A Message to the Minister of Youth and Sports: Individual Sports in Egypt Are in Danger
Tuesday 01/September/2026 - 01:41 PM
Khaled Ali
Whenever we hear about an Egyptian athlete who has left a national team delegation, decided to pursue his sporting future outside Egypt, or considered representing another country, the discussion always begins at the same point: Where is the sense of belonging? Why would an athlete leave his country after it made him a champion?
But perhaps the more important question is:
Did the system truly make him a champion, or did it merely make him an athlete?
The difference is considerable.
To make an athlete means providing him with a coach, training camps, competitions, a national team uniform, and a plane ticket. But to make a champion means also giving him a life that allows him to continue. It means making him feel that the country asking him to carry its name on his chest knows his name, respects what he does, and provides him with a degree of security and appreciation commensurate with the years of his life that he devotes to training and travel—much of that time spent enduring injuries and deprivation.
Here, we cannot place the responsibility on one athlete alone, nor on one particular federation, because what we are witnessing today raises a much larger question:
How do the state and society view individual sports?
When Continuing Itself Becomes a Burden
After leaving the Egyptian national team delegation during its return journey from the Mediterranean Games in Italy, Egyptian wrestler Mohamed El-Shamy explained why he had reached this point.
El-Shamy said that he had never wished for this to happen, that wrestling had been—and remained—a major part of his life, and that for years he had pursued the dream of raising the Egyptian flag and achieving an Olympic accomplishment. Indeed, he had already raised his country's flag at numerous African and international championships.
Then he made a statement that deserves our serious attention: life had become difficult; he was the eldest of his siblings and could no longer ask his father to support him financially; and the support he received did not allow him to live a decent life. If he were injured or his sporting career came to an end, he would have nothing with which to secure his future.
He went on to say that even if he continued for another fifteen years under the same circumstances, he would still be unable to afford even an apartment in which to get married.
This is not merely an attempt to justify an individual decision.
It is a warning.
When an athlete devotes years of his life to a demanding sport, reaches the level of representing Egypt internationally, and then looks toward his future only to find no financial or social security ahead of him, the problem does not lie solely in the athlete's decision. It also lies in the path that brought him to that decision.
The question that should concern us even more is this: How many other athletes think the same way but never openly express what is on their minds? How many talents might we lose before they even reach the national team? How many champions might choose an ordinary job, travel to an Arab country for work, or retire early—not because they do not love sport, and not because they do not want to raise Egypt's flag, but because they can no longer afford the cost of being a champion?
EGP 700 for an International Athlete?
The issue does not end with Mohamed El-Shamy.
Ziad Haggag himself said that all he receives each month is just EGP 700, despite being an international athlete representing Egypt's national team.
The question here is not whether this amount is small or large; the answer requires no economist.
The real question is: What can EGP 700 possibly represent in the life of a young man who is expected to train almost every day, maintain his weight and fitness, endure injuries, travel, and spend years of his life pursuing a sport that guarantees him neither a stable income nor a clear future after retirement?
Here, I ask His Excellency the Minister of Youth and Sports and the president of the federation: Is EGP 700 even adequate as monthly pocket money for a young man of this age, let alone as the income of an international athlete representing Egypt?
Before asking him to become a champion for Egypt, we must treat him as a champion of Egypt.
This does not mean that the state is required to make every athlete a millionaire, nor that it should bear all the burdens of Egyptian sport on its own. But there is a difference between limited resources and an international athlete receiving an income that does not cover even the minimum requirements of daily life.
We cannot ask a young man to live like an amateur and then, when it is time to hold him accountable, suddenly remember that he is a professional representing Egypt.
The Issue Is Not the Wrestling Federation Alone
It would be a mistake to confine these problems to the Wrestling Federation alone.
It is true that wrestling has today presented us with the clearest examples, but the crisis is broader than that.
Many individual sports depend on athletes' families almost as much as they depend on their federations. The father pays, the mother bears the burden, and the family transports the athlete between training, school, and competitions. Then the young athlete reaches an age when he is supposed to begin building his own life, only to find himself confronted with a difficult question:
Do I continue pursuing the dream, or do I start securing my future?
This is where the responsibility of the state comes in, as the authority responsible for the country's overall sports policy; the responsibility of the federations, as the bodies closest to the athletes; the responsibility of the media; and the responsibility of the business community.
The problem is not merely the value of financial rewards. It concerns an entire philosophy governing how champions in individual sports are treated:
What level of income should an international athlete receive? What support should be provided if an injury develops to the point that it forces him to retire? Who bears the cost of his education? What is the plan for his future after retirement? How does he receive subsequent support? Who markets him? And how can an athlete in his twenties be made to feel that the years he spends training are not years of his life being wasted?
These and many other questions require clear answers from the state, represented by the Ministry of Youth and Sports, within the framework of a comprehensive plan to restore individual sports to their rightful status. After all, these sports remain one of Egypt's greatest hopes for representation and influence on the international stage and at global championships.
We Create Sporting Champions, but Not Popular Heroes
Even more dangerous than inadequate financial support is that, in many cases, we fail to turn our sporting champions into popular heroes.
Ahmed El-Gendy won Egypt the gold medal in the modern pentathlon at the Paris 2024 Olympic Games, setting a record with 1,555 points.
