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At dawn and dusk, men across Beirut would release their birds from lofts perched high above the city’s skyline. With distinct cries, whistles and motions, the men orchestrate the birds to engage in the game of Kash Hamam to lure and steal their neighbour’s birds.
In 2016, I moved to Beirut to begin working for a small educational NGO called Unite Lebanon Youth Project (ULYP) which provides educational support for disadvantaged Palestinian, Syrian and Lebanese children. My role involved teaching English, photography and football. Aside from the work which I found deeply fulfilling, it was Beirut’s energy and vibrant chaos that pulled me in and led me to develop a love for the city and the friends I made there. I would find myself walking around Beirut and by the corniche most evenings, and it was during one of these daily walks making photographs that I stumbled into a world completely different from anything I had ever known – that of the pigeon keepers of Beirut.
My first interaction with a pigeon keeper was in Hamra St., where I lived at the time. One evening when ordering some falafel from a regular spot of mine, Muhammad, the falafel vendor, invited me to join him on his rooftop. Making my way through his hole-in-the-wall kiosk on the side of a Beirut apartment block, we stepped onto the rooftop which was home to over 150 pigeons. Muhammad walked towards the pigeon coop and stepped back as he opened the door and the birds flew higher and higher into the sky. The noise of their wings beating the air and the gentle ring of the bells on their feet replaced the hum and sounds of the streets below. Muhammad pulled up two plastic chairs and we both sat back and watched the birds fly in tight formations across the Beirut skyline.
I was completely transfixed by this sight and Muhammad’s sense of peace and calm as he watched his birds circle high above. As the weeks passed, I would notice more pigeons flying above the rooftops across the city. It was from this point on that I started cycling around with my camera, eager to find new pigeon lofts. Each time I spotted a flock of birds landing on an apartment block, I would make my way over to the building and proceed to buzz multiple apartments to ask if I could come up and see the pigeons. My Arabic was a bit broken at the time, and the word for pigeons, “hamam” is very similar to “hammam” which means bathroom. This would often lead to some amusing misunderstandings which I only became aware of later as my Arabic improved. But despite the confusion, I got fairly lucky and people would buzz me in and take me to the roof to meet a new pigeon keeper.
With each new pigeon keeper I met and became friends with, my fascination with this pigeonkeeping culture intensified. One of the first keepers I met was Mario who lived in Ras Beirut on top of a small apartment block with a view of the Mediterranean Sea and the Corniche. He was a fascinating character full of love for his birds and for Kash Hamam – the game in which the aim is to lure and then steal others’ pigeons. Mario was in this intense battle with keepers in his area, one of whom was his neighbour Bassem, a wealthy pigeon keeper who specialised in rare breeds. Bassem had about 200 pigeons, each worth hundreds of dollars. His primary interest wasn’t selling them, however. He was obsessed with breeding the perfect pigeon. He and Mario had an understanding – if one accidentally stole the other’s bird, it would be returned. But despite their mutual respect, there was an unspoken distance between the keepers. They knew of each other, but their interactions were limited. They watched each other’s pigeons with an almost military precision, tracking every bird’s movements.
It was interesting to me how each pigeon keeper had a distinct way of relating to and training their birds. Bassem would dress his favourite pigeons in silver jewellery and feed them a high cost specialised birdfeed. Whereas Mario was fixated on physically training his birds – making them fly further and faster each time. Watching Mario fly his pigeons was like watching someone trying to sail a boat in a storm. Mario had all these instruments; he would wave flags in the air, make different whistling sounds, and use a catapult to fling orange peel into the sky. With these motions, he was orchestrating the birds’ movements with the aim of attracting others’ birds which he hoped to capture.
I made a lot of my pigeon-flying friends between 2016-2018 but returned to Beirut in 2023 to finish my photo series. On my return, I found the city in a very different state. The hardships of the past few years from the political crisis, economic collapse, and the catastrophic port explosion, had deeply affected everyone. Vasken, one of the pigeon keepers I had become good friends with in Geitawi had fallen on hardships due to the crises. He had lost his job, and his pigeons, once a thriving flock of over 100, had dwindled to just 10 or 15. Pigeon-keeping is an expensive hobby, with significant costs for food, care, and medical attention, and Vasken simply couldn’t afford it anymore. He had lost many of his birds, not to theft, but because he couldn’t pay to care for them properly.
The game of Kash Hamam and pigeon-keeping in general isn’t a profitable activity. Most of the pigeon keepers I encountered had full-time jobs to support them and their families. Pigeon keeping is purely a passion, but a very time-consuming and expensive one. Every morning and evening, the keepers would spend hours caring for their birds. Cleaning, feeding, and medicating them was a daily ritual. Each bird had a name and a place in their hearts. I often stood on rooftops with the keepers, amazed at their ability to identify their birds mid flight. They could distinguish the subtle differences in the way a bird flew or its markings from hundreds of metres away.
What’s unique about pigeons is that they have an innate sense of home. For example, if you had 100 pigeons and moved from Beirut to Tripoli, you could release them, and they would fly straight back to Beirut, even though they’d never travelled that route before. It’s incredibly difficult to retrain them to recognise a new home. For this reason, many pigeon keepers never move houses. It’s a lifelong commitment, and the pigeons are often passed down through family lineages. Flying pigeons in Beirut is not all joy, love and commitment. There is also a distinct and fairly constant state of anxiety about your birds being stolen. There are hundreds of keepers across the city who often fly their birds at similar times. Each flyer will be playing the game of Kash Hamam and trying their hardest to steal their neighbour’s pigeons. One of your pigeons could easily get distracted and land on someone else’s roof. Every time they let their pigeons fly, there is the possibility of losing one, but also the chance of gaining one. So, while it may seem calm and peaceful from the outside, for the pigeon keepers, it can be a very intense experience.
Despite the fierce competition and the occasional thefts, I was often told that the real key to success in pigeon-keeping was simple: love. The keepers believed that if they treated their birds well—feeding them properly, giving them attention, and providing a safe home—the pigeons would always return. This bond, built on trust and care, was the secret to winning the game of Kash Hamam.
Today, as Israel’s attacks on Lebanon continue, the pigeons – long recognised as a symbol of peace – soar through the skies of Beirut, now shrouded in a thick, grey haze and billowing smoke. The situation has become increasingly dangerous for the pigeons and their keepers. Many of the lofts are scattered across the city and suburbs, making it difficult to ensure the safety of the birds and their owners. Even more concerning are the orders to evacuate homes in the wake of ongoing attacks, leaving many keepers unable to retrieve their pigeons or save them. The result is not just a humanitarian and ecocidal nightmare but a deeply emotional loss for a community that has cultivated these bonds of care and love for generations.
