The legal dispute surrounding the former Los Angeles home of Marilyn Monroe has evolved into a broader confrontation over historic preservation policy, private property rights and the financial burden associated with maintaining culturally significant real estate in one of the United States’ most expensive housing markets.

At the center of the case is the Brentwood property where Monroe spent the final months of her life before dying from a drug overdose in August 1962 at the age of 36. The Spanish hacienda-style house, purchased by Monroe in February 1962, was the only residence she fully owned during her lifetime, according to preservation advocates and historians involved in efforts to protect the property from demolition.

The house, located in the affluent Brentwood neighborhood on the west side of Los Angeles, became the subject of an escalating legal and political conflict after current owners Brinah Milstein and her husband Roy Bank sought to demolish it following their $8.35 million purchase of the property in 2023.Milstein, described in court filings as a real estate heiress, and Bank, a television producer, had intended to incorporate the land into their adjacent estate, where they have lived for roughly a decade. According to legal filings, the couple viewed the structure as deteriorated, unoccupied and lacking practical value after years without residents or substantial maintenance.

The conflict intensified after city authorities initially approved a demolition permit. News of the permit prompted a campaign by preservationists, local officials and Monroe supporters seeking to designate the residence as a historic landmark. That campaign culminated in 2024 when Los Angeles formally classified the property as a cultural-historical monument, effectively blocking demolition plans.The designation placed the property under preservation oversight by city authorities, limiting the owners’ ability to significantly alter or remove the structure.

The homeowners subsequently filed lawsuits arguing that the designation had deprived them of the practical use and economic value of the property.In court arguments, the homeowners’ attorney David Breemer said the couple had effectively been compelled to preserve a public monument at private expense.

According to court filings, the plaintiffs argued that the city’s actions amounted to an unconstitutional interference with private property rights.A federal judge this week dismissed the claim that the city had improperly taken control of the property, although the ruling allowed the homeowners an opportunity to amend their complaint and present revised arguments.

Parallel efforts to overturn the preservation designation in state court have so far failed to gain significant momentum.The case has attracted attention among preservation experts because of the unusual sequence of events surrounding the property’s designation. Historic homes are typically sold with preservation protections already in place, allowing buyers to factor restrictions into purchasing decisions.

In this instance, however, the designation occurred after the sale and after demolition plans had already advanced through portions of the approval process.Pete Brown, a spokesperson for the Los Angeles city council office involved in the preservation effort, acknowledged the unusual nature of the dispute. “The intent of the statutes is that all parties are willing participants,” Brown said. “But that’s not what we have in this case.”

Preservation advocates argue the home carries cultural and symbolic significance that extends beyond its architecture. Monroe purchased the property during a period marked by personal and professional transition following the collapse of her marriage to playwright Arthur Miller and a temporary withdrawal from acting because of health issues.

Historians and preservation groups have described the purchase as an example of Monroe asserting financial and personal independence during an era when single women rarely owned high-value residential property. Adrian Scott Fine, president and chief executive of the nonprofit LA Conservancy, said the property represented an important chapter in Monroe’s efforts to establish independence from both the studio system and the powerful men who shaped much of her career.

“She talked about this house and was photographed in this house,” Fine said. “It was where she was embarking on a new chapter of her independence.”Despite those arguments, the condition of the property has emerged as a central issue in the dispute. The house has reportedly remained unoccupied since 2019 and has undergone no significant restoration work during the ongoing legal proceedings.

Court filings and photographs cited by both sides indicate sections of the roof are exposed, plumbing and heating systems are malfunctioning, and leaks and potential mold damage have developed throughout portions of the structure. City officials acknowledged that preservation staff have not inspected the property since 2023, creating uncertainty over whether historically significant interior elements remain intact.

The homeowners argue many original features associated with Monroe have already disappeared following decades of renovations carried out by previous owners. They contend that Mexican tiles and other decorative elements linked to Monroe’s occupancy are no longer present.

Preservation advocates fear the property could effectively undergo “demolition through neglect,” a process in which deterioration gradually destroys historic value even when formal demolition is prohibited. The concern highlights a recurring challenge in preservation law: landmark designation can restrict demolition but does not always guarantee adequate maintenance or restoration.

The case has also generated tension within the surrounding Brentwood community. Because the home cannot be viewed clearly from public streets and remains inaccessible to visitors, some nearby residents have questioned the broader public value of preserving the property.

Local complaints submitted to city officials cite increased congestion from celebrity tour buses and visitors attempting to glimpse the house from nearby streets. According to filings referenced by city officials, some individuals have attempted to climb walls surrounding the property, raising security and safety concerns for both homeowners and neighbors.

City planning authorities maintain they possess enforcement tools if the house deteriorates to the point of becoming hazardous or substandard. Under municipal authority, Los Angeles officials could order emergency stabilization or repairs while requiring homeowners to bear much of the associated cost.

