Sisi on big-screen monitor listening as John Kerry delivers remarks to Egyptian development conference at the Congress Center in Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, March 13, 2015. Wikicommons/State Department/ Public Domain.I never knew Giulio Regeni. I wish I had; his research was
important and fascinating, and everyone close to him recalls a
funny, warm and deeply humane young man. But when news of his
disappearance first spread in those sickening days following the January 25 anniversary in
2016, I felt like I knew him. Part of the reason I felt that way, I think, is that Giulio
belonged to a particular class of Cairo-dwellers, one that I’m particularly
familiar with because in many respects I belong to it myself.
He was a foreigner who moved to Egypt because he was intrigued –
intellectually, politically, personally – by the country, its nuances and its
rhythms; he was someone who wanted to understand the struggles of
marginalised Egyptians on the ground, not hobnob with bigwigs in the corridors
of power. He was in that class of Cairo-dwellers who you tend not
to see, for the most part, getting suited and booted for expat receptions
at the embassy; you’re more likely to find them downtown, in Stella bar,
gossiping and eating termus and
looking gloriously scruffy and unkempt.
Those of us inside that community had a complex relationship
with state violence, violence which in one form or another (as
journalists, academics, employees of NGOs) we often documented
as part of our work. By virtue of the fact that we were not Egyptian, we stood
out, and in a climate of government-sponsored xenophobia and chauvinistic
nationalism, that made us targets. But we were also, or so we thought,
protected to some degree by the privilege of our foreign passports and in many
cases the particular fact of our whiteness: never exposed to the same
degree of danger that our Egyptian colleagues face every day, and never likely
to suffer without consequence as non-Egyptians of colour have in recent
years – from trafficked African migrants in the
Sinai to the Mexican tourists gunned down by Egypt’s army
whilst on a desert safari in 2015.
We were aware of how problematic that privilege was but
we also depended upon it, and consciously or subconsciously we made
it part of our identity in Egypt, part of our sense of self and our
relationship to the country we now called home. And so when Giulio was
murdered, it had a profound impact on me and others in a similar
position: not just because of the shocking injustice of what happened to
him, but also because of the way in which it tore down the illusions of
our own defences.
Others have spoken eloquently about the fight for truth and
justice for Giulio, and so I won’t tread over the same ground. But what I
would like to do is draw attention to two dimensions to Giulio’s
story which I think are vital to bear in mind when thinking about his
killing, dimensions which I suspect – even though I didn’t
know him – Giulio himself would have been highly sensitive to and
keen to stress to a wider audience. Alongside
that legal intimidation is a more insidious attempt by the regime to
delegitimise the very notion of journalism.
The first is the wider context of authoritarian brutality in which
his ordeal unfolded. Whichever metric you use –
extrajudicial killings, tortured detainees, cases of cultural censorship,
violations of academic freedom – Egypt is currently undergoing its most
vicious iteration of dictatorship in living memory. In my own sphere,
reporters have been particularly affected. Egypt is now the third biggest
jailer of journalists on the planet after Turkey and China. Last year the press
syndicate building in Cairo, traditionally something of a refuge for members of
the media, was attacked for the first time by security forces and its
leaders arrested; since Sisi’s ascendancy, reporters have been hit by
a blizzard of travel bans, defamation suits, and arrests. As I speak, Al
Jazeera journalist Mahmoud Hussein is being held on charges of ‘disseminating
fake news’; the photojournalist Shawkan has been incarcerated since
2013 and could face the death penalty; Abdallah el-Fakharany, also detained
in 2013, is now serving a life sentence behind bars.
Alongside that legal intimidation is a more insidious attempt
by the regime to delegitimise the very notion of journalism. President
Sisi has warned of ‘fourth-generational warfare’ being waged against Egypt
by the press and says that journalists who “harm Egypt” will be “held
accountable before god”. When legitimate questions were asked about the
successes and failures of the state’s much-hyped and highly expensive widening
of the Suez Canal (which has so far yielded a 0.0033% increase in revenue),
Sisi claimed that “To question national projects is to aim to break
Egyptians’ will”. Parliamentary speaker Ali Abdel Aal has
announced he is compiling a list of domestic and international
journalists who “disseminate seditious content”.
