Kids interview Bastet
by Charactorium · Bastet · Mythology · 5 min read
Two twelve-year-old visitors on a school trip stop in front of a bronze cat statuette with golden eyes. The goddess Bastet then seems to whisper to them, with the softness of a purr. She is touched that children take an interest in her.
—Is it true that before being a cat, you were a lioness?
Yes, my child, it's true. At the very beginning, I was a fierce lioness, like my sister Sekhmet. I embodied the burning power of the sun, the one that roars and frightens. Imagine a desert crushed by heat at noon: that was my anger. Then, from the New Kingdom, around 1550 before your reckoning of time, my face softened. I became the cat you see, the one who watches over homes. They even gave me a small woven basket to carry on my arm, the sign of the hearth I protect. The strength remained in me, but it turned into tenderness.
I was the roar of the sun; I became the purr of the hearth.
—Aren't you jealous of your sister Sekhmet, who remains a lioness?
No, little one. Sekhmet and I are two faces of the same thing. She is the claw, I am the caress. You know, in my world, we think that gentleness and power are not opposites: they hold hands. A mother cat licks her kittens tenderly, but woe to anyone who threatens them! That is what I am. The Egyptians sometimes confused us, moving from one to the other depending on the region and time. They called it syncretism, a big word that simply means two goddesses can become one. So I am not jealous: we are sisters to the tips of our whiskers.
She is the claw, I am the caress — and we are the same goddess.
—They say you were the eye of your father the sun. What does that mean?
Ah, a fine question! My father is Ra, the sun god. Every night, a huge serpent of chaos named Apophis tries to swallow him to prevent the day from returning. So I transform into his eye, a living and vengeful eye, and I leap to defend my father. In a very old text, the Book of the Dead, it is written: “I am the great cat who sits by the Persea tree at Heliopolis.” That Persea is a sacred tree in the city of Heliopolis. There, every night, I claw the serpent so that, in the morning, the sun may rise again. Without this battle, there would be no more day, my child.
Every morning the sun rises, it is because the cat won during the night.
—And this serpent, were you afraid when you fought it?
Fear, little one, I know it. Apophis is bigger than a river, and he never truly dies: he returns every night. But do you know what I understood? You don't need to win once and for all. It's enough to win this night, and then the next. The Egyptians wore an amulet, the Wedjat, a painted eye, to protect themselves as I protect Ra. When you see that eye painted on a wall or a jewel, it's a little piece of my courage kept close. So yes, I am afraid. But I leap anyway. That's what protecting means: being afraid and going anyway.
Protecting is not not being afraid: it's leaping anyway.
—What was the great festival held in your honor like?
Oh, it was my joy of the year! It took place at Bubastis, my city, in the Nile Delta. I was told that a Greek traveler, Herodotus, came to see it around 450 before your time and was amazed. People arrived by the thousands on boats, all along the river. They sang, they danced, they played music, they drank wine. He said you could count up to seven hundred thousand pilgrims! Imagine an entire river covered with boats, laughter carrying over the water, and my temple surrounded by canals like an island. It was noisy, joyful, overflowing with life. And I smiled with all my cat face.
A river covered with boats, seven hundred thousand laughs: that is my festival.
—What did it smell like in your temple during those festivals?
Close your eyes, my child, and breathe with me. First, incense, a perfumed smoke rising to the sky in spirals. Then lotus, those blue flowers offered to me, with a sweet and sugary scent. There was also wine poured as a libation — that's the name for liquid offered to a goddess by pouring it on the ground. And above all, the smell of the river, the water of the canals surrounding my temple. In the morning, my priestesses opened my sacred chest, the naos, and presented me with bread, flowers, and perfumed oils. My whole temple smelled of celebration, life, and the warm water of the Nile.
Incense, lotus, wine, and the river: that is the smell of my joy.
—Why did the Egyptians love cats so much?
Because a cat, my child, is a little piece of me walking through your house. It hunts snakes and mice that threaten the granaries, it watches silently. So the Egyptians held them sacred. You'll be surprised: killing a cat, even accidentally, could be punished by death! And when a cat died, they mummified it — preserved its body with care — to offer it to me. Millions have been found, at Bubastis and Saqqara, very near the city of Memphis. Entire cemeteries of little cats. It was their way of thanking me and asking for my protection.
A cat crossing your house is a little piece of me watching over you.
—And those little bronze cat statuettes, what were they for?
They were gifts given to me, little one. They are called ex-votos: an offering placed in a temple to thank a goddess or ask a favor. A father wanted to heal his sick child; a mother hoped for a baby; a farmer dreamed of a good harvest. So they came to deposit with me a little bronze cat, sitting upright, sometimes with a collar or earrings. Thousands were made, especially in the Late Period, and they have been found as far as the Mediterranean coast. Each statuette is a prayer frozen in metal. A promise laid at my paws.
Each little bronze cat is a prayer frozen in metal.
—What is that funny musical instrument seen with you?
That, my child, is a sistrum. Imagine a curved metal rod fitted with small rings that clatter when shaken. It goes tchi-tchi-tchi, a clear and joyful jingle. My priestesses played it in my ceremonies, and not just for show! It was believed that this sound drove away evil spirits and pleased me. For you know, I am not only a guardian: I am also the goddess of music and joy. Where people laugh, dance, and shake the sistrum, I feel at home. The noise of the rings, to me, is like a burst of laughter.
Where people laugh and dance, I feel at home.
—So, what did a goddess do all day, from morning to evening?
My life, you saw it mainly through my priestesses. At sunrise, they opened my naos, my sacred chest, to 'awaken' me: they washed my statue, perfumed it with oils, offered me lotus flowers, while the sistrum jingled. At noon, the faithful came to deposit their offerings, and the sacred cats roamed freely in the temple, fed like princes. In the evening, they closed my chest in the smoke of incense, with soft songs, to 'put me to sleep.' You see, a goddess doesn't really sleep. But I loved this tender rhythm: awakened at dawn, lulled at dusk. Like a beloved child.
Awakened at dawn by sistra, lulled at evening by incense.
—Today, what would you like people to remember about you?
Remember this, little one: I am proof that gentleness can be strong. People think me fragile because I am a cat with a woven basket. But remember that I claw the serpent Apophis every night to save the sun. Protecting those we love, watching over one's home, family, little ones — this is not a timid role, it is true courage. Every time you meet a cat staring at you with golden eyes, think of me. And remember that you can both caress and defend, smile and fight. That is my legacy: tenderness is never weak.
Tenderness is never weak: I am a cat, and I claw the chaos.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Bastet's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.