Egypt’s Divided Shores: Exploring the Cultural Chasm of ‘Good’ and ‘Evil’ Sahel

As you journey along Egypt’s sun-kissed Mediterranean highway, there’s no official sign marking the boundary between what locals affectionately call the ‘Good Coast’ and the ‘Evil Coast.’ Yet, for Egyptians who flock to the North Coast each summer, the distinction is crystal clear. Both stretches boast the same brilliant turquoise waters and pristine white sands, but the vibes couldn’t be more different.

First, there’s Sahel el-Tayeb, or the Good Coast.

This is where families seek simple, wholesome vacations. Think quiet days spent by the sea, lost in a good book, or simply relaxing. Women often wear modest burkinis and hijabs. Accommodations lean towards unpretentious hotels and rental homes. Beachside cafes are straightforward, furnished with plastic chairs, and a scattering of fresh seafood spots line the highway. Vendors regularly stroll along, offering traditional summer treats like honeyed fresca wafers and trays of clams to beachgoers relaxing under colorful umbrellas.

Then, there’s Sahel el-Shireer, the infamous Evil Coast.

Here, the landscape shifts dramatically. Picture opulent, multi-million dollar beachfront villas and designer Louis Vuitton bags casually placed next to sun loungers. The nightlife is vibrant, featuring high-profile concerts with international stars and electrifying raves with renowned DJs. Upscale restaurants and trendy boutiques, mirroring Cairo’s most exclusive establishments, line the waterfront. Most women are seen in bikinis, designer sunglasses, and bohemian-chic cover-ups. Strikingly, just under an hour’s drive from Good Sahel, those same fresca wafers and clams can cost more than double. A weekend stay here might easily rival the expense of a lavish trip to St.-Tropez.

“It used to be about packing four or five outfits, flip-flops, and no makeup – that was it,” recalls Aziza Shalash, 24, a graduate student whose family transitioned from Good Sahel to Almaza Bay, a prominent influencer hub on the Evil Coast. “Now, when you go to the beach, you feel compelled to have your hair styled, wear makeup, and capture every moment for social media.”

This Good/Evil divide, defined by two nearly identical coastlines separated primarily by wealth, fashion, and recreational choices, starkly reflects a deeper societal rift in Egypt. Social class is intricately woven with attitudes toward Western-influenced freedoms. As a series of economic crises have deepened the chasm between Egypt’s elite and the general population, the increasing exclusivity of high-status destinations like Evil Sahel has raised more than a few eyebrows, even among those accustomed to luxury.

“It’s ‘evil’ because of the exorbitant spending,” remarked Mohieddin el-Ashmawy, 83, a retired naval officer who has summered in Good Sahel since before its ‘evil’ counterpart emerged. “There, every step you take, money dictates everything.”

The class disparity became undeniably evident in 2022, when Egypt’s already fragile economy suffered a severe downturn. Three years later, what remains of the middle class can barely cover essential expenses like school fees and groceries, making beach vacations an unimaginable luxury.

Around the same period, exclusivity in Evil Sahel intensified into outright exclusion. Replacing a more informal system of inviting guests, gated communities began enforcing strict QR code entry requirements, accessible only to property owners or renters. Some even demand a separate code for beach access.

These codes have become so coveted that they are reportedly sold online, sparking mild controversy and, predictably, a TikTok trend.

While developments in Good Sahel are also gated, their rules are significantly less stringent.

“It feels like a border, truly,” expressed Dalia el-Ghoneimy, 46, on her first visit to Almaza in July. “A beach shouldn’t be like this. Beaches, they should be for everyone.”

Decades ago, beaches were truly for everyone.

Regardless of their wealth, many Egyptians traditionally spent their summers on the beaches surrounding the Mediterranean city of Alexandria. This tradition continues for many less affluent Egyptians.

However, in recent times, private developers have expanded rapidly westward along the coastline. Initially, they introduced modest resorts, but soon began unveiling increasingly trendy and exclusive developments further west. Today, these properties also target affluent tourists from the Persian Gulf, Europe, and any other visitors who can afford the steep prices. A one-week rental during peak season can easily exceed $6,000.

