• A Jerusalemite Story  By Mohammad Al Nammari

The following memoirs will be posted as 16 chapters and will be updated every two weeks. Mr. Nammari originally wrote these memoirs for his children and he has given Jerusalemites permission to post them online.

My name is Mohammad Zuhair Al Nammari. My father’s name was Abdul Qader. He had a shoe-making shop in Souk Al Attarine (the Spice Souk or the Spice Market) when I was born. My mother’s name was Zuhra. She was a housewife and a damn good one! I have two brothers and three sisters. Two-- a brother and a sister-- are older than me.

We lived in Harat Al Sharaf (The Sharaf Quarter), squeezed between the Jewish Quarter and the Armenian Quarter until 1948, when our Quarter was under threat by the Zionists. We were forced to leave our house to live with my mother’s family, who had a spacious house in Harat Al Nammamreh (The Nammaris’ Quarter) in Al Bakaa area south of the old city, outside the gate. We later moved back to the old city near the Dome of the Rock as the Zionists forced us out of Harat Al Nammamreh.

After the truce, I lived in Al Tour village in East Jerusalem and two years later in the East suburb of Jerusalem.

I attended school for seven years in Al Bakaa area near Harat Al Nammamreh, until 1948, when schools were closed for almost one year while the war in Jerusalem was at its peak. As soon as schools were opened I joined the secondary school at Al Rashidiya for three years. In my last high school year I studied at the Friends Boys School in order to strengthen my English language so that I could pursue my dream to go to America for a higher education. It was a dream, since my family was penniless and the farthest I had ever traveled was 30 kilometers by bus to the nearby city of Ramallah.

My Guardian Angel guided me and helped me to land a tuition scholarship in America. My older brother, who was working in Saudi Arabia as a clerk, bought me the ticket and gave me $200. At age 17, I went to America and stayed there for six years, and returned to Jerusalem with two university degrees (a B.Sc. and a M.Sc. in chemistry) and $300 to my name. I worked my way through those years at the university and helped my family at times.

Upon my return, I secured a job as a teacher then went to Italy on a training mission for one year for the Jordan Petroleum Refinery. After seven years of a successful career, at the mentioned refinery, I moved to work at a refinery in Kuwait and stayed there for 13 years, after which I moved to Abu Dhabi for eight years. Eventually I ended up in Saudi Arabia until I retired.

I married at the age of 30 to a distant cousin and had three girls, two of whom studied in America and returned to Jordan to marry two university graduates of their choice (and by chance born in Jerusalem). The third is still in high school.

I was fortunate to have had the opportunity to travel around the world, sometimes on business for the companies I worked for and sometimes on vacation with my family. My travels covered most of Europe, from Spain to England to Greece and the countries in between. It covered Russia as well as many other communist countries. My travels also covered the Far East including Japan, Indonesia, and Korea.

Having experienced the first piped-in water and the arrival of electricity in Jerusalem and, having experienced poverty and a primitive livelihood as I was growing up, and then having experienced the richness of life of America and the West, I always feel grateful to God. I am now living a comfortable life having lived it to the full.

This is my story and my experience, which I wrote first for my children and grandchildren, then for whoever is interested in the old-age proverbs:

• When there is a will there is a way
• Nothing is impossible
• God will help those who help themselves

Chapter One

The Family Nammar (Al Nammari)
By Mohammad Al Nammari

Our family name is Nammar or Al-Nammari, the latter being more prestigious and more accurate as it appears on all ancient documents and is thus adopted by the younger generation. I believe the second name is more appropriate since all official old documents are thus registered. The first could have been a shortening of the second name or a nickname but I grew up knowing that the name Nammar was that of all my relations. I changed mine personally by simply adding (Al) and (I) just before obtaining my passport at age 17.

Various efforts to trace our origin beyond the seventh generation or find a complete family tree failed. My recordings of family stories and relationships (which will be told in the coming chapters) is based on recollections since I was a small child, and on personal knowledge or gossip, as well as on eavesdropping and some personal interviews.

Since early childhood we had been told and been made aware of the fact that we came from a prestigious family. This is confirmed and supported by many facts; recently I came across some documents stating that my great grandfathers were appointed chief engineers of Jerusalem by an Ottoman Sultanate decree. These documents are traced to the seventh generation.

Besides intermarrying, our family only married from other prestigious Jerusalemite families; the Al Husseinis, Dajanis, Shihabis, and Fityanis, for example. We were also looked up to in Jerusalem. Almost everyone knew our family name and our lineage. The family avoided scandals so as not to tarnish its name. Normal wrongdoing or scandals were kept secret and no one dared to talk about them.

Another evidence of the family position was the amount of various Waqfs (Islamic Trusts) we had throughout the city. Some were ancient and some continued for two or three generations.

