קונפליקציוניזם וחלל ציבורי בירושלים העות'מאנית והמושבתית

Confessionalism and Public Space in Ottoman and Colonial Jerusalem
Salim Tamari
For many observers, Jerusalem epitomizes a “city of identities”; an ultimate ge­ography defined by sharp ethnic and religious divisions, where distinct social groups worship and live in separate quarters.1 While the city does contain a plethora of holy sites worshiped by the three Abrahamic traditions, civic identities and spa­tial logics have not always fallen into such broadly cast categories drawn around religious lines. An examination of the early twentieth century transition from the Ottoman Empire to the British Mandate yields a complex local narrative of seem­ingly increased fluidity of agency and norms, and the simultaneous beginning of a profound redefinition and administration of space and society. As sovereignty arrangements shifted and the incoming British sought to legitimize and consoli­date their governing authority, colonial administrators continued the process of institutional and secular modernization begun under the Ottomans. But they also took significant legal, physical, and conceptual steps which recast citizen­ship and the physical form of the city into larger and less flexible categories of re­ligion and ethnicity.
In particular, through physical planning and municipal regulations, the Brit­ish Mandate authorities projected a modernist discourse that was heavily framed by orientalist and biblical narratives, leading to a process of what I call here con­fessionalization of public discourse. In contrast to the Ottomans, whose modern­izing schemes focused on the provision of public institutions and secular civic spaces throughout the city, the British newcomers viewed the city as two sepa­rate and opposing pieces: the old city, home to key religious sites and monuments, and the modern perimeter. Because of its historic value, as seen through colo­nial eyes at least, a key objective for British administrators was to preserve the old city and its built environmental character in terms of its pre-Ottoman “bibli­cal” past. Physical manifestations of the old city’s religious and symbolic identity were the sole important characteristics to be conserved for visitors and pilgrims, while residents in both old and new parts of the city—and the logic of urban plan­ning practice more generally—were themselves subject to divisions based on the newly asserted primacy of ethnic and religious groupings as a marker for Jerusa­lem’s larger identity and importance as a world historic city.
This chapter examines the colonial transition from Ottoman Empire to Brit­ish colonial rule and how it manifests in the physical spaces of Jerusalem and the confessional identities of its residents. Drawing on biographic narratives of the city’s transformation during this crucial juncture, the analysis fleshes out details of urban planning practice and citizen response, supplementing a more institu­tional history of Jerusalem during the Mandate period. In contrast to traditional portrayals of transition in the city from Ottoman to Mandate administration, which suggest a clean rupture occurring in 1917, this chapter shows that the co­lonial process did not follow the guidelines of a single master plan, but one with multiple actors navigating through spaces of ambiguous negotiability. In mak­ing this argument, the chapter draws directly on primary resources dating to the transition period, particularly the diary of Wasif Jawhariyyeh, a local artist and civil servant. In addition to adding nuance and detail to the analysis, Wasif’s diary shows that he benefitted from a somewhat inadvertent proximity to key ac­tors in the Mandate period, creating a view that is at once subaltern while main­taining proximity to the world of power-holders.2 The diary thus accommodates the subjective experience of an urban resident living through the transition as well as an interpretation of urban life as seen through the lenses of both the ruler and the ruled.
Three Crucial Decades
One often forgets that the British Mandate over Palestine occupied barely three decades of the country’s modern history. In scholarly literature and Palestinian popular imagination, the Mandate has acquired a colossal, if not mythical, im­pact on the formation of modern Palestinian society and perceptions of its des­tiny. A quick list of the Mandate’s oft-cited achievements (and disasters) drives home this point: the creation of modern institutions of government, including a new civil service and police force, and the centralization of the national bureau­cracy in Jerusalem; the modernization of the land code and the taxation system; the creation of a legal corpus to replace (and supplement) the Ottoman code; the conduct of a national census (1922 and 1931), and the creation of the popu­lation registry; the creation of the rudimentary features of citizenship and icons of unfulfilled sovereignty (currency, stamps, passports); a modern secular educa­tional system; and finally an infrastructure of roads and communication system, including a broadcasting authority (the Palestine Radio in 1931). A major con­sequence of these administrative changes was the separation of Palestine from greater Syria. All this happened in thirty years (less if we deduct the years of ini­tial military rule). But the Mandate is also remembered—retrospectively—for one major accomplishment: laying the grounds for partition and the creation of the state of Israel (Wasserstein 1995, 29–41).
Between the surrender of Jerusalem to General Allenby’s victorious army by the Ottoman Governor Izzat Bey and Mayor Hussein al Husseini (December 1917) and the commencement of the British Mandate (1920), Palestine witnessed three years of administrative and legal flux. Although British intentions for the country were already defined by the commitments to their French allies, through the Sykes Picot Memorandum, and to the Zionist movement with the Balfour Declaration, these formal policy statements did not translate into clear policies on the ground. The bulk of the British military establishment in Palestine, including General Moony, the first military governor, were either hostile to the prospects of a Jewish national home, or ambivalent toward it, on the grounds that it violated British promises to Sherif Hussein and his Syrian allies, or—more importantly— because it provoked Palestinian-Syrian yearning for independence, and made the control of the street problematic (Huneindi 2003, 42–66). Many local adminis­trators and field officers clearly opposed the idea of a Jewish national home, like Brigadier General Clayton, Allenby’s chief political officer, and Sir Walter Con­greve, who commanded the British troops in Egypt and Palestine. A legion of philo-semites and supporters of Zionism stood against their position, including Louis Bols, Palestine’s chief administrator, General Storrs, Military Commander of Jerusalem, and the first High Commissioner, Herbert Samuel.
Inside the larger framework of contested visions of sovereignty, the British are also remembered for laying the foundation of urban planning in Palestine, and hence for creating the modernity of urban space. The memoirs of Ronald Storrs (1881–1955) based on his letters and diary, are elegant, informed, and highly per­ceptive of Palestine’s Ottoman and Islamic heritage, and constitute an excellent exposition of the ideology behind the liberal colonial hegemonic discourse. The memoirs also crisscross fruitfully with Jawhariyyeh’s witty comments on the ac­tivities of the Pro-Jerusalem Society—Storrs’s pet program for the preservation of the city’s public monuments and architecture. The two narratives, Jawhariyyeh’s and Storrs’s, present us with two divergent discourses—native and colonial—on Jerusalem’s modernity.
The conventional wisdom is that the Ottomans had no contributions to urban planning in the Levant, and that it was the British who introduced it to Palestine. Ruth Kark suggests:
Until the end of the Ottoman period, there was no overall planning of the built-up area in Jerusalem. The Sublime Porte and the local authorities limited their operations to supervision. For security reasons a law prohibited the construc­tion of any edifice beyond a distance of 2,500 cubits (about 1.4 km) from the wall of a city. Because of this restriction, Acre failed to expand beyond its walls until the turn of the century, and had the law been strictly obeyed in Jerusalem as well, the fate of that city would have been similar. (Kark 1991, 58–59)
However, spatial planning and regulation was a local priority to late Ottoman rule of the Syrian Provinces (Lebanon, Syria, Palestine, and Transjordan), and these general laws were not strictly applied as suggested above. The main provin­cial centers of the Ottoman Levant (Damascus, Beirut, Jaffa, and Aleppo) all had degrees of planning of their public spaces. Jerusalem received planning guide­lines of sorts after the passage of the Ottoman Municipalities Law in 1877, which regulated building permits, building material, and height of buildings (Khamaisi and Nasrallah 2003, 298). Historian Hala Fattah notes how
the increased attention paid to the urbanization of Jerusalem, the spread of communications and the growth of the population forced the Ottomans’ hand, so to speak. In the middle of the 19th century, the administrative redevelop­ment of Jerusalem was a key aspect of the Ottoman centralization of Palestine. As a result of the institution of municipal and administrative councils, Jerusa­lem’s political life was revitalized. (Fattah 1999, 1)
A symbolic feature of Ottoman public monumental planning for the period was the creation or expansion of public squares to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of Sultan Abdul Hamid II’s ascension to the throne in 1900–1901. These plazas with their iconic watchtowers became central public spaces in re­gional cities like Izmir, Tripoli, Jaffa, and Jerusalem. The Hamedian clock tower in Jerusalem became the subject of considerable controversy later when the Brit­ish military government had it forcefully removed from the Jaffa Gate plaza for “aesthetic reasons,” as we shall see.
Aside from Ottoman municipal buildings and takaya (soup kitchens), the first important urban buildings were established inside the old city by English and German Protestants in the 1840s, and outside the city walls with the comple­tion of the Russian compound in the late 1850s. According to Alexander Scholch these three schemes triggered the urban modernization of Ottoman Jerusalem, “the new construction, alterations, and expansion of churches, monasteries, hos­pices, schools, hospitals, hotels, and consulates subsequently continued unabated” (Scholch 1993, 121). This was followed, in the 1870s, with the creation of neigh­borhoods for Muslim notables outside the walls, in Sheikh Jarrah and Bab al Sahira, and by Jewish residential suburbs in Yemin Moshe and Me’ She’ arim (Scholch 1993, 121–122).
Ottoman urban expansion schemes and city building regulations did exist, but were either haphazard or overwhelmed by construction activities undertaken by autonomous religious endowments, private construction, or foreign public proj­ects. Kark suggests that even though “overall plans for the city of Jerusalem did exist during the Ottoman period . . . they were not implemented, even partially, until 1920” (Kark 1991, 59). But it was on the basis of that Ottoman vision that many successive planning schemes were carried out during the transitional pe­riod of the OETA3 and the early Mandate (Khamaisi and Nasrallah, 296).

