en
- de
- en
This fragment is part of the "CulturalxCollabs - Weaving the Future" carpet.
Through the fragment we trace the journey of the fragment owners and their collabs as they explore, experiment and creatively advance socially relevant themes. Here is the fragment as we are sending it on this three and a half-year journey.
Follow this story to observe the transformations the fragment undergoes over the course of these years...
What is FMIK e.V?
The Friends of the Museum for Islamic Art in the Pergamon Museum, a registered association founded in 2009, endeavors to foster the unique position of the Museum for Islamic Art and support the work it does.
At the same time, by engaging with the diverse cultural heritage of Muslim societies, it contributes to global understanding and mutual cultural exchange.
If you would like to join the friends‘ circle, you may learn more about its aims and activities here.
...and on we go...
...with Rolf Brockschmidt
I received carpet fragment #24 from Said Baalbaki at the Damaskus Bakery in Moabit, Berlin.
He was born in Beirut in 1974, the same year I traveled to Lebanon for the first time—a journey that deeply shaped my relationship with the culture of the Arab world.
In the Beginning, There Was Lebanon
It was like an excavation trip with archaeologists—an experience that deepened my connection to the Arab world and sparked my enduring love for Arab culture.
A throng of people, murderous traffic, whoever honks first has the right of way, traffic lights are for squares, packed street cafés, vendors everywhere—Beirut in August 1974 was pretty much the opposite of West Berlin: dynamic, loud, alive. The first impression was overwhelming. Even though little of old Beirut remained even then, and modern Beirut was striving to live up to its reputation as the “Paris of the Middle East,” walking through the souks with all their bustling activity felt like stepping into another world.
My parents were not exactly thrilled that, in order to finance my studies, I traveled to Kamid el-Loz in the Beqaa Valley as a draftsman for the University of Saarland’s excavation. Just a year after the Yom Kippur War, Lebanon was still considered a crisis zone. “The situation in Lebanon is unstable, and that instability has a certain stability—and no one knows what tomorrow will bring,” Professor Rolf Hachmann had told us at the time, in an attempt to reassure us. Little did we know back then that the summer of 1974 would be the last peaceful summer for a long time—before the terrible civil war broke out in April 1975.
A Lavish Meal at the Legendary Restaurant Al-Ajamy
I was 21 years old and in the Middle East for the first time, and Lebanon was a perfect introduction—a blend of Europe and the so called "Orient". Beirut was a true world city, one that made West Berlin pale in comparison. I admired the architecture from the Ottoman period and the French Mandate era, and I was amazed by Rue Hamra—Beirut’s equivalent of the Kurfürstendamm—with its legendary Café Modca on the corner of Abdel Aziz Street, its façade made of chrome steel. Nothing like that existed in West Berlin. Even at the trendy Wimpy, intellectuals and those who wanted to be seen gathered. Unforgettable was a lavish meal at the legendary restaurant Al-Ajamy (established in 1920), which, unlike the other places, has survived every crisis to this day. Shawarma, tabbouleh, baba ghanoush, the Arabic bread—everything was a revelation.
The drive to our excavation site through the Lebanon Mountains, crossing the pass at 1,800 meters on the way to Khirbet Qanafar in the fertile Beqaa Valley, was once again like stepping into another world. That something wasn't quite right, however, became clear in the mountains—where various Lebanese Army checkpoints, with their sandbag barricades and light armored vehicles, marked the route. “Just a matter of internal security,” we were told.
At the excavation site, we had little contact with locals, but one of our draftsmen, Martin Touma, was Lebanese and an excellent source. He taught me how to brew Arabic coffee using the brass pot called dallah, which I had bought from a coppersmith during a trip to Damascus in the Suq al-Hamidiya, not far from the Umayyad Mosque—coffee with sugar and cardamom pods. Today, I simply buy Najjar coffee with cardamom—it’s easier—and I skip the sugar.
On Sundays, we went on excursions: a long weekend to Damascus and Palmyra, and day trips to the Cedars above Bcharré, to Byblos, Sidon, and Tyre. We dined in small garden restaurants where it wasn’t unusual for guests to grab a hand drum and break into a rhythmic dabke dance. And of course, the haunting music of Fairuz, especially her song "Atini Nai", which left a lasting impression on me.
