by Jo Marchant
Alternatively, Tutankhamun could simply have been fishing or hunting birds in the marshes (there are statuettes of him doing this, standing on a little wooden skiff) when a hippo attacked his boat. Hippos are known to attack and topple boats without warning, then bite the unfortunate occupant when he or she falls into the water.
There is evidence that hippos did live in Egypt in Tutankhamun’s time. One papyrus from the Eighteenth Dynasty includes a prescription for treating a hippo bite. And Ay, Tutankhamun’s successor, has a rare scene of a hippo hunt in his tomb—could he have been asserting his dominance over the animal that killed his predecessor?
Although Harer thinks that a hippo is the most likely cause of Tutankhamun’s death, he does have one other possible explanation for the king’s missing chest. If he was killed in battle, perhaps by an arrow that struck his heart, his enemies might have cut open his chest and retrieved the arrow and heart before his body was recovered by his own troops. It’s a scene that presumably isn’t included in the triumphant battle reliefs that Ray Johnson is deciphering on those temple blocks.
Harer and Connolly’s work adds yet another twist to the arguments over Tutankhamun’s death. The king has gone from a tragic child who succumbed to tuberculosis, to a murder victim, daredevil chariot racer, malaria-infected cripple, brave soldier, and even a hippo’s last meal. You can pick whichever story you like. We might not be any closer to a definitive answer over the pharaoh’s demise, but the sheer range of explanations is surely a testament to human ingenuity and imagination.
Unfortunately, we’re unlikely to get any more data to help solve the mystery any time soon. Dramatic events unfolding in Egypt were about to bring all scientific work on the mummies—not to mention Hawass’s glittering career—to an abrupt halt.
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* Robert Connolly points out that in the 1968 X-ray images, Tutankhamun’s nasal passage appears intact, suggesting that the brain was removed only through the foramen magnum. However, experts who have studied the 2005 CT images, including Richard Boyer, Paul Gostner, and Benson Harer, all agree that a hole has been broken through the right-hand side of Tutankhamun’s nasal passage, “about the right size to admit a good-sized trocar” according to Boyer. He says that the defect is in an area “with lots of overlapping shadows” so he isn’t surprised that it doesn’t show up on the flat X-ray images. It is possible, of course, that this damage has been sustained since 1968, but it seems most likely that the Egyptian embalmers did indeed enter the brain twice, once through the nose and once through the foramen magnum.
* In his diary entry for November 15, 1925, Howard Carter states that the beaded bib was located “at the lowest level before reaching the skin.” However in his later account of the discovery, The Tomb of Tutankhamun, he says that the bib was “next to the flesh, though not in actual contact with it; for there were several thicknesses of linen underneath, charred almost to powder.” Harer believes that the first account is correct.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
REVOLUTION
IN THE LAST WEEK of January 2011, Yehia Gad watched from his lab at the National Research Centre in Cairo as the protests outside grew. He was itching to take part in the marches, but worried about jeopardizing his job. If there was a revolution, he figured he’d be needed in a position of influence, to help build a new, democratic Egypt.
What started as a lone street trader burning himself alive in protest at police corruption in Tunisia was fast becoming a wave of mass defiance against repressive regimes around the Arab world. In Egypt, huge crowds were turning out to call for the fall of President Mubarak, whose thirty-year rule since Sadat’s assassination was characterized by corruption, press censorship, and imprisonment without trial of thousands of political activists.
By the morning of Friday, January 28, Gad could stand by no more. He knew this would be the biggest demonstration yet, as Friday prayers would provide a natural starting point for marches afterward. Gad went to pray with his two sons-in-law at a mosque in the Cairo suburb of Nasr City, then walked with the other protestors the five miles or so to Tahrir Square.
Events that day exploded beyond everyone’s expectations. Hundreds of thousands of people from all walks of life demonstrated for a democratic Egypt, enduring violent attacks from pro-government groups as military tanks looked on. The tense scenes were flashed to TV screens around the world, and suddenly, the country the rest of us had associated mostly with pyramids, mummies, and perhaps holidays by the Red Sea, took on a new dimension. We noticed that this was actually a police state. And its people were finally doing something about it. We looked on those Egyptian crowds with a newfound understanding, and respect.