Spatial Foundations for Identity Shifts
Planning by the British, however, took a more aggressive approach to restruc­turing the city into two distinct zones, each with separate areas for the different religious groups. Against the backdrop of Ottoman planning, Ronald Storrs in­troduced a scheme in 1918 for urban renovation and preservation, through a con­fessionalized elite appointed to the Pro-Jerusalem Society. The Society’s declared aims were “to preserve the city’s antiquities, develop modern cultural functions such as museums, libraries, theatre, etc., and foster the education and welfare of the city’s inhabitants” (Gilter, n.d., 31). Storrs was able to assemble an impressive array of the city’s ruling elite to constitute the society’s administrative board, in­cluding the Mayor of Jerusalem, Musa Kazim al Husseini; the British Director of Antiquities; the Mufti, Kamil al Husseini; and eventually Haj Amin; the two Chief Rabbis; the Orthodox, Latin, and Armenian Patriarchs; the Anglican Bishop; and other leading members of the community (Storrs, 322). One is struck again here by Storrs’s vision of Palestinian society as composed of confessional elements added to the local aristocracy (a’yan)—a perspective which clashed head-on with the emerging national movement and its secularized intelligentsia.
Although Storrs was the key figure behind the new idea for the city and its exe­cution, a discussion of the early planning of Mandate Jerusalem cannot be com­plete without including the participation of two innovative urbanists, William MacLean and Charles Ashbee. The first, MacLean, then the town planner of Al­exandria and Khartoum, was invited by Storrs in 1918 to design the first modern master plan for Jerusalem, which he accomplished in a record two-month pe­riod. Followed by later ground-breaking achievements, his plan “. . . prohibited new construction within the boundaries of the Old City, mandated that the area around the walls be kept clear, and ordered the leveling of structures abutting the wall from the outside. New buildings, permitted only to the west and north of the Old City, would rise to a maximum height of eleven meters so as not to compete with the skyline of the Mount of Olives. Jerusalem was to be built of stone; indus­trial structures were banned” (Roman 2001, 24). Almost all of these regulations were Ottoman in origin and British in implementation.
In terms of a conceptual paradigm for an urban future, however, it was Charles Ashbee who provided the bifurcated vision of the new/old Jerusalem. A disciple of William Morris, Ashbee belonged to a generation of socialist romantic thinkers finding themselves in the service of the British colonial enterprise. Although he was brought in by Storrs to survey and revive local handicrafts, his work stretched be­yond his original charge (Storrs 1937, 323–326). Officially, he held the position of Civic Advisor to the City until 1922. In addition, he served as the Secretary and the primary coordinator of the Pro-Jerusalem Council, the Society’s administrative board. Given his close association with the powerful Storrs, Ashbee made signifi­cant contributions of his own in proposing solutions to “the city’s modern prob­lems while conserving its ancient holy sights and unique character” (Gitler, n.d., 31).
Ashbee took pains to reconcile his dual conception of the city—the romantic-visionary, and the conservationist-revivalist. He resolved this contradiction, ac­cording to Inbal Gitler, by dividing the city into two zones of future redemption: one was the city within the walls, which he saw “in a secular way as an historic monument marked for archeological preservation”; and the new city, which was marked for modern expansion and development (Gitler, n.d., 45–46). The link­age between the two cities relied on a networking of landscaping schemes, which surrounded the city walls and utilized concepts of the English garden combined with a series pavilions invoking an “Oriental style.” One of Ashbee’s original con­tributions was an attempt at uniting the city with its rural and agricultural hin­terland. This was achieved by “planting endemic natural vegetation, and by leav­ing part of the park area in state of wilderness or under development by local agrotechniques”(Gitler, n.d., 40). Ashbee’s planning of Jerusalem was a labor of love and contradiction, in which he tried, through imaginative landscaping and revived local crafts (which he had introduced as an employment scheme), to syn­thesize an orientalist vision of the holy city.
By sheer coincidence Wasif Jawahriyyeh, who was toilingat the same period in the Central Registry of the Military Government, caught the attention of Colonel Storrs. Wasif’s performances on the oud (a stringed instrument) brought him close to the Governor, who was fond of oriental music from his long stay in Egypt.
Storrs seconded Jawahriyyeh to work as an assistant to Ashbee in the newly estab­lished Pro-Jerusalem Council.
In his position as secretary to Ashbee, Jawahriyyeh relates the first incidence of conflict between the architectural vision of the Pro-Jerusalem Society and the Jerusalem Municipality. In 1901 the Ottomans had constructed a clock tower in­side Jaffa Gate during the tenure of Mayor Faidallah al Alami to commemorate the twenty-fifth Anniversary of Sultan Abdul Hamid’s reign (see above). Jeru­salem architect Pascal Affendi Sarofim, the municipal architect at the time, de­signed the tower in the Baroque style (Jawhariyyeh Memoirs manuscript [here­after Jawhariyyeh ms.], 49). When Ashbee became secretary of the Pro-Jerusalem Society he took a decision to remove the clock tower, since, according to Wasif “it did not fit well with the image of the historical wall.”4 The tower was removed overnight despite protests from the Municipality. Jawahriyyeh, however, con­curred with Ashbee’s aesthetics. “The design was an elaborate hybridity of styles, and reminded me of Abdel Wahhab’s Franco-Arab music, although I must say that it should have been moved to another location, perhaps in the vicinity of the new municipality by Barclays Bank” (Jawhariyyeh ms., 49). Years later Jawahriy­yeh had a wooden model of the removed clock tower and the adjoining plaza, de­stroyed by Storrs, made for the benefit of those who wanted to see what Ottoman Jerusalem looked like on the eve of the Mandate (Jawhariyyeh ms., 50).5
Jawhariyyeh spent months accompanying both Ashbee and Richmond in their field trips on renovation work at al Aqsa compound, and in the restoration of the city’s ancient wall. Of these trips he said:
As secretary to Mr. Ashbee I was privileged to observe the restoration work in al Haram area, and in other archeological sites of the city. The famous archi­tect George Shiber, who later became renowned, was also involved in the reno­vation of al Haram as a technical expert under Mr. Richmond. Unfortunately I was not to stay long with Ashbee. One winter evening I was considerably drunk when I entered the Registry, and started teasing my colleagues. I climbed on the desks and was clowning around on the worktables just as Mr. Ashbee entered the room and began staring at me.
“Well Hello. Hello Mr. Ashbee,” I shouted. Everybody was laughing their bellies off, except Ashbee, who went to his office and wrote an angry memo on my behalf. That was the end of my career with him. I must say however, that I benefited greatly from working under Ashbee, which increased my knowledge of Jerusalem historical and architectural heritage. (Jawhariyyeh ms. 2–48)
Wasif goes out of his way to indicate that his expulsion by Ashbee did not di­minish his admiration for his work. He also makes a clear distinction between Storrs the “colonial-orientalist,” and Ashbee the architect and planner (Jawhariy­yeh, 48).
These diaries also help us to rethink the changes in the urban landscape of Jerusalem not only as a lived experience by a contemporary observer, but also in an alternate narrative challenging the idea of a clean rupture between Turkish rule and English rule. It undermines the notion that the Ottoman regime and the British regime were opposites, one representing oriental despotism and the other modernity. Jawhariyyeh reminds us that many of the celebrated reforms of the Mandate Administration were already in place during and before World War I. But the tragedies of the war, and disastrous consequences of conscription (safar barlik) in poisoning the relationship between the Turkish rulers and the subject Arab population in Syria and Palestine wiped out the memory of these features of Ottoman modernity from Palestinian collective memory.
Here, by contrast, the presumed creation of these institutions of colonial mo­dernity are seen not as an innovation over the “decrepit” Ottoman system, but as an elaboration on the foundations already introduced by Ottoman reforms, such as secular education, the civil service, constitutional reform, and urban planning. In certain areas the British political plans constituted retrogression over the Ot­toman system.
This was the case, for example, with the confessionalization of quarters in the old city. The four-quarter scheme, mentioned in abundance in European travel literature to the holy city, now became an official administrative boundary of the city. The quarters replaced the mahallas, the smaller unit of governance employed by the Ottomans, and further enhanced religion as a marker of national identity (Tamari 2002).

