A House in Damascus - Before the Fall

by Brian Stoddart

  The objects of all this work were the Syrian universities. The five publicly funded ones were all huge in numbers by world standards: over 160,000 at Damascus, about 140, 000 in Aleppo, upwards of 80,000 at the university in Homs and another 60,000 plus at Lattakia on the Mediterranean coast, a short distance from Cyprus. Those cities, of course, all became far more familiar around the world as 2011 dragged into 2012. The exception in size was Al Furat out on the Tigris-Euphrates, five hours on the road away from Damascus: it was much smaller because of its catchment area, but had been established to help develop the area with higher education serving as a social and economic driver. Its location would also become far more widely known later: Deir ez-Zor, which became a major Syrian "revolution" centre. These massive numbers of students everywhere overwhelmed the too-low numbers of talented staff who managed and taught in the institutions, so the main project aim was to try and alleviate that pressure.

  The question central to the aid and development debate looms large here. What is the best way to introduce so-called "international best practice" into a specific local context? Syrian university staff, for example, taught long hours for very little pay. Was it possible or even fair to demand they undergo professional development in order to provide better learning and teaching for students, if they saw relatively little return for themselves? Then, was it reasonable to ask an entire government to change the way it funded higher education so that it might better meet international "best practice"? The theoretical answer was probably "yes", but perhaps not the practical one. The prime objective, obviously, would be to improve the student experience so that graduates gained stronger and more applicable skills, but amidst a huge and complex project that goal sometimes slipped from sight in face of the daily struggle with systems, logistics, paperwork, and changes in direction.

  In doing this work the international consultants and their national counterparts travelled all over Syria, experiencing the magnificently varied landscape, meeting fascinating people, trying hard to understand local nuances that might produce better insight for their work. There were delights—like driving past and underneath the looming Marqab Castle on the main coastal road between Tartous and Lattakia. It just sits there, a natural part of the landscape, as it has done for over 1,000 years. Originally an Arab stronghold, it was taken over by the Crusaders who built it up during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It was bigger than the more famous Krak Des Chevaliers and was, in fact, the last of the great castles to fall. Then there were disappointments—like driving for four hours to find that the expected work had not been begun let alone completed, and that the anticipated meeting had not been scheduled let alone cancelled.

  Yet in all that driving and all that experience outside Damascus the prevailing thought remained—how could the university system best help improve national life and productivity? That question helped remove all the frustrations of the aid system, focused the work, and helped unite what was otherwise a bewildering collection of very different people.

  Houses Around the Corner

  ~

  The House in Damascus was almost literally over the wall from a much grander dwelling. On the morning walk route towards a taxi, five metre high rendered walls topped with barbed wire flanked the first third of the journey towards the spice souk. In the far left of the souk's tiny square, next to a small mosque, stood a heavy, studded wooden door. When that was open so, too, was the Azem Palace. An innocuous entry to a ticket office preceded a turn to the left then right, into an astonishing space.

  Built during the eighteenth century, the house was home to the powerful Azem family that rose to power during the early stages of the Ottoman Empire. Remarkably, that one family produced several Governors of Damascus as well as important leaders in other provinces and localities. As a signifier of the family's position and wealth, the house was much more spread out than was normally the case, built around enormous courtyards replete with fountains and pools, groves of trees and shrubs. Several public reception areas surround this central space, with all the family quarters much more removed and divided into male and female sections. The whole place was lined with elaborate timber decorations said to have consumed at least four hundred trees. Throughout, the decoration was and remains Arab/Ottoman design, based around elaborate mosaics and subdued colour.

