התמודדות עם אוטו- עות'מניזם בימי מלחמה: ירושלים במהלך המלחמה העולמית מבעד לעיני תושב מוסלמי מקומי

Int. J. Middle East Stud. 40 (2008), 69–88. Printed in the United States of America DOI: 10.1017/S0020743807080099
Abigail Jacobson
NEGOTIATING OTTOMANISM IN TIMES OF WAR: JERUSALEM DURING WORLD WAR I THROUGH THE EYES OF A LOCAL MUSLIM RESIDENT
In August 1915, in the midst of World War I, a young Muslim resident of Jerusalem wrote the following in his diary:
Will I go to protect my country [watan¯.]? I am not an Ottoman, only in name, but a citizen of the
.
world [muwatani al-– ¯
alam] ...Had the state [dawla] treated me as part of it, it would have been worthwhile for me to give my life to it. However, since the country does not treat me in such way, it is not worthwhile for me to give my blood to the Turkish state [al-dawla al-Turkiyya]. I will happily go [to fight in Egypt?] but not as an Ottoman soldier ... 1
.
The writer, who served as a soldier in the Ottoman army and was based in Jerusalem, wrote these lines as he considered his service to the Ottoman cause and the extent of his willingness to die fighting an Ottoman war. Here he expresses profound frustration and anger at the way the Ottoman Empire, which he perceived as his state, treated him. This entry reflects a deep sense of dislocation and alienation from the collective to which he belongs.
The question of multiplicity of identities and the processes surrounding the negotiation among Ottomanism, Arabism, and local national identities at the end of the empire have been widely discussed in the literature.2 This article attempts to analyze such negotiations at a microlevel by closely observing how one individual, who belonged to the Arab– Ottoman elite circles of Jerusalem, articulated and struggled over these issues.3 Through the reading of this diary and other sources, and by exploring the diarist’s depiction of local and regional developments, this article examines how Ottoman identity and affiliation to the Ottoman collective were negotiated and conceptualized in Jerusalem during World War I. Analysis of this diary and comparison to other sources illuminates the multilayered levels of people’s identities and the ways they played out at this time of crisis.
In the context of Jerusalem, as viewed through the diary, this “identity crisis” was provoked by the arrival of Cemal Pas¸a, minister of the navy and commander of the
Abigail Jacobson is postdoctoral fellow in the Department of Middle Eastern and African Studies, Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv, Israel, and teaches at the Interdisciplinary Center, Herzliya, Israel; e-mail: abigail. jacobson@gmail.com
© 2008 Cambridge University Press 0020-7438/08 $15.00
Fourth Army, to the city and by his harsh treatment of the local population—Muslims, Christians, and Jews alike. Shortly after his arrival, Cemal Pas¸a fired some local Ottoman administrators, such as the military commander, Zeki Bey, as well as the local Muslim mayor, Hussein Selim al-Husayni. Those local bureaucrats, I argue, understood the city’s sensitivities and the dynamic of intercommunal relations, and hence were more sensitive to the needs of Jerusalem’s inhabitants. Cemal Pas¸a’s arrival; the hangings, arrests, and deportations that followed (as they did in Beirut and Damascus); and the acute economic and social crisis in the city accelerated the sense of crisis and gave it urgency.4
The diary discussed here contributes to the existing literature on late Ottoman and World War I Palestine on several levels. It allows us to glance at how ordinary people in Jerusalem experienced and lived through this period of acute crisis and viewed the transformations taking place around them. Moreover, it enables us to follow the growing feelings of detachment, anger, and even betrayal among a group whose experiences of the war are rarely documented, as well as the process of negotiation over identity and affiliation to the Ottoman collective. Given the scarcity of sources that document the Arab experience of wartime Jerusalem (and Palestine in general), this diary is remarkable evidence. It demonstrates the way diaries and autobiographical sources may be treated as sources for microhistorical research.
OTTOMANISM AND ARABISM IN PALESTINE BEFORE AND DURING WORLD WAR I
How did the notions of Ottomanism and Arabism play out in Palestine during the last few decades of Ottoman rule? What were the effects of World War I on these orientations? It is essential to ask these questions before delving into the case study discussed here.
The complex and multilayered nature of identities held by members of the Arab– Ottoman elite during the last decades of the Ottoman Empire has been discussed in several studies.5 As demonstrated by Rashid Khalidi, Ottomanism and Arabism lived side by side and allowed a wide and flexible range of identifications in the Ottoman context. Before 1914 Arabism in general did not imply Arab separatism and did not conflict with loyalty to the Ottoman state. Arabs saw themselves as belonging to the empire, and the differences between Ottomanists and Arabists were issue specific rather than ideological. Arabism at that time did not stand for Arab nationalism, and both Arabists and Ottomanists perceived themselves as Ottoman patriots.6 Many of the urban notables Khalidi discusses in his work, a cadre to which the writer of the diary belonged as well, combined loyalty to the empire with emerging local patriotism.
How did the war affect this complex identity? Several studies have discussed the effects of World War I on the consciousness of local inhabitants in Syria, Lebanon, and Palestine, and on their sense of belonging to the empire. Tarif Khalidi, for example, suggests that the public hangings of Arab nationalists in Beirut and Damascus caused people to start questioning their affiliation to, and identification with, the Ottoman Empire. Ottoman wartime policies provoked sentiments of anger, resentment, and horror that were directed at Cemal Pas¸a.7 Khalidi also identifies widespread apathy among the populations of Syria and Lebanon, which he attributes to the physical vulnerability of people subjected to famine and disease, as well as to a decline in religious belief.8 In this, Khalidi echoes George Antonius, who, in The Arab Awakening, points to Cemal Pas¸a’s acts against the Arabs—in particular the trials and executions of Arab nationalists— and considers them the immediate reason for Sherif Hussein’s declaration of the Arab revolt.9
In his discussion of the formation of Palestinian identity, Rashid Khalidi also credits the war. He attributes the collapse of Ottomanism as transnational ideology (and as a focus of identity) both to the defeat of the Ottoman army and to the withdrawal of Ottoman forces from Arab-speaking lands in 1918. He also discusses the war’s traumatic effects on the local population and claims that the two events that had the most profound impact in Palestine were the Balfour Declaration and Trotsky’s revelation of the Sykes– Picot Agreement.10 Regarding the war years after 1914, Khalidi further argues that the attitudes and identities of the local population in Palestine were transformed rapidly, but he does not further develop this argument.11
The case of Jerusalem during the war, as discussed in a microlevel here, will integrate as well as demonstrate the arguments of all these scholars, but it will also complicate them. The diary I analyze was written by a member of the Arab–Ottoman elite, to borrow Toledano’s terminology, and the process described in the diary portrays the confusion, disorientation, and loss that took place during the war years in Palestine, just before the demise of the Ottoman Empire.12 The actors who took part in this process of change and negotiation among various possible conceptions of identity and affiliation were the writer and his social group, as well as Ottoman administrators and officials, both local and “external.” The local ones were officers who served in Jerusalem and became familiar with the city’s sensitivities and its inhabitants. The external Ottoman administrators, represented first and foremost by Cemal Pas¸a, replaced some of the local Ottoman administrators and signaled the stage at which some of the local population began feeling alienated from the Ottoman collective.