Underwriting the Confessionalization of the City
From the beginning of the Mandate, the British began a series of actions to cre­ate a new base, disassociated with pilgrimage, for the city’s economic activities, and to reinsert religion as the primary source of social identity. Jerusalem differed from many of the other provincial centers in that its economic base was consider­ably based on religious charities and endowments as well as services to pilgrims. Sharing the fate of many medieval holy cities, such as Canterbury and Lourdes, religion in late Ottoman Jerusalem had become the main commodity of the city, and was seen as the source of livelihood. In spite of this permeation, or perhaps as a result of it, religion was not taken as seriously as a guide to behavior or a norma­tive form of governance. According to Ashbee, the city “maintained a large para­sitic population—priests, caretakers, monks, missionaries, pious women, clerks, lawyers, and a crowd of riffraff—who all had a vested interest in maintaining the status quo” (quoted in Roman 2000). Despite the antisocial texture of this state­ment, it seems that Ashbee, given his populist credentials, was expressing here a negative assessment of the lopsided occupational base of the city’s economy, rather than outright prejudice.
Ashbee combined a romantic vision of the “oriental ideal” of the city with a practical, down-to-earth approach to the unique predicament of Jerusalem. In the 1920 annual report of the Society he defined the city’s unproductive base (“riff­raff and priests,” described above) as the main problem facing the planner. He at­tempted to overturn this “parasitic” occupational structure through the revival (and introduction) of the traditional crafts in the city’s building trades: weaving, tiling (with Armenian ceramic experts brought in from K.tahya), and glasswork from Hebron. Among the projects undertaken and finished in this period were the renovation of the cotton market, Suq al Qattanin, in the old city, the tiling of the Dome of the Rock along with the authorities of the Waqf, or religious endow­ment, the restoration of the ancient wall ramparts built by Suleiman al Qanuni, and the Citadel of the City. All of these projects involved the establishment of ap­prenticeships based on the guild system. Storrs set up an annual academy of fine arts at the Citadel where exhibitions on Muslim art, Palestinian crafts, and town planning were held (Storrs 1937, 326–327).
The honeymoon with the colonial authority did not last long. One of the first government acts was to conduct the General Census (1921) in which Palestinians were divided into the three confessional categories of Muslims, Christians, and Jews. The Jerusalem leadership of the national movement saw the census not as part of the planning instrument as it was heralded, but as a prelude to the real­ization of the National Jewish Home project. A call to boycott ensued, but was not entirely successful.6
In the later part of the Mandate, public ceremonials became the lynchpin of confrontation with the British, in contrast to the situation in the late Ottoman pe­riod, when the authority was the main sponsor (and patron) of these ceremonials. The main focus of clashes between demonstrators and the military government was the procession of Nebi Musa, or Moses. These clashes began in the spring of 1919 and intensified over the following two years.
Colonel Storrs, in his capacity as the new military governor of Jerusalem, began to regulate the Nebi Musa processions and place them under government supervision—partly as a measure to control the crowds, but also as a plan to regu­late religious ritual within the new civil administration of Palestine. In this effort he was acting in collusion with Haj Amin al Husseini, the rising star of the na­tionalist movement (who in this regard also saw himself as a successor of Salah al Din, who liberated Jerusalem from the Crusaders in the twelfth century) and re­cently appointed Mufti of Jerusalem. Both the nationalist movement and the Brit­ish saw in the control of religious ceremonials a mechanism for realizing their ob­jectives.
Along these lines, the Nebi Musa processions, which under the Ottomans had been one of many syncretic public celebrations, suddenly became an offi­cial festival sponsored by the colonial authorities. Haj Amin himself also played a critical role in “nationalizing” the Nebi Musa celebrations under his authority as the Mufti (Jawhariyyeh ms., 131). Similarly, Easter Sunday and the rituals of Good Friday and Fire Saturday were also given state sponsorship. All of these ac­tions were part of the process of confessionalization of popular religious ceremo­nies that conceived of Palestine as a land of three ancient religious communities, rather than a national community freeing itself from communalism.
Storrs, the orientalist who played a crucial role in inventing this tradition, was succeeded by the fiercely anti-Arab commander Edward Keith-Roach. Jawhariy­yeh knew both governors personally and contrasted their personal style of ad­ministration, in favor of the wily and cultured Storrs. But he is also fully aware of Storrs’s conscious manipulation of religious celebrations, as can be seen in this description of early clashes with the police in 1921:
The army brought a large armed contingent and placed them at Jaffa Gate, re­inforced by heavy cannons and tanks. Sir Ronald Storrs riding his horse in full military attire headed the force. All were facing the great procession of Nebi Musa arriving from Hebron, with the objective of diverting the crowds from clashing with the Jews. . . . It took fully six hours for the procession, which in­cluded singing bands, sword players, musical bands with drums, and horsemen representing each village in Mount Hebron with their banners, to arrive from the Sultan’s Pool to the edge of Jaffa Gate.
I was standing there with the throngs when the procession found the gates to the old city blocked by the army. With a signal by Storrs half the procession moved east towards Jaffa Road, but then in a sudden move the leaders of the procession turned back and attacked the British troops defying the machine guns and the tanks. It was an unforgettable sight. And what did Sir Ronald Storrs do on this occasion? He suddenly sprung out as a Qahtani Arab, and addressed the crowds in eloquent Arabic: “Greetings to the heroes of Nebi Musa . . . I welcome you according to the honoured tradition which dictates that you go through the gate of the old city towards the Haram.” By doing this he avoided a bloody clash with army. The processionals in turn did not clash with the soldiers when they saw that Storrs himself was greeting them, which is exactly what he had aimed at—namely, to re-route the procession inside the walls away from Jaffa Gate. (Jawhariyyeh ms., 20–21)
Keith-Roach, however, lacked both the finesse and the cunning of Colonel Storrs. He described the Palestinians as “a naturally indolent people . . . pleas­ant to live among [with] their long loose garments covering a multitude of sins” (quoted in Segev 2000, 168). But by that time (1926) it is also more likely that clashes between the national movement and the Zionists became too severe to be contained through logistic manipulations as described in the incident attributed to Storrs.

