Mediterranean Port Cities: Connectivity in Modern Times 3031323254, 9783031323256

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Cities, Heritage and Transformation

Eyüp Özveren Filiz Yenişehirlioğlu Tülin Selvi Ünlü   Editors

Mediterranean Port Cities Connectivity in Modern Times

Cities, Heritage and Transformation Series Editor Fatemeh Farnaz Arefian, Bartlett Development Planning Unit, Silk Cities, University College London, London, UK

This book series addresses contextual and global urban challenges and opportunities that cities in historic regions face within the process of urban transformation, linked with their historic past. It publishes peer reviewed books on the relationships between the built environment, urban transformation and cultural heritage, whether to be tangible or intangible, overarched by the notion of resilience and sustainable development. Special attention is given on real-life under-explored topics. Challenging existing assumptions and disciplinary divides, the series takes an interdisciplinary position and brings together innovative researches from different areas within Geography, Social Sciences and Humanities. The aim is to create a knowledge hub for academics and practitioners, researchers and research organisations, as well as managers and policy makers worldwide, presenting advances and case studies, which connect academia to practice. The series benefits from the existing and growing Silk Cities’ network, as well as ongoing collaborative activities Silk Cities undertake as part of its intellectual leadership on the subject matter. The series is open for empirical, theoretical, and methodological high-quality contributions, which advance the global understanding on the subject matter. The areas covered in the series include but are not limited to the following subjects: • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Cities and intangible cultural heritage Community participation in managing urban heritage Urban history Urban heritage Cultural memory, society, and the built environment Development management in historic contexts Disaster management in historic cities Disaster risk reduction and resilience of historic cities and societies Disaster recovery and reconstruction Environment and historic cities Governing historic cities Geotourism and geoheritage Historic contexts and complex urban systems Post-crisis reconstruction and recovery Smart historic cities Sustainable heritage tourism Urban Silk Roads Urban economy in historic cities Sustainable urban heritage Urban conservation Urban design and public spaces in historic context Urban planning of historic cities Urban morphology Urban transformation of historic cities Urban connectivity and Silk Roads Historic cities, urban policies, and territorial planning

Eyüp Özveren · Filiz Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu · Tülin Selvi Ünlü Editors

Mediterranean Port Cities Connectivity in Modern Times

Editors Eyüp Özveren Middle East Technical University (Retired) Istanbul, Türkiye

Filiz Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu Vehbi Koç Ankara Studies Research Center Koç University Ankara, Türkiye

Tülin Selvi Ünlü Faculty of Architecture Çukurova University Adana, Türkiye

ISSN 2731-5363 ISSN 2731-5371 (electronic) Cities, Heritage and Transformation ISBN 978-3-031-32325-6 ISBN 978-3-031-32326-3 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

The idea of a series of edited books on Mersin and the Mediterranean world as well as the origins of many of the chapters in this book go back to a series of colloquia hosted by the Center for Mediterranean Urban Studies of the Mersin University in 2002, 2005, 2008, and 2011. Since then, papers have been revised substantially and in several rounds, so as to culminate in the final version now made public with this edited volume. During the last phase, contributors have been requested to fine-tune their work in accordance with the objectives of this particular volume the editors had in mind. Where voids have been detected from the bird’s eye view the editors held with respect to the construct underlying the volume in their mind, two authors, Eyüp Özveren and Alp Yücel Kaya, known for their past work and had already been within the orbit of the foundational colloquia were invited and kindly agreed to contribute specific chapters on Beirut and ˙Izmir to that effect. This volume comes with an extensive introduction deliberately intended to familiarize the reader with the development of literature over time as well as with the conceptual apparatus and construct of the book. This volume is the second and last of a two-volume series in its own right edited by the very same editors but with entirely different sets of papers. Whereas the first book had a special focus on the port city of Mersin and its environs through successive stages of history, this book limits the time scope (to modern times, i.e., nineteenth century and after) and expands the field of vision (not a single city but a representative sample from the Eastern Mediterranean, and Barcelona offering a counterpoint). With this final volume of our work now out, we, the editors, consider our overarching objective greatly realized. We thank the contributors for their patience and work, and wait excitedly for the judgment of readers that will determine the rest. Istanbul, Türkiye Ankara, Türkiye Adana, Türkiye

Eyüp Özveren Filiz Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu Tülin Selvi Ünlü

v

Contents

1

2

Introduction: The Mediterranean, and the Port Cities in Modern Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eyüp Özveren Overture: Urban Planning in a Mediterranean Port City: The Contested Nature of Urban Redevelopment in the El Raval Neighborhood in Barcelona . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Antònia Casellas and Grant Saff

Part I 3

4

1

43

A Mediterranean Tour d’horizon with the Port City Articles as the Ports of Call

Alexandria: A Glorious Past, Troubled Present and Promising Future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Yasser G. Aref

63

Beirut—Forever on a Tightrope: The Search for a Fragile Modernity in Travelogues, Memoirs, and Archives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eyüp Özveren

99

5

The Character of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean Port City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Tülin Selvi Ünlü

6

Izmir, the Port City that Will Follow You No Matter Where You Go . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 Alp Yücel Kaya

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viii

Contents

Part II 7

Intermezzo: A View from the Bridge of Volos Collapsing into Infinity

Volos in the Network of Mediterranean Cities: Comparative Mapping of the City’s Spatial Evolution Through the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Vilma Hastaoglou-Martinidis

Part III Fragments of Connectivity 8

Transnational Trajectories: From Chios to London Through Alexandria, a Family Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 Elena Frangakis-Syrett

9

City, Fathers, and Sons: Life Trajectories of Salonican Sabbatians in the Nineteenth Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 Dilek Akyalçın Kaya

10 Ex-Changing Houses in Rethymno After the Treaty of Lausanne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239 Melis Cankara Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255

List of Contributors

Dilek Akyalçın Kaya Institute for Mediterranean Studies-FORTH, Rethymno, Greece Yasser G. Aref Department of Architecture, Menoufia University, Shebin El Kom, Egypt Melis Cankara Hellenic Foundation for European & Foreign Policy (ELIAMEP), Athens, Greece; Architectural History & Theory Department, Graduate School of Science and Engineering, Yildiz Technical University, Istanbul, Turkey; Faculty of Architecture, Izmir Institute of Technology (IZTECH), Izmir, Turkey Antònia Casellas Departament de Geografia, Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Edifici B Campus UAB, Bellaterra, Spain Elena Frangakis-Syrett Department of History, Queens College and Graduate Center, City University of New York, New York, USA Vilma Hastaoglou-Martinidis Aristotle University, Thessaloniki, Greece Alp Yücel Kaya Ege University, Izmir, Turkey Grant Saff Department of Global Studies and Geography, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY, USA Eyüp Özveren ˙Istanbul, Turkey Tülin Selvi Ünlü Adana, Turkey

ix

List of Figures

Fig. 2.1

Fig. 2.2 Fig. 2.3

Fig. 2.4 Fig. 3.1

Fig. 3.2

Fig. 3.3

Barcelona surrounded by walls in the seventeenth century with the old town (left of the map) and new town (right). Source “Fons del Centre Excursionista de Catalunya (CEC) dipositat a l’ICGC”. Fons cartogràfic del Centre Excursionista de Catalunya, https://cartotecadigital.icgc. cat. Creative Commoms License . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MACBA Museum in Raval North. Source Grant Saff July 2015 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . El Raval within downtown and Cerda’s urban morphology. Source Adaped from Institut Cartogràfic i Geològic de Catalunya, Creative Commoms License. https://cartoteca digital.icgc.cat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . El Raval Boulevard. Source Grant Saff, January 2016 . . . . . . . . . The ancient Library of Alexandria. Source wikicommons.com, The original image is a photograph of a nineteenth-century B&W Artistic Rendering of the Library of Alexandria by O. Von Corven, created based on some archaeological evidence. It was uploaded to Wikimedia Commons and released to the public domain by Domitori 26 June 2007. This version of the image has been resized and colorized by K. Vail Abdelhamid (user:aishaabdel) December 2015 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Computer generated model of the Lighthouse of Alexandria one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A satellite image of Alexandria center and western parts. The Eastern Harbor is on the right. Source Earth Science and Remote Sensing Unit, Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons . . . . . . . . . . . .

45 50

51 54

65

65

66

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xii

Fig. 3.4 Fig. 3.5

Fig. 3.6 Fig. 3.7 Fig. 3.8 Fig. 3.9 Fig. 3.10

Fig. 3.11 Fig. 3.12

Fig. 3.13

Fig. 3.14 Fig. 3.15 Fig. 3.16

Fig. 3.17

Fig. 3.18

Fig. 3.19

List of Figures

Land infill and concrete blocks are destroying the ecology and underwater archaeology. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dense landfill on the waterfront of the Mediterranean for commercial, entertainment, and recreational activities. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Garbage disposals, in the Eastern Harbor. Source The author . . . Cluttered vehicles along Alexandria waterfront. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The skyline of the Eastern garoub is dominated by new high-rise buildings, 2008. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The street beside the Alexandria court was taken to be used as a parking place of the new complex. Source The author . . . . . The WHO attempted to take over the street behind the building in order to expand its offices. Source Egypt Surveying Authoroties, Alexandria Governrate maps, 1:500 collection, surveyed 1935 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The WHO building is located on a prominent location on the waterfront of Alexandria. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . View of the villa showing the dramatic concrete dome, which demonstrates the modernity of the design despite the fact that it was built in 1929. The picture also shows the sunbreakers beneath the dome casting shadows on the 2-story-high glass wall behind it, in an attempt by Perret to respond to the local environment of Egypt. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The entrance façade of the villa shows the skeleton framing made with reinforced concrete and red brick infills. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The partial demolition in 2009. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . The complete demolition of the villa in 2014. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A map of Alexandria illustrating the direction of the shift and the location of activities outside the downtown area. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A modern, fancy shopping facility on the outskirts of the city draws customers away from the downtown area. Green Plaza shopping center, designed by Essam Qassem & Ancestors, 2004. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexandria City Center, main building and extension, by A. Moez and Mohamed El Hegazy, 2002. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stanley bay bridge, completed 2001 with a cost of 75 million Egyptian pounds. Source www.arabcont.com . . . . . . . . .

67

68 68 69 70 71

71 72

73

74 75 76

76

77

78 78

List of Figures

Fig. 3.20

Fig. 3.21

Fig. 3.22

Fig. 3.23 Fig. 3.24

Fig. 3.25

Fig. 3.26 Fig. 3.27 Fig. 3.28 Fig. 3.29 Fig. 3.30

Fig. 3.31

Fig. 3.32

The new corniche with sea infill creates new urban spaces for residents’ and visitors’ recreation and entertainment, but it also blocks the magnificent view of the sweeping Mediterranean waterfront. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The picture shows how the new developments along the waterfront block the panoramic view of the Mediterranean. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Plan of pedestrian areas, by Dar El Handasah LTD, Egypt. Source Abdel Kawi A, El Khorazaty T, Labib Gabr A, El Mestikawy H, Sorour S (eds) (1999) Medina architecture, interiors & fine arts, Issue Six: February–March, p 28 . . . . . . . . . Moharam Bey Bridge. Source Official website of the Arab Republic of Egypt Presidency, https://www.presidency.eg . . . . . . The new Library of Alexandria within its larger urban context. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The main plaza of the new Library of Alexandria acts as a place for cultural interaction. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Exterior view of the passenger terminal. Source The author . . . . Interior view of the passenger terminal. Source The author . . . . . The exterior of the renovated passengers’ terminal at the seaport of Alexandria. Source The author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . General view of E-JUST campus after construction by AA architects Inc. Source www.ejust.edu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mahmoudeyah Canal before the development project. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . General view of the new Mahmoudeyah Canal after development adding attractive urban spaces for residents. Source Official website of the Arab Republic of Egypt Presidency, https://www.presidency.eg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ariel view of the Eastern showing the proposed development designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 100 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xiii

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80 81

81

82 83 84 85 86

87

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xiv

Fig. 3.33

Fig. 3.34

Fig. 3.35

Fig. 3.36

Fig. 3.37

Fig. 3.38

Fig. 3.39

Fig. 3.40

List of Figures

Bibliotheca plaza designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 104 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Pharos Hotel and the Underwater Archaeological Museum designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 103 . . . . . . Aquarium and Marine Life Institute, designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 100 . . . . . . . . . . . . Proposed underwater archaeological museum, designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 103 . . . . . . . . . . . . The location of the 3 proposed areas for development by the Government of Alexandria. Source Aref YG, Mehaina MM (2008) Urban natural forms, lake mariout scenarios of deterioration or prospects of sustainability. GreenLink Mediterranean seminar, “Respecting Nature and Environment In Urban Extensions”, Seminar co-financed by Interreg IIIBMedocc, Firenze, 30 May 2008 . . . . General view of the proposed devlopment. Source Extracted from a CD published by The Governorate of Alexandria, The Future Vision of Alexandria Governorate, 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aerial view of the Montazah gardens prior to 1965, showing Al Haramlek palace in the right third, the Salamlek palace in the far middle and the light house. Source Awad M (2014) Montazah: the royal palaces and gardens. Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandrina, p 105 . . . . . . . . . . . A view of the Haramlek palace showing the fine architecture of the palace and its architectural distinction. Source Awad M (2014) Montazah: the royal palaces and gardens. Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandrina, p 159 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

90

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92

93

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95

List of Figures

Fig. 3.41

Fig. 3.42

Fig. 5.1

Fig. 5.2 Fig. 5.3 Fig. 5.4 Fig. 5.5

Fig. 5.6

Fig. 5.7 Fig. 5.8 Fig. 5.9 Fig. 5.10 Fig. 5.11

Fig. 5.12 Fig. 7.1 Fig. 7.2 Fig. 7.3

A view of al Salamlek Palace. The beach cabins and the garden in front of the palace have been demolished and rebuilt on a massive scale. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A rendering of the new 8-story hotel on the sandy beaches of Montazah designed by Alexandria Group of Architecture and Planning. The rendering illustrates the large mass of the new building. The hotel is now under construction. Source AGAP Consultants, Alexandria . . . . Izmir, Iskenderiye, Thessaloniki, and Beirut in the nineteenth century (University of Birmingham, Conzen Collection) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Mersin and Çukurova regions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Uray Street, Mersin (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci) . . . . . . . . . Uray Street, Piers, and the Raiway Station, Mersin (Reproduced from Rother, 1971) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ziraat Bank, Ottoman Bank, Deutsche Orientbank, Athens Bank, and Salonica Bank, all on Uray Street or nearby (Reproduced from a British map) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Religious buildings, cemeteries, and neighbourhoods as significant elements of different religious groups and social diversity (Rother 1971) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mersin in the beginning of the twentieth century (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colleggio di St. Antonio, on the land of the Catholic Church (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Urban structure of Mersin, 1940s (Reproduced from a British map, 1942) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mersin Port Project (Mersin Port Project Report, Holland Royal Port Cooperation 4 and personal archives) . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mersin Customs Square, from the early years of the twentieth century to the 1960s (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Urban structure of Mersin, 1960s (Reproduced from a British map, 1942) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Volos in the nineteenth century: The castle and the new town, in an 1887 map . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Railway networks and Evaristo de Chirico works in Volos, 1881–1905 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The network of harbour works in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1860–1910 (marked are the names of the engineers and the year of each works’ commencement) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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137 139 140 140

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145 147 147 149 150

151 151 187 190

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Fig. 7.4

Fig. 7.5 Fig. 7.6 Fig. 7.7 Fig. 7.8 Fig. 8.1 Fig. 8.2 Fig. 8.3 Fig. 8.4 Fig. 8.5 Fig. 8.6 Fig. 10.1

Fig. 10.2 Fig. 10.3 Fig. 10.4 Fig. 10.5 Fig. 10.6

Fig. 10.7

List of Figures

The Diaspora of Mount Pelion villagers to Egypt, 1825–1930 (the main places of origin destination are marked) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The branches of the Bank of Athens in the Mediterranean, 1911–1920 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hermann Spierer Tobacco Company: Headquarters, branches, and sub-branches in the 1920s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The network of the schools of the Sœurs de Saint Joseph de l’Apparition in the Mediterranean between 1840 and 1907 . . . . . Volos in the network of architectural innovations . . . . . . . . . . . . . My father Stefanos Frangakis in the WW2 Hellenic Navy, 1943 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My parents’ (Stefanos and Kyriaki-Aikaterini) engagement photo, 1949 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My parents’ wedding photo, Cairo, February 1950 . . . . . . . . . . . My father in London, 1980s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My father in Athens, 2000s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My mother in Athens, 2000s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An example of Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee Documents, Digital Crete project at IMS-FORTH’s archive . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The distribution of the properties that changed hands (according to the identity of the subsequent owners/renters) . . . . Neighbourhood relations before the population exchange in P. Koroneu Street (partial) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Religious homogenization in P. Koroneu Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cultural hybridization in P. Koroneu Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lots schema in P. Koroneu between Navarinou and Ipsilandou streets according to the Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee documents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lots and site plans of P. Koroneu between Navarinou and Ipsilandou streets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

193 195 197 198 200 209 211 211 212 213 214

243 244 247 249 250

251 252

List of Tables

Table 9.1 Table 9.2 Table 9.3 Table 10.1

Landowners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Merchants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Civil servants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The properties that changed hands in the old town of Rethymno (according to the street names and the identity of subsequent owners/renters) . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

229 232 234

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Chapter 1

Introduction: The Mediterranean, and the Port Cities in Modern Times Eyüp Özveren

Keywords Connectivity · Fernand Braudel · Microecology · Port city · Port-city · The Mediterranean

[The city of] Despina can be reached in two ways: by ship or by camel. The city displays one face to the traveler arriving overland and a different one to him who arrives by sea. When the camel driver sees, at the horizon of the tableland, the pinnacles of the skyscrapers come into view, the radar antennae, the white and windsocks flapping, the chimneys belching smoke, he thinks of a ship; he knows it is a city, but he thinks of it as a vessel that will take him away from the desert, a windjammer about to cast off, with the breeze already swelling the sails, not yet unfurled, or a steamboat with its boiler vibrating in the iron keel; and he thinks of all the ports, the foreign merchandise the cranes unload on the docks, the taverns where crews of different flags break bottles over one another’s heads, the lighted, ground-floor windows, each with a woman combing her hair. In the coastline’s haze, the sailor discerns the form of a camel’s withers, an embroidered saddle with glittering fringe between two spotted humps, advancing and swaying; he knows it is a city, but he thinks of it a s a camel from whose pack hang wineskins and bags of candied fruit, date wine, tobacco leaves, and already he sees himself at the head of a long caravan taking him away from the desert of the sea, toward oases of fresh water in the palm trees’ jagged shade, toward palaces of thick, whitewashed walls, tiled courts where girls are dancing barefoot, moving their arms, half-hidden by their veils, and half-revealed. Each city receives its form from the desert it opposes; and so the camel driver and the sailor see Despina, a border city between two deserts. —Italo Calvino (1974 [1972]), Invisible Cities, pp. 18–19

E. Özveren (B) Dr. Faruk Ayano˘glu Cad. No 7 Daire 25 Fenerbahce, 34726 Kadikoy Istanbul, Turkey e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_1

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1.1 In the Beginning Was the Sea The common understanding of the Mediterranean as a subject-matter, if not a unit of analysis, of scholarly investigation has been greatly shaped by Fernand Braudel’s The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II 1975 [1949 &1966]). Had it not been for this path-breaking and trendsetting work, Mediterranean History might not have become a legitimate subfield of the academic discipline of History, just as Mediterranean Studies might not have emerged as an organized and recognized interdisciplinary field of academic teaching and research within the institutions of higher learning. Braudel’s pioneering work has been trendsetting and even field-legitimizing for long, and remains as such, given that almost every scholar in the field feels to this day obliged to pay at least a lip service to it. As far as its path- breaking character is concerned, it has no comparable precedent in scale and scope, but more importantly, it is the first work to have elevated the Mediterranean from being a mere backdrop to the stage, to becoming the major protagonist in the unfolding of the drama. Hence follows its formative influence on the emergent subfield of History and the interdisciplinary field of Mediterranean Studies, and its lasting effect on scholarship within both, albeit the criticism it has inevitably drawn. This success was achieved in spite of the dominant tendency within academia in favor of self-fulfilling specialization. Paraphrasing Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, “for all its fame and influence, The Mediterranean seems to have marked an end rather than a beginning in Mediterranean studies” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 37), not because of its inherent weaknesses but because of the strength of the current, sailing against which has proven quite difficult. Braudel’s magnum opus is concerned with the Mediterranean world as he conceived it, a world in its own right, in the ‘long sixteenth century’ with the “two major truths [that have] remained unchallenged” as he specified in his Preface to the English Edition of 1972: The first is the unity and coherence of the Mediterranean region. I retain the firm conviction that the Turkish [or more appropriately the Ottoman] Mediterranean lived and breathed with the same rhythms as the Christian, that the whole sea shared a common destiny, a heavy one indeed, with identical problems and general trends if not identical consequences. And the second is the greatness of the Mediterranean, which lasted well after the age of Columbus and Vasco de Gama, until the dawn of the seventeenth century or even later. (Braudel 1975: 14; emphases added)

Even so, it supplies scholarship with a framework of analysis that can be generalized to other time-periods and/or geographies. In this respect, it is neither compelled to remain partial nor vulnerable to criticism. Nevertheless, the very idea of a Mediterranean world implies a certain unity, hence the explanation of what accounts for it, and furthermore raises the inevitable question of where its boundaries rest, a difficulty of which he was well aware (Braudel 1975: 168). Braudel’s own answer to what generated the unity in question had first and foremost to do with geography, but increasingly crystallized from one edition of his book to the next into an emphasis on the division of labor that encouraged maritime trade, in other words, “the amazing freedom of

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its sea-routes (its automatic free trade as Ernest Labrousse called it)”, thereby privileging the economic factor for the explanation of the convergence (Braudel 1975: 418, 1239). It is to Braudel’s credit that his account was also sensitive to the various degrees of subunits (such as the lesser seas and/or regions) that coexisted below the all-encompassing level of the Mediterranean as summarily expressed in the same Preface he wrote to the English edition of 1972: “The Mediterranean speaks with many voices; it is a sum of individual histories. If these histories assume in the course of research different values, different meanings, their sum must perforce change too” (Braudel 1975: 13). As a matter of fact, already in his Preface dated May 1946 to the first edition of 1949, he was inclined to think in the same direction: The Mediterranean is not even a single sea, it is a complex of seas; and these seas are broken up by islands, interrupted by peninsulas, ringed by intricate coastlines. Its life is linked to the land, its poetry more than half-rural, its sailors may turn peasant with the seasons; it is the sea of vineyards and olive trees just as much as the sea of the long-oared galleys and the roundships of merchants and its history can no more be separated from that of the lands surrounding it than the clay can be separated from the hands of the potter who shapes it. ‘Lauso la mare e tente’n terro’ (‘Praise the sea and stay on land’ says a Provençal proverb. (Braudel 1975: 17)

Although this description takes us away from the sea towards the highlands opening onto the surrounding continents; the sea, from where everything, including his love for and intellectual engagement with the Mediterranean started off, was of central importance for Braudel: “My feeling is that the sea itself the one we see and love, is the greatest document of its past existence” (Braudel 1975: 17). Not only does his above careful formulation grant a certain autonomy to the parts within the whole, but it also admits that scholarship in this particular domain is an open-ended evolutionary process. In the course of its own progress, it can modify its earlier findings and assumptions, and generate new research hypotheses. We are thus faced here, not with a once-and-for-all statement of closure but with a potentially generative matrix that invites criticism and change from within. It is no surprise that Braudel’s book, besides remaining as a strong metanarrative, remains to this day as the fount and matrix on which the scholarly study of the Mediterranean has rested. In the course of time, three constructive criticisms of it have emerged, two of which we will take up for a close scrutiny below,1 where the authors explicitly take Braudel’s work as a point of departure, and explore the familiar ground by recourse to different time-periods and/or methods. Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, in their The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (2000), were first to courageously undertake a stocktaking of scholarship, thanks to accumulated scholarly detailed work as well as advances in methodology that occurred during the postwar period. This partnership of an ancient 1

The third book, which we will not cover here because it carries our discussion away from the time-frame of our book, otherwise noteworthy for its enormous contribution to the scope and rigour of the field by bringing in the prehistory as an integral part of Mediterranean history with important implications for the reconsideration of the subsequent periods, is The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World (2013) by Cyprian Broodbank.

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and a medieval historian has so far produced the first volume of an intended two volume study where the first volume would move “from inside the Mediterranean to outside, beginning with the smallest constituents and their interaction and touching only occasionally on more far-flung links” whereas the second would proceed “from outside in, looking predominantly at those larger systems within which the Mediterranean has been situated and at their effects on its microecologies.”, sparing for the second volume topics such as “climate, disease, demography and, underlying all these, the relations between the Mediterranean and other major areas of the globe” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 4). This formulation obliges us to confine our remarks here to the limits of the first volume as well as making them as tentative and provisional as the authors themselves readily admit for their own. The two authors make their point of departure known in the opening paragraphs of their Introduction: This work originated in a simple observation—that, in his celebrated The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II (1972), Fernand Braudel had proclaimed the enduring unity and distinctiveness of his subject: but he had mostly confined his supporting evidence to what he thought as the facts of geography and to the sixteenth-century documents. […] Our simple observation concerning The Mediterranean induced a simple question. Could such a work have been written taking as its eponymous ruler an imperial potentate from Antiquity or the Middle Ages? If the Mediterranean had indeed, as Braudel suggested, constituted a distinct unity in earlier centuries than the sixteenth, it ought to be possible to discover how the unity subsisted, and what kinds of continuity were involved in the process. (Horden and Purcell 2000: 1)

In other words, backed by a seminar, they wished to test Braudel’s above quoted “conviction” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 15) as a hypothesis in the light of evidence from the earlier period: Our original scope, chronologically speaking—and the title of our seminar—was ‘Before Braudel’. The result of those meetings was certainly no imitation of Braudel’s method. But it did take the first part of The Mediterranean, on the ‘constants’ of human geography, a frequent point of reference. Our theme was the relationship of ‘man and environment’; and the subtitle of the publication we hoped would eventuate from the seminar should, we thought, probably include both that phrase and ‘Antiquity and the Middle Ages’. (Horden and Purcell 2000: 2)

In fact, the first part to do with the constants in general, with a focus on ‘Man and Environment’ was intended to supply “the reference grid” for the second part in Horden and Purcell’s parlance (Horden and Purcell 2000: 37). Their project was thus conceived within the foundational matrix of Braudel, and an affirmative answer would have served to generalize Braudel’s thesis to a much broader period than it was originally intended for. Their rather conservative conception of the likely subtitle reminds one of the titles of a series of pieces Braudel edited, thereby literally placing the anticipated book on a library shelf as one more piece of supporting literature. It should be no surprise to us if within this process, even with a cautiously affirmative answer, a refinement of the explanation via a methodological reorientation would have taken place. That it would “mark a sea change in our understanding” as Cyprian Broodbank (2013: 19) put it, must have gone way beyond all expectations. Even so, with their ultimate choice for ‘A Study of Mediterranean History’ as the subtitle for

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their tome, in a situation where the title ‘Corrupting Sea’ did not fulfill the function of an academic specification, they revealed their preference for the tradition rather than parting ways with it, and this being so, despite their self-situating characterization as ‘after Braudel’, and full awareness: “Historiography of the Mediterranean [as distinct from that of history in the Mediterranean] -the type of which Braudel was the greatest exponent- has mostly vanished from the scene” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 3). One important reason is obviously that the world has much changed, of which Braudel was not unaware as he spoke of the ‘waning’ of the Mediterranean, as well as having no illusions about a possible Mediterranean comeback in his later work about world history: “But the Mediterranean region as a distinct whole is not, we think, the indispensable framework within which to conceptualize the very recent history and likely future of its peoples” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 3). There is yet another reason to do with the fact that “the sea change” Broodbank spoke of occurred with a landslide under their feet. The intensification of academic specialization in all fields and subfields not only discourages scholars from taking up grandiose projects such as pursuing Mediterranean history, but also when the few adventurous dare to take up the challenge, it pulls the rug from under their feet by making less available any readily useful scholarly literature to support their venture. Put differently, the enormous expansion of written sources come with an intrinsically unfavorable bias in the nature of new written evidence. Hence the gap between the objective and the potential evidence grows into a rift and an abyss. If there exists a major difference between Braudel, on the one side, and Horden and Purcell, on the other, it is to do with the fact that the latter had to readjust their method in compliance with the changing nature of the material at their disposal, but again, Braudel himself was not unaware of the tendency at work either, and we have all the hints in his postwar work that, in all likelihood, he would have done something similar if not exactly the same. Even so, Horden and Purcell were encouraged to take a further step by changing their method from that of Braudel, because they were aware of the price he paid in this respect: The shift of emphasis away from Braudel’s subject matter has been inextricable from an avoidance of his method. And so [one] possible reason why The Mediterranean marks an end rather than a beginning is that subject and method have become confused with one another. The method has attracted considerable criticism; the subject has perhaps suffered from association with it. (Horden and Purcell 2000: 41)

Horden and Purcell’s elaborate interpretation of the more fragile unity of the Mediterranean responsible for its “distinctiveness”, all the more so when approached by its definition “in terms of the unpredictable, the variable, and, above, all, the local,” is based on “the paradoxical coexistence of milieu of relatively easy seaborne communications with a quite unusually fragmented topography of microregions in the sea’s coastlands and islands” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 5, 13). According to Horden and Purcell, Mediterranean unity has been characterized in two principal ways, one emphasizing the ease of communications that they label as the ‘interactionist’ approach, and the other highlighting the shared physical geographical features they term as the ‘ecologizing’ approach. Whereas the first prioritizes the sea, the

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second turns our attention to the hinterlands. In contrast with either, Horden and Purcell combine them “under the signs of microecology and connectivity” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 10).2 The above paradox leads to another: “The paradox of the Mediterranean is that the all-too-apparent fragmentation can potentially unite the sea and its coastlands in a way far exceeding anything predicable of a continent” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 24). When approached in this way, “Dense fragmentation complemented by a striving towards control of communications may be an apt summary of Mediterranean past” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 25). In light of the lessons they learned from Braudel, Horden and Purcell specify their own prudent approach: [I]t is in keeping with this requisite flexibility of approach that we shall expect conclusions that are neither absolute nor all-embracing. Our task is the investigation of unity in space and continuity over time: these are the prerequisites of a distinctively Mediterranean history. But we shall not presuppose either unity or continuity: both remain to be demonstrated (or denied) topic by topic. And if we find them we shall not suppose them to be measurable in other than loose and relative terms. To borrow an evocative term from mathematics, the Mediterranean is a ‘fuzzy set’. A certain vagueness should be of the essence in the way it is conceived. Unity is obviously unlikely to be hard and fast, exhibiting clear external boundaries and internal homogeneity. It can only be assessed by reference to recurrent features that are more frequently found within the region than outside it. (Horden and Purcell 2000: 45)

This is obviously a more elaborate and sophisticated formulation of the research agenda in keeping with the scientific practices and conventions characteristic of our times. Because the Mediterranean world is overly fragmented into microecologies that are far more variegated than usual, and because uncertainty such as in precipitation abound, Mediterranean becomes a high-risk area for most of the time with occasional outbursts of opportunity, to which individual agents have to remain alert and respond quickly. From the viewpoint survival strategies, agents make use of existing connectivities so that their means meet ends. Maritime trade of goods thus becomes compulsory for survival strategies. Yet, to play the devil’s advocate, how far are we really from Braudel’s original formulation? Whereas Braudel was skeptical about the capacity of individual choice and action, and tended to see the individual as imprisoned by constraints, here we are faced with a more micro-economic conception of the constant tendency of a self-organizing agency-triggered system towards an unstable equilibrium. To put it differently, Braudel’s Mediterranean economic space was integrated by specialization in an all-encompassing division of labor thanks to the leading role the merchants played, and where freedom of trade rewarded all parties concerned, albeit differently. Here we encounter instead economic agents faced with risk who take part in subeconomic systems that usually fall short of a local equilibrium, and therefore have 2

This is nevertheless a somewhat repeat performance, benefitting from the advances the times have brought about that work to the advantage of latecomers compared with the pioneer(s) in history. The two authors summarized the achievement of Braudel in The Mediterranean: “it can be regarded as a simultaneous recapitulation of the major themes that we have previously identified in the history of Mediterranean studies. To the interactionist vision it adds an ecologizing perspective. To the tradition of Romantic evocation, it lends the analytical weight of a social science. And these come together in the ultimately Romantic project of an all-inclusive chef d’ouevre, in which an entire world is subordinate to its creator-historian” (Horden and Purcell 2000: 39).

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to make up for their deficiencies by turning to overseas trade. In a nutshell, we are now provided with an updated explanation of an otherwise well-functioning market mechanism, which also takes into consideration now a structural peculiarity of the Mediterranean world arising from its excessive fragmentation combined with uncertainty. As a matter of fact, Horden and Purcell find in connectivity the crucial factor that helps differentiate the Mediterranean from other seas. If the Mediterranean has a uniqueness, it is to do with the indispensability of connectivity for the constitution of its unity. Moreover this connectivity is perceived first and foremost as trading of surpluses between risk-bearing and periodically hard-hit microecologies. It inextricably pairs the land with the sea and helps reinforce the Mediterranean world a single entity worthy of scholarly investigation. We do share the importance bestowed upon the concept of ‘connectivity’ by Horden and Purcell as apparent in our elevating it to the level of representation in our chosen title for this volume. However, whereas Horden and Purcell define connectivity rigorously and give it a narrow meaning, we would rather ascribe it a more general and loose meaning. We conceive all connections that have a tendency to repeat regularly when similar conditions apply and contexts materialize as the constituent elements of ‘connectivity’. Hence we place below connectivity with a capital C the multiple connectivities that can play a similar role of responding to exigencies when circumstances require. Overseas trade is hence for us an instance of connectivity, one among the many, perhaps the most important. Even so, Mediterranean microecologies respond to crises by also migration, an important form of eviting starvation and poverty in the first instance but also a way of trading surplus labor among the interconnected and interdependent microecologies. Similarly bartering property that cannot practically be transported can be seen yet as another mechanism of re-equilibrating. Put differently, where there exist certain obstacles on the way of direct trade, problems of surplus and excess accumulations in one domain can be compensated by relocations in another domain as these examples demonstrate. Moreover, we see a strong potential for fragility as well as persistent precarity as further consequences of the principle of connectivity with a capital C. This is why we prefer to emphasize the plural and prolific form in our work. Like Horden and Purcell, David Abulafia, the author of The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean (2011) felt compelled to explain how he saw his work in relation to Braudel, and this time not waiting for the Introduction but as early as in the second paragraph of his Preface: My ‘Mediterranean’ is resolutely the surface of the sea itself, its shores and its islands, particularly the port cities that provided the main departure and arrival points for those crossing it. This is a narrower definition than that of the great pioneer of Mediterranean history, Fernand Braudel, which at times encompassed places beyond the Mediterranean; but the Mediterranean of Braudel and most of those who have followed in his wake was a land mass stretching far beyond the shoreline as well as a basin filled with water, and there is still a tendency to define the Mediterranean in relation to the cultivation of the olive or the river valleys that feed into it. This means one must examine the often sedentary, traditional societies in those valleys that produced the food-stuffs and raw materials that were the staples of trans-Mediterranean commerce, which also means taking on board landlubbers who never went near the sea. The hinterland -the events that took place there, the products that originated or came through there- cannot of course be ignored, this book concentrates on those who

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Abulafia wishes to reverse the tendency starting with Braudel and carried further by Horden and Purcell who expanded the field-of-vision in favor of the landmasses surrounding the sea. Abulafia takes instead a much narrower field-of-vision with a sharp focus on what went on literally on the surface of the sea. This is essentially a revisionist project that appeals for a return to the basics; easier said than done, as the content of his lengthy book reveals time and again. We should not overlook the attraction of the sea glimmering behind his possessive attitude towards it as when he addresses it as “My ‘Mediterranean’”. In one further sense that became manifest in his dedication of the book with “a la memoria de mis antecesores”, when he revealed his personal attachment to the Mediterranean via his ancestry,3 making him at least as passionate about this sea (Abulafia 2011: xxi) as was Braudel, the northerner. While thus reducing the spatial coordinates, Abulafia, the historian increases immensely the time scope of his narrative beyond the limits of not only Braudel but also Horden and Purcell. He summarizes his task in a nutshell in the first paragraph of his Preface: My theme is the process by which the Mediterranean became in varying degrees integrated into a single commercial, cultural and even (under the Romans) political zone, and how these periods of integration ended with sometimes violent disintegration, whether through warfare or plague. I have identified five distinct periods: a First Mediterranean that descended into chaos after 1200 BC, that is, around the time Troy is said to have fallen; a Second Mediterranean that survived until about AD 500; a Third Mediterranean that emerged slowly and then experienced a great crisis at the time of the Black Death (1347; a Fourth Mediterranean that had to cope with increasing competition from the Atlantic, and domination by Atlantic powers, ending around the time of the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869; finally, a Fifth Mediterranean that became a passageway to the Indian Ocean, and found a surprising new identity in the second half of the twentieth century. (Abulafia 2011: xvii, emphases added)

We should take note that the time scope of Horden and Purcell’s book overlaps with Abulafia’s Second, Third and Fourth Mediterraneans, while Braudel’s narrative can be situated in about the first half of Abulafia’s Fourth Mediterranean. Having acknowledged how “looming over all historians of the Mediterranean, lies the shadow of Fernand Braudel”, Abulafia has this to say about how his own book differed from Braudel’s: 3

There exist three mentions of Abulafias in the book. The first is Abraham ben Samuel Abulafia, born in Saragossa (Spain) in 1239 or1240, “a charismatic kabbalist” informed about “Christian and Muslim mysticism” and who travelled the Mediterranean from end to end until 1291. The second is Haim Abulafia, the Sephardic rabbi in Hebron, the Holy Land, who spoke out against shabbetai pretending to be Messiah during the third quarter of the seventeenth century. The third is Solomon Abulafia, the first mayor of neve Tzedek, the suburb of Jaffa, in whose house gathered the colony of artists and writers of Hebrew culture in early twentieth century (Abulafia 2011: 341–342, 480, 593). Although whether or not the author is a descendant of any of the three is not made explicit, it is highly likely that he was, given the level of detail supplied, especially in relation with the first and the last.

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Showing encyclopedic mastery of the history of the entire Mediterranean, not just in the sixteenth century, Braudel offered a novel and exciting answer to the question of how the societies around its edges have interacted. At the heart of Braudel’s approach was his assumption that ‘all change is slow’ and that ‘man is imprisoned in a destiny in which he himself has little hand’. This book suggests the opposite in both cases. Whereas Braudel offered what might be called a horizontal history of the Mediterranean, seeking to capture its characteristics through the examination of a particular era, this book attempts to provide a vertical history of the Mediterranean, emphasizing change over time. (Abulafia 2011: xxv–xxvi, emphases added)

On the other side, granting recognition to Horden and Purcell’s volume as one of the two works that “stand out prominently” in Mediterranean history, he goes on to opine that it is especially rich in ideas about the agrarian history of the lands bordering the Mediterranean, assuming that a history of the Mediterranean should include land bordering the sea to a depth of at least ten miles. They demonstrate some fundamental features of Mediterranean exchange: the ‘connectivities’ linking different points, the ‘abatements’ when contraction occurred. But, in the last analysis, they are essentially concerned with what happens on land rather than on the surface of the sea itself (Abulafia 2011: xxv, emphases added). This criticism is understandable given where he stands: “This book is a history of the Mediterranean Sea, rather than a history of the lands around it” (Abulafia 2011: xvii), but it is somewhat unfair. Horden and Purcell look to the land not to write an agrarian history per se, but to demonstrate how the exchange observed across the sea was systematically derived from the structural problems of microecologies around the sea. Braudel had already identified the interaction and its persistence, but had no explanation for it other than the advantages of division of labor. Horden and Purcell give an updated and sophisticated explanation for this Mediterranean historical specificity, if not outright uniqueness.4 By dismissing this critical role of the landmass, Abulafia falls back on Braudel. It is quite obvious that one can write a descriptive history of the Mediterranean by taking into consideration “the people who crossed the sea and lived close by its shores in ports and on islands” (Abulafia 2011: xvii). But whether or not an alternative explanatory scheme for understanding the ‘unity’ at work can be surmised from this lesser content remains a valid question after having read his some six hundred and forty pages: The unity of Mediterranean history thus lies, paradoxically, in its swirling changeability, in the diasporas of merchants and exiles, in the people hurrying to cross its surface as quickly as possible, not seeking to linger at sea, especially in winter, when travel became dangerous, like the long-suffering pilgrims ibn Jubayr and Felix Fabri. Its opposing shores are close enough to permit easy contact, but far enough apart to allow societies to develop distinctively under the influence of their hinterland as well as one another. Those who cross its surface are often hardly typical of the societies from which they come. If they are not outsiders when they set out, they are likely to become so when they enter different societies across the water, whether as traders, slaves or pilgrims. But their presence can have a transforming effect on these different societies, introducing something of the culture of one continent into the outer edges, at least, of another. The Mediterranean thus became probably the most vigorous place 4

This we cannot know until we see the second volume that will put the Mediterranean in comparative perspective.

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E. Özveren of interaction between different societies on the face of this planet, and it has played a role in the history of human civilization that has far surpassed any other expanse of sea. (Abulafia 2011: 648)

This reads well in substance and style, and reminds initiated readers of Braudel’s history as prose. Perhaps what is at issue here is a legitimate difference in understanding the historian’s craft. Even so, it makes Abulafia’s narrative susceptible to criticism from the social scientists and more interdisciplinary-minded scholars. Be that as it may, like Braudel as well as Horden and Purcell, Abulafia is aware that Mediterranean is not only a geographical but also a historical concept, and with the heyday of the Mediterranean long gone, its value as an analytical tool may also erode: This confirms the impression that the Mediterranean has lost its place at the centre of the western world, a process that began as early as 1492 when new opportunities beckoned in the Atlantic; and, early in the twenty-first century, it has become clear that the great economic powerhouse of the future will be China. In the world-wide economy of the twentyfirst century, an integrated Mediterranean has local rather than global significance. Ease of contact across the globe—physical contact by air, virtual contact through the Web—means that political, commercial and cultural contacts can be sustained rapidly across vast distances. In this sense, the world has become one big Mediterranean, and the Fifth Mediterranean is the last Mediterranean in which, in any meaningful sense, the world has revolved around the Great Sea. (Abulafia 2011: 640)

We are sure there will be scholars who would argue that this shift took place before the Fifth, that is, long before the time when Suez Canal linked the Mediterranean with the Indian Ocean and drastically modified the global rapports des forces. What is more important here is to recognize that there exists a broad consensus that a Sixth Mediterranean in any meaningful sense will not be.

1.2 Visible Cities5 : The Modern Port City Whatever the flaws with Abulafia’s narrowing down of the spatial depth-of-field at the expense of the landmass may be, it has one major benefit from our point of view. In his narrative, port cities “that provided the main departure and arrival points for those crossing” the Meditrranean occupy a central place (Abulafia 2011: xvii). Abulafia takes pride in this aspect of his book: “And then, within and along the Mediterranean, particularly those where cultures met and mixed—Livorno, Smyrna, Trieste and so on” (Abulafia 2011: xxiv). They thus occupy a more important place in the development of exchanges and connections, be they economic or otherwise. It is not only they become prominent as intersection-points but also they are conceived in various complementary ways stretching all along the course of Mediterranean history as when he speaks of (1) Hellenistic Alexandria as “the lighthouse of Mediterranean culture” but also the “prime entrepôt between the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean” (Abulafia 2011: 152, 155) and Alexandria, “the one city that has featured 5

The allusion is to the now-classic Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino (1974 [1972]).

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again and again in these chapters […]which from the very start possessed a mixed identity, and which only lost that identity in the second half of the twentieth century, as rising nationalism destroyed the cosmopolitan communities of the Mediterranean” (Abulafia 2011: 643), (2) the sixteenth century as the “age when free ports” came into existence on either side of Italy: Two types of free port developed: ports where people of all religions and origins were made welcome, and protected from the Inquisition [Ancona being a good example]; and ports that were free in the modern sense, places where taxes were reduced or abolished in order to encourage trade [of which Dubrovnik, the “cosmopolitan city” was an example]” (Abulafia 2011: 436–439), (3) seventeenth-century Smyrna where a “functioning port city had come into being, in which needs of trade allowed Muslims, Jews and a variety of Christian sects to coexist side by side” (Abulafia 2011: 478), (5) eighteenth-century Trieste, “a free port able to enjoy generous exemptions from standard commercial taxes” where, taking the successful Livorno as a model, “an enclave in which businessmen of all faiths could settle and prosper” was created (Abulafia 2011: 559), (6) early-twentieth century Salonica where the Greek troops marching in found a port city, vast tracks of which would be destroyed by a great fire in August 1917 “wrecking the Jewish and Muslim districts. The fire, along with increasing Jewish and Muslim emigration, gave the Greek authorities the opportunity to forge ahead with the rebuilding of Salonica as a Greek city, populated by Greeks” (Abulafia 2011: 571–572), and (7) Gibraltar, that “can be seen as one of the last survivors of a once widespread phenomenon, the Mediterranean port city” (Abulafia 2011: 627). Most importantly however, Abulafia’s Chapter 4 in the part of his book entitled “The Fifth Mediterranean, 1830–2010”, bears the name “A Tale of Four and a Half Cities, 1900–1950”. All the articles in our edited volume coincide at least in part with the temporal coverage of this article. It is all the more telling that here he attempts to recount the hi/story of the Mediterranean in terms of four-and-a-half port cities, namely Salonica, Izmir, Alexandria, Jaffa, and Tel Aviv. Broadly speaking, he puts the matter in perspective, historical or otherwise: From a Mediterranean perspective, the First World War was only part of a sequence of crises that marked the death throes of the Ottoman Empire: the loss of Cyprus, Egypt, Libya, the Dodecanese, then the war itself with the loss of Palestine to British control, soon followed by a French mandate in Syria. All these changes had consequences, sometimes drastic, in the port cities where different ethnic and religious groups had existed over the centuries, notably Salonika, Smyrna, Alexandria and Jaffa. (Abulafia 2011: 583)

By so doing, he demonstrates that ‘port city’ is the most relevant conceptual device for especially approaching this particular period of history, thereby unintendedly endorsing our own project in terms of approach as well as content, given that our volume, by a fortunate coincidence, includes three of his cities but the last two, Jaffa and Tel Aviv, ‘half’ one being Jaffa caught in a zero-sum game it ultimately lost to Tel Aviv. Jaffa counts as half both because it was the smallest and the most short-lived, and because its development was interrupted, its fortunes reversed, and

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it was abruptly absorbed into emergent Tel Aviv6 in 1948: “Thereafter, Jaffa became a suburb of Tel Aviv with an Arab minority, in what was almost a reversal of the situation forty years earlier, while those who had left found themselves unable to return” (Abulafia 2011: 594–595, 600). In short, Jaffa did not measure up to the standards of Mediterranean port cities during its brief calling. Far from so doing, it contrasted sharply with the rest, in the limelight of which it was obscured, except for the intensity of the formative processes of its brief and conflict-ridden abortive ascent that it shared with the others. As for Tel Aviv, it was an entirely new city of not a cosmopolitan but a pretentiously ‘national’ kind, albeit with a port function, owing to its Mediterranean location. Irrespectively of which definition of the Mediterranean one adopts, most of the Mediterranean cities have been port cities though a few in the hinterlands presided over them as capitals especially with the advent of nation-states. Ever since Mikhail Rostovtzeff exerted a strong influence on the economic history of the ancient world because he was attracted by the vitality of Mediterranean cities that he attributed to their anachronistically conceived bourgeoisies and their interactionist tendencies. Although revisionism modified this view, the cities brought to the foreground survived the test of time and were adopted by later scholars. Port cities are equally central to Braudel’s narrative. Horden & Purcell reacted to this legacy when they wrote: The dazzle of classical Athens, imperial Rome, metropolitan Constantinople, cosmopolitan Venice is responsible to a large extent for the relative obscurity in which our ecological subject matter has for so long been wrapped. By choosing rather to discuss Cefalù, Melos and Cagliari, the Biqa and the Albufera, we hope that, if nothing else, some compensation can be made. (Horden and Purcell 2000: 5)

It is not only the countryside that the glamorous port cities left in obscurity. Same was true of the lesser port cities and towns. Horden and Purcell bring to our attention the fact that, such lesser seaports as well as smaller-scale coastal traffic, though much less recorded in archives and documented, because they escape the radar of historians, might probably have played a disproportionately greater role in Mediterranean history. We need both. Both the port cities brought back to the center stage by Abulafia, and the lesser ones like Jaffa -which he incorporated into his exemplary narrative of four and a half cities-among them that have been obscured, sometimes entirely overlooked or forgotten because of the splendor of the more classic set. While port cities occupy an important place within the literature on Mediterranean history by virtue of the fact that the Mediterranean has always been the privileged milieu of port cities since ancient times, the literature on port cities branched out 6

“Thus, was born what was to become the first major city to emerge on the shores of the Mediterranean since the early Middle Ages, when Tunis had been founded to replace Carthage and Venice had emerged from its lagoons. The emergence of Tel Aviv offers a different, Mediterranean perspective to the tortuous history of the foundation of Israel, and the new city aroused intense passions among its Arab neighbours—it still does not feature on many maps of the Middle East produced in Arab countries.” (Abulafia 2011: 593).

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and grew quite independently of it. Notable in this context is Louis Dermigny’s monumental study (1974) that covers not only a vast geography coincident with world history benefitting from his specialization on the Orient, but also a long temporal scope extending from the Middle Ages to the Modern Times. It may have taken longer for the port cities regime in the Mediterranean to ferment than elsewhere, just as it may have been better documented, but similar formations existed elsewhere not only because of independent parallel developments but also benefitting from the transplantation of acquired know-how. The Dutch experience in building up strategic naval bases on sea routes in general, as well as seaports along the Baltic coastline for the purpose of securing regular supplies of grain and raw materials for its economy, is an important case in point (Cieslak 1972; Pohl 1972). The French Levant trade had been a preserve of Marseille during the early modern period. The special status of this regulation was shaped by a series of treaties, the most important of which were signed with the Ottoman Empire during the sixteenth century when the latter attempted to counter the shift of trade routes from the Mediterranean to the oceanic routes by forging an alliance with France. From this move emerged the system of echelles (as distinct from escales7 ) granted to the French as a concession. Each such port was to host a French contingent nation that would consist of French consular corps and merchants. The echelles system helped shape a sphere of commercial-diplomatic activity that was spared from the arbitrary interference of the Ottoman Porte. It practically created an artificial and limited zone within which relatively ‘free trade’ practices prevailed at a time when trade itself remained heavily regulated. The French merchants and their associates within these echelles were provided with protection from the Ottoman law and arbitrary impositions, making them better off than their compatriots who traded otherwise at their own risk. The echelles ports thus became the ‘containers’ where the French merchants and their local partners came to conduct business jointly, and thus formed a continuum. The echelles system was placed under the regulatory regime of the Chamber of Commerce of Marseille under the Ancien Régime. Just to give an idea, Alexandretta, Tripoli, Latakia, Saida, Acre, Jaffa, Rames, and last but not least Aleppo in Syria and Palestine alone hosted some 130 French subjects in 1764, a year of no significance. Aleppo headed the list with 42 people, Saida came second with 34, and Acre third with 23 (Charles-Roux 1928: 83). Opening a new port as an ‘echelle’ required cumbersome negotiations between the two sides. Marseille’s privilege at the tip of this hierarchy was suppressed in 1791 though the city has continued to maintain a virtual monopoly over the French Levant trade. The nineteenth-century trade regime benefitted greatly from the nuclei of a freely trading ports that the echelles regime thus incubated. Some port cities thus developed directly on this basis while other developed by benefitting from the extension of best commercial practices to their domains. 7

Escale is used to indicate a ‘port of call’ for resupply of necessaries as well as disembarkation and embarkation of passengers, mail, and merchandise between two major points of departure and arrival on the intinerary of a ship. In this sense Marseille was one such terminal point whereas the other endpoint alternated between Alexandria and Izmir, until Beirut became a third recognized final destination in its own right (Glissen 1974: 695).

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If the conception of port city emerged gradually from the historical descriptions of individual cases since ancient times, it is but natural that it would appear vague and rather flexible insofar as it could accommodate as disparate cases from very different epochs as it could from different geographies. This renders it less susceptible to theorization precisely because what it leaves out, that is, an equally vague and far too general generic conception of inland cities, remains disserviceable to the elaboration of topologies by way of comparison and contrast. Practically, the question of whether or not Rome, or Istanbul, the once New Rome, not to mention Cairo, is a port city haunts us to this day. Even so, impressionistically, for example, Izmir was and still is quite different from London, Manchester, and even Istanbul, and yet resembles Beirut, Salonica, and Alexandria more (Kolluo˘glu Kırlı 2007: 221). Moreover, whether this phenomenon is the result of an intrinsic Mediterranean-ness or the effect of a functional convergence because of the port cities’ placements as the passageways between the local and global, and their services as the milieu of cultural encounter needs to be understood (Azarya 2016). In order to come to terms with this ambiguity, two steps were taken somewhat independently by two different cohorts of scholars, who were nevertheless no stranger to one another given their academic upbringing and interests. On the one hand, there emerged a literature concentrating on ‘colonial port cities’ (Basu 1985; Ross and Telkamp 1985; King 1990). Colonial India was first and foremost the most fertile ground for such scholarly pursuit. With this literature, the discussion shifted away from the Mediterranean to Asia and other continents where the colonial legacies were clear enough for observation. In sharp contrast to the Mediterranean where colonial port cities coexisted with port cities per se, or where some such cities traversed the borderline, once or more, as for example, Alexandria, or the seaports along French North Africa,8 thereby making the picture even more complicated if not outright confusing, other cases from Asia could offer a sufficient number of relatively ‘pure’ state examples to extrapolate a theoretical generalization. If anything, colonialism, offered a disciplining force, an exogenous factor -that nevertheless physically penetrated into the phenomena so as to become indistinguishable from it in terms of its effects- thereby guaranteeing an observable convergence within the subset of cities under scrutiny. On the other hand, the same search for rigor, motivated a group of scholars to remain within the Mediterranean domain where the colonial-versus-non-colonial distinction did not help much, and yet explore an alternative way of attaining a comparable result. In retrospect, specialists of Asian port cities looked to the ‘coercion’ characteristic of colonial legacy as the prime mover of this converging process. By contrast, students of the Mediterranean (Keyder et al. 1993) concentrated instead on the effects of an irreversible and path-dependent incorporation into an international division of labor, by a relatively doux commerce as the factor responsible for the peripheralization of certain countries and the emergence of a corresponding systemic role for the port cities to play in this new world order. Put differently, in 8

For Algiers, in French North Africa covered as a ‘colonial metropolis’ within a study of colonial cities, see (Miege in Ross and Telkamp 1985: 171–192).

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their conceptual framework, market expansion accomplished the same role vis-à-vis the rise of port cities as was the case with colonialism’s coercive impact upon the origins of colonial cities. The distinguishing attribute of this alternative approach was to differentiate modern port cities as much as possible from their historical predecessors (Keyder et al. 1993: 519). In their view, as summarily expressed in retrospect, as far as the peripheral side of the world-economy was concerned, the “typical port-city was the outlet for exports from its hinterland” (Keyder 2010: 15). This was their definitional sine qua non. The scholars articulating this approach made a conscious effort to narrow down and bracket port cities as much as possible to what we may call by borrowing a phraseology from Braudel ‘the long third-quarter of the nineteenth century’, “the true heyday of the port-cities in the Eastern Mediterranean” (Keyder et al. 1993: 530). This heyday witnessed the true “take-off” of the portcities in an economically functional sense. It predated when its full consequences, be they cultural, built environmental, or political, became manifest to the bare eye during the subsequent Belle Époque. Without crossing this critical threshold, the rest could not have occurred. Moreover, once the bracket was closed by world historical circumstances, they could not survive as port-cities per se in a new environment.9 When the port cities assumed this new systemic function as the interface between an expanding world-market and the multiethnic agrarian empires at a time when politics was characterized by the dominance of the modern national state on one side and the disintegrating empires on the other, not only did they become transitional intermediary spaces, but also went one step further and became ‘port-cities’. One might wonder what is in a hyphen other than a simple matter of preference. For the advocates of this approach, it made all the difference. Port-cities were historically time-bounded phenomena, deeply anchored in a specific transitional phase of the nineteenth century world order. They were port cities pushed to an extreme, forced to go one step further, in conformity with the exigencies of the times. For these scholars, the model port-cities went beyond simple trading, by forcing upon their hinterlands a new mode of agricultural specialization, going as far as monocrop cultivation where possible, thereby irreversibly transforming the relations of production and property ownership in their countryside. One might compare the transformative ‘violence’ they performed on their hinterlands in this respect to the effect of colonialism in the rival approach. Whereas until this period, port cities were overseas-looking alien structures, as seen from their hinterlands with which they were little connected, with this major shift, they became proactive agencies of transformation as far as agriculture was concerned. Let us emphasize how relevant the “relationship of the port-city with its hinterland and the complementary transformation it instigates” (Keyder et al. 1993: 522) is when assessing the relative appropriateness of rival paradigms of the Mediterranean that differ with respect to how far one should go from the waterfront. The shift from port city to port-city as the logical conclusion of a self-reinforcing function implied that the basic features of the built environment converging on the 9

For the strong implication of this narrowed-down definition that neither Alexandria nor Izmir could remain as port-cities in “republican Turkey or post-monarchic Egypt”, see Keyder (2010: 19).

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port should become even more pronounced. It is by observation and specification of these features that the urbanists’ conception of the ‘port city’ has been elaborated. In this respect, there exist two models, i.e., the port-city interface model and the port-city evolution model as specified by Brian Hoyle (2000). The first model relates to the controversial port-city interface zone and concentrates on the waterfront and its redevelopment. The second model focuses instead on the historical development of the relationship between the city and the port. The first model magnifies the waterfront zone as an in-between space squeezed on one side by the city and on the other by the penetrating sea. The second model is interested in exploring the jointeffect of the sea and the waterfront on commercial and industrial growth, given the changes in maritime technology and large-scale processes at work. The first is thus narrower in scope than the second. This analytical differentiation should not obscure the fact that the underlying dynamics is one and the same with consequences manifest in both scales. For example, rapid commercial and industrial growth during the late nineteenth and early twentieth-century Europe, necessitated unforeseen construction of new linear quays extending beyond the city per se. This was because industrial growth in general, and oil refining in particular, combined with the advent of container traffic required larger scale port zones that could not be accommodated within the confines of the traditional port area. As a consequence, new port areas were built in the outskirts of the city, the historically proximate connection between the city and the port was severed, and a concomitant retreat from the once lively waterfront occurred. New port areas were thus relocated further from the historic city center and port. The cities thus lost sight of ships and their own port-function (Hoyle 2000).

1.3 Lessons from the More Recent Mediterranean ‘Port Cities’ Literature Lila Leontidou (2006) insists that Mediterranean port cities and the urban experience they cultivate in their populations are quite distinct from that of their classical Western/European counterparts. She attributes this difference to the physical proximity among variegated social groups and classes as well as the existence of mixeduse development. Katsiardi-Hering (2011: 152–153) points out the similarities of Trieste and Salonica because of the promenades along the waterfront, the old castle on the hillside, and streets connecting the castle to the new city center. The urban pattern of these two cities was produced in a geometrical way, shown by its gridiron organization of urban space. Additionally, she draws attention to similar characteristics observed also in Izmir. Together with its castle and the traditional Turkish neighborhood (which had an irregular pattern consisting of narrow and winding roads), Izmir resembles Salonica. Katsiardi-Hering highlights the similarities of these three cities in relation to the proximity of different ethno-cultural groups, the waterfront, and various religious buildings. Hakim (2008: 39) also remarks the proximity of different cultural groups; however, he notes that the proximity of different groups

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marked itself on the urban space through its variety of street patterns and architectural styles. A spatial configuration that results from its socio-spatial characteristics becomes evident in (1) the side-by-side positioning of the religious buildings of difference faiths and creeds (Katsiardi-Hering 2011), (2) the alternative modes of land use linked to the port facilities, and (3) the absence of a single dominant architectural style (Kolluo˘glu and Toksöz 2010a, b). These signs of proliferation cannot undo a basic difference between ‘the West and the rest’ as underlined in Leontidou (2009: 132) because of the great successive divides between the east and the west, and the north and the south of the Mediterranean that occurred since the sixteenth century, as a result of which capitalism developed differently as many a Mediterranean city underwent fast “urbanization without industrialization”, thereby becoming a large agglomeration of significance on a world scale. As significant economic, social, and spatial changes occurred, the physical characteristics of the Mediterranean port cities crystalized. The components of urban form and the distinct qualities of the place concerned exerted a formative influence on the identity and manifest character of Mediterranean port cities. Nevertheless, the specification of the urban form components of such cities remains debatable, and in connection with this, whether or not a general conceptualization of a single Mediterranean archetype (Pace 2002) can be achieved, highly contestable. Last but not least, even if it were established beyond any doubt, there still remains with us the question of whether or not it is meaningful to speak of a common urban experience across the Mediterranean cities despite their differences, and the divisive rivalrous competition among them. Fuhrmann and Kechriotis (2009: 72) point out that a selfconfident citizenry and a common urbanity developed in Mediterranean port cities despite the differences of secondary importance among the denizens. Kolluo˘glu and Toksöz (2010a, b: 72) observe that the urban structure of these cities tolerated open as well closed milieus of entertainment and leisure, such as clubs, theaters, and parks that were shared by people from different social and religious origins, and as far as secular buildings were concerned, there did not exist a single dominant architectural style; instead, they had plurality in architectural production. In addition to these, there were land uses asigned to theatres, gardens, and promenades that highlight the liveliness of social life. Malte Fuhrmann (2020) provides us with highly enriching details of the social and cultural characteristics of port cities. While some studies claim that it is quite difficult if not outright impossible to cluster Mediterranean port cities as expressive of a common identity and character, others emphasize their shared attributes that nevertheless diverge depending from which perspective the scholar approaches the question. For example, Driessen (2005: 130) compares Izmir, Alexandria and Trieste from the viewpoint that privileges cosmopolitanism as the common attribute. On the other hand, Pace (2002: 11) opines that the Mediterranean city is being continuously reproduced through social experiences, and its character depends upon cultural interactions and values within its very womb. The way things are determined is common, yet the outcomes can be quite different depending on the specific contents that interact and the special circumstances that obtain during the process. Irrespectively of their different emphases in research, both Driessen and Pace point out the difficulty of developing a single

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model of the Mediterranean city. Even so, a closer look at the comparative historical development of Mediterranean port cities indicates that similar processes and similar actors were at work. Already with the nineteenth century, the integration of markets beyond the local and regional scale so as to constitute a world-market in tune with the requirements of capitalism that knew no borders was reinvigorated. This basic impulse gave a certain direction to the convergent development of port cities as far as investment in infrastructure favorable to the deepening of connectivities was concerned. With the advance of international trade and maritime transportation, as of the 1860s, investment in railways, wharfs and piers gained a new momentum, and the construction of modern ports became a must for the further growth of port cities (HastaoglouMartinidis 2010). Thanks to this development, port cities acquired a new conception of the shared use of urban spaces, and the urban form components were articulated in a more rigorous spatial construct that expressed an efficient combination of local circumstances with global thrusts. Especially for the similar spatial characteristics of Eastern Mediterranean port cities, our attention has been drawn to the relationship between the sea(-port) and the city and the particular form the manifestation of this relationship took in the visual conception of the built environment in relation with the underlying physical properties of the landscape. For example, what distinguished Beirut from Aleppo, Damascus and Cairo was its extension along the littoral that provided a privileged panoramic viewpoint for those who arrived by boat (Özveren 1994: 77), a point supported by the fact that many a traveler visiting Salonica described precisely from such an all-embracing viewpoint their impressions of the city that traced its relation to the sea as the narrative point of departure (Gounaris 1994: 103). As a matter of fact, numerous Mediterranean seaports possessed natural harbors conducive to overseas connectivities from time immemorial. This was a necessary but not sufficient condition for becoming a port-city per se even from the narrowly urbanistic point of view. What modern times brought into the picture was the impulse of European trade that provided a new momentum for transforming this nucleus as the starting-point for the further spatial characterization of the port city. In this respect, parallel developments in Izmir and Beirut during the second half of the nineteenth century as reported by Özveren (1994: 84–85) and Frangakis-Syrett (2001: 23) are representative of a more general trend that serve us to characterize the Mediterranean port city. In spite of differences in their regional over-determination within the east, west, north or south, or in their specific histories because of whether or not they experienced ‘colonialism’, wars, and the differential timing and trajectories of the emergence of national states, Mediterranean port cities possess common urban components which give them a common character. First among them is the port-function, second comes the financial connectivities and concentration, third is their demographic diversity linked to migration, fourth is development of their embeddedness in transportation networks as a crossroads, and the fifth is the municipal, provincial administrative and the governmental ‘capital’ function. In various combinations, these factors mark the Mediterranean port cities.

