On February 18 1978 members of the Palestinian Abu-Nidal gang shot and killed Egyptian writer and government minister Yusuf Al Siba’i while in Cyprus. In response, the Egyptian government dispatched a squadron of special forces to the island, violating its sovereignty and engaging in various bloody encounters there. This incursion was a rare and uncharacteristic response from the Egyptian state. The mess did not end on the tarmac in Cyprus. Sadat, visibly angry, cut diplomatic relations with Cyprus and called its leader a”pygmy”. That resulted in a diplomatic crisis with the Central African republic. It was heavy price to pay for the life of a writer, especially given the general value of such lives in Egypt. But Yusuf was more than just a writer who produced dozens of novels and short stories. In fact, too little attention is paid to his life and what it symbolized. He deserves a closer look, and perhaps an entire work centered around his career. That career started in earnest three decades before his death at age 60. The arc of it was rather unusual but prophetic. Yusuf was a military man; he was of the same age as the Free Officers and joined the military at the same time as all of them and served with distinction until he retired as a Brigadier General. His subsequent career as a writer and intellectual was not a departure from his military service but a continuation of it by other means. Egypt after 1952 featured many military men who officially retired and then were assigned to manage commercial enterprises, state entities, provinces, political parties and even the presidency. Siba’i’s assignment was culture. He was an intimate of Nasser and wrote many of his speeches. If Mohamed Hassanein Heikal spoke for Nasser, then Yusuf Al Siba’i thought like him.
Yusuf’s rise was symbolized by his role in the Third Conference of Arab Writers organized by the Egyptian state in December 1957. The previous two conferences were modest academic affairs. But this one was an entirely different beast. Albert Hourani described it as the moment of death for Arab liberal thought. Siba’i wrote the opening talk, it is rumored, but Nasser read it. He welcomed the writers to Egypt and identified their task as “create Arab literature that is free”. He went on to describe that freedom as “freedom from foreign control and foreign direction”. He assigned them the task of “realizing our goals” and bid them God’s protection. The speech reads closer to what a commander might give to a graduating class of cadets. The attending writers, by and large, competed in showing their dedication to the task of pan Arabism and their devotion to their assignment. There were a few dissenting voices, notably that of the Tunisian Mahmoud Al Mas’adi, who spoke of individual freedom and autonomy, and was denounced as a traitor to the corp and the imaginary uniform. Taha Hussein spoke elliptically about the necessity for thought as the foundation of writing, but few listened. In the next decade he delivered a series of valedictory speeches and interviews to rebut this vision of the intellectual as a servant of the state but few listened. In a TV interview with Layla Rustum he lamented that “the problem with Arab writers is that they write more than they read”. Without mentioning names he was castigating the entire group and its leader, Yusuf Al Siba’i.
It is sometimes said that Nasser served as a bookend to Muhammad Ali, and there is truth to that. Ali attempted to build a state without a nation, while Nasser, who ended Ali’s dynasty, attempted to build a nation as an arm of the state. He had the assistance of many in that task, none more effectively than the men in uniform and those who took up the pen as their special weapon. Levantine writers were especially enamored with Nasser, for much the same reason as young men are attracted to uniforms and military service; belonging, adventure and purpose. As with these young men, the writers and intellectuals were to realize all too soon the dangerous and tragic nature of their calling. Mas’adi predicted the likely failure of this project decades in advance. He also castigated the practice of conflating anti-Colonialism with anti-Western intellectual thought. The common wisdom today is that the poverty of Arab thought and intellectual discourse is the result of authoritarian governance. But there is a darker explanation. It was perhaps the willingness of Arab intellectuals to be drafted to the cause of the state that ultimately gave rise and support to these authoritarian regimes. It was the exceptional figure, such as Adonis or Nazik Al Malai’ka, who denied that the intellectual’s primary obligation is to serve a national vision, or the state that often articulated it in violent thoughts and actions.