These three months in Lebanon, including excursions to Syria—which at the time felt to me like an Arab version of East Germany (even the diesel smelled the same)—left a lasting impression on me. They sparked my fascination with the rich cultural diversity that comes together in the Levant. The Roman ruins of Tyre and Sidon, the traces of the Crusaders in Byblos, and the splendor of the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus—all of it captivated me. The food, the music, the landscapes, the architecture, the kindness of the people—everything made me feel deeply connected to the Lebanese and the broader "Orient", shaping the way I view this region of the world. Back then, even more so than today, news from Israel dominated the discourse surrounding the Middle East conflict.
What happened in Syria or Lebanon barely reached the German public—just as little as the fact that every day between 10 and 11 a.m., two Phantom jets of the Israeli Air Force thundered low over the Beqaa Valley. You could see the pilots in their cockpits. On Fridays, they came in fours: two flew high as lookouts, while the other two dropped a few bombs in the Rachaya Valley, where Palestinians lived and which was a military restricted area behind the Anti-Lebanon mountains we could see from our balconies. That dull booming was among the first bombs I ever heard fall. In the following days, Lebanese newspapers casually reported that a few houses had been destroyed and some people injured. There were also photos of fighters posing with Kalashnikovs in front of olive trees. They had supposedly returned safely from a commando mission in the southern neighboring country, the papers said. Seen up close, the Middle East conflict had sharper contours than the distant newspaper reports in Europe.
Lebanon had grabbed and fascinated me, so I was all the more shocked when, just months after our departure, the civil war broke out. I followed the news closely, looked for places I knew, read the novel The Falsification (1979) by Nicolas Born, and watched the film adaptation by Volker Schlöndorff. At home, I continued brewing my Arabic coffee and occasionally listened to Fairuz—I had brought an LP from the Baalbek Festival 1973. Back then, there were no Lebanese restaurants yet in Berlin, but the emerging Döner culture at least offered a faint substitute, and I made tabbouleh myself—the greener, the better.
Another profound experience was in 1977...
... participating in the 2nd survey of the Tübingen Atlas of the Near East (TAVO) at the University of Tübingen, during which settlement mounds were measured, mapped, and photographed along the Khabur River between Hasaka and Deir ez-Zor in eastern Syria. I then drew the pottery shards collected during this survey, even though I am not an archaeologist. I also worked in both cities doing internal office tasks. That meant I had to shop at the market, cook, and of course draw shards. This brought me into closer contact with the local population. Hardly anyone there spoke English or French, so I had to try, like a guest worker, to learn a few scraps of Arabic as quickly as possible. That was fun, because the Syrians did not expect visitors to attempt speaking Arabic. The effort and the gesture were always well received, and this also helped me later as a journalist in other parts of the world. I learned individual words, sometimes phrases, and wrote everything down.
Further on to Tunisia, Morocco, Jordan, and later professionally to Syria, Egypt, and finally Qatar.
I deepened this love for Arab culture through private travels to Tunisia, Morocco, and Jordan, and later on professional trips to Syria, Egypt, and most recently Qatar—my last business trip for the Tagesspiegel to the exhibition "Syria Matters" at the Museum of Islamic Art in Doha. And that in 2023 I would be standing in Samarkand on the Registan, in front of the magnificent buildings of Islamic art, was something I could never have dreamed of back in 1974.
My early experiences in Lebanon and Syria—altogether about six months on site—have continually influenced my work as a journalist. We know far too little about this region of the world, and as conflicts have grown, so have the prejudices and clichés. I have deliberately taken up topics, reviewed non-fiction books and novels, and even initiated entire special sections in the Tagesspiegel, for example about Jordan and Saudi Arabia, to help lift the veil of ignorance a little.
In 2019, I attended a calligraphy course for a few months with the Syrian artist Abdul Razzak Shaballout—an attempt to dive deeper into Arab culture, although it is difficult without knowledge of the written Arabic language. Yes, my love for Arab culture has also led to a few music reviews of Arabic music at the Pierre Boulez Hall in the Barenboim-Said Academy. A colleague encouragingly remarked that these sounds must be more familiar to me than to the average music critic.
Andalusia is the waiting room for travelers heading toward the Levant—until conditions there improve again, inch’Allah!
Unfortunately, traveling to the Levant is currently a difficult undertaking. What remains is to explore Andalusia, where the Arabs ruled and shaped the land for around 800 years. The Alhambra in Granada is a place of longing that fascinates even on the third or fourth visit and never grows boring. And there is a difference between visiting it by day or late at night, when the light magically highlights the stucco decorations and calligraphy.
