“The world is not rebalancing… it is fragmenting.”

We have grown accustomed to repeating the term “multipolar” as if history is gently correcting itself, as if power will finally be distributed after decades of dominance. But the truth I want to share is less comforting and far more complex. What we are witnessing is not a new balance emerging from conflict, but rather a structural fragmentation: power is spreading across many actors, while the ability to shape the global order remains strongly concentrated in the hands of a very few.

I would like to present four central reflections that have shaped my analysis:

First reflection: we like to believe that the world is moving toward balance. The idea of “multipolarity” carries a quiet promise of fairness: no one dominates, and every power has something to counterbalance it. But this comforting narrative does not describe what is actually happening. A true multipolar system requires powers that are roughly equal in technological capability, economic depth, military strength, cultural influence, and—above all—the ability to set and rewrite the rules of the international system.

Instead, we see dozens of influential states, but the number of true poles remains extremely limited—sometimes only one.

Power is spreading, but it is not equal. Conflicts are multiplying, yet no actor possesses the full legitimacy or capacity to resolve them or impose a lasting order.

We confuse surface movement—industrial expansion here, military assertion there, the rise of regional players—with structural change. We confuse appearance with capability, and presence with dominance.

This is a dangerous misunderstanding. States overestimate their own weight and underestimate others, building policies on inaccurate assumptions. Misperception turns into miscalculation, and miscalculation leads to poor decisions whose consequences may echo for decades.

Second reflection: Why does American dominance persist?

Not every form of hegemony is temporary. Some powers fade because their sources of strength are finite: exhausted land, depleted resources, defeated armies. The American model works differently. It is not built on a stockpile of power, but on a continuous, self-renewing system that constantly produces power.

Its universities redefine knowledge. Its companies transform that knowledge into products and platforms that reshape markets. Its capital markets absorb risk and turn innovation into wealth. That wealth, in turn, funds new knowledge. The cycle does not merely accumulate—it regenerates.

The gap between the United States and the rest of the world remains wide—perhaps wider than public discourse suggests. The United States still produces about a quarter of global economic output. American companies represent more than 70% of the market value of the world’s largest tech firms. In artificial intelligence and advanced computing, U.S. investment alone exceeds the combined spending of the rest of the world.

In the age of artificial intelligence, this advantage is decisive. AI does not merely add power—it multiplies all existing forms of power: scientific research, decision-making, economic systems, and global influence.

The result is not convergence, but divergence. The gap is not narrowing—it is widening. Lagging behind is no longer a fixed condition, but a continuous and cumulative relative decline.

What we are witnessing, then, is not a simple transition from one dominant power to several equal ones, but a different configuration of the global order, where power is unevenly distributed and competition unfolds across multiple domains.

Third reflection: incomplete global projects

China has achieved one of the greatest catch-up successes in modern history. In just a few decades, it moved from the margins to becoming the world’s second-largest economy, a global manufacturing hub with vast export networks, massive infrastructure, and an unparalleled domestic market. But global leadership requires more than scale. It demands the ability to generate ideas, not merely absorb and refine them; to set rules, not just operate within them.

China is approaching the summit—but approaching is not arriving.

Russia is a military power without economic or technological depth—capable of disrupting international crises, but not of leading the global system.

Europe possesses enormous economic and regulatory influence, but is constrained by fragmented strategic decision-making and the absence of unified political will.

India carries great promise, supported by sustained growth, yet still faces deep internal constraints related to inequality, infrastructure, and uneven development.

The global picture, then, is rich in partial powers, poor in complete poles, and even poorer in genuine strategic cooperation among them.

Fourth reflection: a new definition of power

Power is no longer what it was in previous centuries. It is no longer something stored in military arsenals or measured solely by territory or GDP. It has become a complex, living system—a dynamic interaction among four interconnected elements: knowledge, technology, the economy, and political decision-making, all grounded in available and latent human capabilities.

None of these elements functions in isolation. Knowledge without technology remains an idea. Technology without economic support remains an unfunded possibility. An economy without political direction becomes wealth without purpose. Political will without knowledge or economic foundation becomes little more than loud intent.

This leads us to a crucial distinction: between productive power and consumptive power.

Productive power creates its own tools, develops alternatives, builds relative independence, and generates the conditions for its own continuity. Consumptive power depends on what others produce. It may appear formidable for a time—especially if supported by wealth, geography, or external backing—but it remains fragile because its continuity lies beyond its control.

True power, then, is not possession. It is composition, management, and balance. It is the wisdom to know when to accelerate and when to restrain, when to expand and when to consolidate. The strongest actors are not necessarily those who possess the most, but those who can preserve what they have, expand it, and prevent it from becoming a source of strain, arrogance, or strategic blindness.

Beneath all these structural reflections lies the unavoidable question that returns in every era: how do we understand power, and how do we use it?

Power is neither inherently good nor inherently evil. It is a tool that reveals more than it grants, and exposes more than it conceals. History teaches us that nations do not fall only when they weaken, but also when they misunderstand their strength—when they confuse expansion with permanence, power with wisdom, and prestige with anxiety about the future.

On April 8, 1970, during the War of Attrition, Israeli aircraft turned the Bahr El-Baqar Primary School in Egypt’s Sharqia Governorate into a military target. The raid resulted in the killing of 46 children and the injury of more than 30 others, bringing the total number of child victims to around 80 dead and wounded. The children were sitting in their classrooms, dreaming of a better future, when the bombs rained down on them. There was no real military target inside the school, and to this day, Israel has not issued an official apology commensurate with the scale of the crime.

Today, exactly 56 years later, the tragic scene is repeated on February 28, 2026. In the city of Minab, in Iran’s Hormozgan Province, U.S.-made Tomahawk missiles (as part of a joint U.S.-Israeli operation) targeted the “Good Tree” primary school for girls. The students—mostly girls aged between 7 and 12—were inside their classrooms. The strike resulted in the deaths of between 165 and 180 people, most of them children, and dozens more were injured. There was no apology here either. Not from Washington, nor from Tel Aviv.

A never-ending chain… massacres of children narrate a single philosophy.

Bahr El-Baqar and Minab are but two حلقات (links) in a long chain of massacres in which schools and shelters have been turned into legitimate targets, without any meaningful apology or serious international accountability.

