This month, a new chapter in history closes as the long-running dispute over Saint Catherine's Monastery in Sinai finally draws to an end. Egypt, Greece, and the Greek Orthodox Church have reached an amicable settlement, resolving months of tension over the ownership of land and buildings surrounding one of the world's oldest functioning monasteries — a UNESCO World Heritage site. The agreement ensures that the monastery retains its sacred and spiritual character while reaffirming Egypt's full sovereignty over the land. The Greek Orthodox Church will continue overseeing the monks' religious affairs, as it has for centuries. With this accord, Egypt once again demonstrates its unique ability to turn conflict into dialogue — proving that real power lies not in confrontation but in the wisdom to embrace difference. That spirit of tolerance is not new — it runs deep through thousands of years of Egyptian history. Egypt — the land that gave shelter to all faiths — continues to build churches and mosques side by side, not in fear of difference but in reverence for it. Saint Catherine's Monastery is more than a religious site; it stands as a living proof that coexistence is possible — that peace needs no slogans, only sincerity of purpose. It is hardly a coincidence that this resolution comes in the same year Egypt inaugurates the Grand Egyptian Museum — the largest cultural project of the 21st century and a new window through which the nation opens itself to the world. As Egypt safeguards a small monastery in the Sinai Desert, it also unveils a temple to civilisation itself — reminding humanity that this country protects not only its own heritage but also the heritage of all humankind. The opening of the Grand Egyptian Museum is not merely a cultural event — it is a global message: Egypt remains the cradle of civilisation and the guardian of history. Yet this celebration also raises an uncomfortable question: What about the thousands of Egyptian artefacts that left their homeland over the centuries? How can the world applaud Egypt's ancient legacy in its museums while refusing to return what was taken from it?
The truth is stark: no nation has endured more cultural plunder than Egypt. Most Egyptian treasures displayed in the great museums of the West were removed during the colonial era — or by "scientific missions" that claimed discovery while practicing possession. The Rosetta Stone was taken to Britain. The bust of Nefertiti went to Berlin. Egypt's obelisks were scattered between Paris, Rome, and New York. To this day, these pieces are exhibited as if they legitimately belong there — while their true owners watch from afar.
Worse still, international law itself legitimised the theft. When UNESCO adopted its 1970 Convention banning the illicit trafficking of cultural property, the law was not applied retroactively. Everything stolen before that date became, in legal terms, "safe." In effect, the world said: Yes, it was theft — but legal theft, because it happened before we outlawed such acts. Thus, a law meant to protect heritage became a shield for the crimes of the past.
But morality cannot be bound by dates. Does the meaning of theft change because it occurred before a law was written? Does an artefact become "legitimate" simply because the thief was early? Conscience precedes legislation, and true justice is measured not by legal clauses but by moral truth.
Even artefacts labelled as "official gifts" are no different from stolen property. Those who gave them had no right to give, and those who accepted them knew they had no right to own. How can a gift be valid when the giver was an occupier? How can ownership be honest when it is rooted in injustice? Such "gifts" were little more than political bargains wrapped in diplomatic silk — acts of appropriation disguised as gestures of friendship.
Since when has heritage been something to buy or sell? Heritage is not a commodity, nor the possession of a ruler or a museum. It is the memory of a nation and the soul of a civilisation. Every stone that left Egypt carries a story, every statue a fragment of its spirit — a spirit that cannot be priced.
The West has long justified its actions under the banner of "scientific discovery," forgetting that discovery does not confer ownership. To celebrate Egypt's treasures while ignoring how they were taken is to rejoice over a stolen page of history. Laws may protect what lies in glass cases — but conscience can never protect deceit.
The Egypt that safeguards a monastery in the mountains is the same Egypt that demands the return of its artefacts from the world's museums. The Egypt that offers dialogue in matters of faith offers reason in matters of heritage. It seeks not revenge but justice — not confrontation, but the restoration of truth.
History changes nothing about the truth: Those who sold had no right to sell, those who bought had no right to buy, and those who gifted acted beyond their right to give. Heritage cannot be gifted or traded, for it belongs only to the land that gave it birth and to the people who shaped it.
It is time for the world to look first to its conscience before consulting its laws — and to recognise that what left Egypt does not belong to the museums that display it but to the nation that taught humanity how to build, write, and dream of eternity.
Return Egypt's treasures — and stop distorting the truth. Laws may justify, but conscience never deceives — and history never forgets. If humanity seeks to be true to itself, let it begin by restoring what is rightfully Egypt's.