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Against this common background, port cities were nevertheless differentiated among themselves by virtue of their local conditions, physical layout of their terrain, and their specific historical and cultural heritages accumulated over the very longue durée. Precisely at this point, the ‘urban form components’ that constitute the ‘urban form’ of a city become all-important. Moreover, as far as the determination of the urban character of a city is concerned, the specific configurations in which the parts are combined becomes as important as the differentiating parts themselves (Kostof 1992). Moreover, many an urban form bears the mark of the present specific social structure, making it a bearer of social, economic and political traditions (Gallion and Eisner 1980: 9). Because of this, Mediterranean port cities provide us with a rich repertoire of variations on a common theme, thereby defying boredom, and making the Mediterranean a priority choice for cruise itineraries, and its ports of call an attraction for tourists, renowned photographers and urbanists. Mediterranean History teaches us that port cities have developed from natural harbors or seaports every now and then, and after a while their fortunes were reversed and they fell from grace while others took their place in the limelight. Thus vicissitudes were more the norm than the exception as far as most port cities are concerned. It is only with the modern period that this rule no longer held true. A select number of port cities were pushed to their extremes, and thus became ‘port-cities’, this being an unprecedented historical novelty. Once this happened however, port-cities accumulated a set of additional attributes that made them more complex in more than one way, and because of this development, their trajectories became, for the first time, irreversible. This was to do with the fact that modernity penetrated in two rival yet complementary ways into the Mediterranean world in general, and the port cities in particular. One is by way of maritime connections with the West either directly or by intermediation of other port cities. This was a relatively horizontal channel10 through which influences of various kinds worked themselves out as an essentially homogenizing factor. The other way was to do with the adoption of modernization projects first seen in European cities like Paris and Vienna by the ruling elites and classes in capital cities (Yerasimos 1999), and the deliberate attempts of statesmen to introduce and put into effect a modernity project from above, for the sake of urban spatial and administrative modernization, this time centralized enough to have common visible effects in public buildings, etc. and yet flexible enough to accommodate on-the-ground differences to do with the landscape and local needs in the reshaping of space (Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu 2010), hence taking a relatively vertical course because of its access to hierarchical structures already in place, such as the Ottoman state and its successors. The two ways ultimately intersected in the port cities irrespectively of the specific differences due to timing as well as their relative positional strengths. New local and municipal councils and administrations serving the needs of business and commerce were thus either established or recognized in the Ottoman Empire with specific edicts and regulations, the most important being that of 1864 10

It is only relatively with respect to the second way, because it also entailed a certain hierarchy among port cities, where, for example Alexandria and Izmir came before and, in this specific sense, above Beirut.

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(Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu et al. 1996: 21). Some port cities had already taken steps in this direction, but in any case, after the1860s, there existed legally recognized local institutions that could take decisions concerning the urban space and life, and actually put them into effect on legitimate grounds (Tekeli 1985: 882). A civic center thus began to take shape in the city, involving new buildings such as the seat of government, the city hall, and the municipality. In Mersin, as characteristic of many other examples, the government office and the city hall were on the street serving as the spine of commercial activity, and this area was thus characterized with a dual function as civic and commercial center (Selvi Ünlü 2007: 163). A study that investigates the relationship between social change and architecture in Eastern Mediterranean port cities feels compelled to express that their public buildings reflect yet another interpretation of the prevailing conceptions of modernism and cultural identity (Pallini 2015: 61). This is important because it indicates a strong correlation among the port city identity and the urban forms manifest in public buildings (Selvi Ünlü 2016: 24). In this new context, port-cities could still decline, but not to as low a point as the ones they started from. A port-city could thus fall back and become a port city, but no less. Now possessing a more sophisticated multi-branch social economy and a politico-administrative complex, they became less and less like their original self, and more and more like other cities (i.e. cities of the interior) in terms of function as well as urban form, only more polarized demographically and predisposed to social and ethnic conflict. This homogenization meant that the trajectories of port cities and cities of the interior were to converge further in the twentieth century, assimilating the former into the average, overweighed by the latter, perhaps qualifying all now as ‘Mediterranean cities’ (the term being used somewhat in an overlapping sense with ‘Middle Eastern cities’). There emerged strong interest-groups within the port-cities striving in every way to resist against the pending decline in all kinds of conceivable ways. Of all the port-cities of the Eastern Mediterranean, Beirut is the only one that advanced in status to becoming the capital of a ‘nation-state’. Other port cities lost ground to emerging capitals and consented to a second-best status, second only to capital cities usually located in the interior of newly founded countries, as was the case with Alexandria via-à-vis Cairo, Izmir vis-à-vis Ankara, Salonica vis-à-vis Athens, and even the far-west Barcelona vis-à-vis Madrid. Against this backdrop, Beirut’s uniqueness becomes all the more apparent. Beirut could thus create a new path for itself precisely because, while continuing its ascent as a ‘port-city’ during the third quarter of the nineteenth century, it also managed to carve for itself a political and administrative function, and thanks to it, become a provincial capital. When approached closer, it becomes obvious that the building up of this new function, meant Beirut did not only return to where it started from as a port city, but also supplemented it with a capital city function in the making. At first sight this sounds like a true success story. We will return to its dark side and deeper structural vulnerability.

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1.4 Structure of the Book This book consists of two main parts following the Introduction, the first part preceded by a preparatory piece (call it what you will, a prologue, a prelude, an opening, or an overture) on Barcelona, the contemporary Mediterranean ‘world city’11 that has come increasingly under spotlight during the last few decades.12 It serves the practical purpose of familiarizing the reader with the state-of-the art debates concerning the port cities that have transgressed the border between a modern city and a world city, and yet remain laden with pressing problems that characterize them as anything but a place in the sun. In this sense, Barcelona holds a mirror in which latecomer port cities can see their future with a host of problems, and conflicts of interest in store for them. Barcelona is a model with critical lessons to be drawn for the latecomers in search of ways out from the culs-de-sac they now find themselves in. The introductory function of Barcelona here is to give us a sneak preview of what is yet to occur -albeit with differences- in our select set of port cities. Barcelona provides us with a double counterpoint, one from the other end of the Mediterranean vis-à-vis the southern and eastern Mediterranean, and the other from the present and future, to the past and present. We deploy a ‘flash forward’ from the Eastern Mediterranean that takes us via the present day Barcelona to the conventionally chronological historical narrative serving as a connecting thread throughout the first part of the book. The first part of the book, entitled “A Mediterranean Tour d’Horizon with the Port City Articles as the Ports of Call” has 4 articles. These articles provide us with studies on specific Mediterranean port cities. Some are more historical in emphasis whereas others are more urbanist and spatial, depending on their authors disciplinary interests and/or specialization. Yet the careful reader will notice that each article starts in some sense where the previous one has left us, and they thereby serve to build up a cumulative transdisciplinary knowledge of the Mediterranean port cities. As a matter of fact, they constitute and alternating sequence in the order of presentation that is itself derived conveniently from the dictate of a Mediterranean Tour d’Horizon. Because this book takes as its point of departure largely the once territories of the Ottoman Empire, we start our narrative with the quintessential Mediterranean port city, Alexandria, which is also the most distant -with its remote origins and Golden Age- in time as well as in space from the capital of the Empire that is covered in this work. From this article we proceed counterclockwise to cover case-by-case the port cities of Beirut, Mersin, and Izmir with Yasser G. Aref’s “Alexandria: A Glorious 11

Whereas a geographer (Troin 1997) indiscriminatingly treated Barcelona and Istanbul (as well as Cairo) in this respect, we have already seen above that a theoretically-sensitive approach should differentiate among them with justification as ‘port cities’ in the first place. This does not nevertheless disqualify Istanbul as a world city, as appropriately taken up in a study (Pérouse 2017) of more recent vintage. All it implies is that Bacelona is so far the only port city that has crossed the border. 12 A basic geographical source on Mediterranean metropolises, in fact “metropoles portuaires,” enlisted Barcelona together with Marseilles and Genoa along the northern shore as merely one among the several such cities and emphasized its ‘assertiveness’ (volonté d’affirmation) as its outstanding characteristic (Troin 1997: 17 and 26).

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Past, Troubled Present and a Promising Future,” Eyüp Özveren’s “Beirut-Forever on a Tightrope: The Search for Fragile Modernity in Travelogues, Memoirs, and Archives,” Tülin Selvi Ünlü’s “The Character of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean Port City,” and Alp Yücel Kaya’s “Izmir, the Port City That Will Follow You No Matter Where You Go,” respectively. These articles cast different lights on the cases they depict, obviously depending on the specific interests and disciplinary specialization of their authors. Historians and urbanists thus speak of their casestudies in turns. Even so, the texts are arranged so as to give the reader a cumulative knowledge of Mediterranean port cities above and beyond the specific accounts. By the end of the first part of the book, the reader will be sufficiently acquainted with the Mediterranean port cities and much more. As a matter of fact, upon reading the second part, the reader will retrospectively recognize that s/he had been introduced to some of the themes that provide its connecting threads already in the first part. Between the first and the second part, the article by Vilma Hastaoglou-Martinidis entitled “Volos in the Network of Mediterranean Cities: Comparative Mapping of the City’s Evolution Through the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” ties up nicely the previously alternating historical and the urbanist approaches. Despite its placement at a crossroads because of this declared objective, this piece is nevertheless still on a specific port city, Volos, and hence could have been easily incorporated into the first part of the book, but this would have done it injustice because it adopts a different methodology, and thereby opens new vistas of great use for our underlying conception of the Mediterranean as further elaborated selectively in the second part of our book. Moreover, Hastaoglou-Martinidis’s piece occupies a borderland, provides a passage, and yet appears as an intermezzo in its own right between the first and the second parts as manifest in our choice for heading, “Intermezzo: A View from the Bridge of Volos Collapsing into Infinity” for reasons that will become obvious below. Hastaoglou-Martinidis’s approach is to prioritize process over fixed forms in writing urban history, and to bring interconnections to the foreground as a factor of formative importance in urban change. She demonstrates that the multiple Mediterranean networks in which Volos was embedded display a remarkable geographical breadth. Moreover, this potentially comparative approach lends depth to what are conveniently perceived as individual attributes of specific cases. The linear conception and writing of urban history is thus removed from the center place, and networked concurrent forces, flows, and architectural trends are recognized as the driving forces in shaping a city’s past and present. If this holds true for Volos, a medium-sized city, it must be also valid for the greater cities, the interaction of which constituted the Mediterranean as a unified space. By implication, the conventional conceiving of the historical character of Mediterranean port cities as the outcome of an insular trajectory in espace/temps is far from being the whole truth, and the open and dynamic nature of the urbanization process has to be adopted as the point of departure for future studies. Hastaoglu-Martinidis herself does not draw the full picture for the Mediterranean, but contents herself with showing how at the interstice of such flows and connections, Volos was shaped. She identifies the transport, diaspora, financial, manufacturing and trade, cultural and architectural networks that converged on Volos. Even so, the

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valuable information she presents in her article will ring bells in the minds of scholars who specialize in other Mediterranean port cities, and have come across the names of the same merchant families, entrepreneurs, architects, firms, banks, and schools in their own works. The complementary nature of the grand project will thus gradually materialize. This is essentially nothing less than a collective mapping of the overlapping connectivities that make up the Mediterranean and link it with the world at large. When thus approached, not from the viewpoint of Volos, but from the opposite side, within which Volos is reduced to a speckle -one among the many- we reenter the Mediterranean world resting upon the principle of connectivity. In this specific sense, Hastaoglu-Martinidis’s contribution unintendedly introduces us to the second part of our book, “Fragments of Connectivity” where we no longer necessarily focus on specific port cities per se, but follow the traces of specific themes to do with connectivity in 3 further articles, namely Elena Frangakis-Syrett’s “Transnational Trajectories: From Chios to London Through Alexandria, a Family Story,” Dilek Akyalçın Kaya’s “City, Fathers and Sons: Life Trajectories of Salonican Sabbatians in the Nineteenth Century,” and Melis Cankara’s “Ex-Changing Houses in Rethymno After the Treaty of Lausanne,” in the order of presentation. As a matter of fact, the careful reader will not fail to see that the main themes of these last three articles are already present in the chapters about port cities that constituted the first part of the book. Here they are not approached as one theme among the many, but in their own right, moreover, not with the intention to see how they contributed in combination with other themes to the determination of the trajectory of a specific port city per se as recounted in the narratives, but with a view to situate them as parts of what connected port cities with one another as constitutive of the Mediterranean space. Here the emphasis is thus on connectivities rather than the port cities per se, and connectivities are traced to factors such as mobility, fragility, and precarity that are repeatedly noted as constant characteristics of the phenomena under investigation. Much more work remains to be done in this direction, possibly by collective research, so as to reproduce in a Mediterranean scale and scope the research agenda suggested by clues we find in Hastaoglu-Martinidis that serve us as a stepping stone to this second part.

1.5 Overture: Barcelona as a Double Counterpoint Barcelona had been quite a noticeable Mediterranean port city, with connections due to the role of Catalan merchants in the early Ottoman Empire, until the end of the fifteenth century when, by incorporation into the Castilian Kingdom of Spain that turned its attention to the Atlantic, it fell into a prolonged state of lethargy in the backwaters. Only in the nineteenth century it was shaken up by industrialization. As its industrialists developed a significant textile industry, they also accumulated the capital needed for the realization of ambitious and trendsetting urban projects as manifest in the grid plan characteristic of its spatial expansion. In the twentieth century, while attracting much migration from Catalonia as well as Andalusia, it

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suffered from the discriminatory policies of the Franco regime. Immigration, both legal and illegal, including would-be celebrities like Jean Genet, outlasted the notorious Franco regime and has attained an overseas intercontinental dimension. The Olympic Games of 1992 highly symbolic for the post-Franco turn of Spain, gave the city an opportunity to renew and expand its infrastructure and reassert itself as an outward-looking European metropolis. No wonder that Barcelona turned its back on Madrid and conceived itself increasingly as the last link in the south of the chain of rich European meridional cities. It possessed significant assets such as its strong business community, industrial experience, cultural heritage, and “quartiers d’une étonnante diversité” (Troin 1997: 26–29). It is to one of such ‘neighborhoods of surprising diversity’ that Antonia Casellas and Grant Saff turn their attention in their contribution to this volume entitled tellingly as “Overture: Urban Planning in a Mediterranean Port City: The Contested Nature of Urban Redevelopment in the El Raval Neighborhood in Barcelona” The paper is about a downtown quarter, El Raval, the colloquial for ‘El Barrio Chino,’ or Chinatown, the name a journalist made up in 1925 that became immediately popular, an exotic milieu we encounter in many a world city, yet upon reading the text, we learn that there is nothing actually Chinese about it except for the myths that the colloquial name inspires. It is also about life and death in this once crime-ridden neighborhood that is situated in a borderland as its name meaning ‘outskirts’ suggests, ever since its remote roots in the fourteenth century. Life is dangerously placed against a constantly deteriorating urban fabric, a remnant of the industrial phase of the nineteenth century (1770–1840) when the quarter was the most industrialized and densely overpopulated area of the city. Urban morphology and social structure interact in an uneasy combination and produce this enigmatic Chinatown-effect where there are hardly any Chinese or a China connection, all the more as upscale prostitution and gambling had moved out to better neighborhoods during the Franco regime, and where drug trafficking became the rule. Casellas and Saff take a close up of the 1980s and the 1990s, the period of post-Franco transition, out of which Barcelona emerged within decades as a world city. We observe in detail the redevelopment of El Raval in conjunction with the planning policies of the period. The objective was to demolish what could not be redeemed, recover public land that could be put to use for the sake of providing services and facilities and rehabilitate the housing stock, while preserving the existing urban, architectural and social characteristics of the neighborhood. The careful reader will not fail to recognize striking similarities with the more recent experiences in Alexandria and Izmir that are brought up in the following articles. Put differently, we are faced with a problem that is not specific to Barcelona. Yet the response to the problem as outlined in the paper is new and full of lessons for latecomers like Alexandria and Izmir. What is remarkable about here is that Casellas and Saff demonstrate how this is a complex process driven by institutions and agents, and constantly negotiated time and again on the contested terrain of El Raval. In this context, urban planning

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becomes much more than a technical intervention of knowledgeable specialists13 as originally intended, and becomes a highly politicized and open-ended process in search of an institutionalized consensus-building where new agencies such as grassroots organizations emerge and contest the actual implementation of the plans, even in such a fortunate case where financial bottlenecks could be surpassed thanks to forthcoming generous EU cohesion funds. Moreover as the process unfolded, new contradictions rose along the way, either because of the dynamics of engineered transformation from within, or the intrusion of unforeseen circumstances. That the successive plans anticipated an increase in tourism in response to the restoration of historical heritage buildings and their repurposing for cultural ends, yet overlooked the continuous and massive influx of foreign working-class immigrants is a case in point, the result of which has been a strange mix of gentrified tourist-serving facilities, and shops and services catering to lowincome non-European immigrants that displace the aged local population. Different needs and contradictory economic and cultural dynamics of the parties concerned thus reproduce El Raval to this day as a ‘contested space.’ The exclusion of traditional residents and the dispossession of disenfranchised social groups cast a shadow on whatever merits the plans might have had. The urban political struggle characteristic of El Raval “unfolding in a creative conflict” as the coauthors put it, makes El Raval a representative “microcosm” for Barcelona’s prospects. This remains nevertheless as a limited conclusion unless we remind the reader of the ending phrase in the title, “Urban Politics of a Mediterranean Port City” that resonates the importance of El Raval experience for the Mediterranean port cities, the reason why we chose to introduce our historical account of the Mediterranean port cities with this article serving as a counterpoint placed in their ‘relative’ future.

1.6 Part I: A Mediterranean Tour d’Horizon with the Port City Articles as the Ports of Call The first article of the first part is “Alexandria: A Glorious Past, Troubled Present and a Promising Future,” by Yasser G. Aref, an architect with a specific interest on the conservation of the cultural heritage of Alexandria and its urban development plans. It is compact in size yet rich in content. It is panoramic in time scope. It gives an overview of the historical urban development of Alexandria from its origin in Antiquity to its present state, with forays into its future. Alexandria is a paradigmatic Mediterranean port city that has attracted much attention and influenced the trajectory of other Mediterranean cities by serving as a model. It is also unique among the Mediterranean port cities in a special sense. It has had its prime time not once but twice, once in the ancient world, and a second 13

The specialists learned from the preparation of the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona by recourse to a public–private partnership strategy and a deliberative process that mobilized local stakeholders and organizations who also took their own lessons out of this experience.

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time in the modern period. Located at the nexus of maritime routes connecting the Indian Ocean world with the Mediterranean, and the overland routes linking Asia, Africa and Europe, Alexandria has thus remained in the spotlight especially when commercial integration and cultural exchanges were the rule of the times as was the case in Antiquity but also during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It was second only to Rome in the Roman Empire, and given that Rome was not a Mediterranean port city and moreover an imperial capital, Alexandria ranked first among the port cities after the fall and decline of Carthage. During the medieval period, its fortunes declined, but so did the fortunes of most Mediterranean cities, and were subsequently proportionately revived as of the late middle ages into the early modern period. Another long period of decline coincided with the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when the trade routes serving the East–West trade shifted to its disadvantage (to the benefit of Izmir first and then Istanbul). In the nineteenth century, it was first promoted by Muhammed Ali Pasha and then survived the downfall of his regime. It became the most important and exemplary port city of the Levant. It is now the second largest city of Egypt by a wide margin. Aref casts a critical light on the troubled present of this city. Highly overpopulated, Alexandria is pressured from all sides, and its cultural heritage of worldwide significance is under constant threat. The historic Eastern Harbor, serving as a fishermen’s port, is actually a goldmine for underwater archeology, yet has suffered from land infill, the placement of concrete blocks, and wastewater pollution. The environmental threat is compounded by traffic congestion and continuous carbon emissions, all the worse because of overcrowding. Aref touches on a number of piecemeal projects to address these ills as well as the crowding-out of the historic city silhouette by high-rise buildings, only to emphasize that, without a comprehensive strategic plan that is rigorously observed by all parties concerned, it is very difficult to turn the course of things for the better. Target-specific public protests have proven somewhat useful in obstructing and overturning abusive practices and violations of law. Aref illustrates the ineffective protection of architectural heritage in spite of all by a closeup on the Villa Aghion, designed by the French architect Auguste Perret in 1929, that incarnated an original response to the problem of reinterpreting architectural modernity in tune with local circumstances as well as for its technically innovative accomplishments. Aref approaches critically to a series of projects about the New Alexandria Corniche, the improvement of the transportation network to deal with chronic traffic congestion, the renovation of the Passenger Terminal at the Seaport with a view to serving giant cruisers better and the Airport to capture a greater part of expanding airborne traffic. Against this backdrop, the new Library of Alexandria inaugurated in 2002 with its multiplier-effect on urban development as well as its resurrection of a historic aspect of the city to public benefit, along with the more recent Egypt-Japan University of Science and Technology (2019), where development interactively with industry is aimed in a satellite city west of Alexandria, to remove some of the pressure from the inner city. That the university was designed innovatively from the viewpoint of campus architecture is credited.

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Whereas the above two projects are to do more with the development of Alexandria by reorientation in line with the prerogatives of a knowledge-based economy, to which Aref approaches favorably, he is more critical of the Mahmudeyah Canal Development and the Montazah Palace renovation projects. Mahmudeyah Canal connecting the Nile with the seaport was a major marker of the nineteenth-century development of Alexandria as a port-city specializing in the exportation of cotton to the world-market. It was through this artery that cotton exports were transported. The decline of the cotton sector, along with the development of railway and road transportation, heralded the fall from use of the canal and its ultimate abandonment. The new project seeks landfilling and real estate development, whereas preservation of the waterfront could have improved the quality of life as well as contributing to the rise of property prices as Aref contends. As for the Montazeh Palace, a symbol of nineteenth-century Egypt and the monarchy that was overthrown on the way to setting up a republic, Aref is critical of its currently form of development, and opines that it could have been better if it was transformed into a museum of the past, a repository of collective memory, by keeping it as it exactly was at the moment of this historic transformation. Aref infers that new projects should ideally improve the quality of urban environment to the benefit of denizens as well as making Alexandria a transportation hub and a tourist destination, yet also respecting the city’s historicity, thereby reasserting the city’s leading position in the Mediterranean for a third time. This is easier said than done. This will sound all too familiar when we read the paper about Izmir, if it did not already ring a bell for the careful reader to rethink it in the light of the lessons one can draw from the Barcelona experience. Eyüp Özveren’s article, “Beirut-Forever on a Tightrope: The Search for a Fragile Modernity in Travelogues, Memoirs, and Archives,” highlights how Beirut’s above noted exceptional performance, far from being achieved from an uncontested position of strength, was in fact inextricably linked to Beirut’s century-long advent amidst successive waves of destabilizing challenges, as if we are faced with a trapeze artist walking on a tightrope. The article commences with a discussion of the competitive context out of which Beirut emerged as the port city between Alexandria and Izmir. Beirut’s rise remained far from certain and conditional. When it finally asserted itself as the port serving Damascus as well as the exclusive exporter of the silk produce of Mount Lebanon, Beirut became a port-city first, and then grew out of this state so as to become a complex and ambitious ‘port and a city’. Even so, there were two opposite tendencies at work, one in favor of multilingual cosmopolitanism from top-down within the Beiruti society, and the other, sectarian conflict-ridden, operating from bottom-up. The former found its expression in the merchant class and its crystallizing power as reflected in the municipal government, ready to negotiate and compromise for the sake of preserving the status quo, whereas the latter was centrifugal with roots in divisive communal identities nurtured by the breach of law and order and ultimate neighborhood polarization. The former dominated the latter but with a narrow and vulnerable margin. At the end of the road, Beirut was still far from having become the capital of the emerging state of Lebanon, had it not been for the proactive intervention of France, the mandate power, to help Beirut realize this end.

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The lesson to be drawn is clear: even the strongest candidate for success was plagued with fragilities of various sorts. By contrast, other such cities that could not take this critical step became increasingly a city -as any other- but with a port. In many other such cases, but not all, where the port-function was relocated to the new port outside the city limits, the old port area was gentrified so as to become a tourist attraction and a recreation and entertainment area, while the new port resembled any other large-scale state or business enterprise. Put differently, a port and a city, obviously connected, but the nature and degree of the connection itself remains subject to variation over time. Be that as it may, all cases other than Beirut, either did not take up the challenge and succumbed instead to their fate, or they were characterized by at least as many fragilities, if not more, so as not to even have a similar choice-making capacity. It is no coincidence that Alexandria and Salonica suffered from civil discord and military aggression while the Greek occupation of Izmir after the First World War became a force majeure for the Turkish War of Independence (1919–1922). The list can be extended all the way to the notoriously divisive battle of Algiers amidst escalating violence and repression in the 1950s that heralded the inevitable approaching end of a century-long French colonialism in North Africa. Between Beirut and Izmir, Mersin, a latecomer port city and the best situated candidate for serving as a maritime outlet to the potentially important Çukurova as its agricultural hinterland, occupies an intermediate position of secondary status. Just as its rise out of nowhere came relatively late, it was far from consolidated before the twentieth century, hence it missed the heyday of port-cities proper yet caught something of their glamor and spirit that persisted in its observable demographic diversity and cosmopolitanism and its spatial properties and urban forms as constituent of its built environment. Tülin Selvi Ünlü’s “The Character of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean Port City,” with its strong urbanist emphasis serves not only illuminating this aspect of Mersin as representative of a more general trend, but also elaborates a theme the previous paper on Beirut only obliquely touched upon, that is, the visible spatial layout and the characterization thereof of a port city as distinct from the more traditional cities of the interior. Mersin grew because of overseas trade, and therefore the port-function in its formative phase was all important. Because Mersin emerged late and out of nowhere, it is uncomplicated by the burden and vicissitudes of history. This makes it easier for the observant scholar to delineate the basic structure of a spontaneously grown port city from its example. The picture thus derived underlies most other port cities albeit in variations, and in degrees of disguise. Selvi Ünlü underlines how Mersin, without a historical castle or a corresponding characteristic urban pattern, as would normally be expected of a city center, evolved in a way where the piers constituted the main urban form component. The Station Street (now Uray Street), linked the Customs Pier with the Railway Station, and accommodated shipping companies, insurance agencies, commissionaires, banks, and post and telegraph services, making the Customs Square a sui generis commercial center. All this and what followed next were achieved without an urban masterplan. When things were left to their own, religious buildings and schools, reflected albeit

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disproportionately the diverse elements that made up the urban population which in turn relied on periodic migration patterns as in the case of Maronites. Whereas Muslims constituted the majority at all times, the distribution of urban forms and the weighted place they occupied in the cityscape gave the impression of a far greater cultural variety than was actually the case. Meanwhile, new forms of land use emerged for public entertainment and recreation. It is only in the early twentieth century that the bourgeois Çamlıbel neighborhood reminiscent of Ras Beirut developed. This main street was later connected with the Kı¸sla Street serving the barracks, and thus became as a whole the spine of the city. Whereas in Beirut linking the railway with the port became quite a cumbersome problem because of the nationalities of companies involved in each, in Mersin the problem was resolved easily from ‘above’ during the French occupation after the First World War. The port facilities were developed, and a dekovil (a corruption of Decauville) facilitated the carriage of merchandise from the railway station to the port and vice versa. It is no surprise that maritime expeditions between Mersin and Beirut picked a momentum later and became quite popular. Mersin was a port city more in the way it looked and the people behaved than what its demographic composition would alone account for. This image survived even the more dramatic changes that occurred. One such recent instance has been the removal of the port to the east of the city that severed the organic relation between the port and the city that made it a port city in the first place. This transformed Mersin into ‘a city with a port’ in the twentieth century as it also became an immense site of high rise housing construction with an eye to real estate promotion at an international scale as of the 1980s. It should be added that this change came about much more easily than in other Mediterranean port cities, perhaps because the legacy of the past weighed relatively less in a city where the population vastly increased by way of waves of immigration since the 1970s, and the attraction of servicing the Middle East as a transit port far outweighed any other concern since the Gulf War that demonstrated this window of opportunity for easy economic gains if not windfall profits. At about the same time, the emerging national tourism policy that specified the Turkish Mediterranean coastline east of Alanya as a national, and not an international, tourist destination also helped rather than hindering the above tendency in favor of the construction sector at the expense of whatever existed as worthy of consideration from the viewpoint of cultural heritage. Although strong exchanges, including that of labor via migration, and proximity were of major importance in connecting Mersin with Beirut, except for a brief revival after the Civil War, this springtime of mutual reconnaissance did not last long, partly because of the high cost of living in Lebanon and the subsequent deterioration of Lebanese economy, security and infrastructure. On the other hand, Mersin resembles Izmir at least as much, and has had strong connections with this role model in Turkey it has taken seriously and follows with a time lag. In many ways, Mersin is an Izmir come late, rid of the complexities of history, and immensely simplified. The resemblance between the two cities is noticeable to the bare eye, precisely because it is to do with the urban form components as manifest in the built environment that are characteristic of port cities. Alp Yücel Kaya’s chapter “Izmir, the Port City That

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Will Follow You No Matter Where You Go,” supplies the interested reader with a historical perspective that would help further detail and elaborate the spatial advent of Mersin. Kaya’s paper recounts the historical contours of Izmir as a port city from the sixteenth century to the present. While Izmir’s history relevant in this respect is obviously shorter than that of Alexandria, it is much less broken—except for the earthquakes—for the early modern and modern period. Izmir emerged from within a competitive context at first—reminding one of the rise of Beirut—as a port originating from the European trade in the first place, and its dynamics derived from that of maritime trade. It became the major port in the Levant commanding an impressive volume and share of the Ottoman foreign trade, and it was for the most part of its history a port where exports outweighed imports by a significant margin, in contrast to Beirut where a special strong effort was necessary to attain this goal. Even so, it looked more overseas than elsewhere, and thus also became estranged from its countryside. Kaya notes that its port city character gives rise to Izmir’s unique history, as it differentiated it from other cities, and finally became the underlying cause of its decline during the twentieth century. Kaya recounts how Izmir developed from a port city into a port-city during the nineteenth century when specialization in cotton cultivation and trade became prominent, and also encouraged the growth of cottonspinning industry -an early instance of ‘dependent development’ reminding one of Beirut’s silk-reeling industry- only to become once again a port city and remain as such without succumbing to, in fact resisting against, a role imposed upon it recently to become ‘a port and a city’ as at least as wide apart, as we observe pace Selvi Ünlü in the case of Mersin. Thanks to Kaya’s description, from a different viewpoint, Izmir becomes comparable to Beirut, albeit with a strong contrast, as far as the trajectories traced by port cities are concerned. Kaya’s piece makes important additional contributions that go beyond this potentially comparative element. As implied by the choice of his title, he starts from a special sense of identification with Izmir that is noticeable in its inhabitants, and that survives the port city even after migration and/or its drastic transformation from what it was before. We are faced with a chronic mix of nostalgia with pride in belonging to a special place. The contours of collective memory thus become another attribute of the construction of urban identity. Kaya links this historical heritage of a port city with an identity attribute, and finds in it a factor responsible for the special role Izmir has consistently played as a maverick lever with an inherently constructive critical potential in Turkish politics. This is all the more striking as Izmir has preserved this distinguishing quality despite its periodically reshuffled and replenished the population by migration. Put differently, the cast has periodically changed while the role has remained the same. Those who inhabit the city become ‘citizens’ by choice as well as by assimilation, and adopt and share a culture of moderation and compromise that distinguishes them as pluralist, modern and open to change; a kind of positive provincialism with a cosmopolitan tolerance. The rebirth of the metropolitan municipality as a bastion of political power since the 1970s when it was embryonic, and its mature form attained in the 2000’s in relation

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with the problems that concern first and foremost the city, attest to this fact. Civic involvement in various platforms, both real and virtual, to explore an environmentfriendly agenda for the future that prioritizes human capital, knowledge economy, and sustainability, as well as efforts to preserve and serve collective memory, debates as to whether or not Izmir should be remodeled as a ‘world city’-with explicit references to Barcelona- indicate a growing sense of common identity and a growing enthusiasm for playing the role of a more proactive agency. In all these ways, Izmir gives a lesson to other Mediterranean port cities and demonstrates its readiness to engage in a productive dialogue with Barcelona on the opposite end of the post-industrial spectrum. When approached from the opposite direction, Kaya’s detailed survey and discussion that end the first part of the book incite the reader to fill in the blanks left in the more compact case studies about Alexandria, Beirut, and Mersin. Kaya’s article ends the first part with a historical emphasis, once again alternating from its precedent on Mersin with an urbanist focus.

1.7 Intermezzo: A View from the Bridge of Volos Collapsing into Infinity14 Volos is a medium-sized port city in central Greece. It made a hesitant start under the Ottoman rule when villagers moved to the coast in the 1840s. It was the first new city to be established in the European part of the Ottoman Empire. It became a part of Greece after 1881 and developed rapidly as a rival port to Piraeus or Thessaloniki as far as the Balkan states’ overseas trades were concerned. It benefitted greatly from the Turco-Greek population exchange (1923) and became the third industrial town in Greece, thanks to the investment and entrepreneurial insight originating from the diaspora Greeks established in Egypt during the nineteenth century. Successive earthquakes damaged the city in the 1950s. It is now the sixth ranking city in Greece. It has suffered from de-industrialization, but also managed to transform itself into an energetic youthful city with the creation of the university (1984). Tourism picked up because it is a port of departure for the islands as well as being proximate to Mount Pelion, an alternative destination for tourists. Many of the surviving old industrial complexes have been repurposed to serve the public. This started as a pragmatic response to the devastation caused by the earthquakes but acquired a new momentum by accumulation of knowhow. This is a brief summary of some of the facts presented in greater detail in the article itself. In a nutshell, Volos is a latecomer out of nowhere just like Mersin. Their trajectories as well as scales seem to have diverged considerably after the 1980s. The smooth progress from commerce to industry in Volos compares less with Mersin where the process was interrupted, 14

The title quotes Arthur Miller’s famous play to do with the immigrants’ lives in the postwar USA first staged in 1955. The allusion with collapsing bridge is to the famous medieval Pont d’Avignon in France that remains only in part, a Mediterranean cultural heritage landmark, both material and otherwise, as it also survives in a children’s song.

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and resembles more the picture of dependent development we saw in Lebanon via Beirut that also benefitted considerably from the entrepreneurial skills, capital investment, and remittances of expatriates distributed all over the world. If this were all Hastaoglu-Martinidis achieved with scientific rigor, we would have been more than satisfied to have another case at hand that would lend itself to comparison and contrast with the other port city studies. However she does much more as we have seen in the detailed justification we gave for the placement of her work as an intermezzo between the two major parts of our book. Hastaoglu-Martinidis ventures by way of extensive documentation to capture and actually map the city’s evolution within the network of Mediterranean cities. This is only a step from comparing Volos to other port cities that possess similar functions and spatial features, which were in fact related to Volos through networks of (1) transport and communication (railway and harbor buildings), (2) population movements (migration and diasporas), (3) production, labor, and finance (to do with banks and manufacturing enterprises), and (4) last but not least, cultural exchange (missionary schools). By visualizing multiple flows and connections along these axes, she identifies the determinants of the city’s historical evolution over time, accompanied by the crystallization of a specific urban character. She claims that Modern Volos was created by the Pelion diaspora that endowed it by transplanting innovation and an entrepreneurial spirit, so that it could take a crucial step from being a commercial town to becoming an industrial center. The view from this asymmetric and therefore unstable bridge, with one leg resting on Volos and the other nonexistent, is certainly wider in scope to cover more than what we could have been able to see from any privileged viewpoint in Volos, but falls short by a wide margin of enabling us to catch a momentary full glimpse of the Mediterranean, not to mention a comparison with a bird’s eye view of it. Even so, it shows us more about Volos than we could possibly see, and here, we are grateful for it. Moreover it points us to our way out. Hence its metaphorical function leading us to the second part of the book.

1.8 Part II: Fragments of Connectivity The first chapter of the second part by Elena Frangakis-Syrett, “Transnational Trajectories: From Chios to London Through Alexandria, a Family Story”, though she humbly characterizes as a ‘family story’, is in fact a remarkable path-breaking foray into the ‘family history’ genre within the Mediterranean context, where it has remained conspicuously missing, at least as far as the contemporary ‘international’ scholarly community’s tool-box of shared languages, which is regrettably getting more and more compact nowadays,15 is concerned. Frangakis-Syrett, just 15

Compare with Frangakis-Syrett’s parents, obviously well-educated but of no academic renown, the mother counting naturally in French and the father in Arabic, and both speaking Greek and English in addition, just because they were raised in a polyglot cosmopolitan environment.

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like her other family members, identifies herself as an ‘Egyptiot’, (meaning Greeks of Egypt), but not as an Egyptian, with Greek ancestry originating from two Aegean islands, Lemnos on her mother’s side and Chios on her father’s, but born in Asyut in Egypt, and brought up until a certain age in the exemplary cosmopolitan port city Alexandria once was that shaped their overall identity and allegiance. The family of Frangakis-Syrett, starting off from the two Aegean islands relocated naturally by sea to Egypt, as most migrants did no matter from where in those days by sea, established themselves in Asyut, Minieh, Alexandria, Cairo, Tanta, and Mansura, with a grandparent spending considerable time in New York during the First World War. They remained in Egypt during the Great Depression and the Second World War. They then moved to Chios, and spent time in Limnos too, before arriving in Athens, only to move a few years later to London, where her parents stayed for the rest of their lives, whereas her sister chose to settle in Athens, while Elena moved to New York City where she took up an academic position. We thus observe in the expansion of space they traced, a progress from a small circle, as would also characterize an island, to the world at large, the geometrical representation of their family advent from the local to the global. The timing of Frangakis-Syrett’s family story is as significant as its spatial unfolding in successively bigger circles. Her great-grandfather on her mother’s side went to Minieh in Upper Egypt around 1883, whereas her paternal grandfather went to Asyut, also in Upper Egypt, around 1904 to join her relatives already established there. They were thus caught in a new wave of migration that benefitted from the favorable circumstances of late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. They followed the tide as one among the many who relocated from their islands to Egypt in the wake of the British bombardment and occupation (1882). This was part and parcel of a larger wave that mobilized many people to seek a better life in Alexandria in particular, and Egypt in general. We are faced here with people of modest or of no economic means, who make use of their family and kinship ties to migrate across the sea to other port cities on the littoral, or towns with easy access to navigable rivers that then connect to port cities. A conscious relocation to a city or a smaller town where they could quickly build themselves a base, and accumulate sufficient resources to move next to a bigger city was a prime common attribute of such migratory patterns. This family is therefore also representative of the characteristic migratory pattern of its time, and hence the relevance of its ‘family history’ from a more generalist viewpoint. Last but not least, parallel migration and mobility processes prevailed all along the Mediterranean making this specific trajectory one instance of a far more general phenomenon. The fact that Egypt experienced rapid economic growth creating jobs and a demand for labor was the reason why many like them were attracted from other parts of the Mediterranean and even Britain. As long as the ‘cake’ grew, almost everyone could benefit, albeit obviously to different degrees. With a materially-grounded optimism in the air, modernity rapidly penetrated, and secularism spread in Alexandria, generating a cosmopolitan society in which the benefits of economic growth could trickle down. In response, a readiness for conviviality to make even more of this possible was in the air that made the whole process a self-fulfilling prophecy as

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long as its preconditions of existence obtained. All this helped rather than hindered interaction across confessional and class divides-that is, a further form of mobility, namely fluidity, -as long as it could last, and provoked the jealousy of others from without. Frangakis-Syrett reveals her family’s trajectory advancing through different countries, societies and cultures within the broader framework of the historical reality that her family moved through and has inevitably been a part of. What is remarkable in her paper is how she intertwines the trajectory of her family history with that of the vicissitudes of the world economy shaped by increasingly globalizing business and financial networks. In any case, trade integration by way of expanding markets reinforces various sorts of networks that serve as conduits for the transfer of people among other things. Moreover she is cognizant of the inherently cosmopolitan nature of international finance and yet its insufficiency to generate a cosmopolitan urban society unless elites of various sorts joined the bandwagon and attracted the majority of the people along with them as had in fact been the case in Alexandria during its modern heyday. The subtle line drawn between being an Egyptian and an Egyptiot bears the invisible but heavy burden of a history marked by a specific colonial experience. It also put the Egyptiots in a precarious intermediary position, under potential pressure from different sides, which was not maintainable in the long run. It was not only that they were immigrants arriving from overseas as most did, but also had to keep continuously navigating their way out, seeking to remain where they were, but forced by circumstances beyond their control to relocate time and again. This bestowed them with a unique capacity to survive by adapting themselves easily to new environments, yet without a full adoption of their new country. This lack of permanency characterized their common heritage, made any one of them forever deraciné, on the move, prone to mobility, hence a potential and permanent nomad, as all humans once were in time immemorial, a phenomenon only recently appreciated in a different light after the academic influence of as disparate figures as Gilles Deleuze, Felix Guttari, Jacques Attali, and Marc Augé, and of the constantly on-the-move lifestyle as characteristic of world cities. Frangakis-Syrett draws the parallel between the then Alexandria and present-day New York insofar as neither demanded from its residents an exclusive loyalty to a single cultural identity, moreover, both actively welcoming cultural plurality in return for which their inhabitants more than willingly identified themselves as Alexandrines or New Yorkers, above any nationality, religion or race. Frangakis-Syrett is concerned primarily with the trajectories of migration as expression of mobility across space. She introduces us to this primarily but not exclusively Mediterranean space by the gateway of her family history she has firsthand knowledge of by way of oral transmission and her lived experience. Dilek Akyalçın Kaya’s “City, Fathers and Sons: Life Trajectories of Salonican Sabbatians in the Nineteenth Century,” picks up where she left us, and continues by narrowing down the field-of-vision and taking a micro-analytical close-up. Akyalçın Kaya focuses on the unfolding life-trajectories of, not one but some 50 individual members of 15 families belonging to the same community (Sabbatians) over time, again primarily but not entirely without exceptions, in a given space. These family-histories are not

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orally transmitted but reconstructed in broad strokes of brush from the bits and pieces found in archival sources and the press. Salonica, deeply rooted in history like Alexandria and Izmir, became also one of the most important Mediterranean port cities during the second half of the nineteenth century. Moreover, it became so not only economically but also politically, turning it into a matter of contention in international politics. This article does not cover the highly complex and populous Salonica per se, but less, in a way reminiscent of Casellas and Saff’s El Raval ‘Chinatown’ of Barcelona, only her Akyalçın Kaya, though remaining highly neighborhood-sensitive with respect to the understanding of the constitution and functioning of port cities, does not focus on a neighborhood but on a community of belief, the Sabbatians.16 The Sabbatians were a somewhat heretic Jewish community born in the seventeenth century, and who lived in Salonica from then until the Turco-Greek population exchange (1923). Because they converted to Islam upon instructions from their spiritual leader, as far as the Ottoman administration was concerned, they were considered as Muslims and treated and classified as such in public life as well as in public record keeping. But because their conversion was taken seriously—unlike the conversos treated questioningly as nevertheless Marranos or Moriscos in Iberia—they were not entitled to a classification as an Ottoman millet (an officially-recognized religious community) as the Greeks, Armenians or Jews were. This makes them difficult to track down in the imperial archives. They only became more visible in social life and the press to the educated eye during the second half of the nineteenth century. This was a time of intense social and economic transformation in Salonica when everything, obviously including the Sabbatians, became even more differentiated17 and complex in multiple ways. In retrospect, a stereotypical perception of them as a homogenous entity—deliberately disguising their faith but practicing it privately, while pretending to be mainstream Muslims in public life—deeply rooted in successful commercial life emerged. This is precisely what Akyalçın Kaya challenges by her innovative work. The author wishes to demonstrate that there exist more important determinants of individual behavior than community identities. Moreover individuals make choices that help determine their specific trajectories. Even within the same generation, within a given family, it is possible to observe different individual trajectories. On this basis, the author takes a further step from the family to the level of the individual as the analytical building block of her analysis. She identifies her ‘individuals’ from the mid-century sources that yield important information about their professions and income levels. She then traces them back to their fathers in early nineteenth century 16

Sabbatai Sevi, an excentric Jew from Izmir, declared himself as the Messiah of the Jews in midseventeenth century. Upon the disturbance that this action caused among the Jews, the Sultan offered him to choose between summary execution and conversion to Islam, and he chose conveniently the second. More importantly, by casting this as a further test of their genuine belief by their God, he convinced his followers to do the same. 17 The clause ‘more differentiated’ applies to Sabbatians because a crisis of leadership rooted in theological questions divided them as early as 1680–1710 into three major sub-groups, the Yakubi, the Karaka¸s, and the Kapancı factions.

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and forward to their descendants in late nineteenth or early twentieth century, thereby covering three successive generations in her paper. Her select individuals belong to three different sectors of the economy, namely, agriculture, commerce, and administration, the relative weights of which change over time. Within every sector, she identifies a trend favoring the proliferation of differential trajectories. Put differently, individuals achieve economic wealth as well as social standing (peak point being identified as joining the emerging urban bourgeoisie in Salonica) by progressing along different trajectories that lead them to comparable outcomes albeit at different rates and with differences in levels of risk-taking. In agriculture as well as commerce, there exist two basic typologies, one being the more traditional, prudent, and gradual, and the other being the more ‘entrepreneurial’ in spirit, unconventional, in fact innovative and risk-taking, but also more discontinuous yet rapidly rewarding. This latter coincides with the rags-to-riches stories whereas the former category usually tarts off from the already established local notables. Whereas the first typology reacts favorably to changes in the context, the second typology proactively takes part in modifying the existing circumstances and fostering further change. The changes in economic life are obviously the basic continuous underlying driver of change, but educational and administrative reforms are also extremely important in this analysis, precisely because they increase individual endowments and choices and create new avenues of social climbing. The individuals make important choices along the way as to whether or not (1) to move to the newly set up Hamidiye quarter where the bourgeoisie increasingly concentrated (actually choosing not to move when they had the means to do so), (2) take part in local politics, and (3) take (higher levels of) education. Akyalçın Kaya’s findings are rich in detail as well as their lessons, and yet remain loyal to her determination not to generalize where there is no reason to do so, and she contents herself with understanding the ‘complexity’ of the reality she is faced with. She demonstrates multiple paths of achievement where different combinations of choices can produce comparable outcomes. In other words, one can join the emerging bourgeoisie either by moving to the Hamidiye quarter or by staying in the traditional family house in the old city, or either by economic wealth or by commanding comparable recognition by education, culture, and involvement in the administration. It is in keeping with her point of departure, that in all sectors, she feels obliged to emphasize that the few dazzling success stories were far outnumbered by a large number of average performances, if not outright failures. The author aptly demonstrates that religious belonging is not necessarily the most important single factor at work, an inference all the more appropriate for a time when the overall tendency was in favor of increasing secularization and universal progress. The overall nature of the time-period -be that economic, or more broadly one of reforms including education and government-mattered by the pulling effect it exerted on agents. Economic and social position of the family also mattered making individual choices easier. Individual proclivity or willingness to take up opportunities and desire social ‘mobilities’ of various sorts also mattered even within the same family.

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Last but not least, in accordance with an old ‘anti-mercantilist’ argument of the French physiocrats, Akyalçın Kaya identifies that the landlords had the strongest attachment via their landed property to the place, merchants with real estate second best, other merchants even less, and those entering the public service with higher education and attaining success in their careers, the least, as they chose to move to Istanbul, the imperial capital, and remain there for good. Her careful reader will not fail to notice how some of the family trajectories she identifies over the three generations echo a theme that has gained wide circulation among the social and economic historians inspired by the family saga that young Thomas Mann described in his first novel, Buddenbrooks, first published in 1902. Since then popularly referred to as the Buddenbrook-effect, the underlying hypothesis is that, in entrepreneurial families, the first generation consists of entrepreneurs, in the intermediate phase of the family history, entrepreneurs are supplemented by those members who specialize in politics and contribute to the consolidation of family power, and the third generation loses the entrepreneurial spirit entirely, becomes safe capitalists and rentiers, while outstanding young members of the same generation turn to careers in arts and literature, putting at risk the future continuity of the family. There are some obvious resemblances with this hypothetical trajectory, but just like many Mediterranean port cities plagued with various catastrophes, the historical experience of Sabbatians in Salonica was abruptly terminated before it attained its full maturity. Who knows what might have happened otherwise? In Akyalçın Kaya’s paper we see how ownership of land, be it agricultural or urban, can restrain individual agents from mobility, albeit in different degrees. Put differently, in principle, the more immobile property one has, the more one’s spatial fixity under normal conditions. Yet in extraordinary times of abrupt change, people can also occasionally actually move more easily precisely because they have property. This is because property rights vested in land can sometimes change hands easily. Those few more fortunate ones who have significant concentration of immobile property, can sometimes retain it by behind-the-doors negotiated ‘special’ arrangements that exploit the opportunities situated within the grey zones of legality. In rare circumstances, the acquisition of nationality rights by way of conversion and marriage can also help if one is not property-less. This is the substitution of one kind of mobility (across ownership-connected identity) for another (across space). The transfer of such property rights on a large scale can also be arranged and enforced by international institutional settlements as was the case with the Turco-Greek population exchange where one set of properties was traded lump sum for another, and then redistributed from above among the nationals concerned. If anything, presence of immobile property, makes mobility more complicated, and introduces various substitutions among the kinds of mobility that can be experienced. The last article authored by Melis Cankara in this book, “Ex-Changing Houses in Rethymno After the Treaty of Lausanne,” might inadvertently be illustrating some such less usual ‘exchanges’ that took place among the many in a lesser Cretan port city, Rethymno, third only to Heraklion and Chania, on the same island. Crete being a strategic island in the Eastern Mediterranean as well as the once center of a unique civilization, changed hands, every now and then, between the

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contenders for the control of the sea routes. During the early modern period, the island was incorporated into the maritime empire of Venice. It then changed hands and became a part of the Ottoman Empire before its unification with Greece. All these phases were long enough to impact noticeably and leave their traces on its unique local culture in general and its architecture in particular. Cankara’s article had a double foci, in order of presentation, first an investigation of the ‘unusual blend’ that emerged as a result of the overlapping architectural traces, and the spatial formations and deformations connected to different historical periods, so as to identify the spatial context of the population exchange, and secondly, to approach by a meaningful selective close up on a segment of the old town where many buildings actually ‘changed hands’ during the historic event. As far as the first focus is concerned, the choice of Rethymno is justified because it had a more complex architectural heritage than Chania and Heraklion. Not only did the latter’s old town fall prey to the test of time and outright destruction, but also Chania, endowed with an admirable old town, nevertheless does not display the kind of architectural complexity characteristic of Rethymno. The author opines that the more modest economy it had made Rethymno an “unobtrusive city” (the implied comparison is with Heraklion), the unintended consequence of which was the preservation of the urban heritage. In Rethymno, one can see the Venetian, Ottoman, and even Egyptian traces on a single building along with some highly local architectural signs. Because the Ottomans chose to convert the existing buildings as well as expanding them into complexes, rather than building anew, as we see in the case of several former monasteries and churches (mostly of a Catholic function in Venetian times), hybrid structures came into being, as well as unusual arrangements such as the transformation of former Venetian squares into neighborhoods with a ‘local coloring,’ established around an unassuming mosque or a fountain. The Rimondi Fountain, to which the Ottomans added a dome supported by two columns, the remains of which exist today, is yet another such hybrid structure. Houses with wooden oriel windows and wooden shutters on their second and third floors is a legacy of the Ottoman period, just as some decorations betray an Egyptian touch. Styles thus intermingle, become sometimes indistinguishable, and certainly coexist. In this sense, many of the surviving buildings—themselves forming a smaller subset—exhibit an architectural palimpsest. Rethymno is thus endowed with a penetrating ‘hybridity’ down to the smallest level of a single building, whereas, by contrast, Chania remains a hybrid city without hybrid buildings. This architectural hybridity of Rethymno makes it all the more unusual. With respect to her second focus, she introduced us into the amazing spatial reconstruction of what actually happened in a certain part of a neighborhood, P. Koroneou Street in the Aksaray Mahallesi, as the ‘changing hands’ of property unfolded. Whereas most changing of hands of property took place in now demolished overwhelmingly Muslim neighborhood in the fortress, Acropolis, other streets where such changings occurred, such as Arkadiou, Konstantinopoleos, and Souliou, has constituted the most important commercial axis of Rethymno since the Ottoman period. Refugees from Asia Minor were mostly placed in the residential zones, while relatively few found their way to the commercial zones where the ‘locals’ benefitted

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greatly from the departure of the Muslims by an early and prolonged process of plundering. Cankara used for her research some 2450 documents on the Muslim properties after the Treaty of Lausanne as complied by the Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee, mostly dated from the period, 1925–1926. These documents contain invaluable information on the properties that changed hands such as (1) the names of the first and subsequent owners/renters, (2) their ‘ethnic’ identification as either a ‘local’, a refugee, or an Armenian, (3) street names, (4) identity of bordering neighbors, (5) date of and the way in which the transaction was made, (6) as well as a simple specification of the property concerned. In spite of certain gaps and deficiencies the documentation has, it is possible to reconstruct the successive phases of the transformation of the place and derive from it a picture, if not the actual hi/story of what happened. Cankara’s conclusions derived from her case study emphasize that (1) the ‘locals’ moved into some Muslim properties before the arrival of refugees who then settled in the remaining plausibly less desirable places, (2) religious identity of the residents was thus homogenized and conveniently interpreted as ‘ethnic’ after the resettlement, (3) there nevertheless emerged a religiously homogenous, yet culturally hybridized street structure depending on the cultural differences of the residents due to where they came from either in Anatolia or in Crete, and (4), because in the last round of population mobility specified as the ‘population exchange’, on the whole three times as many arrived as those departing, the pressure for distribution was strongly felt, and manifested itself in a peculiar ownership structure getting noticeably smaller within the zone. Above all, the author underlines that an ironic misfortune resulting from this population exchange imposed from above was that it occurred, of all the places, in Rethymno, where the religiously diverse communities has had an exceptionally long experience of peaceful coexistence in mixed quarters and even in the very same buildings. In this particular case Cankara presents the reader, the Muslim community living in this neighborhood, whose mother tongue was not Turkish but Greek, was thus forcefully expropriated and displaced overseas, as part of a diplomatically masterminded deal to trade Muslims of Greece with the Greek-Orthodox Christians of Turkey. The research indicates that a considerable number of the better-placed such properties were plundered by the ‘locals’ before the arrival of the refugees, leaving them with less-than-proper substitutes for the properties they had to leave behind in Turkey. The refugees were vulnerable to discrimination at the end of the road, and suffered subsequently from their precarity for the decades to come. This neighborhood-focused research by Cankara on Rethymno with which we end our introduction of the volume happens to tie up nicely with the introductory neighborhood treatment of the El Raval in Barcelona by Casella sans Saff that we started with, where time and again the local poor and elderly found themselves threatened and excluded from access to housing and services and thus being forced to move, while the equally vulnerable immigrants also found themselves locked in a state of similar precarity as the neighborhood underwent a sort of gentrification, keeping up with the pull of tourism and the rising demand for housing in an otherwise prospering world city. One lesson that can be surmised from this coincidence is that mobility, fragility, and precarity remain constant attributes of Mediterranean cities

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even if they are on the furthest opposite ends of the same sea as well as being at least as far apart in terms of temporality and the stage of development they manifest. From the three articles that constitute the last part, we tentatively draw a major lesson with an important implication for the state-of-the-art scholarly literature. Whereas the connectivity perspective we borrow from Horden and Purcell (2000) emphasized that parts (micro regions) were forced to connect with one another for the sake of survival in an uncertain environment, and this dire necessity gave rise to the continuous unity of the Mediterranean world, when approached from the viewpoint of our three articles, we feel obliged to revise this conclusion, at least for the time being, by placing the stress on how fragile in fact this unity has sometimes been, that it was constantly renegotiated by far-from-equal agencies, reproduced, and ultimately put them in an altogether precarious position when the desirable outcomes were not attained. Put differently, connectivities entail enormous mobility of various sorts, including migration, yet are quite fragile, and when they fail, having a snowball effect via the port cities on the presumed unity of the Mediterranean. While the dire need for connectivity is certainly there, whether and to what extent, and in which particular forms it will realized, remains far from either certain or predetermined.

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Chapter 2

Overture: Urban Planning in a Mediterranean Port City: The Contested Nature of Urban Redevelopment in the El Raval Neighborhood in Barcelona Antònia Casellas

and Grant Saff

Abstract The chapter analyzes the urban restructuring of an emblematic downtown quarter of Barcelona, El Raval. Like other Mediterranean port cities which have retained historical downtown neighborhoods, El Raval, under the colloquial name of ‘El Barrio Chino’ (Chinatown), has symbolized Barcelona’s attempts to preserve the character of the old city while simultaneously embarking on programs for urban renewal and a development strategy that relies on increasing numbers of tourists. Unsurprisingly this has created a great deal of contestation over both the actual and symbolic meaning of space. The chapter first considers the origins of the quarter, from its creation when the second set of Barcelona’s medieval walls was built in the fourteenth century, until the ending of the Franco period in the 1970s. The chapter then looks at the evolution of the quarter’s urban morphology and social structure under the various urban redevelopment plans that were embarked on from the early 1980s. Special attention is given to the interaction among the political, economic, and social agents involved in El Raval’s redevelopment, as well as the characteristics of the planning policies implemented in the 1980s and 1990s. We conclude with final remarks on the continuing contradictions engendered by the chosen redevelopment strategies, often based on increasing tourism, with the large-scale movement of foreign working-class immigrants into the neighborhood. Keywords Barcelona · Planning · Urban · Redevelopment · Downtown

A. Casellas (B) Departament de Geografia, Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Edifici B Campus UAB, 08193 Bellaterra, Spain e-mail: [email protected] G. Saff Department of Global Studies and Geography, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY 11549, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_2

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2.1 Introduction Despite the limitations of transferring “successful urban policies” from one city to another (González 2011), in the last decades, Barcelona has recurrently captured the interest of urban scholars and practitioners who, over time, have looked at urban renewal programs in the city as policy models to follow (Marshall 2004; Monclús 2003; Casellas 2016; Mueller et al. 2020). Among these programs, one of the redeveloped areas that has caught the most interest is its downtown. Near to the waterfront, Barcelona’s downtown area, like other Mediterranean port cities which have retained historical neighborhoods, has undergone a long and convoluted evolution. In this sense, the transformation of the neighborhood which this chapter focusses, el Raval, symbolizes Barcelona’s attempts to preserve the character of the old city (Martínez Rigol 2009) while simultaneously embarking on programs for urban renewal, and economic and social upgrading. Prior to the major urban renewal projects initiated in the 1980s (Cia 2004; Casellas 2006 and 2007), el Raval was one of the poorest areas in the city beset with urban, economic, and social problems. Taking this period as a crucial turning point, the central part of the chapter focuses on the evolution of this quarter’s urban morphology and social-economic dynamics under the various urban redevelopment plans that the local government embarked on from the early 1980s to the late 1990s. To place this analysis in context, first we take into consideration the origins of the quarter, from its creation when the second set of Barcelona’s medieval walls was built in the fourteenth century and its evolution until the ending of the Franco period in the 1970s. We then address the policies, planning tools and agents involve in the renewal programs of the 1980s and 1990s. Central to this is our analysis of the interaction among the political, economic, and social agents involved in the redevelopment process, as well as the planning policies that were implemented. We conclude with final remarks on the seeming contradictions engendered by the chosen redevelopment strategies, which has resulted on the one hand in increasing tourism and middleclass young Western residents, and on the other the large-scale settlement of African and Asian working-class immigrants into the neighborhood. The analysis applies a combination of primary and secondary sources, including extensive notes from field work and interviews with key stakeholders, and the analysis of historical and planning documents, statistical data, newspapers news and academic literature.

2.2 Original Urban Growth and Evolution El Raval neighborhood, which in Catalan means outskirts, was created in 1371 when Barcelona’s local authorities built a second set of medieval walls. The walls were completed just as the city’s medieval economic and demographic growth started to decline. As a result, Barcelona did not expand at the predicted rate, and for the next few centuries the area remained mainly farming land. Eventually, the availability

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Fig. 2.1 Barcelona surrounded by walls in the seventeenth century with the old town (left of the map) and new town (right). Source “Fons del Centre Excursionista de Catalunya (CEC) dipositat a l’ICGC”. Fons cartogràfic del Centre Excursionista de Catalunya, https://cartotecadigital.icgc.cat. Creative Commoms License

of land protected by walls attracted institutions of the Catholic Church, particularly monasteries (Hughes 1993). From an urban perspective, the area did not fully develop until the nineteenth century and at that time was still identified on contemporary maps as “the new city” (la ciutat nova-ville neuve) (Fig. 2.1). Until the industrial revolution, Catholic Church related buildings remained the most important built structures in the area. However, from the 1770s, large-scale urbanization paralleled the industrialization process in Barcelona to the extent that by early 1840s, el Raval was the most industrialized neighborhood of the city (Casellas 2003). In a period in which workers lived close to their factories due to the lack of accessible public transportation, population density in the quarter grew quickly. By the mid-1850s, el Raval had become one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in Europe. While in the 1700s the quarter had only 16% of the city’s population, by 1832 it had reached 33.7%, and by 1859 it housed 41% of the total inhabitants of Barcelona (Martínez Rigol 2000). To reduce the very high population and industrial densities, in 1846 local authorities approved a law that prohibited the location of new industries in the quarter. This law, together with increasing labor conflicts encouraged industrialists to relocate outside the city. Small factories and craftsman’s workshops remained, while housing, hostels, taverns, and restaurants progressively occupied the vacant buildings and land left by the relocating factories (Artigas et al. 1980). An important turning point in the development of both the city and the neighborhood, was the approval of the Cerda Plan of 1859. This allowed the connection and expansion of Barcelona with its hinterland, with a new urban layout that radically transformed the city’s morphology (Corominas Ayala 2021; Magrinyà 2009;

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Pallares-Barbera et al. 2011). In the following decades, despite the out-migration of large industrial firms from el Raval, between 1887 and 1930 the population density increased, driven in part by the jobs created by the public works programs associated with Barcelona’s World Fairs of 1888 and 1929 (Casellas 2009). In a pattern that would be replicated again from the 1980s, to accommodate the influx of workers migrants and boost income, residents rented part of their small apartments to the newcomers, encouraging a dramatic increase of the population and density in the area (Villar 1996). Spanish neutrality during the First World War was a boon for local industry as they became suppliers to the warring European countries (Romero Salvadó 2019). In parallel, there was a rapid increase and expansion of illegal activities such as smuggling, prostitution, gambling, and drug consumption, which concentrated in downtown. El Raval became the center of these illegal activities, influencing both the character and perceptions of the neighborhood. In 1925 in a series of articles on el Raval, the journalist Francisco Madrid named the southern part of the quarter ‘El Barrio Chino’ (Chinatown) (Donovan 2016; Fabre and Huertas 2000). The name became immediately popular and in the early 1930s artists and writers such as Jean Genet contributed to the expansion of the Barrio Chino mythology as an area rife in illegal activities (Villar 1996). Before the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), the population of el Raval remained predominantly working class, mainly making a living as craftsmen or workers and/or owners of small stores. This was supplemented by the many direct and indirect jobs provided by the nightlife of the quarter (Martínez Rigol 2000). Furthermore, during Franco’s regime (1939–1975) Barcelona’s urban fabric underwent a general process of degradation (Busquets 2005; Casellas 2009). After the end of the Civil War, Spain and Barcelona suffered from a deep economic crisis precipitated in part by the Franco’s autarkic policies (Preston 1994). When the economy started to improve in the late 1950s, Barcelona underwent the fastest demographic growth in its history. Like the immigration flows of the early twentieth century, el Raval was again the gateway neighborhood for many newcomers who were often accommodated by families renting out part of their small apartments or lived in the many cheap hotels in the area. Over time, those that improved their economic situations moved out of the area, with the less successful ones remaining in the quarter. Nevertheless, despite many urban and social problems as well as the negative image attached to the “El Barrio Chino” mythology, during the 1950s and 1960s, the neighborhood was still able to retain small shops, restaurants, and workshops which provided some degree of economic and social identity to the area (Villar 1996).

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2.3 The Social, Economic, and Planning Struggles in the Post-Franco Period In the mid-1970s a series of political, economic, and social changes deeply affected el Raval’s social and economic life. First, unemployment increased due to the harsh economic crisis that reached Spain in 1973 (Lieberman 2005). Second, after the death of Franco in 1975, the neighborhood experienced the political and social changes linked to the transition from dictatorship to democracy. Taking advantage of the repeal of many of Franco’s laws, the brothels that were closed during the late Franco period reopened while drug dealing, and drug use (especially of heroin) expanded. Third, over-crowding and poverty increased as el Raval attracted a disproportionate share of mostly poor newly arriving immigrants from the Magreb and sub-Sahara African countries (Fabre and Huertas 2000). The existence of drug consumption and trafficking was not a new experience for the neighborhood. Since the First World War the quarter had provided morphine and especially cocaine to the city. In the mid-1960s, the drug market in the quarter became specialized in marijuana and hashish, with many of the local bars becoming involved in drug trafficking. This led to a law approved by the Franco administration that ordered the closure of numerous bars during 1972 and 1973 (Carandel 1978). Despite the increasing legal and police pressure, the drug market in el Raval survived and by the mid-1970s had increasingly become specialized in the supply of heroin. The growth of heroin consumption and dependency had extremely negative consequences for the nature of the neigborhood as many of young residents from working class-families became addicted to drugs or were caught up in the drug trade. The deterioration of the social fabric was so intense that by the mid-1980s, Barcelona’s downtown in general, and el Raval in particular, had become a dangerous place to live. International drug clans competed to control specific areas. In 1982, it was estimated that 60% of all robberies in downtown were linked to drug consumption (Fabre and Huertas 2000). Apart from social and economic factors, the progressive physical degradation of downtown and especially el Raval was also the result of urban planning regulations caused by successive redevelopment plans for the quarter (Porfido et al. 2019). Since Cerdà’s original 1859 plan, eight other plans1 had been approved by the city that all referred to the need to decrease population density and to rationalize the built environment through the creation of new avenues and streets that would provide open space and facilitate vehicle circulation. Although the projects were never implemented as planned and el Raval remained unchanged, these plans contributed to urban disinvestment since for many decades the owners of affected buildings stopped investing in their real estate. Public policies on renting also contributed negatively to building maintenance (Sendra Ferrer 2022). To stop the escalation in rents that occurred after the First 1

Cerdà Plan (1859), Baixeras Plan (1889), Jaussely Plan (1907), Martorell Plan (1915), Darder Plan (1916), Vilaseca Plan (1934), Macià Plan (1934), Comarcal Plan (1953), Metropolitan Plan (PGM, 1976).

