Zionism in Damascus: Ideology and Activity in the Jewish Community at the Beginning of the Twentieth Century 9780755608430, 9781780766706

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To Snir and Keren The Lovely and the Pleasant for their Wedding

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1. Rabbi Hayyim Nahum (centre, left) with members ˙ ˙ of the communal committee during his visit to Damascus. (Source: David Lisbona, private collection, Israel). Figure 2. Barukh Pa’is (centre of the picture) with orphans, 1919. (Source: CZA, PHG\1023054). Figure 3. Group of ‘Young Maccabi’ movement, 1923. (Source: Nahum Menahem private collection, Haifa). ˙ Figure 4. King Faysal. (Source: http://i-cias.com/e.o/ill/ ˙ syria_arab_kingdom01.jpg). Figure 5. Rabbi Tajer (in the centre) with members of the communal committee during his visit to Damascus. On his left Rabbi Danon. (Source: CZA, PHG/1024372).

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Figure 6. Zionist boys school 1920. (Source: Nahum Menahem private collection, Haifa). 254 ˙

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In the long years of my writing of this book, a number of helpful people stood by my side and I would like to offer them my heartfelt appreciation. Above all, I wish to thank Prof Yaron Tsur, Prof Zvi Zohar, Prof Allon Gal, and my dear late friend Dr Hagar Hillel. My colleagues and friends in the Department of Jewish History at Bar-Ilan University provided me with good advice and encouragement during the many years of writing. My students enriched me with their constructive questions and comments when I dealt with issues relating to this book in class. My research students were always willing to offer their assistance, especially Dr Guy Bracha and Mr Yaron Ran, whose doctoral work relates closely to the subject matter of this book. I also wish to acknowledge the dedicated employees of the libraries and archives in Israel and abroad who helped me in the course of writing this book: the National Library of Israel, the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People, the Ben-Zvi Institute Library, the Bar-Ilan University Libraries, and the Tel-Aviv University Libraries, as well as the Archives of Jewish Education in Israel and the Diaspora at Tel-Aviv University. I also thank the employees of the Central Zionist Archives in Jerusalem and the Archives of the Labour Movement in Tel-Aviv. I received invaluable help from the employees of the National Archives in London, the

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Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires e´trange`res in both Paris and Nantes, and the Archives de l’Alliance Israe´lite Universelle in Paris, especially from my good friend Jean-Claude Kuperminc. This study would never have been completed without the generosity of private individuals who were kind enough to allow me to examine documents in their possession. In particular, deepest appreciation goes to my dear late friend Rabbi Binyamin ben Eliezer Rivlin, a Jerusalemite who entrusted me with the only extant copies of the bilingual newspaper ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq, which appeared in ˙ Damascus in 1920, and offered me access to the diary written by his father during World War I. Mr Moshe Prigan of Haifa provided me ˙ with photocopies of the letters of Dr Aryeh Leib Efron, who served as a physician for the Jewish community of Damascus in the years following World War I. I would never have embarked on this project were it not for the long-standing assistance of the French government, through its cultural attache´s in Israel. Sincere thanks go to Mrs Charlotte Rika, the secretary of a number of these attache´s, who helped me at the start of my journey in obtaining generous French support. The Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture, which aided me in previous research, continued its assistance in this project. I received support and encouragement from the Ihel Foundation and the Aharon and Rachel Dahan Center for Culture, Society and Education in the Sephardic Heritage, both at Bar-Ilan University. Further backing for my work came from the KKL-JNF Institute for the History of Zionism and Settlement in Eretz Israel and Yad Tabenkin, by means of the Joe Levy Foundation. Material and moral support also came from the Damascus (Syria) Jewry Organization in Israel. The completion of the writing of this book took place in Lefke, in Northern Cyprus, where I was the guest of my good friend Prof Mehmet Demiryu¨rek and the European University of Lefke (Lefke ¨ niversitesi). The tranquillity between the mountain and the Avrupa U sea contributed greatly towards the crystallisation and formulation of my writing, and I am deeply grateful for it. I wish to thank the translator Dr D Gershon Lewental, for his wonderful work, his comments, and his insights which contributed

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to the clarity of this book. My appreciation also goes to the employees of I.B.Tauris, especially to Maria Marsh and Allison Walker. As always, last but not least, I acknowledge a debt of gratitude to my spouse and my friend Tami, the mother of my children, who have grown and matured during the long years during which this study was written. Yaron Harel December 2013

PREFACE

In recent years, we have witnessed a great wave of studies dealing with Zionism among the Jewish communities of the Middle East. This book seeks to contribute to our understanding of the initial stage of Zionism in Damascus between the years 1908 and 1923. While, admittedly, this was a short period of only 15 years, it was a time of great changes and numerous upheavals. Alongside external events of great impact and influence, such as the Young Turk Revolution, World War I, the British conquest, the founding of the Arab kingdom under Faysal, anti-Zionist Arab activity, and the ˙ institution of the French Mandate for Syria, there were also internal transformations and vicissitudes, such as the removal and replacement of the chief rabbi, the incorporation of the religious schools under the ægis of the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle (AIU) and then under the auspices of the Hebrew schools, the religious scholars’ campaign to resist their diminishing status in society, the ceaseless rivalry between the Zionist educational institutions and those of the AIU, the internal conflicts in the communal leadership, class struggle, and the ongoing emigration that weakened the strength of the community. This book is my third monograph focusing on the Jewish communities of Syria. In this respect, it is the last of a trilogy condensing years of study of the history of these societies from the second half of the eighteenth century to the first half of the twentieth

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century. I began researching Zionism in Damascus over 15 years ago. I published three articles examining various aspects of the subject, but every time I attempted to commence a book on the subject, another topic suddenly appeared that, for various reasons, received priority over my work on Zionism. However, as the scholar Hayyim ˙ Joseph David Azulay once said, ‘every delay is for the best’, and indeed, over the years, I collected plentiful sources and studies that aided me, so I hope, in producing a more comprehensive work. I set several goals for myself in the writing of this book. First, I have sought to develop and solidify the factual infrastructure. Therefore, the methodological foundation of this book is broad-based and far-reaching archival research both in Israel and abroad. It is hard to exaggerate the importance of the press of the period—both Jewish and Arabic—as an historical source for the history of the Jewish community of Damascus. In choosing the temporal borders of this study, I aimed to contribute to the problem of the periodisation of Zionist activity in the lands of Islam. I also discuss issues such as the understanding of Zionism in the context of Jewish society and the surrounding society, Zionist education, women’s participation in the activity, and relations between Zionist emissaries and the communities to which they were sent. Other important questions concern the role Zionism played in the local leadership and the ties and tensions between Zionist activists and the representatives of the AIU who operated for many years in Damascus, as well as the matter of whether there was a correlation between the adoption of the Zionist idea and socio-economic status. It is my hope that the following chapters will introduce the reader to an extraordinary and exceptional episode of Zionist activity in Damascus, the Diasporic community most proximate to the Land of Israel, in a country, which would, with the passage of time, become an enemy state that held its Jews hostage for many years, and from which the last Jews would depart only during the last decade of the twentieth century.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

This monograph explores the development of Zionism in Damascus during a time in which that city served as the focus of the rising Arab nationalist movement. This very interaction between Jewish and Arab nationalisms and their respective national languages set the framework for the philosophical approach towards the book’s transliteration. Thus, the romanisation of Hebrew and Arabic words reflects their common linguistic roots. Diacritics indicate the distinctions between Hebrew letters alef and ʿayin, heʾ and het, tet and taw, and samekh and ˙ ˙ sadi and s´in, while the letters kaf and qof are represented by different ˙ English characters, as is the case with the fricative realisation of bet— vet—and the letter waw. The aim has been to represent faithfully the original orthography and these conventions reflect more or less those of the authoritative scholarly compendium of Jewish life in the Islamic domains, the Encyclopedia of Jews in the Islamic world (Leiden, 2010), and the new third edition of the standard work on Islamic studies, the Encyclopædia of Islam (Leiden, 2007– ). For the sake of clarity, long vowels are only indicated in Arabic translations (a¯, ı¯, u¯). The only exceptions to this system concern common geographic locations and personal names. Cities like Damascus and Jerusalem are not given in their Hebrew or Arabic transliterations. When possible, preference has also been given to European spellings chosen by individuals to represent their names (e.g., Eliahu Sasson, not Eliyahu

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S´as´on). In the absence of evidence for a romanised precedent, the name conforms to the transliteration guidelines (e.g., Barukh Paʾis). Throughout the translation, an effort has been made to interpret the original Hebrew text in a manner that reflects its beauty and colour, remaining loyal to its content while conveying it in clear English.

ABBREVIATIONS

AAIU ACRI AE AECADN AECCC AECPC AECPdC AENS AIU AJEID BAIU

Archives de l’Alliance Israe´lite Universelle; Paris Archive of the Chief Rabbinate, Istanbul Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires e´trange`res; Quai d’Orsay, Paris Ministe`re des Affaires e´trange´res, Centre des archives diplomatiques de Nantes, Nantes Correspondance consulaire et commerciale, Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires e´trange`res; Quai d’Orsay, Paris Correspondance politique et commerciale, Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires e´trange`res; Quai d’Orsay, Paris Correspondance politique du consul, Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires e´trange`res; Quai d’Orsay, Paris Nouvelle se´rie, Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires e´trange`res; Quai d’Orsay, Paris Alliance Israe´lite Universelle The Aviezer Yellin Archives of Jewish Education in Israel and the Diaspora; Tel-Aviv University, Tel-Aviv Bulletin de l’Alliance Israe´lite Universelle, Paris

ABBREVIATIONS

CAHJP CUP CZA FO GHQ IMHM JC JDC JMA NILI NLI

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Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People, Jerusalem I˙ttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti (Tur. ‘Committee of Union and Progress’) Central Zionist Archives, Jerusalem Foreign Office Archives, Public Record Office, The National Archives, London General Headquarters Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts at the National Library, Jerusalem Jewish Chronicle, London Joint Distribution Committee of the American Funds for the Relief of Jewish War Sufferers Jerusalem Municipal Archives, Jerusalem Netsah Yis´rael lo yeshaqqer (Heb. ‘The Eternity of ˙ Israel shall not lie’, I Samuel 15.29), a Palestinian Jewish spy network during World War I The National Library of Israel, Jerusalem

PROLOGUE BETWEEN COLLAPSE AND REVOLUTION

Indeed, while sitting and watching the street life of the Jews of Damascus, scenes of ancient ghettos from the Middle Ages pass unwittingly before my eyes.1 —Abraham Zevi Idelsohn, 5671/1911

Socio-economic collapse In the beginning, there was the collapse: on 6 October 1875, as a result of its inability to obtain new credit and to meet its numerous financial obligations, the Ottoman government declared bankruptcy.2 This development led in turn to the ruining of the Jewish financial elite in Damascus, and ultimately to the breakdown of the Jewish community as a whole. This collapse was a decisive turning point in the history of Damascus Jewry and its effects shaped the community’s subsequent economic, political, social, moral, and demographic development. Understanding this situation is critical for appreciating the circumstances that allowed for Zionism’s entry onto the scene. Until October 1875, the rich Jewish notables of Damascus acquired their wealth primarily through credit transactions. In order to safeguard the value of their money, they invested it in bonds issued

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by the Ottoman government. The empire’s bankruptcy and its announcement that it was unable to meet its obligations to its investors wiped out the holdings of many Jewish bankers, reducing them overnight into paupers.3 The government owed these financiers about 20 million French francs, which was the lion’s share of its debt in Syria.4 The situation only deteriorated in the wake of the Russo – Turkish War of 1877 – 8 and famine soon spread through Damascus. A further blow came in June 1877, when the governor of the city annulled, prior to his departure from the town, all debts and mortgages owed to Jews and appropriated the receipts from these loans for the government treasury. In order to maintain their daily existence, some of the notables were forced to sell their property and even their mansions at public auction.5 In some ways, the condition of these ruined Jewish bankers was even more desperate than that of the indigent in their community. This was because their life had changed so abruptly, while the poor were accustomed to being satisfied with little.6 The Ottoman Public Debt Administration, established by European powers in order to ensure the collection of repayments to their nationals who had invested their money in Ottoman securities, assisted some Jewish businessmen in reclaiming a share of their assets. However, this was not enough to restore them to their previous position. In 1903, it was reported that no wealthy individuals remained in the community and that the veteran established families had either left Damascus or had been completely impoverished. Some of them fell into such indigence that left them scraping for bread to feed their children. By 1904, there remained in Damascus only one Jew described as affluent and who continued to engage in money-lending to the authorities.7 On the eve of World War I, only three or four Jews who were labelled wealthy and who worked in finance were left in the city, but the amount of property attributed to them suggests that their fortune was much smaller than the funds of those notables who had lost their fortunes in the 1875 bankruptcy.8 This collapse of the community elite had greater consequences in the wider crisis that affected the community, which had depended upon them, as a whole.

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Thus, prior to the eruption of World War I, the overwhelming majority of Damascus Jewry—men, women, and children—were simple labourers or craftsmen who subsisted entirely on daily labour. The major professions in which Jews were employed included metal and wood engraving, weaving, painting, and silk-weaving. In the 1880s, there were also some Jews who made their way into the various provincial and legal councils, but they did not hold these positions for long.9 By the start of the twentieth century, those few educated Jews who had not left Damascus found employment in the civil service, working for the Ottoman Railway Company, the Imperial Ottoman Bank, and as supervisors for the tramways that began running on the streets of Damascus. Another four or five clerks were employed in government service.10 Restricting the ability of Jews to integrate into the public sector was the requirement that they work on the Sabbath. The financial crisis impacted the social structure and ordering of leadership in the Jewish community no less than the prior economic success. However, the economic factor was not the sole determinant for the heads of the community and their ability to lead the public even in times of crisis. The nature of communal organisation, as it evolved over the years, played a great role in the ability or inability of a community to recover from financial emergencies that threatened its continued capacity to function. For hundreds of years, Ottoman law had relegated Jews to an inferior status. This, in addition to the Jews’ own cultural, religious, and ethnic segregation of themselves from their surrounding society, encouraged them to create a separate autonomous framework.11 Yet, this framework depended primarily upon the wealthy elite who managed all the communal institutions and funded all its needs. Thus, as stated, the bankruptcy of this elite brought about the collapse of the community, which had not established organised institutions of leadership, fixed budgets, and clear arrangements of expenses and incomes.12 Furthermore, the financial crisis was itself preceded by years of drought, famine, and disease. In the summer of 1875, a few months prior to the economic collapse, a cholera epidemic broke out in Damascus, killing 9,319 individuals, of whom 147 were Jewish.

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In subsequent years, the cholera epidemic would return and take numerous lives in the community.13 In the wake of the loss of the financial backbone of the community, the condition of the lower strata of Jewish society completely deteriorated. This situation worsened further with the outbreak of war between the Ottoman Empire and Russia, which resulted in an increase in interethnic tension, brought about a standstill in trade, and led to the imposition of a ‘voluntary war tax’. In order to demonstrate their loyalty, the Jews contributed over and above their share in the population— despite the grinding poverty in which the Jews of Damascus found themselves.14 A report by an emissary of the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle (AIU) about the community in 1881 defined 25 per cent of its members as living in abject poverty, 50 per cent as poor, and only about 25 per cent as lower middle class. The few who possessed wealth were only considered rich in relation to the rest of the community.15 Most striking was the change in the status of the Torah scholars and their ability to function. Prior to the collapse, they comprised an exclusive social-religious elite and held a unique status in the community. Throughout the nineteenth century, the population of Torah scholars numbered between 40 to 60,000 men.16 According to reports by contemporary travellers, up until the economic collapse of 1875, there were numerous religious seminaries (Heb. yeshivah, pl. yeshivot) in the city, most of which were founded in the homes of the community’s wealthy elite. The later, therefore, also provided generous support to the scholarly class.17 Despite the special distinction attributed to the religious scholars by society, we do not find until the 1880s any form of class organisation by this group in order to maintain its rights or meet its needs. Before then, the robust financial situation of a rich community that provided strong support for scholars, created conditions in Damascus for which it was worthwhile for a young and talented student to persevere in his Torah studies, knowing that, in doing so, he was joining a social class of high status with a guaranteed minimum income. Yet, after the despoiling of the wealthy members of the communities, a sharp decline in the support for Torah scholars

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ensued. Following the collapse of their support system, these scholars found themselves now a part of the most economically backwards stratum of Jewish society in Damascus.18 In addition to the deterioration of their economic situation, a similar decline took place in the status of the scholars, as a result of changes in the Ottoman administration. In the middle of the 1870s, the government cancelled part of the tax exemptions granted previously to religious scholars. Furthermore, the authorities began to demand that scholars throughout the empire pay taxes on real estate property in their possession or in which they resided.19 These changes harmed the status and power of the spiritual leaders of all the religious communities in the empire, who were impacted also by the nascent movements towards secularisation and modernisation. As a result, at the end of the nineteenth century, religious scholars began organising themselves in order to lobby for restoring their status in society. In this context, scholars began establishing regulations that fixed and strengthened their position in the community, both on the organisational plane—maintaining their status in the communal leadership and obligating the community to support them financially as in the past—and in the realm of religious ideology. Therefore, in the 1880s, all ordinances were still enacted according to the opinions of the communal rabbis.20 Amidst the struggle for influence over Syria, European powers began to expand, towards the middle of the nineteenth century, their circle of patronage amongst the city’s residents.21 This served to broaden and strengthen the position of those individuals who obtained foreign diplomatic protection. Nevertheless, these prote´ge´s of foreign powers remained an inseparable part of the local community. Contact with and knowledge of Western culture fostered the development of a Western orientation amongst the economic and social elite; however, their decision to seek European patronage stemmed largely from their desire to avoid the Ottoman taxation and legal systems. Furthermore, extraterritorial status was used on more than one occasion to circumvent even communal regulations in various fields, mainly to evade both community taxes and standing trial in rabbinical courts.22

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The stature of those members of the wealthy elite who obtained foreign consular protection continued to strengthen and their influence within the community grew in tandem. Moreover, their vast fortune, their foreign citizenship, and their central position in the community bestowed them with a measure of importance in the eyes of representatives of the European powers who visited Syria. The social circles in which these prote´ge´s moved went beyond their relationships with their fellow coreligionists and extended to balls and parties at their homes and those of the foreign consuls.23 The wealth, status, and connexions of those who received foreign protection made them leading figures in the community who possessed ultimate say in its affairs.24 This position of power was usually used to further the interests of the community, but could also be exploited to promote the personal interests of the prote´ge´s, even when they were at odds with the collective good and weakened the authority of its institutions. The Ottoman authorities did not view favourably the granting of patronage by the Christian powers to non-Muslim minorities, which expropriated the latter from the Ottoman legal system. In light of this, the Ottoman government engaged in a protracted struggle with the foreign consulates. At the beginning, in order to prove their strength, the latter vigorously fought each step taken to reduce consular protection and extraterritoriality and to reclassify the prote´ge´s as Ottoman subjects. However, when the various consuls began to discover that their protection was often obtained by fraudulent means and was being exploited and misused, they themselves began removing and screening the recipients of patronage. In the 1880s and afterwards, the various powers continued to reexamine with even more vigour the consular policy of granting protection to Ottoman subjects. The lists of those receiving patronage were carefully audited and, as a result, a number of the prote´ge´s lost the protection of European consuls. At times, the removal of sponsorship took place in a sweeping manner. Thus, for example, in the summer of 1881, Prussia revoked protection for all 20 of its Jewish subjects in Damascus.25 By the end of 1892, 90 Algerian Jews residing in Damascus had lost their French citizenship.26

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The combination of both the loss of property and the loss of strength (as derived from foreign protection) triggered a further reduction in the support provided by the rich notables for the community’s poor. On the one hand, aristocratic families were unwilling to cede their senior status in the communal leadership. On the other hand, their willingness to assume financial responsibility for the community budget and for philanthropic activity declined. The sense of mutual benefit and obligation began to fade. This feeling found expression primary in the lack of willingness on the part of the elite to shoulder the bulk of the state tax burden—in particular, the military service exemption tax for non-Muslim minorities (Ott. Tur. bedel-i askeri). As a result, there emerged an array of two social forces whose aspirations contradicted one another. The wealthy upper class sought to redistribute the tax burden amongst all members of the community by means of an indirect tax on ritually-slaughtered meat (Sp. gabela). The religious scholars challenged them, serving as spokesmen for the indigent, the orphans, and the widows who opposed the attempt to require them to pay taxes from which they had been exempt until that point, owing to their poverty. The backing provided by the chief rabbi (Ott. Tur. hahambas¸ı) Isaac Abulafia for the notables during the early 1890s generated a fierce dispute that deepened the rupture within the community and ultimately cost him his position.27 On the whole, the Damascus community had become accustomed to receiving—not to giving. Therefore, the collapse of the narrow class of notables, who had funded all philanthropic activity in the community from its own pockets, left the rest of the population without support and lacking a traditional mechanism for constructing a communal budget based upon the income of all its members. Worse still, the exodus from the city of the last veteran elites left the remaining Jews in the city without any tradition of charitable giving. The harsh economic situation, the loss of foreign protection, the crumbling communal institutions, and the weakening of social solidarity left the Jewish community almost completely exposed to the arbitrary treatment of Ottoman government officials. Moreover,

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following a pause of some decades, the phenomenon of the blood libel—whereby local Christians accused the Jews of using the blood of Christian children for ritual purposes—resurfaced in Damascus.

Breakdown of inter-communal relations The 1840s and 1850s saw the first emergence of a few, albeit important, trends of separatism in Syria, particularly in desire by some to break away from the Ottoman Empire—ruled by Turks— and to establish the new framework of an Arab state, under the leadership of the sharı¯f of Mecca. Another development took place in the wake of the events in Damascus in 1860, when thousands of Christians were slaughtered by Muslims.28 Missionary education, which received a boost in the aftermath of the inter-ethnic fighting, succeeded—despite its religious nature—in spurring an important cultural movement. In fact, the 1870s witnessed the early shaping of a ‘neutral society’ in which Muslim and Christian intellectuals could meet and interact on a common basis, while ignoring each other’s different religious identity. Uniting these confessional communities was the conception of ‘Syrian patriotism’, constructed upon a shared Arabic language, the common Syrian homeland and culture, and the principle of secularism. There was, therefore, a distinction between the two ideological movements. The first relied upon loyalty and Arab-Muslim identity, while the second depended upon a secular Syrian Arab identity. The ideas of the secular movement were derived from secularism and patriotism, which resembled those of the Ottoman reform movement, and were not well received by the majority of the Muslim population, who perceived in these ideas a threat to completely change the nature of society and the state. The Muslim population remained loyal to the religious conception of the state— that is, a religious state in which only Muslims determined its political structure. Any change springing from other, non-Islamic, notions instilled fear amongst Muslims that it might bring to an end their dominance of the state. These opposing trends, the Arab-Muslim separatist ambition and the patriotic secular

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Muslim– Christian movement, one challenging the spirit of the Ottoman reforms and the other supporting it, only came together to form a single national movement at the end of the century.29 The obvious question is whether there was room for the Jewish population in either one of these two movements and whether the Jews could ultimately be integrated into the Syrian nationalist movement, as was the case with a number of European nationalist movements, where Jews not only participated, but occasionally even served as standard-bearers for various nationalist causes. However, in the case of Syrian nationalism, the answer is undoubtedly negative. The Jews shared no cultural or political common ground with either of the two movements. The Jewish intellectuals in Damascus (if that is what we can call the graduates of the AIU and various mission schools) had no shared language with their Arab counterparts. The cultural orientation of the graduates of the AIU schools was European, not Arab. No meeting or dialogue between Jewish and Arab intellectuals existed because a common cultural base or curiosity, which would facilitate mutual understanding and enable them to ignore the nature of relations between their confessional communities for hundreds of years, had yet to be created. By and large, an exchange of ideas between Jews and their neighbours failed to develop and a pattern of inter-communal silence continued to prevail. Where communication between Jews and non-Jews did expand, it took place on a popular, mundane level—not in the realm of high culture. No evidence shows any interest by Jewish intellectuals in the writings of their Arab counterparts in Syria, let alone participation in their cultural activity, unlike the cases of Baghdad and Beirut.30 The heads of Jewish society were also content simply to lead a religious minority and made no effort to integrate into the broader political leadership.31 Furthermore, it is important to emphasise that, during this period, the ideas of Syrian nationalism not only failed to take root within Jewish society, but were not even shared by the majority of the Syrian population, and they remained the province of very narrow social circles. The objects with which most of the population identified were still confined to the more limited frameworks of family, confessional community, and the like,

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as had been the case for hundreds of years. Religious fanaticism and hatred, which continued to simmer and stir in Syria, did not facilitate the shattering of old paradigms.32 As a result, the Jews did not see their surrounding society as providing any social benefit and had no interest in sharing its culture, problems, or desires. Nor did educated Muslims and Christians evince any concern at all for the problems or aspirations of the Jews during this period. Attention to nationalist ambitions of the Jewish population and the demand that the latter identify with Syrian nationalism emerged only from the beginnings of the clash between the aims of the Zionist movement and those of the Arab nationalist movements, which I shall discuss below. Against this background, the seclusion, distancing, and lack of involvement by the Jews with respect to any form of political organisation becomes all the more clear. Ties to the community and the inability to disengage completely from it (except through conversion) were the primary factor in explaining the Jews’ desire to cling to traditional patterns of life. Nor did the nature of the different movements and the new patterns that began to take shape allow for the possibility of the inclusion of the Jewish population. The ArabMuslim movement demanded religious identification, while the patriotic movement called for secularism and Arab identity. The strengthening of the bonds with the Jewish communities in Europe and the growing dependence upon them in the wake of the Damascus Blood Libel, as well as the founding of AIU schools in Syria, also reinforced the awareness of a Jewish identity—initially on a religious basis, albeit with traces of nationalism—and prevented the development of a local nationalist or pan-Ottoman consciousness. This separatist approach, together with the Jewish decline in importance in the local Syrian economy, pushed the Jewish communities in Syria towards the margins of society. From this standpoint, the AIU failed to inculcate there its doctrine of ‘assimilation’, understood by its leadership as the most suitable way for modern Jews to remain Jewish while also fully integrating into the national society in which they lived.33 The estrangement and non-involvement of the Jews in all political activity and their decline in significance within Syrian society may be easily discerned in the

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results of the general elections first held in the Ottoman Empire at the start of 1877. As a result of these elections, 120 deputies, Muslim and non-Muslim, from the various Ottoman provinces, were sent to the parliament in Istanbul. These deputies were elected under official pressure and the sentiment in advance of the elections was that of widespread apathy throughout the empire. Yet, at the same time, the very fact that Jews from other provinces were elected to parliament highlights the active lack of participation on the part of Damascus Jewry, whether as voters or deputies, in the political process that was intended to encompass the entire body of the sultan’s subjects.34 Reforms in the legal status of the non-Muslim minorities did not foster either a sense of belonging or Ottoman or Syrian identity among Damascus’ Jews, and they continued to feel like foreigners in their own homeland, possessing a fate distinct from that of the other residents of Syria.35 Outside observers reported that the Jewish community in Damascus was one of the most backwards in the Middle East. Its members adhered to superstition and blind religious fanaticism, following the precepts of faith without any understanding of its values. According to a contemporary observer, this zealousness was responsible for the isolation of the Jews from the rest of the population.36 Another significant factor for the non-identification of the Jews with their surroundings was the fact that this period saw the opening of a wide window to another world and culture, turning the faces of the young from the Middle East to the West. However, internal reasons were not the only ones responsible for the segregation of the Jews. External causes, such as civil equality, as promised in the Ottoman rescripts of reform, were never fully implemented in Damascus, neither by the authorities and certainly not in the social relations between the members of the Muslim majority and the non-Muslim minorities. Acts of oppression and harassment by the authorities and by the Muslim population were a daily occurrence. The major shift from the past was that the Jews had previously accepted their inequality as part of the natural state of affairs. But by the end of the nineteenth century, they had become

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more aware that they were being deprived of the right of equality guaranteed to them by Ottoman law.37 The bankruptcy of the Jewish notables and the collapse of the community took place precisely during a period of relative quiet in the relations between the members of the three monotheistic confessions of Damascus. Harassment of the Jews by the Muslim public was small-scale and routine, while the Christian population was still licking its wounds from the destruction of the Christian Quarter in 1860. During the 1880s, there even began to emerge some signs of growing closeness and appreciation by the Christians towards the Jews.38 Following the riots of 1860, the phenomenon of the blood libel waned, and it took place only very infrequently and usually had no reverberations within Damascene society.39 Nevertheless, the start of the 1890s witnessed a shift that increased the sense of alienness amongst the Jews of the city and brought them abruptly back to the bleak days of isolation, terror, and horror of the Damascus Blood Libel of 1840, the most famous one to take place in the history of Jews in the modern age.40 In 1890, Christian Easter coincided with the Jewish celebration of Passover. On 7 April, the second day of Passover, a six-year-old Christian boy disappeared. The Jews were immediately accused of having abducted him for the purpose of ritual sacrifice. As a result, riots, violent quarrels, and Christian attacks on Jewish funerals broke out in the city. The body of the boy was discovered two weeks later, cast down into a well. An autopsy of the body revealed a number of findings that reinforced the Christians’ belief that the Jews had killed the child for ritual needs. Ultimately, however, it was determined that the boy had drowned and was not murdered, clearing the Jews of any involvement in the matter. This was not enough to appease the Christian population in Damascus, especially in light of the refusal by the French consul to provide assistance for the Christian claims against the Jews, the open enlistment of the British consul in extricating the Jews from the accusations, and the defence offered by the authorities to the Jews from the Christian assaults.41 All this only strengthened the belief in the Christian public mind—and to a considerable extent that of the Muslim public as well—that, as in the

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past, culpable Jews had succeeded in escaping punishment owing to the power and influence of their brethren in Europe.42 The question is why a new blood libel sprang up right on the verge of the twentieth century. Unquestionably, the story of the blood libel in Damascus continued to thrive in the Christian consciousness during the prior 50 years. The popular belief, which prevailed also amongst a large part of the Muslim population and was both strong and palpable, held that the Jews of the city used human blood for ritual purposes.43 In the last decade of the nineteenth century, the Christian public had already recovered and strengthened, both financially and in terms of its public standing in Damascus. The process of rehabilitating their social and economic status continued until the eve of World War I and took place in great part through the purging of Jews from key economic positions.44 Moreover, Damascus society was the key target audience for the incitement of the Christian press centred in Beirut.45 That is, even if the official attitude of the French consular representatives was neutral, the French religious clerics unequivocally supported the local Christian population. Therefore, the outlook of the Christian press corresponded well to the anti-Semitic environment that began to penetrate the Middle East under the influence of French clergy and anti-Semites.46 At the time of the blood libel, Middle East cities were flooded with anti-Semitic pamphlets that served to reinforce its hateful premise.47 The system of French Catholic-inspired incitement increased the unrest amongst the Christian population and even led to assaults on Jews, the looting of their stores, and the physical beating of Jews on the streets of Damascus. Blood libels cropped up nearly every year in Damascus; some faded quickly and made no waves, but others provoked outbursts of violence that even led to the stabbings of Jews in the streets.48 As a result of this situation, Damascus Jewry, as a defined group during this period, did not undergo a process of de-ghettoisation, neither in the physical sense nor in the mental sense of the term. The Jews continued to life separately in their old quarter and did not make any effort to found a new Jewish neighbourhood or to organise as a religious grouping with its own institutions in the new and

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modern part of the town. Nevertheless, local Catholic Christians and even Protestant missionaries rented homes for themselves in the Jewish Quarter.49

Moral collapse One of the most striking features of the Jewish community of Damascus in the nineteenth century was the increasing manifestation of contempt for the traditional Jewish lifestyle. This phenomenon led to a decline in the status of the Jewish rabbinical court and the weakening of the institutions of the Jewish establishment in the city. Disregard for religious prohibitions gave rise to disdain for those who represented the tradition—the religious scholars—and their authority. Manifestation of this condescension stemmed not from ideological causes, but transpired due to reasons of convenience and rebelliousness. The first to break out of the constraints of obedience to the rabbinical court, already in the middle of the century, were the notables whose desire to enjoy the pleasures of life led them often to contravene the precepts of religious law (Heb. Halakhah). Alongside those who supported the religious scholars financially were the notables who obtained foreign citizenship and thus had recourse to a legal alternative. They managed most of their affairs through the consular courts and thus ceased completely to be dependent upon the Jewish rabbinical court system.50 At the same time, the dispute and the struggle between the elders of the community and its rabbis reflected largely not a religious disagreement but one over control and positions of power in society. Yet another social element that was able to evade rabbinical rulings and the orders of the religious court system was the Jews who joined the ranks of the government. These Jews, whose numbers continued to increase, enjoyed the protection of the authorities and operated under state law, while ignoring—whenever it was to their disadvantage—the interests of the Jewish community.51 Despite this, the phenomenon of disdain for religious precepts on the part of the masses stemmed from ignorance and did not represent a threat to the position of the religious spiritual leadership. Up until

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the beginning of the 1890s, this leadership continued to command respect, acceptance, power, and influence amongst the masses, who retained their fear for the supernatural power of the religious scholars. As a result, the rabbis of Damascus did not need to exert the full command of their authority, since secularism was not itself an affront to their position or the essential validity of their religious authority.52 Yet, at the start of the 1890s, disputes within the scholarly class broke out over the matter of hahambas¸ı Isaac Abulafia’s management of the rabbinate. This debate, which erupted against the background of the declining economic situation of the religious scholars, involved harsh statements against the hahambas¸ı that harmed their personal authority and, even more, the authority of the communal rabbinical court. What is more, the dissolution of the partnership between the Torah scholars and the notables, which followed the bankruptcy of the latter, generated, as stated above, tension between these two social groupings, in turn leading also to the waning of the authority of the scholars, even though fear of their supernatural power remained.53 The adverse economic situation and the dwindling authority of Halakhah and its representatives, gave rise to a number of negative phenomena in the Damascus community. One was the rise in the number of Jews—especially females—who converted to Islam or, more rarely, to Christianity. The primary motive for conversion was usually the desire to improve one’s financial situation.54 However, some Jewish girls became Muslim in order to marry Muslims. A report from 1898 attests that at least one Jewish girl converted to Islam each month.55 Yet, there were also numerous Jews who visited various Protestant institutions and listened to the preaching of the missionaries who sought to convert them. Even though the missionaries did not succeed in their efforts, the very fact that no small number of Jews came to listen to preaching about Jesus and his gospel brought them a small measure of accomplishment.56 One method used to try and convert Jews to belief in the Gospels was by exploiting the absence of a Jewish hospital in the city. In 1895, a mission health clinic was opened in the heart of the Jewish Quarter. In the next year, the clinic recorded 975 visits, mostly of

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women and children. In order to simplify the religious messages, pictures and texts with Christian holy scripture in Arabic and Hebrew were hung in the waiting and treatment rooms of the clinic. The missionaries even distributed such texts from time to time amongst the patients who came to seek relief, and even tended to hold small prayer sessions with the sick prior to the doctor’s entrance. The doctor himself would read a short selection from the New Testament with the patient and would repeat a short prayer in Arabic twice or three times a week. These texts were selected carefully and their level was such as to facilitate the commencing of discussions with the women who gathered at the doors of the institution. Ultimately, the clinic closed at the end of 1898 for lack of funds.57 During the 1880s, the London Society for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews operated a school in Damascus whose enrolment figures would reach a few dozen. The New Testament served as the primary curricular material, but gradually, English, French, Arabic, and Hebrew lessons were also added. In addition, the school offered evening classes and special classes for mothers.58 By the 1890s, two Protestant missionary schools were already active in Damascus, both of which were aimed from the beginning at Jewish boys and girls. These institutions were separate from the schools run by the various Catholic orders, which also admitted Jewish pupils to their classrooms.59 Jewish observers who visited Damascus marvelled at the sight of such broad cultural and educational activity organised in the city by the various Christian orders with the support of European countries and the United States. These travellers were mostly disappointed— some of them already possessed a clear Zionist awareness of the importance of the revival of the Hebrew language—to see Jewish children expressing themselves in foreign tongues, but unable to speak Hebrew.60 The temptation to study in the Protestant schools was great because they offered free education and even financial support for needy families. The overall weakness of the Jewish spiritual leadership found clear expression in its inability to cope with this problem and eradicate it at its root.61

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One of the results of the 1890 blood libel was a temporary decline in the Protestant missionary activity. The tense relations between Christians and Jews made the missionary work impossible. Therefore, the Protestant school was closed for a while that year, although it later re-opened.62 In 1905, the number of students enrolled at the school peaked at 125. The contemporary testimony of Abraham Elmaleh indicates that most wealthy members of the community sent their children to the many Christian schools in Damascus or Beirut, while the majority of the poor enrolled their children at the mission, which, as stated, provided them with a free education and even offered financial support for the parents. This phenomenon appears puzzling given the common impression that the majority of Damascus Jewry was supposedly devout in such matters as dietary law (Heb. kashrut) and Sabbath observance—thus, why would they send their children to Christian schools despite the possibility that their children could tempted to eat illicit foods, to desecrate the Sabbath, and to pray to Jesus? Yet, the seeming incongruity can be explained by the reality that began to take shape towards the end of the nineteenth century, which Elmaleh ascribed to the indifference of the Damascene Jews to the aforementioned prohibitions. Although they were aware of the curriculum and stated purpose of conversion at the Christian schools, he argued that they continued to enrol their children on the grounds that the education provided there was still better than that of the Jewish schools.63 The second major development was the increased incidence of violent crime within Jewish society. Reports about the arrest of Jewish men for violent offences began appearing in the press starting in 1884.64 At the end of 1910, the teacher and writer Yitzhaq Shami reported: In normal times, when most of the Hebrew youths were in Damascus, virtually no Christian and Arab would dare to step foot on a Jewish street. The Hebrew youths were fast with their fists and were eager to create a scene. Even now, no Sabbath passes without blows and skirmishes and violent disturbances

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between the hooligans of all three sides, who end up going straight to prison. The lamentations that follow on every Saturday night are great, once their wine takes leave of them.65 Yet the principle problem that weighed upon the Damascene community as a result of the rise in crime, and which had an impact also upon the increase in the number of violent incidents taking place on the Jewish streets, was the growing number of Jewish girls engaging in prostitution in the Jewish Quarter. The uniqueness of the phenomenon in Damascus was in its scope and its presence in the very heart of the Jewish Quarter and not at its social margins. Those reporting on this development sought to find explanations for the motives and extenuating circumstances behind its existence. Some claimed that the material decline had led to a moral degeneration, although most usually found poverty and financial distress to be the main culprit.66 Of course, the economic downtown played a role in leading more Jewish girls down the path to prostitution. In 1898, after two years of severe economic crisis, an AIU emissary in Damascus reported that the members of the community had ceased counting the number of their daughters who had begun working the street. What frightened him more was the forgiveness and peace of mind with which the community had accepted the phenomenon.67 The concentration of prostitution in the Jewish Quarter was not accidental. Up until the first decade of the twentieth century, there were places where streetwalkers lived and worked outside the Jewish Quarter, as well. However, at the end of the decade, the Muslim population demanded that the municipality remove them owing to their negative influence on the morals of proper women. The authorities, for their part, sought to increase their supervision over prostitution and responded by relocating all the prostitutes to the Jewish Quarter, which became the centre of harlotry in Damascus. In the language of the time, ‘the Jewish street’ became synonymous with ‘the bordello street’. The concentration of this activity in the Jewish Quarter testifies profoundly to the marginality of this quarter in the consciousness of Damascus society. Furthermore, since

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Muslims are prohibited from consuming alcohol, the district also became the scene of a number of watering holes, to which youths from all parts of the city came to drink and carouse. Indeed, this quarter soon turned into the hub of immoral activities in the city.68 In 1911, estimates of the number of Jewish harlots in the Jewish Quarter alone ranged from 150 to 200.69 Their financial success was overwhelming and their level of income was high by any standard. They owned the most beautiful houses in the district and its environs and their dress was among the most elegant. This situation had an impact upon the aspiration of other Jewish girls.70 One factor encouraging the spread of the phenomenon of prostitution in Damascus was the city’s position as a large military and administrative centre. The dependence of senior clerks in the Damascus administration, high-ranking officers in the army and the police, and even of chief Muslim officials upon the favours of prostitutes generated a situation in which the well-placed connections of the latter were exploited to assist those from the community who were distressed by the authorities. Moreover, these ties provided the harlots with immunity from police harassment and even from the threats of the rabbis. According to contemporary testimony, even Christian and Muslim public figures appealed to the ‘singers’, as these girls were termed, whenever they required assistance with government offices.71 In this manner, these women attained a position of social, economic, and political influence—one from which women were completely excluded within the framework of traditional Jewish society. The influence and strength of the ‘female power’ in Damascus was unprecedented in both the Eastern and Western Jewish communities alike. In fact, until World War I, Jewish prostitutes held the greatest sway over the management of the Jewish Quarter and its inhabitants. As such, it seems that the waning of men in Damascus society and the push for women to be independent of the men around them and to provide for themselves in both decent and indecent occupations were the first buds of feminism that laid the foundations for later activity within the framework of the Zionist movement. A few years prior to World War I, Shami wrote about the phenomenon of the

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‘liberation of the woman’ in Damascus. His testimony breaks every stereotype known to us about the position of the woman in Middle Eastern society: The Damascene woman stands almost completely on her own. The father no longer marries her off against her will, the husband has ceased to treat her like his own private chattel and to mistreat her at will, since she can provide for herself from her employment—he now fears that she might leave him if she dislikes him and he tries to improve upon his behaviour. The Damascene woman plays an important role in the household— she sews, weaves, and spins, she has her own income (ha-perutah ˙ mesuyah be-kisah), and she helps her husband and feels herself ˙ like a man in every sense.72 This female independence, together with the penetration of modernisation and Zionism into the social world of the Jews of Damascus, meant that, during World War I and the ensuing years, this community stood out for the considerable participation of its girls in Zionist activity both on the leadership level and within the context of social activity that included mixed-gender banquets and parties.

Demographic drop Censuses conducted by the Ottoman authorities between the years 1882 and 1893 determined the exact number of Jews in Damascus to be 6,265, of which 3,088 were women. Even if this figure is inaccurate, it reflects more or less the size of the Jewish community in the city. Most of the other sources from the 1880s report a round number of about 8,000 Jews. From 1891 to 1905, the number of Jews is said to stand at about 10,000 individuals.73 Arab sources inform on a similar number also in 1909. Nevertheless, there is an upsurge in the numbers reported by Jewish sources about the size of the community up until World War I: from 12,000 and then to 17,000 and even 21,000 souls; however, these figures are surely

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exaggerated in light of the migratory trend that I shall describe below.74 The Jewish community formed a small minority that lived amidst a vast Muslim majority and alongside a Christian minority that also outnumbered it. Ever since the Egyptian occupation during the 1830s, a pattern of emigration from Syria can be discerned, primarily to Egypt. This trend began to increase towards the end of the 1870s and turned into a mass movement that encompassed all Syria during the mid-1880s. Emigration involved all the religious communities and all strata of society, but its principle characteristic, at least in the initial stages, was that of the departure of religious minorities—Christians and Jews—and there is evidence to suggest that communal-religious factors played a role.75 The aftermath of the slaughter of the Christians of Damascus in 1860 reveals signs of Christian emigration from Syria to safer locations.76 For the Jews, who did not suffer in those riots, insecurity was not as yet a motivation for relocation; it would become one later, after they grew disappointed with the Ottoman reforms. This frustration stemmed primarily from the fact that they continued to feel vulnerable with respect to their lives and their property in Syria and from the discriminatory restrictions on political-religious grounds—despite the official secularisation of the administrative and legal systems. Since Muslim society had failed to implement the values of equality, the Jews lived in fear of the next outbreak of violence against the non-Muslim minorities. Consequently, the Jews were also swept up into the current of Christian migration, which increased over the years as a result of political instability in the region.77 Although political motives and inter-religious struggles were themselves critical enough to propel emigration, one should not ignore the importance of the economic factor, which was in fact the most dominant.78 The opening of the Suez Canal (1869), which shifted the major axis of East– West trade away from Syria, caused great damage to the country’s economy and impoverished many merchants. The opening and exposure of Syria to cheap consumer goods imported from Europe devastated the traditional industry of the region, which already suffered from crooked management and

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lack of long-term economic planning in the fields of industry, commerce, and agriculture. The region also underwent repeated financial crises that peaked with the Ottoman bankruptcy of 1875. The ‘shrinking’ of distances between continents as a result of improvements in the means of sea and land transportation also made emigration easier for those who left to seek their future and their fortune in the new world. Although Egypt was still the chief destination during the 1870s and early 1880s, in many cases it served only as a transit station and springboard to America.79 The political power and improved standing of the Jews in Europe and the United States, which found expression in the aid they offered to the Jews of Damascus and in the visits to the region by tourists who demonstrated their wealth and spoke about the wonders of the West, also encouraged emigration. Later still, the advice and assistance offered by the early emigrants to their relatives, along with their tales about the wealth in the Western world and the ease with which it might be obtained, became the strongest factors promoting migration. During the 1880s, an additional motive emerged to drive Muslim and Christian intellectuals to leave the country: political pressure under the rule of Sultan Abdu¨lhamit II. Critics of the government escaped his harsh re´gime by fleeing to Egypt, which was then under British rule and from where they could conduct a propaganda campaign against the sultan.80 In addition to economic, political, and religious motivations for emigration, we should also consider some other contributory factors. One element that fostered the desire to emigrate amongst the Christian population was the educational institutions that European missionaries operated in Syria. In this respect, the French– Jewish AIU society played a similar role with the Jews of the city. The education that the emissaries of these European organisations offered the young Jews and Christians in Syria opened the latters’ eyes to a whole new world and raised their awareness of the many opportunities awaiting them in the West. Moreover, like the missionaries who preached against leaving Syria, the AIU teachers also stressed first and foremost the goal of integrating the Middle Eastern Jews into as many fields as possible as equal citizens in their

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countries. Nevertheless, the study of the French language and Western history, geography, literature, and culture, which were perceived as superior to traditional Eastern culture, attracted the hearts of the young, who, once offered a taste of the West through the production of plays and shows, sought to leave and try their luck in the big world.81 These youths, who received neither a Jewish national nor a Syrian– Arab national education, adapted their political ambitions and cultural values and tastes to what was acceptable in the Western world, even before they had left Damascus. In such a manner, they essentially became a foreign element within the local society, not only in religious terms, but also culturally. One contemporary who criticised the AIU’s educational orientation described things as such: On the one hand, they deny their pupils their Jewishness and nationality in order to bring them closer to their neighbours, while, on the other hand, they improve and press their students, introducing them to the temple of European culture. And since its pupils have reached such a stage, they have no problem to assimilate into the Arabs and Turks . . . while the civilised ones remain dependent, standing and waiting for that great day when they might emigrate and leave us forever . . . one must distort the truth in order to claim that the AIU is not enticing anyone to travel abroad. Come to Damascus and see: the greater share of the emigrants are graduates of the [AIU] schools.82 Indeed, during the mid-1880s, the AIU emissaries in Damascus began pushing for the emigration of their schools’ graduates, since they realised that the students had no future in Syria. In this manner, starting in the 1880s, the drain on the Syrian communities continued with the depletion of the vital strength of its youth to Beirut, Egypt, and the West. This was the culmination of a process in which Syrian Jews shifted from an attitude of passive acceptance of their fate in Middle Eastern Muslim society to that of taking their destiny into their own hands and making the revolutionary step of migration to the West, for what they saw as the possibility of a better future.

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When faced with the choice between being shoe-shiners or floorsweepers in one of the warehouses or the chance of finding a job in a foreign country as a clerk in a trading house or a bank, the young Jewry of Damascus opted for the latter. This flow of emigration soon became a steady stream of flight in the aftermath of the re-enactment of the Ottoman constitution in 1909. The imposition of the burden of conscription upon the entire population led to the desertion of thousands of Muslim youths from Syria to countries in the Americas. The extension of the draft to nonMuslims no doubt also contributed to the intensification of the current of young Jews who were leaving Damascus.83 Over the course of the first decade of the twentieth century, between 1,500 to 2,000 Jewish youths departed; according to contemporary testimony, these individuals constituted the cream of the crop of the population.84 The significance of the demographic collapse was therefore not only a decline in the numerical size of the community, but the departure of its higher-quality members, who were supposed to lead the community towards progress and modernisation, thereby confirming the perception that one’s future lay elsewhere and not in Damascus. Elmaleh described the dire results of the emigration: The young, the vital and productive forces that in any organised city and community represent the driving force in the great public mechanism—are completely lacking here, owing to the vast migration that goes on incessantly now for decades.85 In other words, the prospects for further integration of the community into the new and advanced ideological movements were infinitesimal from the outset. Rather, one might describe the situation as a type of vicious circle in which talented youths left the community and the community continued to deteriorate, thus pushing more youths to depart. The emigrant was seen as someone successful, whereas those who stayed were seen as failures or unlucky. Therefore, many of the initiatives spearheaded by the young forces in order to improve the situation of the community were cut short when it turned time for those entrepreneurs to migrate to the West. No

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action was taken, neither on the state nor communal level, to convince the youths that their future lie in the land of their birth. In such a way, emigration prevented the formation of a middle class of any importance in Damascus, what would have been the necessary backbone for driving the wheels of the economy and culture in the community. The graduates of the AIU schools, who represented the principle reservoir from which a middle class might have emerged, were the very first to leave the city. Not only did young men exit the city, but so did a significant part of the families that formed the traditional economic and aristocratic elite, as well. Most of them chose to make a fresh start following the bankruptcy that hit them so hard. These emigrants were largely a part of the alien prote´ge´s and who had succeeded by means of their foreign nationality to force the Ottoman government to repay them some of what they were owed. Furthermore, according to contemporary testimony, some of these elites could not bear the shame brought upon the community by the Jewish prostitutes and thus chose to abandon the city of their birth in which the term ‘Jewish’ had become synonymous with actions better left unsaid.86 Without question, the traditional leadership’s desertion of the community harmed its chances for recovery. Quite a few of the foreign prote´ge´s, who faced the situation of losing the protection given to them by a European power, chose to retain it through emigration to Egypt or to the West. In this way, those remaining in Damascus were primarily the working class—the day-labourers and craftsmen—whose personal existential struggles beginning already in childhood left them neither time nor ability to consider the progress of society or to deal with the ideological and political problems that were of utmost importance. Unlike the Jewish emigrants from Eastern Europe, those leaving Damascus did not face the ‘Palestine or America’ dilemma.87 In contrast to the other diasporæ, the Damascene Jews did not imagine Palestine as a longed-for dream coated in shades and flavours of ‘milk and honey’, but saw it as a real entity: an impoverished stretch of neighbouring land. Damascus Jews witnessed the true situation of the Holy Land without embellishment when they made pilgrimage

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(Ar. ziya¯rah) to the Four Holy Cities (Jerusalem, Hebron, Tiberias, ˙ ˙ and Safed). One must also recall that Palestine was also under ˙ Ottoman rule and way of life; they knew the nature of its Arab population from their own place of residence. Therefore, Palestine held no messianic, conceptual, economic, or social magic for them. The Damascus community was dying a slow death, being pushed to the margins of society, economy, culture, and morality. The local authorities, who had once depended upon Jewish capital, now virtually completely ignored the existence of the Jewish community; it was not considered as a factor of any regard when determining provincial policies. Moreover, even the Jewish communities in Europe demonstrated little interest in their brethren in Damascus, who were thrust aside. If the Damascus Blood Libel had generated for many years a great deal of interest and activity by Jewish public organisations and groups in Europe in the affairs of Damascus Jewry, by the end of the nineteenth century, this attention had waned. On the eve of the Young Turk Revolution of 1908, aside from the relationship with the AIU management in Paris—which was full of tension—Damascus Jewry was isolated and abandoned, with almost no ties to other Jewish communities.

CHAPTER 1 BETWEEN REVOLUTION AND WAR

With the declaration of political freedom in Turkey, a spark of light shined also upon Damascus. —ha-Herut, 29 August 19111 ˙ In 1908, the Young Turk Revolution broke out in Istanbul, impacting the subsequent course of the lives of the many Jewish communities throughout the empire, including in Damascus. In the aftermath of the revolution, a number of legal steps were taken to broaden the individual freedoms of Ottoman subjects and to restore the constitution that had been suspended 30 years earlier by Sultan Abdu¨lhamit II (r. 1876– 1909).2 However, for the Jewish community of Damascus, this broader revolution followed a series of moderate and even radical attempts at change, some of which succeeded in effecting small achievements. The greater part of these efforts—which took place alongside, or in opposition to, the pattern of decline discussed in the previous chapter—failed; nevertheless, while not all of them were completely successful, they left their mark on the behaviour and development of the Jewish community in the years leading up to World War I and afterwards.

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Attempts at a revolution in the rabbinate On the eve of the Young Turk Revolution, Rabbi Solomon Eliezer Alfandari (c.1826 or 1829/1830– 1930) served as hahambas¸ı of Damascus. He received this appointment at the end of 1894, following the removal of Isaac Abulafia from the position. The hopes pinned upon Alfandari, who came from Istanbul armed with a ferman of official appointment by the sultan, were great, but quickly dashed. The new rabbi lacked the most basic qualifications required of a political leader in order to negotiate with the local authorities. He was completely ignorant of Arabic, the language used within the community and in dealings between the Jews and the Arab population. Even his command of Ottoman Turkish, the language of the senior government clerks, was poor. His high salary also weighed heavily upon the community’s meagre budget. Making matters worse, Alfandari succeeded in antagonising nearly every sector within and without Jewish society: the religious scholars, his supporters who had recruited him from Istanbul, the emissaries of the AIU society, and the Turkish authorities. With the passage of years, Alfandari’s circle of supporters diminished, the communal institutions decayed, and he functioned essentially without any support or aid from other committees. On more than one occasion, the Ottoman authorities were asked to intervene in disputes between members of the community and their chief rabbi. This state of affairs—a total rift between the rabbi and the Jews of Damascus—and the further deterioration of the situation continued until the Young Turk Revolution.3 The Young Turks’ assumption of power on 23– 24 July 1908 led to a wave of dismissals, resignations, and role changes amongst senior Ottoman officials in both the heart of the empire and in the provinces. Thus, members of the new re´gime supported the replacement of the Ottoman hahambas¸ı in Istanbul, Moshe Levi (or ha-Levi, c.1827– 1910), with Haı¨m Nahoum (Hayyim Nahum, 1873– 1960), who ˙ ˙ was among their chief supporters. Damascus Jewry likewise pushed for the removal of Alfandari. These protests were influenced by the prevailing public sentiment in the city, following the declaration of

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the new constitution and the replacement of senior government officials.4 This public expression of Jewish opposition towards Alfandari and their struggle to remove him from office represents a revolution in the full sense of the word. The appointment of a chief rabbi had ceased to be an internal matter for the community and became, according to the demands of society, an issue subject to the authority of the state. The street protests were an expression of the active political participation of the Jews, who sought to change their communal administration in tandem with the general reorganisation of the imperial re´gime. Moreover, the explanations offered for the removal of the rabbis were rooted in the ideas underlying the Ottoman Constitution, which was reinstated with the success of the Young Turk Revolution, after having been suspended by Abdu¨lhamit II in 1876. Such justifications no longer derived from the narrow and limited world of the Jewish community or Jewish law, but from perceiving the Jewish system of governance as part of a larger political establishment undergoing a process of reorganisation in the wake of the revolution. This outlook indicates an expression of some desire by the leaders of this movement within the Damascus community to see themselves as part of those who instigated the revolution and of those benefitting from its results. Immediately after the revolution, the Jewish residents of Damascus demanded that the new government in Istanbul remove Alfandari from office. According to them, for the previous 13 years, he had behaved like a tyrant, but the previous government, which had appointed him, refused to listen to any of their allegations. Now, however, they began to feel the new spirit of liberty, stemming from the ideas of the revolution, and sought to implement them in their community by removing the hahambas¸ı from his position.5 Alfandari, like other rabbis in other communities, was dismissed by the Minister of Justice. It seems that this step stemmed from the Ottoman authorities’ fear of an outbreak of riots in the Jewish communities of the empire. This reflected the spirit of the philosophy of the Young Turks, who replaced many officials and religious clerics seen as supporters of the ancien re´gime without any hesitation or consultation. The new hahambas¸ı in Istanbul, Haı¨m Nahoum,

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devised a radical system to solve the problem. He aimed to initiate a process whereby a permanent chief rabbi would be selected under the supervision of a delegation from Istanbul that would investigate the claims against the incumbent candidate for dismissal and would monitor the elections.6 Nahoum temporarily appointed the former chief rabbi Isaac Abulafia to serve as locum tenens. Inspired by the revolution and with the support of educated youth from within the community, Abulafia laboured to restore order that reflected the prevailing sentiment. He organised the election of a communal council of ten members, chosen by the majority of the population. Moses Elijah Hazan-Totah was ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ elected president of the council, along with Joseph Laniado, Mordechai (Mura¯d) Moses Farh¯ı, David Qamhajı¯, Aaron Yedid ha˙ ˙ Levi, Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, and Nissim Farh¯ı, the AIU envoy in Damascus.7 ˙ The broad participation of individuals from all sectors of society in the election and, particularly, the willingness to include an AIU representative on the council, certainly suggests a radical step that signified ineradicably the total decline of the old elite establishment. It was clear to all that Abulafia’s tenure would only be temporary. Although the position was ostensibly filled, for the span of many months following the removal of Alfandari, the Damascus community operated in actuality without a spiritual and political leader and, therefore, underwent no improvement in its progress. Isaac Abulafia was already more than 80 years old when, in November 1909, more than a year after his re-assumption of the role of chief rabbi of Damascus, he departed the city at his request to live out his days in his ancestral city of Tiberias.8 This left Damascus with a leadership void ˙ that needed to be filled. It was a critical time to put the community back on track by appointing a spiritual leader who was respected and possessed political skills, accompanied by the implementation of numerous changes in the administrative, legal, and political systems.9 In a proposal to the notables of the Jewish community, Rabbi Nahoum offered the names of a number of candidates from among the rabbis in Jerusalem and asked them to choose the most suitable one. This situation revealled the feebleness of the community, its passive stance, and the unwillingness of its members to take their fate

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into their own hands in two ways. First, the community lacked a local political-religious leader of important stature who could assume the task himself. Second, the very response by the heads of Jewish society—that Nahoum himself should choose the appropriate nominee since they were not familiar with any of the candidates or their qualifications—demonstrates the disconnect between Damascus and the nearby religious centre of Jerusalem, which may have been close physically, but was very distant intellectually.10 In the summer of 1910, Nahoum embarked on a journey to visit the Jewish communities of the Middle East. On the evening of Sunday 03 July, he arrived at Damascus from Haifa.11 At this time, ˙ Nahoum was accompanied by his advisor Abraham Elmaleh (1876– 1967), the editor of the Jerusalem newspaper ha-Herut (Heb. ‘The ˙ Liberty’). Knowing that his father-in-law, Jacob Danon, was from the

Figure 1 Rabbi Hayyim Nahum (centre, left) with members of the ˙ ˙ communal committee during his visit to Damascus. (Source: David Lisbona, private collection, Israel).

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outset one of the candidates for chief rabbi of Damascus, Elmaleh did not have a difficult time convincing Nahoum to appoint Danon to the post. Elmaleh seems to have truly believed that his father-in-law was the right person at the right time and place necessary to restore Damascus Jewry and to bring them closer to the Zionist endeavour that was developing in Palestine. The official appointment of Rabbi Jacob Danon through the efforts of the hahambas¸ı in Istanbul presented an opportunity to reconnect and reintegrate Damascus Jewry with the Jewish people. Having been isolated and cut off, Damascus now took a renewed part in the affairs of the Jewish world. However, while Damascus had for hundreds of years been more closely connected to Tiberias and ˙ Jerusalem, its ties were now primarily to the centre of power at Istanbul. In this respect, Nahoum succeeded in making the Istanbul rabbinate the focal point of the chief rabbis it appointed, all the more as many of them owed him personally for their position. Much time passed until the renewed connection to Palestine and the Zionist society there (the Yishuv) would become quite consequential. These ties began one year after Danon’s arrival in Damascus, when his sonin-law Abraham Elmaleh assumed the roles of community secretary and director of the Hebrew national school.12 However, four main tasks faced the new rabbi, the chief of which was the removal from the Jewish Quarter and from contact with the Jewish girls of prostitution, which contaminated and influenced all aspects of Jewish life in the city. This first objective was therefore a precondition for the success of the other goals: the restoration of the communal establishment, the rehabilitation of the political status of the community in the eyes of the government, and the improvement of the education system.

