An exile’s very last summer in the old city
Michel Moushabeck
The morning my grandfather and I took a walk together, after a hearty breakfast of ka’ak (oversized sesame bagels) and bayd hammeem (oven-baked eggs), which my grandmother had bought from a street vendor by yelling out the window and lowering a basket on a rope from the dining room bay window that overlooked the Christian Quarter market—he turned to me and said, “Today, you get to spend the day with Sido (Grandfather); you are old enough now to help me at the qahwe (café).”
It was 1966, and I was barely eleven years old, living in Beirut. Every summer, my mother would take me, along with my younger brother and sister, to visit Tata (grandmother) and Sido in the Old City of Jerusalem. I often resisted these visits, preferring to spend my time at the beach in Beirut with my best friends Mounir and Imad, rather than with my grandfather—a stern, tarboosh-wearing (fez-wearing), za’oot-sniffing (snuff), nargileh-puffing, mustachioed man who looked more like an Ottoman Pasha than a kindly old man. He seemed almost feared by everyone around him (at least, that was my perception), and he never showed me any affection.
I was not only intimidated by my grandfather, but also by the sight of the bearded monks who lived at the Greek Orthodox Convent where my grandparents resided after their forced exile from the Katamon Quarter. The smell of incense and burning candles, the narrow cobblestone alleys, the robed priests wandering in the dark (who would always greet me with a “kalimera” or “kalispera,” which I didn’t understand back then), all contributed to a feeling of anxiety that I could have done without.
My grandfather, Issa Toubbeh, known to everyone as Abu Michel (Father of Michael), was the Mukhtar (the chosen), the head of the Eastern Orthodox Christian Arab community in Jerusalem. He had served in this role for over fifty years, just as his father had before him, and his eldest son would after him. As Mukhtar, he was granted a residence inside the Convent, consisting of several large rooms next to Mar Ya’coub (St. Jacob’s Orthodox Church) and the Holy Sepulcher. The entrance was adorned with rows of sweet-smelling potted plants, including gardenias and jasmine, lovingly cared for by my grandmother, Tata Maria—providing a much-needed contrast to the overpowering scents of incense.
From the rooftop—the makeshift playground for my cousins and me—the view of the Mount of Olives, the Dome of the Rock, the al-Aqsa Mosque, and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher overwhelmed my eleven-year-old senses each time I looked out over the Old City. Everyone spoke highly of my grandfather, the Mukhtar, and his important role in Palestinian society. Abu Michel was highly educated and commanded respect. He spoke several languages fluently: Arabic, Turkish, Greek, Armenian, and Russian. He even swore in English—with a posh British accent—something he had picked up during his dealings with the “cursed” British before they left Palestine in 1948.
He had survived the Ottoman, British, Hashemite, and Jewish rule, and was considered a shrewd and experienced mediator. His reputation as a problem-solver stretched beyond the Eastern Orthodox Christian Arab community, as both Muslims and Jews sought his help. My uncle Jamil once told me, “Abused women rushed to our house for protection, while their abusers waited outside for my father, the mediator.” It was rumored that whenever my grandfather accompanied men to ask for a girl’s hand in marriage, it was guaranteed their request would be accepted.
Despite his esteemed position, none of this impressed me. My older cousin Basima once told me proudly that she had seen Sido’s picture in the newspaper, walking next to the Greek Orthodox Patriarch during Easter Sunday’s procession. I thought, “Big deal.” My aunt Widad, the sweetest of my six aunts, bragged that no marriage could take place without my grandfather’s stamp, no birth could be legalized without his seal, no divorce approved without his counsel, and no death authenticated without his presence. Yet, the more I heard about his public importance, the less affection I felt for him. How could someone so powerful never have said a kind word to me, let alone shown me the affection I thought a grandfather should?
I feared the way my grandfather treated my grandmother, Tata, the kindest woman I knew. I would watch in discomfort as she lovingly massaged his feet in a bowl of hot water after he returned from work, as though her days were easier than his. I once asked my mother why he never massaged her feet in return, especially after he had taken her away from her family at the age of thirteen and impregnated her ten times. My resentment grew, but I did not understand the customs that governed his behavior and attitudes, nor how deeply rooted tradition could be.
But despite my growing resentment, there was one thing I couldn’t deny: being the grandson of the Mukhtar had its perks. I shamelessly exploited these advantages. The locals soon recognized me as the Mukhtar’s grandson, and I received free treats from vendors everywhere: sugar-covered chickpeas, lemonade, ice cream, falafel, and even donkey rides. The Old City transformed into my personal amusement park. My only obligation was to return to the Convent by the 8:00 p.m. closing time of the small metal door, a rule my mother constantly reminded me of—except for once, when I lost track of time.
That Sunday evening, while I was flying a kite, I missed the closing time and found the gate locked. I stood outside, frightened and sobbing, until a kind woman approached, recognized me as the Mukhtar’s grandson, and helped me get back inside. That incident marked the beginning of a day with my grandfather I will never forget.
Instead of scolding me, as I had expected, Sido extended his hand and gave me a warm, loving look. As we walked together, passing the monk at the Convent entrance, Sido winked at me, and I realized this was the start of something different. We visited the Batrak, the grand Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church, an honor few ever received. The Batrak’s opulent quarters dazzled me, but I was more focused on the gold chain with a cross that Sido whispered would protect me from evil, a gift I later sold to a classmate in Beirut.
As we strolled through Jerusalem, stopping to greet people, the energy of the city was palpable. The sounds of the muezzin’s call to prayer, the church bells, the singing of vendors, and the foot-thumping rhythms of children’s dabke dances filled the air. I even learned the rhythms of a juice vendor, a percussionist whose beats fascinated me so much that I began mimicking them on my grandmother’s china—a practice that led to a rather painful consequence.
My grandfather’s café, al-Mahal, was a famous gathering spot for intellectuals, artists, and writers. As we arrived, the café was buzzing with activity. Sido quickly put me to work, preparing mezze for the lunch crowd. The atmosphere was lively, with the sounds of arak being served and nargileh pipes in use at nearly every table. For the next hour, Sido attended to the duties of recording births, deaths, and marriages, offering advice between each entry in his oversized leather book.
Afterwards, we went to the café’s backyard, where he shared stories with me—some humorous, others sad, like the bombing that destroyed the Samiramis Hotel, or the massacre at Deir Yassin. And then, to my delight, he gave me a demonstration of how to fly pigeons—a skill I later learned was actually part of a scheme to attract more pigeons for the café’s customers.
Later that evening, a seemingly casual request to borrow rice from a neighbor sparked a grand celebration. Word spread, and soon over twenty people were gathered at my grandparents’ house. Music, dancing, and poetry filled the air, and I even joined in with a tambourine. It was a day of revelry, of laughter, food, and family—one that left me with memories I cherish to this day.
The Mukhtar’s house was no longer just a place of authority, but a home filled with warmth, joy, and connection. It was a day that deepened my understanding of my grandfather and of the cultural heritage that I had long misunderstood. It was a day that would stay with me forever.
