Developing Cairo’s downtown à la Mohamed Abdel Wahab
In a 1966 TV interview, Layla Rostom—a broadcaster admired for her intelligence, culture, and beauty—asked Egypt’s iconic music composer and singer, Mohamed Abdel Wahab, about his tendency to "borrow music from others." Abdel Wahab lightheartedly added to her question "Stealing—go ahead and say it, just for me."
Abdel Wahab responded clearly and decisively, stating that he had "stolen" influential pieces and incorporated them into his compositions. He cited, for example, segments from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in Aheb Eishat El-Horreya and another from Russian folk heritage in Ya Ward Meen Yeshtreek. But what he meant by "stealing" was his failure to cite the origins of those segments, not that the act of borrowing itself was wrong—a practice that has existed throughout music history.
Layla Rostom then asked him to explain the differences between stealing, borrowing, and adaptation. He elaborated beautifully, distinguishing between them: "In those times [the beginning of his career], a person is searching for themselves, confused, stumbling, wanting to discover where they stand. Especially since we were so closed off, so the windows I opened to these things were very many—they came in great numbers, to the point where I became lost in them."
He was describing those early challenges we can observe in phases of growth of a child, a society, or a civilization: an overwhelming influx of knowledge and influences, the search for identity, and states of confusion and disorientation.
A child learns to walk by balancing, stepping forward, and looking ahead—all at once. He can't move forward until he masters all three, and that takes time. If he only stares at his feet, he loses balance. Likewise, a society in transition must juggle its perceived identity, incoming external influences, and its own ambitions.
The early stages are followed by a phase of selection, which often includes borrowing specific parts of knowledge and adding something of oneself to the original work being adapted. As Abdel Wahab said "It’s no longer the same piece you heard."
Abdel Wahab even stated that those who add their own ideas and spirit to borrowed segments, transforming the artistic work, become equals to the creators. "Because art is about addition. There’s no such thing as pure creation. It’s about taking something and adding to it. Each person adds something to what came before. And once you've added, you’ve created—that addition is creation."
At this point, Layla interrupts him, "But isn’t there also pure creation?"
"Rare—there isn’t. It’s a chain of developments," he replies.
He gave an example of a child born with features from both parents, but who is neither the father nor the mother. The child has distinct traits of his own, even though we recognize inherited features in him.
Abdel Wahab’s commanding presence
There remains a persistent perception in some media and critical circles that Abdel Wahab plagiarized most of his compositions. While many of these accusations are easily dismissed as uninformed, stemming from a lack of familiarity with his work, other critiques are rooted in a purist notion of 'original' artistic creation—a concept Abdel Wahab directly challenged in this interview.
Art, like architecture, civilization, and identity, is a series of evolutions, each new form built upon what came before. The new grows from the old, and the old is constantly renewed.
When Abdel Wahab described Eastern Russian and Western German music as "windows" he had opened in his quest for artistic identity, he was not only breaking free from the purist trap reinforced by The colonial inferiority complex, but also embracing the creativity within those musical traditions. He invited these influences into his imagination, treating them as honored guests within his compositions, alongside his own cultural heritage and personal memory.
There have always been alternative views to Abdel Wahab’s. They insist we are still searching for a “pure musical identity,” variously labeled as Eastern, Arab, or Egyptian—depending on one’s political stance. Yet our musical production before Western colonization, and even while under successive forms of colonial rule, was abundant and valuable—both classical and popular. It was influenced by Persian, Turkish, Iraqi, and Levantine streams, just as Egyptian music left its mark on the music of those regions.
Those who believed that Western or Russian music must be rejected to preserve our “identity” mirror the post-independence theorists who claimed that progress meant selectively adopting global tools/technology, while rejecting incompatible ideas, philosophies, management systems, and politics; the paths that led to those tools.
For Abdel Wahab, cultural appropriation was a form of liberation—from both inferiority and superiority complexes, from colonial residues and their assumptions of eternal Western superiority. In turn, this reflected on the colonized populations as a belief -perhaps permanent?- in their own backwardness and inadequacy.
In his eyes, music offered a broad spectrum of approaches. Among these, he picked what delighted him, learned its techniques, and became part of a global musical community—one that exchanges, evolves, and creates, where he was a producer, a participant, and a contributor.
Believing in the superiority of “return” and “revival,” and in the search for a fixed, unchanging identity—while fearing the ideas behind imported products—traps a society in the role of consumer, one blinded by its imagined superiority and paralyzed by nostalgia. Such a society ceases to contribute to the global community.
Cultural appropriation for him was a form of liberation—from both inferiority and superiority complexes, from colonial residues and their assumptions of eternal Western superiority. In turn, this reflected on the colonized populations as a belief -perhaps permanent?- in their own backwardness and inadequacy.
In his eyes, music offered a broad spectrum of approaches. Among these, he picked what delighted him, learned its techniques, and became part of a global community—one that exchanges, evolves, and creates, where he was a producer, a participant, and a contributor.
