The Jews of Beirut: The Rise of a Levantine Community, 1860s-1930s (Studies in Judaism) 9781433117091, 9781453902356, 1433117096

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The Jews OF Beirut

Studies in Judaism

Yudit Kornberg Greenberg General Editor Vol. 6

PETER LANG

New York y Washington, D.C./Baltimore y Bern Frankfurt y Berlin y Brussels y Vienna y Oxford

Tomer Levi

The Jews OF Beirut The Rise of a Levantine Community, 1860s–1930s

PETER LANG

New York y Washington, D.C./Baltimore y Bern Frankfurt y Berlin y Brussels y Vienna y Oxford

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Levi, Tomer. The Jews of Beirut: the rise of a Levantine community, 1860s–1930s / Tomer Levi. p. cm. — (Studies in Judaism; v. 6) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Jews—Lebanon—Beirut—History—19th century. 2. Jews—Lebanon—Beirut—History—20th century. 3. Lebanon—Ethnic relations. I. Title. DS135.L34L48 305.892’405692509034—dc23 2011037877 ISBN 978-1-4331-1709-1 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-4539-0235-6 (e-book) ISSN 1086-5403

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek. Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de/.

Cover photo courtesy of the Central Zionist Archive in Jerusalem: Jewish merchants of Damascus and Beirut. From right: Balila Joseph, Joseph Jehuda Farhi. Sitting, Ezra Anzarut The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council of Library Resources.

© 2012 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York 29 Broadway, 18th floor, New York, NY 10006 www.peterlang.com All rights reserved. Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm, xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited. Printed in Germany

,‫לזכר אחי‬ ‫עופר‬ In memory of my brother, OFER

Table of Contents List of Tables .......................................................................................... ix Acknowledgments ................................................................................ xi Introduction ............................................................................................ 1 1 Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities ...................... 23 Commercial Expansion ......................................................................25 Migration ............................................................................................28 Diversity and Heterogeneity.............................................................33 Social and Cultural Exchange ...........................................................40 The Jewish Communities of Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut ........... 44 Jewish Philanthropy.......................................................................... 58 Conclusion ..........................................................................................61

2 The Rise of Beirut’s Jewish Community................................. 71 The Late Ottoman Period ..................................................................74 Formal Organization, 1908–1920.......................................................92 The French Mandate, 1920–1939 .....................................................101 Conclusion ........................................................................................110

3 Competing Ideologies ................................................................ 123 The Alliance Israélite Universelle ...................................................126 B’nai B’rith ........................................................................................127 Jewish Nationalism ..........................................................................132 Conclusion ........................................................................................141

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4 Who Controls Jewish Education? ........................................... 149 The Quest for Educational Reforms ......................................... 150 Challenging the Alliance School ............................................... 156 The ‘Civilizing Mission’ vs. the ‘Anglo-Saxon Spirit’ .......... 159 Conclusion ..................................................................................... 163 5 The Culture of Giving................................................................ 167 Personal Giving before WWI ..........................................................171 Organized Giving.............................................................................173 The Colonial Factor ..........................................................................194 Conclusion ........................................................................................195 Conclusion .............................................................................................203 Bibliography ...........................................................................................211 Index .......................................................................................................219

Tables 1 Shipping Tonnage Entering Main Ottoman Ports, 1830–1913 ... 26 2 European Communities in Alexandria ........................................ 29 3 Izmir’s Population in the Late Nineteenth Century ................... 31 4 Beirut’s Population........................................................................ 32 5 Children in Foreign Schools in Alexandria, 1878........................ 41 6 Beirut’s Jewish Population ........................................................... 77 7 Revenues of Talmud-Torah School .............................................179 8 Revenues of Mattan-Basseter ........................................................181 9 Annual Revenues of Community Institutions ...........................182 10 Percentage of Voluntary Donations ............................................184 11 Contributions in Synagogues ......................................................188

Acknowledgments The last decade has witnessed a remarkable growth of interest in the history of the Jews of Lebanon, the great majority of whom lived in Beirut. The Internet has played a central role in this development. Numerous websites provide information in the form of blogs, forums, articles, photographs, and even documentaries. Furthermore, the Internet has allowed Lebanese Jews scattered across the globe to reconnect and reclaim their communal identity through the regular exchange of information and ideas. This relatively recent awakening of interest in Lebanon’s Jews—and Beirut’s Jewish community in particular—by private individuals and journalists is especially remarkable as it stands in stark contrast to the lack of academic research on the history of Beirut’s Jewish community. My own interest in the Jews of Lebanon began several years before this recent growth of interest in this community. When I was visiting my aunt in Haifa one day in the early 1990s, she opened a box full of old photos and papers and pulled out a document written in Arabic and French. I was curious. When I asked her about that document, she replied, “That’s your grandmother’s Lebanese identity card.” The revelation of my Lebanese background captivated me. Family members, however, could only provide some sketchy information on Jewish life in Beirut. Yet, the little I heard about the Jews of Lebanon was enough to pique my curiosity. Instinctually, I sensed that their story was different and unique. I just could not figure out why. My encounters with members of the Lebanese Jewish community, who showered me with warmth and hospitality, provided partial answers. They invited me into their homes to tell me stories of this

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The Jews of Beirut

rich culture. Several occasions stand out. Gracia Grego, of Bat-Yam, prepared an elaborate lunch of classic Lebanese Jewish dishes and then sent me off with a large box of marzipans under my arm. Batia Shams, of Newton, Massachusetts, included me in her family’s celebration of Rosh ha-Shana. Many others shared countless memories, bringing to life the vibrancy of everyday life in Beirut: walking in the fancy Hamra quarter, sitting at the Cafes along the Corniche, watching a film at the Crystal movie theater, or taking the empty tramway late at night. These vivid descriptions helped to recreate an image of local Jews’ way of life. However, I found myself drawn to uncovering the historical development of the Jewish community and the forces that shaped it. How and when did the community develop? What institutions existed? How was the community organized? What ideological currents did it encounter? I could not find a single scholarly work that adequately answered these questions. So I decided to undertake the investigation myself. The writing of a comprehensive historical account of Beirut’s Jewish community required the critical reading of countless documents—the raw material of the historian—and a broad knowledge of Ottoman-Jewish history as well as colonial history. I began to consider Beirut’s Jewish community as a social organism that grew and evolved. As I continued my reading on the history of Beirut, I came to understand a fundamental quality of its Jewish community: its growth and development were closely linked to the rise of this Levantine port city. Looking at Beirut’s Jewish community through the context of port-city revival, I came to understand that the community’s unique formation and development resulted from four major forces: migration, commerce, cultural diversity, and philanthropy. The exploration of how these forces shaped the Beirut Jewish community dominates the narrative of this book. These same forces also emerged in the histories of many of the Sephardic families who migrated to Beirut before and after World War I (WWI). Most notable of these families was the Safra family. Jacob Safra, the founder of a prominent banking family, migrated

Acknowledgments

xiii

from Aleppo, Syria, to Beirut after WWI, establishing his bank in this commercial hub. He rapidly became a community leader: community council member and one of the major benefactors of the local Jewish community, supporting its various institutions. His son, Edmond J. Safra, a world-renowned banker in his own right, continued his father’s philanthropic tradition. In 1977, with Lily Safra and Nina Weiner, he founded the International Sephardic Education Foundation (ISEF) to help Israeli students from disadvantaged backgrounds attain higher education. My research received financial support that I gratefully acknowledge here. Throughout my graduate studies at Brandeis, I received funding from several institutions; ISEF supported me for five years, and considerably eased my life as a graduate student. Nevertheless, it is not merely funding that ties my project to ISEF. Due to the Lebanese roots of ISEF, I felt an even deeper connection to it. I would like to thank its staff; donors; and, in particular, its president, Nina Weiner, who agreed to support me as an ISEF Graduate Fellow. Additionally, throughout my research, the Edmond J. Safra Philanthropic Foundation, the Ben Tsvi Institute, and the Near Eastern and Judaic Studies department at Brandeis University all awarded grants that enabled me to study archives in Israel and France, and I would like to offer them my sincerest thanks for this support. I would also like to thank another donor, who wishes to remain anonymous, for giving me a generous grant that supported the publication of this book. I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to my advisor, Professor Avigdor Levy, who showed great interest in my topic, which also formed the subject of my dissertation, and acknowledged its potential for this book. Throughout the lengthy and often painstaking task of researching this subject, Professor Levy kept me on track and helped me identify the most important issues. His insightful comments and suggestions led me to a deeper level of analysis, for which I am most grateful. I am also much indebted to my two other readers, Professor Ilan Troen and Professor Franck Salameh, who each made invaluable comments on my work.

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I would also like to thank Jackie Pavlovic and Professor Yudit Kornberg Greenberg, editor of Studies in Judaism at Peter Lang Academic Publishing, for their help in the publication of this book. I am also thankful to Susan Hatch Morgan and Julie Rabinowitz for their dedicated and meticulous editing. Finally, I thank my friends in Cambridge and Somerville, who constantly encouraged and supported me in my academic efforts. The friendship and moral support of Emil Jacob, Maria Murray, and Ilana Szobel made the writing of this book infinitely easier. Last, I offer the deepest thanks to my family, who have constantly supported, encouraged, and followed my progress throughout this journey.

Introduction

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, an organized and vibrant Jewish community developed in Beirut virtually ex nihilo. Most of its members—migrants and their descendants—came from various cities throughout the Ottoman Empire. Hoping to improve their lives, they converged on the Levantine port city, attracted to its thriving commerce and employment opportunities. The rapid growth of Beirut’s Jewish population during this time soon led to the reorganization of the local community and the creation of such essential institutions as schools, an elected community council, and welfare services. The rise of Beirut’s Jewish community during this time constitutes the subject of this book. The revitalization of a Jewish community on the Mediterranean littoral was not a new phenomenon. This region had become a hotbed of Jewish community renewal on more than one previous occasion. In the tenth century, for example, a strong and vital Jewish center rose in the Tunisian city of Qayrawan.1 Enjoying political tolerance and economic liberalism under Fatimid rule, the Jews established a wellorganized community famous for its religious scholarship. When the center of Fatimid rule moved from Tunisia to Egypt in 969, many Jews followed, and soon the Egyptian Jewish community, centered in Fustat, surpassed its Tunisian counterpart in size and wealth.2 The expulsion of Spanish and Portuguese Jews in the second half of the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries ushered in a new period in the history of Jewish life in the Levant. Bringing with them knowledge

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The Jews of Beirut

of European languages, economic skills, and intellectual acumen, Sephardic Jews quickly established themselves as an important element in the Ottoman ethnic and social mosaic, making major contributions in such fields as commerce, finance, the textile industry, and medicine. The Jews, for their part, enjoyed the religious tolerance and pragmatism that characterized Ottoman rule, and they established strong and vital communities in such major administrative centers and port cities as Salonica, Izmir, and Istanbul. 3 One scholar noted the centrality of Jews in this heterogeneous Levantine world with her assertion that: “The heyday of the Levant indeed began with the immigration of the Portuguese and Spanish Jews in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”4 The rise of Jewish centers in the Fatimid Empire bears some resemblance to their later rise in the Ottoman Empire. Both cases involved the migration (or forced migration) of Jews to major commercial and administrative centers of Islamic empires—centers that were both religiously tolerant and economically liberal. In contrast, the revival of Jewish communities in nineteenth-century Mediterranean port cities occurred in the context of European expansion. Despite this difference, the elements of migration, political tolerance, and economic growth played a role no less important. In the Levant, the revival of two Jewish communities, in Alexandria and in Beirut, stood out in particular. Unlike other centuries-old Jewish communities in the region (e.g., Salonica, Izmir), these two were primarily creations of a nineteenth-century port-city revival. As such, they demonstrate— probably more than any other Jewish community in the eastern Mediterranean at that time—the renewal of Jewish community life. During the nineteenth century, several European powers exercised great economic and political influence on the Ottoman Empire. The revitalization of eastern Mediterranean port cities proved one of the most salient expressions of this influence.5 The introduction of ships powered by steam engines brought about a rise in maritime trade at the expense of overland trade. This shift in trade routes concentrated much of the commercial activity in port cities. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, linking the Mediterranean with the Red Sea,

Introduction

3

redirected shipping to the eastern Mediterranean; this greatly benefited the ports of Alexandria and Beirut. Commercial treaties between European powers and the Ottoman State—for example, the AngloTurkish Treaty signed in 1838—formally recognized already existing free-trade practices and further facilitated trade between Europe and the Ottoman Empire.6 In addition to commercial growth, the revitalization of port cities involved unprecedented urban expansion. European companies invested much capital in building and improving ports, railways, tramways, gas lighting, and other such infrastructure that modernized the urban built environment.7 Most important, the revitalization of port cities in the nineteenth century underlaid the formation of virtually new Jewish communities in the eastern Mediterranean, notably in Alexandria and Beirut. The emergence of these thriving urban centers attracted thousands of migrants who hoped to take advantage of new economic opportunities and secure a better future for themselves and their families. The population of these cities grew at a phenomenal pace. Beirut’s population grew from about 6,000 at the beginning of the nineteenth century to 150,000 by World War I, and Alexandria’s population rose from 15,000 to 300,000 during the same period. This remarkable growth was also reflected in the Jewish population. Beirut’s Jewish population rose from a few hundred in the early nineteenth century to 3,500 by World War I, while Alexandria’s Jewish population rose from several hundred to more than 20,000. The migratory movement also generated a rich social and cultural mix in the eastern Mediterranean port cities. These places became particularly attractive immigration destinations to such non-Muslim minority groups as Greeks, Armenians, Arab-Christians, and Jews— groups generally more receptive to European cultural and economic influences than the Muslims. As a result, the port cities grew into ethnically and culturally diverse urban environments, becoming fertile ground for the emergence of a cosmopolitan bourgeoisie and culture.8 The growth and development of Beirut’s Jewish community in the late Ottoman period through the French Mandate comprises the subject of this book. The revival of the Jewish community is intimately

4

The Jews of Beirut

linked with Beirut’s rise as a port city. Not a coincidence, the most farreaching change in the Jewish community—its formal organization— occurred between 1908 and 1914, when Beirut experienced its most profound social and urban changes. 9 This book contends as its core argument that the Jewish community of Beirut, as it was shaped in the first half of the twentieth century, represents a distinct, Levantine type of Jewish community—a product of Beirut’s revival as a port city. As such, the Jewish community was characterized by rapid demographic growth, heterogeneous social composition, efficient and centralized administration of a council dominated by merchants, and a cosmopolitan bourgeoisie engaged in commerce and philanthropy. Indigenous philanthropy was one of the main forces underlying the revitalization of Levantine Jewish communities. However, while the contemporary literature highlights the contribution of European Jewish philanthropy to the lives of Jews in the Middle East, this book reveals a vibrant philanthropic practice indigenous to the Jewish communities of the eastern Mediterranean, particularly in Beirut and Alexandria. Local practices of giving in these areas developed separately from European Jewish philanthropy, yet the European tradition often inspired it. It played an integral role in the community’s growth and development. The accumulation of wealth at the hands of merchants, the preservation of communal autonomy, the wide exposure to Western humanitarian values, and the dynamism of growth in port cities all nourished what can be termed a ‘culture of giving.’ Wealthy individuals founded synagogues, schools, and hospitals, endowing funds to support such institutions. Community councils made regular and consistent efforts to maximize revenues by way of making donations and diversifying fund-raising venues. In the Jewish communities of Beirut and Alexandria, local philanthropy played a central role in the development of the community, releasing it from the patronage of European Jewish philanthropy. Even when the Jewish community sought outside aid for its major building projects after World War I, it applied to Middle Eastern Jewish donors, not to European Jewish philanthropists. In this respect, I suggest viewing this ‘culture of giving’ as a local, Levantine counterpart of Western Jewish philanthropy.

Introduction

5

While port-city revival served as one of the most salient expressions of the region’s incorporation into the world economy, this revival directly affected the nature of the Jewish diaspora in the eastern Mediterranean. The economic and urban changes caused a migratory movement that transformed the Jewish communities of Alexandria and Beirut from small, marginal communities into vibrant, highly organized, and well-functioning communities. Paradoxically, this same migratory movement diminished other such communities; Damascus provides a great example of this phenomenon.10 Not all Jewish communities in eastern Mediterranean port cities experienced such dramatic transformations as those in Alexandria and Beirut. Both Izmir and Salonica, for example, had longestablished Jewish communities whose size and ethnic composition were not significantly affected in the nineteenth century.11 Unlike the Jewish communities of Izmir and Salonica—founded and formed in the context of Ottoman expansion—the Jewish community of Beirut formed in the context of nineteenth-century colonial expansion. Beirut’s Jewish community emerged and developed in a port city of the Levant, a distinct region with a rich ethnic, linguistic, and cultural mix.12 This diversity, rather than any form of political or cultural homogeneity, defined the region. According to Desanka Schwara, “regional peculiarities are the very pillars of the Levant as a specific— albeit borderless—region: unity is marked here not by homogeneity— however defined—but by particularities and deviations, immense diversity in a very narrow space.”13 Both European and Oriental populations typically mixed in the cities of the Levant. In fact, the use of the term ‘Levantine’ especially referred to the Armenian, Greek, Italian, and Jewish merchants in the port cities of the eastern Mediterranean region. In the nineteenth century, Alexandria emerged as a leading Levantine port city. As a crossroads of maritime trade, the city boasted a large and influential foreign colony and was home to the numerous ethnic and mercantile groups that had come to take advantage of a land rich in economic opportunities and political tolerance.14 A significant factor, the elements generating the dynamism particular to the

6

The Jews of Beirut

revitalization of eastern Mediterranean port cities in the nineteenth century—namely, economic growth, migration, and diversity— profoundly affected the formation of a distinctive type of Jewish community. In her book Mi-Mizrah Shemesh (From the East the Sun), Jacqueline Kahanoff points out that “everywhere, family cells were separated from the nucleus of their community of origin and turned to new centers, such as Egypt, and there they built a new type of Mediterranean community, authentic and vibrant resulting from the emerging fusion between East and West.”15 This migratory movement following the revitalization of port cities revitalized some communities and diminished others. Although Kahanoff correctly identified the Jewish community of Alexandria as being of a “new type,” she fails to fully articulate its components: rapid growth nourished by migration; social and cultural heterogeneity; efficient organization; centralized administration of a council dominated by businessmen; and vibrant philanthropic practice. In any case, the appearance of an organized Jewish community in Beirut in the early twentieth century exemplifies the changing nature of the Jewish diaspora in the eastern Mediterranean during the time of colonial expansion. It also demonstrates the accomplishments of the Jewish bourgeoisie—the driving force behind the community’s organization, administration, and financing. Diversity and heterogeneity constituted the major characteristics of Levantine port cities. The fusion Kahanoff describes did not only happen between ‘East’ and ‘West,’ but—and perhaps more so— among the many diverse minorities that played a particularly important role in the economic and social life of the port cities. 16 Rather than focusing on the East-West dichotomy of colonial discourse, this study emphasizes the heterogeneous character of Levantine port cities and their Jewish communities. Like Alexandria, Beirut also emerged as a major Levantine port city in the nineteenth century. Jens Hanssen explains: “[I]t had a confessionally, ethnically, and socially diverse population, which owed its wealth to maritime trade with Europe and cultural exchange with other cities around the Mediterranean. It shared its heritage, hab-

Introduction

7

its, rhythms, lifestyles, and developments with other, connected port cities.”17 As Hanssen elaborates about the Levantine character of the city: “[W]hile the port was the economic heartbeat, the new city was the place where social elites of all confessions—foreign, Ottoman, and local—mingled and where schools, hospitals, libraries, clubs, salons, and diplomatic residences mushroomed in the 1860s and 1870s.”18 Thus, the development of Alexandria’s and Beirut’s Jewish communities rested upon three main elements: the mixing of diverse Jewish elements due to migration, community growth funded by a European-oriented Jewish merchant bourgeoisie, and a strong tendency for centralized organization and vibrant philanthropic practice. Indeed, when Jews from Damascus or Aleppo migrated to Beirut in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, they may have moved simply from one Ottoman city to another. Yet, moving from a stagnant inland city with a dwindling Jewish community to a major intersection in the Levantine network—culturally vibrant and commercially booming—in fact, marked a major transition of more than just distance. The words of Ferdinand Anzarut, who migrated with his family from Aleppo to Beirut after World War I, illustrate this point: “[W]hile in Aleppo, he [Ferdinand’s father] conformed to the pattern of religious practices common to the Jews of the city. In Beirut, he no longer felt compelled to follow Aleppo’s insistence on synagogue attendance . . . To give me a broader education, not so very ‘Jewishoriented’ he enrolled me in a neighborhood school—Christian.”19 In several ways, Beirut varied from other port cities. Not only did the city begin to grow late in the nineteenth century, but it also grew more slowly than other ports.20 Unlike Alexandria and Izmir, it never hosted a large and influential foreign colony. 21 Later, the transition from empire to nation-states and the ethnic homogenization that came with it would terminate the cosmopolitanism of port cities like Salonica and Izmir. However, Beirut was the only port city in the eastern Mediterranean to become the capital of a modern state and preserve both its economic position and heterogeneous character long after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire.22 Furthermore, of all major Ottoman port cities, Beirut was located the closest to the Jewish set-

8

The Jews of Beirut

tlement in Palestine. This proximity would affect Beirut’s Jewish community in various ways.

Literature Review The few works that discuss the Jews of Lebanon do so in a primarily political context—that of the Jewish and Arab national movements and the Arab-Jewish conflict. In her book The Jews of Lebanon: Between Coexistence and Conflict, Kirsten Schulze essentially writes a history of the Jews in Lebanon within a primarily political context.23 She argues that the Jews in Lebanon generally enjoyed the same rights as Lebanon’s other communities, existing as one minority among many rather than as ‘the enemy within.’24 In addition, she claims that the Jews regarded themselves as Lebanese, and never suffered from major persecution or oppression as those in other Arab countries. While Schulze correctly identifies Lebanon’s unique sociopolitical position, her assessment of the Jews in Lebanon is not always balanced. For example, while the Lebanese constitution regarded all Lebanese citizens equal before the law, it also adopted a system of power sharing, whereby political and administrative power was divided among the six largest communities. As one of the smaller communities in Lebanon, the Jewish community was not entitled to any political or administrative power. In fact, during the French Mandate, when the French had control of Syria and Lebanon after World War I, the Jewish leadership in Beirut complained that the government systematically excluded the Jews from public life. Schulze also tries to establish a Lebanese identity for the Jews of Beirut as early as the late nineteenth century. When discussing the Tiferet Israel school—a private Jewish boarding school founded in Beirut in 1874—she writes that “the school was unique in the sense that in addition to educating Lebanese Jewish children, it also became a private boarding school for the children of prosperous Jewish families.”25 She refers to the local Jewish children as ‘Lebanese,’ but in fact many, if not most, of them came from Damascus, Aleppo, Jaffa, Jerusalem, and other Ottoman cities. Even the small number of Jews who originated in Mount Lebanon were referred to by the Jews of Beirut,

Introduction

9

not as Lebanese, but as Diarné, indicating their place of origin—Dayr al-Qamar. Schulze argues throughout her book that Jews in Lebanon had a Lebanese identity and so was well served by calling the students “Lebanese Jewish children.” Yet in spite of the attempt to establish a Lebanese Jewish identity, she named her book The Jews of Lebanon rather than, say, The History of Lebanese Jewry. In his unpublished dissertation, “The Jews of Syria and Lebanon: Between Arab Nationalism and the Zionist Movement,” Nahum Menahem also discusses the Jews of Lebanon in a political context. The author examines the impact of the Jewish and Arab national movements on the Jewish communities of Damascus, Aleppo, Beirut, Sidon, and Kamishli.26 His first chapter discusses the historical background and the structure of these various communities. He deals jointly with the Jewish communities of Greater Syria, ignoring the unique sociopolitical environment in Lebanon. Therefore, he reaches the distorted conclusion that “the human and economic resources of the Jewish communities in Syria and Lebanon . . . dwindled in the interwar period, and they lost their safety in the national struggle that took place in the Syrian region, and at the end of the period . . . they became a small, persecuted minority.”27 One cannot include the Jewish community of Beirut in this characterization. In reality, it not only enjoyed security and prosperity during the French Mandate, but it also consolidated its institutions and cultivated a vibrant communal life. In her study of Zionist policy toward Lebanon in the first half of the twentieth century, Laura Zittrain Eisenberg includes a short discussion on the Beiruti Jewish community’s attitudes toward Zionism and their position vis-à-vis the political ties between the Jewish Agency in Palestine and Lebanese political leaders. Of interest, she found that the Jewish Agency and the Jewish community of Beirut aligned themselves with competing Maronite factions: the former sided with Edde and Arida, while the latter sided with Pierre Gemayel and the Phalange.28 Her assessment that “the [Jewish] community tried to keep a low profile, avoid politics, and enjoy its quiet prosperity” 29 appears inaccurate for the Mandate period. This study illustrated how,

10

The Jews of Beirut

as soon as Lebanon received its constitution in 1926, the Jewish leadership repeatedly attempted to participate in Lebanese political life by requesting the nomination of a Jewish representative to the Lebanese parliament. Apart from these primarily political accounts, several other studies discuss various aspects of the life of the Jews in Lebanon. Hayyim Cohen provides a general survey on the political, economic, and social developments of Jewish communities in the Middle East.30 His discussion of the Jews of Lebanon is informative and sometimes insightful. For example, he observes that Lebanon was the only Arab country where the number of Jews continued to grow even after the foundation of the state of Israel.31 He also notes that, since Jewish communities in the Levant were rather small in size, they frequently lacked secondary educational institutions. Overall, however, his discussion of the Jews of Lebanon remains limited in scope and somewhat lacking in conceptual depth. Other scholars have explored such aspects as the illegal immigration from Syria and Lebanon to Palestine between 1939 and 1949,32 the position of Syrian and Lebanese Jews under the Vichy regime,33 and Jewish theatrical activity in late Ottoman Beirut.34 We should also mention here the volume edited by Abraham Elmaleh in memory of Yoseph David Farhi, a prominent community leader.35 This collection of articles and memoirs contains significant biographical information on Farhi and describes his contributions to Beirut’s Jewish community. The general literature on the history of Lebanon usually ignores the Jews completely or discusses them briefly. Elizabeth Picard provides a short yet insightful survey of the Jewish community. Nonetheless, she writes that “except from a historical viewpoint, there is little to say about Lebanon’s Roman Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish communities.”36 This comment exemplifies the general literature’s lack of interest in Lebanon’s small minorities. The excellent works of Leila Fawaz37 and Jens Hanssen38 were highly valuable to my study as they illuminated social, economic, and cultural developments in nineteenth-century Beirut. Yet, these works only mention the Jews of Bei-

Introduction

11

rut in passing.39 A notable exception is Luc-Henri de Bar’s work on the religious communities of Lebanon.40 The author includes a sevenpage chapter consisting of a historical survey of the Jewish community of Beirut from antiquity to modern times. While this chapter reveals some new information otherwise unreported, it is also limited in its scope and lacking in its conceptual quality. In conclusion, the literature examines the Jews of Lebanon within a primarily political context, resulting in a highly imbalanced historiography. The literature ignores fundamental issues such as the influence of social and cultural forces in late Ottoman Beirut on the Jewish community, the Jewish community’s organization, and the development of its institutions. No study to date has tried to examine the historic development of the Jewish community and its institutions. As a result, the current literature is rife with historic distortions. For example, we read the following assertion: “During the time of the French mandate, life for the Jewish community was culturally vibrant. Many of the community structures were laid down during this time, such as the committees, the community council, and some of the charities.”41 However, upon examining the process of communal organization, our study demonstrates that the founding of fundamental community structures—and the community council in particular—occurred between 1908 and 1914, during the Ottoman period—not during the French period. This study makes a major contribution to the history of Beirut’s Jewish community during the late Ottoman and French periods. First and foremost, it takes a comprehensive look at the Jewish community, examining economic, social, ideological, and organizational aspects in its growth and development. As an in-depth study of the Jewish community, the book focuses on how and why the Jewish community in Beirut, over time, changed in its social cohesion, institutions, organization, and political orientation. This study fills several gaps in the literature on the Jews of Beirut, and corrects numerous distortions and historical inaccuracies in the existing literature. This work also contributes to the understanding of Levantine society in the context of nineteenth-century port-city revival. While the

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The Jews of Beirut

Levant—a distinct region known for its diversity and European influence—had existed since medieval times, nineteenth-century developments brought about major changes to the Levantine society. Such factors as the increasing influence of European powers; Ottoman reforms; modern secular education; the acquisition of European languages, thereby allowing for greater social interaction among the various ethnic groups; as well as economic activity of a scale and intensity unknown in the past all greatly influenced the Levantine society in the major port cities of the eastern Mediterranean. As a phenomenon rooted in the nineteenth-century Levantine world, the growth and development of Beirut’s Jewish community can shed significant light on the understanding of Levantine society; given this, it calls for a comparison with other non-Jewish communities, both in and outside Lebanon. This study also makes a significant contribution to the subject of Jewish philanthropy—a significant social force in the development of Levantine Jewish communities. The existing literature on Jewish philanthropy in the Middle East focuses primarily on the role played by European Jewish philanthropy.42 This book reveals and highlights a vibrant indigenous philanthropic practice across the Levant and especially in the Jewish communities of Alexandria and Beirut. In doing so, it illuminates the role of the indigenous Jewish leadership and the Jewish merchant bourgeoisie in the development of their communities and therefore, contributes to a fuller and more accurate account of the development of Jewish communities in the eastern Mediterranean. Various works influenced this study. Those of Eyüp Özveren, Reşat Kasaba, Çağlar Keyder, and Donald Quataert on the phenomenon of Levantine port cities proved vital as they provided the conceptual basis for this study, without which the analysis and comprehensive understanding of the growth and change of Beirut’s Jewish community would not have been possible. The excellent works of Jens Hanssen, Leila Fawaz, and Michael Reimer enabled me to understand the political, economic, and social developments in Beirut and Alexandria and link them to developments within the Jewish communities in these cities. In order to understand and examine the complex phe-

Introduction

13

nomenon of cosmopolitanism and social diversity in the Levantine context, I have followed the works of Marie-Carmen Smyrnelis, Robert Ilbert, Henk Driessen, Desanka Schwara, and Sami Zubaida, all of which influenced this study. Last, the works of Yaron Tsur on Casablanca’s Jewish community and Esther Benbassa on that of Istanbul inspired me in the writing of Chapter Three, describing the Jewish community as a meeting place of various and often competing ideologies. This book draws upon a wide array of primary sources. In the Central Zionist Archive in Jerusalem (CZA), I used the correspondence between the Beiruti community and such Zionist agencies in Palestine as the Education Department and the Committee of Deputies (‘va‛ad ha-tsirim’). The documents in these divisions shed light on three topics relevant to the study: the nature of the contacts between the Jewish community of Beirut and Zionist agencies in Palestine during and following World War I; Beirut’s Jewish community during this time—its structure and institutions as well as the challenges it faced after the war; and the political activity of Beirut’s Jewish leadership and its attitudes toward Zionism and the emerging Arab-Jewish conflict. Of importance, the Alliance documents in the Central Archive for the History of the Jewish People (CAHJP) cover the entire period of this study. The correspondence between the Alliance school’s directors and the Alliance’s Central Committee in Paris illuminate such important events and developments within the local Jewish community as the organizational process following the Young Turk Revolution and the position of the Alliance school within the community. The Center of Diplomatic Archives in Nantes (MAE), France, contains valuable materials on the Jewish community in Lebanon during the French Mandate (1920–1943). The bulk of these documents consists of correspondence between the Jewish community and the French authorities. This correspondence pertains to such major legal questions as the statutes of the Jewish community, its powers vis-à-vis the smaller Jewish communities of Sidon and Tripoli, and the powers of the Beirut community council. The papers also reveal the Jewish

14

The Jews of Beirut

community’s aspirations to participate in the political life of Lebanon during the French Mandate period. Four additional archives provided valuable information on Beirut’s Jewish community. First, the Archive of the Sephardic Congregation Committee in Jerusalem contains the Beirut community’s accounting records for the years 1929–1930. Written in Arabic, this 114page document registers community revenues and expenditures. It reveals the workings of a spectrum of communal societies and institutions and, most important, illuminates the role of philanthropy in the community. This document proved vital to the writing of Chapter Five, The Culture of Giving. Second, the archives of the American Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) in Jerusalem and New York contain important materials on the humanitarian aid the organization extended to the community during and following World War I. Third, the B’nai B’rith Archive in Washington, D.C., provides some useful information on the early social activities of B’nai B’rith in the Levant. Significantly, these documents reveal that B’nai B’rith began its activities in Beirut at the end of the nineteenth century, earlier than the official founding date (1911) recorded by the Hamenorah magazine. Finally, the Church of Scotland Archive in Edinburgh provided me with a transcribed history of the Beirut mission entitled “The Story of the Church of Scotland’s Fifty Years’ Work among the Jews in Beirut, Syria, 1864 to 1914,” compiled by Rev. Robertson J. Buchanan. This transcript contributed significantly to my understanding of the role of missionary education among Beiruti Jews in the second half of the nineteenth century. Newspapers and periodicals also aided my study. Such Hebrew language periodicals as Ha-Tsvi, Ha-Magid, Havatselet, Do’ar Ha-Yom, Ha-Herut, Ha-‛Olam, and others contain a considerable number of articles and letters sent from Beirut, informing the readers about local events. In particular, they illuminate the nature of Zionist activity in Beirut in the first two decades of the twentieth century. The Jewish newspaper ‘Āl-‛Alam al-Isra’ili (The Jewish World), published in Arabic from 1921 to 1946 by Selim Mann, serves as another major source of information. The newspaper published general local as well as world

Introduction

15

news and followed the development and activities of the Zionist movement. Significantly, it also published informational and opinion pieces on communal affairs on a regular basis and followed the development of community institutions. B’nai B’rith’s periodical, Hamenorah, published in French from 1923 to 1937, was vital to my understanding of the development and role of the Arzei Ha-Levanon (‘Cedars of Lebanon’) lodge within the community. As this study shows, the lodge had a paramount impact on the organization of the community as well as on its social and cultural life.

Book Structure The first chapter of this book juxtaposes Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut and their Jewish communities and locates Beirut in a broader Levantine context.43 In the first part, the chapter examines three major characteristics associated with the revitalization of Levantine port cities: commercial growth based primarily on European economic expansion; migration; and social as well as cultural diversity and heterogeneity. Against this backdrop, this chapter examines four aspects of the Jewish communities in those port cities: migration and demographic changes; commercial activity; community organization and the role of organized indigenous philanthropy; and their diversity and heterogeneity. The chapter concludes with a comparison of these communities and highlights the unique characteristics of Beirut’s Jewish community. From the broader context of eastern Mediterranean port cities, Chapter Two narrows the discussion and focuses on Beirut’s Jewish community. This chapter describes and explains the processes of growth and change in the Jewish community from the mid-nineteenth century through the French Mandate period. Moreover, it identifies three phases in the formation of Beirut’s Jewish community: the unorganized phase (until 1908); the official reorganization of the Jewish community (1908–1920); and the Mandate Period (1920–1943). The chapter explains the distinct forces that shaped the community in each phase. World War I and the political vacuum that followed the collapse of the Ottoman Empire enabled outside forces—including B’nai

16

The Jews of Beirut

B’rith and Zionist agencies in Palestine—to intervene in the process of organization. Under French rule, the community further organized and developed. As a consequence, the community drafted new statutes that it submitted for governmental approval in 1931. This Jewish initiative drove the French authorities to conduct a comprehensive inquiry in major Jewish communities from Morocco to Iraq regarding the issue of Jewish autonomy. This episode is highly instructive as it reveals how the French formulated their policies toward the Jewish community of Beirut. As I indicated at the beginning of this section, Western Jewish organizations were important generators of change for Jewish communities. Chapter Three discusses the encounter of Beirut’s Jewish community with three such organizations, each representing a different current of Jewish reformism: The Alliance Israélite Universelle (FrenchJewish assimilationist reformism), the Zionist agencies in Palestine (Eastern European nationalist reformism), and B’nai B’rith (AmericanJewish reformism). 44 Each organization sought to increase its influence in the community and shape it according to its ideology. While all organizations influenced the community, the Jewish leadership in Beirut aligned themselves with B’nai B’rith. Thus, the community’s ideology, which called for community revival and progress through social activism, exemplary moral conduct, Jewish solidarity, and humanitarian values greatly influenced the community itself. The leadership curbed the Alliance’s influence and did not permit it hegemony even in the domain of education, made evident by the great efforts to support and advance the Zionist-leaning Talmud-Torah school. In Chapter Four, the discussion shifts from ideology to its natural counterpart—education. The chapter focuses on the two Jewish schools in Beirut—Talmud-Torah Selim Tarrab and the Alliance school—and the debate that developed throughout the 1920s over the question of Jewish education. The chapter elaborates on the uneasy interrelationship between the local Jewish leadership and the Alliance school director, each of whom viewed the ideal educational environment differently.

Introduction

17

Chapter Five examines organized philanthropy as a major social force that shaped the Jewish community. Organized indigenous philanthropy emerged as a salient force in the communal life of nineteenth-century port communities in the eastern Mediterranean. Philanthropy was most developed in Alexandria’s Jewish community; however, the phenomenon was by no means confined to that city. In Beirut, after the personal and spontaneous philanthropy of the unorganized phase, came the foreign-sponsored philanthropy of several humanitarian organizations (JDC, B’nai B’rith, Near East Relief, etc.) that responded to unmet needs following the First World War. Under the French, the local leadership managed effectively to plan, organize, and execute an indigenous philanthropic mechanism that included both traditional-religious and modern-secular components. In accordance with its ideology, the local B’nai B’rith lodge promoted giving, social activism, and humanitarian aid, and led the philanthropic activity in the community. There was also a clear colonial component to local philanthropy; in the multi-communal structure of the Lebanese society, community status and social standing were highly regarded by the local Jewish leadership. Quite paradoxically, while local philanthropy strengthened the communal framework, it was also an important social practice that indicated the inclusion of the Jewish community in the mosaic of communities that constituted the Lebanese society.

18

The Jews of Beirut

Notes

1

2

3

4

5

6

7 8

9

10

On the Jewish community of Qayrawan, see Menahem Ben-Sasson, Tsmihat haQehilah ha-Yehudit be-Artsot ha-Islam, Qayrawan, 800–1057 (The emergence of the local Jewish community in the Muslim world, Qayrawan, 800–1057) (Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, 1996). Norman Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands, A History and Source Book (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1979), 40–53. Avigdor Levy used the term ‘symbiosis’ to describe the relationship of mutual gain between the Jews and the Ottoman Empire. See: Avigdor Levy, “Introduction,” The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Avigdor Levy (Princeton: The Darwin Press, 1994), 13–41. On the major Jewish communities in Istanbul, Salonica, and Izmir in the seventeenth century, see also: Yaron Ben-Naeh, Yehudim beMamlekhet ha-Sultanim (Jews in the realm of the sultans) (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2006), 48–72. Desanka Schwara, “Rediscovering the Levant: A Heterogeneous Structure as a Homogeneous Historical Region,” European Review of History 10, no. 2 (2003): 241. Roger Owen, The Middle East in the World Economy, 1800–1914 (London and New York: Methuen, 1981), 98–99. On the Anglo-Turkish commercial convention of 1838, see: Charles Issawi, The Economic History of the Middle East, 1800–1914 (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1966), 38–40; Donald Quataert, “The Age of Reforms,” in An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, 1300–1914, ed. Halil Inalcik and Donald Quataert (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 764; Owen, Middle East, 91. Quataert, “Age of Reforms,” 798–809. On cosmopolitanism as a phenomenon typical of eastern Mediterranean port cities, see: Sami Zubaida, “Cosmopolitanism and the Middle East,” in Cosmopolitanism, Identity, and Authenticity in the Middle East, ed. Roel Meijer (Surrey: Curzon Press, 1999), 15–34 and Henk Driessen, “Mediterranean Port Cities: Cosmopolitanism Reconsidered,” History and Anthropology 16, no. 1 (2005): 129–141. Jens Hanssen, Fin de Siècle Beirut: The Making of an Ottoman Provincial Capital (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005), 10. On the decline of Damascus’s Jewish community beginning in the late 1860s, see: Yaron Harel, Be-Sefinot shel Esh la-Ma’arav: T’murot be Yehadut Surya be T’kufat haReformot ha-Osmaniyot 1840–1880 (By ships of fire to the west: Changes in Syrian Jewry during the period of the Ottoman reform 1840–1880) (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2003), 336.

Introduction

11

12

13

14

15

16 17 18 19

20

21 22

23

24 25 26

27 28

29 30 31

19

The moderate growth in the Jewish communities of Salonica and Izmir in the late nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries resulted primarily from political upheaval. In stark contrast, the impressive growth in the Jewish communities of Alexandria and Beirut was due to their political stability and economic booming. Derived from the Italian levare, to rise, the term ‘Levant’ was coined in the Middle Ages as part of the trade between the Italian city-states and the East. It referred to the lands on the eastern shore of the Adriatic and the Mediterranean, in particular to the European-influenced port towns of Greece, Turkey, Syria, Palestine, and Egypt. Desanka Schwara, “Rediscovering the Levant: A Heterogeneous Structure as a Homogenous Historical Region,” European Review of History 10, no. 2 (2003): 250. Gudrun Krämer, The Jews in Modern Egypt 1914–1952 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1989), 8. Jacqueline Kahanoff, Mi-Mizrah Shemesh (From the East the sun) (Tel Aviv: Yariv and Haddar, 1978), 60–61. Schwara, “Rediscovering the Levant,” 249. Hanssen, Fin de Siècle, 13. Hanssen, Fin de Siècle, 3. Joseph Sutton, Aleppo Chronicles: The Story of the Unique Sephardeem of the Ancient Near East—in Their Own Words (New York: Thayer-Jacoby, 1988), 346–347. Michael Reimer, “Ottoman-Arab Seaports in the Nineteenth Century: Social Change in Alexandria, Beirut, and Tunis,” in Cities in the World System, ed. Reşat Kasaba (New York, Westport, London: Greenwood Press, 1991), 146. Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants, 52. Çağlar Keyder, “Peripheral Port Cities and Politics on the Eve of the Great War,” New Perspectives on Turkey 20 (1999): 41. Kirsten Schulze, The Jews of Lebanon: Between Coexistence and Conflict (Portland: Sussex Academic Press, 2001). Schulze, Jews of Lebanon, 3, 153. Ibid., 26. Nahum Menahem, “Yehudei Surya u-Levanon bein Ha-Leumiyut Ha-‘Aravit ve Ha-Tenuah Ha-Tsiyonit bein Shtei Milhamot Ha-Olam” (The Jews of Syria and Lebanon between Arab Nationalism and the Zionist Movement between the Two World Wars) (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University, 1990). Menahem, “Yehudei Surya,” 235. Laura Zittrain Eisenberg, My Enemy’s Enemy: Lebanon in the Early Zionist Imagination, 1900–1948 (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1994), 81–87. Eisenberg, My Enemy’s Enemy, 82. Hayyim Cohen, The Jews of the Middle East, 1860–1972 (New York: Wiley, 1973). Cohen, Jews of the Middle East, 45, 79.

20

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39 40

41 42

43

The Jews of Beirut

A. Cohen, “Ha-Ha'apala Ha-Yabashtit shel Yehudei Suryya u-Levanon 1939– 1949” (“The illegal overland migration of the Jews of Syria and Lebanon 1939– 1949”) (M.A. thesis, University of Haifa, 1996). Irit Abramsky-Bly, “Yehudei Surya u Levanon tahat Shilton Vichy” (The Jews of Syria and Lebanon under the Vichy regime), Pe'amim 28 (1985): 131–157. Shmuel Moreh and Philip Sadgrove, Jewish Contributions to Nineteenth-Century Arabic Theatre: Plays from Algeria and Syria, a Study and Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). Abraham Elmaleh, ed., In Memoriam: Hommage à Joseph David Farhi (Jerusalem: Farhi Family Press, 1948). Elizabeth Picard, Lebanon: A Shattered Country (New York, London: Holmes and Meier, 1996), 10. Leila Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants in Nineteenth-Century Beirut (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1983). Jens Hanssen, Fin de Siècle Beirut: The Making of an Ottoman Provincial Capital (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005). See, for example : Hanssen, Fin de Siècle, 13. Luc-Henri de Bar, Les Communautés Confessionnelles du Liban (Paris: Editions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 1983). Schulze, Jews of Lebanon, 152. The abundant research on the Alliance Israélite Universelle demonstrates this point. With regard to Jewish philanthropy in Europe, several good studies have been published in recent years. See, for example: Derek Penslar, “The Origins of Modern Jewish Philanthropy,” in Philanthropy in the World’s Traditions, ed. Warren Ilchman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), 197–214; Liedtke Rainer, Jewish Welfare in Hamburg and Manchester, 1850–1914 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998); Abigail Green, “Sir Moses Montefiore and the Making of the ‘Jewish International,’” Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 7, no. 3 (2008): 287–307; Mordechai Rozin, The Rich and the Poor: Jewish Philanthropy and Social Control in Nineteenth-Century London (Portland: Sussex Academic Press, 1999). Nora Seni published several works on philanthropy, some of which focus on Ottoman Jewish families such as the Camondos. See : Nora Seni, Les Inventeurs de la Philanthropie Juive (Paris: Martinière, 2005); Nora Seni and S. Le Tarnec, Les Camondo: L’Eclipse d’une Fortune (Actes Sud, 1997); Nora Seni and S. Le Tarnec, “Diffusion des modèles français de philanthropes au XIX siècle,” Pardès 22 (1996); Nora Seni and S. Le Tarnec, “The Imprint of the Camondos in XIX Century Istanbul,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 26 (1994). In the nineteenth century, Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut shared some fundamental characteristics. First, they were all Ottoman port cities located in the eastern Mediterranean. Second, they all underwent remarkable demographic and economic growth based primarily on their integration into the international industrial economy. Third, they all acquired ethnic, social, and cultural diversity, and

Introduction

44

21

became fertile grounds for the emergence of cosmopolitan elites. See Hanssen, Fin de Siècle, 268. Here, I rely on Yaron Tsur, who viewed Casablanca’s Jewish leadership as a microcosm of the Jewish leadership in the diaspora. This perspective is valid for many, if not all, Jewish communities in the Middle East and North Africa.

CHAPTER ONE

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities During the course of the nineteenth century, Beirut transformed from a small insignificant town into not only the most important port city on the Syrian coast but also a major commercial center in the eastern Mediterranean. A decade of enlightened Egyptian rule (1831–1841), a concentration of an increasing number of foreign consulates, an expansion of commercial activity in the eastern Mediterranean, and, after 1888, its position as the administrative center all contributed to Beirut’s revival.1 As a consequence, thousands of people from the eastern Mediterranean, particularly from Mount Lebanon and the Syrian interior, migrated to the city which offered security, economic, and educational opportunities. Among the many migrants, Beirut attracted numerous Jews from across the region. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, approximately one hundred Jews lived in Beirut. By 1920, their number had swelled to thirty-five hundred. As I will demonstrate in Chapter Three, the expanding community necessitated the creation and organization of new institutions. Prior to the nineteenth century, Beirut had a meager Jewish population, unlike that of Izmir. The community organized itself largely between 1908 and 1918. It continued to benefit from Beirut’s growth under the French Mandate, which contributed greatly to the shaping of a service-based economy in Lebanon.2 In sum, the growth and organization of Beirut’s Jewish community proved closely linked to the city’s rise during the mid-nineteenth century and until the period of the French Mandate. However, Beirut was not the only port city in the eastern Mediterranean to undergo such

24

The Jews of Beirut

processes of growth. Izmir and Alexandria, two other leading port cities, experienced great revitalization during the nineteenth century. In order to contextualize the case of Beirut, we juxtapose Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut and examine three major aspects in their revival: commercial expansion, migration, and heterogeneity. First, however, understanding the context in which these port cities were revitalized will inform the larger discussion. The revitalization of eastern Mediterranean port cities during the nineteenth century may best represent the region’s incorporation to the international economy.3 The industrial economies of European powers required increasing amounts of raw materials for their industries, as well as foodstuffs to feed their rapidly growing populations. As the same time, European economies looked for new markets in which they could sell ever-growing volumes of cheap, high-quality manufactured goods. 4 Technical innovations, steam power in particular, allowed and further stimulated commercial exchange between Europe’s economies and pre-industrial economies, like that of the Ottoman Empire. With the advent of steam navigation, maritime trade routes became increasingly important at the expense of overland trade routes.5 The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, connecting the Mediterranean to the Red Sea, played a critical role in redirecting shipping to the Mediterranean, which particularly benefited the eastern Mediterranean. Alexandria greatly benefited from the construction of the canal and so did Beirut; Izmir did to a lesser extent. Because of all these processes, the port city, defined as “a place where the mode of transportation changes from land systems to water-borne systems,”6 emerged as the privileged locale of contact with the world’s capitalist economy. In light of these economic changes, European powers created legal mechanisms to stimulate commercial expansion. Through commercial treaties (e.g., Balta Liman, 1838), they guaranteed low customs rates and abolished state monopolies, easing the flow of commodities between Europe and the Ottoman Empire.7 The capitulations guaranteed favorable conditions to foreign nationals, and, in turn, an increasing number of foreign merchants, entrepreneurs, and businessmen

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

25

flocked to Ottoman ports. There, European powers created special legal institutions, notably the Mixed Tribunal of Commerce, to protect their nationals and protégés and to guarantee their privileged position.8 Indeed, mainly Ottoman minorities (e.g., Greeks, Armenians, and Jews) as well as Europeans took part in and benefited from this commercial expansion.9 In sum, an economic dynamism generated by European industrial economies, rapid demographic growth, and heterogeneous society converged to create an urban experience distinct from that of the traditional Ottoman city: The [Ottoman] port city captured and reflected in concrete form the entire episode of incorporation. Its physical appearance, spatial layout, economic mechanisms, population dynamics, class structure, political aspirations and cultural life could only be understood through the prism of the colonial intercourse.10

The incorporation of eastern Mediterranean port cities in the European economy involved three major developments: commercial expansion, migration and population growth, and ethnic as well as cultural diversification. These three developments constitute the context within which Jewish communities developed and are thereby essential to understanding the processes of growth and change within the Jewish communities of Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut.

