I recently participated in a televised discussion about the future of Egypt’s presidency, following President Abdel Fattah El-Sisi’s announcement that he does not intend to amend the Constitution to extend his presidential term beyond 2030, and that he will abide by the constitutionally निर्धारित term limit.

What caught my attention was the extent of the public celebration surrounding this announcement, as though respecting the Constitution had become an exceptional act worthy of celebration, rather than a natural obligation incumbent upon anyone entrusted with public responsibility, foremost among them the President of the Republic.

I say this without diminishing the importance of the announcement, but rather in recognition of its significance, while expressing my astonishment that compliance with constitutional rules should itself become welcome news. The Constitution is not a gift from the ruler to the people. It is the nation’s social contract, defining the limits of power, safeguarding rights, and guaranteeing the peaceful transfer of authority. It is the reference point to which we turn when we disagree, not merely when we agree.

Respecting the Constitution should never come as a surprise. It is violating it that should be unthinkable.

During the discussion, the conversation moved to the President’s proposal to prepare and train qualified individuals capable of assuming the presidency, particularly holders of advanced academic degrees, through a 30-month training program at the Military Academy.

My response was clear: Preparing future leaders is commendable, and training in state affairs is essential. However, we must not confuse preparing citizens to assume responsibility with requiring them to pass through a particular institution before they are permitted to exercise their constitutional right to run for office.

Article 141 of the Egyptian Constitution specifies the conditions for running for President of the Republic and refers to the law for additional requirements within its constitutional framework. The existing requirements do not include holding a doctoral degree or completing prior military training.

There is a fundamental difference between making a voluntary leadership development program available and turning that program into a mandatory gateway to presidential candidacy. In a democratic state, the President is not appointed after passing an examination designed by the incumbent authorities. Rather, the people choose their President through free elections among candidates who meet the constitutional and legal requirements.

A candidate may be a distinguished academic holding the highest qualifications, a politician whose experience comes from public service, a successful economist, or a community leader with a compelling vision and the ability to persuade others. A PhD is evidence of specialization and research capability, but it is not a certificate of political wisdom, integrity, the ability to manage differences, or the capacity to build national consensus.

The Military Academy is an institution with an important status and role. However, political life extends far beyond any single institution, whether civilian or military. The state cannot be reduced to one institution, regardless of its importance. The nation belongs to all its citizens.

Then came a question that opened a much broader discussion than I had anticipated. The interviewer asked me: Would you accept a Christian serving as Egypt’s Prime Minister?

My answer was simple: Why not?

I went even further, pointing out that the constitutional requirements for presidential candidacy themselves make no distinction between Muslims and Christians, or between men and women. What matters is fulfilling the constitutional and legal requirements, possessing the necessary qualifications and leadership abilities, and ultimately gaining public acceptance through free and fair elections.

I was not expressing a religious opinion, nor was I advocating for choosing someone because of their faith or gender. I was discussing a clear constitutional principle: equality in citizenship.

Yet the reactions that followed the interview surprised me even more than the original question.

I encountered people confidently asserting that a woman cannot govern Egypt and that a Christian cannot become President of the Republic. Some even cited the Constitution as though it explicitly prohibited such possibilities!

At that moment, I realized that we are facing more than a mere difference of opinion. We are confronting a deeper problem in understanding the relationship between religion and the state, between citizenship and political authority, and between constitutional provisions and social culture.

What Does the Constitution Actually Say?

Article 141 of the Egyptian Constitution sets out the requirements for presidential candidacy. These include Egyptian nationality, with both parents being Egyptian; the enjoyment of civil and political rights; completion of military service or a lawful exemption from it; and a minimum age of 40, in addition to other conditions stipulated by law. Nowhere in this article is there a requirement that the candidate must be Muslim or male.

Article 53 establishes the equality of all citizens before the law and prohibits discrimination on the grounds of religion, belief, or gender. Meanwhile, Article 11 affirms the state’s commitment to achieving equality between women and men in civil, political, and other rights.

As for Article 2, which establishes Islam as the religion of the state and the principles of Islamic Sharia as the principal source of legislation, it does not stipulate that the President of the Republic must be Muslim.

Here, we must distinguish between the constitutional identity of the state and the political rights of the citizens who belong to it. The Egyptian state, with its history, civilization, and human diversity, does not belong to one religious community at the expense of another, or to one gender at the expense of the other.

If we believe that Egyptians are equal in their duties, how can we accept that some of them should enjoy fewer rights than others? Do we expect Christian citizens to pay taxes, abide by the law, participate in building the nation, and defend it, only to tell them that there is an unwritten ceiling they must never cross, regardless of their qualifications?

And do we celebrate Egyptian women as doctors, judges, ministers, scientists, and university professors, only to retreat when it comes to the highest political office, as though their ability to lead suddenly ends at the doors of the presidency?

Citizenship that stops at certain boundaries is not full citizenship. It is conditional equality.

This raises a philosophical question that goes beyond legal texts: Is democracy simply majority rule, or is it also a system that protects the minority’s right to participate, compete, and enjoy equal opportunities?

The majority in any society may belong to a particular religion, and naturally, its culture and values will influence public life. But democracy does not mean that the identity of the majority becomes a prerequisite for monopolizing political power. The majority chooses who governs, but it does not have the right to strip minorities of their right to put themselves forward for that choice.

There is an enormous difference between a voter rejecting a candidate because they disagree with the candidate’s platform or question their qualifications, and believing that the candidate does not have the right to run in the first place because of their religion or gender.

The first is an exercise of democratic choice. The second is a denial of the principle of equality upon which a constitutional state is founded.

I am not calling on Egyptians to elect a Christian because he is Christian, or a woman because she is a woman. Nor am I calling on them to elect a Muslim because he is Muslim, or a man because he is a man.

I am advocating something both simpler and more profound: that the criteria for choosing a President should be competence, integrity, vision, and the ability to govern the state, and that ballot boxes should determine the outcome among competing candidates, rather than preconceived judgments about their identities.

The Right to Run for Office Does Not Guarantee Victory

Here, we must distinguish between the right to run for office and the right to win.

The former is a constitutional and legal right belonging to every citizen who fulfills the requirements, and no one should be denied that right on the grounds of religion or gender.

The latter, however, is something no one possesses in advance. It is not granted by an academic degree, an institution, or a religious affiliation. It is determined solely by the will of voters in free and fair elections.

A Christian citizen or a woman may run for office, and voters may choose someone else. That is their right. But no one has the right to prevent either from competing in the first place.

The people’s right to choose is only complete when all legally qualified candidates enjoy equal rights to present themselves for that choice.

But is constitutional permission enough? Of course not.

There is a gap between constitutional text and social awareness, between declared rights and the actual ability to exercise them. The Constitution may open the door, while social culture closes it. The law may grant a right, while the political environment fails to provide equal opportunities to exercise it.

