SAH Blog

  • Tahrir Square through Two Transitions by Khaled Adham

    Feb 24, 2011

    “Massive demonstrations were organized,” writesFatemah Farag, “which included students marching from Giza to the center of Cairo. However, when the demonstrators reached the Square…four armed vehicles moved towards them and a barrage of machine-gun fire opened up. According to the most reliable estimate, 23 demonstrators were killed and some 120 injured. The government disclaimed all responsibility and blamed students for allowing their peaceful demonstrations to degenerate into violence because of infiltration by the riffraff.”

    No, this is not Tahrir Square in February 2011, the epicenter of the revolution that toppled the Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak’s regime earlier this month. It is Ismailia Square in February 1946, just a few years before it was renamed Tahrir Square. The demonstrators proclaimed it Evacuation Day, anticipating the departure of British forces occupying Egypt. According to a leaflet issued at the time, “the day was to make it clear to the British imperialism and to the world that Egyptian people have completed their preparation for active combat until the nightmare of imperialism that has crushed our hearts for 64 years has vanished.” Anti-Mubarak protesters evoked this history when they declared Friday 3 February the Day of Departure for the long-ruling president.

    Future urban historians will perhaps mark these two Februaries as signposts of transitions among three significant periods in the history of modern Egypt: Colonial, Postcolonial, and Post-Postcolonial periods. The square has witnessed more than a century-and-a-half of urban, cultural, and political history, and the transitions between these three eras played out within its bounds. Here are some scenes from this dense, intricate history.

    Early in the 19th century, during the colonial era, the area that would become Tahrir Square consisted of rough ground interspersed with marshes and ponds that were replenished with each summer flood. Toward the middle of the century, the scene began to change. Several royal palaces were constructed along the River Nile, with much of the land around them drained, filled, and planted. One of these was Qasr al-Nil. First used as a palace for the ruler, it was then retrofitted to serve as the Ministry of War. Eventually it came to serve as barracks housing the Egyptian army.

    The palaces set the pattern for further development in 1867 by Khedive Ismail, Egypt’s modernizing ruler during the 1860s and ’70s. Between 1867 and the turn of the 20th century, the square took much of its current urban form. In his love of urban embellishments, and in preparation for the opening of the Suez Canal, Ismail began to expand the city by building an entire new district on the medieval city’s western edge. This area, Ismailia, became Cairo’s European Quarter, now downtown Cairo.

    In order to carve out a large square that would function as a link, through Qasr al-Nil bridge, between the new district and the west bank of the Nile, or to Ismail’s palace in Giza and the newly constructed road to the pyramids, Ismail gave one of his palace gardens to the government. At that point, the new square, Ismailia Square, was nearly surrounded from all sides by military barracks, palaces, and villas. One new palace worth mentioning here is that of Ahmed Khairy Pasha, a complex that later became the Genaclis Cigarette factory, then Cairo University, and finally in 1919 the American University of Cairo.

    Although it was the largest square in Cairo, Ismailia Square was never considered the center of the city. This honor was reserved to ’Abdeen and Opera squares, one mile to the east and northeast of Ismailia, respectively. Indeed, Ismailia Square was associated with hated occupation and colonization, since the British troops had taken over Qasr al-Nil barracks as part of their conquest of the whole country in 1882.

    A new century brought new buildings. Designed by a French architect in a neo-classical style and marked as the first building in Egypt built with reinforced concrete, the Egyptian Museumopened its doors in 1902. This was followed by a series of apartment buildings replacing the villas that previously had flanked the square’s northern and eastern sides. The middle of the 20th century witnessed a few significant alterations. First, the Qasr al-Nil barracks were evacuated in 1947 and torn down in 1951 to make way for modern developments. Second, construction of Mogamma, a large administrative building designed by the Egyptian architect Kamal Ismail and given as a gift by the Soviet Union, was initiated in 1950.