On April 18, 1996, during Operation “Grapes of Wrath,” Israeli artillery shelled a UNIFIL compound in Qana, southern Lebanon, where around 800 Lebanese civilians had taken refuge. The attack killed 106 people, nearly half of them children (52 children), despite the site being internationally protected and well known. A United Nations investigation stated that the attack was “unlikely to be a technical error,” yet Israel claimed it was a mistake and did not issue a formal apology acknowledging responsibility. Western reactions were limited to muted condemnations that quickly faded.

A decade later, on July 30, 2006, tragedy struck Qana again: Israeli aircraft bombed a residential building sheltering displaced people, killing at least 28 individuals (16 of them children), with early reports suggesting higher numbers. Images of children pulled from the rubble sparked temporary global outrage that led to a partial halt in strikes, but once again, no apology was issued, and the attack was justified by claims of “military targets” without conclusive independent evidence.

In Gaza, targeting schools has become a recurring pattern. In 2009, the bombing of the Al-Fakhoura school, run by UNRWA, killed more than 40 people, many of them children. Between 2023 and 2025, attacks on schools such as Al-Fakhoura, Tal al-Zaatar, and others resulted in hundreds of deaths—most of them children and women.

This pattern is not limited to “isolated incidents,” but reflects a double standard that undermines the moral credibility of the international system and turns children’s wounds into fuel for a collective memory that does not forget.

What connects Bahr El-Baqar and Minab, separated by 56 years and thousands of kilometers—and all that came before and between them?

The answer is simple and harsh: an unchanging philosophy. A philosophy that turns the school—symbol of education and the future—into a legitimate target for bombardment. A philosophy that sees children as “acceptable collateral damage,” or ignores their protection under international humanitarian law, which prohibits targeting civilians and educational institutions.

Bahr El-Baqar 1970: a wound that never healed

Egypt was in the midst of the War of Attrition, defending its sovereignty after the 1967 defeat. The school was a clear target despite the absence of any military activity within it. The victims were ordinary Egyptian children. Israel claimed there was a nearby target, but did not issue a formal apology acknowledging the crime. The Western world at the time took a passive stance: some muted condemnations, followed by silence. No sanctions were imposed, and no one was held accountable.

Minab 2026: repetition of tragedy with more advanced technology

In the context of a U.S.-Israeli military escalation against Iran, the strike came on the first day of the operation. Precision missiles hit the school directly during school hours. Yet the United States—which confirmed responsibility for missile launches in southern Iran—did not issue a public apology commensurate with the victims. Israel denied responsibility altogether despite the joint nature of the operation.

Hundreds of children were killed or injured, and not a single word of apology or remorse was heard. This is the most painful similarity.

Disregard for humanity is a continuing pattern. In both cases, schools were not military targets, but symbols of life and future. The victims were innocent children, and the perpetrator is the same: Israel, and the U.S.-Israeli alliance. The outcome is the same: a collective wound in human memory.

This philosophy reflects a strategic vision that sees “military power” as justification for everything—even the killing of children in their classrooms. It is a philosophy that empties humanity of meaning and turns wars into massacres that do not distinguish between combatant and civilian.

The American-Israeli actions and the international response evoke deep sorrow. The United States, which directly participated in the Minab strike, has shown no genuine will for independent investigation or accountability. The Western world—often claiming to defend human rights—has largely limited itself to muted statements or complete silence.

Does the killing of children become “acceptable” when the perpetrator is a strategic ally? This question forces itself forward, revealing a double standard that strips the West of its moral credibility.

The lessons and implications are many. On the anniversary of Bahr El-Baqar, and in the face of fresh blood in Minab, and what is happening in Lebanon and Gaza, we must realize that silence encourages the perpetrator. The wound does not fade from memory, but transforms into a global cry for justice.

The international community must:

• Form an independent investigation committee into the Minab massacre
• Pressure for official recognition and apology for Bahr El-Baqar
• Consider the protection of schools and children in all conflicts a non-negotiable red line

From Bahr El-Baqar to Minab, schools tell one story: children pay the price for a philosophy that does not respect humanity. If this pattern does not change, every school in the world could become a target tomorrow. Memory does not forget. History records. And the enduring question remains: when will the world stop treating children’s blood as “passing news”?

To understand, I read, gathered information, analyzed, and now I share what I’ve concluded.

Many believe that Iran is capable—if it chooses—of closing the Strait of Hormuz. This idea is frequently repeated in political and media analyses, as if it were purely a military matter that could be settled by a decision or direct naval action.

But the reality may be more complex—and more revealing about the nature of the modern world.

The Strait of Hormuz—one of the most critical energy arteries in the world—was not closed this time by warships, missiles, or a naval blockade. What happened was something entirely different: insurance companies stopped the movement.

Not through a direct political decision, but through a technical financial decision made by insurance and reinsurance companies that manage risk in global maritime shipping.

According to the information I gathered, around 107 large cargo ships typically pass through the Strait of Hormuz daily, carrying oil and gas that global economies depend on. These ships represent the lifelines of energy to Asia, Europe, and beyond.

But in recent days, the number dropped to around 19 ships.

A collapse in traffic of nearly 81%.

This didn’t happen because of a naval battle, but because of one decision: the withdrawal of insurance coverage.

To understand what happened, we must understand how the global shipping system works. About 90% of the world’s ships are insured through roughly a dozen maritime insurance institutions, which in turn rely on global reinsurance markets—most of which are centered in London.

When war risks rise in a region, reinsurance companies reassess the situation. If they determine that the risks have become too high, they may withdraw coverage.

And then something simple but decisive happens: without insurance, ships cannot sail.

No shipowner is willing to risk a vessel worth hundreds of millions of dollars without insurance protection.

Thus, the Strait of Hormuz was not closed by a military fleet—it was effectively shut down by calculations on a computer screen inside an insurance company.

But the more important question is not how shipping stopped, but who is actually affected.

The first to be impacted is Iran itself.

Most of Iran’s oil exports pass through the Strait of Hormuz. If shipping is disrupted, its ability to export oil drops sharply, cutting off one of its most vital sources of income—especially during times of tension and conflict.