Commercial Expansion Commercial expansion became the major development upon which the revival of eastern Mediterranean port cities in the nineteenth century was advanced. Between 1800 and 1914, the value of trade increased about nine times. Around the mid-nineteenth century, Anatolia ranked first in Ottoman international trade largely because some 75 percent of all British exports to the Middle East, including Egypt, passed through western Anatolia, and, in particular, the port of Izmir.11 While the commercial growth of Izmir had all but ended by 1870, the city continued to prosper, and the end of the century became a golden age of commerce and culture for its Greek population in particular. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the Arab provinces’

26

The Jews of Beirut

international trade volume grew most rapidly, but still fell well below that of Anatolia as late as the start of World War I. The tonnage of Beirut, for example, more than doubled between 1895 and 1913.12 Between 1800 and 1914, Syrian seaborne trade grew twenty-fold. At the end of the century, the ports of Izmir, Beirut, Salonica, and Trabzon accounted for 46 percent of all Ottoman trade. Table 1 illustrates the expansion of trade in Ottoman ports. Izmir had a twentytwo-fold increase in trade volume, from 100 to 2,200 tons, while its value rose four-fold between the 1840s and the 1910s. In Beirut, the total volume of shipping rose from an estimated 40 tons to 1,700 tons, while its value rose eight-fold between the 1820s and the 1910s. In Egypt, the value of foreign trade grew some forty-fold during the nineteenth century. Alexandria, Egypt’s main port, saw its share in Egypt’s exports rise from 72 percent in 1853–1862 to 94 percent in 1863–1872. The number of ships calling at Alexandria rose from 1,996 in 1860 to 2,576 in only two years. By 1867, no fewer than fourteen shipping companies connected Alexandria to various ports around the Mediterranean including Istanbul, Malta, Marseilles, Trieste, Barcelona, Liverpool, Le Havre, and others.13 As a consequence of changes in the local economy and infrastructure, Alexandria had become, by the latter half of the nineteenth century, the second-busiest port (after Istanbul) in the Ottoman Empire.

Table 1: Shipping tonnage entering main Ottoman ports, 1830–1913 (thousand tons) Port Istanbul

1830

1860

1890

1913

—

—

800

4,000

Continued on next page

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

27

Table 1 (Continued) Alexandria

140

1,250

1,500

3,500

Izmir

100

600

1,600

2,200

Beirut

40

400

600

1,700

Trabzon

15

120

500

—

Basra

10

—

100

400

Source: Issawi, Middle East and North Africa, 48.

In order to support this massive expansion in trade and to make trade faster, cheaper, and more reliable, foreign capital financed the construction of both new infrastructure and improvements to the existing infrastructure. This development further stimulated the growth of port cities. New infrastructure—roads, canals, railways, and the telegraph—connected ports to areas of production in the hinterland and, therefore, greatly affected the export-import capabilities of each port and consolidated each port’s position vis-à-vis the hinterland. The combination of the rapid expansion in the volume of trade and the new, larger iron steamships necessitated port improvements. Thus, Izmir built a great quay during the 1870s; during the 1890s, foreign capital deepened Beirut’s harbor and improved other port facilities. Alexandria’s infrastructure had started to develop earlier under Muhammad ‘Ali. The Mahmudiyya Canal, a major waterway linking Alexandria to the Nile, had been completed in 1820. In the 1850s, Egypt’s first railway connected Alexandria to Cairo. By the 1860s, Alexandria’s rail and telegraph systems connected it to several agricultural market towns. 14 Second only to Alexandria, Izmir led the port cities in developing rail linkages to its hinterland; in the third quarter

28

The Jews of Beirut

of the century, Izmir boasted of the most sophisticated rail system outside of Egypt. The railroads in Izmir (and later in Salonica) rolled directly into the port areas. In 1858, Izmir built a new railroad station (Alsancak) that terminated the rails from Aydin; in 1875, a streetcar line; and, in the 1880s, a passport wharf.15 In Beirut, improved connections with the hinterland came somewhat later. Although the BeirutDamascus road underwent improvements in the 1860s, Beirut did not build its railroads until the mid-1890s.

Migration When discussing migration, scholars often employ the ‘push-pull’ approach which analyzes the motivation to migrate in terms of ‘push’ forces—forces that make people consider leaving their home—and ‘pull’ forces—forces that attract people to a specific location.16 For example, the civil war of 1860 ‘pushed’ the Jews of Dayr al-Qamar to leave Mount Lebanon and move to Beirut and Saida. Likewise, the pogroms of 1881 in Russia drove Russian Jews to emigrate, and a small number came to Beirut.17 In contrast, many Jews from throughout the Ottoman Empire moved to Beirut intentionally, ‘pulled’ by its booming economic and educational opportunities. Political instability in the Aegean region (1820s) and, later, interethnic violence in Syria (1860) drove thousands of Greeks, Syrian Christians, and Jews to immigrate to such safer cities as Alexandria and Beirut, where they could also take advantage of consular protection and improved sanitation and health conditions as well as a variety of educational institutions. 18 The emergence of Alexandria and Beirut as stable and safer economic centers in the nineteenth century attracted thousands of people from the Ottoman interior, the Mediterranean basin, and Europe—all of whom sought to take advantage of economic opportunities made available by economic growth. In Izmir, a similar process had taken place nearly two centuries earlier, and, by the mid-eighteenth century, that city dominated the export trade of western Anatolia, second only to Istanbul in the import trade. The population in these cities during the nineteenth century grew at a phenomenal pace. The number of inhabitants in Beirut jumped

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

29

from fewer than 10,000 in 1800 to an estimated 150,000 in 1914. Alexandria’s population rose from 15,000 to 300,000. Izmir grew more slowly, but from an enormous base, increasing from 100,000 to 300,000 after World War I. This phenomenal increase in numbers changed the cities’ social composition. In Alexandria, for example, the native Muslims lived alongside communities of Greeks, Armenians, Turks, Maltese, Syro-Lebanese, Italians, French, British, Austrians, and Jews. Izmir’s population, no less diverse, included Greeks, Turks, Armenians, Jews, and a significant foreign colony of British, French, Italians, Germans, Austrians, Dutch, and Americans. Izmir and Alexandria each hosted a large and influential foreign colony. Alexandria alone housed a significant number of foreigners: by 1878, an estimated 42,884 Europeans lived in the city, many of whom were foreign protégés and, in fact, were not true nationals of the country whose nationality they claimed. However, most protégés were foreigners of some kind and few of them were Egyptian Muslims. Of note, although the European colony in Alexandria was large and influential, less than 10 percent of the population was born outside Egypt in 1907.19 Table 2: European communities in Alexandria Nationality

1878

1917

Greek

20,830

56,751

Italian

8,993

41,198

French

8,417

21,270

English

2,191

24,354

Continued on next page

30

The Jews of Beirut Table 2 (Continued) Austro-Hungarian

1,083

—

Other

1,370

—

Sources: Reimer, Colonial Bridgehead, 160; Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 421.

The migrants who managed to establish themselves in Alexandria had several common advantages. To begin, they had Western educations. They were also fluent in Western languages. Many of those coming from various parts of the eastern Mediterranean—Izmir, Aleppo, and the Greek archipelago—were merchants or commercial agents. They brought their mercantile expertise as well as their ties with European firms.20 Moreover, Greeks, Syrians, and Mediterranean Jews migrating to Egypt had another advantage over other groups: once in Alexandria, they found small, pre-nineteenth-century communities, which they then joined. As a result, their adaptation must have been easier than that of migrants belonging to other foreign communities. Taken together, these advantages benefited both Europeans and Levantines, who managed to dominate commerce and finance in Egypt in general, and in Alexandria in particular. In Izmir, foreigners comprised one-quarter of the inhabitants during the last two decades of the nineteenth century.21 The city also attracted large numbers of Greeks from the Archipelago and from central Anatolia. During the 1890s, Ottoman Christians made up 30 percent of the total Izmir population, thereby representing, with the Europeans, the dominant religious group in the city. Muslims comprised less than one-half of the city’s population.

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

31

Table 3: Izmir’s population in the late nineteenth century (thousands) Group Muslims Greeks

Number 80 60–70

Jews

25

Europeans

15

Armenians

10

Source: Marie-Carmen Smyrnelis, Une société hors de soi (Paris: Peeters, 2005), 30–39.

The composition of Beirut’s population was somewhat different from other cities along the Syrian coast because the city had accommodated a large Christian population before the nineteenth century.22 Indeed, until the mid-nineteenth century, the city had more or less equal proportions of Christians and Muslims. Between 1840 and 1865, the number of Muslims doubled, and the number of Christians tripled. Until the French Mandate, Muslims composed slightly more than a third of the city’s population, and Christians slightly less than two-thirds. These proportions underwent significant realignment during the French Mandate, with the Christian majority shrinking in relation to the size of the other populations. In 1922, the French authorities estimated Muslims to comprise 39 percent of the city’s population and Christians 45 percent. However, one must also account for the

32

The Jews of Beirut

further subdivision of the city’s population into sects. While most of the Muslims in Beirut were Sunnis, most Christians came from one of three major denominations: Greek Orthodox, Maronites, and Greek Catholics. Smaller Christian sects included the Romans, Syrians, Armenian Catholics, Armenian Orthodox, and Protestants. Interestingly, while Muslims were fewer in numbers, the Sunnis represented the single largest religious community, followed by the Greek Orthodox, Maronites, and Greek Catholics. The Jews in Beirut, some three thousand in the pre–World War I period, constituted nearly 3 percent of the city’s population. Unlike Alexandria or Izmir, cities with a significant European colony, the European presence in Beirut remained small throughout most of the colonial period. Until the French Mandate, Europeans constituted only 1 to 3 percent of the city’s population. Their proportion grew to 15 percent in 1922, probably due to the French presence. Table 4: Beirut’s population Rite

Percentage

Sunnis

38.11

Armenian Orthodox

15.32

Greek Orthodox

11.95

Maronites

10.35

Shi‛is

5.6

Greek Catholics

3.58

Continued on next page

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

33

Table 4 (Continued) Armenian Catholic

3.57

Syriac

2.76

Jews

2.7

Protestants

2.38

Druze

1.16

Latin

1.12

Chaldean

0.35

Source: Representation des rites dans le personnel de la municipalite de Beyrouth, MAE, Cabinet Politique, 456.

Diversity and Heterogeneity In addition to economic expansion and migration, diversity also characterized eastern Mediterranean port cities. Throughout the nineteenth century, Muslims, Greeks, Armenians, Jews, Turks, Syrians, Maltese, and Maghribis, as well as a growing number of Europeans, streamed to these rising urban and commercial centers. The religious, ethnic, national, and linguistic diversity brought contemporary scholars to use the term ‘cosmopolitan’ when describing both the port city and its society. Lacking any single definition for the term, they often use the terms ‘multicultural,’ ‘diverse,’ and ‘cosmopolitan’ interchangeably. Ethnic or social diversity, however, is merely one component of cosmopolitanism, and it can be easily measured. For example, a researcher can establish the size of the various ethnic groups in Alexandria or Beirut with a high degree of accuracy. More than that,

34

The Jews of Beirut

one can easily count the various public or private institutions in a city, and classify them along religious or national lines. Cosmopolitanism, on the other hand, is a multifaceted and composite human condition. The term refers to a complex and rather elusive set of political, social, and cultural phenomena. Scholars use it to describe people, mostly polyglot, who have the ability to move comfortably within multiple and diverse communities while resisting the temptation to search for a purer and less complex identity. In a recent study on cosmopolitanism, Ulrich Beck defined the ‘cosmopolitan outlook’ as a global sense, a sense of boundarylessness. An everyday, historically alert, reflexive awareness of ambivalences in a milieu of blurring differentiations and cultural contradictions. It reveals . . . the possibility of shaping one’s life and social relations under conditions of cultural mixture. 23

Alain Silvera similarly described the Sephardim of Egypt, contending that they “found themselves part of a mélange of diverse minorities bound together in a spirit of easy coexistence and natural solidarity which cut across religious and ethnic boundaries.”24 He pointed out that the Sephardim formed a ‘cohesive’ brotherhood of businessmen and merchants, mingling with both the foreign newcomers and Egyptian elite. Robert Ilbert’s explanation of Alexandria, although reflecting much of Silvera’s and Beck’s conclusions, links cosmopolitanism with the peculiar position of the city. He argued that Alexandria, because it was neither totally Egyptian nor determined by a European sense of nationality, created an opportunity for its residents to achieve “a certain fluidity of identity.”25 The common use of the term ‘cosmopolitan’ in reference to Levantine port cities has brought another scholar, Henk Driessen, to reconsider the labeling of entire eastern Mediterranean port cities as ‘cosmopolitan.’ He suggested that scholars use the term with greater caution since not everyone in the port city was ‘cosmopolitan.’ He argued that cosmopolitanism was a phenomenon particular to the nonMuslim merchant bourgeoisie who “played a key role in panMediterranean and supra-Mediterranean networks” because they

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

35

spoke three or four languages and had not only a sense of the wider world but also the skills to bridge ethno-religious boundaries.26 In sum, port cities embodied locations of the most prevalent diversity and heterogeneity. Pluralism and tolerance, two components of cosmopolitanism rooted in the Ottoman millet system, received their full expression in nineteenth-century Levantine port cities. Rapid economic growth, intensive migration, a rich cultural mix, and a mastery of foreign languages that enabled people from different ethnic groups to communicate fed this cosmopolitanism,27 which emerged because of the encounter of Western capitalism and colonialism with the disintegrating Ottoman Empire. Furthermore, if one can speak of any cosmopolitan consciousness in nineteenth-century Levantine port cities, it was a cosmopolitan consciousness that preceded national consciousness yet, upon arrival, national consciousness terminated that cosmopolitan consciousness. In the course of the twentieth century, Izmir became Turkish and Alexandria Egyptian. In contrast, Beirut’s fate was rather unique. The political system in modern Lebanon maintained the confessional structure that evolved in Ottoman Lebanon from 1860 to 1915, and despite the limits of confessionalism, it also preserved much of Beirut’s diversity, although with consequences for the city’s residents.28 In what follows here, we will examine the issue of port city cosmopolitanism by focusing on the complex identity of the individual, on the community’s role in preserving difference, and, last, on venues that promoted social intermingling: the household, the school, and the economic domain.

The Individual Prior to the nineteenth century, religion (communal affiliation) was the predominant component of a person’s identity, and in fact, served as an integral part of the Ottoman State. Following the Islamic tradition, the Ottoman State defined the position of its non-Muslim subjects, the dhimmis, based on Islamic law.29 Albeit inferior to Muslims, dhimmis were nevertheless Ottoman subjects. However, political, social, and economic changes in the nineteenth century altered all this. First, the Ottoman State abolished dhimmi status in 1856. The non-

36

The Jews of Beirut

Muslim minorities became, at least theoretically, equal Ottoman subjects. At the same time, Ottoman reforms strengthened the separate, corporate identity of the religious minorities in the form of the millet. Second, in order to protect themselves and their property from government intrusions, an increasing number of non-Muslim Ottomans acquired various foreign nationalities or foreign protection that granted them legal and economic privileges. 30 A population census for 1897 reveals that about half of the Jews in Egypt were foreign nationals. 31 Their rate within the total Jewish population decreased, however, as Jewish migration to Egypt increased during this time. In 1917, for example, 10 percent of Egyptian Jews were foreign nationals. Ten years later, this rate grew to 22 percent. Among the Jewish notability proportions were even higher. In Alexandria, 25 to 30 percent were Italian, 15 to 18 percent were French, 6 percent were British subjects, and 15 percent were British protégés.32 For the most part, foreign nationality was acquired for reasons of personal safety and economic privileges; it did not reflect a national consciousness that stemmed from ethnic or linguistic belonging to a foreign nation.33 As a result, national identification was not predominant, and did not exclude any other forms of identification. In particular, foreign nationality did not interfere with communal (and religious) identification: Jews who held French, Italian, or British nationality have always regarded themselves as members of their Jewish communities.34 Third, wealth, modern education, and the acquisition of European languages contributed to social mobility and the formation of classes. Thus, socioeconomic class emerged as another component of identity. In Izmir, as we saw earlier, community members organized themselves along socioeconomic class; there, communal conflicts throughout the nineteenth century embodied clashes between the rich and the lower classes. Last, as is typical of migrant society, place of origin also emerged as a component of a person’s identity. In Beirut, for instance, the Jews who originated in Dayr al-Qamar (Diarne) founded their own house of prayer because they wanted to preserve their separate identity. In Alexandria, some residents founded a welfare society to support Jews com-

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

37

ing from Corfu, and, in Izmir, European Jews always retained their separate identity. In conclusion, the nineteenth century saw the emergence of a new set of forces that complicated a person’s identity. Of course, the process was not even and was more notable among the upper classes. As a result, people could simultaneously identify with their community, the Ottoman State, the country that granted them nationality, their (ethnically mixed) socioeconomic class, their ethnic group, or with local interests because no single component was dominant enough to exclude other forms of identification. This is what Alain Silvera and Robert Ilbert meant when they talked about “a spirit of easy coexistence,” or “a certain fluidity of identity.” This whole process directly affected the collective—the community, as it unified members from various origins, ethnicities, nationalities, and different classes. Nevertheless, communal institutions still maintained religious traditions and cultural particularities. In other words, community institutions maintained difference and, hence, diversity.

The Community In nineteenth-century Levantine port cities, the ethno-religious community was the basic structure of social organization. Of course, this was not new. In traditional Islamic cities, the non-Muslim minorities have enjoyed communal autonomy for centuries.35 As part of the tanzimat reforms, the Ottomans strengthened the separate, corporate identity of the various communities in the form of the millet. In Alexandria, for instance, some of the growing communities, like the Greek and the Jewish, relied on these familiar patterns of communal organization. However, some of the groups of incoming foreigners (British, French, and so forth) did not have local traditions or communal organizations. Yet, they evolved as autonomous non-official communities with their own leaders, organizations, and identities. As foreign nationals, members of foreign communities enjoyed legal autonomy and fiscal privileges. They were tried in their own courts at their consulates, and their consul was designated as their political leader. Often, foreign communities followed the Greek and

38

The Jews of Beirut

Jewish practice of electing a wealthy individual to serve as the leader of their community.36 In Alexandria, for example, H. E. Barker, an important businessman, served as the head of the British community in the interwar period. If not formally so, the foreign communities were, in reality, independent business communities led by influential businessmen, and they maintained separate associations, like national chambers of commerce. In Egypt, this was the situation until the end of World War I.37 The rapid urban expansion and population growth in nineteenthcentury port cities meant that the various groups organized themselves in a highly fluid and constantly changing urban environment. This was particularly characteristic of Alexandria and Beirut, whose populations grew rapidly in the second half of the nineteenth century. Such developments affected traditional patterns of urban and administrative organization. Michael Reimer explains: In Alexandria . . . the immigrants overwhelmed the old communal structures. Many haras and guilds were entirely new, whose members had no traditions of common loyalty and identity. Even in the old parts of the city, where there were some familial, ethnic, and occupational continuities, the flood of immigrants set the stage for the creation of new economic associations and patterns of social interaction.38

The rapid influx of migrants also affected the social landscape of Beirut. Leila Fawaz illustrates how the rapid population growth in Beirut—a city known for its tolerance throughout the nineteenth century—resulted in a city sharply divided along sectarian lines. According to Fawaz, “The rapidity of Beirut’s growth was in part responsible because people had not developed urban ways of living as they moved into the [new] urban environment.”39 This situation may help explain the lack of organization and the loose social cohesion among Beirut’s Jews during this time. Sometimes, the physical layout of the port city offered its new inhabitants an urban environment that stood in stark contrast to the layout of the traditional Middle Eastern city. Eyüp Özveren points out,

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

39

The very layout of Beirut stretching along the coastline and providing a “panoramic image” of its seaborne orientation differed sharply from the “radio-concentric” traditional cities, the urban space of which was hierarchically organized in circles around a core occupied with the imposing institutions of bedestan,40 bazaar, and the great mosque. 41

The rapid changes in the port city brought the various communities to introduce organizational changes to better adapt to the new urban environment. The expansion of the various communities also necessitated organization. In Alexandria, for instance, the expansion of the Greek community stimulated the creation of social institutions that could serve the community, and, in 1843, the community incorporated itself to create a formal system of self-government.42 Likewise, the expansion of the Jewish community stimulated the creation of similar institutions, and in 1854, the community adopted official statutes–the legal manifestation of communal autonomy. 43 In Beirut, a similar process took place. By the time the Ottomans recognized the community in 1911, it already had major social and administrative institutions. The coexistence of the various communities, sharing the same urban space, sharpened the role of the community as a fixed structure in the evolving social mosaic. Writing on Alexandria’s social fabric, Robert Ilbert emphasizes the significance of the community: In this city-refuge only the structured communities could claim a fixed recognition. They were not the representatives of minorities but central elements of the social fabric, and even the Muslims followed the model, from charity organizations to the schools of the Society of Ulema which, around 1930, stood opposite their Greek equivalents.44

In other words, the community was important because it formed a familiar component of social organization in a highly fluid, heterogeneous, and constantly changing environment. Each community’s structure helped maintain the diversity and heterogeneity. While some institutions, particularly foreign schools, stimulated social exchange among the middle and upper classes, communal institutions played an important role in preserving the peculiarities and customs of each community.45

40

The Jews of Beirut

Social and Cultural Exchange While communal identification and affiliation remained strong throughout the colonial period, eastern Mediterranean port cities offered their inhabitants various venues for social and cultural exchange. As already discussed, scholars often focus on social exchange among the upper-class merchant bourgeoisie. In fact, exposure to languages as well as to cultural and social differences began at an early age. Memoirs written by Egyptian Jews illuminate the personal, intimate, and informal ties between people in daily life. The Jewish household, for example, appears as a site of vibrant social exchange. Servants, nursemaids, cooks, drivers, and cleaners of every ethnicity or nationality carried out the household chores and interacted with family members on a daily basis. Thus, from an early age, children experienced diverse influences in their own homes and became accustomed to different cultures. Rahel Maccabi, for example, tells about the numerous language tutors and nursemaids who attended her house before her parents enrolled her in a French school. At various times she had an Italian tutor, two French nursemaids, a Jewish woman from Jaffa who taught her Hebrew, and a Syrian-Armenian who taught her Arabic. She described the relative ease with which one could acquire a language: “There was no particular difficulty in acquiring an additional language in an international city in which a person did not know what his mother tongue was, because he spoke many languages from an early age.”46 In André Aciman’s memoir, Out of Egypt, his Jewish household shares a similar image as a place of social and cultural interchange. As a small child in his parents’ house, André experienced Arab, Greek, Italian, and European influences. Lacking a well-developed sense of religious and ethnic boundaries, he used to socialize with the servants from whom he also learnt the little Arabic he knew. His status-conscious grandmothers were unhappy with this situation, and they complained to André’s mother repeatedly. During his studies at Victoria College, his father hired Arabic tutors. In addition to Arabic, he learned Italian with an Italian tutor. As Maccabi’s and Aciman’s accounts also illustrate, the house filled an

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

41

important social function among women. Because it was customary for bourgeois women to entertain on a regular basis, the women socialized, played cards, ate, drank, and gossiped with other women, either Jewish or non-Jewish.47 Beyond the home, children also intermingled with others in foreign schools–a major platform of social interchange. In Alexandria, Greek, Armenian, Jewish, and Catholic students attended French, British, and other private schools and shared the same classrooms. The following table demonstrates the centrality of foreign schools in Alexandria as a site of social and cultural exchange. Table 5: Children in foreign schools in Alexandria, 1878 Confession

Number

Roman Catholic

2,155

Greek Orthodox

816

Jewish

802

Muslim

337

Protestant

161

Coptic Orthodox

122

Greek Catholic

38

Other

35

Source: Reimer, Colonial Bridgehead, 150.

42

The Jews of Beirut

In Beirut, the Scottish mission opened a school for Jewish children in the mid-nineteenth century. However, due to low enrollment, the school director also admitted non-Jews. As a result, for more than half a century (until the school was closed at the outbreak of World War I), Jewish students shared classrooms with non-Jewish students. Furthermore, many parents preferred sending their children to private schools rather than enrolling them in the communal Talmud-Torah school, a situation that drew harsh criticism from communal leaders. According to the communal newspaper, no less than 150 children, many of whom were under twelve years old, studied in foreign schools in 1923.48 As there was no Jewish high school in Beirut, the Alliance49 or Talmud-Torah graduates who wished to continue their studies had to enroll in one of the foreign schools. Social intermingling continued in higher education as well. For example, the diverse student body at Saint Joseph University included students from twenty different denominations. In 1935, thirty-five Jewish students studied at the university, representing 6 percent of the total enrollment.50 Jews in Izmir also attended foreign colleges. Henri Nahum recorded 166 Jewish students from well-to-do families at the College Saint Joseph and Notre Dame de Sion at the beginning of the twentieth century.51 Despite the diversity of each city, a family’s degree of social intercourse was contingent upon their social class. The lower and lowermiddle classes relied heavily on communal schooling and welfare and, therefore, their exposure to other groups was rather limited. The upper classes, in contrast, sent their children to foreign schools, where children of different groups intermingled.52 In various after-school activities—classes, parties, charity events, volunteering—middle- and upper-class youth continued to intermingle and cultivate personal ties.53 This, however, does not mean that the upper classes had weaker communal identification. Religious, ethnic, and communal identifications always remained solid even among the wealthy. As shown in Chapter Five, philanthropy became a major tool for the well-to-do to demonstrate their commitment and solidarity with their community.

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

43

Business interactions served as another realm of social relations. Merchants, brokers, traders, and businessmen, particularly common occupations for members of minority communities, frequently cooperated due to their shared economic interests. In Beirut, Leila Fawaz explains: Economic collaboration among members of different sects and communities is particularly easy when the interests of a city are based on trade. Merchant communities in port cities are accustomed to dealing with all sorts of people, and merchants ranked so high in the social hierarchy that their occupation took precedence over their communal affiliation.54

A similar development took place in Egypt. Robert Tignor demonstrates how, through economic activity, the upper class of the various communities “began to coalesce as a self-conscious haute bourgeoisie.”55 Members of the different groups mixed on the boards of Joint Stock Companies; they created organizations like the Egyptian Federation of Industries and the Economic Council (both in 1922) to promote their shared economic and political interests; various publications, like Égypte Industrielle and Économiste Égyptien, circulated the ideas of this class. Moreover, this ethnically diverse socioeconomic class cultivated its own homogeneous culture. They mostly spoke English or French, they attended the same social events, they lived in the same neighborhoods, and their children had common educational experiences. However, total identification with this socioeconomic class was impossible. As Tignor explains, “Although in all these respects— language, education, residence, aspirations, and culture—a unified haute bourgeoisie had crystallized in Egypt, nonetheless the ethnic, national, and religious roots persisted, rendering total identification with this socioeconomic class impossible.”56 Note that both (religious and ethnic) heterogeneity and (cultural) homogeneity characterized the cosmopolitanism of the upper classes.

44

The Jews of Beirut

The Jewish Communities of Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut Thus far, this analysis has explored the three major characteristics of nineteenth century Levantine port cities. These cities experienced a phenomenal growth based primarily on European-oriented trade. As they grew, they attracted massive migration of various groups whose members sought to partake in the thriving commerce. Last, they acquired a heterogeneous social composition and accommodated influential Christian or European communities. The discussion that follows will examine how this new economic and social dynamism in Levantine port cities affected the development of the Jewish communities. In particular, we will examine developments in four areas: migration and social change, economic activity, communal organization, and philanthropy. Concluding with an exploration of the Jewish community as a microcosm of the port city, we will assess the extent to which the Jewish community mirrored the city.

Migration and Social Change Izmir. Like Alexandria and Beirut two centuries later, the formation of Izmir’s Jewish community resulted from Izmir’s emergence as an important port city in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. An official Jewish community organized itself in Izmir in 1605. In the first half of the seventeenth century, it grew rapidly due to the migration of Ottoman Jews, who came seeking economic alternatives following the decline of the Ottoman textile industry.57 However, throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Izmir’s Jewish population fluctuated greatly—numbering between seven and eight thousand in 1653 and fifteen hundred in 1699—due to natural calamities like earthquakes, fires, and epidemics. 58 In 1772, a fire destroyed the Jewish quarter and devoured its synagogues; many Jews fled the city. While Izmir’s economy flourished in the nineteenth century, the growth of its Jewish population was slow and rather modest. By the mid-nineteenth century, the community numbered about fifteen thousand Jews. In 1894, the city had 16,450 Ottoman Jewish subjects.

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

45

Jacob Barnai estimates that including the foreign Jews, 20,000 Jews resided in Izmir, constituting 8 to 10 percent of its population.59 Because of World War I and the Greek-Turkish War (1918–1922), many Jews emigrated from Izmir to Alexandria and Beirut, and many others went farther, to the Americas, Europe, and Palestine. Given this, World War I marks the decline of Izmir’s Jewish community. In terms of ethnicity, two main ethnic elements comprised this community: Romaniot (Greek-speaking Jews descended from the former Byzantine Empire) and Sephardic Jews. It also hosted a colony of about a thousand Francos (European merchants mainly from Livorno), who enjoyed the protection of the Italian consul. In 1913, about one hundred Ashkenazi families lived in the community with one person representing their interests in the community council.60 A report written by Izmir’s Alliance school director in the 1870s describes the socioeconomic structure of the community. At the top sat a very thin upper class of businessmen and big merchants (one hundred families, representing 2.8% of 3,500 Jewish families in the city). Below it, lay a wide middle class of brokers, workers, employees, and porters (1,500–2,000 families, representing 42.8–57%). At the bottom, lay a significant yet smaller lower class, consisting of a 1,000 families (28.5%) who lived off communal charity.61 Alexandria. In contrast to the Jewish community of Izmir, the demographic changes in the Jewish community of Alexandria appear much more remarkable. The policies of Muhammad ‘Ali (and his successors) played a crucial role in the renaissance of nineteenth-century Alexandria. As part of his modernization schemes, he took special interest in Alexandria, as its port played a crucial role in Egypt’s economic growth. Michael Reimer cites Alexandria’s “role as the entrepôt linking the fields of Egypt with the factories of Europe”62 as the most important factor in the city’s expansion. The construction of the city’s infrastructure necessitated labor, thus Muhammad ‘Ali encouraged the migration of local as well as foreign groups. 63 In the first half of the nineteenth century, internal migration primarily fueled the city’s population growth. This pattern changed in the second half of the

46

The Jews of Beirut

century, when the share of external migration grew significantly. The various ethnic groups and nationalities migrating to Alexandria included Jews. Political ‘push’ as well as economic ‘pull’ factors explain the massive migration to Egypt—in particular, Alexandria—of thousands of people from North Africa, the Ottoman Empire, and Europe. Robert Ilbert views Alexandria as a city-refuge whose growth stemmed from the international crises in the region: “The history of Alexandria’s expansion was thus linked to the major crises of the Mediterranean world: the first ‘Middle Eastern Question’ of 1840, the Crimean War of 1854, the cotton boom of 1863, the British occupation in 1882 and, of course, the Balkan wars which set off the first world war.”64 The Jewish population of Alexandria grew at a remarkable rate. From a “few hundred” at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the number swelled to nearly ten thousand by the end of the century. By 1917, the Jewish population had more than doubled, peaking at 24,858 souls.65 This number remained more or less stable until the late 1940s. This rapid population growth greatly diversified the social composition of the community. In addition to the small indigenous community, Arabic-speaking Jews migrated from Syria, Iraq, Yemen, and Aden, as did Maghribi Jews fleeing poverty and French colonization, often viewed by the locals as overly secular and emancipated.66 Sephardic Jews emigrated from the Ottoman Empire, Greece, the Balkans, Corfu, and Italy. There was also a small Ashkenazi minority of Jews of Russian and Romanian descent, who made up part of Alexandria’s established Jewish community. Of course, there were further distinctions within each group based on place of origin. Profound political and economic changes, combined with largescale immigration, not only diversified the ethnic composition of the community, but brought about the formation of distinct social classes. The formation of a large lower and upper-middle class of employees, administrators, merchants, and professionals, composed largely of immigrants and their children, constituted the major change. At the top was a small and mostly Sephardic upper class of businessmen, bankers, and big merchants, comprising 5 to 10 percent of the com-

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

47

munity. At the bottom lay a lower class of up to 25 percent, comprised of indigenous and Oriental uneducated Jews living off communal charity.67 Despite the small size of the upper class and the significant size of the lower class, the community as a whole was well off.68 Beirut. The Jewish population of Beirut also grew at a remarkable rate, although on a much smaller scale than that of Alexandria. From a few hundred at the beginning of the nineteenth century, their number swelled to twenty-five hundred in the 1890s, and further rose to thirty-five hundred by the 1920s. Unlike Alexandria, the growth of the Jewish population was largely due to migration from the Syrian interior—in particular, from Mount Lebanon and Damascus. However, there was a small number of families from other Ottoman cities like Baghdad, Istanbul, Salonica, and Izmir. By World War I, the community included a small number of Ashkenazim who had fled political persecution in Russia (1881). Although ethnically and culturally distinct, they formed (as in Alexandria) an integral part of the local Jewish community. Like Alexandria, the economic and political developments of the port city, combined with the continuous Jewish migration of the 1860s to the 1920s, resulted in a process of social differentiation and the emergence of a middle class. In February 1919, Ben-Zion Uziel and Jack Mosseri visited the community on behalf of the Zionist Commission,69 and they reported on the community’s social structure: It is calculated that there are about 8–10 wealthy families (Anzarut, Farhi, Benjamin, Dichi, Dana, Khayat, Harari, etc.), 150 families with average means, 200 families of workmen (weavers, upholsterers, etc.), 1000 persons that need help or loans, 2000 very poor, almost destitute (largely immigrants from Damascus).70

It is not clear upon what basis the visitors “calculated” these figures. They estimated the community to number six to seven thousand members—approximately twice its real size of thirty-five hundred. Nevertheless, their impression provides a good sense of the community’s social structure: it had a small wealthy class, larger middle and upper-middle classes, and a significant lower class. It may well be

48

The Jews of Beirut

that the large number of poor at that time resulted from World War I, which left the community with many orphans and widows. By the late 1920s, Beirut housed a wide middle class of salaried employees, clerks, small merchants, and a few professionals, who, according to a community member, constituted the majority of the community. 71 Above them in the hierarchy, a group of some three hundred members (8.5%) paid the community ‘Arikha tax and constituted the uppermiddle and wealthy classes. Nevertheless, it remains possible that the lower class still comprised up to 20 percent of the community.

Commercial Activity Alexandria. In the eighteenth century, Alexandrian Jews were active in traditional occupations: crafts and trade, money lending, customs collectors, and international commerce. Although numerically inferior vis-à-vis other minority groups, the community played a significant role in the city’s economy.72 The community suffered a major blow under ‘Ali Bey (1768–1772), who ended the traditional Jewish control of customs. The Jews lost an important source of revenue, and the number of wealthy individuals in the community diminished. Nevertheless, by the mid-nineteenth century, a small group of wealthy Sephardic families managed to preserve and even increase their wealth through trade, money lending, and banking. The Rolo family, for example, operated a prosperous trading firm that imported indigo. The Tilche, probably the wealthiest trading house in the early nineteenth century, traded with Italy, accumulated great wealth, and had already moved into banking by the eighteenth century.73 In the second half of the nineteenth century, this small group of Sephardic families used their capital to launch various economic undertakings and greatly diversify their economic activity. They were entirely or partly responsible for the establishment and development of numerous companies: The Sugar Refinery of Egypt, the Wadi Kom Ombo Company (at that time Egypt’s largest agricultural concern), Sheikh Fadl’s estate, the Helwan Railway Company, the Delta Railway Company, the Egyptian Mortgage Bank, the Commercial bank of Egypt,

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

49

and many others. Land development was the predominant Jewish economic enterprise.74 Robert Tignor has contributed much to the understanding of the economic activities of the foreign communities in Egypt. By analyzing statistical data on the composition of joint stock companies, he found that mixed-nationality firms grew in number and influence during the interwar period.75 Thus, in 1923, twenty-one out of a total of eightyfive firms had mixed nationalities. Jewish directors ran eleven of these twenty-one mixed-nationality firms. By the mid-1940s, a vast expansion had occurred both in the number of joint stock companies and in their composition. At that time, the number of mixed-nationality firms had grown to 163 and Jewish directors ran 39 of them. Thus, in addition to running their own companies, such leading Jewish families in Alexandria as the Menasce, Aghion, Rolo, Ada, and Suares sat on the boards of several mixed-nationality companies. However, the majority of the Jewish business community consisted of Oriental immigrants who had started entering the country in the 1860s. Unlike the veteran Jewish Sephardic families, these Oriental Jews made their way to wealth and prestige primarily in the field of commerce. Initially active in the import-export trade with Europe, they exported agricultural products, notably cotton and textiles, and imported industrial goods. 76 Under the class of the haute bourgeoisie grew the much wider petite bourgeoisie class comprised of craftsmen, peddlers, haberdashers, laborers, tailors, agents, greengrocers, brokers (many in the Alexandria Securities Market and the Alexandria Commodities Market),77 kosher butchers, bank and commercial clerks, civil servants, and professionals. Beirut. From the accounts of travelers who visited Beirut’s Jewish community in the 1840s and 1850s, one learns that most of the Jews (in 1856, the community numbered some 500 souls) were peddlers, petty traders, and porters, with a few craftsmen. By the 1860s, the community’s members included prosperous Jewish merchants. In 1863, the British consul in Beirut, William Wrench, complained that every affluent Jew wanted consular protection.78 Considering the fact

50

The Jews of Beirut

that Jews constituted a meager percentage of the city’s population, this comment is somewhat peculiar. It does suggest, however, that not only were there affluent Jews living in Beirut, but that many desired foreign protection, as did many Christians. Jewish newcomers managed to participate in Beirut’s expanding commerce, as several examples illustrate. In 1920, Jacob Safra, a member of an Aleppo banking family, migrated to Beirut and founded a bank. Taking advantage of an unregulated money market, he dealt with currency exchange, gold trade, and financing trade. The family lived in Beirut and was part of its Jewish community for three decades until its members migrated to Brazil in 1952. Safra’s banking business in Beirut paved the way for his four sons, themselves highly successful bankers, to further expand and consolidate the family’s banking business worldwide in the second half of the twentieth century. Zilkha, another Jewish family, migrated from Baghdad to Beirut. In his family memoir, Ezra Zilkha recalled: “Father [Khedouri Zilkha] became much more active in gold trading and foreign exchange. Baghdad did not have a lot of international business, but Beirut, because it was a port, had a thriving foreign exchange market and was a way station for goods.” 79 Like the Safras, the Zilkhas dealt in currency exchange, gold trade, and financing trade. The impressive success of these two Jewish banking families in later decades earned them a worldwide reputation as highly successful bankers, but by no means were they the only Jewish bankers in Beirut in the early 1900s. By the first decade of the twentieth century, Jews played a significant part in Beirut’s banking. According to a 1909 Beirut business directory, four out of twenty-two (18 percent) banking houses were owned by Jews (Farhi and Tarrab, Mussa Totah, Abraham Rafael Hakim, and Selim Binyamin Hayyat).80 By the late 1920s, Jewish involvement in the banking business had increased. Jews made up nearly a quarter (23.4 percent) of Beirut’s registered bankers, including the following names: Ezra Ankona, Eli Reuben ‛Idi, Farhi and Sons, Abraham Halak and Sons, Selim and Yoseph Helu, Selim Binyamin Hayyat, Yoseph Lati, Taufiq Laniado, Yoseph Romano, Jacob Safra, Khedouri Zilkha, and Robert Sabbagh. 81 The Jewish community was

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well aware of its preponderant position in the areas of banking and finance. Beginning in 1926, the Jewish leadership made repeated attempts to secure one seat in the parliament for a Jewish representative. To support their claim, the leadership time after time evoked the important contribution of the Jews to Lebanon’s economy to no avail. While some Jews were active in the area of banking, many more dealt in commerce. That 1909 directory lists some seventeen Jewish merchants. Of these, nine engaged in textiles and three were import merchants. The remaining five Jewish names appeared in the category of tujjar al-Islambuliyya–importing perfumes and other European products, most likely from Istanbul.82 By the late 1920s, however, records note fifty-eight registered Jewish merchants: twenty-five textile merchants, thirteen import (commission) merchants, and twenty haberdashery (hurdawat) merchants. When Hans Kohn, an emissary of Keren ha-Yesod (‘United Israel Appeal’), visited the community in 1927 in order to organize fund-raising in the community, he got the impression that “All Jews were merchants in manufactured goods and had ordered Italian products.”83 The predominance of commerce among the Jews remained throughout the mandatory period, and most probably continued beyond that period. Rahel Yana’it Ben Tsvi, who visited the community several times in the early 1940s, commented: “From Farhi and Elmaleh I heard that most Beirut Jews are merchants–big and small.”84 Not all Jewish merchants, however, were involved in foreign trade. Some Jewish craftsmen engaged in regional trade. One Jewish craftsman, for example, bought animal skins from all around the Middle East. He treated the skins in the workshop he owned in the city, reselling the product to the wool and shoe industry.85 Another Jewish craftsman was an upholsterer (munajid) who used to import cotton from Egypt. After using what he needed, he resold the cotton in the region. In fact, Jews seemed to dominate the business of upholstery in Beirut. In 1909, seven out of the ten upholsterers in Beirut were Jewish. Some Jews were tailors. In the late 1920s, the L’Indicateur Libano-Syrien listed sixteen Jewish tailors, who constituted more than 11 percent of this craft. Apart from banking and commerce, Jewish

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involvement in other areas of the economy remained limited. Jews owned a printing house, a couple of bookstores, a hotel, and a coffeehouse. In sum, Jews benefited from Beirut’s economic growth and established themselves in banking and commerce in particular–both foreign and regional trade. Although trade in textiles was common, it was not the only traded product. However, Jews were conspicuously absent in the trade of dry foodstuffs, wheat, cereal, and other raw materials. Indeed, the predominance of Jews in banking and commerce in Beirut may have contributed to an image of a rich community,86 an image that attracted the attention of Zionist agencies. In 1927, emissaries of three Zionist organizations (Keren-Kayemet, Keren ha-Yesod, Sephardic Jews’ Association) came to Beirut, asking the community council for permission to collect contributions to support the Yishuv. Even though the community was burdened with financing two major institutions at that time—synagogue and school—it did not reject any of the emissaries. However, rather than organizing three separate drives, it organized a unified drive and the money was distributed among the three agencies.87 Though the community was struggling to build its own institutions,88 it agreed to support the Yishuv.

Changes in Community Organization and Leadership Contemporary scholarship highlights two major developments that introduced changes to the organization of Jewish communities in the nineteenth century: the Ottoman reforms and the activity of Western organizations. The reforms made three key changes: in 1835, they officially recognized a Jewish millet headed by a chief rabbi (haham bashi), they abolished the dhimmi status (1856), and introduced new communal regulations in the form of the Organic Statute (1865). In addition to these reforms, beginning in the early nineteenth century, Western (Jewish as well as non-Jewish) organizations promoted programs to reform and reshape Jewish society. In the process, they established numerous institutions within Jewish communities and further diversified their structure. Compounding these changes, the revival of Le-

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vantine port cities in the nineteenth century entailed a unique socioeconomic dynamism that affected individuals, families, and entire communities. This port-city revival comprised three main elements: migration, commercial growth, and diversity. Communal change and organization in the nineteenth century grew out of the unique dynamism created by all of these reforms, movements, and changes in eastern Mediterranean port cities. Izmir. In the late eighteenth and first half of the nineteenth century, the economic position of Izmir’s Jewish community greatly deteriorated. First, because of the need to support its ongoing wars, the Ottoman authorities levied heavy taxes. 89 Natural disasters also affected the community. August Frankl, who visited the community in 1856, reported that the fires of 1841 and 1852 destroyed much property as well as thousands of books and manuscripts. As a result, the community incurred a debt of 600,000 piaster.90 However, the most important cause of the community’s deterioration most likely stems from changes in the city’s economic function. In the seventeenth century, Izmir had capitalized on the transit trade between Europe and East Asia.91 In the mid-eighteenth century, however, growing European demand for raw materials and foodstuffs connected Izmir, on one hand, to the areas of production in western Anatolia, and, on the other hand, to European markets. This shift in emphasis from trade in long-distance transit goods to local goods helped reorder the relative standing of different communities in these networks. Due to this shift, the Greeks became particularly powerful and influential in Izmir during this period. Not only were they the most numerous of the non-Muslim communities, they were also the only group whose representation was equally widespread in all aspects of production and trade in western Anatolia. The Jews, in contrast, “suffered a setback as the difficulties of the central government multiplied in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Armenians held their ground, or even gained in areas of finance, mostly at the expense of Jews.”92 Thus, as Izmir’s economy grew increasingly linked to the Eu-

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ropean market, the Jewish community could not regain its previous economic prominence. The economic deterioration of Izmir’s Jewish community had a profound impact on the community’s internal situation. Severe conflicts erupted in Izmir’s Jewish community throughout most of the nineteenth century.93 The conflicts evolved around two major issues: taxes and leadership. The lower classes, oppressed by the wealthy leadership, demanded that the wealthy assume a greater portion of the tax burden. The wealthy, who did not pay tax on most of their income (they enjoyed a tax limit), repeatedly raised the indirect taxes (gabela).94 This resulted in much of the tax burden falling on the lower classes, who organized themselves as an opposition and demanded representation in the communal leadership. Alarmed by the severe disorder within the Jewish community, the Ottoman authorities intervened. The Ottomans mainly desired peace and order because of their fear that any internal strife could invite foreign intervention. Given this, they shifted their support from the oligarchic leadership to the lower classes, led by Rabbi Haim Palachi. As a result, this internal strife triggered changes in Izmir’s communal leadership even before the Ottoman reforms. By tradition, the communal leadership included the elected representatives of the various kehalim in the city. However, the formation of socioeconomic classes and the struggles among them, the increasing power of the guilds (who represented the poorest class), and changes in the physical dispersion of the Jews in the city95 all brought about changes in the structure of the Jewish leadership. In 1849, the community formed a new leadership framework with fifteen council members: six representing the wealthy class, six representing the middle class, and three representing the guilds. In other words, socioeconomic class replaced place of origin as the determining criterion in the formation of the leadership structure.96 The Ottoman reforms further destabilized communal organization. Beginning in the 1840s, one government-appointed chief rabbi replaced the local Jewish custom of two rabbis who ruled jointly. The reforms also decreased the oligarchic nature of the leadership, ena-

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bling a new elite of newly rich and young intellectuals to participate. According to Barnai, most other reform laws concerning the internal administration of the community were not carried out.97 He concludes that the reforms did not improve the position of the Jewish leadership; indeed, quite the opposite occurred, resulting in an increase in internal strife and struggle.98 Alexandria. In 1840, European Jewish leaders had a history of interfering in the affairs of Alexandria’s Jewish community; yet apart from two short-lived modern schools founded by Adolphe Crémieux,99 little had changed.100 Until the mid-nineteenth century, the local rabbi was probably the most influential leader in the community, and, since the mid-nineteenth century, he also enjoyed the title of haham bashi, or chief rabbi.101 Nevertheless, a general assembly elected the chief rabbi, who was subordinate to the authority of a community council.102 An important change came in 1854, when Alexandrian Jews adopted community statutes. Ottoman policies did not bring about this change—it occurred a decade before the introduction of the Organic Statute; rather, it reflected the influence of the many Jewish migrants from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Italy, and elsewhere who were accustomed to institutional life in their places of origin. In 1872, the community adopted a modified version of the 1854 statutes. According to Jacob Landau, the statutes reflected an Austrian-Italian rivalry in the community, with the many Italian protégés on one side, and the Ashkenazim on the other, who wished for Austrian protection. It is highly unlikely, however, that the Ashkenazi minority imposed its will on the dominant Sephardic majority in this issue of foreign protection.103 Beirut. The official organization of Beirut’s Jewish community (1908– 1918) took place more than half a century after that of Alexandria’s community.104 Like in many other communities, social tensions and conflicts accompanied the process of organization, but the newly created community council managed to establish its powers relatively quickly. In 1909, the community adopted statutes that resembled

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those of Alexandria. A General Assembly of taxpayers elected a twelve-member council who administered the community’s institutions. Its rabbi received the title of haham bashi two years later. In the late 1920s, the community drafted new statutes that reflected the growth and change in the community. The multi-communal structure of Lebanese society allowed the Jewish community to enjoy its autonomy until the community declined beginning in the late 1960s. The juxtaposition of the Jewish communities in Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut raises some important insights regarding two issues: historical continuity and the timing of communal organization. First, we must stress the differences in the historic continuity of these communities. By the nineteenth century, Izmir had become an established community with foundations and organization laid down in the first half of the seventeenth century.105 In contrast, the Jewish communities of Alexandria and Beirut were nineteenth-century creations in at least two ways. Demographically, their phenomenal numerical growth and social diversification broke with the demographics of earlier centuries. Their populations grew more than ten times throughout the century, with migrants constituting the great majority of each. In terms of organization, these communities adopted communal statutes—a modern practice that reflected the European leanings of secular leaders and further symbolized the break with earlier organizational structures. The community of Izmir, in contrast, experienced continuity, as it based its organization on regulations laid down in the seventeenth century by Rabbi Yoseph Escapa.106 Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut were incorporated in the industrial economy at various times. Izmir had already been incorporated by the second half of the eighteenth century.107 Alexandria started the process in the 1840s, following the abolition of the monopolies introduced by Muhammad ‘Ali. While Beirut’s commerce started to grow in the 1830s due to British imports, the highest rates of growth occurred in the late nineteenth century, and only in 1890 did a French company modernize the port facility. When examining the changes in the Jewish communities, they appear to correlate to this order of incorporation. The Jewish community

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of Izmir was the first to undergo changes in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The community failed to establish a leading position in the city’s economy. The economic deterioration of the Jewish community resulted in internal struggles that, in turn, led to the formation of a class-based leadership. The tanzimat reforms negatively affected Izmir’s community: they increased the leadership’s dependence on the Ottoman authorities, weakened communal autonomy, and increased internal strife. In contrast, the Jewish community of Alexandria underwent processes of growth and expansion in the second half of the century. The main phase of organization took place during the mid-Victorian boom (1850s–1870s), when the city experienced its highest growth rates. Unlike Izmir, the leadership managed to establish a well-functioning communal administration that provided education, health, and welfare services with minimal outside aid. Beirut’s Jewish community was the last to reorganize (1908–1918). The late organization of Beirut’s Jewish community was probably connected to the particular nature of the city’s growth. Michael Reimer explains: “The lack of a centralized, autonomous, and modernizing administration in Lebanon for most of the nineteenth century, meant that the region was slow to acquire the kind of infrastructure that was needed to service a booming international maritime commerce.”108 In sum, the Jewish communities in Levantine port cities underwent major changes. The Ottoman reforms and the activity of Western organizations, widely discussed in contemporary scholarship, were important causes of change, but by no means were they the only ones. The revival of port cities as international economic centers had a significant effect on their Jewish communities. New economic opportunities, extensive migration, heterogeneous social structure, and new forms of social organization (e.g., Municipal Councils and Chambers of Commerce) posed great challenges for Jewish communities. Faced with rapid population growth, the Jewish leadership built new synagogues and schools and provided welfare services for their growing communities. To support this growth, philanthropy emerged as a major social force in communal development. As port cities, Alexandria, Beirut, and, to a lesser extent, Izmir proved fertile grounds for the

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emergence of Jewish philanthropy. Next, an examination of some aspects of Jewish philanthropy where it was most active—Alexandria— will provide an introduction to Chapter Five, which examines Jewish philanthropy in Beirut. While the subject of philanthropy has not been studied yet, contemporary scholarship on Alexandria’s Jewish community sheds light on the phenomenon and explains its conspicuous role in a Levantine port city.

