And when Brigid Keenan penetrated the courtyards, she saw the light mostly through gaping holes in the exuberantly painted ceilings. But like so many before her, from Mark Twain to Lawrence of Arabia, Keenan was captivated by this jewel in the of Islamic heritage. Then a distant relative died leaving her the precise asking price, and the gray-painted courtyard magically yielded up friezes and mosaics. These houses have about 20 years left. Damascus survived the Romans, invasions, earthquakes, but after 2,000 years, the 20th century and the car killed it, as the great families drifted away from the old city.
Somebody has to agitate.
Viewing Damascus on her arrival, as a modern high-rise city, Keenan was amazed to discover the wonders hidden behind the narrow streets with their spices, souks and artisans, whom she soon realized could be a vital asset to restoration. They were built for one extended family, which lived in shady rooms round a jasmine-scented courtyard in the summer and moved up to the paneled first floor, warmed with oriental rugs, for winter. Keenan admits that she could have presented a much gloomier view of a decayed city. Beddow's poetic pictures find beauty even in decay, as a pigeon perches on a broken filigree of a roof cornice, or trees tumble drunkenly over ruined arches and empty stone basins. And there is, Keenan says, a ray of light.