That night, the Cairo museum was broken into and looted. The galleries containing items from Tutankhamun’s tomb and the Amarna period were worst hit, with glass cases smashed and their contents thrown broken onto the floor. A statue of Tutankhamun astride a panther was ripped from its base then cast aside. A model boat from his tomb was destroyed. Two mummy heads were found on the floor—sparking rumors that Yuya and Tjuiu had been decapitated.*
It wasn’t clear (and still isn’t) whether the rampage was carried out by opportunistic looters as officially claimed. The intruders supposedly entered through a glass skylight in the ten-meter-high ceiling, triggering questions over who would just happen to be carrying that much rope with them, and stories circulated that it was an inside job, set up by government supporters to make the demonstrators look bad. If so, it backfired. Once the break-in became apparent, young protesters formed a human chain around the museum to protect it from further attacks.
Hawass did not march with the demonstrators. On January 31, his status as a key part of Mubarak’s regime was cemented, when the president promoted him to Minister of State for Antiquities. Hawass issued repeated statements insisting that reports of looting at antiquities sites around the country were exaggerated, and that nothing was missing either from these sites or from the Egyptian Museum. “All of the Egyptian monuments are safe,” he said. “I want everyone to relax.”1
What was needed, he insisted, was a return to order. He appeared on foreign television, for example the BBC, expressing strong support for Mubarak on behalf of the Egyptian people.2
From that point on, Hawass’s position as Egypt’s antiquities chief, which had previously seemed so unassailable, began to unravel. Just a few days later, on February 11, Mubarak stepped down as president. Almost immediately, Hawass reported that several objects were in fact missing from the museum—including two gilded statues of Tutankhamun, one of his trumpets, statuettes of Akhenaten and Nefertiti, and Yuya’s heart scarab—and that archaeological sites and storehouses in some parts of Egypt were indeed being emptied by looters. Hawass insists that at all times he accurately passed on the information he received from museum staff, but the turnaround inevitably led to claims that he initially suppressed knowledge of the losses to protect Mubarak’s fading regime.
Foreign archaeologists across the country had been ordered by the police to put down their tools and take the first flights they could out of the country for their own safety, leaving the sites—particularly those close to Cairo—open to attack. Further south, though, it was quieter. In the Valley of the Kings, Kent Weeks kept working. And while Tutankhamun’s treasures were looted in Cairo, his mummy was safe in its tomb. The only change in its circumstances was that the valley became eerily quiet, as the usual stream of tourists came to an abrupt standstill.
Hawass’s critics within Egypt seized their opportunity to attack him with a battery of wild-sounding claims, for example, that he covered up the thefts at the Egyptian museum, oversaw corruption at the antiquities service, and smuggled antiquities on behalf of the Mubarak family. He was also under fire for his Tutankhamun projects, reflecting simmering resentment in some quarters at least for allowing foreigners to become so intimately involved with the Egyptian king. Allegations reported in the Egyptian press included that he illegally signe
d a contract with National Geographic to exhibit artifacts from Tutankhamun’s tomb abroad without any guarantee of their return and even that he threatened national security by allowing foreign researchers to study the royal mummies.3 Hawass has described these allegations on his blog as “false” and “ridiculous.”4
After briefly resigning and being reinstated in March, Hawass was fired in July by the interim prime minister, Essam Sharaf, in a move apparently intended to ease pressure from protestors wanting to purge remnants of Mubarak’s regime. A few days later, Hawass’s replacement submitted a budget showing that the antiquities service was in huge debt, owing hundreds of millions of dollars to various banks.5 The money that had poured in from the Tutankhamun exhibitions was all gone.
The next few months saw a succession of heads of the antiquities service, each apparently unable to deal with the dire financial concerns and appease the thousands of employees protesting for permanent jobs and better pay. With nobody clearly in charge, all work came to a standstill, from archaeological digs and conservation work to the DNA analysis and CT scans of the royal mummies. When I visited the antiquities service headquarters in Zamalek, Cairo, in October 2011, its corridors were full of bored employees watching the clock until it was time to go home. “We’ve been sat here for months,” says one woman, a bright, young museum guide in a mauve headscarf, now installed next to the plastic flowers in the visitors’ waiting room.