In other words, the “oil weapon” often seen as leverage for Iran may turn into a burden on it first.

The second most exposed party is China.

China relies heavily on energy passing through this strait. Around 40% of its oil imports go through Hormuz, and about 90% of Iranian oil exports are directed to China. In addition, liquefied natural gas shipments from Qatar to China pass through the same route.

Therefore, any prolonged disruption in this vital corridor shakes one of the pillars of China’s energy security, which explains its quick calls for de-escalation.

The third affected party is the Gulf states themselves.

Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Qatar, Kuwait, and Iraq depend heavily on this maritime route to export oil and gas to the world. Around 20 million barrels of oil pass through the strait daily, and there are no real alternatives capable of handling this massive volume.

In the background of this scene, a less visible yet highly influential force emerges: the British financial system.

London has been a global hub for maritime insurance for centuries—from the famous Lloyd’s market to major reinsurance firms. This gives it indirect but powerful influence.

When insurance companies in London decide that risks are too high, global trade can freeze—without a single shot being fired.

Does anyone benefit from this situation?

In the short term, Russia may benefit. If Gulf oil exports slow down, global prices rise, making Russian oil more attractive—especially in Asia.

As for countries like India, which import around 85% of their oil needs, any disruption in the Strait of Hormuz means higher shipping costs and rising oil prices, putting pressure on inflation and the economy.

While India diversifies its sources between the Gulf, Russia, and others, prolonged instability in this vital route ultimately means everyone pays the price.

The bigger lesson is that geopolitics in today’s world is no longer driven solely by presidents, generals, or even aircraft carriers.

Often, the course of events is shaped by less visible but more powerful systems: insurance mechanisms, financial markets, and global energy networks.

Missiles may make headlines,

but risk models in insurance companies sometimes decide whether global trade moves… or stops.

It is a world no longer controlled by states alone, but also by the systems that manage risk, money, and energy.

And sometimes, a quiet financial decision in an office in London… is enough to change the movement of the world.

“I did not always win… but I always learned.”

What shapes a person in life is not what they gain, but what they lose. Success may add an achievement to our record, but it rarely adds wisdom to our awareness. It is the moments of failure—those small or great defeats we pass through in silence or bitterness—that open within us the great questions: Who are we? And what path were we truly meant to follow?

When we are at the heart of a painful experience, we feel as though the world has narrowed, and that a door leading to our future has been closed forever. But as time passes, it reveals that life is wiser than our plans, and that the path that closed was not the end of the journey, but often a hidden turn leading us to another road—one we might never have discovered had things gone as we wished.

With the passing of years, a person realizes a simple yet profound truth:
that some of what once felt like injustice was, in essence, a lesson, and that some of what we thought was defeat was actually the beginning of our true formation.

A person is not shaped only by what they achieve, but by what they learn from stumbling, and by what they discover about themselves when forced to rise after a fall they did not choose.

These words are not a story of success as much as they are a reflection on those moments that once seemed like loss, but later proved to be the hidden building blocks that shaped who I am.

Life, as I have learned over the years, cannot be understood from its first lines, nor judged from a single moment of pain or loss. Often, days conceal a wisdom we only see later—when we realize that what we thought was a fall was actually the beginning of another path… one we had not planned, but one far broader than we imagined.

I write these words to every young man and woman going through doubt or discouragement, to anyone who believes that losing a battle means the end of a dream. The truth is that life is not measured by a single moment of victory or defeat, but by the experience that accumulates within us, shaping a more mature and understanding self.

When I look back on my early years in medical school, I remember that my dream was clear and simple: to become a surgeon. I studied with passion and achieved excellence in all subjects. But during the oral exam in surgery, a professor deliberately failed me.

It was no secret. The intention was to lower my grade in order to make room for someone else.

It was a harsh moment for a young man who saw his future taking shape. I felt that a door had suddenly closed, and that a great dream had been taken away by a decision unrelated to effort or merit.

But life was writing another chapter I could not yet see.

After graduation, driven by disappointment—and perhaps the desire to start fresh—I decided to move to the United States. I passed the required exams and secured a residency position in surgery at Northwestern University in Chicago. The position was to begin after six months, and I did not want to waste that time, so I applied for a temporary residency in obstetrics and gynecology at Kasr Al-Ainy Hospital.

And there, the same scenario repeated itself.

I was excluded from the position.

At that moment, it was not just about a job—it was about dignity. I was not even particularly interested in the specialty, but I decided to defend my academic right. The issue escalated to the media and eventually reached the dean, who initially reprimanded me for what he saw as defiance. But when he reviewed the grades, he found my case justified. A decision was made to increase the number of positions, and I was accepted as a resident in obstetrics and gynecology.

I thought I would stay in that department for only a few months—until my travel date to the United States.

But life had another surprise.

During those months, I began to discover the depth of this human-centered field. I witnessed the moments of birth and the responsibility of a physician at the most delicate stages of human existence. Gradually, I found myself drawn to it, until I made a decision I had never planned: to stay.

From that decision began an entirely new journey.

The specialty I had entered by coincidence became the field to which I devoted my life. I earned the highest academic degrees, later traveled to the United States for a doctorate and worked at universities in Detroit and Chicago, then returned to Egypt to continue my professional and academic career.

When I look back at that moment in the surgery exam, I realize that the injustice I felt was not the end of the road—it was the turning point that led me to who I became.

This was not the only such experience in my life. I faced similar situations in politics as well, and in every case, I emerged stronger and more capable.

Life has taught me a lesson that repeats itself in many forms:

Not everything that appears to be bad is truly bad.
And not every closed door means the end of the road.

Sometimes what we consider a loss is the very path that leads us to our true selves. And sometimes the injustice we face is the spark that awakens a strength we never knew we had.

So I say to every young man and woman:

Do not drown in a moment of defeat. Do not let losing a single battle mean losing life itself.

Reflect on the experience, learn from it, and allow time to reveal what you could not see in the moment.

For life does not shape us through moments of success alone, but through moments of resilience after breaking.

And if each of us looks honestly at our life, we will discover that much of what we once thought was bad… was in fact the beginning of a good we never expected.

