In the sunbaked silence of Egypt’s Eastern Desert, amid the crumbling remnants of a once-thriving mining complex, archaeologists have unearthed an iron-clad clue to a darker chapter of antiquity. At the remote site of Ghozza, situated deep in the desolate expanse where jagged cliffs and windswept plateaus reign, a discovery has reawakened a centuries-old debate about labor, power, and the human cost of gold.
A set of rusted iron shackles—an eerie relic from a distant past—has prompted historian Bérangère Redon of the Laboratoire HiSoMA at the Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée Jean Pouilloux in France to put forth a compelling theory. In a newly published paper in the journal Antiquity, Redon argues that these shackles, recovered from the remains of a gold mining outpost dating to Egypt’s Ptolemaic period, suggest that enslaved laborers may have played a role in extracting the precious metal.
Redon’s assertion is not made lightly. It is grounded in careful archaeological analysis, historical context, and a broader understanding of the socio-economic dynamics of the Ptolemaic world. This period, initiated in 332 BCE with the conquest of Egypt by Alexander the Great, ushered in sweeping changes to the Nile Valley. Greek rulers, starting with Ptolemy I, established a new dynasty that blended Hellenistic and Egyptian traditions, and which ruled Egypt until the death of Cleopatra VII in 30 BCE. Amid this fusion of cultures and political ambition, economic exploitation—particularly in the form of gold extraction—was elevated to new levels of intensity.
Gold had always been important in Egyptian civilization. Since the earliest dynasties, the glint of this celestial metal adorned the tombs of kings, gilded statues of deities, and served as tribute and currency. But under the Ptolemies, gold was more than ornament—it was a necessity. It fueled military campaigns across the Mediterranean, funded lavish building projects, and oiled the wheels of an expansive administrative machine. As the Ptolemaic rulers sought to project power both within and beyond Egypt’s borders, their appetite for gold became insatiable.
The Eastern Desert, with its treacherous terrain and blistering heat, held within it rich veins of gold-bearing quartz. Mining these deposits was an arduous and dangerous task. Yet despite the inhospitable environment, mining operations flourished. Over the past two decades, archaeologists have been systematically studying ancient mining centers in the region, including the well-documented Samut North site. These excavations have revealed much about the logistics, architecture, and labor organization of ancient Egyptian mines. But it is the recent work at Ghozza that has drawn special attention.
At Ghozza, Redon and his colleagues have identified two distinct phases of occupation during the late third century BCE. The first is striking in its apparent civility. Excavations revealed a modest village layout, with residential buildings, administrative quarters, and even communal baths. Pottery inscriptions and other artifacts suggest a workforce that, while enduring harsh conditions, was likely composed of paid laborers. These workers may have come voluntarily, drawn by wages or sustenance in a difficult economic time. Life was not easy, but it bore the hallmarks of relative dignity.
The second phase, however, tells a different story. Dating slightly later, this occupational layer is marked by a sense of austerity and constraint. Housing was sparser, infrastructure more rudimentary, and the atmosphere—archaeologically speaking—decidedly grimmer. It was within this context that researchers unearthed the iron shackles. Not just one pair, but two distinct sets, located near what appears to have been a metalworking facility. The building had been used to repair tools—and, it seems, shackles and manacles.
Iron shackles are not common finds in Egyptian archaeology. When they do appear, they speak volumes. These were heavy, crudely fashioned restraints, likely worn around the ankles. Redon notes that such shackles would have rendered movement slow and painful. The presence of multiple sets at Ghozza, combined with the absence of comparable domestic comforts from the earlier phase, strongly suggests a shift in labor conditions. Someone, or several people, were working there not by choice, but by coercion.
Redon’s theory draws further weight from literary and historical texts from the Greco-Roman world. Ancient authors occasionally mention the use of forced labor in Egyptian mines. These references, scattered across works by historians like Diodorus Siculus and Strabo, describe prisoners, criminals, and enslaved people being sent to labor camps in the desert. While these accounts are often vague or generalized, they provide a tantalizing context for the archaeological evidence at Ghozza.
What remains unclear, however, is the identity of the shackled laborers. Were they slaves in the legal sense—people bought, sold, and inherited as property? Or were they condemned criminals, punished with hard labor for offenses against the state? Perhaps they were prisoners of war, captured during one of the Ptolemaic dynasty’s frequent conflicts. The ambiguity reflects the complexity of ancient labor systems, which did not always align neatly with modern categories.
Regardless of status, the conditions for such laborers were undoubtedly severe. Mining in the Eastern Desert was a brutal enterprise. Workers had to crush quartz ore by hand, transport it across long distances, and process it to extract tiny flecks of gold. The intense heat, lack of water, and isolation would have been physically and psychologically punishing. The presence of shackles introduces an even darker dimension—of physical bondage, surveillance, and suffering.
The implications of Redon’s findings are profound. They challenge older, more romanticized notions of ancient Egyptian labor, which often focus on skilled artisans or voluntary workers. The idea that slavery or forced labor was part of the gold extraction industry during the Ptolemaic period complicates our understanding of economic practices in this era. It also brings a human dimension to the archaeological record—voices of the voiceless, etched in rust and stone.
Moreover, this research contributes to broader debates about slavery in the ancient world. Unlike the transatlantic slave trade of modern history, ancient slavery was often more fluid in status but no less oppressive in experience. The Ghozza shackles underscore the continuity of human exploitation across civilizations and epochs. They remind us that behind every ounce of ancient gold—whether adorning a pharaoh’s tomb or funding a war—there may have been human suffering.
For Redon and his team, the work continues. The Ghozza site holds many secrets yet to be uncovered. Each layer of earth peels back another facet of a world long gone, but not forgotten. Future excavations may yield more direct evidence—perhaps inscriptions, bones, or personal artifacts—that shed further light on the lives of those who lived and labored there.
The iron shackles of Ghozza stand as mute witnesses to a system that extracted not just gold from the earth, but sweat and spirit from those who worked it. They rust quietly now, centuries removed from the hands and ankles they once bound. But in the hands of historians and archaeologists, their story has begun to be heard.
This story is not only about Egypt. It is about empire, labor, and humanity. It is about how power manifests itself in physical structures and buried relics. And it is about the enduring need to ask hard questions of our past—even when the answers disturb the golden image we thought we knew.
In the end, Ghozza becomes more than a mining site. It becomes a mirror, reflecting back the complexities of civilization—its ambitions, its contradictions, and its costs. Through the rust of chains and the dust of ruins, the voices of history still speak. We need only to listen.
More information: Bérangère Redon, Iron shackles from the Ptolemaic gold mines of Ghozza (Egypt, Eastern Desert), Antiquity (2025). DOI: 10.15184/aqy.2025.39