By Hossam Badrawi –
From a realistic perspective, I find that we deny discrimination — while practicing it at the same time. Few of us would accept being described as racist. We like to see ourselves as tolerant, well-intentioned, not deliberately excluding anyone, and not openly expressing hatred toward those who are different.
But human history teaches us an important lesson: the most dangerous forms of discrimination are not those practiced through hostility, but those practiced through habit.
Discrimination does not always begin with a hateful slogan. It may begin with an administrative procedure, a social custom, or a “normal” practice whose meaning and impact we have never paused to question.
In schools, during religion class, the teacher asks Christian students to leave the classroom when Islamic religion is being taught.
This may seem organizational, even well-intentioned: “Each learns their own religion.” But the real question is not educational — it is human.
What does a child understand from this scene? Can the child distinguish between religious specialization and symbolic exclusion?
A child does not read the constitution or grasp the philosophy of pluralism. But the child understands one clear message: religious difference means leaving the group.
Thus, unintentionally, we plant in early consciousness the idea that citizenship is conditional, that belonging is not inclusive but divisible.
When Al-Azhar University includes faculties of medicine, engineering, science, and agriculture, it has — by reality — ceased to be purely a religious institution. It has become a higher-education institution graduating doctors and engineers who work in a civil state.
It is a simple and fair question: Why should an Egyptian citizen be prevented from studying medicine or engineering because of his or her religion?
The curriculum is scientific. The degree is civil. The funding comes from public money.
What justification remains other than discrimination based on religious identity, even if it is not labeled as such?
One of the quietest — yet most consequential — forms of discrimination is the presence of the “religion” field on national ID cards.
A logical question arises: Does a traffic officer, bank employee, or court clerk need to know my religion? Does my religion affect my right to healthcare, employment, or justice?
If the answer is no, then the presence of this field does not serve administration. It turns spiritual belonging into a tool of civic classification and opens the door — even silently — to discrimination.
Broadcasting Friday sermons through loudspeakers at high, overlapping volumes that make them impossible to follow is not merely a matter of religious preaching. Whoever wishes to listen can go to the mosque voluntarily on Friday.
At its core, it is a symbol of the compulsory presence of a particular religion in the public sphere.
The patient, the student, the non-Muslim — even the Muslim who does not wish to listen — all become recipients without choice.
Faith, in its essence, is not transmitted by force nor imposed through volume. It addresses the heart and mind freely.
Discrimination in Egypt is not limited to religion alone. It seeps into our daily lives in more common — and more denied — forms.
We practice class discrimination when we link human worth to appearance, accent, or home address.
When someone from a working-class neighborhood is treated as less competent, when a villager is presumed less sophisticated, or when a graduate of a public school is viewed with suspicion rather than evaluated objectively.
These assumptions may not be stated explicitly, but the look of superiority, the tone of voice, and the method of selection all teach people — without a formal lesson — that opportunities are distributed not by fairness but by social standing.
We practice discrimination against women when we accept — without objection — that a woman is asked about her marriage plans before her professional competence, or when her ambition is judged as “rebellion,” while the same ambition in a man is praised as “leadership.”
When guardianship is justified in the name of protection, or when a woman’s social role is reduced to predefined functions, we are not protecting values. We are codifying inequality in the name of custom.
We practice silent discrimination against persons with disabilities when we treat their presence as a burden rather than a right; when we build cities they cannot navigate; when institutions fail to address their needs; when parents protest their integration into classrooms as if they would slow their children’s learning — and then we wonder at their “absence” from public life. Here, discrimination lies not in cruelty but in chronic neglect.
These forms are rarely practiced with ill intent. They do not announce themselves as exclusion. But they share one dangerous trait: They teach people — from childhood — who deserves, who is marginalized, who is seen, and who is expected to disappear.
A just state does not resemble its citizens; it protects them.
A modern state does not demand that its citizens be identical, relinquish their faith, or conceal their identities. But it is required to uphold one clear principle: To remain neutral and fair — not to discriminate among its citizens on the basis of religion, gender, class, geography, or physical ability.
Good intentions are not enough. Some may say, “We do not mean to discriminate,” and this is often true. But justice is measured not by intentions, but by outcomes.
When a citizen feels less visible, less entitled, or different in a way that excludes them, the problem exists — even if cruelty is absent.
The problem is not religion. It is turning religion into a criterion of citizenship. Nor is it faith itself. It is using faith as an instrument of civil regulation.
What may be required today is not a revolution against society, nor a clash with religion, nor even a sudden change in laws. What is required is quiet moral courage.
But, to pause. To ask. To review what we have grown accustomed to.
When religion is a free choice, it elevates the human being. When it becomes an imposed identity, it weakens faith and diminishes citizenship.
A strong state is not one where a single voice is loudest, but one where every citizen — however different — feels seen, respected, and equal.
True progress does not begin with slogans but with awareness. It does not begin with confrontation but with understanding and acceptance of difference. Constructive progress endures only through justice and reason — and reason always begins with a question.
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