'Tap! Tap! Tap!'… your guide to the world of Egyptian TikTok

Behind the simple interface for uploading videos lies a complex underworld of livestreams, virtual currency, battles, agencies, and digital patrons. TikTok in Egypt is a world that promises fast money, but is also a trap for exploitation.

Before the dust had settled on the global landscape, following TikTok's sweeping entourage in 2020, Egypt had already begun casting TikTok under a cloud of suspicion. April of the same year, many users, especially young women, were apprehended and slammed with egregious charges. This pattern of prosecution continues to this day.

In defending the recent wave of arrests targeting TikTok creators, Ahmed Badawy, head of Parliament’s Communications Committee, said some streamers earn “huge profits.” He even suggested that one defendant makes as much as $70,000 per month.

Does TikTok represent a shadow economy? What can the Egyptian TikTok-native lexicon reveal about its main players? What pulls the levers of the “Live” performance market? Who are the “supporters” spending the cash? And what do the constant shouts of “Tap! Tap! Tap!” really mean?

While the unregulated circulation of money triggers the authorities, other fault lines remain ignored. To unpack this hidden economy, Al Manassa spoke with two content creators.

The digital theater

Unlike other platforms with strict monetization requirements, TikTok throws its doors wide open. In theory, anyone (despite a minimum age requirement of 18) can start earning from day one through the Live feature, launched in Aug. 2020.

No massive following is needed to broadcast. One tap on GO LIVE turns a user from a viewer into a streamer—the host of their own digital show.

But there are hidden rules. To invite a guest onto your livestream, which increases interaction, you must stream for two hours daily for three consecutive days. This ensures loyalty to the platform and forces creators to spend hours on camera. Once dedicated, the machinations of TikTok's algorithm also push creators towards serving progressively extreme content for higher reward.

Moderation certainly exists, but is selective. A cigarette or nudity can trigger immediate suspension of an account, while verbal abuse often slips through because it is harder to detect automatically.

The gift economy

At the heart of TikTok Live lies the Gift. The Gifts aren’t just flashy animations, they are the fuel of TikTok’s economy, which works like this:

Viewers buy Coins with real money.

They then use Coins to purchase virtual Gifts, from a one-Coin rose to a lion that costs tens of thousands of pounds. This explains why TikTokers often plead, “Please God, send a lion!”

When a streamer receives a Gift, it is converted into Diamonds, which they can later cash out through a bank account or mobile wallet as simple as the wide spread Vodafone Cash.

The most controversial part of this cycle is TikTok’s cut. A BBC investigation into Syrian families begging on TikTok found the platform can take up to 70% of all revenue. In other words, for every $10 a viewer spends, the creator keeps only about $3. TikTok has engineered a finely tuned profit machine where the house always wins.

The cast of characters

TikTok Live is more than entertainment—it is a drama with distinct roles that reach deep into human psychology and social structures.

The content creator

The star of the show is responsible not only for producing content but also for hosting, moderating comments, and above all, encouraging fans to send Gifts.

Creators must maintain close ties with their top supporters, stir up drama be it fights with other TikTokers or tragic personal stories, all to keep viewers engaged.

Their central challenge is to stay “clean” enough to avoid suspension while still being controversial enough to remain relevant. Their income depends entirely on the whims of a handful of big spenders.

The tapper: digital infantry

Tapping means repeatedly pressing the screen to indicate a 'like'. Tappers are the invisible soldiers of any streamer. Their taps cost nothing, but send flurrying signals to TikTok’s algorithm that a stream is active and engaging, pushing it onto the coveted Explore page, where it reaches more viewers and potential supporters.

The “tappers” tribe attracts zealous ‘theater’ enjoyers who cannot afford a ticket. Like the content creator, they also reflect the need to be part of the game, even if they go empty-handed at the end of a stream.

The supporter: seeking status

The supporter is the more complex figure. Their motivation goes beyond admiration. They buy power, status, and belonging through gifts. Sending a lion at the right moment turns them from passive viewers into heroes of their “digital tribe.”

Just like the “nabatshy”/emcee at Egyptian weddings announcing who is “dropping” cash, TikTok flashes the supporter’s name across the screen with every Gift. That instant recognition sparks pride; and addiction.

Beyond recognition, the supporter also enjoys voting with their Gifts, holding the near-exclusive power to virtually curate the whole experience.

The cycle of adding credit never stops, turning support into pure addiction. Each recharge earns points that raise their standing within the app, in a system known as levels; 1,000 coins brings level 10, twice that reaches 20, and at level 25—the peak—supporters gain a badge and instant recognition in any livestream.

While Egyptians often find Gulf supporters, the obsession is global. In the UK, accountant Katherine Greenhall embezzled nearly half a million dollars from her employer, spending around $400,000 of it on gifts for TikTokers she admired.

Glossary: He who pays, speaks

Within this world, a unique slang has developed on Egyptian TikTok. Gulf dialects pepper the Egyptian “Live” ecosystem. They are not just loan words, but a gesture of welcome to the most profitable guests:

“Arhib”/welcome so-and-so: Not a simple greeting, but the announcement of a major supporter’s arrival.

“Kafu ʿalayk”/respect or well done: Said to a supporter who sends a valuable gift.

“Tammadda man zawwad”/may the giver give more: A blessing for abundance, and a polite way of asking for more gifts.

“Ya matnoukh”: The highest honorific for a supporter, used for those who spend with legendary generosity.

“Irmu ala al-dubl ”/hit the double: A battle cry during matches between two creators, urging supporters to send gifts and double the points gained.

“Al-jahfala”: When support floods in during the final moments of a battle, blindsiding the opponent with such a strong wave of gifts that their score collapses, leaving no time to recover.

Battles, agencies, and the darker side

TikTok does not leave support to chance; it turns it into a competitive game.

Matches or battles (PKs or Player Knockouts or Kills) are prime-time on Live. Two streamers duel for five minutes to collect the most gifts, with supporters as generals and tappers as foot soldiers. These contests showcase financial power and loyalty, and the loser performs a lighthearted “punishment,” from silly imitations to playful dares; like imitating animal sounds or applying makeup in a strange way.

Tap campaigns are organized drives to support a certain streamer. Hosts who are supported in their battles will later organize campaigns to repay the favor, tracking who gave and who did not.

Behind the playful veneer, the extractive dynamics between seller, buyer, and broker continue apace.

Agencies are companies that act as intermediaries between TikTok and creators. They provide help with livestreams, improve content quality, solve technical issues, prevent bans, and sometimes even provide financial support.

In China, they are called “livestreaming guilds,” and they are part of TikTok’s global business strategy to attract more live streamers. TikTok partners with them to help creators produce more engaging streams. In return, agencies take a commission based on the length of the stream and the value of gifts received.

The world of tapping and battles has hardened into a parallel economy, but one where wealth flows upward. Egyptian streamers and their armies of unpaid tappers labor for attention and survival, while wealthy supporters—often from the Gulf or abroad—wield financial power that dictates the terms of play.

What looks like digital theater is in practice an extractive system: creators push themselves to extremes for a fraction of the profits, supporters purchase status through conspicuous spending, and tappers donate their unpaid labor in hopes of belonging. Behind the entertainment lies an economy that mirrors, even magnifies, existing inequalities.