On Friday night, lasers sliced through Cairo’s desert sky, basslines echoed across the Giza Plateau, and a global crowd danced at the foot of one of the world’s most sacred landmarks. The occasion? Italian DJ and powerhouse Anyma’s (Instagram) latest techno party, part of a growing series of electronic music events reimagining cultural heritage sites as backdrops for raves. While the visuals were nothing short of spectacular, the aftermath has sparked several cultural debates about whether these events are celebrating history or commodifying it.
There’s no denying the impact of a scene like this. The juxtaposition of futuristic visuals and ancient stone, of pulsating sub-bass against millennia-old stillness, is precisely what makes such events viral. They exist in a zone engineered for spectacle, designed to be photographed, captured, shared, consumed.
In recent years, heritage sites across the globe, from Petra in Jordan to Cappadocia in Turkey, have increasingly become venues for high-production raves and audio-visual performances. And Egypt, with its mythic past and symbolic weight, is now a particularly charged canvas. In the era of “content is king,” everything is a stage. However, turning the Pyramids into a content playground risks flattening their meaning into a set piece for spectacle, a reel edited on CapCut rather than a breathing part of local cultural identity.
The problem isn’t necessarily the music itself. Techno, in many forms, has roots in transcendence. Its motifs (cosmic, ancient, spiritual) align naturally with the scale and mystery of monuments like the Pyramids. The real tension lies in whether the people to whom these spaces belong—Egyptians—feel a sense of access, agency, or reverence within that experience. On social media, people are divided.
As tourism markets compete for visibility, events like Anyma’s offer a potent blend of cultural currency and digital clout. There’s a thin line between homage and hollow spectacle. When every sacred space is up for grabs in the name of immersive experience, culture risks being reduced to visual shorthand, a background for someone else’s vibe.
This trend raises broader ethical questions: is it inherently disrespectful to host a rave at a religious or historic site? Or can sound, light, and shared joy be forms of cultural engagement that breathe new life into these places?
There’s precedent for both sides. In Bali, for instance, sacred sites are cordoned off from events. In contrast, Petra has hosted raves and fashion shoots, leading to pushback from Jordanians concerned about cultural erosion. The issue is rarely black and white; it’s about intention, execution, and inclusion.
Supporters argue that such events generate tourism, global attention, and cultural relevance. After all, these monuments are not static; they’ve weathered centuries, dynasties, and revolutions. Why not allow them to live in new forms of expression? But do Egyptians, beyond the Western-facing elite, actually get a say in how their history is staged?
This aestheticization, while seductive, risks perpetuating a modern form of orientalism, where local voices are overlooked, and heritage becomes a consumable aesthetic rather than a layered narrative. There’s also something to be said about the potential for music to create shared reverence. Not all techno events at the Pyramids are careless; some are deeply intentional in their approach to storytelling and space. A well-curated audio-visual show can amplify awe, not erase it.
It’s not just the global gaze we have to consider, there’s tension at home, too. In Egypt, there’s been growing backlash on TikTok and social media from more conservative corners of society. These voices are questioning how far this new wave of desert parties can go before crossing a line, from behaviour at these parties, to the concept of the rave itself, and even the outfits worn to public concerts. All these aspects have sparked debate, not just about modesty, but about values, visibility, and the country’s cultural direction. It’s important to acknowledge that these events don’t unfold in a vacuum. They exist in a country with layered social and religious fabrics, and not everyone feels seen, or respected, in how these moments play out.
Some argue that these events create new touchpoints for younger generations to connect with their heritage, not through dry textbooks, but through sound, rhythm, and awe. If done collaboratively, with respect and local inclusion, these events can transform spaces without stripping them of their soul.
The Anyma performance at the Pyramids was many things: beautiful, disorienting, cinematic, and contentious. It revealed a fault line between cultural pride and global performance, between reverence and relevance. The discomfort isn’t always rooted in religion or tradition alone; sometimes, it’s about class, identity, and the feeling that the country’s landmarks are being rented out for someone else’s fantasy.
There may not be one “right” answer to the ethics of raving at heritage sites, but the conversation is overdue at the rate that these events are happening. As the lines between culture, commerce, and content continue to blur, the least we can do is ask harder questions. Not just about what makes a good party, but about what, and who, we’re building the party on.
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