In many ways, Yusuf Al Siba’i was the genteel face of the intellectual as the state’s servant. At the height of his fame, during the 1960s and 1970s Al Siba’i was ever present on the Egyptian scene. He headed many of the the cultural institutions and publications, including Al Ahram, and thus was technically Heikal’s boss. His novels were assigned reading in Egyptian schools, especially the 1952 “Al Saghamat”, always hailed as a work of Egyptian realism, but in fact it was largely political fiction. Siba’i mastered political fiction as thoroughly as Nasser mastered political theater. An elegant man with careful diction he faithfully represented the state. His political views were always subject to trimming by his service. He was a soldier at heart; his mission was not to ask why, but to do or die. For decades he lionized the Palestinian Fedayeen, only to turn against them when they attacked Sadat for visiting Israel. He published paeans to socialism in the 1960s and defended its dismantling in the 1970s. Siba’i was the epitome of the writer as a civil servant. Under his tutelage a generation of Egyptian writers grew up not to write the great Egyptian novel but to become the head of its writers’ union. Many who opposed the state still invested in Siba’i’s vision of the writer as a servant of a cause.
Half a dozen years before his death the ideology of Siba’i’s career claimed one of its victims in a horrific but little examined assassination. On July 8 1972 Ghassan Kanafani, an extraordinarily talented Palestinian writer, indeed possibly the Kafka of Acre, was blown up in his car. He had loudly, but largely without participation, supported the Lod airport massacre. To this day it is not fully known if his murder was a retaliation by Israel or part of an internecine fight within the Palestinian militant groups. Regardless of the truth, it was a terrible waste of a life and a talent. A futile demonstration of the Arab insistence that the artist represent not his individual beliefs, but his people, right or wrong. That was the message of the life and death of Brigadier General Yusuf Al Siba’i, soldier and writer.
— Maged Atiya
If Nasser were alive today he would be 100 years old. Although dead for nearly half a century, he is very much alive in the country he remade before he reached the age of 40. He is a true revolutionary, in the technical sense of the word, as a man who rearranged the power relations between the elites of the country. The arrangement he created remains very much in place today. Some have rebelled against it, others have tried to tinker with it, but the broad features remain intact and the majority seems willing to live in its confines or unable to escape them. This blogger has noted before that Nasser should not be viewed as a great thinker, nor as a capable administrator, nor as a wily politician, but as a masterful actor that strove to embody every major role the country was compelled to put forth. In a future and happier Egypt a Nasser-like man will be a great actor in plays authored by Pirandello or Tawfik Al Hakim, or their successors. Still, any anniversary with a sufficient number of zeros on the right is a good occasion to take stock and examine the balance of the ledger. What has the man born a century ago given his country and what has he taken from it?
For sixty five years, nearly two generations, Egypt has lived in his shadow. He had always insisted, theatrically enough, that every Egyptian is Nasser and that his own mortality is irrelevant as he will live through his people. But we can also insist that every Egyptian was represented in Nasser, and that both his vitality and decline affected his people deeply. He became a hero at a young age; he was 30 at the time of the 1948 war with Israel. The status of one junior officer was such that Um Kalthoum, the woman who became the voice of Egypt, offered to host a concert for him, before the 1952 coup which he turned into a revolution. Nasser went on to become a sponsor and a promoter of the popular arts. Arguably he was also a participant in them. His rallies and extended speeches were a performance art of the highest caliber. Whenever he spoke the people listened and all felt a close connection with each other through him. If great theater is catharsis for the audience, then Nasser provided a partial version for all the Egyptians, regardless of how they felt about him. This giant shadow forces a question: Does today’s Egypt represent Nasser’s success or his failure? An answer is difficult to come forth because the relationship between the man and his nation is fundamentally that of betrayal. Nasser’s errors betrayed the unreserved trust Egyptians placed in him. Similarly, Egyptians failed to rise to Nasser’s exhortation of their innate greatness, most of all by failing to hold him to account and to limit his power and hence the consequent damage of his errors. Nasser longed to be a great hero and he needed a great people to lead, while the Egyptians hoped for national greatness and signed up with the man who promised it. This is hardly a unique arrangement in the history of nations, and on many occasions such arrangements either work well or fail disastrously and thus force a reckoning and subsequent improvements. In Egypt’s case neither happened. Nasser’s project of national greatness was too farcical to be a tragedy and too grim to be a comedy. The drama he put forth provided no resolution, only an abrupt end. Nasser’s catharsis was incomplete, failing the Emile Durkheim final stages of integration and renewal of self-confidence and internal strength.
