Damascus Stained-Glass Master Revives Ancient Craft to Illuminate Syria’s Reconstruction

Damascus
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Oct. 20, 2026, 3:38 p.m. ET
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4 min read

As Syrians rebuild their war-torn nation, master artisan Fayez Talmasani is unveiling one of the Middle East’s oldest art forms for the first time in five decades. With Damascus slowly reconstructing, he believes passing on his expertise will satisfy a growing desire to draw upon Syria’s heritage to brighten the city’s future—literally.

Until recently, Talmasani was the sole remaining practitioner in Syria of muashaq, the intricate stained-glass tradition that has defined Damascene architecture for two millennia.

Muashaq has long symbolized the city’s architectural identity, with stained glass adorning homes and houses of worship since the first century. These mosaic-like windows filter sunlight into vibrant geometric kaleidoscopes. Today, they grace the Umayyad Mosque and the grand houses of Damascus; one piece hanging in Talmasani’s modest workshop dates back more than 500 years. The craft’s delicacy spawned a 700-year-old Arabic adage: “as thin as Damascus glass.”

Taylor Luck

A finished stained-glass artwork hangs at the Damascene Dream Institute workshop, in Damascus, Syria, Sept. 23, 2026.

“Heavenly” Inspiration

Talmasani’s journey into this ancient craft began in 1966 at the Damascus Art Institute. A 16-year-old sculpture student at the time, he wandered into a stained-glass class and was immediately captivated. He abandoned bronze sculpting to pursue window-making full-time.

Inspired by the “heavenly” windows in the Old City’s mosques, he sequestered himself at home. After two years of experimentation—and “a lot of wasted glass and plaster”—he rediscovered the ancient Damascene technique in a single, intricately designed piece.

Taylor Luck

Artisan Fayez Talmasani watches over a student as she carefully carves and files geometric shapes into a sheet of plaster in preparation for creating a traditional stained-glass window, at the Damascene Dream Institute workshop, Sept. 23, 2026.

“It was a lot of hard work,” he says. “I had no teacher or instructor but the beautiful windowpanes I walked by in the Old City.”

Like his predecessors centuries ago, Talmasani meticulously carves detailed patterns into stucco gypsum panels—one wrong move and the plaster cracks. He then hand-cuts colored glass pieces fitted precisely into the carved openings without a drop of adhesive. Panels range from 12-inch squares to windows six feet tall and four feet wide.

While some Syrian artisans produce glass in the spirit of Damascene windows using adhesives, machine cutters, and double panes to simulate a single piece, Talmasani adheres strictly to tradition. He employs traditional colors, each carrying symbolic weight: red—often centered in windows—for love, strength, fire, and the sun; green for life, bounty, and generosity.

Taylor Luck

Student Mariam Ismael carefully drills floral shapes into a plaster pane that will soon become a stained-glass window.

Syria’s civil war pushed muashaq to near-extinction: hyperinflation, material shortages, cheaper machine-made alternatives, and relentless bombardment. Few Syrians could devote time or resources to the arts, let alone commission stained-glass windows, amid car bombs, barrel bombs, and fuel crises.

Knowledge Transferred

As a precaution—”for the art to survive”—Talmasani recorded all his techniques, secrets, and designs onto a CD in case he and his son were killed.

“This art is my inheritance; I am only its keeper,” he says. “I wanted to ensure it survived.”

Today, he has fulfilled that promise. In late September, at the Damascene Dream Institute—a Syrian nonprofit at the entrance to Damascus’ Old City dedicated to preserving traditional crafts—Talmasani completed a free, two-month muashaq course for 18 young Syrians, most of them women, including doctors, engineers, and artists.

Taylor Luck

Examples of Fayez Talmasani’s work hang around his classroom at the Damascene Dream Institute workshop.

“I have opened all my files and given away all my secrets,” he says, beaming while overseeing his students’ final windows in late September. “My students came because they actually love the art, not because they want to make money. They are ready to carry on the craft themselves,” he adds, eyes twinkling, “and work with me.”

Mariam Ismael, an accountant in her 30s and soon-to-be employee at Talmasani’s workshop, discovered the craft through Instagram reels highlighting his recent exhibition.

“Stained glass is a central part of Syrian heritage that has disappeared from daily life,” Ms. Ismael says, her apron coated in stone dust. “It is beautiful to breathe life into an old craft. No one else in the world knows how to do this. It is a wonderful feeling.”

Role in Rebuilding

The craft’s revival coincides with surging demand from Syrians incorporating the glass into reconstructed homes, mosques, businesses, and cultural centers.

Taylor Luck

Stained glass waits to be used in projects produced by students of master glassmaker Fayez Talmasani.

“People are more settled now and thinking about the future and rebuilding,” Talmasani says, noting he has been inundated with dozens of orders since President Bashar al-Assad’s downfall in December 2024. “When people feel there is stability, they are willing to spend money and invest in beauty. And everyone wants a form of beauty that is part of our identity and heritage.”

Quietly, these windows are becoming symbols of postwar Damascus: ancient yet new, hopeful yet fragile.

Hiba Abdulrahman, a muashaq student pursuing a graduate degree in architecture who hopes to assist in Syria’s reconstruction, is already integrating the windows into her designs.

“I feel that we can develop stained glass to make it live longer in this new age,” she says. “With all of the reconstruction and rebuilding, we have a chance to link Syria’s past with the present.”

“We will carry on this heritage and spread it to rebuild our Syria with this glass and colors,” Ms. Ismael adds. “Our future will be bright and colorful, like our past.”

Walaa Buaidani in Damascus supported reporting for this article.

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