The process of confusion and alienation that I wish to analyze with the help of the diary had two dimensions. Wartime economic and social crisis, exacerbated by atrocities against the local population and changes in Ottoman administration of the city, intensified resentment toward the Ottoman government and its representatives. In some cases this increasing criticism of the government led to a growing feeling of detachment from the Ottoman collective, as seen in the diary analyzed here. This feeling signaled what Rashid Khalidi refers to as the decline of Ottomanism as a uniting transnational ideology. In order to further demonstrate this identity crisis, I will also refer to other autobiographical sources.13
THE DIARY AS A HISTORICAL SOURCE
Who was the writer of this diary? What is the value of one diary as a piece of historical evidence? The identity of the diarist is somewhat mysterious. The cover of the diary identifies “Muhammad –Adil al-Salih, from Jerusalem” as the writer, a man who appears to have left no other record of his life in that city under this name. However, repeated attempts to locate any traces of al-Salih have led to the assumption that the writer was actually Ihsan Tourjman, the son of a clerical family who served in the Ottoman civil service and as translators in the Islamic court of Jerusalem. Tourjman served as a soldier in the Ottoman army under the command of Rus¸en Bey and was based in the Jerusalem headquarters in the Notre Dame compound.14
The 192-page handwritten diary was written in Jerusalem over a period of two years from 1915 to 1916, when Tourjman was in his early twenties. Records indicate that he died in 1917, before he reached the age of twenty-five. Several leads in the diary identify Tourjman as a member of the Arab–Ottoman elite of late-Ottoman Jerusalem. He was related to the Khalidi family on his maternal side.15 His social circle included such well-known Palestinian figures as Khalil al-Sakakini, who was his teacher and mentor, as well as Is–af Nashashibi, Musa al-–Alami, Omar al-Salah (al-Bargouti?), and various members of the Husayni and Khalidi families.16 Al-Sakakini, a well-known educator and intellectual, is frequently mentioned in the diary. Tourjman studied in al-Sakakini’s school, al-Dusturiyya, in 1909, and al-Sakakini became his mentor and close friend. The writer seems to have spent much time with him, in his house, in school, and elsewhere in Jerusalem. Al-Sakakini’s diary writing may have been Tourjman’s inspiration in writing his own.17 Tourjman’s social milieu, then, was the Jerusalem Arab intellectual elite.
Although this diary represents the testimony of a single individual at a specific interval, I do not see it as merely a personal account, but rather as a source that can shed light on the larger social group to which the writer belonged. Because he acted in a specific social and political context, his personal views and dilemmas may reflect his larger environment as well. Such treatment of the diary is methodologically consistent with prevalent academic practice that regards personal narratives and autobiographies as sources for social history. The site of narration represents a moment in history, a sociopolitical space in culture.18 Sidonie Smith, for example, argues, “Consciousness is contextualized, rather than privatized.”19 Amos Funkenstein expresses the same idea when he writes, “Even the most personal memory is not inseparable from its social context ... My own personal identity was constructed by relating to [these] social objects.”20 Such treatment of the diary is similar to the microhistory approach, which focuses on the small-scale unit and serves to expand the knowledge of the historian about a larger unit of analysis. It gives the historian a sense of what it was like to live in the reality of the larger unit of analysis.21
As mentioned previously, Tourjman’s diary is all the more remarkable given the lack of documentation on the Arab experience of wartime Jerusalem. It provides a very rich and vivid description of Jerusalem and the events that took place not only in the writer’s life, but also in the urban environment. Here I will focus on the writer’s process of identity contemplation as it unfolds throughout the diary by examining three central themes: wartime conditions in Jerusalem as experienced by residents, the condition of women and their treatment by Ottoman officials, and political changes that took place in the region and how they affected the writer and his sense of affiliation to the empire. In order to connect the diary to its broader context, I will briefly compare Tourjman’s diary and the picture that it paints to al-Sakakini’s diary. Such a comparison shows that the issues that consumed and upset Tourjman occupied the minds of other members of his community and were not unique to him.
JERUSALEM DURING WORLD WAR I
On the eve of the war, Jerusalem was the largest city in Palestine and its political and cultural center.22 Jerusalem served as a junction for religious, social, cultural, economic, and governmental activities in which Muslim, Jewish, and Christian residents, as well as foreigners, participated. The inhabitants of Jerusalem almost immediately felt the impact of the Ottoman state’s declaration of war at the end of October 1914. The wartime economic crisis, the diminishing supply of gold, the closure of most banks and foreign institutions, and the city’s disconnection from the outside world following the termination of foreign postal services were only the first signs of a larger and prolonged crisis that caused much suffering and hardship for city residents.23 The shutting down of most Palestinian newspapers, both in Hebrew and Arabic, at different times during 1914 and 1915 added to the local population’s growing feeling of disconnection and separation from the outside world.24
When the sea blockade started in 1914, Palestine, which had an economy heavily dependent on international trade, was cut off from its supply lines. The price of flour began to rise as soon as the Ottoman government entered the war.25 The stocks of grain on hand were quickly depleted, and famine started to be felt throughout cities in Palestine and Greater Syria. According to Justin McCarthy, the overall population of Palestine declined by more than six percent during the war, as a result of famine, disease, war casualties, and deportations.26 The harvests during the war years were poor, and in 1915, locusts caused great damage to what was left of the crops and exacerbated the famine.27
On 1 October 1914, even before officially joining the war, the Ottoman government announced the cancellation of the Capitulations, the privileges that foreign subjects en­joyed in the Ottoman Empire. Soon after this, Ottoman authorities tried to reassure people holding foreign citizenship that they need not leave the country. Despite this attempt to create confidence among foreign residents, various countries soon recommended that their citizens and representatives in Palestine (and elsewhere) leave the country. The British consul in Jerusalem, for example, left the city even before the official Ottoman entry into the war. The American consul, Dr. Otis Glazebrook, who stayed in the city throughout most of the war, became the representative of British interests and took care of the belongings of some British subjects. Most of the other foreign consuls, apart from the Russian consul, were deported in November 1914. There was much speculation about whether the government would deport foreign residents in Palestine.28
Military conscription also created great distress and affected life in Jerusalem during the war. The increase in the number of conscripts was gradual, and Ottoman treatment of potential draftees became gradually more severe. In Jerusalem, the first stages of mobilization won the support of most communities in the city, as they viewed army service as a sign of loyalty to the empire. Before the Ottoman Empire officially entered the war, declarations of support for the empire and calls for joining the army were published in various newspapers and posted on walls and billboards throughout the city. In August 1914, for example, on the first day of mobilization of Jewish soldiers into the army, a big parade of drafted soldiers took place in the streets of Jerusalem. Some soldiers reportedly addressed Zeki Bey, the military commander in Jerusalem, saying how proud they were to serve the Ottoman homeland. In turn, Zeki Bey thanked them and ordered the military band to accompany them in the parade. Jews and non-Jews alike were reported to have walked behind the parade, cheering the soldiers and the empire.29
Pressure to enlist grew after the Ottoman Empire joined the war, however, especially after Cemal Pas¸a arrived in Jerusalem, in January 1915, to command the attack on the Egyptian front. It is during this time that the population’s resistance to forced
–
conscription intensified. Although some were able to avail themselves of the badl askar.¯,
–
the exemption fee open to non-Muslims, the badl askar.¯was so high that it created socioeconomic divisions between those who could afford to pay it and those who could not.30 Attempts to escape from military service are described (by locals) as extremely difficult. In his diary Khalil al-Sakakini describes at length his attempts to change his conscription order in order to perform his military service in Jerusalem. He describes his failed attempts, as well as those of Mayor Hussein Selim al-Husayni, to negotiate this issue with Commander Rus¸en Bey.31
Ottoman authorities in Jerusalem did whatever they could to find those avoiding military service. Military policemen searched on foot for draft dodgers and deserters. People hid in attics, basements, synagogues, mosques, and churches, hoping that the police would fail to find them. Some also managed to escape the city and hide elsewhere. The mukht¯
ars and official representatives of different neighborhoods of Jerusalem played an important (and problematic) role in this process, as they were sometimes bribed to keep policemen away from hiding places. Some draft evaders managed to hide throughout the war and came out only when the war was over. Those who were caught were brought to the military court and usually convicted without a trial. The usual punishment was flogging.32 Indeed, mobilization in the army, safarbarlik, seems to be one of the most traumatic experiences of individuals during this time of crisis in Jerusalem, as elsewhere in Greater Syria.33
In short, following the outbreak of war and the involvement of the Ottoman Empire, the inhabitants of Jerusalem began facing different challenges, including a socioeconomic crisis, threats of conscription, and a general feeling of isolation from the outside world. How did people living in the city perceive this new reality at a microlevel?