Local Responses to Deprivation
The period of transition to the Mandate, in essence a time of military rule, is a neglected phase in scholarly studies. The nature of this transition was charac­terized by political and legal ambivalence, and most Palestinians were not yet committed in their political allegiances. For Jerusalemites in particular, it was a time of constant adjustment, repositioning, and new formulations of future plans based on an evolving present. Over time, however, the broader “communitarian” and localist affiliations began to dwindle, and the new, religion-based national­ism grew.
Palestine in particular was one of the provinces in which anti-Ottoman sen­timents were least pronounced at the turn of the century. Even after the proc­lamation of the Constitution of 1908, when separatist movements in the Arab regions began to add their weight to Greek and Armenian movements assert­ing themselves against Istanbul, the Palestinian street remained relatively pro-Ottoman. Adil Mana# notes that Palestine was distinguished among the Syrian provinces by its lack of enthusiasm for the constitutional reform. In Nablus and other northern areas, the street demonstrated for the Sultan, and against the re­formers (Mana# 2003, 243–244). Only in Jaffa and Jerusalem was the Movement of Union and Progress able to attract limited support (ibid., 243 and 249). It was only after Union and Progress began their Turkification program, following the removal of Sultan Abdul Hamid from power, that Palestinians began to join Arab nationalist groups en masse (ibid., 247).7
Naturally the British administration is recalled as the conscious instrument (through the Balfour Declaration) which laid the foundation for the displace­ment of the Palestinians in 1948, and much of Jawhariyyeh’s narrative is perme­ated with this foreknowledge (since he was writing in a later period). It explains to a large extent his ambiguity about the liberation of Jerusalem from the Ottoman yoke, even as Jerusalemites were dancing in the street and as he and his brother Khalil were burning their Turkish military uniforms (Tamari and Nassar 2002, 253–254).
The years preceding the fall of Jerusalem were particularly harsh. Major social dislocations and ruthless suppression of the urban population in the major cit­ies of the region accompanied the devastation of war. The last three years of Ot­toman rule were also the years of famine in Syria and Palestine. But hunger was not induced by draught or any other natural cause, but through the confiscation and forced diversion of wheat supplies to the Fourth Army, under the command of Jamal Pasha (Tannous 1988, 35). To compound these disasters Palestine was subjected in the middle of 1915 to a severe attack of locust swarms that compelled a massive relocation of coastal populations inland (Mana# 2003, 84-85). Lebanon was first hit by famine in the spring of 1916, and the famine soon spread to the other urban centers of Syria and Palestine. In his memoirs, Dr Izzat Tannous, a Jerusalemite medical student (and later officer) in the Ottoman army, described the devastating impact of the famine when he was stationed in Beirut:
Walking from Ras Beirut down to the Burj, the centre of town, it was a com­mon affair to step over ten or fifteen dead bodies lying on the sidewalks for the municipal cart with one horse to pick them up and bury them. I fretfully stepped over these corpses many a time but it became routine. Children cried day and night: “Jou#an!” (hungry), and rushed at every garbage can for any­thing to eat. . . . babies were left at hospital gates at night to be taken in the morning to be fed. (Tannous 1988, 36)
In Jerusalem the scarcity of food supplies was associated in the people’s mind with the conscription. In his sardonic way Jawhariyyeh composed a ditty revolv­ing around popular obsessions with missing dishes. He jointly wrote the lyrics with Omar al Batsh—his teacher and oud master in the Ottoman army:

An Ode to Hunger
Tripe tripe, stuffed with rice, Eggs eggs, eggs in the oven
Fish. Oh fish fried in batter. Pour the wine, drink, sing and be happy
Be daring and drink, For being high is the only way
Refrain
Qabwat, qabwat fried Kubbeh, kubbeh cooked with yogurt
Carrots, carrots oh stuffed carrots. Come and settle in my stomach
Zucchini with meat, kishk with lard
Aubergine ala yakhni with fluffy rice
Refrain
Oh Kunafeh, do not desert me. Oh pudding you are my destination
Almond hariseh you come first. The queen of deserts after the stuffings
Pistachio cracking, taqqish faqqish. Fill you narghileh and get stoned
After the qatayif, pick your teeth
After all these helpings you will need a bath  (Jawhariyyeh 2005: 29–30)
Wasif first performed this song at the table of the Mutassarif (Governor) of Jerusalem and his Turkish officers as evening entertainment. “I kept thinking all the time of how my family and friends outside were not only deprived of these foods, but did not even have the chance of looking at them” (Jawhariyyeh, 2:30). Paradoxically this macabre “ode to hunger” had a hallucinatory effect and spread like wild fire in Jerusalem. Masses of people sang it as a way of invoking the fa­mous “stuffed” (mahashi) dishes of the city that had disappeared from their lives. But as the wording shows, it went beyond the evocation of food toward adopting an attitude of licentiousness and abandon. It continued to be a popular ballad for years after the war.8
And despite the devastation, or perhaps as a result of it, several writers were able to look back at those years as signaling a major restructuring of Palestinian and Syrian society. A contemporary observer refers to the radical impact of the movement of population and the war economy on the normative aspects of daily life: villages coming to the city on a regular basis, women going to school and re­moving their veils, the emergence of caf. culture, and the decline of religiosity in Nablus and Jerusalem (al Barghouti 2001, 192–193). The decline of religiosity, it should be added, went along with the rise of confessionalism, as we also wit­ness for Lebanon in the same period. A derivative development of these norma­tive changes was the decline of local affinities and the strengthening of Syrian and Arab nationalism.
The space opened by the transition allowed, at least briefly, for new local agency, in political as well as individual and social life. Jawhariyyeh recalls the three years of transition as the days of chaos—both in the country as a whole and in his private life, as if one condition mirrored the other. But the “chaos” here is also seen here as a period of “creative anarchy.”
In his personal life, those were the “precious” years of bachelorhood before he got married and settled down. They were also ushered by the death of his patron, the mayor of Jerusalem, Hussein Effendi al Husseini. He describes his condition then as one of “vagabondage” (tasharrud):
I roamed around the city as if in a trance. I would spend all night partying, and then sleep all day, then spend another evening in neighboring villages of Jeru­salem. I paid no attention to anybody or anything, and would only go home to change my clothes, sleeping mostly at my friends’ homes until my body was completely depleted from intoxication. One day I am celebrating in the Bab Hatta neighborhood, and in the next morning I am having a picnic with the families of the top notables (a’yan) in the city. Then I would have a “ses­sion” with some of Jerusalem’s gangsters (zuran and qabadayat) in a city alley. (Jawhariyyeh ms., 23)
But these episodes of hedonism, which lasted most of 1918 and part of the next year, reflected a mood that engulfed the city as a whole. Jawhariyyeh provides us with numerous episodes of public celebrations of freedom in the streets of the Old City, marked by musical processions and open consumption of alcohol. In one such fantasia involving hundreds of revelers, the celebrants started in Damas­cus Gate, moved out of the old city through Musrara, to the Russian Compound, back into the old city from Jaffa Gate, to the Austrian Hospice and ended in the Sheikh Rihan neighborhood of Mahallat al Saadiyya (Jawhariyyeh ms., 40–46). “Why did we have these orgies of celebration the likes of which we have not seen since then?” asks the author. He proceeds to answer himself: “The people were hungry for a moment of release, after the years of humiliation, disease, hunger and dispersal during the war and Ottoman despotism. When the British arrived we began to have a breath of freedom. Unfortunately our joy was short lived, for they brought us catastrophe which was several times more disastrous than the Turkish yoke.” (Jawhariyyeh ms., 41–42)
These outbursts of street merriment soon found an outlet during the years of military government through the mushrooming of local caf.s and caf.-bars.9 They were places where Jerusalemites could meet at leisure, listen to gramophone music, drink araq and cognac, and smoke an arghileh. Two outstanding caf.s from this period were Maqha al arab in Ain Karim (owned by Abu al Abed Arab) which stayed open all night, and the Jawhariyyeh caf.-bar—which featured live entertainment by visiting musicians from Cairo, Alexandria, and Beirut (Jaw­hariyyeh ms., 44–45).
The departure of the Turkish troops also encouraged some of the secret anti-Ottoman societies that had been active as literary or sports organizations to sur­face. Most notable among those associations were the Society for Arab Amity (Jamiyyat al ‘al Arabi), established in Istanbul in 1908 after the proclamation of the new constitution; The Arab Forum (al Muntada al arabi) (1909), with branches in many Syrian cities; the Arab Maiden (al Jamaiyyah al arabiyyah al Fatat), 1912, based in Beirut; the Qahtani Association (al Jam’iyya al Qahtaniyya), and The Green Flag Society (Jam’iyyat al ‘alam al Akhdar), both in Istanbul in 1912 (Sidqui 2001, 196–197). Among these quasi-secret groups in Palestine was the Literary Club (al Muntada al Adabi), whose membership included Fakhri al Nashashibi (who became later the leader of the Defense Party militia against the Husseinis and the Palestine Arab Party), Saliba al Juzi (brother of Bandali, the Marxist his­torian), Khalil Sakakini, Musa Alami, and Is’aaf al Nashashibi (Jawhariyyeh ms., 26 and 86–87; Sakakini 2004, 128). Sakakini’s Vagabond Party (Hizb al Saaleek) was an early precursor of the literary club and his circle included leading figures from Jaffa and Jerusalem intellectual circles such as Nakhleh Zureiq, Adel Jaber, and the Issa brothers (founders of the Filasteen newspapers in 1909). The Literary Club became the nucleus of the Christian-Muslim Associations during the Mili­tary Government. We have a record of a mass rally held in early 1918 just outside Jaffa Gate in which the main speakers were Fakhri Nashashibi and Saliba al Juzi; both spoke against the Balfour Declaration and in favor of Syrian unity (Jaw­hariyyeh ms., 26).