Initiatives towards a moral revolution During the span of his first six months in Damascus, Danon fought successfully, with the backing of the authorities, against prostitution in the Jewish community.13 He thus passed the first test of his degree of resoluteness and determination to work towards the rehabilitation

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of the community. About half a year after Danon’s appointment, a new governor arrived in the city, stymying the reform by withholding assistance to the hahambas¸ı in his efforts to remove the prostitutes from the Jewish Quarter.14 Despite appeals to the Minister of Justice and even a directive from the Minister of Interior Affairs, the Jewish prostitutes remained in the Jewish Quarter and the local authorities took no active step to remove them from the district. Moreover, the illusory nature of a united front in the war on prostitution came into stark clarity when supporters of the prostitutes in the Jewish community began publicly criticising the leadership of Danon and the official communal institutions. Amongst other things, this group founded new religious schools and small synagogues, which they called midrashim. This measure was an attempt to create alternative institutions to the official ones of the community, in order to remove the sting from the threat of excommunication. As remarkable as it may appear, like the prostitutes, their supporters also sought to distinguish between their religious faith and observance and their support for moral permissiveness within Jewish society, which they apparently saw only as a minor transgression, if at all.15 Danon, encouraged by his son-in-law Elmaleh, realised the importance of eradicating the phenomenon as a precondition for introducing radical reforms into Jewish society and for re-establishing the community. Nevertheless, the programme to remove the hazard of harlotry from the Jewish Quarter succeeded only in part to reduce the number of prostitutes for a short while; the phenomenon was not completely eliminated and indeed returned and strengthened. A year after he assumed his position in Damascus, Danon almost conceded defeat in the face of the problem of the ‘girl singers’ and its consequences when he threatened Nahoum with his resignation.16 Even when brothels re-opened in the summer of 1913 on the outskirts of the city, the authorities refused, despite orders coming from the government in Istanbul, to remove the Jewish prostitutes from the Jewish Quarter, while those who operated in the Christian and Muslim Quarters were forced to move to the new premises. The

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outbreak of World War I, in the course of which Damascus became a major military centre, led to the further spread of immorality that continued to cast a pall over the city’s Jewry during and after the war.17 In any event, aside from the problem of the ‘singers’, Danon also faced the challenge of restoring the institutional systems that had collapsed in the years prior to his arrival in the city.

Restoration of the communal establishment The Jewish communal establishment in Damascus was characterised by instability, power struggles, and a division of influence among the old plutocratic families and their supporters. Damascus Jewry was not accustomed to the existence of organised public institutions and had no tradition of managing the community’s needs through elected councils. Even though communal committees were established in the aftermath of the crash of 1875, their terms were short and they disintegrated not long after their creation. Throughout his tenure, Alfandari chose to concentrate control over the community in his hands, without sharing responsibility with the notables. Danon stood at the top of the communal hierarchy pyramid and was recognised as the community’s representative in front of the authorities. One must recall that he arrived in Damascus as a sort of saviour and therefore enjoyed a special status from the start. Moreover, his prestige rose further once his tenure as chief rabbi was ratified by the Ottoman authorities and as a result of the impression formed by the Jewish elites that this rabbi from Jerusalem possessed suitable talents for instilling radical change into their community. The leadership format was modelled after the structure of the Jewish millet and included the establishment of a general assembly (Ott. Tur. meclis-i umumi), headed by Danon, of 70 members, who would in turn elect a nine-person lay council (Ott. Tur. meclis-i cismani) for a set term of two years. A spiritual council (Ott. Tur. meclis-i ruhani) with authority over management of all religious affairs of the community was supposed to operate alongside the lay council;18 however, unlike the case in other communities, where the head of the spiritual council also led the

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communal religious court, in Damascus, the latter role was filled by the hahambas¸ı. This situation reflected both the decline in the quality of the religious scholars in the city and the high regard for the chief rabbi’s erudition in Torah. Moreover, his arrival being perceived as an effort to rescue the community and his backing by the authorities enabled Danon to concentrate political, lay, and spiritual power in his hands. The significance of this state of affairs was far-reaching. In the distant past, the bulk of the spiritual and lay leadership’s authority and enforcement ability depended upon the voluntary willingness of the members of the community to submit themselves to this control according to Jewish law. In more recent memory, that is, from the start of the mid-nineteenth century, with the beginning of the implementation of Ottoman reforms and the establishment of the Jewish millet, the Jewish leadership began to draw power from the state authorities, although it continued to rely upon the readiness of the population to accept it. Danon, recognising that the unorganised community no longer held any sway, launched a new framework in which the authorities now became the sole source of power. Instead of the chief rabbi resting upon the community, a situation developed whereby the community depended upon him. When facing the challenge of defending the norms of the community, such as in the matter of prostitution, the hahambas¸ı did not hesitate to make use of outside political tools like the police in order to achieve his aims. Unlike in the past, after the Young Turk Revolution and the reinstatement of the Constitution, which sought to put an end to disorder in the imperial offices, this manner of action was not seen as something unusual. On the contrary, the expectation was that a chief rabbi, who was perceived as an official appointed by and part of the government, would exercise the strength that he received from the authorities for the betterment of his community. On the other hand, since the community was fundamentally conservative, Danon still used traditional means of enforcement, such as the withholding of religious services from those defying communal ordinances. What is significant about this is that Damascus Jewry, at the start of the 1910s, had no other social alternative. The only frame of reference for

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the Jews was still their community alone. Consciousness of individual and collective religious identity remained high—the process of secularisation, which continued to spread, had yet to bear ideological fruit. About a year after Danon’s appointment, once the full scope of the complex problems facing Damascus Jewry—especially those stemming from prostitution—became clear to him, the chief rabbi came to understand that it would be difficult for him alone to implement the weighty task of instituting serious change in Jewish society. Therefore, he took an important political step and called Elmaleh, who served then as director of the Jewish school in the Istanbul neighbourhood of Galata, to come and serve alongside him as communal secretary.19 Elmaleh—young, educated, talented, and of clear Zionist orientation—accepted the mission of rehabilitating the community.20 His assumption of this position in August 1911 gave impetus to the reorganisation of the communal institutions along new lines. For the first time in its history, the community decided upon a fixed yearly budget. As a result of the bankruptcy, income collected directly from the head tax declined greatly; funds now came primarily from two major sources: the head tax levied upon each Jew of proven financial ability and the meat tax (gabela). If proof was necessary to demonstrate Danon’s power and ability to change accepted practice and traditions, this could be found in the decision that the capitation tax would apply also to the small number of foreign nationals remaining in Damascus, who until that time had been exempt from all communal taxation. To collect the tax, the lay council established a committee of ‘assessors’ to determine the tax rate for each individual. The tax itself was progressive and determined according to income and property on five predetermined scales. Those refusing to pay were threatened with a refusal to circumcise their sons, to hold wedding ceremonies for their descendants, to bury them, and so forth.21 As in the past, religious scholars and functionaries, rabbinate officials, and the indigent continued to be exempt from taxation. The head tax represented 40 per cent of the community’s income.

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The gabela consumption tax on ritually-slaughtered meat was levied in accordance with the licence granted by the Ottoman authorities to the various chief rabbis of the empire to collect such taxes as they might see fit. This apparently stemmed from the difficulties encountered in collecting direct taxes, which severely impacted Jewish public finances. The support of the government put an end to the disputes and quarrels that engulfed the community regarding the matter of the gabela for many years. The chief rabbi acquired almost unlimited means to enforce tax collection upon those refusing to pay. The meat tax also represented about 40 per cent of the community’s income. In addition, a gabela was also levied upon massah, the unleavened bread eaten at Passover, a concession for whose ˙˙ sale was granted exclusively to the religious scholars.22 The remaining revenue of the community came from annual financial allocations imposed upon the 11 major synagogues of Damascus; from a number of fees, such as those for marriage certificates and circumcisions; and from various permits issued for real estate deals in the Jewish Quarter.23 As mentioned above, all these indirect taxes served to offset the decline in revenue from the head tax. These sources of income were supposed to finance the greater part of the salaries of the hahambas¸ı and the communal secretary, Danon and his son-in-law Elmaleh, respectively. Wages for the ritual slaughterers also came from the community coffers, as did the grants allocated for supporting the indigent and needy religious scholars, the Hebrew school that had been established, and donations to Palestinian emissaries. The Ottoman government system provided almost nothing for the well-being of the Syrian population and invested very little in the creation of social infrastructure and advanced welfare systems. The autonomous structure of the confessional and other communities left them responsible for the establishment of philanthropic and public health institutions for their members. Since Damascus Jewry was lacking in leadership and political systems in the period prior to the arrival of Danon, the formation of welfare societies was entirely the private initiative of educated and wealthy elements.

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From the end of the last decade of the nineteenth century through the first decade of the twentieth century, a number of charitable associations were founded in the Jewish community.24 In the spring of 1902, Edward Stern, a Jewish philanthropist from London, visited the city. He saw that numerous sick Jews were forced to turn to medical institutions established by Protestant missionary groups with the aim of bringing converts to their faith. An assistance fund that Stern thereafter founded in the city provided for the erection of a pharmacy that employed a doctor, a pharmacist, and a custodian. This clinic offered free healthcare—the doctor accepted patients at the pharmacy and even made house calls to the homes of indigent patients. The remainder of Stern’s fund was put towards the purchase of basic supplies for needy pregnant women and sick individuals. The foundation’s funds were managed in London and its profits were transferred to Damascus by the AIU. Accordingly, the director of the local AIU school was appointed to supervise the institution. This fact is of great significance since control of the assistance fund endowed its administrator with great power and influence in the community.25 The pharmacy and the clinic established with funds donated by Stern became the central philanthropic institution in the community. Foreign consuls and visitors were brought to the clinic in order to marvel at the activity taking place there.26 The establishment of a philanthropic society was not only a step towards assisting the needy, but also a common way by which young Jews in Damascus sought to insert themselves into the communal leadership. In this way, the ʿOzer Dallim be-Dammes´eq (Poor Aid Society of Damascus) was founded in 1907, with the aim of reducing as much as possible the phenomenon of Jewish mendicants on the street. Every week, the society distributed bread and money to the needy in an effort to stop them from begging—those caught soliciting money lost their right to support. Following the Young Turk Revolution, the removal of Alfandari, and the communal reorganisation under Abulafia, the Society’s resources grew and it began to distribute flour and meat to needy families, as well. This activity yielded results and the number of Jewish poor and beggars going door to door declined significantly.27 The Poor Aid Society also assumed responsibility

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for assisting Jewish travellers without means who had come to Damascus in reaching their destination, which was usually Palestine. It appears that it took such measures in order to prevent the number of mendicants from growing and becoming an even bigger burden on the population. Since the ʿOzer Dallim’s budget derived largely from a fee paid by its members and it was not backed by an endowed fund, its activity slowly declined, leading in 1911 to renewed growth in the number of Jewish beggars on the streets of Damascus. Due to its renewed need and as a result of revitalised appreciation for communal institutions, the Poor Aid Society was reorganised and, in January 1913, it drafted new articles of association.28 In addition to distributing food and providing for transportation, it now managed the Hakhnasat Orhim ˙ (Hospitality to Guests) lodge, which provided for the needs of poor Jewish travellers. Guests were permitted to remain in the lodge for three consecutive days, after which the ʿOzer Dallim society sponsored his continued journey to his ultimate destination. This welfare association stands out compared to its predecessors in three regards. First, it was founded on democratic principles. Second, an examination of the names of the 12 members of the Society’s council—Shaha¯diyyah ʿAbba¯dı¯, Elijah Maʿaravi, David S´as´on, Mura¯d ˙ Saʿadya¯, Mu¯sa¯ Baliyyah, Mu¯sa¯ Qamhajı¯, Abraham Zaytu¯niyyah, ˙ Joseph Dwek, Shaha¯diyyah Mahadı¯b, Isaac Ya¯tsheh, Mura¯d Lu¯ziyyah, ˙ Shaha¯diyyah Farah—reveals that none of them came from the veteran ˙ ˙ elite families. This organisation was therefore the initiative of young, pro-reformist intellectuals, who sought to put their community back on track. The third, most prominent, distinction was the society’s charter, which was composed in Hebrew. In the years prior to World War I, Arabic completely dominated Jewish social, economic, religious, administrative, and political life in Damascus.29 It seems that the young founders of the ʿOzer Dallim society were influenced by the Zionist revival of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine and therefore ensured that their articles of association would be drafted in Hebrew and that their operating procedures would resemble those of similar societies in Palestine. Evidence that they were inspired by the national revival can be seen in their request to the Hilfsverein der

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Deutschen Juden (Aid Society of German Jews) to open in Damascus a Hebrew kindergarten and public elementary school.30 The intention of these young Jews may have been to spread their influence to the highest echelons of the communal administration and even to take it over. Danon, who sought to make allies within the community, brought them under his ægis and made sure to invite them to events and gatherings with important and influential guests who visited Damascus.31 In the middle of July 1914, a new communal council was elected, which, aside from Shaha¯diyyah ʿAbba¯dı¯ and David S´as´on, was ˙ comprised entirely of members of the ʿOzer Dallim society, including Abraham Penso, Yu¯suf Farh¯ı, Joseph Laniado, Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, Moses ˙ Hayyim Totah, Joseph Moses Matalon, Hayyim Du¯ra¯, Meʾir ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Hakham, Moses La¯lu¯, Hayyim Turkiyyah, and Aaron Qamʿu¯. This ˙ ˙ represented a virtual take-over by young pro-Hebrew and pro-Zionist supporters of the communal leadership. However, this council did not succeed in leading the community during World War I, which broke out soon after its election, and it ceased to function. Nevertheless, some of its members later played an important role in the future leadership of the community.32

Circles of identity Up until the Young Turk Revolution, Damascus Jewry stood out for its isolation and non-involvement in any political organisation. Bonds to the community and an inability to completely detach oneself from it (other than by conversion) were the major factors in the Jewish adherence to traditional frameworks. The nature of the new nationalist movements that began forming in Syria at the end of the nineteenth century also precluded the inclusion of Jews. The joy surrounding the promulgation of the Constitution and the end of the era of Hamidian despotism was demonstrated in Damascus streets at the start of August 1908 with parades, celebratory gunfire, and fireworks. In some places in Syria, Muslims were even seen embracing Christians and Jews in great elation over the revolution.33 However, the Muslim Arabs, who anticipated

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partnership and equality within the empire, were soon to be severely disappointed. The Committee of Union and Progress (CUP; I˙ttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti), which led the Young Turk Revolution, quickly abandoned the liberal ideas and the vision of a multi-national Ottoman state, in which religious and ethnic minorities would receive certain autonomous rights. The Ottomanist dream of free, equal, and peaceful relations between the many national and confessional groups that constituted the population of the empire through general loyalty to the Ottoman ruler was shattered and exchanged for repressive and centralising policies. The process of Turkification, which began in April 1909, following the suppression of the attempt by supporters of the ancien re´gime to stage a counter-revolution, sought to assimilate all the peoples of the empire into Turkish nationalism. The state sought to impose the Turkish language even upon the Arab provinces, by mandating it as the only language permitted in courts and government offices. Arab officials were removed and replaced with Turks. Arab officers were suspected of disloyalty and their promotions were delayed, instilling in them new feelings of deprivation. This mood fuelled the establishment of secret societies that nurtured Arab nationalist ideas.34 From the years after the revolution until the end of World War I, Damascus Jewry found itself in a situation in which it was forced to decide between one or another of three possible identities: Jewish-Ottoman national identity, Jewish-Arab national identity, or Jewish-Hebrew-Zionist national identity. The problem was that the Jews did not at all operate as one unit—as members of a defined religious nation seeking their civic rights within the framework of the renewed Ottoman state—but as a collection of individuals. This matter made it difficult for Danon and Elmaleh when representing the community before the authorities.35 Nevertheless, for the slimmest segment of young Damascus Jewry, the very occurrence of the revolution and its accompanying ideas aroused affinity for its goals, which complemented their aspiration to improve their civil standing within Ottoman society. These were very likely the same young intellectuals who would have chosen, like

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many others, to emigrate to the West; however, in the aftermath of the revolution, they dared to hope that the ideas of liberty and equality would open for them new opportunities in their land of birth. Moreover, these youths, influenced by ideas of modern nationalism, redirected those concepts also in a Hebrew national direction. Even so, during the first decade of the twentieth century, word of Zionism, its undertaking, and its goals had not yet reached the Jews of Damascus—or, if it did, it left no trace upon them. This nucleus of young nationalist Jews was unique in this respect. It was comprised of members of the Jewish Damascene elite who had studied at educational institutions, apparently missionary ones, in Beirut. After the declaration of the new Constitution, they founded in Damascus a new society called an-Nahdah (Renaissance). No ˙ surviving documentation elaborates its declared aims at the time of its establishment, yet the name chosen by its founders, like that of other contemporary Arab nationalist associations, indicates a desire for renewal in the aftermath of the revolution. Even so, in the two years after its formation, this society left no mark upon the lives of Damascus Jewry and its membership gradually declined, as a result of both emigration and lack of interest. After the chief rabbi Nahoum’s visit to Damascus, an-Nahdah ˙ came back to life, although this time under the name of the League of Ottoman Jews, with the goal of spreading general enlightenment amongst Damascus Jewry. The name of the society and its aim indicate Jewish national identification with the new Ottoman government in Istanbul and a desire to integrate of the rejuvenating Turkish state. However, a deeper examination of the objectives of this group reveals that this was not the principle goal. Aside from spreading enlightenment amongst young Jews, the society’s members also sought to instil in them a knowledge of the Hebrew language. Of course, the study of Hebrew was not consistent with the Turkification policies of the state. The question here is whether this was a group seeking instead to introduce Hebrew nationalist ideas. In a conversation with a ‘passer-by’, the founders of the association testified themselves that the group was primarily nationalist. It is

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difficult to ascertain their precise understanding of the term ‘nationalist’, whether they meant Ottoman nationalist or Hebrew nationalist. They explained their principle focus on inculcating general enlightenment as stemming from the absence in Damascus Jewry of any foundation for understanding and accepting nationalist ideas. As a result, ‘there is a need therefore to attract them with general matters, which will in turn lead them towards [nationalism] (u-mi-tokh she-loʾ li-shmah baʾ li-shmah)’.36 It is possible that they meant that to prepare the hearts of the city’s Jews first of all one needed to understand the modern meaning of being a Jewish citizen in a modern state as being part of a defined national group. To do so, it was necessary to inculcate renewed Jewish national conscious by means of the study of the Hebrew language. A clue that the seed of Hebrew national revival had already been planted in the hearts of these youths is the fact that some of them had studied Hebrew in Beirut in night courses led by the Zionist educator Asher Erlich (1878– 1952).37 It appears therefore that their original intent was to strengthen the Hebrew—as opposed to Jewish—identity of Damascus Jewry within the national mosaı¨c that comprised the Ottoman Empire. Unlike other Jewish groups founded after the revolution to spread knowledge of Turkish amongst the Jewish population in order to enable them to be admitted to institutions of higher education and to integrate into public service, what is interesting about this society is that it did not work to promote Turkish among Damascus Jewry.38 In order to attract the Jewish public for whom Arabic was still the dominant language of daily life, as well as the French-speaking intellectual elite who graduated from the AIU schools, the association founded a reading club that included both Arabic and French newspapers. The club did not feature the Hebrew press on the grounds that the Hebrew-reading minority in the community did not justify the purchase of such newspapers from Palestine. Apparently, this public explanation hid the real reason, which was the fear that the members of the group might be suspected by the authorities of illegal Zionist political organisation. Indeed, the activities of this society aroused opposition amongst circles in the

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communal leadership who feared that they contained a spark of Zionism, which might endanger the community as a whole. The intra-communal resistance to the activity of the association discouraged many of its members, to the point where, by October 1910, only about 20 remained. Yet this decline did not lead to cutbacks in its activity, but rather to an expansion of its operations specifically within the Arab population and to integration within the wider society, and indirectly, perhaps, even hinting at identification with the latter’s nationalist goals. Damascus society, both Jewish and non-Jewish, was invited one Saturday night to a musical show and the staging of a play at the auditorium of an AIU school. The evening was conducted exclusively in Arabic and the musical portion even included a performance by Arab singers who presented some of the best-loved songs in the Arab re´pertoire. By contrast, the play, which was translated from French to Arabic, was staged by young Jewish actors and actresses. The proceeds went towards evening classes in Arabic that the youths intended to hold. It is important to note the participation of young female Jews in this performance, something that characterised more or less also the activity of the Zionist movements in Damascus, for which female involvement was of significant concern. The uniqueness of the public performance of these Jewish girls, who came from the social elite graduates of the AIU schools, was all the more striking in light of the fact that the Arab audience who came to watch the play was entirely male and reportedly enjoyed very much the girls’ acting.39 From the outset, the intention of the young Jews may really have been to continue in the direction of strengthening the Hebrew national identity of the Jews as a part of the myriad of nationalities in the empire. They did not see any contradiction with the development of Ottoman identity and loyalty to its political framework. However, fear of the authorities, the discouraging opposition of the leaders of the community, and the ease with which it was possible to earn the appreciation of the Arab public for cultural renewal that they promoted led these young Jews to stray from their initial goal and to settle for cultural activity identified with the surrounding society.

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Acquisition of the Arabic language, which was originally only supposed to serve as a tool and means for developing the conception of national identity amongst the Jewish population of Damascus, eventually became an end unto itself. It appears that Elmaleh, who had a Hebrew national orientation, reached the city at the very time that the Arab focus took hold of this organisation and mistook their initial aims and intentions for an effort to integrate Jewish national awakening within the framework of Arab nationalism and Ottomanism. Elmaleh saw only the Arabisation of the members of the society and therefore responded disparagingly to their enterprise, describing them as having ‘fattened their bellies on Arabic literature from which they receive all their spiritual sustenance and satisfaction’.40 In particular, he was struck by the fact that anti-Zionist Arab newspapers such as al-Muqtabas (‘The Citation’) and al-Karmil (‘The Carmel’) could be found in the association’s reading room. However, at this stage, Jews still could not identify with Arab nationalist aims, certainly not with those opposing the Zionist Jewish endeavour that was starting to develop in Palestine. The organisation of young Jews as a ‘literary club’ was not original. In the years immediately following the Young Turk Revolution, such organisation could be carried out openly and used as a cover for subversive social or political activity. In any case, even if the association’s goal was the strengthening of Hebrew nationalist feeling, it outwardly demonstrated absolutely loyalty to the Ottoman authorities. Under the headline of ‘Jewish patriotism in Damascus’, the press announced that a ‘Jewish Literary Society’ in the city had on 22 January 1911 awarded Sami Pas¸a, the commander of the Ottoman battalion in Hawra¯n, a decorated Ottoman flag in recognition of his ˙ success in quelling a rebellion that had broken out in the region and restoring peace to the province. The presentation of the prize took place in an impressive public ceremony. A large number of Jewish youths, accompanied by a large audience, waited for Sami Pas¸a at the police office. When he arrived, they approached him to the sound of orchestral music accompanied by dancing. On the flag, to which was also attached a bouquet of flowers, the following words were

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embroidered: ‘a faithful reminder to the courageous victor Sami Pas¸a al-Fa¯ru¯qı¯, from the young Jews of Damascus’. Apparently, this step was co-ordinated with the hahambas¸ı Danon, who also arrived at the head of an official communal delegation in order to congratulate the commander. In his response to the Turkish speeches made by members of the Jewish Literary Society and the heads of the community in honour of him and the Ottoman homeland, Sami Pas¸a commended the group for its patriotism and for the national affinity that Jews demonstrated towards the state.41 This event indicates clearly the strengthening of the trend of public involvement and interest by at least part of the Jewish public in the affairs of the empire. Nevertheless, even if the initial intention of the members of an-Nahdah was ultimately to impart Hebrew nationalist feeling to ˙ Damascus Jewry, in practical terms, it is not possible to see any buds of Zionist activity in their actions. Jewish patriotism displays were also expressed that year in prayers conducted at the main synagogue for the success of the Ottoman army against Italy in the Libyan campaign. The novelty of the ceremony was reflected in the presence of all the leading ruling officials of Damascus. ʿAbduh Farh¯ı, a member of the Jewish ˙ community who served as chief clerk in the administration, gave an enthusiastically patriotic speech in Arabic, followed by an address by the secretary of the community Elmaleh in Hebrew. It seems that Elmaleh, who spoke Turkish fluently, sought specifically to emphasise Jewish allegiance by speaking in their unique language. Afterwards, Danon led the gathering in the prayer, ‘God who gives salvation to the kings’, and the cantor recited a special prayer composed for the occasion.42 Even when the First Balkan War broke out in October 1912, the young Jews publicly supported the empire and expressed hope for the Ottoman army’s victory. Some of them even joined in the large demonstrations of support for the Turkish army that took place in Damascus. Although one might claim that these displays of loyalty merely reflected the demands of the situation, this was not the case. Indeed, even the reports in the Hebrew press in Palestine were awash with more than a hint of sympathy for the authorities and did not

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simply go through the motions. For example, Elmaleh, who hid behind the pseudonym of ‘Ben-Siyyon Raful, a young Jewish ˙ intellectual in Damascus’, declared: ‘Verily, we Ottoman Jews, well known for our devotion to our homeland, wholeheartedly wish that it will be so and that our army will emerge from the great decisive battle adorned with the wreath of victory.’43 These actions stressing the loyalty of Damascus Jewry to the Ottoman state stemmed no doubt from belief in the sincerity of the government’s promises regarding equality and liberty, and from a desire to improve the civil standing of the Jews of the city. Yet, the passage of time brought bitter disappointment to those who believed in the purity of the government’s intentions. The public sentiment in Damascus was still not ripe for equal treatment of the Jews due to the zealous Islamic nature of the population, but also because, since the bankruptcy of 1875, the Jewish community had ceased to wield any influence over public life in the city. The gradual contraction of the community as a result of emigration, the withdrawal of those remaining to the streets of the Jewish Quarter, and the concern of practically all of them with matters of livelihood and existence and not political affairs all contributed to the marginalisation of Damascus Jewry. Jewish ties to the authorities were not as strong as they had been in the past, nor were the relations with Western European Jewry, who had previously exerted great pressure to advance the legal and civil standing of Syrian Jews. Three years after the revolution, Danon complained that the local government was ignoring the Jewish community and was taking no action to improve their quality of life. Thus, for example, all the neighbourhoods of Damascus were linked to the new electricity grid, except the Jewish Quarter—even though the Jews were required to pay an additional tax for lighting the city streets.44 The distinction between backwardness and decline on the one hand and progress and modernity on the other was really epitomised by the darkness that prevailed in the Jewish Quarter and the light that illuminated the rest of the city. Under the cover of darkness, the criminal acts and desecration of individual and public morals as detailed above continued to occur.

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The small number of the Jews and the lack of involvement of most of them in Damascus public life can further be seen in the fact that only three Jews served in public functions in the government and administrative systems: Moses Totah was a member of the provincial ˙ ˙ ˙ administrative council (Ott. Tur. meclis-i idare), Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯ was a member of the merchant council, and ʿAbduh Farh¯ı was a senior ˙ official in the finance ministry of the province. The Jews had no representative in the Damascus municipality and this was apparently the reason behind the neglect of the Jewish Quarter, as opposed to the Muslim and Christian ones.45 Damascus Jewish life was becoming unbearable. Arabs hurled insults and humiliations at them and the law enforcement systems did nothing to stop them. The situation turned even more untenable when it became clear that the legal systems, too, failed to uphold justice in matters involving Jews. In May 1911, Muslims charged a young Jew with having cursed Islam. A mob beat the boy severely; afterwards, he was thrown into prison for about three months. During his imprisonment, he became fatally ill, but despite doctors’ pleas and even a request by Danon, the authorities refused to transfer him to a hospital. Ultimately, the youth died in prison, innocent and without trial. Danon’s appeals to the chief rabbi in Istanbul also failed and he described his feelings as such: the attitude of the local government officials towards us is like that of a master to his servant . . . for the Jewish protests here mean nothing to the local government since, as stated, they presume that nobody will take up the Jews’ cause.46 A few days after the youth’s death, the newspaper al-Muqtabas published a blood libel against the Jews of Istanbul. The periodical, which maintained a consistently anti-Jewish line, continued on almost a daily basis to incite against the Jews. The anti-Jewish atmosphere in Damascus grew so intense that the possibility of violent clashes between Muslims and Jews became very real.47 Paradoxically, the anti-Jewish trend in the Arab press actually began after the Young Turk Revolution. In former times, the press could not publish anything explicit against the Jews, since the authorities, particularly during the

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reign of Abdu¨lhamit II, forbade any anti-ethnic publications whatsoever.48 Furthermore, the Jewish subject had not aroused much interest due to traditional disregard of the Jewish community by Muslim writers, as well as the small size and lack of influence of Damascus Jewry within city life, ever since the marginalisation of the community in the aftermath of the 1875 bankruptcy. The turning point came with the deposition of Abdu¨lhamit II and the beginning of practical Zionist activity and policy in Palestine. In the wake of the Young Turk Revolution, a tidal wave of new periodicals and newspapers flooded the empire, many daring to write in the spirit of ideas and concepts that had been forbidden previously. Moreover, the Zionist endeavour became slowly a living and thriving phenomenon in Palestine and demanded attention from the Syrian Arab press. These newspapers were divided almost evenly between those indifferent to the subject of Zionism and those totally opposed to it.49 The first Damascene to raise the issue of the ‘Zionist danger’ in Palestine was the Arab delegate to the Ottoman parliament Shukrı¯ Bey al-ʿAsalı¯ (1868– 1916). His attacks on Zionist activity charted the course for the Damascus press, which opposed what it saw as a Zionist takeover of Palestine.50 This period also witnessed for the first time the blurring of distinctions between Zionists and Jews in newspapers such as al-Muqtabas. As a result, condemnations of Zionism in the Arab press often boiled over into assaults on the Jewish nation as a whole. This attitude intrinsically represented a great danger to the lives of the city’s Jews. It may not have always reflected the public opinion of the newspaper’s readership in Damascus, but it certainly sought to mould it. Since it appeared that al-Muqtabas had become a primary organ of incitement against the Jews, no small number of readers objected to the newspaper’s tone. Muslim notables and religious leaders sent a memorandum to the prime minister expressing their disgust with the paper’s position. They declared that its statements had no value or influence upon Syrian public opinion.51 This Muslim initiative may have been the result of appeals by the Jewish community, since Danon tended to turn to the other confessional leaders in cases of anti-Jewish harassment, in order to create a united front that would

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prevent harm from coming to the religious minorities. One way or another, this letter demonstrates the desire of the Muslim leaders in Damascus to maintain the safety of the Jewish community. It appears that this attitude stemmed from the traditional Islamic view of Jews as a protected minority (Ar. dhimmı¯s), not from modern concepts of equality and fraternity. Yet, this conservative religious approach held that any Jewish violation of the old covenant and of their traditional loyalty would immediately make them liable for abuse. In September 1913, a Muslim accused a Jew who had scuffled with him in the Jewish Quarter of having cursed Islam. Other Muslims in the area attacked the Jew and beat him severely. As had happened in similar cases prior to the revolution, when the police finally arrived, they charged the Jew with disturbing public order and sent him to prison, while taking no action against the assailants. However, this time, unlike in the past—when they would never have dared to call openly for the release of an imprisoned Jew, but would have campaigned furtively and usually by means of the involvement of a foreign consul—the Jews protested publicly. Awareness of the values of the revolution and the promises of equality in the new constitution had strengthened amongst the young and more enlightened segments of the Jewish population. Nor were the new tools of public protest, such as public demonstrations, the filing of petitions, and so forth, foreign to them anymore. The young Jews organised a protest opposite the home of the hahambas¸ı demanding that he appeal to the governor and pressure him to work towards the freeing of the Jew. One of the protestors described their feeling as such: They cannot understand at all how, in these days of freedom and liberty, in this time of purported equal rights, a Jewish man can be beaten for no reason, be imprisoned without any trial, and be given the ‘pleasure’ of incarceration, while Jews receive dozens of abuses but do not offend, hear insults but do not respond— their faith is cursed dozens of times each day, but nobody avenges their honour.52 Danon’s petition to the governor achieved no result in this matter.

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From the accounts, it emerges that the activity of an-Nahdah had ˙ almost no influence upon Jewish involvement in Damascus public life or on Jewish awareness of their rights according to law and their compliance—not only during times of trouble, but also in everyday life. Danon’s approach to solving this problem itself reverted to the pre-revolutionary pattern. First, he resorted to lobbying, by informing the chief rabbi in Istanbul of the situation and demanding that he press their case in the corridors of power. In other words, as in numerous other cases, the Jews’ struggle was transferred from the local civil context to that of traditional Jewish intercession with the ruling authorities. Second, in another step but taken in a different direction, Danon appealed to all the patriarchs and Christian confessional heads in an attempt to stir them to action. His aim was to create a united front of religious minorities that would fight for their legal and civil rights. The chief rabbi’s entreaty took place against the background of the meagre situation of the many Christians in the city, less fortunate in those years of anti-Christian sentiment that prevailed in the wake of the repressive policies of the Young Turks. The revolutionaries’ attitude towards the Christians stemmed apparently from feelings of anger, bitterness, and disappointment at what they saw as Christian aggression and betrayal in response to Turkish promises of freedom and equality. Yet, in fact, despite the new constitution, society had not been prepared to accept the non-Muslim minorities as fellow Ottoman Turkish citizens. Danon sought to transform the affair of the arrested Jew into an incident affecting all non-Muslim minorities and use it as an impetus for joint action towards advancing their civil status. However, the idea of a non-Muslim coalition died slowly and never came to fruition.53 Nevertheless, in one arena, not only was there no disregard for the Jews, but even signs of courting them: the free elections that were held in the Ottoman Empire following the revolution stirred the Jews to become more involved in matters relating to state governance. While the Jews were a small minority in Damascus, their votes had great significance for the political struggle that began

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in the city in the winter of 1912 in advance of the Turkish parliamentary elections. Elmaleh, a Zionist Hebrew nationalist, promoted the stance accepted by the Zionist movement in the aftermath of the Young Turk Revolution. The architects of Zionist policy, who pinned great hopes on the new government, sought to demonstrate to the authorities that there was no contradiction between being a Zionist Jew and being an Ottoman patriot. The Zionists believed that, in the new framework of governance—which demanded loyalty to the idea of the Ottoman state but promised to respect the national and cultural trappings of each of the empire’s ethnicities—the Zionist programme must be presented as non-threatening to and, moreover, in line with, Ottoman interests. Zionists tried to allay the anxiety of the authorities regarding Jewish separatist aims. Above all else, their aim was to convince Ottoman officials to allow Jews unrestricted immigration to Palestine in order to found a cultural centre there.54 The hopes placed upon the Young Turks became the cornerstone of Zionist support for the official ruling party, the CUP. This backing was buttressed by the fact that the opposition party, the Liberal Union Party (Ahrar Fırkası), was composed of a coalition of Armenians, Greeks, and Arabs. The first two groups were considered the perennial enemy of the Jews, while the Arabs had begun attacking the Jews regarding Zionist activity in Palestine. The assaults on the Jews in the local Arab press increased even more the tendency of Damascus Jewry to support the CUP, since its principles countered those of the Arab parties and associations whose pan-Arab outlook threatened both Zionism and the Jews. It is possible that the chief rabbi Danon—whose power and authority derived from his ties to Rabbi Haı¨m Nahoum, the darling of the CUP—also worked hard to broaden the support of Damascene Jewry for this party. The strengthening of the CUP was supposed to reinforce the standing of the hahambas¸ı in Istanbul and thus, indirectly, that of Danon in Damascus.55 The chance to prove the Jews’ loyalty to the CUP came with the party’s preparations for the 1912 parliamentary elections. Party members were not deterred from applying pressure to various parts of

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the population in order to achieve their support in the electoral campaign. Prior to the elections, a high-level CUP delegation arrived in Damascus to create a counter-weight to the Arab nationalist propaganda. Chief Rabbi Danon, the secretary Elmaleh, and the community notables met with the ruling party’s emissaries. The latter’s visit aroused great joy and a feeling of pride amongst the members of the Jewish Quarter, who were not used to such an honour, all the more so since the delegation was accompanied by 20 of the leading figures of the local administration—the chief judge (Ar. qa¯dı¯), the religious administrative official (Ar. mufti), the head of ˙ the Ottoman Bank, and others. Customary to an election campaign, the meeting began with typical words of praise for the Jews of the city from the visitors. Yet, the gathering stands out for the eloquent speech Elmaleh delivered in response, which left the delegates with the impression—entirely wrong—that this was a community involved in Ottoman politics and familiar with the details of the Constitution. In his address, Elmaleh expressed thanks for the equality guaranteed to Jews by Turkish law and praised the Muslim empire’s sympathetic attitude towards the Jews, in contrast with Christian anti-Semitism. He condemned the activities of the opposition faction, which countenanced anti-Zionist expressions that verged on anti-Semitism and encouraged Jewhatred.56 Elmaleh also used the occasion to calm the fears of those present of the rising waves of Jewish immigration to Palestine. According to him, immigration was intended to fortify, not weaken, Turkey. In fact, the entirety of his clearly Zionist speech was intended to clarify unequivocally to the members of the delegation that the Zionist Jews had no intention to undermine the foundations of the country. It appears that Elmaleh followed the Zionist line in Istanbul, seeking to emphasise the economic benefit to Palestine as a result of the Jewish immigration and settlement and to minimise the political goals of Zionism. Irrefutable proof for this, in his opinion, was that many places in Palestine had, as a result of the Jewish pioneers, become ‘paradise’. He concluded his address by wishing Turkey success with all its national groups, including the one he claimed was the most loyal—the Jews. These words seem to have made a great

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impression upon the delegation and they promised to report them to the policy makers in Istanbul.57 Elmaleh did not speak as the representative of Damascus Jewry. He did not outline their troubles to the ruling party’s delegation and did not call for an improvement of their situation and status in Damascus. Rather, he spoke as a representative of the Zionist movement and thus tied Damascus Jewry in the eyes of the CUP to an enterprise in which they still had no share at all. Although the community suffered from emigration, the percentage of those seeking to immigrate to Palestine (Heb. ʿaliyyah) was negligible at this point. Those who did make ʿaliyyah were, as in the past, older members—people at the end of their lives—who sought to spend their last days and be buried in the Holy Land, but not to make a new beginning and start a new life there, and certainly not those seeking to immigrate for Zionist motives. Yet, for Elmaleh, the increased involvement of the city’s Jews in the Ottoman political system was closely related to the primary purpose of strengthening the Jewish national identity of the members of the community and bringing them closer to the Zionist endeavour in Palestine. Probably, the anti-Zionist articles and anti-Jewish incitement in the local press—which supported Arab opposition candidates—prompted Elmaleh to present the official position of the Zionist movement regarding its activity and the Ottoman state. The parliamentary elections in April 1912 were the only ones in the history of Ottoman-ruled Damascus in which the Jews played a significant role in both ceremonial and real terms. To a certain extent, Jewish participation was even the deciding factor in the elections. Before the ballot boxes were opened, the heads of the confessional groups, including Danon, were invited to offer a prayer for the sultan Mehmet V Res¸at (r. 1909– 18). When the votes were counted, it turned out that all four deputies elected were CUP members, identified in the Hebrew press as ‘lovers of Israel’.58 The opposition faction and its leader in Damascus, Shukrı¯ al-ʿAsalı¯, suffered a decisive defeat in the Arab city that was considered their main stronghold and source of power. After the votes were counted, the heads of the religious communities, including Danon, certified the results, which were sent to the parliament.

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While the election results were perceived as a Jewish political success, we must recall that Damascus Jewry participated in the elections only as voters, but not as candidates. The community was unable—or had failed to—offer a Jewish candidate for the Chamber of Deputies (Meclis-i Mebusan) in Istanbul. Unlike the case of other cities, the Jews of Damascus had never participated actively in panOttoman political life and were not regular members or activists in the CUP. These were the last elections under Ottoman rule. In 1913, when the CUP returned to power, it established a strict dictatorial re´gime that suppressed any opposition and evinced hostility to what appeared like nationalist aspirations of the Zionist movement.59

Lack of Zionist consciousness The physical proximity of Damascus to Palestine, the focus of the Zionist movement, did not encourage the city’s Jews to support the Jewish nationalist cause that began developing at the end of the nineteenth century. Palestine was generally not seen as a migratory destination and, until the end of the nineteenth century, ʿaliyyah had no significant impact on the demographic data of the Jewish communities in Syria. This matter may seem puzzling, since it is reasonable to assume that Syria’s geographical contiguity with Palestine, the common government, and the relative ease of the short journey would be factors encouraging immigration to the Holy Land. But in actuality, things were completely different, for which there are several explanations. The geographical closeness, which made short visits to Palestine possible without much difficult, and the inclusion of Syria in certain aspects of Jewish law as part of the Holy Land, did not encourage immigration and permanent settlement. Moreover, unlike Jews from distant lands who imagined the Land of Israel as it was described in the Bible and religious literature—namely, a land flowing with milk and honey—the Syrian Jews saw the country as it was in reality: a poor neighbouring province to the south governed by the same rulers as their homeland. As a result, we indeed find, throughout the period under discussion, frequent travel of Syrian

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Jews to Palestine and back. Most of these journeys were not made for the purposes of settlement but in order to make pilgrimage to holy sites and to return. Those who did immigrate in order to settle permanently in the Holy Land were usually the elderly or a few individuals, usually religious scholars, who came to spend the rest of their days in Jerusalem and to be buried there—or immigration as a result of economic and political pressure. At the start of the twentieth century, the bond between Damascus Jewry and Palestine was religious in nature and took the form of pilgrimage by individual and groups of pilgrims to the four holy cities. This does not mean that the return and restoration of the Jews to the Land of Israel never arose in private discussions or conversations with travellers from abroad. For example, an American who visited Damascus at the end of the 1870s reported that, in the course of a conversation with a rich Jewish banker, the matter of solving the Eastern Question arose. His Jewish host was disappointed when he heard from his American guest that the latter’s sympathies were with the oppressed Christians in the Middle East. This displeasure arose from the expectations that the Americans would aid the Jews in settling in and regaining Palestine. The traveller replied that Rothschild could purchase the entire country without feeling the pain in his wallet.60 Although this attitude was not a practical Zionist one, since the Zionist movement itself had yet to be born, the conversation is certainly proof of political awareness and aspirations that Jews dared to express to foreign Christians regarding renewed Jewish rule in Palestine. Nevertheless, only very narrow circles of society bothered to concern themselves with this matter. Affairs in Palestine and the situation of its Jews concerned Damascus Jewry only in so far as they were able to influence the city’s governor, since Jerusalem fell under the purview of his direct authority. Thus, for example, Damascus Jews submitted in 1879 a petition to the governor Midhat Pas¸a (1822– 83, r. 1878 –81) to expedite laying the railroad tracks between Jaffa and Jerusalem so as to alleviate the burden on Jewish pilgrims.61 Eighteen years later, the Ottoman government forbade Jewish settlement in Palestine for immigrants from outside the empire. The heads of the Jewish

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community in Safed appealed to the hahambas¸ı in Damascus, Isaac ˙ Abulafia, to use his contacts and influence with the city’s governor to discharge the latter’s representatives in Safed from enforcing the ban ˙ there due to the old age and poverty of its Jewish residents. In a similar matter, Jewish figures in Tiberias requested assistance when Moroccan ˙ Jews were forbidden to settle in their town. The governor’s response to the personal appeal by the chief rabbi was that he could not violate an edict that came from the Sublime Porte; nevertheless, he clarified that the decree applied only to those living outside Syria seeking to come and reside in Palestine. He further emphasised that there was no obstacle to settlement in Palestine by Jews coming from Damascus, Beirut, and Tyre, even though they were outside its borders. The governor’s intention was—and he may have hinted at this privately to the hahambas¸ı—that immigrants from outside Syria arrive and reside first in Damascus or Beirut for some months until receiving official Ottoman identification papers, after which they might migrate to Palestine without any interference by the authorities. It is important to note that, since passengers were forbidden to alight from ships in Jaffa, illegal immigration had already developed by the late 1880s. In exchange for considerable sums of money paid to smugglers, Jews wishing to make ʿaliyyah secretly disembarked in Beirut, where they were hidden before being brought illicitly to Palestine.62 At the start of the 1890s, the Jewish Colonisation Association (JCA) and, later, the Palestine Jewish Colonisation Association (PICA) commenced an effort to colonise the Hawra¯n. During those ˙ years, the Jewish settlers had various ties to Damascus. Sometimes, Jewish labourers from the city even worked the fields of the Hawra¯n. ˙ Moreover, from 1898 to 1905, ʿAbduh Farh¯ı, a Damascene Jew, ˙ became the secretary of the farm established there by the JCA. Yet Syrian Jews were not at that time a significant factor in everyday life in the Hawra¯n settlement or concerned much with its future.63 ˙ Rahamim Ouziel, the director of the AIU boys’ school in ˙ Damascus, reported to the Alliance’s management in Paris that he received a letter from Theodor Herzl (1860– 1904), as well as the proceedings of the First Zionist Congress in Basle. Although it would seem that this constituted a direct link between Damascus

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Jewry and the Zionist movement, Ouziel was not really part of the community and it appears that his correspondence with various Zionist figures stemmed from his personal interest alone—he never involved the members of the local community in the new movement that was about to enrapture great parts of the Jewish world. Ouziel was aware of the fragile political situation of Ottoman Jewry in general and Syrian Jews in particular regarding the expression of any national feeling. According to him, Zionism at that time was only causing harm to Syrian Jews since its efforts to settle Palestine led the Ottoman government to allow passage from Damascus to Palestine only by means of special permits. His conclusion was that there was no point in Syrian Jews, let alone the AIU schools, taking an active role in the movement. His concerns were that the raising of the Zionist issue would immediately cause Damascus Jewry to be suspected of sympathy for the cause.64 Damascus Jewry’s disconnect from the goings-on of the Jewish world, even relative to the other Middle Eastern communities, stands out when considering the circulation of the Jewish press amongst the members of its community. For example, at the start of the twentieth century, underneath the headline of ha-Sevi (‘The Gazelle’), the ˙ Jerusalem newspaper edited by Eliʿezer Ben-Yehudah (1858– 1922), appeared a list of cities in which the newspaper was distributed. While communities such as Alexandria, Cairo, and Istanbul are listed, Aleppo and Damascus are absent. Moreover, unlike nearby cities and communities, such as Haifa, Tiberias, and Safed, in the ˙ ˙ ˙ 1910s, Damascus—located so close to Palestine—exhibited no trace of Jewish Hebrew energy, as Elmaleh observed: Here, you find no sign of Hebrew life. You cannot find any influence of Hebrew . . . all throughout the town you do not see a letter of Hebrew as though there are no Jewish stores. Your ears do not hear a word of Hebrew in any of the city’s streets . . . the Jewish masses and even the more educated individuals do not have even the slightest clue about the Hebrew revival movement taking shape in Palestine or in general about the affairs of the greater Jewish world . . . everything is blurred in

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their mind and jumbled up in confusion. However, they do know the Alliance, the JCA, Zionists, [and] Herzl. Yet, this is because the AIU has a school in their city in which their children learn ‘faransa¯wı¯’ [i.e., French]. The existence of the JCA is not mysterious to them, but they know about it, since there was an al-Khalı¯l who directed an AIU school and, during his time, they did not teach the students faransa¯wı¯ well, for the reason that he spent all his time purchasing lands in Galilee and in Hawra¯n on account of some organisation called the ‘JCA’ ˙ whose aim was to found ‘qu¯lu¯niwwa¯t li-l-shkana¯z’—Ashkenazi colonies. Their ears have heard a tad about some ‘Herzl’ who wished to buy ‘Palestine’ and that to this day there are still ‘sahyu¯niyyı¯n’ [Zionists] who have similar thoughts, but even this ˙ they [only] know through the Arab newspapers . . . but [when it comes to] who is the Alliance (eighty to a hundred of Damascus Jews think that the Alliance is the name of a man who lives in Paris and funds the school), who founded it, why was it founded, and what is its goal? What is the JCA? And who are the Zionists and what do they desire? These are some of the things that the Damascene Jew is at no loss for not knowing [the answers]. As for the national revival and the Hebrew press and the Jewish settlements and nationalism and Zionism—who even mentions them here?65 Indeed, Damascus Jewry perceived of the whole matter of Zionism as something Ashkenazi, pointless and of no benefit, belonging to European Jews and not relating to them, and this is one of the reasons for their total disregard for the Hebrew revival in Palestine. Nevertheless, one cannot discount the fear of the elites that Zionist activity might conflict with Ottoman policy and infuriate the Arab press. Another factor for their indifference was the absence of Hebrew education in the city. For when it begin, Zionist awareness did develop in this community, as we shall see in the ensuing chapters, while in Aleppo, where no foundation for modern national Hebrew education was laid, no such consciousness took shape on a mass scale. Likewise, the Damascus Jews, who were not accustomed to developed and

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democratic leadership institutions, found it difficult to set up establishments according to the democratic principles of the Zionist Organisation. In addition, they still lacked the national awareness that had already developed in their Arab surrounding. As stated, at the start of the twentieth century, Damascus Jewry saw Zionism as a solution for Ashkenazim, but not for Jews living in the Middle East for generations under Ottoman rule, which extended also to Palestine. One must also consider that the conflicts and divisions, which rent the community during the last decades of the nineteenth century, precluded the ability to unite around a certain idea or joint activity.66 It is worth emphasising that the failure of the European idea of Zionism to penetrate the community fits well with the overall Damascene conservatism that impeded the diffusion of Western features in general into the day-to-day life of the city. Towards the end of the first decade of the twentieth century, this phenomenon stood out starkly in the eyes of quite a few travellers who commented on the conservatism of Damascus, even compared to other Middle Eastern cities.67 An anonymous ‘Syrian’ author, who recorded his pessimistic impressions of the Jewish community in 1908, wondered: How is it possible to elevate the condition of the Syrian Jews and turn them into the very effective [human] material that we need so close to Palestine? This a most crucial question. Zionist propaganda? But it is hard to spread national propaganda in an environment where total apathy reigns over all intellectual matters. It is our opinion that only a great movement or critical event, such as those that revolutionise every aspect of life, only something like that can bring serious change to the lives of Syria’s Jews.68 Indeed, an event that critical, in the form of World War I, would rock the very foundations of the Jewish community of Damascus. However, even prior to its outbreak, the city became the site of Hebrew national educational activity, aimed at bringing Damascus Jewry closer to the Zionist national idea.

CHAPTER 2 BETWEEN UNIVERSALISM AND NATIONALISM

We are children, little Hebrews, Jewish children, Children of Israel. —from a kindergarten play in Damascus, 5672/19121

The initial revolution At the start of the second half of the nineteenth century, Jewish education in Damascus took the form of traditional religious instruction within strict scholastic settings lacking any sign of modern pedagogy. Like other minority societies, Syrian Jews feared the penetration of outside influences that might endanger their identity and sought to safeguard their community within its traditional frameworks. Therefore, Jewish society made itself—and not the individual—the focus of educational objectives. Teaching aimed at providing each youth with the ability to function within traditional communal structures while not deviating from them, thereby sustaining them from generation to generation. As a result, conservatism and continuity came to define Jewish education in mid-nineteenth-century Syria—and not a search for new horizons or radical innovations that might shake the foundations of society and its culture. This pedagogical system generally reflected the social classes in the community. Poorer children depended upon the

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communal institutions, while the children of the upper elites received private instruction. A change in the attitude towards education as a value began with the arrival of Protestant institutions of learning in Syria, which introduced modern European education and were followed and strengthened by the entry of the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle into the field of pedagogical activity among the Jewish communities of this region in the 1860s. The AIU established modern Jewish schools that taught traditional subjects like Hebrew, the Talmud, and the Bible, but were underpinned by French language and culture.2 Even if, on the one hand, it is possible to point to some decline in traditional education, the development and influence of the Alliance schools, on the other hand, was slow and full of pitfalls. Not only did the religious scholars not oppose modern education at the outset, but they were even some of the primary proponents behind the founding of these schools in Damascus. Their chief concern was really the fact that many children were being sent to study in Christian missionary schools. In the years leading up to World War I, two Protestant schools operated in Damascus, one for Jewish boys and one for Jewish girls, enrolling them without charging any tuition fees. About 300 students studied in each of these institutions.3 Religious opposition to the AIU schools only began to arise towards the end of the nineteenth century and, even then, it was aimed not at the principles of modern education but specifically at the AIU itself.4

A local initiative towards national education Beginning in the 1890s, Damascus was described in European consular reports as a great educational centre, comparable in this regard with Cairo. During this time, Syria had a broad and developed system of elementary education. Under the reign of Abdu¨lhamit II, the governors of the Syrian provinces ranked education highly on the scale of regional development as it promoted social progress. At the start of the twentieth century, two

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new state schools opened in Damascus. Additionally, both a medical school and a law school began operating in 1903, while a military school was established in the following year. While most of the students were Muslim, the number of Christian and Jewish students grew gradually, as did the number of non-Muslims who continued to complete their education at universities in Istanbul or in Beirut in the medical or legal fields. The official in charge of public education, Hakim Bey, worked hard to improve the educational system in Damascus in the years prior to World War I.5 Against this background, it is not surprising that Jewish education in Damascus made great strides towards modernisation in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. The AIU school re-opened in Damascus in 1883 at the sole initiative of the Ottoman governor Midhat Pas¸a.6 In 1885, a scholastic revolution took place in the community when the AIU, with the agreement of the chief rabbi Isaac Abulafia, took controˆl of most of the religious schools and consolidated them into one communal institution, causing the Alliance’s popularity to soar. This radical approach was completed in 1904 when the remaining religious schools (Heb. sing. talmud torah) were placed under AIU supervision. However, this involved no small amount of difficulty, namely the opposition of the presiding chief rabbi Solomon Eliezer Alfandari and his supporters. Nevertheless, in the new status quo, the majority of Jewish children in Damascus received an education thanks to the AIU, although it is important to emphasise that the number of students in the religious school had always been much greater than those enrolled in the AIU school.7 The hopes that proponents of modern education placed in the AIU and its didactic involvement in the talmud torah were great, even though the Alliance failed to live up to these expectations. One cannot ignore the instability of the religious school management that certainly harmed the routine of its activities—from 1904 to 1910, the AIU appointed five different directors. The sense of disappointment with the Alliance continued to grow; accusations against it alleged that, despite the many years in which it managed the communal religious school, the institution did not seem to

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progress and it did not seem to differ much from its private predecessors. The school continued to operate in a dilapidated structure, the students continued to sit on mats in improper sanitary conditions, and the old methods of instruction still reigned primarily since the religious instructors lacked modern pedagogical experience, as well as any motivation, owing to their poor salary. Likewise, the learning material derived from traditional literature—and even this was at a low standard. A traveller who passed through the town reported that students studied bareheaded and did not even know who Moses was.8 Furthermore, unstable administration, neglect, and essential questions of pedagogy mingled with problems relating to the relationship of the AIU management to its teaching staff, as well. In March 1910, 18 rabbis teaching in the communal religious school under the auspices of the AIU threatened to resign collectively if their demands for a pay increase would not be met. This decision followed half a year of repeated appeals to the AIU management on the subject. Due to the rabbis’ agitation and the indifference of the community to the Alliance’s involvement in the school, the AIU central committee decided to cease its support for the school definitively starting 1 April 1910. This conflict with the AIU took place at a time when the city lacked an incumbent hahambas¸ı: Alfandari had been removed in the aftermath of the Young Turk Revolution, Isaac Abulafia, who had temporary filled his place, had left the city, and the community remained without any representation before the authorities. As a condition for its support for the religious school, the AIU demanded that the community increase its contribution towards the expenses for the school’s maintenance. It even threatened to close its other schools in Damascus unless its financial claims were met.9 In the meantime, Jacob Danon received his appointment as chief rabbi of the city. One of his first acts was to hold negotiations with the AIU over its renewed management of the religious school. He expressed willingness to meet some of the Alliance’s demands out of fear that the neglected youth would end up on the streets. At the same time, the president of the community, Moses Totah, appealed ˙ ˙ ˙ to the chief rabbi in Istanbul, Haı¨m Nahoum, and requested that he

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use his influence with the AIU management in order to persuade them to renew their activity in the recovering community, fearing that the elimination of its educational institutions would bring about its ruin.10 However, against this trend arose an internal opposition of young intellectuals and affluent individuals in the community. Already in October 1910, voices began to be heard calling for taking independent action by closing the AIU schools and opening new ones under local management. To this end, a committee of ten members was established for the purpose of founding a ‘national’ school.11 The proponents of this idea even began to collect money for their goal. As mentioned above, yet another action was taken by the members of the ʿOzer Dallim society, who appealed to the German Hilfsverein der Deutschen Juden with a request to open a Hebrew kindergarten and public elementary school in Damascus. This petition received no response.12 Reports of internal Jewish conflict appeared also in the Arabic press, as a result of information provided by members of the Jewish community.13 On 3 December 1910, the newspaper al-ʿAsr al-jadı¯d ˙ (‘The New Era’) published a statement on behalf of the founding board of the national school. Under the headline ‘National and not foreign’, the members of the committee attacked the AIU school and primarily its director Nissim Farh¯ı. The latter was accused of ˙ mismanagement and of failing to appreciate the interests of a public that needed a national school capable of inculcating ‘love of the sacred homeland and the beloved country’. The ad hominem attacks on the AIU school director reflected an Arab-Ottoman national perspective in the spirit of the original ideas of the Young Turk Revolution. According to the members of the committee, the AIU had neglected the teaching of Arabic and Turkish, the languages necessary for those wishing to serve their country, such as in the military service. It is important to note that changes instituted by the Ottoman Constitution in 1909 set Turkish as the language of state and instruction and determined that school directors must be Ottoman subjects. Therefore, the writers of the article declared that, as an expression of their patriotism and nationalism, they were

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establishing a national school on a ‘strong patriotic’ basis that would teach in the spirit of the homeland and nation and would offer instruction in Arabic, Hebrew, French, and Turkish. Furthermore, they maintained that the national school would enrol poor students without charging them tuition. It was the hope of the writers that the ruling CUP would aid them in achieving their goal.14 In the spirit of the times, the internal Jewish dispute was removed from its narrow context and exhibited prominently to the broader Arab public. This is an important milestone that reflects the will of certain circles within the community to make it part of city society as a whole. Against the background of the surrounding Arab society’s traditional disregard for the affairs of the Jewish community, the decision of the editor of the Arabic newspaper alʿAsr al-jadı¯d, as well as those of other Arab editors afterwards, to ˙ publish this and later reports on internal Jewish matters suggests perhaps the opinion that the Arab public should take an interest in the town’s Jews. Moreover, one should note that, in the announcement of the languages that would be taught in the new national school, the local Arabic language appeared first—and yet, there was an intent to combine with it the teaching of the Jewish national tongue, Hebrew. It appears that the revival of Hebrew was perceived in the spirit of the values of the Young Turk Revolution as part of the desire for national renewal and the formation of Jewish national identity as part of the array of nationalities in the empire, but also as a counterweight to the AIU, which placed primary emphasis on the French language instead. It is unclear whether the founders of the committee had intended from the very beginning to establish a Hebrew national school and therefore sought through the newspaper announcement to allay the concerns of the authorities, or whether the article reflected their actual perception of the national concept. In any event, in light of these things, it can be stated that the community’s initiative for independent and different education and the call to disengage from the AIU came from within the community itself, rather than as a result of the encouragement of any external factor.15

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Nissim Farh¯ı saw the organised opposition to the AIU and, in ˙ particular, the publication of matters in the Arabic press as an attempt to incite the Muslim population and authorities against the Alliance and its activity. He claimed that the local Arabic press consistently took an anti-Zionist line and had recently begun to publish reports alleging that the AIU supported Zionism. He argued that three members of the community were behind the article published in al-ʿAsr al-jadı¯d, each for his own personal reasons. Farh¯ı ˙ ˙ also accused the chief rabbi Danon of pretending to support the AIU, while actually waging a campaign of hostility against it, like his predecessor Alfandari. Farh¯ı suggested that the Alliance press ˙ Nahoum, the hahambas¸ı in Istanbul, to instil Danon with affection for the AIU and its endeavour.16 Yet the members of the private committee that assumed control and financial responsibility for the religious school realised, in the months following the AIU’s withdrawal of sponsorship, that, in order to allow its continued operation, it was necessary to find a pedagogical figure to direct the institution. At the same time, Danon sought to bring his son-in-law Abraham Elmaleh to Damascus in order to assist him in managing the affairs of the community.17 Elmaleh was a recognised educator, who was then director of the Jewish school in the Galata neighbourhood of Istanbul. In this respect, the members of the committee proposed that Elmaleh, in addition to serving as the communal secretary, would also assume the role of director of the school. The selection of Elmaleh is what tipped the scales from this point forward on the subject of the nature of the school. Since Elmaleh was a determined Zionist nationalist, he clearly sought to shape the character of the school to conform to a national Hebrew spirit. In essence, this was the unequivocal requirement that he placed as a condition for leaving his current position in Istanbul. This demand was praised in the contemporary press, which explained that Elmaleh departed for Damascus ‘in order to benefit his people through the spread of the Hebrew language and by bringing some change to the Hebrew educational system that has reached the lowest rung in Damascus . . . and for this, he is indeed worthy of praise from all lovers of our tongue’.18

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The organisation of the Hebrew national school In August 1911, Elmaleh arrived in Damascus and presented the committee with a programme for turning the religious school into a Hebrew national school. His initial proposal was to found a new educational institution, which had no precedent in Damascus: a kindergarten. Elmaleh also demanded that six to eight Hebrewspeaking teachers, as well as French and Turkish teachers, be brought to the city in addition to the existing Arabic-language teachers. Indeed, by the very next month, the Jerusalem press had already published a job announcement calling for two Hebrew teachers and one French teacher for the new Hebrew national school, as well as three experienced kindergarten teachers, one principal, and two kindergarten aides for the new Hebrew kindergarten in Damascus for the coming school year beginning right after the festival of Tabernacles (Heb. Sukkot). Candidates were required to have had experience working at one of the Palestinian schools and it was emphasised that preference would be given to graduates of the Hilfsverein teachers college or those with an instructor’s certificate from the Palestinian Teachers’ Central Committee (later known as the Palestinian Education Committee).19 Elmaleh devised a new curriculum, directed the teachers to teach the Hebrew language in Hebrew, and ordered both teachers and students to speak Hebrew. He himself began to teach the upper-level classes in Hebrew and introduced Hebrew national poetry into the curriculum. His proposition was received positively by the members of the private education committee, which signed a contract with him for two years. The public response was also enthusiastic. Within a short span of time following the announcement of the founding of a kindergarten at the synagogues, 200 students enrolled. Ultimately, the Hebrew national identity of the school was sharpened by the very establishment of a direct link with the Hebrew educational system in the Palestinian Yishuv and the import of Hebrew teachers and kindergarten instructors to Damascus. All of these steps furthered the goal of establishing a pedagogical system that mimicked the Palestinian Zionist formula in the New Yishuv.

