“Al-Ẓāhir is not a place we live in but a place that lives in us.”

This is the slogan of “Ana min al-Ẓāhir”, an initiative founded by a group of al-Ẓāhir residents.¹ This is not just a catchy slogan, it captures the essence of how many of al-Ẓāhir’s residents – both current and former – feel towards their neighborhood. Ask anyone who lives (or has lived) there about it and they will sing you praises. They will tell you “It was a foreigners’ neighborhood…classier than Heliopolis”, or that it was “a place that brought everyone together.” In this Know Your City article, we delve into this little-known area to find out why it is so special for those who know it and why many today are inclined to describe it in the past tense.
 

 
Al- Ẓāhir in Numbers
Governorate: Cairo
District: al-Wāylī
Area: 2km² (calculated using Google’s My Maps tool)
Population: 72,278 (CAPMAS, 2013)
The district (or “ḥay” in Arabic) of al-Wāylī consists of two “aqsām” (singular qism), al-Wāylī and al-Ẓāhir, both of which are further divided into “shiyākhāt” (singular shiyākha). The figures above are for the qism of al-Ẓāhir only. The area given is that which falls within the official administrative boundaries of the qism (see map) and the population indicated is the total number of people living in the qism’s six shiyākhas: 1) Abu Khūda, 2) al-Ganzūrī, 3) al-Sakākīnī, 4) al-Ẓāhir, 5) al-Qubaysī, and 6) Ghamra. It is important to note that the administrative qism boundaries do not exactly correspond to what is popularly known by residents as al-Ẓāhir. The opposite also holds true; places and buildings within the administrative boundaries may be considered to lie outside al-Ẓāhir by many residents.
 

 
The Story of al-Ẓāhir
The view of al-Ẓāhir from Ramsīs Street, or from the 6th of October bridge, may give the impression that the area is as old as Downtown or Shubra, and that it is packed full of Christian establishments, with many visible churches. This would not be entirely far off, but a closer look reveals much more. It unravels a story which begins in the 13th century with a mosque.

13th Century: Laying the Cornerstone
In 1260, Egypt came under the rule of a Mamluk, “al-Malik al-Ẓāhir Baybars al-Bunduqdārī”, commonly known as “Baybars.”² At the time, only two mosques, “‘Amr Ibn al-‘Aāṣ” and “al-Ḥākim,” were open for the communal Friday prayers. Other mosques, including al-Azhar, were inaccessible for Friday prayers.³ This, however, changed soon after Baybars’ assumption of power. In 1266, al-Azhar was reopened for Friday prayers and a year later, construction began on a mosque, where Friday prayers were also to be held (Behrens-Abouseif, 2012). The chosen site for this new Friday mosque was “Mīdān Qarāqush,” a large square north of the city, where, it is said, Baybars used to play polo (Mubarak, 1886).⁴ In 1269, construction was over. The resulting edifice, covering an area of 12,500 m2, would, over the centuries, be put to uses other than that originally intended and would acquire various appellations, but the Sultan’s name would ultimately prevail and the surrounding area would come to be known by the name we use today, al-Ẓāhir.
 

 
In the years following its construction, Baybars’ Mosque stood surrounded mostly by water and greenery. Running through the area and past the mosque was “al-Khalīj al-Maṣrī [The Cairo Canal]”. In the 14th century, this canal was joined by another, “al-Khalīj al-Nāṣirī [The Nāṣir Canal], so-called after Sultan al-Nāṣir Muḥammad (1293 -1340), who had ordered the construction of the canal. There were also a couple of ponds in the area, namely, “Birkat al-Shaykh Qamar” and “Birkat al-Raṭlī”. According to the Egyptian historian al-Maqrīzī (1346—1442), when water started flowing in al-Khalīj al-Nāṣirī and into Birkat al-Raṭlī, the pond soon became completely encircled by buildings.
 

 
Among the buildings that had sprung up in the area was a mosque, referred to by al-Maqrīzī as the “Birkat al-Raṭlī Mosque”, but which, it appears, would become known as “al-Ḥurayshī Mosque” (Mubarak, 1886). There was also the “White Mosque”, or “al-Bakriyya Mosque” and its adjoining house and garden belonging to the Bakrīs, a wealthy family that had founded the Sufi Bakriyya order (Mubarak, 1886; Sabra, 2010).

18th Century: Bonaparte and the French Campaign in Egypt
By the time Napoleon Bonaparte arrived to Egypt in 1798, Baybars’ Mosque had already undergone the first of its many transformations. The Ottomans had turned it into an army storehouse. Now it was to undergo its second transformation at the hands of the French. ‘Abd al-Raḥman al-Jabartī (1998), a noted historian who chronicled the French occupation, writes:

They [the French] made the mosque of al-Ẓāhir… into a fort. They used its minaret as an observation tower, placed canons on its walls, and housed a group of their soldiers inside (p.56).

The mosque also got a new name, “Fort Schulkowski,” after Józef Sułkowski, a Polish aide-de-camp of Napoleon’s, who died in the Cairo Revolt of October 1798. The environs were not spared either. Al-Jabartī notes that the French had also partially filled in Birkat al-Raṭlī and cut down the trees of the surrounding gardens.

