Mohamad Chaar proudly poses in front of the entrance to his workshop. (Credit: Rayanne Tawil)
At the heart of Tripoli, beneath the historic citadel, a narrow street beats to the slow rhythm of times gone by. Here, the old buildings, worn down by years — often centuries — lean tightly against each other, whispering ancient tales. Their cracked and peeling facades still bear witness to a bygone glory. In this historic labyrinth, the air is heavy with a blend of earth, fresh vegetables and distant spices, punctuated by the lively cries of street vendors.Children slip between carts, their laughter echoing against stone walls, while the voice of a vegetable seller — half call, half melody — feels like an ancestral invitation to buy. Amid this daily-life symphony hangs a humble wooden sign above an arch: Chaar Fez Factory. Its faded letters, like everything else, stand in quiet defiance of modernity. More from Rayanne A voice...
At the heart of Tripoli, beneath the historic citadel, a narrow street beats to the slow rhythm of times gone by. Here, the old buildings, worn down by years — often centuries — lean tightly against each other, whispering ancient tales. Their cracked and peeling facades still bear witness to a bygone glory. In this historic labyrinth, the air is heavy with a blend of earth, fresh vegetables and distant spices, punctuated by the lively cries of street vendors.Children slip between carts, their laughter echoing against stone walls, while the voice of a vegetable seller — half call, half melody — feels like an ancestral invitation to buy. Amid this daily-life symphony hangs a humble wooden sign above an arch: Chaar Fez Factory. Its faded letters, like everything else, stand in quiet defiance of modernity. More from Rayanne A...