Jewish Philanthropy Attempts to reform the organization of Alexandria’s Jewish community had been made as early as 1840. Adolphe Crémieux and Moses Montefiore, visiting the community immediately after the Damascus Affair, tried to bring about changes in the Jewish community of Alexandria109 in connection with the reconstruction of the Eliyahu ha-Navi synagogue and the foundation of the Crémieux Schools. According to Ben Tsion Taragan, 110 several notables prompted Rabbi Shlomo Hazzan to work toward the reconstruction of the ruined synagogue. The rabbi asked the community members to work voluntarily for a week. Due to a lack of means, however, nothing resulted from this initiative. The community finally reconstructed the synagogue in 1850, after Moses Montefiore gathered an assembly and contributed money toward that end. The reconstruction of the synagogue appears to have been a communal effort successfully accomplished with outside aid. The foundation of the Crémieux Schools also faced financial challenges. Once they were established, Adolphe Crémieux realized the communal budget would not allow it to support the schools, so he promised to send financial aid.111 The community did not attempt to garner the financial support of the local notables. These two examples indicate that, until the 1850s, the community found it difficult to establish new institutions without outside help. Although several prosperous families lived in the community, they were not the driving force behind these initiatives.112 A turning point came in the 1860s, when local merchants and businessmen started to use their own wealth to found and support

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communal institutions. In 1865, for example, Behor and Itzhak Aghion endowed real estate whose rent supported community schools. 113 In addition, Itzhak Aghion endowed a fund of twenty thousand francs to clothe poor students. The philanthropy of the de Menasces was even more impressive. The family built a synagogue in 1873, a communal school in 1885, and a hospital in 1891. The founding of new synagogues represents a particularly common form of philanthropic activity. Alexandria had several synagogues, some of which wealthy notables had built. Sometimes, the founder endowed the synagogue’s revenues to support a specific purpose. For example, Baron Menasce dedicated the revenues from his synagogue to establish a school. In 1911, Abraham Green built a synagogue, the revenues of which were distributed among various communal institutions according to an agreement between him and the community. It is an interesting paradox that communities built an increasing number of synagogues while religious observance weakened, particularly among the high-class secularized economic elite. The many welfare societies carried out yet another form of philanthropic activity. The number of such societies increased dramatically in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. By the late nineteenth century, there were three societies. During the first three decades of the twentieth century, the community had founded at least ten societies.114 This growth in the number of welfare societies reflects the increasing role of the emerging middle class in the community’s social activity. Alexandria’s philanthropic activity appears to have developed in three phases. In the first phase (1840s–1850s), philanthropy came from the outside. Crémieux and Montefiore led the philanthropic activity in this phase and, in turn, paved the way for the next phases. In the second phase (1860s–1890s), local merchants and businessmen moved to the center of philanthropic activity. Their philanthropy largely centered on the building and the endowment of real estate and funds. In the third phase (early 1900s), numerous welfare societies joined the philanthropic activity and allowed the emerging middle class to partake in social work.

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Four major factors supported the growth of philanthropy in Alexandria’s Jewish community. The emergence of a strong, industrious, wealthy merchant class was, of course, essential to philanthropic activity since these merchants became potential philanthropists. Vital to their success, the foreign status many of them held enabled them to benefit from the privileges of the capitulations. Second, the Jewish community enjoyed extensive autonomy. The self-adopted communal statutes that defined communal institutions, procedures, and powers of the various administrative bodies serve as a critical expression of this autonomy. The foreign protection the community enjoyed also serves as an indicator of this autonomy: between 1881 and 1915, the community, collectively, came under Austro-Hungarian protection.115 With minimal external interference and free from the burden of taxes (unlike Izmir), the Jewish leadership had a monopoly over communal funds and had the freedom to shape the community as the leadership thought fit. Third, the various opportunities to assume power and leadership positions both in and outside the community stimulated competition, one expression of which was philanthropy. It would be hard to explore philanthropic activity without considering the rivalry for status among wealthy leaders as well as among communities. As Chapter Five illustrates, the well-to-do competed both in and outside the public domain of the synagogue. The port city’s heterogeneous society stimulated competition among the different mercantile groups for status and prestige as well as colonial (political and social) rewards. Through philanthropy the various groups strengthened their community’s status vis-à-vis the other communities. Last, due to the activities of Western (Jewish and non-Jewish) organizations, Jewish communities gained increased exposure to philanthropic and humanitarian ideals. Missionary schools, the Alliance, B’nai B’rith, and the Joint Distribution Committee were only some of the organizations with which Jews became involved. Taken together, these four factors explain the conspicuous role of philanthropy in Alexandria.

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Conclusion In this chapter, we examined the Jewish communities of Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut within the context of port-city revival, and explained three major developments—economic expansion, migration, and diversity—common to the three port cities. Yet, the development of each Jewish community remained distinct, reflecting the particular political, social, and economic conditions of each city. In Izmir, communal decline in the first half of the century resulted in severe class conflicts within the Jewish community. Furthermore, the Ottoman reforms did not end internal strife; rather, they further destabilized the community. The intervention of European Jewish philanthropy and the Alliance (which came to assume great influence in Izmir) during the second half of the nineteenth century improved the general situation there. In contrast, the Jewish community of Alexandria, from the midnineteenth century, grew and expanded well outside the direct Ottoman orbit. The dynamism underlying Alexandria’s development represented a rupture from earlier centuries. Its Jewish community had a competent and resolute leadership and centralized administration. A powerful merchant bourgeoisie financed the creation and support of all communal institutions, with virtually no outside aid. In economic growth, migration, and social diversity, the Jewish community became a true microcosm of Alexandria’s cosmopolitanism. This impressive development of the Jewish community mirrored the highly advantageous conditions in Alexandria vis-à-vis other port cities: a thriving cash-crop economy, an independent and centralized administration committed to modernization, and a large and influential European colony that not only permitted the participation of minorities in economic activities, but also created highly advantageous economic and legal systems for them. Last, the development and shaping of Beirut’s Jewish community mirrored that of the city in two main points. First, the community’s size, its late organization, and its relatively moderate economic strength all reflected Beirut’s position as a port city. In the nineteenth

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century, the city lacked a centralized modernizing administration as Egypt had, and its silk economy was modest in comparison with the cotton economy of Egypt. Beginning in the 1920s, as the French authorities moved the country’s economy toward primarily services (banking and trade) at the expense of industry and agriculture, the merchant bourgeoisie continued to prosper. Second, communal cohesion reflected social conditions in the city. In the second half of the nineteenth century, when the city was in a highly fluid state due to extensive migration, the commitment of Jewish individuals to communal affairs was minimal, and the few attempts to organize the community failed. However, as the city acquired a sectarian structure in the early twentieth century, communal affiliation became increasingly important, and some Jews began to demonstrate commitment to communal affairs. The French further institutionalized the society’s sectarian structure, under which the community acquired vital importance. Hence, at that time appears an unprecedented community emphasis on communal organization, progress, and philanthropy. In addition, until the French Mandate, Beirut did not accommodate a large European colony (as did Alexandria or Izmir), therefore, Jews could not claim identification or affiliation with a British or Italian colony as Jews had in other port cities. Thus, Beiruti Jews identified with their community and with outside Jewish organizations that represented various currents of Jewish reformism, and they showed allegiance to the local French authorities who guaranteed their rights and safety.

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Notes

1

2

3

4

5 6

7 8

9

10

11

12 13

For a study of nineteenth-century Beirut, see: Leila Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants in Nineteenth-Century Beirut (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1983). Carolyn Gates, The Historical Role of Political Economy in the Development of Modern Lebanon (Oxford: Centre for Lebanese Studies, 1989), 16; Elizabeth Picard, Lebanon, A Shattered Country (New York, London: Holmes and Meier, 1996), 37–48. On the process of incorporation, see: Donald Quataert, “The Age of Reforms, 1812–1914,” in An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, 1300–1914, ed. Halil Inalcik and Donald Quataert (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 761–765; Reşat Kasaba, The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy (Albany: State University of New York, 1988), 18–23. Şevket Pamuk, The Ottoman Empire and European Capitalism, 1820–1913 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 10–12; Quataert, “Age of Reforms,” 770–775. On changes in transportation, see: Quataert, “Age of Reforms,” 798–823. Brian Hoyle, “Fields of Tension: Development Dynamics at the Port-City Interface,” Jewish Culture and History 4, no. 2 (2001): 13. Quataert, “Age of Reforms,” 824–834. A Mixed Tribunal of Commerce had already been founded in Alexandria in 1826. See: Michael Reimer, Colonial Bridgehead: Government and Society in Alexandria, 1807–1882 (Oxford: Westview Press, 1997), 80–81. Quataert, “Age of Reforms,” 837–841; Charles Issawi, “The Transformation of the Economic Position of the Millets in the Nineteenth-Century,” in Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a Plural Society, Vol. 1, ed. Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis (New York, London: Holmes and Meier Publishers, Inc.), 261–285. Çağlar Keyder, Y. Eyüp Özveren, and Donald Quataert, “Port Cities in the Ottoman Empire, Some Theoretical and Historical Perspectives,” Review, Fernand Braudel Center for the Study of Economies, Historical Systems, and Civilizations 16, no. 4 (1993): 520. Keyder, Özveren, and Quataert, “Port-Cities in the Ottoman Empire, Some Theoretical and Historical Perspectives,” 530. Quataert, “Age of Reforms,” 831. Michael J. Reimer, “Ottoman-Arab Seaports in the Nineteenth Century: Social Change in Alexandria, Beirut, and Tunis,” in Cities in the World System, Reşat Kasaba (New York, Westport, London: Greenwood Press, 1991), 137; Charles Issawi, The Economic History of the Middle East 1800–1914 (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1966), 414.

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14 15

16

17

18

19

20

21 22 23

24 25 26

27

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Reimer, “Ottoman-Arab Seaports,” 137. Daniel Goffman, “Izmir: From Village to Colonial Port City,” in The Ottoman City between East and West, ed. Edhem Eldem et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 130. R. C. Taylor, “Migration and Motivation: A Study of Determinants and Types,” in Migration, ed. J. A. Jackson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), 99; Zeev Ben-Sira, Immigration, Stress, and Readjustment (Westport: Praeger Publishers, 1997), 8–9. Yomtov Semach, A travers les communautés Israélites d'Orient: Visite des écoles de l'Alliance Israelite (Paris: Alliance Israelite Universelle, 1931), 90–91. On the role of improved sanitation in the growth of Beirut, see: Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants, 33–34. According to Narcisse Leven, many Syrian Jews migrated to Beirut for consular protection. See: Narcisse Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire : l’Alliance Israélite Universelle, vol. 2 (Paris: F. Alcan, 1911), 202. Robert Ilbert, “A Certain Sense of Citizenship,” in Alexandria 1860–1960: The Brief Life of a Cosmopolitan Community, ed. Robert Ilbert and Ilios Yannakakis (Alexandria: Harpocrates Publishing, 1997), 26. Robert Tignor, “The Economic Activities of Foreigners in Egypt, 1920–1950: From Millet to Haute Bourgeosie,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 22, no. 3 (1980): 421. Çağlar, Özveren, and Quataert, “Port-Cities in the Ottoman Empire,” 538. Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants, 44–45. Ulrich Beck, The Cosmopolitan Vision (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2006), 3. On cosmopolitanism as a social phenomenon, see also: Ibid., “The Cosmopolitan Society and Its Enemies,” Theory, Culture, and Society 19, no. 1 (2002): 17–44; C. Calhoun, Cosmopolitanism and Belonging (London and New York: Routledge, 2006); Steven Vertovec and Robin Cohen, Conceiving Cosmopolitanism: Theory, Context, Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Gerard Delanty, “The Cosmopolitan Imagination: Critical Cosmopolitanism and Social Theory,” British Journal of Sociology 57, no. 1 (2006): 25–47. Alain Silvera, “The Jews of Egypt,” Middle Eastern Studies 35, no. 2 (1999): 175. Ilbert, “Sense of Citizenship,” 25. Henk Driessen, “Mediterranean Port Cities: Cosmopolitanism Reconsidered,” History and Anthropology 16, no. 1 (2005): 138. On the role of languages, French in particular, as mode of communication in nineteenth-century Izmir, see: Marie-Carmen Smyrnelis, “Coexistence et Langues de Contact À Smyrne Au XIX Siècle,” Arabica 54, no. 4 (2007): 568–585. On confessionalism in Lebanon, see: Kais Firro, Inventing Lebanon: Nationalism and the State under the Mandate (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 2003), 42–67; Elizabeth Picard, Lebanon: A Shattered Country (New York, London: Holmes and Meier, 1996), 49–61; Meir Zamir, Lebanon's Quest: The Road to Statehood 1926–1939 (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 1997), 31, 39, 245; Ussama Makdisi, The Culture of

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29

30

31

32

33

34 35

36 37 38 39 40

41

42 43

44 45

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Sectarianism: Community, History, and Violence in Nineteenth-Century Ottoman Lebanon (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 2000), 166– 174. Avigdor Levy, “Introduction,” in The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Avigdor Levy (Princeton: The Darwin Press, 1994), 14–19; Yaron Ben-Naeh, Jews in the Realm of the Sultans (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Magness Press, 2006), 77–88. Quataert, “Age of Reforms,” 838. On foreign protection among the Jews of Egypt, see: Landau, Jews in Nineteenth-Century Egypt, 26–29. Jacob Landau, Ha-Yehudim be-Mitsrayyim ba-Meah ha-Tsha-Esre (The Jews in Nineteenth-Century Egypt) (The Ben-Zvi Institute: Jerusalem, 1967), 28. Gudrun Krämer, The Jews in Modern Egypt 1914–1952 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1989), 34–35. See, for example: Jacqueline Kahanoff, Mi-Mizrah Shemesh (From the East the sun) (Tel Aviv: Yariv, 1978), 17. See, for example: Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 444. On the millet system, see: Avigdor Levy, “Introduction,” in The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Avigdor Levy (Princeton: The Darwin Press, 1994), 42–44. Joseph Hacker challenged the widely accepted notion regarding judicial autonomy in the Ottoman Empire. See: Joseph Hacker, “Jewish Autonomy in the Ottoman Empire: Its Scope and Limits. Jewish Courts from the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Centuries,” in Levy, ed., Jews of the Ottoman Empire, 153–202. Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 430. Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 430. Reimer, Colonial Bridgehead, 80. Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants, 123–124. A covered strong stone building in the center of a bazaar, where imports such as precious textiles, jewelry, and arms were stored and sold. Y. Eyüp Özveren, “Beirut,” Review 16, no. 4 (1993): 469; Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants, 106–107. In its early phase of growth, Izmir experienced similar development. Daniel Goffman notes: “Early growth lacked the direction of a strong centralized regime, and the city must have sprawled haphazardly and eclectically.” Daniel Goffman, “Izmir: From Village to Colonial Port City,” in The Ottoman City between East and West: Aleppo, Izmir, and Istanbul, ed. Edhem Eldem et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 104. Reimer, Colonial Bridgehead, 84. Jacob M. Landau, “Changing Patterns of Community Structures, with Special Reference to Ottoman Egypt,” in Jews, Turks, Ottomans: A Shared History, Fifteenth through the Twentieth Century, ed. Avigdor Levy (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2002), 82–83. Ilbert, “Sense of Citizenship,” 25. Ilbert, “Sense of Citizenship,” 26.

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48 49

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59 60 61 62 63 64 65

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Rahel Maccabi, Mitsrayyim Sheli (My Egypt) (Tel Aviv: Sifriyyat Po‛alim, 1968), 49. Marie-Carmen Smyrnelis makes a similar assertion regarding Izmir. See: Marie-Carmen Smyrnelis, “Coexistence et Langues de Contact À Smyrne au XIX Siècle,” Arabica 54, no. 4 (2007): 573. Maccabi, My Egypt, 80, 93–95; André Aciman, Out of Egypt: A Memoir (London: Harvill, 1997), 110. A study on the role of women in the formation of a Levantine, inter-ethnic culture might be rewarding. Al-‛Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 107, 14 October 1923, 3. Established in Paris in 1860, the Alliance Israélite Universelle was a French-Jewish organization founded for the purposes of fighting for Jews’ rights and modernizing the ‘backward’ Jewish societies in the Mediterranean basin. To that end, the organization opened and operated modern secular schools in numerous Jewish communities from Morocco in the west to Iran in the east. Chapters Three and Four expound on the interaction between the Alliance school and Beirut’s Jewish community. The data is taken from a university publication entitled: ““L’U”, Nouvelles de l’Universite Saint Joseph.” The publication lists students by religious affiliation and does not indicate place of origin. According to Rahel Yana’it Ben-Tsvi, local Jews studied at Saint Joseph University, while foreign (i.e., Palestinian or Ashkenazi) Jews studied at the American University of Beirut. Rahel Yana’it Ben-Tsvi, Be-Shlihut le-Levanon ve le-Suryya (Tel Aviv: Milo, 1979), 14. I would like to thank Rev. John Donohue from the Jesuit Archive (Beirut) for providing me with statistical data on student enrollment for 1935–1936. Henri Nahum, Juifs de Smyrne, XIX – XX siècle (Paris: Aubier, 1997), 115. Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 15. Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 443. Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants, 106. Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 416. Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 444. Barnai, “The Jews in the Ottoman Empire,” 214. The figures presented here are estimations by European travelers. Gerber and Barnai state that even if not accurate, they are still useful as they indicate demographic tendencies. See: Haim Gerber and Ya‛acov Barnai, Yehudei Izmir ba-Me’ah ha-Tsha-Esre (The Jews in Izmir in the nineteenth century) (Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalayim, 1984), 1–4. Barnai, “The Jews in the Ottoman Empire,” 199–200. Jewish Chronicle, 3 January 1913, 14–15. Bulletin semestriel de l’Alliance Israélite Universelle, 1873, semester 2, 141–147. Reimer, Colonial Bridgehead, 9. Ilbert, “Sense of Citizenship,” 22. Ilbert, “Sense of Citizenship,” 23. Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 10.

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

66

67 68

69

70

71

72

73 74

75 76 77

78 79

80

81

82 83

67

Jacques Hassoun, “The Jews, A Community of Contrasts,” in Alexandria 1860– 1960: The Brief Life of a Cosmopolitan Community, ed. Robert Ilbert and Ilios Yannakakis (Alexandria: Harpocrates Publishing, 1997), 39. Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 55–57. Haim Cohen, The Jews of the Middle East 1860–1972 (New York, Toronto: John Wiley and Sons, 1973), 87–88. On Uziel and Mosseri, see Chapter Two, footnote 3. On the involvement and impact of the Zionist Commission on the Jewish community of Damascus, see at length: Yaron Harel, “’Qidma Gedola’: Va’ad ha-Tzirim ve-Qehilat Dameseq” (‘Great Progress’: The Zionist Commission and Damascus community), Pe‛amim 67 (1996): 57–95. Jewish Communities in Damascus, Beirut, and Sidon. Visit of chief rabbi B. Uziel and Jack Mosseri, 13 February 1919, CZA, L4/415. Hamenorah, Organe Periodique des Béné Bérith du District d’Orient No. 11, December 1927, 446. Salomon Stambouli, “The Economic Activity of Egyptian Jews, 1798–1918,” in Toldot Yehudei Mitsrayyim ba-Tequfah ha-Osmanit (1517-1914) (The Jews in Ottoman Egypt (1517–1914), ed. Jacob Landau (Jerusalem: Misvag Yerushalaim, 1988), 117. Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 39–43, 78–80. On the economic activities of Jewish families, see: Maurice Mizrahi, “The Role of Jews in Economic Development,” in The Jews of Egypt: A Mediterranean Society in Modern Times, ed. Shimon Shamir (Boulder: Westview Press, 1987), 85–93; Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 76–80; Stambouli, “Economic Activity,” 121–125. Tignor, “Economic Activities,” 343–347. Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 43–44. For a detailed list of Jewish names in various institutions, see: Hassoun, “Community of Contrasts,” 46–47. Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants, 88. Ezra Zilkha and Ken Emerson, From Baghdad to Boardrooms: My Family’s Odyssey (New York: E.K. Zilkha, 1999), 15. ‘Abd al-Basit Al-Unsi, Dalil Bayrut (Bayrut: Matba‛at Jaridat al-Iqbal, 1909), 125– 126. This directory lists names of merchants, professionals, and service providers by their profession or by the traded commodity, not by religious affiliation. Yet, I could easily recognize Jewish names. Many names appeared in other sources (e.g., the communal account book), and therefore, they could be cross-checked. Elias and George Gédéon, Al-Dalil al-Lubnani al-Surri, 1928–1929 (Bayrut: Matba‛at Gédéon, 1928). Al-Unsi, Dalil Bayrut, 126–139. Report by Hans Kohn, Hans Kohn Collection, AR259, Leo Baeck Institute. Hans Kohn (1891–1971) was a publisher and a Zionist activist. From 1925 to 1929, he worked for Keren ha-Yesod.

68

84 85 86

87 88

89

90

91

92

93

94

95

96 97

98

The Jews of Beirut

Ben Tsvi, Be-Shlihut, 14. Email of Elie Levy to the author, 24 August 2008. See, for instance: David de Sola Pool to Beirut Jewish Community Council, 29 September 1920, L3/191, CZA. Report by Hans Kohn, Hans Kohn Collection, AR259, Leo Baeck Institute. In order to construct and complete the Magen-Abraham synagogue and the Selim Tarrab School, the community applied for outside aid. Chapter Five discusses these issues at length. The Ottomans faced rebellions in the Balkans, Anatolia, Serbia, and Greece. They conducted wars against Russia (1806–1812, 1828–1829), Iran (1820–1828), and Egypt (1831–1833, 1838–1839). P. Beaton, trans. The Jews in the East, Vol. 1 (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1975), 99. On the rise of Izmir, see: Daniel Goffman, Izmir and the Levantine World, 1550– 1650 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1990). Reşat Kasaba, “Izmir,” Review, Fernand Braudel Center for the Study of Economies, Historical Systems, and Civilizations 16, no. 4 (1993): 398. Compare: Barnai, “Jews in the Ottoman Empire,” 199. In Istanbul, too, Armenian bankers rose at the expense of Jewish bankers, see: Roderic Davison, “The Millets as Agents of Change in the Nineteenth-Century Ottoman Empire,” in Braude and Lewis, eds., Christians and Jews, 325. See at length: Avner Levi, “Changes in the Leadership,” 245–254; Nechama Grunhaus, “Nohal Ma‛asi u-Basis Hilkhati le-G’viyat Mas ha-Q’niyyah beQehilat Izmir” (The procedure and the Halakhic basis for the purchase tax in the community of Izmir), Pe‛amim 116 (2008): 105–110. On the taxation system in Izmir, see at length: Nechama Grunhaus, Ha-Missui baQehilah ha-Yehudit be-Izmir ba-Me’ot ha-Shva Esre ve ha-Shmone Esre Al Pi ‘Sefer Avodat Masa’ le-Rabbi Yehoshua Avraham Yehuda (The taxation of Izmir’s Jewish community in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries) (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1997). The several fires in Izmir in the nineteenth century greatly affected the old structure of kehalim as individuals moved and changed their synagogue affiliations. Barnai, “Jewish Community,” 73–74. Ya‛acov Barnai, “The Development of Community Organizational Structures: The Case of Izmir,” in Jews, Turks, Ottomans: A Shared History, Fifteenth through the Twentieth Century, ed. Avigdor Levy (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2002), 48–49. Barnai, “Development of Community,” 49. Jacob Barnai and Haim Gerber, The Jews in Izmir in the Nineteenth Century (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalaim, 1984), 11.

Jewish Communities in Levantine Port Cities

99

100

101 102 103 104 105

106 107

108 109

110

111 112

113 114

115

69

Adolphe Crémieux (1796–1880) was a French-Jewish lawyer and statesman. For many years he served as vice president of the Central Consistory of French Jews and was one of the Alliance Israélite Universelle’s founders and its president. On the Crémieux Schools, see: Jacob Landau, Middle Eastern Themes: Papers in History and Politics (London: Cass, 1973), 157–172. Jacob Landau, “Changing Patterns,” 81. Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 85. In 1904, the Ashkenazim constituted less than 10 percent of the community. Chapter Two discusses community organization at length. Barnai, “Reshit ha-Qehilah ha-Yehudit be-Izmir ba-Tequfah ha-Osmanit” (The origins of the Jewish community in Izmir in the Ottoman period), Pe‛amim 12 (1982): 47–58. Barnai, “Development of Community,” 39–40. Reşat Kasaba, The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy (New York: State University of New York Press, 1988), 35. Reimer, Colonial Bridgehead, 189. The attempts of European Jews to reform and emancipate Ottoman Jews stemmed from the gradual and uneven progress of the emancipation. Not without paternalism, the emancipated European Jews wanted to assist their unemancipated brethren in the East. The opening of the tanzimat period in 1839, followed by the Damascus Affair a year later, signaled the beginning of this reformist trend, which culminated twenty years later with the foundation of the Alliance Israélite Universelle. See: Aron Rodrigue, Education, Society, and History, “Alliance Israélite Universelle” and Mediterranean Jewry 1860–1929 (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1991), 13–32. Ben Tsion Taragan was a public figure and a journalist who moved from Jerusalem to Alexandria and lived there for forty years. His book on the Jewish community of Alexandria is in fact a collection of his articles, many of which were published in the newspapers of the period. Taragan, le-Qorot ha-Qehilah, 48. Krämer indicated that in the first half of the nineteenth century, only a few Jewish families, notably the Tilche, Aghion, and Ada, who were engaged with the European trade, prospered. See: Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 37. Taragan, le-Qorot ha-Qehilah, 49. For their names and dates of foundation, see: Taragan, le-Qorot ha-Qehilah, 140– 150. Krämer, Jews in Modern Egypt, 75.

CHAPTER TWO

The Rise of Beirut’s Jewish Community In 1879, Sydney Montagu Samuel, a Jewish British author and communal worker, journeyed to the Levant to explore the moral and physical condition of the Jews. He recounted the results of this voyage in his book, Jewish Life in the East.1 Samuel’s account of the Jews of Beirut begins with his impressions of the journey from Jaffa to Beirut and his arrival in the city. Next, he mentions in passing the existence of a synagogue and comments that many Beiruti Jews are well-to-do and the rich have synagogues in their houses. He then introduces the focal point of his account: “Of educational or other institutions, for the general poor, there are none, but the well-directed efforts in the cause of education of Mr. Zaki Cohen deserve more than a passing notice.”2 Indeed, the rest of Samuel’s account, some two pages, describes Cohen’s boarding school—Tiferet Israel (The Glory of Israel). Forty years later, in February 1919, two Jewish emissaries made a similar trip from Palestine to Beirut. Like Sydney Montagu Samuel, they also came to learn about the condition of the local Jews. Unlike the private journey of Samuel, the Zionist Committee in Palestine sent the two men, Ben-Tsion Uziel and Jack Mosseri,3 on this trip. Uziel and Mosseri’s account is slightly longer than that of Samuel, but its content is markedly different. It begins with an itinerary of their visit: In the afternoon we had a long meeting with Mr. Dana, President, and Mr. Farhi, Vice-President of the community. We also paid a visit to the Chief

72

The Jews of Beirut Rabbi. A meeting with the council of the community took place on the following day and arrangements were made for us to visit on Saturday evening the Hatehiyah Club for Hebrew classes and on Sunday the Alliance Israélite Universelle Schools, the B’nai B’rith4 lodge and the young men’s club called Hatikva.5

Of significance, the opening of their account, as the rest follows, details a broad array of community institutions. In fact, these two accounts encapsulate the subject of this study—the formation and shaping of a Levantine Jewish community in Beirut in the late Ottoman and French mandatory periods. Samuel did not randomly focus on Tiferet Israel. In the last quarter of the nineteenth century, this school constituted probably the most dynamic and well-known Jewish institution in Beirut. Like various other schools in the city, Tiferet Israel not only reflected the general educational and intellectual renaissance in Beirut in the second half of the nineteenth century, but also the belief in the powers of education and knowledge acquisition characteristic of the city’s intellectual milieu in the post-1860 period.6 Furthermore, Tiferet Israel was not the only school educating Jewish children at that time. The Church of Scotland Mission school (founded in the 1850s) and the Alliance school (founded in the 1880s) also offered modern education to Jewish students. This reflects the field of education’s place as a highly contested area of activity among both the city’s Jewish population and general population. In addition to the flowering of educational institutions in late Ottoman Beirut, Tiferet Israel illustrates the unorganized and fluid social conditions characteristic of the Jewish community in its early phase of development. First, the school demonstrates the centrality of private— rather than public—initiative. Its founder alone determined the character of the school and its curriculum, and alone took responsibility for its ongoing funding. Second, in addition to educating the sons of local well-to-do families, the school admitted children of many prosperous families from the entire Mediterranean region and even Europe. This suggests that the founder held a primary objective of a universal nature—spreading reform-inspired Jewish education—as opposed to promoting any local-community agenda. After more than

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73

two decades of activity, conditions forced the founder to close the institution as he could not meet his financial obligations. Of significance, the case of Tiferet Israel demonstrates the interrelationship between community organizations and philanthropic practices. In this loose, unorganized early phase in the community’s development, Zaki Cohen did not manage to garner the material support of the local Jews for the school and, thus, had to close it. In contrast, once the community became institutionalized, it worked systematically to secure the ongoing funding for the Talmud-Torah school by way of voluntary donations. While Samuel’s account highlights only one institution, the account of Uziel and Mosseri exhibits a broad spectrum of community institutions: a community council, the B’nai B’rith lodge, schools, synagogues, welfare services, and youth societies. Their account not only reveals a wide array of institutions, but also proves indicative of a distinct phase in the formation of the community—the official organization of the Jewish population and its transformation from a loose, unorganized community to a cohesive one. Within a short period of some six years (1908–1914), the community created a general assembly with an elected twelve-member council, adopted communal statutes, appointed a chief rabbi, devised a taxation system, and organized the local schools as well as welfare services. The complex process of organization involved diverse political, social, and ideological forces. The political uncertainty following the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire increased the community’s dependence on outside Jewish organizations. In fact, the report of Uziel and Mosseri embodies the tightening ties between the community and Zionist agencies in Palestine. Furthermore, during and after the First World War, B’nai B’rith and the Joint Distribution Committee, two Jewish Americanbased organizations, also increased involvement in community affairs. After 1920, the French authorities in Lebanon served as another force that influenced the organization of the Jewish community. For instance, they subjected the smaller communities in Sidon and Tripoli to the Beirut Jewish council and allocated funds to various community needs. Suspicious of any ‘Anglo-Saxon’ influence in the Levant, they

74

The Jews of Beirut

tended to extend patronage to the Alliance school at the expense of the Zionist-leaning Talmud-Torah school. Most significant, they allowed a great measure of autonomy—albeit under their watchful eye. Samuel and Uziel and Mosseri all came to Beirut to gather information on the local Jewish community; their accounts, however, portray two fundamentally different communities. The centrality of Tiferet Israel in Samuel’s account stands in stark contrast to the multiple and diverse institutions enumerated in Uziel and Mosseri’s account—showing a remarkable development of the Jewish community between 1879 and 1919.

The Late Ottoman Period The Jewish community in Beirut evolved in three distinct phases. Specific developments characterized each phase, setting it apart from the other phases. The first phase (the second half of the nineteenth century until 1908) witnessed significant Jewish population growth in Beirut resulting from both external and internal migration. The second phase (1908–1920) witnessed the official reorganization of the Jewish community. During that period, the community formed a local leadership structure, appointed a chief rabbi, drafted community statutes, and appointed committees to administer such basic community matters as taxes, elections, welfare, and education. In the third phase (1920–1943), the community fell under new rulers. The Lebanese government, overseen by the French High Commission, replaced the former Ottoman rulers. As French authorities adapted themselves to local political traditions, they recognized and institutionalized the existing political system of confessionalism.7 Thus, the Jewish community became one of sixteen religious communities recognized by the French.

Demographic Changes Until the nineteenth century, Jews lived in several towns in the region known today as Lebanon. Some Jews lived in the coastal cities of Sidon, Beirut, and Tripoli, while others lived in the more rural towns or

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75

villages on Mount Lebanon, including Dayr al-Qamar, Hasbaya, and Bhamdoun.8 The revitalization of Beirut during the nineteenth century changed the demographic structure of Jewish life in the region dramatically. First, some of the old Jewish communities ceased to exist; therefore, the number of Jewish communities shrank. Second, as a result of migration, Beirut replaced Sidon as the major center of Jewish life in Lebanon. During this time, the loosely organized Jewish population in Beirut became exposed to the social and cultural diversity typical of the Levantine port city. The Jewish migration from Damascus and Aleppo to Beirut comprises an essential phase in the development of a Jewish community in Beirut because it provided capable and socially involved people for the community to-be. This immigration began in the mid-nineteenth century and continued until after the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948. Not a continuous or linear movement, it occurred in ‘waves’ affected by regional conditions. For centuries, Damascus and Aleppo served as commercial centers; their economic importance came from their geographic positions—located at the crossroads of three continents: Europe, Africa, and Asia. Damascus and Aleppo grew on the main caravan trade routes that connected Europe and the Mediterranean basin with India and China. In fact, the two cities became the most important trade centers in Syria in the nineteenth century.9 Many considered Aleppo as the more economically important city because it served as a way station on the Europe-Indo-China trade route. The caravans that traveled on those trade routes often stretched to more than two thousand camels.10 Damascene merchants equipped caravans traveling to Mecca with supplies for two to three months. For a long period, Jewish merchants made important economic contributions to this trade and grew wealthy doing so. A traveler reported, in the early 1840s, that the Jewish merchants of Damascus were the wealthiest class among the merchants of the city.11 A few years later, the wealth of the Jewish merchants of Aleppo impressed a British traveler in 1850.12 According to Noureddine Bouchair, the wealth of the Jewish merchants connected to both their privileged po-

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The Jews of Beirut

sition relative to the European states and their ability to utilize their social and economic ties with European representatives in Syria. Bouchair identified three elements common to Jewish and Christian merchants in Syria. First, they were more involved in financial transactions; second, while Muslims dominated Damascus’s economy, Christian and Jewish merchants dominated Aleppo’s; 13 and, third, a greater number of Jewish and Christian merchants served as representatives of European commercial houses. 14 Until the 1860s, the economic position of Syrian Jews remained stable, but it soon began to decline. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 dealt a major blow to Syrian overland trade. As a result, Damascus and Aleppo lost their advantage as commercial centers. The caravans and commodities that frequented these cities had found an easier and faster route between East and West. In addition to the direct economic damage to commerce in those cities, wealthy Jewish and Christian merchants suffered violent outbreaks at the hands of Muslims, who viewed these two communities as the main profiteers from the new trade routes. 15 The entrance and competition of the European market severely curtailed the growth of the Syrian merchant class, in which the Jewish merchants played a prominent role.16 Improved transportation between Beirut and Damascus eased the flow of commodities, to the detriment of local markets. The number of Jews who could service the European merchant houses relative to the size of the merchant class appears rather limited. Indeed, Syria’s midcentury economic decline drove Jews to look for more promising commercial opportunities, many of which they found in Beirut.17 Furthermore, the Ottoman Empire’s bankruptcy in 1875 dealt yet another blow to the economic position of Syria’s wealthy class.18 The Jews who had invested their capital with the Ottoman government found themselves suddenly impoverished. 19 Under such circumstances, the geographic proximity of Beirut and the economic opportunities it offered made the city a convenient and attractive immigration destination.

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Yet another factor, the desire to escape conscription to the Ottoman army ‘pushed’ a number of Jews to emigrate from Syria to Beirut. After the Young Turk Revolution (1908), the Ottoman State decided to enlarge and strengthen its army and so declared it needed all Ottoman subjects to serve in the military. Thus, it abolished the traditional fee Jews could pay in lieu of military service (badl askeri), and required Jews to serve in the Ottoman army.20 As a result, some Jews moved to Beirut, where they hoped to escape conscription.21 In short, economic decline coupled with political developments in the Syrian interior drove many Jews to migrate to Beirut. The statistical data on the Jewish population of Beirut best reflects the role of immigration in the growth of the city’s Jewish population. Table 6: Beirut’s Jewish population Year

Number of Jews

Source

1821

100

Schulze, Travels, 106.

1835–40

200

Atiyeh, Schools of Beirut, 139.

1847

200

Wilson, Lands of the Bible, 207.

1856

500

Frankl, Nach Jerusalem, 222.

1860–61

1,100

Fawaz, Urbanization, 107.

1889

1,500

Fawaz, Urbanization, 108.

1895

2,500

Cuinet, Syrie, Liban, 53.

1904

3,000

Bulletin de l'Alliance

1908

2,784

Fawaz, Urbanization, 108.

1912

3,500

Baedeker, Palestine and Syria, 282. Continued on next page

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The Jews of Beirut Table 6 (Continued)

1913

5,000

Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire, 207.

1918

3,150

Ha-’Olam, 23 January 1920.

1927

4,500

Ha-Arets, 8 October 1927.

1932

3,060

1932 Census

1944

5,022

Hourani, Minorities, 63.

1944

5,500

CZA KKL5/13151

1947

5,288

Hourani, Syria and Lebanon, 121.

1956

5,382

An-Nahar, 26 April 1956.

Until the 1840s, the Jewish population of Beirut was sparse, consisting of the old Jewish nucleus in the city. Between the years 1847 and 1856, the Jewish population increased by 150 percent. After the massacre of 1860, the Jews of Dayr al-Qamar migrated to Saida and Beirut, but the precise number of migrants remains unclear.22 Population growth continued throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, and by 1895, about 2,500 Jews lived in the city. In 1904, the Alliance bulletin set the Jewish population at 3,000, but four years later the figure was lower (2,784). The estimate of 5,000 Jews in 1913 seems exaggerated (it is unclear how Leven arrived at this figure), as a year earlier Baedeker estimated 3,500 Jews, and scholars consider his figures reliable. The rate of mortality was relatively high during the years of the the First World War, due to famines and epidemics, so the population fell by the end of World War I. After the war, the Jewish population continued to grow, and, by the end of the mandatory period, 5,022 Jews lived in Beirut. As the fluctuations illustrated by the table indicate, the emigration of Jews to Beirut cannot be characterized by even or steady growth—

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instead, it occurred in ‘waves.’ The Jews of Mount Lebanon were probably the first to join the existing Jewish nucleus in Beirut. A second wave came from Damascus during its economic decline, and a later wave came from Aleppo in the twentieth century. Ferdinand ‛Anzarut, a native of Aleppo who grew up in Beirut, remembered: After the end of the war, 1918—when I was 8 years old, my father decided to “change the scene”! to try for better luck, by going to “Amerika.” On our way we visited Beirut, and wound up living there . . . Later, around 1945– 1946 and still later when anti-Zionist and Arab nationalism made life very uneasy in Aleppo, “most of them,” [?] the Aleppo Jews, migrated to Beirut, and some to Israel and Europe. Large numbers came to Beirut. 23

The first Jews to emigrate, either from Damascus or Aleppo, appear to have been merchants and businessmen who recognized the economic potential of Beirut. The reason for this uneven immigration from Damascus and Aleppo stemmed from the occupational differences of the Jews in these cities. In the late nineteenth century, 16 percent of the Jewish population in Damascus was engaged in commerce, compared with 55 percent in Aleppo.24 Furthermore, in Damascus, the Jewish economic elite invested money in shares of the Ottoman government. The bankruptcy of the Ottoman government meant an economic disaster for that wealthy class, which, in turn, encouraged them to look for new economic ventures. In Aleppo, however, well-off Jews did not invest with the Ottoman government, but rather in commerce. Thus, the Ottoman bankruptcy did not bring economic crisis to the Jewish community of Aleppo. Jews migrated to Beirut not only from Syria, but also from within Lebanon. According to the data provided by Vital Cuinet, apart from Beirut, Jews settled in two towns: 600 Jews lived in Sidon, and 1,102 Jews lived in the sanjak of Tripoli (in the towns of Tripoli, Safita, ‘Akr, and Husn al-‘Akrad).25 Therefore, about 1,700 Jews lived in Lebanon outside of Beirut at the end of the nineteenth century. We do not know how many of them eventually immigrated to Beirut, even if we do know that Beirut was the only destination within Lebanon. It is

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The Jews of Beirut

possible that some of these Jews emigrated to Palestine and elsewhere.

Social Conditions Until the mid-nineteenth century, the Jewish presence in Beirut was fairly small. A report from 1821 stated that there were one hundred Jews in the city. Three years later, sources describe fifteen Jewish households (Batei Av), since the Jews lived in a restricted area in a number of houses around their synagogue. The Jews spoke Arabic and worked in trade and banking.26 The 1840s witnessed a change in the size of the Jewish population. It is possible that due to blood libels, first in Damascus (1840) and later in Dayr al-Qamar (1847),27 Jews feared for their safety. However, no evidence has been found regarding Jewish immigration from Dayr al-Qamar to Beirut as a result of the blood libel of 1847. That year, the traveler John Wilson reported on the Jews of Beirut: They have here . . . a quarter of their own, in which they have one synagogue, in which we found both Sephardim and Ashkenazim worshipping together. The great majority of the Jews of the place consist of the former class. The Jewish population of Beirut amounts to about forty families, with perhaps 200 souls. Most of them are shopkeepers and pedlars; but several of them have considerable substance . . . Many Jews land at the place on their way to the holy cities.28

It is probable that the growing number of Jewish families needed a school, but we cannot tell whether the school was privately or publicly funded. Of note, the exposure of local Jews to European Jews who passed through Beirut had already begun by midcentury. The Jewish population continued to grow in the second half of the nineteenth century. In 1856, according to the traveler August Frankl, five hundred Jews lived in the city.29 Jewish occupations diversified and included workers and a few artisans. Descriptions appear of functionaries in the community: Rabbi, shohet, a teacher in a Talmud-Torah, and ‘President of the community.’ Indeed, the president of the community’s wealthy, spacious, and furnished home on the coast impressed

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traveler Frankl. The women, served by young maids, wore silk turbans decorated with diamonds and pearls. According to Frankl, such homes were no longer rare by this time, unlike during the first half of the century. Regarding the social composition of the Jews, Frankl’s account depicts a different picture than that of Wilson. According to Frankl, all the Jews were of Syrian origin; the community had no Ashkenazi Jews, and only two were Sephardic. On the other hand, he claimed that, of the eighty Jewish families in the city, ten knew Italian, none knew French, and all spoke Arabic and Hebrew. 30 Two key factors affecting the social conditions of the Jews were the nature of the Jewish immigration to Beirut and the city’s character. The diversification of Jewish society accompanied continuous immigration. Jews immigrated to Beirut from Damascus, Aleppo, Izmir, Baghdad, Kurdistan, Istanbul, Russia, and Mount Lebanon. 31 The Jews brought their local customs and traditions, many of which did not easily blend with those of other Jews. The lack of an organized community forced Jews to care for themselves, seek their own livelihoods, and manage their own welfare. The open and tolerant atmosphere of the city, along with its economic opportunities, weakened religious feelings and Jewish solidarity.32 The words of Yomtov Semach, who served as the Alliance school director from 1905 to 1910, reflect this situation: “The three groups: Arab Jews, Sephardic Jews, and Russian Jews did not blend at all; no spirit of solidarity, no desire for unity; each live for themselves, within their family and business.” 33 Narcisse Leven also described the level of Jewish solidarity among the Jews of Beirut: Was the community going to move forward? Was it seeking to assimilate these new members who came from all over the world, to form a consistent core out of spread elements? Unfortunately it didn't happen. Although the number of Jews increases, they remain strangers to each other; everyone lives on his own, for their family, for their business, without worrying for the public interest, and completely ignoring the solidarity that should unite them to their brothers. Today the community is still divided, no parties, no struggles, a total indifference, no communal work, not even a public temple: the faithful worship inside private temples.34

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We should not forget that both Leven and Semach viewed the Jewish society through the prism of the Alliance ideology according to which it was the duty of European Jews to emancipate and modernize the ‘backward’ Jewish society in the Middle East and North Africa. Therefore, a dark account of the Jewish community would both provide the raison d'etre for the activity of the Alliance and magnify its accomplishments. However, unintentionally, both accounts attest to the heterogeneous nature of the Jewish society during that period. The sectarian structure (sin. eda, pl. edot) manifested itself in the desire to preserve authentic elements, mainly in the religious domain. The synagogue had not only a religious function, but also a social one, particularly in a Jewish community with such a diverse social structure as Beirut. Therefore, one can locate several private Torahstudying and prayer-houses (‘midrashim’) based on each house’s members’ place of origin. The case of the Diarné, the Jews originated from Dayr al-Qamar who fled to Beirut after the civil war of 1860, exemplifies the desire of a particular group to preserve its traditions and heritage in Beirut. By 1880, the Diarné had their own house of prayer, Beit Midrash Hayyat, founded by the Hayyat brothers who had fled Dayr al-Qamar.35 Aaron Set’hon described their self-image: “These families feel . . . a special connection and relation, and recently they separated from their Beiruti coreligionists, and they rented a house to serve as a synagogue and they founded a society to support their Diarné brothers.”36 While the desire to preserve their identity and heritage motivated the Diarné to found their own Midrash, the circumstances under which the other midrashim were founded are not as clear. Moshe Yedid Halevi led one such midrash. It remains likely that Moshe Yedid was a descendant of Aron Yedid—the hakham mentioned by Frankl in 1856.37 If this is the case, this midrash may have served the local ‘authentic’ Beirut Jews. Another house of prayer was Beit Midrash Stambouli, led and financed by Raphael Levi Stambouli, but one cannot ascertain whether this midrash served Jews based on place of origin.38 The status of Beirut as an economic and educational center and a port city also attracted Ashkenazi Jews, and they also benefited from

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the opportunities the city offered. In 1880, according to El’azar Roqe’ah, forty Ashkenazi Jews lived in Beirut; all of whom owned inns, thereby exploiting the growing number of Jews passing through Beirut on their way to and from Palestine.39 Yet another Ashkenazi group came to Beirut not for profit, but for education. Mostly Russian and Palestinian Jews, they came to study at the Syrian Protestant College (today, The American University of Beirut). In 1908, sixty Jewish students studied at this institution.40 While a minority within the community, they had an impact on the community far greater than their numbers would indicate. In 1893, Ashkenazi Jews were called upon to take part in a meeting that declared ‘Mister Frank’ the ‘Head of the Jewish community’ in the city,41 and, in 1909, three Ashkenazi members were elected to the twelve-member community council.42 Furthermore, during the first decade of the twentieth century, Ashkenazi Jews, both Russians and Palestinians, actively and enthusiastically worked to disseminate the Hebrew language and to draw local Jews closer to Jewish national ideas. They organized plays, lectures, public singing, and parties on Jewish holidays—mostly performed in the Hebrew language. Local Jews often participated in such events in large numbers, testifying to the ability of these events to draw the attention and interest of the local Jews.43 Chapter Three sheds more light on the contribution of Ashkenazi Jews to the ideological milieu of the Jewish community in Beirut.