With chaos at the antiquities service, I go to see Hawass. As the man who has controlled all recent studies on Tutankhamun’s mummy and effectively defined the king’s image for the past decade, I’m interested to know what he thinks about the scientific arguments over his teams’ work, and the prospects for the future research on the royal mummies.
When I first request an interview, I don’t hear anything back. Since losing his position at the antiquities service, Hawass has barely been seen in public and his usually busy blog has been silent, sparking discussions of his possible whereabouts. Is he in hiding? Plotting a comeback? Secretly running the antiquities service from a private office? Then I get an email with just one line, “Yes you can come to see me tuesday at 11am,” and an address.
After considerable searching, I find the building—an apartment block set off the main road in the bustling Mohandessin district of Cairo. Like many buildings in the city it’s big, ugly, and caked in dirt, with an air conditioning unit hanging out of every window. When I step inside, I realize that it too has fallen from greater things. Loose wires now trail from the elaborate light fittings in its huge entrance hall, while marble floors and ornate banisters are barely visible beneath decades-worth of dirt and dust.
The elevator is a clunky metal cage that looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the 1950s. But it rises somehow and I emerge on the ninth floor. Facing me at the end of the corridor is a large wooden door, behind which is Zahi Hawass.
As I walk up to it, I have to admit I’m nervous. Hawass might be the darling of National Geographic, loved by TV audiences across the world for discovering ancient treasures and jumping around in his Indiana Jones hat. But Egyptologists seem actually quite scared of him. He has been described as “the Mubarak of antiquities,”6 with critics painting a picture of a bully who is quick to punish anyone who crosses him—accusing respected scholars of smuggling antiquities for example, or banning them (and sometimes their colleagues) from excavating in Egypt. It’s tough to get anyone to discuss their concerns on the record, but in a rare published comment, the independent Egyptologist Marianne Eaton-Krauss said of Pusch and Zink’s DNA study, “The team members have my sympathy. Anyone who contradicts [Hawass] risks losing not only their opportunity of working in Egypt but also that of the institution with whom the person is affiliated.”*,7
In my own experience, plenty of respected Egyptologists are keen to praise Hawass—his efforts to stamp out corruption in the antiquities service, for example, or his tireless energy and enthusiasm in promoting the cause of antiquities. But he does seem to make some Egyptologists jumpy. One researcher who promised to meet me to discuss work on the royal mummies abruptly cut off contact, while another phoned me repeatedly in London late one night, begging me to change a quote in a story I’d written that could be construed as not being completely favorable to the antiquities chief. Several researchers declined to talk to me on the record about research on the royal mummies or Hawass himself—even after he stepped down—saying that they feared damage to their careers. Justified or not, their perceived fears seem to be damaging a proper scientific discussion about the studies of Tutankhamun and his family.
In Egypt, of course, career damage is not all that critics of those in authority have to fear. Despite the revolution, this is still a police state, run by the same military regime that has been in charge for decades, with its reputation for corruption and human rights abuses. Antiquities, as a key part of Egypt’s economy and image, are intertwined with that regime. And while there is nothing to connect this with Hawass himself, I recall that in March 2011, several weeks after Mubarak stepped down, the army is alleged to have used the Egyptian Museum—from its manicured gardens to its grand entrance hall—as a convenient base to interrogate and torture protestors.9
As I reach Hawass’s office, I text my boyfriend back in London to let him know where I am, and knock at the door.
It’s opened by a slim Egyptian woman who smiles and shyly beckons me into a cozy, carpeted set of rooms, its shelves lined with books. Then Hawass himself, beaming, smaller than I imagined, bounces up from behind his desk to shake my hand.
Suddenly, my fears and imaginings seem rather ridiculous. Whatever sides there are to Hawass, today I’m meeting the loveable, media-friendly ambassador for Egyptology. Despite his recent low profile, he is keen to talk and to impress upon me his considerable achievements. His office supports him in this endeavor—we’re surrounded by a dizzying array of trophies, medals, and photos of Hawass with celebrities such as Barack Obama and Celine Dion.