This is what makes building democracy far more profound than simply writing a good constitution. Democracy requires genuine political parties, independent institutions, a free media, open political competition, and a society that learns to respect differences.

Above all, it requires an education system that instills in future generations the understanding that the nation is not the exclusive domain of people who share one opinion, one belief, or one gender. Rather, it is built upon the diversity of its citizens and the complementary nature of their abilities.

Perhaps the most concerning aspect of the reactions to the interview was not that some people rejected the idea of a Christian or a woman becoming President. Such preferences fall within the realm of personal opinions and are open to discussion. What is more troubling is their belief that this rejection is explicitly written into the Constitution.

This is a moment when what society has grown accustomed to becomes confused with what the law actually provides, and when prevailing social attitudes are mistaken, in the minds of some, for constitutional provisions that simply do not exist.

Herein lies the responsibility of intellectuals, politicians, educators, and the media: not to impose new convictions on people, but to help them distinguish between constitutional facts and personal opinions, between the right to choose and the desire to exclude others from being chosen.

Returning to Where We Began…

I welcomed the President’s confirmation that he would respect the constitutional term limit and would not seek to extend it. However, I hope we reach a day when respecting the Constitution no longer requires an announcement or celebration, because it has become a natural part of our political culture.

I equally hope we reach a day when discussing the right of a woman or a Christian citizen to run for President of the Republic no longer provokes such astonishment, because equality has become a natural part of our social culture.

The Constitution is not merely a document regulating the transfer of power. It is an expression of how a nation sees itself and of the nature of the relationship among its citizens.

If we believe that the people are the source of all authority, we must also believe that every citizen who fulfills the requirements for presidential candidacy has the right to present themselves to the people.

And if we believe in the peaceful transfer of power, we should not confine that process to a narrow circle defined by religious identity, gender, or the approval of any particular institution.

Respect for the Constitution is not complete simply because a ruler honors the duration of their term. It is complete when society respects the rights of all its citizens, including those whom it may never imagine choosing.

What is required is not that we elect a woman or a Christian as President of the Republic. What is required is that we do not prevent them from aspiring to the office, putting themselves forward as candidates, and submitting themselves, like everyone else, to the will of the people.

A nation in which duties are equal must also be a nation in which rights are equal.

And a Constitution that we respect when power changes hands must also be respected when determining who has the right to attain it.

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The discussion focused on limited water resources, population growth, agricultural expansion, and the need to provide food for more than one hundred million citizens.

During the discussion, a fact was raised that deserves reflection: Egypt is one of the world’s largest wheat importers, with its annual import requirements reaching approximately 13 million tons, although estimates vary from one season to another.

The question was: How can we increase domestic wheat production when the challenge is not simply the availability of arable land, but also the availability of sufficient irrigation water?

At that point, I found myself raising a different question: Why do we consume so much wheat in the first place? Why do we assume that Egyptian bread must be made primarily from wheat, as though nature had created no other crops and science had made no progress since humans first learned how to bake bread?

Could one solution to Egypt’s water crisis be hidden inside the loaf of bread itself?

Bread Is More Than Food

We Egyptians do not simply call bread khubz. We call it eish, a word that also means “life” itself.

Bread is part of our culture, our collective memory, and our economic history. It is the food most commonly found on Egyptian tables and a major source of daily calories, particularly for low-income households.

For decades, bread subsidy policies have helped reinforce this dependence, making bread an essential component of the Egyptian diet.

But I ask: Must everything we have become accustomed to remain exactly as it is?

High wheat consumption is not merely an agricultural or economic fact. It is also the result of dietary and social choices, as well as public policies that have accumulated over generations.

Therefore, thinking about reducing our dependence on wheat should not be limited to increasing its productivity, expanding cultivated areas, or searching for new import markets. It should also extend to reconsidering the composition of our food itself.

I am not suggesting that we abandon bread. Rather, I am suggesting that we rethink its ingredients.

Driven by scientific curiosity, I began researching a question: Is wheat the only crop capable of being used to make bread?

The scientific answer is no.

Modern food science has demonstrated that bread can be produced using other types of grains and crops, either individually or blended with wheat flour.

These include sorghum, millet, maize, chickpeas, fava beans, lentils, sweet potatoes, and other crops that can be incorporated into bread in carefully studied proportions.

Some of these crops are more tolerant of drought or salinity under certain agricultural conditions, while others offer high nutritional value, particularly in terms of protein, fiber, or certain minerals.

Food science has also developed methods for improving dough texture through enzymes, fermentation, milling techniques, and natural ingredients that help bind the dough together.

Egyptian research studies have already explored the production of traditional Egyptian baladi bread using mixtures of wheat and millet flour, with encouraging results in terms of consumer acceptance for certain formulations.

So we are not talking about science fiction. We are talking about existing scientific possibilities that need to move from laboratories and research centers into factories, bakeries, and markets.

Why not make the invention of a new Egyptian loaf a national project bringing together scientific research, industry, and food security?

Here, however, we must be scientifically precise: not every alternative to wheat necessarily saves water.

The issue is therefore not simply replacing one crop with another. It is about identifying the agricultural, nutritional, and industrial combination that delivers the greatest nutritional and economic value while consuming the least amount of our water resources.

I propose introducing a new scientific benchmark:

How many cubic meters of Egyptian water are required to produce 1,000 loaves of bread of acceptable quality and appropriate nutritional value?

We should then add other measures, including production costs, energy consumption, dependence on imports, nutritional value, and the industry’s ability to expand.

In this way, we move beyond thinking about a single crop and begin thinking about an integrated food system.

Can We Change People’s Tastes?

Some may argue that Egyptians are accustomed to the taste of traditional baladi bread and that changing its ingredients could encounter social resistance.

But are human tastes fixed and incapable of changing?

Studies in nutrition science and human behavior indicate that food preferences can change, and that repeated exposure to a new taste may gradually increase its acceptance.

A person may begin to become accustomed to a new taste after approximately three weeks of repeated exposure, although this period is not a fixed scientific rule. Some people need more time, and responses vary according to age, previous food experiences, and the nature of the food itself.

We know from everyday experience that many foods we disliked as children eventually became favorites as we grew older. Entire societies have also transformed their dietary habits over generations.

If people can change their habits in clothing, work, communication, and technology, why should we assume that their eating habits cannot evolve?

Changing dietary patterns is possible, but it requires both science and policy.

Science that understands taste, nutrition, adaptation, and human behavior; and public policy that manages change effectively, using incentives rather than coercion, and persuasion rather than imposition.

In my view, this is the essence of the issue.

One Egyptian Governorate Could Be the Beginning of the Solution

Why not select one Egyptian governorate, or a group of its districts and cities, to serve as a pilot location for a project called the “Egyptian Bread of the Future”?

