Heard, not read: How Egypt silences its media

It came as little surprise when the Ministry of Transport rushed to denounce the Veto news website for “spreading lies and rumors”—barely ten days after President Abdel Fattah El-Sisi issued fresh pronouncements on media freedoms.

At an Aug. 10 meeting with the heads of Egypt’s media authorities, El-Sisi reaffirmed what a presidential statement called “the state’s unwavering commitment to upholding freedom of expression and embracing all patriotic perspectives within the Egyptian media landscape in a way that promotes pluralism and intellectual openness”—a formulation so familiar it now reads like punctuation in the choreography of state discourse.

The president called on officials to draft a roadmap for modernizing the country’s media apparatus, a plan that, in his words, should “keep pace with the rapid global developments in media” and empower Egyptian outlets to fulfill their mission in accordance with the values of a modern state.

Over the course of a nearly three-hour meeting, the president spoke at length about what he described as “advancing the media system,” beginning, he said, with openness to diverse opinions and the reinforcement of “the principle of hearing both sides.” Alternative viewpoints, he emphasized, “must not be censored or barred from appearing on state media platforms.”

That assurance came not from a private briefing, but from the 9 pm news bulletin on the state TV's Channel One, where Ahmed El-Moslemany, head of the National Media Authority, relayed the president’s words to the public.

But within ten days, those noble-sounding directives collided head-on with the machinery of the state. The Veto news website published a report under the headline “Transfer of former leaders into honorary positions,” detailing the Ministry of Transport’s quiet reliance on external advisers—many of them retired military officers. The piece was part of a broader investigative feature titled “Republic of Advisers: A shadow government that costs millions and raises questions about the purpose of their tasks.”

The response from the Ministry of Transport headed by Deputy Prime Minister Kamel Al-Wazir betrayed scant regard for the president’s recent pledges on media freedom. The ministry appeared unmoved by El-Sisi’s public call for pluralism, or by his insistence that dissenting voices must not be “silenced” or “excluded.”

It took little time for the ministry to announce that it had filed a legal complaint against Veto, accusing the outlet of publishing falsehoods. Within days, it dialed back, redirecting the grievance to the Supreme Media Council. The gesture may have been less severe, but the message was unmistakable.

This escalation came despite the fact that Veto had published the ministry’s reply—observing the right of response, a basic tenet in any society that claims to uphold press freedom. In functioning democracies, such exchanges form the basis of responsible journalism: officials respond, corrections are made, and public discourse continues.

In Egypt, however, the script is different. While officials continue to recite the language of “media reform” and inclusion, the reality is far grimmer. Journalists are treated as adversaries, and the legal system is deployed not as a safeguard but as a weapon. The state, rather than working with the press to illuminate public affairs, often turns to the courtroom to enforce silence.

This, even as the president himself has said he wants Egyptians to be “aware, cultured, and educated”—not “uninformed” or “ignorant,” according to El-Moslemany’s recounting.

But how can a people become informed when the press is under siege, critical inquiry is criminalized, and newspapers are punished for doing what their profession demands?

The clash between Veto and the Ministry of Transport is not an outlier—it is an emblem of how Egyptian authorities have managed the press for over a decade. Official discourse still clings to the banner of “diversity of opinion does not harm the nation,” and state figures routinely declare their openness to expanding the public sphere. But when journalists attempt to turn those slogans into practice, they are met not with engagement, but with hostility. Few officials appear willing to accept the press’s role as a watchdog. Most expect it to echo government statements and amplify achievements—preferably without scrutiny.

In Sept. 2021, President El-Sisi unveiled Egypt’s National Strategy for Human Rights, heralding it as “a bright spot in the country’s history” and “a serious step” toward reform.

The strategy—praised at the time as an ambitious roadmap—outlined specific measures to protect freedom of expression. 

On paper, it was promising. It called for laws ensuring access to official data and statistics. It spoke of cultivating pluralism and protecting journalists. It pledged to review repressive legislation, create a media code of ethics, and raise public awareness about the importance of free expression.

Yet four years on, the media landscape remains as it was, if not worse. No oppressive press law has been repealed. The long-promised freedom of information law, enshrined in the constitution over a decade ago, remains unpassed. The promised pluralism has not arrived. Journalists continue to face prosecution, lawsuits, and state repression as routine. The gulf between principle and practice is as wide as ever. It is as if none of the declarations ever left the page.

And still, the cost of this narrowing public space mounts. A decade should have been enough for the state to grasp a simple truth: muzzling the press does not shield it from foreign campaigns meant to tarnish its image—campaigns it insists are backed by billions. It does not protect national security. It merely silences domestic voices capable of speaking for themselves.

The moment of decision now lies with the state. It can choose the harder path: to enact the reforms it has long promised. That would mean lifting restrictions on the press, revisiting repressive laws, passing a freedom of information law act, and ending the security establishment’s interference in media. Or it can persist with empty rhetoric—words that ring hollow in a country where journalists work under siege.

The test is not in what is said, but in what is done. If the state genuinely seeks to turn a page and restore the credibility, reach, and impact of its media, then the path is already mapped. It has been dissected in endless meetings, conferences, and private briefings.

A free press is not a luxury. It is a society’s immune system. It interrogates policies, exposes failures, and diagnoses the rot before it metastasizes into crisis. Without it, there can be no transparency, no accountability—no stable modern state worth the name.