LIFE IN JERUSALEM THROUGH THE EYES OF A LOCAL RESIDENT
Tourjman describes at length the impact of the war and the hardships it brought to the city. The diary often refers to food shortages and harsh treatment at the hands of some government officials. In his 24 April 1915 entry, for example, the writer reports that he and Khalil al-Sakakini learned from a baker that bread is no longer available. At the end of May, he writes that there are hardly any vegetables in the market—only a few tomatoes and cucumbers.34 His diary reflects a direct connection between the shortage of food and the hardships of the war. It also protests the Ottoman government’s neglect of its subjects. This connection is very clear in a December 1916 entry:
I have never seen such a day in my life ...All [supply] of flour and bread stopped. When I walked to the headquarters [manzil] this morning, I saw many men, women, and children in Bab al-– Amud [looking] for some flour... . I see that the enemy gets stronger than the fellahin ... How poor these people are ...but all of us are miserable these days... . Two days ago we ran out of flour. My father gave my brother – Arif one dirham to buy us bread. He left the house and looked for bread but could not find any. In the end he received some bread for our relatives ...The flour has finished in our country, and it is its main source [of food] ...Isn’t our government committed to [maintaining] the quiet life [well-being] of citizens?35
The writer is very aware that the burden of hunger and misery falls most heavily on the poor. He claims that rich families have stocks large enough to last them a year or longer and asks about the fate of the poor. Yet, he addresses his most vehement blame to the government: “Wasn’t it the duty of the government to store flour so that it would be able to sell it during these difficult days to the poor? ... The government should wake up before the people revolt [against it].”36
Indeed, these signs of dissatisfaction, anger, and frustration at the government’s neglect of the people during this time of crisis are very prominent throughout the diary.37 The writer’s frustration with the government’s policies translates later into a growing animosity, not only toward the government and its representatives, but also toward Ottoman rule as a whole. This frustration leads him to question his own affiliation and solidarity with the empire.
The writer takes an even dimmer view of the corruption and the immoral behavior of some Ottoman officials in the city. During the war, Jerusalem served as a rear base for Ot­toman military forces, mainly for those on their way to the Egyptian front.38 The presence of soldiers, mainly Ottomans and Germans, had an impact on city life at different levels. At various sites throughout the city, Ottoman officials organized parties and celebrations, which involved music, women, and alcohol.39 The writer describes these celebrations very critically and points to them to demonstrate the extent of Ottoman corruption and immorality.40 What he sees as immoral behavior in these celebrations reinforces, as well as reflects, his frustration and growing antagonism toward the government.
On 26 April 1915, the writer describes a celebration that took place in Jerusalem in honor of an unspecified holiday (–¯.d)41:
The city today is decorated in the most beautiful way. All the shops are lighted up in celebration of this holiday. Wouldn’t it be better if the government didn’t do that [the celebration] and [instead] mourned together with its subjects? Wouldn’t it be better to spend this money on the poor and the miserable? This evening, many beautiful women [jami¯– a al-sayyid¯.l¯
at al-jam¯at] from Jerusalem participated in the celebration. There were beverages [mashru¯bat¯] [probably alcoholic] for everyone and music ...but that wasn’t enough, because they invited the prostitutes of Jerusalem [mu¯mis¯
at al-Quds] to attend this celebration. And I was told that there were more than fifty known prostitutes [present] that night. Every officer or amir or pasha took either one or two or more women and walked in the garden ...The men are telling the secrets of the state to these women without noticing, because they are drunk. ... The days of happiness change to sadness, and the days of sadness change to happiness ...when we are happy we think about our brothers the Turks in the Dardanelles front.42
Such parties were not uncommon during the war. Other writers refer to similar events (some of which probably took place in al-Manshiyya, Jerusalem’s large public garden), where alcohol (and hashish) were often available.43 Some of these celebrations aimed to mark Ottoman victories (or claimed victories), some to collect money for charity, and some to promote the government authority. The writer, however, views these parties as decadent and immoral, especially in a time of war, and they raise his ire. His reference to prostitutes appears elsewhere in the diary and is also significant, as will be discussed later.
The writer’s attitude toward the government in light of such celebrations is noteworthy. The celebration of April 1915 happened to coincide with a locust attack on Jerusalem, which may explain his bitterness, anger, and frustration. These complaints regarding the government’s uninterest in the poor are repeated in other places in the diary and grow harsher as the war continues. Yet, despite his alienation from the government, he sympathizes with the Ottoman soldiers fighting on the front; after all, he was a soldier. Later in the diary, as his resentment toward the empire grows, he no longer refers to his fellow soldiers in such a sympathetic way.
Another example of Tourjman’s criticism of the government appears in an entry on 27 July 1915. While referring to German victories in the war and the Ottoman government’s celebration of them, he writes,
Whenever Germany wins we are happy, but we [the Ottoman forces] never win. It is always our allies, the Germans [who win], and whenever they win we are happy. When the Germans win, the government decorates the streets and celebrates. This time the streets are even more decorated than [they were] the day we entered Egypt. Instead of being happy we should cry, and we should be aware of what is good for the nation [umma] and the country. Instead of celebrating we should think about something that will bring success back to us and improve our situation in the world. We should think about the social situation these days and the condition of the poor. That night [of the celebration] we have spent all this money while the poor need help and support. Instead of wasting our money on candles and fireworks, we should have spent the money on charity. But who should we complain to? We should cry and weep about our problems and hardships.44
Here again, Tourjman’s anger at the way the government spent money on celebrations at the expense of its obligations toward the poor is very clear. The first priority of the government was not the well-being of its subjects, he laments. His frustration is aggravated by the fact that government officials celebrated German rather than Ottoman victories. Again, there is some ambivalence in his approach. On one hand, he harshly criticizes the government, but on the other, he still refers to himself as part of the Ottoman collective. He uses the first plural form in his writing (“we,” “us”), which suggests that he still views himself as a loyal subject, part of the Ottoman collective.
PROSTITUTES, WAR, AND THE CITY
As the description of the party indicates, the situation of women was another issue that bothered Tourjman and contributed to his ongoing frustration with Ottoman authorities. Women are yet another undocumented group in the history of wartime Jerusalem and wartime Palestine in general, and hence Tourjman’s contribution on women’s condition, even if he focuses mainly on the phenomenon of prostitution, is important.
As Elizabeth Thompson indicates in her own research, gender, as an analytical cate­gory, helps tie aspects of social and economic change directly to political developments. Gender-related issues connect tensions at home, in the private sphere, to those in society as a whole and could easily mobilize mass sentiments, as was the case in postwar Syria and Lebanon. When analyzing the effects of World War I on future developments of what Thompson calls “the colonial civic order,” she demonstrates how the war had shaken paternal authority and challenged the definitions of family and community as people knew them.45 Indeed, some of the same effects were evident in Jerusalem.
One issue that Tourjman mentions in his diary is prostitutes and their poor condition. The existence of prostitutes in Jerusalem is not surprising considering that there were so many military forces in the city at a time of poor economic conditions. However, their presence seems to have created discontent among residents. Their presence was very obvious in the city, judging by Tourjman’s reflections and descriptions in his diary. As Jens Hanssen argues regarding prostitutes in late 19th-century Beirut,46 in Jerusalem, too, they were considered social outcasts.
The deteriorating condition of women, and the existence of prostitutes in Jerusalem, was for Tourjman yet another factor in his estrangement from the government and the empire. He discusses prostitution on several occasions, in the context of celebrations and also in relation to the war’s effects on women and on gender roles in the family and the community. Moreover, he describes the way in which war and economic hardship brought dishonor, rape, and prostitution to poor women and young girls.47 In September 1915, he writes,
I see women begging for money while carrying their children with them. My heart breaks. Some respectable women gave up their honor in order to help their children. Our condition now is the worst in terms of hunger. The men are in war, and this is one of the hardest times.48
For the writer, prostitution was a direct result of the hardships of war. The draft only worsened the economic situation of women, who were left alone to support their families. Prostitution was the only means of survival for some of them.49 As the writer mentions several times in his diary, some prostitutes were Jewish, but there were Muslim and Christian prostitutes as well. At one point the writer mentions rumors that Cemal Pas¸a is about to marry a Jewish woman from the “private prostitutes,” possibly a woman named Leah Tenenbaum from Jerusalem. He criticizes Cemal Pas¸a for this and says he is not worthy of leadership.50 In the description of the party that took place in Jerusalem, Tourjman mentions drunken officers who reveal secrets to the prostitutes who accompany them. Perhaps some prostitutes were employed by the British to spy on their clients, many of who were military officials.51
The writer is greatly concerned with the situation of women and particularly with their low status. He criticizes men for their ill treatment of women and writes about the importance of women’s education. For example, on 1 April 1915, after describing the Nebi Musa celebrations in Jerusalem, he mentions women who were not able to buy food and clothes as was customary at this time of year, due to the economic crisis. He continues,
I feel sorry for the Muslim women. I feel that all women on earth are humiliated, especially Muslim women, but even European and American women. Thank God for not being born a woman! I don’t know what would have happened if I was born a woman ... 52
In another entry, at the end of the month, Tourjman again expresses the importance of women, and of women’s education, to society in general. The hijab is a barrier (m¯)
ani –
to women’s progress and has to be taken off gradually, not suddenly, he writes.
