Beirut, in many ways, is an “Urbs Incognita,” a city that has been presented only through clichés. The euphoric expressions—“mosaic of communities,” “crossroads of cultures,” “Switzerland of the Middle East”—have been used and abused. Despite all this romanticising, this weary city seems condemned to be destroyed after each reconstruction by a new group of political factions. It has been overwhelmed for more than three decades by every possible form of violence and collective terror—most recently the July 2006 war with Israel and the Summer 2007 debacle involving Fatah al-Islam. The disastrous regional context and the acceleration of the globalisation process have contributed to a weakened and dispersed civil society, vacillating between consolidation and decomposition. Citizens’ relationships with the state are more than ever fashioned through communitarian channels, and the innermost recesses of identity seem more pronounced after the civil war. Some Beirutis, however, resist sectarian divisions, preferring to socialise and meet in places free from any particular affiliation. One such example is Ahwat al-Azaz, a historic café that is vital to maintaining collective past and present.
With the continuous conflict and cycles of construction/destruction, Beirutis never had an opportunity to grieve for their losses. Hence, they can only idealise the image they have of their past. It is in this context of continuous physical and symbolic reshaping that the politics of nostalgia, memory and identity come together and deserve serious attention.
First impressions
Upon returning to Lebanon the last summer, I quickly discovered Ahwat al-Azaz (literally translated as the Glass Café and herein referred to as Café Gemmayzeh), an old coffee shop in the Gemmayzeh district, reputedly a traditional hang out. It had always intrigued me, with its massive glass windows and stained patterns. In this inspiring place, I suddenly had a bittersweet feeling half way between homesickness and the yearning of something I’d never known personally. I closed my eyes to remember, and let the pieces fall into place. Here, in this café, it seemed very appropriate to write about nostalgia.
Café Gemmayzeh is a place embracing diversity, playing host to all social classes and all generations without distinction; but what makes this captivating café even more exceptional is the fact that it is among the oldest coffee houses of Beirut. Moreover, situated on Gouraud Street, at the heart of the old Gemmayzeh quarter, it catches one’s eye with its massive, inviting windows. Its simplicity stands out against the new trendy bars and restaurants mushrooming nearby, “concept” establishments vying to attract the disaffected, demanding, and fickle young spenders of 21st century Beirut.
A visual paradox occurs between the old derelict tenements and the perennial blossoming of these sophisticated bars and restaurants. It further emphasizes the exceptionality of Café Gemmayzeh, which witnessed all these changes and remained the same after more than 50 years of operation. Here, the timeless quality of the tawla, of worry beads rolled through the fingers, and the constantly replaced charcoal on top of the nargila pipes, illustrate the rhythm of traditional Beirut. One thing is undeniable: sitting at a table in front of an ahwa turkiya or a glass of arak is definitely not inactivity. Men, women, and children come here to step out of their individual and shared struggles and take pleasure in life. This time is not lost but actively spent on maintaining social ties through leisure.
When one enters Café Gemmayzeh, there’s an obvious sense of Beiruti-ness and authenticity: the sound of the dice and the drifting sweet aroma of tufahtayn nargila (double apple), create a sense of timelesness. Careful renovation preserved the style of the old café; only some broken windows have been replaced, and the walls repainted to bring them back to life. The flooring, chairs, tables and the old fashioned radio remained as they were. Indeed, this café represents a culture of resistance through heritage preservation. But what is it about this place that makes people want to come everyday?
Cynthia, a 24 year-old student, grasps it in a few words:
It’s a pleasant place, where one feels at the same time at home, and disorientated…This place has a soul, a history… In this café, the spirit of Beirut is different from the one “outside” the café. People live at a different time, their past is maintained in the present.
Notions of authenticity and tradition contribute to the uniqueness of Café Gemmayzeh. No one I talked to failed to link this place to turath al-sha’bi al-qadim (the old popular tradition). I even saw some people wearing the qabadaya’s tarbush (fezes worn by local strongmen) to convey a sense of the past in the present. Many informants felt that this positive consciousness makes them stronger, and the re-enchanting wave of nostalgia revitalizes their deeply rooted values. Walid, an old regular, asserts: “This place suggests nostalgia… But nostalgia, hopefully, is a message of hope to our future, and to our Lebanese youth!”
Ahwat al-Azaz: A place where we belong
Customers note that the café serves as home away from home, refuge and family, a place where they put aside their worries, relax and “make themselves at home”. Sigrid, a Belgian woman studying Arabic in Beirut, is nostalgic for an imagined past, for the idea of pre-war Beirut she had never seen. She shares with me:
I feel good, like at home. It’s a sensation of well-being. But what’s distinctive about this place are its huge illuminating windows that attract us to come in, as if we came to search for something. There’s something about this place that unites us all: a sense of belonging. Even if I’m not from here, I feel like one of them, and I’m nostalgic with them.