19th Century: New Foundations
Ultimately, Napoleon’s campaign proved short-lived; in 1801, the flag of the Ottoman Empire was fluttering above the Mosque of al-Ẓāhir (Paton, 1870). The ouster of the French did not, however, signal an end to the misuse of the mosque. Under Muhammad `Ali, who had come to power in 1805, the mosque became a government bakery. According to Andrew Archibald Paton (1870), a British diplomat, eighty ardebs ⁵ of corn would be brought in every single day to make the bread.

To the northeast, in 1849, Muhammad `Ali’s grandson, `Abbās I, established a barracks. Later, this area would develop into a residential one, known as “al-`Abbāsiyya”. During his reign, the Vicerory also oversaw the completion of the Cairo-Alexandria railway, the tracks of which ran past the mosque-turned-bakery. The main station was only a mile away.

In 1869, a spark of hope appeared for Baybars’ Mosque. Khedive Ismail, Muhammad `Ali’s fourth successor, had decreed the establishment of a museum for Arab art, and the suggested venue was the Mosque of al-Ẓāhir. In the end, however, it was the courtyard of al-Ḥākim Mosque that housed the museum’s initial collection (Carstens, 2014; Sanders, 2008). Al-Ẓāhir, on the other hand, faced quite a different fate. In 1882, Egypt became Britain’s “veiled protectorate”, and the mosque, “al-Madbaḥ al-Ingilizi” [The British Slaughterhouse].

The mosque, or “al-Madbaḥ”, as everyone started calling it, would remain in the hands of the British for years to come. Meanwhile, the surrounding area changed. Marshes were filled in one after the other.⁶ The nearby al-Khalīj al-Maṣrī, was filled in by the Cairo Tramways Company had been granted a concession in 1897, laying a tramline along its course. In the 1890s, a number of buildings were built in the area. Among them was the synagogue of “Neve Shalom” [Oasis of Peace]. This synagogue, founded in 1890, would be recognized as being the Grand Synagogue of Cairo until the founding of “Chaar Hachamaïm” [Gates of Heaven] in modern-day downtown (Patan, 2005). Neve Shalom or “al-Keniss al-Kabira”, as it was called, was only the first of several in the area: In 1894, the “Nessim Eshkenazi” synagogue was also founded.⁷

During that period, construction had also begun on a complex which was to include a residence for the monks of Saint Catherine’s Greek Orthodox Monastery and an accompanying church. The area surrounding the church complex became known as “Tur Sīna” [Mount Sinai] (where the monastery lies). Beyond “Tūr Sīna” to the north, there was, in 1897, yet another building taking shape. Its owner was a Damascene entrepreneur named Gabriel Habib Sakākīnī (1841-1923). When Sakākīnī had arrived in Egypt as a teenager, he started working for the Suez Canal Company in Port Said (Raafat, 2005). Later, at the age of 26, he established his own company in Cairo.
 

 
Throughout his career, Sakākīnī managed to acquire several pieces of land in Cairo.⁸ On the plot, which he had acquired near “Tur Sina” and “al-Madbaḥ”, he chose to build himself a palace designed in a very elaborate Rococo style, a popular architectural style in Europe at time, which Sakākīnīprobably picked from Italy (Waldburger & Weeber, 2010). The historian Samir Raafat describes this masterpiece of architecture built in 1897:

Sakakini’s circle-shaped palace is another story. With its many turrets, its conical and onion shaped domes and its medieval gargoyles and steeples, it looks more like a child’s dream castle than a pasha’s homestead. All it lacks to complete the fantasy are a moat and a drawbridge. The palace’s 50 rooms and halls have more than 400 windows and doors, and the conspicuous decor includes over 300 busts and statues, many of them quite risqué. All in all, this is one of the best examples of a khedivial architectural folly.

 
 
 

 
Finally, to the south-west, where Birkat al-Raṭlī once was, school-aged children now received an education at the hands of French-speaking Catholic nuns and monks. In 1893, “Les Sœurs de Notre Dame de la Délivrande” [The Sisters of Our Lady of Deliverance] set up a school for girls. Five years later, “Les Frères des Écoles Chrétiennes” [The Brothers of Christian Schools] followed suit and established one for boys. “Collège de la Salle”, as the school was ultimately named, now neighbored the Bakriyya Mosque and gardens.
 

