In Lebanese Mountains, Hatmaker Keeps Ancient Skill Alive

Hatmaker Youssef Akiki shapes one of his traditional "labbadeh" hats with olive soap at his workshop in the mountain village of Hrajel in Keserwan-Jbeil province on January 27, 2023. (AFP)
Hatmaker Youssef Akiki shapes one of his traditional "labbadeh" hats with olive soap at his workshop in the mountain village of Hrajel in Keserwan-Jbeil province on January 27, 2023. (AFP)
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In Lebanese Mountains, Hatmaker Keeps Ancient Skill Alive

Hatmaker Youssef Akiki shapes one of his traditional "labbadeh" hats with olive soap at his workshop in the mountain village of Hrajel in Keserwan-Jbeil province on January 27, 2023. (AFP)
Hatmaker Youssef Akiki shapes one of his traditional "labbadeh" hats with olive soap at his workshop in the mountain village of Hrajel in Keserwan-Jbeil province on January 27, 2023. (AFP)

High in Lebanon's rugged mountains, hatmaker Youssef Akiki is among the last artisans practicing the thousand-year-old skill of making traditional warm woolen caps once widely worn against the icy winter chill.

Akiki believes he may be the last commercial maker of the sheep wool "labbadeh" -- a named derived from the Arabic for felt, or "labd" -- a waterproof and warm cap colored off-white, grey, brown or black.

"The elders of the village make their own labbadehs", said Akiki, who also dresses in the traditional style of baggy trousers.

Akiki, 60, from the snow-covered village of Hrajel, perched more than 1,200 meters (4,000 feet) up in the hills back from Lebanon's Mediterranean coast, said making the hat requires a careful process.

After drying sheep's wool in the sun, he molds it with water and Aleppo soap -- which includes olive oil and laurel leaf extracts -- to turn it into felt with his hands.

"It helps the wool shrink, so it becomes malleable like dough", he said, showing his hands, rough with years of work.

It is a slow process that allows him to fashion "three labbadehs in one day, at most", he said.

Though the hats are practical and warm, few people wear them today.

Those buying the caps are mainly tourists -- or Lebanese nostalgic for their childhood -- and they often buy them not to wear them but to display them at home.

"The state should guarantee us markets and places to exhibit," the craftsman said.

Income from the hat trade is not enough to survive on, and Akiki also works as a farmer, especially given the dire economic crisis that has gripped Lebanon in recent years.

Lebanon's economic turmoil has left many struggling to make ends meet, and the poverty rate has reached 80 percent of the population, according to the United Nations.

Akiki believes the labbadeh design is rooted in the caps worn by the ancient Phoenicians, although their style was "more elongated".

Today, in order to encourage more customers, he is dabbling with more modern designs and, to keep the skills alive, is training his nephews in the time-honored craft.



Compensation Delays Leave Beirut Southern Suburbs’ Families in Ruined Homes

A man surveys the damage caused by Israeli airstrikes on the southern suburbs last week. (EPA)
A man surveys the damage caused by Israeli airstrikes on the southern suburbs last week. (EPA)
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Compensation Delays Leave Beirut Southern Suburbs’ Families in Ruined Homes

A man surveys the damage caused by Israeli airstrikes on the southern suburbs last week. (EPA)
A man surveys the damage caused by Israeli airstrikes on the southern suburbs last week. (EPA)

In Beirut’s southern suburbs, amid buildings scarred by war, residents continue to suffer from severe damage to their homes caused by the recent conflict.

In the Mrayjeh and Saint Therese neighborhoods, locals face a harsh reality of ruined houses, stalled compensation, and unfulfilled promises, while reconstruction projects remain frozen amid deep uncertainty.

In Mrayjeh, where the destruction still marks the walls of homes, Ali, a resident, told Asharq Al-Awsat about the near-total damage to his house.

He said: “After my home was almost completely destroyed, we were told there was an urgent reconstruction plan and that compensation would be paid within a few months. But the reality is completely different.”

“All we actually received was four months’ worth of shelter allowance starting in January, totaling no more than $2,000. After that, all aid stopped, and we have not received any financial support to repair the damage,” added Ali.

On the scale of his losses, Ali said: “My home is no longer habitable. It was completely damaged—from the walls to the floors, from water and electricity networks to furniture that was entirely ruined. I barely managed to salvage anything.”

“Yet, I have received no compensation for the losses. Since the damage occurred, I have been covering all costs out of my own pocket. So far, I’ve spent more than $10,000, and I’m still at the beginning of the road. In my estimation, I need at least another $30,000 to restore the house to a livable condition.”

But the biggest shock came in recent weeks, when they were officially informed that restoration work in the building was halted “until further notice.”

Ali explained that the entity responsible for the repairs, appointed by Hezbollah, told them bluntly: “Funding has stopped, so no work can continue. All they managed to do was reinforce a support wall on the ground floor, then they stopped and left as if nothing happened.”

The building is now at risk of total collapse, with many families either displaced or living in inhumane conditions.

Regarding their appeals to the authorities, Ali said: “All our inquiries receive the same response: ‘There is no funding currently, please wait.’”