Our family also received shares from the Al Hariri Waqf , a prestigious Trust for the high ranking families. Thus, the history of the city is connected with our family; but no one has bothered, nor was anyone educated enough to look into the old documents.

I often heard that we were divided into different branches. One of the branches belonged to the elite society; within this group was my mother’s side of the family. The other branch was the downtrodden, illiterate poor, which my father’s family belonged to. My mother’s branch resided in separate villas in the suburb of Jerusalem in Bakaa which carried the family name, Harat Al Nammamreh. My father’s relatives all lived in the decrepit old city mainly in Waqf owned houses, either in the Jewish Quarter, Harat Al Sharaf, or in the Wad near Al Aqsa Mosque.

My mother’s branch distanced itself from the poorer one. This was one of the causes of the ill feeling that spread with time.

The Waqf deserves to be highlighted because it was the seed of hatred, jealousy, and internal struggle that pit brother against brother and has affected our lives even until today. In Islamic law, a male head of the family, if rich, would place his property under the Waqf, where proceeds would be divided among all male and female descendents, instead of leaving his property to be divided amongst his immediate descendants. There were substantial properties for the various family patriarchs. Placing their property in the Waqf had been a long-held custom. Many of these properties were in old Jerusalem in the Jewish and Armenian Quarters, Al Wad and in Al Bakaa, and there were huge tracts of land in villages between Jerusalem and Yafa called Yalu and Imwas.

All members, according to the Waqf documents, are entitled to shares. These records are kept in the Sharia Court (Islamic Court) in old Jerusalem and these records go back many generations. For every Waqf, a trustee is chosen by the members of the family and approved by the court. The trustee is normally literate, older and a main beneficiary, as well as being a male. He would keep private records in his personal register, a book, or on pieces of paper. He would maintain the property, oversee its development and expansion, collect rent or products if the property was rented for agriculture, and resolve minor disputes. His job could be full-time or part-time. He collected a fixed salary or took a cut depending on some arrangements, unknown to me. The job could last a lifetime unless the trustee was contested in court for scandal or misbehavior, in which case the family name would be tarnished. Thus, issues were kept quiet and in this way animosity and suspicions fostered and spread to the younger generations.

With time, and at the normal birth rate of generations ago, descendents multiplied at a fantastic rate and shares for individuals came to be hardly worth a couple of weeks or a year’s wage. You have to keep in mind that rent charges, according to the Ottoman, British, and Jordanian laws, were fixed forever. This resulted in easing control on the trustees (it was not worth it). The poorer relations (most people were poor) started losing confidence in the shares received, suspecting thievery. The trustee resented being questioned-- elders should not be questioned-- and would refuse to provide justification.

Some beneficiaries lived on Waqf property and would not pay rent (like my father). Those female shareholders that married outside the family and succeeded in firing up their husbands’ greed, ultimately became outspoken in their criticism. The result was inevitable. Elders started hiding documents, not to be made available until after the person named in the document was dead; thus, a lot of properties were lost, igniting the enmity and hatred further. There were hard times on all the family members but the trustees had a steady income, causing further jealousy.

Many documents in my possession record some of these disputes.

Since I recall, the Waqf was the main marital problem in my family and the main lifelong animosity between father and uncles. The Waqf was the reason we never moved out of our old city house (I doubt father ever paid rent) until we were driven out by the Israelis.

The Waqf was also the main reason for the high incidence of intermarriage in the family. It kept them secluded and they were thus unable to catch up with other families. It also contributed to the preservation and the embedding of old jealousies and enmities. It closed their minds and kept digging at the wounds.

In 1948, the Israelis took over all properties outside the old city and in 1967 took over the rest of Palestinian land.

Most documents passed haphazardly from one family to another without regard to efficiency or capability and most of these were handed over to the Sharia Court. Some documents still remain with some family members, however, the majority of the Nammari family does not know with whom. Many are still hidden.

These days few Nammaris know each other. They are scattered all over the world. Most of the young only know their immediate cousins, others do not acknowledge their relations, and still others have immigrated to the USA, Greece, Saudi Arabia, and Canada.

Lately an ambitious cousin discovered the name of the family in a book about famous scientists in Andalucia (Spain) during the Umayyad era (around AD 800). I personally prepared the latest charts, made copies and distributed them to all of my relations I was able to meet. I heard the Nammaris are a big clan in the Taif city area in Saudi Arabia.

A guard at the Syrian-Jordanian border stopped me recently inquiring about the origin of my name, stating that his father’s name is Nimr. He told me that he came from a big family in Jerusalem. My nephews, who are Saudis, ask me about their origin and whether or not there is a family tree. My daughters do not care much about it, having experienced some unpleasant stories about the Nammari family, which I have documented.

