Sayyida Aisha Bridge: The curse of asphalt in the sky

“Sayyida Aisha Bridge will be dismantled within weeks.” With this statement, Cairo Governor Ibrahim Saber delivered what many perceived as good news. Public reaction was largely positive, with celebrations marking the long-awaited end of the bridge’s era. Social media users swiftly recounted its many flaws, bidding farewell to an unsightly overpass that had long disfigured the historic beauty of a district home to such iconic landmarks as the Citadel—Egypt’s largest Islamic monument—and the Sultan Hassan Mosque, widely regarded as Cairo’s most beautiful.

Yet the joy over its removal is tempered by a stark reality: this is not part of a broader withdrawal from Egypt’s ongoing bridge-building spree. Rather, it is a rare exception in a period defined by the unchecked proliferation of bridges across Cairo and beyond. In Ismailia, a once-tranquil city, such projects appear devoid of any urban planning rationale. In Alexandria, the Sidi Gaber Bridge scars the cityscape.

This raises urgent questions about the Sayyida Aisha Bridge and the fate of the heritage site it straddles. It also invites a look back at how bridge-building became a central tenet—almost a sacred doctrine—of the Egyptian administration. A principle not up for debate.

Flawed by design

Governor Saber cited long-standing structural defects in the Bridge, which has suffered technical issues from the beginning. Yet even before construction started, the potential for visual and cultural damage was already apparent. Despite these warnings, the bridge was erected, operated for nearly four decades, and left a trail of accidents and fatalities in its wake.

There is no official record of its inauguration date, though the governor’s remarks place it in the 1980s. The Sayyida Aisha Bridge is part of a generation of metal-skeleton (truss) bridges built in Cairo and Giza’s crowded neighborhoods, favored for their quick construction timelines.

Without adequate maintenance, the asphalt on these bridges quickly degrades, exposing metal surfaces that become especially dangerous during rainfall. Sayyida Aisha Bridge stands out not only for its engineering flaws, but for the damage it inflicted on a site of profound historical significance. Only the Azhar Bridge rivals it in cultural harm, casting permanent shadows over Cairo’s historic streets and erasing Ataba Square, once the city’s second-largest public plaza. Ramses Square, meanwhile, had already been lost to the October Bridge.

To say that Sayyida Aisha Bridge damaged the city’s heritage now seems almost ironic. Its removal comes only after the construction of a new arterial road—built at a much greater cultural cost. Unlike the bridge, which merely obscured monuments from view, the new road cut directly through historic structures.

Some argue the bridge’s design flaws were the result of efforts to avoid harming antiquities. The current project, by contrast, bulldozed everything in its path. This stark contrast highlights the difference between a previous era marked by caution and a present one marked by confident, unchallenged decisions impervious to public outcry or concerns for heritage.

In his remarks, Governor Saber also spoke of converting the Salah Salem expressway in this area into a “touristic walkway.” Yet the frequent use of the word “touristic” by officials has acquired an undertone of exclusion—if not outright disdain—for local residents. In practice, such walkways often come with entrance fees, turning once-public spaces into gated zones inaccessible to those who live nearby. If public space is no longer free or open to residents, what message does that send about how the authorities view the public?

It is inconceivable that Egyptians should be expected to pay millions for club memberships, or even buy a ticket, every time they want to stroll down a street or breathe fresh air. Such policies are short-sighted, unjust, and politically tone-deaf. One can only hope the proposed “touristic walkway” does not follow this exclusionary trend.

Then comes the practical question: What will this walkway actually look like? Will it be a proper pedestrian route alongside traffic lanes, or will vehicles be banned entirely? How will residents get around? These may seem like naïve or trivial inquiries, but given the rushed and piecemeal nature of urban planning in Egypt, they are essential.

Whatever the outcome, one thing is certain. The soon-to-be-demolished Sayyida Aisha Bridge is merely a drop in an ocean of concrete and steel. It is one among countless suspended ribbons of asphalt sprawling across Egypt’s urban landscape.

Everything about bridges

In most cities, the word “bridge” evokes images of elegant structures spanning rivers. Think of Paris’s bridges over the Seine, London’s crossings over the Thames, Budapest’s arches over the Danube, or New York’s Manhattan Bridge. These are not just infrastructure; they are architectural icons integral to their cities’ identities.

Half a century ago, Cairo inspired similar imagery. The mention of a bridge once brought to mind Qasr al-Nil, Abbas, or Abul-Ela bridges—each combining utility and beauty in harmony with the city.

Conceptually, bridges, imply water—a river crossing at a modest elevation, not an intrusive overpass slicing through the urban fabric. Historically, humans built bridges to cross natural obstacles, and almost always built at right-angles to the river’s course.

A fable for our times

Once upon a time, a small river divided a forest in Russia, limiting movement between its banks. The animals decided to build a bridge. The lion traveled to Moscow to seek approval from the party’s central committee, but returned empty-handed. The bear tried, and failed as well. One by one, they all returned with nothing.

Then the donkey volunteered. The others mocked him—if the kings of the jungle had failed, what hope did he have? “Let me try my luck,” he said. “What do you have to lose?”

He vanished for days. Then one morning, trucks arrived, carrying iron and cement. The forest erupted in joy. The animals gathered around and asked, “How did you succeed? How did you convince the committee?”

He replied, “I didn’t need to convince anyone. I found out the whole committee was made up of my relatives.”

