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Al-Ahram Weekly 13 - 19 July 2000 Issue No. 490 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 13 - 19 July 2000 Issue No. 490
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Focus International Economy Opinion Interview Culture Features Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Life at the top
By Fayza HassanThe first tourists who came to Egypt were generally excited at the idea of making one of the ancient temples their temporary dwelling. Thomas Cook's highlight of his Upper Egypt tours was a repas fin, complete with lace table linen and silverware, served by impeccable waiters in one of the more secluded royal tombs. In Cairo, foreigners were attracted by the Mameluke and Ottoman houses in the old quarters that had not been submitted to the modernisation programme instituted by Mohamed Ali and his successors. Even after the street bearing the wali's name destroyed part of the area's character, the Citadel and its surroundings remained a clear favourite with the visiting intelligentsia. When Dorothy Eady (later known as Omm Sety) came to Egypt in 1933 to become Mrs Imam Abdel-Meguid, she was immediately attracted to the area. "Imam's family... owned a house that backed onto the Citadel in the old part of the city," writes Jonathan Cott in The Search for Omm Sety (Penguin Books, 1986). "[F]rom this residence, Dorothy would observe gray and black crows resting on top of sycamores and majestic kites soaring over eucalyptus trees, watch clouds of pigeons flying above cupolas, domes and minarets; hear the cries of the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer, and, in the distance, make out the lateen sails of feluccas drifting down the Great River."
Twenty years later, the same quarter at the back of the Citadel, just a little worse for wear, housed several Egyptian leftists endowed with artistic and intellectual gifts or pretensions: "Font has two rooms behind the Citadel in old Cairo. His neighbours are barrow-keepers, servants and sometimes beggars. It is the prettiest and most colourful part of Cairo and anywhere else the arties would have flocked to it, but not in Cairo. The Cairo arties, if not slumming in Europe, are driving their Jaguars in Zamalek. I would like to live in that part of Cairo. I genuinely would prefer to live there. But with me it would be gimmicky," reflects Waguih Ghali in Beer in the Snooker Club (Serpent Tails, 1987).
The author was writing in the early 1960s and one can only impute to poetic licence his oversight of the thriving "artie" community established precisely on this site, known generally as Darb Al-Labbana. Studios were scattered along the narrow winding alleys behind the Citadel, enclosed between the mosque of Mahmoud Pasha on one side and the Madrasa of Qanibay Al-Saifi (Al-Amir Akhur) and Bayt Al-Fann (the house of the arts, aka Hassan Fathi's house), on the other. With the imposing Dar Al-Mahfuzat squatting below, and the bimaristan of Al-Mu'ayyad majestically raising its ruined façade above, the area was already known as Cairo's Montmartre or the artists' quarter at the time Ghali was writing his much acclaimed book. In fact, for over a century, painters, sculptors and musicians had occupied rooms in the ruins of 16th- and 17th-century houses.
Vviews of bimaristan Sultan Al-Mu'ayyad
photos: Patricia Kahil
"Weren't there already many painters living here in the early 1940s?" I ask Patricia Kahil, who has called to say that someone is about to build on the plot adjacent to the house once occupied by Hassan Fathi. I seem to recall that the painter Mir˜ lived in Bayt Al-Fann at one point, but Patricia's mind is not on the artists who lived in Bayt Al-Fann. She believes that the planned building will disfigure this 16th-century architectural jewel, which retrieved a measure of fame ten years ago, when the Agha Khan took a personal interest in preserving the block where Hassan Fathi once had his studio.
We drove there one Friday afternoon after prayer. Turning left, off Citadel Square and past Dar Al-Mahfuzat -- an amazing construction in its own right -- we came to a stop at the edge of a small piazza looking almost rural under the shade of a couple of flowering casuarinas. Kittens played on the sill of a barred window, undisturbed by the sound of dice slammed onto backgammon boards and the occasional titter of customers settled on rickety chairs outside the informal road-side café. The clamour of the city was suddenly far behind and the men concentrating on their games paid us only perfunctory attention. They were used to seeing Patricia, who comes here often, mesmerised by a monument that we were planning to visit later.
Famous painter Munir Canaan's representation of Darb Al-Labbana and fellow artists in the 1950s; bottom right: another famous artist, Hassan Soliman, captured at work by Canaan
Up the lane, the houses, or ruins thereof, in varying but generally deplorable states of disrepair, teemed with life nevertheless, as is usual in the poorer areas of Cairo. At every window, colourful washing flapped gaily in the breeze, highlighting the numerous cracks running the length of entire walls. The Citadel plateau, slightly above city level, has always been famous for the pure quality of its air. Despite the heat and the incredible amounts of garbage piled underfoot, I could feel its unmistakable crispness.
We stopped near the threatened Bayt Al-Fann (or Maison des Arts to Francophones) in front of which a dozen luxury cars were parked, though I could not imagine who, in this obviously impecunious community, might own them. Patricia assured me that a few renowned artists still keep their old studios in the house. "Not everyone has forgotten Bayt Al-Fann," she commented cryptically, as if she knew who, but was not going to tell.