 
Early 20th Century: Mass Urbanization
The area continued to change well into the 20th century. It became better connected, as a public bus line was established and as additional tramlines were laid. ⁹ In addition to the line that had been constructed in place of al-Khalīj al-Maṣrī, there were now lines that ran directly by the al-Ẓāhir Mosque and Sakākīnī’s Palace. Moreover, in 1912, the canal running north of the area – the Ismailia Canal – was filled in, giving way to the construction of a major street in Cairo, Ramsīs Street(Raymond,1977) .¹⁰
 

 
During the early decades of the twentieth century, many new buildings and institutions popped up. For instance, the number of synagogues doubled to four. In addition to the already existing synagogues of “Neve Shalom” and “Nessim Eshkenazi”, another two were founded, “Etz-Haïm” [Tree of Life] in 1900, and “Pahad-Ishak” [Kinsman of Isaac] in 1925.¹¹ Churches belonging to different Christian denominations also sprang up in this period. There were now two Greek Orthodox churches, the one in Tur Sina and another, the Church of the Archangels, on al-Ẓāhir Street. Close by on the same street also stood the Greek-Melkite Cathedral of the Resurrection and the Patriarchate. Other churches then built included the Syriac Catholic Cathedral of Our Lady of the Rosary, the Maronite Cathedral of St. Joseph, and the Armenian Apostolic Church of St. Gregory the Illuminator.
 

 
As new synagogues and churches were established, accommodating the worshippers of the significant Jewish and Christian populations living in the area, it appears (ironically enough) that al-Ẓāhir’s Muslims had nowhere to pray the Friday prayer. In its bulletin of 1920-1924, the Committee for the Preservation of Arab Art (which had been established in 1881 by Khedive Tawfīk) states that the residents of al-Ẓāhir had twice requested that a part of the Baybars’ Mosque be restored so that it could host the communal Friday prayer, seeing as the faithful in the neighborhood were numerous and that there was no other mosque in the area (As-Sayyed, 1928). By this point Baybars’ Mosque had had received its fair dose of neglect and misuse. In 1911, when the building was under the control of the British Army Services Corps, children living in the neighborhood would climb the fence and throw rubbish in the trench (Procès-Verbaux, 1911 ). Martin Shaw Briggs, a British architect who served in Egypt during the First World War as a non-combatant, recounts the ailing condition the mosque had reached. He describes the “beautiful but dilapidated” building as:

…known both officially and colloquially by a variety of names –‘the Old Slave Market,’ ‘the Bakery,’ ‘the Abattoir.’¹² But to an architect it can only be a mosque, for its antiquity and its purpose are apparent even as one passes in the tram (Briggs, 1918).

Things did later look up for this unfortunate building (albeit temporarily). King Fuad had, in the words of K. A. C. Creswell (1926), come to its “rescue from misuse”. During Fuad’s reign, “a number of mean buildings” that had been erected in the interior were removed in 1920, and the mosque was transformed into a garden (pp.155-156).
 

 
By 1936 numerous schools were established throughout the neighborhood. They included the following: Sainte Anne, Sacre Cœur, Collège Saint-Joseph, The American College for Girls (now Ramses College for Girls), and Collège Saint-Michel. Among them also was al-Nahda Secondary School, whose student body included the young Gamal `Abdul Nasir, who would later lead the Free Officers’ coup against Fuad’s son, Faruq (Alexander, 2005).
Schools aside, the neighborhood had also at the time become home to cinemas. A 1923 map of Cairo shows two cinemas: “Cinema Palace” next to the Mosque of al-Ẓāhir, and “Cinema Bellevue,” a couple of blocks away on al-Ẓāhir Street.
Other significant buildings built during this period included the Coptic Hospital on Malika Nazlī (later Ramsīs) Street and the Qirsh Tarbūsh Factory on what became known as Maṣna` al-Ṭarābīshī Street.
 

 
Mid-20th Century: The Exodus
Over the years, Sakākīnī and the neighborhood as a whole had gained a reputation of having a high concentration of Jewish population. Although Jews in the area never actually constituted the majority, their numbers were significant nevertheless. In 1897, Jews living in shiyākha al-Ẓāhir numbered a thousand, surpassing the numbers of their co-religionists in most other areas in Cairo. ¹³ Only in al-Darb al-Aḥmar, al-Gamāliyya and al-Mūskī neighborhoods in historic Cairo were the Jewish population as significant.¹⁴ In al-Ẓāhir, the size of the Jewish population had continued to increase, reaching over six thousand in 1917 and over fifteen thousand in 1927. ¹⁵ This also appeared in the depiction of the area in literary works written at the time, such as Naguib Mahfouz’s 1946 novel, Khan al-Khalīlī.
 

 
Moreover, not only was the population significant, but its presence was also strongly marked by several, different institutions. Besides the four synagogues that had been founded between 1890 and 1925, there were also Jewish communal schools in the area. Between 1920 and 1936, wealthy, influential Jews had founded three schools, all within walking distance of Sakākīnī Pasha’s Palace. These were, in order of founding, École Moise de Cattaoui Pasha, École Marie Suarès, and Petit Lycée de Sakākīnī. Also, near Mīdān Farūq (later al-Gaysh), at the intersection of Shari` Sabil al-Khazindar and Shari` Maṣna’al-Ṭarābīshī, stood a very prominent building, which had been founded by the Universal Israelite Alliance to provide schooling for those less well off.
 

