Amin Howeidi* ponders the nation's human resources while getting his car fixed I am at the car repair shop of Usta Samula, getting my car fixed. I once owned a Mercedes and a Fiat but now it's just me and my Dogan. I take out a folding chair from the boot of the battered Dogan and place it on the pavement opposite the repair shop and begin to observe the repair process. Of course, I am doing more than watch, for most of the time I am busy listening to the people milling about in the shop, talking about their problems and coming up with simple solutions to thorny problems, consuming tea all the time. There is much to learn here. I sit quietly, looking and listening. Listening comes easy with practice, and I've had plenty of that. The older boys, the senior mechanics, call out to Belya, a young boy who helps around in the shop. Belya answers in a pitch that is high but slightly hoarse, indicating his entry into adolescence. He emerges from beneath one of the cars, caked in grease, his face smudged with oil. The older boys want breakfast and instruct Belya on how their koshari should be prepared, specifying the types and amounts of dressing they need. They're specially keen on daqqa (chilli sauce). Belya goes off and then returns with boxes of koshari. The older boys take them casually, offering no thanks. Belya doesn't seem to have expected any. He slips under one of the vehicles to resume his work. He is out of sight now while the big boys eat their breakfast. This is a beehive. Usta Samula is working. Belya is working. Everyone is working. Belya is the one who interests me most. He could have turned into a street urchin but hasn't. He could have been a useless, even destructive member of society, but isn't. He is part of this community of workers. He is learning things and making money, supporting himself and perhaps even his family. Belya doesn't own a car but knows all about them. I own a car but don't know the difference between the radiator and the carburetor. I own and don't know. He doesn't own but knows. And through his knowledge he can deal with all sorts of problems. There is an ever widening gap between those who know and those who don't. In my mind Belya is a treasure, a rare currency, a person who makes things better for himself and others. Belya is the solid foundation for a happy society. I ask myself this: is it more useful for us to establish, as I heard, nine more universities and 44 more colleges with an academic level below regional and international standards, or is it better to build more technical schools and training centres? In the 1950s and 1960s the regime was busy expanding the country's industrial base. The aim was to create jobs in light and heavy industry. Production, reconstruction and development were the nation's top priorities. Today's politicians don't give much thought to the likes of Belya and Samula. They are willing to pension off workers to promote the interests of big business. Under the so-called old regime the nation's Samulas were given management positions, were encouraged to be part of the political scene, and were always needed to run the nation's factories and workshops. Governments, back then, wanted to eliminate unemployment and keep imports down. Freedom, at that time, wasn't about the ballot box. Even when jealously guarded by judges in closed rooms ballot boxes are no a guarantee of political freedom. Political freedom, during the 1950s and 1960s, was about increased production, boosting agriculture and stimulating industry. Now we talk about political freedoms but do little about production. In an age in which doctrines and ideologies are redundant the race for progress is about knowledge, about the revolution in communications and transport. In this race only those who have real skills will succeed. Take Israel, for example -- a country that is definitely obsessed with war but busy developing its knowledge and skills all the time. Belya cannot read or write. He missed out on schooling, but he knows every part of my car. He may be illiterate but he is productive, far more productive than the thousands of unemployed who roam the streets and while away the time in coffeehouses. Belya is better off and knows it. There are thousands of Belyas in Egypt. There are thousands who work in professions that are fast disappearing because we failed to keep them alive. Young people now go abroad to wash dishes in restaurants or sell newspapers in the streets. College graduates eke out a living in humble professions. While Belya was working on my Dogan I wondered where our human resource strategists are? Are they busy pleasing the security forces and the secret services? Or are they thinking about the ways to best use our human resources? We cannot go on applying outdated concepts while the world is changing. People are the key to development. Human capital is more important than physical capital. More training is what we need, yet the state does not provide it. Why so? Because many among us seem to be convinced that the state should bail out of the economic scene. State-owned ventures are being sold, their workforces made redundant, and no one seems to bother. Our officials need to do something about production and productivity. They need to generate more jobs in agriculture before more come to the cities to face a life of poverty. I awake from my reverie to the sound of the Dogan's motor running. Belya is standing near me smiling. Is he aware, I wonder, that knowledge is more potent than wealth? * The writer is former defence minister and chief of general intelligence.