Urban Chaos, Liminal Space, and Military Rule
Local political actors also enjoyed greater agency during the transition period. The Jawhariyyeh memoirs shed significant light on the critical postwar years dur­ing which much political ambiguity about the future direction of Palestine pre­vailed. These were the years of cultural liminality in Palestine, when questions of sovereignty still prevailed because the colonial system was not yet ushered in— despite the military collapse of the Ottoman system. “We lived in a state of igno­rance” Colonel Storrs, military governor of Jerusalem, later confessed—“and my word was the law” (Storrs 1937, 272–273). Under the administration of General Moony all civil laws were suspended in favor of the military administration. Sud­denly in Palestine, according to Mandate historian Bayan al Hut, there were no lawyers, no judges, no courts, and no newspapers (al Hut 1981, 66). The northern part of Palestine was still under Turkish control in 1918, and the British were mo­bilizing resistance in the name of Sherif Hussein against the fledgling Ottoman army. But even after the defeat and final consolidation of British rule over the country, the borders between Transjordan, Lebanon and Syria with Palestine re­mained “Ottoman,” with fluid boundaries and a common cultural outlook.
While the legal vacuum was filled in the countryside by a reversion to com­mon law (al qanun al urfi) and tribal law, the situation in the big cities allowed appointed judges and senior administrators—both British and Palestinian— considerable leeway to exercise their discretion in applying the law at the local level. These discretionary powers are illustrated by a number of recorded cases in 1919 at the Jerusalem Court of Appeals, presided over by Judge Muhammad Yusif al Khalidi, widely known for both his eccentricity and fairness. In one of those cases a well-known Old City prostitute was brought before him on charges of “disturbing the peace.” Judge Khalidi apparently had been drinking heavily the night before, and was still in a daze when the woman was ushered screaming into the court.
Judge Muhammad al Khalidi: “Shut up, you whore (ya sharmuta), and con­trol yourself. “ Prostitute: (enraged by the insult) “My lord, I may be a prostitute at home, but here I am a citizen in the court of the state.” Judge Khalidi: (sobering and taken aback) “You are absolutely right.”
The proceedings were temporarily halted and the judge addressed the court sec­retary Jamal al Salahi:
“Write this down: In the new case of slander, brought by the plaintiff fulaneh the daughter of fulan (i.e. so and so),10 against the accused, Judge Muhammad Yusif al Khalidi, the court judges for the plaintiff. I hereby fine the accused [my­self] five Palestinian pounds.”
He then took five pounds from his wallet, handed it to the court secretary, who issued him with an official receipt. The judge then entered the case into the court protocols, and apologized to the prostitute; he then proceeded with the original charges against her (Jawhariyyeh ms., 13–14).11
Another feature of both cultural and sovereign liminality was the porousness of the new borders with Lebanon, Transjordan, Syria, and Egypt, which still re­flected the old domains of Ottoman greater Syria. In the summer of 1922 Wasif goes on an excursion with his brother Khalil to Syria and Lebanon through the northern borders. Khalil had spent three years of the war as an Ottoman soldier stationed in Beirut. The passage through Ras al Naqura, which within ten years had become a formidable frontier post, is hardly recorded in the memoirs, as if one passed from one district to another (Jawhariyyeh ms., 30). Three years later Wasif repeats the same trip with his wife Victoria, passing again with hardly any formal procedures (Jawhariyyeh ms., 161). The two stories illustrate the fluidity of frontier areas on the eve of the British and French protectorates delineating the borders of new states in a move that consolidated notions of citizenship, exclusion and separation. The new Mandate regulations ended when northern Palestine and southern Lebanon were constituted subdistricts of Bilad al Sham (greater Syria), which, under Ottoman rule, had open borders and shared cultural and social affinities.
Another important realm where citizenship became increasingly confession­alized was the new Mandate bureaucracy. One example of this was the civil ser­vice and land registry. The phasing out of border fluidity and the establishment of a new, more circumscribed territorial unit for administration corresponded to the growth and consolidation in Palestine of the governing apparatus of the colonial state: the army, the police force, the civil service, and the corpus of the new legal system. As such, these spatial and administrative developments derived from and reinforced British efforts to consolidate their sovereign authority, even as they led to changing relationships with the citizenry. But in establishing sover­eignty and citizenship, colonial authorities were equally hamstrung by prior ef­forts to confessionalize the city, and their spatial and social consequences. This is clear with a closer look at civil service activities and the land registry. Within ev­ery sector of the new state, the British had to balance a system of appointments that took into account the representation of the native Palestinian population and the emigrant Jewish population. But while native representation was individual and direct, taking into account social status and confessional considerations, Jew­ish representation was mediated through protracted negotiations with the Jew­ish Agency and Zionist Executive. During the crucial formative stage of British rule, when the new civil administration was installed in 1920, Jewish represen­tation was overwhelming, even though they constituted less than twelve percent of the population. Segev writes: “The Palestinian Jews in senior positions were prominent principally during Samuel’s tenure. Together with the British Zionists, they held key positions in his administration, complained Lieutenant Colonel Percy Bramely, the director of public security in Palestine. In fact, Bramely wrote, Samuel’s was a ‘Zionist-controlled government’” (Segev, 167).
Jawhariyyeh himself was a direct witness to and participant in the formation of the new civil service. Within the latter Wasif became a senior staff member in the National Registry (Qism al Tahrirat) and then (in 1919) in the Land Registry, whose main task was to complete the codification and commercialization of the land tenure system that was initiated by the Ottomans in 1858. He was later pro­moted to the position of director of the financial section in the Land Registry, and became head of the Property Committee and a member of the Appeals Commit­tee (for people who felt they were assessed unjustly) (Jawhariyyeh ms., 2:21). The memoirs constitute a rich record of this transformation in his time. In the sum­mer of 1920 he made this entry: “The core of the new civil administration is made up of the heads of security, education, finance, customs, justice, and agriculture— all English; the heads of the departments of Immigration, Passports, and Land Administration are British and Jews. Mr. N. Bentwich, a Zionist, was appointed as legal advisor to the government. Is this the initial implementation of the Bal­four Declaration in Palestine?” (Jawhariyyeh ms., 2:21).
His work in the Land Registry for over two decades (with Sami Hadawi and Stephan Hanna—both of whom later became prominent writers in their own right), provides us with a detailed record of the manner in which the new laws were geared to facilitate the transfer of urban and rural property to the Zionists. This process included the abolition of the tithe and the werko.12 Both were Ot­toman land taxes that were aimed at bringing in state revenue from landowners without regard to its quality or productivity; the institution of the new graded land-tax based taxation on use, location, and quality. Finally, it included the ex­pediting of the Land Settlement, whose main objective was a comprehensive ca­dastral registration of land plots to enhance and simplify the operations of the Tapu (Land Registry).
As with efforts to recast and divide confessional identities in space, Mandate changes in bureaucratic structuring and policy were not automatically internal­ized and reproduced by Jerusalemites. It is paradoxical, given their later nation­alist credentials, how Sami Hadawi and Jawhariyyeh were critical instruments in this process of land alienation, initially unaware of its significance, and certainly unwilling to perform these tasks. But Jawhariyyeh’s rendition of the process is typical of the early hedonistic years in Jerusalem: passive resistance through de­laying work, bureaucratic sabotage, and creating a jovial atmosphere of idyllic celebration in one of the most critical departments of the colonial government. While his colleagues, Jews and Arabs, were struggling with the intricate book en­tries of the new land registration system during Keith-Roach’s administration, he composed the following ditty lampooning the system of recording agricultural statistics:


Homage to Double Bookkeeping Worst of all is to establish these Rules We are going mad with these calculations: barley, and wheat and fava beans Tithes and Werko all year round . . . round and round till September ends Go to the books and enter the numbers, for public accounts and personal liabilities Imports and Exports past and present And converting Egyptian Lira to the impossible Palestinian Pound Deleting mistakes and animal census From where we come, we grin and bear it.  (Jawhariyyeh ms. 4–59)
These mundane anecdotes, satirizing the daily routine of the colonial bureau­cracy during the period of the military government, draw a cumulative broad pic­ture of an emerging liminal identity. A legal vacuum filled by administrative fiat defined this period, along with a hedonistic street culture that celebrated the loss of tyranny, but filled it with new uncertainties, and porous borders that still re­tained the texture of an older sense of a continuous Levantine (Shami) culture. What “cemented” these three elements together was a strong sense of the local— of Jerusalem being the center of the country’s shifting boundaries, and an anchor against the schemes engineered by the new colonial enemy, which drove many Palestinians into nostalgia for the “accursed” Ottomans.
In addition to the use of processions for protest as described above, another striking turn within the nationalist discourse related to the manner in which British by now openly posed as sponsors of the scheme for a Jewish National Home, and the reversal of their early promises for Syrian independence. This made people—initially exhilarated by the end of Turkish rule—nostalgic toward the Ottoman era, and even toward the “Turanic” regime of Mustafa Kamal Ata­turk, despite his openly anti-Arab credentials. Wasif narrates a performance by the Egyptian-Jewish composer Zaki Murad (the father of singer Leila Murad) in which he sang a tribute to Ataturk in 1921, which became widely popular in Jeru­salem:

Ode to Ataturk The heart beckons to you in adoration and the eyes are cast towards your beauty Royalty seeks your concord the soul is enlivened by your presence [... ] Nobody is your equal Nobody radiates in your brilliance (Jawhariyyeh ms. 84–85)
Although the song was ostensibly composed for King Fuad the First by Ibrahim Qabbani, it was nevertheless seen in Syria and Palestine as a tribute to Ataturk’s victory over the allied troops. The record of this song was in constant demand for some time after the war, especially when Palestinians began to feel “the perni­cious objectives of British rule.” The Abu Shanab Music store in Damascus Gate, the main importer of Egyptian records, could hardly keep up with popular de­mand (Jawhariyyeh ms., 84–85).

