Since 2017, civil society lawyers have been regularly summoned to the Supreme State Security Prosecution (SSSP) in New Cairo. Ali* recalls that prior to that year, \u201cWe were appearing before different prosecution offices and courts daily, until 2017 when it was decided to centralize all political cases at the SSSP, regardless of the severity of the case or the defendant\u2019s profile.\u201d He explains, \u201cPreviously, the SSSP handled only major terrorism cases,\u201d noting that the shift meant it was now responsible for \u201canyone who posted a comment on Facebook.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n
He attributes this shift to \u201ca desire by the National Security Agency to monitor all political cases,\u201d adding, \u201cBefore 2017, it was difficult for them to coordinate with all judges and courts. Sometimes, release orders were issued by prosecutors who didn\u2019t align with their preferences.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTo streamline coordination and tighten control, they opted for centralization\u2014so that all political cases would be handled by one trusted office in constant contact with them: the Supreme State Security Prosecution,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\nAccording to Amnesty International\u2019s November 2019 report \u201cPermanent State of Exception: Violations by the Supreme State Security Prosecution,\u201d<\/em> the number of cases referred to the SSSP had tripled by 2018 compared to 2013. In 2013, 529 cases were referred; that number soared to 1,739 in 2018.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\nThis shift didn\u2019t just harm the defendants; it also impacted the lawyers. \u201cRestricting our legal work to the SSSP made it easier for National Security to profile us, monitor us closely, and increase the harassment,\u201d Ali* explains.<\/p>\n
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Labeling and Stripping<\/strong><\/h3>\nWe spoke with five lawyers who had regular encounters with the Supreme State Security Prosecution (SSSP), including one still working inside Egypt. All agreed that merely entering the premises is \u201can exhausting task.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mohamed*, a lawyer who left Egypt a year and a half ago after being listed in a case, described the layout: \u201cThe prosecution building consists of four floors above the ground level, connected to the New Cairo Court via several doors, though only a single small gate is open, guarded by a uniformed police officer.\u201d<\/p>\n
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The first stop, Mohamed explains, is \u201ca small room where a police officer sits behind a desk, recording every person entering or leaving.\u201d The officer requests the lawyers\u2019 identification cards, records their bar registration numbers, and asks the purpose of their visit. Beside him sits a National Security officer whose job is \u201cto prevent lawyers from accessing the prosecutors\u2019 offices, to receive transfer orders from National Security units nationwide, and to block communication between lawyers and defendants.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lawyers gather in a ground-floor room. \u201cAnyone wishing to go upstairs must first inform the officer, who checks the purpose of the visit and asks the official upstairs for approval.\u201d Not everyone gets through. \u201cThese restrictions apply to those allowed in; many lawyers are denied entry outright,\u201d Mohamed says.<\/p>\n
Those who do get in must surrender their mobile phones and even blank sheets of paper. \u201cOnly a single pen is allowed\u2014to avoid the risk of handing one to a defendant.\u201d<\/p>\n
Farouk*, a human rights lawyer who left Egypt for the United States over five years ago, links the origins of these invasive entry procedures to a 2015 assassination attempt on Chief Prosecutor Tamer El-Fergany. Two individuals pretending to be lawyers planted an explosive under his car. \u201cThey used this incident as a pretext to tighten entry controls on lawyers. When we protested, the answer was simple: no entry for objectors.\u201d<\/p>\n
He explains how entering the SSSP without a phone is a form of pressure: \u201cYou\u2019re cut off from the outside world. If anything happens to you inside, no one will know.\u201d This led many lawyers to \u201cimpose restrictions on themselves out of fear.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ali* adds that interrogation sessions often stretch for hours. \u201cWhen you attend an interrogation, you\u2019re not allowed to leave until it ends. Sometimes I\u2019d arrive at noon and leave at dawn, all that time without a phone or any contact with the outside world.\u201d<\/p>\n
