related to the greater activism of Gulf countries in the wake of the uprisings. All this is done within the context of a continued commitment to the key tenets of neoliberalism, especially visible in the rounds of the United Arab Emirates (UAE)-​brokered and IMF-​financed austerity implemented under Sisi (Ismail 2016). In light of this constant interpenetration between politics and economy, academic literature finds it difficult to approach the effect of reforms from a purely political or a purely economic perspective. As a result, most accounts develop and present a ‘political economy of reforms’. In the most influential tradition, this takes the form of a critique of how reforms have been conducted in Egypt that revolves around one or more of the following concepts: authoritarianism (Kienle 2001), rent (Soliman 2011) and crony capitalism (Adly 2009; Chekir & Diwan 2014). In the most accomplished accounts, the three are integrated together to provide a portrayal of the domestic dynamics related to the adoption and implementation of a range of economic reforms. This integrated approach typically focuses on how the centralisation of power typical of authoritarian regimes skews the incentive structure in ways that encourage and reward rent-​seeking behaviour not only in the political but also in the economic sphere (Cammett et al. 2015). Once these authoritarian regimes are forced to reform because of the increasing inefficiency and ineffectiveness of their economic model, this results in an economic regime dominated by companies and conglomerates that are formally private, but whose success is fundamentally dependent on political connections to major actors within the authoritarian political order (Chekir & Diwan 2014). Such an account sheds considerable light on the developments outlined above, including the creation and inherent subordination of the infitah businessmen in the 1970s to the army–​ regime nexus, the migration from the army to the private sector during the 1990s and the 182

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rise of ‘second-​wave’ businessmen and their strong links with the president’s son in the 2000s. These trends point towards an organisation of state–​business relations along patron–​client lines throughout the ongoing path towards an ‘open economic order’ (Malik & Awadallah 2013). Within this context, cronyism is ‘the central mechanism that resolved the contradictions created by the gradual liberalization of the region’s economies in environments where political power remained highly autocratic’ (Chekir & Diwan 2014: 2). Empirical estimates carried out on a sectoral basis additionally suggest that cronyism not only has a perverse effect on the distributional aspect of economic reforms (with benefits concentrated in the cronies’ hands, and costs diffused outwards) (Eibl 2017), but also harms aggregate economic performance and skews policymaking in favour of groups with easier access to the halls of power (Eibl & Malik 2016). One of the most important consequences of crony capitalism in Egypt, and possibly the most relevant from the perspective of this chapter, is that the Egyptian private business community is very much divided between large and very large companies on the one hand, usually but not exclusively associated with cronies and/​or transnational corporations, and very small and micro–​enterprises on the other hand, which very often cater primarily to subsistence needs. The absence of a healthy small and medium enterprise (SME) sector has been analysed in the literature under the rubric of the ‘missing middle’ (Council on Foreign Relations 2017, Adly 2020). Indeed, the weakness of SMEs in Egypt is a problem that has not only economic and developmental implications but also political and social ones. Hence, an attention to the peculiarities of undertaking economic reforms in an authoritarian setting in which rent-​seeking is rife enables the literature on crony capitalism to shed considerable light on the domestic politics dynamics that have produced the specific combination of state–​business relations visible in Egypt today. Insofar as it sees reforms primarily through the ability of the regime to manipulate them, this tradition develops an account that emphasises continuity, especially in the distribution of politico-​economic power, over change. As a result, the very real transformations experienced by the Egyptian economy since infitah receive less attention. To grasp their magnitude and relevance for state–​business relations, we must rely on an alternative approach that centres on structural economic change and the international and transnational processes that drive it.

Recovering the ‘global’ in the political economy of reforms The alternative approach informing the analysis that follows in the next section of this chapter sees globalisation as a structural process that has qualitatively transformed the world economy in ways that go beyond mere increases in quantitative indicators such as trade/​GDP ratios or foreign direct investment (FDI) flows (Roccu & Talani 2019). Two elements are central to this qualitative transformation. First, technological innovations, ranging from container shipping to semi-​conductors, from just-​in-​time production to the ICT revolution, have increasingly shaped on a global scale the environment in which political and economic actors make their choices. Such an understanding is in some respect not far from the classical Marxian argument according to which developments in productive forces demand at the very least adaptations in relations of production, which in turn shape the further development of productive forces. Hence, the diffusion of globalisation as a structural transformation in how capitalism works is crucially dependent on the adoption and implementation of economic policies that enable such transformations to reverberate across the world economy. In the context of highly indebted countries in the periphery of the global economy, these policies have usually taken the form of structural adjustment and other associated neoliberal reforms, more often than not promoted by international financial institutions. Second, this very interaction of technological transformations 183

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and policy shifts leads to the second distinctive element of globalisation, that is, a hitherto unseen transnationalisation of both production and finance, best embodied, respectively, in the rise of global value chains (GVCs) and financialisation. Thus, what we see is ‘not merely the geographical extension of economic activity across national boundaries, but also –​and more importantly  –​the functional integration of such internationally dispersed activities’ (Dicken 1998: 5). Two further moves are necessary to fully outline the constraints within which policymaking and state–​business relations in a specific country are located. First, the rise and diffusion of transnational dynamics must be put in relation with pre-​existing and persistent international processes, understood here chiefly in terms of interstate relations. In the Egyptian context, as discussed in the next section, since the 1978 Camp David Accords this has, for instance, meant integration within the US-​led international political order, with all the benefits and costs deriving from this affiliation. Crucially, this means that at some times the dynamics of transnationalisation accelerate and at other times they slow down as a result of the interaction and potential conflict with the international political order. For instance, on the one hand, Egypt’s positioning in the latter might at times have meant forsaking the possibility of inward investments coming from Russian or Chinese companies. On the other hand, its central position within the US strategy for the Middle East has historically granted Egyptian governments more leeway in deferring the implementation of economic reforms included in IMF loans without losing access to the funds attached to them, although this currently appears to be changing, leading to rather unorthodox promoters of IMF-​sponsored reforms, most notably in the form of Germany and the UAE. These are but two examples of how international and transnational dynamics interact with one another, without succumbing to either a state-​centric or a ‘capitalocentric’ (Gibson-​Graham 2006) logic. Second, while there may well be instances in which individual capitalists might agree (from dividing up markets to establishing a cartel), capitalists also compete for investment opportunities, for increasing their market share via more innovation or lower costs, and ultimately for profits. Here, Marx’s analogy that sees capitalists as ‘hostile brothers’ perfectly encapsulates the dynamics of cooperation and competition driving the capitalist world economy and provides a helpful antidote against conspiratorial views of capitalist agency: individual capitalists have a shared interest in preserving an economic order that systematically rewards them more than the actual producers, but capitalists also compete with one another, at times in ways that might even jeopardise the very economic order that benefits them, much like the hostility between siblings can lead to the disintegration of a family. Capitalists compete in many ways within sectors (i.e., different textile companies), across sectors (manufacturing vs. finance being one of the defining battlefields of our era) and along national lines (here with the international–​ transnational dynamics outlined above leading to some degree of alignment during the neoliberal era, but now apparently fragmenting into blocs). Competition does not disappear within the highly hierarchical organisation of the political economy typical of the Arab region that Achcar (2013: 54–​60) calls ‘politically determined capitalism’. Here, the main difference relates to the routes through which this competition manifests itself, which are more directly concerned with proximity to political power. As already mentioned, while technological transformations are a necessary premise for globalisation, its consolidation, extension and deepening would not have occurred as it did, especially in the Global South, without neoliberalism as its policy arm. Insofar as this is organised around a set of policies, including privatisation, deregulation, marketisation, liberalisation of trade, interest rates and foreign direct investment, and state-​enforced regressive redistribution on the one hand and redefinition of private property rights on the other hand, neoliberalism relies 184

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heavily on state power to remove barriers to market creation and capital circulation. Somewhat paradoxically, however, these policies may also weaken the state’s ability to affect macroeconomic and distributive dynamics, with major implications for state–​business relations. Furthermore, if globalisation empowers capital owners, and if the largest capital owners are located across the transatlantic and in the Gulf, then neoliberal policies shape the integration of the reforming economy in a way that systematically subordinates it to the imperatives of transnational capital. This need not mean that global economic integration does not create jobs in the reforming economy, or does not provide opportunities for ascent within global wealth chains to local business owners. All of this happens, even in Egypt, but in a way that is constitutively geared towards, and subordinated to, the needs of the globally dominant faction of transnational capital. In many ways, this is a reiteration, taking place in the age of globalisation, global value chains and financialisation, of the dynamics of dependent development discussed in the dependency tradition (Cardoso & Faletto 1979; Evans 1979), only arguably with a heightened element of dependency and less promising developmental prospects. Hence, economic integration does not dismantle but rather reconfigures relations of hierarchy and subordination. In the specific case of Egypt, economic integration reinforced the patterns of political subordination outlined above in ways that may only be reconstructed with reference to empirical developments in the political economy of Egypt during the long era of neoliberal restructuring.

State–​business relations under conditions of subordinate integration Transformations in the political economy of Egypt since the revitalisation of the private sector during infitah are better examined through an approach that weaves together policies, people (and in our case most notably state–​business relations) and structures in both its international and transnational components. On these grounds one can advance three main claims. First, the process of economic reforms that stretches over 40 years of modern Egyptian history has had one constant: the hollowing out of the economic and ‘infrastructural’ power of the state (Mann 1984). Second, the same reforms have also produced dramatic reversals in relations within the Egyptian business community, but these reversals have been accompanied by renewed subordination of private business, although to different ‘masters’: first the state, then the dominant faction of transnational capital, and currently an amalgam of Gulf capital and the army. Third, and related, one of the most remarkable shifts of the post-​uprisings period is the dramatic increase in the relevance of the regional scale, and more specifically of Gulf actors, in determining which sections of the Egyptian business class are to be favoured and which ones are to be marginalised within Egypt’s politico-​economic order, thus shaping Egypt’s continuing integration in the global economy and the distribution of the benefits and costs stemming from it (Hanieh 2018). The three sub-​sections that follow focus on each of these claims, exploring connections between them and the implications for state–​business relations more specifically.

Hollowing out of state power Given our focus on state–​business relations, it makes sense for us to start from the first term and look at what has happened to the state.This is essential to show that in the Egyptian experience neoliberal reforms and crony capitalism are not in opposition to one another, but are rather mutually reinforcing components of the same process. It may be inappropriate to define infitah reforms as neoliberal, but there is little doubt that they contained an embryo developed in much greater breadth and depth under the aegis of the IMF, especially in the wake of the late 1980s fiscal crisis and the 1991 Economic Reform 185

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and Structural Adjustment Program. The neoliberal turn is clearly visible between this year, when the privatisation law was enacted (Law 203/​1991), and the following year, when two consecutive pieces of legislation, respectively, relaunched the stock exchange (Law 95/​1992) and created the conditions for a ‘counter-​revolution’ in the countryside in favour of large landowners through a new tenancy law (Law 96/​1992) (Saad 2002). By the end of the decade, the Egyptian government was widely portrayed as a success story of structural adjustment (The Economist 1999). A combination of debt forgiveness from Paris Club creditors, fiscal restraint and extensive privatisations put state finances back on track, whereas a range of liberalisations in capital movements, interest rates and tariff barriers were also implemented. After a slowdown in reforms in the wake of the East Asian financial crisis, a change in the balance of power within the regime produced a significant acceleration and deepening of reforms, with a new wave of privatisations now affecting traditionally off-​limits sectors, such as oil refineries, cement and banks. A new central bank law and three World Bank-​sponsored financial sector reform packages in turn reshaped the financial sector, whereas a set of incremental measures over the 1990s and the 2000s broadened the tax base through a General Sales Tax, reduced corporate taxation and established tax holidays for companies operating in the Special Economic Zones. Deregulation of labour markets, signalled especially by the 2003 introduction of temporary contracts, completed a picture that sees the Egyptian economy advancing considerably on the path expected by the Washington Consensus in the long run-​up to the 2011 uprisings. Neoliberal restructuring has not only continued but also intensified after the uprisings, most notably in the phasing out of fuel subsidies, and in the 2017 approval of a new investment law. Now, it is undoubted that this has been a process that, especially in its earlier phases, encountered very strong opposition from within the ruling coalition, in many respects still shaped by Nasser’s legacy of state capitalism, which gave to an alliance between the army’s upper echelons and a stratum of state-​engineered public sector managers control over the industrialisation strategy, and hence over a substantial share of the Egyptian economy. It was only to be expected that these factions would mobilise towards reversing or at the very least slowing down reforms expected to erode their power and status. One of the important features of the Nasserist state that Sadat inherited was its ability to deploy the relative autonomy it enjoyed from the ruling coalition of the time and rooted in substantial levels of popular support (Salem 2018). It is not coincidental that Sadat’s October paper, which sets out the infitah agenda, comes one year after the perceived triumph in the 1973 October war, which gave Sadat a new lease of legitimacy (‘hero of the crossing’) deployed towards fundamentally re-​orienting the Egyptian economy. This in fact led to the manufacturing of a new private sector, which was to benefit from the reforms through the awarding of construction contracts, import licenses for consumer products that were unavailable under Nasser and other investment opportunities (Waterbury 1985; Ayubi 1995). This is an integral part of the rise—​and in some cases the return—​of major business dynasties, which had taken refuge either abroad or in the retail sector during Nasser’s time (Zaalouk 1989), and that still play an important role in the commanding heights of the Egyptian economy. On a more general level, four decades of reforms, no matter how piecemeal, fundamentally altered what the Egyptian state could and could not do in the economy. State power had been hollowed out economically in two senses. On one hand, as reforms substantially narrowed down the ‘policy space’ (UNCTAD 2008), the state had fewer instruments available to affect the macroeconomic performance of the economy, although the ebbs and flows in oil prices, remittances and tourism flows provided in some junctures important if unreliable sources of rent (Soliman 2011: 38–​52). On the other hand, even when rent flows improved, the reforms implemented meant that the redistributive capabilities of the state were severely hampered, 186

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thus limiting its ability to serve as a buffer for popular and middle classes during downturns. A  major consequence of this, and one that would deflagrate in the mass protests leading to Mubarak’s overthrow, was that the regime had become unable to generate consent in society, thus abdicating to the hegemonic function that state apparatuses have historically played in late developing contexts, first highlighted by Gramsci (1971:  104–​106) in his considerations on ‘the function of Piedmont’, where a regional state acted as a surrogate for a weak bourgeoisie in driving the process of state formation and economic modernisation in Italy (Roccu 2017).

Transformation and subordination in the business community If state and regime cannot fulfil a hegemonic function anymore, then one might imagine that social forces such as business groups might have matured to the point of taking their place. In the Egyptian case, however, as persuasively argued in the dominant political economy literature, most business groups fall within the rubric of ‘crony capitalists’. This does not exonerate us from the imperative of assessing how each of these groups interfaced differently with the regime, with Egyptian society, and with the global political economy. Indeed, locating the socio-​ economic and political effects of the reforms undertaken over the past three decades within the international and transnational processes and forces shaping the broader context of reforms is necessary because economic reforms in Egypt have taken place amidst significant shifts both in interstate relations and in transnational processes that have integrated sectors of the Egyptian economy, and hence sections of its society, into global circuits of accumulation. When it comes to interstate relations, the major shift in Egypt’s geostrategic position took place a few years after infitah, with the 1978 Camp David Accords making Egypt the first Arab country to recognise Israel, and taking it away from its historical leadership in the Non-​ Aligned Movement towards a much clearer (subordinated) insertion in the Western camp. This positioning has remained a linchpin of Egyptian foreign policy, if with occasional room for agreements with Russia (Radio Free Europe 2017), which however have never really threatened Egypt’s subordinated alignment to the United States and its imperatives in the region. This global repositioning also has clear regional correlates explored in a moment. A look at processes of economic transnationalisation shows that Egypt takes on a subordinate position not only in interstate relations, but also in the supposedly flattening processes of economic integration associated with globalisation and neoliberal reform. In the so-​called new international division of labour, the most integrated sectors of the Egyptian economy are usually related to natural resource extraction and labour-​intensive and/​or low value-​added production, such as textiles and agriculture.1 If this could have been predicted in light of Egypt’s relative labour abundance, what is most troubling is that integration tends to be located at the lower end of the relevant value chains, and because of the hollowing out of the state’s economic capabilities discussed above, it also has very limited scope for economic upgrading. Additionally, and exacerbating this same situation, part of Egypt’s unskilled and semi-​skilled labour force is inserted at the lower end of extraction and production processes in the oil-​r ich Gulf economies, contributing to generating profits in their host countries in a way entirely incommensurate with the remittances that get to Egypt. Furthermore, in the Egyptian case, the vast majority of FDI is concentrated in two sectors: oil and energy, and construction and real estate (Diab 2017). Neither of these has a particularly strong employment effect, nor has any significant benefits in terms of technological transfer, and indeed recent research has demonstrated that ‘the FDI incentives scheme that Egypt chose to adopt since the open door policy in 1974 did not have a significant effect on the volume of FDI inflows […] and placed budgetary burdens on the Egyptian tax-​payers’ (Massoud 2017: 2). Disregarding these findings, the 2017 investment law 187

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goes even further in guaranteeing full profit and income repatriation for both foreign companies and employees. What are the implications of these shifts for state–​business relations more specifically? The hollowing out of the state discussed above means that the regime’s ability to unilaterally manufacture a pliant business community, and dominate relations with it, has declined. This however does not necessarily result in increased independence for the business community. In this respect, transformations over the four decades and a half since the start of infitah are better understood as an evolving set of relations that are at the same time still fundamentally characterised by a position of subordination, albeit to different actors. The subordinate nature of the economic integration in the global capitalist economy sketched out above and the political integration into a US-​led international political order mean that these two processes shape the conditions within which various sections of the Egyptian business community make their choices. This is not to deny an important dimension of agency, which has to do with the ability of different factions of the Egyptian capitalist class to present themselves as the most credible interlocutor for the dominant international and transnational forces on both a regional and a global scale. Empirically, this pattern where transformations in the business community produce renewed subordination could be briefly sketched out as follows. During the 1970s–​1990s, the state capitalist class organised around the army and the public sector cadres was still the key interlocutor, even after the emergence of a private business class. This remained clearly subordinated to the regime and the army-​led business faction internally, while the strategic rent derived from Camp David Accords means that the hierarchies of international political order further reinforced this internal subordination. The state–​regime–​army nexus during this phase helps explain the stop-​start pace of reforms, linked to both internal opposition related to the legacies of state-​led developmentalism and the residual, if altogether instrumental and instrumentalised, sensibility to popular concerns that has been central to the army’s success in Egypt. Additionally, as processes of transnational economic integration were still limited and largely mediated through the state, the interlocking of international and local hierarchies also contributes to explaining why economic reforms during this phase are tightly controlled and appeared to be driven more by necessity and external pressures than by conviction in the prospective benefits of integration. The greater relevance of transnational integrative dynamics in the wake of the privatisations and liberalisations of the 1990s and the emergence of a new private sector faction, if still hybrid insofar as it coalesced around the president’s son, are central to understanding state–​business relations in the 2000s. The economic and political rise of Gamal Mubarak’s associates is well captured and abundantly discussed in existing literature (Collombier 2006; Soliman 2011) and helps us make sense of the more enthusiastic embrace of the tenets of neoliberalism, and the much faster pace at which reforms were implemented in 2003–​2008 (Roccu 2013). Less attention has been devoted to the effect of transnational dynamics of economic integration, which gradually strained the regime–​infitah business class relation: the further the economy opened up, the more difficult the control of business groups benefitting from it had become. To make but one example, the transregional reach of the Sawiris business conglomerate, spanning telecoms network operators across Africa and beyond, the traditional construction business now also acting transnationally, especially in tourism development, and much more, is essential to make sense of the political stance taken by the family against the Mubarak regime early on during the 2011 uprisings. Transnational integration has allowed an exit option, exerted in the wake of the 2013 coup, and resulting in a further wave of investments including also the majority ownership of a Premier League football club. This decade thus witnesses the maturation of two preconditions for the 2011 uprisings. First, the reduced reliance of compensatory measures produced a dramatic 188

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increase in both real and perceived inequality, which in turn resulted in much higher levels of popular discontent. Second, the rise of businessmen-​turned-​politicians around Gamal Mubarak on the one hand and the exit option that global economic integration provides to other business groups on the other hand fundamentally fractured the post-​infitah power bloc. In the wake of the uprisings, the army has been able to reassert itself as the main credible partner for both transnational capital and Egypt’s large business groups, despite the limited developmental impact that FDI has had because of its concentration in oil, gas and the construction sector. This point is highlighted by much literature focusing on post-​Mubarak Egypt, and is central to understanding why the Muslim Brotherhood was never really given a chance neither by international interlocutors, with the partial exception of the largely powerless European Union’s high representative, nor by transnational actors, as demonstrated by plummeting FDI inflows despite an increase in Qatar’s and Turkey’s investment and assistance. As the yearning for political and economic stability reunites international and transnational actors, and as the state’s economic capacity is weakened further in the wake of new reform packages, state–​business relations in the current conjuncture see the army effectively capturing state and regime, and subordinating private capital even more than in the past, sometimes also through the reintegration of some of Gamal’s old associates, such as Ahmed Ezz (Agaiby 2018). Signalling the endpoint of a transformation spanning half a century, the army is now the main domestic agent of transnationalisation in Egypt’s economy.

The rise of the Gulf Especially this final transformation within the Egyptian business community, and in its relation with the state and the regime, can only be understood within a moving global constellation. In other words, over the past decade the context has dramatically shifted too. In the wake of the global financial crisis, Obama’s pivot to Asia has largely been read as a reduction in the United States’ willingness to maintain its high level of involvement in the region (Hudson 2013). As a result of these changes, the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) countries have stepped into the vacuum (Colombo 2012). In addition to these global coordinates, to understand the implications of the rise of the Arab Gulf we must also consider the peculiarities of state formation in GCC countries, where through a combination of factors including oil wealth (Jones 2010; Hertog 2011), merchant capital (Crystal 1990), and migration (Khalaf et al. 2015), state–​society relations arguably get closest to the fusion of political and economic power than in any other wealthy country. In the case of Egypt, the influence on the part of GCC countries in the post-​uprisings era has presented itself in highly contradictory and even conflictual forms. Already during the January 2011 protests, Qatar took on a prominent role, first through the extensive Al Jazeera coverage of the demonstrations, eventually leading to a live channel (Mubasher Masr) devoted to following developments in Egypt, and then through financial support especially after Morsi’s election in June 2012. Grants and soft loans exceeding $8 billion in value were extended during this period (Abi-​Habib & Abdellatif 2013), followed by business operations in ailing sectors, most prominently with the Qatar National Bank acquisition of a 77% stake in National Société Générale Bank (UNCTAD 2014: 9). In the wake of Morsi’s overthrow, it was Saudi Arabia, the UAE and Kuwait that took over as patrons of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces first and then of Sisi’s regime. By the end of 2013, the three countries had provided assistance of a total of about $17 billion (Zaazaa 2013). Part of this assistance, channelled to the Central Bank of Egypt, enabled an early return of the $2 billion lent by Qatar (Reuters 2013), thus signalling the conflictual nature of this transition on the regional scale. 189

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One of the arguments that is often made to account for the appeal of Arab Gulf assistance vis-​à-​vis traditional donors, beyond the sheer scale of support, has to do with the lack of policy conditionality attached to these grants and loans. However, such a view is partial at best for two reasons. On one hand, it has now been well established that the latest IMF-​backed austerity programme has been brokered not as much by the United States, but rather by an unorthodox coalition led by Germany and the UAE (Mada Masr 2013; Ismail 2016; Roll 2020). On the other hand, while it may be true that no policy conditionality was attached to Gulf assistance, conditionality does not only come in the form of policy imperatives, and GCC money might influence decisions of the Egyptian government in other ways. One of this is, for instance, Egypt’s participation in the war in Yemen. From a political economy perspective, however, the most interesting case relates to one sector in which the wealth imbalance between Egypt and the Gulf is at least partly compensated by a resource imbalance, as the Nile basin provides in abundance that very water that is so scarce in the Arabian Peninsula. The long-​standing Toshka reclamation project provides a helpful illustration, insofar as transfers in land allocation over the past few years mean that two Gulf-​based conglomerates—​Al Rajhi from Saudi Arabia and Al Dahra from the UAE—​have now the largest land allocation, accounting for nearly 50% of the 405,000 feddans targeted for reclamation (Arafat & El Nour 2019), in partnership with military-​controlled agencies (Barayez 2016). In addition to this, irrespective of the benefits generated, the vast majority of agricultural sub-​sectors, from dairy to poultry to processing to supermarket chains, are dominated by Saudi, Emirati and Kuwaiti corporations (Henderson 2019). In summary, while undoubtedly welcome from the perspective of an embattled regime, the early support on the part of GCC petro-​monarchies has resulted in a much increased penetration of Egyptian markets by Gulf capital, and especially so in those sectors where Egypt has the potential of being internationally competitive. As a result, in addition to subordination related to the process of transnational economic integration, shifts within the international political order emboldening regional actors have contributed to the emergence of two layers of interstate subordination: the traditional one to Western powers and the more recent one to GCC states, and especially to Saudi Arabia and the UAE.

Conclusion If the ‘pivot to Asia’ was in many ways more rhetorical than real with reference to the Middle East, it is undeniable that the policy stance taken by the Trump administration further emboldened Arab Gulf states, and especially Saudi Arabia. For Egypt this has effectively meant the sanctioning of two layers of subordination within the international political order: towards the United States globally and towards Saudi and Emirati imperatives regionally. Transformations on both scales are yet to fully consolidate, and any analysis of their prospects will need to factor in the ongoing dynamics of transnational economic integration, which appear to be experiencing an eastward shift, with China’s belt-​and-​road initiative, neglected here, presenting an arguably unprecedented experiment of state-​led transnational economic integration with the potential of also restructuring the international political order (Griffiths 2019). Within this changing context, state–​business relations in Egypt have themselves changed, but in a way that reiterates and entrenches the subordination of large Egyptian capital. This chapter has outlined the dynamics of transformation within the local business community, from the infitah bourgeoisie under Sadat to the outward-​ oriented faction around Gamal Mubarak to the return of military forces as ‘owners of the republic’ (Sayigh 2019). Each of these components, if in different ways, have been correctly characterised as crony, and each of them 190

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is still located within political and economic relations of subordination best characterised in terms of dependent development, but one in which benefits are captured by a small minority in ways that lend support to the crony capitalist thesis, while simultaneously also highlighting their transnational and international components. Neither ebbs and flows in state–​business relations nor the popular uprisings of 2011 have altered the economic policy orientation of successive regimes. Here, the pursuit of neoliberal reforms has continued and intensified, and has not failed to produce its ‘typical’ outcomes, in the form of greater inequality and of weakening of the intermediate sectors, be they economic in the form of SMEs or social in the form of the middle class. Furthermore, the resulting hollowing out of the state’s economic capacity means not only that the gains of integration are not shared, and hence the socio-​economic sources of discontent underpinning the 2011 uprisings have not been addressed in any significant way, but also that the drivers of regime legitimacy, in the form of economic performance given the absence of political freedoms, are fundamentally outsourced. As a result, much more than in the past, international economic and political support on one hand and sheer repression on the other hand have become the main tools through which a fragile social, political and economic order is reproduced.

Note 1 See the Observatory of Economic Complexity: https://​oec.world/​en/​profile/​country/​egy/​.

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Roberto Roccu Colombo, S. (2012). ‘The GCC and the Arab Spring:  A Tale of Double Standards’, The International Spectator, 47(4): 110–​126. Council on Foreign Relations (2017). ‘Financing Egypt’s “Missing Middle” ’, 16 August, available at: www. cfr.org/​blog/​financing-​egypts-​missing-​middle. Crystal, J. (1990). Oil and Politics in the Gulf: Rulers and Merchants in Kuwait and Qatar. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Diab, O. (2017). ‘FDI Isn’t Enough for Egypt’, Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy, 13 March, available at: https://​timep.org/​commentary/​analysis/​fdi-​isnt-​enough-​for-​egypt/​. Dicken, P. (1998). Global Shift: Transforming the World Economy, 3th edn. London: Sage. Eibl, F. (2017). ‘The Political Economy of Energy Subsidies in North Africa: The Untold Story’, OIES Paper SP38. Oxford: Oxford Institute of Energy Studies. Eibl, F. & Malik, A. (2016). ‘The Politics of Partial Liberalization: Cronyism and Non-​Tariff Protection in Mubarak’s Egypt’, CSAE Working Paper WPS/​2016/​27, Oxford: Centre for the Study of African Economies. Evans, P. (1979). Dependent Development:  The Alliance of Multinational, State, and Local Capital in Brazil . Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. EzzelArab, A.A. (2002). European Control and Egypt’s Traditional Elites:  A Case Study in Elite Economic Nationalism. Lewinston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Fishman, R. (1990). ‘Rethinking State and Regime: Southern Europe’s Transition to Democracy’, World Politics, 42(3): 422–​440. Gibson-​Graham, K.J. (2006). A Postcapitalist Politics. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from the Prison Notebooks, ed. and transl. by Q. Hoare & G. Nowell-​Smith. London: Lawrence & Wishart. Griffiths, R. (2019). The New Silk Road: Challenge and Response. Leiden: HIPE Publications. Hanieh, A. (2011). Capitalism and Class in the Gulf Arab States. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Hanieh, A. (2018). Money, Markets, and Monarchies: The Gulf Cooperation Council and the Political Economy of the Contemporary Middle East. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Henderson, C. (2019). ‘Gulf Capital and Egypt’s Corporate Food System: A Region in the Third Food Regime’, Review of African Political Economy, DOI: 10.1080/​03056244.2018.1552583. Hertog, S. (2011). Princes, Brokers, and Bureaucrats:  Oil and the State in Saudi Arabia. Ithaca, NY:  Cornell University Press. Hinnebusch, R. (1993).‘The Politics of Economic Reform in Egypt’, Third World Quarterly, 14(1): 159–​171. Hudson, M. (2013). ‘Geopolitical Shifts: Asia Rising, America Declining in the Middle East?’, Contemporary Arab Affairs, 6(3): 458–​466. Ikram, K. (2006). The Egyptian Economy, 1952–​2000: Performance, Policies, Issues. London: Routledge. IMF (1998). ‘Egypt Beyond Stabilization: Towards a Dynamic Market Economy’, IMF Occasional Paper, 163. Washington, DC: International Monetary Fund. Ismail, E.A. (2016). ‘Masadir rasmiyat:  Al-​imarat mawlat ziadat hissat misr fi sunduqi al-​naqd’ [Official sources:  UAE funded Egypt’s increase in its IMF share], Shorouk News, 28 July, available at:  www. shorouknews.com/​news/​view.aspx?cdate=28072016&id=0fa83fda-​894c-​4404-​843f-​b368ab3889a7. Jones,T.C. (2010). Desert Kingdom: How Oil and Water Forged Modern Saudi Arabia. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Joya, A. (2020). The Roots of Revolt: A Political Economy of Egypt from Nasser to Mubarak. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Khalaf, A., AlShehabi, O. & Hanieh, A. (eds.) (2015). Transit States: Labour, Migration and Citizenship in the Gulf. London: Pluto Press. Kienle, E. (2001). A Grand Delusion: Democracy and Economic Reform in Egypt. London: I.B. Tauris. Mada Masr (2013). ‘UAE Minister Asks IMF, World Bank to Help Egypt’, Mada Masr, 10 October, available at:  https://​madamasr.com/​en/​2013/​10/​10/​news/​u/​uae-​minister-​asks-​imf-​world-​bank-​to-​help-​ egypt/​. Malik, A. & Awadallah, B. (2013). ‘The Economics of the Arab Spring’, World Development, 45: 296–​313. Mann, M. (1984). ‘The Autonomous Power of the State: Its Origins, Mechanisms and Results’, European Journal of Sociology, 25(2): 185–​213. Marshall, S. & Stacher, J. (2012). ‘Egypt’s Generals and Transnational Capital’, Middle East Report, 42(262), Spring, available at: https://​merip.org/​2012/​03/​egypts-​generals-​and-​transnational-​capital/​. Massoud, N. (2017). ‘Assessment of FDI Incentives in Egypt’, Economic Research Forum Working Paper Series, WP336. Cairo: Economic Research Forum.

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State–business relations Mitchell, T. (1999). ‘Dreamland: The Neoliberalism of Your Desires’, Middle East Report, 210: 28–​33. Mitchell, T. (2002). Rule of Experts: Egypt, Techno-​Politics, Modernity. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Radio Free Europe (2017). ‘Putin, Egyptian Leader Sign “Strategic” Partnership Treaty’, 17 October, available at:  www.rferl.org/​a/​putin-​egytian-​leader-​el-​sissi-​discuss-​increasing-​arms-​sales-​direct-​air-​links-​ moscow-​visit-​sochi/​29547819.html. Reuters (2013). ‘Egypt returns $2 bln to Qatar in sign of growing tensions’, 19 September, available at: www.reuters.com/​article/​egypt-​qatar-​deposits/​update-​3-​egypt-​returns-​2-​bln-​to-​qatar-​in-​sign-​ofgrowing-​tensions-​idUSL5N0HF2DA20130919. Richards, A. (1991). ‘The Political Economy of Dilatory Reform: Egypt in the 1980s’, World Development, 19(12): 1721–​1730. Roccu, R. (2013). The Political Economy of the Egyptian Revolution: Mubarak, Economic Reforms and Failed Hegemony. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Roccu, R. (2017). ‘Passive Revolution Revisited: From the Prison Notebooks to “Our Great and Terrible World” ’, Capital & Class, 41(3): 537–​559. Roccu, R. & Talani, L.S. (2019). ‘Introduction:  The Globalisation Debate  –​From De-​Globalisation to the Dark Side of Globalisation’, in L.S. Talani & R. Roccu (eds.), The Dark Side of Globalisation. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 1–​17. Roll, S. (2010). ‘ “Finance Matters!”The Influence of Financial Sector Reforms on the Development of the Entrepreneurial Elites in Egypt’, Mediterranean Politics, 15(3): 349–​370. Roll, S. (2020). ‘A Missed Opportunity: Germany and the IMF Agreement with Egypt’, in Tarek Radwan (ed.) The Impact and Influence of International Financial Institutions on the Middle East and North Africa. Tunis, Tunisia: Friedrich Ebert Stiftung Regional Project, pp.126–137, available at: http://library.fes. de/pdf-files/bueros/tunesien/16107.pdf. Saad, R. (2002). ‘Egyptian Politics and the Tenancy Law’, in R. Bush (ed.), Counter-​Revolution in Egypt’s Countryside: Land and Farmers in the Era of Economic Reform. London: Zed Books, pp. 103–​126. Salem, S. (2018). ‘Reading Egypt’s Postcolonial State through Frantz Fanon: Hegemony, Dependency and Development’, Interventions¸ 20(3): 428–​445. Sayigh,Y. (2019). Owners of the Republic: An Anatomy of Egypt’s Military Economy.Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Seddon, D. (1990). ‘The Politics of Adjustment: Egypt and the IMF, 1987–​1990’, Review of African Political Economy, 47(95): 95–​104. Soliman, S. (2011). The Autumn of Dictatorship:  Fiscal Crisis and Political Change in Egypt under Mubarak. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Springborg, R. (1987). ‘The President and the Field Marshal: Civil-​Military Relations in Egypt Todau’, MERIP Middle East Report, 147: 4–​11. Springborg, R. (2011). ‘Economic Involvement of Militaries’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 43(3): 397–​399. The Economist (1999) ‘The IMF’s Model Pupil’, 18 March, available at: www.economist.com/​special-​ report/​1999/​03/​18/​the-​imfs-​model-​pupil. UNCTAD (2008). ‘Accra Accord’, Twelfth Session, 20–​25  April. UNCTAD (2014). World Investment Report 2014 –​Investing in the SDGs: An Action Plan, Geneva: United Nations Conference on Trade and Development. Vitalis, R. (1995). When Capitalists Collide:  Business Conflict and the End of Empire in Egypt. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Waterbury, J. (1985). ‘The “Soft State” and the Open Door:  Egypt’s Experience with Economic Liberalization, 1974–​1984’, Comparative Politics, 18(1): 65–​83. Williamson, J. (1989). ‘What Washington Means by Policy Reform’, in J. Williamson (ed.), Latin American Adjustment: How Much Has Happened?.Washington, DC: Institute for International Economics, pp. 5–​24. Zaalouk, M. (1989). Power, Class, and Foreign Capital in Egypt:  The Rise of the New Bourgeoisie in Egypt. London: Zed Books. Zaazaa, S. (2013). ‘Economy in a Week: Funds from Gulf and EU’, Mada Masr, 15 December, available at: https://​madamasr.com/​en/​2013/​12/​15/​news/​u/​economy-​in-​a-​week-​funds-​from-​gulf-​and-​eu/​.

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12 WHY EGYPT’S TRADE POLICY FAILED TO IMPROVE ITS EXTERNAL COMPETITIVENESS Chahir Zaki

Introduction Over two decades, Egypt has significantly liberalized its external trade. Trade reforms led to a substantial increase in both exports and imports, especially between 2004 and 2008. After 2011, and with a severe decline in foreign reserves, several restrictive measures have been imposed. Yet, despite these developments (between liberalization and protectionism) and the reforms implemented by the government, the structure of exports, imports, or foreign direct investment (FDI) has not changed much. In fact, several structural characteristics also did not change over time. Data from the Central Bank of Egypt (2019) show that around 60% of FDI is concentrated in the oil sector, implying the lack of or low technology transfer and low integration into regional value chains. Moreover, oil has the lion’s share in Egypt’s exports, followed by some low value-​added products (e.g., textiles, ready-​made garments, chemicals, and processed food). For imports, more than 70% of Egypt’s imports are raw materials, investment goods (e.g., machines and equipment), or intermediate goods (e.g., fuels, mineral oil, and some organic and inorganic chemicals). The literature on Egypt’s trade policy is rather abundant. It can be divided into three main strands. The first one includes the effects of trade agreements (Adly, 2018), especially the European Union (EU) association (Helmy et al., 2018; Kheir El-​Din and Ghoneim, 2005). The second set of studies focuses on the effects of nontariff measures (NTMs) at both the macro (Peridy and Ghoneim, 2013) and firm levels (El-​Enbaby et al., 2016; Kamal and Zaki, 2018). A more recent strand also focused on the political economy of NTMs (Eibl and Malik, 2016). The third set of studies examined the determinants of exports and macroeconomic policies (exports subsidies, exchange rate, etc.). The objective of this chapter is threefold. First, it presents the main historical developments of Egypt’s trade policy. Second, it describes its trade structure and patterns. Indeed, it shows how, at the product level, the economy is still specialized in traditional and low value-​added products that are highly dependent on imported inputs. It also demonstrates that, at the destination level, the economy managed to diversify and increase the number of its trade partners. Third, 194

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it examines why Egypt’s competitiveness is still undermined by several impediments at both the internal and external levels. I argue that such a performance is mainly attributed to four main reasons. First, domestically, there is no clear vision for an efficient industrial policy and the business environment does not attract investors because of several institutional deficiencies. Second, most of the agreements Egypt signed are shallow, leading to a trivial increase in exports. Third, Egypt imposes on and faces from its partners several NTMs that hinder both exports and imports. Fourth, Egyptian firms (and especially small and medium enterprises [SMEs]) are not integrated domestically, regionally, or internationally because of the FDI that failed to generate jobs since they are concentrated in the oil sector. The rest of the chapter is organized as follows. The next section presents the historical background of Egypt’s trade policy. The section entitled “Overview of Egypt’s trade” examines the structure of exports and imports by product and destination. The “Potential explanations” section explains the reasons behind the weak performance of Egypt at the external level. Finally, the “Conclusion” section concludes the chapter.

Historical Background The Egyptian economy has witnessed several economic systems during the last six decades. Under the monarchy, Egypt’s exports, similar to most of the developing countries, consisted of primary and raw commodities (most of exports were made up of cotton) that are exported to developed economies and later imported as manufactured products.Yet, after the independence and the end of the colonial era, the elite believed that industrialization can only take place if domestic substitutes are fostered against imported products.This is why Nasser era (1952–​1970) witnessed a more protectionist regime represented by the imports substitution strategy (Beinin, 1989). Hence, on average, the share of merchandise exports to gross domestic product (GDP) declined from 9% under the monarchy to 7% under Nasser. The same pattern was observed for imports that declined from 18% to 14% over the same period (see Figure 12.1). In this context, growth was chiefly led by the state intervention in all economic sectors and the promotion of

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Figure 12.1  Evolution of exports and imports Source: Author’s own work using the Penn World Tables. Note: The Monarchy period includes 1950–​1951; Nasser: 1952–​1970; Sadat: 1970–​1981; Mubarak: 1982–​2010; and post-revolution: 2011–​2017.

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heavy industries. Moreover, at the external level, Egypt’s main trade partner was the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). After the end of the war in 1973, Sadat implemented the Infitah (openness) or the open-​ door policy in Egypt. The imports substitution policy was replaced by a more open trade policy aiming at promoting exports that increased modestly from, on average, 7% under Nasser to 10% under Sadat (and imports from 14% to 20% over the same time span)1. Moreover, President Anwar-​el-​Sadat had begun to move cautiously to realign traditional trading alliances (Eastern bloc) with the Western European countries and the United States of America (USA) (McLaughlin, 1978) as part of the geopolitical realignment.Yet, this drastic change from a closed to an open economy negatively affected Egyptian industries that were not able to compete with the rest of the world. Thus, with the absence of a clear industrial policy, most of the Egyptian exports were either primary or low value-​added products, such as processed foods or textiles and ready-​made garments. Under Mubarak (1981–​2010), there was no structural change in Egypt’s trade policy. Two main trade reforms were implemented during this period:  the first one with the Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment Program (ERSAP) in the early 1990s and the second one in 2004. First, the maximum tariff rate decreased from 110% at the end of the 1980s to reach 40% in the end of 1990s (Zaki, 2014). Second, in 2004, the Government of Egypt launched the second wave of liberalization, first, to reduce tariffs and rationalize the tariff structure and, second, to reduce the number of products subject to nontariff barriers. Despite these measures, exports and imports decreased significantly because of several internal and external factors. At the external level, the Gulf war, the oil crisis, the Asian crisis, September 11 events, and the international financial crisis affected Egypt’s trade partners, and hence its exports to the countries and the FDI coming from them. At the internal level, while the ERSAP program affected exports in the short term, several structural problems had a negative impact on the structure and the level of Egypt’s exports. They can be summarized in two main factors: the lack of an efficient industrial policy and the increase in corruption coupled with deficient institutions. Indeed, the latter prevented investors from investing in high value-​added sectors or products that are intensive in high technology. Indeed, Karam and Zaki (2018) argue that deficient institutions increase the likelihood of specialization into traditional products (oil and other products) that are less sensitive to contract enforcement or property rights. Hence, exports remained low, especially when compared to other economies and mainly concentrated in the same set of traditional products. In the postrevolution era (after 2011), because of political instability and institutional impediments, exports remained low. Furthermore, with the decline in foreign reserves after the political turmoil and the capital controls imposed by the Central Bank of Egypt, imports also did not increase. In a nutshell, despite the change in the economic system adopted by successive political regimes, Egypt’s trade structure and level did not change significantly. The next section will provide a more thorough analysis of the period 2008–​2018 by focusing on Egypt’s exports and imports by product and destination.

Overview of Egypt’s trade Exports and imports by destination Figure  12.2 presents the structure of Egyptian exports of goods. While the EU enjoyed the highest share over the whole period, the USA’s share significantly declined from 31.6% in 2008 to 8% in 2018. By contrast, the share of Arab countries2 substantially increased from 11% to 196

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Figure 12.2  Egypt’s exports by destination Source: Central Bank of Egypt. Note: NY stands for Fiscal Year (that starts in year t-1 and ends in year t). 100.0% 90.0% 80.0% 70.0% 60.0% 50.0% 40.0% 30.0% 20.0% 10.0% 0.0%

18.7% 18.9% 21.5% 20.3% 19.7% 20.2% 21.7% 20.7% 19.9% 18.2% 19.9% 10.4% 9.4% 11.0% 16.0% 17.2% 19.0% 27.7% 22.2% 18.2% 18.6% 19.6%

34.1% 37.4% 36.5% 34.6% 32.6% 30.7% 27.0% 29.1% 30.3% 26.9% 26.5% FY08

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Figure 12.3  Egypt’s imports by destination Source: Central Bank of Egypt. Note: NY stands for Fiscal Year (that starts in year t-1 and ends in year t).

23.4% over the same period (with Saudi Arabia becoming Egypt’s most important export destination). Africa’s share, in spite of geographical proximity and several regional economic communities (RECs), never exceeded 3%. Recently, Egypt’s exports to the rest of Africa increased by 26.9% (y-​o-​y) to reach US$4.7 billion (bn) in 2018, up from US$ 3.7 bn in 2017, according to Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS). At the bilateral level, North Africa and Sudan accounted for the lion’s share of exports into the continent. Egypt’s imports from African countries reached US$ 2.1 bn, 15.2% up (year-on-year) from US$1.9 bn in 2017. Algeria was also Egypt’s top importer, followed by Kenya, Zambia, and Sudan. As for imports, Egypt relied mainly on the EU (Germany and France) from whom it imports investment goods, machinery, and equipment, followed by Asian countries (China and India) who export consumer goods to Egypt. 197

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Yet, the concentration of Egypt’s partners (when measured by the concentration index3) did not change significantly over the last decade despite a slight decrease since 2016 because the share of exports to USA has decreased and that to African countries has increased.

Egypt’s exports and imports by product At the product level, Egypt has managed to diversify its exports over the course of the previous decade since the share of oil exports declined from 50.3% in 2008 to 34.7% in 2018 (see Figure  12.4). Yet, the share of finished goods increased only from 37% to 41% over the same period (with exports mainly concentrating on rather traditional goods such as textiles, ready-​made garments, chemicals, and processed food). Nontraditional exports intensive in high technology remain extremely low or altogether absent from Egypt’s exports, while a comparator economy such as Morocco managed to export automobiles to both African and Arab countries. The share of semifinished goods increased from 6% to 16.7% over the same period, pointing out the fact that Egypt experienced an increase in terms of its integration into value chains (Del Prete et al, 2015)  since it exports intermediate goods that can be processed elsewhere. Yet, this trend also questions the ability of the Egyptian economy to export products that have a high value-​added. The specialization of Egypt in traditional sectors and its inability to diversify its trade structure did not change. Indeed, since 2009, the concentration index (measured also by the Herfindahl–​ Hirschman Index [HHI] by products at the HS6 level) has been stable.This is why Egypt’s cooperation with more advanced economies could clearly help it improve the structure of its exports through technological transfer in sectors like vehicles, electronic, electric products, and machinery. At the imports level, Figure 12.5 shows that Egypt’s imports are in general incompressible since they are concentrated in raw materials, intermediate goods, and investment goods that are widely used in production of domestic goods or exports. In other words, this trend was associated with a more reliance on imported intermediate inputs that are used as exportable products. This is why, for instance, in the wake of the currency devaluation in 2016, the latter was not translated into a significant increase in exports since exporters had to import inputs at higher prices which eroded their potential gains (Zaki et al., 2019). Furthermore, this import dependency shows to what extent the domestic integration between local industries is weak and hence impedes the development of regional or global value chains (Dovis and Zaki, 2020). 100% 80%

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Figure 12.4  Egypt’s exports by sectors Source: Central Bank of Egypt. Note: FY stands for Fiscal Year (that starts in year t-1 and ends in year t).

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Figure 12.5  Egypt’s imports by sectors Source: Central Bank of Egypt. Note: FY stands for Fiscal Year (that starts in year t-1 and ends in year t).

In fact, Rodrik (2018) argued that economies should rely more on “domestic integration.” The latter means that improving the capabilities and the fundamentals of the economy through investment in human capital, business environment, and governance since they are a prerequisite for an efficient integration into a regional or a global value chain. To sum up, this section showed that while Egypt did not manage to diversify its exports over time, it remained highly specialized in traditional exports and highly dependent on imports that are indispensable for production and exports. At the destination level, it slightly diversified its exports markets.The next section will examine the main factors behind such a weak performance.

Potential explanations Industrial policy and domestic business environment One of the most important reasons behind the weak performance of the manufacturing sector and its inability to produce and export high value-​added products is deficient economic institutions. Indeed, when Egypt is compared to other comparator economies in the region (e.g., Tunisia and Morocco) or outside (e.g., Brazil, Turkey and Poland), one can see that it is doing worse in terms of rule of law: anti-​monopoly policy and market-​based competition (see Figure 12.6). Consequently, this affects the capacity of the economy to innovate as technology is highly dependent on good economic institutions. This is confirmed by Figure 12.7 that shows that the innovative capacity of Egypt is relatively low compared to other similar economies, which in turn affects its competitiveness and increases its specialization in traditional exports. This is also reflected in Egypt’s exports that are mainly concentrated in medium-​and low-​ technology products (see Figure  12.8), while products intensive in high technology never exceeded 5% despite a slight increase starting 2013. As a consequence, Egypt’s export quality is in general low, especially when compared to economies with similar structure (such as Tunisia, Morocco and Jordan, see Figure 12.9). 199

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Poland Brazil Turkey An-monop. Market comp.

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Figure 12.6  Institutional barriers Source: Rule of law, market-​based competition and anti-​monopoly policy indices come from Bertelsmann Transformation Index. A greater value of the index shows a better performance of the country (from 1 to 10). Property rights and transparency of government policymaking come from the Global Competitiveness Index. A greater value of the index shows a better performance of the country (from 1 to 10).

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Figure 12.7  Capacity for innovation Source: Competitive Industrial Performance data set.

Shallow trade agreements The literature distinguishes between two types of trade agreements: shallow and deep ones. While the former deals with tariff reduction (trade liberalization) only, the latter addresses more issues such as NTMs, mobility of persons, capital mobility, and trade in services. It is worthy to note that the majority of Egypt’s trade agreements at both the bilateral and regional levels are rather shallow (Adly, 2018). On the bilateral front, Egypt has concluded free trade agreements 200

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Figure 12.8  Egypt’s exports by technology intensity Source: COMTRADE. Note: The classification is done using the OECD STAN classification.

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Figure 12.9  Industrial export quality index Source: Competitive Industrial Performance dataset.

with the EU (2004), the members of European Free Trade Association (the Republic of Iceland, the Principality of Liechtenstein, the Kingdom of Norway, and the Swiss Confederation, 2004), Turkey, and other Arab countries. At the regional level, Egypt has acceded to the Greater Arab Free Trade Area (GAFTA), the Common Market for Eastern and Southern Africa (COMESA), and the Agadir Free Trade Agreement (with Tunisia, Jordan, and Morocco). According to the latter, member countries are to remove all tariffs on trade between them and to harmonize their legislation with regard to standards and customs procedures. Egypt has also a full-​fledged agreement with the MERCOSUR (Mercado Comun del Sur) countries that turned into force in 2017. Finally, Egypt signed the Qualifying Industrial Zones (QIZ) Protocol4 in December 2005 with the USA and Israel (Zaki, 2014)5. Despite these agreements, most of them remained 201

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relatively shallow, that is, focused on tariff reductions without really focusing on NTMs and on harmonization of standards and rules in order to achieve a deeper level of integration. In terms of the literature, Helmy et  al. (2018) examined the impact of Egypt–​EU trade agreement on bilateral trade. They also introduced other trade policy variables such as the GAFTA6, Agadir7, and the COMESA8 agreements and found that these three agreements are positive and significant, with GAFTA showing the highest coefficient, followed by Agadir and the Egypt–​EU Association. However, Kheir El Din and Ghoneim (2005) highlighted an important concern related to the multiplicity of regional trade agreements, known as the “Spaghetti bowl” (see Figure 12.10). Such an overlapping does not entail a high cost because most of them are shallow, creating less friction. Indeed, most of these agreements targeted tariff declines without addressing harmonization of rules and regulations, NTMs, or bilateral investment treaties.

Low tariffs but distorting nontariff measures While Egypt’s efforts to reduce tariffs were significant since Egypt’s accession to the World Trade Organization (WTO) in 1995, fewer efforts have been made to address NTMs. Indeed, nearly 99% of Egypt’s tariff lines are bound at the WTO. Most favored nation (MFN) tariffs9 applying to nonagricultural products are generally lower than those applying to agricultural goods, with an average of 12.8%t and 66.4%, respectively. Egypt’s tariffs for 2017 are based on the HS 2012 version of the Harmonized Commodity Description and Coding System and contains 7,850 tariff lines at the HS 10-​digit level, of which 99.7% carry ad-​valorem duties. Table 12.1 shows that Egypt’s applied tariffs have dropped significantly between 1995 and 2012, with simple and weighted averages of applied tariffs falling from 24% and 16.7% to 9.8% and 7.4%, respectively. On the other hand, the primary sector remains more protected in both emerging and developed economies, compared to the manufacturing sector that has been significantly liberalized. This protection can be explained by two main factors. First, farmers’ lobbies in developed countries tend to impose high tariffs on this sector in order to protect themselves. Second, and as a consequence of that, emerging economies mutually impose high tariffs on their imports of agricultural products. In Egypt, an increasing trend in the tariffs for primary goods was initially taking place, with tariffs exceeding 50% on average in the late 2000s, before a declining trend took place afterward. In comparison to other countries, Egypt’s weighted tariffs10 remain higher than middle-​income or high-​income countries, with the gap being significantly wide for primary products. Against these relatively low tariffs, NTMs remain costly, numerous, and less transparent. In general, NTMs are meant to provide legitimate nontrade objectives such as the protection of human health. Yet, the gradual removal of traditional trade barriers carried a temptation to use NTMs as a protective mechanism for domestic production, thereby adding an additional (nondirectly measurable) cost.These NTMs prevent the benefits of global integration to accrue to consumers, while many exporting firms, particularly the smaller ones, can exit the exports market because of the ensuing costs. The surviving firms will simply transfer this extra cost to the final price paid by consumers (Youssef and Zaki, 2019). Moreover, Péridy and Ghoneim (2013) calculated the average tariff equivalents (AVEs) of NTMs in selected MENA countries, including Egypt, and estimated them at 39%, compared to 34% in Tunisia, 37% in Morocco, and 47% in Lebanon. While NTMs can take the form of various technical and regulatory requirements, this section focuses on two measures that are more relevant to Egypt and to its trading, with regard to Egypt’s exports. First, technical barriers to trade (TBT) refer to those related to procedures for assessment of conformity with technical regulations and standards that are related to products 202

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newgenrtpdf

ARAB STATES/MIDDLE EAST GAFTA

COMESA

Ethiopia Awanda Djibouti Kenya Uganda Eritrea Zambia Seychelles Malawi IOC Mauritius Comoros Zimbabwe Madagascar Swaziland Democratic Republic of the Congo

Iraq Lebanon

Mauritania

Algeria

Guinea Senegal

Morocco

Libya

Agadir

Sudan

Egypt

Burundi Tunisia

Kuwait United Arab Qatar Emirates

GCC

Singapore

Jordan

Bahrain Saudi Arabia

Yemen Syria

Turkey

203

State of Palestine

EFTA

Israel Iran

Pakistan

EU United States

Uzbekistan

Mexico Canada

MERCOSUR

Agadir COMESA GAFTA GCC

Free trade agreements

Agreements with countries outside the Arab States/Middle East

Agreements with EFTA

Partial scope agreements

Agreements with EU

Agreements with Turkey

Agreement for Establishing a Mediterranean Free Trade Area Common Market for Eastern and Southern Africa Greater Arab Free Trade Area Gulf Cooperation Council

Figure 12.10  Trade agreements in Egypt Source: International Trade Center 2018.

IOC EFTA EU MERCOSUR

Indian Ocean Commission European Free Trade Association (Iceland, Liechtenstein, Norway, Switzerland) European Union (28 Member States) Southern Common Market (Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay, Venezuela, Bolivarian Republic of)

Why Egypt’s trade policy failed

Oman

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Chahir Zaki Table 12.1 Tariff rate by sector, 1996–​2012 Country

Egypt

Middle Income

High Income

Year

1996 2000 2005 2010 2012 1996 2000 2005 2010 2012 1996 2000 2005 2010 2012

Applied: Simple mean

Applied: Weighted mean

All

Manufacturing

Primary

All

Manufacturing

Primary

24.3 25.1 14.2 10.9 9.8 14.0 14.4 10.2 7.3 8.2 5.8 5.0 3.4 2.8 3.9

24.1 21.6 11.4 8.2 7.3 14.0 14.2 9.8 7.2 7.8 5.0 4.5 3.1 2.6 3.7

25.9 52.3 37.0 32.9 28.6 14.0 15.8 13.2 8.2 11.0 10.3 8.2 5.3 4.1 5.0

16.7 16.8 8.8 9.6 7.4 13.0 12.8 6.1 4.2 4.9 39.4 2.4 1.8 1.8 1.7

22.4 20.0 10.7 10.9 10.0 13.2 12.9 6.1 5.1 6.0 3.5 2.1 1.7 1.9 1.8

7.7 12.9 6.3 7.7 4.7 12.3 12.7 5.9 2.5 2.9 141.9 3.3 2.0 1.8 1.5

Source: World Development Indicators.

or processes and production methods, including packaging, marking or labeling requirements, procedures for testing and inspection, evaluation, verification, and assurance of conformity; registration, accreditation, etc. According to the ITC business survey on NTMs, strict technical requirements applied by partner countries and their associated conformity assessment procedures represent the most reported NTMs for exporters of agri-​food products in Egypt. More than two-​thirds of the concerns are made for the nonagriculture sector. In fact, chemicals (organic, inorganic, and fertilizers) and engineering sectors face the highest share of TBTs. In terms of trade partners, Figure 12.11 shows that the top maintaining countries11 who are imposing different TBTs are the EU, China, and the USA followed by India and Brazil. As per their effect, Kamal and Zaki (2018) also examined the impact of TBT on firms’ exports in Egypt over the period 2005–​2011 and found that the extensive margin and entry probability are negatively affected by technical barriers, whereas exit probability is positively affected. Moreover, smaller firms are more adversely affected by TBT in their export participation and entry and exit decisions. The second type of NTMs hindering Egyptian exports is sanitary and phytosanitary (SPS) measures. They refer to requirements imposed to protect life or health of animals, plants, or humans from pertinent health risks (such as additives, contaminants, toxins or disease-​ causing organisms in foods, beverages, or feedstuffs), whereas technical barriers—​as described above—​refer to product regulations and standards. It is worthy to note that SPS measures are among the largest obstacles facing exporters of agricultural products. SPS measures imposed on Egypt’s exports mainly originate from EU member countries, which are also the most important trade partners for Egypt. The EU mainly imposes SPS measures on leguminous vegetables, beans, and seeds, with food safety and protection of humans, animals, and plants from pests and diseases being the reasons for imposing such measures. At the HS2 level,

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Why Egypt’s trade policy failed Colombia

5

Taiwan

5

Canada

7

Indonesia

7

Brazil

9

India

11

Korea

12

USA

23

China

28

EU

34 0

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

Figure 12.11  Top 10 maintaining countries Source: Kamal and Zaki 2018 using the WTO database.

edible vegetables are subject to the highest number of SPS measures. SPS measures applying to this category represent more than triple those on meat and meat offal, and live animals which arrive at the the second and third places, respectively (Figure 12.12). In recent years, Egyptian exports to the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) countries also started to face SPS measures. For instance, between 2012 and 2019, six notifications of SPS measures and specific trade concerns (STCs) were raised by the United Arab Emirates (UAE) and Saudi Arabia against agriclutural products, with Egyptian exports of agriculture and animal products being suspended or banned entry to these markets (WTO, 2019). El-​Enbaby et  al. (2016) used firm-​level data to analyze the effects of product standards on the probability to export (firm-​ product extensive margin), and on the exported value (firm-​product intensive margin). They found that SPS measures imposed on Egyptian exporters have a negative impact on the probability of exporting a new product to a new destination, while the intensive margin of exports is not significantly affected by such measures. Generally speaking, NTMs are faced by Egyptian exporters in different destinations. Figure  12.13 shows that most of the NTMs are imposed by Arab countries (of the Greater Arab Free Trade Agreements) followed by the Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) countries and then other developing countries. Finally, it is important to note that NTMs can be politically motivated since businessmen can have divergent interests when it comes to competition and opening up the economy (Cammet, 2007). Moreover, industries with well-​organized and funded lobbies may have easier access to more benefits (Esfahani, 2005; Boubakri et  al., 2008). This applies to the case of Egypt. Indeed, Eibl and Malik (2016) argued that trade liberalization was not coupled with deep integration since interests of political incumbents rely on trade policy-​induced rents to protect their business and sustain the ruling coalition. Indeed, they showed that, with the EU–​Egypt free trade agreement in 2004, sectors with prior exposure to crony activity were compensated significantly more through new NTMs compared to non-​crony sectors. This applies mainly to metals, textiles and ready-​made garments, food products and beverages, and chemicals where TBTs have been largely imposed.Yet, such political -​connectedness was costly for the economy as a whole. Chekir and Diwan (2014) and Diwan et al. (2020) showed that crony sectors exhibited lower aggregate employment growth, that is, lower growth of labor

205

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Chahir Zaki 15 Animal or vegetable fats, oils & waxes

55

16 Ed. prep. of meat, fish, crustaceans, etc

62

22 Beverages, spirits & vinegar

71

05 Products of animal origin

75

23 Residues from food industries, animal feed

92

09 Coffee, tea, mate & spices

110

10 Cereals

120

08 Ed. fruit & nuts, peel of citrus/melons

149

03 Fish & crustaceans

171

12 Oil seeds/misc. grains/med. plants/straw

191

04 Dairy, eggs, honey, & ed. products

220

01 Live animals

281

02 Meat & edible meat offal

325

07 Edible vegetables

1012 0

200

400

600

800

1000

1200

Figure 12.12  SPS measures imposed on Egyptian exports by sector, at the HS2 level Source: El-​Enbaby et al. 2016.

32.0

OECD

45.5

51.7

GAFTA

39.0

Share of NTMs Share of exports

16.4

Developing

15.5 0.0

10.0

20.0

30.0

40.0

50.0

60.0

Figure 12.13  Share of NTMs faced by Egyptian exporters, 2011 Source: International Trade Center online data set.

productivity since crony entry skewed the distribution of employment toward smaller and less productive firms.

Behind the border constraints Anderson and van Wincoop (2004) argued that trade costs may be divided into four categories: (1) transaction costs related to transport (including distance) and insurance of traded goods; (2) costs induced by trade policies associated with tariff and nontariff barriers (such as quotas, SPS, and TBT; (3) local distribution costs from foreign producer to final user in the domestic country; and (4) costs due to administrative barriers or red tape costs (i.e., those associated with trade facilitation and customs inefficiency) or behind-​the-​border constraints. The latter are defined as implicit borders that are not officially imposed by a country and that are due to bureaucratic and lengthy trade procedures, customs inefficiencies, and corruption. 206

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Thus, while TBT and SPS have to be supported by a scientific evidence, have to be notified at the WTO, and can exert a negative effect on exports, behind-​the-​border constraints are not notified at the WTO, do not need to be supported by a scientific evidence, and are much costlier than other NTMs since they are a deadweight loss for the economy. The effect becomes more serious given the large reliance of domestic production on imported intermidate inputs. In Egypt, trading across borders indices (of the World Bank Doing Business data set) are lagging behind, ranking 171/​189 in 2018, with its score decreasing from 71.1 in 2014 to 42.2 in 2018. From the firms’ perspective, customs and trade regulations are identified as a major constraint by 20% of the surveyed exporting firms in Egypt (World Bank, 2016), which shows a notable deterioration compared to the 9% of 2013. Again, this is mainly due to a lengthier time to clear exports and imports, as time to import increased from 9.2 to 12.3 days while time to export remained relatively stable but high (Figure 12.14). The lack of customs automation also contributes to unnecessary delays and gives room for discretionary decisions and corruption (World Bank, 2018). The most serious problem induced by such complexity is the risk of error that can be repeated and multiplied from one stage to another. Hence, as argued by Hendy and Zaki (2014), red tape barriers negatively affect Egyptian firms, with the effect being more robust for the extensive margin (the probability of exporting across different destinations) than the intensive one (the value of exports). Figure 12.15 shows that such cumbersome measures can be costlier than tariffs, as evidenced by the ad valorem equivalents (AVEs) of time to export and time to import (Zaki, 2015). These AVEs are higher than tariffs for products that have a higher value-​added such as chemicals, nonmetallic products, and machinery, which constitute an impediment to exports of sophisticated products. Moreover, if exported products are perishable or have a seasonal nature, losses will be more important since such products will not be sold at the time where they should be consumed. Additional costs are due to the fact that these products could be exported to other markets, with faster clearance. It is worthy to note that trade facilitation matters in both the source and destination country. Hence, improving access to any given market for Egypt may require improvements in trade facilitation not only in Egypt, but also in the partner country (Youssef and Zaki, 2019).

14 10

10 8

12.3

11.7

12 7.4

6.4

7.4

9.2

7.5

6 4 2 0 Days to clear direct exports All Countries

MENA

Days to clear imports Egypt 2013

Egypt 2016

Figure 12.14  Days to clear direct exports and imports through customs Source: World Bank Enterprise Surveys data set.

207

208

Chahir Zaki 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0%

Tariff

AVE Time to Exp

AVE Time to Imp

Figure 12.15  Tariffs and ad-​valorem equivalent of time to export and to import Source: World Trade Organization and Zaki 2015 for the ad-​valorem equivalents of time to export and time to import.

1 0.9 0.8 0.7 0.6 0.5 0.4 0.3 0.2 0.1 0 FY2012

FY2013

FY2014

FY2015

FY2016

FY2017

FY2018

Petroleum sector

Construcon sector

Agriculture sector

Manufacturing sector

Undistributed sector

Services, of which

FY2019

Figure 12.16  Total FDI in Egypt by economic sector Source: CBE Economic Review reports.

Lack of value chains The final explanation behind the weak external competitiveness of Egypt is the structure of FDI. Indeed, one of the benefits of FDI is that it helps recipient countries get access to financing tools and technologies from more developed countries. The introduction of newer and enhanced technologies results in their diffusion into the local economy, leading to an enhanced competitiveness of the industrial sector. As shown in Figures 12.16, most of the FDI, although coming from developed countries (EU and USA), is mainly concentrated in the oil sector that has very low value-​added and that is capital intensive. This has three main consequences. First, since it is capital intensive, it does not generate jobs. Second, since this sector is extractive, it does not lead to technology transfer or to the improvement of manufactured products.Third, since this sector relies on oil extraction 208

209

Why Egypt’s trade policy failed

(that has a low value-​added), there is no room for developing a value chain, especially with SMEs (Dovias and Zaki, 2018). This is why Egypt’s exports structure did not change despite a large inflow of FDI. The Moroccan case is particularly interesting since the Moroccan automotive industry is led by investment from French Renault–​Nissan Alliance and PSA Group car companies that made Morocco the main producer and exporter of cars to Africa and Europe.

Conclusion Despite significant trade liberalization in Egypt, the structure of exports, imports, or FDI has not changed much.The objective of this chapter was to examine how Egypt’s competitiveness is still undermined by several impediments at both the internal and external levels. I argue that such a performance is mainly attributed to four main reasons. First, domestically, there is no clear vision for an efficient industrial policy and the business environment does not attract investors because of several institutional deficiencies. Second, most of the agreements signed by Egypt are shallow, leading to a trivial increase in exports. Third, Egypt imposes on and faces from its partners several NTMs that hinder both exports and imports. Fourth, Egyptian firms (and especially SMEs) are not integrated domestically, regionally, or internationally because of the FDI that failed to generate jobs since they are concentrated in the oil sector. Improving external competitiveness requires three main policies. First, at the industrial level, link trade policy with a clearer industrial policy. Second, at the FDI level, encourage foreign investors to invest in the manufacturing sector since it is labor intensive and thus will create jobs; it will help develop clusters with SMEs and will lead to the emergence of new products that are more competitive. Third, at the trade level, harmonization and mutual recognition of standards and norms is a must in order to reduce the cost implied by NTMs.

Notes 1 Data come from the Penn World Tables. www.rug.nl/​ggdc/​historicaldevelopment/​ 2 Arab countries include the League of Arab States countries while African countries include those in sub-​Saharan Africa. 3 Concentration index is measured by the Herfindahl–​Hirschman Index (HHI) calculated by squaring the market share of exports to each destination and then summing the resulting numbers. 4 Qualifying industrial zones (QIZs) are designated geographic areas, within Egypt, that enjoy a duty-​ free status with the United States. Companies located within such zones are granted duty-​free access to the US markets, provided that they satisfy the agreed-​upon Israeli component of 10.5% as per the predefined rules of origin. 5 For a comprehensive literature review on these agreements, see Adly (2018). 6 GAFTA is the Arab Free Trade Area created in 1997. To achieve this, a 10% reduction in customs fees each year was planned to be fully in place by 2008. Of the 22 Arab League states, 18 signed onto this agreement, which came into force on January 1, 1998. 7 The Agadir Agreement is a free trade agreement between Egypt, Jordan, Morocco, and Tunisia. It was signed in Rabat in February 2004 and came into force in March 2007. 8 The COMESA is a free trade area with 21 member states from Tunisia to Eswatini. It was formed in December 1994. 9 Most favored nations (MFN) tariffs are what countries promise to impose on imports from other members of the WTO, unless the country is part of a preferential trade agreement (such as a free trade area or customs union). 10 Weighted tariffs are the average of effectively applied rates weighted by the product import shares corresponding to each partner country.This helps avoid an overestimation of average tariffs for products that are not imported since they are characterized by a high or a prohibitive tariff. 11 Maintaining countries are those that impose and maintain a certain nontariff measure over a certain number of years on a specific product and specific country.

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References Abedini, J. and Peridy, N. (2008). “The Greater Arab Free Trade Area (GAFTA): An Estimation of Its Trade Effects”, Journal of Economic Integration, 23(4), 848–​872. Adly, A. (2018). “Liberalization without Integration. Egypt and PTAs (1990–​2010)”, in R.E. Looney (ed.), Handbook of International Trade Agreements. Country, Regional and Global Approaches. 1st edn. London: Routledge. Anderson, J. E., & Van Wincoop, E. (2004). “Trade Costs”, Journal of Economic literature, 42(3), 691–​751. Beinin, J. (1989). Labor, Capital, and the State in Nasserist Egypt, 1952–​1961”, International journal of Middle East studies, 21(1), 71–​90. Ben Abdellah, M., El Mekki, A.A. and Siam, G. (2013). “Economic Growth in the Euro-​Med Area through Trade Integration, Focus on Agriculture and Food. North Africa Case Studies:  Egypt, Morocco, Tunisia”. Joint Research Center Scientific and Policy Reports of European Commission, Sevilla, Spain. Report En 26233EN. Boubakri, N., Cosset, J.-​C. and Saffar, W. (2008). “Political Connections of Newly Privatized Firms”, Journal of Corporate Finance, 14(5), 654–​673. Cammett, M.C. (2007). Globalization and Business Politics in Arab North Africa:  A comparative perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chekir, H. and Diwan, I. (2014). “Crony Capitalism in Egypt”, Journal of Globalization and Development, 5(2). Del Prete, D., Giovannetti, G., and Marvasi, E. (2018). “Global Value Chains: New Evidence for North Africa”, International Economics, 153,  42-​54. Diwan, I., Keefer, P. and Schiffbauer, M. (2020). “Pyramid Capitalism: Cronyism, Regulation and Firm Productivity in Egypt”, The Review of Industrial Organization 15, no. 1 (2020): 211–246. Dovis, M. and Zaki, C. (2020). “Global Value Chains and Local Business Environments:Which Factors Do Really Matter in Developing Countries?”, Review of Industrial Organization, vol. 57, pages 481–513. El-​Enbaby, H., Hendy, R. and Zaki, C. (2016). “Do SPS Measures Matter for Margins of Trade? Evidence from Firm-​Level Data”, Applied Economics, 48(21), 1949–​1964. El-​Ramly, H. and Abdel-​Haleim, S.M. (2008). “The Effect of Devaluation on Output in the Egyptian Economy:  A Vector Autoregression Analysis”, International Research Journal of Finance and Economics, 14,  82–​99. Eibl, F. and Malik, A. (2016). The Politics of Partial Liberalization:  Cronyism and Non-​Tariff Protection in Mubarak’s Egypt. The Centre for the Study of African Economies (CSAE), University of Oxford. Esfahani, H.S. (2005). “Searching for the (Dark) Forces behind Protection”, Oxford Economic Papers, 57(2), 283–​314. Ghali, S., Zitouna, H., Karray, Z. and Driss, S. (2013). “Effects of NTBs on the Extensive and Intensive Margins to Trade: The Case of Tunisia and Egypt”, ERF Working Papers Series, No. 820. Helmy, O., Aboushady, N. and Zaki, C. (2018).“The Impact of Egypt-​EU Free Trade Agreement on Egypt’s Manufacturing Exports and Employment”, Cairo: Friedrich-​Ebert-​Stiftung. Hendy, R. and Zaki, C. (2014). “Trade Facilitation and Firms Exports: The Case of Egypt”, ERF Working Papers Series No. 843. Kamal, Y. and Zaki, C. (2018). “How Do Technical Barriers to Trade Affect Exports? Evidence from Egyptian Firm-​Level Data”, Journal of Economic Integration, 33(4), 659–​721. Karam, F. and Zaki, C. (2020). “A New Dawn for MENA Firms: Service Trade Liberalization for More Competitive Exports”, Applied Economics, 52(1), 19–​35. Kheir El Din, H. and Ghoneim, A. (2005). “The Economic and Regulatory Policy Implications of Overlapping Preferential Trade Agreements in the Arab Countries: The Case of Egypt”, International Development Research Centre (IDRC) Report Series No. 425. McLaughlin, G.  T. (1978). “Infitah in Egypt:  An Appraisal of Egypt's Open-​Door Policy for Foreign Investment”, Fordham Law Review, 46(5), 885. Osnago, A., Rocha, N. and Ruta, M. (2015). “Deep Trade Agreements and Vertical FDI: The Devil Is in the Details”, Policy Research Working Paper, No. WPS 7464. Péridy, N. and Ghoneim, A. (2013). “Middle East and North African Integration: Through the Lens of Non-​Tariff Measures”, Journal of Economic Integration, 28(4), 580–​609. Rodrik, D.  (2018).  New technologies, global value chains, and developing economies  (No. w25164). National Bureau of Economic Research.

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Why Egypt’s trade policy failed Shamir, S. (1995). Egypt from Monarchy to Republic:  A Reassessment of Revolution and Change. Westview Press. World Bank (2018). “Privilege-​Resistant Policies in the Middle East and North Africa. Measurement and Operational Implications”, MENA Development Report. World Bank (2016). Egypt, Arab Rep. Enterprise Survey (ES) 2016, Ref. EGY_​2016_​ES_​v01_​M. Dataset downloaded from https://​datacatalog.worldbank.org/​dataset/​egypt-​arab-​rep-​enterprise-​survey-​2016]. WTO (2019), Sanitary and Phytosanitary Information Management System, last consulted March 2019. http://​spsims.wto.org/​ Youssef, H. and Zaki, C. (2019). “From Currency Depreciation to Trade Reform: How to Take Egyptian Exports to New Levels?”, Policy Research Working Paper No. 8809, The World Bank. Zaki, C. (2014). “On Trade Policies and Wage Disparity: Evidence from Egyptian Microeconomic Data”, International Economic Journal, 28(1), 37–​69. Zaki, C. (2015). “How Does Trade Facilitation Affect International Trade?”, European Journal of Development Research, 27(1), 156–​185. Zaki, C. (2016). “Employment, Gender and International Trade:  A Micro-​Macro Evidence for Egypt”, Review of Economics and Political Science, 415(3757), 1–​27. Zaki, C., Ehab, M. and Abdallah, A. (2019). “How Do Trade Margins Respond to Exchange Rate? The Case of Egypt”, Journal of African Trade, 6, 60–80.

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13 EGYPT’S FOREIGN DIRECT INVESTMENT REGIME Evolution and limitations Mohammed Mossallam

Introduction The mid-​ 1970s marked the beginning of the neoliberal era in Egypt as President Sadat announced the Infitah (opening) of the Egyptian economy by implementing an economic agenda that aimed to enforce a retreat by the state as an economic actor in favour of private domestic and foreign capital. An integral component of this economic transformation was a new foreign direct investment (FDI) regime which aimed to attract foreign investments through providing a wide range of incentives and privileges to foreign investors while also ensuring limited intervention from the state. It was also in this context that Egypt decided to join the international investment regime by launching its Bilateral Investment Treaty (BIT) network and signing the International Centre for Settlement of Investment Disputes (ICSID) Convention.1 By joining this regime, Egypt committed to providing foreign investors with what later proved to be expansive protections and the right to settle disputes between investors and the state in international arbitration courts. Over the following decades, successive governments identified FDI as a vital component of their economic growth strategies and sought to attract it by continuing to liberalise the FDI regime. However, while policies and legislation focused on creating a favourable environment for foreign investors, governments refrained from introducing measures or regulations to ensure FDI contributed to a national development strategy. Furthermore, the state continued to sign BITs with the aim of enticing foreign investors from capital-​exporting countries without a proper assessment of their potential implications. Despite these extensive efforts to attract FDI, statistics for FDI inflows since the 1970s reveal that except for a few years the volumes of FDI attracted have been relatively low and so does their contribution to the gross domestic product (GDP). Moreover, a closer look at the destination of foreign investments in the Egyptian economy illustrates that they have been concentrated in capital-​intensive sectors of the economy and failed to provide the desired spillovers, whether it is significant employment generation, technological know-​how or other linkages to serve the country’s economic development objectives. In fact, falling short in terms of the quantity and quality of FDI inflows was not the only drawback of Egypt’s measures to 212

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attract FDI. Egypt also became aware of the potency of the BITs that it signed and the threat they posed to its regulatory space when attempts to redress corruption and introduce more progressive economic policies were stifled in the aftermath of the January 2011 revolution. This chapter provides a critical review of Egypt’s FDI regime since the late 1970s, illustrating how legislation and policies adopted have failed to attract FDI in terms of both volume and quality. It will also demonstrate how in its efforts to attract FDI, Egypt has sacrificed its policy space to regulate and how that became particularly evident in the aftermath of the January 2011 revolution.

Launching the neoliberal era Attracting FDI has been a key pillar of Egypt’s economic growth and development strategies since the country commenced its neoliberal shift towards a market-​based economy in the mid-​ 1970s. The foundations of Egypt’s first FDI policy, as well as its engagement with the BITs system, were laid when Egypt adopted the ‘Open Door’ policy. At the time Egypt’s dire economic conditions and desperate need for external funds led the regime to shift its allegiance from the Eastern bloc to the Western bloc of the Cold War. In order to seek capital in the form of aid and investment from the West, Egypt had to accept the conditionalities imposed by the Bretton Woods institutions. These policy conditions entailed the liberalisation of the Egyptian economy with a particular emphasis on liberalising the FDI regime. Accordingly, in 1974, President Sadat initiated the Open Door policy, which aimed at liberalising the Egyptian economy and attracting foreign investment. The main objective of the policy was to set up a framework that would encourage an inflow of capital from the oil-​ rich Gulf countries and the West. A  centrepiece of the Open Door programme was a new investment law, Law No. 43 of 1974, which replaced Law No. 65 of 1971 and was considered the first real comprehensive investment law. The new law’s primary objectives were to expand the types of desired investments and to provide incentives and guarantees beyond those previously afforded to foreign investors. The law provided for the opening of the Egyptian economy to FDI in almost every field. It also extended incentives and guarantees to foreign investment including tax holidays, protection against uncompensated expropriation, capital and profit repatriation, exemptions from labour regulations and granting access to international arbitration if the investor is a party to any international investment treaties that Egypt has signed. In 1989, the government issued a ‘unified investment law’, Law No. 230 of 1989, to replace Law No. 43 of 1974. The new legislation maintained the same framework introduced by the previous law and added more incentives, including additional tax exemptions and reducing restrictions on foreign ownership. During the same period and as part of the liberalisation process, Egypt joined the international investment regime by signing the ICSID Convention on 11 February 1972 (entered into force on 2 June 1972) and concluding the first of its 111 BITs.2 Between 1973 and 1977, Egypt signed 12 BITs, primarily with major European capital exporters (Hussein, 2013).The treaties signed were based on template models with a uniform set of core legally binding investment protection provisions placed on the host country to facilitate the operation of foreign investors. These provisions include non-​discrimination clauses, which typically compel the host state to accord foreign investors no worse treatment than they accord nationals or investors from other states; minimum standards of treatment, providing foreign investors fair and equitable treatment (FET) and other standards under international law, including the principle of ‘full protection and security’; and the prohibition of expropriation unless it is compensated for promptly and efficiently at market value (Mossallem, 2016). Moreover, these treaties also 213

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included binding dispute resolution mechanisms, which compelled host states to be subject to investor state international arbitration, bypassing the option of domestic courts. Many of these agreements also prevent host countries from imposing local content provisions or linking foreign investment to export requirements, as well as guaranteeing uninhibited rights to transfer funds related to an investment (El-​Kady, 2012). While no documents specified signing BITs as one of the conditionalities of international financial institutions (IFI) policy-​based loans, the signing of BITs was consistent with the investment liberalisation reforms required by the funding institutions and donor countries. Indeed, BITs were presented to the Egyptian authorities by capital-​exporting countries as soon as Egypt started showing commitment towards adopting investment and trade liberalisation measures (Mossallam, 2018). The first four BITs Egypt signed during the first few years of the neoliberal era—​Switzerland (1972), Germany (1974), France (1974) and the United Kingdom (1975)—​ were with the very same capital-​exporting countries that Egypt was seeking aid and investment from.3 Furthermore, investment legislation since 1974 has consistently included some of the key protection standards and procedural rights stipulated in the BITs signed by Egypt. Despite these extensive efforts to attract FDI, the wide range of incentives and privileges provided to foreign investors failed to yield significant inflows of foreign investment needed to spur economic growth. The contribution of FDI to Egypt’s GDP was limited to an average of 2.6% throughout the period between 1979 and 1990 (Bahaa El-​Din, 2016). The decision to dismantle the import substitution strategy adopted prior to the Open Door policy also led to structural distortions in the domestic economy. The regime proceeded with trade and investment liberalisation without assisting domestic industries to compete in the global market. Furthermore, this new model interrupted the import substitution strategy before having competitive industrial sectors, which meant that Egypt lost potential benefits of the expansion of international trade. The economic liberalisation measures were not geared towards a strategy of export-​oriented industrialisation, but rather towards a relatively open economy that was quickly de-​industrialising. The share of manufacturing in total investments by both the private and the public sector dropped from 40% in 1967–​1973 to just 19% in 1981–​1991 (Harrigan and El-​Said, 2009). By the late 1980s, major structural imbalances in the Egyptian economy were not only hindering the economic growth but also led to a debt crisis. These included imbalances between government revenue and spending, between savings and investment, imports and exports.

The second wave of investment liberalisation measures under Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment Programme (ERSAP): 1990–​2000 By 1990, Egypt was facing bankruptcy only to be saved by massive debt write-​off by the Paris Club creditors in return for Egypt’s military intervention in the Gulf War (Soliman, 2011). As a prerequisite for the cancellation of the debt and new credit inflows, Egypt had to agree to an ERSAP with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and World Bank. One of the key policy recommendations of this reform programme was the liberalisation of inward FDI and accordingly Egypt continued to sign BITs on the external level and introduced a series of new laws at the domestic level aimed at attracting foreign investments which were consistent with the protection standards in the BITs being signed. Under the ERSAP measures to attract FDI followed the same philosophy adopted under the Open Door policy. Instead of introducing measures to ensure FDI was being directed to productive sectors and requirements to ensure fiscal inducement incentives were linked to economic development goals (e.g. employment and technology transfer), legislation continued 214

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to extend more of the same incentive-​based strategy. In addition to the incentives and guarantees offered in the previous laws, the 1997 Investment Law4 explicitly stipulated that foreign investors would receive the same treatment as that received by domestic investors. This law eliminated restrictions on both foreign ownership of projects or land (except agricultural land) and capital repatriation, and exempted investors from certain labour requirements concerning employment and wages. The law also opened a wide range of sectors where investment was guaranteed automatic approval. Furthermore, despite the fact that BITs signed between 1974 and 1990 had failed to attract investments and unaware of their implications as it would later emerge, Egypt signed over 70 new BITs with no clear vision or strategy as to what the objective behind these treaties was. Despite these continued efforts to appease foreign investors, Egypt was still incapable of attracting significant foreign direct investment inflows. FDI actually declined by almost 70% during the period 1990–​2003,5 and Egypt’s share of FDI inflows into Middle East and North Africa (MENA) also deteriorated, recording an average share of 0.1% during the period 2000–​ 2003 down from an average annual share of around 1% during 1975–​1989 (Massoud, 2003). The implementation of the ERSAP also resulted in a sharp decline in public investment (as part of the austerity measures prescribed), and private investment did not compensate for that drop. Cuts in public investment, which constituted 64% of expenditure cutbacks (Harrigan and El-​Said, 2009), meant that Egypt could not develop its productive sectors to make them more competitive through investments in human capital, technology (research and development [R&D]) and infrastructure.The lack of public investment combined with the type of incentives provided to foreign investors directed FDI towards resource-​based industries (petroleum-​related activities) and low-​tech manufacturing industries as opposed to the desired export-​oriented manufacturing industries that would create more sustainable sources of revenue and employment opportunities. Since adopting the Open Door policy, Egypt has mainly attracted resource and market seeking FDI and has been less successful in attracting export-​oriented FDI outside of the primary sector (UNCTAD, 2006). Historically, the oil and gas sector has received the bulk of FDI inflows,6 while most ‘non-​petroleum FDI’ inflows targeted the manufacturing and service sectors (Hanafy, 2015). Between 1972 and 2009, the manufacturing sector accounted for 44% of total non-​petroleum FDI (Hanafy, 2015); however, a closer look at the structural distribution of FDI inflows into the manufacturing sector reveals that investments have been concentrated in metallic industries, chemicals and food-​processing industries (Massoud, 2006). The concentration of FDI in these sub-​sectors demonstrates how Egypt’s FDI approach led to investments in low-​tech and resource-​based industries, instead of high-​tech (e.g. electronics) and export-​ oriented products (e.g. textiles) as argued above (Massoud, 2006).

January 2011 revolution signals the failure of the neoliberal model and exposes Egypt to the implications of its BITs Undeterred by the failure of the strategy adopted since the 1970s to attract the FDI needed to promote sustainable and inclusive economic growth, Egypt’s first ‘businessmen cabinet’ in 2004 maintained the neoliberal approach to attracting FDI. Amendments to the existing investment legislation were introduced following the same philosophy, and other reforms included establishing a new Ministry of Investment and reorganising the General Authority for Investment and Free Zones (GAFI) to streamline regulations and enhance the government’s capacity to promote FDI in Egypt. It initially seemed like the FDI policies adopted for the past three decades had finally borne fruit as Egypt witnessed unprecedented levels of FDI inflows 215

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accumulating approximately US$50 billion between 2004 and 2010, ranking it amongst the top recipients in the region. Moreover, the International Finance Corporation (private sector arm of the World Bank Group) recognised Egypt as one of the top global reformers in its Doing Business Report in 2007. A closer look at the sectoral distribution of these investments reveals that they were predominantly concentrated in the petroleum sector, as well as acquisitions and the real estate sector. The oil and gas sector accounted for 57% of total FDI inflows between 2006 and 2010, while the financial services sector that was the second highest recipient during that period managed to attract approximately 11% of the total FDI inflows, mainly due to the wave of privatisations that took place between 2006 and 2008.7 Hence, although the regime was finally able to attract significant inflows, the impact on the economy was limited due to the absence of spillover effects. Indeed, the surge in FDI inflows failed to paper over the cracks of Egypt’s deteriorating socio-​economic conditions, leading to a revolution after years of economic policies that failed to promote inclusive and sustainable economic development. Moreover, the surge in FDI proved temporary as after peaking in 2007, it began to retreat again, mainly due to the global financial crisis.8 One of the main triggers that led to the January 2011 revolution was the economic liberalisation policies implemented over the past several decades, which provided the conditions for both the emergence of a capitalist oligarchy within the regime and an unprecedented rise in socio-​economic inequality in society at large (Roccu, 2013). FDI policies focused on creating a favourable environment for foreign investors in the absence of government measures, policies and regulations needed to ensure FDI contributed to inclusive development or was part of a national development strategy (El-​Kady, 2012). Moreover, the benefits to the national economy were limited as FDI failed to promote sufficient economic growth to improve income distribution and lower poverty levels (Kheir-​El-​Din and El-​Laithy, 2006). Furthermore, rapid deregulation, liberalisation and privatisation efforts aimed at increasing FDI inflows also paved the way for rampant corruption (El-​Kady, 2012). In the 1990s, a privatisation programme which was part of an IMF-​sponsored ERSAP was implemented. Several public institutions were privatised either through outright sale or government partnerships with private investors. This process lacked both transparency and anti-​corruption control measures as government officials regularly undervalued state-​owned assets and sold these to foreign and domestic investors for a fraction of their market values as revealed by the court rulings post-​ 2011 (Hazzaa and Kumpf, 2015). Accordingly, the beneficiaries of FDI and economic policies during that era were mainly the higher-​income segments of the population and the class of crony capitalists close to the regime. A common feature of authoritarian regimes is that economic benefits, including investment opportunities, are distributed through networks of patronage and cronyism (Bonnitcha, 2014). Consequently, in the event of a revolution or a transition to a new regime, there may be demands for the reclamation of public funds and assets as well as the introduction of more progressive economic and social policies to achieve a more equitable sharing of these economic benefits. This was precisely the situation in Egypt post-​January 2011 before the state realised that in many respects the bilateral investment treaties it signed do not provide sufficient flexibility to incoming regimes as they preclude various options for redistribution and reform (Mossallam, 2018). Egypt’s experience post-​2011 was consistent with the results of a study conducted on 114 developing countries which concluded that BITs could directly reduce host government incentive and ability to implement redistributive policies (Bodea and Ye, 2017). By enabling investors to challenge efforts to introduce progressive economic and social policies,

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BITs tend to indirectly lock-​in initial favourable policies to foreign investors in the fields of taxes, welfare spending and labour practices and constrain the future policy improvements in these fields (Bodea and Ye, 2017). The rest of this chapter demonstrates how Egypt’s decision not to address or reform its BITs when it began to realise their implications at the beginning of the millennium was a costly mistake as BITs restricted the state’s regulatory space post-​2011, as will be illustrated further in terms of both theory and practice.

BITs ‘bite’: Egypt’s first realisation of the negative implications of BITs When Egypt started signing BITs, its legal and political implications were far from clear. For developing countries, in particular, there was a perceived need to sign BITs in order to remain competitive as a destination for FDI and to conform to the norm that signing BITs was in line with the model ‘reform-​minded economy’ during that era (Jandhyala et al., 2011). In most instances, Egypt’s BITs involved minimal negotiations and preparations before they were signed and were usually entirely drafted by the foreign partner (capital exporter) with minimal, if any, contributions by the Egyptian side (Mossallam, 2018). Egypt had no model BIT before 2007; in fact, until 2006, there was no specific institution responsible for negotiating BITs, which meant that BITs were randomly signed by different authorities or ministries with no clear criteria or mandate. BITs were often signed during diplomatic missions to signal interest in developing economic relations and hence were being treated like they were memorandums of understanding and not as treaties that had binding economic and legal implications (Mossallam, 2018). Egypt only started to realise that BITs ‘bite’ and hence grasped the legal and political implications when it started facing treaty-​based arbitration cases from the late 1990s. Between 1998 and 2011, Egypt faced 11 arbitration cases and while they were relatively successful winning 7 cases, they lost 3 cases and incurred compensation awards worth more than US$100 million (excluding legal expenses and compounded interest fees). One case, in particular, rang the alarm bells, namely, the controversial Siag v. Egypt case9 filed in ICSID in 2005, both due to the size of compensation awarded (US$74 million10) and the manner in which one of the claimants was able to circumvent the rule under the ICSID convention that prohibits individuals from pursuing arbitration against their own state (Mossallam, 2018). Egypt’s introduction to arbitration coincided with the general trend of growing treaty-​based arbitration cases globally. BIT-​based investor–​state disputes (ISDS) had only 37 cases recorded between 1990 and 1999, compared to 408 cases recorded between 2000 and 2011. It was not until they were targeted in dispute settlement claims that most governments quickly began to take the legal consequences of BIT obligations seriously (Poulsen and Aisbett, 2013). Several reasons were cited to explain the growing criticism against BITs and the investor–​state dispute settlement (ISDS) system since 2002. In addition to the rise in ISDS cases and their financial burden, arbitral awards demonstrated that tribunals disagreed on the interpretation of BIT clauses, resulting in inconsistent awards, leading critics to question the credibility of the process. The fact that defendant states could not appeal these awards also generated a lack of trust in the system (El-​Kady, 2013). More significantly, the impact the ISDS system has on a country’s right to regulate critical public policies –​as investment disputes between foreign investors and host state –​-​covered an extensive range of regulatory measures, such as environmental policy, regulating privatisations, regulatory measures related to supply of drinking water, urban policy, monetary policy, taxations policies, energy, public postal services and electricity services. Moreover,

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there have been cases in which tribunals have arbitrated over the actions of the judiciary in the host states. Another dimension of the relationship between investment treaties and regulatory power that has been revealed is the ‘regulatory chill’ effect of the threat of arbitration through BITs. As stated by United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) in the World Investment Report of 2003, the right to regulate is the sovereign prerogative of a country arising from the control over its own territory (UNCTAD, 2003). Nevertheless, BITs require countries to exercise this sovereign right in accordance with their obligations for the protection of foreign investors. As a result of this confrontation, one hypothesis reached on the relationship between investment treaties and a host country’s regulatory power is that once signed investment treaties such as BITs result in ‘regulatory chill’ in the host state (Tienhaara, 2009). According to this argument, a host country does not exercise its regulatory power because it realises that its regulations may violate the investment treaty for which it can be sued by the investor, hence resulting in a ‘chilling effect’ (Bonnitcha, 2011). It was not only the threats of BITs that were causing concern but also the validity of some of the benefits claimed to be associated with signing these BITs. One of the benefits being questioned is the effectiveness of BITs in attracting FDI. Various studies have analysed the impact of BITs on FDI flows, and the results have been inconclusive.11 This uncertainty about the merits of BITs as FDI attraction tools has led countries to question the trade-​off between restricting policy space and increasing exposure to ISDS with the promise of increased FDI flows as a result of treaty protection. During the first decade of the new millennium, governments gained a much better understanding of the costs and benefits associated with BITs, and many were re-​evaluating the previously unchallenged assumption that the economic benefits outweigh the loss of policy space (Sornarajah, 2010). Countries started to realise that BITs increasingly regulate a wider variety of economic sectors and touch on several activities in host countries in a far-​reaching manner while excluding safeguard provisions dealing with public policy issues (UNCTAD, 2007). Broader implications of BITs provisions were initially unaccounted for as BITs were seen as signals for a safe investment climate. However, BITs have emerged as a threat to the national policy space to regulate, and to public budgets through increasingly high costs for arbitration purposes (Van der Pas et al., 2015). Accordingly, over the past two decades, there has been an active response by both developed and developing countries to deal with the threat posed by BITs. Some developed countries have taken action to limit the expansive interpretations of investor protection clauses by amending their BITs (e.g. the USA and Canada) and others have unilaterally decided to limit their exposure to ISDS (e.g. Australia). Moreover, another telling development amongst treaty negotiations between developed countries was how ISDS provisions were a major stumbling in the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership (TTIP) negotiations. Developing countries, on the other hand, have had much more limited bargaining power when making/​negotiating such amendments. Nevertheless, the gravity of threats posed by these treaties has led to a growing momentum amongst countries of the South to protect their sovereign right to regulate. In Latin America, Bolivia, Ecuador and Venezuela have decided to effectively terminate all or some of their BITs and denounce the ICSID convention. In Africa, South Africa decided not to renew its BITs, as part of the country’s broader move to reshape its investment policy as per its objectives of sustainable development and inclusive economic growth; and to regulate FDI through a national framework after adopting the new Investment Act. In Asia, both India and Indonesia have decided to terminate their existing treaties and replace with new BITs based on their model BIT. 218

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Egypt resisting the tides of change Despite the clear warning signals and the urgency shown by other developing countries to limit the threat posed by BITs by either amending or replacing their existing treaties, Egypt’s response was to conduct a review of their BITs that was followed by a model BIT for future treaties, while leaving their existing treaties untouched. As a result of its experience with arbitration cases and in line with the growing trend at the time, Egypt conducted a review of its BITs in 2006. After more than three decades since Egypt signed its first BIT, a decree was issued in 2006 that assigned GAFI as the entity responsible for managing these treaties. Later that year GAFI engaged with UNCTAD to conduct a review of its BITs network. The review was far from comprehensive compared to similar exercises completed by other developing countries such as South Africa. Nevertheless, the review clearly revealed a lack of consistency in the content of the BITs signed and the absence of a link between the content of the treaties and Egypt’s economic objectives or priorities. This was the result of the ‘dominance of the political objectives over the economic ones during the processes of negotiation and signature’ (GAFI, 2012). The review also concluded that there was a state of imbalance that characterised many BITs in favour of the foreign investors at the expense of the host country, deviating from one of the essential objectives stipulated in treaty preambles concerning the contribution to the economic development of its contracting parties (GAFI, 2012). Despite being one of the main motivations behind signing these BITs, no evidence proving any causal relationship or even correlation between BITs and FDI was found during the review (GAFI, 2012). As a result of the review, GAFI recognised that Egypt needed to draft a new model BIT to be able to enforce its sovereign right as a host state to regulate FDI in order to ensure it contributes to achieving sustainable development, as well as the need to maintain the policy space necessary to achieve national social and economic objectives (GAFI, 2012). In practice, however, unlike the examples of responses by other developing countries, the changes in the 2007 model BIT were mild, leaving the most controversial clauses unchanged. More importantly, this BIT model was not used to attempt to renegotiate any of the existing treaties, leaving Egypt dangerously exposed to what are now publicly known and widely acknowledged threats to its sovereignty to legislate and regulate its economy (Mossallam, 2018). This decision to refrain from addressing the existing treaties returned to haunt Egypt in the aftermath of the January 2011 revolution. Post-​2011 the Egyptian regime realised that BITs may not only lead to the loss of policy space but also impede efforts to devise new investment policies and regulations needed to address specific development objectives, including legitimate public policy interventions aimed at combating corruption, creating jobs and addressing social imbalances (El-​Kady, 2012). The next section demonstrates how BITs restricted Egypt’s regulatory space post-​2011.

BITs restricting Egypt’s regulatory space post-​2011: Theory and practice Post-​2011, the main regulatory concern stemmed from the impact of BITs on the ability of Egypt to regulate the economy in line with its efforts to reform the failed economic liberalisation policies of the ousted regime. Another major concern was the extent to which these treaties will allow Egypt to take measures to combat corruption when it involves deals between foreign investors and the previous regime.The substantive protection clauses in BITs come with limited safeguards to allow host country governments to regulate in order to protect the public interest. This section will focus on the extensive nature of some of the substantive provisions in BITs and how they empower foreign investors. Two of the most problematic clauses, FET 219

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and expropriation, will be addressed, and some of the other substantive protections that have implications on the regulatory space of the Egyptian government will also be touched upon.

Fair and equitable treatment A significant challenge faced by Egyptian governments post-​2011 is what is termed as ‘legitimate expectations’ of foreign investors arising from previous government policies and measures to attract investment before the revolution (El-​Kady, 2012). Arbitration tribunals have consistently identified these expectations as a critical aspect of FET standard found in BITs (UNCTAD, 2012). FET is considered to be one of the most important substantive protection clauses contained in BITs (Bonnitcha, 2014; Dolzer and Schreuer, 2012, p. 133; Newcombe and Paradell, 2009, p. 255), as it provides the most extensive rights and has permitted investors to bring disputes against a wide range of government activities that can affect their investments.12 Furthermore, the FET provision has the best record for successful claims by foreign investors (Dolzer and Schreuer, 2012, p. 130). In practice, it is difficult to predict when the actions of a government will breach the FET standard. The wording of the clause itself typically gives no detailed guidance, and tribunals considering this obligation have delivered widely differing interpretations, with some tribunals interpreting the FET standard as a guarantee against all significant changes to the laws and policies governing a foreign investment (Bonnitcha, 2014). This concept is particularly important in times of political and social change and uncertainty (El-​Kady, 2012). As El-​Kady (2012, p. 6) argued, the ‘legitimate expectations’ of foreign investors under FET reduced the ability of the Egyptian government to implement new FDI-​ related policies without increasing the risks of breaching the clause, even if those measures are implemented to serve legitimate public purposes. Accordingly, this posed a serious challenge to Egyptian policymakers who were expected to intervene in the economy and introduce regulatory changes to pursue economic and social justice by ensuring that FDI serves a national development strategy that creates more jobs, contributes to fairer income distribution and develops local sectors/​industries (El-​Kady, 2012). The FET standard has triggered several investment claims against Egypt and in this particular context, that is, post-​2011, one example of a claim triggered by the incoming Egyptian government’s efforts to redress the economic policies of the previous regime (Bonnitcha, 2014), and introduce progressive economic policies, is the Veolia v. Egypt (2012) case.13 French multinational Veolia had an ICSID arbitration claim for €82  million registered against Egypt in 2012.Veolia signed a contract in 2001 for waste management in Alexandria. However, the 15-​ year contract was terminated early in 2011as a result of a series of disputes between the local authority and Veolia (Peterson, 2012). One of the main issues in this dispute was the company’s demand to be compensated for changes to local labour laws, which include an increase in minimum wages (Peterson, 2012).The company contended that provisions in the contract between the authority and company stipulated that the authority should compensate the company for financial implications of such changes in legislation (Peterson, 2012). More importantly, the FET standard can also be considered as one of the main drivers of the regulatory chill effect as it threatens any new regulatory measures that may affect the profitability or interests of foreign investors (Mossallam, 2018).

Expropriation As currently drafted, Egypt’s BITs do not allow scope for an incoming regime to renationalise foreign investments or cancel concessions, except on payment of full market value compensation. 220

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The protection extends to investments acquired from the host state in a transaction that was not at arm’s length or acquired at a price that is significantly below their market value (Bonnitcha, 2014). Furthermore, these investments would be entitled to full market value compensation, as the principle of full market value compensation does not allow a tribunal to adjust compensation to reflect the circumstances in which investment was originally acquired (Bonnitcha, 2014). As Bonnitcha (2014, p. 985) noted, this raises concerns over the fairness of the application of these investment treaties for countries in transition. He further elaborated that by granting foreign investors a right to full market value compensation, even if they were originally acquired for a small fraction of their market value from the previous regime, these treaties ‘restrict the ability of an incoming regime to recover assets transferred to associates of the authoritarian regime, and to engage in more radical forms of redistribution’ (Bonnitcha, 2014, p. 1008). Egypt’s experience post-​2011 is a case in point as the Mubarak legacy of corruption led to efforts by incoming regimes to recover public assets that were privatised or acquired by investors at rates that were significantly below their market value (Mossallam, 2018). Egyptian courts issued at least 11 rulings in the few years following the revolution and more than a dozen lawsuits followed. These court decisions ordered the state to reverse deals signed by the former president’s administration (Fick, 2013). Such deals included privatisations as well as concessions and acquisitions of public assets by foreign investors.14 The decision by the state to implement the court rulings triggered several treaty-​based and commercial arbitration cases. Eventually, the threat of these cases led the state to back down from its efforts to recover these assets and instead resort to settlements in order to appease foreign investors and avoid arbitration.15

Other substantive clauses and limitations by BITs Although FET and expropriation are the most debated clauses in BITs, there are a number of other substantive clauses and definitions in BITs that significantly limit a host country’s ability to regulate. For example, the definition of ‘investment’ found in the original Egyptian BITs covers ‘every kind of asset’ or ‘any kind of asset’. This broad definition allows investments and/​ or assets that have no benefit to the Egyptian economy to enjoy the same protection offered to productive investments (El-​Kady, 2012). BITs also restrict the government’s ability to regulate capital flows in cases of balance of payments difficulties or other economic crises (El-​Kady, 2012). Moreover, the free transfer of funds provision found in most of the Egyptian BITs gives foreign investors the right to transfer funds, profits and any returns related to an investment back to their parent countries without delay. This right was a crucial problem with severe consequences when Egypt experienced substantial capital flight following the revolution in 2011, which resulted in depleting its foreign reserves. During 2011 and 2012, capital flight reached US$12.8 billion from the government’s treasury bill market, the stock market and the banking system (Ministry of Finance, 2015). Efforts by the government to support nascent domestic industries or small and medium enterprises would also likely breach the national treatment standards in BITs that oblige the government to provide the same benefits to foreign investors regardless of the fact that they may have much greater financial or technical capacity (Ministry of Finance, 2015). Furthermore, BITs also include clauses that prevent the imposition of performance requirements on foreign investors.

Arbitration costs and the regulatory chill effect Egypt has faced 23 new investment treaty-​based arbitration cases since 2011, increasing the total number of cases to 34 and making it one of the top five countries in the world when it comes 221

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to the number of investment arbitration cases faced as a host state.16 Of these 23 cases, the state has lost 3cases, won 2 cases and settled 10 cases. The remaining eight cases are pending. To provide a glimpse of the size of the financial burden these cases have on the public budget of the state, it is worth noting that Egypt paid approximately US$164 million for only three of the ten settled cases.17 In one of the three cases Egypt has lost, the tribunal has ordered the state to pay the investor approximately US$2 billion in compensation.18 In the remaining two, the tribunals have yet to determine the compensation to be paid by the state to the investors, but the damages claimed by the investors exceed US$1.7 billion.19 Post-​revolution promises to unwind the Mubarak-​era FDI policies and hold investors implicated in deals that involved embezzlement of public funds or assets accountable were short-​lived. After realising the extensive nature of the substantive provisions of BITs and how they can constrain the state’s sovereignty to regulate for the public interest, successive governments that took office refrained from introducing any new FDI regulatory measures that could trouble foreign investors (e.g. progressive taxation and minimum wage). Instead of considering the need to amend or replace these BITs, governments have ensured that any new investment policies or legislations mirrored to a large extent both the incentives granted during Mubarak’s rule and the expansive protection standards provided in Egypt’s BITs. Up to this point, we can consider Egypt’s experience as a classic example of the ‘regulatory chill’ effect explained earlier in this chapter. However, Egyptian authorities have gone a step further by introducing new legislation to provide protection that goes above and beyond what is provided in BITs (Mossallam, 2018). In 2012, the transitional government issued Law 4/​ 2012, creating an extra-​judicial committee to resolve cases of embezzlement and undermining the ability of Egypt’s courts to hold investors accountable (Joya, 2017). This shifts the responsibility to seek reconciliation with investors from the judiciary to the GAFI, de facto denying courts’ jurisdiction over cases of corruption, theft and embezzlement of public funds involving any investor.20 In 2014, the Egyptian government proposed a sweeping ban on third-​party litigation through Law 32/​2014 limiting the right to challenge the validity of government contracts to the parties and creditors only (Hazzaa and Kumpf, 2015). In defence of this law, the government cited the negative impact on investments, the high probability of losing investment arbitration claims as well as exposure to substantial financial obligations as a result of the domestic court decisions (Hazzaa and Kumpf, 2015). As Hazzaa and Kumpf (2015) explain, in doing so the government has blocked a venue the public utilised to respond to institutionalised and widespread corruption and has also foreclosed the courts’ review power in the name of foreign investment. These measures to protect investors from any domestic judiciary oversight were complemented with several dispute settlement committees in a desperate attempt to avoid international arbitration. As of the latest investment law, there are three committees.21 Several cases have been settled, but with the lack of transparency over the terms of settlements and the lack of accountability on the financial settlements agreed and compromises made, it becomes almost impossible to assess if they served the public interest.

