Libya Traditional Jewelery Hangs on by Silver Thread

A Libyan woman crafts a piece of traditional filigree jewelry. Mahmud Turkia AFP
A Libyan woman crafts a piece of traditional filigree jewelry. Mahmud Turkia AFP
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Libya Traditional Jewelery Hangs on by Silver Thread

A Libyan woman crafts a piece of traditional filigree jewelry. Mahmud Turkia AFP
A Libyan woman crafts a piece of traditional filigree jewelry. Mahmud Turkia AFP

n Tripoli's Old City, young Libyans weave delicate patterns with threads of silver and gold to create traditional filigree jewelry -- reviving an art almost lost through decades of dictatorship and war.

Abdelmajid Zeglam is just 12 years old, but his minutely detailed creations are already selling fast in the streets around a Roman-era archway dedicated to emperor Marcus Aurelius, AFP said.

"I hesitated at first for fear of failing because I'm young, but my mum encouraged me," Zeglam said.

He is the youngest of 20 or so students, around half of them female, studying at the Libyan Academy for Traditional Gold and Silver Crafts, in a building that once served as a French consulate to the Ottoman Empire.

Trainees learn about precious metal alloys before studying the art of filigree, in which beads and threads of the precious materials are woven into intricate designs then soldered together to create jewelry.

"I love it," Zeglam said. "I want to become a petroleum engineer in the mornings and a jeweler in the afternoons."

Mohamed al-Miloudi, a 22-year-old civil engineering student in a baseball cap, said he had not missed a class since signing up in September.

"It's a hobby, but I'd like to make it into my trade," he said.

The institute's founder, Abdelnasser Aboughress, said filigree jewelry was an ancient tradition in the North African country.

"Craftsmen in the medina of Tripoli were trained by Jewish masters and later by Arabs, at the prestigious School of Arts and Trades" founded in the late 19th century, he said.

- Secret jewelers -
But generations of tradition were abruptly halted after Moamer Kadhafi took power in a 1969 coup.

The capricious ruler scrapped the constitution and established his "jamahiriya" -- a medley of socialism, Arab nationalism and tribal patronage.

He also scrapped the private sector, seizing companies and confiscating their assets.

Overnight, self-employed artisans lost everything: their workshops, their livelihoods and their students.

"The state reduced Libyan crafts to nothing and forced a generation of young apprentices, who should have taken up the baton, to instead leave the traditional crafts and join the army" or become civil servants, said Aboughress.

The 55-year-old was born just a few streets away in the medina, and despite Kadhafi's ban, he took up the craft at the age of 15.

Along with his father, for decades he worked in secret on jewelry for trusted clients.

Now, he hopes to pass the craft on to younger generations, as well as fighting back against a tide of "lower-quality jewelry imported from Egypt and China (which) has flooded the market".

Aboughress is working on a project to document and preserve as much of this cultural heritage as possible.

- 'People with passion' -
Student Fatima Boussoua hit out at the practice of selling old Libyan silver jewelry at cheap prices to be exported then melted down.

"It's part of Libya's artisanal heritage that's disappearing!" she said.

A dentist in her 40s who also teaches at the University of Tripoli, Boussoua has been training at the center for the past year, hoping to master the craft.

"We should be training artists to preserve our heritage," she said. "All it needs is people with passion."

While becoming a true expert takes years of training, Aboughress's students are already producing works for sale online or at the center itself.

That said, he admits the project needs financial help to buy the expensive raw materials -- as well as "moral support".

He hopes that with enough resources, he will one day be able to set up a string of other workshops across Libya.

"It's time to bring this craft back to life," he said.



In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
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In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)

We watch video after video, consuming the world on our handheld devices in bites of two minutes, one minute, 30 seconds, 15. We turn to moving pictures — “film” — because it comes the closest to approximating the world that we see and experience. This is, after all, 2024, and video in our pocket — ours, others', everyone's — has become our birthright.
But sometimes — even in this era of live video always rolling, always recording, always capturing — sometimes the frozen moment can enter the eye like nothing else. And in the process, it can tell a larger story that echoes long after the moment was captured. That's what happened this past week in Beirut, through the camera lens of Associated Press photographer Bilal Hussein and the photographs he captured.
When Hussein set up his camera outside an evacuated Beirut apartment building Tuesday after Israel announced it would be targeted as part of military operations against Hezbollah, he had one goal in mind — only one. "All I thought of," he says, “was photographing the missile while it was coming down.”
He found a safe spot. He ensured a good angle. He wasn't stressed, he said; like many photographers who work in such environments, he had been in situations like this one before. He was ready.
When the attack came — a bomb, not a missile in the end — Hussein swung into action. And, unsurprisingly for a professional who has been doing this work for two decades, he did exactly what he set out to do.
Time slowed down
The sequence of images he made bursts with the explosive energy of its subject matter.
In one frame, the bomb hangs there, a weird and obtrusive interloper in the scene. It is not yet noticed by anyone around it, ready to bring its destruction to a building that, in moments, will no longer exist. The building's balconies, a split-second from nonexistence, are devoid of people as the bomb finds its mark.
These are the kind of moments that video, rolling at the speed of life or even in slow motion, cannot capture in the same way. A photo holds us in the scene, stops time, invites a viewer to take the most chaotic of events and break it down, looking around and noticing things in a strangely silent way that actual life could not.
In another frame, one that happened micro moments after the first, the building is in the process of exploding. Let's repeat that for effect, since even as recently as a couple generations ago photographs like this were rare: in the process of exploding.
Pieces of building are shooting out in all directions, in high velocity — in real life. But in the image they are frozen, outward bound, hanging in space awaiting the next seconds of their dissolution — just like the bomb that displaced them was doing milliseconds before. And in that, a contemplation of the destruction — and the people it was visited upon — becomes possible.
Tech gives us new prisms to see the world
The technology to grab so many images in the course of little more than one second — and do it in such clarity and high resolution — is barely a generation old.
So to see these “stills,” as journalists call them, come together to paint a picture of an event is a combination of artistry, intrepidity and technology — an exercise in freezing time, and in giving people the opportunity to contemplate for minutes, even hours, what took place in mere seconds. This holds true for positive things that the camera captures — and for visitations of violence like this one as well.
Photography is random access. We, the viewers of it, choose how to see it, process it, digest it. We go backward and forward in time, at will. We control the pace and the speed at which dizzying images hurtle at us. And in that process, something unusual for this era emerges: a bit of time to think.
That, among many other things, is the enduring power of the still image in a moving-picture world — and the power of what Bilal Hussein captured on that clear, sunny day in Beirut.