By contrast, the grandiose palace of Charles V., which he had built in the 16th century right next to the Nasrid palaces, feels crude and soulless. Visitors get a similar feeling in the Mezquita of Córdoba, where in the magical forest of columns of the old mosque, the heavily gilded Baroque splendor of the Catholic cathedral breaks the delicate ensemble of the mosque.
Besides the Alhambra, the testimonies of Nasrid culture in Granada remain impressive to this day: the baths, villas, the then advanced hospital in Europe which has recently been rebuilt, and the water management system with its underground channels and fountains. Fortunately, Andalusia is rediscovering and nurturing its Arab heritage. And when strolling down from the Albaicín hill through the Calle Calderería with its teterías—tea houses, small restaurants, and shops—you almost feel like you’re in Morocco and nearly forget the Spanish surroundings. In this street, East and West merge for a moment. Andalusia is the waiting room for travelers heading toward the Levant—until conditions there improve again, inch’Allah!
Malakeh Jazmati – We Cook with the Soul
For those who don’t want to wait that long, a visit to “Malakeh”, the Syrian restaurant run by Malakeh Jazmati on Potsdamer Straße in Berlin, is highly recommended—a slice of Syria in the heart of Berlin. In Syrian cuisine, there's more cooking than grilling; the variety of flavors and the richness of spices deeply fascinated Malakeh. After fleeing from Syria to Jordan, the political science student quickly became a celebrated TV chef there. She has been active in Berlin for ten years. Her latest project: a cooking academy right next door. Here, people are invited to cook together, accompanied by stories about dishes and spices—because, as she says, “we cook with the soul.”
...The journey continues...
...with Said Baalbaki...
...And on we go...
...with Franziska Kabelitz
A Personal Reflection on Fragment #24 and the Value of Art Historical Inquiry
Fragment #24 is being passed between members of the Museum for Islamic Art’s friends‘ circle. When my turn was up, I initially had big travel plans for us.
We were booked on a trip to Italy in order to visit the Venice Biennale’s 60th edition. Under the title "Foreigners Everywhere," this year’s Biennale features diverse artists exploring themes of migration, displacement, and identity. Together, for three days, the fragment and I were set to roam the city, visit national pavilions and collateral events, and introduce some of the most memorable displays via the CulturalxCollabs portal upon our return.
But alas, our trip was cut short due to unforeseen circumstances; fragment #24 and I were forced to leave Venice before we had a chance to see much. I did, however, manage to take one early morning stroll, accompanied by our fragment. Walking between centuries-old buildings, walls, and bridges, water greeting us around every corner, I was not only reminded of the city’s environmental challenges and current struggle with over-tourism, but mostly of its past identities and incarnations. As an art historian studying the history of exchanges of material culture and technologies between Europe and Asia, Venice’s historical role as a leading maritime power and illustrious trading hub has been of great interest for my research.
So, instead of placing our fragment into dialogue with the Biennale, I decided to share my thoughts on the nature of fragments, inspired by the sight of #24 resting on bridge railings and in front of layered wall structures. Reflecting on the wider notions of fragments or fragmentary encounters throughout our walk, I found myself confronted with both positive and negative associations and, ultimately, a reckoning with my position as an art historian within our increasingly fragmented world.
Fragments and Art History
In my personal experience, studying (art) history has been an immensely rewarding endeavour. By employing art historical methods and tools, I have been able to gain deep insights into how people see amd saw the world, express their emotions, and interact with the divine or with nature – including myself.
As art historians, we are often confronted with fragments. And watching fragment #24 meandering though the alleyways of Venice, I realised that the notion of the fragmentary, the incomplete, is fundamentally linked to the efforts of art history.
Fragments, whether they are remnants of texts, speech, art, architecture, archaeological objects, or ideas, refer to incomplete pieces that convey meaning but lack a coherent structure. As such, fragments may act as carriers of cultural memory, preserving elements of a society’s (or multiple societies‘) values, practices, and belief systems even when the larger narrative has been lost. They challenge notions of wholeness, and can serve as powerful tools for evoking emotions, creating tension, or presenting disjointed yet intrinsically human experiences. Importantly, fragments invite us to reconsider the processes we employ for the construction of meaning.
