Usually, big transfers—or even the small ones—in football are moments of joy: a player moving to a bigger club, or a new talent joining to strengthen a team’s lineup. But in Egypt, most transfers turn into bloody battles, not only on the pitch but also through fiery official statements here, accusations of betrayal there, or even sudden exclusions from the “list” as a form of punishment—a term that, in the sarcastic dictionary of Egyptian football, has nothing to do with crime or terrorism. The story of Ahmed Sayed Zizo’s proposed transfer from Zamalek to Al Ahly stands as a cautionary tale for anyone willing to learn.

A player who moved under a legal clause was overnight transformed into a “traitor” in the eyes of some and a “hero” in the eyes of others. Accusations questioned his morality, official club statements poured fuel on the fire, and fans split between fierce accusers and staunch defenders. Meanwhile, a powerful question arises: Why do transfers in Egypt morph from a mere sporting move into existential battles that swallow everyone in their path? Is it the absence of a professional culture that separates sports from emotions? Or is it the fans’ thirst for drama amid a lack of true competition on the field? Or perhaps the financial crises that make clubs treat departing players as “traitors” instead of respecting their contracts?

The truth is that the answer is not singular—it is a toxic blend of all these factors together. Egyptian football is trapped in a perpetual storm, where a player is not a professional athlete but “just a check” to be bought and sold, and a transfer is not a transaction but “a matter of honor.” In the midst of all this, everyone gets burned: players who are branded for life, clubs that lose credibility, and fans who turn into judges. So, why all this drama? And what is truly happening?

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The Absence of Governance

In any professional league around the world, strict regulations and financial transparency govern player transfers. But in Egypt, a strange system prevails: “custom” is stronger than written laws, and contracts are written in ink that can be erased at the whim of shifting moods! The story of Ahmed Sayed Zizo sadly lays bare this dysfunction. On paper, Zizo’s transfer from Zamalek to Al Ahly was 100% legal: after his contract with the White Castle expired, he was free to move wherever he wished. But alas, that is not how things happen in Egypt. Just ask Abdullah El-Said for another painful lesson.

Abdullah El-Said was one of Al Ahly’s icons over the past decade, playing a pivotal role in securing countless titles, an essential piece of a squad that dominated the Egyptian Premier League and continental tournaments. Yet everything was turned upside down when he decided to leave for Zamalek. Al Ahly responded with pressure and intimidation; it was even said that he was “kidnapped”—not figuratively but literally—and held within the club’s confines until the transfer window closed. In the end, he yielded and renewed his contract, only for Al Ahly to turn the tables: they benched him, and then sold him to Pyramids FC in a deal reportedly worth $3 million—a hefty sum in the local transfer market. Even his move to Pyramids ignited a major crisis among fans for several reasons:

• Accusations of Collusion with the “Enemy”: Pyramids FC was not seen as just another club, but by some Al Ahly and Zamalek fans, as an “external project” threatening the dominance of traditional clubs like Al Ahly and Zamalek.

• El-Said’s Statements that Escalated the Situation: After his transfer, El-Said gave interviews criticizing Al Ahly’s management, describing it as “disrespectful to its players.” Consequently, many Al Ahly supporters saw his words as “treason” after years of idolizing him as a captain and legend.

• The Violent Backlash from Fans and Media: El-Said was turned into a “persona non grata” among a significant portion of Al Ahly fans, labeled “ungrateful.” Even some sports media outlets, particularly those close to Al Ahly, launched smear campaigns against him, branding his transfer as a “suspicious deal”—why suspicious? No one really knew!

In short, the player simply had no right to choose freely, even if the transfer was fully legal. In Egypt, loyalty is expected to outweigh all contracts. Then there is the glaring absence of governance in crisis management; instead of handling the issue quietly, it escalated into a media war and personal attacks. Thirdly, the role of the media in inflaming tensions cannot be overlooked; many outlets exploit such crises for greater engagement, exacerbating the rift between parties and fans alike.

