Syria is home to many incredible handicrafts – brocade-making, mosaic art, metalwork, glass-blowing, and more.

But these artforms are in danger of dying out. As fewer and fewer young people learn these trades, Syria’s traditional handicrafts may soon be a thing of the past.

My first introduction to Syria’s traditional crafts was in my hotel. Converted from an old Damascene house, the hotel retained much of its former character and was committed to preserving the traditional elements that had made Damascus so admired by visitors over the centuries.

In the dim light of the evening, exquisite details emerged from every corner: the painted wood of the ceiling, the metal decorations and coffee pots, the inlaid mosaics on the furnishings.

An archway in one of the walls had been converted into a kind of display case, a mini museum showcasing local handcrafts. Nearby was a small cabinet filled with similar items for sale.

Over the course of the next few days, between touring the major attractions and sometimes by accident, I would be introduced to some of the artisans who are keepers of these ancient traditions and among the last of their kind.

The Wood Painters

After a long day of sightseeing, we found ourselves stumbling through one of Damascus’ many narrow alleyways, buttressed on either side by stone buildings whose plaster was decaying and whose wooden frames were rotting away.

Our tour guide motioned us into an unassuming workshop that, if it hadn’t been pointed out to me, I would have easily passed by without a second thought.

Inside, I was greeted by the charming chaos of a wood-painting workshop. Cans of paint were stacked haphazardly on shelves bent out of shape by age and weight, random strokes of paint – perhaps to test out the color – covered bare parts of the wall, while half-completed products were laid out on a table to be worked on and the finished product were hung to be admired and sold.

This was ajami, the tradition of painting wood panels to decorate the walls and ceilings of buildings. The artform was particularly prevalent during Ottoman period, in the 17^th and 18^th centuries.

Two or three men were inside the workshop. We seemed to have interrupted their conversation, as they stopped to look curiously at the group of Western tourists who had just entered. They appeared content to have our guide explain the process, which involves creating the 3-D panel, then applying color using a variety of materials, including cow’s fat, which allows the pigment to adhere better to the wood.

I looked around the shop at the finished product. Nearly all pieces featured elaborate calligraphy set within a frame of decorative flowers. I recalled learning that in Islamic art, in response to the prohibition on representative imagery, the words and letters themselves are embellished as the only acceptable form of artistic expression.

As we were leaving, our guide informed us that the ceiling of our hotel was decorated with ajami. Sure enough, upon our return, I stopped and stared at the ceiling, this time with a newfound appreciation.

The Carpet Weaver

My next encounter with one of Syria’s artisans took place in the city of Hama, famous for its gigantic waterwheels. (In case you’re curious, these waterwheels, call norias, were used well into the 20^th century, but now exist just for show.)

Here we came across a man weaving at his loom, which stopped us in our track. After all, it’s not everyday that you see a weaver in the middle of the street (at least not where I live).

But this is exactly what we encountered while walking around Hama. Turning a corner in the narrow, winding streets – BOOM, there was a weaver at his loom, making carpets.

The loom was a large, free-standing structure. On the street-facing side hung several pounds of thread, while on the ground were large spools of thread and what were undoubtedly other tools of the trade.

The weaver was a middle-aged man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a stout moustache. He worked with skills obviously amassed over many years, interweaving the thread, then pounding it into place. Upon noticing a group of Western tourists surrounding him, he looked up from his work and happily started to chat.

I don’t know what he said, but I do remember our guide telling us that, in Syria, weaving was men’s work due to the physicality involved. This surprised me; from my studies of medieval Europe, I knew weaving to have been largely women’s work (which to some degree, it still is in the West).

When one of our group expressed a desire to buy some carpets, the weaver enthusiastically took us to his nearby shop, which was little more than a small recess in the wall. One by one, he laid out his handiwork on the ground, drawing our attention to the variety of colors, clearly proud of his skill and hopeful to make a sale.

He got his wish, but the negotiations were fierce (this, of course, being all part of the fun). Sale made, to the satisfaction of seller and buyer, he left us with a parting gift – a demonstration of making the carpet tassels, which he twisted and knotted as he had done thousands of times before.

The Wood Carver

Sunday in Damascus affords an opportunity to visit some of its churches that are typically closed to visitors. That’s how we found ourselves in the Christian quarter one Sunday evening, when we were suddenly flagged down by a shopkeeper.

Speaking very good English (he told us he used to live in New York City and, as a former resident myself, I recognized the slightly abrasive NYC demeanor), he invited us to look at the wooden icons in his shop. The shop was small, clean, and white, which showcased the dark wood of the icons to greater effect.

Unlike other icons I had seen, these were not painted; they were sculpted. The wood was kept in its natural state, the images of Christ, his mother, and his saints emerging from the blocks.

The shopkeeper explained that all of the icons were 100% handmade – unusual these days, when oftentimes “handmade” items have at least some components that are made by machine.

To prove his point, he directed the woodcarver, who was just coming out from the back of the shop, to take his seat and demonstrate his skills. This the woodcarver, a middle-aged man of slight frame, readily did. Seated at his workstation, he prepared the wooden block by penciling in part of the design. Then, taking one of his tools, he shaved off pieces of wood, following the penciled lines, and slowly but surely an image of Christ on the cross began to be revealed.