Breemer said his clients were prepared to challenge or incorporate any such enforcement actions into broader settlement negotiations with the city. He declined to specify what resolution the homeowners might ultimately seek beyond compensation for the diminished value of the property.“Selling is not really an option,” Breemer said. “And they don’t want to be landlords.”

The dispute has exposed broader limitations within Los Angeles’ preservation system. City officials acknowledged there is no dedicated municipal funding source capable of purchasing or rehabilitating large numbers of historic properties facing financial or legal distress.

According to the city planning office, Los Angeles oversees more than 1,300 designated historic-cultural monument properties.Traci Park, whose district includes the Monroe property, previously described the home as one of the city’s most iconic cultural sites. However, city representatives have indicated there is currently no formal plan for resolving the property’s future while litigation remains ongoing.

Brown summarized the situation succinctly: “It’s a quandary.”

Every morning before the city fully wakes, Ghulam Rasool boards the Smart City bus from Budgam to Srinagar carrying not just baskets woven from Kashmiri poosh kaani, but decades of labour, memory and quiet resistance.

At 68, his hands move with the certainty of a man who has repeated the same work for nearly six decades. The baskets, stacked carefully beside him, are light in weight but heavy with tradition. Each one is handmade, shaped from poosh kaani, the local reed material long used in Kashmir for household baskets, storage containers and decorative craft.

To most passengers, he is another elderly artisan travelling to sell his goods. But behind the calm expression and gentle smile is the story of a man who has spent his life protecting a craft many have abandoned.

“I was 11 when I started this work,” he says, adjusting the edge of one basket with his fingers. “At that time, I did not know it would become my whole life.

”Rasool lives in Budgam and travels regularly to Srinagar and nearby villages to sell his baskets. He says village customers still value handmade Kashmiri products, especially traditional baskets used for storing vegetables, bread and household items.

“People in villages still love these,” he says. “They know the worth of handmade things. Machine-made items come and go, but handmade work stays in the house for years.”

His destination changes depending on demand. Some days he visits local markets, other days he travels directly to villages where customers know him by name. Many wait for him because they trust the durability of his work and because the baskets carry something more than utility they carry familiarity.

For Rasool, the work does not end with the day’s travel. Most of the labour happens at home, often late into the night.

“I have four daughters,” he says simply. “I work till late night because responsibilities do not sleep.”

His voice carries no complaint, only fact. Supporting a family through traditional handicraft is not easy, especially in a market increasingly dominated by factory-made alternatives that are cheaper and faster to produce.

Yet he continues.

When asked why he chooses the Smart City bus instead of hiring a cab to transport his baskets, he laughs softly, as though the answer should be obvious.

“There is more space here,” he says, pointing toward the aisle where his baskets are placed carefully. “And the fare is less. I cannot afford a cab every day to move from Budgam to Srinagar.”

Public transport has become part of his working life. The bus is not just cheaper; it is practical. It allows him to carry multiple baskets without the burden of high transport costs that would eat into already small profits.

In a city where people often speak of development through roads, buildings and technology, Rasool’s presence on the bus offers another picture of urban life one where survival depends on daily calculation, where every saved rupee matters.

Watching him, it becomes difficult not to think about the invisible labour carried by ordinary men. Their struggle rarely becomes news. It moves quietly through bus stations, roadside tea stalls and village markets, unnoticed because it is so common.

Rasool represents that quiet economy.

When asked if he ever considered leaving this profession for another job, he pauses for the first time. Then he smiles a small, knowing smile that seems older than the conversation itself.

“I am not a follower of colonialism,” he says.

The answer is unexpected.He explains that for him, abandoning traditional handicraft would mean surrendering to the idea that only modern, imported or industrial work has value. It would mean accepting that local skills must disappear to make room for something considered more profitable or more respectable.

“I do not want handicraft to die,” he says. “If we all leave this work, then what will remain of us?”

His words are not political in the formal sense, but they carry the weight of cultural resistance. In Kashmir, where craft is deeply tied to identity from carpets and shawls to woodwork and wicker losing traditional artisans means losing part of collective memory.

Rasool knows the economics are difficult. Younger generations often do not want to continue because the income is uncertain and the work is physically demanding. He does not blame them.

Times have changed, he says, and survival asks different questions now.But he believes some things should not be measured only by profit.

Handicraft, for him, is not nostalgia. It is dignity. It is proof that labour done by hand still matters.

As the bus moves through Srinagar’s roads, passengers step on and off, barely noticing the elderly man beside the baskets. He remains quiet, watching the city pass by, preparing for another day of selling.

There is no grand performance in his struggle. No dramatic speech. Only the discipline of repetition: weaving, travelling, selling, returning, and beginning again.