 
The Jewish presence in the neighborhood was increased by the relocation of the Israelite Community of Cairo Hospital to al-Ẓāhir in 1924.
The 1940s and 1950s saw the beginning of the end of this longstanding and significant presence. A great many of al-Ẓāhir’s Jewish residents would, along with their Jewish counterparts across the country, leave during these years, and those that followed. Some left of their own will, while many others were directly or indirectly forced to leave, as a result of the uncertain and often hostile political climate following the creation of the State of Israel in 1948, and the subsequent rise in tensions between Egypt and Israel. Jews had become increasingly suspect of being Zionists, especially after the 1954 “Lavon Affair”, a failed Israeli intelligence operation, in which 13 Egyptian Jews were involved.¹⁶ Later, in 1956, the tripartite attack of Britain, France, and Israel on Egypt had wreaked further havoc in the Jewish community in Egypt, with many detained, expelled or lost their businesses and jobs (Beinin, 2005).
 

On location: The Cinematic heritage of al-Ẓāhir 
Another interesting chapter of al-Ẓāhir’s story is the one related to cinema production. From the 1940s onward, the area played a great part in the movies industry. Its residential buildings, streets, workshops, coffee shops and even real-life furnished apartments were among the first film sets of Egypt, where hundreds of scenes of some of Egypt’s iconic films were shot. Moreover, according to residents, many actors and actresses chose to make al-Ẓāhir their home.

The Famous “Nassibian Studio”, the film agency built in 1937 by its Syrian-Armenian founder and owner H. Nassibian, was what started it all. The studio included a set, a film-processing laboratory and an editing unit. It had a record of producing at least 145 films, within which many considered among the greatest and most influential films in Arab cinema, of all times.
 

 
Over four decades, the studio–like the whole country–witnessed many changes. It was nationalized during the 1960s, and then turned into a printing and processing lab. By the 1980s, it was left abandoned, caught fire and burned to the ground. Some say it was turned into a rubbish dump, while others say it was functioning as a garage for some time.

What is known is that the place was in tatters until the Jesuit School purchased the enclosing land and established “el-Nahda Association for Scientific and Cultural Renaissance.” The art of filmmaking was in fact at the heart of the founders’ interest and their collaborations with numerous independent artists. In 1991, el-Nahda was not yet official entity, but it carried out two of its main activities: making independent films, and carrying on a cinema club and a mobile cinema that toured marginal communities. The next years witnessed the flourish of cultural activities in the area led by el-Nahda, which had been known locally as “the library” for a long time, indicating the most acknowledged activity of the association in the minds of the residents (Kelada, 2014).

In 2003 the association started some small-scale theatrical activities, which was met with some success. The next step was planning to rehabilitate the old space into the Studio Nassibian Theatre in order to revive its legacy. However, it was no easy process. According to the current executive coordinator of El-Nahda, “after its huge success in connecting with the neighborhood, an agreement was issued with the Jesuits’ school to build the Nassibian theater in the busses’ garage area under two conditions: Nahda will not own the land and that the theater would be removable” (Kelada, 2014).

Today, the association and its theatre carry on a cinema school, organizes a yearly cinema award ceremony, theatre plays, and other artistic and cultural activities. It also focuses its efforts to reviving the memories of “the glorious golden age” of al-Ẓāhir’s cinematic legacy.
 

 
The Place and its People
If you ask anyone who lives or who has lived in al-Ẓāhir about what the area is like, it is most likely that they will reach back to their memories for an answer. They will talk of a “golden age” as a great many Egyptians tend to nowadays. During this “golden age”, they will emphasize that al-Ẓāhir was home to a diverse population made up of Egyptians and foreigners, Muslims and non-Muslims, all of whom lived alongside each other in peace. Everyone knew each other well and there was a real sense of community. “It was a place that brought everyone together,” as one senior resident put it.

Older residents also usually recall with fondness how much fun they had in al-Ẓāhir as children and teenagers. In their free time, they usually went to one of the many local cinemas. The options before them were endless: There was “Rialto” opposite Collège de la Salle, “Valery” in al-Ẓāhir Square, “Park” in Sakākīnī and many more. ¹⁷ For a few pence they could enjoy a screening of the latest films from the comfort of their own neighborhood. For a few more they could grab an ice cream or a soft drink from “Bustanī” in Sakākīnī and enjoy the direct view of the palace. ¹⁸
Also, as in any Egyptian neighborhood, there were coffeehouses where men, young and old, spent their free time. Among those was one called “Qushtumur”, which came to be known for its intellectual clientele. Renowned Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz was one of its regulars. In 1924, when Mahfouz was still a young boy, his family had moved from Gamāliyya to live at number 9 Radwan Shukri Street -around ten minutes away from Qushtumur (Beard & Haydar, 1993).