And of course this crackdown extends well beyond the media
world. The brilliant El Nadeem Centre, which helps to rehabilitate victims
of state violence recently released its annual report giving
statistics for some human rights abuses over the past year. In 2016, there were
almost a thousand forced disappearances, as well as more than 500
cases of individual torture, more than 300 cases of collective torture, and
more than a hundred deaths in detention. Today, there are an estimated 60,000
political prisoners in Sisi’s jails. Late last year I interviewed El
Nadeem’s co-founder Aida Seif ElDawla: “This is the worst
situation when it comes to the killing and torture and starving of detainees in
prisons that we have ever seen,” she told me. A few weeks
later security forces stormed the organisation’s headquarters in downtown
Cairo, and shut it down.
So I think it’s important to place what happened in Giulio against
that backdrop, and to be vigilant against any efforts to isolate his murder
from that broader context of state violence which continues to impact upon
and destroy the lives of so many Egyptians every day. And the second
thing I wanted to underline is how culpability for that state
violence – its scale and depth and ferocity – cannot be confined
inside Egypt’s borders. Egypt’s western allies were always complicit in
Mubarak’s autocracy; for them, the nature of Egypt’s security apparatus was an
asset, not an aberration. Egypt, for example, was a key partner in
the CIA’s extraordinary rendition programme during the Bush-era War on Terror.
“If you want a serious interrogation, you send a prisoner to Jordan,” explained
one CIA agent at the time. “If you want them to be tortured, you send
them to Syria. If you want someone to disappear – never to see them
again – you send them to Egypt.” Donald
Trump has labelled his Egyptian counterpart ‘a fantastic guy’.
By and large, the international community has now
rallied around Egypt’s latest strongman once again. To foreign ministries
in the global north, Sisi is a familiar face in an ever-more unfamiliar
region – and one that they’re ready to do business with. In the past
two years Egypt has signed major new arms deals with both the US and
France. Donald Trump has labelled his Egyptian counterpart ‘a fantastic
guy’. In late 2015, David Cameron rolled out the red carpet for Sisi at Downing
Street; Theresa May has promised ‘a new chapter in bilateral relations’ between
the UK and Egypt and as I speak Boris Johnson is in Cairo, drumming up
trade deals. Italy did, thanks to popular pressure on the ground, temporarily withdraw
its ambassador to Egypt in protest at Giulio’s murder. But between 2011
and 2013 alone, Italy sold Egypt more than half a billion euros worth of guns
and bullets. The police trucks that many of the journalists and political
prisoners I mentioned earlier found themselves locked up in after
being dragged from their homes in the night are manufactured by the Italian
company Iveco. Giulio’s disappearance occurred as an Italian
government business delegation toured Cairo; this very month, the Italian
energy giant Eni has announced $10 billion worth of investment in Egypt over
the next five years. In 2015 I watched then Italian prime
minister Matteo Renzi address Sisi from the stage at a major economic
conference in Sharm el-Sheikh and declare, to thunderous applause, “Your war is
our war, and your stability is our stability.” “Your
war is our war, and your stability is our stability.”
And that is why, as we think about and struggle for
justice for Giulio, we must remember not only the other victims of the Egyptian
state, but also those closer to home who enable the perpetrators, and to call
out their hypocrisy whenever we encounter it. As
Isabel Esterman, a journalist with the Egyptian media outlet Mada Masr,
wrote: “These people get newspapers. They have diplomats and intelligence
officers in Egypt. They are not naïve. They understand the dirty politics, the
abuse, the broken bodies and shattered lives that keep Egypt “open for
business.” They know what is going on in this country, and until now they
have not appeared to care … Italian officials want their gas deals and their
anti-terror coalition, and they have always known what the price is. They just
expected that somebody else — somebody else’s children — would be the ones to
pay for it.”
This is adapted
from a talk given at the University of Manchester in February 2017