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A response from the AIU, which understood that a serious alternative had emerged in the Damascus community that would threaten its educational hegemony, was not long in coming. Already when the initial feelers were extended to Elmaleh in Istanbul, the Alliance delivered a message threatening to shut its school should the management of the religious school be offered to him. It particularly grated the AIU that the community was willing to allocate substantial funds, even from the private pockets of the members of the education committee, for payment of Elmaleh’s salary, while the AIU’s demand for an increase in the communal support for its schools had been rejected outright. The Alliance took a number of steps to display its power to the community. It announced that it would cease to provide lunch for underprivileged students, that it was doubling the tuition for paying students, and that it would not admit students whose siblings studied at the institution run by Elmaleh. The AIU assumed that, through such extreme measures, it would force the community to rethink the decision to embark on an independent path, but this hope was proven false. The result of these new measures was exactly the opposite, due to the outrage of the Jewish public, bolstered by the fact that there was now an alternative to the AIU institutions. Numerous impoverished parents took their children out of the AIU school and transferred them to the former religious school. Many parents who could not afford the doubling of the tuition also removed their children and placed them in the new Hebrew national school. In such a manner, the number of students enrolled in the AIU boys’ school declined precipitously within a short span of time from 400 to 200. Parents of daughters at the AIU school stopped their education and sent them to work or to study at Christian schools, since they were unwilling to remove their sons from the restored religious school. The heavy price was paid by the two social extremes in the community: the notables, who could afford the expense even though they paid twice the regular tuition for the continued enrolment of their children in the AIU schools, and the underprivileged students, who, while exempt from tuition, ceased to receive the lunch allowance that they had previously received.20

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The members of the AIU realised that they could not impose their demands upon the community and therefore began offering suggestions for a compromise. If, at the beginning, they had demanded an increase of 10,000 francs in community support for its schools, the society informed the education committee that a payment of 2,600 francs would suffice and, in return, the Alliance would undertake all necessary improvements in the community, including bringing teachers from Palestine and the payment of Elmaleh’s salary, whose services it committed to employ for three years. For its part, the education committee claimed that this amount was still too high and added that it would accept the proposal on the condition that Elmaleh would remain the sole director, that he would devise the Hebrew curriculum, that at least four hours each day would be devoted to Hebrew study, and that the education committee would continue to operate as in the past. The AIU could not accept these terms, which essentially neutralised all its influence over the old – new establishment. In this way, a rift emerged between the community and the French Jewish society.21 This situation created fear that the community might remain without an external power supporting Jewish education in the city. The main concern stemmed from the worry over the community’s ability to maintain public support for Elmaleh’s activity and whether reliance upon the generosity of about ten wealthy private individuals represented solid ground on which to build a long-term educational system. Other wealthy Damascene Jews still preferred to send their children to Christian schools and saw no urgency in providing assistance for the national Hebrew educational enterprise. The need therefore arose to find an alternative to the AIU. The Damascus education committee appealed to the Hilfsverein in Berlin, which aimed to establish German schools for Middle Eastern Jews, to Ephraim Cohn-Reiss (1863– 1943), the director of the Hilfesverein’s network of schools in Palestine, and to the Hovevey Tsiyyon (Lovers ˙ of Zion) association in Odessa, with the request to take the Hebrew national school and kindergarten under their wing or at least to fund the salaries of their teachers and aides.22

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The situation of Damascus Jewry’s educational needs in 1912, as described by Elmaleh, were as follows: The community had around 5,000 boys and girls in need of instruction. Five hundred of them worked in copper, weaving, spinning, and dyeing factories and the like; 200 boys and 200 girls studied at the AIU boys’ and girls’ schools, respectively, while 900 boys were enrolled in the Hebrew national school, the kindergarten, and in private talmud torahs. All remaining children studied at the Christian schools or simply roamed the streets.23

The creation of a Hebrew national climate Hundreds of boys and girls enrolled in the kindergarten. Elmaleh, in his desire to turn the school into a lever of Zionist influence over the community as a whole, embarked on several initiatives completely without precedent in the Jewish communities of the Middle East. He required students to wear uniforms, which were emblazoned with the Hebrew phrase, ‘The Hebrew national school in Damascus’. Since it was necessary to raise a large amount of money for these outfits, boxes with the same inscription were placed in every home, store, and business. The city’s Jews were asked to contribute money to the boxes. Elmaleh also called for donations for the school in the synagogue. In such a manner, the national Hebrew school became a matter discussed in all segments of Jewish Damascene society. The new winds blowing through the community also led to an almost unprecedented step—Sarah, the wife of the hahambas¸ı Danon spurred the founding of a Women’s Aid society made up of the female elite of the city. This society sought to provide assistance to sick or postpregnancy poor Jewish women, as well as to clothe and feed boys and girls studying in the communal schools.24 The bringing of Hebrew school and kindergarten teachers from Palestine was also a calculated step in order to effect through them a change in the atmosphere of public life and to arouse a national feeling among the population. At the start of the 1911 – 12 school year under the directorship of Elmaleh, who also taught French, the Hebrew national school employed eight teachers: three for Hebrew,

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one for French, one for Arabic and Turkish, and three Torah scholars who taught religious subjects. The school’s income came from tuition, communal support, financial backing from the education committee, officially called the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment in Damascus (Heb. Waʿad Mefisey ha-Haskalah be˙ Dammes´eq), and assistance from the authorities who funded the salary 25 of the Turkish teacher. Sources contain numerous reports regarding the management of the national school and the hopes and expectations aroused amongst Damascus Jewry. The descriptions of a writer named ‘Ben-Siyyon ˙ Raful’ occupy a prominent place and are filled with praise and adulation for the success of Elmaleh. The value of this testimony is mitigated by the fact that ‘Ben-Siyyon Raful’ was actually a ˙ pseudonym that Elmaleh himself adopted. However, even other sources, such as the reports of the AIU emissaries in Damascus, reveal a similar picture of accomplishment. In the new kindergarten, the toddlers quickly picked up the language ‘and the sound of our dear tongue rings in the ears of every passer-by’.26 To demonstrate the success of the school in front of large parts of the Damascus public, Elmaleh sought to stage a Hebrew play performed by its students. Even the kindergarten students were to present a short play in Hebrew, as well as games, Hebrew songs, and physical exercises. All of this took place against the backdrop of an impressive de´cor of Ottoman national flags. The Hebrew play, which was supposed to be performed for the first time in Damascus in fluent Hebrew by children aged four to 13, was intended to fulfil Elmaleh’s hopes that the entirety of the community will hear and will see what they had never dreamt before . . . for, truly, our nation here in Damascus is submerged in another world entirely and far removed—indeed, so far away—from our Hebrew and national world, and it has never heard about the national renewal and the Hebrew language revival and its development, only a [faint] echo or fragments of voices reaching its ears about some kindergarten in Jaffa or Jerusalem or about some Hebrew settlement in the Land of Israel.27

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Indeed, when the play was held during the celebration of Purim, following half a year in which the children studied and practised the Hebrew language, ‘Ben-Siyyon Raful’ reported about it as such: ˙ A Hebrew celebration, whose like has never been seen before in our city from its founding until today, was marked last Saturday evening in Damascus by the students of the national Hebrew kindergarten. Crowds came to watch the spectacle, even though most were already without tickets. [Attendees comprised] all the notables of the town and the who’s who of the community, including the Laniado [and] Totah families; ˙ ˙ ˙ Joseph Efendi ʿAbba¯dı¯, the member of the merchant council; Mura¯d Efendi Farh¯ı, the head secretary of the state scribal office; ˙ Mr [Ephraim] Rosen, the director of the AIU school; doctors; engineers; traders; and others. The kindergarten children were dressed in light blue [and] white, [holding] national [Ottoman] flags in their hands. The orchestra accompanied them in the opening song, ‘Be Strengthened! (Tehzaqnah)’. Afterwards, the children song the ˙ Ottoman anthem. Two toddlers intoned: ‘We are children, little Hebrews, Jewish children, Children of Israel’ and so forth, to the acclaim of the audience. Afterwards, a play about the battle between David and Goliath was performed, arousing great excitement. Next, other toddlers recited Hebrew songs and performed physical exercises with the national flags in their hands. At intermission, Elmaleh gave a speech on the value of the Hebrew language and the natural method of pedagogy. He called the residents of Damascus to support the new educational system so that the Jewish nation might continue to be the people of the book and so that the national Hebrew education would make their children loyal to their land, their people, and their language. During the second half, the [elementary] school children performed the play ‘The Selling of Joseph’ in fluent Hebrew. Afterwards, they presented a humorous play in Arabic and in between each and every break, the children sang in Hebrew.

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The celebration, which began at eight o’clock, ended one hour past midnight to the sounds of the singing of ‘The Hope (ha-Tiqwah)’.28 In light of the praise for nationalism and the Hebrew language, Elmaleh needed to make a clear demonstration of Jewish loyalty to the Ottoman Empire through the singing of the anthem and the waving of flags. Rumours had begun to spread through Damascus, perhaps started by members of the AIU, that Elmaleh was ‘sent by the Zionists to win hearts over for the movement that endangers Turkey’.29 In order to strengthen the ties between the Jewish public and its historical heritage without being suspected of rebelliousness, the Zionist tactic in general—not only that of Elmaleh in Damascus— was an unalarming nostalgic appeal to Biblical heroes, by means of whom modern national messages were conveyed to the audience. Arbor Day (TU bi-Shevat, the Fifteenth of Shevat), which was a ˙ ˙ relatively minor holiday for generations, was revitalised by the Zionist Yishuv in Palestine and soon became a central holiday with tree plantings and parades that expressed the renewed link between the people and its land. Elmaleh also took part in the dissemination of values through the experiential dimension. The celebrations of TU bi-Shevat, which he initiated, were unprecedented in Damascus: ˙ A Hebrew trip, the likes of which have never before been seen in our city, was taken by the students of the national school and the Hebrew kindergarten . . . on the Fifteenth of Shevat—the ˙ New Year for Trees. More than six hundred male and female students wearing holiday dress departed this morning with the teaching staff for one of the beautiful gardens outside the city. They passed through the streets of the Jewish Quarter singing Hebrew [songs]. The inhabitants of the Jewish and Christian streets stood by the windows and on the balconies and on the rooftops to watch the procession in front of them and, from above, the Jews tossed handfuls of salt upon the marchers—a proven remedy (segullah beduqah) against the evil eye—and were astonished by the wonderful order that prevails among the

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students and at the living Hebrew language spoken fluently by them. In the garden, the children sat to rest, they sang, they danced, they enjoyed themselves, they ate, and everything [took place] in Hebrew. The teachers told them about the time when the nation of Israel resided in its country and explained the importance of the New Year for Trees. In the course of the day, money was also collected for the benefit of the Youths of Zion (Seʿirey Siyyon) association founded by the students.30 ˙ ˙ Elmaleh received great encouragement from the decision of Dr Yosef Luria (1871 – 1938), the president of the Teachers’ Central Committee in Palestine, to underwrite the Hebrew national educational endeavour in Damascus. In a report submitted to Luria, Elmaleh summed up the achievements of the school in the seven months since its founding and outlined his vision for its future: The state of Hebrew education is very good . . . the language of the school is Hebrew. Of the three hundred students in the school, it is possible to say that two hundred speak Hebrew well and one hundred understand our language well. In addition, of the two hundred male and female students in the kindergarten, all of them speak Hebrew more or less well, since the three instructors do not know Arabic at all. The students in the kindergarten ward (there are four classes in the kindergarten) already know how to tell many short stories in Hebrew . . . the students in the first three classes [of the school] . . . express all of their thoughts in Hebrew, and they [can] also write in Hebrew what they read. In the other classes, they speak Hebrew and understand everything spoken to them. There is no need to forget that we did all of this in the span of only seven months. Prior to that, there was no trace of Hebrew in this school, for there were no Hebrew teachers and no method to instruction . . . I think that if we continue like this, then in another three or four years, our school will reach a very high level, especially regarding Hebrew instruction . . . We have excellent material here and it is clear to me that if we engage our work here

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methodically, then we will be able to raise here a Hebrew generation loyal to everything sacred to us and to our traditions . . . five hundred students are educated in the school and the kindergarten, in other words, five hundred households that we can bring round to our idea if we know how to use this good opportunity and offer them Hebrew education. We will lose five hundred students if I do not receive support, whether that of money or teachers, from any society desiring the advancement of Hebrew here. My throat is already dry from crying: ‘Come to Damascus! A large community of seventeen thousand souls is drowning here in the filth of ignorance and its youth, its vital forces, are becoming assimilated into the Arab [population] and not only will they not be for us, but they will turn against us’, yet nobody listened to me because [the Zionist institutions claim that] ‘Damascus is not Palestine’!31 Elmaleh urged Luria to advise the Hovevey Siyyon society in Odessa ˙ ˙ to finance the Hebrew national school in Damascus. This was because his appeals to the society, like those to the Hilfsverein, received only vague promises. Already at this stage, despite his numerous accomplishments, it was possible to sense that Elmaleh was not optimistic about the future. He was unsure of the ability of the school committee to continue lending its support; perhaps he felt the first buds of antagonism to his activity, as well as to his very presence in Damascus. Yet primarily, Elmaleh was disappointed with the lack of assistance from international Jewish organisations, as he described: I myself left one of the most respectable positions in Istanbul, a city with a much brighter future for me, and came here with the aim of working towards the spread of our national language and for the advancement of the most precious idea for all of us [i.e., Zionism], and I was definitely certain that I would not be alone in my endeavour. Yet, to my great regret, I am alone in my labour here in this Arab city, and from all of the societies to which I appealed, I have only received greetings and thanks for ‘my fruitful work’—and that’s it!32

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Elmaleh detailed his future plans to broaden the activity should the budget allow it. One of his revolutionary ideas (in terms of the conservative city in which he operated) was the opening of a girls’ class in the Hebrew national school. He claimed that the girls graduating from the kindergarten needed continuing education in order to strengthen their Hebrew culture. His fear was that, in the absence of an alternative, the girls would forget all that they learned in the kindergarten: If they attend the Alliance school, will they not forget all that they have learned with us and adopt French-Arab culture? And if they do not go to the Alliance school, will they not need to go to the [Protestant] mission or be idle—and, if so, then what have we accomplished and for what are we working so hard?33 Elmaleh was convinced that only by means of preparing the young generation could the Zionist movement attract supporters in Damascus. This approach, the cultural, social, and economic advancement of the Jews, was essentially for years the underpinning of the activity of the AIU, which sought to carry out ‘regeneration’, in other words to rebuild Jewish communities and society through sustained engagement with the young generation. Yet, while the Alliance aimed first and foremost to improve the status of the individual Jew within gentile society, Zionism worked to sharpen the sense of Jewish identity and, ultimately, to eliminate Jewish life within foreign society.34 The expectation was that the young generation educated at the Zionist schools would awaken and revive the Jewish community in Damascus and bring it closer to the Zionist idea.35 Even so, Elmaleh proposed that if he had the funds, he would begin to work with adults, as well, through evening classes for men and women, lectures on national subjects, public readings, the founding of associations, and so forth. Indeed, at least two different Zionist associations arose in Damascus during 1913, both linked closely to the school. The first was the Tehiyyah (Revival) association, re-established at the end of ˙ the year with the support of one of the school teachers, Barukh Isirov.

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Samuel Paʾis, then a medical student, served as president of the group.36 This association, which aimed to disseminate the national idea and the Hebrew language amongst Damascus Jewry and to forge relations of understanding between Jews and Arabs, attracted a following and the number of its members increased. Its methods of spreading its message varied. For example, its members decided to stage Molie`re’s play Le Me´decin malgre´ lui (‘The Doctor in spite of himself’) in Hebrew and therefore translated it from French. Likewise, it was decided to launch Hebrew evening classes and members of the society were expected to learn Hebrew quickly. In the long run, Tehiyyah’s members resolved to produce a Hebrew weekly ˙ in compact format, which would focus on city affairs.37 Barukh Isirov also founded the Bney Siyyon (Sons of Zion) ˙ association for the schools’ students. Here, too, the aim was the spread of the Hebrew language. In their zeal, many of the group’s members spoke only Hebrew. The most extreme ones ceased speaking with relatives and even parents who did not speak Hebrew. Likewise, the members of the association collected donations to import various Hebrew books from Palestine. Contemporaries testified that a strong sense of Hebrew activity with hopefulness about the future could be felt in Damascus.38 In every sense, just one year after opening, the Hebrew national school had become an established fact that could not be ignored. It turned into a centre of pilgrimage for Jewish visitors and tourists from Europe.39 Elmaleh appeared at every important event wearing two hats: that of communal secretary and that of principal of the Hebrew national school. Yet, although Hebrew education in Damascus appeared to be on the right path, very soon disputes over the school began to erupt.

Elmaleh’s abandonment of Damascus Initial cracks and fissures already became visible in the community’s attitude towards Elmaleh and his educational enterprise during the first year of his work. It seems that some individuals in the community regarded with concern the growing power that began

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accumulating in the hands of two members of a non-Damascene family: the hahambas¸ı Jacob Danon and his son-in-law Abraham Elmaleh. As a result, a year after the break with the AIU, these individuals began sending out renewed feelers to the Alliance’s emissaries to see if it would be willing to resume sponsorship of the religious school that had become a Hebrew national school. According to Ephraim Rosen, the director of the AIU boys’ school in Damascus, who was certainly involved in these discussions, the only obstacles preventing the reunification of all the educational institutions under the management of the AIU were the chief rabbi and his son-in-law, who demanded full control of the institution and its curriculum. In a letter to Haı¨m Nahoum, the chief rabbi in Istanbul (described by Rosen as a ‘fils de l’Alliance’), Rosen requested that he use his influence over Danon to persuade him to assist the AIU institutions. By contrast, Rosen described Danon as ‘an anti-social personality, anti-educational, anti-public interest in Damascus’.40 Rosen understood that, to draw the students back to the AIU school, it was not enough to watch the developing opposition to the Hebrew national school from the side lines. He began renewing his contacts with the heads of the community and again invited them for visits at his school. Perforce, he was even compelled to invite the Danon, who was in his opinion the greatest enemy of the AIU, and, against his desires, he himself also made a visit to the competing school. In order to prove that the Alliance school was able to meet the needs of the community in every aspect of Hebrew education, the president of the community Moses Totah and ˙ ˙ ˙ the chief rabbi were invited to observe the administering of a Hebrew examination at the school. In his (self-interested and non-objective) testimony, Rosen related that the students spoke fluent Hebrew. In the upper-level classes, the guests even discussed the prayers with the students and when the students read a portion from the Shulhan ˙ ʿarukh (the ‘Set table’, a code of Jewish law composed by Joseph ben Ephraim Caro [1488– 1575] in 1563) and explained it in Hebrew, the visitors left completely satisfied with the Hebrew studies in the school.41 Elmaleh, however, dismissed the efforts of Rosen, a native of Romania. Although he admitted the latter’s broad general

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knowledge, he claimed that Rosen did not understand Judaism, did not have a command of Hebrew, and did not know Jewish history.42 For his part, Elmaleh aroused the ire of many members of the community and particularly of its young intellectuals. In a series of articles from Damascus published in instalments in the pages of haPoʿel ha-Saʿir (‘The Young Worker’), Elmaleh surveyed the Damascus ˙ community, its institutions, and its enterprises. Among other things, he discussed in detail the problem of the Jewish prostitutes which was its most serious predicament from within and its greatest disgrace from without. Elmaleh’s public exposure of this unsightliness generated a great anger and antagonism towards the ‘stranger’ who revealed the shame of Damascus, literally, in its streets.43 The financial situation in Damascus took a turn for the worse in the summer of 1912 as a result of the First Balkan War. Banks ceased lending credit to their clients, bringing trade to a standstill and causing the collapse of the economic foundations of the city. This state of affairs drove numerous young inhabitants to emigrate to America. The city continued to be depleted at a fast pace of the very forces that were supposed to propel the Jewish community towards new horizons.44 This situation threatened also to harm the amount of financial support provided to the Hebrew national school. Moreover, within half a year, the school lost two of its strongest supporters. Ezra Daniel ha-Levi, a businessman, community notable, public activist, and part of the committee of founders of the Hebrew national school, died in Beirut, where he had moved shortly after the establishment of the school. Elmaleh used his eulogy, which he delivered in Hebrew, as a means to strengthen his nationalist message, saying: ‘You are still alive . . . you will remain a symbol for us of complete commitment to every sacred idea’.45 Nearly half a year later, Jacob Zagah, ha-Levi’s business partner and the living spirit behind the founding of the Hebrew national school, also passed away. Then, too, the eulogy served to strengthen the community’s dedication to the nationalist idea and to the Hebrew language and called for them to bear witness in the presence of the deceased’s body to increase and develop the Hebrew educational institutions and through them to spread the Hebrew language. In his tribute, Barukh

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Paʾis, a member of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment, described Zagah as ‘a mighty harbinger of nationalism and the Hebrew language and a citadel for the revival movement in Damascus’.46 There is no doubt that the death of these two staunch champions within such a short span of time undercut in the long run the support Elmaleh received in his national education initiative. Following Zagah’s death, the fear arose that the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment in Damascus might die along with him, since it had run up numerous debts. The members of the committee took emergency steps to stabilise the society’s budget and to prevent the accumulation of debts in the future. In order to promote the matter of mutual assistance and ties with other communities, it was decided to work towards the establishment of a B’nai B’rith lodge in Damascus. They further resolved to appeal again to the Hilfsverein for assistance in supporting the school and kindergarten. The members of the council also determined to memorialise Jacob Zagah by expanding the school. The latter’s family donated most of the necessary funds for purchasing a large house near the kindergarten and the school, with the remainder provided by workers’ fund at the Gha¯san & Partners Factory, the employees of which were also members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment. The new building was intended to house a new first grade class for girls, which would become a girls’ school, as Elmaleh had envisioned previously. Likewise, the new school was also planned to include a library and gymnasium.47 In this manner, the boundaries of the school expanded and it was poised to embark upon far-reaching developments. It was confounded, however, by the lack of response from the Hilfsverein. Interest in the establishment of a B’nai B’rith lodge also lagged, while Danon refused to increase the financial support of the community for the Hebrew national educational institutions. In a step of desperation, the members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment sought to turn over the keys to the school to the communal council. However, Barukh Paʾis suggested to the other members of the committee that they themselves supplement the budget until the start of the 1913 –14 school year, after which the committee would assume responsibility for the schools’ management

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without seeking outside support, apart from yearly donations. Paʾis committed to fill any remaining budget gap from his own pocket.48 Paʾis, who would become a central figure in Hebrew national education in the city from this point until his departure from Damascus after World War I, was a frail Russian Jew who had arrived in Syria eight years earlier and settled in Beirut. His commercial dealings were resounding failures and he ultimately declared bankruptcy. In 1912, after reaching an agreement with his creditors, he moved to Damascus, where he opened, together with a local Muslim partner, a business to establish electrical systems and a store for selling light-bulbs.49 Alongside his success in his new business, he sought to play an influential role in the city’s public life and therefore joined the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment. He presented himself as having graduated high school in Russia, although some doubted this claim, since, aside from Russian, he only knew some broken Hebrew and Yiddish. In any event, upon joining the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment, he promised to deal with obtaining aid from abroad. Indeed, he began sending letters to every possible place in Europe, requesting assistance for the Hebrew national school in Damascus.50 Ultimately, towards the start of the 1913– 14 school year, the Zionist Executive Committee decided to take part in the maintenance of the schools in Damascus.51 In this manner, it appeared that the future of the school was certain. And yet, just before the completion of his two-year contract, Elmaleh sensed that the hostility towards him had risen and that the general enthusiasm for his endeavour had begun to dissipate. The Torah scholars, who had initially co-operated with him and agreed to convert the religious school to a Hebrew national school, also felt their influence declining as the Palestinian teachers took more important positions in Damascus society, and began to agitate against Elmaleh. Our available sources do not indicate whether Elmaleh planned in advance to leave the city or whether he had decided to stay. In any event, shortly prior to the start of the new school year, he suddenly announced his resignation, explaining his reasons for quitting as follows: ‘I have resigned my position in Damascus after I became convinced that in the chaotic situation that

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prevails throughout these institutions, it is impossible to accomplish anything.’52 However, the true reason for not continuing his work in Damascus was an offer that he received from Zalman David Levontin (1856– 1940), the director of the Anglo-Palestine Company bank in Palestine and in Syria, when the latter had come to Damascus in September 1913 to examine the possibility of opening a branch there. While ‘Ben-Siyyon Raful’ was reporting that the Jewish community ˙ was happily waiting for the Hebrew bank ‘that would impact greatly the course of the community here, being an important factor in the revival of the Hebrew community and resuscitating its dry bones’,53 Elmaleh, at the same time exactly, was accepting Levontin’s offer to manage the company branch being opened in Gaza.54 Although Elmaleh perceived of his departure for Gaza as a new Zionist pioneering challenge—the laying of a cornerstone for a large Hebrew settlement in Gaza and the economic and agricultural development of the area—there is no doubt that his sudden abandonment of his educational initiative in Damascus endangered the very existence of the entire project.

The ‘language war’ Prior to leaving Damascus for good, Elmaleh remarked, ‘in my opinion, the days of this kindergarten, for whose establishment I laboured so hard, are numbered, since all of the parents have removed their children upon hearing that I am resigning’.55 Indeed, the number of students enrolled in the kindergarten dropped from close to 200 during Elmaleh’s time to only 95. All the teachers and kindergarten instructors who had come from Palestine, save one, left Damascus, leaving only the native instructors. It seemed that the school might lose its Hebrew national identity and revert to being a simple religious seminary in the old format. For its part, the communal council agreed to increase its financial contribution to the school on the condition that all religious schools would be unified under its sponsorship. Some members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment opposed this measure, since they believed in the necessity to first strengthen the existing

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school by bringing another Hebrew teacher and, in particular, the need to restore the kindergarten. Yet, Barukh Paʾis and others saw this as a one-time opportunity to bring all the Jewish children in Damascus into the Hebrew national institution. They argued in favour of accepting the condition issued by the communal council on the grounds that the majority of Jewish children still studied in private schools (Ar. kutta¯b) in pitiful conditions and that it was necessary to assist them. Furthermore, they claimed that the addition of the kutta¯b would enable them ultimately to also attract the students studying at the Christian mission schools. In order to convince the opponents, Paʾis committed, in the wake of Elmaleh’s resignation, to himself assume responsibility for the management of all the schools and to be responsible for them to the communal council. This was essentially a turning point beyond which Barukh Paʾis filled the large void left behind by Jacob Zagah in the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment and by Elmaleh in the management of the Hebrew national school. When the decision was made to accept the communal council’s provision, work immediately began to improve the private religious schools so as to harmonise them with the central institution and it appeared yet again that the Hebrew national school might overcome the problems that threatened its continued existence. Yet, the Torah scholars seem to have realised that the annexation of the religious schools to the Hebrew national one would further reduce their traditional influence and authority in the community. They feared that the Palestinian teachers, whose influence upon the youth continued to increase, would claim an important place in Damascus public life at their expense. It is also possible that that some of them also worried about losing their source of income following the consolidation of the school systems. As a result, when discussion arose over the matter of the new curriculum, the religious scholars began to agitate in the kutta¯b against the introduction of foreign language study.56 Nevertheless, they found themselves in a bind of sorts. They could not campaign against Hebrew, since they would lose the backing of the chief rabbi. Therefore, they published statements opposing the teaching of the French language—despite

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the fact that the religious schools had offered French classes, even taught by Christian religious figures, for 25 years, ever since those schools had come under the sponsorship of the AIU. It seems that the Torah scholars’ hope was that the crisis that would emerge over the question of foreign languages would block the unification of the school systems and thereby allow them to retain both their source of income and their status in the community. At the start, some members of the communal council also participated in reaching the decision to issue the statement and drafting its content; however, they quit when they understood which way the wind was blowing. The ruling, signed by ten religious scholars, did not explicitly state that Hebrew-language instruction was forbidden, but it only specifically permitted teaching in Arabic, claiming that, being the language of state, it would facilitate the children in finding employment in the future. The Torah scholars also appealed to the chief rabbi in an attempt to enforce the ban on foreign language study in the religious schools.57 The members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment realised that an adversarial response would generate greater hostility to their programme. Therefore, in their reply, they chose to use softer language, respecting the religious scholars in a way that would not antagonise them. Moreover, in their riposte, they sought to foster the sense that they were both on the same side in a campaign aimed at saving all Jewish children who were studying in the Christian mission and they urged the Torah scholars to order all parents to remove their children from the Christian institutions. Yet, they added the following comment in relation to the Hebrew language: We also remark that all of the subjects learned in the school, such as the Bible, the words of our sages, and all religious subjects must be taught specifically in Hebrew alone. And Hebrew should prevail throughout the schools [original emphasis]. We hope that you will agree with us about all of this.58 It is worth mentioning that the dispute over Hebrew took place against the background of the ‘languages war’ in the Jewish Yishuv in

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Palestine over whether the language of instruction at the newlyfounded Technion would be German or Hebrew. The members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment in Damascus took a clear stand in this matter; they offered their support to the Teachers’ Central Committee in the struggle for the Hebrew language and even expressed willingness to provide material assistance for the campaign.59 This strong show of support for the proponents of Hebrew essentially signalled an identification with the new Zionist Yishuv in Palestine. The Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment left real opposition to the Torah scholars’ ruling to the parents in the community. Members of the committee no doubt stood behind the organisation of about 200 of the parents at a demonstration against the rabbis’ decision, after which a petition was delivered to the hahambas¸ı, expressing their protestation. The parents wrote that it was not possible to teach children religious subjects alone, since that would not allow them to earn a living in the future. They also complained that the rabbis had published their statement without consulting with them, the parents of the children. Therefore, they called upon the rabbis to cancel their decision and to allow the study of Hebrew, French, and Turkish.60 Even if the parents’ organisation was not done specifically to promote Hebrew as a value, but to emphasise the importance of preparing their sons and daughters for adult life, the inclusion of Hebrew among the other mentioned languages in the petition certainly reveals the importance that the national language had begun to receive within Damascus public consciousness. This, then, is the first time that public organisation took place within the community in favour of the Hebrew language. The chief rabbi found himself caught between the two camps. On the one hand, he supported the study of Hebrew along with the other languages in the community’s schools. On the other hand, he could not ignore the sentiment of the religious scholars, which was essentially the social group to which he belonged. Clearly, he did not want to get stuck in the situation of his predecessor Alfandari, who for years operated in total disconnect from the religious scholars of

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the city, as well as other elements. Danon initiated a meeting between the two sides in order to resolve the problem. Yet, when Barukh Paʾis and Meʾir Hakı¯m, the representatives of the Committee for the ˙ Spread of Enlightenment, elaborated their claims, the scholar Rabbi Solomon Peres responded stubbornly: ‘We do not accept any ˙ conditions and it is forbidden to appeal our decision much as it is forbidden to deem [something] kosher when we declare [it] to be non-kosher, or vice-versa.’61 When the Torah scholars realised that the chief rabbi would not withdraw his support for the study of Hebrew, they quit the meeting. Moreover, Rabbi Ezra ben Elijah ha-Kohen Maslaton-Tarab, a senior scholar in Damascus, who had ˙ served previously as the head of the communal rabbinical court, thereafter boycotted the court’s sessions. Paʾis, in a last effort of reconciliation, went to Maslaton-Tarab’s ˙ home to convince him to allow the instruction of Hebrew and to receive his blessing. When the rabbi relented, the rest of the scholars also retracted their opposition, save for Peres, who hurled insults at ˙ the members of the committee as well as their late member Jacob Zagah. When Hayyim Qamhajı¯, another member of the committee, ˙ ˙ rebuked Peres, the other religious scholars ostracised him.62 ˙ According to Ottoman law, only the chief rabbi could approve the excommunication. Danon did not sanction it, but asked Paʾis to find a compromise to settle the dispute. Maslaton-Tarab refused to accept ˙ Qamhajı¯’s apology, prompting the latter to retort that, from his ˙ perspective, the ban meant nothing, but that he had come to express regret only for the sake of the religious schools.63 Ultimately, they agreed upon a fine and it seemed that the Hebrew national school was once more preparing to embark on its expansion and development, with the new institutions associated with it, since the religious scholars had ceased their staunch opposition to its educational activity. When the conditions set by the communal council had been met, all the Jewish educational institutions in the city were turned over to the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment. The Hebrew national school opened its doors, free of charge, to all students who had studied until then at the missionary schools and the number of students enrolled jumped to 800. This created a most heavy

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budgetary burden for the financing of the school’s activities. Paʾis nearly abandoned his business and began to spend most of his time in the school, in efforts to obtain funds from elements outside the city. Paʾis’ determination paid off. Luria, the head of the Teachers’ Central Committee in Palestine, promised a yearly allocation of 2,500 francs, in order to ensure the status of the educational institutions as Hebrew schools.64 Paʾis sought to obtain official government support for the Hebrew national school as well. Thus, he invited Kamil Bey, the general-superintendent of all schools in Syria for the Ottoman administration, to visit the school. The latter wished, on the one hand, to examine the students’ knowledge of the Turkish language as part of a test of loyalty to the Ottoman Empire; on the other hand, he exhibited a favourable stance towards the expansion of Hebrew national education, since he did not see it as a threat to Ottomanism. A conversation between Kamil Bey and one of the children in the school was described as follows: Do you love the Ottoman government? The student answered him: I think that it is not just I, who am a native, who loves and is devoted to our government, but also that the Jews throughout the world love and are devoted to the Ottoman government. And in response to the inspector’s question for what reason, the student responded: Since the Ottoman government has always shown us affection. When we were banished from Spain, it accepted our exiles with open arms and even now at a time when Jews in every country suffer from persecution, here our government treats the Jews with fairness and affection.65 Kamil Bey admired this response and similar ones from other students, especially in light of the fact that the school’s principal Barukh Paʾis was a Russian citizen. It appears that these answers, which indicated the absolutely loyalty to the state, enabled the Ottoman superintendent to show tolerance towards the national Hebrew content in the school. It grated him that there was no parallel school for girls and that those seeking to offer their daughters

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an education were forced to send them to foreign, and not Ottoman, institutions (which included the AIU schools). The inspector responded to Paʾis’ explanation that the community lacked funds and required outside support by wondering why the community did not request assistance from Zionist institutions. His remarks, which presumably stunned their listeners and filled them with great encouragement, were as follows: I am verily one of those who take an interest in and respect the Hebrew movement and desire its development. If they, that is, the Zionists, take an interest in the state of the Jews in Damascus, they could certainly gain the support of fifteen thousand Ottomans! This is no small matter—the respected inspector continued—for you must not forget that the Zionist movement suffers much because it lacks [supporters who are] Ottoman subjects. If only they would come here to Damascus and succeed in winning over the hearts [of the population], for then such Jews would demonstrate to the people of the country and also to the government that the Zionists are friends of Turkey and would thus quickly silence the voices of its critics.66 Paʾis explained that the various Zionist bodies were interested in the Damascus community and had even promised help, but blamed the failure of any serious implementation of these guarantees on preoccupation with the ‘languages war’ in Palestine. Kamil Bey demonstrated familiarity with the case and expressed his firm opinion that the supporters of Hebrew were correct and that it should be the primary language in the Hebrew schools. However, the superintendent stressed that, after Hebrew, the Turkish language should receive an important place owing to its status as the language of state and that attention to Arabic should come only after it. Kamil Bey did not rule out the need for studying European languages but deemed it absurd to prefer a European language to Turkish. It is clear from the reports on this conversation that there was an effort to emphasise the Ottoman inspector’s support for Hebrew education and his

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disagreement with the AIU school curriculum. Kamil Bey’s tolerant approach towards the Hebrew national education was enough to give a boost to the activity of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment, especially since the visit ended with the superintendent’s promise to assist by various means the school’s development.

The attempt to build a partnership with the AIU Nevertheless, despite this encouragement from both the Palestinian Teachers’ Central Committee and the Ottoman authorities, it seems that at least some of the members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment understood that they could not, in such a state of tensions and intra-communal struggles, bear alone the burden of Hebrew nationalism in Damascus. Their greatest fear was essentially that lack of funds would prevent the continued maintenance of the Hebrew educational establishments. Therefore, immediately after the end of the conflict with the religious scholars, they extended an offer of co-operation in all matters regarding the religious schools to the director of the AIU boys’ school. The committee’s suggestion was that the Alliance would reassume sponsorship for all the communal schools, even including the Hebrew national one, and that the languages that would be taught would be Hebrew, French, and Arabic. It remained intransigent only in its demands that more hours be dedicated to Hebrew study and that modern teachers would teach it according to the methods practised in the schools in Palestine.67 In order to appreciate the magnitude of this transformation, one should remember that the supporters of the Hebrew revival in Damascus had previously seen the AIU as their greatest enemy for achieving their goal. While Elmaleh was in Damascus, he levelled severe criticism against the French – Jewish society and the pedagogical approach it employed in the city. According to him, the level of general studies was low and, in particular, the teaching of Hebrew took place without any method, order, fixed goal, or regular curriculum. Elmaleh alleged that the multiplicity of languages taught at the AIU institutions (in 1911, children studied French,

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Hebrew, English, Turkish, and Arabic) meant that, as a result, children did not possess full command of any one language. He criticised the fact that French was the primary language of instruction and the fact that Arabic, the local language, was studied theoretically, but not practically. Hebrew instruction, he argued, took place at a very rudimentary level, Jewish history was not taught, and, therefore, no bond to their people and respect for Judaism or any national ideal were instilled into the hearts of the youth. An even worse situation prevailed at the society’s girls’ school, Elmaleh claimed, since the education there was clearly more French and more Western. Thus, for example, the girls read French literature, but not Hebrew literature, and studied Jewish history and religion in general only superficially and briefly. He summed up his assessment by noting that the Alliance here has brought ruin to Damascene Judaism and has already succeeded in raising an entire generation of assimilated and alienated [youth]. Therefore, it is incumbent upon us to strive vigorously against this dangerous influence and say to it: ‘You have come this far, but no more!’ And this can only be done by means of Hebrew national education!68 A number of other events, aside from the conflict with the Torah scholars, led to the ripening of conditions for the start of a revolution on the question of renewed co-operation with the AIU. The first factor that enabled the situation to change was the arrival in December 1912 of a new director to manage the society’s boys’ school in Damascus. Isaac Nahon (1873– 1950), who had grown up and been educated in Haifa and had lived in a Hebrew society, spoke ˙ Hebrew fluently. Moreover, ‘Ben-Siyyon Raful’ observed that he ˙ recognised the importance of Jewish studies, was an enthusiastic lover of Zion, ‘and believes with a full heart that the rebirth of the nation depends like the flame of an ember upon the revival of the language and the country’.69 Both this appointment, done with the support of the director of the AIU girls’ school in the city, and Nahon’s declared intention to bring teachers from Palestine Hebrew

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to teach Hebrew instilled hopes for the start of a new chapter even within the Alliance schools.70 The second element affecting the question of co-operation with the AIU was the large number of Jewish individuals who visited Damascus in 1914. Paʾis sought to take advantage of their stays to benefit Hebrew national education; each time a Jewish tourist of means arrived in the city, he brought him to the school, where the children sang him very sentimental songs in Hebrew and thereby won his sympathies and usually also his financial backing.71 Such was the case with the visit of Baron Edmond de Rothschild (1845– 1934) at the end of February 1914. Dozens of educational associations and institutions appealed to the baron for financial assistance, among them the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment, whose members presented themselves as the national school’s committee.72 De Rothschild, who distributed a fortune among Jewish, Christian, and Muslim educational and aid institutions alike, announced among other things his commitment to grant 5,000 francs annually to the Hebrew national school, provided that its management reach an agreement on co-operation with the AIU. It is possible that Nahon was the one who convinced him to condition his support upon such co-operation. To a great degree, this demand forced the members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment to engage in serious negotiations with the AIU so as not to lose the great and significant support of the Baron de Rothschild. Paʾis drew up a list of 12 stipulations, which he delivered to the president of the Alliance in Paris and urged him to accept them in order to facilitate the plan, supported and even demanded by the baron, for collaboration in the consolidation of the Jewish educational institutions in Damascus. Among the conditions was Paʾis’ demand to call the schools ‘the municipal national schools supported by the Baron Edmond de Rothschild, the AIU, and the Palestinian Hebrew Education Committee’, as well as his insistence that management would be shared by the AIU and the Palestinian Hebrew Education Committee, represented in Damascus by Paʾis himself. He further stipulated that the school curriculum reflect the national spirit and that the children in the kindergartens speak only Hebrew, while the

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elementary schools would offer more hours for studying Hebrew and less for Arabic and French. These conditions meant that almost complete control over the curriculum and management of the schools would remain in the hands of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment and that the AIU would simply become an executing contractor for the project. Accordingly, the bone of contention remained essentially the Alliance’s demand to assume full responsibility for the management and the curriculum, one that the committee could not accept.73 Although, in a letter to the Baron de Rothschild, Paʾis expressed willingness to accept in principle the idea of co-operation with the AIU, he claimed that if collaboration would be imposed without the latter having accepted the committee’s stipulations, the Hebrew national school would lose the backing of the Teachers’ Central Committee in Jaffa, as well as that of Kamil Bey, since the Ottoman authorities would not agree to support a school managed by a foreign European society.74 Soon after de Rothschild’s visit to Damascus, the American-Jewish businessman and philanthropist Julius Rosenwald (1862– 1932) came to the city, accompanied by the agronomist from Zikhron Yaʿaqov Aaron Aaronsohn (1876–1919). Rosenwald was most impressed by the changes instituted by the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment in the old religious schools and also promised to supply the needed funds to meet the budget for the boys’ education and even to found a girls’ school for the 300 girls who were then enrolled at the mission or not at all engaged in study.75 As stated, these negotiations with the AIU took place in the shadow of the ‘languages war’ being waged in Palestine. This struggle brought the question of Hebrew, its place, and its standing in the educational system and civic life—in particularly, its status as a national language—to the forefront of the public agenda.76 Intoxicated by its victory over the German Hilfsverein society, the Teachers’ Central Committee in Palestine, which spearheaded the crusade for Hebrew in the ‘languages war’, became less willing to compromise in the matter of co-operation with the French AIU. Accordingly, this increased its readiness to assist the Hebrew national

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school in Damascus, whose directorate had been staunch in its support of the Hebrew campaign. Arthur Biram (1878– 1967), the director of the Hebrew Reali School in Haifa, was sent to Damascus ˙ in order to assess the situation of the Hebrew national school and determine what could be done to help. His firm resolution, expressed in a meeting with the members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment, was that there was no room for co-operation with the AIU. Although the inclination of many communal notables was to revert back to reliance upon the French society, the members of the committee remained entrenched in their demand that collaboration hinged upon the Alliance’s acceptance of their terms, a position that received the uncompromising encouragement of the chief rabbi Danon. Isaac Nahon had no choice but to reject these terms and, as a result, the Hebrew national school relied upon the backing of the Hebrew Teachers’ Central Committee in Palestine, which endeavoured to persuade the Baron de Rothschild to fund the school even without its co-operation with the AIU and which agreed itself to sponsor three of the school’s Hebrew teachers.77 It is reasonable to assume that the backing of the Teachers’ Central Committee, as well as other sources of financial support being pledged to the school, strengthened the confidence of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment in their ability to continue to sustain the institution’s activity. On the other hand, Nahon received reinforcement and public encouragement for the AIU’s efforts in Damascus during a visit to the society’s schools by Henry Morgenthau, Sr (1856– 1945), the US ambassador to the Ottoman Empire. Morgenthau was impressed and even praised the schools to the rabbi and notables of the community, the Ottoman governor, and the members of the American consular staff.78 Under the pressure of Nahon, who argued that it was necessary to impose a solution on the community (which he compared to forcing treatment upon a patient who does not care for himself), the AIU directorate re-issued its threat to close its educational establishments in the city. Nahon even advised that the management request that the Baron de Rothschild continue to condition his sponsorship on the transfer of the school and its associated institutions to the oversight of

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the AIU. It appears that this pressure worked, for the number of AIU supporters in the communal leadership rose—even after the baron announced, through his representative Henri Franck, his determination to leave the final decision to them. Attempts to find a solution were overshadowed by the undisguised fear of Paʾis and the other members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment that any such concession would make them ‘traitors’ in the eyes of the Hebrew Education Committee in Palestine.79 The pressure placed upon the members of the Committee by the communal leadership continued to grow, and even the hahambas¸ı’s backing did not result in any easing of the situation. Paʾis, who was then suffering from serious medical problems and was likely less able to devote time to the school and kindergarten, withdrew most of his demands and the contract that was then drafted with the AIU made no mention of the Hebrew Education Committee’s support for the school; the educational establishments were termed ‘the municipal schools supported by the AIU and the Baron de Rothschild’. Nahon persuaded the AIU directorate, for its part, to abandon its insistence that that three languages, Hebrew, Arabic, and French, be taught in the kindergarten and agree that the children study only the Hebrew language in Hebrew until the age of six. It was further determined that the students of the elementary school would receive three hours of Hebrew lessons in Hebrew, two hours of French, and two hours of Arabic. The AIU director would receive no salary increase for assuming responsibility for the management of the communal educational institutions and the members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment would participate in the formulation of the curriculum and school procedures. Likewise, their consent was required for the hiring of all Hebrew teachers.80 Even though not all the matters had been resolved, the expectation was that the AIU would assume sponsorship for the educational institutions in advance of the new school year that was about to begin. Yet, in the summer of 1914, World War I broke out. Nahon, who was a French subject and therefore considered an enemy citizen, suffered a great deal of harassment. Ultimately, after receiving an order to close the school, he was expelled together with his family

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from Damascus to Alexandria. While the authorities did accept his claim that the AIU school was essentially like any other Ottoman school, they opposed its continued administration by a citizen of an enemy state. In order to keep the school open, Nahon transferred management over to one of the teachers who held Ottoman citizenship.81 The girls’ school continued to operate since its director, Augustine Haı¨moff, a German Jew, held Bulgarian citizenship thanks to her husband. The Ottoman authorities further ordered that all signage written in languages of enemy states be removed from stores and businesses and they soon disappeared from the street.82 These circumstances prevented the unification of the various Hebrew schools under the administration of the AIU. The underwriting provided by the Palestinian Teachers’ Central Committee also shrank and covered only meagre salaries for two or three teachers and kindergarten instructors; the Damascus educational institutions were once more forced to rely upon the support of their community alone. The name of the school, which had indicated its uniqueness as a ‘Hebrew national’ school, was forgotten and the population took to calling it simply ‘the new school (al-kita¯b al-jadı¯d)’.83 It seemed as though the endeavour to set Damascus Jewry upon a Zionist nationalist course had reached its end, but, as we shall see in the next chapter, the vicissitudes of the war actually injected fresh Zionist blood into the community.

CHAPTER 3 BETWEEN EXILES AND LOCALS

While on the one hand, if fates wishes our Jewish brethren to be cast into a foreign city where they find only estranged brothers, on the other hand, here, the Holy One, blessed be He, has [issued] swift treatment for the injury and desired that out of the destruction of Jaffa, Damascus was rebuilt. —Abraham Elmaleh1 As stated in earlier chapters, the Jewish community of Damascus entered World War I at a political, economic, cultural, and moral nadir. The exodus of younger members of the community continued to increase—during the first decade of the twentieth century, around 1,500 young Jews, or about ten per cent of the community, emigrated from Damascus—and had a damaging effect upon its development.2 The departure of the young also impacted the situation of the spiritual leadership of the community. The drop in financial support for the Torah scholars led to a serious decline in the number of those dedicating themselves to Torah study and the religious class narrowed greatly. In fact, during World War I, the number of scholars reached 14 alone.3 In such a manner, when the war broke out, the community’s members were poor and its institutions destabilised; the horrors and terrors of the war only exacerbated the condition of the community.

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The Jewish community in the war Over the course of the first year of World War I, one blow after another struck Damascus Jewry. Numerous youths, including those with families, were conscripted to the army and disappeared, some of the communal notables were suspected by the Turkish authorities of disloyalty and expelled from the town, a number of them meeting their death in exile.4 Soaring prices and the rising cost of living hit hard all the residents of the city. Around ten months after Turkey’s entry into the war, the hahambas¸ı Jacob Danon appealed to Dr Arthur Ruppin (1876– 1943), one of the heads of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine and official in charge of the distribution of aid funds from the United States, for help and assistance. He described the famine prevailing throughout the city, the unemployment and lack of money, the empty communal coffers, and the unsuccessful efforts made in coordination with communal leaders to ease the situation.5 Nevertheless, this cry for help received no response. The Palestinian Yishuv itself was in distress and could not turn its attention to Damascus Jewry and its misfortunes at this stage of the war. Danon also turned to Henry Morgenthau, the Jewish ambassador of the United States to the Ottoman Empire. At Morgenthau’s initiative, $50,000 were collected by New York Jews to assist Palestinian Jewry at the start of the war. The ambassador informed Danon that the Joint Distribution Committee of the American Funds for the Relief of Jewish War Sufferers (JDC) donated sums of money monthly to Ottoman Jews outside Palestine, as well. He encouraged Danon to request the chief rabbi Haı¨m Nahum to allocate some of the money to Damascus. Although appeals were made, the funds never reached Damascus.6 Reports from the start of 1916 reveal that Damascus had large quantities of food and did not suffer from a shortage of oil and that the war was still far from the city. Nevertheless, prices skyrocketed due to profiteering on the part of Damascus merchants. Thus, for example, the price of wheat tripled from the summer of 1917 until March 1918.7 Further troubles, such as illnesses and epidemics, caused numerous deaths. As a result, those in the community who

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still had the ability to do so emigrated to Egypt or Beirut. Yosef Costica (1911–2001), witnessed as a child the horrors of the war in the Jewish Quarter and described them as such: The famine and lack of bread left a deep mark upon the Jewish Quarter. I saw many women rummaging through piles of trash near our home. Bread distribution was rationed and every day on my way to school in the morning, I saw many people massing around the Mashʿa¯niyyah Bakery, which was authorised to distribute the bread rations; people stood for hours, while shouting and fighting and pushing one another in order to receive the meagre portion of bread mixed with sawdust and broad beans and chickpeas. The bread’s colour was black and people called it ‘earth bread (khubz al-ardı¯)’. Eating ˙ the miserable bread caused many intestinal diseases, abdominal typhus, scabies and various body sores, and all kinds of different illnesses that caused many deaths; every single day, nearly seven funeral [processions] passed by our home. When I heard the howls and shrieks of grief coming from the homes of the neighbours near our home over the death of their loved ones, shivers and anxiety would pass through my body. Not far from our house, all the members of the Baʿbu¯r family died, save for one survivor, a single man suffering from tuberculosis. One day, I saw Turkish sanitation officials wearing military outfits come and throw all of the belongings, blankets, mattresses, and clothes into the street and burn all of the property in a large pile, and with the disinfection wagon which they had, they sprayed disinfection material into the house, took the young man with them, and locked the house with a red wax seal. A plague of lice spread throughout the area due to a shortage of soap for washing. Prostitution proliferated in the [Jewish] Quarter and I saw many German and Turkish soldiers milling about the Quarter and visiting the prostitutes. Every day, a unit of Turkish troops passed by our home, headed by a Turkish officer named I˙smail S¸avis¸, who terrorised the Jewish Quarter. They stopped every male passing on the street in order to

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conscript [him], tied his hands to a rope, and led him with them, and dragged these people to the barracks (the Kishleh prison) near our home, from which they transported them to Anatolia, the Dardanelles, and the Suez Canal, and from there they did not return. If someone attempted to escape from them, he was immediately shot to death. One day, I saw how two young men were shot as they sought to escape through the rooftops above our house. The soldiers jumped after them and killed them.8 In September 1915, the Palestinian Education Committee sent a young teacher named Yosef Liberman to Damascus in order to preserve as much as possible the Hebrew educational accomplishments achieved there before the start of World War I. Already upon his arrival, he discovered that many of the students in the various educational institutions had ceased their studies, either in order to help support their families or because of the general chaos. Likewise, the problem of orphaned children, wandering the streets in search of food or shelter, became more serious in Damascus. The state of the Hebrew schools was poor and, in the middle of 1916, they faced the real danger of closure due to bankruptcy. The Hebrew labour force in Damascus was disbanded a year earlier when the Ottoman authorities ordered the founding of a Ru¨s¸diye (adolescence) schools for the Jewish community, in which children aged 11 to 15 studied in three classes. As a result, only six classes for children aged seven to 12 remained in the national school, which now served as a preparatory programme for the Ru¨s¸diye school.9 From May to July 1916, the authorities closed the schools owing to a rash of various illnesses among the children. The calls for assistance sent by Barukh Paʾis to the heads of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine were answered negatively. A few of the Palestinian teachers grew despondent of the situation and abandoned the city. Hebrew lessons continued to be offered sparingly, primarily as evening classes in which the bulk of the attendants were young girls from the community. The AIU boys’ school director was expelled from the city together with his family due to his French citizenship;

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the school was closed for some time and hundreds of students were left idle.10 With the outbreak of the war, the Ottoman authorities sought to close the AIU schools in Damascus on the pretext that they were French schools. Following an appeal by Augustine Haı¨moff, the AIU girls’ school principal, to Haı¨m Nahoum, the hahambas¸ı in Istanbul, the government agreed to allow the continued activity of the Alliance educational institutions.11 The girls’ school was continually in danger of closing, since the authorities wished to use its building as a hospital or office building. Following the British conquest of Jerusalem on 11 December 1917, the authorities sought to turn the school into a place of shelter for retreating forces, refugees, and deportees. Nevertheless, Haı¨moff succeeded in preventing this appropriation.12 Throughout the war, she also managed the communal health clinic. According to her, on more than one occasion, when Danon and the community’s leadership stood powerless in the face of the harsh reality, she came to the rescue by appealing to the authorities in various matters.13 Reports sent to the AIU president in Paris reveal a bleak picture of a community without effective leadership, whose elite concerned itself with its own wellbeing and not the benefit of the community. Haı¨moff claimed that the community lacked proper leadership that would represent it before the authorities, manage a war relief operation, and absorb Palestinian exiles.14 The Hebrew school director, Yis´raʾel Eytan, also criticised harshly the communal leadership for the bad situation, writing: And now some words about the communal ‘council’ . . . this ‘council’ is a group of people who are not concerned with and do not understand how to take care of the public good and are unable to sacrifice for the [public] even a penny or an hour from their private business. Therefore, every two or three months, [its] members alternate, most of them being very simple people, boors, who never went to school . . . people of low status who in recent years managed honestly or dishonestly to make a little money.15

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As the war front grew closer and closer to Damascus, the Turkish authorities became increasingly rigid in their attitude towards Damascene Jewry and rumours spread throughout the city that the government would take steps to deport the community’s young and its notables.16 All this time, the community continued to receive some assistance from Nahoum in Istanbul and from former members of the community residing in Egypt. However, the bulk of the support came from the various groups of Damascus e´migre´s in the United States. Yet, this aid ceased to arrive at the start of 1917, with the growing involvement of the United States in the war.17 Some of the population even reached the point of starvation and around 1,000 individuals are estimated to have perished over the course of the war.18 In spite of this, the Jewish community was forced to engage in fundraising and to contribute donations for the Turkish war effort in order to prove its loyalty to the authorities.19 This situation formed the background for the meeting between deportees from Palestine and the Jewish community of Damascus, which was initially expected by the latter to provide tangible assistance.

