The House
Like Polish, Greek, and Italian return emigrants, one of the first and most common elements that came to distinguish those Lebanese emigrants who came back from their kinsfolk and fellow villagers was the house they built for themselves.[26] Invariably, the returnees chose to build for themselves a house that was bigger and more ornate than any other in the villagehsave, perhaps, for that of another, wealthier emigrant. Undoubtedly, part of the reason for such expenditure was the returnees' desire to display their financial success. In addition, having experiencedheven if from visual encounters instead of actual residencehbetter housing, emigrants were loathe to live in the old hovel. But there were other aspects of themselves that returned emigrants, for conscious reasons or rather more submerged ones, wanted to show. In design and function their new houses were partly a reflection of their new self-images and social habits, which they had piled on top of the old ones. To illustrate this point we need to look at the house as historical artifact.
In order to fully understand the historical significance of the new “emigrant house,” we have to digress a bit and look at the “traditional” house in the village. Throughout the greater part of the nineteenth century, most peasant families lived in a one- or two-room hovel whose walls were made of the local ubiquitous stone and whose flat roof was a combination of timber logs and packed dirt. One of the rooms was used to keep the animals in during the winter, and the other served as living, cooking, eating, and sleeping space. This room was sparsely furnished with a few mattresses, a portable brazier, and maybe a chest of drawers if the peasant was well-off. There were few cooking utensils; most of them were built in, and the rest were manufactured locally. Storage space for the few utensils and linens was shelves built into the walls.[27] Bread, the main ingredient in the peasants' diet, was baked on a tannour[28] that was located right outside the house.
Architecturally, the peasants' houses were hardly appealing. Most travelers, except for those whose eyes were clouded by thick romantic notions about the Holy Land, remarked at the misery of peasant abodes.[29] For instance, in 1860 David Urquhart described the house where he had to spend one night as a crowded hovel that contained a few “potteries” and little else. He went on to state that “the rest of the villages in this area were, if not worse, no better than the state of this village.”[30] And F. Bart lamented that “these habitations [of peasants] could afford a splendid view. But practically all [of these houses] have only one room, without a window, which serves all the needs of the home.”[31] Late-nineteenth-century photographs of villages (and not just individual houses) in the Mountain confirm thathto some extenththese statements did not simply express the unflattering personal views of European sojourners. Moreover, these observations are not surprising in view of the fact that a peasant's house was built by members of his family who had little if any experience in masonry. Stones were selected to fit on top of each other as tightly as possible without much shaping since the tools and expertise necessary for constructing tight-fitting walls were not readily available to the fellah. In addition, if a house was built without interior supports, the dimensions were limited to a mere twenty square meters, a space that was barely adequate for four people. To construct a larger house, peasants had to use wooden beams or pillars of stone. However, both of these materials were extremely expensive. Wood was becoming a precious commodity in the Mountain, as silk factories had consumed tons of wood to fire up their spinning machines.[32] Even when a peasant could afford it, the space added was only six square meters. And while stone pillars added much more space, the cost of constructing this larger space was much higher than most peasants could afford.[33]
Aside from being larger versions of this typical house, the homes of wealthier peasants and even of many of the shuyukh were only different in two ways: content and location. These wealthier homes may have contained a big iron bed, many more pillows, a cupboard or two, some wooden trunks, and a low table.[34] While a few items, like the bed, were imitations of European possessions common in Beirut, most of the other possessions were “traditional” household goods. Such contents marked their owners as rich and elite members of peasant society but hardly as “modern” in the European sense. Another distinguishing factor was the location of the house within the general layout of a particular village. The most influential members of the village occupied its central part, while poorer ones lived at the periphery. For example, in the village of ‘Ammatur, the two main clans of ‘Abd as-Samad and Abu-Shaqra occupied the center of the village, while the lower class Druzes and Christians lived at the periphery of the village, and an outcast Christian-Muslim couple had to live at a considerable distance from the village.[35] This visual rendition of social hierarchy immediately clued visitors to the locus of power and directed them to the house where they could expect the greatest amount of hospitality.