In his novel, The Coffeehouse (1988/2010), Mahfouz writes about a group of friends who make Qushtumur their meeting place. For Mahfouz’s characters, this coffeehouse in al-Ẓāhir was “the world of culture and politics” (p.43), their “second homeland” (p.62), “the refuge in which [they] could breathe freely and exchange [their] feelings of friendship” (p.51). When the group of friends is first introduced to Qushtumur in the early 1920s, they are told:

The coffeehouse is an out-of-the way place, at the corner of Dahir with Farouq [now al-Geish] Street. It’s small, new, and beautiful, with a little summer garden

 

 

Today, al-Ẓāhir is different from what it was in its “golden age.” For one, its population is not as cosmopolitan and religiously diverse as it once was. Over the years, the percentage of Christians living in the area dropped. In 1960, they made up 23% of the total population; in 1986, they constituted 18%. Al-Ẓāhir’s Jewish population also dwindled. In 1986, there were only 9 Jews, in comparison to 1,300 in 1960.¹⁹ Today, in al-Ẓāhir, as in the rest of the country, you will meet a “Hassan” and a “Morcos”, but no “Cohen”. Names like “Cohen” are nowhere to be found except among the elders’ recollections and on some people’s electricity bills. ²⁰

 

Although Cohen is now out of the picture, al-Ẓāhir’s current residents take great pride in the fact that their neighborhood was once multi-religion, and stress that until today diversity and coexistence are its major defining elements. To evidence this, they point to al-Ẓāhir’s main urban features and fabric in which these values have remained firmly entrenched. For example, the al-Ẓāhir Mosque, the headquarters of St. Catherine’s Monastery, and the Etz-Haïm synagogue are only steps away from one another. Another area within al-Ẓāhir is called bayn al-kanā’s [in between the churches], given the concentration of churches in that particular area.

What has also changed in the area is the level of social cohesion. As many of the original inhabitants left, and as others from neighboring areas such as al-Mūskī and al-Sharābiyya settled in the area, community bonds weakened. Nowadays, not everyone knows each other as they once did. In the past, long-time residents explain, an apartment block would have housed a limited number of families. Today, however, the blocks are no longer two or three storey high and instead they house numerous families. The air of leisure that was about the place has also become harder to discern. Al-Ẓāhir’s cinemas are no more. Cherif, Rialto, and Valery Cinemas, for example, have become garages and standing now in the place of Cinema Parkis a multi-story residential building that goes by the name of “Burg al-Sakākīnī” [Sakākīnī Tower].
 

 
“Bustany” and “Qushtumur” are also no longer open. There is a food cart that sells liver sandwiches on the corner of Bustany’s, while Qushtumur has been emptied of its chairs and tables, and is now being used as a rubbish dump.
 


 
What are the problems in al-Ẓāhir?
For people living there, particularly older generations, al-Ẓāhir has really deteriorated. One senior resident, born and raised in al-Ẓāhir, described it as having once been an “elegant” neighborhood that became a “popular” one with time and that is now a “slum”. Of course, not everyone sees things the same way. Others consider their neighborhood today to still be an elegant, classy one, similar in many ways to Heliopolis. Whether considered slum-like or elegant, there is a shared sentiment that al-Ẓāhir has been long neglected and is not receiving the attention it deserves. This neglect is evident for all to see and is manifest mainly in the following ways.

The Landmark Buildings
The Mosque of al-Ẓāhir and Sakākīnī Palace are in a deplorable state. Projects to restore the mosque and the Palace have been announced time and again without the slightest progress. Both buildings, residents complain, have been “under restoration” for as long as they can remember.

In an equally terrible state are the three remaining synagogues of Nessim Eshkenazi, Etz-Haïm, and Pahad Ishak, for which restoration prospects are extremely weak. As for the Neve Shalom synagogue, it no longer exists. In the 1960s, it was taken over to be a base for the Arab Socialist Union (the political party Gamal Abdul Nasir established). Later in the 1980s, it was demolished and replaced by the mosque of al-Huda al-Muhamady.
 

 
The Residential Buildings
Residential buildings dating from the 19th and the 20th century are yet another source of lament. Many of those that are still standing and inhabited are in dire need of maintenance; meanwhile those that stand abandoned are increasingly at risk of being demolished. As these old buildings structurally deteriorate, and new, characterless buildings rise up, the area’s urban fabric is changing significantly.
 

 
The Streets
The condition of the buildings is not the only thing screaming of neglect; many streets in al-Ẓāhir are often found unpaved and/or lined with garbage, making it difficult to walk comfortably. The mounds of garbage also attract stray dogs and help spread disease. Residents have raised this problem to the district several times, but their voices have largely gone unheard.

Public Spaces (or the lack thereof)
This is an issue of particular concern for the youth living in the area. The only public recreational facility, al-Ẓāhir Club, now operates as a private club with annual membership fees that have reached EGP 5,000.²¹ There are several vacant pieces of land in the area that are maintained well enough to be used for sport activities, however they are rented out to the youth at exploitative rates.

Opportunities for Neighborhood Development
Al-Ẓāhir’s story need not be one of decline. It is true that a significant part of its physical fabric is in tatters, but potential does exist. Much of the potential actually lies in this particular physical fabric itself. Such unique iconic buildings as al-Ẓāhir mosque and Sakākīnī Palace carry great possibilities among their walls. Many other religious, recreational and residential buildings also have their share of architectural and cultural significance. Besides, the urban spaces of al-Ẓāhir are originally well designed and their current condition is better than many other ones in Cairo, despite the poor urban management and the long-term neglect of the area. The main roads and squares are quite remarkable and significant citywide. The streets have reasonable widths, wide enough to carry different uses and be walkable, while still provide the possibility to be manageable and secured by its own residents. Further, the area is very well connected and close to the living heart of Cairo in downtown and Ramsīs. That makes the area full of opportunities in terms of job creation, services provision and access to transportation.

