Where Trees, Memory, and Love Used to Be…

by Mohamed Hassan
“Soon—every blade and leaf of life would be gone. If the beasts were not stopped—they might eat through the world."

Excerpt from The Runes of the Earth by Stephen Donaldson.


For the first time in a long while, I found myself walking through the city's streets for extended distances, without a destination in mind—just walking continuously. It was a stark contrast to the period I had been in before, where most of my days were spent in bed, paralyzed by a persistent fear of facing reality and the uncertainty of what might happen next. The outside world felt like an unknown territory, and anything unfamiliar triggered overwhelming anxiety, making it nearly impossible for me to engage in any activities outside.

When I first ventured out on these long walks, it felt as if I was experiencing a rebirth. I began to notice people, places, and even the smallest of details as if seeing them for the very first time. Every sensation was peculiar and filled with questions: Were people truly looking at me with curiosity? Did I seem new to them? Could they sense the fear etched on my face? I walked aimlessly, without a plan, just observing my surroundings—store signs, trees, and the expressions of passersby—all things I had overlooked before.

This experience of isolation allowed me to cultivate a new form of introspection. The solitude, though bleak, opened new doors of perception. It made me realize the significance of the small details I never knew occupied such a space in my mind. Reflecting on it all, I began to feel a deep connection with the past, the present, and even the future—as if the cracks in the pavement and the scars on my spirit were speaking the same language. The city and I were both slowly resurfacing, reshaped by what we had lost, but still carrying the memory of what once was.
R♥H
Mohamed Alhitany

Abo Malek

M ♥ S
M + N

R + S

M





K + A
GOD 

A

BDA 

♥  
As I wandered through streets stripped of their trees and green spaces, I noticed something intriguing: the inscriptions left by lovers on the trunks of old trees.

May Your First Glance While Wandering the City Fall Upon a Love Letter.

These carvings and writings, whether on trees or the concrete that replaced most of them, have been practiced for generations, from the inscriptions our ancestors left on temple walls and the sides of old buildings to carvings on trees and painted messages on bridges and concrete. But for the first time, I connected these marks with a deeper context—the act of defacing the urban landscape was intertwined with the gradual loss of nature.
No one will love you as much as I do.
You've captivated me, or perhaps I've been captivated by you.
I adore you, I love you
My luck.
(From my heart, I pray to
God that we will meet soon)
Haizel 1/30/2021
The first day we talked
♥ I ​​love you, Yosra
Happy birthday
♥ Shams ♥
"Fake it easy, tell me you love me."

ADA

Stop being an ass.

(Khadra)
With the disappearance of green spaces, lovers were left with no alternative but to document their expressions of love onto the walls of newly erected concrete, replacing the trees that were cut down. This shift resulted in a double desecration: First, the brutal loss of trees, leaving behind a wounded land. Second, the graffiti on walls, a raw attempt to carve out an identity in a space that had lost all sense of familiarity.

This reality brings out different contrasting perspectives: Lovers long to leave a lasting mark, a trace of their eternal bond. Even as trees gave way to concrete, this urge persisted, reshaping itself into a quiet resistance against the vanishing of shared spaces, distorting the cityscape in the process.

This duality fascinates me. On one hand, the city silences its past, erasing traces of what once was. On the other, these acts of inscription push back, refusing to let memory dissolve. My project explores this delicate tension not just as an environmental issue, but as a reflection of how we seek permanence in an ever-changing landscape. From carving names into trees to painting love onto concrete, to affirming their presence, these marks are more than mere vandalism; they are proof of presence, reminders of what was lost, and leaves visible scars that demand to be seen.
Before
After
When the Crocodile Chewed Its Lungs

On the banks of the Suez Canal, almost at the canal’s midpoint, lies the city of “Ismailia.” It is one of the three Canal Zone governorates, a place that was once celebrated as the “City of Gardens, where tree-lined boulevards and lush public spaces shaped its identity. But the city has not remained the same. Over time, the green canopies that once shaded its streets have been cut back, sacrificed in the name of urban expansion. Towering trees gave way to bridges, roads, and new concrete structures. What little remained of its historic green spaces — once symbols of leisure, beauty, and cultural memory — has been left uncared for, fading quietly under the weight of neglect.


The Crocodile and its bond with the city of Ismailia.

Long before Ismailia became known as “Ismailia, it carried another name, one drawn from the waters that lap against its western edge: "Lake Timsah” (The Lake of the Crocodile). From this lake, rich with salt and legend, the place first took its identity. The crocodile — an animal both feared and revered in ancient Egypt — left its imprint not only on the landscape but also on the imagination of those who lived here. Thus, the early settlement was called “Timsah” (The Crocodile), a name that spoke of nature’s power and mystery.

When the city was later founded in 1863 during the construction of the Suez Canal, it was renamed “Ismailia” in honor of Khedive Ismail. Yet, beneath this official title, the echo of the crocodile remains, a reminder that the city’s roots are as much tied to myth and water as they are to history and empire.


The History of the City of Gardens.

At that time, the city resembled a “green oasis” in the heart of the desert, with trees planted and gardens landscaped to receive the European engineers and workers involved in the construction of the Suez Canal.

The “French Gardens” were established alongside broad, shaded avenues, and Ismailia became renowned for the density of its trees. During the British occupation and later under the French presence through the Suez Canal Company, the cultivation of gardens and the planting of trees continued, particularly in the “European Quarter. Until the 1950s, Ismailia was widely described as the “City of Gardens.


Post-nationalization of the Suez Canal.

Following the nationalization of the Canal in 1956, attention to the city persisted, yet urban expansion began to encroach upon its green spaces. After the October War of 1973, reconstruction and the influx of new residents triggered a major wave of urban growth, leading to the removal of gardens and trees to make way for housing, roads, and new facilities. In the 1980s and 1990s, the construction of internal bridges further transformed the city’s green fabric.


Spanning the City: Bridges and Modern Roads.

With the dawn of the new millennium, and especially after 2010, the pace of constructing bridges and tunnels accelerated to connect Ismailia with the Suez Canal Corridor Development Project. This expansion came at the expense of green spaces, particularly along “Lake Timsah” and at the city’s entrances, where parts of the historic green belt were cleared to make way for new structures such as the “Serapeum Bridge and Bridge of  Nemra 6.” The impact of urban growth extended beyond the landscape, diminishing biodiversity as certain bird and plant species once tied to the city’s orchards and gardens gradually disappeared.

Ismailia’s story, then, is not only about its past glory but also about a struggle between memory and modernization, between a city’s natural soul and the pressures of relentless urban growth.
"If this was the ending, I wouldn't have read the story." - Hisham M. Lilo
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