Three Houses in Beirut

Sometimes, stories are told by people; other times, they are narrated through the essence of the tangible things left behind. Even though art is a typical storyteller, I have always been fascinated by residences, for they carry, imprinted on their walls, the vast range of those subtle, everyday feelings that outline the life of a person, a family, a neighbourhood, even a nation.

Here is an introduction to three, exceptional houses in Beirut. Each one explores the world from a different perspective, but all three converge to the same point: our human empathy and benevolence which, against all odds, still defines the core of our existence.

Beit Beirut (the House of Beirut)

Beit Beirut

The bullet-bitten walls of Beit Beirut delineated at the end of the street as we were traversing the Sodeco neighbourhood heading towards Martyrs’ Square. It was still early, around 6 pm, but daytime in December is short, and the night had already concealed the chaotic aspect of the Lebanese capital, illuminating its charm and the Christmas decorations in the shop windows and restaurant yards.

At first, I did not pay attention to the building since I did not know its story. It seemed to be just another once-upon-a-time elegant edifice, now bearing the scars of the recent Civil War – like so many other constructions and landmarks in Beirut. Its upper floors were plunged into darkness, and the destroyed, glass-less windows were gaping lifelessly like empty eye sockets of a person long dead. The ground-floor glass partitions though were amply lit, featuring a couple of large photo-portraits of people dressed in the 70s fashion, now staring calmly – in a somewhat mysterious way – at the passersby. It was precisely this indecipherable gaze that lured us closer to the building and forced us to slow down, even though we were in a hurry.

Portraits at the windows of Beit Beirut

Portrait at the windows of Beit Beirut

Beit Beirut – or the “Museum of Memory of the City of Beirut”, as it is also called – was built in 1924 for the Barakat family, and for many years it was known as the Barakat Building. It followed an avant-garde architectural style with traces of the country’s Ottoman inheritance and consisted of two residential blocks connected with an open, beautifully-decorated colonnade that curved along the lines of the street corner and made the whole construction look delicate instead of bulky.

The Barakat Building in its golden days (photo of a photo)

During the recent 15-year Civil War that tore Lebanon to pieces, the Barakat Building found itself unluckily located on the Green Line that divided Beirut. It was thus used as a springboard for militias and snipers who found shelter behind its walls and who, in return, abused and destroyed it, leaving it stripped and desolate – another raped soul among the millions the war left behind.

Part of the facade of Beit Beirut

Walking through the entrance of Beit Beirut

Today, the soothing ochre colour of the Deir el Qamar limestone that covered the façade is barely visible. The original entrance, at the corner of Damascus and Independence streets, stands in ruins, and one walks through tall walls that bear the marks of innumerous bullets, with door-less frames on right and left leading to rooms filled with piles of cement slabs (a reminder of how the whole city of Beirut looked like at the beginning of the 1990s). But despite the apparent bleakness, the building still emanates a feeling of revered grandeur, like an old dame who carries her ragged, once-fancy clothes with pride and dignity. During the post-war reconstruction frenzy, it was almost demolished, but, after many efforts, it was finally spared to be turned into a Museum of Memory: something to remind that healing will come not by forgetting but by facing the pain and allowing it to dissolve at its own sacred pace.

The “Photo Mario” project unfolding on the restored section of the ground floor serves precisely this purpose: it provides a virtual basis for dialogue between past, present, and future, assisting the Beirutis to unearth from the debris the human stories that will carry them forward. Or, at least, it gives them the opportunity to participate in the creation of some of these stories, the way they are expected to participate in the creation of their new reality.

When in 1994 – just a few years after the end of the war – Mona El Hallak, the founder of the Museum-of-Memory idea, entered the ravaged Barakat Building, she found under the ruins the photographic archive of the Photo Mario studio that had been based on the ground floor since 1957. More than 10,000 negatives, warped, torn, or stained were discovered, having survived despite the savagery of the past fifteen years. There were portraits, passport photos, family photos, baby photos, postcard-like photos commemorating special moments and cherished relationships – all taken against different studio backgrounds and using bygone studio practices.

These negatives emerge today like “time capsules,” as they bring forward the memory of an era so recent and, yet, almost forgotten. But, above all, they stand as a symbol of the Lebanese people’s resilience: the survival of their humanity; their determination to connect what has been divided and mend what has been broken. All these men, women, and children – be they dead or of an unknown fate – build a bridge over which the Beirutis are invited to walk not in anger or desperation, but in hope.