In conclusion, the cause of our family’s downfall is mainly attributed to their neglect, under-educating their off-spring, their over-reliance on the Waqf as well as on their inter-marriage preference. The first two behaviors are being overcome today, but the inter-marriage custom remains-- I married my cousin, although not because of the Waqf.

The old split between the elite and the financially disadvantaged has disappeared. Economic changes and education these days has provided an opportunity for some of the neglected members of the branch to climb up the social ladder, and it has forced some of the wealthy members to fall from their elitist niche into the middle class. Boundaries between families have crumbled and mixed marriages, outside the limits imposed by conservative mentalities, has become normal.

October 17, 1999

Chapter Two

My Father
--As I recall, heard, and experienced--
By Mohammad Al Nammari

It was customary to hang portraits of family members, especially those of the elderly and deceased, in the middle of the main wall of the important room. During my grandfather’s time, no photographs were available and oil portraits were rare and expensive. My father’s youthful picture had been hanging in the guestroom long before I was born, up until 1948.

He looked dashing, and was dressed in a suit and tie with a tarboosh (Turkish hat), slightly tilted for elegance, and his well-waxed, long, curved moustache was the pride of any man and any child. He was very elegant for his time and loved beautiful things when he could afford them. Rummaging through his belongings as small children, I used to be fascinated with his assortment of rings and cufflinks (yes, cufflinks). He always wore a ring with stones but my older brother managed to lose them one by one before I was old enough to keep some mementos. Sometimes he would wear the Arab robe and the headdress, but he mostly wore western style clothes.

His smile was captivating and when he laughed, which was not often, his laugh would fill the room and his smile would light it. He was always in good health; I never remember him sick in bed, except with a cold. I remember placing kassaat al hawa (literally translated it is air cups, or vacuum glass cups) on his back and then pulling them off with a popping noise. This was a treatment for all kinds of muscle pains, including colds. It required placing glass cups (after placing a lit piece of paper in them) on the person’s back. They create a suction and they would pop when taken off, leaving a red mark. The area would be soothed and rubbed with olive oil and covered with a piece of cloth. It really did work wonders.

I also remember one time when he had a backache, I walked on his back to massage it for him. I was five or six years old. I loved to walk on his back and it was fun.

I used to overhear my father’s conversations with his friends or with mother, who at times would hint that he was a free roaming and mischievous young man. I still could see his mischievous, black eyes gleaming when he would mention his early childhood. But, to my regret, I do not recollect many details.

His mother was from Hebron, a city near Jerusalem. He wasn’t too proud of this relation, but was not ashamed. My uncles considered this as one of many reasons to look down upon him. She died when he was very young. He never mentioned his mother or his relatives from her side and we were never able to know any of those relatives, strange as it was considering the strength of the blood relation customs.

My father was raised by his father, who neglected my father and never gave him the proper attention or upbringing. We never heard much about his father. He used to mention his cousin, an elderly married lady, whom we used to visit during the Eid (the Muslim feast following the holy month of Ramadan) and they would exchange some old memories, but not in detail (she was older than he was). She always hinted at his adventures and mischief.

From bits and pieces of information we collected, we were able to gather that he traveled a lot with all sorts of people, including bedouins. He tried his hand at shepherding for some time. He was known as being adventurous, rude, and a roughneck and attained a reputation of being fearless. He would travel across the river to East Jordan. He recounted one time when he lost his eyesight because of some eye infection in his youth. On one of his visits to a bedouin camp an elderly woman called him by name, gave him an eye herbal ointment, and told him that he would be cured and would never have an eye problem. Well, he never did encounter problems, although with old age his eyesight became weak. But he never wore glasses.

How father grew up in a wild, illiterate, ignorant, poverty-stricken society and no guardian, is a secret and a mystery. He attended a kuttab (small Islamic classroom gathering) as a child for two to three years to learn how to read and write. His few books, yellowed and crumbled with age, remained in our house until the 1948 Arab-Israeli war. He spoke Yiddish and Armenian well enough to converse with both ethnic groups living around us. As we grew up and lived away from home, he used to write letters to my brother and would write to me when I was in the US. The letters were simple and had distinct characteristics. They were legible and detailed, not very eloquent but still a lot better than some letters I have seen written by more educated young men.

My father lost his father when he was very young and since that time he was completely on his own. He picked up the shoemaking trade and had a shop in Souk Al Attarine (the Spice Market) well before I was born, which he kept until a few years before his death.

He had few friends. Almost everyone in Jerusalem at that time knew him. One friend I remember, of an unknown family, was a trader of wheat, hay, and wholesale vegetables. He used to have a large warehouse outside the Damascus Gate. This friend was my father’s confidant. He would borrow things from him or would seek his advice and help to talk to my brother when, at times, he would be difficult.

