Does history repeat itself — not just on the grand stage of nations, but within bloodlines? Are we, in some deep and mysterious way, fated to re-enact the lives of our ancestors? This is a question I have been asking myself quite often lately. The DNA that pulses through our veins is a diluted yet persistent physical echo of those who came before us, stretching back through centuries. But can it predispose us to their temperaments, their triumphs and failures, their burdens and glories? Do the cells of our bodies carry more than biology — do they carry memory, inclination, pattern repeat and destiny? And if so, what of karma? If justice is not always served within one lifetime, might it be that the debts of the past are paid by the generations that follow? These questions linger as we begin the story of Muhammad Ali — a man whose rise from obscurity in Kavala to the throne of Egypt may have been driven as much by the weight of inheritance as by the will of ambition.
Muhammad Ali, known as the “founder of modern Egypt,” was born in Kavala which was an Ottoman province in ancient Macedonia, now a part of modern Greece. His origins remain somewhat obscure, but it seems possible he may have been a descendant of the father of the Ottoman State—Osman—himself reputed to be the son of the legendary Ertuğrul Ghazi.
We remember kings and founders through statues, street names, and the crumbling grandeur of palaces, none of which ever meant anything to me without knowing the life stories of the people who built or lived in them. But before all that, there was a boy—just a boy—from the small port town of Kavala.
His name was Muhammad Ali, and no one at the time could have imagined he would come to rule Egypt and change its fate forever.
I often wonder about him—not the governor, not the army-builder, not the founder of a dynasty—but the boy. The teenager who lost his father at a young age. The young man thrust into the chaos of empire, a tobacco merchant by trade who somehow became one of the most powerful figures of the 19th century.
Was he ambitious? Surely. But ambition alone doesn’t carve out an empire. There must have been charm, calculation, and something unshakable in his spirit. After all, he didn’t speak Arabic when he first set foot in Egypt. He didn’t come with an army. He came as part of an Ottoman relief force, sent to push out Napoleon’s troops—one of many. Yet within a few short years, he would outmaneuver everyone—French generals, Ottoman governors, Mamluk warlords—and claim Egypt as his own.
When I look at his portrait, I see more than a statesman. His face is lined with caution, eyes dark with stories untold. He looks like someone who learned early not to trust easily, but to watch… to wait… and then act with absolute certainty. A survivor. A strategist. Much like Suleiman the Magnificient, with whom he possibly shared some DNA. Perhaps even a dreamer—though not the soft kind.
What sort of man would marry a young widow—Amina Hanim—and take her into the storm with him? What kind of father was he to his sons—Ibrahim, Tusun, Ismail—each destined to take up the mantle of power in their own right, some more successfully than others?
I don’t pretend to know the real Muhammad Ali. What we have are fragments—letters, decrees, and the biased views of diplomats, historians, and adversaries. But when I look at what he built—schools, armies, industries, and palaces—I see the hand of a man who was never content with the way things were. A man who took the future into his own hands, reshaping it in a form that suited him. And I see that his accomplishments tell a different personal story about this historical figure than many of the written descriptions left by his adversaries – something that says more about their own personalities than they do about him. Indeed that aspect becomes a recurring theme through much of the Muhammad Ali Dynasty, for me.
His bloodline would produce queens, poets, reformers, and rebels. But it all began in Kavala, with a merchant’s son who rose on grit, cunning, and something very close to a destiny he was incapable of not fulfilling.
And now, his likeness hangs not just in museums or dusty archives, but on a wall here at Mara House—amid the quiet hum of Luxor evenings, among the almost forgotten faces of his dynasty.