Printed portraits from Photo Mario Studio

Some of the negatives on display in Beit Beirut

Rising from oblivion – in search of a story

Some of the photos have been printed in enlarged sizes and hang now on the walls. A few negatives are placed in illuminated showcases, from where several pairs of white eyes stare back to the visitors with expressions that seem a bit quaint – just like their clothes or hair-styles – awakening feelings of familiarity and tenderness. And many have been printed in postcard sizes for the passersby to pick, examine, even take away. Mona el Hallak and Delphine Darmency – who have worked on recapturing the memory of this neighbourhood photography studio – believe that there will come a time when these nameless faces will be identified by people who recognise them and remember their family, friends, or neighbours, and, hence, they will rise from oblivion. These ghosts that still roam the roads of Beirut seeking peace may be adopted by people interested in uncovering their lost stories – stories which will be collected in a permanent installation of reminders of the many transformations that Beirut and its inhabitants have gone over the past decades. Even the process of putting these fragmented pieces together – or, the failure to do so – will be part of the bigger narrative presented among the walls of Beit Beirut. For, after all, this museum promises to be an interactive centre where life unfolds, and not a passive gallery where the past is merely presented.

La Maison Rose (The Pink House)

The old lighthouse of Beirut

It was a warm winter day – perfect for a walking exploration around Beirut – and we decided with my friend to stroll down Bliss street towards the sea and the Manara (lighthouse) neighbourhood in search of the famous Pink House – or, La Maison Rose as it is more widely known. The sun reflected on the Mediterranean, and everything was azure and joyful. A few shopkeepers were standing at the entrance door of their stores, leaning casually against the frame, smoking, and occasionally engaging in short, friendly discussions. Soon, the old lighthouse emerged above our heads through a cluster of tall, modern apartment buildings, while the new one delineated further down, closer to the sea and the corniche. The Pink House should have been somewhere near; its entrance though was not very easy to find, hidden at the end of a small, dead-end alley.

The new lighthouse of Beirut

We approached slowly, expecting at any moment to be stopped by a guard or someone living there. At the courtyard, a couple of children’s bicycles – left as if abandoned in a hurry when the kids were called by their mother – gave a false impression that the house was inhabited but, after knocking on the doors or peaking through the windows, it was evident that the building was deserted. We walked around, looking for an opening; we returned to the main door which seemed to be only the entrance to a small vestibule, since, there was another, petrol-painted door behind it, possibly leading into the main house. We pushed it harder – in case it would surrender – knocked again, even called out. Nothing.

The back-side of La Maison Rose

The inner door of the ground floor

We stepped back, frustrated at this unexpected turn of events. The old mansion dates to the 19^th century – built in 1882 by Mohammad Ardati on a former hunting lodge of the family – and is today one of the oldest houses still standing in Ras Beirut, so we were excited at the prospect of exploring it in detail. Disappointed, we turned to leave when we noticed that the entrance door on the upper floor was open. The staircase leading to it had been overcome by the branches of the nearby tree, and we felt concerned about the stairs’ solidity; still, adventure spirit prevailed, and we carefully climbed up.

Staircase leading to the upper floor

We entered a large living-room area with a fireplace that was once decorated with hand-painted, blue tiles, most of which are now broken. A couple of wrecked couches in front of it reminisced bygone times when family and guests spent their evenings at the warm company of dancing flames. On one side, Ottoman-style, arched windows offered views to the sea and the modern lighthouse, their coloured glasses and arabesque designs – some shuttered on the floor, others still in place – reminding of the house’s glorious past. On the other side, there was an arched partition, also decorated with arabesque motifs, leading to a space that may have acted as the family’s dining room and had the only painted ceiling in the house – a small decoration at the spot from where the chandelier must have hung.

The old fireplace

Windows

The modern lighthouse through the windows

View of the living-room towards the partition and the dining room

The only part of the ceiling that was decorated

Following the structure of the traditional Lebanese architecture, a series of tall, decorated doors around this central chamber lead to the residential rooms. Strolling through them, we passed by closets and drawers left open to rot in the humid saltiness of the seacoast, and we stepped over remnants of other furniture or wooden shatters scattered on the floors, blending with a worn-out shoe, a couple of metallic chairs, and various indicators that workers had passed by but had not restored anything. Wrought iron bars adorned the lower part of the windows, allowing views to the big arched verandas with the long colonnades that, for decades, have been inspiring the admiration of locals and foreigners alike. The kitchen was dark but spacious, its walls covered in old-fashioned tiles, its cupboards gaping empty and smashed.

