They claim to embody progress, civilisation, human rights, justice, and all the so-called values of a free market economy. We, too, claim these ideals, proudly holding our heads high like an Arabian palm in a defiant ode. They abandoned the bond between individuals and their social circles, reducing people to solitary entities reliant on the state for protection and care. We refused to follow suit, crafting instead a patchwork cloak of clashing colours, blending everything that has always separated ‘them’ from ‘us’.
From their capitalism, we adopted only the grindstone of private labour and the blind mechanisms of the market—transforming humanity, honoured by God above all other creatures, into a mere statistic. They acknowledged this and compensated with laws and systems ensuring a dignified life: reasonable working hours, a minimum wage to shield against the cold of their advanced civilisation, and universal healthcare. We, on the other hand, discarded these ‘trivialities’, tossing them into the same abyss where our values, rights, and distinctions as humans were once thrown. All we imported from them was the grindstone, attaching it to an elegant chain around the citizen’s neck, forcing compliance.
Raouf was a young man in his early thirties. His father, Engineer Hassan, had taught him before passing away that work is worship, and that respecting people and living with integrity will be met with the same in return. The wise man was not wrong, but fate spared him from witnessing life’s bitter realities.
Raouf graduated from the Faculty of Commerce. Like countless others, he struggled to find a job in the never-ending cycle of despair we have grown weary of, joking about it as we often do to mask the pain. Yet, he remembered his father’s words and persevered. Self-taught and determined, he became a network specialist, caught in the grindstone of the free market. From one restaurant chain to the next, he was essential—his role as the backbone of these vast franchises indispensable.
Raouf carried the weight of responsibility alone, managing a network that generated millions for a system relentless in its pursuit of profit, even at the expense of its people. Despite his meagre salary, Raouf remained content and diligent. Married, with a child and another on the way, he did not complain about his lot in life. He bore his debts and responsibilities with patience, determined to honour his father’s dream of being a productive, honourable citizen.
Raouf traversed Cairo tirelessly, moving between franchise branches to solve problems here and there. Without a car, he relied on the metro, public transport, and minibuses to keep his job and appease the grindstone.
He did not work the set hours often spoken of in the West, where the franchise and its grindstone originated. The clock did not strike five, signalling family dinners at home with his wife and child. Fridays were not his day to spend with his mother.
Raouf had no health insurance to fall back on, no guarantee of care in case of illness. He was not entitled to routine check-ups every six months, unlike those tied to the grindstone of their civilisation.
In our own civilisation, no effective union existed to defend Raouf’s rights or remind him that he was human, that his body had limits. Raouf collapsed.
Raouf, healthy and hardworking, fell victim to the clash between their civilisation and ours. He received no life-saving treatment for his blood pressure, elevated by the relentless demands of his work. Perhaps even the state’s safety net, riddled with holes, had also collapsed under the weight of this absurd hybrid of civilisations.
God, in His mercy, chose to spare Raouf from the farcical theatre of our patchwork state.
He departed suddenly, unnoticed by a society too busy to pause. The metro did not stop in his honour, though its tracks bore witness to his countless journeys between Helwan and Marg. The minibus tout, with his coarse voice, continued shouting, ‘Maskan… Maskan’, reducing the area Raouf called home to a butchered name unworthy of respect.
Life carried on. Raouf was but one of the countless who fall daily, unseen and unmourned by the collective. Perhaps his loved ones grieved, but the grindstone turned as always, indifferent to his absence. Yet for those who truly knew Raouf, he remains a martyr—a victim of absurdity, a system stripped of identity and respect for human value.
This article is originally published by AlBorsa in Arabic and later AI-translated by South Push.