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Attending Interrogations<\/strong><\/h3>\nFor Mohamed, Ali*, and Farouk*, regular visits to the SSSP and complying with the unspoken rules eventually helped them bypass the entry hurdle. \u201cAfter six months of daily visits, the National Security officer began to recognize me,\u201d Mohamed says.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been coming here since 2017, working with a human rights organization providing legal support and documenting violations. The organization protected us by reporting on hearings without revealing our identities, so at first, National Security didn\u2019t categorize me as a \u2018rights organization lawyer\u2019,\u201d he adds.<\/p>\n
\u201cWorking at the SSSP is unlike any other prosecution office. Senior colleagues advised me early on to avoid attending interrogations and stick to remand hearings to protect myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mohamed ignored that advice. \u201cWhenever I knew of an upcoming interrogation, I\u2019d submit my bar ID card as a formal request to attend.\u201d The response? A flat refusal. \u201cThey would say: ‘We\u2019ll call you when we need you.’\u201d<\/p>\n
Though this is legally unjustified, he avoided confrontation. \u201cThe defendant wasn\u2019t my official client, and they could pressure him to reject my presence.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mohamed kept trying, but the rejections continued. \u201cIn my first six months, I only attended two or three interrogations.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nThis wasn\u2019t the only restriction. The entire design of the SSSP experience seemed geared toward preventing lawyers from seeing new detainees. \u201cIt\u2019s impossible for remand hearings and interrogations to happen simultaneously,\u201d he says. \u201cAfter the hearings end, a National Security officer would tell us to leave, claiming the day\u2019s work is done.\u201d Ali* adds, \u201cInterrogations happen in secret,\u201d and to work around this, \u201clawyers would quietly tip each other off if they saw a colleague\u2019s client listed.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n
This had to be done subtly to avoid provoking the officers. Ali* recalls an incident where a colleague at the gate said he was going to attend an interrogation with a client and mentioned that Ali* had informed him of it. \u201cI was banned from the SSSP for ten days, and my colleagues had to negotiate with the National Security officer to lift the ban, which he saw as a breach of red lines.\u201d<\/p>\n
That said, lawyers aren\u2019t entirely prohibited from attending interrogations. Mohamed explains: \u201cThey still need a lawyer present to legitimize the interrogation, but it has to be someone known to them.\u201d For this reason, both Mohamed and Ali* were later allowed to attend more regularly\u2014so long as they didn\u2019t publish anything or speak to the media. Ali* adds, \u201cSometimes I was allowed in only if I promised not to inform even the defendant\u2019s family.\u201d<\/p>\n
Asmaa*, however, faced a different type of restriction due to being a woman. \u201cThere are no female prosecutors at the SSSP, and I was one of the few female lawyers who visited regularly. The harassment focused on my gender,\u201d she recounts. \u201cI was subjected to demeaning body searches where an officer would pat my pockets and then apologize. A prosecutor once asked me to leave during a session under the pretext of examining the defendant\u2019s body, saying it was inappropriate for me to witness it. Other times, clerks would tell me to go home because it was too late.\u201d<\/p>\n
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Threats<\/strong><\/h3>\nLawyers react differently to the unspoken red lines. Some, like Asmaa*, defy them by sharing information on social media. Others, like Mohamed, are more cautious. Then there are those, like the unnamed third lawyer described by Ali*, who avoid any media presence and even keep their address secret from colleagues.<\/p>\n
Yet all three met the same fate: being listed in a case and forced into exile. Before reaching that point, they endured various threats, according to Mohamed, Ali*, and Farouk*.<\/p>\n
Farouk* recalls, \u201cOnce, they restricted lawyers from accessing a particular floor. I tried to go up anyway. An employee followed me, took a photo, and said, \u2018This is your third strike.\u2019\u201d He stopped going for two weeks after that, just to be safe.<\/p>\n