Education In the second half of the nineteenth century, Beirut became a center of many diverse educational institutions. Missionaries, local intellectuals, and reformers—as well as Ottoman officials—sought to promote their educational ideas and agendas. Jens Hanssen singled out the Zuqaq al-Blat quarter as Beirut’s cultural intellectual center—the quarter served as the home of numerous intellectuals, teachers, students, and reformers. Deeply moved by the violent events of 1860, Butrus al-Bustani founded his al-madrasa al-wataniyya (The National School) in this quarter in 1863. This boarding school stood for equality and opposed religious discrimination. The school also encouraged

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artistic expression and supported student theater. Hanssen pointed out that, even after its closure, Bustani’s school remained “the intellectual well for most cultural activities between the civil war of 1860 and the dissolution of the Ottoman empire in 1918.”44 In 1883, Ahmad ‘Abbas founded another private (boarding) high school (al-madrasa alsultaniyya) in this quarter,45 funded by local contributions from clergy, merchants, and other notables. In 1889, the school was incorporated into the Ottoman system of advanced secondary education. A few years later, in 1895, the Ottoman College (al-madrasa al-‘uthmaniyya) also opened in Zuqaq al-Blat. While most schools typically taught three languages (Turkish or Arabic, English, and French), they focused on ‘moral sciences’ and attempted to reconcile Islamic morality with modern sciences, to “infuse young minds with a sound judgment of public morality and state loyalty.”46 The Jews of Beirut enjoyed similar educational diversity. However, while Muslim intellectuals in Beirut negotiated their educational reforms vis-à-vis the Ottoman State, Jews did so mainly vis-à-vis Jewish and Christian European organizations rather than the Ottoman State. Since Muslim schools focused on Islamic morality, they did not appeal to Jews. Against this backdrop of educational awakening, Rabbi Itzhak Zaki Cohen, founded his own version of a modern school that combined Jewish religion and modern secular subjects. Beirut’s cultural intellectual milieu reverberated in Cohen’s school, both in its curriculum and in its extra-curricular activities. Cohen’s school, however, had to compete with the Scottish mission schools and with the Jewish (yet foreign) Alliance schools. All of these institutions played important roles in the education of Beirut’s Jews. Like numerous Jewish communities around the world, Beirut had a Talmud-Torah, an institution whose primary goal was to prepare Jewish children for synagogue service and instill religious values. According to Frankl’s account, the Talmud-Torah school in midcentury Beirut consisted of one small room inside the synagogue, and it had seventy students who were taught Hebrew by a salaried teacher. By the late 1860s, there were two grades of instruction. In addition, salaried teachers taught Hebrew in several hadarim.47 As soon as students

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learned enough to enable them to participate in the synagogue service, they moved to an advanced grade, where they learned to write Arabic and Hebrew in preparation for entering a career in business. The Church of Scotland Mission schools were the first to introduce modern European education to Beirut Jews. 48 Its two schools (a school for boys and a school for girls) started in 1866 and remained active until 1914. The primary objective of the Church of Scotland was “evangelism through education,” or simply put, exposing Jews to the New Testament.49 While the missionaries initially meant these schools to be purely Jewish schools, they soon admitted Christian and Muslim students to compensate for the low Jewish enrollment. Nonetheless, as the Jewish population in Beirut grew toward the end of the century, so too did the number of Jewish students in the mission schools. In 1896, for instance, the Scottish schools had 435 Jewish students enrolled. In general, more girls than boys attended these schools. Of significance, hundreds of Jewish students shared the same classes with Muslim and Christian students for half a century, a situation that prompted the director of the Scottish Mission to report in 1904: “These different elements exist side by side in the social and industrial life of the land, and the school is the only place in which they come together in harmony. Outside of it the relationship is that of suspicion, rivalry, and hatred.”50 The missionaries designed the curriculum in the Scottish schools to appeal to Jewish students. It offered Hebrew (taught by a local Jewish teacher), Bible instruction (both Old and New Testaments), Arabic, and arithmetic, while students in the upper grades also learned algebra, English, geography, history, and grammar.51 For the most part, Jewish students were exempt from fees even in times when the school collected such fees from non-Jewish students. Apart from its day schools, the Church of Scotland was also engaged in extra-curricular activities of a more social and humanitarian nature. It operated a night school for young adults that taught Hebrew, Arabic, and arithmetic; it provided a clinic; it made regular visits to the homes of Jewish students in order to foster friendship and trust; and it hosted a weekly Jewish women’s meeting built around

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such welfare-related activities as sewing clothes for poor Jewish children and visiting the sick and poor. The rabbis in the community opposed the mission schools, although the solid numbers of Jewish attendance testify that their opposition was mostly futile. Opposition became somewhat harsher from the early 1880s, when the Alliance consolidated the position of its schools in Beirut. Occasionally, the rabbis pronounced bans (sin. herem, pl. haramot) against parents who sent their children to the mission schools, but this extreme step did not prevent parents from sending their children to these schools either. Sometimes, however, such bans did cause some parents to send their children to the Alliance school. In sum, the mission schools made four important contributions to Beirut’s local Jewish society: 1. They introduced a modern European curriculum. 2. They introduced female education, hitherto unknown in the Jewish community. 3. They created a platform for welfare activities. 4. They introduced religiously mixed classes in which Jews, Christians, and Muslims shared the same classes. Unlike the Scottish mission schools, Tiferet Israel was a homegrown educational enterprise. In 1875, Rabbi Itzhak Zaki Cohen and Ezra Benvenisti52 founded a Jewish boarding school in Beirut. It was a local initiative influenced by and connected with local intellectualcultural ideologies. In its curricular and extra-curricular activity, the school—Tiferet Israel al-madrasa al-Isra’iliyya al-wataniyya (The Jewish National School)—stood out as an unusual institution in the Ottoman Jewish milieu. The language of instruction was Arabic rather than French or Hebrew. In addition to the common languages offered in other Jewish schools (Hebrew, Arabic, and French), Tiferet Israel also offered its advanced students Turkish, German, English, and Italian. The students learned to read and write Hebrew, and studied the Bible, the Talmud and its commentators, the Zohar, and Agadah. Apart from religious subjects, students learned the “foundations of the main sciences” but the sources never elaborate on this issue; most probably,

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these secular subjects included geography, history, and arithmetic. Students also attended public prayers three times a day. They boarded at the school for eleven months and then went home for a onemonth vacation. By around 1880, the school had fifteen teachers and ninety students.53 While the school offered languages and religious and secular subjects, its extra-curricular theatrical activities, in particular, drew the attention of the Beiruti cultural and intellectual elite. The school’s students performed plays written or translated by Cohen, his son Salim, and the schoolteachers—mainly Christians.54 The plays were performed in Hebrew, Arabic, French, and Turkish, usually after students took their year-end exams. Students did not only perform plays for school staff; poets, writers, intellectuals, Christian and Muslim notables, and Ottoman officials attended the plays performed in Tiferet Israel. In 1879, for example, the audience for a play performed by the school’s pupils55 included not only local Christian and Muslim notables, but also Midhat Pasha56—the Governor of Damascus’s Province—escorted by other Ottoman officials. Several months later, Midhat Pasha sent a letter to Jewish leaders in Europe expressing his amazement at the gap between the communities of Beirut and Damascus. He pointed out that, while the Beirut community was moving quickly toward modernization, the Damascus community was declining—lacking even an elementary school. 57 Not unique to Tiferet Israel, similar theatrical activity also took place in other local schools. A number of educators viewed drama as an effective tool for inculcating pupils with the correct moral values and instilling in them a sense of good and evil. Both Butrus al-Bustani (who founded al madrasa al-wataniyya in Beirut in 1863) and Muhammad ‘Abduh (who taught Islamic philosophy in Beirut's sultaniyya after he had been exiled from Egypt) stressed the importance of morality in their educational thinking.58 Against this background, one can understand the repeated references Zaki Cohen made to morality and civility. In the advertisement he sent to the Havatselet newspaper shortly after opening the school, Cohen proclaimed that, in addition to the languages required by the changing times, the school would

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offer the “necessary studies . . . on the paths of morality and civility (Ha-Limudim ha-Nehutsim be-Hashgaha Yeterah ‘al Darkei ha-Musar ve Derekh Erets).”59 Cohen’s founding of Tiferet Israel embodies responses to a variety of concerns. It represents a Jewish response to missionary activity (the Church of Scotland had opened its schools in the heart of the Jewish quarter). At the same time, the focus on languages indicates a response to the business-oriented mind-set of wealthy Jewish parents in the city, many of whom sent their children to Cohen’s school. The school also served as a response to the local Arab literary and theatrical awakening, as is evident from the school's regular engagement in drama and theater. The school did not develop as the product of any particular ideology. As a homegrown Jewish institution, it was shaped by and responded to various trends in late Ottoman Beirut. Unfortunately, the significant scholarly attention paid to the Alliance Israélite Universelle and its wide network of schools has overshadowed such unique educational projects as Beirut’s Tiferet Israel school. Like the mission schools, the Alliance schools were controlled by and financed from Europe. The Alliance schools established themselves in the early 1880s, some fifteen years after the founding of the mission schools and six years after the founding of Tiferet Israel. Indeed, it took the Alliance more than a decade and three unsuccessful attempts before it managed to establish viable schools in Beirut.60 A significant increase in the number of students occurred in the 1890s; in 1895 there were 193 students attending the Alliance schools, and the number grew to 570 in 1898. This expansion reflects the growth of the Jewish population in Beirut rather than a change in the local Jewish parents’ attitude toward the schools, which remained rather cold: No father wished to pay a penny of tuition in the Alliance schools. A father whose daughters study in the Christian schools and pays 300 francs a year for them demands that his sons be admitted free of charge to the Alliance schools . . . Expenditures grew and the community did nothing for their [the schools’] benefit, the better-off families are not interested in Judaism at all; they find that the Alliance educational institutions remind them too much of their origins.61

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Because of this negative attitude, the Alliance schools struggled. The situation in Beirut became so desperate for the Alliance that it considered abolishing its educational work in the city. However, in the last years of the nineteenth century, the Alliance changed its strategy. It increased its budget considerably, 62 limited the number of students it admitted, hired more teachers, and purchased a new building and furniture for the school. From 1905 on, the community participated in the school’s funding, and the Alliance school managed to consolidate its status in the community. Although local conditions may have affected the development of the Alliance school in every Jewish community, the Alliance Central Committee in Paris governed its objectives, educational philosophy, and curricula.63 While the number of students in the Alliance schools grew toward the end of the century, the number of students also grew in the mission schools, reflecting the growing demand for education, stemming from Jewish immigration to the city. Though the Alliance was able to secure its position in Beirut, its schools were neither the only nor the natural choice of Jewish parents in the city. As described in Chapter Three, the Jewish leadership acknowledged the Alliance’s contribution to their lives, but they were not willing to permit French hegemony in education or in any other area. The pivotal role of the B’nai B’rith lodge in the development of the community proved indicative of the limited impact of the Alliance on the local Jewish leadership. Education emerged as a highly contested field, where Jewish and Christian, local and foreign schools sought to promote their agendas by offering a highly valued commodity—education. While Tiferet Israel sought to promote a largely cultural agenda, the mission schools sought to promote a religious agenda (evangelism through education), and the Alliance school adhered to the well-known civilizing mission. The mission schools introduced female education, while Tiferet Israel remained a school for boys, with a yearly enrollment of between eighty and one hundred students. The Alliance school managed to consolidate its position in the community as a result of the growing numbers of Jews in Beirut; its advantageous position

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stemmed not from ideology, but from its regular organizational and financial backing from Paris.

Leadership and Notables Throughout the nineteenth century an organized, competent leadership had yet to crystallize in Beirut. There were, however, individuals of high standing whose status and wealth won them the title of ‘notables’ or ‘heads.’ In particular, three of the first known ‘heads’ were wealthy, European-born merchants. In 1856, Ibrahim Alfandari, a wealthy merchant and a native of Venice, became the ‘President’ of the Jewish community.64 Much later, in the 1890s, local notables recognized Emil Frank, a French Jew who worked as a banker and a shipping agent in Beirut, as the ‘head’ of the Jewish community.65 By 1908, Ezra ‛Anzarut, a prominent textile merchant and a British national, won election to president of the Jewish community due to his personal philanthropy.66 Ezra ‛Anzarut came from an affluent family of merchants originally from Aleppo. The family enjoyed British consular protection.67 In 1861, the family immigrated to Manchester, which was then a hub for the cotton industry. Although Ezra ‛Anzarut was born and raised in Manchester, he traveled frequently to Beirut and Damascus for business. He was married in Damascus and settled in Beirut in 1878, where he managed the family commercial house. He became involved in the organization of the community and served as one of its greatest benefactors in its early stages. The examples of Alfandari, Frank, and ‛Anzarut demonstrate the dominant position of foreign-origin Jews in the community leadership prior to World War I. As the twentieth century dawned, however, local contenders would increasingly challenge this position, beginning with the community’s creation of an elected community council in 1908. First attempts at community organization took place in the 1880s. Around 1885, local notables elected a seven-member committee, but shortly afterward quarrels broke out between its members, and it stopped functioning. A year later, the committee regained some activ-

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ity; it arranged for a regular supply of kosher meat at a fixed price,68 a significant accomplishment for the community. Although the titular ‘head,’ Emil Frank does not appear to have enjoyed real authority over the other notables. In the 1880s, he tried to organize the notables in order to mobilize support for the Jewish schools, but his efforts bore no results.69 Notables meeting in 1894 decided to bestow community leadership on Frank, but this ‘official’ appointment did not bring any significant change in the community. A 1909 report best summarizes the issue: Beirut is a Jewish center that never had an organized community. Some rich people among the Jews led the affairs of the community, and in spite of their good will, they did not have the time to dedicate to such a large community. Committees were appointed oftentimes, but they died immediately. There was therefore a need to bring about order in a big community.70

In light of such limited public support, few notables resorted to private philanthropy. In the late 1870s, Zaki Cohen applied to the Alliance for assistance—in vain. Only after the interference of Emil Frank did the Alliance agree to send two teachers to Zaki Cohen’s school. 71 In the late 1870s, evidence indicates three notables supported a local school founded by Ezra Benvenisti. Later, in 1890, Ezra ‛Anzarut built a synagogue in the town of ‛Aley to service the wealthier families who spent the summer months there. If not officially—at least in practice— this functioned as an endowment (heqdesh), as Ezra ‛Anzarut dedicated the revenues of the synagogue to the poor in Beirut.72 ‛Anzarut also gave his patronage to the Beirut clinic founded years earlier by Baron Edmond de Rothschild.73 In another case, the wives of some notables raised money to support a sewing class for poor girls in the Alliance school; in the first three months, they were able to collect fifteen Turkish lira for that purpose. 74 In sum, until the first decade of the twentieth century, the Jews of Beirut lived in a society that had loose affiliations but no real organization. Indeed, as early as the 1880s, leaders had made only a few attempts to organize the community, none of which produced any significant progress. The community lacked such basic leadership and

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organizational apparatus as a community council, statutes, and a tax system. There were no major public institutions with real authority, or even a communal synagogue. As many reports from that time confirm, the majority of the population was not interested in public affairs; rather, they were concerned with their own family and business affairs.75 Nevertheless, the community had capable, wealthy merchants, an educated class, and potential leaders. What was missing was personal and collective commitment to change. Eventually, Ottoman politics provided the Jews of Beirut with the spark that initiated the organizational process—the Young Turk Revolution of 1908. This non-violent revolution ended the autocratic rule of the Ottoman sultan Abdul Hamid II and reinstituted the 1876 constitution.76

Formal Organization, 1908–1920 The continuous immigration of Jews to Beirut and their increasing numbers in the city necessitated structural changes; the traditional patterns that governed Jewish life in the city could not meet the needs of the growing Jewish community. Several factors led to the creation of an official organization for the Jewish community. The Young Turk Revolution of 1908 signaled the beginning of the organizational process. Political, social, and local factors also contributed to creating an environment favorable to such changes. The Young Turk Revolution of 1908 brought a new spirit of hope, optimism, and aspirations for social changes to reform-minded elements in the community.77 This passage, written by Jacques Stambouli, attests to the influence of the revolution on some community members: Yoseph D. Farhi78 was not surprised to learn, upon his arrival in Beirut in 1908, that the Jewish community did not have a chief Rabbi, neither an elected community council, nor any philanthropic or religious institutions … seeing this state of affairs, Yoseph Farhi started to work. He foresaw the hardships and was determined to overcome all the obstacles. While still young, he offered to gather around him several people who also wished to initiate a revolution such as that of the Young Turk. 79

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According to Stambouli, the revolution influenced at least some of the more active elements in the community. Abraham Elmaleh also mentioned the impact of the revolution on the community: “After the declaration of the constitution in Turkey, in 1908, [Yoseph Farhi] started together with the deceased Dr. Kaiserman and Mr. Semach, the director of the Alliance schools in Beirut, to consolidate the basis of his community on firm and democratic foundations.”80 Elmaleh’s account further elaborates on the individuals who took part in this initial phase of communal organization. Mr. Semach himself served as another witness; looking back, Semach also tied the organization of the community to the Young Turk Revolution: “The Turkish revolution of 1908 allowed some courageous people to gather and work for the organization of the community.”81 These three individuals represented three different ‘sides’—Jacques Stambouli a community member, Semach the local Alliance representative, and Elmaleh a Palestinian Jew. Yet all of them agreed that the revolution of 1908 initiated the organizational process in Beirut. The political and social unrest among Beirut’s Jews manifested as part of the general political unrest in the city. The revolution, which reinstated the 1876 constitution, created political unrest in Lebanon because the Maronite Christians did not want to participate in the general elections nor send representatives to the Ottoman Parliament.82 The Maronites founded a Christian Lebanese organization, Alliance libanaise, to oppose the elections and demand the autonomous status and rights enjoyed under the Mutasarrifiyya. This clash of interests between the Young Turks and the Lebanese Christians contributed to the consolidation of Lebanese stances vis-à-vis the Young Turks’ government. Immediately after the revolution, several Jews issued an appeal in which they elaborated on the necessity for—and advantage in— organizing and uniting the Jewish elements in Beirut into one cohesive body. One of these Jews, Yoseph Farhi—an Alliance graduate and a merchant—had recently settled in Beirut. On August 17, 1908, he addressed local Jews, urging their organization:

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The Jews of Beirut Today, when we enjoy freedom in a free country; today, when we have the right to freely express our views on people and events, we ask you to voice your opinions, to show in which direction you would like the community to go, and mainly—to choose the people upon which you would like to bestow your interests, those that you trust the most. 83

Farhi addressed his Beiruti coreligionists less than a month after the Young Turk Revolution—attesting to the immediate impact of this political event on some local reform-minded Jewish leaders. However, his call for the formation of an elected leadership appears to be the first step in a series of acts that constitutes the organization of the Jewish community. Within a short period, the notables would convene a general assembly and elect a committee headed by Ezra ‛Anzarut. This committee, in turn, would appoint two sub-committees to deal with the issues of budget and statutes. 84 Lectures instructing and directing a cadre of activists and informing community members about the new council’s activities accompanied these initial steps. As different parties competed over leadership positions in the nascent community, these new opportunities to gain power and status generated friction. Tensions ran high both between native Jews (Ottoman subjects) and non-native Jews (foreign nationals), and between the Alliance school director, Yomtov Semach, and the new rabbi, Rabbi Nissim Danon. The initiatives of people like Yoseph Farhi, Semach, and Kaiserman (which Ezra ‛Anzarut partially funded) created opposition. The veteran (native) notables in the city, for example, sought to prevent Jews of foreign nationalities from taking part in communal elections and affairs. However, these foreign newcomers—mostly wealthy merchants—argued that they would not support the community if they were deprived of such rights. 85 The leaders set May 9, 1909, as the date for the community elections and made up two lists—one of Ottoman Jews and one of foreigners. The elections were tempestuous, involving arguments and even violence. At last, the community elected twelve members.86 Although Semach does not mention Ezra ‛Anzarut, we do know he was the community’s president in that year, and therefore also a council member.87 After its election, the community council appointed

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two committees: one for writing the community statutes and one to manage the budget. In the past, the community did not have authorization to collect any taxes, so money was available only through philanthropy; thus, expenditures remained limited. One of the tasks of the new leadership was to create new and regular resources for communal needs, to replace the hitherto occasional and personal philanthropy. Another step taken by the council in 1908 was to regularize the activity of the burial society (hevra qadisha). Sometimes there was no minyan (a minimum of ten Jewish men required for Jewish public worship) to say the qadish prayer for a deceased person at the graveside, so the new council hired fourteen individuals to escort every funeral procession to the cemetery.88 One of the institutions created in this initial phase of organization was the community statutes. The statutes were written in French between July 1908 and May 1909, the election date for the community council. Examining the statutes offers some insights, as they reveal the thoughts of their authors about the community and its structure, management, and regulations. The statutes are comprised of forty-five articles dealing with two main issues—the community council (its powers and the regulations governing its election) and fiscal affairs (revenues and the communal budget). The articles concerning the community council attest to a strong and centralized leadership that wanted to supervise closely the various communal institutions. Article 31, for instance, stipulates, “No hakham, mohel, shohet, can perform a religious ritual in the community for a certain special fee . . . without the explicit approval of the council.”89 Article 37 specifies: “All the Jewish institutions that are supported by the tax payers and are of a communal nature must present their statutes to the council and obtain its approval.”90 The absence of articles dealing with religious life and education is striking. Thus, for example, the statute does not relate to the issue of the hakham bashi at all. This absence indicates the embryonic stage of communal life in which the statute was written, a point that the last article reinforces: “These statutes will be legally valid until the election of the new council, which may adopt them as they are, or change

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them partially or entirely.”91 The statutes also reflect the social conditions in the Jewish community during this time. The second article, for example, stipulates that “the number of members in the council will be twelve, six of whom are natives, and six who are non natives.”92 This article clearly reflects the tensions between the Ottoman Jews and the foreign Jewish nationals who competed for positions of power in the community. This last article allowed the non-native Jews to take part in communal leadership; it reflects the solution the two groups reached regarding the communal leadership. As discussed, Jewish society in Beirut was heterogeneous. Jews came to Beirut from communities with long and rich traditions of community administration (like Damascus and Aleppo); however, some of the Ottoman Jews in Beirut, the Diarné in particular, came from rural towns in Mount Lebanon (e.g., Dayr al-Qamar) where Jewish life must have been less institutionalized. After the initial organizational activities, the council addressed a letter to Haim Nahum in Istanbul, asking him to appoint a chief rabbi (hakham bashi) for the community. Nahum appointed Nissim Danon, and in June 1909 the community’s General Assembly confirmed him to the position.93 The appointment of Nissim Danon brought a sense of optimism to the community; yet, as it turned out, the appointment stirred conflicts and disagreements that lasted until he was removed three years later. For example, in his attempt to resolve the leadership conflict between the ‘Ottoman’ Jews and the ‘foreign’ Jews, he had created a seven-member council manned exclusively by Ottoman Jews, in addition to the already existing community council. Some harshly criticized Danon’s actions: And the Rabbi seeing that he had strong opponents, gathered around himself . . . strongmen, people who never gave anything for the city [public] needs, people most of whom were “receivers” and not “givers,” and he chose from them a council and he became their head officially . . . and the Rabbi went astray [Halakh mi-Dehi el-Dehi], made foolish acts one after the other, desecrated himself and his position in the eyes of the government and the consuls, and disgraced the members of his community.94

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As this writer describes, Danon compounded his troubles by taking additional controversial actions. The tax on kosher meat (gabela) Danon instituted caused much conflict. Immediately after his appointment, Danon instituted the gabela,95 hoping to establish a Talmud-Torah school with its revenues.96 Yomtov Semach, the Alliance school director, criticized Danon harshly. He argued that Danon had acted as if he owned the community, that Danon had ignored the community council, and that Danon had exploited his position to collect taxes while exempting his friends from them.97 In response, Danon sent a letter to the Alliance president: In this innovation [referring to the gabela tax], I encountered many obstacles that I overcame one by one. But the opposition of Mr. Semach, the previous school director in our city, managed to stymie all my actions. He used his influence on the notables, he knew how to convince them about his views, and united with them in strong criticism of this tax. Therefore, it has been a year since the tax was abolished … I beg you dear sir, to write immediately to Mr. Semach not to intervene in the affairs of the community. 98

This evidence supports the supposition that Semach was involved in communal affairs, and that, using his influence, he lobbied against the authority of the new rabbi. The active involvement of Semach in the organizational process reflects a change in Semach’s attitude toward the community. In some cities (though not all) where the Alliance was active, its teachers and directors were involved in the organization of the community. They provided the community with new revenues, resolved local disputes, served as representatives of the community to the local authorities, and encouraged local Jews to elect a council to administer the community’s own affairs. In sum, one may consider the Alliance teachers to have been community leaders, or at least temporary leaders, and—in some cases—the main agents behind communal organization.99 In Beirut, however, the situation was rather different. As mentioned earlier, the Alliance had already begun its activity in Beirut in 1867, but forty years passed before the community started its organizational process. In Aleppo, too, the coming of the Alliance did not

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bring much change in communal organization: “The Alliance school was founded there already in 1869—but the influence on community life was meager for decades.” 100 Although Yomtov Semach had worked in Beirut since 1905 and was aware of the community’s situation, he did not involve himself in communal affairs until 1908.101 The message of the Young Turk Revolution echoed the Alliance’s goals: equal rights and an improvement in the living conditions of Jews under the new regime. It appears that Semach saw in the revolution an opportunity to reorganize, reform, and improve communal life in Beirut, as did the local leaders. When the revolution ignited the ‘organizational spark,’ Semach joined the process, becoming one of the elements competing for power and resources. In one case, he expelled more than 100 students from the Alliance school because the community did not pay an old debt of 2,000 francs.102 Semach was not alone in his opposition to Rabbi Danon. Because Danon openly challenged the new community council’s powers and authority, the council members also grew to oppose him. Just several months after Danon’s appointment, the council sent a letter to Haim Nahum describing Danon’s tyrannical actions in the community.103 According to this letter, the Rabbi threatened community members, whether rich or poor. In one case, he had threatened a member of the council that, if the councilor did not come to Rabbi Danon’s office, the Rabbi would bring him there by force. When the Rabbi sought to force the communal treasurer to hand the community’s assets over to him, he threatened that, should the community resist, he would go to the local Ottoman authorities. In yet another case, he had changed the locks on the cemetery’s gates, so he, rather than the council, could collect the burial fees, even though the council was the rightful recipient according to the statutes. The members of the council opposed these acts and told Nahum about a certain person from a respected family in the city who had died and remained unburied for an entire night because the Rabbi wanted to collect the burial fees himself. Therefore, the council asked Haim Nahum to remove Danon from his office. Many months passed, however, before Rabbi Ya‛acov Maslaton replaced him.104

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Rabbi Danon’s actions reveal his desire to consolidate his position as a key power broker within the community. Nissim Danon also looked to outside events to aid his consolidation—the policies of the Chief Rabbinate in Istanbul during this time (i.e., the reorganization of communities in the provinces and the strengthening of control over them) encouraged Danon and gave him confidence. As a result, the conflicts with the local council became almost inevitable.105 In June 1910, as part of his efforts to strengthen ties with the provinces, Haim Nahum visited Beirut. Nahum appointed a committee and tasked it with resolving the communal quarrels. Before he left Beirut, Nahum promised to remove Danon within three months, but tensions between Danon and the council remained as they were even after Nahum's visit. Danon tried to impose the gabela once again, a step that led to violence in the meat market.106 Haim Nahum eventually removed Danon and appointed Rabbi Ya‛acov Maslaton in his stead.

The Impact of WWI on Communal Organization The First World War proved an important watershed in the organization of the Jewish community. While the Young Turk Revolution prompted the Jewish community to seek the patronage of the Chief Rabbinate in Istanbul, the First World War prompted the reverse. The war had a dual effect on the community. First, the war exposed the community to the humanitarian work of a number of American and a few other Jewish philanthropic organizations—in particular, the Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) and B’nai B’rith (B.B.). During and shortly after World War I, these organizations focused on rescue and relief efforts designed to ameliorate the suffering caused by the war (e.g., hunger, poverty, medical care). Thus, for example, during the months of February and March 1917, the communities of Aleppo, Damascus, Beirut, and Mosul combined received the sum of 2,856 Ottoman lira (Ltq.) for food and poverty relief. The community of Beirut received the greatest portion. The monies came from American Jews raised through a special relief committee founded in Istanbul, and the committee sent the funds to “Syrian cities in which America is particularly interested.”107 During the first six months of 1920, the JDC allo-

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cated nearly thirty thousand dollars for relief and medical aid to the communities of Aleppo, Damascus, and Beirut.108 Non-Jewish humanitarian agencies also extended aid to the Jewish community. The communal soup kitchen in Beirut opened in June 1919 thanks to the monthly contribution of 75 Egyptian pounds from The Near East Relief Society.109 The Jewish Egyptian Relief Committee and the Committee of Deputies110 (Va’ad ha-Tsirim) in Jaffa provided limited relief during this time as well.111 Second, the situation created by the war and its aftermath drove the community to expand its welfare services, as there was an urgent need to care for poor children (through education), orphans (through food, clothing, and vocational training), widows (mainly through material support), and Jewish soldiers who served in the Ottoman army. Of note, the Jews of Beirut often established such services by tightening the connections of the community with both Zionist organizations in Palestine and through the B’nai B’rith lodge—essentially a local outpost of a worldwide organization.112 The uncertain political climate during and immediately after the war contributed to a growing reliance of the community on the moral and material support of outside organizations. Several factors, most prominently the proximity of Beirut to the Yishuv (the body of Jewish residents in Palestine), the efforts of local and Palestinian (mainly Ashkenazi) Jews to disseminate Hebrew and national values, and the earlier founding of Hebrew national schools in Damascus, drew the community closer to the Zionist orbit. For example, while a kindergarten was already active even before the war, a new Talmud-Torah school, affiliated with the Mizrahi party, opened after the war.113 About that time, the community established a schools committee114 to manage both the Talmud-Torah school and the Alliance school; it oversaw their budgets, sought funding, hired teachers, determined the curricula, and solved any problems that arose. In 1920, the community’s soup kitchen provided one meal a day to 220 orphans who attended the kindergarten, the Talmud-Torah, and the Alliance school.115 Moreover, the community organized vocational training for some orphans who did not attend any school. Girls learned

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sewing, and boys worked with artisans (tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, and so forth) to learn a particular trade. The community supported these orphans financially; it organized daily one-hour Hebrew classes for them after their working day, and on occasion, it supplied them with clothes. Thus, while the community had founded the fundamental organs of the community (e.g., council, statutes) before the war, their activities expanded after the war, creating educational and welfare services. In the process, the community reduced its earlier reliance on the Chief Rabbinate in Istanbul and strengthened its contacts with Zionist agencies in Palestine—the Committee of Deputies and the Committee of Education. The Chief Rabbi himself became an employee of the community council—the council both hired and controlled the position.116 In September 1920, the Jewish community awoke to a new reality: it had become part of Greater Lebanon—an enlarged political entity created by Maronite aspirations and French interests. We shall now examine some aspects of Jewish communal life in the period of the French Mandate.

The French Mandate, 1920–1939 Although Syria and Lebanon were the last Arab countries to come under French rule, the French position in the Levant was much different from that in North Africa. To begin, in Lebanon, the terms of France’s League of Nations mandate restricted its rule. 117 Under these terms, the French could not implement intrusive policies that would alter the structure of the local society. In particular, the French could not colonize Lebanon as they had North Africa. Furthermore, France’s experiences in North Africa would have particular ramifications for the Jews of Lebanon. As Michel Abitbol observed, two main factors affected French policies toward the Jews of Algeria: first, the Jews’ real or imagined role as intermediaries between the French and the local Muslim society, and, second, the political struggle for emancipation carried out on the behalf of Algerian Jews by French Jews. 118 These factors brought the French to adopt integrative policies—that is to say, policies meant to limit Jewish autonomy and facilitate Jewish in-

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tegration into French society. In Lebanon, however, the French maintained centuries-old ties with the Maronites, who looked up to the French authorities as their protectors. Thus, in Lebanon, the French did not use Jews as intermediaries as they did in North Africa. Moreover, unlike the situation in North Africa, French Jews did not interfere with nor did they seem to be particularly interested in the small Jewish community of Beirut. Jews in Lebanon were equal citizens, as stipulated by Article 7 of the Lebanese constitution: “All Lebanese shall be equal before the law. They shall equally enjoy civil and political rights and shall equally be bound by public obligations and duties without any distinction.”119 Furthermore, Article 12 stated that “every Lebanese shall have the right to hold public office, no preference being made except on the basis of merit and competence, according to the conditions established by law.”120 At the same time, the constitution adopted political confessionalism as a temporary measure until national reconciliation between the various sects could be reached. Confessionalism reflected long-standing regional practices. In Ottoman times, the state recognized various religious minorities (e.g., Armenian, Greek, Jewish, Protestant) as separate autonomous communities, millets. Likewise, the “new” confessionalism of Lebanon bolstered the separate corporate identity of the various religious communities. Positions in public service, the government, the judiciary, and the military were to be divided along confessional lines. This principle of confessional representation clearly conflicted with the principle of equal rights for the individual.121 Thus, to talk about Jewish assimilation or even Jewish integration in Lebanon is misleading because the French recognized and retained the confessional character of local society. The transition from Ottoman to French rule did not disrupt the traditional community structures and autonomy. A twelve-member council—elected by a general assembly comprised of the community’s taxpayers—managed and administered the community. According to the communal statutes, the council could elect any member who was at least thirty years old and had a good reputation. In practice, its members were usually big merchants and bankers, but a lawyer,

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Selim Harari, served as president for many years. Some of the prominent members during this time include Jacob Safra, Joseph Balaila, Albert Delbourgo, Joseph bey Dichy, Joseph D. Frahi, Joseph Saadia, Selim Harari, Elie Lévy, and Toufic Liniado.122 While the procedure of elections indicated a certain level of democratic rule in the community, only taxpayers were entitled to vote. In fact, during almost the entire French Mandate, the same members served on the community council with little change. The period saw not simply the continuation of this Beirut community’s autonomy, but its strengthening. In 1922, the High Commissioner recognized Suleiman Tagger, the acting chief rabbi of Beirut, as the chief rabbi of all Jews in Lebanon, and the administrator of all its religious endowments (waqfs). 123 At this time, the chief rabbi of Beirut received his salary from the community council and was under its control.124 Thus, in reality, it was the Beirut council who intervened and managed the waqfs of Tripoli and Saida. In 1928, the Beirut council applied for official French recognition of its de facto administrative authority in Lebanon, which it received: “The council of the Jewish community of Beirut, along with the chief rabbi, exercises its powers in all areas pertinent to the religious head, in this case, the chief rabbi of your community.”125 The privileged administrative position of the Beirut community vis-à-vis the smaller communities caused quarrels because the smaller communities wanted to retain their independent status. In the early 1930s, for example, the council of Beirut appointed a committee in Tripoli and tasked it to ameliorate and manage the waqf of the community. In 1934, a certain Selim Srour of Tripoli addressed a letter to the High Commission. He stated that, although the acting chief rabbi—Suleiman Tagger—had appointed him to manage his communal waqf in 1922, the Beirut council now refused to recognize him as such and refused to reimburse him for waqf registration fees he had paid out of his pocket. Srour asked the French authorities to intervene by ordering the Beirut community to recognize his rights and reimburse him.126 The creation of legal hierarchy among the Jewish communities in Lebanon caused other quarrels. Ibrahim Negri, the administrator

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(mutawalli) of the Jewish waqf in Saida, not only refused to cooperate with the Beirut council but also refused to cooperate with the elected council of Saida. In another case, a Jewish merchant in Saida, Moise Braun, declared himself the hakham bashi, and he asked the French authorities to inform him of any matter pertaining to the local Jewish community because he was “the only spiritual head of this community.”127 Further complicating matters, the local Lebanese administration was not aware of the legal hierarchy between the Jewish communities of Beirut, Tripoli, and Saida; given this, the Beirut council often met with bureaucratic difficulties in its waqf administration. In 1933, the High Commission instructed its own officials: “In all of the Lebanese Republic, there is but one Jewish community with one community council and one rabbinic court presided over by the chief rabbi. The chief rabbi and the community council exercise control, without any doubt, on all the administrators of the communal property, the control of their management, and can . . . dismiss them and replace them.”128 In compliance with the request of the Beirut community, the High Commission demanded the Lebanese government to instruct its officials and various departments to act accordingly.129

The Statutes of 1930 On March 18, 1931, the Political Bureau of the High Commission handed the Lebanese government a set of suggested statutes for the Jewish community. The Beirut community council drafted the statutes of 1930 and submitted them for government approval. It may well be that Iraq’s Jewish Community Law No. 77 influenced the Beirut council to draft a new statute, but as will be discussed, it is more likely that the Jewish initiative in Beirut reflected indigenous developments. Indeed, the Beirut community had submitted their statutes to the Lebanese government two months before Iraq issued the Jewish Community Law No. 77 on May 26, 1931. It appears that the community council drafted the statutes in the late 1920s as a response to the French-Jewish correspondence pertaining to the council's powers. These interactions bring to mind two questions: Why did the Jewish

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community want new statutes, and how did the authorities respond to the Jewish initiative? As discussed, in the late 1920s, the Jewish community council negotiated with the French authorities about its administrative authority vis-à-vis the smaller communities of Saida and Tripoli, and it was able to obtain French recognition of its extended authority in the area of waqf administration. Indeed, the French informed the council that it virtually had a free hand in matters of internal organization. In September 1928, for example, the French entertained the possibility that the smaller communities would be represented on the Beirut council, and that “the number [of representatives] could be fixed by the internal statutes of the community.”130 In a letter to the president of the Jewish community a few weeks later, the Delegate of the High Commission was even more precise: “I think that your council remains free to determine . . . the details of the internal organization of your community, particularly concerning the mode of appointment of representatives to your honorable council.”131 Such statements on the part of the French must not only have inculcated the community council with a sense of legal autonomy, but also signaled receptivity to Jewish initiatives. The statutes of 1930 constituted an improved and expanded version of the 1909 statutes. They included two new sections elaborating on the duties, powers, and responsibilities of six communal committees as well as those of the chief rabbi. In particular, the section dealing with the chief rabbi appears to be the outcome of the FrenchJewish correspondence on the administrative powers of the Jewish council during the late 1920s. For example, Article 54 specifies: “[The chief Rabbi’s] roles are determined by a contract signed by him and the community council.”132 Article 56 requires that, in his official visits, the chief rabbi must be accompanied by the communal president or by one member of the council.133 These articles indicate that the rabbi fell under the full control and supervision of the council and was, in fact, its employee. Although rabbis and dayyanim in the French Maghreb received their salary from the state, the chief rabbi of Beirut received his salary from the community.134

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In addition to French attitudes toward the Jewish council, the content of the new statutes may shed further light on the reasons behind their drafting. In the first decade of French rule, the community— through the work of several committees under the control of the community council—managed to build a communal synagogue, a communal school, and a clinic; to provide welfare services; and to institutionalize communal management. Thus, for example, the schools’ committee’s decisions would be executed only with the support of the community council. Article 49, concerning public welfare, stipulates that the council would support the various welfare committees on the condition that they would be under its control. One member of the advisory committee commented on the broad autonomy of the council: “The Jewish community would appear, therefore, as a real civil corporation based on religious ties and would also acquire the complete benefit of legal nature, a result of its recognition by the state.”135 Although the community council wanted highly centralized management, it remained keenly cognizant of its responsibility to the community. The statutes of 1930 reveal the community council’s need to align the legal framework with the community’s development after nearly a decade of French rule. No less important to this legal realignment, Selim Harari, the acting communal president at that time, was an attorney, and the advisory committee, among others, singled him out.136 What was the French response to the Jewish initiative? When the High Commissioner informed its delegate in the Lebanese government about the statutes in March 1931, the delegate commented: “I don’t see any reason why this text, which does not raise any objection on my part, would not be approved by the Lebanese government.”137 Two years later, an Advisory Committee for Legislation examined the suggested statutes and submitted its report to the High Commission. The committee wanted to determine whether the initiative taken by Beirut’s Jewish community was in accord with the legal situation of other Jewish communities. As part of its inquiry, it compared the statutes of Beirut’s community with those of the Jewish communities of Rabat, Cairo, and Baghdad. In reference to the Jewish community of Cairo’s statutes, the committee commented: “What is astounding up-

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on examining these statutes is that . . . they are simple laws of internal order, which are approved by the General Assembly of the Cairo community but do not seem to have ever been recognized by the government.”138 In contrast to the complete autonomy enjoyed by the Cairo community, the community in Morocco experienced more outside control, as evidenced by the fact that “the legislative text strongly testifies to a real control of administrative patronage by the government.”139 The Jewish Community Law No. 77 in Iraq appeared to have found a middle way; the committee found that to some extent, it unites the two contradictory tendencies of the Egyptian legislation and the Moroccan legislation; here, the local legislator himself agrees to make announcements about measures of internal order [i.e., autonomy] of the community . . . , but at the same time he reserves to himself the right of strict control.140

After examining the legal statutes of these other Jewish communities, the advisory committee concluded that the statutes of the Jewish community of Beirut represent A plan of internal law [Règlement intérieur], in which one cannot find tendencies similar to these mentioned in the Moroccan and Iraqi legislation, which manifest itself by a real administrative tutelage; it essentially resembles, therefore, the Egyptian legislation, but just like the latter, it should retain its nature of internal law and avoid any intervention with the local government.141

The advisory committee, therefore, acknowledged the large measure of autonomy enjoyed by the Jewish community. In practice, this autonomy allowed the Jewish leadership to direct and administer communal affairs with minimal governmental interference. The new statutes did not introduce drastic changes in communal organization and—except for two sections (‘Committees’ and ‘Chief Rabbi’)—they more or less followed in the footsteps of the 1909 statutes. To some extent, they ratified an already existing reality. By 1930, most—if not all—of the organs the statutes mention already existed under the de facto control and supervision of the community council. That being said, one must remember that, by the late 1920s, the community found

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itself in a rather new situation: it had two new central institutions— the Magen-Abraham synagogue (inaugurated in 1926) and the Talmud-Torah Selim Tarrab School (inaugurated a year later). These institutions not only required administration and management—they significantly affected the communal budget.142 Thus, the statutes of 1930 mirrored not only the leadership’s vitality and initiative, but also the community’s significant growth and development during the French Mandate.

Political Marginalization In December 1925, the Lebanese representative council elected a twelve-member committee to draft the Lebanese constitution (Shibl Dammus Committee).143 This committee asked some 210 notables (chosen by a confessional key) to voice their opinion on the nature and structure of the Lebanese government.144 One of the questions asked whether the new constitution should base representation in Parliament on a confessional system. The Jewish community responded: “The elections must be conducted according to the rite, on condition, however, that the rights of the minorities be protected and specifically those of the Jews, whose religion and traditions completely differ from those of the other rites, who cannot know them.”145 The Jewish community’s response reflected that of the majority of the notables—only 11 out of the 132 notables who responded to the committee preferred a political organization not based on confessional representation.146 Nevertheless, this declaration of faith in the confessional system also reveals some concerns of the different populations of Lebanon. The Jewish community was acutely aware of its being religiously and culturally different from the other communities. Moreover, the statement demonstrates the Jewish community’s sense of isolation—it is not possible for the other communities to learn about the Jewish community, its traditions, and its customs. Against this backdrop, confessionalism became an impediment to social fusion. Given the confessional structure of the Lebanese society and the marginal position of the Jewish community in it, the community leaders feared that it might be rather easy to ignore the rights of the community.

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Shortly after the promulgation of the constitution in May 1926, the Jewish community expressed its desire to take part in Lebanese public life. In Lebanon under the French Mandate, only the six largest communities were represented in Parliament. However, one nominated deputy represented the smaller communities. While Jewish community leaders asked that a Jew would be nominated to the position, a Protestant, Dr. Ayoub Tabet, was appointed; the Jews countered this appointment by noting, “The Protestants are twenty times weaker than us from a numerical point of view.”147 Not only were the Jews the largest minority group in Beirut, the council argued, but they were also an active and progressive element that had long-standing roots in the country.148 The economic advantages the Jews provided and their contributions to the commercial and financial life of the country served as the central arguments the Jewish community made in justifying its demand for political representation. Year after year, the community appealed to the French authorities, asking for the inclusion of one Jewish representative in the Lebanese Parliament, and they continued to complain about the systematic exclusion of the community from public life.149 Furthermore, the inclusion of Jews in the governments of neighboring countries fueled the continuation of the Jews’ protests. In January 1927, for example, the community complained, “Filling the same duties and obligations as the other communities . . . the Jewish community currently sees itself as systematically estranged from public affairs and deprived of many rights enjoyed by much more restricted communities.”150 The Beirut council specifically referred to the successful campaign waged by the Jewish community of Aleppo, who applied for—and won—a seat in the Syrian government, as an example for the Lebanese government to follow. 151 The role of the French authorities was, according to the Jews, to guarantee the rights of the minorities and the equality between the different rites. The Jewish community was convinced it was entitled to representation in the Parliament based on the principle of confessional representation. The community regarded itself as both numerically and economically superior to other minorities. As long as a Jewish representative was not appointed to the Par-

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liament, the Jewish community felt that its rights were being ignored. Moreover, while the French authorities allowed for broad communal autonomy, they were much more cautious about Jewish involvement in Lebanese politics. The French seemed to fear that Jewish involvement in Lebanese politics might interfere with their primary objective—finding balance and achieving cooperation among the various communities—in particular, between Christians and Muslims.

Conclusion The Jewish community of Beirut developed in a three-phase process. Until 1908, although the Jewish population in Beirut increased significantly, the community remained largely unorganized. Such factors as migration, the loose community structures, and the loose social cohesion characterized this early phase of the community’s development; despite this looseness, Beirut Jews experienced a relatively high degree of social exchange, particularly in the area of education. Lacking efficient community organization and administration, foreign schools, either Jewish or non-Jewish, played a large part in the education of local Jewish children. Yet, the native Jewish school Tiferet Israel grew to be probably the most lively and well-known Jewish institution in Beirut during its relatively short lifespan. It catered to children of prosperous families, combined Jewish and secular subjects, offered a large number of languages, and included theatrical activity—an important component of education in late Ottoman Beirut. The Young Turk Revolution inaugurated the second phase of the community’s development—the formal organization. Through the creation of a general assembly, an elected council, community statutes, a taxation system, and the appointment of a chief rabbi, Beirut Jews transformed from a loose and amorphous group to an organized and cohesive community. The process of formal organization raised social tension in the community because various elements in the community competed for leadership positions and authority. Important to note, the process of formal organization took place during Beirut’s most profound period of social and urban change up until that time. In this respect, the organization of Beirut’s Jewish commu-

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nity between 1908 and 1914 reflects not only Ottoman politics, but of even more significance, the particular development of Beirut as a port city. With the establishment of modern Lebanon in 1920, the French officially recognized the Jewish community as one of the country’s many religious communities. In fact, the French further institutionalized the sectarian character of Lebanese society in the form of the confessional system. Enjoying a high degree of communal autonomy along the lines of the Ottoman millet, the Jewish leadership consolidated its position within the community and established such major institutions as the Magen-Abraham synagogue and the Talmud-Torah school. The new political reality the Jewish community faced, in addition to further developments during the 1920s, created a need for the leadership to draft new community statutes. Of significance, the French authorities deemed it necessary to compare the new statutes with those of major Jewish communities outside Lebanon. This suggests that some French officials in Lebanon still viewed the issue of Jewish communal autonomy in regional or Ottoman terms rather than in Lebanese-specific terms. As soon as Lebanon received its constitution, the Jews expressed their aspiration to take part in Lebanon’s political life. They repeatedly petitioned the French to appoint a Jew as a representative of the minorities in Lebanon; however, the French preferred to appoint a Protestant representative. Politically powerless, the communal leadership aspired to improve the community’s public position by developing and strengthening the entire Jewish community. In the end, the development of the Jewish community constituted a complex process involving myriad economic, social, and ideological factors. In its early phase, the evolving Jewish community was particularly exposed to Ottoman and European influences. During the phase of formal organization, the influence of Jewish reformist currents increased. The suffering during and after World War I, as well as the political vacuum left by end of the war, also increased the reliance of the Jewish leadership on the support of outside Jewish and non-Jewish organizations. The creation of modern Lebanon under French protection ended the political uncertainty in the region. For the

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small Jewish community, the French presence in Lebanon meant stability, prosperity, and progress. Like other countries under French protection, the French could not block the penetration of ‘foreign’ influences. And indeed, during the French Mandate, the Jewish leadership aligned itself with B’nai B’rith, an American-based international Jewish organization. In fact, B’nai B’rith represented only one current of Jewish reformism that influenced the Jewish community. In the following chapter, we will discuss the influence of three Jewish reformist currents on Beirut’s Jewish community.

