An Architecture of Memory

I was 17 when I asked my father if I could study architecture after finishing high school. He refused, saying that it’s hard to find jobs in architecture, and six years are too long to eventually lead to unemployment. Instead, he wanted me to study business and help him run his business. But, what I wanted was to study something related to art.

I attended one business class, hated it, and came home crying, desperate to change my major to one that is related to art. I didn’t fully understand graphic design, only that it felt closer to the arts. To my surprise, my father approved, even though it meant five years of study. Little did I know I’d eventually find myself working in wayfinding, a field that merges both graphic design and architecture.

Why did I want to study architecture in the first place? Honestly, after 20 years, I simply don’t remember. Maybe it was the only artistic field I knew that could provide a stable income? Maybe I was influenced by classmates who were brilliant at math and aspired to study architecture, so I looked up to them?

It wasn’t until my mid-20s, when I started traveling, that I truly understood the power of architecture. It tells the story of a place and its culture, history, and collective personality. From building facades to graffiti-covered streets, each city has its own visual expression and language. However, I noticed that some details and experiences still felt familiar. The closer the countries are, the more familiar to one another they become – whereas the more distant, the more different, giving more novel experiences. 

In Helsinki, I found stark brutalism, neoclassicism and Art Nouveau style buildings coexisting and majestically complementing each other. In Barcelona, from Gaudí’s organic, nature-inspired designs to the Art Nouveau dreams woven into the city’s textures – pure magic! Then there’s Beirut – my hometown – where history, pain, resilience are all over its facades, splashes here and there. From traditional Beiruti apartment buildings with their elegant three-arched balconies to war-scarred high rises still riddled with bullet holes, and half-finished structures abandoned due to economic crises – Beirut’s architecture is a raw, poetic reflection of its past, and present. Its cityscape is a true representation of its people and their struggles.

Architecture is more than just buildings, it’s a mirror of who we are as collectives. Our complexities, traumas, dreams, passions, languages, religions/non-religions and values, all imprinted onto our cities. It reflects not just our local culture but the cultures that have immigrated, blended, and reshaped our spaces and societies throughout time. These historical societal shifts let novelty and familiarity be an ever changing phenomenon, continuously shaping and reshaping urban and social identities – year after year, decade after decade, century after century.  

As we’ve explored in previous articles, the interplay between novelty and familiarity is central to human psychology and, by extension, to architecture. Our sense of novelty and familiarity is shaped by our personal experiences and surroundings, influencing how we create and perceive the built environment. In this article, we turn to Beirut’s cityscape, examining what is seen as novel, what feels familiar, and how once-novel architectural elements have become central to the city’s identity, something locals now fight to preserve. 

What’s new to me is not necessarily new to you 

As we discussed in our introductory – or 'People' – article, when something stands out, it is more likely to be seen as novel and remembered. Architecture is a perfect example of how this phenomenon unfolds.

In any city, locals and visitors experience novelty and familiarity differently. Naturally, the more local you are, the higher your familiarity scale compared to visitors – and vice versa.

I first realized this 12 years ago when my Danish ex visited Beirut for the first time and was struck by its architectural diversity. 

From war-torn facades ¹ to the iconic yet unfinished Egg cinema building ², and other lesser-known incomplete structures where construction workers and homeless people find shelter (yes, Beirut’s homelessness crisis is immense), to the authentic old-Beiruti architectural experience on Armenia Street, Rue Gouraud, Mar Mikhael, and Gemmayze – my absolute favourite spot. The renovated heritage styles of Saifi Village contrast with the hybrid of historical preservation and modern globalized aesthetics ³ in downtown Beirut – or 'Centre Ville', as some locals call it. This area caters more to high-end visitors than locals, with a hidden neo-futurist landmark, a Zaha Hadid-designed Beirut Souks Department Store, which then leads you to the waterfront lined with skyscrapers inspired by architectural globalization. In retrospect, I now see Saifi Village as a metaphorical stepping stone between what once was (authentic old Beirut) and what is now (the newly rebuilt downtown).

All of these variations, and many, MANY more, create a striking contrast of the complex and diverse nature of the Beiruti society, with a range of religious beliefs and perspectives.

I had never truly noticed or appreciated my own city’s look and feel until that moment. Suddenly, seeing it through my ex’s perspective, the details that had always been familiar or 'unseen' began to stand out. Then, over the years, as I lived in Denmark and visited Beirut only once a year, my own city began to feel unfamiliar. The place where I was born and spent the first 27 years of my life had, all of a sudden, become novel. 