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World War, in 1920 a Royal decree froze all urban rents in Spain. Franco’s regime maintained this rent freeze until 1956, when a new urban rental law was passed that allowed moderate annual increases. Nevertheless, in 1964 a new law introduced the possibility of extending leases for up to three family generations. Given these strict rent control laws, together with periodic bouts of high inflation, landowners had little incentive to invest in the upkeep of their buildings. Tenants, who did not own the buildings and constrained by limited economic resources, likewise had little incentive to do even basic maintenance on their buildings or apartments (Casellas 2003). The result of this policy was the deterioration of the quality of the rental housing stock in the city in general, but in el Raval in particular. Economic indicators also provide evidence of the decline of the local job-market. In 1986 the official unemployment rate for Ciutat Vella was 30%. The real unemployment rate was probably much higher considering the high percentage of undocumented workers who lived in the area. Further, more than 60% of the documented labor force were unskilled workers (Comellas 1995). In addition, there was the continuing problem of very high population density. In 1981 downtown Barcelona had 118,409 registered residents and an average density of almost 300 inhabitants per hectare). In some areas density was 1,100 inhabitants per hectare (Comellas 1995). It is against this reality of urban deterioration, that by early 1980s the City Council saw neighborhood rehabilitation and downtown renewal as both a political and social priority. Between 1981 and 1986 el Raval lost 14.5% of its registered population, reducing population in the area to around 40,000 people. By way of comparison, in the same period, the population of Barcelona declined by just 3.7%. Simultaneously, the neighborhood was changing as native-born population moved out and was replaced with immigrants with fewer resources. Downtown also had the highest increase of elderly people living alone in Barcelona. By 1986, 27.6% of people older than 65 years old lived alone in the neighborhood, compared to 19.2% for the rest of the city (Casellas 2003). In 1991 a Barcelona City Council study that examined the housing characteristics of el Raval found that 18.1% of housing had no bathtub, up to 45.4% lacked hot water and 11.6% had no running water. While in Barcelona as a whole, 61.5% of apartments were owned by the residents, in el Raval only 29.4% of residents owned their apartments (Ràfols 1997). Assessing the problems of downtown, local urban planners recommended that the urban reforms in the neighborhood should focus on: (1) demolition of the most deteriorated areas; (2) recovery of public land to build neighborhood facilities and services; (3) rehabilitation of the housing stock; and (4) conservation of the existing urban, architectural, and social structure of the neighborhood (Artigas et al. 1980). In the following decades, the rehabilitation strategy implemented by the City Council would prove to have mixed success in achieving these goals. The policies that guided the process are addressed in the following sections.

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2.4 Actors and Policy Dynamics of Downtown Redevelopment Due to the acute urban and social problems of downtown in the early 1980s, local officials considered that a successful urban redevelopment program required a comprehensive redevelopment strategy and a significant amount of investment to support it. This was achieved through three steps. First, the approval of new urban redevelopment plans; second, attaining consensus among institutions regarding priorities and the provision of sufficient financial resources; and third, the establishment of special agencies to implement the plans (Casellas 2003). Under the direction of the architect Oriol Bohigas, the chief urban planner of the City Council, the approach for downtown redevelopment was based on the concept of re-equilibrium between the physical and social structure of the neighborhoods. In Bohigas’ opinion, this urban philosophy considered that the main problem of downtown was not high population density per se but high land-use density and the lack of basic public services and open space. Following this rationale, Bohigas proposed the need for opening areas through selective rather than large-scale demolitions, the provision of adequate neighborhood services, and the creation of well-designed open spaces (Bohigas 1985, 1999). Following a mandate from the City Council, a team of architects and economists wrote a renewal plan (PERI Plan). This top-down plan evolved from a previous study, “From the Opera House to the Seminary” (1981), which highlighted the importance of capitalizing on the rehabilitation of the existing cultural and architectonic assets of the neighborhood. As per the recommendations of this plan, the first urban intervention was to be the transformation of two buildings owned by the Catholic Church, one dating from the fourteenth century and another from the sixteenth century, into cultural centers. The PERI plan also recommended the rehabilitation of a hospital complex constructed in the early fifteen century into cultural and community centers. Reinforcing the strategy of capitalizing on cultural assets (Jauhiainen 1992), the rehabilitation plan approved by the City Council in 1983 aimed to expand the cultural assets of the neighborhood by constructing a large new museum of contemporary art (MACBA - Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona) that would be the center piece of a newly created central square (Fig. 2.2). The MACBA building was designed by the American architect, Richard Meier in 1990 and built between 1991 and 1995. To further guarantee a comprehensive approach to downtown redevelopment, the council created additional policy instruments by approving an Integral Actuation Plan (PAI). The PAI included policy guidelines for five aspects of the redevelopment process: urbanism, social welfare, economic development, social development, and image improvement (von Heeren 2002). The successful implementation of the plans needed large-scale public financial investment and the coordination of public agencies and institutions (Interview Planner, 2000). To achieve that goal the City Council attempted to attain consensus among local, regional, and national public institutions regarding the aims and strategies for urban redevelopment of el Raval.

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Fig. 2.2 MACBA Museum in Raval North. Source Grant Saff July 2015

2.4.1 The Institutional Consensus Building The first step in building an institutional consensus to guide the redevelopment process was to declare the downtown a Rehabilitation Integral Area (ARI). The ARI was a new policy concept created by the Spanish government in the early 1980s to provide special financial support and coordinate public efforts to help redevelop distressed urban areas (Cabrera 1999). Under the new democratic government, Madrid began to decentralize and delegate governmental responsibilities to the regional level, which meant, the City Council required the approval of the Catalan government to create the ARI. In 1985 the City Council presented documentation to the Catalan government that containing the urban reforms established by the downtown plans. The Catalan government, controlled by a conservative Catalan nationalist party took a year to grant the special status, while disagreements between the Socialist controlled City Council and the conservative Catalan government further delayed the constitution of the ARI’s managing commission until 1987 (Martínez Rigol 2000; Comellas 1995). In 1987, Joan Clos (who became Mayor of Barcelona in 1997), was appointed head of the Executive Commission of the downtown district. Using a technocratic approach, Clos become instrumental in implementing urban reforms in downtown Barcelona (Casellas 2003). The ARI Executive Commission consisted of representatives from the Catalan government, the City Council, the Barcelona Chamber of Commerce, and the various neighborhood associations. The main objective of the Commission was to coordinate the redevelopment efforts of all public agencies that had powers over urban planning and zoning, social welfare and facilities, economic promotion, infrastructure, and the promotion of private rehabilitation and citizens’ security (Sindicatura 1995). The inclusion of neighborhood and business associations in the ARI Commission helped to publicly portray an image of consensus in the renewal process. The highly technical purpose of the commission, however, questions the actual role assigned to the community groups represented by the presidents of downtown’s communitybased organizations. ARI’s officials emphasized that community participation was crucial in ensuring the relocation of displaced families within the neighborhood and the preservation of the urban social structure (Cabrera 1999). Affected residents

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Fig. 2.3 El Raval within downtown and Cerda’s urban morphology. Source Adaped from Institut Cartogràfic i Geològic de Catalunya, Creative Commoms License. https://cartotecadigital.icgc.cat

and grassroots movements opposing the urban renewal disagree to what extent this occurred (Arbaci and Tapada-Berteli 2012). Raval’s PERI plan selected seven sub-areas for redevelopment. Under the ARI, these areas were redefined into two project-sectors: Raval North and Raval South, which displayed different urban characteristics (Fig. 2.3). Raval North possessed a considerable number of historical and cultural buildings, while Raval South was the center of the old “El Barrio Chino” with the highest number of deteriorating housing and greater unemployment and social problems, contained a higher level of legal and illegal immigrants and had a more negative image as a site of wide-spread criminality than Raval North (Pareja and Tapada 2000). The basic urban operation of the Raval South project was articulated around the Raval Central Plan (PCR) which called for the construction of a central North–South pedestrian corridor crossing the inner center of the quarter and the building of new housing units and public facilities in the surrounding area.

2.4.2 The Public–Private Partnership Strategy In 1988 the City Council created the public–private partnership Ciutat Vella Promotion Inc. (PROCIVESA) with the Council and Barcelona’s county government constituting the public sector participants and several local banks and neighborhood businesses accounting for private sector participation. When created in 1988, public funding represented 60.7% of the total available capital (2,800 million pesetas, or 16.8 million Euros at the official 1999 conversion rate); 53.6% from the City Council and 7.1% from the Catalan Government (Raventós 2000), with the remaining 39.3%

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of capital coming from the private sector. Over-time private sector capital in the agency would increase to 49% of the total. PROCIVESA’s mandate combined administrative tasks such as expropriation of property with operational tasks such as the execution of housing projects. The partnership was contracted to last 14 years. Operationally, PROCIVESA specialized in the management of land for any public or private use and the renovation of existing housing, while the construction of new housing to accommodate the displaced population was the responsibility of the Catalan Land Institute (INCASOL) and of the public housing department, their counterpart agency of the City Council (Raventós 2000; Gallén-Díaz 2001). In 2002, PROCIVESA was dissolved, and its assets and projects transferred to the City Council, which created a new public–private agency, Ciutat Vella Foment Inc. (FOCIVESA), with the goal of finishing planned projects and implementing new urban reforms. The City Council searched for new formulas to involve private investment in the rehabilitation of downtown housing stock. In 1990 an agreement among the central government’s Ministry of Public Works, the Catalan Government and the City Council created the Ciutat Vella District Rehabilitation Office (ORCV). The objective of this Office was to provide bureaucratic support, facilitate financing at the lowest interest rate, and give technical advice to families and corporations that were rehabilitating individual downtown apartments or housing blocks. In 1994 the Office expanded its services with the designation of special redevelopment areas in el Raval in which private investors rehabilitating housing could benefit from a public subsidy of up to 30% of the total investment (Martínez Rigol 2000).

2.4.3 The Limited and Conflicted Nature of Community Participation in the Planning Process Though Barcelona has the image of a city in which community participation has been integral to urban policy, planning and implementation (Raventós 1998), even in el Raval neigborhood (Battaglia and Tremblay 2011), a deeper analysis of the dynamics of decision-making in the 1980s and 1990s reveals the need for questioning this narrative. In the case of el Raval, the inclusion of the President of the Neighborhood Association into the Commission seemed to guarantee the participation of community-based organizations in the downtown redevelopment process. The key questions are how influential this organization and other grassroots movements were in shaping the redevelopment process and how representative the leadership was of the communities they served? The PERI plan for el Raval emphasized the need for community participation but did not give clear examples of how to incorporate this into the process. Furthermore, the Commission’s role was largely confined to technical activities, and it is unclear about the actual contribution that the grassroots representatives contributed to the planning process.

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There has subsequently been criticism of the ineffectiveness of neighborhood association in defending the interests of the residents affected by the urban renewal programs (Alexandre 2000; Capel 2005; Degen and García 2012; Fernández 2012; Mendoza-Arroyo and Vall-Casas 2014). In el Raval, much of this critique centered on the institutionalized character of the association and its financial dependency on the City Council. Questions were also raised about the actual agenda of the Neighborhood Association (Interviews with grassroots downtown movements, 2000 and 2001). After the first local elections held in 1979, the elected city council initiated a process of decentralization by creating ten planning districts and encouraging citizens’ involvement in public affairs (Borja 1996). Within this framework, the Council started to provide financial resources to the neighborhood community-based organizations with the goal of encouraging their development. Huertas and Andreu (1996), who have extensively studied and documented grassroots movements in Barcelona, argue that, although the financial dependency of the associations on the Council and the lack of a separate financing law did not automatically compromise the effectiveness of neighborhood-based community organizations, it does bring the degree of their true independence into question. In 1995 a group of residents and businesses unhappy with the role played by the institutionalized neighborhood association created an alternative grassroots organization, the Raval Table. During the late 1990s, the Raval Table was active in defending the interest of residents against renewal policies. Among its activities, the Raval Table played a key role in informing residents about renewal plans, organizing demonstrations and litigating against urban projects put forth by PROCIVESA (Interview grass-roots neighborhood member, 2003). This generated confrontations with the established community-based organization, fragmenting participation efforts in the neighborhood and increasing distrust among residents.

2.5 The Contested Urban Transformation Refined from the goals of the PERI Plan, the Raval Central Plan (PCR) was created for the redevelopment of Raval South. The implementation of the PCR, subsidized by the EU Cohesion Fund, saw the expropriation and demolition of 1,384 apartment units and 293 business spaces, which in el Raval represented the disappearance of 127 apartment blocks. The expropriated space was transformed into 41,030 square meters of land deployed for new pedestrian spaces and parks, roads to increase the circulation of cars and bicycles and for new public housing. According to the City Council the objectives of the redevelopment were: (1) reducing urban density by creating new open space; (2) improvement of pedestrian, bicycle and car mobility within the quarter; (3) the elimination of physical and visual barriers, with the opening a pedestrian corridor in the heart of the quarter; (4) the reduction of urban traffic congestion; (5) the improvement of public transportation networks; (6) the renovation of water, electric and gas infrastructure; (7) the rehabilitation of the housing blocks

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surrounding the new open space; and (8) the improvement of quality of life for local residents (Ajuntament de Barcelona 2000). Supported by EU Cohesion Funds, which financed 85% or 24.6 million Euros of its total cost, the renewal was divided into four plans: North Opening, South Opening, Central Opening and Robadors Block. The budgeted project was slated for the period December 1994 to December 1995, but delays meant that two extensions were approved in December 1996 and December 1999. The North Opening affected 15 apartment blocks, which included the demolition of 185 apartments. The demolition provided 4,409 square meters of additional space that allowed for the creation of a new street 15 m wide. The South Opening involved the completion of urban reforms initiated in the early 1990s. By the time the City Council received funding from the Cohesion Fund, PROCIVESA had already displaced the tenants and demolished the housing. Funding was required for streets and squares as well as for infrastructure improvements. Within the recovered land, the Catalan government built 112 new public housing apartments. The largest of the renewal projects in the area was the Central Opening: El Raval Boulevard. The plan, initiated before gaining the financial support of the EU, affected 62 buildings that contained 657 apartments and 140 businesses. The EU Cohesion Funds were used to pay for the acquisition of 48 buildings, which included 585 apartments and 72 businesses, demolition of the 62 buildings and construction of the new open space. The El Raval Boulevard design includes a central pedestrian corridor that is 32 m wide by 215 m long (Fig. 2.4), a two-lane road on each side of the central corridor with two traffic circles for cars at each end, and sidewalks parallel to the road that range from 5.5 to 6.7 m wide. The facades of the buildings facing the boulevard were also renovated (Ajuntament de Barcelona 1999, 2001).

Fig. 2.4 El Raval Boulevard. Source Grant Saff, January 2016

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2.6 Final Remarks From a perspective of almost four decades since the urban redevelopment of downtown was initiated in the 1980s, the success of the projects remains open to interpretation. By the late 1990s, the presence of new cultural facilities and an upgraded infrastructure were successful in attracting tourists and middle-income residents to the neighborhood, but they were already creating gentrification (Delgado 2008; Domínguez and Scarnato 2017; Sánchez-Aguilera and González-Pérez 2021; Rius and Sánchez-Befando 2015). Additionally, growing international migration into Spain, and Barcelona in particular, generated a new social structure in the el Raval, with a mixture of old traditional low-income residents, some local young professionals, and poor individuals and families that have arrived from Asia and Africa. This last trend created a mixture of gentrifying tourist facilities next to shops and services oriented to the new immigrant residents (Sargatal 2001). By 2014, with a population of 48,471 inhabitants, 47.9% of the quarter’s residents were foreigners, with the most prevalent groups being from Pakistan, the Philippines and Morocco. They represented a substantially higher foreign-born percentage than the 16.3% that prevailed for the city as a whole (Ajuntament de Barcelona 2016). New services provided by the public sector, diminished urban decay, and more prevalent green spaces were positive outcomes resulting from the renewal projects. These urban upgrades improved the wellbeing of traditional residents and provided additional services for the growing number of poor foreigners moving into the neighborhood. Nevertheless, despite the attempts to lower density, by 2013 el Raval still had a much higher population density (44,145 people per square kilometer) than the city as a whole (15,793), and its residents were significantly poorer than the city’s average family income, which was only 60.3% of the mean average income for Barcelona as a whole (Ajuntament de Barcelona 2016). The presence of low-income natives, and newly arrived poor immigrants generated an amalgam of different social and cultural needs as well as contradictory economic and cultural dynamics (Fernández 2012). Public housing tenants complained about the noise and conflictive character of public space (López 2010), as well as of substandard housing, and visible prostitution and drug trafficking in the south part of el Raval (Angulo 2011). Additionally, grassroots associations continued to denounce real estate speculation, linked to tourism promotion (Boneta 2004; Coordinadora contra la especulació del Raval 2008). By the turn of the century, gentrification (Smith 1987) was fueled as Western European and North American students and young professionals started to move into the area (Sargatal 2003 and 2001). Among the reasons of this were lifestyle opportunities, rather than work, and the presence of similar other transnational mobile migrants concentrated in centrally located downtown enclaves (Cocola-Gant and Lopez-Gay 2020). To conclude, we could argue that the downtown Barcelona remains a contested space resulting from several different processes. The morphological and social structure of el Raval has changed dramatically since the renewal process started in the 1980s. On one hand, there has been a significant urban upgrading: the cultural

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strategy—museums, restored buildings with architectonic value; and tourist related facilities—upscale hotels, restaurants, bars, and shops. In parallel, el Raval has become a tourist destination, with thousands of visitors walking its narrow and twisted streets to explore some the most emblematic tourist destinations of Barcelona. Western young students and professionals complement the demand for upscale services and products. On the other hand, there was an unplanned growing presence of poor newcomers and the eventually the establishment of businesses and social networks to address the consumption patterns and cultural needs of these new documented and undocumented immigrants into the neighborhood. This dichotomy helped to slow the gentrification process initiated in the late 1980s, while simultaneously avoiding the “ghettoization” of the neighborhood resulting from the concentration of immigrants with limited economic resources. This, of course, does not imply that the contradictions and tensions of the neighborhood are over, but rather that the area currently exists within dynamic unstable equilibriums created by planned redevelopments, property speculation, rapid immigration, and an uncertain global and local economy. Myth, daily life, and urban politics in el Raval thus continue unfolding in a creative conflict, becoming a microcosm of Barcelona’s current and future opportunities, constraints and challenges.

List of Acronyms ARI: EU: FOCIVESA: INCASOL: MACBA: ORCV: PAI: PCR: PERI Plan: PROCIVESA:

Rehabilitation Integral Area (Àrea de Rehabilitació Integral) European Union Ciutat Vella Foment Inc. (Foment de Ciutat Vella S.A.) Catalan Land Institute (Institut Català del Sòl) Barcelona´s Art Contemporary Museum (Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona) Ciutat Vella District Rehabilitation Office (Oficina de Rehabilitació de Ciutat Vella) Actuation Plan (El Pla d’Actuació Integral) Raval Central Plan (Plan Central del Raval) Special Plan of Interior Reform (Pla Especial de Reforma Interior) Ciutat Vella Promotion Inc. (Promoció Ciutat Vella S.A.)

References Ajuntament de Barcelona (1999) Proyecto de mejora del medio urbano. Urbanización del espacio público y remodelación de la edificación existente en el entorno del Pla del Raval. Ajuntament de Barcelona, Barcelona Ajuntament de Barcelona (2000) Regeneración Ambiental de Ciutat Vella. Plan Central del Raval. Informe para la Solicitut de Saldo Final. Ajuntament de Barcelona, Barcelona

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Ajuntament de Barcelona (2001) Illa Rambla del Raval. 1988 Un projecte, 2001 una realitat. Ajuntament de Barcelona, Barcelona Ajuntament de Barcelona (2016) Estadístiques. Ajuntament de Barcelona. http://www.bcn.es/est adistica. Accessed 20 Apr 2016 Alexandre O (2000) Catàleg de la Destrucció del Patrimoni Arquitectònic Històrico-Artístic del Centre Històric de Barcelona. Veïns en Defensa de la Barcelona Vella, Barcelona Angulo S (2011) Puzle incompleto en la Illa Robador del Raval. La Vanguadia. http://www.lavanguar dia.com/vida/20111205/54239850345/puzle-incompleto-illa-robador-del-raval.html. Accessed 6 Sept 2022 Arbaci S, Tapada-Berteli T (2012) Social inequality and urban regeneration in Barcelona city centre: reconsidering success. European Urban and Regional Studies 19(3):287–311 Artigas J, Mas F, Suñol X (1980) El Raval, Història d’un Barri Servidor d’una Ciutat. Francesc Mas, Barcelona Battaglia A, Tremblay DG (2011) El Raval and Mile End: A comparative study of two cultural quarters in Barcelona and Montreal, between urban regeneration and creative clusters. Téléuniversité/U niversité du Q uébec à Montréal, Montréal Bohigas O (1999) Valorización de la periferia y recuperación del centro. In: Maragall P (ed) Europa Próxima. Europa, Regiones y Ciudades. Edicions Universitat de Barcelona, Barcelona, pp 199– 214 Bohigas O (1985) Reconstrucció de Barcelona. Edicions 62, Barcelona Boneta X (2004) Transformació Urbana de l’Illa Robadors, Territori. Obeservatori de Projectes i Debats Territorials a Catalunya. http://territori.scot.cat/cat/notices/transformaciO_urbana_de_ l_illa_robadors_barcelona_2004_1841.php. Accessed 2 Oct 2022 Borja J (1996) The city, democracy and governability: the case of Barcelona. Int Soc Sci J 48:85–93 Busquets J (2005) The urban evolution of a compact city. Nicolodi, Rovereto Cabrera P (1999) La transformació urbana de la Ciutat Vella 1988–1998. Revista d’Informació i Estudis Socials Barcelona Societat. Ajuntament de Barcelonam, Barcelona, pp 14–30 Carandel JM (1978) Guia Secreta de Barcelona. Sedmay Ediciones, Barcelona Capel H (2005) El modelo Barcelona: un examen crítico. Ediciones del Serbal, Barcelona Casellas A (2003) The Barcelona model? Agents, policies and planning dynamics in tourism development. Unpublished Ph. D. Thesis, Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey Casellas A (2006) Las limitaciones del modelo Barcelona. Una lectura desde Urban Regime Analysis. Documents d’Anàlisi Geografica 48:61–81 Casellas A (2007) Gobernabilidad, participación ciudadana y desarrollo económico: adaptaciones locales a estrategias globales. Scripta Nova. Revista Electrónica de Geografía y Ciencias Sociales, Universidad de Barcelona, Barcelona, 10 de julio de 2007, vol. XI, núm. 243 Casellas A (2009) Barcelona’s urban landscape. The historical making of a tourist product. J Urban Hist 35(6):815–832 Casellas A (2016) Desarrollo urbano, coaliciones de poder y participación ciudadana en Barcelona: una narrativa desde la geografía crítica. Boletín de la Asociación de Geógrafos Españoles 70: 57–75 Cia B (2004) Adiós al último edificio de la Illa Robadors. El País. Barcelona, Apr 16 Cocola-Gant A, Lopez-Gay A (2020) Transnational gentrification, tourism and the formation of ‘foreign only’ enclaves in Barcelona. Urban Studies 57(15):3025–3043 Comellas J (1995) Aquí hi ha Gana! Debat Sobre la Marginació Social a Barcelona. Editorial Afers, Barcelona Coordinadora contra la Especulació del Raval (2008) Hotel Barceló Raval: la destrucción cumple veinte años. http://www.turismo-responsable.org/denuncia/0810_barceloraval_barcelona.html. Accessed 10 Oct 2015 Corominas Ayala M (2021) Los orígenes del Ensanche de Barcelona: suelo, técnica e iniciativa. Edicions UPC Degen M, García M (2012) The transformation of the ‘Barcelona model’: an analysis of culture, urban regeneration and governance. Int J Urban Reg Res 36(5):1022–1038

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Delgado M (2008) La artistización de las políticas urbanas. El lugar de la cultura en las Dinámicas de reapropiación capitalista de la ciudad, Scripta Nova. Revista Electrónica de Geografía y Ciencias Sociales, vol. XII(270) Domínguez, AQ, Scarnato A (2017) The Barrio Chino as last frontier: the penetration of everyday tourism in the dodgy heart of the Raval. In: Tourism and gentrification in contemporary metropolises. Routledge, pp 107–133 Donovan MK (2016) Mapping Chinatown in 1920s and 1930s Barcelona: How el Raval Became el Barrio Chino. Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, 9–27 Fabre J, Huertas JM (2000) La Barcelona del Segle XX. Burguesa i Revolucionària. Flor del Vent, Barcelona Fernández M (2012) Asaltar el Raval. Control de población y producción de plusvalías en el barrio barcelonés. URBS. Revista de Estudios Urbanos y Ciencias Sociales 2(1):51–68 Gallén-Díaz A (2001) Les actuacions de millora als barris. hppt:bcnweb3.bcn.es.80. Accessed 21 May 2014 González S (2011) Bilbao and Barcelona ‘in motion’. How urban regeneration ‘models’ travel and mutate in the global flows of policy tourism. Urban studies 48(7):1397–1418 Huertas JM, Andreu M (1996) Barcelona en Lluita. El Moviment Urbà 1965–1996. Barcelona, FAVB Hughes R (1993) Barcelona. Vintage, New York Jauhiainen JS (1992) Culture as a tool for urban regeneration: The case of upgrading the ‘Barrio El Raval’ of Barcelona, Spain. Built Environment (1978–), 90–99 Lieberman S (2005) Growth and crisis in the Spanish economy: 1940–1993. Routledge López H (2010) Los nuevos vecinos denuncian el fracaso del plan de la Illa Robador. El Periódico. http://www.elperiodico.com/es/noticias/barcelona/20101101/los-nuevos-vecinosdenuncian-fracaso-del-plan-illa-robador/print-569272.shtml. Accessed 3 Aug 2022 Magrinyà F (2009) El Ensanche y la Reforma de Idelfons Cerdà como instrumento urbanístico de referencia en la modernización urbana de Barcelona. Scripta Nova. Revista Electrónica de Geografía y Ciencias Sociales, Vol XIII, n. 296 (3) Marshall T (2004) Transforming Barcelona: the renewal of a European metropolis. Routledge Martínez Rigol S (2000) El retorn al centre de la ciutat. La reestructuració del Raval entre la renovació i la gentrificació. Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis. Universitat de Barcelona Martínez Rigol S (2009) La construcció literaria del Barri Xino. In: Carreras C, Moreno S (eds) Llegint pedres, escrivint Ciutats. Pagès Editors, Lleida Mendoza-Arroyo C, Vall-Casas P (2014) Urban neighbourhood regeneration and community participation: an unresolved issue in the Barcelona experience. In: M2 models and methodologies for community engagement. Springer, Singapore, pp 53–68 Monclús FJ (2003) The Barcelona model: and an original formula? From ‘reconstruction’ to strategic urban projects (1979–2004). Plan Perspect 18(4):399–421 Mueller N, Rojas-Rueda D, Khreis H, Cirach M, Andrés D, Ballester J, Bartoll X, Daher C, Deluca A, Echave C, Milà C, Márquez S, Palou J, Pérez K, Tonne C, Stevenson M, Rueda S, Nieuwenhuijsen M (2020) Changing the urban design of cities for health: the superblock model. Environment International 134:105132 Pallares-Barbera M, Badia A, Duch J (2011) Cerdà and Barcelona: The need for a new city and service provision. Urbani Izziv 22(2):122–136 Pareja M, Tapada T (2000) Relating urban changes to social life: two examples at the city centre of Barcelona. Paper presented at the workshop urban renewal and housing rehabilitation, conference on housing on the 21st century: fragmentation and reorientation, Gävle, Sweden, June 2000 Porfido E, Perez CC, Pesoa M (2019) Cuando el planeamiento atrae el turismo. El caso del barrio del Raval. Papers: Regió Metropolitana de Barcelona: Territori, estratègies, planejament 62:78–91 Preston P (1994) Franco: A biography. Basic Books, New York Ràfols E (1997) Dinàmiques Residencials a la Ciutat de Barcelona. Ajuntament de Barcelona. Patronat Municipal de l’Habitatge, Barcelona

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Raventós F (1998) Més d’una dècada de planificació estratègica de ciutats. In: 10 Anys de Planificació Estratègica a Barcelona (1988–1998). Associació Pla Estratègic Barcelona 2000, Barcelona, pp 17–28 Raventós F (2000) La Col.laboració Publicoprivada. Aula Barcelona, Barcelona Rius J, Sánchez-Befando MV (2015) Modelo Barcelona y política cultural: usos y abusos de la cultura por parte de un modelo emprendedor de desarrollo local. EURE 41(122):103–123 Romero Salvadó FJ (2019) Spain and the First World War: the logic of neutrality. War in History 26(1):44–64 Sánchez-Aguilera D, González-Pérez JM (2021) Geographies of gentrification in Barcelona. Tourism as a driver of social change. In: International residential mobilities. Springer, Cham, pp 243–268 Sargatal MA (2001) Gentrificación e inmigración en los centros históricos: el caso del barrio del Raval en Barcelona. Scripta Nova. Revista electrónica de geografía y ciencias sociales. Universidad de Barcelona, Barcelona, 1 de agosto de 2001, núm. 94 (66) Sargatal MA (2003) La vivienda en el centro histórico de Barcelona. El caso de la Rambla del Raval. Scripta Nova. Revista electrónica de geografía y ciencias sociales. Universidad de Barcelona, Barcelona, 1 de agosto de 2003, vol. VII, núm. 146 (069) Sendra Ferrer O (2022) Barcelona, city of margins. University of Toronto Press Sindicatura (1995) Informe Promoció Ciutat Vella S.A. (Procivesa) Ejercicio 1994. Sindicatura de Comptes de Catalunya, Barcelona Smith N (1987) Gentrification and the rent gap. Ann Assoc Am Geogr 77(3):462–465 Von Heeren S (2002) La Remodelación de Ciutat Vella. Un Análisis Crítico del Modelo Barcelona. Veïns en Defensa de la Barcelona Vella, Barcelona Villar P (1996) Historia y Leyenda del Barrio Chino (1900–1992). Crónica y Documentos de los Bajos Fondos de Barcelona. La Campana, Barcelona

Part I

A Mediterranean Tour d’horizon with the Port City Articles as the Ports of Call

Chapter 3

Alexandria: A Glorious Past, Troubled Present and Promising Future Yasser G. Aref

Abstract Alexandria is an iconic city on the Mediterranean. It is the second-largest city in Egypt, and the largest city on the Mediterranean coast. Founded in c. 331 BC by Alexander the Great, Alexandria grew rapidly and became a major center of Hellenic civilization. The city remained was the capital of Egypt for about 900 years. Throughout its long history, the city has experienced various periods of greatness and decline. The contemporary city, with a population of over 6 million inhabitants, faces many urban challenges, such as preservation of architectural heritage, unplanned and overdevelopment, traffic congestion, pollution, land infill, overpopulation, and city center decline, to name a few. Despite this, many urban and architectural megaprojects have been completed or are currently under construction. Upon completion, these projects will solve several of Alexandria’s problems and return it to its former grandeur. This section highlights the history of Alexandria, addresses its contemporary problems, and explores completed and future projects. Keywords Alexandria · History · Urban problems · Urban development · Future projects

This is an updated and extended version of the original research published in Amicale Alexandrie Hier et Aujourd’hui Cahier No 66, Plans and Projects for Alexandria 1952 to the Present Day, 2011. The views expressed in this study are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the official view of Menoufia University. Y. G. Aref (B) Department of Architecture, Menoufia University, Shebin El Kom, Egypt e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_3

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3.1 Introduction Alexandria was once one of the most important cities in the world and was home to several famous landmarks, such as the Lighthouse of Alexandria and the Library of Alexandria. Alexandria declined in importance after the Arab rule in the 7th century until the beginning of the 19th century, but it remained an important city and a major port city. Alexandria is today an industrial and commercial center facing the same urban challenges as any large urban center. These challenges accumulated over decades and became more complex due to the urban and natural setting of the city, which is a linear strip of land enclosed between the Mediterranean to the north and Lake Mariout to the south, agricultural land to the east, and desert to the west. Therefore, a very limited land area is available for accommodating population increases and urban expansion. The rapid increase in population due to rural immigration and natural population increases resulted in very dense urban agglomerations that aggravated the city’s challenges and urban problems.

3.2 A Glorious Past Alexandria was planned by Denocrates according to the orders of Alexander the Great. The city was planned on a gridiron pattern with eleven streets that run north– south and seven horizontal streets that run east–west. During the reign of Ptolemy I, known as Soter, and Ptolemy II, known as Philadelphus, the city flourished. There were many landmark buildings, such as the Mouseion, which was a library and an academic center. The Mouseion attracted many scientists from all over the ancient world, such as Euclid, Archimedes, and Plotinus. These scientists studied medicine, mathematics, astronomy, geography, literature, and linguistics. The ancient Alexandria Library was one of the largest libraries in the ancient world. The city was the location of one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. The Pharos, or Great Alexandria Lighthouse, was completed in 283 BCE. It was about 140 m high. It was one of the greatest constructions at the time. The lighthouse collapsed due to several earthquakes but eventually perished in the thirteenth century. Alexandria was a major center of civilization in the ancient world, controlling commerce between Egypt and the eastern Mediterranean, and has continued throughout its long history to act as a vital crossing point for merchants and their trade on the maritime routes between Asia and Europe.1 During the Roman Empire, the city rapidly expanded to become one of the most important cities in the ancient world and the second-largest city after Rome. Alexandria was the capital of Egypt through its history till 641, when Egypt was declared a Muslim Arab territory by Amro Ebn 1

UNESCO website, https://en.unesco.org/silkroad/content/alexandria.

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El-A’s and Cairo became the capital of Egypt till today. Over the centuries, Alexandria has declined and lost both its importance and population. In 1805, Mohamed Ali Pasha, the ruler of Egypt, revived the city by reconstructing Alexandria’s seaport, developing the Egyptian army and navy forces, and building an arsenal, among other development projects in Alexandria (Figs. 3.1 and 3.2). Fig. 3.1 The ancient Library of Alexandria. Source wikico mmons.com, The original image is a photograph of a nineteenth-century B&W Artistic Rendering of the Library of Alexandria by O. Von Corven, created based on some archaeological evidence. It was uploaded to Wikimedia Commons and released to the public domain by Domitori 26 June 2007. This version of the image has been resized and colorized by K. Vail Abdelhamid (user:aishaabdel) December 2015

Fig. 3.2 Computer generated model of the Lighthouse of Alexandria one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina

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The Mediterranean

Lake Mariout

Agricultural land

Fig. 3.3 A satellite image of Alexandria center and western parts. The Eastern Harbor is on the right. Source Earth Science and Remote Sensing Unit, Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

3.3 Troubled Present2 The city and especially the center are facing a number of problems that are undermining the historicity and the originality of this unique urban feature, which is distinctive among Mediterranean cities. The Eastern Harbor, or the city center, has always been under several threats. But the most recent ones are the most threatening and aggravating. Despite the rise of global interest in urban conservation, unfortunately, this trend is not prevailing in the city. The most recent threats can be highlighted in the following part (Fig. 3.3).

3.3.1 Land Infill In December 2004, giant cranes and loaders were working very actively to place massive concrete blocks in the central part of the Eastern Harbor on the pretext of safeguarding the corniche walls against waves and currents that might have resulted in the settlement of the corniche retaining walls. This action was undertaken without the permission of the Supreme Council of Antiquity, the national governmental body responsible for the protection of the nation’s cultural heritage, including artifacts, monuments, and places of cultural importance. It is of vital importance to note here that the Eastern Harbor is the site of sunken archaeology that dates back to the 2

It has to be noted here, that despite the city’s problems, Alexandria was awarded the best Arab City prize from the Arab Cities Organization in 2002.

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Fig. 3.4 Land infill and concrete blocks are destroying the ecology and underwater archaeology. Source The author

classical period, and the remains of ancient archaeology rest at the bottom of the Eastern Harbor. A protest and a campaign were formed by patriotic Alexandrians and intellectuals. Claims in national newspapers and to the international press and pleas to the governor and the minister of culture to interfere and halt this violation were presented. A seminar was also held in the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, where all stakeholders were invited to discuss the problem. The campaign was successful, and the operation was temporarily stopped (Figs. 3.4 and 3.5).

3.3.2 Pollution Pollution in the Eastern Harbor originates from a variety of sources. This is due to a lack of public awareness, and weak law enforcement. Pollution sources include: A. Wastewater: Until very recently, wastewater outlets were still draining their loads into the Eastern Harbor, but according to the Minister of Housing, Infrastructure, and New Settlements, all wastewater outlets have been closed since May 2005. B. Garbage and solids: The Eastern Harbor has always been used as the fishermen’s port; it has been used, regrettably, as a dumpster for sewage. Many boats throw garbage and leftovers into the waters, as well as exhausts, fuels, and gasoline that diffuse from the boats (Fig. 3.6).

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Fig. 3.5 Dense landfill on the waterfront of the Mediterranean for commercial, entertainment, and recreational activities. Source The author

Fig. 3.6 Garbage disposals, in the Eastern Harbor. Source The author

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Fig. 3.7 Cluttered vehicles along Alexandria waterfront. Source The author

C. Traffic congestion: Traffic congestion and overcrowding cause the emission of dangerous fumes and gases from cars. During rush hour, lined vehicles with start-and-stop driving are a common sight (Fig. 3.7).

3.3.3 Unplanned Development Several ideas for development have been presented to the Governorate of Alexandria for the development of the area. The problem with these projects is that they are not part of a comprehensive strategic plan that looks at the area as a whole. Rather, they are standalone projects that are individually initiated. Some of these projects are: • Reconstruction of the Pharos lighthouse • Reconstruction of a fishermen’s mosque • Extensions of clubs and the Oceanography Institute that overlook the scenic view of the fort Over the past few decades, the skyline of the Eastern Harbor has changed drastically. Once upon a time, the slim minarets of the Abu El-Abbas and El-Busieri mosques rose in tandem with the consistent height of the European-styled buildings along the corniche. Now the skyline of the Eastern Harbor is dominated by the new high-rise buildings, such as the Cotton Tower, the Court Building, and other commercial high rises.

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Fig. 3.8 The skyline of the Eastern garoub is dominated by new high-rise buildings, 2008. Source The author

Other examples of dealing with development projects are the widening of the corniche in the Eastern Harbor area as part of the project to widen the Alexandria corniche. The opposition was raised on the basis that this project would undermine the historic promenade of the Eastern Harbor (Fig. 3.8).

3.3.4 Urban Planning Violations The area around the Eastern Harbor has also been subject to other types of violations and threats. These unique threats can and have changed the morphological typology of the area and its physical manifestations. Streets have always been and will continue to be in the public domain. Some of the streets of the Eastern Harbor have been severely attacked by developers, with the blessings of the local authorities. The office of the World Health Organization Regional Office for the East of the Mediterranean building is one of the six offices of the WHO around the world. It has been located in Alexandria since 1946. In order to expand its offices, the WHO required the vacant land and the street behind its existing offices from the Governorate of Alexandria. The governorate agreed to offer the street to the international organization. Patriotic Alexandrians protested against this decision, a law suit was initiated, and the street was saved.3 Unfortunately, other streets were taken over by the law court complex to provide a parking space for the complex (Figs. 3.9, 3.10, and 3.11).

3

It is worth noting here that after this incident, the WHO regional office was moved to Cairo in a new facility.

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Fig. 3.9 The street beside the Alexandria court was taken to be used as a parking place of the new complex. Source The author

Fig. 3.10 The WHO attempted to take over the street behind the building in order to expand its offices. Source Egypt Surveying Authoroties, Alexandria Governrate maps, 1:500 collection, surveyed 1935

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Fig. 3.11 The WHO building is located on a prominent location on the waterfront of Alexandria. Source The author

3.3.5 Destruction of Architectural Heritage The heritage conservation law number 144 that went into effect in 2006. The law set three criteria for listing buildings: the building either has a distinctive architectural style, it is associated with a historic person who contributed to Egyptian history, or it represents a historic era. Accordingly, the Governorate of Alexandria, with the help of universities and the Library of Alexandria, surveyed and listed 1440 buildings. Villa Aghion, designed by the renowned French architect Auguste Perret in 1929, was one of these listed buildings. At the beginning of the twentieth century, reinforced concrete was a new building material. Architects had different perceptions of using it to produce a distinctive architectural expression. Some architects constructed their buildings with reinforced concrete, but they covered their buildings with stone or mortar cladding and dressed the building in a classic architectural style. Others dealt with reinforced concrete as a building material that should not be concealed. Auguste Perret (1874–1954), one of the most important architects of the twentieth century, played a major role in defining the aesthetic of reinforced concrete. His projects in the 1930s respond to a unique cultural challenge: the creation of a new classical order comparable to the orders of antiquity but derived from modern construction techniques. His buildings reflected the characteristics of reinforced concrete as a plastic building material that can be molded and cast in any shape, offering the architect freedom and endless possibilities of design. He constructed his buildings with a concrete skeleton, using

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Fig. 3.12 View of the villa showing the dramatic concrete dome, which demonstrates the modernity of the design despite the fact that it was built in 1929. The picture also shows the sunbreakers beneath the dome casting shadows on the 2-story-high glass wall behind it, in an attempt by Perret to respond to the local environment of Egypt. Source The author

posts and beams, and roofs constructed of exposed concrete with red brick infill, which reflects the sincerity and clarity of the architectural expression. Even though his buildings were built in the 1930s, they have the look of modern buildings, and they actually look ahead of their times. August Perret designed three buildings in Alexandria, one of which is Villa Aghion. The architecture of Villa Aghion is a milestone in Perret’s professional career. The villa was published in Architecture d’Aujourd’hui magazine no. 4, 1937, and in many of Auguste Perret’s work lists. The villa was partially demolished by the owners in 2009 and completely demolished in 2014. The villa was protected by law and listed as a building of architectural merit. However, the owners filed an appeal with the court, and the court ruled that the listing was unconstitutional and that the building be removed from the list. Right after, the owners demolished the whole building in 20144 (Figs. 3.12, 3.13, 3.14 and 3.15).

4

For more on this villa and Auguste Perret’s work in Alexandria and Egypt, refer to: El-Habashi AE (1994) The building of Auguste Perret in Alexandria: a case for preservation of modern Egyptian architecture: historic preservation defined. Masters thesis, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA.

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Fig. 3.13 The entrance façade of the villa shows the skeleton framing made with reinforced concrete and red brick infills. Source The author

3.4 Bright Future 3.4.1 Accomplished Projects 3.4.1.1

New Shopping Centers

Faced with tough competition from new suburban shopping options and confronted with profound and continuing changes in consumer lifestyles, geographic mobility, and shoppers’ expectations, downtown Alexandria is poorly equipped to compete with these new economic threats. New shopping malls with easy transportation steered business to the outskirts of downtown and to other newly developed suburbs. Consequently, many downtown enterprises are faced with declining sales, competition from shopping malls, and finally, the potential loss of their role in shaping the identity of the community throughout the history of the city. Over the past decade, many businesses have relocated from the downtown area of Alexandria to other places

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Fig. 3.14 The partial demolition in 2009. Source The author

in the suburbs. With new and increasing commercial demands, this phenomenon will have a negative impact on the city center and its outskirts5 (Fig. 3.16, 3.17, and 3.18).

3.4.1.2

The New Alexandria Corniche

To improve the image of the city and solve transportation problems, the Alexandria corniche was widened in 1999 and completed in 2005. The plan aimed at providing five traffic lanes in each direction, with a length of 12 km and a cost of 252 million Egyptian pounds. The project included creating a pedestrian promenade and walkway along the seaside with several seaside-related activities such as cafeterias, hotels, and clubs; pedestrian plazas; new bus stops and pergola kiosks; fishing platforms; seating areas; and an amphitheater for 200–300 people. Vast areas were reclaimed for development. Apart from the ecological and environmental impacts of infilling the sea, some of the fine public beaches were destroyed, such as the renowned Stanley 5

For a detailed account of this phenomenon, refer to Aref YG (2005) Rediscovering downtown Alexandria, Egypt. International Seminar on the Management of the Shared Mediterranean Heritage, Ismarmed, 5th Conference on the Modern Heritage, March 29–31, 2005, Alexandria, Egypt.

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Fig. 3.15 The complete demolition of the villa in 2014. Source The author

Fig. 3.16 A map of Alexandria illustrating the direction of the shift and the location of activities outside the downtown area. Source The author

Beach. The wide corniche created a physical and visual barrier between the urban waterfront and the sea, and moreover, pedestrians suffered to cross the new wide corniche in the absence of traffic lights or underway passages. The project, which is on the other side and facilitates car traffic, has significantly altered the image and character of the waterfront (Figs. 3.19, 3.20, 3.21 and 3.22).

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Fig. 3.17 A modern, fancy shopping facility on the outskirts of the city draws customers away from the downtown area. Green Plaza shopping center, designed by Essam Qassem & Ancestors, 2004. Source The author

3.4.1.3

Transportation Network

A variety of strategies were used to connect the city with interregional transportation networks, and several major roads were built to accomplish this goal. This network included a major ring road to connect the port of Alexandria and industrial zones at the west of the city directly to the major regional highways, eliminating truck trespassing in the inner city. Another project was the Moharem Bey Bridge, which had a cost of about 80 million Egyptian pounds and a length of 2 km. The bridge eased access to and from the city as well as connecting the city center with major regional transportation networks. The implementation of the bridge facilitated suburbanization and the expansion of the city towards the southeast in the form of fancy shopping malls and other commercial and recreational facilities (Fig. 3.23).

3.4.1.4

The Library of Alexandria, 2002

The new Library of Alexandria, which was inaugurated in October 2002, is one of the grand projects that changed the city dramatically. The library has become a major

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Fig. 3.18 Alexandria City Center, main building and extension, by A. Moez and Mohamed El Hegazy, 2002. Source The author

Fig. 3.19 Stanley bay bridge, completed 2001 with a cost of 75 million Egyptian pounds. Source www.arabcont.com

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Fig. 3.20 The new corniche with sea infill creates new urban spaces for residents’ and visitors’ recreation and entertainment, but it also blocks the magnificent view of the sweeping Mediterranean waterfront. Source The author

city destination. It attracts more than one million visitors each year.6 In addition to the apparent cultural benefits as a library and a place for dialogue and understanding between different cultures, it also has a wider impact upon the city and its residents. The simple form of the building is outstanding, as is the skyline of the cornice. The building was a recipient of the Agha Khan Architectural Award in 2004 (Figs. 3.24 and 3.25). The inertia of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina has encouraged many agencies to participate in the overall development plan of the city. The library’s multiplier effect is far more than just being a single building with a micro-effect on its surroundings. The effect of the building is a macro one. In that sense, the building has affected the whole city, effectively enhanced the image of the city, and has become a major tourist destination, in the same way that the Balboa Museum has affected the city of Balboa and the Sidney Opera House has affected Sidney. The urban-architectural relationship is very clear in the previous stated examples. The building jumps from being influential in its immediate surroundings to being the city’s main attraction and point of interest on a larger scale. The new library is turning out to be the symbol

6

According to the Visits Department, Library of Alexandria statistics.

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Fig. 3.21 The picture shows how the new developments along the waterfront block the panoramic view of the Mediterranean. Source The author

Fig. 3.22 Plan of pedestrian areas, by Dar El Handasah LTD, Egypt. Source Abdel Kawi A, El Khorazaty T, Labib Gabr A, El Mestikawy H, Sorour S (eds) (1999) Medina architecture, interiors & fine arts, Issue Six: February–March, p 28

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Fig. 3.23 Moharam Bey Bridge. Source Official website of the Arab Republic of Egypt Presidency, https://www.presidency.eg

Fig. 3.24 The new Library of Alexandria within its larger urban context. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina

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Fig. 3.25 The main plaza of the new Library of Alexandria acts as a place for cultural interaction. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina

of the city and a catalyst for the whole development of the city. Again, the city has regained its old reputation as a local and international tourist destination.

3.4.1.5

Borg El Arab Airport, 2006

The airport is located about 43 km west of Alexandria, close to New Borg El Arab City,7 The airport consists of a passenger terminal with an area of 22,000 m2 and a capacity of 1.5 million passengers per year. The building includes many passenger services such as banks, travel agencies, cafeterias, and shopping. The project includes four new runways and a cargo terminal with a capacity of 10,000 tons per year. In addition to parking, a bus terminal, a fire station, an observation tower, and a weather station. The vicinity of the project is expected to be developed as well, and it will enhance the links between the city and the New Borg El Arab city. The main aim of the new airport is to connect Alexandria to major African, European, and Asian cities (Figs. 3.26 and 3.27).

7

New Borg El Arab City is a satellite city, founded by presidential decree no. 506/1979, about 60 km west of Alexandria and 7 km south of the Mediterranean. It was established to absorb some of the population of Alexandria. The economic base of the city is industry, especially food, textiles, and pharmaceuticals. The city has weak transportation and urban links with Alexandria. www.urbancomm.gov.eg.

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Fig. 3.26 Exterior view of the passenger terminal. Source The author

3.4.1.6

Renovation of the Passenger Terminal at the Alexandria Seaport, 2007

Alexandria seaport is the largest port in Egypt according to goods transferred. It is estimated that 60% of Egypt’s trade passes through this port. In 2000, a plan was put in place to renovate the port and its various components. To revive the role of Alexandria as a major tourist destination for sea cruisers, the passenger terminal was completely renovated in 2007 to be an international terminal ready to receive giant cruise ships. The building consists of two floors with a total area of about 15,000 m2 . The terminal is equipped with passenger services such as reception areas, information desks, customs, etc. The terminal contains recreational and commercial facilities.8 The project was designed by the Engineering Center, Faculty of Engineering, Alexandria University.9 Even though the project was completed in 2007, it is unused and not functioning as planned. This is because the terminal is located inside the Alexandria seaport, which is a restricted area and can only be accessed 8

“Alexandria, the Pearl of Egyptian Ports,” booklet published by the Alexandria Port Authority, Ministry of Transportation, undated. 9 The Engineering Center was established at the Faculty of Engineering in 1996 as a special unit to give services to the community in different engineering fields. In addition to this, it also participates in enhancing the environment. These services are given by highly qualified and experienced personnel, along with highly equipped labs.

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Fig. 3.27 Interior view of the passenger terminal. Source The author

with security approvals. Despite the construction of a dedicated bridge that provides direct access to the terminal from the outside, for security reasons, the public is not allowed to use the terminal. Tourists visiting Alexandria by sea cruisers are the only ones who can use the terminal’s commercial spaces and facilities.10 As a result, investors refrained from renting commercial spaces inside the terminal because there were not a sufficient number of users to make their operation feasible (Fig. 3.28).

3.4.1.7

Egypt-Japan University of Science and Technology, 2019

Egypt-Japan University of Science and Technology (E-JUST) is a research university set up in collaboration between the Japanese and Egyptian governments in 2010. It is located in New Borg El-Arab City, a satellite city west of Alexandria. The economic base of the city is industry. The project was implemented in phases. The first phase was inaugurated in 2019. E-JUST is a technical university, and it is hoped that the university would stimulate the local economy and be of benefit to the local community of New Borg El-Arab City. Moreover, the new university has research links with the local industry and manufacturing facilities in the adjacent city. The design of the new 10

According to the official published statistics of the Alexandria Seaport Authorities, in 2021 only five cruise ships with a total of 870 tourists docked in Alexandria Seaport, and in 2020, three cruise ships with 1876 tourists did so. https://apa.gov.eg.

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Fig. 3.28 The exterior of the renovated passengers’ terminal at the seaport of Alexandria. Source The author

university campus was the result of a bi-national architectural competition that was held in 2008. The winner of the competition was the renowned Japanese architect Arata Isozaki.11 According to the designer: “The design of the EJUST campus was conceived in various layers that were designed separately and independently from one another, only to be juxtaposed at the end to generate an optimal matrix that will induce interaction, built-in flexibility, and will be in itself a paradigm shift in campus planning. These layers are the Environmental Roof, the Building System, the Transportation System, the Landscape, and the Subterranean Network”12 (Fig. 3.29).

3.4.1.8

Mahmoudeyah Canal Development, 2020

Mahmoudeyah Canal is a historic waterway that was excavated around 1820 by Mohamed Ali Pasha, the ruler of Egypt. It was named after Sultan Mahmoud II, ruler of the Ottoman Empire. The Canal connects the Nile to the Alexandria Seaport. It was an important waterway in the sense that all the cotton exports of Egypt were shipped from the south of Egypt through the Nile, the Mahmoudeyah Canal, and the Alexandria Seaport, where the cotton was pressed, packed, and exported to Europe. The canal also played a role in supplying fresh water to Alexandria. With the development of railways in the late 1800s in Egypt and motorized trucks, coupled with the decline of Egyptian cotton exports throughout the second half of the twentieth century, the Canal became abandoned and gradually became in some parts a dumpster for garbage and building construction debris. Since Alexandria is a linear city 11

The author was assigned as the architectural co-advisor for the competition and was responsible for drafting the architectural design program and Terms of Reference (ToR) of the competition, facilitating the jury deliberations and competitors’ site visits, and drafting the contract between the winner and the competition. 12 Internet website of the designer, http://www.aa-a.co.jp/projectDetail.php?id=1013.

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Fig. 3.29 General view of E-JUST campus after construction by AA architects Inc. Source www. ejust.edu

located between the Mediterranean in the north and Lake Marriot in the south, all the main arterial transportation axes of Alexandria run east–west. The new projects aimed to infill the Canal, which is no longer in use, and change it to a ring road that runs east–west to connect the east of the city to the west. The new ring road is about 21 km long, with 6–8 traffic lanes wide enough to alleviate traffic congestions within the city and eliminate through traffic. Other aims of the new project were to create new urban recreational spaces for residents. Many Alexandrian academicians opposed the project from the point of view that the canal could have been redeveloped as an additional waterfront for Alexandria instead of landfilling it. Many cities and even new developments create artificial waterfronts to become focal points and provide urban attractions to market their developments (Figs. 3.30 and 3.31).

3.4.2 Future Projects With growing international competition among cities to attract more visitors, each city is trying to add more destinations. Alexandria, joining this competition, is also planning for some major future urban projects. These planned projects will certainly have a grand impact on the city’s urban image and functions. In this part selected projects is presented.

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Fig. 3.30 Mahmoudeyah Canal before the development project. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina

Fig. 3.31 General view of the new Mahmoudeyah Canal after development adding attractive urban spaces for residents. Source Official website of the Arab Republic of Egypt Presidency, https://www. presidency.eg

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Development of the Eastern Harbor13

In 2004, the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, presented a futuristic project for the development of the waterfront of Alexandria. The proposal included many development projects, such as the Pharos hotel, an underwater archaeological museum, and an extension of the Library of Alexandria cultural facilities. The project was exhibited at the Biennale of Venice, Cities on Water section, in September 2004. The proposed vision aimed to achieve the following14 : 1. Enhancing the tourist experiences, fostering tourism development, and protecting heritage. 2. Creating new pedestrian experiences and establishing a relationship with the water’s edge while promoting leisure activities such as bathing, yachting, and fishing. 3. Economic sustainability while preserving traditional activities (e.g., fishing or boat building) is promoted with the creation of new facilities such as fishing ports, yachting marinas, etc. The proposal also includes a Euro-Mediterranean Bank and a stock exchange. 4. The renovation of the cosmopolitan heritage of the nineteenth and early twentieth century waterfront while creating the Pharos hotel at the edge of the Silsileh and the Forum convention center with its hotel facilities. 5. Preserving the environment is another feature of the proposal, which centers on the creation of an aquarium and marine life institute and an environmentally controlled botanical garden (Figs. 3.32, 3.33 and 3.34). In order to widen the scope of vision and gather more ideas, an architectural competition for the development of the Eastern Harbor was organized. The competition was organized by the Alexandria Governorate and the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center in December 2004. The aim of the competition was to establish an overall development strategy for the development of the Eastern Harbor and to propose a number of mega projects that would develop the city and help it to regain its prominent posture as a leading city in the Mediterranean basin. 49 participants applied, but only 33 contenders supplied their visions. Additionally, in 2005, the Bibliotheca Alexandria and the Governorate of Alexandria organized another local and international competition to regenerate the Eastern Harbor to help establish the city’s position as one of the leading cultural centers in the Mediterranean. The idea was to put the newly planned projects within a wider urban planning concept, reenergize the waterfront environment, improve transport and pedestrian accessibility, enhance civic destinations, and create investment opportunities through the integration of existing historic sites and new developments. 13

The project is not implemented and is not on the current list of future projects because of the changing priorities of the current government. 14 Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 100.

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Fig. 3.32 Ariel view of the Eastern showing the proposed development designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 100

3.4.2.2

Alexandria Aquarium and Marine Life Institute

There are plans for a new aquarium that will be constructed in the Anfoushi area. The proposed aquarium will be an environmental center focusing mainly on species from the Mediterranean and the Nile. The Aquarium and its surroundings were designed to become a primary magnet attraction for residents and tourists and an appealing waterfront place. Interwoven on the site were a four-star hotel and conference center with meeting rooms, retail shops, and restaurants, a modern souk and retail bazaar with diverse shops and food services; a new public plaza; and a Marine Research Institute. The proposed combination of attractions and amenities would serve as both an economic engine and a social gathering place for the city. A conceptual proposal was submitted to the Governorate of Alexandria, by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero. Another proposal was submitted by C&P, Chermayef & Poole, Inc in 200615 (Fig. 3.35).

15

The project is not implemented and is not on the current list of future projects because of changing priorities. For more information about the project, refer to: https://peterchermayeff.com/project/Aqu arium%20of%20Alexandria.

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Fig. 3.33 Bibliotheca plaza designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 104

3.4.2.3

Alexandria Underwater Archeological Museum

Due to the latest discoveries of underwater archeology in the Eastern Harbor of Alexandria, such as Cleopatra’s palace and the remains of the Pharos Lighthouse, an underwater archaeological museum is planned to be constructed in front of the Library of Alexandria to house these findings.16 A conceptual proposal was submitted to the Governorate of Alexandria, by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 200. In 2006, another design proposal was submitted by Jacque Roguerie.17 The design consists of two parts: exhibition halls and an interpretation center above sea level, and exhibition tanks below the level of the water displaying the sunken archaeology. The museum is designed to be both inland and underwater. The building will have four tall structures shaped like the sails of the traditional sailboats used on

16

The project is not implemented and is not on the current list of future projects because of changing priorities. 17 For images of the proposed underwater archaeological museum in Alexandria, visit: www.rou gerie.com.

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Fig. 3.34 The Pharos Hotel and the Underwater Archaeological Museum designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 103

Fig. 3.35 Aquarium and Marine Life Institute, designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 100

the Nile. From the inland building, underwater fiberglass tunnels will take visitors to structures where they can view antiquities still lying on the seabed18 (Fig. 3.36).

18

Bossone A (2008) Underwater museum planned for Egypt’s Alexandria. National Geographic News, September 16.

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Fig. 3.36 Proposed underwater archaeological museum, designed by the Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Library of Alexandria, in collaboration with studio Bertocchini and Ruggiero, 2004. Source Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 103

3.4.2.4

The New Alexandria19

The Alexandria Governorate announced an architectural design competition in 2007 to develop three areas around and in Lake Mariout. The project was named “New Alexandria” and was recently approved by the Egyptian Prime Minister20 (Fig. 3.37). The aim of the project was to provide new areas for housing, commercial, and mixed-use developments to evacuate the cluttered city. The competitors presented new urban planning and architectural concepts that, if realized, will be a turning point in the transformation of the city. Figure 3.38 illustrate some of the trends intended by the expansion of the city, rendering a sleek, ultra-modern style of architecture and a western planning scheme. The projects developed by planners are: • Site A: Named “Alex Gate” • Site B: The 1000 feddans fishery basin—named “Smart Village” • Site C: Located at the Northern banks of Lake Mariout Land uses are proposed in these mixed-use developments, such as cultural, entertainment, commercial, business, and residential uses.

3.4.2.5

Montazah Palace and Gardens Redevelopment

The Montazah site, known since antiquity, was rediscovered and developed in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to become Egypt’s royal summer retreat. Khedive 19

The project is not implemented and the lands that were allocated to the project was used for low income housing projects. 20 According to the official website of the Governorate of Alexandria,www.alexandria.gov.eg.

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Fig. 3.37 The location of the 3 proposed areas for development by the Government of Alexandria. Source Aref YG, Mehaina MM (2008) Urban natural forms, lake mariout scenarios of deterioration or prospects of sustainability. GreenLink Mediterranean seminar, “Respecting Nature and Environment In Urban Extensions”, Seminar co-financed by Interreg IIIBMedocc, Firenze, 30 May 2008

Fig. 3.38 General view of the proposed devlopment. Source Extracted from a CD published by The Governorate of Alexandria, The Future Vision of Alexandria Governorate, 2008

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Abbas Helmi, fascinated by the natural beauty of the site, decided to build a summer retreat there, the Salamlek palace, in 1892. Later in 1927, King Fouad built the Haramlek palace, and King Farouk added more structures, such as the tea pavilion and bridge. The palace and its vast gardens are located in the far eastern part of Alexandria. The palace contained two palaces, the Haramlek and the Salamlek. The Haramlek was designed in Italian style, and the Salamlek was designed in Austrian style. The area is listed as a national historic landmark. After the 1952 revolution that changed Egypt from a kingdom to a republic, King Farouk was expelled from Egypt. The palace and its vast gardens were opened to the public. Since 1952, little developments were taken in the area. These included the Palestine Hotel, built in the late 1960s, and simple seaside day-use cabanas. The Salamlek palace was renovated to be used as a hotel, while the Haramlek palace was used as a presidential palace. The vast gardens and open spaces, lined with rare trees and magnificent landscapes, surrounding the palaces were enjoyed by Alexandrians. In 2020, the administration of the Montazah announced a major development project for the whole place. The proposed project included the construction of many new buildings, such as hotels, a new international marina, and the Alexandria Eye with a height of 65 m. Additions to the existing Palestine Hotel and additions to the Salamlek Hotel by increasing the number of rooms and adding more facilities, and the construction of a new 650 beach cabana. Besides the conservation and restoration of the historic gardens and the historic structures of the area, which include the lighthouse, the tea pavilion, the windmill, and the clock tower in addition to the two palaces, there is also the construction of a new beach promenade and a new sports club. The development project’s implementation began in early 2021. Many trees and green areas were destroyed as a result of the new construction. Concerns grew among Alexandrians, professionals, and academics that the new developments were incompatible with the site’s historicity and uniqueness. They believed that this type of development might be suitable for fast-growing cities but not for a historic place like Montazah. It might be too early to judge the new development project now, but renderings and the early stages of construction reveal that the area will be subject to over-development and intense land uses that might not be suitable to the nature of the place and its long history.21 In this context, the author believes that the best way to deal with a historic place like Montazah would have been to keep it intact and untouched from the moment King Farouk left Egypt in July 1952. The area would be used as a museum. Keeping every detail and every artifact remaining in the palaces and accessory buildings as they were left by the king. Besides the buildings, the furniture, cars, furnishings, art collections, and personal belongings of the royal family would remain and be kept as they were in July 1952. The palace with its gardens would have been an open museum, and once the visitors passed the palace’s most outer gate, they would feel that time had frozen and they were back in 1952 (Figs. 3.39, 3.40, 3.41, and 3.42).

21

For more details about Montazah palace and gardens, refer to Awad M (2014) Montazah: the royal palaces and gardens. Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria.

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Fig. 3.39 Aerial view of the Montazah gardens prior to 1965, showing Al Haramlek palace in the right third, the Salamlek palace in the far middle and the light house. Source Awad M (2014) Montazah: the royal palaces and gardens. Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandrina, p 105

Fig. 3.40 A view of the Haramlek palace showing the fine architecture of the palace and its architectural distinction. Source Awad M (2014) Montazah: the royal palaces and gardens. Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandrina, p 159

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Fig. 3.41 A view of al Salamlek Palace. The beach cabins and the garden in front of the palace have been demolished and rebuilt on a massive scale. Source The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, Bibliotheca Alexandrina

Fig. 3.42 A rendering of the new 8-story hotel on the sandy beaches of Montazah designed by Alexandria Group of Architecture and Planning. The rendering illustrates the large mass of the new building. The hotel is now under construction. Source AGAP Consultants, Alexandria

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3.5 Conclusions It is important to note that listed projects here are not a comprehensive list. There are many other projects that are planned, implemented, or under construction. To name a few, these projects include: • Constructing highways and bridges to connect Alexandria to regional and national road networks • Relieving some of the most congested intersection within the city by constructing tunnels and bridges • Enhancing Alexandria gateways • Infrastructure projects, sanitary and water supply and electric power supply. • Inner city rapid transit system It is hoped that the future projects planned for Alexandria will be implemented because these projects will improve the quality of the urban environment and will add to the cultural and urban assets of the city, making it a regional destination and a tourist hub. However, the new projects must as well incorporate and respect the historicity of the city and take into consideration the conservation of its surrounding environment and the city’s urban character. It has to be noted that the implementation of proposed development projects is tightly related to the government in power. That is, while some of the projects presented in this study were supported by the Alexandria Governor at the time, when a new governor is appointed, these projects are paused and other projects are presented or implemented. On another note, even though Alexandria has a comprehensive master plan for the year 2030, the development projects may not always be part of a comprehensive urban or city master plan for the city.