Believing in the superiority of “return” and “revival,” and in the search for a fixed, unchanging identity—while fearing the ideas behind imported products—traps a society in the role of consumer, one blinded by its imagined superiority and paralyzed by nostalgia. Such a society ceases to contribute to the global community.
Downtown, like music
These same inferiority and superiority complexes reappear in discussions around “development”—a term the Egyptian government has coined for years to describe its interventions in architectural planning for residential neighborhoods, real estate projects, and informal or historical areas.
While Egypt’s Vision 2030 development plan includes no official policy towards historical areas—focusing instead on new cities to absorb population growth, permanently resolve informal housing, and provide 7.5 million new housing units—the most widely echoed public backlash has centered on the redesign of older neighborhoods and the demolition of historic homes and landmarks in Cairo and other governorates.
The public reaction is understandable because these interventions touch the fabric of collective memory, spaces that generations of residents have connected to over time. This differs from creating an entirely new space, which can be designed in a completely different architectural style, without requiring the removal of known or historically significant landmarks. New areas don’t usually trigger issues like forced displacement, property expropriation, or compensation for long-settled residents, even when their living conditions are poor or informal.
Yet this same reasoning can relieve the government of its responsibility to improve those conditions, or to rehabilitate old neighborhoods in ways that increase their economic and real estate value and protect them from deterioration.
And here, deep disagreements emerge over the methods, strategies, and priorities of development. Who gets to use public spaces, who benefits or loses from their transformation, and how to handle residents of informal areas, investors, heritage advocates, and citizens who use these spaces for different purposes. In short: who benefits from development?
The backlash to comments by an Emirati investor about developing downtown Cairo captures all these dilemmas. The debate ties the redevelopment of a historic district to Mohamed Abdel Wahab’s reflections on identity transformation.
The Khedival center of Cairo was established under colonial rule in the second half of the 19th century and the turn of the 20th century. It was modeled after European planning and architecture of the time. Khedive Ismail dreamed of making it the “Paris of the East.” A significant portion of its funding came from foreign debt, as is well known. It was a space largely alien to ordinary Egyptians—reserved for rulers, foreigners, and elites. Its architectural style and customs stood apart from everything most Egyptians identified with at the time.
Just as Western music became part of Abdel Wahab’s knowledge base, the European-style downtown area became Egyptian over time.
Yet the development plan at its inception had objective motivations, not just the Khedive’s dream of showcasing Egypt’s civilization and modernity. By then, Islamic Cairo had deteriorated dramatically: its narrow, unlit streets were riddled with trash, pollution, and infectious disease. People buried plague victims in their homes, mosques, and schools, and used cemeteries scattered across the city.
Online chatter implies the investor envisions something like Dubai. This is inaccurate upon reviewing his clarifications, and Egypt’s Prime Minister confirmed the government’s redevelopment plans will proceed in partnership with the sovereign wealth fund, with a commitment to respecting the area’s historic character and welcoming both local and international investment. Still, critics fear that any new development might erase what they see as a “heritage identity”, expecting that any future outcome must be an exact replica of its parent.
The current downtown bears witness to the unending evolution of identity, contrary to the purist perspective. Its landmarks, now fiercely protected as emblems of national identity, once made earlier generations feel alienated. It has since undergone major changes, after 1952 and across successive presidential eras.
Like the Western music that Abdel Wahab absorbed into his musical repertoire, the European downtown became Egyptian—shaped by Egyptians like him who built a gradual relationship with the place. Workers, artists, intellectuals, and performers opened theaters, music halls, cafés, casinos, and cinemas. They mingled with people from around the world, East and West, learning new ways of life, work, and social organization. They adopted urban values suited to the new neighborhoods. The identity they now passionately defend is like the child Abdel Wahab described—neither his father nor his mother, and could never be.
The need for redevelopment does not eliminate the need to broaden the discussion around its guiding vision, to include diverse proposals and technical expertise, and to identify the relevant stakeholders so that the plan can accommodate a wide range of investors and beneficiaries. Especially since the redevelopment of downtown Cairo began decades ago, with academic and investment-driven efforts from both Egypt and Europe—restoring valuable buildings, establishing pedestrian zones, and founding companies to revive the symbolic, architectural, and cultural core of the city.
If increasing real estate and economic value requires “tidying the streets, restaurants, and hotels,” as the investor said, then respecting the historical aesthetics and urban layout is equally important. It is the core source of value that makes downtown attractive in the first place—its architecture and cultural heritage still draw global academic and popular interest.
Downtown Cairo could once again become a global center for creative and entertainment industries—through the use of its buildings and spaces to support a dynamic, homegrown cultural movement. One that recognizes the area's layered memory, and sees pride in identity not as mere imitation of the past.
(*) A version of this article first appeared in Arabic on March 2, 2025.