We rejoiced. We celebrated him. His name appeared in the media for a while.
And then what?
Where is Ahmed El-Gendy today in the Egyptian public consciousness? Does a schoolchild know him as well as he knows a moderately famous footballer? Has his story become part of Egypt's sporting culture and media? Do people know where he started, how he trained, how much he sacrificed, and how he reached the gold medal?
If we, as a state and a society, cannot transform an Olympic gold medalist and record holder into a popular hero whom young people admire and future generations look up to, then who exactly can?
The medal should not be the end of a champion's story.
It should be the beginning.
A popular hero is not merely someone who enjoys fame. His presence creates an entire chain of influence. When people know him, media interest grows. When the media pays attention, sponsoring companies follow. When companies arrive, funding comes with them, and the wheel continues to turn, producing more champions who raise Egypt's flag and bring us joy.
And when a child sees his hero standing before him, a new dream begins with a resounding cry:
“I want to be like him.”
My father tells me that things were not always this way.
In the past, champions in various sports from different governorates would sometimes return home and receive something resembling a ceremonial reception. People knew that a son of their city had returned with a championship title. He would pass through the streets, the people of the governorate would celebrate him, and children would see him before them in his sportswear, carrying his medal.
He became a symbol—not merely a name that appeared on a screen for a few minutes and then disappeared.
Something simple but extremely important would happen: the next day, many students would go to their club, youth center, or local sports grounds and ask about the sport whose champion they had seen the day before.
A child would see a wrestler, boxer, weightlifter, or fencer being celebrated by his governorate, and one thought would cross his mind:
“I want to be like him.”
That thought may last only one second, but it may be the beginning of the making of a new champion ten years later.
This is where we understand that honoring champions is not merely a courtesy offered after an achievement. Honoring today's champion is part of creating tomorrow's champion.
As this culture has declined, we have lost something far greater than we might imagine: we have lost the link that once connected a medal to the generation that followed it. We ourselves have severed the cord that connects one generation to another.
Recognition, Then More Recognition
The state's resources may be limited, and we may not be able to pay Egyptian athletes what wealthier countries can offer.
But there are things that do not require hundreds of millions.
Perhaps the first and most important of them is recognition.
A champion should return home and be welcomed by his governorate. His photograph should be displayed in the school from which he graduated. His university should invite him. Youth centers should open their doors to him so that he can speak to children. He should appear in the media not only after a championship, but consistently, as a symbol.
His family should know that the years they sacrificed did not pass unseen.
A champion should be able to walk through his city and be recognized by its people.
Before asking an athlete to carry Egypt's name on his chest, we must first make him feel that Egypt knows his name.
Where Are the Business Leaders?
Then we come to a question no less important than everything that has preceded it:
Where are the business leaders in all of this?
We see companies spending millions on advertisements, concerts, festivals, and various events, and spending many times more on football—and that is their right.
But why is sponsoring an Egyptian champion in fencing, wrestling, weightlifting, taekwondo, or modern pentathlon still viewed by some as a form of charity?
Why should it not be an investment?
An Olympic champion can carry a company's brand, appear in its advertisements, become the face of a product, and present a genuine success story associated with the name of Egypt.
How many companies actually need precisely this kind of image?
And how much of the money spent on short-lived campaigns could build an athlete's entire career if only a small portion of it were redirected?
Sometimes I wonder: What if individual sports in Egypt received just a small fraction of the attention and spending devoted to a single festival or a single advertising campaign of the kind we see throughout the year?
How many champions could we have retained? How many young athletes would have continued? How many families would have felt that their children's sporting futures were not an endless gamble?
I am not asking business leaders to donate.
I am asking them to see the Egyptian champion as a sporting, marketing, and national investment.
In return, the Ministry of Youth and Sports and the federations must help create this market.
Do not wait for a company to discover an athlete by chance. Prepare a professional profile for companies that explains: Who is the athlete? What are his results? What is his ranking? How many championships has he won? What competitions are coming next? What are his Olympic prospects? And what marketing rights can a company obtain in exchange for sponsoring him?
At that point, sponsorship ceases to be a courtesy and becomes an industry.
My Message to the Honorable Minister
Your Excellency, Minister of Youth and Sports,
When an athlete leaves a national team delegation to search for his future outside Egypt, it is easy to look only at the final moment.
But what happened before that moment may be far more important.
How much was he earning? How was he living? What future did he see ahead of him after retirement? Did he feel secure in the event of injury? Did people know who he was? Did he find a company willing to sponsor him? Did he feel that the years of his life he devoted to sport had value beyond the result of a championship?
What we need is not merely a project for producing Olympic champions.
We need a comprehensive project for producing the Egyptian champion.
A project that begins at the club, the youth center, and the local sports grounds; passes through the school, the federation, and the ministry; and then reaches the media, companies, the governorate, and society as a whole.
A champion who has an income that allows him to continue.
A future that gives him peace of mind.
Sponsorship that allows him to become a professional.
And recognition that makes him a role model.
The real danger is not that we may lose a wrestler or another athlete.
The danger is that we may lose the very idea that individual sports can offer a future, a life, and a position of standing for every young Egyptian.
And before we ask why some of our champions leave, perhaps we should ask a simpler question:
Have we ever truly made them feel that they are champions?