  This style and interior has been well recognised in the West. During the 1930s, for example, the collector Hagop Kevorkian bought and packed up two entire stately rooms in Damascus, shipped them to the United States and put them into storage. One, at least, came from a very prominent Damascene family, and the other one most likely did as well. Both were from the eighteenth century. Kevorkian shipped everything: walls, ceilings, roof, and floor including the Damascene tiles. All of this was richly embellished with intricate woodwork, design and styling, and included engraved poetry. In 1970, the rooms emerged from storage and were donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and to New York University's Kevorkian Center of Near Eastern Studies, where they were reassembled in all their splendour.15

  The Azem Palace now doubles as a showcase of this architectural style and as a museum of popular arts, crafts and traditions, with a relaxed approach to its work. Ladders may be found leaning against walls along with spare bits and pieces. The interior rooms are supposed to be photography-free but, as at least one warden indicated sheepishly, that rule really meant "no tip, no photography". I took some photographs.

  The Palace was regarded as a prime residence from the time of its construction, so when his country assumed control of Syria at the end of World War I the new French political controller promptly set up house there, right near the Mosque and the souk. When the 1925 Arab revolt erupted, the crowds came right to the Palace door, with sections of the building badly damaged by fires resulting from the French bombing used to quell the uprising. Power comes at a cost, as 2011-12 would reaffirm.

  From time immemorial, the Arab house has followed central design features that emerge directly from matters of the mind and body, Islam and climate. As Khaled Azad, amongst others, points out, Arab houses are effectively built from the inside out in the design sense, because they are based on the principle of privacy rather than display.16 Because the sanctity and strength of the family lies at the heart of Islam, by definition the buildings that house those families reflect their needs and their unity. For that reason, even in modern design few if any Arab houses will reflect outwardly anywhere near the elements of conspicuous consumption seen in the West. Any display of wealth will be well on the inside for the benefit of the family and those others privileged to enter. A doorway in a wall opens to a passageway that invariably stands at ninety degrees to the main layout of the house. That is so passing strangers will see little of the house if the door happens to be open.

  Walking around the Old City, there were constant and tantalising glimpses down passageways to the corners of courtyards that were clearly large, interesting spaces at the heart of large and interesting houses, or even small and interesting ones. This was best demonstrated by the several major renovations of notable old houses then going on, particularly in the southern Muslim quarter and increasingly in the Jewish one. Beit Nizam (Nizam House) and some nearby former mansions were being developed into a heritage hotel by the Aga Khan Development Network. Very small doorways in very large walls lay open to reveal massive, soaring walls and roofs, with interesting mosaic tiles on floors and walls in every direction. The design principle was obvious, with living areas built around the courtyard on at least two and often more levels depending on the size of the house.

  The courtyard is essentially the living heart of the house, because it provides social interaction space to counterbalance the privacy otherwise dominant. In this, the Islamic world took over the principles begun in hot regions during Greco-Roman times, then refined them in line with Islamic needs and philosophy. Consequently, the courtyard has an important climatic role, and provides tranquillity away from the outside world. That is why
the main door in the house opens onto the courtyard and not the street—the street door is merely an access way. The courtyard essentially captures the family's private piece of the sky.17

  Most courtyards have a fountain. While there is an obvious suggestion that this evokes the importance of water in the Arab world and perhaps a reminder of the oasis, it also has a distinct climate function. Running water acts as a humidifier in hot climates, helping lower temperatures. That function is aided by the presence of a small garden, small trees and shrubs, like jasmine. These also help reduce temperature, so that the courtyard maintains temperature balance. Given the traditionally thick walls used to construct the houses, that means the courtyard helps reduce temperature in summer but maintain warmth in winter.

  Unlike the grandeur of the Azem Palace, the House in Damascus garden was tiny but followed the same principles. It occupied the three sides of the small alcove in the courtyard between what was once the "public" sitting room and the now-standalone kitchen with clothesline atop. This small area was covered by a plastic sheet suspended on an incline from the top of the balcony outside the main bedroom upstairs, down to the top of the kitchen. This was mainly to provide shade in the hot summer, and block the winter rain when it arrived. The three walls were also sheathed in plastic to prevent further water getting into the walls, because the house definitely had a nascent rising damp problem. Around these three sides, a series of pots and tubs filled with essentially hardy plants, but including things like rubber plants, were arranged on racks. Above them, plants flowed out and over the baskets slung from hooks under the cover. More shrubs lurked at the end of the entrance way, too, having assumed triffid-like proportions as a result of heading towards the light. In late summer and early autumn many of these plants and shrubs flowered, including one variety with burgundy leaves that produced constantly reappearing small purple flowers.

