by Adam LeBor
Avraham Haim Chelouche would have invited Jaffa’s Muslim and Christian dignitaries to Julia’s wedding that October of 1921 regardless. They had been friends for generations. The wedding invitations were printed in French and Arabic and the gifts for the guests were imported from Egypt: boxes franked with David and Julia’s initials, filled with sugared almonds. The wedding took place at the Eden cinema in Tel Aviv. ‘My dress was long and white, with lace to the bottom and a white veil. The buds were arranged nicely. When I went down the stairs and started to walk, the owner of the nearby café stopped me, and threw a jug of sweet Turkish coffee on the ground, as a good omen,’ wrote Julia. The cinema entrance was covered in Persian rugs and carpets, lent by Julia’s relatives. Flowers spelt out WELCOME at the door. Julia travelled in the High Commissioner’s Packard convertible, with her father Yosef, and grandmother Mazal. Still the day was tinged with sadness: Julia’s mother Esther had died not long before. When the wedding car arrived, the British band struck up and the bridesmaids scattered flowers on the path in front of David and Julia. That evening there was a family dinner at the nearby Palatin Hotel. Afterwards, David and Julia set off on honeymoon, going by train to Cairo, Venice and Paris, where his brothers Zaki and Marco lived. The Muslim and Christian guests told Avraham Haim: ‘We came for you, Mr Chelouche. This is the first time our feet have touched the ground in Tel Aviv since the disturbances.’ Just as Herbert Samuel had hoped, the wedding had brought together Jews and Arabs. But it was for one evening only; within a few years Jaffa would once again explode into violence.
3
Jaffa Strikes
1920s–1930s
There is no choice but to rouse ourselves, there is no choice but to shake ourselves, there is no choice but to act.
Palestinian diarist Khalil al-Sakakini
on Jewish immigration, 1935
Shlomo Chelouche was getting ready for his favourite excursion, going out with his father Yaakov as he did his rounds. The family lived on Rothschild Boulevard, one of the first streets in Tel Aviv. Shlomo, born in 1916, went to school at the Herzliya Gymnasium and was a happy boy, adored and just a bit spoiled. When Yaakov and his wife Pearla travelled to Europe each year, they brought Shlomo sailor suits from Paris. He proudly strutted about the house in his new uniform and appointed himself boss of the stable. When Meir Dizengoff came to visit Shlomo’s father, Shlomo was watering the garden. After Dizengoff had tied up his horse and gone inside to speak to Yaakov, Shlomo liberally watered the horse.
Life was good and the family prospered. The Anglo-Palestine Company was now the Anglo-Palestine Bank, a mainstay of Palestine’s economy. Yaakov Chelouche’s counsel and friendship were sought by many. Yaakov was a stylish and charismatic man, with strong features and clear eyes. He wore a tailored three-piece suit, with a freshly-starched wing collar, and a carefully trimmed moustache and goatee beard. Yaakov was preceded on his rounds by his kawas (bearer), an imposing figure dressed in a special uniform, who held a polished baton. ‘The kawas walked in front of my father, with an expression that said “I am here, leading Mr Chelouche,”’ remembers Shlomo, who still lives in central Tel Aviv. A lively raconteur, with a ready laugh and a love of storytelling, he shares the family’s sense of history. ‘The kawas hit the ground with the baton, warning passers-by to make way, that his master was following. He never needed to mention my father’s name. Everyone knew who it was when he passed by with his fellow. They all greeted my father, they wanted to prove that they knew him.’
Like all the Chelouches, Yaakov was fluent in Arabic, and he even wrote poetry in the language. Yaakov Chelouche also understood the subtleties of Levantine commerce, and the importance of both face and respect. ‘My father was loved and respected in Jaffa,’ says Shlomo. ‘We went to a textile shop where they owed money. They came to the entrance to greet him, brought chairs and coffee. My father sat down and they talked, about the weather, the fruits, the oranges, how they were good this season, better than last, about how Muhammad Ali had bought a new house, and Ibn Dahab had just sold his orange grove. They drank the coffee and I had juice.’ There was no need for Yaakov to discuss the purpose of his visit. It was understood by all. ‘My father finished his coffee, he finished talking shop, and thanked the owner. He stood up, called for Mohammad, the kawas, and said it was time to go. The kawas ushered away the people who had come to watch, and we left. When my father had gone ten metres, the shop owner shouted, “Mr Chelouche, I’ll come tomorrow to see you.” The money was not mentioned. There was no need. Nobody said, “You owe me this.” My father knew he would be paid, that was the delicacy of it.’
