Each time I enter a hotel, an airport, or even stop at a highway checkpoint in our beloved Egypt, I wonder: how much of our time is wasted in procedures that we—and those who implement them—know are merely formalities?
Superficial inspections.
Memorized questions.
Devices costing thousands.
Barriers that deter no real danger—only delay movement and burden the spirit.
We enter hotels and malls; bags pass through scanners, some searched perfunctorily. A guard stands with a fixed gaze, repeating instructions he knows are neither firmly enforced nor meaningfully effective.
We enter airports; sometimes shoes are removed, sometimes not—without a clear standard. Bags are searched at entry, then again at boarding—an additional procedure rarely seen outside Egypt.
At road checkpoints, an officer glances at passengers, sometimes opens a trunk, then waves us through.
A passport is stamped by one officer upon departure, only for another soldier a few steps later to reopen it to verify the stamp.
Upon arrival, you wait for your luggage, then stand in a long customs line—green or red channel alike—where an officer asks, “Where are you coming from? Do you have anything to declare?” Random searches follow—some inspected, others not.
After navigating these empty formalities, you ascend to the departure hall because cars are not permitted to enter the arrivals area.
If you are not skilled at navigating Cairo Airport, you may struggle to exit at all—signage unclear, placement illogical.
These are not genuine security measures.
They are administrative rituals—performed like actors in a play whose ending everyone knows.
We know that real threats do not pass through visible gates. Those with harmful intent do not require obvious weapons in open bags.
True security is not built on cameras alone—but on competence and awareness.
The issue is not only inconvenience.
When rules become hollow formalities, respect for law erodes. A sense spreads that everything can be bypassed.
As a society, we do not respect what we do not believe in.
When a procedure loses meaning, it becomes a burden—and eventually, a source of quiet ridicule.
We are not against organization or inspection.
We need them.
But they must be:
• Effective, not theatrical
• Intelligent, not redundantly absurd
• Fair, not arbitrary
What is the value of asking in every airport, “Did you pack your bag yourself?” when both the questioner and the questioned know the rehearsed answer?
Time is our most precious asset.
To waste it in procedures that neither deter danger nor provide safety is a form of disorder disguised as system.
What value was there in filling paper arrival forms in a world already defined by biometric identification—fingerprints and facial recognition? (Thankfully, that requirement was recently suspended.)
Each time I stand before a non-functioning scanner or undergo a pointless procedure, I feel I am participating in an absurdist play—like those written by Samuel Beckett or Eugène Ionesco.
Characters performing roles without knowing why.
Repeated dialogue.
Scenes that never change.
Checkpoints known in advance.
It is theater of meaninglessness.
But unlike real theater, watched for reflection or enjoyment, we are compelled to live this performance daily—and call it “order.”
We need a courageous reassessment of this system.
To redefine “procedure” not as ritual, but as a genuine instrument of safety, quality, and respect.
The dignity of the state is not built on the number of barriers—but on performance, purpose, and citizen awareness.
When I enter Garden City near the U.S. and British embassies, I am struck by the heavy security presence that burdens residents and compounds their daily difficulty year after year.
In social psychology, raising one’s voice does not strengthen an argument—often it signals its weakness.
Likewise, exaggerated procedures do not create security.
They resemble shouting in dialogue—noise without substance.
These formalities may seem administrative details, but at their core they reflect an ancient conflict between form and substance.
As in art, a beautiful painting without an idea is empty.
As in religion, ritual without sincerity is hollow.
In governance, procedures without purpose are no different.
The German philosopher Hegel distinguished between appearance and essence.
Societies progress when form aligns with substance—when procedures reflect authentic purpose, not empty shells.
When form separates from meaning, life becomes theater—and citizens unwilling actors in roles they do not believe in.
My late father-in-law, Hassan Abu Basha—a former Minister of Interior and a cultured, highly regarded security expert—once told me:
“The more police and security vehicles you see heavily present in every street, the more you should know that security is unstable. The more visible the procedures, the weaker the reality behind them.”
Do we wish to remain captive to hollow rituals?
Do we accept security as facade rather than substance—order as decoration rather than culture?
Perhaps it is time to redefine “order” not by the number of obstacles, but by their capacity to achieve a noble human purpose:
Respecting people.
Protecting their time.
Preserving their dignity.
Without turning procedures into mute idols we worship—forgetting why they were created in the first place.