New Public Spheres
Beyond the new confessionalization of space and society, war and social disloca­tion created new conditions of individualistic urban lifestyles and practices on the eve of the British Mandate in Palestine. Famine, disease and exile contributed to the disruption of the social fabric of whole communities. In Jerusalem, as well as in other cities in the area, both new public spaces and new behavioral patterns began to emerge. A substantial state sector gave rise to an enlarged civil service, and investments in the national economy invigorated the mercantile strata in the coastal regions. The urban changes included the extension of residential commu­nities outside the old city walls. Secular education, caf.s, social clubs and recrea­tional centers catered to the growth of new bourgeois tastes and sensibilities, and private writings of this period reflect a sense of individualism and escape from fa­milial and communitarian bonds.
City planning during the Mandate period, drawn by MacLean, Geddes, and Ashbee—and local architects such as George Shiber—contributed to the devel­opment of these urban sensibilities. At the heart of Ashbee’s garden landscaping schemes, which separated the old walled Jerusalem from its new suburbs was the creation of a designated route through a sequence of experiences that elicited dif­fering emotions and aroused varied associations. According to Gitler, the new scheme was specifically planned “to arouse in its visitors emotional or religious sentiments for the city and its walls, which bear so many centuries of evocative history. Similar to the English picturesque garden, benches were also added in lo­cations offering both rest and enjoyment of the view” (Gitler, 39). To what extent did these intentions succeed in evoking these subjective associations, while cre­ating a sense of privacy in public space? The answer is difficult to ascertain, ex­cept for those limited candid disclosures in the narratives of contemporary na­tive writers.
Wasif Jawhariyyeh’s memoirs, in common with a large number of Arab auto­biographies, are infused with the spirit of individualism that prevailed in Arab literature of the late nineteenth century, but suffer from an absence of personal intimacy. This judgment may sound paradoxical given the detailed disclosures Wasif offers about the private lives of himself and his contemporaries. The mem­oirs are especially valuable because they expose, ridicule and celebrate the con­ventional, the hidden, and the unmentionable. These include the insular goings-on of the Jerusalem upper classes, the foibles of Ottoman and British military and political leadership, and the hilarious heroics and scandals of ordinary people. It dwells on the mundane and helps us to see it with fresh eyes. Nevertheless these events are more anecdotal and expository of human foibles than they are intimate.
Once set in motion, confessionalization as both a social and spatial process appears to have been almost impossible to reverse. In the case of Jerusalem, as in the country as a whole, the manner in which British planning and adminis­trative policies contributed to the enhancement of confessional identity made it very convenient for Zionism to create a secular nationalism—ultimately based on the principle of a putative Jewish ethnicity. Palestinian nationalism also was fed by contradictory secular and religious motifs. On one hand, a secular streak em­phasized “Muslim-Christian brotherhood” as a central component of national identity, while on the other, a religious component used Islamic affinities as a mobilizing factor in building a revived Palestinian (that is, non-Syrian) nation­alism. With confessionalization acting as a critical factor in British governance and urban planning practice, the religious motifs of Jerusalem became the gal­vanizing iconography of opposing nationalist movements, rather than the source of syncretic celebrations, as in prior periods. This in turn changed the nature and goals of struggles over sovereignty. The historic dichotomy between a secular Zi­onism hostile to Jerusalem as Judaism’s central cultural domain and a conserva­tive Jewish orthodox tradition that was Jerusalem-centered gave way to a new na­tionalist split between Jewish and Arab Nationalisms. In this struggle, the “holy city” of “parasites and beggars” became the most important symbolic contested territory.
In the case of the Palestinian national movement, despite its secular character, exemplified by the political platforms of its main parties (Istiqlal, Palestine Arab Party, Defense Party, and the Communist Party) and the secular ideological per­suasion of its leadership (perhaps with the exception of the followers of ’Iz ad-Din al Qassam in the north of Palestine), religious motifs had become essential in formulating its outlook. This can be seen in the uses of religious ceremonials, such as Nebi Musa processions, in nationalist mobilization—which had hitherto been a syncretic folk festival; and the location of religious sites (the Wailing Wall/ Buraq and al Aqsa) as loci of clashes between Arabs and Jews. It is also exempli­fied by the increased use of religious language in nationalist slogans and exhorta­tions, for example, “Seif ed-Din al Haj Amin!” (“Haj Amin [Husseini], the sword of religion!”). For Jews both secular and religious the loss of the old city in 1947 was a loss of Zion, and the capture of Jerusalem became a rallying cry for secular Zionism.
Notes
1.
This essay is a modified version of an earlier essay entitled “Years of Delicious An­archy.” I am indebted to Bernadette Baird Zars and Diane Davis for their critical reading and helpful editorial suggestions.

2.
Wasif Jawhariyyeh’s memoirs contribute significantly in conveying the spirit of emancipatory anticipation that engulfed Jerusalem (and Palestine) during the critical three years of military rule. Wasif himself was maturing as a musical performer, and reached an age where he was able to reflect on the future of Palestine and Jerusalem from the momentous events that he witnessed. He also occupied a strategic vantage point in these events: as an entertainer to members of the city’s notable elite, as well as his en­hanced position in the nascent British civil service in the capital of the country.


3. The Occupied Enemy Territories Administration (1917–1920).
4.
Henry Kendall, in his Jerusalem City Plan, refers to the incident as “permission was tactfully obtained to remove a hideous clock tower with dials showing the time accord­ing to both Western and Arab reckoning.” He claims that the tower was erected to com­memorate the thirty-third anniversary of Abdul Hamid’s reign, not his twenty-fifth.

5.
Fifteen years later Prof. T. F. Meisel, the Hebrew University archeologist, visited Jawhariyyeh and wrote glowingly about this model in an article published in the Pales­tine Post, on 10 August 1945.

6.
In Jawhariyyeh’s memoirs the national movement was already divided on the issue of census boycott, with Fawzi Nashashibi—a cousin of Raghib and a future leader of the opposition (pro-British) faction—already counseling support for the census.

7.
Mana# notes also that considerable differences exist between Palestinian historians (e.g., Bayan Nweihid al Hut) and Israeli ones (e.g., Y. Porath) on the degree of Palestinian support for Arab anti-Ottoman groups, with the latter emphasizing its limitations. Al-Hut suggests that Palestinian representation in Arabist groups was considerably higher than their demographic weight in the Arab provinces (see Mana# 2003, 248). But these dif­ferences are more likely to be due to their stress on different time periods.

8.
Although we have the words for this ballad, unfortunately the melody is lost. Jaw­hariyyeh never studied the musical notation system and therefore did not record it.

9.
For a description of these caf.-bars and their clientele, see my “The Vagabond Caf. and Jerusalem’s Prince of Idleness.”

10.
Her name is withheld, presumably because her status as a prostitute is not certain.

11.
 This case is among several court cases cited by Jawhariyyeh, ms. section 3: 13–14.




12. The werko was originally a land and real estate tax levied on Za#amat (sipahis, or feudal estates). With the abolition of feudal estates the werko became a land tax imposed by the state, together with the tithe. For details, see Doukhan 1938, 98–99.

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