Gaza - Erasing the City's Architectural Narratives

Architecture Tells a Story…

The convergence of ideas throughout human history has become a norm and a given in the diverse fabric of human civilization over the ages.

Gaza… Today marks the 250th day of the genocidal war. As I remain one of those still in Gaza City, or as it is referred to in the new media term, “Northern Gaza,” you recall, as you wander through the rubble and swamps of betrayal and the scent of martyrs in the streets of Gaza City, the famous poem by Tamim Al-Barghouti “In Jerusalem,” but with a slight modification in one of its verses: “So what do you see in Gaza when you visit it?” You see a lot, a lot, a lot, and a little.

I remember attending a lecture on architecture at a conference at my Islamic University in Gaza not too long ago, about the beautiful science of architecture and stories. It felt like the city was unlike any other city, and this is not just praise for my city. Gaza can be called a non-functional city! By this, I mean that Gaza’s buildings, streets, and architectural style were not created solely for function. In many cases, the building exists and is then utilized for a certain purpose. I or any resident or engineer in Gaza could list dozens, even hundreds, of live examples of this. But what does that mean in these circumstances? I mean that we live through the buildings, and they shape our identity, not only collectively but also personally. Yes, you feel that these old and new buildings represent part of our being, memories, daily lives, and details.

Take a look at the social media pages of non-influencers from Gaza; you will find that the places they feel most nostalgic for are the buildings, the architecture, which is part of the lost soul. Our enemy and oppressor realized this entirely. For instance, why does the occupying army partially demolish the Palace of Al-Basha and not completely? Someone might answer to erase heritage and history. I would say, excuse me, my friend, I don’t believe so. If that were the goal, they would have done as America did in Iraq by stealing artifacts, and sometimes entire historical buildings, dismantling and selling them as artifacts to another country. But the occupier did not do that with the Palace of Al-Basha, nor the Great Omari Mosque, nor the Church of St. Porphyrius, nor the Byzantine Church, nor any other place. They did not destroy them completely. I don’t know if they stole or not, but what I saw with my simple eyes is the disfigurement.

They wanted to disfigure the place to distort the collective memory, the personality, and the soul. They made people lose their loved ones and their neighborhoods. I like the term “neighborhood” a lot; it derives from “life.” In our neighborhoods, we have life…

The occupier wanted to erase the story and distort it, making the image in minds blurred, losing its beauty, and replacing it with stories of war and death through the partial destruction of the place. When you pass by, you feel the fragmentation of the soul and the uprooting of beauty from your heart for those buildings that represent stories and people’s sentimental attachments.

Moreover, I believe the greatest aim of the occupation is to destroy the indirect cohesion among community segments by destroying their architectural stories. The connection, for example, in the old town between the Palace of Al-Basha, Al-Zahra School, the Great Omari Mosque, the Qaysariyya, and the Church of St. Porphyrius, and the Governorate Office, this heritage architectural cluster, along with the market, the municipality, a group of banks, and the square, formed what is known traditionally as “the town.” As you wander through this part of the city now, you will understand the meaning of the architectural spiritual fragmentation of the place and how the occupation aimed to paralyze the connection of people of all intellectual, cultural, and age levels with the surrounding architecture and their connection to the true meaning of Gaza.

This is not limited to the historical part of the city but the modern side is even worse.

The occupation began its attacks in the first days of the war on the city center, the Rimal area, distorting the place, destroying the streets, uprooting the present of Gaza’s residents, and then targeting its past. The modern generations of Gaza spend, in my estimation, more than half of their lives within a 1 km radius called Rimal. All their memories, emotional and architectural connections, lie in this square, which was destroyed, disfigured, and turned into a ghost area during this war. Their other half of life lies on Al-Rasheed Coastal Street, where the occupation created heartbreaking memories in this war. The number of massacres there is unbearable for any mind or human. Nowadays, when Al-Rasheed Street is mentioned, the Nabulsi massacre and the northern famine are recalled. People and the world have forgotten all their previous architectural memories of the buildings, the street, the corniche, and leisure, replaced by memories of blood, killing, loss, and destruction.

Architects around the world speak about connecting buildings with the people they serve, creating an emotional bond between users and their architecture as a new thought globally. However, Gaza has never abandoned this thought since ancient times. This is the worst aspect of genocide: our emotional attachment to the surrounding architecture…

Amjad Al-Shobaki

08-06-2024

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