Speak my land’s language, my fellow countryman
Your voice has become so clear to me
The Egyptian Telecommunications Company, after its transformation into a joint-stock company and its escape from the constraints of the public sector, has successfully embedded this promotional jingle in the minds of its customers through relentless advertising campaigns over the past few years. But does this reflect genuine admiration and loyalty to a company striving with all its might to shed its old, stagnant government image? Or is it simply affection for the catchy tune itself? Or perhaps it is just the inescapable reality of consumers being trapped by the sole company monopolising the landline market—one where there is no alternative to call for complaints, forcing the unfortunate customer to listen to the jingle over and over while waiting for a response.
The company is making every effort to develop itself and maximise its profits—perhaps taking advantage of this strategic edge that few in the country possess. It plans to contract directly with customers in their homes, in addition to service centres and company offices, aiming to increase landline subscribers and facilitate the process of signing contracts and installing lines. This coincides with an offer that includes a landline connection with no installation fees and 3,000 free minutes. May the house of benefactors always prosper!
The company has also won the award for Best Website of 2010 in a competition organised by the Egypt Academy for Websites for the third consecutive year, supposedly in recognition of its ‘efforts and excellence in the technology and telecommunications sector’. As if there were any real competition. As if they had won first place in a class with only one student, and the headmaster had honoured them for their exceptional performance.
Aqil Bashir, the company’s chairman, confirmed that the company is studying a new plan to expand its wireless data transmission services following the recent boom in the market. It also intends to introduce additional services in the internet sector. And one cannot blame the company for that—after all, in the world of free-market economics, the sea always craves more water.
Yet, when circumstances force you to visit one of the company’s service centres in person, the question nags at you: how? How can a company with such a fossilised administrative mindset aspire to such grand expansions? Two reasons might make you suspect—no, believe—that this company is merely an extension of the Tahrir Complex, with all its notorious bureaucracy and apathetic employees.
First, after enduring the patriotic anthem of my fellow countryman, when a customer service agent finally answers, you often receive no satisfactory response or solution to your problem. The issue, they insist, is never on their end. You are then left with no choice but to go in person and argue your case. Now, imagine if they proceed with their plan to sign contracts from home—perhaps they will need security forces to organise the long queues of frustrated customers complaining about a service issue that no one is willing to take responsibility for.
Second, there is that unavoidable monthly pilgrimage to pay your bill—especially if you dare to trust the company’s (thankfully provided) online payment service. A service that, even in developed countries, has left many users stranded, let alone on our prestigious national website, the proud first-place winner, which does little to inspire confidence in entering one’s personal payment details.
So you leave work and head to the service centre with all due respect, only to be greeted by a figure reminiscent of the infamous ‘Come back tomorrow’ bureaucrat—except this one wears a tie and sports a forced smile, as privatisation demands. Yet, just like in the era of government-run institutions, he still fumbles with the change as he tells you: ‘The system is down.’
When will it be back?
‘That’s up to God. We’re waiting too!’
Should I wait or leave?
‘As you like. It’s out of our hands, isn’t it?’
Of course, it is in your hands! You hold the time of citizens whose company was privatised with the promise of better service. Is that not reason enough—not just to compensate them, but at the very least to respect their lost time and disrupted work? Especially when this farce is a daily occurrence, where customers embark on a journey to plead with the almighty ‘God willing’ for the system to rise from its fall—only to return empty-handed to their jobs.
And here, a pressing and baffling question arises: how can a ‘God willing’ system lead such ambitious, expansive projects?
This article is originally published by AlBorsa in Arabic and later AI-translated by South Push.