Egypt thrives on contrasts, and that’s probably what makes our humor so special. Yet, the current mood across the country is one of deep frustration, defined by injustices that can feel difficult to escape. This once-vibrant land, known for its resilience against hardship, now finds itself struggling, plagued by social hierarchies and ever-widening disparities that continue to tear its social fabric apart. Here, the adage “the poor get poorer while the rich get richer” has never felt more ominously true.
Circulating numbers about the country’s economic health are concerning. According to Statista, 27% of the population lives below the poverty line, while only a privileged few, those many refer to as the 1%, control a disproportionate share of the nation’s wealth. Soaring inflation has been exacerbating this inequity, driving low-income households into deeper financial pits as the cost of daily essentials continue to rise. The once-solid middle class is now teetering on the brink of extinction. For those tethered to fixed or meager incomes, the ability to save or invest in their futures has become a distant dream, eroded by mounting debt and the constant decrease of their purchase power. Meanwhile, Cairo’s elite remains largely unscathed, their fortunes shielded by investments and assets impervious to inflationary pressures.
These split realities have given rise to a cultural phenomenon that embodies this division: the contrast between Egypt and Masr. What began as a lighthearted jest has evolved into a poignant bit of social commentary. Rooted in classist undertones, the joke draws stark lines between two Egypts: one entrenched in ostentation and privilege, and the other defined by grit and struggle. Terms like “balady” and “bee2a,” once innocuous descriptors, have morphed into cutting insults laden with social judgment. While balady loosely translates to “local” or “rustic,” bee2a—borrowed from the Arabic word for “environment”—has come to signify “tasteless,” “vulgar,” or worse, a perceived lack of sophistication allegedly tied to lower class cultures.
@yehia_elnemr 😂😂#fyp #foryou #tiktok #viral #fypシ #famous #egypt#مصر #😂 ♬ original sound – yehia
The implications of bee2a extend far beyond casual slang. Its usage reveals a sense of superiority over the working people, permeating everything from cuisine to clothing, neighborhoods, and even language. Foods celebrated as staples of the Egyptian table, such as foul and ta’ameya, are dismissed as the fare of the “uncultured.” Cars, clothing brands, and even vacation destinations are scrutinized through the same elitist lens: a secondhand vehicle, a modest outfit, or a trip to a less exclusive beach town might all be deemed bee2a. This hyper-consumerist, brand-obsessed ethos entrenches a culture of superficiality, where labels trump substance, and authenticity is sacrificed for appearances.
Disturbingly, the stigma doesn’t end with possessions. The term has extended its reach to demean individuals who speak imperfect English—despite it not being Egypt’s native language. Fluency, or the lack thereof, has become a class marker, with accents and linguistic struggles also being mocked off as bee2a. This attitude fosters a corrosive disdain, diverting aspirations away from meaningful achievement toward superficial conformity. The desire to appear “classy” or at least “classier” than someone else, can manifest in everything from altering speech patterns to frequenting exclusive locales, deepening preexisting societal divisions while creating an environment of constant comparison.
This toxic mindset not only fractures communities but also undermines Egypt’s rich cultural heritage. A disregard for local traditions, music, and cuisine— things that often stem from the working class— reflect an internalized shame that privileges Westernized aesthetics over our own expressions of identity. The result is a culture at war with itself, where classist judgments strip away the vibrancy that has long defined the Egyptian way of life.
Masr vs Egypt pic.twitter.com/yuyEtcXhJC
— Raghda (@HannRaghda) September 21, 2023
In this alternate reality, which feels all too real to too many, two archetypes emerge. The first, “Egypt”, which usually refers to the privately schooled child, fluent in English, often incapable of stringing a full sentence in Arabic together, and anchored to a life of gated communities, luxury vacations in Marassi or Hacienda, and a relentless pursuit of status symbols. This cohort shuns the chaos of Cairo’s streets, their lives exclusively lived inside bubbles of privilege and material excess, where Egyptian identity is either diluted or consciously erased.
On the other side stands “Masr”—the Egypt of the people. Here, authenticity takes precedence. These individuals embrace their roots, revel in the cacophony of street life, and wear their culture with pride. Whether it’s savoring a foul sandwich from a random corner truck or enjoying a family vacation in a modest coastal town, this Egypt is unapologetically itself. Language is spoken freely, whether fluent or broken, without the oppressive weight of judgment. Classism is rejected, not revered.
Ultimately, the Egypt-versus-Masr dichotomy is not just another viral TikTok trend that’ll die tomorrow, it is very much a mirror reflecting the profound disparities that define modern Egyptian society today. And as it is laid bare for us to examine and probe beneath the screens of our phones, maybe we should pause and reconsider how we respond to it for those who may tangibly feel alienated by it in real life.
In its own way, it’s a call to stop looking down on others, no matter where they come from. It’s a reminder to really think about what it means to be Egyptian, as in our books, being Egyptian is anything but spending your summers in a five-star or splurging six figures at a function: let’s burst this bubble, and work towards all proudly saying that we’re all from the same place: Masr.