The Wag Festival, an Ancient Egyptian Halloween?
Each year, on the last night of October, the western world observes Halloween; a festival of flickering lights and shadows, when children dress up in both whimsy and ghoulish costume, and the dead are remembered with sweets, stories, and laughter. Its name derives from All Hallows’ Eve, the vigil before All Saints’ Day, yet its heart beats with something far older. The customs of the season; bonfires, disguises, and offerings for the departed actually draw upon the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, a turning of the year when harvest ended, the nights grew long, and it was believed that the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead grew thin.
But long before jack-o’-lanterns gleamed on autumn doorsteps, another civilisation on the banks of the Nile held its own festival for the departed; one equally bound to the rhythm of nature and renewal.
The Ancient Egypt Wag Festival
The word “Wag” (also written Wꜣg or W3g) in Ancient Egyptian likely means “festival” or “procession,” but more literally it conveys the idea of “opening,” “lifting,” or “raising up.” Egyptologists generally believe Wag referred to the ritual act of “opening the way” for the souls of the dead to journey safely into the afterlife.
In Ancient Egypt, the cycles of death and rebirth were written not in falling leaves but in the annual inundation of the Nile. Each year, the river flooded its banks, submerging the land in darkness and retreating again to reveal fresh, fertile earth; a perfect reflection of the Ancient Egyptian view of life, death, and resurrection.
Among the earliest festivals recorded was the Wag Festival, celebrated at the start of the Ancient Egyptian year, in the month of Thout (around late August). The name “Wag” refers to small papyrus boats, which families launched upon the waters to honour Osiris, the god of death and eternal life, and to guide their loved ones safely through the afterlife to the Field of Reeds; a serene paradise beyond the western horizon.
As the star Sopdet (Sirius) rose once more upon the horizon, the Ancient Egyptians rejoiced in Wepet-Renpet, the “Opening of the Year”; a celebration of renewal, abundance, and divine return. The swelling of the Nile marked the rebirth of the land; fields that had lain cracked and lifeless under the sun would soon bloom again. Offerings were made, lamps were lit, and the air was sweet with the promise of another turning of the world.
But as joy waned, reflection followed. When the New Year’s brightness faded, the ancient people turned to the Wag Festival. It was one of Anciednt Egypt’s oldest known feasts; a quiet, solemn observance dedicated to Osiris, lord of death and the underworld, and to the countless souls making their journey through the afterlife. Families would leave small papyrus boats to drift upon the Nile, symbolising the voyage of the departed toward the eternal fields of Aaru.
Thus, the two festivals; the Opening of the Year and the Festival of the Dead, stood side by side, reflecting the twin truths that ruled all Ancient Egyptian thought: that life and death are not opposites, but a single eternal rhythm. As the waters rose and the crops were reborn, so too were the spirits of the departed renewed in memory and in faith.
It was a time of remembrance and renewal, much like Samhain: a moment when the boundaries between the living and the departed were thought to grow thin, and when acts of devotion helped maintain harmony between both realms.
Both Ancient Egypt and the Celts shared an understanding that death was part of a larger rhythm. The harvest’s end and the Nile’s ebb alike marked moments when the old year died and the new was born. The Egyptians saw in their river the body of Osiris (dismembered, scattered, and restored) just as the Celts saw the landfall to winter’s sleep before awakening in spring.
Both cultures, in their own way, honoured the mystery of transformation: the perpetual cycle of life, death, and rebirth written into the soil and sky. So while the Wag Festival honoured the deceased, its name and tradition suggests something more specific. It was a moment when the living symbolically lifted or set afloat the spirits of the dead, much like the little boats they sent drifting on the Nile. In essence, Wag was not merely remembrance, but release, a celebration of renewal, where the souls of the departed were guided toward eternal peace as the New Year’s waters gave life again to the land.
And so, when candles glow on Halloween night, their light somewhat flickers in harmony with the lamps that once burned in Ancient Egyptian tombs or drifted upon the Nile. Though centuries and miles divided, the longing to remember, to honour, and to believe that life transcends death unites all humanity in its quiet conversation with eternity.