Maintaining the status quo post-​2011 This chapter has demonstrated how Egypt’s FDI policy since the 1970s has had a detrimental effect on its economic development. The incentive-​based strategy adopted in domestic legislation and in the absence of regulatory measures to ensure FDI inflows contributed to sustainable and inclusive economic development has led to ensuring that investors have captured benefits

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of these inflows at the expense of the host economy. Moreover, the decision to sign over 100 BITs without a proper assessment of their implications has led to precluding the new regime’s ability to reclaim the national policy regulatory space necessary to reform the FDI regime in place, redress the legacy of corruption inherited and introduce progressive social and economic policies post-​2011. Investment legislation post-​ 2011 has continued to offer the same type of fiscal-​ based incentives as well as other privileges and exemptions without introducing obligations on investors to establish conditions where FDI could achieve the host country’s development objectives. Despite publicly criticising the unbalanced nature of the existing BITs in multilateral forums by stating that they ‘favour the protection of foreign investors at the expense of the legitimate rights of the host countries in the regulation and treatment of foreign investments in accordance with the right to achieve sustainable economic development’ (GAFI, 2016), successive governments that have taken office have refrained from amending or replacing the existing treaties. Instead, two new model BITs have been issued and both only introduced incremental reforms. Furthermore, after backtracking on introducing new progressive policies and reconciling with investors who were charged for corruption in privatisation and other commercial deals under the threat of arbitration cases, Egypt represented a classic example of the regulatory chill effect BITs can have on host states. Indeed, Egyptian authorities have gone a step further by introducing new legislation to provide protection that goes above and beyond what is already provided in BITs. Ironically, however, what has been confirmed to a large extent is that all these measures to appease foreign investors and remain loyal to BITs have had no notable effect on improving FDI inflows and, more importantly, have not stopped the growing number of new investment arbitration cases as there have been at least eight new cases since 2016 (Mossallam, 2018).

Conclusion Over the past decade, a broad international consensus has been emerged regarding the need for a more balanced approach to FDI promotion and protection. On the national level, reforms included introducing new models of investment laws to replace incentive-​based strategies with sustainability-​based incentives, aiming to promote investment in relevant sectors and condition upon their sustainable development contribution (UNCTAD, 2015). Reform initiatives emerging from multilateral organisations, academics and NGOs have also included calls for provisions that ensure selective liberalisation by host countries through incorporating exceptions and reservations in domestic legislation designed to protect a country from overcommitting and to enable them to safeguard their domestic industries (UNCTAD, 2015). At the international level, there has been a growing awareness regarding the threat posed by BITs to the national regulatory space of developing countries. Multilateral organisations like UNCTAD have been vocal about the need to reform these treaties after acknowledging that investment treaties have placed limits on host countries’ sovereignty in domestic policymaking (UNCTAD, 2015). An increasing number of developing countries have reacted to replace their BITs with new BITs or domestic legislation amending or excluding provisions that provide expansive protection to investors and including safeguards to ensure a balance between protection commitments and national policy space to regulate in the public interest. To date, Egypt has refrained from introducing substantial reforms to its domestic legislation and international investment treaties in line with the above. Consequently, efforts to attract FDI have continued to hinder rather than support Egypt’s economic development efforts.

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Notes 1 The ICSID Convention is a multilateral treaty formulated by the Executive Directors of the World Bank to further the Bank’s objective of promoting international investment. ICSID is an international arbitration institution established in 1966 by the Convention for legal dispute resolution and conciliation between international investors. 2 Egypt is ranked as one of the top six countries in the world in terms of the number of BITs signed. 3 The British BIT, for instance, was introduced in connection with other agreements, one of which was a credit arrangement to finance British participation in Egyptian development projects worth £40 million.This agreement was considered important for the Egyptian party and facilitated the negotiation of the treaty by providing a ‘helpful background’ (see Poulsen, 2017, pp. 64–​65). 4 Law No. 8 of 1997. 5 Data sourced from the World Bank’s World Development Indicators’ database. 6 According to GAFI, the oil and gas sector accounted for around 30% of the total FDI stock by 2004 (see Massoud, 2006). 7 Data sourced from the Central Bank of Egypt and Kamaly (2011). 8 In 2009 Egypt’s FDI inflows dropped by 30% which was in line with the 37% drop in global FDI that year (UNCTAD, 2010). 9 Waguih Elie George Siag and Clorinda Vecchi v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​05/​15. The claim was regarding the expropriation of a commercial real estate venture by the Egyptian authorities. 10 The award rose to US$127 million when compound interest dating to 1996 was added. In addition, Egypt had to reimburse the claimants for their legal costs and expenses: a sum amounting to US$6 million. 11 For a summary of these studies, see Bonnitcha et al. (2017). 12 These measures include withdrawal of tax exemptions, requirements to source raw materials from local sources and environmental regulations. 13 Veolia Propreté v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​12/​15. 14 Including land, public companies and factories. 15 The Indorama v. Egypt (2011) case is an example of an arbitration case in which an investor challenged efforts to combat corruption by the domestic judiciary system through a BIT (see Indorama International Finance Limited v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​11/​32). The Damac v. Egypt (2011) and Utsch v. Egypt (2013) cases are both examples of cases where the investments involve allegations that they were not acquired through an arm’s length transaction and that the price paid was significantly below the fair market value. Both also included criminal convictions against the investors but ended up eventually being settled out of court (see Hussain Sajwani, Damac Park Avenue for Real Estate Development S.A.E., and Damac Gamsha Bay for Development S.A.E. v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​11/​16; and Utsch M.O.V.E.R.S. International GmbH, Erich Utsch Aktiengesellschaft, and Mr Helmut Jungbluth v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​13/​37). 16 See UNCTAD. International Investment Agreements Navigator. Available at: https://​investmentpolicy. unctad.org/​investment-​dispute-​settlement?id=458&name=veolia-​v-​egypt 17 The three cases for which the settlement amounts were publicly disclosed are Indorama International Finance Limited v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​11/​32; ASA International S.p.A. v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​13/​23; and ArcelorMittal S.A. v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​15/​47. 18 Unión Fenosa Gas, S.A. v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​14/​4. 19 The two other cases that Egypt has lost post-​2011 are Ampal-​American Israel Corp., EGI-​Fund (08–​10) Investors LLC, EGI-​Series Investments LLC, BSS-​EMG Investors LLC and David Fischer v. Arab Republic of Egypt, ICSID, Case No. ARB/​12/​11, and Yosef Maiman, Merhav (MNF), Merhav-​Ampal Group, Merhav-​ Ampal Energy Holdings v. Arab Republic of Egypt, PCA, Case No. 2012/​26. 20 See Articles 7 (bis) and 66 (bis) of Law No. 4 of 2012. Egyptian Official Gazette and Khalil et al. (2015). 21 The Complaint Committee, the Committee for Settlement of Investment Contract Disputes and the Committee for Resolution of Investment Disputes.

References Bahaa El-​Din, Z., 2016. ‘Egypt’s Economic Crises: The Way Out and Possible Solutions Alternative Vision for Investment Legislations Reform. Alternative Vision for Investment Legislations Reform’, The Egyptian Center for Economic Studies (ECES), Cairo.

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Mohammed Mossallam Peterson, L.E., 2012. ‘French Company, Veolia, Launches Claim against Egypt over Terminated Waste Contract and Labor Wage Stabilization Promises’, Invest. Arbitr. Report. www.iareporter.com/​articles/​french-​company-​veolialaunches-​claim-​against-​egypt-​over-​terminated-​waste-​contract-​and-​ laborwage-​stabilization-​promises/​ (accessed 10 December 2019). Poulsen, L.N.S., 2017. Bounded Rationality and Economic Diplomacy:  The Politics of Investment Treaties in Developing Countries, first ppb. edn. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Poulsen, L.N.S., Aisbett, E., 2013. ‘When the Claim Hits:  Bilateral Investment Treaties and Bounded Rational Learning’, World Polit. 65, 273–​313. https://​doi.org/​10.1017/​S0043887113000063 Roccu, R., 2013. ‘The Egyptian Way to Neoliberalism? IMF, World Bank and Reforms in Egypt’, in The Political Economy of the Egyptian Revolution: Mubarak, Economic Reforms and Failed Hegemony. Palgrave Pivot, London, pp. 38–​56. https://​doi.org/​10.1057/​9781137395924_​3 Soliman, S., 2011. The Autumn of Dictatorship:  Fiscal Crisis and Political Change in Egypt under Mubarak, Stanford Studies in Middle Eastern and I. Stanford University Press, Stanford. Sornarajah, M., 2010. The International Law on Foreign Investment, 3rd edn. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Tienhaara, K., 2009. The Expropriation of Environmental Governance: Protecting Foreign Investors at the Expense of Public Policy, 1st edn. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. UNCTAD, 2003. ‘FDI Policies for Development:  National and International Perspectives’, World Investment Report. United Nations, New York. UNCTAD, 2006. ‘Investment Policy Review: Egypt’, United Nations Conference on Trade and Development, New York, Geneva. UNCTAD, 2007. ‘Bilateral Investment Treaties 1995–​2006: Trends in Investment Rulemaking’, United Nations, New York. UNCTAD, 2010. ‘Investing in a Low-​Carbon Economy’, World Investment Report. United Nations, New York. UNCTAD, 2012. ‘Fair and Equitable Treatment’, UNCTAD series on issues in international investment agreements II, United Nations, New York. UNCTAD, 2015. ‘Reforming International Investment Governance’, World Investment Report, United Nations, New York. Van der Pas, H., Vervest, P., Knottnerus, R., van Os, R., 2015. ‘Socialising Losses, Privatising Gains: How Dutch Investment Treaties Harm the Public Interest’, Transnational Institute, SOMO, Both Ends and Milieu Defensie, Amsterdam

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14 THE POLITICAL ECONOMY OF WORKERS’ REMITTANCES IN EGYPT Ayman Zohry

Introduction Historically, Egypt was a land of immigrants, not emigrants—​a receiving rather than a sending country. Egypt has been an area of international migration (migration from the eastern and the north-​eastern Mediterranean countries to Egypt). In the past, foreigners were coming to Egypt while Egyptians rarely migrated abroad till the mid-​1950s.The Egyptian revolution led by Nasser (1952) that overthrew the monarchy on July 23, the creation of Israel (1948), and the independence of Egypt from British colonization (1956) made the boundary between two phases in the Egyptian history with the sharp decline in non-​Egyptian immigrants (Zohry, 2019). Emigration from Egypt started in the late 1960s mainly for economic, and also for political reasons, with the large majority of the emigrants going to the Gulf states. As early as the 1970s, the Egyptian state came to regard emigration as a means of easing pressure on the Egyptian labor market. From the 1980s onward, migration has also become a tool for development. The state further eased migration procedures to increase remittances necessary to supply payment deficits—​a strategy that was successful. Remittances are among Egypt’s largest sources of foreign currency. Remittances have long been in the focus of attention of studies dealing with the relationship between migration and development, both theoretically and empirically. Such flows of wealth are important not only to the sending country but also to the families of migrants (Caldwell, 1969). However, research is divided regarding the effects of remittances. A study by de Haas (2003) on migration and development in Southern Morocco indicated the importance of migration in enabling livelihood diversification among households through remittances of Moroccan laborers who work in other Moroccan cities or abroad. However, there is also some evidence that remittances have little effect on the structural development of sending countries. Moreover, migration also has an impact on the sociocultural development of sending countries—​an aspect less studied in the literature in general (see, e.g., Brinks and Sinclair, 1980; Brink, 1991; Levitt, 1998; Sørensen, 2007) and also with regard to Egypt. Egypt is one of the top 20 recipient countries of remittances worldwide and the top Arab country in terms of expatriate remittances.

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Organization of the chapter This chapter aims at exploring the economic impact of remittances at both macro-​and microlevels. The rest of the chapter is organized as follows. In the next section, I will first look at the factors that have led to emigration from Egypt from the late 1960s onward. Then, I will briefly describe Egypt’s migration history and the Egyptian emigrant population. With this knowledge in mind, I will look at the impact of migration on development in Egypt, focusing in particular on the size and impact of remittances, and also taking into account the effects on the Egyptian labor market, including brain drain, and the changes in society and culture brought about by migration, as far as this is possible based on existing research.

Demography, labor market, and development Demography Push factors of Egyptian emigration were economic difficulties, high rates of population growth and the political climate in the second half of the 20th century. Rapid population growth is one of the crucial problems that have hindered development efforts in Egypt. While Egypt’s population doubled from 9.7 million to 19 million in 50 years (between 1897 and 1947), the next doubling to 38 million people took less than 30 years (from 1947 to 1976). Since then, the population size has almost doubled again, totaling 95.5 million in 2017. This observation can be explained by a considerable increase in life expectancy at birth from 49.3 to 72.3 years and a decrease in infant mortality from 154.7 to 25.9 (per 1,000 live births) between 1970 and 2010. The annual population growth rate has increased from 1.5% at the beginning of the 20th century to a maximum of 2.8% between 1975 and 1985. However, from 1970 to 2010, the fertility rate fell from 6.0 to 3.4 live births per woman, pushing the growth rate down to around 2.0% in the period 2000–​2010 (Table 14.1).However, due to the population momentum, Egypt will continue to suffer from the consequences of high fertility in the past. The eco effect of births occurred 15–​30 years ago represents the generation of youth that is now taking on adult roles, including childbearing, which represents a high pressure on education and health services (Kraft & Assad, 2014). Egypt’s rapid population growth is further complicated by the fact that its cultivable land is extremely scarce relative to the size of its population. Over 90% of Egypt’s population is concentrated on the narrow ribbon, which follows the course of the Nile and represents only about 5% of the total land area of 1,000,000 square kilometers.

Table 14.1  Egyptian population growth, 1970–​2020 Year

1970

1980

1990

2000

2010

2020

Mid-​year population (millions) Population growth rate (annual %) Total fertility rate (live births per woman) Life expectancy at birth (years) Infant mortality rate

35.1 2.23 6.00 53.0 165

44.1 2.59 5.49 59.9 107

57.4 2.08 4.12 65.4 60

69.9 1.88 3.15 69.0 29

84.1 2.18 3.38 70.8 19

102.9 1.59 2.96 72.6 13

Source: Compiled by the author from United Nations (2019) World Population Prospects 2019, Population Division, https://​population.un.org/​wpp/​ (accessed 13 September 2019).

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The Egyptian labor force This section presents a brief analysis of the Egyptian labor market, which can give indications about potential migration flows. Egypt has been a major country of origin of migrant workers since the 1970s.Among the factors that contributed to this trend include unemployment, underemployment, low wages, and increasing poverty.These push factors were met with demand from countries with demographic deficit, shortage of specific skills, as well as demand for particular occupations and sectors that were not occupied by nationals in the Arab/​Persian Gulf region. The review of information provided in Table 14.2 reveals that the volume of Egyptian labor force increased from 27.6 million in 2013 to 29.5 million in 2017, and then it decreased to 28.9 million in 2018. The unexpected decrease of the labor force is mainly attributed to the decrease in female participation in the labor force, from 7 million in 2017 to 6 million in 2018. Given the fact that no dramatic change has occurred regarding woman status in 2018, this decrease remains unexplained. However, the effect of bushing this large number of females out of the labor force may affect the livelihood of their families negatively. Despite the decreasing trend of unemployment rate, the absolute number of unemployed persons remained constant between 2013 and 2017, at a level of about 3.6 million unemployed persons. The number of unemployed persons in 2018 dropped to 2.8 million. Associated with rapid population growth is a high level of unemployment. As for the unemployment rate, the latest statistics show a continued decrease in unemployment, although at a slower pace between 2013 and 2016, from 13.2% in 2013 to 12.5% in 2016. Thus, the unemployment rate afterward decreased sharply from to 9.9% in 2018. The decrease of unemployment rate, especially in the last three years, may be attributed in part to the governmental construction boom and the need for labor force to work temporarily in these projects. Table 14.2  Labor force, labor force participation rate, employment, unemployment (in millions), and unemployment rates in Egypt (2013–​2018) Variables

Labor force

Labor force participation rate

Employment

Unemployment

Unemployment rate (%)

Sex

Male Female Total Male Female Total Male Female Total Male Female Total Male Female Total

Year 2013

2014

2015

2016

2017

2018

21.2 6.5 27.6 66.2 17.4 42.1 19.1 4.9 24.0 2.1 1.6 3.6 9.8 24.2 13.2

21.3 6.6 27.9 65.4 17.5 41.8 19.3 5.0 24.3 2.1 1.6 3.6 9.6 24.0 13.0

21.7 6.7 28.4 63.9 17.0 40.8 19.7 5.1 24.8 2.0 1.6 3.7 9.4 24.2 12.8

21.9 7.0 28.9 63.4 17.5 40.8 20.0 5.3 25.3 1.9 1.7 3.6 8.9 23.6 12.5

22.5 7.0 29.5 61.3 16.9 39.7 20.6 5.4 26.0 1.9 1.6 3.5 8.2 23.1 11.8

22.8 6.0 28.9 63.0 14.4 39.0 21.3 4.7 26.0 1.6 1.3 2.8 6.8 21.4 9.9

Source: CAPMAS (2019a) Annual Bulletin of Labor Force 2018, CAPMAS, Cairo.

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Ayman Zohry Table 14.3  Unemployment rates among youth (15–​29 years) by sex in Egypt (2013–​2018) Year

2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018

Sex

Total

Males

Females

21.2 20.6 21.8 21.0 20.0 15.9

48.6 44.0 38.5 36.6 36.5 45.7

28.2 26.5 26.1 25.6 24.8 22.5

Source: CAPMAS (2019a) Annual Bulletin of Labor Force 2018, CAPMAS, Cairo.

Table 14.4  Unemployment (%) by educational level in Egypt (2018) Educational status

Unemployment rate

Illiterate Read and write Less than Secondary General Secondary Technical/​Vocational Secondary Higher than Secondary University Total

1.5 2.9 4.1 12.2 10.1 13.1 22.3 9.9

Source: CAPMAS (2019a) Annual Bulletin of Labor Force 2018, CAPMAS, Cairo.

In addition, there remains the statistically unmeasured phenomenon of underemployment or disguised unemployment, which is widely recognized to prevail in the governmental and public sector. Related to unemployment rate is the decrease in the labor force participation rates, especially among females. Providing Egypt’s youth with job opportunities is undoubtedly one of the major challenges faced today by the Egyptian government. High rates of population growth have resulted in large numbers of young people entering the labor force in recent years, contributing to the growing unemployment. As for youth unemployment rates, data in Table 14.3 indicate a very high level of youth unemployment, especially among females, for the period 2013–​2018. Unemployment rates for both sexes decreased from 21.3% in 2013 to 15.5% in 2018. Female unemployment rates decreased from 48.6% to 36.5% in 2017 and then increased again to 45.7% in 2018. Nothing unusual occurred in 2018 that made for this surge in the unemployment rate of young females. According to the statistics of the Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS), unemployment rates are reversely associated with educational attainment; while unemployment rates were less than 1.5% among the less educated population in 2018, the rate of unemployment among the holders of secondary education and university degrees was between 10.1 and 22.3 (Table 14.4).

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Development as a policy strategy The Egyptian state has long tried to use migration as a strategy for development. Initially, this mainly concerned with the use of migration as a means of easing pressure on the Egyptian labor market. This was the reason why the state authorized permanent and temporary migration in 1971 and lifted restrictions on labor migration in 1974. However, in 1981, when the Egyptian government further eased migration procedures, the aim was no longer only to resolve unemployment problems, but also to increase remittances necessary to supply payment deficits. These two aims were also combined in the Emigration and Sponsoring Egyptians Abroad Law No. 111 of 1983, which is regarded as the main migration law in Egypt until now. However, this law even goes further by providing for facilities for migrants before their departure and in their host countries. The law consists of five chapters that cover general provisions applicable to all migrants, duration of stay abroad and rights of migrants (temporary versus permanent stay abroad), and privileges of migrants and return migrants. In particular, the law indicates that migrants’ capital utilized in investment projects in Egypt is to be granted the same advantages as those granted to foreign capital. In general, the Egyptian Emigration Law has two objectives: 1. To arrange both permanent and temporary emigration systems: the law secures, in fact, the right of any individual to emigrate in accordance with the provisions of the Constitution. It also outlines the rules and procedures to be followed in order to emigrate. 2. To outline the provisions dealing with providing the necessary care and extending facilities to Egyptian emigrants before their actual departure from Egypt or after their arrival to host countries as well as to those who decide to return. The goal is to maintain strong ties with Egyptians abroad. The Egyptian Emigration Law is perceived as the practical formulation of the Egyptian government’s tendency to liberate people’s movement associated with the implementation of the “open door” economic policy. However, this law liberated Egyptians’ ability to move and to migrate abroad, but articles related to investment in Egypt and attracting established Egyptian migrants abroad and return migrants to invest in Egypt need to be reinforced. Moreover, predeparture orientation (language/​culture) and skills training for migrants do not exist even though they are stated clearly in Article No. 5 of the Migration Law No. 111. The latter was to be implemented by the Higher Committee for Migration (HCM), formed by Resolution No. 2000 of 1997 based on Article 4 of the Emigration Law. The membership of the said committee includes representatives of the ministries and entities concerned with migration.The competences of the HCM include considering the establishment of professional training centers for potential migrants, organization of specialized courses for the purpose of qualifying potential migrants, suggesting the facilitations to be granted to migrants, whether before their departure, during their stay abroad, or after temporary or permanently returning to their homeland. The HCM convenes once every three months at least upon the request of its chairman (the Minister of Manpower and Emigration).1 The committee may set up other secondary committees from among its members or other members to study the issues put forward. Despite the fact that the HCM should convene at least once every three months, by request of its chairman, the HCM does not convene regularly and most of the tasks of the HCM were not implemented, particularly the establishment of professional training centers for potential migrants.

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Another important actor in implementing the emigration law was the Minister of State for Emigration Affairs and Egyptians Abroad, created in 1981, whose responsibilities were transferred to the Ministry of Manpower and Employment in 1996. In 2015, the government decided to split the Ministry of Manpower and Emigration into two ministries: Ministry of Manpower and Ministry of State for Migration and Egyptians Abroad. It is important to consider the political context of the government’s decision to split the Ministry of Manpower and Emigration into two ministries and to devote a separate ministry to emigration and Egyptians abroad after January 2011. The return of the Ministry of State for Emigration and Egyptians Abroad cannot be separated from the bigger interest in addressing Egyptians in the West who were supportive of the current regime against the Brotherhood. The current strategy of the Ministry of State for Migration and Egyptians Abroad focuses on promoting Egyptian migration, especially among young people, in order to decrease pressures on local labor market and to decrease unemployment rate and increase migrants’ remittances to Egypt. Another focus area of the Ministry of State for Migration and Egyptians Abroad is to continue combating irregular migration through the dissemination of information that affects potential migrants and redirect them to regular migration channels. The current stream of Egyptian irregular migration to Europe started on the eve of the 21st century, with massive number of fresh graduates and poorly educated unemployed youth engaged in irregular migration to Europe either through the Mediterranean Sea via Libya or by overstaying touristic Schengen visas. The main reasons behind this new type of migration are not related to the tightened policy adopted by the European Union, but mainly to high unemployment rates among Egyptian youth, the difficulty for Egyptian youth to find employment opportunities in the Arab Gulf countries due to the competition they face there owing to the massive number of cheap South East Asian labor force that migrate to the same destination, and the geographical proximity between Egypt and Europe. Other factors include the overpopulation problem and the increased representation of the youth among the population which is known as the youth bulge, where youth between 15 and 24 years old represent about 20% of the total population (Zohry, 2017a). In addition, the Ministry of State for Migration and Egyptians Abroad aims at maintaining and updating its working systems and establishing an Egyptian migration observatory and updating the already established Egyptian Migration database that includes job opportunities abroad as well as numbers and statistics, and a computerized system through the Internet to link Egyptians abroad with their homeland.

Egyptian emigration at a glance Migration from Egypt started in the late 1960s, mainly for economic and also for political reasons, with the large majority of the migrants going to the Gulf states. As early as the 1970s, the Egyptian state eased migration procedures to increase remittances necessary to supply payment deficits—​a strategy that was successful. Remittances are among Egypt’s largest sources of foreign currency. Egyptian labor migration can be classified into two systems. The first and most dominant system is the one linking Egyptian migrant workers to the labor markets of countries in the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC). Egyptian migrant workers also go to Jordan, Libya, and Lebanon; a high number of migrants are found in Jordan and Libya but significantly less in Lebanon. The second system refers to Egyptian labor force to countries of the Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD). In particular, within the OECD countries, European countries receive the highest percentage of Egyptian migrant workers. Countries in America and Oceania also host Egyptian migrant workers but in very little numbers. 232

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It was projected that after the Egyptian Revolution/​Uprisings of 2011, the political changes and the economic downturn would lead to large flows of migrant workers. This was especially dominant within the views of European countries that were expecting the generation of large flows of Egyptian migrants to their labor markets. Despite the assumption being conceptually sound at the time, it was proven unjustifiable. By large, the major determinants of Egyptian labor migration flows have not changed drastically following the 2011 uprisings. The issues that face Egyptian labor migration remain largely the same. Changes that took place were due to political factors in the GCC, Libya, and Jordan.The Libyan uprisings have led to the return of a considerable amount of Egyptian migrant workers working in the country.The influx of Syrian refugees into Jordan has influenced the demand on Egyptian migrant workers. The internal economic and political turbulence in the GCC countries have also influenced Egyptian labor migrants as well as other nationalities. Even in Europe, Southern European countries were faced with economic and employment crises, which reflected in the reduced absorption of Egyptian workers.

Volume and distribution of Egyptian labor migration Different estimates are found for the number of Egyptians abroad.While national estimates push the number of Egyptians abroad up to 10.25 million, the United Nations estimates of Egyptians abroad downsize the number to 3.6 million in 2019 (United Nations, 2019). From the official figures shown in Table 14.5, one can notice that Egyptian migration is mainly labor migration2 to Arab countries, with 68.4% of Egyptians migrants abroad based in the Arab Gulf countries and other Arab countries. Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates (UAE), Libya, and Qatar are the main destinations of Egyptians in the Arab region. Egyptians in the non-​Arab countries comprise about 32% of Egyptians abroad.3 The United States of America (USA), Canada, Italy, the United Kingdom (UK), Australia, Greece, France, Germany, Austria, and the Netherlands are the main destinations of Egyptians abroad out of the Arab region.

Work permits issued for Egyptians to work abroad Reducing the focus to labor migration may give the reader an idea about the volume and characteristics of labor migration from Egypt. Table 14.6 presents the latest available data on total work permits issued for Egyptians to work abroad by country of destination, education, type of contract, and sex.Work permits are issued by the Ministry of Interior in order to ensure that Egyptians who have criminal precedents are not employed with any foreign entity in order to preserve the country’s reputation as well as ensure that Egyptians do not work with foreign entities engaging in activities hostile to the interests of the nation and its citizens. The added value of work permits is the fact that they are considered as a reliable administrative source of data on migration streams from Egypt. As shown in Table 14.6, the total number of work permits issued in 2018 was 1,078,254; 97.4% of them were issued for men, while 2.6% only were issued for women, which confirms that men have far greater access to regular labor migration opportunities compared to women. As for the distribution of work permits by country of destination, work permits issued for Egyptians to work in Saudi Arabia comprise about 50% of the total number of work permits issued in 2018 (515,034 work permits). With respect to the distribution of work permits by education, 42.9% of the labor migrants have a secondary level education, compared to 29.5% with university education and almost the same percent with no education (27.6%). As for the type of contract, individual contract is the main type of contractual relation, with 93.1% of the population. 233

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Ayman Zohry Table 14.5  Egyptians abroad by region and country of destination (2017) Receiving country

Arab Countries Saudi Arabia Jordan UAE Kuwait Qatar Sudan Oman Lebanon Bahrain Libya /​ Yemen Other Arab Countries Total Arab countries Non-​Arab Countries USA Canada Italy France Australia UK Germany South Africa Austria Netherlands Greece Other non-​Arab Total non-​Arab countries Total all countries

Number of migrants (stock)

Distribution by destination for Arab countries and non-​Arab countries (%)

Overall distribution (%)

3,500,000 1,250,000 982,370 700,000 250,000 151,400 60,000 40,000 23,000 –​ 50,820 7,007,590

49.9 17.8 14.0 10.0 3.6 2.2 0.9 0.6 0.3 –​ 0.7 100.0

34.2 12.2 9.6 6.8 2.4 1.5 0.6 0.4 0.2 –​ 0.5 68.4

1,131,000 700,500 400,000 366,000 285,000 65,000 55,000 40,000 33,000 23,000 35,000 106,213 3,239,713 10,247,303

34.9 21.6 12.3 11.3 8.8 2.0 1.7 1.2 1.0 0.7 1.1 3.3 100.0

11.0 6.8 3.9 3.6 2.8 0.6 0.5 0.4 0.3 0.2 0.3 1.0 31.6 100.0%

Source: CAPMAS 2019 based on estimates of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Migration and Remittances The Egyptian state has used migration as a tool for development from the very start, even though not all measures foreseen to increase migration have as yet been implemented. In the following, I will lay out how the Egyptian government tried to increase migration and filter the resulting funds into development of Egypt. Subsequently, I will discuss how far this strategy has been successful, not only with regard to remittances but also taking into account the effects on the Egyptian labor market, including brain drain, and the impact on Egyptian society and culture, as far as data are available.

Level and trends of remittances In economic and financial terms, the most important aspect of migration for the sending country is remitted money (usually cash transfers) and goods, the so-​called remittances that migrant 234

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Table 14.6 Work permits issued for Egyptians to work abroad in 2018 by country of destination, education, type of contract, and sex Country

Type of contract

Sex

University

Secondary

No certificate

Individual contract

Secondment

Leave without pay

Male

Female

165,971 65,794 6,059 41,966 16,058 4,129 904 8,273 4,109 108 2,181 2,364 317,916 29.5%

209,313 102,060 64,501 40,548 14,723 9,111 8,201 4,022 2,737 716 3,897 2,415 462,244 42.9%

139,750 62,949 55,201 17,632 7,033 4,168 3,960 2,041 1,590 864 2,546 360 298,094 27.6%

476,054 214,266 125,074 92,890 34,802 16,590 12,920 9,739 6,599 1,669 8,121 5,134 1,003,858 93.1%

3,660 1,632 18 1,052 207 3 45 650 224 0 127 3 7,621 0.7%

35,320 14,905 669 6,204 2,805 815 100 3,947 1,613 19 376 2 66,775 6.2%

505,672 221,592 125,519 95,182 36,363 17,387 13,031 12,524 7,819 1,685 8,560 5,113 1,050,447 97.4%

9,362 9,211 242 4,964 1,451 21 34 1,812 617 3 64 26 27,807 2.6%

Source: CAPMAS (2019b) Annual Bulletin for Work Permits Issued for Egyptians to Work Abroad 2018, CAPMAS, Cairo.

Total

Percent

515,034 230,803 125,761 100,146 37,814 17,408 13,065 14,336 8,436 1,688 8,624 5,139 1,078,254 100.0%

47.8 21.4 11.7 9.3 3.5 1.6 1.2 1.3 0.8 0.2 0.8 0.5 100.0

Political economy of workers’ remittances in Egypt

235

KSA Kuwait Jordan UAE Qatar Italy Lebanon Oman Bahrain Greece Other Countries Int’l Ships Total Number Percent

Education

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Ayman Zohry 30

Remiances (Billion US$)

25

20

15

10

5

0

1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019

Year

Figure 14.1  Remittances to Egypt by Egyptians abroad (1990–​2018, in million US$) Source: World Bank 2019 and author’s own calculations.

workers send back to family or friends at home. Such flows of wealth are important to both the families of migrants and to the economy of sending countries (Caldwell, 1969). Almost all remittances are sent by individual migrants (individual remittances), yet a fraction is sent by groups of migrant workers through their associations (collective remittances). Formal remittances (sent through banks, post offices, exchange houses and transfer companies) are the only form that can be accurately measured. Their size and frequency are determined by several factors, such as the number of migrant workers, wage rates, exchange rates, political risk, economic activity in the host and sending countries, the existence of appropriate transfer facilities, the level of education of the migrant, the number of people accompanying the migrant, the number of years since migration, and the difference in interest rates between sending and receiving countries (Zohry, 2014). Remittances of Egyptians working abroad peaked in the early 1990s due to the substantial return of Egyptian migrants from the Arab Gulf countries after the Gulf War, who remitted their savings in the host country banks before return. Between 1993 and 2003, the level of remittances was stabilized around $3 billion. In 2011, however, remittances soared again to over $14 billion. Currently, remittances are close to $30 billion.This may be attributed, in part, to the increase in the number of Egyptians abroad from below 3 million in 2000 to about 6.5 million in 2010 and then to 9.5 million in 2017.

Per capita remittances This section attempts to link remittances to the number of migrants. With the absence of a trusted time series of Egyptians abroad, remittances are linked to the number of work permits issued to Egyptians to work abroad. Table 14.7 attributes remittances to the number of work permits issued to Egyptians to work abroad for the period 2000–​2018. As shown in the table, the per capita remittances increased from US$4,727 in 2000 to US$27,638 in 2018. The per capita remittance in 2018 is almost 5.8 times that of the level in the initial year (i.e. 2000).

Origin of remittances The most recent available data on remittances by origin refer to 2017. Out of the money sent home by Egyptian migrants in 2017, the largest amount ($7.74 billion) came from Saudi 236

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Political economy of workers’ remittances in Egypt Table 14.7  Per capita remittances in Egypt (2000–​2018) Year

Number of work permits

Remittances (billion US$)

Per capita share of remittances

Percent to 2000 per capita

2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018

611,414 648,624 734,232 784,907 876,423 1,008,782 1,100,033 1,118,474 1,131,199 1,129,163 1,176,358 1,295,623 1,315,555 1,327,542 1,252,253 1,327,542 1,252,253 1,167,589 1,046,399

2.850 2.910 2,890 2,960 3,340 5,017 5,330 7,656 8,694 7,150 12,453 14,324 19,236 17,833 19,570 18,325 16,590 24.740 28.920

4,727 4,564 4,549 6,392 6,082 7,589 7,903 6,393 11,009 12,686 16,352 13,764 14,876 13,804 13,248 13,804 13,248 21,189 27,638

100.0 96.6 96.2 135.2 128.7 160.5 167.2 135.2 232.9 268.4 345.9 291.2 314.7 292.0 280.3 292.0 280.3 448.3 584.7

Source: Calculated by the author based on remittance and work permits data.

Arabia, with a share of 38.7% of the total remittances volume. Kuwait ranked second with $3.16 billion (15.8%), followed by the UAE with $1.95 billion (9.8%), and then Jordan with $1.29 billion (6.5%). Remittances from these four countries together comprised more than 70% of all remittances to Egypt. Remittances from non-​Arab countries come mainly from the USA (5.2%) and Italy (2.9%) (see Table 14.8 for more details). The high percentage contribution of Egyptians in the Gulf through remittances to Egypt compared with their counterparts in Europe, North America, and Oceania is not only explained by the high percentage representation of Egyptians in the Gulf, but also due to the fact that the Egyptian migration pattern to the Gulf is mainly temporary contractual labor with no hope for naturalization. In addition, Egyptian migration in the Gulf is mainly individual migration rather than family migration. Hence, remittances to origin of migrants in the Gulf are vital for their family members. This is a result of the Gulf countries’ conservative stance of naturalization and residency of nonnationals.

Informal and in-​kind remittances Remittances transferred through informal channels or brought by travelers and return migrants are unlikely to be captured in official records, although they may represent a substantial addition to remittances sent through official channels (World Bank, 2006). Hence, one should not ignore informal and in-​kind remittances made by Egyptian migrants not only from Arab countries, but also from European countries such as Italy. In-​kind remittances that are sent or brought with migrants mainly include clothes and electronic equipment (Brink, 1991; Eurostat, 2000; Zohry, 2005b). In addition, a significant proportion of remittances made by Egyptian migrants from 237

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Ayman Zohry Table 14.8  Egyptian remittances by country of emigration (2017, in million US$) Country

Remittances

Percent

Saudi Arabia Kuwait United Arab Emirates Jordan Qatar United States Italy Lebanon Bahrain Canada Australia Oman France United Kingdom Other Countries Total

7,739 3,156 1,953 1,293 1,070 1,034 573 495 364 269 253 228 172 171 1,211 19,983

38.7 15.8 9.8 6.5 5.4 5.2 2.9 2.5 1.8 1.3 1.3 1.1 0.9 0.9 6.1 100.0%

Source: World Bank (2019) Bilateral Remittance Matrix 2017, World Bank.

the Arab Gulf and Libya is channeled through informal paths, either by sending money to the family in Egypt through colleagues and relatives when they return for holidays to Egypt or by bringing the money on their own return. Libya in particular is an example of the prevalence of informal remittances, since most of Egyptian migrants are engaged in the informal sector of the Libyan economy, with no fixed salaries or bank accounts (Zohry, 2014). Indeed, one can conclude that migrants in these countries send back from hundreds to thousands of dollars to Egypt depending on the numerous factors stated above and, in particular, the number of family members left behind in the home country.

The macrolevel impact of remittances Remittances are among Egypt’s largest sources of foreign currency, along with Suez Canal receipts and tourism. As early as 1979, these remittances amounted to US$2 billion, a sum equivalent to the country’s combined earnings from cotton exports, Suez Canal transit fees, and tourism (Nassar, 2005). As shown in Table 14.9, between 1990 and 2018, workers’ remittances accounted for an average of 6% of the annual GDP. Remittance contribution to the GDP has declined from 10.0% in 1990 to 3.8% in 2009. Starting from 2010, remittance contribution to the GDP started to increase again until reaching 5.6% in 2016. Remittance contribution to the GDP has almost doubled after 2016 to reach 10.5% in 2017 and 11.5% in 2018. The 2017 and 2018 figures for remittances as a percentage of GDP reflect the devaluation of the Egyptian pound in 2016. However, remittances remain an important capital flow for the Egyptian economy that is not correlated to GDP growth. Moreover, their role appears even more clearly when compared to investment and export figures. With respect to financial sector development, remittances help develop the financial sector through increasing the aggregate level of deposits or credits intermediated by the local banking 238

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Political economy of workers’ remittances in Egypt Table 14.9 Trends in remittances of Egyptian migrants (in billion current US$, 1990–​2018) Year

Remittances

Remittances as a percent of GDP

1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018

4.28 4.05 6.10 5.66 3.67 3.23 3.11 3.70 3.37 3.24 2.85 2.91 2.89 2.96 3.34 5.02 5.33 7.66 8.69 7.15 12.45 14.32 19.24 17.83 19.57 18.33 18.59 24.74 28.92

10.0 10.8 14.6 12.2 7.1 5.4 4.6 4.7 4.0 3.6 2.9 3.0 3.3 3.6 4.2 5.6 5.0 5.9 5.3 3.8 5.7 6.1 6.9 6.2 6.4 5.5 5.6 10.5 11.5

Source: World Bank staff estimates based on IMF balance of payments data, and World Bank and OECD GDP estimates. https://​data.worldbank.org/​indicator/​BX.TRF.PWKR.DT.GD. ZS?locations=EG&view=chart (accessed 16 September 2019).

sector. In addition to banks, specialized transfer institutions such as Western Union and Money Gram handle the transfer of migrants’ remittances.

Impact of remittances on poverty alleviation The impact of remittances on poverty alleviation in Egypt is not entirely clear. Research on the use of remittances has shown that 75% of these funds are used for daily expenses household, such as food, clothing, and healthcare (Zohry, 2005), while expenditures on building new houses and education come as second and third items, respectively, in remittance utilization. This confirms other findings, according to which remittances are also spent on building or improving housing, buying land or cattle, and buying durable consumer goods (Zohry, 2002). The distribution of uses indicates in any case the importance of migration and remittances in poverty alleviation. 239

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Research however has also revealed that once-​abroad migrant households spend a smaller share on consumption than non-​migrant households, while returnees from migration invest up to 50% of their savings into housing (Nassar, 1991; Nassar, 2005:21). These results confirm that the impact of remittances on the national economy and development cannot be ignored. Generally speaking, only a small percentage of remittances is used for savings and “productive investments,” that is, for activities with multiplier effects in terms of income and employment creation (Brink, 1991; Eurostat, 2000; Zohry, 2005b). However, the entrepreneurial activities of return migrants contribute to the Egyptian economy. Investments by return migrants are a continuation of their support to the national economy. According to Nassar (2005), about 10% of returnees invest in economic projects. They put more capital in their businesses, engage more in-​service activities and the formal sector, and create 1.4 more jobs per establishment than nonmigrants. Finally, McCormick and Wahba (2003) found that the amount of savings going back to urban areas is more than three times that going to rural areas, with most investments being made in Cairo. Furthermore, remittances help families to establish family-​based and family-​managed small projects, such as raising cattle, opening a mini market, or buying and operating a taxi, especially in rural areas. Many taxi drivers in Cairo and other governorates bought their car upon their return and operate it themselves or through hired taxi drivers as their main source of income. However, attempts to attract businessmen from among the Egyptian diaspora to invest in Egypt seem not to have had the expected success. One of the main reasons for the foundation of the Ministry of Emigration and Egyptians Abroad and for the promulgation of the Egyptian Migration Law was to attract Egyptians abroad to maintain links with their origin and to invest in Egypt. However, government bureaucracy and suspicion from many Egyptians abroad have been obstacles to a significant flow of investments into the country (Zohry and Debnath, 2010).

Impact of labor emigration on the Egyptian labor market In recent years, more than 2 million Egyptians or approximately 10% of the labor force have been officially seeking employment in Egypt, in addition to all those who have not declared their underemployment or unemployment. Most of them are primarily unemployed, fresh graduates of a stagnant educational system, who are not equipped to compete in either the local or the regional and international markets. Moreover, there are approximately 3 million Egyptian migrants, even if not all of them actually have a job abroad. Under the hypothesis that 75% of the migrant population form part of their host countries’ labor force, roughly 2.25 million workers, who would otherwise be unemployed or underemployed, pushing the unemployment rate up to 20%, are currently withheld from the Egyptian labor market. On the other hand, permanent migration of Egyptians to the West is the main source of the “brain drain” as it has always been the migration of the better educated citizens. Some 77% of Egyptian migrants to the USA have obtained tertiary education. Many Egyptian migrants to other OECD countries are highly educated professionals as well—​mainly doctors, engineers, and teachers (Nassar, 2005). One can say that migration is responsible for this loss of highly skilled citizens to developed countries in addition to a significant number of semiskilled workers to developing countries (mainly Arab countries). Does Egypt however suffer from a shortage of highly skilled workers needed by the national economy that would substantiate the “brain drain” hypothesis? No quantitative studies have assessed this problem. However, I argue that at the beginning of the migration era (1975–​1980), Egypt suffered from a severe shortage of highly qualified and skilled workers who temporarily migrated to the Arab Gulf countries. The Egyptian cinema has documented this loss of needed 240

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people in many social movies.4 Nowadays, and talking about the migration of highly skilled professionals to the Arab Gulf and the West, migration should not be regarded as a brain drain, given the fact that the Egyptian bureaucratic government with its current institutional and organizational structure cannot, by any means, absorb highly qualified professionals and offer them suitable salaries and work conditions. Despite the fact that salaries in the private sector are higher than in the government and public sector, the absorption capacity of this sector is below the labor supply level (Zohry and Debnath, 2010). Due to the fact that about 75% of Egyptian migration is labor migration to Arab countries, and the fact that such countries have similar bureaucratic systems as that of Egypt and the fact that mainly Egyptians contributed heavily to the foundation of bureaucratic systems in the Gulf, including even writing the constitutions and the legal systems of some countries, migrants return to Egypt with no different or advanced experience to apply in Egypt. Hence, the impact of return migration on skill transfer is not that significant, compared to some Southeast Asian countries.

Sociocultural impact of migration Migrants remit money, goods and commodities, as well as ideas and behaviors that affect sending countries, positively or negatively. Levitt (1998:927) called these kinds of remittances “social remittances”:  “[s]‌ocial remittances are the ideas, behaviors, identities, and social capital that flow from receiving-​to sending-​communities.” She further identified three types of social remittances: normative structures (ideas, values, and beliefs), systems of practice (actions shaped by normative structures), and social capital (Levitt, 1998). Since most temporary Egyptian migrants are males who leave their families behind, other family members take over migrants’ responsibilities in the country of origin, such as agricultural work. A husband’s absence forces the wife to manage alone, which entails the empowerment of women (Brink, 1991; Zohry, 2002). At the same time, migration to the origin of Wahhabism in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, for example, affected the Egyptian society and reproduced a new version of social and theological behavior. This behavior might have increased the tendency to fatalism and fundamentalism, as well as the marginalization of women in society (Zohry, 2017b). Finally, one should not ignore the interaction between migration and globalization. Globalization, made possible by new communication and information technologies and increased mobility, has spread new and different types of consumption patterns. In remote villages in the Nile Delta and Upper Egypt, one can notice the increasing number of satellite dishes attached to television sets that bring international channels to these households and influence their behavior and perception of migration.

Conclusions This study made an attempt to explore migration and development interrelationships in Egypt. Egyptian migration is a response to unemployment, failure of economic policies, and limited opportunities in the country of origin. Saudi Arabia is the main destination of Egyptians in the Arab region, with almost about 3  million Egyptians working there. The USA, Canada, Italy, and Australia are the main destinations for Egyptian migrants in the West. Data on Egyptian migration flows are not reliable, but one can observe a slight shift in the direction of Egyptian migration in favor of Western countries due to the competition that Egyptian migration faces in the Arab Gulf countries. 241

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Migrants’ remittances are the most important aspect of migration for sending countries. Egypt is one of the major remittances receiving countries. In the last three decades, Egyptian migrants abroad have remitted more than US$260 billion to Egypt; remittances contributed to the economic development of Egypt both at the macroeconomic level (as a source of hard currency) and the microeconomic level (through poverty eradication and as a source of household incomes). Studies on the relationships between migration and development in Egypt tend to quantify this relation by focusing on economic aspects of remittances and their effects at the macro-​and microeconomic levels. Few studies have investigated the sociocultural effects of migration and their societal impact; future studies should shed some light on such issues. The so-​called “Arab Spring” had an immediate impact on international migration in the Middle East and North Africa as reflected in the return migration from Libya, border crossing from Syria to Turkey and other neighboring countries, and the slight rise in irregular migration for Tunisia right after the fall of the Ben Ali’s regime. However, the immediate impact of the Arab rising was a reaction of the fall of the regimes and the disruption of economic and political systems of these countries. Moreover, the changes in political and economic orientations in the countries such as Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Syria, and Yemen and the changing regional mosaic will have a long-​term impact on the overall configuration of political and economic relations within the region, on the one hand, and between the region and other regions that form the migration system from and to the region, on the other hand.

Notes 1 Now split into two ministries: Ministry of Manpower and Ministry of State for Migration and Egyptians Abroad. 2 Labor migration refers to migration for the main purpose of employment. 3 This percent includes second-​and third-​generation Egyptians abroad. 4 See, for example, Henry Barakat, Director (1980). Shaaban Taht El-​Sifr, min. 21.35 to min 24:00 www. imdb.com/​title/​tt2215499/​?ref_​=ttls_​li_​tt (accessed 14 October 2019).

References Assaad, R. (ed.) (2002). The Egyptian Labor Market in an Era of Reform. Economic Research Forum and American University in Cairo Press, Cairo. Brink, J. (1991). “The effect of emigration of husbands on the status of their wives: An Egyptian case”, International Journal of Middle East Studies 23(2):201–​211. Brinks, J.S. and Sinclair, C.A. (1980). International Migration and Development in the Arab Region. ILO, Geneva. Caldwell, J.C. (1969). African Rural–​Urban Migration: The Movement to Ghana’s Towns. Columbia University Press, New York. CAPMAS (1999). Arab Republic of Egypt: Housing and Population Census, 1996. CAPMAS, Cairo. CAPMAS (2001). The Permanent Migration of Egyptians 2000. CAPMAS, Cairo. CAPMAS (2009). Arab Republic of Egypt: Housing and Population Census, 2006. CAPMAS, Cairo. CAPMAS (2019a). Annual Work Permits Bulletin 2017. CAPMAS, Cairo. CAPMAS (2019b). Online Database. www.capmas.gov.eg/​database.aspx (accessed 19 May). Eurostat (2000). “Push and pull factors of international migration –​Country Report-​Egypt”, Eurostat Working Papers, Population, Luxembourg. Levitt, P. (1998). “Social remittances: Migration driven local-​live forms of cultural diffusion”, International Migration Review 23(4): 926–​948. McCormick, B. and Wahba J. (2003). “Return international migration and geographical inequality: The case of Egypt”, Journal of African Economies 12(4):500–​532. Nassar, H. (1991). Labour Information System Project on Return Migration. Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics, Cairo.

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15 ENCROACHMENTS Land, power and predation W. J. Dorman

Introduction On the morning of 16 July 2017, Egyptian security forces attempted to demolish purportedly illegal buildings on the Nile island of Warraq, a semi-​rural community in the Greater Cairo region.1 Residents of the sha‛bi (popular) settlement clashed with police: one islander was killed and there were numerous casualties on both sides. The violence halted the demolitions but resulted in numerous arrests and a temporary blockade of the island. In the aftermath, officials asserted that the demolitions were to remove “encroachments on state lands” (ta‛adiyyat ‘ala aradi al-​dawla). They were acting against “violators and aggressors” (mukhalifin wa’l-​mu‛atadin) and restoring “the people’s rights” to public land (Ahram Online 2017; Interior Ministry 2017; al-​Sayyid 2017). The islanders and their supporters, however, rejected such claims. They insisted that the islanders had rights of ownership and occupation, and that the state owned only a small part of the island. Reportage and social media reproduced documents suggesting official recognition of the island community since the mid-​19th century (Abou’l-​Fotouh 2017b; New Arab 2017). More contemporary indications included a local police unit, government schools, post office and other state-​provided infrastructure (Bread & Freedom Party –​Qalyubiyya 2017). At the very least, the situation was ambiguous: observers noted that state authorities had generally ignored such communities, tolerating their unregulated “informal” growth (Afify 2017a; ElDeeb 2017). In the months that followed, state authorities and the islanders remained in a stalemate. Major General Kemal al-​Wazir, then head of military engineering—​his visibility hinted at an important role for the armed forces—​initially sought to reassure the community that the Egyptian government wanted to “develop” Warraq without displacing its inhabitants (Mada Masr 2017). But media reports suggested an official desire to compensate the islanders or relocate them to public housing. They further speculated that the semi-​rural island would be renamed “Horus” and transformed with transport links, hotels, shopping centres and other amenities aimed at an elite clientele (Abou’l-​Fotouh 2017a). Many of the islanders rejected relocation, declared the proposed compensation inadequate and insisted that state agencies clarify their development plans. During the autumn of 2017, they formed a grassroots Warraq Island Families Council to negotiate with the authorities and organise the community against removal (Afify 2017b). 244

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After months of deadlock, a prime ministerial decree in June 2018 mandated the island’s transfer to the New Urban Communities Authority (NUCA)—​the agency usually concerned with desert development—​to establish a settlement on the island. A November 2018 decree authorised land expropriations. Military, police and other state agencies have sought to pressure the islanders and create “facts on the ground”:  banning the registration of private property transactions, prohibiting the import of construction materials, stopping public services, clearing state-​owned agricultural land and (since March 2019) arresting Families Council activists (Afify 2017b; Mohie 2019; Qatamish 2018). The islanders have challenged both decrees in the courts and repeatedly mobilised against the threat of further state incursions. The Warraq clearance case is not an isolated instance. It points to a broader pattern of (attempted) land predation by state forces. Warraq is one of several inhabited, but historically isolated, Nile islands within the Cairo metropolitan area (Mohamed 2014). The construction of ring-​road bridges in the 1990s increased their accessibility, and ironically the vulnerability of their subaltern inhabitants (Bell 2009:360). In April 2001, a prime ministerial decree stipulated the evacuation of Warraq and Dahab, a second island to the south, for public utilisation (Shahine 2001). The resulting public outcry led to the decree’s suspension in July; it was formally overturned by the state administrative court in 2002 (Bell 2009:361). A smaller island in the vicinity of Dahab, Qursaya, was also repeatedly targeted by the Egyptian military. A 2001 presidential decree allocating parts of the island to the defence ministry gave pretext for military attempts to expropriate properties and expel residents in September 2007 and January 2008. But they faced bottom-​up resistance and the island’s evacuation was blocked by a court ruling in November 2008 and February 2010 (Afify 2017a; Bell 2009:362–​363; Gerlach 2009:91–​95; Sirgany 2012). In November 2012, soldiers again invaded the island (Al-​Jaberi 2012; Sirgany 2012).Yet again, the judiciary ruled in August 2013 that the military had no lawful claim to the land (Ahram Online 2013). Current attempts to remove Warraq residents may have originated in a Spring 2017 campaign against encroachments on public land by the government of President Abdel Fatah al-​Sisi (Khalil 2017). However, it may simply have been a pretext: press reports in the weeks prior to the Warraq clearance attempt suggested a renewed official interest in developing the Nile islands, with Warraq to become a “financial and business centre” (Salem and Abdel Halim 2017). Although perhaps exceptional geographically, the Warraq case speaks to many of the themes manifest in the study of land as socio-​political space. Egypt’s modern history has been characterised by the close association of land with wealth and power. Access to land has long been a “spoil” and an essential element in the dominant political dispensations. Land has been a mediating element in political conflict, with recurring instances of encroachment, infringement and usurpation. Egypt’s 19th-​century rulers used agricultural land to build a political constituency at the expense of peasant cultivators. Their post-​1952 successors have similarly sought to use desert lands as a means of allocating speculative rents in the service of regime reproduction.Yet land predation has not been solely a top-​down phenomenon. Much of Egypt’s recent urban growth has been unplanned and informal, the result of subaltern homesteading, in places like Warraq Island, on protected agricultural land and sometimes public land. Such bottom-​up urbanisation is routinely proscribed, but it is a practical response by the excluded; it mirrors elite practices.Thus, land has provided a terrain for hierarchies of privilege to be articulated, and competing interest to be fought out. It is a contested social relation. This chapter will survey the main types of land in Egypt—​agricultural, urban and desert—​ with particular attention to their historical and political contexts.2 Yet the Warraq case—riverine agricultural land become urbanised and then given to the desert-development authority—​ points to the blurred boundaries between these apparently self-​evident categories. Moreover, 245

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the problematics of land status on the island suggest the analytical importance of disputed spaces where competing claims are not subject solely to juridical process but more likely negotiated on multiple registers.The chapter will conclude with a section on “contested lands”—​probably the most interesting type for students of Egypt—​shedding light on the ambiguities of the formal/​ informal dichotomy, the incapacities of top-​down governance and the dynamics of land conflict.

Agricultural land: Privilege and dispossession Although accounting for less than 4% of Egypt’s surface area, cultivated areas have been fundamental to state making, regime building and global economic integration. Sometimes credited with commodifying land, the Muhammad Ali state actually sought to centralise its control and maximise land revenues in the first decades of the 19th century. It abolished tax farming and imposed a command economy of agricultural production, for example, the cultivation of cotton, for export to Europe. Its top-​down exactions dispossessed peasant cultivators, undermining their customary usufruct rights and transforming them into tenants, sharecroppers and (eventually) wage labourers. By the 1840s, state weakness and financial crises had led to the emergence of a two-​tier rural elite: senior officials who received land grant estates as a means of ensuring their loyalty and a “second stratum” or “middle class” of land-​owning notable families who, in the previous decades, had increased their lands at the expense of peasant smallholders (Cuno 1980, 1992; Owen 2000:xi–​xiv; see also Brown 1990:146–​147).This landed elite became an essential intermediary element for state control of the countryside. In the following decades, it prospered economically with the growth of Egypt’s export economy. It gained a degree of autonomous social power and formal land ownership during the British occupation at the end of the century. Indeed, ownership and control of land soon became perhaps the essential element of domestic political power. Notable families staffed the governments of Muhammad Ali’s successors. After 1882, the British did not challenge its intermediary role, seeking to govern with the support of the gentry (Tignor 1966). Rural notables played a crucial role in the countryside uprisings of March/​April 1919, which helped end British rule. The dominant political parties of the post-​ independence constitutional monarchy were largely composed of the increasingly absentee, gentry and depended on the peasant votes they controlled (Brown 1990; see also Deeb 1979). Subaltern and more autonomous social forces—​which had opposed top-​down state exactions in the first half of the 19th century—​were effectively contained in this dispensation, and their grievances only manifest in occasional cases of atomistic resistance or communal action (Brown 1990; Toledano 1998:261–​263). This configuration of political and economic power has been critiqued by left-​leaning scholars:  the landed elite constituted an “agrarian bourgeoisie” pursuing a “backward” and “dependent” capitalism which constrained Egypt’s developmental prospects and ultimately doomed the constitutional political order (Beinin and Lockman 1987:8–​12; Owen 1981). Perhaps the most salient criticism was about the increasing concentration of land ownership and concomitant phenomenon of landlessness (Berque 1972:486; Owen 1981). By the end of the 19th century, over 90% of peasants were at least partially dependent for subsistence on renting, sharecropping and wage labour (Cuno 2010:98; Tignor 1966:241). Particularly on the large estates (‘ezab), they constituted a kind of “rural proletariat” subject to continuous supervision and coercion (Mitchell 2002:67, 69–​72; Richards 1982:5). By the early 1950s, the landed elite and middle peasantry—​representing no more than 5–​6% of landowners—​owned two-​thirds of all agricultural lands (Abdel-​Fadil 1975:3; see also Berque 1972:486). Peasant landlessness was also seen as a driver of rural migration to the cities, and the putative ruralisation of urban Egypt. 246

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From the 1940s, Egyptian and expatriate commentators became highly critical of such inequalities (Baer 1958; Meijer 2002:82–​ 85). These debates and increasing concrete manifestations of rural unrest set the stage for a series of land reforms enacted by Egypt’s new military rulers beginning shortly after their seizure of power in July 1952 (Sadowski 1991:56–​57). They redistributed the large estates, imposed controls on rent and sharecropping and effectively eliminated the power bases of the ancien regime politicians. However, the reforms affected only a limited amount of land and had only a modest effect on rural inequality (Mitchell 2002:226; Waterbury 1983:266–​267). The principal beneficiaries were likely the “second stratum” of larger-​scale peasant cultivators and notables who, in effect, were promoted to become the principal intermediary with the state and vis-​à-​vis the praetorian political dispensation put in place by President Nasser and his Free Officer colleagues (Adams 1986; Ansari 1986; Binder 1978; Harik 1973; Waterbury 1983). Second-​stratum rivalries and conflicts can be dimly glimpsed in incidents like the “Kamshish affair”, the murder of a peasant leader allegedly by members of a notable family (Ansari 1986:23–​56). A  broader consequence of their predominance has been the stagnation of the agrarian sector: the notability’s political utility has constrained state interventions—​particularly on behalf of smaller cultivators—​to boost productivity (Adams 1986:156–​157, 166–​188). Land conflicts re-​emerged as a national political issue in the 1990s when the Mubarak government sought to reverse the 1950s land reform laws (Mitchell 2002:264–​266; Saad 1999b, 2002). Law No. 196 issued in 1992 dramatically increased rents and allowed the eviction of tenants (Saad 1999b:387). Ruling party supporters argued that it would improve the investment climate (Saad 2002:119). Despite fears of large-​scale unrest, peasants seemed unable to organise effective resistance against landlords backed by the police (Saad 1999b, 2015:8). Critical observers have estimated that, as a result of the implementation of Law 196, over half a million farmers and perhaps a million families have lost their livelihoods (Bush 1999; Mitchell 2002:265; Saad 2015:4).3 Ayeb and Bush (2014) reported increased land-​holding inequality since the 1990s, with 3% of land owners controlling more than 30% of farmland. Adams (2002) noted close linkage between land inequality, and income inequality and poverty. Finally, despite efforts by successive governments to expand the cultivated area through reclamation projects—​most recently the Sisi government’s 1.5  million feddans initiative (Mada Masr 2015a)—​Egypt’s arable lands are actually diminishing.4 Recent research and reportage include claims, although difficult to verify, that Egypt is losing five acres of farmland per hour (Salem 2011; Soliman 2012:2; see also Sadowski 1991:25–​26). The primary cause is likely the informal urbanisation discussed in the next section (El-​Hefnawi 2005). More recent drivers of the phenomenon include desertification, soil exhaustion and the abandonment by farmers no longer able to cultivate. Observers further note the vulnerability of the Nile Delta to rising sea levels (Charbel 2017; Schwartzstein 2019; Stanley and Clemente 2017).

Urban land: Revenge of the subaltern Since the 1950s, the production of urban land has largely been informal, outside the framework of state planning and regulation. Cairo and Alexandria are the most studied examples of this phenomenon, but the process is broadly apparent throughout urban Egypt. In the pre-​ 1952 period, urban centres expanded through a mixture of publicly funded infrastructure concessions, road and tramlines, and the private development of districts such as Heliopolis and Ma’adi (Sims 2014:119–​120). After 1952, the Nasser government nationalised the land development companies and the state assumed exclusive responsibility for planning and managing the built environment. However, Cairo’s expansion failed to keep pace with population 247

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growth, which was in part a consequence of the national capital’s centrality to the broader state-​building project. The result was a shortfall of land planned and serviced for development (Dorman 2007:76–​83). While the government undertook the substantial new concession of Medinat Nasr, subdivisions such as Awqaf in Giza and public housing estates (Sims 2011:50–​53, 2014:120–​21), these developments favoured government-​linked constituencies. Hence, from the late 1950s, steadily increasing land prices led non-​elite Egyptians to homestead on the metropolitan area’s rural fringes. Privately held farmland was not authorised for development, and hence much cheaper to subdivide and build upon despite being in violation of land-​use and building laws (Mayo et al. 1982:25–​26, 36). Such processes accelerated in the 1970s, driven by the post-​1973 increase in family creation and the remittances generated by Egyptians employed in the Gulf states and Libya (Mayo et al. 1982:99, 227;Waterbury 1983:46). They resulted in a densely populated belt of neighbourhoods surrounding Cairo, Alexandria and other cities. Such informal districts lacked formal planning and zoning, as well as standard urban amenities and basic public services.They have hence appeared disorderly and, more genuinely, have been prone to environmental crisis and problems of public health. Nonetheless, they cannot be described as simply marginal or impoverished. Such buildings were often constructed to a high standard and have provided millions of ordinary Egyptians—​excluded from formal land and property markets—​with home ownership or at least de facto residential tenure. By the 1990s, they represented in Cairo close to two-​thirds of the residential city (Sims 2011:69). Most of Egypt’s informal urbanisation has taken place on privately held agricultural land. There is relatively little “squatting”. Settlements established or encroaching on state-​controlled land are a secondary, much smaller, category (Sims 2011:115–​116). These neighbourhoods tend to be more precarious and conditions are worse than those built on agricultural land (Sims 2003:6). Finally, there is a diverse residual category of deteriorated areas—​often embedded in formal-​sector neighbourhoods—​characterised by complicated issues of land ownership (Sims 2003:6–​7). Successive governments have tended to ignore informal neighbourhoods, and sha’bi urbanism more generally (Dorman 2007). As will be discussed in the next section, their spatial development policies have focused on desert cities that target upper-​income consumers. Even in existing cities, official concern and investment have been disproportionately directed towards the steadily contracting (in relative demographic terms) formal city. Informal neighbourhoods were effectively “hidden in plain sight”, that is, their existence was not acknowledged lest their inhabitants demanded amenities and infrastructure. Such policies of top-​down neglect became less sustainable for the Mubarak government from the late 1980s: a number of highly publicised incidents—​including the 1992 earthquake and clashes between state security forces and Islamist militants—​drew attention to informal neighbourhoods in the Greater Cairo area. They were labelled ‘ashwa’iyyat (random or haphazard zones) in Egyptian media discourse, and stigmatised as a threat to public morality, safety and security (Kuppinger 2001; Singerman 2009). Despite promises from Mubarak and his officials to deal with the ‘ashwa’iyyat and halt their spread, state agencies could, at best, slow such bottom-​up urbanisation. The risk of unrest made large informal settlements difficult to demolish and, most importantly, there were few means of rehousing their residents (Sims 2002:82). In such situations, the path of least resistance has tended to be their de facto regularisation into the urban agglomeration through piecemeal service provision.That said, state policies towards the urban informal were still largely characterised by neglect, and a refusal to undertake any large-​scale formalisation (Sims 2003:20; World Bank 2012:24). Indeed, informality as a kind of state-​tolerated illegality has been understood as a means of political control as well as rationing infrastructure (Dorman 2007; Mayo et al. 1982:xviii; Sertich 2010). 248

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Yet there have been cases of state predation on vulnerable or rebellious subaltern communities, for example, the removal of a neighbourhood in the central Cairo area of Bulaq in the final years of the Sadat government (Ghannam 2002:25–​40). The last years of the Mubarak era were marked by a seemingly more aggressive state posture towards informal neighbourhoods, and sha’bi communities such as the Nile islands. Another highly publicised incident, a rock slide in the Cairo neighbourhood of Manshiet Nasser in September 2008, led to the creation of the Informal Settlements Development Facility charged with removing “unsafe” areas (Amnesty International 2011:2, 16–​18; Deboulet 2012:205–​206). Around the same time, the housing ministry’s planning agency mooted a Cairo 2050  “Strategic Urban Development Plan” (Tarbush 2012; see also Deboulet 2011:5–​7). It entailed the systematic clearance not only of the capital’s informal zones, but also its lower-​income but nonetheless legally recognised districts. It would have displaced millions of Cairenes to desert settlements. In their place, the plan proposed a Dubai-​style modernist cityscape with wide avenues, expansive green spaces, architectural “mega projects” and bespoke sites for international tourism and other services. Such a scheme—​never implemented by the Mubarak government, but not withdrawn by its successors (Tadamun Urban Solidarity Initiative 2015)—​suggested a more predatory view of subaltern Cairo “occupying the best locations” (Deboulet 2011:6). In such a context, the term ‘ashwa’iyyat has become a catch-​all category deployed to justify the demolition of historic, and definitely not informal, neighbourhoods such as the Maspero Triangle in central Cairo—​near the neighbourhood cleared by Sadat—​whose inhabitants have been displaced to make way for high-​r ise development (Farid 2018; Hassan 2018). The Sisi government has intensified this confrontational approach in its post-​2013 dealings with the informal sector.The post-​Mubarak transition period had witnessed a dramatic (if unquantified) increase in the rate of informal urbanisation (Sims 2012:8;Viney 2013). Homesteaders and property developers exploited diminished top-​down controls and (probably) the reduced ability of local officials to extort bribes. Indeed, the state’s weakened authority over the everyday life was most visible in the proliferation of unregulated street markets, even in downtown Cairo. Supporters saw the phenomenon as part of a popular re-​appropriation of public spaces, one of the 25 January revolution’s enduring accomplishments. By contrast, critics viewed such informal encroachments as a sign of Egyptian society’s increasing ungovernability.The Morsi government’s overthrow by the military-​led coalition of state forces in July 2013 was explicitly premised on the need to restore “state prestige” (haybat al-​dawla) vis-​à-​vis the disorderly zones of Egyptian society (Baheyya 2013). Since the summer of 2014, national and local authorities have mounted a series of crackdowns, sometimes framed in the language of state prestige, on informal markets and informal-​sector enterprises throughout Egypt (Mada Masr 2015b; Sabri 2016). They likely provide context for the renewed efforts to clear Warraq Island in 2017.

Mega-​projects in the desert The official response to urban growth and informal urbanisation has been, since the mid-​1970s, the large-​scale development of Egypt’s deserts. As part of the broader agenda of economic liberalisation, the Sadat government and its successors have sought to channel Egyptians out of their supposedly congested cities and away from vulnerable agricultural lands into the country’s arid regions which account for more than 95% its surface area. Such lands are, in principle, state-​owned and can thus be developed top-​down without purchasing private property or other state–​society negotiation (Sims 2014:262–​263). The first-​generation new desert settlements comprised ten government-​constructed cities, including the free-​standing 10th of Ramadan and Sadat, as well as satellite communities on the 249

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periphery of the Greater Cairo agglomerations. In the mid-​1990s, the Mubarak government precipitated a second-​generation land boom on the capital’s ​eastern fringe with the nominally private-​led development of New Cairo—​with an area half the size of the existing city—​and other gated communities intended for upper-​income Egyptians (Sims 2011:78–​79, 2014:128–​ 130). Since 2015, desert development has further intensified with the New Administrative Capital:  a military-​controlled enclave—​marketed as a high-​tech “smart city” and home to various outsize buildings—​intended to embody the Sisi government’s statist vision (Dunne 2018). Desert development has not been limited to the roughly 20 new towns, but also includes land reclamation, tourist facilities and other economic development projects throughout the country. The new desert cities have always represented a top-​down and highly modernist vision of the urban. Socio-​spatial order is articulated visually—​through standard sizings, geometric grids and symmetrical forms—​on large low-​density sites with wide streets, green buffer areas and strict land-​use segregation (Deboulet 2009:211–​215; Dorman 2013:1589; Sims 2014:123, 133–​134). While perhaps conforming to a Western notion of planning, it departs from regional traditions of urban compactness and diversity of uses and is unsuited to the desert environment (Sims 2014:134). In practice, the new settlements are less about creating viable cityscapes—​ some remain an assemblage of construction sites—​than articulating a disciplinary vision of Egyptian society made modern and productive through ordered space (Deboulet 2009:213; Ghannam 2002:30–​34; Sims 2014:123). They are in the tradition of the “edifice project”—​ starting with the Aswan High Dam—​through which successive governments have sought to capture the popular imagination and imbue state power with a narrative and mission (Meijer 2002:175–​177; Waterbury 1983:81; see also Larkin 2013:332–​333). Perhaps unsurprisingly, such construction-​led urbanism has been a demonstrable failure in policy terms. Over four decades, new towns have done little to change Egypt’s population distribution and urbanisation trajectory. Although intended to house 20  million Egyptians, the 2006 census indicated that they actually had fewer than 800,000—​most living on the Cairo periphery (Sims 2014:141–​142).The causes are in part structural: Egyptians have had few incentives to move to such areas which are largely cut off from amenities, livelihoods and the broader Egyptian society (Sims 2014:152–​153). More specifically, housing in the new settlements has been mainly developed for upper-​income consumers. Gated communities were almost entirely for the elite (Denis 2008). The New Administrative Capital explicitly stands apart from the rest of the country, a citadel for Egypt’s rulers against unrest in the old cities (Dunne 2018; Lindsey 2017). Especially given the small populations, new towns are difficult to establish cost-​ effectively. They have had a negative rate-​of-​return however measured (Sims 2014:146–​150). The New Administrative Capital’s construction may be constrained by shortages of Gulf financing and Chinese credits (Sweet 2019:19, 22–​24). Finally, the actual distribution of desert cities has tended to reinforce the centrality of the Cairo agglomeration (El Kadi 1992:66). Their low density likely exacerbates the urbanisation of farmland (Elshahed 2012). The desert development strategy points to a broader and long-​standing pattern of state–​ society disconnect in which the Egyptian government has sought to sidestep the Egyptian society and create its own bespoke social spaces. Rather than land and cropping reforms that might have increased agricultural productivity in the countryside but also threatened the reproduction of political control via the second stratum, the Nasser government and its successors instead invested in land reclamation (Adams 1986; Waterbury 1983:64–​65). Rather than managing the existing urban fabric and engaging with the informal sector, state agencies succumbed to what Sims (2014:123) referred to as a “romance with social engineering” to create an “ordered and antiseptic environment”. Projects like the Tahrir province land reclamation scheme, the 250

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Toshka desert canal and the New Administrative Capital are highly publicised exercises of a kind of visual or spectacular power. Yet their material impact is unlikely to be sustainable or transformative. Whatever the incompetence of its execution, desert development also manifests a political economy of land speculation—​manifest since the 1970s—​which both attracts essential rent income and provides a spoil for state elites such as the military (Diab 2018; Sims 2011:82, 2014:150–​152; see also Dorman 2013:1600–​1604). In the second-​generation settlements, land has been allocated to public and private developers either for free or at highly discounted rates (Sims 2014:266–​267; see also Sinai Correspondent 2019). Unsurprisingly, desert development became associated with the systemic corruption of the late Mubarak era:  cabinet ministers and the presidential family were alleged to have benefited from developments such as Palm Hills and Madinaty (Sims 2014:272–​276). In 2014, the former judge and head of the Central Auditing Authority, Hisham Geneina, alleged that state security officials and other public figures had illegally acquired lands around the Sheikh Zayed City in Giza (Mada Masr 2014; see also Michael 2015; Ahram Online 2014). In the 1980s, international aid agencies attempting to rationalise Cairo’s regional planning discovered that the Egyptian armed forces either owned or otherwise controlled extensive areas on the metropolitan periphery (Dorman 2013). Since the ancien regime resurgence in July 2013, they have become the country’s principal land and housing developer, undertaking both high status and public housing developments (Elshahed 2014; Saleh 2014). In 2016, a decree authorised the military to undertake joint ventures with international investors (Sawaf 2016). Hence, desert development—​particularly the new administrative capital—​signifies the deepening praetorianism of the Egyptian economy and polity.

Disputed spaces This chapter has been structured so far in terms of distinct, seemingly common sense, land categories. But their margins and borderlands are also important (Reynolds 2014). For example, the fertile/​desert fringes—​nominally state-​controlled but in proximity to water—​are the most sought after for development (Mitchell 2006:21 [note  57]). Large-​scale land reclamation suggests the need for a more graduated notion of soil fertility and undermines simple desert/​arable distinctions. While Egyptian commentators frequently decry the alleged “ruralisation” of Egyptian cities by peasant migration, Bayat and Denis (2000:194–​195) observed that Egypt’s spatial development since the 1970s has effectively urbanised the countryside: at least 80% of Egyptians live in areas which, by international standards, could be categorised as urban (2000:194–​195). Such examples suggest the limits of schematic typologies and a need for more socio-​politically informed categorisations of land, foregrounding complexity and ambiguity. In particular, the formal/​informal dichotomy—​discussed with respect to urban land but implicit throughout—​requires reconsideration. The nominally regulated sectors of the spatial political economy are less “formal” than they seem. In the mid-​1990s, property rights advocate Hernando De Soto (1997:2) asserted that roughly 90% of all Egyptian real estate was effectively informal because of legal irregularities, and for the lack of institutions for regulating property transactions efficiently. The account of desert development in the previous section suggests that Egyptian state agencies have little capability to regulate and manage public land. Sims (2014: 261–​279) noted the fragmented and opaque institutional structure of government bodies involved with the process, the absence of adequate surveying and mapping, the incoherence of the legal framework and the absence of a functioning registration system. His detailed account 251

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of the disastrous squandering of this valuable resource since the 1970s—​supplemented by case studies (El-​Husseiny 1987:33–​34, 38; Elyachar 2003:573–​576)—​suggests that informality is not uncommon in the public and elite sectors. Moreover, the ‘ashwa’iyyat are not uniformly “informal”. Many such settlements have complicated histories defying simplistic categorisations of encroachment and illegality (Dorman 2007:119–​123). Some have their origins in the Nasser government’s dissolution of land development companies and charitable/​religious endowments or the absorption of farming villages into formal agglomerations, without any clear determination of property rights (Joint Housing and Community Upgrading Team 1977:98–​99). Others began as emergency or other government-​ sanctioned shelter, or as the result of entrepreneurial activities by state officials. In general, state agencies have tended to ignore bottom-​up infringements on public land unless the land had an obvious value. One section of the Egyptian civil code explicitly allows for “squatting”—​the so-​ called hand claims (wada’ al-​yad)—​on unused land. Another section prohibits it with respect to public land. There are various intermediate forms of usufruct and tenure rights (Sims 2002:82–​ 84, 86–​87, 2014:265). Official responses to subaltern communities, such as Warraq, are generally premised on their putative illegality. However, it is wrong to see the Egyptian state as “in one place” and the informal sector “in another” (Elyachar 2003:576). The two are neither systematically opposed nor universally complicit. They are knotted together in relationships of co-​option, coercion, complicity and convenience. No property document, official decree or judicial ruling is likely to disentangle them. Such examples suggest an alternative cross-​cutting category: “contested land” which is subject, at least potentially, to multiple claims of ownership and access (see also Razzaz 1991). With respect to the desert, for example, Sims (2002:87, 2014:17–​18) noted that Bedouin pastoralists have long had customary claims on state-​owned land to the west of Alexandria. Haphazard desert development policies since the 1970s, moreover, have resulted in protracted disputes between state entities (Sims 2014:161–​162). With respect to agricultural land, the Warraq case illustrates the potential for conflict in riverine cases. In other cases, the disputes are “horizontal”:  accounts of subaltern settlements in the North Cairo and North Giza areas of the Greater Cairo region suggest that their informal development included extensive land usurpation by local notables (El Kadi 1988:29; Medani 2003:99–​108). Fragmented property holdings or official jurisdictions may complicate the adjudication of claims (El-​Messiri 1989:2 [Note 1]; Mitchell 2002:265–​266). Finally, examinations of the informal economic sector as a “non-​ movement” illustrate the ways in which subaltern actors can make bottom-​up claims on public and even private property, especially in situations where the police are reluctant to intervene (Bayat 2010:14–​26; Chakravarti 2012). Thus, land rights cannot necessarily be treated as a “given” sanctioned by a state-​backed legal order. In some cases, they are likely established through protracted bargaining between disputants “in the shadow of the law” and depend on a variety of extra-​legal factors and capacities (Elyachar 2006:420; Mitchell 2002:265–​266). Brown’s (1997:202–​8) account of the Egyptian court system suggests that it constitutes just one institutional register for negotiations of ownership, rather than providing a unitary framework for the determination of rights. Such a situation can be observed in the Warraq case where litigation, coercion and government efforts to buy out individual landowners proceed in parallel. This view of property as a social relation is perhaps evocative of landholding in the Egyptian countryside prior to the efforts of Muhammad Ali and his successors to maximise revenues by means of an objectified conception of property (Mitchell 2002:57–​58; see also 265–​266). But it should not be idealised. Egyptian law assumes that the physical possession of land indicates 252

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a right of possession, until proven otherwise (Hill 1979:118–​119; see also Sims 2011:82). The principle encourages extra-​legal action in which the first step to making claim is forcible seizure. Anecdotal evidence suggests that such tactics are not uncommon throughout Egyptian society (for case studies, see Hill 1979:102–​122; National Council on Human Rights 2013; Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy 2018). But state forces are likely to have the advantage in deploying them, for example, carrying out what were effectively armed invasions to displace the residents on Warraq and Qusayr. In the aftermath of Law No. 196 (1992) and the dispossession of peasant cultivators, the Land Centre for Human Rights asserted that landowners, police and other government officials in the countryside had used the law’s implementation as a pretext to seize lands not covered in the legislation (Land Centre for Human Rights 2002:132–​138; see also Bush 2002:191–​192). If true, their actions are a further demonstration of the informality of the formal.

Conclusion In late September 2019, the Sisi government faced a series of small-​scale protests in Cairo and other cities. Corruption allegations on social media had apparently provoked the first anti-​ government demonstrations in several years. A  security crackdown subsequently blocked all but isolated protests in Cairo. One of the few demonstrations was on Warraq Island where demonstrators chanted “Leave Sisi, we won’t leave our homes” until dispersed by security forces (Mada Masr 2019; Yee and Rashwan 2019). The islanders’ willingness to protest—​despite the crackdown and the Sisi government’s campaign of mass arrests—​suggests their degree of mobilisation and feelings of desperation. It reinforces the close linkages between land and socio-​ political conflict. The Warraq example is certainly the best documented example of a subaltern community resisting dispossession, but such linkages have been at least implicit throughout the chapter. The Egyptian case demonstrates that land is not a simple expression of geography or merely raw material for commodification. It is closely associated with hierarchies of privilege and dispensations of power. Its production has frequently taken place through usurpation and encroachment. The socio-​political power of the pre-​1952 gentry, for example, depended upon securing exclusive rights to land at the expense of peasant cultivators. Egypt’s military rulers then used land reform as a means of destroying the gentry-​based political order and cultivating their own more-​dependent intermediary stratum. The partial reversal of land reform in the 1990s probably served to further enrich this constituency; it created new opportunities for top-​ down predation on politically vulnerable cultivators. Spoils politics has also been evident in state management of urban and desert land. Urban management since the 1950s has been largely exclusionary and neglectful, with occasional predatory tendencies towards subaltern communities. The new desert cities strategy failed to achieve its declared material ends but has nonetheless constituted an exercise in top-​down spectacular power. Most importantly, it represented a land bank for enriching state forces—​most notably the armed forces—​with speculative rents. However, land can also be mobilised from below: bottom-​up encroachments on farmland, public land and city streets have almost mirror-​imaged those of the elite. Informal urbanisation has allowed those excluded from preferential access to state largesse to create their own urban spaces and seek inclusion by other means. Finally, the examination of land as a contested category illustrates the underlying complexity of the topic, the incoherence of the post-​colonial Egyptian state and the problematics of socio-​political bargaining in the absence of binding institutional frameworks. Pretensions to state sovereignty notwithstanding, the boundary line in Egypt between haybat al-​dawla and the ‘ashwa’iyyat is at best porous and usually elusive. 253

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Notes 1 A thorough account of the Warraq case can be found in a recent, Arabic language, report by the Egyptian Centre for Economic and Social Rights (2019). The Egyptian media portal Mada Masr has provided exceptional English-​language coverage since July 2017. 2 If only for reasons of space and focus, the chapter must necessarily be selective: it will not take up in-​ depth the issue of land reclamation (see Sims 2014:Chapter 3), border spaces, antiquities or the Sinai Peninsula. 3 Analyses of its implementation have likely been constrained by an absence of reliable data, and have usually been qualitative rather than systematic (Saad 1999b:390–​391, 1999a:23). 4 Hence, governments since 1952 have pursued desert reclamation as a panacea for a broader neglect of the agrarian sector (Waterbury 1983:49, 64–​65). For example, the Mubarak government promised plots of such reclaimed land to cultivators threatened with dispossession because of the land reform reversal (Saad 2002:117–​118). However, such lands are likely less productive, more expensive to farm and not a simple sectoral solution (Sadowski 1991:24–​25; Sims 2014:108–​116).

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PART IV

Law and human rights

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INTRODUCTION Law, courts, and human rights Tamir Moustafa

On February 28, 2019 Ahmed Mohy walked into Tahrir Square with a handwritten placard reading “Irhal ya Sisi.”1 The 34-​four-​year-​old pharmacist with no known political affiliation was angered by a train wreck that had occurred at Ramses Station the day before.2 Ahmed was moved to express his frustration publicly, even if it meant returning to Tahrir Square alone, without the cover of a mass movement beside him.Within minutes, a bystander snapped photos of Ahmed and posted them online. Soon thereafter, both were picked up by the police and whisked away to an unknown location. In the back of the police van, Ahmed hastily uploaded a chilling video: “[w]‌e are going somewhere and don’t know what will happen to us. Maybe they will inject us, maybe they will kill us, maybe they will burn us, or bury us, or do anything… .” As it turns out, Ahmed would find himself among the estimated 60,000 political prisoners who overflow from Egypt’s prison system. Ahmed was held for five months before his release on conditional measures. Days later, Ahmed was rearrested on charges of “spreading false news” and “collaborating with a terrorist organization to achieve its goals.” He remains in prison as of this writing.3 To be sure, Ahmed experienced the sort of rough injustice that is common in Egypt. Nonetheless, compared with the extrajudicial alternatives, formally appearing in the legal system offers hope that he will eventually survive the ordeal. Appearing within a legal system—​even one with few real protections—​can mean the difference between life and death.4 This opening vignette is meant to provide a blunt example of how law matters, even in situations of clear state repression. In this instance, law matters because it serves as the machinery of state repression. No matter how heavily stacked in favor of the regime, the law defines a mode of interaction between state and society, therefore providing a baseline of expectations, however dark those prospects might be. Likewise, law matters to Egyptian economic, social, and political life in myriad ways that are seldom sufficiently recognized in academic treatments of contemporary Egypt. Law plays a central role in constituting both the form and function of the Egyptian state; law shapes state–​ society relations; and although it may not be immediately apparent, law has both direct and mediating effects on all of the various issues that are examined in this Handbook on Contemporary Egypt. This section on law, courts, and human rights provides a brief overview of some of the most obvious places where law matters in contemporary Egypt. This introduction provides some basic context on the intersection of law, politics, and human rights in Egypt with a primary focus on the three decades of the Mubarak era. Each chapter that follows carries forward different strands of this treatment into the post-​Mubarak era. Specifically, Jeffrey Adam Sachs 263

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(­chapter 16) reviews the constitution-​writing processes, elections, and the landmark Supreme Constitutional Court (SCC) judgments that hobbled Egypt’s political transition. Heba M. Khalil (­chapter 17) studies the dynamics of cause lawyering in the post-​Mubarak era; and Ahmed Ezzat (­chapter  18) examines the Sisi regime’s increasing reliance on exceptional courts. Finally, a chapter by the long-​time human rights activist Bahey eldin Hassan (­chapter 19) provides readers with an insider’s view of the development of the Egyptian human rights movement, including its achievements, shortcomings, and the many challenges that lie ahead.

Law in Egyptian statecraft As in other countries, the development of the modern Egyptian legal system was driven by the twin engines of state-​building and the advance of trade and capitalism. Beginning with the rule of Muhammad Ali (1805–​1848), new legal codes and modern legal institutions were rapidly deployed to regulate commerce and to extend the reach of the state.The first unified legal code, al-​Muntakhabat, was promulgated in 1829, the Mixed Courts were established in 1876 to adjudicate business disputes involving foreigners, and the National Courts were established in 1883.5 The surge in commercial activity in the late 19th and early 20th centuries provided lucrative opportunities for a new class of lawyers. Law also became a dominant career path among the political elite, with 14 of the 19 prime ministers from 1919 to 1952 having their formal training in the law and nearly all cabinets during the same period featuring a majority of lawyers (Reid 1980, 118). The close relationship between prominent lawyers and the nationalist cause further served to boost the prestige of the profession. Throughout the interwar period, the legal profession became an important political force in and of itself. The Lawyers’ Syndicate (Niqabat al-​ Muhamin), established in 1912, became a focal point for national debates, as did its professional publication, al-​Muhamah. The Judges Association (Nadi al-​Quda; literally “Judges Club”) was founded in 1939. It has played important roles at key moments in pushing for the rule of law, judicial independence, and political reform.6 Modeled on the French judicial structure, the bulk of the Egyptian judiciary is composed of two separate hierarchies: one focused on civil and criminal law and the other dealing with administrative law. Additional judicial bodies include the SCC and exceptional courts. The Court of Cassation (Mahkamat al-​Naqd) sits at the apex of the ordinary court system and acts as the final appellate court for all matters of civil and commercial law, personal status law, and criminal law. Judges in the regular judiciary are appointed by decree of the President of the Republic with the approval of the Supreme Judiciary Council. The Supreme Judiciary Council is made up of the President of the Court of Cassation, the President of the Cairo Court of Appeal, the Attorney General, and the two most senior presidents of the Courts of Appeal. The ordinary judiciary is generally considered independent of the direct control of the executive branch of government, although there are plenty of examples that suggest this relative autonomy has eroded. The Supreme Administrative Court (al-​Mahkama al-​Idariyya al-​’Uliya) sits at the apex of the administrative court system and acts as the final appellate court for all matters of administrative law. The administrative courts serve as an important forum in which citizens can challenge executive actions or any agency within the state bureaucracy. Citizens can challenge state agencies on the grounds that they violated administrative laws or that administrative laws themselves contradict the Constitution. The administrative courts enjoy substantial independence in matters of appointments, promotions, and other internal functions. The administrative courts regularly rule against the executive authority, although the ebb and flow of these decisions is closely tied to shifting political contexts. 264

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The SCC (al-​Mahkama al-​Dusturiyya al-​’Uliya) plays a leading role in the Egyptian judiciary. Established in 1979, it has exclusive authority to perform three important roles: to issue binding interpretations of existing legislation when divergent views emerge, to resolve conflicts of jurisdiction between different judicial bodies, and to perform judicial review of legislation. In most cases, petitions for judicial review are initiated at the request of litigants themselves. However, judges can also initiate petitions for judicial review if they question the constitutionality of the laws they are applying. In technical terms, judicial review in Egypt is centralized rather than diffused, the timing of judicial review is a posteriori rather than a priori, and the SCC practices concrete review rather than abstract review, with legal standing restricted to litigants engaged in real legal controversies. The SCC was increasingly assertive vis-​à-​vis the executive from the 1980s through until the early 2000s (see Moustafa 2007), but it subsequently worked to consolidate regime power. In particular, the SCC played a pivotal role in tumultuous political transitions of 2011–​2014 (see ­chapter 16 in this volume). Running parallel to the regular judiciary are exceptional courts. As one study explains: The procedural organisation of the exceptional courts is different from that of ordinary and special courts.The accused does not enjoy the same guarantees. He has no right to challenge sentences, the prosecution has more power than in ordinary circumstances and the executive power plays an important role in the ratification of the judgments, in the composition of the courts and in distribution of jurisdictions. Seif al-​Islam, 2002: 369 In large part, the ebb and flow of judicial power in contemporary Egypt is shaped by shifting appointment processes, the interaction between these judicial authorities and with other branches of the state, and, of course, an ever-​changing political context outside the courts.

The ebb and flow of judicial power Within a few months of seizing power in 1952, Gamal Abdel Nasser made a decided shift away from the established legal and political order.The liberal 1923 Constitution, which provided for multiparty politics and fundamental rights, was annulled by executive decree on December 10, 1952. Another decree dissolved all political parties, making way for a one-​party state. Egyptian legal institutions were also weakened significantly under Nasser. Dozens of high-​ ranking judges were dismissed, and courts were stripped of their power to annul administrative acts. The government established a series of exceptional courts, including Mahkamat al-​Thawra (Court of the Revolution) in 1953 and Mahakim al-​Sha’b (The People’s Courts) in 1954. These courts had sweeping mandates, few procedural guidelines, no appeal process, and were staffed by loyal supporters of the regime, typically from the military. Court cases were also regularly transferred from the civil courts to both military and state security courts, which afforded few procedural protections (Meital 2017). The most significant blow to Egyptian judicial institutions during the Nasser era came in the 1969 “massacre of the judiciary.” In the wake of military defeat in the 1967 war, and with increasing calls for judicial reform from the Judges Association and the Lawyers’ Syndicate, Nasser dismissed over 200 judicial officials, including the board of the Judges Association and a number of judges on the Court of Cassation. To ensure that resistance to executive power would not easily re-​emerge, Nasser created the Supreme Council of Judicial Organizations, which gave the regime greater control over judicial appointments, promotions, and disciplinary action (Brown 1997). 265

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Anwar Sadat (1970–​1981) sought to distance himself from the excesses of the Nasser era by restoring to the judiciary a good deal of institutional autonomy and issuing a new constitution in 1971. Although not a thoroughly liberal document, the 1971 Constitution contained a number of provisions that helped to strengthen the rule of law. Sadat also restored the strength and autonomy of the administrative courts in 1972, and further in 1984, by returning substantial control over appointments, promotions, and internal discipline, which had been stripped by the presidential decree in 1959. Sadat also expanded the institutional capacity of the administrative courts by establishing additional courts of first instance and mid-​level appellate courts throughout the country. These new judicial channels increased the ability of citizens to challenge state agencies, thereby increasing the accountability of government bureaucrats. Sadat also established a new SCC, which, among other duties, was provided with the power of judicial review. Sadat used these new legal institutions as centerpieces of a new legitimating ideology focused on the importance of “sayadat al-​qanun” (the rule of law) and of Egypt as “dawlet mo’asasat” (a state of institutions). Institutional reforms were used by Sadat to build a new legitimating narrative that was distinct from the populist foundations of the Nasserist state. Mubarak (1981–​2011) similarly positioned himself as a political reformer. Political liberalization advanced in some areas through the 1980s, but the government reversed these tentative moves in the 1990s (Kienle 2000). The government expanded its ability to exercise preventive detention and to try civilians in military courts through Law 97/​1992. Professional syndicates were increasingly regulated and threatened with state sequestration by Law 100/​1993. Law 26/​ 1994 mandated that the village umda (mayor) and shaykh al-​balad (deputy mayor) were to be appointed rather than elected. Democratic institutions at universities were undermined by Law 142/​1994. Further controls were placed over the press by Law 93/​1995. And the emergency law was periodically extended throughout the decade.Throughout this period, the judiciary proved to be the most effective formal avenue for resisting government retrenchment.

Engaging the courts Nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) focusing on rights advocacy proliferated in Egypt in the 1980s, beginning with the establishment of the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (EOHR) in 1985.The EOHR, the Legal Research and Resource Center, and the Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies concentrated on increasing the awareness of human rights abuses in Egypt, both domestically and internationally, through research and documentation, and conferences and publications. The 1990s witnessed the rise of a new breed of rights organizations that went beyond simply documenting rights abuses to confronting the government in the courts. The most assertive group engaged in public interest litigation was the Center for Human Rights Legal Aid (CHRLA), established by the young and forceful human rights activist, Hisham Mubarak, in 1994. CHRLA quickly became the most dynamic human rights organization, initiating 500 cases in its first full year of operation, 1,323 cases in 1996, and 1,616 by 1997. CHRLA’s mission was to provide free legal representation to those who had experienced human rights violations at the hands of the government. Additionally, CHRLA documented human rights abuses and used the cases that it sponsored to publicize the human rights situation. As with every other human rights group in Egypt, CHRLA depended almost completely on foreign funding, but throughout the mid-​1990s, foreign funding sources proved plentiful. CHRLA quickly expanded its operations, opening two regional offices in Alexandria and Aswan. In hopes of emulating the model provided by CHRLA, human rights activists launched additional legal aid organizations with different missions. The Center for Women’s Legal Aid was 266

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established in 1995 to provide free legal aid to women dealing with a range of issues including divorce, child custody, difficulties securing alimony, and various forms of discrimination. The Center initiated 71 cases in its first year, 142 in 1996, and 146 in 1997, in addition to providing legal advice to 1,400 women in its first three years of activity. The Land Center for Human Rights joined the ranks of legal aid organizations in 1996 and dedicated its energies to providing free legal aid to peasants. With the land reform law 96/​1992 coming into full effect in October 1997, hundreds of thousands of peasants faced potential eviction in the late 1990s, and lawsuits between landlords and tenants began to enter the courts by the thousands. Between 1996 and 2000, the Land Center for Human Rights represented peasants in more than 4,000 cases and provided legal advice to thousands more. The Human Rights Center for the Assistance of Prisoners (HRCAP) similarly provided legal aid to prisoners and the families of detained individuals by investigating allegations of torture, monitoring prison conditions, and fighting the phenomenon of recurrent detention and torture through litigation. In its first five years of operation, HRCAP launched more than 200 court cases per year and gave free assistance (legal and otherwise) to between 7,000 and 8,000 victims per year. Opposition parties began to offer free legal aid as well, with the Wafd Party’s Committee for Legal Aid providing free legal representation in over 400 cases per year beginning in 1997. Similarly, the Lawyers’ Syndicate was active in providing legal aid. The Syndicate greatly expanded its legal aid department until the regime froze its functions in 1996. By 1997, legal mobilization had unquestionably become the dominant strategy for human rights defenders. In large part, this is because of the difficulty of fostering a broad social movement in Egypt’s repressive political environment. Gasser ‘Abd al-​Raziq, director of the Center for Human Rights Legal Aid and later the Hisham Mubarak Center for Legal Aid, explained that “in Egypt, where you have a relatively independent judiciary, the only way to promote reform is to have legal battles all the time. It’s the only way that we can act as a force for change.” A strong and independent judiciary became so central to the strategy of the human rights movement that human rights activists institutionalized support for judicial independence by founding the Arab Center for the Independence of the Judiciary and the Legal Profession (ACIJLP). Under the direction of former EOHR legal director, Nasser Amin, the ACIJLP set to work organizing conferences and workshops that brought together legal scholars, opposition party members, human rights activists, and important figures from the Lawyers’ Syndicate and Judges’ Association. The ACIJLP began to issue annual reports on the state of the judiciary and legal profession, extensively documenting government harassment of lawyers, critiquing the regime’s sequestration of the Lawyers’ Syndicate, and exposing the regime’s interference in the normal functions of judicial institutions. Like other human rights groups, the ACIJLP established ties with international human rights organizations, including the Lawyers’ Committee for Human Rights, and attempted to leverage international pressure on the Egyptian government. The leadership of CHRLA soon came to understand that constitutional challenges could induce systemic changes beyond individual claimants. CHRLA initiated a campaign to systematically challenge repressive legislation in the SCC. CHRLA’s first target was Law 35/​ 1976, governing trade union elections. CHRLA initiated 50 cases in the administrative and civil courts, all with petitions to challenge the constitutionality of the law in the SCC. Ten of the 50 cases were successfully transferred and within months the SCC issued its first verdict of unconstitutionality against article 36 of the law. CHRLA also successfully advanced three cases to the SCC, challenging sections of the penal code concerning newspaper publication offenses and three additional cases dealing with the social insurance law. CHRLA was further encouraged by activist judges in the regular judiciary who publicly encouraged groups in civil society to challenge the constitutionality of the National Democratic Party (NDP) legislation. 267

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Some judges went so far as to publicize their opinions of laws in opposition newspapers and to vow that if particular laws were challenged in their court, they would transfer the relevant constitutional question to the SCC without delay. The ruling of unconstitutionality on Law 35/​1976 and an additional 15 pending decisions in a three-​year period represented a tremendous achievement, given the slow speed of litigation in Egyptian courts and the relatively meager resources at the disposal of the human rights movement. Although the results may seem modest, the human rights community came to understand that constitutional litigation was perhaps the most effective way to challenge the regime. Until the CHRLA campaign, activists, opposition parties, and individuals had initiated cases in an ad hoc manner, CHRLA’s coordinated strategy of constitutional litigation was a significant innovation that prompted the rest of the human rights community to consider the possibility of constitutional litigation more seriously. Conferences and workshops were sponsored to examine the possibilities afforded by constitutional litigation, some of which brought together human rights associations and SCC justices. Rights organizations were clearly eager to emulate CHRLA’s approach. For the next two decades, litigation became an indispensable tool for rights activists. In a polity where law serves as an instrument of regime domination, law also became a tool of resistance. How does one make sense of these dynamics within a fundamentally illiberal political order? In my more detailed treatment of this era (Moustafa 2007), I  show that the SCC was able to pursue a relatively liberal political agenda for two decades by selectively accommodating the regime’s core political and economic interests. In the political sphere, the SCC ruled that Egypt’s Emergency State Security Courts were constitutional, and it conspicuously delayed issuing a ruling on the constitutionality of civilian transfers to military courts. Given that Egypt remained in a perpetual state of emergency, the Emergency State Security Courts and the military courts effectively formed a parallel legal system with fewer procedural safeguards, serving as the ultimate regime check on challenges to its power. Although the SCC had ample opportunities to strike down the provisions denying citizens the right of appeal to regular judicial institutions, it almost certainly exercised restraint because impeding the function of the exceptional courts would likely have resulted in a futile confrontation with the regime. Ironically, the regime’s ability to transfer select cases to exceptional courts facilitated the emergence of judicial power in the regular judiciary and in the SCC. The SCC was able to push a liberal agenda and maintain its institutional autonomy from the executive largely because the regime was confident that it retained ultimate control of the political playing field. SCC rulings had a clear impact on the contours of state–​society contention, but the SCC was ultimately contained within a profoundly illiberal political system.

Regime retrenchment By the late 1990s, the Egyptian government was increasingly apprehensive about judicial activism in general and SCC activism specifically. Opposition parties, human rights groups, and political activists had found a state institution with the capacity and the apparent willingness to curb executive powers, albeit incrementally and somewhat cautiously. As the regime grew increasingly impatient about opposition advances and the SCC’s growing base of support, the regime moved to undermine their efforts. Over a five-​year period, the regime employed a variety of legal and extralegal measures to weaken the judicial support network and ultimately to undermine the independence that the SCC had enjoyed for two decades.The appointment process was changed and the SCC was packed with new justices from outside the court. Political retrenchment was challenged inside and outside the courts, but activists were unable to prevent 268

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regime retrenchment given the overwhelming power asymmetries between the state and social forces. The ultimate hobbling of the human rights movement, the continued weakness of opposition parties, and the institutional assault on the SCC demonstrated how litigation by itself, without support from broad sectors of society, was an insufficient means to achieve political reform. Just as a movement converged around the Court, opposition parties, human rights organizations, and the legal profession, so too was the government able to incapacitate this cooperative effort by successively undermining each element of the movement through legal and extralegal tactics. Rather than follow through on its threats to neutralize the SCC outright in the mid-​1990s, the government instead adopted the subtler strategy of simply moving against the SCC’s supporters. The Lawyers’ Syndicate was neutralized by 1996, human rights associations faced near total collapse by 1999 due to intimidation and restrictions on foreign funding, and opposition parties were progressively weakened throughout the period, despite SCC rulings on political rights. By undercutting each element of the support network, the government effectively killed two birds with one stone: undermining support groups impaired their ability to monitor the regime’s increasingly aggressive human rights violations, while at the same time disabling their capacity to raise litigation and mount an effective defense of the SCC when it came under attack. The Egyptian government’s aggressive response to both the SCC and the human rights movement suggests that constitutional litigation increasingly posed a credible threat to the regime’s tools for maintaining control. The SCC provided an effective new avenue for critics to challenge the state through one of its own institutions. Success in battling the government’s restrictive NGO law, as well as litigation forcing full judicial supervision of elections, illustrated how human rights groups and opposition parties had become increasingly adept in using the courts to challenge the government and defend their interests. Moreover, the SCC’s willingness to confront the government with the landmark rulings on NGOs and full judicial monitoring of elections underlined the commitment of SCC justices to a political reform agenda. New life came to opposition politics beginning in 2003, but popular mobilization proved to be too little and too late. Although the opposition group kifaya! (enough!) played a crucial role in breaking the veil of silence, street protests never gathered more than a few thousand participants. One of the most striking cycles of protest in 2006 and 2007 focused public attention on demands for an independent judiciary, and later, opposition to the 2007 constitutional amendments. Rights consciousness was on the rise, but political activists were constrained by the heavy security presence and their inability to draw more protesters into action. Mubarak had changed the SCC appointment process, eroding the independence that it had once enjoyed.Thereafter, leadership of the SCC was passed from one regime insider to the next. In the process, the SCC was transformed from the most promising avenue for political reform to a weapon in the hands of the regime that would be used to constrain the regular judiciary and sideline political opponents. The regime also pushed through controversial constitutional amendments in 2005 and 2007 that entrenched illiberal measures into the constitution itself, thus placing them beyond the scope of judicial review. Meanwhile, resistance shifted beyond formal legal channels with successful labor actions from 2004 to 2010. The 22,000-​strong textile worker strikes in Mahalla al-​Kubra in 2006 and 2007 were among the dozens that were closely watched by the rest of the nation (Beinin 2007). A  year later, strikes in Mahalla showcased the emerging links between workers and urban-​based political activists in the April 6 Youth Movement. Rights advocates who had been working for years in small circles were finally forging organic links to mass publics. Wildcat strikes became high-​profile affairs, and workers often gained concessions. In the process, they 269

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spurred others to assert their own rights claims. The deteriorating economic situation for the bulk of Egyptians coupled with the vast sums of wealth being amassed by crony capitalists fed widespread discontent. At the same time, the November 2010 People’s Assembly election underlined the regime’s determination to silence opposition in advance of an anticipated effort to install Gamal Mubarak in upcoming presidential elections. The time was ripe for political change in Egypt, but it was the breathtaking example of the 2011 Tunisian revolt that truly inspired people power.

Rupture Beginning on January 25, 2011, Egyptians went to the streets in the millions to claim their rights. Popular mobilization continued for months after Mubarak’s ouster, with sustained pressure on all sites of political authority:  former NDP officials and regime cronies faced prosecution; labor unions and professional syndicates struggled to cast off the heavy hand of the state; students and faculty at al-​Azhar rallied for institutional independence and elections for the office of sheikh al-​Azhar; and the state media and press faced internal revolts against Mubarak appointees. What was notable about these struggles and others is that law became the most consequential object of struggle. Among the protest movements that swept the region beginning in 2011, the Egyptian movement was perhaps most defined by a struggle over the Constitution, repressive legislation, and the rule of law more generally (Moustafa 2011). This intense focus on law and legal institutions was a legacy of the prominent role that law played in maintaining authoritarian rule in Mubarak’s Egypt. Just as law and legal institutions were the principal mechanisms undergirding authoritarian rule, opposition activists were aware that meaningful political change could only emerge by way of legal reform. What is more, as remnants of the NDP clawed their way back to power, law once again became an important resource through which the Sisi regime would consolidate its political grip. The chapters that follow examine different aspects of these legal struggles, including the constitution-​writing processes, elections and their nullification, prosecutions and their redemption, the expansion of exceptional courts, and the role of litigation as a tool of resistance. To be sure, a more fulsome treatment of these struggles would require its own handbook. Furthermore, this section provides only a brief overview of some of the most obvious places where law matters in contemporary Egypt.

Notes 1 “Leave, Sisi.” 2 Train accidents had become something of a metaphor for the decline of Egyptian state services. Moreover, the year before the accident, Sisi had publicly criticized the Minister of Transport for proposing a plan that would upgrade and modernize the nation’s failing railway infrastructure. 3 Ahmed Mohy was charged in case 488/​2019, the same case that has been used to detain over 1,000 prisoners of conscience. 4 Anthony Pereira (2005) demonstrates this well in a comparative study of legal and extralegal repression in Brazil, Chile, and Argentina. 5 For more on the Mixed Courts and National Courts, see Hill (1979), Hoyle (1991), and Brown (1997). 6 For further background and context on the Lawyer’s Syndicate, including their central role in Egyptian political life through this period, see Reid (1981) and Ziadeh (1968). For details on the contemporary ideological splits in the legal profession, see Moustafa (2010).