In a world rushing toward convenience, Ghulam Rasool moves at the speed of patience.

And perhaps that is why his baskets matter.

They are not just containers woven from reeds. They are small acts of preservation, carried from Budgam to Srinagar, from one generation to another, by a man who refuses to let his inheritance disappear.

“I carry baskets,” he says before stepping off the bus, “but really, I carry my father’s work, and his father’s work before him.”

A concrete deer sculpture created for a public park in eastern Ukraine has become one of the central works of Ukraine’s national pavilion at the 2026 Venice Biennale, carrying with it the story of war, displacement and the destruction of cultural landscapes during Russia’s invasion.

The sculpture, created by Kyiv-based artist Zhanna Kadyrova, began its journey in Pokrovsk, a city in Ukraine’s Donetsk region that has since become engulfed by frontline fighting. Originally commissioned in 2018 as part of a public park regeneration project, the work was designed to replace a decommissioned Soviet Su-7 fighter-bomber that had stood on a plinth in the park as a military monument.

Kadyrova said the idea was to create something accessible and peaceful for residents rather than another symbol of force. The artist submerged most of the old plinth in soil and turf and placed the geometric deer on top, designed with sharp folded lines resembling origami.

Cast in concrete, the sculpture created a visual contrast between fragility and permanence.“It wasn’t something too conceptual,” Kadyrova said during the sculpture’s recent stop in Paris at the headquarters of UNESCO.

“I wanted to make something for local people that they would love, something understandable, something contemporary.”Over time, the deer became a recognized landmark in Pokrovsk, a city that had already been living under the shadow of conflict following the seizure of parts of Donetsk and Luhansk regions by Russian-backed separatists in 2014.

By mid-2024, however, Pokrovsk had moved closer to the center of active combat as Russia’s full-scale invasion intensified pressure across eastern Ukraine. According to Leonid Marushchak, a historian, educator and now co-curator of Ukraine’s pavilion in Venice, the city was rapidly emptying as artillery and drone attacks increased.

Marushchak was coordinating emergency evacuations of museum collections and cultural objects from frontline areas when he noticed the deer still standing in the park.“I saw the deer was still there and called Zhanna to ask if she agreed to evacuate it,” he said.

“The museum staff understood it had to be moved, but they had no practical way to do it.”Securing permission from local authorities proved difficult as civilian evacuation and military priorities dominated the city administration. Marushchak said he also proposed relocating a statue of Ukrainian composer Mykola Leontovych, known internationally for composing “Carol of the Bells,” to strengthen the case for action.

Permission was eventually granted. On Aug. 30, 2024, workers used angle grinders, drills, a crane and a flat-bed truck to detach the deer, which had been cast directly onto the structure, and move it out of the city.The removal was documented on film, which will also be shown at the Venice Biennale.

In interviews recorded during the evacuation, local residents described the park as one of the few remaining reminders of normal life before the war. Some residents preparing to leave permanently said they came to take final photographs of the site.At the time of writing, fighting continues around Pokrovsk, with large parts of the surrounding area heavily damaged.

Organizers of the Ukrainian pavilion say the sculpture may be one of the last surviving physical symbols of the city’s former public life.The Venice exhibition, titled Security Guarantees, uses the deer as its central image.

Curators say the title reflects the failure of international security assurances to prevent the destruction caused by Russia’s invasion and positions the sculpture as a metaphor for forced displacement.“We wanted to continue this journey as a metaphor, like so many Ukrainian refugees moving across Europe and the world,” Marushchak said.

Before arriving in Venice, the sculpture traveled by road through Warsaw, Prague, Vienna, Brussels and Paris. In each city, it was temporarily displayed in public spaces, often in prominent institutional or historic settings far removed from its original location in an industrial eastern Ukrainian town.

According to Kateryna Khimei, one of the public programme organizers accompanying the project, the deer has acquired new meaning for displaced residents from Pokrovsk and nearby communities.“The deer has become a symbol of hope and survival,” she said. “People come to touch it because it connects them to a place that no longer exists in the same way.”Khimei, whose own family left the region, said the sculpture now functions as a physical reference point for memory, especially as much of the city faces destruction.

“It’s important to speak not only about people who survived, but also about cultural objects that did not survive,” she said. “For many, this is the last surviving feature of their city.”The project arrives at a politically sensitive moment for the Biennale itself. This year, organizers invited Russia back to participate in its national pavilion after an absence since 2022. The decision has generated criticism in parts of the international art community and tension with Italian cultural officials.

Members of the Ukrainian team said they do not want their pavilion to be framed solely in opposition to Russia, but they argue that cultural representation cannot be separated from the wider consequences of the war.Ivanna Kozachenko, another curator of the public programme, said Russia’s return to the Biennale risks overshadowing broader discussions about cultural destruction in Ukraine.

