On Losing Jeddah Adduwali

Jeddah Adduwali (Jeddah International Market) burned to the ground this morning. A fire that broke out in a store undergoing renovation rapidly spread across the mall bringing it to its unforeseen fate. When I first heard of the news, I felt my heart drop to my stomach— a space I valued dearly and appreciated deeply is permanently gone. Photos and videos of the fire accompanied by sorrowful messages circulated quickly and in large number on the Jeddah WhatsApp group chat network. It was clear that Jeddah was shaken by the loss— a historic mall turned-iconic-landmark had been reduced to ashes so suddenly.

Jeddah Adduwali was established in 1981, making it one of the oldest modern malls in Jeddah before its burning. When it first opened, it quickly became Jeddah's shopping hotspot, being home to both local and international brands. What made this mall timeless, however, is its eccentric architecture and interior. The exterior facade of the mall featured beautiful Islamic geometrics and Hijazi Roshn references, an ode to the city it’s located in. The interior, on the other hand, took you on an inter-continental and cross-climate journey; you went from Paris to Japan in the matter of a short walk past a couple Filipino restaurants and the grocery store, and from the peaceful sounds of a waterfall to the glamour of a giant disco ball hovering above your head on your trip between two stores. The experience of Jeddah Adduwali is among the many reasons why it survived various of its successors even when newer cooler shopping malls opened since its launch.

After learning about the news of its burning, the first thing I did was search for photos I had taken inside Jeddah Adduwali, looking to reminisce with whatever I had left of it. I wasn’t the only person doing this— my Instagram feed and stories were flooded with photos and videos in remembrance of the mall. We as Jeddawis were collectively grieving our parting with Jeddah Adduwali. At work and at home, people were sharing their fondest memories of it: “I got my high school graduation gift from Adduwali”; “This childhood necklace is from an Adduwali shop”; “The turtle pond! I loved the turtle pond”. In spite of the unfortunate event, there was a sweetness in realizing that a mere building is a shared core memory among so many people with only the city we live in in common, and that we carried the same deep love for it.

The last time I had gone to Jeddah Adduwali was in June this year, mainly for the nostalgia factor and as a cultural-historical study. I went with my friend who is also an avid architecture-appreciator. We walked around, questioning and adoring the randomly-placed disco ball center piece in a section of the mall, documenting its ever-intentionally-designed corners and crevices— adorned with plants, fountains, rocks, huts, mock skies and all things the beautiful mind can imagine—, and visiting everyone’s childhood friends— the Jeddah Adduwali turtles. We visited a few gold shops, going through their carefully hand-crafted selections, and indulged in one of its antique shops.

In losing Jeddah Adduwali, I could not help but think of the loss and destruction endured in Gaza and Lebanon en masse. How is a single building worth grieving when entire cities and livelihoods have been destroyed? And in ways that are completely preventable, nothing like an arbitrary fire. How have we come to a reality where we can speak about the loss of a mall so sorrowfully but about genocide and violent occupation as a matter of fact? In spite of the memories, I realized that Jeddah Adduwali was just a building.