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References Beinin, Joel. 2007. “The Militancy of Mahalla al-​Kubra,” Middle East Report Online, 29 September, 2007. Brown, Nathan. 1997. The Rule of Law in the Arab World: Courts in Egypt and the Gulf. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hill, Enid. 1979. Mahkama! Studies in the Egyptian Legal System. London: Ithaca Press. Hoyle, Mark. 1991. Mixed Courts of Egypt. London: Graham & Trotman. Kienle, Eberhard. 2000. A Grand Delusion: Democracy and Economic Reform in Egypt. London: I.B. Tauris. Meital, Yoram. 2017. Revolutionary Justice:  Special Courts and the Formation of Republican Egypt. Oxford University Press. Moustafa, Tamir. 2007. The Struggle for Constitutional Power: Law, Politics, and Economic Development in Egypt. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Moustafa, Tamir. 2010. “The Islamist Trend in Egyptian Law,” Politics and Religion, vol. 3: 610–​630. Moustafa, Tamir. 2011. “Law in the Egyptian Revolt,” Middle East Law and Governance, vol. 3: 181–​191. Pereira, A.W., 2005. Political (In) Justice: Authoritarianism and the Rule of Law in Brazil, Chile, and Argentina. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press. Reid, Donald. 1980. Lawyers and Politics in the Arab World, 1880–​1960. Minneapolis, MO:  Bibliotheca Islamica. Seif al-​Islam, Ahmed. 2002. “Exceptional Laws and Exceptional Courts,” in Nathalie Bernard-​Maugiron and Badouin Dupret (eds.), Egypt and Its Laws. The Hague: Kluwer Law International. Ziadeh, Farhat J. 1968. Lawyers, the Rule of Law and Liberalism in Modern Egypt. Stanford, CA:  Hoover Institution on War, Revolution, and Peace.

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16 JUDGES, ELECTIONS, AND CONSTITUTIONAL POLITICS AFTER THE 2011 REVOLUTION Jeffrey Adam Sachs

Introduction On February 11, 2011, after two weeks of protests and years of popular resistance,Vice President Omar Suleiman announced that Hosni Mubarak, who had ruled Egypt without interruption since 1981, was stepping down. That same day, power was transferred to the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF), a body of 20 senior military and security officers. In its first statements to the public, SCAF vowed to organize elections, draft an interim constitution, and relinquish power to civilian leadership as soon as possible. “We can breathe fresh air, we can feel our freedom,” one former member of parliament said. “After 30 years of absence from the world, Egypt is back” (Kirkpatrick 2011).Yet what followed were two and a half years of initial enthusiasm, dashed hopes, missed opportunities, and, ultimately, disaster. This period was also marked by the influence of Egypt’s judiciary, which intervened decisively during critical moments in the country’s transition. Along with the Muslim Brotherhood and SCAF, the judiciary was one of the most important institutional actors left standing after Mubarak’s fall. Yet it is also one of the least understood, with opinions both today and at the time sharply divided over its values, reasoning, and intentions. Fortunately, a wealth of scholarship in recent years has shed considerable light on the matter.What has emerged is a portrait of a diverse and multi-​vocal institution, one in which no single strategy or set of goals was dominant over all others.Yet certain patterns can nevertheless be discerned. One major concern for almost all judges was the independence of the judiciary, though there was no consensus on what this entailed or how it could be achieved. There was also agreement on the importance of the rule of law, but balancing this against respect for the popular will, newly manifest in both the streets and elected bodies, was a constant struggle. In theory, these problems should have been resolved during the electoral and constitution-​drafting processes. Instead, they grew more entrenched, ultimately bringing those processes to a grinding halt. This chapter begins with the revolution itself and its immediate aftermath. In the next section, I  examine the importance of judges in those early days, when they were regarded by many activists and revolutionaries as potential allies. Yet even during this period, signs of tension were present, especially as the process of drafting a constitution got underway. The section entitled “Parliamentary elections and the Muslim Brotherhood” analyzes that process, as well as the impact of parliamentary and presidential elections. As democratic institutions 272

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took shape, the judiciary found itself divided over what its proper role should be, leading to significant internal conflict. The section “Mohammad Morsi and the Permanent Constitution” traces the efforts of Mohammad Morsi, Egypt’s first popularly elected head of state, to establish a permanent constitution. In doing so, long-​simmering questions about the independence of the judiciary erupted into view, with devastating effects for the country’s transition. Finally, the section “From crisis to catastrophe” follows the events leading up to the military coup of July 3, 2013, in which the judiciary played a major, if ambiguous, role.

Law, courts, and the Egyptian revolution Law, justice, and constitutionalism were all central issues in the 2011 Revolution. For the millions of protesters who filled Egypt’s streets and squares, key demands included an end to public corruption, accountability for police violence, and checks on the power of the government. Unsurprisingly, these demands were often framed in legal and constitutional terms. “The People Want the Fall of the Constitution,” read the title of one revolutionary pamphlet (Sultany 2017, p. 236). “Don’t Tinker with the Corrupt Constitution –​We Want a New One,” said another (Communist Party of Egypt 2011). As Tamir Moustafa notes, from its first days, the vocabulary of the Revolution was saturated with legal terminology and rights talk (Moustafa 2011). Protesters and activists understood themselves to be engaged in not only a political struggle, but also a legal and juridical one. As a result, the courts quickly became one of the places where the Revolution was fought. All of this reflects the important role that the judiciary played in Egypt’s politics. Since its modern founding in 1876, the judiciary has sought to secure its independence and institutional prerogatives (Brown 1997; Shalakany 2013). In its first decades, its focus was primarily on limiting foreign (i.e., British) interference and establishing a liberal rule of law. Following World War II, however, many judges turned their attention to domestic threats, first from the Khedive and later the military governments that replaced him. Conditions grew especially dire under President Gamal Abd al-​Nasser (1954–​1970), whose attacks on the judiciary culminated in 1969 with the sacking of over 200 judges, an event that became notorious as the “Massacre of the Judges.” Consequently, the years following Nasser’s death were, at least initially, a time of reconstruction. A  key event in this period was the establishment of the Supreme Constitutional Court (SCC) in 1979. Although originally intended by then President Anwar Sadat to address a lingering economic crisis and to manage political conflict, the SCC soon became a venue for liberal reformers, human rights organizations, and opposition politicians (Moustafa 2007; Lombardi 2008; El-​Ghobashy 2008). Progress for these groups was uneven, but by the 1990s their efforts had begun to bear considerable fruit. Through courtroom victories, activists succeeded in lifting bans on opposition parties, relaxing press censorship, and expanding the independence of Egypt’s professional syndicates. All of this culminated in the early 2000s when a ruling by the SCC threatened the government’s control over elections. The resulting backlash was intense, involving changes to the SCC’s composition, harassment of individual judges, and new amendments to the constitution designed to undermine judicial independence (Moustafa 2007; Bernard-​Maugiron 2008). Yet efforts toward political reform, led by both the SCC and other courts and legal actors, continued unabated. Moreover, individual judges had established strong and sympathetic links with both liberal and Islamist activists. These persisted in spite of the regime’s clampdown. As a result, when the Mubarak government was toppled in February 2011, the judiciary was well positioned to step into the breach. Just four days after Mubarak’s resignation, SCAF 273

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appointed Tariq al-​Bishri, a renowned intellectual and former judge of the State Council, to lead the Constituent Assembly tasked with drafting a transitional constitution. He was joined by three sitting members of the SCC, as well as by four other lawyers and law professors. Working under a tight ten-​day deadline imposed by SCAF, they drafted nine amendments to the 1971 Constitution, including provisions that would set term limits for the presidency, outline eligibility requirements for parliamentarians, and restore judicial supervision of elections (Salem 2011). Importantly, they also would require that any draft legislation on presidential elections be submitted to the SCC for prior review to ensure its constitutionality. The decision to simply amend the 1971 Constitution, instead of drafting a new one from scratch, was controversial. Supporters of the decision insisted that the amended document would only be temporary, and furthermore that by deferring a full draft until after presidential and parliamentary elections, the final constitution would command more legitimacy. But others were alarmed by the hurried and confused nature of the process, warning that the amendments left too many important issues unresolved. Among those sharing this view was Tahani al-​Gebali, a sitting SCC judge, who said that passage of the amendments would trap Egyptian politics in a cycle of gridlock and brinkmanship (El-​Hennawy 2011). These concerns proved to be prescient, as events in the following year would show. Nevertheless, on February 19, 2011, Egyptians voted decisively in favor of the draft amendments, with 77% in support and only 23% opposed. For the first time in the nation’s history, the people had freely and democratically ratified a constitution. But here we encounter the first of Egypt’s constitutional wrinkles. Rather than simply enforce the amended 1971 Constitution, SCAF promulgated it on March 30 as part of a Constitutional Declaration. In the Egyptian legal system, Constitutional Declarations function as supra-​constitutional expressions of sovereign power, an ambiguous and highly charged intervention by the state in legal affairs.1 SCAF’s Constitutional Declaration included the amended 1971 Constitution, but departed from the popularly ratified text in several important respects. For example, Article 33 of the amended 1971 Constitution had vested legislative authority in an elected parliament consisting of an upper house (the Shura Council) and a lower house (the People’s Assembly). But according to Article 56 of the Constitutional Declaration, legislative power was to be shared with SCAF, which also had the sole authority to convene and adjourn parliament, enter into treaties, and represent the state abroad. Equally significant was the way that SCAF rewrote the constitutional-​drafting process. In the version ratified by the public, a Constituent Assembly would only be formed to compose a permanent constitution after members of parliament and the president had been elected. But Article 189 of the Constitutional Declaration changed this ordering to permit the creation of a Constituent Assembly before the president’s election—​which is precisely what ended up happening. This change, like the other alterations made in the Constitutional Declaration, was designed to minimize the role of civilian leadership and ensure SCAF’s influence over the transition.2 Few observers appreciated the full import of these changes at the time. Instead, focus shifted quickly to the parliamentary elections, which were scheduled to take place in six months’ time. In the meanwhile, there was also a flurry of court decisions with which to contend. In April 2011, the High Administrative Court dissolved the National Democratic Party (NDP) and ordered that its property be confiscated by the government.3 Another administrative court in al-​ Mansura went so far as to ban all former members of the NDP from running in the upcoming parliamentary elections, though this ruling was overturned on appeal (Masoud 2014, p. 129). Meanwhile, the Wasat Party, a moderate Islamist party that had been denied official recognition by Mubarak in the 1990s, was permitted to organize and field candidates. Throughout the summer and fall of 2011, courts overturned the Mubarak-​era sale of public corporations and 274

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assets into private hands (Selim 2013). And the power of SCAF to detain and torture civilians was sharply curtailed. These decisions, along with many others focused on workers’ rights, police accountability, and public corruption, transformed many judges into icons of the revolution. Brothers Ahmed and Mahmoud Mekki, who had each served on the Court of Cassation before running afoul of the Mubarak regime in the 2000s, emerged as vocal champions of the democratic transition. Another well-​known judge, Hisham Bastawisi, returned from political exile in Kuwait to run for president. From the bench, on television, and in the streets, Egypt’s judges were leading the charge for reform. As one senior member of the Court of Cassation remarked, “when everyone else was falling during the 2011 Revolution, judges were trusted.”4 However, on all these issues, as well as on core questions about elections, the Constitution, and the role of the military in politics, the judiciary was far from united. Many judges had prospered under the Mubarak regime and viewed its collapse with dismay. Others had no love for the former government but were alarmed by the post-​revolutionary upheaval, in particular by the rise of the Muslim Brotherhood. Ahmed Zend, a senior judge and then president of the Judges’ Club (a social and professional organization for members of the civil judiciary), emerged as an outspoken leader for this faction. Unlike in previous years, when it had fought for democratic reform and accountability, the Club under Zend adopted a pronounced pro-​regime direction (Said 2008). “These judges do not represent the judiciary,” Zend said of his colleagues who participated in the 2011 protests. “Judges should not join the commons or the mob” (Ibrahim 2015).While eventually reversing course on the Revolution, he maintained his opposition to the Muslim Brotherhood and its allies on the bench. As the pro-​SCAF counterpart to Bastawisi and the Mekki brothers, Zend argued that the transition to civilian rule presented a very real threat to judicial independence, a view shared by many others on the bench. Yet it is important to remember that even at the height of the Revolution, the vast majority of Egypt’s judges were not politically active. While prepared to mobilize for better judicial compensation or working conditions, or to protect the independence and prerogatives of their profession, most judges simply were not interested in participating in public debate. This was especially true of junior judges and those outside of the major cities. Moreover, although there were many occasions when judges took important political stands, they tended to retain a strong statist identity, seeing their position as one essentially outside of partisan political life. Whether and how this might change remained to be seen.

Parliamentary elections and the Muslim Brotherhood With the 2011–​2012 parliamentary elections, the judiciary entered a new, more dangerous phase. Under rules established by SCAF in a Constitutional Declaration, one-​third of the seats in the Shura Council were to be appointed by the President, while the rest were to be elected directly by voters. In the People’s Assembly, two-​thirds of the deputies were to be elected by proportional representation and open to candidates running on a party list, while the remaining one-​third were reserved for independent candidates running individual races. A certain number of seats were also set aside for women, farmers, and other favored constituencies. The resulting arrangement was enormously complex, but it was SCAF’s hope that this complexity would favor former NDP officials and blunt the advantage of the well-​organized Muslim Brotherhood and other Islamist parties (Hassan 2011). These efforts were unsuccessful. When all votes were tallied, the Muslim Brotherhood’s Freedom and Justice Party (Hizb al-​Hurriya wa al-​’Adalah) (FJP) won almost 48% of the seats in the People’s Assembly. Another bloc called the Islamic Alliance, which included the Salafi Al-​Nour Party, won 24%. Secular parties like the Wafd captured less than 8% of the seats, while 275

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pro-​SCAF parties performed even worse, earning only about 1%. The FJP fared better still in the Shura Council, winning 105 of 180 elected seats, with a further 45 going to Al-​Nour (Volkel 2017, pp. 601–​603). The results were clear: the first freely elected parliament in Egypt’s history would be dominated by Islamists.5 For SCAF, this was a worst-​case scenario. For many secular politicians and liberal revolutionaries, it was hardly any better. The FJP now seemed firmly in the driver’s seat of Egypt’s democratic transition.Yet the March 30 Constitutional Declaration was still in force, sharply limiting parliament’s authority. One of the body’s top priorities, therefore, was to draft a permanent constitutional document. Working in great haste, it created a new Constituent Assembly that included a mix of legal experts, lay people, and (crucially) several FJP members of parliament. The inclusion of parliamentarians was a step too far for the Administrative Court, which ordered the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly in April 2012 on the grounds that their inclusion was a violation of Article 60 of the Constitutional Declaration.6 Parliament soon elected a second Constituent Assembly to take its place, which the FJP and its allies buttressed by adopting a law (Law No. 79/​2012) granting it immunity from dissolution.The constitutionality of this law, however, was immediately challenged by the opposition, as was the legality of the revised Constituent Assembly itself. As a result, the Assembly began its work under a cloud of illegitimacy. It is important to understand the political and legal dynamics during this period, since these patterns would repeat themselves again and again over the following year. FJP politicians believed that parliament, and by extension their own dominance in it, was the truest expression of the popular will. Having finally seized power after decades of struggle, they were enormously frustrated to discover that their authority was still sharply circumscribed by SCAF. They were not alone in this feeling; many non-​Islamist supporters of the Revolution were likewise anxious to secure an end to military rule. By striking down the Constituent Assembly, the Administrative Court had prolonged SCAF’s tenure and, in the FJP’s eyes, revealed itself to be an enemy of the Revolution. On the other hand, the judiciary could point to legitimate precedent for the Administrative Court’s decision in the Constituent Assembly case. Moreover, Egypt’s judges likewise believed themselves to be guardians of the people and defenders of the rule of law. This self-​assessment was especially true for the SCC, which had succeeded in placing real (albeit tenuous) limits on the Mubarak regime (Moustafa 2003). With the Muslim Brotherhood pushing for more and more power, the SCC increasingly came to see itself as a necessary, albeit anti-​majoritarian, counterweight to the FJP. This triggered a dangerous cycle:  FJP politicians would introduce policies designed to hasten the transition to civilian rule, prompting a backlash by members of the judiciary and their allies, followed by an even more frantic scramble for power by the FJP. All the while, an escalating war of words from all sides played out on television, in newspapers, and on the floor of parliament. In such a climate, further conflict was inevitable. The first move was made by the Muslim Brotherhood, which abruptly announced that it was reversing its pledge to forgo fielding a candidate in the upcoming presidential election. When its first choice, Khairat al-​Shater, was disqualified by the High Election Commission, a politically untested member of the Brotherhood named Mohammad Morsi was tapped instead.7 Over two rounds of voting in May and June of 2012, Morsi succeeded in defeating Ahmad Shafiq, a former member of the Mubarak regime and SCAF’s chosen candidate, albeit by only a four-​point margin. But on June 14, 2012, just 48 hours before the second round of voting, this victory was irreparably tainted for the Brotherhood by judicial intervention. First, Shafiq’s participation was only possible because the SCC struck down Law No. 17/​ 2012. This was a popular law that barred from office anyone who had held a leadership position in the NDP during the ten years prior to the 2011 Revolution. According to the court, the 276

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law was unconstitutional on both procedural grounds (by being a retroactive punishment for behavior that at the time was not criminal) and substantive grounds (because it denied Egyptians their right to hold political office on the basis of political affiliation).8 Individually, these rulings by the court are not without merit. Taken collectively, however, the court’s reasoning was highly unusual. As Sultany (2017) notes, Egyptian law furnished the court with ample opportunity to decide the case differently, should it have chosen to do so. Indeed, other courts had upheld similar laws in the past, for example, with the dissolution of the NDP one year earlier. In the case of Shafiq, however, it “resorted to abstraction in order to avoid moral and political judgment and produce the effect of necessity: that the legal materials necessitated the judicial outcome” (Sultany 2017, p. 206). Nimer Sultany argues that this retreat to abstraction and proceduralism was due to the court’s own discomfort with the legal ambiguities associated with the Revolution. Surveying this and other SCC cases from the period, Mohammad Fadel reaches a similar conclusion. Rather than approach legal ambiguity with caution or judicial deference, the court chose to “exclude ambiguity from the universe of constitutional questions and instead read the constitution as though its meaning is always clear and incontrovertible” (Fadel 2018, p. 939). These same problems are apparent in a second decision announced by the SCC that day, wherein the court declared unconstitutional the electoral law on which the 2011–​2012 parliamentary election had been run.9 According to the court, by allowing political parties to contest the portion of People’s Assembly seats reserved for independent candidates, while not permitting independent candidates to compete for the seats set aside for the parties, the electoral law had violated Article 7 of the March 30 Constitutional Declaration, which guarantees equality of political opportunity.10 As with the court’s reasoning in the Shafiq case, this decision was not without its logic. Furthermore, the court could point to concrete precedent, as parliaments in 1984 and 1987 had been dissolved by the courts on similar grounds. However, Article 38 of the Constitutional Declaration had explicitly mandated the two-​tiered system in which political parties were awarded more seats, a result that is prima facie unequal. As Masoud (2014, pp. 216–​ 217, fn. 19) argues, this strongly suggests that the constitution’s drafters had not considered an unequal distribution of parliamentary seats to be a violation of equality of political opportunity, a possibility that the SCC declined to consider. Moreover, the final electoral formula had been set the previous September by SCAF, a body to which the SCC had earlier shown enormous deference. The court’s decision to strike down one of SCAF’s laws now, when doing so was maximally damaging to the FJP, struck many as blatantly political. And lastly, having found a constitutional violation, the court ordered the most extreme remedy possible: dissolution of the People’s Assembly and the holding of a new election. Thus, in a single day, the SCC undid what had been the FJP’s only political victory to date and threw up an obstacle to securing another. The uproar among the FJP and the Brotherhood supporters was immediate, but to no avail. Adding insult to injury, on the eve of Morsi’s swearing in, SCAF issued a Constitutional Declaration, further consolidating its own autonomy from executive oversight.When challenged, the Administrative Court refused to reverse it, describing it as a “sovereign act,” and therefore not justiciable by the courts.11 Thus, though Morsi ultimately won the election and became Egypt’s first democratically elected head of state, he took office institutionally isolated and politically weak.

Mohammad Morsi and the permanent constitution From the moment he took the oath of the presidency—​itself a noticeably chilly affair presided over by the Chief Judge of the SCC—​Mohammad Morsi had one overarching goal: to draft and ratify a permanent constitution. Only by replacing the March 30 Constitutional Declaration 277

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could the gains of the Revolution be consolidated. However, with parliament dissolved, the Constituent Assembly’s legitimacy was now itself in doubt. During the summer and autumn of 2012, there was little Morsi could do besides rail against SCAF and hope that the Assembly would complete its work before it could be dissolved by the courts. In this, he was encouraged by a series of delays by the High Administrative Court, which postponed issuing a ruling on the Constituent Assembly five times. However, he continued to suffer major defeats in the courtroom. An attempt to summon parliament back into session was summarily dismissed by a judge in June 2012. Later, in a pair of back-​to-​back rulings in September, the High Administrative Court upheld the SCC’s dissolution of parliament and rolled back even further the ban on NDP officials running for office. And the Judges’ Club, which had always been skeptical about the FJP’s intentions, was transformed after Morsi’s election into a center of anti-​Muslim Brotherhood activism. From his position as chair of the Club, Ahmed Zend launched attack after attack on the government, often describing elaborate conspiracy theories in which Morsi was secretly working to destroy the country. Yet even now, the judiciary was not unified in opposition. A group of judges, many of whom had run afoul of the Mubarak regime in the 2000s due to their reformist tendencies, began to coalesce into a new organization called the Judges for Egypt. As the pro-​FJP counterpart to the Judges’ Club, the Judges for Egypt vigorously defended Morsi’s government in the press and the streets. Several of them actually joined the government, including Mahmoud Mekki (as vice-​ president), Ahmed Mekki (as Minister of Justice), and Hossam al-​Gheryani, a deeply respected senior judge who was selected to chair the second Constituent Assembly. Others, like Zakaria ‘Abd al-​’Aziz, a leader of the Judges’ Club under Mubarak, lobbied his colleagues behind the scenes. While never a large group, the Judges for Egypt supplied Morsi’s government with a degree of legitimacy during a very dangerous time. It also signaled a potential opportunity for rapprochement between the government and the rest of the judiciary. Indeed, it would be a mistake to view Morsi’s opponents in the judiciary as motivated purely by their antipathy for the Muslim Brotherhood or the government’s Islamist agenda. Typically, Morsi met the greatest resistance when he was perceived as threatening the judiciary’s independence. But other assertions of presidential power were often tolerated or even encouraged, as seen in the courts’ deference to Constitutional Declarations. This was especially true during moments of political turmoil, when the sovereign power of the state, or haibat al-​dawlah, was viewed as necessary for national survival. Very early after the fall of Mubarak, this concept of sovereign power entered into popular discourse, usually in juxtaposition to the rule of law. According to Goldberg and Zaki (2010–​2011), there was growing concern among some observers that by slavishly upholding the rule of law, the judiciary was undermining the state’s ability to act decisively in the public interest. Throughout Morsi’s presidency, but especially during its first six months, the judiciary was immensely sensitive to this dilemma. Even those judges hostile to Morsi were torn by their desire to preserve the power and sovereignty of the state. As a result, jurisprudence under Morsi was confusing and often contradictory, with all the opportunities for miscalculation that this entailed. These problems are clearly illustrated in the judiciary’s differing response to two Constitutional Declarations. The first came in August 2012 when, in the midst of Ramadan, Morsi abruptly announced that he was removing several senior military officers, revoking SCAF’s legislative authority, and that in the event that the Constituent Assembly was dissolved, would personally select the members for its replacement. This was a stunning assertion of presidential authority, one that essentially swept aside the Constitutional Declaration made by SCAF the previous June. Yet no one in the judiciary put up any resistance. On the contrary, there was a general acceptance that SCAF had overstepped, that the act was within Morsi’s constitutional authority, 278

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and that no core judicial interest was at stake. As a sovereign act, Morsi’s Ramadan Declaration was judged to be a valid expression of state power. Compare this to his second Constitutional Declaration in October 2012, when Morsi announced that he was firing Egypt’s Public Prosecutor, Abdel Meguid Mahmoud, due to the latter’s failure to secure a conviction in a notorious case of police violence.12 This proclamation was seen as a direct attack on the judiciary’s independence (as president, Morsi lacked the authority to sack the Public Prosecutor), and prompted an outpouring of anger across the country. Even the bloc of judges that had heretofore avoided political activism were incensed by Morsi’s decision. In the face of intense opposition, Morsi offered to transfer the Public Prosecutor to a diplomatic post at the Vatican instead, but was again rebuffed. Humiliated, he ultimately backed down and allowed the Public Prosecutor to continue in his post (Al-​Jazeera 2012). However, this pause in hostilities did not last. As the Constituent Assembly neared the finish line, Morsi became convinced that the judiciary was planning to dissolve the chamber, and perhaps dissolve the Shura Council as well. The precipitating event was the decision by the Administrative Court to transfer the long-​running lawsuit against the Constituent Assembly to the SCC, where the constitutionality of Law 79 (2012), which had granted the Assembly judicial immunity, could be considered. Sensing that an adverse ruling—​and with it, the dissolution of the Assembly—​was imminent, Morsi issued a third Constitutional Declaration on November 22, 2012. This one removed both the Constituent Assembly and the Shura Council from judicial review, effectively immunizing them from court-​ordered dissolution. He also announced that all laws and presidential decrees passed since June 2012 were likewise immune, all trials of Mubarak-​era officials that had failed to secure convictions could be reheard, the deadline established for the Constituent Assembly would be extended an extra two months, and that he himself was empowered to take whatever steps were necessary to defend the gains of the Revolution. To top it off, he fired the Public Prosecutor a second time. If Morsi believed that this Declaration would be greeted the same way his Ramadan one had been, he was sorely mistaken. The outrage was immediate and near universal, spanning the political spectrum and triggering widespread unrest. His own Minister of Justice, Ahmed Mekki, said of the Declaration that it “violates my core convictions” (Kirkpatrick 2012). The Supreme Judicial Council called it an “unprecedented attack on the independence of the judicial branch.” Several members of the cabinet announced their resignations, while clashes between supporters and opponents erupted across the country (Associated Press 2012). Finally, on November 26, the great mass of politically disengaged judges entered the fray at last. On the urging of the Judges’ Club, thousands of judges and prosecutors participated in a nationwide strike. Hundreds of courts, including the Court of Cassation and the Cairo Court of Appeals, suspended their work. Egypt’s judicial system was brought to a complete standstill. Morsi soon withdrew his Declaration, but the damage was done. Moving now with extreme speed, the Constituent Assembly finished its work. On November 29, it approved a final draft and released the details to the public. Two days later, Morsi announced that a Constitutional Referendum would be held on December 15. In the meantime, the Muslim Brotherhood supporters gathered outside the SCC to physically block judges from issuing a ruling against the Assembly. Multiple protesters died in clashes with police, and rumors swirled of a planned military coup.Yet when the final votes were tallied, the constitution was ratified.

From crisis to catastrophe Morsi had his constitution, but it came at a steep price. Whatever goodwill within the judiciary that he or the Judges for Egypt had managed to cultivate disappeared with his Declaration from the 279

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previous November. Furthermore, the Constitution itself did little to mend things, as it contained multiple provisions that seemed designed to anger the courts. Chief among these was Article 176, which shrank the number of seats on the SCC from 19 to 11, forcing the retirement of seven judges (there was one vacancy at the time). Among those expelled from the chamber was Tahani al-​Gebali, who had become an outspoken critic of the Muslim Brotherhood. The remaining judges were understandably bitter, with Chief Judge Maher al-​Beheiri warning that the court “can never forget” the attack on its independence (Kirkpatrick and El Sheikh 2013).There was also significant anxiety over Article 169, which subordinated the judiciary’s budget to parliamentary legislation. Another important issue was the role of shari’a, or Islamic law. Under Article 2 of both the 1971 and 2012 constitutions, shari’a was described as “the main source” of legislation. The meaning of this provision has always been hotly contested, but under the 1971 Constitution, cases involving shari’a were ultimately justiciable by the SCC. While the 2012 Constitution did not eliminate this, it greatly expanded the role of Al-​Azhar, Egypt’s preeminent school of Islamic learning, at the SCC’s expense. Article 4 mandated that senior Azhari scholars must be consulted on all cases involving shari’a, and Article 219 defined the principles of Islamic law to include “general evidence, foundational rules, rules of jurisprudence, and credible sources accepted in the doctrine of ahl al-​sunnah wa ‘l-​jama’ah [the people of the Sunnah and the congregation].” This last clause greatly worried secular judges, as it seemed to privilege the authority of Islamic jurists over their own (Hefney 2013, pp. 103–​104). Some commentators began to refer to the text as the Brotherhood Constitution and warned darkly that the country was being transformed into an Islamic state. These constitutional provisions, as well as a renewed push in parliament to lower the mandatory retirement age for judges from 70 to 60 years (forcing the exodus of more than 3,000 judges), inaugurated a new and more nakedly hostile period in government–​judiciary relationship. Both sides hardened their positions. For Morsi and his supporters, the judiciary was an institution that could no longer be accommodated, but only overcome. His strategy now was to protect the Shura Council, elect an FJP-​dominated People’s Assembly, and work over time to limit the power of both the courts and SCAF. The judiciary, meanwhile, adopted a dual-​track strategy of accepting the 2012 Constitution’s legitimacy but undermining any effort by the government to implement it (Brown and Waller 2016). In this tack, two draft election laws were struck down by the courts as unconstitutional, delaying still further the election of a People’s Assembly.With each side feeling like its very existence was at stake, the nation lurched toward disaster. Two last episodes are worth discussing here. The first episode concerns the struggle over the Public Prosecutor, which was still ongoing. Under Article 236 of the 2012 Constitution, all Constitutional Declarations issued since the Revolution were revoked, but their effects were still to be considered valid and binding. On a plain reading, this should have rendered legitimate Morsi’s Constitutional Declaration from the previous November in which he had ordered the removal of the Public Prosecutor. But in a baffling set of decisions, the Cairo Court of Appeal and the Court of Cassation ruled otherwise. First, the Cairo Court of Appeal determined that Constitutional Declarations must be ratified in a popular vote in order to be considered valid.13 This ruling lacks any foundation in Egyptian law. Moreover, if implemented consistently, it would have invalidated all of SCAF’s Constitutional Declarations as well. To avoid this, the Court of Cassation made a remarkable distinction between “revolutionary legitimacy” and “constitutional legitimacy.”14 When SCAF issued its declarations, the court claimed, it was acting to protect the revolution during an exceptional political moment. As a result, it possessed revolutionary legitimacy, a special status that rendered its Constitutional Declarations immune from normal constitutional accountability. With Morsi’s election, however, this exceptional moment passed and the country returned to constitutional legitimacy. Therefore, while all Constitutional Declarations made prior to June 2012 were 280

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not justiciable by the courts, those made afterward were.15 The result is that an act expressly permitted under the 2012 Constitution was somehow rendered unconstitutional. The second episode involves reasoning only slightly more coherent. On June 2, 2013, the SCC finally delivered its long awaited ruling on the Constituent Assembly. An earlier Administrative Court decision had declared the process by which the Assembly was created to be illegal, but this ruling was stymied by Law 79.16 In its decision, the SCC determined that Law 79 was itself unconstitutional on the grounds that it interfered with judicial supremacy. Thus, the law protecting the Constituent Assembly was unconstitutional, the Constituent Assembly itself was illegal, and the parliamentarians who established the Constituent Assembly should never have been elected. Since the 2012 Constitution had already been approved via popular referendum, the SCC decided that it was still a valid constitutional document, but its popular legitimacy had been dealt a grievous blow.17 To top it off, the court declared on the same day that the Shura Council was also unconstitutional, ordering its dissolution.18 These rulings spelled the end of Morsi’s government. On July 1, with millions of protesters flooding into the streets, SCAF delivered its ultimatum: either meet the opposition’s demands or the military would intervene. Morsi rejected the ultimatum, insisting in an angry and at times rambling speech that he was the legitimate leader of Egypt. “The people empowered me, the people chose me, through a free and fair election,” he said. “If the price of protecting legitimacy is my blood, I’m willing to pay it” (Kirkpatrick and Hubbard 2013).Two days later, on the afternoon of July 3, 2013, SCAF made its move. Morsi and his aides were placed under house arrest. Tanks filled the streets and squares of Cairo, while soldiers seized key installations across the country. That evening, General Abdel Fattah al Sisi announced that the military had taken control of Egypt, but only temporarily. Power would soon be returned to a civilian government, just as soon as a president, parliament, and Constituent Assembly could be elected. In the meantime, Adli Mansour, Chief Justice of the SCC, would be placed in charge.

Conclusion There were many reasons as to why Egypt’s transition to democracy failed. For much of the two-​and-​a-​half years following Mubarak’s fall, the country was mired in a crippling recession. Deep-​seated disagreements over politics and religion, long suppressed by authoritarian rule, suddenly burst out into the open. SCAF and other regime holdovers were reluctant to relinquish power, while the Muslim Brotherhood, having endured decades of brutal persecution, was unwilling to compromise.19 The judiciary’s place in this story is complex. Neither a straightforward enemy of the transition nor a consistent supporter, its role was much more ambiguous. Defenders of the judiciary insist that even in its most controversial decisions, the courts were simply following the rule of law. But we have seen that this is not entirely accurate. It is true that some decisions, like the one that dissolved parliament’s lower house, were based on solid judicial precedent. But on other occasions, the courts employed a logic so tortured and obtuse that the role of political considerations seems undeniable. Moreover, the timing and details of these decisions often appear designed to inflict maximum damage. Those delivered after Morsi’s election were especially disruptive, leading to a series of political crises that ultimately ushered in a return to authoritarianism.Throughout, both government and judges traded increasingly caustic barbs, culminating in the summer of 2013 with an all-​out rhetorical war. Yet there is an important sense in which even these judges believed themselves to be acting in the transition’s best interest. Judges had been at the forefront of Egypt’s liberal trend during the 1990s and 2000s and could rightly claim to have helped midwife the 2011 Revolution. As 281

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one senior judge described it, the State Council’s decisions “[gave] people the courage to rise up” and “was one of the major elements that led to the uprising.”20 While perhaps an exaggeration, there is an element of truth in this statement. Judges have also been quick to point out that democracy requires an active and independent judiciary.Their rulings after the Revolution may have been disruptive, but these were extraordinary times and many felt that they had to move fast to protect their independence and preserve the rule of law. Ultimately, the purpose this chapter has not been to parcel out blame. Rather, it has been to better understand what different members of the judiciary did, why they did it, and how other political actors in Egypt behaved in response. Doing so requires appreciating the diversity of viewpoints within the judiciary and the challenges that its members faced during an exceptional political moment. Neither entirely cynical nor politically naïve, judges acted in a strategic matter to preserve judicial independence and, arguably, to buttress the weak foundations of a nascent democratic transition.These two objectives, however, were not always understood to be complementary, and the protection of the judicial branch ultimately took precedence in times of conflict. Seen in this light, we can better understand the judiciary’s institutional strength before, during, and after the Egyptian Revolution.

Notes 1 For more, see Abouelenen (2008). 2 For an analysis of the March 30 Constitutional Declaration, see Stilt (2011). 3 High Administrative Court Case No. 20030/​20279/​20459, Judicial Year 57, issued on April 16, 2011. 4 Author’s interview with a senior judge of the Court of Cassation, Cairo (April 31, 2016). 5 On the reasons for Islamists’ electoral success during the democratic transition, see Masoud (2014). 6 Administrative Court Case No. 26657, Judicial Year 66, issued April 10, 2012. For an analysis of the court’s reasoning in this decision, see Sultany (2017, p. 310). 7 Al-​Shater was disqualified due to a criminal conviction he received during the Mubarak regime. 8 SCC Case No. 57, Judicial Year 34, issued June 14, 2012. 9 SCC Case No. 20, Judicial Year 34, issued June 14, 2012. 10 The 2011–​2012 Parliamentary elections were organized under amended versions of Law No. 38/​ 1972 and Law No. 120/​1980. In an ordinance (No. 120) introduced by SCAF in 2011, only candidates unaffiliated with a political party were permitted to contest the independent seats. However, the relevant portion of this ordinance was repealed by SCAF in a subsequent decree, thereby opening those seats to partisans. 11 Administrative Court Cases No. 47244/​47629/​49093/​49351/​49356/​49564, Judicial Year 66, issued on July 19, 2012. 12 Cairo Criminal Court Case No. 1227/​2011 and Case No. 3642/​2011, issued on June 2, 2012. 13 Cairo Court of Appeal Case No. 3980, Judicial Year 129, issued on March 27, 2013. 14 Court of Cassation Case No. 653, Judicial Year 83, issued on July 2, 2013. 15 For an analysis of these rulings, see Sultany (2017, pp. 154–​156). 16 Administrative Court Case No. 45931, Judicial Year 66, issued on October 23, 2012. 17 SCC Case No. 166, Judicial Year 34, issued on June 2, 2013. 18 SCC Case No. 112, Judicial Year 34, issued on June 2, 2013. 19 For treatments on the failure of Egypt’s democratic transition, see Brownlee et al. (2015), Nassif (2017) and Bellin (2018). 20 Interview with Sarwat Abd al-​Shahid, former senior judge in the State Council, Cairo (April 4, 2016).

References Abouelenen, Mohamed Maher. “Judges and Acts of Sovereignty,” in Judges and Political Reform in Egypt, ed. Nathalie Bernard-​Maugiron. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2008, pp. 181–​198. Al-​Jazeera. “Abdel Magid Mahmood: The Appointment and the Dismissal.” October 13, 2012. Associated Press. “Egyptian Judicial Council Condemns Morsi’s Edict,” Wall Street Journal, November 24, 2012.

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Constitutional politics Bellin, Eva. “The Puzzle of Democratic Divergence in the Arab World: Theory Confronts Experience in Egypt and Tunisia,” Political Science Quarterly 133, no. 3 (2018): 435–​474. Bernard-​Maugiron, Nathalie. “The 2007 Constitutional Amendments in Egypt, and Their Implications on the Balance of Power,” Arab Law Quarterly 22 (2008): 397–​417. Brown, Nathan J. The Rule of Law in the Arab World: Courts in Egypt and the Gulf. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Brown, Nathan J. and Julian G. Waller. “Constitutional Courts and Political Uncertainty: Constitutional Ruptures and the Ruel of Judges,” I*CON 14, no. 4 (2016): 817–​850. Brownlee, Jason, Tarek Masoud, and Andrew Reynolds. The Arab Spring: Pathways of Repression and Reform. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Communist Party of Egypt.“Don’t Tinker with the Corrupt Constitution –​We Want a New Constitution.” March 18, 2011. El-​Ghobashy, Mona. “Constitutionalist Contention in Contemporary Egypt,” American Behavioral Scientist 51, no. 11 (2008): 1590–​1610. El-​Hennawy, Noha. “Q&A with Tahani al-​Gebali:  Say “No” to Constitutional Amendments.” Egypt Independent, March 10, 2011. Fadel, Mohammad. “The Sounds of Silence: The Supreme Constitutional Court of Egypt, Constitutional Crisis, and Constitutional Silence,” I*CON 16, no. 3 (2018): 936–​951. Goldberg, Ellis and Hind Ahmed Zaki. “After the Revolution: Sovereign Respect and the Rule of Law in Egypt,” Yearbook of Islamic and Middle Eastern Law, 16 (2010–​2011): 17–​32. Hassan, Mazen. “The Effects of Egypt’s Election Law,” Foreign Policy, November 1, 2011. Hefney, Assem. “Religious Authorities and Constitutional Reform: The Case of Al-​Azhar in Egypt,” in Constitutionalism, Human Rights, and Islam after the Arab Spring, eds. Ranier Grote and Tilmann J. Roder. New York: Oxford University Press, 2016, pp. 97–​121. Ibrahim, Arwa. “Profile: Egypt’s new Justice Minister Ahmed al-​Zend,” Middle East Eye, May 20, 2015. Kirkpatrick, David D. “Egypt Erupts in Jubilation as Mubarak Steps Down,” New  York Times, February 11, 2011. —​—​—​. “Pressure Grows on Egyptian Leader after Judicial Decree,” New York Times, November 25, 2012. Kirkpatrick, David D. and Ben Hubbard. “Morsi Defies Egypt’s Army’s Ultimatum to Bend to Protest,” New York Times, July 2, 2013. Kirkpatrick, David D. and Mayy El Sheikh. “Brotherhood Struggles to Translate Power into Policy in Egypt,” New York Times, January 19, 2013. Lombardi, Clark B. “Egypt’s Supreme Constitutional Conflict: Managing Constitutional Conflict in an Authoritarian, Aspirationally ‘Islamic’ State,” Journal of Comparative Law 3, no. 2 (2008): 234–​353. Masoud, Tarek. Counting Islam: Religion, Class, and Elections in Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Moustafa, Tamir. “Law versus the State: The Judicialization of Politics in Egypt,” Law & Social Inquiry 28, no. 4 (2003): 883–​930. —​—​—​. The Struggle for Constitutional Power: Law, Politics, and Economic Development. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. —​—​—​. “Law in the Egyptian Revolt,” Middle East Law and Governance 3 (2011): 181–​191. Nassif, Hicham Bou. “Coups and Nascent Democracies: The Military and Egypt’s Failed Consolidation,” Democratization 24, no. 1 (2017): 157–​174. Said, Atef Shahat. “The Role of the Judges’ Club in Enhancing the Independence of the Judiciary and Spurring Political Reform,” in Judges and Political Reform in Egypt, ed. Nathalie Bernard-​Maugiron. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 2008, pp. 111–​131. Salem,Yasmine. “Factbox: Proposed Changes to Egypt’s Constitution,” Reuters, February 26, 2011. Selim, Ismail. “Arbitration in Egypt in the Realm of the Arab Spring,” Journal of Arbitration Studies 23, no. 3 (2013): 169–​183. Shalakany, Amr. Rise and Fall of the Egyptian Legal Elite:1805–​2005. Cairo: Dar al-​Shorouk Press, 2013. Stilt, Kristen A. “The End of ‘One Hand’: The Egyptian Constitutional Declaration and the Rift between the ‘People’ and the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces,” Yearbook of Islamic and Middle Eastern Law 16, no. 1 (2011): 43–​52. Sultany, Nimer. Law and Revolution: Legitimacy and Constitutionalism after the Arab Spring. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Volkel, Jan Claudius. “Sidelined by Design: Egypt’s Parliament in Transition,” Journal of North African Studies 22, no. 4 (2017): 595–​619.

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17 LAWYERS AND POLITICS Lawyering and counter-​lawyering in Egypt Heba M. Khalil1

Lawyers in the Revolution? We carried all the dirt after the protests. In fact, the real struggle was led by the lawyers, the radical one, not the reformist one, or the politically correct one that goes home after the protest… by pushing constantly against the prosecutors and judicial institutions… that’s our conscious everyday fight with the structures of the state… the lawyers are at the forefront of all struggles. Hossam, a young activist lawyer

Introduction A century ago, Egyptian lawyers were the prime political actors in the country. Nationalist lawyers at the turn of the 20th century fought for Egypt’s independence from British colonialism, promoted significant modernizing reforms, from institution-​building to gender equality and religious freedoms, and developed an Egyptianized version of Western liberalism as an organizing political ideology (Ziadeh 1968). Lawyers were a key marker of Egypt’s modernity, and the Law School was the incubator of the nationalist project for independence and liberal reforms, as well as the entry point into high-​level government and ministerial positions. The unique role that lawyers played in the early years of the 20th century can be best exemplified through the 1919 Revolution for national independence, when nationalist lawyers drafted a standard “power of attorney” giving them the right to represent the Egyptian people to the world at the 1919 Versailles Peace Accords, resulting in a nationwide signature drive that baffled the British, and led to the arrest of lawyer Saad Zaghloul, one of the leaders of the movement. The British aggression was met with a nationwide strike that started in the Law School and spread into what Egyptians now celebrate as the 1919 Revolution. This episode signifies not only lawyers’ political significance at the turn of the century, but also the lawyering tools they creatively mainstreamed into the nationalist movement. Thus, in the first half of the 20th century, “the Bar Association proved itself a force to be reckoned with in national politics” (Reid 1974, p. 608). By the second half of the 20th century, however, lawyers started losing their prominence, leading scholars to speak of the “decline” of lawyers. Economically, being a lawyer is not a profitable venue anymore and thus a majority of lawyers struggle to maintain a livelihood based on the profession alone (Shalakany 2006, p. 852). Politically, lawyers and the Lawyers’ Syndicate2 284

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have lost their active presence3 in national politics (Al-​Tawil 2007, p.  14). As a result, nostalgic to their predecessors’ prestige, today’s lawyers are also facing a “status crisis” (Shalakany 2012), a sense of loss of respect and distinctiveness. The Law School, for example, once an incubator of ministers and statespersons, has become the “dumping ground” for high school graduates, who could not get into Medical School, Engineering or Political Science,4 leading Cairo University students to describe the Law School as the “university garage” (Shalakany 2006). A great number of today’s lawyers are the Law School graduates who failed to get jobs in the judiciary, the government, or the Prosecutor’s Office, and had to “succumb to enrolling in the syndicate” and practice as lawyers (Egyptian Lawyers’ Syndicate 2014b), and thus struggle to make a living, often working second shifts in poor jobs, and regularly abandoning their practice once a better-​paying job is available, leading many lawyers to dubbing their own profession as “the profession of those who have no other profession” (Egyptian Lawyers’ Syndicate 2014a; Serag 2001, p. 619). Despite these dramatic shifts, lawyers have continued to shape the political landscape of Egypt. As litigation has increasingly become a critical tool of political mobilization and contention, lawyers have found themselves in the midst of public debates and political struggles. The linkages between lawyering and politics can be found in various arenas, and point to various pockets of lawyer activisms. These groups include human rights lawyers, who lead opposition movements and support labor mobilization, and community and activist lawyers, who collectively move street contention into the courtroom. In parallel, there are also active circles of conservative lawyers, who vowed to protect the state, punish the opposition, and preserve the status quo, as well as Islamist lawyers active in defending Shari’a and protecting the morality of the nation. In so doing, lawyers of various ideologies and activisms contribute to popularizing lawyering as a mode of practicing politics. Perhaps what best illustrates this growing legalization and popularization of legal action is the growing discontent among many political actors, especially opposition parties, towards lawyers, and the accompanying accusations of lawyers of undermining the prospects of street politics and demobilizing social movements—​a contention that we will return to later in this chapter.

Lawyers that matter and lawyering that politicizes Lawyers are made up of individuals from different social classes, ideologies and interests. Some find fulfillment in maintaining narratives of the ruling classes, others make a living from judicializing everyday life disputes. Ezzat, 2019 Lawyers are typically categorized into “conventional/​private lawyers” and “cause lawyers,” with the latter defined as those who “mobilize the law to promote or resist social change” (Marshall et  al., 2014, p.  303). In my dissertation (Khalil 2021), I  make further distinctions between “human rights lawyers,” “community lawyers,” “activist lawyers,” “Islamist lawyers,” “counter-​lawyers,” and “private lawyers.” Human rights lawyers work for professional human rights groups, whereas community lawyers represent their own communities in their particular struggles. Activist lawyers are often private lawyers with an activist drive that lets them volunteer in political events or partake in political movements. Islamist lawyers are a more diverse group and include both lawyers of organized political Islam groups, such as Salafi and the Muslim Brotherhood lawyers, as well as private Islamist lawyers, who occasionally work to institute Shari’a or defend public morality. Counter-​lawyers are private lawyers who defend the regime, morality, and often invest in disciplining the opposition and any instigators of change. All the 285

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above categories can be considered cause lawyers or activist lawyers, even if their cause is halting social, political, and cultural progress. Finally, private lawyers are legal professionals who work in private law firms and have no or some form of political engagements. Needless to say, this mapping of various groups of lawyers and their respective fields of action are in a constant process of shaping and being reshaped by the socioeconomic and political context. The rise of human rights as a dominant form of oppositional politics necessarily brings lawyers into the political scene. In fact, the human rights movement is often described as a political movement of lawyers (Ezzat 2019, p.  7). However, it is necessary to allude to the roles of lawyers in supporting social, labor, and political struggles, even before the rise of the human rights movement in Egypt in the 1980s. The roles of freedom-​and labor lawyers, such as Nabil el-​Hilaly, in important political moments of the Egyptian history, including the 1977 bread riots, cannot be overstated. Nowadays, Nabil el-​Hilaly, who is largely described as the inspiration of the human rights movement, would rather fall within the activist lawyer category, a lawyer with a strong political background, who works on all kinds of cases, but takes specific interest in defending his political values and comrades when the opportunity arises. The activist lawyers of the past decades, leading up to the 1990s, were largely volunteers, and often volunteered through the Freedoms Committee of the Lawyers’ Syndicate. Nowadays, human rights lawyers, although poorly paid, are part of organizations that cover their litigation fees and pay them monthly income that allows them to focus on nonprofitable human rights cases. The 1990s witnessed the establishment of the first human rights organizations engaged in public interest litigation (Moustafa 2007, p. 147). In the Center for Human Rights Legal Aid (CHRLA), founder Hisham Mubarak and his colleagues managed to defend victims of human rights violations in more than 3,000 cases between 1994 and 1997 (Ezzat 2019, p. 25). Mubarak’s colleague and successor Seif Al-​Islam is often credited with developing Mubarak’s model of pro bono legal aid in human rights organizations into a model of strategic litigation, or public interest cases, that often landed at the Supreme Constitutional Court. Khaled Ali, Al-​ Islam’s colleague and successor, took on this legacy and became Egypt’s face of public interest litigation. Ali litigated successfully for setting a new minimum wage in court in 2009, the nullification of the privatization of major public interest enterprises on grounds of corruption in the years following the 2011 uprisings, and challenging critical laws, including the investment code, the protest law, and the labor code in front of the Supreme Constitutional Court. With this legacy of 1990s human rights lawyers, Al-​Islam’s Hisham Mubarak Law Center (HMLC) sprouted into more organizations, using legal aid to defend human rights for women (Center for Women’s Legal Aid and New Woman Foundation), defending personal rights and freedoms, including sexual rights (Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights), defending freedom of speech, media and digital activism (Association for freedom of Thought and Expression), economic, social and labor rights (Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights), and torture and ill-​ treatment (Al-​Nadeem Center for the Rehabilitation of Victims of Torture) (Moustafa 2007, p. 147). Despite the heightened importance of human rights lawyers from the 1990s onward, they were surely not the only political lawyers in Egypt. Most notably perhaps, the Islamist lawyers played a major role in utilizing lawyering for their purposes of safeguarding Shari’a and disciplining the nation, particularly in the 1990s. The success of the hisba case accusing Professor Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd of apostasy triggered a series of hisba litigations against artists, scholars, novelists, and other public figures till 1998, when the government intervened to end hisba initiation in court (Moustafa 2010, p. 624). Hisba as a concept in Islamic jurisprudence is an embodiment of cause lawyering because it denotes a claim made by lawyers for the common good, but without any direct interest in the case (ibid.). 286

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With the decline of hisba litigation in 1998, human rights lawyers occupied the stage of political litigation. The human rights movement was remarkably present at every political struggle in the lead-​up to the 2011 uprisings. From the rampant cases of torture and ill-​treatment in the 1990s to the organized labor action and demands for political freedoms, public interest lawyering became an integral component of political action.The role of human rights lawyers in the contention leading up to the Egyptian Revolution of 2011 cannot be overstated. The HLMC in downtown Cairo showcases this role. HMLC acted as an organizational space, hosting political parties, movements, and activist groups, including the Kifaya Movement and April 6 Movement, particularly in the lead-​up to and during the Egyptian uprisings in 2011. As a result, the legal aid center ended up hosting what activists dubbed ghorfet al-​’amaleyyat (operations headquarters) during the 18 days of protest. In addition, lawyers of HMLC also created and hosted the “Front for the Defense of Protestors” (gabhet al-​difaa’ ‘an al-​mutathahireen),5 a collective of pro bono lawyers nationwide to defend and attend investigations with protestors. HMLC lawyers played a major role in documenting injuries, deaths, and disappearances incurred during the uprising:  they received calls, collected information from the field, and were a hub of data collection.6 No less important, HMLC and its offshoot the Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights (ECESR), based in the same building, hosted one of the most popular field-​ clinics, with doctors, medical equipment, and volunteers present to help injured protestors. Finally, HMLC’s central position in the uprisings was symbolized by the fact that its offices got raided on February 3, 2011 by the security forces, and its top lawyers were arrested alongside researchers and journalists.7 The raid in itself is very telling of the importance of the human rights lawyers, and how the state viewed them as one source of agitation that needed to be silenced to end the flood of protests. Still, regardless of how influential, the growing field of human rights lawyers continued to be relatively limited, considering the soaring numbers of registered lawyers, which reached 600,000 by 2019. Therefore, it is necessary to look at other relationships between lawyers and politics. Perhaps, the 2011 Revolution in and of itself best epitomizes these relationships.

The ultimate paradox of 2011: Revolutionary but legal The revolution is a woman carrying its children and standing at the gates of the courtroom awaiting its rights… lost in the corridors of law and the games of lawyers… she should not have resorted to the law from the beginning. Late novelist Ahmed Khaled Tawfeq, 2014 Egypt has been witnessing a judicialization of politics for several decades. Beyond the growing volume of everyday litigation, scholars have established that politics in Egypt has been judicialized, with the constitutional court providing one unique avenue for successful claims for more democracy and civic space (Moustafa 2003, p. 886). This judicialization took on new forms in the aftermath of the 2011 uprisings. The legalization of politics in the aftermath of 2011 meant that political and transition-​related disputes have been reframed as legal, judicial, and constitutional problems.The revolution has been “reduced” to legal arguments, and disputes in front of courts, with the media, activists, and the general public following its proceedings and outcomes at a distance (Shalakany 2012). In this way, the transitional period was reduced to a referendum around the continuation of the 1971 constitution (19 March 2011), the election of a new parliament, a new law on “political isolation” (to bar ex-​National Democratic Party members from running for elections) and the makeup of a constitution-​drafting committee. At the same time, opposition parties and activists were absorbed into these legal processes, fighting 287

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for this article in the constitution, for the abolishment of that vague wording, and demanding the passing of this new law, and the abolishment of that one, etc. Moustafa (2011, p. 182) argues that the concern with legality on the eve of the uprising is a by-​product of Mubarak’s “rule-​by-​ law regime,” which has in itself shifted the concern of Egyptians from simply challenging the political leadership to challenging the laws and legal institutions underpinning them. However, this concern with legality came at a cost: the exclusion of masses from the transition and reform processes. The activists remained in the waiting room, while the judges and general prosecutor, along with the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF), steered the political transition. This legalization of politics at the threshold of regime–​transition has resulted in three main effects: first, it granted immense importance to a legal elite, as the experts on the possible in the revolutionary transition. Judges and legal scholars became the experts on the transition; they could map the field of possibilities for the rest of the population and political actors. Perhaps the debate on the “constitutional legitimacy”8 ensuing at the eve of February 11, 2011 was a case in point, as it served to legitimate the oversight of SCAF over the transition, in fear of the “decline of constitutional legitimacy” if the revolutionaries were to just overthrow everything and everyone, while activists ironically debated the fear of what they called the constitutional vacuum (al-​faraagh al-​dusturi). Second, and as a result, the legalization of politics limited the possibilities for revolutionaries and restricted their action toolkit to what is legal or permissible by the law, thus aiding in explaining the ‘de-​radicalization’ of politics often observed by scholars on the eve of the revolution (Bayat 2017, p. 26), which can be read as limitations on the horizons, or possibilities for change. Finally, the legalization of politics exposed the interweaving of securitization and legality, and the need for legal structures and a legal status group to enforce and sustain the security state. This was readily available through the Egyptian judiciary, who aided in maintaining the status quo (Shalakany 2012), to the extent of finding Mubarak innocent in 2014 (Mourad 2017), thus symbolically delegitimizing a revolution against him. The Egyptian Judiciary aided the regime in building this tight system of control, with multiple emergency and extralegal courts, including state security, military, and emergency courts. This interweaving of securitization and legality at the hands of the judiciary soon turned against the Egyptian judges. When the 2019 constitutional amendments expanded the president’s and the military’s control over judicial institutions, including giving the president the right to elect and suspend judges, the judiciary had become too weak and compliant to resist. In fact, the Judges’ Club issued a long statement objecting to the amendments, then immediately deleted the statement, and later denied ever issuing it.9 While the role of judges continues to be very critical in shaping our understanding of judicial politics, the role of lawyers, as the gatekeepers, and the mobilizers of the law, requires an in-​depth investigation.

From the street to the courtroom: Are lawyers killing our radical politics? Those political actors (al-​quwa al-​siyasiyyah), they cannot go to al-​Warraq Island10 and tell them not to empty the streets from the struggle by going to court. Those political actors can’t help the people, they can’t organize a press conference, can’t speak up […] But when lawyers go to court, they accuse us of emptying the streets of the public anger, and thus killing street movements. Human rights lawyer in Egypt On April 8, 2016, Egypt signed an agreement ceding the islands of Tiran and Sanafir to Saudi Arabia. A few days later, human rights lawyers took the case to court, thus starting a series of litigation protesting the legality of the cession on various grounds. Shortly after, activists 288

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nationwide called for the “Land Day” protests, which resulted in hundreds of arrests over the following weeks. After prolonged legal battles, and multiple court rulings against the legality of the agreement, the parliament voted in favor of the agreement. Soon after, a Supreme Constitutional Court ruling suspended all previous verdicts on the agreement (including those by the Supreme Administrative Court), and finally validated the agreement. In the meantime, President Sisi had already signed the controversial agreement into effect with Saudi Arabia, giving the kingdom sovereignty over the two islands at the mouth of the Aqaba Gulf (Kaldas 2017). The islands’ dispute marked a crucial moment in Egyptian politics, which can be considered a turning point for the relationship between the executive and the judiciary in post-​2011 Egypt. The multiple court rulings nullifying the agreement were arguably an embodiment of the last clash of the judiciary and the executive, and also a game changer for the judicial activism witnessed during the years immediately preceding and following 2011. After all, judges who dared rule on the annulment of the islands’ agreement, thus disobeying executive orders, were soon after dismissed, moved, or denied appointments (Mandour 2017), leading several lawyers to dub the aftermath of the Tiran and Sanafir case as a judicial massacre, thus evoking the 1969 massacre of the judiciary, in which Nasser punished and dismissed over a hundred of sitting judges as a result of the Judges’ Club’s vocal criticism of the regime (Brown and Nasr 2005, p. 2). The Tiran and Sanafir case, however, was also the epitome of a critical division within the opposition regarding the judicialization of politics.The role of lawyers had become so important, and so crucial, that other opposition groups began to accuse them of controlling politics, of emptying the streets from real struggles, and ultimately demobilizing the masses. A human rights lawyer, who litigated in one of the Tiran and Sanafir cases frustratingly complained to me: Many people believed we shouldn’t have gone to court. They believed we have taken the struggle from the street into court. What struggle? We were 1,000, 2,000, or even 5,000 people at most on the streets, we got arrested by hundreds. Should we have simply given up? I say the opposition’s problem is different.They have a problem with lawyers leading the struggle. They have a problem with lawyers leading the political process. But where are they, those opposition leaders? Where is their politics? They do nothing, then blame us for their failure to act. A street protest would’ve made our court case unbeatable. You cannot win a case in court, without the street supporting you. We want the streets filled. And our court cases fill the streets that are usually empty, not the other way round. Human rights lawyer in Egypt There have been pronounced critiques of the Egyptian uprising, and its ensuing political paths. The former is often described as unradical (Bayat 2017, p. 26), a failure (De Smet 2016, p.  381), and suffering poor organization of the revolutionaries (Abdelrahman 2013, p.  580). Perhaps one of the key critiques of the practice of politics on the eve of the Revolution was that offered by Bayat, dubbing the 2011 uprisings in Egypt as “a revolution without revolutionaries.” Bayat (2017, p. 11) contends that unlike the revolutions of the 1970s, the movements of our contemporary world lack a radical fervor, are overly occupied with legality, and suffer from a dominance of human rights discourses at the expense of political economy discourses. Similar critiques resonated in Egypt, but took on more practical forms, as liberal opposition and Islamist groups took on human rights lawyers for dominating political discourses and actions. Naturally, the divisions are neither constant nor clear-​cut, and fluctuate depending on the political context. But it is suffice to say that the fame of lawyers, particularly human rights lawyers, 289

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has brought real disagreements to the table around the role of the judicialization of politics in encouraging or discouraging street protests. Blaming the lawyers, however, fails to understand the dialectic between the legal and the political fields. In fact, the rising ideology of legality, with which the state has been facing its opposition, might be the prime suspect of moving contention to court. The rise of the security state that utilizes the rule of law in most of its acts of political repression, whether through passing repressive laws and regulations, making sentences for political actions harsher, or punishing its dissidents largely through the court sentences, has by itself moved the contention to court. This is not to claim that extrajudicial killings and disappearances are absent. In fact, at the same time as legal death penalty sentences have increased in the aftermath of military takeover, extrajudicial killings and disappearances have also soared, often under the guise of the war on terror (Mandour 2019). Nevertheless, the greater majority of punishments are handled through the judicial system. As a result, if a large part of the political struggle concerns defending those who were arrested during protest or as a result of activism, then lawyers naturally have to play a bigger role in courts.Thus, it is important to note that human rights lawyering can be viewed as a reaction to the state ideology of ruling through the rule of law (Ezzat 2019, p. 17), a position that reiterates Moustafa’s position on the necessary centrality of law in the aftermath of 2011 as a response to the centrality of legality to the Mubarak regime. When controversial constitutional amendments, which would institutionalize a presidential capture of judicial institutions, alongside other challenging changes, were announced in 2019 (TIMEP 2019), I asked human rights lawyer Khaled Ali if he was going to take the amendments to court. Ali, who has a long history of challenging authoritarian decisions, fighting for social justice, and defending labor rights, and was the face of the Tiran and Sanafir case, as well as twice a former presidential candidate, responded that he will not be going to court. Not surprisingly, after the divisions caused by the Tiran and Sanafir case, Ali decided that going to court was a lost cause. “I am not going to go to court, fail to mobilize the streets in these bleak times, and be told that I  emptied the streets or demobilized the masses”. Ali’s decision reflected a dual concern: first, he was concerned about further divisions of the political opposition, particularly in light of the complete silence of critical response from groups that should have been at the forefront of the protest, including the judges. In addition, Ali was concerned that this was a lost case, particularly because the streets were empty: The streets are necessary for successful cases. The street is closed now. What people don’t get is that court decisions in these very strategic cases are closely linked to the street, and public pressure. A mobilized street serves me in court. Interview with Khaled Ali When Ali decided not to take the constitutional amendments to court, despite his deep belief in the unconstitutionality of these amendments, he was making a political decision, both as an activist and as a leading human rights lawyer, engaged in discussions around the best modes of political practice. However, these discussions and contestations of legal action on this elite level of opposition are barely consequential for the growing practice of everyday lawyering.

Everyday lawyering, everyday politics Politics is not only practiced on the national level, as electoral or party politics, but is instead everywhere, and is often more complicated, intense and contested in local struggles and everyday contentions. An understanding of politics as “autonomous” (Abdelrahman 2013) and 290

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“street politics” (Bayat 2010) widens our view of what counts as contention and struggle, and thus what counts as “political.” Legal scholars have always highlighted the litigiousness of Egyptian society, not merely caused by the overproduction of lawyers and graduates of law schools, but also because of the resulting affordability and low fees of litigation (Brown 1997, p.  190; Moustafa 2010, p.  616).11 This litigiousness has witnessed a staggering increase since 2011. Lawyers point to two main reasons for the exponential increase in court cases: first, the unprecedented growth of criminal cases against dissidents, who are being punished by the state through its legal arm. The September 20 protests of 2019 are a case in point: in response to these protests, the first since the aforementioned Land Day protests in 2016, demanding the end to the Sisi regime and objecting to socioeconomic hardships (Atlantic Council 2019), an unprecedented number of 4,000 persons were arrested, both during protests and randomly from the streets, and are now facing criminal charges.12 Second, the repression on the streets made protests and street action costly and risky to many groups, and has thus left litigation as one of the few channels of right-​claiming at times when the emergency law gives the security apparatus a free hand to arrest any number of protestors or citizens. The rise of everyday lawyering is related to both these events; however, while the former points more to the rising roles of human rights organizations, the latter speaks about lawyering practices by laypersons and community lawyers. Whether it is an educational reform that students and parents are opposed to, or land and house evictions that communities are resisting, litigation has become the prime, if not the only, way of defending one’s rights and making claims to the state and other actors. In their longitudinal study of protests since 2010, civil society groups have shown that litigation and legal claims have risen as a prime tool of contention and protests, replacing street protests (Social Justice Platform 2019, p. 10). The new educational reform, Education 2.0, instigated by the Ministry of Education in May 2018 is a case in point: while there were only 136 protest activities objecting to various components of the new controversial system, in the period between May and December (2018),13 there have been more than 90,000 court cases in the same period in objection to the same system.14 Perhaps one of the most striking forms of everyday litigation is that led by community lawyers to defend the rights of their own communities. From the revolutionary villages of the Delta in 201215 to the fighting islanders in Warraq,16 all the way to isolated villagers of Al-​Awn in Aswan,17 the struggling farmers in Serso, and the disadvantaged fishermen on the Manzala Lake,18 laypersons have increasingly been reliant on lawyers within their communities to articulate, assist, and often even lead their struggles. Often viewed as the “organic intellectuals” of our times (Ezzat 2019, p. 19), even the precarious, nonprofessional lawyers have proven that the exclusive skills of lawyering and maneuvering the state institutions, through legal action, are both unique and warranted, particularly at times of heightened repression of other forms of political action. Al-​Warraq island is perhaps the most recent and most intriguing of these examples. The island in the Nile in Cairo has refused legal aid from human rights lawyers and organizations, and instead made use of its own community lawyers to organize itself, both as a collective force of farmers with claims to their island and as a unified group of litigants in front of court, demanding from the administrative court the nullification of the eviction order to their communities. Al-​Warraq island is witnessing a social movement that is shaped by its lawyers, but not confined to them. The island has organized itself into the “families of al-​Warraq” council, has created a Facebook page19 that is their official platform now, and continues to host press conferences and calls for protests, particularly around dates of court sessions. Warraq’s community lawyers are not only the instigators of the legal action, but also the defenders and protectors of the families when arrests happen, and finally, the main targets of state arrest.20 291

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Lawyering to discipline and punish That’s the career I’m in: I defend a drug dealer, I defend a murderer, I defend a good person, I would defend anyone. Samir Sabry, 201921 Examples from the human rights field and everyday lawyering should not trick us into thinking that lawyers are always radical or progressive actors. Rather, the past decades, and the post-​ 2011 period in particular, point to the utilization of legal discourses and lawyering to suppress movements and support the status quo and the incumbent state. These counter-​lawyers are still cause lawyers, insofar as they often bring cases to court to fight for their principles, even if these principles are largely sexist, racist, classist or pro-​state, and anti-​change. There have always been conservative lawyers, who fought against progressive, liberal, or leftist calls for change. In fact, the Islamist lawyers of the 1990s have set a precedent through hisba cases for a lawyer’s activism in defending morality, protecting religious rules, and disciplining society (Moustafa 2010, p. 624). But the degree to which counter-​lawyers nowadays are defenders of illiberal causes, including the regime in power, morality and patriarchy is new. To say that these legal moves by counter-​ lawyers are state-​sponsored requires a lot of in-​depth investigation and will probably result in somewhat mixed results. Thus, it is suffice to show the extent to which the law has been mobilized by lawyers to assert their conservative views, to police personal freedoms, and to advocate for Sisi’s regime. The post-​2011 phenomenon of Sameer Sabry, the public interest lawyer (known as the “vice police”22), is a case in point. Not a believer in human rights, Sameer Sabry has used the legal system as a channel to fight for his political views. Sabry reportedly filed more than 2,700 criminal complaints to influence Egyptian politics.23 He served successfully as both plaintiff and lawyer for several public interest litigations, where he called for the designation of the Muslim Brotherhood as a terrorist organization (2014), the banning of the April 6 Movement (2014), in addition to orchestrating several cases calling for the designation of Hamas, Turkey, Qatar, and Al-​Jazeera Egypt channel as terrorist organizations. Sabry also famously filed lawsuits against the novelist Ahmed Naji on charges of obscenity (2016), thus jailing the latter, and banned pop singer Sherine from singing following charges of defaming the nation. Perhaps most critically, Sabry brought the lawsuit against the only real opposition candidate to president Sisi, human rights lawyer Khaled Ali, charging him with doing an obscene public gesture that offended the Egyptian state as the latter celebrated his Tiran and Sanafir court victory. Sabry is not a unique model in contemporary Egypt, although his personal relationship and ardent support of Sisi is perhaps exceptional. But many other lawyers have played this role in supporting the government, and with it the status quo, in recent years.24 Sabry and his colleagues thus reflect the usages of the Egyptian legal system, a system which is used as a tool by the Egyptian military government to eliminate all opponents of the regime, in ways seemingly in line with the liberal democratic principles of the “rule of law.” Perhaps the confrontation between human rights lawyer Khaled Ali and counter-​lawyer Sameer Sabry illustrates the irony of political practice in the legal field:  while Khaled Ali challenged the cession of the Egyptian islands to Saudi Arabia in court, he was challenged in turn through the same channels he utilized. Ali was not detained overnight, or forcefully disappeared, which is a standard practice of the Egyptian security forces, rather, he had to face the same court that gave him victory and justice in several human rights and public interest cases. This time, he faces the court in a case of public morality, brought by another lawyer, not even the state or the Egyptian President, who is supposedly the defendant in the case.25 In this 292

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way, the court and legal system become places of contention and political mobilization, and lawyering becomes the tool of this new mode of doing politics, and counter-​politics alike.

Conclusion The Lawyers’ Syndicate, once a fortress of justice and opposition, is now a weak association that fails even to provide the basic services to its members in terms of healthcare, pensions, and protection. Lawyers, who are increasingly the target of arrests and disappearances by the state (Human Rights Watch 2019), do not enjoy the protection of the syndicate like their predecessors did. When lawyers are stripped of their phones, laptops, and notebooks upon entering the state security court premises, they dare not protest. One lawyer told that when the head of the Syndicate, Sameh Ashour, went to the State Security Prosecutor to protest against this policy of confiscating lawyers’ phones, his own phone was confiscated before he was allowed into the building (Khalil 2021). While lawyers have a lot in common, including a deep respect for the law, and a prioritization of legal tactics to deal with any issue, lawyers do not enjoy a strong collective, as they did in the first half of the 20th century. Despite this, lawyers are very important political actors, and often act collectively, as human rights lawyers, as activists, as Islamist lawyers, and now increasingly as targeted subjects. In fact, even young private sector lawyers have started feeling the heat of arrests, leading many of them to decline for-​profit cases of arrest in 20 September protests. So how do we deal with this paradoxical position of lawyers in politics? Are they absent because their collective (the Lawyers’ Syndicate) has been defeated? Or are they present because they shape political discourses and tactics? Posing this question is productive in explicating the relationship between lawyers and politics in Egypt. Lawyers are the absent presents of Egyptian politics: as a group, an organized force, even as a national elite, they are very absent. But as individual actors, as a practice of lawyering, and as embedded in various groups and struggles, they are protagonists. In other words, while lawyers as a professional group seem politically insignificant in the lead-​up to and aftermath of 2011 uprisings, lawyering as a political act has gained prominence in multiple ways, and among multiple groups, whether fighting for more rights, better public policies, counter-​lawyering, or pro-​elite lawyering, which seeks to silence the opposition and repress workers and citizen groups. By uncovering the ways lawyers, as gatekeepers of the legal system, engage in political contention through lawyering practices, we can uncover the multiple ways that lawyers are crucially present in Egyptian politics, despite their articulated absence as a collective political force, as a professional group, and as a Lawyers’ Syndicate.

Notes 1 This chapter is based in part on interviews conducted with lawyers and legal scholars in Egypt in 2019 by the author for her doctoral dissertation in the Department of Sociology at the University of Illinois Urbana Champaign (Khalil 2021). 2 The Lawyers’ Syndicate is the Egyptian equivalent to the Bar Association; enrolling in the former is a prerequisite to practicing law in Egypt. 3 From 1940 to 1950, lawyers constituted 31% of the parliament, and 60% of all ministerial positions, while 76% of the heads of political parties were lawyers (Al-​Tawil 2007, p.  77), compared to today, where only the Ministers of Justice and Minister of Legal affairs have law degrees. 4 In “The Islamist trend in Egyptian law,” Moustafa (2010) traces the deterioration of the law profession to multiple factors, including the declining demand for lawyers in Nasser’s Egypt amid the shrinking of the private sector, combined with a government policy that “almost intentionally” further pressured the legal profession, by making the law school one of the easiest faculties to enter for high school students (Moustafa 2010).

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Heba M. Khalil 5 See United Nations. “Egypt: Investigate Arrests of Activists, Journalists.” Refworld, 9 February 2011. 6 See Soueif, Ahdaf. “It’s Egypt’s Young Who Are Leading the Protests | Ahdaf Soueif,” The Guardian, Guardian News and Media, 27 Jan. 2011. 7 See United Nations. “Egypt: Investigate Arrests of Activists, Journalists.” Refworld, 9 Feb. 2011. 8 Legal scholar Amr Shalakany debates this concept in the opinion piece [Arabic Only]: Shalakany, Amr. “The History of the Rise and Decline of the Legal Elite in Egypt,” Al-​Shorouk, 10 Oct. 2012. 9 See “Judges’ Club Denies Issuing Media Reports on Constitutional Amendments,” Egypt Today, 7 Feb. 2019, 10 The Warraq island in Cairo has been mobilizing against the imminent threat of eviction since 2017. For more information, see Dragoni (2019). 11 Moustafa (2010) further argues that this overproduction and resulting deterioration of the socioeconomic status of lawyers result in both generational and ideological shifts among lawyers, creating divisions between an elite and rather liberal older generation, and a younger generation of lawyers of lower socioeconomic background that is divided in ideology between liberals, leftists, and Islamists. 12 ECESR, “Documentation of cases of random stops and arrests in the September 20th events,” available online. shorturl.at/​gDJO3 13 Author’s own calculation based on the SJP Annual Protest Report’s raw data (Social Justice Platform). 14 Interview with Moheeb, education-​specialized lawyer. 15 Afify, Heba. “Delta Force:  After 60 Years of Neglect, Delta Village Declares Independence,” Egypt Independent, 26 Sept. 2012. 16 Dragoni, Pino. “An Island of Resistance in Al-​Warraq.” Il Manifesto Global, 24 Mar. 2019, global. ilmanifesto.it/​an-​island-​of-​resistance-​in-​al-​warraq/​. 17 “Food Aid Project,” Social Justice Platform, 13 Nov. 2018. 18 Interview with community lawyer in the Daqahliya governorate, September 2019. 19 Visit the group on Facebook under the name “majlis ‘aaiylat jazeerat al-​waaraq.” 20 “State Council Adjourns Warraq Residents’ Lawsuit to January 26,” Madamasr, 22 Dec. 2018. 21 In an interview with Basma Wahby in June 2019 in TV show “Sheikh Al-​Harrah.” 22 See Fathi, Mostafa. “Egypt’s Vice Police: Advocates Privately Upholding Moral Values,” Raseef22, 14 Mar. 2018. 23 See Walsh, Declan. “Protecting His Nation from Puppeteers and Belly Dancers,” The New York Times, 12 Jan. 2018. 24 Ibid. 25 For more details on the case, see “Egypt ‘Anti-​Sisi Presidential Candidate Arrested for Flipping off ’ Government,” Alaraby, The New Arab, 24 May 2017.

References Abdelrahman, M., 2013.“In Praise of Organization: Egypt between Activism and Revolution,” Development and Change, vol. 44, no. 3, pp. 569–​585. Afify, H., 2012. “Delta Force:  After 60 Years of Neglect, Delta Village Declares Independence,” Egypt Independent, 26 Sept. 2012. Al-​Tawil, A., 2007. “The Lawyers between the Profession and Politics (Arabic: Al-​Muhamoon bayna almehna wal seyasah:  derasah fe tareekh alnukhbah almasreyah),”History:  The Other Side:  Rereading the Egyptian History, vol. 14. Cairo, Egypt: Al-​Shurouk. Atlantic Council, 2019. “Egypt’s Latest Protests Are an Alarm Bell for Sisi.” 23 Oct. 2019. Bayat, A., 2010. Life as Politics: How Ordinary People Change the Middle East. Amsterdam University Press. Bayat, A., 2017. Revolution without Revolutionaries:  Making Sense of the Arab Spring. Stanford University Press. Beinin, J., 2010. “The Struggle for Worker Rights in Egypt,” Department of History, 1 Nov. 2010. Brown, N., 1997. The Rule of Law in the Arab World. Cambridge University Press. Brown, N.J. and Nasr, H., 2005. “Egypt’s Judges Step Forward: The Judicial Election Boycott and Egyptian Reform,” Universitäts-​und Landesbibliothek Sachsen-​Anhalt. CAPMAS, 2017. Annual bulletin for University Graduates 2015/​2016. Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics. Dragoni, P., 2019. “An Island of Resistance in Al-​Warraq,” Il Manifesto Global, 24 Mar. 2019. Edgerton, J.D. and Roberts, L.W., 2014. “Cultural Capital or Habitus? Bourdieu and beyond in the Explanation of Enduring Educational Inequality,” School Field, vol. 12, no. 2, pp. 193–​220.

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Lawyering and counter-lawyering Egypt Today, 2019. “Lawyer Sues Football Federation for ‘Squandering Public Funds’,” EgyptToday, July 2019. Egyptian Lawyers’ Syndicate, 2014a. The Crisis of Young Lawyers: Part One. [Arabic Only] —​—​—​, 2014b. The Crisis of Young Lawyers: Part Two. [Arabic Only] Ezzat, A., 2019. “Challenging the Legal Ideology of the State: Cause Lawyering and Social Movements in Egypt,” Arab Reform Initiative, 20 June 2019. Ginsburg, T. and Moustafa, T., 2008. Rule by Law: The Politics of Courts in Authoritarian Regimes. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Human Rights Watch, 2019. “Egypt: Mass Arrests of Lawyers, Activists.” 15 Mar. 2019 Kaldas, T.E., 2017. “Tiran, Sanafir, and the Island of Executive Power in Egypt,” TIMEP, 2017. Khalil, H.M., 2021. Lawyers of Egypt: Class, Precarity, Politics (unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of Illinois Urbana Champaign, Urbana, Illinois. Madamasr, 2018. “State Council Adjourns Warraq Residents’ Lawsuit to January 26,” Madamasr, 22 Dec. 2018. Mandour, M., 2017. “Sisi’s Pyrrhic Victory,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 27 June 2017. Mandour, M., 2019. “Egypt’s Invisible Executions,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, April 25, 2019. https://​carnegieendowment.org/​sada/​78998. Marfleet, P., 2013. “Egypt: The Workers Advance,” International Socialism. Marshall, A.-​M. and Hale, D.C., 2014. “Cause Lawyering,” Annual Review of Law and Social Science, vol. 10, pp. 301–​320. Mourad, M., 2017. “In Final Ruling, Egypt Court Finds Mubarak Innocent in Killing of Protesters,” Reuters, Thomson Reuters, 2 Mar. 2017. Moustafa, T., 2003. “Law versus the State: The Judicialization of Politics in Egypt,” Law and Social Inquiry, 883. Moustafa, T., 2007. The Struggle for Constitutional Power:  Law, Politics, and Economic Development in Egypt. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Moustafa, T., 2010. “The Islamist Trend in Egyptian Law,” Politics and Religion, Dec 3, vol. 3, pp. 610–​630. Moustafa, T., 2011. “Law in the Egyptian revolt.” Middle East Law and Governance, 3(1–​2), pp. 181–​191. Reid, D.M., 1974. “The National Bar Association and Egyptian Politics, 1912–​1954,” The International Journal of African Historical Studies, vol. 7, no. 4, pp. 608–​646. Serag, M., 2001. “Legal Education in Egypt,” South Texas Law Review, vol. 43, p. 615. Shalakany, A., 2006, “I heard It All Before: Egyptian Tales of Law and Development,” Third World Quarterly, vol. 27, no. 5 pp. 833–853. Shalakany, A., 2012. “The People Want the Death Penalty for Lawyers,” Shorouk Newspaper [Arabic Only], July. Shalakany, A., 2013. The Rise and Decline of the Egyptian Legal Elite (Arabic: Ezdehar wa-​enheyar al-​nukhbah al-​qanuneyyah al-​masreyyah). Cairo: Al-​Shorouk. Social Justice Platform, 2018. “Food Aid Project,” Social Justice Platform, 13 Nov. 2018. Social Justice Platform, 2019. “A Year of Social and Economic Protests… The Reforms’ Reckoning.” 16 June 2019. Standing, G., 2013. The Precariat: The New Dangerous Class. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Tawfek, A.K., 2014. Tweetat Al-​’osoor al-​Wusta. Cairo: Al-​mu’assasah al-​’arabiyyah al-​hadithah. Timep, 2018. “Reports & Briefings: Protest Law,” TIMEP, Sept. 2018. Timep, 2019. “TIMEP Brief: 2019 Constitutional Amendments,” TIMEP, 17 Apr. 2019. Ziadeh, F.J., 1968. Lawyers, the Rule of Law and Liberalism in Modern Egypt. No. 75. Hoover Inst Pr.

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18 LAW, EXCEPTIONAL COURTS AND REVOLUTION IN MODERN EGYPT Ahmed Ezzat

Introduction Counterterrorism has loomed over legal developments in Egypt since 2013. The Egyptian state has enacted several laws and established several legal mechanisms in response to the alleged internal security threats resulting from protests against the regime and terrorism in Sinai (TIMEP, 2014). The state expanded the temporal scope of pre-​trial detention by decree No. 83 of 2013, enacted the anti-​protest law No. 107 of 2013 and counterterrorism law No. 94 of 2015 and established special judicial chambers within the criminal courts for the trial of terrorist acts and illegal protests. These developments have been described as a return to the state of emergency, in force since the First World War, with a few exceptions (Reza, 2007, pp. 535–​537). The state of emergency was only withdrawn shortly before the first presidential election after the 2011 Revolution (Amnesty International, 2012). From August 2013, Egypt’s President has declared the state of emergency on many occasions, not as a response to new social or political developments, but as an official acknowledgement of the status quo. Before the military coup in 2013, the Egyptian state relied on the narrative of the imminent threat of terrorism to justify the permanent state of emergency, which provided legal cover to hold suspects of specific crimes in administrative detention and refer them to military or state security courts instead of ordinary criminal courts (Amnesty International, April 2011c). At the same time, the state did not suspend the ordinary legal order. Standard judicial bodies preserved a notable level of independence and adherence to the rule of law, especially in cases examined by the administrative judiciary and the Supreme Constitutional Court (Brown, 2007). Post-​2013, however, this state of exception has been maintained through the state’s institutionalisation of exceptional mechanisms within the ordinary legal order. Concurrently, the Egyptian state has been renewing the state of emergency every three months since 2013, with the aim of mobilising society against any attempts to challenge the status quo. The declaration of the state of emergency since the rise of President Abdel Fatah al-​Sisi to power in 2013 has become an attempt to revive the eroded political legitimacy of the regime. Ordinary legal measures had already exceeded those sanctioned by emergency powers in terms of cracking down on individual rights and freedoms (Abdelrahman, 2017).

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This chapter engages with two factors leading to the normalisation of the state of emergency within Egypt’s ordinary legal system. First, it argues that the legacy of law in Egypt has maintained a utilitarian dual characteristic since the introduction of modern legal institutions. The rule of law was introduced not as a vehicle for achieving justice and protecting individual rights, but as a necessity for the state’s domination of society, administrative efficiency and the provision of a rational legal environment for groups considered important for economic growth (Moustafa, 2008, p.p.  132–​155). This utilitarianism has been integrated within codes and structures of legal institutions in the name of protecting national security, public order or national unity.These collective interests take precedence over individual rights. Ordinary courts are mandated to observe these collective interests regardless of whether the state of emergency is in effect. Second, after the 25 January Revolution, the Egyptian state relied on the discourse of “security” to justify strengthening the police institution—​despite its brutal legacy—​and allowing impunity for human rights violations (Abdelrahman, 2016, pp. 1–​18).

A brief history of dualism and exception in Egypt The birth of utilitarian normativity During the 1930s, the German labour lawyer Ernst Fraenkel argued that the German state maintained its dictatorship during the Third Reich by relying on the juxtaposition of two types of institutions:  the “prerogative state”, which encompassed security apparatuses and enjoyed unlimited discretion to suppress all activities deemed a threat to the status quo, and the “normative state”, which referred to the legal rationality exercised by some institutions and protected by the courts. The latter played a crucial role in consolidating the state’s power, maintaining its efficiency in specific matters (particularly in the economic sphere) and regulating the actions of the “prerogative state”, lest such actions undermine the interests of the state itself. Fraenkel believed that a certain degree of legal rationality was required even for the Third Reich to protecting specific interests. For instance, the normative state was paramount to the protection of private property (Fraenkel, 2010). The birth of Egypt’s normative state as a means of regulating the actions of the “prerogative state” could be traced to the 19th-​century replacement of judicial torture and corporal punishment with imprisonment (Peters, 2004, pp. 387–​407). The motives behind this development were utilitarian, as the Egyptian state sought a certain degree of legal rationality to keep up with the exigencies of centralisation and rein in the prerogative state. It considered the abuse of power characterising corporal punishments as threatening to the stability of the sovereign power (Fahmy, 2007). In 1861, the Egyptian state issued a decree banning judicial torture and corporal punishment. Many scholars have argued that European enlightenment ideals played a role in rulemaking in Egypt and the Ottoman Empire during the 19th century (Lewis, 1953, pp. 105–​25). On the contrary, legal historian Khaled Fahmy questions the role of European values with the 1861 decree or the introduction of the modern legal system in Egypt. Instead, he views these amendments to Egyptian criminal law as driven by the desire to centralise the process of government and restrict the corrupt provincial administrators’ power. These administrators, who were authorised to enforce corporal punishments, had created resentment among the population. Fahmy argues that this realisation triggered the establishment of prisons, which fell under the control of the central government (Fahmy, 2004, pp. 85–​115). This utilitarian tendency re-​emerged when the Egyptian government faced an attempted uprising in 1882. This uprising precipitated the British occupation of Egypt to protect the 297

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interests of the crown by preventing the removal of the amenable local ruler. Samera Esmeir researched the British occupiers’ advice to the khedive to adopt a special decree, establish a court martial and try the leaders of the uprising. Nevertheless, the colonial advisor, Esmeir argues further, opposed the use of capital punishment against the revolutionaries and criticised subjecting them to unfair trial and torture. She contends that the British convinced the ruler to respect criminal procedures during the trial and commute court martial sentences from death to exile. The British tried to avoid inflaming peoples’ anger against the ruler and any potential political fallout in London and critical press regarding British acquiescence to execution after unfair trial (Esmeir, 2012, pp. 241–​247). This era witnessed important developments in the Egyptian legal system as a whole, including the establishment of national courts in 1883 (Zubaida, 2003, p. 147). These changes unified jurisdictions and codes in criminal and civil law. Avoiding exceptional measures did not arise from a genuine belief in the rights and liberties of individuals under trial but out of utilitarian political necessities. This utilitarianism could be considered as a key characteristic of the modern legal order in Egypt.

Shaping the dual state through the state of exception In 1906, the “Dinshaway Trial” was the first test of normative steps taken by the Egyptian authorities (Clément, 2012, p.  24). This trial came in the wake of violent clashes between Egyptian peasants and British soldiers after the latter attacked the Dinshaway village to avenge for the death of a colleague who perished under the scorching sun while chased by villagers whose crops he set alight. The occupation authorities referred the peasants to a special tribunal that sentenced several to death, while others were sentenced to life imprisonment and flogging. The decision not to refer these defendants to national courts, despite their 1883 mandate to try such cases, marked a move towards a division of labour between the “normative state” and the “prerogative state”. Esmeir argues that this avoidance of normal courts was deliberate to “purify” this new “normative” institution from acts of the “prerogative state” and place the “Dinshaway Trial” outside the ordinary juridical order (Esmeir, 2012, pp. 253–​257). The British forces in Egypt imposed martial law following the outbreak of the First World War after Egypt became a British protectorate (Brown, 1995, p. 111). Under this law, military courts were established to try those suspected of committing political acts against European interests in Egypt. Acts implicating the military were removed from the jurisdiction of ordinary courts.These measures had a lasting effect on Egypt’s legal developments. Brown (2007) believes that adopting martial law was effective in achieving specific objectives for both the British and Egyptian authorities. In 1923, the debate around the legality of using exceptional measures and their effect on the normative tendency was settled by the inclusion of a constitutional provision about the imposition of the state of emergency (Brown, 2007, p.82). This precedent was to become a central feature in all subsequent Egyptian constitutions and is considered the most important manifestation of exercising sovereign power. The prerogative of the executive authority in Egypt to declare a state of emergency or martial law was included in Article 45 of the constitutions of 1923 and 1930, Article 8 of the constitutional declaration of 1953, Article 144 of the constitution of 1956, Article 57 of the constitution of 1958, Article 126 of the constitution of 1964, Article 174 of the constitution of 1971, Article 59 of the constitutional declaration of 2011, Article 148 of the constitution of 2012 and Article 154 of the constitution of 2014.The state of emergency has been declared in Egypt under all these constitutions. It should be noted that the ability of the head of state to declare a state of emergency was always subjected to parliamentary review, but the weakness of the legislative authority in Egypt has rendered this check ineffective (Kassem, 2004, pp. 3–​6). 298

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The permanent use of the state of emergency did not obstruct the development of the “normative state”. In 1946, the administrative judiciary was introduced through the establishment of the State Council, with a mandate to adjudicate the legitimacy of the government’s administrative decisions, including reversing decisions on arbitrary detentions, the dissolution of political organisations and censorship (Brown, 2007, p. 73).This development cannot be understood without taking the social and political context of the 1940s into consideration. Political opposition grew in response to the unchecked authority of the king and the British intervention. Political and social organisations, such as labour and students’ unions and political parties, proliferated (Al-​Bishry, 2002, pp. 81–​144). The country was on the brink of revolt against the decaying monarchy and the British (Hajaj, 2016; Gorman, 2010, pp. 157–​173). On 23 July 1952, a group of army officers calling themselves “the Free Officers” under the leadership of Gamal Abdul Nasser cleared the path for the rising military elite, overthrew the king, seized power and suspended the constitution. All manifestations of democratic life were abolished, including political parties, labour unions, parliament and free media, under the pretext of protecting national security and achieving national independence (Al-​Bishry, 1987, pp. 66–​84). The Free Officers assumed sovereign power in the Schmittian sense (Schmitt, 2010, 2014). They decided to protect the country from the revolting forces they perceived as unpredictable. They viewed their endless debates, protests and unanswered questions about the future of Egypt as a threat to the very existence of the country.

The long autumn of the normative state The Free Officers’ despotic decisions limiting civil and political rights were endorsed by the administrative judiciary (the State Council) (Brown, 2007, pp.  75–​76). Ironically, the Free Officers cracked down on the Council by dismissing several judges. They also adopted Law No. 165 of 1955 concerning the reorganisation of the State Council excluding all administrative decisions related to rights and freedoms from the jurisdiction of the Council under the very broad “sovereign decisions” clause. The new regime had no confidence in the law or normativity in preventing challenges to its rule (Dunne and Brown, 2014). Thus, the Free Officers established exceptional courts, such as the Court of Treason by law No. 344 of 1952, to retroactively try previous regime figures for political corruption or abuse of power. In 1953, the Free Officers also established military courts to try communists. The Court of Revolution was established in 1953 for crimes against public order or cooperation with foreign powers. These parallel courts were established by decree of the Revolution Command Council. In 1954, the People’s Court was created to deal with the Muslim Brotherhood and State Security Courts were set up in 1958 as part of Emergency Law No. 162 of 1958 applied in Egypt until today. All the trials adjudicated in these courts involved charges linked to the defendants’ ideology and loyalty to the Free Officers’ regime. During such trials, defendants rarely were allowed the right to counsel, torture allegations were never investigated and verdicts were not subject to appeal (Brown, 2007, pp. 80–​82).

The political economy of law and exception In the 1950s and the 1960s, the Free Officers’ project was characterised by two features, exemplifying its rejection of legal rationality and refusal to involve the “normative state” in the repression of political opponents.The new regime devoted itself to the project of national independence and ending Egypt’s economic and political subordination to the West (Roy and Irelan, 1989, pp.  163–​185). It sought to achieve social and economic justice through redistributing 299

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national wealth and nationalising large properties (Margold, 1957, pp. 9–​19). These measures, while internally welcomed by large sections of the population, created resentment among the legal elite that included the majority of judges. The nationalisation process was carried out through retroactive laws contradicting “liberal legality”—​a legal concept the State Council and other institutions of the “normative state” sought to uphold before the Free Officers seized power (Brown 2007, pp. 84–​91). Besides, nationalisation was opposed by foreign powers, pitting the new regime against powerful foreign interests. The regime decided to unite the internal front by silencing all opposing voices and suspending the ordinary legal order (Roy and Irelan, 1989, p. 186). President Anwar al-​Sadat (1970–​1981), Abdul Nasser’s successor, started his rule amidst an economic crisis.The discretion Nasser had given to security and executive apparatuses proved to be a serious threat to the stability of the regime, as corruption was rampant in these apparatuses. Furthermore, the country was economically isolated, as the nationalisation policies of the 1950s and the 1960s had alienated international and regional capitalist powers (Moustafa, 2008, pp.  133–​137). Simultaneously, social and political groups were still yearning for democracy and political pluralism (El-​Hamalawy, 2015). Hence, the dual state was the ideal mechanism to address this situation, for both Sadat and his successor, President Hosni Mubarak (1981–​2011), who sought to integrate the national economy into the neoliberal economic order. Moustafa (2008, pp. 139–​146) argues that the State Council’s empowerment was important, as the regime needed to better control the counter-​productive corruption of the “prerogative state”. A new administrative judiciary law was issued in 1972 and amended in 1984 to ensure the independence of judges concerning appointments, promotions and discipline. Also, investors needed reassurance against further nationalisation. Thus, the regime established the Supreme Constitutional Court to create a predictable environment to reassure powerful economic actors in the rule of law and the protection of property eroded during the Free Officers’ rule (Moustafa, 2007). Also, the 1980s witnessed Egypt’s ratification of several international human rights treaties, such as the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, the Convention against Torture and the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women. These measures did not put an end to the state’s crackdown on groups perceived to be threatening the stability of authoritarian rule. Under the state of emergency, opponents were held in administrative detention and tried in exceptional courts.

A revolution against the omnipresent state Human rights violations committed under the Mubarak regime (1981–​2011) in the context of the war on terror and maintaining public order were prominent triggers of the 25 January Revolution (Seif El-​Dawla, 2009, pp. 120–​135). Although the regime’s adoption of counterterrorism legislation in1992 included very broad definitions of terrorist acts and criminalised many forms of peaceful political opposition (Welchman, 2012, pp.  621–​664), the authorities deemed this legislation insufficient as a deterrent. Hence, the Egyptian Constitution was amended in 2007 to add to the president’s prerogatives in declaring a state of emergency additional powers to combat terrorism. For instance, amended Article 179 suspended constitutional guarantees for rights of liberty and privacy in the investigation of terrorist activity. It also authorised the president to refer all cases of terrorism to any court, including the ordinary courts. It could be argued that these amendments were the first step in blurring the distinction between the exception and the norm, as they institutionalised the characteristics of the “prerogative state” within the ordinary juridical order. These developments allowed for the 300

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integration of the arbitrariness and suspension of rights characteristic of exceptional courts into the operations of ordinary courts, thus rendering them indistinguishable. This incorporation of exception into norm will become the legal paradigm and practice governing the counter-​ revolution regime of President Abdel Fattah al Sisi starting from July 2013 onwards. Bernard-​Maugiron (2008, pp. 409–​410) has illustrated how the amendment of Article 179 was linked to constitutional changes related to the organisation of the country’s economic activity, removing the “socialist” clauses of the 1971 Constitution and paving the way for the country’s national economy to be integrated into the international neoliberal order. The economic interests of the state in the 1970s and the 1980s helped reinforce the rule of law to protect the private sector and encourage foreign investments. However, these legal reforms did not succeed in achieving the regime’s economic goals (Moustafa, 2008, p. 137). Hence, the government, which has always blamed terrorism for obstructing its economic agenda, pushed towards neoliberal policies, such as privatisation, a free market and a predictable legal system. The state also responded to economic failures by empowering security apparatuses further. However, the empowerment of the police and the intensive use of exceptional courts and emergency law during the 1990s served both to combat terrorism and protect the interests of the emerging crony capitalist class (Abdelrahman, 2016, pp. 3–​5). These measures served to suppress any dissent against the new class’ monopoly over wealth and political power (Kienle, 1998, pp. 219–​ 235). Examples of such dissent include worker strikes and political protests, which increased in response to neoliberal policies and the deterioration of living conditions (Cox, 2015). A key part of the strategy was policing poor neighbourhoods stigmatised by the regime as threats to public security and incubators of terrorism and crime more generally (El Raggal, 2015). There is a correlation between the adoption of neoliberal policies and the reduction of state intervention in social life. Embracing the neoliberal economic model was accompanied with political pluralism and the promotion of the rule of law, both used by the Egyptian regime as propaganda in the 1980s and the 1990s, in a manner similar to the democratic transition in Eastern Europe after the fall of the Soviet Union (Hervey, 2015, p. 5). Wacquant (2009, p. 8) argues that the expansion of the penal state within the international neoliberal system is a manifestation of the omnipresence of the state, which is necessary for protecting the interests of those who benefit from such regimes from those who threaten them. The arbitrariness of Mubarak’s regime was never carried out in complete isolation from the law, whether exceptional or normal, marking the Egyptian Revolution as an uprising against the paradigm of the “rule-​by-​law”, when ordinary law only served specific political and economic interests (Moustafa, 2011, pp.  181–​191). Although the Revolution succeeded in abolishing Mubarak’s constitutional amendments of 2007, dissolving parliament and referring many regime figures to trial for crimes committed before and during the Revolution, the paradigm of the “rule-​by-​law” proved very resilient (Abu-​Odeh, 2013, pp. 341–​363). Article 59 of the Constitutional Declaration of 2011 prohibited the extension of a state of emergency for over six months unless approved by public referendum. However, the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF)—​which took over power after Mubarak was unseated in February 2011—​always perceived the Revolution as equivalent to disorder, insecurity and economic devastation. For the military rulers, restoring order was equated with restoring the state of exception that collapsed in Tahrir Square in January 2011(Mohie, 2015). Three decree-​laws are indicative in this respect. These laws were not exceptional and were not enacted through emergency mechanisms. In response to the wave of economic and social protests, which were inspired by the Revolution and continued during the first few months after Mubarak’s resignation, decree-​law No. 34 of 2011 was issued to criminalise worker strikes. Instead of responding to their demands, the new government accused workers of obstructing 301

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the wheel of production, jeopardising public security and prioritising factional interests over the public interest (Abul-​Magd, 2012). Further, in response to the security apparatuses’ propaganda against the so-​called “security vacuum” allegedly caused by protests, decree-​law No. 10 of 2011 was issued to amend the Penal Code to include crimes of ‘ “hooliganism, terrorizing and thuggery’ ” (Amnesty International, 2011a).This legislation, which was declared unconstitutional by the Supreme Constitutional Court in 2006, was restored, allowing the trial of 12,000 civilians in military courts between March and August 2011. Finally, the Ministry of Interior argued that the dissolution of the State Security Investigation (SSI), a key demand of the revolutionaries, would leave the country vulnerable to terrorism. Hence, the SSI was dissolved and replaced by the National Security Department (NSD), which proved to be even more brutal. It could be argued that the Revolution constituted a critical, even if temporal, threat to the sovereign power. Although Mubarak’s attempt to normalise the “state of exception” was one of the impetuses for the Revolution, the return to the dual-​state strategy proved difficult for the new rulers. During the post-​25 January transitional moment, the Egyptian regime stood at a crossroad, facing a choice between changing the paradigm of the utilitarian strategy of the dual state to fully uphold human rights and reproducing sovereign power through a different strategy.The regime chose the latter.

Counter-​revolution, counterterrorism and the state of indistinction: Mandating the securocrats Allen Feldman argues that crises, such as wars, terrorism or internal upheaval, threaten the traditional concept of sovereign power and invoke public involvement in the process of maintaining security. This process serves to reproduce threatened power (Feldman, 2004, pp. 330–​350). In such situations, governments put the responsibility of defending society on the shoulders of all institutions and individuals, previously in the exclusive realm of security apparatuses under the exigencies of a desired safe community and fear of a predicted threat (Oswick 2008, pp. 1024–​ 1036). In post-​2011 Egypt, state institutions promoted the idea of “Honourable Citizens”, whose duty was to contribute to maintaining security by assisting the police and armed forces in dispersing political protests and reporting activities deemed to jeopardise national security (Hamzawy, 2013). This idea contributed to the rebirth of the sovereign power, which was fiercely shaken during the Revolution (El Dahshan, 2014). In 2013, the military coup against the first elected post-​Revolution president, Mohamed Morsi, coincided with a dramatic rise in terrorist attacks. The crackdown on Morsi’s supporters and movement, the Muslim Brotherhood, triggered violent reactions against state personnel and facilities. The armed forces and police saw widespread and systematic repression as necessary to extinguish resistance against the coup, as the Muslim Brotherhood was the largest political organisation in Egypt. To justify this approach, the state needed to convince considerable segments of the Egyptian population that it was protecting the society from an existential terrorist threat. The population had to believe in the absence of alternatives to accept the high cost of the most heinous massacre in Egypt’s modern history. On 14 August 2013, the police and army indiscriminately killed at least 800 Morsi supporters in less than 12 hours in the Rabʿa Massacre, with some observers considering this act to amount to a crime against humanity (Human Rights Watch, 2014). Paving the way for the Rabʿa Massacre, the then Minister of Defence and current president, Abdel Fatah Al-​Sisi, asked Egypt’s population on 24 July 2013 to take to the streets and give a mandate to the police and army to combat terrorism and violence (TIMEP, 2013). At the time, the main Egyptian judicial institutions or “the normative state”, such as the Supreme 302

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Constitutional Court, the Supreme Council of the Judiciary and the Judges’ Club, strongly endorsed this public mobilisation. These institutions feared not only terrorism and chaos but also changing the political system of which they are one of its most privileged components. They sought to restore the law-​and-​order paradigm of the pre-​25 January Revolution. Since the ordinary judiciary took this position, the pre-​Revolution distinction between the “prerogative state” and the “normative state” had collapsed, with arbitrariness and impunity becoming imbedded in the ordinary judicial system (El-​Sadany, 2014c). The erosion of the distinction between the “normative” and “prerogative” states became evident from the ordinary courts’ relentless crackdown on human rights that followed the massacre, including holding mass trials that flouted the minimum standards of fairness and the imposition of death sentences (EIPR, 2014), banning political and rights organisations (Mada Masr, 2014) and imprisoning activists. The courts also overlooked allegations of torture and enforced disappearances and violations of procedural guarantees linked to detention, searches and interrogations. In their rulings, the courts conflated the direct threat of terrorism and political violence with peaceful activities such as protests, media criticism and the exercise of freedom of expression in general (AFTE, 2016). These violations were not carried out by military or emergency courts, but by ordinary courts belonging to the “normative state”. Despite the popularity initially enjoyed by the military, it proved difficult to reproduce the old order using old tools, particularly the Emergency Law, administrative detention and State Security Courts. The regime’s departure from Mubarak’s trajectory came as a result of the realisation of the inability of old means to secure full domination in light of the Revolution. El-​ Mahdi (2015) argues that the public mandate to combat terrorism sought by Al Sisi in July 2013 and the Rabʿa Massacre were both intended to bring the repression practised inside prisons and courtrooms onto the streets. The entire society was enlisted in the process of reconstructing the legal order, hence rendering some segments of the Egyptian population silenced, complicit in or indifferent to abuses committed in the name of counterterrorism (El-​Mahdi, 2015).

Jurisprudence: From the state of exception to the state of indistinction From administrative detention to unlimited pre-trial detention According to Article 3 of Emergency Law No. 162 of 1958, the president of the republic, or those he mandates, has the authority to detain any individual by written or oral order. This provision freed the detaining authority from legal constraints, such as the need for incriminating evidence to justify a detention order, the requirement to refer a detainee to a court within a certain period of time or any other safeguard set forth by the Criminal Procedure Code (CPC). The only limitation to this detention system was the need for the declaration of a state of emergency on the grounds of threats to public order by armed conflict, internal disturbances, disasters or pervasive disease. Article 3 of this law again granted detainees the right to appeal a detention order before the State Security Court. However, the law allowed the SSI to reissue detention orders regardless of court decisions. Under this system, many political dissidents, mainly Islamists, spent decades in prison without trial (Amnesty International, 2011c). This practice of holding suspects in indefinite detention without trial was challenged many times before the Supreme Constitutional Court, which was established specifically to rein in the “prerogative state” and had stood against the government’s crackdown on civil and political rights on several occasions (Abu Odeh, 2011, p. 991). Nonetheless, the Court considered the declaration of a state of emergency and the adoption of associated exceptional powers to 303

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be outside the jurisdiction of the judiciary. The Court thereby legitimised the state’s absolute authority to take all necessary measures to defend its security. However, the same Court declared in 2013 the suspension of the Criminal Procedure Code provisions regulating arrest, detention and searches, during states of emergency, as unconstitutional. It referred to such an abrogation as in violation of the rights to liberty, security and privacy, which are all constitutionally protected. Despite this ruling’s progressive appearance, it did not necessarily signal a departure from the court’s approach to the sovereign’s right to protect national security without being held accountable for legally guaranteed rights and freedoms. At the time of the ruling, the state of emergency had already been suspended for one year by a decree-​law issued by SCAF ahead of the 2012 presidential elections and many other laws had been enacted entrenching the culture of emergency within the ordinary legal order. The amendment to the pretrial detention system was a major legal consequence of the 2013 military coup. Apart from the exceptional administrative detention allowed under the Emergency Law, all other pretrial detentions were regulated by the Criminal Procedure Code. Article 143 stipulated that the maximum period of pretrial detention should not exceed one-​ third of the prison sentence for the crime under investigation, translating to six months for misdemeanours and 18 months for felonies. For crimes punishable by life imprisonment or the death penalty, a two-​year limit was set for pretrial detention. However, in September 2013, the interim president of the post-​coup transition issued the decree-​law No. 83 of 2013 amending Article 143 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, which was subsequently approved by parliament. This amendment conferred on the Court of Cassation and/​or the Court of Retrial the power to extend pretrial detention indefinitely for defendants sentenced to life imprisonment or execution by the Court of First Instance. Although this authority was not extended to the Court of First Instance, the latter perceived it as a licence to detain suspects in political cases—​such as protest or terrorism—​beyond the allowed temporal scope. In practice, these amendments removed the distinction between administrative detention under the Emergency Law and ordinary pretrial detention (El-​Sadany, 2014a). For instance, all those detained after August 2013 due to critical opinions or participation in protests were referred to special judicial chambers, established to try terrorist crimes within the ordinary criminal justice system. They all remained in pretrial detention for over the permissible two-​year period. The courts justified this breach by granting themselves powers conferred to the Court of Cassation and the Court of Retrial. Moreover, there is a lack of consistency in the interpretation and implementation of Article 143 by different courts. For instance, in 2013, a criminal court ordered the release of former president Hosni Mubarak because he had already served the maximum pretrial detention period (EIPR, 2016, pp. 6–​14).