My father, as we remember him, loved to travel and, in a rented car, he used to take us on picnics either to the Dead Sea or Jericho, or sometimes to orchards in a village. My mother would take her pots and pans and cook the meal. My father would take his water pipe and we would all swim or frolic under the trees and eat our full. One summer when I was about five, father rented a villa in Hebron with vineyards and fig trees. We spent our summer living outdoors, in the wild. We’d catch birds by placing sticky branches on trees. Father would commute back and forth daily between Hebron and Jerusalem. He was the only one of our relatives who would take his family on such trips.

My first recollection was a trip to the Dead Sea. My older brother was the adventurous one on those trips. Perhaps through these trips, father satisfied his nostalgia of his wondering youth. During the 1940s, he traveled to Syria on trading trips and, during the war with the Israelis and in spite of the dangers, he’d take his shoe trade to various cities throughout Palestine, such as Jenin and Nablus, among others. He knew most of the Palestinian cities and some nearby countries. He used to receive visitors from those areas, and some would stay overnight at our home (hotels were not places for friends).

I remember him as a dedicated family man. He worked late nights to provide for us. He was always short of cash, thus he’d purchase our necessities on credit. Sometimes I used to feel embarrassed when a shopkeeper would ask me to remind my father that his credit was a little high. But he always paid up.

When we used to ask for pocket money, he would be short. It was not easy to obtain pocket money for the little things we craved for, either because of reasons of discipline or because he did not have it. He once walked with us in the rain to school, which was about three to four kilometers away because we wanted a bus fare to which he had said “no.” We were crying all the way. I was seven or eight years old.

We knew we were poor like everyone else, but could not and would not believe that our situation was that bad. No one ever told us the truth; everyone either pretended or just lied.

My father was a good provider. We never lacked food or other essentials, although poverty was rife among the population. I remember our cramped, dark kitchen full of wheat, sugar, bread, and rice sacks, along with tins of olive oil, olives, cheese and anything else that could be stored. This included hanging strings of vine leaves, dried okra onions and garlic. The kitchen had enough space for just one person to pass sideways to reach the small sink or the fine-screened cabinet (the natural refrigerator at that time). Under the couches and the beds we stored vegetables and fruits. He used to buy oranges in bushels and watermelons by bulk to be stored there. Non-essentials and delicacies were rare. Thus, we used to enjoy visiting our uncles for a taste of those delicacies. The house utensils and requirements were old and tattered but were comfortable and sufficient. Sometimes, when he could afford it, he would buy a new lamp or other similar trinkets.
 

October 31, 1999

Chapter Three

My Mother
--As I recall, heard, and experienced--
By Mohammad Al Nammari

She was a fair and pretty woman, raised in the suburb of Jerusalem in Harat Al Nammamreh in Bakaa until her marriage to my father at the age of 17 or 18. She was the fifth of nine children, three older brothers and an older sister, and two younger brother and sister. One of the older and younger brothers married while the rest remained bachelors and spinsters. They all lived together in a big spacious modern villa, well after my mother married.

The two-story villa had a red-tiled roof and was surrounded with orchards, trees and flowers, and vegetable gardens, and had all the amenities of modern living at that time, such as indoor toilets and running water. They lived in the ground floor while the top floor was rented out to a British high executive living alone with a male servant and driver. She grew up in an open neighborhood studded with villas and gardens among a countless number of uncles, aunts, relatives, nephews and nieces. Those who were not Nammaris were of the affluent society. Her family came from a comfortable middle class background.

She never went to a formal school to learn reading or writing but went to a Kuttab (Quranic school) where she learnt to read the Quran at the hands of a Sheikha (religious woman), as was the custom at that time. Schooling for girls during the Ottoman period and then during the British period was not easily available and was uncommon well into 1940.

It was also customary for women to show total obedience to the male members of society. Male members would obey their elders, thus allowing interference of parents, uncles and brothers into their personal affairs, such as moving house, mixing with new acquaintances, or raising their children. Even the cutting of women’s hair was subject to approval or condemnation, and no one dared reject the opinion of an elder a brother, or a husband, without incurring ostracism.

I experienced my uncles’ interference in mother’s and our affairs throughout my life and into the 1960s in spite of my father’s easy attitude and approval and in spite of their fear of him.

She was brought up in a religious conservative environment. She wore her traditional black dress covering her body to below her knees and covering her face. Her legs would be covered with heavy stockings. She followed this custom well after we were grown up and a few years before her death when she covered her head but kept her face uncovered and would wear dark glasses in order to hide her eyes.