Five decades after the actor left the stage the theater lights have come on. The audience members stare at their neighbors scarcely able to discern what relations they might have with each other and what might have brought them together in the first place. They stare blankly at the empty stage and try to decide if this is merely an intermission or if the performance is truly over, in which case they should rush the doors and explore the freedom and chaos of the world outside them.
— Maged Atiya
Egyptian President Sisi inaugurated two floating bridges in Ismailia and Qantara named after two army men who died in combat against terrorists, Ahmed El Mansi and Abanoub Gerges. There is a symbolism in the gesture of twin names, one Muslim and one Copt draping the two bridges. We are supposed to feel a surge of warmth about the naming equivalent of a joined cross and crescent. There will be many notables, of both religions, who see the gesture as the “true” nature of Egypt. Journalist and academic Edward Wakin noted similar gestures while traveling in Egypt in 1961, and was not impressed. In his 1963 book, “A Lonely Minority”, Wakin identified with precision a species of humans that he called “Public Copts”. These men and women speak hopefully of religious equality in Egypt, while proclaiming their fealty to the nation in spite of religious discrimination that they deny exists. They insist that symbolic gestures embody the true feelings of the people, while harsh realities are caused by the wayward few. A Public Copt is always available as evidence against any attempt to identify and rectify obvious social ills. A decade after the publication of Wakin’s book there would be further sighting of the Public Copt in the vicinity of the aforementioned bridges. The liberation of East Qantara, where one of the bridges is located, and the capture of an Israeli corp commander was achieved by a capable and daring general named Fouad Aziz Ghali. After the war he further demonstrated administrative ability by supervising the growth of the Southern Sinai into a tourist destination. This exceptional man behaved as a Public Copt by insisting that his promotion demonstrated a lack of religious discrimination in the Army. The evolution of the Public Copt can be traced to the distant past, as illustrated by two other unrelated Ghalis. One Ghali, in the middle of the 19th century, kissed the hand of the Wali that ordered his father’s execution. Another Ghali, Boutros, served the Khedive and British imperial ruler faithfully even to the point of losing his life. He must have known what Lord Cromer thought of his fellow Copts “The principles of strict impartiality on which the Englishman proceeded were foreign to the nature of the Copt. He thought that the Englishman’s justice to the Moslem involved injustice to himself, for he was apt, perhaps unconsciously, to hold that injustice and absence of favoritism to the Copts where well-nigh synonymous terms”. Many factors must have raised the imperial ire in Cromer. Perhaps it was the Copts very different Christianity. It could also be that their temerity in asking for equal rights exposed the hollow nature of the “Englishman’s justice” and the entire lie of the imperial scheme. Or that Cromer sighted a Public Copt and proceeded to dislike all others, for the Public Copt’s habit of saying one thing while believing another fed directly into the stereotype of the Copts as devious and crafty, something that Cromer readily accepted. The task of a Public Copt is to praise the granting of crumbs.
The Public Copt is familiar to all from an early age, as the young witness what the adults say in public and private. Any anger or rage at such behavior is quickly extinguished in the young by the process of acculturation and socialization. It is nurture, not nature, that creates Public Copts. Many currents contribute to the pathology. First there is the simple need to constantly deal with a perennially authoritarian, and often hapless state. There is also the hope that in stating the perfect outcome as established fact the entire nation will be shamed into reform. Then there is the reality of collective punishment, which is a constant secret sharer of repression. Individual merit will sometimes rebound to the benefit of the owner in uncertain measures, but individual error will invariably be held against the entire community. Every Public Copt is aware that honest discourse is not a test of his or her courage, but of their intestinal fortitude to watch others suffer for their frankness. But perhaps the strongest reason for the existence of the Public Copt is the difficulty of the Coptic identity. There are many unattractive aspects to that identity born of centuries of persecution. The Public Copt may wish to underplay that identity, or escape its worst aspects, but will usually find that it claims him anyway. Every Copt who attempts the magic transformation of being more than a Copt will eventually grow to be an old Copt. Anger invariably stalks the Public Copt, born of the frustration of doing exactly what is known not to be effective for fear of worse.