Fragmented Story of Venice
Venice’s beautiful yet often patched-up buildings and façades embody a rich tapestry of meanings. From a melancholic sense of impermanence to warnings of environmental fragility, the architectural structures fragment #24 and I encounter speak of a city at once glorious and vulnerable. Built on water, Venice had established itself as a major maritime power amd strategic trading hub by the 9th century AD. Venetian merchants facilitated the exchange of luxury goods, such as spices, silk, precious stones, wool, timber, or metals. The city‘s vast trading network stretched as far as the Black Sea, into North Africa and to the Eastern Mediterranean. Immense wealth accumulated through trade allowed Venice to flourish culturally and architecturally.
The buildings that greet us today tell a fragmented story. They offer glimpses into the city’s once-dominant role in the world, while simultaneously underscoring the passage of that era. But it is precisely in these liminal spaces, such as the dual nature of beauty, that I find meaning, curiosity, and solace. An object, a story, a building can be both broken and magnificent at the same time. So can human experience. Coexistence of splendor and decline is ubiquitous; it is something we must live with.
In an increasingly fragmented world governed by data, rankings, and categorisations, I am deeply grateful for the challenge of navigating grey areas art history offers. Not everything is clear or unambiguous, not everything can be described or categorised. Uncertainty is a fundamental part of life and we don’t always gain from pushing against it. On the contrary, endurance and patience might teach us valuable lessons in the long run.
Art history as a bridge
In times marked by polarisation and heightened division, art history sharpens our analytical skills and demands nuanced contemplation. It requires us to understand artworks in context, thereby questioning simplistic narratives or binary thinking, which are often at the root of societal fragmentation. At points of uncertainty, art history provides a sense of continuity by linking our present to what has come before – often through fragments. It reminds us of the long, unbroken human impulse to create, communicate, and inquire. By tracing artistic and technologial innovations and trends, we can discern how creativity has been harnessed across millennia to communicate ideas, push boundaries, and reflect the world in surprising, unprecedented or resourceful ways. Art can critique or challenge societal norms and power structures; it has long been a vehicle for political and social commentary. And so as we gain diverse perspectives on historical events and movements by studying art, sometimes we may even be able to reconnect disrupted narratives.
Beauty of imperfection and fragments
The biographies of both the museum’s dragon carpet and Venice’s houses remind us that value lies in imperfection, just as we may often find significance in the fragmented nature of life. Their stories teach us to appreciate the transience of human achievement, to seek meaning in the elusive, and to recognise layers of complexity in our lived experiences and interpretations of the world.
Watching #24 framed by Venice’s crumbling buildings – I see resilience, and room for hope.
The journey begins...
...with Abdurrahman Kulac
Today I arrived in a green and sunny district of Berlin. My new owner immediately took me to his garden, to the fresh air, back to nature. That's where I come from too. After days in a dark and cramped wooden box, I really needed it. Many let their carpets gather dust indoors. But we also need contact with a fresh breeze. I am looking forward to my time with my new host.
I was cut. Cut into a hundred pieces. It was tedious.
Now I embark on a journey. Let's see where it takes me.
My first trip: Syrian Heritage Archive Project
Today, I am going to the museum. A very special event is taking place: the 10th anniversary of an extraordinary project The Syrian Heritage Archive Project. An online archive to preserve the architectural treasures of Damascus and Aleppo. Much has been destroyed in the Syrian war. Contrary to the many sad stories from the war, this project brings hope for a time after the war, when everything will be rebuilt. Inspiring artists and many moving moments.
Thanks to everyone who, in difficult times, upholds and honors art alongside humanity. Do you notice how faces light up when people touch or see me? That's called (dragon) magic.
Vienna
A weekend trip to Vienna is coming up. I am excited to see what awaits me.
The imperial coronation mantle with Arabic inscriptions
This mantle has a long and interesting history.
It is adorned with Arabic inscriptions and was made for King Roger II in Sicily. It came to Germany through the Hohenstaufen dynasty. European emperors were only allowed to wear it on their coronation day from the 13th century onwards. It was that precious.
Would a European prince still wear a mantle with Arabic inscriptions at his coronation today? Very unlikely.
What does the information panel in the museum tell us?
"...the originally ancient oriental motifs are borrowed from Arabic art: two symmetrically arranged lions triumphing over a camel; between them stands a stylized palm tree in the manner of a Tree of Life. The lions symbolize the ruler who defeats his enemies. Due to the incredible preciousness of the mantle, the 'foreign' motifs were overlooked, and it has been used as the coronation mantle of the kings and emperors of the Holy Roman Empire since the 13th century. By the 14th century, it was already seen as the mantle of Charlemagne, which the sainted emperor and restorer of the Roman Empire would have won in battle against the Moors."