The developers’ gleaming billboards dominate Cairo’s dusty streets and the coastal highway, promoting an idyllic vision of perfect summers: “Seazen — Find Your Zen,” “Forever by the Sea — Ras El-Hekma.” Not a single smiling woman in these advertisements covers her hair or arms, and every ad is in English, a language comfortably spoken by Egypt’s internationally educated elite.

For wealthy, liberal Egyptians, the allure is undeniable.

Gated communities in Sahel, such as Almaza or Marassi—an ultra-luxurious enclave developed by a Dubai firm—are essentially the summer counterparts to the meticulously maintained suburban compounds where affluent Cairenes reside, work, and socialize throughout the year. These are sanctuaries where they can act and dress as they please, free from societal judgment.

The majority of Egyptians, however, hold more conservative views, leading such behaviors to be confined behind closed doors elsewhere in the country. A popular meme illustrates this perfectly: there is the ‘Egypt’ of English-speaking, socially liberal elites, and ‘Masr’ (the Arabic word for Egypt) of everyone else.

Back in Good Sahel, any mention of the vibrant nightlife and revealing attire prevalent down the coast often elicits immediate disapproval.

“These girls have parents!” exclaimed Mr. el-Ashmawy, the longtime Good Sahel-goer, recalling a national controversy where two girls at an Evil Sahel concert were filmed kissing a Lebanese singer on the cheeks. His dismay was palpable.

“It’s excessively liberal, and I don’t appreciate it,” stated Doaa Reda, 25, a teacher enjoying a meal at a fish restaurant by the coastal highway. She referenced social media videos she had seen, adding, “Egypt is a Muslim country. Parties and bikinis—this simply doesn’t align with Egyptian society.”

Conversely, many who frequent Evil Sahel openly assert that its exclusivity is essential to keep moralistic judgments at bay. Mahmoud Abdoun, 56, an interior designer, explained that the QR codes ensure only “select people”—those who “share the same culture”—are granted entry.

He and his wife sat comfortably under an Almaza cabana, gazing out at the sea, where warm, mesmerizing waves of celadon and turquoise gently kissed the sand. To their right, at a bustling beach club, pop music drifted through the air as waiters attended to loungers, serving frozen margaritas, yuzu avocado toasts, and fresh mango platters. A royal-purple motorboat, resembling a sleek racecar, sliced through the water, while a parasail gracefully soared overhead.

Some parents also emphasized the security and peace of mind offered by a gated community.

“You want to relax and let your kids run freely,” said Sherif Seif, 48, a marketing executive celebrating his son’s birthday under a nearby cabana.

Mr. Seif highlighted that Sahel is not unique in offering a premium for privacy and security. “It’s a private compound with private residences,” he clarified.

However, unraveling these opinions from underlying class dynamics is always complex in Egypt’s stratified society. More than a few Egyptians, regardless of their financial standing, view these restrictions as nothing more than institutionalized snobbery.

At Green Beach, a gated community in Good Sahel, Radwa, a translator, sat reading a book in her mauve burkini. She confessed she had never visited Evil Sahel. “I know I’d judge them,” she admitted, “but if I went there, they’d judge me because I dress like this.” (She preferred not to share her last name, wishing to avoid any social controversy.)

Yet, the divides within Sahel, much like those across Egypt, are not always as stark as they first appear.

Many Egyptians who could easily afford the luxurious hotspots of Evil Sahel still choose the simpler pleasures of Good Sahel. You might find some unveiled women sunbathing in Good Sahel, and occasionally, women in burkinis swimming in Evil Sahel.

Mr. Seif recalled a morning when a man in religious attire walked past him on the beach, his phone loudly playing Quranic verses for everyone to hear.

Mr. Seif said he didn’t mind it. Like many other Egyptians who strive to balance enjoyment with their faith, he himself observes prayers on days he refrains from drinking, fasts during Ramadan, and attends Friday prayers.

“That’s precisely why I object to the labels ‘Evil Sahel, Good Sahel,’” he explained. “Because ultimately, it’s all about you and your personal choices.”

He then took a swig of his vodka, a wide grin spreading across his face.