It would be easy to paint the Public Copt as weak and compromising, but it would also be wrong. Ameen Fahim, a Public Copt from the 1980s, explained the issues facing men such as him. “[It is like] an earthenware vessel banging against a bronze vessel“, he told sociologist Sanaa Hasan. Magdy Wahba, another Public Copt, also reminded her of the need “to walk close to the wall“. There are plenty of men who enjoy praise for their public display of courage while cutting weasel deals in private. America provided plenty of such examples in 2017. It is rare to have men who undertake private risks without expecting praise for their courage. Such was the lot of Public Copt. The public record is sparse, intentionally, but fragments exist nevertheless. Kamal Ramzi Stino, often ridiculed as a Nasser poodle, took many courageous positions in private against a man that all Egyptians feared or worshiped. The same can be said of Fakhri Abdel Nour or Mirrit Ghali, and the full knowledge of their courage is likely forever lost to us. Occasionally the records survive in scattered public and some private form. Aziz Atiya left the safety of America in 1961 to travel to Egypt, meet Nasser, and ask that his underlings cease attacking the World Council of Churches. The WCC was in no danger from Nasser’s mouthpieces at Sawt Al ‘Arab, but Atiya felt that a connection to world Christianity is important for the Copts and worth the personal risk. There were many Copts, of a more militant attitude, who condemned the Public Copt. One such man was Pope Shenouda, or at least the first quarter of his long public life. For a decade he exposed the sectarianism and hypocrisy of Sadat, who at the time was the darling of the West. Many Public Copts disapproved of the Pope’s attitude, and he of them, but when he went into a desert exile on the orders of Sadat all worked hard for his release. Eventually, Shenouda too became a Public Copt, of sorts. If there is a lesson in all that, it is a difficult and complex one. And in any case, it is always necessary to calibrate actions to the times. The benefits of the Public Copt seem to be in great decline in today’s Egypt. That country would be unrecognizable to many of them, and their behavior might be entirely different now. Paradoxically, the path to future freedom and survival may well be in doing just the opposite of what has allowed survival after centuries of oppression.
It is difficult to miss the increasing talk of the need for a “New Copt”. This is especially so among those who are born and raised in the West. This desire is a reflection of the current realities in Egypt, and of the failure of Coptic activism abroad. That enterprise maybe necessary but now seems insufficient, as no outsider is able to nudge the Egyptian state into doing its job. The desire for a new reality for the Copts seeps to us via articles and talks. One hears it expressed above the din of a coffee shop by anxious acquaintances. It is elaborated over long meals by men and women of perceptive minds and sharp senses. It is a heady time; for this must be what Vienna felt like in the late 19th century. That analogy should also alerts us that sometimes an awakening is a prelude to future horrors. But the desire for a New Copt is fundamentally sound, even if the shape of it has yet to come into view, and leaders necessary for the transformation have yet to identify themselves. But those who come to raise a “New Copt” must first bury the “Public Copt”.