References AA Architects Inc, website, http://www.aa-a.co.jp/projectDetail.php?id=1013 Abdel Kawi A, El Khorazaty T, Labib Gabr A, El Mestikawy H, Sorour S (eds) (1999) Medina architecture, interiors & fine arts, Issue Six: February–March, p 28 AGAP Consultants, Alexandria Alexandria Governorate website, www.alexandria.gov.eg Aref YG (2011), Yasser, plans and projects for Alexandria, 1952 to the present day. Cahier no. 66, AAHA = Amicale Alexandrie Hier et Aujourd’hui Aref YG, Mehaina MM (2008) Urban natural forms, lake mariout scenarios of deterioration or prospects of sustainability. GreenLink Mediterranean seminar, “Respecting Nature and Environment in Urban Extensions”, Seminar co-financed by Interreg IIIBMedocc, Firenze, 30 May 2008 Awad M (2014) Montazah: the royal palaces and gardens. Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria Bossone A (2008) Underwater museum planned for Egypt’s Alexandria. National Geographic News, September 16 Egypt Surveying Authoroties, Alexandria Governrate maps, 1:500 collection, 1935

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Med Cities: the Mediterranean City: dialogue among cultures (2005) Bibliotheca Alexandrina Press, Alexandria, p 100 Official website of the Arab Contractor Construction Company, www.arabcont.com Official website of the Arab Republic of Egypt Presidency, https://www.presidency.eg Official website of the Egypt Japan University of Science and Technology, www.ejust.edu Official website of the UNESCO, https://en.unesco.org/silkroad/content/alexandria www.wikicommons.com

Yasser G. Aref is a Professor at the Department of Architecture, Menoufia University, Egypt, and a practicing architect. A former principal researcher at The Alexandria and Mediterranean Research Center, a research center affiliated with Bibliotheca Alexandrina, Egypt, 2004–2017. His research interests are historic preservation, urban conservation and architectural and urban heritage of Alexandria.

Chapter 4

Beirut—Forever on a Tightrope: The Search for a Fragile Modernity in Travelogues, Memoirs, and Archives Eyüp Özveren

Abstract Lebanon has been caught as of August 2019 in a new round of crisis, this time financial, compounded by the overlap of a liquidity crisis, covid-19 impact on the economy, and the devastating explosion in the port that took place 2020. The combined effect of all was to undermine trust in Lebanon’s political regime and the value of national currency, Lebanese pound, that served as the pillar for making Beirut a regional financial center since the country’s independence, and to trigger a new round of public protests against the incapacity and corruption of the political class that has been in power for long. The Lebanese Civil War (1975–1990) that devastated the country by loss of at least 150.000 lives, and injured some 350.000, with about a million compelled to migrate from the country had fallen short of achieving the full collapse of either the Lebanese currency or the political regime crafted on the basis of a tradition rooted in the nineteenth century. A brief interlude of optimism that prevailed after the Civil War and before the new crisis, identified with the ambitious yet controversial SOLIDAIRE project to rebuild the historic city center completely destroyed during the civil war, remained little more than a symbolic gesture and a face-saving make-up. Today, more than ever, we are conscious of both the need for a radical overhaul and restructuring of the system and a widespread unwillingness to shoulder the burden it would imply. One thing remains uncontested at a time when everything faces a challenge, and that is Beirut’s position as the capital of the country, much more so than it was in the nineteenth century. As a matter of fact, Lebanon after a century is now entirely remade as a city-state, unlike any other few anachronisms that survive in today’s world of increasingly sizeable nation-states. This paper attempts to explore the historical roots of the present crisis by focusing on nineteenth-century Beirut. It seeks to identify behind the façade of a taken-forgranted success story, a fragile and conditional modernity that has barely survived time and again, thanks to the ability to take advantage of critical situations and opportunities, and by periodically engaging in politicking of an urban kind. The paper first identifies the far-from-certain rise of Beirut in a competitive context in early nineteenth century. This was inextricably associated with the mobility of merchants E. Özveren (B) ˙Istanbul, Turkey e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_4

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between contesting ports of more or less similar stature at a time when overseas connectivities were being reinforced. A trajectory for the progress is depicted where Beirut as a port city, moved on to become highly specialized as the gateway for the export of the expanding silk produce of its hinterland. This made Beirut a port-city during the heyday of port-cities as nodes in the global division of labor. Beirut than receded from this relatively superior but extreme position by developing a complex local and regional economy, the dynamics of which created a second (abstract) center that could not readily be identified with the port yet had the potential to become the basis of a provincial, regional, and at the end a nation-state serving capital function. Hence, we see a port and a city that are connected in a complex and far from fully overlapping way. The paper then observes the growing tensions and conflicts in the city that were kept under control with difficulty as long as a certain consensus and an inclination for compromise existed among the ruling elite. However, threats to law and order and the strengthening of sectarian identities at the lower echelons of society jointly accumulated a potential that an unfavorable climate change could boost. If and whenever this became the case, the underlying fragility of Beirut became manifest, and an era of further mobility (migration and flight of wealth) and precarity (of the disenfranchised) would follow. Keywords Beirut · Lebanon · Le Corbusier · Infrastructure · Municipality · Port city

This means that the city should not return to the country; it would be as though one were to give to the symptoms the disease itself as a cure. The city must follow its own course and be reborn of its own. It owes it to itself, and besides, it cannot do otherwise. —Le Corbusier (1966/1987), Le Voyage d’Orient, 1910–1911 Here lies Berytus, lamented city, buried above ground. Sailor, stay not thy vessel’s course for me, nor lower your sails, dry land is the port you see. I am become one tomb. —Johannes Barbucallus, Anthologia Graeca quoted in Kassir (2011), Beirut, p. 55

4.1 Introduction The Swiss-born French architect and urban planner identified with modernism as expressed in his iconic works now recognized as World Heritage Sites, CharlesÉdouard Jeanneret known as Le Corbusier (1997–1965), made his own version of a Grand Tour with stopovers in Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Istanbul, Mount Athos, Athens, Pompeii and Pisa to the Mediterranean East in the years 1910–1911. His impressions helped him shape his conception of the modern city as a fragile construct constantly threatened by its overly powerful countryside surrounding it, caught between a next-to-impossible tendency to heroically resist the temptation to succumb to its destiny on the one side, and to give up and thereby betray itself, on the other. The modern city was thus placed in an unstable equilibrium, all the more so in the

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Mediterranean world, and the worst that could happen, if things were left to their own, was for the city to become like its Other, that is, the countryside. It is amazing to observe a polyphonic interaction of the East and West in his journal and sketches that strongly contradict his basic purist principle. Unlike his numerous belle époque contemporaries who saw everywhere they looked, ancien régimes on the verge of collapse under the mounting pressure of modernity, and a few of them like Pierre Loti who regretted it as inevitable, the young Le Corbusier saw a fragile modernity under the looming threat of the natural state of things as best expressed by a changeresistant popular culture, a repository of things as they were for the greater part of history. In this sense, he was an unconscious pioneer of the forthcoming postwar pessimism that would sing the laments for the collapsing European civilization that was only recently conceived as the reassuring cradle of modernity. If anything, Le Corbusier’s above description needed two more qualifications that became increasingly apparent in the course of time. First, the modern city could resist the temptation to become like the countryside, or for that matter the traditional deep-rooted cities in its environment that appeared like natural outgrowths on the native soil, only at an increasing cost. Secondly, there existed not one but several modernities, and as far as cities are concerned, if port cities represented one kind of modern city benefitting from its horizontal overseas connections for the visibly rapid influx of everything that was considered as modern, there was also another kind of modern city in the making, perhaps more gradually along the hierarchical, that is, vertical axis linking it with the state-mediated urban modernization where the capital cities served as examples of a more complex and negotiated modernity that could nevertheless have its final word in the longue durée. This paper takes a retrospective look at nineteenth-century Beirut,1 to identify behind a façade of seeming strength, the very weaknesses inherent in its making, that is, the additional seeds of its own destruction contained in its own womb besides the metaphorically sliding land on which it was hastily built in the first place. The thesis advanced here by recourse to evidence compiled from travelogues, memoirs and archival sources is that the apparent success of Beirut as a modernist enterprise rested not on carefully crafted strong foundations as usually taken for granted by scholarship, but on a very fragile, constantly negotiated, and shifting equilibrium. In other words, Beirut walked on a tightrope throughout much of the ‘long nineteenth century’ and when its conditions of existence were severely threatened, it could only survive by becoming something else that was cast in a different mold and hard to 1

We use Beirut to refer here exclusively to the city, and not the provincial units of the same name, to which it served as the center. In a similar sense Mount Lebanon is used to connote the provincial unit adjacent to but exclusive of Beirut in both senses above. Lebanon as we now know it consists of Mount Lebanon and the province of Beirut plus a few other deliberate additions by the French administration to create a state independent of Syria, where the historically pro-French Maronites would constitute the largest faction of the population yet fall short of an absolute majority, which would have otherwise delegitimized the French mandate regime (de facto 1920, formally 1923– 1946). For further details of this unusual and intriguing story, and the macro and international politics responsible for this transformation that are left out here, see Özveren (1990) from Chapters 2 and 4 of which this work draws heavily, as well as the most recent Özveren (2013).

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recognize except in retrospect. In a nutshell, we are faced here with a port city that crystallizes first into a port-city proper and then is transformed into something unlike itself. To let the cat out of the bag, of all the port cities of the Mediterranean Beirut is the only one that could go as far from what it originally was and thus become the capital of the artificially crafted state of Lebanon that provides it with a raison d’ëtre. This state is intended to function as a modern state among the family of modern nation-states, without necessarily itself becoming uniform in content, but remaining multi-religious and multi-confessional. Meanwhile, to assume this capital-function, Beirut compromised from its own original modernity only to become increasingly more like its capital-city counterparts elsewhere. Even so, this did not suffice, and colonialist France had to intervene and fill the gap by redrawing administrative and territorial borders to connect Beirut with Lebanon and thereby make the former a capital city. Thanks to this added French input, Beirut became the only Mediterranean port city to transgress the ‘limits of the possible’, as Fernand Braudel would have put it. Alternatively, without the French input Beirut would have come closed but failed as the other victims of ‘crisis and catastrophe’ in the terminology of Philip Mansel. This distinguishing ‘happy end’ remains beyond the scope of this paper, while the identification of its historical origins and accumulating within-the-city tensions constitute our subject here. The argument is presented in the following order of sections. The first section presents the competitive context of urban networks and rivalries in which Beirut was placed. Three such networks are covered in the description as a whole. First, the network of port cities in Beirut’s immediate neighborhood, the Levant, and then along the littoral of the Mediterranean at large, secondly, the ‘traditional’ (alternatively characterized in the literature as ‘Islamic’ or ‘Middle Eastern’) cities of the interior, including Damascus, and thirdly, the cities that overlap with the rings of the ‘silk connection’ (alternatively called silk ‘commodity-chain’ or the ‘supply chain’), with Beirut at one end and Lyon at the other. The first section covers only the first network against the backdrop of the implicit competition between the set that contains them and the other set that contains the cities of the interior. The second section, in contrast to the established scholarly literature, focuses on the far-from-certain nature of the rise of Beirut. Whereas retrospective scholarship took the rise for granted and sought to identify its causes, the evidence from eyewitnesses helps develop here an entirely different picture ridden with uncertainty, unstable equilibrium, and the threat of retrogression constantly hanging above Beirut. The third section specifies Beirut’s positioning, consolidation, and recognition as a ‘port city’ with an emphasis on its multiple markers. A Digression then contrasts Beirut with Damascus to highlight the rival typologies to which they belong. Afterwards, the narrative concerning the progress of Beirut via a developmental trajectory picks up where it had left, to demonstrate that Beirut moved one step further by becoming a ‘port-city’ thanks to its placement as a crucial link on the international ‘silk-connection’. The last link of the trajectory concerns how Beirut matured out of the narrow confines of the silkconnection by diversification of its increasingly complex economy and by assuming other extra-economic functions, i.e., becoming successively a municipality, and a

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provincial administrative capital, before it became the administrative capital of the French mandate after the First World War and ultimately the capital of the Republic of Lebanon after the second.

4.2 The Competitive Context At a time when photography was not yet invented, that is before 1826, for the rise of Beirut to be recorded in travelogues, memoirs and archives such as those of commercial and diplomatic dispatches, a number of prerequisites were required. First of all, the rise of an interest in the place and the greater geography in which it was located, and secondly, the availability of more or less regular safe travel. Last but not least, there had to be a noticeable change in the built environment, and if not, a feel of changing way of doing things in the air, and of flows of people and produce. The last is the most difficult to notice, because it requires a knowledgeable agent who can compare and contrast across time and space with a sensitive eye and an ear that can be tuned to the locals. While an increasing public interest in Europe for the affairs of the Levant came into being after Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt and the campaign in Syria, posing a direct threat to British access to India, security and regularity of travel was still far from being the case even for the more adventurous types with lower expectations and bent on taking risks. It is not surprising that Beirut makes as irregular and marginal an appearance in our written sources as was the case in reality during the first quarter of the nineteenth century. The few who wrote of it were not thrilled by what they saw. Everything seemed to be up for grabs and highly volatile as fortunes changed from one day to the next within an unpredictable environment. Napoleonic campaign was followed by a further period of political instability, and the Egyptian occupation of Syria. Except for a few signs that would have been overlooked, had it not been for a retrospective dating of the rise of Beirut from the viewpoint of mid-century to this period of relative obscurity and silences in the sources. Before all this heat and dust shuffled everything and made it illegible, in the eighteenth century, Aleppo was the major trading-post or entrepôt of Ottoman Syria. As a matter of fact, throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth century, Aleppo was not only the most important trading and manufacturing center in Syria but also the third largest city of the Ottoman Empire after Istanbul and Cairo. Given its disproportionately poor agricultural hinterland, Aleppo looked like an overgrowth. This paradox can be explained by the fact that Aleppo was first and foremost a ville de contacts (a city of multiple contacts) on a less than supportive geographical site (Sauvaget 1941: 10–13). As one authoritative scholar in his now classic work put it, Aleppo was: The great trading centre for the whole area behind the East Mediterranean coast until far to the south it encountered the sphere of influence of its rival Damascus; it commanded the shortest route across the desert to the Euphrates valley, and beyond. (Davis 1967: 40)

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It linked the then smaller overseas European trade with the much greater overland caravan trade spreading out towards Asia and branching via Damascus to the further south. Aleppo was noted for its resident foreign merchants, the British some eighty people having become most prominent among them as organized in their own socalled ‘factory’, where they lived and carried out their business, accompanied by the rival French, Venetians, and Dutch, along with the consuls they maintained in the city. The British privileged position in Aleppo was understandable as it was one of the three major cities where the British Levant Company traded extensively. Aleppo conducted its smaller overseas trade via Alexandretta. Alexandretta, while serving as port, did not grow into a city, partly because of its notorious climate and marshes, and partly because Aleppo jealously guarded its port functions, in spite of its far-from-the sea location. Aleppo was thus the ‘port-of-trade’ and ‘entrepôt’, not on the seaside but on the desert, with regular camel caravans serving its commerce as ‘ships of the desert’. A set of rigidly enforced standard practices served to rollover the costs of uncertainty via the caravan trade that was left out of their scope as the dependent variable, or the beast of burden, subject to the vagaries of commerce and geography: Each of the institutions in Aleppo’s commercial network contained its own set of internal rules and regulations that were enforced by the Muslim courts and the imperial Ottoman administration. So arrayed, they had provided for centuries a durable infrastructure for the conduct of trade. Most had their origins in the urban mercantile traditions of the region stretching back for millennia, but others gained new functions and responsibilities, or were given the force of legal writ, during the Ottoman period. Indeed, the highly centralized nature of Ottoman state bureaucracy mandated a standardization of Aleppo’s commercial life to such a degree that at least on the surface it came to resemble that of a dozen other major urban centers throughout the empire. (Masters 1988: 110)

The one contemporary source that remains to this day the classic representative of a specific genre characteristic of the time, the long-time resident Alex Russell’s The Natural History of Aleppo (1794), provides us with a total population estimate of 235,000 with a breakdown into 200,000 Muslims, 30,000 Christians, and 5,000 Jews (Russell 1794, vol. I: 98). A renowned traveler, William Eton, visiting the Ottoman Empire during the last quarter of the eighteenth century, praised Aleppo as the “best built city in the Turkish dominions, and the people are reputed as the most polite” (Eton 1799: 276). Yet we also know from Russell that there was in fact very little interaction between the foreigners and the multi-religious heterogeneous community of natives who crowded the numerous shops of the famous bazaars: The Europeans have little or no social intercourse with the Turks [Muslims]. They seldom see them but in the way of business, which is usually transacted through an interpreter, though the Frank himself happens to understand the language. (Russel 1794, vol. II: 11)

We see that formalities and codified interaction was as rigidly inscribed to the daily course of life as were the commercial institutions during the Ottoman ancien régime. Such an inflexible organization of social and economic life could not effectively respond to changing times, an inherent potential problem aggravated all the more so, if successive external shocks were to be faced. Factors responsible for the decline of Aleppo were several and varied. Most importantly, the decline of Persian silk trade,

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compounded with the shift of India trade to the oceanic routes made this process especially severe and ultimately irreversible. Eton observed that the city had already entered into a decline dating from 1770, with the population dropping to 50,000, and the number of English commercial houses falling from forty to one (Eton 1799: 473). A certain John Barker was appointed as agent for the East India Company at Aleppo in 1799, and was also recognized as consul by the Levant Company in 1803. “There were many years when no consulage was collected there, and in 1824 Barker—who was still consul—was the only Englishman in the city” (Wood 1964: 196). As the city found itself caught in this long-term decline, it became the hotbed of civil strife, self-destructive factional politics, and eventually witnessed an earthquake in 1822 from which it could not recover for quite some time (Tukin 1941: 256–265, 1942: 112–127; Bodman Jr. 1963).2 Because the fortunes of Aleppo and Alexandretta were so inextricably interwoven with the former encouraging the development of the latter as a satellite port but not as a port city, Alexandretta also suffered miserably from this protracted decline (Barker 1876: 23–24). To the south of Alexandretta, Latakia and Tripoli were two other seaports before Beirut. These two ports could develop to the extent that they were not overwhelmingly dominated by cities in their hinterland as was the case with Alexandretta vis-àvis Aleppo. Since neither Hama nor Homs in their hinterland were of comparable stature to Aleppo, the seaports could experience some urban growth. Latakia had a population of 5–6,000 in 1812, most being Muslims, but included in this number were some 200 Greek Orthodox, 30 Maronite, 15 Armenian, and a few Jewish and Catholic families. It served as port to Aleppo, when Alexandretta temporarily could not.3 On the other hand, because the two lesser cities of the interior concerned were far from animating or attracting much long-distance trade, there was an upper limit posed to seaports’ growth. For example, John Lewis Burckhardt, a traveler, estimated the population of Hama as 30,000 in 1812. According to him, Hama supplied neighboring villages and nomads with “tent, furniture, and clothes”, and moreover of the 120 villages in its vicinity some 70 to 80 were abandoned. Although on the map Tripoli appeared quite proximate to Hama, it actually took four days to go from one to the either by direct route (Burckhardt 1983: 146–148). Tripoli had an advantage over Latakia as it could attract the trade of northern parts of Mount Lebanon. Even so, the real hinterland of Tripoli extended to its northeast in the direction of Syrian interior, and precisely because of this orientation, it came to be known as Trablus¸sam, that is, Tripoli of Damascus. Moreover, Latakia and Tripoli were far too close, competing for the trade of the same hinterland, and undercutting one another.

2

As their Levant Company centered trading regime faltered, far from investigating the root causes, the British government appointed Mr. Farren as consul-general to Damascus. Every attempt to revive the Syrian trade invariably included some guesswork as to where the next center of long-distance trade would be located, and the British were then entertaining the idea of shifting their activities from Aleppo to Damascus. Mr. Barker was far from persuaded by this superficial move: “the trade of Syria, not only for the English, but likewise for the French, had died a natural death, and that a Consul-General could not resuscitate it” (Barker 1876: 171). 3 “Memoire d’Auguste Andrea sur le Pachalik de Tripoly,” Tripoli, May 1812, DDCRHLCP: 378.

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Another traveler, William G. Browne, noted that Tripoli, with a larger population of some 16,000 inhabitants, and its command over a significant portion of the rawsilk trade of Mount Lebanon, fared much better than Beirut, which he described as barely a “small place” distinguished by its “picturesque and beautiful harbor” with no more than 10,000 residents. Moreover, he added, Tripoli of the time had “a number of Mohammedan merchants, some of the richest and most respectable in the empire” (Browne 1806: 437). Burckhardt, in 1812, estimating the population of Tripoli a little less (15,000), noted that a third consisted of Greek Orthodox Arabs,4 and furthermore wrote: “commerce of Tripoli has decreased lately, in proportion with that of the entire commerce of Syria. There are no longer any Frank establishments, and the few Franks who still remain are in the greatest misery” (Burckhardt 1983: 164–167). When Beirut was under the rule of the emirs of the Mountain, Damascene merchants shifted their trade to Tripoli. Another visitor with a positive impression of Tripoli was John Carne: Tripoli is the best looking town in Syria, the houses being built of stone, and neatly constructed within. It is surrounded and embellished with luxuriant gardens, which are not only intermingled with the houses in the town, but extend over the whole plain lying between it and the sea. The maritime plain and the neighboring mountains place every variety of climate within a short distance of the inhabitants. More luxuriant in gardens and groves than Beirout, more sheltered and healthful than Sidon and Acre, Tripoli seems to combine every advantage of comfort, scenery, and fertility, to induce the stranger, in search either of health or enjoyment, to make it his resting-place in preference to any other part of Syria. (Carne 1836: 22)

John Gulick, a recent scholar, put the matter in perspective by observing that Tripoli experienced a period of promising growth from 1784 to 1812, after which came a slowdown partly as a result of the competition faced from Beirut (Gulick 1967: 22). Even if Tripoli suffered a temporary setback, the competition was far from lost. As late as 1826, the comeback of Tripoli as a major port of commerce seemed imminent to some, provided the right policies were implemented. Augustin Arasy argued that Tripoli, with its better climate and lodging facilities than any other port on the Syrian coast, could become a most import port for the trade of Marseille. Its hinterland was strongly diversified, making Tripoli ideal for serving as an entrepôt not only to the bordering Mount Lebanon, but also to Damascus, and even to Aleppo.5 These observations and arguments attest to the highly volatile fortunes of Syrian ports as late as the 1830s. A more insightful eye could discern a more alarming prospect as far as Tripoli’s dim future was concerned: At a time when Tripoli’s trade with Aleppo and Damascus was still far from firmly consolidated, much of its imports of colonial goods were already arriving by reshipment via Beirut, just as Tripoli’s renowned silk was sent there in return, only to be reshipped overseas.6 Beirut was thus emerging as an intermediator of Tripoli’s more important components of maritime trade. Tripoli was not alone in losing ground. To the south of Beirut, Saida was in the same boat. During the third quarter of the eighteenth century, Tripoli was a 4

Greek Orthodox by Church affiliation and Arab by ethnicity and culture. “Notice de M. Augustin Arasy sur l’echelle de Tripoly,” Marseille, April, 11, 1826, DDCRHLCP, 5: 61. 6 “Bulletin de Commerce,” Tripoli, September 6, 1813, C. E. Guys, DDCRHLCP, 4: 431. 5

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far bigger city than Saida (Niebuhr 1975: 240). Saida was an important link in the echelles chain of organization of ports of trade in the French system of Levant trade. With its prominent khan accommodating the largest community of French merchants, it was the French equivalent of the British factory in Aleppo. When Jazzar banished the French merchants in retaliation for Napoleon’s campaign, the city’s considerable commerce with Marseille ceased. Many foreign merchants left the town. Browne noted the significant number of Christians and Jews, a fact that supports the commercial prominence of Saida. In any case, its population was certainly greater than that of the nearby Acre that served as the seat of Jazzar’s administration (Browne 1806: 429–430). Further details are provided by another observant peripatetic: The houses of Saida are solidly built of stone, a fact that would indicate the presence of some wealth and trade. These, however, have much declined within the last thirty years. Down to that period, Saida shared with Beirut in being the seaport of Damascus, a considerable part of whose valuable foreign trade was carried on here chiefly through the agency of French merchants. (Olin 1977: 454)

This depiction of Saida reminds us of the above quotation about Tripoli. They were paired by fortune, or perhaps misfortune, one to the north, and the other to the south of Beirut.

4.3 The Far-From-Certain Rise of Beirut The French consul in Saida reported that Beirut was eclipsing Saida (and Acre) as the port where Damascene merchants preferred to conduct their trade with the French. Especially because the British landed their merchandise arriving from Malta to Beirut, the import trade of Damascus was shifting to a new axis that privileged the thriving Beirut over the once prosperous Saida. He noted that excessive taxation and overstretched monopolistic practices encouraged the richer merchants to concentrate their dealings in Beirut where such restrictions did not apply. He concluded that the seaport hosting the wealthiest merchants, i.e. Beirut, would be the best choice for the encouragement of French trade, and the establishment of a consular post would serve the purpose.7 The French chose to remain prudent. A consular memoir from 1825 insisted: Although at the moment Beirut is regarded as the port of Damascus, I would rank Saida higher in several respects. In all seasons, the Saida-Damascus Road is more passable than the Beirut road. Lodgings can be had at very moderate prices and warehouses almost for nothing, especially in the French Khan; they are also safe from danger in times of disaster, which are not so very infrequent in Turkey. Animal products cost at least one-third less than in Beirut, and living expenses are therefore lower. I believe the Saida roadstead to be as good as that of Beirut; anchorage being far from town, communications are easy and less costly.8 7

“Reflexions abrégées de M. Martin, Consul de France à Seyde, sur le Commerce de Bayruth sur celui de Seyde et de Saint-Jean-d’Acre,” Saida, July 19, 1819, DDCRHLCP, vol. 3: 134–136. 8 “Memoire sur le Commerce de Damas,” by Beaudin, 20 January 1826, CC Alep, vol. 18, 1825– 1829 (cited in Issawi 1998: 160).

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The French did their best to retain their version of ‘factory’ as well privileges in Saida. As late as the times of Egyptian occupation in Syria, knowledgeable people such as Baron de Boislecomte continued to argue that Saida was better situated, and endowed with a more favorable infrastructure than any other city. Egyptian regime having launched an ambitious project to promote Saida, Boislecompte expected that, upon its realization, the decline of Beirut would be imminent (Douin 1927: 260). What justified such speculations as late as the 1830s was that neither Saida, nor Tripoli, nor Beirut had solid signs of their economic status concretely expressed in infrastructural investment projects. Consequently, one had to focus on population figures for any comparison. Each city had a population of about 10,000, displaying a high degree of volatility. This seemed about a threshold that coincided with ‘the limits of the possible’ of the times as Fernand Braudel would have put it. It was important to stay with the crowd, and not fall back, as long as no other city achieved what seemed practically impossible, that is, crossed the threshold. That Saida fell back and Beirut advanced could be realized only after the fact, in 1840’s when Saida’s demographic fluctuation was confined to the lower 7,000–8,000 range, with a solid majority consisting of Muslims. The low share of Christians in this figure suggests the important role the native Christians played—by shifting from one city to the other whenever the circumstances dictated so—in determining the fortunes of Beirut and its rivals. They were of determining importance because they brought with them capital, business knowhow, and valuable connections. Yet they could also move out/back anytime. Until they invested their wealth in fixed capital and property, everything remained far from fixed. A consular correspondence dating from 1825 noted that the Christian merchants left the city in reaction to a newlyimposed tax, and that their Muslim counterparts were likely to do the same unless the tax was repealed: “La ville de Beyrout ne tardera pas a devenir deserte car les Turcs riches l’abondonnent aussi” (quoted in Rabbath 1973: 123). While the author might have deliberately exaggerated the situation, it is clear that Beirut was built on shaky foundations. For that matter, Gérard de Nerval was far from impressed by what he saw in Beirut in the 1840s: “Beyrout, à ne considérer que l’espace compris dans ses remparts et sa population intérieur, répondait mal à l’idée que s’en fait l’Europe, qui reconnait en elle la capitale du Liban” (Nerval 1980: 362). His impressions confirm the general opinion that the phenomenal ‘rise’ of Beirut might well have been purely conjunctural, depending on the Egyptian rule. Beirut’s rivalry with Saida was fiercer than was the competition with the other cities. Whereas Alexandretta, Latakia, Tripoli, Beirut, and Saida all strived hard to become the port of Syria, the last two aspired to serve the trade of the same lesser hinterland, specifically to function as the port serving Mount Lebanon and Damascus. This was less so in the beginning when Saida had an initial advantage over Beirut as it had access to both silk- and cotton-producing zones of the contested hinterland whereas Beirut was placed far away from the cotton-cultivating territory. However, with the decline of cotton production and trade in the region, Saida lost its original locational advantage (Abdel Nour 1986: 363–364). This change was accompanied by the fact that Beirut’s advantage by virtue of its command over the silk-producing zone became even more compounded. Hence the struggle became more focused as it

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intensified between the two cities. With the shape it now took, this was increasingly a ‘zero-sum-game’ where there could only be one winner. The French thought even if there would be one winner, it did not necessarily have to be Beirut. If the French had to abandon Saida, some like Boislecomte argued in 1833, they should move their trade and consulate to Damascus rather than to Beirut (Douin 1927: 265). It was after all the trade of Damascus to which both ports competed to serve, therefore, a stronghold on the endpoint could be more advantageous than investing French power in an apparently shaky, far-from-certain, and at best possibly an interim winner such as Beirut.

4.4 Beirut’s Trajectory I: Port City—Port-City—Port and the City In contradistinction from the declining cities of both the interior and the coastline, Beirut in fact experienced growth during the Egyptian occupation that sought to promote it as the port of Damascus. Beirut was to be to Damascus, what Alexandria had become to Cairo. The Egyptian administration was successful in their pursuit. Gregory Wortabet, a resident of the city ostensibly argued: “Those who knew Bayroot twenty years back and the conditions of its inhabitants then, will acknowledge the midnight and midday difference between 1835 and 1855” (Wortabet 1856 vol. I: 36), whereas Henri Guys, the longtime serving French Consul in Beirut, pinned down the rise in economic prosperity of the city to the critical interval of 1824–1838. Paradoxically, Guys seems to have been more perceptive of what was in the air and in trade statistics, whereas Lewis Farley, Chief Accountant of the Ottoman Bank more attentive to the lagged materialization of this progress in the built environment by way of a construction boom: A new town seems, within the last few years, to have sprung from the ruins of the old, like a phoenix from its ashes. The means and appliances of European civilization have been introduced, streets have been paved, and spacious warehouses erected. (Farley 1859: 27)

Baron de Boislecomte, otherwise skeptical of Beirut’s prospects as we have seen above, attributed the city’s sudden rise to Egyptian willingness to open Damascus to foreign trade. Sir John Bowring went further than any in comparatively detailing the picture: Beyrout is the most flourishing port in Syria. One obvious evidence of prosperity is to be seen in the greatly increased value of houses and warehouse-room. I am assured the rental has doubled within the last four years. In fact, Beyrout is of all the ports of Syria, that which has received most attention. It cannot be considered a healthy position, as like all the low district between the range of Lebanon and the Mediterranean, it is much exposed to pernicious miasmatic influences; and fevers and agues are complaints to which the inhabitants are much subjected. Yet it is far more healthy than Scanderoon [Alexandretta]; its population is gradually increasing, and its neighborhood is rapidly improving in cultivation and fertility. (Bowring 1840: 52)

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The native Christian merchants who moved to Beirut from other nearby seaports did so, among other things, with the expectation that they could benefit from cooperation with the Muslim merchants already established in Beirut (Kayat 1847: 50). In addition, European merchants in the city were quite active in raising their demands for the improvement of their condition and more favorable business prospects. Moreover they had the fıll backing of their respective consuls. During the visit of Ibrahim Pasha, the son and governor of Syria in 1834, the British consul presented him a desideratum on behalf of the British merchants’ complaints including various local inconveniences to which commerce is exposed from the want of a sufficient number of warehouses—the state of the Custom House, inadequate in extent to the growing trade of the place—the want of a mole, the necessity of an increase in the number of lighters for the discharge of vessels, and of public weighers—and on the other matters connected with the interests of commerce in general. To these demands that would help improve the commercial infrastructure of Beirut and consolidate its still shaky but leading position over its rivals in Syria’s overseas trade, Ibrahim Pasha responded positively and promised more than they asked for, by sharing with them his determination to build “a line of warehouses and dwelling houses at this place on the plan of those erected by the Vice Roy at Alexandria”9 The intent to model Beirut after Alexandria is striking. Alexandria, the port- city par excellence to the east of Izmir, was not a precursor of Beirut’s development but also supplied supportive knowhow of various sorts. To accommodate the shared interests of the merchant community, a lazaretto was built in Beirut in 1834 to fight epidemics like cholera and plague that interrupted business on an almost regular basis during the first half of the century. The French Consul Guys reported that Ibrahim Pasha charged him with the establishment of a much needed sanitary regime (Guys 1847: 51). This move should be interpreted with its more general backdrop in mind. During the first half of the nineteenth century, quarantine structures spread eastwards along the Mediterranean from Marseille. Just as the citadels used to serve the purpose of military protection, the lazarettos were intended to serve the sanitary protection of the people. Foreign consuls in Alexandria met in 1831 to constitute the Intendance de Santé Publique in order to improve sanitary conditions. With the support of Muhammed Ali Pasha of Egypt, the first quarantine regulations were installed. In the next stage, similar measures and policies of sanitary inspection were instituted in all the ports under Egyptian control in 1835. Moreover, the entire system of sanitary regulation was placed under the authority of the consular committee in Alexandria (Panzac 1986: 465–467). So progress in Beirut in this respect was in keeping with the dominant trend of the time and orchestrated Egyptian policy thereof. With the lazaretto, Beirut acquired yet another sign of its emergent port-city status. Under the stimulus of better commercial conditions and sanitary administration, steamers started to call regularly at Beirut. Soon after, coal used for refueling appeared among the city’s imports. By the 1940s, Beirut became the commonly acknowledged third regular port of call (escale) besides and in-between Izmir and Alexandria in the eastern Mediterranean, confirming the claim of Consul Guys: 9

“1835 British Commercial Report” in Issawi (1977: 93).

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Beyrout est maintenant sur les rangs pour prendre place après Smyrne et Alexandrie. Elle est dotée de consulats de presque toutes les nations, d’établissements commerciaux, d’hôtels, de magasins convenablement fournis, d’une pharmacie européenne, enfin d’un casin [casino], établissement de luxe que ne se permettent que les échelles de premier ordre. (Guys 1847, vol. I: 32–33)

For a few years of critical importance Beirut remained as the only port served by steamers. For example, in 1844, no steamer called at Tarsus, Alexandretta, Latakia, and Tripoli (Issawi 1977: 97). As the volume and regularity of Beirut’s trade increased, the need for vessels to call upon other ports along the route diminished. Not only did Beirut’s merchants thereby advance the city’s margin over its rivals but also emancipated the dependence of their city’s trade from the hands of their counterparts in Izmir and Alexandria. Hence Beirut’s overseas commerce was conducted without the intermediation of commercial houses in such cities of longtime higher standing in the hierarchy of port cities. Not surprisingly, direct lines with Europe were established one after the other. By midcentury, Beirut was hastily identified by one as the “capital of all Syria. It is already so in a commercial point of view, and if it continues to thrive as it has done, will be so in a few years as regards population” (Neale 1851: 208). By contrast, from the viewpoint of commerce, Tripoli was “of but small consequence”; only six hours away from Beirut by sea, its maritime trade dwindled as he saw (Neale 1851: 251). Nor did Latakia score any better. Nevertheless the trade of Antioch to the further north remained beyond the reach of Beiruti merchants. According to his account, Beirut’s economic catchment area ended in the north before the Alexandretta-Antioch-Aleppo line. The resurrection of Aleppo as of the 1840s brought with it the revival of Alexandretta and thereby reinforced the northernmost boundary of Beiruti commercial influence. The trade of Alexandretta steadily augmented throughout the 1840s. As many as a thousand camels loaded with “two thousand Manchester iron-bound bales of twist and manufactures” periodically left for Aleppo within a day, and he insisted “Alexandretta, situated in the heart of this region, would have kept pace with Beirut, and have been a densely populated and thriving town, had it not been for the drawback of its climate” (Neale 1851: 200, 261); an indicator of Beirut’s still narrow win. As some caravans left Alexandretta for Aleppo, others left Aleppo for Beirut as the American traveler John Ross Browne wrote of his encounter with “traveling merchants with their caravans of merchandise, bound to Beirut from Aleppo and other interior towns” (Browne 1853: 198). The magnetic impulse of Beirut’s commercial thrust made its effects felt even in the outskirts of its commercial zone. A similar image prevailed as far as the seaports to the south of Beirut were concerned. Saida was only to remain a town of 7,000 inhabitants no longer competing for the trade of either Mount Lebanon or Damascus. He described Saida as almost a mirror-image of Tripoli: “[Saida] can in no respect be considered a commercial town, its import trade being barely sufficient to meet the wants of its inhabitants, and its exports wholly insignificant” (Neale 1851: 205–206). In a similar vein, Acre, of 6,000 inhabitants, became a typical satellite of Beirut, where “the natives and many of the Europeans try to ape the manners and airs of their more polished neighbors at Beyrout, though, being clumsy as they are ignorant, they fail signally in the attempt” (Neale 1851: 190). The southernmost

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point of Beiruti influence fell short of Haifa that experienced some growth during this very same period. It grew from a fishing village of about two-hundred people to a town of about 3,000 by benefitting from the expansion of grain trade, in which Beirut had little interest during that time, and vying to become the port of Jerusalem, no match demographically or economically for either Aleppo or Damascus. Since the shift of Beirut from the Ottoman to Egyptian administration, the imports through Beirut doubled while the exports reflected a lesser but nonetheless noticeable increase. Of the maritime trade of Syria quoted as consisting of imports worth 19,000 Francs, and exports 12,000, approximately half was carried out via Beirut, whereas the remainder was shared among Alexandretta, Latakia, Tripoli, Acre, Tyre, Jaffa, and Saida (Douin 1927: 259–264). These figures show that Beirut had practically dominated with a wide margin the overseas trade of Syria. The phenomenal rise of Beirut was built on the expanding trade of British imports. Hence it was the leading port of entry for British goods. Put differently, Beirut rose as a ‘port of trade’, one where the scissor between the imports and exports was opening wide.

4.5 A Digression: Beirut Contrasted with Damascus It was no coincidence that Beirut, the most Europeanized of the Syrian ports, corresponded to the most ‘traditional’ and ‘authentic’ of all Syrian inland cities. Bowring noted: “Of all the cities of the East, Damascus is probably the most Oriental—the city which has undergone the fewest changes” (Bowring 1840: 87). An English barrister and travel writer, Charles Addison, added: “Damascus is a true oriental city, and possesses much more character than Constantinople. Here everything is eastern, there are no Frank quarters and shabby beings in black hats and pea-green jackets wandering about, and no fantastic aping of Frank dresses and Frank follies by the command of an innovating Sultan” (Addison 1838: 84). The closure of Damascus to foreign trade and influence helped Beirut develop as a port city en route to it, just as the relative openness of Aleppo undermined any prospects of Alexandretta to develop beyond being a stop on the transit trade route. As far as built environment was concerned, Beirut was quite different from Damascus to the bare eye. Addison himself noted that in Beirut, “the streets were much cleaner, and were not encumbered with the pools of filth” (Addison 1838: 17). The principal mosque, itself a former church from the time of the Crusades, was situated along one of the several streets of the bazaar, symbolically displaced from the center place. The street leading from this marketplace towards the port was where the European trade concentrated. On the right side was the Christian quarter with its cafes and cabarets. This area was connected to the port by a road inhabited by bankers and moneylenders. Many consulates were in this zone. After the development of the port area in 1841, Khan Antoun Bey, a landmark building was erected in 1853 by a certain Antoun Bey Najjar, a merchant who had made his fortune in Istanbul. Whereas the lower floors housed merchants’ and businessmen’s offices and warehouses, the upper floors served the foreign consulates. The khan, as an important

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center for big-business and maritime trade on the seaside, symbolized the very knot of overseas connections (Thompson 1913, vol. III: 106). On the other side, by the end of the century, the existence of some thirty bazaars and marketplaces reflected the degree of increasing specialization and diversification of the urban economy (Cuinet 1896: 56). This older part of the city bore the print of Italian architecture. The residential suburbs inhabited by those deriving their wealth from maritime trade differed as described by a native: The suburbs of Bayroot are exceedingly beautiful, and contrast strongly with the city, whose old, gloomy, and dingy buildings remind one of a charnel house. But the contrast is pleasing and flattering to the natives; it affords the traveler an idea of the improvements which twenty years have wrought upon the people and place. (Wortabet 1856: vol. I: 35)

The central attraction of the city was, however, its busy port. It was there that Nerval watched from a sidewalk café, the seafarers and workers of various creeds and nationalities continuously loading and unloading their merchandise, a spectacle that reminded him of Italian paintings depicting the heyday of Genoese and Venetian maritime supremacy, yet when it came to purchasing the touristic souvenir item, ‘caffiehs’, sold in the marketplace, he was disillusioned to see that they were made in Damascus, Bursa, or Lyon (Nerval 1842, vol. I: 375–377). Addison did not hesitate to express his disappointment: “the sight of round hats and short coats always sadly destroyed the oriental character of a place” (Addison 1838: 17). Irrespectively of how one saw it, it was crystal clear that the daily life of Beirut revolved around the port. Habib Rizkallah, a resident of Beirut captured this perfectly well: scarcely a week passes by without three or more vessels arriving in the roads from different ports of Europe. The roadstead presents a gay appearance on Sunday, when all the different vessels display the ensigns of their respective nations, and corresponding flags are hoisted from the tops of the consulates on shore. English, French, Sardinian, Austrian, American, Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch, Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish ships are daily arriving art, or sailing out of the port, bringing manufactures from Manchester, colonial produce from London, sugar from Hamburg, assorted cargoes from France and Italy, and numberless requisites and necessaries from other parts of the world. (Habib Rizkallah cited in Buheiry 1981: 485)

To put it differently, the port dictated the heartbeat of a port city. The port was like a magnet exerting a strong pulling-effect, but also radiating an energy outward, that penetrated its surroundings albeit to lesser and lesser degrees. One expression was the transportation lines that would connect the port with its potential hinterland at large. Most notable in this respect was the Beirut-Damascus carriageway built by a French company benefitting from the initiative of Edmond de Perthuis in 1858. Soon after its inauguration during the heyday of Beirut as a port-city, the carriageway became a symbol of Beirut’s primacy by a considerable margin over its rivals such as Haifa, Saida, and Tripoli. Cities of the interior, of which Damascus was a classic example, were characterized by ‘radio concentric’ spatial organization. The core of the city was characterized by the coexistence in proximity of the great mosque and the marketplace, and

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contained institutions serving as the ultimate endpoint to long-distance trade such as the bedestan, the numerous khans or caravanserai(s), and the bazaar(s). The city center contained very little of the political-administrative establishment. The residential quarters were placed in the outward circles with their quasi-independent social and spatial organizations. In contradistinction to the ‘public’ city stemming outwards from the core, these self-contained ‘pockets’ of neighborhoods distinguished by narrow dead-end streets defined the ‘private’, and sometimes the ‘communitarian’ city. Ideally, the existence of a second nucleus somewhat outside the city proper and encircling the citadel that would house the administrative and military establishment is to be explained by a wish “to ensure the security of the political center by isolating it from the agitation of the city, especially dangerous in times of crisis” and “the desire to separate the ruling class (which remained largely foreign) from the native subject population” (Raymond 1984: 10–24). Beirut differed significantly from this description, poor in centrally placed representations of Ottoman sovereignty such as a grand mosque but also because such a spatial externalization of the politicaladministrative complex could not apply to a port city characterized by developing norms of integration and participation in civic life. One thing foreign travelers immediately noticed and complained of was how disorganized, in fact, chaotic, the cities of the interior, be they classified as Oriental, Islamic, or Middle Eastern, looked. This was to do with the absence of a privileged point of view that was designed for the contemplation of the panoramic cityscape from the perspective of the outsider. This unease of European travelers was to do with how they were trained by previous experience, because what marked modern European cities where they came from was their ‘orderliness’, in other words, how the execution of a design exterior and prior to their construction became noticeable in their outlook. In juxtaposition, these ‘traditional’ cities were built haphazardly, in accordance with an implicit alternative conception of urbanization that did not privilege any ‘externalized’ viewpoint (Mitchell 1988: 32–33).10 For the inhabitants, who readjusted their perspective and limited field of vision constantly as they moved, and found their way through unnamed streets and unnumbered buildings on a regular basis, such a problem was inconceivable. Hence the inhabitants experienced the city simultaneously from multiple fragmentary perspectives as if they were moving around in a modern cubist construct if not an elusive hall of mirrors.11 Port cities like Beirut offered a notable exception as they were geographically forced to stretch along the coastline. Moreover, many were built in an amphi-theatrical form in response to the exigencies of the terrain usually on the declining slopes of mountains and hills. The traveler approaching from the sea was thus provided with a convenient 10

Le Corbusier’s designs for Algiers included the perfection of visibility for which the European thrived: “The Casbah itself was to be preserved; the only ‘improvements’ would occur in the lower quarters to permit the two mosques to be seen once again in their original setting” (McLeod 1980: 65). 11 This is why industrious writers developed the genre of guide books that instructed the traveler about what to look for and how to contemplate it. Hence the authorial position supplemented by expertise was substituted for the missing idealized point of view, as was the case with D. S. Morgoliouth’s Cairo, Jerusalem & Damascus (1907).

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panoramic viewpoint. Ironically, in such port cities, such a viewpoint coincided with the conspicuous absence of a tempting Oriental view, for which the viewer was equally trained by his prior readings. It was precisely from such a viewpoint that Stephan Olin described the admirable yet un-Oriental charm of Beirut: We approached the city through a region of luxuriance and beauty such as seldom greets the eye in the environs of an Oriental town. It is covered with gardens and mulberry-trees, now literally burdened with their rank and deeply-verdant foliage. The best houses of Beirut, including those of most of the foreigners and merchants, are in the midst of these gardens. (Olin 1843: 457)

One plausible way to approach the question of the substantive divergence of Beirut and Damascus is to ask why the latter did not emerge as the political-administrative capital of Syria after the dissolution of the Istanbul-Cairo axis and the eviction of Egyptian troops. The increasing usurpation of Damascus’s economic functions by Beirut rendered the former vulnerable, and divided over what role to play. The fact that Damascenes could not carve for themselves a prime role in this respect provides us a measure of the extent to which Beirut’s rise has been accomplished at their city’s expense.

4.6 Beirut’s Trajectory II: Port City—Port-City—Port and City In his instructive commercial report from Syria, Sir John Bowring identified the major obstacle to the further growth of the European trade. This was inextricably connected with the fragility of Beirut as a ‘port of trade’, where the scissor between the imports and exports was opening wide. The full potential of the commerce of Syria could not be realized as long as the country lacked staple commodities to balance its trade: But even the import trade suffers considerably from the want of commodities for the European markets, and this is so much felt that there are many articles which can be imported into Mesopotamia and Persia from Smyrna and Constantinople, more cheaply than from Alexandretta and Beyrout, notwithstanding their greater adjacency, in consequence of the lower freights from Europe which are paid to ports which offer a return cargo to Europe; hence it is a great desideratum in the interest of Syrian commerce that there should be a more regular and abundant supply of articles for export. Under the present state of things only a part of the vessels which bring manufactures from England can obtain return-cargoes in Syria, and the ships are consequently compelled to seek freight in Smyrna or elsewhere. (Bowring 1840: 30)

Two birds could be killed with one stone if the development of staple commodities could be interwoven with the consolidation and upgrading of the positional strength of Beirut from being a port city to becoming the uncontested port-city proper on the Syrian coastline. The success of Beirut in becoming the entrepôt for European imports and the ‘port of call’ for steam navigation were to the detriment of its rivals but were far from being firmly established or irreversible. Beirut’s position could

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be secured if only its merchants demonstrated their ability to introduce a largescale staple production to its hinterland. Only by the exportation of this produce could the balance of trade be achieved, and the continuous growth of import trade be financed without a simultaneous outflow of precious metals. The supremacy of Beirut in attracting capital and merchants with entrepreneurial skills by virtue of its expanding imports trade that provided it with a considerable edge over its competitors could be immensely useful in setting up such an export trade. Moreover, the expanding activities of Beiruti merchants in this respect would have two further consequences. First, it would foster the growth of a considerable merchant stratum in the countryside that would play to the tune of Beirut merchants. Secondly, raised on their shoulders and increasingly more indispensable to European trade, Beiruti merchants could eliminate the European merchant houses as redundant middlemen in their overseas trade and thereby improve their own standing. This is exactly what happened as Beiruti merchants promoted monocrop specialization in silk production in their emerging hinterland, and gained full control of the exportable surplus of Mount Lebanon that became the prime vehicle of their city’s further great leap forward as a port-city during the third quarter of the nineteenth century as expressed in a British consular report dated 1876 (Consular Report cited in Fawaz 1983: 84). Except for the stalls that displayed Syria’s traditional tourist attracting goods, silk was invisible in Beirut at first sight. Yet it was strategically placed behind the scenes of all the wealth manifest in stores and built environment, and the noticeable dynamism. The ‘silk-connection’, extending from growing cocoons, via spinning and reeling of their thread, to the weaving of silk-cloth implied the structuration of a certain geography that the connection itself shaped as it moved along from the raw material at one end to the consumers of cloth fabric on the other. This geography started with extensive silk-raising on Mount Lebanon, the increasing filature-based thread reeling once again on Mount Lebanon, and then the export of either silk-thread or cocoons (decreasing as the number of filatures increased) via shipment from Beirut to Marseille, and ending up in the silk-cloth factories of Lyon for final processing. Mount Lebanon was increasingly specialized in the raising of cocoons and the reeling of thread so much so as to become a monocrop exporter, Beirut monopolized the strategic intermediary role, and Lyon as source of industry and credit increasingly encroached upon Marseille’s former all-important role as the organizer of French Mediterranean trade as far as the control and manipulation of its silk component with a focus in our case on Beirut was concerned. Thanks to the silk-connection, now a second set of cities were added to our original picture that included the rivalrous seaports along the Levant. This latter set had served as a springboard for Beirut to become a primus inter pares port of trade and then via its port of call function a port city. Now with the superimposition of the silk-related cities upon the earlier map, Beirut emerged as the only city at the intersection of the two hierarchies on the Levantine side. This new picture made Beirut a port-city proper. Whereas before, if the shaky foundations of Beirut’s supremacy were eroded for one reason or another, it would recede to where it was to begin with, now this option was no longer available because of the major difference between a port city and port-city, thanks to all the structural difference signified with a mere hyphen. The trajectories of

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port cities are reversible just like their fortunes. By contrast, port-city status associates a city with a particular hinterland where the land tenure, specialization, and relations and techniques of production are thoroughly transformed for good with the impulse originating from the port-city that in turn helps crystallize its own characteristic attributes. Because of this structural deepening and reinforcement, the trajectory of a port-city is at least as irreversible as that of its hinterland, all the more so if like Beirut it is placed as the conduit for an exemplary precursor of a ‘dependent development’ experience. It can only go forward—in one of the possible ways open to it—or get stuck where it is and stagnate. In this sense, a port-city is a special—and extreme– form a port city takes for a given period of time. Beirut thus attained this position of consolidated supremacy because it was in control of the silk-connection during the third quarter of the nineteenth century. Already in the 1830s, Boislecomte estimated the share of silk in Syria’s trade as about a third in value of all commercial natural produce (Douin 1927: 265). It is hence no surprise that the Egyptian administration in Syria was keen on directing silk-trade via centralization in Beirut, where the state agents would first make their purchases at a fixed rate before the foreigners could enter the market and offer a different price. The fixed-price was intended to encourage the expansion of output, and the government purchases were to channel the raw material to Muhammed Ali’s manufacturing enterprises in Egypt. At a time when Marseille’s interest in silk trade was growing, foreign merchants in Beirut objected strongly to trade regulation as early as 1833.12 This practice left one important legacy that outlasted the Egyptian regime: Beirut became once and for all the marketplace where Mount Lebanon’s rawsilk produce was directed. The hurdle on the way of increasing exports was that the quality of regional spun or reeled silk did not meet the quality standards and requirements of importers on the Lyonese side of the silk-connection. Because the raw silk or cocoons were too fragile to be transported overseas, the filature industry where the greatest technological advances concentrated in the silk-connection were relocated to the producer region instead. This was an early instance of the peripheralization of semi-processing of the raw material via the export of foreign entrepreneurship and technology. Circa 1862, The Maison Palluat & Testenoire of Lyon, with an international portfolio of Mediterranean-wide investments in the sector in France, Spain and Italy, bought and modernized the oldest filature set up by Cova Figon, the adventurous entrepreneur ahead of his time, in the right place, the Metn district of Mount Lebanon where most filatures would be built, only a few miles from the Beirut-Damascus road. It was thus put into reuse as one of the first filatures to employ steam-power (Labaki 1984: 79, 89). The Maison Veueve Guerin, renowned in Lyon, also invested in Beirut to expand their business while retaining their banking office in their home city, and symbolically purchased the oldest filature in early twentieth century when the silk-connection had lost much of its original game making attraction (Labasse 12

M. Henry Guys, French Consul in Beirut, to Duc de Broglie, Mininster of Foreoign Affairs, Beirut, August 7, 1833, DDCRHLCC, vol. 1: 270. See also hir reports dated July 22, 1834 and January 13, 1835, pp. 333 and 358.

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1957: 2–34). Be that as it may, Nicolas Portalis introduced modern filature to Mount Lebanon. Originally from the Midi in France, the Portalis family held a merchant house in Alexandria, and already developed ties with Beiruti merchants who served as their intermediaries in their dealings in Tripoli and Damascus, before moving to Beirut in 1836 (Chevallier 1971: 210–211). They upgraded their business to commercial-manufactural activities by the financial backing of two Marseilles and one Alexandrian merchant and set up their filature at the most popular location and introduced the state-of-the-art Chambron process by bringing one master-supervisor and 15 skilled workers from France, thereby being distinguished for the quality of the silk they introduced to Lyon (Ducousso 1913: 58).13 The number of French-owned filatures doubled from 1852 to 1870. An American consular report dated 1873 put the number of filatures at 85, with about a dozen in the hands of foreigners, i.e., French, and the rest owned by the natives “who have thus shown themselves apt to learn and ready to profit by the instruction conveyed into the country by European enterprise.”14 According to a similar US report dated 1883, the share of Lyon in the purchase of the output of these filatures increased from 75% in 1873 to 85% in 1882, implying an extreme single-market dependence on France.15 90% of the filatures in Syria were found in Mount Lebanon, and the rest in the proximity of Beirut, within Mount Lebanon, they were overwhelmingly concentrated in the district of Metn with 75%, and these alone contained more than half of the mechanical reels, a further indicator of capacity concentration (Labaki 1984:108–110; Salname-i Cebel-i Lübnan 1306/1889: 87–91). The counterpart of this spatially concentrated and deepening peripheralization was the centralization of silk-trade in Beirut only to bestow upon it a port-city function. For example, in 1862, approximately half of the city’s exports in value originated from silk-related merchandise. Of 31,279,000 francs worth of articles, silk came first with 7,085,000 francs, manufactured silks second with 6,513,000 francs, and cocoons third with 1,895,000 francs. Given that 12,889,000 francs worth of exports consisted of money transfers, the city’s specialization in silk-related trade becomes self-evident.16 Not only were the commerce and financing of silk-related activities concentrated in Beirut, but also the importation of machinery, quality control methods, and the development of high yield eggs for silk-raising. By 1910, Lyon annually advanced 8 million francs as credit to finance silk purchases via Beirut, a sum equal to the one-third of the worth of all silk purchase made. As of the last quarter of the century, finance became the most lucrative sector within the silk-connection, at a time when the silk-connection itself was coming under increasing pressure from international competition as well as the tensions it contained. 13

M. Bourée, French Consul in Beirut, to M. Thiers, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Beirut, May 5, 1840. DDCRHLCC, vol. 2: 253–254. 14 DFUSCBL, 11: 159. 15 “Report on Silk for the year ending March 31, 1882,” Beirut, September 1st, 1883,” DFUSCBL: 15. 16 “Table of Exports of Beirut, Merchandise exported from Beirut during the year of 1862,” in Report on Beirut, September 30, 1863, DFUSCBL: 4.

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Beirut’s population increased from about 20,000 (divided evenly among the Christians and Muslims) during the first half of the century (Guys 1862) to 120,000 (with a third each for the Muslims, Maronites, and Greek Orthodox) by 1895 (Cuinet 1896: 53) and then stabilized until the First World War. The population quadrupled between 1830 and 1850, doubled again soon after 1860, only to double once more between 1865 and 1920 (Fawaz 1983: 31). If Beirut’s growth in its heyday was associated with its attractiveness for people from other cities and towns as well as from the countryside, its changing fortunes now could be traced to its insufficient growth to absorb the migrants from Mount Lebanon as of the last quarter of the century. Hence it became a continuous ‘port of departure’ for the many who would seek a better life overseas. To be fair, the instinctive response to the changing circumstances as the allocation of surplus capital as investment not to the silk sector per se but to infrastructure and urban construction was right if not sufficient, and it did provide considerable employment. Starting with construction first, one longtime resident noted that “many of the public buildings that attract the notice of visitors now have been erected since that deplorable event [i.e. the massacres of 1860]” and: “No city in Syria, perhaps none in the Turkish Empire, has had so rapid an expansion” (Thompson 1913, vol. III: 49). An American consular dispatch of 1885 provided further details: The condition of the city has improved during the past year more than for some time previously […] There have been five hundred new buildings erected: half of this number for the dwelling purposes (each of which contains two houses) the other half for warehouses. In addition to this, the Government has built some very good buildings, and the new City Hall, just finished, is said to be the finest of its kind in the Turkish Empire […] The reason for more buildings erected this year than usual, is that capitalists have invested their money more largely in real estate than formerly, owing to the rapid increase of population in this city.17

An official Ottoman publication, dated from the first decade of the twentieth century stated that Beirut was one of the best built and most important cities of the Empire with 7,170 houses and 77,077 shops and stores, 75 bakeries and flour-mills, 36 factories, 36 khans, 7 public baths, 39 schools, 4 hospitals, 9 schools of higher learning and libraries, and 17 printing-press offices (Salname-i Vilayet-i Beyrut: 243). Besides reminding us of the concentration of significant public spending as well as foreign endowments and funds on the improvement of education and health services, this list indicates the further diversification of the urban economy. Had it not been for the impetus provided by the expansion of overseas trade in general and the silkconnection in particular, this would have been inconceivable. Once in place, this new urban economy redefined the social balance of forces within the city. As far as infrastructural services required by a built-environment were concerned, the predominantly-British Water Company that rebuilt Beirut’s water supply in the 1870s and operated it from 1876 onwards with a capital of 3.6 million francs until 1909 when a French company, Compagnie des Eaux de Beyrouth with an initial capital of 9 million francs, replaced it, was a case in point (Ducruet 1964: 330). 17

“Annual Report for the Year ending June 30th, 1885” Beirut, September 7, 1885. DFUSCBL: 16.

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It was intended as a British counterweight to the more prominent French-backed Société Ottoman du Port, des Quais et des Entrepôts des Beyrouth with which it understandably clashed “over rights to supply water to ships, use of storage facilities near the port, and management of heavy goods deposited on the quays and not handled by the port’s employees” (Fawaz 1983: 79). In a similar vein, a concession for the gas-lighting of the city was given to a certain Alexandre de Giriarden in 1885. Two years later, Société Anonyme du Gaz de Beyrouth with heavy financial support from the Ottoman Bank. In 1888, Beirut thus became one of the few Ottoman gas-lighted cities long before Damascus. Gas-lighting spread fast with the installation of 615 streetlamps for which the municipality paid the Company 2,600 Ottoman liras on an annual basis. Besides streets, several hotels, residential buildings, and shops were also lighted by gas (Hatırat-i Seyahat 1901: 39). It would not be an exaggeration to claim that, after 1870s at a time when the silk-connection suffered a certain contraction of its role and scope, the sustenance of the urban space, became the driving force of economic development. As Beirut became a big city characterized by metropolitan lifestyles, the provisioning of the city became increasingly important, and the commercialization of infrastructural services for daily life, from the supply of water and gas to the wholesale catering of food in general and grain in particular became profitable for investment. The inelasticity of demand for such goods and services of this kind made investment secure and immune from the market fluctuations. It was no coincidence that much foreign investment went into the procurement of such services. As a consequence, the expansion of provisioning activities would offset the retrogression of the silk-connection that was primarily responsible for Beirut’s port-city function. Moreover, the assumedly natural growth path from commercial expansion to industrialization was not traced in Beirut. In its stead, the progress of modernity was experienced as a specific form of urbanization that touched the lives of every segment of society. In addition, the expansion of the service sector, together with the development of the city as the administrative capital of a vilayet with the same name as of 1888— thereby elevating its rank to that of Damascus—enhanced this tendency. Whereas the Beirut-Damascus carriageway marked the primetime preeminence of Beirut during the third quarter of the century, the company in charge was now absorbed by the Société de la voie ferre de Beyrouth-Damas that undertook the construction of a parallel railroad in 1892 that entered into service in 1895 (Thobie 1977: 164). This could be read as a reinforcement of the role of Beirut as the port of Damascus and a timely response to the renewed threat posed after a long interval by the rival port cities at the opposite extreme ends such as Alexandretta and Haifa on the eve of a new century.18 At a time when the prospects of participation in the silk-chain looked dim, it was but natural for Beirut to turn its attention from Mount Lebanon to Syria. If anything, a 18

The competition beween Beirut and its rivals became a competition over the determination of railroad routes connecting port cities with the interior. The British sponsored Acre-Haifa-Damascus project was intended to counterweigh the spread of French influence via Beirut over Syria. American Consul General G. Bie Ravndal in Beirut, 1908. RCRUSFCS, vol. II: 658.

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willingness to commercialize, capture and redirect a greater fraction of Syria’s grain produce to supply a growing urban population helped this reorientation. The rise in the fortunes of agriculture had given a spurt to Beirut’s rivals from as early as the mid-Victorian boom. Unlike them, Beirut was ill-suited for the exportation of grain because of its comparatively disadvantageous location that raised costs. Even so, Beirut did relatively well in this pursuit, thanks to its high urban population that made the city a major consumer for this necessary good with an inelastic demand. Some of Beirut’s leading businessmen did not hesitate to take up this opportunity, while others move up and along this new connection to settle in the city as the provincial nouveau riche. As times changed, the famous Sursock family that once invested in filatures now bought land in as far as northern Palestine. A consular dispatch of 1903 noted that American harvest reapers were being employed in large farms in Syria and identified the Sursock’s farm in Bekaa as one.19 Both Beirut’s economy and society thus became increasingly more complex, a fact that could be observed in the increasing number of functions assumed by Khan Antoun Bey that was once the knot where European trade and consulates held an overwhelming sway. Ottoman administrative offices, the postal service, and Beirut’s first bank made inroads into this privileged space as representatives of an increasingly complex economy. The multiplication of the functions of Beirut was facilitated by its merchants’ effective role in the municipal administration. Yet Beirut receded from its port-city function that tied it via the silk-connection to Lebanon as its exclusive hinterland, to a more volatile port city role as the entrepôt for Syria. This was a backward but timely move taken to preserve the city-making role of the port. In addition, the expansion of the construction and service sectors connected with public expenditure and government investment now created a second pole of attraction—independent from the port—within the city. Retrospectively taking this new and more complex development into consideration, we can speak of Beirut in its mature for as a ‘port and city’ where the two constituents could move for some way together, and part ways when the circumstances making it possible no longer obtained. Although a multilingual cosmopolitanism of Beirut’s kind may not necessarily penetrate all the way down in an urban society, those who profess it provide effective role models for the rest of the populace to emulate. The social construction of an urban identity tends to suppress rather than intensify initial differences as long as the promise of a better life can be, at least partially, fulfilled. Beirut’s demographic chemistry as characterized by a foreigner-native continuum, where the first component remained relatively small in number as well as power, was far more conducive to the cohesion of differences as well as serving as a transmission-belt for modern ways of life to diffuse far and wide. The massive influx circa 1860 of Maronites from the civil strife in Mount Lebanon altered the demographic composition by leaving them along with Greek Orthodox and Muslims at a parity with no religious or confessional community even approaching a majority, thereby all parties were forced to compromise for the sake of co-existence. Because of the Christian exodus following the massacres in Syria, Christian merchants of Beirut, having thus lost their own 19

Damascus July 14, 1903. January 6, 1902–December 31, 1904. DFUSCBL: 22.