We tried to convince her not to cover her face, explaining that it was not an Islamic dictate, but she was unconvinced. She was religious but not a fanatic. She observed her religious duties in spite of father’s objections as I related earlier. Throughout her life she observed her prayers and fasted. Even when she grew old and could not bend her knees, she would pray while sitting on a chair (as is permitted in Islam to allow the disadvantaged to continue to pray). She would not urge us to be religious but through her quiet influence she had father become religious and had us all follow suit. She held firm to her principles as they applied to her but let us be what we wanted. My sisters would not veil themselves and pursued a higher education.

I recall that in Ramadan (the Muslim holy month of fasting) I would not fast, and even though mother was fasting she’d prepare food for me but would always say “may God guide you”.

She never could read a newspaper or a letter but was always reading the Quran.

She never mentioned her early childhood or early life with father except what I recalled already. However, I could visualize her lonely life, moving to a dark dreary residence in the Old City surrounded by unknown neighbors like the Armenians, Assyrians, Jews, and Muslims, or father’s relatives, the poor branch, who at that time I doubt she knew existed. Once in a while she would hint at the sacrifices she made but would never nag about it, though she would insist that we never deviate from the moral values or behavior she was raised in. She would often mention that we should model ourselves after her brothers. She would not allow us out of the house looking shabby or dirty. In her limited means she made sure we always looked presentable. Our new clothes were reserved for visiting purposes only. She would not allow us to talk about our life outside of the house or complain to others.

Most of our good behavior was enforced through her. She would threaten us if we ever used foul language (like father did) and would rub our mouths with pepper. She did it once to my brother. Whenever she could not cope with us she’d threaten to tell father whose punishment we dreaded. She was our confidant and we trusted her when we wanted to keep things from father’s temper, and whenever we needed certain things from father we’d ask her to intercede with him and convince him. She did have a soothing effect on his temper and kept him, in her subtle way, from flaring up easily.

Throughout her life and in spite of the continuous enmity of father with her brothers she was permitted to visit them and spend days or a week at their place. During those times, he’d stay at home as he would not join us. The longest time she’d spend was when she delivered my brothers and sisters and myself. All of us were delivered in Harat Al Nammamreh except my youngest sister because mother gave birth earlier than expected. Her family would send for her or a brother would call to accompany her and the children. We’d stay with them until she was fit to look after herself. I do not recall anyone ever coming to stay with her at our home except for the short occasional visit. This was either because uncles were able to provide her with all the comfort and help of a big family, or because they abhorred staying in our home to avoid father.

Mother was not the gossipy type. She was quiet, patient, and wise, rarely interfering in others’ private affairs. She’d give her advice if asked. Thus, she got along well with relatives and the few friends or neighbors she had. She was friendly with all those who father would come across or flare his temper upon. She stayed away from the trashy neighbors or relatives.

She would not allow us to play with the neighborhood kids in the Hara and we would spend our time at home except on the visits to the family. I don’t recall ever inviting someone to play with us at home. She would inquire about whom we mix with at school.

She strove hard to make ends meet and would economize. All of our clothes would be hand-me-downs. She would sew all our clothes and hers down to our underwear. The first time I wore ready-made shirts or underwear was just before traveling to the USA. She would alter the big clothes and patch the torn ones. She would patch our socks until they were impossible to patch, and even then they’d be kept for home use. She’d sew the sheets, curtains, and robes along with other material. She did not know how to measure but would use her fingers and hands to get the correct size and the proper fit. She was skilled at needlework, crochet, and embroidery. She knitted all our woolen clothing and when they became small or worn out, she’d separate the threads, wash them and sometimes dye them, and knit them again.

Until 1948, we lived in the house in the old city. Mother would look after the house on her own and we, as far as we could manage, would help when possible. The house did not have running water, thus water was hauled from the courtyard well or, later, brought by us from the central municipality water faucet in the alley. The toilet was one story below in a dark corner shared by our Armenian neighbors. She’d store the drinking water in a large earthenware container or large drum later on. Crowded with provisions, her kitchen only had a walking space in it. It had a small tin container with a tiny faucet for dishwashing. The dirty water was collected in a 20-liter tin can to be hauled when full to the courtyard and emptied in a drain. Our wash basin was a similar container and the water was collected in a large, round, deep copper bucket to be emptied similarly.

For bathing, water had to be heated in a 20-liter tin container over a kerosene burner. Hot and cold water had to be mixed in a similar container to be poured by mother over our heads and bodies. Our bathtub was another large copper dish to be emptied outside or collected for use to clean the house floor. Her clothes’ washing day, about once a week, was an event of its own when all soiled clothes, sheets and other items, would be piled up in the middle of the sitting room segregated by color. Those that needed boiling with alum were placed in a container on the kerosene burner and those that needed just hot water washing, would be placed in the large round tub. Mother would be crouching or sitting on a low stool, soaping, rubbing, squeezing and rinsing then hauling the wet wash either to the courtyard or to the roof for drying.