Ultimately, Abdullah El-Said’s ordeal was not merely a transfer story—it was a lesson in how club-player relationships in Egypt mutate into battles of identity, where a player must either be a “hero” or a “traitor,” with no gray area in between. The result? Everyone loses: the club forfeits one of its brightest stars, the player loses the love of the fans, and Egyptian football loses another piece of its professionalism.

Of course, what happened with El-Said repeated itself with Zizo, as if trapped in a tired and repetitive déjà vu: Zamalek tried to pressure him, sidelined him, issued statements filled with condemnation and accusations, and lambasted Al Ahly for exploiting Zamalek’s poor financial state. Meanwhile, Zizo became a hostage in a battle he never chose, and fans debated the “ethics” of his transfer as though it were a crime.

The deeper problem? There is no neutral body organizing the market: contracts are interpreted based on whims, and Zizo’s priority clause shifted from a “legal right” to a “trap” overnight. Joint committees between clubs intervene selectively, affirming the rights of some clubs while ignoring others. Punishments, such as exclusion from the “list,” are applied randomly, not as systematic remedies but as tools of pressure.

Even the Egyptian Sports Law itself appears impotent before the prevailing “customs” of football. Article 57 permits a player to transfer freely at the end of his contract, but clubs treat such moves as “escapes.” The Olympic Committee steps in as a “mediator” in some crises, but its decisions evaporate if they clash with the interests of the major clubs. Thus, Zizo’s case is not an exception but the norm in a market ruled more by chaos than rationality.

When will transfers shift from tribal battles to professional processes that respect the law? The answer seems distant in a system that views cunning and bypassing rules as skills, and considers adherence to the law a weakness. When the law disappears, the jungle reigns supreme. And in Egypt, a transfer isn’t just a club change—it’s a loyalty test, and tragically, the test is never fair.

At Whom Should We Aim the Bullet

The whole process has become complete “chaos” in every sense of the word. The Egyptian transfer market today resembles a “slave market.” The player is no longer truly a professional athlete, nor even a human being in the full sense of the term, but rather a “moving cheque,” whose value is dictated by the whims of the generals and overseers holding the reins of the game. It’s as if we have all become soldiers in one sprawling camp.

Thus, clubs often confuse passionate emotions with their interests, with no regard whatsoever for a player’s right to make his own decisions. Herein lies the tragedy: this “chaos” has devoured everyone. The player is not free enough to be considered a professional, nor constrained enough to be treated as the club’s property. Instead, he stands trapped in a deadly grey area—demanded to show absolute loyalty, while being treated like a disposable commodity whose blood may be spilled at any moment.

Moreover, transferring from one club to another is not seen as a rightful act by the player but rather as a moral crime deserving punishment—whether through exclusion, media defamation, or even direct threats. (Note: we are not speaking about war criminals here, but about football players in their twenties.)

The strangest part is that this institutional chaos did not arise from nowhere; it is the product of a sick sporting culture that has refused to mature since time immemorial—since the days of Haj Mortada Mansour, who used to stand tall before the players every Tuesday and Friday, threatening and pointing his middle finger at anyone who dared to rebel against these decrepit traditions.

Some may argue that there are contracts between players and clubs and that contracts should prevail. And yes, there are contracts—but they are mere pieces of paper that can be torn apart whenever the officials’ whims demand it. The so-called regulatory committees are nothing more than “decorations” with no real authority, and even the Egyptian Football Association appears either impotent, unwilling, threatened, or simply compromised in some way—whatever the reason, it does not even attempt to impose the most basic standards of professionalism in this absurd market.

Even more painful is the fact that the fans—who are supposed to be the moral compass of sports—have become part of the horrific oppressive machinery. They cheer when a player is shackled and scream when he demands his rights, turning the concept of a player transfer into a human tragedy in every sense.

What difference is there between a player forced to stay against his will and a prisoner deprived of his freedom? Even more heartbreaking is that the victim here doesn’t even have the right to scream, because raising his voice could cost him his entire future. There is no strength nor power except through God.