The experiment would begin through cooperation among universities, agricultural research centers, food technology institutes, bakeries, and food industries, with the participation of experts in nutrition, economics, and behavioral psychology.

We would produce several types of blended bread using different proportions of wheat flour, sorghum, millet, maize, and legumes.

The government would offer time-limited incentives to participating bakeries, including assistance with equipment upgrades, training, and quality assurance. Consumers would also receive incentives to try the new products, such as introductory price reductions.

We would use scientific methods to measure public acceptance of the taste and the effect of repeated exposure on changing food preferences.

The experiment could begin with three weeks of repeated exposure and tasting, followed by monitoring over three or six months to determine whether consumers continue choosing the new bread after the incentives have ended.

The experiment should also include comparable control areas, and an independent research institution should be responsible for evaluating the results.

Success should not be measured by whether people try a new loaf once. It should be measured by whether they voluntarily choose it and continue buying it because they find it good and suitable.

Successful policy does not force people to change their habits. It creates the conditions that make change possible, acceptable, and sustainable.

If the experiment succeeds, it can gradually be expanded to other governorates, taking into account differences in dietary habits, purchasing power, and crop availability.

Who Should Be Responsible for This Innovation?

I envision a national program bringing together the Ministries of Agriculture, Supply and Internal Trade, Higher Education and Scientific Research, Industry, and Water Resources, alongside universities, research centers, and the private sector.

However, I am not calling for the establishment of another bureaucratic agency. Rather, I propose assigning clear responsibility to a scientific and industrial partnership with defined objectives, a timetable, and measurable performance indicators.

Researchers and industry should be challenged with practical questions:

Can the proportion of wheat in bread be reduced without compromising its quality?

Can its nutritional value be improved by incorporating legumes?

Which crops deliver the highest food productivity per cubic meter of irrigation water?

What is the cost of the new loaf compared with traditional bread?

Can existing bakeries produce it without major investments?

And will consumers accept it after a period of experimentation?

These questions could become subjects for university research, master’s and doctoral theses, and graduation projects. They could also provide the foundation for an entirely new food industry.

I believe the state’s role should be to finance fundamental research, establish standards, provide incentives, and create an environment that encourages competition and innovation, rather than monopolizing the production of the new bread or imposing a single formulation on everyone.

What If We Saved Part of Our Wheat Consumption?

Let us assume that, following scientific and industrial trials, we succeed in replacing 10% or 15% of the wheat flour used in bread production with suitable alternative ingredients.

The figure may seem small, but when applied to a country with Egypt’s population and consumption levels, it could represent substantial quantities of wheat.

This would not necessarily mean that wheat imports would decline by the same percentage, because wheat is also used in other food industries, and some alternative ingredients might themselves need to be imported.

Nevertheless, we would have taken the first step toward diversifying our food sources, reducing our dependence on a single crop, and creating new opportunities in agriculture, industry, and scientific research.

If it is demonstrated that certain formulations genuinely save Egyptian water resources, we will also have added a new dimension to water security.

And if they do not achieve these savings, the knowledge we gain will prevent us from making costly decisions based on incorrect assumptions.

Science does not mean proving that our ideas are right. It means testing them and accepting the results.

Water Security Is Not Just About Dams

There is no doubt that defending Egypt’s water rights and reaching fair, binding rules for managing transboundary dams are fundamental matters of Egyptian national security.

However, I believe that national security cannot be achieved through diplomacy and agreements alone, nor through military power alone. It also depends on society’s ability to use science and technology to expand its available options.

The more efficiently we use our resources, the more diversified our food sources become, and the more advanced our industries grow, the better equipped we will be to confront external pressures and economic and climate fluctuations.

Defending our water rights must not become an alternative to reforming our domestic policies for managing water and food resources. Likewise, improving water-use efficiency must never become an excuse for relinquishing those rights.

These are two complementary paths.

Food security, therefore, is not the responsibility of the Ministry of Agriculture alone, just as water security is not the sole responsibility of the Ministry of Water Resources and Irrigation.

Both are responsibilities shared by the state and society, requiring scientific knowledge, economic management, and public policy to work together.

Finally… Can We Change the Question?

I left the meeting thinking that many of our problems do not stem solely from limited resources. Sometimes, they also stem from the limitations of the questions we ask.

When water becomes scarce, we ask how we can obtain more of it.

When wheat prices rise, we ask where we can import it from.

When the population increases, we ask how we can produce more loaves of bread.

But what if we asked a different question:

Can we reinvent the loaf itself?

I am not calling for the abolition of traditional baladi bread, nor for changing Egyptians’ diets through a government decree, nor for placing the burden of a crisis they did not create on ordinary citizens.

I am calling for the use of science and innovation, and for carefully designed community-based experiments that respect freedom of choice, use incentives, and measure results transparently.

I am also calling for us to view dietary habits as human choices capable of evolving, rather than as eternal facts of nature.

Changing the loaf is not merely a matter of changing the flour. It is about changing how we think about resource management, our relationship with science, and the ability of public policy to transform innovation into a social habit.

The future of Egyptian food security may begin with a scientific experiment in one governorate, rather than a decision imposed on the entire country.

Nations do not confront their crises solely through the water, land, and financial resources they possess, but also through their scientific imagination, their courage to ask questions, and their ability to turn knowledge into policy.

Perhaps the loaf of bread we hold in our hands every day contains an idea for Egypt’s future that we have not yet thought about deeply enough.

For those interested in learning more about statistics on wheat cultivation and imports in Egypt, the following link provides additional information:

Wheat Cultivation and Import Statistics in Egypt – Google Docs

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These questions led me to reflect on one of the most profound ideas of ancient Egyptian civilization: Ma’at. Among the greatest legacies of the ancient Egyptians, in my view, was the belief that the universe cannot remain in balance without order, society cannot flourish without justice, and human beings cannot live rightly without conscience.

Ma’at: A Goddess or a Philosophy?

Ma’at was the embodiment of truth, justice, righteousness, and cosmic order. She was depicted as a woman wearing an ostrich feather upon her head, which became a symbol of truth and justice. Her opposite was Isfet, representing chaos, falsehood, and the disruption of order.

The ancient Egyptians did not separate the order of nature from the moral order. Just as the sun rises and the seasons follow their cycles, human relationships, too, were expected to rest upon a balance of justice. In this sense, injustice was not merely harm inflicted upon another person; it was an assault on the very order that makes coexistence possible.

It was an early attempt to formulate an ethical principle that transcended individual impulses and the interests of the powerful.

The Ruler’s Responsibility to Uphold Justice

One of the ruler’s duties was to uphold Ma’at and resist Isfet. Temple reliefs frequently depict the king presenting the symbol of Ma’at to the gods, declaring his role in preserving cosmic and moral order.