Despite the legacy of the May 1921 riots, and the increasing polarisation between the two peoples, both communities were still inextricably linked by mutual interests. The Chelouches prided themselves on their cordial business and social relations with their Arab partners. Politics, and the clash between Zionism and Palestinian nationalism, was a backdrop, ever present. But human interaction continued, both social and commercial. Often both were mixed. The elaborate Levantine codes of hospitality and courtesy meant it was impossible to disentangle them. Yaakov wanted his Arab bank customers to prosper, and they in turn wanted their Jewish bank manager to feel secure, explains Shlomo. ‘We were neighbours. We lived together and we wanted to succeed together. It meant you give me money and I will develop my business, make money and pay you interest. On the holidays I will not forget to send you sheep, turkeys, oil, wine, and goods for your house.’
These arrived regularly at the Chelouche household. But one consignment was always awaited with particular pleasure: half a dozen camels, each loaded with sacks of olives, oranges, watermelons, chicken, lamb and jars of olive oil. The foods were welcome, but more important was the human connection they represented, one that stretched back decades, to the era of the family patriarch, Aharon Chelouche. A friendship that showed that perhaps Arab and Jew, Jaffa and Tel Aviv, could live together and share the land of Palestine and its riches. The story, which begins in the late nineteenth century, is told at length by Julia Chelouche in her memoir:
One morning Aharon Chelouche saw a young Arab boy, aged around sixteen, next to his money changing shop. The boy was crying bitterly. ‘What’s wrong, why are you crying?’ Aharon Chelouche asked him. The young man told Aharon, tears choking his throat, ‘I came from my village yesterday. My father Sheikh Samarra sent me to Jaffa to sell a camel and gave me a packet of coins for the trip. Last night I slept at the inn. Robbers came and stole the camel and the money. I was left in my shirt and skin. How can I show my face to my father? And how can I return to my village with no money?’
Aharon Chelouche took a majida, a silver coin, out of his pocket and told the boy, ‘Take it, my son and do not worry. Your father will forgive you, because what happened was not your fault.’ A majida was a considerable amount of money in those days, when the Turks ruled Israel.
‘Who are you?’ stuttered the youngster. ‘You do not know me at all, and I am a resident of a distant village, how can I return your money to you?’
‘My name is Aharon Chelouche,’ the old man said. ‘Return to your village and Allah will bless you.’
No more was heard of the Samarras until spring 1917. The Turkish authorities, fearful that the Allies were about to invade Palestine from the sea, expelled Jaffa’s Jews inland. Many were foreign citizens, who awaited with longing the arrival of the British, and were regarded as spies or a potential fifth column. The war had brought fear, destruction and near famine to Jaffa. Locusts destroyed the harvests. The economy collapsed, and the Anglo-Palestine Company, registered in Britain, was forced to close. A British warship shelled Jaffa, destroying part of the staircase of Beit Chelouche. Aharon was wounded in the head and hand by shrapnel, his daughter Jamila in an eye. The Chelouches and the Bohbouts relocated to Petach Tikva, a Jewish settlement in central Palestine. Yaakov Chelouche, the banker, tried to revitalise the local economy which had collapsed. Yaakov wrote out promissory notes, a
nd signed and guaranteed them.
But after heavy fighting in the area, the Jews were forced out once again. The Chelouches moved to Kfar Jamal, near Tayibeh in north east Palestine. Their situation deteriorated rapidly. Their funds ran out, and there was nothing to eat. Aharon’s wife, Sara, died. Aharon was now ninety years old. His son Yaakov was arrested, together with Yaakov’s nephew Moshe. Both were accused of spying for the NILI espionage ring which worked for Britain. NILI, an acronym for the Hebrew words meaning ‘The strength of Israel will not lie’, was run by Aaron Aaronsohn and his sister Sarah from the northern town of Zichron Yaakov. Yaakov and Moshe Chelouche were imprisoned in Damascus, together with Na’aman Belkind, one of NILI’s leaders, who had been captured by the Turks while attempting to reach Egypt. Yaakov and Moshe Chelouche were eventually released, but Na’aman Belkind was hanged in 1917. Yaakov’s brothers, Yosef Eliyahu and Avraham Haim, were now the heads of the family. These were terrible days for the Chelouches, but help came from an unexpected quarter, writes Julia:
The family numbered some forty people, all of whom lived by their wits, without money, they peddled rags which they brought from the city… One day, a pair of camels preceded by a donkey appeared on the path. The rider got down from the donkey and asked, ‘Is the refugee Aharon Chelouche here?’ When he was brought to the old man he said, ‘You do not know me. My name is Hajj Ibrahim Samarra.1 I am the youth to whom you once gave a majida in Jaffa. Your benevolence will never be forgotten. And I heard that you are refugees here.’ And Hajj Ibrahim Samarra unloaded all sorts of good things from the camels, sacks of flour and beans, and leather bags of oil, treasures the likes of which the refugees had forgotten.