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Notes

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Sydney Montagu Samuel, Jewish Life in the East (London: C. Kegan Paul and Co., 1881). Ibid., 161. Ben-Tsion Uziel was at that time Jaffa’s chief rabbi. Jack Mosseri, a native of Cairo, was a Zionist activist. Following World War I, the Zionist Commission explored the possibility of extending humanitarian aid to Syrian Jewish communities. In order to study and evaluate the general situation in those communities, it commissioned the two men to visit the communities and submit a report. The B’nai B’rith lodge in Beirut—Arzei Ha-Levanon—was a local branch of an American-based international Jewish organization bearing the same name. Its members were, however, native rather than foreign Jews. Chapter Three expounds on Arzei Ha-Levanon lodge and its influence on community development. Visit of chief rabbi B. Uziel and Jack Mosseri, 13 February 1919, L4/415, CZA. Jens Hanssen, Fin de Siècle Beirut: The Making of an Ottoman Provincial Capital (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005), 6, 163. D. K. Fieldhouse, Western Imperialism in the Middle East 1914–1958 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 314; Engin Akarli, The Long Peace: Ottoman Lebanon, 1861–1920 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1993), 192. On confessionalism in Lebanon, see at length: Kais Firro, Inventing Lebanon: Nationalism and the State under the Mandate (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 2003), 42–67; Elizabeth Picard, Lebanon: A Shattered Country (New York, London: Holmes and Meier, 1996), 49–61; Meir Zamir, Lebanon's Quest: The Road to Statehood 1926–1939 (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 1997), 31, 39, 245; Ussama Makdisi, The Culture of Sectarianism: Community, History, and Violence in Nineteenth-Century Ottoman Lebanon (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 2000), 166–174. Nathan Shur provided some information on the various Jewish communities in Lebanon based on travelers’ accounts. See: Nathan Shur, “Yehudei ha-Levanon ba-T’qufah ha-Osmanit be-re’i Safrut ha-Nos‛im” (The Jews of Lebanon), Pe‛amim 24 (1985): 115–147. On Jewish life in Mount Lebanon in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see: Minna Rozen, “Yehudim be-Sherut Fahr ed-Din ha-Sheni Shalit ha-Levanon (1586-1635)” (Jews in the service of Fahr ed-Din II of Lebanon), Pe‛amim 14 (1982): 32–44. Noureddine Bouchair, “The Merchant and Moneylending Class of Syria under the French Mandate, 1920–1946” (Ph.D. diss., Georgetown University, 1986), 40. Bouchair, “Merchant and Moneylending,” 41. Yaron Harel accepted this assertion: Yaron Harel, Be-Sefinot Shel Esh la-Maarav: Temurot be-Yehadut Suryya be-Tequfat ha-Reformot ha-Osmaniyot 1840-1880 (By

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ships of fire to the west: Changes in Syrian Jewry during the period of the Ottoman reform (1840–1880) (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2003), 67. On the economic activity of the Jewish merchants of Aleppo see at length: Walter Zenner, “Jews in Late Ottoman Syria: External Relations,” in Jewish Societies in the Middle East: Community, Culture, and Authority, ed. Shlomo Deshen and Walter Zenner (Washington, D.C.: University Press of America, 1982), 174–182; Joseph Sutton, Aleppo Chronicles: The Story of the Unique Sephardim of the Ancient Near East in Their Own Words (New York: Thayer-Jacoby, 1988), 36–37, 51–52. Compare: Donald Quataert, “Age of Reforms, 1812–1914,” in An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, 1300–1914, ed. Halil Inalcik (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 837–841. Bouchair mentioned the Jewish merchant Ezra ‛Anzarut as a well-known merchant who specialized in the importation of textiles from Manchester and their distribution throughout Syria. As we shall see in the next chapter, Ezra ‛Anzarut was a pillar of the nascent community of Beirut, and one of its greatest benefactors. Bouchair, “Merchant and Moneylending,” 23; Abraham Brawer, “Yehudei Dameseq Ahrei ha-‛Alilah be-Shenat 1840” (The Jews of Damascus after the blood libel of 1840), Zion 11 (1946): 107. Bouchair, “Merchant and Moneylending,” 45. Brawer, “Yehudei Dameseq,” 104; Sutton, Aleppo Chronicles, 58. On the Ottoman bankruptcy, see: Stanford J. Shaw, Ezel K. Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 155–156; Roger Owen, The Middle East in the World Economy (London, New York: I.B. Tauris and Co. Ltd., 1993), 100–121. Bouchair, “Merchant and Moneylending,” 23; Brawer, “Yehudei Dameseq,” 108. Zenner, Late Ottoman Syria, 183; Sutton, Aleppo Chronicles, 60, 237. The abolition of the badl askeri after the Young Turk Revolution was not enforced on the inhabitants of Mount Lebanon, thousands of whom settled in Beirut, and they continued to enjoy exemption from army service. Zamir, Modern Lebanon, 32. Aaron Set’hon stated that fifty families moved to Beirut in 1860. However, it is possible that Jews moved to Beirut in previous years. It is also possible that Jews from other towns on the mountain moved to Beirut due to ‘push’ forces (ethnic instability on the mountain) and ‘pull’ forces (economic growth of Beirut). The choice of Beirut as an immigration destination becomes clear when we compare the number of Jews living in Beirut to that of Jews living outside the city. In 1860, 53 percent of the Jews in Lebanon lived in Beirut, compared with 76 percent toward the end of the century. See: Dominique Chevalier, La Société du Mont Liban à l'époque de la révolution industrielle en Europe (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste P. Geuthner, 1971), 35. Sutton, Aleppo Chronicles, 346, 348.

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35 36

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Tzvi Zohar, “Qehilot Israel she-be-Suryya, 1880–1918—Rashei Peraqim beDemografyah, Kalkalah, u-Mosdot ha-Qehilah be-Shilhei ha-Shilton ha-Osmani” (Jewish communities in Syria 1880–1918: Demography, economics and communal institutions in the late Ottoman period), Pe‛amim 44 (1990): 89, 91. Vital Cuinet, Syrie, Liban et Palestine: Geographie administrative, statistique, descriptive, et raisonnee (Paris: E. Leroux, 1896), 122. Abraham Ya‛ari, Masa‛ot Erets Israel shel 'Olim Yehudim (Jewish immigrants’ journeys in Erets-Israel) (Ramat-Gan: Masada, 1976), 526. Itzhak Ben-Tsvi, She’ar Yishuv (Remnants of ancient Jewish communities in the land of Israel) (Jerusalem: Ben-Tsvi Institute, 1968), 452. John Wilson, The Lands of the Bible: Visited and Described, vol. 2 (Edinburgh: William Whyte and Co., 1847), 207. August Frankl, Nach Jerusalem, trans. P. Beaton (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1975), 222. Frankl, Nach Jerusalem, 222. The Italian-speaking Jews in Beirut might have been of Sephardic origins, or local Jews who acquired the language, which was the lingua franca in the world of commerce until the mid-nineteenth century. The Jews of Dayr al-Qamar were known as Diarné, based on their place of origin. See: Ben-Tsvi, She’ar Yishuv, 444. See, for example, the testimony of Ferdinand ‛Anzarut in Sutton, Aleppo Chronicles, 346–347. Semach, Travers les Communautes, 91. Narcisse Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire: l’Alliance Israélite Universelle, vol. 2 (Paris: Félix Alcan, 1920), 202. Narcisse Leven (1833–1915) was a French-Jewish leader, lawyer by profession, and one of the active members who founded the Alliance Israélite Universelle; at various times Leven served as its secretary, vice president, and president. Havatselet, 26 December 1879, no. 11–12, 81. Aaron Set'hon, “Yishuv ha-Yehudim be-Levanon” (The settlement of Jews in Lebanon), Ha-Zeman 4, no. 10 (1906): 99. Frankl, Nach Jerusalem, 221. On these three Midrashim see: Havatselet, 26 December 1879, no. 11–12, 81. Sydney Montagu Samuel, who visited the community in 1880, stated that these private Midrashim were open to all. Sydney Montagu Samuel, Jewish Life in the East (London: C. Kegan Paul & Co., 1881), 161. Havatselet, 26 December 1879, no. 11–12, 82. More Leaves from a Palestine Diary, 1908. A255/52, CZA. No author is indicated on this document. Ha-Tsvi, 18 August 1893, no. 46, 172. Semach to the Alliance President, 7 April 1909, HM2/8205, CAHJP. Ha-Tsvi, 4 January 1910, no. 78, 2. Hanssen, Fin de Siècle, 187.

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After Muhammad ‘Abduh had been exiled from Egypt in 1882, he was welcomed in Beirut; there he taught Islamic philosophy in the sultaniyya school and revised its curriculum. Hanssen, Fin de Siècle, 188. Narcisse Leven argued that the primary reason for the unsuccessful attempts of the Alliance in Beirut lay in the resentment of the Hebrew teachers who feared competition. Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire, 204–205. The activities of the Church of Scotland were part of a much broader Protestant and Catholic missionary activity among Eastern Christians that started in the Levant in the early nineteenth century. For an overview, see: Heleene Murre-Van Den Berg, ed., New Faith in Ancient Lands: Western Missions in the Middle East in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2006), 1–13. Robertson Buchanan, comp., “The Story of the Church of Scotland’s Fifty Years’ Work among the Jews at Beirut, Syria, 1864 to 1914” (Archives of the Church of Scotland, 1956), 16, 113. Buchanan, “Church of Scotland,” 80. Buchanan, “Church of Scotland,” 35. Sometime during the 1870s Ezra Benvenisti emigrated from Belgrade, where he had written a book on the importance of Jewish education, to Jerusalem. He did not find fertile ground in Jerusalem for his educational ideas, and, thus, he traveled to Beirut. There, he met Zaki Cohen and together they founded Tiferet Israel. Due to disagreements between the two regarding the nature of the school, Benvenisti left the school; with the help of a local Christian (Antoninus Jirar) and a few Jewish notables, he managed to open another school in which Hebrew, Arabic, and French were taught. The school was not mentioned by later sources and was most probably short-lived. Havatselet, 5 June 1879, no. 28–29, 212. Havatselet, 22 September 1881, no. 42, 318; Havatselet, 26 December 1879, no. 11– 12, 83; Samuel, Jewish Life, 162–163. For comparison, the sultaniyya in its first year had 55 students. Shmuel Moreh and Philip Sadgrove documented important information on the theatrical activity in Tiferet Israel. See at length: Shmuel Moreh and Philip Sadgrove, Jewish Contributions to Nineteenth-Century Arabic Theatre (Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 68–82. For a description of the event see: Havatselet, 13 June 1879, no. 30, 217–218. Midhat Pasha was an Ottoman reformer and one of the leading officials of the Ottoman reforms; he served as governor of Syria from 1878 to 1880 and showed support and concern for Jewish progress. On Midhat Pasha as governor of the province of Syria, see: Najib E. Saliba, “The Achievements of Midhat Pasha as Governor of the Province of Syria, 1878–1880,” IJMES 9 (1978): 307–323. Havatselet, 22 September 1881, no. 42, 318; Ha-Levanon, 7 May 1880, no. 39, 131; Harel, Ships of Fire, 186.

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59 60

61 62

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68 69 70 71 72 73

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Moved by the violent events of 1860, Bustani decided to voice his thoughts publicly in the pamphlet Nafir Suriyya (The Clarion of Syria) he published in 1860– 1861. The founding of his school in 1863 (al-madrasa al-wataniyya) provided him with the opportunity to put his ideas into practice. Muhammad ‘Abduh, who revised the sultaniyya’s curriculum, stated that the school must be, inter alia, a place of moral character-building. Jens Hanssen, Fin de Siècle Beirut: The Making of an Ottoman Provincial Capital (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005), 166, 176. Havatselet, 12 November 1875, no. 4, 28. Passing through Beirut on his way to Baghdad in 1867, an Alliance teacher, Mr. Weiskop, tried to open a school in the city. Mr. Weiskop and Charles Netter made a second attempt two years later, but only nineteen children entered the school; it was forced to close its gates shortly afterward. A third attempt made in 1880 failed again due to the firm opposition of the wealthy families and of the Hebrew teachers in the city who feared competition. Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire, 204–205. Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire, 205. In 1886, the Alliance subvention amounted to 1,650 francs; in 1905, it was 20,217. See: Bulletin de l’Alliance. Aron Rodrigue, Education, Society, and History: “Alliance Israélite Universelle” and Mediterranean Jewry 1860–1929 (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Ben-Tsvi Institute, 1991), 40–41. Frankl, Nach Jerusalem, 220. Ha-Tsvi, 18 August 1893, no. 46, 172. Ha-Herut, 1909, no. 15, 2. Many Ottoman Jews and Christians sought foreign protection during that time because it granted them tax privileges and exemption from the jurisdiction of the Ottoman courts. Donald Quataert, The Ottoman Empire, 1700–1922 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 77–78. Ha-Tsvi, 29 January 1886, no. 17, 68. Ha-Tsvi, 12 February 1886, no. 19, 76. Ha-Herut, 1909, no. 29. Havatselet, 13 June 1879, no. 30, 219. Set’hon, “Yishuv ha-Yehudim be-Levanon,” 98. The Rothschilds continued to support these institutions even after local notables took it upon themselves to support the same institutions. The Rothschilds’ support is documented as late as 1908. See: Semach to the Alliance president, 14 August 1908, VIII, E, 94C, AAIU. Ha-Tsvi, 12 February 1886, no. 19, 76. Stambouli, 77; Semach, Travers les Communautes, 91; Havatselet, 24 January 1902, no. 32, 118.

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83 84 85 86

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Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel Kural Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey (Cambridge, London, New York, Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 266–267. Semach to the Alliance President, 7 April 1909, VIII, E, 94C, AAIU; Microfilm in CAHJP, HM2/8205; Esther Benbassa, Ha-Yehadut ha-Osmanit bein Hitmaarvut leTsiyonut 1908–1920 (Ottoman Jewry between Westernization and Zionism 1908– 1920) (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center, 1996), 26–27. This sense of a new era of freedom and cooperation was not unique to the Jews; many in the Ottoman Empire shared it. See: Albert Hourani, A History of the Arab Peoples (New York: MJF Books, 1991), 281; Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel K. Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 273. Yoseph David Farhi (1878–1945) was a maskil, educator, merchant, and a pillar of the Jewish community of Beirut from 1908 to 1945. Farhi descended from a family of Jewish notables in Damascus. Members of the family had filled high positions in the courts of local Ottoman rulers. After receiving a traditional elementary school education, Farhi enrolled in the Alliance school in Damascus, and, in 1893, he began his teacher's training at the Ecole Normale Israélite Orientale (ENIO). Until 1903, Farhi served as vice director in the Alliance schools in Izmir, Sossa, and Djdeida. After resigning from the Alliance school, he turned to commerce and served as a manager in the commercial house of Jacob ‛Anzarut, a British textile merchant of Syrian origin who settled in Beirut in 1878. From 1908 on, Farhi dedicated himself to the Jewish community of Beirut; he held numerous positions in the community and played an important role in the founding of its institutions. Yoseph Farhi settled in Jerusalem a few years before he died in 1945. Jacques Stambouli, French part, 77. Elmaleh, In Memoriam (Hebrew part), 9. Semach, Travers les Communautes, 91. Meir Zamir, Khinunah shel Levanon ha-Modernit (The formation of modern Lebanon) (Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense, 1993), 29–30. Elmaleh, In Memoriam (French part), 46. Ha-Tsvi, 23 October 1908, no. 12, 3. Ha-Herut, 1909, no. 29, 2. Semach to the Alliance president, 7 April 1909, VIII, E, 94C, AAIU. Semach mentioned eleven members: Hakim, Yelin, Farhi, Shaki, Selim Khayyat, Balayla, Arditi, Dwek, Tawil, Lipowski, and Barsel. Semach commented on the results: “I was a bit sorry, for there are three Zionists in the new council: Lipowski, Barsel, and Yelin.” Community Council to Rabbi Haim Nahum, 24 December 1909, I, B, 3, AAIU; Ha-Herut, 1909, no. 15, 2. Ha-Tsvi, 23 October 1908, no. 12, 4. Community Statute, Article 31, VIII, E, 94C, AAIU.

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90 91 92 93

94 95

96 97

98 99

100 101 102 103 104 105

106 107

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Ibid., Article 37. Ibid., Article 45. Ibid., Article 2. Ninety-one out of ninety-five members in the general meeting held in Beirut chose Nissim Danon as hakham bashi. Ha-Mevaser, 14 Tishrei, 1911, no. 40. The gabela was a common tax in the Ottoman Empire—and a controversial tax throughout its existence. It was an indirect tax on meat, wine, or cheese. The gabela caused tax inequalities in the community. While most of the rich's income was not taxed, the poor, who often spent most of their income on food, were, thus, taxed on most of their income. On the gabela, see: Levy, “Changes in the Leadership,” 243. Ha-Herut, 1909, no. 29, 2. Semach to the Alliance president, 10 October 1911, IX, E, 94D, AAIU; Ha-Mevaser, 1911, no. 40. Nissim Danon to the Alliance president, 25 August 1910, I, B, 3, AAIU. Paul Silberman, “An Investigation of the Schools Operated by the Alliance Israélite Universelle from 1862 to 1940” (Ph.D. diss., New York University, 1973), 194–198. In some cases, like in Edirne, the Alliance teachers did not get along with the local leadership. Zohar, “Influence of Alliance,” 32. Semach to the Alliance president, 7 April 1909, VIII, E, 94C, AAIU. Ha-Herut, 1910, no. 13, 2. Community Council to Haim Nahum, 24 December 1909, I, B, 3, AAIU. Ha-Herut, 1912, no. 41, 3. On the policies of the chief rabbinate and the change in the perceived role of the chief rabbi, see: Benbassa, Ottoman Jewry, 67–69. The political interests of the chief rabbinate, represented by Haim Nahum, served the aspirations of the community leaders in Beirut well in this initial phase of reorganization. However, the conflicts in Beirut, like those in other communities, attest to the ill-defined powers of the chief rabbi (either in Istanbul or in the provinces). Ha-Mevaser, 14 Tishrei, 1911, no. 40. Joseph Niégo to the President of the Relief Committee, 12 March 1917, AR 14/18, carton 151, AJDC. Appropriations to Syria, 1 January 1920 to 30 June 1920, AR 19/21, carton 284, AJDC. Community Council to the Committee of Deputies, 22 January 1920, L3/664, CZA. On Near East Relief and its work during the war, see: Robert Daniel, American Philanthropy in the Near East, 1820–1960 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1970), 148–170. The Committee of Deputies was a committee of Zionist leaders headed by Haim Weizmann and responsible to lay down solid foundations for the Jewish national

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home in Palestine. It was created after the Balfour Declaration (1917) and operated in the years 1918–1921. Community Council to the Committee of Deputies, 10 November 1919, L3/664, CZA. We will elaborate on B’nai B’rith and its role in Chapters Three and Four. The Mizrahi was a Zionist religious party founded in 1902. Shlomo Barzel to Itzhak Lurya, 17 September 1920, S2/579, CZA. In 1920, the soup kitchen fed forty-five kindergarten orphans, forty TalmudTorah students, seventy-one Alliance students, forty-two orphan girls, and twenty-two orphan boys. Jewish Community Council to Committee of Deputies, 22 January 1920, L3/664, CZA. In response to a question sent by the Committee of Deputies inquiring about the relationship between the office of the rabbinate and the community council, the communal secretary Yaacov Franco wrote: “The relationship between them is good, because the aforementioned rabbi is under the influence of the council and obeys its orders.” The Community Council to the Committee of Deputies, 10 November 1919, L3/664, CZA. Picard, Shattered Country, 31. Michel Abitbol, “Modernization Processes and the Development in Modern Times,” in History of the Jews in the Islamic Countries, vol. 2 (in Hebrew), ed. Shmuel Ettinger (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center, 1986), 366. On Jewish emancipation in Morocco, see: Daniel J. Schroeter and Joseph Chetrit, “Emancipation and Its Discontents: Jews at the Formative Period of Colonial Rule in Morocco,” Jewish Social Studies: History, Culture, Society n.s. 13, no. 1 (2006): 170–206. Department of Political Studies and Public Administration at the AUB, The Lebanese Constitution: A Reference Edition in English Translation (Beirut: Khayats, 1960), 4. Lebanese Constitution, 7. Zamir, Lebanon's Quest, 30. See letters of the Jewish Community Council to the High Commissioner for the following dates: 11 March 1931, 19 May 1933, 23 August 1935, 22 June 1937, carton 610, Syria-Lebanon, MAE. A waqf is an endowment of a revenue yielding property for a charitable purpose. Under Ottoman rule Jewish communities used to register communal assets as waqf in the Muslim courts. As a waqf, a property was protected from confiscation by the state. See: Haim Gerber, “Ha-Yehudim u-Mosad ha-Heqdesh ha-Muslemi ba-Imperyya ha-Osmanit” (The Jews and the wakf in the Ottoman Empire), Sefunot 17 (1983): 105–131; Ya‛acov Barnai, “The Jews in the Ottoman Empire,” in History of the Jews in the Islamic Countries, vol. 2 (in Hebrew) ed. Shmuel Ettinger (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center, 1986), 229. On the waqf, see at length: J. Benthall and J. Bellion-Jourdan, The Charitable Crescent: Politics of Aid in the Muslim World (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 2003), 29–44.

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This is also reflected in the 1909 statutes (Articles 2, 3, 36), which gave the community council full control of the community, its budgets, funds, and waqf. The 1909 statutes did not mention the position of chief rabbi at all, nor did they elaborate on his roles, powers, and responsibilities. Delegate of the H.C. to the President of the Beirut community, 14 September 1928, Syria-Lebanon, carton 610, MAE. Selim Srour to the High Commissioner, 30 October 1934, Beirut, carton 2959, MAE. Moise Braun to the delegate of the High-Commission, 11 June 1933, Beirut, carton 2959, MAE. General Delegate of the High-Commission to the Delegate of the HighCommission in the Lebanese Government, 7 January 1933, Beirut, carton 2959, MAE. Ibid.; High-Commission to the chief rabbi, 7 January 1933, Beirut, carton 2959, MAE. Delegate of the High-Commission to the President of the Jewish community, 14 September 1928, Syria-Lebanon, carton 610, MAE. Delegate of the High-Commission to the President of the Jewish community, 3 October 1928, Syria-Lebanon, carton 610, MAE. Statutes of the Jewish community of Beirut, 1930, Syria-Lebanon, carton 610, MAE. Ibid. On the organizational changes that were introduced by the French in Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco, see: Abitbol, “Modernization and Development,” 363–380. Report written by M. Mazas and submitted to the Advisory Council, SyriaLebanon, carton 610, MAE. No date is indicated on the report but it was written between March 1931 and March 1933. Vice-President of the Advisory Committee of Legislation to the Minister of Justice, 20 March 1933, Syria-Lebanon, carton 610, MAE. The High Commissioner to the Delegate of the High-Commission in the Lebanese government, 18 March 1931, Syria-Lebanon, carton 610, MAE. The Vice-President of the Advisory Committee to the Director of Justice, 20 March 1933, Syria-Lebanon, carton 610, MAE. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Chapter Five deals with Jewish philanthropy in Beirut and elaborates on the fiscal significance of both institutions. The committee took the name of its head, Shibl Dammus, a Greek Orthodox. Haggai Erlich, The Middle East between the World Wars, vol. 3 (in Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: The Open University of Israel, 1994), 102–104; Zamir, Modern Lebanon, 207– 209.

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The Jewish Community Council to the High Commissioner, 3 June 1926, Diplomatic Bureau, carton 2543, MAE. Capitalization appears in the source. Erlich, Middle East, 104. The Jewish Community Council to the High Commissioner, 3 June 1926, Diplomatic Bureau, carton 2543, MAE. Capitalization appears in the source. This was, of course, an exaggeration. According to French statistics, the Jews constituted 2.7 percent of Beirut’s population, while the Protestants constituted 2.38 percent. See: Representation of rites in the cadres of the Beirut municipality, Political Cabinet, carton 456, MAE. The Jewish Community Council to the High Commissioner, 4 June 1929, Diplomatic Bureau, carton 2543, MAE. Three of the 183 administration employees in the Beirut municipality were Jews, representing 1.63 percent. See: Representation of rites in the cadres of the Beirut municipality, Political Cabinet, carton 456, MAE. The Jewish Community Council to the High Commissioner, 3 January 1927, Diplomatic Bureau, carton 2543, MAE. The Jewish community of Beirut referred here to the Jewish community of Aleppo, whose head, Rahmo Nehmad, served in the Syrian Parliament during the French Mandate. Jewish Community Council to the High Commissioner, 3 June 1926, Beirut, Diplomatic Bureau, carton 2543, MAE.

CHAPTER THREE

Competing Ideologies During the interwar period, the stratification of the community structure became one of the main factors characterizing the modernization process of Middle Eastern Jews. Various associations and local branches of international Jewish organizations emerged as providers of ideologies, reforms, and political or cultural activity. After the Young Turk Revolution, these groups evolved as “opinion groups”— each trying to increase its influence in the community and direct the community according to its ideology and values. In other words, the Jewish community served as the arena where various “opinion groups”—each representing a different Jewish-reformist current— competed for political power and influence within the community. Esther Benbassa examines this process in Istanbul’s Jewish community between 1908 and 1920, a period of vibrant and overt political activity of Ottoman Jewry. She focuses on three major “opinion groups” in the Jewish community: the Alliance, the Chief Rabbinate, and the Zionists. To protect and secure its educational work, the Alliance relied on the support of both the chief rabbi and the Westernized Jewish elite. Through enlightenment and education, the Alliance sought to ‘regenerate’ the Jewish masses. It advocated the emancipation of Jews in Ottoman society and encouraged the learning of Turkish as a vehicle of integration. Furthermore, it contributed to the creation of a French-speaking middle class, which would join forces with the local Jewish bourgeoisie. However, the Alliance’s ideology of emancipation did not appeal to the Jewish masses, who were only partially Westernized. In addition, the Islamic and pan-Turkish lean-

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ings of the Young Turks stifled any opportunity for a real integration of Jews in the Ottoman society. Because most of the Jewish elite supported the Alliance ideology, the Zionists turned to the Jewish masses, who they hoped, in turn, would influence the elite to look more favorably upon the Zionist cause. The Zionist alternative appealed not only to the Jewish masses, but also to the youth and the semi-Westernized elements in the community. Benbassa explains the appeal of the Zionist ideology: The Ladino newspapers, the atmosphere in the [Zionist] societies, the Zionist narrative, the work in the service of the movement, and the activity in the leisure time attracted the youth and part of the Jewish public. Intellectuals, some Alliance graduates, and even teachers also joined. The Jewish community could not offer them a thing, since leadership positions were taken by the well-to-do.1

The Zionist movement, as Benbassa describes, offered a range of activities that appealed to the Jewish masses. Affiliation with the movement meant also social mobility and even the opportunity to gain political power within the community. Excluded from the circles of the Jewish bourgeoisie and unable to integrate with their Ottoman environment, the semi-Westernized elements in the community found in Zionism a sense of belonging and an opportunity to influence the community. Indeed, this mass appeal of Zionism threatened the establishment. Haim Nahum, the Chief Rabbi, opposed Zionism—he saw it as opposing the rabbinate. Nahum was mainly interested in securing the oligarchy and the Alliance’s position in the community. Tensions between the factions rose; Benbassa argues that Haim Nahum ultimately could not bring about any real changes because any such attempt would exacerbate severe tensions in the community. Summarizing the impact of the “imported” ideologies on Istanbul’s Jewish community, Benbassa concludes that the activity of European organizations, who failed to adapt themselves to local conditions, increased the instability of community institutions.2 While Benbassa examines the Jewish community in the Ottoman capital, Yaron Tsur studies the structure of the Jewish leadership in a

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colonial setting. Focusing on Casablanca’s Jewish community in the late colonial period, Tsur views the local Jewish leadership as a microcosm of the leadership in the Jewish diaspora. He classifies the community’s leadership groups along three main ideological lines: Orthodoxy, eastern Reformism (Zionism), and western Reformism. He further divides this last category into the Jewish-national current (the American branch) and “classical” branches (the French and Moroccan branches). According to Tsur, “In every [Jewish] diaspora that enters its post-traditional phase we may discover a microcosm that reflects the entire post-traditional leadership structure in the entire Jewish diaspora.”3 He argues that the large presence of foreign elements within the Jewish leadership of Casablanca distinguished it from other similar communities. To a large measure, the Jewish leadership’s unique structure resulted from a combination of the colonial position of the community and the position of France as a colonial power. This leadership structure created a condition in which the French colonial authorities were unable to block the penetration and influence of such ‘foreign’ organizations as the American-based Joint Distribution Committee. Furthermore, as Arab national movements escalated their struggle against French colonial rule, the French became more tolerant to the penetration of Zionist elements into the Jewish community. Although Benbassa focuses on the Young Turk Period (1908–1920) and Tsur on the Jewish community in the late colonial period (1940s– 1950s), the situation of Beirut’s Jewish community during most of the period of the French Mandate over Lebanon (1919–1939) falls somewhere in the middle. Whereas Benbassa examines a Jewish community in an Ottoman context and Tsur looks at the Jewish community in colonial context, this chapter investigates Beirut’s Jewish community in the unique political context of the French Mandate. Indeed, Beirut’s sociopolitical conditions greatly differed from those in Istanbul or Casablanca. Unlike Istanbul, for example, Beirut did not have an influential rabbinate, and, unlike Casablanca, Beirut was part of Lebanon—a mandatory state, Beirut’s residents were Lebanese citizens, and its society had a major Christian component. Moreover, the French Mandate authorities adapted themselves to local political tra-

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ditions and further institutionalized the confessional political system that had been in existence during the Mutasarrifiyya.4 Lebanese society’s confessional structure stalled the formation of an allencompassing national Lebanese identity.5 As such, the religious community remained the major form of identification. This lack of a clear national identity eased the local Jewish leadership’s identification with outside Jewish ideologies. Against this background, we shall now examine the Beirut leadership’s encounters with the ideologies of three organizations: the Alliance, B’nai B’rith, and the Zionist movement—or, using Tsur’s terminology, the French (assimilationist) current of western Jewish reformism, the American (national) current of western reformism, and the Jewish-national current of eastern Jewish reformism.

The Alliance Israélite Universelle In the previous chapter, we discussed the Alliance schools’ development in Beirut during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. By the 1880s, after a few unsuccessful attempts, the organization eventually managed to establish viable schools in the city. As the number of Jews living in Beirut grew, so did the number of students in the Alliance schools. By the mid-1920s, the annual budget of the schools amounted to 200,000 francs, half of which the Alliance funded. The French High Commission contributed some 20,000 francs, and tuition from paying students amounted to 60,000 francs. Thus, the school had a regular deficit of nearly 20,000 francs. During this time, the Alliance’s staff in Beirut included seventeen teachers, ten of whom were Frenchlanguage teachers—and seven of those had trained at the Ecole Normale Israélite Orientale (ENIO)6 in Paris. As in many other Jewish communities, the Alliance organizations in Beirut voiced opinions characteristic of its ideology of emancipation. In a report sent to the Information Service of the High Commission in 1924, the Alliance school director, Sidi, summarized the Alliance’s contributions to local Jews:

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We have taught, spread and made the French language, and consequently France, loved by many generations of students, all of whom actually speak French and enjoy respectable positions in administration, banking and commerce. From a social standpoint we have provided an honorable existence to a backwards population which has been devoting itself to the vilest occupations by awakening in them the feeling of personal dignity. We have worked to assimilate the Jews with their fellow citizens of other denominations and have given them a sense of the homeland and of solidarity.7

Sidi’s description provides a classic articulation of the Alliance ideology. While one may logically conclude that the spreading of French must have contributed to greater social interaction between the Jews and French-speaking Lebanese, the school director, in his glowing enumeration of the Alliance successes, ignores the unique character of the Lebanese society. In light of its confessional nature, the meaning of ‘assimilation’ remains vague and unclear. Although in Istanbul the Alliance enjoyed the support of the Jewish ruling oligarchy and the chief rabbi, Beirut’s situation greatly differed. The Alliance school did enjoy the patronage and support of the local French authorities, who as we shall see later, worked to secure the schools’ position in the community through regular funding and bonuses to its teachers. Yet, despite the Alliance schools’ popularity among Beirut Jews and support of some French officials, the Jewish community’s formal leadership adopted the ideology of B’nai B’rith. We shall now turn to discuss this organization, one that wielded paramount influence on the development of the Jewish community.

B’nai B’rith It is the adults who must be educated and enlightened, and the Order of B’ne[i] B’rith can perform this great missionary work, as no other institution or organization is so well adapted for the purpose as the Order . . . We may not see the results as yet, but the near future will demonstrate the wise policy pursued in dotting the Orient with lodges of the Order of B’nei B’rith. 8

A group of twelve German-Jewish immigrants founded the Independent Order of B’nai B’rith in New York City in 1843 with the goal of ending—or at least reducing—the chaos and disunity between the

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various segments of Jewish society in America.9 The organization’s constitution stated its mission: B’nai B’rith has taken upon itself the mission of uniting Israelites in the work of promoting their highest interests and those of humanity; of developing and elevating the mental and moral character of the people of our faith; of including the purest principles of philanthropy, honor, and patriotism; of supporting science and art; alleviating the wants of the victims of persecution; providing for, protecting, and assisting the widow and orphan on the broadest principles of humanity. 10

Members founded the first B’nai B’rith lodge in the Middle East in Cairo in 1887. The following year, Jews founded three lodges in Palestine: Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Safed. After an earlier attempt in 1890, B’nai B’rith founded the Arzei Ha-Levanon (‘Cedars of Lebanon’) lodge of Beirut in April 1911, which B’nai B’rith sources record as the official foundation date. All B’nai B’rith lodges in the Middle East, as well as those of Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece, fell under the auspices of the Grand Lodge of the Orient District—located in Istanbul.11 In 1914, the Orient District had twenty-four lodges with 1,037 members and, by 1924, thirty lodges with about 2,000 members.12 The founding of the B’nai B’rith lodge in 1890—twenty-one years before the founding of the Orient District’s Grand Lodge in Istanbul in May 1911, and in contrast to what Hamenorah (the Orient District's magazine) records as the official foundation date of the Beirut lodge— deserves review. As discussed in Chapter Two, the Beirut community in 1890 was still unorganized; it lacked such fundamental institutions as an elected council, general assembly, statutes, or taxation system. Therefore, the B’nai B’rith lodge—lacking the nurturing community framework—remained inactive, without any real power to influence the community. Furthermore, as the Grand Lodge had yet to be founded, the first lodges in the eastern Mediterranean remained largely isolated from B’nai B’rith’s resources, ideology, and moral guidance. By changing the foundation date from 1890 to 1911, either the magazine editors or B’nai B’rith members in Beirut sought to conceal the unproductive period from the local lodge’s history. The change of the foundation date of the Beirut lodge also attests to the effect of the

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foundation of the Grand Lodge in Istanbul on the development of B’nai B’rith in the eastern Mediterranean. By 1923, fourteen out of the thirty lodges that existed had been founded in either 1911 or a year later.13 Of note, the foundation of the first lodges in and around Palestine (i.e., Cairo, Jerusalem, Beirut) and the foundation of the Grand Lodge in Istanbul in 1911 suggest that B’nai B’rith followed in the footsteps of the American Protestant and European Catholic missions who revived, from the early nineteenth century, their activities in the eastern Mediterranean. During the French Mandate, most of the community council members in Beirut were also members in the local lodge; in 1933, all the community council members were also B’nai B’rith members.14 Furthermore, members of the Beirut lodge served on many community committees, including the Schools Committee, biqur-holim (Sick Aid Society), hakhnassat orhim (Welcoming Guests), and mattan basseter (Giving in Secret). Given this, an almost complete overlap existed between the community leadership and the local Arzei Ha-Levanon lodge. This leads one to analyze not only the appeal and messaging of B’nai B’rith but also why Beirut’s leadership so enthusiastically adopted it. B’nai B’rith lodges in the East had two major, official objectives: the unification of the various Jewish elements (in particular, Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews) and raising the moral and intellectual level of Middle Eastern Jews.15 Public lectures made by community leaders and B’nai B’rith members on various occasions offer additional insights into the Order’s contemporary ideology. In 1927, for example, Yoseph Sutton delivered a speech on the occasion of the initiation of new members, explaining the requirements and duties of a Ben-B’rith member: 1. Be a good Jew, proud of the heritage you have acquired from your ancestors, and acknowledge the perpetuity of the house of Israel. 2. Be a friend of humanity, liberator of the oppressed, benefactor of the poor and the orphans [who are] without resources . . .

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Arzei Ha-Levanon lodge emerged as the cultural and intellectual center of the community, and its members reflected this view. In order to maintain its vitality within the community, the lodge carefully selected only established individuals of high moral standing and good public renown and admitted them at an annual ceremony. The second article in the lodge’s statutes elaborates on the virtues of a good B’nai B’rith candidate: He must be at least 21 years old, be sound in body and mind, and be in a situation allowing him to live honorably and to carry without difficulty all the expenses of the lodge. He must have adequate general education, enjoy good renown, and have irreproachable conduct. He must know to appreciate the value of humanitarian tendencies and be determined to fulfill in his acts the spirit of these tendencies.17

Unlike the Alliance, which sought to transform the Jewish society by providing modern French education for children (change from below), B’nai B’rith sought to reform the Jewish society by providing educated adults with a platform for social activism (change from the top). The lodge constantly sought to gather the strongest, most active elements of the community under its roof in order to build a strong lodge that would be able to initiate, plan, and implement various programs. Community leaders saw the Beirut lodge as a center in which potential leaders could put their social skills and values into practice and contribute to the progress of the community through social action. In the lodge’s activity report for the years 1928–1929, a comment upon admitting new members reveals this commonly shared view: “With the new recruits, our lodge, already quite strong, is further strengthened, and we hope that the new brothers will soon rank among the most active members of our community.”18 Indeed, whereas social activism formed a core element of the lodge, apathy became

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its greatest enemy, a concept Hamenorah magazine repeatedly addressed. In a speech delivered in 1930 in honor of Joseph Niégo, 19 Yoseph ‛Attie, a B’nai B’rith member and a community leader, echoed this concern: “We do not doubt that such occasional visits will help keep us on guard, and will help us distance ourselves from the danger of indifference and apathy which harms us.” 20 These examples attest to the importance the lodge placed on such values as leadership and social activism. In addition to creating a platform for an elite group of leaders and improving community institutions, the B’nai B’rith lodge also embarked on an ‘intellectual renaissance’ in the community, one of the organization’s official goals. Beginning in 1927, the lodge, depending on its budget, either invited leading figures from the Yishuv or asked Jewish figures passing through the city to lecture in the community. In 1927, for example, the lodge invited Abraham Elmaleh,21 Jacob Berman,22 Hans Kohn,23 and Meir Dizengoff24 to Beirut where they lectured in Arabic, French, and Hebrew on topics such as Sephardic revival, Jewish national revival, and the development of the Yishuv. 25 Some of the lectures were performed in the Magen-Abraham synagogue (hence open to all), while other lectures were given in the more limited settings of the B’nai B’rith lodge or the club of the Union Universelle de la Jeunesse Juive (U.U.J.J.).26 This intellectual literary activity was not short-lived. A report from 1933 reveals vibrant activity in the lodge, which benefited from the passage of various Jewish intellectuals and leaders through Beirut. The lodge invited these leaders to speak on a wide range of such topics as ‘Bialik, the poet of the Hebrew revival,’ ‘The activity of the German lodges,’ ‘The Hebrew University in Jerusalem,’ ‘Jewish current events,’ ‘American Judaism,’ and ‘The history of B’nai B’rith,’ as well as lectures on other Jewish and general subjects. No doubt, this activity educated local Jews on world affairs as well as Jewish affairs. Local Jews learned about the development of Zionism and the Yishuv, American Jewry, the deteriorating position of German Jews, and the activities of various Jewish organizations and institutions. Jacques Stambouli, a leading B’nai B’rith member, summarized the impact of this intellectual activity within the lodge:

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“All these lectures obtain the most frank success, and never before in Beirut did our community enjoy such an abundance of literary celebrations. The lodge, therefore, greatly contributed to raising the intellectual and moral level.”27 The B’nai B’rith lodge provided local leaders (some of whom were Alliance graduates) with three elements of great appeal: a moral agenda, a national-oriented ideology, and a renewed Jewish identity in which religion was much respected.

Jewish Nationalism [A]nd my spirit storms loudly to do something for the [colonization] idea in the city of my residence [Beirut] . . . therefore I made it my goal to instill in their hearts the love and feeling for our holy language, and in spite my many great troubles, I devote time to this, to convince them to acquire the habit of reading Hebrew journals and books, and by that I hope that, slowly, their feelings for Judaism will develop and that the holy [colonization] idea will take root in their hearts.28

Beirut’s proximity to Palestine turned some Beirut Jews into indirect participants in one of the earliest colonization initiatives there. In 1875, El’azar Roqe’ah from Safed,29 a religious scholar who adopted the ideals of agricultural settlement, bought half of the land in the neighboring Arab village of Ja‛uni. Three years later, seventeen Jewish families from Safed settled there and named the place Gei Oni (today, Rosh Pinna). In 1879, Roqe’ah arrived in Beirut, where he met with local Jews and consulted with them on matters of the colony. According to Roqe’ah, all the people he consulted with in Beirut advised him to establish a local committee that would serve as an intermediary between the colonists and the donors in Eastern Europe, mostly in Russia. Indeed, a local committee was founded with Emil Frank as president, his brother Simon as vice president, and two local Sephardic merchants: Yoseph Hazzan and Raphael Abulafia.30 Most likely, the committee did not exist for long, since Roqe’ah failed to secure financial support for Gei Oni, and the families returned to Safed—to a life of haluqah.31 Although this particular colony failed, the founding of a colonization committee in Beirut and the direct contacts of local Beiruti Jews

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with the embryonic colonization work in Palestine inspired other Beirut Jews. In 1884, for example, an Ashkenazi Jew named Shmuel Ya‛acov Friedshtein—deeply moved by the developments in Palestine—sent a letter to the Ha-Maggid newspaper describing his plan to instill the idea of the colonization of Palestine in the hearts of Jews in Beirut, Damascus, and Aleppo. According to his plan, he would first work to instill the habit of reading Hebrew periodicals and books among local Jews, hoping to open their hearts to Judaism and to the colonization work. Second, Friedshtein would found in Beirut a society for the colonization of Palestine, which would be followed by similar societies in Damascus and Aleppo. Friedshtein envisioned that such a plan would benefit the colonization enterprise in two ways. Because the colonization idea had the power to unite Ashkenazim and Sephardim, who were, in Friedshtein’s words, “almost foreign to us,” the plan would win the hearts of many local Jews; and, among the local Jews who were Ottoman subjects, many wealthy, respected Jews were in a position to influence Ottoman authorities to “open before them the gates of the country.”32 While Friedshtein’s letter constitutes the earliest known expression of Zionist idea in Beirut, no evidence has surfaced to suggest he put his ideas into practice. Eventually, the increasing number of Russian Jews arriving in Beirut toward the end of the century put some of Friedshtein’s ideas into practice. Let us now examine their activities, patterns of organization, and impact on the local Jews.

The Zionist Ashkenazi ‘Colony’ in Beirut Zionism is doing its work of national re-awakening, in Beirut as in Palestine, and is producing a Jewish solidarity and enthusiasm amongst a section of the Jewish people which had almost sunk into superstition and atrophy. 33

The opening decade of the twentieth century witnessed a national awakening among the Ashkenazi Jews of Beirut. In 1907, a local Jew reported to the Hashqafah newspaper that Jews coming from Russia and young Jewish men coming from Palestine try to spread Hebrew

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and “work with diligence to revive the [Jewish] nationalism in this city, which plays a large role in the commerce of Syria.”34 Two years later, the “national re-awakening” in the city impressed another visitor. It is difficult to estimate how many Ashkenazi Jews resided in Beirut at that time; because Beirut served as a hub for Jews going to and coming from Palestine, the Ashkenazi element in the city remained in flux. A source from 1902 estimated the number of Ashkenazi families at twenty.35 Another source from 1908 indicated that there were ninety Jewish students in the Syrian Protestant College (SPC) and the French University.36 If these sources are accurate, an estimation of 150–200 Ashkenazi Jews would not be far from reality. This group of mainly Russian Jews—established businessmen, merchants, and younger students—comprised the driving force behind the Zionist activity in the city. More precise, they supported classical (Eastern European) Zionism. During the first decade of the twentieth century, Ashkenazi Jews founded four institutions in Beirut: a library (Beit-Sefarim), a synagogue, a kindergarten, and a cultural center (Beit-‛Am). In addition, Russian Jewish students, often supported by Ashkenazi businessmen, founded four Zionist (or Zionist-oriented) societies: Ness ha-Levanon,37 Qadima (‘forward’), Herut (‘freedom’), and Maccabi. They founded Ness ha-Levanon, the first Zionist society in Lebanon, in 1900 to establish a Hebrew library. Mainly young adults made up the group, but several established individuals, such as Dr. Kaizerman, supported this initiative. The society’s purpose was to strengthen and spread Hebrew as a spoken language, and its members made efforts to collect and purchase Hebrew periodicals and books. To support this purpose financially, the society organized social events and lotteries.38 In 1909, the World Zionist Organization formally recognized the society. It ceased to function during the First World War, but renewed its activity immediately afterward. A letter the society sent to the Zionist Organization in April 1919 reveals that about two hundred individuals had paid the Zionist Sheqel39 and that its members had gathered to reorganize the society. They appointed a committee of seven people, mostly Ashkenazim. The society asked for such materials as stamps

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and collection boxes and for propaganda materials in French, English, and Hebrew in order to facilitate the spread of Zionism in Beirut.40 Qadima (the SPC’s Jewish student association) and Herut, two of the other Jewish societies, initiated, organized, and performed plays in Hebrew, as well as provided public lectures, holiday celebrations, and other social events. Many of the events, as with the case of Ness ha-Levanon’s support of the library, raised money either for the library, the cultural center, or for the societies themselves. Such events certainly offered entertainment; more important, however, they exposed local Jews to Hebrew as a modern language and to the Zionist movement. The Ashkenazim were sensitive to the impact of their activities on local Jews. In 1907, for example, after a Hebrew play was performed to raise funds for the kindergarten, an anonymous observer commented: Indeed, the place was very small to accommodate all the guests, and there was not much order. Nevertheless, it is easy to realize that a great step was made here for our language, and while, unfortunately, many of the guests (all Sephardim) did not understand the play,41 they realized that the Hebrew language has been revived. We hope that in the future, they will take care to spread it among themselves. 42

In another case, Qadima and Herut promoted a play using advertisements posted throughout the city. These posters drew the attention of the local Jews, who saw Hebrew only in prayer books . . . and many of them hurried to buy entrance tickets, and indeed, many of the local Jews attended the play . . . This play made a good impression on our Sephardic brothers here, [they] heard people speak Hebrew for simple secular matters, and if [we] would show them enough Hebrew plays with Hebrew national content, we could incite in them, too, the national renaissance movement. 43

In 1909, several Ashkenazi activists44 organized a Zionist event in the cultural center. They chose the date carefully: the event took place immediately after the opening of the ninth Zionist Congress, in order to spread the Zionist idea in Beirut. The organizers sent invitations to all of Beirut’s Jews, and invited two local notables—Yoseph Farhi and

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Selim Mann—to speak in Arabic before the Sephardic crowd, who “until now were far from any national matter, [they] did not participate in any Zionist meeting here, this time they showed their warm participation, and attended en masse.” 45 However, beyond spreading Zionist ideals, some Jews hoped Zionism would unify the community. In 1907, for example, after a Purim celebration in Beirut, a local Jew named Yoseph Yesha‛aya Bekhar expressed his hope that the celebration, aimed at supporting the unity of all Jews and spreading Hebrew, made an impact on local Jews. 46 Another observer reported on the Zionist celebration following the ninth Zionist Congress; satisfied with its outcome, he noted that some Sephardic Jews joined the Zionist society while many others paid the Zionist Sheqel.47 Another Jew, writing to the Ha-Tsvi newspaper, commented: “We hope that the [Beit ha-‛Am] committee . . . will try to center on it [i.e., Beit ha-‛Am] the more prolific forces in Beirut and maybe the disunity [Perud ha-Levavot] in the camp will come to its end.” 48 This desire to unite Ashkenazim and Sephardim formed part of the Zionist thinking of Ashkenazi Jews in Beirut and likely in other communities in the Middle East. The expressed desire to bring about unity reflects the social tension that existed in the community in the initial phase of community organization. These examples also imply that some Ashkenazi Jews in Beirut viewed the Zionist ideology as a unifying force that enabled them to gain status and recognition as equal members in the local community. As we saw in Chapter Two, the Young Turk Revolution—not Jewish national reformism (Zionism)—launched the community organization process in Beirut. True, the Ashkenazim had a certain impact on public life in Beirut from the beginning of the twentieth century. Moreover, they were able to increase their influence as the neighboring Yishuv developed and as international developments like the Zionist Congresses, the British occupation of Palestine, and the Balfour Declaration of 1917 strengthened the Zionist movement’s international position. Yet the Ashkenazim of Beirut were newcomers, foreigners, and a small minority within Beirut’s Jewish population. Nevertheless,

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the war’s end witnessed a renewed enthusiasm for Zionism among many Beiruti Jews.

The Impact of the Yishuv at War’s End The British occupation of Palestine and the Balfour declaration in 1917 invigorated Zionist activity everywhere. In Beirut, the war’s end brought two changes to Zionist activity. First, they founded new societies, this time with more explicit national names: Ha-Tehiyya (‘the revival’) and The National Club Ha-Tiqvah (‘the hope’). Of course, not all of the societies in Beirut were active or influential. While Ha-Tiqvah became a coffeehouse where young people spent their free time, HaTehiyya became the main force behind reopening the kindergarten and negotiating the foundation of a Hebrew school. Second, such prominent Jewish Palestinian leaders as David Yelin, Itzhak Burlah, David Rivlin, and Abraham Elmaleh visited the community on occasion and encouraged local leaders to seek the support and patronage of the Yishuv for their schools. Influenced by the Jewish Palestinian leadership and the Hebrew educational activity in Damascus, 49 local Zionist activists began to address letters to the Education Committee and the Committee of Deputies in Palestine, asking for both moral and financial support. The kindergarten and the establishment of a Hebrew school comprised the core of this correspondence. The Ness ha-Levanon society first raised the issue of Hebrew institutions before the Education Committee. It stressed the need to establish “Hebrew schools with Hebrew influence,”50 and urged the committee to act accordingly. Shortly afterward, Ness ha-Levanon was joined by the Ha-Tehiyya society, which eventually led the campaign for a Hebrew school in the city. In November 1918, Moshe Cohen, an Ashkenazi leader in Beirut, wrote to the Education Committee in Jaffa, expressing his eagerness to negotiate with the Education Committee about the opening of a kindergarten and a Hebrew school.51 Cohen had both ideological and practical considerations: the desire to provide Jewish-national education and thereby draw the local community to Zionism. Moreover,

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Cohen also wanted these Hebrew institutions to serve the Ashkenazi community in Beirut. He concluded his letter, “We are sure that the Education Committee will take our plea very seriously and will hurry to lay the foundation for Hebrew education in our city also.”52 A year later, Abraham Elmaleh visited the community in Beirut, informing the leadership about the success of Damascus’s Hebrew schools in spreading the Hebrew language. The impact of Elmaleh’s visit was immediate. Moshe Elshtein, an Ashkenazi member of the Beirut community council, wrote to the Education Committee informing them that, after discussing the affairs of the Jewish community with Mr. Elmaleh, “We [the community council] concluded that education is the only burning issue here, the solution of which cannot be delayed.”53 In sum, from the beginning of the century until the First World War, Beirut’s Ashkenazim worked to advance the Zionist idea in the community by spreading the teaching of Hebrew and organizing Hebrew plays, lectures, readings, and festivals during the holidays. Considering their small numbers and their limited resources, they were able not only to draw the attention of Beirut Jews but also to attract supporters and sympathizers to the Zionist cause. The Zionist ideology enabled them to influence the public sphere, which otherwise would have remained inaccessible for them as ‘foreign’ newcomers in a mostly Sephardic community. In fact, the number of Ashkenazi members in the community council was indicative of their influence: in 1909, the twelve-member council had three Ashkenazi members; in 1919, it had six. While the Ashkenazim were able to draw the attention of the local Jews to Zionism, their accomplishments remained limited: the Education Committee supported the kindergarten only partially, and it did not support the Talmud-Torah school at all, although the school initially adopted the Mizrahi educational program. The community council, although generally sympathetic to Zionist work in Beirut, thought that the Yishuv should assume financial responsibility for educational institutions instilling Jewish national values.