“They destroyed so much cultural heritage in our country, in Syria and Chechnya, and now they are sending their culture to Venice,” she said. “Why should this happen?”In Paris, the deer was displayed beneath UNESCO’s flags with the Eiffel Tower visible behind it, a symbolic stop before its final transfer to Venice.

The timing was notable: Russia remains a UNESCO member state, while attacks on Ukrainian heritage sites continue. The day after the Paris event, a Russian drone strike hit central Lviv near the Bernardine monastery, part of the city’s UNESCO-listed historic center.At the Biennale, the deer will be installed near the entrance to the Giardini, the main exhibition grounds.

Rather than standing on solid ground, it will hang suspended from a crane, creating ambiguity over whether it is being placed into position or removed from it.For the curators, that uncertainty reflects the sculpture’s present condition: no longer belonging to the city it was built for, and not yet attached to any permanent future.

Speaking before greeting Charles and Queen Camilla at a 9/11 memorial event in New York, Mamdani said he would urge the king to return the historic gemstone, which was taken from the Indian subcontinent during British colonial rule in the 19th century.

“If I was to speak to the king, separately from that, I would probably encourage him to return the Koh-i-Noor diamond,” Mamdani said, while adding that the focus of the event remained honoring those killed in the Sept. 11 attacks.It was not immediately clear whether Mamdani raised the issue directly during his brief exchange with Charles, who was seen speaking and laughing with the mayor after the two shook hands at the memorial ceremony.

The Koh-i-Noor, a 106-carat diamond housed in the Tower of London, is among the most prominent jewels in Britain’s Crown Jewels and is mounted in the crown made for Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother.The gem’s ownership has been disputed for generations.

It passed through the hands of Mughal emperors, Persian rulers and Sikh maharajas before it was ceded to Queen Victoria in 1849 under the Treaty of Lahore following the annexation of Punjab by the British Empire.India has repeatedly sought the return of the diamond, arguing it was taken under colonial rule, though British governments have consistently rejected those requests.

Other countries, including Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iran, have also laid claim to the stone, citing historical ownership ties dating back centuries.The comments quickly drew criticism from Britain’s anti-immigration Reform UK party, whose home affairs spokesman Zia Yusuf described Mamdani’s remarks as an insult to the monarch.

“This beautiful diamond is currently on display in the Tower of London,” Yusuf wrote on X. “That is where it will stay.”Debates over colonial-era artifacts have intensified globally in recent years, with former imperial powers facing growing pressure to return culturally significant objects to their countries of origin.

Charles’ visit to New York included a memorial tribute to victims of the 2001 attacks and meetings with local leaders, amid broader efforts to strengthen diplomatic and symbolic ties between Britain and the United States.

A remarkable literary discovery in Rome has brought one of the oldest surviving works in the English language back into scholarly focus, as researchers from Trinity College Dublin uncovered a previously unknown manuscript of Caedmon’s Hymn, a seventh-century Old English poem believed to be the earliest surviving English poem.

The manuscript, hidden for centuries within the holdings of the National Central Library of Rome, contains a version of the famous nine-line hymn composed by Caedmon, an illiterate cattle herder from Northumbria whose story was first recorded by the medieval monk and historian Bede in the eighth century.

The discovery is being hailed by medieval scholars as one of the most significant literary finds in recent years, not only because of the poem’s age but because of the unique form in which it survives. Unlike older known copies, where the Old English text appeared only as marginal notes beside Latin text, the Rome manuscript places the Old English version in the main body of the manuscript itself evidence of the growing prestige of English as a written language during the early medieval period.

Researchers Elisabetta Magnanti and Mark Faulkner made the discovery while investigating conflicting records about manuscripts linked to Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, one of the foundational texts of early English history.Magnanti, a specialist in medieval manuscripts, requested the Roman library to check its archives for overlooked documents.

Library staff located the manuscript, digitised it, and sent the images to Dublin. When the scholars examined the pages, they immediately realised they had found something extraordinary.“When we saw it, we looked at each other and I said, ‘No one knows about this,’” Magnanti recalled. “To make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I double-checked the catalogues and there was no mention of it.

It was a huge surprise.”Experts believe the manuscript was copied by a monk in northern Italy sometime between AD 800 and AD 830, making it around 1,200 years old. It is now considered the third-oldest surviving version of the poem, following even earlier copies preserved in Cambridge and St Petersburg.The significance of the Rome version lies not only in its age but in what it reveals about language and literary culture.

According to Faulkner, the decision to place the Old English text within the central manuscript rather than on the margins suggests that English poetry had achieved a new level of importance among early readers.“The absence of the poem would have been felt by the readers,” Faulkner explained. “That is why it goes in.”The manuscript also offers fascinating clues about the evolution of written English.

