Abu Michel did not survive long after Um Michel passed away. Every morning, he would check the blue pantry cupboard in which she used to keep a plate of olive oil, Za’atar, a jar of apricot jam that she made and a piece of bread. The Mukhtar used to have breakfast before leaving home to his café located in Bab al-Khalil, (Jaffa Gate), in the Old City of Jerusalem, Qahwet Al-Mukhtar.
Tears would start dropping heavily on his cheeks and he would begin to pray for her soul quietly.
Abu Michel lived ninety years and up till his last days he had a rich memory. He was aware of the finest details of his life and would narrate it to anybody as if it just happened a day ago.
In the last years before his death as his health gradually began to decline, his sons and daughters who stayed in Jerusalem insisted on hosting him in turns in their homes. At first, Abu Michel strongly rejected the idea, however, at the end he had no choice but accept it as his eyesight deteriorated.
The presence of his grandchildren around helped in pumping life into his spirit. Whenever he saw us, he would smile. We were a necessary dose of revival that prolonged his life even if only for a few hours. Despite that, Abu Michel constantly felt that he had become a heavy burden on others and after some time he joined Um Michel.
Abu Michel did not have much to leave for his ten sons and daughters after he passed away. He barely managed, seventy-three years ago, to escape and save his family in the 1948 “Nakba”. All that he wished for before he died was that his sons and daughters inherit the old pieces of furniture he owned in his home in Jerusalem.
My mother got her share of her father’s heritage. A brown, wooden chest of drawers and its mirror. The two items are considered today a very valuable antique. I do not know much about it, however, it is unlikely that the “Mukhtar” carried it on his back all the way from the Qatamon neighborhood in West Jerusalem to his new home in East Jerusalem, the latter was the part of the city which used to be under Jordanian rule until it has been occupied by Israel in 1967. The two pieces weigh “tons”. It is not just a bundle of clothes or pots and blankets that one can pack in minutes and carry easily.
My mom preserved what she inherited over the years. The “dressoir” and the mirror were special in her heart. Every morning when she used to dust it and would repeat the same words to me: “Look Rana, these are from your grandfather, the Mukhtar, Abu Micheal. Take care of it after I am gone”. She kept telling me that until her death quarter of a century ago and I had no choice but to keep my promise.
I won’t be lying if I say that I would have preferred if my mom left me a few coins instead of some old antiques. Therefore, from time to time, the idea of selling it crossed my mind, particularly whenever I had to move to a new place, for I feared that the wood would crack and break. Yet, each time I looked at my mom’s picture hanging on the wall I changed my mind.
The two pieces accompanied me through every stage of my life. Not only so but also motivated me to appreciate and collect antiques. Whenever I noticed a slightest scratch, I would rush to repair it along with the other furniture which I inherited from my parents’ house after they died. That included a dining table with eight chairs padded in yellow that are fifty years old and this is another story.
Whenever we had guests, my mom would always point to that dining set and start speaking highly of its quality and the beauty of its design. She would mention the name of the carpentry, The Islamic Industrial Orphanage School, and praise its work.
The carpentry is an old charitable organization founded by some prominent Palestinian figures in 1922. It was established as a response to the tragic situation after World War I that took place in 1914 and has become a refuge for many orphaned children who had no support. The headquarter of the charity is in the “Takiya Khasaki Sultan,” near Al-Aqsa Mosque. It still exists to this day and the dining set I inherited from my mom remains a witness to her words.
The Mukhtar, my grandpa, who always believed that his dream would be fulfilled one day and that he would return to Qatamon passed away. Although he did not leave us a large iron key of his house from which he was forcibly displaced that year of the Nakba, however, his grandchildren were lucky to have some of his precious furniture with the rich memories it bears of which each carries a key for putting together the pieces of a fragmented “story” on the verge of being forgotten.
Published on May 13, 2021