How can we [Arab society] progress while our second half, the women, is j¯
ahil [ignorant, uneducated]? How can we live when part of our body is paralyzed? We have to teach her, teach her, teach her and then we will be able to reach modernization. It won’t do us any good if only men are educated and women are uneducated. Before teaching our children we have to teach
53
our women.
Tourjman’s concerns focus not only on the condition of women due to the war crisis, but also on their status in society. Regarding the latter, he expresses a dual position. On the one hand, Tourjman openly criticizes his own male-dominated society for its treatment of women. He blames Muslim Arab society for being indifferent to women’s conditions and especially to women’s lack of education. He views women’s education as a key to the progress of the entire society.54 On the other hand, when it comes to his own life, while expressing his wish to marry his beloved girlfriend, Tourjman also admits that he is looking for an educated Muslim woman who would also be able to handle housework. In his words, “I don’t want someone who can play the piano but doesn’t know how to handle housework.”55
The diary allows us a glimpse into the challenges that women faced during the war. Some issues discussed in the diary, in particular the ways women were abused and dishonored in times of war, have been widely addressed in the literature on the European experience of World War I and the effects of the war on the civilian population. In particular, the connection between gender, national identity, and war’s effects on women is a subject prominent in research. The fate of women is usually associated with the nation’s future, and atrocities against them in times of war are viewed as a means to hurt the enemy.56 In the case discussed here, the writer uses the poor condition of many women in Jerusalem in general, and the existence of prostitution in particular, not so much to discuss the nation’s future but to castigate the government for its failure to protect women and other vulnerable members of society. The woman’s abused body represents a grave insult not only for the woman herself, but also for society at large. For the writer, the condition of women and their treatment by the government were yet other reasons to castigate the Ottoman state.
“BY GOD THE NATION DIED ...”
The writer’s criticism of the government became even more pronounced as the war progressed and as Cemal Pas¸a’s treatment of the local population became increasingly severe. After hearing that the Ottoman government had arrested “our Christian brothers” on the pretext that they were discussing politics and endangering the state, Tourjman writes that he does not understand what the government was trying to achieve by this and whether it was just looking for revenge.57 While discussing the effects of war on Jerusalem residents and the inefficient ways in which the government was handling the acute crisis, he goes so far as to criticize “the despotic, cruel, and stupid government which does not know how to handle and manage the life of its citizens.”58 Relating to his own condition as a soldier, he mentions that some of his relatives were killed in the war and condemns the ways Jews and Christians were humiliated in their service in Ottoman-army labor battalions. He argues strongly against the morality of war and against military commanders who were taking advantage of soldiers and citizens to fulfill their own ambitions.59
Later in the diary, the writer distinguishes between Arab and Ottoman nations and gradually distances himself from the Ottoman one. He talks about the tribulations that “my race, the patriotic (or nationalist) Arab” (jins¯.al-– Arab al-wataniyy¯.n) was going through and wonders why people are so tolerant of the Turkish government. People are slaves and are allowing the government to “play” with them, he claims.60 People were
.
continuing to be silent even when the government was doing everything it could to harm them, such as threatening to expel those who tried to escape military service or those involved in local politics. He goes on to censure his fellow citizens for not revolting against the government, although, to be sure, he did not publicly defy the government either. On the contrary, he continued to serve as a soldier, albeit not as a combatant. At the same time, he registers in his diary his private moments of defiance. Returning to the subject of the government, he again distinguishes between the Ottoman and Arab nations:
Aren’t the disasters [waylat¯] that this government caused the Arab and Ottoman nations [li-l­umma al-– Arabiyya wa-li-l-umma al-– aniyya] enough? They [the Ottomans] claim that the
Uthm¯homeland [watan] is in danger, but [in fact] it is in danger because of them [the Ottomans] and
.
their actions [toward us].61
Here his criticism becomes more charged as he accuses the government of putting the nation and the citizenry in danger. The writer’s language indicates that he distances himself from the Ottoman government but also continues to distinguish between the government and Ottoman subjects, saying that the latter are victims of their own gov­ernment.
Following the hangings of Arab nationalists in Beirut in 1915, the writer disengages himself completely from the empire:
The government killed eleven people, but they were worth more than 11,000 people. They were killed because they demanded reforms, they were killed in Beirut, which is “the mother of the Arab country” [umm al-bilad al-¯– Arab¯.], but no one said a word—people were afraid for their lives. The government killed the best of our young men [shababin¯a¯]. By God the nation died [wall¯
ahi al-umma m¯...
atat] ... You [the dead] should know that the Arab nation will not forget you The death of these people will be repaid. The government claimed that you are traitors, but you are not. You are loyal to your nation, country, and family.62
By now his orientation is clear: he strongly supports the Arab national cause and refers to the men who were hanged as “our young men.” He expresses deep despair at the impact of their deaths on the Arab nation (“the nation died”), promises to remember those who died, and swears to avenge their deaths. None of this, however, prevents him from criticizing the “people,” his fellow citizens, for their failure to rise against the empire.
On 15 September 1915, out of great anger and frustration the writer directly addresses Enver Pas¸a and Cemal Pas¸a:
Enver and Cemal ...the homeland is in danger [al-watan fi al-khatar], and you are dreaming! ...
..What do you want from this war? Do you want to rule the world and occupy it [tumliku al­
– ¯a], or do you want to return to your old glory [amj¯.m]? You have
alam wa-taftahuh¯adkum al-qad¯
. brought disaster to your homeland [wayl li-watanikum], which you claim that you want to free ...
.
––
Germany cheated you ... Greetings to you and your country [fa-sal¯alaykum wa-al¯
am a bil¯
adkum].63
Again, it is important to notice the words that the writer uses: “homeland” (watan) and,
.later, simply “country” (bil¯
ad). He is very cynical when asking if the Ottoman rulers want to rule and occupy the world. Again, his distance from the government is clear when he writes “your country” and not “our country.”
Toward the very end of his diary, on 10 July 1916, the writer voices his harshest criticism toward the government in support of Arab nationalism, specifically toward the “men of the Hijaz.” In a very angry and impulsive tone, he writes,
The Ottomans killed our sons, offended our honor—why would we like to remain under it [the empire]? ...Every Arab is zealous for his race. It is enough for us! The silence of this state while facing what is happening to us shows its weakness. It [the government] hanged people in the streets. When they did that, they believed that they would weaken the hope of the Arab nation, but they didn’t know that there are men behind them [those who died] who will protect the Arab nation. It was their best opportunity for revenge. Yes, they died, and the Palestinians and Syrians
–
didn’t say a word [lam yanbatbint shif a] ... The Arabs will harass the Ottoman government
. until it gets out of the Arab countries [al-bil¯Arabiyya], humiliated as it got out of any other
ad al-– place... . God bless you, Sharif Hussein, and hurt those who try to hurt you. You Arabs proved to the world that you are men who refuse to be humiliated and proved to God that you are the sons of Arab ancestors. You proved that you protect your Arab nation in your life for ending up [nukhlis] the barbaric Ottoman nation [al-umma al-barbariyya al-– aniyya].64
Uthm¯.
The writer does not mince words here in expressing his feelings toward the Ottoman state and his admiration for Sharif Hussein, who led the Arab revolt. Despite the criticism that he voices repeatedly against his fellow citizens (here he mentions specifically Syrians and Palestinians), he expresses great respect for “the Arabs” who would rebel against the Ottoman state, or as he calls it, “the barbaric Ottoman nation.” Particularly interesting are the national distinctions the writer makes here. Not only does he distinguish between Ottomans and Arabs, but he also treats Syrians and Palestinians as a separate category. His mention of Palestine is not surprising considering that a separate Palestinian national identity had already begun to take shape in the years preceding the war.65 Throughout the diary he refers to Palestine as an entity separated from Syria and Egypt and does not view it as part of Greater Syria.66 Hence, he seems to be developing a local Palestinian identity but criticizes Palestinians for not rising against the Ottomans. Simultaneously, he also refers to himself as part of “the Arabs.”