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connections, had to rely for their Muslim counterparts for the hinterland trade. Trade networks diffusing into numerous villages and towns where small-proprietorship was widespread served to nurture Muslim merchants while the Christians reaped the benefits of their monopoly over the connections with Europe. Thanks to this social division of labor, Beirut’s merchant class consolidated its ranks and remained committed to preserve the status quo. This cooperative attitude played an import role in delivering two institutional results, namely the emergence of a Board of Trade in charge of commercial justice (Wortabet 1856, vol. I: 83), and a modern municipality. It is no coincidence that municipalities emerged almost ad hoc in port cities because of the grassroots demand of merchants for the services (Ortaylı 1985: 32, 156–157). Beirut had a municipal council headed by a Muslim and consisting of four Muslims, four Christians, a Frenchman, and an Austrian in 1872–1873, employing a clerk, an architect, a surveyor, a city physician and a surgeon.20 The proactive municipality expanded the scope of its activities by responding to exigencies. For example, it attempted to impose a monopoly on the storage of all petroleum imports to the city, a policy we can now better understand in light of the terrible explosion that occurred in Beirut in August 2020. Yet this was no easy matter as the importers mobilized the American Consul to interfere on their behalf and sabotage this attempt.21 The municipality also wanted to extend its control over the fish-market, from where it collected a tax of about 20% of the value of catch. This was part and parcel of the more general problem of taxation as a means to increase its revenues and thereby finance its expenditures. During the last decade of the century, the municipality was collecting some ten different kinds of taxes, including butchery, tannery, weighing, measurement, brokerage, petroleum deposit, carriage, building, and license taxes plus private dock dues.22 Thanks to its expanding revenues, in 1894, the municipality decided to build two major streets traversing the marketplace, moreover, the improvement of port facilities was yet another concern of the municipality (Cuinet 1896: 57). The municipality bought a street steam-roller worth 3,000$ from USA, erected a new building for the municipal administration, with a pharmacy and a public garden.23 The municipality spent about 4,300 Ottoman liras annually for the construction and maintenance of the streets and the disposal of sewage.24 During the first decade of the twentieth century, the municipality was able to raise only about 18,000 Liras, barely sufficient to meet the cost of minimum services. This figure becomes meaningful when compared to its counterpart in Damascus which had only 13,000 liras for twice as many inhabitants (˙Ismail Hakkı Bey 1911: 5, 12). The first tower clock with a bell, a donation from the residents of Scranton, USA jointly with the Madison Square Church in New York, was installed in the city 20

February 29, 1872–March 19, 1873 Report, DFUSCBL: 8. “Annual Report for the Year ending September 30th 1884,” January 1, 1881–October 31, 1884, DFUSCBL: 15. 22 American Vice-Consul in Beirut, September 29, 1896, 1895–1896, 1: 946. 23 G. Bie Ravndal, American Consul in Beirut, October 27, 1900, I: 1117. 24 Hatırat-I Seyahat (1901), p. 38. 21

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center, a highly symbolic event, representing the secular universal abstract redefinition of time, frequency, and order, as independently of the chaotic rhythm of the port. Whereas Europeanization in the urban public sphere was rapid, uniform and irresistible, hence the differences seemed to be eradicated by an all-penetrating modernity, they nevertheless retreated and reemerged in all their diversity at the household level, as with the adoption of table manners across the social spectrum except for the cosmopolitan crème-de-la-crème stratum: Where this has been attempted in the native families, imitating European manners, it has generally proved a failure. The knives, forks, and spoons are rusty; the plates, dishes, and glasses ill assorted, dirty, badly arranged, and not sufficient in numbers; and the chairs and the tables are rickety, and the cooking is the worst of all. (Thompson 1913, vol. I: 77)

In a similar vein, whereas the elite and the emulating middle-class shifted as early as by mid-century from the once popular traditional shadow-play performances to newly built theater events pioneered by Marun Mikhail al-Nakkash (1817–1855), a prosperous and cultivated businessman, the common folks flocked to some “fifty grogshops and many houses of ill fame” first opened during the French military occupation following the civil strife of 1860, and spread across the population so much so that by the turn of the century an alarming picture was shaped: Now there are 120 licensed saloons, and Moslems of the two extremes of society, the Turkish civil and military officers and the lowest class of boatmen and artisans, drink as much as the foreign Ionian Greeks, and the native so-called Christian sects. (Jessup 1910: 233–235, 730–731)

Although Beirut before the First World War was frequented by European theater troops while the two cinemas, Gaumont and Le Grand Cirque Ribera showed French and American films (Buheiry 1981: 67), the top-down ‘progress’ was more than compensated by the bottom-up ‘contagious’ tendency at work starting with the movie-goers. Alexandria, a pioneer in many ways and the most foreigner-inhabited of the Eastern Mediterranean port cities, was the first to come under attack with the outbreak of the Urabi revolt in Egypt that offered a pretext for the British bombardment to put it down. The revolt represented a growing impatience on part of the natives and the country at large with the foreign encroachment identified with the port cities. In such a difficult moment, it was but natural that some 2,000 people escaped from Alexandria to Beirut where they were well received (Jessup 1910: 472). This incident not only brought bad news with which Beirutis were familiar from their recent past, but also prefigured the approach of difficulties that have for some time been waiting in the wings at a time when the residents’ capacity for maneuver was narrowed down under multiple pressures. It was easier for the inhabitants to move from one port city to another nearby than to move elsewhere as an American consular dispatch noted in the early twentieth century: “Not a few Christians of means have during the last 10–15 years left Beirut for good and settled in Egypt where their lives and property are safe.”25 As a matter of fact, a feeling of insecurity was in the air, and inter-city mobility picked up a new momentum. 25

October 5, 1903, in January 6, 1902–December 31, 1904 file. DFUSCBL: 22.

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Beirut in its prime time was singled out for its immunity from crime as reflected in the words of a foreign resident in the midcentury: “Life and property are perfectly secure in Beyrout. Murder, robbery, and other crimes, so frequent in European cities, are here unknown” (Farley 1859: 50). In contrast, by the turn of the century, the picture changed completely: “Murders and robberies are the order of the day […] the Italian Consul-General, some four weeks ago was robbed at night in his own bedroom.”26 This was so, despite the fact that the city was much better policed than any time before with at least twenty-three police stations (Cuinet 1896: 56). More importantly, major shifts in relative socio-economic positions invited tensions and hostilities along the fault line of religious and sectarian identities. This was despite the continuous efforts of the leading stratum: The respectable Moslems, merchants and literary men, are men of peace, and as they have everything to lose and nothing to gain by rioting between Moslems and Christians, they cooperate with the Christian notables in trying to keep order. (Jessup 1910: 730)

A consular dispatch provided further details of such collaboration: such hostility was principally confined to the lower classes, and when at length the situation became intolerable as the general fear paralyzed trade and industry prominent Moslems joined with Christian notables in a campaign designed to effect relief. In this connection […] a telegram was dispatched to Constantinople, signed by 30 Moslems and 6 Christians …27

The tensions diffused at the level of the higher echelons of society in conformity with the prerogative of a business-concerned class manifested themselves among the poor, where they were prone to be ripped off their sectarian character and lend themselves to convenient underestimation by the authorities as mere criminal actions: old feuds arising from stabbing affrays between the Greek [i.e., Greek Orthodox] masons and quarrymen of the southern suburbs of Beirut and the Moslems of the Busta quarter, through which the Greeks must pass on the way in and out of the city. (Jessup 1910: 731)

Such rising tensions initiated a shift in the socio-spatial organization of the city. Whereas before, Beirut had little of a ‘quartered’ pattern of habitation—a typical characteristic of Middle Eastern cities, as of now the settlement concentration would take communal preferences increasingly into consideration as a practical way of coming to terms with safety concerns. The difference between the original intramural city and Ras Beirut, the new extramural expansion, was significant. On the one hand, outward flow of inhabitants from the center to the spacious and lavish accommodations now available in the new suburbs,28 and on the other, the influx of migrants from the countryside who brought their local identities and habits with them only 26

September 19, 1903. January 6, 1902–December 31, 1914 file, DFUSCBL: 22. September 1903. January 6, 1902–December 31, 1904 file, DFUSCBL: 22. 28 “From this place [in the old city], turning to our left, the road leads us to the gate which opens upon Ras Beyrout, and as by this time the whole day has been consumed in our rambles, the hour of fashionable promenade has arrived; ladies and gentlemen, whose attire would grace Regent Street or the Boulevards, here assemble for air and exercise” (Chasseaud 1855: 30–31). 27

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to reinforce their particular prejudices in their new and comparatively safer-fromwithin but unsafe-from-without relatively run-down neighborhoods,29 contributed to the formation of a ‘Lebanized’ urban belt. Consequently, al-Basta, occupied by port workers and stevedores had a more popular character than the nearby Mustaytiba, equally dominated by Sunnite Muslims, but belonging to established merchant families (Johnson 1986: 13). On the opposite side of the city, Christian settlements in al-Sayfi, al-Rumayl, and al-Ashrafiyya reflected a parallel differentiation, the latter being a prestigious neighborhood with the mansions of the Arab-Orthodox merchants in its core, and whereas before the rich preferred to inhabit the mixed zones such as “the north-west between al-Mussaytiba and the old city” (Salibi 1976: 195) even before the development of fashionable Ras Beirut, as people from all walks of life dominated the demographic matrix, the demarcations among communally-identified neighborhoods became more pronounced. The sectarian tensions of early twentieth century helped speed up this process. The rise of Muslim migration into the city, at a time when the Christian exodus to Egypt and the new world was under way, upset the delicate demographic and spatial balance. As large property-holdings thus changed hands, Muslim merchants of Bekaa and Hauran, as well as those of Aleppo and Damascus, who were enriched by the expanding grain-trade, moved en masse to Beirut and took over some once-Christian quarters.30 The Muslim ascent in Beirut benefitted from the reorientation of economic activities in the city. The construction programs of the municipality encouraged the Muslims increasingly well-connected with the administration of the city as well as the vilayet to invest in land speculation and become a major beneficiary. Despite Christian objections, municipality remained under control of the Muslims, thanks to the support of the Ottoman valis. The combined effect of this factor and the spatial differentiation of the city was the division of the municipality into two, one for East Beirut, headed by a Christian, and one for West Beirut, headed by a Muslim. Beirutis reacted by showing little enthusiasm in the municipal elections, and participation remained as low as to necessitate honorary appointments (Salibi 1976: 207–208). The long-lasting and most important platform of Beirut’s unity thus collapsed via fragmentation in a highly symbolic way along the east-west axis, thereby revealing the future fault line of Beirut to manifest itself in every sectarian conflict and civil war of the twentieth century.

29

“The old city, with its narrow, torturous streets, bazaars, and native workshops, serves now as the residence of the poorer classes and as the business place of the merchants during the day.” A General Report by J. Baldwin Hay, U.S. Consul General at Beirut,” September 30, 1873. DFUSBCL: 11. 30 M. Campana, French Consul in Beirut, to M. Pichon, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Beirut, May 1, 1907. DDCRHLCP, 17: 386–389.

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4.7 Conclusion Far from being attracted to follow the lodestar of modernity and turn its back against its countryside as envisaged in Le Corbusier’s ideal, Beirut functioned on a delicate balance of forces that required to be negotiated from one day to the next. In moments of crisis, it is nevertheless such dormant differences of identity that resurface and undermine the social harmony that the higher echelons of society seek to preserve. In such extraordinary moments, external forces step in to put things on a new track as was the case when French administration imposed its own carefully-crafted solution on Beirut as well as Lebanon. What is important for us is that the deep seated roots of Beirut’s successive waves of catastrophes and rises from its own ashes during the twentieth century were already visible to the bare eye in the period this paper scrutinized and yet they were held under check for the most part by means of a cautiously hesitant urban micro-politics. The historical alternative was thus always kept at an arm’s length. When such forces were occasionally unleashed, however, the ancient lament of Barbacallus, the Roman poet, who had in mind the series of earthquakes recorded from 334 onwards until 551, the tsunami, and the great fire in 560 that completed the destruction, proved time and again to express a trans historical truth. No less prophetic albeit in a lesser scale was that a longtime foreign resident worried by the unfolding incidents around him felt compelled to quote Barbacallus to forewarn in vain his contemporaries of what might so easily become. Nonetheless he unintendedly succeeded in giving us a lesson of the prophetic power of literature that survives the test of time as a repository of collective memory, if not of learning.

Abbreviations Used for the Archival Sources DDCRHLCP:

DDCRHLCC:

DFUSCBL:

RCRUSFCS:

Documents in Archives Nationales, Paris, as available in Adil Ismail (1975+) Documents diplomatiques et consulaires relatifs à l’histoire du Liban et des pays du Proche-Orient du XVIIe siècle à nos jours. Beirut, Editions des œuvres politiques et historiques. Documents in Archives du Ministre des Relations extérieurs, Paris, as available in Adil Ismail (1982+) Documents diplomatiques et consulaires relatifs à l’histoire du Liban et des pays du ProcheOrient du XVIIe siècle à nos jours. Nouvelle Série, Correspondance consulaire et commerciale. Beirut, Editions des œuvres politiques et historiques. Dispatches from the U.S. Consuls, Beirut, Lebanon, 1836–1906. The National Archives of the United States, Microfilm Publication, 1934. Reports upon Commercial Relations of the United States with Foreign Countries Series. House of Representatives, Washington Government Printing Office.

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Chapter 5

The Character of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean Port City Tülin Selvi Ünlü

Abstract This study aims to investigate the components of the physical characteristics that gave an identity to an ‘Eastern Mediterranean port city’ throughout the nineteenth century when decisive economic, social, and spatial changes came into being. The focus is on the city of Mersin, located on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey. The influence of urban form components and the distinctive qualities of place on forming the identity and character of Mersin is examined, including its socio-spatial relations. Through an analysis of the urban form components of an Eastern Mediterranean port city, whether it is possible to highlight a general conceptualization of a single Mediterranean archetype is questioned (Pace in Ways of thinking and looking at the Mediterranean City, 2002). Furthermore, whether or not it is conceivable to mention a common urban experience across these cities despite their differences and competition with each other (Fuhrmann and Kechriotis in Mediterranean Historical Review 24:71–78, 2009) is taken up. Mediterranean port cities and their urban experience are distinct from the classical western city due to the physical proximity of different social groups and classes as well as a mixed-use development (Leontidou in The Mediterranean City in transition: social change and urban development. Cambridge University Press, New York, 2006). A spatial structure that results from its distinctive socio-spatial relationships is evident from the different religious buildings positioned close to each other (Katsiardi-Hering in Mediterranean Historical Review 26: 151–170, 2011), the many different land uses linked to port facilities, and the lack a dominating, single architectural style (Kolluo˘glu and Toksöz in Cities of the Mediterranean from the Ottomans to the present day. I. B. Tauris, London, pp. 1–16, 2010). This study explores the common socio-spatial qualities of Mediterranean port cities by recourse to a detailed analysis of the city of Mersin, which developed rapidly in the nineteenth century through its reciprocal relationships with other port cites. In addition to the above-mentioned perspectives that examine the port city on the basis of its social and economic development, and relationships, this study intends to contribute to the research on the ‘Eastern Mediterranean port city’ T. Selvi Ünlü (B) Adana, Turkey e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_5

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from a socio-spatial viewpoint with an analysis of the urban-form components that are considered as the constituents of a city’s identity and character. Keywords Mersin · Eastern Mediterranean port city · Character · Modernization · Urban space · Urban form component

5.1 Introduction Cities are classified according to the inherent qualities that arise from their historical and geographical development, which has been researched from a variety of viewpoints. Bronze Age cities have been investigated in terms of being a phase in the development of cities (Aktüre 1997), while the Ottoman city was studied with a special focus on the civilization that reshaped it (Cansever 2013; Cerasi 2001). The Islamic city has been explored in terms of its religious relationships (Cansever 2010), whereas another study on the Mediterranean city has a geographical focus (Leontidou 2006). Other studies, including those on the Seljuk city (Tankut 2007) and the Turkish city (Aru 1998), have a morphological perspective. What are the characteristics that distinguish each of these cities from the others, and how do cities get different names? What makes a city a ‘port city’? Is it simply being located along the waterfront, or is it the city’s relationship to the sea? What are the distinctive qualities that characterize the port city and differentiate it from other cities? Furthermore, is it possible to name the components of a character that make an ‘Eastern Mediterranean port city’, and if so, what are these components? In pursuit of answers to these questions, the concepts of ‘identity’ and ‘character’ come to the forefront of any discussion attempting to explain port cities’ distinctiveness. Before addressing these questions, this study first discusses the concepts of identity and character, and the components that give a city its character. Following this, the common spatial characteristics of Eastern Mediterranean port cities are examined with reference to their specific geographical conditions. Through this conceptual framework, urban development and the spatial characteristics of the city of Mersin, the components of its character, and their relationships to each other are investigated.

5.2 Urban Identity and Character The existence of a human being and his or her identity is the aggregate of all the constituent elements that differentiate him or her from other humans. In other words, when the identity of a human being or an even object is mentioned, there is an attempt to define and explain any distinctive features. Character as a concept is used synonymously with identity, and although it seems that they carry similar meanings, there are significant differences between the two words. In this sense, it is worth

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first discussing the identity and character of a human being in order to clarify this difference. The tangible identity of an individual that shows his or her differences from others may be identified through a document such as an identity card, or with information on the person’s social and legal status, occupations, memberships, and affiliations to any organizations. An investigation of the identity of an individual requires setting his or her social and legal status, occupations, memberships, and affiliations within the complex interplay of social relationships and values, and to develop a picture of his or her interrelations. At this stage, identity may take on intangible meanings, which may be the accumulation of social and legal status, occupations, memberships, and affiliations, or it may result in the dominance of one of them. On the other hand, although the character of an individual includes the qualities of identity that distinguish that individual from others, it is different from identity, which is shaped and reshaped within a person’s social relationships with reference to his or her intrinsic features. On the other hand, the character of an individual refers to his or her idiosyncratic nature. That is to say, identity is mostly formed and reshaped through external factors while character depends on and is continuously re-formed by inherent, essential attributes. With this understanding of these two words, how can the identity and character of a city be described? How do they develop and change during the urban development of any city? While definition of a person’s identity is relatively easy, it is harder to define for a city since it is usually conceived through its different parts, not as a whole. The perception of a city’s different parts may change in the course of time, and this perception may be different for any individual (Tekeli 2011: 59). Moreover, the various perceptions of individuals may be very different from and opposite to social perceptions (Lynch 2010: 51) because the identity of a city is not the aggregation of each individual, but rather it is formed and redefined with reference to the reciprocal relationships of its inhabitants and visitors (Tekeli 2011: 60). Thus, the identity of a city embraces the external and internal experiences of individuals (Relph 2007: 104). Within this framework, urban identity is determined through the interrelations of individuals and their reciprocal interaction with the space. It is an image with abstract meanings that results in the dialectical interplay of individual, society, and space. Furthermore, the character of a city is formed, reshaped, and redefined through the relationships of the intrinsic and essential qualities of place and the physical structural components. Therefore, the ‘character of a city’ is differentiated from the ‘identity of a city’ in two ways. Urban identity refers to a concept that is developed through individual perceptions and people’s abstract imaginings. However, the character of a city is directly related to the distinctive qualities of that place and the physical form and components that comprise the physiognomy of the city. In this study, urban identity is conceived of as a phenomenon of common experiences of individuals that is developed within their geographical and cultural context and its relation to the space. From this point of view, character is a significant part of urban identity, which is context-based and revealed trough the interrelation of its spatial components. With this in mind, what are the inherent and essential qualities

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and components of an Eastern Mediterranean port city’s identity? In search of an answer to this question, it is necessary to discuss the urban structure and urban form components that together give a city its identity. Morris (2013: 10) points out that there are common factors that affect the shaping of settlements. On the one hand, there are geographical conditions related to climate, topography, and the like, while on the other hand, there lay the external interventions made by human beings. In other words, an urban pattern is reshaped through its relationship to the local context, whereas an urban identity and character are also formed through the coming together of different parts of an urban pattern, with a partto-whole relationship. Kostof (1992) asserts that cities are continuously built through the aggregation of urban form components within the historical development of the cities, affected by social, political, and economical factors.1 According to Gallion and Eisner (1980: 9) very few cities are developed from scratch using plans. They are mostly developed and shaped by property relations, geographical conditions, and social expectations and needs. From this point of view, despite similar social and natural conditions and urban patterns, each city has a distinctive character of its own. In this perspective, Marshall (2009: 7) highlights that every city is unique and peerless. In this framework, it is crucial to question, at the lower scale, the commonalities and differences of Eastern Mediterranean port cities that experienced similar historical, economical, and social processes at an upper scale. It is also of great importance to investigate their common and different urban form components that had an effect on the shaping of urban space. Postcards from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries show similar silhouettes of Eastern Mediterranean port cities, which were beginning to take on an image of port cities due to the changing economic relationships and their effect on urban patterns. To this end, in light of the social, economic, and historical processes related to maritime trade, understanding the changes Eastern Mediterranean port cities underwent during the second half of the nineteenth century is necessary to develop an explanation of their urban identity and character.

5.3 The Eastern Mediterranean in the Nineteenth Century and Eastern Mediterranean Port Cities The term ‘Mediterranean’ refers not only to a geographical context or a physical entity of trade relations, but also to the relational space of cultural interactions. Within the entire geography of the Mediterranean, the Eastern Mediterranean developed as a special environment—a melting pot of different cultures and traditions from the East and West—during the nineteenth century, with the accompanying effects of modernization and peripheralization processes. 1

Kostof (1992) defines the components of urban form as ‘urban elements’.

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This study investigates the social, economic, and historical changes in the Eastern Mediterranean with a special focus on the change in the urban identity and character of port cities, which underwent dramatic changes during the nineteenth century. The urban structure of Eastern Mediterranean port cities was changed by modernization and peripheralization processes, which made these cities into places of transformation and provided a common identity at an upper scale, while at the same time, each of these cities developed with distinctive characteristics. During the nineteenth century, when the world economy was reshaped with growing capitalist development, Eastern Mediterranean port cities emerged as places of integration into the world economy, similar to the ‘world cities’ of the 1990s. Stemming from the relationships to the industrial core, infrastructure investments such as railways, highways, piers, docks, and port areas arose in these cities in order to facilitate product flow (Hastaoglou-Martinidis 2010; Kurmu¸s 2012). Resulting from these new investments, Eastern Mediterranean port cities experienced the advent of new land uses in their urban forms, which developed through the interrelations of various form components. At the beginning of the nineteenth century and starting before then, many Eastern Mediterranean port cities were located within the boundaries of the Ottoman Empire, which became a peripheral country in the newly emerging world economy and amongst the rivalry of capitalist states (Pamuk 1994). The competition between England and France in the Eastern Mediterranean, Egypt, and the Aegean (Berkes 2002) triggered new trade treaties that gave concessions to foreign countries. As a result of these new relationships, processed goods were conveyed to port cities (such as Istanbul and Izmir) that had strong relationships with European countries, which had the effect of bringing about the emergence of new land uses and the reshaping of city centres. In this period, port cities gained importance due to the fact that they delivered raw materials to the industrial core (Aktüre 1978). During this process (today called Ottoman modernization), many economic, administrative, and social reforms were brought into action (Davison 2005), and numerous regulations about social life were enacted (Çadırcı 1985). The concessions granted to non-Muslim societies brought about substantial changes in port cities because non-Muslims commonly lived in these cities. In this period, the emerging needs for new urban services could not be produced within the traditional urban structure of Ottoman cities (Tekeli 1998). European cities were taken into consideration as a model during Ottoman modernization, and many European specialists were asked for their opinions on reshaping the cities. Paris and Vienna were the foremost examples, with their regularized geometric urban patterns (Yerasimos 1999). New regulations on local administrations were applied to construction facilities, resulting in the emergence of a new urban pattern and physiognomy of cities that was in harmony with local conditions. Before then, the forms of cities had been shaped under the strict control of the central government (Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu 2010). These changes, which aimed to reach a ‘Western lifestyle’, manifested themselves in port cities, where variety in demographic structure, the intensification of commerce, and international trade relationships were evident. Developments in port

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cities resulted in the emergence of new administrative and infrastructural uses such as port areas, docks, railways, and highways as the spatial manifestations, while social and economic changes drew attention to demographic changes and new commercial relationships. With growing trade opportunities, Eastern Mediterranean port cities attracted diverse people not only from their close vicinity, but also from European countries (Keyder et al. 1994). New groups dealing with new commercial activities in maritime trade and the financial sectors emerged in this period. They acted as intermediaries between the local and the global, and became the most significant tradesmen in every branch of trade (Kasaba 2005). These groups also became one of the common characteristics of Eastern Mediterranean port cities (Keyder et al 1994). The urban space of Eastern Mediterranean port cities under the rule of the Ottoman Empire was shaped by the new regulations of Ottoman modernization and at the same time, by the expectations, needs, and demands of the local actors with respect to their relationships to the industrial core. This dual process resulted in the emergence of strong capitalist groups and their dominance in shaping the social, economic, and spatial relationships. In this way, the port cities of the period developed mostly within indigenous conditions. Therefore, in order to clarify the changes in port cities and these changes’ effect on the development of the cities’ identity and character that was triggered by the interrelation of the new world economy and the Eastern Mediterranean, the identification of the urban structure and urban form components of Eastern Mediterranean port cities should be scrutinized.

5.4 The Eastern Mediterranean Port City and Its Urban Form Components There are numerous studies on Eastern Mediterranean port cities from different viewpoints. Driessen (2005: 130) compares Izmir, Alexandria, and Trieste through a discussion on cosmopolitanism. From an outlook at the upper scale, Pace (2002: 11) asserts that the Mediterranean city is reproduced through social experiences, and its character is highly dependent upon cultural interactions and values. However, both Driessen and Pace point out the difficulty in developing a single model of a Mediterranean city, i.e., a Mediterranean archetype. Thus, Pace suggests questioning the Mediterranean city model by developing a typology through an investigation into its cultural, economic, social, political, and geographical assets. By discussing the distinctive qualities of the Mediterranean, Leontidou (2006: 7–11) highlights that Mediterranean cities are collectively reproduced and shaped in a spontaneous way, which is not similar to the urban growth model of the Chicago School from an urban ecology approach. In her view, the urban structure of Mediterranean cities depends on the proximity of social groups and classes and harmonious land uses, contrary to the urban structure of Western cities, which relies on the functional separation of land use and the segregation of classes in the urban space.

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Fuhrmann and Kechriotis (2009: 72) point out that a self-confident citizenry and a common urbanity developed in Mediterranean port cities despite their differences and the competition between them. Kolluo˘glu and Toksöz (2010: 7) state that the distinctive qualities of Mediterranean port cities produced storehouses, warehouses, customs houses, and agencies of maritime trade and insurance, all of which depended on international trade and the developing port functions. According to them, the urban structure of these cities did not have a singular architectural style; instead, they had plurality in architectural production. In addition to these, there were land uses such as theatres, gardens, and promenades that highlight the liveliness of social life. Katsiardi-Hering (2011: 152–153) points out the similarities of Trieste and Thessaloniki because of the promenades along the waterfront, the old castle on the hillside, and streets originating from the castle to the new city centre. The urban pattern of these two cities was produced in a geometrical way, shown by its gridiron organization of urban space. Additionally, she draws attention to the similar characteristics observed in Izmir. Together with its castle and traditional Turkish neighbourhood (which had an irregular pattern consisting of narrow and winding roads), Izmir has resemblances to Thessaloniki. Katsiardi-Hering mostly highlights the similarities of these three cities through the proximity of different cultural groups, the waterfront, and various religious buildings.2 Hakim (2008: 39) also remarks on the proximity of different cultural groups; however, he denotes that this proximity manifested itself on the urban space through its variety of street patterns and architectural styles. Pallini (2010: 61) claims that Eastern Mediterranean port cities underwent significant changes after innovations in shipping technology and the advent of steam ships in the 1850s. In this period, the Eastern Mediterranean was the ‘geography of trade’ and modernism began to shape it. In this new era, the urban patterns and urban form components of port cities were restructured within the ‘geography of trade’ through their port city identity. Kolluo˘glu and Toksöz (2010: 4) draw attention to the similarities of today’s London, Tokyo, New York, Hong Kong, and Istanbul to nineteenth century port cities, highlighting their heterogeneity and relative autonomy. Like today’s largescale cities, Eastern Mediterranean port cities were located at very important places within international trade relations, and displayed a heterogeneous demographic structure. These were both significant indicators of the modernization process that Eastern Mediterranean port cities underwent throughout the nineteenth century. It is obvious that the main determinant of Mediterranean port cities (both in the East and West) is the water (sea). In relation to the sea, piers, streets related to these piers, public squares where commercial relations flourished, well-integrated railway and highway systems that reached the port area in the city through new transportation modes, post offices for communication, quarantine areas for health purposes, multiple hotels for accommodating tradesmen in the city, and buildings

2

Katsiardi-Hering (2011: 153) draws attention to common physical components, but points out that there are also differences due to the spatial organization of neighbourhoods and production facilities.

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with special professional purposes (such as khans and banks) began to take place in the urban form, each of which were its main components. As some of these components can only be seen in port cities, their organization in the urban space was related to the sea and the waterfront. While the entrance to the city was defined with reference to the city’s walls in an inland city, the gateway to the port city was the main public square and its related piers in port cities in the Eastern Mediterranean. Raymond (1995: 131) states that the main component of the urban structure of a traditional Arab city is that the main street connects to various gates in the city walls. It facilitates commercial activities, and other components are organized with reference to that main street. There are large-scale public squares to store the goods just outside the city walls. In port cities, on the other hand, piers and their attached squares appear as the main components of the urban structure. They are not solely public spaces, but also spaces of commerce. Another important urban form component of Eastern Mediterranean port cities was railway infrastructure, developed during their modernization in the nineteenth century. Different from the inland cities, port cities were the first cities to experience the advent of railway, due to their direct relationships with the industrial core (Kurmu¸s 2012). Piers, docks, port areas, breakwaters, and highways were constructed along with the railways in response to the demands of international capital and a comprador bourgeoisie working to improve their economic relationships with each other. These investments in transportation infrastructure enabled the transfer of raw material from the inland regions to the industrial core. On the other hand, because the connection between the railway stations and port areas was sustained by tramlines, trams were also used as a means of public transportation in the city. As a result of developed international commercial relationships, specialization in trade emerged and revealed itself through various maritime agencies and financial institutions. Khans belonging to different fields of trade began to function as private commercial environments, and banks and insurance offices emerged in the urban form as specialized purpose buildings. Developments in port cities resulted in capital accumulation, and class segregation began to emerge. This replaced the differentiation in urban space according to religious and ethnic differences. Therefore, Eastern Mediterranean port cities were places where the traditional social relationships of Ottoman society changed and a class distinction emerged. The change in Mediterranean port cities during the modernization process in the nineteenth century reveals that urban space is restructured and reshaped through a dialectical relationship between economic ties, social structures, and urban development. To analyze this further, the following part of this chapter is focused on an investigation of the urban developments during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries of the city of Mersin, an Eastern Mediterranean port city located on the southern shores of Anatolia. The urban identity, urban structure, and urban form components that give the city its distinctive characteristics will be examined.

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5.5 Urban Structure and Form Components of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean Port City In terms of freight capacity, Mersin’s port is the second largest (following Istanbul’s) in today’s Turkey (O˘guztimur 2008: 1131). Historically, it was the transfer point of agricultural products from inland regions to the outer world. Although the city of Mersin was just a few huts on the waterfront at the beginning of the nineteenth century, its population had reached approximately one million people in 2015. In this framework, Mersin is a very young city whose history only goes back to two centuries. This differentiates it from other Eastern Mediterranean port cities, which have long histories dating back to antiquity. Mersin does not have a long history like Izmir, which was founded in 3000 BC (Beyru 2011: 1), or Alexandria, which ‘is a lighthouse that was lightening the antique world’ (Ilbert 2006: 10), or Thessaloniki, the city of the Macedonian king Kassandros and the cultural and art centre from 316 BC to the fourteenth century (Yerolympos 1988: 142) (Fig. 5.1). However, despite its short history, Mersin has become one of the most important port cities in the Eastern Mediterranean, and has left many other port cities behind in terms of trade volume.

Fig. 5.1 Izmir, Iskenderiye, Thessaloniki, and Beirut in the nineteenth century (University of Birmingham, Conzen Collection)

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5.6 Dynamics of Urban Development in Mersin and Their Impact on Urban Space As stated earlier, Mersin emerged from almost nothing in the beginning of the nineteenth century. The city owes its growth to maritime trade as the basic dynamic, which led to its port function. This is valid not only for Mersin, but also for almost all port cities, even those with strong historical roots. Since Mersin did not have any castle or historical urban pattern, its main form components were the piers. The emergence of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean port city and its development and form components are analysed in the next three sections.

5.6.1 Activities That Depend on Maritime Trade and the Organization of Urban Space The development of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean port city during the nineteenth century is dependent upon developments in trade relations between the Çukurova region and the industrial core. Since the American Civil War caused a decrease in the amount of cotton provided from the United States, Britain sought new regions to get raw cotton from. Because the Aegean and Çukurova regions in Anatolia were seen as the most fertile lands for cotton production, Britain began to sell cotton from these areas. However, besides fertility, the proper climatic conditions and labour force were also a significant factor for choosing the Aegean and Çukurova regions. As a result, Çukurova evolved into a place where agricultural production was commercialized, economic relationships flourished (Pamuk 1987: 222–223), and Mersin developed rapidly as the port of the region (Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu et al. 1995: 19). In addition to flourishing international commercial networks, under the effect of the legal and administrative reforms of the Ottoman Empire during the nineteenth century, a period of economic stagnation occurred between 1840 and 1860. This stagnation evolved into a revival of trade and as a result, Mersin grew as a port city in the region (Toksöz 2000: 71, 98). During this development, agricultural products were exported to Britain, France, and Russia while sugar, coffee, and various industrial products were imported and transferred inland. Mersin was a transfer point within international commercial networks, owing to its port functions (Fig. 5.2). The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 triggered a new phase of development in Mersin. Timber, which was in the close vicinity of Mersin and was required for construction of the canal, was transferred from Mersin to Egypt (Sami 1996: 4260– 4261). With the increasing trade volume, merchants demanded improvements in transportation infrastructure. Consequently, the 67-km-long Mersin-Adana railway line, constructed by a British company, was brought into operation in 1886 (Develi 2001: 148; Dingeç 1998: 76–77).

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Fig. 5.2 The Mersin and Çukurova regions

Goods and chattel were transferred from the railway station to the main pier through the street parallel to the sea. The line was intended to be used for public transportation, so the idea was put into action in 1920 and it was used as a tramline between the railway station and the main pier (called Customs Pier) (Ünlü and Selvi Ünlü 2012: 82–83). The relationship between the railway station and the main pier facilitated the emergence of numerous other piers along the street parallel to the waterfront. Urban development rapidly spread to the surrounding areas of the street, where there was a concentration of land mainly for commercial use. It was first called Station Street due to the fact that it connected the main pier to the railway station. In later periods, its name was changed first to Government Street, and later to Uray Street, which is its current name (Fig. 5.3). The location of numerous piers and their connection to Uray Street was one of the most significant developments in Mersin until the 1960s. During the 1960s, some of these piers were demolished and new ones were built; all of them are connected to Uray Street and are located at the openings of other streets that connect to the sea between the main pier and the railway station (Fig. 5.4). In this framework, sea and international trade relations are the most prominent factors in the formation of urban structures and the shaping of urban spaces. The customs square was formed at the extension of Customs Pier and many hotels, shops, restaurants, and coffeehouses were built around the square, so Customs Square functioned primarily for commercial purposes. In relation to growing international trade, many new land uses began to emerge in Mersin’s urban form. Due to its direct connection to the sea, Uray Street accommodated many shipping companies, insurance agencies, and commissionaires that dealt with international trade. Additionally, local branches of many banks such as Ziraat Bank, Ottoman Bank, Deutsche Orientbank, Athens Bank, and Salonica Bank opened on Uray Street or nearby. These newly emerging land uses were located mainly in the area between Customs Pier and Stone Pier3 (Fig. 5.5). Developments in international trade and the financial sector necessitated the development of communication facilities, which corresponded with the extension of the 3

In the period when institutionalization of the financial sector had not come into being yet, Constantin Mavromati, the most prominent merchant in the city, was in the business of lending with interest, like many moneylenders of the period. See Annuaire Orientale (1894: 929).

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Fig. 5.3 Uray Street, Mersin (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci)

Fig. 5.4 Uray Street, Piers, and the Raiway Station, Mersin (Reproduced from Rother, 1971)

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Fig. 5.5 Ziraat Bank, Ottoman Bank, Deutsche Orientbank, Athens Bank, and Salonica Bank, all on Uray Street or nearby (Reproduced from a British map)

Adana-Tarsus telegraph line to Mersin.4 Following this, the Telegraph and Post office was put into operation in 1873.5 Besides this office, permission was given for other countries to establish post offices in the city. Amongst these foreign post offices, the most significant one was the French office, but the Austrian, British, and Russian offices were also important.6 As international trade and the sea were the main determinants of the urban development of Mersin, a bottom-up process originating from local relationships also affected the formation of a locally distinctive character and identity. This dynamic is similar to that in many other Eastern Mediterranean port cities. Keyder et al (1994) points out that Eastern Mediterranean port cities developed a genuine local administrative model that reflected their demographic structure, which consisted of societies of many different cultures.

4

BOA, A.MKT.MHM., Dosya no: 408, G. no: 27, 30 Muharrem 1285 (23 May 1868). The post office had five officers: two Turkish and two French officers worked together in an active environment with one stenograph (Bozkurt 2001: 26). 6 These post offices were distinguished from Ottoman offices with the levant imprint on stamps. In this period, mostly French Levantine stamps were common on postcards, which were dispatched by shipping companies such as Messageries Maritimes, Lloyd Austria, and Hidivial (MCCI 2003: 4). 5

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5.6.2 Distinctive Local Administration and Organization of Urban Space Despite the top-down decisions that emerged from the cooperation between the central government and local capitalists, the urban space of Eastern Mediterranean port cities was also shaped with a bottom-up approach through decisions of distinctively organized local administrations. The urban structure of Mersin was predominantly shaped through the demands, needs, and expectations of local merchants, all of which were closely related to infrastructure improvements and developments in international trade. Beginning from the second half of the nineteenth century, the demands of local and foreign merchants had an impact on the development of piers, the construction of roads to connect the city to the inland, and the regularization of urban patterns.7 From the 1850s, large international trade ships began to arrive at the piers (Beamont 1856: 232; Dorr 1856: 309–310, Langlois 1947: 31).8 In this period, Mersin undertook the role of transfer point between the inlands and the outer world for the export of agricultural products such as cotton, grain, and sesame. During the 1850s, Mersin was used as a transit port area for French, Arab, and British ships to convey goods and chattel to Izmir, and direct relationships with European countries began (Barker 1853: 115–118; Risk 1853: 61). However, in this period, there were still major problems for trade in Mersin. Consulates of the period reported that the piers were insufficient to respond to developing international trade. Ships had to anchor offshore and transportation between the ships and piers was carried out with trough tugs and lighters. Consulates indicated the necessity of building a new port because of the problems resulting from the inadequate condition of the existing piers. The same records state that foreign merchants were willing to cover the cost of two new piers; however, this was rejected on the grounds that construction by foreigners would be inconvenient. Eventually, the license to build a pier was given to the representative of a French shipping company,

7

The correspondences in the Ottoman Archives of the Turkish Prime Ministry draw attention to the demands of local merchants to construct new shops on the shore. VGMA D. no: 44, Sayfa no: 133, Sıra no: 126, 23 Zilkade 1273 (15 July 1857), BOA, ˙I.MVL., Dosya no: 386, G. no: 16864, 5 Cemazeyilevvel 1274 (22 December 1857), TSS ¸ no: 291, Sayfa no: 162, H. no: 208, 5 Zilhicce 1268 (20 September 1852); TSS, ¸ no: 291, Sayfa no: 309, 9 Zil-ka’de 1269 (14 August 1853); BOA, ˙I.MVL., Dosya no: 237, G. no: 8363, Ek: 1, 30 Receb 1268 (20 May 1852), BOA, ˙I.DH., Dosya no: 257, G. no: 15843, Ek: 2, 13 Zi’l-kade 1268 (M. 29 August 1852); BOA, ˙I.MVL., Dosya no: 242, G. no: 8720, 12 Sevval ¸ 1268 (30 July 1852); BOA, ˙I.MVL., Dosya no: 242, G. no: 8720, Ek: 1, 24 Sevval ¸ 1268 (11 August 1852), TSS, ¸ no: 291, Sayfa no: 309, H. no: 285, 9 Cemazeyilevvel 1269 (18 February 1853). 8 Although traveller William Beamont points out that there was not a considerable amount of traffic in the port, he noticed the increasing activity.

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due to the silting up of both the right and left sides of Stone Pier, which caused problems with moving goods between the land and the ships anchored offshore9 (Ünlü and Selvi Ünlü 2012: 69). Permission to build new piers continued with licenses given to the French Postal Shipping Company in 1857 to build new piers next to Stone Pier,10 and to Messageries Maritime Shipping Company in 1874 to construct a pier just in front of its office building.11 Nonetheless, ships continued to anchor offshore because of the lack of suitable docking areas (Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu et al. 1995: 20). Despite all the problems with the piers, trade volume increased in the second half of the nineteenth century. However, around this time the problem of storing goods in the customs area emerged. As a result, new proposals were developed in order to gain additional space through taking land reclaimed from the sea to construct new docking areas at the waterfront. Additionally, it was proposed to construct a new railway line in the same area. In this way, a new connection between Customs Pier, the railway station, and new storage areas would be created. Along his path, Athanos Tahintzi and David Toledo were granted a concession in 1898 to build a port, which they were allowed to manage for 99 years.12 Nevertheless, despite all these attempts beginning from the 1850s, a new port area could not be constructed until the first decades of the twentieth century, when a new project was prepared by Adana Governorship in 1910.13 Attempts to build a new port in Mersin had been an important agenda for the city during Ottoman rule.14 Likewise, the same attempts were carried out during the period of French rule after 1919. In 1920, Customs Pier and Stone Pier were rehabilitated and a new dock area was constructed.15 Rehabilitating Customs Pier involved constructing a breakwater and docklands on both sides of the pier, and the construction process was expected to be completed in 1922.16 Two dekovil lines were built to connect Customs Pier to the railway station in 1920,17 and regular cruises began after improvements in the pier. Ünlü and Selvi Ünlü (2012: 77) point out that one of the regular expeditions in the Eastern Mediterranean was between Mersin and Beirut. Until the end of the 1960s, the city was limited by its railway station to the east and the military barracks to the west. Developments in infrastructure, flourishing 9

Concessions to the Austrian company included bringing skilled workers from Marseille, that no amount of money would be demanded from the state, and that the pier would be the property of the Ottoman Empire. 10 BOA, ˙I.MVL., Dosya no: 401, G. no: 17423. 11 BOA, HR. TO., Dosya no: 204, G. no: 31, 7 Cemazeyilahir 1291 (22 July 1874). 12 BCA 91957. 13 BCA 91957. 332/1 ve BCA 37199. 14 After the Mondros Treaty, Mersin was ruled by English forces, which were replaced by French forces in November 1919. The latter left the city on 3 January 1922 (Develi 2001: 38). 15 Monographie de Mersine, CADN, carton no: 203, Adana. 16 CADN, carton no: 346, Mersin. 17 Monographie de Mersine, CADN, carton no: 203, Adana.

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international trade relations, and accommodation of merchants from various nations affected the transformation of Mersin from a small-scale village with piers to a major port city. During this process, urban space was produced and reshaped parallel to capital accumulation, the specialization of commerce, the institutionalization of the financial sector, new transportation facilities, and emerging new uses that arose from the 1850s to the 1920s. A new, regular urban pattern appeared in the area between the main pier and the railway station, where there were trade inns, storehouses, shops, small-scale production units, and one and-two-storey houses. With the effect of capital accumulation, prominent merchants (most of whom were non-Muslim) began to move from the areas in the close vicinity of Uray Street to new areas in the western parts of the city. The consequence was a class differentiation in urban space, concretized by the foundation of the Çamlıbel neighbourhood, described as a ‘bourgeoisie neighbourhood’ in French records.

5.6.3 Demographic Structure and the Organization of Urban Space Since port cities attract various people from surrounding regions and due to their potential for trade relations, the demographic diversity brings about a distinctive lifestyle and variety in land uses in these cities. There is varying information about the population distribution because of the changes in local administration and the narratives of different travellers between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Maroni people migrated from Syria to Mersin in the first half of the nineteenth century in order to take advantage of new job opportunities related to international trade. Moreover, just as in Izmir and Beirut, many migrants and Levantine people gave the city its cosmopolitan character in demographic structure (Adıyeke and Adıyeke 2004: 77). In 1869, people from Lebanon came to the city for the lumber trade that increased during construction of the Suez Canal (ODAK 1992: 8). In the second half of the nineteenth century, although there were fewer this time, Maroni people again migrated from Lebanon and Syria (Yorulmaz 2005: 71). Arabs adapted easily to the environment because they were accustomed to the climate (Wilson 1884: 314). Greek and Armenian people from Capadoccia and the islands began to settle in Mersin (Adıyeke and Adıyeke 2004: 77) as well as a few Jews, Protestants, Assyrians, and Keldanis (Bozkurt 2001: 52, 54, 56). The most significant element of this variety in the urban form is different religious buildings, which can be followed from the silhouette of Mersin on the postcards of the period. Social diversity can also be followed through the city maps produced in the first decades of the twentieth century. Different religious groups constructed their religious buildings in their neighbourhoods. Levantines erected Catholic and Maronite churches in the eastern regions of the city and in the Frenk neighbourhood because they dealt with international commerce and lived in this area. The Arab Orthodox Church was located in the Kiremithane neighbourhood to the west, where

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Fig. 5.6 Religious buildings, cemeteries, and neighbourhoods as significant elements of different religious groups and social diversity (Rother 1971)

Arabs that dealt with agricultural production lived. To the north, where there were commercial activities on the street that functioned as the extension of the main pier, there were numerous Greek churches (Fig. 5.6). It is noteworthy that there were few mosques although a great majority of the total population was Muslim (Sami 1996: 4160–4161). It reveals the effect of nonMuslims on the shaping of urban space, because they were the group that held economic power. Therefore, spatial segregation in the urban form does not only show the differentiations based on religion, but also it signifies the distinctions, depending on economic activities, that show class segregation on space. Although there were not strict borders, spatial segregation became more visible from the beginning of the twentieth century, and it was related to capital accumulation. Until this period, it was possible to see that different groups and land uses were together in the urban form. Urban structure was settled between two parts, basically called East (¸Sarkiyye) and West (Garbiyye),18 which were connected via Uray Street as the main backbone and commercial centre of the city (Selvi Ünlü 2007: 229). In between these two parts lays the Cami-i Serif ¸ neighbourhood,19 where khans, banks, consulates, administrative and religious buildings, and numerous shops are located, as well as Customs Square. Moreover, middle-class houses, which are very common

18 19

HVS 1286, D. no: 3, s. 75, 1286 (1869). TSS ¸ no: 318, s. 365, H. no: 625, 25 Cemazeyilevvel 1298 (25 April 1881).

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in the Eastern Mediterranean, were also located in this area (Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu 2004: 183). However, capital accumulation triggered spatial segregation, which is evident in the establishment of the Çamlıbel neighbourhood during the 1910s in the newly developing areas to the west. It also signifies functional differentiation in the city, since it consisted of one and two-storey buildings for residential use. Nonetheless, this neighbourhood was attached to the urban structure of the city and emerged as the extension to the west without moving away from the sea. The backbone of the city, parallel to the sea and running east-west, was also extended to the west. In this respect, the emergence of the Çamlıbel neighbourhood did not result in disintegration of the urban structure; instead, it strengthened it. The urban structure along the waterfront was contained between the railway station in the east and the military barracks in the west during the first half of the twentieth century. Kı¸sla Street in the Çamlıbel neighbourhood was the extension of Uray Street to the west, which together made the main spine of the city. Within this structure, a new residential area was in walking distance to the centre, but their functional separation from each other was significant. The separation of residential and commercial land uses in the urban form also brought about the emergence of new land uses that were separate from others. Developments in the area between Çamlıbel and the city centre experienced the advent of theatres, public gardens, hotels, and other recreational uses. Two public spaces, Customs Square as the main public space in the city centre and the Municipal Garden as the new recreational centre in the newly developing areas to the west, were connected through Uray Street. They became the essential components of the urban form that evolved along the waterfront, giving Mersin a port city identity (Fig. 5.7). Educational buildings were also another significant indicator of demographic diversity in the city. During its historical development up until the 1920s, Mersin experienced the opening of many schools from different cultural groups. In 1854, there were different schools of different societies, such as Ottoman madrassas, French Latin Catholic schools, and Protestant American schools (Yorulmaz 2002: 13). There was also Colleggio di St. Antonio, which was managed by capuchin priests, the Catholic Boys’ Schools, and a Catholic Girls’ School that was established by Saint Joseph priests in 1887 (Develi 2001: 105; Leylek 2003: 7, 10) (Fig. 5.8). Additionally, there were Greek and Arab Christian Schools that were considered to be as good as those in England, as noted by travellers of the period (Davis 1879: 26–27). There were two Christian schools, two Armenian schools, one Arab school, and one American Protestant school during the 1890s (Yorulmaz 2002: 13). In this period, Partenagogion Girls’ School, established by the prominent merchant Mavromati, started its programme (Artan 2003: 8). In 1909, there was one high school for boys, one secondary school for girls, as well as American, Armenian, French, and Greek schools.20

20

Annuaire Oriential, 1909, 2023.

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Fig. 5.7 Mersin in the beginning of the twentieth century (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci)

Fig. 5.8 Colleggio di St. Antonio, on the land of the Catholic Church (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci)

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5.7 Evaluation Beginning from the early decades of the nineteenth century, Mersin was a city that experienced the changing economic relationships in the Eastern Mediterranean. This transformed Mersin from a village of a few huts on the shore to a port city. Mersin became one of the most important centres for international trade in this period. Although economic restructuring on the global scale had major influences on this transformation, the local conditions of the Çukurova region, the region’s ability to produce agricultural goods, and the labour force in the region were also influential in the emergence of Mersin as a port city. It became a transfer point between the local and the global through conveying agricultural products from Çukurova to the industrial core and processed industrial goods from the industrial core to Çukurova and inland. In the second half of the nineteenth century during the first phase of development, international maritime trade was the most prominent commercial activity. This resulted in the emergence of a group of merchants dealing with international trade as commissionaires and representatives of foreign companies. They constituted a comprador bourgeoisie and connected the region to the world. As these merchants became society’s most powerful group, their expectations, needs, and demands were taken into consideration with great respect. In this sense, it could be asserted that there was a bottom-up approach in the making and reshaping of the urban space. The needs and demands of the merchants had considerable influence on the development of transportation infrastructure, financial land uses, and communication and accommodation facilities. As a result, a great number of piers, railway lines and stations, tramlines, khans, banks, consulates, and post offices became components of the urban form. At the same time, demographic diversity revealed itself through different religious and educational land uses, a trait that is shared with many other Eastern Mediterranean port cities. In the first phase, the urban space was produced and reshaped spontaneously through the city’s daily practices, and there was no urban master plan. Commercial land uses were developed along Uray Street, which connects the main square to the railway station. In the initial period, there was mixed-use development in this area, consisting of residential and religious land uses along with the commercial ones. However, over the course of time in the second phase of development, spatial and functional separation appeared in the urban form due to the emergence of Çamlıbel in the west of the city, a new neighbourhood of prominent merchants. This separation came into being as a result of capital accumulation and class segregation. Although for the sake of Turkish modernization there were incremental interventions into the urban space during the early Republican period after the proclamation of the Turkish Republic in 1923, Mersin maintained its urban structure through a relational pattern between piers, land uses, and socio-economic features and remained an Eastern Mediterranean port city until the 1960s, when the modern port area was constructed (Fig. 5.9).

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Fig. 5.9 Urban structure of Mersin, 1940s (Reproduced from a British map, 1942)

When the modern port area was put into use, the piers along the waterfront were demolished when land was reclaimed from the sea. This was the third phase, during which the coherent urban structure of the city was broken up because the piers had been its main determinants. Before then, the whole city functioned with reference to the piers; in other words, the city, piers, and sea were closely tied to each other within a part-to-whole relationship. The construction of the modern port as a campus area in the east of the city resulted in breaking the connection between the city and the port area because the latter began to function in an independent way that was disconnected from the city (Fig. 5.10). The urban form components and their relational coherence that made Mersin into an Eastern Mediterranean city were demolished and they became dysfunctional in urban form (Fig. 5.11 and 5.12). In this way, Mersin evolved from a ‘port city’ into a ‘city with a port’.

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Fig. 5.10 Mersin Port Project (Mersin Port Project Report, Holland Royal Port Cooperation 4 and personal archives)21

21

The report consisted of numerous drawings and photographs, but there is not a publication date.

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Fig. 5.11 Mersin Customs Square, from the early years of the twentieth century to the 1960s (Courtesy of Ali Murat Merzeci)

Fig. 5.12 Urban structure of Mersin, 1960s (Reproduced from a British map, 1942)

5.8 Conclusion This study aimed to find the distinctive characteristics of Eastern Mediterranean port cities and reveal the components of their character and identity. Urban identity is conceived of as an abstract imagining; it is developed through the perceptions of a variety of individuals, and it refers to a dialectical interplay of individuals, society, and space. Urban character, on the other hand, is directly formed, shaped,

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and redefined through the intrinsic qualities of the space, and it becomes tangible through the physiognomy of the city. From this point of view, Eastern Mediterranean port cities are examined throughout their developments during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries with a focus on the city of Mersin, a port city on the southern shores of Turkey. The temporal framework of the study refers to the modernization and peripheralization processes that made Eastern Mediterranean port cities places of so much transformation. In this period, they were integrated into the restructured world economy, similar to the world cities of the 1990s. The changes in these cities provided a common identity at an upper scale, while they all developed distinctive characteristics due to the interrelations of their individuals, society, and space. The findings of the study reveal that the main motives behind the transformation of Eastern Mediterranean port cities during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were international trade relationships and infrastructure investments to facilitate those relationships. The former resulted in the emergence of intermediaries in port cities, who mostly dealt with maritime trade and the financial sector while sustaining the relationship between the inland regions and the industrial core. Infrastructure investments, which include the construction of railways, highways, piers, docks, and port areas, allowed for the emergence of new land uses in port cities. Since the urban structure of Eastern Mediterranean port cities was based on their relationship to the sea, many storehouses, warehouses, customs houses, and shipping and insurance agencies were evident in the urban form while new administrative land uses emerged as a result of Ottoman modernization. Although the proximity of different groups in society formed plurality in architectural styles as well as religious and educational buildings, this diversity became more monolithic as a result of capital accumulation, which further resulted in the emergence of functional separation and class segregation in the urban space. This is evident from the establishment of the Çamlıbel neighbourhood in Mersin. From the nineteenth to early twentieth centuries, the transformation of Eastern Mediterranean port cities experienced two phases of development. In the case of Mersin, it is seen that the urban structure of the city was not changed. It was constructed with reference to the sea, in which different parts of the city (especially piers) were shaped along Uray and Kı¸sla streets as the main spines. Therefore, international trade and thus the sea had a strong impact on the evolution of the character and identity of the city. Construction of the modern port area changed its character dramatically, which opened a new phase in its historical development. In this phase, nation-states were also becoming more powerful, which in turn might have affected the character and identity of Eastern Mediterranean port cities. This study is concentrated on the changes in the urban identity and character of Mersin as an Eastern Mediterranean port city. Further studies on different cities in the region would allow for developing a comparison of the commonalities and differences between these cities. Additionally, studies on changes in Eastern Mediterranean port cities in a period of powerful nation-states could question the changes in their identity and character. A further group of studies may focus on the possible developments

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of these cities in the near future, placing them in the context of today’s changing international relationships.

Abbreviations A.MKT.MHM.: BCA: BOA: CADN: HR. TO.: HVS: ˙I.MVL.: VGMA: D. no: G. no: s.: TSS: ¸

Âmedi Mektubi Mühimme Kalemi Ba¸sbakanlık Cumhuriyet Ar¸sivi (Republican Archive) Ba¸sbakanlık Osmanlı Ar¸sivi (Ottoman Archive) Centre des Archives Diplomatiques de Nantes, Syrie-Liban versement, Cilicie (inventories nos. 3 et 4) Hariciye Nezareti Tercüme Odası (The Ministry of Foreign Affairs- Translation Office) Halep Vilayet Salnameleri (Halep Annual Book of Province) ˙Irade-Meclis-i Vala Vakıflar Genel Müdürlü˘gü Ar¸sivi (General Directorate for Waqf) Defter Numarası (Number of the Registry Book) Gömlek Numarası (Number of the Registry Fascicule) Sayfa Numarası (Page Number) Tarsus Ser’iyye ¸ Sicilleri (Tarsus Court Records)

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Raymond A (1995) Osmanlı Döneminde Arap Kentleri. Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, Istanbul (Raymond, A., 1873, Grandes villes arabes à l’ époque Ottomane, Paris) Relph E (2007) On the identity of places. In: Carmona M, Tiesdell S (eds) Urban design reader. Elsevier, London, pp 103–107 Risk B (1853) The thistle and the cedar of Lebanon. Wertheimer, London Rother L (1971) Die Städe der Çukurova: Adana-Mersin-Tarsus. Im Selbsverlag des Geographischen Instituts der Univesität Tübingen, Baden Sami S¸ (1996) Kâmûsu’l - A’lâm. Cilt. 6. Ka¸sgar Ne¸sriyat, Ankara Selvi Ünlü T (2007) 19. Yüzyılda Mersin’in Kentsel Geli¸simi [Urban Development of Mersin in the Nineteenth Century]. Yayınlanmamı¸s Yüksek Lisans Tezi [Unpublished Master’s Thesis], Mersin Üniveritesi Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü Tarih Anabilim Dalı, Mersin. Tankut G (2007) The Seljuk City/Selçuklu Kenti. METU Faculty of Architecture Publication, Ankara Tekeli ˙I (1998) Türkiye’de cumhuriyet döneminde kentsel geli¸sme ve kent planlaması. In: Sey Y (ed) 75 Yılda De˘gi¸sen Kent ve Mimarlık. Tarih Vakfı Yayınları, Istanbul Tekeli ˙I (2011) Bir kentin kimli˘gi üzerine dü¸sünceler. in Tasarım, Mimarlık ve Mimarlar. Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, Istanbul, pp 57–65 Toksöz M (2000) The Çukurova-nomadic life to commercial agriculture, 1800–1908. PhD Thesis, Binghamton University, New York Ünlü T, Selvi Ünlü T (2012) Developing commerce, changing city: Mersin 1850–1950. Mersin Ticaret ve Sanayi Odası, Mersin (Mersin Chamber of Commerce and Industry) Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu F (2004) Mersin Evleri. In: Özdem F (ed) Sırtı Da˘g Yüzü Deniz, Mersin. Yapı Kredi Yayınları, Istanbul, pp 177–183 Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu F (2010) Urban texture and architectural styles after the Tanzimat. In Tanatar Baruh L, Kechriotis V (eds) Economy and society on both shores of the Aegean. Alpha Bank, Athens, pp 487–526 Yeni¸sehirlio˘glu F and Hacettepe Üniversitesi Sanat Tarihi Bölümü Ö˘gretim Üyeleri (1995) Mersin Evleri. Kültür Bakanlı˘gı, Ankara Yerasimos S (1999) Tanzimat’ın kent reformları üzerine. In: Dumont P, Georgeon F (eds) Modernle¸sme Sürecinde Osmanlı Kentleri. Tarih Vakfı Yayınları, Istanbul, pp 1–18 Yerolympos A (1988) Thessaloniki (Salonika) before and after 1917: twentieth century planning versus 20 centuries of urban evolution. Plan Perspect 3:141–146 Yorulmaz S¸ (2002) Do˘gu Akdeniz’de bir Osmanlı liman kenti olarak geli¸sen Mersin’de yabancı tüccarın rolü ve Mersin’de Levanten kültürü (19. Yüzyıl). In: 19. Yüzyılda Mersin ve Akdeniz Dünyası. Mersin Üniversitesi Akdeniz Kent Ara¸stırmaları Merkezi Yayınları, Mersin, No: 1, pp 2–14 Yorulmaz S¸ (2005) Do˘gu Akdeniz’de bir cemaat serüveni: liman kenti olma sürecinde Mersin’de geli¸sen Maruni taifesi. In: Tarih ˙Içinde Mersin Kolokyumu II Mersin Üniversitesi Yayınları, Mersin, No: 14, pp 68–95

Chapter 6

Izmir, the Port City that Will Follow You No Matter Where You Go Alp Yücel Kaya

Keywords Izmir · Port-city · Economy · Autonomy · Crisis · Conflicts · Dynamism

6.1 Introduction Tatiana Salem Levy in her novel The House of Smyrna tells us about her journey on the way of exploring her family’s story starting from Izmir going to Rio de Janeiro in the early twentieth century. Everything starts when her grandfather gave her the key of his old house in Izmir: “The story isn’t his alone. Life never belongs to just one person. If he gave you the key, it’s because he believes it is part of your story” (Levy 2015). As Cavafy already said “the city will be following you” (Cavafy 2007: 29) and it is so no matter where you go. Izmir was considered ‘the little Paris of the East’. Its rise, from the sixteenth century, enabled it to become the main port of the Levant in the nineteenth century. Despite the upheavals it witnessed at the beginning of the twentieth century, it remains ˙ for its inhabitants, today, ‘the beautiful Izmir’, that is, ‘güzel Izmir”’. It is its ‘port city’ character that gives rise to its unique history, which differentiates it from other cities and is also the cause of its decline. It represents a place of material and cultural exchanges marked by a very particular dynamism; a place where local and foreign structures meet and mingle in a melting pot of contradictions. Because it provides a link with the outside world, the port city becomes foreign to its I would like to thank Eyüp Özveren for his critical reading of my article and his incisive comments; I also benefited a lot from our discussions on port-cities in general and Izmir in particular. A. Y. Kaya (B) Ege University, Izmir, Turkey e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_6

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country: it develops economically independently of it, but remains, at the same time, dependent on the first. A field of conflict that encompasses confrontations with central power develops around this tension: central government versus local government; central taxation versus local anti-tax resistance; provisioning the capital city Istanbul versus foreign trade and/or smuggling; traditions versus modernities; statism versus liberalism, etc. If the sui generis autonomy can disappear in time, it nevertheless allows the difference of the city to persist and preserve its potentially oppositional positioning. Among its inhabitants, then, is borne the feeling of being different because they live in a pluralist and modern city, which is open to novelty and change. For those who have to leave it for one reason or another, this feeling even turns into pride: the pride of having been born there. Be that as it may, it can also provoke the development of a certain “provincialism” because the city distances itself from its country. Within this context, the “provincial” identity can go hand in hand with an international, if not outright cosmopolitan, identity. This can be equally true for both those who leave and those who stay behind.