When the United Nations was founded in 1945, after two world wars that tore humanity apart, it was not merely a bureaucratic institution. It was the expression of a deep human dream: that the tragedy should never be repeated.
The first declared goal was the preservation of international peace and security, and the prevention of war through a collective system based on international law. The organization was not created to be an international charity, but to be a bold historical attempt to subject power to ethics, or at least to a shared legal framework capable of restraining it.

After the Second World War, the world realized that leaving power without moral restraint inevitably leads to destruction. The UN project was therefore an expression of a new human awareness: that power, no matter how great, must be limited by the idea of justice.

Today, after nearly eight decades, we have the right to ask:
Has it succeeded?

The objective answer is neither an absolute yes nor a complete failure.

---

First: Failure in Preserving International Security

It cannot be denied that the organization has failed to prevent major wars and prolonged conflicts.
The Security Council, the political heart of the system, has become hostage to the balance of power among the five permanent members, where the veto is used to block decisions at critical moments. This institutional paralysis has made the organization appear powerless in the face of major crises.

The flaw here is not in the idea of the United Nations itself, but in the political structure of the Security Council, which reflects the balance of power of 1945, not the world of today.

The United Nations was not designed to stand above the great powers, but as a result of their agreements. When these powers clash, the institution freezes.

---

Second: Power Is Not Evil… but It Is Blind

In political theory, a distinction is always made between power as a tool and power as a goal.
When power becomes a goal in itself, it loses its moral dimension.
When it is restrained by agreed rules, it becomes a guarantee of stability.

The Security Council represents this permanent tension.
The five major powers were not given veto power because they were more moral, but because they were — and still are — the strongest.

In other words, the international system did not abolish power; it acknowledged it and tried to contain it.
The problem is that containment has sometimes turned into domination.

When the Security Council fails to make a decision because of conflicting interests among major powers, the failure is not technical, but philosophical.
It is a failure to balance the scale of power with the scale of justice.

This raises a fundamental question:
Can an international system be moral if it is built upon an unequal distribution of power?

Reality tells us that ignoring power is an illusion, but ignoring ethics is a catastrophe.

---

Third: Achievements That Must Not Be Denied

Limiting the evaluation of the United Nations to the security file alone is an unfair reduction.
Under the UN umbrella operate institutions and programs that have changed the lives of hundreds of millions, such as:

• The World Health Organization, which led campaigns against epidemics and global vaccination programs.

• UNESCO, which preserved human heritage and supported education and culture.

• UNICEF, which works to protect children in areas of war and poverty.

• The United Nations Development Programme, which supports sustainable development in developing countries.

This humanitarian and developmental system has not failed.
It has evolved and proven effective in health, education, environment, and poverty reduction.

The developmental and humanitarian side operates in a space less dominated by hard power.
In this space, ethics can move more freely.

Health, education, development — fields where the desire for domination recedes in favor of common interest.

It is as if the UN system succeeded where the struggle for power weakened, and failed where it intensified.

---

Fourth: Why the Solution Should Not Be Destruction

Calling for the dismantling of the international system would in practice mean returning to a world governed by raw balances of power without a unifying legal framework.

The alternative is not a perfect system, but an international vacuum that may be far more chaotic.

History teaches us that international institutions are not easily destroyed and replaced by better ones.
They are often demolished in moments of anger, then missed in moments of chaos.

The existence of a weak institution that can be reformed is better than its absence.
Even in its weakness, the UN remains a symbolic moral space reminding the world that there is a law higher than cannons.

Destruction is not a solution —
it is a victory for naked power: temporary alliances, arms races, and interests without a shared framework.

---

Fifth: What Does the International System Need?

Reform, not demolition.

Among the most important paths for development:

• Reforming the Security Council to reflect current global balances

• Reviewing the veto mechanism or restricting its use in cases of mass crimes

• Strengthening the role of the General Assembly as a broader representation of international will

• Linking security to development, since poverty and injustice are roots of many conflicts

• Integrating new actors from civil society and regional organizations into decision-making mechanisms

Reform is not an administrative luxury.
It is a historical necessity — and a moral act — to restore people’s trust in the international system.

Reforming the Security Council, reviewing the veto, expanding representation — all these steps help rebalance the relationship between power and legitimacy.

Legitimacy is not the opposite of power; it is the source of its sustainability.
Power that lacks moral legitimacy eventually becomes a burden on its owner before it becomes a burden on others.

---

Between Political Realism and Moral Idealism

The United Nations is an attempt to reconcile two schools:

• The realist school, which sees states as acting according to interests, not values

• The idealist school, which relies on international law and human conscience

It is neither pure idealism nor pure realism.
It is a historical compromise between them.

But whenever the global balance of power shifts, this compromise trembles.

---

Conclusion

The real question is not:
Did the United Nations fail?

But rather:
Has the world succeeded in raising its political awareness to the level of the UN idea?

The United Nations is not independent from the will of states; it is their mirror.
When it fails, it reflects a flaw in international awareness, not merely an institutional flaw.

The UN has not failed as a comprehensive human system,
but it has stumbled in its most important political function: preserving international peace and security.

This stumbling does not require destruction, but courageous revision.

The organization is not a concrete building that can be demolished and rebuilt.
It is a network of relationships, interests, and legal frameworks that form the minimum order in a world naturally inclined toward conflict.

The struggle between power and ethics will remain as long as humanity exists.
But the value of the UN project is that it made this struggle visible, subject to debate and law — not to bullets alone.

In a time when nationalism, populism, isolation, and geopolitical confrontations are rising,
developing the international system becomes a civilizational and moral necessity before it is a political choice.

Continuing my article from the Wednesday before last about teaching Arabic in the pre-school stage, I found—based on my experience in policymaking—that it is useful to outline a general framework for building a bridge between colloquial Arabic and Standard Arabic before the child enters school.

This article discusses the relationship between language and awareness in early childhood, focusing on the gap between colloquial and Standard Arabic when the Egyptian child enters basic education, with an educational and civilizational analysis supported by applied linguistics literature.

Studies indicate that a child aged five to six in English-speaking environments possesses a receptive vocabulary of about 8,000 to 15,000 words, and an expressive vocabulary of approximately 2,500 to 6,000 words.

