There is no doubt that a form of development and change is taking place on Egyptian state television. This shift, however long overdue, comes after decades of intellectual and institutional stagnation—both in the media sector and on the economic front. Yet, anyone familiar with the daily workings of the Maspero television building will quickly realise that this so-called development is confined to what the viewer sees on the screen. And even then, it lacks maturity in every sense. As an institution, television remains entirely detached from the most basic principles of economic management required for such a weighty state-owned entity.
Those fortunate enough to be allowed into the building—especially for the first time—may initially believe they are entering a Ministry of Interior barracks. Security personnel interrogate visitors with a series of questions: ‘Who are you with?’ ‘Who are you here to see?’ ‘Do you have a visitor’s permit?’ If not, and you decide to wait outside for your host to come down and sort things out, another security officer will approach, ask the same questions again, and order you to move away—as if you were standing outside the presidential palace.
But once you clear these hurdles and enter the ‘prestigious building’, the illusion quickly shatters. Any sense of grandeur dissolves as you find yourself in what is essentially a replica of the Tahrir Complex. Crowds upon crowds move in all directions, forming endless queues in front of broken lifts. The stench of disinfectant floods certain corridors during cleaning hours, as if the building were suffering from a severe outbreak of scabies.
What is most striking, however, is how television employees share the same bureaucratic, chaotic, and indifferent attitudes as their counterparts at the Tahrir Complex. They seem oblivious to the sensitivity of their roles or the fundamental differences between their institution and a government administrative office. While a few well-groomed women appear on screen, their layers of makeup may convince some of the channel’s prestige. But in reality, the institution’s sophistication is no more than a superficial façade.
If you happen to be owed money by this establishment, prepare yourself for an experience with one of the most antiquated accounting systems imaginable—one that only lacks a few scurrying rats to complete the picture. Fortunately, the excessive use of disinfectant keeps them at bay. Though the records and data are always ‘available’, extracting information or claiming your dues is a Herculean task. The institution itself resembles a dying dinosaur, staggering under its own weight.
Reports upon reports highlight the millions in financial losses, yet figures and estimates never seem to align. Still, you might find yourself sympathising with the institution when they promise to process payments ‘after verifying the accounts’, which usually means waiting another month. Meanwhile, waves of employees flood out of the building at the end of the workday, resembling a scene from Judgment Day.
At that moment, you can’t help but spare a thought for the management of this fossilised dinosaur, lumbering forward with the collective force of 37,000 employees. Among them, women carry handbags identical to the grocery bags of their counterparts at the Tahrir Complex—staff who show up merely to pass the time in a government job. The men, on the other hand, clutch stacks of newspapers—perhaps for entertainment. But to be fair, they might also be reading to stay informed, fulfilling one of the most basic requirements of their role as media professionals.
Yet I will never forget a conversation I had with a news director several months ago, when the famous Al Jazeera cameraman was finally released from Guantánamo. His story had dominated the pages of Arab and international newspapers, as well as global television screens, in almost every language for years before his release. I asked the director why Egyptian television had yet to cover the news of Sami al-Hajj’s release. He looked at me in confusion and replied, ‘What Hajj?’ At that moment, I realised that the newspapers they carried were nothing more than tools for crossword puzzles and Sudoku.
This article is originally published by AlBorsa in Arabic and later AI-translated by South Push.