6.2 The Emergence of the Port-City In the sixteenth century, Izmir was a small town (consisting of 225 households in 1528) and in terms of the volume of its economic activity, it was not so different from other surrounding ports (Çe¸sme, Urla, Menemen, Foça, Seferihisar, Ku¸sadası, Balat, etc.) (Kütüko˘glu 2000a: 25); cereals and fruits (especially sultanas, figs, and olive oil) produced in Izmir and in its hinterland were exported to Istanbul (Emecen 1989; Goffman 1995: 28–40; Faroqhi 1993: 100–102; Kütüko˘glu 2000a: 34–41). By the seventeenth century, internal and external trade activities that had scattered to diverse ports of the Western Anatolia started to concentrate in the port of Izmir; the trade routes were modified, locus of trade in the Eastern Mediterranean shifted from Aleppo to Izmir; the final destination of caravan routes in the transportation of Iranian silk became the port of Izmir; European merchants traveling in the Eastern Mediterranean started to frequent more and more Izmir which was in the way of becoming an international commercial center, a “port city”. This course of events transformed production patterns in its hinterland; as foreign demand amplified, the cultivation area of two commodities, cotton and tobacco, was extended at the expense of that of cereals and vegetables (Goffman 1995: 44–68). From the mid-eighteenth century onwards the share of Izmir in the trade with Western Europe passed that of Istanbul, Salonica, and Alexandria; as the trade volume between the Ottoman Empire and the European countries boosted, so did Izmir’s volume of trade. The mohair of Ankara, silk of Bursa and Iran, cotton of Western Anatolia were the engine-of-growth commodities meeting the needs for raw materials of the developing European textile industry. The volume of exports from the port of Izmir, by contrast to those from other Eastern Mediterranean ports, surpassed that of imports, and this continued until the twenty-first century, except for some occasional years, attesting to a rare

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phenomenon among the port cities over the longue durée (Frangakis-Syrett 2006a: 107–126, 197–227, 256–266; Ülker 1987: 1–36; Ergenç 2009: 267–278). The intensification of trade activities induced the development of credit mechanisms and the financial market. As central government started in the seventeenth century to resort more and more to tax-farming (and sale of offices), the development of the financial market in Izmir was re-boosted, but it rested under the hegemony of that of Istanbul in which central political power and bankers were decisive (Frangakis 2006a: 126–140). In such a context, tax farmers and local officials functioning in Izmir got an important economic and political leverage. Families such as Karaosmano˘gulları, Arabo˘gulları, Katibo˘gulları came to rule Izmir and its hinterland, but they did not content themselves with tax-farms and local offices and started to invest also in agricultural production and trading activities (Nagata 1997). As such a de facto division of labor between local notables and European merchants came about; the former controlled commercial networks (both for internal and external trade) in the hinterland, the latter external commercial networks of Izmir in the Mediterranean basin and European lands (Frangakis-Syrett 2006b: 27–36). Between the 1830s and the 1880s, in current figures, imports to Izmir increased 7.5 times (4% per annum) and exports from Izmir increased 4 times (3% per annum). In the 1830s, the main export items were grapes, cotton, olive oil, figs, and mohair. In the 1870s, it was valonia, cotton, grape, opium, sponge, carpet, and fig. In the 1830s, the main import items were cotton products, coffee, sugar, woolen and silk products, metal ware. In the 1870s, it was cotton and silk products, hardware, timber, cotton thread, oil, and sugar (Issawi 1980: 108–110; Kütüko˘glu 2000b: 285–312; Kurmu¸s 1982: 25–36; Kasaba 1993: 75–91, 103–105). Considering the taxes collected on the exports of agricultural and industrial products in 1897, the share of Istanbul in the total was 18.6% (Beirut 10.2%, Thessaloniki 6.8%, Baghdad 6.7%, ˙Iskenderun 5.3%, Trabzon 4.9%) as that of ˙Izmir was 36% (Güran 1997: 199). Despite the growth of foreign trade, the production and trade activities of Izmir and its hinterland had never been completely cut off from the domestic markets. The region continued to send grain and olive oil for the provision of Istanbul (Güran 1998: 38; Arma˘gan 2005) and started to supply raw materials to the state factories established in the 1840s in Istanbul and its surroundings. However, the growth rate of the volume of foreign trade was more than that of domestic trade, making Izmir almost autonomous from its own country. In 1900, as exports amounted to 468 million piasters, commodities sent to domestic markets reached 41 million piasters; as imports amounted to 286 million piasters, commodities purchased from domestic markets attained 77 million piasters (Kütüko˘glu 2000c: 323, 325, 331, 333). In the nineteenth century Izmir became therefore a port-city, explosion in trade had not only quantitative aspects, it brought about also qualitative transformations. European merchants who used to come to Izmir in the eighteenth century just for business started to settle in the city in the nineteenth century, especially after the 1838 Baltalimanı Treaty; they were foreigner just on paper, in time they became local figures who established close relationships with various economic actors not only in the urban but also rural setting (Smyrnelis 2005). Old division of labor was no longer held in the hinterland, “foreign” entrepreneurs entered into competition

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with local notables to invest in commerce and agriculture and in financial markets (Frangakis-Syrett 1992: 91–112). Ali Nihad Efendi, the official responsible for the implementation of the new tax scheme in Izmir in the 1850s summarized as such the major opposing social groups: “those [Muslim] nouveaux riches and notables who should pay, according to the new tax regime, 4.000 piastres but who used to pay, because of their tyrannical obstinacy, nothing but 500 piastres in the old regime on the one hand, those Europeans who should pay 6.000 piastres but who did not pay anything since the property survey of 1840 to infringe and disturb reforms on the other…”.1 In such a boom context, those so-called nouveaux riches and notables profited well from the opportunities created by foreign trade and state finance, and accumulated considerable capital by investing in agriculture, trade, finance, and tax-farming. Among thirty (Muslim) people whose economic wealth were listed in the probate inventories between 1851–1896 in the court registers, the least wealthy person could buy (in current prices) 2 stores in the Grand Bazaar (Kapalıçar¸sı) of Istanbul and the wealthiest 100 stores (Martal 1992: 113–116).2 These new entrepreneurs also lead the capitalist class in the creation of Izmir Chamber of Commerce in 1885 and the Izmir Stock Exchange in 1892 (Yetkin and Serçe 1998; Serçe, F. Örs and M. S¸ Örs 2002). Investments in transportation infrastructures to enlarge commercial networks between the hinterland and the port intensified in the second half of the nineteenth century. The U¸sak-Izmir highway was built in 1852 by the initiative of central government,3 the Izmir-Aydın railway between 1857 and 1866, and that of IzmirKasaba between 1863 and 1866 by international consortiums (Kurmu¸s 1982: 37–57; Barbaros 1995: 45–51). Dussaud frères who undertook the construction of quays of Marseille, Brest, and Trieste obtained also the construction right for the quays of Izmir (1867–1876) (Kütüko˘glu 2000d: 201–247; Frangakis-Syrett 2001: 23–46). Infrastructural investments (railways and quays) paved the way for the establishment of insurance companies and banks; well-known international banks4 opened their branch in the city (Frangakis-Syrett 1997). Development of financial markets and capital accumulation based on foreign trade led investments in urban infrastructure and production of consumption goods (Özveren 2003a: 264–272): Streets and avenues were rebuilt; water, electric and gas were diffused within the city as their respective companies were instituted; tramway lines were built in Kordon,5 Göztepe, Kar¸sıyaka; boats started to operate in the Gulf by the Hamidiye Boat Company (Yurt Ansiklopedisi 1983, vol. 6: 4275–4276; Kütüko˘glu 2000e: 249–283). As for the

Ottoman Archives of Directorate of State Archives (OA), ˙I.MMS. 5/177 (16/07/1855). OA, ML.VRD. 3812. 3 OA, ˙I.DH 250/15323 (24.03.1852); A.MKT.NZD 54/52 (11.05.1852); C.NF 5/250 (12.05.1853); ˙I.DH 253/15599 (21.05.1852); ˙I.DH 258/15905 (19.08.1852); ˙I.DH 257/15892 (14.09.1852). 4 Bank d’Athènes, Banque d’Orient, Deutsche Oreinte Bank, Banque de Salonique, Société Générale, Crédit Lyonnais, Banca di Roma, Wiener Bankverein. 5 Owing its name to the historic ‘Cordon sanitaire’. 1 2

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production of consumption goods, were 24 flour mills were in operation in 1880– 1881, 26 oil mills in 1890, 2 breweries, 2 spirits and 4 ginger beer factories in 1896, 1 ice factory in 1889, and 2 pasta factories in 1890 (Martal 1992: 142, 145, 147, 151); Barbaros 1995: 82). In 1918, there were 10 soap factories, 67 oil mills, 2 breweries, 2 ice factories, 20 flour factories, and 8 pasta factories (Martal 2007: 75–76; Serçe 1998). The number of residential houses increased from 16.533 in 1890 to 46.765 in 1918, that of shops from 5.360 to 8.939, that of bakeries from 251 to 329, that of schools from 63 to 176, that of theaters from 2 to 9, that of hotels form 20 to 82, that of restaurants from 27 to 65, that of movie theaters from nil to 17. Craft production based essentially on household labor, such as weaving, spinning, tannery, oil and soap mills, prevailed in the region until the mid-nineteenth century but it was also transformed as capital accumulation permeated the hinterland (Martal 1992: 121–122). After the big push in the cotton cultivation resulted from the American Civil War, British entrepreneurs imported gins and opened ginneries in Izmir, Menemen, Bayındır, Tire, Manisa and Aydın (Kurmu¸s 1982: 107–111; Martal 1992: 125–126). In 1897, among 41 cotton mills in operation in the whole Empire, 30 were located in the province of Aydın to which Izmir was dependent (Güran 1997: 262). Although cotton yarn was an import item in the Empire, spinning factories were opened in the province in 1853, 1876 and 1891 (Martal 1992: 126–129, 155). In Izmir, as in the Ottoman Empire in general, the production of capital goods was not as developed as that of consumption goods, but most of what existed of that industry was concentrated in Izmir rather than Istanbul (Ökçün 1997: 179–180). Iron plants and foundries were active to establish inward and backward linkages with the industrial structure in development (Özveren 2003a): factories of Issigonis, RankinDelmas and Papps on the one hand, workhouses of Smith, Biejerring and Westland on the other hand. For example, the Issigonis factory, founded in 1854, employed 60 to 70 workers to manufacture just in 1872: 11 steam engines of diverse capacities from 2 to 20 horsepower, 12 boilers of various capacities, 20 to 30 hydraulic presses (for oil) of various sizes, 100 hand or steam pumps, 40 pumps of garden, 5 fire pumps, 2 steam mills, 60 to 70 tanks for water or for oil with of various capacities, 10 iron or copper basins for the manufacture of soap, 2.5 tons of cast iron; more fonts of various metals of all sizes, carts and agricultural implements (Scherzer 1873: 175– 176; Kurmu¸s 1982: 123–126; Martal 1992: 140). According the industrial census of 1886–1887, among the 1103 factories in operation in the Empire, 141 were in Istanbul and 111 in the province of Aydın; according to that of 1913–1915 which listed establishments employing more than 10 workers in the Empire, 22.3% of the industrial units were in Izmir in 1913 (21.9% in 1915). Chemical industry was however concentrated in Izmir; with 66.6% of them in 1913 and 61.5% of them in 1915 being there (Issawi 1980: 278; Barbaros 1995: 81–86; Toprak 1995: 134).

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6.3 Bearing the Burden of the Past During the First Half of the Twentieth Century The balance on which a port-city in its very moment of strength rests is potentially quite fragile. The port-city is very sensitive to economic and political changes originating from the world at large since its strong point is also its Achilles’ heel. The continuity of material and cultural exchange is the sine qua non of its survival as such. The First World War, Greek occupation, the Turkish War of Independence (1919–1922), the fire of 1922, the population exchange between Greece and Turkey, and the formation of the Turkish nation-state inevitably transformed Izmir step by step. The composition of Izmir’s population had begun to change as of the end of the nineteenth century, following the arrival of Muslim refugees from Russia, the former Ottoman provinces of Thessaly and Macedonia, Serbia and Romania; starting with the escape and departure of its Greek and Armenian inhabitants in the aftermath of the irreversible Greek military defeat and the subsequent fire of 1922, continuing with the more gradual and somewhat limited emigration of Levantines of European descent who had resided there for several generations; and finally reaching its climax with the exchange of populations between Greece and Turkey that led to the departure of some 1.2 million Greeks from Asia Minor and the arrival of 400.000 Muslims from Greece (Keyder 1981: 22). Whereas in 1927, according to the census, non-Muslims were no more than 13.8% of the urban population: a percentage certainly significantly lower than the proportion of non-Muslims which was 61.5% in Smyrna at the end of the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, this was still an indicator of relatively high demographic diversity standing out in comparison with most other Turkish cities; in 1927 only in two cities the proportion of non-Muslims were higher: Istanbul (35%) and Edirne (18%) (Behar 1996: 64). The economic activity of the city now rested in the hands of the former MuslimTurks of the city who were already integrated into mercantile circuits, immigrants (mübadil) from Salonica (where they were already involved in international trade) arriving by virtue of the Greek-Turkish exchange of populations, and finally nonMuslims, mainly dealing with commerce and trades. In the 1920s, foreign companies present in Izmir could continue their business thanks to these intermediaries among whom the Jews gained a noticeable prominence. Foreign capital was also back to business as usual in the city’s economy: thus, through trading houses and banks, it became decisive in the organization of export-oriented agriculture; just as it was supportive of new manufacturing firms (between 1923 and 1929, the foreign capital invested in Izmir is twice as important as Turkish capital) (Keyder 1987: 93–94). Despite the upheavals experienced by the city, until the end of the 1920s, the economic activity of Izmir experienced a certain continuity via recovery and reconstruction. Commercial agriculture and the transfer of traditional exports to international markets almost attained their pre-war levels. Republican governments pursued a rather liberal free-trade policy in accordance with the dominant trends in the

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world economy and the limitations imposed by certain provisions of the Treaty of Lausanne.6 In this context, Izmir remained a port city where the dynamics of economic activity was dictated first and foremost by the rhythm of international trade, as in the classic sense of the term. The replacement of former Greeks by Jews also helped secure this result within less than a decade. On the other hand, the living conditions are no longer the same. In Yanık Yurt,7 “the burnt country”, life is less colorful and “beautiful Izmir” turns into a sad city. Yorgo Seferis, who was born in 1900 in Izmir where he lived until 1914, felt profoundly this sadness as walking in the burnt quarters even in 1950; he wrote in his journal on the 16th of October: From our house I found myself suddenly at the Central School for Girls, one of the very few old buildings that have survived. As far as I can recall, in my day the two neighborhoods were some distance apart. You had to wind through alley after alley, see many windows and many faces, pass through so much life- in order to get from one to the other. Now, among these empty, intersecting streets, one stride seems enough; all the proportions have changed for me. You still pass by the burned debris (left by the fire of 1922) and piles of dirt which look like offal from the crude sprouting of reinforced concrete. And it seems only yesterday that the great ship was wrecked. I feel not hatred, what prevails within me is the opposite of hatred, an attempt to comprehend the mechanism of catastrophe. (Seferis 2000: 177)

In 1929, Zeynel Besim, publisher of the daily Hizmet, complained also about sadness, particularly regretting the lack of social spaces where townspeople and visitors could have fun, have a good time and spend money (Hizmet September 15, 1929). He does not even bother to mention the few movie theaters still in operation in Izmir at the time, because movies were looked down as a form of entertainment in comparison with theaters and other staged shows that once abounded in the cosmopolitan city. But with the Great Depression of 1929, the decline of Izmir (Özveren 2003a) undoubtedly picked up and announced critical changes for the Turkish economy. The Great Depression meant a sudden drop in agricultural export prices and concomitant market breakdowns. In 1929, in Izmir, foreign demand for traditional exports such as tobacco, cotton, figs and grapes plummeted. In 1930, just a year after the Great Depression and with the harvest from 1929 at hand, more than a thousand companies established in Izmir and Istanbul declared themselves bankrupt; some peasants even had to sell their property to pay their debts and taxes (Keyder 1987: 96). By coincidence, the year 1929 also marked the end of the period of application of the Ottoman customs tariffs enforced by the time-limited provisions of the Treaty of Lausanne. The field was thus wide open for protectionist economic policies of the 1930s and the restrictions on international trade. Izmir, whose former dynamism depended on foreign trade, suffered greatly from the new economic situation. Just 6

The Lausanne Peace Treaty not only froze Turkish customs duties at the levels set in 1916 but also obliged the Turkish government to remove quantitative restrictions on foreign trade. These limitations were to continue until 1928. 7 After the fire of 1922 and for a few years, the Smyrniot daily Hizmet (Service) was published under the name Yanık Yurt.

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as the Great Depression hit Izmir first and most, it would remain an indirect and delayed beneficiary of the new economic policies put into effect. The workers, mainly concentrated in port cities, are affected not only by the reduction of wages but also by the dysfunction of commercial activities. In 1930, grape warehouse workers and fig workers demonstrated in Izmir to express their discontent to the government (Emrence 2000: 31–52). Strikes broke out everywhere, especially in Izmir where the crisis was felt more severely. The economic depression also negatively influenced the cultural and intellectual life of the city. In reality, the latter had already begun to suffer as of the early 1920s, and with the departure of most of its Christian inhabitants, the literary journals and newspapers they published disappeared from the scene. This had a further negative impact because rivalrous competition had stimulated a parallel rise in Ottoman-Turkish literary production. The elimination of this competitive pressure via a demonstration-effect had undesirable consequences on the cultural fortunes of the city. In May 1930, referring above all to the state of literary production in Turkish, Hikmet Turhan, a journalist writing in the daily newspaper Anadolu of Izmir, remembered with nostalgia the years when the city’s cultural life was at its peak, and regretted that it had lately become gloomy (Anadolu May 22, 1930). Needless to say this was also because political life in general and cultural reforms under way in particular in Istanbul and Ankara attracted a significant faction of Izmir’s intelligentsia to move, not the least important of whom was Halit Ziya U¸saklıgil. Just after the outbreak of the Great Depression, Republican leadership decided to switch to bipartisanship. The Serbest Cumhuriyet Fırkası (Free Republican Party or SCF) was founded in 1930 with the encouragement of Atatürk. Led by Atatürk’s confidante and former liberal-minded Prime Minister, Fethi Okyar, who masterminded the reconstruction and recovery policies of the 1920s, the new party insisted on advocating a rather liberal economic policy as if the Great Depression had not occurred. This was naturally attractive to Izmir’s population and the Aegean countryside where pro-market policies had led to the amelioration of farmers’ incomes before the Great Depression. Unlike the Cumhuriyet Halk Fırkası (Republican People’s Party or CHF), identified with the bureaucratic and military cadres in public mind, the breakaway SCF received unexpectedly vast popular support, including those of the agricultural and commercial factions, especially in the rich agricultural regions of Izmir’s hinterland. But the decisive moment when the conflict between the two parties crystallized occurred in the political demonstration that took place in Izmir in September 1930. The leader of the SCF, Okyar, received a more than warm welcome by the crowd already frustrated by the economic crisis under way, the immediate and direct burden of which they felt more than anyone else. It was as if the deeper wave carried the handpicked political leadership of the party that was quite inexperienced in competitive politicking. Faced with an outburst of political discontent, the public forces intervened, and the unfolding unrest ended with 50 arrests and the death of a demonstrator. Following the events in Izmir, the Republican leadership decided to end the experimentation with multi-party politics. This eventful day nevertheless registered Izmir in the collective memory of republican Turkey as opponent of the central power.

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Controversies around economic policies continue in the newspapers. In 1931, in Izmir, the regional daily, Yeni Asır, opposed the statist policies which, according to it, favored the new emerging bourgeoisie of the Republic and were in contradiction with the interests of the popular classes. It proposes the implementation of a liberalism based on freedom to conduct a business and a populist statist policy allowing the equitable distribution of resources (Yeni Asır, July 13, 1931). The same daily had published in 1930 articles discussing the effects of Great Depression on Turkey’s economy; although perspectives of the authors (a tradesman having a liberal stance, a cooperative manager favoring a third way between liberalism and statism, and a physician with a historical materialist position) diverged, interestingly enough they all underlined internal dynamics rather than the role of external factors and the responsibility of the political power on the deep-felt effects of the Depression (Özveren 2003b). As for Izmir’s manufacturing industry, if it had begun to develop at the end of the nineteenth century under the impetus of the local and international market, its activities were interrupted first in 1922 and then in 1929. With the government support essential for the shift of priority from commerce to industry not forthcoming,8 it remained at best an episodic affair (Yurt Ansiklopedisi 1983, vol. 6: 4353). Investors preferred to choose a safer path by undertaking commercial activity yielding higher profits in the short run or by transferring their manufacturing investments elsewhere, notably to Istanbul.9 The economic policies of the 1930s, while addressing the Great Depression head on, did not favor Izmir. The economic strength of the city based on foreign trade could not find a place in the emerging new configuration of power in Turkey, that is to say, within the coalition formed by the bureaucracy and the manufacturing bourgeoisie which developed within the confines of the nation-state. This caused a disappointment in Izmir with the statist economic policies of the Republic. Unable to read correctly the changing economic circumstances of the world economy caught in the throes of the Great Depression, the urban business community, nostalgic about the good old days of business as usual in the fin-de-siècle Izmir, naively believed that if only the statist policies were rescinded, things would roll back to their original favorable state. In this context of shunning from the outside world, and of both cultural and economic relative isolation, Izmir began to lose whatever had remained of its portcity attributes, with little at hand to put in its place instead. Izmir reacted jealously guarding its practical autonomy with respect to the central power, its only treasure acquired gradually over the centuries, and its special position within the nationstate. In fact, the practical autonomy was possible in a conjunctural environment where Izmir continued to function as the sole export port, as the position of Istanbul 8

For example, though Izmir had a good number of winemaking industries, in 1930 the government decided to invest in the winemaking industry of Thrace and to stop its investments in this sector in the region of Izmir (Anadolu, June 10, 1930). 9 The example par excellence is the transfer, to Istanbul in 1942, of the chemical workshops of the Eczacıba¸sı family, which would then become the basis for one of the largest holding companies in present-day Turkey.

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remained somewhat uncertain until the Montreux already upon the city after the First World War, and the rivalry from other port cities, such as Mersin with a significant potential hinterland, was still absent because of the similar occupation regimes and the concomitant reconstruction in the waiting. The Turkish-Greek reconciliation in the 1930s, reduced significantly the deterrent strategic concerns of the Turkish government suspecting that Izmir would be a first target for any Greek military attack. During the Second World War, the German occupation of Greece, removed this already reduced conception of potential threat for Izmir even further as the Germans fighting against Soviet Russians were suspected of advancing from Thrace in case of a military assault rather than getting caught in an offside turmoil in Asia Minor. ˙ If the city continues to be designated as “Gâvur Izmir”, the expression no longer means the same thing as it did in the nineteenth century: Izmir is now unfaithful because it is distrustful of and questions the central power in terms of its implications on the economic prospects of the city. “Liberal” ideas have continued to be pursued in the city to counteract statist policies of the political center but they were not limited to laissez-faire politics; they have had republican and secular basis and repercussions. “Citizens” built up during the early years of Republican era, especially in the public spaces a form of commonality and conviviality; despite the existence of (and increasing) economic and social differentiation among the citizens, the interaction in the public open-air spaces (Kordon, Cordelio, Kemeraltı, Kültürpark, ˙Inciraltı, etc.) let them experience an exceptional environment of égalité and fraternité which has not been possible to observe in inland as well as other port cities of Turkey. As inland cities have not had chance to have such public spaces and experience such a public interaction in their history, port cities (such as Trabzon) lived through a radical break in their history as composition of their population changed quite completely and activities of their ports dropped drastically as opposed to Izmir that had experienced a relative continuity in both respects. A poet, Sina Akyol, who came in 1984 to Izmir to start to a new life, describes lyrically not only his feelings in his first night but also the atmosphere of commonality and conviviality built in the early republican period and then became almost an endemic character of the city: It was May, 5th of May.10 Here, I was in Izmir now! I was going to stay in a house reserved for me temporarily in Kar¸sıyaka. It was evening time, I settled in the house. Darkness fell and I went out into the street. As I unpacked my suitcase, the voices that I already began to hear but could not make any sense of, in fact the voices now getting louder, became almost clear. I was curiously descending from the Kar¸sıyaka Train Station towards the pier. With an unusual crowd that would not make me feel I had to spend my first night in the city alone, and more! But the day, the night we are in was not a feast! So, I was thinking, it must be the usual state of Izmir and Kar¸sıyaka. When I saw the pier and the main street in front of me, my astonishment increased even more. It was as if the match in which the national team

10

5th of May is the day of the spring celebration for the Balkan and Anatolian populations. In the 1980s celebrations in Izmir took place in an atmosphere of a carnival (not only in Kar¸sıyaka but also on the other side of the gulf, in Hatay and Göztepe).

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beat Hungary 3-1 was played not in Istanbul11 but in Kar¸sıyaka, and the people had just come out of that match, it was such a feast! I walked for a long time after those who were going from the pier to the direction of Bostanlı; When I got tired, I followed those who were going to the pier from Bostanlı and went back to where I started from; meanwhile, I jumped over the fire, kissed cheek to cheek with my three or five brothers, “see you!” we said to one another, I was enchanted, I decided what a good job I had done by immigrating to Izmir and I returned to the house where I was a guest. I took out my pen, took out my papers, I wrote a letter to one of my friends who had said, when I was about to leave Istanbul, “Don’t go, you’ll regret it, you’ll look for this place a lot”. I’m sure such a letter full of happiness as mine has not been written yet! (Akyol 2000: 32–33)

The combined effect of the flight of economic know-how, the loss of its status as an outward-looking port city, the impossibility of catching up with, and adapting to, the new conditions of the world economy, the political distrust of the central power, was to create an impasse and a stationary state of things. In spite of an aspiration (if not a nostalgia) to take a greater part in the national and international economy, Izmir became, during much of the twentieth century, a city known as a holiday resort and an economy where family-owned businesses reign. It became a city in a stationary state, living a dynamism without development. To illustrate this stillness, Izmir is often described as a city that beckons someone sitting on a bench on the Kordon not willing to leave his place, or even like a city that lives every day as if it were Saturday.12 Paradoxically, the ships entering to or departing from the port represent an economic dynamism of the world economy as well as that of Izmir.

6.4 The Fifties with Less-Than-A-Magic Touch For most of the twentieth century, the fate of the city did not change much, except during the 1950s when it seemed for a moment like it were going to. During the multiparty legislative elections of 1950, the Demokrat Parti (Democratic Party or DP), first formed in 1946 as a splinter from the Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (Republican Popular Party or CHP), came to power and proposed a populist policy; particularly in the Aegean region, it rallied the local executives of the SCF of the 1930s and represented the interests of small traders, the urban petty bourgeoisie, and commercial farmers. Two of the leading triumvirate of the DP, Celal Bayar and Adnan Menderes, both well-established political mavericks within the former one-party regime, were quite well known in Izmir and its hinterland from as early as the late Ottoman period. It was no coincidence that Izmir gave a strong support to the DP and stood behind it to the very end when it was overthrown by a military coup in 1960, and 11

Akyol refers here to a historical match between Turkey and Hungary taken place in Istanbul in 1956 when Hungary had one of the world’s most powerful national football team and Turkey had a very modest one. 12 In Turkey, Saturday is considered the most pleasant day of the week: it is the beginning of the weekend for employees, schools are closed, etc. Article "Izmir" in the collaborative hypertext dictionary published on the Internet, https://eksisozluk.com/izmir--34274 (access on the 28th of February 2022).

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remained loyal to DP’s political heirs well into the early 1970s. The new government, whose main executives originated from Izmir and the Aydın region, had hardly any economic program of their own, but a strong commitment to the sanctity of private property in land. Their economic vision was shaped by their past observations and experience in the Aegean. They hoped that Izmir could become an engine of growth serving the entire region. In their minds, they generalized this to the country where the Aegean could serve as a model. This was nothing new as the economic policy shaped by the Izmir Congress of Economics (1923) had also bestowed a similar role on Izmir and had worked fairly well in achieving economic reconstruction and recovery until the Great Depression. Highly optimistic DP wished to rerun the same scenario. To this effect, they committed themselves to developing western Anatolia first. Agricultural, commercial and industrial credits were generously granted to the region, a policy of high prices for commercial agriculture as an incentive to marketoriented farmers was put in place, and the economic infrastructure, primarily the motorways, was expanded. In a similar way, mechanization was given a free leeway with the assumption that any such input would have a more than disproportionate effect on productivity and output. The economic policies adopted, were pro-freetrade and in line with the momentary trend of the time. The conjuncture was one of a repeat performance of the cotton hunger stimulated by the American Civil War in the Eastern Mediterranean. Thanks to the postwar- recovery plans for Western Europe combined with the prerequisites of the international mobilization for the Korean War, the demand for agricultural products would increase and come with encouraging price signals. It was only natural that all this momentum would have a positive effect on reactivating Izmir’s port. Whether and to what extent this would be sustainable once the Korean War came to an end and the European agriculture recovered was quite another matter that remained beyond the field-of-vision of the short-sighted DP policymakers. For the time being, it seemed like Izmir and its hinterland were candidates for a place in the sun in precisely the way they were used to it. Izmir’s fortunes were also helped by the resurrection of the city’s strategic role within the context of US hegemonic consolidation via the NATO in southeast Europe in reaction to the Civil War in Greece and the conceived Soviet expansionary threat. Now that both Greece and Turkey were placed under US protection, they had much less to fear from each other. The influx of Americans and Europeans to the city and the demonstration effect of their lavish consumption habits on the city’s established notable families as well as the nouveaux riches who had been deprived of indulging in luxury during the decades-long Great Depression and the Second World War gave the city a magic touch of momentary wealth and flamboyance reminding one of the glamour of fin-de-siècle belle époque. It would only be a matter of time to discover that Izmir’s exports would succumb to a sluggish growth while imports would aspire for an exponential one. Even so, the rerun was successful albeit brief and founded on a make-believe, that is, conjectural foundation. Even if the momentum driven from the external dynamic lasted much longer, Izmir via the region could not have become the engine of growth for Turkey as a whole; a role it could not shoulder even with a less economically developed, unified, and diversified Turkey in the 1920s. This is why the DP economic policy was increasingly normalized into

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an import-substituting industrialization model with a controlled foreign trade regime and currency convertibility, and converged with what it had inherited from the past, with the closing of this parenthesis, the content of which was engraved in collective memory as the one brief moment of shining history. The prolongation of Izmir’s port-oriented business life well into the mid-twentieth century had been accomplished largely by the substitution of Jews for the Greeks and some Europeans who left the city for good. The postwar era started with additional signs indicating the closure of this last parenthesis was coming to an end. The more religious greater part of the Jewish community left after the formation of the State of Israel in 1948 to settle in the allegedly promised land, whereas a smaller more secular faction migrated gradually as far as Latin America well into the late 1950s. The deep astonishment and sorrow of Muslim shopkeepers of the Havra (Synagogue) Street as their Jewish colleagues left suddenly for their promised homeland in Israel without even informing them were genuine enough to find their expression in literature (Tarık Dursun K. 1982: 135–136). Little thus remained of the centuries-long and once thriving Jewish community of Izmir, the ranks of which had been replenished by Jewish migration from nearby towns and cities during the first half of the century, the best example being Dario Moreno who came from Aydın Germencik to Izmir in the 1920s and then fled to Paris for a stunning career in the 1950s.

6.5 Coping with the Normalization Forced upon the City On the other side, the mechanization of Anatolian agriculture promoted by the government in the 1950s resulted in giving a big push to internal migration from the villages to the big cities, Izmir included. This new workforce brought a new dynamism when combined with the revival of urban consumption by way of employment in various trades, services and industry. The rural exodus caused rapid urbanization and the development of slums. Izmir thus expanded considerably in area and its physical outlook changed. Some beautiful buildings were demolished in centrally located neighborhoods and replaced by higher rise apartment buildings. Over the following decades, the city saw a dual development with the modern city extending along the gulf coastline on one side and the underdeveloped city behind the hills on the other—the larger-scale realization of a duality already pointed out between the maritime part and the districts of the upper town by the perceptive prefect Midhat Pasha in 1880 (Bilsel 2006; Smyrnelis 2006). In the second half of 1960s, Izmir responded to these challenges by experimenting with a new kind of populist municipality regime attentive to the slums well aware of their importance in popular vote under Osman Kibar (1964–1973), nicknamed as “Asphalt Osman” because of his commitment to extend motorways into the expansive slums, of the Adalet (Justice) Party, heir to DP. By the 1970s, Izmir was considerably transformed into something else, most visible in the altered seaside cityscapes along the Kordon and Kar¸sıyaka, and the rapid quasi-industrial pollution of its once legendary gulf, and the increasingly congested inner city traffic. From 1974 onwards, Izmir’s municipality changed

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hands in conformity with the rising demands of the greater part of its population, and shifted to the left-of-center remodeled CHP and its followers for the most part, representing a since-then exceptional trend in Turkey where the municipality becomes a political bastion of oppositional power at odds with the central government for most of the time. Izmir owed the above transformation not only to its historical specificity inherited from the past but also to its submission to the general economic development by way of five-year plans throughout the 1960s and 1970s. These plans were designed to speed up industrial development so that Turkey could catch up within some 20 years with Italy, the then least developed member of the European Common Market within 20–30 years. Economic policies aimed to protect and expand the domestic market and promote industrialization through import substitution. In so doing, they ignored on-the-ground regional and environmental differences and imposed a one-size-fitsall straightjacket on the country. As in the 1930s, Izmir and its trade-based economic structure were, once again, less-than-a-perfect-fit to this new era. Restrictions on trade and preferential credit allotments put Izmir in a disadvantageous position, thereby speeding up its relative economic decline. The city failed to benefit from the investments implemented by the five-year plans. Some of its industrialists even decided to transfer their investments to cities where they could better qualify for refits as well as government incentives. It was in this context that in 1975, the Ulukartal family preferred to invest in Afyon (also called Afyonkarahisar) than Izmir, where most of the family’s businesses were situated (Gürsoy 1991: 269). During these years, Kocaeli, on the Sea of Marmara, proximate to Istanbul and Bursa, and connected with Ankara, was promoted deliberately by the developmental strategy as a new industrial economic center that overtook Izmir. By contrast, for at least one leading sociologist, Izmir thus became “the city that cannot get organized” (Kıray 1972). In the 1980s and 1990s some well-known big companies found in Izmir lived through financial difficulties and became bankrupt: Kula Mensucat, ˙Izmir Yün, and Sezak Halı in the textile sector; ˙Izmir Elektronik in the electronics sector; Karao˘glu Madeni E¸sya, ˙Imesko Madeni E¸sya and Meta¸s in the metal industry; Yupi Tavukçuluk and Aykent Gıda in food industry (Uras 2017). In fact, most of them were family-owned companies, despite their resilience during crisis period (thanks to innovative and gallant measures that could be advanced by family members and the self-exploitative character of family business), they could not be able to sustain their success stories in the long run because of their deficiency to institutionalize their business, their rigidity to adopt their business in a changing environment, and their inability to solve conflicts of interest emerging within the family. Internal migration accelerated from the 1950s onwards. If Izmir, the third largest city in Turkey, attracted people from the underprivileged regions of Anatolia, it still remained the third destination after Istanbul by a wide margin and Ankara by a narrow one. Migrants hoped to find new economic opportunities in these cities, but in reality, Izmir had much less to offer than either Istanbul (industrial employment) or Ankara (government service). For those who could not set up a small business of their own or join the informal sector, Izmir’s consolation was its mild climate favorable to survival. And this was not just the climate per se, but the general hospitable

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atmosphere the newcomers found themselves in. During the 1980s and 1990s, Izmir welcomed a new wave of immigrants, this time Kurds fleeing the armed conflict in eastern Turkey. In Izmir, unlike the ethnic tensions that broke into sporadic hostilities elsewhere, things went relatively smoothly for the newcomers. This was no surprise given Izmir’s long history of experience in coping with differential identities of various sorts. This was a lesson learned the hard way over the very long term, but once taken, had a proclivity to stay intact, rather than disintegrating into dust. With the different waves of immigration experienced by the city after 1922, the profile of its population gradually has been changing continuously: if in 1935, 67% of the inhabitants were born in Izmir, in 2000, they dropped to as low as only 52%; and remained at that level in 2015. Given this trend, maintaining a common culture and a sense of shared identity requires a conscious extra effort. The so-called liberal era of the 1980s did not transform the fate of Izmir, as one could have optimistically expected from the previous example of the early 1950s. The markets for goods, capital and labor were “liberalized” following the 1980 coup d’état and the closely monitored transition from above to a custom-tailored multi-party democracy. While the new economic policy offered a large program of subsidies to encourage exports, the proactive role of the government in their allocation persisted. In this economic and political context, many companies in Izmir could not cope with the “liberalization” of the markets and many were forced into bankruptcy (Görsoy 1991: 194; Sipahi 2003) With or without Turgut Özal, the promoter of ‘liberal’ transformation since 1980, the relative decline of Izmir continued only to gain a new momentum after the 1990s. For example, if the national per capita income increased by 47% for Turkey, it only increased by 28% for Izmir. The same was true of exports: if in 1926, exports from Izmir represented 43% of Turkish exports, this percentage fell to 37% in 1937, to 33% in 1977, to 22% in 1981, to 19% in 1991, and 13% in 2001 (Yurt Ansiklopedisi 1983, vol. 6: 4359). One might correctly add that the picture of 1926 was unsustainable in the long run as the Turkish economy was launched on a path of long-term development. Even so, the figure in 2001 is way below what Izmir as the regional maritime gateway to the world deserved. Just as the conservative government of economically-liberal-minded Özal, a onetime unsuccessful candidate for the Senate from the religious-right National Salvation Party in Izmir, disdained the city and its business circles that did not support him. Izmir, in return, consolidated its suspicious traditional standing against the central power. This polarity survived Özal and the subsequent era of coalition governments, and throughout the rise to power of political Islam and its consolidation in government with a solid majority in the parliament under the banner of Justice and Development Party of Recep Tayyip Erdo˘gan. Izmir stood resolutely aloof to all kinds of seductive overtures by the AKP throughout the last two decades as the city that did not allow the relinquishing of municipal government to AKP. Throughout this entire period, Izmir represented both the secular pole against the rise of political Islam, and the democratic pole against the anti-democratic politics of various sorts. This is why after every election, Turkish democratic electorate

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disappointed by the results expressed a desire to move to Izmir for good.13 The tension between the city and the central power therefore intensified, the Izmir’s electorate remaining the rebellious opponent, in conformity with the historical tradition of the city as the municipal elections of March 28, 2004 proved it as a prefiguration of what was yet to come repeatedly afterwards. Although the ruling party ostensibly threatened not to facilitate city affairs if the mayor (of the opposition party) is reelected, Izmir responded by a more than 50% vote to do otherwise. Izmir remained the only major city in Turkey governed by the opposition until the last round of municipal elections in 2019 when Ankara and Istanbul also shifted their political allegiance to the opposition.

6.6 Izmir, Lost & (yet to Be) Found? Izmir has thus continued to retain its unique identity within the nation-state. An event that has marked the memory of its inhabitants, as the symbol of its autonomous character and its particularity was the match (the penultimate match of the season) which opposed, during the 1980–1981 season, two of the city’s football clubs: Kar¸sıyaka and Göztepe. This decisive match for the second division championship attracted some 80,000 spectators, a record for Turkey where the championship as well as popular team support are overwhelmingly dominated by the three Istanbul first division clubs. This is a telling example of how Izmir chose to stay on its own way and resist the temptation to let itself be carried by the trend of the times. Yet the same example is also telling from another point of view. At about the same time Turkish football was undergoing a profound transformation in keeping with a worldwide tendency. From 1965 onwards, within less than a decade, Trabzonspor emerged by careful design from the unification of a number of chronically insignificant amateur historic clubs in the city of Trabzon. The formula proved immensely successful as the new Trabzonspor won the championship six times between 1975 and 1985, thereby breaking the hegemony over the championship by the three clubs of Istanbul. To this day, Izmir has some ‘historic’ clubs going back to the early twentieth century, and they have protected their amateurish spirit and subsequent cut-throat rivalry, but have also not been able to follow the lesson that could be drawn from Trabzonspor’s instructive example. Is this not another sign of how Izmir is notable for its “inability to get organized”, as we saw above! As a result, Izmir’s clubs have become increasingly less important in Turkish football. Trabzonspor’s rise was an organized achievement with a strong anti-establishment flavor. Istanbul’s three clubs, partly in response to this challenge, became transformed into thoroughly professional business enterprises, the shares of which are traded in the stock exchange. Izmir’s clubs 13

Such a political positioning led some intellectuals and younger people (of bourgeois origin) equipped with ecological sensibilities decide to settle in Urla and Seferihisar especially after the pacification of Gezi protests in 2013. A similar tendency in favor of Karaburun, far from sight, had been observed among the more radical youngsters persecuted after military coup of 1980.

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managed to go neither way, and stuck where they became increasingly irrelevant to the national football scene. Altay, another one of the historical football clubs, made it back to the super league after a sustained remarkable effort last year. It has lived through difficult times since then and nobody knows if it will be able to remain as such—most likely to be at the expense of Göztepe—or fall back to where it was before. In general, it may be admirable to preserve a sportive spirit of amateurism against all odds, but it does not bring success as it is understood in contemporary football.14 Moreover, it stands out as sign of a more widespread malaise that extends well into the broader spectrum at large: the inability to get organized and thus address collectively the problems the city faced, be they political, economic, or ecological. It must be the acknowledgment of such an evaluation on Izmir that made decide Seyit Mehmet Özkan to organize in a totally atypical way (representing a countercurrent to trends of the world football) Altınordu, another historic football club, in 2010s: “Altınordu football club’s main objective is to educate and develop our players to be: Good Person, Good Citizen, Good Player. Altınordu is not an ordinary club. Altınordu Football Academy (ALFA) is a football and life education institution. Besides football, youth players are provided with training, education and information which they will need throughout their lives”.15 The club does not have foreign players and prefers young players raised from ALFA. Indeed, it does not search for an immediate success; last year when it lost against Altay in the decisive match for the promotion to the Super League, Özkan was more than happy for having lost the final, since the ultimate aim of the club was different: We are aiming to promote Altınordu to the Turkish [Super League] in 2025, in the last year of our second five-year plan. In this process, we aim to increase the ratio of home-grown playing time to 70%, which is currently 40% in our Senior Team. Until now, we haven’t set a goal to rise to the top division. This is because our primary goal is ‘Player Development’. Competition comes afterwards. At the end of the second five-year plan, after Advanced Performance Football training process, it is our biggest dream to play with our home-grown players in the Turkish Super League.16

Faced with an ever younger population, Izmir has so far chronically failed to offer them attractive higher education prospects and employment opportunities after graduation. Already soon after the Second World War, the more ambitious students with a good baccalaureate went for higher education to Istanbul. From the 1960s onwards, when higher education became a prerequisite to enter the labor market in 14

Izmirspor, historical football club carrying the name of the city, is an example par excellence for its endurance in the spirit of amateurism, it is now playing in the regional amateur league and has been struggling since years to get back to the national leagues where it played until 2000s. 15 Altınordu FC, “Altınordu Philosophy”, https://eng.altinordu.org.tr/altinordu-philosophy (access on the 28th of February 2022). 16 As other exceptions to the inability to get organized in the domain of sport, we could cite Pınar Kar¸sıyaka in men’s basketball (two times champion in the Turkish premier league in 1987 and 2014) and Arkas in men’s volleyball (four times champion in the Turkish premier league in 2006, 2007, 2013 and 2015). Both clubs being backed by big companies (Ya¸sar Holding for the former, Arkas Holding for the later) rely mostly (though not as radically as Altınordu does) on young players raised by their youth academies.

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search of a desirable job, the exodus of the youth accelerated: the universities in Istanbul and Ankara (with English as medium of instruction) were preferred over Izmir’s universities. Once having completed their studies, most of these graduates were compelled to stay rather than return to Izmir where the demand for professionals was limited and the likelihood of promotion within family-owned businesses beyond a certain level seemed next to impossible. This looked somewhat paradoxical given that the quality of secondary education in Izmir has been superior to that of other cities: Izmir has for long retained the first place in the ranking of cities in the highly competitive nationwide university admission and placement exam. The situation was however reversed in the 2000s; as the quality of secondary education dropped (conforming to the general trend in Turkey) and the number of (public and private) universities in Izmir has attained eight, most of the students (whether successful or not) prefer to stay at home for their university degree. However, increasing tightness of the labor market in Izmir continues to push younger generations to other cities where the labor market is more dynamic and promising. It has now been recognized for about three decades that Izmir has a regrettable net export of “human capital” out of the city, because this new type of export does not return in any way to Izmir, but, on the contrary, causes a chronic loss of the resource it needs most for its resurrection this time as a world-connected education-based city. The byproduct of this new export item is the reinvention by the emigrants of their identity as an “outsider” elsewhere, that is, in the “gurbet”.17 Students as well as graduates climbing up the professional ladder feel themselves as different from the others who surround them, and live in a permanent sense of nostalgia and longing for the times they spent in Izmir. This is understandable because life in Izmir is quite different from most places. This is because tranquility reigns there, and the city is constantly bathed in a holiday atmosphere. A host of factors are responsible for this effect: the relative under-activity of the business community and the slow motion flow of affairs, the existence many nearby easily accessible holiday resorts, and the ease of getting around offered by the means of transport of a large but compact city. The dwellers have the impression of being able to do with the city whatever they want, of simply enjoyment of living there without much constraint or pressure. Living in Izmir means being both in a big city and in a coastal resort town; it’s living in a city that is much more open, more modern, yet also more easygoing, and more diversity tolerant, and by a wide margin when compared to most other cities in Turkey.18 Perhaps it is because of this particular way of life that the natives of Izmir in general but especially the women in particular, have been much appreciated in Turkey! Cahit 17 “Gurbet” is a Turkish word used to describe the sense of spiritual remoteness from one’s native soil. 18 Istanbul has a more pluralist image art first sight. Upon second thought, because Izmir is a spatially much more compact city where a smaller population is nevertheless more concentrated and most of the time outside, thanks to its milder climate and good weather, this diversity is much more continuously and thoroughly being experienced by the inhabitants. To designate the central compactness of the city as such, one can claim that Izmir is much like “a coastal town” of Anatolia, borrowing an expression dear to Dilek Akyalçın.

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Külebi, the Republican poet who lived in Ankara, described Izmir as “denizi kız, kızı deniz, sokakları hem kız hem deniz kokan s¸ehir” [the city where the sea smells of woman, the woman of the sea, and streets smell of both]. Thus, Izmir still occupies a special place in Turkey and makes its inhabitants feel that they are exceptional. Hence the emergence of a sense of unusual “provincialism” that develops usually when one is away from Izmir, but then once transplanted on to the native soil upon one’s return, temporary or otherwise, takes roots that are ineradicable, even though the city may itself change unrecognizably to the “objective” eye of many an outsider. Fortunately traces of old Izmir have not disappeared altogether from collective memory. If the names of the streets have been officially changed, the old names are still being used by some deep-rooted inhabitants of the city with intergenerational continuity: thus the “1382 sokak” remains, for them, “Gül Sokak”, the famous “Rue des Roses” perpendicular to the “rue des Francs” where most of the big European merchants of the city lived from the eighteenth century onwards. Likewise, the “Murat Reis” district is still known as “Karantina”, although there is obviously no quarantine there, only the memory of the old one. Sensitive to this collective memory, the Metropolitan Municipality did not hesitate to give the name of “Karantina” to the tramline station and the place built around it, both situated in front of the old buildings of Ottoman quarantine administration, in 2019. Increasingly nostalgic for the bygone days, the inhabitants wonder about the causes of relative decline and the means to remedy it. For each generation, the bygone days shift, and point specifically to a different period, but what they all have in common is an interest in and a yearning for the past. By comparing the contemporary economic and social situation of the present city with its past, today’s more conscious and better educated inhabitants are not only somewhat disappointed but also indulge in mental exercises as to how the future of Izmir could be better shaped by taking lessons from history as well as contemporary Mediterranean and worldwide trends. With respect to the first, activities that bridge Izmir with Salonica, the histories of which have been interactive just as both have been historically important port cities with a convergent destiny as port-cities in the nineteenth century, are of utmost relevance.19 In a similar vein, people of Cretan origin in Izmir and its hinterland express an increasing interest in their ancestral homeland and organize in various associations and activities including holiday trips that are reciprocated by their counterparts from the island.20 These connections help enrich identity and local knowhow across the sea. It is through such connections that Izmir’s ties with its overseas vicinity are thereby resurrected. These are not substitutes for Izmir’s ties with its surroundings and its hinterland but help to reinforce them as well. In any case, Izmir 19

For example, Exhibition organized by Izmir Mediterranean Academy “Oh My Sister: Salonica and Smyrna (1880–1912). Regional Centers, Global Port-Cities”, Curator: Dilek Akyalçın Kaya, Izmir, Historical Gas Factory, 3 October-30 November 2019. (Reopening at Portuguese Synagogue, Izmir, 1–30 September 2021). See Akyalçın Kaya ed (2022). 20 Every year, on the 3rd of December, ˙Izmir Giritliler Derne˘ gi (the Association of Izmir Cretans) organizes a visit (First Step from Crete to Izmir during the Exchange of Population) to the (old) quarantine island found in Urla to commemorate the day of anniversary for the landing of Cretan refugees to Izmir.

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is now strongly entrenched in its hinterland as never before, as an unintended consequence of the developmental strategy adopted by the state since the 1930s, which integrated the economic space we characterize here as Izmir’s hinterland as well as reinforcing mutual dependency. By deliberately spreading manufacturing industry in this landscape of cities and towns, this strategy has also possibly served to decrease regional inequalities. As a consequence, Izmir’s connection to its hinterland is neither as simple nor unilateral as it was when Izmir was at its prime as a port-city, nor as fragile when this specific association eroded. The increasingly widespread interest in Izmir’s past and the possibilities it suggests for the future is encouraging and finds an increasingly conducive institutional environment over the past few decades. The discussion list created in the early ˙ ˙ Dü¸sünceden 2000s on the internet by the city’s bourgeois elites entitled “Izmir Için Eyleme,” (From Reflection to Action for Izmir) is one, and not the only, example of these kind of developments. The concerned elite has also founded societies that bring together the businessmen and businesswomen of the city (EGS, Güçbirli˘gi Holding, Kipa) whose objective is to oppose the sale of local companies to the big holding companies of Turkey,21 to try to carry out the promotion of the city to attract investment22 and to forge closer ties, including active lobbying, with governments in Turkey and increasingly elsewhere. All these efforts attest to the fact that there is a growing awareness of the importance of “organized” activity at all levels. The metropolitan municipality plays an important role in providing incentives, context, and institutional arrangements for such organized efforts. It created in 2009 a board entitled ˙ Izmir Ekonomik Kalkınma ve Koordinasyon Kurulu (Izmir Board of Economic Development and Coordination) and conceived as a democratic platform composed of members from business associations, chambers of diverse professions, universities, cultural institutions, sport clubs, etc. of the city to discuss issues on the economic development of Izmir and search for solutions in a collective manner. It also created in 2000 Izmir Urban Museum and Archives (later entitled, in 2004 Ahmet Piri¸stina Izmir Urban Museum and Archives) to provide the existent urban identity of Izmir with a solid foundation and a corresponding historical perspective, and in 2013 Izmir Mediterranean Academy (providing a democratic and collaborative platform in the domains of history, design, ecology, and culture) to open a Mediterranean and international perspective to its citizens. The principle of participation and collaboration in a political environment where authoritarian regimes started to reign worldwide shaped the course the Metropolitan Municipality took in their actions during the 2000s. Indeed, such a perspective has suited very well with the mood of commonality and conviviality that the citizens are

21

The sale of Piyale in 2001, Turkey’s oldest established pasta producer, to Sabancı’s group caused discontent of the inhabitants of Izmir. On the other hand, this event reveals the special character of Izmir if we consider at the same time the energy that local businessmen spent in the early 2000s to attract investments from British American Tobacco to their city. 22 In 2002, a vast campaign took place to attract the organization of the Turkish Formula 1 leg to Izmir. Nevertheless, in the contest between the cities, this cause was lost in favor of Istanbul.

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used to enjoying in Izmir. The project Izmirdeniz (Izmirsea) designed in a participatory and collaborative environment to create public spaces along the seaside represents a perfect (and successful) example of such a fit.23 Nevertheless, people in Izmir do not necessarily need the municipality to engage in such collaborative activities. ˙ A Facebook group called Eskimeyen Izmir Foto˘grafları (Ageless Izmir Photographs) represents another atypical self-managed organization (the other being Altınordu as we discussed above) in search for a collective history and it has a website where individual stories/photographs and self-promotion reign. The group shares photographs taken from any period of Izmir and members composed of either actual or former citizens, in search of for the “Güzel Izmir” of their own, comment on them collectively in such a way that interaction among the members reactivates or revives social life and relations frozen once upon a time in the scene of photographs. A photograph of hosts and hostesses employed during the Mediterranean Games of 1971 makes members of the group reveal their presence during the Games: some worked as subcontractor or employee in the construction of Izmir Atatürk Stadium in Halkapınar or the dormitories in ˙Inciraltı; some who had inhabited in the neighborhood quarters of the Stadium talk about their fear of the fire that broke out during the construction; some recognize herself or his friends among the hosts and hostesses found in the photo; some talk about how hosts and hostesses were selected from the reputed high schools of Izmir; some announce that they got gold medals during the Games; while others who started to work in the meantime at the postal service (PTT) talk about the sale of stamps published specially for the Games; one talks about his father who was employed during the games as physician; some talk about the competitions they followed; almost all talk about the exceptional cold weather in Izmir during the Games. Or a photograph of an ordinary street at Tilkilik taken in the 1980s makes members of the group plunge back into the time of the photograph: people recognize their homes found in the photo and get in touch with their old neighbors; some recognize the coiffeur salon that they used to go, found in the left hand side of the photograph; as some talk about the coiffeur’s life and her future salon found in a new quarter in Hatay, a member reveals that she now lives in Ulamı¸s in Seferihisar. Such a collective historicization of social relations and space by actors (of real life) is quite exceptional, reminding one of the recent French movie directed by Nicolas Bedos Belle époque (2019) in which a company allows people to experience a version of time travel by visiting a stage where the company arranges for them a staged historical reenactment. It should be noted that while such active engagements head on with the complex problems Izmir is now faced with are for the first time “organized” in a way never seen before, they are not yet either exactly consistent, or orchestrated albeit loosely for attaining a harmonious and mutually reinforcing orientation to a set of long-term goals defined with a twenty-first century perspective. We have seen above how Izmir has long been a port city and for a specific timeperiod a port-city, that is, the intensified and specific form the phrase could take. Irrespective of this subtle differentiation, a port city without a port is inconceivable. 23

http://www.izmirdeniz.com/ (access on the 1st of March 2022).

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There has been a global tendency to relocate ports further from the historic center of such cities as experienced in as disparate cities as Marseille and Mersin. Such a projected move was seen as appropriate from the viewpoint of the government. After all, the role of port was greatly reduced in the course of time as reflected in statistics. Compared with the early twentieth century, the share of the port in Turkey’s trade has dropped considerably, and furthermore, other cities in Izmir’s hinterland have reclaimed their international trade from Izmir’s monopoly, thanks to alternative routes but especially the growing importance of cargo traffic via airports. Such a relocation was not only in keeping with the trends, but it was argued, would also facilitate both maritime traffic and regional overland connections by cutting down transport time and costs. In case of Izmir, this relocation would be much further than in the abovementioned cases as it would involve a shift outside of Izmir’s gulf, separating the port and the city for good. This would then allow the gulf to be utilized as a marina and a recreational area, substituting an artificial touristic function for a real one. The new port would then be a port without a city, whereas Izmir would thus become a port city deprived of its port function, prefiguring a long-term destiny similar to that of once Ephesus, now an archaeological site cum tourist attraction. Izmir’s municipality, by undertaking a serious responsibility to elaborate an alternative project, successfully saved the port function. Izmir will thus remain a port city with a living port. This has so far been an important achievement. The port will continue to accompany Izmir as a living organ, though one among the increasingly several, in the determination of its daily rhythm (Filibeli and Gier 2018). From another viewpoint, a vast marina in the gulf was the last thing Izmir needed urgently, having at is arm’s reach two such marinas of considerable size, one in Sı˘gacık, and the other in Çe¸sme. As a matter of fact, a longtime favorite of inhabitants of the city for spending the weekends and holidays, Çe¸sme has become the most posh holiday resort in Turkey over the last few decades at the expense of once Ku¸sadası (1970s), and later Bodrum (1980s-2000). Çe¸sme also now serves Izmir as its regular maritime gateway to Chios and beyond. Çe¸sme’s progress in this respect has been accompanied by an urban developmental shift in Izmir’s main axis towards Balçova, the historic health spa in use since the ancient times. The lesson to be drawn from this observation is that Izmir is continuously outgrowing from its historical center by spreading in space. In one sense, there is now a greater second Izmir beyond Izmir proper. Yet in another sense, this Izmir does not grow concentrically like most other typical megapolises but diffuses into the surrounding countryside or its hinterland so as to transform it into an urbanized landscape or megaregion, the best known examples of which are the coastline of Netherlands or the strip of northeast USA. While enjoying all the conveniences of an urban infrastructure, this kind of a region also benefits from being embedded in nature. Izmir and its surroundings seem to be evolving in the direction of this alternative that enjoys the best of both possible worlds. As far as the quality of life offered to the inhabitants is concerned, this alternative is superior to whatever is meant by becoming a ‘world city’ or a ‘global city’. Attractive slogans as these may be, from the viewpoint of inhabitants who feel hurt by being left out or on the sidelines, they will do more harm than good to all the highly-esteemed

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aspects of living in Izmir and its surroundings. A developmental model along this trajectory has in fact been custom-tailored for Izmir recently under the auspices of the municipality (Tekeli 2018). This kind of planning proposes economic development by recourse to a knowledge-based economy. It prioritizes education, health, organic agriculture, quality tourism with an emphasis on creative engagement with culture. The idea is that this most remunerative tip of the economic activities will trickle down among the population as well as spreading wide in space precisely because it can be largely home-based, and requires working with local landscape. This is a safe route to becoming increasingly connected with the world without sacrificing the quality of life enjoyed by being an inhabitant of the greater Izmir. Rather than myopically pursuing agendas that focus on preserving the existent manufacturing activities, this alternative highlights the importance of upgrading them by injecting knowledge as an innovation-generating input, or replacing them by others that are dynamically more competitive given Izmir’s comparative advantages in human capital, infrastructure etc. Last but not least, Izmir possesses one of the best gulfs in the Mediterranean world with a natural harbor, rivalled perhaps only by the Bay of Naples, Malta, and Venice and its lagoon. It is a shame that a second-rate industrial policy combined with an unfettered urbanization with insufficient infrastructure caused enormous damage by pollution that in turn impacted adversely upon the quality of life. Much has been accomplished by conscious policy implementation in coming to terms with this ecological problem before it led to an irreversible environmental disaster. Lesser examples of environmental damage and built-environment related cultural heritage destruction abound in Izmir. Steps need to be taken to this effect. Fortunately, for every step policymakers take with public support, Nature, itself a beneficiary of worldwide rising concerns, reciprocates positively, sometimes even generously on its own. The destruction of the historic texture of Kordon, the abortive attempt to build a seaside motorway in the 1980s, and filling the shores afterwards played a negative role in this respect. Yet the gained areas have fortunately been put to better use for the most part. They have been assigned to public use as recreational zones. Thanks in part to them—and in part to municipal investment—, Izmir over the last decade, came to possess one of the most scenic tram routes in the world. The traffic lanes built on reclaimed land and filled shores has similarly caused much congestion endangering human health. Fortunately, the growing worldwide enthusiasm in adopting green policies in general and concern with reducing the level of carbon emissions in particular will hopefully once again come to the aid of Izmir to overcome at least in part the very problem created by short-sighted policies designed to facilitate traffic flows. In the future, sustainable development policies will have to take environment as much into consideration as they do with economic targets. The recognition of this need will open the public eye wide to the formation and enforcement of deliberatively shaped strategic planning. This alone would be a great accomplishment in a city known for its deep commitment to the principle of ‘business as usual’ in daily life and its instinctive inclination to endorse conventional liberal laissez-faire policies.

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Part II

Intermezzo: A View from the Bridge of Volos Collapsing into Infinity

Chapter 7

Volos in the Network of Mediterranean Cities: Comparative Mapping of the City’s Spatial Evolution Through the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Vilma Hastaoglou-Martinidis

Abstract Volos, a medium-sized port city located in central Greece, is presented as a case that exemplifies the common features and interconnections in the spatial form and evolution of Mediterranean coastal cities. This article proposes a comparative mapping of Volos’s spatial evolution with other Mediterranean cities, based on the understanding of the city as a networked field of flows of goods, capital, information, ideas, and culture, rather than as an isolated entity. The history of the city, its cultural heritage, and planning evolution are narrated and displayed within this perspective, adopting a thematic rather than a chronological order. The article investigates the diverse networks of Mediterranean cities (into which Volos was inserted in the nineteenth century) such as transport networks (harbour and rail buildings), networks of the commercial diaspora (notably in Egypt), financial networks (banks), productive activity networks (e.g., tobacco manufacturing), cultural institution networks (e.g., the spread of Catholic schools), and architectural networks (the diffusion of new building types). Setting the wider canvas of the city’s emergence and development within this framework contributes to a better understanding of similar, diverging, or totally dissimilar individual trajectories of Mediterranean cities within a fresh perspective that complements each city’s locally placed narratives. Keywords Mediterranean networks · Diaspora · City-building · Transports · Manufacturing · Culture

V. Hastaoglou-Martinidis (B) Aristotle University, Thessaloniki, Greece e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_7

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7.1 Introduction: Urban History Between the Global and the Local Our understanding of cities as crucial nodes in a global network is fairly recent, and only acquired prominence during the 1990s under the term of globalization. However, cities have always interacted with one another and have formed networks of communication and exchange, which were established within various contexts such as those of an empire or a colonial system, or were based on transport routes, geographical vicinity, or even historical circumstances. The proposed approach suggests a comparative mapping of city histories as a constructive mode of investigation and representation of the evolution of cities; it uses as the basis of comparison actual connections, real routes of exchange, and influences on transnational and trans-regional city networks. Their geographical breadth varies in time; different historical periods will yield different networks and hence different cities to compare. Comparison on the basis of actual networks intends to prioritize process over fixed forms in urban history and to acknowledge interconnection and record it as a significant factor of urban change. This type of comparison also seeks to challenge a linear representation of urban form as the outcome an individual trajectory in time and space by unravelling alternative formative themes and urban trajectories, thus enriching the study of urban history (Athanassiou and Christodoulou 2014). Volos, as many other Mediterranean cities, has from a very early age consolidated its existence on maritime contacts with distant worlds and cultures. Its location upon the maritime routes of the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas composes the geographic theatre where transfers, contacts, and exchanges between Volos with other cities were developed over the course of time. This is a constitutive scheme of unifying circles and common fields, within which Volos’s networks unfolded and shaped its identity and physiognomy. Perhaps one should first go back to mythological times to identify the first Mediterranean network, which was developed by the Mycenaean ancestor of Volos, Iolkos, the legendary city of Jason and the Argonauts, who sailed in the Black Sea and the Mediterranean in their quest for the Golden Fleece. A brief overview of the main steps in Volos’s evolution up to the present day is essential in order to identify overall spatial analysis topics and unfold networking themes that will help to shift away from a place-based urban history towards an informed networked display of concurrent forces, flows, and architectural trends that shaped the city’s past and present.

7.2 A Brief Outline of Volos’s Evolution Volos is located on the Aegean Sea at the eastern edge of the modern Greek mainland. Its natural setting—the protected coastline of its gulf, the fertile Thessaly Plain, and the volume of Mount Pelion—decisively shaped its character. Contemporary Volos is the descendant of a long course of city building that dates back to prehistoric

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Fig. 7.1 Volos in the nineteenth century: The castle and the new town, in an 1887 map

times. Archaeological evidence reveals uninterrupted human activity in the region, with numerous settlements flourishing since the seventh millennium BC throughout the Mycenaean, Classical and Hellenistic, and Roman and Byzantine eras. Due to its favourable geographical features, the region has been connected to expanding and contested political and commercial networks since the very early stages of trade in the Aegean and the Eastern Mediterranean (Fig. 7.1). Volos evolved in the Ottoman period (1423–1881), confined within the sixth century Byzantine castle. In 1840, it was a small fortress for around 150 Turkish families that controlled the limited movements in its half-deserted harbour, with few stores and a shabby jetty. This urban form matches the pattern of the échelle—the fortified coastal town-with-no-port—that was frequently encountered in the lateeighteenth-century Mediterranean. A number of impetuses boosted its spectacular transformation into a thriving port city by 1900. It started hesitantly in the period of the Ottoman reforms (tanzimat), under the dynamic rise of international trade in the Eastern Mediterranean and the opening of the Suez Canal, with the founding of a new town next to the old fortress. This novel urban creation was initiated by the Greek merchants of the Pelion villages, who obtained permission from the Sublime Porte to settle on the shores east of the castle in 1841. It was the first new town to be built in the European provinces of the Ottoman Empire. The incorporation of Thessaly into the Greek state in 1881 only strengthened the modernization of the city. Railway installations and modern harbour works opened Volos to economic innovations that fostered its transition from a commercial

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into an industrial town. Thus, Volos took part in a new evolving coastal sphere, a global harbour-building enterprise registered in many port-cities at the time, and was inserted into the broader cosmopolitan Mediterranean flows. Volos developed into the main port of Thessaly and into an alternative one to Thessaloniki or Piraeus for the Balkan States, and by 1920 it grew into the third industrial town in the country. Its space was enlarged by incoming inhabitants, and its image was reshaped according to the national model of neoclassical urbanism. It was enriched with important public buildings—many of them donations from the wealthy Pelion Diaspora—that evidenced the presence of a vibrant civil society in industrial ascendance. In the eventful inter-war period, Volos saw a dramatic increase in population and space. This sudden urbanization was caused by a non-economic factor—the exchange of populations between Greece and Turkey in 1923—and resulted in the creation of the large refugee settlement of Nea Ionia. Nonetheless, the population exchange had considerable social impact on the city; it boosted its industry with an abundant labour force and raised Volos to the country’s third industrial town. New public works were undertaken, especially the harbour extension, and numerous buildings of outstanding architecture were erected. In the mid-1950s, consecutive earthquakes almost levelled the city’s economy and urban fabric. Its reconstruction hardly benefited from previous or contemporary undertakings in other Mediterranean cities (Messina in 1908, the Ionian Islands in 1953). It took more than 10 years for Volos to re-establish itself physically, economically, and socially by means of new public amenities and a technical infrastructure. Today, Volos is a medium-sized town (the sixth largest in Greece) sprawling in a wider area. It suffered severe de-industrialisation, yet managed to redefine its identity as a lively, youthful city due to the foundation of the University of Thessaly in 1984, and as a gateway to Mount Pelion and the islands in the new globally competitive tourist industry. Investments in urban regeneration have equally played a decisive role in improving services, renovating public spaces and the seafront, and enhancing historical buildings, the latter of which benefitted from an exemplary policy at the national as well as the Mediterranean level with the re-purposing of 22 of the surviving 35 old industrial complexes to cover shortages in public amenities (Hastaoglou-Martinidis 2007).

7.3 Identifying the Networking Themes The time span of this research is from the early nineteenth century to the present; the aim is to identify the geographical, transnational, and trans-regional manifestations of networks, to foreground the physical traces (the spatial dimensions) of urban development, and to visualize flows and connections. In terms of methodology, Volos’s Mediterranean networks, that is, its direct relations with other cities, are established

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to identify diverse themes, involve different sets of cities by theme, and unfold these themes at different times. The historical study of the city of Volos provides for a series of spatial analysis topics that define the influences on the city’s physical form. These topics constitute the main attributes of the city’s evolution in a comparative approach, and include global phenomena, developments, trends, and major events in the region as well as in the broader Mediterranean area to pursue interconnections or comparisons. The spatial analysis topics are further specified into a larger number of networking themes that cover a wide range of processes and flows through which Volos formed its character. Thus, themes that would otherwise appear to be unique to the city of Volos act as a starting point to further investigate and unfold global networks such as transport and communication (railway and harbour buildings), population movements (immigration waves and settlement), production and labour (banks and manufacturing), cultural exchange (missionary schools), and architecture (architectural styles, planning models, and heritage preservation and management). In the following sections, the most significant cases of thematic networks that represent larger topics are explored with a focus on periods of major changes and the networks that affected the development of the city or shaped its character. The extensive documentation attempts to grasp, map, and convey the city’s spatial evolution and transformation in the network of Mediterranean cities, as well as to compare Volos to cities that possess similar spatial features and cities that were actually related to Volos through commercial, financial, transport, cultural, or other networks.

