A battle over the fate of the iconic Théâtre de Beyrouth has laid bare a broken legal system that consistently privileges investor greed over the cultural memory of a city that has already lost so much
When the Théâtre de Beyrouth opened its doors in 1965, it was a major event, opening the city to deeper and broader horizons. Today, however, the building finds itself at the mercy of a decision that could lead to its demolition – the site of a modern drama, a battle between cultural memory and financial greed. Those concerned are waging a moral battle to preserve the theatre, but reports from the Ministry of Culture confirm that its protection is now at risk. Writing for An-Nahar, journalist Laila Girgis uses the theatre’s precarious fate as a window into a wider crisis: the systematic erosion of Beirut’s historical buildings under pressure from real estate investment, legal fragility, and political inaction.
The most severe blow came with a 2014 State Council ruling, which nullified the theatre’s inclusion on the general inventory list of historical buildings on the grounds that “protecting cultural activity” was not a sufficient reason for listing, and that the Ministry of Culture had not adequately justified its historical significance. It is clear that there is a division between how the State Council protects buildings and what people feel strongly should be protected. Despite the ruling, the theatre remained on the inventory list for a further eleven years, until the Ministry finally reinstated the decision in September 2025.
Actress and writer Hanan Al-Hajj Ali, who spent five years documenting the theatre’s history in her book Teatro Beirut, does not hide her exhaustion. She describes the hope of saving the building as “diminishing day by day,” and is frank about where responsibility lies: “Saving Beirut’s theatre is the responsibility of the state, specifically the Ministry of Culture. We need a political decision.” Civil society, she argues, has done what it can. The final word rests with the state – and the state has so far failed to act.
At the heart of the problem is a legal framework that has not kept pace with the scale of the threat. Sarkis Khoury, Director General of the Directorate General of Antiquities, explains that the primary tool for protecting historical buildings is their inclusion on the general inventory list – but that this mechanism is increasingly strained by economic pressure. The 1950 Beirut Urban Planning Law allowed property owners to increase building heights across the city, causing land values to surge. For owners of older buildings, the incentive to demolish and build upward became, in many cases, overwhelming. As Khoury puts it, the high investment rate in Beirut has presented many with a difficult dilemma: preserving an old house of historical value or succumbing to financial temptations in exchange for major urban development projects.
One proposed solution is a draft law for the Protection of Heritage Buildings that would allow owners to transfer investment rights from one property to another – enabling development elsewhere in exchange for preserving the historical building. But the bill remains stalled in Parliament. Khoury is measured about its prospects, noting that the fundamental need is not for any specific law, but for “any alternative proposal capable of protecting Lebanese heritage and preserving historical buildings, in Beirut as in other regions.”
Girgis also examines how buildings qualify for protection in the first place, through a conversation with architect Khaled Al-Rifai of the Directorate General of Antiquities. Al-Rifai outlines five criteria: architectural value, urban value, historical value, artistic value, and cultural or symbolic value. It is this last category, intangible, symbolic significance, that proves most legally vulnerable. The Théâtre de Beyrouth, located in Ain Mreisseh, underground in a 1960s building with no distinctive architectural features, qualifies almost entirely on cultural grounds. The State Council, applying the letter of a 1933 antiquities law, found that insufficient.
The scale of the challenge is vast. Al-Rifai estimates there are between 150 and 200 historical buildings in Beirut, and around 2,500 heritage buildings in total – yet there is still no complete national inventory. The Directorate receives between five and ten requests annually to demolish classified historical buildings, and around 200 requests related to heritage buildings more broadly. So in practice, protection arrives only at the moment of threat.
Other buildings in the piece illustrate both what is at stake and what has already been lost: Mansour Palace, which hosted parliamentary sessions during the civil war; the former home of Charles de Gaulle in Al-Musaytibah; and the Commodore Hotel on Hamra Street, once a nerve centre for the international press. Each carries layers of memory that no architectural classification can fully capture.
As Girgis concludes, protecting heritage is a collective national responsibility that cannot be left to cultural organisations alone. The question her investigation leaves open is whether Lebanon’s political class will act before Beirut’s remaining history is converted into towers.
The original article by Laila Girgis, ‘الأبنية التاريخية في بيروت تُصارع طمع المستثمرين: ضغوط باتجاه الهدم لإقامة أبراج أو مجمعات تجارية’ was published in Arabic on 1 February 2026 in Al-Nahar.
It is available here.
Al-Nahar is the leading daily newspaper in Lebanon.
Summary by TMH