Exile, meeting, and organisation The Jewish Yishuv in Palestine during World War I suffered not only from natural disasters, but from human ones, as well: heavy taxation, expropriation of property, conscription of many youths to the Ottoman army, searches, investigations, and arrests. Added to these numerous hardships was the penalty of deportation. The Ottoman authorities expelled the Palestinian Jews primarily out of concern that local elements might co-operate with the enemy armies. Since the principle suspects were the members of the Zionist movement in the Yishuv, their banishment was intended to prevent acts of espionage and aiding of the enemy, as well as to undermine the ideological identity of the Zionist deportees. In the first stage, which began on 17 December 1914, hundreds of Jews, such as those lacking Ottoman citizenship or those suspected of Zionist activity, whom the Ottoman authorities saw as a security risk, were expelled from TelAviv and Jaffa. These forced exiles were joined by hundreds of

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voluntary emigrants seeking to escape the harsh political climate. By the end of 1915, around 12,000 exiles had left the country, mostly those of foreign nationality and mostly headed for Alexandria in Egypt.20 Over the course of the war, the Ottoman authorities continued to banish ‘dangerous elements’ both to Egypt and to northern provinces like Syria and Anatolia. As the British army grew closer to the borders of Palestine, exile and deportation grew more common. The start of the British assault on the south of the country in March 1917, rumours of secret agreements to divide Syria and Palestine between Britain and France (the Sykes – Picot Agreement), and the discovery of a Jewish spy network (known as NILI, a Hebrew acronym for ‘Netsah Yis´rael lo ˙ yishaqqer’, ‘The Eternity of Israel shall not lie’, I Samuel 15.29) and the establishment of a Hebrew brigade under British sponsorship all led to a deterioration in the attitude of the Turks towards the Jewish settlement and to increasing expulsions. A great surge of deportations from Jaffa and from the villages began on 28 March 1917. In October of that year, the first wave of exiles reached Damascus.21 These individuals, whose numbers would reach around 2,000 within the span of a couple of months, included military deserters who were captured in the villages, workers, guards, and craftsmen. They were joined by numerous others who were suspected of taking part in the spy activities of the NILI underground.22 A further wave of hundreds of deportees arrived in mid-December, including numerous Jerusalem notables, as well as all American nationals in Jerusalem, who had become enemy subjects with the entry of the United States into the war. Exile to Damascus took place towards the end of the war and this punishment had already become a common phenomenon, part of the terrors of the war. Nevertheless, for the exiles, the act of deportation was a personal trauma. The Damascus deportees could sense that the end of the conflict was nearing, owing to the time that had passed since the outbreak of hostilities and in light of the intensive military activity by the Allied powers, especially Britain and France, in the Middle Eastern theatre of war. While in Damascus, the refugees heard about the British conquest of Palestine and its settlements and this news inspired them with hope that the end of their exile was close.23

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Three factors weighed upon the absorption of the Palestinian deportees by the Damascus community: (1) the lack of a resurgent national spirit in the community; (2) the majority of the exiles were Ashkenazim and thus could not understand the Arabised Jews of Damascus and even found it difficult to take part in communal prayers,24 and this was accompanied by the alienation of the Ashkenazi new-comers by the locals;25 and (3) the poor economic and social condition of Damascus Jewry. These elements formed the background for the harsh statements expressed by the exiles about the Jewish community of Damascus. As noted above, the October 1917 exiles were not the first Palestinians to come to Damascus during the war years. For a number of years, Palestinian teachers who taught in the Hebrew educational institutions had resided in the city. They were joined by Jewish doctors who were employed by the Turkish army and Jewish officers and soldiers from Palestine who filled minor (non-combat) roles in the military. These soldiers did not feel comfortable among the local Jews. Already in January 1916, they reported that they lacked a Hebrew environment in Damascus. They do not find it among the Sephardim so they dust themselves in the soil of the feet of the few Ashkenazi families found in Damascus, and these poor [souls] are very pleased for every Hebrew word, Hebrew book, [or] Hebrew guest, who resembles them in spirit and understands their desires and hopes.26 David Yellin,27 a notable Yishuv leader and educator who was deported to Damascus at the beginning of 1917 and who had earlier aided in the development of the Hebrew educational system in Damascus, was greatly disappointed by the estranged attitude of the Damascus Jews and especially by that of the communal leaders.28 When he sought to rent a flat in the Jewish Quarter, he discovered that the residents not only refused to help him, but even insisted on inflated prices. In the end, he found it necessary to rent lodgings outside the Jewish Quarter.29 Other exiles were also hurt by this behaviour on the part of the local Jews, who sought to profit from

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their distress and charged them high prices for any service. One of the exiles, Eliezer Rivlin, described matters as such: Indeed, the Jewish Damascenes are corrupt in their nature; in particular, they have the attributes of Sodom and hate the foreigner and press and squeeze him, even though they themselves benefit from the foreigner more than the foreigner from them.30 When the deportation from Jaffa and from the villages began, Yellin sought to collect donations for the exiles from the Damascus Jews. His frustration was great: There are no wealthy ones anymore . . . [and] except for a few exceptional ones . . . the public plight does not touch their heart and they are unaccustomed to give and when they do, they give very meagrely and as though they are under duress. We witnessed this even when collecting funds for the Jaffa exiles, when, despite all the noise, the communal ‘notable’, Mr Laniado, gave on his behalf and on behalf of his household [only] five pounds.31 Damascus Jews were also indifferent to the fate of the many Palestinian Jews imprisoned in the jails of the city. Reports and memoirs of the prisoners make almost no mention of communal intervention on their behalf or any interest in their fate.32 Yishaq ˙˙ Sigler (Livni), who was expelled to Damascus for suspicion of ˙ espionage, wrote about his incarceration together with his comrades in the Kha¯n al-Ba¯sha¯ jail: In the early days of our internment at the Jamaʿ, we suffered quite a bit from hunger. [Yet] no saviour or helper from among our Damascus brethren arose on our behalf. Whenever we could peer through the lattices and recognise among the passers-by the face of a Jew, then we would discover the fear of suspicion, the suspicion of a ‘spy’ that distances men from us. Lord! Must our incarceration be so burdensome? Are we such useless prey

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that even our fellow Israelites abandon us and this [place] will become our grave?33 The leaders of the exiles tried to attract the attentions of the communal council and the hahambas¸ı towards the Jewish prisoners rotting in the jails, in order to save them from dying of starvation.34 Ittel (Ita), the wife of David Yellin, also complained about the upper social and economic classes of the Damascus Jews, who even ignored the local poor: There is nothing to write about the people of Damascus and it is impossible for me to grow used to all of their customs and to their [way of] life. Charity and activity on behalf of their brethren is not listed in their code of conduct. Playing cards and living a gay life scented with perfumes—this they know and they live on [like so]. But who knows how many more generations will pass with such a life? I wanted to be active here, to work for the good of humanity, but there is no one with whom to begin. Sometimes, I preach morality to some [of them], but such words fall upon the community, which has already assimilated into half a million [Arab] people, like a drop of water in the great sea . . . I have not yet approached here any of the wealthy families, since the rumours from afar about these people are enough; and if there is something for which I can hope, it is only from the few Ashkenazim who sometimes give alms.35 Adding to this complex situation were intra-Jewish ethnic conflicts. A very bitter fight took place on the second day of Passover, which is typically observed as a holy day by Jews outside the Holy Land. The Ashkenazi exiles did not observe this custom and instead held prayer services for the intermediate secular days of the festival in a special quorum in a room in the local religious school. The hahambas¸ı Danon opposed this and sent his beadle to remove the Ashkenazim from the premises in the middle of their prayers, locking them out of the synagogue.36 Incidents such as this strengthened in the eyes of the refugees, especially those who were Askenazi, a negative impression

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of the Oriental Damascus Jews. Even those among the deportees who tried to judge them favourably could not restrain their anger even in secret. Eliezer Rivlin described things as such: And it is true what was said and written about the Jewish Damascenes and what the Ashkenazi emigrants continue to say—that the Damascenes are evil, similar in their evil to the Arabs, while not adopting their good [traits]. And even I, considered by my fellow deportees to be fond of Damascus and its inhabitants . . . admit that what I have learned and continue to learn each day from the Jewish experiences there [in Damascus] is [that] they are evil and great sinners and their behaviour towards the emigrants and their [own] poor is quite unsightly, may God grant them atonement, as well as to me and to the one who writes this slander about a great Israelite community.37 One of the harshest statements regarding the conduct of the Damascus Jews towards the exiles was written by Abraham Elmaleh. This man, who had dedicated a couple years of his life towards the advancement of this community, was forced to return to Damascus in handcuffs as a deserter from the Turkish army (Ott. Tur. firari). In jail, he fell severely ill and nearly died; only owing to the efforts of his wife did it become possible for him to be moved to a hospital where his life was saved. This period was the most difficult of his life.38 Perhaps this is the reason for his critical remarks regarding the Jews of Damascus: At a time when hundreds of households were brought to Damascus and hundreds of youths from our nation were accused of espionage by the government of the Turk and thrown into jail . . . at this hour, our Damascene brethren sat contently and complacently and their hearts did not ache for the plight of their brothers nor did they lift a finger on their behalf . . . and no one took an interest to find out that a hundred young builders of the Yishuv were being starved to death in poverty at

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the hands of mean torturers—not a penny was offered, nor a word of comfort expressed, and not only that, but even the few communal elders who did seek to inquire about the condition of the prisoners were deceived by their colleagues on the pretext that intervention at such times could only bring disaster upon the complacent and calm community.39 As stated, the Damascus exiles were banished from Palestine only after the war had been going on for some time and there already existed in the Yishuv a number of relief networks. The most prominent one was the Migration Committee (Waʿad ha-Hagirah), which was established on 29 March 1917, around the time that Cemal Pas¸a (1872–1922), one of the ruling Ottoman triumvirate and in charge of Palestine and Syria, announced the expulsion order to the leaders of the Yishuv. Representatives of the Yishuv institutions established the committee in order to lighten as much as possible the burden upon the exiles and to facilitate their departure. This committee was composed of members of the American Relief Committee, of the Jaffa municipal council, and a representative of the Palestine Office. The committee was led by the founding mayor of TelAviv Meir Dizengoff (1861–1936) and its members included Yehuda Grasovsky (later Gur, 1862–1950), David Yellin, Dr Abraham Albert Ticho (1883–1960), and the engineer Gedaliah Vilbushevich (1865– 1943), among others.40 The committee organised the evacuation operation and the absorption of deportees in Galilee villages. It also engaged in raising funds in order to assist the exiles. Two months after its establishment, it underwent a change in status. Cemal Pas¸a ordered Dizengoff to found an official committee to aid the exiles. Thus, the committee went from being a voluntary body to an official organ, acting under the ægis of the Turkish authorities, and its chairman became responsible directly to Cemal Pas¸a. The banishment to Damascus was a sort of internal migration, within imperial Ottoman territories that had not yet been captured by the British. The deportees did not, therefore, find themselves under new sovereignty and actually continued to maintain close ties

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with the Ottoman government and, specifically, with the Minister of the Navy and commander of the Fourth Army, Cemal Pas¸a. They also continued to live in fear of further measures taken against them, such as deportation to Anatolia, imprisonment, or hanging. As the Ottoman forces retreated northwards, the importance of Damascus as a centre of governance intensified, as it was Cemal Pas¸a’s headquarters. The advance of the British army and conquest of Judæa and the southern part of the country cut off the Jewish Yishuv in the north from its sources of aid in Jerusalem and Petah-Tiqwah. As a result, ˙ the Migration Committee concentrated all its activity in northern Palestine and became the only organisation dealing with Jewish residents in the north.41 Towards the end of 1917, with the spread of the conflict to the centre of the country, the committee moved from Haifa to Damascus, where, as stated, the Ottoman military ˙ headquarters was based. Essentially, the activity of the Yishuv leadership came to be concentrated in this city and, thereafter, by being reorganised in their new place of residence, the Damascus exiles were no longer dependent upon the local community, but managed their own affairs through the same bodies that had overseen the Yishuv as a whole until that time.42 A review of the protocols, correspondence logs of the Migration Committee, and numerous other letters reveals a near total absence of any communication with the local Jewish community, something that suggests a total lack of contact between the two bodies.43 The e´migre´ leaders, who had extensive political connections even prior to the deportation, did not think that the heads of the Damascus community could be of any help to them in negotiations with the authorities. When Dr Yaakov Tehon (1880– 1950) asked Yellin to meet with Cemal Pas¸a regarding the Hebrew schools in Jerusalem and the exemption of their teachers from conscription, Yellin responded that he would go to the meeting alone, without the accompaniment of local Jewish figures. According to him, even Moses Hayyim Laniado, a wealthy and well-known ˙ Damascus figure, whom Cemal Pas¸a visited often, was unable to obtain the release of his son from the military service.44

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Nor did Yellin trust the ability of the hahambas¸ı Jacob Danon to stand up to the authorities. When rumours began circulating that the exiles might be deported together with local Jewish notables northwards to Anatolia, Danon rushed to meet with Cemal Pas¸a and the area governor (Ott. Tur. vali) at the head of a local delegation. All he managed to obtain was the approval to send a telegram regarding the matter to the Minister of War and to the hahambas¸ı in Istanbul. This ‘accomplishment’ did not improve their image in the eyes of the exiles.45 Indeed, the Palestinian exiles did not rely upon the local community in any matter. The two bodies operated separately sideby-side. All financial matters of the refugees were carried out in a completely autonomous fashion by the Migration Committee, without any involvement by the local community. This committee operated not only in Damascus, but also in the Jewish settlements in Galilee and in Samaria. Its authority also encompassed educational activity in the schools and assistance for the deportees, those exonerated by military courts, prisoners and those released from Turkish jails, Palestinian workers, and the poor of Safed and ˙ Tiberias.46 Even when it came to the baking of massot at Passover, the ˙˙ ˙ Migration Committee chose not to ask for any help from the local Jewish community and instead appointed its own special committee to deal with the matter. The committee also contributed to the maintenance of a ritual bath (Heb. miqweh) for the community.47 Since the Migration Committee was well-organised and possessed various means of assistance, it is therefore not surprising that the impoverished Jews of Damascus sought its support, wishing to avoid relying any longer upon the dwindling philanthropic institutions of their community alone. If we use the terminology of the Egyptian exile, the Damascus community was not one of ‘givers’, but actually that of ‘receivers’.48

The activity of the exiles in Damascus The exiles’ activity within the Jewish community of Damascus can be divided into three primary fields: philanthropy, education, and communal organisation. The poverty of the Damascene Jews was

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well-known to the Palestinians and the leaders of the Yishuv even prior to the outbreak of the war. David Yellin, and later the Migration Committee, were severely affected by the terrible destitution during the war years and urged the various relief bodies to allocate funds also for the Jews of the city, since the economic state of affairs of the Migration Committee was not particularly good. When Eliezer Siegfried Hoofien (1881–1957), the acting director of the AngloPalestine Bank (APB), began managing the aid money for needy Palestinians, he asked Yellin whether the indigent in Damascus also needed assistance. In response to Yellin’s positive answer, Hoofien promised to obtain funds for the local community.49 Relief requests were also sent to the chief rabbi in Istanbul, the Hilfsverein der Deutschen Juden in Berlin, the Sephardi Jewish community in Vienna, and the Jewish communities of Frankfurt and Berlin.50 A special committee was established to distribute the aid money, its members included Shimʿon Levin, Dizengoff’s deputy and the official in charge of the Migration Committee’s coffers, Yellin, and Dr Avraham Ticho, as well as Moses Hayyim Laniado, representing the local community.51 ˙ In practice, Ruppin sent the relief funds from Istanbul directly to Laniado. Prior to Passover 1918, as a result of dissatisfaction on the part of the Damascene Jews regarding the use of the money, Ruppin was requested to transfer the funds to the Migration Committee. This expressed clearly the powerlessness of the local community, which failed to unite and needed to rely on the involvement of the exiles’ committee. Indeed, the city’s indigent, including its religious scholars, preferred to appeal to the Migration Committee instead of their own local council. The great need and the numerous requests led the Migration Committee to appeal again to Ruppin in order to establish a special relief fund for the Damascus poor.52 The destitute benefitted not only from direct financial assistance. With the help of Rabbi Jonathan Horowitz (1866– 1940), the representative of the Hevrat ha-Peqidim we-ha-Amarkalim be˙ Amsterdam (Amsterdam Officials and Administrators Society) in ˙ Jerusalem, a special public kitchen was established for the exiles, which also served the needy Jewish residents of Damascus. The Migration Committee also aided in the maintenance of a communal

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clinic and in funding the purchase of medications intended for poor patients.53 The refugees organised wide-ranging cultural and educational activities for the local population and, after a while, for the exile population. This activity, the great part of it pioneering, breathed new life into prior initiatives—also introduced by Palestinian figures—whose activities had declined and even died out over the course of the war. Yis´raʾel Eytan, sent by the Education Committee to manage ‘the new school’, immediately upon his arrival began to devote a great deal of his energies towards the establishment of a small ‘literary group’ of six young Damascene men and women, with whom he studied intensively Hebrew language and literature. Aviezer (1890– 1971), David Yellin’s son who was deported to Damascus after his father, taught another group of 12 young men and women Jewish history. Yet another group studied poetry and legends.54 On 26 May 1918, the Hebrew school teachers founded the ʿIvriyyah (Hebrew) council, headed by the younger Yellin. The council’s aim was the spread of the Hebrew language and the national idea amongst broad segments of the Damascus public through evening classes and the establishment of a library. This initiative bore fruit only when the local youth began to aid in the arrangement of evening classes for girls, ‘once the national idea and the affinity for our language had sufficiently rooted [themselves] in them’.55 Most female students came from the wealthiest households in the community and participation in the classes became a matter of exclusive status, leading to an increase in the demand for Hebrew study. Within two weeks, five introductory groups were founded, along with two large groups of students with prior knowledge of Hebrew—one for Damascenes and one for the exiles. These latter units studied the Bible, Jewish history, the Aggadah (homiletic and folkloric rabbinical texts), Hebrew literature, reading fluently, Hebrew grammar, Palestinian geography, nature, mathematics, and general history. In addition, the population was asked to contribute money and books to the library, but, aside from one Damascene woman, all book donors were e´migre´s. The Hebrew library, which

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opened on 3 August 1918, held around 130 books. The 23 library patrons were also mostly comprised of deportees.56 The ʿIvriyyah council also initiated a series of public lectures on a variety of subjects. Most of those attending the talks were exiles, but some local Damascenes with a good command of Hebrew were also present.57 The council also organised commemorative evenings to mark important events, such as the memorial day for Theodor Herzl on 20 Tammuz.58 Such activity by ʿIvriyyah injected new blood into the small Zionist association—ha-Tehiyyah (The Revival)—founded ˙ in Damascus with the encouragement of the teacher Barukh Isirov in December 1913. Its members, in their effort to grow closer to the surrounding Arab population, acclimatised themselves no less (and perhaps even more) to Arabic than Hebrew. At a certain stage, these youths adopted the principles of the Maccabi movement in Palestine and were therefore already in 1915 called ha-Tehiyyah-Maccabi. The ˙ members of the association came from the young intelligentsia of Damascus and some of them had ties with the authorities and the local Arabic press.59 Over the course of the war, owing to the influence of the local anti-Zionist press, the members of ha-Tehiyyah ˙ came to be suspected of being Zionist agents in Damascus. After a member of the Jewish community informed on them, four of their leaders were arrested as ‘political criminals’ and the heads of the community disowned them and their activity as a result. Their familiarity with Arabic and its culture was of no help to them in prison. The youths were freed after half a year, due to Barukh Paʾis’ efforts, but the association’s activities ceased.60 The arrival of the exiles encouraged the association’s youth to renew their activity. In fact, recognising the potential of ha-Tehiyyah, ˙ the ʿIvriyyah council included the former’s members in its activities in order to reach deeper layers of the Damascus public. After the refugees departed Damascus and returned to Palestine, the members of ha-Tehiyyah continued to see themselves as successors to the ˙ ʿIvriyyah council.61 The ʿIvriyyah council also supported the establishment of the ‘Lovers of the Hebrew Stage’ (Hovevey ha-Bamah ha-ʿIvrit) ˙ association, as a means of spreading the Hebrew language. This

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association presented Molie`re’s play L’avare (‘The Miser’) in Hebrew and donated its profits towards the expansion of the library. The leaders of ʿIvriyyah summed up the first three months of their activity as follows: Nevertheless, we are strengthened by the hope that we might slowly achieve our principle aim of bringing our brothers, both near and far, closer through our Hebrew language to the idea of revival, which is beginning to make inroads amongst our brethren [spread] throughout the countries of the world.62 Some of the girls who took part in the activities of ʿIvriyyah were members of the prior Hebrew association, ha-Tiqwah (The Hope), which had been set up in August 1917 by the Jerusalemite educator Yis´raʾel Eytan, the director of the Hebrew educational institutions in Damascus. These girls sought to expand upon their Hebrew studies and to spread Hebrew in the community. The association accepted only girls who could already read, write, and speak Hebrew. The bulk of its activity was recitals of Hebrew literary works.63 Alongside ha-Tehiyyah-Maccabi, an independent club of the ˙ Maccabi movement operated in Damascus from 1915. It included young boys and girls from the lower classes who also sought to broaden their Hebrew study. Efforts to unite these two associations over the course of World War I were not successful.64 In any event, the informal activities of the exiles made the Hebrew language acceptable and it began to fill the role—heretofore been played by French—as the language of high culture. The refugees’ pedagogical activity also affected the formal educational framework of the community. As stated, even prior to the war, a Hebrew national school, connected to the Education Committee in Palestine, operated in Damascus. The committee had been content to send a director to the school and to fund the salaries of its teachers, but had not taken general and exclusive responsibility for the institution. The community was the one who

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continued to be in charge of providing a building and furniture for the school and was even liable for no small share of its budget. With his arrival in Damascus, Yellin became head of the exiles’ education committee and began to deepen its involvement in the activities of the communal educational institutions in order to rescue them from their neglect.65 The educational institutions were reorganised according to Yellin’s instruction and under his supervision. The Migration Committee appealed officially to the Education Committee in Palestine, which took full responsibility for the Damascus schools, and committed to deal with them like the schools in Palestine, although things were still done in partnership with the local communal council.66 The intent was to convert all the community’s religious schools to the national Zionist modern curriculum. The finest instructors from Jerusalem were now part of the teaching staff at the Hebrew schools of Damascus. Already by late 1916, with the closure of the gymnasium in Jerusalem, one of its best teachers, Yis´raʾel Eytan, had been appointed as principal of the school in Damascus. Eytan’s assignment was done with the knowledge and approval of Yellin when he was still in Jerusalem and gave a real boost to the activities of the schools. Eytan, within his limited means, chose to emphasise the spread of the Hebrew language in the school and outside it through evening classes and Hebrew instruction at the AIU girls’ school. Likewise, Eytan introduced into the curriculum a lesson on ‘knowledge of the homeland’ in the national Zionist spirit.67 One of his great accomplishments was securing the agreement of the owners of the Douer School (kita¯b Du¯ʾir) to submit their education to Eytan’s management. In this manner, Hebrew instruction and physical exercise were immediately introduced into the religious school curriculum. As a result, aside from the AIU school, all important Damascus education institutions came under the supervision of the Palestinian Education Committee.68 Education-related activity increased with Yellin’s arrival in Damascus. Yehudah Grasovsky and Dr Aryeh (Leopold) Feigenbaum (1885– 1981) were part of a team that was set up to discuss the question of the schools. Feigenbaum, together with Dr Ticho, who

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was staying in the city at that time as the chief ophthalmological officer of the Austrian army, dealt with finding a solution to the sanitation problems in the schools.69 Individuals such as Aviezer and Avinoam (1900– 38) Yellin, Joseph Joel Rivlin, Abraham Elmaleh, Dr Salamon Schiller (1863–1925) of the Hebrew Gymnasium, and Baruch Uziel (1901– 77) joined the teaching staff. The Education Committee and the Migration Committee paid these teachers’ salaries, as well as those of the rest of the staff. Likewise, they carried out statistical surveys of pedagogical needs and of the composition of the local and exile students. For the first time, committees were set up and funds were allocated from the exiles’ education council for the renovation of the schools, the purchase of new furniture and supplies, and the raising of the teachers’ salaries.70 By the autumn of 1917, Yis´raʾel Eytan could already write optimistically that: In general, Hebrew has begun to be felt a little here, or, at least, as the locals would say, it has become a` la mode (modah), so much so that the principal of the Alliance girls’ school has asked us to find her a Hebrew teacher for three hours a day . . . therefore, it seems to us that the aforementioned effort to create an ‘environment’ for the school out of the young generation, or at least to spread Hebrew outside the walls of the school in the smallest way, has succeeded to a decent extent—insofar as possible under the poor conditions in which we worked. Our institution has become a sort of small ‘spiritual centre’ for the young generation of Damascus, who come there (at regular times, of course) for exercise, for study, for ceremonial gatherings (20 Tammuz, 09 Av), and the like.71 The literary and scientific activity of the exiles was also extensive. Deported intellectuals took advantage of their stay in Damascus to examine the literary and historical treasures found in the city. Among other things, they carried out a catalogue of the thousands of books found in the various religious seminaries and in the private libraries of the town’s Jews, they purchased ancient manuscripts and books,

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and they checked and documented all the Torah scrolls in the local synagogues.72 This literary activity also had an influence upon Damascus Jewry, since it entailed co-operation with members of the community and the matter aroused their curiosity regarding their own local literary and historical heritage. Yellin realised that, without the creation of a healthy infrastructure of local public leadership, which could operate the various communal organs independently, Zionist national activity would fail to take root in Damascus. In October 1918, at his initiative, democratic elections involving the entire community were held to choose a general council of 50 members. Nine of them were selected to form a council that began rebuilding the communal institutions that had ceased operating during the war. In fact, an attempt was made to organise the communal infrastructure along the lines of the new Jewish Yishuv in Palestine. The taxation system and management of communal funds were improved and refined, and charity and welfare societies such as Hakhnasat Orhim (Hospitality ˙ to Guests), ʿOzer Dallim (Poor Aid Society), and Rodfey Sedeq ˙ (Pursuers of Justice) were re-established.73 The renewed organisation of the community required a special committee made up of exiles in order to arbitrate the matter of the chief rabbi’s salary and authority between Danon and the members of the communal council.74 The deportees knew that they would soon leave Damascus and therefore pitched a last-minute effort to help the community in getting back on track. In August 1918, with the Migration Committee’s return to Haifa, the exiles still remaining in Damascus decided to found a local ˙ branch of the committee that would continue the work there. Even this committee considered itself responsible for assisting the local community alongside its aid for the e´migre´s. Fearing that the Yishuv institutions would no longer concern themselves with the local community once the Migration Committee returned to Palestine, the local council appealed to the central Migration Committee in Haifa in a memorandum titled ‘Regarding ˙ the arrangement of social work that must be done in Damascus’ and requested a special sum be set aside for the communal schools.75 In a letter to his father Yehoshua Yellin (1843– 1924) on the eve of his

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return to Palestine, David Yellin wrote: ‘We are working vigorously now in order to arrange the affairs of the community here and, no matter what, we will lay its foundations before we leave this place’.76 The exiles established bodies and institutions that would aid in the dissemination of the Zionist idea amongst the Jews of Damascus. Aside from the pedagogical activity and the financial support, the Qadimah (Forward) association was established for youths 18 years of age and older. Although the nucleus of this new association came from members of ha-Tehiyyah, the remainder of its membership was ˙ mostly male and female graduates of the AIU schools, demonstrating unequivocally the revolution that had taken place in the national consciousness of the young intellectuals of Damascus. Qadimah’s founding gathering took place on 14 October 1918, at which Yellin and Elmaleh gave speeches in Hebrew and Arabic, respectively.77 The same evening also saw the launch of the Sheqel society, for the collection of the Zionist sheqel (the membership payment for the Zionist Organisation).78 The Shevet Ahim (Dwelling of Brethren) ˙ society, which aimed to bring the community out of its atrophy, also received assistance from the Zionists.79 Damascus Jewry’s support for Zionism was expressed through the communal council’s establishment of a council headed by Barukh Paʾis, called the ‘Branch of the City Council for the Improvement of the New Schools and Zionist matters’.80 The zeal for Hebrew was so great that the demand for Hebrewlanguage study intensified even at the Alliance’s schools, which were being depleted of their students, who left to enrol in the Hebrew national schools. Seventeen-year-old youths began showing interest in studying at the agricultural school Miqweh Yis´raʾel in Palestine, while others sought acceptance at the teachers seminary in Jerusalem.81 The departure of the exiles was marked with a most impressive ceremony. A few days after Australian military units entered the town (1 October 1918), the deportees received a congratulatory telegram from Nahum Sokolow (1859– 1936) on behalf of the Zionist Organisation, asking them to forward his greeting to the Jewish community of Damascus on the occasion of the liberation of their city

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from the Turkish yoke and expressing his hope for future cooperation in rebuilding the Jewish national home in Palestine. This telegram was exploited for furthering Zionist propaganda amongst the members of the local community. Indeed, as Yellin described in his memoirs: ‘This was a [significant] event in our new lives and, following meetings and councils, we decided to call a gathering on Sabbath at the great synagogue to read the important telegram to the congregation, followed by fiery speeches, and we did so.’82 This action also led to the first unmediated contact between the Jewish community of Damascus and the global Zionist leadership—a telegram of thanks and blessings sent by Danon to Sokolow.83 The exiles carried out all these activities in order to strengthen the national spirit that had begun to stir amongst the Jews of Damascus. Such activity, as Elmaleh noted, ‘breathed [new] life into the dry bones of Damascus’.84 Indeed, the local community, which had initially chosen to disregard the exiles, began slowly to open up to their ideological and economic influence. In essence, the people of Damascus felt the collapse of the old order and of the internal communal establishment and sought a new path that would provide them with an identity and pattern of organisation for the new reality. The Zionist way appeared available and particularly attractive, both due to the proximity of the community to Palestine and due to its success in practice. The Zionist interest in the Damascus Jewry took the latter, after many years of living on the margins and in oblivion, and pushed them onto the centre of the stage of Zionist activity. Moreover, the exiles’ committees, which possessed certain financial means, attracted those from the local community who needed assistance. From a cultural perspective, many of the Jewish youths and adults in the community were now exposed even more to the Zionist idea as a result of the Zionist takeover of the educational institutions of the city and sought to imitate the Palestinian model and its activities. The Qadimah society continued to operate intensively in national and Zionist matters. The hopes instilled by the Palestinian e´migre´s and emissaries in the members of this young club were many:

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By means of this institution, we hope, in the near future, to exert [our influence] upon the communal leadership, and [Qadimah] should create for our Hebrew schools the necessary environment which we have aspired to generate from the outset of our arrival in Damascus.85 Likewise, the Zionist Commission’s financial aid to the Jewish community of Damascus also added to the growing ideological bond with Zionist institutions. As we shall see below, the political events, such as the Balfour Declaration (2 November 1917), the Ottoman defeat in the war, the discussions over the administrative future of Syria and Palestine, the appointment of Herbert Samuel (1870– 1963) as the first British High Commissioner of Palestine (1920–5), all contributed to the Damascus community’s support—if even for a short while—for the Zionist movement.86

CHAPTER 4 BETWEEN REHABILITATION AND POLITICAL TURMOIL

In conclusion, I must say that, in general, we see great progress in the condition of this community and our work, as well, is bearing blessed fruit. —David Yellin, Elul 5679/September 19191 The impact of World War I was immensely destructive.2 The initial assistance offered to Damascus Jewry in the wake of its great crisis came, as stated, from the Palestinian exiles. The latter’s activity can be seen as a success, in so far as Zionist influence continued to impress upon the community even after the war. Afterwards, the Palestinian e´migre´s continued, on the one hand, to direct their endeavour towards instilling the national idea into the local Jewish consciousness, while convincing the Zionist institutions to keep supporting this community, on the other. The Zionist Commission, founded in Europe following World War I with the aim of laying the stable foundations for the emergence of a Jewish national home in Palestine, took upon itself the responsibility for dealing with the Damascus community as part of its management of the Jewish Yishuv. A number of factors contributed to this perception. Since Damascus Jewry was the closest community, in terms of proximity, to Palestine, it received great consideration as a potential source of immigration and support for the Zionist enterprise. Moreover, the

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Arabised character of the community was perceived as possibly helpful in building bridges with the Arab population.

Initial feelers: The Yellin-Mosseri survey On 1 October 1918, Australian divisions entered Damascus and completed the conquest of the city. The circumstances of its occupation were decisive for the strengthening of ties between the Zionist Commission and the Jewish community of Damascus. Until November 1919, Damascus, like Palestine, fell under the jurisdiction of the British military re´gime, organised as the Occupied Enemy Territory Administration (OETA), a fact that facilitated direct contact between the two sides, since the Zionist Commission, headed by Chaim Weizmann (1874– 1952), and its representatives received the rights of free and unlimited travel, investigation, and surveying in an area that was still defined clearly as military territory.3 Indirect contact began with the pleas of the Palestinian e´migre´ leaders directed at the heads of the Yishuv and, through them, at the Zionist Commission for help making quick arrangements for the return of the deportees both through intervention with the British authorities and through material assistance.4 The first direct interaction between the Zionist Commission and the Jewish community of Damascus took place when Joseph Laniado, a leader of the community, became involved in the transfer of the aid money.5 David Yellin continued to act on behalf of the Jewish community even after he returned to Palestine in October 1918. Although he concentrated his activity at this time on securing aid for the exiles’ return, he also worked to bring the Zionist Commission’s attention to Damascus Jewry’s state of affairs.6 He detailed the condition of the community and the importance of the exiles’ activity within it before Dr David Montagu Eder (1865–1936), who served as head of the commission in Weizmann’s absence. He even demanded that the Zionist Commission provide swift funding for a doctor and medical aid. The Zionist Commission first responded hesitantly, since it was not yet clear whether its mandate included responsibility for Damascus. As a result, it forwarded the aid requests to Nahum

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Sokolow in London, noting that Yellin would be returning to Damascus in the coming days and it was advisable that he bring with him some financial assistance.7 The trip made by Yellin and Jack (Yaʿaqov) Mosseri (1884– 1934), the Zionist Commission’s secretary for Damascus, was intended primarily to organise the return of the e´migre´s.8 However, when it became apparent to the Zionist Commission that the mission might also be able to deal with the local community, the two were asked to report on its situation in terms of housing conditions, health, education, and employment.9 Yellin and Mosseri reached Damascus during the second week of December 1918. Despite their orders to refrain from promising official aid to the community, they received 600 Egyptian pounds (EGP) for its urgent needs.10 This money went towards the following expenses: supporting orphaned students; clothing for orphans; a public kitchen for orphans; supporting needy religious scholars; paying the salary of the hahambas¸ı Jacob Danon;11 contributing to the synagogue for the beadles and the escorts of the chief rabbi (Ott. Tur. kavas); purchasing annual subscriptions to the five Arabic newspapers for the Qadimah national club’s library; and statistical expenses.12 However, their main task was to write a report, submitted to the Zionist Commission in the middle of December 1918, which described the physical and spiritual condition of the local community and its urgent needs in the aftermath of the war. The writers of the report determined that, according to various estimates, the community numbered between 15 to 17,000 individuals out of a total Arab population of 300 to 400,000. The Jews, the report stated, are concentrated in the Jewish Quarter on the eastern side of the city. Only two families, Laniado and Totah, ˙ ˙ ˙ were defined as wealthy, while 300 others were said to have belonged to the middle class. The remainder were described as poor, living in congestion and deprivation.13 The report’s authors further highlighted the fact that the number of women in the community exceeded that of men and they posited that this was a consequence of the emigration of numerous heads of household to the Americas and of the large number of conscripts who had yet to return home. As a

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result, many women and children were left without a breadwinner. According to Yellin and Mosseri, an even harsher phenomenon was the considerable number of orphans wandering the streets. They further emphasised that the sizeable number of working women in Damascus was exceptional compared to any other Middle Eastern city. These women were not only engaged in ‘feminine’ jobs as cooks and housekeepers, but some of them were also employed as labourers in cigarette factories or in workshops specialising in Damascus handicrafts. Despite their difficult labour, the report’s authors noted, their salaries were much smaller and they were exploited by their employers. The report stated that even children engaged as labourers received difficult and undesirable tasks for a trifling salary. In the opinion of Yellin and Mosseri, the cultural condition of the community was also far from satisfactory. Owing to the emigration of the youth, most of the population belonged to an older generation. There were hardly any immigrants from Europe and the few young educated Jews were graduates of the AIU schools. The report stated that the majority of the members of the community knew only Arabic and only a small number knew a little Hebrew. Damascus Jewry’s low cultural and financial standing could be attributed, the authors argued, to the community’s inferior status in the city. Thus, for example, most government officials were Muslim, while a small amount were Christian, but only a handful were Jewish. As a result, the Jewish community’s involvement in local political processes could hardly be felt; in fact, the report declared, there was no participation whatsoever. Moreover, while Muslims possessed five newspapers and the Christians had two, there was no Jewish press activity. The community organisation, as described in the report, was also found lacking. Pointing to the lack of cultural activity in the community, Yellin and Mosseri accused the Damascus Jews, as individuals, of selfishness and of shirking communal interests. The only institutions that existed were the synagogues. In terms of sanitation and health, the situation as reflected in the report was also inadequate—there was, for example, only one pharmacy that had opened 15 years earlier.14 If that was not enough, even its budgetary allowance was insufficient to provide for the distribution of

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medication to the many destitute inhabitants. In this regard, the report’s authors further pointed out that the treating physician was not even Jewish. Nor did they have much praise, to put it mildly, for the leadership of the chief rabbi Danon, describing him as ‘a rabbi of the old generation’, for whom the communal good was not a top priority. The report revealed that the communal council, operating alongside the rabbi, had been functioning improperly and without holding elections for years. Indeed, only after it had been re-organised at the start of October 1918 at the encouragement of the Palestinian exiles did it turn a new page.15 The communal council (Ottoman. Tur. meclis-i cismani) in turn established subcommittees tasked with various responsibilities, such as the protection of young girls, assistance for orphans, a burial society, sick aid, the rabbinate, the religious court, the treasury, taxation, and so forth. Alongside them, veteran societies such as Shevet Ahim, a mutual aid society, ˙ distributed supplies to the poor and so forth. Shortly before the writing of the report, the members of this society had begun collecting money to establish a fund for purchasing land in Palestine. On the other hand, the report did describe the positive influence of the Palestinian e´migre´s during the course of World War I. The Qadimah nationalist club, founded at their initiative at the end of October 1918, began to fulfil its mission of cultural and social restoration of the community, and the Jewish Quarter slowly began to adopt a new social character. Hebrew classes, which attracted young male and female participants aged 25 to 30, were officially sponsored. Its promoters planned a range of lessons that would last for about six months, at the end of which the students would have a total command of Hebrew. The Qadimah members even hoped that they might be able to declare Hebrew the official language of the club as a result. The report also detailed the wide-ranging activities of the ʿIvriyyah committee in inculcating the Hebrew language among Damascus’ young and the latter’s great interest in its undertakings. While, in the past, Damascenes had perceived the Hebrew greeting ‘shalom’ as ludicrous, now, Yellin and Mosseri wrote, the study of that language had become fashionable.16 The report’s authors similarly

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described the activity of the Maccabi association, which, in addition to its athletic undertakings, encouraged the spread of Hebrew. The report painted a bleak picture of the state of communal education. Many children did not attend any educational institution at all and hundreds of them wandered the streets. Yellin and Mosseri blamed, among other things, the condition of the schools. Two religious schools, Douer and Du¯rah, operated, in their eyes, according to ‘the old method’. Between 80 and 100 students ranging from six to 12 years of age sat in a dark and unventilated room, crowded and sitting on the ground. These children, the report indicated, were barefoot and dressed in rags. Since only one rabbi-instructor was provided for such a large number of children, it was no surprise that but a few of them succeeded in learning anything. Likewise, French and mathematics were taught without much success at the religious schools, since there was only one teacher instructing these subjects. Two AIU schools also operated within the community, but most of their student body came from financial elite. Instruction at those schools took place in French and Arabic, while Hebrew classes, which included the teaching of prayers and a scarce amount of the Bible, were offered by a rabbi. Nevertheless, the report noted, at the initiative and with the funding of the exiles’ education committee, a Hebrew teacher who graduated from the teachers seminary in Jerusalem began working at the boys’ school. Yet, according to the writers of the report, this was not enough to promote the study of the Hebrew language sufficiently.17 By contrast, Yellin and Mosseri praised the Hebrew schools and kindergarten, while noting the difficulties in their operation. Those attending the boys’ school, which had previously been a religious school, were mostly students from the lower class of Jewish society and in order to achieve broader influence, they believed it was necessary to reach the children of the upper echelons. This was done in the girls’ school, where the student body largely came from wealthy and privileged families. The report’s authors attributed greatest value to the kindergarten, which they saw as a model educational institution and they called for the founding of another three or four such national kindergartens. In this matter, the authors

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strayed from the bounds of writing of a simple survey of the status of the community and proposed steps to assist it and bring it closer to the Zionist idea. According to Yellin and Mosseri, the establishment of kindergartens for boys would help attract more children away from traditional rabbinical education. They called for the expansion of the ʿIvriyyah committee’s activity and for despatching more Palestinian teachers to Damascus to this end. In order to highlight the necessity and urgency of such action, they pointed out that the Arab government, which was preparing to deal with the matter of education, intended to found mixed schools for Muslims, Christians, and Jews. The educators at these schools, which were being modelled after similar ones in Europe, would be a Muslim shaykh, Christian priest, and Jewish rabbi. Although the government did not address the existing educational institutions, the authors of the report feared that it was likely that the Jewish children occupying the streets would be tempted to enrol in the Arab schools. Referring to the nationalist endeavour in Damascus, Yellin and Mosseri described the environment as positive for Zionism. Aside from the members of the clearly Zionist organisations like Qadimah, ʿIvriyyah, and Maccabi, the members of the Shevet Ahim society, who ˙ were mostly merchants, were also deemed enthusiastic Zionists ‘who love and dream about the Land of Israel’. Indeed, the members of Shevet Ahim sought to promote Zionism and, as a first step, they transferred to ˙ the Zionist Commission sums of money that they had collected for the Jewish National Fund (JNF) and the Zionist sheqel. One of the difficulties facing the nationalist enterprise in Damascus was the stance of the Arab government, which saw all inhabitants of Damascus, including the Jews, as Syrian Arabs. In a meeting with Mosseri, ʿAli Rida¯ʾ Pa¯sha¯ al-Rika¯bı¯ (1868– 1943), the ˙ Arab military governor of Damascus, stated that he did not recognise Jews as a nationality and that he saw Muslims, Christians, and Jews all as Syrian Arabs. He even added that, in his opinion, Damascus Jewry did not favour Zionism. Nevertheless, the subjective feeling of Yellin and Mosseri was that there was a desire among the middle class to emigrate to Palestine and buy lands there, as evidenced by the fact that they even sent three representatives to assess the various options.

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Al-Rika¯bı¯ did express his sympathy for the Jewish enterprise in Palestine and for co-operation with the Palestine Arabs and he noted his favourable attitude towards the Jews of Damascus, whom he saw as a peaceful and positive community. He also commented approvingly on the establishment of Hebrew educational institutions, Hebrew language instruction, and aid societies in the community. According to al-Rika¯bı¯, Zionist activity in Palestine was positive, so long as it took place in co-operation with the Arab population.18 At the request of the two, al-Rika¯bi repeated his sympathetic statements to the communal notables and urged them to restore their community. The ambivalent nature of the allegedly favourable attitude of the Arab authorities to the Jews found expression in the fact that, up until the involvement of Yellin and Mosseri, they distributed food products after the war at a reduced price only to Muslims and Christians, but not to Jews. The local British authorities aided Yellin and Mosseri in fulfilling their task and the political officer Kinahan Cornwallis (1883– 1959) and other senior officers even participated in welcome gatherings and banquets thrown for the two. Yellin and Mosseri describe the week in which they stayed in Damascus as ‘a week of celebrations’. The Jewish population, which was starved for any news about the goings-on in Palestine, did anything it could to get close to them. Festive evenings hosted in their honour at the Qadimah nationalist club and the Maccabi club saw the participation of community notables who did not hesitate to declare themselves ‘nationalist Jews’. The walls of the clubs were covered with Shields of David, pictures of Herzl, and Hebrew inscriptions.19 Mosseri and Yellin also sat in on the meetings of the communal council and Mosseri’s command of Arabic helped them find a sympathetic ear amongst the members of the community who generally did not speak another language. Mosseri, one of the leaders of Egyptian Zionism, described communal activity and Zionism in Egypt and urged the members of the council to follow their footsteps. The report indicates that its authors were convinced of the importance of the ties between the city’s Jews and the Zionist enterprise and they felt strongly that the Zionist Commission should adopt responsibility for the Damascus community. Therefore, the report took two principle directions: emphasis on the dire condition

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of the Damascene community and stress on its enthusiasm for Zionism, as well as its maturity and willingness to join and contribute to the national endeavour. The conclusions drawn by Mosseri and Yellin concentrated on the significance of the nationalist programme in Damascus. According to them, this could be achieved through Palestinian emissaries operating in Damascus, while, in the long run, they suggested sending Damascene students to the teachers seminary in Jerusalem. Thus, it seems that, for them, the most important priority was to maintain a constant and direct link between the Zionist Commission and the Damascus community, especially in order to prepare local individuals to engage with the Syrian Arab government.20

An alternative solution—Rabbi Uziel’s survey The Zionist Commission did not rely upon the Yellin-Mosseri report alone, but used each visit by a senior figure to Damascus as an opportunity to re-evaluate the condition of the local Jewish community. At the start of February 1919, Jack Mosseri departed again on a mission to the Jewish communities of Syria. This time, he was accompanied by Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel (1880–1953), ˙ who was then the hahambas¸ı of Jaffa. The instructions given to the two were nearly identical to those given to Yellin and Mosseri a month and a half earlier. However, this time, the two were given permission to guarantee the Jewish community official assistance from the Zionist Commission.21 In addition, the commission again sent petitions to the various military governors of Syrian cities, describing the assignment of the two as an ‘aid mission’, in which they were requested to assess the relief needs, to found a local council for dealing with aid matters, and to help establish other Jewish institutions that might be needed. Yet, Mosseri and Uziel did not receive any money for immediate assistance for the communities.22 Uziel and Mosseri reached Damascus on 5 February 1919 and began touring the community and its institutions and meeting with individuals and Zionist organisations. Mosseri, who had already submitted a report on the community to the Zionist Commission,

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left the writing of the new report to Uziel. Most instructive is the comparison of the two reports; although their content is nearly identical, there are differences in emphasis, orders of priority, and perceptions. This was Uziel’s first encounter with Damascus and his impressions were therefore his initial ones, without any preformed opinions.23 Unlike the previous document, Uziel’s six-page report on his three-day stay in Damascus was not typed and it bears the title ‘travel notes (rishmey massaʿ )’, rather than ‘report (din we-heshbon)’.24 ˙ While Yellin and Mosseri had commenced their report with a survey of the physical condition of the community, Uziel began by reviewing education in the city, explaining that ‘in order to know the [level of] enlightenment and intellectualism of the Damascene community, I turned first to its educational institutions, a place where the Hebrew soul is created and whence the members of this community draw their spiritual strength’.25 His impression of the communal religious schools adhering to the old format was severely critical. As a result, he thought it necessary to bring them under the ægis of the Hebrew educational system despite the difficulties entailed in doing so—but not without adding: ‘yet, it is necessary to consider [the fact] that almost all the parents insist that the schools be completely religious and that they instruct both Torah and the prayers’.26 From his Zionist-national point of view, Uziel was not satisfied with the level of Hebrew instruction and Jewish history taught in all the schools and he, like his predecessors, emphasised the large number of orphans and the general economic condition that led to the moral decline. He even criticised, albeit in soft tones, the chief rabbi Danon for his powerlessness and for attributing the blame for the community’s poverty to others. Uziel’s report was written in a personal style and on more than one occasion, he revealed his own feelings openly.27 He was so disturbed that he reached a negative conclusion regarding the possibility of rehabilitating the community through Zionist activity in Damascus and offered instead a different proposal than that of his predecessors: We came to the realisation that an organising power and industrious worker is needed to be constantly present in

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Damascus in order to bring order and to restore public life, but I very much doubt whether it is possible to realise this proposal. So what can be done to rebuild Damascus? My suggestion is to bring the mass of young males and females to our country and to employ them in working the land or in any other jobs. These youths are content with little, but work hard. It would be highly desirable to found here [in Palestine] a weaving factory and to bring such young people, who are known for this craft. The Palestinian environment can extract [their] Arabism and can immerse them into the spirit of national life. It would also be advantageous to bring such youths and to integrate them here [in Palestine] and to teach them various craftworks and, in particular, it is most advisable to bring the orphans here and to educate them on Torah and crafts, so as to return them to Damascus to [serve as] teachers and artisans. Over all, the most efficient help is that of a profession, which sustains its practitioner and, through this, we can raise their spirits and lift them out of the depths into which they have sunk.28 In other words, Uziel saw the critical part of the solution as bringing the young generation to Palestine, rather than investing in the Jewish population of Damascus as a whole. Any investment in Damascus needed to be directed, in his opinion, towards drawing the younger members of the community to emigrating to the Land of Israel.

An all-inclusive solution—Hecker’s plan The engineer Wilhelm Hecker (1876– 1945) served as an officer in the Ottoman army in Damascus during World War I.29 When the Migration Committee was established there, he joined its board and, after the withdrawal of the Turks from Syria, Hecker, who had previously been an office manager in Jaffa, was left without any source of income. In desperation, he requested, through the Palestine Office, to receive a loan from the Zionist Commission in order to open a technical office in Damascus.30 At the same time, he conceived and initiated a comprehensive master plan for the rehabilitation,

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expansion, and development of the Jewish Quarter and tried to interest the Zionist Commission in it.31 Since this document was not a general survey, but a proposal for a practical solution, Hecker focused in the introduction to his plan on describing the state of affairs of the Jewish community only in the relevant fields. He claimed that merely building educational and welfare structures was not sufficient, but rather that a true solution to the problem of poverty entailed resolving the housing problem through large-scale construction, the expansion of the Jewish Quarter, and the organisation of sanitation. According to Hecker, only such actions could ensure that that other relief works would not be in vain. Hecker’s opinion on Damascus Jewry, and especially on its notables, was not positive and he did not expect them to help themselves.32 Nevertheless, he was aware that his plan could only come to fruition through co-operation with the people of Damascus and he was willing to put his experience towards recruiting them to the task. Since he anticipated numerous difficulties, he thought it wise, prior to beginning in wide-scale activities such as the expansion of the Jewish Quarter, to focus on preparations for the job. The gist of his proposal was (a) the collection and distribution of resources for the purchase of hundreds of decares (Ott. Tur. do¨nu¨m) of gardens bordering the Jewish Quarter; (b) the construction of buildings, some of which would serve as public structures and the majority of which would be used as housing for the benefit of the Jewish population; and (c) requesting the authorities to convert fallow land lying near the Jewish Quarter to a public square and to connect it to the electric tramway, which would then cross the Jewish Quarter and link it closer with various other city centres. The benefit to be gained from the implementation of his plan would be felt in several areas. The investment in the land would generate great profits for the Jewish community in the future, the Jewish Quarter could expand, its sanitary conditions would improve, the old homes would be gradually abandoned and destroyed, and the new generation would gain cleaner air and engage in healthy employment. He concluded by stating: ‘Certainly, there is no doubt that this very matter will greatly facilitate the spread of national ideals and ideas among the Jews of Damascus.’33

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In 1919, the Zionist Commission was focused on rebuilding following the great destruction of the war. Therefore, even in Palestine, not much money was invested, at least in that year, in the development of urban settlement. During this period, it refrained from redeveloping and expanding what already existed.34 If such was the policy with respect to Palestine, it was all the more so when it came to Damascus. Thus, Hecker’s plan was rejected both for budgetary reasons and for substantive criticism.35 Out of the three different proposals presented to the Zionist Commission, it chose to adopt the Yellin-Mosseri plan, which called for rehabilitative activities in the existing Jewish Quarter.

Response of the Jewish community of Damascus to the Zionist overtures An analysis of the response of Damascus Jewry to the visit by Yellin and Mosseri reveals that the report that the latter submitted was entirely objective and not influenced by the agenda of its authors. The local community was largely swept up in enthusiasm for Zionism following the Balfour Declaration (2 November 1917) and the British capture of Palestine and Damascus. Likewise, rumours about the wealth of the Zionist movement and the Damascenes’ hopes to benefit from it for the purpose of rebuilding contributed to their fervour for Zionism. Nevertheless, one cannot discount the role played by Zionist institutions, which took an interest in the Jewish community, and the frequent visits by Zionist leaders to the city, which flattered the members of the community who felt as though they were being rescued from the margins to which they had been thrust ever since the economic collapse of 1875.36 Indeed, following the Yellin-Mosseri mission, a number of Jewish figures of importance in Damascus society became involved in Zionist activity. Nissim Bek ʿAdes, the chief director of the Hija¯z Railway, Yaakov Moshli (1885– 1952), its ˙ chief inspector, and the lawyer and merchant Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, who also served as a jurist in the trade court, were admitted as honorary members of the Qadimah national club.37 There were even attempts to convert this enthusiasm into practical applications such as the

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founding of a new association, affiliated with the communal council, the ‘Branch of the City Council for the Improvement of the Schools and Establishment of New Schools, Orphanages, and Zionist Matters’.38 Heading this organisation was Barukh Paʾis, who had worked tirelessly for the development of Hebrew national education in Damascus prior to World War I. In the efforts to stabilise Hebrew education in the city, he did not wait for outside aid, but initiated independently and at his own financial cost the opening of an orphanage in Damascus. Paʾis also attracted many members of the community to his work, a fact not lost upon Uziel, who deemed him ‘the living spirit of the council . . . he is the worker and renewer, his aspirations are great . . .’39 Yet, for unclear reasons, Paʾis decided to leave Damascus. Prior to his departure, he laid out in a report to the Zionist Commission the condition of the community and even offered suggestions for dealing with its problems.40 Among these proposals were the development of new educational institutions, the distribution of books to students, the supply of clothing and free meals to poor children, the establishment of workshops for young boys and girls to learn a trade, the opening of orphanages and public kitchens for the indigent and the elderly, the distribution of clothes to the needy, the setting up of a loan fund to assist craftsmen to operate independently or to unionise to oppose the large factories. In his conclusion, Paʾis offered a response to the claim that Zionist institutions did not need to concern themselves with Jewish communities outside Palestine and that the Damascenes should help themselves: To those [who say this], I reply: (a) Damascus is not like other countries in its attitude towards Zionism. Damascus is located on the border of Palestine and it [would be] a great shame if we would have brethren so close to us in such a condition. I state openly—and it is possible that the people of Damascus will begrudge me in their hearts for my words—however, I shall say [it]: the Jewish name is [synonymous] with shame and disrepute amongst all the [city’s] residents, not in terms of the Jewish faith, but in the sense of a person at a moral nadir.

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(b) We have no hope that someone from one of the other societies might come to our aid, as they came, for example, to assist the Armenians or others here. It is even a disgrace for us to ask [help] of strangers, since they might demand our souls [i.e., conversion] as payment in return for assistance. If we had turned to the Arab government, we would clearly have seen that it would have ‘certainly’ come to our aid . . . nor can we hope that the [Jewish] Damascenes will help themselves. It is well known that the Orientals have not become accustomed to giving and, second, as mentioned above, there are no more than a few families countable on one hand (asher naʿar yikhtevem) who, even had they desired to do so, could help. The best [solution] in my opinion is to send someone permanent here, who will be charged with arranging everything that I proposed above.41 Enthusiasm and pro-Zionist tendency did not affect only the communal leadership, but spread to the more popular strata of society as well. The Hebrew language became fashionable and the ability to hold a conversation in Hebrew became a source of pride. The demand for Hebrew study came from the popular classes and the cultural elite alike.42 The visits of Jewish soldiers, identified by the blue shields of David on their forearms, sparked excitement and pride among the locals.43 Each Zionist figure who arrived in Damascus over the course of the year was received with a celebratory welcome and passionate speeches. A further expression of Jewish national pride and Zionist identification can be found in the naming of the main street in the Jewish Quarter, ‘Herzl Street’.44

Initial measures of assistance—health and sanitation services Following the Yellin –Mosseri report, the Zionist Commission became convinced that it needed to treat the Damascus community as an inseparable part of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine. The commission began to take immediate practical steps to provide

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assistance to the Jews of Damascus, while simultaneously trying to obtain financial means for this purpose. An official monthly budget proposal of 800 Egyptian pounds was presented for the needs of Damascus Jewry, intended to cover such expenses as the clothing and feeding of orphans, support for the existing educational institutions and the founding of other ones, evening classes, salaries for special teachers for the evening classes, the preparation of student candidates for training at the teachers college in Jerusalem, the salary for the Hebrew teacher at the AIU school, social work, maintenance of an office, and support for the Torah scholars.45 However, the area in which the Zionist Commission concentrated its activity was health and sanitation, which was seen, on the one hand, as the most urgent matter and, on the other, as the one in which problems could be solved most quickly and cheaply. Funding for health services for Palestine proper came primarily from the American Zionist Medical Unit of Hadassah, the Women’s Zionist Organisation of America, in the summer of 1918. As an independent organisation, Hadassah was not a puppet in the hands of the Zionist Commission, which allocated less than a third of the money in its budget to medical activity.46 While Yellin and Mosseri were in Damascus, the Zionist Commission had begun working to appoint Dr Aryeh Leib Efron (1887– 1969) as the doctor and director of the health clinic planned for Damascus.47 For a monthly salary of 15 Egyptian pounds, paid by the Zionist Commission, Efron agreed also to serve as the supervising doctor for the Jewish schools in Damascus and, as such, he was required to make rounds at each school every day. He also committed to devote two hours a day to seeing patients in the clinic.48 The communal council was not asked to contribute financially to the funding of Efron’s activities, but it did commit to facilitating him in carrying out his task by providing for optimal conditions.49 On 9 February 1919, Dr Efron opened his clinic and received full cooperation from the community. At the latter’s request, which Mosseri supported, the doctor agreed to pay house calls to sick patients.50 About two weeks after Efron commenced his activity in Damascus, the military physician Giacomo Artom (1872– 1954) visited the city and prepared for the Zionist Commission a detailed

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and gloomy survey of the sanitary conditions of the community.51 The Jewish Quarter was, according to him, filthy and terribly densely populated. He attributed this sad situation to the economic state of the community. Due to the absence of many wage earners, many young women left the district to for work in Arab restaurants and cafe´s, where they were forced to work until the late hours of the night, surrounded by Arab masses from the lowest social classes. The moral decay in such places could, he thought, lead to the spread of diseases among such girls—of course, in addition to undermining the morality and honour of the Jewish community.52 Nevertheless, Artom had only words of praise for Efron’s effort and suggestions for improving his work.53 Requests for the supply of urgent needs, such as a pharmacist, a midwife, and headmistress for the orphanage, were also sent to the Zionist Commission. After two months of pleading, the commission decided to approve the hiring of a nurse to work alongside Efron. It appears that a significant factor in the reaching of this decision was the burden that had accumulated upon Efron, owing to the closure of the English hospital and the American clinic, which had treated patients regardless of religion out of missionising motivations.54 In any event, the arrival of a medical aide could not help much. The principal of the Zionist boys’ school in Damascus, Yehudah Burla (1886– 1969), described things as such: It appears that the nurse (who is a woman of advanced years and understanding) will leave Damascus because she is unable to live here [original emphasis]. This is not hyperbole—there is no place for her to eat a European meal and she suffers from anguish like many other teachers. By the way, when [someone] from the education committee comes to [visit] us for a week, they will see with their own eyes the poverty of Damascus and its foreignness for person of European culture.55

Restoration of philanthropic activity In the first months after World War I, the prices of basic food commodities in Damascus skyrocketed, impeding the rehabilitation

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and development efforts taking place in the already impoverished community. Shortly before Passover 1919, the president of the community, Moses Hayyim Totah, and the chief rabbi Danon ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ appealed to the Zionist Commission and the Jaffa municipal council with an urgent request for food.56 This request demonstrates the belief of Damascus Jewry’s leadership that it could henceforth rely upon the support of the Zionist Commission without exerting any effort on its part. Therefore, the communal council did not even bother to collect the Passover tax, known as the qimha de-Pisha (lit., Aram. ˙ ˙ ‘Passover flour’), from the city’s notables. Even two weeks prior to the start of Passover, the heads of the community continued to rely solely upon the Zionist Commission and, in a masked ‘threat’, it announced that, without its help, ‘it is untenable that, God forbid, the poor might eat unleavened bread, Heaven forfend’.57 And indeed, the Zionist Commission ultimately supplied the requested delivery.58 As noted above, through its various emissaries, the Zionist Commission transferred cash aid money to the Damascus Jewish communal council. In the period between January and July 1919, it sent nearly 1,000 EGP for relief work in Damascus.59 These funds were intended primarily for medical assistance, for the care of orphans, and for the distribution of food to the needy. The opening of an orphanage was, as stated, the fruit of the endeavour of Barukh Paʾis, who made it his responsibility to pay the rent of the building for three years and even established an endowment for this purpose. In addition to his contribution were those of other donors, but the lion’s share of the initial budget for the orphans and to found a public kitchen (350 EGP), came from the Zionist Commission, by means of Yellin and Mosseri.60 The orphanage opened in April 1919. Since Paʾis was about to leave Damascus, a committee was appointed in his place; its members included Joseph Joel Rivlin, the principal of the Hebrew girl’s school, Efron, and the kindergarten teacher Schlomith Frieda Flaum (1893 –1963).61 Upon their appointment, they asked the Zionist Commission to finance the orphanage’s budget, since, despite the community’s support for the institution, it was unable to bankroll it. After detailing the good that such an institution could do for the community and for the Zionist

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Figure 2 Barukh Pa’is (centre of the picture) with orphans, 1919. (Source: CZA, PHG\1023054).

movement, they wrote: ‘We hope that the Zionist Commission, which tends for institutions of this sort throughout Palestine, will also attend to a large city of 15,000 Jews such as Damascus and will certainly take upon itself to underwrite this budget.’62 The orphanage was not the only philanthropic institution founded in Damascus in 1919. The growing involvement of the young generation in the Zionist movement in its various forms also contributed to attempts at communal restoration. One of the painful problems facing the community was, as stated above, the descent of its girls to the social margins of the city. For many years, the community sought to fight this phenomenon without much success. Yet, when young religious Damascenes joined the religious Zionist MiZRaHI (Merkaz Ruhani, Heb. ‘Spiritual Centre’) movement, this ˙ ˙ goaded them into further action in this matter.63 However, such activity required large sums of money which they community lacked and, therefore, it appealed to the Zionist Commission with another aid request. For some reason, whether for a budgetary shortage or other considerations, the Zionist Commission rebuffed this petition.64 At this point, it is therefore possible to determine with

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certainty that Zionist Commission’s philanthropic aid the to the Damascus community in the first half of 1919 reflected not a comprehensive programme of restoring the latter, but rather an effort to provide focused and temporary solutions to problems that arose, without any long-term planning. More drastic change began in September 1919, with the entry of the Joint Distribution Committee into the arena of relief work in Damascus. This organisation had initiated its activities in Palestine already during the course of World War I and expanded them after the Zionist Commission commenced operation. The transfer of the JDC’s money was done by means of the Zionist Commission’s Aid Department.65 The spreading of the commission’s activity to Damascus also led to the involvement of the JDC. On 11 August 1919, Rabbi Aaron Teitelbaum (1890–1950), the JDC’s representative, reached Damascus.66 The lawyer Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, a member of the communal council, together with Joseph Joel Rivlin, prepared for him a detailed report on the condition of the community, as well as suggestions for improving the situation.67 The solutions contained within the report included the on-going funding of the orphanage and the founding of other orphanages and public kitchens for children, the elderly, and the poor, the setting up of a Jewish hospital and pharmacy, the maintenance of a full-time midwife, the establishment of a bathhouse, and the maintenance of a bacteriological laboratory for the diagnosis of diseases. As an answer to the problem of the moral decline of the community’s girls, ʿAbba¯dı¯ proposed founding a Jewish-owned sewing factory, while he recommended establishing tailor’s and cobbler’s workshops and financing apprenticeship and training at the factories in order to relieve the economic distress of the young males. ʿAbba¯dı¯ was not content with rehabilitative activity, but called upon the JDC to sponsor young Damascene males and females seeking to travel to Palestine in order to complete their studies.68 Teitelbaum accepted the proposals and ordered the immediate establishment of the necessary charitable institutions. He transferred the sum of 1,350 EGP to ʿAbba¯dı¯ for this purpose and even appointed him to supervise these activities at a monthly salary of 40 EGP.69 The latter went to work and within a short span of time had set up orphanages, sewing and cobbler’s workshops,

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and a public kitchen that fed about 100 indigent children each day.70 In addition, funds were allocated for the salary of a midwife who resided permanently in the town.71

Educational activity Towards the end of its operation in Damascus, the Palestinian Education Committee took charge of planning the 1918 – 9 academic year for the city’s Hebrew schools. One of the measures it took was the establishment of a local education committee, comprised of both native individuals and Palestinian teachers who worked in Damascus.72 Its pedagogical mission was to change the nature and character of the Damascene Jew, in accordance with the model devised by the New Yishuv in Palestine. Since, at the root of the educational plan was a desire to raise a new generation on the basis of Zionist Hebrew national identification, it outlined two major prongs of action: (a) the creation of a pool of local educators who would be trained in the teachers’ seminary in Jerusalem and would return to fulfil their pedagogical mission in their city of birth;73 and (b) the import of Palestinian teachers and principals. Indeed, the latter arrived in late December 1918. One can discern the significance of this group and the hopes placed upon it from Yellin’s description of it as a ‘new Hebrew battalion’.74 In addition to these teachers, the Education Committee also sent two teachers for each of the religious schools, which were still operating outside the Hebrew educational system, and the amount of 500 EGP for initial educational expenses. The purpose and role of the Palestinian teachers were the instruction and imparting of knowledge, alongside management and organisation of Zionist activity on a communal level. Local forces also participated in the publicity campaign in advance of the re-opening of the Hebrew schools. Thus, for example, members of Tehiyyah took a most active part in this activity. During the festival ˙ of Tabernacles 1918, they organised a party with the participation of the community notables. They presented a play in Hebrew, followed by an Arabic one containing Hebrew content. Likewise, they gave speeches praising the schools and the Hebrew language.75