    The year 1952 ushered in a new post-colonial era to Egypt. As if answering Henri Lefebvre’s prophetic observation that any revolution that has not produced new spaces “has not changed life itself but has merely changed ideological superstructures, institutions or political apparatus,” the revolutionary officers reinvented the square as the center for postcolonial Cairo, and they renamed it Tahrir, or Liberation, Square. Three buildings represented this new era: the Nile Hilton, designed by an American firm in 1958; the Arab League Headquarters, designed by the Egyptian architect Mahmoud Riad in 1964, and the Socialist Union Headquarters, which later housed the National Democratic Party (the party of Mubarak), and which burned during the recent uprising.  

    In the five ensuing decades, View Larger Map" target="_blank">Tahrir Square was a transportation hub, a governmental center, and a place for tourists. It also became a space for public expression, a place where demonstrations and funerals took place throughout the years. Physical alterations were limited to changes in landscape and the construction of underground garages and Metro station and tunnels. A recent visionary master plan for Cairo, however, revealed the intention of the Mubarak government to introduce changes that might have deprived the square of its centrality: relocating the Egyptian Museum to the Giza plateau and moving most of the governmental agencies to New Cairo.

    It is not clear whether any of these plans will unfold in the next few years, but recent events pose questions, among them: how will Cairenes reinvent Tahrir Square in the emerging post-postcolonial era? What new spaces of civic representation and civil society will emerge from the transition now underway?

    -- Khaled Adham

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  • Digital research tools by Morgan Ng

    Feb 18, 2011

    I still distinctly remember a moment from my sophomore year of college when, peering through the university's library stacks, I was suddenly overcome by a sense of hopelessness. Each of the stacks' countless books, most now gathering dust, represented decades of scholarly labor. Reading them all would require many, many lifetimes to achieve. Even as historians continue to break into forgotten archives, leading technological innovators of our time have sought not only to add to this seemingly insurmountable glut of data, but also to equip us with tools for sorting through and making sense of it.

    The December 2010 issue of JSAH addresses this issue as it pertains to our discipline. Mario Carpo and Kazys Varnelis summarize the uses of Google Books, Google Images and Flickr for scholarly research. These discussions reflect a larger trend dubbed "digital humanities." What are some of the possible future developments in this field?

    Although proponents of digital humanities have long called for new ways of accessing texts, architectural historians also work with very different kinds of information: buildings, images, and objects. Google's text-based search functions, then, pose considerable limits to our object-based research. Nevertheless, the company has made efforts at refining the parameters of image searches. As Varnelis notes, searching "Villa Savoye" and setting the image type to "line drawing" yields not building photos but axonometric drawings, sketches and diagrams. Algorithms that detect images according to conventions of visual representation immediately turn up different--and potentially more useful--classes of images from those based on textual search terms alone.

    What if we bypassed text-based searches altogether? Typing ‘Mona Lisa' into a search box yields images of the painting. But what if someone found a picture file of the painting and wanted to identify it? What if a search engine allowed someone to upload the image and instead search "backward" for the painting's title, artist and production date? Such software is already available, just not yet in wide use.

    Flat objects like paintings are the easy part. Buildings, however, are dynamic spatial experiences, and every snapshot of these objects is different from another. Backward searches of this type are far more difficult. This difficulty extends to any object with multiple instantiations. If a biologist, for instance, uploads an image of a rare bird, can programmers develop software that identifies the species? (Think of the uses, for art historians with no training in botany, to identify painted flora!) Although, as Carpo points out, Google has eliminated text searches based on keywords (as found in conventional bibliographies), for now there seems no equivalent development for image databases. "Tagging" images by conventional or arbitrary categories remains the standard.

    Finally, I'd like to suggest that we need better digital architectural databases. While SAHARA is a step toward collecting digital information on buildings, the number of available images (10,000 at the outset, culled from powerhouse institutions) has a long way to go before it becomes useful for scholars working on specialized topics. That many historians, including myself, are far more likely to look through Google, Flickr and Wikipedia suggests that SAHARA's "members only" policy is ultimately a liability.