The story of al-Ẓāhir shows that the neighborhood was, and still is a scholastic center attracting students from other areas in the city, with its high concentration of schools. Moreover, with almost as many cinemas as Downtown, it was an area that provided its residents (and probably others in the city) with affordable entertainment. Even the coffee shops of al-Ẓāhir have a unique story, hence, a great potential as well. At the end, how many coffee shops in the region other than Qushtumur made it to one of the classic novels of the prestigious Nobel writer Mahfouz?
 

 
Such rich diverse urban fabric qualifies al-Ẓāhir to host a heritage-based revitalization project, with a good chance of success. The key word here is: Adaptive reuse. al-Ẓāhir is no stranger to adaptive reuse, the area’s cornerstone and oldest building ever, al-Ẓāhir mosque, had been living an incredibly long history of transformation and reuse. From a mosque built by and named after the ruler of Egypt in the 13th century, into an army storehouse, a fort, a central bake-house, a slaughterhouse, and most recently into a garden. With its vast area and strategic location, it can provide a huge space for many uses. Elder residents remember when it was a garden where they go for relaxation and recreation, before it was closed for the seemingly endless restoration constructions. Ironically enough, many today consider any usage other than a religious one to be an unacceptable “misuse” of the holy mosque, which actually had hardly been used as intended.

Preserving Architecture
Reusing old buildings will not only preserve uniquely beautiful architecture but also will make the best use of an existing asset, generating sustainability. The potentials of lower construction cost, lower land acquisition cost, less construction time, and lower resources consumption -in terms of energy and materials- are among many advantages adaptive reuse offers. Also, unlike demolishing old structures, recognizing familiar buildings preserves the neighborhood’s “sense of place‟, which argued to be a valuable social benefit. In this context, adaptive reuse provides a link to the past while revitalizing a neighborhood. It extends the useful life of buildings and hence the sustainability of the fabric in which they exist (Ijla and Broström, 2015).

In addition, transforming old neglected iconic buildings, coffee shops and cinemas into much needed services, will make all the difference in the quality of lives of the people and of the place. By providing a variety of leisure and cultural activities, it can also attract other external users such as young artists venues, middle class entertainment and tourist hubs.
Pushing this issue into the local management agenda and convincing the local authorities to adapt it, is an opportunity that has been dismissed over and over. On the other hand, if one reaches out to the private sector, investors need well-studied business plans showing how they can financially benefit from a costly restoration and reuse of existing buildings in al-Ẓāhir. This is not very unlikely to happen especially with the growing interest for restoring old buildings in downtown. Al-Ismaelia Real Estate Investment works in the revitalization of the 1930s downtown’s cinema-house, Cinema Radio, is a great example of how to make such reckless space profitable and iconic again after years of abandonment and deterioration.
The mandate, however, need not be only commercial or touristic. Community-oriented adaptive reuse is one of the highly recommended development tools that have been internationally promoted for its myriad of benefits. In Cairo, the Aga Khan Development Network oversaw an adaptive reuse project in al-Darb al-Ahmar (an area in Historic Cairo) that established many community services for the residents. The community center housed in the restored Darb Shughlān School, attracted community members from all age groups by its various facilities and events, creating a convenient space for art, education, cultural entertainment and social awareness. The health center, housed in the Ottoman House offered medical checkups at affordable prices and held talks on various health-related matters.

Preserving a Memory
Restoring buildings goes along with restoring memories. Thus, our selectivity as a society in choosing whether or not to acknowledge, celebrate and later preserve a memory (and a reality as well) is reflected in the architectural preservation. One chapter in the history of al-Ẓāhir may not be as likeable to preserve and celebrate as others. To restore and reuse al-Ẓāhir’s synagogues and Jewish properties remains a very complex and sensitive issue. Although the residents keep bragging about the history of diversity and tolerance in the district, you can detect at least one spot where the rubbish is thrown outside a closed synagogue with hate words over the walls. This is not, however, the case for every synagogue in the area. Most are in a good condition and surprisingly appropriate for reuse as a Jewish open-to-visitors monument or a museum.

In an interview, Magda Haroun, Head of Egypt’s Jewish Community, said: “I hope that one day I will see a Jewish Museum in Egypt, one that will contain artifacts and daily life tools so that the people would learn that we are not different. We eat, drink and pray and we have common traditions even when it comes to burial rituals. The coming generations need to know that we were part of this country. We have Islamic and Coptic museums and I hope there will be a Jewish one.”
The Arab region’s only Jewish museum is located in Casablanca, the Moroccan Jewish Museum, founded in 1997. Morocco and Egypt, however, don’t share the same history of dealing with the Jewish minority. Moreover, Moroccan-Israeli relations are also different. Hence, the socio-political acceptance for such establishment is not likely to be similar.

