Holding on to Dalieh
Editor's Note: This piece was produced prior to October 7.
The Arabic feminine noun “Dalia,” or Dalieh in Levantine Arabic (Shami), refers to water wheels and grape pergolas; in Hebrew, it means the cliff. Flint tools from the Bronze Age have been found in Dalieh’s caves; they are remnants of a dynamic social and cultural history stretching back thousands of years.1
The green mounds and rocky plateaus cascading into the sea evoke the joyful festivities of Nowruz in early spring, when hundreds or thousands of Kurds gather around food, folk music, and dabke to celebrate the new year — as they have in Dalieh since the 1940s.
Local fishing families who settled on the communal beach in the 1950s still lower their crafted feluccas into the natural port. They passed down fishing and boating to their descendants, who also sell affordable food and drinks, making Dalieh welcoming to its many visitors.
The same people are also round-the-clock lifeguards, rescuing ardent cliff divers and recovering drowned bodies. In the absence of government oversight, Dalieh is a bastion of communal seaside management, according to architect and urban planner Abir Saksouk-Sasso.
At the bottom of the cliff, two people sit on a narrow pebbly beach. Behind them is a cave naturally carved into the rocks. Beirut, Lebanon. August 13, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source)
But Dalieh is also attractive to real estate investors. It extends over 120,000 square meters, from Raouche to the Mövenpick, a luxury hotel illegally built on maritime land in the early 2000s. The area around Dalieh has been privatized for luxury hotels and real estate since the so-called “Golden Age” of Beirut in the 1960s.
In Dalieh proper, the public sector holds just 5 percent of the land, shared between the municipality of Beirut and the Lebanese government. Conversely, real estate companies linked to the Hariri family own around 90,000 square meters, the vast majority of Dalieh's total area, which is estimated to be worth around $1 billion.
Hariri the father purchased the majority of these shares in a single day in 1995, according to Saksouk-Sasso.
To keep his identity hidden and prevent landholders from demanding higher prices, he hired Hisham al-Jaroudi, a broker who knew the landowning families. The owners — having been led to believe that the land had limited investment potential — sold their plots for very little.
Blending into the space, the small wooden structures that the fishermen have built are hardly discernible, unlike the obstructive residential towers in the background on Raouche street, the priciest in the Lebanese real-estate market. Beirut, Lebanon. July 1, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source)
A few days later, parliament passed Law No. 402/1995 on January 12, a legal exemption that doubled the investment factor for hotel projects, especially along the coast, including in Dalieh.
Hariri envisioned Beirut’s seafront as a series of private resorts, yacht clubs, and marinas to attract tourists, according to al-Jaroudi. In 2001, the legal exemption was extended for another five years.
Between 2004 and 2014, Hariri’s companies negotiated with the fishermen and their families their own removal from Dalieh, in preparation for an upcoming "development" project. Some families left after receiving a payout, while others steadfastly remained.
In 2014, the legal exemption of Law No. 402 was renewed, just in time for starchitect Rem Koolhaas’ infamous construction project on Dalieh. A luxury hotel, shopping mall, and yacht marina portending more privatization, displacement — and the end of Dalieh as we know it.
A group of friends watch one of their own execute a dive during an informal diving competition. Beirut, Lebanon. August 13, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source)
In May 2014, on behalf of the developers, metal fences and barbed wire cordoned off Dalieh, disrupting the sea view from the corniche and restricting access to two entry points, the only ones remaining today.
Refusing to give up Dalieh, fishermen, local communities, activists, urbanists, academics, artists, lawyers, and media workers came together to organize under the Civil Campaign to Protect the Dalieh of Raouche.
The campaign launched an international design competition to imagine an alternative vision for Dalieh. The competition served as a subversive response to Koolhass’ parachuted megaproject and provided an opportunity to revive public discussion in Beirut about what it means to make a spatial intervention that aligns with the social and ecological fabric of the area.
Arms stretched, chest open, Moussa dives into the water. View from above. Beirut, Lebanon. August 13, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source)
For over a year, the campaign continued to grow, drawing more residents of the city into public conversations, demonstrating that people can have a say in the future of their city.
As a result of sustained organizing, Koolhaas withdrew his project in 2015, bowing to public pressure. This significant victory for the city and its dwellers cannot be taken for granted and must be defended.
