Remains of the day

The last vestiges of the Western Desert's ancient cities defend themselves against their last invaders: time and neglect. Sherif Sonbol captures an age long gone
Once affluent and powerful enclaves along desert trade routes, the cities of the Western Desert were walled universes harbouring thriving communities amid a harsh landscape. The famed Darb Al-Arba'in (the 40 Days Road), which stretches all the way to Sudan, was a major thoroughfare for traders. But this was all a long time ago, in medieval times, when all walks of life could be found within the winding lanes of these cities. And though each community was alone against desert raiders, they all shared a common enemy: the sandstorm.
Today, and for the most part, the vestiges of these old cities have been laid to waste. Cement developments -- the hallmarks of modernity -- encroach on their remains and old walls suffer from the neglect of ungrateful heirs. Today a loose network of independent enclaves dotted throughout vast stretches of sand is tidily classified by bureaucrats as the "New Valley governorate," but I was thoroughly unprepared for what I found there.
Movies taking faraway desert lands as their backdrop sprung to mind when I first visited the cities of the Western Desert, but as an Egyptian, nothing in my experience came close to what I saw. The life of the desert and all that it contains is totally alien to the urban and rural Egyptian alike. When the government stepped in to bring the oases cities into the fold, they were assigned designations of "village" or "town" -- they are certainly neither.
The best preserved of the desert cities is that of Al-Qasr (literally, "the palace"), where the Supreme Council for Antiquities (SCA) has taken on the task of renovating the remains of what is believed to have been Dakhla's capital in medieval times. Like other ancient cities of the Western Desert, the alleys are narrow and the doors low -- a security precaution that prevented enemies from entering on horse back. The small entrances also forced invaders attempting to storm the city to bend down, giving inhabitants the opportunity to chop off their heads before they ever had the opportunity to straighten up again.
Charming details aside, Al-Qasr is visually stunning. Deserted mud-walled alleys and passageways are peopled only with palm trunks, through which a listless wind blows. Acacia-wood lintels above the doorways bear the name of the builders or occupants of the houses -- only a few remain inhabited. The oldest of these lintels dates to 1518.
The many policemen who now guard the area, courtesy of the SCA, drew my attention to the 12th-century Ayyubid-style mosque, the water wheel, the old court house and oil press. Everything is in pristine condition, but unfortunately, the city's modern counterpart has paid little heed to aesthetic concerns while expanding. "New Qasr", while growing, sadly obliterates the view of the old city's minaret and many more of its key features. The name of New Qasr's main drag, Kuwait Street, is an indicator that the area's inhabitants financed their building projects through remittances. But for a German photographer who had come a long way to get some sweeping views of the ancient city, new progress for the city's modern dwellers was nothing but an impediment to his work: he was furious that no matter how he tried or where he stood, he could not get a proper view.
Also in Dakhla is the city of Balat. Perhaps the most heavily populated of all the cities I visited. In the time of the Old Kingdom, Balat was a town and the seat of the governor and it is said to have been prosperous as a result of vibrant trade with ancient Nubia. In general, inhabitants of the New Valley governorate left the old cities because they complained that the quarters were too narrow and cramped -- let alone that there was no infrastructure, like electricity or water. Of course, new low-income architecture has not exactly provided wide and spacious alternatives, but the need for "modernity" is a powerful force.
The real travesty, however, is Darb Al-Sindadiya, the old city in Al-Kharga. This elaborate, tiered city once extended over a four-kilometre area and dates back to the 10th century. What remains are three streets of dilapidated buildings. Dark alleyways collect garbage and are home only to the workshop of the iron welder Amm Bikhit. Mabruk, a sculptor and former inhabitant of the old city, told me that several years ago there was a rumour that the SCA intended to take over control of the old city. "People ran to their houses and started pulling out the wood beams and the walls started collapsing," Mabruk recalls.
The SCA, however, never came to save what remains of the city and neither has the governorate. Mabruk has a project for a museum that he has taken to every high-level official he can get to, but his efforts have yet to bear fruit. "I lived here and I know what people looked like; what their lives were like. I can make statues and we can put them in the remaining houses and convert Darb Al-Sindadiya into a museum."
A much more modest and sanitised version of Mabruk's idea exists in the northern oasis of Siwa, where the Canadian ambassador funds the Traditional Siwan House. The Siwa project was prompted by fears that few traditional dwellings would survive the trend towards modern housing, if any at all -- a concern that has come to pass in many an oases town in the Western Desert. Government officials have repeatedly expressed enthusiasm about Mabruk's idea, but they have done little more that shuffle him around a complicated and lethargic bureaucratic system he is unprepared to deal with. Meanwhile, these cities that once encapsulated ancient desert life remain deserted and in danger of being swallowed up altogether.
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