Tracing the Legacy of Sudan’s Warrior Queens and Kings
From the book The Kind Souls of Sudan by Viktor Lazić, Laguna, 2025.
Every day, both the guilty and the innocent perish—soldiers, women, and children die in Sudan. Hundreds of thousands flee in desperation, considering themselves lucky, as millions remain trapped in the heart of brutal clashes, unable to escape.
A few years before the wars and uprisings, I travelled across Sudan for a month. I covered around 8,000 kilometres and grew fond of the Sudanese desert—its proud, brave, and honest people who taught me the true meaning of hospitality. The Sudanese, with their kind-hearted nature, brought me closer to a four-and-a-half thousand-year turbulent history, a history little known to the world, yet it shines in my soul like stars over the vast, endless desert.
The whole world has heard of the Egyptian pyramids thanks to effective marketing, yet few are aware of the Sudanese ones, despite there being twice as many. Even Herodotus wrote about the Sudanese pyramids—he knew of them in an age when news travelled by pigeons and couriers—yet most people I meet in the 21st century have never heard of them.
In recent years, Sudanese people have made significant efforts to inform the world that their land, too, is home to these pointed wonders. Whenever they write or speak about their country, they never fail to mention the number of pyramids they have.
The whole world has heard of the Egyptian pyramids thanks to effective marketing, yet few are aware of the Sudanese ones, despite there being twice as many
For them, these pyramids are more than mere monuments of ancient history—they are part of the very essence of every Sudanese. In them, they see the pinnacle of aesthetics, art, and the power of their people; they see the reflection of their soul. Even during the 2019 revolution, protesters painted pyramids on road signs, advertising billboards, and banners—they are symbols of freedom, of the enslaved servant who rises to become a master and creates something extraordinary.
Few people know that in ancient Egypt, as well as in Nubia, these giant structures were not built by slaves. Pharaohs employed skilled and well-paid craftsmen, as well as ordinary people, including farmers, who worked on construction sites when their fields were flooded. For them, it was the highest honour to participate in such a magnificent endeavour, even to lay down their lives for a structure dedicated to their ruler, whom they regarded as a deity. Workers who perished during construction were buried nearby, ensuring they would remain forever close to the pharaoh’s side—considered the greatest reward. This is what one of the most renowned Egyptologists, Dr Zahi Hawass, Egypt’s Minister of Antiquities, told me when he was in Belgrade signing books for the Museum of Books and Travel.
Here, it is just the pyramids, the dunes, and me. In a month of travelling through Sudan, I have not encountered a single traveller
The highest concentration of pyramids in the world, all in one location, is found in Sudan, at the Meroë archaeological site near the banks of the Nile, which is precisely where I am headed. It is also the country’s most significant tourist attraction.
Unlike other sites, these pyramids are close to the main highway. I buy a bus ticket to the next town, asking the driver to drop me off near the pyramids.
On a sandy ridge, the once smooth, sharp, and enigmatic structures—like jagged teeth pointing towards the sky—now stand weathered, blunt, and rough. In ancient times, they reached heights of up to thirty metres, equivalent to eight to ten modern storeys.
In front of most pyramids stands a chapel that resembles an entrance or vestibule, yet it is not—instead, it is a separate chamber filled with engraved hieroglyphs and depictions of kings, queens, and gods. This is how I learned that warrior queens once led entire armies in Sudan and that kings shared power with their queen mothers.
I brush away the sand and dust with my hand, hoping to see more clearly—but also to feel the ancient reliefs beneath my fingertips. I came across a beautiful engraving of the Ba bird with a human head, a symbol of the spiritual being, followed by giraffes, elephants, and gazelles. The guidebook states that there are hundreds of such carvings—a reminder that this was once a land of lush green savannahs.
Some inscriptions are in an ancient script that these people created for their long-extinct language. The finest reliefs were transferred to the British Museum in 1905, while a few were placed in the National Museum in Khartoum.
The pyramids here are slender and tall, with only a few being broader, yet they all share one characteristic—they stand in solitude, exuding a deep sense of tranquillity.
At the Meroë (Bagrawiya) site alone, over a hundred pyramids were built between the 8th century BCE and the 4th century CE, according to a United Nations document.
Here, it is just the pyramids, the dunes, and me. In a month of travelling through Sudan, I have not encountered a single traveller.
But then, the moment arrives. I spot a silhouette moving across the sand, quickly approaching.
“I am Danas, a traveller from Lithuania. I haven’t met a single foreigner in a month! Where have you come from?” His surprise is as great as mine. And so, a wonderful friendship begins.
“Meet my travel companion,” he says. I turn to look, but there is no one there. Am I seeing things from the heat, or is his companion invisible? The desert stretches endlessly in all directions—I would have noticed if he had arrived with someone.
Then, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a plush camel, and carefully positions it for a photograph.
“This is the greatest traveller among camels. It has been with me to over a hundred countries. I’ll give it to my little niece so she knows I always thought of her.”