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Heading the delegation of Hebrew teachers were Yehudah Burla, appointed to serve as principal of the Hebrew boys’ school that already existed, and Joseph Joel Rivlin, who went to fill the position of principal at the girls’ school—which he needed to establish almost from scratch.76 The fact that this group had two leaders would later generate tension and personal conflict that impaired them from fulfilling their task.77 The people of Damascus were not terribly excited at the start when Rivlin and Burla arrived. They preferred that Yis´raʾel Eytan, who had served as principal of the Hebrew school from 1917 and earned the trust and support of the both the veteran and young generations, remain in his position and not return to the Hebrew Gymnasium in Jerusalem. They were supported in this position by the veteran teachers, who pointed out the shortcomings of Burla and Rivlin, who were unable to fill Eytan’s shoes, primarily due to their inability to speak French and since they were often in disagreement with one another. The communal council also sought to retain Eytan. However, during the first stage, the new principals’ passion for the job and the greatness of the task overshadowed personal rivalries. Burla and Rivlin themselves acknowledged that they were at that time ‘full of vigour for the work’ and that ‘they considered Damascus and their assignment there as missionary work, that they needed to force-feed the community Hebrew culture’.78 Indeed, immediately upon their arrival in Damascus, sensing that the community was inclined to accept the authority of the Zionist Commission and its direction, Burla proposed swift action to reorganise the educational system, which would transform it into a long-lasting, clearly Hebrew programme.79 Burla’s suggestion was supported by Paʾis’ plan to close the two old religious schools and transfer their students to the Hebrew schools, which would thus be expanded and their maintenance would come from the Zionist Commission funds. This scheme, raised on 10 January 1919, about ten days after the teachers arrived, was implemented two months later, when the Zionist Commission transferred officially all the old educational institutions to the administration of the Palestine Education Committee.80 The success of the Hebrew schools was dizzying. Intoxicated from the environment of national revival and greatly impressed by the

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large sums of money, the means, and the man-power heaped upon their community by the Zionist Commission, the members of the Jewish community of Damascus sent their children to the schools, which turned into a social status symbol. By the end of 1919, the Zionist educational system had encompassed most of the Damascene children enrolled in school.81 Although the AIU boys’ school reopened in October 1918, most of the parents removed their children from the boys’ and girls’ schools and sent them instead to the Hebrew ones.82 Even those students remaining in the AIU schools received special evening lessons aimed at teaching them Hebrew and imbuing them with Zionist values.83 The Hebrew schools were spared at this stage any competition with the various missionary schools which had all closed in the course of World War I. Such rivalry was only renewed in October 1919 with the opening of a new missionary school in the Jewish Quarter, which attracted numerous Jewish girls from the lower social classes by promising free clothing, food, and education to its students.84 In the struggle for the souls of the Jewish children and adults, the Hebrew teachers expanded their operations outside the walls of the schools and sent representatives to all the public, Zionist, and philanthropic associations in the community.85 These efforts involved the organisation of further nationalist activities. Every opportunity was seized for the sake of Zionist propaganda. Hebrew plays reworked from Biblical stories were staged and an assembly of the students at the Hebrew school was held on the public fast day of 17 Tammuz, which commemorates the breaking of the walls of Jerusalem by the Babylonians, in order to explain the significance of the day. On 20 Tammuz, the anniversary of Herzl’s deaths, the students were again gathered in the school auditorium, which was decorated with pictures of the Zionist leader, and the teachers lectured them about Herzl, his biography, and his accomplishment. Official events, assemblies, and banquets in the community concluded with the signing of the Zionist anthem ‘ha-Tiqwah’ (Heb. ‘The Hope’).86 Even the visits of Palestinian figures were exploited for the purpose of meetings at Zionist clubs such as Qadimah and Maccabi. Parades and gymnastic displays were organised in the Jewish Quarter

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Figure 3 Group of ‘Young Maccabi’ movement, 1923. (Source: Nahum Menahem private collection, Haifa). ˙

by youth groups like Maccabi, with the children and youth dressed in uniforms and wearing Zionist symbols.87 Another way to win over the Damascene hearts to Zionism was the organisation of festive evenings and special banquets for collecting donations for such bodies as the Jewish National Fund.88 The Zionist Commission emissary’s success in bringing the Zionist idea into the Jewish social elite of Damascus had a decisive impact on the positive attitude of the majority of Jewish society towards the Zionist enterprise. Recognising the power of the elite in determining the community’s attitude towards Zionism, Burla and Rivlin thought that the best way to influence them in the long run was to encourage the election of their supporters to the communal council and to join it themselves as full members. At the outset of their activity in Damascus, Burla and Rivlin were still divided on the question of the extent of their involvement in the internal affairs of the community. Burla advocated deep and immediate immersion, while Rivlin initially abstained, he

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claimed, to prevent jealousy and hatred.89 Nevertheless, the matter of including the local population in the educational steering committees revealed differences of opinion that grew more pronounced between the Palestinian Education Committee, which called for maximum involvement of the local community, and the teachers. The latter, young and enthusiastic, adhered to a fairly extreme Zionist educational outlook and did not give great consideration to the town’s officials and intellectuals; nevertheless, the situation did not reach a point of rupture and lack of co-operation until the end of 1919.90

Local political activity The period from the end of World War I until the decisions of the San Remo Conference of April 1920 on the political future of Syria and Palestine was characterised by ambiguity and intensive political activity by local elements. The war was a turning point not only in terms of Jewish and Zionist history, but also for that of the Arabs in the Middle East as a whole, and in Palestine and Syria in particular. From the Arab perspective, the end of Ottoman rule meant the end of what has been described by many in Arab historiography as ‘the long night’, which lasted for 400 years.91 The new situation generated by the establishment of an Arab government in Syria and the question of rule by the emir Faysal b. Husayn (1885– 1933) in Damascus ˙ ˙ presented the Zionist movement with a new challenge.92 The latter sought to prepare the political ground for the implementation of the Balfour Declaration. For this reason, the Zionist leader Chaim Weizmann (1874– 1952) worked vigorously to establish ties with Faysal in order to reach a position of agreement with him that would ˙ assist, Weizmann hoped, the Zionist movement to stand up to the Arab demands in Palestine.93 To this end, the Zionist Commission sought to establish in Damascus, at least within its Jewish society, a sympathetic environment for Zionism, and to exploit politically the familiarity of the heads of the Jewish community with central figures in Syrian Muslim public life. One must qualify this statement by emphasising that this was not a consolidated plan based upon a realistic political

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vision, but rather a local initiative. The activities were actually driven from the ground up—i.e., the Zionist Commission emissaries in Syria who turned their attentions to the political potential inherent in Damascus Jewry. By contrast, the most senior echelon of Zionists, which included individuals such as Weizmann and Menachem Ussishkin (1863–1941), who lived and worked for most of this period outside the region, understood the importance of Zionist activity in Damascus and of strong and friendly ties with the local Arab government; however, it did not place emphasis on establishing such links through the Jews of Damascus themselves. At the end of the summer of 1919, Weizmann appointed Dr Shlomo Felman (1892–1954) as ‘private agent’ of the Zionist Commission in Damascus, ignoring some leaders of the local Jewish community who had strong ties with Faysal’s court.94 Until the King-Crane ˙ Commission came to the area in the summer of 1919, the Zionist Commission had not contemplated the fact that the Zionist activity in Damascus might place the local community in a negative light and even expose it to danger from Arab nationalist forces.95 The organised and wide-scale anti-Zionist propaganda began in Damascus a month after the city’s capture by the British with the publication of a call to the Arab people under the banner, ‘Palestine is our land’.96 Palestine Arabs who moved to Damascus during the British occupation established there a nationalist organisation called al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯ (The Arab Club), which achieved in a short span of time a prominent position in Syrian political life.97 The struggle against Zionism was at the forefront of this movement’s agenda. However, during the first half of 1919, Damascus Jewry was perceived as Syrian Arabs belonging to the Jewish faith and, therefore, each time al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯ organised a protest or other action, the city’s Jews were required to demonstrate their loyalty to Syrian nationalism and brotherhood. In January 1919, this club began distributing antiZionist leaflets in Damascus and, at the end of the month, sent a letter of protest to the Jewish communal council, composed by the club as a response to the statement by French Foreign Minister Ste´phen Pichon (1857– 1933) in a speech on 29 December 1918 that France was placing Syria and Palestine under its protection. The militant Arab

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declaration, to which the Jewish community was asked to add its support, demanded broad Syrian autonomy, including over Palestine, without any European intervention, and threatened a war of life or death for Arab liberty.98 Rabbi Uziel and Mosseri, who were present at the communal council meeting that discussed the matter of signing this letter, expressed their opinion against joining the protest, which contradicted the Zionist claims in Palestine. Their arguments were as follows: A. We did not volunteer so far to join the Arabs and we cannot say that we will be recruited [to their campaign]. B. We do not wish under any circumstance to issue threats. C. What will we do if, according to this letter, they come tomorrow and demand that we join the Arab battalion? D. Even if this protest letter was written in a manner agreeable to us, we would [still] have had to refrain from signing it, since they did not consult us on its drafting or on the protest itself, and it is not honourable to sign everything presented to us.99 This last argument by the Zionist representatives was intended to give the Jewish community of Damascus an honourable way out in the event that the other contentions would not be useful. However, the stance of the leaders of Jewish society in Damascus was different. They had yet to internalise the Zionist idea and still did not know how much they could rely upon its representatives. Their ‘wisdom of survival’, which reflected life within an Arab-Muslim population that viewed Jews with contempt, the memories of the massacres carried out by Muslims against the Christian population in the past, and the Syrian nationalist linkage of Christians and Muslims in the present, was stronger than any Zionist argument. Added to that was the fact that the educated Jews read the antiZionist articles published daily in the Damascus press and sensed the growing ferment around them. Therefore, they justified signing the general protest letter, claiming that not adding their signatures would shift the anti-European and anti-Zionist anger of the Arab population against the local Jewish community. Uziel and Mosseri

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attempted to explain that such fears were misplaced, since it was as yet unclear who would control Damascus and there was no point in gambling on some local political interest group. But to no avail— the position of the communal leaders was clear and, according to Uziel, it reflected their low self-image.100 Indeed, the communal council ultimately signed al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯’s protest letter and the chief rabbi Danon even appended his own signature, unlike the Christian leaders of the city. It follows that, at this stage, despite the risk involved with identification with Zionism, Damascus Jewry agreed to accept help from the Zionist Commission in the fields of philanthropy and education. However, as a communal body, they refrained—at least in terms of lip-service—from identification with Zionist claims. Therefore, they preferred to demonstrate sympathy with the Arab inhabitants, even though the latter’s demands stood in direct contradiction to Zionist goals. The moment of truth arrived when the King-Crane Commission arrived in Damascus at the end of June 1919. This American delegation, which sought to gauge the desires of the residents of the region and the level of their agreement with the arrangements of rule and administration offered by the Western powers, invited all the heads of the ethnic and religious groups in Syria to give testimony. The Zionists came to lobby the commission, while Syrian Arabs, including those of Palestine, mobilised against them.101 On the eve of its arrival, a particularly harsh anti-Zionist air pervaded the city and articles in the press often blurred the terms ‘Zionist’ and ‘Jew’.102 Damascus Jewry found itself in a bind. On the one hand, in speeches given at various gatherings by Syrian nationalists, threats of massacring the Jews could be heard; on the other hand, various propaganda bulletins appealed to the Jews in an attempt to gain their support for the Syrian cause. Moreover, even the petitions and leaflets published in Damascus by the members of the various religious communities and political bodies both before and during the King-Crane Commission’s stay called for treating the Jews as part of the Syrian Arab nation. Thus, for example, in a notice titled ‘Independence or death (al-istiqla¯l aw al-mawt)’, with

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the subtitle in smaller letters, ‘The Hand of God is with the public (yad Alla¯h maʿ al-jama¯ʿah)’, the members of al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯ detailed their claims, including their opposition to Zionist emigration to Palestine. Yet, aside from this, it did not feature any anti-Jewish statements and ended with the slogan, ‘Religion for God and the [Syrian] homeland for all (al-dı¯n li-lla¯h wa-ʾl-watan li˙ l-jamı¯ʿ )’. Another flier, titled ‘Independent Syria, neither procuration nor mandate, but the noble Syrian people (Su¯riyya¯ mustaqallah, la¯ tawkı¯l la¯ wisa¯yah: ila¯ al-shaʿb al-Su¯rı¯ al-karı¯m)’, published by the ˙ Central Syrian Independence Association (Jamaʿiyyah al-Istiqla¯l alSu¯rı¯ al-Markaziyyah), called for the Syrian population to give the members of the King-Crane Commission their trust and to stand bravely before them with the message that all Syrians demand nothing short of full independence: ‘Tell them that the Muslim is the brother of the Christian and the Jew and that religion is for God and the [Syrian] homeland is for his children.’ The announcement even reassured the minorities by reminding them that Faysal had ˙ already promised they would receive more than just their rights and that the rule of law would prevail, making no distinctions based upon religion, race, or community. The notice concluded with an appeal by the Muslims, recalling their duty to see the minorities as brothers: You should know that your honour, your homeland, and your independence will be preserved by the deep affection and preparation that you show to your patriotic brethren; you should know that any profit that comes to your country will [only] be as a result of co-operation with them for the sake of the country.103 The great importance attached to the American commission of inquiry by the Zionist Commission and the reports about the goingson in Damascus spurred the Zionist leaders to reap the fruits of their investment. In an attempt to present a united front of Syrian and Palestinian Jewry, Elmaleh was appointed by the Zionist Commission as an envoy to the Syrian communities. He was charged with preparing the Damascus Jews to present a Zionist nationalist stance

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before the King-Crane Commission. Elmaleh described the feelings of the Jews of the city during those days as such: It is easy to understand that the mood that prevailed amongst our fellow Jews in Damascus in response to the call of the press, which is full of poison against Judaism. And our Damascene Jews—who by nature are not at all heroic and do not know anything about what is going on in the Jewish world as a whole or in Palestine in particular—were truly depressed and did not know what to do when they would need to stand before the American commission, nor what they were expected to do, nor how to respond to the question about Palestine in particular, should the commission ask them to give an opinion in this regard . . . It is easy to understand that the situation of Damascus Jewry was very difficult. Our brethren would find themselves truly between Scylla and Charybdis—on the one hand, their fear of the Arabs in whose midst they reside, and on the other, their love for Palestine and their brethren, which would not allow them to oppose the Zionists’ aspirations.104 Elmaleh left nothing to chance. Fearing that he might not secure a majority of the members of the communal council in support of a Zionist stance, he executed a brilliant manœuvre, involving Burla and Rivlin, the heads of the Hebrew educational system, and Eliyahu Kahanoff (1882– 1969), the director of the AIU boys’ school, in all steps leading up to the appearance of the local Jewish delegation before the council, ultimately even making sure they were a part of the deputation.105 First, Elmaleh initiated a meeting with his father-in-law, the chief rabbi Danon, the members of the council, and the principals of the aforementioned schools. In this meeting, he updated them with the testimony given by the Palestinian Zionists while communicating what he hoped would become the official stance presented by the Damascus community to the commission on the question of Zionism, Palestine, and ʿaliyyah. The community representatives tried to find a way out by suggesting that they simply reply that the

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Palestine question does not relate to them. In response, Elmaleh gave a speech on the importance of the hour and the national responsibility laid upon the shoulders of the Jews of Damascus. The message of the King-Crane Commission’s secretary that it welcomed their opinion on the issue of Palestine and Jewish emigration and his promise that their testimony would take place behind closed doors and would not be published publicly made it easier for Elmaleh to convince them. Yet, even having persuaded them to present the Zionist position before the commission, Elmaleh did not leave the task of drafting and determining the contents of the testimony to the members of the delegation. Rather, he recorded both the questions that the American commissioners might ask, as well as the responses that the Jewish community leaders should give.106 On Friday 27 June 1919, at five o’clock in the afternoon, the Jewish delegation came before the King-Crane Commission. An examination of the names of the nine Jewish representatives reveals that the majority were not prominent Damascenes, but foreigners who had resided in Damascus temporarily. These included the hahambas¸ı Danon (a Jerusalemite), Paʾis (a Zionist immigrant from Russia), Burla and Rivlin (Zionist Commission emissaries), and Kahanoff (a Palestinian employed by the AIU). The other delegates were Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, the president of the community and a Zionist activist, Moses Elijah Totah and Moses David Totah, both bankers ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ and members of the communal council, and Yu¯suf (Joseph) Farh¯ı, a ˙ member of the communal council and a Zionist activist. In this manner, Elmaleh guaranteed the Zionist orientation of the lobby that represented the Jewish community of Damascus before the commission. Indeed, the delegation’s appearance and testimony reflected the spirit of the Zionist movement and accorded with the instructions of Elmaleh, who described the meeting as such: The hahambas¸ı blessed the commission in Hebrew and Mr ʿAbba¯dı¯ translated his words to English. The head of the commission asked: What do you seek for Syria? Response: We have lived fairly well with the Arabs so far and we hope that it will be so in the future. However, we demand that the rights of

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the minority be sacrosanct here so that we are not cancelled out by the majority. With respect to the future of Syria, we demand that it have internal autonomy under the protection of a European government. Question: Which government do you demand? Response: All the enlightened governments freed us from the Turkish yoke and therefore we are grateful to all of them. Consequently, we will accept gladly [any] government that is appointed by the League of Nations. Question: And what is your opinion on immigration to Palestine? Response: Our opinion is that immigration should be unrestricted and that our brethren should return to their ancient homeland, to develop it, and to develop there their ancient language and culture. Question: Was Palestine always a part of Syria or was it separate from it? Response: These two provinces were never attached to each other, neither in terms of the government nor in terms of the leadership. Even during the Turkish period, Palestine was a special [and] completely separate province from Syria and fell under the direct authority of Constantinople. Question: Why do the Arabs oppose so strongly Jewish immigration to Palestine? Response: The matter is very simple. They are doing so out of jealousy, since they know that the Jewish element is very industrious and will surpass them in every regard, and therefore, they fear and oppose it. But all of this is unfounded fear, for the Jews will live with the Arabs in peace and tranquillity as they have until now.107 The goal of the Zionist Commission was achieved. The great investments made in Damascus had borne fruit beyond expectations. The main importance of the delegation’s appearance before the commission was first and foremost the creation of the impression that a broad Jewish front existed in the region—and, moreover, one united in its views.108 However, the political activity of Damascus Jewry did not end here. Uncertainty regarding the determinations of the American commission and the presence of Faysal in Damascus in the summer of ˙ 1919, after a long period of absence, impelled the Jews to establish

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ties with the man who possibly stood to become the head of the Arab kingdom of Syria and, in that function, could determine their fate.109 Faysal, seeking to gain the support of all the inhabitants of Syria and ˙ even perhaps to demonstrate his Jewish sympathies to the leaders of the Zionist movement, initiated himself a meeting with the chief rabbi Danon, in the presence of the members of the communal council. It is entirely possible that the date of the visit, 18 July 1919 (20 Tammuz), the anniversary of Herzl’s death on which special ceremonies were held in the community, was not coincidental and was intended to signal his intentions. In any event, in a report on the meeting, it is stated that Faysal and the rabbi spoke for 45 minutes about Zionism and that his ˙ words sounded sympathetic to Zionism.110 The relations of the Zionist movement, and especially those of Weizmann, with Faysal during his time in Europe gave hope for co˙ operation with the emir, even after his return to Damascus. However, efforts made by the Zionist organisation to organise a meeting between an official delegation and Faysal in Damascus in May 1919 ˙ were unsuccessful. Despite Rogel’s claim that the ‘Faysal option’ ˙ formed the cornerstone of Zionist policy in mid-1919, one must note that in all proposals and plans for meetings presented by Weizmann and other figures, they never raised the prospect of involving individuals from the local Damascus community.111 The DanonFaysal meeting apparently generated expectations amongst the ˙ Zionist Commission for the possibility of a more limited meeting between one of its representatives and the emir. Paʾis also shared such expectations, maintaining that Yellin, on his upcoming visit to Damascus, should attempt a meeting with Faysal before the latter’s ˙ departure to Europe, where he would continue his political 112 Indeed, Yellin visited Damascus for about a week at activities. the start of September 1919 and, encouraged by what he heard about the meeting with Danon, he obtained a meeting with Faysal. The ˙ local community’s contribution to this encounter, not only in its arrangement, was important; the existing ties between its leaders and the emir were what facilitated the meeting through the offices of the chief rabbi, who even accompanied Yellin on the visit, as described by the latter:

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I visited the Emir Faysal together with the hahambas¸ı and he ˙ received us in his private home warmly. I thanked him for the things he said to the hahambas¸ı and the Jewish community notables on the work and mutual assistance between Arabs and Jews and his positive words about Zionism and its leaders, and he said that these were always his opinions and he asked about Dr Weizmann and [Felix] Frankfurter and where they are residing now.113 Therefore, the Jewish community of Damascus played, if briefly, for the first and last time, the important role of a ‘bridge’ between the Zionist movement and the important Arab administration in the area around Palestine. The success of the Zionist Commission’s activity in Damascus during this period depended upon three factors: the uncertain political conditions and the lack of clarity regarding the postwar political frameworks; the human and financial resources at its disposal, which it put towards the benefit of Damascus Jewry; and the co-operation with the local community itself. As for the first factor, the political ambiguity and the delay in the process of decision-making regarding the future of the region left Damascus and Palestine under British military rule, a fact that facilitated the making of direct and immediate ties between the Zionist Commission and the Jewish community of Damascus. With respect to the second factor, 1919 was the year in which the Zionist Commission outlined the parameters under which it operated and collected relief money for Palestine, as well as for the needs of Damascus Jewry. This financial support, the proximity to the Zionist enterprise in Palestine, the Zionist activities in the community, and the environment of political indecision encouraged the Jews of the city to look towards the Zionist option. As time passed and Zionist aid seemed more entrenched and secure and not like a passing phenomenon, the pro-Zionist orientation amongst the people of Damascus also increased. There were some Middle Eastern communities, like those in Egypt, from which the Zionist Commission expected to receive contributions. Yet, by contrast, it only expected that the Damascus

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community help itself. The Zionist aid, which commenced for purely philanthropic reasons, was accompanied perhaps at the start by some ‘utopian’ hopes regarding future assistance. However, with time, it turned into support with the expectation of compensation even in the short run. It was assumed that this recompense would be in the political arena—that is, the anticipation that the concentration of Jews closest to Palestine, living and working in the heart of a hostile Arab population, would give public and unquestioned support to the Zionist enterprise in Palestine. This goal was achieved with the appearance of the Jewish delegation before the King-Crane Commission. However, the political leaders of Zionism did not persist in this approach all the way through, nor did they continue to make use (with the exception of the meeting between Yellin and Faysal) of the ties ˙ between the Damascus Jewish leaders and the Arabs. The explicit Zionist identification of the community enabled Yellin to sum up his visit to Damascus in September 1919, in a report sent to the Zionist Commission, on an optimistic note and to observe the change that had taken hold of the community in the months that passed since the end of the war as ‘great progress’. Yellin, who had seen Damascus Jewry at its nadir during World War I, was thrilled to see how the Zionist aid, both material and spiritual, was reviving the community in every aspect. In a 38-page report written in his own hand, Yellin surveyed what he perceived as the vast improvement in the arrangements of communal leadership and the management of its welfare affairs. The new Zionist and philanthropic associations that cropped up proved, in his opinion, the desire of the community to help itself. He praised the work of Dr Efron, as well as the educational effort of Burla, Rivlin, and the rest of the pedagogical staff. His enthusiasm was great and his hopes strong; however, he was aware that the work was still only at its beginning and that much more activity and resources would be needed to stand the community back on its feet. Yellin concluded his report as follows: I was in Damascus for a week; I observed everything that took place there day and night in the time allowed me, and in

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conclusion, I must say that, in general, we see great progress in the condition of this community and our work, as well, is bearing blessed fruit. Yet, we know how difficult it is in the land of the East to bring people to persevere with the work and to prevent an interruption caused by dereliction or relaxing [the determination] for some time. I must also add that, in addition to [the fact] that we must appoint permanently a person from the community to supervise the work, it is quite necessary that, from time to time, [people] come there from Palestine to lift their spirits and strengthen their hands, and then, I hope we will be able to extract from Syria whatever benefit we need for our national endeavour as a whole.114 The appearance of the Jewish Damascene delegation before the KingCrane was the culmination of a process of practical identification with the Zionist movement and, from this perspective, it was a milestone that represented the success of the Zionist Commission’s activity in Damascus. It would seem that the ‘implanting of the Zionist idea’ in a concentrated and expedited process—rather than a long, natural process of growth from within—succeeded beyond expectations. However, this was only true in the short term. November 1919 saw the beginning of a protracted process of detachment of Damascus Jewry from the Zionist Commission and the Zionist movement, as a result of political, economic, and cultural factors, both external and internal alike.

CHAPTER 5 BETWEEN ZIONISM AND ARABISM

Verily, as Syrians, we are brothers and, as Jews, cousins. —Eliahu Sasson, November 19191 As stated, the year 1919 was seen by the Zionist establishment as a year in which great progress had been achieved in Damascus in all aspects of the Zionist enterprise. Reports by eye-witnesses and Zionist emissaries, including some who had been familiar with the Jewish community of the city during World War I, expressed much optimism regarding the chances for the Zionist movement to take root amongst this population living close to the Palestine borders. The team of teachers sent by the Zionist Commission grew carried away with enthusiasm for the endeavour and dragged along with it the Zionist institutions. The feeling was that a revolution in Jewish public opinion had begun and that Zionism and the Hebrew language earned them a place of honour in society. Added to this was the Zionist success of the summer of 1919 in fielding a Damascus Jewish delegation that presented a united Jewish front with the Jewish delegation in Palestine, supporting its claims before the King-Crane Commission. All these matters generated a momentum of success, which at that time was expressed in a saying common amongst the Hebrew teachers: ‘Damascus has been conquered (Dammes´eq nikhbeshah)’.2

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However, after the dust of the war settled and the Zionist euphoria encouraged by the activity of the Zionist Commission was eroded by the hardships of daily life, Zionism became less and less appealing to the Damascus community. Political, economic, social factors, both external and internal Jewish ones alike, threatened the continued proZionist affinity of the city’s Jews. The main problem was their sense that they found themselves caught between the aspirations of the Arab nationalist movement and those of the Zionist movement with respect to the political future of Palestine.

Faysal in the internal Syrian political thicket ˙ The first interim Arab government was established in Damascus on 27 September 1918. This government, headed by the emir Saʿı¯d al-Jaza¯ʾirı¯, lasted for exactly three days. Al-Jaza¯ʾirı¯ was deposed by Faysal’s military forces, who appointed—with the support of the ˙ British general Edmund Allenby—Shukrı¯ Pa¯sha¯ al-Ayyu¯bı¯, an exOttoman officer and member of a respected Damascus family of Kurdish ancestry, as military governor of the eastern part of Syria centred on Damascus. A short while later, he was replaced by Rida¯ʾ ˙ Pa¯sha¯ al-Rika¯bı¯, also an ex-Ottoman officer, and a member of a wealthy and large land-owning family. Essentially, the Arab government that ruled Damascus from 5 October 1918 was one appointed by the emir Faysal. This government, established with ˙ British sponsorship, was unprecedented throughout the Arab world. The Faysal government was accompanied by intense local political ˙ activity. Political parties, various sectoral organisations, and important and marginal ideological groups cropped up like mushrooms after a rain and became part of the new Syrian socio-political landscape.3 Faysal’s supporters, who constituted the new political establishment, ˙ shared a clear Syrian Arab nationalist orientation, which they sought to define as the framework of Arab Syria. In order to bridge the gaps and differences stemming primarily from the religious distinction between the various population groups, emphasis was placed on nurturing the secular aspect of Arab nationalism.4 The stress specifically upon Arab nationalism served to weaken other identities—religious, ethnic, clan,

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Figure 4 King Faysal. (Source: http://i-cias.com/e.o/ill/syria_arab_ ˙ kingdom01.jpg).

urban, tribal, and so forth. Emancipation and equal rights were promised to all inhabitants. The slogan that expressed more than any other the attempt of Faysal’s rule to achieve true integration of the non˙ Muslims in the Arab Syrian state was, as mentioned above, ‘Religion for God and the [Syrian] homeland for all’.5 In this context, the Jewish inhabitants of Damascus and Aleppo were recognised as a natural part of Syrian Arab society who belonged to the Mosaı¨c (Ar. Mu¯sawı¯) faith.6 Aside from equal rights, the new Arab re´gime also made it clear that national Syrian society expected them to demonstrate full solidarity with its goals. Faysal’s government did not prevent the formation of dozens of ˙ non-governmental organisations and parties, including eight political parties united in their demand for an independent Syria.7

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These groups—most particularly, Hizb al-Istiqla¯l al-ʿArabı¯ (Arab ˙ Independence Party), Jamaʿiyyat al-ʿAhd (Covenant Society), and alNa¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯ (The Arab Club)—were dynamic participants in Syrian public discourse, in essence fashioning it themselves through modern democratic tools such as newspapers, journals, manifestos, fliers and announcements, street processions, protests, and speeches in public squares and auditoria. In addition to the tensions and conflicts of interests that divided these groups, there were also differences in emphasis and method to achieve the common goal, namely, the founding of a national Arab kingdom under Faysal. Their fervent ˙ public activity and demands prompted Faysal to approve the ˙ establishment of a Syrian National Congress (SNC), which served in effect as a parliament for the nascent Syrian kingdom. Elections to this body were held in the first week of June 1919, in the waiting period prior to the arrival of the King-Crane Commission. The SNC’s first assembly took place in Damascus that week, immediately after the elections, and reflected the tone of the members of the Hizb al-Istiqla¯l. In its first session, the SNC’s body numbered ˙ 69 representatives, even though it was supposed to be a body of 85 members. One of the Damascus deputies was a wealthy Jewish merchant named Joseph Laniado, who was not actually elected by the Jews.8 One should note the fact that the SNC representatives were not described officially in religious-ethnic terms nor according to their ideological affiliation, but in relation to their city of residence.9 Early in 1920, rumours circulated in Damascus that Britain and France had reached an agreement regarding the imposition of the French Mandate over all Syria. A few months earlier, in November 1919, the British forces were evacuated from Syria, while the French army waited at its gates.10 In response to these rumours, the members of the SNC’s second assembly, which commenced on 7 – 8 March 1920, declared the unqualified independence of ‘Greater Syria’, which included the territories of Trans-Jordan, Lebanon, and Palestine. In their words, ‘the independence of our country Syria, including Palestine, in its natural borders, [means] full independence, without infringement, on a civil and representational basis, founded on the protection of the rights of the minority and the

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rejection of baseless Zionist claims, which seek to make Palestine a national homeland for Jews or a migration destination for them’.11 This was the first official state declaration that placed the Jews in a dilemma, caught between the need to identify with the Syrian Arab national aspirations and their enlistment in the Zionist enterprise that sought to found a Jewish national home in Palestine. A further step taken by the SNC delegates was the coronation of Faysal as king ˙ of Syria, including Palestine. In meetings held on 11 March 1920, the Congress enacted a number of measures towards the establishment of the Syrian Arab state along modern constitutional lines and began discussions over the drafting of the constitution that would express the character of the re´gime.12 On 25 April 1920, the San Remo Conference, attended by Britain, France, and Italy, confirmed the League of Nations mandate allocations of Syria and Lebanon to France and Iraq and Palestine to Britain. The French claims and the international legitimacy given to these demands directly countered the nationalist hopes for the establishment of a modern Arab kingdom. The nationalist groups asked Faysal to take an uncompromising tone and even succeeded in ˙ effecting a change of government. Among the prominent individuals in the new administration were extreme nationalists like Ha¯shim alAta¯sı¯, ʿAbd ar-Rahma¯n al-Shahbandar, and Yu¯suf al-ʿAzmah.13 On ˙ ˙ the one hand, this government prepared for a large-scale military recruitment in order to face the anticipated French attack on Damascus and fielded guerrilla fighters against the French forces in Lebanon. On the other hand, it sought to send a diplomatic mission to Europe in order to exert political pressure to maintain the continued independence of Faysal’s rule. The French, under General ˙ Henri Gouraud, were determined to assume in full the mandate granted to them and saw Faysal’s presence in Damascus as a hinderance ˙ to their interests in the region. Therefore, they rejected and even attempted to prevent any effort towards reaching a diplomatic solution to the crisis. On 14 July 1920, Gouraud sent an ultimatum to Faysal, ˙ demanding unconditional recognition of the French Mandate of Syria, the reduction of the Syrian Arab army, the cessation of the military recruitment that had begun, the punishment of those

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responsible for attacks on French forces, and so forth.14 At the same time, and without waiting for a response from Faysal who had already ˙ become a symbol of modern Arab nationalism, Gouraud ordered French military units to move towards Damascus. The French commander was resolute in his intent to seize control of Damascus by force, despite the emergency measures taken by Faysal in order to ˙ appease him. After the Syrian National Congress meeting on 19 July, Faysal announced the disbanding of the congress and the military and ˙ even announced his acceptance of the French ultimatum on the next day.15 Gouraud replied by issuing yet another ultimatum that included even harsher terms, which Faysal was unable to accept.16 ˙ In the midst of these fateful days, the twilight of Faysal’s rule in ˙ Damascus, Zionist activity in the city took on a new face.

Faysal and his re´gime—between Western Zionists ˙ and Arab Jews Faysal, upon whom the Arabs hung their political hopes and national ˙ aspirations, was also asked to address the Jewish national movement, which aimed at establishing a Jewish national home in Palestine. Initially, Faysal did not perceive the goals of this movement, which as ˙ yet did not call openly for a Jewish state, as a danger to the unity of the Arab kingdom that he sought to found. Chaim Weizmann, who arrived in Palestine in the spring of 1919 at the head of the Zionist Commission, was convinced by General Allenby to meet with Faysal. The purpose was to reach a basic agreement with the ˙ emir that might serve as official Arab recognition of the Zionist programme. Faysal was seen as the only Arab leader whose influence ˙ stretched beyond the region. In addition, at that time, he commanded a charismatic aura as the chief commander of the Arab army that revolted against Turkish rule. Weizmann’s hope was that Faysal’s substantial public weight within Arab society, as well as his ˙ important standing in the halls of British power, would facilitate laying the ground for good relations in the future with the Arab world.17 Evidence suggests that, in the longer run, ‘the dream of the Zionist leaders was to help the Arabs in achieving their state and in

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developing it in return for a completely friendly attitude towards our work in Palestine’.18 The first meeting between the Arab emir and the Jewish leader took place on 4 June 1918, at Faysal’s camp near ʿAqabah. According ˙ to Weizmann’s testimony, their conversation was quite formal and lasted more than two hours. Weizmann explained to Faysal the nature ˙ of the Zionist Commission’s mission and its desire to remove all fear and suspicion from the hearts of the Arabs. Weizmann also expressed his hope that Faysal would offer the Zionist movement his moral and ˙ influential assistance. To Weizmann’s surprise, the emir’s questions and his various requests for clarification in the matter of Zionist activity suggested the Arab leader’s familiarity with the Zionist plan. At least according to Weizmann’s account, Faysal concluded the ˙ meeting by expressing his desire to reach a situation in which the Jews and Arabs would work together and in agreement, already at the peace conference planned to take place after the war. The emir added further that he believed the fate of the two peoples was linked to the Middle East and that both of their fates depended beyond their control on the goodwill of the Great Powers.19 For some time following this meeting, Faysal adopted a public policy favourable to ˙ the Zionist movement and its activity.20 Mutual understanding between the two leaders of the national movements—Arab and Jewish—peaked with the signing of an official agreement between them on 3 January 1919. This treaty spoke of ‘racial kinship and ancient bonds existing between the Arabs and the Jewish people’ and of close collaboration as the surest way of achieving the Arab and Jewish national aspirations—most importantly, the establishment of an Arab state in Syria and a Jewish one in Palestine. The agreement addressed the determination of boundaries between the two states, the goodwill and mutual understanding that characterised their relations, the full implementation of the Balfour Declaration, the encouragement of Jewish emigration to Palestine, the development of Jewish settlement throughout the land without impinging on the rights of the Arab inhabitants, the free exercise of religious worship, and civil and political equality for all without religious discrimination. One of the nine articles dealt with the

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Zionist Organisation’s assistance to the Arab state in maximising the economic potential inherent in the land’s natural resources and in developing its economic possibilities. The two sides agreed to coordinate their stances in these matters and their representation before the Paris Peace Conference. In the event of dispute, they agreed that the British government would arbitrate between the two sides. In the margins of the document, Faysal appended the ˙ following statement: Provided the Arabs obtain their independence as demanded in my Memorandum dated the 4th of January, 1919, to the Foreign Office of the Government of Great Britain, I shall concur in the above articles. But if the slightest modification or departure were to be made. I shall not then be bound by a single word of the present Agreement which shall be deemed void and of no account or validity, and I shall not be answerable in any way whatsoever. The phrasing of some articles of the agreement was vague and ambiguous. For months after the agreement, Faysal continued to ˙ pursue equivocal policies of favourable statements to Zionism in closed circles and meetings and contradictory public expressions.21 On the one hand, he hoped that co-operation with the Zionist movement would ultimately facilitate the achievement of the aims of the Arab nation. On the other, he was subject to the pressures of Arab nationalists, especially to those of Palestine Arab leaders who did not view favourably, to say the least, the possibility that he might concede their interests in Palestine.22 Nevertheless, up until Faysal’s ˙ departure from Damascus in July 1920, Zionist figures such as Yehoshua Hankin and Haim Margaliot-Kalvarisky, the head of the Zionist Executive’s Arab Department in Jerusalem, continued to try and reach an agreement with various figures in the Syrian nationalist movement and with Palestinian officials in Damascus.23 During the first half of 1919, Damascus was the epicentre of Arab nationalist sentiment and a source of the anti-Zionist propaganda and activity in Palestine. It is important to note that, at this stage, the

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nationalist and Palestinian elements in Damascus directed their hostility against the Zionist movement and against the Jews living in Palestine, but not against those residing in Damascus. The declarations of the SNC expressed resistance to any Zionist activity in southern Syria (Palestine), but simultaneously pledged that local Jews would continue to enjoy the rights guaranteed to them by law.24 All the while, faithful to the idea of equality for his subjects regardless of religion, Faysal continued to express his opinion that the ˙ Jews deserved to live knowing that the security of their lives, honour, and property was guaranteed. Faysal was basically making every ˙ effort to generate an atmosphere of solidarity between the different parts of the Syrian nation he was trying to consolidate. As a result, religious tolerance became a guiding principle. Christians formed about a quarter of the members of the various governments established by Faysal. The city council of Damascus, founded on 12 ˙ January 1919, included 12 members, of whom two were Christians and one was Jewish—Moses David Totah. Arabism was emphasised ˙ ˙ ˙ as the common denominator binding together all the inhabitants, more important than their religious distinctions.25 In such a way, the authorities continued to treat the Jews of Damascus as Arab citizens of the Mosaı¨c faith. For example, when news arrived of the military agreement between Britain and France, which called for the withdrawal of the British forces from Syria, the Damascus city council decided to gather the representatives of all the city’s communities in order to protest this move and to publish a public statement in favour of a unified Syria. Even the Jewish community was invited to send representatives to the assembly, which was to take place on 2 November 1919.26 Non-governmental bodies at the time also acted similarly, seeing the local Jews as a group that identified with Arab aspirations and not with Zionist ones. In advance of the British withdrawal, al-Na¯dı¯ alʿArabı¯ began distributing weapons to residents and organising opposition to the French army. The club offered to arm the Jewish community as well, and even included one Jewish notable as a member of the munitions committee.27 The Jewish response to initiatives of this sort merely reinforced the awareness that the Jews

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were indeed renouncing the European outlook that promoted Zionist aspirations and countered the vision of an Arab kingdom. Thus, for example, the Jews even joined an Orthodox Christian initiative to protest in solidarity with the Muslim Arabs—although this initiative actually resulted from al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯’s pressure, as it wanted the foreign consuls to report to their governments that all inhabitants of Damascus—Jews, Christians and Muslims—demonstrated against France and Zionism.28 The Jews even collected significant amounts of donations for the national defence league.29 Some claimed that Jewish activity on behalf of Syrian nationalism at times appeared even more prominent than that of the Christians.30 The residents of Damascus needed protection from threats inside the city more than they were endangered by acts of aggression outside it. Ever since the British occupation and the arrival of Faysal’s ˙ forces, the Jews, like the rest of the city’s citizens, were subject to the peril of criminal acts like murder, rape, robbery, and theft, which grew at alarming proportions.31 The security situation in the city deteriorated to such an extent that the religious notables from all communities met on 20 November 1919 and decided to demand that the government increase the police presence in the city due to the unrest, as well as to organise armed volunteer patrols.32 Yet the local Jews had an additional source of anxiety. Signs of change in the public mood towards the Jews of Damascus were first apparent in the weeks leading up to the arrival of the King-Crane Commission in July 1919 and continued to deepen thereafter. The belligerent tone intensified as the Arabs felt that the European powers were leaning more towards accepting the anti-Arab nationalist position of France. Amid the barrage of anti-Zionist attacks, from the end of 1919 and until the removal of Faysal, nationalist writers began interchanging ˙ the words ‘Zionist’ and ‘Jew’, and calls urging retribution against the local Jews in light of the ‘Zionist crimes’ in Palestine began to be heard.33 In this manner, panic became the lot of many members of the community. After Faysal approved the recruitment regulations ˙ on 21 December 1919, according to which young men between the ages of 20 and 25 were required to enlist in six-month military service, many Jewish youths fled the city.34 On the other hand, in

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responding to the government’s demand, the Jewish community contributed a considerable sum towards the organisation of the Arab army.35 February 1920 saw a marked decline in the attitude towards the Zionists and their ties with Zionist institutions in Palestine. Foreign and local Jews, even those not suspected of being Zionist, were banned from travelling from Damascus to Palestine.36 On 1 March 1920, armed Palestinians, led by officers from Faysal’s army, attacked ˙ Jewish settlements in northern Palestine, including Tel-Hay and Kfar ˙ Gilʿadi. The situation climaxed in the aftermath of the Nabı¯ Mu¯sa¯ riots in Jerusalem during April 1920. The Arab press in Damascus presented the event as a Zionist provocation that began with the hurling of insults at Muslims carrying religious banners during a procession through the city. False reports that Jews were slaughtering the Arab population inflamed the passions of the Muslim public. The press fanned the flames with anti-Jewish propaganda and calls to direct their vengeance against the Jews of Damascus.37 A Jewish gathering decided to send a delegation to Faysal to request mercy and to ˙ guarantee the lives of the Jews in his capital. Nevertheless, some of the participants claimed that the very centre of the Arab kingdom was actually completely safe and that they should not react with panic to the threats of the articles in the press.38 Faysal’s re´gime, under the influence of the emir himself—who was ˙ certain of the Jews’ loyalty to his rule—continued to demonstrate a pro-Jewish stance. Even earlier, on 7 May 1919, Faysal convened a ˙ gathering of all the heads of the religious communities in Damascus, including the chief rabbi Jacob Danon, as well as representatives of the residents of numerous other cities in Syria. Following a speech by the emir to the attendees, each of the leaders declared his allegiance and that of their followers to Faysal. Danon expressed this with the words, ˙ ‘We and our possessions are in your hands, emir.’39 Revelations of fidelity such as these explain why, despite the fact that his pro-Jewish policies provoked critical responses from nationalist and Palestine Arab circles, Faysal was not deterred. Whether his motivations for ˙ defending the Jews stemmed from a desire to preserve order in Damascus or whether he had an ulterior motive to win the sympathy

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and support of American Jews in this way, nationalist initiatives that sought to harm Damascus Jewry were nipped in the bud by government forces.40 Faysal continued to display understanding ˙ towards the needs of Damascus’s Jews even on the question of military conscription. Aside from a general regulation that every conscript had the opportunity to pay 30 EGP in exchange for release from military duty, Jewish religious scholars, like their Muslim and Christian counterparts, were excused from the draft without having to pay any fine. Moreover, personnel at official institutions were also exempt; to this end, Faysal’s re´gime discharged employees of the ˙ synagogues from military service, as well.41 Furthermore, Faysal ˙ continued to hold meetings with various heads of Damascus society, 42 including among them Danon. The hahambas¸ı was recognised as a government official and his salary was paid from the Arab government’s coffers.43 Danon, in an effort to demonstrate Jewish loyalty to the idea of Syrian independence and their incorporation into the system of government, strived to integrate Jewish representatives into all government bodies, but usually failed in this endeavour.44 Faysal was not even deterred from public expressions of ˙ consideration for his Jewish subjects. On the occasion of the month of Ramadan, numerous public notables were invited to eat at the ˙ ruler’s table. Among the municipal council members invited to the break-fast was Moses Totah, one of the leading figures of Jewish ˙ ˙ ˙ society. When he refused for religious reasons to eat the king’s food, the staff of royal cooks hurried to prepare him a kosher meal.45 This tolerance was called into question by the activities of the emissaries of the Zionist institutions amongst the local Jewish population, primarily in the field of education, which led to a conflation of the terms ‘Zionist’ and ‘Jew’. The Hebrew teaching staff, sent from Jerusalem in order to intensify Zionist education in the city, was included on a blacklist circulated in nationalist propaganda and, at times, it seemed that this group might fall victim to the intense passions raging in the city. Although the Arabs generally saw the Syrian Jews as brothers and fellow countrymen and directed their anger solely towards the Zionists, the

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conflation of the two terms meant now that every Jew necessarily became suspect.46 Relations with Faysal’s re´gime and with the surrounding Arab ˙ society led Jews to adopt two active courses of actions with respect to their future and fate. Some refused to believe entirely in the possibility of Jewish life within the framework of an Arab state, despairing as a result of the limited economic options in the new kingdom. These Jews chose the avenue of departure, that is, to emigrate to the West, principally to the American continent. Although data on the figures of Jewish emigrants from Syria during the reign of Faysal do not exist, the available sources indicate that ˙ migration during this period was a dominant phenomenon that influenced greatly various aspects of communal life.47 The second course of action was precisely in the direction of integration into the vibrant local political activity. This state of affairs saw the start of a gradual, but persistent erosion of Jewish youths, who began taking part in public activities in support of Syrian nationalism. On 9 November 1919, a large demonstration took place in Damascus with the participation of Muslims and Orthodox Christians. The Muslim speaker, Shaykh ʿAbd al-Qa¯dir alMuzaffar, the president of al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯, expressed in his speech ˙ his regret that Jews had not taken part in the protest. He emphasised the need to unify all forces in Syria, since all—regardless of religion—were ‘Syrian Arabs’. He stressed that religious distinctions between individuals had no relevance upon political issues. The tone of his words was so harsh as to accuse Damascene Jews with treason and accepting orders from the heads of the Zionist movement in Jerusalem. A young Jew named Eliahu Sasson, who watched the proceedings, decided then and there, on the spot, to respond to the speech. Although he agreed that Jews were Arabs and lauded the very existence of the demonstration, he publicly accused the organisers of the protest of not seeing Jews as Arabs and therefore not inviting them to participate in it. According to Sasson, if the Jews had been invited to take part, they would have come in droves. Sasson summed up with the following words: ‘Verily, as Syrians, we are brothers and, as Jews, cousins.’48

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Two weeks later, with the rising of tensions in the city and increased opposition to the Lloyd George– Cle´menceau agreement regarding the division of the Middle East, numerous protests took place in Damascus. Participation in the central demonstration was incumbent upon all Jewish notables. However, Catholic Christians withstood the pressure and refused to take part. In the course of this rally calling for independence, the attendees carried, among other things, a table decorated in the Arab colours and bearing a Hebrew Bible, the Qurʾa¯n, and the Christian New Testament.49 Jewish youths, apparently led by Eliahu Sasson, organised a protest of their own near the government palace in which Syrian nationalist songs and impassioned slogans such as ‘To war, sons of Arabia!’ and ‘The Jews are ready for battle, to fight together with the Muslims for the liberation of Syria’ were heard. The speakers included two Jews and the Palestine Arab ʿAbd al-Qa¯dir al-Muzaffar, who approached the ˙ protesters as they passed the clubhouse of al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯. In his words, he emphasised that nobody had any doubt that the local Jews were entirely Arab, while, on the other hand, it was necessary to kill the Zionists. Concluding his speech, ʿAbd al-Qa¯dir said, ‘Today, you protest without weapons, but tomorrow, you will bear arms together with us and you will show the world that you are our brothers in joy and tragedy . . . see you on the battle-field!’50 Despite these developments, Jewish participation in the protests was not always received sympathetically. Thus, for example, on 17 January 1920, a large protest took place in Damascus involving students from all the city’s schools, save for the Hebrew ones. The decision not to participate was made on the advice of some of the members of the communal council. However, the director of the AIU girls’ school, who went with her students to protest, was rebuked and ejected in disgrace from the demonstration. In the days afterwards, the city was flooded with fliers slandering Zionism.51 Indeed, this period also witnessed the dissemination of innocent and less innocent expressions of Zionism in Damascus, which aroused both anger and suspicion. Thus, for example, when a Jewish seamstress who made clothes for the household of the military governor of the city was asked to create a festive outfit for the

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governor’s son, she chose the colours blue and white (associated with Zionism) and even stitched a Shield of David onto the left sleeve. In response to the accusation of membership in the Zionist club Qadimah by the infuriated governor, the seamstress responded innocently that this was the fashion. The governor fired her with the warning that she never sews garments with Zionist symbols again.52 Another incident took place during the screening of the film Mysteries of New York at the Alhambra Cinema in the city. To the surprise of the movie-goers, Hebrew subtitles also appeared on the screen. An anonymous report described the pleasure of the Jewish spectators and the anger of the Arab ones, who threatened the cinema owner, demanding that he cut the Hebrew titles.53 A serious event involving the Damascus police concluded with the mischievous guile on the part of the members of the Maccabi movement. At a banquet held at the club, its members performed and sang in Hebrew. Suddenly, the police broke in, demanded that the banquet cease, and sought to arrest the head of the club, the Palestinian Zionist teacher Besalʾel Basra¯wı¯. Eventually, the ˙ ˙ police were talked out of arresting Basra¯wı¯ and invited to eat with ˙ the club and taste the dishes that had been prepared. While still eating, the participants broke out in singing the Zionist anthem ha-Tiqwah, whose melody and meaning were obviously unknown to the police.54 Yet another incident occurred when a Jewish merchant from Haifa ˙ submitted a petition to the head of the customs office in Damascus bearing a Zionist stamp and the picture of a building in Jerusalem.55 The public performance of the members of the Maccabi association, who wore Shield of David symbols on their uniforms, aroused great anger amongst the Arab public. In April 1920, the Damascus press reported that Zionist spies had brought with them vast amounts of money intended to support the Zionist organisations in the town. The correspondents expressed their astonishment at the fact that Jews continued to wear openly Zionist symbols on their clothes in the very centre of the Arab kingdom.56 The unrest and the threats, both subtle and overt, led to the May 1920 decision to cease public Maccabi operations in the city, although the movement continued to function clandestinely, holding meetings and banquets up until the French occupation.57

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In the first week of July 1920, when Herbert Samuel arrived in Palestine, the Jewish community sent him a congratulatory letter noting that he was the first Jewish governor of the land in 2,000 years.58 Even prior to Samuel’s arrival in Jerusalem, the Arab press had amplified its assault on Zionism and had begun attacking the Hebrew schools in Damascus as dangerous centres of Zionism. At this stage, the teachers sought to appear simply as teachers fulfilling their duties towards their students and not as activists in the service of any political ideology.59 The community and the Hebrew teachers reduced the ceremonial Zionist activity that had become standard on 20 Tammuz, the anniversary of Herzl’s death. In the summer of 1920, modest memorial services took place at the Hebrew schools in the morning, without attracting attention as in the past. In the evening, the Maccabi youth put on a play and a show, but, in contrast to previous years, the audience attending the event was small. At the end of the gala, fear spread among the young Jews after Arab soldiers surrounded the place in order to seize young men suitable for military service.60 Threats against the Jewish communal leadership intensified on the eve of the French occupation cautioning against following the temptations of the Zionist idea. A number of days before the arrival of the French army, a group called ‘The Seeing (Watchful) Eye’ sent a menacing letter to the city’s chief rabbi: It has been made known to the members of the Seeing Eye that in your quarter there are Zionists spreading the Zionist idea and that the intellectuals and wealthy members of the Damascus community are assisting them materially and spiritually. We, the members of the Seeing Eye, acknowledge all the rights of the Arab Jewish citizens here in Damascus and in Syria and we have never harmed them during their stay with us. However, since it has been made known to us that those Zionists seek to influence those citizens to change their opinions, we therefore have come to warn you to inform them to cease their activity [and] to expel them, and if they continue their work, we will be forced to vent our anger upon all the Jews of Damascus and we will need to approach them and the

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Jews found here with appropriate seriousness. This is our admonition at this time and if you wish to protect the lives of the Jews of Damascus and to safeguard their property, do as we wish; and if not—we will know what we must do in order to place you on the right path. You must believe that all acts of the Zionists are acts of deceit and falsehood, and know ye that as long as one Arab still lives in Palestine, Zionists will not have it. Beware, beware. Death lies in wait for the aforementioned.61 At the time that this threatening message was received, rumours were rampant throughout the Jewish Quarter that expulsion edicts had been issued against the foreigners in Damascus.62 On the same evening, the hahambas¸ı convened a meeting of the heads of the community in his home and raised the proposal to force the Palestinian teachers to leave the city. The latter, having learned a lesson from their departure on the eve of the British withdrawal several months earlier, refused to abandon the city again and insisted that they did not fear the threats made against them.63 Another proposal suggested forwarding the letter to Faysal and calling on him to guarantee the lives of the Jews, ˙ both local and foreign. This plan was adopted, but when Danon reached the royal palace, he could not meet with Faysal, who was pre˙ occupied with preparations ahead of the French invasion.64 The meeting took place several days later, with the chief rabbi accompanied by one of the leaders of the community, Moses Elijah Totah. After ˙ ˙ ˙ receiving the menacing letter, Faysal responded: ˙ Already yesterday, I was informed about this threat to your community, like ones issued previously to certain Muslim notables in the capital city. I have given a forceful order to the local government to investigate and to seek out and to capture the criminals so as to mete out the proper punishment to them. The government is striving with all its force to execute [the command]. Only two individuals are guilty of this [crime] and [their names] will be announced. I view this matter as antagonistic to the homeland. There should be no fear for the Israelite community from Damascus to the edge of the interior

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of Yemen. I offer you a covenant of peace on my honour, on my tradition, and on my conscience, and on my children and on my earliest forefathers, that no person will touch you, neither the community as a whole nor any part of it. Whosoever throws upon you water, I will throw upon him blood; do not be angered and do not fear at all. You should be pleased that the government loves you all very much, since you obey every aspect of its orders. And in my name, tell everyone from the community who might ask you about my response, that you will always be secure—and [in] peace.65 Before the two took their leave from the king, Totah produced a small ˙ ˙ Torah scroll and presented it as a gift to the king, saying: O Majesty, the Ruler! Verily, I, a humble servant—Moses Elijah Totah—dare to deliver this sacred Torah scroll, which I ˙ ˙ ˙ received in inheritance from my late father who begot me, may his memory be for a blessing, to His Majesty and Honour the great and beloved king, so that you might carry it with you always at all times in setting off for war, as is written in the Holy Bible that the kings will bear it with them when heading off to war to protect themselves so they and their sons would live, and as the kings of Judah, peace be upon them, did do and, for this reason, they triumphed over all their enemies in great victory. I request the command of the king that he might accept this gift of mine.66 Joseph Joel Rivlin, who reported this incident, noted the king’s excitement at this Jewish gesture. Faysal’s declarations and his ˙ sympathetic and reassuring treatment towards the Jews contributed to a sense of security amongst the Zionist emissaries from Palestine, whose lives hung in the balance and who faced the dilemma of abandoning the city. They received a number of further reassurances encouraging them to stay. Shaykh Badr al-Dı¯n, one of the heads of the Muslim population, gave a sermon at this time in the Umayyad Mosque in which he commanded the Muslim believers not to harm

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the Jews of Syria.67 Political and military figures visited the heads of the Christian communities and the chief rabbi and calmed their fears. Thus, for example, ʿAlı¯ Rida¯ʾ al-Rika¯bı¯—who served as prime ˙ minister for most of the period of Faysal’s rule and was appointed ˙ shortly before the French invasion to be ‘chief commander of the war’—came on the day of his appointment for a reassuring visit to the Catholic patriarch and the hahambas¸ı Danon. Patrols surrounded the Jewish Quarter day and night. Arab officers and commanders who prepared for the defence of Damascus also visited the Jewish Quarter and calmed the frightened minority. One of the latter remarked, The Jews of Damascus owe a debt of thanks to the local government that protects them. Also their neighbours, who arranged for self-defence and did not allow any stranger to enter the Jewish Quarter, are deserving of recognition for all of these acts of theirs.68 Days before the French invasion, Faysal called a gathering at his ˙ palace of a 100 notables from the various quarters of Damascus, including two representatives of the Jewish Quarter, Moses Elijah Totah and Joseph Laniado. In this meeting, the king outlined the ˙ ˙ ˙ difficulties of his situation, the demands of General Gouraud, and the problems involved with recruitment and with fighting against the much larger French force, and asked their advice. The representatives chose to leave the decision in the hands of the king. Their sense was that he was not interested in war and that he was being dragged into it against his will.69 The reassuring efforts peaked with King Faysal’s visit on Friday ˙ 23 July 1920—the day before his army was defeated by the French— to the chief rabbi and the Catholic patriarch, in which he promised that peace would be maintained throughout the city.70 At the same time, fear of forced conscription to the military also cast a pall over the Jewish Quarter. Jews who were arrested for the purposes of recruitment were asked if they were Zionists—whether they were traitors to the Syrian national idea.71 After Faysal’s visit, the heads of ˙ the community and the chief rabbi decided that instead of Jewish

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soldiers, who were not enlisting, the community needed to provide financial assistance. The source for this money came from funds collected a short while earlier for the Zionist ‘Redemption Fund’, which had not yet been sent.72

Three target audiences One of the phenomena that characterised the period of Faysal’s rule in ˙ Damascus was the open nature of public discourse, which stood in stark contrast to the severe censorship, persecution, and executions that had been the fate of those who opposed Ottoman rule.73 Khairia Kasmieh described the spirit of the times as follows: This was the first government to arise in the modern era in the land which was the cradle of the national idea and which was the political body upon which all nationalist hopes of the generation had been focused, after having been [confined] to the limits of dreams in the consciousness of writers, thinkers, and leaders . . . [this period] allowed complete freedom for the spreading of the national idea in the schools, newspapers, clubs, and public meetings . . . it was a golden age for political societies and parties.74 Certainly, one of the contributing factors to this situation was the sense of optimism and elation regarding the new Arab state. During the span of 22 months stretching from the entry of Faysal into ˙ Damascus in October 1918 until his expulsion at the end of July 1920, 42 newspapers and 13 journals appeared in Syria, more than half of them in Damascus. The journalistic output was not of high quality and most of the periodicals disappeared after publishing only a modest number of issues; however, the great significance of this press lay in the very fact of its existence as a tool for expressing the excitement of the Syrian public surrounding the country’s independence and political freedom.75 During this time, in which the press had a critical role in expressing and shaping public opinion in Syria, it became clear to the emissaries

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of the Zionist institutions in Damascus—Yehuda Burla, Joseph Joel Rivlin, and others—that they, too, needed to turn to this medium in order to spread their message. Hence, they argued that there was a need for publishing a newspaper reflecting a moderate and calming outlook that would draw Arabs and Jews nearer to and increase their understanding of the Zionist idea. The result of their activities in this area saw the founding of a bi lingual, Hebrew and Arabic, newspaper, called ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq (‘The East’), which published three issues in ˙ Damascus. An examination of the only extant copies of the three issues that were printed before the newspaper ceased its activity provides us with a deeper insight into Zionist activities in Damascus during the reign of King Faysal. ˙ As stated above, the end of 1919 witnessed the sobering of Zionist euphoria. However, the feverish political manœuvring concerning the future of Syria, the strengthening of the Syrian nationalist movement, and the increasing anti-Zionist incitement in Damascus cast a pall over Zionist activities in this city and over the attitude of the members of the local community towards Zionism.76 The Jews of Damascus were suspected of dual loyalties and, in the autumn of 1920, the police were sent to the Jewish Quarter in order to investigate the acts of the Zionist ‘Ashkenazim’. This incursion led to the shutting-down of the Qadimah national club. The communal council objected to the closure of the club and of other Zionist associations, on the grounds that the essence of their activity was not Zionist, but rather, that the council had set up all these institutions to benefit the poor and the sick.77 Nonetheless, although the authorities later granted permission to re-open the club, the members of Qadimah decided in the following week to cease completely its activity, apparently out of fear of the authorities, who had not approved the group’s charter.78 Every day, hostile articles and accusations made against Jews, Zionism, and Zionists appeared in the pages of the Arabic-language press in Damascus and in Palestine. Jewish reports from Damascus about the hostile Arabic press emphasised that ‘their words are like needles piercing live flesh and there is not even one of us Jews who dares to tell them what to do or how to act’.79 These periodicals generally refused to publish responses by Jews to the articles of incitement. In the absence of a local Jewish newspaper,

