A Day Inside a Mausoleum

I spent several hours with a family of five—parents, grandmother, and two children—who live inside a mausoleum. They welcomed me warmly with tea and stories. They showed me their animals: chickens, ducks, doves, a rabbit, and two dogs. The mother pulled out photos of her teenage daughter’s birthday party, speaking with the same maternal tenderness one finds anywhere in the world.

Here, daily life unfolds as in any neighborhood. The children talk about school and football practice. The grandmother tells stories of the past. They laughed, shared concerns, and argued over small matters—the same rhythms you find in ordinary homes. Even amid precarious conditions, there is resilience, humor, and dignity.

Between Necessity and Belonging

Originally, families moved into tombs out of economic necessity, religious duties, or family tradition. Over the decades, these temporary arrangements became permanent. Many of the families residing in mausoleums are not descendants of those buried there. Instead, they reach an arrangement with the deceased’s relatives, agreeing to care for the tomb in exchange for the right to live in the space.

Cairo faces a severe housing crisis, with soaring rents, overcrowded informal settlements, and limited access to public housing. For many families, the City of the Dead is not a choice born of preference or tradition, but a practical solution to survive. The mausoleums provide space, relative privacy, and a roof over their heads—making what is meant to be a resting place for the dead a home for the living.

Residents also maintain traditions linked to family graves that are still visited by living relatives, who come to mourn and place flowers. The family I visited told me about these visits as they showed me, in the courtyard of their mausoleum, the area where a man and his wife were buried — bodies wrapped in shrouds, as is Muslim custom. The couple lies in a small subterranean chamber, accessible by a narrow staircase in the family’s courtyard, later sealed with cement because of the odors. Although I did not see the tombs directly, the family explained the arrangement, showing how the presence of the dead quietly coexists with daily life.

Today, estimates suggest that tens of thousands, possibly up to half a million people, live here. For them, this is home—a place where ancestors’ presence merges with the routines of the living.

The Life That Persists

Life here is not without challenges: limited public services, informal housing, and an urban environment often stigmatized or overlooked. Many residents prefer not to be photographed, underscoring the need for sensitivity and informed consent in documenting the area. Yet, the City of the Dead also reveals resourcefulness, resilience, and solidarity. Courtyards become classrooms, rooftops shelter pigeons, and rooms transform into workshops. Daily life asserts itself among the tombs with dignity.

Beyond the dramatic name — City of the Dead — what I found was life: fragile, ordinary, profoundly human.

Heritage Under Threat

Today, the necropolis faces an uncertain future. Bulldozers have already razed sections of the cemetery to make way for highways and overpasses linking Cairo to the new administrative capital in the desert, 35 kilometers away. Some of the demolished tombs dated back to the Mamluk era (13th–15th centuries) and were the resting places of scholars, cultural figures, and members of Egypt’s royal families. According to UNESCO, parts of Historic Cairo — a World Heritage Site that includes the City of the Dead — remain at risk despite official assurances that monuments will be preserved.

Egyptian officials frame the demolitions as part of modernization and infrastructure development, but conservationists and urban historians warn that many mausoleums are not formally registered as antiquities, leaving them vulnerable. In May 2022, the tomb of Taha Hussein, one of Egypt’s most influential writers, was marked with a red cross and the word “demolition,” triggering public concern. Although the authorities officially denied plans to destroy it, nearby construction of an elevated bridge affected the mausoleum’s structure, partially covering it with concrete.

Activists continue to document damage, photographing collapsed facades, shattered gravestones, and fragments of Arabic calligraphy scattered in the rubble.

The destruction is not only architectural but social. Families who have lived here for generations are being relocated to distant neighborhoods, severing the community bonds that sustain them. For many residents, the City of the Dead is home, and these interventions risk erasing not only heritage but also daily life and communal memory.

Looking Closer

This work does not seek to romanticize hardship or dramatize loss. It is an invitation to look more closely. The City of the Dead is both a place of mourning and of survival, where heritage and humanity meet in fragile balance. Between crumbling stone and the sound of children’s laughter, life persists—ordinary and dignified.

Methodology and Ethics

The photographs were made with informed consent and prior dialogue with the family. Care was taken not to record personal names or precise locations that could expose residents to stigmatization or external pressures. This essay is informed by both direct experience and academic and journalistic sources that situate the work within its historical and urban context.