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The Jewish Community and the King-Crane Commission As Jews we wish that our Jewish brothers in the Diaspora could freely immigrate to Palestine to settle there, to establish colonies, factories, commercial houses . . . We ask that the Jewish immigrants find in the local government any relief and necessary aid, because the Jews who settled in Palestine recently have proven by their talent, industriousness, and their progressive spirit, that they are a useful element to the country, as clearly proven by the results of their settlement in the country. 54

In July 1919, the American King-Crane Commission arrived in the Middle East to learn about the local people’s views and wishes for the region’s political future.55 The Commission met with representatives and leaders of the various communities in the region. Convinced that the Commission’s rulings would determine the region’s political future, local leaders assigned much importance to their testimony.56 The political views of the different communities were easy to predict. Almost all the Maronites and the Greek Catholics supported the option of Greater Lebanon as an independent state, separated from Syria, and under French mandate. Conversely, the great majority of Sunnis along the coast vehemently rejected that vision and supported the option of Greater Syria under American or British protection. In order to prepare for the King-Crane Commission, the Beirut Jewish Council sought to consult with the Zionist Committee of Deputies (Va‛ad ha-Tsirim). Shortly before the Commission’s arrival, the Beirut community council asked the Committee of Deputies to send an emissary to Beirut without delay.57 In its immediate response, received in Beirut within twelve days, the Committee of Deputies suggested that the Beirut community ask for the “same rights you had under the Turks.”58 Since the region perceived the arrival of the King-Crane Commission as a major political event with potential consequences for Palestine, the Committee of Deputies did charge Abraham Elmaleh with a political mission to the major Jewish communities of Greater Syria to secure their favor for Zionist causes. Upon his arrival in Beirut, the

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community council conferred in preparation for the meeting with the Commission. Fortunately, we have a few testimonies shedding light on this episode. Two community members related to the appearance of the Jewish community before the King-Crane Commission. Yoseph Azar states that Yoseph Farhi spoke in favor of the Jewish national home in Palestine, bringing much honor “to his senders and to all the Jewish communities in the East.”59 Jacques Stambouli, a community leader, describes the episode more or less along the same lines, but he adds that there was a complete consensus about France as the desired mandatory government.60 The testimony of Elmaleh, however, appears more significant because it portrays a less idyllic episode. His request that the community delegation voice a pro-Zionist stance before the King-Crane Commission raised objections from some council members. Years after the events, Elmaleh recalled: The deceased Yoseph Farhi and I were charged to draft the memorandum that was submitted to the American Commission; when the details of the stormy meeting, in which the fateful decision was made, would be published . . . the Jewish people would know the great support Yoseph Farhi showed to the [national] aspirations of Erets-Israeli Jewry.61

These objections seem to have stemmed from concerns that overt identification with the Zionist cause would offend Muslims. Several months after the events, Elmaleh reported to the Ha-‘Olam newspaper that there are two factions in the Jewish community council: the assimilationist and the nationalist. Initially, the former was stronger, but as the nationalists grew in number, so did their influence, and eventually they became the dominant faction in the council.62 Elmaleh’s view of a bipolar council (assimilationists versus nationalists) stemmed from his experience in Beirut in July 1919. The national faction within the council supported overt identification with the Zionist cause, whereas the assimilationist faction opposed it. As is clear from the testimonies of Elmaleh, Azar, and Stambouli, the Jewish community presented a pro-Zionist stance before the KingCrane Commission. It also supported French protection for Syria. However, the council was neither asked for nor voiced its views re-

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garding Lebanon as an enlarged, independent state separate from Syria. The memorandum Elmaleh and Farhi drafted and presented to the King-Crane Commission stated: [W]e do not demand complete autonomy [for Syria], but seek the help of one of the European powers . . . considering the special position of France in Syria, we want with all our hearts that the protection over Syria will be handed to her for the mental and economic development of this country. But [we want] only secular France, the France of human rights, which proclaimed freedom and fraternity for all nations regardless of race and religion, the first who gave Jews civil rights, . . . we demand that such a France protect Syria so it can lead our country towards progress and success.63

At this historic juncture, the Jews of Beirut, in opposition to the desire of the Muslim majority, overtly favored both French rule and Zionist causes. While Elmaleh certainly played a role in this episode, there is no indication his influence was decisive. Most of the council members appear to have been receptive to his involvement. Also, recall that the Beirut council initially sought the guidance of the Committee of Deputies, which one can understand given the political uncertainty in the region after the war. In this interim period between Ottoman and French rule, Elmaleh’s political mission marked the apogee of direct Zionist intervention in the Beirut community’s affairs.

Conclusion In this chapter, we explored the three Jewish reformist currents that significantly influenced Beirut’s Jewish community in its formative phases. By the end of World War I, the Alliance school, the B’nai B’rith lodge, and the Zionist ‘colony’ emerged as local proxies of international Jewish organizations. The local Alliance school promoted an assimilationist ideology; the B’nai B’rith lodge promoted not only an American-Jewish version of Jewish-national reformism that stressed Jewish solidarity but also community revival through social activism and humanitarian values. The Zionist ‘colony’ spread the Zionist idea, spoken Hebrew, organized cultural activities of Jewish-

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national character, founded various Zionist societies, and fostered contacts with the Yishuv. In the early phase of the community’s development, these reformist currents wielded, at best, minimal influence. This dramatically increased after the Young Turk Revolution, which signaled the beginning of the second phase of Beirut’s development of the community— its formal organization. During this period of formal community organization, the three reformist currents produced the greatest social tension within the community. With the establishment of modern Lebanon in 1920, particularly after the Jewish community council consolidated its powers, the B’nai B’rith ideology assumed increasing influence in the community at the expense of the other two reformist currents. While the Alliance mainly backed its school principals, B’nai B’rith empowered the local leaders, instilling in them a feeling of Jewish pride, self-confidence, and a strong sense of social action and leadership. Here, the reasons why the community aligned with B’nai B’rith become clearer. The Order allowed the local leaders to assume communal responsibility. Local leaders became capable of designing their own agenda and providing their own education without the patronage of outside organizations. These leaders—many of whom were Alliance graduates—wanted freedom of action, independent thinking, and initiative, all of which they found in B’nai B’rith. A letter sent by Yoseph Farhi to the Alliance president exemplifies this point. In this letter, Farhi explains the reasons behind his plan to found a new school in Beirut: “I think that the best evidence of acknowledgment that I can give to Alliance is by following its example. I follow its excellent principle which is to elevate the moral and material conditions of our brethren.”64 In other words, Farhi argues local Jews have the right, if not the obligation, to work for their own betterment even in the field of education—a field the Alliance virtually monopolized.65 In June 1927, Hamenorah magazine published an article reviewing the history of B’nai B’rith’s activity in the Middle East. The author, Isidor Auerbach, highlighted the organization’s contributions to local Jewish communities:

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The old dependence on the continuous assistance of the foreign Judaism was replaced by independent thinking and social action, the separation of classes diminished visibly, the rich learned to help the poor and to guide them in order to make them capable of making their living; the works of Jewish education created and supported uniquely by foreign societies (Alliance Israélite Universelle, Hilfsverein der Deutchen Juden) are being emancipated, the Order put an end, partially, to the anarchy in the community, it changed the collective and individual conduct of the man of the Orient.66

The B’nai B’rith ideology served the leadership on three levels. On the personal level, the lodge trained a cadre of community leaders while emphasizing social activism, moral conduct, and humanitarian values. On the community level, the lodge devised well-defined goals for community progress and reforms and created an atmosphere of vitality and dynamism in the community. Last, the B’nai B’rith ideology allowed—and actually encouraged—freedom of thought and freedom of action. The creation of a regional B’nai B’rith branch in Istanbul in 1911 (District of the Orient No. 11) represents the organized expression of B’nai B’rith’s interest in and attention to the Jewish communities of the eastern Mediterranean. The Jewish leadership in Beirut acknowledged and greatly appreciated the organization’s attention and interest. In contrast, the Alliance—a highly centralized organization—did not establish regional branches. Bigger Jewish communities, like those in Morocco, mainly occupied the Alliance’s Central Committee in Paris, a fact noticed by French officials in Lebanon. 67 Furthermore, the Alliance in Beirut relied on the support of the French authorities and not on that of the Jewish leadership, as had been the case in the Jewish community of Istanbul.68 While the Alliance school was popular among Beiruti Jews, the organization’s influence there remained restricted to education; it had never enjoyed a predominant influence on the community’s development and ideological orientation. Throughout the French Mandate, a clear Lebanese identity had yet to take shape.69 The multi-communal nature of Lebanese society and the confessional nature of Lebanon’s political system stalled the formation of an all-encompassing national identity. Furthermore, unlike

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Alexandria and Izmir, Beirut did not host a large foreign colony with which the Jews could integrate and identify. These conditions eased the identification of the local leadership with outside Jewish reformist currents. If we look at the Beirut Jewish leadership through Tsur’s perspective, we can ascertain several points. Rather than several leadership groups like in Casablanca or Istanbul, the Jewish community of Beirut had one dominant leadership group—the community council. The B’nai B’rith lodge, rather than being an outside opinion group, virtually overlapped with the community council. Furthermore, the council controlled Beirut’s chief rabbi and he did not enjoy any real powers beyond matters of personal status. Istanbul’s ruling elite—along with the chief rabbi—largely fell under the influence of the Alliance; in contrast, B’nai B’rith influenced Beirut’s community council. Last, while the ruling oligarchy in Istanbul faced a fierce Zionist opposition, no such opposition challenged the Beirut community council. In fact, the Beirut Jewish leadership remained rather homogeneous and much less fragmented than that of other Jewish communities. The dominant position of the B’nai B’rith ideology within the community may explain the relative stability and the efficient functioning of its institutions.

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Notes

1

2

3

4 5

6

7 8 9

10

11 12 13 14 15

16

Esther Benbassa, Ha-Yehadut ha-Osmanit bein Hitma‛arvut le-Tsiyyonut 1908–1920 (Ottoman Jewry between Westernization and Zionism, 1908–1920) (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center, 1996), 245. Benbassa, Ottoman Jewry, 249. Daniel Schroeter, who examined the relations between British Jewry and the Jews of Mogador in the second half of the nineteenth century, came to a similar conclusion. See: Daniel Schroeter, “Yehadut Angliyya ve-Qehilat Essaouira (Mogador) 1860–1900—Ha-Hashlakhot ha-Hevratiyot Shel ha-Filantropiya” (Anglo-Jewry and Essaouira (Mogador): The social implications of philanthropy), Pe‛amim 17 (1983): 32–33. Yaron Tsur, “A Post-Traditional Jewish Community: The Jews of Casablanca at the End of French Rule,” in The Jews of Casablanca: Studies in the Modernization of the Political Elite in a Colonial Community (in Hebrew), ed. Yaron Tsur and Hagar Hillel (Tel Aviv: The Open University, 1995), 73–74. Akarli, The Long Peace, 187–188. Some recent studies discuss the subject of Lebanese identity in light of Lebanon’s unique sociopolitical structure. See: A. Kaufman, “Reviving Phoenicia: The Search for an Identity in Lebanon” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 2000); F. Salameh, “Inventing Lebanon: Lebanonism in the Poetry and Thought of Saïd Akl” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 2004); Kais Firro, Inventing Lebanon: Nationalism and the State under the Mandate (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 2003). The ENIO (Ecole Normale Israélite Orientale) was the Alliance’s teacher-training school. Sidi to Captain Dueroeq, 31 December 1924, Beirut, carton 1064, MAE. Menora, v. 11, August–December, 1891, 112, Box 38, BBA. See, for example: Jonathan Sarna, American Judaism: A History (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2004), 88–91. Edward. E. Grusd, B'nai B'rith: The Story of a Covenant (New York: AppletonCentury, 1966), 20. The Grand Lodge in Istanbul was founded in May 1911. Hamenorah, June, 1927, 264–265. Hamenorah, September–October 1923, 146. Hamenorah, January–March 1934, 25. The first article of the Beirut lodge statutes stipulated that “the aim of the lodge is to develop among its members and among the Jews the purest principles of humanity and to raise them intellectually and morally.” Statutes of B’nai B’rith lodge No. 691, Beirut, carton 2959, MAE. Hamenorah, April 1928, 132–133.

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17 18 19

20 21

22

23

24 25 26

27 28

29

30 31

The Jews of Beirut

Statutes of B’nai B’rith lodge No. 691, Beirut, carton 2959, MAE. Hamenorah, March–April 1930, 124. See also: Hamenorah, April 1928, 127. Niégo was one of the principals of the Miqve Israel agricultural school; he later became the first president of B’nai B’rith lodge in Istanbul. Hamenorah, February 1930, 79. A journalist, public figure, and leader of the Sephardic community in Palestine, Abraham Elmaleh (1885–1967) visited many Jewish communities in the Middle East and North Africa. He published many works on Jewish history. Jacob Berman (1878–1974) was a rabbi and educator. He served for many years as chief inspector for Ha-Mizrahi schools and vice director of the Zionist Education Committee (1924–1944). Hans Kohn (1891–1971) was a Zionist activist and publicist. In 1925 he moved to Palestine and worked for Keren ha-Yesod (United Israel Appeal) until 1929. In 1934, he moved to the United States where he taught Jewish history in various academic institutions. Meir Dizengoff (1861–1936) was Tel Aviv’s mayor from 1910 until his death. Hamenorah, April 1928, 129–131. The U.U.J.J. (Union universelle de la jeunesse juive) was a youth movement founded by two Salonican Jews who settled in France and started to operate in 1923. It supported Zionism and worked for Jewish revival through the instruction of Hebrew and Jewish history. Hamenorah, January–March 1934, 25. From a letter of Shmuel Friedshtein to Ha-Maggid newspaper. See: Ha-Maggid, 22 May 1884, no. 28, 172. El’azar Roqe’ah (1854–1914) was born in Jerusalem to a Hassidic family. He married young and moved to Safed, where he continued his religious studies. At age seventeen, he published a pamphlet in which he promoted agricultural work and settlement as a healthier alternative to the life of haluqah. To that end, Roqe’ah founded a society named Yishuv Erets ha-Qodesh (Settlement of the Holy Land). After the initiative in Gei Oni failed, he continued to work fervently for the colonization of Palestine and held several official positions in Romania (as a secretary of the National Committee for the Colonization of Palestine in Galats) and in Palestine (as a secretary and assistant to Abraham Moyal, the chair of the executive committee of Hovevei Tsiyyon in Palestine). He criticized the Rothschild bureaucracy for their strict control over the colonists and he even criticized Hovevei Tsiyyon for not fighting for the colonists’ freedom. Roqe’ah was dismissed from several positions including the two mentioned above. David Tidhar, Entsiqlopediya le Halutsei ha-Yishuv u Bonav, vol. 2 (Encyclopedia of the Yishuv’s pioneers and builders) (Tel Aviv: M. Shoham, 1947), 915–917. Havatselet, 26 December 1879, no. 11–12, 84–86. Haluqah (Hebrew: distribution) was a term coined in the eighteenth century, referring to monies collected and sent by European Jews to support Jews in Pales-

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32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

40

41

42 43 44

45 46 47 48 49

50

51 52 53

54

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tine. Until the nineteenth century, the Jews of Palestine engaged in religious study and were completely dependent on these contributions sent from abroad. Ha-Maggid, 22 May 1884, no. 28, 172. More Leaves from a Palestine Diary, 1908. A255/52, CZA. Hashqafah, 13 March 1907, no. 47, 4–5. Havatselet, 24 January 1902, no. 32, 118. More Leaves from a Palestone Diary, 1908. A255/52, CZA. In Hebrew, Ness ha-Levanon means both Lebanon’s flag and Lebanon’s miracle. Hashqafah, 15 January 1904, no. 16, 119. The Zionist Organization’s annual fee. The fee gave anyone who paid it the right to vote for the Zionist Congress. Ness ha-Levanon Committee to the Zionist Organization, 2 April 1919, L8/176, CZA. This is an exaggeration. Many of the local Jews did in fact understand Hebrew. See: Hashqafah, 30 January 1907, no. 35, 4. Hashqafah, 8 January 1907, no. 29, 3–4. Ha-Tsvi, 14 January 1909, no. 79, 2. These were Mr. Lipovski (the manager of Anglo-Palestine Bank in Beirut), Mr. Grazovski, and Mr. Kaizerman. Ha-Tsvi, 4 January 1910, no. 78. Hashqafah, 13 March 1907, no. 47, 4–5. Ha-Tsvi, 4 January 1910, no. 78. Hashqafah, 15 April 1908, no. 61, 2. On the impact and the relations of the Yishuv with the Jewish community of Damascus after World War I, see at length: Yaron Harel, “’Qidma Gedola’: Va’ad ha-Tzirim ve-Qehilat Dameseq” (‘Great Progress’: The Committee of Deputies and the community of Damascus—surveys, programs, and actions), Pe‛amim 67 (1996): 57–95. Ness ha-Levanon society to the Education Committee, S2/493, CZA. Though no year is indicated on the letter, it appears to be one of the first letters addressed to the Education Committee in Jaffa. Moshe Cohen to the Education Committee, 4 November 1918, S2/657, CZA. Moshe Cohen to the Education Committee, 4 November 1918, S2/657, CZA. Beirut community council to the Education Committee, 1 October 1919, S2/579, CZA. Extract from the memorandum of the Beirut community to the King-Crane Commission. See: Abraham Elmaleh, “Hartsa’ah al Nesi’ati le-Arei Suryya” (A lecture on my travel to the cities of Syria), Av 1919, L3/728, CZA. This is a nineteen-page report of Elmaleh’s on his political mission to Syria and Lebanon prior to the arrival of the King-Crane Commission. In his report, Elmaleh cited major parts from the memorandum the community drafted and presented to the Commission.

148

55

56 57 58 59 60

61 62

63

64 65

66 67

68 69

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Harry N. Howard, The King-Crane Commission: An American Inquiry in the Middle East (Beirut: Khayats, 1963); George Antonius, The Arab Awakening (Beirut: Librairie du Liban, 1969), 295–298; Michael B. Oren, Power, Faith, and Fantasy: America in the Middle East, 1776 to the Present (New York and London: W.W. Norton and Company, 2007), 386–393. Meir Zamir, Modern Lebanon, 76. Beirut Community Council to Ya‛acov Mosseri, 27 April 1919, L4/415, CZA. Abraham Elmaleh to the Community Council, 9 May 1919, L4/415, CZA. Testimony of Yoseph Azar in: Elmaleh, In Memoriam, 35. Testimony of Jacques Stambouli, a community leader, in: Elmaleh, In Memoriam (French part), 78. Elmaleh, In Memoriam, 8. Abraham Elmaleh, “Mikhtav mi Beirut” (Letter from Beirut), Ha-‛Olam, 23 January 1920, 6. Abraham Elmaleh, “Hartsa’ah al Nesi’ati le-Arei Suryya” (A lecture on my travel to the cities of Syria), Av 1919, L3/728, CZA Yoseph Farhi to Alliance’s president, S2/579, CZA. Michael M. Laskier, “Aspects of the Activities of the Alliance Israélite Univer selle in the Jewish Communities of the Middle East and North Africa: 1860–1918,” Modern Judaism 3, no. 2 (1983): 158. Hamenorah, June 1927, 265–266. On December 1929, the General Inspector of French Institutions in Lebanon wrote to the General Secretary of Public Instruction: “It may be that the Alliance Committee in Paris, much occupied with the development of its schools in Morocco, is turning away a little from the schools it maintains in Syria.” General Inspector of French Institutions to the General Secretary of Public Instruction, 5 December 1929, Public Instruction, carton 67, MAE. Benbassa, Ha-Yehadut ha-Osmanit, 105, 244. See, for example: Kaufman, “Reviving Phoenicia,” 415.

CHAPTER FOUR

Who Controls Jewish Education? . . . control of the Alliance must not pass to the community council; a French institution must not become the institution of a community in the Levant. (French Official) From now on, we will have only one goal: To free ourselves from the yoke of your [the Alliance] society. (Kemal Helwani as cited by Sidi)

In January 1927, the Jewish newspaper Al-‛Alam al-Isra'ili (The Jewish World) published a piece entitled, “Union and Merger between the Alliance Schools and Selim Tarrab School.”1 Its writer questioned the need for the community’s Talmud-Torah school, which provided free education to poor children. The school had become, he argued, a heavy financial burden on the community budget. The community council had made great efforts to finance the school. Therefore, the Alliance had agreed to admit poor students in return for a small fee that the community would pay. The writer suggested that merging the two institutions and unifying their educational programs would release the community from its heavy financial burden. The newspaper published this piece as part of a wider debate surrounding the question of Jewish education that developed in the Jewish community throughout the 1920s. Beirut had two Jewish schools. Inspired by the revival of Jewish nationalism, the Talmud-Torah developed as a Hebrew national school that emphasized Modern Hebrew. 2 The Alliance school, on the other hand, emphasized French language and culture. Moreover, it followed the idea that Jews should integrate with their host societies as equal citizens; therefore, it opposed Zionism and its ideology. The local community controlled and funded the Talmud-Torah. In contrast, a French-Jewish organization based in Paris primarily controlled and funded the Alliance school.

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The fundamental differences between the two schools in their goals, ideological orientation, and institutional affiliation frame the prolonged debate over the question of Jewish education. The debate raged over determining what constituted the ideal educational environment for the Jewish children of Beirut. Such questions as “Should the community insist on maintaining and funding its own separate school?” “Should the Alliance agree to the requests of local leaders to modify its school’s program?” and “Should the two schools be merged?” formed the core of the debate. The community council, the schools’ committees, the Alliance school director, and the French authorities took sides, eventually determining the nature and outcome of the debate.

The Quest for Educational Reforms In July 1924, the Talmud-Torah school committee submitted a reorganization plan for the school to the community president. The committee expressed the view that a complete reorganization of the school staff and curriculum would lead to improved school achievements. 3 The committee suggested that, first, it should adopt the government’s educational curriculum; this would earn students a Franco-Lebanese diploma of elementary school completion and equip the students with sufficient knowledge of French and Arabic to allow them to attend high school or enroll in the School of Arts and Crafts (École des Arts et Métiers). Moreover, since this program of study would not exceed twenty-four weekly hours, they could dedicate the remaining fourteen hours to Hebrew and religious studies to “respond to the wishes of the [Jewish] population.”4 By adopting the government’s program, the committee also wished to satisfy the Department of Public Instruction, whose close cooperation it deemed useful for the school’s progress. Of interest, the Talmud-Torah committee also sought the cooperation of the Alliance. It encouraged the community president to convince the Alliance’s Central Committee to send a French instructor and possibly a school director to head the Talmud-Torah school. However, in order to keep the school under community control and to secure donations from the school’s benefactors, the committee re-

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quired that such steps occur with the cooperation of the local schools’ committee, whose members were nominated by the community president. Furthermore, the committee noted that, contingent upon cooperation from the Alliance, it would employ any ethical measure to ensure that donations to the school would not diminish. This indicates that the community viewed the Talmud-Torah school as a community enterprise par excellence and that ‘foreign’ involvement could have deterred its benefactors from donating to the school. Last but no less significant, the committee expressed the wish that the school committee collaborate with the Alliance to obtain the Alliance’s adoption of the government’s curriculum for a middle school diploma (Certificat d'Etudes primaires supérieures) in such a way that the Talmud-Torah will be a preparatory school for the students who wish to continue their studies in the Alliance schools after earning an elementary school certificate. In short, the ideal in our view is to establish a harmony as complete as possible between the two institutions [Emphasis added]. 5

The reorganization plan reveals the committee’s pragmatic attitude. The program combined Jewish education with a milieu-adapted education. Both Farhi and the Talmud-Torah committee wanted to influence the Alliance school program along the same lines. The committee encouraged the cooperation of both the Alliance and the Department of Public Instruction because it believed such cooperation would best serve the school’s interests. The objective of ‘complete harmony’ between the two institutions was reasonable, albeit that the members of the local school committee had envisioned and designed it in their aspirations to obtain a monopoly over Jewish education. This was not an unusual desire. Similar developments had occurred in Istanbul years earlier. There too, the Alliance found its educational influence weakened after B’nai B’rith founded a Jewish high school in 1915—a school that gradually attracted younger children.6 In Lebanon, however, this process occurred under the watchful eye of the French authorities, who sought to secure the French influence of the Alliance schools.

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In December 1924, five months after the Talmud-Torah committee submitted its reorganization plan, the Alliance school director in Beirut, Sidi, informed the local French authorities that Yoseph Farhi, an influential community leader, stood behind the growing TalmudTorah school; Sidi believed that Farhi hoped his school would one day replace the Alliance school. Such fears on the part of the Alliance school director were not groundless. In the early 1920s, Farhi had written a letter in which he offered to found a new school in Beirut— Magen David—in memory of his parents. We do not know who the addressee was, but from its spirit and content, it is highly likely that the letter was addressed to the Alliance’s president. After acknowledging his gratitude to the Alliance (as discussed in Chapter Two, Farhi was an ENIO graduate), Farhi presented the reasons supporting his plan to found a new school. Given the size of the population, the Alliance could not provide education for all of Beirut’s Jewish children. Furthermore, Beirut, with its numerous educational institutions, offered fierce competition for the Alliance schools. Farhi expressed his wish to improve the Alliance school by founding a new elementary school, thereby turning the Alliance school into a middle school. Because the Alliance wished to meet all of the children’s needs its curriculum was far too dense and, therefore, superficial. While a European child studied only his own language, a child in Beirut had to study three languages at once.7 The Jewish community, Farhi argued, should give more attention to Hebrew and Arabic—crucial languages for the Jews of Beirut. The new elementary school would, therefore, focus on Hebrew and Arabic, and “everything that a small child who applies himself to read, write, and speak two languages, can study at a profit, without overloading himself with notions that his young soul cannot digest and that he will inevitably forget [Emphasis added].”8 What, then, would be the Alliance school’s role? Farhi suggested that the Alliance school would serve students from able families once they completed their studies in the community school, so they would not have to attend foreign schools where “these future leaders of the Jewish community will become more and more alienated from Judaism.”9 Farhi conceptualized

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his ideal educational environment for Beirut’s Jews. In such an environment, the community would have a monopoly on elementary education, while the Alliance would reduce its schooling in scope and content by becoming a middle school for the upper classes, where French and other secular subjects would overshadow Hebrew, Arabic, and religious studies. In Farhi’s mind, Alliance schools should assume a secondary importance as supplementary schools for the upper classes. Farhi’s plan manifests not only an attempt to diminish the Alliance’s educational position in the community, but also to neutralize its civilizing mission by providing elementary education of a Jewish national character.

The Talmud-Torah Facing Difficulties In the late 1920s, the Talmud-Torah community school faced some challenges. To begin, the relatively low student enrollment reflected many parents’ dissatisfaction with the school. Since its foundation after World War I, community leaders, headed by Yoseph Farhi, worked to promote the school and gain the parents’ trust. This was not an easy task in a city like Beirut, rich in educational institutions. Moreover, the local Alliance school, part of a wide educational network, was more popular among parents. In 1928, probably in light of mounting public discontent with the Talmud-Torah school, Farhi gave a lecture at the Magen-Abraham synagogue, trying to convince his audience that the Talmud-Torah school showed satisfactory results. He explained that the school adopted the most modern methods and that religious instruction was taken out of the hands of backward rabbis and given to competent and certified teachers from Palestine, and that French was taught by two teachers holding the baccalaureate certification.10 A year later, several students failed in the French governmental exams. To avoid a possible damage to the school, Farhi approached some community notables, and asked them to give the school another chance before reaching a definitive solution to the school. According to the Alliance school director, the community council agreed to ap-

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prove a budget of about nine hundred Turkish lira (equivalent to 400,000 franc) for the new school year only upon this condition.11 In addition to the precarious position of the Talmud-Torah school, the community faced a serious challenge in financing the school. In 1929, Lebanon experienced a severe economic crisis that resulted in the bankruptcy of many merchants.12 As a consequence, it became particularly difficult to finance community institutions. In May 1930, the B’nai B’rith bureau called a general assembly for the purpose of securing funds for the community school. Some suggested that they send a report, written by the bureau members, to the Grand Lodge in Cincinnati asking for financial support for the Talmud-Torah school. However, since the report criticized the work of the Alliance, some members opposed it. Indeed, they never sent it.13

From ‘Harmony’ to ‘Merger’ The Talmud-Torah committee had envisioned that, by 1924, ‘complete harmony’ would exist between the two schools. However, the two institutions differed greatly in their spirit and content. Not only did they differ in their language of instruction—French at the Alliance and Hebrew at the Talmud-Torah—but they differed in their ideological orientation. While the Alliance stood for the complete integration as equal citizens of the Jews in their host societies, the Talmud-Torah, inspired by Zionist ideology, focused on strengthening the Jewishnational identity of its students. This required the community to attempt to find a basis for cooperation between the two schools. At the beginning of 1930, the Talmud-Torah president, Elie Levy, initiated an unofficial meeting in which three members of the school committee and the Alliance school director participated. Levy called the meeting to identify what, if any, common ground the two schools shared. The Alliance school director, Sidi, communicated a willingness to conform to the interests of the community. As a result, the community decided to open formal talks with the Alliance, and asked Sidi for his opinion regarding improvements through a reorganization of the Talmud-Torah school. The community council agreed that Sidi

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would devise concrete propositions toward the unification of the two schools’ programs and, eventually, for their fusion. 14 To that end, Sidi visited the Talmud-Torah school twice before making up his mind: either the community would hand the school over to the Alliance without any conditions and agree to fund all the necessary charges, or the Talmud-Torah would keep its administrative autonomy and the Alliance would interfere in matters of pedagogy alone. In the latter scenario, Sidi was willing to assist on two conditions: French would be the language of instruction, and second, an Alliance teacher would be appointed as director. Upon receiving Sidi’s plan and conditions, Elie Levy vehemently opposed them. He clarified to Sidi that the Talmud-Torah committee expected Sidi to suggest changes in the program of the Alliance school. However, Sidi did not intend to make any such changes. He reported to the AIU president: Not only this community and the Talmud-Torah Committee would want to throw [the school] on us, but they are eager, believing that we want to put a hand on their institution, to impose on us their own conditions regarding the program or other conditions? . . . if the request for this aid is subjected to unacceptable conditions such as modifying the current program of the Alliance to the school of Beirut my opinion is clear: leave the Talmud-Torah to cook in its juice.15

Note that Sidi felt strongly enough about his position in the community to pursue such an uncompromising approach. This put the community in an awkward position. The Jewish community sought a solution to the Talmud-Torah’s difficult situation: not only was the school a heavy financial burden in times of economic crisis, but it had failed to gain popularity among Jewish parents. As a result, the community was willing to merge the two institutions but demanded some reforms—the strengthening of Modern Hebrew and Jewish history. Sidi’s uncompromising approach—his refusal to modify the educational program—made the merger option impossible.

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Challenging the Alliance School The transition from ‘harmony’ between the two schools to the ‘merger’ option resulted from the Talmud-Torah school’s precarious position, and it reflected a possible solution to the question of Jewish education. In fact, the community’s expectation that the Alliance would modify its educational program was not a new one. Several years earlier, in 1921, the community council wrote to the Alliance in Paris, asking to apply ‘new methods’ in the local Alliance school. The Alliance president responded with the suggestion that the community experiment with new methods in the community Talmud-Torah school rather than in the Alliance school.16 Some community leaders remained discontented with the Alliance’s ideological and educational work. They did not like the Alliance‘s hostile attitude toward the Jewish national movement and disapproved of both its French spirit and the limited weight given Jewish education in its program. Yoseph Sutton, the vice president of the Talmud-Torah school’s committee, contended that the revival of Jewish nationalism obligated the community to provide its children with an entirely Jewish education. He added that the instruction of Modern Hebrew as taught by teachers from Palestine was the only way to achieve that goal and, for that purpose, the community had founded the Talmud-Torah school.17 In their attempt to pressure the Alliance to modify its program, some leaders corresponded directly with the Alliance Central Committee in Paris. For example, Mr. Attie, a community member, reported to the Alliance about the lack of Jewish history classes in its school. In turn, the Alliance communicated these complaints to Sidi, who then had to justify himself before the Alliance president. While Jewish history plays an important role in Jewish education, he argued, when it comes to the Jews of the East, it is not everything. Instead, he argued, the Alliance gave special attention to religious instruction. Students read and recited prayers in the morning and evening. Young students knew both holiday and table prayers. Seven- and eight-yearold students knew prayers by heart and read Hebrew fluently. On Jewish holidays, students followed the regular customs and lit the

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Menorah on Hanukkah, read the book of Esther on Purim, and read the Haggadah on Passover.18 In order to prevent, or at least reduce, local opposition to the Alliance curriculum, Sidi tried to influence the make up of the local Alliance school’s committee, which served as an intermediary between the Alliance and the local community. Although the community elected its members locally, the Alliance in Paris had to approve the elected members. In 1927, the community elected five new members and asked the Alliance to endorse the new committee. Sidi, unhappy with the election of a certain Amos Landman, wrote to the Alliance voicing his concerns about the make up of the new committee. Sidi argued that committee members must follow two “reasonable conditions”: first, they must support the Alliance or be Alliance alumni and, second, they cannot have their children study in any of the foreign schools in the city.19 These conditions attempted to prevent opposition and to achieve maximum cooperation between the local committee and the Alliance school director. Sidi feared Amos Landman, whom he described as an “ardent Zionist,” would be disruptive to the school. He guessed that the community had elected Landman solely for his competence in Modern Hebrew, commenting that the Alliance could do without his language skills. Sidi remained convinced that Landman’s election would lead to disputes over the question of Modern Hebrew and complicate his collaboration with the school committee. Therefore, he suggested that the Alliance either write back to the community and ask for another candidate or reduce the number of committee members from five to four—approving only Mrs. Mrad Balaila, Zaki Elia, Moise Elia, and Edouard Bercoff. 20 Sidi’s disappointment, however, went beyond the election of Amos Landman: “The new school committee does not have the grandeur of the old one.”21 In the past, he explained, the community’s president, vice president, and the secretary were all members of the Alliance school committee. In contrast, not a single member of the new committee belonged to the community council. As young adults, Sidi contemplated, they would not be able to exercise any authority

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over the local Jewish population. In sum, Sidi’s attempt to influence the make up of the school committee reflects his efforts to secure the position of the Alliance school within the community and his own position as the school director. Unable to influence the composition of the local committee, he sought the intervention of the Alliance in Paris. The backing of the Alliance, however, was not always forthcoming in the manner Sidi desired. In 1930, the Alliance sent Yomtov Semach to inspect the Alliance school in Beirut, after which Semach wrote a report harshly criticizing the Alliance school director. Soon afterwards, Sidi responded in a letter that exposed the enmity the two men held for each other. Both letters, however, reveal widely differing conceptions of the appropriate place of the Alliance and its attitude vis-àvis the local community. According to Semach, the school director was deficient in his collaboration with the community. The Alliance school fell ‘outside’ the community and, as such, the organization’s work was foreign to local Jews. Remedying these problems, Semach argued, would necessitate strengthening the Alliance’s association with the community. These comments indicate that Semach, who was a close friend of Yoseph Farhi, tried to placate the local leadership as much as he could. He supported both changes in the school program and the merger of the two institutions. Sidi rejected these accusations. He contended that the Alliance school was, and should remain, independent of the local community, but not outside of it. In order to demonstrate his sufficient and proper level of collaboration with the local community, he offered several examples. Upon his request, the community increased its school subsidy. Every January, the community council visited the school; every June, a commission headed by the chief rabbi examined the students in Hebrew and Arabic; and every October, Sidi met with members of the school committee and other notables to determine the students’ tuition. Sidi believed that the Alliance school format best suited the Beiruti Jews’ need for an educational institution. He estimated that, if the Alliance reformed its program at the expense of French instruction, the school would lose more than half its students. Based upon

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the beliefs, he rejected any major changes in the school’s program. Regarding the Alliance attitude vis-à-vis the community, Sidi offered his firm opinion. In order to fulfill its mission, the school must keep its independent position within the community and must not belong to it: “I do not want to be its [the community’s] person, its thing. I do not want to follow its inclination just to please it, nor to depend on its will. I want to stay an Alliance official and not become an employee of the community.”22

The ‘Civilizing Mission’ versus the ‘Anglo-Saxon Spirit’ The spirit of the Alliance is an entirely French spirit. It follows the idea that the French culture is the most efficient means for emancipation and for intellectual awakening. B’nai B’rith prefers the Anglo-Saxon culture, and it seems the [B’nai B’rith] lodge wants to try to win it over and to absorb it, as it cannot destroy the Alliance.23

Several forces contributed to the continuous vibrant activity surrounding the Talmud-Torah school. First, education evolved as a highly contested field in which various organizations and bodies sought to inculcate young children with the ‘right’ cultural content, values, and morality. Second, the local leadership recognized the importance Palestinian Jews assigned to education after the First World War. The establishment of Jewish national Hebrew schools in Damascus made a great impression on both the local Beiruti leadership and the Ashkenazi Jews in Beirut, who worked to garner similar patronage from the Education Committee in Palestine. Furthermore, the local B’nai B’rith lodge prioritized educational reforms and school improvement. After all, this lodge had led the process of Jewish awakening in all fields: social life and welfare, education, and religion. Last, because the community had founded and controlled its Talmud-Torah school, and funded it locally via contributions from the well-to-do, its directors had committed themselves to its progress and success. As discussed, the community leadership sought to at least influence the Alliance curriculum if not bring it into line with that of the

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Talmud-Torah school. However, the community’s leadership did not consider the Alliance to be a rival organization. They acknowledged its heritage and contribution to Middle Eastern Jews, as well as its inflexibility and strictness—a product of its patron-client attitude.24 The underlying tension between the Alliance and B’nai B’rith surfaced in 1929. In preparation for Grand Lodge president Joseph Niégo’s inspection visit to Beirut, the local lodge, in the guise of the community council, sent a questionnaire to all educational institutions in the city, asking for information about the numbers of Jewish students in foreign schools, their ages, the level of their studies, the certification of their teachers, and so forth.25 The French authorities soon learned of this Jewish initiative and convinced themselves that this episode was connected with community aspirations to take over the Alliance school.26 Alarmed by the educational initiatives taken by the Jewish community, the General Inspector of French Institutions in Lebanon, Mr. Bounoure, sent two different letters expressing French concerns. In December 1929 (some 15 days after the event), he sent the first letter to the General Secretary of the Public Instruction Department, following it, in June 1930, with a letter to the Alliance president Sylvain Lévi. In many points, the two letters expressed the same concerns, views, and suggestions. In examining the letters’ main elements, an interesting discrepancy becomes apparent. As mentioned earlier, the French authorities were convinced that the ‘questionnaire incident’ formed part of the community’s campaign to support the Talmud-Torah school over the Alliance school. In his two letters, the General Inspector focused on the ‘merger plan’—the alleged attempt by the Jewish community (or the B’nai B’rith lodge, depending on to whom the letter was addressed) to merge the Alliance school with the Talmud-Torah school by unifying the two schools’ curricula and placing them under community control. The General Inspector perceived the merger option as an obstruction to both the Alliance’s work and French interests. Writing to the General Secretary of Public Instruction, Bounoure argued: “[W]e in no way approve that a funded institution, after sixty years of efficient French

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influence, will go off track and lend itself to the penetration of the Anglo-Saxon spirit, or the narrow-minded spirit of Hebrew nationalism.”27 Bounoure used a similar tone when he wrote to Alliance president Sylvain Lévi, expressing his fear that the school would become subordinated “to an institution where this narrow spirit of the community would reign, unfortunately so common in the Levant.”28 The French took several measures to counter the ‘merger plan.’ In 1929, wishing to strengthen the Alliance school’s position in Beirut, the French started to pay regular bonuses to the Alliance teachers. In his letter to the General Secretary, Bounoure suggested additional measures, such as reducing support for the Talmud-Torah school from 9,000 to 6,000 francs.29 He also suggested monitoring the activity of Jewish nationalist individuals in the community and, as a final measure, keeping the Department of Public Instruction informed so it could discuss such issues with the Alliance Central Committee in Paris. However, the General Inspector also took into account Beiruti Jews’ unique political frame of mind. In contrast to his letter to the General Secretary, in his letter to Lévi, he subtly criticized the Alliance for not adapting itself to local conditions: [I]t is impossible to shut our eyes to the fact that a hundred kilometers from Beirut the Hebrew language is revived, and a Jewish renaissance is being established fervently . . . in this sense, I am inclined to justify those who wish to prepare a reform [in the school program].30

Indeed, the General Inspector showed a remarkable sympathy toward Zionism when he declared a few lines later, “The destiny of Israel is, I believe, too great and mysterious a matter . . . for me not to feel any vivacious sympathy with the astounding work being accomplished these days in Palestine.”31 These letters reveal that Bounoure favored the suggested reforms to the Alliance schools, but insisted that the Alliance retain full control over its schools. While both letters expressed the same concerns about the merger plan and the same objective of securing the Alliance’s independent position vis-à-vis the community, a marked difference appears between them. While the first letter repeatedly referred to B’nai B’rith as

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an obstruction to French influence and to the Alliance’s work, the second letter did not mention B’nai B’rith even once. It seems that the General Inspector tailored his narrative to his addressees. When writing to a French official, he highlighted B’nai B’rith with its ‘AngloSaxon spirit’ because he knew the French sensitivity to any foreign influence in the Levant. Therefore, he found it useful to point out that the local lodge receives its directions from its mother cell in New York. In addition, he argued that B’nai B’rith lodges in the Levant are imbued with ideas of Hebrew nationalism and “have always practiced ardent Zionist politics.”32 Elsewhere in his letter he criticized a lecture given by the Grand Lodge General Secretary, Yakir Behar, in Beirut in 1925: [H]e declared that the emancipation of the Jews was the work of America and England: France was not mentioned by him at all. No mention was made of the long educational work pursued in Syria by the Alliance with the support of the French government. 33

While the General Inspector accused Yakir Behar of not giving the Alliance any credit for the emancipation of the Jews, when he wrote to the Alliance president, he downplayed the role of B’nai B’rith and did not refer to it explicitly. In one comment, he hinted at a foreign influence, “This long work of awakening and education pursued in Syria by the Alliance should not be, in my view, either disrupted or taken over by another spirit.”34 Bounoure was cautious not to criticize another Jewish organization (B’nai B’rith); thus, he simply referred to the Jewish community as backward, narrow-minded, and spiritually inferior (esprit étroit de communauté). After all, it was the local Jewish community that the Alliance sought to elevate. He went on to suggest, that “control of the Alliance must not pass to the community council; a French institution must not become the institution of a community in the Levant.”35 Thus, by focusing on the ‘narrow-spirited’ community and ignoring B’nai B’rith, the French official highlighted the raison d’etre for the Alliance’s work and influence in Beirut.

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Conclusion The Alliance’s ideology held rather limited appeal for Beirut’s leadership for several reasons. Lebanon’s colonial situation differed from that of North Africa. First, Lebanon was a sovereign state under mandatory rule, and not a protectorate or a colony. As such, the Alliance’s struggle for the Jews’ equal rights and emancipation—as carried on in North Africa, for example—was virtually irrelevant in Lebanon, where Jews were Lebanese citizens. 36 In addition, Lebanon, lacking a large European colony like that of the French Maghreb, made the objective of socio-cultural integration into European society a futile one. Moreover, a major objective of the Alliance—the full integration of the Jewish minority in its host society—was not possible in Lebanon, a country that formally recognized the autonomy of its religious communities. Last, the Alliance’s hostile attitude to Zionism alienated the local leadership, who watched the development of the neighboring Yishuv favorably. When writing to Sylvain Lévi, Bounoure explained: This project [referring to the merger of the two schools] . . . became clear though the initiatives taken by some members of the Jewish community of Beirut, some of whom accuse the Alliance of being indifferent to the movement of the resurrection of the Jewish homeland. 37

The French General Inspector himself admitted that those who called for educational reforms (and specifically reforms in the Alliance school) had justification, but he admitted this mainly to counter the local leadership’s arguments against the Alliance. Fearing that the Alliance was showing some weakness vis-à-vis the local community, he ended his letter to Sylvain Lévi with the following words: “I know the attention you devote to the Alliance’s good work so that it can adapt itself more closely to the Levant conditions, but remain itself, and not lose its soul.” 38 Throughout the 1920s, the educational vision of the Jewish leadership in Beirut followed two principles. Influenced by the ideologies of such Jewish organizations as B’nai B’rith and the Zionist movement, it sought to shape the educational programs, both at the community Talmud-Torah and the Alliance schools, along Jewish-national lines.

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That meant instruction in Hebrew and strengthening Jewish education. Second, the community wanted to adopt the governmental educational program that would win the schools governmental subsidies and enable students to continue their studies in local high schools. Based on these two principles, the leadership hoped to reach a harmonious balance between the two schools. In their attempt to circumvent the Alliance school director’s opposition to educational reforms, Jewish leaders did not hesitate to contact and even travel to Paris to negotiate directly with the Alliance. The Alliance school director, therefore, faced a serious challenge to his ‘civilizing mission.’ Time after time, he had to explain and justify himself before the Alliance’s president. His two most important goals were preserving the school’s French spirit and independent position vis-à-vis the local community. His power in the community stemmed from the Alliance school’s popularity among local Jews and from the backing of the French authorities. Both gave him the confidence he needed to resist any major concessions to the local leadership. The French authorities, concerned about their influence in the Levant, protected and supported the Alliance schools. They emphasized the importance of its independent position and rejected the attempt of the local community to merge it with the community school. Nevertheless, aware of the Jewish national renaissance in Palestine and its impact on local Jews, they acknowledged the need for reforms. In this respect, the French General Inspector’s remark that “the Jews of Syria live outside the Palestinian home: their destiny does not blend with Zionism: They do not oppose it, but rather, they lean toward it” 39 was rather accurate. During the French Mandate, the official leadership supported the spread of modern Hebrew, Jewish history classes, and the activity of Zionist associations like Maccabi and the Union Universelle de la Jeunesse Juive.

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Notes

1

2 3

4

5 6 7

8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

24 25 26 27

Al-‛Alam al-Isra’ili, 6 January 1927. The community changed the school’s name from ‘Talmud-Torah Mizrahi’ to ‘Talmud-Torah Selim Tarrab’ in 1927 after Michel and Raphael Tarrab donated a large sum of money for the construction of a new school. The school perpetuates their father. Yoseph Farhi to Yoseph Luria, 13 January 1927, S2/168, CZA. Talmud-Torah Committee to the Community Council President, 2 July 1924, Syria-Lebanon, Public Instruction, carton 28, MAE. Talmud-Torah Committee to the Community Council President, 2 July 1924, Syria-Lebanon, Public Instruction, carton 28, MAE. Ibid. Esther Benbassa, Ha-Yehadut ha-Osmanit, 126. Farhi considered learning written Arabic to be learning a new language, since a child’s mother tongue was spoken Arabic, which differed greatly from the written language. Yoseph Farhi to the AIU President, S2/579, CZA. Yoseph Farhi to the AIU President, S2/579, CZA. Sidi to the AIU President, 16 February 1928, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to the AIU President, 18 November 1929, HM2/8207, CAHJP. On the affect of the international Depression on the Lebanese economy, see Carolyn Gates, The Merchant Republic of Lebanon: Rise of an Open Economy (Oxford: Center for Lebanese Studies in association with I.B. Tauris Publishers, 1998), 31. Sidi to the AIU President, 20 May 1930, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to the AIU President, 25 February 1931, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to the AIU President, 25 February 1931, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to Semach, 12 March 1930, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to the AIU President, 25 February 1931, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to the AIU President, 13 February 1930, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to the AIU President, 1 June 1927, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Sidi to the AIU President, 1 June 1927, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Ibid. Sidi to Semach, 12 March 1930, HM2/8207, CAHJP. General Inspector of French Schools to the General Secretary of the Public Instruction, 5 December 1929, Syria-Lebanon, Public Instruction, carton 67, MAE. Compare: Benbassa, Ha-Yehadut ha-Osmanit, 127. Sidi to the AIU President, 2 December 1929, HM2/8207, CAHJP. Information No. 523, 26 November 1929, Political Cabinet, carton 1064, MAE. General Inspector of French Institutions to General Secretary of Public Instruction, 5 December 1929, Public Instruction, carton 67, MAE.

