Why Does Egypt Disappear People Secretly When It Can Do It Publicly?

In a country where forced disappearances are both spectacle and tradition, secrecy isn't failure—it's flair.

Between the breaking news bulletins of massacres in Syria and the genocide of Gaza, Egypt, ever the showman, still manages to wedge in a few headlines of its own. These tend to involve unannounced raids that culminate in the disappearance of an Egyptian, often with a minor detail, like age, adding flavour—say, 15-year-old Mohamed Abdelaziz, recently dragged from his home by state authorities with no warrant, no explanation, and, of course, no forwarding address. And just like that: Another disappearance to bolster Egypt’s record.

Cue the familiar chorus of the concerned and nostalgic: What happened to Egypt? Where is the Egypt of Nasser? Of Sadat? Of Mubarak? Of the military council? Of Morsi? Of Sisi? Where, indeed, is the swift, unburdened justice that once operated above the petty hindrance of laws?

They go on: Have we forgotten the open-ended disappearances of Mohamed Naguib, Mohamed Morsi, Sami Anan? Of Sayyid Qutb and Pope Shenouda III? Abdel al-Hamid Kishk? Mahmoud El-Saadany? Nawal El Saadawi? The folksy lyricist El-Abnudi, and even that beloved cultural hydra, Alaa Abdel Fattah—repeated thrice like a conjuring spell?

And then comes the lament for "Mama Egypt," that stern matriarch who raised her children on discipline, military boots, public shame, house arrest, and a rotating carousel of charges: joining a terrorist group, spreading false news, insulting the armed forces, causing traffic, and other grave sins. Where is the Egypt that slaps, binds, tazes, insults? The Egypt of virginity tests? The one that sends battalions to fill prisons with Islamists, leftists, dreamers? Where is the thirty-year emergency law? The 100,000-strong State Security Service? The military tribunals for civilians? And why—oh why—does it not announce who it’s disappearing the way it announces a murdered currency or increased grocery prices?

They go on and on. It’s what they do. It’s their full-time job.

Sometimes I dream of being a plainclothes officer, or a moustached informant, able to respond as one should. But I always wake up to the sobering truth: I’m a writer. All I have are words.

So let’s begin with linguistics. “Forced disappearance” is a redundant term. Disappearance, by definition, isn’t voluntary. People don’t disappear like they’re smoke. Whether it’s the 2 a.m. knock-and-drag by officers with no paperwork, or the polite daytime visit with warrants, charges, and full respect for procedural theatre—it all ends the same way: someone is whisked off somewhere. The only real exception is if you approach the local informant and say, “I’d like to disappear, please,” to which he replies, “Right away, sir.”

Now, about arresting children. We don’t know what young Mohamed did to earn his disappearance. The glut of potential charges is wide. Maybe he had a political opinion. Maybe he looked at an army man funny. Maybe he misunderstood the complex metaphysics of “Long Live Egypt.” But one thing is certain: every child is a ticking ideological time bomb. One day they might stumble upon fanciful notions like liberty or equality and decide to demand them. Better to nip that sort of thing in the bud. Arresting minors is a pre-emptive civics lesson.

Besides, rookie torturers need practice. They can’t be expected to hone their craft on grizzled activists who treat solitary confinement like a yoga retreat. No, they need pliable material. Adolescents. Fragile minds. The state must supply the raw goods.

Some may interpret this as evidence of a detainee shortage. In truth, it shows only that achieving detainee self-sufficiency is a top national priority. Otherwise, the Prison Authority may be forced to lay off staff, increasing unemployment, reducing institutional knowledge in arrest and surveillance, and placing the entire carceral economy in jeopardy. Egypt can’t afford that. Citizens must do their part to keep unemployment down. It’s a kind of national service.

And what of secrecy? People complain that the state abducts in silence. But let’s not exaggerate. The knock is followed by smashing, shrieking, dragging, and a local audience. It’s public theatre—shouting neighbours and clattering shutters—clear proof that the abductee has been successfully absorbed into the bosom of the nation. Don’t say that Egypt, home of the Arab world’s greatest films and plays, can’t put on a show.

Still, what's wrong with a little discretion? Don’t all respectable entities rely on secrecy? You don’t demand to know the ingredients of your favourite shawarma, do you?

Secrecy is a virtue. Egypt is a global thought leader in covert operations. Its security forces must train locally before branching out to international assignments—say, snatching exiles or helping them tragically fall from balconies after prolonged internal conflicts with gravity.

Let there be secrecy. It’s how citizens build relationships with state institutions. You don’t really know the Ministry of Interior until you’ve visited all its departments looking for someone who no longer officially exists. You begin to understand the system. You become part of the performance.

Let there be secrecy. Mystery is at the heart of storytelling. And politics, in Egypt, is nothing if not performative. The masterstroke isn’t just in making people disappear, but in bringing them back—suddenly, inexplicably—in a courtroom, blinking into the fluorescent abyss of State Security. It’s the kind of dramaturgy that deserves its own genre. Call it “disappearance literature”—a natural sequel to “prison literature,” but with more plotting. Why, it’s positively Kafkaesque. 

Let there be secrecy. It protects the emotional wellbeing of the disappeared. Egypt is a considerate parent. It shields its children—even the naughty ones—from the trauma of visitors, from the guilt of parents who die of heartbreak, from knowing that a mother now lies in a hospital corridor, unmedicated, half-paralysed, desperate for her child. Or worse: from being sent food he doesn’t like.

Of course, I could keep going, but that’s already too much for the moralists. Let’s be fair: President Sisi is honouring tradition. Egypt has not changed. The state disappears people in public, flexing its muscles for the global stage. It disappears in secret, sowing fear among her foes. It avoids the expense of hiring a department to notify families. It preserves discipline with a continuous low-voltage national panic. It’s elegant. Efficient. Economical. And if there’s one thing Sisi’s Egypt knows, it’s economical.