THE TRUTH ABOUT WORKING
IN THE LOCAL CREATIVE INDUSTRY​​
June, 23, 2025
by Mai El Mokadem
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It doesn’t start with a studio. It rarely even starts with a proper desk. In Egypt, indie projects are born in living rooms that double as offices, with one borrowed camera, a cracked laptop, and someone’s cousin holding a light reflector made out of foil. Someone mutters “masheha bel hob” — not as a joke, but as an actual production strategy. And somehow, it works.
Behind all the low-budget projects (the glossy music videos, moody fashion shoots, and hyper-aesthetic short films that flood your feeds), there’s a sacred chaos happening behind the scenes. Budgets? Limited. Time? Scarce. Resources? Almost mythical. Still, somehow, things get made, and sometimes, against all odds, they actually turn out brilliantly. This begs the question;
how do they come to be, despite everything?
In cities like London or New York, there’s usually a system— a structure that, while sometimes annoying, gives you a certain sense of security. Contracts. Guidelines. Scheduled feedback rounds. You know when your revisions are coming and who’s allowed to make them. In Egypt? You might receive last-minute “small tweaks” five minutes before the post is supposed to go live. (“Just fix the coloring, change the music, rewrite the voiceover, and also… can we flip the entire concept?”)
One of the strangest parts of Egypt’s creative industry is how much of it operates in this floating, undocumented space.
No contracts. No clear agreements. Often not even a proper paper trail of what was discussed. It’s all “3enaya leek ya basha” “tab ma te2la2sh,” and verbal promises. Which sounds charming until the project hits a bump — who do you even hold accountable? So much of this work lives on social media, making people hesitate to even bring it up publicly for fear of being labeled “difficult” or “ungrateful.” It’s an entire ecosystem of unspoken rules, vague arrangements, and a whole lot of crossed fingers.
You don’t always have leverage. You don’t always have the upper hand. Sometimes you’re explaining the same creative decision to three different people, each with a different mood and a different WhatsApp tone. You’re learning to read clients like you read your friends’ cryptic Instagram captions: confused, but committed. The boundaries are also blurry. You’re technically working together, but you also don’t want to ruin relationships, especially when everyone knows everyone. Are we collaborators? Are we friends? Are we both?
Egypt’s creative circles are small, and nothing is fully standardized. You’re constantly balancing people-pleasing tendencies with actual creative integrity. If you push back too hard, you risk “burning bridges.” If you stay too quiet, you end up agreeing to things you never wanted.
The limited resources don’t just affect logistics — they shape the entire creative dynamic. Projects become intimate, collaborative, and sometimes… tense. The small scale means everyone’s hands are in everything. One second you’re directing; the next you’re holding a reflector with your phone flashlight duct-taped to it. Because everyone’s involved in everything, everyone also suddenly becomes an expert.
You’ll swear you’re surrounded by ten mini Wes Andersons — each convinced their vision is the vision. Everyone is a “creative director” armed with Pinterest boards and a God complex. Every frame sparks a debate, every shot invites a
“wait, what if we…” suggestion. The intention might be an attempt for creative synergy, but it tends to come off as an ego wrestling match. Is it exhausting? Absolutely. But it’s also what makes these projects feel alive. Instead of just executing a brief, you’re also kind of surviving it.
Because projects are so intimate and scrappy, criticism starts to feel personal very quickly. You’re not just tweaking a file; you’re tweaking someone’s baby. Everyone’s so emotionally invested that even the smallest piece of feedback can spark tension, or worse, sadness. There’s a sensitivity to every revision round. People aren’t just editing work; they’re also editing each other’s pride. While this passion fuels some great work, it also makes every conversation feel like emotional Jenga.
There’s also a very real emotional toll. Creativity in this environment feels like a balancing act between passion and burnout. You want to give your best work, but you’re also fielding last-minute messages at 11:47 PM because the client just had
“one more thought.” Of course, you’re doing it for “the experience” — low pay, long hours, but hey, it’ll look great on the portfolio (or so everyone says). You smile through gritted teeth and tell yourself: mashy el denya, 3ady el leila.
Everyone wears multiple hats, and not the trendy, stylish kind. Stylists double down without assistant stylists, art directors lug props heavier than their body weight, and photographers carry their own lighting gear. You’re expected to deliver high-budget results with zero-budget resources — sometimes no budget at all. The shoots might look glossy on Instagram, but behind the scenes it’s duct tape, last-minute favors, and praying the rental equipment doesn’t die mid-shot.
Yet, it’s all treated like a rite of passage. The unwritten rule is: accept the 2k pay (if you’re lucky), call it “exposure,” and hope it opens doors. Everyone nods along to the same line: “You’re still building your career, you have no experience.” Because in Egypt’s creative scene, it’s not just the project you’re selling and branding— it’s yourself. You’re expected to tolerate it with a sunny smile and a hustler mindset. Post a behind-the-scenes story with the caption ‘we move’ or ‘something’s cooking,’ tag all the right people, and hope the bigger names with bigger followings repost — so at least your hustle gets some algorithmic return. If that, you’ll at least get a fraction of your efforts’ worth.
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At the core of it all is this silent tug-of-war between passion and pressure. You start because you love it — the storytelling,
the visuals, the collaborative spark. But as the project drags, the WhatsApp groups pile up, and the budgets stay microscopic, you start bargaining with yourself. “At least I’m building my name.” “At least it’s good for the portfolio.” And sure, there’s truth to that — Egypt’s creative scene is weirdly fertile because so many people keep pushing, purely out of love. But love doesn’t pay rent. And while you’re pulling miracles on a miniscule budget, you know the campaign will hit thousands of views and make
the client money you’ll never see. It’s the oldest unofficial business model here.
There’s also the creative decision-making itself — or rather, the negotiation between doing what sells vs. doing what excites you. Commercially safe formulas dominate: fashion brands repeating the same cuts, music videos cloning each other’s aesthetics, ads recycling the same TikTok-viral gimmicks. It’s the “ta2leed el ta2leed” cycle: a copy of a copy of a copy.
You pitch something genuinely new? The client squints. “Let’s stick to what people already know works and what already sells” It’s not that we aren’t creative; it’s that we’re constantly nudged back into the comfort zone of what’s proven.
The risk appetite is low. Ironically, even the things that feel innovative are often just niche imports dressed up for local feeds.
Weekends? National holidays? Eid? Good luck. There’s no such thing as fixed working hours here. A client can ping you during sohour, after a wedding, or while you’re halfway through your only actual vacation. Every ping comes with a weird guilt trip — “Sorry for the late message wallahy” — and there you are, opening files again. The pressure to always be reachable blurs your entire schedule into one long, endless shift.
Beyond passion and talent, there’s a constant elephant in the room: there’s just no money. And no guarantee the job will even happen. Budgets shift mid-project. Deliverables expand without additional pay. Clients think it’s fine because
“it’s a small scene” or “you’re still building your portfolio.” And you nod, because what’s your alternative?
There’s no real financial safety net. No insurance. No guarantees. Everyone’s winging it.
Despite the chaos — or maybe because of it — some of the most refreshing, raw, and honest creative work still manages to come out of these messy little rooms. There’s a scrappiness to Egyptian indie projects that feels weirdly comforting and motivational. Like hey, we did that with only that. In the end, it’s not about having the perfect conditions. Maybe it’s about that iffy stubbornness we all carry that says, “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.” Because honestly, most of the time, even when we doubt ourselves and don’t know what we’re doing, we do.​​