  The landlord was lackadaisical about most things, but very anxious about the garden. There were great mime displays of how to water plants, how to stand on a stool to make sure the hanging baskets were well soaked, and several clear indications that this watering and caring had to be done daily even though the hot weather was now on the wane. This small garden meant a great deal to him, as it does to most Arab homeowners. So, every day before breakfast I spent several minutes bucketing water onto the plants, then sweeping excess water across the courtyard into the drains, washing away the previous day's dust. It was a peaceful and serene setting into which to arise. The watering was therapeutic, as was the subsequent sitting out among the plants while sipping a coffee and having breakfast under a clear sky, before heading through the souk in search of the day's taxi adventure.

  That serenity has long been an important consideration in the social function of all these houses, large or small. Because the design swings around privacy, the courtyard provides the central place where family members meet, guests arrive to be directed to the appropriate place and where, in summer especially, food might be served. The privacy is structured away from this central meeting zone. Traditionally there would be an immediate space where male visitors might be received. In the grander old houses that could have been an entire wing, but even now in the most modest of homes will be at least a room. There was then a semi-private space for family purposes, with an even more strictly private area that was and still is the domain of women.

  Furthermore, that all created a peaceful environment. In Old Damascus, still, houses front right onto the narrow lanes and alleyways so that there is a constant ebb and flow of people along with, these days, vehicles. The noise factor is considerable, but those ancient design principles mean much of that noise is eliminated in the courtyard behind thick walls. These principles were visible in another magnificent building close to the house but in the opposite direction, up past Jabri House then right into the laneway leading to Straight Street. Fittingly, the street is now largely an art and artefacts one dominated by Maktab Anbar, another beautifully restored house that, appropriately, now hosts the main heritage conservation group. This organisation was overseeing restoration of several major buildings in the southern Muslim section, just down from the notably inconspicuous Al Khawali restaurant at the end of the Medhat Pasha covered souk.

  In seeing all these wonderful buildings, my appreciation was heightened by the experience of actually living in and experiencing such a house, albeit on a much more modest scale. That only further sharpened the senses as to what might really be just around the corner at the end of that drab looking corridor seen in every laneway in the Old City. That was part of the allure.

  The Souk Life

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  At some point, most guide books for most places anywhere in the world build you up for a letdown. That might just be the case with the souk Hamidiyeh, surprisingly enough, at least in the beginning. Many of the books insist you get a first glimpse at the Citadel end, in order to get the best impact of the soaring roof and its bullet-riddled iron sheets that, in the right light, create a planetarium-like atmosphere. Once on the ground, though, that is not an entirely convincing argument. There is a broad enough walkway outside it, coming on one side from the Hariqa end and, on the other, from the Salah ah-Din statue and the souk Sarouja beyond. That is fine in itself, but there is also a solid iron rail fencing along that expansive walkway to prevent all but the criminally inane attempting to cross the always-busy several lane freeway. It is scarcely less inviting to get to the Hamidiyeh via the underground walkway at that end—the escalators rarely worked. No, this is not the best introduction to what is widely regarded as among the "best" souks left anywhere—the various guides to these things usually rate Hamidiyeh right at or near the top, with real purists suggesting that only the Aleppo labyrinth might outdo it anywhere in the region.