A decade or two after Urquhart's visit to Lebanon (1870–1880), money from silk was showing up in—among other things—slightly better homes for wealthier peasants.[36] The large, single, and multipurpose living space was no longer sufficient, nor was the proximity to animals desirable. The first change in the construction of peasant houses was the adoption of two-level rectangular houses, with the lower level reserved for the animals. The physical separation of living and service areas terminated the cohabitation of human and animal. One observer saw this shift as “symbolizing man's emancipation from unremitting toil.”[37] Even if we do not subscribe to such dramatic views, we can still argue that this physical elevation was meant as an indication of a social rise above the general peasantry. The way these new types of houses were constructed confirms this point. While the lower level of the house—or the reserve of animals and the tannour—was still a crude construction of stone walls and dirt ceiling, the second level was a different affair altogether. Reserved for people, the upper level displayed better masonry work and consisted of a bigger room with a couple of slightly larger windows. One door on that level let out to the road and another to the roof of the lower level which served in the summer as a terrace.[38] Yet, despite the larger dimensions, the living space of the family was essentially the same as that in older and poorer houses in that it was multipurpose. In other words, the same physical space served as a communal sitting room, eating area, and—at the end of the day—sleeping area. Thus, we can fairly conclude that the first eighty or so years of the nineteenth century were marked by slow changes in the architecture, interior design, and functions of the Lebanese house.
The following thirty years were different. Emigrant money funded the most rapid and dramatic transformation of that house at every level, creating in the process the “central-hall house.” This was long assumed to be the Lebanese house parexcellence, and it is etched into the collective memory as a national icon whose roots derive from the “Mountain”—and to a much lesser extent from the Phoenician past.[39] In fact, rather than simply emanating from the Mountain, these houses were emigrant adaptations of the mansions of the upper bourgeoisie of Beirut. In turn, this style was an earlier extroversion of the Arab-Islamic interior, which dominated the mountain houses mixed with Italian and French material and ornamentation. Moreover, these edifices—while remaining unique in some ways—were part of a Levantine bourgeois architecture that was emerging around the same time throughout the Eastern Mediterranean.[40] For example, Zeynep Çelik speaks of similar architecture and of the integration of “western appliqué façades on traditional interiors,” which was remaking the elite houses in Istanbul.[41] Put another way, the “central-hall house” was a dialectical outcome of the various cultural currents that ran through Beirut and into the Mountain villages. These came from the Ottoman metropole, from the peasant villages, and through Italian and French architects and builders.
Regardless of their roots, these houses stood in the villages of the Mountain as unambiguous and impressive testaments to the wealth and status of their owners—returning emigrants. As Friedrich Ragette commented rather dramatically about architecture in the Lebanese village, “Towards the end of the nineteenth century . . . the houses turned into veritable villas . . . majestically dominating their surroundings.”[42] Ranging between 140 and 200 square meters (and sometimes reaching palatial dimensions with 300 square meters of floor space), these harat (as they were called) were larger than any of the older houses. Beyond size, the striking elevated triple-arch motif of the central hall—which included two ornate windows that framed the door—made these houses stand out among the plain façades of the older homes. Finally, the coup de grâce was the signature red-tiled roof, which stood out ever so dramatically against the green and brown surroundings.
Digging a little deeper, we find that from their foundations these harat were different from their poorer cousins. Many of these houses (some of which are still standing today) show in their details that construction was assigned to local professional masons. The stones for the walls were better dressed and arranged, and the ceiling was sometimes sealed with trabé franjié (“European soil”), or cement.[43] More interesting, this elaborate variation included arches within the house. Each set of arches was called habl qanater, or a “cord of arches,” and the house could contain one, two, or three such cords depending on the wealth of the family.[44] Functionally, these arches improved the insulation of the house, which was also enhanced by the new way that the walls were constructed. These new walls, which could be as thick as one meter, were generally constructed as two separate walls with dirt filled in between them.[45] The outside wall was made of carefully selected stones, called mdamik, that were shaped to fit on top of each other without the need for mortar and with the joints barely apparent. Alternating sandstone and limestone (the limestone being used in façades exposed to the winter rains or in more load-bearing areas) created a most pleasing decorative effect that contrasted with the monotonous exterior of older homes.
Ornamental designs in windows, shutters, and porticos distanced this house even further from its plain cubic neighbors. Doors and their frames incorporated moldings and carvings that made them more attractive than the old doors, which consisted of pieces of wood nailed together. On a more cosmetic level, windows with paned glass as well as wooden shutters became more common, and ornamental glazed circular windows were placed near the top of walls in order to infuse the inside with a multitude of colors. In 1890 these changes were just emerging, as observed in a French report: “today the use of glass windows is being generalized very quickly.”[46] Its author went on to estimate the amount of window glass imported yearly at 450,000 square feet, at an average cost of 1,400 piasters per 100 square feet.[47] By 1911 we find that the importation of window glass had surpassed the million-square-foot mark.[48] It would appear from these numbers that returning emigrants wanted the power to see and to be seen—when they chose—from within the private space of their distinct houses.
