The synagogue is now a secret garden; within what remains of the building is a thriving botanical landscape. Trees, shrubs and vines sprawl through the still discernible architectural details of a once vibrant place of worship.

When Ya Libnan reported rumors in April that plans were in place to demolish the remaining structure, one of the city's most quietly controversial buildings stepped once more into the spotlight. Solidere's powers-that-be quelled the furor, but the episode ignited a debate that questioned the future of one Beirut's forgotten architectural gems.

The debate brought three questions to the table; should the building be restored, should it be left as it is, or should it be demolished, and what would the social, cultural and aesthetic implications be were any of them answered in the affirmative? Whichever of this complex trinity of scenarios were fulfilled, a shift in consciousness towards the social and historical truths parts of Lebanese society, at present, seem unwilling, or unable to confront, would have to occur.

Inaugurated in 1926 following years of delay during the First World War, the synagogue became the social and religious hub of Beirut's Jewish community. Named after the father of the wealthy Indian philanthropist whose donation of £3000 ensured the completion of the project, the synagogue performed a role beyond its function as a place of worship.

It unified Beirut's Jewish congregation, bringing worshipers from the capital's smaller synagogues together for the first time and was trumpeted by its leaders as the symbol of social progress for Lebanese Jews. The synagogue was Jewish public property, a religious and social hub that, in effect, belonged to everybody. The synagogue also played an economic role; its communal newspaper Al Alam al-Isra'ili, invited donations from across the Jewish community, the results of which were used philanthropically through educational and social initiatives, such as providing free school meals, prepared by members of the congregation, for children from poorer families.

The Magen-Abraham Synagogue was thus the pivot on which the capital's Jewish society turned, at once unifying individual worshipers, supporting their families and sustaining their livelihoods.

All that remains visible of this vibrant community today is the building's empty shell; the gates chained and locked, stairwells overrun with foliage and patches of the once bright blue interior, formerly decorated with stars, poking through the large green leaves of the building's current inhabitants.

Synagogues differ from the buildings of other religions in that there are few prescriptions for what a Jewish house of worship should look like. Whereas the contents of the interior follow Talmudic decree, the aesthetic of the building itself is more or less left in the hands of those constructing it. The few instructions the Talmud does instruct that a synagogue should include windows and that it should be taller than other buildings in the vicinity. But, historically, even these have proved flexible guidelines, at the mercy of the local laws of the contexts in which they are built, and indeed the individual tastes and preferences of the communities they serve.

Synagogues, in broad terms, reflect the national architectural style of the countries in which they are built and thus become a vernacular of local structural norms and styles. In many ways, therefore, a synagogue is, architecturally, unique.

The fate of the Magen-Abraham Synagogue is not only important in terms of the social and national implications it holds, especially in this 60th anniversary of the founding of the state of Israel, but for its architectural legacy, particularly given its location on a pocket of wasteland set in the extensive, even ruthless, reconstructions and restorations around it.

Synagogues form a diverse architectural canon; from the elaborate, Moorish houses of prayer in Toledo and Santa Maria la Blanca in Spain, to Hector Guimard's undulating, 1913 Art Nouveau synagogue in Paris, Jewish houses of prayer at once reflect and embed themselves in the architectural tastes and styles of the contexts and times in which they reside.

The Magen-Abraham Synagogue is no different. Tomer Levi of Brandeis University says that the residual Classical and Renaissance styles the synagogue is built in reflect the cultural horizons of the leadership, which, amount to "a declaration of faith in the colonial order". The synagogue was indeed considered by many to be one of the most elaborate in the region, with its soaring triangular facade fringed with angular, upturned relief-crenelations and its spacious blue interior flanked by attractive arched cloisters.

Magen-Abraham is, therefore an interpretation of one group's perspective of the society it is bound to, and reflects elements of its culture and tradition, which are in turn interwoven with the influences it admires and the wider community it is a part of.

But in terms of its place on the Centre Ville skyline, the three questions remain.

To restore the synagogue to a fully functioning place of worship is, frankly, an unimaginable scenario at present. A thriving synagogue in the heart of Beirut's flagship post-war reconstruction project would be an uncomfortable and divisive presence for a wider society unable or unwilling to confront the realities it is made of. The shift in the social make up would be enormous; for a society unable of unwilling to confront the reality of its make-up on so many fronts, an active symbol of Jewish life would force many to accept a revitalized part of its fabric when it is not, arguably, ready to so. The Synagogue is another part of Lebanon's history society at large is either unaware of, or unwilling to embrace, and to allow it, in its restored form, to co-exist naturally with its surroundings is arguably beyond the capabilities of a community still littered with so many open wounds of its own.

To demolish the synagogue is an equally unpalatable prospect. To knock it down would be to create a fiction of the social, cultural and historical realities present beneath most people's noses. The synagogue's present-day surroundings offer a warning of sorts; with so many archaeological and architectural gems thrown aside and built over during the construction of Centre Ville in the 1990s, the need to retain what is left of Beirut's cultural heritage is a pressing one. If Beirut is to avoid becoming, in architectural terms, a monotonous version of itself, buildings like the Magen Abraham Synagogue cannot merely be cast aside and turned to rubble.

But to leave it dilapidated is to keep the wound open. In a city that boasts so many reminders of a bloody, fractured past, a ruined Magen-Abraham synagogue only perpetuates the feeling that memory dominates the present day, and stifles those attempting to forge a new reality for themselves in an ever-shifting climate. Social memory has a part to play in communal progress, but the remnants of conflict can dull the gravity of the past they testify to, and diminish the ability to create a new present, free from the shackles of a tormented recent history.

A capital city should be a snapshot of the diverse, jostling melting pot of the nation at large and without confronting the issue of the Magen Abraham synagogue head-on, Beirut is falling short of its duty.

In its present form, as home to the vibrant greens of its leafy inhabitants, the Magen Abraham Synagogue represents a further sweeping-under-the carpet of parts of Lebanon's diverse cultural character. The synagogue it seems, like almost all issues relating to a collective Lebanese identity, is easier to leave in the shadows than confront head-on.