Standing before a pyramid, one feels as if facing a staircase to the sky—how could I resist the urge to climb
His words reminded me of my cousin, Mila Bogdanović. When she was a child, I gave her a plush teddy bear, which she carried on all her travels—for years, it has been with her everywhere, from China, Florida, and New York to Brazil and the English marshlands. I found it in a war zone; they told me it had belonged to a soldier, a gift from his little daughter… I gave the bear to Mila when she was six, asking her to keep it safe, believing it would bring her good luck. My little cousin took it seriously—she named it after me, Viki, and even carries it for good luck during exams.
That was a decade before today’s craze of taking plush toys to famous landmarks. This trend has now become so widespread that some temples have begun to explicitly ban teddy bears from being photographed next to icons and sacred objects.
Danas’s camel and Mila’s bear have seen more of the world than most people on this planet…
Before long, Danas and I became like brothers—two wanderers who had come from opposite ends of the desert, driven by the same spiritual hunger. We satisfied it with the pyramids, taking photos of each other. But in time, those pictures would fade from my memory; new roads would open before me across the world, and I would race in all directions, driven by work and endless preoccupations.
Only now, as I write this travelogue, has Danas sent me the photos we took by the pyramids—and I couldn’t be happier.
Two thousand three hundred years ago, Sudan was ruled by King Arkamani, whose parents had ensured he received a Greco-Roman education, introduced to the region through the Ptolemaic dynasty in Egypt. He deeply angered the priesthood by refusing to grant them excessive power and wealth. The priests believed they could persuade him, as they had some of his predecessors, to commit suicide—likely under the pretext that it was the will of the gods. But Arkamani was an unusually rational man, and instead of sacrificing himself, he had them all executed.
As a result, Sudan became the only place where statues of kings were taller and more massive than those of the gods. From that point on, rulers controlled all earthly affairs, leaving only the afterlife to the priesthood—and not even that entirely. His pyramid is the largest and oldest, so it was the first one I visited.
The pyramids have suffered severe damage; some are missing entire sides. They resemble maimed warriors returning from a brutal battle. The Nubians were economical in construction, creating artificial hills in the centre—piles of rubble—while placing stone blocks only on the exterior. This is visible in the “wounded” pyramids.
The pyramids are grand enough to declare the might of ancient pharaohs yet humble enough that they, too, seem to bow before the desert and the vastness of nature
Now, under UNESCO protection, these pyramids differ from the Egyptian ones in that the tombs are not part of the structure itself but are built beneath them as separate chambers. The pyramids serve more as monumental tombstones and rarely contain secret rooms. Bodies in these tombs were usually not mummified but buried or cremated.
The entrances to the pyramids of the rulers were covered with plaster and lime mortar, while their ceilings were adorned with stars in red, yellow, and blue.
Several pyramids were restored in the 1980s. These new structures were built using ancient techniques, providing historians with valuable insights into the original construction process. Their smooth, light-brown surfaces contrast sharply with the dark-brown hue of the old pyramids—and with the desert itself. They offer a glimpse of how the entire complex once looked. Yet, they are artificial, glaringly new—an archaeological “plastic surgery,” a painful reminder that much of the original pyramids have been destroyed.
I noticed that the upper sections of these structures were never pointed. Instead, a square block was placed at the very top, with a circular one on top of that, like a finishing touch to a masterpiece. This can only be seen on the reconstructed pyramids, as treasure hunters had long ago hacked off the peaks of the originals, leaving them completely flat.
Standing before a pyramid, one feels as if facing a staircase to the sky—how could I resist the urge to climb? Within minutes, I was at its flat summit.
A chain of pyramids stretched before me like a row of brothers and sisters. Only from this vantage point did I fully grasp their power and grandeur. Once, they were covered in a yellowish plaster resembling sand, making them appear like mirages emerging from the dunes.
The vast blue sky kisses the desert at their peaks. I am not standing on a pyramid—I am standing amid that kiss.
The shifting dunes, as if alive, dance in response to the wind. One moves before my eyes, curling up like a tame kitten in the corner between a chapel and a pyramid. The chapels resemble the entrances to medieval fortresses—two slightly slanted towers with a passage in between.
The pyramids stand on elevated rocky ground, making them impervious to the encroaching sand. Suddenly, a patch of low, sparse grass appears before me—an endless yellow landscape now marked by a vivid green stain. As the ultimate triumph of life, two proud shrubs have sprouted right in the centre, and a little further away, a donkey grazes. Beyond them, a row of dunes cradles yet more pyramids.
I walk across the low dunes, moving from one pyramid to another, leaving a clear trail in the smooth sand. Some pyramids were not built from the same type of stone; up close, their surfaces shimmer like a kaleidoscope, reflecting various shades under the sun—from deep brown to bright red. From a distance, everything looks uniform, softened into muted tones.
Stepping back far enough, their grandeur takes my breath away—scattered along the horizon, perched atop the dunes, rising from the golden sea that gave birth to them. And yet, amid it all, against all odds, a few small green islands of grass persist.
The pyramids are powerful yet somehow “gentle”—I feel the urge to run my hand over them as if to caress them. They are grand enough to declare the might of ancient pharaohs yet humble enough that they, too, seem to bow before the desert and the vastness of nature.
From the book The Kind Souls of Sudan by Viktor Lazić, Laguna, 2025.