Another staffer approached Mohamed with a message: \u201cYou should cut back on attending interrogations; you’re being noticed because of the types of cases you’re involved in.\u201d<\/p>\n
Asmaa* says, \u201cJust being present at the SSSP means you face daily intimidation.\u201d She explains, \u201cWhenever a new case opened, the National Security officer would tell me my name was listed. It was clearly a tactic to intimidate me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ali* recounts a 2021 airport incident: \u201cA National Security officer interrogated me, and I thought I wouldn\u2019t get out. I deleted everything from my phone and mentally prepared for prison. After six hours, he came back and let me go.\u201d That was when he realized, \u201cThe walls are closing in. It\u2019s time to leave.\u201d<\/p>\n
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Exile: A Costly Survival<\/strong><\/h3>\nWhen Asmaa* looks back, she cannot help but reflect on what was lost. Though she escaped imprisonment and went on to build a family, giving birth to two daughters, none of that erases the sorrow of her departure. \u201cI left at the peak of my career,\u201d she says. \u201cI was in love with my legal work, gave it everything, and was about to open my own office. All of that vanished.\u201d<\/p>\n
Since leaving Egypt, Asmaa has worked as a human rights researcher and currently heads the legal unit of an organization. But her heart remains tied to the courtroom. \u201cFieldwork is different. I like to be on the frontlines. I still see myself as a lawyer\u2014this research is just theoretical lawyering to me.\u201d<\/p>\n
She is grateful for the twist of fate that saved her, yet exile came with its own challenges. \u201cTunisia is tough for foreigners\u2014bureaucratic residency procedures and limited job opportunities that require fluency in French,\u201d she explains. This is compounded by the growing crackdown on civil society since President Kais Saied\u2019s July 25, 2021 power grab, which dismantled the parliament and led to the persecution of various opposition figures.<\/p>\n
As a result, Asmaa stuck with the organization she had worked with prior to exile, expanding her role to include research, review, and coordination. \u201cI had no choice\u2014I needed a salary to cover my expenses,\u201d she says. \u201cFinances are a serious challenge for exiled lawyers. Salaries from Egyptian NGOs barely cover rent after currency conversion.\u201d To make up for it, she supplements her income with grants from international human rights organizations.<\/p>\n
Asmaa points out that a rights lawyer loses a key advantage once abroad: \u201cYou\u2019re a lawyer\u2014you can\u2019t work remotely. Donors prefer to invest in lawyers still on the ground. They\u2019re cheaper and more effective.\u201d That\u2019s why, she says, \u201cas an exiled lawyer, you must reinvent yourself to stay relevant.\u201d<\/p>\n
There are several paths for exiled lawyers, according to Asmaa: \u201cSome pursue legal research, studies, and language acquisition while networking with foreign rights groups and continuing work with Egyptian organizations. Others seek asylum and are forced to take unrelated jobs in hospitality.\u201d<\/p>\n
Farouk* took a similar route, combining rights work with his former organization and working in restaurants to support his family. Still, he describes his experience as \u201crelatively smooth,\u201d largely because he left with his wife, who was pregnant at the time. \u201cWe supported each other.\u201d<\/p>\n
In mid-2019, Farouk began to feel that \u201cthings were closing in.\u201d His wife was nearing the end of her pregnancy when he encountered a woman who had just given birth but was required to report to a police station every other day as part of her release conditions. \u201cI didn\u2019t want that for my wife,\u201d he says. \u201cWe were already being targeted.\u201d He planned a short trip to the U.S. for the birth, but they never returned. \u201cWhile I was away, Mahienour and Baqer were arrested in a case involving multiple lawyers. I knew if I\u2019d stayed, I would have been next.\u201d<\/p>\n
His departure marked the end of a legal and political career that began during his university years in 2007. Now, he was starting over in a world filled with thousands of other exiles from around the globe.<\/p>\n
Farouk believes this is the toughest challenge for lawyers fleeing Egypt: \u201cPeople think the world rolls out a red carpet for Egyptian dissidents. What we find is that many others have fled worse conditions.\u201d<\/p>\n