Ultimately, however, the most visually striking sign of emigrant wealth appeared on the roof. Imported brilliant red tiles covered the new slanted roofs, which contrasted strongly with the traditional flat roofs of peasant homes. These blushes of wealth became popular and common enough that while in 1887 one million red tiles were imported from France, five years later this figure had doubled, and by 1911 it had crossed the five-million mark.[49] Although many of these tiles were destined for houses being built in Beirut, a large proportion made their way to the villages of Mount Lebanon as observed by various contemporaries. For example, Ernest Weakley, a British parliamentarian who was writing in 1911 about commerce in Mount Lebanon, commented that “all new households in Beirut as well as in the villages on the Lebanon are covered with the bright red foreign article [tiles].”[50] Ravndal was more explicit in his observation of this phenomenon: “When it is considered that there is hardly a village in the most remote parts of the Lebanon that has not at least 2 or 3 new houses with tiled roofs and that even whole villages have been thus constructe— the amount of money diverted from America and permanently invested in Syria can be easily recognized.”[51] These observations are all the more dramatic when one takes into account the fact that until the late 1870s “one could hardly find a single red-tiled roof in the Mountain.”[52]
Changes were as dramatic—albeit less publicon the inside of these emigrant homes. Floors were covered with mosaic tiles, sanitary fixtures and equipment were added, and better heating stoves were installed. Most notably, large multipurpose space gave way to a number of smaller rooms with a specific use for each. Although there were some differences from one house to the next, in general the floor plan remained quite similar. The main door opened unto an entry hall that led straight ahead to a central hall—hence the name of this design. This central hall was the main living room and reception area for guests; this much of the basic design was the same as that of “traditional” and poorer peasant homes. However, additional rooms (the number of which depended on the size of the house) branched off to the side of the entryway. These rooms dramatically altered the layout of the house by creating specialized spaces that had never really existed before. One of these was the kitchen, and the others were the bedrooms. Each of the bedrooms had a door that—when closed—effectively isolated the happenings in that room from the rest of the family life. In other words, a more distinct sense of privacy derived from the design of these houses. This privacy separated guests (in the central hall) from the occupants of the house who—for whatever reason—were in their bedrooms. Equally, the “modern” interior separated the parents' room from that of the children, and then again the boys from the girls.
Because of the enlargement and subdivision of space, the house acquired different types of furniture. The few mattresses which seated and slept the whole peasant family were no longer enough for all of the bedrooms as well as the living room. Beds—complete with iron frames—had to be purchased for the bedrooms; cushions, a sofa, and a couple of chairs were placed in the central hall. The increased demand for Western-style furniture translated into a rise in the number of imported chairs. While in 1868 only twelve thousand items of furniture were imported, during the 1890s eighty thousand chairs en bois courbé (of curved, or bent, wood) alone were imported yearly to Beirut and Mount Lebanon. Iron beds were another big import item by the end of the 1890s. In 1887, for instance, more than thirteen thousand English-made iron beds were imported to Beirut, with about a third destined for the villagers in the mountains.[53] Two decades later, the figures had doubled.[54] Demand for these goods finally propelled some local companies to build franji furniture. Early on in the twentieth century, these companies were advertising their wares in most of the popular newspapers, like Lubnan. One local manufacturer of furniture placed the following advertisement:
Other local stores were opened to sell a greater number of imported luxury goods. For instance, no fewer than three separate stores advertised the availability of clocks, armoires, and sofas at their various outlets in the Mountain. Since advertising was still fairly uncommon in Lebanon in the 1910s, we can appreciate that there were many other stores which did not advertise yet which were selling the same wares.Al-Suyufi Factory: [We] manufacture and sell in it all kinds of furniture . . . like armoires with mirrors, sinks of all kinds, buffets, and dining tables . . . drapes and coffee tables, hall trees . . . sofas and chairs, etc.[55]
Inside the armoires emigrants hung their franji clothes. Gone were the days when a peasant could not don the clothes of a shaykh without fear of retribution.[56] By the turn of the twentieth century the Lebanese middle class bought whatever fashion they could (and in some instances, could not) afford. The styles, as one zajaliya (popular poem) recorded, were distinctly different from those of the peasants—and of the shuyukh, for that matter. For the “little ones” there was:
Women, the poet continued in his laments, were even more “lavish.”
a blue suit with buttons and each button costing sixty misriyya On the waist there must be a leather Belt, according to the latest in fashion And a straw hat with A band all around And an ironed collar And a tied neck-tie
I want a short corset And two dresses that are tasteful I want a jeweled comb And I want earrings and a choker The hat costs four liras And the dress is from heavy wool And a raincoat that has no equal in the country[57]
Men wore their Panama hats, leather boots, and waistcoats with a gold watch dangling from a pocket.