7.4 Transport Networks: Railway Building—Evaristo de Chirico’s Works in Volos, 1881–1905 The construction of the Thessaly railway between 1881 and 1886 (with Volos as the railhead) was part of the development of the rail infrastructure in the Mediterranean, which started in 1839 in the western part and expanded to the eastern part in the 1850s. The first constructed lines—local tracks rather than networks—were intended to connect major coastal cities with their rural hinterlands, raising them to important economic centres of their region, but their integration into a unified rail network had to wait until the twentieth century. The Thessaly project was conceived right after the liberation of that region in 1881 as a provincial rail track aimed to economically deploy a geographic area where the transport of wheat was of great financial importance. With a total length of 203 km and with no connection to the Athenian centre, the Thessaly railway was not incorporated into the national network until 1909 (Hastaoglou-Martinidis 2003). The construction of the Thessaly Railway reveals another remarkable network related to the chief engineer, Evaristo de Chirico (1841–1905). Evaristo was a descendant of the Greek–Catholic family Kyriko or Chirico from the island of Rhodes. The family left Rhodes in 1523 together with another 4000 Greek–Catholic families,

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Fig. 7.2 Railway networks and Evaristo de Chirico works in Volos, 1881–1905

following the conquest of the island by Suleiman the Magnificent. They initially moved to Messina in 1523, and later, the branch of Evaristo’s forebears settled in Florence and Livorno, where, perfectly Italianized, they worked as diplomats and acquired various titles of nobility (Fig. 7.2) (Velissiotis 2013). The Chiricos are a Greek–Italian family of merchants, seamen, and diplomats with ties to both of these countries and roots that expanded to the Mediterranean. Evaristo was born in Istanbul in 1841 in the European district of Pera, where his father, Baron Giorgio Maria, had settled with his wife Adelaide Mabili, a Spanishorigin countess from Corfu and aunt to the Greek poet Lorenzo Mavili. Evaristo’s wife, Gemma Cervetto, was Greek on her mother’s side (her mother was Margarita Alevizatos, a descendent of an important family of Cephalonia). Evaristo was the only one in the family who did not pursue a diplomatic career like his father and his grandfather had, and he nurtured Italian interests as an engineer and businessman. He was sent to study engineering at the Istituto Tecnico di Firenze (1859–1861) and he was subsequently engaged in various railway projects in Calabria and Sicily, Turin, and Savona from 1865 to 1870. He returned to Istanbul, where he was involved in the building of the Constantinople–Adrianople line (1870–1873) and the Sofia-Kustendjie line (1873–1879), and in 1881 he set up his own firm, Chirico & Co., Civil Engineers and Contractors. His connections to the Greek banker Theodor Mavrogordatos, contractor of the Thessaly Railway, brought him to Volos in 1881 (Picozza 2013). Evaristo became a legendary figure of the Thessaly railway. He was highly regarded for his technical abilities and humanity, was soon entrusted with the direction of the company, and implemented various projects involving reclamation and water supply, tree nurseries, etc. His legacy includes the Catholic church in Volos

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(1903), the clock towers in the Cathedral of St Nicolas in Volos and in the Pelion villages of Argalasti and Aghios Lavrentis, and the railway station (1884) in Volos is dedicated in his name, as is the model iron bridge he built on the Taxiarchis stream on the Pelion rail line (1898) (Androulidakis 2002). Evaristo’s exemplary railway project was presented in a two-volume album at the Greek Pavilion of the 1889 Universal Exhibition in Paris (Hannebert and Abrami 1889). His sons, Giorgio and Andrea (alias Alberto Savinio), were born in Volos and Athens respectively; Giorgo, the founder of Pittura Metafisica, took his first lessons in painting in Volos from Constantine Mavroudis, a Greek from Trieste and foreman in his father’s company (Chirico 2002: 33). For both sons, the Greek environment in which they grew up was a source of inspiration and they celebrated Volos in their work.

7.5 Transport Networks: Harbour Building—Edouard Quellenec’s Works in the Mediterranean, 1888–1925 The construction of modern docks in Volos made access to the city possible in the growing maritime trade. Similar port modernization is recorded at this time in most pre-modern Mediterranean coastal cities (e.g., Alexandria, Beirut, Izmir, Thessaloniki, Piraeus, Genoa, and Trieste). Harbour building was a global enterprise pursued by foreign diplomats, trading firms, navigation companies, banks, and contracting firms. It was increased by the incorporation of the Levant into international trade after the opening of the Suez Canal and the emergence of steamship navigation. Harbour works were virtually monopolized by French contractors and engineers, so they followed the technical know-how of the port of Marseilles (Fig. 7.3) (Hastaoglou-Martinidis 2010). The harbour of Volos, built between 1885 and 1889, was the work of foreign engineers who were members of the French Mission for Public Works in Greece (1884–1894). Of special interest is Edouard Quellenec, born in Brest in 1856 and a graduate of the École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées in 1880. Highly specialized in his field, he was Chief Engineer of the Mission, and in this capacity, he was assigned the re-organisation of the Public Work Service in Greece and carried out projects for the harbours of Kalamata, Piraeus, Corfu, Zakynthos, Santorini, and Patras, for the canals of Lefkas and Evripos, for the completion of the Corinth Canal, and for draining works in the Peloponnese Plains. He also served as technical consultant to the French Archaeological School of Athens for archaeological excavations in Delphi and elsewhere. In 1904, he was commissioned to work on harbour projects for Chanea, Rethymno, and Heraklion by the Cretan State (Technical Yearbook of Greece 1935: 241–244). Once his mission in Greece was accomplished, Quellenec was engaged as chief engineer for the International Company of the Suez Canal between 1894 and 1902, and he carried out important works for the enlargement of the canal, the harbour in

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Fig. 7.3 The network of harbour works in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1860–1910 (marked are the names of the engineers and the year of each works’ commencement)

Port Said, and the water supply networks in Port Said, Ismailia, and Suez. Between 1902 and 1908, he was placed in the service of the Municipality of Alexandria for the construction of the sewage system in the Eastern Corniche and for the breakwater project. His Mediterranean agenda also included acting as consultant engineer in the harbour of Tangier. Soon, Quellenec’s reputation put him in demand for larger undertakings in the Panama Canal and in Brazil. In 1905, he was appointed as a member of the International Advisory Board for the completion of the Panama Canal, and later, in 1907 while on a mission in Brazil, he undertook harbour projects for Pernambouco, Bahia, and Rio Grande do Sul. In 1911, he was assigned the administration of the companies of the Brazilian railways, tramways, and electric lighting in Rio de Janeiro. Philhellene and Greek-speaking, he lived for many years in Greece and supported the Greek community in Port Said, for which he erected the Church of the Transfiguration of the Saviour (1899–1903). He retired in 1925 (Archives Nationales de France).

7.6 Diaspora Networks, 1825–1950: From the Pelion Villages to Egypt and Back to Volos Modern Volos was, in a way, created by the Pelion Diaspora. The foundation of the new town in 1842 was their achievement while their contribution to its further development in terms of manpower, enterprising ideas, cosmopolitan culture, and material support continued by means of a second diaspora, this time of the Pelion people to Egypt. The migration from Pelion to Egypt followed the broader pattern of the Greek Diaspora in the Mediterranean and Black Seas that started around 1815. In

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Fig. 7.4 The Diaspora of Mount Pelion villagers to Egypt, 1825–1930 (the main places of origin destination are marked)

Egypt, Greeks’ settlement came after the invitation of the Khedive Muhammad Ali with the aim of building a modern state in the absence of a local bourgeoisie. Thus, a growing immigration flow developed, involving mostly people from the mountainous regions of Epirus and Pelion as well as the Aegean islands. The decline of traditional handcrafting and trade in the formerly prosperous Pelion villages prompted many inhabitants to immigrate to Egypt in the mid-nineteenth century. Originating mostly from four larger Pelion villages (Portaria, Makrinitsa, Tsagarada, and Zagora), they initially settled in Alexandria before moving to interior towns and locations in the fertile Delta area. Data have been gathered for roughly 30 families concerning migration trajectories, business activities, and contributions to the Greek communities in the host country and donations to the homeland (Fig. 7.4) (Constantinidi 1936). The majority of the Pelion Diaspora excelled in three sectors: trade, real estate, and banking; cotton production, manufacturing, and trade; and tobacco manufacturing and trade. Among the great trade and banking names of the time was the Cassavetes family, who paved the way for the migration of the Pelion people in Egypt in 1825. His sons, after being trained in England, established the foremost commercial house of Alexandria, with headquarters in London and branches in Cairo. The Achillopoulos brothers founded a textile import business in Cairo and later evolved into bankers and large-scale landowners (Politis 1929). Cotton production and manufacturing gathered a significant number of leading businessmen: the Athanasakis brothers were involved in cotton farming and acquired large estates in Mit Ghamr; the Kartalis brothers were highly involved in the cotton trade in Benha and Kafr el Guenemia; George Kaniskeris founded a cotton-ginning plant in Beni Suef; and the Papacheimonas brothers and Sakellaridis brothers, in their respective cotton plantations in Zagazig

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and Menufia, created innovative cotton varieties that generated significant revenues in Egypt’s economy from 1911 to 1935 (Tomara-Sideri 2011). Distinguished among tobacco manufacturers were the Coutarellis brothers, owners of the sole tobacco company in Egypt that successfully rivalled the American Eastern Tobacco Co; the Kyriazis brothers, who established a modern cigarette factory in Cairo and in the 1920s, extended their operation to Amsterdam and Hamburg; and the Papatheologou brothers, who were renowned in the tobacco business of Alexandria for their large factory, employing 2000 workers (Charitatos and Yakoumaki 1998). The Pelion people were a dynamic component of the Greek Diaspora in Egypt. They were organically integrated into the colonial system and had multiple relationships with European centres. They decisively contributed to the modernisation of Egypt and left tangible traces by way of the various business premises they established and the community amenities they founded in their host country. Achillopoulos’ two major donations in Cairo—the imposing Girls’ School (1927, sold in 1964 to the American University of Cairo) and the Greek Hospital (1912)—as well as the Kaniskeris Orphanage in Alexandria (1926) are few of the many donations from the Greek communities in Egypt that still survive today (Kamalakis 2011). The Pelion Diaspora largely contributed to the development of Volos not only through major donations for institutions that empowered the city’s exceptional urbanity, but also by transplanting an innovative entrepreneurial spirit, which fostered the transformation of the commercial town into an industrial centre. The Athanasakis Archaeological Museum (1908) and Maternity Clinic, the Achillopoulos Municipal Hospital (1903), the Kartalis Commercial School (1916), and the Alexandre Cassavetes Model Farm School (1888) are only the most outstanding among the various contributions. Their benefactory action for the welfare of their birthplace is also noteworthy. Achillopoulos founded a Commercial School in Tsagarada (1865), Kartalis built an elementary school (1870) in the same village, Ioannis Cassavetes donated a girls’ school (the first of its kind in Ottoman Thessaly) in Zagora (1853), Athanasakis founded a girls’ kindergarten (1900) and built the pioneering Hotel Theoxenia (1905) in Portaria, and Kaniskeris built a girls’ school in Makryrachi (1902), in addition to giving a great deal of support in aqueduct building, road works, church repairs, and money grants (Hastaoglou-Martinidis 2007).

7.7 Financial Networks: The Branches of the Bank of Athens, 1911–1920 Among the banks that were established in Volos shortly after its integration into the Greek state in 1881, the case of the Bank of Athens is the most noteworthy. The Bank of Athens was established in Athens in 1893 as a joint-stock company by capitalists from Greece and the Greek Diaspora. Its key objective was to grant commercial and industrial loans both in Greece and abroad, especially in those regions of Turkey

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Fig. 7.5 The branches of the Bank of Athens in the Mediterranean, 1911–1920

and Egypt where Greek entrepreneurs had developed significant business activities (Fig. 7.5) (Antonopoulo 1922). The Bank of Athens was created and developed as a Mediterranean bank, thanks to the Greek Diaspora and the powerful financial and commercial connections between Athens and Egypt until the 1920s. It opened the first branch in Alexandria in 1896, and soon its network of branches stretched from the Levant to Marseilles and from Sudan to London, with services offered throughout the Mediterranean commercial world. In 1904, it formed an alliance with the Banque de l’Union Parisienne and gained access to the French market (Paris and Marseille in 1918). It had the second largest network of branches in the Ottoman Empire after the Imperial Ottoman Bank; in 1911, it operated 39 branches, of which 9 were in continental Greece, 3 in Crete, 7 in Egypt, 15 in the Ottoman Empire, and 2 in Sudan, as well as branches in London, Liverpool, Hamburg, Romania, and Marseilles (Bonin 2001). In 1922 at the end of the Greco–Turkish war, the bank lost its branches in Turkey. In 1933, its network covered Greek territory with 109 branches and it maintained its branches in London, Alexandria, Cairo, Port Said, New York, and Boston. Throughout the 1930s, the bank also operated branches in Korçë and Durrës in Albania to service the Greek community there, and in 1947, the South African Bank of Athens Ltd. was founded, with headquarters in Johannesburg and 10 branches in South Africa to serve the Greek immigrants residing there. With the decline of the Greek Diaspora, between 1930 and 1950, the bank reduced its operations; in 1953, it merged with the National Bank of Greece and in 1956 it was eventually absorbed by the NBG (Costis and Tsokopoulos 1988: 42–53). The bank built privately-owned premises in the important centres of the Eastern Mediterranean, and it was housed in rented buildings in European cities such as London, Manchester, Hamburg, and elsewhere. Its facilities were all centrally located

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and designed by prominent architects such as Ernest Ziller in Athens (1896), Panos Karathanasopoulos in Athens (1906) and Volos (1902), Vasilis Kouremenos in Istanbul (1913), Nikolaos Paraskeyas and Petros Gryparis in Alexandria (1918), Dimitris Rabaonis in Izmir (1905), and Dimitrios Fyllizis in Trabzon (1915). In the 1920s, Ioannis Axelos served as the bank’s architect and designed or renovated its premises in Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean. After World War II and up until 1956, Dimitrios Fotiadis worked as the bank’s architect for the construction of branch buildings and the general management of the bank’s estate properties (Archive of the National Bank of Greece). Some of the numerous bank buildings survive today, mostly re-purposed for new uses, and those in Chios, Volos, Athens, Alexandria, and Istanbul (Karaköy) remind us of the bank’s erstwhile powerful presence. The Bank of Athens branch in Volos was founded in 1902; it was the second banking establishment created in the city and one of the very early ones opened in Greece. Its imposing baroque architecture, designed by Panos Karathanasopoulos (the bank’s architect at the time), overshadowed the design of contemporary bank buildings in other provincial towns and emphasised the importance attributed by the Bank of Athens to its manifold transactions with the members of the Pelion Diaspora in Egypt. Currently, after being refurbished, the building accommodates the Central Library of the University of Thessaly (Hastaoglou-Martinidis 2007: 221–222).

7.8 Manufacturing and Trade Networks: Hermann Spierer Tobacco Company Being properly equipped with railway and harbour facilities, Volos attracted many national and international firms that boosted its industrial take-off in the interwar period. One of these was that of the Hermann Spierer Tobacco Company. Hermann Spierer (Izmir 1887–Trieste 1927) was a Swiss-Jew Levantine and one of the largest tobacco traders in the region. His father Sigmund, a prominent ophthalmologist in the Geneva Rothschild hospital, settled in Izmir with his wife Fany-Golda and maintained a dispensary on Hospitals Street (Jacob de Andria 1895: 128). Hermann and his brother Charles were initiated into the tobacco business in Allatini’s Commercial Company of Salonica Ltd. in Cavalla in 1911, firstly as an employee and soon after as a manager. In 1913, Spierer established his own business in Izmir; the firm’s premises were located on Parallel Street in the European quarter of the city. In Istanbul, the firm’s offices were housed in Bagdad Han on Bankalar Street and it owned a huge warehouse on the Fener shore in the Golden Horn (Fig. 7.6). The family is memorable for its humanitarian attitude. Sigmund regularly assisted the Jewish community’s charitable work, and Hermann offered asylum to hundreds of women and children in his depots during the 1922 destruction of Izmir. Charles meanwhile protected the civilians in Cavalla during the Bulgarian occupation of 1916–1918 (Guide Sam 1928).

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Fig. 7.6 Hermann Spierer Tobacco Company: Headquarters, branches, and sub-branches in the 1920s

The company processed Turkish tobacco, which it exported mostly to the German market in Dresden and Hamburg. After the destruction of Izmir in 1922, the company transferred much of its operations to outside Turkey, mainly to Greek tobacco towns such as Samos, Xanthi, Cavalla, Drama, Thessaloniki, and Volos, but it maintained its network of branches in Anatolia (General State Archives of Greece). When Trieste was integrated into the Italian State in 1919 after the dissolution of the Austro– Hungarian Empire, a Free Tobacco Trade Zone was inaugurated in its harbour area (Punto Fanco) in 1922; it attracted many firms that had formerly operated in Turkey (Hermann Spierer Tobacco Company being one of them) along with the American Tobacco Company and the Gary Tobacco Company. The Spierer firm grew into one of the largest tobacco companies in Trieste, employing 1900 workers in 1944; its factory was built following modern standards and also equipped with a day nursery for working mothers. In 1926, the company moved its headquarters to Geneva and passed to Hermann’s son Simon after Hermann’s death in 1927. Since 1952, it has operated under the name of Spierer Frères et Cie (Vezzosi 2012). The Hermann Spierer Tobacco Company’s branch in Volos was built in 1926–1927 based on the designs of architect I. Vilanich in the central part of the city. It is a threefloor masonry warehouse with a two-floor outbuilding for the company’s offices. After World War II, it successively accommodated various manufacturers. Listed for conservation in 1984, the building became property of the municipality of Volos in 1988. Renovated in 1995, it presently houses municipal services, including the Municipal Centre for the History of Volos (Hastaoglou-Martinidis 2007: 209). Few other warehouses are preserved today, but they remain in Cavalla, Samos (architect Dupret, 1924), and Drama (architect Konrad von Vilas, 1924).

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7.9 Cultural Networks: The Schools of the Order of the Sisters of St Joseph of the Apparition Volos’s evolving cosmopolitan milieu and the existence of a small Catholic community are the reasons for the insertion of the city into another network. Founded in 1832 by Emilie de Vialar in Galliac, France, the Sisters of St Joseph was one of the several French Catholic orders with worldwide activity. In the Mediterranean, they created a network of schools and charitable institutions (dispensaries and orphanages), which extended into mainly Muslim territories and accompanied the broader penetration of French interests into the region. A large number of schools were founded in towns with Catholic colonies, initially in port cities and later extended to inland towns (Darbon 1901). The architecture of the schools followed the educational principles in force in France at the time (Fig. 7.7). The creation of schools started unsuccessfully in Algiers in 1840, but soon developed throughout the Mediterranean basin; by 1907, the Sisters’ network numbered a total of 35 schools, seven of which were in Tunisia (Sousse in 1842, Tunis, Bizerte, Monastir, and Mahdia in 1882, and later Métlaoui in 1902 and Redeyef on 1910); three schools were created in Malta (Valletta in 1842, Cospicua in 1858, and Sliema in 1881), and another three were in Cyprus (Larnaca in 1844, Limassol in 1880, and Nicosia in 1884). Few schools were created in Egypt (Cairo-Abassiya in 1907 and Minya in 1907); instead, the denser part of the network was developed in the Middle East, with over nine schools founded in Beirut (1847), Jerusalem (1848), Jaffa (1849), Sidon (1853), Bethlehem (1853), Aleppo (1856), Deir El Qamar (1866), Ramallah (1872), Tyros (1882), and elsewhere (Curtis 2010; V A 1915). In the Aegean where Catholic communities had lived since the thirteenth century,

Fig. 7.7 The network of the schools of the Sœurs de Saint Joseph de l’Apparition in the Mediterranean between 1840 and 1907

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the Sisters opened 10 schools mostly on the islands in the towns of Syros (1846), Chios (1848), Chania (1852), Athens (1856), Piraeus (1861), Vathi-Samos (1901), Heraklion (1902), Lavrio (1909), and Izmir (1902). Their activity counts another three schools created in Bulgaria in Plovdiv (1866), Sofia (1880), and Burgas (1891) (Antoniou 2009). A number of the original school buildings are preserved today on the Greek islands (Syros, Chios, Samos, and Chania), and those in Beirut, Sliema, and Larnaca constitute a valuable part of Mediterranean cultural heritage. The St Joseph School in Volos was opened in 1904 by the sisters Aline and Philomène with the support of the French Consul Naggiar and the vicar of the Catholic Church, Dom Méca. The school offered French culture and Christian education to the daughters of wealthy bourgeoisie, and was attended by students of various religious backgrounds. Initially housed in a rented building, the school acquired its privatelyowned facility, built in 1909. It was a two-floor neoclassical building with classrooms, dormitories, a dining hall, and other ancillary rooms. It was damaged in the 1955 earthquakes and rebuilt in its original form; since 1995, it has housed the St Joseph elementary school (Charitos 2001: 164–165).

7.10 Architectural Networks: The Formative Period, 1880–1935 Amongst Greek provincial towns, Volos is distinguished for its exceptional urbanity, cityscape, and architecture. The presence of a cosmopolitan citizenry formed in the diaspora, the rich architectural tradition of the Pelion villages, and the modernizing spirit of the local bourgeoisie built the town into the architectural capital of he region, the ‘Paris of Thessaly’—a title that Volos retained until its destruction by the 1955 earthquake. Since the late nineteenth century, renowned architects have linked Volos to the architectural trends prevalent in Europe and the Mediterranean (Fig. 7.8). Constantine Dimadis (?–1901), from the village of Lafkos, lived and worked in Istanbul and other cities of the Ottoman Empire during the second half of the nineteenth century. Trained in Germany, he developed a personal architectural vocabulary, a bold combination of neo-gothic and renaissance elements. He was the creator of two major works in Volos: The Municipal Theatre (1894–1896) and the Sarafopoulos mansion (1884), and he designed a pioneering sugar factory for the Istanbulite banker Christakis Zografos on his estate in Lazarina, Thessaly (1892– 1894). His activity abroad includes emblematic works for the Greek Diaspora: in Istanbul there is the Patriarchal Greek Orthodox College (1881–1883) on the Golden Horn and the Zografio Girls’ School on the Bosporus (1872), and in Edirne there is the Greek Boys’ High School (1880). His son Nicolas (?–1925) started his carrier as his father’s associate and supervised his projects in the period between 1880 and 1900. Nicholas designed and built the Zappeion Girls’ School in Edirne, the Sevastopoulos–Triantafyllidis mansion (1885, widely known because it hosted the

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Fig. 7.8 Volos in the network of architectural innovations

exiled leader of the Russian Revolution Leon Trotsky from 1929 to 1933), and the church of St John the Baptist (1899) on the Princes Islands (Tsilenis 1998). Panos Karathanasopoulos was one of the most prominent architects in Athens at the turn of the nineteenth century. His work includes a large number of buildings in the neoclassical, belle-époque, neo-baroque, and eclectic styles. He served as the official architect of the Bank of Athens during its formative years, on whose behalf he designed the headquarters building (1906), the branch building in Volos, the private mansion of the Bank’s director in Kifissia (1903), the majestic Hotel Aktaion in Faliro (1903), the headquarters of the Popular Bank in Athens (1909), and many others. His works include also the Municipal Market in Argos (1889) and the Courthouse in Patras (1931), both in the neoclassical style. Outside Greece, his most important project was the impressive neoclassical building of the Central Girls’ School, which he designed in 1909 for the Greek community of Izmir; the building was spared from the 1922 fire and today houses Atatürk Lisesi (Biris and Kardamitsi-Adami 2001). A native of Kastoria, Aristotle Zachos (1871–1939) connected his name with Volos due to his major projects for the churches of St Constantine, St Nicolas, and Transfiguration of the Saviour (1921–1936), which today stand as prominent examples of interwar architecture. Zachos studied architecture in Germany and worked with the architect Josef Durm in important projects in the Duchy of Baden. Returning to Greece in 1905, he sought the values of ‘Greekness’ in traditional architecture, challenging the dominant neoclassical model. His work is rich and diverse. He designed many private and public buildings in Athens, Vella, Ioannina, and Alexandroupolis (1908). He is also known for the restoration work of the Byzantine Basilica of St Demetrius in Thessaloniki, which was damaged by a fire in 1917. Of particular interest is his project for the Ionian University of Izmir during the period of

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the Greek Administration (1919–1922), which now exists as an incomplete school building that he remodelled along the neo-byzantine architectural line; the facility currently accommodates the 80 Yıl Anadolu Lisesi (Fessa-Emmanuel 2002).

7.11 Conclusion Exploring the city’s spatial history in the wider setting of the Mediterranean by means of networks helps to reveal and foreground the intense flows of exchange, circulation, and influences that existed over time yet are still largely unknown, less discernible, or unrelated in that space; this study thus contributes to an informed understanding of cities’ interconnections in the Mediterranean region. The Mediterranean networks of Volos present a remarkable geographical breadth that covers the entire region, involving different sets of cities depending on the theme, and expanding into the European continent; these networks are integrated into global processes of both the colonial and post-colonial periods, they are transnational and trans-regional, and they operate beyond geographical margins and national borders in this region. The comparative mapping approach enables us to lend depth to what is perceived as individual attributes, and renders tangible the elusive and composite processes, stages of urban evolution, production environments, technical work, and architectural configurations that are created by the circulation of people, goods, and ideas. For instance, the Pelion Diaspora is seen not only as the movement of people from a traditional place to a new cosmopolitan milieu, but rather as an active process of citymaking in terms of their contributions to the hometown in terms of entrepreneurial spirit, political culture, and urban institutions. Special emphasis is given to the proceeds of the networks’ operation in a transnational production sphere and labour market during the colonial and modern eras, as exemplified in the case of Hermann Spierer Tobacco Company and the Bank of Athens, both of which provide insight into the formation of Volos’s economic milieu. Of particular consideration are the networked trajectories of actors such as the engineers who transferred novel infrastructure technologies from the European centres and placed Volos into global and Mediterranean maritime and land transport networks, the architects who transplanted the seeds for a novel iconography of the city, and the missionaries who enriched local life by circulating variant cultural values. The unfolding and documentation of Volos’s Mediterranean networks make possible a city narrative that transcends a linear representation of a city’s identity as the outcome of an insular trajectory in time and space, and display the open and dynamic nature of the urbanization process. The paper draws on the research project ‘Designing the Museum of the City of Volos: Historical Research and Development of Innovative Interactive Content for the Dissemination of Knowledge (DeMuCiV)’, co-financed by the European Union

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(ESF) and Greek National Funds (NSRF – Research Funding Program: Thales); the project’s duration was from 2012 to 2015. All maps have been elaborated by the author after various sources.

References de Andria J (ed) (1895) Indicateur des Professions Commerciales et Industrielles de Smyrne, de l’Anatolie, des Côtes, des îles, etc. Imprimerie Impériale, Smyrne Androulidakis K (2002) Thessaly Railways 1881–1955, Thessaloniki: Museum of Photography Chr. Kalemkeris [in Greek] Antoniou D (2009) French Schools in Greece. International Research Centre Aesopos-La Fontaine, Athens [in Greek] Antonopoulo DG (1922) Dette Publique Hellénique: Les Sociétés Anonymes en Grèce. Banque d’Athènes, Athènes Archive of the National Bank of Greece, Collections, Bank of Athens. Archives Nationales de France. Ingénieurs des Ponts et Chaussées. Dossiers Individuels, Quellenec, E. L. (F14/11603) Athanassiou E, Christodoulou C (2014) Comparative mapping of city histories: the city of Volos in the network of Mediterranean cities. Association of European Schools of planning annual conference from control to co-evolution, Utrecht-Delft: Aesop Online. http://www.congrexpr ojects.com/Aesop(Thursday10July/session3/track15/presentation3). Accessed 10 May 2016 Biris M, Kardamitsi-Adami M (2001) Neoclassical Architecture in Greece. Melissa, Athens [in Greek] Bonin H (2001) La Banque d’Athènes, point de jonction entre deux outre-mers bancaires (1904– 1953). Outre-Mers 88(330–331):53–70 Charitatos M, Yakoumaki P (1998) The history of the Greek cigarette. Greek Literary and Historical Archive, Athens [in Greek] Charitos Ch. (2001) The Chronicle of the School of Nuns in Volos. Hellenika Grammata, Athens [in Greek] de Chirico G (2002) Memorie della Mia Vita (first edited Roma 1945) Bompiani, Milano Constantinidi A (1936) Pelion immigrants in Egypt. Zagora Society, Alexandria [in Greek] Costis C, Tsokopoulos V (1988) The banks in Greece, 1898–1928. Papazisis, Athens [in Greek] Curtis S (2010) Civilizing habits: Women missionaries and the revival of the French empire. Oxford University Press, Oxford Darbon CE (1901) Emilie de Vialar, Fondatrice des Sœurs de St Joseph de l’Apparition. Souvenirs et Documents. Imprimerie St Léon, Marseille Fessa-Emmanuel E (2002) Architects of Volos and Pelion, 1881–1940: a first recording. En Volo 6:44–45 [in Greek] General state archives of Greece, local offices at Cavalla, Chios, Samos, and Xanthi, collections: Spierer tobacco warehouses Guide Sam (1928) Annuaire de l’Orient. Hermann Spierer, Paris, pp 47–49 Hannebert A, Abrami C (1889) Atlas de la Construction des Chemins de Fer de Thessalie. Imprimerie Photographique Aost et Gentil, Paris Hastaoglou-Martinidis V (2003) The advent of transport and aspects of urban modernisation in the levant during the 19th century. In: Roth R, Polino MN (eds) The city and the railway in Europe. Ashgate, London, pp 61–78 Hastaoglou-Martinidis V (2007) Volos: portrait of the city from the 19th century to present day. Municipal Center for History and Documentation, Volos [in Greek]

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Hastaoglou-Martinidis V (2010) Cartography of harbour constructions in Eastern Mediterranean cities: technical and urban modernisation in the late nineteenth century. In: Kolluo˘glu B, Toksöz M (eds) Mapping out the Eastern Mediterranean. I.B. Tauris, London, pp 78–99 Kamalakis S (2011) H the beneficial offers of Greeks in Egypt. Angellaki, Athens [in Greek] Picozza P (2013) Evaristo de Chirico. Metaphysical Art 11(13):11–128 Politis A (1929) L’Hellénisme et l’Egypte Moderne. Félix Arcan, Paris Technical Yearbook of Greece (1935) Public works and public technical services. Technical Chamber of Greece, Athens [in Greek] Tomara-Sideri M (2011) Greeks in Egypt: on the road to cotton. Kerkyra, Athens [in Greek] Tsilenis S (1998) The building of the Patriarchal Orthodox College and its architect Constantine Dimadis. The World of Buildings 16:100–112 [in Greek] V A (1915) Œuvres catholiques et françaises atteintes en Palestine par l’expulsion des religieux et religieuses de nationalité françaises. Échos D’orient 17(108):478–481 Velissiotis N (2013) The origins of Adelaide Mabili and her marriage to Giorgio de Chirico: restoration of the historical truth. Metaphysical Art 11(13):88–110 Vezzosi E (2012) L’ ONMI a Trieste tra assistenza e “social welfare”: Emergenza post-bellica e tentativi di riforma. In: Vinci AM (ed) Carità Pubblica, Assistenza Sociale e olitiche di Welfare: Il Caso di Trieste. Edizioni Università di Trieste, Trieste, pp 125–151

Part III

Fragments of Connectivity

Chapter 8

Transnational Trajectories: From Chios to London Through Alexandria, a Family Story Elena Frangakis-Syrett

Abstract This is in part a personal account—the story of my family—and in part an analysis of the broader historical reality represented through the almost inevitable experience that my family’s multiple relocations resulted in. In researching the topic, I discovered that my family’s story is fairly representative of migratory patterns that were recorded from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth century amongst Greeks originating from Ottoman lands and/or the newly-formed Greek state. Relocating primarily (but not exclusively) within the Mediterranean and almost invariably to port cities, their patterns of migration were geographically global as were indeed the economic networks that made them possible (On the establishment and functioning of commercial networks, see e.g., Kévonian K (1975) Marchands Arméniens au XVIIe siècle. A propos d’un livre Arménien publié à Amsterdam en 1699. Cah Monde Russe Soviétique 16(2):199–244; Frangakis-Syrett E (2002) Networks of friendship, networks of kinship: eighteenth-century Levant merchants. Eurasian Stud 1(2):189–202; Buti G (2003) Cabotage et caboteurs de la France méditerranéenne (XVIIe–XVIIIe siècles). Rives Nord – Méditerranéennes 13:75–92; Henneton L (2012) Le moment Atlantique de la dynastie des Winthrop au XVIIe siècle. Les Cahiers de Framespa 9. Online. http://www.framespa.revues.org/979 (accessed 10 November 2014)). Such networks were in turn underpinned by market forces that ‘saw’ no borders (In the nineteenth century onward, as banking networks became just as prevalent as commercial networks, they also literally ‘saw no borders’, e.g., Exertzoglou H (1989) ∏ρoσαρμoστικóτητα και πoλιτικη´ oμoγενειακων ´ κεϕαλα´ιων: ´ To καταστημα Zαρ´ιϕης Zaϕειρ´oπoυλoς, 1871–1881. Commercial Bank of Greece Research Foundation, Athens; Seni ¸ N, Le Tarnec S (1997) Les Camondo. Actes Sud, Paris; Hulkiender M (2003) Bir Galata Bankalerinin Portresi: George Zarifi, 1806– 1884. Osmanlı Bankası Ar¸siv ve Ara¸stırma Merkezi, Istanbul; Frangakis-Syrett E (2009) Banking in Izmir in the early twentieth century. Mediterr Hist Rev 24(2):115– 31). In the few cases where their relocations were not in port cities, they were in cities and/or towns that were situated near navigable waters. Important for the benefits it afforded to the international economy, from the cost-effective transportation of people E. Frangakis-Syrett (B) Department of History, Queens College and Graduate Center, City University of New York, New York, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_8

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and goods to the flow of information and capital, water has been an important element in economically driven migration, especially in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Equally important has been the urban element: relocating to a city or even a smaller town was a sine qua non in such migratory patterns. Keywords Egyptiots (Greeks of Egypt) · Family history · Mobility · Cosmopolitanism · Diaspora

8.1 Introduction My parents migrated from two different but neighboring Aegean islands, which were under Ottoman rule at the time: Lemnos on my mother’s side and Chios on my father’s side (Fig. 8.1). My maternal great-grandfather went to Minieh (Minya), in Upper Egypt, around 1883, and my paternal grandfather went to Asyut, also in Upper Egypt, around 1904 to join close relatives of his that had been established there since the turn of the century.1 These were both periods when Greeks started to go to Egypt in greater numbers.2 Based on available data, it appears that both islands featured noticeably as places of origin for Greek migration to Egypt in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Kitroeff 1989: 20–6; Moskos 2001: 38–9). This was also the period when parallel—and at times overlapping—business networks were developed by the British as well as the Greeks that encompassed three locales: Britain, the Western Anatolia-cum-Aegean islands region, and Egypt (Frangakis-Syrett 2015: 55–73). Following the annexation of Egypt by Britain in the aftermath of the Urabi Revolt in 1882, the British, who were already established as entrepreneurs in Ottoman Turkey, started expanding their activities there as well, relocating there either en famille or sending only a branch of the family there (Rees 2003: 120–31). A similar move to Egypt was taking place by the Ottoman Greeks, of which my mother’s family was a case in point. On the whole, the British tended to dispose of greater capital resources and/or to come from a better-off socio-economic group than the Greeks, although this was by no means universal; exceptions could easily be found among both communities. This was the case in particular with Greek families who had left Ottoman lands for Britain as early as the 1820s, and more regularly from the 1840s onwards (Chapman 1977: 36–9; Mangriotis 1986: 350–2). London, Liverpool, and Manchester were the three locales that hosted the greatest numbers of Ottoman Greeks coming to Britain (Frangakis-Syrett 1995: 1–25, 38– 40). Many established roots in the country much like their counterparts had done in Egypt or their British counterparts did in Izmir, Istanbul, or Egypt in about the same time (Deeb 1978: 11–22). These were all urban migrants with some capital, business skills, and often networks as well, who took advantage of the growing economy 1

See for instance, A. Kazamias (2008, September). Perhaps the most well-known work on Greeks in Alexandria is E. Souloyiannis (1994). See also, I. M. Hatzifotis (1999: 70–9).

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Fig. 8.1 My father Stefanos Frangakis in the WW2 Hellenic Navy, 1943

of the first half of the nineteenth century. Like their British counterparts, the more successful of them moved into the high commercial and banking sectors of Egypt well before 1882, and to a lesser extent in the case of Britain (Syngros1998).3 A case in point were the Rallis Brothers, a very successful merchanting firm, from Izmir, Istanbul, Malta, and Odessa, who established an economic presence in all of the colonial markets of the British Empire. It did so from headquarters in London over the course of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Catsiyannis 1986: 47–8, 118–21). Indeed, the more successful Greek families had all migrated to Britain or Egypt in the first half of the nineteenth century (Catsiyannis1987: 30–8, 1988: 14– 9, 22–5). Fifty years later (during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century), such communities had become more visible demographically, in Egypt in particular, where they had developed a communitarian identity as well, even if they were not in terms of extended families or single firms as economically endowed as the earlier group (Awad 1987: 106–8). My grandparents’ generation on both sides married Lemniots or Chiots, with the men returning (if necessary) to their islands to do so. This tradition was not so closely followed by my parents’ generation, although arranged marriages were still 3

E.g., Andreas Syngros (1998).

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quite prevalent. My parents, whose arranged marriage was also a very successful and loving union, were nevertheless criticized for one reason: for the Asyuti Chiot community of my father, which had close business contacts with Alexandria through the British established in both places, my mother was a xeni (a foreigner) (Fig. 8.2 and 8.3). Her family came from Limnos and she had grown up in Cairo. After some time, after both my sister and I were born in Asyut, we soon moved to Alexandria, where we became part of the Asyuti and greater Chiot community of the city. In the end, we left Egypt when my sister and I were still very young; we went to Chios, then on to Athens, and a few years later to London, but not before we had spent time in Limnos too. My sister eventually decided to settle in Athens, having found professional opportunities there; my parents stayed in London while I went to New York, having found a university position for which I was willing to go almost anywhere in the world (Fig. 8.4, 8.5 and 8.6). Nevertheless, Egypt was (and still is) the point of reference for my family as to who we are. We have always described ourselves as Egyptiots: Greeks of Egypt, and we insist on explaining the term to anyone who does not know what it means. Central to such an identity -the latter pertaining to the cultural as much as to the ethnic- was Alexandria with its muchcelebrated and recently much-contested cosmopolitan society, a society that spilled across the city to impact and at times even define most of the other urban centers from the late nineteenth to the early and mid-twentieth century in Egypt and beyond. Elements that made up cosmopolitanism were embodied in the global economy, such as the trade flows that encompassed the Middle East, as well as in the socio-political system of the Eastern Mediterranean. As a result, other port cities from Ottoman Izmir to Ottoman and post-Ottoman Beirut were defined by and carried many of the cosmopolitan characteristics of Alexandria, although they did so in varying ways and degrees that made them both unique and representative of a genre. This genre can best be defined as the port city open to the world in ways that differ according to the time period. In other words, although Alexandria was perhaps the most well-known port city, it was not an isolated phenomenon, but instead was part of the Eastern Mediterranean port cities of the period from around the 1860s to the 1960s (Mansel 2011: 164–74; Ilbert and Yannakakis 1997).4 These port-cities could not have lasted forever in the socio-economic and politico-cultural forms they had acquired, in large part because of global economic changes, and to a lesser extent because of political changes in the region; nevertheless, for a century or so (the mid-nineteenth to midtwentieth centuries), as long as the right economic and political conditions were there, these port cities became socio-cultural manifestations of them. Despite the fact that cosmopolitanism, internationalism, transnationalism, and the concepts that are invoked therein are all interrelated both for those who espouse these terms (Sifneos 2005)5 and those who do not (Hanley 2008).6 It is important to 4 Philip Mansel (2011: 164–74); despite its title, this work shows in a very clear manner the intertwined and rich cultural diversity of these Mediterranean cities at a time when the global economy enabled this. On a similar topic, one has to read the essays in R. Ilbert and I. Yannakakis (1997). 5 Evridiki Sifneos (2005: 97–111). 6 E.g., Will Hanley (2008: 1346–1367).

8 Transnational Trajectories: From Chios to London Through Alexandria … Fig. 8.2 My parents’ (Stefanos and Kyriaki-Aikaterini) engagement photo, 1949

Fig. 8.3 My parents’ wedding photo, Cairo, February 1950

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Fig. 8.4 My father in London, 1980s

differentiate here what made nineteenth and twentieth-century Alexandria, as far as the author is concerned, so exceptionally fitting to carry these epithets. Increasingly, from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries onwards, economically flourishing port cities, as mentioned above, were for good reason perceived as centers of economic and social opportunities, and they became almost de facto ‘cultural’ windows to the world, for they attracted populations from a wide radius that extended potentially from their immediate hinterlands to anywhere in the globe. Their hinterlands invariably extended to markets in regions further afield, becoming global by the turn of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, manifesting in the process the extent and effectiveness of their economic and cultural networks; the latter was a key component of a port city’s diversity in this time frame in particular. These networks that went for instance, from Izmir to Alexandria, London, and beyond served as conduits for the transfer of people, goods, capital, and credit, as well as trust, economic expertise, information and knowledge, and new behavioral norms and values. They generated interrelationships that ranged from economic in nature to more durable ties of friendship and/or marriage and kinship. In the process, multiple ‘national’ or confessional boundaries were crossed, as shown in AngloGreek marriages that took place amongst families of the same socio-economic class, not only in Alexandria but also equally in London, Izmir, Salonica, and beyond

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Fig. 8.5 My father in Athens, 2000s

(Vlami 2015: 257–73). Alexandria and Izmir displayed this paradigm well. After all, the reasons that led the Whittalls to leave Liverpool for Izmir in 1807 were not different from those that led the Ottoman Greeks to go to Egypt at about the same time, invited by Mohammed Ali and more so by market forces. Indeed, the multiple overlapping connections throughout the nineteenth century between British and Greeks in the Ottoman Empire (with the British market as a central pivotal point, which continued in Egypt amongst both groups) account in part for the economic success of the Greeks in Alexandria (Reimer 1991: 142, 152; Frangakis-Syrett 2015: 66–9). A case in point was Egypt’s banking sector, which was equally multinational, strong, and well connected to and financed by European financial networks. The Bank of Mytilene was such an example: it was a joint investment bank led by the Ottoman Turkish elites, Ottoman Istanbul Greeks, and Greeks of Egypt as well as British financiers in interconnected locales that were active at the turn of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Pech 1911: 153–5). As a sector, banking was led but not monopolized by the British; the French were also active in the economy of Egypt, and strong inter-imperialist rivalry allowed other groups to enter the banking sector, including the Greeks. Indeed, their share in banking concerns represented a larger business in terms of capital resources and scope of operations than existed in Greece at that time. This was because it was outside

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Fig. 8.6 My mother in Athens, 2000s

of Greece; it formed part of the Ottoman Greek banking and diaspora networks of interrelationships that extended from London to Paris, to Athens and Istanbul, to Odessa and Salonica, and of course to Alexandria. In addition to having direct access to Western European financial markets, these networks had the large Ottoman internal market to extend its operations into (Bruneau 2000: 47). The make-up of the board of directors and the branches of the Bank of Athens are very telling examples of the Anglo–Ottoman–Greek financial circles and the benefits that could be accrued by belonging to them. With its headquarters in Athens, the bank became one of the most visible banks of the Eastern Mediterranean; its branches were in Istanbul, London, Alexandria, Cairo, Khartoum, Izmir, and Salonica, as well as in other urban centers in Anatolia, the Balkans, and of course, in Greece (Pech 1911: 134–6). Closely interrelated international financial networks were by their very nature cosmopolitan, too. However, for the notion of cosmopolitanism to be valid for a whole city’s population and not its financial networks only, it had to include both elites and non-elites; it also had be felt in an intimate manner, namely as a deeply multi-layered cultural identity, an integral, even a defining part, of one’s ethnicity. It did not have to take away one’s ethnic origin or ancestry in the process; indeed, it had no reason to do so. In this context, Alexandria represented a multi-ethnic, multilinguistic, cosmopolitan society that manifested itself within and across communal

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and class divides, in different forms and degrees from one community to another or from one class to another. Indeed, cosmopolitanism did not and could not only involve the elites, the literate, or the wealthy. It had to involve the majority of the people— petty bourgeois and skilled and unskilled unionized workers, including groups of very modest means. Not all Greeks, or for that matter, Jews, Armenians, Turks, Syrians, British, French, or Italians were part of the economic elites or those inhabiting the ranks of the relatively privileged liberal professions. Some might have risen to either status, but not all did. With the exception of the British and the French -although this was not absolute by any means- the majority of newcomers were of modest or of no economic means; many came from rural or semi-rural areas that became only subsequently urbanized. Elites and non-elites all came to interact with each other on an everyday basis, often in repetitive activities; in the process, they came face-to-face with an array of cultural groups that were different than their own. As a result, they became perhaps not polyglots, but they at least were familiar with multiple cultural identities, ethnicities, and religions. The time period (the latter part of the nineteenth century and beyond) was an important element in this process, for these were the decades that brought to the region a growing degree of modernity and greater secularism across all classes. Both features were paramount in importance; indeed, they were part of the ‘make-up’ that was common across the mid-nineteenth to mid-twentieth-century global cultural developments that enveloped the Eastern Mediterranean. These features certainly not only facilitated, but also accelerated the fluidity of interaction across the confessional and class divides. Cosmopolitanism by its very nature encompasses an element of conviviality. For cosmopolitanism to emerge, there had to be a degree of openness and tolerance towards, as well as conviviality with, people who were different from oneself -exactly because they belonged to a different ethnicity than one’s own- but who were not unknown to one, either (de Greiff 2004: 418–38). In late Ottoman and post-Ottoman Alexandria (and I would warrant in varying but not dissimilar ways in other Ottoman port cities as well), people were aware of the differences of other cultures around them, but routinely accepted them, at least most of the time (Jasanoff 2005: 394–6, 398–400). Acceptance bred from familiarity, but acceptance of the ‘other’ was easier to negotiate for the individual(s) concerned when it occurred horizontally within the same class. It was likely to be stylized and contextualized when it went across different classes. Nevertheless, acceptance also occurred vertically amongst people from different classes. Indeed, I would argue that friction amongst communities, within or across the class divide, usually originated in or was based on economic factors rather than religious or nationalistic ones, even when it subsequently evolved into negative identity politics and communal clashes. The ‘otherness’ of an erstwhilefamiliar person(s) could still be exploited to bypass economic issues that were (and are) always harder to resolve. Alexandria had certain additional advantages that made it more likely to become a site for cosmopolitanism. For one, being in the Mediterranean and in the eastern part of it meant that it was in a region where all three monotheistic religions had interacted with each other for a long time, and not always in conflict. Being part of the Ottoman Empire, Alexandria had an ‘embedded’ acceptance of the ‘other’ through a

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long-established Ottoman administrative system of governance and its post-Ottoman legacy. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this system went beyond acceptance to promoting and encouraging multi-confessional, multi-linguistic, and multi-cultural communities; its members lived side-by-side over a long period of time, during which they experienced similar socio-economic changes. Even when such changes did not affect them all in the same way or to the same extent, they were nevertheless changed and in part shaped by the commonality of such experiences. What solidified further the cosmopolitanism of Alexandria was the uniqueness, if one can call it so, of the administrative structure of the city and of Egypt overall. Since Mohammad Ali’s time, Egypt had not been fully part of the Ottoman Empire, but it was not independent either. Following British annexation in 1882, there emerged overlapping administrative layers that tied Egypt to the Ottoman Empire and Britain, but only to a certain degree in both cases (Reimer 1997: 65–88, 137–57). There was not a clear and specific sovereignty; on the contrary both London and Istanbul were willing to allow multiple centers of self-expression. In the business sectors (where market forces largely prevailed) and in local communal administration and cultural spheres, there emerged the possibility of considerable room to maneuver in terms of building one’s own cultural identity and communal economic strength; the two elements could be seen from the hospital, schools, and other philanthropic institutions that each community had the financial capacity to build and manage, as well the often symbolic but coveted presence of each community in the streets of Alexandria in religious processions such as Good Friday or in secular celebrations. I grew up with my mother and all my aunts, by then all in Greece, telling me about the splendor of these processions and their acceptance and facilitation on the part of the city’s authorities. There was certainly also an economically based, sociallymanifested communal hierarchical order of which all communities were aware and largely accepted; yet there was also a great deal of fluidity and room to maneuver for the communities and the individuals in them because Alexandria kept growing and flourishing economically. Economic prosperity as well as the belief in and actual potential for an ongoing if not for even greater prosperity (even when it was not equally distributed) were important features that defined not only Alexandria, but all Eastern Mediterranean port cities in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Even when economic prosperity was not there all the time, at the same level, or accessible for everyone, there was always hope for material improvement, and this was a fundamental point of attraction for migration to these cities. In terms of identity rather than material improvement, in post-Mohammed Ali Alexandria (a phenomenon that started with his policies), there seemed to be no desire for any single and unifying identity to be created either on the part of the state, or on the multiple communities-based (but interactive) society. The result was a multiplicity (even ambiguity) in cultural identities and national loyalties that could co-exist not only within the city, but also within a person. As the Greek state was increasing its reach on its prosperous communities in Egypt, the latter reacted by calling themselves Egyptiots: neither Egyptian nor Greek, but both at the same time (Zubaida 2010). Some had more localized allegiances—my mother to Cairo and my father to Asyut and Upper Egypt (the Said), rather than to Limnos or Chios. Even after

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we left Egypt, my father considered himself Saidi and was proud, although perhaps also in an ambivalent even bittersweet manner, to be so. When we moved to England, my mother often spoke of how London (where we had relocated after a sojourn in Greece) reminded her of Cairo. However, at the same time, she was a Francophile to the core, having been schooled by French nuns –she counted in French, and my father in Arabic. Both spoke these two languages very well, both spoke Greek and English, and both had a deep love for Arab music. At times, nuances could emerge within a single family as to the cultural identification of each according to where either spouse and/or their children had grown up, and according to what school (in terms of language and religion) each one had attended. Such merging of identities may have been expedient, but in the process it had also become a natural way of life that potentially had a lot of advantages. In such a life pattern, there was certainly a lack of permanency. Conversely stated, there was considerable mobility in the communities that came to Egypt in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. At times, Egypt was a relocation for them and in the mid-twentieth century, following the Suez Crisis, they went to yet another place. The above assumes that such relocation(s) were relatively voluntary -induced primarily for economic reasons- as well as independently undertaken and relatively well organized. Closely related to the lack of permanence was a considerable adaptability to new environment(s), but there was not necessarily a full adoption of their new country. For a whole set of reasons embedded in European colonialism in the Middle East (including Egypt), migrants did not necessarily see themselves as Egyptians, and nor were they seen as such by the Egyptians, although there was also ambivalence for most on this issue. As it is common with family histories, few things are black and white; much exists in the grey area somewhere in the middle. At the same time, there was an awareness of a shared (in this case, Alexandrine) identity. Barring tragic events, within such communities there was greater acceptance of being forever uprooted; being deraciné became a state of being that could be managed, if not always overcome. The tradition of mobility emerged within a family, and often an entire community and their place of origin. The Mediterranean has historically had a tradition of mobility due to a lack of fertile land and a close proximity, through water, to other places with an ongoing mixing of groups with different religions, customs, and practices, who lived in close proximity to each other and often together with each other. Alexandrian cosmopolitanism and that of other port cities in the Eastern Mediterranean was ultimately a nineteenth and early twentieth century phenomenon that answered the needs of the post-Industrial Revolution global economy. It was not an easy process, and nor did it always lead to material success. However, for those who undertook it and who came to occupy different social classes in the process, it was an improvement on their past; at least, this was what most had hoped and aimed for. Once they came to these cities, they also changed and became part of the new place; no less was this so than for the Greeks, who came in large numbers and went all over Egypt and even to Sudan and Eritrea. Such was the case with my family, too, who were established in Asyut, Minieh, Alexandria, and Cairo, and also in Tanta and Mansura. Despite their not calling themselves Egyptian, my family,

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as others did, sought to be there for good; some of them became part of the local bourgeoisie in its various internal stratifications; they acquired the hoped-for standard of living and participated economically and socially, at times even politically, while maintaining personal and cultural ties with their countries of origin, in this case Greece. British families in Izmir or their Greek counterparts in Alexandria often sent their (male) offspring to be educated in the mother country. Such was the case with my maternal grandfather. Both the British and the Greeks were quite endogamous, marrying mostly within their circles. My grandfather went to Limnos for his wife, my grandmother Eleni, whose name I bear in the Greek family tradition. During the so-called National Schism in World War I, half of Greece was pro-Venizelist and pro-British, and as such they wanted Greece to enter the war on the side of the Allies; the other half were Royalists and sought to stay neutral, given that the royal family was German in origin. The result was intermittent civil war, which spilled over amongst the Greek communities in Egypt as well. At that time, my paternal grandfather decided to leave for New York, taking his young wife with him, where he worked as a journalist in the Greek–American newspaper, H Aτ λαντ ις. At the end of the war, they returned to Egypt, where they felt they belonged. Despite their ongoing ambivalence, these families and the communities they belonged to also became part of their local city’s evolution (in my case Cairo, Asyut, and Alexandria), having participated in their cities’ cultural and spatial growth along with other newcomers; in turn, they were themselves impacted by the city. The result of such developments, best manifested in Alexandria, was a rich and visible material culture that was reflected in the print media, in consumption patterns, in eating habits and musical preferences, and not least of all in entertainment trends and coffee shops, in department stores and barber shops, and in theaters and their promenades along the famous Corniche (the seaside area of the city). All of these became sites of overlapping normative behavior, cultures, and profitable businesses. Well-integrated into the international market and in particular into the British economic networks, Egypt’s cities and their mostly agricultural hinterlands were vulnerable to large-scale fluctuations in the world economy. The Great Depression in the 1930s hit Alexandria and Egypt as a whole very hard -from Port Said to Minieh and Asyut- as my family and all my relatives would claim, yet people did not leave. As is usually the case, it was big cities such as Alexandria that started to re-grow the fastest when the economy recovered. The expertise, mindsets, tastes, commercial and credit networks, and social capital, including information flows and other channels of communication, were not entirely lost, and nor did they have to be reconstructed anew. My family, too, stayed there. An important qualification has to be made here: staying put held as long as the place of these cities and their hinterlands, and of the Middle East/Eastern Mediterranean region as a whole retained its (established) position within the public sphere of the world economy and within the concentric circles of interwoven routes and markets all linked through interpersonal economic relationships based on market forces. Once the position in the world economy of the Eastern Mediterranean and Southern Europe (the former Ottoman Empire) changed in terms of becoming less central within world markets, the very fabric of society (the economic actors, the

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material culture, and the social groups) across the region started to change, too. This was reinforced by political developments and by an exclusive rather than inclusive rendition of nationalism, which occurred incrementally over the course of the twentieth century and even more so after World War I and World War II. The factors that put into motion such changes in Egypt and their consequences are well beyond the scope of this paper, apart from briefly noting that although the reasons were and continue to be primarily economic and global, political factors such as the powerful rise of Arab nationalism (akin to the nineteenth century irredentism of the Balkans) were instrumental in bringing these changes about perhaps earlier and faster than might otherwise have been the case. Why the socio-economic make-up of cities in Egypt (and the Middle East more generally) changed so irrevocably in the last half-century or so is still being asked by historians today. Privileging formative global economic changes may make somewhat more comprehensible the apparently incomprehensible loss of cosmopolitanism and the grieving that seems to emanate from it. Simply put, if the Mediterranean had been able to regain the economic resurgence that was experienced from the mid-eighteenth to early twentieth centuries (after World War II), both locals and foreigners (as migrants or as investors) would have flocked to the region, and in the process re-created a rich, varied, and multi-layered material and ethnic culture, though not necessarily (and in fact it is quite unlikely), the Alexandria of the turn of the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century. Even New York City reinvents itself every so many decades and it is never the same again, so why not Alexandria? In fact, there are similarities between New York City and old Alexandria in terms of the continuous waves of newcomers who increase diversity without a single cultural identity emerging, in part due to fresh migrants and in part due to the fact that both cities, each for different reasons, did/does not demand it. Being a New Yorker expects and even implies cultural plurality, much as was the case for an Alexandrine.

References Awad MF (1987) Le modèle Européen: L’évolution urbaine de 1807 à 1958. In Ilbert R (dir) Alexandrie entre Deux Mondes, special issue of Revue de l’Occident Musulman et de la Méditerranée 46(4) Bruneau M (2000) Hellénisme et diaspora Grecque. De la Méditerranée Orientale à la Dimension Globale. Cahiers d’Études sur la Méditerranée Orientale et le Monde Turco-Iranien 30 Buti G (2003) Cabotage et caboteurs de la France Méditerranéenne (XVIIe–XVIIIe siècles). Rives Nord – Méditerranéennes 13:75–92 Catsiyannis T (1986) Pandias Stephen Rallis. Ekdotiki Ellathos, London Catsiyannis T (1987) Constantinos Ionidis-Ipliktsis. Spectrum Print Ltd., London Catsiyannis T (1988) The Rodocanachi of London. Dorriston Ltd., London Chapman SD (1977) The international contribution to British commerce, 1800–1860. J Eur Econ Hist VI:36–9 de Greiff P (2004) Habermas on nationalism and cosmopolitanism. Ratio Juris 15(4):418–438 Deeb M (1978) The socio-economic role of the local minorities in modern Egypt, 1805–1961. Int J Middle East Stud 9(1)

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Exertzoglou H (1989) ∏ρoσαρμoστικ´oτητα και πoλιτικη´ oμoγενειακων ´ κεϕαλα´ιων: To καταστημα ´ Zαρ´ιϕης Zaϕειρ´oπoυλoς, 1871–1881. Commercial Bank of Greece Research Foundation, Athens Frangakis-Syrett E (1995) Oι χωτες ´ šμπoρoι στις διεθνε´ις συναλλαγšς (1750–1850). Agricultural Bank of Greece Research & Planning Department, Athens Frangakis-Syrett E (2002) Networks of friendship, networks of kinship: eighteenth-century Levant merchants. Eurasian Stud 1(2):189–202 Frangakis-Syrett E (2009) Banking in Izmir in the early twentieth century. Mediterr Hist Rev 24(2):115–31 Frangakis-Syrett E (2015) Capital accumulation and family business networks in late Ottoman Izmir. Int J Turk Stud 21(1 & 2) Hanley W (2008) Grieving cosmopolitanism in Middle East Studies. History Compass 6(5):1346– 1367 Hatzifotis IM (1999) Alexandria. Thyo Aiones tou neoterou ellinismou (19os–20os). Greek Letters, Athens Henneton L (2012) Le moment Atlantique de la dynastie des Winthrop au XVIIe siècle. Les Cahiers de Framespa, 9. Online. http://www.framespa.revues.org/979 (accessed 10 November 2014) Hulkiender M (2003) Bir Galata Bankalerinin Portresi: George Zarifi, 1806–1884. Osmanlı Bankası Ar¸siv ve Ara¸stırma Merkezi, Istanbul Ilbert R, Yannakakis I (eds) (1997). English edn. Harpocrates Publishing, The Brief Life of a Cosmopolitan Community, Alexandria, Egypt Jasanoff M (2005) Cosmopolitan. A tale of identity from Ottoman Alexandria. Common Knowl 11(3) Kazamias A (2008, September) The British occupation of Egypt and Alexandria’s Greek bourgeoisie, 1882–1919, paper presented at the conference Bourgeois Seas. European University Institute, Florence Kévonian K (1975) Marchands Arméniens au XVIIe siècle. A propos d’un livre Arménien publié à Amsterdam en 1699. Cahiers Du Monde Russe Et Soviétique 16(2):199–244 Kitroeff A (1989) The Greeks in Egypt, 1919–1937: ethnicity and class. Ithaca Press, Oxford Mangriotis D (1986) H παρoικ´ια τoυ Ʌoνδ´ινoυ. Historica III(6):350–2 Mansel P (2011) Splendor and catastrophe on the Mediterranean. Yale University Press, New Haven, CT Moskos C (2001) Greek Americans. Transaction Publishers, Brunswick, NJ Pech E (1911) Manuel des Sociétés Anonymes Fonctionnant en Turquie. Gerard Frères, Istanbul Rees T (2003) Merchant adventurers in the Levant. Talbot Publishing, London Reimer M (1991) Ottoman-Arab seaports in the nineteenth century: social change in Alexandria, Beirut, and Tunis. In: Kasaba R (ed) Cities in the world system. Greenwood Press, New York Reimer M (1997) Colonial Bridgehead. Westview Press, Boulder, CO Sifneos E (2005) “Cosmopolitanism” as a feature of the Greek commercial diaspora. Hist Anthropol 16(1):97–111 Souloyiannis E (1994) Elliniki Kinotita tis Alexandrias (1843–1993). Press of the Municipality of Athens, Athens Syngros A (1908) Aπoμνημoνευματα; 1998, re-published by Angelos Angelou and MariaChristina Chatziioannou (eds). Estia (2 vols), Athens Seni ¸ N, Le Tarnec S (1997) Les Camondo. Actes Sud, Paris Vlami D (2015) Trading with the Ottomans. I.B. Taurus, London Zubaida S (2010, July 20) Cosmopolitan citizenship in the Middle East. Open Democracy. Online. https://www.opendemocracy.net/sami-zubaida/cosmopolitan-citizenship-in-themiddle-east (accessed 19 September 2014)

Chapter 9

City, Fathers, and Sons: Life Trajectories of Salonican Sabbatians in the Nineteenth Century Dilek Akyalçın Kaya

Abstract A Smyrniote Jew, Sabbatai Sevi declared himself as the Messiah of the Jews in the mid-seventeenth century. When asked to choose between conversion to Islam and death in the Ottoman divan, he opted for the first. Many of his followers followed the same road and voluntarily converted to Islam. After his death, Sevi’s followers gathered together in Salonica where his immediate successor Yakub Querido lived. They lived in this city until the beginning of the twentieth century; as a result of the turbulence of that time—the Balkan wars in the 1910s and the population exchange between Turkey and Greece in 1923–24—the Sabbatians, like the Salonican Muslims, were compelled to leave the city, so they and settled in Istanbul and other parts of Turkey. Under the Ottoman administration, they were not considered a separate group, and were part of the Muslim community of the city. Thus, lacking direct data, our limited knowledge of Sabbatians is shaped through generalizations. These generalizations, with the implication that ethnic and/or religious groups have a homogenous structure, assume that the individuals belonging to the group have similar lives, professions, and economic and social positions. By the same token, nineteenth century Salonican Sabbatians are designated as a welloff community engaged in commerce. These generalizations hinder our perception of differences in individual lives, differences that are the result of socio-economic developments of their time. In this article, I analyze the lives of Salonican Sabbatians in the nineteenth century and argue that belonging to an ethnic and/or religious group is not the only determinant of individuals’ lives, and that individual trajectories are shaped by various other elements. These different elements include private and/or family criteria such as the economic and social position of an individual within the society, and also more general criteria such as the economic and social transformations that Salonica experienced in the nineteenth century. All these determinants are intrinsically related, and they take part in the construction of an individual’s life trajectory. Within this context, it is important to understand, on the one hand, the plurality of individual life trajectories, and on the other, the diversities of their participation in the functioning of Salonican society in the nineteenth century. To this end, D. Akyalçın Kaya (B) Institute for Mediterranean Studies-FORTH, Rethymno, Greece e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_9

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employing a microanalysis provides us with a dynamic view of the socio-economic differences between the Sabbatians living in the same time period, and of the continuities, ruptures, and transformations within the Sabbatians’ lives across different generations. In this article, I will analyze the lives of fathers living in the middle of the nineteenth century and their sons at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century, and I will establish a relationship between the transformations of the city and some individual lives in that city. Through this, I will analyze the effects of the social and economic transformations of Salonica on the lives of its inhabitants in the late nineteenth century, and I will question the homogeneity of belonging to an ethnic and/or religious group. For this analysis, I will discuss in detail the lives of around 50 members of 15 Sabbatian families through data gathered from central and local Ottoman administration archives (Ottoman Archives of the Prime MinistryIstanbul and the Historical Archives of Macedonia–Thessaloniki) and through the journals of the time (Journal de Salonique, Mütalaa, etc.). Keywords Sabbatians · Salonica · Micro analysis · Professional diversification · Social mobility

9.1 Introduction Sabbatai Sevi, a Smyrniote Jew, declared himself the Messiah of the Jews in the mid-seventeenth century.1 When asked to choose between conversion to Islam and death in the Ottoman divan, he opted for the first. Many of his followers did the same and converted voluntarily to Islam, thus starting a life of dissimulation, where they appeared as Muslims in public while practicing their belief in Sabbatai Sevi in private. They were able to maintain the integrity and continuity of the community by employing several strategies (Baer, 2010: 27–43). First, following the death of Sabbatai Sevi, a majority of them gathered in Salonica and tended to live together in several quarters of the city. Secondly, following one of the orders of their messiah, they practiced endogamy; moreover, marriage with Muslims was strictly forbidden. Between the 1680s and 1710s, the group passed through crises of leadership on several theological questions, which resulted in the formation of three sub-groups of Sabbatians: the Yakubi, the Karaka¸s, and the Kapancı. All of them lived in Salonica until the beginning of the twentieth century. As a result of the turbulence of that time -the Balkan wars in the 1910s and the population exchange between Turkey and Greece in 1923–24, the Sabbatians, like the Salonican Muslims, were compelled to leave the city, and they settled in Istanbul and other parts of Turkey. This article deals with the economic and social life of Salonican Sabbatians in the nineteenth century. In the early 1920s, Sabbatians were already the object of public scrutiny. A Sabbatian himself, Karaka¸s Rü¸sdi pulled the trigger by claiming that ‘the Sabbatians were living within their community practicing peculiar rites and not forming relations 1

For the life of Sabbatai Sevi, see: Scholem (1973) and Si¸ ¸ sman (2015).

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of any sort with the Turks and Muslims’,2 and he recommended that the Turkish government expel them from the country or disperse them to guarantee their mixing with Turkish families.3 These declarations were utilized by nationalist and Islamist discourse throughout the twentieth century in Turkey to prove the ‘secret’ and ‘close’ nature of this community and moreover, they were generalized about in other parts of their lives.4 Hence, ‘the Sabbatian community’ became a secret/closed group whose members were all rich merchants, thus forming a coherent body not only in religious terms, but also in the economic, social, and cultural spheres. The corollary to this image was a representation of Sabbatians as an entity in themselves, characterized by a way of life different from the non-Sabbatians and shared by each and every member of the group, ignoring completely temporal and spatial aspects. This article starts off by questioning the so-called homogeneity of a Sabbatian community by arguing that the Sabbatians, like all other components of society for that matter, were profoundly affected by the transformations that Ottoman society in general and Salonican society in particular experienced in the nineteenth century. These transformations brought about a rupture from a self-definition solely in terms of religion, and various other elements started to shape individual identity. These included the socio-economic standing of an individual within the society and the transformations that society underwent during this period. All these determinants were intrinsically related and took part in the construction of individual life trajectories and the diversities of the Sabbatians participation in the urban society in which they lived. In this article, I aim to analyze the diversity of the individual life trajectories of the Sabbatians and demonstrate how different elements affected their lives and created a diversity of choices for them. I also argue that participation in the urban society in which they lived was also diversified as a result of their choices. I use microanalysis to gain a dynamic view of the socio-economic differences between the Sabbatians living in the same period and of the continuities, ruptures, and transformations within the Sabbatians’ lives of different generations. Keeping in mind the uniqueness of each case, I do not aim to arrive at general conclusions about the Sabbatians, but instead to comprehend the complex social reality of the society of the period in question. I make use of the archival material of the central administration preserved in the Ottoman archives in Istanbul and of the local administration of the Macedonian historical archives in Salonica. Together with these archival materials produced by the central government, I utilize the journals and yearbooks of the period in order gain a local perspective. I analyze the socio-economic hierarchies within Salonican society and between Sabbatians themselves only within the limitations of these documents. A person’s profession is the most important element I can find throughout these archives. This element not only provides indications of the amount of income an individual had, but also of his social position within society. His wealth, then, which 2

Sebilürre¸sad, no. 583, 170–1. For a critical examination of the declarations of Karaka¸szade Rü¸sdi, see Baer (2010: 155–167). 4 See, for example, a series of articles published in Sebilürre¸sad in 1948, Edib (1948), 1 (4), 55; (5), 77; (8), 125; (9), 139; (11), 174; (12), 190; (13), 205. 3

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mostly includes urban and rural properties, is taken as an important element. Any data regarding the education he had or did not have also enters into play. Finally, his engagement in local politics is a significant component of his socio-economic position in Salonican society. The following section provides key elements of the economic and social transformations that Salonica went through in the nineteenth century to enable us to contextualize the personal trajectories of the Sabbatians.

