Global Courant
In Kabul’s main bazaar, tucked away among the stalls selling exposed raw meat, costly pashmina shawls and cheap electrical appliances, are rows of ancient Japanese porcelain teapots, once broken but painstakingly repaired with the skilful use of glue and metal staples.
The craftsman responsible for this reconstruction – the patragaris – played an important role in the communities of Central Asia for centuries. He often wandered from bazaar to bazaar and his work (it was almost always a man) included repairing precious porcelain from China, Japan and Russia, objects of cultural heritage in tea shops along the ancient Silk Road.
But today in Afghanistan there is no one to repair the cracked boilers. Like the memories held by the teapots, the Father himself has largely been lost to history.
In complex socio-political environments, where communities are often torn apart and heritage is alternately hailed as a beacon of reconciliation or a factor of tension, rehabilitation and reconstruction (or lack thereof) can play a central role in the peacebuilding process.
Putting pieces of the past back together is not an everyday act. It is both a transformative and a performative process. In his book House of Stone, the late Anthony Shadid, takes readers on a material and emotional journey as he finds and rehabilitates his childhood home in the Piedmont of Mount Lebanon.
When he first enters the deserted courtyards, many questions arise: how to start? Why now? With what purpose? Closely intertwined are doubts about techniques, methods and transience.
Shadid’s interrogation echoes a familiar chorus in post-conflict reconstruction. For whom we rebuild, in what ways and when, should determine the practice of reconstructing cultural heritage.
Cultural and political conditions typically drive these conversations, but technical questions, such as whether or not to rebuild, are just as important.
In Western traditions of architectural conservation, experts have gradually moved away from reconstructing destroyed heritage, an idea rooted in the Western belief that monuments are inherently fixed, constant entities and that their authenticity lies in their immutability.
In other traditions, where techniques rely on wood or earth, for example, architectural forms are inherently fluid.
For example, the ALIPH Foundation finances the restoration of large earthen structures in Niger and Mali (the tomb of Askia in Gao and the Historic center of Agadez), which require constant maintenance. For these projects, recovery is both a technical and a social process, which influences the timing of rehabilitation.
Maintenance often provides an opportunity for the community to come together and work together. In both countries, this process usually takes place just before the rainy season, in early spring. But external factors, ranging from conflict to availability of funding, have affected the communities’ ability to implement some of these projects in their own timeframes.
Indeed, the social impact of a conservation project and the freedom of choice and availability of the local community are crucial factors for the success of any intervention.
Reconstruction in old Kabul
The organization I work for, the ALPH Foundation, co-founded by France and the United Arab Emirates in 2017, recently facilitated reconstruction in the Murad Khani district of Kabul’s old city. A vibrant neighborhood with ancient chaykhana (tea houses) and blacksmith shops, after years of conflict the area had partially collapsed and was buried under tons of rubbish.
With the help of community masons, schools were rebuilt and hammams and teahouses were rebuilt. Reconstruction took place quickly to provide much-needed employment and shelter, according to the community’s own timing.
Elsewhere, time frames are dictated by other factors. South of Kabul in Mes Aynak, one of the most famous Buddhist settlements in the world, ALIPH and our partner, Aga Khan Cultural Services in Afghanistan, are helping to implement an ambitious step-by-step conservation plan to protect the site from a potential copper mine.
The aim is to protect the existing structures while identifying and testing strategies for longer term conservation.
The scale of cultural destruction this century – from the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan and ancient Mosul in Iraq to Palmyra in Syria and Kharkiv in Ukraine – has had disastrous consequences for the world’s tangible and intangible heritage. Whether for collateral damage or iconoclasm, the international community has been largely powerless in the face of these brutal attacks.
But inaction sets a dangerous precedent. Restoration and protection of cultural heritage can be tools for change during conflict. In addition, cultural heritage must be recognized as an instrument for peace. Even as the war rages on, bridging the diplomatic world and local communities can help form the partnerships that will be needed when the fighting ends.
Some of the region’s traditions may be beyond saving, such as Kabul’s patra yarn. There is much more waiting in the wings for the flames of conflict to die down. With the right balance of motivation, timing, technical requirements and partnerships, and by involving local communities in the work, heritage under attack today can be preserved for future generations.
This article is provided by Syndication Bureauon which the copyright is based.
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