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28

29

30

31 32

33

34

35

36

37

38 39

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General Inspector of French Institutions to Sylvain Lévi, 18 June 1930, Public Instruction, carton 74, MAE. This reduction in the French Mandate’s support appears in the community accounting records for 1929–1930. General Inspector to Sylvain Lévi, 18 June 1930, Public Instruction, carton 74, MAE. Ibid. General Inspector to the General Secretary of Public Instruction, 5 December 1929, Public Instruction, carton 67, MAE. General Inspector to the General Secretary of Public Instruction, 5 December 1929, Public Instruction, carton 67, MAE. General Inspector to Sylvain Lévi, 18 June 1930, Public Instruction, carton 74, MAE. General Inspector to Sylvain Lévi, 18 June 1930, Public Instruction, carton 74, MAE. On the political struggle of the Alliance in North Africa, see: Michael Laskier, “Aspects of the Activities of the Alliance Israélite Universelle in the Jewish Communities of the Middle East and North Africa: 1860–1918,” Modern Judaism 3, no. 2 (1983): 151–152. General Inspector to Sylvain Lévi, 18 June 1930, Public Instruction, carton 74, MAE. Ibid. Ibid.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Culture of Giving For centuries, charity and welfare relief for the poor have been an integral part of Jewish communities everywhere. As a religious minority that enjoyed a large measure of autonomy, Jewish communities provided support for their poor, their needy, widows, orphans, and the mentally or physically disabled. The ability to maintain a charitable mechanism always relied upon the willingness of the well-to-do to give up part of their income to support those in need and sometimes relied upon obligatory taxes. In Judaism, charity (‘tsedaqa’) had moral, social, and religious meanings. Morally, it was an act of humane compassion for the poor. Socially, giving tsedaqa reflected a sense of social responsibility for the disadvantaged in society. Religiously, tsedaqa was a prized value; people believed tsedaqa had the power to benefit them both in life and after death.1 Other motivations for donations included the donor’s desire to establish his position in the community, to strengthen his sense of belonging to the community, to demonstrate his wealth, and to acquire social status and prestige. However, although the religious obligation of tsedaqa and the practice of providing relief for the poor were permanent characteristics of communal Jewish life, the welfare system did not remain static. At different periods, this system took new forms and structures, shaped by outside influences as well as internal social forces. The welfare systems that developed in the Jewish communities of medieval Egypt and, several centuries later, in the Ottoman Empire demonstrate this point. In his book Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt, Mark Cohen examines the question of charity and welfare. 2 Cohen distinguishes between private and public charity, despite the

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fact that the boundaries between the two were not always clear. In general, one could define any kind of giving (in kind or money) coming from a private individual as private charity. Cohen describes the use of the family and wills as vehicles of private charity, which, for obvious reasons, were more difficult to record. Public charity, in contrast, came from a public fund called mezonot3 in the Geniza period, the revenues of which came from various sources: collections of food and money on a regular basis, solicitations of individuals outside the synagogue, fines, and pesiqa—an oral vow, normally made in the synagogue, to donate a sum for a specific purpose either private or public. The ongoing charitable work relied on the mezonot fund, while, in contrast, the pesiqa was an ad hoc, although common, mode of giving. The pious foundation (heqdesh) was considered a public charity even though it was supported by private individuals, often on their deathbed. Most of the income funded public needs such as synagogues and payments for communal functionaries, only 10 percent of the heqdesh revenues went toward relief for the poor. The welfare societies (hevrot) as we know them from later periods did not exist in the Geniza world—charity was either communal or private.4 Beginning in the early sixteenth century, new forms of communal welfare developed in the communities of Sephardic Jews in the Ottoman Empire. Yaron Ben-Naeh, who described Ottoman Jewish society in the seventeenth century, points out that the communities divided the philanthropic or charitable work between the kahal and the various welfare societies (‘hevrot’). The kahal used its resources—private donations, direct (‘arikha) or indirect taxes (gabela), heqdesh revenues, and revenues from capital funds—to support the registered poor. However, the kahal had limited resources, and, thus, welfare societies became the main providers of welfare services in the community.5 At first, the societies provided very basic needs such as burying the dead (‘qevura’), ‘act of kindness’ (‘gemilut hesed’), and education; with time, however, new societies emerged, each with its specialized purpose, for example, visiting the sick (‘biqur-holim’), marrying off poor girls (‘hakhnasat kalah’), and caring for visitors (‘hakhnasat orhim’). The societies had diverse resources: inheritances, donations, payments made

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by prosperous members, fines, revenues from real estate and funds, and allocations from the kahal, which supported societies that provided basic needs. Though the societies were officially created to carry out a religious function, they also filled a critical social function, much like the synagogue.6 Beyond their officially recognized function, the societies had their own rules, norms, and statutes. As some of the hevrot gained power and influence, they sometimes became a threat to the communal leadership, which had to secure its control of the community.7 In the Ottoman State, as in other Muslim states in earlier periods, welfare services were provided mainly through the institution of the waqf.8 The Sultan’s family, high officials, and wealthy merchants built, supported, and maintained various public services. In large cities, these were usually located within the compounds of the mosques (imârets). The Jewish community stood out against the broad-based public welfare supported by the waqf because “it saw itself committed to care for a minimal social welfare of its members, hence it allocated resources and collected taxes, appointed functionaries and maintained charitable institutions, in a measure and to an extent unparalleled in other religious communities in the Empire.”9 During the tanzimat period (1839–1876) the Ottoman State intervened in the life of its subjects as never before, and while the state made the Jews theoretically equal subjects, it also defined the Jews’ separate corporate existence as a millet.10 However, even during this period, mostly political considerations shaped the welfare policies; the state provided services on a hierarchical scale, allocating most benefits to those social elements crucial to the empire’s survival and progress. Jews, as loyal Ottoman subjects, could attend state institutions as individuals, but Jewish institutions could not expect to receive the same support as that for Muslim institutions. Evidence suggests that, in 1889, the Ottoman State incorporated a private Muslim school (al-madrasa al-sultaniyya) in Beirut into the state apparatus; however, no such cases of similar actions for Jewish schools have come to light. In short, as in earlier periods, Jewish communities continued to make great efforts and invested many resources in order to

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provide for their own welfare services. Unlike earlier periods, however, in the nineteenth century, European-Jewish philanthropic organizations founded and supported numerous public services (schools, hospitals, vocational training, and soup kitchens, for example). The Ottoman reforms and the European Jewish philanthropic activity may well have inspired reformist liberal elements in the Jewish communities of the Arab provinces. Beginning in the mid-nineteenth century, voluntary societies, operating within the Jewish community, emerge and take upon themselves social and religious charitable tasks traditionally performed and funded by the official communal leadership. In Iraq, for example, several notables founded the Shomrei Mitsvah society in 1868.11 Its primary goals were to improve education, especially for the Jewish poor, and to foster religious life in the community. It aimed at organizing and coordinating the activities of charitable societies in order to make charitable work more efficient. The society had between seven and ten members, all well-respected individuals, who paid annual member fees. In its goals, structure, and modes of activity, this society possessed a modern nature. In 1884, several community members founded the society Hevrat Meyassde Bet ha-Refuah (Hospital Founders’ Society) to support two Jewish hospitals. Its income came from local donations as well as donations of Baghdadi Jews from India. Another society, founded in 1860, provided medicine for the poor, and the society Ozer-Dalim (Aid Society for the Poor) provided relief for the poor. Other societies include Hevrat Tomkhei Torah (Torah Supporters’ Society), which supported Torah scholars, and Zekhut ha-Rabim (The Public’s Right), which supported the blind.12 Egypt also witnessed the emergence of voluntary societies. Prior to the nineteenth century, the various Jewish Kehalim (‘congregations’) had two separate funds that allocated money for charity. The limited financial resources came from monies individuals donated before they died13 and weekly collection of tsedaqa. Leah BornsteinMakovetzky argues that religious endowments (‘heqdeshim’) were made mainly by childless individuals, women, and the aged. 14 In the

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nineteenth century, however, the communities of Cairo and Alexandria had one general fund (Quppat ha-Kahal) that did not exist in the past, and the communities had created many new societies. Jacob Landau listed ten such societies that founded between 1863 and 1917, not including health services and the associations founded for the benefit of Jews of a particular origin.15 The great majority of the societies were created between 1909 and 1920. As we shall discuss shortly, societies bearing the same titles as those in Egypt or Iraq were also founded in Beirut.16 Generosity has been an obvious and integral part of human nature since ancient times. However, if the historian seeks to understand philanthropy as a historic phenomenon, he or she ought to focus not on generosity as a human virtue, but on the social, cultural, political, and economic forces that prompt generosity and transform it into giving. The colonial context characterizes this discussion of giving and distinguishes it from earlier periods. During the nineteenth century, Jewish society in Islamic countries and, in particular, the upper classes underwent processes of secularization and Westernization and adopted European customs, values, and languages. These processes became typical of port cities due to their strong European influence and rapid economic growth.

Personal Giving before WWI Up until the First World War, welfare services, religious life, and education in Beirut relied on the personal philanthropy of affluent individuals and on a few societies founded toward the end of the nineteenth century. However, Beirut’s Jewish settlement’s highly decentralized nature and lack of fundamental communal organs limited its ability to raise and manage funds effectively at that time. Therefore, while philanthropy somewhat improved the living conditions of the Jews, it did not bring about significant communal changes. We now turn to an examination of several examples of philanthropy in the preorganized phase. We have already considered the initiatives of Zaki Cohen and Ezra Benvenisti, who founded Jewish schools in Beirut. Most of the

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sources that discuss Cohen’s school state that local wealthy Jews did not support the school. 17 In the late 1870s, Zaki Cohen sought the support of the Alliance, but it was only after the intervention of Emil Frank18 that the Alliance sent two teachers at their expense in 1881. 19 Unlike Cohen, Benvenisti was able to found his school thanks to the support of three local Jews.20 Private individuals supported religious life as well. A few wealthy notables, for example, Moshe Yedid Halevi and Raphael Levi Stambouli, ran their own houses of Torah-learning (‘midrashim’) and paid for their expenses.21 The ‛Anzarut family, who settled in Beirut in 1878, made a significant contribution to both religious life and relief for the poor when they built the synagogue in ‛Aley in 1890, the revenues of which supported poverty relief in Beirut.22 Many wealthy Jews prayed in this synagogue during the summer months. In addition to private philanthropy, several organized initiatives began during this early phase of the community’s development. A somewhat unusual initiative took place in the mid-1880s, when several women organized a Women’s Society in order to add a room to the Alliance school, where poor girls would be able to learn sewing. In three months, the women collected fifteen Turkish lira.23 In Chapter Three, we discussed how, at the request of Jewish women (whose daughters attended the Mission school), the Scottish Mission organized a weekly meeting for Jewish women during which, among other things, they sewed clothes for poor children in the community. The women’s activity in the Mission school likely inspired these women to provide poor girls with vocational training in the Alliance school. Another welfare society formed in Beirut in 1896. It supported poor children who had graduated from school and had become a burden on their parents. The society paid for their apprenticeship and sometimes provided a monthly allowance for the students. All thirteen members of this society were young graduates of Zaki Cohen’s Tiferet Israel school—attesting to the importance of the school to the local community in that it created a group of socially active educated young adults. 24 Considering the theatrical activity that took place in Tiferet Israel, it is not surprising to learn that plays performed twice a

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year on Passover and Sukkot comprised one source of this society’s income. Other sources included donations made during family celebrations and holidays, Torah-reading (‘aliya’) contributions in a Beit Midrash founded by the society, and several other sources. 25 Referring to Bustani’s al-madrasa al-wataniyya, Jens Hanssen claimed that even after its closure, “its teachers and students went on to form cultural societies, establish newspapers, found other schools, and become leading municipal politicians.”26 This assertion is in large measure valid in the Jewish case as well.27

Organized Giving In the previous chapter, we explained how the First World War exposed the community to foreign humanitarian philanthropic organizations, the contacts with which facilitated communal organization. In a similar way, the war marked a change in the nature of philanthropic activity. The organized philanthropy of the postwar period had several characteristics. First, it came from within the community, not from the outside; community members, much more so than foreign institutions, made up the rolls of donors and contributors. Second, the philanthropic activity took place in a particular context—part of the communal organization and reforms set in motion after the First World War. A strong community council whose members were competent and successful merchants, bankers, and businessmen orchestrated the philanthropic activity. Third, the philanthropic activity took place in a colonial context. The policies of the French authorities created fertile ground for the development of indigenous philanthropy. Furthermore, the Jewish leadership’s motivation to improve the public standing of the small, politically powerless community vis-à-vis the other communities in Lebanon stimulated the culture of giving. The Jewish community of Beirut, small as it was, 28 had no fewer than fourteen sub-committees assisting the community council in running the daily affairs of the community. The community council controlled, supervised, and administered the activities of all these committees, which were represented by community council members. Thus, the community had a highly centralized administration where

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the revenues and expenditures of all communal societies, even those of ‘private’ houses of Torah learning (‘midrashim’), fell under the supervision of the community council. The community council had its own fund supported by direct taxes (arikha), indirect taxes (gabela), real estate rental, and registration fees. The expenditures of the council more or less equally fell into two categories: payments for the community functionaries and allocations for the various funds (societies) that financed education, health, and welfare services. Nonetheless, the allocations of the community council comprised only a small part of the revenues of the welfare societies, which, as we shall see, relied heavily on voluntary contributions. The community Talmud-Torah school was a major charitable institution that exemplified the role played by indigenous philanthropy. In 1904, Zaki Cohen’s boarding school closed for lack of funds, and, until the reopening of the Talmud-Torah school in 1918, the Alliance school remained the only modern Jewish school in Beirut. However, even by 1910, the absence of a communal Jewish school bothered community members; rumors that Chief Rabbi Nissim Danon was working on a plan for establishing a school led community members to become involved. Although Itzhak Mann, a wealthy Jew, promised to donate four hundred pounds for that purpose, this early project did not materialize until after the First World War.29 Immediately after the war, the school question came to the fore due to the large number of poor children and orphans the war created. The community finally founded the school in 1920 after discussions between the Education Committee (‘va‘ad ha-hinukh’) in Palestine and Palestinian Jews residing in Beirut, who were eager to instill the Hebrew language and the spirit of the national movement in Beiruti Jews. The impact of the Hebrew schools in Damascus, which had come under the full control of the Zionist Education Committee by April 1918,30 had made an impression on the Beirut Jewish council. It also had begun to cultivate contacts with Zionist activists like Abraham Elmaleh. The educational activity of the Education Committee in Damascus impressed the Beirut community council:

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Mr. A. Elmaleh told us the good impressions the Hebrew educational institutions in Damascus made on him . . . and much elaborated on the question of the Hebrew language, spoken by all sectors of the community, thanks only to the Hebrew kindergartens and schools founded by the Education Committee in Erets-Israel.31

It is clear, therefore, that leaders from the Yishuv encouraged the Beirut community to join the patronage of the Education Committee in Palestine. Other Jewish leaders visiting Beirut, including Yoseph Rivlin and David Yelin,32 also encouraged the local school committee to seek advice and guidance from the Zionist Education Committee. This wooing of the Jewish leadership of Beirut should be viewed within the context of the political vacuum created in the region after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. Finally established in 1920, the school followed the Mizrahi educational program.33 Under the directorship of Moshe Ventura, the new school grew from eighty students to two hundred within one year. As the school developed, it required more resources as well as educational guidance. The school committee repeatedly applied for support from the Education Committee, which replied, “We will not be able to allocate a sum for educational work in Beirut . . . the Jewish community of Beirut is rather rich and it should find the way to educate its children with its own resources.”34 This forced the school committee to find new resources with which to secure the existence and the future development of the school. In June 1920, the school committee sent a letter to Jacob Schiff, 35 a German-born Jewish American banker and philanthropist, describing a plan to build a new school and asking for a donation and a monthly subvention.36 Recalling that the Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) assisted the Jewish community during and after the First World War, records indicate that the JDC allocated nearly thirty thousand dollars for the Jewish communities of Syria between January and June 1920.37 The previous aid received from the JDC—along with the refusal of the Zionist Education Committee to support the school financially— prompted the school committee to ask Schiff for aid. There is no indication that this appeal to Schiff bore any results.

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Financing the Talmud-Torah School During the 1920s, the community abandoned its attempts to seek aid outside the community and focused its efforts inside the community instead. In the early 1920s, Ezra ‛Anzarut (then residing in Alexandria) supported the school with a monthly sum of twenty Egyptian pounds. In 1922, the local B’nai B’rith lodge founded a synagogue, the income of which supported the school. The French High Commission38 also began to support the school; in 1924, it granted the school six thousand francs.39 However, the community leaders still faced some challenges; not only did they have to convince parents to send their children to the community school but they had to generate regular funding for the school as well. Although the Alliance operated two schools in Beirut, the Jewish leadership insisted on maintaining a separate communal school. They envisioned a modern school that would provide instruction in Hebrew, religious subjects, and Jewish history as well as Arabic and French. Note that the community referred to the school as a ‘Jewish National School’ (Al-madrasa al-isra'iliyya al-wattaniyya)—sharpening the distinction between the Talmud-Torah, and the non-national Alliance school. Several community members even envisioned the Talmud-Torah school replacing the Alliance school at some point. However, not only did the Alliance school not meet the needs of the community, the community faced another acute problem: a significant number of parents sent their children to non-Jewish schools. The local newspaper, Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili (“The Jewish World”), raised this issue repeatedly, warning the parents of the disastrous impact such a step might have both individually—on the future of the children—and collectively—on the Jewish community.40 Moreover, other issues in addition to the cultural religious factor concerned the leadership. Parents who sent their children to non-Jewish schools paid a yearly tuition of thirty-six Syrian pounds. The communal leadership viewed this as a heavy loss of funds that could have gone toward the Talmud-Torah school and its development. To compound this loss, there seemed to

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be some inconsistencies among families when it came to paying fees. Some of the parents, while their children had attended the TalmudTorah school, claimed to be poor, but then later would pay higher fees when their children attended the foreign schools. An anonymous community member criticized those parents in the local newspaper: [W]hen your children were at Talmud-Torah school last year and we would request some of you to pay 10 Syrian pounds per child per year, you would raise hell against us and claim to be poor. So why don't you do the same this year when you are paying at the foreign schools for each child no less than 36 pounds per year . . . the number of Jewish students in foreign schools is no less than 150 students, and these students pay at least 5,000 Syrian pounds a year. If this amount were paid to Talmud-Torah School . . . it would surpass the foreign schools in its teaching and good administration.41

These words reflect the community’s efforts to promote the school by gaining the parents’ trust, and to broaden its financial base. Though the school was a charitable institution—most of its students were poor and orphaned children—at least some students did come from families of average means. The community did not solely interpret the definition of “poor” based exclusively on income level, but also on associational affiliation—parents who claimed to be poor sent their children to the Talmud-Torah school at no cost, but a year later the same parents paid tuition when they sent their children to foreign schools. This attests to the elusive nature of trying to define poverty. Construction on the new school building began thanks to Michel and Raphael Tarrab, who donated two thousand Syrian pounds on the condition that the community would match the amount.42 The community had managed, in fact, to raise a sum greater than that donated by the Tarrab brothers.43 Completed in 1928, they renamed the new school “Talmud-Torah Selim Tarrab” after the deceased father of the benefactors. The community’s accounting records prove highly relevant to this discussion on indigenous giving.44 This 114-page-long document, written in Arabic, recorded the revenues and expenditures of all the institutions under the control of the community council for two con-

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secutive years: 1929 and 1930. First, the document sheds light on the organization of the Jewish community, as it names all the religious, educational, and welfare institutions in the community. More relevant, the document recorded the various types of revenues of each institution: community or government allocations, direct contributions of individuals, contributions in synagogues or festivities, subscriptions, and drives. This record allows historians to estimate the relative weight of voluntary contributions within the general budget of each institution as well as the broader role of philanthropy in the community. In some cases, the accounting records registered major subscribers by name along with their donations—revealing the leading philanthropists in the community; on other occasions, when the community organized drives for particularly large projects (e.g., the construction of the Magen-Abraham synagogue and the community school), the document recorded entire lists of donors along with the amounts of their donations. Very rarely does the entry “Anonymous” (majhūl) appear in the records. These vital lists shed light on the magnitude and scope of philanthropic activity in the community. In order to illuminate the role of organized philanthropic activity in Beirut, we will now discuss several institutions based on the information that the accounting records provide. By the late 1920s, the Talmud-Torah school had created an intricate revenue system that relied heavily on the philanthropy of community members. The community account book lists five categories of revenues for the school, three of which constituted voluntary contributions (see Table 7). First, both the community council and the French High Commission allocated sums for the school. In 1929, the community council appropriated an amount 25 percent higher than that of the government. In 1930, however, the French reduced their support for the school to half that of the community council’s support. Community members who donated through subscriptions constituted a second category. Members in this category contributed to the school on a regular (monthly) basis. In 1929, the donations of the subscribers totaled a sum greater than the allocation of the French High Commission, with the main subscribers being Ezra ‛Anzarut and David

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Sha‛yo. The revenues collected from the communal synagogues and Midrashim comprised a third type of support for the Talmud-Torah school. In 1929, this category ranked as the single highest revenue source; a year later, it had fallen slightly, ranking second. As one could expect, the majority of the money came from the central synagogue, Magen-Abraham, but the synagogues of Midrash TalmudTorah and Midrash ‛Idi also financed the school. In 1929, because many community members participated in prayers, celebrations, and other festivities held in these religious institutions, the total revenues in this category totaled more than twice the revenues in the subscription category. Community members’ direct contributions to the school constituted a fourth type of revenue. In 1930, this category had become, by far, the single most important revenue source, with forty recorded contributors and sixty recorded subscribers. The largest donations came from such wealthy merchants and bankers as Albert and Jacques Delbourgo,45 Moshe Sassoon, Selim Dichy, Abraham Batish, Ezra Sha‛yo, Eli Levy, Khedouri Zilkha, and Jacob Safra. As the last source, the community received loans from the AngloPalestine Bank and from two local businessmen—Eli Jacob Levy and Jacob Safra. Of significance, the figures in the accounting records reveal that voluntary donations amounted to more than twice the allocations of the community council and the High Commission put together. This clearly shows that, in the development of the school, the community relied heavily on the voluntary contributions of its members. Changing the school’s name from “Talmud-Torah Mizrahi” to “Talmud-Torah Selim Tarrab” formally symbolized the growing role of philanthropy in the community’s development. Table 7: Revenues of Talmud-Torah School Category French government allocation

1929 8,100

1930 6,136

Community council allocation

12,000

12,000

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Table 7 (Continued) Subscribers

8,490

10,517

Synagogues and Midrashim

19,682

18,001

Donations

18,766

26,403

Loans

11,997

N/A

Note: Figures are taken from the community accounting records. Table does not show total revenues, only major categories. Figures are given in gold qurush.

Financing Welfare Services Jewish communities have always cared for their poor through a variety of charitable and welfare societies. Such societies provided social and religious services to community members in need; they distributed food, money, and clothing; they provided dowries for poor brides; or they ransomed Jews who had been taken captive.46 As we have seen, Beirut also had various welfare services, two of which were Ozer-Dalim (‘helping the poor’) and Mattan-Basseter (‘giving in secret’). One may wonder why the Jewish community maintained two separate services with the same purpose—distributing money and food to the poor. The community appears to have distinguished between two types of aid—one for the officially and publicly recognized poor (Ozer-Dalim) and one for families of average means who secretly and temporarily received support (Mattan-Basseter). In fact, the community’s accounting records registered the names of community members who donated money to Mattan-Basseter.47 The sources of revenue for each society had a distinct difference; Ozer-Dalim relied almost entirely on subscribers. In contrast, MattanBasseter relied on various resources (see Table 8). It received allocations from the community council as well as from the B’nai B’rith lodge. It also relied on donations in the synagogues, charity boxes in the midrashim, and donations offered during celebrations. In 1930, for

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example, 153 individuals donated money to this society in synagogues, during festivities, and on other occasions. Thus, while OzerDalim relied on one category of income (subscription), the resources of Mattan-Basseter were diverse. One possible explanation for the difference is that the budgetary needs of Ozer-Dalim could be easily met by its subscribers. This also explains why the community council did not support this welfare society.48 Table 8: Revenues of Mattan-Basseter Category

Weekly notes

1929 Amount No. of donors 27,500 n/a

1930 Amount No. of donors 24,345 n/a

Synagogues

13,680

108

17,634

88

Various donations

11,882

26

16,256

16

Subscribers

10,575

7

9,250

4

Celebrations

5,613

15

11,839

40

Menorot49

4,700

7

8,500

10

Note: Figures taken from the community accounting records. Figures are in Syrian qurush. Table does not show the total revenues, only major categories of voluntary revenues.

The six categories of voluntary contributions attest to the leadership’s significant efforts to maximize revenues through the creation of diverse philanthropic venues in the community. Donors had various

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choices and could donate in the settings they preferred. They could pledge in various degrees of commitment: yearly, monthly, weekly, or ad hoc (i.e., personal celebration or private donation). Be that as it may, the discussion about the Talmud-Torah and the two welfare societies points to a process of specialization in the area of philanthropy. In other words, the community created and defined a variety of means to support its various communal needs. Furthermore, each welfare service became associated with a particular fundraising venue. For example, Ozer-Dalim was associated with subscriptions and Mattan-Basseter was associated with donations in the synagogues and celebrations. And while the ‛Aley synagogue was closely associated with Biqur-Holim, Magen-Abraham was associated with the Talmud-Torah school. In sum, the leadership diversified venues where donors could contribute and, by so doing, amplified its revenues. Table 9: Annual revenues of community institutions Institution

1929

1930

Alliance schools

211,563

222,290

Community council

172,380

144,253

Talmud-Torah

104,687

100,966

Biqur-Holim

63,268

56,912

Magen-Abraham50

45,696

37,439

Hevra-Qadisha51

37,219

30,752

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Table 9 (Continued) Ozer-Dalim

11,902

29,696

Mattan-Basseter

21,256

23,885

Hesed-Shel-Emet

5,666

4,818

Hakhnasat-Orhim

14,787

3,896

Note: Figures are taken from the community account book, which recorded sums in two currencies: gold qurush and Syrian qurush. Figures in the table are in gold qurush.

Education and health ranked high in communal priorities. Upon examining the allocations of the community council to the various societies, we find the largest sums allocated to the Alliance and TalmudTorah schools. Although the Alliance schools’ budget was the biggest, it was funded almost entirely by outside (non-community) sources like the High Commission, the Alliance Central Committee in Paris, the Anglo-Jewish Association, as well as tuition from students of financially comfortable families. Interestingly, the community council did not allocate sums to Biqur-Holim, probably due to the large number of contributions the society received, mainly in the ‛Aley synagogue. While Table 9 gives us an idea about the relative budgetary status of each society in the community, it still does not shed light on the role of philanthropy in the community. Luckily, the records listed the various sources of each society, and therefore we were able to calculate the relative weight of voluntary contributions within the total revenues of each society.

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Table 10: Percentage of voluntary donations Institution

1929

1930

Ozer-Dalim

100%

100%

Mattan-Basseter

88%

95%

Biqur-Holim

78%

89%

Hesed Shel-Emet

73%

37%

Talmud-Torah

64%

55%

Magen-Abraham

64%

67%

Hakhnasat-Orhim

33%

89%

Alliance schools

0.8%

1.34%

Community council

0.6%

0.12%

Synagogues as Philanthropic Agents The synagogue served as the heart of every Jewish community. It became the primary place for members of the community to meet regularly, to pray together, and to socialize with each other.52 Although the principal and primary function of the synagogue was public prayer, it also served a secondary socioeconomic role. Community members

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‘bought mitsvot’ in the synagogue, donated money when they were invited to read from the Torah (‘buying aliyot’), and donated ritual objects as well as money for various communal needs. Frequently, weddings, Bar-Mitsvot, and other festivities took place in the synagogue, offering individuals additional opportunities to donate for public needs.53 The account of Ben Tsion Taragan, a resident of Jerusalem who resettled in Alexandria in 1907, proves relevant here. Shortly after his arrival in his new hometown, Taragan participated in the Yom Kippur service, and wrote his impressions immediately afterward. He waited impatiently for the event, as it was his first holiday in Alexandria. He was impressed by the fact that banks and shops closed and trade ceased, but it was the activity within the synagogue that drew his attention most. After closely examining the faces of the guests entering the synagogue, the author focused his attention on the wealthy guests: They [the rich] sit or stand on their feet wrapped with their silk praying shawls, look into their siddur and attentively hear every sound coming out of the hazzan’s [cantor] and his singers’ mouth . . . no noise would be heard. Silence of holiness and purity reigns in the sacred house. Here comes the time for ‘selling the mitsvot’ and reading the Torah. Then starts the movement of these great [rich], and like [their conduct] in the Bursa [Stock-Exchange], they start to compete with each other on buying the mitsvot and their ‘aliya contributions. You hear: fifty, one hundred, two hundred, and eight hundred francs. Our brothers in Egypt also would not forget their coreligionists in the Holy Land. 54

This short paragraph reveals a set of contrasts in the ritual service. Taragan’s description points to two phases in the service. He contrasts “silence of holiness and purity” of the first phase with the dynamism and movement of the second. The hazzan and the singers are the ones heard in the first phase, while the rich and their calls are heard in the second. Taragan’s readers could also infer another contrast: while the general service was shared by all, the ‘ritual of giving’ belonged to the rich alone.55

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The Jews of Beirut

The rich and their conduct in the synagogue drew Taragan’s attention on the most sacred day in the Jewish faith. However, if ‘selling’ mitsvot and ‘buying’ ‘aliyot in the synagogue was a common practice in Judaism, why then was Taragan so amazed? The social imprint of the rich in the synagogue made a great impression on Taragan. He specified the sums he heard, and no doubt, these also made a great impression on him. Taragan’s surprise and amazement reveal that he was not familiar with similar practices of such magnitude in his hometown—Jerusalem: “And I keep looking and hearing in amazement and tell myself: Ribono shel-Olam [Master of the Universe], I do not wish you to write me in the book of the righteous . . . please write me in the book of the rich, the book of the wealthy, then I could wish to be truly happy.”56 The evidence strongly suggests that synagogue dynamics followed a similar path in Beirut—albeit on a smaller scale. As in Alexandria, Beirut had a wealthy class that often donated sums within the public domain of the synagogue. They demonstrated their wealth, and established their social status in the community. Fortunately, we have the account of Abraham Brawer, who visited the town of ‘Aley during the Jewish holiday of Rosh ha-Shannah. Describing the service in the local synagogue, Brawer recounts: In reading the Torah they [the worshipers] repeated numerous times on one Torah portion and after each [portion] reading, [they say] mi she-berekh prayers to the oleh, 57 his family members and friends for he donated money to the synagogue. They donated generously . . . When one of the olim donated twenty Egyptian pounds in memory of his father, the audience, greatly enthused, stood up. 58

The ritual of giving in the ‘Aley synagogue and the social rewards associated with it there impressed Brawer as it impressed Taragan in Alexandria. In his family autobiography, Ezra Zilkha, the son of a wealthy banker in Beirut, also described the stature associated with giving that played a role in the synagogue ritual: “As a Cohen, Father was among the first to be called to the prayer table on Holy Days. He always made a large contribution to the synagogue to make sure we

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had the privilege of removing the silver pomegranates from the Torah when it was unrolled and read.”59 The Jews of Beirut worshiped in several places: in the summer, many worshipped in the resort towns of ‘Aley and B’hamdoun; in Beirut, they had three synagogues: the synagogue of the Sephardic Jews (Kanis al-Isbanyuliyya), the synagogue of Damascene Jews (Kanis al-Shawam), and a small synagogue for Ashkenazi Jews. In 1926, the community completed the construction of its major synagogue— Magen-Abraham. In addition to these synagogues, the community accounting records list eight midrashim, small family houses of study and prayer: midrash Safra, midrash Dana, midrash Khabie, midrash ‘Idi, midrash Srour, midrash Buka’i, midrash Alliance, and midrash TalmudTorah. Donations in these midrashim were collected in charity boxes (sunduq al-ihsan). By their nature, the bigger synagogues (MagenAbraham and the ‘Aley synagogue) hosted the more important communal events because they could accommodate more people than could the midrashim. As a result, offering donations in these synagogues had a much greater effect on one’s social standing. It is hard to accurately quantify the volume of donations within the synagogues. The categories of ‘donations’ and ‘donations for celebrations’ in the accounting records do not distinguish between donations offered in or outside the synagogue. We do know, however, that many celebrations (e.g., weddings) took place in synagogues. Therefore, we can estimate the relative weight of donations made within the realm of the synagogues within the total revenues of various institutions (Table 11). We have assumed that all contributions listed under ‘donations’ were offered in synagogues. Even if the figures in the table are not precise, it is still possible to get a general idea about the importance of synagogues and midrashim as philanthropic agents.

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Table 11: Contributions in synagogues Institution

1929

1930

Biqur-Holim

67%

70%

Magen-Abraham

64%

67%

Talmud-Torah

43%

44%

Mattan-Basseter

33%

47%

Hesed-Shel-Emet

26%

29%

Hakhnasat-Orhim

20%

44%

Ozer-Dalim

13%

1%

While giving played an important role in the ongoing funding of community institutions, the multiplicity of fund-raising venues sometimes led to competition over resources and corresponding increases in social tensions. In 1921, five years before the construction of the large Magen-Abraham synagogue, the local newspaper, Al-‘Ālam alIsra’ili, published a short article whose writer presented the readers with a peculiar situation. Many Jewish families, the writer argued, used to spend the summer months in the town of ‘Aley, where the season was cooler. However, this custom meant that many well-to-do families frequented the ‘Aley synagogue, rather than the Beirut synagogues and midrashim. As a result, the revenues of the Beirut syna-

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gogues declined during the summer months, while those of ‘Aley increased. The writer provides some insightful reasons to explain this phenomenon: “[T]he Aley synagogue is built according to a beautiful and wide pattern.”60 Second, it is managed by competent men, and last, “the meeting of the notables of the community in one place makes them eager to compete by buying mitsvot and aliyot, so this way ample revenue is thus collected which is allocated to the Sick Aid Society.”61 Based on his observations, the writer suggested that the community in Beirut build a synagogue similar to that in ‘Aley, so the community could enjoy extensive revenues not only three months a year, but year-round. It appears that the members responsible for the construction of the Magen-Abraham synagogue were aware of all the components mentioned by our insightful observer. In its size, architectural style, and interior design, the new synagogue was much more impressive than the ‘Aley synagogue. Nevertheless, the ‘Aley synagogue continued to serve as a major revenue source for the Jewish community. Three years later, another writer who had been observing the situation at ‘Aley pointed to another budgetary problem. Traditionally, the ‘Aley synagogue revenues supported the Biqur-Holim society, and the Beirut synagogues and midrashim mainly supported the community Talmud-Torah school. As a result of the increased attendance at the ‘Aley synagogue during the summer months, the income of BiqurHolim increased, while that of the community school declined. The concerned writer appealed to the ‘Aley synagogue committee, asking them to redistribute the revenues of the synagogue in ‘Aley equally between Biqur-Holim and the Talmud-Torah school. 62 He explained the reason for his suggestion. While the ‘Aley synagogue revenues funded health services, poor community members could receive free medical treatment outside the community. Therefore, there was no justification to channel those revenues exclusively to Biqur-Holim. It is much more important, he argued, to financially support the community school, so poor children would not attend Christian schools that would alienate them from Jewish customs and traditions.

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The Jews of Beirut

From the examples presented here, one can ascertain that the motivation to donate had a direct relationship to the potential to maximize social rewards. The components of this potential were physical (the building, its style, size, and splendor), social (competition, which necessitated the gathering in one place of enough individuals from the same socioeconomic status who could compete among themselves; competition was obviously not possible between the rich and people with average means), and functional (the knowledge that honest, competent men responsibly managed the revenues and directed them to a specific purpose). Indeed, while religious feelings may have consciously encouraged people to contribute, the motivation to donate was subject to other, less overt and more subtle conditions. We have seen that the community employed various vehicles for philanthropic activity: direct donations for one of the communal funds, solicitations, donations during festivals, subscriptions, and charity boxes for others. Propaganda in the communal newspaper, Al‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, served as another important modern tool the community utilized in order to increase donations. The newspaper, founded in 1921 by community member Selim Mann, aligned itself with the community leadership. The newspaper promoted community projects, and reported on the progress and development of community institutions as well as the general and Jewish news from all around the world. It also published letters of readers who voiced their opinion regarding community affairs, usually anonymously or under pseudonyms. 63 The propaganda designed to encourage philanthropy included three elements: criticizing the well-to-do for not giving money, praising individuals who did donate, and addressing the conscience of potential donors. Several examples of this communal propaganda illustrate the use of this technique. In 1923, several members of the school committee donated a sum of 2,500 English pounds toward the construction of the Talmud-Torah building. The anonymous writer, informed of the event, commented: Where are you, oh wealthy people of Beirut? And where are you, oh young Jewish people of Beirut? . . . the community 15 years ago began building a synagogue whose walls appeared above ground, but unfortu-

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nately the wealthy of this wretched country were unable to complete it. So what is the secret behind this? Has generosity and empathy disappeared from people?64

Praising the generosity of the donors served as a second way of influencing individuals to donate. The newspaper informed readers that it would publish the names of donors, sometimes along with their pictures. The names of the major benefactors—Moise Sassoon, Ezra ‛Anzarut, and the Tarrab brothers—were mentioned often, followed by a moral demand to emulate them: “This newspaper welcomes all underwritings [contributions] that are given for the sake of building a Foreigners’ Shelter, and it emphasizes that the benefit that motivated Sassoon and Tarrab will motivate others to this noble charitable project.”65 In another case, “Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili praises the sensibilities of the noble honorable benefactors Michel and Raphael Tarrab and asks the well-to-do to emulate them, for comparing oneself to the generous brings prosperity.”66 These examples attest to a significant shift in values. If, in earlier periods, donors mainly performed charity for religious reward, now it had become a value in itself, the reward of which was socioeconomic status, prestige, and publicity. The newspaper, a modern form of media, barely mentions giving as a religious obligation. The third technique involved appealing to the conscience of potential donors. Thus, for example, after the Foreigners’ Shelter was demolished to build the Magen-Abraham synagogue, the need to care for the foreigners arose anew: And here is the winter season approaching, so if the community does not take precautions . . . for these miserable people, they will be swept by the rains and their existence under this condition will pain all those with a living conscience and noble sensitivity among the members of the community in Beirut. 67

In another instance, when the community made efforts to raise money for expanding the school, the writer tried another technique; he claimed that the efforts were being made not to build a new school, but rather to revive Rabbi Zaki Cohen’s old school: “So, you sons of

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The Jews of Beirut

Rabbi Zaki Cohen School and its students . . . we urge you by God to memorialize your teacher by bringing his school back, and this will cost you only a little effort you exert in the underwritings to which our newspaper opens its bosom.”68 Thus, propaganda was used repeatedly to pressure the well-to-do to contribute to the communal projects. Although all knew of the religious rewards of charity, it was, rather, the secular elements of status, prestige, and publicity that the newspaper stressed and to which people responded.

B’nai B’rith as a Philanthropic Agent Philanthropy formed an integral part of B’nai B’rith’s ideology. The founders of B’nai B’rith’s Orient District had two principal goals: to unite Sephardic and Ashkenazi Jews and to elevate the Jews socially and intellectually.69 The statutes of the Beirut lodge further articulated these philanthropic elements of its ideology. 70 The lodge aimed 1. To develop the purest principles of humanity among its members and among the Jews, and elevate them morally and intellectually. 2. To support any initiative that promoted the arts, sciences, and education. 3. To support widows and orphans and to assist oppressed or persecuted Jews. The B’nai B’rith lodge in Beirut became deeply involved in communal affairs. In addition to its representation on the community council, it’s members sat on the Talmud-Torah committee, the MagenAbraham synagogue committee, and took part in the administration of such welfare services as Biqur Holim, Hakhnasat Orhim, Hevra Qadisha, and on the schools’ committee.71 As B’nai B’rith members, the leaders of the community were positioned to implement the lodge’s principles: Jewish solidarity, communal progress, and social activism. In the French Mandate period, the lodge had between thirty and fifty members. The members assembled once or twice a month; they discussed and monitored the progress of

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institutions, initiated programs, and, more often than not, implemented them. We have already mentioned the B’nai B’rith synagogue created in 1922 to support the Talmud-Torah school. In addition, the lodge offered prizes to outstanding students in the Jewish schools, supported orphans and widows, and, in some cases, provided loans to students who wished to study overseas.72 Its philanthropic activity extended beyond the boundaries of the community. Immediately after the Syrian rebellion that erupted in August 1925,73 thousands of Damascene Jews escaped to Beirut, where they sought the help of local Jews. The communal leadership formed a committee that was able to collect a sum equivalent to 500 dollars, which it distributed as relief. However, confronted with a continuous refugee problem, members of the relief committee who were also members of the local lodge wired various B’nai B’rith lodges throughout the world, as well as the Alliance and Syrian and Lebanese Jews in the diaspora. Within ten months, the relief committee (in a joint effort with its Damascene counterpart) managed to collect 45,000 dollars, which was dispensed in Beirut and Damascus. By August 1926, the relief committee ceased functioning because most refugees had returned to Damascus or immigrated to South America.74 The B’nai B’rith lodge had its own funds, which it accumulated from members’ admission fees, annual fees, donations in honor of family celebrations (a requirement for any B’nai B’rith member), and other surcharges levied on members. The lodge’s revenues were allocated among three funds. An Aid Fund assisted members in need and supported widows and orphans who were relatives of the members. The Lodge Fund paid for all the administrative expenses of the lodge, and the Reserve Fund was a fund whose interest supported the Aid Fund. Only one-quarter of the total lodge revenues went to the Aid Fund. They allocated two-thirds of this sum to support widows and orphans and the last third went to various aid programs. Five percent of the lodge revenues went to the Reserve Fund, and the remaining seventy percent went to the Lodge Fund. 75

194

The Jews of Beirut

The Colonial Factor Like any other social force, philanthropy never operates in a vacuum. While generosity may well be one virtue of human nature, it may also remain dormant under certain conditions or active under others. Indeed, the existence of a wealthy class does not guarantee active philanthropic activity. In Beirut, until the First World War, the wealthy Jews did not commonly practice philanthropy; they had largely remained uninterested in public affairs.76 This condition proved not unique to Beirut. In Mogador, as Michel Abitbol observes, “[T]he foreign consuls intervened not once on behalf of the mellah’s poor, from whom the community rich charged very high rents. Also, those Jews [the rich] were not always willing . . . to support the reconstruction work in the mellah or the efforts to open modern schools for the weak classes.”77 French colonial policies in Lebanon not only allowed for, but also created favorable conditions for philanthropy to emerge as an active social force. With the founding of Greater Lebanon, the French recognized the extant confessional system in Lebanon, and institutionalized it in the Constitution of 1926.78 The Jewish community became one of the sixteen officially recognized communities in Lebanon, enjoying autonomy in the areas of administration, education, and religious matters, albeit under French supervision. Burdened with heavy expenses in the Levant, French authorities sought to minimize expenditures for social welfare.79 Roger Owen pointed out that “in the interests of economy the French kept the number of government officials at a minimum, leaving the bulk of the educational, medical and other services to be provided on a communal basis.”80 This, therefore, relegated social welfare in Lebanon to the private sector (i.e., missions and churches), which expanded dramatically in the mandatory state.81 However, unlike the Ottomans, who had sought to counter the many European groups that provided social services, the French not only welcomed them, but also selectively subsidized them to a great extent: “The mandatory state subsidized the private, Christian schools heavily, making them in fact quasi-state schools. Drawing on extra-budgetary funds from Paris, the High

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Commission subsidized about half of all private schools, paying about one third of their costs.”82 As the community accounting records affirm and in accord with their policies, the French also subsidized the two Jewish schools: the Alliance and the Talmud-Torah. In the case of the Alliance school, the subsidy comprised 8.5 percent of the budget in 1930, and, in the case of Talmud-Torah, the subsidy comprised 6 percent of the school budget for the same year—much lower than the “one third” claimed by Thompson.83 However, while Christians benefited from the numerous state-sponsored welfare services provided by the missionaries and churches, the Jewish leadership took great pains to avoid them. Indeed, the continuous efforts to promote the Jewish communal institutions were intertwined with the efforts to refrain from utilizing services outside the Jewish community. During the 1920s, free medical care was available for the poor of Beirut, yet the Jewish leadership made great efforts to provide and maintain community health care (Biqur-Holim). The Jewish leadership took a similar approach in the area of education; the leadership repeatedly expressed its concerns about parents who sent their children to non-Jewish schools and campaigned for the community school. Thus, the heavy French reliance on the private (Christian) sector ‘pushed’ the Jewish community toward a greater measure of self-reliance, and Jewish philanthropy became essential to this process.

Conclusion Philanthropy became an active social force in the Jewish community between the 1910s and the 1930s. An integral part of the organization and consolidation process that began after the Young Turk Revolution, it reflected the growing solidarity among the Jews of Beirut. The well-to-do—a group of some two hundred merchants, bankers, and businessmen—who, in addition to the ‘arikha, also contributed voluntarily to communal needs formed the core of the community’s philanthropists. Several institutions influenced the development of philanthropy in Beirut. In the pre-organized phase, the Scottish Mission, the Alli-

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ance, and Tiferet Israel all involved themselves in welfare activity. Tiferet Israel, in particular, stands out as an indigenous institution that created young, educated alumni who, by the end of the nineteenth century, had already founded a welfare society. During and after the First World War, American-Jewish organizations played an increasingly large role, as the JDC extended aid to the community and the B’nai B’rith lodge became the main generator of communal reform, welfare, and philanthropy. During the mandatory period, philanthropy went through a process of institutionalization. The sporadic, spontaneous philanthropy of the pre-organized phase gave way to a rationalized, administered system of fund-raising that did not simply respond when called, but one that created a long-term system of communal welfare. Not only the needy benefited from the fruits of philanthropy, but the general public, too, enjoyed religious, social, and cultural events funded by contributions. The communal leadership constantly sought to increase its revenues by diversifying its fund-raising vehicles, promoting new modes of giving, and using the newspaper Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili as a tool of influence. The willingness of the upper class to partake in the culture of giving proves the effectiveness of the leadership’s efforts. Three factors stimulated Jewish philanthropy in Beirut. First, local traditions of giving set the example for affluent community members who felt compelled to match the actions of such prestigious individuals as Raphael Stambouli, Ezra ‛Anzarut, Itzhak Mann, Moise Sassoon, Michel Tarrab, Jacob Safra, and others. Second, French colonial policies created favorable conditions for active philanthropy. By minimizing expenditures on social services, the wealthy merchant class felt compelled to match the services provided in other religious communities. Indeed, the Jewish leadership remained sensitive to the image of the community in the eyes of the French High Commission and the other religious communities. The Jewish leadership kept in mind the respectable appearance of the Jewish community vis-à-vis the other communities. Third, the imported ideology of B’nai B’rith, which stressed humanitarian values, Jewish solidarity, and social justice, provided a moral justification and a theoretical basis for active philan-

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thropic activity. The overlapping of the B’nai B’rith lodge with the communal leadership meant that the former’s ideology permeated the various communal committees and affected communal development. Last, local Jewish philanthropy released the community from the paternalism of external Jewish organizations, and provided the community with a strong sense of pride, independence, and achievement. Indeed, in a society in which the community was the most important frame of reference, the Jewish community council used philanthropy as a tool for community building. Of course, in earlier periods, too, generosity affected communal development, but such development took backstage to religious duty—the primary motivation underlying charity. In Beirut under the French Mandate, the primary objective of giving became communal development, while religious duty played a secondary role at best. The fact that the synagogue remained an important vehicle of giving should not obscure the true, secular nature of philanthropy. Yet another important difference separates philanthropy in colonial settings from philanthropy in earlier periods: With the emergence of modern national ideologies, philanthropy could take on new political overtones.

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Notes 1

2

3

4 5 6

7 8

9

10

11

Yaron Ben-Naeh, Ha-Yehudim be-Mamlekhet ha-Sultanim: Ha-Hevra ha-Yehudit baImperya ha-Osmanit ba-Me’ah ha-Shva-Esre (Jews in the realm of the Sultans) (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, The Hebrew University, 2006), 205; Limor Nissan, Lo haRuah Levada: Giyyus Mash'abim be Irgunim Lelo Kavanat Revah (Not the spirit alone: Recruiting resources in not for profit organizations) (Tel Aviv: Association of Voluntary and Non Profit Sector, 2002), 21–23. Mark Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005). According to Cohen, the mezonot fund replaced two earlier and separate funds: the tamhui and the quppah. The new, consolidated fund served the extensive needs of the community better than the two separate funds. Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 197–198. Ben-Naeh, Jews, 207. Jacob Katz, Tradition and Crisis (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2000), 151– 155. Ben-Naeh, Jews, 217–219. On the waqf institution, see: Halil Inalcik, The Ottoman Empire: The Classical Age 1300–1600 (London: Phoenix Press, 1973), 140–144; Stanford Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, vol. 1 (London, New York, Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 161–162; Suraiya Faroqhi, Subject of the Sultan: Culture and Daily Life in the Ottoman Empire (London, New York: I.B. Tauris, 2000), 131–135; on the impact of the tanzimat on the waqf institution, see: Astrid Meier, “Waqf Only in Name, Not in Essence,” in The Empire in the City: Arab Provincial Capitals in the Late Ottoman Empire, ed. Jens Hanssen et al. (Würzburg: Ergon in Kommission, 2002), 201–218. Ben-Naeh, Jews, 200; Cohen presented a similar opinion regarding the Geniza period. See: Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 28. On these contradictory Ottoman policies, see: Daniel Schroeter, “The Changing Relationship between the Jews of the Arab Middle East and the Ottoman State in the Nineteenth Century,” in Jews, Turks, Ottomans, A Shared History, Fifteenth through the Twentieth Century, ed. Avigdor Levy (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2002), 88–107. The heads of the society were Sassoon Yehezkel Menashe (president), David Yehezkel Khadoori (treasurer), and Shlomo Bekhor Hotsin (vice president). See at length: Ha-Levanon, 18 March 1869, no. 12, 95–96; 25 March 1869, no. 13, 102– 103; Ha-Magid, 16 December 1868, no. 49, 387.

