Beirut, once a model Levantine Mediterranean city, is quickly losing its traditional character to modernization. Its Ottoman-style mansions with lush interior gardens and triple-arched windows, and its French colonial buildings are increasingly being bulldozed to make room for modern high-rises. Fifteen years of a destructive Civil War, in addition to an Israeli invasion, caused extensive damage to the city, but a postwar development and reconstruction spree turned out to be more detrimental.
For activists campaigning to preserve architectural heritage in a city with a predilection for lucrative real estate deals, it is a constant uphill battle. Karim Tawil, co-owner of Dardashat, a chain of Oriental cafes located in renovated old houses across the capital, has been battling for years to salvage his family home in Hay al-Lija from demolition.
The 80-year-old house stands out as alien in the densely populated quarter. “It is the sole and unique old building left in the midst of a cement jungle,” Tawil said. “It is surrounded by new ugly constructions and looks like it is being intentionally suffocated.” Developers have been trying relentlessly to force Tawil’s family to sell the house, and filed a lawsuit calling for its demolition on the grounds that it stands in the way of a planned and licensed road.
“We have tried as much as we can to safeguard the house but the owners of the buildings in the area are fighting us. They want to have this road built to increase the value to their properties,” Tawil said. “I am afraid it is a losing battle. The nature of the whole neighborhood has changed and eventually we will be forced to go with the flow.”
Since the early ’90s, as soon as the guns fell silent at the end of the 15-year Civil War, the whole of Beirut gradually became a reconstruction site. The postwar construction boom saw rich Lebanese expatriates, Gulf Arab investors, as well as politicians, go on a property development spree. Skyrocketing prices encouraged property owners to sell the lands on which their ancestral homes were sitting to the highest bidders. Within less than two decades, whole neighborhoods of a traditional nature, which were once noted for their typical houses, were replaced by modern high-rises, and glass and concrete structures, altering the face of the city.
Many Beirut residents do not recognize their city anymore. Neighborhoods, where they grew up and lived, are changing at an alarming pace, while many have been driven out of the city because they cannot afford to live in the luxurious high-rises that replaced their old buildings from which they had been evicted.
The figures are troubling. Conservation activists estimate that a mere 250 old mansions are left in Beirut, including several classified as “protected buildings” by the Culture Ministry. When listed, the house can be sold, but not demolished. However, that does not necessarily mean that it is saved, according to Tawil. “When they cannot sell, owners of listed houses leave them to crumble, or sometimes provoke their collapse, and bribe officials to turn a blind eye,” he said.
Save Beirut Heritage, one among a dozen NGOs which in recent years have campaigned to preserve what is left of the capital’s heritage, is pushing for a new law to protect old buildings. “The existing law is obsolete and dates back to the French Mandate. It is largely made to conserve antiquities, not architectural heritage,” Save Beirut Heritage activist Joana Hammour said.
She said a draft law, which is an improvement on the existing one, has been rotting for decades in the drawers of Parliament. “We are lobbying to place it on Parliament’s agenda for voting,” she said, stressing, however, that the endeavor is likely to be extremely difficult. “Who is in Parliament?” she asked. “They are mostly businessmen, many of whom have big real estate interests, which is, maybe, why the draft law has been rotting in the drawers for so many years.”
Hammour argued that a strong preservation law, and a bigger role for the state are key to saving Beirut’s heritage. “It is not only in Lebanon. In any other country, people would do whatever they want with their properties, had it not been laws preventing them from doing it,” Hammour said. “Paris would not look like it is now if there were no laws. It would probably look more like Beirut. This is how heritage could be preserved and this is how we are going to preserve it.”
In addition to single buildings, Save Beirut Heritage will be concentrating its efforts on safeguarding streets and whole areas with traditional character, for instance Gemmayzeh and Mar Mikhael. Hammour explained that the sense of a historic and traditional environment comes from an area, not from one building. “You cannot have an old mansion buried behind high-rises and pretend to be saving heritage.”
The activist underlined the importance of preserving the urban social fabric that comes with preserving traditional neighborhoods and old buildings. “In three- or four-story buildings neighbors would know each other and have more connection to the neighborhood, whereas in high-rises such interaction is not possible, making the place less friendly,” she said. “After all, it is very important to be living in a pleasant city, where you would feel at ease and that you belong. It is the collective memory of Beirutis which is also at stake.”
Underscoring the potential that Beirut can have as a touristic city by safeguarding its heritage, Hammour asked: “Did you ever inquire why tourists would want to visit Gemmayzeh or Mar Mikhael first? It is not for nightlife and clubs only, but because they are looking for authenticity and tradition. They want to see heritage which is different from what they have in their country.”
Save Beirut Heritage boasts a number of achievements since it was created four years ago as a Facebook group mobilizing people who care about preserving architectural heritage. The NGO, based on the work of young volunteers, has succeeded in freezing demolition permits for 150 old buildings. It was also the driving force behind a government decision to prevent demolition of old houses unless demolition orders were signed by the culture minister. Permission was previously green lighted by Beirut municipality.
Nonetheless, conservationists agree that they are in an uneven battle against powerful and well-connected developers. “It is very tough, because we are battling against money, and money most of the time wins,” Hammour said. But she stressed that if the state stepped in with a comprehensive preservation law which is properly implemented, the risk would be largely diminished.
“It would probably not stop developers, but it will make things tougher for them. They should be made to fight and suffer for demolishing an old building,” she said.
While he has contributed to saving old buildings by converting them into Dardashat cafes, it is unlikely that Tawil will be able to save his family home in Hay al-Lija. “Had it been located in an area with preserved traditional character like Gemmayzeh, I could have turned it into a restaurant, or a motel, or even a museum. But it is impossible to make such use of it in a concrete jungle like Hay al-Lija,” Tawil lamented.
By Samar Kadi