9.2 Salonica in the Nineteenth Century The second half of the nineteenth century represents a period in which the Sabbatians became ‘visible’ to researchers. The principal reason for this is constituted by the economic and social transformations of Ottoman society in general. All components of society, be they religious, ethnic, or economic, were affected by these changes. In the same period, Salonica and its inhabitants lived through important transformations in demography, economy, society, administration, education, culture, and urbanism.5 The Sabbatians, being an integral part of the urban society of Salonica, experienced the effects of these evolutions in their lives to varying degrees, just like the other inhabitants of Salonica of the period. The population of Salonica increased considerably in this period. Several factors contributed to this increase: economic expansion of the city, the improvement of sanitary facilities, and the migrations following the wars with Russia (Anastassiadou, 1997: 109–11). The need for space for this new demographic configuration resulted in the demolition of city walls and in the formation of a new quarter (the Hamidiye quarter) outside the city. This urban transformation continued with infrastructural works, railroads, and the quay. These two elements, associated with the reorganization of the economy on the international level, became the driving forces for an economic transformation: the European cities and the Ottoman capital became easily accessible for the agricultural and industrial products of the city and its hinterlands. Salonica also experienced changes in administration and education in conformity with the reforms in these two spheres undertaken by the central administration. The unprecedented pace of these transformations necessitated an organization responsible for the urban affairs, a role to be taken by the municipality founded at that period. The changes in economy and administration required qualified labour to be employed in these sectors, hence the educational reforms. The central administration opened up several schools in Salonica, and the city inhabitants participated in this initiative without delay and founded their own schools with their own financial means. The well-off Jews, Christians, foreigners, Muslims, and Sabbatians of Salonica invested in education to establish their own schools in order to train young Salonicans in 5

There are several studies that concentrate on these transformations in Salonica in the nineteenth century; see Anastassiadou (1997), Gounaris (1993a, b), Yerolympos (1997: 123-43, 2003: 109-27) and Quataert (2002: 196–211).

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accordance with the needs of the period, including knowledge of commercial activities and a foreign language, French. Education, a growing press, and rapid circulation of people and ideas all created new forms of sociability that were unknown until then such as clubs, Masonic lodges, and parties. These evolutions profoundly affected all the inhabitants of Salonica and led to sharper social differentiation amongst them. Several Salonicans started to define themselves less in religious terms and more and more in socio-economic terms, leading to the creation of a Salonican bourgeoisie. The signs that were utilized as its manifestation were various. The most ostentatious behaviour was settling in the newly established quarter of Hamidiye in villas on the seaside to escape the bustle of the city. Participation in local politics and philanthropic activities, familiarity with European culture and lifestyle, organization of dinners and other entertainments, and participation in sports clubs enabled people of similar economic and social standing to be together and share similar tastes, habits, and behaviour. This social differentiation is also the key to understanding the effect of these transformations on the lives of Sabbatians. This was not an effect that uniformly marked the lives of all Sabbatians, nor that of all Salonicans for that matter. They were affected in varying degrees, according to their own personal histories. Participation or not of each Sabbatian individual in the diverse aspects of these transformations carried the traces of several elements of his/her identity, which was at least partially independent of his/her Sabbatian origin, such as the social and economic position of his/her family and his/her educational or professional trajectory. Thus, some Sabbatians participated in the newly emerging bourgeoisie of the city, forming a separate group containing individuals from all confessions, while others decided to stay within their community even if they had the financial means to participate in the bourgeoisie. Finally, the majority of the Sabbatians, in any case, did not have these means, staying within the limits (real or imagined) of tradition. The following section focuses on the reconstruction of individual trajectories of several Sabbatians. It examines the effects of the general transformations and personal stories on the choices of individuals. Life trajectories of three generations enable us to analyze the continuities and ruptures in family histories and the possible reasons and results of these for each individual. I analyze the families in three categories according to the profession of the members of the second generation: agriculture, commerce, and administration. The reason for analysing the second generation is that I consider this group a departure point from which to be able to move back and forth in time to make comparisons.

9.3 Landowners In my sample, the members of the second generation of two Sabbatian families that were engaged in agriculture are the family of Se¸ ¸ sbe¸szade and that of Ahmed Hamdi. They were some of the most important landowners of their time. Their family history

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differed considerably, as did their mode of participation in the Salonican bourgeoisie at the end of the nineteenth century. The family of Se¸ ¸ sbe¸szade can be considered as an illustrative example of a traditional notable family (e¸sraf ), whose members derived their wealth from land starting at least from the beginning of the nineteenth century. In the archival documents, the family was designated as ‘a local dynasty’.6 In 1814, the family lived through the confiscation process of their wealth following the death of a certain Se¸ ¸ sbe¸s, an indication of the family’s local power and considerable economic resources.7 However, they seem to have recovered quite rapidly given the fact that by the mid-nineteenth century, they had several large estates under their control around Salonica. The first member of this family, Se¸ ¸ sbe¸s ˙Ismail, reinforced the family’s economic resources through his tax farming activities, and diversified them with urban real estate investments such as shops and storerooms. In the revenue registers of 1844–45, this Se¸ ¸ sbe¸szade ˙Ismail was registered as a tax farmer, an inhabitant of the Sarı Hatib quarter, and owner of several shops in the city and large estates in its vicinity.8 The second generation of the family, represented by Osman, seems to have continued the family tradition. He was designated as a notable of the Muslim community of Salonica in a news report concerning his death.9 He continued to live in his father’s quarter, Sarı Hatib, until the beginning of the twentieth century. Osman’s son-in-law, Ali Rıza, represents someone in-between the second and third generations of the family. He had a career in provincial administration working as the chief secretary of the province of Salonica, indicating that he had some sort of education. His son, Halil Rıfat,10 born in 1875, lived in an era when the educational reforms were underway and obtaining administrative posts became more and more dependent on university degrees. He received his diploma from the civil service school in Istanbul and had a career as sub-governor of several sub-districts of the province of Salonica. Although impossible to know whether it was his own choice to be nominated in his native province, there seems to be a tendency amongst Sabbatians with a family tradition related to land to stay around their native city. The family history of Ahmed Hamdi Bey constitutes another agrarian notable family; however, it is different from the first case. The members of this family seem to have risen up spectacularly to that status in the second half of the nineteenth century, with the very person that gave his name to the family, Hamdi Bey. His father, Osman, was an inhabitant of the Sahabeddin ¸ quarter of the city in the mid-nineteenth century.11 Osman was registered as tax farmer, earning a relatively

6

Ottoman Archives of the Directorate of State Archives (hereafter BOA), I.MMS 54–2423 (4.CA.1293 [28 May 1876]). 7 BOA, C.ML 356–14580 (21.C.1230 [31 May 1815]). 8 BOA, ML.VRD.TMT 11655, 78. 9 Journal de Salonique (hereafter JdS), no. 727, 5 March 1903, p. 1. 10 BOA, DH.SA˙ID 92–303 (29.Z.1292 [26 January 1876]). 11 BOA, ML.VRD.TMT 11487, 49.

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high income compared to the general average income of Salonicans.12 He owned several shops and storehouses in the city. During the registration of 1844–45, he did not have any large estates; however, he had access to the possession of several large estates through his wife, who inherited wealth from her own family.13 In other words, in the second half of the nineteenth century, he began to participate in agricultural business. The members of the next generation were able to build on the solid economic base that Osman had established through his activities. Although his family was not recognized or registered as a dynasty during his lifetime, he belonged to an important family of the city. The family would be retrospectively called a local dynasty in the late nineteenth century. Ahmed Hamdi Bey is the most important member of the second generation of this family. He was one of the most illustrious landowners of his time. Benefiting completely from the agricultural developments of the province, he brought new European technologies and methods to apply in his large estates, earning him the title of ‘the greatest landowner of the province of Salonica’.14 The geographic position of his large estates near the city and the newly established railway offered him extraordinary opportunities for transportation of his agricultural products. Moreover, acting as an entrepreneur with an idea of profit maximization, he obtained the concession of draining the marshlands around the Vardar River, around which his large estates were located.15 His engagement in agriculture did not prevent him from becoming a real urban actor. He got other concessions related to his interest in the urban transformation of the time. He got the concession to establish the tramway in the city (Pech, 1911: 234– 7). Moreover, he was engaged in local politics and took part in the newly founded municipality, first as a member and then elected twice as mayor in the late nineteenth century.16 As mayor, he was preoccupied with improvements in urban life such as lighting the quarters, supervising the streets, and picking up trash. Moreover, he was engaged in infrastructural work such as widening the quay, demolishing old buildings, constructing the new ones, and paving.17 By the end of the nineteenth century, he owned a long list of urban real estate, including houses, plots of land, shops, and storehouses. There was even an impasse named after him where all the real estate properties belonged to him.18 He moved from his father’s house in the old quarter of the city to the newly formed Hamidiye 12

For the calculation of this average, see D. Akyalçın Kaya, ‘Les sabbatéens saloniciens (1845– 1912)’, unpublished PhD dissertation, Paris: EHESS, 2013, pp. 34–100. 13 Sijils of Salonica (315/384, 391, 392, 461, 462; 316/101, 102, 103, 104, 120, 129, 130, 135, 252, 253; 317/453, 639, 659; 319/ 305, 471). 14 Mütalaa, no. 30, 21 Ramazan 1314 [23 February 1897], 5–6. 15 For an analysis of this concession, see D. Akyalçın Kaya, ‘Les sabbatéens saloniciens (1845– 1912)’, unpublished PhD dissertation, Paris: EHESS, 2013, 229–45. 16 JdS, no. 232, 28 February 1898; JdS, no. 332, 23 February 1899; JdS, no. 622, 20 January 1902. 17 JdS, no. 368, 6 July 1899; no. 378, 10 August 1899; no. 402, 6 November 1899; no. 462, 14 June 1900; no. 613, 19 December 1901. 18 For the list, see D. Akyalçın Kaya, Les sabbatéens, ‘Annexe 8: Liste des biens immobiliers des sabbatéens’, 2013, 338.

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quarter outside Salonica, a typical characteristic of the emerging bourgeoisie of the city. His visits to Europe and the dinners he organized at his luxurious villa in the new quarter contributed to his economic and social position and made him a renowned example of the Salonican bourgeoisie. The third generation is composed of the sons and nephews of Ahmed Hamdi Bey. Their trajectories reveal a professional diversification and even a division of labour. The oldest sons/nephews, Abdurrahman Rıfat and Osman Said, remained in the province to manage the economic affairs of the family, mainly (but not exclusively) the large estates. Abdurrahman Rıfat was engaged in the agricultural business of the family, following the footsteps of his father and grandfather. This is also true for Osman Said, the oldest nephew. He lived in Salonica apparently to be able to deal with agricultural affairs of the family. Moreover, he acted as the representative of Hamdi Bey in the sales of the family’s real estate. His position of representative indicated not only a relationship of trust, but also a knowledge and continuous presence in the area to react immediately and effectively when needed. His name also figured amongst the members of the municipal council of Salonica.19 He was nominated mayor between 1912 and 1916, and again between 1920 and 1922 (Baer, 2010: 90, 111–2, 119). Thus, the oldest sons/nephews of the family were engaged in agriculture and their stay in the province offered them other possibilities such as engagement in local politics. The second sub-group of the third generation is composed of Osman Adil and ˙Ibrahim Hakkı. Their life trajectories differ from the youngest members of the third generation in the sense that these two were not able to benefit from the educational reforms. Without having university degrees, they were still able to obtain high-ranking positions in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs thanks to their knowledge of foreign languages, a quality that distinguished them from their counterparts in an era when the central government was in extreme need of a qualified workforce. ˙Ibrahim Hakkı worked as an Ottoman consul in several cities including Turn-Severin, Cardiff, and Hamburg,20 while Osman Adil worked at the same ministry in Istanbul as assistant director of litigation.21 He decided to leave this post and return to his native town to engage in the family business22 and local politics, following in his father’s footsteps both as landowner and as mayor (nominated in 1908).23 Finally, the trajectories of the youngest members of the third generation (Abdurrahman ˙Ilhami, Mustafa, and Lütfi) were marked by a specialization certified with a university diploma. They were able to benefit completely from the newly established

19

Selanik Vilayeti Salnamesi, 1325 [1907–8], 150. BOA, DH.SA˙ID 77–185 (29.Z.1281 [25 May 1865]); HR.SA˙ID 23–9 (29.B.1329 [26 July 1911]). 21 BOA, HR.SA˙ID 8–4 (13.L.1317 [14 February 1900]). 22 JdS, no. 1212, 6 January 1908. 23 JdS, no. 1226, 27 February 1908. 20

9 City, Fathers, and Sons: Life Trajectories of Salonican Sabbatians … Table 9.1 Landowners

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First generation

Osman

Ismail

Second generation

Hamdi (˙Ismail Hakkı)

Osman (Ali Rıza)

Third generation

Osman Adil Abdurrahman Rıfat Osman Said ˙Ibrahim Hakkı Lütfi Mustafa Abdurrahman ˙Ilhami

Halil Rıfat

colleges of the central government. Abdurrahman ˙Ilhami got a degree from engineering school,24 Mustafa went to medical school,25 and Lütfi went to law school.26 All of these three institutions were founded in the 1880s to meet the need for a qualified workforce for the economic and social developments of the period. The central government was practically the only employer of these university graduates. The family of Hamdi Bey was characterized by a social ascension in the second half of the nineteenth century. Already an important family with a certain amount of economic and social power within Salonican society by the mid-nineteenth century, the members of the following generations consolidated this power by employing several strategies: first, by engaging in entrepreneurial activities offered by the period; and second, by diversifying their economic domains. Together with this economic power, some members of the family (such as Hamdi Bey and his son Osman Adil) preferred to be part of the Salonican bourgeoisie by moving to the Hamidiye quarter and participating in dinners and soirées while others (such as Osman Said) did not choose to be part of that world (Table 9.1).

9.4 Merchants Trade is another economic domain in which several Sabbatians were engaged. The trajectories of merchant Sabbatians revealing significant elements about the continuities and ruptures within family histories constituted a wide range of diversification depending on their capacity to benefit from the economic developments and their will to participate in the urban society of the period. The family of Emin Lütfi represents a continuity of a family tradition of commerce while adding new opportunities of the period. His father Musa was classified as a merchant with high professional income in the mid-nineteenth century.27 He was also designated as moneychanger and banker, and it is probable that he was engaged BOA, DH.SA˙ID 174–455 (29.Z.1289 [27 February 1873]). BOA, DH.SA˙ID 162–151 (29.Z.1292 [26 January 1876]). 26 BOA, DH.SA˙ID 136–429 (29.Z.1295 [24 December 1878]). 27 BOA, ML.VRD.TMT 11487, 11. 24 25

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in money lending thanks to capital he accumulated in commerce. In other words, because they based their economic resources on commercial activities, the members of the family were amongst the most important families of Salonica in the midnineteenth century. He was living in the Hacı ˙Ismail quarter in the city. The members of the second generation, Emin Lütfi and Mehmed A˘ga, continued the family tradition as moneylenders. Emin Lütfi was also engaged in local politics as a member of the municipal council. He moved his family from his father’s house within the city to the Hamidiye quarter; this move was a manifestation of the economic and social status of the family. The members of the third generation continued the family tradition; they were engaged mainly in commercial and banking activities, and were part of the Salonican bourgeoisie of their time. If the economic activities of the late nineteenth century resulted in the prosperity of already well-off families, these activities also offered possibilities of social ascension for some individuals whose fathers had lived in rather modest conditions in earlier decades. This was case of Emin Receb’s family. His father, Receb Abdurrahman, worked as an itinerant middleman (dellal) with a very modest annual professional income level.28 Receb Abdurrahman lived together with his brothers in the same house in the Abdullah Kadı quarter in the city. He did not have any real estate. These indications give an idea of the economic and social position of the members of this family within Salonican society in the mid-nineteenth century. Still, within a generation, his sons (Emin Receb, Refik Receb, ˙Ismail Receb, and Mehmed Esad29 ) would transform the father’s economic affairs into a large commercial company under the name of Emin Receb Karde¸sler, and they acquired an important place amongst the well-off families of Salonica. The youngest brother went to Manchester, another to Istanbul, and the third stayed in Salonica and opened branches in these places (Tatcı & Kurnaz, 2000: 245). This economic expansion of the family was most certainly related to the capability and knowledge inherited from the father and also to the economic and commercial developments of the period. While continuing the professional tradition of their father, they were able to turn it into an international trading company. The third generation (Abdurrahman Adil) was able to obtain a university degree in law in Istanbul.30 Benefiting from the opportunities offered by the time, he diversified his economic resources by establishing links with the industrialists of the city. These newly wealthy individuals showed they were also willing to be a part of the bourgeoisie by settling to the recently built Hamidiye quarter. Another case of upward social mobility within a generation would be the family of Mehmed Karaka¸s. His father, Osman, worked as a producer and seller of socks (çorapçı) with a very modest annual professional income.31 He did not have real 28

BOA, ML.VRD.TMT 11654, 50. Mehmed Esad, the fourth son of Receb Abdurrahman, had a professional career completely different from his brothers’. He became a mevlevi cheikh in Istanbul. 30 H. Vassaf, Esadname, Süleymaniye kütüphanesi elyazmaları, no. 2098, 44b. 31 BOA, ML.VRD.TMT 11487, 78. 29

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estate and he was not part of local politics. Very much the same as the previous example, his son, Mehmed Karaka¸s became one of the most important merchants of Salonica in the second half of the nineteenth century.32 Mehmed’s case also shows a social ascension thanks to the commercial expansion of the city. In the tradition of his father, he was engaged in the textile business and even invested in the establishment of a fez factory.33 His engagement in entrepreneurial activities was directly related to the economic developments of his time while the choice of textiles was definitely related to the family tradition. A member of the municipal council, he had several houses and shops in the city, yet the family did not move to the Hamidiye quarter and their names were not mentioned in any social events as participants. Like the members of Se¸ ¸ sbe¸szade family, they did not choose to be part of that world. The third generation of the Karaka¸s family continued the family business and opened a commercial house in Istanbul. The economic wealth of this family was also an important factor in their belonging to the Salonican elites. This is shown by a list of real estate owned by the members of this family containing several houses, shops, plots of land, a factory in the city, and another in its vicinity (the Hamidiye quarter).34 However, their absence in the social life of the Salonican bourgeoisie should be underlined. Moreover, the family continued to stay in the old quarter of Balat in the city and did not move to the Hamidiye quarter. In short, they represented yet another model of participation in the bourgeoisie of Salonica. The number of people who benefited from the economic expansion remained a minority. The majority of merchants practiced trade on a very small scale, and they were not able to build commercial houses like the ones cited above. This might have been due to the choices of the sons, considering their chances in other economic sectors. Superior education that aimed to respond to the reorganization of the provincial administration was one of the opportunities that allowed individuals to have a different career from their fathers. This was the case of the families of Receb Naim and Mehmed Efendi. Receb Naim, a small trader of the mid-nineteenth century, and his son Mehmed Cavid became one of the most influential politicians of his time.35 Born in 1878, he got his diploma from civil service school and was nominated as Minister of Finance following the Young Turk revolution in 1908. He played an important role in the political arena of the Ottoman Empire in the 1910s and 1920s. The history of Mehmed Efendi’s family represents a similar case, but with less spectacular careers. Mehmed Efendi, a small trader, was able to send two of his three children to Istanbul to obtain university degrees and to have professional trajectories in administration. The oldest one, Abdi Tevfik, was able to acquire an education in 32

Selanik Vilayeti Salnamesi, 1307 [1889/90], p. 257. For an analysis of the establishment of this factory, see D. Akyalçın Kaya, Les sabbatéens, 2013, 246–58. 34 For the list, see D. Akyalçın Kaya, Les sabbatéens, ‘Annexe 8: Liste des biens immobiliers des sabbatéens’, 2013, p. 338. 35 BOA, DH.SA˙ID 79–467 (29.Z.1295 [24 December 1878]). 33

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Table 9.2 Merchants First generation

Receb Abdurrahman

Musa

Osman

Second generation

Emin Receb Refik Receb ˙Ismail Receb Mehmed Esad

Emin Lütfi

Karaka¸s Mehmed

Third generation

Abdurrahman Adil

Musa Ha¸smet

Mehmed

Receb Naim

Abdi Tevfik Osman Fıtri Musa Kazım

Mehmed Cavid

Terakki School in Salonica, and he became the secretary of the Turkish language in the administration of Regie of Kavala in the province of Salonica.36 The other two children, Osman Fıtri and Musa Kazım, received their diplomas from the engineering school in Istanbul and worked as engineers in various departments of provincial administration (Table 9.2).37

9.5 Civil Servants Administration constituted yet another professional sector. The members of the second generation of Sabbatian families who worked as civil servants were mostly civil servants at the local level; the administrative reforms had considerably increased the number of posts and the possibilities that young Salonicans could have in the second half of the nineteenth century. The family of Fazlı Efendi was an important family, deriving its economic and social power from administrative posts. The first generation, Muslihiddin Edib, worked as the director of the census department in Salonica, one of the most important posts in the hierarchy of provincial administration. Although his son, Fazlı Efendi, started his career in the same department, he was not able to occupy his father’s post38 because Fazlı Efendi did not have the university degree needed for that post; nevertheless, with a limited education, he was able to follow a professional career as chief secretary in the same department. His son Muslihiddin Adil was able to benefit from higher education and obtained a university degree from civil service school.39 He worked as sub-governor in several districts before settling in Istanbul and working as a law school professor and then as undersecretary at the Ministry of Education. BOA, DH.SA˙ID 86–153 (29.Z.1287 [22 March 1871]). BOA, DH.SA˙ID 143–151 (29.Z.1290 [17 February 1874]); BOA, DH.SA˙ID 128–41 (29.Z.1291 [6 February 1875]). 38 BOA, DH.SA˙ID.MEM 8–18 (29.Z.1272 [31 August 1856]). 39 BOA, DH.SA˙ID 146–235 (29.Z.1299 [11 November 1882]). 36 37

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While higher education led to a professional career in administration, most of these posts were outside of Salonica. This was the case for several Sabbatians such ¸ 2004: 10), and Süleyman Kani.41 as Osman Tevfik,40 Abdurrahman Nafiz (Sahin, The members of the third generation of these families were able to obtain high administrative posts in Istanbul. The third generation of civil servants, differently from the other Sabbatians of the third generation, was able to become part of the elites of Salonica not because of their economic level, but through their high-ranking posts in the administration and their knowledge of European culture and lifestyle. Since they were nominated outside Salonica and they did not have the financial means, they did not choose to settle in the Hamidiye quarter, but they still wrote columns for the journals of the period with their visits to their native town. Civil servants having careers in the high-ranking administration was relatively rare, but many Sabbatians had administrative careers on the provincial level. These were mostly the Sabbatians born before 1880 who were not able to benefit from the educational reforms and found themselves appointed to intermediary provincial posts. With rather modest professional incomes, they were not part of the emerging Salonican bourgeoisie of the period. This was the case of the family of Abdurrahman Zeki, that of Abdi Efendi, and that of Mustafa Fevzi. Abdurrahman Zeki worked as dragoman and Secretary for the Turkish Language in the Banque Ottomane in Salonica. His sons, Süleyman Sevket, ¸ Mustafa Tevfik, Osman Vasıf, and ˙Ibrahim Ziver went to school in Salonica until secondary school, and they had intermediary posts in several departments of provincial administration.42 The son of Abdi Efendi (˙Ismail) represents a similar case. Having received a diploma from the high school of Salonica, ˙Ismail was appointed to several posts in the department to manage the correspondence of public debt in Salonica.43 Likewise, the son of Mustafa Fevzi, Receb Necati, had a secondary school education and worked as a teacher in Feyziye School (Table 9.3).44

9.6 Conclusion The individual trajectories analyzed in this article demonstrate several important points: first, we should avoid attributing certain professions to certain Sabbatian subsects. In fact, the examples demonstrate clearly that religious belonging is not the only determinant in individuals’ choices. We should take into account other criteria BOA, HR.SA˙ID 17–2 (18.S.1325 ¸ [26 September 1907]). BOA, DH.SA˙ID 76–285 (29.Z.1288 [10 March 1872]). 42 BOA, DH.SA˙ID 129–471 (29.Z.1269 [3 October 1882]); BOA, DH.SA˙ID 22–177 (29.Z.1271 [12 September 1855]); BOA, DH.SA˙ID 37–93 (29.Z.1274 [10 August 1858]); BOA, DH.SA˙ID 51–413 (29.Z.1276 [18 July 1860]). 43 BOA, DH.SA˙ID 110–97 (29.Z.1292 [26 January 1876]). 44 BOA, DH.SA˙ID 51–443 (29.Z.1287 [22 March 1871]). 40 41

Muslihiddin Edib

Fazlı

Muslihiddin Adil

First generation

Second generation

Third generation

Table 9.3 Civil servants

Mustafa Tevfik Ibrahim Ziver Osman Vasıf Süleyman Sevket ¸

Abdurrahman Zeki

Ahmed Emin

Osman Tevfik Abdurrahman Nafız

Fazlı Necib

Abdurrahman Nafız

Süleyman Kani

Aziz

Ismail

Abdi

Receb Necati

Mustafa Fevzi

234 D. Akyalçın Kaya

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such as the economic and social position of the family and the economic and social developments of the time when analyzing individual trajectories. So, for example, the son of a landowner could choose to try his chances in the newly established provincial administration, or the son of a merchant could search for new career possibilities as an engineer. In conformity with this first point, we should also take into account the temporal aspect, in other words, the differences between generations. Several Sabbatian individuals opted for a career in the sector of their fathers’ occupation while some others tried their chances in other domains. The impact of economic and social transformation on individual trajectories is very perceptible; the reforms undertaken in the nineteenth century in the spheres of education and administration, the economic expansion related to commerce, and the emergence of new forms of sociability all contributed to the formation of individual trajectories and to the choices of individuals. Social mobility marked certain Sabbatians individuals impressively while it was less felt, or even absent, in others. Belonging or not belonging to the well-off layer of urban society was not determined by a Sabbatian identity, but rather by several other criteria that contributed to the formation of the individual trajectories of Sabbatians: the economic and social position of the family and their willingness to benefit from the opportunities offered by the economic and social changes of the period. Diversity of individual trajectories is a very important element in an analysis of urban societies in transformation. What is more important is that these divergences provide us with indications of different relationships that these individuals had with the city itself. The landowners seem to have had a very strong relationship to the city, which might be related to the investments made by the family members. Even when they left the city for long periods, they tended to return to Salonica. For the merchants who invested in real estate in Salonica, the city remained the only place to live. However, for other merchants, Salonica became a distribution point for their commercial affairs. While preserving their relationship to their city, the members of these families dispersed (physically) to Istanbul and other European cities to create commercial networks through various branches. For the civil servants, the picture is completely different. Their relationship to Salonica was weaker in the sense that once they departed from the city, they did not come back, or only came back very rarely. Salonica was not merely a stage on which the Sabbatians acted; the history of these people and the city was closely related so that one cannot be thought of without referring to the other. The incorporation of the city into Greece in 1912 was the first rupture for Salonican society. A fire in 1917 destroyed a considerable part of the urban tissue and drastically changed the relationships uniting the Salonicans, Sabbatians, and everyone else to their city. The population exchange in 1924 ended the presence of Muslims and Sabbatians in the city. This was the beginning of a completely different history for the city and the Sabbatians in the respective contexts of the assertion of two nation-states, Greece and Turkey.

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References Archives Ba¸sbakanlık Osmanlı Ar¸sivleri-˙Istanbul (BOA) C.ML 356–14580 (21.C.1230 [31 May 1815]) DH.SA˙ID 92–303 (29.Z.1292 [26 January 1876]) DH.SA˙ID 77–185 (29.Z.1281 [25 May 1865]) DH.SA˙ID 174–455 (29.Z.1289 [27 February 1873]) DH.SA˙ID 162–151 (29.Z.1292 [26 January 1876]) DH.SA˙ID 136–429 (29.Z.1295 [24 December 1878]). DH.SA˙ID 79–467 (29.Z.1295 [24 December 1878]) DH.SA˙ID 86–153 (29.Z.1287 [22 March 1871]) DH.SA˙ID 143–151 (29.Z.1290 [17 February 1874]) DH.SA˙ID 128–41 (29.Z.1291 [6 February 1875]) DH.SA˙ID.MEM 8–18 (29.Z.1272 [31 August 1856]) DH.SA˙ID 146–235 (29.Z.1299 [11 November 1882]) DH. SA˙ID 76–285 (29.Z.1288 [10 March 1872]) DH.SA˙ID 129–471 (29.Z.1269 [3 October 1882]) DH.SA˙ID 22–177 (29.Z.1271 [12 September 1855]) DH.SA˙ID 37–93 (29.Z.1274 [10 August 1858]) DH.SA˙ID 51–413 (29.Z.1276 [18 July 1860]) DH. SA˙ID 110–97 (29.Z.1292 [26 January 1876]) DH.SA˙ID 51–443 (29.Z.1287 [22 March 1871]) ¸ [26 September 1907]) HR.SA˙ID 17–2 (18.S.1325 HR.SA˙ID 23–9 (29.B.1329 [26 July 1911]) HR.SA˙ID 8–4 (13.L.1317 [14 February 1900]) ˙I.MMS 54–2423 (4.CA.1293 [28 May 1876]) ML.VRD.TMT 11655 ML.VRD.TMT 11487 ML.VRD.TMT 11654

Historical Archives of Macedonia-Thessaloniki Sijils of Salonica, nos. 315, 316, 317, 319

Manuscripts Vassaf, H. Esadname. Süleymaniye kütüphanesi elyazmaları, no. 2098

Published sources 1325 sene-i hicriyesine mahsus Selanik vilayeti salnamesi. 20. Defa, Selanik, Hamidiye Mekteb-i Sanayi Matbaası, 1325 [1907–8]

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Journal de Salonique, publication bi-hebdomadaire, politique, commerciale et littéraire. Directeurpropriétaire: Saadi Levy, Administration: Caracache Han no. 13, 1895–1910 Mütalaa: Fünun ve edebiyattan bahis Osmanlı gazetesi. Selânik, Osman Tevfik, nos. 14–78, 1313– 1315 [1897–8]

Secondary Sources Akyalçın Kaya D (2013) ‘Les sabbatéens saloniciens (1845–1912): Des individus pluriels and une société urbaine en transition’, unpublished PhD dissertation. EHESS, Paris Anastassiadou M (1997) Salonique 1830–1912: Une Ville Ottomane à l’Âge des Reformes, Leiden: Brill Baer MD (2010) The Dönme. Jewish converts, Muslim revolutionaries, and secular turks. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Edib E (1948) ‘Türkiye’de dönmelik tarihçesi’, Sebilürre¸sad, 1(4), 55; (5), 77; (8), 125; (9), 139; (11), 174; (12), 190; (13), 2 Gounaris BC (1993a) ‘Salonica’, Review. A Journal of Fernand Braudel Center, Port-cities of the Eastern Mediterranean 1800–1914. XVI 4:499–518 Gounaris V (1993b) Steam over Macedonia. 1870–1912: Socio-Economic Change and the Railway Factor. Boulder: East European Monographs Pech E (1911) Manuel des Sociétés Anonymes Fonctionnant en Turquie, 5e edn. Imprimerie Gérard Frères, Constantinople Quataert D (2002) ‘Industrial working class of Salonica. In: Levy A (ed) Jews, Turks, Ottomans. Syracuse University Press, A Shared History, Fifteenth Through the Twentieth Century, New York, pp 1850–1912 ˙I (2004) Selanikli Fazlı Necib’in Hayatı ve Eserleri, Ankara: Bilge Yayınları Sahin ¸ Scholem G (1973) Sabbataï Sevi. The Mystical Messiah 1626–1676, (trans. from Hebrew to English by R. J. Werblowski), Princeton: Princeton University Press Si¸ ¸ sman C (2015) The Burden of Silence. Oxford University Press, Sabbatai Sevi and the Evolution of the Ottoman-Turkish Dönmes, New York Tatcı M, Kurnaz C (2000) ‘Mehmed Esad Dede’ in S. ¸ Tekin and G. Alpay Tekin (eds) Memoriam Agah Sırrı Levend Hatıra, sayısı I, Boston: Harvard University Yerolympos A (1997) ‘Conscience citadine et intérêt municipal à Salonique à la fin du XXe siècle’ In: Dumont P, Georgeon F (eds) Vivre dans l’Empire Ottoman. Sociabilité et Relations Intercommunautaires (XVIIIe-XIXe siècles), Paris: L’Harmattan Yerolympos A (2003) ‘Urbanism as social engineering in the Balkans: Reform prospects and implementation problems in Thessaloniki’ In: Nasr J, Volait M (eds) Urbanism: Imported or Exported?, West Sussex: Wiley-Academy

Chapter 10

Ex-Changing Houses in Rethymno After the Treaty of Lausanne Melis Cankara

Abstract Due to its strategic importance, the island of Crete changed hands several times, causing cultural hybridization and, in some cases, homogenization, which formed and altered the island’s physical landscape. In the case of Rethymno, this study considers the transfer of ownership a significant factor in the spatial change of Crete, and it examines how the 1923 population exchange between Greece and Turkey affected Rethymno’s spatial transformation. The primary sources for the study are the Rethymno exchange catalogs produced by the Institute for Mediterranean Studies (IMS-FORTH) using the population exchange commission’s archives and partially published online (unfortunately, the website is currently undergoing maintenance); the municipal records for Rethymno from 1900 to 1927 and 1927 to 1940; and the results of the author’s fieldwork conducted in Rethymno from 2013 to 2016. The liquidation requests (tasfiye talepnameleri) that were kept in the Presidential State Archives of the Republic of Turkey were also examined even though they weren’t among the main sources of this research. Keywords Crete-Rethymno · Spatial Transformation · Urban morphology · Population exchange between Greece and Turkey · Cultural hybridization · Homogenization

Present Address: M. Cankara Hellenic Foundation for European & Foreign Policy (ELIAMEP), Athens, Greece (B) Architectural History & Theory Department, Graduate School of Science and Engineering, Yildiz Technical University, Istanbul, Turkey e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] Faculty of Architecture, Izmir Institute of Technology (IZTECH), Izmir, Turkey © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3_10

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10.1 Introduction Due to its strategic importance, the island of Crete changed hands several times, causing cultural hybridization and, in some cases, homogenization, which formed and altered the island’s physical landscape. In the case of Rethymno, this study considers the transfer of ownership a significant factor in the spatial change of Crete, and it examines how the 1923 population exchange between Greece and Turkey affected Rethymno’s spatial transformation. There are two important reasons for choosing Rethymno as a case. First, the architectural heritage in Rethymno has obviously more complex references than Chania and Heraklion. One can easily see traces of Venetians, Ottomans, and sometimes Egyptians, as well as local architectural signs all on the same building. The second reason is the sources available for Rethymno. The main source of this study is the population exchange catalogues for Rethymno that were created by the Institute for Mediterranean Studies using the archives of the Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Commission. These catalogues, called Digital Crete,1 include information on the properties that changed hands during the population exchange. The study focuses on two different points. The first one is the architectural traces and spatial formations of different cultures in Rethymno caused by the island’s changing hands throughout history, which I try to explain as an unusual blend. This is the defining spatial atmosphere of the population exchange in this study. The second focus is on the buildings that changed hands in the old town of Rethymno during the population exchange. The overall aim of this article is to understand the social and cultural environment in Rethymno between 1900 and 1923 and to evaluate the spatial results of the population exchange as a major social event.

10.2 An Unusual Blend: The Architecture in Rethymno Crete, located in the passage between the Aegean and the Mediterranean, is the second largest island in the Eastern Mediterranean. The island, which has strategic importance for the control of military and commercial activities in the Eastern Mediterranean, has always been important for states that seek to dominate the area. The Island of Crete, annexed in 1669 with the conquest of Heraklion, kept its strategic importance for the Ottoman Empire. In spite of this importance, the Ottomanization of Crete occurred without a settlement policy. The Ottomans did not force people to migrate from Asia Minor to Crete during the war. Although researchers have reached a consensus on this issue, they express different views about the origins of the Muslim population of the island (Kara 2008). According to Greene (2000), soldiers, military officers, and administrators were the first Muslim people on the island. The Muslim 1

http://digitalcrete.ims.forth.gr.

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population increased over time with the janissaries, as well as marriages and conversions to Islam. The works of Adıyeke (2002) and Kolovos (2008b) on the conversions to Islam in Crete shed light on the Ottomanization process and the increasing Muslim population on the island. On the other hand, the construction activity on the island as an important practice of Ottomanization is one of the areas yet to be scrutinized. The focus of this research is the third largest city of the island, namely Rethymno. Rethymno is located between Chania and Heraklion. In 1646, a year after the conquest of the city of Chania, Rethymno came under the Ottoman rule. With the conquest, the city that had been under Venetian rule for nearly 450 years changed both culturally and spatially. Although Rethymno is a well-preserved city compared to Chania and Heraklion, a quite limited number of Ottoman buildings can be seen today. After the conquest, the Ottomans built four new mosques, several tombs and hamams, a school for female students, a military barracks, a covered bazaar, eight fountains, a municipal building, and some houses in the old town of Rethymno. Additionally, four churches were converted to mosques. The first mosque built in Rethymno was the Sultan Ibrahim Mosque. It is in the Fortress of Rethymno and can be seen from almost everywhere in the city. Sultan Ibrahim Mosque was constructed immediately after the conquest of the city in 1646, in the location of San Nicolao Cathedral (Giapitsoglou 2008). Today the mosque, now used for concerts and other cultural events, can be seen in the Fortress of Rethymno. In the same year, the church of the Catholic monastery in the centre of Rethymno old town was converted into a mosque, in the name of the conqueror Gazi Deli Hüseyin Pa¸sa, by adding a minaret and domes. In 1654, the church of Agios Fragkiskos Catholic Monastery, located in the same square as the mosque, was converted into an imaret. Gazi Deli Hüseyin Pa¸sa Mosque, located in today’s Micra Asia Square, was transformed into a complex with a library, madrassa, and imaret. Irene Bierman (1991) points out that this mosque is located in the centre of the town and is bigger than the Sultan Ibrahim Mosque. She argues that this could be related to the sultan–pasha hierarchy of the seventeenth century. However, the possibility of the existence of the idea of a valuable ‘centre’ for the Ottoman Empire in the seventeenth century is also open to debate. On the other hand, this building is one of the most important examples of hybrid structures in Rethymno, which I tried to define as ‘an unusual blend’ in the previous section of this article. The building consists of three domes over the Venetian walls and a minaret with two balconies that were added afterwards. Today it is used as the Conservatory of Rethymno. In 1683, fourteen years after the conquest of Heraklion, the Kara Musa Mosque was founded by the sancak beyi Kara Musa on the eastern edge of the city. The Veli Pasha mosque (the mosque of the tekke of the Kadiri dervishes) was built outside the old town of Rethymno in 1651. It is possible to say that the general tendency of the Ottomans was to convert and articulate upon the existing building stock instead of constructing new buildings in Rethymno. The city of Heraklion was conquered at the end of a 25-year war. Undoubtedly, the ongoing war in the early years of the Ottomanization process in Rethymno had a great impact on this tendency. Therefore, it could be argued that the fact that the island could not be fully conquered by the

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Ottomans for 25 years resulted in a kind of anxiety and impetuosity in architecture. Taking into consideration the economic conditions of the Empire in the seventeenth century, we can easily say that there was no need to make significant investments for an unobtrusive city like Rethymno during a war on the island. The emerging Muslim population in Rethymno changed the existing Venetian city with their habits and their construction practices and produced a new locality by articulating upon the existing structures. Another important hybrid structure in Rethymno is the Rimondi Fountain, which was built in the final years of the Venetian period. A dome supported on two columns was added to this fountain during the Ottoman period. Although the dome and one of the columns were destroyed, today the traces of both the Ottoman and Venetian periods can be observed on the fountain. During Ottoman rule, the squares of the Venetian city were replaced by small neighbourhoods established around a mosque or a fountain (Kolovos 2008a). When the housing pattern is examined, it can be seen that the wooden oriel windows and wooden shutters were added to the second and third floors of the houses during Ottoman rule. When we examine the decorations in detail, it is even possible to see Egyptian traces. The traces of local architecture are also visible on the buildings in the old town of Rethymno. On the other hand, there are scholars who have drawn attention to some special Cretan exceptions on the Venetian buildings. According to archaeologist Konstantinos Giapitsoglou (2013), for example, although the Venetians did not have the tradition of writing above the door, such writings are seen in some of the Venetian houses in Rethymno. Rethymno had a smaller economy than the other cities of the island, so it was an unobtrusive city. This prevented investment in the city and also led to the preservation of the existing architecture. The architectural heritage I tried to explain previously as an unusual blend is a product of centuries of stacked cultures. It is difficult to discuss a pure Ottoman or a pure Venetian architecture in Rethymno, so it is almost impossible to examine this architecture as a specific period, such as the Ottoman or the Venetian. On the other hand, in the city of Chania, Venetian and Ottoman-era buildings are distinguished more clearly. Unlike Rethymno, in Chania, it is not quite possible to see different traces on the same building. Although in the city of Chania the traces belong mainly to the Venetian period, there is also a different scale of hybridity. Unlike Rethymno, it is difficult to talk about ‘hybrid buildings’ in Chania, but it is also obvious that Chania is a kind of ‘hybrid city’, where there are both Venetian and Ottoman-era buildings. The island’s largest city, Heraklion, is excluded from this discussion because it has not maintained an old town. In such a context, the architectural hybridity in Rethymno that is seen in the scale of ‘building’ is thought to be ‘unusual’. The relationship between this hybridity seen in the architecture and the socio-cultural structure of Rethymno will now be interpreted with reference to the Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee documents.

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10.3 Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee Documents The Rethymno Refugees Rehabilitation Committee’s records of the Muslim properties in Rethymno following the Treaty of Lausanne serve as the primary source for this study. Within the scope of Digital Crete project, 1.624 of these documents have been classified and partially published online (the website is currently under maintenance) by the Institute of Mediterranean Studies (IMS-FORTH). 2.456 documents in total, including the unclassified and unpublished ones, have been examined for this study. These documents provide details on the properties that changed hands during the population exchange, including the initial and subsequent owners/renters and the ethnic backgrounds of those individuals (e.g. “local”, “refugee”, or “Armenian”). Besides, these documents contain information such as street names, border neighbours, dates, methods, and the fees of changing hands, as well as a general description of the properties. Figure 10.1 depicts one of the documents as an example. The basic problem is the lack of street numbers in these documents. Additionally, over time, the street names have changed. Therefore, one must be familiar with the new street names and the guiding principles of the commission in order to develop at least a basic system for matching the documents with the existing buildings. Another serious shortcoming is our lack of information on the total number of documents. There are a few documents that go back as far as 1985, though the majority of the documents span the years 1925 to 1936. The properties inside the city and those outside the city are divided into two sub-groups for this research. According to the individuals who became the new owners or renters in each group, the distribution of the properties that were transferred is examined. It should be noted that the balance

Fig. 10.1 An example of Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee Documents, Digital Crete project at IMS-FORTH’s archive

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between these groups may change due to the numerous documents (Fig. 10.2) which do not provide precise information on subsequent owners/renters. Therefore, documents with indefinite identities of subsequent owners/renters should be disregarded when making comments on the subject. From this perspective, locals have primarily owned the properties that have changed hands in Rethymno following the Treaty of Lausanne. On the other hand, it is known that there were three times as many refugees who left Greece during the population exchange as there were refugees who migrated from Asia Minor (Aktar 2007). Even in this case, the settlement of refugees was a major challenge. The local population’s settlement on the Fig. 10.2 The distribution of the properties that changed hands (according to the identity of the subsequent owners/renters)

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Muslim properties that had been abandoned made the issue even worse. According to Andriotis (2004), the agricultural crisis that started in 1821 led to the plundering and conflicts between the Christian and Muslim populations in Crete, and the plundering persisted until the population exchange in 1923. He therefore argued that the exchange commission served as both a settlement agency for refugees and an approval body for those who looted abandoned Muslim properties. The imbalance between the incoming and outgoing populations in Rethymno begs the question of where the remaining refugees settled down, even if we assume that all of the aforementioned indefinite documents belong to the refugees. The allocation of 1.018 out of 2.456 properties to the local population alone is enough to cause a problem, even if the incoming and outgoing populations were equal. There are two possible solutions to this issue: either redesigning the city’s existing lots or building new refugee settlements outside the city. Both options cause substantial spatial changes, but the focus of this study is the old town of Rethymno. According to the street names and the identities of the subsequent owners, 1.425 documents pertaining to the properties that changed hands in the old town of Rethymno have been reorganized and Table 10.1 illustrates this data. Thus, the regions where the number of changing hands increased or decreased have been identified. According to Table 10.1, the maximum number of changing hands took place in Acropolis Street. According to the research of Andriotis (2004), because of the agricultural crisis in Crete in the nineteenth century, Christians attacked Muslims’ fields and houses. The Muslims who did not feel safe outside the city had to move to inside the city in groups. These groups had to choose small and old houses in the Rethymno Castle for economic reasons. The Acropolis, demolished during World War II, was in the Fortress of Rethymno. Considering the fortress as a Muslim mahalle, it is not surprising to see that most of the changing hands took place in the Acropolis. The other streets where many changing hands occurred, such as Arkadiou, Konstantinopoleos, and Souliou, make the most important commercial axis of Rethymno today and they had the same importance in the Ottoman period. On the other hand, Thessalonikis, K. Paleologou, Nikiforou Foka, and P. Koroneou Streets are the residential zone. Amongst these streets, Arkadiou and K. Paleologou Streets were partially constructed during the Ottoman period. It is possible to think that this caused the density of the Muslim population and thereby a large amount of changing hands. However, the length of the streets should be taken into account when evaluating Table 10.1. If two properties changed hands, it could be considered as the low density of changing hands according to the Table 10.1. On the other hand, if this had occurred in a small street where only 4–5 buildings existed such as L. Katsoni, this situation can be described as high density, according to the ratio between the Muslim and Christian populations. Therefore, evaluating Table 10.1 as a starting point for the interpretation of the population and the changing hands densities would be more accurate. Table 10.1 shows that the refugees were mostly settled in residential areas and on streets that had many exchanged properties, like Nikiforou Foka and Thessalonikis. On the other hand, apparently not many refugees were located in the main commercial zones, such as Arkadiou, Souliou, and Konstantinopoleos Streets, where many

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Table 10.1 The properties that changed hands in the old town of Rethymno (according to the street names and the identity of subsequent owners/renters) CHANGING HANDS IN THE OLD TOWN OF RETHYMNON (ACCORDING TO THE STREETS) OLD NAME Agías Varváras Athanasíou Diákou Athinón Akrópolis Aryiropoúlon Aristidou Aristotélous Arkadíou V. Voulgaroktónou Vaphé Vikentiou Kornárou Vospórou Ethnikón Orphanotrophíon Epimenídou Igouménou Gavriíl Themistokléous Thermopilón Thessaloníkis Thrákis Kanári Kapodistríou Karaïskáki Kímonos Kolokotróni Kóraka Kordótou Kon/nou Palaiológou Konstantinoupóleos Lámprou Katsóni Lasthénous Leonída, Leonída (Párodos) Leophóros Kon/nou Yiampoú Leophóros Páflou Kountouriótou Liménos Likoúrgou M. Bótsari Makedonías, Makedonías párodos Marathónos Mavroyénous Mavrokordátou Meg. Alexándrou Mesologyíou Miaoúli Miltiádou Mínoos Mikális Navarínou Nikiphórou Phoká Nosokomío Xepatéra Odisséa Androútsou Omírou Pan. Danglí, P. Danglí, Vospórou P. Kountouriótou P. Palaiológou Pánou Koronaíou Párodos Leophórou Páflou Kountouriótou Patriárkhou Grigoríou kai párodos Perivolíon Platia Ierolokitón Plataión Platia Philellínon Platia Philikís Etairías Plátonos Ploútonos Prokimaía Eleftheríou Venizélou Radamánthios Ríga Pherraíou Salamínos Smírnis Solomoú Sólonos Soulíou Sophokléous Spetsón Sokrátous Tompázi Trikoúpi Ídras Ipsilántou Khairéti Khairónias Khimárras Khimárras, párodos Psaromilíngon Psarrón TOTAL

NEW NAME Agías Varváras Athanasíou Diákou Reniéri Márkou no longer exists Aryiropoúlon Pigá Meletiou Melkhisedék Arkadíou Melissinoú Vaphé Vikentiou Kornárou

Epimenídou Tsíkhli Anagnósti Oúngo Viktóros Kritovoulídou Arampatzóglou Xanthoudídou Stephánou Damvéryi Ioánni Tsouderón Karaïskáki Makrí Khrístou Vernárdou Kóraka Kon/nou Palaiológou Ethnikís Antistáseos Lámprou Katsóni Lasthénous Koraí Adamántiou Leophóros Páflou Kountouriótou Psarrón Klidí Stilianoú M. Bótsari Makedonías, Makedonías párodos Katekháki Yeóryiou Mousoúrou Márkou Mavrokordátou Marínou Tzáne Bounialí Mesologyíou Bótsari Márkou Melidóni Antoníou Mínoos Mikális Mavíli Loréntzou Nikiphórou Phoká Makedonías Xepatéra Odisséa Androútsou Omírou Yerakári Kon/nou

LOCAL 13 2 9 25 12 4 1 51 13 1 2 3 1 4 3 2 23 1 4 7 1 10 2 1 28 46 2 1 7 2 2 11 3 4 11 3 2 19 23 5 7 5 3 11 9

P. Palaiológou Pánou Koronaíou

6 16 7 1 13

Patriárkhou Grigoríou kai párodos

8

Metaxáki Meletíou Plastira Platia Papamikheláki Mikháli Prokimaía Eleftheríou Venizélou Radamánthios Ríga Pherraíou Salamínos Smírnis Solomoú Pórtou Phrangískou Soulíou Títou I. Photáki Efstrátiou Govatzidáki Ioánni Tompázi Trikoúpi Arkadíou Patelárou Khairéti Khairónias Khimárras Aryiropoúlon Psaromilíngon Psarrón

3 7 5 1 2 4 5 4 3 4 4 1 3 34 6 4 5 15 9 5 5 2 6 7

REFUGEE 2 6 12 1 2

UNKNOWN 3 4 5 119 13

L+R 1 1 1

9 14

5 4

2 5

2 4 1 3 2

2 2

19 16 4

ARMENIAN 1 5

1 2 1

1 4 3

R+A

L+R+A

1 1

1

3 1

1

6

1

12 3

1 3

9 1

3

9 8

1

5

2 1 6 3 1 2

1

4 1

1 1

3

1 6 1 18 6 8 5 9 8

1

4

1 1 5 3

3 3 3

1 3

3 1 1

1

1

2 1 1

2 16 1 18 28 7 3 2 1 1 1 19 1 14 1 9

5 2 12 4

2 3

1

1 2

8

5 2

5 1 1 3 3 2

1

1

4

1 2

1

1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1

4

2 2 2 3 6 22 9 4 1

6

402

2

2 1 3

1

1 2

2 3 1

2

1 13 2 2 4 3 2 4 4 4 2 10

2 3

1

1 3 597

L+A

48

301

1 1 1 2

1

60

5

9

2

TOTAL 18 14 27 151 28 4 1 67 36 1 7 9 1 7 8 3 3 53 22 9 8 1 1 31 5 1 47 50 2 17 21 3 4 12 11 7 35 16 2 36 32 22 16 7 21 1 36 42 7 6 2 11 21 8 2 46 1 29 1 3 20 5 3 10 12 5 23 9 6 21 6 7 39 10 6 11 22 20 11 23 2 28 23 4 2 3 1424

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properties changed hands. The properties in the commercial zones passed to the locals, as shown in Table 10.1. Additionally, it is evident that after the population exchange the locals became the new owners of the properties on Agias Varvaras Street. Megali Porta and Tistso mahalles, which were heavily populated by Christians in Rethymno, intersected at Agias Varvaras Street. This fact supports Andriotis’ claim that the Refugee Rehabilitation Committee served as an approval authority of the looting that took place prior to the arrival of the refugees.

10.4 A Case Study in P. Koroneou Street in Aksaray Mahalle In order to examine the social and cultural fabric before and after the population exchange, P. Koroneou Street is taken as a sample. This is a mixed zone (residential and commercial), where many of the refugees were placed and a lot of changing hands occurred. The Refugee Rehabilitation Committee documents tied to the properties in this street begin with number 48 and end with 89. Although the archive did not contain the documents with the numbers 70 and 75, these properties could be located in the graph because the documents were arranged in a certain order. Based on the border neighbours of the properties, the ‘Neighbourhood Relations’ graph was partially drawn (Fig. 10.3).

Fig. 10.3 Neighbourhood relations before the population exchange in P. Koroneu Street (partial)

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M. Cankara

The names of the initial owners, table numbers, boundary neighbours, and the types of properties that changed hands in P. Koroneou Street with the population exchange are all included in the graph in Fig. 10.3. The red rectangles in this graph represent the properties that weren’t present in the archive. Because of the missing documents, their locations were ascertained through the bordering neighbours. Each rectangle in this graph represent one property and has no size. Given that we do not have sufficient information on parcel lines, the rectangles should not be regarded as such. The relationships between the floors are depicted by the horizontal lines with circles. For instance, in the graph above, Hulusi Hac¸serifaki’s home is above that of Ioannis Yannakis, but their entrances are next to each other. Grey horizontal stripes indicate ambiguous situations where the border neighbour is unknown; these situations could involve a street, two Christian properties next to one another, or it could also be a case in which the borders of a property could not be found in the archive. The atmosphere in Rethymno just before the population exchange can be understood by interpreting this chart, even though it cannot be superimposed on today’s site plan. According to the examined documents from this street, 22% of the properties belong to Christians and 78% to Muslims. It is seen in the graph in Fig. 10.3 that in P. Koroneou Street, Muslims and Christians lived side by side or on different floors in the same building. Considering the fact that in the old town of Rethymno changing hands took place in almost every street, it is difficult to talk about pure Muslim or Christian regions. Therefore, the residents of Rethymno belonging to different religions had managed to live together until the population exchange. In fact, we are talking about an island where people have been familiar with inter-religious cohabitation for centuries; under Venetian rule, Catholic and Orthodox Christians lived together on the island, so the history of religious diversity in Rethymno is rooted in the era before the Ottomans. Figure 10.4 depicts the changes to P. Koroneou Street following the population exchange, which aimed to homogenize the populations of both countries. In these images, Christian properties are shown in blue, while Muslim properties are shown in red. The properties with multiple owners are indicated by the white lines dividing the rectangles. The white diagonal dashed lines denote uncertain multiple owners. Before the population exchange in P. Koroneou Street, the relationship between Muslims and Christians is depicted in the first phase graphic. The second phase graphic shows the remaining Muslims properties after the population exchange. The third phase graphic makes it clear that locals have occupied some of the spaces left vacant by Muslims before the immigrants arrived in Rethymno. The immigrants from Asia Minor settled in the remaining locations, as shown in the fourth phase graphic. It is clear that with the population exchange, the religious diversity depicted in the first phase graphic vanished, leading to the homogenization of religious identities in the street. However, it is also possible to interpret the identity changes after the population exchange in P. Koroneou Street, as shown Fig. 10.5. These images use ethnic identities to illustrate how the street has changed. In the fourth phase, it is evident that the street, which was previously homogeneous in terms of religion, has become multicultural.

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Fig. 10.4 Religious homogenization in P. Koroneu Street

It seems a little difficult to believe that this street became homogeneous with the immigrants, who had grown up in different cultures and different geographies, despite the fact that religion was seen by nation states as a unifying and homogenizing factor. It is possible to think that the street was still hybrid even after its religious diversity was lost because immigrants came from various regions of Anatolia and were, in fact, diverse even among themselves. Figure 10.4 was drawn according to the size of the properties in square metres as written in the Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee documents for P. Koroneou Street between Navarinou and Ipsilandou Streets. The use of the term ‘area’ is not clear in the documents. It may be referring to the floor area, the plot

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M. Cankara

Fig. 10.5 Cultural hybridization in P. Koroneu Street

area, or the total building area. The graph in Fig. 10.6 has been prepared with the assumption that ‘area’ referred to the floor area of the property. Through this assumption, the possible plots have been developed into the schema seen in Fig. 10.6. In Fig. 10.7, it was turned into a plan and then superimposed on today’s site plan. It can be seen in this superimposed plan that the lots got smaller over time.

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Fig. 10.6 Lots schema in P. Koroneu between Navarinou and Ipsilandou streets according to the Rethymno Refugee Rehabilitation Committee documents

10.5 Conclusion Presently, it is very quite difficult to claim that the changes in the ownership structure are solely due to population exchange. While interpreting the changes in this pattern, it is important to take into account the effects of the other social events such as the bombing of Rethymno during World War II (Operation Mercury), the conservation plan brought about by the tourism boom in the 1970s, immigration wave that was triggered by the establishment of the University of Crete, the growth of the tourism industry, and the economic crisis in Greece. Each of these incidents has altered and will continue to alter the ownership structure, as well as the social and cultural fabric. However, unlike the population exchange, none of these factors generated a change in ownership structure. In this way, the population exchange was an unfortunate and difficult complication that caused the ownership structure to change and destroyed the diversity of social and cultural groups. 1.600.000 people were forced to migrate due to the population exchange, which resulted in an unintended hybridization and unrest that would last for generations. The population exchange in Rethymno, which took place in an area where people managed to live together and where they produced their own locality and variety that can be read in the language they used and the in which houses they lived, was a bitter complication. When considering the Ottomanization of Crete with the conversions

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Fig. 10.7 Lots and site plans of P. Koroneu between Navarinou and Ipsilandou streets

to Islam, marriages, joining the janissary corps, and the lack of a settlement policy, it becomes clear that most of those who converted to Islam during the Ottoman period and whose mother tongue was Greek had to leave their homeland during the population exchange. In this context, this bitter complication was also a misfortune.

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References Adıyeke AN (2002) ‘XVII. Yüzyıl Girit (Resmo) sicillerine göre ihtida hareketleri ve Girit’te etnik dönü¸süm’, XIV. Türk Tarih Kongresi, Ankara: 9–13 Aktar A (2007) ‘Nüfusun homojenle¸stirilmesi ve ekonominin Türkle¸stirilmesi sürecinde bir a¸sama: Türk–Yunan nüfus mübadelesi, 1923–1924’, In: Renée Hirschon (ed) Ege’yi Geçerken 1923 Türk–Yunan Zorunlu Nüfus Mübadelesi, Istanbul: ˙Istanbul Üniversitesi Bilgi Yayınları Andriotis N (2004) ‘Khristianí Kai Mousoulmáni Stin Kríti, 1821–1924. Énas Aiónas Sinekhoús Anamétrisis Entós Kai Ektós Tou Pedíou Tis Mákhis’, MNIMON 26:63–94 Bierman IA (1991) ‘The Ottomanization of Crete’ In A. Bierman, Rifa‘at Ali Abou-El-Haj and, Donald Preziosi (eds) The Ottoman City and its parts: urban structure and social order, Irene New York: A.D. Caratzas Cankara M (2016) ‘Mübadelenin Sessiz Tanıkları: Lozan Antla¸sması ile El De˘gi¸stiren GiritResmo Yapıları’, unpublished doctoral thesis. ˙Istanbul: Yıldız Teknik Üniversitesi, Fen Bilimleri Enstitüsü, Mimarlık Tarihi ve Teorisi Bölümü Cankara M (2019) ‘Spatial and cultural changes in rethymnon-crete after the treaty of lausanne’, in proceedings of the 12th International Congress of Cretan Studies, Crete-Heraklion, April 2019 (e-pub) Giapitsoglou K (2008) ‘Sultan Ibrahim Mosque’, In Ersi Brouskari (ed) Ottoman Architecture in Greece, Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 434–435 Giapitsoglou K (2013) Ta Spítia Toú Rethémnou: Xenayísis Se Spítia Tis Paliás Pólis, Réthimno: Kríti Greene M (2000) A Shared World. Princeton University Press, Princeton Kara M (2007) ‘Girit Kandiye’de Müslüman azınlık cemaati (1913–1923)’, unpublished master thesis, Mersin: Mersin Üniversitesi, Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü, Tarih Anabilim Dalı. Kolovos E (2008a) ‘A town for the besiegers: Social life and marriage in the Ottoman Candia outside Candia (1650–1669)’, In Antonis Anastasopoulos (ed) The Eastern Mediterranean under Ottoman Rule: Crete, 1645–1840, Rethymno: Crete University Press Kolovos E (2008b) ‘Ta Othomaniká Mnimía Tou Rethímnou’, [Unpublished manuscript] accessed via Academia, 26 December 2022

Index

A Aleppo, 103–106, 111, 112, 125 Alexandria, 64–66, 69–77, 82–86, 88–90, 92, 94, 95, 97, 210, 212–219 Asyut, Egypt, 208, 210, 216 Autonomy, 158, 165

B Beirut, 99–103, 105–126 Braudel, Fernand, 2, 4, 8

C Cairo, 210, 214, 216, 217 Character, 130–134, 141, 144, 151, 152 Chios, island of, 208, 210, 216 City-building, 186 Civil servants, 232–235 Community participation, 50, 52 Conflicts, 158, 164, 170, 171 Connectivity, 6, 7, 23, 32, 40 Crete-Rethymno, 240, 241, 245, 251 Crime, 124 Crisis, 164, 170 Cultural heritage, 19, 24–26, 29 Cultural hybridization, 240, 250 Culture, 186, 192, 199, 201

D Damascus, 102, 104–109, 111–113, 115, 118, 120, 122, 125 Diaspora, 188, 192–196, 199, 201 Dynamism, 157, 163, 167, 169

E Echelle, 13 Economy, 162, 163, 165, 167, 171, 179 Entrepôt, 103, 104, 106, 115, 121 Escale, 13

F Fragility, 7, 23, 39, 100, 115 Future projects, 86, 97

H History, 64, 72, 74, 94 Homogenization, 240, 248, 249

I Identity, 11, 17, 20, 30, 31, 33, 34, 37, 39, 121, 126, 209, 210, 214–217, 219 ˙Infrastructure, 108, 110, 119 Izmir, 157–179

L Landowners, 225, 227–229, 235 Lebanon, 102, 103, 121, 126 Le Corbusier, 100, 101, 126 Lemnos, island of, 208 Levant, 13, 26, 30 London, 208–210, 212, 214, 217

M Macédoine, 162 Manufacturing, 189, 193, 196

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 E. Özveren et al. (eds.), Mediterranean Port Cities, Cities, Heritage and Transformation, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32326-3

255

256 Marseille, 106, 107, 110, 116–118 The Mediterranean, 2–15, 17–19, 21–23, 25–27, 32, 33, 40 Mediterranean archetype, 134 Mediterranean networks, 186, 188, 201 Mediterranean port city, 130, 132, 134, 136–138, 148, 152 Memory, 27, 30, 31, 126, 164, 169, 172, 175 Merchants, 223, 229, 231, 232, 235 Mersin, 130, 136–139, 141–144, 146–149, 152 Microecology, 6 Migration, 7, 18, 23, 29, 30, 32–34, 40 Minya (Minieh), Egypt, 208 Mobility, 23, 33, 34, 37, 39, 40 Modernity, 99, 101, 102, 120, 123, 126 Modernization, 132–136, 148, 152 Mount Lebanon, 105, 106, 108, 111, 116–121 Municipality, 102, 120, 122, 125

N New York, 210, 218, 219

O Ottoman Empire, 103, 104

P Peripheralization, 117, 118 Population exchange between Greece and Turkey, 240 Port city, 11, 14–16, 18, 20–23, 25–33, 37, 100, 102, 105, 110, 112–118, 120, 121, 123, 158, 159, 162, 165, 176, 177 Port-of-call, 19, 25

Index Port-of-trade, 104 Precarity, 7, 23, 39, 100 Profession, 223, 225, 233 Public-private partnership, 51

R Raval, 44–49, 51–53, 55, 56

S Sabbatians, 222–226, 229, 232, 233, 235 Saida, 106–109, 111–113 Salonica, 222–228, 230–233, 235 Serbie, 162 Social diversity, 144, 145 Social mobility, 230, 235 Spatial transformation, 240 Spontaneous development, 134

T Thessalie, 162 Transports, 186, 189, 201 Tripoli, 105–108, 111–113, 118

U Urban construction, 119 Urban development, 69, 70, 75, 79, 88 Urban evolution, 44 Urban form components, 132, 134–136, 149 Urban morphology, 24, 43, 44 Urban planning, 47, 50 Urban policies, 44 Urban problems, 66, 69 Urban structure, 132–137, 139, 142, 145, 146, 148, 149, 151, 152