                                                                                                         November 15, 1999

Chapter Four

Our House in the Old City of Jerusalem
--As I recall, heard, and experienced--
By Mohammad Al Nammari

All houses in the old city of Jerusalem were inter-linked. Normally, a house is recognized by its main door, separated by an alley, or Hara. One alley door may lead to a spacious open courtyard around which is a complex of housing units. Or, it may lead to one separate housing unit. Normally, three walls of any housing unit constitute part of the walls of other units.

Alleys were narrow and winding, often covered with long arches at intervals. These arches usually support a room or rooms of some housing units. Sometimes a window overlooks the alley but quite often the alley sides comprise high stone walls. All alleys have cobbled stones smoothened with time, but sometimes these stones are replaced with cement paving. They are dark, lit only after 1942 by a solitary, low voltage bare bulb. The alleys often reeked of a particular smell; a mixture of urine, garbage, musk, and sheep droppings. The latter being the result of some warehouses in the alleys used as sheep barns.

Although at different levels, roofs were also connected with an occasional low, deteriorating wall or a fence separating some housing units from others. The roofs were paved with stone tiles. One could almost walk (or climb) miles on the roofs of the houses of the old city.

The old city houses were built on layers of ancient houses and were connected through tunnels and cellars. Some of the cellars extend under numerous housing complexes with light walls separating some. Thus, it could be said that the city was inter-linked through its cellars. In 1948, the Israeli gangs were able to travel freely through the many quarters throughout this cellar system to spread terror throughout the city.

The official registration of the houses were not mapped but recorded by the alley or, Hara, and by the neighboring houses of at least three geographical sites. Thus, the Israelis in 1967 tore down these houses. They often changed the alleys making it almost impossible to locate any particular house.

Most houses in the old city are Waqf (Trust) or owned by families of generations past.

Our house, where I was raised until the age of about 13, was situated between the Jewish and Armenian Quarters in what is called Harat Al Sharaf. Armenians, Assyrians, and Jews were our neighbors, along with one Moslem clan named Al Bashiti who was considered to come from one of the ancient families. It was to this house that my mother moved into when she married. It was a Nammar Waqf house of very minimal rent.

The house could be reached through the Armenian Quarter on the west side down an open, stepped alley, turning left past the Beshiti clan housing complex, where Harat Al Sharaf started, through a long arched alley under which was the doorway of our house. The house could also be reached from the east through the Jewish Quarter, through winding alleys going up many steps, then into Harat Al Sharaf alley past a couple of huge walls containing the housing complexes of Armenians on one side and Assyrians on the other, under the long archway mentioned above.

The main door to our house was in the middle of the long covered archway. Next to this door on both sides were two heavy doors leading to cellars, or possibly ancient warehouses. A door almost opposite our main door led to the ruins of a house converted a long time ago into an open sheep barn. All doors were always locked, although corroded.

The main door of our house was of heavy wood. It was close to a gate then a door. It had a solid iron bolt. Its key, large and weighing close to one kilogram, was used to lock the door at night. It led to an unlit arched hallway blackened over the years, although every few years it used to be whitewashed. The floor was cement-covered with a layer of grime, especially since there was no way to wash it, and was normally considered an extension of the alleyway. This hallway had no lighting, except for the cascading of natural light from the stairs to the left of the far end leading to our houses. At night a portable wick or flashlight (in later years) had to be used. Near these stairs, facing the main door of the hallway was another ancient low wooden gate made of rotten wood with gaps that could easily allow a large sized cat to wonder in freely. This door was kept locked all times. It was a cellar of ancient crumbling plastered walls extending around the house or houses. It had multi-arched roofs with grimy pillars for support. I do not recall the cellar was used for anything.

To the right of the cellar door facing the stairs was the toilet, built of concrete as an afterthought to be the only fixture of the large entrance arched hallway. It was an eastern type toilet reeking of urine and just large enough to allow a fat-bottomed user to squat comfortably. No running water was available, thus a long spouted tin pitcher was to be carried by the user for wiping since toilet paper was unknown then. Once in a while the toilet would be washed by mother or by one of us. It was also a common toilet for our tenant family. Thus, its use and cleanliness was strictly enforced. It also had a creaking wooden door rotted on the top and bottom with a simple hook on the inside to provide some privacy. But, because of the darkness, the door was kept always ajar. Natural light filtering from the stairs provided reasonable illumination. However, at night it was dark and a kerosene lamp or an open wick was used.