But a more important question arises: If the ruler is entrusted with establishing justice, who holds him accountable when he himself becomes the source of injustice?

Ancient Egyptian kingship did not recognize constitutional accountability in the modern sense, nor did the sacred status of the office prevent abuses of power.

Here, we must distinguish between moral values and the institutional mechanisms that guarantee their implementation. Declaring a commitment to justice is not the same as establishing it. Speaking in the name of order does not prove that an order is just, just as swearing to tell the truth does not establish that one is incapable of lying.

This distinction forms the bridge between the ancient concept of Ma’at and the questions confronting the modern state.

The Weighing of the Heart: When Wealth and Status No Longer Matter

One of the most powerful scenes in the Book of the Dead is the weighing of the heart, famously depicted in the Papyrus of Ani, now housed in the British Museum.

In Chapter 125, the deceased stands before the divine tribunal and delivers the so-called “Negative Confession,” declaring that he has not committed murder, stolen, lied, violated the rights of others, or tampered with weights and measures.

His heart is then placed on one side of the scales, while the feather of Ma’at is placed on the other. Anubis oversees the weighing, Thoth records the result, and Osiris presides over the judgment. If the deceased fails the test, his heart is devoured by Ammit, and his hope of entering the afterlife is lost.

Although spells and rituals also played a role in securing a favorable passage into the afterlife, the symbolism of the scales remains remarkable: what is weighed is neither a person’s possessions nor their titles, but their heart, which the ancient Egyptians regarded as the center of thought, memory, and will.

Today, we understand that these functions belong to the brain. Yet the power of a symbol does not depend on anatomical accuracy to convey a profound human meaning.

Was Ma’at an Ethical Philosophy Before the Religions?

The ancient Egyptians developed an early vision that connected justice with individual integrity and the order of the universe.

This vision emerged within an ancient religious framework, but what interests me is a question that has recurred across civilizations and cultures:

Does a truth exist that transcends the victor’s narrative, and is there a form of justice whose definition cannot be monopolized by the powerful?

Is Individual Integrity Enough When Institutions Are Corrupt?

I imagine a society containing many honorable people, yet governed by laws that are enforced against the weak but not the powerful, where opportunities are distributed through favoritism, and access to an independent judiciary or reliable information is difficult.

Is the goodness of its people enough? No. The integrity of individuals may alleviate suffering, but it cannot remedy injustice produced by the very rules governing society.

Conversely, I imagine institutions with precise regulations and clear oversight, yet administered by people who circumvent the rules, conceal information, and treat public responsibility as a personal privilege.

Is sound institutional design enough? No. Rules do not enforce themselves.

This is why I believe justice requires two wings: a moral conscience that drives us to do what is right even when no one is watching, and an institutional framework that prevents people’s rights from depending on the conscience of a single individual.

Those who demand ethical conduct from citizens while exempting institutions from accountability transfer the burden of justice onto the weakest. And those who rely exclusively on laws without cultivating honesty forget that human beings can either bring rules to life or strip them of their meaning.

A state’s commitment to justice should not be measured by how often it declares its adherence to the truth, but by whether citizens can obtain their rights without intermediaries, express objections without fear, and subject public decisions to scrutiny, under transparent rules that apply equally to everyone.

These are modern principles that I do not attribute to the ancient Egyptians. Rather, I invoke Ma’at as a mirror that helps us ask the right questions.

How Do We Cultivate Conscience and Build Trust?

A student may excel in physics and mathematics without ever learning that cheating violates another student’s rights, that admitting a mistake is an act of courage, or that disagreement does not justify injustice.

But moral education cannot succeed through speeches alone. If a student hears a lesson about equality and then witnesses discrimination at school, experience defeats words.

We need schools whose procedures are fair and administrations that practice what they preach. Ethics are taught through practice just as much as through explanation.

The Feather of Ma’at in Our Time

Today, we possess tools of knowledge and oversight that the ancient Egyptians could never have imagined. Yet injustice has not disappeared. Perhaps our technological progress has outpaced our progress in using power ethically.

If we were to translate the spirit of Ma’at into everyday questions, we would ask ourselves:

Did I tell the truth when lying would have served me better?

Did I respect the rights of those who disagree with me?

Did I use whatever authority I possess, however limited, to serve those affected by my decisions?

And am I willing to accept the same rules that I have imposed on others?

We must also ask our institutions:

Do they correct their mistakes?

Do they listen to complaints?

Do they guarantee that the weak have access to justice without needing the approval of the powerful?

The ancient Egyptians chose a feather, one of the lightest objects, to symbolize some of the heaviest responsibilities a human being can carry: truth, justice, and honesty.

I am not calling for a return to ancient beliefs. Rather, I invite us to approach their wisdom with open minds. A civilization is not measured by the stones it builds, but by the dignity and fairness it provides to human beings.

Perhaps the deepest lesson is that a just heart does not absolve the state of its responsibility to build just institutions, just as just institutions do not absolve individuals of the responsibility to hold their own hearts accountable.

If our hearts were placed today on the scales of Ma’at—those of individuals, rulers, and entire societies—would we dare to look at the other side of the balance?

I would add to the feather of Ma’at, in the modern state, another measure: what official records document about the promises made by rulers upon assuming office, the commitments they reaffirm year after year, and the extent to which they honor or betray those pledges.

By the ancient scales of Ma’at, let us hold both our rulers and ourselves accountable in the age of modernity.

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We met several years ago at the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, in the company of the distinguished scholar Ibrahim Badran. Hossam Badrawi struck me as a man of remarkable awareness, understanding, and candor. I remember that we spoke at length that day about education, and he held firm convictions that education must be at the forefront of the Egyptian state’s priorities.

I continue to follow Hossam Badrawi’s positions and intellectual contributions, particularly on issues of freedoms, the peaceful transfer of power, elections, parliament, and the hardships faced by Egyptian citizens as prices continue to rise.

What distinguishes Badrawi’s positions is the consistency of his convictions: that Egypt is a country rich in resources; that its young people represent an untapped national wealth; and that making proper use of its resources requires a measure of justice and wisdom. He has called for opening the door to a genuine party-based political life that allows meaningful public participation, and for a parliament that truly reflects the Egyptian street through competitive elections.

Badrawi has also addressed the issue of constitutional amendments, emphasizing that the Constitution possesses a special sanctity and should not be treated as something open to amendment.

Egypt faces challenges that can no longer be postponed: rising prices, education, debt, freedoms, and political participation through genuine political parties, as well as ensuring that the right person is placed in the right position.

The intellectual contributions of Hossam Badrawi deserve to open the door to dialogue on all these issues. He approaches them with the sensitivity of a physician and the mind of a politician. He has always been a voice of reason and wisdom, both in earlier eras and today, and he can bring greater transparency and balance to the public debate.