Doors leading to the residential rooms

A sample of the marble floors that were typical in the central chambers of old Lebanese houses

A sample of one of the residential rooms

The kitchen

We climbed towards the roof through an internal staircase, passing in front of some smaller rooms that may have been used by the maids once upon a time. We exited to a large terrace with a satellite plate at a corner, the old manara on our back, and the shining Mediterranean spreading in front of our eyes. But we never found any stairs leading to the ground floor which remained a mystery to us.

The view from the roof

The garden surrounding the house

The house – or part of it – was inhabited until about ten years ago. In its golden days, it even hosted the French president Charles de Gaulle and the American abstract artist John Ferren – a friend of Picasso. In 1964, the El Khazen family rented it for fifty years, and a series of artists (members of the family or friends) lived there and were inspired by the ambience. In 2006, though, the last El Khazens had to leave urgently when the owner died, and the house was bought by the real estate developer Hisham Jaroudi. It was at that time that the British artist Tom Young passed by the house and, impressed by the elegance that it still radiated, spent with the El Khazens the last six months of their stay, documenting the bundling process of fifty years of life and the imperceptible scraps of memories still visible on the walls – like the height marks carved on the frame of one door, or the verses of an Arabic poem written by Soulafa Soubra, Mohammad Ardati’s great-great-granddaughter on a surface. In 2013, Young brought the house back to life by exhibiting his work in some of the chambers, inviting the Lebanese to re-live stories of their intangible inheritance.

On the day of our visit, none of these could be detected. Maybe this short revival took place on the ground floor that remained locked, even though the rooms we could observe through one of the windows were as desolate as the ones on the upper level.

Despite Jaroudi’s promises, the restoration of La Maison Rose appears to have stalled, hindered by legalities and other challenges. The mansion that has been reflecting for over a century the magenta colours of the Mediterranean sunset, illuminating – like a manara itself – the lives of the Beirutis, follows the deterioration process that keeps eroding the character of the Lebanese capital, leaving room only for colourless modernity.

Beit Amir

Beit Amir

The lead-coloured sky and the occasional downpours had not prevented us that morning from walking towards Downtown Beirut, exploring the various artisans’ stores on the way and enjoying the early Christmas decorations. While ambling through Clemenceau neighbourhood though, the heavy rain caught up with us and forced us to find refuge in Beir Amir – a traditional, late-Ottoman house built around 1915, one of the last symbols of Beirut’s architectural heritage. Unlike most other buildings dating to the same period, Beir Amir has been beautifully renovated, acting as a lodge or hosting various exhibitions.

Central chamber

The rhombus-decorated marble floor of the central chamber shone as we entered, and we were welcomed with a few olives, slices of bread, olive oil, zaatar (dried thyme), and biscuits. The rooms surrounding the main chamber still display the traditional tiled floors encountered in many old Lebanese houses, and the arched doorways lead to a beautiful yard, which, on that day, was filled with puddles of water, the garden furniture piled at a corner, covered with plastic sheets for protection.

Welcoming treats

Room with traditional, tile floor

Exit towards the courtyard

Courtyard

The exhibition “Stories of Humanity” was still on: a series of 50 photos that captured the 50-year presence and activity of the International Red Cross in Lebanon. We were the only ones sauntering around the rooms – except for a group of senior women, chic and classy in the typical, upper-middle class, Lebanese style, who were having lunch and welcomed us in polished French.

Although the displayed photos were very expressive – in a tender rather than a disturbing way – I was mostly captivated by the short phrases on the walls that were supporting the exhibition and were enclosing, in just a few words, stories of survival, healing, heartache, and perseverance. Such stories do not belong only to Lebanon, nor are they supposed to reflect merely the dramas of various refugees. They hold a broader value, talking about humanity – our humanity – and, therefore they can touch the deepest cords of our soul.

“Of conflicts and biscuits” (biscuits are offered on the tray left on the table)

Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou

For more stories from Lebanon, complement this article with A Photo Journey to the Hidden Spirit of Beirut, Story-Hunting in Lebanon, a Tale of Love, Ego, and Betrayal, and Hidden Treasures in the Old City of Tripoli.

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