    This isn't just a utopian plea for democratic knowledge. It's a selfish proposal. In an age when every design student can whip up 3D models of buildings or GIS analyses in a matter of hours, SAHARA's collection is not just too small--it's outdated. How many students in their introductory digital drawing classes, I wonder, have built the same model of Villa Rotunda? And for each studio trip to Shanghai, Dubai and New York, the classes' careful photo documentation and digital site reconstructions become potentially powerful scholarly resources.

    What if our own databases included such objects as well? What if historians in architecture departments collaborated regularly with digital media instructors, so that each year of incoming students could learn the required software while constructing digital models useful for our research? On the other hand, scholars would use their expertise to vet such objects and help with matters of identification, and so forth.

    Almost fifteen years ago, Columbia University's art history department began a high-profile collaboration with the engineering school to launch public digital renderings of Amiens Cathedral, on the premise that digital modeling would offer fresh ways of analyzing a canonical structure. These are now everyday tools of the design student. If we pool join forces with architectural designers and enthusiasts--not just scholars--they might become equally commonplace for the historian.

     --Morgan Ng 

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  • Beirut's Contested Redevelopment by Nathaniel Walker

    Feb 11, 2011

    Beirut is a city preceded by its reputation. Torn by years of civil and foreign war, it is haunted in international perception by the potential for continued strife to send the country back into a spiral of self-destruction.   When I learned that UC Berkeley’s IASTE (International Association for the Study of Traditional Environments) was holding one its amazing conferences in the city, and that its organizing theme—utopia and tradition—was right up my scholarly alley, I confess to feeling a twinge of ambivalence.   On the one hand, presenting at that conference and visiting the cosmopolitan capital of one of the world’s most historically complex nations struck me as the opportunity of a lifetime.   On the other hand, one of that nation’s prime ministers had been blown up relatively recently, and the announcement of the results of a UN tribunal expected to finger a powerful political party as the culprit were expected any day. Things could get dicey.

    Within a few hours of deplaning in the “Paris of the East,” however, I felt challenged to the point of amazement by how normal everything was. The occasional tank barrier, bullet-ridden façade, and Kalashnikov-toting soldier felt out-of-place in this city of friendly and open sidewalks, profuse Christmas decorations, Häagen-Dazs, KFC, and a multitude of well-heeled, fun-loving youngsters…a couple of whom I witnessed wading through throbbing Saturday-night automobile traffic on stilts.

    In one of the city’s central public spaces, the French Mandate Place d’Etoile—where only fifteen years ago tractor trailers had been rolled down the streets to create apocalypse-grade barricades that make revolutionary Paris look like Branson, Missouri—I heard church bells and a muezzin call to prayer erupt simultaneously, almost in harmony, while kids dashed about blowing bubbles and elderly couples cuddled amongst the café tables. It is easier to find a good warm meal, a genuine smile, and a crisp local beer in the wee hours of the night in Beirut than it is in Providence, where I live. Or most of Boston, for that matter.

    Of course, it also easier to find evidence of catastrophic artillery damage in Beirut than it is in Providence or Boston—but even this is changing. The city has been subject over the past few years to one of the most extensive redevelopment schemes I have seen. Shattered ruins are being replaced by gleaming new office buildings, many of them tall towers, or meticulous reconstructions of pre-existing traditional urban fabric.  A few old monuments have been lovingly restored, and a few new ones have been added, including a very nicely done new mosque interpreting the Ottoman style, courtesy of architect Azmi Fakhuri.  Roman ruins have been excavated and left exposed to create archeological parks and gardens. New souks—by Rafael Moneo, Rafic Khoury, and many others—glisten with diamonds and designer handbags, as well as a scale model of the new and improved downtown-in-the-making. Perhaps most touchingly, during all of this reconstruction the rubble left in the wake of the civil war was carefully pushed into the sea to make up the foundation for a new waterfront park and several blocks of harbor-lined real estate—truly a poetic statement of renaissance.