Layers of cultures – in one

If I had to define Beirut’s architectural heritage, based on my preferences and the visuals I’ve collected from my beloved city, I would highlight one typology: the 'triple-arch house', also known as the 'central hall house' ⁴. 

Typically, the central hall house has a large covered hall (al-dār) as its core, surrounded by rooms on three sides, with a series of arched openings on the fourth. These arched openings would often be located on the façade of the central hall. The middle arch is usually wider than the others to create a sense of symmetry and balance. The triple arch symbolizes harmony and openness ⁵.

“Inhabitants wanted to see their surrounding and wanted to be seen by the public” – Anne Moellenhauer ⁶

Another signature element of the Beiruti central hall house is its balcony, often extending in front of the triple-arched window. Today, some of these houses remain – either carefully renovated or left in ruins –  a result of years of war, financial hardship, abandoned ownership, or damage from the August 4 Beirut explosion. 

Last but not least, two other key features of the central hall house balconies are the corbelled stone and railings. Corbels are used to support balconies (mashrabiyas), upper floors, and arches for structural and aesthetic purposes. Railings, found on balconies (and staircases), add another layer of artistry and prestige to Beirut’s architecture. They often feature intricate floral, geometric, or Arabesque designs. ⁷

The central hall house gained popularity among Ottoman and Egyptian elites in the early 19th century. During this period, Ottoman Baroque styles influenced the city’s architecture, which continued through the mid-19th century. Around that time, As European influence grew, Italianate and Neo-Classical elements became prominent, alongside the emergence of Neo-Islamic and Neo-Oriental styles. By the early 20th century, Art Nouveau and Art Deco began shaping Beirut’s architectural landscape, adding a modern twist to the city’s evolving identity. ⁸

A mosaic of eras, styles, and cycles of regression and revival, the central hall house is an example of the diverse cultural influences that shaped Beirut’s architectural heritage in such a short time. What was once novel (regardless of its origin), has become so familiar to us that, to this day, both locals and the Lebanese diaspora gather around these architectural spaces and façades to experience a sense of authenticity, identity, and belonging. These designs serve as powerful symbols of our community and heritage.

A haunting artifact

There’s a building I used to pass by every day while I worked in Beirut in my 20s. It's the Holiday Inn, a 25-story concrete tower, built in 1971 in a modernist architectural style. This building was part of Beirut’s architectural boom and the city’s 'Golden Age' before the start of the Civil War. Today, it's riddled with bullet holes, stained with blood, and marked by the remnants of human lives absorbed into the concrete. Snipers occupied the upper floors and roof, while heavy artillery from surrounding buildings ravaged the Holiday Inn, leaving scars that remain visible to this day. As the war divided the city into east and west, the Holiday Inn became its epicenter – a haunted monument to the conflict.

I remember my mother telling me the story of this building when I was about nine. We’d pass by it on our way to Beirut’s city center, stopping for ice cream at my dad’s favorite shop. I remember her words vividly: fighters would rush to the roof and throw each other off. That shook me to my core. To this day, whenever I pass by the building, time seems to stand still. I hear her voice telling me the story over and over again, as the silence around it grows louder. It stands tall, its scars and wounds exposed, vulnerable, a stark reminder of how conflict can transform architecture from a symbol of prosperity into a remnant of destruction.

There are several reasons why Beirut’s war-scarred buildings remain visible today. While Lebanon’s ongoing economic crisis makes restoration difficult for many property owners, some buildings are intentionally preserved as part of the city’s architectural heritage. The bullet holes in these buildings aren’t just damage; they are symbols of our shared experiences, passed down through generations, serving as physical reminders of the violence, trauma, and resilience of that time, and the times to come. These facades stand as examples of the consequences of conflict, serving as a hope that such mistakes will never be repeated.

Familiarity isn’t always about beauty and joy; it’s also about pain and loss. These very familiar bullet holes represent the horrific, the unimaginable – a dystopia that locals carry in their bodies, minds and souls.

Novelty, what is it good for?

Lebanese millennials have heard it countless times: Oh, Beirut? I heard it was the Paris (or Switzerland) of the Middle East back in the day! An echo of a Beirut we never knew.

You hear it from foreigners while traveling abroad. Where are you from? You hesitate for a second thinking, Here we go again, then quietly – perhaps with a hint of shame – say, Lebanon. And there you have it, the same line – Oh the Paris of the Middle East! – always followed by that awkward look of pity. That is, if they don’t mistake you for a Libyan first.

