On the map, Siwa is a tiny dot in northwest Egypt, 50 kilometers from Libya. In reality, it’s a parallel universe. Golden dunes, like silent sentinels, encircle a maze of olive and date groves fed by 200 springs. This oasis, once called Santariya, was never conquered by Rome or Nile pharaohs. Its isolation —between the Qattara Depression and the Sea of Sand— made it a refuge for cultures and gods.
The echo of Alexander the Great still lingers in the ruins of Aghurmi. In 331 BCE, the conqueror crossed the desert under a scorching sun, guided by omens, to reach the Oracle of Amun. Chronicles say priests greeted him as “Son of Amun”, a divine title legitimizing his rule. Today, among the temple stones, it’s easy to imagine the whisper of Amun-Ra, whose answers shaped empires. But Siwa isn’t just the past: on its dirt roads, Siwi women wear silver jewelry glowing under the sun, heirs to a Berber (Amazigh) lineage resisting millennia. Their language, Siwi, isn’t written in books but in songs and proverbs elders teach children at dusk.
Overlooking the landscape, the Shali Fortress stands like a wounded giant. Built in the 12th century with kershef —a blend of salt, mud, and palm trunks—, its ochre walls were a bastion against invaders for centuries. But in 1926, rare rains melted parts of its structure, turning it into an architectural ghost. Today, its crumbling alleys are an open-air museum, where palm roots cling to cracks, reminding us that even the ephemeral can endure.
Water is Siwa’s lifeblood. At Ain Juba, known as Cleopatra’s Bath, thermal waters flow at 29°C through ancient stones. Though no proof ties the queen to these springs, locals swear her essence lingers in the bubbles that caress the skin. Kilometers away, salt lakes offer a surreal contrast: turquoise pools edged with white crystals, where floating weightlessly, like in the Dead Sea, feels otherworldly under Egypt’s endless sky.
Siwa doesn’t surrender easily. Reaching it requires a five-hour drive from Cairo along roads winding through dunes. There’s no luxury, just humble guesthouses and nights lit by stars that seem to graze the earth. But this austerity is its magic: here, time isn’t measured in minutes but in birds soaring over springs and children’s laughter echoing through palms.