— Maged Atiya
A man in the religion business issued a Fatwa declaring it permissible to keep antiquities as long as it is done with proper tithing. This has outraged many. As Fatwas go, this is a pointless one; about as useful as urging a diet of meat on a lion. Egyptians have taken to robbing the tombs of their ancestors since time immemorial. As soon as a ruler or a rich man is laid in his grave the treasures within attracted the attention of the next ruler or quick witted and daring thief. As late as the 1970s Hussein Abdel Rasul reigned supreme in his family compound in Gourna. The wiry, sharp-eyed patriarch entertained his guests with grace and charm, ordering coffee, tea and sweets for them without so much as a word or gesture. His minions bustled around eager for his favor or fearful of his wrath, it was never clear. Ali was not given to anger, except when it came to the matter of Egyptologist Gaston Maspero, whom he faulted for having his grandfather beaten for robbing tombs. Decades after that event he still seethed that his grandfather was undone and humiliated for engaging in the family business. Ali usually neglected to mention that it was his great uncles who betrayed their sibling. The point of this anecdote is that the Fatwa was scarcely needed to assuage the conscience of current tomb robbers. The real purpose was to fire yet another shot in Egypt’s culture war.
Scientist and public official Rushdi Sa’id noted in his memoirs that in 1953 he could not convince a simple farmer that he is “related” to the builders of the monuments that surrounded his field. They were after all pagan and evil, according to the farmer. Sa’id, an educated member of the elite who mentions how an English woman favorably compared his physiognomy to a statue in the British museum, was keen to establish the connection as a way to promote progress and elevate the nation. Like many nationalists of his time Sa’id was a firm Egyptianist, and an uncompromising enemy of Islamism. He notes how, given its history of invasions, Egypt can not be isolated to a single ethnic or cultural thread, but according to the logic of his Egyptianism the conclusion is that Egypt, and its river and soil, sublimates all, making them Egyptian beyond doubt. This mysticism of blood and soil has been a useful weapon against outsiders, and increasingly against proponents of political Islam. But it has done little to provide a vision of a common national project. Its gaze is so firmly fixed on the past that it regularly stumbles among the pitfalls of the present. It has certainly allowed Islamists easy victories through simple pandering. Sa’id’s failure to convince the farmer echoes more than 60 years later in the current controversy. Zahi Hawas, a pseudo-Egyptologist and a reality star, claimed that the Fatwa is illogical, since the state has rights on anything in its lands. To the sin of being tone-deaf, he added a measure of coercive statism. In fact, it is the Fatwa issuer who seems more logical, arguing that he has not encouraged anyone to rob tombs, but to simply take what is in their lands, and use some of its proceeds for charity. This clever refrain should not blind us to his real purpose. Others pointed out that the objects are the heritage of all of Egypt, without checking whether the majority would in fact agree with that statement. What was left unsaid is the real reason why antiquities should be preserved, even going to the length of paying those who find them. These artifacts belong to a common culture, one that transcends Egypt and belongs to all of humanity. To say so would be the first step to build a national identity on a foundation of shared values, rather than past greatness or imagined kinship.
— Maged Atiya
Subway systems in most major cities have information Kiosks to guide the lost or confused travelers to their desired destinations. Egypt does things differently, as Herodotus noted some centuries ago. New Kiosks at the Cairo subway guide the travelers not to Sarayat Al Qoba or Demerdash, instead the way is pointed to a more pious life and perhaps a better afterlife. These “Fatwa” Kiosks are manned by nattily dressed Sheikhs experienced in such matter as how to divide inheritance, start a business or handle finances. The idea is to provide fast advice to the harried commuter by dispensing religion quickly on the trip home. Egypt does not lack for public expressions of religious fervor so the Kiosks fit in nicely in a country soaked in public piety. The entire idea is the brainchild of Al Azhar which is well-endowed with taxpayers’ money. And although the Kiosks are dedicated to Muslims, one suspects, nay is sure, that many Egyptian Christians would follow suit if they could. The Kiosks are meant to combat religious extremism; a sort of homeopathic cure where a lesser bit of the poison inoculates against the bigger danger, similia similibus curentur. We should not be quick to believe it. Al Azhar is an enterprise in the business of religion, and the Kiosks are its latest startup effort or growth fund. The government also sees them as a quick way to curry favor with the public, certainly easier than delivering services effectively. A state that has trouble keeping trains on tracks or ferries upright advertises itself as fit to guide souls to higher places.