Facing the toilet to the far left of the hallway were the stairs leading to the house. There were about 15 stone steps, smooth, uneven, and enclosed, which went straight up and then turned sharply to the right where a further 8-10 steps leading to the main open courtyard. Through this courtyard and set of stairs, light crept to the toilet and hallway downstairs. The stairway was narrow and rooted by an extended high arch. In the last section of the stairs leading to the courtyard, father had constructed a wooden overhead pigeon cage as a false ceiling (though it already had an arched ceiling), with its door leading into the courtyard. He kept pigeons overhead ever since I can remember. To feed them was a nuisance, so was the rare lengthy cleaning of the cage floor. A chair or a low ladder had to be used to reach the cage door. As we grew up, we neglected raising the pigeons and the cage remained there together with a thick layer of the pigeon droppings and, possibly a dead bird or two. Until then, pigeon chicks were part of our diet and I grew up to hate pigeons.

All children were frightened of going downstairs and to the toilet, especially at night. An elder brother or sister would accompany the individual. Sometimes father or mother would do the job of guardian, and would sit on the top step facing the toilet, holding the lamp while the others would do their business. We tried as far as possible to avoid this ritual at night time or through the dark winter months using a make-do alternative, which was a large sized potty (chamber pot) that all of us would use and which would be emptied in the morning. One night, I recall, I was a guardian to my sister when we heard noises coming from the cellar. When frightened inquiries about the chewing noises failed to raise any response, I got so frightened I ran up the remaining stairs holding the lamp, keeping sister all alone in the dark. Our screams brought my mother, barefooted and bareheaded, in a rush to save us. That was when a dirty cat just walked out from under the door of the cellar holding something in its mouth and disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

At the top step was a small window, just under the overhead pigeon coop, built into the high solid wall of the neighboring Assyirian housing complex. It led into a room belonging to an Assyrian family whom we never met or spoke to. During the Second World War, the British Authorities regulated food supply by issuing card rations. Kraft cheese in blue tin cans was part of the rations and required a can opener. For reasons unknown to me, father never bought a can opener and our Armenian tenants did not have one either. Somehow we tried our neighbor’s window and found they had one. So, once in a while we’d knock on that window to borrow the can opener. I used to do that quite often and continued to borrow that damned can opener until we left our house in 1948. Through this window, I recognized the faces of the neighbors and I would just say hello to them when, by chance, I’d see them in the alley. I grew up to hate to borrow anything from people and avoided Kraft cheese in these same blue cans.

The courtyard was bright, sunny and spacious, measuring more than 10 by 10 meters. It was paved with raw, smooth, uneven stones. The courtyard was contained by two very high solid stone walls, which were part of the neighboring Armenian housing complex. Near the wall along the right was the only drain the house had. We used it to drain the washing buckets (all kinds of washing) and the bed chamber pot to avoid going all the way down to the toilet.

Along the second wall to the right were stone stairs leading to the roof. The stairs were narrow and had no banister. On the first 10 or so steps mother had tin cans (of 20-liter type) planted with the traditional flowers; Jasmine, Morning Glory and others. It was her garden. Under part of the stairs close to the far side was a shack with a corrugated rusty roof built with deteriorated wood and served as a kitchen to our Armenian neighbors. Also under the first 10 steps, or so, we had a small chicken coop. Opposite the stairs was the main door to our house. To the left of these stairs leading to the roof was a water well that served as the only water source for our neighbors and ourselves, until the mid-1940s, when the municipality installed a communal water line in the alley. That was also when municipality men started pouring kerosene into the well about once a month to combat mosquitoes, rendering this water fit only for washing clothes. Water was hauled from the well through a bucket made of old tires and connected to a rope.

Above the water well was a window of the Armenian room and its door was at the end of that left wall. That room was spacious and was originally intended to be a reception or visitor’s room. It was rented to an Armenian family of six for as long as I can remember. Their kitchen, described earlier, was across the courtyard and they shared the toilet downstairs. They all lived in that room until about 1947 when they immigrated to Armenia. I don’t recall ever exchanging any visits. I entered their very tidy room perhaps once or twice. Their old man used to get drunk weekly, on Sundays, and he would sing. They were otherwise very considerate and would not make any noise or disturbance. We could hardly feel their presence. I presume father kept them in line.

The roof of the house was used for drying clothes using a wire or rope as a clothesline. It was used also to dry our off-seasonal provisions of vegetables, tomatoes, tomato paste, and wheat by placing these on spread bed sheets or trays. It was also used after the rain for us to sun in and eat oranges.

We were always warned against falling down from the roof (having no guards) or falling down into the well. These two hazards were a worry to all parents.

