Dars With Souls
Words Leila Ben-Gacem
Dars (the Tunisian word for “house” or” home”) have souls that hold family memories and often live beyond human time, adapting their roles over the years. Dars can withstand the test of time and travel through time to witness societal, economic, and political changes. It’s fascinating how one generation after the other changes their way of life, but the family home remains a home. The courtyard of a Dar is beyond an open space – it is the public space of courtyard culture.
My story with Dar Ben Gacem started in 2006 when my father found a newspaper announcement for a Dar on sale in the Medina of Tunis. He knew of my wish to start a guesthouse in a Dar in the Medina and encouraged me to go check it out. I was torn between my dream of restoring an old Dar and the fact that I had just started my consultancy and was not making much money. I decided to visit the Dar to please my insistent father.
We made an appointment with the owner, Mr Ahmed Anoun, at 38 Pasha Street. Mr Anoun was about as old as my father and was a perfumer with shops at Souk el Attarine (perfumer’s market). You could tell that the Dar was owned by a perfumer the moment its big brown door opened and the smells hit you. After the introductions, Mr Anoun and my father started comparing childhood stories. I, on the other hand scanned every corner of the courtyard, and my head went a little crazy. The courtyard was pure human magic: no right angles, no perfect squares, zero symmetry, carpeted with a patchwork of uneven stones probably recycled from homes built centuries before Dar Anoun. The courtyard had balconies under uneven arches as if a young boy had drawn them. The arches leaned on unidentical columns probably recycled from Carthage, which was destroyed two centuries before the Arabs built the Medina.
The walls were covered in flowery, colorful ceramic tiles. There were three or four different types of tiles. Each side of the courtyard had a room: the rooms were in bad shape but no less magical than the courtyard. They had carved wooden doors, framed in stones, with four flips each. Every room had a different ceramic tile ornamentation. The ceilings were high – covered with flowery painted and carved wood – and the walls were framed with sculptured gypsum. Mr Anoun pointed to one of the ceiling decorations and said, “This is the oldest artisanal work in the Dar; please keep it where it is!”
The Dar is the most honest witness of Tunisian artistic and artisanal creativity: a witness of the cultural diversity of our identity impacted by events in the Mediterranean Sea. Mediterranean wars, forced migrations, droughts, and pests forced people to move around and take with them their crafts, art, and culture. Somehow – despite all its mixes – the courtyard has been sitting in harmony since the 15th century, accepting whatever role it is given and embracing the culture of whoever calls it home.
According to the national archives, the Anoun family moved into this Dar in the 17th century. Mr Ahmed Anoun’s great-grandfather bought the Dar from the Bornaz family – a family of Imams and judges. The Anouns were always a family of performers. As my eyes scanned the courtyard, I couldn’t help but imagine all the family events that took place right here: deaths, births, weddings, circumcisions, women singing while preparing food, children playing, family arguments, men staying up late at night discussing trade or political matters… I had goosebumps just thinking of all the lives that called it home. The Dar was the safe haven for generations after generations, and the calm, colorful uneven courtyard seemed ready to embrace more humans looking for a feeling of home.
I did not have money to buy Dar Anoun. I called Mr. Ahmed Anoun and told him that the bank would not give me a loan. He calmly answered, “There is an Italian who wants to buy the house. His offer is better than yours, but I know you will keep it as is, so try your best and let me know what you can do.” His calm, generous voice converted my wish to restore the Dar into a national mission. I called my brother and asked to borrow money. He did not believe I could pay it back but kindly accepted, with a tough payback deadline. And just like that, the Dar was sold.
The financial challenges that followed were mountainous. The process for the restoration permit and the restoration itself felt like a lifetime journey that would never end. But – to my own surprise – the new guesthouse received its first guest in September of 2013. The survival journey of Dars in the Medina is much tougher than I had imagined. Many centuries-old Dars collapse. Reasons vary from complicated multi-ownerships, unregistered properties, unresolved inheritance, and ownership disputes… Families that don’t communicate, nor agree on who gets what, and what to do with shared inheritance.
The survival journey of Dars is also greatly impacted by architects. In my experience, there were three types of architects. There is the Folklore Architect who wants to create a Shahrazad and Shahryar Dar experience for its guests. There is the I Can Do Better Architect, who thinks they can correct a Dar’s “mistakes” by improving uneven right angles and creating more perfect squares. And there is the Soul-Protector Architect who struggles to find the balance between today’s needs with signs of unplanned human growth and preserving craftmanship. There is no right and no wrong. In a boutique hotel experience, there is a market for Shahryar – customers who would not feel comfortable when the building is unsymmetric – and then there are Dar soul-hunters. At the end of the day, heritage is dynamic – we decide what we keep and what we abandon or transform as cultural meanings evolve over time.
In any case, the majority of Medina residents cannot afford an architect and end up DIYing their Dars according to changing family needs. They also cannot afford the very lengthy restoration permit process. The Medina is a UNESCO heritage site, and it’s a blessing that this protects the historical urban quarters, but it’s also a burden to its homeowners who have to go through three institutions – that often do not agree – just to get a restoration permit. A permit in Tunis could be acquired in nine months to two years. Not to forget that restoring an old Dar requires artisans and not regular builders. This makes budgeting for time and money an impossibility. In fact, one will only know what they are going to pay for a restoration of an old home when the works are finished.