Ordinary judicial chambers with an implicit emergency mandate According to Risley (2016), the judiciary, as an institution, has not been cracking down on human rights since the military coup in Egypt. Rather individual judges, who support the state’s narrative of the imminent security threat, assumed this role. He supports his view on the basis of the immunity of the Egyptian judiciary’s normative tendency from the political environment by the Court of Cassation’s annulment of many politicised court decisions (Risley, 2016). However, Bentivoglio and Brown (2014) point to the existence of “pockets of reservations” inside the judiciary as a result of the normative legacy of the institution. Their occasional challenges to the political power remain ineffective in the face of the authoritarian tendency of the remainder of the judiciary. In their view, autocratic power was the exclusive domain of the executive authority and its exceptional bodies in pre-​2013 Egypt. Now, autocratic approaches 304

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have been decentralised to ordinary courts, even without an officially declared state of emergency (Bentivoglio and Brown, 2014). This state-​centric approach to law enforcement and criminal justice manifests itself in judicial chambers mandated to try cases related to terrorism and anti-​government protests. For instance, in the trial of the Muslim Brotherhood members accused of documenting and reporting violations committed by security forces during the Rabʿa Massacre, the defence counsel argued that the presented evidence only proved the defendants’ membership or support of the Muslim Brotherhood organisation, not their involvement in any violence or terrorist activities. Proof of affiliation with the group was sufficient to conclude that the defendants constituted a danger to national security according to the court. In its reasoning for sentencing 11 defendants to death and 25 to life imprisonment, the court held: [T]‌he law determined that the mere existence of such an organisation constitutes a crime, and the highest interests of the state and its internal security necessitate not waiting until such a group executes its terrorist objectives. Prosecutor v. Mohamed Badiʿ et al., 2014, pp. 81. In another case, lawyers objected to trying defendants accused of breaching the anti-​protest law before judicial chambers specialising in terrorism-​related cases as this had the effect of conflating peaceful activities and violent ones. They tried to convince the court that any violation of the anti-​protest law remained within the scope of the misuse of the constitutional right to peaceful assembly. They even considered the location of the trial at the Ministry of Interior’s headquarters to be an exception. The court responded to their arguments, stating: This court is an ordinary court unless it applies an exceptional legal framework in the case it examines, which is not the case, and that the charges against the defendants of breaching the anti-​protest law fall under the category of felonies that affect the security of the state which this court is mandated to examine by the decision of General Assembly of the Cairo Court of Appeal. Prosecutor v. Alaa Abdel Fattah et al., 2013, pp. 33–34. Successive constitutions in Egypt guaranteed certain rights and freedoms but left the regulation of these rights to the law. Enacted laws generally imposed restrictions on these rights, sometimes in contradiction with the spirit of the Constitution. This legacy has been reflected in decisions by the aforementioned chambers. Defence lawyers submitted multiple requests for judges to refer provisions of the anti-​protest law to the Supreme Constitutional Court because their provisions exceeded the permissible limitations of regulating the right to peaceful assembly. In this regard, the Cairo Criminal Court held: …[T]‌he counsel’s argument that the anti-​protest law was enacted in 2013, while the constitution was issued in 2014 which means the latter supersedes the former, particularly that the law requires permission from the police to organise a protest while article 73 of the constitution requires only a notification, is an overruled argument, given that article 73 of the constitution also set forth that the right of peaceful assembly is permitted within the “boundaries of the law” and that the restrictions on that right imposed by the concerned law is a mere enforcement to the aforementioned constitutional provision. Prosecutor v. Alaa Abdel Fattah et al., 2014, pp. 31–32. 305

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As noted above, Egypt’s constitutional legacy empowered rather than reined in the state’s restriction of rights and freedoms through constitutional clauses, leaving the regulation of rights subject to the law and rendering constitutional guarantees meaningless (El-​Sadany, 2014b).

Conclusion The legacy of utilitarian legal modernity coupled with the authoritarian dynamics employed during the post-​2011 transitional period shows how the state of exception in Egypt became a systematic practice of social and political domination and not merely a strategy to address threats. The tacit agreement between the “prerogative” and “normative” states that the state of exception is necessary for their mutual survival and the reproduction of the sovereign power crushed the opportunity presented by the Revolution to establish a system on the foundations of the rule of law and human rights. The political nature of terrorist crimes and the criminalisation of peaceful acts blurred the lines between different legal paradigms, namely, derogation under the state of emergency and ordinary limitations to the exercise of rights in normal times. Under the state of emergency in Egypt, the limitations on civil and political rights are nonetheless imposed by ordinary laws and enforced by regular courts. These measures amount to a derogation eroding rights, such as freedom of expression, altogether. This anomaly reveals the overlap between law and politics despite denials by the state and its jurists, as counterterrorism is being used less for law enforcement and more for the political targeting of specific groups and individuals. In this context, the law stops being a vehicle for deterrence or predictability and becomes a tool to exclude opponents from any legal protections.

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19 THE EGYPTIAN HUMAN RIGHTS MOVEMENT Between political autonomy and accommodation of authoritarianism Bahey eldin Hassan

Introduction Ever since its establishment in 1985, the Egyptian human rights movement has faced numerous existential challenges. Many of those challenges stemmed from the nature of the political and cultural environments, be it issues such as the legislative frameworks governing civil society organizations or the dominant political culture and its religious component. Other challenges pertained to the movement’s relationship with its opponents, including Islamist movements. But no less important, the movement faced challenges that were endogenous in nature and related to the movement’s very identity. The movement, 35 years after its establishment, essentially still faces the same challenges, although the contexts and respective weight of each challenge have changed over time. It is perhaps ironic that while the human rights situation in Egypt has currently reached a level far worse than that witnessed at the time of the founding of the movement, the level of awareness of human rights possessed by many segments of the society and key political players—​including some Islamists—​has become quantitatively broader and qualitatively deeper. Globalization has undeniably played a key role in reinforcing human rights across the world. However, the contribution of the human rights movement in Egypt, which at the time was a nascent societal actor, was undeniably substantive. Ultimately, the preexisting balances of power superseded the agency of all actors, including those with societal roots dating back to the early 20th century, whether Islamist or otherwise. Thirty five years after the inception of the Egyptian human rights movement, Egypt still faces immense challenges in face of a military dictatorship that brutally crushed all political actors, whether secular or Islamist, and clamped down on the networks of youth that emerged from the Arab Spring. The military dictatorship also constrained professional syndicates and eliminated all independent labor unions, in addition to effectively nationalizing and subjecting independent press to severe security censorship (Reporters Without Borders, 2017). Additionally, the dictatorship carried out a legislative coup legalizing the worst forms of oppression. During the January 2011 uprising that overthrew Hosni Mubarak, and for the nine years that followed, 309

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human rights nongovernmental organizations (HRNGOs) were a constant target of campaigns of repression unparalleled in the movement’s history.The Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF), which assumed power after Mubarak was overthrown, and President Abdel Fatah al-​ Sisi, who overthrew the Muslim Brotherhood in a coup in 2013, have both utilized all political, legislative, security, and judicial means to force HRNGOs to either readjust their identities and mandates according to the government’s preferences or perish. Although this seems to imply that the Egyptian human rights movement is destined to a bleak future, closely examining the origins and trajectory of the movement might lead to different conclusions.

Contemporary echoes of the struggles of inception The political inception of the Egyptian human rights movement dates back to 1968, when Egypt witnessed the first popular mobilization against the dictatorship of the military coup of 1952 (Hassan, 2006, p. 38). On February 21, 1968, workers and students protested against the lenient sentences issued against a limited number of military leaders responsible for the devastating defeat Egypt suffered in June 1967 at the hand of Israel. The demands of the protests transcended its trigger to adopt calls for democracy and freedom of the press (Hassan, 2006, p. 39). The 1968 uprising constituted a milestone on the long road of breaking free from the illusion of “benevolent dictatorship” which was propagated by Gamal Abdel Nasser, Egypt’s president at the time and the power figure behind the 1952 coup (Hassan, 2006, p.  39). In breaking free from such illusion, the false link between democracy and the “disunity of the nation” was shattered, although ironically it is still being echoed by President Sisi in constant reference to the ongoing internal conflicts raging through Syria and Libya. The uprising of 1968 reflected the protestors’ affirmation of the interdependence between emancipation, social justice, democracy, and human rights (Hassan, 2006, p.  40). The masses, which mobilized in 1968 for the first time since 1954, did not stop despite the oppression and continued their mobilization across several historical junctures leading up to the Arab Spring. Even when the primary triggers behind those uprisings took various political, economic, and social forms, the aspiration for achieving a “second independence” was always present (Hassan, 2011, p. 194). Short of the ephemeral experiences of two HRNGOs established in the mid-​1970s (Hassan, 1996a, p. 91), the true organizational inception of the movement only took place on 20 April 1985 when 50 Egyptian members of the Arab Organization for Human Rights (AOHR)1 decided to form what was called back then “the Egyptian Branch” of the organization (Qaood, 1997, p.  105). At the time, Egypt was still living under the shadow of the assassination of President Anwar al-​Sadat, who was gunned down by violent Islamists while attending a military parade on October 6, 1981. During the aftermath of the assassination, Egypt saw a qualitative deterioration in the human rights situation; on one hand, torture once again became rampant amid the declaration of the state of emergency (Hassan, 2006, pp. 42, 3). On the other hand, Egypt witnessed attacks by violent Islamists against Coptic Christians, secular intellectuals, and tourists, in addition to attacks on freedom of belief and religion. Most members of the Egyptian Branch hailed from the secular elite, including intellectuals, lawyers, journalists, academics, opposition politicians, and reformists. Since violent Islamists were the primary victim of human rights abuses, a question presented itself on the agenda of the overwhelmingly secular board of the organization: should they defend the rights of those who violate human rights? The unanimous answer was “no.” Ironically, the same question repeated itself in the aftermath of the 2013 coup, causing friction among different HRNGOs. During the general assembly of the Egyptian Branch in 1986, a new board of directors was elected.The new board included a younger generation of seculars who got involved in politics through the 310

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student movements of the 1960s and the 1970s. At the time, the Ministry of Interior (MoI) was antagonized by the activity of the Egyptian Branch due to the latter’s criticism of the violation of rights of non-​Islamists. Later on, the MoI informed Mohamed Ibrahim Kamel, the chairman of the Egyptian Branch and a former Minister of Foreign Affairs, that the Branch must freeze its activities seeing that it has no recognized legal status. Additionally, the AOHR, which was dominated by Arab Nationalists (Saeed, 1997, pp.  20, 21), was uneasy with the activities of the Egyptian Branch, especially given that the office of the Branch was hosted by the AOHR and therefore caused awkwardness between the Arab Organization and its host country, Egypt (Saeed, 1997, p. 82). In 1988, the board of the Egyptian Branch was convened amid a tough moment in its history, where it was being pressurized from several directions to make decisions of dire consequences on the identity of the Branch and the future of its legal status, effectively sealing the fate of the Branch, and by extension, that of the Egyptian human rights movement. During that meeting, the majority of the board recognized the vitality of suspending the activities of the Branch until it acquires the necessary legal permits (which were only acquired 18 years after its foundation), and if not, then the organization’s activity should be confined to propagating the values of human rights rather than activities that antagonize the government such criticism of human rights violations (Hassan, 2006, pp. 45, 6). Out of 11 members, only two objected to the decision (Hassan, 2006, p. 46). The ground for their objection was that human rights are indivisible, and apply to all people regardless of their political identities or the crimes that they may have committed; especially that HRNGOs, by nature, do not share the political ideologies or opinions of those they defend. Additionally, the two-​member minority viewed that the legal legitimacy of HRNGOs is derived from Egypt’s ratification of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. Accordingly, they viewed that the Egyptian government should amend its legislation to conform to its international obligations and the Egyptian constitution, rather than forcing the Branch to shut down and dissolve itself. And until the Egyptian government agrees on settling the legal status of human rights organizations, the latter should carry on its activities with the status of being an organization “under establishment” (Saeed, 1997, p. 67).The logic was that an organization that cannot defend its own right to exist is in no position to defend the rights of others.Those two issues (defending the rights of Islamists and registration with the government) returned 25 years later in the aftermath of the 2013 coup. The ultimatum issued for NGOs in 2014 (which will be discussed further in the section ahead) led to disagreements among and within human rights organizations, recreating the same arguments made in 1988 and charting a new course for the Egyptian human rights movement. In 1988, the decision of the majority of the board, which Kamel agreed with, was of substantial impact on the future of the entire organization. Kamel, accordingly, decided to call for a consultative meeting with all members to get their opinions. All members of the organization who attended the meeting, with only one exception, contradicted the majority of the board and agreed with the two-​member minority. Again, most of the actors referred to here were predominantly secular with their sympathies not lying with Islamists, but with the notion of the universality of human rights. Since the meeting was a “consultative” one rather than taking the form of a general assembly, its decision was non-​binding; however, Kamel, being a true liberal and a unique example, sympathized with the minority’s opinion and convinced the board to adopt the non-​binding decision of the consultative meeting (Saeed, 1997, p. 67). After the secretary general of the Egyptian Branch resigned due to health reasons, Kamel proposed to elect the author of this chapter as the new secretary general, given that he was one of the two-​member minority that proposed the new strategy, and would accordingly be 311

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well-​suited to oversee its implementation. The following months witnessed what Mohamed al-​ Sayid Saeed,2 an intellectual activist and the pioneer of the Egyptian human rights movement, referred to as “the true birth” of the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (EOHR), where it adopted “an approach of confrontationally upholding the values of human rights above all political, ideological, or partisan considerations, and apply it harmoniously and bravely” (Saeed, 1997, p. 68; Shukrallah, 1996, p. 167). The new approach entailed openly taking on the most infamous cases of human rights violations regardless of their perpetrators and victims, through means including professionalized documentation. The new course of action fueled tensions toward the Egyptian Branch from both the government and Islamists, seeing that some of the cases involved religious minorities and others challenged al-​Azhar’s pressure on freedoms of religion, opinion, and art. However, this approach transformed the Egyptian Branch into an essential source of information on human rights in Egypt, which also meant that it became the subject of criticism and praise over media from different actors. The general assembly of 1989 ratified the new changes and confirmed that the organization is one concerned with defending human rights rather than being a mere platform to propagate its values (Saeed, 1997, p. 82). Months later, the Egyptian Branch witnessed a dramatic turn of events. In August 1989, police forces opened fire at striking steel workers, killing one of them. Consequently, the Egyptian Branch formed a committee whose members, including Saeed, were arrested and tortured in custody. The Branch reacted by launching massive solidarity campaigns on the national and international levels, including through faxing international HRNGOs asking for help (in effect starting the first international human rights advocacy campaign in Egypt).The decisive reaction of the Egyptian Branch transformed this assault into moral recognition of the organization’s efforts on the national and international levels, despite the limited material resources available at the time. Such developments led to a change in the MoI’s attitude, where it adopted an approach of de facto recognizing the Egyptian Branch rather than legally refusing to recognize it (Hassan, 1996b, p. 182). An example is the Minister of Interior’s meeting with leaders of the Egyptian Branch on more than one occasion. Those developments, however, did little to defuse the tensions between the Egyptian Branch and its mother organization, the AOHR, leading the Branch to later break away and establish the EOHR.

Institutionalizing HRNGOs The substantial momentum the organization received over a relatively short period of time produced new patterns of endogenous challenges. On one hand, there was the issue of politicization, a persistently monumental challenge facing Arab HRNGOs (Saeed, 1997, p. 21). On the other hand, the accelerating growth in the number of the organization’s members—​a rate matched by no other social political entities short of Islamist movements (Shukrallah, 1996, p. 167)—​proved to be problematic. Members of the organization predominantly hailed from leftist (including Marxist and Nasserist) backgrounds. Many of those members were described as “politicized elements of society…whose ideological fabric had failed for so long to accommodate the ideals of human rights” (Saeed, 1997, p. 66).Those actors were also strongly resistant to attempts by HRNGOs to open up to actors from other political backgrounds. One of the root causes behind the friction between both groups was the fact that by the late 1980s/​ early 1990s, the left was undergoing an existential crisis amid a global transformation toward liberalism, a transformation that encompassed Arab leftist elites. The transformation induced frictions and different reactions within all social and political organizations, and HRNGOs were 312

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no exception, especially considering that such transformation took place in tandem with the debates and struggles concerning the formative phase of establishing the human rights movement in Egypt between 1985 and 1993. The debate centered around three main issues: international advocacy (Awad, 1997, p. 32), foreign funding and the political autonomy of HRNGOs. 1. International advocacy: the internationalization of the solidarity campaign in 1989 with the striking steel workers and the Branch’s arrested members had a decisive effect on the outcome of the crisis. Accordingly, HRNGOs became more attentive to that field, Western diplomats started engaging the leadership of the EOHR, and the leadership of international HRNGOs started to frequently visit Egypt where they advised the EOHR to focus more on United Nations human rights mechanisms. But soon enough international engagement turned into a source of accusations including that of treason. Calling on the international community to pressure the Egyptian government to respect human rights was fundamentally unacceptable to some members to a point where three of the EOHR’s board members resigned in protest (Saeed, 1997, pp. 74–​76). 2. Foreign funding: the expansion of EOHR’s membership base was neither reflected in the amount of those willing to volunteer their time and effort nor reflected in the organization’s resources (Shukrallah, 1996, p. 168). The EOHR was unable to secure sufficient domestic funding for its growing activities.To carry out its work, the organization had to rely on symbolic financial contributions from some of its members, and countless hours of voluntary work from others, in addition to being hosted at the office of the AOHR which also covered the salary of a part-​time administrator. The financial situation of HRNGOs was not exceptional, as Saeed notes, “the financial and economic foundations of civil society are so shaky that they cast serious doubts over its potential for independence vis-​a-​vis the state” (Saeed, 1997, p. 64). The depletion of resources of domestic funding raised the question of foreign funding. The issue became one of heated contention among the board of EOHR for nearly two years, with some of the details of the debate being purposefully leaked to the press in order to influence the decision (toward rejecting foreign funding), bearing in mind that the EOHR was not legally recognized. Ultimately, the board approved receiving foreign funding under specific criteria and conditions (Saeed, 1997, p. 73). 3. The political autonomy of HRNGOs: as highlighted earlier, the challenges to the Egyptian human rights movement transcended external ones, such as legal restrictions and lack of funding, and included internal ones.The movement suffered “[a]‌weak civic culture… the prevalence of ideological politics and partisanship… and the meager supply of gifted institution builders” (Saeed, 1997, pp. 64, 65). The growing appeal of joining the EOHR, especially from the ranks of political groups including the political networks of the leftist members of the organization and its board, induced political competition over positions on its board. On the eve of the 1991 general assembly, five leading figures of the Muslim Brotherhood and a lawyer close to Jihadi groups ran for elections to the board of the EOHR. Despite that Islamists constituted a small minority of the members of the organization, their attempt to run for what amounts to one-​third of the seats of the board caused alarm among many members, especially given that the Muslim Brotherhood’s positions on several issues stood in contradiction to human rights principles.3 More importantly, the Brotherhood was not concerned with resisting authoritarianism but rather interested in competing with the government over power (Hassan, 2010, p. 298). Eventually, none of the six Islamist candidates were voted on to the board but concerns over the human rights identity of the organization and its independence persisted, and fears that the EOHR would be used as a pawn in the political struggle between the government and Islamist and non-​Islamist opposition grew. 313

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Leftist visions seeking to transform the EOHR into a political organization have surfaced within internal discussions, specifically discussions aiming to fundamentally alter the strategy adopted in the 1989 general assembly (Hassan, 1996b, p.  188). As noted by Hicks (2006, p. 74), “some on the left saw the human rights movement as a way of continuing their political project through other means.” Some of those members proposed to turn the EOHR into a political alliance under the banner of “popular democratic organization for human rights” or a “front for defense of democracy,” a platform for opposition parties (Shukrallah, 1996, pp.  170–​179). The idea was to push the EOHR into adopting a populist organizational structure, a free-​for-​all membership. Accordingly, those members, spearheaded by Hani Shukrallah, a highly esteemed pioneer of the leftist movement, demanded easing up the membership conditions which would have led to multiplying the membership base over a few months (Shukrallah, 1996, p. 174).There were not any fundamental differences between both proposals where “a ‘democratic’ organization, as defined in leftist lexicon… is a form of a social/​political alliance…[and] in this sense is logically politicized in ways opposite to the very nature of a human rights organization” (Saeed, 1997, p. 77). Whereas human rights organizations are “determined by the ideas embedded in the international human rights law” (Saeed, 1997, p. 77), the ideals of a democratic organization, as conceived by leftists, are formulated by its majority, even at the expense of the universalism of human rights which leftists substitute for an approach of cultural relativism. Shukrallah and his proponents were forthcoming in their intention and clearly called for “third-​world-​specific democracy and human rights, molded by our nature and nationalistic concerns” (Shukrallah, 1996, p. 169). This view inevitably leads to sacrificing “unpopular” rights, such as those of women, minorities, and right to belief.4 Early on the EOHR paid attention to amassing popular support for human rights. As mentioned in its program, the EOHR sought to: [E]‌stablish moral prevalence among the masses and gain their respect to be able to call on them to exercise organized pressure on the state and all political formations to guarantee the conformity of legislations and practices to international human rights treaties Hassan, 1996a, p. 189 However, “support” did not mean free-​for-​all membership and adopting a populist organizational structure. Such structure would have inevitably led to conceding to specific popular and cultural norms that contradicted several human rights principles. After a debate was held between proponents of both views, one calling for a populist organizational structure and the other calling for a professionalized organizational structure, an overwhelming majority voted for the latter in the general assembly of 1994. However, over the course of this struggle for identity and political autonomy, several figures have left the organization while it dedicated parts of resources to address internal frictions and a vicious media campaign. By the mid-​2000s, the EOHR had gradually become vulnerable to infiltration by security agencies, it watered down its discourse, and ultimately withdrew from the Forum for Independent Human Rights Organizations.5

The agenda of state and society In the years that followed, dozens of HRNGOs were established. None of them adopted the populist structure that many of their founders had propagated earlier when they were part 314

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of the EOHR. Meanwhile, several HRNGOs in other Arab states were plagued by many crises due to their adoption of populist organizational structures. In Tunisia, for example, the prominent Tunisian League for Human Rights ended up being dominated by the government (Marzouky, 1997, pp. 115–​131). Eventually, the League fell under the control of a Marxist political party after the Arab Spring. Similarly, in Morocco, leftist parties fought for control over the two largest HRNGOs (al-​Banani, 1997, pp. 132–​164). Ultimately, one of the organizations winded up being at the center of a struggle between two factions of the same party, while the other HRNGO was gradually coopted by the government. On the other hand, by the mid-​1990s Egypt was witnessing a different type of shift, one that moved from the model of a one-​organization movement (namely the EOHR) toward the model of a movement composed of several HRNGOs, most of which tilted toward coordination and collective action.The work of the HRNGOs of the mid-​1990s was not limited to monitoring and documentation, as they left no stone unturned to advance the human rights agenda.Those organizations ventured into civil and political rights, economic and social rights, legal aid, and rehabilitation of torture victims. They collaborated with farmers and workers, along with their syndicates. They submitted bill proposals, legal memorandums, engaged in litigation, and monitored elections. Bringing cases before the Supreme Constitutional Court (SCC) had a transformative effect on HRNGO’s work on litigation (Moustafa, 2007, pp. 147–​151). However, it is important to note that those successes would not have occurred if the SCC had not had the unprecedented level of independence it enjoyed at the time under the leadership of Awad al-​Murr (Moustafa, 2007, pp. 118–​119).6 Regrettably, after al-​Murr’s tenure, the independence of the SCC depreciated and reached an all-​time low, after the 2013 coup, along with the rest of the judiciary. Besides litigation, the HRNGOs of the 1990s utilized international human rights mechanism and sought to disseminate the culture of human rights through holding seminars (including speakers from various intellectual and political backgrounds) and publishing hundreds of books on political, social, religious, and judicial reform, among many other topics. Moreover, they organized human rights courses and workshops specifically targeting the youth. Over the course of two decades, more than 1,400 youth graduated a human rights course organized by an HRNGO, many of them later started their own organizations or became leading figures of the January 2011 uprising. Egyptian HRNGOs prioritized reaching out to public opinion through media, and not only through their reports. They also gave special attention to maintaining dialogues with the government and the opposition, including the Muslim Brotherhood. When the government established the National Council for Human Rights in 2002, several prominent independent human rights defenders (HRDs) were selected to be members. Over time, human rights organization and defenders rose to prominence; they received prestigious international awards and meeting with them had become a permanent item on the agenda of international officials and Egypt-​based diplomates. As Saskia Brechenmacher notes, “Egypt’s traditional human rights community consists primarily of highly specialized and professionalized organizations (Brechenmacher, 2017, p. 56). However, the evolution of those organizations was somewhat incomplete. Issues concerning institutionalization, internal governance and gender balance, transparency, and ensuring high-​quality end products persisted among HRNGOs as well as the majority of Egyptian civil and political institutions. The constantly looming threat of a security crackdown hindered the creation of an environment conducive of transparency. HRNGOs feared publishing names of their staff or disclosing their organizational structures. They further feared to publicly share their budgets and financial records. Such a fact inescapably negatively affected prospects of professionalism and institutionalism which also raised suspicions of financial corruption in some HRNGOs. 315

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Despite those shortcomings, and the security pressure inducing them, within a decade human rights have become at the heart of public discussion in Egypt, although it did not “dominate” it (Chase, 2006, pp. 2, 3, 11). In the few years preceding the January 2011 uprising, no more than 60 HRNGOs managed to cultivate a culture of protest (Elagati, 2013, p. 2). Herrold (2015, p. 200) observes that “after the 2011 uprisings, NGOs began to collaborate efforts to advance political and policy reforms.” For example, on the day following the overthrow of Mubarak, the Forum for Independent Human Rights Organizations issued a road map pursuing a state that ensures safeguarding human rights and ensuring rule of law through prioritizing judicial, legislative, constitutional, and security sector reform (CIHRS, 2011). HRNGOs grew increasingly proactive; new organizations were formed, old ones expanded, and the public developed an interest in human rights work.Women’s rights organizations flourished, and gender issues made short-​lived breakthroughs. Some of those who previously feared associating with HRNGOs out of security risks started seeking employment in the human rights field. Given the ability of HRNGOs to articulate visions and play a crucial role in formulating the public’s awareness of their rights and relationship with their rulers, and given the expanding space they were allowed, they became well situated to influence events, perhaps even more than some political organizations with populist organizational structures. However, HRNGOs did not realize the full extent of the influence it had come to possess and therefore was unable to realize the new dangers they faced and the exceptional power of those who posed them. Lesch (2016) describes the current attack on HRNGOs as part of “the long-​standing government effort to keep civil society under control…[the crackdown] derives from the security state’s determination to cancel the freedom asserted in January 2011 and take revenge against that uprising of hope.” The dynamism and activeness of HRNGOs alarmed security agencies during SCAF’s rule of the country, and later on starting Sisi’s rule (Lesch, 2016). Accordingly, “the first strategic move in SCAF’s effort to curb NGO’s capacity to advance political reform was to launch a campaign to frame NGOs as tools of foreign agents” (Herrold, 2015, p. 202). One of the investigative judges of the “Foreign Funding” case later revealed that those charges were based on false and unfounded information.7 Sources close to the head of SCAF argued that he believed his crackdown on HRNGOs led to the cease of million-person protests in Tahrir (Bakry, 2016, p. 103). Such a belief was undoubtedly exaggerated, but it reflects how SCAF perceived HRNGOs to pose a threat to its plans (Moustafa, 2006, p. 173).

Against accommodating authoritarianism As far as SCAF was concerned, dealing with HRNGOs has been on the top of its list of priorities. Days before Mubarak was overthrown in February 2011, and for the first time in the history of the human rights movement, military police stormed the office of an HRNGO and placed its director and some of its staff in a military prison where they were assaulted. In December of the same year, another precedent was set when heavily armed military forces stormed the offices of local and international HRNGOs and confiscated documents and equipment, ultimately referring some staff to a trial that lasted for eight years. When Sisi was elected president in June 2014, containing and restricting the work of independent human rights organizations persisted as a priority. Throughout the first year following the coup, Sisi dealt devastating blows to the Muslim Brotherhood, which was followed by specific targeting of leading figures of secular youths, along with purging liberals from the government established by the military in 2013. One month after Sisi became president, the government issued an administrative ultimatum to HRNGOs, warning them to either meet the government’s conditions for registration or shut down their offices.The government later resorted to shutting down NGOs on administrative and 316

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procedural grounds and amending legislative frameworks concerning civil society organizations. Over the course of the crackdown, several prominent HRDs and organizations were referred to politicized judicial investigations that have been ongoing for years, through which the government banned dozens of HRDs from traveling and ordered the freezing of the their assets along with those of their organizations. Beyond the judicial and administrative crackdown, HRDs were arrested, disappeared, tortured, brutally assaulted in broad daylight, and threatened with assassination. In other cases, the families and relatives of HRDs were arrested and tortured to send a message, not to mention the systematic smear campaigns accusing them of being agents for foreign countries and the Muslim Brotherhood, conspiring against Egypt’s national security. The proactive efforts of independent HRNGOs in submitting reports to the United Nations on the human rights situation in Egypt fueled the government’s narrative. Since 1988, security agencies maintained the objective of uprooting, or coopt HRNGOs into coming to terms with the authoritarian reality. The law of association was, and still is, one of the main tools utilized by the different authoritarian governments to subdue HRNGOs, whether through directly restricting the work of independent organizations or through projecting an illusion of independence while still being under the government’s control. However, independent HRNGOs resisted this strategy 35  years ago and took all legal measures to pursue their calling; their human rights mission, not mere continuity, has been the objective. With the election of Sisi in 2014, security services followed the dual strategy of brutal repression and soft rapprochement. That strategy was not particularly original, as Brechenmacher (2017, p.  96) notes, authoritarian governments adopt “a divide-​ and-​rule approach that seeks to sow divisions within civil society by selectively disbursing punishment and rewards and a mobilization approach that encourages citizen action within party-​or state-​controlled structures and boundaries.” Within the context of Egypt, selective targeting and punishment included blocking of foreign funding sources and selective asset freezes of organizations and their staff members. In the face of this dual strategy, aside from the organizations that were forced to shut down, HRNGOs split into two blocs.The first bloc consisted of organizations based inside Egypt and in exile. While some are still not a target of repression, those HRNGOs are joined by their rejection of accommodating the objectives of the crackdown, and by their will to carry on documenting abuses and cooperating with international human rights mechanisms. Members of that bloc resorted to “shifting to increasingly informal networks and clandestine tactics” (Brechenmacher, 2017, p. 52). Moreover, members of that bloc established new fora to coordinate human rights efforts between HRNGOs in exile.8 The other bloc, on the other hand, switched their focus to “socially useful” projects that do not antagonize the government (Brechenmacher, 2017, p. 96), while other HRNGOs ceased their legal aid and international advocacy program after being threatened by security officers (Brechenmacher, 2017, p. 55). Such developments reflected poorly on prospects of coordination between HRNGOs, which became confined to a limited number of HRNGOs (Brechenmacher, 2017, p. 50). Meanwhile, other “HRDs” endeavored to articulate the virtues of accommodating repression and authoritarianism as a more successful strategy, calling for turning away from international advocacy, and describing HRNGOs in exile as escapees, the same expression used in government-​backed media campaigns aiming to discredit HRNGOs (Mansour, 2018). It is noteworthy that several studies have demonstrated how international advocacy induces change internally (Landolt, 2013). The HRNGOs that were gradually coopted starting the 2013 coup are inflicting far more damage to the human rights cause than the openly pro-​government GONGOs, which never enjoyed any credibility to begin with. While coopted HRNGOs are not regarded as pro-​government, they continue to downplay the miserable human rights situation in Egypt.9 317

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Despite its important role, foreign funding had also had an adverse effect on the work of HRNGOs.To some extent, not all decisions taken by donors across the past 35 years were well-​ conceived. Some of the donor organizations that were integral to the human rights movement started limiting their funding to governmental institutions, including the police academy, shortly before the uprising of 2011.10 Moreover, after the January 2011 uprising, some donor organizations, well intentionally, focused their funding on strengthening technical “check-​list” mechanisms of democracy despite the absence of meaningful prospects of democratic transition. Naïve and exaggerated expectations after the uprising came at the expense of long-​term accumulative human rights work. Some donors supported organizations that approached human rights as a business while lacking realistic assessments of the situation. In applying the rules of the business world to the human rights movement, newly founded and promising HRNGOs were pushed out and fought.11

Conclusion One of the most prominent features of the Egyptian human rights movement since its establishment in 1985 is its unbound belief in youth. Over four decades, it invested through various shapes and forms in younger generations, which in turn supplied it with social and intellectual dynamism. Despite the generational diversity, the wide array of intellectual and political backgrounds Egyptian HRDs hailed from (which currently also includes Islamists), and the varying approaches that different organizations adopted, the movement stood in contrast to other political and societal actors in Egypt. Unlike other actors, those of the human rights movement shared a common value-​based foundational framework characterized by its legal and philosophical clarity, a framework grounded in the universal nature of human rights.This is perhaps one of the reasons why the movement was able to endure for so long and maintain an exceptional ability to work collectively as it did through the Forum for Independent Human Rights Organizations. Moreover, unlike some Arab human rights organizations, the Egyptian movement was successful in avoiding cooptation by the opposition, through ensuring cooperation with them on reinforcing the human rights agenda while maintaining independence and autonomy. But since 2013, cooptation by the government stood as the most serious threat to the human rights movement. Another characteristic of the Egyptian human rights movement is its deeply held mindfulness of its societal responsibility and its ability to distinguish between actions that risk its politicization (which should be evaded) and its responsibility toward society, even at the expense of its relationship with its traditional base composed of liberals, leftists, and seculars. Accordingly, the movement was the voice of criticism on human rights issues against Mubarak, SCAF, and the Muslim Brotherhood governments while maintaining channels of communications with them in pursuit of reform. This characteristic is also why HRNGOs were the only secular entity that unequivocally rejected the military coup. The rejection was clearly reflected through two joint statements, one issued hours before the formal declaration of the coup on July 3, 2013 and another issued later on the same month rejecting Sisi’s call for what he named “popular authorization to fight terrorism” (CIHRS, 2013). The position of HRNGOs publicly contradicted tens of millions of Egyptians, which required a high degree of moral commitment. This was partially made possible by the movement’s early decision to avoid populist organizational structures and opting instead for professionalized organizational structures. In fact, human rights organizations were very likely to react differently to the coup had they been formed along populist organizational structures given that large segments of liberals and leftists initially supported the coup. Ironically, the silver lining of the atrocities being committed by the coup 318

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since 2013, which extended to all actors, is that the polarization between Islamist and liberal actors over human rights issues has receded to unprecedented levels, where human rights acts now as—​the sole—​common ground between those actors. HRNGO’s rejection of the coup has undeniably influenced some Islamists’ outlook at HRNGOs as principled actors and at human rights as a common ground. Early on, the human rights movement recognized the importance of its reformist role given the strongly rooted authoritarian nature of governments in the region. Accordingly, the movement realized the centrality of civil and political rights, and that its role should not be reduced to that of a technical tool aiming to enhance legislative frameworks, but to approach such tasks through a holistic approach to reform, necessitating regular interactions and networking with major political actors, unionists, media persons, intellectuals, and academics. This approach was clearly reflected in the reports of many organizations and their media discourses. It was also reflected on the movement’s engagement with government and security institutions whenever there was room to do so, even at times of mounting tensions such as when HRDs were receiving death threats as Sisi was elected president.12 The complexity of defending and raising awareness on human rights in highly patriarchal societies reinforced by dominating Islamic and Christian religious cultures was not lost on the movement. Therefore, it articulated theoretical and practical visions to address such a challenge and reinforce its ability to face it (Saeed, 1996, pp. 13–​34). For 35 years the attempts of different Egyptian governments to discredit the reports of independent human rights organizations have failed. The United Nations (UN) Universal Periodic Review of Egypt’s human rights record in November 2019 was a revealing moment that brought the government’s atrocities under heavy international criticism. Ironically those who provided the information condemning the government were working under the risks of imprisonment, disappearance, torture, asset freezes, and even death, with many of them being banned from leaving the country and unable to personally present their work at the UN. However, state members of the UN adopted their work in coordination with HRDs located outside Egypt whose preparatory work spanned for over a period of six months predating the Review session. International human rights organizations such as Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, and EuroMed Rights were instrumental partners in those efforts, despite how their approaches and assessments sometimes differ from that of Egyptian organizations. International donor organizations were also indispensable partners of Egyptian human rights organizations. Their financial, and more importantly moral, support was instrumental for the movement’s ability to carry on its work, especially during its darkest years. It is safer to say that no serious HRNGO with a clear vision and plan of action lacked funding to carry out its work. However, some donor organizations are in desperate need to revise the strategies they adopted after 2011 and question if those strategies truly rested on a solid grasp of the situation or on wishful thinking. How far did such strategies rely on Egyptian human rights organizations’ ability to crystalize realistic and creative visions compared to visions that conceived new projects through an approach grounded in business-​like rules? A progressive and historic event as the 2011 uprising does not justify substituting holistic approaches striving to instigate societal change with pseudo-​professional “check-​list projects.” The challenges to the human rights movement for 35 years proved that the movement is founded on an ideal of struggle molded by the ordeals of its history. Despite the gravity of the shortcomings concerning elitism and institutionalization of most HRNGOs, the trajectory of their evolution and their ability to coordinate and resolve differences remains relatively impressive given the complex and securitized sociopolitical contexts, and especially when compared to Egyptian political movements. As Brechenmacher (2017, p. 54) observes, “while the small circle 319

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of highly proactive human rights organizations has borne the brunt of state repression since 2013, these groups have paradoxically been better positioned to persist in the face of repeated government interference.” An in-​depth understanding of the HRNGOs and those dynamics is arguably the subject of further scrutiny of future prospects for Egypt and its human rights movement.

Notes 1 The AOHR was founded in 1983 in Cyprus after it failed to get the permission of any Arab states to host its first meeting. A year later it convinced the Egyptian government to allow it to open an office in Cairo, but it attained a formal and legal recognition 17 years after its foundation. 2 Mohamed al-​Sayid Saeed was the deputy director of al-​Ahram Center for Political and Strategic Studies. As a pioneer of the Egyptian human rights movement, he cofounded with the author in 1994 the Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies (CIHRS) and established through CIHRS Rowaq Arabi, the first Arab human rights journal which he edited until his death in 2009. 3 The alarm was compounded by the fact that the Brotherhood was already in control of many elected syndicates in Egypt and was able to use that to ground its daily activities in its socially conservative outlook and utilizing to its political leverage. 4 The issues surrounding the nature of the organizational structure of HRNGOs were thoroughly contended in a debate between Shukrallah and the author held in August 1993. The debate was published in the third issue of Rowaq Arabi in 1996. 5 The Forum was an initiative established at the initiation of the Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies in 2007 to coordinate the efforts of HRNGOs. 6 Between 1995 and 1997, the Center for Human Rights Legal Aid (CHRLA) initiated well over 3,000 cases focusing on a wide array of issues (Moustafa, 2007, p. 147). For instance, one of its first major victories was its successful attempt to challenge the constitutionality of the law regulating elections of the trade unions (Moustafa, 2007, p. 150). 7 Ashraf al-​Ashmawy, one of the investigative judges, stated that he dismissed cases against HRDs after he confirmed that charges against them were trumped up and that the millions of dollars of foreign funding often referred to were primarily directed toward Islamist groups, whether the Muslim Brotherhood or Salafis. https://​web.archive.org/​web/​20180618230254/​ www.ahram.org.eg/​NewsQ/​548844.aspx 8 Namely, the Egyptian Human Rights Forum (EHRF) which was established in March 2019 to coordinate efforts of independent Egyptian human rights organizations abroad. 9 One of many examples took place in Geneva in 2015, during a meeting held between Egyptian HRDs and UN officials. A staff member of such an organization characterized criticism of the ongoing security attack on civil society as “crying wolf,” arguing that the human rights situation in Egypt was in fact improving. The same message was repeated on different occasions with Western diplomats in Egypt. For context, this was mentioned within almost a year of “the worst incident of mass killing in modern Egyptian history” (HRW) and a year before dozens of HRDs had their assets frozen and were banned from traveling. 10 An example is the Ford Foundation. 11 At some point, a director of an HRNGO boasted that his organization became like “Barcelona” soccer club, given his organization’s ability to hire “the stars” of the human rights movement at two or three times their salaries. 12 HRNGOs submitted a memorandum to the prime minister and CIHRS sent an open letter to Sisi in July and August 2014, respectively, calling on the adoption of specific political reform.

References Abdelraziq, Z. (2016). “Millions of Dollars Have Gone only to Islamist Groups,” al-​Ahram, 2 September. Retrieved from: https://​web.archive.org/​web/​20180618230254/​http://​www.ahram.org.eg/​NewsQ/​ 548844.aspx (accessed on 10 March 2020). Awad, I. (1997) “The External Relations of the Arab Human Rights Movement,” in Hassan, B. (ed.), Challenges Facing the Arab Human Rights Movement. Cairo: Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies, pp.  30–​51.

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The Egyptian human rights movement Bakry, M. (2016). The Riddle of the Field Marshal. Cairo: Egyptian-​Lebanese Publishing House. Banani A. “The Moroccan Human Rights Movement:  Struggle for the Rule of Law and Professional Independence,” in Hassan, B. (ed.), Challenges Facing the Arab Human Rights Movement. Cairo:  Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies, pp. 132–​164. Brechenmacher, S. (2017). Civil Society under Assault: Repression and Responses in Russia, Egypt, and Ethiopia. Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies (2013a). “To Resolve Political Crisis: Rule of Law Must be the Basis of the State,” July 3. Retrieved from: https://​cihrs.org/​to-​resolve-​current-​political-​crisis-​rule-​of-​ law-​must-​be-​the-​basis-​of-​the-​state/​?lang=en (accessed 1 March 2020). Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies (2013b). “Combating Terrorism Does not Justify an Extra Legal Mandate,” July 25. Retrieved from: https://​cihrs.org/​combating-​terrorism-​does-​not-​justify-​an-​ extralegal-​mandate/​?lang=en (accessed 1 March 2020). Chase, A. (2006). “Human Rights and Agency in the Arab World,” in Chase, A. and Hamzawy, A. (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent Voices. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania, pp. 1–​21. Elagati, M. (2013). “Foreign Funding in Egypt after the Revolution,” AFA, Fride, and Hivos. Retrieved from: www.files.ethz.ch/​isn/​162759/​WP_​EGYPT.pdf (accessed 26 February 2020). El Marzouki, M. (1997). “Human Rights Organizations’ Difficult Task:  The Tunisian Experience,” in Hassan B. (ed.), Challenges Facing the Arab Human Rights Movement. Cairo: Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies, pp. 115–​131. Hassan, B. (1996a). “Challenges to the Arab Human Rights Movement,” Rowaq Arabi, 1, 91–​93. Hassan, B. (1996b). “Towards Institutionalizing the Human Rights Movement,” Rowaq Arabi, 3, July, 180–​190. Hassan B. (1997).“ ‘Towards and Arab Human Rights Movement’ and ‘Towards Human Rights Enforcement in the Arab World: Strategy for the Arab Human Rights Movement’,” in Hassan, B. (ed.), Challenges Facing the Arab Human Rights Movement. Cairo: Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies, pp. 189–​201. Hassan, B. (2006). “A Question of Human Rights Ethics:  Defending the Islamists,” in Chase, A. and Hamzawy, A. (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent. Voices. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania, pp. 37–​50. Hassan, B. (2010). “The Human Rights Dilemma in Egypt: Political Will or Islam?,” in Elliesie, H. (ed.), Islam and Human Rights. Frankfurt: Peter Lang GmbH, Internationaler Verlag der Wissenschaften; Bilingual edition, pp. 281–​298. Hassan, B. (2011). “A Prospect for Democratic Uprisings in the Arab World,” in Manshipouri, M. (ed.), Human Rights in the Middle East: Frameworks, Goals, and Strategies. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 193–​210. Herrold, C. (2015).“NGO Policy in Pre-​and Post-​Mubarak Egypt: Effects on NGOs’ Roles in Democracy Promotion,” Nonprofit Policy Forum, 7(2), 189–​212. doi:10.1515/​npf-​2014-​0034. Hicks, N. (2006). “Transnational Human Rights Networks and Human Rights in Egypt,” in Chase, A. and Hamzawy, A. (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent Voices. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania, pp. 64–​88. Landolt, L.K. (2013). “Externalizing Human Rights:  From Commission to Council, the Universal Periodic Review and Egypt,” Human Rights Review , 14, 107–​129. at: https://​doi.org/​10.1007/​s12142013-​0258-​2 Lesch,A.M. (2016).“Egypt’s Crackdown on the Human Rights Community,” Foreign Policy Research Institute. Retrieved from:  www.fpri.org/​article/​2016/​08/​egypts-​crackdown-​human-​r ights-​community/​#_​ ftn1 (accessed 25 February 2020). Monsour, K. (2018). “Resist or Flee:  NGOs Respond to Egypt’s Crackdown,” Open Global Rights, 24 July. Retrieved from: www.openglobalrights.org/​resist-​or-​flee-​NGOs-​respond-​to-​egypts-​crackdown/​ ?lang=English (accessed 24 February 2020). Moustafa, T. (2006). “Got Rights? Public Interest Litigation and the Egyptian Human Rights Movement,” in Chase, A. and Hamzawy, A. (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent Voices. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania, pp. 153–​173. Moustafa, T. (2007). The Struggle for Constitutional Power: Law, Politics, and Economic Development in Egypt. New York: Cambridge University Press. Qaood, A. (1997) The Egyptian Organization for Human Rights: The Experience and Prospect for the Future Points of Debate, in Hassan, B. (ed.), Challenges Facing the Arab Human Rights Movement. Cairo: Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies, pp. 85–​94.

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Bahey eldin Hassan Reporters Without Borders (2017). “Egypt Intelligence Service Extends Control Over Media”, 5 September. Retrieved from https://rsf.org/en/news/egyptian-intelligence-services-extendcontrolover-media (accessed 1 March 2020). Saeed, M. (1997). “ ‘Problems of the Arab Human Rights Movement’ and ‘The Roots of Turmoil in the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights:  Dynamics of Civil Institution Building in Egypt’,” in Hassan, B. (ed.), Challenges Facing the Arab Human Rights Movement. Cairo: Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies, pp. 104–​119. Shurkallah, H. (1996). “Discussion Paper on Strategic Visions and Choices for the Organization in the Current Moment,” Rowaq Arabi, 3, July, 164–​179.

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PART V

Natural and built environments

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INTRODUCTION Visions and realities of the struggle for development Aisha Saad

Introduction Egypt is an arid, desert country. It falls between 22 and 32 degrees North and 24 and 37 degrees East. Of its 1 million km2 land area, about 3.6% is arable. To the west, it is bordered by Libya, to the south by Sudan, and to the east by Occupied Palestine, Israel, and the Red Sea. At its northern border stretches 3,500 km of Mediterranean coast. Egypt is the gift of the Nile; the lifeline water source that cuts across its southernmost border snakes its way north and empties out into the Mediterranean Sea. The Nile Delta, which makes up the heartland of Egyptian agriculture, is about 250 km wide east to west along the shore, 160 km from north to south, and covers an area of about 22,000 km2 (Food and Agriculture Organization 2009). Egypt’s population is clustered in the Nile Valley and Delta, with two major metropolises—​ Cairo and Alexandria.The country’s growing population creates demand for affordable housing and accessible infrastructure, agricultural development, and energy production. Today, Egypt’s natural environment bears witness to the impacts of population growth combined with the challenges of widespread poverty. It suffers from pollution, desertification, water scarcity, and biodiversity loss. Egypt’s built environment is characterized by urban deterioration and sprawling informal settlements, as well as by large-​scale infrastructure projects and new desert cities (Tadamun 2015). Meanwhile, struggles over heritage designation and funding render historical sites an asset to some and a burden to others. This introduction provides an overview of some key physical elements shaping Egypt’s landscape and society today. The forthcoming chapters will elaborate several dimensions of modern Egypt’s environment—​natural, built, and preserved. They reveal a country with diverse resources, a large population, and rich historical heritage. They also portray a country suffering from environmental degradation, plagued by widespread poverty, and burdened with neglected heritage. As the authors will illustrate, Egypt’s complex governance dynamics manifest divergent approaches to resource management, urban development, and heritage preservation.

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Natural environment and biodiversity Egypt is divided into four main agroecological zones:  the Nile Valley which comprises the Nile Delta, the fertile land of Middle and Upper Egypt, and reclaimed desert areas; the North Coastal zone which stretches from the north coastal area of Sinai to the north-​western coast; the Eastern Desert and Sinai with their southern region; and the Western Desert, including its oases and remote southern region (Arab Republic of Egypt Ministry of Agriculture and Land Reclamation 2018). The environmental variance between these zones allows for rich species diversity, with more than 2,145 plant species, 111 mammal species, 480 bird species, more than 1000 fish species, and 325 coral reef species. A significant portion of these species are found in nationally designated protected areas. This biodiversity carries significant economic value for Egypt, enabling agricultural production and supporting its tourism sector. Biodiversity also provides for regulating and supporting ecosystem services. Coral reefs and mangroves protect the coastal areas of the Red Sea from erosion, a service valued at 80 million EGP per kilometer. The yearly loss to Egypt’s economy resulting from a decline in pollinators due to the use of pesticides has been estimated at 13.5 billion EGP. However, available indicators show that biodiversity in Egypt is declining at the level of ecosystems, species, and populations. Ecological pressures, including habitat loss and fragmentation, exploitation of natural resources, pollution, introduction of invasive species, and climate change are further exacerbating these trends. These pressures are themselves amplified by socioeconomic drivers, including population growth and human and financial constraints. Urbanization and tourism result in coastal development and sprawl, leading to habitat loss, coastal erosion, and industrial pollution. Anthropogenic stresses and elevated surface sea temperatures due to climate change have led to diseases and deterioration of coral reefs (Egypt’s Fifth National Report on the Convention on Biological Diversity 2014). The line between natural and built conditions is a heavily perforated one—​human activity directly impacts natural environment, while natural conditions create consequences for the built environment. This is readily apparent in Egypt’s air quality, with its capital, Cairo, ranking as the second most polluted city in the world (Egypt Independent 2018a). Egypt’s Ministry of Environment reports that half of the factories in industrial cities are air polluting. The Ministry also reports that 20% of vehicles and 59% of public buses whose emissions have been measured are in violation of emission standards (Egypt Independent 2018a). For decades, Egypt has also suffered from a seasonal “black cloud” hanging over its capital at the end of the rice harvest season due to the annual burning of rice straw by farmers (VOA 2018). Solid waste management also presents a major challenge for Egypt, with the government figures noting an excess of 80 million tons collected annually (Egypt Independent 2018b). In the absence of effective municipal waste management systems, the garbage-​pickers community, called the Zabaleen, has filled this void for decades. They inhabit a “garbage city” in Manshiet Nasser neighborhood where they collect, sort, and sell waste (Wood 2019).

Built environment and urban development Cairo’s urban sprawl is characterized by an abundance of visible, poor communities. This landscape reflects a socioeconomic disparity that has been widening since the open-​door economic liberalization of the 1970s and the IMF structural adjustment program of the 1990s. High land prices combined with a housing shortage push rural migrants and the urban poor to poverty belts. Residential plight manifests in starkly unconventional housing arrangements like the cities of the dead (Fahmi & Sutton 2014). These are cemeteries where more than a million 326

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residents make their homes in tombs and mausoleums, including the Southern Cemetery and the Northern Cemetery that lie south and east of Old Cairo (Fahmi & Sutton 2014), and in El-​Arafa cemetery in southeastern Cairo. Many of the residents have inhabited these cemeteries since the 1950s. While such settlements are illegal, the Egyptian government largely turns a blind eye to their existence as evicted residents would alternately have to be relocated to state-​ built apartments or forced to create alternate slums (Jacobs 2014). Dealing with Cairo’s informal housing problem is one of President Abdel Fattah al Sisi’s continued promises. His solution has been constructing government housing projects with the objective of relocating residents of informal housing. One example is the Asmarat housing project in Cairo’s Moqattam district. Constructed by Cairo governorate and the Armed Forces Engineering Authority, the Asmarat is planned to include 20,000 housing units at completion. While the housing projects provide safer and more upgraded facilities, relocated families complain that the 300 EGP monthly rent is too high in relation to their wages and that the new developments lack the social and commercial activity they are accustomed to (Mohie 2018). Urban slums also present a battleground for competing claims over legitimate land use. Cairo’s current urban vision entails gentrification of its downtown. The Egyptian real estate company, Al-​Ismaelia, has acquired 21 properties with the aim of rolling out cultural gentrification. The gentrification of downtown combined with imposed austerity measures as a consequence of a 12-​billion-​dollar IMF loan and rampant inflation since 2016 resulted in intensified foreign investment in Cairo’s downtown real estate (Flahive 2018). Local resistance to this gentrification plays out in examples including the high-​profile case of Maspero neighborhood. Maspero is located in the south of Bulaq Abu Al-​Ila district in downtown Cairo and parts of the neighborhood date back to 1400 (Arab Reform Initiative 2020). Since the early 1990s, its residents have been resisting forced evictions and relocation. The same dynamics play out in other places like Al Warraq, a Nile island where forced evictions resulted in violent clashes between residents and security forces (Khalil 2017), and Al Hataba, an old Cairo neighborhood where residents face the threat of removal and engage in local expressions of resistance. While established residential areas have been deteriorating, the government’s approach continues to direct its resources to building new cities. In 2019, the Ministry of Housing began construction of 14 “fourth generation cities,” including the New Administrative Capital, New Alamein, New Mansoura, East Port Said, Nasser City, and New Ismailia city. The largest of these is the New Administrative Capital, announced in 2015 as a 700 km2 city located 28 miles east of downtown that will site all of the government’s ministries. It comes with a 45-​billion-​ dollar price tag and is intended to be funded entirely by private investment. The new cities are intended to relieve congestion in Cairo. Perhaps learning from a legacy of earlier generations of new cities that remained uninhabited as “ghost cities”, the present strategy aims to improve connectivity and infrastructure to these new regions. A national road project was launched in 2014 with the intention of constructing 7,000 km of roads; 5,000 km of which have already been implemented (Khalil 2017). An executive agreement with the Chinese bank Exim is intended to fund Egypt’s City Light railway which will connect Greater Cairo with the New Administrative Capital. A  new monorail, developed by the Ministries of Housing and Transportation, will connect Cairo’s Nasr City with the New Administrative Capital (Morsy 2020). Egypt’s development vision includes efforts to expand water provision and increase energy production. Already, 58 desalination plants are operating to supplement Egypt’s water budget and an additional 35 plants are under construction by the Ministry of Housing, Utilities, and Urban Communities (desalination.biz 2019). The energy sector has also been developing in keeping with Egypt’s aspiration to become a regional energy hub.The country is rich in natural gas supplies: 58% of its gas production comes from the Mediterranean, 20% from the Western 327

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Desert, 20% from the Nile Delta, and 2% from the Gulf of Suez and Sinai Peninsula. In late 2018, the discovery of the Mediterranean’s largest natural gas field, Zohr, turned the country into a net exporter of natural gas (Reuters 2020). Egypt exports liquefied natural gas from two major terminals. Its Idku liquefaction terminal is run by a joint venture between the state-​ owned Egyptian General Petroleum Corporation, the Egyptian Natural Gas Holding Company, Royal Dutch Shell, Petronas, and Engie. It has a second gas liquefaction plant at the port city of Damietta. Egypt’s gas pipelines include the Arab Gas Pipelines which run across northern Sinai to reach Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon, and the Sumed pipeline which connects Ain Sokhna on the Red Sea to Sidi Kerir on the Mediterranean (El-​Bar 2019). In early April 2020, Egypt established an electricity grid connection project with Sudan as part of its plan to become a regional hub that exports electricity to countries in need (Ahram Online 2020). Egypt’s renewable energy production has also expanded in recent years and is planned to reach 20% of total electricity generation by 2022, with 12% coming from wind, 6% from hydropower, and 2% from solar power. From 2018 to 2019, the country’s solar energy production increased from 3 million kW/​h to 2.4 billion kW/​h. In Aswan governorate, Benban solar park contains 41 solar power plants. The State-​owned New and Renewable Energy Authority (NREA) oversees this project, which includes a number of small solar power plants developed by different companies (NS Energy). A 30 MW wind farm in Zafarana region on the Red Sea has turbines installed over 120 km (Magoum 2020).

Heritage preservation Egypt’s built heritage is perhaps its most valuable, and certainly most distinctive, asset. Seven sites are listed as UNESCO world heritage sites: six cultural and one natural (UNESCOa). The cultural sites are Abu Mena, Ancient Thebes with its Necropolis, Historic Cairo, Memphis and its Necropolis—​the Pyramid Fields from Giza to Dahshur, Nubian Monuments from Abu Simbel to Philae, and Saint Catherine Area. The natural site, Wadi Al-​Hitan, is state-​owned and benefits from legal protection under Law 102/​1983 governing Nature Protectorates (UNESCOb). However, the general decline in Egypt’s urban context has, in turn, presented challenges to its cultural heritage. After 2011, the pre-​existing problems of state negligence, pollution, and illegal encroachment became further exacerbated. In the context of economic downturn and weakened security, there has been an increase in vandalism and looting of Egypt’s archaeological sites and museums. In 2013, for example, more than 1,000 objects were looted from the Malawi Museum in Minya (UNESCOb). Preservation efforts are made all the more challenging by financial constraints, urban design challenges, and systemic neglect (Osman 2018). The broader deterioration of urban conditions exposes historic buildings to replacement processes that are not aimed at protecting these areas. The connection of water supply networks, for example, exposes areas to ground water that affects their historic integrity. These problems are expected to escalate due to the increasing land value of these heritage sites. The location of heritage buildings within an urban mass makes them attractive to service and investment activities that are generally more concerned with generating profit than preserving historical integrity. State policies disproportionately privilege monuments and heritage sites with touristic appeal, with those sites that have the capacity to generate tourist revenue garnering protection and preservation. This means that monuments of great touristic value like the Giza Pyramids receive state resources while other culturally significant sites with lesser touristic appeal, like Al-​Sakakini Palace, fall into disrepair. Heritage development projects seal off sites from their surrounding communities, following an approach termed “enclave tourism.” One example of this approach appears in Luxor’s development of the Theban necropolis to preserve its Pharaonic 328

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legacy and increase tourism revenue.The project notably disregarded the needs of local residents in Al-​Qurna village, who resided on and around the tombs, and the burden required to achieve heritage preservation and economic benefits was disproportionately allocated to the poor. Al-​Qurna village had persisted for over a century before being demolished in 2006 with the objective of preserving the tombs’ visual integrity. Al-​Qurna residents were relocated outside the tourist area, effectively dispossessed of their cultural identity and source of livelihood. This approach to preservation demonstrates a narrow consideration of heritage that is limited to Pharaonic legacy (Tadamun 2017).

Forthcoming chapters In the following chapters, contributing authors focus on four subjects under the umbrella of Egypt’s natural and built environment.They discuss Egypt’s water resources, urban development, new cities, and heritage preservation. Richard N. Tutwiler’s chapter on sustainable water resource management in Egypt provides an account of the country’s available water resources, its water demands, and its strategies for resource management. Egypt depends existentially on the Nile River as its lifeline and most important source of renewable water. The Nile’s water supply is supplemented by modest additions from other renewable and nonrenewable groundwater sources, including recycled wastewater and desalinated water. Today, Egypt’s water supply falls far short of its population’s needs, and the United Nations labels the country as a water scarce region. Egypt’s population growth and industrial needs demand increased water supply, while the usability of available resources is reduced due to pollution.Three ministries are central to Egypt’s water management efforts: the Ministry of Water Resources and Irrigation, the Ministry of Agriculture and Land Reclamation, and the Ministry of Housing, Utilities, and Urban Development. Tutwiler details the country’s strategies for water allocation, use, and management as elaborated in its 2005 and 2017 national water plans. The plans take as a starting point Egypt’s water poverty and assume that the country must learn to live within these limits by improving water quality, moderating consumption, and reducing waste. Efforts at dealing with Egypt’s water management challenges are situated within a broader geopolitical context of riparian conflicts in the Nile basin, and a global environmental context that presents threats to the Nile’s flow due to climate change. Tutwiler concludes that Egypt’s water security is more severely threatened by factors outside its borders than within them. Shifting to Egypt’s built environment, Deena Khalil writes about the paradoxical urban phenomena of expanding informal housing settlements in the urban core while affordable new desert cities remain uninhabited. In Egypt’s conflicting urbanism: Informality versus new desert development, Khalil describes Egypt’s urban landscape as “Janus-​faced,” characterized by both informality and deliberate development. At the same time that Egypt suffers from high population density in Cairo and Alexandria, it boasts an abundance of uninhabited desert land. Khalil describes a “new cities” policy that emerged in Egypt in the 1970s to provide affordable housing projects in satellite cities in the desert and thus reduce population density in the Nile Valley. In keeping with this policy, the government has been directing resources to the sprawling desert areas and away from densely populated informal settlements. The first new city, 10th of Ramadan City, was established in the late 1970s. By the year 2000, 16 new cities had been constructed, and by 2015 31 new cities were constructed or were under construction. While desert cities were initially intended to house Egypt’s urban poor, the private real estate market has instead developed the most successful of the new cities into upscale suburbs characterized by gated communities, malls, and golf courses. The majority of subsidized housing projects remain 329

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disconnected from existing economic opportunities and transportation networks. Thus far, the new cities policy has failed to meet its population targets and instead has left the country littered with new, nearly empty, ghost cities. Meanwhile, the informal areas persist, neglected by the state’s formal urban policy, and battling with new cities for a claim to state resources. Ibrahim Rizk Hegazy takes a closer look at the elements that create a lack of livability in Egypt’s new cities and leave them uninhabited. In his chapter, Livability of Egyptian cities, Hegazy argues that while the idea of new cities is not itself problematic, shortcomings in implementation have not allowed for their success. He observes that overpopulation, environmental degradation, and inadequate urban planning have resulted in the construction of cities that fall short of meeting criteria for livability. Hegazy notes that at present new cities are evaluated using quantitative metrics that overlook livability criteria. Evaluations focus on the number of dwellings constructed instead of the number of inhabitants, the number of acres assigned for development instead of the amount of land that is actually developed, and the number of kilometers of roads constructed instead of transportation connectivity and accessibility. This approach results in the existence of new cities that fail to absorb urban populations and that typically attract less than 15% of their target population. Hegazy’s chapter details the case study of Al-​Rehab City and presents it as a contrast to new cities that have not succeeded in attracting residents. Al-​Rehab was established by a private developer in the late 1990s as a satellite city of New Cairo. It has since been developed as a livable community, with features such as walkability, green space, mixed uses and services, accessibility, and participatory decision-​making. The city has attracted upper-​middle and upper-​class residents, and Hegazy argues that other new cities projects would benefit from taking lessons from Al-​Rehab’s experience. May al-​Ibrashy explores a fundamental tension at the heart of Egypt’s modern heritage preservation whereby heritage is sometimes a burden and other times a resource. She traces modern-​day approaches to conservation to the French invasion, and the rule of Muhammad Ali Pasha in the early 19th century. In The cultural heritage of Egypt’s cities: Burden or resource?, al-​Ibrashy observes that the first governmental entity charged with preserving Islamic heritage, the Comité de Conservation des Monuments d’Art Arabe, privileged cultural significance over use value when preserving historic buildings. When dealing with buildings that were embedded within the city and enmeshed in relationships including residents, owners, and neighbors, the Comité chose to eliminate buildings’ functionality by evacuating them and bringing them under government ownership. In this manner, the Comité succeeded in saving endangered buildings, but removed them from everyday activities and eliminated their usability. This logic was maintained in the key laws promulgated to protect antiquities. Al-​ Ibrashy argues that the logic enshrined in these laws contributes to residents’ ambivalence toward the heritage sites as a source of burden and limitation. This heritage management dynamic is further complicated by overlapping mandates and conflicting regulations from the Ministries of Antiquities, Housing, and Tourism, the General Organization of Physical Planning, and the Informal Settlements Development Fund.The 21st century has been marked by a shift toward heritage preservation that is more integrated and participatory, and that links heritage to development.

Emerging themes The constituent chapters in this section reveal a number of crosscutting themes. One recurring theme is the pressure that population growth creates for the country’s resources, resulting in conditions of vulnerability for its citizens. Another emergent theme concerns overlapping governance that creates challenges for effective and efficient resource allocation and harmonized 330

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decision-​making. Perhaps the most apparent theme concerns the political economy of Egypt’s resources, and reveals the integral role that private capital plays in shaping both natural and built environmental conditions.

The stresses of population growth Egypt is the most populous country in the Middle East with a population exceeding 100 million. Population growth over the past 50 years, combined with environmental changes, has resulted in severe water scarcity. In 1970, Egypt’s population was 34.5 million which allowed for 1,750 m3 of renewable water per person per year. By 2019, however, the population had grown to 101.2 million, with water availability reduced to 590 m3 person per year. Today, Egypt falls far below the United Nations threshold for water scarcity of 1,000 m3 per person per year. As a response to this grave reality, the Ministry of Water Resources and Irrigation has expanded efforts to make up the water deficit by expanding non-​conventional water sources including reused, recycled, and desalinated water. The past 50 years have also seen major shifts in Egypt’s urban growth. In the 1970s, population clustering in cities and villages in the Nile Delta was blamed for a surge in size and density of informal areas. President Sadat sought to remedy this by redirecting growth through a state policy of “exiting the valley” and constructing new cities in the desert. The new cities were intended to create formal, affordable housing, and thus solve the housing crisis. Today, population clustering continues to be a major problem, with 43% of Egypt’s total urban population residing in Cairo and Alexandria. At the current rate of growth, Egypt’s population is projected to reach 140 million by 2050, putting further strain on its populated area. Meanwhile, demand for housing far exceeds supply, resulting in the continued expansion of informal areas and the extension of urban development onto arable land. These same development trends resulting from urban densification and population growth have also placed further strain on the heritage sites. Historically, preservation efforts have attempted to confront these challenges by expropriating and evacuating the areas surrounding monuments and buildings of historical significance, removing abutting structures, and creating buffer zones. While this approach has succeeded in saving many endangered buildings, it has also created a burden for surrounding communities by removing these buildings from their everyday use and severing them from their local significance.This approach to preservation also means that renovation and construction permits for buildings that fall within the buffer zone of a heritage site are denied, resulting in buildings becoming dilapidated and residents’ safety being jeopardized.

Overlapping governance Overlaps in mandate and vision between different government entities appear throughout the constituent chapters as a challenge to effective governance. In the context of water resources management, for example, this dynamic is apparent in the overlapping mandates of the Ministry of Water Resources and Irrigation (MWRI) and the Ministry of Agriculture and Land Reclamation (MALR). While the MWRI is charged with managing releases from the High Aswan Dam and regulating water flow to farmers, the MALR governs how this water is used and consumed in the fields. The MALR takes the lead on desert reclamation projects, but the MWRI is responsible for providing water to new areas. The MHUUC also has its part to play, operating urban sewerage and wastewater and being responsible for rural potable water supplies and sanitation. 331

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These dynamics also present challenges to the governance of new cities. The New Urban Communities Authority (NUCA) is responsible for a number of local institutions that are in charge of each city. The City Council follows the NUCA directly and is responsible for all local services and infrastructure. However, some decisions of a city’s daily administration remain under the authority of the Ministry of Housing, Utilities, and Urban Communities (MHUUC). What results is two simultaneous systems of local urban administration, one for original cities and another for new cities. This overlap becomes particularly problematic when managing utilities infrastructure including water and electricity. Overlapping mandates of governmental bodies concerned with urban development also result in decision-​making conflicts. The National Center for Planning State Land Uses (NCPSLU) and the NUCA have overlapping responsibilities. The NCPSLU is responsible for inventorying and evaluating state land, for example, and for planning its development and uses within the state’s policy framework. At the same time, these responsibilities overlap with NUCA’s role in overseeing new communities. In this context, the lack of coordination between these bodies results in overlapping and, sometimes, contradictory decision-​making. In the heritage context, jurisdictions and laws overlap between a number of different entities. Under the Ministry of Housing, the Department of Fatimid Cairo was originally responsible for conserving al-​Azhar Mosque and rehabilitating its surrounding area and continues to be active in the conservation of Historic Cairo. The Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities adopts a heritage lens that is concerned with touristic value. The General Organization of Physical Planning develops city master plans and strategic plans that are generally insensitive to heritage preservation issues with directives to demolish historic buildings and develop wide avenues through historic sites. The Informal Settlements Development Fund is also involved with historic cities because it does not distinguish between dilapidated urban settlements and sites of historical significance. These different entities, with their diverging and, sometimes, outright contradicting objectives create conflict when managing the same sites.

Capital allocation and policy pressures The chapters also reveal a growing involvement of private capital in shaping policy direction and influencing Egypt’s developmental visions and priorities. This is particularly apparent in the urban development context. While the New Urban Communities Authority (NUCA) was initially intended to develop alternative housing for low-​income residents of informal areas; its most notable successes have been the new cities for the wealthy, offering gated communities, high-​end malls, and golf clubs. NUCA is mandated to become self-​financing and thus has a clear incentive to direct its resources toward lucrative land deals. While first-​generation new cities, like the 10th of Ramadan targeted blue collar workers, NUCA later started selling large swaths of land to private investors. As a consequence, many of the second-​generation new cities cater to the urban elites. One example of a successful, livable, Cairo suburb is Al-​Rehab. This new city was established in the late 1990s by a private developer, Talaat Moustafa Group Company.While Al-​Rehab was initially targeting middle-​and lower-​middle class residents, one of the signs of its success is its upper-​middle and upper-​class demographic. Private sector involvement in the heritage domain has also intensified in recent years. With the turn of the 21st century, the business world has increasingly taken notice of the investment potential in historic buildings. Notable examples are Al Ismaelia For Real Estate Investment in Cairo and Sigma Properties Heritage Real Estate Developer in Alexandria, which are acquiring entire buildings as investments and renovating them for cultural, hospitality, and commercial

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activity. There is also a public–​private collaboration in the same direction, comprising a consortium of businesses pursuing this same end. The consortium includes Misr Real Estate Assets Management, a state-​run company which operates nearly 400 properties including 150 historic buildings in six governorates. These activities play a major role in shaping the economics of heritage preservation, capitalizing on the economic potential of heritage assets, and privileging touristic value over local use.

Conclusion Egypt’s environment—​natural and built—​gives physical expression to its society’s underlying dynamics. Its natural environment affects human activities while its anthropogenic activities affect natural cycles and ecological conditions. Its built environment is a fusion of ancient and modern, impoverished and affluent, and informal and official elements. Environment provides a stage on which power distributions are expressed, in the form of resource allocations and constraints, formal development narratives and policies, and unofficial counter narratives and resistance.The country’s political dynamics, intertwined with the role of private capital, manifest in the struggles between nodes of power and the contests between different visions and realities of development.

References Abdul-​Aziz Osman, K., 9 Ain Shams Engineering Journal 4, Heritage conservation management in Egypt: A review of the current and proposed situation to amend it (December 2018), https://​reader. elsevier.com/​reader/​sd/​pii/​S2090447918300601?token=3230564775C5CCA2A6E76A76F225F018 5BDDD5746976CBD01240FBD601F8B3DE2EF6F393B4CFA63F81956D3279150E7F. Ahram Online, Egypt, Sudan officially link power grid with initial capacity of 60 MW (April 4, 2020), http://​english.ahram.org.eg/​NewsContent/​1/​64/​366576/​Egypt/​Politics-​/​Egypt,-​Sudan-​officially- ​ link-​power-​g rid-​with-​initi.aspx. Arab Reform Initiative, Urban Rights and Local Politics in Egypt: The Case of the Maspero Triangle (January 23, 2020), www.arab-​reform.net/​publication/​urban-​r ights-​and-​local-​politics-​in-​egypt-​the-​case-​of-​the-​ maspero-​triangle/​. Arab Republic of Egypt Ministry of Agriculture and Land Reclamation, Final Country Report of the Land Degradation Neutrality Target Setting Programme (January 2018), https://​knowledge.unccd.int/​ sites/​default/​files/​ldn_​targets/​2019-​02/​Egypt%20LDN%20TSP%20Country%20Report.pdf. Desalination.biz, Egypt expedites 16 desalination projects (February 20, 2019), www.desalination.biz/​ news/​0/​Egypt-​expedites-​16-​desalination-​projects/​9210/​. Egypt’s Fifth National Report on the Convention on Biological Diversity (2014), https://​www.cbd.int/​ doc/​world/​eg/​eg-​nr-​05-​en.pdf. Egypt Independent, Egypt disposes 80 million tons of garbage annually: Environment minister (March 22, 2018a), https://​egyptindependent.com/​egypt-​disposes-​80-​million-​tons-​of-​garbage-​annually-​ environment-​minister/​. Egypt Independent, Half of industrial city factories pollute air:  Environment Ministry (December 31, 2018b), https://​egyptindependent.com/​half-​of-​industrial-​city-​f actories-​pollute-​air-​environmentministry/?_​ _​ c f_​ chl_​jschl_ ​tk_ ​_​=e0b3258b6d5c7a7b4a2e69218d49f6b647373683-​ 1586856875-​ 0-​ AWOcCwYgIi3pwIeCdal1DzAqhVy2XJpl7YpADrJJBq3oHGDVBFOfkr-​ h JdluS_ 4I1Y5Wi6R8lPykLO_ ​ U b1I2_ ​ T LG1M7D_ ​ A pw6HShfHToKTZZygR4nKQPUh8iRbljsDTa 7jftUvlJRP4gx-​ u cTiJ54Q8G_​ L KpvFaD0ULMHZzfeVhWxWyBXbxvrA748qp4KajtUyFGTeI HZoRQpWMm_​ Q WQ_​ i 8W4AseO2PjepdcmQ5LbO0GSPc9EecPCihb6tQB21hfFRwkBNu mufp2U6Q9wGRqgllxgIqjZ5QTFJZp_ ​ U cQnDl9PQPmRIggVDqKPywKeqlwxET9HToI3_​ f813XhXukGCzbDuUzOj bJrK_​QI24xFbCpo. El-​Bar, K., Egyptian Streets, Egypt Keeps Finding Natural Gas, But What Does That Actually Mean? (September 27, 2019), https://​egyptianstreets.com/​2019/​09/​27/​egypt-​keeps-​finding-​natural-​gas-​but-​ what-​does-​that-​actually-​mean/​.

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Aisha Saad Fahmi, W. and K. Sutton, The 4th World Sustainability Forum, Living with the Dead: Contested Spaces and the Right to Cairo’s Inner City Cemeteries (November 2014), https://​sciforum.net/​manuscripts/​ 2444/​manuscript.pdf. Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations Regional Office for the Near East, Technical Manual ‘Agro-​Industrial Use of Rice Straw’ (April 2009), www.fao.org/​tempref/​GI/​Reserved/​FTP_​ FaoRne/​morelinks/​Publications/​English/​Rice-​straw.pdf  at  12. Jacobs, H., Business Insider, Meet the Egyptian Families Who Live among the Tombs in Cairo’s Massive Cemetery (November 19, 2014), www.businessinsider.com/​massive-​cairo-​cemetery-​slum-​2014-​11. Khalil, O., The Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy, Visions or Illusions? State Development Plans and Violence in al-​Warraq (August 3, 2017), https://​timep.org/​commentary/​analysis/​visions-​or-​illusions-​ state-​development-​plans-​and-​violence-​in-​al-​warraq/​. Magoum, I., Afrik 21, Egypt: Zafarana 30 MW wind farm to be closed in 2021 after 20 years of operation (April 23, 2020), www.afrik21.africa/​en/​egypt-​zafarana-​30-​mw-​wind-​farm-​to-​be-​closed-​in-​2021-​ after-​20-​years-​of-​operation/​. Mohie, M., Mada Masr, In Cairo, Makeshift Slums v.  Government Housing Project (July 7, 2018), https://​ worldcrunch.com/​world-​affairs/​in-​cairo-​makeshift-​slums-​v-​government-​housing-​project. Morsy, A., 2019:  A year of construction in Egypt (January 1, 2020), http://​english.ahram.org.eg/​ NewsContent/​50/​1202/​358203/​AlAhram-​Weekly/​Economy/​-​A-​year-​of-​construction-​in-​Egypt. aspx. NS Energy, Benban Solar Park, www.nsenergybusiness.com/​projects/​benban-​solar-​park/​ Reuters, Factbox:  Egypt’s push to be east Mediterranean gas hub (January 15, 2020), www.reuters. com/​article/​us-​egypt-​israel-​gas-​f actbox/​f actbox-​egypts-​push-​to-​be-​east-​mediterranean-​gas-​hub-​ idUSKBN1ZE1ON. Tadamun, Egypt’s New Cities: Neither Just nor Efficient (December 31, 2015), www.tadamun.co/​egypts-​ new-​cities-​neither-​just-​efficient/​?lang=en#.Xnw8_​y2B3BL. Tadamun, Urban Heritage Activism in Egypt (March 31, 2017), www.tadamun.co/​?post_​type=initiative& p=9149&lang=en&lang=en#.Xs6HEi2B3BJ. UNESCO a, Egypt:  Properties inscribed on the World Heritage List, http://​whc.unesco.org/​en/​ statesparties/​EG UNESCO b, Wadi Al-​Hitan, http://​whc.unesco.org/​en/​list/​1186. VOA, Egyptian Pollution Plan Helps Combat ‘Black Cloud’ (October 30, 2018), www.voanews.com/​ world-​news/​middle-​east-​dont-​use/​egyptian-​pollution-​plan-​helps-​combat-​black-​cloud. Wood, D., The Guardian, ‘No rules in this job’:  Cairo’s violent waste wars pit sorters against startups (April 12, 2019), www.theguardian.com/​world/​2019/​apr/​12/​no-​rules-​in-​this-​job-​cairo-​waste-​warspit-​sorters-​against-​startups-​abaleen-​garbage-​people.

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20 SUSTAINABLE WATER RESOURCE MANAGEMENT IN EGYPT Richard N. Tutwiler

Introduction Water scarcity is the existential specter haunting Egypt’s future. The inescapable reality is that Egypt depends on a single source for its renewable water supply, that is, the Nile River. The Nile arises thousands of kilometers south of the country’s borders and makes its way through circumstances and territories that Egypt cannot control. Egypt’s water lifeline faces unprecedented threats, both external and internal to the country. Externally, upstream states in the Nile basin are taking measures to harness and divert Nile waters for their own national goals and purposes, which could reduce the amount of Nile water reaching Egypt. Moreover, regional climate change could have significant impacts on the flows of the Nile throughout the basin, especially through changes in long-​term rainfall patterns in the Ethiopian highlands that provide over two-​thirds of the water reaching Egypt. Increasing atmospheric temperatures will result in additional surface evaporation in the basin, which already loses over a quarter of its annual discharge before it reaches the sea (Evans 1994:53). Internally, threats to Egypt’s water resources emanate from population growth and economic development that create more demand for water consumption. Simultaneously, there are unprecedented levels of solid and liquid waste that pollute and degrade water resources and reduce the amount of water that can be safely used. Achieving sustainable water management in Egypt will require long-​term policy and strategy measures that reconcile increasing water demand and changing modes of consumption with the environmental constraint of limited water availability. The statistics are alarming. In the 50  years since the High Aswan Dam (HAD) became operational and impounded the annual Nile flood, the amount of Nile water annually available to Egypt has been about 60 billion cubic meters (bcm) (MWRI 2018:6). In 1970, Egypt’s population was about 34.5 million people, with almost 1,750 cubic meters (cm) of renewable water available per person per year. Since then, Egypt passed the United Nations threshold for designation as a water scarce country (less than 1,000 cm/​p/​year of renewable water). In 2019, the country’s population was estimated at 101.2  million, with about 590  cm available per person per year. In August of the same year, the Egyptian Ministry of Water Resources and Irrigation (MWRI) announced that the country needs 114 bcm annually and that plans were in place to make up the deficit of available fresh water though increased water recycling,

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increased pumping of nonrenewable groundwater, and utilization of nonconventional water sources (Cairo Herald 2019). This chapter considers the prospects for sustainable water management in Egypt, with a focus on the changing nature of water use, shifting management objectives, and environmental uncertainty. The remainder of the chapter is organized as follows: the next section begins with an inventory of Egypt’s water resources.The section entitled “Water management after the High Aswan Dam” provides a brief history of water management systems, followed by the section “National water resource plans,” which describes water management visions and strategies incorporated in official national plans announced in 2005 and 2018. The section “Adapting to climate change” considers water management in the context of climate change and the imperative to ensure adequate access to water for Egyptians. Finally, the chapter concludes with prospects for sustainable water resource management in Egypt in the coming decades.

Egypt’s water resources Egypt is a desert country with an area of approximately 1 million km2. However, due to the lack of rainfall, only a small fraction of this land is inhabited. The country’s population is confined to the narrow Nile River valley that bisects the country from north to south, ending in the north with the broad, fan-​shaped Nile delta where the Nile meets the Mediterranean Sea. The country depends on the Nile for its water consumption, but the river itself has its sources far outside Egypt, the principal tributaries being the Blue Nile, arising in the highlands of Ethiopia, and the White Nile, arising in the Equatorial Lakes region of Central Africa. Water flows into the Nile vary greatly by season, being principally fed by runoff from the summer monsoon rains in Ethiopia, which are highly variable in intensity and quantity from year to year. Over 80% of the water reaching Aswan in southern Egypt has its origin in Ethiopia, coming as flood water in the Blue Nile, Sobat, and Atbara tributaries from June to September. The lack of predictability of the annual Nile flood is legendary, with a standard deviation in annual flow approaching 50% (Ibrahim and Ibrahim 2003:73). The HAD was built during the 1960s to free Egypt from the vagaries of the Nile’s flow. By capturing roughly two years (164 bcm capacity) of river flow as storage in the HAD reservoir, Egyptian water managers were able to effect a complete transformation of water utilization downstream (Tutwiler 2007:83–​84). In 1959, Egypt and Sudan signed the Agreement for the Total Utilization of Nile Waters that allowed the construction of the HAD and the permanent flooding of parts of both countries upstream of the dam. The treaty also allocated the water flowing in the river between the two countries. It utilized the figure of 84 bcm for annual average Nile flow and allocated 55.5 bcm to Egypt, 18.5 bcm to Sudan, and 10 bcm to evaporation from Lake Nasser. The 55.5 bcm figure has served as the foundation of Egyptian strategic water management ever since, and it represents about 90% of the national water budget (MWRI 2005:128). Actual release figures since 1974 have, on average, slightly exceeded estimates (El-​Bastawesy et al. 2007:1), and only in 1988, after prolonged drought in Ethiopia severely reduced flows into the HAD, releases fell below 55.5 bcm (International Center for Agricultural Research in the Dry Areas [ICARDA] 2011:33). Although a minor water source in comparison with the Nile River, groundwater is nonetheless a significant and precious resource within the country’s boundaries. Groundwater resources are of two types: renewable and nonrenewable. Renewable groundwater consists of water within geological formations that is recharged from another source. In the case of Egypt, the principal renewable groundwater resources are the Nile aquifer and the Moghra complex. Both are recharged by seepage from the Nile surface flow. The Nile aquifer consists of alluvial deposits 336

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of sand, gravel, and clay that sit below the land surface and topsoil at varying depths in the Nile valley and delta regions.The Nile aquifer absorbs excess irrigation water as well as seepage from the Nile River and the network of unlined irrigation canals. Although renewable, the quality of groundwater in the valley and delta reflects its origins and varies tremendously from one place to another, usually deteriorating as one moves from south to north. Groundwater in the northern half of the delta can be of very low quality, infused with pollutants from upstream waste and salts from the local soils (ICARDA 2011; Al-​Agha et al. 2015). Given the ubiquitous nature of farmers pumping from shallow wells, estimates of total annual extractions from the Nile aquifer vary widely, from about 2.3 up to 6.1 bcm per year (ICARDA 2011:35; MWRI 2005:10). Recharge rates for the Nile aquifer are difficult to determine. For the delta alone, researchers have offered figures ranging from 3.8 to 6.8 (Al-​Agha et al. 2015:12). It should be noted that excessive groundwater extraction in the northern delta is seen as a contributing factor to seawater intrusion into the water table in these areas (Al-​Agha et al. 2015:17). The second important source of renewable groundwater is a complex of geological formations lying to the west of the delta, generally known as the Moghra aquifer (Massoud et al. 2014; Khalifa 2014). Like the Nile aquifer from which it is replenished, the Moghra formations consist primarily of deposits of sand, gravel, and clay, but they lie deeper underground than the Nile aquifer, and water extraction requires deep wells and relatively high operating costs. Beginning in the 1980s, water from this aquifer was used to enable agricultural, industrial, and urban development along the Cairo–​Alexandria desert highway. Development has put severe pressure on groundwater resources. Static levels in wells have fallen sharply over the past two decades, and salinity levels are rising alarmingly. Estimates of total extractions from the aquifer vary, but if the residential and industrial areas of Sadat City are included in the total, it may be as high as 1.0 bcm per year and not lower than 0.5 bcm (Massoud et al. 2014:140; Khalifa 2014:138–​139). The present trajectory of development reliant on groundwater extraction in this area does not appear to be sustainable. The principal nonrenewable groundwater resource in Egypt is the Nubian Sandstone Complex underlying much of the Western Desert, including large parts of Sudan, Chad, and Libya. The amount of water held in the aquifer has yet to be definitively quantified, but the general consensus is that the amount of stored water in the aquifer, in its many parts, is vast. The Center for Environment and Development in the Arab Region and Europe (CEDARE) estimated that there are 2,183 bcm of extractable water in the portion of the aquifer underlying southern Egypt and another 2,985 bcm of water in the “post Nubian” aquifer underlying the northern part of the Western Desert (CEDARE 2000:66). CEDARE noted possible issues regarding water quality (salinity) in the post-​Nubian aquifer, but generally good to excellent quality in the Nubian sandstone proper. Extraction of groundwater on a larger scale began in the Western Desert during the 1960s as part of President Nasser’s “New Valley Project” to establish agriculture and new settlements. In 2000, about 0.57 bcm of water was being utilized per year using deep wells. A decade later, the rate was three times as much and with an estimated potential extraction rate of 3.5 bcm (MWRI 2005; ICARDA 2011:35). In contrast to previous reclamation plans utilizing Nile water, groundwater extraction forms the basis of much of the government’s present desert development efforts. As noted previously, Egypt receives very little rainfall. Estimated annual useable rainfall is 1.3 bcm, falling primarily along the northern coastal regions between November and January. While rare, storms and flash floods can occur in the Sinai and Nile valley and delta. Coastal rainfall averages vary from 80 mm in the drier western regions to 280 mm at El Arish on the border with Gaza (ICARDA 2011:34). Under these conditions, it is possible to sustain modest production of olives, figs, and other fruits utilizing runoff rainwater harvesting techniques, but 337

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raising field crops of grain or legumes is not reliable. The use of available rainfall is of only minor interest in Egypt’s national water budgets and management strategies (MWRI 2005, 2018). There may be some potential to capture flash flood waters for later use in narrow dry water courses in the Sinai and desert fringes of the Nile valley in southern Egypt (MWRI 2005, 2018). Utilization of nonconventional water resources is of great interest to Egypt’s water strategists and planners. Nonconventional water includes reused and recycled water, distinguished by the degree of treatment the water receives before it is reused. Egypt has a long history of water reuse, based upon the reuse of agricultural drainage water directly without any treatment to remove pollutants. The most recent estimates (2017) project about 9.31 bcm of agricultural drainage water in the irrigation system. Molle (2019:249) notes that this is more than double the figure estimated for 2005. Calculations of drainage water reuse are complicated by the many ways that it can be accessed by farmers. The figures provided by MWRI officials tend to be based on the system’s infrastructure, that is, the amount of water in agricultural drains that is reused for irrigation purposes, but another dimension of reuse is the extraction of shallow groundwater in the valley and delta. This groundwater is little more than excess irrigation water that has percolated the soil as a result of the prevailing farmer irrigation practice of flooding fields. As fresh water for irrigation becomes less available, farmers have resorted to the conjunctive use of fresh water and drainage water for irrigation.The Salam Canal Project, a massive government project begun in the 1990s, combines fresh Nile water and water from agricultural drains in the northeast delta for use in irrigating 168,000 ha of reclaimed lands in the east delta and across the Suez Canal in Sinai (Molle 2019:250). Recycled wastewater, primarily sewerage and industrial effluent, is a target for augmenting Egypt’s useable water resources. In order to be used safely, wastewater must be treated to remove pollutants harmful to health and the environment. This is typically done in municipal sanitary treatment facilities. Once the treated wastewater (TWW) has met specified standards, it is released into the environment.The MWRI (2005:112) estimated the total volume of wastewater discharge in 2000 at 3.3 bcm, with half of this being treated for recycled use. The other half was directly discharged into the Nile, the canal system, or the agricultural drains. The MWRI estimated that wastewater production would rise to 4.7 bcm in 2017. The current national water plan seeks to recover 6.1 bcm of TWW per year by 2037 (Molle 2019). Currently, the majority of TWW is produced from several large plants serving greater Cairo, including the new urban areas of New Cairo, 10th of Ramadan City, and 6th of October City. TWW is recycled primarily for use in irrigating urban landscaping and golf courses, but it has been recently announced that the government is joining other Arab countries and adopting guidelines for permitting TWW use in agriculture (Egypt Today, 25 February 2018). The last type of nonconventional water in Egypt’s resource inventory is seawater or brackish groundwater from which salt and other pollutants have been removed. While a number of processes are available to desalinate water, all of them involve substantial materials and energy costs. Egypt has several desalination plants in operation, mainly on the Red Sea and Sinai coasts. They primarily serve the recreational tourist industry in those areas where revenues from hotels and holiday destinations can offset the high energy costs of desalination. Estimates for desalinated water production show rapid growth since 2006, although overall volumes are still low: 0.1 bcm/​yr in 2006; 0.23 bcm/​yr in 2015, and a projected 0.5 bcm in 2020 (Batisha 2007:339; EgyptianStreets 2017). The current water resources plan includes provisions to further expand the number of desalination plants targeting mainly coastal holiday communities and municipal uses.

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Water management after the High Aswan Dam Egypt has an ideal climate for agriculture. The summers are warm, but not too hot, and the winters are mild without frost.There is abundant sunshine year-​round. If water is available, then the growing season can be 365 days a year. Agriculture has always been the principal user of water in Egypt. Consequently, the history of water use and management systems is best understood as a sequence of agrarian and technological changes, together with the social and institutional dimensions associated with these changes. From the time of the Pharaohs until the 19th century, Egyptian agriculture did not change substantially.The agricultural year had three seasons: inundation, growth, and harvest. Inundation, roughly late July through early October, was the period when the flood waters arrived from Ethiopia, and water rose from the riverbed to cover the land floodplain and delta to a depth of 1.0–​1.5 m. They then gradually receded back into the riverbed as rains ceased in Ethiopia and the flood in Egypt soaked the soil and drained into the sea. The growth season, late October through February, was the period during which farmers planted their crops in the moist soil after the inundation and tended them while they grew to maturity on residual moisture stored in the soil profile. Harvest came in the spring and early summer, from March to early June, when the river flow was at its lowest before the flood arrived again. For millennia, Egyptian farmers used a complex network of artificial embankments, bunds, dikes, and excavated channels to divert and capture as much of the flood as they could in efforts to increase the amount of water stored in the soil before the planting season. This irrigation technology of canals and dikes allowed a single harvest per year per unit of land cultivated and depended on the annual flood and its uncertainties. Crops suffered when the flood was low and little moisture was retained, and farmers suffered when high floods washed away their earthen embankments and canals. The system was labor-​intensive, requiring farmers to frequently rebuild dikes and canals, and it needed a significant degree of social organization to mobilize the large labor force to maintain the earthen structures (Postel 1999:31–​35). The basin system was transformed in the 19th century due to the efforts of the Egyptian state, initially led by the Egyptian ruling family and then by the British authorities who occupied Egypt in 1882 (Rivlin 1961; Richards 1978). The motivation for agrarian transformation was cotton production to feed European factories. While the Egyptian climate is conducive to cotton, the natural regime of the Nile is not. Cotton needs to be planted in April, enjoy a long period of growth throughout the summer, finally to be harvested in October.The technological solution was to build a series of barrages across the river, raise water levels during the low-​flow season, and divert water into canals that flowed by gravity to the point where water could be applied to the fields. As cotton production expanded, more water was needed than flowed in the river during the spring; therefore, an over-​season storage facility was built at Aswan to capture the tail end of the flood and store it in a reservoir until it would be released in the spring at the time of cotton planting.When it was built in 1902, the dam at Aswan was the largest dam in the world, eventually raised to allow capture of 5 bcm of flood water for later timely release to irrigate cotton downstream. But the Aswan dam and all other hydraulic structures together still did not have the capacity to completely free Egypt from the annual cycle of flood and low water, nor did they capture enough water to allow conversion of all Egyptian farmland from seasonal to perennial cultivation. In the summer of 1952, the Egyptian monarchy was overthrown and a republic was soon established.Within months, the new government announced its priorities in the water management sector: construction of the HAD to enable intensification of agricultural production in the old lands of the Nile valley and delta, and expansion of agriculture into the desert regions 339

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by using Nile water that otherwise would flow into the Mediterranean. In the decades that followed, a number of other important developments took place as a consequence of these efforts. Government institutions associated with water management in agriculture and other sectors expanded. Parallel to the irrigation infrastructure, a national infrastructure to collect and channel agricultural drainage water was created to protect perennially irrigated agricultural lands from water logging and salinization.The drainage infrastructure enabled farmers to utilize drainage water when access to freshwater was restricted. Horizontal expansion of agriculture into the desert fringe brought new opportunities, but it also profoundly raised the need to provide more irrigation water than originally anticipated. In response to the need for more water to meet the rising demand, the government implemented an extensive (and expensive) program of irrigation improvement in the old lands. The ultimate goal of increasing water use efficiency was to realize water savings to meet the needs of the new lands. Finally, contemporaneously with horizontal agricultural expansion, the government undertook a massive program to build new cities and industrial centers in the desert areas.The new urban developments required their own demands for water. Agricultural expansion into the desert is the largest source of increased water demand since the construction of the HAD. There has not been a formal agricultural census in Egypt since the 1960s, when the cultivated area was close to 2.5 million ha (Hereher 2013:83), and contemporary estimates vary. The International Center for Agricultural Research in the Dry Areas (ICARDA 2011:17–​18) estimates the 2010 total cultivated area at 3.3  million ha, Hereher (2013:88) estimates at 3.7 million ha; and Molle (2019:271) estimates at 3.8 million ha. Desert reclamation continues, although there is also loss of land to urban growth; however, it is reasonable to expect a net gain of perhaps 40,000 ha per year. Overall, the new agricultural land created by both public and private efforts since 1970 accounts for 35–​40% of the total land cultivated at present (ICARDA 2011:17; Hereher 2013:88). The institutional responsibility for managing Egypt’s water resources has evolved considerably over the past few decades, largely as a result of the country’s economic growth and diversification. However, one feature has not changed. Since agriculture continues to utilize the great majority of water resources, there is a division of management between the MWRI and the Ministry of Agriculture and Land Reclamation (MALR). The two ministries have different objectives and mandates, often pursue conflicting policies, and display stark contrasts in terms of strategies and actions with regard to water management (Molle, 2019:258). The MWRI operates the HAD and its Lake Nasser reservoir, determines releases from the dam, and manages downstream hydraulic control and conveyance structures such as river barrages, irrigation canals, regulators, sluice gates, etc. MWRI staff regulate the flow of water through the canal system from the HAD through the hierarchy of conveyance canals to the local branch canals that provide water to the farmer-​owned distributary canals. If the MWRI is responsible for providing water to farmers (and also for the return flow or disposal of drainage), then the MALR is concerned with how that water is used and consumed in the fields. The MALR is responsible for the well-​being of Egypt’s agricultural sector through improving productivity, expanding cultivation, and supporting the competitiveness of cropping systems and agricultural enterprises. Following construction of the HAD, the MALR acquired the lead role in implementing the government’s desert reclamation schemes, particularly in the development of new farms and farming communities. However, the MWRI continued to be responsible for providing water to the new lands.This interdependency can be not only a basis of cooperation, but also a source of friction, competition, and fault lines between the two ministries. A third ministry—​the Ministry of Housing, Utilities, and Urban Communities (MHUUC)—​ has become prominent in the national water management system. Successive Egyptian 340

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governments have pursued ambitious policies of urban expansion and given MHUUC responsibilities for new urban communities, as well as the provision of potable water to their residents, industries, and institutional infrastructure. MHUUC operates the collection and processing of all urban sewerage and wastewater. It is also responsible for rural potable water supplies and sanitation. All this is done through the Holding Company for Water and Wastewater, which MHUUC oversees. The relative importance of potable water supply, as well as sewage and wastewater treatment, has grown rapidly with the expansion of the population and urban areas. Ultimately, municipal water supply depends on Nile water provided through the hydraulic infrastructure operated by the MWRI.

National Water Resource Plans The National Water Resource Plan 2017 (NWRP 2017), issued in 2005, marks a significant departure in water management strategy from previous government water resource plans. The various water policies and plans of the 1980s and the 1990s all assumed an increased availability of water for agricultural use, either from the HAD or from hydraulic projects Egypt would implement upstream in partnership with Sudan (Hvidt 1995:75). In contrast, the NWRP 2017 acknowledges that no additional Nile water beyond the 55.5 bcm under the 1959 treaty is likely in the future, and Egypt must learn to live within this limit. The plan calculates a national water balance, with 1997 as a base year, to set targets for the year 2017. The plan is linked closely with the 2017 MALR plan “Vision for Agriculture,” and both plans incorporate the government’s strategy of expanding agriculture into the desert areas. Additionally, the water management and agriculture visions look to create more employment in agriculture, raise food production, and reduce food imports (UNDP 2005:113). Noting current pollution levels, especially in the northern valley and delta, the plans stress the importance of enhancing and preserving water quality (MWRI 2005:22).The strategy for achieving agricultural growth without any additions to the water supply rests on three elements: (1) improving water use efficiency through modern irrigation systems and adjusted cropping patterns, (2) increasing the use of drainage water and TWW, and (3) obtaining better water demand management at village and farm levels through Water User and Farmer Associations that would be responsible for collectively allocating available irrigation water among their members. Water gained or saved through these measures will be applied to continue the horizontal expansion of agriculture into the desert areas (MWRI 2005:6). Overall, the total cultivated land area was expected to expand from 3.4 million ha in 1997 to 4.8 million in 2017 (MWRI 2005:106; UNDP 2005:115). For nonagricultural sectors, the plan alludes to pricing policies as a way to moderate consumption and discourage waste. Unlike water users in the agricultural sector, water consumers in the industrial and municipal sectors are charged for the water they use.The MWRI estimates that government agencies providing water to industry recovered only 30% of their costs, while municipal water suppliers recovered only 12% of their costs from water charges to customers. In fact, prices charged for industrial and municipal water supplies increased substantially during the period 2011–​2017, although the 100% cost recovery threshold has still not been reached, and consumption volumes continue to increase year-​on-​year. In late December 2017, Egypt’s Minister of Water Resources and Irrigation announced the country’s latest National Water Resources Management Plan 2037 (NWRP 2037) (Ahram Online), 26 December 2017; Egypt Today, 25 February 2018). The plan differs from its predecessors in several respects (MWRI 2018:iv). It begins with a less optimistic tone about Egypt’s future by stating that growing water scarcity will negatively affect society unless measures are taken to adapt to the situation. It dismisses both supply-​driven and demand-​management 341

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approaches of previous water management plans as limited in scope and ability to achieve desired outcomes. It states that adaptation to the reality of water scarcity is the best approach, and implies that adaptation to water scarcity is the recognition that water scarcity cannot be ignored or eliminated, and must be accepted as a fact of life in Egypt today. Once accepted, water scarcity can be dealt with in ways that are realistic and sustainable. NWRP 2037 appears more realistic in its expectations than NWRP 2017. It starts with a revised national water budget baseline for 2017 that can be compared with the NWRP 2017 target objectives for the same year (see Table 20.1). The comparison shows that in 2017, slightly less water was actually used in agriculture than what had been planned in 2005, and that the percentage of that water that was reused was also less than what had been planned. More surprising, perhaps, are the figures for industry and municipalities. NWRP 2017 expected a major growth in industrial use (if not consumption) of water, but instead of the planned 19 bcm, only 5 bcm was used in 2017. Municipal water allocation and use reflect the growth of Egypt’s new towns during the period of the 2005 plan, at a rate considerably higher than that anticipated by planners.The 2018 plan seeks to reduce water allocation to agriculture in favor of industry and, especially, municipalities. NWRP 2037 proposes a number of objective-​based measures to increase annual freshwater inputs, improve water use efficiency in all three water sectors, improve the quality of drainage and wastewater effluent, and reduce net outflow to the Mediterranean. If these efforts are successful, the expected impact would be to increase the net annual consumption of water by 7 bcm (total 55 bcm) over the 48 bcm projected consumption in the 2037 Business As Usual (BAU) scenario. Table 20.1 is a tabular comparison of water balances presented in NWRP 2017 and NWRP 2037, expressed in bcm per year. Each plan has a base year containing either recorded figures or figures derived from recorded data, and a plan year, 2017 and 2037, respectively, based on calculated projects from the plan base year. The base year numbers reflect recent development trends in Egypt, especially new urban communities and growth in the construction and Table 20.1  National renewable water balances: NWRP 2017 and NWRP 2037 (numbers rounded to nearest bcm) NWRP 2017

Fresh water2

NWRP 2037

1997 Base Year

2017 Plan Target

2017 Base Year

2037 BAU1

57

57

60

61

Withdraw Consume Withdraw Consume Withdraw Consume Withdraw Consume Agriculture3 Industry Municipalities Flow to sinks4 Subtotals

53 8 5 66

39 1 1 16 57

65 19 7 91

39 1 2 15 57

62 5 11 78

42 1 3 14 60

Sources: Calculated from MWRI 2005 and MWRI 2018. 1 Most probable business as usual (BAU) scenario without major interventions. 2 Includes HAD releases, usable rainfall, and desalinated water. 3 Includes reused and recycled water. 4 Includes outflows to the Mediterranean and into desert.

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60 6 15 81

42 2 4 13 61

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services sectors. Although agricultural production has expanded over the past 20 years, it has not become significantly more water-​use efficient. Farmers are increasingly dependent on the reuse of drainage water and shallow ground water, and diverting water into new lands has been at the cost of intensifying use of lower quality water in the old lands (ICARDA 2011; Molle 2019). Growth in municipal consumption can be attributed to the new cities development efforts of the government. Industrial activities associated with the new cities are included in this figure. Outside the new cities, industrial consumption does not appear to be increasing.

Adapting to climate change Egypt has issued three national communication reports under the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. The latest communication (MSEA 2016) repeats the three essential impacts on Egypt expected from climate change in the 21st century: rising temperatures, rising sea levels, and changes in rainfall patterns in the upper Nile basin countries. Predictions are based on general climate models (GCMs), and the models generally agree on a warming in the range of 1–​5oC by the 2090s, with higher increases in the north of the basin (Egypt and Sudan) than in the south (Ethiopia and Equatorial Lakes region) (MSEA 2016:126). Rising temperatures will have significant impact in several areas relating to water management. Increased temperature means increased evaporative demand. This will have the highest impact on surface water, such as Lake Nasser, open water channels, and flooded fields. It will perhaps reduce the annual water supply by 2–​4 bcm, if the Lake Nasser reservoir continues to be operated as it is at present and there is no change in downstream irrigation practices. Temperature rise will adversely affect crop production by changing seasonal patterns and exacerbating plant and animal diseases. Potential reductions in yields from just a 1.5oC temperature rise will range from 11% to 47%, depending on the crop (MSEA 2016:132). The United Nations Development Program (UNDP 2013:101) has concluded that agriculture and food supply will suffer the greatest economic losses from climate change, with annual losses by 2060 averaging almost US$20 billion (at 2013 exchange rates. Egypt is taking active adaptation measures to address the effects of climate change on agriculture, primarily through research to develop new crop varieties that are more heat-​ tolerant and better adapted to moisture stress conditions. New agronomic techniques to conserve water by modifying the traditional surface irrigation are being extended to farmers, and the current NWRP 2037 has provisions for transferring modern irrigation technologies to farmers in both the old and new lands. These measures are essentially an acceleration of efforts that have been underway since the 1980s ICARDA (2011:77–​79). The NWRP 2037 includes other essential adaptation strategies that will improve the quality of water, reduce water pollution, and treat water so that it may be reused in safe and healthy ways (NWRI 2018:20–​21). Rising sea levels are projected to result in the loss of 589–​1,364 km2 of land in the northern delta, creation of millions of Egyptian “climate refugees” (MSEA 2013:142–​144; UNDP 2013:83–​84), destruction of low-​lying coastal aquaculture and fisheries (MSEA 2013:138–​140), and adversely affecting drainage and salt balances in agricultural areas of the delta not inundated, including accelerating sea water intrusion into the water table. The agenda for adaptation to sea level rise is extensive and includes enhancing dune systems and wetlands as the first defense line and buffer zone for the Nile delta, utilizing existing transportation and hydraulic infrastructure as protective constructions inland from the buffer zone, and erecting new and re-​enforcing existing protection constructions (Argrawala et al. 2004:31–​34). For its part, the MWRI has complimented these efforts with a pilot project using an engineered wetland to enhance water 343

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quality from agricultural drains for use in lagoon fisheries, thus improving the environmental services of the coastal buffer zone while contributing to its sustainability (Rashed 2017). Climate development outside Egypt may have more profound impacts on the country than those along its coasts and within its borders.The Nile flow is Egypt’s greatest vulnerability from climate change. Regarding rainfall and effects on Nile flow, there is no obvious consensus on future rainfall patterns in the upper Nile basin. Even optimistic projections in terms of average precipitation do not see a reduction in uncertainty and variability of flows. In general, when faced with river flow variability and uncertainty, water managers all over the world adopt a strategy of building dams and increasing water storage capacities. The Nile basin countries are no exception. For Egypt, adapting to climate change necessitates coordination and cooperation with upstream states, particularly with Sudan and Ethiopia, but the history of relations with these states is mixed. In 2011, Ethiopia announced the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD) project, consisting of a huge hydropower dam on the Blue Nile just inside its border with Sudan. Egypt has been a staunch opponent of the project since the announcement.The GERD will create a huge reservoir with an estimated capacity of 74 bcm (active capacity of 59 bcm) and a surface area of 1,875 km2. It was about 70% complete at the end of 2019. Ethiopia maintains that the dam’s purpose is electricity generation. It will have a generating capacity of 6.45 GW, making it the largest in Africa. As a hydropower dam and not an irrigation dam, once the reservoir is filled, releases will be regular and timed to maximize power generation. Ethiopia maintains that there will be no diversions for irrigation, and therefore no reduction in water flow to downstream states. Moreover, since the GERD (like the HAD before it) has the capacity to capture the entire volume of the Blue Nile’s annual flow, it will eliminate the seasonality of the river downstream, thus sparing Sudan from seasonal floods that have damaged its irrigation works and agricultural areas. The GERD will also retain silt and other solid materials carried by the annual Blue Nile flood that currently deposit in downstream reservoirs in Sudan and Egypt, thus prolonging their useful life. Finally, Ethiopia has offered to provide electrical power from the GERD to its neighbors since Ethiopia does not have the capacity to absorb what the dam is expected to produce. In spite of these benefits, Egypt has voiced concerns over the amount of evaporative losses from the GERD reservoir and reduced flows to downstream states. Sudan expressed its acceptance of the GERD in 2012, and since then the three states have been in on-​again, off-​again negotiations concerning its operation (INENWG 2014). The Nile and its tributaries are increasingly under the control of hydraulic structures operated by different national authorities. Since the completion of the HAD, there have been seven major projects in Sudan, Ethiopia, and Uganda that together account for about 6 bcm in water diversion and evaporation. More projects are under construction or planned for implementation in the next 20 years. It is not likely that Egypt can unilaterally maintain the status quo regarding inflows to Lake Nasser. Continuous and close engagement with upstream states is the most realistic policy for Egypt to follow to reduce the risks of a reduced Nile flow due to climate change. In 1999, the World Bank brought together nine basin countries to establish the Nile Basin Initiative (NBI) with the purpose of developing a cooperative framework agreement to achieve social and economic development in the region through the “equitable and reasonable utilization of Nile waters” by all states without causing “significant harm” in any state (NBI 2010:6,12). Although Egypt has yet to sign the Agreement on the Nile River Basin Cooperative Framework (CFA), the CFA continues to provide a reference for discussions with upstream states, including the Declaration of Principles regarding the GERD signed by Egypt, Ethiopia, and Sudan in 2015. Progress is being made in terms of data collection, analysis, and technical

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cooperation, but building trust is also necessary to adapt to the challenges of climate change in the basin.