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the Damascene Jews looked to the Hebrew press in Palestine to provide a rebuttal to the attacks of the Arabic press. Even so, amongst the circles of Zionist supporters, calls increased for the founding of a local newspaper that would counter these claims in a language understood by all the inhabitants of Damascus. Thus, the newspaper’s first target audience was actually the Arab public in Syria, for whom it sought to provide a balance regarding the Zionist activities in Palestine in order to prevent the rage against Zionism from spilling over into attacks on the local Jewish population. There were even those who expressed hope that the newspaper might ‘serve as a bridge between Arabs and Jews’.80 The second target audience of the newspaper’s intended influence comprised the Jewish society in Syria and Lebanon as a whole and in Damascus in particular. The emissaries of the Zionist Commission to Damascus gradually realised the value of the intellectual and economic Jewish elite in that town as a means to reach the leaders of the Arab nationalist movement and the senior officials in Faysal’s ˙ government. Their goal was to encourage the prominent figures of Jewish society, especially the city’s chief rabbi, to lobby on behalf of the Jewish community and the Zionist cause in meetings with Faysal. ˙ Burla and Rivlin harshly criticised Danon when it became known that he spent his meeting with Faysal discussing ‘the weather’ instead ˙ of the political issues relating to Syrian Jewry.81 Yet, the pressing need for disseminating information on Zionism stemmed also in no small part from the revitalisation of the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle following the damage suffered by its institutions in Damascus during the course of World War I, and from the interest of the Jewish public in the Zionist educational institutions operating in the city on behalf of the Zionist Commission in Palestine.82 In November 1919, the Alliance administration sent an ultimatum to the Jewish community in which it threatened to close its institutions in Damascus unless the latter would allocate the necessary funds to maintain them. The heads of the community and the members of the upper echelons of society, who had previously expressed support for Zionism and for studying the Hebrew language, were actually the first ones to remove their children from the Zionist educational institutions and to re-enrol

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them in the AIU schools.83 There were even those who preferred the Christian educational institutions, once the Protestant mission renewed its activity in the Jewish Quarter.84 Moreover, the events taking place at that time served to remind members of the community the fact that the Alliance had been practically the only body that had aided them during the years of depression following the bankruptcy of the communal notables in 1875, and had not abandoned them even during their most difficult hours. Critics of this attitude described mockingly the stance of the members of the community towards the AIU, who declared that ‘it is holy and its name is sacred and we can only send our children to its schools’.85 Nevertheless, the Alliance’s threats and an appreciation for its activities were not the only factors at play here; another important element was the realisation that Zionism did not represent the be-all and end-all. The activity of the Zionist movement and its success was now put into question following the anti-Zionist attacks in the Arabic press and the Arab nationalist ambitions with respect to Palestine. By contrast, the Alliance continued to present the Jews of Damascus, particularly the more established of them, with the promises of universalism and of Western culture, with all the magnetism and the cornucopia of possibilities that they offered. Lurking in the background were also the political demands of France with respect to Syria, the activities of its envoys in Damascus, and the position of its army on the edges of Syria. As a consequence, it was actually the members of the poorer segments of society who were increasingly filling the ranks of the Zionist educational institutions. The third layer of influence aimed to explain the difficulties of the Zionist enterprise in Damascus to the heads of the Zionist institutions in Palestine and throughout the world. In the autumn of 1919, the Zionist emissaries in the city suffered under the weight of heavy criticism. Their return to the city, following a period in which they had been absent, instilled new hopes for reviving the Zionist activities that had been suppressed while they were gone. Following the police raid and subsequent closure of the Qadimah Club, a dark mood had prevailed throughout the community. The morning news in the Arabic press spread rumours about violence and preparations

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for attacks by Arabs on the Jews in Palestine, which generated concern among parents who had sent their children to study in Jerusalem. However, the refutation of these reports and the reopening of the Zionist kindergartens and schools served to foster a sense of security amongst the Jews of Damascus.86 However, the chaotic political situation that reigned throughout the city soon produced new tensions. The Deauville Agreement, signed between Britain and France on 13 September 1919, decided that Britain would remove its military from Syria and transfer control of the country to the French by 25 November 1919.87 Adding to the increasing tension were the rumours that the region of Palestine would be separated from Syria and treated as a British mandate.88 In the weeks leading up to the British departure, a tense and uneasy mood gripped the city. European consuls advised foreigners to leave Damascus before the withdrawal out of fear that rioting and disorder might break out. According to press reports, many heeded these calls and left, despite the Arab government’s protests and its efforts to calm popular fears about a collapse of public order. The anger of the authorities also intensified as a result of the fact that the growing concerns also brought about an exodus of local Muslim, Christian, and Jewish families from the city. Fears of rioting were common among the members of all the religious communities of Damascus. Muslim families anxious about the outbreak of violence in the city travelled to Haifa in order to stay there until the termination of the unrest. Total panic also seized the Christian quarter.89 Adding to the growing concerns of the teachers at the Zionist schools were the rumours spread about a ‘blacklist’ of Zionists who had arrived to work at the schools and at other Zionist institutions, in the hands of ʿAbd al-Qa¯dir al-Muzaffar, the president of al-Na¯dı¯ al˙ ʿArabı¯, which would be used to settle scores with the Zionists following the British withdrawal. Burla, Rivlin, and Eliyahu Kahanoff, the director of the Alliance boys’ school, appealed to the members of the British Political Office to handle the situation. The latter pleaded with Burla and Rivlin to leave the city quickly, since they anticipated rioting between Muslim groups themselves and between Muslims and Christians, and that the Zionists would not be overlooked in the

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unrest. The consuls from the United States and from Spain also urged their subjects and dependents to leave Damascus by 19 November, announcing that they themselves intended to flee the city.90 This information generated much panic amongst the Palestinian Jewish educators, particularly after they heard that civil rail transportation would cease on 20 November, and that all the trains would be placed at the disposal of the retreating British army. The efforts by Burla and Rivlin to make telephone contact with the Zionist Commission in Haifa, in order to receive clear instructions, failed due to the cut telephone line. Their greatest apprehension was that of the chaos that would reign in Damascus during the period between the withdrawal of the British and the arrival of the French. The teachers’ sense was that they would be cut off from their command centre and that they would essentially be left alone to face the dangers threatening their lives. For this reason, the majority of them resolved that it was necessary to leave Damascus quickly, even in the absence of directives from above, until the tensions cooled. However, they decided to leave gradually and not all at once, so as to avoid having to close the schools without warning. They assumed that the schools would anyhow close once the rioting broke out, and therefore, that the situation of the schools would not be affected by their flight.91 Rumours that Faysal ˙ himself had issued orders commanding the maintaining of good relations with the Jews did not ameliorate the situation. Although Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, the head of the Jewish communal council, expected that the relations between Jews and Arabs would improve and that no danger would come to the city’s Jews, it is clear that he was referring to the local Jews and not the foreign Zionists.92 As a consequence, on the night of Saturday 15 November and on the following day, most of the Hebrew teachers, in particular, the women and those with families, left the city. The others remained behind to protect and maintain the Zionist institutions until more detailed instructions arrived from the Zionist Commission. On 17 November, the situation deteriorated further, following additional anti-Jewish and anti-Zionist rumours. The trepidation continued to grow after the commander of the French forces instructed the directors of the Alliance schools to leave the city. These emissaries

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chose to ignore this advice and they remained in Damascus.93 The Hebrew educators who had stayed in the city appealed to Shlomo Felman, the Zionist Commission’s envoy to Damascus and, through him, received orders that they should remain in Damascus until receiving final instructions from the Zionist Commission, which was going to discuss the situation at the end of that week. They were also assured that the Zionist Commission was working to obtain passes for them to travel on the military train.94 The departure of the teachers aroused a wave of harsh criticism from the institutions and numerous figures in the Jewish society in Palestine (the Yishuv). Fiercely critical articles were published in the press of that time, terming the teacher’s exit an ‘abandonment’. According to Sasson, the ‘flight’ of the educators was hasty and unwarranted and the results of the departure were catastrophic: the Hebrew [Zionist] educational endeavour, which had been promoted with immense labour for a number of years, has been destroyed, and amongst the great Jewish masses, the departure of the teachers has caused excessive fright.95 Even among the Hebrew educational staff in Damascus, the departure of some of the teachers triggered disagreements and bitter confrontations. This was due to the fact that there were teachers who continued teaching as normal. The schools did not close and the educators who remained behind worked extra hours and even hired two religious scholars to substitute in classes that lacked teachers. These educators were bitter that they also had to endure affront, even though they had not abandoned Damascus. Burla, the principal of the boys’ school, was accused of acting with recklessness and bringing about the departure of the teachers from Damascus.96 On the other hand, Sasson, who also criticised the teachers’ exit in the Palestinian press, claimed to have suffered reproaches, insults, and curses from the teaching staff. He was called to a meeting of the teachers, where he was asked to send the newspaper Hadashot ha-ares (‘News of the Land’) a ˙ ˙ denial of the things he had written in which he censured the departure of the teachers. The staff further decided to remove him from Hebrew

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instruction in the evening classes and from all public activity.97 The teachers’ departure also had a particularly negative impact on the relations between the Jewish community in Damascus and the Zionist emissaries. Their flight had left hundreds of students to fend for themselves; as a result, the community felt that the Zionist institutions were unable to provide adequate protection for them. The Education Committee of the Palestinian Bureau of the Zionist Organisation reacted to the exit of the educators from Damascus as follows: The arrival here [Palestine] of the teachers from Damascus has made a very depressing impression upon us. We thought that a teacher should stand his position and remain at his post even during times of danger. The departure of the teachers sullies our honour in the eyes of the Hebrew public, which should see educators as guides who know how to protect their honour. This matter is particularly important in such a place where we had desired to establish a pure station of nationalism and Hebrew, and in a location where it was so deeply necessary to raise Jewish pride. This exit is something that brings shame upon the endeavour of our Palestinian teachers . . . but despite this stance, which is so clear to each one of us, we are not allowed nor do we desire to take upon ourselves the responsibility for the events that might have taken place [should the teachers have remained]. Each should act according to his conscience, whatever his sense of national honour and duty as a teacher tells him.98 The reaction of both the Education Committee and the public in Damascus and in Palestine surprised and outraged most of the teachers in Damascus. They replied directly to the Education Committee and to the editorial staffs of the Palestinian newspapers. In their rejoinders, the teachers alternately expressed embarrassment, ire, regret, and a sense that those judging them harshly were unaware of the severity of the situation in Damascus.99 Insisting upon their belief that the action of those teachers had been unavoidable, the teachers in Damascus demanded that the Education Committee clear their name in the public arena. According to them:

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Furthermore, logically, there is neither justification nor reason for the teachers to put themselves at risk when there is no benefit either for the educational programme or for any nationalist stance . . . during the time when the English were in Damascus, the situation of the Hebrew schools fell within the rubric of the international status quo. But with the transfer of the city to Arab rule, our work is putting our lives in danger. We cannot return to Damascus until the schools shall receive formal sanction from the government—whatever it will be. Then, anyone who would agree to do so, can take it upon themselves to carry out this work even in a place where it is permitted only officially (since the public-at-large does not view favourably the endeavour of the Hebrew schools), because our fear is not from physical or verbal abuse. However, in the face of open persecution by the ruling authorities, we refuse to work. Our national pride demands similarly of us that we do not carry out our labour secretly, in hiding and on the sly, but rather, as teachers engaged in cultural work amongst their own nation.100 The need increased, therefore, for advocacy tools that would serve the Hebrew educators in Damascus vis-a`-vis the Zionist institutions and would emphasise the great difficulties facing them. One must recall that, at that time, the Jews of Syria did not have representation on any of the various Zionist bodies, save for the MiZRaHI movement, ˙ and that, during those years, their representatives did not participate in the different Zionist gatherings that took place throughout the world.101 Beyond such informational activities aimed at the external Zionist arena, the founders of the newspaper ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq ˙ sought to open the eyes of the Jewish community of Damascus to the events occurring throughout the Jewish world and thus hoped that ‘this newspaper shall serve as a link uniting the Jews of the East with those of the West’.102 At the beginning of 1920, Yehoshua Hankin, who served then as the head of the Land Department of the Zionist Commission, and his assistant Moshe Shertok (later Sharett), proposed supporting the dissemination of the Zionist idea and its inculcation into the

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consciousness of the Arab inhabitants of the country by founding an Arabic-language newspaper in Egypt and distributing it for free amongst the population. The two also suggested founding an Arabic periodical in Palestine and providing financial support to a number of Arabic newspapers, such as al-Muqattam (‘The Broken’) in Cairo, al˙˙ Istiqlal al-ʿArabı¯ (‘The Arab independence’) and al-Mufı¯d (‘The Beneficial’) in Damascus, and al-Haqiqah (‘The Truth’) in Beirut.103 The idea that there was a need for an Arabic-language newspaper that would respond to the anti-Zionist incitement in the Arab press and would bolster the Zionist message among Jews living in Arab countries continued to arise from time to time in the Hebrew press. For example, the teacher and scholar Shmuʾel Ben-Shabbat published the following in the pages of the newspaper Doʾar ha-yom (‘The Daily Mail’): Furthermore, great benefit may come from this newspaper. There exist large communities of our fellow Sephardim in Damascus, Aleppo, [and] Beirut, and, even in the Land of Israel, there are significant communities that are still far removed from our Hebrew world, from the entire nationalist endeavour. For these brethren, an awakening is necessary, one which shall knock on their windows and inform them that it is now morning, that day has broken, and that they must arise and look with new eyes at all of the issues which are so dear to us and which touch our souls, but which are still very foreign to them. These communities, whose spoken tongue and language of reading and writing is Arabic, will be drawn nearer to our spirit by our newspaper of awakening, which shall slowly disrobe them of the excessive ‘corporeality’ under whose weight they are sinking, and in this way, our Arabic-language newspaper will bring us vast benefit.104

The newspaper ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq ˙ The first movement towards the founding of the newspaper ha-Mizrah/ ˙ al-Sharq was taken at the start of December 1919 by the distribution of

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an announcement on this matter in Hebrew and in Arabic. Reports of the newspaper’s impending publication appeared in the Hebrew press in Palestine by the end of December 1919.105 Mosheh Sevi, a teacher at ˙ a Hebrew girls’ school, who was the driving force behind the founding of the paper, was appointed as its editor. He was assisted by Eliahu Sasson, a member of the younger generation in Damascus, who served then as a writer for the Palestinian Hebrew newspapers in Syria, Hayyim Zegul, another young local Zionist and one of the directors of ˙ a Hebrew school, Joseph Joel Rivlin, and Yehuda Burla.106 Even so, the managing editor was Ibra¯hı¯m Totah, one of the notables of the Jewish ˙ ˙ ˙ community in Damascus. This appointment was apparently intended to give the impression that the newspaper represented the city’s Jewish community and not foreign Zionist interests, despite the fact that the writing staff was primarily composed of Hebrew school teachers and some young locals. The newspaper’s primary aim was that its language should be Hebrew and that only an abstract of the main article and the ‘interesting news’ should appear in Arabic. In order to alleviate the fears of the city’s Jews that a clearly pro-Zionist newspaper would provoke fury against them, the designated editor of the newspaper declared that the language of the paper would be simple and ‘for the most part, the newspaper shall speak about life in the East, while staying silent on the issue of Palestine and while echoing the sentiment of the Syrian newspapers with respect to the matter of Arab nationalism’.107 Funding for the newspaper came in part from the budget of the Zionist Commission, while early subscriptions were pledged from individuals in Damascus, Aleppo, Beirut, Egypt, and Palestine. The cost of subscription outside Damascus was 125 Egyptian piastres per annum. Interest in the periodical was positive and nearly 100 individuals subscribed within two days in Damascus alone. The management of the paper engaged in discussions with writers in Beirut, Aleppo, Istanbul, Vienna, London, and Palestine.108 In March 1920, even prior to the arrival of a Hebrew printing press in Damascus, the editor printed an issue of the newspaper in booklet form entirely in Arabic. The intention was to use the publication to try to lesson tensions and misunderstandings between Arabs and Jews.109 Nevertheless, this act prompted complaints from the Zionist circles within

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the city’s Jewish population, demanding that the newspaper’s staff refrain from publishing anything until they were able to print the paper in Hebrew with an Arabic translation. Despite these criticisms, this booklet made a favourable impression as a journalistic product.110 However, in its attempt to meet its goals, ha-Mizrah suffered ˙ numerous delays due to technical and political obstacles. In order to print the newspaper, it was necessary to purchase Hebrew typographic parts from Palestine and to bring them to Damascus. For this reason, the editor Mosheh Sevi departed in April for Jaffa and ˙ purchased the full equipment necessary for a printery.111 So as to facilitate receipt of a licence for operating a press, it was declared a branch of an established printing house. Aside from this, budgetary problems also threatened the publication of the newspaper, so as to generate a sentiment among the publishers of embarrassment with cautious optimism.112 The political obstacles stemmed from the anti-Zionist environment, which was continuing to intensify in Damascus. In March, when concerns arose among the newspaper’s staff that they would be unable to print the periodical in the city, the suggestion was made that Rivlin would leave for Jerusalem, from where he would print the paper until they found another city in the Middle East that would serve as a base for publishing it. Nevertheless, the staff planned to stay in Damascus in any event and it even expanded, adding three teachers from the faculty of the Zionist schools. Ultimately, this proposal was never implemented; a ban on emigration to Palestine was re-imposed in April 1920. Furthermore, the Arabic newspapers reported on Zionist spies in Damascus and, at the end of that month, the Palestinian Arab journalist ʿA¯rif al-ʿA¯rif, the editor of the newspaper Su¯riyyah al-Janu¯biyyah (‘Southern Syria’), came from Jerusalem to Damascus, where he continued his campaign of active anti-Zionist incitement. With the rising wave of anti-Zionism, hopes for publishing the newspaper nearly completely dried up.113 However, the Hebrew typographic parts arrived in Damascus at the start of June 1920, and the press received a licence for activity from the government. At the start of July, the minister of the interior also issued a licence permitting publication of the newspaper ha-

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Mizrah.114 The first issue of the newspaper appeared on Monday 5 ˙ July 1920, towards the evening. In accordance with its original planning, it was bi-lingual; ha-Mizrah contained two pages in ˙ Hebrew, while al-Sharq comprised two pages in Arabic. During its initial phase, the plan was to publish only three issues per week. There are interesting differences between the main editorial in Hebrew and the one in Arabic. Beneath the headline, ‘A Few matters’, the staff declared that the newspaper had two goals: 1. First, to be a catalyst in the awakening and revival of the Jews of the Middle East, to thaw the stagnation of inactivity that has enveloped it; to awaken Jewish consciousness in the remote and forgotten corners of the world and to revitalise the body of Eastern Judaism via these neglected communities, propagating among them vibrant and active public and cultural endeavours. 2. Second, to serve as a mouthpiece and advocate to the outside world, to safeguard the interests of the Jews of the Middle East and to ensure that they not be deprived of their rights nor made a target or injured by those who might desire to do so.115 The Arabic editorial, titled ‘Our aim (gha¯yatuna¯)’, insisted that the Jews of Syria were an inseparable part of the constituent branches of the Syrian nation and that the aim of the newspaper was the education of the local Jews so that they might be able to serve their Syrian homeland and fulfil their duties towards it with sincerity, loyalty, and vigour: Verily, the Jews in the new Syrian kingdom are today an organ of the body of this beloved homeland, or a branch of the tree of this kingdom . . . and our aim, therefore, with this publication, is the strengthening of that organ of the body of the Syrian kingdom so that it shall become an active member from which the remaining components that constitute the Syrian nation shall gain benefit . . . we belong to those who believe that it is a

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disgrace for the Syrian Jewish nation if it stays stuck in the hibernation of ignorance and weakness and remains but an inactive part of the body of this homeland . . .116 Furthermore, the editorial staff gave a pledge to abstain from activity in foreign affairs of a political nature—and even those not of a clear political nature—save for matters that might have some connection to the Jewish people. An entire paragraph was devoted to an historical description of the benefits that Jews bestowed, when they received the opportunity to do so, upon the nations in whose midst they resided in every part of the Diaspora.117 The format of the newspaper copied that of the Hebrew press in Palestine, such as that of Doʾar ha-yom. Alongside announcements and advertisements (‘the Jerusalem Hotel—the first Hebrew hotel in Damascus’), an article critical of the communal leadership and its organisation appeared. Rivlin published the first version of his article on ‘the first Hebrew press in Damascus’ in the pages of ha-Mizrah.118 ˙ Likewise, the newspaper’s contents also included a humoristic piece on the preparations made for publishing the periodical and various news items relating to Jewish communities in the world, the arrival of the British commissioner Herbert Samuel in Jerusalem, and events taking place in Damascus. The headline of the main article in the Arabic section was ‘The Arabs and the Jews (al-ʿarab wa-ʾl-yahu¯d)’ and focused on their common origins and their good relations throughout history. News items about proceedings in Syria and the world also appeared in the issue.

Socialist Zionist organisation During this time, the Jewish worker in Damascus occupied the lowest rung of the social ladder. Their wages were low, their working hours were long, and they did not enjoy any social benefits. Whilst, in 1906, the emissaries of the Alliance had attempted to introduce May Day celebrations into the community, socialist ideas such as the international brotherhood of workers and the struggle for improving their working conditions had not attracted much interest from the

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Jews of Damascus.119 One must recall that the Alliance emissaries did not see their assignment as that of leading a social struggle for the amelioration of the status of the Jewish labourer; rather, they perceived of their task as the raising of the level of education, which would in any case—so they believed—bring about an improvement in socioeconomic conditions. Among the exiles sent to Damascus during the war years was a group of Hebrew workers, led by Avraham Herzfeld (1891 – 1973), which adhered to a firm socialist classconsciousness. It is likely that they were the first to convey socialist ideas to the Jews of Damascus, although such awareness did not go beyond the realm of verbal comments.120 Things did not change until much later, when the endeavour surrounding the publication of the newspaper ha-Mizrah was accompanied by widespread ˙ cultural socialist Zionist activity, with the clear practical aim of promoting the status of the Jewish worker. On 3 January 1920, Sevi ˙ and Sasson, members of the newspaper’s staff, founded a workers’ union, whose stated aims were: 1. . . . the raising of the spiritual and material condition of the Jewish worker in Damascus in particular and of the workers of Syria in general. 2. To forge contacts with the Palestinian Jewish workers’ union. 3. Providing lessons in Hebrew, Arabic, and mathematics to the workers every evening for one hour. 4. Arranging lectures once a week and holding frequent evening functions. 5. All of the members commit to subscribe to the newspaper haMizrah, which shall appear shortly and which shall serve as the ˙ organ for all the associations in Damascus.121 About 150 workers were present at the union’s inaugural gathering, which took place at one of the synagogues in the city. One hundred of them signed on then and there as subscribers to the periodical. Later still, the number of those enrolling in the evening classes, organised by the editors of the newspaper in order to deepen

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their socialist consciousness, reached 180. The climax of the event was the establishment of an 11-member committee, presided over by Elijah Kohen ʿAjami, which was supposed to look out for the class interests of the union’s members. Over the course of the coming weeks and months, the workers’ club operated in an intensive fashion, providing evening classes and lectures in Hebrew and in Arabic on topics like ‘the lives of workers in the past and in the future’. Likewise, it staged plays reflecting a Biblical and Land of Israel style, such as ‘The Daughter of Jephthah’. The proceeds from the performance went towards the evening classes hosted by the union. The opening at that time of two workshops, for cobbling and for sewing, by the Zionist Commission gave further momentum to the workers’ organisation. These workshops employed around 120 workers, most of them orphans and penniless. At the same time, evening classes were organised for the labourers in which they were taught the Hebrew language. However, following the initial excitement, the activities of the union began to dwindle until it ceased entirely its operation by around the time of Passover 1920. Later efforts by individual members of the group of Hebrew teachers to instil new life into the union failed to meet with success.122 One of the reasons for the decline in its activity was the conflict between the chief editor of ha-Mizrah, Mosheh Sevi, who was the ˙ ˙ driving force behind the founding of the workers’ union, and Yehudah Burla, the director of the boys’ school. The source of this quarrel apparently lay in arguments surrounding the aforementioned departure of the teachers from Damascus. In any event, on the eve of the Feast of Lots (Purim), the members of the union sought to stage a play, the profits of which would go towards the funding of evening classes for the workers. Owing to a request from the Hebrew teachers’ branch, the workers agreed to postpone the play by a week. To their astonishment, when the union head Elijah Kohen ʿAjami requested permission from the heads of the Hebrew schools in Damascus to hold the event at the kindergarten, Burla responded as such: ‘. . . be so kind as to tell us in writing whether the workers’ union is indeed founded by Mr Sevi—for if so, then we cannot help ˙ with this matter’.123

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A day or two after the founding of the workers’ organisation, a ‘union of female teacher aides’ was also established. It was comprised of about 20 young Damascene women, nearly all of whom had received Hebrew education, some in Damascus and some in Palestine, and worked as aides to Hebrew kindergarten and school teachers, as well as in the AIU schools. In this case, the principle of class advancement superseded the ideological and pedagogical disagreements that separated the teaching aides working in the various institutions. Its declared objective was ‘to raise the spiritual condition of the members through evening classes and by promoting their demands and ensuring their rights’.124 As in the case of the workers’ union, a committee of three members was set up to develop the organisation’s charter. This activity, whose essence reflected the sense of discrimination felt by the young women in Damascus regarding their treatment by the Palestinian educators, served as a thorn in the side of some of the teachers sent by the Zionist Commission. They decided to place obstacles in the way of the union’s activity and even went as far as issuing threats of dismissal. Nevertheless, despite the women’s concerns, these attempts at intimidation did not discourage the teacher assistants. On the first day of the Jewish month of Nisan (20 March 1920), several members of the union approached Luria, the chairman of the Palestinian Education Committee, with the following demands: 1. The founding of a training school for kindergarten teachers, in order to allow them to finish their education, so that they themselves could assume the positions heretofore being filled by kindergarten and school teachers from Palestine. 2. The appointment of a representative who would be responsible for determining their salaries and for paying their wages on time. Part and parcel with this stipulation, the kindergarten teachers also demanded the full payment of the salaries of some teachers’ aides whose wages had been withheld. 3. The addressing of their complaint against one of the Palestinian kindergarten teachers who had exhibited a hostile and insulting attitude towards them and had even fired one of the aides for

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personal reasons. According to the complainants, their appeal to the directors of the Hebrew institutions in Damascus in this matter had not been effective. Consequently, they took the step of appealing to the Education Committee and even subtly threatened the possibility of ceasing their work: ‘Following serious consideration, we have decided to appeal to you since we feel that we have no other option, and we hope that you shall come to our assistance, since this behaviour does not enable the continuation of our labour.125 Such organisation was encouraged by the MiZRaHI movement’s ˙ announcement of its intentions to open in Damascus a seminary for kindergarten aides, with the aim of placing them in kindergartens that it would establish in major cities throughout the Middle East. This news aroused great enthusiasm among the young women of Damascus and especially among the kindergarten aides at the Hebrew institutions, who hurried to declare their desire to enrol in the seminary. Ultimately, however, the MiZRaHI movement ˙ withdrew its plans for opening this institution in Damascus.126 As stated, unionising of this type was a new phenomenon in Damascus. The socio-economic structure in Syria had been based previously upon the rigid framework of the professional guilds, but their priorities did not include an emphasis on workers’ rights, but rather the interests of the employers and the expansion of profits.127 The absence of raw materials necessary for heavy industry (such as iron and coal), the Ottoman authority’s failure to develop the country, the slow economic and cultural development, the poverty of the inhabitants, which failed to create demand for new goods owing to their declining purchasing power, the small quantity of skilled labourers, the heavy burden of taxation upon urbanites, and the lack of security of property and person all contributed to the fact that Syria had not developed, during the years leading up to World War I, a wide-ranging and advanced technological industry. As a result of this, the necessary infrastructure for generating the emergence of a class of workers conscious of its existence and its rights as a class failed to materialise.128 Furthermore, neither the installation of

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infrastructure for an electricity network (that resulted in the illumination of the streets and houses of the town with electric lamps and light bulbs) nor the laying of a network of railway tracks leading to and from Damascus aided in this regard.129 Syrian industry prior to World War I was primarily comprised of small industry that focused on the production of soap, oil, and wax. These industries thrived in particular because they lacked competition from Western imports, but also because of the significant support— especially in the case of the soap industry—that they received from the authorities.130 In addition to these industries, there also existed other manufacturing enterprises, including weaving, silk reeling, and dyeing. However, the only ones to flourish—so much that they expanded from simple workshops to factories employing large numbers of workers—were the copper, silver, gold, and wood development industries. Elmaleh described the situation as follows: The most important enterprise, which brought vast profits to its owners, was that of handicraft production. While the ownership of this industry as a whole is in the hands of nonJews, it includes about one thousand Jewish male and female labourers, young and old, from the ages of three and four131 to fifty years old. They produce copper candelabra, trays, goblets, pedestals, basins, pitchers, and other items, which are engraved in curvy Arabic letters with verses from the Bible and the Qurʾan, as well as a variety of images and pictures as varied as the imaginations of their artists . . . these Oriental items are sold at fair prices to the numerous tourists who visit Damascus each and every year. Aside from this large industry, in which all of the workers are Jews and all of the capital is Christian, there are two other, smaller ones that belong to Jews and which employ about two hundred male and female Hebrew workers . . . the most professional worker earns up to four mecidiye [fourfifths of an Ottoman lira] per week.132 The distinction that Elmaleh made between ‘Jewish’ workers in Christian factories and male and female ‘Hebrew’ labourers working

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in factories owned by Jews is not coincidental. Elmaleh’s Zionist national mindset manifested itself in the terminology that he used for expressing this consciousness, already in 1912. The yardstick he was using for comparison was the Zionist enterprise in Palestine, in which all its institutions were organised for mutual assistance, and it is against this background that he complained severely that ‘there is not in Damascus even one national Hebrew bank, nor is there a joint-lending fund’.133 One must recall that worker organisations, groups, and parties were beginning to spring up at this time in Palestine.134 Members of the Second ʿAliyyah sought to spread and inculcate the values of modern nationalism and socialism among the broad popular strata of the Asian and African Jewish communities living in Palestine.135 This activity dovetailed with the aspiration to forge a New Hebrew in the Land of Israel. The dissemination of socialist values in the same framework as the Zionist programme facilitated, following World War I, the penetration of these ideas in Damascus, as well, primarily amongst the proletariat class, which constituted the most significant element of the Jewish community. World War I exacerbated the economic situation in Damascus. The growing shortage of raw materials and the city’s exclusion from the international trade routes almost entirely eradicated the few industries in the city. Even after the war, despite a certain level of economic development that found expression in the establishment of new factories employing large numbers of workers, the Industrial Revolution still failed to take hold in Damascus. The low salary levels were one of the principle factors behind the contraction of the local economy. Other contributing causes for this development were the lack of investment and the small business cycle. The local industry worked largely to supply local demands that were, on the whole, minimal. Technologicallyadvanced goods were imported from other countries. The first stages of modernisation in the local industries, which manifested itself in the entry of up-to-date technological tools, led to the dismissal of unskilled labourers, a rise in unemployment, and a decrease in wage levels.136

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Within the context of the efforts to advance the Syrian economy and to reshape the image of society in the new Arab kingdom, the ideas of socialism, equality, and national responsibility began to appear in the pages of al-ʿA¯simah (‘The Capital’), the official government gazette. ˙ Furthermore, alongside the encouragement of various economic initiatives, Faysal’s government recognised the right of workers to ˙ strike and allowed them to implement this right in a number of stateowned companies and factories. The government even yielded in several cases and approved the raising of workers’ wages.137 In the encounter between the Jewish proletariat of Damascus and the teachers sent on behalf of the Zionist ideological movement, some of those emissaries sought also to act as teachers and instructors in the realm of professional-class unionisation. Their desire was to awake classconsciousness, in the belief that such awareness would create a dynamic of local independent activity to ameliorate the economic and cultural condition of Damascene Jewry. The combination of educational activity and the imbuing of knowledge, the presentation of lectures, the publication of a newspaper as a tool of expression, and the organisation of workers unions were all supposed to generate the foundations for appreciating the importance of mutual aid, which would assist in the development of society. To a large extent, the Palestinian Jewish emissaries sought to be the ‘bearers of the socialist idea’, as it was articulated by the members of the Second ʿAliyyah, to the people of Damascus, both Jews and non-Jews alike. Yet, our sources mention no trace of joint contact or activity, at this point, between Jewish and Arab workers in the pursuit of common goals. Nor is there any indication that the founding of a Jewish workers’ union influenced at all the establishment of Arab workers’ unions. In any event, the Jewish workers’ union that emerged in relation to the publication of the newspaper haMizrah/al-Sharq was probably the first such organisation in Damascus, ˙ and only afterwards did other ones come into being.138

Reactions to the appearance of the newspaper The first issue of the newspaper was received in Palestine with blessing and encouragement. Despite the fact that the Hebrew

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printing press was still not functioning properly and that there was a plethora of printing errors, the publication was accepted with an understanding of the hardship involved in publishing a Hebrew periodical in the capital of the Arab kingdom.139 In statements to the Hebrew press in Palestine, the Jewish writers in Damascus reported that the Jewish public reacted approvingly to the newspaper, as did the Arab population, which was pleased in particular with the message of the article ‘The Arabs and the Jews’, which focused on the shared patrimony of Jews and Arabs and the good relations between the Abrahamic peoples throughout history.140 These testimonies are supported as well by the emissaries of the Alliance in Damascus, who stated that the newspaper, despite being of mediocre quality, sold quite well.141 Nonetheless, things were not perceived this way within the ruling institutions in Damascus. From a political stance, the timing of the publication of the first issue was very bad. Tension and unrest gripped the city during this period preceding the entry of the French forces into Damascus. In the midst of this time of unease, the agronomist Haim Margaliot-Kalvarisky arrived in Damascus from Roʾsh Pinah, accompanied by other officials representing the Jewish Colonisation Association in Haifa. Consistent with his efforts seeking compromise and co-existence with the Arabs, Margaliot-Kalvarisky met with King Faysal, Prime Minister Ha¯shim al-Ata¯sı¯, and Foreign Minister ˙ ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Shahbandar during his visit.142 The opinions of ˙ the Arab political activists in Damascus were divided with respect to the purpose of the Zionist official’s visit. Some felt that his presence would help, since he came to purchase shares of the Syrian national bond. Others suspected that he came to acquire arms for the Jews in Palestine or to collect money from the Jewish community of Damascus and to draw them into action on behalf of the Zionist programme. One way or another, his visit aroused interest on the part of no small number of political groups in Damascus that sought to meet him in person. Thus, for example, a group of young Palestinian Arabs met with him, only to be disappointed to hear that he placed the immigration of Jews to the Land of Israel as an immitigable condition. Margaliot-Kalvarisky’s visit was interpreted by the Arab

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press as though the Zionists ‘want to buy off the Palestinian Arabs’ conscience with money’.143 Three of the members of the Syrian National Congress who had met with him were suspected of willingness to compromise with the Zionists. The good relations between Riya¯d Bek al-Sulh, the son of the Interior Minister Rida¯ʾ al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Sulh, and Margaliot-Kalvarisky aroused great anger among the Arab ˙ ˙ nationalists. The result was an exchange of accusations regarding treason and concessions to the Zionist emissary between various political factions in the Arab press and in the corridors of power.144 Adding to the tension of these events at this time was the publication of the newspaper ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq, which raised a ˙ flurry of emotions in the Syrian National Congress. Members of the nationalist and Palestinian circles led the objections to the periodical’s appearance. On the night before the second issue was to be printed, during the proofreading stage, a policeman and two Palestinian Arabs, one an unknown individual from Nablus and the other ʿA¯rif al-ʿA¯rif, arrived at the printery.145 The three demanded a copy of the issue from the proof reader, even before he finished his work. The latter enquired whether their demand reflected an official request on the part of the government or whether it was an administrative matter—an attempt to close down the newspaper on the pretext of lacking a licence. The policeman admitted that their interest in the newspaper had nothing to do with official business, but insisted that the proof reader turn over a copy of the issue to him. The copy that he received as a gesture of good will eventually made its way the next day into the hands of various deputies of the Syrian National Congress and caused a burst of excitement. The delegate Yu¯suf al-ʿI¯sa¯ proposed the immediate formation of a committee that would appeal to the palace and inquire how a Zionist newspaper could be allowed to appear in the capital of the Arab kingdom. Four members from each party, led by al-ʿA¯rif and al-ʿI¯sa¯, were selected. In their meeting with Faysal, the members of the delegation asked him ˙ to terminate the publication of the Zionist periodical due to the great damage that it would bring to the Arab cause. Our sources do not record the king’s response; it appears that he preferred to concern himself with gaining the support of the Syrian National Congress

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delegates for his planned mission to Europe.146 For the most part, the Arabic-language press was not a silent observer to the publication of ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq, but was generally united in its opposition to the ˙ periodical’s existence. The newspaper al-Kina¯nah (‘The Quiver’) focused its attacks on the Arab lawyer Tawfı¯q al-Zat¯ır, who used his ˙ connections at the Ministry of the Interior to obtain a licence for the Jewish periodical. These accusations charged that al-Zat¯ır and the ˙ minister of the interior, Rida¯ʾ al-Sulh, who was forced to resign in ˙ ˙ ˙ the aftermath of the allegations regarding his ties to MargaliotKalvarisky, acted to grant approval for the publication of the Zionist mouthpiece in Damascus.147 In particular, the press fumed over the granting of permission to publish a newspaper that was perceived by them as promoting Zionist aims, while pro-Palestinian Arab newspapers were ordered shut.148 On 9 July 1920, the second issue of the newspaper appeared despite the pressure and threats. Its Hebrew section was shortened to one page, which included routine pieces of information about proceedings in the medical clinic and the communal schools. While it printed a report about certain memorial services and a show held on 20 Tammuz (6 July), it did not mention even a word regarding the fact that these events commemorated the death of the leader of the Zionist movement, Theodor Herzl. The main article in the Arabic section directly addressed the Jewish community in Syria, calling upon them to take part in the construction of the Arab kingdom, which it claimed was promoting the rule of law and democracy, by sending a representative of their own to serve in government institutions. To this end, it summoned the Jewish public to establish a committee that would unite the community and lead it to participate in the promotion of ‘the beloved homeland’. Perhaps to prove its loyalty to Syrian interests, the newspaper even appended a full page in which it urged Syrian Jewry to contribute to the Syrian national bond: ‘The Syrian national bond (al-qard al-watanı¯ al-Su¯rı¯) is the life of ˙ the Syrian nation. Take a part yourself, the local Jew (al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯), for verily, there is no life without independence, and no independence without money.’149 Despite such language, the presidency of the Syrian National Congress sent a letter to the government

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demanding that it shut down the newspaper owing to the damage, it argued, that it was liable to bring to the Arab homeland.150 The third and final issue appeared on 12 July 1920, entirely—two pages—in Arabic. This time, no main editorial piece appeared at all, save for a continuation of the article ‘The Arabs and the Jews’, which placed stress on the similarities between the two peoples, in their languages and in their traditions. The rest of the newspaper included reports on proceedings in the political corridors of Damascus and various items of information from around the world.151 At this time, Damascus was wrapped up in the threat of French invasion and the ultimatum issued by General Gouraud to Faysal; the appearance of ha˙ Mizrah turned into a ‘political scandal’ and the authorities dedicated ˙ time to deal intensively with the argument over its continued existence. The matter produced astonishment among the pro-Zionist Jews who wondered how ‘at this moment, when crucial questions threaten the status of the country and its inhabitants, they obsess over the appearance of this newspaper, an incident that ultimately is not that important in the political life of any country’.152 Following the publication of this third issue, the editorial staff received a direct order from the minister of war Yu¯suf al-ʿAzmah to cease printing the ˙ newspaper for an unlimited period of time.153 On Saturday 24 July 1920, the French military forces clashed with the Syrian Arab army under the command of al-ʿAzmah. In an ˙ engagement known as the Battle of Maysalu¯n, for the name of the place near Damascus in which it took place, the Arab army suffered a crippling blow and effectively collapsed. On the next day, 25 July, the French brigades marched into Damascus. Thus, the short-lived existence of the first modern Arab state founded in the aftermath of the fall of the Ottoman Empire was put to an end. On 28 July, the French allowed the defeated king, who had been good for and a supporter of Syrian Jewry, to leave Damascus, the capital of modern Arab nationalism.154

CHAPTER 6 BETWEEN FRANCE AND ZION

Long live France! Long live Commander Gouraud! Long live Syria! —Robert Haı¨moff, June 19211

The French policy The French military take-over of Syria and Lebanon and its assumption of the League of Nations’ mandate for these lands marked a significant milestone for Zionism’s development in Damascus. For centuries, France had maintained a special relationship with the Christian inhabitants of the Levant, based primarily upon shared religious and cultural affinity. France’s religious patronage for Catholic communities and its cultural influence over them provided an initial framework for this bond, which expanded to include economic and consular activity. For various reasons, France’s political standing in the Levant declined at the start of the twentieth century, alongside Britain’s rise in popularity. Nevertheless, France continued to maintain its special interest for the region, officially supporting missionary activity in the Levant, despite the strengthening of the laı¨cisation process separating religion and state inside France itself. Its sustained sympathy and support for Levantine Christians was a clearly political act that strengthened France’s hand in the struggle between the great powers.2

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On the eve of World War I, France formulated its objectives in Syria. French foreign policy sought to manœuvre between the principle of Ottoman integrity and its Entente Cordiale with Britain, on the one hand, and the formulation of plans for the aftermath of the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire, on the other.3 Britain, for its part, could not ignore France’s traditional interests in Syria, even as it refused to relinquish aspirations to broaden its influence in the region during this time.4 Following the 1917 British statement of support for Zionism, known as the Balfour Declaration, France adopted a policy of opposition towards Zionism in Palestine, fearing the Muslim world’s reaction. However, over the course of 1918, its attitude towards Zionism was ambivalent. In one respect, it adopted a conciliatory approach owing to the great importance it attributed to the future role of the United States and the imagined influence of that country’s Jews on the developments at the postwar peace conference. Yet, it also tended towards the Arab-Muslim world by insisting that Zionism not turn Palestine into a Jewish national state. France’s policies supported the establishment of an international condominium in Palestine, in which France would play a central role. Yet, as the ties between the Zionist movement and British policy regarding Palestine became more apparent, France’s hesitation with respect to Zionism turned into open hostility. The relationship between Zionism and British policy was interpreted as anti-French in nature, aiming at reducing France’s influence in the Levant. Zionism was seen as a tool in the hands of Britain for achieving the latter’s objectives in the region. The agitation of Arabs in Syria and Palestine against Zionist national aspirations bolstered France’s antagonistic approach. The Arab contention that Palestine was a part of Greater Syria was consistent with French goals, which also saw this part of the Levant as one unit. Moreover, France feared that, in the event of the spread of Arab discontent to North Africa, a policy supporting Zionism might create a challenge to its grip on that part of the world. At various stages, opposition to Zionism became a common denominator between France’s representatives in the Levant and the Arabs. If there were French declarations of support for the Zionist

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movement, they emphasised the humanitarian aspect—that is, support for the cultural revival of the Jews in Palestine—but lacked any political meaning whatsoever. As the San Remo Conference approached, France recognised more clearly its need to reach a compromise with Britain regarding the division of rule over the Levant between the two powers. At the conference itself, France conceded to British demands regarding Palestine and, in this manner, the land and the Zionism movement fell under Britain’s full influence. France narrowed its interest in Zionism and tempered its opposition, also owing to its focus on the struggle against Faysal.5 ˙ The encounter between the Jewish community of Damascus and the French re´gime did not reassure the Jews. A short while after assuming complete control of Syria, the French authorities demanded that the population of Damascus make vast reparations for the damages incurred by the war. In order to disarm the civil population, Syrian inhabitants were required to hand over their rifles to the authorities. To ensure compliance with the order, 9,000 weapons were levied upon the population. The residents of the Jewish Quarter were to supply the new government with 270 rifles, in addition to the reparation payments imposed upon the Jewish merchants. To the astonishment of the Jews, the Christian population was required to provide only a similar number of weapons, despite the fact that its size was four times larger than that of the Jews. The chief rabbi Jacob Danon appealed to the authorities and, after negotiations, the demand was lowered to 50 rifles. The community succeeded in purchasing these weapons from Muslims and turned them over to the government. In response, the French insisted on another 50 rifles from the Jews alone. When the latter failed to meet this quota, an order was given to the French Senegalese soldiers to enter the Jews’ homes and take their carpets and furniture or any other property of similar value to the weapons.6 Initially, the entry of the French instilled hope among the Zionists in Damascus that the new enlightened Western re´gime would allow the resumption of publication of the newspaper ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq. ˙ The minister of war, Yu¯suf al-ʿAzmah, whom the Jews perceived as ˙ hostile to them and towards Zionism, had issued an order forbidding

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the continued publication of the periodical under the claim that it was interfering allegedly with matters of religion and propagating hatred. Following the French occupation, the Arab government admitted that these contentions had no foundation and that, as far as it was concerned, there was no hindrance to the renewed publication of the newspaper. The editors of the periodical delved vigorously back into their work and, two weeks later, submitted the finished product for the approval of the authorities.7 However, these expectations met with disappointment. At the end of September 1920, the French re´gime banned the renewed publication of the newspaper ha-Mizrah. ˙ The reason given by the French official responsible for matters of the press was that a general determination had been made at higher levels proscribing the appearance of any new newspaper. Yet, this decision was implemented only partially, since, according to contemporary reports, new Arabic-language newspapers began to appear. Another reason given to explain the ban on printing the newspaper was anchored in the claim that the Jews already received publications such as Doʾar ha-yom and ha-Ares (‘The Land’) from Jerusalem and ˙ therefore had no need for another newspaper. The result was that the Jews in Damascus were left without a mouthpiece of their own, while both the Christians and the Muslims had numerous publications. This situation produced the feeling, which would continue to grow stronger, that the French re´gime was anti-Jewish.8 Three months after the French occupation began, the Jewish printery still remained closed. Recurring and repeated requests by the publisher and the editors of the newspaper bore no fruit and it did not take long for the disappointment with French policies to find expression in the pages of the Hebrew press in Jerusalem, to which the Zionists in Damascus forwarded their articles: Indeed, while we Jews, for example, obtained authorisation from the prime minister (ha-wazir ha-gadol) to print the Hebrew-Arabic newspaper, a French official has come along and forbidden its publication. What was permissible in the days of Faysal—during ‘Asian’ rule—is now forbidden in the re´gime of ˙ an enlightened, European, ‘liberal’ government! The Turks

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outlawed the Zionists because they suspected them of espionage, while the French nation—the same people whose leaders participated at the San Remo Conference—prohibit a Jewish-Hebrew newspaper due to its Zionism, and here everyone wonders, from what source does the Arabic press draw its strength for its assaults on the Jews?9 Beyond the cold political analysis and the disenchantment with the state that, more than any other, had symbolised the principles of human rights, the Jews of Damascus also felt a sense of affront from their sense that the French re´gime was pro-Christian/Muslim and anti-Jewish.10 Nevertheless, internal French sources reveal that the ban on the newspaper did not stem from anti-Jewish motivations. In a report on the situation of the press in Damascus, the official in charge stated that the request by the editors of the newspaper L’Orient (i.e., ha-Mizrah), which had been shut down during the French ˙ occupation, to re-open the newspaper had been rejected, since the number of Jews in Damascus did not justify its publication.11 In general, the nature of the contemporary French and British consular accounts show that the Zionist issue was of less interest in Damascus than other matters, such as Kemalism, Bolshevism, Syrian nationalism, pan-Islamism, pan-Arabism, and so forth. Another newspaper closed by the French was produced not by the Zionist establishment, but was edited by a young Zionist, Eliahu Sasson. According to his testimony in his memoirs, Faysal himself ˙ had taken the unusual step of inviting him—then a young Jew 18 years of age, a graduate of the Alliance school in Damascus and the elite Christian school al-ʿAzariyyah—to publish with his support and at his expense an Arabic newspaper called al-Hayya¯t (‘The Life’) that ˙ would preach understanding and co-operation between Jews and Arabs in the Middle East. Sasson wrote that the newspaper appeared three times a week for about nine months from 1919 to 1920, enjoyed a circulation of about 7,000 copies, and featured contributions from notable Muslim and Christian writers.12 In reality, the licence to publish the newspaper was received only in July 1920, which was apparently not time enough for publication to

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commence prior to Faysal’s fall.13 Moreover, Sasson himself, who ˙ served as a writer for the Jerusalem Hebrew periodicals, Doʾar ha-yom and ha-Ares, did not mention editing such a newspaper in his reports ˙ to the Hebrew press in Palestine during the reign of Faysal. In July ˙ 1921, he noted in an article that, a year earlier, the government had shut down the newspaper ha-Hayyim (‘The Life’, i.e., al-Hayya¯t), of ˙ ˙ which only eight issues had appeared, on the claim that it was a Zionist propaganda organ.14 In other words, the newspaper alHayya¯t was not published prior to the middle of July 1920, but ˙ rather appeared at the start of the French Mandatory period.15 The Zionist emissaries began to search for an alternative way to influence public opinion. They considered gaining the sympathy of two Arabic-language newspapers, one Christian and one Muslim, by purchasing 15 subscriptions to each of the publications, but this proposal was never implemented.16 It appears that the French government, in light of its rivalry with Britain, did not view favourably Zionist activity in its domains, which included the publication of a newspaper of Zionist orientation. Yet, since it permitted the appearance of Christian and Muslim newspapers, the French government was perceived by the Jews as anti-Jewish. Thus, the French re´gime found a convenient alternative to express a basic support for the Jewish community through the granting of preference, encouragement, and open public backing to the activities of the Alliance organisation in Damascus, which was never suspected of sympathy for Zionism. This trend was one of the factors leading to the decline of Zionist activity in Damascus, the newspaper ha-Mizrah having been one of its most prominent ˙ undertakings. French censorship was implemented not only against Jewish publications that appeared in Damascus, but also against other Jewish newspapers published elsewhere in the Middle East. Thus, for example, the Jewish community complained that the EgyptianJewish newspaper Yis´raʾel did not reach Damascus, despite the fact that the periodical’s staff informed the community’s representatives in writing that it had sent copies. It was the censorship re´gime that forbade from time to time the entry of the newspaper to Damascus, as

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well as that of Doʾar ha-yom from Jerusalem, on the claim that the paper took an anti-French stance.17 The disintegration of the Ottoman Empire and the division of control of the occupied territories between Britain and France created borders within a land that had previously been considered a single geographic and administrative unit. Difficulties and restrictions were created for those seeking to move from Palestine to Syria and viceversa. Shortly after the French army took control of Damascus, permission to leave Palestine could be obtained with a form approved by the Zionist Commission, to which the seal of the British military command was affixed. On 23 December 1920, the French and British signed an agreement determining the borders of Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, and Palestine.18 French policy, which identified Zionist interests with those of the British, impeded Zionist activity in Damascus, including the entry of Zionist figures to Syria. Of course, the Arabic-language press encouraged this policy as the picture of Zionist development in Palestine became clearer. Public hostility continued to rise and found symbolic expression in the press. In the years preceding the French Mandate, most of the newspapers tended to congratulate the Jews on the occasion of their holy days and even provided their readers with information on Jewish religious festivals. Ahead of the first Jewish New Year following the French occupation, all newspapers, save for Lisa¯n al-ʿArab (‘The Tongue of the Arabs’), refrained from mentioning the Jewish holidays—despite the fact that numerous banks and trading houses were closed for the event.19 Nevertheless, in an act of protest, Shukrı¯ Pa¯sha¯ al-Ayyu¯bı¯, who had served briefly as prime minister under Faysal and was considered a supporter of the Balfour Declaration, ˙ Zionist activity, and the Jewish national revival in Palestine alongside the Arab national revival, visited the chief rabbi on the New Year and inquired about the material and spiritual condition of Damascus Jewry. Yet, his impact on the mood of the Arab public in the city at this time was limited.20 Resentment and hostility towards the Jews were fed by any small matter, whether accurate or even related to Palestine. Thus, for example, shortly prior to the French occupation, the Arabic press

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spread the false news that the chief rabbi of Jerusalem had permitted the marriage of Jewish girls with Muslim men. Danon hurried to deny this information and asked the minister of the interior to ban the publication of such rumours in the press. However, some Arabs in ʿAkko and Tyre used the matter of this alleged marriage licence for political purposes, going so far as to make it the basis of an appeal to the British high commissioner with the request to attach Tyre to the British Mandate for Palestine. This demand, which ran counter to the majority opinion of the Muslim and Christian Arab population of Tyre, generated great resentment against the Jews.21 Personal disputes between Muslims and Jews also placed the wider Jewish population in danger, even leading to attempts to lay bombs in the Jewish Quarter.22 Each individual or delegation that arrived from Palestine aroused suspicion that they came to promote Zionist or anti-Arab goals. In May 1921, the French arrested Shlomo Friedlander, a member of a delegation of a Haifa import– export company, for an alleged attempt ˙ to purchase arms to smuggle into Palestine. A search of his hotel room indeed turned up 30 pistols and ammunition. Events such as this strengthened, of course, anti-Zionist sentiment and the Arabs of Damascus were warned in the press not to sell weapons to Jews, which might later be used to kill Arabs in Palestine.23 The Arabic newspapers marked every Zionist date, such as 2 November (the issuing of the Balfour Declaration), with anti-Zionist editorials sometimes decorated with black frames to symbolise mourning.24 Opposition to Zionism in the Arabic-language press escalated strikingly following a parade by members of the Maccabi youth movement who marched in the streets wearing their uniforms with flags and Shields of David.25 On more than one occasion, anti-Zionist attacks turned into extreme anti-Semitism. It appears that the French re´gime inspired confidence in the Christian inhabitants of Damascus and once again the spectre of the blood libel emerged in the city. In November 1921, a Christian couple brought a complaint to the police that their daughter had been abducted by Jews in order to use her blood for ritualistic purposes. One of the policemen began searching Jewish

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homes by force, while cursing the inhabitants and without anyone stopping him or demanding that he produce a court-authorised search warrant. The searches continued for half a day until the parents of the young girl informed him that she had been located at the home of a relative. The officer did not apologise, but even continued to threaten the Jewish citizens. The feeling of disappointment directed at the French Mandatory authorities, who allowed such an incident to take place in Damascus, was expressed eloquently by Eliahu Sasson, who reported to Doʾar ha-yom: ‘In this environment, where the French government, the mother of ‘liberte´ ’ and the creator of ‘egalite´ ’, is in charge—we the Jews of Syria live’.26 The level of attacks on Zionism and Zionists increased each time Jewish officials came to deal with the Baron de Rothschild’s lands in Hawra¯n, and the Arabic press ˙ railed against the dangers of selling lands to Zionists.27 These assaults on Zionism in the Arabic-language media also morphed occasionally into condemnation of Britain’s pro-Zionist policy. The French authorities sought to avoid tension in their relationship with Britain and warned the Arabic newspapers to stop its criticism. The editors of the papers responded that it was not Britain that they were assailing, but Zionism, and if it appeared that Britain was being attacked, then the fault lay solely with British support for Zionism in the matter of Palestine and the fear that the British Mandate would serve as a stepping-stone for the realisation of Zionism. The demand to cease condemnation of Britain only strengthened the sense of the Damascene public that Zionist and British aims were aligned and that the two even comprised one bloc.28 The Zionists were also accused of standing behind the antiFrance disturbances and protests that erupted in Damascus in April 1922, following the visit to the city by Charles Richard Crane, one of the members of the King-Crane Commission.29 Nevertheless, the Mandatory government continued to refrain from issuing organisational permits to Arab associations whose declared aim was the struggle against Zionism. On more than one occasion, senior officials claimed that France had no opposition to the establishment of a Jewish national home in Palestine, but it could not ignore the public opinion of the country’s inhabitants, most of whom

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opposed it. On the principle of freedom of speech, the French asserted that it was impossible to prevent the Arabs from expressing their antagonism to Zionism, although they emphasised that they would preclude any anti-Semitic propaganda.30 This French policy, which favoured the educational institutions of the France-based Alliance Israe´lite Universelle over the HebrewZionist schools in Damascus, greatly weakened Jewish public support for the idea of Zionism. Already during General Gouraud’s first visit to the city on 7 August 1920, those present had the sense that ‘the star of the AIU is now rising in Damascus’.31 This approach also encouraged the take-over of the communal leadership by anti-Zionist figures and thus paved the way for the detachment of the former, followed by virtually the entire community as a whole, from the world wide and Palestinian Zionist institutions. Less than a month after the French occupation of Damascus, the Alliance management in Paris sought to convince the Mandatory authorities that French interests necessitated the appointment of a French rabbi to head the Jewish community of Beirut, in order to reorganise that and other communities in the major cities of Syria. Simultaneously and without any co-ordination with the AIU, Rabbi Shlomo Ben Simon, the head of a French– Jewish group from Palestine, who had been exiled during World War I to Bastia on the island of Corsica, wrote to the Mandatory government with an offer to undertake the restructuring of the Jewish communities of Syria. The French commissioner, General Gouraud, favoured this proposal, if only to distance Syrian Jewry— located so close to Palestine—from the influence of the Zionist rabbis. The only reason that it was not adopted was to avoid setting the precedent of the Mandatory re´gime paying the salary for the religious leader of a Jewish community, out of fear that all other religious communities would subsequently demand similar financial support.32 The Mandatory authorities were not the only governing body in Damascus. A parallel Arab government charged with the ongoing management of the lives of the inhabitants continued to operate. Ostensibly, it continued to adhere to the policy whereby the

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city’s Jews had equal rights and obligations to the rest of the citizens and declared that they were an integral part of the Syrian nation. As proof, Jewish representatives were included in local institutions such as the municipality and the administrative council.33 Yet, this government, many of whose members were Syrian-Arab nationalists, could not ignore the anti-Zionist Arab public opinion and occasionally even encouraged it. In reality, references to the Jews of Damascus as brothers were conditioned on the latter eschewing the Zionist movement and its aspirations in Palestine. Thus, for example, the governor of Damascus, Haqqı¯ Bek al-ʿAzm, forbade the entry of all ˙ ˙ Zionists to Syria ‘so as to prevent the Zionist disease from spreading’. Likewise, the travel of Jews from Syria to Palestine was prohibited with the intent of breaking the ties between the Palestinian and Damascene Jewish communities. The Arabic press published news on the government’s plans to expel from the city dozens of Zionists ‘who reside here and poison our Israelite brothers who have lived with us in peace for hundreds of years’. According to a reporter in Alif Ba¯ʾ (‘A, B’, ‘Alphabet’), the Zionists’ travel documents had been collected in order to banish them, but the effort was stymied by the intervention of foreign consuls, since some of the Zionists held foreign nationality. The directors of the Hebrew schools who complained to the government regarding these assaults in the Arabic newspapers were told that these were not attacks on Jews, but on Zionists and, therefore, this was not a matter that concerned Syrian Jewry.34 Anti-Zionist moves by the Arab government usually received the silent approval of the French Mandatory authorities, who often even initiated the programmes executed by the local re´gime. To demonstrate this, we can examine the issue of the ban placed upon the teaching of Hebrew in the Hebrew schools. On 3 July 1922, the Hebrew schools received a notice from Muhammad Kurd ʿAlı¯, director of the Department for Public ˙ Education in Damascus, compelling them to use Arabic and only Arabic as the language of instruction in their institutions, as it was the official language of the state. Study of Hebrew was permitted only as that of a foreign language. This directive ostensibly began with the assumption that the Hebrew schools were not foreign ones,

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but national (Ar. watanı¯) ones considered to be Arab and thus ˙ required to teach in Arabic. This order was accompanied by the threat that schools violating the command would be shut.35 In general, Kurd ʿAlı¯’s attitude was that all children in Damascus, regardless of religion, should study at state schools and not sectarian ones. Therefore, he sought to reorganise the various educational institutions within a state framework, with a uniform curriculum determined by the department he headed.36 Nonetheless, it is clear that the one who suggested the ban of Hebrew instruction was none other than Ernest Schoffler, the acting French commissioner.37 The Zionist press in Palestine reacted with outrage that expressed more than anything disappointment with France for again appearing to have betrayed its own values.38 Abraham Elmaleh, the founder of the Hebrew national school in Damascus, praised the Ottoman authorities who had never forbidden the teaching of Hebrew—even under the Young Turks had promoted Turkification among the empire’s various national groups. According to him, even during World War I, Cemal Pas¸a never instituted any restriction on the teaching of Hebrew, nor was any ban imposed during the reign of Faysal. Elmaleh criticised the fact that it was France—one of the first ˙ countries to recognise the Balfour Declaration and to ratify it in the San Remo Resolution and the country to introduce the world to the tenets of liberte´, egalite´, fraternite´—that actually proscribed the teaching of Hebrew through the Arab government, but with the approval of its Mandatory government. He wondered whether this was the official stance of France or the policy of its proxies in Syria, seeking to curry favour with Arab nationalists.39 Yet another response came apparently from one of the Zionists in Damascus, dealing in particular with the question of the Arabisation of the Jews against their will. According to him, it was ridiculous that schools officially registered and recognised as ‘Hebrew schools’ would lose in one fell swoop their national uniqueness and be forced to adopt the national identity of the dominant group in the state. His criticism turned on the fact that Muhammad Kurd ʿAlı¯, ˙ who had been so zealous in the campaign for independence (Ar. istiqla¯l), stated that if the Hebrew schools had been foreign, then they

