And then the dam broke, writes Galal Amin* Fifty years ago the world saw the rise of a new phenomenon. It kept economists busy, inspired politicians and sent sociologists rushing to revise their theories. The newspapers reported it, publishers churned out books and universities dedicated independent departments and research centres to its study. Leaders and heads of state talked about it, opposition parties took their cue from it. Revolutions broke out, coups d'etat were launched and thrones sent crashing. We woke up one day to discover that economic development was not only the problem of our generation but the sole inspiration of the Third World. The primary responsibility of industrial countries, we were told, was to help the less fortunate achieve economic development at the fastest possible speed. Theorists told us that the Third World was in unparalleled turmoil. A psychological upheaval had changed the world. We were in the midst of a revolution of rising expectations. Third World countries were no longer satisfied with the hand- to-mouth existence they'd experienced for centuries. They wanted better food, better clothing, decent housing, modern education, reliable healthcare and quality leisure. The poor were demanding a standard of living that would keep them motivated. They wanted to catch up. Ambitious economic development plans were drawn up. One five-year plan after another hit us. Calls for industrialisation became hysterical. Coups d'etat swept the world and the reason populations seemed to greet their military saviours was, we were told, because they promised speedy development. I doubt whether high expectations were the real reason coups d'etat proliferated in the 1950s and 1960s, but I will admit that a revolution of high expectations unfolded in the two decades following WWII, and for more than one reason. Britain and France, the world's two leading colonial powers, ended the war with hardly any power left. Countries under their sway made successful bids for independence, and the US encouraged them. The Soviet model provided the newly-independent nations with inspiration. The Soviets had succeeded in turning Russia from a peasant economy into a model of industrial success within two or three decades, through a succession of five-year plans and an emphasis on industrialisation. The Cold War fuelled the rise in expectations. The capitalist and socialist camps, competing for influence in the Third World, used economic assistance as a means of wooing newly- independent nations. Communication was improving at such a rate that Third World countries became more familiar than ever with lifestyles in other parts of the world. The welfare state was in fashion. The state, we were told, was responsible for providing the basic needs of the entire population. Technology was changing ways of life and it seemed only fair that even the poorest sections of the population should benefit. The two decades following WWII were remarkable. The world was optimistic about its future, particularly its economic future. And yet not everyone was optimistic. Some writers, in the East as well as the West, were sceptical. They felt that WWII was in itself a sign of failure. The Hiroshima bombing was a low point in the history of Western civilisation. Stalin's atrocities were no secret. And McCarthyism was sending tremors across the US. All in all, though, the picture was rosy. The world was having a ball. The economic revival of 1945-1965 was truly astounding, and it trickled down. Social mobility inspired the poor. Optimism was infectious. The upbeat mood was not confined to the victorious nations. Soon the vanquished found their economic bearings and the West experienced growth rates that exceeded its wildest dreams. Western Europe took steps towards unity and the future looked promising. Even the clouds that had appeared on the horizon began to disappear. McCarthyism did not last long. Khrushchev took over and in 1956 delivered a famous speech in which he apologised for Stalin's errors and promised a more tolerant future. The Third World was in celebratory mood. One nation after another gained independence, and one national hero after another became a head of state -- India's Nehru, Algeria's Ben Bella, Cuba's Castro to mention a few. Egypt was part of this. The 1950s and early 1960s were times of great expectations, in this country as elsewhere. The optimism began with the 1952 Revolution. Things happened quickly and the nation couldn't believe its luck. The king was removed only three days after the revolution took place. Agrarian reform laws were passed less than two months afterwards. Six months later the country was declared a republic. People were confident that the future was going to be better, for them and their children. "Going to the mayor's house," one popular song went, "to listen to the radio, it's full of news." And the tunes were just as cheerful as the lyrics. The 1952 Revolution unleashed a flood of pent-up emotions, of a long-repressed wish to be jubilant and happy. Songwriters, novelists, poets, film-makers and playwrights all expressed the same emotion. And this was just the beginning. The year 1956 boosted our sense of national pride. The