     Yet there is irony in that statement, as poetic as it might be. Beirut’s downtown redevelopment is being led not by the individual landowners who saw their city smashed into ruins twenty years ago, but rather by a single government-connected private company called Solidere, whose presence in the city has become so powerful that people have begun referring to the geographical center of Beirut simply asSolidere.

    The helping hand of this company has at times also been a heavy one. Downtown landowners are expected to sell to Solidere, and those who resist often find their properties intentionally cut off from the sea, canyonized by towers, or otherwise offended. And it seems that not all of the rubble making up the foundation of that new waterfront park needed to end up in the sea after all: a large number of the old buildings that were dusted up in the rubble of war could have been saved, some needing only minimal restoration and some requiring none at all. Instead, they were razed for convenience and profit under the cover of Solidere’s monopoly on “national healing.”

    To be fair, Solidere is not the only company tearing down Beirut’s beautiful, durable, unique, lovingly ornamented small-scale structures and replacing them with starkly anonymous office or condo towers. Such short-sighted profiteering has been happening all over the city, populating the streets of Beirut with parking ramps and blank walls and consequently leaving them less useful and less pleasant for locals and visitors alike. Many Beirutis have had enough: protesting the relentless spread of voluntarily ugly redevelopment, several groups have mobilized, including Save Beirut Heritage and APSAD, the Association for Protecting Natural Sites and Old Buildings in Lebanon. These architects and historians and concerned citizens have marched and petitioned decrying what they call the “Dubaification” of Beirut, even going so far as to produce a powerful TV spot that puts the façades and lifespans of lost buildings on gravestones, in a cemetery overshadowed by ominous condo towers. They eventually achieved a measure of support within the government. But in a tragic blunder, on the eve of their increasing power, a list of the buildings they hoped to save found its way into the hands of landowners. That night, it became a hit-list. A frenzy of demolition commenced.

    In the districts of Hamra and Gemmayze, the sidewalks buzz night and day, shops both large and small keep goodly hours, and Beirut lives a life defiant of both its tragic past and its uncertain future. In the parts of downtown where Solidere has done good or even great work, the core of a world city seems to be slowly coming back to life. One cannot help but be amazed at the sheer quantity of money that has poured into this town—the architecture says, both literally and figuratively, “Beirut is open for business!” This is a palpable testament to how much many of its residents and financiers long for lasting peace, for they up the stakes with every glassy façade.

    But the revitalized heart of the city cannot be seen as evidence of national healing—at least not yet—because it is not the product of neighborly reconciliation and cooperation among its previously diverse residents and landowners. It is the product of an almost autocratic authority, of usually benevolent but nonetheless monolithic power, and the methods have sewn new conflicts even as they repair the visible evidence of the old ones. At the heart of it all is a battle not merely for the remains of Beirut’s past, but for its present and future. As the city loses ever more human-scaled, ornate, durably built, memory-laden traditional architecture, it increasingly alienates many of its citizens, some of whom find that while they cannot bear the idea of waking up to renewed fighting in their city, they also despair at the increasingly tangible possibility that they will soon wake up to a city no longer worth fighting for. They are losing it, not one block at a time—as happened when the frontlines crept and groaned through the city during the civil war—but one building at a time.

    In the meantime, however, in much of the place, it is not hard to find comfort. In Beirut, comfort sometimes seems like a national sport: in the food, in the drink, in the small and great kindnesses of its people, and in the nooks and crannies where all the above come together. Beirut is a good city. May it outdo its deceptively simple reputation, now and forever—in Hamra, Gemmayze, and yes, even inSolidere.

    --  Nathaniel Walker

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