The Last Light of Khan El Khalili: Inside the Workshop of Egypt’s Remaining Traditional Lantern Makers

In the narrow alleys of Khan El Khalili, where the sound of hammering copper still echoes between centuries-old shops, one family continues to preserve a craft that once defined the spirit of Cairo during Ramadan. Beneath hanging lanterns and intricate Arabic chandeliers, artisan Adel Matar works patiently inside one of the last remaining traditional copper lantern workshops in the historic market.

For generations, Khan El Khalili has been known as the heart of Egyptian craftsmanship. Artisans there once produced handmade lanterns, mosque chandeliers, engraved copper pieces, and decorative works that reflected Egypt’s artistic identity. Today, however, many of those workshops have disappeared, unable to survive rising production costs and competition from mass-produced imports.

Adel Matar represents the fourth generation of his family to work in the trade. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all crafted lanterns in the same small workshop using pure copper and traditional techniques passed down over hundreds of years. “This is not just a job for us; this is our family’s life,” Matar says while carefully shaping a copper panel by hand.

Unlike factory-made lanterns, traditional copper lanterns require extensive manual work. Every piece is cut, engraved, assembled, and polished by skilled artisans whose experience often spans decades. The result is more than a decorative Ramadan item; it is a handcrafted object deeply tied to Egyptian heritage.

But preserving that heritage has become increasingly difficult. According to Matar, the sharp rise in copper prices has dramatically changed the business. Years ago, copper was relatively affordable, costing between 8 and 20 Egyptian pounds per kilogram. Today, the price has climbed to nearly 1,150 pounds per kilogram, making production costs overwhelming for small workshops. “When I tell people that a lantern costs eight or nine thousand pounds, they become shocked and walk away,” he explains.

As customers increasingly search for cheaper alternatives, traditional workshops have struggled to survive. Streets once known for handcrafted lanterns are now filled with mass-produced products made from tin and low-quality metals, sold at a fraction of the price. “I can make those lanterns,” Matar says, referring to factory-made products. “But they will never be able to make mine.”

The decline of the trade has also affected employment inside the workshop. At the peak of the family business, more than sixty artisans worked alongside Matar. Today, only two remain.

For Adel’s son, Tamir, the craft represents both family pride and economic uncertainty. A graduate of commerce studies, he joined the workshop not out of financial ambition, but because the profession was inherited through generations. “This isn’t just a job,” Tamir Matar says. “I was born into this trade.”

The business, once active throughout the year, has now become largely seasonal. Work mainly takes place during the months leading up to Ramadan. “I now work only during Rajab, Shaaban, and Ramadan,” Matar explains. “Even then, sales are very weak.”

This year, he says, the workshop produced only a handful of lanterns before Ramadan, selling just two pieces. Tourists and foreign visitors remain the primary buyers of traditional copper lanterns, while many local customers choose cheaper industrial alternatives. “Foreigners are not as price-sensitive,” Matar says. “Locals are.”

The spread of industrial manufacturing has transformed the market entirely. Machines can now produce large quantities of lanterns quickly and cheaply, though often with lower craftsmanship and durability. “In the past, every piece depended entirely on the artisan,” Matar explains. “Modern manufacturing changed the entire industry.”

Despite the challenges, the family continues to preserve techniques that few workshops still practice. Among the workshop’s proudest stories is a chandelier crafted by Tamir Matar’s grandfather that still exists today inside one of King Farouk’s palaces.

For the Matars, the issue is no longer simply about business survival. It is about protecting a disappearing piece of Egyptian identity. “The artisans in this field need government support to preserve this heritage,” Matar says. “These crafts have historical significance.”

Inside the fading workshop, surrounded by copper sheets, tools, and unfinished lanterns, Adel Matar continues working quietly beneath the warm glow of handmade lights. The family knows the future of the craft is uncertain, but they continue nonetheless. Their goal, they say, is no longer profit. It is legacy.