I recently read one of those top 20 lists, this time in The Telegraph, for the world's oldest cities. Guess what? Lebanon bagged four with Tyre (12), Beirut (10), Sidon (6), and Byblos (2). Jericho, which is believed to have had human occupation as far back 9000BC, shaded Byblos by perhaps 200 years.
The paper said all 20 were “as close to time travel as you can be on a city break”. And yet if, we’re being honest, Lebanon’s proud quartet, despite their age and heritage, have little to offer the modern mini-breaker. I’d rather head to Florence, a mere stripling at 2,100 years old.
Not that this is news. We’ve all known for some time that Lebanon — its cities and its countryside — has been a victim of a complete disregard for any building codes that might exist, or might not, on the statute books. The country is dotted with buildings, many halfbuilt, often deliberately, and designed by landowners and developers with zero concept of basic architectural principles.
And the state is wholly to blame. It has made no effort to ensure that new buildings respect, how shall I put this, the existing urban or rural gestalt. As far as I can tell, developers must conform to a mathematical coefficient that dictates how many floors they can build then pay an inflated fee to the municipality before they can get cracking. I would be surprised if any consideration is given to how a proposed building sits in relation to the existing environment. I guess it’s an academic question as the “environment” went to pot decades ago.
The other week I was reminded just how far we've dropped our planning permission standards by two episodes of Grand Designs, a UK TV show that follows the fortunes of people building their dream homes. My wife and I are gripped, not only by the essential premise of the show, but also by the seemingly draconian rules imposed by the authorities on those seeking to build.
Take the case of the couple who, back in 2001, wanted to convert a Victorian violin factory into a cutting-edge town house. These were no lottery winners or blingy Russians; he was a financier and she was an architect with her own practice. The proposed design, sited on the south bank of the Thames, would be more than just a home; they wanted it to be a statement, integral to the existing fabric of the area, yet also representing the finest contemporary styling. Heady, and principled, stuff.
The plans needed council approval, but the neighbours, which included the London Festival Orchestra, were also consulted and had the right to raise objections. Pretty standard you might think, but in Lebanon no such provision exists or at the very least is applied.
All was going swimmingly until the LFO noticed a new brick wall that was part of the development and which overlooked over the back of a shared courtyard. The LFO wanted to know what bricks were used. Were they original London stock bricks? Apparently not. The LFO objected and demanded the wall be taken down and rebuilt with the correct bricks. The couple appealed, arguing that there was no difference. The bricks they used looked the same and did the job just as well. The LFO stood its ground, adamant that the building remain faithful to the original material.
My wife and I, who have seen architectural genocide committed at every turn in Lebanon, were agog as we watched a very earnest ad hoc committee at the LFO discuss the crisis, unable to make up our minds whether they had either lost theirs or were to be applauded for their stand. The complaint was upheld and the developers, who had proceeded with the project regardless, had no choice but to appeal.
Another episode told the story of a couple who had bought a plot of land on the Welsh coast on which they planned to build a home made entirely of steel and glass. This time the plans were approved, but when a particularly severe storm eroded four metres of cliff face in a matter of days, the couple calculated that at this rate the house would be in the sea in 60 years, 80 max.
Permission to create a (very discreet it must be said) seawall to halt further erosion was denied. The local council said that its policy was to let nature take its course, leaving the couple to ruminate on the fact that their project might turn into one epic white elephant.
I didn’t agree with this ruling, and it may be that a future council might relent, but one had to respect the fact that there was at least a policy that had been thought out along lines that prioritised the environment rather than its coffers.
Is it too late for Lebanon? Well Beirut has been razed twice by massive earthquakes. They say another big one is due.
Michael Karam is a freelance writer who lives between Beirut and Brighton
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