Citizenship is not an administrative status, nor a rigid legal description. It is a moral relationship between the individual and the homeland, founded on mutual recognition: the state’s recognition of the dignity of its citizens, and the individual’s recognition of their free belonging to this collective entity. When this relationship is disturbed, the flaw does not lie in legal texts alone, but in the consciousness that precedes them and follows them.
Constitutions are written to regulate reality, but they do not create it on their own. Reality only becomes sound when constitutional values are transformed into a daily culture—one that manifests in language, in public discourse, and in how society views its different members. Therefore, any careless infringement on the language of citizenship, or any implicit classification among the sons and daughters of the same nation, is not an innocent linguistic mistake, but an indicator of a deeper flaw in the understanding of belonging itself.
From here, speaking about citizenship becomes an intellectual necessity before it is a political demand—an ongoing attempt to realign the compass so that the nation remains a unifying entity, whose people are known only as citizens: equal in rights, different in convictions, and partners in destiny.
Citizenship is not a slogan raised on special occasions, nor a constitutional article written and then forgotten. It is an existential, legal, and moral bond that makes a person a citizen because they belong to the homeland—not because they belong to a religion, a group, or a majority. Before being a legal text, it is a deep sense of equal belonging, reflected in language, practice, and in how the state and society view the individual.
The greatest threat to citizenship is not explicit discrimination alone, but rather the subtle discrimination that creeps in through familiar words and seemingly good intentions, yet carries within it an unspoken division of the national body.
From this perspective, I paused—as did others—at what my friend, writer Ibrahim Awad, raised in his critique of the use of the term “our Christian brothers” in state language and official discourse. This critique deserves serious consideration—not as a linguistic debate, but as a matter of conceptual awareness.
For this expression, despite its apparent tone of affection and respect, implicitly carries an inaccurate conception of citizenship. It assumes—unintentionally—that there is an unnamed “original” entity, and another defined by its religious identity, as if Egyptians only come together as brothers within a broader framework, rather than as intrinsic components of one homeland.
Egyptians are not brothers within an entity; they are the entity itself. What unites them is not religion, but the homeland. Their existence is not granted by a majority, because existence precedes the majority. Language here is not a marginal detail—language shapes consciousness and reveals what is entrenched in the collective mind more than intentions ever do. When we are precise with language, we are not indulging in cultural luxury; we are protecting a fundamental constitutional concept: citizenship.
The Egyptian Constitution—like the constitutions of modern states—does not grant rights on a religious basis. It does not treat freedom of belief as a gift from one group to another, nor as a privilege bestowed by a majority upon a minority. It clearly affirms that citizenship is the basis of rights and duties, and that freedom of belief is an inherent right of the citizen, not subject to guardianship or restriction.
Here, an often-overlooked truth must be emphasized: freedom of belief in the modern state is not religious tolerance, nor a social concession, but a constitutional right that precedes and transcends all religious or social interpretations.
Moreover, the essence of citizenship is not confined to adherence to the three monotheistic religions. Today’s world includes nearly eight billion people, more than half of whom do not belong to Islam, Christianity, or Judaism—yet their humanity has not diminished, nor have their homelands stripped them of their rights for that reason.
Egyptians, like all peoples, may have diverse intellectual and doctrinal identities, and differing conceptions of existence, yet they remain full citizens with undiminished rights. Citizenship is not measured by the type of belief, nor by its social acceptance, but by belonging to the homeland and commitment to its law.
The most dangerous forms of discrimination are not those practiced loudly, but those exercised quietly, under banners of reassurance and in the name of social harmony. When rights are treated as concessions, and when the “different” are required to continuously prove their good intentions, we move from a state of citizenship to a society of guardianship.
If we want citizenship to be alive, not merely a constitutional article, we must review our language, discourse, and daily practices—because citizenship is not tested in texts, but in the small details that shape people’s awareness and sense of belonging.
Citizenship is not about living together; it is about living as equals—without labels, without classifications, and without anyone’s permission. I believe that the concept of citizenship, as reflected in governmental awareness and the language of some officials, is in crisis.
Citizenship is neither granted nor withdrawn; it is presumed by virtue of human belonging to the homeland. But when citizens are distinguished as “guests” or “brothers” of the Egyptian entity, belonging itself becomes conditional upon belief, not loyalty to the nation.
In this sense, religion is transformed from a spiritual experience into a civil pass, and from a relationship between the individual and the Creator into a relationship between the citizen and the civil registry clerk.
What has been absent at its core is philosophy itself. Freedom of belief is not merely a legal matter, but a philosophical issue of consciousness. A person’s freedom to believe or not believe, and to choose their own meaning of existence, is what makes them human.
When the state intervenes—directly, implicitly, or through repeated use of certain expressions—in this inner sphere, it does not only violate the law; it infringes upon the domain of consciousness.
In a true civil state, religion belongs to God and the homeland belongs to all. When religion becomes a condition for full citizenship, we are facing a system that reduces the human being to belief, and measures belonging by official faith rather than national participation.
This is the slippery slope that begins in the name of protecting belief and ends in the exclusion of human beings. A strong civil state does not fear diversity; it organizes it through justice. A confident society does not fear difference; it protects it through law.
