Butehamun’s Letter to Ikhtay

Butehamun was a distinguished scribe who was born and raised in the Deir el-Medina region, and resided in Medinet Habu, living during the 29 year reign of Ramesses XI, he died in early stages of the Third Intermediate Period. Born into a lineage of scribes, he followed in the footsteps of his father, Thutmose, embracing a life devoted to the written word and the sacred duties of the necropolis.

His titles were many and illustrious—”Scribe of the Necropolis,” “Opener of the Gates of the Necropolis,” “Overseer of Works in the House of Eternity,” and “Overseer of the Treasuries of the Kings.” Such honours suggest a man of great importance, entrusted with solemn and weighty affairs. It is believed that Butehamun played a key role in one of Ancient Egypt’s most secretive undertakings—the relocation and reburial of royal mummies from the Valley of the Kings to the hidden Royal Cache (TT320), ensuring their protection from tomb robbers.

Much of what is known about him comes from the humble graffiti and letters exchanged between him and his father—fragments of a life once lived, whispered from the past in ink and stone

The Veil between this World and the Next

Thus far, around fifteen letters have been unearthed—messages penned by the living and sent across the veil to the departed. Spanning centuries of Egypt’s many dynasties, these poignant notes appear as early as the Old Kingdom, continuing through to the golden splendour of the New Kingdom. They reveal a deeply personal belief: that the dead, though gone from sight, still held sway over the affairs of the living.

Most commonly dating from the Old Kingdom to the First Intermediate Period, these letters were inscribed upon bowls, linens, and papyrus—though bowls seem to have been the favoured medium. Addressed to dearly departed family members, they carry desperate pleas and heartfelt supplications. Whether for relief from illness, guidance in troubled times, or aid in daily struggles, the writers entrusted their words to the earth, placing them at gravesides or outside tombs in the hope that their loved ones, now dwelling in the beyond, would hear their call and lend a helping hand from the afterlife.

“…If you can hear me in the place where you are?” 

One such letter (Musée du Louvre, N 698) is inscribed upon a fragment of limestone—an ostracon, as Egyptologists call it. Measuring 20.5 cm in height and 14.7 cm in width, its surface covered in a letter written with red ink, punctuated by touches of black—an unusual choice, for typically, black ink alone would have been used. This delicate fragment carries the voice of a grieving widower, Butehamun, who pours his heart out for his departed wife, Ikhtay.

“Send the message and say to her, since you are close to her: ‘How are you doing? How are you?’ It is you who shall say to her: ‘Woe, you are not sound,’ so says your brother, your companion—‘Woe, gracious-faced one.’”

Curiously, the letter is not addressed directly to Ikhtay but to her coffin, as if it were an intermediary between the worlds of the living and the dead. Within its tattered lines, Butehamun speaks through this silent vessel, urging it to convey his words, with a poignant exchange, etched in ink and longing.

The curious choice to address his letter to Ikhtay’s coffin, rather than to Ikhtay herself, may hint at a strained bond that lingered even beyond death. There is an unease woven into Butehamun’s words, a sense that he fears his late wife is displeased with him. His letter reads not as a simple plea, but as an anxious appeal—an attempt to bridge a growing distance between them, as though he suspects she withholds her spiritual aid and protection, turning a silent ear to his troubles in the world of the living.

Butehamun’s letter to his late wife, Ikhtay, carries an air of deep unease—his words trembling between desperation and suspicion, as though he fears that even from the Beyond, she may be working against him. His pleas are not merely for guidance but for mercy, as if he believes Ikhtay has turned her back on him, or worse, that she may be actively causing his misfortune.

“It is you who should speak well within the Afterlife,” he entreats, adding, “Your heart shall not be deceitful in anything you have said, until I reach you.“ He implores her to seek permission from the Lords of Eternity so that she might intervene on his behalf, yet woven into his words is the shadow of some past wrong—an event in life that may have soured her affections. One cannot help but wonder: does he believe she harbours a grudge? That she withholds her aid as silent retribution for a slight once suffered?

“Woe, Ikhtay is not sound,” Butehamun laments, his tone at once mournful and uncertain. There is a sense that something has gone terribly awry between them. He treads carefully, his letter an attempt to mend the unseen rift, to reassure her of his grief, his devotion. He asks after her well-being, seeks to know what existence is like in death, as though hoping that his concern might soften her heart.

Yet the question remains unanswered—was there truly some unresolved strife between them, or does Butehamun, struggling with misfortune, simply believe she has abandoned him? The truth is lost to time, though Egyptologists continue to ponder the mystery.

“Woe, gracious-faced one,
there is no other like her.
No instance of wrong has been found…“

A love letter, an apology, or a plea for forgiveness from beyond the grave—whatever its true nature, Butehamun’s message lingers, an echo of longing and regret across the ages.

Why did Ancient Egyptians call each other “brother” and “sister”?

In Ancient Egyptian society, the bond between lovers was often framed in terms of equality and mutual respect, as evidenced by their use of the term “sn”, which means “brother” or “sister”. However, the word “sn” also carried broader meanings—”peer,” “mate,” or “second,” all of which underscored the egalitarian nature of the relationship between spouses. This linguistic choice reflected a belief that marriage was a partnership of equals, mirroring the divine union of Osiris and Isis, siblings whose love transcended earthly conventions.

Thus, the use of “sn” in love songs and poems speaks not only of familial affection but also of a deeper, balanced connection between husband and wife—one of mutual respect and shared strength, akin to that of siblings. This language, rich with meaning, highlights how the ancient Egyptians viewed marriage as a harmonious and equal partnership, rooted in love and sacred unity.

Such a concept may have been widespread across the Eastern Mediterranean. Ancient texts like the Bible indeed reflect similar cultural nuances, though with important distinctions in context. In the ancient world, including within the Hebrew culture of the Bible, the term “brother” (or “brother” in a broader sense, such as in Greek “adelphos”) could be used not only for immediate siblings but also for close friends, peers, or fellow believers. This terminology often conveyed a sense of deep relationship, mutual respect, and equality—much like the use of “sn” in ancient Egyptian culture.

In the case of Jesus’s “brothers” mentioned in the New Testament, it’s important to consider that the term was likely used more broadly than literal siblings. Some scholars suggest that Jesus’s “brothers” might have been cousins, close family members, or even spiritual siblings in the broader sense, as the early Christian community often referred to each other as brothers and sisters in faith.

Thus, the use of “brother” in the Bible might echo the same idea of a close, egalitarian bond—whether literal or spiritual—much like the Ancient Egyptian understanding of the term “sn” to express equality and kinship.

Summary:

Limestone ostracon with letter from widower Butehamun to his departed wife Ikhtay

New Kingdom, 20th Dynasty, reign of Ramesses XI, c. 1186-1069 B.C.

From Deir el-Medina. Now at the Musée du Louvre. N 698