The trajectory of Tourjman’s perceptions outlined here—distancing himself from the Ottoman state and moving toward overlapping Arab and local (Palestinian) foci of identity—goes hand in hand with Rashid Khalidi’s analysis of the different stages through which Palestinian identity has evolved. According to Khalidi, in the first stage, before World War I, a unique Palestinian identity competed and overlapped with other foci of identity, such as Arabism and Ottomanism. After the war, many Arabs shared a sense of common Palestinian identity.67 This article has attempted to scrutinize this transition and transformation—to look into the war years as a critical moment during which those foci of identity began to conflict and crystallize, and to demonstrate how a young man from Jerusalem gradually moved away from Ottomanism and began to identify with Palestinian and Arab nationalism.
TOURJMAN AND AL -SAKAKINI COMPARED
In order to contextualize the views and feelings expressed in Tourjman’s diary, it is important to expand the analysis by viewing how other writers dealt with the issues bothering Tourjman. One example I have mentioned briefly throughout the article, Bahjat and Tamimi’s report on their 1916–17 journey in the province of Beirut. A comparison with Bahjat and Tamimi is somewhat problematic, however, because their report focuses on a different locale (the province of Beirut), was written for a special purpose (an official report to the Ottoman governor), and is different in nature from a diary. The most obvious source for comparison is Khalil al-Sakakini’s diary, both because of its structural similarity (diary, autobiographic writing) and the geographical and social position of the writer (Jerusalem, Arab elite). Al-Sakakini is mentioned extensively in Tourjman’s diary. He was both Tourjman’s mentor and personal friend and served as a source of inspiration. Al-Sakakini kept a diary for many years, but during the war years the diary was not full; there are no entries between 4 April 1915 and 1 November 1917.68
Al-Sakakini’s humanist writing expresses his great concern about religious tensions in the empire following the declaration of jihad. Al-Sakakini questions his own identity and position within the Ottoman collective, as well as national affiliation in general, but his writings on these issues do not express the same level of anger and frustration as those of Tourjman.
An interesting example of al-Sakakini’s perception of nationalism appeared on 26 March 1915, when he was convinced that he was about to be deported from Jerusalem after his failed attempt to pay the redemption fee. This statement resembles Tourjman’s (being a citizen of the world), but al-Sakakini’s is more influenced by his humanist approach. Al-Sakakini writes,
What is my crime? I think that I am guilty of two things: first, being a Christian, and as far as they [the Ottoman authorities] know, Christians are supportive of England, France, and Russia; and secondly, because I am the director of a school in which I preach according to the national spirit.... It is very possible that they want to deport me so that I will stop [being the director of] my school and by this will be punished for being a Christian and an Arab ... The only things I can say here are as follows: I am not Christian and not Buddhist, not Muslim and not Jewish. Just as I am not Arab, or British, not German and not Turkish. I am just one among humankind [an¯ad hadhihi al-ins¯
a fard min afr¯aniyya] ...I was derived to live in this society, and I strive to awake it ... If nationalism means to love life—then I am a nationalist. But if it means to prefer one religion over the other, one language over the other, one city over the other, and one interest over the other—then I am not a nationalist, and that’s all.69
On 20 November 1917, after three years of war, al-Sakakini reflects on the meaning of national affiliation during wartime, as well as on his own location/position in the war. He criticizes himself for too much concern with his own well-being. More importantly, he writes that he does not like the war and that he would like to be on the side of justice—not to support the Ottomans because he is Ottoman or to support the British because he admires them. He expresses anger about the role that national affiliation plays in wartime, especially in relation to the treatment of injured and captive soldiers. They need to be treated well regardless of their nationality, he writes, and despite his hatred of war, he needs to help them, as a human being.70 This is another example of al-Sakakini’s humanist approach. He attempts to differentiate between belonging to a certain collective and higher obligations of humanism.
One issue that greatly upsets al-Sakakini is the religious tension that resulted from the empire’s declaration of jihad.71 Al-Sakakini expresses this concern even before the call for jihad, on 17 September 1914, remarking that one of the biggest problems of war in Palestine was the weakening of the relationship between Muslims and Christians.72 When the Ottoman government declared jihad, al-Sakakini writes that this call arouses old sentiments and feelings.73 A few days later, on 9 November, he adds that the war created animosity between Muslims and Christians and that this animosity would remain for generations to come.74
His strongest statement about the impact of jihad on religious tensions in the country appears on 18 November 1914. The call for jihad would have been justified had the Ottoman Empire been forced to enter the war, he writes. However, it entered the war voluntarily, just to help Germany and Austria–Hungary. It fought together with Christian states, and its Muslim soldiers fought side by side with Jewish and Christian soldiers.
–
The call for jihad was meant only to help the Turkish race ( unsur) and to strengthen its
.
rule, not to defend Islam. This jihad would harm the Muslim world more than it would help it, because Christian nations would call for a similar war and give neutral countries a reason to enter the conflict.75
The Ottoman Empire’s policies are clearly criticized here. However, in general, al­Sakakini’s views toward the empire and its policies seem to change over time. At the beginning of the war, al-Sakakini reflects on his own affiliation to the empire. He praises the Turks (not Ottomans) and the support they received from the people, while criticizing the Arabs, who had no hopes.76 However, as the war progressed, and especially after realizing that the government falsely claimed victories, he starts doubting all the news that reaches him, calling it rumors and false information. He writes, “There is no doubt that a nation that allows itself to do that [spread fake news] is a despised nation and has lost its mind and is limited in vision [umma munhat.a mukht.alat al-shu –u¯rqa¯sirat al-nazar].”77
.
.
In his diary al-Sakakini expresses frustration toward the government, the war, and its effects on the empire and especially on intercommunal feelings. However, his criticism is different from Tourjman’s, less explicit and less firm. This probably stemmed from several differences between the two: al-Sakakini, a Christian intellectual, belonged to a religious minority, and Tourjman, a young Muslim, fell in the majority. In addition, Tourjman served as a soldier and al-Sakakini did not. Despite these differences, the comparison between Tourjman and al-Sakakini demonstrates the sort of contemplations about identity taking place at this critical time within Arab–Ottoman elite circles in Jerusalem.
CONCLU SION
Through a microanalysis of the diary written by Ihsan Tourjman during World War I, this article has highlighted and analyzed how people who belonged to the Jerusalem Arab–Ottoman elite experienced and viewed the war and how they perceived their own positions within the Ottoman Empire. I have focused mainly on the ways multilayered levels of identity were negotiated and debated following internal and external changes at the time.
The diary here serves as a unique and valuable testimony that sheds light on life in Jerusalem at a critical period of the city’s (and region’s) history. It reveals how the economic and social crises affected people living in the city and delves into the hardships of women and the phenomenon of prostitution. It scrutinizes how political changes, as well as Ottoman policies and treatment of the local population, affected how people viewed their own positions within the context of the empire. It also alludes to ways socioeconomic and religious differences in the context of war affected people’s experiences of the crisis. Moreover, it may serve as a case study for examining a larger process of transformation that took place at the time, both in people’s affiliation to a larger collective and with regard to future dramatic political developments.
The war, I suggest, was a central event in the history of Palestine and Greater Syria. As Elizabeth Thompson suggested about Syria and Lebanon, in Palestine the war was crucial not only politically, but also socially, changing dynamics among Jews, Muslims, and Christians. The discussion of the diary may hence serve as a starting point for a broader discussion of the various impacts of World War I on Palestinian society.
As mentioned, I view the diary as more than one individual’s account. It is a source that highlights the experience of one particular group in Jerusalem, the Arab elite, at this particular moment. In order to strengthen this testimony, I briefly compared it to a similar source written by a member of the same group, the diary of Khalil al-Sakakini, who experienced and contemplated similar issues, although his emphasis was slightly different. Unlike Tourjman, for example, al-Sakakini was troubled by interreligious tensions in the empire caused by the war, probably due to his own position as a Christian Arab intellectual. However, he, too, dedicated much of his writing to questions of identity and affiliation to the empire, as well as to meanings of national affiliation.
The analysis of this diary, as well as of similar sources, demonstrates the ways identities were negotiated and debated at the demise of empire. People’s affiliation to the Ottoman collective allowed for multilayered, blurry, and flexible foci of identity to exist side by side. For some people, however, wartime trauma and the empire’s treatment of its subjects created a deep, personal “identity crisis,” during which they began questioning their affiliation and loyalty to the empire.