In the Arab—specifically Egyptian—context, the child has a good colloquial vocabulary, but the challenge appears when transitioning to Standard Arabic due to the phenomenon of diglossia and its impact on phonological and reading awareness.

Research on phonological awareness in Arabic has shown that the distance between colloquial and Standard Arabic may increase the cognitive load in the early stages of learning to read, as the child learns reading and the language of reading at the same time.

At the same time, the root-based system of Arabic represents a cognitive advantage that can be exploited early, since morphological awareness contributes to supporting reading and comprehension skills.

Multilingualism as an Opportunity

Research on bilingualism indicates that children are capable of absorbing more than one linguistic system, and that multilingualism may enhance executive flexibility and the ability to switch between systems.

Toward a National Vision

These findings call for the design of educational policies that consider a gradual transition between colloquial and Standard Arabic, introducing simplified Standard Arabic in the preschool stage, and training teachers in the conscious switching between the two registers.

Executive Summary

The Egyptian child enters school with a well-established oral linguistic system (colloquial Arabic), while school knowledge is presented in a different standard language (Standard Arabic).
This transition is not a development within one linguistic system, but a shift between two distinct systems in vocabulary, structure, and rhythm.

As a result, the child does not only learn to read at the age of six, but also learns the language of reading at the same time, because he did not acquire its vocabulary in earlier years. This doubles the cognitive load and affects early reading comprehension.

The problem is not diglossia itself, but the absence of an early methodological bridge between colloquial and Standard Arabic before school age.

---

First: Diagnosing the Problem

1. Nature of the linguistic gap

When entering school, the child faces changes including:

• Change in vocabulary (e.g., shanta → haqiba, mayya → ma’),

• Difference in negation system (mafīsh → lā yūjad),

• Shift in rhythm and morphological structure,

• Higher level of abstraction.

The child is not moving to a higher level within the same system, but from one system to another.

2. Educational impact

This unprepared transition leads to:

• Increased cognitive load when learning to read,

• Weak early reading comprehension,

• Association of Standard Arabic with exams rather than life,

• Widening gap between children depending on their cultural backgrounds.

3. Neurological dimension

Research in neurolinguistics indicates that before school age, the child forms an internal auditory system including:

• The music of language,

• Sentence structure,

• Patterns of negation and questioning,

• Structural patterns.

If Standard Arabic is not formed auditorily during this stage, the child begins learning it late, which increases the effort required during reading.

---

Second: Language as Cognitive Equity

Language before school is not a grammatical issue, but an issue of educational justice.

A child who enters school familiar with simplified Standard Arabic reads the text without alienation and understands meaning without extra burden.
A child who hears Standard Arabic for the first time in a formal school context starts one step behind.

This small step at the beginning may expand in its effects throughout the years of education.

---

Third: Strategic Goal

Transform diglossia from a transitional gap into an early conscious bilingualism.

The goal is not to eliminate colloquial Arabic, but to build a gradual methodological bridge from colloquial to Standard Arabic before school.

Colloquial is the language of daily life and social warmth.
Standard Arabic is the language of books, written knowledge, and abstract thinking.
Both are complete systems, but with different functions.

---

Fourth: Practical proposals

1. “The Eloquent Ear” Program (ages 3–6)

• Introduce illustrated stories in simplified Standard Arabic in kindergartens.

• Train teachers to use natural, non-artificial Standard Arabic in explanation and dialogue.

• Allocate a short daily listening time for simplified Standard texts.

2. Supporting children’s media content

• Increase the proportion of simplified Standard Arabic in cartoons and programs.

• Support production of interactive digital content in Standard Arabic.

3. Family involvement

• Provide simple guidance materials for parents about the importance of daily reading in Standard Arabic.

• Encourage storytelling in a standard but child-friendly language.

4. Gradual transition in early grades

• Use transitional texts combining familiarity and abstraction.

• Reduce linguistic shock at the start of formal education.

Multilingualism is not a threat.
Early reinforcement of Standard Arabic does not conflict with learning foreign languages.
On the contrary, research shows that the child’s brain is highly flexible and capable of learning multiple linguistic systems simultaneously.

Children who grow up bilingual often show:

• Greater mental flexibility,

• Higher attention control,

• Deeper understanding of language structure.

The problem is not the number of languages, but the absence of one essential system in the daily environment.

If Standard Arabic is absent auditorily until school age, the child begins learning it late.

Building an “eloquent ear” early does not limit English learning — it strengthens the child’s ability to move between languages with confidence.

Before school, we do not only teach words.
We build the structure on which thinking itself will stand.

It is not the number of languages that matters,
but the quality of the bridges between them.

Whoever builds language well before school… builds the human being well.

Shaping Collective Consciousness in the Middle East

By Hossam Badrawi

In the Middle East, wars do not begin when rockets are launched, but when narratives are crafted.

Israel and the United States announce strikes on Iran and the killing of its leaders in documented and declared military operations, celebrated politically and in the media. Iran responds with targeted strikes toward American bases and Gulf targets.

The media speaks of a “comprehensive war,” yet the number of casualties can be counted on fingers, and the visual imagery does not exceed columns of smoke here and there. Israel shows no significant losses.

So where is the comprehensive war?
Are we facing a major confrontation, or a calculated management of image-building within regional consciousness?

The real defeat does not occur on the battlefield, but in awareness.

The difference between the event and its narrative is no longer a detail. In the age of the image, narrative has become part of the weapon. The military impact may be controlled, but the psychological impact is amplified.

The battle has shifted from rockets to perception: who has the right to define reality?

In classical wars, destruction preceded narrative.
Today, narrative precedes destruction—or may replace it altogether.

The event is presented as a regional earthquake, while the material facts remain relatively limited. No notable Israeli losses. A limited Iranian response. Yet the media language is saturated with existential finality.

This gap between reality and image raises an old philosophical question:
Are we living the event—or its representation?

The battle is no longer only on the ground, but in shaping collective perception.
And the real defeat does not occur on the battlefield, but in awareness.

I am not a supporter of Iran’s clerical regime. I see it as a rigid dictatorship that has often restricted its people and exported its crises. But that does not negate an objective truth: Iran was subjected to the initial military strike and the killing of its leadership. Rejecting authoritarianism does not mean accepting the violation of sovereignty. Political justice is not built on ideological hatred.