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12

13

14

15

16 17

18

19 20

21 22

23 24 25

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Haim Sa‛adoun, “Communal Organization,” in Jewish Communities in the East in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Iraq (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Ben-Tsvi Institute, 2002), 55; Abraham Ben-Ya‛acov documented the personal philanthropy of many affluent Baghdadi Jews. See: Abraham Ben-Ya‛acov, Yehudei Bavel mi-sof Tequfat ha-Ge’onim ‛ad Yamenu (Babylonian Jews from the end of the Ge’onim period to the present) (Jerusalem: Sivan Press, 1979), 174–200. Private charity was often associated with wills. See, for example: Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 195–196. Leah Bornstein-Makovetzky, “The Community and Its Institutions,” in The Jews in Ottoman Egypt, ed. Jacob Landau (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalaim, 1988), 183–191; Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 200. Jacob Landau, Jews in Nineteenth-Century Egypt (New York: New York University Press, 1969), 64–66; Bension Taragan, Les Communautés Israélites d'Alexandrie (Alexandrie: Les Editions Juives d'Egypte, 1932), 143–150. These were Ozer-Dalim, Mattan-Basseter, Hesed Shel-Emet, and Biqur-Holim. Sydney Montagu Samuel testified that, in Tiferet Israel’s reception room, the portrait of Eliezer Kadoori hung next to that of Midhat Pasha. It is possible, therefore, that Kadoori was one of the school’s benefactors. The sources also mention several trips that Cohen made to Egypt, where he probably raised money for his school or received loans. Emil Frank, a banker and shipping agent, lived in Beirut. Through his contacts with the Alliance, he became involved in the colonization enterprise of the Rothschilds, and served as superintendent of the colonies in Palestine. Due to his status, the Alliance officially recognized him as the ‘head’ of the Beirut Jews; HaTsvi, 18 August 1893, no. 46; Aaronsohn, Baron Rothschild, 156–157. Havatselet, 13 June 1879, no. 30, 219; Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire, 205. These were: Menasshe Sit’hon, Yoseph Bizashe, and Eliyahu Dana; Havatselet, 5 June 1879, no. 28–29, 212. Havatselet, 26 December 1879, no. 11–12, 81. Aron Set’hon, “Yishuv ha-Yehudim be-Levanon” (The settlement of Jews in Lebanon), Ha-Zeman 4, no. 10 (1906): 99. Ha-Tsvi, 12 February 1886, no. 19, 76. Ha-Tsvi, 12 April 1900, no. 41, 122. The revenues in 1900 were: 20 percent from direct donations, 25 percent from holiday donations, 6.6 percent raised during festivities, 18 percent from aliya contributions in the Beit Midrash, and 19 percent from the plays. The remaining funds came from renting out part of the Beit Midrash and balances carried over from the previous year. Hayyim Mikhael Dana, a French and Arabic teacher, headed the society; Mordekhai Mann, a scholar and merchant, held the role of second place to Dana; with Gol Darwish, a writer and book seller; and Selim Mann, the society’s treasurer and Arabic teacher in the Alliance school rounding out the leadership.

200

26 27

28

29 30

31 32

33 34

35

36

37

38

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Hanssen, Fin de Siècle, 187. As we have seen, the graduates of Tiferet Israel founded a welfare society; Zaki’s son, Selim, was a member of the Beirut Education Council around 1900. Another graduate, Selim Mann, founded the newspaper Al-‛Ālam al-Isra’ili in 1921; one can understand, therefore, that the newspaper sometimes viewed the communal school as a continuation of Zaki Cohen’s school. See, for example: Al-‛Ālam alIsra’ili, 25 February 1926, no. 227. According to the census of 1932, 3,060 Jews lived in Beirut. In comparison, the Jewish community of Alexandria had 24,829 Jews in 1927. Ha-Herut, 1910, 2 (13), 2. The activity of the Hebrew schools in Damascus began in 1910, after Abraham Elmaleh visited to stimulate the national conscience of the local Jews. He laid the foundations for Hebrew education along Zionist lines; the national character of Hebrew education in Damascus generated renewed momentum with the arrival of the Jewish exiles from Palestine in 1915. Menahem Nahum, “Mosdot haHinukh ha-Yehudi ve ha-Hinukh ha-‛Ivri she pa‛alu be-Suriyyah u be-Levanon, 1910–1927” (The Jewish and Hebrew educational institutions that o perated in Syria and Lebanon, 1910–1927), ‘Iyunim ba-Hinukh 2, no.1 (1997): 12–13. Community council to the Education Committee, 15 July 1919, S2/657, CZA. Yoseph Rivlin (1890–1971) was imprisoned in Damascus in 1917; after his release, he headed the Girls’ Hebrew school in the city until 1922. David Yelin (1864– 1941) was one of the Yishuv’s leaders, a teacher, Hebrew linguistic, and Orientalist. See: Israel Kolatt, ed., The History of the Jewish Community In Erets-Israel since 1882, vol. 1 (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute, 1989), 743. The Mizrahi was a religious Zionist faction founded in 1902. The education committee to the Talmud-Torah committee, 9 September 1920, S2/579, CZA. Jacob Schiff (1847–1920), a German-born, New York–based banker and philanthropist, was one of the most important Jewish leaders of his time. He supported and financed numerous Jewish and non-Jewish causes. When the American Jewish Committee (AJC) formed in 1906, Schiff became one of its chief leaders. Talmud-Torah Mizrahi Society to Jacob Schiff, 22 June 1920, AR19/21, Carton 284, JDCA. The source does not indicate the currency. Appropriations sent to Syria 1 January 1920 to 30 June 1920, AR19/21, Carton 284, JDCA; Statement by Dr. Sola Pool, 22 December 1921, AR19/21, Carton 284, JDCA. The High Commission was the French ruling apparatus in Lebanon from 1920 to 1943. Headed by the High Commissioner, the High Commission exercised supreme powers of legislation and execution in Syria and Lebanon, drawing its legitimacy from the mandate it received from the League of Nations in 1920, which the league reaffirmed in 1923. Sidi to Captain Dueroeg, 5 January 1925, Beyrouth, Carton 1064, MAE.

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40

41

42

43

44 45 46

47 48 49 50

51 52

53 54

55

56 57

58

201

See, for example: Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 58, 19 October 1922, 1; Ibid., Issue 269, 6 January 1927, 1. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 107, 11 October 1923, 3. The letter’s phrasing implies that the writer may have been a member of the school committee or even a member of the community council. A. Bernstein, “Ha-Qehilah ha-Yehudit be-Beyrut” (The Jewish community of Beirut), Do’ar ha-Yom, 1 December 1927. The community accounting record for 1930 reveals that this condition was met by the community, who managed to raise the same amount contributed by Michel and Raphael Tarrab. Hisābāt al-majlis al-milli al-Isra’ili wa lijanat al-far‛iyya wa al-kana’is wa almidrashim (Accounts of the Jewish Community Council, its various subcommittees, synagogues, and Midrashim) (Beirut: Selim E. Mann Printing House, 1929–1930), 38; The author found the accounting records in the Archive of the Sephardic Congregation Committee in Jerusalem. Ibid. Albert Delbourgo served as consul of Norway in Beirut in the 1920s and 1930s. Ben-Naeh, Jews, 200–203; Ya‛acov Barnai, “The Jews in the Ottoman Empire,” in History of the Jews in the Islamic Countries (in Hebrew), vol. 2, ed. Shmuel Ettinger (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center, 1986), 278. See, for example: Hisābāt, 1929, 34–38. The community council did not support Ozer-Dalim and Biqur-Holim. These were most probably donations for the lighting of lamps in the synagogue. This figure represents the funds raised for the administration and maintenance of the synagogue itself and does not include monies donated in the synagogue for other communal needs and societies. Burial fees (D'mei Qevurah) constituted the sole income of this society. See at length: Ben-Naeh, Jews, 168–182; André Chouraqui, Between East and West: A History of the Jews of North Africa (New York: Atheneum, 1973), 58–59. Katz, Tradition and Crisis, 153–155; Ben-Naeh, Jews, 173–175. Bension Taragan, Le-Qorot ha-Qehilah ha-Yehudit be-Alexandriyya (Alexandria: Leon Plombo Press, 1947), 16–17. This publication is a collection of articles written by Taragan that were published in such Hebrew periodicals of the period as Do’ar ha-Yom, Ha-Boqer, and Hed ha-Mizrah. Jacob Katz argued: “[T]he synagogue also provided a method of marking off the social strata within the community and of fixing the distinctions between various levels.” See: Katz, Tradition and Crisis, 153. Taragan, Qehilah Yehudit, 17. The person who is invited to read a Torah portion is called Oleh (The one who ascends). Abraham Brawer, Avaq Derakhim (Roads’ dust) (Tel Aviv: ‘Am ‘Oved, 1944), 39– 40.

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59

60 61 62 63

64 65 66

67 68 69 70 71

72 73

74

75 76

77

78

79 80

81 82 83

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Ezra K. Zilkha, From Baghdad to Boardrooms: My Family's Odyssey (United States: E.K. Zilkha, 1999), 24. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 9, 27 October 1921, 3. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 9, 27 October 1921, 3. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 153, 4 September 1924, 4. This, of course, attests to the position of the newspaper as a vehicle of the leadership. Thus, in order to protect themselves from being perceived as ‘opposition’ within the community, writers often hid their identity. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 111, 8 November 1923, 2. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 254, 16 September 1926, 1. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 260, 4 November 1926, 3. The first issue of the newspaper, Ibid., Issue 1, 1 September 1921, 3, published a demand of a similar nature regarding Ezra ‛Anzarut. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 254, 16 September 1926, 1. Al-‘Ālam al-Isra’ili, Issue 227, 25 February 1926, 1. Hamenorah, June 1927, 265. O.I.B.B., Statuts de la Loge de Beyrouth, Beirut, Carton 2959, MAE. This fact appeared repeatedly in the reports sent out and published in the Hamenorah journal. See, for example: Hamenorah, August–September 1926, 253– 254. Hamenorah, April–May 1924, 91–94. On the Syrian revolt of 1925–1927, see at length: Haggai Erlich, The Middle East between World Wars, vol. 3 (in Hebrew) (Tel Aviv: The Open University of Israel, 1994), 199–219. Report of Visit to Centers of Jewish Population in Syria, August 1926, AR21/32, Carton 436, JDCA. O.I.B.B., Statuts de la Loge de Beyrouth, Beirut, Carton 2959, MAE. See, for example: Havatselet, 25 December 1880, Issue 11–12, 82–83; Narcisse Leven, Cinquante ans d’histoire, 202; Ha-Tsvi, 25 December 1885, No. 13. Michel Abitbol, “Introduction: The Jews and the Opening of North Africa (1830– 1912),” in History of the Jews in the Islamic Countries, Vol. 2, ed. Shmuel Ettinger (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center, 1986), 316. Elizabeth Picard, Lebanon: A Shattered Country (New York: Holmes & Meier, 1996), 63–64; William Harris, Faces of Lebanon: Sects, Wars, and Global Extensions (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 1999), 131–132. Erlich, Middle East, 177, 181; Picard, Shattered Country, 37–39. Roger Owen, “The Political Economy of Grand Liban, 1920–70,” in Essays on the Crisis in Lebanon, ed. Roger Owen (London: Ithaca Press, 1976), 24. Thompson, Colonial Citizens, 78. Thompson, Colonial Citizens, 78–79. Hisābāt, 1930, 10, 12.

Conclusion The revitalization of Beirut in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries led to the emergence of a distinct—Levantine—type of a Jewish community there. In its modern form, the Jewish community of Beirut resulted from a complex process involving an array of economic, social, political, and ideological factors. Contemporary scholarship has emphasized the roles of both the Ottoman tanzimat and numerous European organizations in the modernization of Jewish society in the Middle East. This study emphasizes the influence of urban change on the development of Beirut’s Jewish community. Indeed, the Ottoman State and European powers played important parts in the revitalization of Levantine port cities; some major port city characteristics, however, fell outside their control. For example, although diversity comprised a central characteristic of Levantine port cities, it did not result from any intentional policy of the Ottoman State or, for that matter, any European state. More than anything else, it developed as a social condition forced on the city’s inhabitants, one caused by complex economic, social, and political developments. The Jewish community of Beirut was formed within this socially and culturally diverse urban setting which it clearly mirrors. In the field of education, for example, Beiruti Jews had four different formats from which to choose: traditional (heder), Jewish-national (Talmud-Torah), Jewish secular (the Alliance), and various Christian alternatives that appealed to local Jews. Since Beirut did not have a Jewish high school, students who wished to continue their studies after graduating from the Alliance school had to do so in Christian schools. Diversity also had its mark on the social composition of the Jewish community. In addition to the small Arabic-speaking indigenous ele-

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ment, the community included Jews from Mount Lebanon, Palestine, Damascus, Aleppo, Baghdad, Izmir, Istanbul, and from faraway countries, such as Iran. Nevertheless, the native Syrian element dominated. In this respect, the year 1926 marks a watershed in community life. Until then, the diversity of the community meant significant fragmentation, since the Jews of Beirut worshiped in a dozen small private synagogues, or midrashim. The construction of the great MagenAbraham synagogue in 1926 changed this condition dramatically, bringing the various elements to worship together and in the process, strengthening communal solidarity. Diversity is an essential component of another major social phenomenon—cosmopolitanism. The subject of the cosmopolitanism of Beirut’s Jews requires further research. Until 1920, Beirut did not host a large and influential European colony and therefore, the social interaction of local Jews with Europeans held much less significance than that of Alexandria. Beginning in the mid-nineteenth century, Beirut, a leading educational center, had a large number of schools where Jewish students interacted with non-Jewish students on a daily basis. Unlike Alexandria, where Jews engaged in numerous fields of activity, Beirut’s Jews engaged primarily in commerce and banking. In fact, commerce must have served as an important vehicle of social interchange for the Beiruti Jewish merchant bourgeoisie, while, for the young Jews, Christian schools served as the major vehicle of social interchange. Despite their immersion in four major cultures: Jewish, French, Arabic, and Lebanese, the strong influence of American Protestantism in Beirut as well as Jewish involvement in the British textile trade increased exposure to ‘Anglo-Saxon’ influences as well. Evidence suggests that, through his commercial activity, Yoseph David Farhi, a merchant and an influential leader in the community, experienced ‘Anglo-Saxon’ influences pertaining to community organization. The affiliation of the local leadership elite with the New York– based B’nai B’rith organization further evidences the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ influence. The great majority of Beirut’s Jews spoke either Arabic or French, although many did master both. A significant number also knew He-

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brew or English. Formal correspondence reflects this multiplicity of languages, since both the local Jewish newspaper, Al-‛Ālam al-Isra’ili, and the community account book used Arabic. They usually used Hebrew or English to correspond with Zionist agencies and used French to correspond with the French authorities as well as report to B’nai B’rith. The diversity of Beirut’s Jewish community mirrored not only that of the city, but also that of the Jewish diaspora. After World War I, Beirut found itself in the midst of such various emerging national ideologies as Syrian, Lebanese, and Arab nationalism. Beirut Jews, however, were not involved in any of these ideologies. Instead, they cultivated contacts with three Jewish reformist currents: French-Jewish reformism (represented primarily by the Alliance), American-Jewish reformism (B’nai B’rith), and Eastern European reformism (Zionism). In fact, many Jewish communities in the Middle East and North Africa became the meeting place of various, often competing, ‘imported’ Jewish ideologies or reformist currents. To adopt Yaron Tsur’s terminology, one may view the leadership of the local community as a microcosm of the Jewish leadership in the diaspora. Naturally, the structure of the local Jewish leadership took a different form, depending on local conditions. In Beirut, uniquely, the local B’nai B’rith lodge’s membership virtually overlapped with that of the community council. In other words, the B’nai B’rith ideology—stressing Jewish solidarity and community revival through social activism and humanitarian values—struck a far deeper chord with the local leadership than did the Alliance’s ideology. Several factors explain this situation. First, the Alliance, as a highly centralized organization, kept its decision making in the hands of the Central Committee in Paris. The local Jewish leadership, educated and capable, became passive recipients of foreign Jewish-schooling services. After the Young Turk Revolution, a time of great social and urban change in Beirut, the local leadership’s great challenge lay in establishing and consolidating community institutions. Unlike the Alliance, the B’nai B’rith ideology provided the necessary agenda for community progress and reform, monitoring and improving commu-

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nity services, and cultivating leadership and social activism. Moreover, B’nai B’rith had a hierarchical organizational structure that delegated power to the local leadership. This turned local leaders into independent thinkers and created active participants in the progress and revival of their own communities. Another difference between the two organizations played a role in these changes. While largely European Jewish philanthropy financed the Alliance, the philanthropy of local Jews primarily supported the local B’nai B’rith lodge, whose members, in turn, became the major policy-makers in their own community. Thus, while Izmir’s Jewish community fell under the patronage of European Jewish philanthropy, Beirut’s Jewish community did not. Organized indigenous philanthropy became a major factor in the development of Beirut’s Jewish community. Contemporary scholarship tends to emphasize the importance of European Jewish philanthropy, which did play an important part in the lives of the Jews of the Middle East. Moses Montefiore, Baron Maurice de Hirsch, and the Rothschilds financed and supported numerous educational and welfare services in Middle Eastern Jewish communities. This study, however, reveals a lively philanthropic practice, hitherto unexplored, of the local Beiruti Jews. The patterns and intensity of philanthropic activity changed over time, reflecting the level of social cohesion and organization within the community. In the pre-organized phase, philanthropy remained largely personal and spontaneous. After the formal organization of the community (1908–1914), philanthropy evolved as a primarily communal matter whereby patterns of philanthropic activity changed dramatically. The community council institutionalized fund-raising and managed to garner the financial support of the local merchant bourgeoisie for community needs. Community members donated within the public domain of the synagogue during Jewish holidays and family celebrations. Annual subscriptions by wealthy individuals guaranteed the ongoing support of community institutions. The community account book illuminates the wide participation of its members in the financing of community institutions. In 1929, for example, Ezra ‛Anzarut and Da’ud Sha‛yo supported the

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Talmud-Torah school by subscription. The same year, Taufiq and Moshe Habié, Yoseph Dichy, Eli Levy, Nissim Hanan, and others supported the Hakhnassat Orhim society in the same manner. The Mattan Basseter society appears particularly popular among community members with no fewer than 108 contributors, six of whom were subscribers: Ya‛acov Safra, Mūsa Hara, Yoseph Salomon Farhi, Mūsa S’rour, David Baranes, and Yoseph Batat. In addition to the B’nai B’rith ideology, organized philanthropy served as another tool with which the Jewish leadership not only strengthened the community but also served a major political objective—improving the political and public standing of the community vis-à-vis the French authorities and the other Lebanese communities. For this reason, Beirut’s Jewish leadership enthusiastically adopted the B’nai B’rith ideology and made significant efforts to promote philanthropic practice in their community. The philanthropic activity in Beirut became primarily a communal matter. Like in Europe, philanthropic practice in Beirut became an expression of the Jews’ modernization— a modern response to new challenges in a unique sociopolitical environment. It portrays a responsible and capable leadership, one that managed to garner the financial support of the local merchant bourgeoisie and to organize, control, and execute an efficient system of fund-raising that guaranteed the ongoing financing of communal needs. It is no coincidence that the scope of the philanthropic activity in the Jewish communities of Izmir, Alexandria, and Beirut reflected the economic stature of these communities. Given this, philanthropy was most intense in the Jewish community of Alexandria, the wealthiest of the three. The Jews there created and financed their institutions using their own resources with virtually no outside aid. In contrast, Izmir’s Jewish community, the largest and poorest of the three, relied heavily on European philanthropy to fund health and education programs. Beirut’s Jewish community fell somewhere in the middle. In order to execute major construction projects (e.g., the Magen-Abraham synagogue and the Talmud-Torah school), it sought outside aid. Unlike Izmir, however, which remained under the patronage of European

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philanthropists, Beirut’s Jewish community received aid from Middle Eastern Jewish donors (e.g., Moise Sassoon, Michel and Raphael Tarrab) and did not remain under the patronage of European Jewish philanthropy. Apart from these two major institutions, the community managed to support itself with virtually no outside aid and was even able to organize humanitarian aid in times of crisis. For example, during the Druze Rebellion in 1925, it raised large sums of money to support Damascene Jewish refugees arriving in Beirut. Furthermore, as another indication of the community’s financial competence and economic independence, the community occasionally supported the Yishuv through contributions to Zionist funds during the French Mandate period. Beirut’s Jewish community developed in the unique sociopolitical setting of confessionalism. With the establishment of modern Lebanon, the French adapted themselves to local political traditions and further institutionalized the confessional system in Lebanon, a development that deeply emphasized communal identities and boundaries. The Jewish community gained formal recognition as one of Lebanon’s sixteen religious communities. This new political reality directly affected the Jewish community’s development. Indeed, the confessional system provided an important incentive for communal solidarity and development. Becoming part of the Lebanese mosaic of communities paradoxically meant strengthening the separate, communal identity. Given this need, the local Jewish leadership made great efforts in this direction during the French mandatory period. Equipped with the B’nai B’rith ideology—which also promoted organized philanthropy—the Jewish leadership further developed, improved, and founded new communal institutions. In other words, by strengthening communal solidarity and institutions, the leadership signaled the Jewish community’s readiness for inclusion in the confessional system. The politically marginalized position of the Jewish community also motivated its leadership to improve and strengthen the community as a whole. Due to its small size, the government classed the Jewish community as a minority group in Lebanon, meaning that it was not entitled to representation in the parliament. Instead, the French ap-

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pointed one deputy to represent all of Lebanon’s minority groups. Since the Jewish community did not manage to secure the appointment of a Jewish deputy, it grew particularly concerned that the government would ignore the community's rights and interests. Politically powerless, the Jewish leadership aspired to improve their community’s political and public standing by strengthening the community as a whole. As a result, the process of Jewish emancipation took a unique form in Lebanon. Rather than the emancipation of the individual, the local Jewish leadership focused upon the emancipation of the entire community, securing its rights and strengthening its influence in the public and political domains. Thus, in numerous articles and reports, the communal newspaper, Al-‛Ālam al-Isra’ili, presented the position and status of the Jewish community vis-à-vis the other communities in Lebanon as a central Jewish interest best served by the improvement and progress of the Jewish community. Last, this study could serve as a launching pad for future research. It would be particularly rewarding to compare the Jewish community to other minority communities in Lebanon, such as the Protestant and the Armenian Catholic communities. Such a comparison might shed light on the social and cultural influences and interactions among the various communities. Furthermore, as this study focused on the institutional life of Beiruti Jews, research focusing on their daily life could uncover a new dimension of their history. Memoirs and autobiographies written by Jews who lived in Beirut could make a major contribution to this aspect of their lives. However, no such works have surfaced as of the time of this writing. As this study investigates the development of the Jewish community in its formative years, an examination of the Jewish community from 1943 to 1975 would constitute a natural continuation to this study. During this time, the community once again underwent major changes and challenges. Agreements between the political elites of the two major communities in Lebanon, the Christian Maronites and the Muslim Sunnis, allowed for French departure and Lebanese independence. Such a development must have affected the Jewish community as well as its sense of security and its political orientation.

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Finally, the growing Arab-Jewish conflict in Palestine—after the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948 in particular, has initiated a major Jewish migratory wave from Syria to Lebanon and elsewhere. This development must have greatly affected Beirut’s Jewish community. The incoming Jews, particularly the Jews of Aleppo, preserved their customs, traditions, and communal identity based on their place of origin. At least some of these Jewish newcomers were affluent, and they might have challenged the veteran leadership of the community. Nonetheless, this development must have changed not only the social character of the Jewish community but also its economic power.

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Index

Abitbol, Michel, 101, 194 Abulafia, Raphael, 132 Aciman, André, 40 Advisory Committee for Legislation, 106–107 Aghion, Behor, 59 Aghion, Itzhak, 59 Ahmad, ‘Abbas, 84 Al-’Alam al-Isra’ili, 149, 190–191, 196, 205 Aleppo, 75–76, 79, 109 Alexandria attraction of to immigrants, 28 cosmopolitanism of, 34, 61 diversity of, 5, 29 emergence as leading port city, 5–6 foreign colony in, 7, 29–30, 38, 39 incorporation in industrial economy, 56 infrastructure, 27 Jewish community in (see Alexandria, Jewish community in) national consciousness of, 35 population, composition of, 29–30 population growth, 3, 29, 45–46 as refuge, 46 renaissance of, 45 schools in, 58 synagogues in, 58 trade volume of, 26, 27 see also port cities, Mediterranean

Alexandria, Jewish community in adoption of communal statutes, 56 attempts to reform, 58 autonomy of, 60 class in, 46–47 commercial activity of, 48–49 demographic changes in, 45 diversity of, 56 ethnicity of, 46 foreign protection of, 55, 60 growth of, 46, 56, 57, 61 interference of European Jews in, 55 leadership of, 55, 57 organization of, 56, 57 philanthropy of, 58–60 renewal of Jewish life in, 2 wealth of, 48, 207 Alfandari, Ibrahim, 90 Algeria, 101 ‘Ali Bey, 48 Alliance Israélite Universelle activities of, 141 appeal of, 124, 163 Bounoure on, 162 effects of in Izmir, 61 in formal organization, 97–98 goals of, 98 opposition to Jewish nationalism, 156, 163 ideology of, 82, 126, 149 limited impact of, 89 methods of, 130

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school in Beirut (see Alliance school) staff in Beirut, 126 support of Cohen’s school, 91 tension with B’nai B’rith, 160 Alliance school attempts to influence curricula, 159– 160 challenges to mission of, 164 committee, 157–158 cooperation with Talmud-Torah school, 150–151 discontent with, 156, 157 establishment of, 72, 126 expectations for, 155, 156 Farhi’s plans for, 152–153 French influence of, 151 French support for, 164, 195 funding of, 183 ideology of, 154 inspection of, 158 language in, 126, 127, 149, 158 opposition of to mission schools, 86 popularity of, 153 position in community, 89–90 proposed merger with TalmudTorah school, 155, 160–161 relation with community, 158–159 religious instruction in, 156–157 struggles of, 88–89 see also education Anatolia, 25, 26 Anglo-Saxon influence, 73, 159, 161, 162, 204 ‘Anzarut, Ezra, 90, 94, 176, 178 ‘Anzarut (family), 172 ‘Anzarut, Ferdinand, 7, 79 apathy, 130–131 Armenians, in Izmir, 53 Arzei Ha-Levanon lodge, 128, 129, 130 see also B’nai B’rith Ashkenazim. see Jews, Ashkenazi ‘Attie, Yoseph, 131 autonomy of Beiruti Jewish community, 74, 102–103, 107, 111 of community council, 106 of smaller communities, 103 Azar, Yoseph, 140

banking, 50–51 Bar, Luc-Henri de, 10 Barker, H. E., 38 Barnai, Jacob, 45, 55 Beck, Ulrich, 34 Behar, Yakir, 162 Beirut attraction of to immigrants, 28 characteristics of, 7 diversity in, 35, 56, 81 Egyptian rule of, 23 emergence of as major port city, 6–7 European presence in, 32 foreign communities in, 38, 62 gap with Damascus, 87 incorporation in industrial economy, 56 intellectual center of, 83 Jewish community in (see Beirut, Jewish community in) migration to, 23, 47, 75–80, 81, 92 organization of foreign communities in, 39 population, composition of, 31–33 population growth, 3, 28–29, 38 revitalization of, 4, 75 schools in, 42 (see also Alliance school; education; Scottish mission; Talmud-Torah school; Tiferet Israel) social and urban changes in, 4, 110 trade volume of, 26, 27 transformation of, 23 unrest in, 93 see also port cities, Mediterranean Beirut, Jewish community in autonomy of, 74, 101, 107 characteristics of, 4 class in, 47–48 commercial activities of, 49–52 community institutions (see education; institutions, community; synagogues) demographic changes, 74–80 dependence on outside organizations, 73 desire for foreign protection, 49–50 diversity of, 56, 81

Index ethnicity of, 47 exposure to European Jews, 80 growth of, 23, 47, 56, 80 identification with community, 62 lack of organization, 38 lack of solidarity, 81–82 marginal political position, 108–110, 208 as merchants, 51 occupations of, 51, 80–81 organization of (see organization) organization of, formal (see organization, formal) phases of development of, 74 (see also organization) population of, 77t–78t, 78 as reflection of Beirut, 61–62, 203 renewal of Jewish life in, 2 social composition of, 81, 203–204 social conditions of, 80–83 social structure of, 47 social unrest in, 93 unorganized phase of, 72–73 Beit Midrash Hayyat, 82 Benbassa, Esther, 123–124 Ben-Naeh, Yaron, 168 Ben-Tsvi, Rahel Yana’it, 51 Benvenisti, Ezra, 86, 91, 172 Biqur-Holim, 189, 195 blood libels, 80 B’nai B’rith activities of, 141, 142–143 appeal of, 132 Bounoure’s view of, 161–162 goals of, 127–128, 131–132 Grand Lodge of Orient District, 128–129 ideology of, 129–130, 132, 143, 192, 196 influence on Beiruti Jewish community, 130, 142, 205– 206, 207 involvement in Beiruti Jewish community, 73 and Jewish identity, 132 lodge in Beirut, 128–129, 130 methods of, 130 in Middle East, 128–129 overlapping with leadership, 129– 132, 196, 205

221

as philanthropic agent, 192–193, 196 role of in organization, 89 support for education, 154, 159, 176 tension with Alliance, 160 during World War I, 99 Bornstein-Makovetzky, Leah, 170 Bouchair, N., 75–76 Bounoure, Mr., 160–162, 163 bourgeoisie, 12 Braun, Moise, 104 Brawer, Abraham, 186 burial fees, 98 burial society, 95 business interactions and social exchange, 43 Butrus al-Bustani, 83–84, 87 Cairo Jewish community’s statutes, 106–107 see also Egypt Casablanca, 124–125 see also Morocco charity and community council, 174 in Egypt, 167–168 from European Jewish organizations, 170 meanings of, 167 motivations for, 167, 190–192 and propaganda, 190–192 public vs. private, 167–168 and social rewards, 189–190 voluntary societies, 170–171 before World War I, 171–173 see also philanthropy; welfare Christians in Beirut, 31, 50, 125 in Lebanon, 93 in politics, 109 welfare services for, 195 Christians, Maronite, 93, 102 Church of Scotland mission schools, 72, 85, 89 welfare activity, 195 class, socioeconomic in Alexandrine Jewish community, 46–47

222

The Jews of Beirut

in Beiruti Jewish community, 42 development of homogenous culture, 43 and education, 42 and identity, 36, 37, 42, 43 in Izmir Jewish community, 54 and philanthropy, 59–60 and religious observance, 59 and schools, 42 and social activity, 59 and social exchange, 42 Cohen, Hayyim, 10 Cohen, Itzhak Zaki, 71, 73, 84, 86, 87, 171–172 Cohen, Mark, 167–168 Cohen, Moshe, 137–138 Committee of Deputies, 100, 139, 141 community changes in, 52–53 in social structure, 37 community structures, founding of, 11 confessionalism under French Mandate, 74, 194 institutionalization of, 194, 208 in Lebanese politics, 35, 74, 102, 108, 126, 143, 194 in Lebanese society, 127, 143 conscription, in Ottoman Empire, 76–77 constitution, Lebanese, 102, 108, 194 cosmopolitanism, 33–39, 61, 204 council, community authority of, 105 autonomy of, 106 and charity, 174 election of, 102–103 French attitudes toward, 105 and King-Crane Commission, 140–141 powers of, 104 Statutes of 1930, 104–108 sub-committees, 173 see also leadership, of Beiruti Jewish community Crémieux, Adolphe, 55, 58, 59 Cuinet, V., 79 culture of giving. see philanthropy; welfare customs, Jewish control of, 48 customs rates, 24

Damascus blood libels in, 80 as commercial center, 75–76 emigration from, 75, 79, 208 gap with Beirut, 87 occupation of Jews in, 79 Danon, Nissim, 94, 96–97, 98–99, 174 Dayr al-Qamar, 9, 28, 36, 78, 80, 82 dhimmis, 35–36, 52 Diarné, 9, 36, 82 see also Dayr al-Qamar diaspora, Jewish, 125 diversity of Alexandria, 5, 29 of Beirut, 35, 56, 81, 203–205 in education, 84 of Izmir, 29 of Levant, 5, 6 maintenance of, 35, 37–39 of Mediterranean port cities, 3, 6 see also cosmopolitanism drama. see theater Driessen, Henk, 34 economic growth, in rise of Jewish centers, 2 economy, international, 24–25 education absence of from statutes, 95 in Alexandria, 41, 58, 59 Alliance school (see Alliance school) and attraction to Beirut, 83 in Beirut, 42, 203 (see also Alliance school; Talmud-Torah school; Tiferet Israel) B’nai B’rith’s support for, 154, 159, 176 and class, 42 competition in, 89, 152, 159, 176 curricula, 84–87, 150 demand for, 89 diversity in, 84 Farhi’s plan for new school, 152 French concerns about, 160–161, 164 French influence on, 151 French subsidies of, 194–195 funding of, 149

Index of girls, 85, 89 importance assigned to, 72, 159, 183 in Istanbul, 151 in Izmir, 42 Jewish history in, 156 Jewish schools, lack of support for, 91 Jewish students in foreign schools, 176–177 language in, 84–85, 149, 150, 152, 153, 154, 164 leaders’ vision of, 163–164 morality in, 87–88 National School, 83–84 before organization, 110 Ottoman system of, 84, 169 reforms, 150–153 reforms, need for, 164 schools committee, 100 schools desired by Ashkenazi, 137– 138 Scottish mission schools, 72, 85, 89 social exchange in, 41–42 support for, 171–172, 174–175 Syrian Protestant College, 83 Talmud-Torah Selim Tarrab School (see Talmud-Torah school) Tiferet Israel (see Tiferet Israel) Yishuv support for, 137 and Zionism, 137–138, 174–175 Egypt charity in, 167–168 foreign communities in, 38 foreign nationals in, 36 Jewish community in, 1, 36 Jewish Egyptian Relief Committee, 100 trade volume of, 26 voluntary societies in, 170–171 see also Alexandria; Cairo elections, and formal organization, 94 Elmaleh, Abraham, 10, 93, 138, 139–140, 141, 174 Elshtein, Moshe, 138 emancipation ideology, Alliance’s, 126 Escapa, Yoseph, 56 Europe influence on Ottoman Empire, 2–3 search for new markets, 24

223

Farhi, Yoseph David, 10, 92, 93, 135, 140, 141, 142, 151, 152, 153 Fatimid Empire, rise of Jewish centers in, 2 Fawaz, Leila, 10, 38, 43 First World War. see World War I Foreigners’ Shelter, 191 France activities in North Africa, 101–102 as colonial power, 125 see also French Mandate Francos, in Izmir, 45 Frank, Emil, 90, 91, 132 Frankl, August, 53, 80–81 French Mandate autonomy under, 74, 102–103 Beirut’s growth under, 23 confessionalism under, 74, 194 Jewish community during, 9–10, 62, 73–74, 111–112 Jewish community’s favor for, 141 Jewish complaints during, 8 recognition of council’s authority by, 105 response to Statutes of 1930, 106 restrictions on, 101 spending on welfare during, 194–195 Friedshtein, Shmuel Ya‛acov, 133 fund-raising, 188 gabela, 97, 99 Gei Oni, 132 Gemayel, Pierre, 9 General Inspector of the French Institutions, 160–162, 163 girls, education of, 85, 89 giving, culture of. see philanthropy; welfare Greeks, in Izmir, 53 Green, Abraham, 59 hakham bashi. see rabbi, chief Hakhnasat-Orhim, 183t, 184t, 188t Halevi, Moshe Yedid, 82, 172 Hanssen, Jens, 6–7, 10, 83–84 Harari, Selim, 102–103, 106

224

The Jews of Beirut

Ha-Tehiyya, 137 Ha-Tiqvah, 137 Hazzan, Shlomo, 58 Hazzan, Yoseph, 132 health care, 59, 183, 189, 195 Hebrew in education, 150 promotion of, 83 spread of, 133, 134, 135, 138 heqdesh, 168 Herut, 135 hevra qadisha, 95 Hevrat Meyassde Bet ha-Refuah, 170 hevrot. see welfare history, Jewish, 156 hospitals, 59 identity and class, 36, 37, 42, 43 in cosmopolitanism, 34 fluidity of, 37 of individual, 35–37 and place of origin, 8–9, 36–37, 46 religion in, 35–36 identity, Jewish, 132 identity, Lebanese, 8–9, 126, 143 Ilbert, Robert, 34, 37, 39, 46 individual, identity of, 35–37 infrastructure, of port cities, 27–28 institutions, community array of, 72 development of, 74 and maintenance of diversity, 37–39 and private initiative, 72 relationship with philanthropy, 73 revenues of, 182 in Zionists’ account, 73 see also education; synagogues; theater integration in Alliance school’s ideology, 149 in Istanbul, 123–124 and language, 123 Iraq, 104, 107 Islam. see Muslims; Ottoman Empire Istanbul Alliance’s influence on, 144 education in, 151

Jewish community in, 123–124 Izmir Armenians in, 53 attraction of to immigrants, 28 colleges in, 42 commercial growth of, 25 diversity of, 29 economy of, 53–54 foreign colony in, 7, 29 Greeks in, 53 incorporation in industrial economy, 56 infrastructure of, 27 migration and social change in, 44–45 national consciousness of, 35 population, composition of, 30–31 population growth, 29 trade volume of, 26, 27 see also port cities, Mediterranean Izmir, Jewish community in class in, 54 decline of, 45, 53–54, 57, 61 effect of reforms on, 57 ethnicity of, 45 historic continuity of, 5, 56 leadership of, 54, 57 organization of, 44, 56 population of, 44–45 social structure of, 45 taxes paid by, 54 Jewish Community Law No. 77, 104, 107 Jewish Egyptian Relief Committee, 100 Jewish Life in the East (Samuel), 71 Jews, American philanthropy during World War I, 73, 99–100 see also B’nai B’rith; Joint Distribution Committee Jews, Arabic-speaking, 46 Jews, Ashkenazi in Alexandria, 46 attraction of to Beirut, 82–83 in Beirut, 80, 81, 134–136, 138 influence of, 138 in Izmir, 45 leadership of, 83

Index national awakening of, 132 and spread of Hebrew, 135 and Zionism in Beirut, 134–136, 138 Jews, Maghribi, 46 Jews, Oriental, 49 Jews, Romaniot, 45 Jews, Russian, 133–136 see also Jews, Ashkenazi Jews, Sephardic in Alexandria, 49 in Beirut, 80, 81 in Egypt, 34 in Izmir, 45 The Jews of Lebanon (Schulze), 8–9 The Jews of Syria and Lebanon (Menahem), 9 Joint Distribution Committee, 73, 99– 100, 125, 175 kahal, 168 Kahanoff, J., 6 Keren ha-Yesod, 51 King-Crane Commission, 139–141 Kohn, Hans, 51 Landau, Jacob, 55, 171 Landman, Amos, 157 language in Alliance schools, 126, 127, 149, 158 in Beirut, 152, 204–205 in education, 84–85, 86, 149, 150, 152, 153, 154, 164 Hebrew (see Hebrew) and integration, 123 in Mediterranean port cities, 40–43 leadership of Alexandrine Jewish community, 55, 57 by Alliance teachers, 97 of Ashkenazi Jews, 83 in Casablanca, 124–125 in diaspora, 125 of foreign communities, 37–38 of Izmir’s Jewish community, 57 leadership, indigenous, 12 leadership, of Beiruti Jewish community

225

from foreign-origin Jews, 90 homogeneity of, 144 influence of B’nai B’rith on, 129–132, 142, 143, 196, 205, 207 lack of, 91–92 before organization, 90 and tensions between natives and foreigners, 96 see also council, community League of Nations, 101 Lebanon confessionalism in, 35, 74, 102, 108, 126, 127, 143, 194 constitution of, 102, 108, 194 desires for, 141 (see also King-Crane Commission) economic crisis of, 154 establishment of, 111 legal hierarchy in, 103–104 and Young Turk government, 93 Lebanon, Jews of Cohen on, 10 de Bar on, 10–11 Elmaleh on, 10 historical distortions regarding, 11 literature on, 8–11 Menahem on, 9 Schulze’s assessment of, 8–9 see also Beirut, Jewish community in lectures, sponsored by B’nai B’rith, 131– 132 Levant migration of expelled Jews to, 1–2 nineteenth-century society of, 11–12 see also port cities, Mediterranean Leven, Narcisse, 81, 82 Lévi, Sylvain, 161, 163 Levy, Elie, 155 Maccabi, 134, 164 Maccabi, Rahel, 40 Magen-Abraham, 68, 108, 111, 131, 153, 178, 179 Mahmudiyya Canal, 27 Mann, Itzhak, 174 Maronites, 93, 102 Maslaton, Ya‛acov, 98, 99

226

The Jews of Beirut

Mattan Basseter, 180–181, 182 meat, kosher, 91, 97, 99 Mediterranean, eastern formation of new Jewish communities in, 3 see also Alexandria; Beirut; Lebanon; Levant; port cities, Mediterranean Menahem, Nahum, 9 de Menasce (family), 59 merchants Beiruti Jews as, 51 in social hierarchy, 43 mezonot, 168 middle class, 59 Midhat, Pasha, 87 midrashim, in Beirut, 82, 172, 187, 204 migration and adaptation to Alexandria, 30 to Beirut, 23, 47, 75–80, 81, 92 effects on Alexandria, 5 effects on Beirut, 5 to Egypt, 46 and growth of port cities, 28–33 within Ottoman Empire, 7 push-pull forces, 28, 46, 76 in rise of Jewish centers, 2 military service, in Ottoman Empire, 76– 77 millet system, 35, 36, 37, 52, 102, 169 Mi-Mizrah Shemesh (Kahanoff), 6 Mixed Tribunal of Commerce, 25 modernization, of Middle Eastern Jews, 123, 203 Mogador, 194 Montefiore, Moses, 58, 59 morality in B’nai B’rith, 129, 132 in education, 87–88 Morocco, 107, 124–125 Mosseri, Jack, 47, 71, 74 Muhammad, ‘Abduh, 87 Muhammad ‘Ali, 45, 56 Muslims, in Beirut, 31–32 Nahum, Haim, 96, 98, 99, 124 Nahum, Henri, 42

national consciousness, 35, 36 nationalism, Jewish, 132–133, 156, 163, 174 see also Palestine; Zionism/Zionists nationality, 36 Near East Relief Society, 100 Negri, Ibrahim, 103–104 Ness ha-Levanon, 137 newspapers, 14–15 Niégo, Yoseph, 160 opinion groups, 123 see also Alliance Israélite Universelle; rabbi, chief; Zionism/Zionists Organic Statute, 52, 55 organization early attempts at, 62, 90–91 formal (see organization, formal) lack of, 81, 91–92 phases of, 110–111 organization, formal Alliance in, 97–98 and care for orphans, 100–101 and elections, 94 Farhi’s urging of, 93 and funding of community institutions, 73 impact of World War I on, 99–101 influence of reformist currents during, 142 involvement of Semach in, 97 role of B’nai B’rith in, 89 and tension between natives and foreigners, 94, 96 timing of, 55–56, 57 and Young Turk Revolution, 92–93, 98, 136 see also council, community; leadership orphans care for, 100–101 see also charity; welfare Orthodoxy, 125 Ottoman Empire bankruptcy of, 76, 79 conscription in, 76–77 dissolution of, 73

Index educational system, 84 European influence on, 2–3 migration within, 7 millet, 35, 36, 37, 52, 102, 169 non-Muslim subjects, 35–36, 37 Organic Statute, 52, 55 reforms, 37, 52, 54–55, 57, 61, 169 rise of Jewish centers in, 2 Young Turk Revolution, 42–43, 77, 98, 110, 124, 136 Out of Egypt (Aciman), 40 Ozer Dalim, 170, 180–181, 182 Özveren, Eyüp, 38–39 Palachi, Haim, 54 Palestine British occupation of, 137 colonization initiatives, 132–133 periodicals, 14–15 pesiqa, 168 philanthropy after World War I, 173–175 in Alexandria, 58–60, 207 B’nai B’rith as agent of, 192–193, 196, 206 and class, 59–60 and competition, 60 conditions for, 194 factors in, 196–197 as force in communal development, 57–58 during French Mandate, 194–195, 196 growth of, 195 influence on, 195 institutionalization of, 196, 206 in Izmir, 206, 207 Joint Distribution Committee, 73, 99– 100, 125, 175 local, 59 motivations for, 190–192 need for, 91 before organization, 171–173 from outside, 4, 59, 61 and propaganda, 190–192 relationship with community institutions, 73

227

and social rewards, 189–190 specialization in, 182 support for Talmud-Torah school by, 174, 176–180, 189 synagogues as agents of, 182, 184–192 during World War I, 99–100 and Zionism, 174–175 see also charity; welfare philanthropy, European Jewish, 4, 61, 206, 207–208 philanthropy, indigenous, 4, 12, 173, 206, 208 Picard, Elizabeth, 10 place of origin and desire to preserve heritage, 82 and identity, 8–9, 36–37, 46 pluralism, 35 pogroms, 28 politics, Lebanese Christians in, 109 confessionalism in, 35, 74, 102, 108, 126, 143 marginalization of Jews in, 8, 51, 109–110 poor, caring for. see charity; welfare port cities, Mediterranean commercial expansion of, 25–28 cosmopolitanism of, 33–39 diversity of, 3, 6 European influence on, 2–3 expansion of, 3 foreign communities in, 29–30, 37–38 incorporation into international economy, 24–25 infrastructure in, 27–28 national consciousness of, 35 physical layout of, 38–39 port improvements in, 27 revitalization of, 24–25, 52–53 social and cultural exchange in, 40– 43 and trade routes, 2–3 types of, 6 see also Alexandria; Beirut; Izmir Portugal, expulsion of Jews from, 1 poverty, defining, 177

228

The Jews of Beirut

Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt (Cohen), 167–168 prices, for kosher meat, 91 primary sources, 13–14 propaganda, 190–192 Qadima, 135 Qayrawan, 1 rabbi, chief appointment of for Beirut, 96–97 authority of in Alexandria, 55 control of, 144 Danon, Nissim, 98–99, 174 opposition to, 98–99 reliance on, 101 in Statutes of 1930, 105 Tagger, 103 rabbinate, in Beirut, 125 railways, building of, 27–28 Reformism, 125, 205 Reimer, Michael, 38, 45, 57 religion absence of from statutes, 95 in identity, 35–36 respect for, 132 religious observance, 59 Rolo (family), 48 Roqéah, El’azar, 83, 132 Rothschild, Edmond de, 91 Russia pogroms, 28 see also Jews, Ashkenazi; Jews, Russian Safed, 132 Safra, Jacob, 50 Saida, 105 Salonica Jewish community in, 5 trade volume of, 26 Samuel, Sydney Montagu, 71, 74 Schiff, Jacob, 175 Schulze, K., 8–9 Schwara, D., 5

Scottish mission schools, 72, 85, 89 welfare activity, 195 Semach, Yomtov, 81, 93, 94, 97, 158 Set’hon, Aaron, 82 Sha’yo, David, 178 ships, 2 Shomrei Mitzvah, 170 Sidi, Maurice, 126–127, 152, 154–155, 157–159 Sidon, 79 Silvera, Alain, 34, 37 social activism, 130–131 Spain, expulsion of Jews from, 1 Srour, Selim, 103 Stambouli, Jacques, 92, 93, 131–132, 140 Stambouli, Raphael Levi, 82, 172 statutes, community, 95–96, 102 Statutes of 1930, 104–108 steam engines, 2, 24 Suez Canal, 2, 76 Sutton, Yoseph, 129–130, 156 synagogues in Alexandria, 58, 59 in Beirut, 80, 108, 187 contributions in, 185, 186, 188t of Diarné, 82 function of, 82, 184 as philanthropic agents, 182, 184–192 support for Talmud-Torah school, 179 Syria economic decline, 76 emigration of Jews from, 75–77, 79 Jews in, 9 rebellion in, 193 see also Aleppo; Damascus Syrian Protestant College, 83 Tabet, Ayoub, 109 Tagger, Suleiman, 103 tailors, in Beirut, 51 Talmud-Torah school attitude toward, 42 challenges to, 153–154 control of, 150–151 cooperation with Alliance school, 150–151

Index establishment of, 108 fees, 176–177 financing, 176–180 French support for, 161, 176, 178, 195 goal of, 84–85 ideology of, 154 language in, 149 name of, 108, 177, 179 proposed merger with Alliance school, 155, 160–161 reorganization plans, 150, 154–155 support for from philanthropy, 174, 179, 189 see also education Taragan, Ben Tsion, 58, 185 Tarrab, Michel, 177, 191 Tarrab, Raphael, 177, 191 taxes collection of, 95 in Izmir Jewish community, 54 on kosher meat, 97, 99 theater in Beiruti schools, 87 at Tiferet Israel, 87, 89, 172 Thompson, E., 195 Tiferet Israel agenda of, 89 centrality of, 72–73, 74 involvement of in welfare activity, 172–173, 195 languages in, 86 Samuel on, 71 Schulze on, 8 theater in, 87, 89, 172 Tignor, Robert, 43, 49 Tilche, 48 tolerance in cosmopolitanism, 35 in rise of Jewish centers, 2 Trabzon, trade volume of, 26, 27 trade changes in, 53 increase in value of, 25–26 trade routes, shift in, 2–3, 24, 76 treaties, commercial, 24 Tripoli, 79, 105 Tsur, Yaron, 124–125, 144, 205 Tunisia, 1

229

tsedaqa. see charity Union Universelle de la Jeunesse Juive, 131, 146, 164 upholstery, Jewish dominance of, 51 urban expansion, 3, 38–39 Uziel, Ben-Tsion, 47, 71, 74 Va’ad ha-Tsirim, 100 Ventura, Moshe, 175 voluntary societies, 170–171 waqfs, 103–104 welfare in Alexandria, 59 in Beirut, 172 for Christians, 195 financing of, 180–184 French spending on, 194 need for, 100 in Ottoman Jewish society, 168–169 revenues of societies for, 182–183 types of, 180–181 voluntary contributions, 181–182, 183, 184t see also charity; philanthropy Wilson, John, 80 women, social exchanges of, 40–41 Women’s Society, 172 World War I and care for orphans, 100–101 impact of on formal organization, 99–101 mortality during, 78 and need for welfare societies, 100 worship, public, 95 Wrench, William, 49 Yedid, Aron, 82 Yishuv support for schools, 137, 138 support of, 52, 208 see also Zionism/Zionists Young Turk Revolution, 77, 92–93, 98, 110, 124, 136

230

The Jews of Beirut

Zilkha, Ezra, 50, 186 Zilkha (family), 50 Zionism/Zionists activities of, 141–142 advancement of, 138 after World War I, 100, 137 Alliance’s attitude toward, 163 appeal to masses, 124 and Ashkenazi Jews, 134–136 Beiruti Jewish community’s attitude toward, 9, 141 Bounoure’s sympathy toward, 161 and education, 137–138, 174–175 and King-Crane Commission, 140 and philanthropy, 174–175 policy toward Lebanon, 9 and schools, 137–138, 154 as threat to establishment, 124 and unity of Jewish community, 136 visits to Beirut, 52, 71–72 see also Yishuv Zuqaq al-Blat quarter, 83–84