The Fatwa Kiosks are not a harmless bit of nonsense. They are a manifestation of a deeper problem behind Egypt’s recent stagnation and social divisions. There is the widely held belief that religion, appropriately defined, is the solution to many, if not most, ills. The evidence for that belief is scant, and most of it points to the opposite. In his time in Parliament, former President Morsi, thundered against corruption and when running for president claimed that it can all be cured by appointing the pious to office. During his short term the men of his party came ready to grab with both fists in a time-honored, but hardly religious, attitude of “my turn now”. Preachers long urged women to cover up in order not to excite men’s passions. But a woman walking the hot streets of Cairo in the summer of 1967 in a flimsy sun dress could do so unmolested. Today her granddaughter, fully sealed in flowing garments, will all too often run a gauntlet of sexual harassment. There are even more serious consequences. Lower fertility is necessary for Egypt to improve the economic lot of the people and deal with scarce resources of land and water. But religious ideas, sotto voce, stand in the way of proper population control. And the mother of all problems is cultural stagnation and diminution. It is a chicken-and-egg question as whether cultural stagnation manifests as false piety or whether false piety causes cultural stagnation. We do know, regardless, that the current atmosphere has made it easy for a minority of moral busybodies, snoops and snitches, to operate freely in the country. Any man can drag a fellow citizen to court on account of perceived offense to their delicate religious sensibility. A professor who reads poetry and joyously belly dances in private celebration is immediately labeled a threat to religion. Few note the absurdity of the charge; and certainly the courts do not laugh off the suit. These cases represent the most obvious and egregious offenses, but lesser offenses pass unnoticed every day. Egypt has become a country of small daily coercions, and religion has played an unhappy role in that development. Culture matters; both in the lower and upper case. Public religious acts and the government implicit or explicit support of them is no laughing matter. The growth of religious fervor is not without cost. It displaces other forms of culture. It is no coincidence that the last 40 years of public whipping up of religious fervor saw a general decline in cultural output. Some causes are clear and direct, as artists, writers and poets are regularly accused of blasphemy on account of their work. Increased religiosity shifts the norms and allows for discordant and divisive voices to find homes on the fringes of the mainstream. These voices in turn pull the mainstream further towards them and suppress reasoned dissent. All of this is nasty feedback loop, and unless it is broken the race is to the very bottom.
No one has the right to ask Egyptians to forsake their God or deny their religious expressions. Herodotus also noted that Egyptians are inordinately fond of their religion. That may very well be true. But what we have witnessed in the last few decades is not the triumph of native spirit, nor the failure of “modernity”, but the result of a culture war waged by determined and disciplined ideologues (again of both religions), who wanted religious expressions to have primary, even exclusive, role in defining culture and even politics. When it comes to the latter there is discernable confusion. Politicians race around offering religious advice while Sheikhs and Popes comment knowingly on politics. It is a classic case of how mixing of religion and civic politics hurts both. An anecdote was related to this author some years ago by a man who witnessed it first hand. In 1950 the Egyptian Ministry of Education wanted to revise the school curriculum to a more native and nationalistic bent. It sought opinions from within its ranks. One man, highly regarded and armed with a recent graduate degree from America, offered his views. Religion must be weaved into all aspects of the curriculum, language, history, arts and even sciences. A skeptical member of the committee offered a rebuke “mish kulu el deen ya ustaz Sayyd” (It is not all religion Professor Sayyd). The comment earned a hearty chuckle from other members. More than sixty years later, Egypt needs to make sure that Sayyd Qutb does not have the last laugh.