Then you have the older generations – those who survived the war – who still reminisce about Beirut before the Civil War. The golden days. The Paris of the Middle East. They hold onto that memory, hoping that one day, we might bring Paris back to Beirut.

But what was Beirut like before the Civil War? What did they really mean when they called it the Paris of the Middle East?

At the heart of Beirut lies Martyrs’ Square, a space that, despite its ever-changing architectural forms under the Ottomans, the French, and the Lebanese, has continuously shaped social identity. The square has been erased and rebuilt many times, yet it remains Beirut’s most symbolic public space.  It feels like the central hall – the dār – of the city.

Before the war, Martyrs’ Square had everything a thriving public space needed: wide streets, sidewalks, greenery, public transportation, cinemas, cafés, and cultural landmarks. ⁹ In the 1950s and 1960s, Beirut’s middle class and international visitors gathered at the square for a movie at Rivoli or Empire, coffee at a local café, or just to soak in the city’s energy. ¹⁰

The square was also home to the Martyrs’ Monument, a four-meter bronze statue by Italian sculptor Renato Marino Mazzacurati, inaugurated in 1960. It commemorates the Lebanese nationalists executed by the Ottomans in 1916 ¹¹ – another layer of history adding to the city’s landscape.

Before the war, this was where Beirut’s entire social, cultural, economic, and political life converged into one space. It became known simply as al-Balad—the heart of the country. ¹²

Then came the Civil War. Martyrs’ Square became a frontline, dividing Beirut into east and west. It was ravaged, like everything else around it. The statue itself was scarred with bullet holes and shrapnel marks. When the statue was renovated in 1996, leaving the scars was a deliberate decision ¹³, to let history speak through them. Once again, bullet holes became a symbol ingrained in the locals’ culture and identity. 

After the war, a new project to rebuild Beirut came about, including Martyrs’ Square. But this time, the focus shifted to creating a modern, forward-moving city. The scars, the history, the civic space – none of it was really at the forefront of the plan. Now, when you pass by, it’s usually by car, driving around to find a spot in the vast parking lot that has taken over the square. Surprisingly, it still serves as a gathering place for protesters.

The urban development corporation behind this transformation, Solidere, sought to rebuild Beirut after years of war. Their approach to conservation in the city center combined tradition and innovation – a perfect balance between novelty and familiarity, one would think, right? Yet the outcome, and perhaps the intention, seems to have been erasure: the traces of war wiped clean, a blank page, a fresh start. Out with the past, in with the new!

The thing is, the city center was once a hub where people from different religious backgrounds and social classes gathered, where parks, movie theaters, and cafés created shared spaces. Then the war came, splitting the city, society, and families into two entities. Naturally, after the war ended, one might have expected the city center to be rebuilt as it once was – 'the Paris of the Middle East' – restoring the parks, public spaces, and shops, and bringing back the city that once belonged to everyone. But burying traces of war and creating exclusive spaces didn’t necessarily bring people back together – it may have only reinforced divisions. 

As Clara May puts it: “Instead, the work, which was carried out by the private company Solidere, has been accused of promoting a culture of 'amnesia' around the civil war, as well as exacerbating socio-economic divisions”. ¹⁴

There are definitely many perspectives on this matter. While some praise Solidere for its high-quality design and efforts to create a tourist attraction and economic opportunities, others criticize it for erasing history, and prioritizing exclusivity over inclusivity. Which begs the question: Who’s right in this scenario? Those who wish to leave the pain behind and embrace 'modernity', or those who find identity, nostalgia, and resilience in the familiar past? Does the painful familiar outweigh the pain-free new, or vice versa?

Restoring identity 

With novelty and/or familiarity in architecture, we recognize that what’s novel to one person may not be to another, and what feels familiar can, over time, become novel again. When we zoom in, a familiar visual artifact can become a defining part of identity, regardless of its origins in colonialism, war, cultural influence, or class divisions. Even when tied to either a positive or negative experience, it can remain embedded in a society’s collective identity.

Perhaps, in some cases, preserving or restoring an architectural element that once felt familiar and functioned well is exactly what’s needed to bring people back together and rebuild a fractured society. And maybe a painful yet familiar artifact, rather than being erased, can serve as a visual bond, an acknowledgment of pain that unites people, regardless of background, perspective, or belief.