There was more to come. Whatever debt Hajj Ibrahim owed to Aharon Chelouche was repaid many times over. The young boy who had lost his money and his father’s camel was now a rich man, the Sheikh of three villages.
He invited Yosef Eliyahu [Chelouche] to his home, brought an axe and a rope, measured the length of one of the walls of the room and chopped off the plaster with the axe. When the plaster fell off, a plate was revealed on the wall. From the hole behind it, Hajj Ibrahim removed a red handkerchief holding 500 gold pounds, handed the money to Yosef Eliyahu and said, ‘Take it, I have enough. Return it when the war ends, Inshallah.2 It will be my shame if you do not take the money.’
Yosef Eliyahu thanked him from the bottom of his heart and suggested that he give the Sheikh a promissory note. ‘Why?’ asked Hajj Ibrahim. ‘What if we all die in the war?’ explained Yosef Eliyahu. ‘Then neither of us will need the money,’ protested Sheikh Ibrahim.
The hospitality shown by the villagers of Kfar Jamal to the displaced Jews made a profound impression on Yosef Eliyahu Chelouche. A prolific essayist, before the start of the war he had published many articles in Palestine’s Arabic press arguing that there was no inherent clash of interests between Jewish settlement in Palestine and Arab aspirations for the land. With mutual respect and tolerance, Jews and Arabs could live together. ‘The days of our stay in Kfar Jamal were good,’ he wrote in his autobiography, Reminiscences of My Life. ‘The villagers treated us with great respect. The relations between the Jews and the local people were characterised by kindness and love. There were no disturbances, except a few petty quarrels between the children. Then I used to make peace, by handing our candies.’
Yosef Eliyahu and his brother Avraham Haim were not sure where to bury their mother, Sara, after she died in Kfar Jamal. The nearest Jewish town was five hours’ walk away, and travel was impossible without a permit in any case. The Sheiks of Kfar Jamal insisted that Sara Chelouche be buried in the village graveyard, to make things easier for the distressed family. Yosef Eliyahu was particularly touched by the many local Arabs who asked if they could attend her funeral. ‘It seemed that all of them were standing behind my house, waiting for my permission, and they all came, from youngsters to the village elders. We accompanied her to the grave to the sounds of crying of both Jews and Arabs… During the days of mourning groups of local Arabs came to console us. Their kindness gave us strength from our sorrow and we emerged from our grief, except my sister Jamila, who could not find comfort even for a long time after our mother’s death.’
Year after year, the Samarra camel trains arrived at Rothschild Boulevard from Kfar Jamal. Personal relations between Arabs and Jews endured, but with no political solution in sight the violence worsened. In August 1929, the Arabs of Hebron rioted and killed 67 Jews, butchering babies, children and old people. Many of Hebron’s Jews were saved by their Arab neighbours who hid them in their houses, but they all left Hebron soon after, the end of one of the world’s oldest Jewish communities. In Jaffa and across Palestine the Jews counter-attacked. Just as in 1921, the worst clashes in Jaffa erupted in Manshiyyeh. Secret detachments of the Haganah, the underground Jewish militia founded in 1920, patrolled the area around the Hasan Bey mosque. Its members were well trained and organised, armed with guns stolen or bought from the British. Arab youths congregated in their own self-defence groups. The two sides were kept five hundred yards apart by the Palestine Police.