In the case discussed here, affiliation with and connection to the Ottoman Empire were challenged and negotiated in light of other possible foci of identity, such as feeling Palestinian or part of Greater Syria. The diary may demonstrate, in the Palestinian context, the same transition from identification with a “local-Ottoman” elite to a “local elite” that Toledano analyzed in relation to Egypt. This brings back the question of continuity and change in the context of World War I, and the impact of the demise of the Ottoman Empire on people’s sense of citizenship and connection to a larger unit of identification. Using an autobiographical source such as a diary allows us an intimate glance into the lives and personal contemplations of people over such crucial and intimate questions, in a dramatic and difficult period in their lives as well as in the history of the Ottoman Empire.
NOTES
Author’s note: I thank the four anonymous IJMES reviewers for their helpful comments and suggestions. I also thank Rashid Khalidi, Holly Shissler, Salim Tamari, Najwa al-Qattan, Ela Greenberg, and Mira Tzoreff for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this article. A version of this article was presented at The Roots of Liberal Thought in the Eastern Mediterranean Conference, in Erlangen, Germany, in 2005.
–
1Yawmiyat Muhammad Adil al-Salih min Ahl al-Quds, 1915–1916, Jewish National and University Library– Manuscript Collection (JNUL-M), AP Ar. 46, 132–133 (10 August 1915). All translations of the diary entries are mine. In the following I refer to the diary as Yawmiyat.
2The debate on the origins and development of Arabism and Ottomanism began after George Anto­nius’s important book, The Arab Awakening: The Story of the Arab Nationalist Movement (Philadelphia, Pa.:
J. B. Lippincott, 1939). A critical review of the state of research on the subject can be found in Rashid Khalidi, “Arab Nationalism: Historical Problems in the Literature,” American Historical Review 96 (December 1991): 1363–73. See also Rashid Khalidi, Lisa Anderson, Muhammad Muslih, and Reeva S. Simon, eds., The Origins of Arab Nationalism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). The debate over the Ottoman heritage in the history and historiography of the Arab Middle East is an ongoing discussion, and reflects an attempt to uncover the history of the region by using local, both Ottoman and Arabic, sources, while emphasizing the Ottoman background of the Arab provinces. See Albert Hourani, “The Ottoman Background of the Modern Middle East,” the third Carreras Arab lecture of the University of Essex, delivered on 25 November 1969. For a critique of what he calls “the Localist–Arabist version of Ottoman provincial history,” which underemphasizes the Ottoman context of the Arab Middle East, see Ehud R. Toledano, “The Emer­gence of Ottoman–Local Elites (1700–1900): A Framework for Research,” in Middle Eastern Politics and Ideas: A History from Within, ed. Ilan Papp´
e and Moshe Maoz (London: Tauris Academic Studies, 1997), 145–62.
3In referring to the social group that the writer belonged to, and to the process of negotiation of identity and sense of connection to the Ottoman Empire, I borrow the idea of “Arab–Ottoman elite” suggested by Ehud Toledano in relation to Egypt. This concept highlights the links between the local (Arab) and the larger (Ottoman) context of the period under discussion. In the case of Egypt, when analyzing the amnesia regarding Egypt’s Ottoman past, Toledano describes a process of transition from an Ottoman–Egyptian elite (with a strong connection to the empire but also a sense of local Egyptian solidarity) to an Egyptian–Ottoman elite toward the beginning of the 20th century (when the Egyptian factor became stronger than the Ottoman one, although links to the empire still existed). The demise of the empire turned this group into an Egyptian one, which underplayed and eventually erased Egypt’s Ottoman past. The process that is analyzed in this article is placed at the “junction” of the transition between the “local-Ottoman” to the “local elite.” The writer’s strong links and sense of belonging to the empire begin to be shaken following the war, as will be discussed. See Toledano, “The Emergence of Ottoman-Local Elites,” and idem, “Forgetting Egypt’s Ottoman Past,” in Cultural Horizons: A Festschrift in Honor of Talat S. Halman, vol. 1, ed. Jayne L. Warner (Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 2001), 150–67.
4Cemal Pas¸a arrived in Jerusalem in January 1915. His activities as commander of the Fourth Army in Greater Syria had various dimensions. On the one hand, he was deeply invested and involved in reshaping the civil and military infrastructure of Greater Syria through construction of roads and buildings and through creation of educational and cultural institutions. On the other hand, he was known as a cruel leader who was behind the hangings of suspected national activists—Jews, Christians, and Muslims in Beirut, Damascus, and Jerusalem—as well as the deportations of foreign subjects or those believed to be a risk to the Ottoman cause. For more on the evaluation of Cemal Pas¸a’s years in greater Syria and Ottoman policy during World War I, see Hasan Kayali, “Wartime Regional and Imperial Integration of Greater Syria during World War I,” in The Syrian Land: Processes of Integration and Fragmentation, ed. Thomas Philipp and Birgit Schaebler (Stuttgart, Germany: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1998), 295–306. There are some brief mentions of Jerusalem in Cemal Pas¸a’s memoir. See Djemal Pasha, Memories of a Turkish Statesman, 1913–1919 (New York: Arno Press, 1973),
204.
5See, for example, Rashid Khalidi, Palestinian Identity: The Construction of Modern National Conscious­ness (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997); Rashid Khalidi, “Ottomanism and Arabism in Syria before 1914: A Reassessment,” in Khalidi et al., The Origins of Arab Nationalism, 50–69; and Hasan Kayali, Arabs and Young Turks: Ottomanism, Arabism and Islamism in the Ottoman Empire, 1908–1918 (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1997). For an interesting demonstration of the complexity of identity in the writings of two Arab–Ottoman bureaucrats who reported from the province (wil¯
aya) of Beirut in 1916 and 1917, see Avi Rubin, “Bahjat ve-Tamimi be-Vilayat Beirut: Masa el Toda – atam shel Shney Nos – im Otmanim be-Reshit ha-Me – a ha-Esrim” (Bahjat and Tamimi in Wilayat Beirut: A Journey into the Worldviews of Two Ottoman Travelers at the Turn of the 20th Century) (master’s thesis, Ben Gurion University, Israel, 2000).
6Khalidi, “Ottomanism and Arabism in Syria before 1914,” 61–63.
7Tarif Khalidi, “The Arab World,” in The Great War 1914–1917: The People’s Experience, ed. Peter Liddle, John Bourne, and Ian Whitehead (London: Harper Collins, 2001), 293–98.
8Ibid., 298.
9Antonius, The Arab Awakening, 185–91.
10Rashid Khalidi, Palestinian Identity, 157–60.
11Ibid., 160–61.
12See note 3.
13The diary was written over a period of two years. Hence, the contemplations and doubts discussed in this article are limited to this period, although I assume they represent only the beginning of a longer and deeper process that continued as the war progressed.
14Salim Tamari, from the Institute of Jerusalem Studies, recently identified the writer as Ihsan Tourjman after we failed to locate al-Salih, whose name appears on the title page of the original manuscript. What led Tamari to this discovery, as well as further analysis of Tourjman’s writings, is described in the introduction of the transcribed and edited version of the diary. See Salim Tamari, – Am al-Jarrad (The Year of the Locust) (Beirut: Institute of Palestine Studies, forthcoming). See also Salim Tamari, “The Short Life of Private Ihsan,” Jerusalem Quarterly 30 (2007): 26–58. Following these recent discoveries, for the purpose of this article I will refer to the diarist as Ihsan Tourjman and not as Muhammad – Adil al-Salih.
15Sa – ad al-Din al-Khalidi, Ghalib al-Khalidi, and Muhammad Tawfiq al-Khalidi are all mentioned through­out the text as his uncles on his maternal side, kh¯
al. However, neither al-Salih’s nor Tourjman’s name appears in the Khalidi family tree, perhaps because maternal relations were often not fully documented.
16Musa al-– Alami was born in 1897 to a notable family in Jerusalem. After completing his law degree at Cambridge University, he held several important positions in the British Mandatory administration and was very active in Palestinian political life in the 1930s and 1940s. Is – af Nashashibi was born in Jerusalem in 1882 and received his education in Beirut. After World War I, he was a leader of al-Muntada al-Adabi, one of the Arab national and literary organizations that were established after the war. A writer and an intellectual, he wrote many books and articles and also served in the Department of Education of the British Mandatory government in Palestine.
17Tamari, – Am al-Jarrad, 15–16.
18Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson, Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives (Minneapolis, Minn.: University of Minnesota Press, 2001), 56. For an example of such a use of autobiography, see Mira Tzoreff, “Fadwa Tuqan’s Autobiography: Restructuring a Personal History into the Palestinian National Narrative,” in Discourse on Gender/Gendered Discourse in the Middle East, ed. Boaz Shoshan (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2000), 57–77.
19Sidonie Smith, “Who’s Talking/Who’s Talking Back? The Subject of Personal Narratives,” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 18 (1993): 396.
20Amos Funkenstein, Tadmit ve-Toda – a Historit ba-Yahadut ube-Svivatah ha-Tarbutit (Perceptions of Jewish History from the Antiquity to the Present) (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1991), 14.
21Iris Agmon, “Women, Class and Gender: Muslim Jaffa and Haifa at the Turn of the 20th Century,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 30 (1998): 481, as quoted in Rubin, “Bahjat and Tamimi in Wilayat Beirut,” 23. Rubin uses the episodic microhistory approach in his analysis of writings about and impressions of Bahjat and Tamimi.
22See more on Jerusalem during these years in Alexander Sch¨olch, “Jerusalem in the 19th Century (1831– 1917 AD),” in Jerusalem in History, ed. K. J. Asali (New York: Olive Branch Press, 2000), 228–33; Donna Robinson Divine, “Palestine in World War I,” in The Middle East and North Africa: Essays in Honor of J. C. Hurewitz, ed. Reeva S. Simon (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990), 71–94. Estimates of the population in Jerusalem (and Palestine) during this period vary between 49,000 and 70,000. See more on population figures in Yehoshua Ben Arieh, “The Growth of Jerusalem in the Nineteenth Century,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 65 (1975); Uziel Schmelz, Ukhlusiyat Yerushalayim: Tmurot ba
–
Et ha-Hadasha (Modern Jerusalem: Demographic Evolution) (Jerusalem: The Jerusalem Institute for Israel Studies, 1988), 17; Justin McCarthy, The Population of Palestine: Population History and Statistics of the Late Ottoman Period and the Mandate (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990), 10–24; David Grossman, Ha-Ukhlusiyah ha-– Aravit ve-ha-Maachaz ha-Yehudi: Tifroset ve-Tzfifut be-Eretz Israel be-Shalhey ha-Tkufa ha-Othmanit u-Bitkufat ha-Mandat ha-Briti (Arab Demography and Early Jewish Settlement in Palestine: Distribution and Population Density during the Late Ottoman and Early Mandate Periods) (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2004).
23See more on the effects of the war on Jerusalem in Zvi Shiloni, “Mashber Milhemet ha-– Olam ha-Rishona ve-Hashpa – ato – al ha-Ma – arach shel Yerushalayim ve-ha-Yishuv ha-Yehudi Ba” (The Crisis of World War I and its Effects on the Urban Environment in Jerusalem and its Jewish Community) (master’s thesis, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1981). On the effects of the war on the Jewish community in Jerusalem and Palestine, see Mordechai Ben-Hillel Hacohen, Milhemet ha-– Amim 1914–1918: Yoman (War of the Nations: an Eretz Israel Diary, 1914–1918) (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben Zvi, 1981); Avraham Elmaliach, Eretz Yisrael ve-Suriyah bi-Yemey Milehemt ha-– Olam (Eretz Israel and Syria during the First World War) (Jerusalem: ha-Solel, 1928).
24The Arabic newspaper al-Karmil, for example, was shut down in December 1914, and its editor, Najib Nassar, was arrested because of the anti-Ottoman and Arab nationalistic views that the newspaper expressed, according to Ottoman authorities. Hebrew newspapers, such as ha-Ahdut and ha-Po – el ha-Tza – ir, were shut down as well—ha-Ahdut in December 1914 and ha-Po – el ha-Tza – ir in November 1915. They were accused of Zionist propaganda and of publishing anti-Ottoman articles. The only Hebrew newspaper that continued to operate until 1917 was ha-Herut, a newspaper affiliated with Jerusalem’s Sephardi community. It continued to operate until 1917, when its editor, Haim Ben »Attar, was arrested by the Ottoman authorities and died.
– ––
On Ben-– Attar and ha-Herut see Yitzhak Betzalel, “ Al Yihudo shel ha-Herut» ve-al Haim Ben-– Attar ke-– Orkho” (On the Significance of ha-Herut and on Haim Ben-– Attar as its Editor), Pe – amim 40 (1989): 121–47.
25One can learn about the steep increase in prices from a report published by Otis Glazebrook, the American consul in Jerusalem, in November 1915. This report sums up the economic situation in the district of Jerusalem following the sea blockade, the famine, and the locusts. Glazebrook provides a list of articles and demonstrates the increase in their prices. For example, the price of rice increased by 598 percent from 1914 to 1915, the price of sugar by 858 percent, and the price of potatoes by 427 percent. See Otis Glazebrook to the U.S. State Department, “Increase in Cost of Living Caused by War,” 3 November 1915, consular correspondence, American consulate in Jerusalem, record group 84, vol. 72, National Archives at College Park, College Park, Md. (NACP).
26McCarthy, Population, 26.
27On the effects of famine in Greater Syria, see Linda Schatkowski Schilcher, “The Famine of 1915–1918 in Greater Syria,” in Problems of the Modern Middle East in Historical Perspective: Essays in Honour of Albert Hourani, ed. John Spagnolo (Dryden, N.Y.: Ithaca Press, 1992), 229–58.
28Bertha Spafford Vester, Our Jerusalem: An American Family in the Holy City, 1881–1949 (Jerusalem: Ariel, 1992), 194–95; Ben Hillel Hacohen, Milhemet ha-– Amim, 32–37. The Spanish consul stayed in the city as well and was in charge of other countries’ interests.
29As reported in ha-Herut, 7 August 1914.
30Gad Frumkin, Derekh Shofet bi-Yerushalayim (The Way of a Judge in Jerusalem) (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1954),
180. According to a report in the Egyptian newspaper al-Ahram from 18 September 1914, the government made a profit of around 100,000 Turkish lira just from the badl – askar.¯. Otis Glazebrook reported on the badl
–
askar.¯to Henry Morgenthau, the American ambassador in Istanbul, saying that the amount required by the authorities, heavy on the local population in ordinary times, was next to impossible under current conditions. See Otis Glazebrook to Henry Morgenthau, 10 August 1914, consular correspondence, American consulate in Jerusalem, record group 84, vol. 69A, NACP.
31As described in Akram Musallam, ed., Yawmiyat Khalil al-Sakakini, al-Kitab al-Thani: Al-Nahda al-Urthuduksiyya, al-Harb al-– Uzma, al-Nafi fi Dimashq (Jerusalem and Ramallah: Khalil al-Sakakini Cultural
.
Center and the Institute of Jerusalem Studies, 2004), 150–58.
32Ya – akov Yehoshua, Yerushalayim Tmol Shilshom: Pirkey Havay (Jerusalem in Days of Old) (Jerusalem: Reuven Mass, 1977), vol. 3, 42–43; Frumkin, The Way of a Judge, 180–82. Frumkin represented in the military court some of those who were caught.
33The centrality of mobilization in people’s minds is demonstrated in Najwa al-Qattan’s article, through historical–linguistic analysis of the term seferberlik, the Ottoman term for mobilization to the army (in Arabic, safarbarlik). In addition to its original meaning, the term gained many more connotations: bounty hunters who roamed city streets to catch young men evading the draft, forced civilian migration, wartime dislocation, and political exile. Used as a reference to the Great War, this term symbolized a local civilian catastrophe and a war at home, and is associated with hunger and misery. Najwa al-Qattan, “Safarbarlik: Ottoman Syria and the Great War,” in From the Syrian Land to the States of Syria and Lebanon, ed. Thomas Philipp and Christoph Schumann (Beirut: Beiruter Texte und Studien 96, 2004).
34Yawmiyat, 36 (24 April 1915); 97 (31 May 1915).
35Ibid., 154 (27 December 1916).