  Coming from the other end is much more evocative. The entrance is off from the square outside the Umayyad Mosque, and reached by walking through from the old Muslim Quarter, or from the Shia section, or down Quemariye and around the Mosque itself. It is impossible to think other than about the length of time this trading practice has been here in some form or other, the lives and destinies shaped by this enterprise, and the souk's centrality to the entire Damascene story. In the early twelfth century a group of Damascene merchants, their business concluded and anxious to get home, set sail from Cairo at a time when the danger from marauding parties was high. Sure enough, they were taken by the Franks who confiscated all their money and belongings (a considerable sum on money, as it turned out) and ransomed them to boot. Ibn Al-Qalanisi records that the merchants "pledged all that remained of their deposits in Damascus and elsewhere".18 Even at this early point, these traders might have been based in Damascus, but had global minds appropriate to the time.

  When he encountered the "bazaars" in the 1840s, A.A.Paton thought them more like a fair than anything else: he was overwhelmed by the array of "naked mad men", people grinding coffee, sherbert and ice cream makers, the profusion of goods like pomegranate sauce and honeyed pastries. He also noted the intense trading knowledge. There were piles of tobacco everywhere for sale, mainly for the nargileh. One old Baghdad merchant (note the cosmopolitan trading environment) commented to Paton on the imbalance of trade with Great Britain, arguing that there were a large numbers of British goods available in Damascus, but that Britain would not take Syrian ones. The old merchant opined that nearly every lady in the city now needed some sort of British product, so the trade should be reciprocal, with tobacco an obvious target.19 This was a very simple reflection of the central role played by trading in the Damascene culture, and the way that trading impulse gave it a world view well beyond its immediate geographical boundaries. It was for that reason the souks in Damascus were never the "mongrel affairs" to be found elsewhere, like Cairo, according to one guide, at least.20

  While little of that original atmosphere remains in Hamidiyeh or the other souks these days, the impulse persists. What the Orientalist view of the markets always missed was the fact that they
were and remain simply shops, most of which sold common or garden variety goods, the basic necessities of life. These days in the Hamidiyeh, a swathe of outlets sell items like toothpaste and toilet paper. (That was one of the old Baghdad merchant's implications: people need things so traders should be able to supply them). The only real difference from the West here now is that unlike in the supermarket, it is possible both to "comparison shop" in neighbouring outlets, and to have some fun trying to shave the price. The point here is the principle of the bargain, rather than the necessary achievement of a great financial gain. These sorts of common goods are found everywhere: basic clothes, household mops and brooms, plastic ware (the earlier traders would have loved that durability), sheets and towels, ladders, glassware, shoes and all the rest. While the vision of the exotic is powerful, then, the practical slant of the souk can be underwhelming.

  Whatever happened to all those exotic things with which the souks were replete in earlier times? In truth, they were only ever a small part of the great trading enterprise: the rugs, the Damascene steel, the frankincense and myrrh. Frankincense was a good case in point. Known under various names, this aromatic resin had been traded throughout the Levant and further for thousands of years. It was used widely in aromatherapy, traditional medicine and as an essential oil. The Frankincense name followed the Crusaders (the Franks) who took it back to Europe with them. In many respects, this was a very early example of the Swiss "added value" principle, the product standing out among a more TESCO-dominated range of options.

  Luckily, some of the Swiss end still survives, but not in the main arcade of the Hamidiyeh. When the initial awe wears off ("I am in the Hamidiyeh souk!"), it can be replaced by a disenchantment, especially in that main lane. As rental and sale prices rose before the troubles of early 2011, the unique and the unusual bowed to the mainstream and the guaranteed selling item. That is no different to what has happened in the UK High Street or the American strip malls or major shopping thoroughfares elsewhere around the world. Here, though, it has changed the character of an environment that has had a reputation and an atmosphere for centuries. As tourism grew in Damascus so did the provision of tourist items, so all the "Orientals" sellers could stock (replica) swords, helmets, chain mail, statues or whatever else was required. Those were supplemented by the keffiye (the head scarves popularised by Yassar Arafat and now often bearing the pro-Palestinian insignia), the winter cloaks when appropriate, or even the obligatory symbolic item, like harem pants.