There is now a group of thoughtful minds on the scene, small though it may be, whose members believe that Egypt can overcome its crises if it succeeds in accurately identifying them and in choosing the right people with the capabilities needed to confront the challenges we face.

Hossam Badrawi is a wise physician and a voice of reason in politics. We should listen to him.

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By the same principle, I criticize when I see shortcomings, and I raise questions when I believe a decision needs reconsideration. The very same concern that leads me to appreciate success is what makes me worry about mistakes: the interests of this country and the future of its people.

Recently, I have heard from various circles that I have become an increasingly harsh critic. I take this description seriously. Anyone who asks others to reconsider their positions must also be willing to examine their own. So I ask myself: Have my words become too strong? Have I failed to provide context that should have been clarified? Have I expressed my concerns in a way that obscured my intentions?

These are legitimate questions, and I welcome discussing them. In return, I hope my positions will be read in their entirety, and that the substance of an opinion will be discussed alongside its tone. Taking criticism out of context may conceal the appreciation that preceded it and turn a balanced position into an image that does not accurately represent the person expressing it.

I have repeatedly stated that building infrastructure is fundamental to economic growth, and that the government’s efforts in this area deserve recognition and appreciation. An economy needs roads, ports, energy, utilities, and telecommunications networks that enable it to operate and expand. However, appreciating these efforts does not preclude questioning the efficiency of spending, the prioritization of projects, their expected returns, and the cost of financing them. It also requires making information available so that society can evaluate what has been achieved and understand what is being planned. Public money is a responsibility, and transparency strengthens confidence in how it is managed.

I commend the Ministry of Finance for its effective efforts to develop the tax system, and I appreciate the work and perseverance required for institutional reform. At the same time, I criticize the disregard for reports issued by state-approved auditors, the arbitrary assessments made by some tax officials, and the practices of certain customs authorities at airports and seaports when I believe they require review. Appreciating reform in one area does not mean granting every practice within the ministry or its affiliated agencies the same approval. Every policy has consequences, and every practice has an impact. Fairness requires us to distinguish between them.

I commend the Ministers of Higher Education and Education for their efforts, and I recognize the difficulty of the responsibilities they carry. However, this does not prevent me from objecting to the idea that Egypt’s education problem is confined to private schools, which account for no more than 10% of all schools, while international schools represent only 1% of private schools. Meanwhile, little attention is given to the 63,000 schools owned and operated by the state.

I also object to the Ministry of Awqaf’s involvement in education before the age of six through the traditional kuttab system, whose educational philosophy I do not consider suitable for preparing children for the future, despite the fact that it may have certain merits.

Early childhood is a formative stage for developing language, imagination, curiosity, the ability to ask questions, and the capacity to interact with others. For this reason, I believe early education must be guided by an educational philosophy that responds to children’s needs and the demands of their time. Any initiative should be evaluated according to its contribution to this development. My objection here concerns educational philosophy and institutional jurisdiction. It is an objection I put forward for discussion, and I take responsibility for it.

In economics, I understand that countries around the world borrow to finance development, and that governments must spend on essential areas that the private sector may be unwilling or unable to finance on its own. Therefore, any discussion of borrowing must consider its purpose, cost, expected return, and the country’s ability to repay it.

However, I criticize the state’s involvement in private-sector activities through multiple government agencies, and the resulting contraction of the private sector’s role, despite the government’s declared intention to expand private-sector participation. We have every right to ask about the gap between declared policy and actual practice, as well as the conditions of competition and equality of opportunity. Successful economic policy requires consistency between decisions, clearly defined roles, and investor confidence in the rules governing the business environment.

Another example is my position on the Universal Health Insurance System, which I have described as a positive step. I believe that appreciating this direction requires us to pay attention to how it translates into people’s everyday lives: Is healthcare reaching everyone? Can families afford its cost?

However, health insurance is a mechanism for ensuring sustainable financing; it does not, in itself, guarantee improved efficiency or quality of healthcare services. Does the citizen receive good-quality care at the right time? These questions help us complete the project and achieve its intended purpose.

I present these examples because I hope they clarify the standard I strive to uphold: giving credit where it is due, evaluating policies according to their results, and examining practices in terms of their impact on citizens. I may support a policy direction while objecting to the way it is implemented, or commend an institution’s performance while criticizing a decision it has made. This is consistency with a single standard, even when judgments differ from one issue to another.

My medical profession has taught me that accurate diagnosis is essential to treatment. A responsible physician explains what they observe, acknowledges improvements, draws attention to what requires intervention, and revises their diagnosis when new evidence emerges. I have carried this approach into my engagement with public affairs: to research, compare, seek to understand the underlying causes, and then propose what I believe to be the better course of action.

In education, my involvement in public affairs has gone beyond commentary. I participated in developing visions and policies, and worked through civil society organizations to improve schools and support teachers. These experiences have taught me how difficult implementation can be, and I appreciate the efforts of officials, teachers, and everyone working under challenging conditions. For this very reason, I believe that respecting their efforts requires evaluating outcomes, identifying what has succeeded so that it can be expanded, and understanding the causes of what has fallen short so that they can be addressed.

When I advocate decentralization and criticize the failure to respect constitutional obligations, I am seeking administration that is closer to citizens and creates opportunities for new leaders to emerge and assume responsibility. When I insist on upholding the Constitution and the separation of powers, I am defending rules that provide institutional stability, clarify responsibilities, and protect rights.

These are positions I put forward for discussion, and I accept that I may be wrong about some of them. I expect those who disagree with me to explain where I am mistaken. Information I did not previously know, or an argument I had overlooked, may convince me. But reducing someone who expresses an opinion to a fixed label closes the door to dialogue before it even begins.

I recognize that public officials sometimes see constraints that writers do not, and face pressures that are not fully visible to the public. Fairness requires us to listen to their explanations of these constraints. At the same time, citizens may see the consequences of a decision that never reach the official’s office, while researchers may identify outcomes that were overlooked during implementation. These different perspectives complement one another, allowing knowledge to grow and decisions to improve.

Therefore, I hold myself responsible for accuracy, respect for individuals, and distinguishing facts from my own interpretations of them. I also believe that those who receive criticism have a responsibility to listen, respond with information, and allow room for correction. Fairness is a shared responsibility: acknowledging what has been achieved while taking seriously what still needs to be improved.

I have written before: “Criticize, but do not insult. Offer alternatives, not judgments.” I remain committed to this principle, while firmly believing that citizens have the right to ask questions even when they do not have a complete solution. An honest question may be the first step toward finding one.