They asked, “But why so much material? It’s just a small stream.”

He answered, “They asked me: ‘Do you want the bridge lengthwise or crosswise?’ So I said, ‘Lengthwise!’”

Lengthwise and nowhere to hide

In a forest, trees might conceal the absurdity of a bridge built unnecessarily over a stream. But in Cairo, no canopy hides such follies. The bridge approved by the “central committee” stands fully exposed—unsightly and bare.

Construction of the 6th of October Bridge began in 1969, marking the birth of a planning philosophy that prioritized function over aesthetics in the urban environment. The final section was completed in 1999, bringing its total length to 20.5 kilometers. Construction spanned 20 years, interrupted for a decade due to economic conditions.

The decision-makers must have believed it was the only solution to Cairo’s traffic crisis—a vertical extension of the street, doubling vehicle capacity between the city's east and west. This may hold true for the segment from Abbasiya to Ghamra, which passes over train and metro lines. But elsewhere, the bridge did not enhance flow—it merely displaced street-level traffic upward, paralyzing the roads beneath.

That bridge turned Ramses Square into a chaotic zone beyond the reach of urban planning and transformed Galaa Street into a gloomy, unwelcoming corridor in downtown Cairo—an unsafe refuge for the homeless rather than an efficient thoroughfare. The final stretch, from Abbasiya to the wide El-Nasr Street, could easily have been served by an underpass beneath the Autostrad. The original distortion began with the October Bridge itself and was compounded by the adjoining Fangary Axis, which now smothers the beauty of the conference center and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Laying the October Bridge’s cornerstone was not just the start of a project. It was the start of an ideological approach that treats traffic as an isolated problem, divorced from broader issues of governance and development.

The traffic crisis is rooted in Cairo’s extreme centralization. Job opportunities, government offices, and services are so concentrated in the capital that a third of Egypt’s population flocks there. Centralization of opportunities is inseparable from centralization in decision-making and the bureaucracy that means citizens from far-flung villages must travel to Cairo for trivial reasons, like securing a decision for medical treatment.

Traffic flows also reflect outdated housing laws. The move away from flexible rent systems in favor of ownership disrupted people’s ability to live near their workplaces. As ownership became the norm—driven by poorly conceived government policies—commuters grew in number. Add to this the withdrawal of the state from public transportation and a lack of enforcement of traffic regulations, and the picture becomes clear.

None of this seems to register with officialdom. The authorities are not solving the traffic crisis—they are simply managing its visible symptoms. A new bridge emerges every 24 hours, not to eliminate congestion, but to shift it from one place to another. While this new wave of bridges has eased traffic in some suburbs, the average driving speed within Cairo remains stuck at around 20 kilometers per hour.

Why bridges?

Cairo’s congestion since the 1970s isn’t unique. Every major city witnessed a boom in car ownership in the second half of the 20th century. But none have embraced the bridge as a primary solution.

Take Britain: it never succumbed to such folly. Instead, it tapped into the ground beneath, launching the London Underground in July 1863. This underground network has reduced car dependency, preserved the city’s beauty and architectural heritage, and functioned efficiently without the need for demolition—even though many of London’s streets are so narrow that they barely accommodate two-way traffic. In some spots, drivers must pull over to let oncoming vehicles pass.

No major European capital has resorted to overpasses in their historic centers. They expanded their subway networks underground and used short tunnels for cars to solve surface-level snarls at major intersections. Crucially, urban development in these countries is more balanced, leading to a healthier population distribution.

Egypt came late to metro development. And just as its first line was completed, the state began withdrawing from public transit. Private car ownership soared, and bridges became a default “solution”, allegedly cheap and easy. But even this rationale is questionable.

The tunnel is more beautiful

In theory, bridges cost half or a third as much as tunnels. But this cost comparison is not precise. It depends on soil conditions and engineering requirements, as well as the distance covered. Tunnels are less unsightly and may actually be cheaper because they tend to be shorter.

Egypt was once a leader in tunneling, building several under railways in Cairo and other cities. Yet despite advances in tunneling technology, the approach has largely vanished from today’s planning toolbox.

Consider a major service hub like the El-Mosheer Tantawy Mosque and the adjacent exhibition grounds, which host events like the Cairo International Book Fair and can attract hundreds of thousands of visitors a day. Leaving the site requires a grueling, expensive detour through a maze of highways and spiral overpasses.

A simple tunnel could fix this. What would it cost? What did the bridges cost? How much fuel and time could be saved? Has anyone done the math?

Personally, I pay twice as much to leave the book fair as I do to get there—even though my home and the venue haven’t moved.

Unfortunately, bridges are now embedded in the state’s imagination. There is little interest in reviewing past decisions. Increasingly, it seems that bridges are being built not to ease traffic, but to avoid enforcing traffic laws—or perhaps to accommodate the cafes and shops that inevitably spring up underneath them. Either way, bridges remain an uncivil solution. No cafe can disguise a bridge or make it pretend to be a tunnel.

Challenging this obsession requires courage. Today, virtual simulation makes this possible. Modeling traffic in Ataba Square without the Azhar Bridge, for instance, might reveal that the overpass is unnecessary. I’ve previously proposed a redevelopment plan for Ramses Square that could also be subjected to simulation.

It is time to view the traffic crisis as part of Egypt’s wider developmental challenges. Without an integrated approach and strict enforcement of traffic rules, Cairo will remain a sick urban monster—and no amount of bridges will save it.