Conclusion This review of water resource management in Egypt began with the existential question: can Egypt live within its limited water resource constraints? After an inventory of the various water resources available, the history of national water management since the 19th century, examining contemporary national water resource plans, and considering the future impacts of climate change, it is appropriate to revisit the question of sustainable water resource management. At its heart, sustainability is about living within the natural resource endowment. From this perspective, recent national water resource plans have shown significant progress in formulating water strategies and policies. National policies subsequent to the construction of the HAD portrayed a vision of continuous growth and unlimited water use. Agricultural intensification (perennial irrigation), agricultural expansion into desert new lands, industrial development, and new urban communities were initiatives that reflected the unlimited growth vision. The NWRP 2017 was the first policy document to acknowledge limits to freshwater resources and set those limits effectively at the 55.5 bcm Nile allocation. It did not, however, recognize limits to water use.The gap between limited resource and increasing growth in water use would be met by improving water use efficiency and drainage reuse in agriculture, thereby providing water for expansion into desert areas. The current NWRP 2037 is informed by the results of its predecessor. It implicitly rejects the strategy of using efficiency improvements to gain water savings, citing its baseline figures for 2017 as proof that the NWRP 2017 object was not met. This is not to say that efforts to improve water use efficiency in agriculture should be abandoned. Indeed, given that water scarcity will increase in Egypt, improving water use efficiency in food production is the only way to sustain present food production levels. In terms of sustainable management of water resources, the NWRP 2037 attention to nonconventional water resources is encouraging. The only water resource in Egypt projected to increase in volume in the future is municipal and industrial effluent.The plan acknowledges this and makes reference to ways in which this resource can be managed in such a way that it can be returned to the water system and used productively. The key concept contributing to the sustainability prospects of the NWRP 2037 is “adaptation,” specifically adaptation to water scarcity. In essence, this means reallocation of limited resources among water user sectors. The NWRP 2037 is the first time Egyptian water managers have advocated reducing the amount of water allocated to the agricultural sector, which has been made all the more significant by the fact that the plan was prepared by the MWRI. The plan proposes to reduce agriculture in favor of industry and municipalities. The management objectives in the NWRP 2037 represent a shift from providing water to users to ensuring that the water they receive is of suitable quality for safe and productive use. This shift reflects a heightened concern with sustainability over growth. The policy shifts embedded in the NWRP 2037 are encouraging from the standpoint of sustainable management of Egypt’s water resources; however, there is another policy area that needs to be incorporated into the national strategy, that is, water relations with upstream neighbors. Long-​term, sustainable adaptation to achieve water security cannot be realized within Egypt’s borders alone. Working with upstream neighbors to cooperatively manage the waters of the Nile basin for the equitable benefit of all who depend on the river must be an integral component in the national water management strategy.

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References Agrawala, S., A. M. N. El-​Raey, D. Conway, M. van Aalst, M. Hagenstad, and J. Smith (2004). Development and Climate Change in Egypt: Focus on Coastal Resources and the Nile. Paris: OECD. 68 pages. Al-​Agha, D., A. Closas, and F. Molle (2015). Survey of Groundwater Use in the Central Part of the Nile Delta. Water and Salt Management in the Nile Delta: Report No. 6. IWMI, Cairo 50 pages. Ahram Online (26 December 2017). “Egypt’s Water Resources Plan for 2037 to Cost EGP 900 Billion Irrigation Minister Tells Parliament.” www.english.ahram.org.eg/​NewsContent/​1/​64/​286036/​Egypt/​ Politics/​ Batisha, A. (2007). “Water Desalination Industry in Egypt,” Proceedings of the Eleventh International Water Technology Conference, Sharm El-​Sheikh, Egypt, pp. 337–​349. www.iwtc11.info/​2007_​pdf/​4–​5.pdf Cairo Herald (20 August 2019). “Egypt Declares Water Emergency as Precaution.” http://​cairoherald. com/​water-​scarce-​egypt/​ Center for Environment and Development of the Arab Region and Europe (CEDARE) (2000). Regional Strategy for Utilization of the Nubian Sandstone Aquifer System. vol. 1. Cairo: CEDARE. EgyptianStreets.com (2017). Egypt is building worlds largest seawater desalination plant. EgyptianStreets. Egypt Today (25 February 2018). “Egypt Plans to Face Water Scarcity, Allots LE 900 Billion.” www. egypttoday.com/​Article/​1/​43824/​Egypt-​plans-​to-​face-​water-​scarcity-​all0ts-​LE-​900b El Bastawesy, M., S. Arafat, and F. Khalaf (2007). “Estimation of Water Loss from Toshka Lakes Using Remote Sensing and GIS,” 10th AGILE International Conference on Geographic Information Science, Aalborg University, Denmark. 9 pages. Evans, T. (1994). “History of Nile Flows,” in Howell P. P. and Alan J. A. (eds.), The Nile: Sharing a Scarce Resource. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hereher, M. (2013). “The Status of Egypt’s Agricultural lands Using MODIS Aqua Data,” The Egyptian Journal of Remote Sensing and Space Sciences, vol. 16, pp. 83–​89. Hvidt, N. (1995).“Water Resources Planning in Egypt,” in Watkins, E. (ed.), The Middle Eastern Environment. London: St. Malo Press. Ibrahim, F. and B. Ibrahim (2003). Egypt: An Economic Geography. London: IB Taurus. ICARDA (2011). “Water and Agriculture in Egypt,” Technical paper based on the Egypt-​Australia-​ ICARDA Workshop on On-​farm Water Use Efficiency, July 2011, Cairo, Egypt. 81 pages. International Non-​Partisan Eastern Nile Working Group (INENWG) (2014). “The Grand Ethiopia Renaissance Dam: An Opportunity for Collaboration and Shared Benefits in the Eastern Nile Basin.” An amicus Brief to the Riparian Nations of Ethiopian, Sudan and Egypt, 13–​14 November 2014, Boston, MA: MIT. Khalifa, E. (2014). “Sustainable Groundwater Management in El-​Moghra Aquifer International,” Journal of Engineering Research and Technology, vol. 7, no. 2, pp. 131–​144. Massoud, U.,A. Kenawy, E. Ragab,A.Abbas, and H. El Kosery (2014).“Characterization of the Groundwater Aquifers at El Sadat City by Joint Inversion of VES and TEM Data,” NRIAG Journal of Astronomy and Geophysics, vol. 3, pp. 137–​149. Molle, F. (2019). “Egypt,”in Molle, F., C. Sanchis-​ Ibor, and L. Avella-​ Reus (eds.), Irrigation in the Mediterranean: Technologies, Institutions and Policies. Cham, Switzerland: Springer, pp. 243–​278. Ministry of State for Environmental Affairs (MSEA) (2016). Third National Communication under the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. Cairo: MSEA, 245 pages. MWRI (2005). National Water Resources Plan 2017: Water for the Future. Cairo: MWRI, 268 pages. MWRI (2018). Water Security for All:  Support for the National Water Resources Plan 2017-​2030-​2037. Summary-​2018. Cairo: MWRI. xi+37pages and Annexes. Nile Basin Initiative (NBI) (2010). Agreement on the Nile Basin Cooperative Framework. Entebbe:  NBI, 74 pages. Postel, S. (1999). Pillar of Sand: Can the Irrigation Miracle Last? New York: Norton. Rashed, A. (2017). “Lake Mnazala Engineered Wetland Project: A Success Story.” (Presentation). 39 pages. www.researchgate.net/​publication/​316738763_​Lake_​Manzala_​Engineered_​Wetlands_​Project_​A_​ Success_​Story Richards, A. (1978). “Technical and Social Change in Egyptian Agriculture:  1890–​ 1914,” Economic Development and Cultural Change, vol. 26, no. 4, pp. 725–​745. Rivlin, H. (1961). The Agricultural Policy of Muhammad Ali in Egypt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University  Press.

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21 EGYPT’S CONFLICTING URBANISM Informality versus new desert development Deena Khalil

Introduction In the popular 2010 book Understanding Cairo: The Logic of a City out of Control, David Sims claims that “superficially, Cairo is a knot of contradictions,” echoing a widespread sentiment that Egypt’s urban landscape is almost labyrinthian in its complexity. Egypt’s urban complexities make it difficult to classify the country as wealthy or poor, developed or underdeveloped, or other binaries routinely employed in scholarship on the Global South. A prime example of this complexity is evident in the blatant juxtaposition between two dominant features of Egyptian urbanism: informal areas and new desert cities. In this chapter, I explore the Janus-​faced nature of Egypt’s urban landscape by exploring the two phenomena of informality and desert development. Both of these emerged during the 1970s and have continued to dominate Egyptian urbanism for the past five decades. Due to its new cities policy, the state has directed all its subsidized housing toward the new desert cities, while millions of low-​income families who are in need of affordable housing have continued to look toward informal areas. This, I argue, has created a sort of existential struggle between the two phenomena—​informal areas and new desert cities—​over which one rightfully represents the face of urban Egypt, and is therefore more deserving of state resources. In Egypt’s cities, informal settlements—​neighborhoods that grew without intervention from the state planning apparatus—​are so widespread that the number of informal inhabitants now outnumbers formal ones.1 Focusing on any particular city in Egypt reveals clusters of self-​built structures crowded along narrow streets. Panning out, one can observe satellite cities dotted across the desert hinterlands, with spacious boulevards and low population density. Egyptian cities have been growing at a rapid pace. For many years rural–​urban migration was blamed for the surge in urban populations. Today, Egypt’s total population has exceeded 99 million (CAPMAS, 2019). Approximately 42% of the total population (35 million) lived in urban areas in 2013, compared with 37% in 2006 (CAPMAS, 2006). Out of Egypt’s 35-​million-​ strong urban population, approximately 43% (15 million) live in the urban parts of the Cairo Region alone,2 while another 13% (4.6  million) live in Alexandria governorate, collectively constituting 56% of the urban population. 348

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Two common tropes dominate the discourse around Egypt’s overcrowded cities: the first is that rural–​urban migration has led to a surge in informal settlements, and the second is that Egyptians are only actually inhabiting 4% of the nation’s land. These two tropes mirror the two urban phenomena mentioned earlier. Egypt’s most abundant resource has long been its vast swaths of vacant land, which is ironic considering the immense housing and land shortages the country’s urban areas have been suffering from for decades. During the late 1970s and the early 1980s, Egypt’s economy witnessed rapid economic growth, averaging around 8.5% annually (Korayem, 1997). However, this was also accompanied by a growing deficit in the government budget. As debt increased and growth rates began to fall in the late 1980s, the Egyptian government signed an economic stabilization agreement with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) in 1987 and another with the World Bank in 1991 (ibid.). These agreements were known as the Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment Programs (ERSAPs), as they had shared objectives of reforming the public sector and ensuring that Egypt had a free-​market economy that was favorable to the private sector and foreign investors. The public sector reform component aimed to change the environment surrounding public enterprises, including their legal and financial aspects, and to generally increase their autonomy (ibid.). The pricing component involved liberalizing the agricultural sector, most importantly through Law No. 96/​1992 concerning agricultural land. In 1996 the law raised rents on agricultural land to the equivalent of 22 times the land tax, as contrasted with seven times the land tax under the old law (Korayem, 1997). The simultaneous decrease in agricultural investment and increase in real estate investment meant that urbanization became more lucrative than farming, leading thousands of newly poor families to migrate toward the cities. It also meant that affordable housing became an even rarer commodity, pushing droves into informal housing. As one study reports, from the late 1970s until the early 1990s, Egypt witnessed a social transformation as a result of Sadat’s open-​door policy in combination with the high population growth rate (El-​Batran and Arandel, 1997). This resulted in informal areas becoming “attractive for different categories of unrelated new settlers from different origins, leading to weak social cohesion and the lack of accepted leadership” (ibid., p.18). Around the same period, President Sadat (1970–​1981) was working toward the goals he had outlined in his “October Paper”  —​a manifesto of that he published in October 1974. At the heart of Sadat’s vision for Egypt’s future were plans to redirect growth away from the overpopulated Delta valley and toward the under-​populated desert regions. Sadat announced desert expansion as the new official state policy. The mantra behind the new cities policy was al-​khorooj min al-​wadi (exiting the valley)—​a reference to the population clustering within cities and villages around the Nile Delta. The clustering of the bulk of Egypt’s population in the Nile Valley was also blamed for the surge in informal areas, and the new cities were seen (and portrayed) as an effective solution to that phenomenon. The provision of subsidized housing projects in the new desert cities would provide current and potential residents of informal areas the opportunity to access affordable housing that was also formally planned. Thus, housing policy became centered around providing low-​and medium-​cost units in new satellite cities to be established on Egypt’s hitherto vacant desert lands (Yousry and Aboul Atta, 1997). Thus, in spite of the growth and persistence of informal housing, state resources were being directed toward establishing new cities in Egypt’s desert hinterlands. In the section “Cities in the desert” of this chapter, I will discuss Egypt’s long-​standing policy of building new urban communities in the desert hinterlands of existing cities. In the section “The persistence of informality”, I will reflect on the extent to which this policy has succeeded

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in combating the spread of informal areas, as is its claimed intention. In the Conclusion, I argue that the desert cities policy has persisted, despite its limited success, because it has become more than just a policy. Rather, it has become the central paradigm that lies at the heart of Egypt’s urban planning approach.

Cities in the desert History and scale of new desert cities During the late 1970s, building and developing new cities across the desert hinterlands of Egypt’s existing cities officially became the state’s main urban planning tool. In 1979 the Egyptian government created the New Urban Communities Authority (NUCA)—​under the Ministry of Housing, Utilities, and Urban Communities (MHUUC)—​as the authority responsible for planning, constructing, and governing new cities. One of NUCA’s founding goals was to provide housing for lower-​income families as well as to provide alternative housing for residents of informal areas (Metwally and Abdalla, 2011). NUCA is responsible for choosing the locations of the new cities, and for preparing each city’s detailed development plan. According to NUCA’s website, its mission is to redistribute inhabitants away from the Nile Valley and to extend the “urban spine to the desert and remote areas” (NUCA, n.d.). The planning and construction of new desert cities commenced in the late 1970s with Egypt’s first desert city, that is,10th of Ramadan City. By 2000, the construction of 16 new desert cities was underway, 6 of which lay within Greater Cairo. By 2015, NUCA had planned and/​or built 31 new cities, with roughly 5 of those still in the initial planning process, including the New Administrative Capital, and the other 26 fully constructed or under construction. These are a mix of free-​standing cities with independent economic bases, and satellite cities that depend on an adjacent existing city for jobs and opportunities. The most visible marker of the new cities that distinguishes them from Egypt’s existing cities is the urban fabric, referring specifically to building types, thoroughfares, open space, and streetscapes. While Egypt’s cities are known for crowdedness, narrow streets, and tall, narrow apartment buildings, these new cities are characterized by wide boulevards, newer infrastructure, reduced walkability and fewer public spaces, and a more diverse mix of building types including condos, duplexes, villas, and apartment buildings. There are two types of cities:  satellite cities and independent cities. Those around the Greater Cairo Region (GCR) are designated as satellite cities, meaning that they do not have independent economies and continue to rely on Cairo and Giza for job opportunities. Daily commutes to the GCR are the norm. Many of those outside the GCR are established as independent cities, meaning that they are not close enough to the existing cities to allow for daily commutes, and they are intended to offer enough job opportunities for all residents. New cities can also be designated as mixed-​income cities or high-​end cities. Though the new cities policy as a whole was intended to offer alternative housing for middle-​and lower-​ income groups, and many of the first-​generation cities were indeed established as such, under President Hosni Mubarak, NUCA began selling large swaths of land to private investors (Keeton and Provoost, 2019). Hence, some of the second-​generation cities deviated from the industrial blue-​collar style of 10th of Ramadan and morphed into the high-​end gated-​community style of New Cairo. Looking at the two new cities with the highest population sizes—​New Cairo and 6th of October—​one can see a difference in the diversity of the populations of each city. Since income data are not publicly available at this level, I have looked at poverty and illiteracy rates (Table 21.1). 350

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Table 21.1  Population, poverty, and illiteracy rates in New Cairo and 6th of October Qism

New Cairo

6th of October Population Poverty rate size

5th Settlement Al-​Nargis and investors south Al-​Yasmin & Al-​Banafsig & Investors north American University & Al-​Rawda

36,830 15,175 83,378

Qism 2

Qism 3

Qism 1

Illiteracy Qism rate 3% 0.6% 6%

451

Not stated

0.2%

Police Academy & Al-​Mirage Al-​Rihab & Investors Al-​Firdaus & Al-​Kawthar

2,928 63,730 24,010

7% 1% Not stated

6% 0.1% 0.6%

Al-​Qatameya Mubarak Youth Housing Al-​Anshetah Industrial zone Al-​Andalus

24,074 46,421 1 59 330

16% 3% Not stated Not stated Not stated

Qism 1

351

7% 14% 37%

8% 17% 0 4% 0

Qism 2

Qism 3

Shiaakha

Population size

First District Second District Third District

11,866 15,514 15,720

Seventh Eighth Ninth Mutamayez Dreamland Khamael Touristic Villages Fourth Fifth Sixth Tenth Eleventh Twelvth Awla Bil Ri’aya Al-​Amal Ibni Beitak 7th Old Ibni Beitak 7th New Haram City Ibni Beitak 5th Ibni Beitak 4th National Housing Project Muntazah District Land owned by NUCA Mahager

8,043 15,861 16 5,012 5,699 2,259 13,022 19,742 27,905 63,419 25,792 38,443 21,072 14,367 4,229 922 183 28,615 1,267 405 3,792 4,445 1,260

Poverty rate (%)

6 4 5 7 3 Not stated

22 13 19 24 9 21 Not stated

Illiteracy rate (%) 9.6 1.6 3.3 0.5 2.3 60 4 0.3 0.05 1 5.4 6 14 11 3.6 12 44 24 17 8 12 7 3 7 3 72

Egypt’s conflicting urbanism

Shiaakha

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Initially, all desert cities were intended to house the urban poor. It was envisioned that they would vacate the overcrowded inner neighborhoods and move to the desert, to find economic opportunities and social networks. Some cities, such as 10th of Ramadan and 15th of May, have indeed succeeded in attracting industrial workers and other working-​class groups. Others, particularly those within Greater Cairo, have been put to more profitable uses. Urbanizing the desert around Cairo and Giza was left to the purview of the private real estate market (Tarbush, 2012) and became characterized by “the flight of the urban elites” toward “privatized domestic bliss” (Denis, 2006, p.  51). The suburbs and desert plateaus surrounding Cairo to the east and west are now littered with gated compounds with tantalizing names like Park Avenue, Dreamland, Hyde Park, Beverly Hills, Palm Hills, Jolie-​Ville, and Utopia. Glittering advertisements describe them as cities of international standards (Tarbush, 2012), boasting shopping malls, luxury villas, golf courses, and, perhaps most importantly, gates with security guards to control who is allowed access. The stigmatization of the poor is exploited to promote the idea of inner Cairo as an unexploded bomb, and the new gated compounds as “defensive bastions against the lost metropolis” (Denis, 2006, p. 51). The new cities policy has taken on renewed importance in the post-​2013 era with the announcement of the “new administrative capital,” which is currently being constructed to replace Cairo as Egypt’s capital. The new administrative capital has supported the trope of fleeing the lost city and urbanizing the desert. Hailed as the gateway to a flood of potential foreign investment that has been hesitant to invest in Egypt’s ailing cities, the new capital is projected to cost an approximate US$66 billion (El-​Wahsh, 2015). The planned location of the new capital is along the Cairo–​Suez highway at the 60th kilometer, and an examination of the desert land that stretches between the planned capital and the existing city sheds some light on how, and for whom, the desert is being urbanized around Egypt’s capital.The Ezbet El-​Haggana informal area lies at the 4.5th kilometer of the Cairo–​Suez road, adjacent to land owned by the armed forces, which is currently building homes to house its officers. At the 18th kilometer lies the gated community of Tag Sultan, at the 33rd kilometer is the gated community of Madinaty, at the 45th kilometer is a planned service compound by Madinat Nasr for Housing and Development, at the 50th kilometer is the gated community of Mustaqbal city, and, finally, at the 60th kilometer is the new capital. Cairo is slowly turning into a sprawling megacity, extending far beyond its original boundaries into the vast desert that surrounds it. This desert is being filled with upscale communities, shopping malls, golf courses, and swimming pools, while millions in the existing city continue to struggle in over-​dense informal areas.

New desert cities: Attracting the poor? Parallel to the flight of the rich, there is very little within the new cities to actually attract lower-​or middle-​income groups. The vast majority are satellite cities that continue to rely on existing cities for jobs, requiring long (and costly) commutes. Adding insult to injury is the fact that public transportation networks to the new cities have lagged considerably, and walkability in many of them is almost nonexistent. The cities seem to be largely designed for car owners, as even crosswalks are few and far between. Despite the lack of attractiveness for the poor, the vast majority of subsidized housing offered by the state has been located in these remote towns. An overview of the state’s current housing projects can shed light on the centrality of the new cities policy in Egypt. State housing projects in Egypt are classified by the MHUUC into four categories:

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• Social Housing:  offering small apartments at highly subsidized costs, targeted at lower-​ income families • Middle-​Income Housing (Dar Masr):  offering mid-​sized apartments below market cost, targeted at middle-​income families • Sakan Masr Project: offering apartments 106–​118 square meters in size, targeted at upper-​ middle-​income families • Beit Al-​Watan Project:  selling land plots (starting from 600 square meters) to Egyptians living abroad, targeted at upper-​income families. Looking specifically at the housing projects that target lower-​and middle-​income families, the locations of all units of the Social Housing project are in Shorouk, Badr, and 15th of May.3 The construction of public schools to serve the residents of the Social Housing project is concentrated in 10th of Ramadan, New Nubareya, New Tiba, Badr, New Assiut, and New Suhag. Similarly, the Middle Housing project states outright that it is offered only in the new cities. Thus far, Phase 1 of the project has entailed building units in 6th of October, Sadat, Shorouk, 10th of Ramadan, Ubour, New Cairo, Badr, and New Damietta, while Phase 2 has offered units in the same eight cities as Phase 1, with the additional cities of New Minia, Sheikh Zayid, New Burg Al-​Arab, and 15th of May. Phase 3 will offer units in largely the same cities, with the addition of New Mansoura. This means that all housing units that are offered for lower-​income groups are exclusively in the new cities, where there are limited economic opportunities and transportation networks. Furthermore, NUCA’s practice of selling land to real estate investment companies has driven a surge in real estate price inflation both in the new cities and in existing adjacent urban areas. As shown by Shawkat (2015), land prices rose at a rate of 148% annually between 2007 and 2011. NUCA is mandated to become self-​financing, and thus it has a direct incentive to steer its resources toward lucrative land deals with private investors and cities that cater to the wealthy. Some claim that the flight of the rich toward new cities in Greater Cairo indicates the success of the new cities policy in attracting a substantial number of people to inhabit the desert, which is, after all, the policy’s ultimate goal. However, the cities within Greater Cairo are not representative of the reality of new cities more generally. Even so, it is not uncommon to find the media conflating the relative success of the desert cities around Greater Cairo with the situation of the other desert cities across the rest of Egypt (see Enterprise, 2019; Keeton and Provoost, 2019). Greater Cairo’s desert cities are actually faring relatively well with respect to attracting populations in comparison to in the rest of the country. Table 21.2 presents target and actual population sizes in the 19 new cities listed in CAPMAS (Tadamun, 2015).4 As shown in Table 21.2, while some new cities have been somewhat successful in attracting residents, many can still be described as “ghost towns” (Rabie, 2019). The success of the new cities policy has been widely debated, and many analyses have shown that the policy has seen more failures than successes (e.g. Metwally and Abdallah, 2011; Tadamun, 2015). It has not met any of its population targets, nor has it succeeded in housing lower-​income groups. The policy has not achieved its goal and the result has been a phenomenon of “nearly empty new towns” (Fahmi and Sutton, 2008, p. 277) that surround many of Egypt’s cities. The following section addresses the question of new cities’ success in combating the spread of informal housing.

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The persistence of informality Despite the state’s attention to the new desert areas, the most dominant form of housing in urban Egypt is informal housing. This refers to structures that are planned and built entirely by residents themselves, with no intervention by the state, in the country’s original urban areas. These comprise different types of areas, including relatively well-​constructed neighborhoods on state-​owned desert land or on urbanized privately owned agricultural land, as well as shack-​like dwellings that are far fewer in number. The Informal Settlement Development Fund (ISDF), a state body tasked with overseeing the mapping and classification of informal areas country-​wide, estimates in a 2013 report that informal areas make up around 76% of Egypt’s urban areas (ISDF, 2013). Today, approximately 16 million people live in informal areas across Egypt (ISDF, 2010), constituting around 50% of Egypt’s urban population. The ISDF classifies informal areas into two categories:  unplanned areas, which are relatively well built and only require some upgrading, and unsafe areas, which pose a physical threat to their residents and often require demolishment and relocation. The ISDF estimates that unplanned areas make up 75% of urban areas nationally, while unsafe areas constitute only 1% of urban areas (ISDF, 2013). While the ISDF has not publicized much data regarding unplanned areas (its focus has thus far been on unsafe areas), its 2010 report5 states that Cairo hosts 53 unsafe areas (with a population of 171,247) out of a total of 404 unsafe areas across Egypt, the highest out of all of Egypt’s governorates. Older documents by the Ministry of Local Development (MoLD) identify 81 informal areas in Cairo (MoLD, 2008). Since 2008 informal areas have largely been governed according to Law 119/​2008—​the “Universal Building Law”—​which brought together and combined a sporadic set of laws relating to urban planning and building in the Egyptian legal code. Notably, 2008 was a landmark year for Egyptian informality due to another reason. In September 2008, a catastrophic rockslide took place in the informal area of Duweiqa, part of Egypt’s largest informal area of Manshiyyit Nasser neighborhood, causing 119 deaths (The National, 2010). In October of the same year, President Mubarak issued Presidential Decree 305/​2008, establishing the Informal Settlement Development Facility (ISDF) as the official body responsible for “inventorying, developing, and upgrading informal settlements, and preparing plans related to physical planning, and connection to infrastructure networks such as water, sanitation, and electricity, in coordination with ministries, relevant bodies, and local administration units” (Al-​Garida Al-​Rasmiya,  2008). The ISDF adopted the same terminology used in the Universal Building Law, which classifies urban areas as planned areas, unplanned areas, or unsafe areas. The category of “unsafe areas” was intended to allow the ISDF to distinguish well-​built informal areas—​that is, “unplanned areas”—​from those that, like Duweiqa, pose a risk to their residents. This is intended to help avoid another Duweiqa-​like accident by identifying in advance those neighborhoods that are vulnerable to life-​threatening events. The ISDF has, since its establishment, been producing annual maps of unsafe areas nationwide, updating them by removing areas that have been upgraded or demolished, and making several of these maps public. These constitute the first priority for intervention (whether upgrading or relocation), while the upgrading of unplanned areas is considered a lower priority for the Egyptian state since these do not pose an immediate threat to their residents. As mentioned above, unsafe areas are classified according to four levels of “unsafety”:  (i) life-​threatening areas (e.g., on the edge of a cliff or in the path of a flood), (ii) areas where buildings suffer from structural safety issues or are prone to collapse, (iii) areas that threaten the public health of their residents (e.g., where there is no wastewater network, or where homes 354

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Table 21.2 Target and actual populations of new cities Greater Cairo Current population (CAPMAS, 2017)

Target pop Name by 2030 (if available) (NUCA website)

355

Current population (NUCA website)

New Cairo Shorouk Badr 15th May 6th October

297,387 87,285 31,299 93,574 348,870

1 million 340,000 180,000 250,000 1.5 million

Not stated 500,000 840,000 500,000 3 million

Sheikh Zayed Ubour

90,699 130,161

350,000 600,000

675,000 New Nubareya Not stated

Upper Egypt Current population (CAPMAS, 2017)

New Borg El-​Arab 43,811 New Damietta 50,147 10th of Ramadan 217,884 New Salheya 52,509 Sadat 178,012 18,966

Current population (NUCA website)

Target pop by 2030 (if available) (NUCA website)

Name

Current population (CAPMAS, 2017)

Current population (NUCA website)

Target pop by 2030 (if available) (NUCA website)

166,000 165,000 850,000 60,000 350,000

750,000 500,000 2.1 million 120,000 1.5 million

New Beni Sueif New Fayoum New Minia New Assiut New Suhag

27,629 394 15,036 8,003 174

95,000 3,500 52,000 35,000 Not stated

125,000

New Qena

1,529

Not stated

558,000 140,000 638,000 750,000 790,000 by 2050 130,000

35,000

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Name

Lower Egypt

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are situated under high-​voltage electricity cables), and (iv) areas of insecure tenure. However, a similar national map that showcases all unplanned areas in the country has not been made public, and thus there are no up-​to-​date official statistics that show the location and borders of unplanned areas around the country.

Types of informal areas in Egypt Egypt’s informal areas are quite diverse and represent a wide range of urban fabrics, housing conditions, and tenure arrangements. Since the 1990s, scholars have attempted to develop typologies that can adequately reflect this diversity and avoid the detrimental conflation of all informal housing under the ubiquitous banner of “slums.” Table 21.3 summarizes various categories scholars have used to classify different types of informal areas in Cairo. For the majority of the above typologies, the main distinguishing factors between different categories are the following: type of land (agricultural vs. desert land), location (fringe vs. inner city), settlement process (individual vs. collective), and settlement mechanism (squatting vs. illegal purchasing). However, for the ISDF’s classification, the main distinguishing factor is the degree to which an area poses a threat to its residents’ safety or health, and the level of intervention it requires. While useful for understanding the development needs of each area, the ISDF’s classification does not provide insights into the different histories of each area that led to its current state. This is a gap that some of the other typologies above do a better job at filling. However, these studies focused only on Greater Cairo. For the most part, agricultural land, illegal purchasing, and individual settlement go hand in hand, and occur on the periphery of the GCR (Sims, 2003). Within Cairo city, informal settlements are (i) on desert land, in which case settlement tends to occur through individual or collective squatting; (ii) on agricultural land on the city fringe; or (iii) in deteriorated urban pockets (also referred to as the historic core), in which case settlement tends to be collective and residents are usually descendants of historical inhabitants of the area (Soliman, 2002). Table 21.4 shows an estimate by Sims (2001) of the scope of the different types of informal areas in Greater Cairo. Although this data is more than a decade old, not much change has occurred, aside from a continued increase of the urbanization of even more private agricultural land. It should be noted, however, that the majority of Type A informal areas (those on agricultural land) are located in Giza governorate. Within Cairo governorate, according to data by Soliman (2002), the majority of informal areas are Type B (areas on desert land), and Type C (hybrid or ex-​formal6). Based on data by Arandel and El-​Batran (1997), areas on state-​owned desert land originally attracted the “poorest among the poor,” as opposed to the agricultural fringe areas which catered to a much wider demographic. This is because, in the early days of the growth of informal housing in Egypt, squatting on state land involved considerable risk of eviction, and thus only those who could not even afford to purchase illegally on the city fringe resorted to this option. While squatting on public land is illegal, it does benefit from a very important legal provision: wada’ yad.The law of wada’ yad, comparable to the law of adverse possession, stipulates that the duration of the squatting period increases its legality and establishes a basis for legal claims to the land (Ismail, 1996). This usually occurs on land controlled by the governorates or municipalities, and often the ownership of such land is ambiguous, leading to occasional disputes between government bodies (Soliman, 2002; Arandel and El-​Batran, 1997). Examples of such areas in Cairo include Ezbet El-​Haggana, Ezbet Khairallah, and Manshiyyit Nasser.

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Table 21.3 Typologies of Cairo informal areas Typology of informal areas in Cairo

ABT Associates and GOHBPR (1981)

Illegally occupied land not included in a legal subdivision

Illegally occupied land included in a legal subdivision

Deboulet (1990, 1994) Soliman (2002)

Desert collective invasion Settlements on privately owned agricultural land (semiformal)

Sims (2003)

Desert subdivision Settlements on state-​owned desert land (squatter settlements), and illegal construction Settlements on former desert state land

Settlements on former agricultural land Unplanned areas Unsafe areas Grade 1: Life-​threatening (e.g., areas on a slope)

ISDF (2010)

Legally owned land not Legally owned land included included in a legal in a legal subdivision subdivision Village core Urban fringe Settlements on land whose ownership is in doubt (hybrid or ex-​formal) Deteriorated historic core

Grade 2: Structural instability of the buildings

Deteriorated urban pockets

Grade 3: Threat to public health (e.g., no sanitation network)

Grade 4: Insecure tenure

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Source

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Deena Khalil Table 21.4  Different types of informal areas Typology/​Sub-​typology

% of GCR surface area

A1 A2 A3 B1 B2 B3

81.6 3 3.3 3.3 3 6 100

On private agricultural land On core village land On government agricultural land On local administration desert land On reclaimed desert land On decree desert land Total

Source: Sims (2001).

Agricultural settlements are part of what used to be the peri-​urban fringe, but have been, or are slowly being, incorporated into the urban agglomeration.The land is privately owned but is classified in the governorate’s records as agricultural land and not slated for urban uses such as construction. Thus, all subdivisions and sales for the purpose of housing are illegal. The layouts tend to be somewhat more organized than desert and historic areas, as the subdivisions are conducted along the lines of the former agricultural patterns (Sims, 2003). This phenomenon has been deemed a criminal offense since the promulgation of Law 53/​1966, but has continued more or less unabated. In fact, the phenomenon of urban expansion onto agricultural fringe land exploded after the 2011 Revolution (Viney, 2013), and members of parliament are currently proposing to amend Law 53/​1966 to increase the punishment for urbanizing agricultural land to include jail time in addition to a fine (Ali, 2018). As for the deteriorated urban pockets, the majority of such areas did not begin as informal per se. Many are historical areas that have existed for over a century before official plans were ever drawn up for Cairo. Current residents of these areas are, for the most part, descendants of the original inhabitants, and consequently many do not have official tenure documents. Some of the areas also include important historical heritage areas. Since these areas were ignored by the state for the better part of the century (Deboulet, 2011), they have experienced deterioration in housing structures and lack many services. Soliman (2002) refers to this category of areas as “ex-​formal,” which makes his typology unique in that it accounts for areas that have become “informalized” over time, highlighting the different degrees of informality.

State relationship with informal areas In general, the relationship between the Egyptian state and Cairo’s informal areas is a complex and sometimes contradictory one. One scholar has argued that the state prefers to ignore informal areas so long as they do not pose a threat to its authority (AlSayyad, 1993). This narrative is somewhat similar to that put forth by Ismail (2006), who argues that the state prefers to allow informal areas a certain degree of autonomy as long as they do not interfere with its agendas. Another important point is that while the premise of ignoring informal areas implies the absence of the state from these areas, Ismail (1996) demonstrates through ethnographic data that a defining characteristic of this relationship is actually a constant presence of the state within these regions, whether through the police, market authorities, or officials who manage electricity, water, and other public services. 358

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The literature emerging from Egypt points to various attitudes/​strategies that the state has adopted toward informal areas over the past three decades. Some scholars have explained this changing attitude in the form of a timeline, describing an evolution in state attitudes toward informal areas that began by ignoring the phenomenon during the 1960s, succumbing to international pressure and undertaking some token projects during the 1970s and the 1980s, and confrontation between residents and state forces in certain areas, followed by national upgrading plans during the 1990s (Arandel and El-​Batran, 1997). The confrontation and upgrading in the 1990s is the result of what one scholar has described as the “securitization” of informality after

Figure 21.1  Locations of Egypt’s new cities Source: TADAMUN, 2015 (creative commons).

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the media showed some anti-​state militants hiding in such areas (Dorman, 2007). Immediately after this incident, the government announced the establishment of a Fund for the Upgrading of Scattered Settlements. The Fund prioritized developing areas that posed a security threat and upgrading them with street widening, infrastructure, and lighting, while also subjecting residents to severe police brutality (Singerman, 2009). Dorman (2007) frames this relationship as one of “neglect,” while Deboulet (2011) claims that this relationship is slowly shifting as the state has increasingly come to see informality not as a useful way to bypass bottom-​up demands, but as an obstacle to achieving its development dreams. Today, and even a few years before the revolution, residents of several informal areas experience a sudden interest by state institutions in evicting them in order to develop their area into a tourist destination with hotels and shopping facilities. Such has been the case in the Maspero Triangle neighborhood, which has been the site of controversial state development plans, resulting in tension between state institutions claiming to be upgrading the area, and residents who claim the plans are a way to gentrify and replace the working-​class neighborhood with upscale hotels and entertainment facilities (Khalil, 2018).The case of the Maspero Triangle, among other similar neighborhoods, within official policy falls under the label of informal areas that have a “special location” (mawqa’ mutamayyiz). The ISDF (2010, p.  23) labels such areas as “cost recovery neighbourhoods” (manatiq isti’adat taklufa) which “allow for the extraction of new resources (value-​added neighbourhoods) that can then be used to finance other neighbourhoods where no cost recovery is possible.”7 According to ISDF (2010), there are 4 self-​financing areas and 14 value-​added areas in Cairo.8 It remains unclear why the policy of building new cities in the desert continues, despite the persistent growth of informal areas which continue to attract the majority of urban Egyptians.

Conclusion: Beyond policy The reason behind the persistence of the new cities policy is that it goes beyond being simply an urban planning policy. Policies tend to be relatively temporary and changeable based on the evolving circumstances of the urban landscape. The construction of new cities is tied to a paradigm that has informed the Egyptian state’s perspective on national development for the past four decades and that will likely continue for many decades to come. The state’s planning and development philosophy is guided by the idea that the most effective way to overcome Egypt’s development hurdles is to turn a new page on previous failures and start over elsewhere. It is viewed as the best way to ameliorate the nation’s economic and demographic problems, and to support efforts toward the state’s ultimate goal of achieving modernity. The policy of pouring national financial resources into new developments also guides rural development. As Egypt’s agriculture sector has suffered, the state has turned toward large-​scale agricultural land reclamation projects in the desert, and, like the new cities, these projects have also seen limited success (Ibrahim, Khalil, and Salman, 2021). Egypt has attempted six mega land reclamation projects (Shawkat and Hendawy, 2016), starting with Liberation Province in the early 1950s, the New Valley reclamation projects in the late 1950s, the infamous Toshka project that began in the late 1990s and continues until today despite not meeting any of its goals, and the latest National Project for Reclamation and Cultivation taking place in eight governorates (Reda, 2018). The Desert Hinterland Villages project is another case which, since its inception, has succeeded in constructing 21 villages in the desert hinterlands of Egypt’s governorates, but has not succeeded in attracting a single inhabitant (Sims, 2014). Despite the limited successes of the continuous drive to expand into the desert, Egypt’s desert continues to absorb substantial portions of the national budget, at the expense of existing 360

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inhabited areas. For example, an analysis of the 2015/​2016 national budget conducted by Shawkat and Khalil (2016) found that 52% of the “built environment budget”—​including shelter, water, sanitation, etc.—​went toward the 2% of the population that live in the new cities, while 48% of the same budget went toward the remaining 98% that live in the existing cities and villages. The paradigm of starting anew has done nothing to thwart the growth of informal areas around the country, which continue to provide the majority of Egyptians with housing. Informal housing continues to grow as lower-​income groups seek housing that is close to the city. Yet, state policy has insisted on maintaining the policy of constructing all subsidized housing in the desert cities which offer minimal livelihood opportunities and even fewer public transportation services. As the struggle persists between what Egyptian urbanism is and what it is trying to be, the country’s existing cities continue to battle with new cities for state resources, and millions of Egyptian urbanites pay the price.

Notes 1 Informal areas host around 60% of Egypt’s population according to ISDF (2013). 2 According to Presidential Decree no. 475/​1977, the Cairo region includes the governorates of Cairo, Giza, and Qaliubeya. 3 www.mhuc.gov.eg/​Programs/​Index/​127. 4 I decided to include the population estimates by both CAPMAS and NUCA because the NUCA website gives much higher population sizes for the new cities than the census does. One possible explanation for this discrepancy is that NUCA counts all the housing units that have been purchased for residential purposes, even those that are left vacant for now, while CAPMAS counts only the people that are actually living there. 5 The ISDF has not publicized any of its annual reports since 2010. Since the 2011 uprising, the ISDF has been more protective of its data, has not publicly released any reports nor has it even updated its website. Before 2011, the ISDF website contained more data and some reports were downloadable. After 2011 all of this was removed. 6 Soliman defines Type C as follows: These are residential settlements in formal areas, which have temporarily or permanently acquired degrees of informality. Unlike settlements in informal areas, this type of informality relates to individual dwelling units on a case-​by-​case basis:  some units in a neighbourhood or even an individual building are formal, while others have been built illegally or have been transformed over time into illegal tenure arrangements Soliman, 2002, p. 193 7 My own translation. 8 No updated data about cost recovery neighborhoods have been publicly issued since this time.

References ABT Associates and GOHBPR, 1981. Informal Housing in Egypt. USAID. Ali, I., 2018. Ta’araf ‘Ala Uqubat Al-​Tahadiyat ‘Ala Al-​Arady Al-​Zira’iya. Al-​Youm Al-​Sabea [online]. Available at:  www.youm7.com/​story/​2018/​1/​10/​%D8%AA%D8%B9%D8%B1%D9%81-​ %D8%B9%D9%84%D9%89-​%D8%B9%D9%82%D9%88%D8%A8%D8%A7%D8%AA-​%D8%A7 %D9%84%D8%AA%D8%B9%D8%AF%D9%8A%D8%A7%D8%AA-​%D8%B9%D9%84%D9%89-​ %D8%A7%D9%84%D8%A3%D8%B1%D8%A7%D8%B6%D9%89-​%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%B2%D 8%B1%D8%A7%D8%B9%D9%8A%D8%A9-​%D8%A8%D8%B9%D8%AF-​%D9%85%D9%88%D8 %A7%D9%81%D9%82%D8%A9-​%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%A8%D8%B1%D9%84%D9%85%D8%A 7%D9%86/​3593066(accessed 6 September 2019). Al-​Garida Al-​Rasmiya, 2008. Issue 19a. Law 119 of 2008 regarding the universal building law. AlSayyad, N., 1993. Informal housing in a comparative perspective:  On squatting, culture, and development in a Latin American and a Middle Eastern context. Review of Urban & Regional Development Studies, 5(1), pp. 3–​18.

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Deena Khalil Arandel, C. and El Batran, M., 1997. The informal housing development process in Egypt. University College, London, Development Planning Unit. CAPMAS, 2006. National Census: Detailed Results Cairo Governorate. Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics. Egypt. CAPMAS, 2017. National Census: Detailed Results Cairo Governorate. Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics. Egypt. CAPMAS, 2019. Al-​Sa’a Al-​Sukkaniya. Available at: http://​capmas.gov.eg/​ (accessed 12 May 2017). Deboulet, A., 1990. État, squatters et maîtrise de l’espace au Caire. Égypte/​Monde arabe, (1), pp. 79–​96. Deboulet, A., 1994. Vers un urbanisme d’émanation populaire: compétences et réalisations des citadins: l’exemple du Caire (Doctoral dissertation). Paris. Deboulet, A., 2011. Urban discontents between bargains and social justice: strategizing social mix in regeneration issues. Paper presented at the conference the Struggle to Belong. Dealing with Diversity in 21st Century Urban Settings. Amsterdam. Denis, E., 2006. Cairo as neoliberal capital?. In Singerman, D. and Amar, P. (eds.), Cairo cosmopolitan: politics, culture, and urban space in the new globalized Middle East. American University in Cairo Press. Cairo, Egypt. Dorman, W.J., 2007. The politics of neglect:  The Egyptian state in Cairo, 1974–​98 (Doctoral dissertation), SOAS, University of London. El-​Batran, M., and Arandel, C., 1997. A shelter of their own: informal settlement expansion in Greater Cairo and government responses. Environment and Urbanization, 10(1), pp. 217–​232. El-​Wahsh, A., 2015. The new capital:  the good, bad and Cairo. Daily News Egypt [online]. Available at:  https://​dailynewsegypt.com/​2015/​03/​23/​the-​new-​capital-​the-​good-​bad-​and-​cairo/​ (accessed 5 September 2019). Enterprise, 2019. How Egypt’s new cities program underwent a total transformation. Enterprise:  The State of the Nation. Available at: https://​enterprise.press/​stories/​2019/​07/​15/​how-​egypts-​new-​cities-​ program-​underwent-​a-​total-​transformation/​ (accessed 15 November 2019). Fahmi, W., and Sutton, K., 2008. Greater Cairo’s housing crisis: contested spaces from inner city areas to new communities. Cities, 25(5), pp. 277–​297. Ibrahim, K., Khalil, D., and Salman, S. 2021. The Greater Scale: Agriculture, Urbanization, and Land Reclamation. In Redeker, C. and Juttner, M. (eds.), Landscaping Egypt: From the Aesthetic to the Productive. JOVIS, Berlin, Germany. ISDF, 2010. Al-​khitta al-​qawmiya li tatweer al-​manatiq ghayr al-​amina. Informal Settlement Development Facility. Cairo, Egypt. ISDF, 2013. Development of slum areas in Egypt [Powerpoint presentation]. Informal Settlement Development Facility. Cairo, Egypt. ISDF, 2019. Markaz Al-​Ma’lumat. Available at:  www.isdf.gov.eg/​InfoListing.aspx?info=2 (accessed 16 January 2020). Ismail, S., 1996. The politics of space in urban Cairo: informal communities and the state. The Arab Studies Journal, 4: pp.119–​132. Ismail, S., 2006. Political life in Cairo’s new quarters: Encountering the everyday state. University of Minnesota Press. USA. Keeton, R., and Provoost, M., 2019. New cities in the sand: inside Egypt’s dream to conquer the desert. The Guardian. Available at: www.theguardian.com/​cities/​2019/​jul/​10/​new-​cities-​in-​the-​sand-​inside-​ egypts-​dream-​to-​conquer-​the-​desert?utm_​term=RWRpdG9yaWFsX1RoZUNpdHlzY2FwZS0xO TA3MTQ%3D&utm_​source=esp&utm_​medium=Email&utm_​campaign=TheCityscape&CMP=cit yscape_​email (accessed 12 October 2019). Khalil, O., 2018. From community participation to forced eviction in the Maspero Triangle. The Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy. Available at:  https://​timep.org/​commentary/​analysis/​from-​ community-​participation-​to-​forced-​eviction-​in-​the-​maspero-​triangle/​ (accessed 9 February 2020). Korayem, K., 1997. Egypt’s Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment (ERSAP). Working Paper No.19. Egyptian Center for Economic Studies. Metwally, M. and Abdalla, S.S., 2011. Impact of gated communities on the urban development of new cities in Egypt. Center for Planning and Architectural Studies (CPAS). Cairo, Egypt. MoLD, 2008. Bayan al-​manatiq al-​ashwa’eya bi muhafazat al-​qahira fi 31/​3/​2008. Available at: www.mold. gov.eg/​Arabic/​LEFT/​MinistryInformationTechnology/​NonStructure/​CAIRO-​+ASH.htm (accessed 15 November 2019).

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Egypt’s conflicting urbanism NUCA, n.d. New cities. New Urban Communities Authority. Available at: www.newcities.gov.eg/​english/​New_​Communities/​default.aspx (accessed 15 November 2019). Rabie, H., 2019. Why Egypt’s construction boom creates ghost towns. Al-​Monitor. Available at:  www. al-​monitor.com/​pulse/​originals/​2019/​09/​egypts-​new-​cities-​r isk-​turning-​to-​ghost-​towns.html (accessed 10 September 2019). Reda, L., 2018. A look at the National Project for Reclamation and Cultivation. Egypt Today. Available at:  www.egypttoday.com/​Article/​3/​62373/​A-​look-​at-​the-​National-​Project-​for-​Reclamation-​and-​ Cultivation (accessed 10 September 2019). Shawkat, Y., 2015. Egypt’s deregulated property market:  a crisis of affordability. Middle East Institute. Available at:  www.mei.edu/​publications/​egypts-​deregulated-​property-​market-​crisis-​affordability (accessed 9 February 2020). Shawkat, Y., and Hendawy, M., 2016. Myths and facts of urban planning in Egypt. Built Environment Observatory by 10Tooba. Available at:  http://​marsadomran.info/​en/​policy_​analysis/​2016/​11/​501/​ (accessed 5 August 2019). Shawkat, Y., and Khalil, A., 2016. The Built Environment Budget 15/​16: Housing. Available at: http://​ marsadomran.info/​en/​policy_​analysis/​2016/​11/​676/​ (accessed 5 August 2019). Sims, D., 2001. Residential informality in Greater Cairo: typologies, representative areas, quantification, valuation and causal factors. Institute for Liberty and Democracy. Sims, D., 2003. The case of Cairo, Egypt. Understanding slums:  case studies for the global report on human settlements. GTZ. Sims, D., 2010. Understanding Cairo:  the logic of a city out of control. Cairo:  The American University in Cairo Press. Sims D., 2014. Egypt's Desert Dreams:  Development or Disaster? Cairo:  The American University in Cairo Press. Singerman, D., 2009. The siege of Imbaba, Egypt’s internal ‘other,’ and the criminalization of politics. In Singerman, D. and Amar, P. (Eds.), Cairo contested: governance, urban space, and global modernity. American University in Cairo Press. Cairo, Egypt, pp. 111–​144. Soliman, A., 2002.Typology of informal housing in Egyptian cities: taking account of diversity. International Development Planning Review, 24(2), pp. 177–​201. Tarbush, N., 2012. Cairo 2050: urban dream or modernist delusion?. Journal of International Affairs, 65(2), pp. 171–​186. The National, 2010. Anger over five-​year sentence in Cairo rockslide that killed 119. [online] Available at:  www.thenational.ae/​world/​africa/​anger-​over-​five-​year-​sentence-​in-​cairo-​rockslide-​that-​killed-​ 119-​1.532312 (accessed 15 November 2019). Viney, S., 2013. The state of urban planning and informal areas after the Egyptian Revolution. Egypt Independent [online]. Available at:  www.egyptindependent.com/​state-​urban-​planning-​and-​informal-​ areas-​after-​egyptian-​revolution/​ (accessed 15 November 2019). Yousry, M., and Atta, T.A.A., 1997. The challenge of urban growth in Cairo.The urban challenge in Africa: growth and management of its large cities, London,Tokyo and Paris. The United Nations University Press. Available at: www.unu.edu/​unupress/​unupbooks/​uu26ue/​uu26ue0e.htm (accessed 15 November 2019).

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22 LIVABILITY OF EGYPTIAN CITIES Ibrahim Rizk Hegazy

Introduction Many of the challenges and opportunities that are coming to define the early part of the 21st century are most visible in the cities where a growing proportion of the world’s population now lives. Globally, population movement and growth are leading to the dramatic expansion of cities. Urban growth, in turn, is presenting considerable challenges. In Egypt, as in other developing countries, most cities suffer from deterioration of their built environments. Today, only 6% of Egypt’s total land area is inhabited (Hegazy and Seddik, 2013). This area is concentrated in the Nile Delta. In the 1970s, the Egyptian government initiated a national plan with the intention of creating 59 new cities outside the populated areas. The plan was meant to be completed by 2017 (Shehata, 2009). The first 22 cities failed to fulfill their objectives and achieve their population targets. Thirty years later, these new cities have reached less than 15% of their target population (Attia et al., 2019). Egyptian policies tend to emphasize the physical aspects of development, measuring development by cubic meters of reinforced concrete, meters of electric cables, number of buildings, etc. These policies have not included measures of livability for these new communities, nor have they included other indicators assessing whether they meet residents’ needs (El Ghorab and Shalaby, 2016). Egypt’s Sustainable Development Strategy (SDS), Egypt’s Vision 2030, was developed in 2017 to fill this void (EMPMAR, 2016). The strategy discusses quality of life as one prong of development that should enable the country to achieve its development objectives. It reflects the importance of quality of life in two significant pillars.

Urban development To deal with urban development issues, Egypt’s Vision 2030 advances an integrated urban plan that incorporates historical and modern architecture and that maximizes the balance between energy, water and land.The new urban development doubles urban space, redistributes development and citizens to maximize the use of available resources, replaces and develops slum areas, and improves quality of life. 364

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Environment Egypt’s Vision 2030 promotes sustained environmental improvement for the present generation, raises awareness of environmental protection, and reduces the impact of climate change in order to provide a clean and safe environment for future generations. It adopts an integrated approach that strikes a balance between economic growth and environmental factors. This is intended to prevent environmental degradation and move toward improving quality of life. In response to Egypt’s Vision 2030, the Minister of Housing, Utilities and Urban Communities issued Decree No. 258 of 2018, establishing a technical committee to prepare the Egyptian Code of Quality Indicators of Life.1 This was in the context of the implementation of a commitment made by President Abdel Fattah el Sisi in 2018 to achieve development and stability, and to provide necessary quality of life for Egyptians.2 This chapter highlights challenges to livability in Egyptian cities and points to principles and approaches that could promote more livable urban communities in Egypt.

Challenges in Egypt’s urban areas Overpopulation is a major problem facing Egypt in the coming decades. At its current rate of growth, Egypt’s population is expected to reach 140 million by 2050 (NPC, 2016). Egypt’s populated land area is concentrated in the Nile Delta. The country’s population is unevenly distributed among Egypt’s regions and provinces.While there are 219 cities in Egypt, Cairo and Alexandria alone house about 43% of the total urban population (Hegazy, 2018). Moreover, according to the Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS), 2016 witnessed a housing shortage of about 8  million units. This demand for housing far exceeds available supply, and, coupled with the lack of affordable housing for both poor and lower middle-​class Egyptians, drives sprawl and the proliferation of informal settlements. It has also resulted in urban expansion on arable and public land. Egypt’s rapidly growing cities face a number of environmental challenges resulting from their manner of growth. Air pollution, caused by the lack of green space, is a major challenge facing Egyptian cities. In Cairo, per capita green space is 1.5 m2. This is compared to a global standard set by the World Health Organization of 8 m2 of green area per capita (Maryanti et al., 2016; Russo and Cirella, 2018). Water pollution is another major challenge facing Egyptian cities. In many areas, there is leakage in the sewage network, which results in the mixing of waste disposal and clean water. The Egyptian Environmental Affairs Agency notes that more than 100 million cubic meters of solid waste have been dumped into the Nile River (MSEA, 2017). A further challenge is the imbalance between the rate of urban growth and the services, facilities, and infrastructure needed. For example, there are inadequate or nonexistent sewage and waste disposal systems in many cities. According to CAPMAS, only 28.7% of Egypt’s buildings are connected to a sewage network (CAMS, 2016). In Cairo, the sewage and waste disposal network was built more than 50 years ago and needs to be renovated and doubled in size in order to meet the needs of existing urban inhabitants (Hegazy, 2011).

Egypt’s new cities The Egyptian government adopted its new cities policy in the 1970s, recognizing that the old inhabited areas along the Nile valley were no longer sufficient to absorb a growing population. The policy promoted exploitation of desert land in order to achieve more sustainable development. New cities were designed to attract population, create an industrial base outside the valley, 365

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and attract public and private investments (Aafify, 1999). According to the Map of Development and Urbanization of the Arab Republic of Egypt 2017, 59 new cities were proposed to be distributed all over Egypt. Phase 1 entailed establishing 22 cities divided into three generations (Hegazy and Seddik, 2011). The first new city venture began in 1976 with President Anwar Sadat’s declaration of an intention to build 10th of Ramadan, a new self-​sufficient city in the desert, located roughly halfway between Cairo and Ismailia. This new city was planned with a solid economic foundation based on industry (Ali, 2003). Even while 10th of Ramadan was still in planning stages, other new city schemes, each with a significant industrial base, were announced. These are now considered the first generation of new cities. These new cities—​6th of October, El-​Sadat, El-​ Obour, 15th of May, and New Domiat—​were planned to be geographically and economically independent of major cities. Each was designed to have its own industrial base and a target population between 250,000 and 500,000 residents. The legislative and institutional frameworks for new cities were formalized with the promulgation of the New Communities Law (no. 59 of 1979). It created the New Urban Communities Authority (NUCA) within the Ministry of Housing. NUCA was designated as the sole body responsible for establishing new communities, including identifying sites, providing onsite and offsite infrastructure, setting standards, constructing housing and services, and distributing land to investors (WB, 2008). Law 59/​1979 also gave NUCA the right to declare special development zones in the desert. The law stipulated that each new city would be managed by a city development agency under NUCA. Once completed, new cities were to revert to standard municipal local administration under the relevant governorate (WB, 2008). By the mid-​1980s a second generation of cities was launched in the desert around Greater Cairo. These new cities—​El-​Shorouk, El-​Obour, Badr, and Sheikh Zayed—​were designed to reduce population pressure in Cairo. In parallel, a third generation of new cities was established as sisters to existing cities (Ali, 2003). These include New Assiut, New Thebes, New Minia, and New Aswan, among others. At present there are a total of 20 new cities that are either functioning or under construction, and more than 40 new cities and communities are under development. In the early 1990s, there was a significant shift in the concept of new cities and the associated land management policy. Up until this time new towns were mainly developed to attract the working classes through the construction of government subsidized low-​cost housing units. With increasing criticism of the quality of social housing, a much more capitalist mode of development was applied. The boundaries of existing new towns and settlements were rearranged and dramatically extended, particularly in those cities around Cairo which were considered to have development potential.Those cities were merged, and boundaries extended to create New Cairo in the desert east of the metropolis with a target population of 2 million. Urban development in the desert is not limited to new cities created under Law No. 59 of 1979. Other government entities have also developed residential subdivisions, industrial zones, and housing estates. A recent study by the General Organization of Physical Planning has identified more than 11 large desert sites which are currently under development (WB, 2008). In total they extend over 280 km2 and are expected to eventually accommodate a population of more than 3 million inhabitants.

Aspects of failure in new cities The spatial development of Egypt’s new cities demonstrates an important deficiency in the guiding vision and policies. The ambitious goals and expectations for urban growth confront 366

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a reality where, after three decades, most new cities have not reached more than 15% of their target population (Mahmoud and Adel, 2011). While the idea of new cities is not in itself problematic, the challenge is how this idea can be implemented successfully within Egypt’s capabilities. In implementing the new cities policy, the size of the proposed cities exceeded national economic capabilities.The new cities plan was further undercut by the decision to build a large number of cities simultaneously. These cities needed huge financing capacity to reach their targeted development rates and goals. Due to the decline in funding, many cities faced obstacles midway through construction, leading to the suspension of capital investment by both the governmental and private sectors. Actual returns were very poor compared to the money invested in the cities (Attia et al., 2019). Moreover, the overlapping mandates of different governmental bodies concerned with urban development cause conflicts in decision-​making. Bodies such as the National Center for Planning State Land Uses (NCPSLU) and the NUCA, which fall under the Ministry of Housing Utilities and Urban Development, have overlapping responsibilities (Hegazy and Seddik, 2013). For example, the NCPSLU is responsible for inventory and evaluation of state land and for preparing the general plan for its development and uses within the framework of state policy. This overlaps with NUCA’s oversight over new communities. In this context, the lack of coordination between these bodies results in overlapping and sometimes contradictory decision-​making. Furthermore, urban development in new cities depended on several projects that were not connected or coordinated. Instead of following a comprehensive and integrated development strategy, projects were constructed separately (Hegazy and Seddik, 2013). In the case of 6th of October, large plots of land were allocated to private developers and to individuals in huge subdivisions. Attempts were made to attract flagship investments and signature brands, including amusement parks, private universities, and a media production city. In the case of Sadat City, it was intended to be an urban growth pole that would attract populations from proximate regions. However, no clear methodology for integrating with such regions was identified and many major projects between these regions have not yet been established. Sadat City attracted about 20% of its target population, which is considered a low rate of urbanization. Public officials often take key urban development decisions individually and without coordination. For example, Dr. Salah Zaki notes in his report on urban growth in 10th of Ramadan city that development inside the city was similar to sprawl growth.While 10th of Ramadan city was built to be an independent city acting as a pole of urban growth in its region, the critical mass of development did not reach the magnitude required to bring the city to its polarity objective. The development strategy did not focus on coordinating national projects needed to achieve this goal. That was not the case for 10th of Ramadan city alone, but for all new cities, and the result was dispersed and incomplete development at the regional level. There was also disconnect between political and technical decisions. Moreover, decisions were based on personal agendas serving the interests of one social group at the expense of other segments of society (Hegazy and Seddik, 2013). Therefore, the development of each phase was not part of a holistic framework and each wave of new officials initiated new projects guided by new visions, while neglecting preceding efforts. Finally, development projects such as housing and public infrastructure are spread over a large number of districts and neighborhoods. One similarity shared among these projects is their incompleteness:  utilities and infrastructure were distributed randomly at the neighborhood, district, and city levels (Ali, 2003).This dispersed growth was a result of the government’s methodology for measuring success. While its main objective was to create new development that could absorb some of the population from old sites, the measurement was not tailored to assess 367

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Ibrahim Rizk Hegazy Table 22.1 The New Urban Communities Authority’s achievements First: Housing sector - Total number of housing units in the new cities is about 2 million. Second: Service sector - Total number of service buildings built by NUCA is 3,375. Third: Infrastructure sector • Water supply: - Total of 37 drinking water production plants (wells-​surface-​sweetening) have been implemented with a total capacity of 5.45 million m3/​day. - 16,034 km of water supply networks in the new cities. • Sewage: -  Implementation of 34 sewage treatment plants with a total capacity of about 1.9 million m3/​day. -  10,144 km of new city sewage systems. • Electricity: -  44 transformer stations have been constructed with a total capacity of 4,470 MV. -  66,941 m of electricity networks in new cities. • Roads: -  10,645 km of new city road networks. Fourth: Industrial sector - 10,266 factories built with invested capital of 132.5 billion Egyptian pounds and annual production of 139.3 billion Egyptian pounds. Fifth: Investments -  About 231.9 billion Egyptian pounds invested in the implementation of the authority’s projects.

quality of life in these cities or their ability to attract new residents. Instead, achievements were measured quantitatively according to the progress made toward constructing these cities. The NUCA website lists its achievements by pointing out the number of dwellings constructed but not how many occupants inhabit these units, the number of acres assigned for development but not the amount of developed land, the number of kilometers of roads and streets constructed but not the quality of accessibility, and so on (see Table 22.1).3 This approach has resulted in significant public and private capital being invested in these cities without real development. The discussion above highlights the urban management situation and problems in Egypt’s existing urban mass and new settlements.These problems are further complicated by the failure of new cities to absorb urban population growth from existing cities.The management of new cities misses many fundamentals of management, such as the unrealistic realization of abilities, poor methodology of vision and objective creation, inefficient utilization of resources, and dispersion of urban development. All these facts point to the extent of livability in Egyptian communities. The next section elaborates Al-​Rehab City as a case study for implemented livability considerations and to provide some practical recommendations that could help to effectively advance the balance between community and urban environment toward enhanced livability in Egyptian cities.

The case of Al-​Rehab City Al-​Rehab was established in 1997 by the private developer Talaat Moustafa Group Company in New Cairo. It is considered a new city, an urban area built on a greenfield site with the purpose of attracting business, investment, and new residential areas (Salem and Monir, 2017). The city’s 368

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current population is 110,000 residents, with a target at final completion of 200,000 residents (Yousry, 2009). Al-​Rehab has benefited from its location as a satellite city of New Cairo. It is connected to Cairo by two roads. The first road runs from the district of Nasr City, through the extension of Zakir Hussein Street, and passes through the Fifth Settlement in New Cairo.The second road is the Misr El-​Gidida Road that runs from El-​Thawra Street and connects Cairo with Al-​Rehab through the Cairo-​Suez Desert Road. The city’s development strategy has depended on its location as a satellite city created to absorb overpopulation from the greater Cairo region (Said, 2013). It has also benefited from a regional development policy that assigned many areas in New Cairo to be developed by the private sector (Yousry, 2009). Al-​Rehab has achieved notable success attracting upper-​middle and upper-​class residents even though its original target was middle and lower-​middle class residents (Hegazy, 2018). Of Al-​Rehab’s residents, 20% belong to the middle-​income group, 60% to the upper-​middle-​ income group, and 20% to the upper-​income group. Notably, the city lacks housing for labor and workers who have to travel daily to and from the city (Kuppinger, 2004). This may be contrasted with other new cities that have provided housing units for low-​income residents working in industrial regions, including Sadat City, 10th of Ramadan, and Borg El-​Arab. These cities offer more than 60% of their residential units to low-​and middle-​income residents (Hegazy et al., 2017). Al-​Rehab incorporates building diversity and abundant green space, which has led to it being called the Green City. The city contains 50 different building types, including villas and apartment buildings. These are surrounded by greenery occupying 60% of the total land area, improving quality of life and reducing the heat island effect. The green infrastructure network mainly depends on native plant species, in addition to adequate vegetation cover and landscaping for both public open spaces and private gardens. Air quality in Al Rehab is one of the best in Egypt,4 due to the low construction ratios and siting away from the industrial region. A pedestrian network, separated from the motorized network, connects all dwellings with two main destinations, the sporting club and the mall (Said, 2013). The most notable feature of Al-​Rehab city, contributing to its success in attracting residents and visitors, is its comprehensive services. These include markets; commercial, medical, and administrative centers; and mosques, banks, and transportation services (Hegazy and Seddik, 2019). The city also includes educational facilities including five schools:31 the British School of Al-​Rehab, Futures Language School, Deutsche Schule Futures, L’Ecole De L’Avenir, and Othman Ibn Affan School. City services in Al-​Rehab are supported by a comprehensive funding and management system. A special company is responsible for maintaining all public areas, facilities, infrastructure, and green and open spaces. Residents pay a maintenance deposit when purchasing their properties, which is used to keep up city assets and public facilities as the city authority declares (Hegazy, 2018). Although this cost is more than what is collected from residents in other cities through taxes, it has helped to maintain regular maintenance and follow-​up operations for provided services. Al-​Rehab’s transportation scheme enables accessible transport options with reasonable cost. This includes an internal shuttle bus system, in addition to buses that transport visitors and employees from central areas in Nasr City and Heliopolis districts to Al-​Rehab. The city authority provides three lines of public buses to serve the city, as well as convenient stations across the city within reasonable walking distance from residences and services (Fahmi, 2013). However, the three transit lines are not enough to cover the entire area of Al Rehab. Consequently, this makes the internal circulation of residents dependent mainly on private vehicles. 369

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With regard to public participation and social engagement, resident opinions are indirectly incorporated in the city’s development scheme. There is a non-​traditional participation process in Al-​Rehab (Yousry, 2009). It functions in a corporate manner, with the mechanisms of market research and customer service. Market research gathers the expectations and requirements of prospective residents, and customer service entails following up with existing residents to achieve customer satisfaction. Resident opinions are of primary importance in this evaluation and planning process, but the opinions and needs of other parties, including businesses and craftsmen, are also incorporated. This is toward the objective of achieving development goals and creating business alliance opportunities. Al-​Rehab receives a relatively average assessment with respect to transportation, environment, and opportunity. The city does not provide any alternatives for transportation, which forces most city residents to use their personal vehicles when traveling outside the city. It also does not provide economic opportunities like industry, agriculture, or tourism that can produce mass investment or job opportunities. However, it does offer opportunities for investment and jobs in the local services area.The city design distributes business opportunities at the local level, as can be observed with the internal ring road which contains malls, shops, coffee shops, administration offices, and zones for craft workshops (Kuppinger, 2004). Evaluating Al-​Rehab’s livability reveals above average rankings with respect to housing, neighborhood, health, and engagement. Al Rehab city provides a multigenerational community that enhances the economy by working, supporting local businesses, and paying taxes. The city promotes interaction among its residents through its city center design as an open space and lung for the whole city, functioning as a sporting and social hub. This contrasts with the traditional design of creating a dense city center that contains important facilities and services (Safey El Deen, 2014). Al-​Rehab city performs well with respect to managing its urban growth and development. This is due to the fact that the city has had a visionary local urban strategy which was established at the early stages of city development and maintained at all stages of development. City planning has provided mixed-​use development distributed among residential clusters. Building facilities along with dwellings have ensured that the city grows in keeping with a comprehensive pattern of development. Pedestrian pathways are designed to encourage walkability and biking. The provision of various attractions, including a food court and sporting club, attracts people both from inside and outside the city. Al-​Rehab development includes many features that enhance quality of life. It could serve as a model for achieving livability in Egypt’s urban communities.

The future of Egypt’s cities Egypt’s new cities have the potential to serve as engines for economic growth, offer prospects for productive investment, well-​paying jobs, and access to key institutions and services. Rapid urbanization since the 1970s has provided most cities with opportunities for growth and innovation through urban agglomerations and economies of scale. However, cities also face various challenges that constrain their capacities to deliver services to residents and that limit the realization of a more sustainable urban future for all. Each city is unique. Nonetheless, they face some common urban development challenges. While substantial progress has been made in improving urban infrastructure and services, many cities have not been able to keep up with rapid population growth. They face underinvestment in infrastructure, poor spatial and economic planning, and suboptimal land use. The annual investments required by cities to bridge the infrastructure gap are substantial. The investment gap is particularly pronounced in small and medium cities, which often face 370

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the added challenges of inadequate capacity and poor governance. Furthermore, cities face risks with respect to social cohesion due to labor market disparities and limited economic opportunities, particularly for poor and disadvantaged minorities, women, and people with disabilities. Access and affordability of urban services remain unequal in most cities and poverty aggravates social and spatial inequality across cities. Notwithstanding these challenges, Egypt’s new cities provide significant opportunities to improve well-​being, catalyze economic development, and serve as incubators for new ideas and innovation. Cities should prepare and implement plans for more sustainable, resilient, and inclusive urban development. City authorities have to realize the potential of holistic, flexible, and participatory urban planning to integrate infrastructure investments and policy reforms, build strong urban institutions, generate knowledge, and promote regional cooperation.

Notes 1 Ahram Gate, 21 April 2018. 2 Middle East Journal, 3 April 2018. 3 The New Urban Communities Authority’s achievements as announced on NUCA’s website, see: www. newcities.gov.eg/​about/​engazat/​default.aspx. 4 Data source: Early Warning System Report for Egypt Air Pollutants, Air Quality Department, Central Department of Air Quality and Noise Protection, Environmental Quality Sector.

References Aafify, A. (1999), The Philosophy of New Towns and their Evolution-​An analytical study for theory and practice, Seminar: New Towns in the Arab World and their role in Sustainable Development. Ibn Zohr University, Agadeer, Morocco. Ali, E. (2003), Evaluation of the Egyptian experience in the construction of new cities in desert areas, Journal of Engineering Sciences, Assiut University,Vol. 31, No. 1, pp. 231–​244. Attia, S., Shafik, Z., and Ibrahim, A., (2019), New Cities and Community Extensions in Egypt and the Middle East; Visions and Challenges, Springer, Cham. [CAMS] Central Authority for Mobilization and Statistics (2016), General population and housing census, Population 2016. El Dardiry, D. and El Ghonaimy, I. (2016), Comparative study for developing closed vernacular settlements in Egypt, Journal of Social Science and Humanities Research,Vol. 1, No. 10, pp. 82–​105. El Ghorab, H. and Shalaby, H. (2016), Eco and green cities as new approaches for planning and developing cities in Egypt, Alexandria Engineering Journal,Vol. 55, No. 1, pp. 495–​503. [EMPMAR] Egypt Ministry of Planning, Monitoring and Administrative Reform (2016), Sustainable Development Strategy: Egypt vision 2030. Faggal, A. (2012), Gated communities as an approach toward sustainable development, Sustainable Building Conference SB13 Cairo, 6–​7 November 2013, Ain Shams University, Cairo. Fahmi, W. (2013), Sustainable suburban communities from resettlement ghettoes to gated utopias, The 3rd World Sustainability Forum, 1–​30 November 2013, available at: www.sciforum.net/​conference/​wsf3. Feisal, Z. and Haron, A. (2017), Multifunction Green Infrastructure: Towards upgrading urban ecosystem in Cairo, 7th ARCHCAIRO Building Innovatively Interactive Cities Horizons & Prospects Conference, Cairo University, Cairo. Hegazy, I. (2010), Strategic Environmental Assessment and Urban Planning in Egypt, PhD Thesis, University of Liverpool. Hegazy, I. (2011), Informal settlement upgrading policies in Egypt: Towards improvement in the upgrading process, Journal of Urbanism: International Research on Place-​making and Urban Sustainability,Vol. 9, No. 3, pp. 254–​275. Hegazy, I. (2018), How to achieve liveable urban communities in Egypt, Journal of Urban Regeneration and Renewal, Vol 11, No. 4, pp. 388–401.

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Ibrahim Rizk Hegazy Hegazy, I. and Seddik,W. (2013),Toward revitalization of new towns in Egypt case study: Sixth of October, International Journal of Sustainable Built Environment,Vol. 2, No. 1, pp. 10–​18. Hegazy, I., Seddik, W. and Ibrahim, H. (2017), Towards green cities in developing countries: Egyptian new cities as a case study, International Journal of Low-​Carbon Technologies,Vol. 12, No. 4, pp. 358–​368. Kuppinger, P. (2004), Exclusive greenery: New gated communities in Cairo, City & Society,Vol. 16, No. 2, pp.  35–​61. Mahmoud, A. and Adel, M. (2011), Development of sustainable urban green areas in Egyptian new cities: The case of El-​Sadat City, Landscape and Urban Planning,Vol. 101, No. 2, pp.157–​170. Maryanti, M., Khadijah, H., Muhammad Uzair, A. & Megat Mohd Ghazali, M. (2016), The urban green space provision using the standards approach: Issues and challenges of its implementation in Malaysia, WIT Transactions on Ecology and the Environment,Vol. 210, pp. 369–​379. [MSEA] Ministry of State for Environmental Affairs (2015–​2016), Egyptian Environmental Affairs Agency, Annual report. [MSEA] Ministry of State for Environmental Affairs (2017), Egyptian Environmental Affairs Agency, Annual Report, 2015–​2016. [NPC] National Population Centre (2016), Population Situation Analysis Egypt, 2016. [NUCA] New Urban Communities Authority (2011), New Cairo’s Strategic Plan, 2011. Roger, W. (2013), Encyclopedia of the City, Routledge. Russo, A. and Cirella, G. (2018), Modern compact cities: How much greenery do we need?, International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, Vol. 15, No. 10, 2180. https://​doi.org/​10.3390/​ ijerph15102180. Safey Eldeen, H. (2014), A smart “Cairo” in the making: A strategic approach towards a better quality of life, Proceedings REAL CORP 2014, 21–​23 May 2014,Vienna, Austria. Said, N. (2013), Cairo behind the gates: studying the sensory configuration of Al-​Rehab City, International Journal of Sensory Environment, Architecture and Urban Design, Varia, February 2013. http://​journals. openedition.org/​ambiances/​252 ; DOI : 10.4000/​ambiances.252 (accessed 01 May 2019). Salem, E. and Monir, M. (2017), Policies, strategies, and mechanisms of new cities in Egypt, ARChive,Vol. 1, No. 1, [available at SSRN: https://​ssrn.com/​abstract=3056685]. Shehata, S. (2009), The role of private sector in urban development and management in new cities in Egypt, Conference on Developing the New Urban Communities Policies and Priorities, Bibliotheca Alexandrina, Egypt. World Bank (WB) (2008), Egypt: Urban Sector Update, vol.1. World Bank, Middle East and North Africa Region, Cairo. Yousry, A. (2009), The privatization of urban development in Cairo:  Lessons learned from Al Rehab gated community, Conference on Developing the New Urban Communities Policies and Priorities, Bibliotheca Alexandrina, Egypt.

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23 THE CULTURAL HERITAGE OF EGYPT’S CITIES Burden or resource? May al-​Ibrashy

Introduction Egypt’s cities have an ambivalent relationship with their cultural heritage, a relationship coloured by an eye for its potential and a dread of the responsibilities and restrictions that come with it. Egypt’s cultural heritage is both burden and benefit for its cities, which contain three World Heritage sites, most of Egypt’s listed Islamic sites, and most of the 6,500+ post-​colonial buildings of heritage value. Cities struggle to find the necessary funds and human power to maintain their heritage. Owners and neighbours of historic buildings complain about the restrictions imposed by these sites. Numerous proposals, projects and policies focus on utilising heritage sites for economic gain. Unending debates persist over who owns heritage, who is responsible for it and who is entitled to benefit from it. The country’s love-​hate relationship with its heritage shapes the cityscape and spills over into issues of identity politics, governance, economics and security. This chapter engages with the history, policies, administrative framework, politics and socioeconomics of cultural heritage. It focuses on cultural heritage in urban contexts, taking the cities of Cairo, Alexandria and Luxor as representative examples.

Pre-​modern views of heritage Conservation as a general concept is not new to Egypt. The scholar and physician ‘Abd al-​Latif al-Baghdadi’s (d. 1231–​1232) study of ancient Egyptian monuments is remarkably “modern” in its appreciation of the history and aesthetics of the remnants of the ancient Egyptians. The scholar Muhammad ‘Abd al-​’Aziz al-​Idrisi (d. 1251)  took offence at the practice of scavenging temples and pyramids for building material, because temples should be left undisturbed as reminders of the transitory nature of human glory. The importance of conservation was more straightforward when it came to Islamic rulers preserving the monuments of earlier Islamic dynasties, particularly when they carried religious significance. The Fatimids set aside a budget from the state treasury (diwan al-​ahbas) to maintain the shrines of the Prophet’s descendants (Raghib, 1977). Later rulers conserved some of these Fatimid shrines and did not rebuild them. In other instances, such as the case of al-​Sayyida 373

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Nafisa shrine, they incorporated earlier buildings into new structures and did not demolish them (Russell, 1939). These recorded incidences in history do not, of course, correspond to our modern understanding of conservation, but they speak of an appreciation of the historical building and a care to preserve its essential fabric even as it is embellished and remodelled through the ages.

A modern understanding of heritage It can be argued that conservation in its modern sense came to Egypt with the French invasion, followed by Muhammad ‘Ali Pasha’s ascent to power. Fascination with all that is ancient Egyptian manifested itself first in the Description de l’Egypte and in Egypt’s later foray into the world of the Great Exhibitions (Description, 1809–​1828; Mitchell, 1989). Western adventurers, scholars and thieves competed to “discover”, uncover and study ancient Egypt’s temples and tombs. Others ventured deeper into historic and traditional cities in the Delta and in Upper Egypt. At first, the Muhammad ‘Ali family assumed the mantle that it had inherited from its predecessors and concerned itself with the major shrines and religious buildings of Cairo, Alexandria, Tanta and other locations. In many cases, older mosques and shrines were demolished and rebuilt, but in some instances they were repaired with little remodelling. Al-​ Imam al-​Shafi ’i dome was renovated without many changes, while the Ottoman mosque adjacent to it was torn down and rebuilt by Khedive Tawfiq in 1891 (Rizq, 2002, I, pp. 972–​981). The family also followed in the tradition of its predecessors in setting up endowments for the preservation and maintenance of religious buildings. Abbas I’s renovations and endowments for the shrines of al-​Khalifa in the mid 19th century are a case in point (Mubarak, 1888–​1889, II, pp.185–​186; Qasim, 2018, pp. 235–​243). It is quite typical of the transitionary nature of this period that as the ‘Alawi family continued in the traditions inherited from the Islamic period, it also started to acquire a more modern outlook on heritage, particularly where ancient Egyptian heritage was concerned. Muhammad ‘Ali issued a decree to stop the export of antiquities in 1838, the Egyptian Antiquities Service was established in 1858 and the Egyptian Museum in 1863 (Cooperson, 2010). Ancient Egyptian sites were also excavated and buildings around them were cleared. The area around Luxor Temple, for example, was cleared in 1881 and excavations started and continued until the 1960s. Inhabitants of the demolished houses were compensated with land and money (Hesham and Baller, 2018).

The Comité de Conservation: The first governmental entity charged with preserving Islamic heritage In 1881, the Comité de Conservation des Monuments d’Art Arabe, the entity in charge of protecting the more urban Islamic monuments, was established after intense lobbying from Western aficionados and scholars of “Arab” art (Reid, 2015, pp.167–​196; Comité de Conservation des Monuments de l’Art Arabe, 1892–​1963). It set out criteria for registering historic buildings as monuments and establishing a legal and administrative framework for their maintenance and preservation. This was a timely move, as many historic buildings in Egypt’s cities were suffering from structural problems, damage to –​and loss of –​decorative elements, misuse and neglect, groundwater damage, and the encroachment by neighbouring buildings. Because many of the buildings from this period were located within the city, in many cases within a dense urban fabric, the Comité had to develop a strategy for dealing with monuments

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and their surroundings, including their owners, residents, users, neighbours and caretakers. In order to preserve the fabric of a building the way it wished to, the Comité most probably had to expropriate and evacuate it.The Comité gradually established a policy to incrementally bring all listed buildings under government ownership. It also set about removing abutting structures in order to expose the building to view from all sides. The Comité’s work saved many of the endangered buildings, but it also left many of them void of much of the significance and attachment that comes from everyday use. For example, the first Museum of Islamic Art was established in the Fatimid Mosque of al-​Hakim in 1880 (Museum of Islamic Art, 2016). The Comité also proposed to convert the courtyard of the khanqah of Faraj b. Barquq into a museum of funerary stelae.These ideas were short-​lived, however, and both buildings now function as mosques. According to Reid (1992), this approach reflects a dissonance between local views of mosques as “living centres of worship and study” and Western views of the same buildings as “museums to represent a dead past for Western tourists.”. He goes on to argue that “European officials, architects, Orientalists and amateurs of Islamic art on the Comité tended to blame Egyptians for neglecting their monuments while assuming their own motives were self-​evident, scientific and pure.” (Reid, 1992, p. 58) It can therefore be argued that the Comité privileged cultural significance over use value. Users of religious buildings in particular had tastes that, if accommodated, would counter the “stylistic restoration” standards of Viollet-​le-​Duc that the Comité followed at the time. The main principle of this school of thought was that the building would be restored to its “original style” (Reid, 2015, p. 173; Jokilehto, 2005, pp. 277–​279).1 Sometimes, this approach could be overridden. In 1911, Khedive ‘Abbas Hilmi II vetoed the placement of a plain maqsura (screen) proposed over the shrine of al-​Imam al-​Shafi ’i and ordered the Comité to replace it with an ornate gilded one more in keeping with users’ tastes (Comité 1892–​63,V.28, pp. 38, 50). The building’s relationship to its neighbours was perhaps the most critical in terms of reshaping the city. Buildings abutting registered monuments were expropriated and demolished in order to create open spaces called buffer or protection zones around monuments. For example, structures were removed from inside the mosque of Ibn Tulun, from around its ziyada and also from the area between the adjoining Ottoman houses of al-​Kritliyya and Amna b. Salim, which were gradually converted into a museum with the street between them transformed from a public thoroughfare to a private passageway (Warner 2003, 2005, pp. 128–​129, 143, 167). As the Comité increased its engagement with the city, it came to understand that it required a more complex urban strategy than simply following the mandate of expropriation, removal of encroachment and conservation of individual buildings. In 1931, Edmond Pauty (1931), expert architect with the Comité de Conservation, published an article in which he detailed a scheme for dividing “Old Cairo” into protection zones with different regulations with the aim of preserving the city’s urban fabric and protecting unlisted historic buildings. The severity of regulations was decided according to how historic each quarter was—​the more monuments it had and the better preserved its historic urban fabric, the more it should be protected (Pauty, 1931). This article is especially progressive when seen, not just against the prevailing trend to focus purely on monument restoration, but more importantly against a policy to modernise Cairo that started with the birth of the Muhammad ‘Ali Dynasty. Straight streets were cut through the city and intercity cemeteries were removed. Tanzim lines were established with the aim of incrementally widening streets, removing ponds and lakes, and increasing open spaces (Abu-​Lughod, 1971, pp. 147–​149). In his article, Pauty (1931) accepts the necessity of accommodating cars and linking between the old city and new settlements. However, he is also critical of laws such as Lord Cromer’s alignment law of 1889 which regulated the streets to the point of outlawing covered streets and façade protrusions such as mashrabiyyas.2 375

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These kinds of debates were overshadowed by the post-​1952 state’s drive to build social housing and modernise industry, and that too came with a price. The Ministry of Endowments channelled part of its revenue –​some of it meant for the maintenance of historic sites –​to build social housing and in many cases built it on land it owns, some of it in the historic city centres. The Awqaf Buildings on the Citadel Square in Cairo, which were built on an empty plot occupied by street performers in the 1950s, are a case in point.3 There is also demographic evidence of a population drain from historic neighborhoods, with residents rehoused in new public housing (Antoniou et. al., 1980, pp. 42–​44; Simms, 2010, pp. 55–​56). We also see other kinds of “utilitarian modernizing” features such as roads and flyovers cutting through the historic city. Salah Salim Street in Cairo and the widening of Alexandria’s Corniche are examples of this.

Legislation protecting Islamic heritage Law No. 14 (1912) and Law No. 18 (1918), the first two laws protecting antiquities, gave the government the right to expropriate monuments and surrounding buffer zones for the public good. Law No. 18 (1918) also forbade the reuse of listed monuments for purposes other than their original function, stating that using monuments for habitation, raising animals or burial is punishable by up to 1 year of imprisonment. Antiquities Law No. 117 (1983) served as the basis for the law currently in place. According to El-​Habashi and Abdel-​Barr (2006), this law was the first law that designated and qualified “beautifying lines of public antiquities and archaeological areas” around monuments. In urban settings, this buffer zone was set according to the urban context: 3-​km wide in the case of the Pyramids of Giza, 30 m around the mosque of Amr b. al-​’As and 2 m around a smaller building such as the sabil-​kuttab of Faraj b. Barquq in al-​Khiyamiyya. Articles 19 and 20 in Law No. 117 (1983) state that: Lands lying within said lines shall be considered archaeological lands and provisions of present law shall be applicable thereupon. … Other parties shall be prohibited from establishing foundations or cemeteries or digging canals or constructing roads or cultivating in the same or in the public-​service facilities set for antiquities or lands lying within the authorized beautifying lines. Implanting trees or the cutting of such or carrying rubble or taking soil or fertilizers or sand or the execution of any such work which result in changing the characteristics of said sites and lands shall be prohibited except with a license from the Authority and under its supervision. Provision of the previous paragraph shall be applicable on adjacent lands lying outside the scope of the sites referred to in the previous paragraph which extends to 3 km distance in uninhabited places or to the distance the Authority determines in a way that realizes protecting the environment of the antiquity at other sites. El-​Habashi and Abdel-​Barr, 2006, p. 2 Later amendments to this law, the latest version being Law No. 91 (2018) have not deviated much from this approach (Ministry of Antiquities, 2019), and it can be argued that this approach has contributed significantly to the ambivalence (and in some cases resentment) of Historic Cairo’s residents towards its heritage sites. The neighborhoods of al-​Hattaba and ‘Arab al-​Yasar may be extreme examples of this. They have been considered within the buffer zone of Cairo citadel since the 1970s and, as such, all renovation and construction permits have been denied. The result is the dilapidation of buildings, which puts resident safety in jeopardy. 376

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Collaborative efforts to identify heritage, develop a management policy and execute it For the Comité, financing the activities of conservation, maintenance, appropriation and creation of protection zones, was no easy task. Buildings with religious endowments (waqf) were restored with money coming from the Awqaf (endowments) authorities, while state funding had to be found for other buildings. With the gradual centralisation of all endowments under state control, this issue became more complex as authorities gave themselves the right to decide where to channel revenue, regardless of the original stipulations of each endowment. This was further complicated after the Comité was moved from the Ministry of Endowments to the Ministry of Education in 1936. It was disbanded in 1961 and passed through a series of changes in name and statute until it became a separate ministry in 2011 after it had been under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Culture for a number of years. In 2019, it was finally married to the Ministry of Tourism (becoming the Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities). As the antiquities authorities moved farther away from the Awqaf, it could no longer be taken for granted that the conservation of buildings with endowments would be financed through their waqf. Accordingly, other streams of revenue had to be found. This issue was resolved around 2011: Awqaf authorities are now required to fund the conservation of buildings owned by them under the technical supervision of the Antiquities Ministry. The funding gap which lasted close to 50 years, along with the political turmoil, regional instability and economic changes of the second half of the 20th century opened the road to international funding and expertise, expanding its scope of interest beyond ancient Egyptian antiquities to the more recent living heritage within Egypt’s cities. In 1979, Memphis and its necropolis (Giza to Sakkara) on the outskirts of Cairo, Ancient Thebes in the heart of the city of Luxor and Historic Cairo were listed as World Heritage sites (UNESCO World Heritage Centre, 1992–​2020). Foreign missions that had worked on ancient Egyptian sites for years started to interest themselves in Historic Cairo and the colonial heritage of Alexandria. They tended to focus more on monument conservation and confined their urban vision to one area with the hope that this might automatically result in urban regeneration. They also mostly focused on Cairo. For example, between the 1980s and 2000s, the German Archaeological Institute (DAI) focused on al-​Jamaliyya (Hampikian, 1995; Speiser, 1995), and the American Research Centre focused on the area around Bab Zuwayla in Taht al-​Rab’ (American Research Centre in Egypt (ARCE), 2020), while in Alexandria, SwedAlex focused on supporting heritage documentation (Sirri, 2018). The DAI project is of particular interest because it was born out of a study prepared by its founder for UNESCO in 1980 (Meinecke, 1980). The study focused on the rehabilitation of Historic Cairo and was based on the premise that the conservation of monuments and the regeneration of monuments in clusters would lead to an improvement in the built environment. The next international study of Historic Cairo was commissioned by United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) in 1997. Historic Cairo was divided into zones and the focus was more on integrated regeneration of monuments and surroundings with an eye towards socioeconomic impact (UNDP, 1997). It can be argued that this study was a response to the recommendations of the conference held to assess the damage of the 1992 earthquake on Egypt’s Islamic heritage (Bacharach 1995).4 The most comprehensive study of Historic Cairo conducted was the Urban Regeneration Project for Historic Cairo (URHC) undertaken between 2010 and 2014 by the World Heritage Centre in collaboration with a number of Egyptian consultants. After setting the borders of Historic Cairo, URHC produced a rigorous system for area grading from which it derived a system for preparing conservation and 377

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management plans. It also commissioned a number of studies on pertinent topics ranging from socioeconomics to environment to traffic. Finally, it proposed a management system that has yet to be adopted by the Egyptian Government (UNESCO World Heritage Centre, 2012–​2020).

Governmental attempts to deal with heritage on an urban level at the turn of the 21st century URHC was part of a larger project for technical support to manage Egypt’s World Heritage sites. It was a manifestation of the World Heritage Centre’s growing frustration with the Egyptian government’s failure to ratify borders and adopt a management plan for Historic Cairo. It was also an indirect response to concerns about the Egyptian Government’s ambitious Historic Cairo Development Project (HCDP), which can be seen as a response to the recommendations of the UNDP report. HCDP was inaugurated in 1998 to restore Cairo’s major Islamic sites and upgrade the main streets of al-​Mu’izz and al-​Jamaliyya (Ministry of Antiquities, 2017). Out of 174 buildings slated for conservation, around 120 have been conserved to date and a handful of them were converted into cultural spaces run by the National Fund for Culture (Ministry of Culture, 2002, p. 25).5 While the Egyptian Government rectified many of the technical conservation problems it had initially encountered, there remains a major concern about the lack of a comprehensive urban conservation and management approach that deals with the city as a whole and does not simply focus on the conservation of monuments and upgrading of tourist spines. HCDP has recently commissioned a detailed survey designed to serve as a basis for terms of reference for a comprehensive conservation and management project building on the URHC studies. In the 1990s, a series of decrees limiting the destruction of historic villas and buildings from the 19th century onwards ignited a debate about the conflict between preserving heritage for public good versus the rights of citizens to do what they wish with their private property (El Kady and El Kerdany 2009).6 In 2001, the National Organisation for Urban Harmony (NOUH) was set up to deal with this issue. In 2006, Law No. 144 was ratified to regulate the process of listing and monitoring historic buildings. This law was amended in 2008 as Law No. 119, which is now in place, but was severely criticised as flawed due to contradictory articles between the law and its bylaws (Elsorady, 2011; Munir, 2017). NOUH’s stated aim is to apply the value of beauty to the external form of buildings and urban and historical spaces, and to set the bases of a visual fabric for cities, villages and new urban settlements (National Organisation of Urban Harmony, n.d.). According to Law No. 119 (2008, art. 29), NOUH’s responsibilities are to set a general policy, plans and detailed proposals on an urban level; to propose and review relevant laws, regulations and decrees; to conduct studies and research; and to coordinate with relevant authorities to make sure the set regulations are applied. It first set about “preparing a comprehensive database of all the buildings of exceptional architectural value in all governorates and setting the necessary rules for their preservation” and “setting regulations that guarantee that the existing architectural form is unchanged and prevent additions to existing buildings that deform the general (city) scape” (National Organisation of Urban Harmony, n.d.). On an urban level, NOUH has set regulations for Cairo, Alexandria and Port Fu’ad; it has published five sets of guidelines for: historic areas and buildings, city centres, billboards, parks and green areas, and quality management; and it has overseen urban upgrade projects in Cairo, Alexandria, Damanhur, Asyut, Giza, Shibin, al-​Daqahliyya, al-​Zaqaziq and al-​Wadi al-​Jadid (National Organisation of Urban Harmony, nd). In listing buildings of historic value and operating through the country’s governorates to prevent demolition and oversee interventions, NOUH is handicapped by a number of restrictions. 378

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It does not have the legal mandate to monitor the state of its listed buildings and has to act through local authorities that are notoriously corrupt and that do not understand the need to preserve historic buildings. It has no financial resources for appropriating buildings and compensating their owners, and, even if it did, it does not have the capacity to own and run such a large number of buildings. More importantly, it cannot even provide owners with financial support for necessary repairs and renovations. As a result, the NOUH listing system was destined to fail. It is also worth noting that this classification system is not well developed, with the result that listing criteria are applied in an arbitrary manner and some historic areas are under-​ represented on the list. Alexandria can be considered a poster child for the failings of NOUH. Buildings are listed, then removed from the list and demolished through a process in which local authorities are complicit. Owners are rightly indignant that they are denied the right to do with their property as they please, and cases have been documented where owners removed decorative elements to deliberately sabotage their buildings and have them delisted. The problems culminated in the saga of historically significant buildings such as Villa Aghion designed by the Perret brothers7 and built in 1927 and later demolished in 2017 after a decade long fight to preserve it (Elsorady, 2011; Munir, 2017). Responsibility for Egypt’s historic urban heritage did not lie solely under the mantle of NOUH and antiquities authorities. In addition to the discrepancy between the law and its bylaws, in Alexandria, there are two types of listing, one under NOUH and another under AlexMed. The latter was ratified by Alexandria Governorate in 1999. AlexMed was the second iteration of the Alexandria Preservation Trust (APT) founded by a professor at Alexandria University in 1985. APT then partnered with the newly established Bibliotheca Alexandrina and was supported with European Union (EU) funding. The list was developed further and again ratified in 2008 as the Alexandria Heritage Catalogue (Elsorady, 2011).

Overlapping jurisdiction and contradictory laws The kind of overlap mentioned above is not uncommon. In Cairo, the Department of Fatimid Cairo in the Ministry of Housing was responsible for the conservation of al-​Azhar Mosque and the rehabilitation of the surrounding area. This project, which was implemented in the 1990s, was highly criticised (Sedky, 2005), yet the department continues to be active in Historic Cairo working on conservation, area conservation, new constructions next to monuments and adaptive reuse. In the 1990s, the Ministry of Tourism concerned itself with religious tourism trails in Historic Cairo. It upgraded the main street in Coptic Cairo and started but did not finish a façade renovation project in al-​Khalifa (Mona Zakaria Architect Group, nd.). In 2010, a department concerned solely with heritage was set up in Cairo Governorate and the URHC report proposed that this department run the integrated technical body to manage Historic Cairo. This never materialised. Also noteworthy are the General Organisation of Physical Planning’s (GOPP) city master plans and strategic plans, including Cairo 2052 and Alexandria 2032, which tend to be extremely insensitive to heritage preservation issues, cutting through sites with wide avenues and flyovers, demolishing historic buildings, and disrupting the historic urban fabric (Shawkat, 2011; Tadamun, 2014; ‘Abd al-​Hafiz, 2014; General Organisation of Physical Planning, 2015, 2020; UNDP. 2020; Hammuda, 2018; Sirri, 2018). On a more national level, the Informal Settlements Development Fund took on a role in shaping the country’s historic cities simply because it did not make a distinction between these and other dilapidated urban settlements. The historic city core of Esna City in Luxor Governorate was declared an informal settlement, as were neighborhoods within Historic 379

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Cairo, including al-​Hattaba and ‘Arab al-​Yasar, and vernacular settlements such as al-​Maks in Alexandria. All these were declared unsafe and accordingly slated for demolition or replanning. This was particularly critical, and resulted in citizen-​led responses in protest, mostly in the form of advocacy and lobbying (Ibrahim, 2014b; Athar Lina, 2019).

The case of Luxor The most significant and radical urban-​level contemporary intervention was the Comprehensive Development Plan for the City of Luxor. It was implemented by the Egyptian Ministry of Housing, Utilities and Social Development and the Higher Council of Luxor City (now Luxor Governorate) in partnership with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the technical and financial support from UNDP and additional funding from the World Bank. It has already been shown that much of the earlier evidence of habitation was lost in the process of clearing the area around Luxor Temple in the late 19th century, and a connection to the site was lost with the displacement of villagers. On the other hand, this process revealed the temple and created a tourist destination.Tourism brought in revenue and many measures were taken to improve sanitation, services, infrastructure and quality of public spaces (Hesham and Baller, 2018; Cernea, 2008). On the West Bank, concerns were not simply about site presentation; they were also about illegal excavation. The village of New Gourna, designed by Hasan Fathy and now itself a heritage site, was built in the West Bank in the 1940s further away from the Tombs of the Nobles to rehouse villagers away from the illegal excavations under their homes (Fathy, 1969; Meskell 2000; Mitchell, 2002). Parallel to these site management and tourism development activities, excavation and conservation continued, mostly in collaboration with foreign missions from the United States, Germany and France, among others. In the 1980s, there were serious problems with rapid population growth and urban densification around the heritage core. In response to these concerns, the Comprehensive Development Plan for the City of Luxor (CDCL) was launched in 1996.The goal of CDCL was to redevelop the areas surrounding the heritage site to enhance tourism, provide services, increase public space, reformulate the Corniche and excavate the Avenue of the Sphinxes between Luxor and Karnak.The term “Open Air Museum” was used in much of the rhetoric surrounding this project. Inherent in this term is a reification of heritage and tourism over the fundamental rights of the citizens of Luxor to a city that supports their everyday needs and that is not simply a destination of tourism (Hesham and Baller, 2018; Abraham, 2002; Kamar, 2014, Kamar and Ismail, 2011). Unfortunately, as with previous interventions, this required demolishing buildings, some of which were historic. The project also created unshaded open spaces that exacerbated the urban heat island effect and widened roads that could increase vibrations and pollution from traffic. Most importantly, it disconnected the people of Luxor even more from their heritage and, due to delays in executing the project and unforeseen problems, such as the collapse of tourism because of political instability, locals have yet to benefit financially from these developments. It should be noted that few precautions have been put in place to prioritise economic benefit to the local community. Adding insult to injury, there were many complaints that the buildings in which residents were rehoused were shoddy in both execution and design (Barry, 2014, pp. 170–​172; Kamar and Ismail, 2011). The most extreme reaction came from the residents of Old Gourna, who had resisted the move to New Gourna and tried unsuccessfully to resist this new attempt at eviction through petitions and protests that resulted in fatalities (Mitchell, 2002). The case of Gourna is an extreme example of the contentious relationship between heritage sites and the people living 380

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around them; a relationship that can be read between the lines in the earlier literature on the history of heritage management in Egypt and which has now become a focal issue, thanks to the new emphasis on participation and on sustainable heritage management.

Egyptian-​led non-​governmental efforts for the management of heritage It wasn’t until the 1980s that a wider spectrum of Egyptians started to have a say in conservation policies with motivations other than religious sentiment. Some, including members of the Alexandria Preservation Trust mentioned above, worked on research and documentation. Others, such as members of the Sikkat al-​Mahjar project, worked on renovating unlisted historic houses (Said, 1999); still others ran projects under the umbrella of foreign missions such as ARCE and the German Archaeological Institute. More urban-​minded projects included Mashrabiyya Institute’s work on Darb al-​Asfar Street with funding from the Kuwaiti Arab Fund for Economic and Social Development (Nadim Foundation, 2019), the Sayyida Zeinab Development Project in partnership between Cairo Governorate and the City of Paris (Atelier Parisien d’Urbanisme, 2005) and the regeneration of the stock exchange area in downtown Cairo, a pioneering example of public–​ private partnership (El Kadi and El Kerdany, 2009). It can be argued, however, that the first comprehensive non-​governmental attempt at area conservation came from the pioneering project run by the Aga Khan Trust for Culture (AKTC) in al-​Darb al-​Ahmar in Historic Cairo. AKTC wished to endow Egypt with the gift of a park, and the site chosen was also within Historic Cairo on the mound east of the walled Fatimid City of al-​Qahira, between it and the eastern cemetery of al-​Sahra’. AKTC included a socioeconomic development component to benefit the community of al-​Darb al-​Ahmar, the area running along the western edge of the proposed site. It also included the conservation of a section of the eastern city wall as part of its scope.The most innovative component of the project was the work on upgrading and rehabilitating non-​listed historic residential buildings (Aga Khan Trust for Culture, 2005; Tadamun, 2017). Alexandria was the scene of a more grassroots type of intervention. After the vernacular fishermen’s village of al-​Maks was threatened with demolition, an artist group called Gudran Association for Art and Development started to intervene with in-​situ artwork raising awareness of the village’s beauty and advocating for its preservation. Unfortunately, al-​Maks was demolished in 2018. In parallel to small efforts for socioeconomic development and visibility in al-​Maks, Gudran also started working on converting Alexandria’s downtown spaces into cultural venues in a belief that they have a social responsibility “to abandon the traditional spaces of exhibition and performance, activate our artistic practice in the street, and stimulate contact with all aspects of Egyptian society” (Golia, 2014). This strategy was consistent with a growing trend in the 1990s and 2000s for artists to take over spaces in historic city centres and to take their art to the streets. These efforts paralleled a push to link heritage more closely to development, in keeping with a global movement adopting a more integrated approach to defining and conserving heritage (Hassan 2008; ICCROM-​Athar, 2013; UNESCO, 2016; Mahdy, 2017). In 2001, the World Bank (2001) issued a report detailing the potential for heritage to drive socioeconomic development in the MENA region. The report also acknowledged the danger of overly commercialising heritage particularly through uncontrolled tourism. It maintained that as public goods, cultural heritage assets should be enjoyed by all and consumed by none, and that commercial exploitation should come hand in hand with preservation (The World Bank, 2001; Cernea, 2008). 381

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The same integrated participatory approach of AKTC is now being followed by a handful of independent non-​governmental entities, albeit at a smaller scale. In 2012, Megawra-​Built Environment Collective established an initiative called Athar Lina (2020) with a vision of heritage as a driver of development. Focusing on the neighbourhood of al-​Khalifa in Historic Cairo, Athar Lina (2020) works on conserving historic buildings for the community’s benefit (Athar Lina, 2020). Takween Integrated Development works in the city of Esna in Luxor Governorate to rehabilitate a local caravanserai and market as a centre for the promotion of craft and the development of tourism in the city (Ibrahim, 2014b; Takween, 2010–​2019). Maspero is another historic area evacuated and demolished in 2018 despite the work of Madd, a grassroots movement, to advocate for its preservation. Developers had been eyeing Maspero for years because it was a piece of prime property in downtown overlooking the Nile (Madd Platform, 2015; Wahba,  2020). At the turn of the 21st century, there were other signs that the business world was taking notice of the investment potential in historic buildings. Although heritage zones like Historic Cairo were considered high-​risk loan areas for banks, this did not deter private individuals from buying old houses for their personal gratification or as investments. Some of these houses have been renovated and a handful are currently being converted into Airbnbs. However, these trends are more common in the colonial city centres of Cairo and Alexandria than in older neighborhoods like Historic Cairo. Real estate investment companies like Al Ismaelia in Cairo and Sigma in Alexandria are buying entire buildings as investments and rehabilitating them for cultural, hospitality and commercial functions. Al Ismaelia is also part of a consortium of businesses in downtown that have collaborated with Cairo Governorate to plaster historic facades and beautify the cityscape. This is done through a board of trustees established by Cairo Governorate to help fundraise for these activities. The most significant consortium member is Misr Real Estate Assets Management (MREA), a state-​run company and affiliate of Misr Insurance Holdings that operates almost 400 properties in six governorates, around 150 of which are historic buildings. This company is expected to play a significant role in the economics of heritage as the government becomes more aware of the economic potential of architectural heritage assets (Sigma Properties, 2015; Awatta, 2015; Al-​Shinnawi, 2020; MREA, n.d.). In 2015, the Ministry of Antiquities issued a set of guidelines for the adaptive reuse of listed monuments (Faraj, 2014).8 Before these guidelines, the only acceptable functions for listed monuments were religious and cultural. For years, investors and entrepreneurs tried to convince authorities that certain sites such as the lower esplanade of Bab al-​’Azab in the Citadel were suited for commercial, recreational and touristic purposes and even when the authorities acceded, a media frenzy would ensue and the government would back down in the midst accusations of exploiting heritage and demeaning it (Ibrahim, 2014a). This has now changed and functions such as hospitality and recreation are accepted (Munir and Ibrahim, 2020).9 Finally, the combination of civic pride, political unrest and instability that came after the 2011 revolution brought with it a new movement for heritage advocacy.The post-​2011 security vacuum brought about an epidemic of demolition of historic buildings, illegal constructions, illegal excavations, antiquity theft and trafficking, the like of which Egypt had never seen. Grassroots movements such as Save Alex, Description of Alexandria, Save Mansoura, Save Minya, Min Fat Adimuh (Quseir), Heliopolis Heritage, Athar Lina, Takween and Port Said Ala Adimo came together to advocate for heritage. They also work on heritage awareness activities and some have branched into consulting with the government and converting heritage buildings for adaptive reuse. Entities such as Heliopolis Heritage have been institutionalised, while others have struggled with legalisation. Between 2015 and 2018, most of these entities came together in a network (first called Citizens for Heritage and Culture, then called Egypt Heritage Network) 382

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that organised an annual heritage promotion event called Nas wa Turath (People and Heritage) (Shawkat, 2015; Egypt Heritage Network, n.d.; Dawoud, Iskander and George, 2017).

