The Damascus oud maker fighting to keep a generations-old craft alive

A man alights from his bicycle as he locks it to a tree lining the cobblestone streets of Damascus’ Straight Street. He wears a brown-striped tee and a sincere smile.

Antoun “Tony” al-Tawil, one of the few remaining handmade oud makers in Damascus, has spent most of his morning setting up his new shop a few hundred meters away from where we meet. Years of war and economic crises have tested the 66-year-old’s commitment to the world-renowned craft, but the trade and its tradesmen have weathered the challenges facing the war-torn country.

Tony’s tryst with the oud goes back decades. His father had an atelier in their home in the Old City, and he grew up to the twang of the instrument’s strings and the smell of walnut wood.

“I was born into the craft,” he quips. “With time, I began to learn it from my father.”

After his father’s death in 2007, Tony took over his father’s shop in Tekkiyeh Suleimaniyeh. His daughter, too, developed an interest in the craft and began to accompany him, designing ouds and learning about production.

“I was born into the craft. With time, I began to learn it from my father.”

In 2022, oud making and performance were placed on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Although the oud, or lute, has existed in the Arabian Peninsula, the Damascene oud in particular, with its four strings, tuning pegs and enlarged pear-shaped soundbox, makes it distinct from other lutes. It was the Damascus-based Umayyads who took these instruments to Europe after they conquered Spain in the 8th century. 

2022 was also the year Tony’s life was turned upside down. He was expelled from his father’s shop in Tekkiyeh Suleimaniyeh, an Ottoman-era mosque complex that housed tens of artisans like him. The complex was placed under the jurisdiction of the Tourism Authority and shop owners were told to leave, with vague promises of return and compensation.

“What were we supposed to do? I took my equipment, stored some in my friend’s shop, another at another friend’s… Within a week, they began asking me when I’d take them back,” he recounts.

A relative abroad offered to let Tony take over a tiny store he owned on Old Damascus’ Straight Street. Dimly lit, it houses close to 10 ouds and barely seats two. Despite having to downsize massively, Tony accepted the deal. All that remains today of the UNESCO recognition is a faded certificate, crudely pasted onto the wall in Tony’s shop. As I notice it, he tells me about how there were many more accolades, all of which he destroyed, frustrated at his life being upended.

“These ones were hidden, so I missed them.”

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Tony says that, from beginning to end, it takes about 15 days to finish crafting an oud of the highest quality. His workshop is a wistful time capsule, evoking memories of an older, grander time. The walls are adorned with newspaper cuttings about Tony from his glory days, half-hidden by a row of ouds hanging on the shelf above. On a knee-high table lie scattered tiles that he places as decoration on his finished instruments. Some of them are collecting dust.

“My father crafted these,” he says. “They’re made by hand with precision.”

“Whenever I’m making an oud, I’m thinking about how to make it better than the last one.”

Along with the intricately designed tiles, his father also left behind a deep passion in Tony.

“Whenever I’m making an oud, I’m thinking about how to make it better than the last one,” he says, beaming with pride. “Not a single oud resembles the other.”

In early August, Tony’s relative informed him that he was going to sell the shop. Tony was devastated by the news. He began to search for another workshop, but he was taken aback by the exorbitant rents in Damascus.

When I met him then, he sat despondent on the street corner on a plastic stool outside his shop, pondering what the future held for him and his instruments. He was considering leaving behind his priceless craft just to make ends meet.

“I reached a point where I decided I was done—I would just sell the instruments and do another job,” he said, a twinge of sadness in his eyes, his voice rising slightly with agitation.

But a community fundraising initiative held by the residents of Old Damascus allowed Tony to rent another shop in the Old City, one that is bigger and more spacious than where Tony spent the last four years. His crow’s feet crinkle as he invites me in to see the new space. He is unrecognizable from when I last saw him; then, he looked like he carried the whole weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I want a wooden stand here, and a metal one there,” he says, pointing to different walls in the shop.

I ask him where his photos and newspaper clippings would go. He points to a wall, smiling as if he had found a glimmer of hope after the war ended.

In post-Assad Syria, the government is faced with the immense task of rebuilding the country—homes, power grids—and reconnecting the country with the world. It is not guaranteed that Tony’s craft will survive. The Syrian authorities have bigger priorities. Yet for Tony, thanks to community initiatives and the return of Syrians eager to rebuild, even the smallest community ventures could ensure the survival of Syria’s rich heritage.

“We’d be faced with different challenges on different days, but I never stopped, not a single day,” says Tony.

“I have dreams for my future; my new shop has space, and I can work more, thank God. We need to protect this craft, so it doesn’t die out.”

“We need to protect this craft, so it doesn’t die out.”

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