The door to our house or apartment was at the corner of the courtyard wall facing the stairs and next to our neighbors’ rickety kitchen. It was a heavy wooden door, corroded with gaps all around. It had a heavy bolt and about a 20 centimeter-long heavy iron key. The house consisted of a large hallway, one bedroom to the right, one to the left. The floor was covered with raw, shiny, uneven stone tiles, eroded with time, continuous use, and frequent washing with soap and water.

According to tradition, the guest or visitor’s room should be the best room in the house and should contain the best furniture. This is to make an impression (mostly false) of the occupants’ better status and to impress visitors. Our guestroom was the largest (about six by four meters). Its walls were whitewashed. It was airy and sunny with a large window overlooking some neighbor’s roofs, covered with a hand-made curtain, crocheted and embroidered by mother’s needle. It contained the only clothes cupboard, presumably mother’s wedding furniture, a settee of wood along the length of a wall but neatly covered with white clean sheets and embroidered cushions. Along the third wall was a recess in the wall where the spare mattresses and pillows were neatly folded and piled then covered with a white sheet. The room also had half a dozen bamboo chairs the best in the house and a small round table covered with a handmade crouched tablecloth. Few side tables were placed around the settee. This room was a reception area for visitors and was converted at night into a bedroom for overnight guests (on very rare occasions) and permanently for us when we were too old to sleep in our parents’ bedroom. Mattresses were taken down, spread on a reed rug at night for sleeping, then would be folded and neatly stacked and covered in the wall recess every morning. For decorations, the facing wall had two framed photos of father in his youth, handsome, elegant and at his best. The wall also had a flower metal wreath, presumably a wedding gift. We were never allowed to enter or use that room except to sleep. This, in order to keep it as well as the furniture in a presentable condition for visitors.

                                                                                                         November 28, 1999

                                                        Chapter Five

                                                       My Childhood
                                                  --Pre-School Years--
                                             By Mohammad Al Nammari


I was born in Jerusalem in my uncle’s house in “Harat al Nammamreh”, in the modern suburb called Al Bakaa in line with my family’s tradition. Dates and years, at that time, were of no significance. People would date events in relation to other events, such as the big snowfall, or the day it rained very hard, or when there was an earthquake, or the day someone became pregnant with their first child. The authorities were not strict on birth registration, and all babies were delivered through a midwife. My birth certificate is registered as December 22, 1935, but it was inaccurate since, I was told, my father was careless and registered his children months after being born. Therefore, I can say I was born somewhere between the year 1934 and 1936, about one year or so after the death of my older brother, Mohammed, whose name I inherited. Actually my father wanted to name me Zuhair but my mother insisted on Mohammed. It seems they settled on giving me a combined name, Mohammed Zuhair, the only child of the family with this combined naming. Having the name of my dead older brother gave me the advantage of having two birth certificates, both of which were inaccurate. The oldest certificate was used to get me into first grade school one year earlier (I was not yet seven years old, the mandatory age to be accepted, according to my own certificate). The second certificate allowed me years later to enter high school (I was a few months over age, according to my brother’s certificate). Actually I never knew, or cared, how old I was since birthdays were unheard of. I only had a rough estimate of my age until I arrived to the United States, and that was a different story.

According to often heard comments from my parents and uncles, I was a happy child and the prettiest of my brothers and sisters. This caused father, until I grew up, to joke about how they found me as a baby under the bed, and how sometimes he’d say I was the son of a Jewish mother. This never bothered me and I never gave it a thought, even as a child. I recall my older sister used to dress me as a girl when I was little and, thank God I grew out of this deviation quite early, living in a chauvinistic society.

The only recollections I have of my preschool years were pleasant ones. I recall the scene near a seashore, where I stayed for a short time at my uncle’s house in Jaffa, accompanying mother to her brother’s house in Bakaa, walking through the alleys of the old city to Jaffa Gate where we would take bus no. 4 to Bakaa main road, then walk the remaining distance. I also recall how pleasant it was to visit uncle’s modern house where we would be received with affection and be given goodies by aunts. I do vaguely remember my grandfather (on mother’s side) with his voice chanting the morning prayers and the smell of incense. I also vaguely recall my grandmother and her kindness.

In pre-school years I was once sent to a kuttab, a Koranic school, where a religious man taught Arabic, but mainly the Koran. I recall how he used to beat little children on the soles of their feet using the falaka, a wooden harness on the ankles. My father used to joke about how after the first day at that kuttab I told him all the children were from Hebron and I was the only Muslim. My stay didn’t last more than a couple of weeks because I was terrified. During the Second World War, I used to sit on the window sill in our house in the old city and, during a siege (maybe during the civil revolt preceding it), I recall that we hauled bread on a basket from the neighbors courtyard and we could see airplanes flying at low level over the rooftops. In all, I recall of that period only pleasantness and happiness.

                                                                                                         December 12, 1999