Every word in the poem is separated by a full stop, showing that scribes were still experimenting with systems of spacing and punctuation. In the early medieval world, texts were often written continuously without spaces between words, making reading a more demanding skill.

Faulkner noted that the punctuation reflects a transitional moment in writing practices. “It is part of the early development of ways of dividing words and shows text starting to come towards the presentation of English that we know today,” he said.Caedmon himself remains a legendary figure in English literary history.

According to Bede, he worked as a cattle herder at Whitby Abbey and was unable to read or write. One night, after reportedly receiving a divine vision, he was inspired to compose and sing a hymn praising God’s creation of the world.

That poem became known as Caedmon’s Hymn, a brief but powerful expression of Christian devotion and poetic skill. Bede included a Latin translation of the work in his historical writings but omitted the original Old English version.

Later scribes, however, ensured that the original language survived.Within a century, a monk connected to the abbey of Nonantola in northern Italy included the Old English text in a manuscript, preserving what many scholars now regard as the first known English poem.

The newly identified Rome manuscript strengthens the evidence of how widely respected the poem had become across medieval Europe. Despite being written in Old English, far from Italy’s linguistic world, the poem was carefully copied and preserved by continental monks.

“There are at least 160 surviving copies of Bede’s history,” Faulkner said, adding that the continued transmission of Caedmon’s work shows how much early readers valued English poetry.

The findings have been published in Early Medieval England and its Neighbours, an open-access academic journal issued by Cambridge University Press. Scholars believe the discovery may prompt renewed study of neglected manuscript collections across Europe, particularly as libraries continue large-scale digitisation efforts.

Andrea Cappa, head of manuscripts and rare books at the Roman library, said the institution is working to digitise holdings from Italy’s National Centre for the Study of the Manuscript, a project expected to make more than 40 million images available to researchers worldwide.

Magnanti described the discovery as proof of how digital access is transforming scholarship. Without digitisation, the manuscript may have remained unnoticed for decades longer.“This discovery is a testament to the power of libraries to facilitate new research by digitising their collections and making them freely available online,” she said.

For literary historians, the recovery of the manuscript is more than an archival triumph it is a rare glimpse into the birth of English literature itself.The modern poet Paul Muldoon translated the hymn into contemporary English in 2016, capturing its timeless reverence:“Now we must praise to the skies, the Keeper of the heavenly kingdom, The might of the Measurer, all he has in mind, The work of the Father of Glory, of all manner of marvel.”

Across thirteen centuries, Caedmon’s voice once believed lost to time has spoken again.

A major new collaborative exhibition across regional galleries in Britain is bringing long-overdue attention to women artists whose contributions have often been overlooked in traditional museum collections dominated by male names.

Titled Making Her Mark, the project brings together works by some of the country’s most celebrated female artists, including Tracey Emin, Barbara Hepworth, Laura Knight, Elizabeth Forbes, and Gillian Ayres.

The initiative is being shared between Penlee House Gallery & Museum, galleries in Worcester, and Kirkcaldy, creating a rare regional partnership focused entirely on correcting historical imbalance in artistic representation.

For many smaller galleries across the UK, collections have traditionally reflected centuries of inequality in the art world, where male painters and sculptors were more likely to receive commissions, institutional support, and lasting recognition.

As a result, many museum walls still tell a largely male story.At Penlee House Gallery & Museum in Penzance, that reality is especially visible. Known for its strong representation of the Newlyn School and Cornish art history, much of its permanent collection features male artists whose work shaped the region’s artistic identity.

But from this week, visitors entering the gallery will be greeted by something strikingly different.Displayed prominently above a marble fireplace is a bold and emotionally charged work by Tracey Emin, challenging viewers with the raw personal intensity that has made her one of Britain’s most discussed contemporary artists.

In a nearby room hangs a vibrant work by Barbara Hepworth, whose abstract forms and modernist vision helped define 20th-century British art.Together, the works create a conversation across generations from early pioneers to contemporary voices highlighting not only artistic excellence but also the barriers women faced in gaining recognition.

The exhibition also features pieces by Laura Knight, one of the first women elected to full membership of the Royal Academy, and Elizabeth Forbes, often considered one of the leading figures of the Newlyn School despite being historically overshadowed by her male contemporaries.

Textile artist Imogen Bright Moon also contributes to the exhibition, with contemporary tapestry work that adds another dimension to the project’s exploration of female creativity and artistic identity.Curators say the goal is not simply to celebrate famous names, but to encourage visitors to reconsider how art history itself has been written.

For decades, women artists were frequently treated as exceptions rather than central figures. Their work was often categorized as secondary, domestic, or decorative rather than serious fine art. Even highly accomplished artists found themselves remembered mainly in relation to male partners, schools, or movements.Projects like Making Her Mark seek to shift that narrative.