Ironically, a wide sector of Arab media focuses insistently on the Iranian response, presenting it as the greater threat.

As if aggression from an ally becomes “preventive action,” while aggression from an adversary becomes an “existential threat.” This is not merely double standards—it is moral reengineering of consciousness.

Everyone speaks of the “Iranian nuclear threat.” Rarely is the simple question asked: what about Israel’s nuclear project? Israel has possessed implicitly acknowledged nuclear capabilities for decades, outside binding international oversight and without joining the Non-Proliferation Treaty, yet this reality is treated as a natural right or an insignificant detail.

Why does one state’s possession of deterrent weapons become a cosmic threat, while another’s becomes an unspoken norm?

If standards are not unified, the problem is not the weapon, but the balance of power that determines who is granted legitimacy to possess it and who is denied.

Double standards do not produce security—they produce permanent tension.

Another question arises: if the U.S. president declared months ago that Iran’s nuclear capability had been eliminated, why is the same file revived to justify new escalation? Or was the objective never nuclear to begin with?

In international politics, major battles are not fought over slogans, but over corridors, energy resources, and balances of influence.

Neutralizing or weakening Iran affects not only the Gulf, but extends to calculations involving China, energy routes, and the Belt and Road map—reconsolidating uncontested Israeli regional superiority.

Today, the region appears to live in behavioral schism. The rhetoric speaks of stability, while actual policies lay the foundations for instability.

Non-proliferation slogans are raised, while an existing arsenal outside oversight remains unspoken. Security is declared as the goal, while policies deepen divisions.

This is schism in its pure form: awareness of risks paired with insistence on moving toward them. When behavioral schism becomes regional rather than individual, the result is not confusion—it is slow political suicide.

Regional suicide does not mean immediate collapse. It means building a security system based on permanent imbalance: one power imposing absolute superiority, others seeking unconventional deterrence, an undeclared arms race, and peoples whose consciousness is reshaped around fear rather than reason.

When fear becomes the driver, wisdom disappears.

Egypt cannot be a spectator here. By geography, history, military capacity, and demographic weight, Egypt is a balance-of-power state.

Today, I see the Egyptian–Saudi alliance not as a temporary tactical option, but as an existential necessity. Egypt, with its military and geographic weight, and Saudi Arabia, with its economic strength and central role in global energy, together form an indispensable pillar of stability. Any disruption in this equation opens the door to a strategic vacuum that major powers will rush to fill.

In this moment of redrawing maps, strategic coordination with Turkey is also a necessity, not a luxury.

Turkey is a regional power with industrial and military depth, and a position controlling vital corridors between Asia and Europe. Political differences are not managed by rupture, but by redefining shared interests.

If Cairo, Riyadh, and Ankara recognize that the moment of unilateral dominance is approaching, then building a cohesive regional balance becomes a condition for protecting each nation’s sovereign decision-making.

The alternative is clear and dangerous: accepting unquestionable supremacy, remaining silent about double standards, and allowing legitimacy to be monopolized by one side.

At that point, we would have institutionalized collective behavioral schism: declaring that we seek stability while adopting policies that guarantee instability.

The Middle East must break this schism before it becomes destiny.

If the logic of hegemony continues unchecked, and if the media continues engineering public emotion to normalize permanent superiority, then everyone—without exception—participates in constructing a long-term regional suicide.

The real battle is not in the number of rockets, but in the number of minds being reprogrammed.

When media becomes an instrument of systematic emotional engineering, truth becomes the first casualty.

The question will not be who won the round—but whether we possess the courage to break the trajectory before decline becomes the norm.

History does not forgive those who see danger—and choose spectatorship.

A child does not enter school at the age of six as a blank page.
They enter carrying a whole world of words, images, rhythms, and dialogues that have inhabited their ears since birth.

But the question we do not ask often enough is:
Which language enters with them?

The issue is not the number of words a child knows before the age of six, but the nature of the linguistic system forming inside them before they learn to read.

When we say that a five-year-old possesses thousands of words, the number itself means little.
A word is not merely a lexical unit; it is a tool of classification, a gateway to perception, and a structure of thought.

Every vocabulary item adds a relationship.
Every relationship adds a capacity for thinking.

Thus, linguistic richness before school is not an educational luxury; it is a prerequisite for cognitive readiness.

In English-speaking environments, a child does not experience a linguistic leap between home and school.
The language they hear is the same one they will read.

In the Arab context, however, the situation is fundamentally different.

The Egyptian Arab child lives in a unique state of diglossia:
a daily colloquial… and a standard formal Arabic.

When they enter school, they do not move from one level to another within the same system —
they move from one system to another.

The sound changes.
The structure changes.
The level of abstraction changes.

They are not merely learning to read;
they are learning a new language for reading.

Colloquial Arabic is not a linguistic error. It is a living system, fully functional in its context.
Egyptian colloquial Arabic has clear tense structures, a regular negation system, and recurring syntactic patterns.
It is not chaos; it is a different system.

But the two systems do not serve the same function.

The problem is not diglossia itself —
it is the absence of a bridge between them.

The crisis does not lie in the coexistence of colloquial and formal Arabic, but in leaving the child to cross the gap alone upon entering school.

If the child is not exposed to simplified formal Arabic before school, they find themselves reading in a language they have not heard sufficiently.

Reading then becomes a double task:
first understanding the vocabulary of the language…
then understanding the text.

Here the gap widens.

A child is capable of carrying two systems — if introduced to both early.

Before school, the very structure upon which all thinking will stand is being formed.
Language is not merely a medium of instruction; it is the tool through which human awareness is constructed.

---

Awareness does not suddenly emerge upon entering school.
It forms gradually in the first words a child hears and in the way they are addressed.

When a child is spoken to in rich descriptive language, their perception changes.
They no longer see merely a “tree,” but a “trunk, leaves, shade, and fruit.”

The word does not just describe the object;
it dismantles and reconstructs it in the mind.

Language is not a reflection of awareness; it is its factory.

The human being is layered by nature.
When a child moves fluidly between colloquial and formal Arabic, this is not confusion but cognitive flexibility — a mind capable of switching, interpreting, and choosing.