36Ibid., 155. The issue of hoarding food is also mentioned by Schatkowski Schilcher in relation to Beirut. 37Somewhat similar criticism and frustration toward the Ottoman government, mainly its local representa­tives in the province of Beirut, is expressed by Bahjat and Tamimi in their report on the neglect of the population,
the victims of the war, and the corruption of the local Ottoman bureaucrats. However, unlike Tourjman, they continue to express unconditional loyalty to the Ottoman Empire and to the Ottoman framework, even after viewing the effects of the war on the local population. Among the multiple identities that they held, the Ottoman component was probably the most dominant. For an analysis of this aspect in Bahjat and Tamimi’s writing, see Rubin, “Bahjat and Tamimi in Wilayat Beirut,” 35–41.
38The number of soldiers in the city varied according to developments at the front lines. However, the military presence was felt in the city throughout the war. Ottoman authorities in the city confiscated properties, such as convents and hospitals, that belonged to enemy countries and used them for military needs. Most of these buildings were located around the Russian compound, the municipality, and the Jaffa Gate.
39The public space in Jerusalem changed tremendously during the war. The area around the Jaffa Gate, Bab al-Khalil, for example, was used for political demonstrations and parades, mainly in support of the empire. This is also where people suspected of acting for the Arab national movement were hanged in 1915, on the orders of Cemal Pas¸a. The public garden, al-Manshiyya, which was located near the Russian compound, served as another central public site. Demonstrations, parties, and political and social gatherings took place in this garden, which had a two-story caf´
e. See mentions of the garden and its uses in Yehoshua, Yerushalayim Tmol Shilshom, part II, 33–36.
40See more on similar parties in Salim Tamari and Issam Nassar, eds., al-Quds al-– Uthmaniyya fi-l-Mudhakkirat al-Jawhariyya 1904–1917 (Ottoman Jerusalem in the Memoirs of Jawhariyya, 1904–1917) (Jerusalem: Institute of Jerusalem Studies, 2003).
41April 1915 is when the Ottomans entered Egypt, so maybe this is the – ¯.d he refers to here.
42Yawmiyat, 47 (26 April 1915).
43See, for example, Tamari and Nassar, al-Quds al-– Uthmaniyya, 231, when Jawhariyya describes the party held for the completion of the port on the Dead Sea.
44Yawmiyat, 124–25 (27 July 1915).
45Elizabeth Thompson, Colonial Citizens: Republican Rights, Paternal Privilege and Gender in French Syria and Lebanon (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), 1–38. In research on World War I in Palestine, or elsewhere in the Arab lands, the connections between gender and nationalism are rarely discussed. Thompson’s study is an important exception. Thompson devotes the first chapter of her book to the war and discusses how this traumatic experience affected civil society.
46Jens Hanssen discusses the presence of prostitutes in 19th-century Beirut, examining their social role and location in the city. He claims that the majority of prostitutes were social outcasts in the city despite their geographically central location within it. Hence, they exercised “social marginality in the center.” See Jens Hanssen, “Public Morality and Marginality in Fin-de-Siecle Beirut,” in Outside In: On the Margins of the Modern Middle East, ed. Eugene Rogan (London: I. B. Tauris, 2002), 195–99.
47Yawmiyat, 37 (24 April 1915).
48Ibid., 147 (15 September 1915).
49Prostitution plays out differently in times of crisis and conflict than in times of peace. See a discussion on prostitution in Victorian England and the ways class, family, and economic factors played a role in women’s work as prostitutes, in Judith Walkowitz, Prostitution and Victorian Society: Women, Class and the State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980).
50Yawmiyat, 93 (27 May 1915). See more on Leah Tenenbaum in Tamari, – Am al-Jarrad, 33. From the way Tourjman refers to her as a “private prostitute” we can assume that there were different groups and statuses of prostitutes. The “private prostitute” likely served the more important clients. The writer’s criticism here probably has more to do with the fact that his supposed wife was dishonored and less with the fact that she was Jewish. A Muslim man can, of course, marry a non-Muslim woman but is expected to have an honorable wife. It is reported that in late 1919 there were 500 prostitutes in Jerusalem, most of them Jewish, and that many brothels were under Jewish management. The brothels mentioned are located mainly near Jaffa Road, in the Jewish Nahlat Shiva – a neighborhood. See Ya – akov Gross, ed., Yerushalayim 1917: Hurban, Nes, Ge»ula (Jerusalem 1917/1918: Destruction, Miracle, Redemption) (Jerusalem: Koresh, 1993), 417–20; ha-Herut, 16 October 1915. To read more on Jewish prostitutes in Jerusalem following World War I, see Margalit Shilo, “The Blight of Prostitution in the Holy City (1917–1919): Male and Female Perspectives,” Jerusalem and Eretz Israel 1 (2003): 173–96.
51Yawmiyat, 47 (26 April 1915). See more on the possibility of using prostitutes for espionage during the war in Eliezer Tauber, trans., Mod – in ve-Rigul be-Levanon, Suriyah ve-Eretz Israel be-Milhement ha-– Olam (1913–1918): Aziz Bey ( – Aziz Bey: Intelligence and Espionage in Lebanon, Syria and Palestine during the
World War) (Ramat Gan, Israel: Bar Ilan University, 1991), 129–52, mainly 135.
52Yawmiyat, 7 (1 April 1915).
53Ibid., 48 (28 April 1915). Here he echoes ideas published and discussed at the turn on the century by Qasim Amin.
54Tourjman may have been influenced by Khalil al-Sakakini in his critical views regarding women’s education and liberation. For example, in one of his meetings with al-Sakakini they discussed the writings of Qasim Amin. Ibid., 44 (25 April 1915). See also Tamari, – Am al-Jarrad, 28.
55Yawmiyat, 11 (10 April 1915).
56For more on this, see, for example, Susan Grayzel, Women’s Identity at War: Gender, Motherhood and Politics in Britain and France During the First World War (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1999); miriam cooke and Angela Woollacott, Gendering War Talk (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1993); Billie Melman, ed., Borderlines: Genders and Identities in War and Peace, 1870–1930 (New York: Routledge, 1998). For a good historiographic introduction to the state of research on gender and war, see Billie Melman, “Introduction,” in Borderlines, 1–25.
57Yawmiyat, 32 (22 April 1915).
58Ibid., 48 (28 April 1915).
59Tamari, – Am al-Jarrad, 33, 38.
60Yawmiyat, 64 (7 May 1915).
61Ibid., 67 (8 May 1915).
62Ibid., 126–28 (1 August 1915). Secondary sources provide different dates and locations for the hanging. See, for example, Hasan Kayali, Arabs and Young Turks, 193, where he writes that on 21 August 1915, eleven Beiruti leaders were executed in the town square. According to Michael Assaf, in contrast, the first hanging took place in Damascus, on 21 August 1915. See Michael Assaf, Toldot Hit – orerut ha-– Aravim be-Eretz Israel ve-Brihatam (History of the Awakening of the Arabs of the Land of Israel and their Flight) (Tel Aviv: Tarbut ve-Hinukh, 1967), 69.
63Yawmiyat, 148 (15 September 1915).
64Ibid., 182–86 (10 July 1916).
65See Rashid Khalidi, Palestinian Identity, esp. 145–75.
66At the very beginning of his diary, the writer mentions that he would like to discuss the destiny (nas¯.b)of
.
Palestine. He predicts that Palestine would either become independent or join Egypt. It is interesting that he does not consider Palestine joining Greater Syria. Yawmiyat, 1 (28 March 1915). For more on this issue, see Yehoshua Porath, Tzmichata shel ha-Tnu – a ha-Leumit ha-– Aravit ha-Falastinit 1918–1929 (The Emergence of the Palestinian Arab National Movement 1918–1929) (Jerusalem: Hebrew University 1971), 7.
67Rashid Khalidi, Palestinian Identity, 193.
68The following section is based mainly on the new and more complete edition of al-Sakakini’s diaries, edited by Akram Musallam. This is a more complete version of the diaries that had already been published in Kadha Ana Ya Dunya and edited by al-Sakakini’s daughter Hala in 1955. See Musallam, Yawmiyat Khalil al-Sakakini, vol. 2, mainly 95–160.
69Ibid., 157–58 (26 March 1915).
70Ibid., 172–73 (20 November 1917).
71Al-Sakakini’s Christian minority status is important in this context.
72Musallam, Yawmiyat Khalil al-Sakakini, 98 (17 September 1914).
73Ibid., 118 (4 November 1914).
74Ibid., 123 (9 November 1914).
75Ibid., 132–33 (18 November 1914).
76Ibid., 142 (25 December 1914).
77Ibid., 154–55 (7 February–8 March 1915).