On the other side, the case is not nearly closed yet. Recently in Egypt, a few synagogues have been restored and there have been discussions over Egyptian Jewish heritage, of which the documentary film Jews of Egypt, and the TV series Haret al-Yahood (Jews’ alley) were manifestation. Still, prospects are weak in light of the controversy surrounding the issue.
The spaces of the city are not isolated stand-alone occurrences. The architecture is nothing but a reflection of the society, its members’ needs, values and socio-political power dynamics. Therefore, decisions regarding such an issue will never get proper legitimation unless it’s taken collectively, and then it will mean much more than a building revitalization project.
 

 
Preserving a Sense of Community
The physical fabric and its many hidden treasures are not the area’s only asset. Much of al-Ẓāhir’s potential currently lies in its residents. In 2011, a group of active residents founded the “Ana min al-Ẓāhir” [I’m from al-Ẓāhir] initiative, with the aim of improving the area. They have since worked to provide information about the history of the area and its landmark buildings, such as Sakākīnī Palace. The initiative also hopes to see such buildings restored and opened to the community. In 2013, it organized a protest demanding the palace be restored and converted to a public facility that would benefit the community, more specifically a cultural center. They even copied the name and logo of the well-known cultural center in Zamalek, “Sāqīat al-Sawy” (El Sawy Culture wheel), to visualize their idea.
 

Buildings are not the only item on its agenda; the initiative has sought to revitalize the sense of community as well through organizing communal events and trips. The initiative also uses its Facebook page to engage people living in the area and share with them local news. The presence of such an initiative is a major source of hope. Through its various activities, “Ana min al-Ẓāhir” has achieved a great deal in the way of mobilizing people to its causes and in engendering a sense of community among the residents. The initiative’s lone efforts, however, will not be enough to bring about physical change. Restoring Sakākīnī Palace and putting it to use, for instance, requires political will and financial resources. The initiative can only go so far; it can raise people’s awareness, mobilize them, put forward proposals, and the like, but in the end it does not hold the keys to implementation. Taking, once again, the example of Sakākīnī Palace, the building is under the control and authority of the Ministry of Antiquities.

That said the importance of a locally organized and run initiative such as “Ana min al-Ẓāhir” cannot be undermined. Triumphs in other neighborhoods make this clear. In Mīt ‘Uqba, it is thanks to the Popular Committee for the Defence of the Revolution that natural gas was installed and a number of roads were paved.²² In a similar vein, in Heliopolis, the Heliopolis Heritage Initiative spearheaded a successful campaign to stop the transformation of the iconic Merryland Park into a car park. ²³

More importantly, the interest in reviving al-Ẓāhir expands much beyond its residents. For two decades running now, there have been campaigns, leaded by historians, architects, urbanists or simply people who profoundly appreciate heritage, demanding the revival of the area, especially its most prominent monument, the Sakākīnī Palace. Also, recently in 2015, a group of architects organized a guided walk through the area focusing on places of worship, the cinema and publishing industry. In their words the walk organizers describe it as “a walk designed by the people’s tales… From them, we [the organizers] picked up the threads to form a walking route with duration of almost three and half hours.”

With participants blogging about their experience and organizers posting about the hidden treasures of al-Ẓāhir even after the event, the walk continue adding layers to the perception of the area and its history. That makes this interactive discovery process more and more interestingly productive. Such initiatives show what it means to understand an urban fabric through listening to its people, and how essential it is, in this process, to acknowledge the complex multilayered nature of the city and how it responsively developed through the major socio-political changes, on both the local and national levels.
 

 
Conclusion
Al-Ẓāhir is a unique Cairo neighborhood, yet the story is all too familiar when it comes to its problems. Lack of creativity in the local governance, corrupt municipalities and selective heritage management explain the current situation in al-Ẓāhir, as they do in other areas. This can be partially attributed to a narrow perception of what constitutes an important neighborhood or a tourism asset.

Al-Ẓāhir has a lot of existing spaces that would be ideal for adaptive reuse. Cairo has a historical tradition of reusing buildings for different purposes according to the time and need. Still, in the contemporary era, due to the lack of professional, legal and municipal frameworks that would promote and facilitate such projects, adaptive reuse is an untapped development opportunity. Despite of the successful examples around Cairo, it is still very hard to convince local authorities to adapt such projects.

Listening to al-Ẓāhir’s residents, like many others in Cairo, the sense of nostalgia is predominant in their narratives. However, adaptive reuse could be the way to deconstruct the unwanted nostalgic romanticism, which sometimes ignores current residents’ socio-economic reality. Adaptive reuse preserves the monument and its memory which constitutes a cultural asset that the humanity acknowledges as valuable, while (more importantly) addressing the contemporary needs and values, and works within the current social dynamic.

People of al-Ẓāhir have much pride and ambition for their neighborhood; they don’t see their Sakākīnī Palace any less valuable than the Baron Empain Palace in Heliopolis, which receives much more government attention. Their wide-ranging heritage of religious facilities is similar to the religious complex in Masr al-Qadima [Old Cairo]. Their cinema-houses are as much as those located in downtown. In their imagination their area is no less attractive than those other “luckier” areas, and it for sure deserves as much attention and development efforts.
In short, al-Ẓāhir is a place full of potentials, if only those who are delegated to manage it see and acknowledge all it has to offer.