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would have been permitted to teach in Hebrew—thereby, essentially granting foreigners more rights than the Syrian citizens themselves. The author addressed the statement that justified the directive—‘We consider you to be Arabs’—and asked whether this was tyranny or foolishness, since even Europeans had ceased using this method to force minority groups to blend into the ruling nation, since they realised that coercive nationalism was no less offensive than religious compulsion ‘and [yet] here, with one statement, they determine that the Syrian Jews are Arabs. The explanation for such an act of duress is that the Jews speak Arabic. And if the Irish speak English, does that make them English?’ The writer emphasised that all enlightened countries preserved the right of the minorities to learn their language and to develop it and their culture without governmental involvement. He weighed upon the backing given by French officials to this policy, despite the fact that France was signatory to numerous treaties that enshrined the rights of minorities. He concluded: The Damascus edict, which has no parallel today anywhere in the world, will provoke general resentment. We Jews will not reconcile [ourselves] with it in any way. It undermines our national language and national education—the Holy of Holies of the Hebrew nation. The Damascene politicians and their allies do not reside on a desert island; a [watchful] eye overlooks their deeds. The representatives of European and American Jewry, who fought for the national rights of Jewish groups everywhere, will not pass in silence over the desecration of our sanctity, even in a [remote] corner of Asia.40 In another response piece, the author, identified as a ‘Hebrew’, complained that the Arabs were becoming more despotic than the Ottomans ‘and here, they seek to swallow up the Jews living amongst them—to turn them by force into Arabs of the Mosaı¨c religion’. According to him, the times have changed from when the Jews of Germany and France surrendered their nationality and saw themselves as Frenchmen or Germans who followed the religion of Moses. In the wake of World War I, the national rights of minorities

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everywhere were recognised and they included the freedom of language and culture. Now, it was actually the Arabs (one of these former minorities) who demanded that the Jews detach themselves from their Hebrew language and national culture and become simply Arabs of the Mosaı¨c religion. Moreover, in contrast to the Jews of Germany and France who had relinquished their identity by choice, this case involved compulsion by the Arab government. The writer argued that Jews were returning to the Orient with the intent of living in peace amongst the Arabs, without hatred or division. He closed with the following remarks: And may the Arabs of Damascus know: they will not turn the Jews into Arabs, much as previous rulers did not turn the Arabs into Turks. They will not repress nor eradicate their language, their culture, [or] their nationality; this did not come to pass under [the Seleucid king] Antiochus long ago and they will not succeed today. The language is the soul of the nation, its light and its salvation; [if] in one manner they [try to] black-out the light in order to extinguish it, then it will burst through in seven [other] ways. And may the Arabs of Damascus also know: ‘Israel is one nation on earth [cf. I Chron. 17.21]’, or ‘all Israel is responsible for one another’—what affects one part of the Jewish people affects it entirely, and in their efforts to force the Jews to give up their language and their culture, not only are the Jews dwelling among them being wronged, but the entirety of the Jewish people is now awake and responds, invigorated and enthusiastic, to all troubles [affecting] its diaspora and to any suffering, wherever it may be. May our Arab brethren ruling in Damascus remember and take to heart that this edict will make a most forlorn impression upon the entire Jewish nation in Asia, in Europe, in America, and across the globe.41 The similar style of the two responses and the fact that Eliahu Sasson was a correspondent for these two newspapers in Damascus raises the likelihood that he was the author hiding behind the mask of anonymity. Well-versed in Arabic culture and language, he had

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actually seen the Arab and Jewish nations as brothers and could not tolerate the cultural and national repression exerted upon the Jewish minority in Damascus. His great disappointment can be understood in light of things that he had written seven months earlier, in an article published in a new Jewish newspaper, al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (‘The Israelite World’), which began appearing in Beirut in Arabic in September 1921. In his article, titled ‘Come, let us reach an understanding [taʿa¯lu¯ natafa¯him ]’, Sasson called for mutual understanding between Arabs and Jews while making use primarily of Muslim and Jewish religious assertions, such as the common descent of Arabs and Jews from a single father, Abraham. In concluding that the Arabs should support the aspirations of the Jewish people to achieve its freedom and rights, he essentially called upon them to support the efforts of the Zionist movement towards a Jewish national home. One of his grievances was that he could not until that time write articles in Arabic, since no Arabic newspaper would accept something written by a Jew. Sasson lauded the fact that he was the first Jew to present the Jewish position in Arabic so that the Arabs could also read the content published in al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯. Perhaps in order to win the hearts of his Arab readers or perhaps because this was truly his sentiment at the time, he defined himself as such: ‘for verily, I am a Jew in my religion and an Arab in my thought [wa-la-annı¯ Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ al-madhhab, ʿarabı¯ al-mashrab ]’.42 Yet, not only did the directive banning the teaching of Hebrew in Damascus provoke an angry reaction in the pages of the press, but it also generated a sense of despondency almost to despair amongst the Zionist activists in Damascus. In a moment of weakness that gripped them in the wake of this prohibition, Yehudah Burla and his colleagues decided to close the Hebrew schools, since they saw no point in their continued existence if they were only permitted to teach Hebrew for one or two hours a week.43

The renewed rise of the Alliance Since the re-establishment of the AIU school in Damascus in 1880, the society, which promoted the values and culture of France,

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operated boys’ and girls’ schools in the city. Crises in the relationship between the French– Jewish society and the local Jewish community led on more than one occasion to a decline in the prestige of the AIU in the eyes of the community; however, these tensions usually resolved themselves. The crisis preceding World War I, which brought about the growth of the Hebrew national school, the war itself, which restrained the Alliance’s ability to function in Damascus, and the local community’s enthusiasm for the Zionist idea all threatened the continued operation of the AIU in Damascus. The founding of Hebrew boys’ and girls’ schools and the sound of Hebrew that spread through the city took place at the expense of the French language, even among the aristocratic segments of Damascene Jewish society. Hebrew’s success gave rise to the perception and, among the Zionist activists, hope that ‘Damascus has been conquered’ by Hebrew culture and Zionism. From the end of the war until the entry of the French troops to Damascus, an all-out war was waged between the Hebrew schools and the AIU institutions. The French– Jewish society was accused not only of elitism, but also of distancing its students from any national sentiment through its curriculum and even of perpetuating the divide between Sephardim and Ashkenazim. By contrast, Hebrew national education was perceived as a revolution that would solve both the material plight of the Jewish communities of the Middle East, as well as the disconnect between Sephardim and Ashkenazim, by transforming all communities into one nation. From this perspective, Damascus served as a sort of laboratory. As stated, in 1919 it appeared as though the experiment had succeeded. The Hebrew schools in the city enrolled 1,400 students, while only 450 studied at the AIU ones. Hebrew teachers gained public support and sought to expand their activity. Witnessing the apparent collapse of their rival, they believed that ‘a common fact of life is that an old queen must [ultimately] relinquish her throne to one younger than her’.44 The Hebrew educational institutions in Damascus became, after the war, the main source of criticism of the Alliance. This denunciation peaked with the call by Mosheh Sevi, one of the teachers ˙ at the Hebrew girls’ school, to transfer the AIU’s teacher training

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college from Paris to Jerusalem in order to infuse its schools with the national spirit. According to him, the AIU education fragmented the Jewish nation by separating the youth from Jewish tradition and other Jews throughout the world. Therefore, only national education, which combined both tradition and modernity, would restore the Jews of the Middle East and return them to the fold of the Jewish nation.45 Riding the waves of their success, the Hebrew teachers worked to bring about the closure of the Alliance’s schools. They encouraged the members of the communal council to refuse to give any donation or allocation to the AIU, threatening to leave Damascus should such assistance be given. Likewise, the Zionist emissaries promised to supply all necessary funds for the opening of better schools than those of the AIU. They vowed to bring better teachers for French and Arabic and to replace the three religious scholars who taught Hebrew for the AIU with instructors of modern Hebrew. In their arrogance, they even went so far as to offer Eliyahu Kahanoff, the director of the AIU boys’ school, and his spouse to remain and manage the new Hebrew schools that would open after the AIU ones closed.46 The accomplishments of Zionist Hebrew education in Damascus even influenced the religious Zionist movement ha-MiZRaHI to decide to ˙ open a seminary for kindergarten teachers. Kahanoff wrote to the heads of the Alliance his assessment that ‘the Hebrew in Damascus is spoken better than in Palestine’.47 After 40 years of activity, the emissaries of the AIU, the disseminator of European enlightenment and culture in the Middle East, felt that their endeavour stood on the brink of collapse. A proposal was even made to unite all the Jewish schools in Damascus on the basis of one educational system and a curriculum meeting the demands of national education, adapted for local conditions. However, the AIU directorate in Paris was unwilling to capitulate on the study of the French language during the first two years of study, while the Palestinian Education Committee insisted that Hebrew be the only language of instruction during those years. As a result, the proposed union never materialised.48

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Yet, it seems that the sense of euphoria and triumph felt by the Zionist teachers was warranted for only a very short period of time— and may have even been misleading from the outset. Disillusionment set in quite quickly and contemporaries criticised the haste of the teachers in declaring that a revolution had taken place in Damascus.49 In reality, the financial elite continued to side with the AIU and support its continued operation in the community. These circles saw the French– Jewish society’s education as a means for placing their children on the right cosmopolitan course to a future with broad horizons. In their eyes, the Zionists had not proven success over time; besides, they did not crave a solution to the Jewish Question as desperately as the Jews of Europe. Furthermore, the political ferment surrounding the question of the mandates granted to the European powers to divide the various parts of the Ottoman Empire and the knowledge that France would likely receive the Mandate for Syria, made the AIU’s institution more relevant than ever. Even the factor of social class worked in favour of the Alliance. The opening of Hebrew schools to all segments of Jewish society did not sit well with the notables, who did not want their children sitting in classes together with those of lesser means. Moreover, the director of the AIU girls’ school continued to be responsible for one of the most important institutions in the Damascus community—the pharmacy funded by the London philanthropist Edward Stern— throughout the years of the war and thus maintained the affinity and appreciation of much of the community for the French– Jewish society.50 During this transition period from the end of the war to the occupation of Damascus by the French forces in July 1920, the communal leadership vacillated between the two alternatives. Unlike the Christian communities, the Jewish community did not bother to make early contacts with the French. At the same time, despite its leadership’s outwards support for the Zionist educational orientation, in reality, it made sure not to sever its ties with the Alliance. Thus, for example, when the AIU threatened to close its schools unless the community funded the entire budget necessary for maintaining them, save for the salaries of its administrative staff, Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯,

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the head of the communal council, who was considered an ardent supporter of the Hebrew schools, elected not to disclose the content of this letter or his essentially affirmative response to the AIU demands in discussions with Burla or Joseph Joel Rivlin, the directors of the Hebrew schools. He even removed his son from the Hebrew school and transferred him to the AIU one. A member of the communal council, Moses David Totah, even preferred to send his daughters to the ˙ ˙ ˙ Christian schools and not the Hebrew one, since he saw no point in Hebrew instruction. In this way, the teachers of the Hebrew school were gradually exposed to the double game of the communal council. They realised that, despite the council’s public support for Zionist education and despite the disputes with the AIU’s representatives in Damascus, the community elite maintained its sympathy for the French–Jewish society.51 This revealed the class divisions that defined the educational system in Damascus at this time—it was primarily the poor who sent their children to study at the Hebrew schools, while affluent members of society slowly returned to the AIU institutions. In the consciousness of the communal council, the Hebrew schools began to take on the image of charitable institutions for the indigent alone. This was a far cry from the perspective of the agents of the Palestinian Education Committee, who saw their activity as a means of achieving a national educational goal and not as a philanthropic endeavour. During the course of World War I, Augustine Haı¨moff, the director of the AIU girls’ school, claimed to be pro-Zionist and in favour of the Hebrew language. She even broadened the study hours of Hebrew in her students’ curriculum.52 Yet, following the war, she began to take a completely different line—that of a full-fledged crusade against Hebrew and the Hebrew schools. Initially, it probably stemmed from her position of weakness and her fear that, due to the success of the Hebrew schools, she would be forced to acknowledge her failure and announce the closure of the school she directed. Following the French occupation, this policy likely reflected a position of strength, deriving from the backing of individuals in the communal leadership, as well as that of the Mandatory authorities. Thus, for example, at the start of the 1919– 20 school year, Haı¨moff exploited the fact that the Hebrew teachers were late to return from

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their summer recess in Palestine and thereby attracted a large number of students to her school, which just previously had been in danger of closing. Her conditions for admission were that returning students neither take part in the Hebrew evening classes nor fraternise with the students in the Hebrew school. Threatening punishment, she banned the speaking of any language other than French, even going so far as enjoining students to use the word ‘bonjour’ and forbidding the word ‘shalom’.53 Moreover, already in February 1920, during a meeting with the governor of Damascus, Haı¨moff avowed that the AIU was not Zionist in any way or form. Demonstrating her sharp instincts, she reported to her supervisors in Paris that ‘the Jewish Question is beginning here’.54 From that point forward, the members of the Alliance worked vigorously to win over the Jewish social elite in Damascus not only to the French cultural orientation, but also to practical political identification with the French Mandatory authorities. In February 1920, under heavy pressure from the AIU directorate in Paris and with the support of 30 community notables, the communal council decided to accept the financial terms of the Alliance in order to avoid the closure of its institutions in the city.55 In return, the council demanded not only that the Alliance refrain from shutting its educational institutions in the city, but that it include more Hebrew and Torah lessons in its curriculum. A further condition was the replacement of the principal Augustine Haı¨moff, who was accused of having violated publicly the Sabbath. Nevertheless, it seems that these stipulations stemmed from the council’s wish that the decision’s opponents understand that its stance derived not from an anti-Hebrew national approach, but from the determination that the Alliance was capable of providing a better education for the children of the community.56 As the inhabitants of Damascus gradually understood that the fate and future of Syria was tied to France, the inclination towards the AIU institutions grew stronger. Furthermore, it appears that some of the parents who had received their education through the Alliance, especially the wealthy ones, felt connected to the society and thus preferred to send their children to its schools.

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Prior to the conquest of Damascus, Haı¨moff and Kahanoff maintained ties with the French liaison officer in Damascus, Colonel E´douard Sylvain Cousse. They advocated France’s support for the AIU schools, which were (according to them) the only institutions teaching French in Damascus during the war years.57 The French responded favourably and transferred substantial amounts of money for the rehabilitation of the AIU schools and the increase in French instruction. It is likely that this support reflected the desire on the part of the French to expand their circle of sympathisers in Damascus.58 There is no doubt that the AIU representatives’ selfconfidence grew with the French military’s occupation of the city and the inauguration of the French Mandate for Syria and Lebanon. Participating at a reception held in honour of General Gouraud, during his first visit two weeks after having driven Faysal out of ˙ Damascus, were the chief rabbi Jacob Danon, Joseph Laniado, Moses David Totah, a member of the municipal council, the latter’s son ˙ ˙ ˙ David Totah, a member of the administrative council (Ar. majlis ˙ ˙ ˙ ida¯rah), and Moses Elijah Totah. Also present was Robert Haı¨moff, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ the husband of the AIU girls’ school director. Unintentionally absent from this important gathering were the representatives of the Hebrew schools who were at that time in Palestine for the summer recess.59 From the perspective of history, their absence was a symbolic foreshadowing of the future to come—the French Mandatory authorities’ almost total disregard for the national Zionist educational institutions and their preference for those of the Alliance. As stated, the reception that took place for General Gouraud was a significant turning point, after which the selfconfidence of the AIU proponents in Damascus rose sharply, as their schools flourished while the Hebrew ones declined. Already on the eve of the French conquest, the directors of the Hebrew schools realised that the reason they had failed to bring about the closure of the AIU schools and were even bleeding students to the rival network was the great demand for the study of French. Since they prioritised Hebrew learning, they had neglected French. At a certain stage, they even asked Kahanoff if he would provide them with French teachers from his staff in exchange for payment or the loaning of Hebrew

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teachers from their schools. Kahanoff rejected the proposal outright, despite his attitude that Hebrew should also be taught in the AIU schools in Damascus.60 The status and reputation of the AIU in general and that of Kahanoff in particular rose in the eyes of the public when he was invited by the Arab government official in charge of education to serve as the only Jew on the newly-founded education committee alongside three Christians and 11 Muslims.61 Prior to the beginning of the 1920 – 1 academic year, anonymous leaflets were pasted to the walls of the Jewish Quarter calling for a reduction of Hebrew education in Damascus.62 Augustine Haı¨moff and her husband Robert met with Mandatory officials and denounced the Zionist efforts to take over the management of the community and the external support they received. They emphasised the inherent threat the Zionists posed to French–Jewish education and requested assistance from the high commissioner. According to them, with such backing, both the AIU schools and the community as a whole would advance properly. The sense of support that the Alliance representatives received led them periodically to spread rumours that the Hebrew schools were in financial straits and near bankruptcy and closure. Haı¨moff persisted in her efforts to lobby the Mandatory authorities to close at least the Hebrew girls’ school.63 The attraction of the AIU strengthened further amongst the Jewish public after the society announced its willingness to resume providing lunch for impoverished children, as it had done before the war.64 The closing of Zionist cultural associations, such as the Qadimah national club, which had been established by the Palestinian exiles prior to leaving Damascus and which had been maintained by the Hebrew school teachers, generated a vacuum in the cultural life of the Jewish youth. The alternative was sitting in cafe´s, playing cards, and wandering the main street of Damascus with other young men and women into the small hours of the night. This cultural void was exploited by young AIU graduates, led by Siyyon Karı¯m and the ˙ journalist Tawfı¯q Mizrahi, who was a contributor to a number of ˙ Arab newspapers; they founded a new cultural literary club, in a more cosmopolitan spirit, which befitted both the mood of the local Arab

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literary revival and the cultural esprit of the French Mandatory re´gime.65 This club, which opened its doors at the end of October 1922, invited noted Arab writers and poets and, since the languages of its lectures were Arabic and French, it attracted an audience comprised also of Muslim and Christian literary enthusiasts. Therefore, unlike the Hebrew literary clubs that preceded it, which had been limited only to those knowledgeable of Hebrew from within Jewish society, the activities of the AIU’s new association shattered the Zionist– national – Jewish bubble of seclusion and offered youth the alternative of inclusion, within both the local Arab socio-cultural framework and the broader framework of French– Western culture. The latter once again became the dominant language and culture during the Mandatory period, replacing and marginalising Hebrew culture and language. The club also opened a reading room and organised evening classes for working youth. It is no wonder that even young pro-Zionist Jews participated in the cultural activities of the club. In general, the AIU began taking over the Jewish Quarter through the establishment of various societies and associations, such as L’avenir, which was founded by graduates and upper-level students of the AIU girls’ school for the purpose of building their future. This female activity coincided with the broader trends of more active female involvement in public life under the French Mandatory regime.66 As Haı¨moff’s confidence in the backing of the French authorities for her educational activity grew stronger, she became less inhibited about applying pressure on the authorities to act against the Hebrew schools or against Zionist activity in general. It appears that she may have been greatly influenced in this respect by her husband Robert, a businessman with no ties whatsoever to the Alliance, but who seems to have viewed the French Mandate as a springboard for promoting his business and standing in the local community—whether Jewish or French Mandatory. Five months after the French occupation of Damascus, the two met the temporary high commissioner on their own initiative to discuss what they termed ‘the Zionist propaganda in Damascus and the foreign policy that guides the members of the communal council’. They voiced similar things to General Georges

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Catroux, the military governor of Damascus, and even submitted to him a written report detailing their demand to dismantle the communal council, which was (according to them) acting against Syrian and French interests. Since the Mandatory authorities anyhow sought to limit the activity of Zionism in Damascus, these words fell upon sympathetic ears. The result was a completely negative image of the Jewish community and its leadership. As a consequence, Catroux told Danon that the authorities would only provide assistance to the community on the condition that its leaders act in the interests of France and not against them.67 The anti-Zionist lobbying by the Haı¨moff couple was not only a result of the local struggle between the Hebrew and AIU schools. The couple was inspired by the anti-Zionist policy of the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle, for whom Zionism represented a complete contradiction to the worldview of its founders and heads. The Western reform ideology of the AIU that guided for decades the educational and political activities of the society were intended to bring about the acculturation and assimilation of the Jews as they underwent emancipation and received full citizenship in their countries of residence. From this perspective, Zionism embodied an entirely different perception—that of despair of emancipation and total pessimism with respect to the disappearance of anti-Semitism. Zionist ideology saw the solution to the Jewish Question as the departure of the Jews from lands in which they resided and the establishment of a national home in Palestine, including a cultural renaissance at whose heart was the revival of the Hebrew language. The AIU leaders, who were above all else French patriots, perceived of Zionism as an anti-French and pro-German movement, due to the place of origin of its initial founders and leaders.68 Following World War I, they saw the Zionist movement as pro-British, seeking to constrain France’s movements and influence in the Middle East as a whole and Palestine in particular. Therefore, the Alliance’s antiZionist policy reached its peak during this period; at the Versailles Peace Conference, the President of the AIU Sylvain Le´vi gave the most extreme statements on behalf of the anti-Zionist groups that sought to prevent the establishment of Palestine as a Jewish national home.69

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However, it should be noted that Eliyahu Kahanoff, the director of the AIU boys’ school in Damascus, did not participate in the antiZionist agitation. As mentioned, he was a member of the delegation formed by Elmaleh that had presented Zionist demands to separate Palestine from Syria and allow the free migration of Jews before the King-Crane Commission. A native of Jerusalem who privately inclined towards Zionism and the national project, he maintained with devotion his loyalty to the anti-Zionist French– Jewish society that employed him and therefore refrained carefully from intervening in the internal matters of the local community. Nevertheless, in his letters to the president of the AIU, he criticised harshly the antiZionist actions of the Haı¨moff couple and did not shrink from expressing his opinion that, while the AIU stood apart from the Zionist movement, it should not back those who worked against the Zionist Organisation, especially if they involved the authorities in what was essentially an internal Jewish conflict. Kahanoff did not hesitate to tell this to the Haı¨moffs, leading to a bitter dispute between the two directors of the AIU schools in the city and accusations made by Robert Haı¨moff that he was a Zionist.70 Due to strained relations with the hahambas¸ı Jacob Danon, Robert Haı¨moff had no qualms to besmirch the former’s reputation to the Mandatory authorities. Matters climaxed during the visit of Sir Stuart Samuel, the brother of the British High Commissioner for Palestine, to Damascus. Since Samuel’s trip was a private one, it is possible that he preferred initially to refrain from visiting the communal institutions, including both the Hebrew and AIU schools. However, this avoidance also stemmed from warnings he received in advance from the Haı¨moffs, who feared that his trip might reignite the flame of Zionism in the city, for a meeting with the Hebrew teachers might lead the authorities to suspect that he was a Zionist emissary and the school was a Zionist institution. On the other hand, members of the community, including the directors of the Hebrew schools Burla and Rivlin, went to see him at the place where he was lodging. During his stay, he was the recipient of great honour and treated as the ‘brother of the king’—a reference to his brother Herbert. When he went to the Great Synagogue for

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prayers on the Sabbath, the British consul sent his own bodyguard (Ottoman Tur. kavas), while the Arab government stationed police at the location. At the synagogue, Zionist speeches were made and many donated alms to the Jewish National Fund. Afterwards, the guest went to the house of the chief rabbi for the Sabbath special meal (Heb. qiddush), accompanied by an honour guard from the Maccabi youth wearing blue and white outfits. As he passed through the Jewish Quarter, cries of ‘Long live Herbert Samuel!’, ‘Long live Stuart Samuel!’, ‘Long live the Land of Israel!’, and ‘Long live Zionism!’ were heard. Later, Samuel visited the Jewish orphanage, where he delivered a speech, which was followed by the singing of the Zionist anthem ‘ha-Tiqwah’, by the assembled crowd. These matters inflamed the ire of Robert Haı¨moff, who exploited the event to accuse the chief rabbi before the authorities as one who hosted the brother of the British High Commissioner for Palestine, described by Haı¨moff as ‘a Zionist leader and a British agent’.71 French sympathy for the Alliance’s educational institutions found expression in the repeated and frequent visits to those schools by senior officials, who almost completely ignored the existence of the Hebrew ones. Haı¨moff and her husband knew how to take advantage of such visits, on the one hand, for the glorification of the AIU and France within the Jewish community and, on the other hand, for strengthening their personal status in the eyes of the Mandatory authorities. The AIU’s centre of gravity moved from the boys’ school to the girls’ school under the direction of Haı¨moff, where all official receptions for French figures took place in a French national environment. This was reflected in a description of General Gouraud’s visit to the school in June 1921, as reported in the contemporary press. The male students were brought that day to the girls’ school, whose building and surroundings were decorated with French flags, flowers, and carpets. The students gathered in the streets of the Jewish Quarter wearing formal attire in blue and white and sang Vive la France. Most of the invitees, all the students, and the members of the communal council, wore tricouleur bands on their chests, representing the colours of the French flag, and the day was declared a work

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holiday. When Gouraud arrived together with the governor Haqqı¯ ˙ Bek al-ʿAzm, Robert Haı¨moff and the other notables went out to ˙ ˙ greet them. The Jewish orphan children who stood on the sides of the road cried, ‘Long live Gouraud, long live France!’ When the two reached the gates of the school, the chief rabbi Jacob Danon welcomed them. Gouraud received a seat of honour with al-ʿAzm to ˙ his right and Danon to his left. A male and female student gave a speech on behalf of the schools’ pupils, telling Gouraud that they were steeped in French culture and spirit since infancy and that even after their graduation, they would continue to be devoted in body and soul to France, ‘the mother of justice and the goddess of freedom’. Concluding, they presented Gouraud with the speech and a bouquet of flowers. They were followed by Robert Haı¨moff: Sir, the General, on behalf of the chief rabbi, the community, and the directorate of the Alliance, I am hereby privileged to offer the following words to you: Honourable commander! Our schools have merited great pride today from this visit of yours. The city council joins them in expressing its heartfelt feelings towards France and towards you as the redeemer of Syria. We are all familiar with France’s efforts on behalf of the Jews and our school, which tries to spread the French language, relies always upon the pure sentiments of France. By means [of the school], the Jews of Damascus have reached their present stature through French enlightenment that they receive in it. On this occasion, I thank the Commandant Catroux, and the honourable high commissioner, on behalf of my fellow Jews in Damascus. From the bottoms of our hearts, we are grateful to France for its endeavours on behalf of the Jews and we recognise its efforts from the day on which it declared the rights of man—long live France (wild applause)! Long live Commander Gouraud! Long live Syria! Gouraud responded as follows: Honourable sirs! I am very pleased by my visit to your school and I thank the respected director and the little speakers, and I

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am likewise pleased to say that the Jews are enlightened and intelligent people. These qualities were endowed to them by nature (applause). I am sure that all the Jews know about France’s assistance to them, already a hundred years ago. All of us Frenchmen know the value of the tremendous work of the Alliance, especially in the Orient, to spread French language and enlightenment (applause from the students). France, who is used to protecting always the weak, who champions justice and uprightness, will aid the Jews of Syria to all of its ability—but only to those who love labour and not those who direct various propagandas. Now, sirs, please receive my thanks for your troubles and I hope that you are all good people devoted to your homeland (very wild applause). The event concluded with the singing of the French anthem ‘La Marseillaise’. Prior to leaving, Gouraud ordered that the children receive three days’ vacation and donated a substantial amount of money for the needy students in the school. Eliahu Sasson, the writer for the Palestinian Zionist newspapers Doʾar ha-yom and ha-Ares, was ˙ not permitted to attend the event.72 There is no doubt that an event as impressive as this had a great impact on the Jewish population of Damascus. If, in the past, Zionism had been seen as a winning move, it was now clear for all to see that the Alliance reigned supreme, under the patronage of the French Mandatory authorities. From this point onwards, it was only a short matter of time until they realised that the Zionist schools were in decline and that their future in Damascus was not guaranteed for the long-term. Some communal leaders were even prepared to ask the Zionist administration in Jerusalem to close these institutions in Damascus, had they been sure that the AIU would accept responsibility for the students in those schools.73

The struggle over the community’s leadership Over the course of 1919, the communal council worked to establish boys’ and girls’ orphanages, to set up a religious school for children

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wandering the streets, to provide support for the Hebrew schools, and to organise charitable undertakings to benefit the indigent and elderly. The council, which relied not only on its own funding, but primarily from financial subsidies from the Joint Distribution Committee and the Zionist Commission, as well as contributions from the Damascene Jewish diaspora, also dispensed clothing, medicines, and food rations to the needy and launched seminars that created job openings for young members of the community. The gabela tax was rescinded and the price of meat declined accordingly. However, it seems that the activity of the council declined in the following year and it became the target of much criticism. Indeed, disapproval would become one of the defining aspects of Jewish leadership in Damascus. It is possible that the openness that characterised Faysal’s rule also gave rise to an internal attitude ˙ critiquing the steering of Jewish communal institutions. The decline of financial support from the Zionist Commission, the JDC, and the Damascene Jewish diaspora led to an analogous reduction in the activity of the welfare institutions and their maintenance.74 The communal council could not fulfil the expectations to repair the situation and its activity nearly ceased. Its lessening involvement, together with what appeared to be neglect and negligence on the part of the communal leadership, were the primary rationales for accusations that they were not fulfilling their duties and calls for transparency with respect to the use of the funds they managed. The campaign of criticism and the public struggle for greater openness made use of tools such as posters plastered throughout the streets of the Jewish Quarter and the publication of complaints in the Palestinian press and in the local newspaper ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq.75 ˙ Under public pressure, the communal council was forced in February 1920 to submit for the first time its resignation. From that point onwards, the leadership of the community was marked by instability and a lack of continuity in its public activity. One of the primary movers stirring the discontent against the communal leadership, in an effort to take control of it, was Robert Haı¨moff. His active involvement in community affairs arguably began with his vigorous defence of his wife to the AIU leadership in

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Paris against her opponents seeking her removal from Damascus at the start of 1920.76 The French takeover of Damascus and the inauguration of the Mandate for Syria provided Haı¨moff with the opportunity to generate amongst the French bureaucracy the impression that he represented the Jewish community. Later, during Gouraud’s visit to the community, Haı¨moff introduced himself as the director of all AIU operations in the city, as well.77 It was clear to him that his ability to converse with these officials in French and express full solidarity with French interests in Syria would aid him in building a base of support and sympathy amongst the bureaucracy, which would enable him to present himself to the community as possessing connections and influence with the Mandatory authorities, and as one capable of helping the community through such relationships. The first months following the French occupation of Damascus were marked by instability on the communal council. Damascus Jews understood the importance of maintaining relationships with external authorities, such as the Zionist Commission and the JDC, in order to continue receiving their financial support; however, they also realised the need for a committee that could represent them before the Mandatory officials.78 The latter even sent out initial feelers to identify the various influential elements comprising the Damascus population. Haı¨moff, who held no official position, neither with the Alliance nor with the community, began taking part in his wife’s meetings with senior officials of the French Mandatory re´gime. One early conversation discussed the problems of the community, including a dispute between hahambas¸ı and the communal council over the payment of his salary. Under Faysal, the government had ˙ paid it, along with those of other religious leaders. Following the toppling of Faysal, the Arab government ceased paying the chief ˙ rabbi’s wages, yet the community did not resume its responsibility for his remuneration. The Haı¨moff couple asked the Mandatory authorities to provide his salary, yet, Robert Haı¨moff noted the rabbi’s advanced age and the fact that he did not speak French. According to him, the community’s need for reorganisation and the authorities’ interests demanded the appointment of a French chief

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rabbi. The two warned the French officials against attempts to take control of the community by the Zionists, who promoted an ‘English– Zionist’ policy. As an example, they drew attention to the candidate for communal council head, Yu¯suf Farh¯ı, who did not ˙ speak French and was incapable of communicating with French officials. They stressed that Farh¯ı was a Zionist activist, who had ˙ befriended the Zionist emissaries Burla and Rivlin, and that his goal was to hold elections that he would use to place the Zionists in dominant positions over the community. In this way, the Haı¨moffs threatened, the Alliance would have no choice but to close its institutions in Damascus, which would reduce France’s influence and the support for it within the Jewish community.79 For their part, Burla, Rivlin, and the other Palestinian teachers were not merely content with their educational work alone, but saw a role for themselves promoting nationalism in public activity. They chose to do this by organising new elections and fielding the two Hebrew school directors as candidates for the communal council.80 In the elections held in October 1920, following a format developed under Ottoman rule, 300 tax-paying households were entitled to vote by secret ballot for a general council of 50 members. The members of this council then voted, also by secret ballot, for a ten-person council: Moses Elijah Totah, Yu¯suf Farh¯ı, Moses Mawa¯s, Moses La¯lu¯, Salı¯m ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ʿAtta¯r, Salı¯m Saqa¯l, Ibra¯hı¯m Mughrabı¯, and Za¯kı¯ Turkiyyah. In ˙˙ addition to these members of the community, Burla and Rivlin were also elected. The council voted to appoint Totah as its honorary ˙ ˙ ˙ president, Farh¯ı as chairman, and ʿAtta¯r as treasurer.81 In this ˙ ˙˙ manner, at least a third of the council was comprised of Zionists, and even its other members held pro-Zionist attitudes. This council’s Zionist character was evident from the fact that deliberations took place in Hebrew and it possessed a Zionist national field of vision oriented towards Palestine, almost without considering the internal political developments in Syria. This council cast its hopes upon the community’s continued relationship with and aid received from the Zionist Commission and the JDC.82 The council worked to reduce the number of synagogues and even received the agreement of the Torah scholars to do so, in exchange for promising to increase their

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income. It also engaged in reforms in communal taxation and began to provide financial support for the schools from the public coffers.83 Yet, soon after the elections, it became clear that the JDC had decided to decrease its contributions, which resulted in the closing of the workshops that had been founded a year earlier. The orphanages also began to decline and rumours suggested that their funding would soon cease. The community was also left without pharmacies and medical clinics.84 Likewise, the plight of the chief rabbi, owing to the non-payment of his salary, was a sore spot that facilitated Robert Haı¨moff’s divide-and-rule tactics in his endeavour to present himself as one who could, by means of his contacts with the Mandatory authorities, cure the ills of the community. Since Danon accused the new council of breaking its promises regarding his salary, he lent Haı¨moff a sympathetic ear. The businessman suggested that he disband the council and appoint a new five-member committee to manage community affairs, which would also fix the matter of his compensation. In addition, the French governor, influenced by things he heard from the Haı¨moffs regarding the communal leadership and its pro-Zionist orientation, exerted pressure upon the chief rabbi, informing him that he did not recognise the elected council, which he suspected of following an anti-French policy, and that he would only provide assistance to the community if Danon ensured its replacement with a new council that would act in accordance with French interests. The Mandatory authorities also warned the Hebrew teachers to desist from involvement in the internal affairs of the community.85 As a result, in January 1921, the chief rabbi dismissed the elected council and, using his authority, appointed a temporary one headed by Robert Haı¨moff, until new elections could be held. This antidemocratic act, which effected an anti-Zionist revolution in the communal leadership and which stemmed primarily from Danon’s personal financial predicament and the pressure that the governor exerted upon him, generated a sense of affront and anger within the community and was condemned in nearly all quarters. Since the Haı¨moffs did not conceal their ties to the governor nor their influence over his deeds, the disapproval was directed also towards them and

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they became identified as ‘informers’. Standing behind the opposition to Danon’s move and the new council were the Hebrew teachers who called upon Jewish society to protest the rabbi’s outrageous deed and to demand new elections. Among the other steps they took was organising a petition that garnered around 500 signatures and was sent to the Mandatory authorities requesting that they allow immediate elections to replace the temporary council.86 The chief rabbi submitted to the public pressure and promised to hold new elections after Passover. In the intervening months, Robert Haı¨moff did all he could in order to strengthen his hold on the communal leadership and to determine the patterns of management that would force the community to act in accordance with French interests and not out of sympathy for the Zionist idea.87 The opponents of Haı¨moff accused him of trying to achieve three aims: the termination of the ten-year-old Hebrew enterprise, the closing of the Hebrew girls’ school in order to increase the number of female students enrolled at the AIU school directed by his wife and as a first step towards the closing of all Hebrew schools, and the cessation of ties between Damascus Jews and those in Palestine. Communal grievances continued to grow, but in the environment of fear created by Haı¨moff, many hesitated to express their dissension publicly in trepidation that Haı¨moff would turn them over to the government as political criminals on the pretext of sympathy for Zionism.88 It may not be coincidental that, during Haı¨moff’s term as president of the communal council, the governor of Damascus Haqqı¯ Bek al-ʿAzm ˙ ˙ prohibited the entry of Zionists to Syria, an edict that provoked no official response from the Jewish community. After all, Haı¨moff himself was heard more than once declaring that ‘he would neither be silent nor rest until he closed the Hebrew schools and expelled all the Zionists—if not from all Syria, then at least from Damascus’.89 Haı¨moff—who never liked the chief rabbi—continued to use Danon for his needs and in order to obtain his objectives. Matters reached a boiling point when Haı¨moff presented his opinions to the authorities as though they were Danon’s positions, without the latter—who did not know French—being aware of what was being said in his name. For its part, the French government, which sought to strengthen the

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power of Haı¨moff, provided him with funding for the community. Haı¨moff then spread rumours that the government intended to finance the communal institutions with large sums of money.90 Despite such promises, the social and economic state of affairs in the community continued to deteriorate. The various entities that had supported the Jewish community gradually reduced their funding, even to the point of terminating it altogether. Thus, for example, the London philanthropist Edward Stern ordered the shutting of the pharmacy that he had sustained for nearly 20 years. The closure of the pharmacy also led later to the departure of Dr Aryeh Leib Efron, who had treated the community’s patients since World War I. The JDC clinic also shut its doors and Damascus Jewry was left without any medical institution.91 Once again, the community faced the problem of orphans and widows suffering from malnutrition. The activity of the two orphanages declined and the children were combined into one building. Social gaps widened greatly; aside from a thin layer of those with means, the bulk of the community’s population lived in penury and appalling housing conditions.92 Criticism of the helplessness of the acting council headed by Haı¨moff shifted from deed to action when independent organisation began to take place to improve the condition of the community without any dependence upon the council. The challenge of prostitution, which continued to trouble the community as a result of the terrible economic privation, led to the founding of an association called the Rodfey Kevod ha-Ummah (‘Seekers of the Nation’s Honour’), which collected funds to open a workshop that would employ Jewish girls who had, until that point, worked in the cafe´s and Muslim restaurants. The intimate proximity in such places to Muslim males had led to an increase in the cases of conversion to Islam by young girls who chose to marry Arabs. The solution, in the form of alternative employment, sought to reduce this temptation. The association joined an existing one, Mohar ha-Betulot (‘Maidens’ Dowry’), led by Rabbi Judah Hayyim ha-Kohen Maslaton, which ˙ offered another solution in the form of providing money to marry the girls to Jewish partners.93 Contrary to the accepted norm, the

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propaganda and collection activities in the synagogues for this aim took place without obtaining approval from the communal council. Danon, who had invested great energies into fighting the problem of prostitution since his appointment as chief rabbi of Damascus, worked to achieve the support of the minister of the interior for helping the new association meet its goal. Even the Arabic-speaking press, including the anti-Zionist Alif Ba¯ʾ, enlisted in the cause and published articles dealing with the betterment of the conditions of the Jewish community of the city. The Jewish youth also founded two other associations, Biqqur Holim (‘Sick Visit’) and Hesed shel Emet (‘Truest Kindness’). The ˙ ˙ latter sought to gather funds for the construction of a fence around the Jewish cemetery, since Arabs living near the graveyard had begun stealing the headstones for use in building their homes, while others used the site as a place for playing ball and cards. The helplessness of the communal council in this matter also aroused fierce criticism.94 All such organisation took place with the full support and encouragement of the Zionist emissaries in the city, generating a clear association of Zionism with the social struggle of the lower classes against the economic elites, who relied upon their ties to the Mandatory authorities. This impression sharpened as the members of the upper classes sent their children to the Alliance institutions, while the Hebrew schools became the place of education for those of limited means. The class-based correlation identified Zionism, in Damascene consciousness, with offering a solution to the predicament of the weaker segments of Jewish society. The harshest public attack on the communal council was waged in the pages of the Hebrew press in Palestine, in Eliahu Sasson’s articles in Doʾar ha-yom and in ha-Ares. In his criticism, Sasson made no ˙ distinction between the private individual Robert Haı¨moff and the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle. Essentially, this society and its representatives were all turned into a punch bag for those opposing Haı¨moff’s conduct. Eliyahu Kahanoff, the principal of the AIU boys’ school in Damascus, who suffered harm from the presentation of all AIU supporters as informants, sought to defend himself and the French–Jewish society that had operated in Damascus for over

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40 years. He demanded that the critics differentiate clearly between the society and Robert Haı¨moff, who held no position at all in the AIU. Moreover, Kahanoff argued, Haı¨moff’s anti-Zionist deeds and approach reflected his personal opinion and it was impossible to attribute responsibility for his attitude to all Alliance representatives indiscriminately. However, it was difficult for Haı¨moff’s antagonists to make the distinction between him and his wife, the director of the AIU girls’ school for many years.95 Haı¨moff himself returned fire and sought to stymie the activities of the new associations. He protested to the authorities that they were examples of illegal organisation for the purpose of collecting funds for Zionist aims, leading to the arrest and interrogation of the members of the Rodfey Kevod ha-Ummah association, which had merely sought to rescue Jewish girls from the dismal lives into which they had sunk. It seems that, in this instance, as with the struggle that Danon waged against prostitution in the community on the eve of World War I, various interested parties yet again joined forces to sabotage the effort. While the members of the group were released from custody, the minister of the interior refused to authorise the association’s activity, claiming that no legal provision permitted the firing of a young girl from her employment and her forced employment somewhere else against her will and against the will of her employer. The weakness of the chief rabbi, who did not receive backing from the local government for the antiprostitution campaign, meant not only that the phenomenon was not eradicated, but that it actually expanded. Testimonies from this time reveal that fear of the communal leadership amongst destitute girls vanished and many, around a 150, went to work not only at cafe´s and restaurants, but also on the stages of theatres as ‘dancers and singers’.96 Since the new elections promised by the chief rabbi were not held, the chorus of criticism directed at Robert Haı¨moff continued to rise. Even Danon realised that Haı¨moff was making cynical use of him to achieve his personal ambitions and regretted his collaboration. The other members of the communal council could not handle the public pressure and, in June 1921, collectively

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resigned. It is entirely possible that they, too, felt that the council head was using them to rubber stamp his management of the community according to his personal anti-Zionist and pro-French tendencies. Following their resignation, Haı¨moff remained as an allpowerful ruler of the community, acting solely with the backing of the Mandatory authorities. This support also generated criticism towards the government and the Zionist youth asked themselves, ‘Will the “Free France” not grant us some of the liberty it enjoys?’97 At the start of September, elections organised by young members of the pro-Zionist Hakhnasat Orhim society resulted in a new ˙ council that essentially sacked Haı¨moff in disgrace. Vengeful, he turned to the authorities, asking them to dismiss the chief rabbi from his position, contending that he was a burden upon the community budget, and to appoint a local religious scholar in his stead. Even earlier, Haı¨moff had sought to foment dissent between the hahambas¸ı and the local rabbis. Trying to enlist them to support him in the council elections, he promised that all ten of them would receive monthly salaries if he was elected. This offer enticed the scholars, who lived off most meagre incomes. They declared a strike, informing Danon that, if he would not guarantee them fixed monthly wages from the community coffers, they would cease transferring the income from the gabela and taxes on circumcisions and weddings to the treasury.98 Heading the new council was Yu¯suf Farh¯ı, who had, as stated ˙ above, a Zionist outlook. Likewise, two of the Hebrew teachers were again elected to the body. Owing to the cessation of subsidies to the community from the Zionist Commission and the JDC, the council’s first action was to send a call for support in Hebrew and in Arabic to Damascene Jews who had emigrated abroad, asking them to donate money to their brethren remaining in Damascus. The council also reorganised the finances of all synagogues and the various charitable societies, placing them under public supervision for the common good. Moreover, the dismissal of Robert Haı¨moff moderated the government’s opposition to Rodfey Kevod ha-Ummah. The minister of the interior granted Danon authorisation for the dismissal of the young Jewish girls from their jobs in the markets, restaurants, and

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cafe´s and for employing them at the workshop founded by the society for this purpose. The authorisation order stated that it was being granted on the understanding that the matter harmed the dignity of the Jewish community ‘which is a member of the Syrian nation’. The authorities also issued permits to the Hesed shel Emet society to ˙ build a fence around the community cemetery and to post two guards 99 there. The supporters of Zionism hoped that a new chapter in the history of the community had begun and that the removal of Haı¨moff would put an end to the internal dissension. Haı¨moff’s failure also damaged his influence and ties to the ruling authorities, since it became clear to all that his claim to represent the community was entirely untenable. The Mandatory government official recognised the communal council election results. Danon, with the support of the Zionist emissaries in the town, exploited the new circumstances to appoint Moses Mawa¯s as the representative of the Jewish community to the Mandate administrative council, replacing the banker Joseph Laniado, who numbered among Haı¨moff’s most prominent backers.100 Yet, the hopes pinned upon the new council were soon disappointed. Funding from the Zionist Commission and the JDC was not renewed, while contributions from the Damascus Jewish diaspora were paltry. The economic and social condition of the community continued to decline, nor did internal conflicts cease. The new council was unable to solve the problem of the chief rabbi’s salary, leading yet again to a rupture and lack of cooperation between the two parties. The Jewish public’s lack of confidence in the council found expression in its refusal to pay taxes to the community treasury. Moreover, the council, suspected of having a pro-Zionist orientation, failed to earn the trust of the authorities and thus never received backing for the enforcement measures it sought to implement against those refusing to pay the taxes. This state of affairs led in June 1922 to the council’s collective resignation and to rumours that the hahambas¸ı had become fed up with the matter of his economic privation that had lasted for so long without a solution, and he was considering leaving the town.101

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The chaos that reigned throughout the community for the next couple of months necessitated the intervention of the Mandatory authorities. Their familiarity with the leading figures of the community being quite limited, they again resorted to the default choice they knew well—Robert Haı¨moff was again appointed, this time by the French government, as head of the communal council. The senior bureaucracy also reached the conclusion that it was necessary to find an alternative to Danon, with whom it was impossible to communicate, and the High Commission in Beirut appointed Rabbi Shelomo Tajer (1866– 1935) as chief rabbi over the Jewish communities of Syria in August 1922. The French officials hoped that Tajer would find a way to deal with the recurring crises facing Damascus Jewry. Indeed, one of his first steps was to travel to Damascus to solve the leadership problem. Tajer appointed a temporary committee for a number of weeks to collect the community income tax (Heb. ʿarikhah) and to assist the poor; its seven members were Ibra¯hı¯m Turkiyyah, Khidr Karı¯m, ˙ Eli Ha¯ris, Salı¯m Zagah, ʿAbd-Alla¯h Eliyah, Ibra¯hı¯m Tarra¯b, and ˙ ˙ Eliyah Sweyd. Jamı¯l Mizrah¯ı served as the committee’s secretary. ˙ Tajer also sought to solve the problem of the ban on Hebrew instruction by preparing a curriculum for the Jewish schools, which he presented to the school committee and the Ministry of Education.102 The new chief rabbi intended to return to Damascus after a short while and organise democratic elections for the community council, but for some reason, on his second visit, he asked the community leaders to postpone the elections indefinitely and support the temporary council that he appointed. When they accepted his suggestion, he added the journalist Tawfı¯q Mizrah¯ı to ˙ the council as its secretary. Ibra¯hı¯m Turkiyyah was selected as its president, Khidr Karı¯m as his deputy, and Salı¯m Zagah as ˙ treasurer. It is worth noting that these individuals, whom Tajer charged with co-operating with Danon, were largely new faces who had not participated in the communal leadership previously.103 They, too, were forced to deal with the same old problems of a paltry budget, tax avoidance by members of the community, and the on-going dispute with the chief rabbi Danon

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Figure 5 Rabbi Tajer (in the centre) with members of the communal committee during his visit to Damascus. On his left Rabbi Danon. (Source: CZA, PHG/1024372).

over his salary, which they believed was a heavy burden on the community’s finances. When elections for the communal council were finally held nine months later in August 1923, the winners—Moses Elijah Totah, ˙ ˙ ˙ Mu¯sa¯ (Moses) Mawa¯s, Salı¯m ʿAtta¯r, Salı¯m Zagah, Khidr Indibu¯, ˙˙ ˙ Khidr Karı¯m, Ibra¯hı¯m Turkiyyah, Salı¯m Mughrabı¯, and Eli Ha¯ris— ˙ ˙ refused to accept the position. Even the presence of Tajer, who arrived especially from Beirut to follow the elections, did not help.104 Amidst this state of instability in the communal leadership, Damascus Jewry suffered yet another blow—the decision of the Zionist institutions to close the Hebrew schools in the city.

EPILOGUE BETWEEN FAILURE AND ABANDONMENT

The large Jewish community of Damascus, which lies across the border from Palestine, is growing distant itself from us and from the whole national enterprise; and this is a huge blunder in terms of saving the national forces that we need for building Palestine. —Dr Yosef Luria, July 19241

The failure—internal conflicts The departure of the Hebrew school and kindergarten teachers from Damascus in November 1919 was a turning-point that signalled the start of the decline of the Hebrew schools, which lasted until their ultimate closure nearly four years later. The withdrawal from the city had lowered the Zionists’ prestige in the eyes of the Damascus community, who perceived it as an abandonment. The anger that arose also among some heads of the Palestinian Education Committee signals also that the Zionist institutions were beginning to reconsider the continued existence of the Hebrew schools in Damascus. A controversy had even stirred amongst the teachers themselves and those who remained in the city levelled harsh criticism on their colleagues who had left. This controversy led to Yehudah Burla’s dismissal of two teachers who had criticised him, despite the opinion

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of the Education Committee. Relations between the teachers in Damascus deteriorated into a series of internal conflicts.2 One of the major disagreements was between Burla and Joseph Joel Rivlin, the directors of the Hebrew boys’ and girls’ school, respectively. Although this quarrel was essentially a battle of egos for control over the Hebrew educational institutions, it nevertheless stemmed from differences of opinions on substantive matters such as the degree of involvement in the affairs of the local community.3 Quite a few arguments broke out between the Palestinian teachers and local individuals over the involvement of the former—especially that of Burla—in the internal matters of the community. Rivlin initially disagreed with Burla in this regard, even though he himself served occasionally on the communal council. It appears that Rivlin’s good ties to influential members of the community aroused Burla’s jealousy, for the latter fell into disagreement with no small number of people.4 Relations between Burla and the communal leadership reached a nadir when, at the start of 1923, the communal council told Dr Yosef Luria, the head of the Palestinian Education Committee, that it was no longer interested in working with Burla.5 The rivalry between Burla and Rivlin divided the Hebrew teachers in Damascus. The Teachers’ Committee received a number of complaints and mutual accusations laden with emotions, such as Burla’s letter to Luria: We have now reached the lowest rung of our personal lives. Mr Rivlin’s behaviour towards me—which I have suffered for a full year and always sought to pay no attention—this attitude is coming to a head. The matter is really affecting my health. I cannot bear these torments any longer. I urge you for the sake of the work and for the sake of our increasingly defiled honour here to hurry and meet us so that matters might be clarified . . . under present conditions, it will be impossible to begin the work in the summer.6 For his part, Rivlin accused Burla of megalomania and of seeking pretexts to hassle the Palestinian Jews who had achieved some

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standing in Damascus, such as Dr Efron, with whom Burla squabbled until Efron ceased working at the schools.7 Rivlin also claimed that Burla had fallen out with most of the members of the communal council, was looking to find fault with Rivlin’s work, and had even signed the name of his ‘right-hand man’ Eliahu Sasson to articles critical of Rivlin, which Burla himself had written.8 Luria understood the dangers that conflict posed to the Zionist mission in Damascus and admonished the two: I am certain you understand as we do how necessary it is for you to avoid any personal clash in a place where you seek to introduce a living spirit into Judaism . . . we have reached a difficult hour in our national enterprise and, therefore, I beseech you to dispel from your hearts the grudge that each has for the other and to work together in agreement . . . and if you wish to work in unity, you will succeed in your arduous task.9 Nevertheless, the quarrel only ended when Burla forced Rivlin to resign his position and leave Damascus before the start of the 1921– 2 academic year.10 At the start of that year, changes were implemented in the management structure of the Hebrew schools and kindergartens. Aside from a reduction in the number of teachers, the most noticeable change was a cut in the administrative staff. Both administrations— that of the boys’ school and that of the girls’ school and the kindergartens—were consolidated into one general administration for all Hebrew schools under the direction of Yehudah Burla. The Education Committee’s decision to make these changes under the guise of budgetary cut-backs provoked much anger amongst the teachers who supported Rivlin. They charged Burla with breeding intrigue and plotting against Rivlin, alleging that his hatred consumed him so much that he had even collaborated with Robert and Augustine Haı¨moff in their efforts to close the Hebrew girls’ school and transfer its students to the competing AIU one.11 These internal squabbles between the teachers fatally harmed their educational and Zionist efforts—and especially the image of the

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Hebrew schools.12 In addition, the Women’s Committee in Jerusalem, which funded the activities of the orphanages in Damascus after the Joint Distribution Committee ceased supporting them, removed these institutions from the management of Burla and Rivlin and sent its own representative to oversee them directly.13 The trend of students abandoning the Hebrew schools for the rival AIU schools or those of the various missions began to grow and, at the end of 1922, Augustine Haı¨moff and Eliyahu Kahanoff could report to the AIU president in Paris that the Zionist schools had grown weak, lacked funding, and were in certain decline. The heads of the community recognised that the French Mandatory authorities favoured the Alliance schools over the Hebrew ones. Kahanoff even estimated that the community leaders were prepared to ask the Zionist Executive in Jerusalem to cease its venture in Damascus, if they were certain that the Alliance would absorb their children into its schools.14 A further phenomenon leading to the decline in the number of students enrolled in the Hebrew schools was continued emigration. Already during the course of World War I, wealthy families left for Beirut and Egypt, where they saw better chances for success in their businesses. After the French occupation, when the authorities demanded that Jewish merchants pay high sums as war reparations in addition to the taxes levied upon the community, emigration amongst those with means increased. Most obvious was the departure of the educated graduates of the AIU schools. The phenomenon worsened with time and many could sense that the Jewish Quarter was slowly emptying of its population. Damascus suffered from high unemployment and failed to recover economically after the war; on the eve of Passover 1920, 19 families left, and many others planned to follow them after the festival.15 Emigration harmed Zionist efforts, when many of the youths who had been fixtures of nationalist activity moved overseas, mostly to America. Thus, for example, the departure of Hayyim Zegul, an ˙ ardent Zionist and one of the enthusiastic promoters of Hebrew, who was also a correspondent for Doʾar ha-yom in Damascus, impacted greatly Zionist activity in the city. Zegul had been one of the

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founders of the Hebrew orphanage and the Maccabi association. The contemporary press described the phenomenon of emigration as follows: ‘Slowly, the young forces are departing Damascus. [Starting] a year ago and up until today, more than sixty youths have left our city, and our city is thus being depleted of its most productive energies.’16 The journalist Tawfı¯q Mizrahi, who dedicated an article ˙ to analysing the situation of Syrian Jewry, claimed that they occupied the bottom rung of Middle Eastern Jewry and were far behind European Jewry. He emphasised that, unlike those of Turkey, Iraq, and Egypt, who stirred awake following World War I and began to take part in the culture, economy, and politics of their countries, the Jews of Syria remained aloof. He attributed it to the emigration of its young, who were the ones needed to pull the community forward, but who chose to emigrate overseas.17

Waning enthusiasm for Zionism While the years following World War I saw the large-scale participation of Damascus Jewry in events marking important Zionist dates, and Zionist symbols and songs were popular in broad segments of the population, this enthusiasm began to fade after the French take-over of the city. Even the communal council’s expression of official public identification with the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine almost completely ceased. On 1 May 1921, riots broke out in Palestine. Arabs attacked Jewish neighbourhoods and settlers, killing 47 Jews, mostly in Jaffa, including the noted writer Yosef Hayyim Brenner. These riots ˙ demonstrated the ability of the Arab national movement to unleash bloody riots throughout the country. These events revealed to the Jewish Yishuv its weakness in terms of self-defensive organisation and its dependence on British military forces.18 At the urging of the Jewish National Council, the Chief Rabbinate of Palestine declared a day of fasting and the public was called to contribute to a special ‘mourning tax’ for the defence of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine. Zionist activists in Damascus asked the local communal council to hold prayers and memorials for the souls of the fallen in Jaffa. In

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addition to speeches and prayers, they wanted the public to donate money to those impacted by the riots. Yet, despite their efforts, no memorial took place in Damascus at all. The council justified its reluctance as stemming from ‘the fear of the French government, lest it find out and consider this a Zionist political matter’.19 Eventually, the chief rabbi Jacob Danon relented and declared a day of fasting in the synagogues and a rally was held at al-Faranj synagogue. On the day of the gathering, many members of the community came, Danon stood in front of the ark, and the students of the Hebrew schools arrived prepared, since their classes had been cancelled that day, and read chapters from the Psalms. One of the Palestinian teachers spoke, explaining why the rally was called ‘On the destruction of our sons’ and discussing the difficult situation of the Jewish nation. Following the blowing of a ram’s horn (Heb. shofar), the rabbi delivered a homily in which he preached mainly about avoiding Sabbath desecration. In other words, Danon yielded to the call of the Chief Rabbinate in Palestine to declare a fast and assembly in honour of the Jewish victims of nationalist attacks, but apparently, fearing the authorities, he did not deal in his talk with the issue at hand, but rather presented a typical rabbinical sermon without any allusion to the events for which they had convened to commemorate.20 The anniversary of the Balfour Declaration on 2 November had been celebrated in Damascus since 1918 with enthusiastic public rallies attended by large audiences.21 Yet, in 1921, the Jews demonstrated complete indifference towards this important Zionist date. No festive prayer service took place and no speeches were given. The event was marked only in the Hebrew schools, where the teachers explained the historical importance of the declaration to their students. Here, too, it appears that the lack of interest stemmed from fear of the Mandatory authorities. In letters to the heads of the Zionist movement and in articles in the press, the Zionists in the city claimed that, so long as the French government did not publicly state that Zionism was not contrary to French interests in the Middle East, Damascene Jews would hesitate to show their Zionism in public.22 Another important event in the history of Zionism that had been marked each year in Damascus was 20 Tammuz, the memorial day for

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Theodor Herzl. During Faysal’s reign, Zionist gatherings had ˙ taken place publicly in the synagogues. By contrast, under French rule, although the Hebrew schools closed to commemorate the day (26 July 1921), the number of events marking the death of the founder of the Zionist movement was small. Only a limited audience of young males and females participated in a memorial held that evening at the boys’ school.23 For the festival of Hanukkah, which acquired through Zionism a ˙ new meaning of Jewish heroı¨sm and which had in previous years been celebrated with great joy in the Jewish Quarter, was barely felt in the streets of the neighbourhood in 1922. The youth, too, who had grown accustomed to holding holiday parties, avoided such festivities.24 Commemoration of the holiday was limited, as in the cases above, to within the walls of the Hebrew schools and kindergartens and in the Maccabi youth movement. The Maccabi association, and primarily its youth movement ha-Maccabi ha-Saʿir (‘The Young Maccabi’), were essentially the only ˙ groups to continue trying to fan the spirit of Zionism in Damascus after the French occupation. The association, founded in the city during World War I, underwent reorganisation in October 1919. Youth members engaged in communal and national activity and contributed and raised money for national funds for the purchase of the ‘Zionist sheqel’ and for the establishment of new settlements in Palestine.25 The driving force behind Maccabi was the teacher Besalʾel Basrawı¯, who was assisted by local youths, including Eliʿezer ˙ ˙ Pesah, Rahel Mugrabı¯, Nisim Luziyyah, Eliahu Sasson, and others. In ˙ ˙ 1921, it was determined that the uniforms, which Maccabi members wore on trips on Sabbaths and holidays, would be blue and white and would bear the Shield of David. A brass band was also established and it performed at various events and at parades that took place in the streets of Damascus.26 Such demonstrations made a great impression upon the local Arab population, which sometimes accompanied them by clapping along, although more often, the marches ignited the wrath of the Arab masses. Sometimes, even French soldiers were seen raising their rifles in honour of the parade of Young Maccabi regiments.27 In January 1922, the Young Maccabi association held a

