Like an endangered species, Beirut's elegant old buildings are staring at extinction. In a construction frenzy fuelled by a frothy economy and dollops of cash from Gulf Arab and Lebanese investors, new tower blocks are rising helter-skelter across the capital, many of them over the demolished ruins of its architectural heritage.
A few conservationists are trying to save something from the wreckage, but in a city where money is king, it may be too late.
Pascale Ingea, a shy, soft-spoken 3 Read more

Like an endangered species, Beirut's elegant old buildings are staring at extinction. In a construction frenzy fuelled by a frothy economy and dollops of cash from Gulf Arab and Lebanese investors, new tower blocks are rising helter-skelter across the capital, many of them over the demolished ruins of its architectural heritage.
A few conservationists are trying to save something from the wreckage, but in a city where money is king, it may be too late.
Pascale Ingea, a shy, soft-spoken 33-year-old artist and teacher, who began a Facebook group called 'Stop Destroying Your Heritage' in March in outrage over relentless demolitions in the traditional Ashrafiyeh quarter where she had grown up.
"For the past six months, I wake up every day and watch a house being destroyed," she explained on the rooftop of an old building where she has a workshop.
Ingea told how she had watched helplessly from her balcony as workers wrecked a splendid 19th-century building she had known since her childhood.
She works with other people, who act like self-appointed conservation vigilantes, checking venerable buildings for hints of imminent demolition, photographing the evidence and contacting the culture ministry to intervene.
Ingea said she is working on lobbying the government to make the current freeze on destroying old houses permanent. But Ingea says the key is raising awareness among the younger generation.
Some younger Lebanese are waking up to the abrupt changes in the texture of a city that is home to around 1.5 million people.
Conservation groups recently launched an awareness campaign that features a picture of tombstones for recently demolished old buildings against a backdrop of dark skyscrapers.
They have won support from Lebanon's youthful culture minister Salim Warde.
Any demolition order must now bear his signature. He is also pushing parliament to enact a law that would give tax breaks and other incentives to owners of heritage houses.
Even if the law passes -- an earlier version has languished since 1997 -- it may take several years to implement, a time-lag that powerful, well-connected buyers of old houses may exploit.
"This historic house is not the property of the owner of the house only. It is true that legally the house is the owner's but it is also belongs to all Lebanese people. This is called the ''bien commun'' - the common good - for all the people," said Ingea from the rooftop overlooking a neighbourhood of old houses that appear to be dwarfed by the high-rise buildings being constructed.
Some typical Lebanese houses with triple-arched windows, elaborate balconies and red-tiled roofs have survived, now dwarfed by the concrete apartment blocks hemming them in. Any sign of dereliction suggests they are on death row.
Soaring land prices have etched dollar signs into the eyes of Beirut's property owners. They have every incentive to sell old houses to developers, who flatten them to build high-rises, unconstrained by zoning regulations.
The building boom has accelerated in the last couple of years as Lebanon emerged relatively unscathed from the global recession which punished Gulf real estate sectors in Dubai and elsewhere.
Lebanon, still reconstructing after its 1975-90 civil war, might seem a precarious haven for investment.
Only four years ago, the Israeli air force was bombing southern Beirut into rubble during a war with Shi'ite Hezbollah guerrillas. The country flirted with renewed civil war in 2008.
Now enjoying a respite from instability, the economy grew a startling 9 percent in 2009 and may manage 8 percent this year.
Giant new buildings are piercing Beirut's skyline, none brasher -- or to its critics more hateful -- than the 50-storey Sama Beirut tower, set to be Lebanon's tallest at 200 metres.
Amid the dust and din of construction, it is looming over the narrow streets, small houses and gardens that once made up an intimate corner of the Christian district of Ashrafiyeh.
Many of Beirut's luxury tower blocks stand almost empty, the apartments owned by Gulf Arabs or Lebanese expatriates who only use them a few weeks a year. Ordinary Beirutis are priced out.
One elderly resident of Gemmayzeh laments the destruction of these heritage houses.
"We would like to have our old heritage left intact, our neighbourhood has one of the best old houses, they are a pleasure to look at. And then they are building these high-rises that cut off the air and the sun. If there is an earthquake, no one will be left. It is a pity, a real pity to destroy these beautiful buildings," he said.
For some architects and urban planners, it is too late to salvage Beirut's heritage: a few jewels will survive, thanks to their appreciative owners, but the state has long ago missed the chance to buy up old buildings for public use.
Conservation groups have listed four neighbourhoods in Beirut with 520 buildings worth preserving. But conservationists say so far 70 houses have been destroyed and the rest will likely follow. Close