I do not measure a writer’s balance by counting the number of words of praise against the number of words of criticism. I measure it by the integrity of their standards, the accuracy of their information, and their willingness to acknowledge outcomes that contradict their expectations. If a policy I previously opposed succeeds, I must give it credit. If a policy I supported falters, I must reconsider my position. Loyalty to the public interest demands this flexibility and integrity.

I write because I still believe that Egypt has the ability to succeed, and that its future deserves our efforts, experience, and responsible differences of opinion. I will continue to recognize success, question shortcomings, seek alternatives, and examine my own positions. This is the form of civic participation I can offer my country, and I hope it will be of benefit.

The post Dr. Hossam Badrawi Writes for Al-Horreya: Fairness Is a Responsibility, and Criticism Is a Form of Participation appeared first on Dr. Hossam Badrawi.

This is what I always do: I explore beauty through a scientific lens. I analyze what I see, hear, and feel, then share my discoveries with readers, seeking to awaken the curiosity of children, young people, and the general reader alike.

I have written about touch and its meaning, happiness and its origins and significance, and have held conversations with birds, animals, and insects in an effort to explore what makes each of them different. I have found beauty in everything around me. Today, I would like to share my knowledge and curiosity with you by exploring the human voice and its secrets.

Deep inside the throat, within a space no more than a few centimeters wide, one of the most remarkable systems known to humanity is at work. It is a system invisible to the naked eye, yet it produces everything we hear: speech, calls, songs, laughter, and tears. This system is the human voice, and at its very heart lie the vocal cords.

How Is the Voice Produced?

It all begins in the lungs. When we push air outward, it travels through the larynx, where two small muscular folds, known as the vocal cords (or vocal folds), come together. These two folds open and close dozens or even hundreds of times per second, vibrating as air passes between them. These vibrations are the source of sound.

But the sound that emerges from the larynx alone is not yet speech or singing. It is merely raw material. It then passes through the cavities of the throat, mouth, and nose, where it acquires its resonance, depth, and warmth.

The tongue, lips, and teeth then come into play, shaping that sound into letters and words. All of this happens in fractions of a second, almost entirely without conscious thought.

Some may wonder: Do the teeth really play a role in the articulation of speech sounds?

I went through an experience that made me think about this and investigate it further. I even wrote an article about it entitled “The Astonishing Balance of the Human Body: When the Jaw Speaks the Language of Letters.”

My dentist fitted a single molar in my lower jaw, no more than a few millimeters in size. A few days later, I was surprised to discover that my tongue could no longer pronounce the sounds of s and th as it had before. These were two sounds I had been articulating for more than seventy years without giving them a moment’s thought. Suddenly, they required concentration, as though my tongue itself had lost its way to a place where it had settled millions of times before.

For those unfamiliar with the mechanics of speech, the s sound is produced when air passes through a narrow channel formed by the tip of the tongue near the front of the roof of the mouth, just behind the teeth. The precision involved is measured in fractions of a millimeter. The th sound, by contrast, requires the tip of the tongue to touch, or come close to, the edges of the upper and lower front teeth.

If the height of a single molar in the lower jaw changes, or if the way the teeth meet shifts even slightly, the precise geometry on which these sounds depend can be disrupted. The tongue is then forced to relearn a route it had memorized perfectly since childhood.

Returning to the Voice and the Secrets of the Vocal Cords

The vocal cords are not simply two “strings” that vibrate. They are a remarkably sophisticated system, concealing astonishing details within their structure.

In adults, the vocal folds are typically no more than 15–20 millimeters long in men and 9–13 millimeters in women. In children, they are even shorter.

Despite their tiny size, these folds vibrate hundreds of times every second. The musical note A4, for example, requires them to vibrate at a rate of 440 times per second.

Nor is each vocal fold a single, simple string. It consists of several layers: a thin outer membrane, followed by layers of connective tissue and elastic fibers, with a muscle deep inside. These layers move partly independently of one another, producing what is known as the mucosal wave—the real secret behind vocal quality and smoothness.

During breathing, the vocal folds open fully. During speech or singing, they come partially together, while during swallowing or when holding one’s breath, they close firmly to protect the airway.

Control of this system is managed by delicate muscles and specialized nerves that regulate the length, tension, and thickness of the vocal folds, as well as how closely they approach one another. These adjustments can alter the pitch and volume of the voice in an instant.

After puberty, the vocal folds become longer and thicker in males than in females, causing the voice to become deeper. This relatively simple biological difference accounts for the noticeable variation in vocal pitch between the sexes.

No two voices are ever exactly alike. The precise shape of the vocal folds, the size of the resonance cavities, and the way a person breathes all combine to give each individual a unique voice, much like a fingerprint.

The Grandeur and Genius of the Human Design

What is truly astonishing is that these small, mobile organs do not work in isolation. They are part of an intricate system: muscles that control the tightening and relaxation of the vocal folds, nerves that transmit commands at extraordinary speed, lungs that regulate air pressure as needed, and a brain that coordinates all of it in a single moment.

Even a minor malfunction in any one of these components can distort the voice or cause it to disappear altogether. Yet, in most people, this system operates with remarkable consistency throughout their lives, despite its relative vulnerability to dehydration, excessive shouting, and infections.

Beauty Beyond Question

The voice is not merely a tool for communication. There is something about it that goes beyond its practical function. We hear one voice and feel at ease; another moves us emotionally; a third fills us with a sense of beauty that we cannot always explain.

This beauty is not confined to people who share the same tastes or cultural backgrounds. People differ in their languages, musical preferences, and experiences, yet many of them agree that certain voices are beautiful. A gentle voice may inspire reassurance; a deep voice may convey a sense of presence; and another may carry an unmistakable sincerity, even when we cannot understand the words being spoken.

Why does this happen?

Because the voice carries something of the person within it. It is not merely a vibration in the air. It is the product of a living body, of breathing, of an emotional state, and of intention. When this intricate system aligns with sincerity or inner harmony, something reaches us that goes beyond information. It is as though, for a brief moment, we are hearing a hidden order within things.

The human voice is a small, recurring miracle. We use it every day without giving much thought to the complexity of what happens inside the throat, or to the subtle secrets that enable the vocal cords to produce such extraordinary variety and beauty.

And yet, the voice remains capable of conveying meaning, beauty, and emotional impact all at once. In this meeting of biological precision and the power to evoke feeling, we witness one of the most magnificent expressions of order within the human body.

The post The Human Voice: A Small Miracle in the Throat and Its Hidden Secrets Written and illustrated by Hossam Badrawi appeared first on Dr. Hossam Badrawi.

As I reflected on the experience, I found myself drawing a connection between what I had witnessed and the ongoing public debate in our society about Egypt’s political future.

Do not be surprised, dear reader. I naturally connect politics with science and art, particularly since many of those attending the concert approached me afterward to comment on my recent political discussions.