He relied entirely on himself. He continued working with local organizations, driven by \u201ca moral responsibility toward Egypt,\u201d while working in restaurants \u201cbecause I needed income in the local currency.\u201d<\/p>\n
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This phase lasted about a year until he secured residency papers and a work permit. In 2020, he began collaborating with American rights organizations focused on the Middle East.<\/p>\n
Farouk is preoccupied with the question of impact. He weighs what he does now against his past work: \u201cWhen I was in Egypt, attending interrogations or sneaking in a sandwich to a detainee felt more impactful\u2014even though we were always afraid.\u201d<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t dwell on the losses. He\u2019s gained \u201ca broader regional perspective\u201d and shed the constant fear he lived with in Egypt. \u201cIn my last two years there, I lost the ability to sleep. I was always ready for arrest. The sound of car brakes outside would jolt me awake.\u201d<\/p>\n
He adds, \u201cNow I understand what \u2018first-world problems\u2019 really means. I went from fearing prison to worrying about income. That\u2019s an improvement, mentally and emotionally.\u201d<\/p>\n
While Farouk, who has lived in the U.S. for five years, hesitates to judge his experience, Ali*, who left just a year and a half ago and lives in Tunisia amid a civil society crackdown, sees his exile as a total loss.<\/p>\n
Ali* expresses disappointment with local rights organizations, which he had expected to help him settle in a European country or connect him with programs offering financial stability. \u201cWhat I found was that abroad, you\u2019re on your own with whatever you\u2019ve got,\u201d he says. That, he believes, is why some exiled lawyers end up returning to Egypt despite the threats.<\/p>\n
Ali* is currently pursuing multiple paths: learning research skills, English, French, and starting a master’s degree. But none of that, he says, replaces \u201cthe thrill of frontline legal work. It was exhausting, but worth it.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Lawyers Still Inside: From Individual Resilience to Daily Burden<\/strong><\/h3>\nWhile dozens of human rights lawyers have been forced into exile, their absence has left a heavy void for those who remain. Karim*, a lawyer who has never stopped attending daily sessions at the Supreme State Security Prosecution since 2012, continues to defend political detainees despite what he calls \u201cthe lack of appreciation we face.\u201d<\/p>\n
He estimates that about 30 colleagues have either left the field or the country since 2012\u2014roughly \u201ca third of our group back then.\u201d This has impacted the remaining lawyers\u2019 ability to meet the ever-growing demand, particularly given the large number of detainees presented daily for questioning or remand renewals. \u201cWe spend no less than six or seven hours a day at the SSSP\u2014over a third of the day,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
Asmaa*, who now coordinates a legal team at a rights organization, notes that the issue goes beyond numbers. There\u2019s been a \u201cgenerational gap,\u201d she says. \u201cIn the past four years, no new wave of lawyers has come in. The number of rights lawyers left inside Egypt is just a few dozen, rotating among organizations and burning out one by one.\u201d<\/p>\n
She adds, \u201cWhen a lawyer leaves Egypt, it\u2019s a double loss. Most are motivated by ethics. Without them, the field is left to lawyers who exploit detainees\u2019 families.\u201d<\/p>\n
Despite everything, Karim insists on staying. \u201cWe know our role is no longer what it was. Release decisions don\u2019t come from legal arguments anymore\u2014they come from pardon lists. But our presence is still crucial to minimize abuses and protect detainees from fraud.\u201d<\/p>\n
Asked whether he might leave in the future, he answers confidently: \u201cI can\u2019t see myself anywhere else but beside the accused.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s a sentiment shared by exiled colleagues like Asmaa, Ali*, Mohamed, and Farouk*\u2014all of whom still identify, even in exile, as \u201clawyers on the ground.\u201d The difference is, Karim chose to stay despite the risks, while others were forced to search for a new life\u2014one that balances personal stability with an ethical responsibility they have not abandoned.<\/p>\n
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