Rather than presenting women artists as a special category separate from the mainstream, the exhibition argues that they have always been central to British art they were simply not always given equal visibility.This rebalancing is especially significant in regional galleries, where local collections shape public understanding of cultural history.

By placing women’s work at the centre of these spaces, the exhibition challenges long-standing assumptions about whose stories deserve prominence.It also reflects a wider movement across museums and cultural institutions to reassess collections, acquisitions, and curatorial practices through a more inclusive lens.

Across Britain and beyond, galleries are increasingly revisiting archives, reattributing forgotten works, and acquiring art by women and other historically underrepresented groups. The process is not only about fairness but also about revealing a fuller and more accurate picture of artistic history.

At Penlee House, the presence of a contemporary Tracey Emin alongside earlier artists such as Barbara Hepworth and Elizabeth Forbes shows how the conversation spans centuries rather than belonging to a single era.It also reminds visitors that progress remains unfinished.

Despite major advances, women artists still face unequal representation in exhibitions, collections, auction prices, and critical attention. Recognition has improved, but parity remains distant.That is why curators describe Making Her Mark not as a conclusion, but as part of a continuing discussion.

The title itself suggests both artistic creation and historical correction women making their mark on canvas, sculpture, and textiles, while also finally making their mark in the institutions that preserve cultural memory.

For visitors walking through the galleries, the exhibition offers something more than visual pleasure. It invites reflection on absence whose work was missing, whose voices were muted, and how different the walls of museums might look if history had been written differently.

By bringing these artists together, Making Her Mark offers a small but powerful act of restoration.It suggests that the question is no longer whether women belong at the centre of British art history, but why it took so long for the walls to show it.

In the fading desert town of Chinguetti, where centuries-old stone alleys lead to libraries older than many modern states, Muhammad Gholam el-Habot spends his days preserving a fragile inheritance: rare Islamic manuscripts passed down through generations of his family.

Inside his cool, high-ceilinged library lined with steel bookshelves, el-Habot carefully pulls on white gloves before opening a thick Arabic manuscript. He turns its brittle brown pages slowly, inspecting them for damage before closing the volume, pressing his fingers gently across its worn leather cover, and placing it into a protective white box.

For the 50-year-old librarian, these books are more than historical objects. They are a sacred trust.“My relationship with them is like that of a father and his son,” el-Habot told Al Jazeera from his family’s library in Chinguetti, a medieval ksar, or fortified desert town, in Mauritania’s northern Adrar region. “We must protect them until God takes the land and all the people who are on the land.”

The el-Habot family library is among the few remaining private manuscript libraries still operating in Chinguetti, once one of the most important centres of Islamic scholarship and trans-Saharan commerce between the 13th and 17th centuries.

Today, much of the town stands abandoned as residents have gradually moved to larger cities in search of education, employment, and modern services.At its height, Chinguetti served as a major intellectual and commercial crossroads linking the Sahel with the Maghreb.

Camel caravans transporting salt, gold, and other goods passed through the town, while Muslim pilgrims travelling to Mecca on foot or by camel gathered there to prepare for their journey eastward through Cairo.The town became known across West Africa for its libraries and scholars. Islamic jurisprudence, hadith literature, mathematics, medicine, astronomy, and poetry were all studied and preserved there. UNESCO later referred to Chinguetti as the “Sorbonne of the Sahara,” while regional tradition described it as Islam’s “seventh holiest city.”

Much of that scholarly legacy came from local families such as the el-Habots. An ancestor of the current librarian, Sidi Mohamed Ould Habot, was among a group of Chinguetti scholars who travelled across the Muslim world between the 18th and 19th centuries, from Egypt to Andalusia, collecting and writing manuscripts.

Together, they amassed approximately 6,000 texts that were distributed across around 30 libraries in the town.The el-Habot family today maintains about 1,400 manuscripts, some written by their own ancestors. One of them focuses on the science of poetry.El-Habot said he did not originally intend to become the keeper of the collection.

He assumed responsibility in 2002 after his father became ill. In his family and community, the role was considered an honour rather than a career choice.“This is something that we have to do; it is a family obligation,” he said. “This is not even a question to be asked.”His ancestor left three conditions for future generations: the library must remain in Chinguetti, it must remain open to seekers of knowledge, and its keeper must be a male descendant considered religious and morally upright.

El-Habot says abandoning those principles would be a violation of both family duty and spiritual responsibility.Yet maintaining that commitment has become increasingly difficult.Mauritania is nearly 90 percent Sahara desert and has long faced desertification. Researchers say climate change is intensifying the problem.

Sandstorms and flash floods have become more frequent, while heatwaves and colder winter extremes place added pressure on ancient manuscripts and the traditional mudbrick structures that house them.Andrew Bishop, a researcher at the University of Wyoming who studies climate impacts on Saharan cultures, said the environmental threat to Chinguetti’s texts is growing more severe.