nationalisation of the Suez Canal set off another wave of optimism that was soon to be reinforced with an ambitious industrialisation programme, the nationalisation of banks and companies, the launch of the first five-year plan, the start of the High Dam project and a raft of income-distribution measures. Egypt declared its merger with Syria in 1958. Iraq staged a revolution in the same year and Lebanon and Jordan almost did the same. Arab unity was just a matter of time, many thought. By the end of the first five-year plan in the mid-1960s it transpired that our economy had grown by more than six per cent between 1956 and 1965. The manufacturing component of gross domestic product rose dramatically and redistribution of income had boosted the middle class. But by 1964 clouds were gathering on the national horizon. We thought that they would blow over but they were, instead, a harbinger of turbulence ahead, turbulence that has lasted for 40 years and has yet to end. Since 1964 the nation has had its moments of optimism, but these were fleeting, short-lived, uncertain. The US was turning against Egypt. It was not pleased with Egypt's foreign policy, with its tendency to help out revolutionary movements in Africa. Washington began to reduce economic assistance to Egypt and, when the 1967 War took place, halted that assistance altogether. Aid from other Western countries also dropped. The Soviets stepped up their contributions but couldn't fully compensate for the loss. As a result of the military setback and the sharp drop in assistance 1965-1975 was a sad decade, characterised by stagnation, unemployment, deficits of budget and trade, and debt. Things improved a bit in the mid-1970s. Once again the nation had high hopes, but they were of a different type. Emigration was the catchword. Everyone wanted to go to the Gulf to seek gainful employment. The spectacular rise in oil prices in 1973-4 created an economic boom and Egyptians from all classes, including the poorest peasants and least skilled labourers, were about to stake a claim on oil wealth. The open-door policy and inflation hit a substantial section of the population but the general mood was one of optimism. And it was optimism of a new kind. There was no political orientation, indeed, the political scene was dismal. The optimism was individual and economically-driven. It was every man for himself as the nation sought its fortunes in the oil-rich Gulf. There was no longer a national dream to share. By the mid-1980s even this evaporated. There were no dreams left -- neither small nor big, collective or individual, political, economic, national or pan-Arab. Since at least the mid-1980s Egypt entered a phase of disillusionment. For the past two decades the mood in this country has been one of pessimism. And just as the optimism of 1945-65 was part of a larger international picture, the pessimism that has come upon us since the mid-1980s is shared by others across the world. With Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher in power in the early 1980s neo-liberalism became the stock policy of the West. Structural adjustment became the norm in socialist and Third World economies. No one spoke of high or rising expectations. Promises were made of economic growth, but even economists admitted that the majority of the population would fall behind, at least for a while. Patience was a virtue, we were told. Neo-liberalism (or neo-imperialism, if you wish) was on the rise. When the Soviet Union and the Eastern block began to collapse in the late 1980s the US was sorting out its relations with Europe and Japan with an eye on controlling the world. This was the backdrop to the 1990s' wars in central Europe and Africa, as well as to Saddam's invasion of Kuwait and the subsequent sanctions on Iraq. The US was taking every advantage of its military supremacy. The reshaping of the Middle East began in earnest after 9/11. The attacks provided Washington with a convenient alibi to invade Afghanistan and Iraq and consolidate its presence around central Asia's oil fields. Since then every possible step has been taken to open the Arab region to US corporations. Privatisation programmes and banking, media and educational reforms are all part of this quest. The Palestinian problem complicates the picture, but efforts are certainly being made to fix this problem -- in Israel's favour. The radio is still "full of news" but it is of a different type to that of four or five decades ago. The masses no longer hope to catch up with the super-rich. Egypt is not turning into an industrial state but into a country that subsists on tourism, expatriate remittances, oil and tourism. Artists have expressed this mood of disillusionment in their work. One recent novel that was particularly praised in this country is Alaa El-Aswani's Yaqubian Building. First published in 2002, the novel has entered its seventh reprint. Every one of its characters is either disillusioned or trapped. The communal sense of despondence was a bonanza for those with a religious agenda. Preachers are hardly cheerful -- they scream, convulse and cry. Often, the audience cries with them. * The writer is professor of economics at the American University in Cairo.