Spirits & Ghosts in Ancient Egypt
The Ancient Egyptians lived with their dead. To them, death was not a wall but a veil, and beyond it waited not oblivion, but continuity. The soul, composed of its many facets, the ka, ba, ren, ib, and the radiant akh; endured in another form. Yet even the akh, the transfigured and luminous spirit, could wander back among the living: sometimes to bless, sometimes to disturb.
Ancient Egyptian ghosts were not figments of fright, but souls out of balance. They appeared in dreams, whispered in illness, or stirred unease in a household when the bonds of love or duty had frayed. To neglect the dead was perilous. An unremembered name, a tomb left untended, or offerings left unmade could unravel the fragile peace between worlds.
One of the most poignant examples of this belief is found in Butehamun’s Letter to Ikhtay, now in the Louvre Museum (N 698). Written in trembling red ink upon a limestone ostracon, it is at once a message, a confession, and perhaps even an apology whispered across eternity.
Butehamun’s plea was not unique. Throughout Egypt’s long history, from the Old Kingdom onward, the living wrote letters to the dead; inscribed on bowls, linens, or fragments of stone; appealing for help or forgiveness. They were left at gravesides, entrusted to the silence of tombs, and sometimes addressed to an intermediary spirit who might carry the message further.
These letters reveal a tender and troubling truth: that the Ancient Egyptians saw the dead as active participants in daily life. The departed could intervene, grant favour, or cause harm. The boundary between life and death was porous, maintained only through ritual, remembrance, and affection.
When Butehamun poured out his heart to Ikhtay, he was not speaking into the void; he believed she could hear him. Whether or not she answered, we cannot know. But his words survive, still resonant, still human.
Ghosts, in Egypt, were feared not for their malice but for what they represented: neglect, forgotten promises, and the pain of unresolved love. An abandoned tomb was a wound in the moral order; a restless spirit, a reminder that remembrance is the truest act of devotion.
Butehamun’s letter teaches us that love, even strained and uncertain, survives beyond the grave; and that peace with the dead must be earned through care, honesty, and effort. His voice, carried on limestone and centuries of dust, whispers a universal truth: that we must tend to our memories as carefully as to our living hearts.
For the Egyptians, to remember was to give life; to forget was to let a soul fade into silence. And perhaps, when the wind sighs over the ruins of Thebes, it still carries the faintest echo:
“Woe, gracious-faced one; how are you doing?”
A Prayer Against the Restless Dead
Despite the serenity that often accompanied Egypt’s communion with the dead, not every spirit was thought to rest in peace. For every tender letter like that of Butehamun’s mourning for his wife, there are rarer echoes of unease; of the living seeking protection from the departed.
In life, Neskhon, wife of the High Priest Pinedjem II, was a lady of grace and stature in Thebes. Yet in death, around 969 B.C., she was laid to rest with a most curious companion: an oracular decree imploring Amun to ensure that her spirit would not rise to trouble her widowed husband. The text pleads:
“May the spirit of Neskhon do no harm to this servant of Amun, Pinedjem, her husband. May she not come forth to disturb him in any place.”
Why such a request was made, we can only imagine. Was Pinedjem wracked by guilt; fearful that some harsh word or hidden deed in life might draw her vengeance in death? Did he take another wife too soon, or fail to mourn her as custom required? Or perhaps Neskhon herself was a woman of formidable will; the kind whose spirit one would rather appease than provoke. Some have even wondered if her sudden death, possibly during childbirth, left behind grief tainted by remorse.
Whatever the truth, this singular decree speaks to a side of ancient belief both poignant and unsettling: the awareness that love, when cut short, can curdle into dread. Neskhon’s mummy lies serene, her beauty undimmed by centuries, yet her resting place carries a whisper of disquiet; a prayer that affection might not turn to haunting.
Three thousand years on, we still hear that whisper; reminding us that in Ancient Egypt, devotion and fear walked hand in hand, and that the dead, though cherished, were never entirely still.