“Extreme heat and less predictable rainfall patterns means that texts are increasingly damaged by water or heat, making many manuscripts beyond repair,” Bishop told Al Jazeera. He added that the traditional mud libraries were never designed for sudden rainfall or prolonged temperatures above 40 degrees Celsius.

Annual rainfall in Mauritania has reportedly declined by 35 percent since 1970, making it harder for local communities to sustain herding and date palm agriculture. Economic decline has accelerated migration from Chinguetti, weakening the social systems that once supported the libraries.Today, many of Chinguetti’s roughly 4,500 residents live outside the original old town in newer cement buildings.

The historic ksar itself, built of dry stone and red mudbrick, faces the long-term threat of being buried by surrounding sand dunes, although no definitive timeline has been established.The fear is not theoretical. Just outside the town lie the excavated ruins of Abweir, believed to be the original Chinguetti, founded around 777 AD.

Local accounts say its residents relocated in 1264, likely after conflict, and over time the old settlement was swallowed by sand.Tourism, once a modest source of income for library owners, has also fluctuated sharply. Visitor numbers dropped significantly in the mid-2000s after armed groups targeted foreigners in parts of Mauritania. The COVID-19 pandemic further reduced travel.

Although security has improved and visitors are slowly returning, preserving manuscripts remains expensive. El-Habot must purchase chemicals to protect books from insects, improve storage conditions, and sometimes reprint or digitise manuscripts before they become unreadable.

The weather remains the greatest uncertainty.During the hottest months between April and December, the dry desert air makes old pages brittle. In colder months, the drop in temperature creates different preservation risks. To manage humidity during extreme heat, el-Habot sometimes places buckets of water around the library.

Flash floods pose an additional danger to books that have already survived centuries.In 2024, UNESCO launched a $100,000 restoration project supporting 13 family libraries in Chinguetti. The initiative provided air-conditioning units, shelving, storage boxes, computers, and printers to improve conservation capacity.Still, many libraries remain closed, with collections scattered among relatives or left vulnerable to neglect.

Researchers warn that the greater challenge may be generational rather than financial.Younger Mauritanians, many of whom leave for Nouakchott or abroad, are often less interested in continuing the difficult and low-income work of manuscript preservation.

El-Habot himself doubts that his two sons would accept the responsibility.Back in his library, he points to one of his favourite manuscripts. Its pages contain illustrations of the moon’s phases, an eclipse, and depictions of the holy cities of Mecca and Madina. His voice softens as he turns the pages.“I have to protect this heritage,” he said. “As mine, and also for all of humanity.”

The new collection, priced at about 750 euros ($881) per pair according to Prada’s website, comes after the brand drew backlash during a Milan fashion show last year when it presented sandals resembling the centuries-old Kolhapuri chappal, a handcrafted leather footwear style originating in western India.

The designs triggered criticism from Indian artisans, politicians and cultural commentators, who accused the luxury label of cultural appropriation and failing to credit the traditional craft and the communities that have preserved it for generations.

Kolhapuri chappals, named after the city of Kolhapur in the western Indian state of Maharashtra, are known for their hand-stitched leatherwork and have been made by artisan families for centuries. The footwear received Geographical Indication (GI) status in India, recognizing its regional and cultural significance.

The controversy intensified as images from Prada’s runway circulated widely on social media, with critics arguing that luxury reinterpretations of traditional crafts without attribution or economic benefit to original makers reflected broader imbalances in the global fashion industry.

The latest launch signals an effort by Prada to respond to those concerns by linking production directly to Indian craftsmanship and explicitly positioning the sandals as Indian-made.

While Prada has not publicly detailed the scale of artisan involvement or sourcing arrangements, the move is being closely watched by both fashion industry observers and artisan groups as a test of how global luxury brands engage with heritage designs from non-Western markets.

India’s luxury and handicrafts sectors have increasingly pushed for stronger recognition of indigenous design traditions, particularly as global fashion houses draw inspiration from local textiles, embroidery and footwear styles.

For Indian artisans, the issue extends beyond aesthetics to economic participation and intellectual acknowledgment, especially when heritage crafts are translated into high-priced international luxury products.

At 750 euros a pair, the Prada sandals are positioned far above the price of traditional Kolhapuri chappals sold in local Indian markets, where handmade versions are often produced by small-scale artisans and family workshops.

The launch reflects a broader debate within luxury fashion over the line between inspiration and appropriation, and whether heritage crafts can be commercialized internationally without sidelining the communities that created them.

In the narrow lanes near Jama Masjid, one of the capital’s oldest neighborhoods, practitioners such as Azhar Udeen release more than 100 pigeons from rooftop enclosures, guiding them through coordinated flights and endurance exercises.