The chasm between the two sides was far wider than that. The Arabs felt profoundly betrayed, and their protests languished unread on desks in Whitehall. ‘Arabs after the Great War lost all the political rights they enjoyed under Turkey and witnessed Jewish riff-raff being introduced from all parts to their country to build a non-existent nation,’ wrote Musa Kazim Pasha, president of the Arab Executive of Palestine, to London.3 The Zionists took a different view. Maurice Samuel, a witness to the 1929 violence, used language highly telling of the ideological and cultural chasm between the two sides: ‘On the one side Tel Aviv with its poets, painters and thinkers. On the other, backward Jaffa, in which education is a fantastic luxury, and modern intellectuality – in a levantised form at that – the possession of a handful… Only yesterday, too, we had got along so well. The young bloods of Jaffa used to come on Fridays to Tel Aviv. This was their taste of “Europe”, of the “civilised world”.’4
When calm was finally restored, 133 Jews and 116 Arabs were dead across Palestine. The killings further polarised both sides. The minority of Zionists who called for a bi-national or confederal Arab-Hebrew entity, instead of a fully fledged Hebrew state, were even more marginalised. So were those Arabs prepared to countenance a Jewish ‘canton’ in a future independent Palestine. The Jewish writer S. Y. Agnon spoke for many when he wrote of the Arabs: ‘I do not hate them and I do not love them; I do not wish to see their faces. In my humble opinion we should now build a large ghetto of half a million Jews in Palestine, because if we do not we will, God forbid, be lost.’5 In 1933, Adolf Hitler came to power in Germany, the triumph of Nazism the final vindication of Herzl’s argument that the Jews needed their own state. The Third Reich triggered the Fifth Aliyah. The German Jewish bourgeoisie, known as yekkes, poured into Palestine. Dressed in three-piece suits, they sat sweating and drinking coffee in Tel Aviv’s cafés, pining for Vienna and Berlin, but they were at least out of the Nazis’ reach. By 1935, Tel Aviv’s population had reached 120,000. Officially recognised as a city in 1934, Tel Aviv was now the de facto capital of the Yishuv, complete with its own Philharmonic Orchestra.
Not all its inhabitants were Jews. Amin Andraus, a Christian Arab from Nazareth, rented a flat in Tel Aviv from a Turkish Jewish family, while he looked for a piece of land on which to build a house in Jaffa. Amin worked in the car business, and was a strikingly attractive man, with high cheekbones and dark eyes that looked out at the world with ironic amusement. After his father Salim died in 1907, his mother Haya sent him to the German Schneller School in Jerusalem. It was a spartan regime, based on plain food, cold water, hard work and a strong moral sense. One school holiday, he and several friends were about to set off from Jerusalem to Nazareth by horse-drawn coach when several young girls arrived from the Blind School. There was not enough room for all of them, so Amin told his friends that they all had to give up their places. It took th
em three days to walk home.
Amin was fluent in German, Turkish and Arabic, and during the war was drafted into an Austrian army unit as a translator. In 1917 Amin was captured by the British army, and fortune smiled on him. He was sent home to Nazareth to work at army headquarters translating letters from Turkish or Arabic into English. In truth Amin’s English was not very good. But he enlisted an English teacher to help, and they managed very well. Amin was allowed to go home every night with a packet of army rations for himself, his mother Haya and sister Fahima, riches when Palestine was in a state of near famine.
Amin outgrew Nazareth, which was a sleepy provincial town, less cosmopolitan and more traditional than Jaffa. Some of its residents looked askance at Amin’s drive and ambition. Amin loved to hunt, and the story of the shooting trip to Mount Tabor entered the Andraus family folklore. Andraus had set off at a brisk pace, the dogs in front. The Nazarenes with him soon flagged. Their vision of a pleasant stroll was somewhat different from Amin’s, which seemed more like a route march. They asked Amin for some water. ‘Why didn’t you bring any,’ he asked, annoyed at their lack of preparation. They asked again for some of his. ‘No, this water is for the dogs. You can look after yourselves, but the dogs need me to look after them,’ he replied, striding off into the distance.
In 1933, Amin married Hanneh Azzam, a Greek Orthodox Christian from Haifa. Amin wanted a quiet and dignified wedding, and declared that there would be no ululating. Should any guest or relative start to make the rhythmic wailing sounds, Amin announced, he would walk out. Nobody ululated at the wedding. Amin and Hanneh went on honeymoon to Egypt, before he took his bride back to Jaffa.