This linguistic switching is not merely a skill of the tongue;
it is early training in plurality and in understanding that meaning has levels.

Before school, we are not teaching words;
we are giving tools for shaping the inner world.
Whoever builds language well builds the human being well.

A child who grows up bilingual — speaking Arabic and English, for example — reaches school with two auditory systems already present in the brain, capable of accommodating both.

But the Egyptian child often arrives with only one system: colloquial.

Then we suddenly ask them to think, write, and learn in formal Arabic — a language they have not sufficiently heard.

Here the shock begins.

From an educational neuroscience perspective, children do not merely learn words; they learn:

• The rhythm of the language

• Its music

• Sentence structure

• Patterns of negation

• Forms of questioning

This forms what is called the internal auditory system.

A French or English child enters school already hearing the same language at home.

An Egyptian child enters school to begin a new one.

Even if vocabulary sometimes overlaps,
the rhythm differs,
the structure differs,
the morphology differs.

In essence, the Egyptian child does not move to a higher level within the same linguistic system —
they move to an entirely new system.

In Arabic, the gap is wide because:

• The lexicon differs

• The grammar differs

• The negation system differs

• Even pronouns and verb forms often differ

Thus, formal Arabic feels like a new language.

From a philosophical angle, language is not merely a vehicle of information.
Language is the structure of consciousness itself.

We do not think outside language.
We think within it.

If the language of daily thought differs from the language of learning, the child may experience an internal division — creating distance between life and knowledge.

Research on bilingual children shows they are:

• More capable of cognitive switching

• More flexible in thinking

• Better able to view ideas from multiple perspectives

But the key condition is that both linguistic systems are present auditorily from an early age.

In our case, we do not build balanced bilingualism; we create a transitional gap.

The child does not hear formal Arabic at home nor see it widely in their natural environment, yet is required to understand science in it. Formal Arabic becomes associated with exams — not life.

The solution is not eliminating diglossia, but transforming it into conscious bilingualism.

Let the child hear formal Arabic early — in stories, calm dialogue, simplified explanation without artificiality — until they develop a “formal ear.”

Then formal Arabic will not be merely the language of books, but a higher register of their own language.

The key point:
A child can arrive at school with more than one language — and this is healthy and advisable.

Up to age six, the brain can contain two, three, or even more linguistic systems without difficulty.

The problem is not the child.
The problem is that formal Arabic is absent as a living system in their environment, so they begin learning it too late.

Once again: every language has its own system and vocabulary. A child can acquire six languages — sometimes more — in early childhood. The issue is that formal Arabic is not present in the child’s environment as a system to acquire, because colloquial Arabic is itself a distinct language with its own vocabulary and grammar.

In the next article, I will present an educational policy paper addressing this challenge.

When we speak of “investment in education,” perspectives diverge and concepts become blurred. Some understand investment as a financial project seeking quick returns, while I—and many others—see it as investment in the human being, not the market; in awareness, not profits.

Education is not a commodity to be bought and sold; it is a fundamental right of every citizen, guaranteed by the state just as it guarantees healthcare, dignity, and justice. When a right becomes a product, imbalance begins—because quality is measured by the ability to pay, not the ability to understand.

Believing education is a right does not contradict investing in it. On the contrary, the greatest investment any state can make is in the minds of its people. The essential distinction is this:

Do we invest to gain money?
Or do we invest to build a human being?

Noble investment in education means:

• Building modern schools worthy of children’s dignity

• Preparing teachers who are respected materially and morally, trained in thinking rather than rote instruction

• Developing curricula that foster critical thinking, not mechanical memorization

• Linking education to the labor market without reducing it to the market

A state that spends on education does not “lose”—it plants seeds. The return does not appear in next year’s budget, but in societal stability decades later. Every pound spent on a child today saves many times its value tomorrow in security, health, employment, and extremism prevention.

When education becomes a purely profit-driven industry, we create a dangerous knowledge-based class divide: education for elites and education for necessity, widening the gap between those who possess knowledge and those deprived of it. This is not only an economic gap, but a gap in awareness, belonging, and participation in nation-building.

I do not oppose private-sector participation in education; I consider it necessary. But it must operate within a clear national philosophy:
Profit is acceptable—but not at the expense of justice.
Development is required—but not at the cost of excluding the poor.

Education is not a burden on the state—it is its most powerful tool for shaping the future.

If economic investment is measured by financial return, investment in education is measured by awareness, creativity, and the ability to differ without violence.

Countries that advanced did not build skyscrapers before building great minds. They did not open markets before opening books.

Education is a right—yes.
But it is also the greatest investment.

The difference between those who see it as a commodity and those who see it as a mission is the difference between a state that sells the future and one that creates it.

---

A Warning: Do Not Turn the Mission into a Commodity

I repeat: Education is a right, not a service for sale.

This is not a rhetorical slogan—it is a philosophical principle that must govern all public policy in this field.

The problem does not begin with private-sector participation in education; it begins when the state itself adopts market logic and becomes a competitor selling educational services instead of remaining the guarantor of the right.

When the state invests in education with a commodity mindset, it shifts from guardian of justice to economic player. Here lies the dangerous deviation: success becomes measured by enrollment numbers and revenue, rather than expanding awareness, narrowing knowledge gaps, and building creative, thinking citizens.

The state is not a company.
Its mission is not to generate educational profits, but to generate civilizational returns.

Education is a long-term investment whose returns are developmental, not immediate financial gains.

---

The True Economic Dimension of Investing in Education

The economic return of education does not appear in annual budgets, but in the structure of the entire economy:

• Each additional year of education raises individual productivity

• Early childhood investment reduces future healthcare, crime, and unemployment costs

• Strong education systems attract quality investment—not fragile capital

Countries that achieved major economic leaps did not start with taxes or megaprojects—they started by reforming schools.

The greatest return on educational investment is:

• A knowledge-based economy, not a rent-based one

• A productive labor market, not a consumptive one

• A stable society with limited knowledge gaps

Selling education creates a stratified knowledge economy: a capable minority and a constrained majority—an ethical failure and a long-term economic disaster.

---

The Teacher: The True Starting Point

No educational vision can succeed without addressing the teacher.
No reform is possible without rebuilding faculties of education.