Conclusion This chapter has attempted to present a brief history of the policies of conservation of cultural heritage in urban Egypt. This history is difficult to tell due to conflicting claims to cultural heritage and contradictory urban management policies, legalities, financial and administrative frameworks, and resource allocation policies. Trends and approaches have developed from stylistic restoration, to conservation and adaptive reuse, to area conservation, to integrated participatory methods, to converting heritage into a socioeconomic resource. The right of local communities to claim ownership of this resource is rarely acknowledged. In many cases, the most a citizen can hope for is an ambivalent relationship from which no harm comes and no benefit is sought.

Notes 1 Although later debates would have some members of the Comité advocating for the “ruin conservation” approach of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (SPAB). 2 Bay windows made of turned wood protruding from building facades. 3 Information obtained through ongoing fieldwork on the history of public housing projects in al-​Khalifa area –​Athar Lina’s Citizen Participation in Historic Cairo Project (Athar Lina, 2020). 4 Interview with Ahmed Mansour, former proxy scientific coordinator at URHC, 14 February 2020. 5 For example, Bayt al-​Harrawi was converted into a music centre, Bayt Sitt Wasila into a poetry centre and al-​Amir Taz Palace into a cultural centre. Personal communication from Hania Khalifa, Head engineer of HCDP. 6 Triggered by Cairo Governor’s decree (300) in 1993 to ban the destruction of houses and buildings linked to key historic figures and/​or events followed by a 12-​month moratorium on all demolition work (decree No. 244 of 1994), then decree 238 (of 1996) banning all demolition permits for buildings of outstanding architectural style (El Kadi and El Kerdany, 2009, p. 357). 7 Pioneers of the architectural use of reinforced concrete. 8 Personal communication from Mahmud ‘Abd al-​Basit, head of the Historic Cairo Development Project. 9 A rehabilitation project developed by Hampikian—​architecture and heritage with funding from the American Research Centre in Egypt has been approved by the Ministry of Antiquities and negotiations are underway for it to be implemented by Al Ismaelia Real Estate.

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The cultural heritage of Egypt’s cities Takween (2010–​2019). Takween integrated community development. Available from www.takween-​eg.com/​ [accessed 24 February 2020]. The World Bank (2001). Cultural heritage and development: A framework for action in the Middle-​East and North Africa. Washington D.C.: The International Bank for Reconstruction and Development. United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) (1997). Rehabilitation of Historic Cairo (Unpublished report). UNDP. United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) (2020). Strategic urban planning for Alexandria City till 2032. Available from www.eg.undp.org/​content/​egypt/​en/​home/​projects/​strategic-​urban-​planning-​ for-​alexandria-​city-​till-​2032.html [accessed 25 February 2020]. UNESCO World Heritage Centre (1992–​2020). World Heritage List. Available from https://​whc.unesco. org/​en/​list[accessed 22 February 2020]. UNESCO World Heritage Centre (2012–​2020). Urban regeneration project for Historic Cairo (URHC). Available from www.urhcproject.org/​[accessed 22 February 2020]. UNESCO (2016). Culture urban future:  Global report on culture for sustainable urban development. Available from http://​unesdoc.unesco.org/​images/​0024/​002459/​245999e.pdf [accessed 24 February 2020]. Wahba, D. (2020). Urban rights and local politics in Egypt: The case of the Maspero Triangle. Arab Reform Initiative Research Papers, 23 January. Available from www.arab-​reform.net/​wp-​content/​uploads/​pdf/​ Arab_​Reform_​Initiative_​en_​urban-​r ights-​and-​local-​politics-​in-​egypt-​the-​case-​of-​the-​maspero-​ triangle_​8929.pdf?ver=ffd81b7fec1f09289f018cd3485426be [accessed 24 February 2020]. Warner, N. (2003). Guide to the Gayer Anderson Museum. Cairo: Ministry of Culture, Supreme Council of Antiquities. Warner, N. (2005). The monuments of Historic Cairo:  A map and descriptive catalogue. Cairo:  American Research Centre.

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Media and popular culture

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INTRODUCTION Divergent trajectories of creativity and coercion Naomi Sakr

All media were once upon a time “new media,” and people in Egypt—​whether under occupation or after independence—​have historically been quick to experiment with “successive waves of new media” (Armbrust, 2012, p. 162) while they were still new. Film screenings took place in Alexandria and Cairo in November 1896, less than a year after the world’s first public film screening in Paris and, within a generation, films made in Egypt were giving rise to ambitions of building a Hollywood equivalent in Imbaba, northwest of Cairo (Darwish, 1998, pp. 9–​13). Radio broadcasting began in Egypt in the 1920s, while it was also still beginning elsewhere, with more than a hundred transmitting stations operated by radio amateurs and entrepreneurs who wanted to use the medium for advertising (Boyd, 1977, p.  6). Shortwave transmitters installed immediately after the 1952 revolution enabled Egypt to launch state-​run radio services in Asian, African, and European languages at such a rate that by 1973 it was the world’s sixth largest international broadcaster in terms of weekly program output (Boyd, 1999, pp. 30–​32). Although not the first country in the region to establish television as such (ibid., p.  37), in 1960 Egypt became the first independent Arab state to introduce a substantial television service (Dabous, 1994, p. 67), using expertise developed through film and radio to meet additional demands for programming fueled by the creation of television channels in other Arab countries, especially Gulf oil producers after the mid-​1970s oil price explosion. A reputation as “early adopter” was maintained through following decades, for both “big” and “small” media, where size refers not to audience reach but to a distinction between vertical communication that is professionally produced and a horizontal form based on active popular participation (Sreberny-​Mohammadi and Mohammadi, 1994, pp. 20–​21). Looking first at “big” media, the collectively owned Arab satellite, Arabsat, launched in 1985, remained underused until 1990, when Egypt became the first country to lease a transponder to send news and entertainment programming through what became the Egyptian Space Channel (ESC), ten months before the next Arab satellite channel start-​up, MBC (Sakr, 2001, pp. 10–​11). Having reserved an orbital slot in space in the 1980s, the Egyptian government finally ordered a broadcasting satellite of its own in 1995, as Arabsat signals were starting to deteriorate. When Nilesat came into operation in 1998, providing the expanded capacity afforded by digital technology ahead of Arabsat’s first digital satellite, it put Egyptian authorities in a position to befriend broadcasters rejected by Arabsat (Sakr, 2012a, p. 146).

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As for “small” media, it is instructive not to overlook audiocassettes, used to circulate sermons as well as music. Portable cassette players and blank cassettes were introduced to Egypt, as elsewhere, in the 1960s, and by the mid-​1970s private record companies and the state-​owned Sono Cairo were reissuing music on cassettes (Castelo-​Branco, 1987, pp.  35–​36). Cultural anthropologist Walter Armbrust, whose work on the Egyptian media scene spans the 20th and 21st centuries (Armbrust 1996; 2019), points out (2012, pp. 168–​169) that audiocassettes, albeit an analogue medium, prefigured digital media in miniaturization, ease of duplication and “dispersion of textual authority.” With Internet introduced to Egypt in 1993 (Abdulla, 2005, p. 153), the same year the world’s first web browser became available, the stage was set for the post-​2000 spread of digital media that would reproduce the vibrancy of the country’s print media scene in the first half of the previous century, with its many ground-​breaking features of the time, from innovative women’s journalism (Dabous 2004; Baron 1994) to social satire (Dougherty 2000). Developments in digital media are a significant focus of most chapters in this section of the handbook. How best to present and understand those developments? International media development specialists have finally come to recognize the “deeply political nature” of media institutions and the fundamental place of “power and politics” in determining outcomes in the media sector (Nelson, 2019, p. 31). That observation is key to making sense of the introductory narrative above. As the narrative suggests, every change in Egypt’s media landscape merits an analysis that encompasses not just the relevant technology, content, and impact of each new medium but also the context and contingencies behind its introduction. For example, ESC emerged on Arabsat in 1990 and no earlier because Arabsat’s other owners boycotted Egypt from 1979 to 1989. It was Egypt’s participation in the United States (US)-​led coalition to end Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in August 1990 that gave it the incentive to send programming to Egyptian troops and other potential viewers in the Gulf. Connection to the Internet in 1993, initially limited in extent and reliant on a sole Internet Service Provider (ISP), was expanded after Egypt was required to provide adequate internet connectivity for the UN International Conference on Population and Development, which it hosted in 1994. The government kept the additional capacity after the event, allowing free connections to non-​government users (Abdulla, 2005, pp.  153–​154). A  further boost came in 1999 with the creation of a Ministry of Communications and Information, headed by the former chief executive of a major private corporation, who was qualified in computer engineering (ibid, p.152) and was charged with implementing a master plan, driven at least in part by the objectives of linking Egypt to the global market place, promoting “e-​learning” to eradicate illiteracy, and encouraging an ICT export industry (Kamel, 2010).The imperative of trade connectivity can be seen in the context of Egypt’s 1995 accession to the World Trade Organization (WTO), its consequent exposure to foreign competition, especially in textile manufacture, and pressure from the World Bank to make local industries more “competitive” (Shenker, 2016, pp.  159–​160). During the 2000s, the ruling National Democratic Party, reorganized around a central policy committee tied to wealthy private business owners and international financial institutions (Ibid, p.62), earned praise for Egypt from the World Bank as the “world’s top reformer” (cited in El-​Mahdi and Marfleet, 2009, p. 2) and the International Monetary Fund as a “top performer” in structural adjustment and “improv[ing] the investment climate” (Shenker, 2016, p. 64). It was during this decade that privately-​owned television networks and newspapers were permitted and became established, and popular grievances built to the point where they erupted in the revolution of January 2011. When media developments are set in their political and economic context, various cross-​ cutting themes emerge that offer further perspective. One theme, evident in Nasser’s radio 392

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transmissions as well as the Arabsat-​Nilesat saga, is Egypt’s role in regional affairs. Another, reflected in the vision of ICT as a tool for teaching and job creation, is the way media activity intersects with demographics and inter-​generational communication and how issues around living standards and youth prospects are represented. A  third, implicit in legislation allowing but controlling private media, is the web of legal and extra-​legal limits on expression. A fourth, signaled by the vitality of media content at certain points in the 20th and 21st centuries, is the resourcefulness of those resisting repressive controls. The rest of this introductory chapter presents an overview of the contemporary media field in light of these themes, setting the scene for the section’s other chapters.

Regional rivalry and conflict As Tourya Guaaybess notes in her chapter on successive changes in media ownership, the rise of privately-​owned satellite channels and newspapers in the 2000s came about in part through Egypt’s determination to maintain a leading role in the pan-​Arab media landscape. The 1990s had seen Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates (UAE) seeking to influence regional politics via pan-​Arab broadcasting—​in Saudi Arabia’s case through private proxies of the government operating from bases in London and Italy. By the end of the decade, Saudi-​owned MBC, ART, and Orbit sought to reduce costs by relocating to so-​called “media free zones” established in Dubai, Amman, and Bahrain (Sakr, 2007, pp. 195–​197). Not to be outdone, Egypt’s government decreed the addition of a free zone in 2000 to its existing Media Production City studio complex and satellite uplinking facility. The zone enabled private entrepreneurs to circumvent the terrestrial broadcasting monopoly retained by the government-​run Egyptian Radio and Television Union (ERTU). By starting new satellite channels these entrepreneurs provided platforms for Egyptian television presenters who had made their names in Gulf-​owned media. Instead of working for MBC, ART, Dubai TV or Qatar’s Al-​Jazeera, these people could now address their compatriots on topics of national rather than regional interest. Viewers in Egypt responded by getting the necessary equipment: the percentage of TV homes with cable or satellite access soared from single figures in 2002 to 50% in 2006 (Sakr, 2012b, p. 326). A novel focus on Egyptian affairs, increased access to channels offering it, and higher advertising spend making them more viable: these stimuli took time to exert their mutual impact. But it is illuminating to chart the process by reference to regional push factors as well as domestic ones. An early push came from the pay-​TV network Orbit in 2000, with the start of its nightly live variety talk show Al-​Qahira al-​Yaum (Cairo Today), produced from Cairo studios. Aimed at promoting Egypt to Gulf audiences, the show was not primarily intended for Egyptians, since the decoder needed to receive Orbit was not allowed on Egyptian markets until 2003. These unusual circumstances gave the young, locally recruited production team an unusual degree of license, enabling them to conduct discreet news-​gathering that was effectively off limits even to the ERTU (ibid, p. 327). Evidence that Egyptians were tuning in, often through pirated connections, emerged in the ERTU’s introduction in 2004 of an evening show intended to compete with Al-​Qahira al-​Yaum, as part of ERTU changes that followed the appointment of the country’s first new information minister for 23 years. This was a period when, as Rasha Abdulla explains in her chapter on social media, outrage at the US-​led invasion of Iraq prompted demonstrations in Cairo as in other global cities, and this protest was documented by Egypt’s first bloggers. The sense of a national conversation becoming possible thanks to the rise of communication channels not under direct government control was a pull factor for Egyptian media personalities then working abroad. But two well-​known names, Hafez al-​Mirazi and Yusri Fouda, who quit Al-​Jazeera to take up job offers in Egypt in 2007–​2008, 393

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both told interviewers at the time that they were also unsettled by editorial (pro-​Islamist) and administrative changes in Al-​Jazeera. Qatari foreign policy behind decisions taken at the top of the Al-​Jazeera network continued to affect Egypt’s media scene through the aftermath of the January 2011 uprising against Hosni Mubarak, president for the previous 30 years, the ouster of the Muslim Brotherhood president Mohamed Morsi in July 2013, and under the presidency of Abdel-​Fattah al-​Sisi. An antecedent of the hostility that erupted between Egypt and Al-​Jazeera after 2011 can be seen in the privileged place that Qatar and Al-​Jazeera accorded to the exiled Egyptian cleric and former Muslim Brotherhood member, Yousef al-​Qaradawi, as recounted by Ehab Galal in his chapter on media and religion. When mass demonstrations began in Cairo on 25 January, 2011, Al-​ Jazeera Arabic (AJA) editors said they had so few staff on the ground that they decided to rely instead on citizen reports coming in on Facebook and Twitter, taking a “clear … pro-​rebellion stance” (quoted in Sakr, 2013, p. 71). This stance lay behind the creation in February 2011 of a dedicated channel, Al-​Jazeera Mubasher Misr (Direct from Egypt), which had to broadcast from Doha after the Egyptian authorities closed the Cairo operation in September 2011. In 2013, with the Al-​Jazeera ownership widely perceived as supporting the Muslim Brotherhood, security forces raided the network’s Cairo offices and arrested Egyptian and foreign staff members. The trials that ensued were notorious for the lack of evidence supplied (Boserup, 2019, p. 6), while the defendants were also not helped by Al-​Jazeera’s serving notice of its intention to lodge a US$150 million international arbitration claim against Egypt, alleging destruction of its media business in the country. The fate of Mubasher Misr provided a bargaining chip as Qatar sought to mollify the bloc of countries, including Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the UAE, lined up with Egypt against it. Under a new emir, Qatar financed additional media outlets in London that seemed intended to deflect attention from the Al-​Jazeera network. With these, and the rise of Egyptian opposition media operating from Turkey, the earlier flow of Egyptian journalists into Cairo was reversed, with many leaving for Doha, London, and Istanbul.Yet those working for or expressing themselves through such outlets had as much reason to fear recrimination by the Egyptian state as Egyptians still inside the country (ibid, p. 8). For example, in February 2018, Abdel-​Moneim al-​ Futouh, a candidate in the 2012 presidential election, was arrested on his return to Egypt after criticizing President Sisi during an interview with Al-​Jazeera. He was held in pre-​trial detention for two years before facing further charges in February 2020. The original charge was “inciting violence and chaos through anti-​state media outlets, joining an outlawed organisation and harming the state’s reputation” (Dunne and Hamzawy, 2019, p. 12). In January 2020, Egyptian security forces raided the premises of Turkey’s Anadolu News Agency in Cairo, arrested four employees and referred them to state security prosecutors, prompting Sherif Mansour, regional coordinator for the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), to warn that “journalists operating in Egypt should not have to work in fear that they will be used to settle political scores between countries” (CPJ 2020).

Issues of representation: Migrants, minors, and media irresponsibility An outflow of media practitioners and activists escaping political repression under the Sisi presidency added to earlier outflows of economic migrants, some of them professionals bound for North America or the Gulf, but others smuggled across the Mediterranean to Italy without qualifications, papers or job offers. Despite the rise of new media platforms in Egypt in the 2000s, mainstream media coverage remained very limited on the issues of joblessness, poverty, and lack of prospects experienced by large swathes of the population. Reports in 2007–​2009 394

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of scores of young, undocumented, Egyptian migrants drowning at sea in their attempts to reach Europe prompted some critical analysis in the heyday of evening talk shows on Egyptian channels during the years leading up to 2011, but even that was countered by government media narratives placing the blame for people-​smuggling and drownings anywhere but on government neglect (Sakr, 2014, pp. 199–​203). Daring to contemplate the harsh realities of why young people from deprived backgrounds would face death at sea rather than stay in Egypt was one example of how the pre-​2011 expansion of media outlets began to fill gaps in public knowledge. Another was to be found in efforts to tackle long-​standing general under-​representation of children and youth. Implications of this phenomenon were set out starkly by development scholar and social entrepreneur Iman Bibars in 2004. She wrote of Egypt’s “youth” that “no one wants to listen to them,” that they are “surrounded from all directions by orders and prohibitions,” “have no clear channels to express themselves” and “feel excluded from decision-​making and dialogue” (quoted in Karam, 2007, p. 85). It was against that background that young people’s use of online media, described in Rasha Abdulla’s chapter, took off. But there were also developments on TV. The Saudi-​ owned ART network had ART Teenz, produced in Cairo, which borrowed the talk show model popularized across pan-​Arab satellite channels and adapted it to issues that teenagers wanted to discuss (Sakr, 2017, pp. 53–​54). ART Teenz went off air in 2008. But that same year Egyptian state TV was persuaded to introduce a show about children’s rights, entitled Esma’oona (Hear Us Out), which the government presented to the UN’s Committee on the Rights of the Child as a step towards children’s media participation (Sakr, 2016, p. 381). Media initiatives like Esma’oona were short-​lived. After the coup that ousted President Morsi in 2013, local child’s rights advocacy groups documented escalating ill-​treatment of children, including those detained during protests. Failure to ensure that media coverage would protect children’s interests was demonstrated repeatedly. In one incident, a Sohag University professor published a call in the private newspaper, Al-​Masry Al-​Youm, to control rising numbers of street children by killing them (Mada Masr, 2014). In another, a father informed his two young children of their mother’s death in hospital that morning on live television, in a show hosted by ONTV (Al-​Arabiya, 2014). Adel Iskander (2019, p. 157) cites “speech bans” along with official violence and “cynicism on the part of their elders” as having severe “emotional repercussions” for Egypt’s youth in the aftermath of 2011, leading some to kill themselves and the vast majority to disengage entirely from politics or government attempts at mobilization, communicating instead through satire and sarcasm on social media platforms. However, as the Sisi presidency became more entrenched, the authorities cracked down increasingly on these platforms and genres.Two high profile satirists forced to flee the country in 2014 and 2018 were just tips of an iceberg. They were respectively, Bassem Youssef, creator of the irreverent show El Bernameg (so successful it was taken from YouTube to ONTV and then MBC Masr), and Mohammed Andeel, the cartoonist and comedian behind Mada Masr’s weekly video blog Big Brother. Youssef, Andeel, and others like them had only to point to frequent incitement on Egypt’s television screens against figures deemed oppositional or inconvenient by those in power. Under international law, free speech is supposed to be exercised with due regard for the rights and reputations of others. Yet the private channel Al-​Kahera Wal-​Nas (Cairo and the People) ran a show called The Black Box in 2014 that aired tapes of activists’ private telephone conversations in an attempt to smear them as enemies of the state. Syrian refugees in Egypt were also targeted after the 2013 coup as alleged sympathizers of the outlawed Muslim Brotherhood. Tawfik Okasha, a prominent talk show host, warned Syrians that Egyptians “took the addresses of where you are staying.” “If you stay with the Brotherhood,” he said, “after 48 hours the people will go to destroy your houses” (Fick, 2013).The host of a TV show that filmed a police raid on 395

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a bathhouse in 2014, showing 26 men escorted naked from the premises, was acquitted in 2016 of defamation and spreading false news. She had presented the undercover filming as part of a campaign to protect the public from AIDS.

Contradictions in law and practice It is an anomaly of Egyptian media that, despite layers of law and regulation, there is no effective protection of rights and reputations for those whom the government does not wish to defend. Anomalies like this are rife. Ramy M.K. Aly shows in his chapter how prohibitions embedded in contemporary laws have been passed down through the decades, such as those designed to safeguard a vaguely defined “public morality” or punish any act deemed to defame the “reputation of Egypt.” The latter taboo leads to incongruities such as occurred in 2019 when Nabila Makram, Egyptian Minister for Immigration and Expatriate Affairs, made a throat-​ slitting gesture while telling Egyptians in Canada that anyone who said anything bad about Egypt would be “cut” (Daragahi, 2019). Neither she nor those members of her audience who laughed in response appeared to consider the episode’s negative impact on the country’s image, or acknowledge the extent to which reputational concerns stoked up domestically were in conflict with positive attention paid at home and abroad to cutting-​edge Egyptian cultural output. For example, Mohamed Diab’s films 678 (2010) and Eshtebak (Clash, 2016)  received international acclaim but were accused at home of distorting Egypt’s reputation. Ahmad Naji’s novel Istikhdam al-​Hayat (Using Life), praised abroad, got its author a two-​year jail sentence in 2016 for “violating public modesty.” A conference held in the Egyptian town of Fayyoum after the sentence was imposed, entitled “Freedom of thought and creation between a constitution that ennobles it and a law that criminalises it” (Chitti, 2019, p. 113), highlighted a further contradiction in the country’s laws on media and culture. With Egypt sliding down the Reporters sans Frontières (RSF) World Press Freedom Index to 163rd out of 180 in 2019, ahead only of countries like Saudi Arabia, China, and North Korea (RSF, 2019), and with 30 journalists in jail in 2020, many of them detained for up to two years without trial (RSF, 2020), the mismatch is striking between guarantees enshrined in Egypt’s 2014 Constitution and penalties incurred in practice. Article 65 of the Constitution guarantees the right to express thoughts and opinions “verbally, in writing, through imagery, or by other means of expression and publication.” Article 67 guarantees “freedom of artistic and literary creativity” and promises state protection for artists, writers, and their productions. Yet the Constitution co-​exists not only with a raft of repressive laws mentioned in the chapters by Tourya Guaaybess and Rasha Abdulla but also with the long-​standing Emergency Law—​a coexistence which puts into question any push for the “rule of law” in countries where laws do not embody values of fairness or human dignity. The Emergency Law places major curbs on expression, making citizens subject to censorship, arbitrary arrest, and detention, and authorizing special security courts with judges appointed by the president to try civilians with no right of appeal.The law had its origins in the martial law imposed under British occupation and enforced during World War II, which was retained by the Free Officers in 1952 and renamed a “state of emergency” in 1958 (Brown, 2017). Reinstated from 1967 to 1980 and again in 1981 after the assassination of President Anwar Sadat, the state of emergency was regularly renewed until 2012, when it lapsed briefly. Reintroduced in 2013, it became again subject to repeated renewals, first for northern Sinai and then for the whole country from 2017, the eleventh being decreed in January 2020. Despite its far-​reaching impact, various quirks camouflage the way the state of emergency crushes media and cultural activity. First is the anomaly of having a quasi-​permanent Emergency 396

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Law when such laws are supposed, by definition and under international treaties, to be temporary. Another, given the Egyptian parliament’s rubber-​stamp status under Sisi, is the way repeated renewal of the law after 2017 flouted the spirit but not the letter of Article 154 of the 2014 Constitution, which made a two-​thirds vote in parliament mandatory for even a second renewal. Insights into this duality of the political system, where a few formal trappings of participatory institutions are retained in what is essentially a police state, rarely feature in foreign reporting on Egypt, because they cannot be conveyed with the simplicity and immediacy usually required of news (Sakr, 2010). At the same time, foreign correspondents themselves have been subject to draconian measures since 2015, including summary deportations affecting the US and United Kingdom (UK) national dailies, the New York Times, and The Times, while the Sisi government has boycotted and blocked the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC). The Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression (AFTE) drew attention in 2019 to the way key news reports about Egypt were being delayed or even withdrawn from foreign outlets because fear on the part of both informants and correspondents often prevented the latter from getting beyond the official version of a story (AFTE 2019). Failure by US and UK leaders to protest at the deportation and blocking of their own constituents further obscured the depth and severity of the media clampdown from public view. So limited was the response of governments—​and, as Rasha Abdulla shows in her chapter, big social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter—​to the dire situation of media and culture practitioners in Egypt that an opera house in the German city of Dresden awarded a medal to President Sisi in 2020 for bringing “hope and encouragement” to a “whole continent” (DPA, 2020), before being forced to revoke the award in the face of protest cancellations by German celebrities engaged to take part in the award ceremony. As the protest indicated, defenders of free expression within international civil society were acutely aware of the realities facing their counterparts in Egypt, especially after Check Point Software Technologies provided evidence that the Sisi government was behind a sophisticated malware attack aimed at gaining access to the online communication of journalists and activists (Check Point Research, 2019).

Resourceful resistance As determined lawyers and practitioners sought to contest the invasive and all-​encompassing web of restrictions stifling media and cultural expression under the Sisi government, they continued a tradition of resistance to repression stretching back through previous presidencies to the British occupation. Nadine El-​Sayed and Viola Shafik show in their chapters how Egyptian musicians, artists, and filmmakers were ever ready to challenge injustice in the status quo and have continued to do so to the present day. The same spirit of innovation and enterprise that brought early adoption of new media technologies, recounted at the start of this introduction, persisted into the 2020s, against all the odds, in the actions of those not prepared to concede defeat to the forces of silencing and extermination. Those forces were in evidence at a trial in March 2017 when the public prosecutor sought the death penalty for 739 people in a single case, among them the photojournalist Mahmoud Abou Zeid. Known as Shawkan, he was first detained in August 2013 while documenting the shooting of protestors in Cairo’s Raba’a Square, which international human rights bodies say killed at least 900 people. On assignment for a UK photo agency, Shawkan was arrested with two foreign journalists who were soon released. He, in contrast, was held in jail for more than five years—​charged with murder, attempted murder, weapons possession, and illegal assembly but not convicted of any offence until September 2018, when he was found guilty of property damage. His eventual “release” in March 2019 was, according to a petition submitted to the UN 397

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Working Group on Arbitrary Detention, nothing of the sort, since he was required to spend 12 hours every night at a police station for the next five years (Mansour, 2019). Shawkan’s treatment, an extreme but far from isolated case among journalists and bloggers, reflects an overwhelming imbalance between the vulnerability of independent media workers and the seeming impunity of the Egyptian authorities. Regardless of the imbalance, the vulnerable have persevered. Hossam Bahgat, renowned as founder of the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights and for his investigative journalism after 2013, has articulated their perseverance. Detained in November 2015 for covering the trial of 26 military officers accused of planning a coup, but quickly released when Ban Ki-​Moon, then UN Secretary General, expressed concern at his detention, Bahgat was subjected in 2016 to an asset freeze and travel ban which he and 12 other plaintiffs affected by the same orders were still fighting in court three years later. In the words he used to a reporter in 2018: “No one would deny that the title of this chapter is defeat, but there are signs that the defeat is not complete” (Stevenson, 2018). Mada Masr, an independent news analysis website founded in 2013, used the law and technology to signal its refusal to accept defeat. After it was blocked along with hundreds of news and other websites in 2017, with no formal notification or explanation given, local human rights lawyers took the government and national security apparatus to court on Mada’s behalf. Meanwhile the Mada team worked to circumvent the block, managing in December 2019 to create a mirror for the website on the TOR network that cannot be blocked, unlike solutions involving Virtual Private Networks (VPNs) that have security issues and are susceptible to blocking. The technical initiative was announced a month after Mada Masr offices had been raided by plainclothes security personnel, who confiscated laptops and phones and took the chief editor and two journalists away, having taken the news editor from his home the previous day. Their release soon after meant that Mada Masr’s distinctive reporting continued. It provided, among other things, exceptional insights in March 2020 into the government’s handling of the coronavirus pandemic. Behind the pioneering resourcefulness of Mada staff lies a whole hinterland of young independent media innovators, who seized opportunities after 2011 to push for a range of novel outlets, experimenting with online radio, collaborations between citizen journalists and professionals, hyperlocal and regional journalism, outlets for teenage reporters, platforms for coverage of gender inequality issues, and much else. Undercut by the mass blocking of websites in 2017, development of these initiatives was put on hold. However, as emerges from the remaining chapters in this section, the generations-​long timeline of media innovation in Egypt had by no means reached its end.

References Abdulla, R. (2005). Taking the e-​train:  The development of the internet in Egypt. Global Media and Communication, 1(2), 149–​165. AFTE (2019). Egypt’s Crackdown on Foreign Media: TwoYears of Threats and Defamation Campaigns. Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression, 31 July. Available at https://​afteegypt.org/​en/​afte_​releases/​ 2019/​07/​31/​18025-​afteegypt.html [accessed 7 March 2020]. Al-​Arabiya (2014). Children receive news of mother’s death live on Egypt TV show. 17 September. Available at https://​english.alarabiya.net/​en/​webtv/​reports/​2014/​09/​17/​Children-​receive-​news-​of-​ mother-​s-​death-​live-​on-​air.html [accessed 23 February 2020]. Armbrust, W. (1996). Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Armbrust,W. (2012). A history of new media in the Arab Middle East. Journal for Cultural Research, 16 (2–​3), 155–​174. Armbrust, W. (2019). Martyrs and Tricksters:  An Ethnography of the Egyptian Revolution. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Divergent trajectories of creativity and coercion Baron, B. (1994). The Women’s Awakening in Egypt:  Culture, Society and the Press. New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press. Boserup, R. (2019). Restoration of authoritarianism in Egypt. In:  Boserup et  al. (eds.), Restoration, Transformation and Adaptation: Authoritarianism after 2011 in Egypt, Saudi Arabia and Iran. Menara Working Papers 30, pp. 4–​9. Boyd, D. (1977). Egyptian radio: A tool for political and national development. Journalism Monographs, 48, February. Boyd, D. (1999). Broadcasting in the Arab World: A Survey of the Electronic Media in the Middle East. Ames, IA: Iowa University Press. Brown, N. (2017). Egypt is in a state of emergency. Here’s what that means for its government. Washington Post, 13 April. Castelo-​Branco, S. E. (1987). Some aspects of the cassette industry in Egypt. The World of Music, 29(2),  32–​48. Check Point Research (2019). The Eye on the Nile. 3 October. Available at https://​research.checkpoint. com/​2019/​the-​eye-​on-​the-​nile/​ [accessed 14 March 2020]. Chitti, E. (2019). Crisis as an institutional tool: Challenging anti-​institutional challenges in the Egyptian cultural field. In: Jacquemond, R. and Lang, F. (eds.), Culture and Crisis in the Arab World: Art, Practice and Production in Spaces of Conflict. London: I B Tauris, pp. 103–​128. CPJ (2020). Police raid Cairo Offices of Turkish Anadolu News Agency, Arrest at least 4. Washington: Committee to Project Journalists, 15 January. Dabous, S. (1994). Egypt. In: Kamalipour,Y. and Mowlana, H. (eds.), Mass Media in the Middle East.Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, pp. 60–​73. Dabous, S. (2004). Till I become a minister: Women’s rights and women’s journalism in pre-​1952 Egypt. In: Sakr, N. (ed.), Women and Media in the Middle East: Power through Self-​Expression. London: I B Tauris, pp.  39–​52. Daragahi, B. (2019). ‘They’ll be cut.’ Egyptian minister threatens to behead dissidents abroad. The Independent, 24 July. Available at www.independent.co.uk/​news/​world/​middle-​east/​egypt-​minister-​ behead-​critics-​dissidents-​abroad-​nabila-​makram-​a9019481.html [accessed 5 March 2020]. Darwish, M. (1998). Dream Makers on the Nile: A Portrait of Egyptian Cinema. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Dougherty, R. (2000). Badi’a Masabni, artiste and modernist:  The Egyptian print media’s carnival of national identity. In: Armbrust,W. (ed.), Mass Mediations: New Approaches to Popular Culture in the Middle East and Beyond. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, pp. 243–​268. DPA (2020). Sisi’s order of Dresden’s Semperoper Ball is revoked [sic]. Qantara, 5 February. Available at https://​en.qantara.de/​content/​sisis-​order-​of-​dresdens-​semperoper-​ball-​is-​revoked [accessed 15 March 2020]. Dunne, M. and Hamzawy,A. (2019). Egypt’s Political Exiles: Going Anywhere but Home. Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. El-​Mahdi, R. and Marfleet, P. (2009). Introduction. In: El-​Mahdi, R. and Marfleet, P. (eds.), Egypt: Moment of Change. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, pp. 1–​13. Fick, M. (2013). Welcome mat pulled out from under Syrian refugees. Reuters, 12 September. Available at www.reuters.com/​article/​us-​syria-​crisis-​egypt-​refugees/​egyptian-​welcome-​mat-​pulled-​out-​from-​ under-​syrian-​refugees-​idUSBRE98B0OE20130912 [accessed 23 February 2020]. Iskandar, A. (2019). Egyptian youth’s digital dissent. Journal of Democracy, 30(3), July, 154–​164. Kamel, S. (2010). Information and communications technology for development: Building a knowledge society in Egypt. In:  Rizk, N. and Shaver, L. (eds.), Access to Knowledge in Egypt:  New Research on Intellectual Property, Innovation and Development. London: Bloomsbury Academic, pp. 174–​204. Karam, I. (2007). Satellite television: A breathing space for Arab youth? In: N. Sakr (ed.), Arab Media and Political Renewal: Community, Legitimacy and Public Life, London: I B Tauris, pp. 80–​95. Mada Masr (2014). Brazilian ambassador lambasts street children article. Mada Masr, 27 June. Available at https://​madamasr.com/​en/​2014/​06/​27/​news/​u/​brazilian-​ambassador-​lambasts-​street-​children-​ article/​[accessed 22 February 2020]. Mansour, S. (2019). Restrictive terms of Shawkan’s release from Egyptian jail highlighted to UN. Committee to Protect Journalists blog, 25 October. Available at https://​cpj.org/​blog/​2019/​10/​egypt-​shawkan-​ photojournalist-​arbitrary-​detention.php [accessed 13 March 2020]. Nelson, M. (2019). Redefining media development:  A demand-​driven approach. In:  Benequista, N., Abbott, S., Rothman, P., and Mano, W. (eds.), International Media Development: Historical Perspectives and New Frontiers. New York: Peter Lang, pp. 30–​41.

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Naomi Sakr RSF (2020).Three Egyptian journalists held ‘administratively’ for past two years. Reporters sans Frontières, 5 February. Available at https://​rsf.org/​en/​news/​three-​egyptian-​journalists-​held-​administratively-​ past-​two-​years [accessed 7 March 2020] Sakr, N. (2001). Satellite Realms: Transnational Television, Globalization and the Middle East. London: I B Tauris. Sakr, N. (2007). Arab Television Today. London: I B Tauris. Sakr, N. (2010). News, transparency and the effectiveness of reporting from inside Arab dictatorships. International Communication Gazette, 72(1), 35–​50. Sakr, N. (2012a). From satellite to screen: How Arab TV is shaped in space. In: Parks, L. and Schwoch, J. (eds.), Down to Earth: Satellite Technologies, Industries and Cultures. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, pp. 143–​155. Sakr, N. (2012b). Social media, television talkshows and political change in Egypt. Television & New Media, 14(4), 322–​337. Sakr, N. (2013). Transformations in Egyptian Journalism. London: I B Tauris and Reuters Institute for the Study of Journalism. Sakr, N. (2014). Les migrations arabes vers l’Europe méditerranéenne sous le prisme des télévisions panarabes. In:  Mattelart, T. (ed.), Médias et migrations dans l’espace euro-​méditerranéen. Paris:  Mare et Martin, pp. 181–​204. Sakr, N. (2016). Children’s access to beneficial information in Arab states: Implementation of Article 17 of the Convention on the Rights of the Child in Egypt, Morocco and the United Arab Emirates. Global Studies of Childhood, 6(4), 376–​387. Sakr, N. (2017). Forces for change in official Arab policies on media and children. In: Sakr, N. and Steemers, J. (eds.), Children’s TV and Digital Media in the Arab World:  Childhood, Screen Culture and Education. London: I B Tauris, pp. 45–​65. Shenker, J. (2016). The Egyptians: A Radical Story. London: Allen Lane. Sreberny-​Mohammadi, A. and Mohammadi A. (1994). Small Media, Big Revolution: Communication, Culture and the Iranian Revolution. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Stevenson, T. (2018). Prisoners of a vision: Dissidents in Sisi’s Egypt. Los Angeles Review of Books. 27 June. Available at https://​lareviewofbooks.org/​article/​prisoners-​of-​a-​vision-​dissidents-​in-​sisis-​egypt/​ [accessed 13 March 2020].

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24 THE CULTURE POLICE Manning the barricades of allowable art and culture Ramy M.K. Aly1

Introduction The study of regulatory censorship is today seen as resoundingly dull and anachronistic. This is in part because new modes of regulation in Euro-​American contexts —​from enforcement of “political correctness” to other means of silencing and erasure perceived as progressive—​ have challenged the notion that censorship only afflicts non-​democratic political systems. Conceptually, censorship has become a pervasive and polymorphic feature of everyday social and cultural life. Following Foucault (1998, p. 93), the study of power can no longer be content with notions of the censor and the censored. Rather, censorship is now seen as an unavoidable entanglement of discursive and cultural practices that are the basis of social existence. For his part, Bourdieu (1991) argued that censorship is a feature of social life inflected by the “market” and “field,” and that every expressive person is both the subject and object of censorship acts that animate rhizomatic nodes of articulation. Welcome as this holistic approach to censorship may be, its focus on the quotidian operation of power risks rendering it blind to the “high drama of repression and suppression” (Post 1998, p. 4) that is a salient feature of contexts like Egypt. Claims that we no longer know what “censorship” means seem to be frighteningly detached from the reality faced by those languishing in detention in Egypt, charged with vague crimes like “spreading false news,” “defaming the nation,” insulting “men of state,” “undermining national security” and blasphemy. With the range of prohibited expression ever expanding, and the apparatus of surveillance, prosecution and incarceration ever growing, a concern with regulatory censorship should not be dismissed as passé or “liberal.” Instead, it is all the more pressing at a time when authoritarianism, neoliberalism and the security state entrench themselves not only in Egypt but across the globe (Bruff 2014; Harrison 2019; Ismail 2011).

Militarism, sex, religion and politics In December 2018, Dr Ines Abdel-​Dayem, Egypt’s Minister of Culture, inaugurated the newly renovated “Cultural Palace” at Desouk, a town of roughly 125,000 people in the Delta governorate of El-​Sharqiyah. Such palaces are an ostensibly important part of the cultural landscape 401

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of many Egyptian towns, housing libraries, theatres, book clubs and galleries, along with art, reading and musical activities for children and young people. When Desouk’s Cultural Palace first opened in 2006, the culture minister was Farouk Hosny, who during his 23 years in office established 145 such palaces (El-​Dardeer, 2019, p. 17). The one in Desouk closed just 3 years after its first opening, however, due to what local press reports termed “neglect and corruption.” After years of legal wrangling and bureaucratic buck-​passing the General Organisation for Cultural Palaces tasked the Armed Forces Engineering Authority with renovating the building. During the inauguration ceremony, Abdel-​Dayem was quoted as follows: Culture is one of the axes of Egyptian national security, and it is for this reason that the political leadership has given attention to al-​fikr (thought) and creativity, which it considers the pillars and catalysts for the realisation of sustainable development. The Egyptian strategy for culture seeks the production of the individual human being and society based on two principles: firstly the improvement of the artistic and conceptual substance presented to audiences, in addition to the modernisation of the infrastructure of the cultural facilities which illuminate consciousness and enlightenment. General Organisation for Cultural Palaces [GOCP], 2018 The story of the Desouk Cultural Palace and the armed forces’ role in saving it are emblematic of many themes in the Egyptian state’s relationship to “culture.” The Egyptian state, here in the voice of Abdel-​Dayem, sees itself as the arbiter of what constitutes art and culture, which are understood as tools in a national development vision that requires the “production” of a particular kind of “consciousness” among both individuals and society as a whole. I  have demonstrated elsewhere how successive regimes have extolled the virtues of a militarised culture producing a “battle-​ready cultured citizen-​soldier” (Aly, 2019, pp. 54–​55). “The state” is a notoriously simplistic reduction of a complex matrix of interests. Nonetheless, people speak of it and here it assumes a tutelary role, which involves the shaping of “thought” or fikr. Absent is any sense that the state should reflect the culture of Egyptians. Rather it sits above them, hailing them to subscribe to an imagined formulaic and allowable culture. The Minister of Culture is not alone in seeing her portfolio as a matter of “national security.” Ministers, officials and moral guardians of society routinely frame a range of issues in these terms, from Egyptian migrant communities abroad to “women’s awareness,” education, the media, divorce and sports. At first sight, the securitisation in governmental discourse seems to fit well within the broader turn towards “securitization” as a theoretical framework. However, I  would argue that a focus on militarism, a process with firm roots in Egypt, is far more revealing. Militarism: …[C]‌arves its way deep into social structures, it is also shaped and reshaped in the dialectical interaction between ingrained structures on the one hand and human agency and contingency on the other. It is capillary, shape-​shifting, always in motion as it constructs threats, enrols constituencies, colonizes cultural life, and generates new loci of resistance. Guterson and Besteman, 2019, p. S4 Since much the same could be said of “censorship,” the palpable shared ontology of militarism and censorship is quite clear.

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Abdel-​Dayem’s reference to culture as an “axis of national security” is not metaphorical; it is quite literal. In August 2018, a military court sentenced the Egyptian poet Galal el-​Beheiry to three years in prison for an unpublished collection of poems entitled The world’s best women (Khair niswan al-​ard), a satirical adaptation of an often-​quoted but disputed saying (hadith) of the Prophet Mohammed that Egypt’s soldiers “are the best on earth.” The misogynistic norms of Egyptian (but not only Egyptian) parlance mean that men in general and military men in particular regard being called a woman as the ultimate insult. El-​Beheiry’s title, being a twist on a hadith, is deemed blasphemous in terms of both religion and nationalism. El-​Beheiry was all the more punishable because one of his poems, Balaha (nought or nowt), a slur popularised by a 1980s film and widely used to refer to Egyptian president Abdel-​Fattah El-​Sisi, had been put to music by the exiled performer Ramy Essam and watched millions of times on YouTube, demonstrating how critique and satire flow between different cultural producers, media and audiences in ways that flaunt and frustrate the formalised censorship structure. A few months later, in February 2019, a military court handed down a five-​year prison sentence to Khaled Lotfy, a publisher not a soldier, for disclosing military secrets. Lotfy had published an Egyptian print edition of the 2010 spy thriller The angel: The spy who saved Israel by Uri Bar Joseph, which dramatises the controversy surrounding Ashraf Marwan, whose allegiances and role in the 1973 war have been disputed by the two countries for decades. Neither Beheiry nor Lotfy could appeal the court’s decision, meaning that—​whether or not censorship is seen as always incomplete—​in places where militarism is so prominent in legal, cultural and juridical life defying censorship has very grave corporeal consequences. Lutz (2002, p. 723) argues that militarism acts in ways that are “less visible,” suggesting that it is either subtly ingrained or discretely cloaked. I  would argue the opposite, namely that militarism is promoted unabashedly as a social–​political ideal, not least in Egypt where it is an inescapable feature of the landscape, economy, political and legal systems. Culturally, its visibility is perhaps best captured in the increasing prominence of the “Armed Forces Educational Symposiums” (al-​nadwati al-​tathqifiyah lilquwati al-​muslahati), which are organised by the Moral Affairs Administration of the Ministry of Defence and have occupied a twice-​yearly spot in the cultural calendar since Sisi became president in 2014. These events are broadcast live in full, accompanied by nationalist songs often described as “operettas” and films glorifying the military. Meanwhile, military symposia are also run at public universities and primary and secondary schools across the country. In March 2018, the Minister of Education ordered a newly released pop song, What they say, written and performed by men of the 103 Commando Battalion in memory of their comrades lost in Egypt’s military campaign against Islamist insurgents in Sinai, be sung at morning assembly in every school in the country straight after the national anthem. In a similar vein, formal television and cinema productions are today dominated by front companies owned and operated by various branches of the security and intelligence services that are engaged in encoding specific modes of representation that reflect the state’s vision of society. Schauer (1998, p. 149) argues that, besides proscription, we should be equally attentive to censorship’s ascriptive character, the way it calls upon us to treat certain things and people differently. Glorification of the president, military and police has become the mainstay of that production culture.Thus, a more holistic understanding of the dynamics of censorship in Egypt means being attentive to the importance of state-​led and sponsored production of allowable (ascriptive) culture as well as the familiar modes of proscription and prohibition. While the Sisi regime’s particular way of producing allowable culture is certainly the result of the rupture in 2011, the dispositions and pretexts that underlie it are consistent with those of the formative years of the military-​republic and part of an ongoing project of cultural hegemony.

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A culture for the revolution: Third worldism and the tutelary state The Sisi regime may be the most openly hostile to the notion of artistic, cultural and academic freedom of expression in Egypt’s modern history, but it is important to acknowledge that his regime has inherited a regulatory architecture deployed to secure the political survival of officer-​presidents since the start of the military state. Varying levels of zeal in these survival projects accord with the totalitarian “cycles” identified by Stavans (2008, pp. 143–​144), whereby dissent at times is encouraged, then curtailed. Just weeks after the Free Officers took power in 1952, their leader Mohammed Neguib signalled that past film industry practices would be unacceptable in the future. The Free Officers believed the industry was in the hands of a clique of investors and studios aligned with the monarchy and its associated cosmopolitan elite (Gordon, 2002, pp. 53–​54). Unclear as to what a cinema based not on show business but on political and social engagement would look like, the Free Officers established a Ministry for National Guidance, under Law 270/​1952, with Salah Salem, a notoriously zealous member of the Revolutionary Command Council (RCC), at its head. Its purpose, as stated by the law, was to serve as a mouthpiece for the RCC to: Direct (tawjih) and guide (irshad) the members of the nation (ummah) towards that which may better their economic and literary (adabi) status; and that which strengthens their morals and sense of responsibility; and incentivises them towards cooperation, sacrifice and the doubling of their efforts in the service of the nation. Articles 1 and 2 of Law 270/​1952 tasked the ministry with managing and funding “popular culture for the members of the nation” in what was the first iteration of a formalised relationship between Egyptian state-​funded culture and the notion of “public mobilization.” A year later, political parties were banned. In 1955, a presidential decree (Law 430/​1955) introduced censorship on films, plays, songs and all forms of audio recording. Mustafa Darwish (1995), who directed the Body for the oversight on audio and audio-​visual material (referred to hereafter as the Body for oversight) in 1962 and 1966, described how the law itself omitted to demarcate the limits of artistic freedom; instead, it relied on unpublished regulation from 1947 that set out 33 prohibitions to protect “public morality.” First among these was any depiction of God or the Prophets. Next came “defaming the reputation of Egypt” or its “brotherly nations” or damaging the reputation of the “Egyptian family.” “Inappropriate” depictions of officials were not permitted, nor was any anti-​monarchist or anti-​government material. Subject matter related to communism, revolutions, strikes and protests was banned. Also prohibited were portrayals of unkempt or dilapidated alleyways and shabby rural houses, street vendors or beggars (Darwish 1995, pp. 93–​94). These were evidently seen as undermining an image of Egypt as modern and civilised, even if that meant ignoring real life. Monarchists and the Free Officers apparently spoke the same language when it came to what was off limits and what representations were allowed. While the post-​1952 regime relied on policy from the monarchist period to control cinema and theatre, a nascent post-​colonialism was perceived as calling for authenticity and nationalism in art and culture, resulting in laws establishing the Supreme Council for the Guidance of Literature and Arts and the Supreme Council for Arts, Literature and Social Sciences. The central concern for both was raising a generation of writers and artists who sensed the need to assert what Vatikiotis (1961, p. 126) describes as “the national tenor” and to create “convergence in the artistic and literary tastes of Egyptians in a manner that would allow for the nation to go 404

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forth as one” (my emphasis) (Okasha 2007, p. 396). The push for Egypt to be “as one” is part and parcel of the logic of standardisation and centralisation inherent in étatism and divulges its regimented and militarised essence. By February 1958, the Ministry of National Guidance and Culture had its remit broadened by presidential decree, through the “General Directorate for Cultural Affairs” (al’idarah’ al’amah’ lishu’un al-​thaqafa). The effect was to place all aspects of art, culture and literary production from training and education to performance and exhibition within the purview of a single authority. In October 1958, Nasser reappointed Tharwat Okasha, an officer and former RCC member, as culture minister, having sacked him previously for not purging communists and leftists judiciously enough. Although never free of Nasser’s paranoid and totalitarian sensibilities, Okasha’s leadership of the ministry was transformative for many. He oversaw the establishment of Egypt’s modern cultural infrastructure, much of which survives to this day, including “cultural palaces” in every governorate capital, an idea borrowed from the Eastern bloc. These were complemented with “cultural caravans” that toured the country with performances and events. He established museums, theatres and cinemas, oversaw the establishment of state-​owned publishing outlets and made books affordable for the public. He started institutes for theatre, puppetry, ballet, cinematography and an array of music ensembles as well as a national folklore dance troupe and circus. He supported cinematic production through a range of initiatives, prizes and funds. In his second term, Okasha played a central role in developing Egypt’s antiquities infrastructure and famously led efforts to save dozens of temples in Nubia from the High Dam project. Nonetheless, in 1966, he ordered 282 books to be put out of print because they were “inconsistent with the aims of the state and the inclinations of the people” (Okasha, 2007, pp. 720–​721). Moreover, a political purge between 1959 and 1966 saw countless writers, poets and artists imprisoned, including figures associated with leftist movements and others associated with the Muslim Brotherhood who did not receive the same clemency as their leftist counterparts. Although all Egyptian regimes argued that the imprisonments were not for art but for political activity, the logic is unmistakable: the wrong kind of art is also the wrong kind of politics. Oneness had to be created by promoting allowable culture but also by force. Acceptance of direct military rule among the cultural elite was not enough for the RCC; they were expected to “participate,” to “adopt” its causes, to furnish it with a “nationalist ideology” and a “revolutionary doctrine” (Haykal 1961, p. 50). The 1960s saw everything from printing, cinema and the Reda dance troupe brought into state ownership on the back of Nasser’s “Charter for National Action.” The Egyptian Acting and Cinema Company was merged with a string of private production houses and studios to form the Egyptian Film Foundation in a nationalisation that ultimately led to over-​ bureaucratisation and the foundation’s financial collapse. Egyptian film critics and historians consider this the age of theB movie (Okasha 2007, p. 503). The nationalisation of cultural production has been hotly contested; writing just over a decade later Shohat (1983, pp. 27–​32) credited the Free Officers with paving the way to the “new cinema” movement in Egypt, which turned audiences from “traditional subjects to active citizens.” In contrast, Shafik (2007, p. 29) shows how the public sector became the “godfather to a politically committed, modernist, ‘Third Worldist’ cinema … In practice, cineastes and functionaries all too often equated non-​commercial cinema with ideological indoctrination, transforming the medium into a basis for political propaganda.” By the closing years of Nasser’s presidency, the state culture that Okasha had been so adamant to avoid was firmly established: popular culture was now a tool of statecraft. This was perhaps most clearly visible in the genre of nationalist songs, many of which were in reality dedicated to the glorification of presidents. As Soliman (2015, p. 182) writes, Abdel-​Halim Hafiz’s rendition 405

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of Nasser ya Horriyah marked the beginning of “a new phase in which nationalist songs had become personalised so that love of the nation and love of the leader” become one thing. The association has been salient ever since, creating a discursive checkmate still strikingly powerful under Sisi, whereby to oppose the president is to oppose Egypt and to seek his removal is to seek the destruction of Egypt itself. In prison literature, poetry, theatre, film and music, Egyptians have countered this conflation. After Egypt’s defeat in the 1967 Six-​Day War, Ahmed Fuad Negm and Sheikh Imam critiqued the war and the entire system of government in their scathing songs and both received life sentences. Critique abounded on university campuses, and in 1968 a string of plays were banned through a combination of pressures from the country’s sole political party, the censors and the General Intelligence Service, headed by the notorious Sharawi Gomaa. Baheej Ismail’s play, Al-​aalihah’ ghadba (The Gods are angry), was banned by the Body for Oversight. It depicted a fictional Caesar on an island, who is threatened by the island’s literary class and institutes a system of surveillance and imprisonment that eventually leads to the dissolution of the entire island society (Ismail, 2017, p. 134).

Cultural Islamism and the syndication of culture After Nasser’s death in 1970, Anwar al-​Sadat released many of the artists, poets and thinkers languishing in jails. A  flood of novels came into print that were written but not published during Nasser’s regime. The most famous were Al-​Karnak by Naguib Mahfouz and Al-​Zayni Barakat by Gamal el-​Gheitani, which was published in Damascus, not Cairo, in 1974 (Mehrez, 2008, p.  59). Both crystallised the excesses of the mukhabarat (intelligence) state that Nasser had instituted. But while Sadat’s ideas diverged from Nasser, he was no less authoritarian. Sadat had effected significant social changes through the 1971 constitution which enshrined Islamic Shariah as the bar against which all legislation was to be measured. This was followed in 1976 with Decree 220, titled “Fundamentals for the oversight of works of art,” which claimed to seek the “progression of the standard of art and the confirmation of the religious, spiritual and behavioural values of the society.” Article 1 of Decree 220 spoke of protecting “public morals, general order and the protection of children from deviance.” Atheism and sorcery were added to the existing list of prohibitions related to religion, as were any depiction, audio or visual, of the prophet Mohammed, the four caliphs, his ten disciples (al-​mubashireen b’al-​jannah) or any depiction of Jesus. Sex was also targeted, including, for the first time, homosexual sex. Articles 6 and 8 of the Decree introduced the vague crimes of presenting “historical fact” and “nationalist figures” in an “untrue or distorted manner” and the presentation of “social problems” in a manner that promotes “despair, conspiracies, the amplification of social ills or aggravation of class, sectarian or national unity.” Two years later Sadat introduced the most invasive piece of legislation to affect the making of music, film or theatre. This was Law 35/​1978, which established the Federation of Artistic Unions (FAU), under which anyone producing or performing for the public had (and still has) to be a member of one of the relevant syndicates for cinematography, music or acting. Syndicate membership is also a requirement for make-​up artists, sound engineers, set designers and so on (Article 5). It is granted almost exclusively to those who have graduated from one of the recognised educational institutes (Article 6/​5), and syndicate committees determine who is worthy of membership using additional criteria like “being of sound reputation” (Article 6/​ 3 of 35/​1978). The result has been the effective criminalisation of independent and amateur production and performance.

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Mubarak’s faux secularism and the ultimate act of silencing Sadat’s assassination at the hands of Islamist extremists set the tone for the Mubarak era, in which extremist groups became the main adversary. This process to some extent recontextualised the more established antipathy between the military state on the one hand, and the Muslim Brotherhood, leftists and liberals on the other. Sadat had brought the Brotherhood back into the open as a way to counteract Nasserism and distance himself from the Soviet bloc, but it was under Mubarak that their co-​optation into the political system was mastered. Meanwhile, however, a more radical brand of Islamism had taken root in Egypt, prompting the authorities to deal with it in a nuanced and yet insidious manner. Rock-​Singer (2017) demonstrates how the sermons of the radical cleric Sayed Kishk were censored by both the Ministry of Culture’s Body for Oversight and the Islamic Research Academy’s Administration for Research, Composition and Translation at Al-​Azhar. His analysis suggests that, while censorship was about proscribed speech and ideas, the process of censoring brought together state-​sponsored Islam and Islamist “competitors” to produce a politically situated version of state-​sanctioned religion. The state, the religious establishment attached to it and religious extremists began to constitute a regulatory triumvirate, often persecuting the same literary or cultural figures. Farag Fouda, a public intellectual, writer and columnist, who was one of the pioneers of Egypt’s human rights movement and extremely critical of the emergent cultural Islamism, was subjected to a campaign of censorship and silencing that led to his murder in June 1992. Elizabeth Kassab (2009, pp. 221–​224) provides a detailed account of Fouda’s work and thought. His collection of essays titled Nakun aw la Nakun (To be or not to be) and Al-​Haqiqa al-​Gha’iba (The absent truth) drew harsh criticism from the Islamic Research Academy. Fouda’s books were withdrawn from circulation and he was interrogated by the State Security Services, despite having been given the main stage at the Ministry of Culture’s flagship annual event, the 1992 Cairo Book Fair. The ultimate act of silencing came just months later when he was murdered, as he left his office, in a shooting that also injured his 15-​year-​old son and another bystander, for which responsibility was claimed by the Egyptian jihadist group Al-​Gama’a al-​Islamiyya. In court, one of the accused referred to a statement from Al-​Azhar to justify the killing, a justification supported by a well-​ known shaikh from the Islamic Research Academy who appeared as a witness for the defence (ARTICLE 19, 1997, pp. 51–​52). Less than a year after Fouda’s assassination, Nasr Hamed Abu Zaid was denied promotion at Cairo University because of his landmark work, The concept of the text, in which he argued among other things that the act of interpreting Islamic texts is historically situated and subject to the socio-​political considerations of time, place and context. Objections to his promotion came from the head of the university’s linguistics department who was also president of the ruling National Democratic Party’s Religious Affairs Commission (ibid, p. 56). The Cairo Court of Appeal then ruled that Abu Zaid was an apostate and ordered that he should separate from his Muslim wife, a ruling upheld by the Court of Cassation, whose decision forced Abu Zayd and his wife to seek asylum in the Netherlands. In 1994, after an extremist sheikh linked to Al-​Gama’a al-​Islamiyya called for the novelist Neguib Mahfouz to be punished for his “crimes” against Islam, Mahfouz was stabbed repeatedly in the neck by a young Islamist militant as he left his home. The fact that Mahfouz had himself held the post of head of state censorship under Nasser, at a time when his novel Awlad Haritna (Geballawi’s children) was serialised in the daily Al-​Ahram but banned from publication as a book in Egypt because of objections from Al-​Azhar, illustrates the complex operation of powers that is cloaked by the term “state censorship.” Mahfouz had reportedly suggested his job had no bearing on the freedom to be creative but was merely “inspection” (Khudeir 2018). The contradictions are illuminated by Butler’s 407

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argument (1998, p. 247) that “the subject who is censored as well as the subject that censors are both constituted in part by a restrictive and productive power” in a “paradoxical process of constitution” which becomes hidden by a conventional view of censorship. The Mubarak era saw a series of incidents, from Hayder Hayder’s novel Walimah li-​A’shab al-​Bahr (Feast for seaweed) in the early 1980s to Sayyid Al-​Qemany’s Merit Award for social sciences in 2009, where the state’s cultural apparatus celebrated literary figures for their work while making no effort to amend the legislation that effectively turned them into criminals, folk devils and the subject of death threats. In his memoirs, Farouk Hosny presents himself as a defender of progressive art and culture in the face of what he describes as widespread “terrorist thought” in Egyptian society (El-​Dardeer 2019). He blames the ministries of education, the media and Al-​Azhar. Yet the polymorphous dynamics of censorship ensured that he too was censured in an increasingly Islamised legislature that was “stealing the ball from the Islamists,” as Samia Mehrez puts it (2008, p. 19). Mubarak’s particular brand of faux secularism positioned the Ministry of Culture as the antidote to rising religious extremism even though it was silent in the 1990s when heavy metal musicians and fans in Egypt were routinely accused of Satanism and being “agents of Zionism,” both incendiary accusations that resulted in countless arrests, detentions and beatings of musicians by State Security forces and Islamists. Although none of those arrested was ever convicted, the interior minister at the time became a national hero for leading the crackdown (Harbert, 2013). As Mehrez argues (2008, p. 18): “the political field distanced itself from the role of the official censor while encouraging cultural figures to be their own censors.”

The culture police In January 2019, Khaled Abdel Jalil, the Minister of Culture’s advisor on cinema who is also president of the National Cinema Institute and head of the Body for Oversight, issued “seven prohibitions” in preparation for the Ramadan television soap-​opera production cycle (Ashraf, 2019). Accordingly, any work of art would be banned if it depicted the “neighbourhoods of the urban poor (manatiq shaabiyah) in a dilapidated or chaotic manner either in terms of their visual or moral character.” He went on to say that “the negative characteristics of these neighbourhoods should be a marginal aspect of the storyline” and their “positive aspects emphasised.” In fact, he specified that poor and informal neighbourhoods, where the overwhelming majority of Egyptians live, “should not be the focus or setting of soap opera storylines.” Also banned are depictions of the sale or use of drugs, violence or weapons, nudity or “lewd dancing,” nightclubs or cabarets, “even if they appear in the context of humour.” No military or police officer is to be depicted receiving bribes or aiding or abetting any act “forbidden by law or custom.” Abdel Jalil ended by saying that “politics, sex and religion cannot be the main theme of an artistic work and should be avoided altogether.”While these prohibitions were mainly directed towards television soap operas, which are a fundamental aspect of the cultural landscape, they also apply to novels, theatre plays, films, music, poetry and any kind of figurative, fine or performance art. The genealogical lineage of the “seven prohibitions” outlined by Abdel Jalil is clear: it is the product of a longstanding need by Egypt’s rulers to control representation that stretches back through various phases of the military republic to the colonial and monarchist eras, motivated by a morbid fear of the culture and critique of Egyptians in the name of an Egypt that the rulers and their cultural vanguard seek to fashion in their own image. To realise this, the state has created an array of lugubriously titled laws and institutions, which I  shall call the “culture police,” whose job is to man the barricades of allowable culture. Far from being champions of an ever-​widening spectrum of music, film and theatre or 408

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encouraging all Egyptians to express themselves artistically, Egypt’s artistic syndicates display an ominous hostility towards amateurs as well as new movements in art, music and film be they home-​g rown or part of the global remix. Mahraganat music, which emerged from Egypt’s most disadvantaged neighbourhoods and has taken over the urban soundscape, is a case in point where the combined constabularies of the culture police come together. The state censor believes this music is “vulgar” (ibtidhal), the Ministry of Culture deems it “indecent” (isfaf) and the Musicians Syndicate has pursued its performers for “corrupting public taste,” creating material “injurious to public modesty”, and for Mahraganat performers “impersonating a musician,” all of which are criminal offences. These bodies deny that Mahraganat counts as “art” or “creativity” and therefore reject the idea that persecuting its performers infringes their constitutional and human rights. Yet there can be complete U-​turns where this is politically expedient. Mahraganat artist Hammu Beeka, banned and persecuted for years, made a public show of support for President Sisi in the wake of anti-​regime demonstrations in late 2019 and was duly rewarded with favourable coverage as an “artist” in the pro-​regime media. I do not use the notion of a culture police in a metaphorical sense. In 2015, the Ministry of Justice gave officials representing the FAU powers of arrest. Syndicate officials zealously welcomed the licence to shut down parties, gigs and concerts, arrest organisers and artists performing without their permission or who had failed to grease the palms of inspectors. When these powers were later overturned as the result of campaigning by groups like the Association of Freedom of Thought and Expression and the Egyptian Centre for Social and Economic Rights (Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression [AFTE], 2016), the Ministry of Justice transferred the power of arrest from the FAU to the Body for Oversight. Meanwhile, the FAU increasingly uses its powers to bar people from working as actors, filmmakers or musicians in Egypt, not only for the substance of their art but also their politics, as seen in 2019 when actors Khaled Abulnaga and Amr Waked were stripped of their syndicate membership after opposing constitutional changes that would extend Sisi’s tenure as president to 2034.

Conclusion The cultural architecture put in place in the formative years of the military republic created a centralising institutional incubator for generations of artists, writers, musicians and performers, a large proportion of whom have come to make regulation and self-​regulation regular. These individuals, the institutions they represent and the legislation establishing the institutions have confidently asserted a need for tutelary cultural policies where regulatory and constitutive censorship act together to both ascribe and proscribe what can and cannot be said. That tutelary impulse reflects the broader approach to governance in Egypt which has been particularly marked by militarised thinking and structures since 1952. January 2011 represented a moment of crisis for the post-​1952 status quo, and in reaction to that crisis the military has reasserted itself in all aspects of Egyptian life, not least when it comes to controlling cultural representations and expression. Egypt’s Ministers of Culture have by and large shared a sense of Egyptian culture in perpetual crisis, requiring intervention by a cultural and political elite which sees itself as the guardian of Egyptian values against the backdrop of a population that at once is the most cultured in the world and yet in need of protection from its own ignorance, vulgarity and irresponsibility. In this vision, culture is a tool of public mobilisation that should be reassuringly formulaic and canonical, confirming and reaffirming “authentic” values and tastes. While the ascriptive and proscriptive modalities of censorship in Egypt demand formalism, deference to authority and 409

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standardisation, it has never been—​and never will be—​able to hold, reflect or contain the artistic and cultural energies of Egyptians.

Note 1 The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable work of the Law and Society Research Unit at the American University in Cairo and specifically their project “Manshūrāt Qānūneya,” the first open-​access database providing digital access to Egyptian laws, statutes, decrees and legal decisions. All the primary legislation and decrees presented in this chapter were accessed at https://​manshurat.org.

References Aly, R. M. K. (2019). ‘Our children are a threat’: Publics and policing of cultural temporality in Egypt. In: T. Sabry and J. F. Khalil (eds.), Culture, Time and Publics in the Arab World: Media, Public Space and Temporality, London: I B Tauris, pp 43–​72. ARTICLE 19 (1997). The Egyptian Predicament: Islamists, the State and Censorship. London: ARTICLE 19. Ashraf, A. (2019). With the “seven prohibitions” the censorship on artistic works imposes its will upon drama series during Ramadan [in Arabic], Sawt al-​Ummah, 14 January. Available at www.soutalomma. com/​Article/​853330/​‫​الفنية‬-‫​األعمال‬-‫​على‬-‫​قبضتها‬-‫​تحكم‬-‫​المصنفات‬-‫​على‬-‫​الرقابة‬-»‫​السبعة‬-‫[ بـ«المحاذير‬accessed 27 February, 2020]. Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression (AFTE) (2016). The Adminisrative Court suspends the powers of arrest granted to the Artistic Unions and refers three articles (of law) to the Supreme Constitutional Court. 17 April. Available at https://​afteegypt.org/​freedom_​creativity/​2016/​04/​17/​ 12091-​afteegypt.html[accessed 27 February, 2020]. Bourdieu, P. (1991). Language and Symbolic Power. Cambridge: Polity Press. Bruff, I. (2014). The rise of authoritarian neoliberalism. Rethinking Marxism, 26(1), 113–​129. doi:10.1080/​ 08935696.2013.843250 Butler, J. (1998). Ruled out: Vocabularies of the censor. In: R. Post (ed.), Censorship and Silencing: Practices of Cultural Regulation. Los Angeles, CA: Getty Research Institute. Darwish, M. (1995). Censorship and the other cinema: Testimony of a censor. Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics, No 15. Issue on ¨Arab Cinematics: Toward the New and the Alternative. El-​Dardeer, I. (2019). Farouk Hosny Remembers: A Lifetime of Culture. Cairo: Nahdet Masr. Foucault, M. (1998). The History of Sexuality I: The Will to Knowledge. London: Penguin. General Organisation for Cultural Palaces (GOCP) (2018). The culture minister and Kafr el-​Sheikh governorate open the Desouk Cultural Palace [in Arabic]. Available at www.gocp.gov.eg/​articles. aspx?ArticleID=19198 [accessed 19 June 2019]. Gordon, J (2002). Revolutionary Melodrama: Popular Film and Civic Identity in Nasser’s Egypt. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Guterson, H. and Besteman, C. (2019). Cultures of militarism: An introduction to Supplement 19. Cultural Anthropology, 60(19), S3–​S14, February. Harbert, B. (2013). Noise and its formless shadow:  Egypt’s extreme metal as avant-​garde nafas dawsha. In: T. Burkhalter, K. Dickinson and B. Harbert (eds.), The Arab Avant Garde: Music, Politics, Modernity. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. Harrison, G. (2019). Authoritarian neoliberalism and capitalist transformation in Africa: All pain, no gain. Globalizations, 16(3), 274–​288. doi:10.1080/​14747731.2018.1502491. Haykal, M. H. (1961). A View on Our Internal Problems in Light of What Has Been Described as the ‘Crisis of the Intellectuals’ [in Arabic]. Cairo: United Arab Publishers. Ismail, S. (2011). Authoritarian government, neoliberalism and everyday civilities in Egypt. Third World Quarterly, 32(5), 845–​862. doi:10.1080/​01436597.2011.578957 Ismail, S. A. (2017). Censorship and Forbidden Theatre [In Arabic]. Windsor: Hindawi Publishing. Kassab, E. S. (2009). Contemporary Arab Thought:  Cultural Critique in Comparative Perspective. New York: Columbia University Press. Khudeir, M. (2018). Khaled Abdel Jalil: The work of the censorship body does not conflict with freedom of creativity and our offices across the governorates are for inspections only. Masrahina, 567. Available at www.gocp.gov.eg/​Masr7na/​articles.aspx?ArticleID=10925 [accessed 27 February 2020].

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25 MEDIA OWNERSHIP IN EGYPT (2000–​2 020) Categories and configurations Tourya Guaaybess

Introduction Egyptians today often compare their current situation with the one they experienced under Hosni Mubarak’s 30-​year presidency, which ended with the revolution of January 2011. Karim Hussein founded a Facebook group in 2012 with a page called “I’m sorry Mr President,” suggesting that Mubarak’s time in office was better for Egyptians than what they faced since then. Hussein fell foul of the government of President Abdel-​Fattah El-​Sisi in July 2019, when he was detained on a charge of spreading false news, but his page at the time had well over 3.2 million followers and 2.8 million likes (Reuters, 2019). What might the followers of that page say about media privatisation in Egypt before and after January 2011? Who did the media really belong to in the decade before Mubarak was ousted and who have they belonged to in the decade since? Scholars diverge in assessing the benefits of private ownership of media outlets in different political contexts. At one time, it was seen to promise greater diversity and pluralism than state media (Jakubowicz, 1995). More recently, with digitisation reducing the profitability of many media companies and making them cheaper to buy, rich “oligarchs” have been “shopping” for media properties (Reporters Sans Frontières [RSF], 2016). As noted by RSF, although some super-​rich investors have philanthropic intentions, “most often” they put their media acquisitions to work in service of their other business activities, creating conflicts of interest that undermine not only journalists’ independence but also the right of everyone to “honest” information (Reporters Sans Frontières [RSF], 2016, p. 9). Local business elites have also invested in their own countries’ media sector. In India, this process has been “shaped by lobbying efforts by media owners and individualized concessions made by state officials” (Chakravartty and Roy, 2013, p. 353). A study of 10 central and eastern European countries found that, starting around 2006, a withdrawal of foreign capital from media saw a “rising prominence of local owners,” whose main sources of profit came from outside the media sector (Stetka, 2012, pp. 439–​441). With state media in many parts of the world under economic pressure, and public service media providers—​mandated to serve all audience segments with diverse “quality” content—​facing intense competition from video-​sharing and video-​on-​demand suppliers, who operate outside 412

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the purview of national media regulators, questions about the contribution of private media come down not to binary categories of public versus private but to levels of ownership concentration and the identity and purposes of owners. Assessing ownership concentration and agendas involves exploring power games between various agencies, public and private, national and international, operating in the media sector. Bourdieu’s (1991, 1992) concept of correspondence between the political and media fields highlights questions around degrees of media autonomy enjoyed under different levels of political pluralism and authoritarianism. Attending to such questions requires more than understanding the cogs and wheels of power relations in the media domain or the strategies of different players. Drawing on Edgar Morin’s (1980) theory of complex thought and his “dialogical principle” and Norbert Elias’s (1985) concept of “configuration,” it becomes possible to envision the media landscape holistically, whereby individuals and society are interdependent in ways that go beyond the separate concepts of agent and structure. Under the dialogical principle, media operators are seen as part of a system in which complementarity and antagonism coexist and in which media operators’ autonomy derives from dependence on the environment that sustains them. Their relationship with the ruling regime reflects a fluctuating interaction that creates various configurations. This chapter sets out to identify some media figures who have been emblematic of changing configurations in Egyptian media ownership in 2000–​2020, with the aim of gaining a better understanding of what privatisation in this context actually means.The study is informed by qualitative research conducted with Egyptian journalists over the period, most recently in November 2017 and July 2019, and by textual analysis of the Egyptian press in the year to July 2019.

New owners and their fluctuating relations with the regime The rise of privately owned audiovisual media in Egypt began in the early 2000s, driven in part by factors arising from Egypt’s place in the pan-​Arab regional landscape (Guaaybess, 2005, 2012). The television talk show, already prominent on pan-​Arab channels, was a format that allowed new Egyptian channels to approach political information by the backdoor. It was an inexpensive format (Khadr, 2011) that could reach a large audience. A quotation from a book on talk shows in France reveals the genre’s universal commercial dimension: The emergence of private channels and the growing concern to maximise viewership led (…) to a radical reinvention of discussion programmes on television (…). It became a matter of privileging controversy and exacerbating conflict by developing the format in significant ways. The presence and active participation of the audience, the playful and agonistic aspect in the way of speaking, as well as the numerous ”outbursts” came from then on to characterize a genre: the talk-​show. Leroux and Riutort, 2013, p. 21, author’s translation from French Talk shows about Egyptian topics multiplied on Egyptian television, arguably with a rejuvenating effect on the print media. It is customary to distinguish between French journalism’s tendency to favour style and commentary and that of “Anglo-​Saxon” journalism to privilege “facts, facts, facts” (Neveu, 2009). The changing profile of journalists coming to prominence in Egypt in the 2000s coincided with a rupture from the commentary type of journalism normalised under Nasser, when the main newspapers were nationalised, and maintained in the newspapers that political parties were permitted to run under Sadat. 413

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The most iconic journalists and media investors, visible before, during and after the 2011 uprising in Egypt, illustrate through their various backgrounds and political ambitions different types of power relations within the media sector from the 2000s to the present day.The Weberian analytical tool of the “ideal type” enables us to distinguish the differences (Coenen-​Huther, 2003) and thus to make comparisons. I have identified elsewhere three ideal-​typical categories of investors in Egypt’s media field at this time (Guaaybess, 2015, pp. 181–​185). The first category comprises wealthy businessmen who used fortunes made in sectors other than the media to create the first private television channels and newspapers. A significant number were “heirs” (Bourdieu and Passeron, 1964), that is to say, they inherited a fortune and possessed significant social and cultural capital. They invested with the full knowledge that these media spaces were not immune from arbitrary government measures but were also aware of benefits that would accrue to their other businesses from being close to the regime (El Tarouty, 2015). The second category consists of entrepreneurs whose main activity was in the media sector, in advertising or publishing. Unlike the previous group, they had mostly built their own business and wealth. In the third category are media professionals who sought to start a media outlet without an existing platform of economic advantage or political patronage. They can be referred to as journalist-​editors, since their main ambition was to disseminate innovative content relevant to the everyday lives of ordinary citizens. The analysis that follows explores three phases in the reconfiguration of Egypt’s media space over a 20-​year period. It reveals a limited liberalisation of the media field under Mubarak, albeit one constrained by a clientelist relationship between wealthy owners of private media and the regime, involving an exchange of “gifts” (Tafani, 2005), with one side offering the opportunity to invest in a strategic sector, while the other offered the assurance of loyalty. The aftermath of Mubarak’s ouster, marked by a year under the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF) followed by the one-​year presidency of the Muslim Brotherhood’s Mohamed Morsi from June 2012 to June 2013, saw a rift between the wealthy private media owners and the Morsi government but experimentation and creation of new outlets by media entrepreneurs and journalist-​editors. The third phase, post-​Morsi, saw a sidelining of all three categories of media investor and the rise of a different kind of media ownership.Yet, questions of ownership take on new meaning when Internet access is widespread. In the conclusion we compare successive ownership configurations and their implications for the relationship between online and offline media.

Investment imperatives and media openings under Mubarak For reasons including those noted above the political context of the late 1990s was conducive to a transformation of the Egyptian media landscape. The state’s display of a “democratization process,” such as the first multi-​candidate presidential election in 2005, was commensurate with a push for reform from international financial institutions: it deceived no one but did—​ and this deserves to be underlined—​bring legitimacy to the discourse of civil society advocacy groups. Meanwhile, the regional media landscape included the Qatari satellite channel, Al-​Jazeera, launched in 1996. Acknowledged for its robust journalism, it either annoyed or fascinated Egyptian political players. Egyptian opposition parties, each with their own information organ and encouraged by the expression of diverse views on Al-​Jazeera talk shows, wanted a stronger presence in their country’s national media. Led by the neo-​Wafd Liberal party, they had previously proposed a bill to end the state monopoly over broadcast media established in 1979 and entrenched in 1989 (Guaaybess, 2003, 2013, pp. 58–​59). With the advent of digital media, they sought new opportunities. A combination of political, economic and technological 414

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factors saw the media field opening up, as the Egyptian government strove to revive a declining audiovisual sector and compete with media coming from Gulf countries. The launch of Nilesat in 1998 and upgrading of facilities in Media Production City in 2000 required input of private as well as state capital. In return, private media outlets were permitted to broadcast but only by satellite and from Media Production City, where they would use facilities majority owned by the state, and only on receipt of a licence issued by the regime-​controlled General Authority of Investments. At least five of the prominent business owners who took up the opportunity to invest in media had benefited economically from special connections with the Mubarak regime. Ahmad Bahgat, property developer and owner of factories producing electronic goods and household appliances, was reportedly given exemption from state restrictions on television production and obtained land for development of his Dreamland project below the market rate (El Tarouty, 2014, p. 103). In 2001, Bahgat launched Dream TV. Hassan Rateb, who made his fortune in land development, tourism and cement, was behind El-​Mehwar channel, which started in 2002 (Guaaybess, 2015, p. 179). The year 2004 saw the launch of a new daily newspaper, Al-​Masry al-​Youm, backed by Bahgat and two other well-​known names, Salah Diab and Naguib Sawiris, both of whom were “heirs” (Bourdieu and Passeron, 1964). Diab, grandson of a famous newspaper publisher and himself head of Pico Group, a conglomerate encompassing petroleum, agriculture and real estate, bought land from the government for agricultural purposes but instead developed it for resorts, making a large profit (El Tarouty, 2014, p. 156). Sawiris’ father Onsi built the multi-​billion Orascom empire with lucrative US links, and Naguib took charge of its telecommunications subsidiary, benefiting from an initial monopoly hold on the Egyptian market for mobile phones (Sakr, 2015, p. 152). After helping to start Al-​Masry al-​Youm, Sawiris went on to launch the OTV satellite channel in 2007, adding the news and current affairs channel ONTV a year later. This was also when the fifth big media investor, Sayyid El-​Badawi, owner of Sigma Pharmaceuticals, launched Al-​Hayat TV. In 2010, Badawi demonstrated his loyalty to Mubarak by buying the sensationalist newspaper Al-​Dustour ahead of impending elections and dismissing its feisty editor, Ibrahim Eissa, who had received a jail sentence for touching on the subject of Mubarak’s health in a newspaper column in August 2007. Complicity with the Mubarak regime put some topics off limits for the new media outlets but did not deprive them of relative autonomy. Competition to attract audiences through relevant and compelling coverage was intensified by the activities of media entrepreneurs. These included: Emad El-​Din Adeeb, founder of the Good News Group, which released a watered-​ down screen version of Ala al-​Aswany’s critical novel Imaret Yacoubian (The Yacoubian building) in 2006; Mohamed Gohar, founder of Video Cairo Sat and partner of Naguib Sawiris in a post-​US invasion television project in Iraq; and Tarek Nour, owner of the advertising firm Tarek Nour Communications and investor behind the channel Al-​Qahira w’al-​Nas (Cairo and the people) launched in 2009. Ibrahim al-​Moallem, son of the founder of Dar al-​Shorouk publishing house, is another in this category (Guaaybess, 2015, p. 183), heading Shorouk publishing group and chain of bookstores and owner of Al-​Shorouk newspaper, started in 2009. With the proliferation of new channels came new formats and more interactive shows. The print media, which had already seen a shift in the content of independent weeklies, notably Cairo Times and Al-​Dustour, which were licensed in Cyprus but distributed in Egypt, were affected by the arrival of Al-​Masry al-​Youm. Managed by Hisham Kassem, who had pioneered a professional approach to journalism at Cairo Times (Sakr, 2013, pp. 33–​34), Al-​Masry al-​Youm gave importance to investigation. Kassem distinguished between reporting conventions and opposition: 415

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Our newspaper was not an opposition newspaper, which was a trap we did not want to sink into. We dealt with facts and did not publish anything that was not verified. […] Opposing just in order to oppose does not lead anywhere, while the social and economic issues of everyday life  –​health such as schistosomiasis or cardiovascular diseases, transport, housing, education, corruption, etc. –​are the topics that interested our readers, both in the capital and throughout the country’s different regions. Kassem, 2017 Other newspaper start-​ups followed Al-​Masry al-​Youm, including Al Fajr (2005), the newspaper of the social left Al-​Badil (2007), Sawt al-​Umma and Al Youm al-​Sabea (2008), and Al-​Shorouk (2009). Their editors—​from Adel Hamouda to Khaled al-​Balshy to Wael Al-​Ibrashi—​operated according to highly divergent codes of journalism. As bloggers increased in number, current events could hardly be hidden. An independent outlet would use information from a blogger and then several media outlets would follow suit in a media “confluence” (Guaaybess, 2012). On rare occasions, this resulted in the arrest of police officers whose wrongdoings had been exposed. More often bloggers and journalists were the ones arrested and imprisoned because of their writings.Yet the politically engaged youth leaders of the blogosphere were, at that time, more skilled than the authorities (Radsch, 2008). During the 2005 parliamentary and presidential elections, they covered issues that were obscured by other media, such as the coalition of dissident movements opposing the candidacy of President Mubarak’s son as his successor.When Judge Noha El-​Zeini exposed electoral fraud by the National Democratic Party (NDP) in the constituency she oversaw, Al-​Masry Al-​Youm made her testimony front-​page news and rapidly attained a readership that exceeded that of the state-​owned newspaper Al-​Ahram. Within a few years, the rate of creating new media outlets was such that no fewer than ten new ones emerged in the year before the fall of Mubarak (Visualising Egypt, 2015). Although most media houses were still state-​owned, those with the largest and most loyal followings were the ones that took on the role of “watchdog” in the sense of “being guided by independent considerations of social and political relevance and source credibility” (Bennett and Serrin, 2005, p. 180) or journalism “in the public interest” (Zelizer, 2017, p. 22).

A short-​lived reshuffling of outlets and investors post-​2011 The 2011 revolution was the culmination of a series of events and protests representing an outpouring of public anger at corruption, poverty, unemployment and police brutality. After the forced resignation of Hosni Mubarak, 18 days after the first major protests began on 25 January 2011, the state-​owned Egyptian Radio and Television Union (ERTU) and state-​owned newspapers switched allegiance and played safe vis-​à-​vis the protestors pending an outcome of the upheaval. Initially the country was run by a military council, SCAF, which perpetuated much of the repression experienced under Mubarak. From June 2012, the country’s first freely elected civilian president took office, until popular rejection of his Muslim Brotherhood power base was harnessed to a military coup in June 2013. The two-​year period from 2011 to 2013 was a time when the second and third categories of media investors, namely entrepreneurs from within the media sector and journalist-​editors, came to the fore. Some privately owned newspapers and channels had hedged their bets on the protests from the beginning, appearing to show solidarity with protestors (Adib Doss, 2018). The immediate aftermath of Mubarak’s removal saw the emergence of numerous new ventures, but also saw them run into financial difficulties caused by a downturn in advertising revenue in the face of political uncertainty and a tightening of ranks among the former business and political elite. 416

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Tahrir TV, set up by Ibrahim Eissa and two others, actually made its debut on 8 February 2011, three days before Mubarak stood down, bypassing the licensing requirement for Nilesat by leasing a frequency on another satellite. Although the channel attracted journalists with a reputation for sound reporting, it was forced—​even before the end of 2011—​to hand a majority share of ownership to a businessman with connections to the Mubarak regime (Sakr, 2013, p. 17). Eissa was also involved in a new newspaper called Al-​Tahrir, started in 2011 with Ibrahim Moallem, Al-​Shorouk’s owner (Benaziz 2015). A television channel called 25TV came on the scene in April 2011, owned by entrepreneur Mohamed Gohar and developed for a generation of millennials (Ibrahim, 2017, p. 6). It survived with low salaries and subventions paid in from Gohar’s other businesses until September 2012, when it was closed because, according to Gohar, it was denied a broadcasting licence (Ibrahim, 2017, p. 6). It is fair to say that the 2011 uprising “facilitated the rise of a new generation of content producers, who acquired a significant weight in the public sphere,” especially through initiatives such as the opening of Al-​Masry al-​Youm’s online portal in 2011 (De Angelis, 2015, pp. 106, 118). But people with money made under the Mubarak regime were ready and waiting to enter the media field, taking stakes in new ventures such as Al-​Watan, started in April 2011, and the CBC and Al-​Nahar television channels, launched in Ramadan that year. One young newcomer to the media sector, steel magnate Ahmed Abu Hashima, reportedly close to the country’s intelligence services, became a shareholder in Al-​Youm al-​Sabea in 2011 (Reporters Sans Frontières (RSF), 2019). At the same time, initiatives like Mada Masr, a news analysis operation created in June 2013 by the former editorial team of Egypt Independent, an English language sister paper of Al-​Masry al-​Youm, reflected the entrepreneurial drive and dedication of some of the new generation of content producers. They faced serious challenges in terms of sustainability, however, because they wanted to pay decent salaries, provide decent working conditions, fact-​check, train staff and attract first-​time advertisers (Sakr, 2016, pp. 56–​57). Meanwhile the new president, Mohammed Morsi, who proved neither more repressive nor more flexible than the transitional regime, enjoyed no support from the big media houses. Quite the opposite: they criticised his policies in every direction, thereby helping to legitimise the movement that would lead to his overthrow in June 2013. Several instances illustrate the changing position of the first category of media owners during this period. Having formed the Free Egyptians Party in April 2011, Naguib Sawiris used ONTV as a platform for pursuing his political ambitions. However, once Islamist parties won a majority of seats in the parliament that opened in January 2012 and the Muslim Brotherhood candidate won the presidency six months later, Sawiris pulled back from his Egyptian media investments and in December 2012 handed ONTV to a Tunisian, Tarek Ben Ammar. Ahmad Bahgat’s Dream TV suspended operations in 2012 when the Morsi government insisted that it should operate from inside Media Production City, rather than its existing location outside the zone.

Media under Sisi: Stretching the meaning of “private” After Morsi’s removal in 2013, Egypt put a revised constitution to a referendum in January 2014 to replace the one adopted under Morsi in 2012. Far from representing any new vision, the 2014 constitution put power back into the hands of the president and favoured those institutions, the army and police, that had helped to bring about Morsi’s downfall (Bernard-​ Maugiron, 2014). Taking its cue from the two articles of the 2012 Constitution that specifically dealt with media regulation, including the enormous and wide-​ranging state-​owned print and audiovisual media empires, the 2014 document made provision in Articles 211, 212 and 213 for three regulatory bodies: a Supreme Council for Media Regulation, a National Authority for 417

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Tourya Guaaybess Table 25.1  Oversight of state-​owned media National Media Authority

National Press Authority

•  Egyptian Radio •  Egyptian TV •  Sono Cairo (Sawt al-​Qahera) •  Egyptian Media Production City •  Nilesat (The Egyptian Satellite Company) •  Nile Radio

•  Al-​Ahram •  Akhbar al-​Youm •  Dar Al-​Hilal •  Rose al-​Youssef •  Dar al-​Maaref •  Al-​Qawmiah Distribution Company •  Middle East News Agency

Source: Reporters Sans Frontières (RSF), 2019.

the Press, and a National Authority for Audiovisual and Digital Media. It was not until February 2017 that presidential decrees were issued for the creation of these three bodies, after which new media laws followed. The president directly appoints members of the Supreme Council for Media Regulation, which was given the power under Law 180/​2018 to issue or revoke operating licences and to sanction the media through fines or the suspension of publication or distribution.The Supreme Council in turn makes appointments to the National Media Authority (under Law 178/​2018), which is in charge of audiovisual media, and to the National Press Authority (under Law 179/​ 2018), which is responsible for the state-​owned press, online and offline. The two national authorities appoint and supervise the boards of state-​owned media entities. Law 179/​2018 required private newspapers to pay a prohibitive registration fee amounting to EGP 6 million for a daily newspaper and EGP 50,000 for an information site. News websites or blogs which have more than 5,000 followers are treated like publishers, meaning they can be blocked or suspended for publishing anything deemed by the authorities to be false news or incitement to violence or discrimination. A  further “cybercrime” law, passed in the summer of 2018, empowered the government to block any website considered to pose a threat to “national security” or the “national economy.” It imposed a fine and jail terms for creators or administrators of banned sites, as well as those accessing a prohibited account, even in error. Even before the cybercrime law, an “anti-​terrorism” law of 2015 had obliged journalists and users of social networks to disseminate only the official account of any attack sustained by state forces or institutions under a penalty of heavy fines. Taken together, the laws put an end to the media activities that preceded and followed the 2011 revolution.They wiped out any possibility of independent mainstream media and deprived information sites of any revenue, leading to their closure. Al-​Badeel newspaper closed after several months of being blocked in 2017, while well-​known activists were imprisoned.Yet some former editor-​journalists went along with the new approach. Ibrahim Eissa, from being a critic of government, started writing against activists, calling their concerns “nonsense” (Afify, 2014). Besides passing draconian laws on registration and content, the Sisi government also moved into the arena of media ownership through nominally private companies. The transfer of privately owned news media to companies effectively run by the intelligence services took place in 2016–​2017. Abu Hashima, who had bought a stake in Al-​Youm al-​Sabea in 2011, acquired the ON network and four newspapers in 2016 through a holding company, Egyptian Media Group, registered in 2013 (Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression [AFTE], 2018). Media practitioners saw only one explanation for his rapid rise. One said: “We do not know where this man came from, nobody knew him, and he began to take hold of the media. It was obvious to 418

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Media ownership in Egypt (2000–2020) Table 25.2  A selection of Eagle Capital’s media holdings in 2019 Audiovisual outlets

Newspapers

News websites

• Al Hayat; Al Hayat2; Al Hayat Musalsalat •  ON E; ON Sport •  Extra News •  CBC; CBC Drama; CBC Sofra •  DMC Bouquet

•  Al-​Youm al-​Sabea (Youm7) •  ‘Ain al-​Mshaheer •  Al-​Watan •  Sawt al-​Umma •  Egypt Today •  Business Today

•  Al-​Youm al-​Sabea (Youm7) •  Sawt-​al  Umma •  ‘Ain al-​Mshaheer •  Dot Masr

Source: Reporters Sans Frontières (RSF), 2019.

everyone that he was working for the military who wanted to silence the media” (Anonymous, 2017). However, Abu Hashima’s departure was also quick. In December 2017, a private equity fund affiliated to the General Intelligence Services (Bahgat, 2017) and already a part-​owner of Egyptian Media Group, announced that it had bought Abu Hashima’s stake in Egyptian Media. Called Eagle Capital for Financial Investments, it was headed by former investment minister Dalia Khurshid. In 2018, Egyptian Media Group also took over the Al-​Hayat channels, previously acquired by Tawasol Group, headed by a former intelligence official and part of Falcon Security Services, which provided security for Sisi’s election campaign in 2014. Another Falcon subsidiary had already bought Al-​Asema satellite channel. In this way, private media investors of the pre-​Sisi era were elbowed out. Sawiris’s Free Egyptians Party won nearly 11% of seats in parliamentary elections in 2015, but infighting among the party leaders, stirred up by Sisi supporters and security forces (Dunne and Hamzawy, 2017), led to Sawiris’s expulsion from the party in 2017. A commentator noted Sisi’s hand in the process, saying: The president was able one way or another to intervene to prevent him from running. Instead, he made the choice to let him spend his money on the campaign. Then, when things were going well, he engineered an internal conflict that caused his exclusion. Anonymous, 2019 Salah Diab, co-​founder with Sawiris of Al-​Masry al-​Youm and a prominent member of the Wafd Party, was arrested in 2015 on charges relating to firearms and corruption. He was then accused of receiving US aid for his newspaper (Reporters Sans Frontières [RSF], 2019). Journalist-​ blogger Wael Abbas summed up the situation as follows: Right now, everything is under government control. They own the newspapers and television stations. They interfere in the work of foreign agencies and foreign media. They block sites if they do not appreciate the content. These are the conditions in which journalists live in Egypt. Abbas, 2019 Likewise, leading presenters and reporters of the heyday of TV talk shows were simply no longer present and those, like Amr Adeeb, who found a modus vivendi with the regime were discredited and mocked on social networks. In Abbas’s words : 419

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If you accept the rules they impose … you cannot talk about the opposition, you cannot talk about corruption, then you have a chance of getting a job with them. It will also depend on how they see you and what you know.You need to know people who can help you from within the sector. Abbas, 2019 In these circumstances, many aspiring journalists chose to go abroad. As one said: What is the point of being a journalist today if it is just to write or read official communiqués? I’m interested in social and economic issues and there is a lot to do on that. I used to write for the print media, that’s no longer thinkable today. Then I worked for online sites in Egypt like Youm7, which have now been bought out or blocked. I, like many of my colleagues, worked for online sites based in Lebanon but these sites are now blocked in Egypt. What to do, if not change job? Freelance Journalist, 2019 Of the nascent category of publisher-​journalists who emerged in and after 2011, none was able to maintain an economically viable medium; those who strove for sustainability were blocked and accused of being foreign agents. Analysis of print media demonstrates the single narrative shared by the privately owned and state-​owned press under the Sisi regime. Prices increased for everyday goods, and instead of being criticised, were merely announced in a casual and patronising way. The once outspoken private newspapers—​Youm7, Al-​Dustour and Al-​Masry al-​Youm—​gave uniform celebratory front-​page treatment to the fifth anniversary of protests that led to President Morsi’s dismissal. Morsi’s death was relegated to the inside pages, with all papers running the same 42-​word story that had been circulated to news editors by the government via WhatsApp (Mada Masr, 2019). Al-​Watan, Al-​Goumhouria, Al-​Ahram, Al-​Wafd, Al-​Youm al-​Sabea and Al-​Akhbar displayed identical headlines on 22 March 2019, announcing that Sisi had brought “victory to pensioners.” It was in 2018–​2019 that overseas commentary started to apply the term “totalitarian” to the Sisi government (Project on Middle East Democracy [POMED], 2018; Hawthorne and Miller, 2019). Yet anger and protest could still be found on social networks, especially in response to the government’s austerity policies. Digital protests continued with every arrest of a public figure. Opposition to constitutional amendments extending Sisi’s right to remain in the presidency until the 2030s was voiced through social networks, with a campaign launched in April 2019. The amendments passed anyway, and social media users were obliged to use virtual private networks (VPNs), sometimes at considerable cost, to access opposition exchanges, because the relevant sites were blocked. But social media surfaced again in September 2019 as a means for a former Egyptian construction tycoon, living in self-​imposed exile in Spain, to circulate videos claiming ministerial corruption and sparking protests on Egyptian streets.

Conclusion This chapter identified changing configurations of media and power in Egypt under three presidents:  Mubarak, Morsi and Sisi. Figure  25.1, drawing on Bourdieu’s (1991, 1992) concept of the field as a structured social space, contrasts the situation in 2000–​2012, when media projects started by private investors combined with the use of social networks to give rise to a degree of diversity, with the phase that started in 2013 when both traditional media and online 420

421

Media ownership in Egypt (2000–2020)

Expanding media field (2000–2013)

Locked media field (2014–2020)

(Authoritarian/semi-authoritarian polical system)

(Totalitarian polical system)

Limited media empowerment and diversifica on of editorial lines

Media capture by ruling elite

Journalists' tes ng of censorship boundaries

Censorship (by legal, extralegal and economic means) and self-censorship

Uniform speech and informa on control

Innova on

Exclusion of entrepreneurs and journalists perceived as disloyal

Emergence of new media

Split between social networks and tradi onal media Public deser on of statecontrolled media

Dialogic relaons between social networks and other media

Opposi on expressed via social networks and media outlets abroad

Figure 25.1  Media configurations in Egypt 2000–​2020 Source: Author’s own work based on Bourdieu, 1991, 1992.

news media were effectively in government hands and Internet use was subjected to elaborate surveillance. When the media field is marginally more open, we see not only a certain editorial diversity but also some alignment of content between online and offline media. In contrast, when the media are muzzled or confiscated by the ruling power, the result is a strong opposition between the monochrome media of the state apparatus and the online media, even a radicalisation of the online opposition. Taken as a whole, the media spectrum in the latter phase is characterised by the silence of ordinary people, which seems to contradict the suggestion by political scientist Sarah Ben Nefissa (2011, p. 235) that the 2011 Egyptian revolution had shown the existence of a civil society that had long been “contested by scientific research, because of the weakness of its autonomy with regard to the public authorities.” Yet civil society does have rare moments of expression online, as happened in September 2019. Its voice in these moments is cautious, enlightened by past mobilisations and aware of the risks of an uprising.

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26 TWEETING THE REVOLUTION The evolution of social media use in Egypt’s turbulent times Rasha Abdulla

Introduction One main characteristic of the social media scene in Egypt is how much it has changed over the past decade, not just in terms of technology but also in terms of content. Social media were credited with being a major catalyst or force behind the 2011 revolution in Egypt. However, social media platforms have not always been that strong or retained that vibrancy, at least not in the same way. While platforms such as Snapchat and Instagram have stayed more on the entertainment side of things, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter and blogs before them were right at the heart of political activism in Egypt since their appearance on the scene. This in turn has had implications for how their use has evolved over time. This chapter traces the evolution of social media in Egypt, particularly blogs, YouTube, Facebook and Twitter. It analyses how change in the social media scene can be depicted as a reflection of changes in the political and the social structures in Egypt. It follows the functions and usage structure of each social media platform as it appeared, and how Egyptians used them to push through social and political change. It also traces how the power of social media has changed over the years, mainly as a reaction to the power of the state and the power of the people.While social media power was at its peak in 2011 and for the next couple of years, things changed dramatically by the end of 2013. In discussing these changes, the author hopes to highlight the power of social media as a tool, used sometimes strategically by the people, and used and controlled sometimes by the regime.

Blogging and YouTube: A timely symbiosis The first interactive platform that many Egyptians fell in love with was blogs. Egyptian Internet users, and activists in particular, took notice of blogs around 2004, and blogging immediately took off as a popular form of free expression. Before this in Egypt, there were very few outlets for citizens, particularly youth, to speak their minds. From sports to arts to jokes to cooking to politics, blogging gained traction as a space in which Egypt’s young people could be themselves and say what they want. That in itself was a huge accomplishment, since Egyptian youth always seemed at the time to be talked at, rather than talked to, and they rarely did the talking themselves. In a conservative, patriarchal society, where not only respect for but obedience to 424

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the elderly was expected, and where most spheres of public communication were tightly controlled, blogging provided an unprecedented and much needed space for self-​expression. For the first time Egyptian youth had a chance at “horizontal communication,” rather than the “vertical communication” dictated to them by their families and/​or the government. Horizontal communication meant that young people had a space to talk to their peers, freely and without government or societal control (Abdulla, 2011a, p. 45). This was especially important because offline media in Egypt and the Arab world in general are controlled by those in power, sometimes together with the businessmen deemed loyal to them (Harb, 2011). It really did not matter therefore how popular the blog was, or whom exactly the bloggers were talking to.What mattered was that they blogged, they talked, they spoke their minds. That helped them realise that they had a voice, that their voice was important, and that they can and should be heard. As was the trend all over the world at that time (Web Designer Depot, 2011), political blogs soon emerged as the most popular craze of the Egyptian blogosphere. Political activists who happened to be technology-​savvy took to the Internet to start their own blogs, as their way of telling the world what they were witnessing on Egyptian streets, especially those things the traditional media were more than reluctant to cover. They started small and were content to be talking, even if only among themselves by posting comments to any blog entry. These bloggers formed a significant and tight community. They helped each other out by always interacting, and they helped newer bloggers by publicising the new blogs. Some of these names later became landmarks in the Egyptian blogosphere and managed to accumulate a huge following, even matching or surpassing the distribution figures of leading Egyptian daily newspapers at the time. One of the earliest blogs was Manal and Alaa’s Bit Bucket (manalaa.net), created by a then-​ married couple, Alaa Abdel Fattah and Manal Hassan. Started in 2004, their blog served not only to let followers know of the bloggers’ offline activities but also as a blog aggregator for the Egyptian blogosphere. The very first post, by Abdel Fattah on 20 March 2004, featured pictures of an anti-​(Iraq)-​war demonstration in downtown Cairo accompanied by a seemingly hastily written two-​line apology for the bad quality of the pictures, which read: “Sorry for the bad quality my my [sic] digicam is borked, I’m probably buying a new one soon” (Abdel Fattah, 2004a). The second post, on 26 March, was another two-​liner, complaining that, after Abdel Fattah and Hassan had searched the market, they realised the prices of digital cameras were “so inflated” that they only managed “a low end” camera (Abdel Fattah, 2004b).This record of their frustration in 2004 demonstrates how the advances in technology and cheaper prices that make for smart phone penetration of over 100% in Egypt today (Ministry of Communications and Information Technology, 2019) significantly propelled cyber activists in their journey. Abdel Fattah later became one of the icons of the January 2011 revolution. He was arrested several times by police, starting in 2006 under Mubarak and then under each of the four regimes that followed Mubarak’s ousting in 2011. In 2015, he was sentenced to five years in prison. Shortly after his release, he was arrested again for allegedly publishing false news on social media and joining an illegal organisation (Amnesty International, 2019; BBC, 2019). Another of the earliest and most influential Egyptian bloggers was Wael Abbas, who started his blog, The Egyptian Conscience (http://​misrdigital.blogspirit.com/​) in April 2004. Abbas was a pioneer in discussing taboo issues such as police brutality and sexual harassment on this blog, bringing them to the attention of the traditional media. In a major incident of police brutality, a video brought to light by the anonymous blogger Demagh Mak gained much wider reach through Abbas’s blog, and then through traditional journalists such as Wael Abdel Fattah, who took it on. As a result, for the first time three police officers were convicted of police brutality in Egypt and were sentenced to three years in jail. Abbas won several international honours for his efforts, including the Knight International Journalism Award in 2007 (Knight 425

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Foundation, 2007). This was the first time that a blogger, rather than a traditional journalist, had won this prestigious journalism award, which was a testament to the power of social media and of bloggers (Abdulla, 2014, p. 8). A year after blogs were introduced in Egypt,YouTube came into existence, and Egyptian political bloggers had a much more powerful tool to disseminate their videos to the world. In the meantime, the Egyptian political movement Kefaya (Enough) had just been born. Kefaya, whose official name was The Egyptian Movement for Change, had the aim of preventing Mubarak from running yet again in the forthcoming presidential election and also preventing his son Gamal Mubarak from succeeding him. Kefaya organised itself primarily through a mailing list, but blogs and YouTube were instrumental in bringing the movement into the spotlight for Egyptian youth. For the first time, scores of Egyptians were able, through the videos posted on YouTube, to see and hear fellow citizens demonstrating and chanting “Down with Hosni Mubarak.”This led to more young people joining the demonstrations, which were still relatively very small in numbers, and to more bloggers joining the Egyptian blogosphere to either document what they saw and did on the streets or to analyse and speak their minds about the political scene. Bloggers such as Abdel Fattah, Hassan, Abbas, Malek Mostafa, Hossam el-​Hamalawy, Amr Gharbeia, Ahmed Gharbeia, Amr Ezzat and others became stars and their followers increased dramatically.They were joined by others who chose to blog anonymously such as Demagh Mak, Zeinobia, SandMonkey (who identified himself after the 2011 revolution as Mahmoud Salem) and Baheyya. For years, Egyptian bloggers maintained the most vibrant blogosphere in the Arab world, and helped other Arab bloggers come onto the scene (DW Akademie, 2012). By 2007, according to The Economist (2007), Egyptian bloggers were shaping the political agenda by “chipping away at the overweening dominance of Arab governments.” Their influence was already catching the attention of academics. El-​Nawawy and Khamis (2014a) examined five prominent political blogs that dealt with human rights violations in Egypt. Their findings indicated that posts served to achieve at least one of three main functions:  public mobilisation, documentation or deliberation.They (2014a, p. 962) concluded that political blogs “contributed to the democratisation in Egypt in a manner that paved the way for the Egyptian revolution of January 2011.” In another study, El-​Nawawy and Khamis (2014b) analysed aspects of the blogs that dealt with government corruption. They found “a clear indication that these forms of communication played a crucial role in destabilizing the older hierarchies of power in society, as evidenced in their contribution to shaking the Mubarak regime and paving the way for socio-​political reform.” Once again, they concluded that political bloggers had “played a critical role in enriching, revitalizing and mobilizing the Egyptian civil society, particularly in the prelude to the 25 January Egyptian Revolution.”