This reminded me of an elegant reception I attended one summer not long ago, organised by interior decorator Ihab Shafiq, who was still hoping at the time to save the building on behalf of the Agha Khan. Plans to reinforce the foundations had been drawn up and Foreign Minister Amr Moussa was treated to a guided tour of the first floor, the one least likely to collapse under the combined weight of the distinguished visitor and his retinue. The others guests had been urged to remain in the inner courtyard and the salamlik. They had also been instructed to tread lightly. I had found the whole experience rather surreal but extremely pleasurable. With its walls of carved wood and beautifully painted ceilings, its ornate niches and mashrabiya-masked windows, the building exercised a fascination that shone clearly in the eyes of the elegant guests who whispered their admiration while savouring delicious little canapés.
I had noticed then that, although hundreds of cars must have driven up the quaint little lane to disgorge the numerous ladies and gentlemen who suddenly materialised in the courtyard, not a sound had been heard from the inside.
Standing to the left of the building and over the small plot currently under construction, I could now understand why I had not heard the guests coming that night, by roughly estimating the thickness of the retaining stone walls. From my vantage point, I could clearly observe the exterior upper sections built in exceedingly damaged bricks of qusrmil (a mixture of silt and ashes collected from the furnaces of public baths). I also noticed that the foundations of the future construction had been dug by hand, an indication that the architects in charge were aware of the catastrophe that any violent or constant mechanical tremor was liable to bring about. "It is really not so bad," said Patricia. "The wall of the new building might act as a support, actually reinforcing the old structure. If only they could keep to the same style," she sighed. She had apparently had a peek at the specifications, and believed that the windows would be of a different, more modern pattern, and would spoil thus the architectural ensemble irremediably.
Further up the lane, a street sign incongruously nailed to a crumbling wall informed passersby that they were in Atfet Rif'at. A youth was observing us from a small terrace at the top of the flight of stairs leading inside the ruins of an ancient tikiya. "What is the name of the tikiya?" I shouted in his direction. He did not seem to understand my question and had to be helped out by an old man who appeared from behind the wall. "Tikiyat Rif'at," he finally said, prompted by the grandfather; he quickly retreated when I demanded to know who Rif'at was, however.
We proceeded in our exploration, climbing over mountains of discarded plastic bags, construction material, old shoes and cardboard boxes which had once contained McDonald's quarter pounders or spicy nuggets fried according the Colonel's famous recipe. CocaCola cans and used tea bags dotted the piles of refuse. Here and there, swarming insects infested little mossy puddles of greenish, stagnant water, which throbbed with the strange, crawling creatures living below. Further up, we crossed into a car park or dump -- we were unable to decide which. Were these badly damaged vehicles still functional? Did any actually belong to some of the inhabitants? For the time being they served as shelters to stray cats and assorted rodents that used them as a base from which to launch food-gathering expeditions.
Patricia explained that the main curse of the area was the lack of a garbage collection system. The inhabitants, left to their own devices, were forced to dispose of their waste either by burning it, thus terminally polluting the atmosphere, or simply dumping it in the numerous vacant lots and abandoned buildings. "One such building is the bimaristan," added Patricia.
She guided me to a passage between two low ruined houses and, climbing to the top of a higher mound of debris, we were able to reach this most unusual monument from the back.
The bimaristan (hospital) of Sultan Al-Mu'ayyad was built on the site of a former mosque but was used for a short time only after his death, mainly because the nearby bimaristan of Sultan Qalawun was still functional and more popular with the inhabitants. For a while the building was used by foreign guests and later was turned into a residence for ambassadors visiting Egypt. Still later, it was transformed into a mosque with only a prayer niche added, since the cruciform construction was already oriented towards Mecca.
Now in ruins, the building has retained its splendid façade, one of the finest in Cairo according to Doris Behrens-Abouseif. "It is quite symmetrical, the middle part enhanced by the pishtaq with a pointed arch above the recess of the stalactite portal. Along the façade, running horizontally and vertically, is a carved molding in high relief in a pattern resembling a chain, the only such decoration in Cairo.
"Two keel-arched panels flank the portal recess, composed of inlaid masonry with inlaid square-Kufic Qur'anic texts. Further to the right and left on the façade, on each side of the keel-arched panels, are medallions of inlaid marble. Above the entrance is a double-arched window within a keel arch... The interior has a cruciform plan but is today in quite dilapidated condition," writes Abousseif.
As I read the passage from her Islamic Architecture in Cairo, An Introduction, (AUC Press, 1989), Patricia pointed to the various parts of the monuments. "What do you feel?" she asked curiously. "Amazement," I said at once, "and admiration for the architect who did not fear to raise his construction to such awesome proportions. Only Sultan Hassan is similarly built for giants." We descended the well-worn steps running along both sides of the façade and contemplated the colossal walls from below. No wonder the bimaristan did not function as a hospital for long. Passing the portal was enough to fill anyone with fear. "How could anyone ever restore such a monument?" I asked Patricia. "Why restore it?" she retorted. "It would be enough to clear the rooms and grounds of the accumulated garbage and plant grass in the courtyard. What remains is sufficient testimony of its past grandeur." We peered through an opening that was once a window. The walls of the recess were hidden by the accumulated garbage, piled over a metre high in places.The stench was unbearable and a rustling noise convinced us that it would not be a good idea to venture inside. We retraced our steps through what was once the main hall and is now a roofless open square.
On our way home, I thought about Patricia's suggestion of cleaning and leaving this majestic vestige as it is, and found myself agreeing with her. Some monuments are only diminished by a patch-up job. The bimaristan of Al-Mu'ayyad is definitely one of them.
The prince's will
In the shade of the banyan tree
