A war veteran: The Sarcophagus of Ahiram

Water > Hear > The Phoenicians > A war veteran: The Sarcophagus of Ahiram

Have you ever heard of the sarcophagus of Ahiram? This artifact would be nothing more than the resting place of a Phoenician king weren't it for one detail: it is the single oldest document in our possession that contains all the letters of the Phoenician alphabet. In archaeological terms that makes it a priceless treasure, and it is a national relic.
Orginally it was an Egyptian sarcophagus, recycled to receive Ahiram's body. Yet its sealing and burial beneath Byblos, a millennium before this era, marked only the beginning of its tormented story.

As happened to Egypt and Mesopotamia, most pieces found on Lebanese ground were taken away to Western museums -- or worse, sold on the black market for antiques. Fortunately, this sarcophagus never left the country. It was given a place honour in the National Museum built in 1930, and there enjoyed what museum pieces enjoy until the war began in 1975.

From that point on its history and that of the Museum are intimately connected, and occasionally interwoven with my own.

You see, the war officially started with the Museum. It became Beirut's Berlin Wall, a spot where the violence converged and that it was mad to approach. Snipers nested around and inside it. When I was born, the Museum had already ceased to exist: it was nothing but an empty shell scarred both in and outside. I never even saw it until I was 9 or 10, which is extraordinary considering it is literally down the street from my house, 5 minutes away on foot.

Even though I had never seen it, I knew what was -- what had been -- in it. In school we studied Lebanese history, and the Sarcophagus of Ahiram was described to us at great length. We were showed pictures of it under different angles, and I remember memorizing it and the engravings upon its flanks to reproduce it in my copy book after the slide show. It fascinated me as if it were our personal Grail. I never really wondered what had happened to it: I took it for granted that it was gone, like all the other objects and places that hadn't been seen since the beginning of the war. Excalibur had returned to the lake, and the sarcophagus had likely returned to the earth.

Then I clearly remember the day where someone whispered to me: "You know, they say that a lot of the stuff from the Museum was saved! They hid them in bank safes before it was pillaged! Don't spread the word!"
"They" is actually the person of the Emir Maurice Chehab to whom we are eternally indebted. He was in charge of the Service of Antiquities, and had the blessed foresight of sending the most precious artefacts to a safe place for as long as the war would last. They were to wait twenty years until the Museum was ready to receive them again.

The sarcophagus on the other hand was not likely to fit in any bank safe. Neither it, nor the large mosaic floors and statues could be moved. With utmost haste, they were encased in concrete to protect them from the uncaring hordes that were moving through the city.

For nearly twenty years the sarcophagus slept in its coffin (irony!) of concrete, practically under my nose. When the war ended and work started to restore the Museum, the latter was temporarily opened so that the public could see it the way the Service had found it. I was one of the first to rush there: this was the first time I ever entered it. Under my feet: concrete. On the walls, large patches of the same material. In one place, sunlight bled through a circular hole in a 3000-year-old mosaic: a sniper had pierced it to push his gun through. All in a day's work. I turned and entered the next room, and there was my sarcophagus! I couldn't see it, of course: all there was to see was a large mass of concrete. But it was there. I didn't need to see it to know every little detail carved on it ? the inscription that made it so precious, the weepers tearing their hair out, the little lotus motifs imported from Egyptian art, the four lions carrying it on their back with fierce loyalty on their stylized faces. All I needed was to know it was there. This grey block surrounded by bare walls was more fascinating, ominous and symbolic to me than anything I saw in museums around the world.

(As I was typing these lines something incredible happened. My mom called me to the TV and what I saw made my jaw drop: a French TV channel was airing the very scene that I was about to describe, in the paragraph below.)

Finally, the time was right: the concrete casings were removed. The historical moment was documented and we were later able to watch the concrete slabs being broken away, crashing to the ground where they broke into a million pieces -- above the rising dust floated the silent objects that had waited all these years. I get goosebumps anytime I think of the sight. Presently the Museum recovered the rest of its treasures and was able to reopen in earnest, and finally, I was able to see the Sarcophagus with my own eyes.

I now walk or drive past the Museum at least twice a day. It has recovered completely and looks better than it ever had. Its Art Deco architecture and clear collection layout command admiration from foreign architects and exhibit designers. Among other things, it now boasts what may be the only negative (as in "made of empty space") museum piece in the world: the hole in the mosaic, carefully preserved. Lest we forget.