The participatory culture and networked leadership of Facebook pages Perhaps the medium that had the greatest impact on the lives of Egyptians was Facebook, which was introduced to Egypt in 2007 and became an immediate hit among Egyptian youth. Facebook took the idea of “horizontal communication” (Abdulla, 2011a, p.  45) to a whole new level with maximised interaction between “friends.” While blogs were centred around the personality and writings of the blogger, the Facebook timeline is a trip among the ideas of many, encouraging interaction with both words and symbols in the form of “likes” and emojis. Facebook took Egyptian online activists by surprise in 2008 when blogger Esraa Abdel Fattah started a group called “April 6 Strike” in solidarity with the workers of the industrial city of Al-​Mahalla al-​Kubra, who were planning a demonstration on that day to demand higher wages and better working conditions. Abdel Fattah called upon members of the Facebook group to 426

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stay home on that day. News of the group reached the traditional media and, to the surprise of everyone, including Abdel Fattah herself, over 73,000 members joined the group, many of whom took the call seriously. Others were discouraged from carrying on with their daily activities for fear of excessive police presence as well as a sandstorm that occurred that day.The April 6 group was instrumental in alerting activists to the power of social media.The group remained operational and developed into the April 6 Youth Movement, which was quite active during the 2011 revolution. Abdel Fattah was detained for two weeks in the aftermath of the April 6 strike, and later became known in the media as the “Facebook girl” (Abdulla, 2011a, p. 46, 2013, pp. 37, 69). No analysis of social media in Egypt would be complete without examining the most popular political Facebook page ever created by Egyptian activists, Kullena Khaled Said (“We are all Khaled Said”), the page that hosted the “invitation” to the event that developed into the 2011 revolution. Khaled Said was a 28-​year-​old Egyptian blogger from Alexandria, who was brutally beaten to death by plain-​clothed police informants in June 2010. Four days later, the Facebook page “We are all Khaled Said” was started anonymously and soon gained a huge following of young people all over Egypt. The page featured a profile picture of a neat young Khaled in a grey hoodie. He really could have been anyone, a brother, a cousin or a neighbour, with an innocent radiant smile that was easy to identify with. That photograph stood in sharp contrast to the first picture posted on the page, a picture of Khaled with a disfigured, bloody face that had been leaked from the morgue.The caption read, “I want my rights.”The page garnered 300 followers in its first two minutes, 3,000 in the first hour, and jumped to a whopping 36,000 followers on the first day (Ghonim, 2012, pp. 60, 62). At its peak, the page stood at over 4 million followers. We later learned that the page had been started by Wael Ghonim, Google’s main marketing executive for the MENA region at the time, who then added Abdel Rahman Mansour as a second “admin.” Ghonim had previously added Mansour as a second admin on another popular Facebook page in support of Mohamed Elbaradei, who was starting to shine as a political influencer and a potential presidential candidate at the time. During the six months before the page issued its invitation to the January 25 protests, its signature dissent tool was to invite members to stand along the Corniche of Alexandria (and later other governorates) in black shirts, with their backs to the street. The demonstrations became quite popular, and the number of participants increased with every protest as more and more people gained a little more courage and tasted the freedom of dissent. This page played an instrumental role for several reasons. Abdulla et al. (2018) argued that it acted as a proto-​democratic tool that helped to educate Egyptian youth about democracy through its participatory style. The authors analysed discussion threads and polls from a data set of 14,072 posts, 6,810,357 comments and 32,030,731 likes made by 1,892,118 users extracted through the Netvizz application. They concluded that the page helped its members to realise that their voice counts and can make a difference. It provided an unprecedented active public sphere for discussing taboo topics such as police brutality, torture and corruption. It also served as a practical example of shared governance and political participation. This comment from the page puts it best: “I swear admin, I suggest you give a copy of this survey website to the Parliament, maybe they will learn from it how to apply democracy, they seem to have forgotten everything except for the word ‘approoooooved’ ” (Abdulla et al., 2018, p. 142). Poell et al. (2015) analysed the leadership patterns that led to the success of the “We are all Khaled Said” Facebook page. They argued that the admins employed a type of networked leadership that used sophisticated marketing techniques. This position is in sharp contrast to scholarship that suggests that online participation and activism are largely self-​propelled. Castells (2012), for example, argues that online technologies minimise the need for formal 427

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leadership. Bennett and Segerberg (2012) also view online protest movements as largely self-​ motivated, with little need for leadership or formal organisational structures. Poell et al. (2015, p. 994) argue differently.Through analysing exchanges between the admins and page users, they concluded that the admins are “connective leaders,” who “invite and steer user participation by employing sophisticated marketing strategies to connect users in online communication streams and networks.” It was the “We are all Khaled Said” page that hosted an invitation for a “day of revolt against torture, poverty, corruption, and unemployment,” to be held on 25 January 2011, which became the start of Egypt’s revolution. The invitation (see Figure 26.2) was shared by many political pages and thousands of users. It went out to over 1 million people, and about 100,000 said they were “attending.” This was probably the culmination of the “power in numbers” lesson that social media taught to the youth in Egypt. If only a fraction of these numbers actually made it to the streets, it would be a very different scene from the dozens or at best hundreds who used to gather in protest on the front steps of the Journalists’ Syndicate building. It would be very difficult for the government to crack down on such large numbers.Yet, what actually took place in the 18 days of the revolution surpassed all expectations, as hundreds of thousands, indeed millions, of people from all walks of life filled Tahrir Square and the major squares of Egypt every day until Mubarak was forced to step down. The 18 days of the revolution marked the start of a golden age of social media use in Egypt, a period that lasted for under three years. As the demonstrations started and grew exponentially, the government realised that the Internet was the major organising tool behind them and therefore started blocking access.The first social medium to be blocked on 25 January 2011 was Twitter. Activists started posting detailed instructions on Facebook for users to download and install virtual private networks (VPNs). A few hours later, Facebook was blocked. On 28 January 2011, all Internet and mobile phone access was shut off. Mobile phone access was restored a day and a half later, while the Internet was blocked for a total of five days (Abdulla, 2013, p. 40, 2014, p. 13). Contrary to government intentions, however, this shutdown seemed to have a mobilising effect. Researchers such as Gerbaudo (2013) argue that this was partly because people who might have settled for a virtual connection with the revolution were instead forced to physically march onto the streets in order to be part of the movement.

Twitter, high hopes and multi-​media interactions Twitter, offering 140-​character messages at the time, played a slightly different (but also important) role, being more suitable for quick updates and announcements than lengthy discussions. Many activists tweeted live during demonstrations, updating the general public with what was generally a more credible picture than that afforded by traditional media. Activists also tweeted at each other to provide individual updates, and sometimes carried on discussions on long and interesting tweet threads. Twitter was mainly used to let people know what was happening on the ground in real time, and alert them to any potential danger. Tweeps would alert others of where and when a potential raid was imminent or would tweet short messages along the lines of “arrested” or “taken by police,” sometimes moments before their mobile phones were confiscated. Many got into the habit of tweeting their whereabouts constantly, or to announce they were going offline to notify others that they were safe even if not seen online. That was, by a long measure, the time when the social media buzz was at its highest, being credited by many to be a major facilitating force behind the revolution. After the fall of Mubarak, millions of Egyptians flocked to Facebook and Twitter to get news and follow activists’ first-​ hand accounts of daily revolt activities and general discussions on the future of the country. 428

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The Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF), which ruled for a transitional period after Mubarak, started issuing all its official statements first on Facebook, to be later quoted by the traditional media, in a testament to the important role played by that medium and the huge following that it enjoyed, particularly among youth. Facebook users in Egypt, estimated at 4  million in January 2011, had grown in number to over 42  million by the end of 2019 (Napoleon Cat, 2020). Egyptians had held high hopes for freedom of expression in all its forms after the fall of Mubarak, especially when the Ministry of Information was abolished in February 2011. Activists became regular guests on the various popular television talk shows every night, which greatly contributed to increasing their following on social media. It was a time for heated discussions on all media forums. Unfortunately, signs of a crackdown came quickly, with several activists and journalists being summoned to military trials as early as in March 2011 (Abdulla, 2011b), and the Ministry of Information being reinstated in July of the same year (Committee to Protect Journalists, 2011a; National Coalition for Media Freedom, 2011). It did not take long for blogger Alaa Abdel Fattah to be jailed again, in October 2011 (Committee to Protect Journalists, 2011b). Despite such challenges, this period, and later under the Muslim Brotherhood’s Mohamed Morsi as president, witnessed the most diversity and the most robust discussions on both traditional and social media. This was primarily due to the relative balance of power at the time between SCAF, the Brotherhood and the revolutionaries. It was not a time of free expression as such, because those who spoke out faced potentially grave consequences. Indeed, the Arab Network for Human Rights Information reported that under Morsi, 24 cases of “insulting the President” were filed in 200 days, compared to 14 cases in the previous 115 years (Egypt Independent, 2013). However, it was an unprecedented time of defying authority in all shapes and forms, and thus the media, social and traditional, were quite vibrant at the time. Among the most successful social media initiatives of that time were Mosireen (Insistent) and Kazeboon (Liars). Mosireen was a social media cooperative that aimed at documenting and disseminating footage of revolution-​related activities, many of which were ignored by the traditional media. Kazeboon complemented those activities by organising public screenings of Mosireen videos anywhere on the streets of Egypt. Both entities were open and solely relied on social media for all their activities. Mosireen videos were, and still are, available online for anyone to download, while the cooperative’s equipment and office space were shared with others who requested it. They depended not only on their own material but also on footage shot by citizen journalists all over Egypt and shared with Mosireen on social media. By January 2012, Mosireen was the most viewed non-​profit channel on YouTube not only in Egypt but also worldwide (Lane, 2012). Kazeboon used social media to call on ordinary people to organise viewings of the Mosireen footage in their neighbourhoods. They posted guidelines on how to do this, showing how all that was needed was to download the videos (or get a free DVD), work out a screen (which could be a white linen sheet spread on a wall) and rent a projector and speakers for the evening. Kazeboon and Mosireen shows were popular all over Egypt, perhaps with the most memorable show being the one projected onto the walls of theMaspero building that houses the government-​run Egyptian Radio and Television Union.These shows also encouraged some satellite channels to cover the viewings, thereby giving much needed exposure to the footage (Abdulla, 2014, p. 17). Morsi was ousted at the start of July 2013, and a month later, emergency laws were reinstated. Things took a further turn for the worse when the anti-​protest law was passed in November 2013, with several bloggers (including, yet again, Alaa Abdel Fattah) being accused of using social media to encourage or call for protests. At the same time, the traditional media were becoming increasingly one-​sided, claiming some popular revolutionary activists were “spies,” “traitors” or 429

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“agents of foreign countries.” Soon enough, dissident voices became almost extinct, and many activists were either detained, self-​exiled or exercised self-​censorship for fear of detention.

Web users squeezed by government and tech giants In the years after 2013, more legislation further restricted online freedom of expression. Most notable were the 2015 anti-​terrorism law and the 2018 Law on the Organization of Press, Media and the Supreme Council for Media Regulation, more commonly known as the Internet law. Under these laws, journalists—​including those working online—​are prohibited from publishing any terrorism-​related news that does not follow the official government account of events. Violators face a fine of up to half a million Egyptian pounds (about $31,600), an amount large enough to force the closure of any independent journalism entity in the country (Reuters, 2016). The Internet law deems anyone with more than 5,000 followers on social media to be a publisher, thereby making them liable to the state’s harsh penalties for media outlets. The law requires a licence to be obtained from the Supreme Council for Media Regulation in order to establish a website and allows the Council to block websites and impose fines (Reuters, 2018; The Telegraph, 2018). With no concrete definitions of what constitutes terrorism, fake news or incitement to violence, these laws provided a powerful tool for suppressing online dissent. Dozens of journalists, government critics and online activists were detained on charges of spreading fake news or inciting violence. ARTICLE 19 (2018) found the Internet law to be “extremely problematic,” saying it “fails to comply with international human rights standards.” The organisation highlighted several alarming issues, including the ease of blocking websites that the law afforded state institutions; overburdening licensing requirements for websites; and vague prohibitions such as those relating to pornography, fake news, national security and “advocating indecency” (ARTICLE 19, 2018). Indeed, the Egyptian authorities started blocking websites in May 2017. Before that, despite sometimes harassing bloggers or even putting them on trial (with Karim Amer being the first one in 2007), the disputed content had always remained online. That changed in 2017 with the blocking of 21 websites, including Mada Masr, an award-​winning independent online news outlet, and several human rights organisations, including Human Rights Watch. The Freedom on the Net 2017 report on Egypt indicated that, by the end of June, the number of blocked websites had jumped to over 100, including more news outlets, more local and international human rights organisations and most VPNs and proxy service websites such as TOR, Hotspot Shield and others (Freedom House, 2017). Dozens of social media pages were shut down, sometimes by filing multiple reports to the platform hosting them or through intimidation of admins. Egypt was ranked as “Not Free” by the Freedom on the Net reports every year since 2015, with its score worsening each year.The report for 2018 put the number of websites blocked at over 500, with hundreds of social media pages shut down (Freedom House, 2018). Among the websites blocked in Egypt at the end of 2019 were international media outlets such as the BBC as well as all independent Egyptian media. Numerous social media users, some with little following, were detained for posting content that the state deemed questionable, inciting or insulting. Media outlets such as Mada Masr tried to maintain their presence by publishing their content on Facebook, or powering up a mirror website and posting links on Facebook and Twitter. The popular social media platforms themselves are not without problems. Facebook,Twitter and YouTube have all suspended or closed activists’ accounts or pages on numerous occasions, and some of their policies are less than friendly to the activist community. As early as 2007, YouTube removed Wael Abbas’ account without warning, citing complaints about graphic

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content. The account had documented dozens of police brutality videos. It was restored after an outcry by international activists, and YouTube softened its rules regarding documentary violent content (York, 2018). Facebook has shown it will shut down a page if there are enough reports on that page, which is made viable and likely when trolls are employed to make reports. Its “real name” policy is also quite problematic, and at one point resulted in suspending the “We are all Khaled Said” page and Mohamed Elbaradei’s page in November 2010, two days before parliamentary elections, because Ghonim had used a pseudonym when creating the pages to ensure his anonymity (O’Brien, 2010). In November 2017, Abbas’ Facebook account was suspended for 30 days, a decision that was revoked after the intervention of Internet rights NGOs (York, 2018). Twitter has been even more problematic, with its MENA office suspending numerous activists’ accounts without due diligence or good reasons. Based in the United Arab Emirates, the Twitter MENA office has been repeatedly accused by activists of silencing dissenting voices in Egypt. In September and October 2019, Egyptian activist and digital researcher Wael Eskandar documented that Twitter closed about 60 accounts before or after 27 September 2019, when protests against the president were being called for by an Egyptian contractor living in Spain (Rajagopalan, 2019). Eskandar, whose own account was suspended, said that at least 30 of these Twitter accounts seemed to be suspended for no reason other than tweeting content the state might deem questionable or insulting. Twitter later said (Twitter MENA 2019, see Figure 26.1) the suspensions were a mistake, but offered no further explanation. Among the suspended accounts were those of Egyptian award winning author and activist Ahdaf Soueif; graffiti artist Ganzeer; activist Ahmed Taha; the April 6 youth account; activist Hend Nafea; activist Gigi Ibrahim and others. Activist Wael Abbas’ Twitter account, a verified account with over 350,000 followers, was suspended in December 2017 and remained suspended at the time of writing in 2020, with no explanation. Similar complaints against the Twitter MENA office were reported by activists in Saudi Arabia, Lebanon,Yemen and other Arab countries. The 2019 Twitter account suspensions occurred around the time that a call for protests emerged in a series of online videos posted live by an Egyptian contractor, who had worked with the Egyptian military, and is now self-​exiled in Spain. The videos, in which he started by claiming to want to blow the whistle on corrupt practices and escalated to wanting to change the regime, went viral on the Egyptian Internet after a long period of silence. However, the call for protests resulted only in a few hundreds of young people demonstrating, and a new wave of arrests of over 3,000 people (Michaelson, 2019).

Figure 26.1  A tweet in Arabic by Twitter MENA that reads: “Recently, during routine checkups of disruptive activities and other Twitter enforcement of regulations procedures, a number of accounts in Egypt have been suspended in error. We apologize for that.” Source: Twitter MENA, 2019.

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Figure 26.2  Screenshot of the invitation, posted on the Kullena Khaled Said (We are all Khaled Said) Facebook page, to the January 25 protest that developed into the 2011 revolution, which overthrew President Hosni Mubarak.

Conclusion The media scene in Egypt has never been more confounded than in recent years. Since their inception, social media have constituted a space for communication in the country when no other spaces were available. Online platforms helped Egyptians to realise the difference their collective voices could make, and facilitated their organising and mobilising efforts. Ironically, however, these platforms have sometimes become the means by which the most active and effective voices are identified and silenced. The online space has increasingly been eroded in Egypt, sometimes with the help of the platforms. Egyptians are still using Facebook and Twitter to spread news and try to express their frustrations with the current situation, but this is coming at an increasingly high price. Only those willing to take the risk are attempting to speak out.

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El-​Nawawy, M. and Khamis, S. (2014b). Governmental corruption through the Egyptian bloggers’ lens: A qualitative study of four Egyptian political blogs. Journal of Arab & Muslim Media Research, 7(1), pp.  39–​58. Freedom House. (2017). Freedom on the Net 2017 Egypt. Freedom House. Available from https://​ freedomhouse.org/​report/​freedom-​net/​2017/​egypt [accessed 15 January 2020]. Freedom House. (2018). Freedom on the Net 2018 Egypt. Freedom House. Available from https://​ freedomhouse.org/​report/​freedom-​net/​2018/​egypt [accessed 15 January 2020]. Gerbaudo, P. (2013). The ‘kill switch’ as ‘suicide switch’:  Mobilizing side effects of Mubarak’s communication blackout. Westminster Papers in Communication and Culture, 9(2), pp. 25–​46. http://​doi.org/​ 10.16997/​wpcc.165 [accessed 15 September 2019]. Ghonim,W. (2012). Revolution 2.0: The power of the people is greater than the people in power: A memoir. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Harb, Z. (2011). 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27 RING-​F ENCED RELIGION? Egypt’s religious media between faith and politics Ehab Galal

Introduction In July 2018, the Egyptian parliament’s Religious Affairs Committee approved a new law regulating media appearances by religious scholars. The law stipulated that anyone issuing a fatwa (Islamic guidance) through the media without a permit would be punished with a large fine, which would be doubled for a repeat offence (Egypt Today, 2018). More than a year later, the law was still waiting for parliamentary approval because of disagreements between scholars at Al-​Azhar, the Muslim world’s most prestigious religious institution and university, and the Religious Affairs Committee. While the Committee’s secretary-​general argued that the law is an instrument for a renewal of religious discourse called for by President Sisi, Al-​Azhar—​itself financed through the state’s Ministry of Endowments and headed since 1961 by a presidential appointee (Morsy, 2011)—​defended its historic right to issue fatwas and to define the principles for doing so (Daily News Egypt, 2018). The draft law encapsulated particularities of the status of religious media in Egypt in the early part of the 21st century. On the one hand, it testified to the way Muslim audiences over the preceding decades had come to use new media to ask popular preachers, speakers and scholars to issue legal, moral and ethical opinions. On the other hand, it demonstrated government concerns about the potential for such opinions to weaken state control over religious teaching. Disagreements over the law highlighted questions in Egypt about power relations between the state, religious authorities and the media. If Al-​Azhar acts as an arm of the Egyptian state and the government is determined to control what is said on ‘religious’ media, how feasible is it to distinguish between media activities in terms of whether they are primarily religious or political? How feasible is it to distinguish between the private and public implications of religious media activities? Since the 1990s, satellite television and digital media have multiplied the possibilities for conveying political, cultural and social messages within and across national borders. Whereas religious media have always been an aspect of popular communication in Egypt, developments in media technology have enabled new forms of religious communication, which in turn have increased contestation of religious positions, as well as competition between the Egyptian state and self-​proclaimed religious groups and authorities (Brown, 2016; Galal, 2009a; Moll, 2018; Rock-​Singer, 2019; Sætren, 2010). The result is a religious media landscape in Egypt that is

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characterised not only by huge heterogeneity in platforms, outlets, output and reach, but also by political interventions that can determine whether outlets survive or not. Important changes in religion and politics have accompanied the emergence of new media distribution platforms. A process of Islamisation and rise in displays of individual piety can be said to have resulted from multiple factors: Egyptian teachers being influenced by strict religious practices in Saudi Arabia and other Gulf countries where they worked after the oil boom of the 1970s; Egyptian governments giving scope to Islamists as a counterweight to secular opposition; Iran exporting its revolution; religion-​affiliated groups like Hamas and Hezbollah seizing the political initiative in Palestine and Lebanon, respectively; and resistance to colonial and imperial legacies taking new forms (Mandaville, 2014; Roy, 2004). As Islam featured more prominently in policy and discourse, this was paralleled by the creation of ‘Islamic’ channels (Galal, 2011), made possible by the burgeoning pan-​Arab arena for satellite television and a concomitant compartmentalisation that seemed to offer people different spaces for affirming different facets of their lives and identities (Zubaida, 2005) while also allowing an increasing number of struggles to emerge in public over accusations of disrespect or misrepresentation (Galal, 2014, pp. 23–​24). Greater choice for viewers was matched by greater opportunities for selectiveness, reflection on content and pursuit of individual interests (Eickelman and Anderson, 1999; Galal, 2009a). With at least 150 channels defining themselves as Islamic or Christian out of around ten times that number of Arab satellite channels in total, not counting YouTube channels, Egyptian audiences have had plenty of options from which to pick and choose. One way for successive Egyptian regimes to retain control over their choices is through licensing, censorship and legislation like the fatwa law mentioned above. Khaled Hroub’s categorisation of religious broadcasting in Arab countries shows how far it is embedded into the mainstream across the region, reflecting what he sees as the ‘status quo with regard to the infusion of religion into society and politics’ (Hroub, 2012, pp. 6–​7). Roughly following his model, we can divide Egypt’s religious broadcasting into four categories:  state-​controlled media providing ‘light’ religious material such as the call to prayer, coverage of the hajj (annual pilgrimage) and other religious events; media that are privately owned by religious groups and do not contest the political status quo; ‘resistance media’, which in Egypt’s case could apply to media of the Muslim Brotherhood (MB); and generalist media like satellite channels CBS and Dream TV that broadcast mainstream religious material in a few programmes. The Egyptian government’s attitude to religious media depends on which of these categories is in the frame. This chapter addresses the first three categories as representing different modes of intersection between religion and politics, on the basis that, even when they insist they are non-​political, media ‘play an active, constitutive role in how religion and conflicts over religion play out’ (Lundby et  al., 2017, p.  440). Bearing in mind the potential for specialist channels to reinforce adherence to some religious practices and identities and rejection of others (Galal 2014), the chapter considers how far the landscape of religious media in Egypt facilitates communication within religious communities and whether it also promotes communication between them.

Religion, media and national identity Media outlets, and attempts by successive regimes to control them, have been implicated in a continuous battle over the role of religion in Egyptian society since the advent of print media. In 1842, Rifa’a al-​Tahtawy used Al-​Waqai’ al-​Masriya newspaper to encourage Egyptians to live a modernised way of life within Islamic guidelines (Al-​Komi, 1992). At the end of the 19th

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century and the beginning of the 20th century, Islamic magazines were published by leading figures, including Al-​Urwatu al-​Wathqa (1884) by Jamal el-​Din al-​Afghani and Mohammed Abdu, Al-​Hayat (1899) by Mohammed Farid Wagdi, and Al-​Manar (1898–​1935) by Mohammed Rashid Rida, promoting varying levels of opposition to the British occupation and discussing the place of science and religion in Egyptian society. Media regulation was relatively loose during the first half of the 20th century, but the situation changed dramatically after the 1952 revolution, which turned Egypt from a monarchy into a republic. During the presidency of Gamal Abdel-​Nasser, broadcasting and four of the largest publishing houses were nationalised, censorship was tightened and mass media were generally deployed to mobilise the Egyptian population behind the revolution (Dabous, 1993, pp. 105–​ 107). Religion was moulded into an overall nation-​building project, with Islam promoted as part of the country’s national identity, and a law passed in 1961 gave the president the right to appoint the head of Al-​Azhar. The MB and their outlets were banned and in 1964 the government established the Holy Quran Network, transmitting 24 hours a day. When Anwar Sadat came into power in 1970, he broke with Egypt’s long-​time ally, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, turning instead to the United States of America and opening the economy to private investment. While maintaining the state monopoly over broadcasting, his government allowed political parties to publish newspapers, albeit under tight state control (Rugh, 2004, pp. 149–​50). Part of Sadat’s strategy was to give Islamists, especially the MB, a place in politics in order to marginalise the influence of socialists who were powerful under Nasser. In 1971, Sadat also changed the constitution to state that the principles of Islamic Sharia were the main source of legislation. The result was an increasing competition and conflict between Islamist and mainstream Muslim positions, which Sadat tried to control by presenting himself as the Believing President (Al-​Ra’is al-​Mu’min) and by promoting his version of Islam. To that purpose, the five daily calls to prayer became a fixed element on state television, more Islamic scholars were seen in programmes, and the Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs published the magazine Minbar al-​Islam with the aim of providing religious legitimisation of state policies (Rock-​Singer, 2019, pp.  4–​5). The first celebrated television preacher, Sheikh Muhammad Sha’arawi, appeared on state television in 1977 and became popular because people could relate to his simple style, his use of humour and examples from everyday life (Brinton, 2015). In his later years, before his death in 1998, he began challenging the regime, for instance, by defending female genital cutting (Sætren, 2010, p. 53). Under the presidency of Hosni Mubarak, the state retained its monopoly over domestic broadcasting but started in 2000 to allow private television channels to operate by satellite (Sakr, 2008). Mubarak’s period has sometimes been described in terms of increasing liberalisation but, as argued by Eberhard Kienle (2001), this is a ‘grand delusion’. The continuous state of emergency that was routinely renewed with reference to the threat from Islamists curtailed freedom of expression (Kienle, 2001, p. 89). Like Sadat, Mubarak promoted a national version of Islam through the media while clamping down on oppositional religious voices (Kienle, 2001, pp. 104, 113).With the arrival of digital media, a huge number of new media outlets were established, including religious ones, but the regime sought to keep a grip on them through censorship. At a meeting in Cairo in February 2008, Egypt tried to get Arab ministers of information to agree on region-​wide controls that would prevent satellite channels from being carried by Arab satellites, including Egypt’s own Nilesat, unless the channel owners signed up to vaguely worded commitments to preserve abstract things like Arab identity, national unity, social harmony and the religious and ethical values of Arab society (Al-​Tahhawi, 2008). When the response to this initiative was not unanimous, the Egyptian government pursued its own

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censorship plans (Sakr 2010, pp. 40–​41). That year saw Nilesat withdraw broadcasting licences from ‘Islamic’ channels Al-​Fajr, Al-​Hikmah, Al-​Baraka, Al-​Zawra and Al-​Hiwar without any official explanation (Al-​Tahhawi, 2008). In May 2010, the licenses of ten religious channels were withdrawn for allegedly broadcasting radical content and contributing to tensions and sectarian conflict (Sætren, 2010; Galal, 2011). After the 2011 uprisings, media faced a new barrage of restrictions. During the interim rule of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces, media were warned not to publish anything against the armed forces and the granting of permits for satellite channels was suspended (Abdullah, 2014, p. 15). Under the brief presidency of Mohamed Morsi, Egypt’s first civilian president and the first to be democratically elected, forces for and against the MB, to which Morsi belonged, stoked political conflict over religion. Many journalists and media personalities were taken to court privately for insulting the president, while other court cases were raised on allegations of blasphemy and defaming Islam (Abdullah, 2014, p. 17).When Morsi was removed by the army in July 2013, the Islamist channels Misr25, Al-​Rahma, Al-​Hafez and Al-​Nas were immediately closed. In September, three other Islamist-​affiliated channels, Ahrar 25, Al-​Quds and Al-​Yarmuk were ordered to stop broadcasting, while the MB’s party newspaper, Freedom and Justice, was closed by the authorities (Abdullah, 2014, p. 21).The incoming regime of Abdel-​ Fatah al-​Sisi not only banned the MB as a terrorist organisation but implicated media producers and journalists in its clampdown by accusing them of supporting terrorism.

Muslim Brotherhood media The MB, created in 1928, understands itself differently from other ideological organisations or religious congregations: its members are tied not to a cause or community but to other believers in an ‘eternal God-​ordained brotherhood’, meaning for them that to leave the brotherhood is to renege on a religious duty (Kandil, 2015, pp. 49–​50). In working for the fulfilment of an Islamic umma (nation or community of believers) the MB does not draw a distinction between religion and politics. Its long-​established and widespread membership and its opposition to the country’s regime as flouting Islamic precepts are reflected in its dealings with the state over the media. Historically, its communication strategy emerged from the way the group’s founder, Hassan al-​Banna, developed the MB through tutorials, mosques and schools. Although dissolved as an organisation by the government in 1954, the MB later found room for manoeuvre under Sadat, taking advantage of his liberalisation of the economy and transition from a one-​party to a multiparty political system in 1977. In the 1980s, despite remaining formally illegal, it managed to associate itself with other organisations and political parties to achieve a presence in parliament and operate media outlets. Al-​Dawa (1976–​81) was the official MB magazine and, in the absence of access to radio, TV or daily newspapers, it was an important channel for distributing the MB vision of a future Islamised state and society (Rock-​Singer, 2019, p. 2). It was closed by the state in 1981 because the MB was against Sadat’s peace agreement with Israel (Breuer, 2014) but prominent MB scholars published books and journals, notably Al-​Mukhtar and Liwa’ al-​Islam, with the latter distributed in relatively high numbers by 1987 (Breuer, 2014). Being denied permission to form its own party, the MB allied with political parties such as the Wafd, the Socialist Labour Party and Socialist Liberals. From 1998 until around 2005–​2006, it used Arabiyya magazine, affiliated to Al-​Ahrar (Liberal) Party, until the government closed that outlet too (Mellor, 2018, p. 177). In the new millennium, the MB embraced the possibilities of digital media, launching several websites, including ikhwanonline.com in Arabic, and blogs that were distributed via servers outside Egypt and beyond the regime’s reach. The first group of MB bloggers challenged the 438

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predominantly secular nature of the Egyptian blogosphere, but the organisation’s first and only official website in English, ikhwanweb.com, launched in 2005 with its head office in London, reached out to western opinion makers (Breuer, 2014). In 2009 came a Twitter account @Ikhwanweb that started by linking to the website but later became a forum for lively discussion, especially among youth and not always in accordance with the views of the parent organisation. As Breuer (2014) argues, the many possibilities for presence and participation on digital media constitute a potential threat to the line taken by MB leaders. Indeed, just as new media were used to challenge the Egyptian regime, they were also deployed to challenge the MB’s internal power hierarchy. The MB satellite channel Misr25 was established shortly after the 2011 uprisings but closed by the regime after President Morsi was removed in June 2013. It was briefly replaced by Ahrar25 until this was also banned, after which the MB turned to setting up studios in Istanbul to transmit from there. Several channels from Istanbul can be linked to the MB in the period from 2013 to 2019. Launched in 2013 and clearly associated with the MB was Rabaa TV and Watan channel in 2019. Others, such as Mekameleen TV, Al-​Shar’ia, Al-​Sharq, Al-​Midan and Misr al-​An, shared the MB’s strong opposition to the Sisi regime but without being formally MB-​affiliated, representing instead a diverse mixture of liberal and religious values. Egyptian officials accusing them of association with the MB did so because of their oppositional politics (Brown, 2016; Galal, 2014), which in turn reflect an interweaving of socio-​political issues in Egyptian and Muslim society with devotional and spiritual matters. Difficulties of disentangling politics and religion on religious channels are encapsulated in the example of one of Egypt’s most famous religious media celebrities,Yusuf al-​Qaradawi. Born in 1926, educated at Al-​Azhar, and a prolific author, Qaradawi went into exile in Qatar in 1961. As an active MB member in his youth, and later a well-​known and controversial preacher on Al-​Jazeera, Qaradawi does not distinguish between religious issues and what he calls the real problems of the people. On an episode of the Al-​Jazeera series Al-​Shari’a wa Al-​Hayat (Sharia and Life) on 5 November 2006, he said he wanted to present Islam as a direction in life and described the show as Islamic, not religious. Launched in 1996, with audience members invited to put questions directly to Qaradawi, the series became a transnational role model for other fatwa programmes on satellite television (Galal, 2009b). Qaradawi also pioneered the use of other media outlets. In 1997, he helped to found the European Council for Fatwa and Research and also the website Islam Online (IOL). Financed by Qatar, IOL was one of the most successful and stable Islamic websites with a wide appeal among the younger educated generation in countries like Egypt and Saudi Arabia (Abdel-​Fadil, 2011). Qaradawi was chairman from the start until spring 2010, when he was expelled from the board because he supported the IOL-​ Cairo office, which the Qatari owners wanted to close in favour of relocating to Doha (Abdel-​ Fadil, 2016, p. 272). While the Cairo office saw the conflict as an ideological struggle against a more conservative, Salafi approach to Islam, Qataris on the board rejected this interpretation, citing professional and managerial differences. A third framing of the move explained it as a way of distancing IOL from the MB (Abdel-​Fadil, 2016), thereby exposing ongoing struggles over mediatised religion and different interpretations of Islam.

Salafi media The Salafi trend in religious media is maybe the most influential in the Arab as well as the Egyptian context. Unlike MB media, Salafi-​oriented outlets generally avoid political issues. Instead, they prioritise topics related to the pious, moral and ethical conduct of individual Muslims and the whole Muslim community (Galal, 2011). Precisely because of an ostensible 439

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lack of political engagement, Salafi media have to a large extent been condoned by the regime and have become highly influential in the last 20 years. Before digital media, Salafis distributed their teachings in pamphlets, magazines and audio cassettes. The magazine Al-​I’tisam originally served as the mouthpiece of their long-​standing Jam’iyya Shara’iyya (Sharia Association). From the mid-​1960s, it was officially independent and in the period 1976–​1981 included both Salafi issues related to ritual and theology as well as demands for socio-​political transformation characteristic of the MB (Rock-​Singer 2019, pp. 3–​4). With the advent of satellite television, Salafi media developed into a new religious and commercial business. The first self-​declared Islamic satellite channel in Arabic, Iqraa (Read), owned by the Saudi businessman Saleh Kamel, belonged to the Salafi trend. Iqraa, like other ‘Islamic’ channels, was popular from the start in Egypt, partly because it recruited former Egyptian female actors as presenters. As born-​again Muslims, they left their work as actors and started wearing the hijab. While Iqraa had its main office in the Saudi Arabian city of Jeddah, the channel also had an office and a studio in Cairo producing most of the programmes in Arabic and later in English, for Iqraa English TV (Galal, 2015). Iqraa has often been mentioned together with Al-​Resaleh, Al-​Nas and Al-​Majd as the most popular Islamic channels. They are all available for the Egyptian audience through satellite and, although all are financed by Saudi businessmen, the majority of their preachers are Egyptian. According to Al-​Majd’s public relations manager in Cairo (Al-​Swafi 2012), almost two-​thirds of the channel’s production in 2012 was made in Cairo.The four channels are also similar in making very general statements about Islam as a universal value that unites all Muslims. They promote a general Islamic perspective on life and a pious religious lifestyle as part of an Islamic identity politics (Galal, 2009a, 2010). However, Al-​Nas differs from the others in being solely produced in Egypt with only Egyptian religious figures and content. Like Al-​Rahma, launched by a disaffected preacher from Al-​Nas, it differs from Iqraa, Al-​Resaleh and Al-​Majd in showing less diverse programming and having an explicit focus on the Quran and traditions of the Prophet. Its story illustrates how such media in Egypt navigate between religious, political and financial considerations continuously and simultaneously. Together with three other channels all aimed at Egypt—​Al-​Hafiz, which teaches Quranic recitation, Al-​Siha wa’l Jamal and Al-​Khlijia—​Al-​Nas is owned by a Saudi company, Al-​Barahin al-​’Alamiya, headed by Ali Saad and Nasser Kadasa, owner of a huge law firm and former member of Saudi Arabia’s Shura (Consultative) Council (Shafiq 2012). It started in January 2006 with varied programming, including light entertainment, but soon began attracting popular preachers and turned into a religious channel, featuring Salafi preachers such as Mohammad Hussein Yaqoub, Mohammad Hassan and Abu Ishaq Alhuweini (Quneis, 2012). Banned by Egyptian law from having any religious allusion in its name (Shafiq 2012), it adopted a name that means ‘the people’ but is also the title of the short last sura (chapter) of the Quran. From initially airing music, weddings and featuring female presenters, Al-​Nas later not only removed all female presenters but allowed preaching that restricted women to roles as housewives and mothers. Even so it hosted a range of opinions, from Al-​Azhar invitees and a young preacher Sherif Shahata, which reportedly upset hard line Salafi preachers (Quneis, 2012) and prompted Mohammed Hassan to leave and create Al-​Rahma. In the period 2007–​10, Al-​Nas avoided explicit political engagement but, after the 2011 removal of Mubarak, launched a programme called New Egypt, which covered Egyptian daily news and openly supported Islamist movements (Abualrob, 2013, p.  161). This was at the time of parliamentary elections, in which the MB’s Freedom and Justice Party took 47 per cent and the Salafist Nour Party took 24 per cent of the votes. When President Morsi was removed in June 2013, Al-​Nas was immediately closed, along with Al-​Rahma, Misr25 and Al-​ Hafiz, which was under the same Saudi ownership as Al-​Nas. Whereas Al-​Rahma reopened 440

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shortly after, Al-​Hafiz was permanently closed and Al-​Nas did not start transmitting again until April 2015 (Al-​Mamlouk and ‘Arafa, 2015). Taken over by Tarik Ismail, an Egyptian whose business portfolio includes other broadcast media and an advertising agency (Media Ownership Monitor Egypt, 2019), it returned to focusing on religion, piety and personal practices, having replaced the Salafi preachers with others from Al-​Azhar and reintroduced female presenters. Its regime-​friendly line is presented, for example, on its Facebook page, under a formulation that emphasises wasatiyya, meaning a centrist or middle way of interpreting Islam, and a struggle against ‘extremists’, which, in the discourse of the Sisi regime, refers to the regime’s Islamist opponents. Whereas the channel’s slogan before 25 January 2011 was ‘Al-​Nas for all people’, it later became ‘Al-​Nas that channels you to heaven’ and then, under its new owner, ‘From people to people’.

Christian media Being a large minority in Egypt, Christians—​and especially Coptic Orthodox Christians who form the majority of Christians in Egypt—​have a long tradition of negotiating space for their religion vis-​à-​vis the wider Egyptian public (Galal, 2012; Monier, 2017). Overall, the Coptic Orthodox Church has supported a clear distinction between religion and politics and Copts participating in parliamentary politics have done so as Egyptians and not as Copts furthering a specific Coptic cause. Christian newspapers, which have existed in Egypt since the beginning of the press, have consistently supported the church and its political stance of accepting the government of the day. One of the first newspapers, Al-​Watan (the Nation), established in 1878, backed the church unconditionally in its attempt to limit lay influence on church affairs (Carter, 1986). When Egypt’s 1923 Constitution made Islam the country’s official religion, Al-​ Watan, then under new ownership, was the only Coptic organisation to protest (Carter, 1986). From 1923 to the early 1940s, Copts were politically active in parliamentary politics: besides Al-​Watan there was Misr (Egypt), an influential newspaper representing secular liberal Copts, which, unlike Al-​Watan, favoured lay influence on the church. At times, it even functioned as a voice of the secular and then politically influential Wafd Party, several of whose most prominent members were Copts. However, later in the 1940s and afterwards, Coptic newspapers and organisations generally turned their focus onto the church and its internal affairs (Carter, 1986). After Egypt gained independence in the 1950s, Copts were more or less invisible in national media, sometimes demonised by Islamists, but mostly ignored (Fawzy, 2012; Iskander, 2012). When occasional media output provoked controversy, the government responded by restricting Coptic media production. However, Copts used the communication opportunities afforded by the proliferation of new media platforms and thereby generated increased political awareness of Coptic issues in mainstream media (Elsässer, 2010). For example, the Coptic church has an Internet magazine, El-​Keraza. The weekly newspaper Watani, established in 1958 and published in Arabic, English and French, is politically independent and not directly connected to the church, but rarely criticises it. The content on its website, Wataninet.com, which has no ‘About’ page or mission statement, indicates general support for the development of a civil democratic Egypt with equal rights for Copts. Unlike Islamic channels, which are almost exclusively owned by private individuals or groups, Christian satellite television in the Middle East and in Egypt is mostly run by, or in collaboration with, religious bodies. Like the Islamic channels, Christian channels in Arabic address a wider audience by satellite. Most of the more than 35 such channels existing in 2019 offered programmes on the Bible, Christian history, martyrs, rituals and liturgy, professing to ‘serve Jesus Christ’. Whereas most promote a particular church, others like SAT7 do not. SAT7 started broadcasting two 441

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hours a week from Cyprus in 1996, opening offices in Lebanon in 1997 and Egypt in 1998. As explained on its website, SAT7’s International Council of 29 members mostly comprises local church leaders living in the Middle East and North Africa. Like its Islamic counterparts, SAT7 has faced government hostility. In 2015, its Cairo studio was raided by officials from the Ministry of Communication and Information Technology Censorship Department, who confiscated computers, editing equipment and eight cameras, and detained Farid Samir, Executive Director of SAT7 Egypt, on charges of operating without a proper permit. Samir was released but live broadcasts stopped for several months (US Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights and Labour, 2015). Some channels, like Aghapy TV and CTV, are closely linked to the Coptic Orthodox Church. Aghapy TV is the latter’s official channel, founded by the Church’s Bishop Botros in 2005 after protests against the contents of a Coptic-​produced amateur DVD triggered intercommunal violence in the Egyptian city of Alexandria (Sakr, 2007, p. 152). Offering a mix of spiritual-​, social-​and health-​related content, it now transmits to Coptic communities in 80 countries across South America, Europe and the Middle East. CTV was created in 2007 by the late Sarwat Basili, a Coptic businessman who sat on the highest committee of Egypt’s former ruling National Democratic Party (NDP). Like Aghapy TV, CTV focuses solely on religious matters, providing programmes on church life, prayers, sermons, bible studies and youth content (Fawzy, 2012). Like Al-​Nas, CTV responded to the 2011 uprising by adding a new programme, a talk show called F’il Nour (In the Light), addressing Egyptian current affairs (Fawzy, 2012, p. 203). Importantly, both Coptic channels follow the church’s political line, which has been to collaborate with the ruling regime. A third channel, Al-​Horreya TV, established in 2013, also serves the transnational Coptic Orthodox community, but from California, not Egypt. Even so, its Facebook page states that some of its shows are produced in Egypt. Most Arabic-​language Christian TV channels try to avoid criticising Islam, but there are exceptions. Al-​Hayat Christian satellite channel, set up in 2003 with the aim of converting Muslims to Christianity (Galal, 2011b), has been used by its controversial Coptic preacher, Zakaryia Boutros, to try to prove that Islam is a false religion. Not surprisingly, Al-​Hayat, based in Cyprus, has no premises or studios in any Arab country. Its produces very little of its own, acquiring most of its programmes from other Christian channels (Fawzy, 2012, p. 212). Because of his controversial views, Boutrus was expelled from the Coptic Church even before Al-​Hayat began broadcasting.

Conclusion The way religious media have developed in contemporary Egypt reflects, as shown here, transformations of and struggle over the close connections between politics and religion in Egyptian society. The phenomena of transformation and struggle are not exclusive to Egypt or the Arab world but are global (cf. Lundby et al., 2017). Nevertheless, they have their own characteristics in the Egyptian context, where tight government censorship seeks to contain sectarianism but, by restricting free and open discussion of sensitive issues, exacerbates a situation, already arising from the proliferation of narrow media platforms, whereby members of different faith communities rarely hear each other. Three things stand out from the account in this chapter. First, religious media are increasingly transnational in scope. This trend has been reinforced in Egypt’s case through the government’s blocking of terrestrial transmission by private broadcasters, forcing religious media to transmit via satellite and/​or via the Internet, including as YouTube channels or as selected programmes uploaded on YouTube or other data sharing sites. As for written media, these too are increasingly 442

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available worldwide via the Internet.Thus, media content circulates in a way that gets it a life of its own, potentially detached from its original offline context. Consequently, audiences may be more loyal to particular programmes or religious celebrities than to the outlets that host them. Secondly, despite the transnational scope and hence the potential for reaching a non-​ Egyptian audience, it remains the case that most religious media discussed in this chapter have a clear connection to Egypt and manifest a clear interest in Egyptian affairs. This connection is multidirectional. Whether MB, Salafi or Coptic media are produced in Egypt, broadcast from Egypt or include a majority of Egyptians among the religious authorities they feature, their transnational activities involve media users inside and outside Egypt in promoting a specific understanding of a given religion in competition with other interpretations. In other words, conversations are conducted within Coptic and Muslim communities at home and abroad, providing spaces where individuals can reflect on, negotiate and even reject particular religious practices and identities (Galal, 2014). As a consequence of this transnational multidirectionality, the third point arising is that it has become increasingly difficult for the Egyptian government to control how the role of religion in Egypt, and its relationship to politics, is discursively constructed. This has not, however, deterred the government from attempting to control the process, whether by national or transnational instruments. By ring-​fencing religious media through such controls, the government allows such media to offer spaces—​or compartments—​ for negotiation of particular religious practices and identities but at the risk of failing to foster interest and tolerance from one space to another.

Funding This work was funded by the Independent Research Fund Denmark, with grant number: 8018-​00038B.

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28 COOPERATIVISM, REVOLUTION AND THE ‘DIGITAL TURN’ Assessing recent Egyptian film collectives Viola Shafik

Introduction The presence of film cooperatives and collective film-​making seems to have portended and accompanied Egypt’s uprising in 2011 (Shafik, 2016, p.  223), an uprising which was in the beginning often linked to, and even explained by, the digital ‘turn’. Indeed, the diversification and internationalisation of digital technology that started in the 1990s were accompanied by the introduction of satellite television and a quantitative explosion in local and transnational television channels and followed by the expansion of new media, that is, the web. The new technology enhanced accessibility and affordability of the audiovisual means of production, whether for recording or editing. It facilitated bottom-​up use of the media along with the spread of a sort of ‘guerrilla filmmaking’, involving unlicensed community-​oriented shooting and recording by many possible means, of which mobile phones were but one. These changes were certainly instrumental in reconfiguring political struggles over representation between the state, which had originally kept a tight grip on the media, and marginalised social actors and interest groups, such as women, youth, workers and political activists. In cultural studies, a ‘turn’, such as the ‘digital turn’ referred to here, takes the place of the paradigm shift, advancing theory by means of a ‘delicate feedback loop’ (Bachmann-​Medick, 2009, p. 4). The problem is that it risks simplifying the historiography of change. If the digital turn is to work as an explanation, how does it account for technology and uprising combining to lead to collectivism or even cooperativism? Examining Egypt’s existing film collectives reveals an obvious flaw even with regard to the timeline in which they developed, since most of the initiatives in question predated the uprising. Largely registered as commercial enterprises to avoid harassment by the authorities, Semat, Fig Leaf Studios, Rufy’s and Hassala were all founded before 2011. Only Cimatheque and Mosireen emerged with it. Semat came into existence a whole decade earlier, in 2001, to create an incubator for non-​commercial cinema. Hassala (hasala, literally ‘money box’) was created in 2010 to allow the production of Hala Lotfy’s feature-​length film Coming Forth by Day (al-​Khuruj illa al-​nahar, 2012), a project which had 446

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already been in the pipeline for some time. The same applies to Tamir El-​Said’s docudrama, The Last Days of the City (Akhir ayam al-​madina, 2016), which went into production in 2008 and was eventually released in 2016. It became the catalyst for two cooperatives, through El-​Said’s close cooperation with actor Khalid Abdalla (known from The Kite Runner, 2007), one of the founding members of the Mosireen collective who also features in El-​Said’s film. Mosireen was constituted during the 2011 uprising by a number of media activists, while El-​Said conceived the alternative film centre, Cimatheque, around the same time. In Alexandria two other production cooperatives were created before 2011. Fig Leaf Studios (not a cooperative in the legal sense) started in 2005. It was instrumental in producing Ahmad Abdalla’s Microphone (2010) and has a long record in producing experimental films as well as an executive producer. Alexandria-​ based Rufy’s started producing its original short film compilation under the title Mice Room (Udat al-​firan) in 2010, although it was not released until 2013. Examining these initiatives more closely shows the double ‘turn’ hypothesis (uprising and digital technology) is not convincing. Worse still, it prevents an in-​depth understanding of the much more complex and continuous phenomenon of cooperativism in Egyptian society. True, the uprising and digital technology contributed to moulding the specific outlook of recent collectivism. Yet the roots of that process lie elsewhere. Before elaborating on its origins, the discursive implications of cooperatives, collectives and collectivism need to be considered.These terms contain a strong social component as they are concerned with group formations and with a long historical record of a particular kind, which for some is likely to be associated with anti-​ capitalism if not Marxism.

Collective action in the arts The organised collectivism that developed in the course of the 19th century is mainly narrated as a response to the industrial revolution and its massive workforce exploitation in the then leading industrial nations, namely England, France and Germany. Other reasons for collectivism, such as nationalist protectionism, are less known. Finland, for example, in that period still predominantly agricultural, relied extensively on cooperativism in almost all socio-​economic fields as a means to resist Imperial Russian supremacy for the sake of national self-​determination (Mayo, 2017, p.  41). In developments after the October Revolution and into the Cold War period, cooperativism was widely used in Eastern Europe to oppose social inequality. As Edward Taylor notes: [W]‌e must indeed recognize that one of the most important traits of economic cooperativism is that it is a non-​ capitalists’ organization. However, to avoid the misunderstandings linked with this idea, let us rather use a definition that more precisely reflects it, namely, that cooperativism is an economic organization for classes or individuals who are relatively weak economically Taylor, 2018, p. 232 In fact, before and aside from the socialist experiment, collectivism has been proposed as a remedy to infrastructural deficiencies and/​or a means to circumvent and ease social and economic hierarchies as well as political oppression. In other words, cooperativism may be regarded more generally as a means to enhance socio-​political and economic empowerment. On another level, ethnographers have identified it as an ancient and existentially important element of social organisation, prevalent in different historical and social contexts, such as times of external threat in environments where trade and mutual exchange play a prominent role. Finally, cooperativism 447

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gets exerted in different ways. It was not always a voluntary act of solidarity but was often based on collectively enforced rules (Mayo, 2017, p.  6). Thus, already in pre-​modern times, many societies developed forms of collective organisation to provide social security, guarantee a just distribution of revenues and preserve professional standards (such as the guilds for instance). In Egypt, one strand of independent collectivism was the introduction and creation of cooperatives for Egyptian peasants, first initiated by a lawyer, Omar Lotfy, in cooperation with Prince Hussein Kamel in 1908. They found in that system a ‘haven for the people during the general financial crisis of the time’ (Rashad, 1939, p. 470). By 1939, the country had 800 societies, 750 of which were concerned with agricultural needs (Rashad, 1939, p. 472). Cooperativism, as defined by Ibrahim Rashad, was characterised by principles such as open membership, democratic structures, interest in education, proportionate distribution of surplus to members and a secondary orientation to profit or none at all (Rashad, 1939, p. 469). However, after national independence and with the populist force of the Free Officers in the ascendancy after 1952, cooperatives, as well as their twin movement the trade unions and syndicates, gradually lost their autonomy or, as Asef Bayat notes, remained in the ‘grip of corporatism’ (Bayat, 2009, p. 9). To a certain extent, the same also applies to artists and their initiatives which had been formed up to then. In fact, numerous collective formations had come to life since film was first introduced to the country in 1896. Founded in 1913, the Association of the Friends of the Theatre became Friends of the Theatre and Cinema. Professional syndicates took longer to get established. The actors’ union and union of film professionals were created only in 1943, and the Film Industry Chamber of Commerce in 1947 (Farid, 2011). Avant-​garde initiatives were also part of the picture. Egyptian film pioneer Muhammad Bayoumi belonged to a group of artists based at the Alexandria studio of Seif and Adham Wanly, which in 1935 was instrumental in creating the Alexandria Art Gallery (Farid, 1994, pp. 32–​37). In December 1938, 31 writers, artists and lawyers signed a manifesto entitled ‘Long Live Degenerate Art’, devised by Georges Henein as a polemic against the autocratic and elitist nature of cultural institutions in Egypt. A corresponding literary group called the Essayists compiled the Dictionnaire à l’usage du monde bourgeois, offering subversive definitions of cultural terms such as ‘museum’, defined as a ‘large aggrandized official garbage heap’, or ‘honest woman’, defined as ‘a sexual monopoly’ (Kane, 2013, p. 56). The same year saw formation of the surrealist Art et Liberté, a short-​lived but influential artists’ collective (Shafaieh, 2018; Kane, 2013, p.  92) that opposed fascism, colonialism and feudalism and was met with sanctions including prison sentences. One of the founding group members, Kamil al-​Tilmissani, directed a fiction film, The Black Market (al-​Suq al-​sawda’, 1945), which critically dissected the effects of the post-​World War II economy on average Egyptians. It has since been lauded as one of the first ‘realist’ Egyptian films (Shafik, 2016, pp. 130–​131). More associations came to life after independence in 1952, such as the Film Association in 1960 (Emary, 2012). Under Nasser’s regime this was a state-​backed entity, but not all associations of the time bowed to the vision of the state and its representatives. In 1965, the Society of Poets of Colloquial Egyptian (Jama‘at al-​shu‘ara bi-​l-​‘ammiyya al-​misriyya) advocated the use of the Egyptian vernacular (‘amiyya) in writing instead of classical Arabic. It was part of a ‘new wave among intellectuals interacting both within and against the official rhetoric of the state and its agenda for the arts’ (Kane 2013, p136). In 1968, a number of young film-​makers who had graduated from the new Higher Film Institute, like Ghaleb Chaath, Muhammad Radi, Ali Abdel-​Khalek, Raafat al-​Mihi and some film critics, including Samir Farid, Sami al-​Salamuni, Sa‘id al-​Shimi and Youssef Sherif Rizkallah, founded the New Cinema Society (Jama‘at al-​sinima al-​jadida) and issued a manifesto in which they attacked the situation of 448

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Egyptian film culture (Al-​Nahas, 2018; for an English translation see Dickinson, 2019). Its main critique focused on the monopoly of the film industry’s ‘craftsmen’ and its crippling star system. The society sought a modern cinema open to other new cinema movements in the world. It produced two feature films, Song on the Passage (Ughniyya ‘ala al-​mamar, 1972) by Abdel-​Khalek, and Shadows on the Other Side (Zilal ‘ala al-​janib al-​akhar, 1973) by Chaath in cooperation with the National Film Centre (Shafik, 2016, p. 187). Neither had much impact, however, and Abdel-​ Khalek later joined the ranks of commercial mainstream cinema. Although both films addressed Egypt’s defeat by Israel in the 1967 war, they expressed loyalty to the Nasserist project. In 1972, under the presidency of Anwar al-​Sadat, the Documentary Cinéastes’ Association (Jam‘iyyat al-​sinima’iyyin al-​tasjiliyyin) was created to enhance the production and dissemination of documentary film. The Association of Egyptian film critics, created in the same year with the aim of fostering professional film criticism, soon found itself confronted with a competing film critics’ association initiated in 1973 by state-​loyal cinéastes in charge of the Alexandria Film Festival (Emary, 2015). Film critic Amir Emary suspected the first association of catering primarily for the interests of its board members.

Deviation or continuation? Reviewing the associations discussed above shows that, as much as collectivism intends to serve common interests, it has often been thwarted either internally through individual interests and particularism or externally by state policies. The latter include legislation and sanctions, economic deprivation, infiltration and usurpation, and exclusive support for opportunist competitors. Given the very brief and limited air of freedom that Egyptians were able to breathe in times of revolt, the question arises as to whether today’s collectives represent a deviation from the old dynamic or rather a continuation. Do they share the original principles of cooperatives as set out by Rashad? How should we assess the obvious differences in orientation among the new generation collectives, which range from political and artistic militancy to a more modest reformatory spirit focused primarily on professional and economic problems of film-​making? Would it be viable to divide them into ‘apolitical reformist’, on the one hand, and ‘politically activist revolutionary’ entities, on the other hand? Mosireen, the most exceptional of the initiatives I discuss here, represents the second of these types. It chose to define itself in terms of people’s journalism, resorting to guerrilla film-​ making tactics within that framework, rather than focusing on the traditional schism between mainstream and alternative art-​oriented cinema. In contrast to other collectives mentioned here, its existence was an immediate reaction to the uprising. The idea for Mosireen started on Tahrir Square during the first days of the revolt, with the aim of collecting recordings from film-​makers and the phones of protesters. As Omar Hamilton, one of the members, noted: ‘The first mission was to collect and preserve as much digital memory of the initial 18 Days as possible. It quickly expanded into questions of production, distribution, education and political collaboration’ (Hamilton, 2017). In an article about the subtitling of Mosireen videos into English and other languages, translation scholar Mona Baker summarised the content as follows: Most of the videos produced by Mosireen document police and army abuse, Muslim Brotherhood-​incited atrocities, street protests against the successive regimes that controlled Egypt since 2011, and areas of persistent social inequality. Many also remember and honour martyrs and campaign for the release of detainees. Baker, 2016, p. 3 449

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Some of the footage shot by the collective was shared online millions of times. Examples include images of the security forces dragging protesting women by their hair or dumping the corpses of demonstrators on a garbage pile in downtown Cairo, or the even more brutal scenes of armoured cars and army tanks running over men and women at Maspero in October 2011 during a Coptic Christian protest. Some of this footage ended up—​either credited or not—​ on news channels such as Al-​Jazeera and consequently developed iconic status. Mosireen also joined forces with the short-​lived Tahrir Cinema, organised in cooperation with visual artist Lara Baladi on the newly occupied Square in summer 2011, showing Mosireen videos and other testimonies. Out of this came the short-​lived Kazeboon (Liars) movement. It collected, produced and screened short documentaries in other public squares to expose the state media’s one-​sided reporting on human rights violations. From 2011 until 2014, the Mosireen collective rented a space in downtown Cairo in the same building that housed Zero Production, the company of Tamer El-​Said and Khalid Abdalla. The building also became home to El-​Said’s alternative film centre Cimatheque, equipped with screening hall, film lab, archive and library and also reliant on collective endeavours. For several seasons it offered regular screenings and film workshops, even though its existence was jeopardised by detentions, questionings, denials of permits and increasing restrictions as the government tightened its clampdown on civil society in 2017 and 2019. Cimatheque eventually received the strongest blow in the form of an enormous tax bill, which threatened to result in its liquidation. Mosireen faced an existential crisis in August 2013, just weeks after the military coup that ousted the Muslim Brotherhood president Mohamed Morsi and several months before the collective finally closed its production centre in 2014. This period was characterised by extreme polarisation between supporters of the coup and the Islamists, even though mutual opposition between Islamist parties and so-​called liberals had already characterised much of the revolutionary trajectory. Polarisation was at its highest during the 45-​day Rabaa sit-​ in, which was orchestrated by the Muslim Brothers without the support of other political parties and whose violent dissolution in mid-​August 2013 eventually cost hundreds of protesters their lives. Mosireen, not part of the Islamist coalition, had almost no possibility to access the sit-​in. Additionally, its members were grappling with the question of how to assess the coup and how to situate themselves politically in a moment where a former ruling force was itself subjected to human rights abuses. Suddenly they fell almost silent and resumed their work only weeks later, focussing primarily on didactic shorts addressing issues of civil rights or chronic infrastructural afflictions like the deplorable situation of public hospitals. Philip Rizk recalls the silence, saying: ‘Even though we never supported the coup in any way, neither publicly nor personally, the fact that we did not publish a video or a statement about it was a mistake. Our first reaction came only with “Prayer of Fear” ’ (Rizk, 2017). Prayer of Fear (Salat khawf) is an experimental video lasting 4:25 minutes, based on a poem of Mahmoud Ezzat and released on YouTube on 27 September 2013. Its words express conflicting emotions about the course of political events while we see a young person, who could be a male or female adolescent but is unrecognisable because of the huge gas mask that covers his/​her face and which has become a symbol of the deadly clashes with security forces. Her/​his roaming through night-​time Cairo is intercut with images typical of different stages of the two years of revolution, showing mostly clashes, shooting, killing, destruction, streams of blood, injuries, corpses and sit-​ins. These are punctuated by a series of sceptical either/​or questions, as the following excerpt from Ezzat’s poem (translated by Mosireen) may exemplify and which may be summarised in the slogan ‘The enemy is ourself.’ 450

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Deliver us from evil Spare us the trial The battle, this time, isn’t easy The battle is murky Strain after strain And on our side, the General The battle is terrifying We stood like corpses Watching the massacre The blood on our chests Are we winning? Or in line for slaughter Is the question shameful Or is silence worse? (…) Despite this bleak image, Mosireen did not disappear without trace. In 2018, it inaugurated an online open-​source ‘Archive of Resistance’ or, in Arabic, Arshif Thawry (Revolutionary Archive). Moreover, it has had a multiplier effect through workshops and individual cooperation. Editor Ziyad Hawwas, for instance, worked with Mosireen as well as with the collective ‘Words of Women from the Egyptian Revolution’. The latter, a much smaller collective, was established during the revolution by Leil-​Zahra Mortada, who describes himself as ‘(trans)feminist queer, Arab, and an anarchist’ (Baker, 2016). Mosireen members have directed creative documentaries unrelated to the collective, like Salma al-​Tarzi’s Underground/​On the Surface (Illi biyhibb rabbina yirfa‘ iduh fawq; lit: ‘Whoever loves God lifts their hands up’, 2013) on Mahraganat street singers who emerged from poor or informal housing neighbourhoods, and Out in the Streets (Barra fi-​l-​shari‘, 2015) by Philip Rizk and Yasmina Metwally. The latter documents a theatre workshop with a group of working-​class men who re-​enact their individual and collective labour experiences. It is a rare example of the so-​called performative documentary, in which protagonists are allowed to shape their own narrative and act as themselves or represent others with similar experiences. Another recent example is Dreamaway (al-​Hulm al-​ba‘id, 2018), not produced by a collective but through the collaborative directing work of Marwan Omara and Johanna Domke. Mosireen has also left a manifesto, ‘Revolution Triptych’, which is said to accommodate three anonymised Mosireen voices (Dickinson, 2019, p. 130) and combines a poetic and intellectually self-​reflexive analysis on the nature of media and political oppression with a declaration of intent. It begins with the emblematic words: ‘Images distort reality […] From behind our cameras we too seek to distort reality—​this reality’ (quoted in Dickinson, 2019, pp. 18–​19). Then in ‘Spectacle Three’ it goes on: The revolution continues and the urgency to gather, to share, to spread lingers. It is a multiple experience of the same reality, mirrored in raw footage that is almost immediately archived, on phones, computers, hard drives. The moment becomes history with the “save” button but does not stop there. It gets a second life through counter-​ propaganda montage. The same footage on the side of the enemy becomes a dangerous weapon that needs to be turned back at them. This footage is not for private collections. It is an oral history that becomes an active agent of resistance. Dickinson, 2019, p. 123 451

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In its radical activism, harsh critique of dominant and domineering media practices, determination to treat images as public property and in retaining a collective voice without framing any individual, Mosireen follows knowingly or unknowingly in the footsteps of influential, politically militant film collectives from the time of the Cold War, such as SLON (1967–​1974) which included French film-​maker Chris Marker, or the Ukamau Group in Bolivia, established in 1968 by among others Jorge Sanjinés, one of the important Latin American directors of the time. Theoretically highly influential was the manifesto Towards a Third Cinema: Notes and Experiences for the Development of a Cinema of Liberation in the Third World by Fernando Solanas and Octavio Getino, which had been conceptualised as a theoretical investigation rather than a manifesto (Eshun and Gray, 2011, p.  3) and served also as a reference for Egyptian film-​ makers. During decolonisation, collectives also mushroomed in the Arab world, like the Groupe Farid during the Algerian War of Liberation and the Palestinian Film Unit created in Jordan in 1968. These groups perceived film as a tool of revolutionary combat, counter-​propaganda and representation. They fought for a film culture in which the marginalised could recognise themselves on screen.

Alternative film cultures However, not all collectively organised groups display an openly political and/​or revolutionary zeal. One of the oldest examples is John Grierson’s GPO Film Unit from the 1930s, which was guided by a socially reformist endeavour but worked in the framework of a public institution, the General Post Office. In the Arab world, Sigma 3 in Morocco (1970s) and the New Cinema Society, mentioned above, both born in revolutionary times, were socially committed and primarily interested in reforming film culture without attacking the political regime directly. It can be said, without underestimating the emancipatory fervour of some individuals attached to recent Egyptian film groups, that they have predominantly sought to use alternative yet institutionalised models of production and distribution. In particular, the art-​house circuit model is similar to commercial cinema in being based on individual authorship, private property and licensed economic entities, namely production houses. This does not neutralise the groups’ collectivist character, which should rather be measured by factors like collective decision-​making, exchange of services within the group, redistribution of revenues and financial transparency. It is needless to say that this last part is particularly difficult for outsiders to assess. Semat, the oldest among the mentioned collectives, was founded by Hala Galal, Samy Hossam and Abdel Fattah Kamal in 2001. Since then Galal has been its most active representative. At times, Semat has been reproached for exclusionary practices, but this is mainly due to its artistic choices on the level of production. In fact, the group has regularly offered training programmes and given opportunities to young film-​makers to realise their first shorts, some of which are quite daring, like Senses (Hawas, 2010) by Mohamed Ramadan or Omar Khalid’s Payback (al-​Hisab, 2012). It has been successful in attracting foreign funding, most notably for the transnational film exhibition project, Caravan for Euro-​Arab Cinema, which started to tour through Arab countries in 2006 and was backed by the EuroMed programme. Semat has thus stayed loyal to its original goal of creating an alternative film culture to that prevailing in Egypt, which it denounced as superficial, aimed purely at profit and following the ‘Hollywood example in its worst form’ (Semat, n.d.). In this, Semat shares the same alignments and objectives as its forerunner, the New Cinema Society. However, in contrast to the latter, it remains active at the time of writing, indicating that neither foreign funding nor individual decision-​making necessarily means that an organisation has lost its non-​profit community-​defined orientation.

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Almost none of the collectives discussed here could have survived, whether as a whole or for specific projects, without funding from abroad. In fact, Semat, like the other collectives discussed here—​Mosireen being the one exception—​ have directed their criticism above all at the local film industry’s commercialism and have tried to remedy infrastructural inequalities aggravated by the virtual non-​existence of local film funding. Concentrated in Cairo, monopolised by a few companies and dominated by a star system with a limited range of ageing stars, the mainstream industry has usually accommodated only certain standardised and repetitive formats, plots and styles. Hala Lotfy’s feature Coming Forth by Day (2012), produced by Hassala collective, is just one example of a film that would have never been produced by any of the big Egyptian companies. With a steady hand, the film-​ maker follows a young woman for a day and a night while, between the healthcare needs of her father, bed-​r idden and close to death, and the moods of her exhausted mother, she tries to inject a little joy and dignity into her own daily routines. Building on the ancient Egyptian idea of the soul’s journey after death, the film is also intended as a meditative confrontation with the experience of parting and death. Pretty much in line with what André Bazin (1971) envisioned as visual cinematic realism, this film fully embeds its characters in their social environment by using primarily long shots and long takes and in part amateur actors. Lotfy’s film received small financial supports from the Doha Film Institute and Abu Dhabi’s Sanad. It toured international film festivals and eventually found a non-​commercial German distributor after it premiered at the Berlinale in 2013. The production collective behind it, created in 2010, consists of Hala Lotfy, who is to date the main motor of the collective, her sister Mona Lotfy (film-​maker), her brother Mahmoud Lotfy (cinematographer), film-​maker Mohamed Rashad, film-​maker Nadine Salib, and animation artist and editor Abdullah al-​Ghaly, among others. The film was shot in a modest rented apartment in the lower-​middle-​class Cairo neighbourhood of Shubra, which later became the collective’s centre, hosting a small sound studio, editing suites, an office and meeting place for its members.

An inclusive, pluralist and decentralising spirit Hassala’s collectivism is based on the system of professional cooperation, exchange of services, the system of deferences whereby crew members waive their fees entirely or temporarily, and profit-​sharing. Its members work alternately on each other’s films, switching roles between executive production, directing and editing, with the overall entity serving as a legal umbrella for funding applications and shooting permissions. As of 2019, it had several documentary and fiction film projects in the pipeline, by Hala Lotfy, Ahmad Abdalla and Nadine Salib among others. Hassala’s completed creative documentaries include Little Eagles (al-​Nusur al-​saghira, 2016) by Mohamed Rashad and Mother of the Unborn (Umm Ghayib, 2014) by Nadine Salib, which premiered at the International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam (IDFA) in 2014. The first is an autobiographic film, the latter an intimate portrait of a young Upper Egyptian wife who wishes to conceive and, despite undergoing all the necessary modern medical treatments, resorts to ancient pagan practices, to achieve pregnancy and assert her identity within the community. Salib’s film is a rare Egyptian account of life outside the country’s two big metropolises and is in a way also an outcome of the inclusive, pluralist and decentralising spirit that spread during and immediately after the Egyptian uprising, seeking to transgress paternalist and modernist self-​perceptions. Decentralisation was likewise Mark Lotfy’s proclaimed intention when founding Fig Leaf Studios in 2003/​2004 in his hometown of Alexandria (Lotfy, 2019). Like many of today’s

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Alexandria-​based cinéastes he attended (also in 2003) film classes at the Jesuit Cultural Centre, which has been a hothouse for the film community in Egypt’s second biggest city. Despite being owned by Mark Lotfy, Fig Leaf Studios operates like a collective with Lotfy and another cinéaste, Sameh Nabil, as its backbone. Financially it relies on producing commercials. Lotfy ensures that most decision-​making on projects relies on the cooperation of a relatively stable group (Ibid), numbering 18 people, including Charles El-​Akl, Abdallah Sharka, Mina Nabil, Ahmad Nabil (until 2012), and since 2005 Islam Kamal (film-​maker and editor) as well as Samir Nabil (sound). As happens at Hassala, some members switch roles between production, cinematography, editing, writing or directing. Its first artistic project was the production of around 20 shorts by members and non-​members inspired by Nagib Mahfuz’s Dreams of Convalescence (Ahlam fatrit al-​naqaha) and financed by the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, which issued an open call for that purpose. Over the years, Fig Leaf Studios has developed into a sort of incubator for film-​makers and projects without necessarily producing all of them. Mina Nabil’s I am a Script Girl and Ayten Amin’s feature film Soad (Su‘ad) both won film development prizes in 2018. The company started its career as executive producer in 2010, with two landmarks in recent independent Egyptian film-​making directed by Cairo-​based film-​makers, Ibrahim El-​Batout and Ahmad Abdalla, respectively: The Magician (al-​Hawi, 2010) and Microphone (Mikrufun, 2011). Both are mosaic-​like in their narrative structure. The first film offers a barely interconnected cluster of stories circling around several characters from Alexandria; it ranges from personal drama to political persecution, departing in its unpretentious style from the usual mainstream Egyptian drama. The second film, Microphone—​even more relevant to considerations of collectivism—​represents the on-​and off-​screen contributions of around 30 different groups of artists, musicians and others from Alexandria. The outcome is a kaleidoscopic music film which critically portrays the oppressive nature of official cultural politics. Microphone deals with the marginalisation of Alexandria’s alternative art scene—​rappers, film-​ makers and graffiti artists—​by the public Art Centre in favour of more assimilated artists, and at the same time reflects some of the difficulties of their private lives. The film doubtless owes its charm and spontaneity to its workshop character, which allowed the different groups and artists, some of whom feature in the film, to develop stories and characters in a collective effort that lends the film its polyphony. The actor Khalid Abu El-​Nagga, a box office attraction, joined the team in a secondary role and contributed financially to the production costs. In Microphone, just like other Egyptian films of the time, we find signs of the impending unrest in recurrent, almost ritualistic, encounters between citizens and state representatives, all of which are characterised by arbitrary abuse and violent policing. The sudden beating up by police agents of a young street hustler selling music cassettes is a case in point (Shafik, 2016, p. 227). Yet the film also pictures a transgression into a more liberated and collectively organised existence, ending with a ‘breaching’ into freedom. Driven out of the courtyard of the cultural centre, the characters rally at the seaside, where they challenge the authorities by performing the concert they have been preparing in the open air and without any permission. The collective development of stories through a workshop is a recurrent feature of films of that period, whether collectively produced or not. This applies to Ibrahim El-​Batout’s first widely acclaimed work ‘Ain Shams (literally ‘Eye of the Sun’, 2009), set in one of Cairo’s poorest neighbourhoods, which bears this name. Distinguished by its minimal budget, absence of stars, open and almost fragmentary narrative structure with multiple parallel stories, the film’s obvious improvisational spirit derives from the fact that the stories originated in a theatre workshop involving both professional actors and amateurs.The film also set another precedent in terms of ‘guerrilla filmmaking’, as El-​Batout protested against state censorship by refusing to submit the script to the censor and shooting without any permissions. Before its commercial screening, he 454

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had to reach a compromise with the authorities to obtain a formal release. Officially, the controversy pertained not to the film’s content but to the challenging of standard procedures. Both its narrative style and collective development of the story reflected a trend, emulated by other films such as Maggie Morgan’s Asham: A Man Called Hope (‘Asham, 2012). A different form of collectivism lay behind Mice Room (2013), produced by the Rufy’s collective and facilitated by Fig Leaf Studios and El-​Batout, who shared props and equipment used during the shooting of The Magician. Originally conceived as separate shorts, Mice Room was rewritten and arranged into a feature through a long collective writing process. When the outcome received a US$15,000 post-​production grant from Dubai’s Enjaaz film fund, the film-​makers Hend Bakr, Mohamad El-​Hadidi, Ahmad Magdy Morsy, Nermeen Salem, Mayye Zayed and Mohamed Zedan created their own joint venture. They subsequently produced shorts and Ahmad Zayan’s documentary, I have a Picture (‘Andi sura, 2017) among others. As with Cimatheque, however, when faced with an exaggerated tax bill, the collective was forced to freeze its activities.

Conclusion The analysis above shows how the groups discussed here reacted to what they saw as commercialism in local cinema, unsatisfactory cultural policies and a lack of freedom for the arts. Mosireen certainly shared this critique but was less concerned with reversing or changing inequalities in the film economy, even though some of its members graduated as film-​makers and jointly directed experimental films and short documentaries within the cadre of the collective. Since most of the collective initiatives did not openly express a political agenda, the question remains as to whether this relegates them to the realm of ‘non-​movements’ as defined by sociologist Asef Bayat (2009). By this term, he refers to ‘collective actions by non-​collective actors’, whose ‘fragmented but similar activities’, ‘rarely guided by an ideology or recognisable leaderships’ can ‘trigger much social change’ (ibid, p. 14). On that basis, it can be argued that the film collectives described here are (small scale) movements, for the obvious reason that they are consciously organised.They are also movements if we follow Brecht de Smet’s argument in The Pedagogy of Revolt, being ‘sites of learning’ where ‘collaboration actively produces new forms of agency and subjectivity’ (de Smet, 2015, p. 5). To return to the hypothesis of the double ‘turn’, it can be asserted that digital technology as well as new media platforms may have changed the traditional understanding of commercial spectatorship, serving as venues for political activism during the uprising and thereby also as catalysts. But it was not the technology that ignited collectivism among the then new generation of Egyptian film-​makers. It was rather the necessity of resistance—​against the long-​standing monopolisation of the means of production, the commodification of cinema and oppressive cultural policies—​which resulted in a conscious mobilisation of film-​makers through collectivism in the field of their profession. As in other realms, such as the political mobilisation of workers through the Mahalla strike in 2008, the mobilisation that led to the revolt in 2011 was one strand in a longer development. So it was with collectivism in cinema.

References Al-​Nahas, H. (2018). Half a century at the New Cinema Society [In Arabic]. Al-​Hayat, 6 September. Available at www.alhayat.com/​article/​4601857/​‫​الجديدة‬-‫​السينما‬-‫​علىجماعة‬-‫​قرن‬-‫​نصف‬/‫​سينما‬/‫​مجتمع‬-‫​و‬-‫ثقافة‬ [accessed 5 August 2019]. Bachmann-​Medick, D. (2009). The translational turn. Translation Studies, Special Issue, 2(1), 2–​16.

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Viola Shafik Baker, M. (2016). The prefigurative politics of translation in place-​based movements of protest. Subtitling in the Egyptian revolution. The Translator, 22(1), 1–​21. Bayat, A. (2009). Life as Politics. How Ordinary People Change the Middle East. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Bazin, A. (1971). What is Cinema? Berkeley: University of California Press. De Smet, B. (2015). A Dialectical Pedagogy of Revolt. Gramsci,Vygotsky, and the Egyptian Revolution. Leiden: Brill. Dickinson, K. (2019). Arab Film and Video Manifestos. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Emary, A. (2012). Memories of cinema club experiments [In Arabic]. ’Ain ’ala al-​Sinima, 7 August. Available at http://​eyeoncinema.net/​Details.aspx?secid=54&nwsId=804 [accessed 25 July 2019]. Emary, A. (2015). Association of fake cinema critics [In Arabic]. Al-​Arab. January 14. Available at https://​ alarab.co.uk/​‫​الوهميين‬-‫​السينما‬-‫​نقاد‬-‫[ )جمعية‬accessed 25 July 2019]. Eshun, K. and Gray, R. (2011). The militant image: A ciné-geography. Third Text, 25(1), 1–​12. Farid, S. (1994). Unknown Pages from the History of Egyptian Cinema [In Arabic]. Cairo: Supreme Cultural Council. Farid, S. (2011). Introduction to Egyptian cinema. Festival de Cannes, February 10. Available at www. festival-​cannes.com/​en/​infos-​communiques/​info/​articles/​introduction-​to-​egyptian-​cinema [accessed 23 July 2019]. Hamilton, O. (2017). Six moments from a revolution. A Mosireen video timeline. Ibraaz, July 4. Available at www.ibraaz.org/​channel/​169 [accessed 12 February 2020]. Lebow, A. (2016). Seeing revolution non-​linearly: www.filmingrevolution.org. Visual Anthropology, 29(3), 278–​295. Lotfy, M. (2019). Personal conversation with the author. 22 June. Mayo, E. (2017). A Short History of Co-​Operation and Mutuality. Co-​operatives UK. Available at www. uk.coop/​sites/​default/​files/​uploads/​attachments/​a-​short-​history-​of-​cooperation-​and-​mutuality_​ed-​ mayo-​web_​english.pdf [accessed 18 July 2019]. Mosireen (2013). Prayer of Fear. Available at www.youtube.com/​watch?v=vIXAFkXHHRs [accessed 24 July 2019]. Mosireen 858 (2018). Arshif Thawry (Revolution archive). Available at https://​858.ma/​ [accessed 12 February 2020]. Rashad, I. (1939).The co-​operative movement in Egypt. Journal of the Royal African Society, 38(153) 469–​476. Rizk, P. (2017). Personal communication to the author. 1 February. Sanjinés, J. and the Ukamau Group (1989). Theory and Practice of a Cinema With the People. (Series: Art on the Line, No. 6). New York: Curbstone Press. Semat for Production and Distribution (n.d.). Available at http://​africultures.com/​structures/​?no=979 [accessed 5 August 2019]. Shafaieh, C. (2018). Art et Liberté: Egypt’s surrealists. New York Review of Books, 3 February. Available at www.nybooks.com/​daily/​2018/​02/​03/​art-​et-​liberte-​egypts-​surrealists/​ [accessed 12 February 2020]. Shafik, V. (2016). Arab Cinema. History and Cultural Identity, 2nd ed. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Taylor, E. (2018) The Concept of cooperativism. Cooperativism as the organization of relatively weak economic elements. In: Blesznowski, B. (ed.), Cooperativism and Democracy. Leiden: Brill, pp. 226–​232.

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29 THE RISE OF INDIE MUSIC FROM THE HEART OF TAHRIR SQUARE Politics and popular music in Egypt Nadine El Sayed

Introduction Music has long been a medium to influence public opinion in many countries, especially one like Egypt, where illiteracy rates still surpass 20% of the adult population (Human Development Reports 2019) and were even higher in previous decades, exceeding 60% in the 1970s (UNESCO 2017). Famous Egyptian singers, led by Umm Kulthum and Abdel Halim Hafez (also known as Halim), were commissioned to sing in support of the Egyptian government’s nationalist agendas in the 1956, 1967 and 1973 wars. During the 2011 uprising against the Mubarak regime, a new wave of songs emerged supporting the revolution, and with it came growing public interest in artists who had not previously found a voice through mainstream channels or record labels.This chapter studies the rise of independent (indie) artists in Egypt after the January 25 revolution, tracing ways they found of breaking barriers to entry onto the music scene and the diverse messages and genres they developed, including the popular Mahraganat music, which resonates with audiences, being close to their hearts and daily lives. The chapter compares the new music scene with its historical context, in which traditional funding and production methods created pressures that directed and limited the range of messages conveyed by music. In many ways, what happened to music in Egypt can be compared to the rise of blogs in the country in 2005, when a generation of writers found cheaper and freer platforms for self-​expression that audiences in the same age group found more credible and engaging than traditional outlets. With younger generations turning away from mainstream media, and with the rise of YouTube and streaming services like Anghami, music became not only cheaper and easier to produce and publish but also an important medium for diversifying social and political awareness. This is evidenced by Mahraganat music discussing topics like sexual harassment, and the popular indie band Cairokee, dubbed ‘the sound of the revolution’ (Allam 2019), raising awareness against the social stigma associated with human immunodeficiency virus/​acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (HIV/​AIDS). By analysing and comparing popular songs and their themes on Anghami, YouTube and the leading music radio station Nogoum FM, which 457

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also owns a record label, the chapter considers whether and how the economics of music-​ making in Egypt affect the messages conveyed.

Young listeners and digital media Egypt is officially recognised to be experiencing a ‘youth bulge’ (UNFPA 2018, p. 25), with the 2017 census showing that 34% of the population of 95 million was aged under 15 years, with 61% below 30 (ibid). These young age groups rely heavily on digital media. According to the annual media use survey conducted by Northwestern University in Qatar (NU-​Q) across the region, Internet and smartphone penetration reached 51% and 57%, respectively, in Egypt in 2018, with 41% of Egyptians listening to music online (NU-​Q 2018). The Arab Media Outlook 2016–​2018 reported that digital media revenues were rising fast, to account for 15% of Egypt’s total media revenues of $1.9 billion in 2018, with a compound annual growth rate of 17% from 2014 to 2018. Egyptians’ preference for YouTube and Facebook as sources of entertainment emerges from all the surveys. NU-​Q’s (2018) data indicate that 75% of Egyptian respondents find or consume entertainment content through YouTube and 61% use Facebook for the same purpose. The young consume music online in streaming services, which, according to the Arab Media Outlook 2016–​2018 report (p. 87), grew by 14% per year across the region between 2014 and 2018 (p. 52), compared to a global rate of 15.6%. Anghami, Mazzika and Mideast Tunes are regional market leaders, with Anghami being the most popular for its large library of Arabic and international songs, boasting 70 million users globally. Anghami lets users stream music for free, but they can also pay $2 (LE 30) per month (equivalent to 0.6% of an average monthly income in Egypt of around LE 5,000) along with their mobile phone bill. At 32%, digital music’s share of regional music industry revenue is not far behind live music’s 39% and ahead of record sales, which declined to 29% in 2018 (Arab Media Outlook 2016–​2018, p. 87).The rise of digital music gives independent singers and musicians more scope to reach audiences, which is important given the region’s limited availability of large venues and lower attendance by volume of ticket sales compared with other parts of the world.

Popular songs and national projects: Historical background Music has often played an integral part in Egypt’s political scene, be it state-​sponsored or more independent, shorter-​lived music genres (Fathy 1984, p. 172). Sayyid Darwish was the voice of the 1919 revolution against British occupation, with songs like Oum ya Masry (Rise up, Egyptian), mobilising support for the nationalist opposition leader, Saad Zaghloul. Aho Da Eli Sar (This is what happened) accused the occupation of plunder and oppression. Seen as the singer of the people, Sayyid Darwish often masked his meaning to avoid prosecution, as when he used the word ‘happiness’ to refer to Zaghloul, that being the meaning of Zaghloul’s first name, or sang about Zaghloul dates (Omar 2019). He died in 1923, only six years after becoming active in the music scene, with many suspecting he was poisoned by the regime or occupation forces. This was a time before the official start of radio in Egypt in 1932, so Sayyid Darwish mainly reached his audience through musical plays he composed for himself or others, which were often lighter on explicit opposition. British pressure prevented labels from recording his more political songs, but a small local company called Mechian took a chance on eight of his songs and Odeon, a major record label at the time in Egypt, recorded his lighter musicals. Funding for the music scene in this period came mostly from wealthy individuals or theatre owners. In the 1930s and 1940s, the biggest stars, such as Umm Kulthum, were primarily known 458

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for singing romantic songs. Umm Kulthum’s first political song was to celebrate King Farouk’s birthday in 1937, followed by a patriotic song, Misr Tatahadath ’an Nafsaha (Egypt Speaks for Herself), praising the beauty of the country and its rich history. Mohammed Abdel Wahab sang four patriotic songs in the 1930s and 1940s that praised the Nile or spoke of loving the country. In 1945, he sang in praise of the king, in a song entitled Hal el-​Salam fi Mawa’idak ya Habib el-​ Nil (You Ushered Peace, O Beloved of the Nile). After the Second World War, however, radio came to the fore as politicians realised its influence in a country with high rates of illiteracy and Egypt cancelled its contract with Marconi early, taking over the radio service in 1947 (Boyd 1999, p. 18). Songs also took a more political turn after the 1952 military overthrow of King Farouk, which ushered in two decades of political upheaval and war (El-​Shawan 1980). After the military coup, private funding for the arts subsided, giving way to state-​sponsored music and cinema and Egypt’s most influential artists were nudged by the regime to sing in support of Nasser’s socialist agenda. Although Umm Kulthum grew close to Nasser at the height of her career (Danielson 1997, p. 166) and sang more than 20 political songs supporting his actions and policies, it is difficult to discern whether she or other important singers of the era, such as Abdel Wahab and Halim, truly believed in the themes they presented, or whether they allowed themselves to be coopted into orchestrated propaganda in order to continue being heard, or rise to stardom like Halim. What is clear is that the only voices heard during this period were ones supporting Nasser’s political agenda, which centred on workers and the labour movement and promoting an anti-​colonial pan-​Arabism (Beinin 1989). In 1954, Umm Kulthum sang Nashid el-​Galaa (The Anthem) to commemorate Egypt’s independence from the United Kingdom, and various other similarly themed songs. She sang songs praising the president, like Batal el-​Salam (The Hero of Peace) and Ya Gamal Ya Methal al-​Wataneya (O Gamal, O Model of Nationalism), others praising the High Dam in 1965 (even though the dam resulted in the flooding of Nubian homes), and others to rally support for the war against Israel. In 1967, when Egypt was defeated by Israeli forces and close to 15,000 Egyptian soldiers were killed in a six-​day war that resulted in Israel taking control of Sinai, Umm Kulthum sang Habib el-​Shaab (Beloved of the People) in support of Nasser. She held concerts, including two in the Olympia Theatre in Paris, to raise money for the army. Similarly, Abdel Wahab sang more than 35 political or nationalistic songs between 1952 and the 1970s. His 1953 song, Endah al-​Ahrar (Call on the Free), extolled the Free Officers. Others celebrated the union between Egypt and Sudan in 1954, and Egypt and Syria in 1958. He dedicated three songs of personal praise to Nasser and composed the emblematic Al-​Watan al-​Akbar (The Bigger Nation) in 1960, lauding the High Dam and calling for Arab unity. To reinforce the message of pan-​Arabism, the song featured several popular Arab singers, including Egyptians Halim, Nagat al-​Saghira and Shadya, and the Lebanese singer Sabah and Algerian Warda. In 1961, Abdel Wahab’s Al-​Gil al-​Sa’ed (The Young Generation), which he composed and sang along with other stars of the time, praised farmers and the labour movement. He composed and sang Saut el-​Gamahir (Voice of the Masses), which included the line ‘Our road is known and clear, it is [pan-​Arab] unity and socialism, and both are the aim of the masses’. Halim, as the voice of youth, was particularly influential with an age group that was key to Nasser’s power base. Collaborating with leading songwriters Salah Jahin and Abdel-​Rahman al-​Abanoudy, Halim, who came from a humble background, became the voice of the socialist movement among the youth, with songs like Ehna el-​Shaab (We are the People), Soura (A Picture), ’Ada el-​Nahar (The Day has Passed) and Ahlef bi Samaha (I Swear by its Sky) serving to mobilise people and lift morale, especially after the 1967 defeat. His song Soura, calling for unity, contains the line ‘Those who leave the field will never be in the picture’, which was a common theme of the era, framing opposing or divergent opinions as treachery. Halim sang 459

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more than 20 political and nationalistic songs between 1952 and his death in 1977 at the age of 48 from a complication related to bilharzia, a snail-​borne disease that was then widespread in the Egyptian countryside.

Pre-​digital platforms: Monopolies and the mainstream In the 1910s and throughout the first half of the 20th century, Egypt had several privately owned record labels. As radio reception spread, record sales fell and radio became a key platform for releasing new songs (Nassar, 2010, p. 69). The nationalisations of the late 1950s and 1960s brought famous record labels and other media production houses under state control. Umm Kulthum’s songs were briefly banned in 1952 and Abdel-​Wahab was appointed in her place as head of the Musicians Syndicate. But Nasser soon revoked the decision out of concern that it would turn the population against the Free Officers (Khalil 2014, p. 117). He and a group of high-​ranking officials then visited Umm Kulthum, demonstrating the regime’s ability to coopt artists. Nasser would often schedule his speeches right after Umm Kulthum’s monthly concerts, while listeners were still tuned in, to benefit from her popularity (ibid). Her regular monthly slot on national radio ran from the 1930s to the 1970s almost uninterrupted. Umm Kulthum’s songs were also recorded by privately owned labels, including the local agent of the international Odeon, which had a monopoly over the work of most influential singers of the era. In 1959 she signed an exclusive contract with Misrphon, a record label owned by singer and actor Mohammed Fawzy, but Misrphon was nationalised in 1964, after which her songs were produced exclusively by a state-​owned record label and aired on state-​owned radio. Abdel Wahab’s songs were recorded by privately owned label Baidaphon, which he renamed Cairophon after buying shares in it. He and Halim then co-​founded Sout al-​Phan Records in 1960, which recorded their most famous work.Yet the two main platforms for both singers to reach mass audiences were television and radio, both monopolised by the state. In contrast, singers who dissented from the pro-​Nasser message were denied airtime or access to record labels. This was the case of the duo comprising singer Sheikh Imam and poet Ahmed Fouad Negm.While Halim was singing songs like ’Ada el-​Nahar to rally the population in the face of army mismanagement demonstrated in the 1967 defeat, Imam was singing Al-​ Hamdulelah (Thank God), heavily criticising regime incompetence and corruption. The lyrics contained sentences like ‘Egypt is protected by thieves…His highness has an officer in every managerial post, and they’re all donkeys…Egypt is drowning in endless lies…thanks to people who fill their bellies and sing praise to traitors’. Other satirical songs like Ba’aret Haha (Haha’s Cow) lambasted the economic state of the country, accusing regime members of enjoying the country’s riches while others were left hungry. Imam and Negm were arrested in 1967 and spent several years in prison. Despite their popularity they never found commercial success because their songs were only recorded by amateur fans during informal musical gatherings or concerts. Unlike others who made fortunes singing patriotic, political and romantic songs, the revolutionary duo struggled to make ends meet. Imam remained in his same poor neighbourhood until his death in 1995.

The commercial era: The 1990s and 2000s After the 1973 war, which ended in Egypt negotiating the evacuation of Israeli troops from Sinai and signing a peace treaty with Israel, Sadat adopted his ‘open door’ (infitah) economic policy, encouraging private investment and foreign trade and lifting most import bans imposed by Nasser. With Egypt excluded from the Arab League from 1979 to 1989 because of its peace 460

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deal with Israel, Sadat effectively also abandoned the pan-​Arabism that had prevailed under Nasser. He allowed the Muslim Brotherhood to be active as a counterweight to socialist ideologies espoused by Nasser’s regime, and, although the Brotherhood had renounced violence, violent splinter groups like Al-​Gama’a al-​Islamiya (The Islamic Group) and Egyptian Islamic Jihad became active, especially after Sadat’s assassination in 1981, systematically targeting influential cultural figures. They assassinated liberal thinker and writer Farag Foda in 1992 and attempted to assassinate novelist Naguib Mahfouz in 1994. Music and the media in general were caught in a web of constraints: the need to avoid prosecution by the state or Islamists, the need to cater to an audience politically exhausted after the 1967 and 1973 wars, and the need to attract investors. Private investment in the music and film industries during that era gave rise to what were called ‘Aflam al-​moqawalat’ or ‘contractors’ movies’, a term coined in the 1980s to describe a series of low-​budget, commercial films that were made solely for commercial gain and deemed devoid of artistic value. Political songs of the 1950s, 1960s and early 1970s were now replaced with popular music featuring safer romantic themes. The state monopoly on music production of earlier years gave way to an oligopoly of private investors, led by a Saudi prince on the Forbes ‘Rich List’, Alwaleed bin Talal, who gained control over 80% of Arab artists by 2005 (Khalaf, 2005). With finance to sign up top names and a business model based on providing free music videos to viewers, funded through advertising and short message service (SMS) displays of audience messages on screen, Alwaleed had an advantage over competitors. He bought into a Saudi recording label, Rotana, founded in the 1980s, took it over completely in 2003, sold his stake in the pay-​TV channel ART in return for its music library and used that to launch Rotana music channel, which he then developed into a full entertainment group. He also acquired a stake in Fonoun Holding, established by the Egyptian financial group EFG-​Hermes in 2000 to buy intellectual property rights in music and cinema (Sakr 2007, p. 123). Fonoun Holding created Alam al-​Phan, which bought out the Sout al-​Phan record label founded by Halim and Abdel Wahab, thereby gaining rights to Egyptian music classics. Alam al-​Phan launched Mazzika music channel, owned by Mohsen Gabr, president of the union of Egyptian recording companies (ibid). Meanwhile, Naguib Sawiris, head of Egypt’s biggest mobile telephone operator, was the majority owner of Melody, another Cairo-​ based music channel. This put the output and distribution of music by most popular singers in the hands of three people: Alwaleed, Gabr and Sawiris.The singers in question were mainstream megastars like Amr Diab, Hany Shaker and Hakim. Their sounds were safe, popular and highly commercial, with little room left for alternative sounds, let alone opposition. But music channels eventually lost their appeal, to the point where, according to the Arab Media Outlook 2016–​2018 (p. 29), they attracted only 5% of Egypt’s total viewership, indicating a shift to other means of distributing music, including online platforms.

Reviving musical opposition post-​2011 The year 2005 has been described as a ‘turning point in Egyptian politics’ (Sakr 2012, p. 327). It saw presidential and parliamentary elections, the rise of a pluralistic blogosphere that gave voice to the opposition and marginalised youth, and the launch of Al-​Ashera Masaan (10 pm), one of the most challenging talk shows of the time on a privately owned satellite channel (ibid, p.  328). The political atmosphere was charged, seeing the beginning of public mobilisation through the Kefaya (Enough) movement that called for an end to the presidency of Hosni Mubarak and social injustice. The protests held by Kefaya and later by the labour movement, as well as the new online platforms available for raising awareness and calling for action, all contributed in creating space for dissidence. The same year, the success of an indie band, Wust 461

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el-​Balad (Downtown), gave hope to the independent music scene in Egypt. Through the rise of cultural venues supporting young artists to reach their audiences, such as the non-​profit Al Sawy Cultural Wheel, founded in central Cairo in 2003, Wust el-​Balad and other young bands and artists found the means to perform live. At the same time,YouTube, launched in 2005, made it possible for fans to upload recordings of concerts, ushering in new hope for socially conscious lyrics, and a drive away from strictly romantic repertoires. By 2011 and the January 25 revolution, the most popular songs of the time were those discussing oppression and hopes for a better future, sung by young, emerging artists, with very few exceptions (Procházka 2013).Artists who were close to the regime found themselves banned from the sit-​in in Tahrir Square, where young musicians began to find their voices. Artists like Wust el-​Balad’s Hany Adel and Cairokee started singing to the crowd on makeshift stages, producing songs like Sout el-​Horreya (The Sound of Freedom), which became the theme tune of the revolution. Swedenburg (2012) notes that Western music was not popular in the square, as demonstrators reconnected with their musical resistance heritage, including songs of Sheikh Imam and Sayyid Darwish. During the days of revolution, Cairokee emerged as the voice of the youth, so much so that researchers would analyse their songs to trace the shifting sentiments of protestors throughout the revolution’s first year (Shalaby, 2015; Valassopoulos and Mostafa, 2014).Whereas Halim had sung in the 1960s for unity and warned people against straying from the ‘known road’, Cairokee urged people to form their own opinions and dare to stray from the mainstream. In 2019, they produced an album titled El-​Batta el-​Soda (The Black Duck), referring to the Arabic idiom for black sheep or outcasts. Several songs on their album did not make it past censorship, prompting them to release it online, through platforms like YouTube, Anghamy and Spotify. They also produced many of their songs through Cairokee Productions. Their lyrics are often critical of the regime and popular opinion, including a song titled Ana Mesh Menhom (I’m not one of them), encouraging individuality and freedom of thought. Ramy Essam, dubbed the ‘bard of the revolution’, also emerged from the heart of Tahrir Square, having joined the 2011 sit-​in, where he sang Irhal (Leave), which became the anthem of the square during the 18-​day uprising. He was the most vocal opposition musician of the post-​2011 era, with the most aggressive, directly critical lyrics, and has been living outside Egypt—​in Sweden from 2014 and Finland from 2017—​to avoid imprisonment. LeVine (2015) argues that it was Ramy Essam’s constant presence, hard-​hitting lyrics and well-​publicised arrest and torture that earned him more revolutionary credit than other singers who were active in the square. His song Segn bel-​Alwan (Coloured Prison) garnered 5.7 million views on YouTube (August 2019) but was never played on mainstream channels. His songs often feature insults to the regime and military, and his song Balaha, which had 5.05 million views on YouTube (August 2019), landed its composer and lyricist a three-​year prison sentence. Prior to 2017, when Universal Music MENA released his album A Letter to the UN Security Council, all the songs Ramy Essam had released were individual, amateur efforts. Essam believes music is the only way to bring change during repressive times. He told an interviewer: ‘of course I want people back out in the street chanting against the system, but our best option now is art’ (Rollins, 2014). Mahraganat (which literally translates to ‘festivals’), also known as electro-​shaabi (electronic street music), is another genre of music that managed to find a following because of the way changes in technology lowered the costs of production and distribution. It is localised with a lively beat, is heavily auto-​tuned (electronically altered) and discusses issues that range from self-​praise to politics, sexual harassment and drugs. Pioneers of the genre, like the duo Oka and Ortega, found their way from the poor, marginalised neighbourhood of Madinet al-​Salam to being featured in mainstream commercials and getting highly paid for concerts and weddings, 462

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even without their songs making the playlists of mainstream radio or television.They started out in 2008, working with free or pirated software and cheap equipment, showcasing their talents in street weddings and festivals. Although their sound was loud, raw and strange to the pop culture, it became popular because it was lively and made the audience dance. Their lyrics also filled a gap for those who did not care much for the ornate love songs pumped out on television and did not relate to the polished look of popular stars. The turning point for the genre came in 2011, when one of the earliest artists of the form, Sadat el-​Alamy, also known as DJ Sadat, released political songs on YouTube. Putting a spin on the popular chant ‘The people demand the fall of the regime’, he put out a song entitled The people demand LE 5 phone credit, which resonated with Egypt’s huge majority of people struggling on insufficient incomes, for whom issues of day-​to-​day expenditure are more pressing than what they see as distant politics. From then on, Mahraganat music gained popularity among all classes. In her ethnographic research on emerging indie artists in Egypt, Darci Sprengel concluded that: These musicians consider the ordinary politics of discursive critique and public protest to be ineffective and have opted to continue the revolution by appealing to the ineffable properties of listening as a less ideologically driven way to produce social change. Sprengel, 2019, p. 54 Most Mahraganat artists have continued to be recorded in modest, makeshift studios, and distributed online through platforms like YouTube and SoundCloud. Sadat’s song Wahsh el-​ Magara (The Galaxy’s Monster) is not produced by any of the known labels—​its production credits go to Alaa el-​Din, an individual investor—​but it gained 10 million views on YouTube (August 2019). Sadat also produces some of his videos and songs through Sadat Media Production and one was produced by a company called 100Copies, which specialises in Mahraganat music but releases no more than 100 copies of any album or song. This shows the extent of emphasis on online channels. Abou Zeid (2019), surveying 100 university students from richer districts in Cairo, found that 95% of the students interviewed listen to Mahraganat music, and that they liked it because of the energetic beats, as well as the brave topics discussed.

Generational and topic divides between digital and other platforms In order to compare the content of popular songs on digital platforms with those on radio, three platforms were studied for the month of April 2019. The study tracked the top ten trending Egyptian songs on Anghami and YouTube and compared them with the ten most popular songs on Nogoum FM radio, as ranked there by a daily show based on viewers’ votes and requests. Once the songs were identified, their themes were considered along with the nature of the production companies behind them. Differences between the platforms for the month in question were immediately apparent. While Cairokee and Tamer Ashour, a young pop singer, topped the list on Anghami with four spots each out of the top ten, their names did not appear at all on the Nogoum FM list. Cairokee’s latest album, which gained the four places on Anghami, was self-​produced and released only online to avoid censorship.Yet one of the songs had 18 million views on YouTube and was listened to 4 million times on Anghami during the month. Ashour is signed with a young record label that was established in 2017, and he was the first artist they signed. Cairokee and Ashour featured prominently on Anghami in April 2019 even though their respective albums had been released in March 2019 and had therefore made their greatest impact before the study was conducted. 463

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Differences were also noticeable between Anghami and YouTube.While Cairokee and Tamer Ashour had a strong presence on YouTube as well as Anghami, other top songs on YouTube were by rappers Mohamed Ramadan and Shady Sorour. Cairokee’s Kan Lak Maaya (We had), which tackles the way media propaganda masks societal and political issues and commercialises arts and music, had 18 million views on YouTube. Their song revolves around how mass media are only after ‘views’ and commercial gains, selling false hopes to the youth and distracting them from the real political and social issues. Meanwhile, Ramadan’s self-​produced song about overcoming hurdles and enemies to achieve his dreams, despite gaining 22 million views on YouTube, had only 785,000 listens on Anghami. Shady Sorour’s self-​produced Al Ostoura (The Legend) criticises Ramadan for his egoism. Despite its 6 million views on YouTube, it was not released on Anghami. As for Mahraganat singers, they seemed less popular on Anghami but were among the most popular on YouTube, with DJ Sadat attracting 10.28 million views (August 2019) for a song about defeating his enemies—​a theme similar to what would be described in hip-​hop music as ‘thug life’, popularised by the late singer TuPac Shakur with lyrics focused on trying to survive poverty, violence and discrimination. In contrast to both digital platforms, Nogoum FM’s list carried mostly older, more mainstream, pop singers like Assala Nasri, Wael Gassar and Amr Diab. Diab, Egypt’s highest paid singer and one of the most popular in the region, was the only singer to feature on all three platforms studied in April 2019. Six out of the ten artists on Nogoum FM’s list were over the age of 40, and nine out of ten were established, mainstream artists. The one newcomer was produced by the channel’s own record label. All ten songs on the list were romantic songs produced by leading record labels like Mazzika, or their own. Diab is produced by his own exclusive record label Nay, but before that he was signed with major labels, notably Mazzika and Rotana. Mahmoud Esseily was also signed with Mazzika before he started to produce his own songs. Three out of the ten songs on the list were produced by the radio channel’s own record label, suggesting their inclusion may reflect the channel’s financial interest in promoting its own songs. Diab appeared on all three platforms, and Assala, Cairokee and Tamer Ashour on two of the three platforms. Since Assala’s song, Bent Akaber (An Aristocratic Daughter), was not released on Anghami and Cairokee’s album was not released on the radio, it is not possible to tell how they might have fared on these platforms. It is clear that romantic songs retain their appeal across the platforms, as demonstrated by the 41 and 34 million views on YouTube for two romantic songs by MTV award-​winner Mohammed Hamaki and the 5 million listens for Ashour’s romantic song on Anghami. However, when the most popular artists during the month of the study are ranked by the number of subscribers, indicating a loyal audience base as opposed to one-​ off hits, differences emerge between the platforms. Mohamed Ramadan tops the YouTube list with 6.5  million subscribers, compared with 3  million for Diab. In contrast, Diab reigns over Anghami with 9.2 million subscribers whereas Ramadan is in sixth place. While Diab’s romantic songs aired on mainstream radio, Ramadan featured on none of the radio channel’s top songs lists. Overall, outside the period studied, the place of politics in music on YouTube is demonstrated by the 68 million views for Cairokee’s most popular song, a political one, which closely competes with the 77 million views for the most popular song of a mainstream artist like Diab. Similarly, although songs by Mahraganat stars Oka and Ortega appeared on none of the three platforms during the month studied, they nevertheless beat Ramadan’s YouTube views record, with their song El’ab Yalla (Let’s play, dude), which raises awareness against drugs. This garnered 167  million views, the highest views across all singers studied, compared to 146 million views for Ramadan’s most popular song Mafia. On Anghami, the number of listens was 7 million. 464

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The findings show that songs which appear to be most popular on radio channels are not necessarily equally popular on online platforms. They show that mainstream music radio is still dominated by major record labels or artists who were signed with these labels but made enough income to be able to produce their own songs, with the same video and audio quality as major labels. Meanwhile, without ever releasing their album on mainstream outlets, Cairokee managed a strong presence on digital channels, with low-​budget video production and lyrics that tackle social issues and political oppression, in sharp contrast to the romantic songs played on radio channels. YouTube seemed to have different types of viewers, who favoured rap and Mahraganat more than was the case for the Anghami audience. With 167  million views in two years for just one song, there is no doubt about Mahraganat’s popularity on YouTube. It is safe to say that while music radio still majors on romantic songs and major record labels continue to focus on pop music, younger, independent artists have recourse to digital platforms, where their critical lyrics can escape the censor and reach their audiences with lower-​budget productions.