And the translation of the Kufi inscription reads as follows: "(This is) from what was made in the royal chamber (court workshop), (which) flourished with fortune and honor, with zeal and perfection, with power and merit, with (His) consent and (His) well-being, with generosity and grandeur, with glory and beauty, and the fulfillment of wishes and hopes, with happy days and nights without cease and without change, with honor and care, with preservation and protection, with success and safety, with triumph and proficiency. In the (capital) city of Sicily in the year 528."
...and the journey through Vienna continues
A Babylonian lion at the Kunsthistorisches Museum (KHM) in Vienna.
Does the lion look familiar to you?
Babylon, Ishtar Gate, Pergamon Museum?
Got it?
It doesn't scare me. We have many of them in Berlin.
Please don't slide down on me!
The grand staircase of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. I wonder if I would fit inside the museum too?
The Armory in Dresden
After the European Turkish threat was overcome following the Second Siege of Vienna in 1689, a phase of intense cultural exchange with the Ottomans began. In Europe, there was a trend of dressing in Turkish style, which was highly fashionable at the time. At major events, Ottoman tents, like the magnificent three-mast tent in Dresden, were erected. This was probably because the Saxon royal court wanted to demonstrate to the imperial Habsburgs in Vienna that they did not necessarily want to orient themselves aesthetically towards them.
Berlin has become my home!
Where do I belong? In my new home. Berlin with all its beautiful aspects and landmarks.
On Museum Island with the Cathedral and the TV Tower.
My friends - the books about Islamic art
Those who want to understand Islamic art will have to read. Some of my companions in the last few months. How fortunate that someone came up with the idea of the book. How else could my unique story have been preserved over centuries? And is there a more valuable gift than a book?
Guest at Buddha in the Humboldt Forum
In the Humboldt Forum, there is a replica of the portal at the Great Buddha's tomb. Those who haven't seen the Asian exhibition there yet will miss out on something. Many paths that I and other art enthusiasts have traveled on the Silk Road can be traced here. What would Europe and Asia be without this connecting bridge of culture?
The dragon in Rumi
Rumi, who found his new home in the Anatolian city of Konya, composed this masterpiece of the Persian language nearly 700 years ago. The Mathnawi. The dragon recurs in his works. It symbolizes the ego, our inner demons to be tamed, our instinctual soul, or the Nafs, as it's called in Arabic. Rumi speaks of us carrying this dragon within us always. Either we get to know it better by learning to tame it and making it a compliant companion, or it will consume us until we burn inwardly. Joy and sorrow, encapsulated in the dragon.
The West-Eastern Divan Orchestra with Daniel Barenboim at the Berlin Philharmonie
An artistic idea and gesture of peace. The great maestro Daniel Barenboim once reached out his hand, and Edward Said accepted it. Together, they founded the Barenboim-Said Academy in Berlin. A place where young artists, regardless of their origins and cultures, could create a peaceful language of music and culture beyond international conflicts. At today's 25th-anniversary celebration, the President of Germany is also a guest. A magnificent concert with a wonderful idea behind it.
Front and back
About the project
The Museum for Islamic Art's project, #CulturalxCollabs - Weaving the future, celebrates the transformative power of cultural exchange and the shared threads that unite us all. All the things we love, have loved and will ever love come from cultural exchange, migration and diversity, or as we like to call it #CulturalxCollabs.
100 carpet fragments, cut from a replica of the iconic dragon carpet, will travel the world (delivered by DHL). The fragments will ignite #CulturalxCollabs with co-creators, inspiring human ingenuity, fostering community and ultimately demonstrating how cultural exchange enriches all our lives.
Follow #CulturalxCollabs on Instagram as the project unfolds...
...or learn more here
Weaving the Future
Join us on a journey with 100 carpet fragments as they travel around the world for three and a half years, finding temporary homes while bridging cultural boundaries, fostering worldwide community united by the power of human stories.
Fragment Journeys
100 carpet fragments part of the "CulturalxCollabs - Weaving the Future" project. Follow their journeys through the ever changing owners' over three and a half years.
Where is the Dragon?
The star of the "CulturalxCollabs - Weaving the Future" project is a so-called Caucasian dragon carpet from the 17th century. A dragon carpet - all well and good - but: where is the dragon?