I watched Nader Abbassi standing before dozens of musicians. He played no instrument and produced no sound himself, yet with a movement of his hand, the violins, cellos, brass instruments, flute, and piano moved with him, allowing the music to flow as though it were emerging from a single soul.

I asked myself: What makes these creative individuals, each possessing an independent talent, respond to the gestures of one person? Does the genius of a conductor lie in his ability to impose his will upon them, or in his ability to liberate their talents within a shared performance?

From this musical question, I moved to an important political one: Why do some societies succeed in transforming the differences among their citizens into a source of strength, while in others, those same differences turn into conflict and division? Why can one leader bring different talents together around a common goal, while another feels compelled to silence every voice before believing that everyone is following him?

And can we learn something about the art of governance from an orchestra?

In an orchestra, the conductor is not necessarily the greatest musician. Rather, he knows when the violin should take the lead, when it should give way to the cello, when the wind instruments should enter, and when everyone should fall silent so that a moment of stillness becomes part of the beauty.

He does not play in place of the others, nor does he demand that every instrument produce the same sound. The value of an orchestra lies precisely in the diversity of its voices.

If every instrument played the same note, in the same manner and at the same pitch, we would lose the richness of the music.

This leads me to reflect on societies. A society is not a homogeneous mass of people, nor should it be. It encompasses different interests, diverse ideas, multiple beliefs, and varying political and cultural perspectives.

Successful leadership does not erase these differences. Instead, it creates a framework that allows them to interact without descending into destructive conflict.

Harmony does not mean that we all repeat the same note. It means that we can create something beautiful together from different voices.

Who Writes the Musical Score?

Here begins the fundamental difference between music and politics.

In an orchestra, there is a musical score written by the composer, which the conductor interprets in collaboration with the musicians.

In a democratic state, however, the ruler cannot be the composer, conductor, performer, and judge of the performance all at once.

The Constitution is the supreme framework that organizes authority and defines its limits. The law establishes general rules, institutions share responsibilities, and the people are the source of legitimacy.

The orchestra’s purpose is to bring joy, delight, and satisfaction to its audience. Similarly, the Constitution is not a rigid musical score that prevents society from evolving. Rather, it is an agreement that can be amended through established procedures and safeguards that protect rights.

More importantly, society itself participates in shaping its future through its institutions and democratic mechanisms.

This means that a head of state does not own the melody, nor does he have the right to change the rules of performance whenever he wishes simply to prolong his stay on stage.

He exercises authority within defined limits, for a defined period, and according to rules that must apply to him just as they apply to everyone else.

The Difference Between Discipline and Blind Obedience

An orchestra cannot succeed if every musician decides to begin and end whenever they please, or raises the volume of their instrument to drown out the others. Music requires discipline.

But discipline does not mean erasing the musician’s artistic individuality. It means respecting the rules that allow every talent to express itself.

In politics, too, a state cannot function without law, institutions, and public order.

Yet there is a profound difference between respecting the law and submitting to the will of an individual.

Institutional discipline means that everyone is subject to established rules, including those who exercise power. Blind obedience, on the other hand, means that the will of the person in authority becomes the rule itself, and disagreement with that person is treated as a violation of the system.

At that point, leadership turns into domination.

A political orchestra may appear disciplined from the outside under such circumstances, but it loses something essential: its capacity for creativity and self-correction.

When musicians are afraid to point out a conductor’s mistake, the performance may continue, but it becomes vulnerable to failure. Similarly, when institutions fear reviewing political decisions, the state may continue moving forward, but it loses its ability to learn from its mistakes.

Can the Leader Listen?

I believe this is one of the most important qualities of leadership, in music as in politics.

An orchestra conductor does not simply look at the musicians; he listens to them. He hears when the brass instruments overpower the strings, when an instrument enters too late, or when one section loses its balance with the others.

Political leadership, likewise, requires institutions capable of conveying the truth, not circles of advisers who simply repeat what pleases the decision-maker.

It requires a free and responsible press, a parliament that exercises oversight, an independent judiciary, a civil society capable of expressing itself, and administrative bodies empowered to say that a decision is unworkable or that its actual consequences differ from what was expected.

A leader who hears nothing but applause may believe the music is magnificent, while many instruments have already fallen silent.

The greatest danger facing those in power is not the rising voices of their opponents, but the silence that prevails when everyone loses faith in the value of speaking.

When Does the Conductor Become a Burden on the Orchestra?

In music, a conductor’s strong personality can become a source of inspiration. But it can also become an obstacle if he treats the musicians as mere instruments for displaying his own brilliance.

He is not the creator of the melody; he is the conductor of its performance.

Music is not a showcase for the conductor, and a professional musician does not lose his talent when collaborating with others. Rather, he contributes that talent to a shared work.

Here, I am reminded of how circles of manufactured admiration can develop around those in positions of authority, elevating the leader to such an extent that he begins to believe he is the source of every success and that the state cannot continue without him.

Confusion then arises between the individual and the institution, between the stability of the nation and the continuation of its ruler, and between criticism and hostility.

Yet a strong state is not measured by how dependent it is on an exceptional individual, but by its ability to function efficiently both during his tenure and after his departure.

A great orchestra can welcome a new conductor without losing its identity, history, or the skills of its musicians.

Why, then, should this not be a fundamental principle in building a state?

The Transfer of Leadership and the Continuity of Music

A single musician may conduct an orchestra for many years, leaving his distinctive mark on its performance. Then another conductor arrives with a different vision, and the music continues.

A change of conductor does not mean that the musicians have become less capable, that the score has lost its value, or that the musical institution must start from scratch.

On the contrary, a diversity of conductors can open new horizons for interpreting the very same musical compositions.

This reminds me of the importance of the peaceful transfer of power in political life.

The transfer of responsibility does not deny the achievements of those who came before, nor does it constitute an insult to those leaving office. Rather, it acknowledges that society is greater than any individual and that institutions must outlive those who occupy positions within them.

Perhaps one of the most important measures of successful leadership is its ability to leave behind a system capable of continuing without it.

A leader who builds strong institutions contributes to the future. But one who renders institutions incapable of functioning in his absence leaves behind fragility, regardless of the scale of his personal achievements.

Decentralization: When Every Section Leads Itself

In a large orchestra, the conductor does not oversee every minor detail. There is a leader for the first violins, section leaders for different groups of instruments, and responsibilities distributed among musicians who understand their roles.

The quality of the performance depends on the presence of overall leadership, combined with a considerable degree of competence and initiative within each section.

In a state, administrative and political decentralization, within the limits established by the Constitution and the law, appears to be a means of expanding participation and developing new generations of leaders.

Every city, governorate, educational institution, and healthcare institution should not have to wait for instructions from a single central authority before taking action on every matter within its responsibilities.