We inquired how long it took to create a completed carving. It depended, came the reply. A simple crucifix would take a matter of hours. A large icon – like the 2ft-tall rendering of the Last Supper we saw – could take 3 months.

The shopkeeper went on to explain that there are very few woodcarvers left in Damascus. After the current generation is gone, there may be no one to continue the tradition.

The Mosaic Master

One of the most celebrated of Damascus’ traditional handicrafts is that of the mosaic. This artform, wherein various pieces of wood and mother-of-pearl are combined to make all manner of items, from small objects to entire pieces of furniture, is quintessentially Damascene.

For several nights, I had admired the furniture in my hotel – including in my room – which were made using this craft. Every piece, no matter how mundane its function, was a work of art – the chairs, the table, the bed, the cabinet.

I later found out that the hotel had once been the home of Jerji Beitar (also known as George Beitar). Jerji had been a pioneer in the art of mosaic, transforming the industry in the 1800s. He then taught his techniques to hundreds of students and the art of Damascus mosaic-making spread.

Alas, those days are gone and few young people today take up the craft. Accelerating this decline is the fact that many youths have left Syria after years of conflict. Sanctions and war have prevented these items from being marketed more broadly, especially internationally. Long hours of manual work for low demand and return have been disastrous for mosaic making.

Nevertheless, at least one old man is keeping the tradition alive. For over 40 years, maybe longer, he has been making mosaics the traditional way.

We stepped into the cramped workshop, which was dark and overwhelmed by the scents of various kinds of wood. A giant press of sorts was in the middle, while dozens of patterns, waiting to be worked on, were stacked at the back. The mosaic maker was originally from the village of Maaloula, a town some 56km (or 35 miles) away that is renowned as being one of the last places on earth where Aramaic, the language of Jesus, is spoken. Christian images and photos of relatives filled the walls.

A tall, sturdy man, the mosaic maker was friendly and eager to share his knowledge. He spoke no English, so our guide served as translator, but a shared language was not required to see how deeply passionate he was about his work.

The process of making mosaics is a long one. Different woods are selected for their varying colors, then are cut and meticulously set into a geometric pattern; they are then glued together. After being cut once again, they are placed onto the frame of the desired object and inlaid with mother-of-pearl (if the pattern calls for it). Finally, the finished product is cleaned with oil to bring out the brightness of the woods.

We asked to see some finished pieces and were ushered into the next-door shop. Here, dozens of items, from small boxes and square tiles, to medium-sized clocks and game boards, to entire pieces of furniture, were for sale. Eager for souvenirs to bring home, nearly all of us left the shop with something. I selected a few small objects for loved ones, then bought myself a lovely little box.

Shopping concluded, the mosaic maker invited us to drink tea. A part of me wondered how, between his friendly nature and his generous hospitality, he got any work done. I’ve no doubt, however, that after we politely declined tea and left, he went straight back to the work he loves.

The Brocade Maker

Few fabrics evoke luxury the way brocade does.

This decorative, woven fabric originated in China, but has been made in Damascus for centuries and seemingly, the city has made it its own.

The brocade maker was located in a workshop unlike any we had seen in Damascus. The place where he worked was large and bright, a sharp contrast to the dark, cramped, almost shabby conditions of other workshops. While the other workshops felt frozen in time, this place was distinctly modern, even if the craft is not.

The brocade maker, you see, worked in an association called Al Sakhra, which is dedicated to preserving traditional crafts and providing education to young people. While weaver and loom had a room to themselves, they were in a building shared with several other craftspeople.

Much like the weaver we had encountered in Hama, the brocade maker was a man and brocade-making is man’s work. Here, however, I could get a better feel for the physical strength required for the work. I watched attentively as the brocade maker wove the thread, manipulated parts of the machine with his hands while simultaneously pressing a different part with his foot. Slowly, threads of fabric came together and when we turned it over, revealed an intricately patterned, beautifully colored piece of brocade.

How was he able to create such a complicated pattern? Our guide pointed towards the top of the machine, where there were thin metal sheets punctured by holes in various patterns. It was these metal sheets, acting as a kind of computer code, that informed the fabric’s pattern.

Are any young people taking up brocade-making, we asked. The association teaches young students how to work the loom, but none so far have been interested in taking up the craft full-time. Young people, the brocade maker and association director lamented, are more interested in looking at their phones than working with their hands.

It was time for shopping again and we were more than happy to purchase some brocade. We were brought to the sales room where we found shawls, bags, bookmarks, coin purses, and more, all made from this precious fabric.

Unusually for Syria, the items were fixed price. Relieved at not having to haggle, I handed over my cash, which the director ran through an automatic counter to verify the amount. Amount verified, I happily walked away with a handful of souvenirs in a variety of colors and patterns.

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Syria’s traditional handicrafts are among its treasures. They have been practiced for centuries and the skills passed down through generations. But that may soon come to an end. With fewer and fewer people learning these trades, these artforms may soon become a memory instead of a living craft.

Syria has many other handicrafts that I unfortunately did not get to experience (at least not on this trip!). Nevertheless, I am immensely grateful for the chance to have met among the last craftsmen of Damascus.  

Exploring handicrafts is one of the best things to do in Damascus. Want to check out more of what to see in Damascus? Check out my article here!

Want to know more about visiting Syria? Here’s what you need to know!