If a state declares a vision based on critical thinking and active learning, yet graduates teachers trained in rote methods, we face a structural contradiction.

Building the teacher must precede building the buildings.

The teacher is not a content transmitter—but a consciousness shaper.

True investment in humanity begins with investing in those who shape human beings.

This requires:

• Updating education college curricula to align with declared philosophy

• Continuous, meaningful professional training

• Improving teachers’ material and social conditions to make teaching a respected profession

• Careful selection of teacher candidates based on competence and influence

Investing in teachers yields the highest educational return possible.

---

Final Word

Education is not a field for economic bidding wars.
The state must not abandon its role as guarantor of rights to become a market competitor.

Investing in education is not a profit project—it is a long-term national mission.

It is an investment in collective consciousness, national security, and the future of the economy.

A state that sells education may balance a budget.
But a state that builds education builds a nation.

The Discrimination We Don’t See… Because It Looks Like Us

With a realistic view, I find that we deny discrimination while practicing it at the same time. Few of us accept being described as racist; we like to see ourselves as tolerant, well-intentioned, people who do not deliberately exclude anyone and do not practice overt hatred toward those who are different.

But human history teaches us an important lesson: the most dangerous forms of discrimination are not those practiced with hostility, but those practiced through habit.

Discrimination does not always begin with a hateful slogan. It may start with an administrative procedure, a social custom, or a “normal” practice that we have never stopped to question in terms of its meaning or impact.

In schools, during religion class, the teacher asks Christian students to leave the classroom when Islamic studies are taught.
This may seem organizational, even well-intentioned: “Everyone learns their own religion.” But the real question here is not educational—it is human.

What does the child understand from this scene?
Does the child grasp the difference between religious specialization and symbolic exclusion?

A child does not read the constitution or understand the philosophy of pluralism. The child understands one clear thing: religious difference means leaving the group.

Thus, unintentionally, we plant early in the mind the idea that citizenship is conditional, and that belonging is not inclusive but divisible.

When Al-Azhar University includes faculties of medicine, engineering, science, and agriculture, it has—by reality—ceased to be a purely religious institution and has become a higher-education institution graduating doctors and engineers who work in a civil state.

The question here is not about the status of Al-Azhar, but a simple and fair one:
Why should an Egyptian citizen be prevented from studying medicine or engineering because of their religion?

• The curriculum is scientific.

• The degree is civil.

• The funding comes from public money.

So what justification remains other than discrimination based on religious identity, even if it is not named as such?

One of the quietest yet most impactful forms of discrimination is the presence of a “religion” field on the national ID card. It raises a logical question:
Does a traffic officer, a bank employee, or a judge need to know my religion?
Does my religion affect my right to healthcare, employment, or justice?

If the answer is no, then the existence of this field does not serve administration; rather, it turns spiritual belonging into a tool of civil classification and silently opens the door to discrimination.

Broadcasting Friday sermons through loudspeakers at high volume—overlapping to the point that the sermon cannot even be followed—is not a matter of religious preaching. Anyone who wishes to listen can go to the mosque on Friday by choice.

At its core, this practice is a symbol of the forced presence of one religion in the public sphere.
The patient, the student, the non-Muslim, and even the Muslim who does not wish to listen—all become recipients without choice.

Faith, in its essence, is not broadcast by force, nor imposed by loud sound. It speaks to the heart and mind through freedom.

The truth is that discrimination in Egypt is not limited to religion alone. It seeps into our daily lives in more common—and more denied—forms.

We practice class discrimination when we link human value to appearance, accent, or residential address.
When someone from a working-class neighborhood is treated as less competent, when a person from a village is assumed to be less civilized, or when a public-school graduate is viewed with suspicion rather than objective evaluation.

This may not be said explicitly, but the look of condescension, the tone of voice, and the methods of selection all teach people—without a direct lesson—that opportunities are not distributed fairly, but according to social status.

We practice discrimination against women when we accept—without protest—that they are asked about their intentions to marry before their professional competence, or when their ambition is judged as “rebellion,” while the same ambition in a man is rewarded as “leadership.”

When guardianship is justified in the name of protection, or when women’s social roles are reduced to predefined limits, we are not protecting values—we are legalizing inequality in the name of custom.

We practice geographic discrimination when we classify people according to their governorates, tell jokes, build stereotypes, and treat some areas as “margins” rather than full centers of citizenship.

As if geography determines intelligence, evaluates merit, or grants a person added or diminished value.

We practice silent discrimination against people with disabilities when we treat their presence as a burden rather than a right; when we build cities they cannot navigate and institutions that do not address their needs; or when parents protest their inclusion in classrooms as if they will slow down their children’s learning—then we wonder why they are “absent” from public life.

Here, discrimination lies not in cruelty, but in chronic neglect.

All these forms are often not practiced with bad intentions, nor declared as exclusion, but they share one dangerous thing:
They teach people—from a young age—who deserves, who is marginalized, who is seen, and who is expected to fade away.

A just state does not resemble its citizens—it protects them.
A modern state does not ask its citizens to be identical, to abandon their faith, or to hide their identities. It is required to do one clear thing:
To be neutral and fair, and not discriminate among its citizens on the basis of religion, gender, class, geography, or physical ability.

Good intentions are not enough. Someone may say, “We do not intend to discriminate,” and that is often true. But justice is not measured by intentions—it is measured by outcomes.

When a citizen feels less visible, less entitled, or different in a way that excludes them, the problem exists, even if cruelty is absent.

The problem is not religion, but turning it—unintentionally—into a criterion of citizenship.
It is not faith, but using it as a tool of civil organization.

What may be required today is not a revolution against society, not a clash with religion, nor even a sudden change in laws. What is required is quiet moral courage.

To pause. To ask. To review what we have grown accustomed to.

For when religion is a free choice, it elevates the human being; when it becomes an imposed identity, it weakens faith and humiliates citizenship.

A strong state is not one in which a single voice dominates, but one in which every citizen—no matter how different—feels seen, respected, and equal.

True progress does not begin with chanting, but with awareness; it does not begin with confrontation, but with understanding and accepting difference. And sustainable, constructive progress can only endure through justice and reason.

And reason—always—begins with a question.