Distributing responsibilities and powers, alongside accountability and oversight, does not necessarily weaken the state. It may, in fact, enhance its ability to respond to citizens’ needs.

There is a fundamental difference between a strong state and one that monopolizes every decision at the center.

True strength may be reflected in the ability of local institutions to function, the clarity of their responsibilities, and the existence of a system that ensures coordination among them.

Just as an orchestra conductor does not need to move every musician’s fingers, a state needs to ensure that everyone’s abilities work together.

But… Society Is Not an Orchestra

It is true that a nation is not a musical ensemble, and its citizens are not musicians contracted to perform a single melody.

In a democratic society, an individual’s freedom is not limited to choosing how to perform his role within a leader’s vision. It also includes the right to challenge that vision itself, participate in changing it, and even choose a different leadership.

Political opposition is not a discordant instrument that must be silenced. It may be a voice that exposes a flaw, offers an alternative, or warns of a danger that the majority has failed to recognize.

That is why the diversity of political voices is broader and deeper than the diversity of instruments in music.

Democracy does not ask everyone to agree on a single melody. Rather, it asks them to agree on rules that allow them to disagree, compete, cooperate, and transfer responsibility without destroying the state.

The beauty of an orchestra lies in the unity of its performance, while the strength of a free society lies in its ability to manage differences.

Finally… Who Deserves the Applause?

At the end of a musical concert, the conductor stands before the audience and bows in appreciation of their applause. But he often turns toward the musicians, invites them to stand, and acknowledges particular sections or performers who have delivered an outstanding performance.

He understands that his success is inseparable from theirs.

I hope this image becomes part of the culture of leadership in our societies.

A successful leader does not monopolize achievements or attribute to himself what generations of workers, thinkers, scientists, teachers, doctors, engineers, and citizens have accomplished.

Nor should the purpose of leadership be to make everyone stand and applaud one individual. Rather, it should be to make everyone feel that they have participated in creating success.

I believe that true leadership is not measured by the number of people who obey, but by the number of people who are capable of thinking, creating, and taking responsibility.

It is not measured by the loudest voice, but by the ability of different voices to coexist and interact.

And it is not measured by how long a conductor remains in front of the orchestra, but by his ability to leave behind music that continues to resonate in people’s hearts long after he has left the stage.

The Ethics of Disagreement and Difference: Between Personal Attacks and the Refinement of Dialogue

Cairo International University Theatre Festival 2026: Creativity and Beauty

Great nations do not need a leader who plays alone for himself, nor a people who spend their time applauding.

They need institutions that protect the constitutional score, free citizens who participate in shaping the future, and leaders who know when to step forward, when to listen, and when to make way for others.

Perhaps the most beautiful lesson we can learn from music is that harmony does not emerge from eliminating differences, but from respecting and organizing them.

The greatest leaders are not those who turn others into echoes of their own voices, but those who give their voices the opportunity to be heard.

The post Dr. Hossam Badrawi Writes for Veto Gate: Between Politics and Music: Who Creates Harmony, and Who Claims Ownership of the Melody? appeared first on Dr. Hossam Badrawi.

Military technology is no longer merely a supporting factor in warfare; it has become the primary determinant of the nature of power and a country’s position in the regional balance of power. The transformation is not simply quantitative (the number of tanks or aircraft), but qualitative: whoever controls the technological chain—from design and upgrades to maintenance and software—holds the real decision-making power, not merely the party that operates the military equipment on a daily basis.

This leads me to consider the following points:

First: The Gap Between Ownership and Use

Egypt, like many countries in the region, possesses a substantial conventional military arsenal, including aircraft, naval vessels, armored vehicles, and air defense systems. However, a significant portion of this arsenal depends on foreign technology in three critical areas:

Software and Algorithms:

These include guidance systems, electronic warfare capabilities, and network integration.

Maintenance and Upgrades:

Sensitive components, such as engines, radars, and communication systems, often require continuous support from the manufacturer or supplying country.

Supply Chains:

These range from smart munitions and precision spare parts to sensitive materials subject to political and export restrictions.

In practical terms, this means that the ability to operate these systems at full capacity could be affected during a moment of local or regional tension if the supplier decides to restrict support or upgrades.

This does not mean that the Egyptian Armed Forces are not independent or powerful. It does, however, mean that their margin of strategic autonomy is narrower than the size of their arsenal might suggest.

Second: The Changing Nature of Warfare

Modern wars are no longer decided by the number of military platforms alone, but by three interconnected factors:

Situational Awareness and Network Integration

The ability to monitor the battlefield and integrate data from drones, satellites, and radar systems in near real time.

Electronic and Cyber Warfare

These capabilities include disrupting an adversary’s systems or protecting one’s own, and their impact can sometimes exceed that of direct military engagement.

Drones and Precision-Guided Weapons

These technologies have lowered the cost of applying pressure on an adversary and redefined what is meant by “air superiority” and “control of the sea.”

In this context, investing in personnel trained to operate these systems, alongside developing domestic capabilities—even partially—in software and maintenance, becomes more important than simply increasing the number of conventional military platforms.

Third: Technology as an Instrument of Political Influence

Countries that possess advanced technologies—the United States, certain European countries, Israel, China, and Russia—do not merely sell military systems; they also sell a degree of dependency.

This dependency can be used, explicitly or implicitly, to influence the decisions of importing countries on regional issues.

In Egypt’s case, given its location in a region characterized by competition over maritime corridors, particularly the Red Sea and the Eastern Mediterranean, any restrictions on its military or intelligence capabilities could weaken its position in negotiations or crises involving its borders or economic interests.

Fourth: Human Resources and Technology

Egypt has a relative advantage in the size of its human resources within the military and research institutions. However, transforming this resource into technological power requires:

• Long-term training programs on advanced systems, going beyond basic operational use.

• Establishing local research and development environments, even if they begin through limited partnerships, to reduce complete dependence on foreign suppliers.

• Linking engineering and scientific education to defense and national security requirements, ensuring that skilled professionals do not remain merely operators of foreign technology.

My Conclusion, From a Scientific Perspective

Military technology today should not be measured by what is displayed in military parades, but by what a country can operate with relative independence during times of tension.

A large arsenal provides important conventional deterrence, but it is not sufficient if the ability to upgrade systems, conduct electronic warfare, and maintain network integration remains dependent on an external decision.

Egypt’s real challenge is not to acquire more equipment, but to build a layer of technological independence—in maintenance, software, and training—so that Egypt remains in control of the decisions governing the use of its military power, rather than merely being a user of that power.

This is the difference between an army that looks powerful on paper and one that is truly capable of protecting national interests in a rapidly changing regional environment.

In the end, everything I have written may seem self-evident, and the Egyptian leadership may already be fully aware of it. However, since we do not have access to the information or know the details, it is our duty to raise the issue and draw attention to it.

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