And why go far? Just days ago, with my own eyes, I saw a supposedly rational Zamalek fan—an adult, fully competent—post a photo of Mahmoud El-Khatib, the president of Al Ahly, with the following caption: “Fight them; God will punish them by your hands, disgrace them, and give you victory over them, and heal the hearts of believing people.”

The Road to Slavery

At the heart of all this chaos, noise, and worthlessness, stand the poisonous roots embedded deep within the crumbling Football Association, feeding off three deadly pillars: structural corruption, administrative backwardness, and the investment in mass ignorance. This outlawed trio has transformed the player from a professional athlete into a “possession” in every harsh sense of the word—a reality that may seem brutal to some, but is undeniable and fully fleshed out.

First: there is the shadow economy that thrives on the blood of players, where the Egyptian transfer market functions as a closed loop of illicit interests between clubs. Contracts are written in threads so thin they can be snapped at any whim. Try and go complain if you dare—and of course, if a player does attempt to file a complaint within Egypt, he’ll gain nothing, and the club will suffer no consequences, because the Football Association simply fears the fans’ backlash. Just look at Mr. Mortada Mansour and his gang as a shining example for anyone seeking public approval… Please, watch this video first and then come back to us.

If you haven’t seen it, let me summarize: it’s a very telling video. Mortada Mansour was the president of Zamalek at the time, and the club’s accounts were frozen by the banks for reasons too complicated to explain here. Yet despite this, he bought new players and tried to register them. But here’s the catch: the regulations required the payment of registration fees first. Since Zamalek’s accounts were frozen, the Association rightly refused to register any players before the fees were paid.

Is there anything strange about that? Under normal circumstances, no. But because we’re in Egypt, the matter morphed into a huge battle. As usual, accusations of conspiracy flew around, with claims that the Association was colluding with Al Ahly to prevent the great captain Mortada Mansour from steering his ship safely.

Thus, this captain himself stormed the Football Association late at night, cameras in tow, just hours before the registration window closed, demanding that the Association register his players or else “a disaster would happen.” What disaster? Well, the wrath of Zamalek fans, of course.

And indeed, the Association yielded to the man’s demands, registering the players without receiving the fees—based solely on Mortada’s “word of honor” that the sponsor’s money would arrive in a few days. All of this was done out of fear of Zamalek’s fanbase fury. This is the Football Association itself—the supposed authority. So imagine the fate of a helpless player, crushed underfoot.

That’s why no player dares to demand his rights: he would be facing a conspiracy from the colluding administrations, which refuse to dismantle the “slavery system” because it ensures the steady flow of under-the-table money. As for clean transfers—they are exceedingly rare, and even then, they must serve the shadow economy built on secret commissions and swap deals among top officials.

The second pillar is the ignorance masquerading as the defense of identity. Clubs hide behind false slogans like “loyalty” and “preserving the club’s identity” to justify their violations. Fans are fed a toxic emotional discourse that turns them into temple guards, fiercely defending a rotten, hollow system. Simply put: the regime needs “imaginary enemies” to divert attention from its corruption. Clubs know very well that an aware player threatens the system. Thus, the culture of “voluntary slavery” is reinforced by linking any attempt at liberation with an alleged “attempt to destroy the club’s identity,” turning every transfer crisis into an identity war instead of a legal discussion.

The third pillar lies in the miserable, wretched legislation that entrenches dependency. The current laws are like spiderweb fences—they seem like a legal framework but collapse at the first real test. Thus, we end up with a state within a state, a parallel system run by mafias that control players’ destinies just like drug cartels control their victims.

With every new corruption scandal, it becomes clearer that the problem is not with individuals, but with an entire system of exploitation that needs to be bulldozed and rebuilt from scratch.

And here, the burning question imposes itself: Can this vicious circle ever be broken, or is the Egyptian player doomed to remain a captive forever?