The practice, known as Kabootarbaazi, derives its name from the Hindi-Urdu word for pigeon and was historically patronised by Mughal Empire rulers, who used trained birds for communication and sport.

Participants train pigeons over several months to navigate long distances and return to their roosts, often using sound cues to condition flight patterns. The birds are also occasionally raced, with handlers monitoring their formations and endurance.

Beyond the technical aspects, practitioners say the activity serves as a social and emotional outlet. Kahlifa Mohsin described the gatherings as a way to relieve stress and build community ties in the densely populated city.

Despite rapid urbanisation and changing lifestyles, small groups of enthusiasts continue to preserve the tradition, maintaining rooftop aviaries and informal training routines that reflect a cultural practice rooted in India’s historical past.

On a recent morning inside Jimmy’s Corner, a narrow dive bar tucked into the commercial intensity of Times Square, 73-year-old David Gladman leaned over a series of photo-covered tables, searching through decades of memories laminated beneath worn surfaces.

Using the light from his phone, he scanned images from the 1970s and 1980s before stopping at one that captured a younger version of himself sitting beside his then-wife, cigarette in hand.The photograph, he said, was just one fragment of a routine that defined much of his adult life.

Gladman, a former executive chef, recalled frequenting the bar daily between 1988 and 2012, often spending hours there after work. He described it as a place where he could decompress from the pressures of his profession before returning home.

Jimmy’s Corner, established in 1971 by former boxer Jimmy Glenn, has long operated as an anomaly within its surroundings. While Times Square has undergone decades of commercial transformation, evolving into a global hub of tourism and entertainment, the bar has retained elements of an earlier era.

Its interior is marked by aging photographs of boxers, sticker-covered restroom walls, and a narrow bar lined with worn stools. The space offers little in terms of modern amenities but has maintained a reputation for authenticity among its patrons.

That continuity is now under threat. The building housing Jimmy’s Corner is owned by the Durst Organization, which has informed current operator Adam Glenn, the founder’s son, that the bar will be evicted as the property is prepared for sale.

Glenn, who assumed control of the establishment in 2015, has contested the move through legal action, filing a lawsuit in an attempt to delay or prevent the eviction.The dispute has drawn attention from both patrons and local officials, prompting a public demonstration aimed at preserving the bar.

On Friday, supporters gathered outside the premises, framing the potential closure as emblematic of broader tensions between longstanding local institutions and large-scale commercial redevelopment.

Participants described the effort as a final attempt to retain a venue that, for many, represents continuity in a rapidly changing urban environment.Inside the bar, however, the mood remained outwardly upbeat. Low-cost drinks and familiar surroundings sustained a sense of normalcy even as uncertainty loomed.

Regulars continued to gather, sharing stories and reflecting on their experiences within the space. For individuals like Gladman, the bar’s significance extends beyond its physical structure.He described a longstanding relationship with Jimmy Glenn, characterizing the founder as a mentor figure who provided personal advice over the years.

Those interactions, he said, contributed to the bar’s role as more than a place of business. It functioned as a social anchor, offering stability through different phases of his life.Gladman acknowledged that the photograph he had rediscovered captured a period that has since passed.

His first marriage ended, and his former wife relocated to California. He later remarried and has been with his second wife for more than three decades. Despite these changes, his connection to Jimmy’s Corner has endured, rooted in the accumulation of shared experiences and personal history.

The potential closure has therefore been received not simply as the loss of a commercial venue but as the erosion of a communal space. Patrons interviewed at the bar emphasized its role in fostering relationships and preserving a sense of identity within a district otherwise defined by transience and commercial turnover.

The broader context reflects ongoing patterns in New York City’s real estate market, where rising property values and redevelopment pressures have contributed to the disappearance of smaller, independently operated establishments.

In high-demand areas such as Times Square, such dynamics are particularly pronounced, often favoring large-scale tenants capable of meeting increasing rental demands.Efforts to prevent the closure of Jimmy’s Corner face significant challenges.

Legal proceedings initiated by Adam Glenn remain uncertain, and the property’s sale could further complicate negotiations. Observers note that similar disputes have historically favored property owners, particularly in cases involving redevelopment of prime commercial locations.

Nevertheless, the public response underscores the cultural significance attributed to the bar. Supporters argue that establishments like Jimmy’s Corner provide continuity in an environment otherwise characterized by rapid change.

The rally, attended by patrons and local representatives, sought to highlight this dimension, though no immediate resolution has been reached.As the situation develops, regulars continue to visit the bar, aware that its future remains unresolved. For Gladman, the significance of the space is defined less by its physical attributes than by the memories it contains.

He said he does not return to revisit specific moments, such as the photograph he located, but because the environment itself evokes a sense of belonging.“I don’t want this place to go,” he said, standing near the bar where he has spent decades. “It holds a lot of memories for me. For everyone.”