The recent proposal to extend Law No. 402/1995 for another five years, submitted on March 20, 2023, suggests that a tourism resort project in Dalieh may be back on the table. Sustained organizing is crucial to preserving Dalieh — and other parts of the country we stand to lose — if the law passes and the bulldozers begin to rumble and rattle.
The Public Source roamed the escarpment on a Sunday afternoon and spoke with some of the people who keep returning to Dalieh. Some of the women and young men described their relationships to the place and how it has changed over time. We withheld the names of those who requested anonymity.
Parents sit on the rocks that form a natural pool at Dalieh, as children swim in the shallow waters. Plastic bottles and empty bags of chips are dumped between the rock folds. The municipality has long renounced waste management in Dalieh and does not even provide trash cans. Beirut, Lebanon. August 13, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source)
This photograph was taken in Bahr Filastin, or Palestine's Sea. During the Israeli invasion of Beirut in 1982, Palestinian resistance fighters sought shelter in the shallow natural pools and caves in the southern part of Dalieh. Since then, this area became known as Bahr Filastin. We spoke with a mother who was watching over her children as they played in one of the pools.
“It’s costly to come here in a cab with the kids these days. We had to pay around 6 dollars,” she says. “We are Syrian,” she pauses for a second and looks at her friend. “We can’t afford it. We need to feed the kids first.”
She moved to Lebanon a few years before the war began in Syria. “Fifteen years ago, we used to come to Dalieh every Sunday. Back then, transportation was cheaper, the water was cleaner, and the place was calmer, mostly families.”
Fishermen are waiting for their catch as a man swims in the deep seawater. Beirut, Lebanon. August 13, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source)
“Our friends told us about Dalieh. We like spending our Sundays here just relaxing and swimming, but we don’t dive deep; we stay close to the shore,” two young Syrian men living in Bir al-Hasan and working in a small bakery told The Public Source.
“We like coming here. It’s calm, the people are tolerant, and the ambiance is very romantic,” says the youngest of the two.
Another group of young Syrians, aged between 11 and 20, gather in their neighborhood in al-Nabaa to share a ride to Dalieh every Sunday.
“We don’t go to resorts because we can’t afford the entrance,” says the first. “We either come here or visit Ain al-Mreisseh,” his friend continues. “As they say, ‘make the most of everything that’s free,’” the third chimes in, retrieving a popular levantine proverb.
“My uncles taught me how to dive in the Furat river, back home in Deir ez-Zor,” Moussa, the eldest among them, tells us. “Show him!”, his friend, full of pride, shouts with excitement. “He’s world-class, believe me,” he says, looking at the photographer.
Moussa, in awe, points his finger to the rocks before him, and says, “I can jump from here and return from over there. I dive with my eyes open,” unafraid of the water.
A couple watches the sunset next to a group of women picnicking by the natural pool. In the background, kids frolic together in the shallow water. Beirut, Lebanon. August 13, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source)
Under a Pepsi parasol, a young couple kept their sleeping newborn in the shade while their toddler played nearby. The father, like a typical southerner, used to swim at the beach in Tyre. But since he moved to Beirut, a few years back, he started going to Dalieh with his friends to fish for the day.
The woman, who grew up in the capital’s southern suburbs, remembers her first trip to the rocky shore with her family. “I was 10 years old, and it was nicer here. Back then, it was a destination for families, many of whom we knew. But now, everything has changed. It’s full of young men,” she says, mildly annoyed.
It’s almost sunset, and a family makes its way home. Parents carry sleepy children in their arms, and other members of the family transport a straw mat, a shisha pipe, and leftover food. To the right, other families are sitting by the natural pool, watching their children play in the shallow waters of Bahr Filastin, on the south side. Beirut, Lebanon. August 13, 2023. (Mohamad Cheblak/The Public Source).
“We need to tolerate the others [the youths]; we have no other choice,” her husband replies. His appeal to tolerance reflects Saksouk’s concept of “informal sovereignty,” marked by unscripted social interactions where people learn to “tolerate risk as central to its functioning” and navigate tensions through negotiations.
Khaled, 20, and Odai, 19, are two Syrian workers from Deir ez-Zor. They live in Ain el-Remmaneh, and frequent Dalieh on their days off to swim. “We used to play by the Furat river, but swimming in the salty water is easier because it lets you float,” Odai tells us.
At night, “the view is breathtaking,” he adds. “Sometimes we come here to smoke shisha and enjoy the landscape with the lights sparkling from behind. It’s better than sitting in these fancy restaurants!”, he ends jestingly.