Marik Abdallah

Today, I held in my hands a small, fragmented artifact—a piece of stone no bigger than my palm. At first glance, it seemed ordinary, but as I traced the faint lines of hieroglyphs, I felt that familiar rush of awe. This fragment was once part of a tomb door, dating back over three millennia, stolen during the British expeditions in the late 19th century. It had resurfaced in a European auction house, with a pristine label claiming it belonged to a private collection.

The irony isn't lost on me. These items were once ours, scattered across the globe by people who had no right to them, yet now, we have to negotiate and beg for their return. As an Egyptologist, I’ve spent the past 10 years working with the Great Egyptian Museum in Giza, witnessing endless debates with foreign institutions. Each time, they insist that the artifacts are safer there, better preserved under their care. The arrogance in that statement never fails to tighten my chest.

I’m 42 now, and this fight has consumed much of my career. Some days, I wonder if I’ll see all the treasures returned to Egypt before I retire. We are close—closer than we’ve ever been. The museum, just two kilometers from the pyramids, will open soon. Its halls will stand as a testament not only to our rich history but to the ongoing struggle of reclaiming what was taken.

As I walked through the nearly completed gallery today, I could almost hear the echoes of the past. Our ancestors’ voices, waiting to come home. When they do, it won’t just be a victory for Egypt—it will be justice.