The archaeologist is charming and full of energy despite his situation. He talks nonstop and jumps up every few minutes to locate objects that will better illustrate his latest point: his sweat-stained hat, his handwritten manuscripts (he’s writing a book about the revolution, and another one about Tutankhamun10)—“Look at this! Look! Look how many I wrote!”—and a tall pile of stuffed-full A4 envelopes that he says will soon prove his innocence in the investigations against him.
He rejects the idea that he was close to Mubarak or that he supported the dictator’s regime. “I have never been a politician,” he says. “I was wearing my jeans and my hat, working.” He points out that he became a minister only after the revolution and says he regularly fought with members of the government over causes related to antiquities. As for torture in the museum, it’s simply not true, he insists.
When it comes to archaeology, Hawass issues a blanket denial of pretty much everything negative that has ever been said about him. He denounces his critics as “corrupt” and “crooks who came out of their holes to hurt me”—all directed at me in a shout so loud that I fear I’ve made him angry, until I realize it’s his normal speaking voice. His high profile in the media was necessary “to Egyptianize Egyptian antiquities,” he says. “Everything I did was for Egypt.” And he denies stifling debate or taking credit for others’ discoveries, arguing that by law he had to scrutinize all results before they were announced to the media to prevent unscrupulous archaeologists from making false claims for personal gain. The strict rules were imposed by the antiquities service to protect everyone involved, he adds, explaining that as long as archaeologists obeyed the rules, they had no cause for concern. “But if anyone made a mistake, I punished him.”
Hawass insists that his tenure was good for science, and says he’s proud of how he extracted millions of dollars from U.S. media companies to ensure that research on the royal mummies was carried out for the first time in Egypt, by Egyptian teams. Taking control of such research after decades
of studies carried out by foreigners is surely a major achievement by anyone’s standards. But the criticisms of the work seem to have washed over him. “I’m very proud of the results,” he says. “All of our results have been approved by archaeology.” I get the impression that Hawass doesn’t spend too much time worrying about what anyone else thinks. At this point in our interview, he walks out abruptly. I’m left sitting mystified, until I hear a toilet flush in the next room and he returns to continue exactly where he left off.
He seems honestly baffled at the suggestion that his research teams might share any further data or that it might be helpful to hold an international symposium—as some scholars have called for—at which experts from different backgrounds could come together to discuss the results. “What would a symposium achieve?” he asks. “I find it hard to imagine what other questions people might have.”* For example, he seems incredulous that any scientist might wish to check the details of the CT scans that caused Selim to revise the age of the KV55 mummy—a controversial conclusion that was crucial to identifying this individual as Akhenaten: “Ashraf Selim is the best archaeologist in the world!” Similarly, he describes the finding that Tutankhamun was ill, disabled, and killed by a broken leg as “the final word on the subject.”
Research on the royal mummies is “taking a rest,” he tells me, but says he hopes to stay involved with the project in the future. With further analysis of the DNA results, he predicts, “the two fetuses now can lead us to the mummies of Ankhesenamun and Nefertiti.” The team’s published data (if correct) already suggest that one of the two female mummies found in tomb KV21 could be the fetuses’ mother, presumably Tutankhamun’s wife, Ankhe-senamun. Hawass has a hunch that her companion is Ankhesenamun’s mother, Nefertiti. “We can prove it later,” he says breezily.
I think that’s when I get it. Whether Hawass’s motivation is money or glory or power (for him or for Egypt), he seems to care passionately about ancient Egypt and its antiquities and sharing that with the world. Though some critics scoff that he’s not an intellectual, he understands people, and knows that the new results and discoveries created by science projects are key to getting them excited. But I’m not convinced that finding the dry, objective “truth” about the mummies has a great deal of meaning for him. Despite his research credentials, he is at heart a storyteller; the science is a means to an end, not an end in itself. It creates a story that others want to buy—something he is a genius at. Whatever the real facts are about these mummies, his narratives are what become true, in his own mind and in the minds of millions, through sheer force of belief and repetition.