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<sup>1. The initiative’s slogan is an adaptation of “Egypt is not a country we live in but a country that lives in us”. This saying, which has of late featured in political discourse, is accredited to the Egyptian politician Makram ‘Ubayd (1879-1961) as well as to Pope Shenouda III, Patriarch of the Coptic Orthodox Church between 1971 and 2012.
2. The Mamluks ruled Egypt between 1250 and 1517. Their dynasty was the third in a succession of Islamic dynasties which ruled Egypt from the 7th century until the 16th century.
3. Congregational Friday prayers had been limited to the mosques of ‘Amr Ibn al-‘Aāṣ and al-Ḥākim upon the order of Salāḥuddīn al-Ayyūbī.
4. Only a part of Mīdān Qarāqush was used for the construction of the mosque; the remaining space was allocated as waqf [religious endowment] (Mubarak, 1886).
5. ar·deb (är′dĕb′ĕ n. : A unit of dry measure in several countries of the Middle East, standardized in Egypt to equal 198 liters (5.62 US bushels) but varying widely elsewhere. ardeb. (n.d.) American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fifth Edition. (2011). Retrieved July 26 2016 from http://www.thefreedictionary.com/ardeb
6. In 1891, the Council of Ministers approved a regulation that enabled anyone who filled in a lake or marsh posing a risk to public health to obtain that land (La legislation, 1893).
7.“Keniss” comes from the Hebrew root verb k-n-s meaning “to assemble”. “Beit K’nesset”, literally meaning “House of Assembly”, is a Hebrew term for synagogue.
8. A 1920 map of Cairo, published by the Survey of Egypt, features a piece of cultivated land in al-Sharābiyya labelled “‘Ez. El Sakākīnī”, “‘Ez.” being the abbreviation of “‘Izba”, an Arabic word meaning estate. “Ḥikr al-Sakākīni” is what remains of this ‘Izba today. Sakākīnī also owned land in Old Cairo, on which he established a cemetery for the Greek Melkite Catholic community and built a church-mausoleum.
9. Several De Dietrich omnibuses have been put in service by the Societe des Omnibus du Caire, and the public of Cairo will gradually become familiarised with tile new means of locomotion.
Read more at http://archive.commercialmotor.com/article/1st-february-1906/2/the-motor-omnibus-world#cSb2Iylv3vHQ8cl6.99
10.The street became known as “Shāri’ Ramsīs” only after 1952. It was first named “Shāri’ Abbās”, then “Shāri’ Malika Nazlī”.
11. The synagogues of “Etz-Haïm” and “Pahad-Ishak” were, and still are commonly known as “Hanān” and “Kraïem” respectively, after their founders’ names.
12. In Through Egypt in war-time (1918), Briggs mentions that during the Napoleonic conquest of Egypt the mosque had been used also as a bakehouse and that the ovens the French had built could still be seen.
13. In 1897 administrative divisions differed. Cairo was divided into “aqsām” (singular qism), which were in turn divided into “shiyākhāt” (singular shiyākha). The qism of al-Wāylī and al-Maṭariyya was made up of fifteen shiyākhas, of which al-Ẓāhir was one.
14. Harat al-Yahud and Harat al-Yahud al-Qara’in, the quarters of the Rabbanites and Karaites, respectively, were in al-Gamāliyya, hence the high Jewish population.
15. The figures given are based on the numbers of Jews living in the shiyākhāt of al-Ẓāhir and al- Qubaysī, as recorded in the Egyptian Censuses of 1917 and 1927. Although al-Ẓāhir and al-Qubaysī fell under different aqsām (al-Wāylī and al-Azbakiyya, respectively), they are geographically in the same area.
16.The “Lavon Affair” was also known as “Operation Susannah”
17. “Rialto” and “Valery” both feature in Sonallah Ibrahim’s Stealth (2007). The novel’s narrator says: “We rumble slowly into Al-Zahir Square. The open air cinema Valery has closed for winter (p.5).” Later, “Rialto” is mentioned: “We go out to the main street and head toward Sikakny Square. After crossing several more wide streets we make it to Cinema Rialto (p.128).”
18. The Bustany shops in Sakākīnī Square are likely to have been set up by a person or family of Levantine origin. In his book “Hijrat al-Shawam [Levantine Migration]” Lebanese historian Massoud Daher notes that the “Bustany” family was among the many Levantine families that had settled in Egypt.
19. The 1986 census was the last census to record religious affiliation. The figures given are based on the numbers living in the shiyākhāt of Abu Khūda, al-Ganzūrī, al-Sakākīnī, al-Ẓāhir, al-Qubaysī, and Ghamra.
20. Electricity bills are issued in the name of the property owner. Some properties in al-Ẓāhir remain registered under the names of former Jewish owners, and so this is why, to this day, some receive bills carrying Jewish names.
21. For more on this issue, watch this video report.
22.For more read TADAMUN’s coverage of the committee’s work.
23.For more read Madamasr’s article Parking Heliopolis for development.</sup>

Published on August 14, 2016