— Maged Atiya
The year 1954 saw the establishment of a new state model in Egypt, and one that ran into trouble almost in its infancy. It was a remarkable year. Nasser assumed sole power as President and began a pattern of concentration of decision making at the very top that still holds today. He rose to his position by a combination of public appeals and negotiations among the top leaders of the Army; a template that every leader that followed found to be the necessary means of holding, or in the case of Morsi of losing power. It was the year the Muslim Brotherhood took a lurch toward grabbing power and failed miserably. Nasser started an economic movement based on native production and centralized government planning and system of ever larger public sector and creeping subsidies. Development was to be made with gigantic projects of prestige, such as the High Dam. It was also the year that the government began a massive reprogramming of education, ironically with the assistance of the Muslim Brotherhood that cashiered the elite of Egyptian university professors from their positions and pensioned off their leader Taha Hussein. It was also the year Nasser started to project Egyptian power onto the local and international scene. The last British soldiers evacuated from the Canal. Egypt was to be a leader of both the Arabs and the “third” and “non-aligned” world.
The failures of the 1954 state were many. Governance in Egypt remains problematic with centralization and repression as its most obvious flaws. Education is in shambles, risking future generations and economic prosperity. The public sector grew larger and more ineffective after the 1961 and 1964 waves of nationalizations. It remains a drag on economic development. Subsidies have created dependence but no prosperity. Egypt still relies unhealthily on foreign aid. It is nearly a rentier state which relies on its “strategic” value to extract support without economic production. Egypt’s bid to lead the Arabs ended in a series of failures: the demise of the union with Syria in 1961, the Yemen war with Saudi Arabia from 1961 to 1967, and finally the shattering defeat in 1967. Its prestige in the wider world is nominal more than real, like an old dowager that everyone respects in spite of her bizarre manner and tatty clothing. Many agreed with this observer’s rather obvious conclusion that President Sisi must pivot away from the 1954 or risk failure. The surprise, if it can be called that, is how the wider Egyptian public seems reluctant to let go of that failing model.
The late Mubarak years were an attempt to shift away from that model, albeit in a clumsy and ultimately unsuccessful manner. While the events of 2011 are always cast as a revolt against authoritarian governance, the reality is that it brought back the two most repressive forces in the Egyptian society, the Army and the Muslim Brotherhood, setting the stage for an even nastier clash between them than in 1954. The Army was called to power twice by the street in January 2011 and again on June 30 2013. The demand for “social justice” was a thinly veiled reprimand for any sensible effort to free the economy from the shackles of the public sector and ruinous subsidies. Attempts to wean the country from poor economic models are inevitably painful, but are often attacked not based on their merits but as a “cave-in” to the evil foreign bankers at the IMF. Prestige and projection of Egyptian power abroad remain popular no matter how ruinous. The left still tweaks Israel without any visible gain, following the model set by the DMNL since it became a patsy of Nasser in 1952. The “sacredness” of Egyptian land is proclaimed with scant attention to history or fact, most notably in the Tiran and Sanafir islands affair. Little effort is dedicated to cultural and economic progress that can lift the majority from misery and set the stage for civilian government based on civilian politics. Faced with the failures of the 1954 state, many Egyptians seem to yearn for its proclaimed promises without attention to its demonstrated failures.
— Maged Atiya
Where is Zakaria?
On the morning of June 3 1967 neighbors of Zakaria Mohieddin, Vice-President of the United Arab Republic, reported that a fleet of cars arrived as his residence and whisked him out. The rumor spread through Cairo rapidly. For many the incident was a ray of hope in an increasingly worrisome situation. The assumption was that Zakaria, a favorite of the West among Egypt’s “Free Officers” was headed to Washington DC to negotiate an end to the impending crisis. President Johnson seemed to hint at an approaching resolution. In fact, Zakaria was ordered by Nasser to fly to Algiers to round up a volunteer force of perhaps 200 men who were unlikely to arrive in less than a couple of weeks.
Zakaria came back to Egypt in time to be its President, days later, for a couple of hours. His star would fade rapidly thereafter. Nasser replaced him as Vice-President with Ali Sabry and then Sadat after the 1968 revolution. But the entire episode with its hallmarks of erratic decision making, waste of valuable time and skilled manpower, and the assumption that the crisis would drag on for some time, was a microcosm of how Nasser handled the disaster of his own making. Zakaria lived on for another 45 years. Unlike Khalid, his cousin and fellow Free Officer, he was silent to his last breath.
— Maged Atiya