Mahraganat and the Egyptian Public’s Struggle for Artistic Freedom

                     Photo by Yan Krukau.

Since the 2011 Arab Spring, Egypt has undergone profound cultural and political shifts. Emblematic of these changes is the political struggle surrounding the rise of mahraganat; a raw, energetic, and unapologetic blend of hip-hop and techno that emerged from the working-class neighborhoods of Cairo. This genre is driven by Egypt’s youth, who mix their music using pirated software, secondhand equipment, and free music samples, spreading it through the streets via self-taught DJs. Mahraganat captures the spirit of post-revolution Egypt, reflecting not only its people's frustration but also its disenfranchised youth's aspirations and realities.

Much like the role of graffiti art during the 2011 protests against Former President Hosni Mubarak’s dictatorship, mahraganat serves as an outlet for expressing frustration and bringing people together. The genre began as "festival" music, the word directly translating to festivals, with artists holding large performances in lower-class neighborhoods that welcomed everyone. This power to unite communities and its growing popularity in voicing public grievances have made mahraganat a target of government repression, as it challenges societal norms and the state’s grip on artistic expression.

The Egyptian government has imposed a strict regulatory system on mahraganat musicians, requiring them to obtain official performance permits. In 2015, new laws granted authorities the power to deny permits and ban entire music genres, including mahraganat. By 2018, additional legislation made it extremely difficult for musicians to hold concerts or festivals, as the culture minister was given the authority to cancel events at will. In 2020, the government further tightened restrictions by banning mahraganat artists from performing in public venues like clubs, universities, and concerts without these permits. This effectively limited their ability to reach larger audiences and restricted them from performing at weddings, which are a vital source of income.

Since President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi's rise in 2014, Egypt’s media landscape has become increasingly monopolized by the government, with state-controlled outlets regulating artistic narratives. This media control, combined with heavy-handed restrictions on artistic content, has led to an environment where cultural production is closely tied to state propaganda. The repression of mahraganat is rooted in the Egyptian regime’s broader attempt to regulate the culture and artistic production of Egypt. The Egyptian Musicians' Syndicate, led by famous pop artist Hany Shaker, has become the face of this cultural clampdown. Despite not being a direct arm of the state, the syndicate operates under state laws, using government supervision to decide which artists can perform and what music is deemed acceptable. According to Tarek Mortada, the syndicate's spokesman, through their crackdowns on mahraganat they are confronting “the face of depravity and regression.” 

One stark example of violent repression is the case of mahraganat artist Essam Sasa. His 2018 song “Balaha,” which mocked President Sisi by calling him a “shiny, brown date,” drew from Sayed Darwish's iconic anti-colonial song "Ya Balah Zaghloul," a century-old piece ridiculing political despots. After the release of “Balaha,” seven men involved in its production were arrested on terror-related charges. Shady Habash, the video editor, tragically died in prison that year after his health mysteriously deteriorated in solitary confinement. Even Darwish’s classic "Ya Balah Zaghloul" was banned that same year, despite its vast historical and cultural significance in Egyptian culture, further illustrating how far the regime is willing to go to suppress dissent and artistic expression.

One artist who has successfully navigated these restrictions is Mohamed Ramadan. Despite his music being categorized as mahraganat and addressing socially transgressive themes like sex and drugs, Ramadan continues to perform due to his connections with wealth and his alignment with the government, which includes a willingness to deliver government-approved propaganda. In a 2019 track, he raps, “What do you know about the salt of our earth? What do you know about the safety provided by the police and the army?” This line appears to be a direct jab at exiled musicians, such as the "Balaha" rock artist Essam. Ramadan’s ability to perform is bolstered by his relationships with influential figures like billionaire Naguib Sawiris. His situation reveals the class dynamics in the government’s crackdown on music: while wealthy artists like Ramadan can afford the privilege of performing and exploiting the genre for more profit, working-class mahraganat musicians face increasing repression and violence.

Despite this repression, mahraganat continues to thrive due to digital platforms like YouTube. These platforms, outside the direct control of the state, allow artists to bypass traditional gatekeepers and reach millions of listeners. The rise of mahraganat is tied to the growth of digital media, which provides a space for artists to challenge the state’s narrative and engage with issues affecting everyday Egyptians, from poverty to political disillusionment.

Mahraganat’s popularity shows that the state cannot fully control cultural expression. Despite the bans and restrictions, the genre continues to resonate with Egyptians, particularly the youth, who can form community and share expression through this music. As Egyptian journalist Yasmine el-Rashidi notes, “What is interesting, important, and powerful about mahraganat is that it gives voice to a generation that the government has tried to silence.” 

The repression of mahraganat music is emblematic of the broader struggle for artistic freedom in Egypt. While the regime seeks to control cultural production through censorship and propaganda, the rise of digital platforms has allowed mahraganat to thrive, offering a glimpse of hope for artistic expression in a climate of repression. This genre, with its roots in Egypt’s working-class neighborhoods, continues to challenge the status quo, providing a voice to those marginalized by the political establishment.