Conclusion The economics of music production in Egypt have had a big effect on the messages and themes presented, either because producers censor themselves to safeguard their investments or because the music allowed on offline platforms has to pass state censorship. With a growing portion of the audience tuned into platforms like Anghami and other music-​streaming services, independent, younger record labels are booming. Indie artists are able to break away from the best-​ selling themes in pop music and delve into topics and lyrical content that may not be strictly mainstream, but which represent previously underrepresented issues and segments of society, as seen in the case of Mahraganat music, or Cairokee singing against political oppression and media propaganda. Unlike their pre-​streaming and pre-​YouTube counterparts, these performers have the means to reach large audiences without relying on state-​controlled distribution. Importantly, they are able to attain financial independence by posting advertisements in their videos or songs, appearing on commercials, singing at weddings or holding concerts. Artists like Oka and Ortega, for instance, have featured in commercials targeting low-​income audiences, while Cairokee has been seen in commercials such as those for Coca-​Cola, aimed at young people. Mahraganat singers are in demand for wedding entertainment, while Cairokee holds concerts in Egypt and abroad. Indie music has become a hub for a younger group of music lovers, who look beyond mainstream pop music and culture and prefer to conduct their political and social discourse via an audiovisual format.

References Abou Zeid, D. (2019). Songs from Egyptian slums to media. Global Media Journal, 17 (32). Available from www.globalmediajournal.com/​open-​access/​songs-​from-​egyptian-​slums-​to-​media.php?aid=87445 [accessed 21 October 2019] Allam, R. (2019). Entertainment media industry in Egypt. In:  Sigismondi, P. (ed.), World Entertainment Media: Global, Regional and Local Perspectives. New York: Routledge, pp. 124–134. Beinin, J. (1989). Labor, capital and the state in Nasserist Egypt, 1952–​1961. International Journal of Middle East Studies, 21 (1), 71–​90. Boyd, D. (1999). Broadcasting in the Arab World, 3rd ed. Ames, IA: Iowa State University Press. Danielson, V. (1997). The Voice of Egypt:  Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Dubai Press Club, (2018). Arab Media Outlook 2016–​2018. Dubai: Dubai Press Club.

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INDEX

Notes: locators to figures are in italics; locators to tables are in bold. Al-​aalihah’ ghadba (The Gods are angry) 406 Abbas Hilmi I 374 ‘Abbas Hilmi II, Khedive 8, 27, 45, 375 Abbas, Wael 419–​20, 425–​6, 430–​1 ‘Abd al-​’Aziz, Zakaria 278 ‘Abd al-​Karim, Ahmad Izzat 70, 73 Abdalla, Ahmad 447, 454 Abdalla, Ahmed 56 Abdalla, Khalid 447 Abdel ‘Al, Ali 115 Abdel-​Barr. O. 376 Abdel-​Dayem, Ines 401, 402, 403 Abdel Fattah, Alaa 425, 429 Abdel Fattah, Esraa 426–​7 Abdel Ghaffour, Emad 126 Abdel Halim Hafez (Halim) see Halim (Abdel Halim Hafez) Abdel Jalil, Khaled 408 Abdel Wahab, Mohammed 459, 460, 461 Abdin Palace 11, 75 ‘Abduh, Muhammad 33, 36 Abdulla, Rasha 393, 396, 427 ‘Abdul-​Malek, Anwar 103 ‘Abdul-​Rahman, Zaghlul 104 Abdu, Mohammed 437 Abiy Ahmed 155 Abou El-​Gheit, Ahmed 52 Abou Zeid 397–​8, 463 The absent truth (Foda) 407 Abu al-​’Iz, Madkur 103 Abu Ghazala, Abdel Halim 88–​9 Abu Hashima, Ahmed 417, 418–​19 Abu Ismail, Hazim Salah 127 Abul-​Fadl, ‘Abdul-​ Fattah 96, 99 Abul Futuh, Abdel Moneim 125, 126, 394

Abul-​Magd, Z. 91 Abul-​Nur, ‘Abdul-​Muhsin 99, 104 Abu Taleb,Youssef Sabri 89 Abu Wafia, Mahmoud 86 Abu Zayd, Nasr Hamed 286, 407 academic history 74–​5 academic traditions 69–​70 acting syndicates 406 activist lawyers 285–​6 activists 394, 395, 428–​30 see also student activism actors’ union 448 acts of silencing 407–​8 Adeeb, Amr 419 Adel, Hany 462 Administration for Research, Composition and Translation (Islamic Research Academy) 407 Administrative Control Authority (ACA) 114 administrative courts 265–​4, 276 administrative detentions 300, 303–​4 administrative judiciary 299 administrative judiciary law 1972 300 ad valorem equivalents (AVEs) 207, 208 al-​Afghani, Jamal el-​Din 437 ‘Aflam al-​moqawalat’ (‘contractors’ movies’) 461 Afro-​Asian Conference (Bandung) 45–​6 Agadir Free Trade Agreement 201–​2, 203 Aga Khan Trust for Culture (AKTC) 381 Aghapy TV 442 “agrarian bourgeoisie” 246 Agreement for the Total Utilization of Nile Waters (1959) 336 agricultural investment 349 agricultural land 23, 245–​7, 252, 349, 356–​8 agricultural settlements 358

467

468

Index agriculture: climate change 343–​4; cultivable land 228; drainage water 338, 343; expansion into the desert 340; ideal climate 339; 19th century command economy 246; seasons 339; water efficiency 343 agroecological zones 326 al-​Ahali (party publication) 74 Ahmad ‘Urabi movement (1881) 95 “Ahmed Ezz” elections 135 Aho Da Eli Sar (This is what happened) 458 Al-​Ahram (Rizq) 74 Ahrar25 (MB satellite channel) 439 ’Ain Shams (film) 454 Ain Shams University 27, 61, 70, 74 Ain Shams University Student Union 62 Air Force 104 air pollution 365 Alam al-​Phan 461 el-​Alamy, Sadat (DJ Sadat) 463, 464 Alef (bookstore) 133n1 Alexandria: cinéastes 453–​4; colonial heritage 377; heritage management 381; informal districts 248; listing buildings 379; tramways 26; urban land 247; Veolia v. Egypt (2012) 220; water and sanitation 23–​4 Alexandria Art Gallery 448 Alexandria Film Festival 449 Alexandria group 125 Alexandria Preservation Trust (APT) 379, 381 Alexandria Salafist group 126 AlexMed 379 alignment law (1889) 375 Ali, Khaled 286, 290, 292–​3 Al-​Jazeera 149, 151, 189, 394, 414 see also Qatar Al-​Jazeera Arabic (AJA) 151, 394 Al-​Jazeera English 151 Al-​Jazeera Mubasher Misr 394 Allam, Shawqi 122 Allenby, Edmund 9 alternative film cultures 452–​3 Alwaleed bin Talal 461 Aly, Ramy M.K. 396 “amateur” historians 71 ‘Amer, ‘Abdul-​Hakim 83–​4, 100, 102, 104, 105 ‘Amer, Hussein Sirri 99, 100, 101 American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) 151 American Research Centre in Egypt (ARCE) 377 American University in Cairo (AUC) 29, 30, 60, 62 Amin, Ahmad 33 Amin, Nasser 266 ‘Amr, Ibrahim 71 Anadolu News Agency 394 Ana Mesh Menhom song (I’m not one of them) 462 Anan, Sami 110 Ancient Thebes 377

Andeel, Mohammed 395 Anderson, J.E. 206 The angel (Bar) 403 Anghami (streaming service) 458, 463–​4 Anglo-​Egyptian relationships 44–​5 Anglo-​Egyptian Treaty 1936 10–​11, 12, 45, 95 Anglo-​Egyptian war 1882 95, 297–​8 “Anglo-​Saxon” journalism 413 Anis, Muhammad 71, 75 anti-​assembly laws 140 anti-​communism 103 anti-​coup protests 2013 92 anti-​protest laws 305, 429 antiquities infrastructure see cultural heritage; monuments anti-​Shiite sentiment 148–​9 anti-​terrorism law 2015 418, 430 appellate courts 265 “April 6 Strike” 426–​7 April 6 Youth Movement 18, 135, 267, 427 ‘Arab al-​Yasar (Historic Cairo) 376, 380 Arab Center for the Independence of the Judiciary and the Legal Profession (ACIJLP) 266 Arab Gas Pipelines 328 Arab Human Development Report 2002 (UNDP) 135n12 Arabic media 135 see also media Arabic Network for Human Rights Information (ANHRI) 139 Arab–​Israeli tensions (1980s–​2000s) 51 Arab–​Israeli War 1948–​1949 11, 45, 96, 97, 100 Arabiyya (magazine) 438 Arab League 13, 18, 45, 49, 50, 147, 460–​1 Arab League Collective Security Pact (ALCSP) 45 Arab Media Outlook 2016–​2018 458, 461 ‘Arab, Muhammad Sabir 75 Arab nationalism 13, 46, 72 Arab Network for Human Rights Information 429 Arab oil embargo (1973) 167 Arab Organization for Human Rights (AOHR) 310–​12 Arab Organization for Industrialization (AOI) 112 Arabsat 391, 392 Arab satellite channels 436 see also satellite channels Arab socialism 166 Arab Socialist Union (ASU) 13, 15, 37, 38, 39, 84, 86–​7, 104, 166 “Arab Spring” 242 Arab Vanguard (Al-​Tali’a al-​ ‘Arabiyya) 105 al Araby, Nabil 148 El-​Arafa cemetery (Cairo) 327 Arandel, C. 356 arbitration 217–​18, 220, 221–​2 see also international arbitration arbitration tribunals 220

468

469

Index archaeological sites see cultural heritage; monuments ‘Archive of Resistance’ (Arshif Thawry) 451 An Aristocratic Daughter (Bent Akaber) 464 Armbrust, Walter 392 “Armed Forces Educational Symposiums” Armed Forces Land Projects Agency 110 art and culture 402 Art et Liberté 448 art-​house circuit model 452 ART Teenz 395 al-​Asala Party 126 Al-​Ashera Masaan (10 Pm) 461 al-​Ashmawy, Ashraf 315n7 Ashour, Sameh 293 Ashour, Tamer 463–​4 Ashura 128 ‘ashwa’iyyat (random zones) 248, 249, 252 see also informal neighbourhoods Asmarat housing project (Moqattam district, Cairo) 327 al Assad, Bashar 148 Assala Nasri 464 Association for Freedom of Thought and Expression (AFTE) 397 Association of Egyptian film critics 449 Association of the Friends of the Theatre 448 Aswan Dam 23, 339 see also High Aswan Dam (HAD) El Aswany, Alaa 136n13 Asyut University 27–​8, 125 Atatürk, Kemal 12 Athar Lina initiative 382 audiocassettes 392 austerity and repression 174 austerity programs 168–​9, 190 authoritarianism 32–​40; and autocratic tendencies 35; centralisation of power 182; economic reforms 183; and Islamist social pact 38; and liberalism 33–​4; patronage and cronyism 216; populist authoritarian pact 36; power of the military 39 autocracy 34 Awad, Louis 34 ‘Awakening of Egypt’ statue (Nahdat Misr) 9 Awlad Haritna (Geballawi’s children) (Mahfouz) 407 Awqaf Buildings, Citadel Square, Cairo 376 Awqaf, Giza 248 Awqaf (religious endowments) 121, 126, 377 Ayeb, Habib 247 Ayubi, Nazih N.M. 36 Ayubi, S. 47–​8 Al Ayyat rail accident 25 al-​Azhar 122, 407, 408; admission requirements 27; institutional independence 270; Islamic learning 120–​3, 280; relations with the government 129,

435; and Sisi 123; sites of protest 29; Student Union (SU) 61 al-​Azhar Mosque 332, 379 Azhar Scholars’ Front (Jabhat Ulama al-​Azhar) 122 al-​Azhar Supreme Council 121 Ba’aret Haha (Haha’s Cow) 460 Bab el Hadid station (Cairo) 25 Bab Zuwayla, Taht al-​Rab’ 377 El-​Badawi, Sayyid 415 Al-​Badeel newspaper 416, 418 Badr 353 Badrawi, Malak 34 al-​Baghdadi, ‘Abd al-​Latif  98, 373 Baghdad Pact 46 Bahaa El Din, Ziad 139 al-​Bahai, Mohamed  121 Baha’ism 128 Bahgat, Ahmad 415 Bahgat, Hossam 398 Bahrain 153 Baidaphon (record label) 460 Baker, Mona 449 Baladi, Lara 450 Balaha (el-​Beheiry)  403 Balaha (song) 462 Ban Ki-​Moon  398 bankruptcy 169, 214 al-​Banna, Hassan 10, 123, 438 Banque Misr 11, 165 Al-​Barahin al-​’Alamiya  440 Barakat, Hisham 115–​16 Barayez, A. 174 Baring, Evelyn, 1st Earl of Cromer 27, 33 Bar Joseph, Uri 403 al-​Barrawi, Rashid 34, 35, 36 Al Bashir, Omar 155 Bashkatib 140 Basili, Sarwat 442 basin system 339 Bastawisi, Hisham 275 El-​Batout, Ibrahim  454–​5 El-​Batran,  M.  356 El-​Batta el-​Soda (The Black Duck) 462 Bayat, Asef 251, 289, 448, 455 Bedouin pastoralists 252 Beeka, Hammu 409 Be’eri, E. 103 Begin, Menachem 16 al-​Behairy, Islam  123 al-​Beheiri, Maher  280 el-​Beheiry, Galal  403 Beit Al-​Watan Project  353 Benban solar park (Aswan) 328 “benevolent dictatorships” 35, 310 “benevolent tyranny” (Badrawi) 34 Bennett, W.  L.  428

469

470

Index Bent Akaber (An Aristocratic Daughter), 464 Bentivoglio, K. 304 El Bernameg (TV show) 395 Bernard-​Maugiron,  N.  301 Bertelsmann Transformation Index 2020 109 Besteman, C. 402 Bianchi, R. 166 Bibars, Iman 395 Bibliotheca Alexandrina 76, 379, 454 “big” media 391 Bilateral Investment Treaties (BITs) 212–​23; agreements concluded 213–​14; arbitrations 217, 221–​2; changes in 2007 model 219; expropriation 220–​1; fair and equitable treatment (FET) 220; and FDI 218, 223; free transfer of funds provision 221; investor–​ state disputes (ISDS) 217, 218; January 2011 revolution 215–​17, 219–​20; non-​discrimination clauses 213; post-​revolution 2011 219–​22; regulatory chill effect 218, 221–​2, 223; responses to 218–​19; third-​party litigation 222; understanding implications 218 al-​Binaa wal Tanmiyya Party (BwT) 126 biodiversity 326 al-​Bishri, Tariq  274 The Black Box (TV show) 395 The Black Market film (al-​Suq al-​Sawda’) 448 blocking websites 430 blogging 416, 418, 424–​6 see also social media Body for oversight 404, 409 Bonnitcha, J. 221 border constraints 206–​8 Bourdieu, P. 401, 413, 421 Boutros, Zakaria 442 brackish groundwater 338 “brain drain” 240–​1 bread riots 1977 16, 38, 49, 58, 87, 168 Brechenmacher, Saskia 315, 317, 319–​20 Bremer, J. 108 Breuer,V.A.  439 British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) 397, 430 British forces: confrontation with police 1952 12; keeping EAF ill-​trained 99; Second World War 11; withdrawal 1956 13 British occupation (1882–​1956) 7–​8; cash crops 23; constitutional settlement 1923 10; “Dinshaway Trial” 298; and the EAF 95; and foreign policy 44–​5; government influence 9; martial law 14; neglect of education 68; protecting crown interests 297–​8; Revolution 1919 165, 284; spending on education 27; struggle for independence 96, 164 British protectorate 7–​8, 165, 298 British University in Egypt 62 Brown, Nathan 109, 252, 298, 304 buffer zones 376 see also urban development buildings with religious endowments (waqf) 377

built environments 326–​8, 361 Bulaq, Cairo 249 Bureau of Information (PBI) 83, 84 Bush, George W.  52 Bush, Ray 247 business communities 180, 187–​9 ‘businessmen cabinet’ 182, 215 businessmen-​turned-​politicians  172 Butler, J. 407–​8 Cagaptay, Soner 149 Cairo: expansion and population growth 247–​9; gated compounds 352; green spaces 365; informal settlements 249, 356–​8, 357; modernising 375–​6; monument conservation 377; overlapping governance 379; sewage and waste disposal 365; tramways 25–​6; urban sprawl 326–​7; water supply 23; water system 23 see also Greater Cairo; Historic Cairo Cairo 2050 “Strategic Urban Development Plan” 249 Cairo Book Fair 407 Cairo Court of Appeal 280 Cairo Governorate 23 Cairo group 125 Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies (CIHRS) 139, 265 Cairokee (indie band) 457, 462, 463–​4, 465 Cairo Metro system 26 Cairophon (record label) 460 Cairo–​Suez road  352 Cairo Times 415 Cairo University 27, 29, 61, 68, 70; Institute of African Studies 72 Cairo Water Company  23, 24 Camp David Accords 1978 48, 87, 148, 184, 187 Camp David treaty 18 see also Egyptian–​Israeli Peace Treaty  1979 canals and drainage system 22 capacity for innovation 200 capital allocation 332–​3 capitalist division of labor 168 capitalists as ‘hostile brothers’ 184 capital punishment 298 Capitulations 11 Caravan for Euro-​Arab Cinema 452 Case 173/​2011  138 cash crops 23 Castells, M. 427–​8 cause lawyers 285–​6 CBC (television channel) 417 CBS (satellite channel) 436 cemeteries 326–​7 censorship 401, 402, 403, 406, 407–​8 Center for Environment and Development in the Arab Region and Europe (CEDARE) 337

470

471

Index Center for Human Rights Legal Aid (CHRLA) 265–​6, 266–​7, 286, 314n6 Center for Islamic Research (Majmaa al-​Bohouth al-​Islamiyya) 121 Center for Women’s Legal Aid 266 Central Agency for Public Mobilization and Statistics (CAPMAS) 197, 230, 365 centralisation of power 182 Central Security Forces (CSF) 84, 87, 89, 90 Central Special Office 101 Centre for Political and Strategic Studies (CPSS) 72 Centre of Documents and Contemporary History of Egypt (Ministry of Culture) 75 “Charter for National Action” see National Action Charter 1962 Check Point Software Technologies 397 Chekir, H. 205 “Chief Judicial Appointments Law” (13/​2017) 116 children 395 see also youth Christian media 441–​2 Cimatheque 447, 450 cinema productions 403 cinematography syndicates 406 cities in the desert 350–​4 cities of the dead 326–​7 City Councils (gihaz al-​madina) 352 City Light railway 327 civilian-​on-​civilian violence  137n16 civil–​military relations  96 civil society 133–​41; between 2000–​2011 134–​5; January 2011 Revolution 135–​7 civil society groups 135, 136–​7 climate change 343–​5 Clot, Antoine (Clot Bey) 26 coastal rainfall 337–​8 coercive states 14–​15 collective film-​making  446–​55 collective remittances 236–​7 collectivism 447–​8, 449 colonial economy 181 Coming Forth by Day (film) 453 Comité de Conservation des Monuments d’Art Arabe 374–​6, 377 command economy of agricultural production 246 commentary type of journalism 413 commercial era (1990s and 2000s) 460–​1 “Commitment and Objectivity in Contemporary Egyptian Historiography” conference 74 Committee for Legal Aid, Wafd Party 266 Committee on the Future of Political Work 86 Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) 394 Common Market for Eastern and Southern Africa (COMESA) 201–​2, 203 common people (‘amma) 33

communists 11, 12, 32, 37, 103, 147, 299, 405 community lawyers 291 Comprehensive Development Plan for the City of Luxor (CDCL) 380 The concept of the text (Abu Zaid) 407 Congolese mercenaries 100 consensus 150 conservation 373, 377 conservative lawyers 292 Constituent Assembly 274, 276, 279, 281 Constitution 1883 9 Constitution 1923 10, 27, 265, 441; Article 45 298 Constitution 1930, Article 45 298 Constitution 1953, Article 8 298 Constitution 1956, Article 144 298 Constitution 1958, Article 57 298 Constitution 1964, Article 126 298 Constitution 1971 265, 274, 406; Article 2 280; Article 33 274; Article 174 298; “socialist” clauses 301 Constitution 1980 122 Constitution 2012: Article 2 280; Article 4 280; Article 7 122; Article 148 298; Article 219 280; Article 236 280; media regulation 417; Military Judiciary 92 Constitution 2014 127; Article 1 109; Article 2 122; Article 4 109; Article 5 109; Article 65 396; Article 67 396; Article 146 110; Article 154 298, 397; Articles 211, 212 and 213 417–​18; military budget 115 constitutional amendments 2007, Article 179 300–​301 constitutional amendments 2012, Article 7 122 constitutional amendments 2019 92, 109, 288, 290, 420 Constitutional Declaration 2011 276; Article 7 277; Article 33 274; Article 38 277; Article 56 274; Article 59 298, 301; Article 189 274 Constitutional Declarations 274, 275, 278–​81 constitutional litigation 267, 267 constitutional monarchy 8–​9 Constitutional Referendum 279 constitutional settlement 1923 10 construction-​led urbanism  250 “contested land” 252 ‘contractors’ movies’ (‘Aflam al-​moqawalat’) 461 cooperativism 446–​55 Coptic Benevolent Society 26 Coptic Cairo 379 Coptic Christians: attacks on churches 127; British favouring 9; media 441–​2; al-​Nour Party 127–​8; population 127 corporal punishment 297 “corrective movement” (haraka tashihiyya) 38 Corrective Revolution 1971 15, 38–​9, 85, 86 “corrupting public taste” 409

471

472

Index corruption: combating 219; desert developments 251; FDI inflows 216; financial malpractice 16; and the judiciary 222; public administration 114; and Sadat 169 cotton 11, 23, 164, 165, 339 Council of Youth and Sports 63 counterbalancing schemes 100–​2, 104–​5 counter-​lawyers 285, 292 “counter-​revolution” 1992  186 “counter-​revolution” 2013 137, 302–​3 counterrevolutionary foreign policy 151–​6 counterterrorism 140, 302–​3 counterterrorism legislation (1992) 300 countryside uprisings 1919 246 coup-​proofing strategies: defining 96, 108; Faruq 96–​102; Nasser 102–​5 Court of Cassation (Mahkamat al-​Naqd) 265, 280–​91, 304 Court of First Instance 304 Court of Retrial 304 Court of the Revolution (Mahkamat al-​Thawra) 265, 299 Court of Treason  299 Crabitès, Pierre 69 criminal justice 305 Criminal Procedure Code 304; Article 143 pretrial detention 304 Cromer, Evelyn Baring, 1st Earl of 27, 33, 375 crony capitalism 17, 180–​3, 185–​6, 187 cronyism 169, 181, 183, 216 CSF Riots 1986 89 CTV 442 “cultural caravans” 405 cultural heritage 373–​83; antiquities infrastructure 405; archaeological sites and museums 328; documentation 377; Islamic heritage 376; management 377–​8, 381–​3; modern understanding 374; overlapping governance 332; pre-​modern views 373–​4; preservation 328–​9; private sector involvement 332–​3; urban densification 380 cultural Islamism 406 cultural palaces 401–​2, 405 culture: “axis of national security” 403; glorification of president, military and police 403; “national security” 402 culture police 408–​9 customs and trade regulations 207 “cybercrime” laws 418 Cyprus 155 Dahab (Nile island) 245 Daily News Egypt 133n1 al-​Dakroury,Yahya  116 Damietta 328 Dar al-​Ifta 120 Dar al-​Ulum (Teaching College) 26, 68

al-​Darb al-​Ahmar (Historic Cairo) 381 Darwish, Mustafa 404 Darwish, Sayyid 458, 462 al-​Dawa (MB magazine) 438 Da’wa (Salafist group) 128 death penalty sentences 290 debates 136 Deboulet, A. 358 debt relief 169, 186, 214 decentralisation 453–​4 Declaration of Principles (GERD) 344–​5 decolonisation 452 decree-​law No. 10 of 2011 302 decree-​law No. 34 of 2011 301–​2 decree-​law No. 83 of 2013 304 Decree No. 220 of 1976 406 Decree No. 258 of 2018 (MHUUC) 365 decree of 1861 banning judicial torture and corporal punishment 297 deep state 107–​8 defaming the “reputation of Egypt” 396 defective arms scandal 1950 11, 97 De Haas, H. 227 Demagh Mak (blogger) 425 demobilization 171 democracy 36, 310 democratic organizations 314 demography 228–​34 see also population Denis, Eric 251 Department of Fatimid Cairo 332, 379 deregulation 186, 216 see also liberalization desalination plants 327, 338 Description de l’Egypte 374 desert: agricultural expansion 340; allocating speculative rents 245; allocation and privatisations 181 desert developments: corruption 251; disputes between state entities 252; land speculation 251; new cities 349–​54; “October Paper” 1974 349; planning 250; socio-​spatial order 250; state–​society disconnect 250–​1; urban poor 352 see also urbanization Desert Hinterland Villages project 360 desert reclamation 340 De Soto, Hernando 251 Desouk 401–​2 detentions 300, 303–​4 deteriorated areas 248 deteriorated urban pockets 358–​9 development: groundwater resources 337; and heritage 381; and liberalization 172; policy strategy 231–​2 see also urban development development model 164 development vision 327 Diab, Amr 464 Diab, Mohamed 396 Diab, Salah 415, 419

472

473

Index dialogical principle (Morin) 413 Dickinson, K. 451 Dictionnaire à l’usage du monde bourgeois 448 el-​Dien, Alaa  463 digital media 392, 437, 458 digital platforms 463–​5 digital protests 420 digital turn 446 “Dinshaway Trial”  8, 298 diplomatic corps 147 disappearances 290 disengagement-​of-​troops agreements  48 disorderly zones of Egyptian society 249 disputed spaces 251–​3 Diwan, I. 205 DJ Sadat (Sadat el-​Alamy) 463, 464 Documentary Cinéastes’ Association 449 Dodwell, Henry 69 Domke, Johanna 451 Dorman, W.J.  360 double ‘turn’ hypothesis 447, 455 Douin, George 69 drainage water reuse 338 Dreamaway (documentary) 451 Dreams of Convalescence (film) 454 Dream TV 415, 436 Dresden 397 Driault, Edouard 69 drownings 394–​5 dualism 297–​300, 397 Dunne, M. 110–​11 Al-​Dustour (newspaper) 135, 415 Duweiqa rockslide 2008 354 Eagle Capital 419 earthquake 1992 377 East Asian financial crisis 186 Eastern Desert 326 Eastern Europe 447 East Port Said 327, 359 economic and social performance 164 economic development 11, 163–​4 economic integration 188, 301 economic liberalisation 15, 17, 214 see also infitah (‘open door’ policy) economic nationalism 165–​7 Economic Reform and Structural Adjustment Program (ERSAP) 90, 185–​6, 196, 214–​15, 349 economic reforms 179, 183, 185–​7 economic stabilization agreements 349 economic transnationalisation 187 The Economist 426 economy: after 1973 war 167–​9; January 2011 Revolution 173–​4; modernizing 165 “edifice projects” 250

education 26–​9; and British colonial rule 22; and poverty 29; reforms 291; standards 11; unemployment 230, 230 Education 2.0 291 EFTA 203 Egypt: Arab dimension of its identity 72; arbiter of art and culture 402; bankruptcy 169, 214; geography 325; as an interlocutor 152–​3; Islam as national identity 437; leadership of the Arab world 49; Ottoman and Mediterranean cultures 13; rewriting history 73; status quo power 50 Egypt Country Report (Bertelsmann Transformation Index 2020) 109 L’Egypte (survey 1926) 69 Egyptian Acting and Cinema Company 405 Egyptian–​American relations  52 Egyptian Antiquities Service 374 Egyptian Armed Forces (EAF): 1952 coup 99–​100; above the law 109; bread riots 1977 87; under British occupation 95; depoliticizing 84; devoted to Faruq 96–​7; economic interests 88, 90, 91, 107, 171; exploiting political connections 181; glorification 403; jurisdiction over civilians 92; land ownership and control 251; militants in Sinai 152; military appointees under Nasser 86; military budget 115; “national projects” 111; and peace with Israel 87–​8; and the political system 81; politicizing 84; pre-​1952 top brass 100; prerogatives for profit 91; retirees as heads of general authorities (GAs) 112–​14, 113; safeguarding the constitution and democracy 107; under Sisi 129; Suez Crisis 1956 104; tax exemptions 91, 111; third army 1973 war 147 see also military coup 2013 Egyptian Association for Historical Studies 73, 74 Egyptian bourgeoisie 171–​2 Egyptian Branch (AOHR) 310–​12 Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights (ECESR) 287 “Egyptian College School” 27 Egyptian Communist Party 10 The Egyptian Conscience blog 425 Egyptian Environmental Affairs Agency 365 Egyptian Federation of Industries 11 Egyptian Feminist Union 10 Egyptian Film Foundation 405 Egyptian Human Rights Forum (EHRF) 316n8 Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR) 135, 139, 398 Egyptian Islamic Jihad 461 Egyptian–​Israeli Peace Treaty 1979 16, 18, 48–​9, 87, 167 Egyptian Media Group 418–​19 Egyptian Migration database 232 Egyptian Museum 374 Egyptian National Railways (ENR) 25

473

474

Index Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (EOHR) 265, 312, 313–​14 Egyptian Radio and Television Union (ERTU) 393, 416 Egyptian Revolution see January 2011 Revolution Egyptian scholarship 71 Egyptian Socialist Party 10, 86 Egyptian Space Channel (ESC) 391, 392 Egyptian Trade Union Federation (ETUF) 17, 37 Egyptian University see Cairo University Egyptian vernacular (’ammiyya) 448 Egypt Independent 417 Egypt Speaks for Herself song (Misr Tatahadath ‘an Nafsaha) 459 Egypt’s Vision 2030  364–​5 Eibl, F, 205 Eissa, Ibrahim 415, 417, 418 El’ab Yalla song (Let’s play, dude) 464 Elbaradei, Mohamed 427, 431 “e-​learning”  392 Electoral Support program (UNDP) 139 electricity exports 328 “electric-​shock diplomacy” 48–​50, 52 electro-​shaabi (street music) 462 elementary education 27 Elias, Norbert 413 elitism 33 elitist rationality (‘aqliyya) 36 Elsadda, Hoda 74 Emary, Amir 449 embezzlement 222 see also corruption Emergency Law (No. 162 of 1958) 14, 299, 303, 304 emergency laws 14, 396–​7, 429 Emergency State Security Courts 267 emigration 227 Emigration and Sponsoring Egyptians Abroad (Law 111 of 1983) 231 Empain, Édouard Louis Joseph, Baron Empain 26 employment-​fare state  166 El-​Enbaby, H. 205, 206 “enclave tourism” 328–​9 encroachments 244–​53; after 2011 328; agricultural land 246–​7; desert developments 249–​51; disputed spaces 251–​3; urban land 247–​9 see also al-​Warraq (Nile island) Endah al-​Ahrar song (Call on the Free) 459 endangered buildings 375 endowments (waqf) 377 energy production 327–​8 Engineering Authority of the Armed Forces (EAAF) 111 entrepreneurs 414, 416 environment 365 Erdogan, Recep Tayyip  149–​50 Eshtebak (Clash) film 396

Eskandar, Wael  431 Esma3oona (Hear Us Out) 395 Esmeir, Samera 298 Esna City, Luxor 379, 382 Essam, Ramy 403, 462 Esseily, Mahmoud 464 étatism 405 Ethiopia 147, 150, 155–​6, 336, 339, 344–​5 EU–​Egypt free trade agreement 205 European Council for Fatwa and Research 439 European enlightenment 297 European Free Trade Association  201 European movement of goods, people, technology, and capital 165 European scholars 68, 69 European Union (EU) 201, 202, 203, 205, 232 Europe-​dominated world order 165 everyday lawyering 291, 292 eviction of tenants (Law No. 196/​1992) 247, 253 exceptional courts 299 exceptional measures 298–​9, 300–​301 executive authority prerogative 298 Exim bank 327 exiting the valley mantra (al-​khorooj min al-​wadi) 349 expelling Soviet advisors 147 exports: days to clear through customs 207; destination 196–​7, 197; electricity 328; evolution 195; liquefied natural gas 328; product 198–​9; sectors 198; technology intensity 201 expropriation 220–​1 external debt 168 external rents 167, 168 extrajudicial killings 290 Ezbet El-​Haggana informal area 352 Ezz, Ahmed 135n11 Ezzat, A. 285 Facebook 135, 412, 426–​8, 430–​1 see also social media factor-​based economy  164 facts and “Anglo-​Saxon” journalism 413 Fadel, Mohammad 277 al-​Fadila Party 126 Fahmy, Khaled (American University in Cairo) 76, 297 Fahmy, Khaled (Minufiyya University) 76 fair and equitable treatment (FET) 213, 220 Al Fajr (newspaper) 416 “families of al-​Warraq” council 291 family-​managed small projects 240 family-​owned business conglomerates 171 Faruq, King: accession 10; controlling the military 98–​9; corruption and unpopularity 34; coup-​ proofing 96–​102; defeat in Palestine 1949 97; Egyptian independence 97; foreign policy 44;

474

475

Index ideational bonds with subjects 96; and the military 95–​7; pro-​Allied Wafd government 11; security apparatus 101; symbol of the land problem 98 Fatimid City of al-​Qahira 381 Fatimid Mosque of al-​Hakim 375 Fatimid shrines 373 faux secularism 407–​8 Fawzi, Mahmoud (Foreign Minister) 47 Fawzi, Mohammad (Minister of War) 84, 85 Fawzy, Mohammed (actor) 460 Fayyoum 396 Feast for seaweed (Hayder) 408 Federation of Artistic Unions (FAU) 406, 409 Feldman, Allen 302 fellahin 33 female education 73–​4 female students 28 female unemployment 230, 230 al-​Feqqi, Hamed  125 15th of May City 352, 353, 359 Fifth Settlement, east of Cairo 24 Fig Leaf Studios 453–​4, 455 Film Association 448 film collectives 446–​55 film cooperatives 446–​7 film industry: commercialism 453; and the Free Officers 404; Law 35 of 1978 406; private investment 461; professional syndicates 448 Film Industry Chamber of Commerce 448 film screenings 391 financial malpractice 16 see also corruption finished goods 198, 198 Finland 447 first-​generation cities 350, 359 First World War  298 fiscal crises 1980s 181, 185 five-​feddan  law  33 five-​year plan (1960) 166 flight of the rich 353–​4 “the flight of the urban elites” 352 Foda, Farag 407, 461 Fonoun Holding 461 food riots 1977 see bread riots 1977 foreign aid 147, 151–​2, 174, 189–​90 foreign correspondents 397 foreign currency 238 foreign debt 169, 174 foreign direct investments (FDIs) 212–​23; and the army 189; attracting 213, 215; and BITs 218, 223; by economic sector 208; and ERSAP measures 214–​15; and GDP 170, 214; Infitah (‘Open Door’ policy) 212, 213; January 2011 revolution 215–​16; liberalisation and privatisation 216; oil and gas sector 187–​8, 189, 215, 216; real estate and construction 187–​8, 189; since 2016 174; value chains 208–​9

foreign funding 313, 317, 318 “Foreign Funding” case 316 foreign investments and investors 38, 220 foreign policy 43–​52; and British occupation 44–​5; decision-​making processes 43–​4; and identity 44; Mubarak 50–​2; Muslim Brotherhood 147–​50; objectives 43; rent seeking 146; Sadat 48–​50; Sisi 151–​6 formal remittances 236 formal-​sector neighbourhoods 248, 251 see also informal settlements Forster, E.M. 26 “For the Love of Egypt” bloc 115 Forum for Independent Human Rights Organizations 316, 318 Fouda,Yosri 136n13, 393–​4 fountains (sabil) 23 “fourth generation cities” 327 Fraenkel, Ernst 297 fragmented property holdings 252 France 152, 214 Freedom and Justice Party (FJP) (al-​Hurriyya wal ‘Adala) 114, 126, 275, 276 freedom-​lawyers  286 freedom of expression/​free speech 395, 429, 430 Freedom on the Net 2017 report 430 Freedoms Committee of the Lawyers’ Syndicate 286 Free Egyptians Party 114, 417 free-​market economy  349 Free Officers: and Ali Sabri 85; anticolonial movement 81; coup 1952 82, 100, 102, 299; and the defeat of 1949 97–​8; film industry practices 404; influences 34; junior officers 99; landownership inequality 98; legal rationality 299; memoirs 97–​8, 99; military courts 299; “new cinema” movement 405; “normative state” 299–​300; overachievers 100; political program 35–​6 see also July Revolution 1952 free trade agreements 200–​1 freezing assets 142n1 French expedition (1798–​1801) 165, 374 French judicial structure 265 fresh water 23 Friends of the Theatre and Cinema 448 “Front for the Defense of Protestors” 287 Fu’ad I University see Cairo University Fu’ad, King 8, 9–​10, 27, 69, 72, 75 “Fundamentals for the oversight of works of art” (Decree 220/​1976)  406 Fund for the Upgrading of Scattered Settlements 360 “Future Generation Foundation” 63 Gabr, Mohsen 461 Gad el-​Haq  121 Galal, Ehab 394

475

476

Index Galal, Hala 452 The Galaxy’s Monster (Wahsh el-​Magara) 463 Al-​Gama’a al-​Islamiyya (The Islamic Group) 39, 58, 125, 407, 461 Gamasi, Mohamed Abdel Ghani 87 “garbage city” (Manshiet Nasser) 326 garbage-​pickers  326 gas exploration rights 155 gas liquefaction plants 328 Gassar, Wael  464 gated communities 250, 352 Gaza Strip 46, 148, 152–​3 al-​Gebali, Tahani 274, 280 Geballawi’s children (Awlad Haritna) (Mahfouz) 407 gendered perspectives 73–​4 Geneina, Hisham 251 general authorities (GAs) 112–​14 General Authority for Fish Resources Development 111 General Authority for Investment and Free Zones (GAFI) 215, 219, 222, 223 general climate models (GCMs) 343 “General Directorate for Cultural Affairs” 405 General Intelligence Agency 115 General Intelligence Apparatus 139 General Intelligence Directorate (GID) 108 General Intelligence Service (GIS) 82, 84, 104–​5 General Investigations Department 108 see also State Security Investigations Sector (SSIS) General Investigations Directorate (GID) 82, 84, 104–​5, 112, 406 generalist media 436 General Organisation for Cultural Palaces 402 General Organisation of Physical Planning’s (GOPP) 379 General Organization for Greater Cairo Water Supply (GOGCWS) 24 General Organization of Physical Planning 332, 366 generals 98–​9 gentrification 327 geography 325 geopolitics 168 Gerbaudo, P. 428 German Archaeological Institute (DAI) 377 German University in Cairo (GUC) 28, 60, 62 Germany 214, 297 Gervasio, G. 57 Getino, Octavio 452 Ghannouchi, Rached 150 el-​Gheitani, Gamal  406 al-​Gheryani, Hossam  278 El-​Ghobashy, Mona  124 Ghoneim, A. 202 Ghonim, Wael  427 Ghurbal, Muhammad Shafiq 69–​70, 72, 74 Al-​Gil al-​Sa’ed (The Young Generation) 459

Girgis, Fawzi 71 Giza Pyramids 328 global division of labour 172 global economic integration 185, 188 globalization 183–​5, 241, 309 global patrons 169 God’s sovereignty (hakimiyya) 38 Gohar, Mohamed 417 Goldberg, Ellis 278 Goma, Ali 122 Gomaa, Sharawy 85, 406 GONGOs 317 Gourna 380–​1 Government of National Accord (GNA) 154, 155 governments: between 1922—​1952 9–​10; ignoring informal neighbourhoods 248; institutional structure 109, 251–​2; relationship with the judiciary 280 government schools 26–​7 governors 91, 92, 117 GPO Film Unit 452 graduates 28 Gramsci, A. 187 Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD) 147, 150, 155–​6, 344–​5 see also Nile River Great Depression 11 Greater Arab Free Trade Area (GAFTA) 201–​2, 203 Greater Cairo 248–​50, 350, 353–​4, 366 see also Cairo; Historic Cairo Greater Cairo Sewerage Tunnel 24–​5 Green City see Al-​Rehab (New Cairo) green spaces 365, 369 Grierson, John 452 gross capital formation 170 gross domestic product (GDP) 170, 214, 238, 239 groundwater 336–​7 Groupe Farid 452 growing cities 365 growth (agricultural seasons) 339 growth rates 173 Guaaybess, Tourya 393, 396 Gudran Association for Art and Development 381 Guidance Bureau (MB) 124 Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC) 174, 180, 189, 203, 205, 232–​3 Gulf states 124, 189–​90; aid and assistance 52, 147, 167, 189–​90; employment opportunities 232; and the infitah 146; relationship with 149, 153 Gulf War 1991 17, 214 Guterson, H. 402 El-​Habashi,  A.  376 Habib el-​Shaab song (Beloved of the People) 459 Habib, Mohamad 125 hadith 403 Al-​Hafiz (Islamic channel) 440–​1

476

477

Index Haftar, Khalifa 154–​5 Haidar, Mohammad 99 al-​Hakim mosque  375 Halim (Abdel Halim Hafez) 405–​6, 457, 459–​60, 461, 462 Hamas 52, 148, 152–​3 Al-​Hamdulelah (Thank God) 460 Hamilton, Omar 449 Hammad, Jamal 97–​8, 100 Hamrush, Ahmad 98, 101 hand claims (wada’ al-​yad) 252 Haniyeh, Ismail 152 Hanotaux, Gabriel 69 Al-​Haqiqa al-​Gha’iba (The absent truth Foda) 407 Harb, Tal‘at  11 Hariri, Saad 153–​4 harvest (agricultural seasons) 339 Hashim, A. 100 Hassala collective 446–​7, 453 Hassan, B. 314 Hassan, Manal 425 al-​Hattaba (Historic Cairo) 376, 380 Hawwas, Ziyad 451 Al-​Hayat (Islamic magazine) 437 Al-​Hayat TV (Christian satellite channel) 415, 442 Hayder, Hayder 407–​8 Haykal, Muhammad Husayn 33 Hazimoun 127 Hazzaa, H. 222 Hear Us Out (Esma3oona) 395 Helal, Salah 114 Heliopolis 23, 26 Heliopolis Heritage 382–​3 Helmy, O. 202 Helwan 23, 26 Hendy, R. 207 Henein, Georges 448 heritage see cultural heritage Hezbollah 52, 153–​4 Hicks, N. 314 High Administrative Court 274 High Aswan Dam (HAD) 21, 24, 46, 250, 335, 336, 339–​41 see also Aswan Dam Higher Committee for Migration (HCM), 231 Higher Committee for the Liquidation of Feudalism (HCLF) 37 higher education 27, 28, 28, 74 Higher Film Institute 448 Higher Institute of Socialist Studies 72 Higher Teachers College  68 highly qualified workers 240–​1 Hijazi, Mahmoud 110 al-​Hilal (newspaper) 27 el-​Hilaly, Nabil  286 hisba litigation 286–​7, 292 Hisham Mubarak Law Center (HMLC) 286, 287

Histoire de la nation égyptienne 69 historical scholarship 67–​9, 72–​3 historic building destruction 378 Historic Cairo 377–​8, 379, 381, 382 see also Cairo; Greater Cairo Historic Cairo Development Project (HCDP) 378 al-​Hitta, Ahmad  70 hollowing out of the state 185–​7, 188 Holy Quran Network 437 “Honourable Citizens” 302 “horizontal communication” 425, 426 Al-​Horreya  TV  442 “Horus” (Warraq, Nile island) 244 Hosny, Farouk 402, 408 Hossam, Samy 452 housing projects 353 housing shortages 349, 365 Houthis 153 Hroub, Khaled 436 human rights 286, 319 Human Rights Center for the Assistance of Prisoners (HRCAP) 266 human rights defenders (HRDs) 315, 317, 318, 319 human rights lawyers 285, 286–​7, 290 human rights movement 286, 287, 309–​12, 318–​19 human rights nongovernmental organizations (HRNGOs) 310, 311, 312–​20; culture of protest 316; in exile 317; fearing security crackdowns 315; foreign funding 313, 317, 318; human rights courses 315; institutionalizing 312–​13; international advocacy 313; political autonomy 313–​14; populist organizational structures 315; rejecting military coup 2013 318–​18; “socially useful” projects 317; state and society 314–​16 human rights treaties 300 human rights violations 300 al-​Hurriyya (ship) 104 al-​Hurriyya wal ‘Adala (Freedom and Justice Party, FJP) 114, 126, 275, 276 Husayn, Ahmad 34 Husayn Kamil, Sultan of Egypt 8 al-​Husri, Sati‘  72 Hussein, Kamal al-​Din 100 Hussein Kamel, Prince 448 Hussein, Karim 412 hydropower 328, 344 Ibn Tulun mosque  375 ideological posturing 102 ideology of legality 290 Idku liquefaction terminal 328 al-​Idrisi, Muhammad ‘Abd al-​’Aziz  373 illegal excavations 380 al-​Imam al-​Shafi ’i shrine 374, 375

477

478

Index Imam, Sheikh 406, 460, 462 Imbaba 391 I’m not one of them (song) (Ana Mesh Menhom) 462 “impersonating a musician” 409 imports: days to clear customs 207; by destination 196–​7, 197; evolution 195; by product 198–​9; by sectors 199 import substitution strategies 166–​7, 195, 214 imprisonments 405 indefinite detention without trial 303–​4 independence: development model 164; and the Revolution of 1919 33; settlement of 1923 8–​11; songs celebrating 459 see also July Revolution 1952 independent cities 350 independent collectivism 448 independent (indie) artists 457 independent judiciary 267, 300 independent mainstream media 418 India 218 Indian Ocean Commission (IOC) 203 individual remittances 236 Indonesia 218 Industrial export quality index 201 industrialization 11, 166–​7 industrial unrest 1946 11 infitah bourgeoisie 86, 88 infitah businessmen 182 infitah capitalists 90 infitah (‘open door’ policy): capital from Arab Gulf states 146; civilian power base 86; economic liberalization 15, 213; financial malpractice 16; foreign direct investments (FDIs) 212, 215; and Mubarak 169; October paper 1973 186; open trade policy 195; private investment and foreign trade 460; rebuilding infrastructure 39; ‘redeveloping’ private sector 181; role of the state and market 164; Sadat’s policy 48, 186, 196; social transformation 349; state–​business relations 185–​6 see also economic liberalisation; reforms informal housing 354, 356 informal remittances 237–​8 informal settlements: on agricultural land 248; ‘ashwa’iyyat (random/​haphazard zones) 248, 249; Cairo 249; definition 348; extent of 251; governing 354–​6; governments ignoring 248; post-​Mubarak transition 249; rural–​urban migration 349; soap-​operas 408; state relationship 358–​9; typologies 356–​9, 358 see also urbanization Informal Settlements Development Facility 249, 354 Informal Settlements Development Fund 332, 354, 360, 379 infrastructural projects 21–​6

in-​kind remittances  237–​8 innovative capacity 199 Institut d’Égypte 68, 76 Institute of African Studies 72 Institute of Higher Arabic Studies 72 institutional approaches 72 institutional barriers 200 institutional reforms 265 “insulting the President” cases 429 intelligence services 108 intergovernmental aid 167 international advocacy 313 international arbitration 214 see also arbitration international broadcasting 391 International Center for Agricultural Research in the Dry Areas (ICARDA) 340 International Centre for Settlement of Investment Disputes (ICSID) Convention 212, 213, 217, 220 International Conference on Population and Development 1994 (UN) 392 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights 311 international donors 140 International Finance Corporation 216 international financial institutions (IFIs) 87, 214 international human rights organizations 319 international media outlets 430 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 87, 168–​9, 174, 190, 214, 349, 392 international processes and transnational dynamics 184 International Trade Center  203 Internet 392, 428 Internet law 418, 430 internment camps (mu’taqalat) 14 interstate relations 187 interwar period 9 inundation (agricultural seasons) 339 investment claims 220, 221–​2 Investment Law 1997 215 investment opportunities 184 investment treaties 218 investment treaty-​based arbitration cases 221–​2 investors 414 investor–​state dispute settlement (ISDS) system 217, 218 Iqraa (Islamic satellite channel) 440 Iran 148–​9, 153 Iraqi invasion of Kuwait 1990 18, 51, 169, 392 al-​Irian, Essam  125 Iron Guard 96 irregular migration 232 irrigation 338, 339 Iskander, Adel 395

478

479

Index Islamic Alliance 275 Islamic Benevolent Society of ‘Abd Allah al-​Nadim  26 Islamic channels 436, 440 Islamic Conference Organization 50 The Islamic Group (Al-​Gama’a al-​Islamiyaa) 58, 125, 407, 461 Islamic insurgency 17 Islamic law (shari’a) 126, 280, 286, 437 Islamic magazines 437 Islamic movements 39 Islamic political parties 126 Islamic Research Academy 407 Islamic societies 125 Islamisation 436 Islamism 120–​9, 437 Islamist charitable organizations 137n15 Islamist lawyers 285, 286, 292 Islamists 17, 59, 127–​8 see also Muslim Brotherhood; Salafists Islam Online (IOL) 439 Al-​Islam, Seif  286 Ismael, Ahmad 103 Al Ismaelia for Real Estate Investment 327, 332, 382 Ismail, Baheej 406 Ismailia police station confrontation 1952 12 Ismailiyya Canal 23 Ismail, Khedive 68, 69 Ismail, S. 358 Ismail, Tarik  441 Ismail,Yehia  122 Israel 13; “cold peace” 50–​1; disengagement-​of-​ troops agreements 48; Egyptian–​American relations 52, 87; Gaza Strip raid 1955 46; and Muslim Brotherhood 148; peace negotiations 48–​9; peace treaty 1979 16, 18, 48–​9, 87, 167; QIZ Protocol 201; and al Sisi 152 see also October War 1973; War of 1967 Istikhdam al-​Hayat (Using Life, Naji) 396 al-​I’tisam (magazine) 440 al-​Jabarti, ‘Abd al-​Rahman  70 Jabhat Ulama al-​Azhar (Azhar Scholars’ Front) 122 Jama’at Ansar al-​Sunna al-​Muhamadiyya, AS (Society of Supporters of Muhammad’s Tradition) 125–​6 al-​Jamaliyya  377 al-​Jam’iyya al-​Shari’iyya (JS, Society of Religious Legality) 125–​6 January 1972 riots 57–​8 January 2011 Revolution 7, 272–​80; April 6 Youth Movement 427; civil society 135–​7; community-​level engagement 136–​7; and counterrevolution 91–​2; crackdown 429; CTV 442; documenting 75–​6; economy 173–​4; ERTU 416; FDI policies 222–​3; Gulf

Cooperation Council (GCC) 189; HRNGOs 309–​10; human rights treaties 300; independent (indie) artists 457; intra-​elite tensions 182; labour migration 233; law, justice, and constitutionalism 273–​5; legalization of politics 287–​8; media 394, 416–​17, 438; movement for heritage advocacy 382; neoliberal model and BITS 215–​19; popular mobilization 270; popular songs 462; public space 136, 249; rapprochement with Iran 149; “revolution without revolutionaries” 289–​90; SCAF taking power 301; social media 428; socioeconomic changes 173; student activism 59–​60; trade policies 196; Twitter 428–​9; “We are all Khaled Said” 428; young people 136 January Revolution 2011 7 Jesuit Cultural Centre 454 al-​Jihad group 125, 126 Jihadism 155 al-​Jiritli, ‘Ali  70 job opportunities 230 job security 108 Jordan 50, 237 journalist-​editors 414, 416, 418 journalists 70; disseminating official accounts 418; imprisoned 140, 396, 416; and the Internet law 430 judges: independence of appointments, promotions and discipline 300; retirement age 280 Judges’ Club (Nadi al-​Quda) 265, 278, 288, 303 Judges for Egypt 278 judges strike 279 judicial activism 267–​8, 289 judicial chambers 305 judicialization of politics 289 judicial power 265–​6 judicial torture 297 judiciary: elections 2011–​2012 275; factions 116; guardians of the people 276; independence 115–​16; January 2011 Revolution 272, 275, 288; normative tendency 304; and politics 273 July Revolution 1952: anticolonial movement 81; authoritarianism 35; ‘Blessed Movement’ 12; history of 73; international relations 45; internment 14; land reform 166; media regulation 437; Military Intelligence 101; republican government 7; restructuring of the state and society 108; revolt against the British and the king 299; young officers’ revolt 99 see also Free Officers jurisprudence 303–​6 Kadasa, Nasser 440 El-​Kady,  H.  220 Al-​Kahera Wal-​Nas (television channel)  395 Kamal, Abdel Fattah 452 Kamal,Y. 204, 205

479

480

Index Kamel, Abbas 110 Kamel, Mohamed Ibrahim 311 Kamel, Saleh 440 Kamil, Mustafa 27, 33 “Kamshish affair” 247 Kan Lak Maaya (We had, Cairokee) 464 Karam, F. 196 Al-​Karnak (Mahfouz) 406 Kassab, Elizabeth 407 Kassem, Hisham 415–​16 Kazeboon (Liars) movement 429, 450 El-​Keraza (Internet magazine) 441 Kerry, John 152 Khalid, Khalid Muhammad 34, 35 al-​Khalifa (Historic Cairo) 374, 379, 382 Khalil, A. 361 Khamis, S. 426 khedives 8, 95 Kheir El Din, H. 202 al-​khorooj min al-​wadi mantra (exiting the valley) 349 al-​Khuli, Lutfi  37 al-​Khusht, Mohamed  123 Kienle, Eberhard 437 Kifaya movement 18, 63, 135, 267, 426, 461 Kirkpatrick, David 151, 272 Kishk, Sayed 407 Kullena Khaled Said Facebook page (“We are all Khaled Said”) 427, 428, 431 Kumpf, S.N. 222 Kuwait: Iraqi invasion 1990 18, 51, 169, 392; patron of SCAF 189; workers’ remittances 237 Kuwaiti Arab Fund for Economic and Social Development 381 Labour Conciliation Board 10 labour emigration 240–​1 labour force 187, 229–​30, 229 labour lawyers 286 labour migration: destinations 232–​3, 234; remittances 167–​8, 234–​40; volume and distribution 233; work permits 233, 234, 235 labour strikes 18, 135, 267–​8, 426–​7 Lake Nasser 343, 344 land: claims and court system 252–​3; conflicts from Law 196 of 1992 247; ownership and control 98, 246; prices 248; right of possession 252–​3; wealth and power 245 Land Centre for Human Rights (LCHR) 253, 266 “Land Day” protests 289 landed elite 246 land expropriations 245 land-​holding inequality  247 landlessness 98, 246 land reclamation projects 360 land reforms 166, 247, 266

land rights 252 law: contradictory laws 379–​80; and practice 396–​7; and statecraft 265–​6; and state repression 263 Law 14 of 1912 protecting antiquities 376 Law 18 of 1918 protecting antiquities 376 Law 272 of 1952 Ministry for National Guidance 404 Law 344 of 1952 Court of Treason 299 Law 179 of 1953 dissolving political parties 82 Law 165 of 1955 reorganisation of the State Council 299 Law 430 of 1955 censorship on films, plays, songs and audio recordings 404 Law 162 of 1958 Emergency Law 303, 304, 396 Law 43 of 1974 investment law 38, 167, 213 Law 35 of 1976 governing trade union elections 266, 267 Law 35 of 1978 Federation of Artistic Unions (FAU) 406 Law 43 of 1979 on local administration 116 Law 59 of 1979 New Communities Law 366 Law 102 of 1983 Nature Protectorates 328 Law 111 of 1983 Emigration and Sponsoring Egyptians Abroad Law 231 Law 117 of 1983 Antiquities Law 376 Law 230 of 1989 ‘unified investment law’ 213 Law 203 of 1991 state owned enterprises (SOEs) 169 Law 96 of 1992 agricultural land 247, 266, 349 Law 97 of 1992 preventive detention 265 Law 196 of 1992 dispossession of peasant cultivators 247, 253 Law 8 of 1997 Investment Law 215 Law 84 of 2002 nongovernmental organizations 138n18 Law 144 of 2006 listing and monitoring historic buildings 378 Law 119 of 2008 “Universal Building Law” 354, 378 Law 4 of 2012 embezzlement 222 Law 17 of 2012 NDP barring from office 277 Law 79 of 2012 protecting the Constituent Assembly 281 Law 32 of 2014 challenging government contracts 222 Law 13 of 2017 “Chief Judicial Appointments Law” 116 Law 91 of 2018 Antiquities Law 376 Law 179 of 2018 private newspapers registration fees 418 Law 180 of 2018 Organization of Press, Media and the Supreme Council for Media Regulation 418, 430 law enforcement 305 law of alignment 1889 375

480

481

Index law of association 317 law of wada’ yad (adverse possession) 356 Law School 285 lawyers 284–​5, 293 Lawyers’ Syndicate (Niqabat al-​Muhamin) 265, 266, 267, 284–​5, 293 leadership-​oriented foreign policy 46 Lebanon 153–​4 legalization of politics 287–​8 legal mobilization 266 legal rationality 299 Legal Research and Resource Center 265 legitimacy of state leaders 122 Leroux, P. 413 A Letter to the UN Security Council (Ramy) 462 LeVine, M. 462 Levitt, P. 241 Liberal Constitutionalist Party 33 liberalism 33–​4 liberalization 38, 213–​14; Ahmed Nazif government 172; and corruption 216; and defeat in 1967 war 181; as a ‘grand delusion’ 437; inward FDI 214; Military Inc 91; October paper (1974) 167; ‘Open Door’ policy 213; second wave 2004 196 see also deregulation liberalization without liberals 168 “liberal legality” 300 liberal period 9 liberal political reform 39 Liberal Socialist Organization 86 Liberation Province 360 Liberation Rally (LR) 13, 36, 82, 83, 84 Libya 147, 154–​5, 238 Libyan National Army 154–​5 liquefied natural gas 328 listing buildings of historic value 378–​9 litigation: and emergency laws 291; and political mobilization 285 livelihood diversification 227 Liwa’ al-​Islam journal 438 al-​Liwa (newspaper) 27 local business elites 412 Local Popular Councils (LPCs) 116 ‘Long Live Degenerate Art’ manifesto 448 looting archaeological sites and museums 328 Lord Cromer’s alignment law of 1889 375 Lotfy, Hala 453 Lotfy, Khaled 403 Lotfy, Mark 453–​4 Lotfy, Omar 448 lower-​income groups 39, 350, 353 lower-​income housing  350 loyalty 102 “loyalty allowances” 90 Lutz, C. 403 Luxor 380–​1 “luxury Ikhwan” 124–​5

Mada Masr (news analysis website) 133n1, 140, 398, 417, 430 Madi, Abu al-​Ela  124 Madinat Nasr for Housing and Development 352 Madinaty (gated community) 251, 352 Madrasat al-​Alsun (School of Languages) 68 Mafia (song) 464 The Magician (film) 454 Magued, Reem 136n13 Mahakim al-​Sha’b (People’s Courts) 265, 299 Mahalla al-​Kubra 18, 135, 267, 426–​7 El-​Mahdi,  R.  303 al-​Mahdi, ‘Uthman  99 Mahfouz, Naguib 406, 407, 454, 461 Mahir, Ahmad 11 Mahir, ‘Ali 34, 35 Mahkamat al-​Thawra (Court of the Revolution) 265, 299 Mahmoud, Abdel Meguid 279 Mahmud, Abd al-​Ḥalim 121 Mahmudiyya Canal 23 Mahmud, Sidqi 104 Mahraganat music 409, 457, 462, 463, 465 mainstream media 2000s 394–​5 maintaining countries 205 Al-​Majd (Islamic channel) 440 Majmaa al-​Bohouth al-​Islamiyya (Center for Islamic Research) 121 Makram, Nabila 396 al-​Maks, Alexandria  381 Malawi Museum (Minya) 328 Malik, A. 205 malware attacks 397 Manal and Alaa’s Bit Bucket (blog) 425 Al-​Manar (Islamic magazine) 437 Mandur, Muhammad 34 Manshiet Nasser, Cairo 249, 326 Mansour, Abdel Rahman 427 Mansour, Adly 64, 115 Mansour, Sherif 394 manufacturing 170, 199, 202 al-​Maraghi, Ahmed Mortada 99, 101 March crisis 1954 35, 83 Marei, Sayyid 86 market-​making 169, 170, 171 martial law 14, 298 Marwan, Ashraf 403 Marxist frameworks 71 Marx, Karl 184 Mashrabiyya Institute 381 Mashur, Mustafa 124 Masoud, Tarek  277 Maspero (Bulaq Abu Al-​Ila, Cairo) 327 Maspero Triangle neighbourhood  360 Al-​Masry Al-​Youm 133n1, 135, 395, 415–​16, 417 “Massacre of the Judges” (1969) 265, 273, 289 mass protests (1919) 10

481

482

Index Mazzika (streaming service) 458, 461, 464 McCormick, B. 240 media 412–​21; “big” and “small” 391–​2; crackdown 2019 140; draft law to regulate 435; as “early adopter” 391; investors 414; and local business elites 412; opposition/​dissident media 135; political and economic context 392–​3; political repression 394; power relations 392, 414; regulation 437; and al Sisi 395, 417–​20 media configurations 421 “media free zones” 393 Media Production City 393, 415 Medical School (Qasr al-​‘Aini) 26 Medinat Nasr 248 Mediterranean: cultures 13; gas exploration 155 Megawra-​Built Environment Collective 382 Mehrez, Samia 408 Mekki, Ahmed 275, 278, 279 Mekki, Mahmoud 275, 278 al-​Meligi, al-​Sayyed Abdel-​Sattar  124 Melody (music channel) 461 members of parliament (MPs) 115 Memphis 377 Menassa (media organization) 140 MERCOSUR (Mercado Comun del Sur) 201, 203 Meridor, Dan 148 Metwally,Yasmina  451 Mhanna, Rashad 102 Mice Room 455 Microphone (film) 447, 454 “middle classes” (“second stratum”) 246, 247 Middle East and North Africa (MENA) 164 Middle Housing project 353 Middle-​Income Housing (Dar Masr) 353 middle peasantry 246 Mideast Tunes (streaming service) 458 migration 227, 231–​2, 240–​424, 241 see also remittances militarism 402–​3 militarized special security corps (Quwwat Amn Khassa) 101 military see Egyptian Armed Forces (EAF) military coup 2013: domestic policy 140; HRNGOs rejecting 318–​19; Muslim Brotherhood 125, 139; pretrial detention system 304; Salafists 126; security and democracy 139; state of emergency 296; terrorist attacks 302 military courts 298, 299 military dictatorship 309 military economy 90 Military Inc. 87–​8, 91 Military Intelligence 101 Military Intelligence Department (MID) 84, 105 Military Judiciary 92 military-​led ministries  111–​14

military rule 81–​93; coup 2013 140; local level 116–​17; Mubarak 88–​91; Nasser 82–​4; Sadat 84–​8; tribunals 91–​2 military symposia 403 Minbar al-​Islam magazine 437 Minister of Culture 402 Minister of Defense 112 Minister of State for Emigration Affairs and Egyptians Abroad 232 Ministry for National Guidance 404 Ministry of Agriculture 111 Ministry of Agriculture and Land Reclamation (MALR) 331, 340 Ministry of Antiquities 382 Ministry of Communications and Information 392 Ministry of Culture 75, 407 Ministry of Defense (MOD) 88, 90, 111–​12, 403 Ministry of Education 112 Ministry of Electricity and Renewable Energies 112 Ministry of Environment 326 Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) 112 Ministry of Health 112 Ministry of Housing, Utilities, and Urban Communities (MHUUC) 327, 332, 350, 352 Ministry of Housing, Utilities, and Urban Development (MHUUD) 331, 340–​1 Ministry of Information 429 Ministry of Interior (MoI) 88, 90, 112, 311, 312 Ministry of International Cooperation 112 Ministry of Investment 112 Ministry of Justice 409 Ministry of Local Development (MoLD) 116–​17 Ministry of Manpower 232 Ministry of Manpower and Employment 232 Ministry of Military Production (MoMP) 111 Ministry of National Guidance and Culture 405 Ministry of Planning, Monitoring and Administrative Reform 114 Ministry of Religious Endowments (Awqaf) 112, 120, 376 Ministry of State for Environmental Affairs (MSEA) 343 Ministry of State for Migration and Egyptians Abroad 232 Ministry of Supply and Internal Trade 112 Ministry of Telecommunication and Information Technology 112 Ministry of Tourism 112, 379 Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities 332 Ministry of Trade and Industry 112 Ministry of Transport 112, 327 Ministry of Water Resources and Irrigation (MWRI) 331, 335, 337–​8, 340, 341 al-​Mirazi, Hafez  393–​4 misogynistic norms 403

482

483

Index Misr25 (MB satellite channel) 439 Misr Insurance Holdings 382 Misr International University 62 Misr newspaper 441 Misrphon (record label) 460 Misr Real Estate Assets Management (MREA) 333, 382 Misr Tatahadath ‘an Nafsaha song (Egypt Speaks for Herself) 459 Misr University for Science and Technology 28 ‘missing middle’ rubric 183 Mixed Courts 11, 265 Mnuchin, Steven 156 Moallem, Ibrahim 415, 417 modern historians 69–​70 modernization 165 Moghra aquifer 336, 337 Mohy, Ahmed 263 Molle, F. 338 monarchists 404 monorail 327 Montreux Conference 11 monuments: conservation 377; developing infrastructure 405; touristic appeal 328; vandalism 328 see also cultural heritage Moore, Jason 26 Moral Affairs Administration (MOD) 403 moral economy 166 Morin, Edgar 413 Morocco 209, 315 Morsi, Mohamed: Constitutional Declarations 2012 278–​9, 280; co-​opting young liberal 64; coup 2013 137, 249, 281; death 420; firing the Public Prosecutor 279; foreign policy 148–​50; freedom of expression 429; and Gulf States 149; international dimensions of overthrow 151; and the judiciary 278, 280; and the media 395, 417, 429, 438; permanent constitution 278–​80; as president 91–​2; presidential elections 276; Ramadan Declaration 278–​7; reducing army’s control 108–​9; student activism 59; visiting Iran 148 Mortada, Leil-​Zahra  451 Mosireen collective 429, 447, 449–​52 mosques and shrines 374 most favored nation (MFN) tariffs 202 Mourad, Hilmi 37–​8 Moustafa, Talaat  25 Moustafa, Tamir 273, 300 Movement for Change see Kifaya movement Mubarak, ‘Ali 68 Mubarak, Gamal 63, 90–​1, 172, 181, 188 Mubarak, Hisham 265, 286 Mubarak, Husni 16–​18; arbitrariness 301; consolidating power 16–​17; defense-​related ministries 112; dual state 300; faux secularism 407–​8; foreign policy 50–​2; and free markets

168; human rights violations 300; imports and exports 195; informal neighbourhoods 248; Islamism 122; land conflicts 247; legacy of corruption 221; and the media 414–​16, 437; and the military 81, 88–​91; overthrow 136, 270, 272, 394, 412; political reformer 265; protests against 29; quiet diplomacy 52; relations with USA 51; SCC appointment process 267; state-​ economy relations 169–​70; student activism 58–​9; trade policies 196; water infrastructure 24; youth contention 63 Muhammad ‘Ali Pasha 7, 22–​3, 75, 246, 374, 375 Muhieddin, Khaled 86, 96, 102 Muhieddin, Zakariyya 82, 104 Mühlberger, Wolfgang  155 mukhabarat (intelligence) state 406 Mukhtar, Mahmud 9 Al-​Mukhtar (MB journal) 438 multi-​candidate elections 2005 18 multi-​ethnic population  13 municipal waste management systems 326 al-​Muntakhabat legal code 265 Murad, Mustafa Kamel 86 Musa, Salama 33, 36, 71 Museum of Islamic Art 375 museums 328 see also cultural heritage music 457–​65; commercial era 460–​1; digital media 458, 463–​5; funding 458–​9; opposition post-​2011 461–​2; and politics 458, 458–​9 music syndicates 406, 460 Muslim Brotherhood (MB) 120, 123–​5; and Al-​Jazeera 394; Baha’ism 128; ban on university political activities 59; blogging 438–​9; collaboration with political parties 124; counteracting Nasserism 407; as a counterweight to socialist ideologies 461; danger to national security 305; detainees 15; digital media 438–​9; EOHR elections 313–​14; foreign policy 147–​50; foundation of 10, 34; future as a movement 129; independence of student movement 58–​9; and Israel 148; and the judiciary 115–​16; legacy of Sayyid Qutb 39; Libya 154; media 438–​9; military coup 2013 125; Morsi government 92; and Mubarak 124; and Nasser 83; parliamentary elections 2011–​2012 275, 276, 440; and the People’s Court 299; political violence 1945–49 11–​12; presidential candidates 276; and Qatar 153; Raba’a and Nahda Square protests 137; Rab’a Massacre 2013 302, 305; satellite channel (Misr25) 439; and Saudi Arabia 149; suppression 1954 13, 14, 38, 438; suppression 2013 125; and Tunisia 150; Twitter account 439; and UAE 149; unofficial opposition 17 see also Islamists Muslim communities 9 Mustafa, Ahmad Abd al-​Rahim 75 Mustaqbal city 352

483

484

Index Nabil, Sameh 454 “nadwas” (seminars), 136 El-​Nagga, Khalid Abu  454 Naguib, Mohammad 12–​13, 82–​3, 96, 97, 98, 102, 108 Al-​Nahar (television channel) 417 Nahda Square 92 Nahdat Misr statue (‘Awakening of Egypt’) 9 al-​Nahhas (Pasha), Mustafa 12, 97 Naji, Ahmad 396 Nakun aw la Nakun (To be or not to be, Fouda) 407 Nashid el-​Galaa (The Anthem) 459 Al-​Nas (Islamic channel) 440–​1 Nasri, Assala 464 Nasr, Mahmud 91 Nasr, Salah 83 Nasser City 327 Nasser, Gamal Abdel 12; 1952 coup 82, 299; and Abdel Hakim Amer 83–​4; annulling constitution 265; Arab socialism 166; “benevolent dictatorship” 310; Bismarckian figure 102–​3; commentary type of journalism 413; control over al-​Azhar 121; coup-​ proofing 102–​5; cultural infrastructure 405; death 15; declaration of resignation 1967 61; depoliticizing the military 84; the EAF and defeat in Palestine 100; foreign policy 44–​8; graduate job guarantee 28, 108; ideological campaigns 103; imports and exports 195; institutional approaches 72; land development companies 247; leader of the Arab world 103; “Massacre of the Judges” 1969 273, 289; media regulation 437; and the military 81; as Minister of Interior 82; and Mohammad Naguib 82–​3; moral economy 166; Muslim Brotherhood 13, 123; patronage system 103–​4; Philosophy of the Revolution 72; “populist authoritarianism” 166; promoting material interests 103–​4; security sector 104–​5; seizing power 13; sequestered assets 166; singers and songs 459–​60; social freedom 35–​8; state authority and academic history 74–​5; state culture 405–​6; state-​led development model 164; student activism 56–​7; Suez Crisis 1956 13; unifying Egypt and Syria 147 Nasserism: and Muslim Brotherhood 407; private enterprise 24 Nasserist state: coercive state 14–​15; protectionist regime 195–​6; relative autonomy 186 Nasserites 58 Nasser ya Horriyah 405–​6 National Action Charter 1962 37, 38, 40, 72, 73, 405 National Archive (Dar al-​Watha’iq) 75–​6 National Authority for Audiovisual and Digital Media 418

National Center for Planning State Land Uses (NCPSLU) 332, 367 National Company for Fishery and Aquaculture 111 national conversation 393 National Council for Human Rights 315 National Courts 265 National Democratic Party (NDP): ‘businessmen cabinet’ 182; constitutionality of legislation 267; controlling universities 58–​9; dissolved 2011 114, 274; Egyptian Socialist Party 86–​7; elections 1976 15; electoral fraud 416; and Mubarak 16, 90; as “world’s top reformer” 392 National Front of All Students of the Nile Valley 56 National Guard (NG) 104 national identity 436–​8 nationalisations 300, 405 nationalism 8, 71, 165 National Library (Dar al-​Kutub) 68 National Media Authority 418, 418 national mega-​projects  92 National Organisation for Urban Harmony (NOUH) 378–​9 National Press Authority 417–​18, 418 National Progressive Union Party 86 National Project for Reclamation and Cultivation 360 national road project 2014 327 National Security Agency 108 National Security Department (NSD) 302 National Service Projects Organization (NSPO) 88, 89, 111, 171 National Union (NU) 13, 36, 84 national version of Islam 437 national water budget 336 National Water Resource Plan 2017 (NWRP 2017) 341–​3, 342, 345 National Water Resource Plan 2037 (NWRP 2037) 341–​3, 342, 345 Nation’s Future Party 114–​15 natural and built conditions 326 natural gas 327–​8 El-​Nawawy,  M.  426 Nazif, Ahmed 170, 172, 182 Nazra 139 Negm, Ahmed Fouad 406, 460 neoliberal model 215–​19, 301 ‘neo-​liberal officers’  90 neoliberal-​oriented technocrats  172 neoliberal policies 301 neoliberal reforms 90, 180–​3, 185–​6 neo-​Wafd Liberal party 414 Netanyahu, Benjamin 152 New Administrative Capital (NAC) 110–​11, 250, 251, 327, 350, 352 New Alamein 327

484

485

Index New and Renewable Energy Authority (NREA) 328 New Cairo 250, 350, 351, 359, 369 “new cinema” movement 405 New Cinema Society 448–​9, 452 new cities 365–​8; development challenges 370–​1; flagship investments and signature brands 367; governing 352–​3; implementing successfully 367; location 359; new desert cities 331, 350–​3, 351; overlapping governance 332; policies 352; population 331, 353, 355; public transportation networks 353; spatial development 366–​7; working classes 366 see also urban development New Communities Law (59 of 1979) 366 new desert cities 250, 353–​4 New Egypt (Al-​Nas)  440 New Gourna 380–​1 new international division of labour 187 New Ismailia city 327 New Mansoura 327 new media 391, 415, 416, 436, 441 new movement for heritage advocacy 382 new private sector 186 newspaper start-​ups  416 news websites 418 New Urban Communities Authority (NUCA) 245, 332, 350, 352–​3, 366–​8, 368 “New Valley Project” 337, 360 New Wafd Party  114 New York Times 151 NGO Trial 133, 138 Nile aquifer 336–​7 Nile Barrage 23 Nile Basin Initiative (NBI) 344 Nile Delta 326, 343–​4 Nile River: agroecological zones 326; allocation of waters 336; annual flood 335, 336; climate change 344; control of water 22, 23; flood waters 339; hydropower dams 344; resource management 335; water allocation 345 see also Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD) Nile River Basin Cooperative Framework (CFA) 344 Nilesat 391, 415, 437–​8 Nile Water Agreement 1959  150 1919 Revolution: against British occupation 7, 165; mass mobilization 33; for national independence 8, 284; popular songs 458; student activism 56; women activists 10 1952 coup see July Revolution 1952 1967 War see War of 1967 1968 uprising 310 Nogoum FM radio 463, 464 Non-​aligned Movement 13, 46, 148, 187 nonconventional water resources 338 non-​discrimination clauses  213

non-​governmental heritage management 381–​3 see also cultural heritage; monuments Nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) 133, 137, 138, 265 ‘non-​movements’  455 ‘non-​petroleum FDI’ inflows 215 nonrenewable groundwater 337 nontariff measures (NTMs) 202–​6, 206 nontraditional exports 198 “normative state” 297, 299, 303 North Coastal zone 326 Northern Cemetery (Old Cairo) 327 Northwestern University in Qatar (NU-​Q) 458 al-​Nour Party 126–​8 November 1968 demonstrations 57 Nubian Sandstone Complex 337 al-​Nuqrashi, Mahmud Fahmi 12 Obama, Barack Hussein 151–​2 October paper 1974 167, 186, 349 October War 1973 15, 38, 48, 86, 87, 167 “the officers’ republic” (Sayigh) 90, 171 official records 75 oil and gas sector 215, 216 oil-​based rents  169 oil boom (1970s) 50 oil exports 198, 198 oil shock 1973 167 Oka and Ortega 462–​3, 464 Okasha, Tawfik  395–​6 Okasha, Tharwat  405 “Old Cairo” 375 Old Gourna 380–​1 Omara, Marwan 451 103 Commando Battalion 403 online freedom of expression 430 online platforms 465 online protest movements 427–​8 ONTV 415, 417 ‘open door’ policy (infitah) see infitah (‘open door’ policy) Operation Desert Storm 1991 18 “opposition” media 135 Orascom empire 415 Orbit (pay-​TV network) 393 ordinary judicial chambers 304–​6 Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) 232, 240 Oslo Process (1993) 18 Osman, Osman Ahmad 86 Al Ostoura (The Legend) 464 Ottoman cultures 13 Ottoman Empire 7 OTV (satellite channel) 415 Oum ya Masry (Rise up, Egyptian) 458 Out in the Streets (documentary) 451 overcrowded cities 349

485

486

Index overlapping governance and jurisdictions 331–​2, 379–​80 overlapping urban development mandates 367 overpopulation problem 232, 365 ownership concentration 413 Palestine war 1948–​1949 11, 45, 96, 97, 100 Palestinian Authority 152 Palestinian Film Unit 452 Palestinian Liberation Organization 152 Palestinians 13 Palm Hills 251 pan-​Arab broadcasting  393 pan-​Arabism  459 paradigm shifts 446 Paris Club 168, 186, 214 parliament 114–​15 parliamentary elections 109; 1976 15; 2011–​2012 136–​7, 275; manipulation under Mubarak 16–​17 party networks 115 patronage 86, 103, 216 Pauty, Edmond 375 peasant migration 251 peasants 246–​7 The Pedagogy of Revolt (de Smet) 455 Penal Code 302 The people demand LE 5 phone credit (song) 463 People’s Assembly 270, 275 People’s Courts (Mahakim al-​Sha’b) 265, 299 people’s journalism 449 people-​smuggling  394–​5 performative documentaries 451 permanent migration 240 personality-​led movements  134 Pharaonic legacy heritage 9, 328–​9 see also cultural heritage The Philosophy of the Revolution (Nasser) 36, 45, 72 “pockets of reservations” 304 Poell, T. 427, 428 poets and poetry 406 polarisation 450 police 101–​2, 112, 403 political blogs 425 political economy 163, 185, 190 political economy of law and exception 299–​300 political economy of reforms 182, 183–​5 political elite 263 political favouritism 104 “political freedom” (hurriyya siyasiyya) 16, 37 political influence with criminal complaints 292 political Islam 52, 120, 155 political liberalisation 15 political litigation 287 politically connected businesses 171

political parties: bans 114–​15; dissolving 1953 82; post-​independence 246; Sadat creating 86; Salafists 126; student activism 60–​1; Sufi 128 political pluralism 301, 413 political prisoners 14, 15 political purge (1959—​1966) 405 political survival 404 politics: as “autonomous” 290–​91; and popular music 457–​65; and regulatory architecture 404; and religion 439 pollution 328 Pompeo, Mike 156 poor, stigmatizing 352 poor neighbourhoods 408 popular culture and statecraft 405–​6 popular re-​appropriation of public spaces 249 popular songs 457–​8, 462–​3 population: distribution 250, 325, 348; growth 228, 228, 325, 331; informal settlements 354; new cities 353, 355; overpopulation 365; ‘youth bulge’ 458 Port Said 26 post-​1952 regime  404 post-​colonialism  404 post-​independence constitutional monarchy 246 post-​Nubian aquifer  337 poverty: and education 29; rates of 173; and remittances 239–​40; and social marginalization 173 “poverty, disease and ignorance” (faqr, marad, jahl) 32, 34 “power in numbers” and social media 428 Prayer of Fear (video) 450 Precis de l’histoire d’Egypte (Divers Historiens, 1932–​1933)  69 pre-​digital platforms  460–​3 “prerogative state” 297, 300–​301, 303–​4 Presidential Decree 32 of 1979, National Service Products Organization (NSPO) 88 Presidential Decree 306 of 2008, Informal Settlement Development Facility (ISDF) 354–​6 Presidential Decree 136 of 2014, military jurisdiction over civilians 92 presidential elections 109, 276 Presidential Information Bureau (PIB 103, 105 presidential paternalism 39 presidents 110–​11; glorification 403; and the military 81 press laws 10, 14 pretrial detention system 304 preventive detention 265 primary schools 27 primary sector 202 prime ministers 110 print media 415, 420 prison literature 406

486

487

Index private institutions 27 private lawyers 285–​6 privately held farmland 248 privately owned enterprises 170 private media 393, 412–​13, 436 private media investors 419 private newspapers registration fees 418 private schools 26–​7 private sector: agriculture and small enterprises 167; crony capitalism 183; expansion 1990s 170; and heritage domain 332–​3; market-​making from below 170; retail and wholesale trade 170; state rent 172; transnationalization 172 private universities 27–​9, 60, 68 private water carriers 23 privatizations: allocation of desert land 181; and corruption 216; FDI inflows 216; SOEs 169–​70, 171 pro bono legal aid 286 productive infitah 169 professional syndicates 448 prohibitions 404, 406, 408 property rights 252–​3 pro-​SCAF parties  276 Prosecutor v. Alaa Abdel Fattah 2013 305 Prosecutor v. Alaa Abdel Fattah 2014 305 Prosecutor v. Mohamed Badi’ 2014 305 protection of rights and reputations 396 protest movements 134 protests: repression on the streets 291; September 2019 253 public administration 108 Publications Law 1881 10 public interest litigation 286 public mobilisation 302–​3 public–​private collaboration  333 Public Prosecutors 279, 280 public schools 353 public sector 170, 349 public transportation networks 353 public universities 59, 61 publisher-​journalists  420 al-​Qahira  381 Al-​Qahira al-​Yaum (Cairo Today)  393 al-​Qaradawi,Yusuf 394, 439 Qasr al-​‘Aini (Medical School) 26 Qatar: foreign policy 394; Islamist parties 149; Islam Online (IOL) 439; January 2011 protests 189; Morsi’s overthrow 151; pan-​Arab broadcasting 393; regional ambitions 153; Saudi Arabia and UAE hostility 149, 153 see also Al-​Jazeera Qualifying Industrial Zones (QIZ) Protocol 201 Al-​Qurna village  329 Qutb, Sayyid 35, 38, 39

Quwwat Amn Khassa (militarized special security corps) 101 Raba’a Square massacre 92, 137, 139, 151–​2, 302, 303, 305, 450 Rabaa TV  439 radical activism 452 radical Arab nationalism 13 radical Islamist forces 17 radio broadcasting 391, 459, 463–​5 Radwan, Fathi 73 al-​Rafi‘i, ‘Abd al-​Rahman  71 Al-​Rahma (Islamic channel) 440–​1 rail networks 25–​6 rainfall 337–​8, 344 Ramadan Declaration 2012 278–​9 Ramadan, Mohamed 464 Ramadan, Said 123 Ramadan soap-​operas  408 Rashad, Ibrahim 448 Rashid, Zayna Ismat 74 Rateb, Hassan 415 al-​Raziq, Gasser ‘Abd  266 real estate 91, 251, 349 rebellious subaltern communities 249 recruitment 108 recycled water 338 redistribution and reform 216–​17 red tape barriers 207 “reformist” approaches 62–​3 reforms: fiscal crisis 1987 181; narrowing ‘policy space’ 186; political system 12–​13, 52; redistributive capabilities 186–​7 see also infitah (‘open door’ policy) Regency Council 12–​13 Regeni, Giulio 140 regime-​critical lawyers  116 regional proxy wars 154–​5 registered monuments 375 regulatory chill effect 218, 221–​2, 223 Al-​Rehab (New Cairo) 332, 368–​72 Reid, Donald M. 28, 375 religion: nation-​building project 437; and politics 436, 441; prohibitions 406 Religious Affairs Committee 435 religious broadcasting 436 religious channels 439 religious endowments (waqf) 377 religious establishment 407 religious media 435–​43 religious minorities 127–​8 religious scholars 70 religious tourism 379 remittances 174, 227–​42, 232; by country of emigration 238; financial sector development 238–​9; foreign-​currency earnings 167–​8; GDP 238, 239; land prices

487

488

Index 248; levels and trends 234–​6, 236; macrolevel impact 238–​9; origins 236–​7; per capita 236, 237; poverty alleviation 239–​40; savings and investments 240 see also migration renewable energy production 328 renewable groundwater 336–​7 rents 147, 168–​9, 247 rent seeking 146 Reporters Sans Frontières (RSF) 396, 412 repression 138–​40, 174, 291, 299 Republican Guard (RG) 104 “republic without people” (jumhuriyya bila jumhur) 46 reputations 395, 396 Al-​Resaleh (Islamic channel) 440 ‘resistance media’ 436 resourceful resistance 397–​8 retail and wholesale trade 170 retroactive laws 300 returning migrants 240 reused water 338 Revolutionary Command Council (RCC) 12, 82, 102, 404 “revolution from above” (Nasser) 83, 86 Revolution’s Documentation Committee 75–​6 ‘Revolution Triptych’ (Mosireen)  451 rewriting Egyptian history 73 Rida, Mohammed Rashid 437 Rif ’at, Muhammad 70 ‘Rights and Duties of Egyptians’ (constitution 1923) 9 riots 1986 169 Rise up, Egyptian (Oum ya Masry) 458 rising sea levels 343–​4 Risley, D. 304 Riutort, P. 413 Rizk, Philip 450, 451 Rizq,Yunan Labib  74 Rock-​Singer,  A.  407 romantic songs 464 Rotana (music channel) 461, 464 royal family 98 Royal Geographical Society 68 royalist school 69 rule of experts 36 rule of law 301, 396 rural elite 246 “ruralisation” 246, 251 rural notables 246 “rural proletariat” 246 rural unrest 247 rural–​urban migration 246, 251, 348–​9 Russia 152 Saad, Ali 440 Sabri, Ali 84–​5, 104 Sabri, Muhammad 70

Sabry, Samir 292 Sadat, Anwar 15–​16, 134n6, 139; artists, poets and thinkers 406; assassination 16, 50, 88, 461; Believing President (Al-​Ra’is al-​ Mu’min) 437; “Corrective Revolution” 1971 38–​9, 85; dual state 300; “electric-​shock diplomacy” 48; “exiting the valley” policy 331; foreign policy 48–​50; and free markets 168; imports and exports 195; institutional reforms 265; Islamic institutions 121; and Islamists 437; and the military 81, 84–​8; military appointees 86; October paper 1974 167, 186, 349; October War 87; patronage networks 86; peace with Israel 16, 48–​9, 167; regime preservation 88; restoring the judiciary 265; Salafist groups 125; severing ties with Soviet Union 147, 167, 437; social contract 39; student activism 57–​8; Supreme Constitutional Court (SCC) 273; water infrastructure 24 see also infitah (‘open door’ policy) Sadat City 249, 359, 367 Sadat Media Production 463 Sadiq, Fu’ad 98 Saeed, Mohamed al-​Sayid 312 Said, Khaled 18, 135, 427 Said Pasha, Wali of Egypt 25 al-​Sa‘id, Rif‘at  71 El-​Said, Tamir 447, 450 Al-​Sakakini Palace  328 Sakan Masr Project 353 Salafi media 439–​41 Salafists 125–​8 see also Islamists Salafyo Costa 127 Salah El-​Din, Mohamed 44 Salam Canal Project 338 Salem, Mamduh 86 Salem, Salah 100, 404 sales tax 91 Sammarco, Angelo 69 Sanhuri, ‘Abd al-​Razzaq  35 sanitary and phytosanitary (SPS) measures 204–​5, 206, 207 SAT7 (satellite channel) 441–​2 Satanism 408 satellite channels 391, 393, 436, 437–​8, 440 satellite cities 349, 350, 353, 369 satellites 391 Saudi Arabia: blockade of Qatar 153, 394; forcing Saad Hariri to resign 153–​4; and Morsi’s overthrow 149, 151; pan-​Arab broadcasting 393; SPS measures 205; state assistance 189; Tiran and Sanafir islands 116, 156–​7, 288–​9; and Wahhabism 241; war against Houthis 153; workers’ remittances 236–​7 Saudi-​Emirati axis  153 Saut el-​Gamahir (Voice of the Masses) 459 Sawiris business conglomerate 188

488

489

Index Sawiris, Naguib 136n13, 415, 417, 419, 461 Sawiris, Onsi 415 Sawt al-​Umma (newspaper) 416 Al Sawy Cultural Wheel 462 El-​Sayed, Nadine  397 Sayigh,Yezid 87–​8, 89–​90, 92, 111–​12, 113, 117, 171 Sayyid Al-​Qemany’s Merit Award 408 al-​Sayyida Nafisa shrine 373–​4 Sayyida Zeinab Development Project 381 Schauer, F. 403 School of Languages (Madrasat al-​Alsun) 68 seawater 338 second-​generation new cities 251, 332, 359, 366 “second stratum” (“middle classes”) 246, 247 ‘second-​wave’ businessmen  183 second wave of investment liberalisation (1990–​2000)  214–​15 Second World War  11, 14 secret police 101 sectarianism 9 secular parties 275 securitization 402 securitization of politics 114 security agencies 14, 104–​5, 140, 317 security and democracy binary 139 security crackdowns 315 “security vacuum” 302 Segerberg, A. 428 Segn bel-​Alwan (Coloured Prison) 462 Seif al-​Islam, Ahmed  265 self-​government  1922  8 Semat (film collective) 452–​3 semifinished goods 198 semi-​skilled labour force 187 September 20, 2019 protests 110, 291 sequestering foreign-​owned assets 165–​6 settlement (1923) 9 sewerage systems 22–​5, 365 sex 406 Sha’arawi, Sheikh Muhammad 437 sha’bi (popular) settlement 244 sha’bi urbanism 248 Shadows on the Other Side (film) 449 al-​Shafi‘i, Shuhdi ‘Atiyya  71 Shafik,Viola  397 Shafiq, Ahmed 136n13, 276–​7 Shalaby, Wael  114 shallow trade agreements 200–​2 Sharaf, Sami 85, 103, 105 shari’a (Islamic law) 126, 280, 286, 437 al-​Shater, Khairat 125, 276 Shawkan (Mahmoud Abou Zeid) 397–​8 Shawkat, Y.  360 Shaykh Sha‘arawi 17 Shaykh Sultan of Dubai 74

Sheikh Zayed City (Giza) 251 Shiites 127, 128, 148–​9 Shiri, Ismael 99 Shorouk 353 Al-​Shorouk (newspaper) 416, 417 Shoukry, Sameh 112, 154 Shouman, Abbas 122 Shukrallah, Hani 314 Shukri, Ibrahim 16 Shumayyil, Shibli 71 Shura Council 275, 276, 279, 281 Siag v. Egypt 217 Sidqi, ‘Aziz 36 Sidqi, Ismail 10, 11–​12, 34–​6, 40 Sigma 3 452 Sigma Properties 332, 382 Sikkat al-​Mahjar project 381 Sims, David 24, 251–​2, 348 Sinai 18, 152, 168, 326 Sirag al-​Din, Fu’ad 15–​16 Sirrs, Owen L. 101 al Sisi, Abdel Fattah: and Al-​Jazeera 394; blocking the BBC 397; Cairo’s informal housing 327; as a “caring father” 110; co-​opting young liberal 64; “counter-​revolution” 2013 137; dominating political scene 110; Dresden award 397; encroachments on public land 245; feddans initiative 247; GERD project 155; Gulf aid 146, 147, 174; independent foreign policy 154; informal neighbourhoods 249; and Israel 152; mandate to combat terrorism 302–​3; and the media 395, 417–​20; media and cultural expression 397; militarization of politics 81–​2; military control 107–​8, 109; military ties 110; Morsi trying to replace 92; outflow of media practitioners 394; print media 420; relationship with al-​Azhar 123; relationship with Gulf allies 153; repression 138–​40, 317; state of emergency 296; ultimatum to HRNGOs 316–​17 al Sisi, Hassan 110 al Sisi, Mahmoud 110 Six Day War 1967 see War of 1967 678 film 396 6th of October City 350, 351, 359, 367 skilled workers 240–​1 skills training for migrants 231 SLON (film collective) 452 “small” media 392 de Smet, Brecht 455 soap-​operas  408 Sobhi, Sedki 110 social citizenship 34–​5 social contract 36, 39 “social freedom” (hurriyya ijtima‘iyya) 37 Social Housing 353 socialism 71 “socialist” clauses (1971 Constitution) 301

489

490

Index social media 424–​32; “boom” period 2000–​2010 135; January Revolution 2011 428; “power in numbers” lesson 428; power of 427; suspending or closing down 430–​1 see also blogging; Facebook; Twitter social movements 134 “social remittances” 241 Society of Muslims 39 Society of National Renaissance 34 Society of Poets of Colloquial Egyptian 448 Society of Religious Legality (al-​Jam’iyya al-​Shari’iyya, JS) 125–​6 Society of Supporters of Muhammad’s Tradition (Jama’at Ansar al-​Sunna al-​Muhamadiyya, AS) 125–​6 Society of the Muslim Brotherhood see Muslim Brotherhood socioeconomic changes: 19th century 165; 1950’s 164; 2011 Revolution 173 socio-​spatial order  250 Solanas, Fernando 452 Soliman, A. 358n6 Song on the Passage (film) 449 Sono Cairo 392 Sorour, Shady 464 The Sound of Freedom (Sout el-​Horreya) 462 Sout al-​Phan Records 460, 461 Sout el-​Horreya (The Sound of Freedom) 462 South Africa 218 Southern Cemetery (Old Cairo) 327 sovereign power of the state (haibat al-​dawlah) 278 Soviet advisors 15, 50 Soviet Union 46, 166, 167 “Spaghetti bowl” regional trade agreements 202, 203 spatial development 251 Sprengel, Darci 463 Springborg, R. 89, 107, 109–​10 squatting 252, 356 Stack, Lee 9 standardisation and centralisation 405 state authority 72–​3, 74–​5 state-​business relations 179–​91, 181, 185–​90 state capitalist classes 188 state-​dependent constituencies  166 state–​economy relations  169–​70 state finances 168 state housing projects 353 state intervention in social life 301 state-​led development model 166–​7 state-​led Egyptianization  165–​6 state-​led modernization  166 state media 412–​13, 436 state negligence 328 state of emergency 296–​301, 303–​5, 396–​7 State of Emergency Law (1958) 14 “state of exception” 302

state of indistinction 302–​3 state-​owned desert land 356 state owned enterprises (SOEs) 84, 169–​70, 171 state-​owned media 417–​20, 418 state owned property 244 state “planning” 36 state predation 249 state rent 172 State Security Courts 299 State Security Investigations Sector (SSIS) 85, 90, 108 see also General Investigations Department State Security Investigation (SSI) 302 state–​society disconnect  250–​1 state universities 28 Stephenson, Robert 25 strategic litigation 286 streaming services 458 “street politics” 290–​91 streets 375–​6 student activism 55–​65, 134; against colonialism 56; and detained students 59; and Mubarak 58–​9; and Nasser 56–​7; 1919 Revolution 56; November 1968 57; politicization 60–​1; post-​ January 25; 2011 59–​60; private universities 60; protests 1968–​1973 49; “reformist” approaches 62–​3; restrictions 61–​2; and Sadat 57–​8; support for 65; uprising February 1968 37, 56; and youth activism 63–​4; and youth movements 55 see also university students; youth activism “Students against the Coup” 59 Student Union (SU) 61–​3 studying abroad 68–​9 “stylistic restoration” standards (Viollet-​le-​Duc)  375 subordinate integration 185–​90 subsidized housing 353 Sudan 9, 12, 155–​6, 328, 336, 344 Suez Canal 9, 23, 38, 97, 168 Suez Canal Authority 111 Suez Canal Company 23, 24, 46 Suez Canal Corridor Development Project 111 Suez Canal Zone 92 Suez Crisis 1956 13, 46, 104 Sufi groups 127–​8 Suleiman, Omar 272 Sultany, Nimer 277 Sunni Islamic jurisprudence 122 Sunnis 128 Supreme Administrative Court (al-​Mahkama al-​Idariyya al-​’Uliya) 265, 276 Supreme Constitutional Court (SCC) 265–​6; creation of 265, 300; elections of 2011–​2012 277; HRNGO litigation 315; judicial activism 267–​8, 273; and Law 17 of 2012 277; and the “prerogative state” 303–​4; reducing in size 280; ruling on the Constituent Assembly 281; Tiran and Sanafir islands 289

490

491

Index Supreme Council for Arts, Literature and Social Sciences 404 Supreme Council for Media Regulation 417–​18, 430 Supreme Council for the Guidance of Literature and Arts 404 Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs 437 Supreme Council of Judicial Organizations 265–​6 Supreme Council of Sufi Orders 127 Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF): curbing NGOs 316; dissolution of NDP 91; excluding radical leftists 64; HRNGOs 310, 316; January 2011 Revolution 301; legalization of politics 288; media regulation 438; and Mohammad Morsi 278–​91; and Mubarak stepping down 272, 273–​7, 416; official statements on Facebook 429; power to detain and torture 275; revolutionary legitimacy 281; Saudi Arabia, UAE and Kuwait as patrons 189; transition to democratic rule 173 Supreme Judicial Council 265, 279, 303 sustainability 345 see also water management Sustainable Development Strategy (SDS) 364 SwedAlex 377 Swedenburg, T.  462 Switzerland 214 syndication of culture 406 Syria 47, 147, 148, 166 Syrian refugees 233, 395 tafweed (“authorization”) 137 Tag Sultan (gated community) 352 Tahrir Cinema 450 “Tahrir Lounge” 136 Al-​Tahrir (newspaper) 417 Tahrir province 250–​1 Tahrir Square 18, 136, 263, 462 Tahrir TV  417 al-​Tahtawy, Rifa’a  436–​7 Takween Integrated Development 382 Talaat Moustafa Group Company 332, 368 Al-​Tali’a al-​’Arabiyya (Arab Vanguard)  105 Tamarod protests 2013 92, 109 Tamim bin Hamid Al Thani, Emir of Qatar 151 Tantawi, Mohammed 89–​90 Tantawi, Sayyed 122 tariffs: and non-​tariff measures 202–​6; rates by sector 204; of time to export and import 208 al-​Tarzi, Salma  451 Tawfeq, Ahmed Khaled 287 Tawfiq, Khedive 8, 374 tax exemptions 111 tax farming 246 al-​Tayeb, Sheikh Ahmed 121, 122 Taylor, Edward 447 technical barriers to trade (TBT) 202–​4, 207 technological innovations 183

technological transformations 183–​5 television 391, 393, 403 television preachers 437 television soap operas 408 television talk shows 413 10th of Ramadan City 249, 350, 352, 359, 366, 367 terrorism 302–​3, 430 textile worker strikes 267 Thabit, Karim 101 theatre 406 Theban necropolis 328–​9 third-​generation new cities 359, 366 Third Reich 297 third worldism 404–​6 30 March Program 57 al-​Tilmisani, Omar  124 al-​Tilmissani, Kamil  448 Tiran and Sanafir islands 116, 156–​7, 288–​9 To be or not to be (Fouda) 407 top-​down modernization  165–​9 Toshka project 17, 24, 251, 360 tourism 170, 328–​9, 338, 380 Towards a Third Cinema (Solanas and Getino) 452 trade agreements 200–​2, 203 trade connectivity 392 trade costs 206–​7 trade liberalization 205, 214 trade policies 194–​209; border constraints 206–​8; domestic business environment 199–​205; exports and imports 196–​9; historical background 195–​6; literature 194; reforms 194; value chains 208–​9 trade unions 10 traditional sectors 198 tramways 25–​6 Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership (TTIP) 218 transnational capital 181 transnational dynamics 184, 188 transnational integration 188–​9 transnationalization 172, 184 transnational multidirectionality 443 transportation 25–​6, 369, 370 treated wastewater (TWW) 338 treaty-​based arbitration cases 217 “tribunes” (manabir) 38 Trump, Donald J. 156 Tunisia 135, 150 Tunisian League for Human Rights 315 Tunisian revolt 2011 270 turath (legacy of past Islamic thought) 123 Turkey 12, 149–​50, 155, 201 ‘turn’ in cultural studies 446 tutelary state 404–​6 “tweet-​ups”  136 25TV 417

491

492

Index Twitter 135, 428–​9, 430–​1, 439 see also social media Twitter MENA 431, 431; 2011 Revolution see January 2011 Revolution Ukamau Group (film collective) 452 Umma Party 33 Umm Kulthum 457, 458–​9, 460 underemployment 173, 230 Underground/​On the Surface (documentary) 451 underground subway system 25–​6 Understanding Cairo (Sims) 348 unemployment 173, 229–​30, 230 unequal distribution of parliamentary seats 277 UNESCO world heritage sites 328 ‘unified investment law’ (Law 230 of 1989) 213 union of film professionals 448 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) 147 United Arab Emirates (UAE) 149, 151, 153, 189, 237; pan-​Arab broadcasting 393; Twitter MENA office 431 United Arab Republic (UAR) 13, 47, 147 United Kingdom 214 see also British occupation (1882–​1956) United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) 218 United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) 135n12, 139, 139n23, 377 United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) 343 United Nations (UN) 154, 319; International Conference on Population and Development 1994 392; Working Group on Arbitrary Detention 397–​8 United States Agency for International Development (USAID) 24 United States (US): agencies 138n17; Case 173/​ 2011 138; Egypt in US orbit 18; Foreign Assistance Act 151; GERD talks 156; Iraqi invasion of Kuwait 51, 168, 392; Middle East strategy 184; military coup 2013 151–​2; QIZ Protocol 201; refusal to finance HAD 46; and Sadat 48, 87; Suez Crisis 1956 46; weapons purchases 152 Universal Music MENA 462 Universal Periodic Review (UN) 319 universal suffrage 34 universities 27–​8, 29, 58–​63, 70, 406 University of Alexandria see 68, 70 Cairo University university students 28, 28 see also student activism unsafe areas 354, 380 unskilled labour force 187 upper-​income consumers  250 upper middle classes 39 ‘Urabi movement 7–​8, 95 urban densification 331, 380

urban development 24, 326–​8, 364–​8, 376 see also development; new cities urban elites 332 urbanism 348 urbanization: agricultural settlements 358; around Cairo 352; and biodiversity 326; buffer zones 376; challenges 365; formal/​informal dichotomy 251; management 368; population growth 331, 380; and subaltern communities 247–​9; unplanned and informal 245; water and sanitation 23–​4 see also desert developments; informal settlements urban poor 352 Urban Regeneration Project for Historic Cairo (URHC) 377–​8, 378, 379 urban slums 327 Al-​Urwatu al-​Wathqa (Islamic magazine) 437 Using Life (Istikhdam al-​Hayat, Naji) 396 “utilitarian modernizing” features 376 utilitarian normativity 297–​8 value chains 208–​9 Vanguard Organization 37 Van Wincoop,  E.  206 Vatikiotis, P.J. 404 veiled protectorate 8 Veolia v. Egypt (2012) 220 “verbal divorce” 123 Versailles Peace Accords 1919 284 “vertical communication” 425 Villa Aghion 379 “violating public modesty” 396 Viollet-​le-​Duc  375 “Vision for Agriculture” (2017 MALR) 341 Voice of the Masses (Saut el-​Gamahir) 459 vulnerable subaltern communities 249 Wadi Al-​Hitan natural site 328 Wafdist Vanguard  34 Wafd Party: Committee for Legal Aid 266; Faruq opposed to 97; government 1924 9, 34; government 1950 12; and the New Wafd Party 114; 1919 Revolution 8; petition to negotiate independence 33; struggle against Britain 97; student unions 56 al-​Wafd (party publication) 74 Wagdi, Mohammed Farid 437 Wahat internment camp 14 Wahba, J. 240 Wahhabism 241 Wahsh el-​Magara (The Galaxy’s Monster) 463 “Al-​wala’ qabla al-​kafa’ a” (“loyalty trumps competence”) 104 Walimah li-​A’shab al-​Bahr (Feast for seaweed, Hayder) 408 Wallerstein, Immanuel 22 Wanly, Seif and Adham 448

492

493

Index Al-​Waqai’ al-​Masriya (newspaper) 436–​7 waqf (religious endowments) 377 War of 1967 14–​15, 72, 147, 166; Air Force 14, 47, 104; build-​up to and consequences 47; censorship after 406; deaths 459; democratic ideals 37; and liberalisation 181; student activism 56; Umm Kulthum support for Nasser 459 Warraq Island Families Council 244 al-​Warraq (Nile island) 244–​5, 252, 253, 291, 327 al-​Wasat Party 124, 126, 274 Washington Consensus 186 wasta (connections) 108 wastewater 338 Al-​Watan al-​Akbar song (The Bigger Nation) 459 Al-​Watan (Christian newspaper) 417, 441 Watani channel 439 Watani (newspaper) 74, 441 Watani Party 33, 71 al-​Watan (party) 126, 129 Waterbury, John 35, 36, 102, 103 water management 335–​45; after High Aswan Dam (HAD) 339–​41; Cairo 23; climate change 343–​5; groundwater 328, 336–​7; infrastructure 22–​5; National Water Resource Plans 341–​3; rainfall 337–​8; resources 336–​8; reused and recycled water 338; sustainability 345; water use efficiency 340 water pollution 335, 338, 365 al-​Wazir, Kemal  244 wealthy businessmen 414 weapons purchase 152 “We are all Khaled Said” Facebook page 427, 428, 431 websites 418, 430 welfare state 166 West Bank 380 Western aid 167 Western Desert 326, 337 Western music 462 What they say (song) 403 wildcat strikes 270 women 28, 74 women activists 10 Women and Memory Forum 74

Women’s College (Kulliyat al-​Banat) 74 women’s rights organizations 316 workers’ remittances see remittances working classes 39, 366 work permits 233, 234, 235 World Bank 169–​70, 214, 344, 349, 381, 392 World Heritage Centre 377, 378 World Heritage sites 377, 378 World Investment Report 2003 (UNCTAD) 218 World Press Freedom Index (RSF) 396 The world’s best women (el-​Beheiry)  403 World Trade Organization (WTO) 202, 207, 392 World War I 8, 165, 298 Wust el-​Balad (Downtown) indie band 461–​2 Wynn, Wilton  47 al-​Yazal, Sameh Saif 115 Yemen 153, 190 Yemen war (1962–​1967) 13, 47, 166 Al-​Youm al-​Sabea (newspaper) 416, 418 Young Egypt (Misr Fatat) 10 Youssef, Bassem 395 youth: government categorization 64; human rights movement 318; population 458; under-​representation 395; unemployment 230, 230 youth activism 55, 63–​4, 136 see also student activism Youth for Change movement 63 YouTube 424, 426, 430–​1, 463–​4 Zabaleen community 326 Zafarana region wind farm 328 Zaghlul, Sa‘d 8, 9, 284, 458 Zakariyya, Gamal 73 Zaki, C 196, 204, 205, 207 Zaki, Hind Ahmed 278 Zaki, Salah 367 Zaki, Salim 101 Zaydan, Jirji 70 Al-​Zayni Barakat (el-​Gheitani)  406 El-​Zeini, Noha  416 Zend, Ahmed 275 al-​Zumour, Aboud 88, 125, 126

493

494