Such was the demand for these luxury items that by the first decade of the twentieth century stores catering to these acquired tastes had spread throughout the larger cities of the Mountain. One of those, located in Beirut (where most of these stores were established), was Bon Marché, which advertised among its wares “parasols, pantaloons, handkerchiefs . . . perfumes and powders . . . fans . . . etc.”[58] While it was rare to find similar stores with finished goods in the larger towns of Dayr al-Qamar, Jubayl, Brummana, Zahleh, and Batrun, all had franji tailors. For instance, by end of the nineteenth century, there were five such tailors in Dayr al-Qamar, and, more tellingly, a provincial city like Jubayl boasted of seven tailors who catered to the surrounding villages.[59] Even smaller and more distant towns like Brummana, Bsherri, and Jezzine could count on one or two tailors in their areas.[60] All advertised themselves as capable of clothing men and women in the latest European fashion.
Amidst this “modern” wardrobe there was increasingly little room for the sirwal (peasant pants) and labbada (wool peasant hat) or for the geometric tattoos on the arms and faces of women. By wearing franji clothes, the rural middle class used their bodies to display their wealth, sophistication, and social difference. When this effort is considered along with the emergence of the harat, it should become clear that the members of this social group (dominated, as it was, by emigrants) worked hard to distinguish themselves from their poorer peasant neighbors through their novel styles of sitting, eating, sleeping, and dressing. Although these efforts at contrast stretched over years of history, they are nonetheless striking. Even as emigrants, these people had consciously and anxiously wanted to come back to their villages; once there they were equally desirous to distance themselves from the social milieu. In the mahjar they had elevated peasant life to romantic heights, but upon their return they shunned its “traditional” reality for their version of “modernity.” This simultaneous presence in the village and distance from its poorer inhabitants was a source of tension that exaggerated the social stratification within the village, a stratification already begun in part by commercialization of silk and the establishment of silk factories.
The growing distance between the peasants and the rural middle class becomes more apparent when we compare the social spaces of the “traditional” and the “modern” house. Before the 1890s (and even afterward in peasant houses), working and living spaces in the villages were almost indistinct visually and, for most of the year, functionally.[61] People, animals, work, and play intermeshed across the physical boundaries of the house. Women worked on raising their silkworms inside the house to add to the income of their families; lentils were spread on the flat roofs to dry them for the winter; and chickens and goats were brought in in the winter to safeguard the family's investment from the harsh weather. The roofs—built in close proximity to each other—were also a physical space; there women socialized with each other and participated in the public life of the village. Moreover, the dark and cramped interior of older peasant homes encouraged women to spend most of their time outside the house. In sum, the “traditional” house of the peasant was an integral part of the overall socioeconomic texture of the village and the fabric of daily life.
However, the ‘atbeh (threshold)of the harat pushed the internal life of a family into a more isolated sphere. Animals did not meander in, nor was it necessary to bring them in during the winter nights—they had their “stable” beneath the house. And while women continued to work within the house, their labors were no longer remunerated financially in any direct way. Cooking, cleaning, and raising children still went on behind the walls of the house, but sitt al-bayt (the lady of the house) did not need to raise silkworms. (This is ironic since many of these women had worked in the mahjar to help the family accumulate its money.) In addition, the new design also served to curtail sitt al-bayt's social interactions in the public sphere. Women in the emigrant household no longer had to go to the ‘ayn in the village to get water; either their servants did that, or water was brought much closer to the house. Cooking, normally an outdoor activity, was brought into the added kitchen, where more complicated and time-consuming meals were prepared. Finally, the beautiful pyramid of red tiles which topped these houses made it most impractical to climb on top of the roofs. Altogether, then, and in contrast to the “traditional” peasant abode the “central-hall house” afforded women fewer possibilities to go outside.
Isolating them further was the fact that the ‘atbeh also symbolized the division between those who owned the land and those who worked for them. One anecdote told about the wealthy Habib Doumani family from the town of Dayr al-Qamar dramatizes this separation. One day, “Sitt [Lady] Sa‘ada [Habib's wife] was bothered when she saw tens of shuraka‘ peasants [workers on the landowner's land] entering her house with their muddied boots dirtying her white and red tiles, and she complained of the matter to her husband.”[62] Not always nor in every new household was the separation so distinct. Yet the division was obvious all over the Mountain since most of the returned emigrants ceased to work on their land (as we will discuss later). It was all the more apparent as the sons (and some daughters, as we will also see later in this chapter) of these same emigrants were sent off to school while the youth of their peasant neighbors were busy tilling the fields. Thus, women of the harat could no longer easily intermingle with women of lesser financial stature, as all such relations had an undertow of unequal social power. One need not exaggerate the extent of this distinction to realize that it furthered the stratification of the village society even as—and because—it pushed middle-class women into a more distinguishable private sphere.