Carrying out routine paperwork in some government offices can be an apparently endless task. Riham Adel tried oiling the wheels People usually celebrate birthdays, wedding anniversaries, first dates, or Valentine's Day. However, this year I added one more occasion to the usual list: the anniversary of my discovery of my own stupidity. Has anyone discovered his or her stupidity before and then celebrated it? Well, this is the first anniversary of my discovery of the real meaning of the term wasta, "nepotism" or "connections", in our lives. How dumb I was not to use this weapon before, despite my countless experiences in government offices where the "come-tomorrow" phrase is used in a way I thought was only the case in old Arabic movies. For those not acquainted with the term wasta, Samir Naim, professor of sociology at Ain Shams University in Cairo, explains that the word is an Egyptian invention applied to an act done by people who use their money or connections to get the act done. My car licence was due to be renewed, and because of previous experiences with the Traffic Department and with the other public agencies that I absolutely have had to deal with -- often out of my own free will -- I tried to postpone this errand for as long as possible until it was becoming a heavy load on my shoulders. Then, almost before the 30-day grace period was over, I plucked up my courage, summoned up all my strength and self- control, and decided to plan for the critical day. I woke up early to get ready for battle, took a shower slowly and calmly to free my mind for the event, and then put on my clothes, which I had decided would be a training suit and sneakers. I wore my hair in a bun, and I was determined to be as plain as I could be. To me, the looks of some of the women public employees were no less rough or dangerous than the men's. After drinking a coffee and reading a few favourite papers, I left home ready for battle. It was almost 8am when I arrived at the Traffic Department. As usual, I thanked God a thousand times for my safe arrival -- safe from the comments of the surrounding drivers, now that Cairo's streets have become an arena not unlike that used by bumper cars at a funfair. I headed for the traffic violations window and stood in line. I was stunned by how crowded the office was: it was almost as if the whole of humanity had decided to come to the Traffic Department that day. Perhaps all these people had spent the night in front of the building, hoping to be the first ones in when it opened at 7:59am. The line was not particularly long, but it was wide. Finally, I arrived at the window, handed my licence to the pleasant- looking face behind it, and asked, politely and with all the tact I could muster, "how much would it take you, sir, to finish my violations statement?" I heard a voice saying, "you'll hear your name in due course," and found myself thrust out of line. I already had a photocopy of my licence in order to run another set of errands. Moving from one window to the next, from one wide line to an even wider one, and from one pleasant employee to a yet more pleasant one, I was almost done with my car profile and had left it at the last window. Now the only thing I lacked was the violations statement. Almost four hours had passed, during which time I had returned to the violations window many times to make sure my name hadn't been called. I carried on waiting, until at last I was ready to head back to the first pleasant employee. I was shocked when I heard the amount I would have to pay. For a few seconds I was almost dumbfounded, unable to believe that such fines could be levied on people who follow the rules. I decided not to give in and asked if I could see the officer in charge. The officer slashed my fines to less than half what they originally had been. I left his office, thanking God that some people at least still had a sense of morality. I felt optimistic and scurried to the last window, joining the same line as before and resolving to wait my turn. However, as soon as I arrived in front of the window the lady employee slammed the window shut in front of me and said, "today is half-day, Madam". Bang! The blue- painted window came slamming down, reminding me of something out of the War of Attrition. While I had to return home without my new licence, at least I had done almost half the job, or so I told myself. There is only a little further to go, I said. I'll be laughing by the end of the day. Patience in any case is a virtue, or so I kept telling myslf, planning to go again on Saturday to resume the battle. I arrived at the Traffic Department at around 9am on Saturday. I wasn't in a hurry this time. My car's profile was ready, and I wasn't missing anything except the violations statement, and I had already paid that last time. I pushed into a line that was wider than last time's. Some time passed -- I don't know how much, as I was doing my best to defend my personal space, which might have been only a few centimetres wide in the crowded line. Finally, I reached a lady employee whose face seemed to be marked by bruises the same colour as the glass she was sitting behind. Then she told me, simply and indifferently as she was sipping a cup of tea, that "your profile has been lost, Madam, You'll have to make a new one." I felt my face change colour, and, my eyes popping out, I said, "Is this a joke, or is it April Fool's Day?" She gave me a look and said, "Don't just stand there staring. We have other people to deal with, you know." Thrust out of line again, I started to dart between lines, hoping to join another one where I might find a more amenable clerk. I didn't know how I could make another profile, but I think that what was driving me above all was my fury at the prospect of having to come back to this place again, from which all human dignity had apparently been obliterated. I was back the same day at six in the evening, fully armed this time with both the original profile and the violations statement. At last I received my new licence and was back home around 20:30 after a long day of suffering and absence from the family. A year has passed since these events took place, but they are still in my memory as if they had happened yesterday. For it's time to renew my licence again and to take my car in for servicing. I hesitate as if facing a fateful decision. I am completely against resorting to connections or bribery, but I find myself giving in anyway. I blame my family, which taught me such ridiculous scruples: they have only proven counter-productive, whether due to the present economic conditions, or owing to the idea that it is necessary to resort to connections or bribery to get any job done. "I'm not against connections. We are all human, and normally, even logically, we should try to help one another," Naim comments, adding that the word "connection" could even carry a positive meaning, or "social capital", if someone is in a position to offer help to someone else, for example by giving a recommendation or a job opportunity, always providing that such things are given to somebody who is worth helping. Connections, Naim says, need not necessarily mean corruption. However, what happens when bribery, or wasta, is the only way of getting something done, and not just a kind of accessory to the fact? "I refuse to allow connections or bribery to be thought acceptable as the only way that someone can get what is due to him, even if we should always bear in mind the huge difference between the salaries of government employees and even a minimum standard of living. Since these people are very underpaid, they tend to be open to corruption of various sorts and consider it to be a part of their salaries," Naim says. The government understands very well the status of its employees. "It's part of our failed system of administration. It's part of a closed circle," he says. Bearing all this in mind, I took the decision to try wasta anyway. I took the card of my influential connection to the Traffic Department, this time at 11am, and headed to the director's office. I handed the card to the private standing outside, and a few seconds later I went in. I felt more human when I was not expected to move from the director's office, where I sat drinking a cup of coffee while a private took care of the job for me. An hour later, I received my new licence and thanked the director, as well, of course, as my influential connection who had saved me the trouble of going through the usual channels. However, it seems that soon such compromises may no longer be necessary. A new Internet service will soon allow people to renew their car licences without going to the offices of the Traffic Department, giving hope that people will be able to get their business done without resorting to the bad kind of "connection". According to engineer Dalal Abdel-Gawad, general manager of the project, in an interview with the Weekly, the service has been activated recently in a few departments in Cairo and Giza, though "since the government is currently implementing a new number-plate system, it is on hold until August this year." There have been problems, Abdel-Gawad says, in training workers to use the computers and in making sure that customers are followed up to ensure they get their licences. Unfortunately, "connections can play a major role in renewing government documents," Abdel-Gawad says. "But while the new Internet service will avoid such a need to rely on connections, there will still be a need for another type of connection, to the Internet, and not everybody has that." Many people will still prefer to go to government offices to transact their business themselves, she says. For my part, I hope the new service will be working by the time I have to renew my car licence next year.