Café Gemmayzeh invites this sort of reflection on personal history, identity and belonging. Khalil, one of the oldest regulars, comes here to “find [him]self back.” He asserts proudly:
I’ve been coming here since I was seven years old. My dad used to come play tawla here with his friends. I would sit and watch quietly. Today I’m 64 years old, and I do the same thing my dad used to do.
These regulars, through nostalgia and attachment to this space, are able to construct and solidify their identities. They feel it brings them stability and security and returns them to a peaceful Beirut, a golden age in which communities coexisted and the social fabric was fluid and permeable. Neda, the charming receptionist, observes:
People of every walk of life and social standing come together here, and in this place they don’t have to be self-conscious. We are encouraged to let down our inhibitions. No one feels out of place, as it’s everyone’s house. It’s like an anti-space.
The owner believes that her clients are not in denial about Beirut’s sad reality. Even if they cannot do anything about it, they de not merely accept the current political and economical situation; by coming to this café, they resist it and distance themselves from it:
When people enter this place, they put everything else aside, and leave their worries behind. It’s like a mental shelter here. They believe unconsciously that Beirut will not die, and stay here all together for relief. Like the good old proverb goes, “rahat al-sakra, ijat al fatra” (after the festivities, back to the old problems). People that destroy the soul of Beirut should make sure of something: Beirut lives in me. It is out of space and time. It is one of those places no one can invade.
Therefore this Café symbolises a return to peace; people come here to escape what is “outside,” and find refuge in nostalgia, what Samir Khalaf’s refers to as “a catharsis for human suffering.”
The role of the game
My own observations and regulars’ views demonstrate why game playing—cards and backgammon—becomes an expression of nostalgia. Ismail and Walid have been coming this café since before the war started. Yet during war they would still come here and play tawla, and others would do the same. These are traditional games, but they become important in times of turmoil. As Ismail noted:
In war times we would come here and share the bad news while playing tawla. We had nothing else to do. And this habit stuck. Surely, we are not nostalgic about war, but those were good times… Through the game, a sense of community was created and people would stick together.
Hence game playing recreates the pleasant moments experienced during war, and recalls the old days. It engenders continuity, conviviality and camaraderie. “The repetitive rhythm of round after round confounds past and present”, explains Robert, an unbeatable tawla player.
Ahwat al-Azaz: Space as place
In business for over 60 years, Café Gemmayzeh conveys a sense of endurance. Like many of its patrons, it has remained despite all the atrocities. Regulars give a meaning to this place, but they also come to give sense to their lives. The place and its identities are mutually reinforcing.
Made of fragile glass, the café could have easily been destroyed, torn down, or redecorated beyond recognition. Yet its aura has not changed, unlike almost everything around it. Spanish journalist Maruja argues:
When I returned to this country that has been destroyed several times, in all this slow reconstruction process, this place stayed. And it still stays. If it’s a landmark for me, I can imagine the vitality it constitutes for others…In Beirut, you never know what’s going to happen. The Westerns live in an illusion. So as long as this place remains, we should stick to it.
What does this place represent for Walid? “Al-balad”(the country), he tells me.Ismail intervenes: “No Walid…Al-balad, al-balad (you mean the real homeland, before the country, before all this…).Walid sighs and acquiesces sadly: “It’s true… Al-balad al- balad…The Lebanon of before…the real one…”
Back to the Future
Café Gemmayzeh illustrates how nostalgia is not simply a “living in the past” but rather an active engagement with the past, and a juxtaposition of past and present. Nostalgia, in its ability to facilitate continuity of identity, can help provide “sanctuary of meaning”—a place where one feels she knows herself; where identity has safe harbor. People need this sense, cannot suffer forever a system that denies them identity. As the case of Beirut, Café Gemmayzeh demonstrates looking back is not simply a private pleasure of recollection, but a collective act of identity construction. Nostalgia is therefore crucial in guiding social action.
What people may feel tied to is not a specific time or place, like the Ottoman era or the French Mandate, but an imagined idyllic past. In one sense it is a desire to return somewhere and nowhere; hence its power to take people where they want to go. In some cases, it is an aspiration to go somewhere never before experienced but always possible. For a generation of Beirutis who have only known civil war, nostalgia offers a shared language and point of reference for rebuilding.
Beirut uses the past in this way. When in tearing down the ruins of one of the central squares in Beirut, a vast collection of ancient ruins was discovered. No one had ever known these ruins were here, no one had experienced them, and yet by accident they were found. Now they form part of the urban landscape, and a dramatic contrast to the adjoining seven-story Virgin Megastore.
Salamat li ahl baladi (1)
Bio:
Krystel Abimeri holds a Masters in Global Communication (Paris, Iscom) and an MA in Sociology (Communication, Culture and Society) from Goldsmiths College, University of London.
