Hajj Omran in his world made of straw and wood. (Credit: Rayanne Tawil/L'Orient-Le Jour)
At the corner of Tripoli’s old souk, facing the ancient citadel, the stone walls still carry the dust and cracks of time, while narrow alleyways pulse with the quiet rhythm of modest shops.In this setting, stripped of frills and means, an elderly man sits beneath rows of wooden spoons, woven baskets, and handmade straw tools. This is his sky. His universe.The storefront of Hajj Omran’s shop feels less like a shop window than a dense, living archive of heritage. Baskets rise in a charming disorder toward the ceiling. Old tools, coils of straw, and half-finished stools wait to be woven. The scent of wood and straw lingers in the air, part of a daily scene so familiar that many locals no longer notice it. Here, Omran appears deeply rooted in the tradition of his craft.He smiles with the quiet wisdom of a man who no longer counts years by...
At the corner of Tripoli’s old souk, facing the ancient citadel, the stone walls still carry the dust and cracks of time, while narrow alleyways pulse with the quiet rhythm of modest shops.In this setting, stripped of frills and means, an elderly man sits beneath rows of wooden spoons, woven baskets, and handmade straw tools. This is his sky. His universe.The storefront of Hajj Omran’s shop feels less like a shop window than a dense, living archive of heritage. Baskets rise in a charming disorder toward the ceiling. Old tools, coils of straw, and half-finished stools wait to be woven. The scent of wood and straw lingers in the air, part of a daily scene so familiar that many locals no longer notice it. Here, Omran appears deeply rooted in the tradition of his craft.He smiles with the quiet wisdom of a man who no longer counts years...
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