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Hanukkah celebration, which was attended by the members of the ˙ communal council and many of the young intellectuals, as well as numerous guests, including Jewish merchants from Palestine present in Damascus, who came to partake in the familiarity of the Palestinian Zionist environment. A contemporary report stated that the event opened with the Young Maccabi band playing the liturgical poem ‘Maʿoz Sur Yeshuʿati’, followed by an act in which the ˙ participants formed the shape of a Hanukkah menorah with their ˙ bodies, accompanied by the singing by the chorus of the religious hymn ‘ha-Nerot Hallalu’ and the Labour Zionist poem ‘Tehezaqnah’. ˙ The second half featured a national-themed play, ‘The Little Hasmoneans (ha-Hashmonaʾim ha-qetannim)’. The Maccabi youth ˙ ˙ members appeared in their official costume and performed impressive acrobatic stunts. The crowd’s enthusiasm was such that a young medical student named David Pinto mounted the stage and expressed ˙ his feelings of admiration for what he saw at the celebration, which brought him closer to Zionism and the national revival. He stated ‘that until now, he was far from Zionist life and thought about the Zionist idea as imaginary, but now, he saw the light of Zionism that is being realised’.28 The directors of the AIU schools realised that the Maccabi movement had great potential to attract their students to Zionism and therefore banned the latter from joining the association. As a result, the number of youth members dropped drastically in the summer of 1921 from 150 to 90 youths.29 Emigration to America also reduced the activities of the Maccabi movement. They ceased entirely during the summer of 1921—the gymnasiums were closed and no lectures or classes were held. Repeated efforts to breathe life back into the movement were at times successful, but short-lived. These attempts were linked closely to the frequent political changes in the character of the communal council. When a pro-Zionist council was elected, young Zionist intellectuals in the community renewed the Zionist national endeavour, but when the make-up of the council changed, such efforts diminished.30 Likewise, contributions to the national funds dwindled year by year. The Hebrew teachers had taken upon themselves the task of

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collecting money for the Jewish National Fund. In the two years following World War I, Damascus Jewry demonstrated great responsiveness, since they were influenced by the rumours about the Balfour Declaration and the San Remo conference decisions. Yet, after the French army’s entrance to Damascus and the Nabı¯ Mu¯sa¯ riots in Jerusalem in 1920, the lustre of Zionism faded. Obstacles placed by the French Mandatory government on Zionist activity also had an effect, finally leading some leaders of the community to insist that all fundraising for the national funds cease. Although donations continued to be gathered, collection was now carried out much more modestly and most of the income now came from individual donors.31 This shift in approach and the dispute with the AIU representatives, as well as the weakness of the communal leadership, harmed greatly the fund-raising efforts for philanthropic goals, even of a non-Zionist nature. In the autumn of 1922, Damascus Jewry was asked to donate money to help Jews in famine-stricken Russia and Ukraine. The initiative to raise funds came from the AIU directorate in Paris and was carried out in Damascus by Kahanoff, the principal of the boys’ school. The community’s leadership, offended that the society had not approached the communal council or the chief rabbi, but rather one of its own officials, decided therefore not to participate in any fund raising, until the council and Danon received letters calling for help from the Jewish National Council and the Chief Rabbinate in Palestine. The Hebrew teachers enlisted in the cause, but so as to avoid overlap and confusion in their efforts, they sought to co-ordinate things with Kahanoff. Yet the two sides were unable to reach a mutual agreement, since the AIU director wanted to send the money to the Alliance in Paris, while the teachers wanted to send it to the Jewish National Council in Jerusalem. Naturally, each of them sought to strengthen the images and authority of their backers in the eyes of the Damascus public. The Hebrew teachers also knew that any sum raised by the National Council would be matched by the General Zionist Committee in London, thereby guaranteeing Russian Jews much more support. Ultimately, the two sides agreed

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to split the donations, sending half to Jerusalem and half to Paris. The Hebrew teachers suggested conducting a broad campaign similar to that of the Zionist Redemption Fund and therefore wanted the chief rabbi to call an assembly at the synagogues in memory of the victims of the fast, where sermons and speeches would generate an atmosphere of fundraising that would encompass the entire Jewish public. Kahanoff and his supporters opposed this plan, since they feared that such events would be exploited to strengthen the Zionists’ power and draw the population to national affairs. Therefore, they rejected the proposal on the grounds that it would harm the status of the Jewish community in the eyes of the Arab population of Damascus. Subsequently, the AIU principal also reneged on his agreement to transfer part of the funds to the Jewish National Council, alleging that he feared that the JNC would use the money for other goals, as it had appropriated money from the Redemption Fund, according to him, for paying the salaries of the teachers and administration. Co-operation between the two factions ceased and the Hebrew teachers decided not to take part in the fund-raising efforts at all.32 Due to budget cuts at the Palestinian Education Committee, the number of Hebrew teachers in Damascus gradually diminished. If, at their peak, 20 male and female teachers worked inside and outside the Hebrew schools, by the summer of 1922, only ten remained in the city. The dampening sympathy for Zionism prompted the teachers who stayed behind to found a new Zionist movement called Qadimah (‘Forward’). This movement was not aimed at children and youth, but at the young intellectuals in the community, including AIU school graduates. Numerous obstacles popped up along the way, as individuals in the community worried that activities stirring a national awakening would generate waves of hostility towards the Jews on the part of the authorities and the Arab population. The communal council, despite the fact that it was at this time largely Zionist, did not approve its goals, fearing that its opponents—chief among them Robert Haı¨moff—would use the Zionist activity to achieve the dissolution of the council by the government, which itself anyways refused to permit Qadimah’s

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activity. Thus, the group never actually took shape. The teachers tried occasionally to introduce new initiatives, such as lectures and evening classes, but they never succeeded in producing a continuous flow of significant activity.33 Attempts to revive enthusiasm for Zionism in the summer of 1922 were aimed at exploiting the momentum generated in the wake of the League of Nations’ decision at the end of July to endorse the British Mandate for Palestine. Ratification had rekindled the flame of Zionism amongst large segments of the Jewish public. Contemporary testimonies reveal that the approval of the British Mandate created a great commotion and became the talk of the town in the Jewish Quarter and in the synagogues. The religious scholars decided not to read melancholic passages during the morning prayer service and some even wondered whether the solemn fast of the Ninth of Av, which was approaching, would be cancelled. At the Hebrew schools, each teacher explained the significance of the Mandate in Jewish history to the students and afterwards released them from school for the day. The approval of the Mandate was perceived by the Jewish public as a miracle from heaven, which occurred thanks to the actions of the world Zionist leadership.34 Emotions quickly cooled once the Arabic press began discussing the League of Nations’ decision and expressing its displeasure at the enthusiasm demonstrated for the Mandate amongst the city’s Jews. Thus, for example, the newspaper Alif Ba¯ʾ published news about the ratification of the Mandate for Palestine under the headline, ‘Death sentence’. The article’s writer claimed his source was a telegram received by the Zionists in Damascus reporting that the League of Nations had not only approved the British Mandate, but also the Balfour Declaration.35 Anti-Zionist inflammatory editorials written in Arabic by Alter Weinberg, a young ultra-Orthodox Jew from Jerusalem, poured oil on the fire and inflamed Arab passions. In one of his articles published in Alif Ba¯ʾ, Weinberg claimed that Zionists’ ambition to take over Syria, as well, led them to establish the Hebrew schools in Damascus. However, he stressed that the Arabs should not harass Syrian Jewry ‘who are faithful to the policies of their country and who, for hundreds of years, have lived in peace with the Syrians,

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but that there is a need for requisite opposition to Zionism and the Zionists, who are the true enemies of the Arab people’.36 In response, the newspaper’s editor Yu¯suf al-ʿI¯sa¯ published an article under the headline, ‘Zionism in Damascus’, in which he wrote: We appeal to the Syrian government with three questions: (A) Do the Israelite schools in Damascus follow the curriculum of the Department for Educational Management? Will this department examine and investigate the books from which they teach? And if so, do any of its officials know the Hebrew language so that they might inform [the government] about the poison contained within the books sent by the Zionist Executive to these schools? (B) Does the police know anything about the gatherings organised by the officials of the Zionist Executive who come from Palestine? And—if they succeed to find one such gathering—can a member of the police be found who understands the Hebrew language and can distinguish between [the words] ‘fat’ and ‘lean’? (C) Does the government have official information relating to the success of Zionism, for [after all] we see hundreds of youths passing throughout the city streets in processions and bearing on their chests and their arms symbols of the Zionist political flag?37 Such articles, published nearly every day, instilled trepidation amongst Damascus Jewry that Zionist activity in Syria was inflaming the passions of the Arabs and that public opinion and anger would turn against them. Therefore, even these articles had no small impact on the distancing of Damascus Jews from the Zionist idea.38

The class factor Social polarisation was one of the defining features of the Jewish community of Damascus. All throughout most of the period covered in this study, Zionist education was identified with the underprivileged population. Already in 1915, the acquisition of Hebrew was seen as an issue for poor girls who were unable to study French at

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the AIU institutions and sought knowledge of a language that would raise their social value.39 The addition of the old religious school, the symbol of poverty and penury, in 1919 to the Hebrew boys’ school system brought along with it the stigma of the bad reputation of the school and led to the distancing of families of means from the Zionist schools.40 Burla and Rivlin reached the conclusion, in light of the fact that two-thirds of their students were impoverished and only a third came from wealthy homes, that it was necessary to establish a separate schools for the rich and the poor students. According to them: It is impossible to win over the prosperous and the wealthy to [our cause], as long as the children of the masses, the most indigent and destitute, must be in the same place together with the children of the affluent. The latter demand one form of study and curriculum from the school, while the masses demand another form of curriculum . . . As a result of this, our schools, for the people of the city, are on a lower level than the AIU schools . . . this step must be taken. If we had a such nice school that would attract the well-to-do, then we would have long ago endowed the Hebrew school with the prestige and loftiness that it deserves.41 In 1921, the boys’ school was split into two: one intended for the children of the wealthy and one for the poorer ones.42 The expectation was that the affluent would serve as a vanguard of the revived national spirit within the elite circles of society. Conversely, the purpose of the other school was to save the children of lesser means from poverty and ignorance.43 A year earlier, Rivlin had acceded to the demands of 12 female students from wealthy homes and opened a special class for them to learn Hebrew.44 Nevertheless, the pull of French culture was stronger and most of the families from the middle class and above transferred their children back to the Alliance or Christian missionary schools.45 The nationalist seed that was planted thus primarily revolutionised the proletariat. If the few remaining members of the elite in

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Figure 6 Zionist boys school 1920. (Source: Nahum Menahem private collection, Haifa). ˙

Damascus continued to turn their eyes and march their feet towards the West, then the less fortunate segments of society found, in the aftermath of World War I, an alternative in the Western values that Zionism brought to Palestine, which coincided also with the country’s occupation by Britain. Unlike in Ottoman times, proximity to Palestine (now a British Mandate) made it an easy destination for emigration. Zionism had little sway over the enlightened and modern institutions of Jewish society, most of which belonged to the upper classes. The Alliance offered the elite universalism and Western culture, with all the charms and the numerous possibilities they entailed. Therefore, the fact that lower-income students populated the Hebrew schools gave Zionism a class connotation. Moreover, during its initial activity following the war, Zionism was accompanied by the politicisation of elements of society, expressed particularly through class-oriented socialist mobilisation. The founding of unions for workers and kindergarten aides advanced clear proletarian and Zionist aims, seeking deliberately to tie the members of these unions to the

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workers’ movement in Palestine.46 At nearly every event at the Hebrew schools, ‘Tehezaqnah’, Hayyim Nahman Bialik’s poem that ˙ ˙ ˙ became the anthem of Labour Zionism, was played and sung, just as it was the custom to do at workers’ gatherings in Palestine.47 Damascus Jewry’s Zionism and attitude towards Palestine, in terms of their aspirations, actually followed the model of Western European nationalism, which was not connected to religion. In this respect, one cannot generalise the Damascus community as belonging to the framework that characterises ‘Sephardi’ communities in the Muslim world as having ‘very high Zionist potential’, ‘destined for Zionist development interwoven with traditional Judaism’, or alternatively, adopting a form of ‘Zionism that sought first and foremost national-religious salvation’.48 In general, adherence to Jewish religion and ritual had greatly weakened in Damascus even prior to World War I. The long process of the disappearance of the religious schools and their occasional inclusion under the ægis of the Alliance or, later, in the Hebrew school system drained significantly over the course of many years the community’s religious attachment, which had anyhow been poor even previously. The absence of a rabbinical class of stature reduced further its commitment to religion and its values. Parallel to the secularisation process in the community, a popular, folkloric religion—lacking a specific emphasis on Jewish law—began to take root. Rivlin described the situation as follows: Indeed, there is no room to describe here the disobedience of the religious commandments and of the reformist movement. There is no comparison to these occurrences in the quiet and moderate Orient. This waywardness takes place almost on its own, without any fuss or tragedies between fathers and sons. In general, the tolerance in which the Orient excels prevails here. The devout and the ‘free-thinking’ go along like brothers and friends [cf. Psalms 35.14], without fanaticism—even private resentment does not exist. Moreover, there are cases where an individual observes a [specific] commandment with precision, while dismissing another one much more vital than the former.

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He sometimes believes in hallucinations, which our forefathers already put behind them, but is not careful [when it comes to] serious commandments. It appears as though religion has received here a special interpretation, and if not for the contact with the Jewish centres in the Land of Israel, a wholly unique form [of Judaism] would emerge here.49 Therefore, a class of religious intellectuals who supported Zionism never developed in Damascus. Unlike other Middle Eastern communities, no element of Damascus society mastered both traditional religious culture, as well as Hebrew literature and new Hebrew press.50 It is thus possible that it was actually secularism or religious tolerance that facilitated identification with the Zionist movement. The full participation of females was a further indication of the social and class aspect of Zionist activity in Damascus. Such involvement to a certain extent countered the norms of religious law and tradition.51 It may be that the secular nature of Zionism in Damascus was influenced by the secular Arab idea promoted by Faysal. Regardless, neither religious yearning nor national and ˙ messianic longing tipped the scales in favour of Zionism and Palestine. Rather, it was the understanding that the rapid development of Palestine—so close to Damascus—transformed it into a realistic destination for the members of the lower social classes who wished to improve their living conditions. Furthermore, the adoption of Zionist ideas and socialist ideology may have represented a kind of rebellion against the old social ordering of Jewish society. Members of the upper classes, primarily the graduates of the AIU schools, had no need for the socialist ideology that was essentially undermining their social standing. They could integrate into the institutions of the French Mandate, which, from the summer of 1923, began to pursue a policy of appointing officials from all communities in proportion to their size. The high commission’s request of the chief rabbi Danon to prepare a list of 30 young Jews suitable for receiving positions in government officers generated excitement and numerous youths submitted their names. The future

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of the Jewish bourgeoisie appeared, under the French Mandate, as rosy as ever.52

On the path to dissolution: The attitude of the Zionist institutions At the peak of the Hebrew schools’ success during the summer of 1919, opinions voicing reconsideration and misgiving could already be heard at a meeting of the Greater Zionist General Council on 11 September 1919 regarding the continued funding for the Hebrew schools in Damascus and its expansion to Aleppo. Defending the continuation of the support was none other than Menachem Ussishkin himself, on the eve of his departure for Palestine to head the Zionist Commission, in determining that ‘this will be a moral setback if the schools in Damascus and Aleppo will be forced to close’. Dr Yaakov Tehon (1880– 1950) argued that aid for Aleppo in any event was out of the question and the assistance of 10,000 pounds sterling would be directed only to Damascus and Sidon. Indeed, the decision reached adopted his position and the educational support for Damascus continued.53 The Zionist institutions’ enthusiasm for the Hebrew schools and their willingness to maintain them faded following the French occupation of Damascus and dwindled further after restrictions were imposed on travel between Palestine and Syria. The budgetary burden also grew heavier. Damascus was no longer seen as part of Palestine and questions over the need to include its Hebrew educational schools in the Palestinian educational budget grew stronger. The Zionist schools in Damascus operated, in the aftermath of the toppling of Faysal, under a constant threat of the cessation of ˙ support from the Palestinian Education Committee. Each of the latter’s discussions of the Hebrew educational enterprise in Damascus concluded usually with a decision to limit it further.54 This threat, which hovered persistently in the air, certainly did not make Zionist work any easier in Damascus, an Arab city where the language of the intelligentsia was becoming French.

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The Palestinian Education Committee, which sowed the seeds of Hebrew nationalism in Damascus, failed to reap the benefits and turn the schools into a lever for promoting Zionist activity. Thus, for example, after World War I, Shalem (Ka¯mil) Arazi, an enthusiastic young Zionist in Damascus, went at the encouragement of David Yellin to study at the teachers’ seminary in Jerusalem. His aim was to return to Damascus in order to spread the Zionist national idea and teach the Hebrew language. Three years later, after Arazi completed his studies, the Education Committee informed him that it had no position for him in Damascus. Arazi and his friends who remained in Damascus took this as a great insult and slap in the face for all the supporters of the Hebrew schools. They knew that the AIU school directors could use this to convince Damascus youth that there was no point or hope in Hebrew education and that it was impossible to rely upon the Zionist institutions when it came to livelihood and future vocation.55 The feeling at this time was that the Zionist institutions did not see the Jews of the Middle East, including those of Damascus, as a suitable target for the full attention of the Zionist leadership. In an interview with a French newspaper in March 1921, about five months before he was elected as president of the Zionist Organisation, Chaim Weizmann expressed his pleasure that France had received the Mandate for Syria and his hope that it would lead to the development of the land. According to him, it was in France’s interest that Palestine be a good neighbour and, therefore, it was necessary to continue to support the realisation of Zionist goals. He praised France for its past encouragement of Zionism and saw it as a good sign for Syrian Jewry, whom he supposed were mostly Zionists. In the interview, Weizmann emphasised the need for France’s moral backing of Zionism, as it was an international movement seeking the support of all civilised nations desiring a solution to the Jewish Problem in Eastern Europe.56 In other words, Weizmann did not see, at this point, Zionism as a movement coming to solve the problems of the Jewish nation as a whole, but only the Jewish Question in Eastern Europe. If this attitude reflected the perspective of the Zionist institutions at that time, then surely the nurturing of the Zionist

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movement in Damascus did not hold paramount interest for the leaders of the movement. Moreover, Damascus Jewry, the nearest diaspora to Palestine, was not perceived as capable of helping the advancement of the Zionist idea and its implementation. The Zionist leadership also failed to understand the role that the Damascus community could play as a mediator and intermediary between Arab nationalism and the Zionist movement. Dr Shlomo Felman, Weizmann’s emissary in Damascus, had already, prior to his mission, proposed to Weizmann that the Zionist Commission’s intended office there would also employ individuals from the local Jewish community, since, according to him, ‘we can find in the Jewish population of Damascus many useful elements’—yet Weizmann did not respond to this suggestion.57 Such disregard for local forces by the leaders of Zionism provoked Abraham Elmaleh’s outrage and anger during the San Remo Conference, when it appeared to him that the Zionist leadership did not understand anything about Arab affairs.58 Eliahu Sasson, one of the young Zionist intellectuals in Damascus, suggested to the Zionist Commission back in the summer of 1919 to bring a group of the young and educated elite from Damascus to Palestine and integrate it into Yishuv life. This proposal was rejected on the argument that Palestine had enough unemployed educated youths from the Sephardi community and it was not necessary to add to the problem.59 Neglect brought about the weakening of Zionist activity in Damascus and, as a consequence, even the immediate results of the educational endeavour went unseen. It appears that the inability of the Zionist emissaries to present overwhelming evidence of the sweeping success of their work led to a further reduction in the aid they received from the Zionist institutions. Thus, for example, in September 1922, the first class graduated from the Hebrew schools—but with only 15 male and female students. They performed very well on their official final examinations, but when considering the enrolment of hundreds of students in the schools over the course of years, a crop of only 15 graduates was disappointingly minute by all accounts.60 ʿAliyyah from Middle Eastern countries during the early 1920s was quite limited. One might have expected that most immigrants

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would have come from Damascus, the nearest community to Palestine, where intensive Zionist activity was taking place. Surprisingly, according to the records of the Immigration Department of the Zionist Executive, it appears that there were almost no immigrants at all from Damascus. These matters take on double significance when compared with ʿaliyyah from Aleppo, where no organised Zionist activity at all was taking place. A table of ‘Oriental immigration according to communities, Tishrey – Tammuz 5623 (September 1922– July 1923)’, which lists all those who contacted the Immigration Office in Jerusalem during this period, contains not even one Damascene on the list. By contrast, 64 Jews from Aleppo are mentioned.61 Similar figures can be found in statistical tables of immigrants who arrived in Palestine in September 1923. During that month, 56 Jews came from Aleppo, but not one Damascene.62 It is also worth mentioning that, since 1919, the Hakhnasat Orhim society in Damascus dealt with aid for the dozens ˙ of immigrants from Middle Eastern communities who passed through the city each week on their way to Palestine. This raises the question of why there was no ʿaliyyah from Damascus during this period. It appears that there are a number of answers. Damascus’ proximity to Palestine, the Zionist Commission’s financial support, the intensive Zionist activity that including the Palestinian Education Committee funding for the Hebrew schools generated a ‘Palestinian’ atmosphere in Damascus, such that no real need felt was to emigrate. Perhaps for this reason, the Zionist Executive did not bother to open a ‘Palestine Office’ there to deal with ʿaliyyah. To these reasons, the difficulties raised by the French authorities on travel to Palestine should also be added. As a result, it is possible that immigration from Damascus, like that from other communities in the Middle East, was not conducted through formal channels and was therefore not officially documented in the Zionist Executive’s records. Likewise, the figures mentioned above deal with the 1922 – 3 year, during which the British government refused entry to all those with less than 500 EGP unless they could demonstrate proof of guaranteed employment. The Zionist Executive, for its part, could only sponsor a certain number of masons, carpenters, and

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metalworkers. Since most of the Jews of Damascus were manual labourers or small traders, it was not possible to provide them with entry permits.63 The Hakhnasat Orhim society asked the Zionist ˙ Executive to recognise it as the formal representative of its institutions for the purpose of negotiating with the British consul in Damascus to arrange matters for the immigrants passing through the city. The Immigration Department did not respond to this request, but sought instead to appoint someone in Damascus to be responsible for the distribution of immigration permits that would be sent to the local community. The Department of Oriental Jews recommended Burla, who agreed to accept the role for a trial period of six months, but barely dealt with this matter before he left the city.64 It is possible that slight demand for ʿaliyyah cooled the enthusiasm and desire of Zionist Executive leaders to continue supporting the Damascus community as if it was part of the Palestinian Yishuv. In light of these things, the Zionist Executive could fall back on the excuse of budgetary problems and announce its cessation of support for the Hebrew schools starting from the 1923 –4 academic year.65

Damascus’ cry Damascus never sent any representative to a Zionist Organisation congress. Initially, this was because the community lacked a broad foundation for Zionist activity until the Eleventh Congress held in Vienna during 1913. One might have expected that the community would send at least one delegate to the Twelfth Congress held in Karlovy Vary, Czechoslovakia, in the summer of 1921. According to the regulations of the Zionist Executive, the number of ‘Zionist sheqels’ sold in each country determined the number of delegates it was entitled to send. Fearing open Zionist activity under the French Mandate, it was not possible to sell publicly the ‘Zionist sheqel’ in Damascus and, therefore, the city did not send a representative to the congress. Nevertheless, the young Zionists in the city sought to make their voices heard at the congress and, in August 1921, Sasson published ‘An Open letter to the delegates of the 12th Congress in Karslbad [i.e., Karlovy Vary]’. The letter begins by apologising for

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Damascus’ lack of a representative in the congress and continues with a harsh indictment of the Zionist Executive for abandoning the Jews of the Middle East as a whole and those of Damascus in particular, a desertion that pushed them time and time again into the arms of the Alliance. Sasson criticised the intended budgetary cuts and their failure to involve of Damascenes in co-ordinating contacts with the Arabs whose national aspirations allegedly countered Zionist aims. Sasson did not simply make accusations, but also presented constructive suggestions for reorganisation that he argued would lead to greater appreciation by Arabs that Zionism was not harming them, but the opposite. He envisioned that Syrian Jewry as a whole and the Damascus community specifically could play a major role in such reorganisation. Because of the importance of this letter, it is presented below in its entirety: Since it is impossible to carry out freely Zionist work in Syria due to the opposition to Zionism by the government in charge, we could not sell here the sheqels and we are hereby forced to address you in this letter of ours so as to bring to your attention the laying of Zionist foundations in Syria, a matter that will greatly influence the course of the enterprise in Palestine. The moment of the Balfour Declaration and of San Remo has caught us completely unprepared. Had the channels of influence of the Jewish centres upon Syria not ceased and had we not found ourselves continually under deficient rule, we would have been able to produce from our [community] individuals of great accomplishment possessing political influence and many obstacles that appear most serious would have been easily removed. We would have known to speak to the Arab nation and to its representatives, we would have placed most of the Syrian newspapers under our sphere of influence, we would have spoken to the Arab nation and explained to it the benefit bound up in the Zionist endeavour, we would have obtained as in other countries an important place in the government, and we would have stopped the ‘anti-Zionist’ effect in Arab circles in Palestine and Syria; and

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moreover, we would have been able to create a Zionist Arab group that would fight devotedly for the benefit of the Arabs in favour of Zionism. From the bare facts, we can see that the Balfour Declaration is greeted without any opposition from the masses at large and with open rejoicing in certain circles. Foreigners mingling with the Arabs or becoming close to them have managed to create this separation between us and the Arabs, a divide that can only be destroyed by the Jewry living amongst the Arabs. For this purpose, the worldwide Zionist Organisation should designate a special representative that will deal with the matter of Syria and the Orient. The Zionist Organisation has committed a mortal sin that will not be forgiven by ignoring completely Oriental Jewry. We have, for no short time, been left under the ‘Alliancist’ influence that has managed to disconnect the last ties binding us to Judaism; our children do not feed from Jewish culture and do not absorb the sorrow of the Jewish nation or its eternal longings for its land. Deliberately, [the Alliance] provided initially our children only with foreign education, stuffing them with the prattle of words, glorifying to them the heroes of various peoples and the names of cities of different countries, while our heroes and our cities are being erased from [their] hearts, in this way the abyss created between us and European Jewry for geographical and historical reasons continues to grow. Syrian Jewry is now like ‘an organ torn from a living body’, and the good of Palestine’s development demands its recuperation so that it might become an active part of the body. The Zionist Commission used to appoint those Jews who had influence over the Arabs and thereby won the sympathy of Arab leaders for Zionism. At the start of the crisis, it ceased, among other things, providing such support. We always opposed the Zionist Organisation’s acquiring of

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people with money. Here [Syria] is the place that left its imprint upon the Arab movement and the Jewish effort should be in this direction, to strengthen those of them with influence who can establish Arab groups fighting for Zionism with open eyes for the benefit of their brethren. We had the opportunity to create here powerful institutions for this purpose, but nevertheless the obstacles [placed] by the government prevented us and thus at a time when the Arabs of Palestine were quiet, the ‘Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯’, together with the newspapers under its sphere of influence, aroused the people against us. Tens of thousands of fliers were distributed amongst the Arabs of Palestine and Syria [by the Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯], special envoys would go to the villages and would deliver their anti-Semitic speeches. Local youths decided to create here a newspaper aimed inwards—at creating ties between Syrian Jewry and that of the diaspora—and outwards—explaining our [national] movement to the Arabs. From the first issues, we realised how large our influence was over the masses, but due to the waves of hatred from our enemies, the government closed it on the pretext that it was impossible to allow the publication here of a newspaper appearing in Hebrew (our newspaper appeared in both Hebrew and Arabic).66 We did not despair and we continued to produce a weekly paper in Arabic, which we distributed for free amongst the Arabs, but when we provided a translation of an article ‘from Jabotinsky’ that had been censored, the state shut our other newspaper and, since then, the government has threatened us and informed us officially that it is impossible to engage here in Zionist propaganda.67 We think that our political success in Palestine depends to a considerable extent on the efforts in Syria and, therefore, we propose to you [the following]: 1. To create a special committee to deal with Oriental affairs. 2. To remove the local government’s obstacles from our

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Zionist endeavours through negotiation with the government in Paris. 3. To establish an official newspaper that will clarify the essence of the Zionist movement to Jews and Arabs. Through such actions, we will succeed, perhaps in only [some] years, to incorporate Syrian Jewry into the Zionist enterprise and, most importantly, to generate a circle of Arabs who will fight in favour of Zionism. On behalf of the nationalist youths in Damascus. Damascus, 12 Av 1921. Eliahu Sasson68 Since the episode of their ‘flight’ from Damascus, the Hebrew teachers worked with the feeling that they were ‘step-children’ of the Palestinian Education Committee.69 This sense grew much stronger over the course of the 1922 –3 academic year, as indications made it clear that the schools would close at the end of the year. Throughout the year, they sounded their voice in every platform possible, condemning what seemed to them as the abandonment of the Damascus community. Burla cautioned Ussishkin against neglecting ties with Damascus and underestimating its political importance.70 But the Hebrew teachers were fighting a losing battle from one meeting of the Zionist General Council to the next.71 Burla continued to warn that the closing of the schools would constitute a political and moral collapse; to demonstrate just how much the schools propelled Damascus Jewry to Zionist action, Burla wrote: Indisputable proof! Damascus has contributed in the last three years hundreds of individual pounds annually to the Jewish National Fund and the Redemption Fund. Who is responsible for this? The Hebrew schools and the teachers. Nothing has been done in Aleppo and no voice has sounded in Baghdad. Indeed, there is also a material calculation here: Provide for the spirit of this Jewry because, after all, it has given and will continue to give more [of its] property.72

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Again and again, the matter of the teachers’ departure arose, this time to prevent the closure of the schools. Burla repeatedly emphasised that the earlier reprimands by Ussishkin and Luria regarding harm to the ‘national honour’ (when the Damascus instructors left the city in fear of their lives) had left a mark on the teachers who internalised the message. He was baffled why Ussishkin and Luria were now ready to harm the ‘national honour’ due to lack of funds. The teachers tried to draw the Zionist institutions’ attention to the great political importance in store for Syria and stressed that the Hebrew schools were not simply an educational establishment but also ‘a significant political factor’, whose role was to prepare Damascene Jewry to fulfil in the future a major political part on behalf of Palestine.73 At the end of May 1922, the Education Committee again notified the communal council in Damascus about a further reduction in its aid owing to financial difficulties. The council was requested to take more responsibility for the maintenance of the Hebrew schools.74 The appointment of Shelomo Tajer as chief rabbi for the Jewish communities of Syria in August 1922 stirred the Hebrew teachers’ hopes for assistance in preventing the closure of the schools, since, by virtue of his position, Tajer was also in charge of all the Jewish schools throughout Syria. In his visit to Damascus at the end of September to mediate the dispute between the communal leadership and the chief rabbi Danon, Tajer did not overlook the educational institutions of the community. When he visited the orphanages founded nearly four years earlier by the American Joint Distribution Committee, he was greeted with Hebrew songs. After he delivered a speech in Hebrew and expressed his satisfaction with the education that the orphans received, the event concluded with the singing of the Zionist anthem ‘ha-Tiqwah’. Afterwards, he stopped at the Hebrew schools, where members of Young Maccabi awaited him in their uniforms with the national symbols and their movement’s band. The Maccabi participants performed a number of physical stunts for the rabbi, after which Burla provided him with an overview of the Hebrew educational efforts in the city. He invited Tajer to quiz the students in any subject, both Hebrew and general, in order to demonstrate their high level of proficiency. Here, too, Tajer gave a speech in Hebrew, full of nationalist

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feeling. He admired the education given to the Damascene youth and stressed the magnitude of the national role cast upon the shoulders of the young generation ‘after the agreement of the Great Powers to return our nation from captivity and revive it’. He added that ‘only members of this generation are the real ones who are the sparks of light, dispelling the darkness of the Exilic lives and the hopes of Israel [hang] upon them’. The rabbi called upon the students to learn Torah and the Hebrew language, Jewish history alongside language study and the sciences, in order to be worthy of being called ‘the generation of revival’. At the conclusion of his talk, the students sang Hebrew songs, the band performed ‘ha-Tiqwah’, and the audience stood on its feet. Afterwards, the French anthem was played and the rabbi stood and cried in French: ‘Long live the nation of Israel! Long live France and long live the Arab nation!’75 This call symbolised clearly the complexity of the various and conflicting feelings of loyalty, which the Damascus Jews were required to express. On the Sabbath, the rabbi delivered a sermon at the al-Franj synagogue on the necessity of education and on the need for Judaic studies, Hebrew, and Jewish history as the basis of instruction. Subtly, he was expressing disdain for the AIU’s educational approach and rejecting a reliance upon a minimal education consisting of knowledge of some articles in French: Even though comprehension of this language—the language of the state—and familiarity with the language of our neighbours are required of us, the foundation of our education must be an understanding of Judaism and the history of our ancestors so that we might see how much they suffered for the sanctity of Judaism and [we might] find comfort in our existence.76 He also spoke about the need for active participation in the rebuilding of the Holy Land, which had entered into a new chapter with the establishment of the British Mandate. Tajer complained that Damascus Jewry was not doing enough nor was sufficiently interested in the affairs of the Jewish world and that he could not find, during his stay in the city, even one Hebrew newspaper to read.77

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His words, his open sympathy for the national revival, and his promise to assist in bringing about the cancellation of the Arab government’s edict banning Hebrew study in the schools all led Burla to cast slightly-hesitant hopes upon the new leader, which he expressed well in stating that the rabbi ‘will not [side] with our foes at all’.78 Yet, these hopes were dashed after Tajer made no effort to make his voice heard at the state level—or perhaps he was unable to influence the decision of the Zionist institutions to close the Hebrew schools once and for all. In his efforts to convince the Zionist Executive of the importance of the Zionist education activity in Damascus, Burla presciently perceived of the long-term importance of developing relationships between Jews and Arabs. He wrote: The education institutions are a strong foundation, healthy for generating influence and friendly, mutual ties in the capital of the nation with whom our fate will always be bound . . . aside from the nationalist influence inherent in the schools and the reawakening of nationalist sentiment amongst the Jews of the Orient, the gaining of support we need from the Jewish communities of the Orient—there is tremendous external value in gaining certain trust and breaking down the barriers of hostilities between the two peoples.79 Burla wavered between hope and despair. He felt lonely in the struggle, without any support from the people of Damascus. His exhaustion from the fights over the communal leadership and for the support of the Zionist institutions finally brought him to terms with the closing of the schools. A few months before the official notice of the cessation of support arrived from the Zionist Executive, he wrote: Regarding our forthcoming work, it is difficult to say now what will its fate will be. It would have been possible to leave something behind, had individuals who understand something been leading the community. But now, the people serving on

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the ‘city council’—which was always a deficient and backwards institution—are unjust and have no grasp [of anything]. In any event, before we leave this place, we must do all we can to leave Hebrew education in Damascus alive.80 The announcement in the summer of 1923 by the Palestinian Zionist institutions that they were closing the Hebrew schools in Damascus did not reach the community and the Palestinian teachers without any warning. Already in January of that year, the communal council had planned, perhaps as a preventative measure, to establish a new modern high school outside the city that would function like a college. The committee established to investigate the plan consisted of 13 members and included Burla, who, as stated, had accepted the eventuality of the impending closure and sought to help prepare a suitable educational alternative. The members of the committee also included his hated opponent Robert Haı¨moff, who was certainly pleased to take part in building upon the ruins of the Zionist schools, and Joseph Kahanoff, the son of the director of the AIU boys’ school, Eliyahu Kahanoff. Ultimately, this school never took shape.81 In September of that year, shortly after the notification of the closure of the schools, the communal council decided to appoint a committee to study the situation. Its members included Moses Elijah Totah, Yu¯suf Farh¯ı, Khidr Indibu¯, Za¯ki Turkiyyah, Tawfı¯q Mizrahi, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Ado¯n Lewi, Ibra¯hı¯m Mughrabı¯, and Ha¯ru¯n Za¯gah. The committee decided to assume management for the Hebrew schools and asked the Education Committee in Jerusalem for enough funds to maintain just two Hebrew teachers.82 The shutting of the schools and the return of the Hebrew teachers to Palestine was essentially an act of abandonment of both Damascus Jewry and the city’s major political arena. Yet, more than all else, the desertion was a great triumph for the Alliance, which absorbed some of the students into its institutions. Those with lesser means sent their children to the Protestant English school, which did not require tuition. Since even together both the AIU and missionary schools had limited capacity, hundreds of students were released from the educational system and wandered the city streets aimlessly.83 Within

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a short span of time, Luria recognised the magnitude of the mistake, writing to the Zionist Executive in London: The Zionist Executive has dealt for years with the Hebrew educational enterprise in Syria. Its work in Damascus was particularly great. During the first years after the war, it allocated for this endeavour about three thousand Egyptian pounds annually. With such funds, hundreds of children were educated in the Hebrew spirit and in the Hebrew language. Reductions in the educational budget forced us to decrease this effort to the point where we ceased it altogether last year. As a result, all our children transferred to the Alliance school, where students are instructed there without any general knowledge, neither Torah nor familiarity with the Hebrew language. The large Jewish community of Damascus, which lies across the border from Palestine, is growing distant itself from us and from the whole national enterprise; and this is a huge blunder in terms of saving the national forces that we need for building Palestine . . . Hebrew education also impacted the rest of the cities of Syria. Interest in Zionism and the movement for Hebrew revival grew. There is a desire for Hebrew education in all the Syrian communities . . . through Hebrew education, we could win over numerous souls to Judaism and to nationalism. These communities, [located] near Palestine and connected to it geographically and economically, are important to us. It is critical to lift up Syrian Jewry so that it might become a significant driving force in the building of our land. This Oriental Jewry belongs to us and, through minimal means, we could raise it out of its baseness and instil a whole revolution in its life.84 This call went unanswered. The Hebrew schools never re-opened. Their closure, and the decline of Zionist activity in Damascus that ensued, signalled the end of the first phase of Zionism in Damascus.

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The large Jewish community of Damascus, which lies across the border from Palestine, is growing distant itself from us and from the whole national enterprise; and this is a huge blunder in terms of saving the national forces that we need for building Palestine. —Dr Yosef Luria, July 19241

The failure—internal conflicts The departure of the Hebrew school and kindergarten teachers from Damascus in November 1919 was a turning-point that signalled the start of the decline of the Hebrew schools, which lasted until their ultimate closure nearly four years later. The withdrawal from the city had lowered the Zionists’ prestige in the eyes of the Damascus community, who perceived it as an abandonment. The anger that arose also among some heads of the Palestinian Education Committee signals also that the Zionist institutions were beginning to reconsider the continued existence of the Hebrew schools in Damascus. A controversy had even stirred amongst the teachers themselves and those who remained in the city levelled harsh criticism on their colleagues who had left. This controversy led to Yehudah Burla’s dismissal of two teachers who had criticised him, despite the opinion

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of the Education Committee. Relations between the teachers in Damascus deteriorated into a series of internal conflicts.2 One of the major disagreements was between Burla and Joseph Joel Rivlin, the directors of the Hebrew boys’ and girls’ school, respectively. Although this quarrel was essentially a battle of egos for control over the Hebrew educational institutions, it nevertheless stemmed from differences of opinions on substantive matters such as the degree of involvement in the affairs of the local community.3 Quite a few arguments broke out between the Palestinian teachers and local individuals over the involvement of the former—especially that of Burla—in the internal matters of the community. Rivlin initially disagreed with Burla in this regard, even though he himself served occasionally on the communal council. It appears that Rivlin’s good ties to influential members of the community aroused Burla’s jealousy, for the latter fell into disagreement with no small number of people.4 Relations between Burla and the communal leadership reached a nadir when, at the start of 1923, the communal council told Dr Yosef Luria, the head of the Palestinian Education Committee, that it was no longer interested in working with Burla.5 The rivalry between Burla and Rivlin divided the Hebrew teachers in Damascus. The Teachers’ Committee received a number of complaints and mutual accusations laden with emotions, such as Burla’s letter to Luria: We have now reached the lowest rung of our personal lives. Mr Rivlin’s behaviour towards me—which I have suffered for a full year and always sought to pay no attention—this attitude is coming to a head. The matter is really affecting my health. I cannot bear these torments any longer. I urge you for the sake of the work and for the sake of our increasingly defiled honour here to hurry and meet us so that matters might be clarified . . . under present conditions, it will be impossible to begin the work in the summer.6 For his part, Rivlin accused Burla of megalomania and of seeking pretexts to hassle the Palestinian Jews who had achieved some

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standing in Damascus, such as Dr Efron, with whom Burla squabbled until Efron ceased working at the schools.7 Rivlin also claimed that Burla had fallen out with most of the members of the communal council, was looking to find fault with Rivlin’s work, and had even signed the name of his ‘right-hand man’ Eliahu Sasson to articles critical of Rivlin, which Burla himself had written.8 Luria understood the dangers that conflict posed to the Zionist mission in Damascus and admonished the two: I am certain you understand as we do how necessary it is for you to avoid any personal clash in a place where you seek to introduce a living spirit into Judaism . . . we have reached a difficult hour in our national enterprise and, therefore, I beseech you to dispel from your hearts the grudge that each has for the other and to work together in agreement . . . and if you wish to work in unity, you will succeed in your arduous task.9 Nevertheless, the quarrel only ended when Burla forced Rivlin to resign his position and leave Damascus before the start of the 1921– 2 academic year.10 At the start of that year, changes were implemented in the management structure of the Hebrew schools and kindergartens. Aside from a reduction in the number of teachers, the most noticeable change was a cut in the administrative staff. Both administrations— that of the boys’ school and that of the girls’ school and the kindergartens—were consolidated into one general administration for all Hebrew schools under the direction of Yehudah Burla. The Education Committee’s decision to make these changes under the guise of budgetary cut-backs provoked much anger amongst the teachers who supported Rivlin. They charged Burla with breeding intrigue and plotting against Rivlin, alleging that his hatred consumed him so much that he had even collaborated with Robert and Augustine Haı¨moff in their efforts to close the Hebrew girls’ school and transfer its students to the competing AIU one.11 These internal squabbles between the teachers fatally harmed their educational and Zionist efforts—and especially the image of the

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Hebrew schools.12 In addition, the Women’s Committee in Jerusalem, which funded the activities of the orphanages in Damascus after the Joint Distribution Committee ceased supporting them, removed these institutions from the management of Burla and Rivlin and sent its own representative to oversee them directly.13 The trend of students abandoning the Hebrew schools for the rival AIU schools or those of the various missions began to grow and, at the end of 1922, Augustine Haı¨moff and Eliyahu Kahanoff could report to the AIU president in Paris that the Zionist schools had grown weak, lacked funding, and were in certain decline. The heads of the community recognised that the French Mandatory authorities favoured the Alliance schools over the Hebrew ones. Kahanoff even estimated that the community leaders were prepared to ask the Zionist Executive in Jerusalem to cease its venture in Damascus, if they were certain that the Alliance would absorb their children into its schools.14 A further phenomenon leading to the decline in the number of students enrolled in the Hebrew schools was continued emigration. Already during the course of World War I, wealthy families left for Beirut and Egypt, where they saw better chances for success in their businesses. After the French occupation, when the authorities demanded that Jewish merchants pay high sums as war reparations in addition to the taxes levied upon the community, emigration amongst those with means increased. Most obvious was the departure of the educated graduates of the AIU schools. The phenomenon worsened with time and many could sense that the Jewish Quarter was slowly emptying of its population. Damascus suffered from high unemployment and failed to recover economically after the war; on the eve of Passover 1920, 19 families left, and many others planned to follow them after the festival.15 Emigration harmed Zionist efforts, when many of the youths who had been fixtures of nationalist activity moved overseas, mostly to America. Thus, for example, the departure of Hayyim Zegul, an ˙ ardent Zionist and one of the enthusiastic promoters of Hebrew, who was also a correspondent for Doʾar ha-yom in Damascus, impacted greatly Zionist activity in the city. Zegul had been one of the

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founders of the Hebrew orphanage and the Maccabi association. The contemporary press described the phenomenon of emigration as follows: ‘Slowly, the young forces are departing Damascus. [Starting] a year ago and up until today, more than sixty youths have left our city, and our city is thus being depleted of its most productive energies.’16 The journalist Tawfı¯q Mizrahi, who dedicated an article ˙ to analysing the situation of Syrian Jewry, claimed that they occupied the bottom rung of Middle Eastern Jewry and were far behind European Jewry. He emphasised that, unlike those of Turkey, Iraq, and Egypt, who stirred awake following World War I and began to take part in the culture, economy, and politics of their countries, the Jews of Syria remained aloof. He attributed it to the emigration of its young, who were the ones needed to pull the community forward, but who chose to emigrate overseas.17

Waning enthusiasm for Zionism While the years following World War I saw the large-scale participation of Damascus Jewry in events marking important Zionist dates, and Zionist symbols and songs were popular in broad segments of the population, this enthusiasm began to fade after the French take-over of the city. Even the communal council’s expression of official public identification with the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine almost completely ceased. On 1 May 1921, riots broke out in Palestine. Arabs attacked Jewish neighbourhoods and settlers, killing 47 Jews, mostly in Jaffa, including the noted writer Yosef Hayyim Brenner. These riots ˙ demonstrated the ability of the Arab national movement to unleash bloody riots throughout the country. These events revealed to the Jewish Yishuv its weakness in terms of self-defensive organisation and its dependence on British military forces.18 At the urging of the Jewish National Council, the Chief Rabbinate of Palestine declared a day of fasting and the public was called to contribute to a special ‘mourning tax’ for the defence of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine. Zionist activists in Damascus asked the local communal council to hold prayers and memorials for the souls of the fallen in Jaffa. In

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addition to speeches and prayers, they wanted the public to donate money to those impacted by the riots. Yet, despite their efforts, no memorial took place in Damascus at all. The council justified its reluctance as stemming from ‘the fear of the French government, lest it find out and consider this a Zionist political matter’.19 Eventually, the chief rabbi Jacob Danon relented and declared a day of fasting in the synagogues and a rally was held at al-Faranj synagogue. On the day of the gathering, many members of the community came, Danon stood in front of the ark, and the students of the Hebrew schools arrived prepared, since their classes had been cancelled that day, and read chapters from the Psalms. One of the Palestinian teachers spoke, explaining why the rally was called ‘On the destruction of our sons’ and discussing the difficult situation of the Jewish nation. Following the blowing of a ram’s horn (Heb. shofar), the rabbi delivered a homily in which he preached mainly about avoiding Sabbath desecration. In other words, Danon yielded to the call of the Chief Rabbinate in Palestine to declare a fast and assembly in honour of the Jewish victims of nationalist attacks, but apparently, fearing the authorities, he did not deal in his talk with the issue at hand, but rather presented a typical rabbinical sermon without any allusion to the events for which they had convened to commemorate.20 The anniversary of the Balfour Declaration on 2 November had been celebrated in Damascus since 1918 with enthusiastic public rallies attended by large audiences.21 Yet, in 1921, the Jews demonstrated complete indifference towards this important Zionist date. No festive prayer service took place and no speeches were given. The event was marked only in the Hebrew schools, where the teachers explained the historical importance of the declaration to their students. Here, too, it appears that the lack of interest stemmed from fear of the Mandatory authorities. In letters to the heads of the Zionist movement and in articles in the press, the Zionists in the city claimed that, so long as the French government did not publicly state that Zionism was not contrary to French interests in the Middle East, Damascene Jews would hesitate to show their Zionism in public.22 Another important event in the history of Zionism that had been marked each year in Damascus was 20 Tammuz, the memorial day for

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Theodor Herzl. During Faysal’s reign, Zionist gatherings had ˙ taken place publicly in the synagogues. By contrast, under French rule, although the Hebrew schools closed to commemorate the day (26 July 1921), the number of events marking the death of the founder of the Zionist movement was small. Only a limited audience of young males and females participated in a memorial held that evening at the boys’ school.23 For the festival of Hanukkah, which acquired through Zionism a ˙ new meaning of Jewish heroı¨sm and which had in previous years been celebrated with great joy in the Jewish Quarter, was barely felt in the streets of the neighbourhood in 1922. The youth, too, who had grown accustomed to holding holiday parties, avoided such festivities.24 Commemoration of the holiday was limited, as in the cases above, to within the walls of the Hebrew schools and kindergartens and in the Maccabi youth movement. The Maccabi association, and primarily its youth movement ha-Maccabi ha-Saʿir (‘The Young Maccabi’), were essentially the only ˙ groups to continue trying to fan the spirit of Zionism in Damascus after the French occupation. The association, founded in the city during World War I, underwent reorganisation in October 1919. Youth members engaged in communal and national activity and contributed and raised money for national funds for the purchase of the ‘Zionist sheqel’ and for the establishment of new settlements in Palestine.25 The driving force behind Maccabi was the teacher Besalʾel Basrawı¯, who was assisted by local youths, including Eliʿezer ˙ ˙ Pesah, Rahel Mugrabı¯, Nisim Luziyyah, Eliahu Sasson, and others. In ˙ ˙ 1921, it was determined that the uniforms, which Maccabi members wore on trips on Sabbaths and holidays, would be blue and white and would bear the Shield of David. A brass band was also established and it performed at various events and at parades that took place in the streets of Damascus.26 Such demonstrations made a great impression upon the local Arab population, which sometimes accompanied them by clapping along, although more often, the marches ignited the wrath of the Arab masses. Sometimes, even French soldiers were seen raising their rifles in honour of the parade of Young Maccabi regiments.27 In January 1922, the Young Maccabi association held a

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Hanukkah celebration, which was attended by the members of the ˙ communal council and many of the young intellectuals, as well as numerous guests, including Jewish merchants from Palestine present in Damascus, who came to partake in the familiarity of the Palestinian Zionist environment. A contemporary report stated that the event opened with the Young Maccabi band playing the liturgical poem ‘Maʿoz Sur Yeshuʿati’, followed by an act in which the ˙ participants formed the shape of a Hanukkah menorah with their ˙ bodies, accompanied by the singing by the chorus of the religious hymn ‘ha-Nerot Hallalu’ and the Labour Zionist poem ‘Tehezaqnah’. ˙ The second half featured a national-themed play, ‘The Little Hasmoneans (ha-Hashmonaʾim ha-qetannim)’. The Maccabi youth ˙ ˙ members appeared in their official costume and performed impressive acrobatic stunts. The crowd’s enthusiasm was such that a young medical student named David Pinto mounted the stage and expressed ˙ his feelings of admiration for what he saw at the celebration, which brought him closer to Zionism and the national revival. He stated ‘that until now, he was far from Zionist life and thought about the Zionist idea as imaginary, but now, he saw the light of Zionism that is being realised’.28 The directors of the AIU schools realised that the Maccabi movement had great potential to attract their students to Zionism and therefore banned the latter from joining the association. As a result, the number of youth members dropped drastically in the summer of 1921 from 150 to 90 youths.29 Emigration to America also reduced the activities of the Maccabi movement. They ceased entirely during the summer of 1921—the gymnasiums were closed and no lectures or classes were held. Repeated efforts to breathe life back into the movement were at times successful, but short-lived. These attempts were linked closely to the frequent political changes in the character of the communal council. When a pro-Zionist council was elected, young Zionist intellectuals in the community renewed the Zionist national endeavour, but when the make-up of the council changed, such efforts diminished.30 Likewise, contributions to the national funds dwindled year by year. The Hebrew teachers had taken upon themselves the task of

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collecting money for the Jewish National Fund. In the two years following World War I, Damascus Jewry demonstrated great responsiveness, since they were influenced by the rumours about the Balfour Declaration and the San Remo conference decisions. Yet, after the French army’s entrance to Damascus and the Nabı¯ Mu¯sa¯ riots in Jerusalem in 1920, the lustre of Zionism faded. Obstacles placed by the French Mandatory government on Zionist activity also had an effect, finally leading some leaders of the community to insist that all fundraising for the national funds cease. Although donations continued to be gathered, collection was now carried out much more modestly and most of the income now came from individual donors.31 This shift in approach and the dispute with the AIU representatives, as well as the weakness of the communal leadership, harmed greatly the fund-raising efforts for philanthropic goals, even of a non-Zionist nature. In the autumn of 1922, Damascus Jewry was asked to donate money to help Jews in famine-stricken Russia and Ukraine. The initiative to raise funds came from the AIU directorate in Paris and was carried out in Damascus by Kahanoff, the principal of the boys’ school. The community’s leadership, offended that the society had not approached the communal council or the chief rabbi, but rather one of its own officials, decided therefore not to participate in any fund raising, until the council and Danon received letters calling for help from the Jewish National Council and the Chief Rabbinate in Palestine. The Hebrew teachers enlisted in the cause, but so as to avoid overlap and confusion in their efforts, they sought to co-ordinate things with Kahanoff. Yet the two sides were unable to reach a mutual agreement, since the AIU director wanted to send the money to the Alliance in Paris, while the teachers wanted to send it to the Jewish National Council in Jerusalem. Naturally, each of them sought to strengthen the images and authority of their backers in the eyes of the Damascus public. The Hebrew teachers also knew that any sum raised by the National Council would be matched by the General Zionist Committee in London, thereby guaranteeing Russian Jews much more support. Ultimately, the two sides agreed

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to split the donations, sending half to Jerusalem and half to Paris. The Hebrew teachers suggested conducting a broad campaign similar to that of the Zionist Redemption Fund and therefore wanted the chief rabbi to call an assembly at the synagogues in memory of the victims of the fast, where sermons and speeches would generate an atmosphere of fundraising that would encompass the entire Jewish public. Kahanoff and his supporters opposed this plan, since they feared that such events would be exploited to strengthen the Zionists’ power and draw the population to national affairs. Therefore, they rejected the proposal on the grounds that it would harm the status of the Jewish community in the eyes of the Arab population of Damascus. Subsequently, the AIU principal also reneged on his agreement to transfer part of the funds to the Jewish National Council, alleging that he feared that the JNC would use the money for other goals, as it had appropriated money from the Redemption Fund, according to him, for paying the salaries of the teachers and administration. Co-operation between the two factions ceased and the Hebrew teachers decided not to take part in the fund-raising efforts at all.32 Due to budget cuts at the Palestinian Education Committee, the number of Hebrew teachers in Damascus gradually diminished. If, at their peak, 20 male and female teachers worked inside and outside the Hebrew schools, by the summer of 1922, only ten remained in the city. The dampening sympathy for Zionism prompted the teachers who stayed behind to found a new Zionist movement called Qadimah (‘Forward’). This movement was not aimed at children and youth, but at the young intellectuals in the community, including AIU school graduates. Numerous obstacles popped up along the way, as individuals in the community worried that activities stirring a national awakening would generate waves of hostility towards the Jews on the part of the authorities and the Arab population. The communal council, despite the fact that it was at this time largely Zionist, did not approve its goals, fearing that its opponents—chief among them Robert Haı¨moff—would use the Zionist activity to achieve the dissolution of the council by the government, which itself anyways refused to permit Qadimah’s

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activity. Thus, the group never actually took shape. The teachers tried occasionally to introduce new initiatives, such as lectures and evening classes, but they never succeeded in producing a continuous flow of significant activity.33 Attempts to revive enthusiasm for Zionism in the summer of 1922 were aimed at exploiting the momentum generated in the wake of the League of Nations’ decision at the end of July to endorse the British Mandate for Palestine. Ratification had rekindled the flame of Zionism amongst large segments of the Jewish public. Contemporary testimonies reveal that the approval of the British Mandate created a great commotion and became the talk of the town in the Jewish Quarter and in the synagogues. The religious scholars decided not to read melancholic passages during the morning prayer service and some even wondered whether the solemn fast of the Ninth of Av, which was approaching, would be cancelled. At the Hebrew schools, each teacher explained the significance of the Mandate in Jewish history to the students and afterwards released them from school for the day. The approval of the Mandate was perceived by the Jewish public as a miracle from heaven, which occurred thanks to the actions of the world Zionist leadership.34 Emotions quickly cooled once the Arabic press began discussing the League of Nations’ decision and expressing its displeasure at the enthusiasm demonstrated for the Mandate amongst the city’s Jews. Thus, for example, the newspaper Alif Ba¯ʾ published news about the ratification of the Mandate for Palestine under the headline, ‘Death sentence’. The article’s writer claimed his source was a telegram received by the Zionists in Damascus reporting that the League of Nations had not only approved the British Mandate, but also the Balfour Declaration.35 Anti-Zionist inflammatory editorials written in Arabic by Alter Weinberg, a young ultra-Orthodox Jew from Jerusalem, poured oil on the fire and inflamed Arab passions. In one of his articles published in Alif Ba¯ʾ, Weinberg claimed that Zionists’ ambition to take over Syria, as well, led them to establish the Hebrew schools in Damascus. However, he stressed that the Arabs should not harass Syrian Jewry ‘who are faithful to the policies of their country and who, for hundreds of years, have lived in peace with the Syrians,

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but that there is a need for requisite opposition to Zionism and the Zionists, who are the true enemies of the Arab people’.36 In response, the newspaper’s editor Yu¯suf al-ʿI¯sa¯ published an article under the headline, ‘Zionism in Damascus’, in which he wrote: We appeal to the Syrian government with three questions: (A) Do the Israelite schools in Damascus follow the curriculum of the Department for Educational Management? Will this department examine and investigate the books from which they teach? And if so, do any of its officials know the Hebrew language so that they might inform [the government] about the poison contained within the books sent by the Zionist Executive to these schools? (B) Does the police know anything about the gatherings organised by the officials of the Zionist Executive who come from Palestine? And—if they succeed to find one such gathering—can a member of the police be found who understands the Hebrew language and can distinguish between [the words] ‘fat’ and ‘lean’? (C) Does the government have official information relating to the success of Zionism, for [after all] we see hundreds of youths passing throughout the city streets in processions and bearing on their chests and their arms symbols of the Zionist political flag?37 Such articles, published nearly every day, instilled trepidation amongst Damascus Jewry that Zionist activity in Syria was inflaming the passions of the Arabs and that public opinion and anger would turn against them. Therefore, even these articles had no small impact on the distancing of Damascus Jews from the Zionist idea.38

The class factor Social polarisation was one of the defining features of the Jewish community of Damascus. All throughout most of the period covered in this study, Zionist education was identified with the underprivileged population. Already in 1915, the acquisition of Hebrew was seen as an issue for poor girls who were unable to study French at

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the AIU institutions and sought knowledge of a language that would raise their social value.39 The addition of the old religious school, the symbol of poverty and penury, in 1919 to the Hebrew boys’ school system brought along with it the stigma of the bad reputation of the school and led to the distancing of families of means from the Zionist schools.40 Burla and Rivlin reached the conclusion, in light of the fact that two-thirds of their students were impoverished and only a third came from wealthy homes, that it was necessary to establish a separate schools for the rich and the poor students. According to them: It is impossible to win over the prosperous and the wealthy to [our cause], as long as the children of the masses, the most indigent and destitute, must be in the same place together with the children of the affluent. The latter demand one form of study and curriculum from the school, while the masses demand another form of curriculum . . . As a result of this, our schools, for the people of the city, are on a lower level than the AIU schools . . . this step must be taken. If we had a such nice school that would attract the well-to-do, then we would have long ago endowed the Hebrew school with the prestige and loftiness that it deserves.41 In 1921, the boys’ school was split into two: one intended for the children of the wealthy and one for the poorer ones.42 The expectation was that the affluent would serve as a vanguard of the revived national spirit within the elite circles of society. Conversely, the purpose of the other school was to save the children of lesser means from poverty and ignorance.43 A year earlier, Rivlin had acceded to the demands of 12 female students from wealthy homes and opened a special class for them to learn Hebrew.44 Nevertheless, the pull of French culture was stronger and most of the families from the middle class and above transferred their children back to the Alliance or Christian missionary schools.45 The nationalist seed that was planted thus primarily revolutionised the proletariat. If the few remaining members of the elite in

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Figure 6 Zionist boys school 1920. (Source: Nahum Menahem private collection, Haifa). ˙

Damascus continued to turn their eyes and march their feet towards the West, then the less fortunate segments of society found, in the aftermath of World War I, an alternative in the Western values that Zionism brought to Palestine, which coincided also with the country’s occupation by Britain. Unlike in Ottoman times, proximity to Palestine (now a British Mandate) made it an easy destination for emigration. Zionism had little sway over the enlightened and modern institutions of Jewish society, most of which belonged to the upper classes. The Alliance offered the elite universalism and Western culture, with all the charms and the numerous possibilities they entailed. Therefore, the fact that lower-income students populated the Hebrew schools gave Zionism a class connotation. Moreover, during its initial activity following the war, Zionism was accompanied by the politicisation of elements of society, expressed particularly through class-oriented socialist mobilisation. The founding of unions for workers and kindergarten aides advanced clear proletarian and Zionist aims, seeking deliberately to tie the members of these unions to the

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workers’ movement in Palestine.46 At nearly every event at the Hebrew schools, ‘Tehezaqnah’, Hayyim Nahman Bialik’s poem that ˙ ˙ ˙ became the anthem of Labour Zionism, was played and sung, just as it was the custom to do at workers’ gatherings in Palestine.47 Damascus Jewry’s Zionism and attitude towards Palestine, in terms of their aspirations, actually followed the model of Western European nationalism, which was not connected to religion. In this respect, one cannot generalise the Damascus community as belonging to the framework that characterises ‘Sephardi’ communities in the Muslim world as having ‘very high Zionist potential’, ‘destined for Zionist development interwoven with traditional Judaism’, or alternatively, adopting a form of ‘Zionism that sought first and foremost national-religious salvation’.48 In general, adherence to Jewish religion and ritual had greatly weakened in Damascus even prior to World War I. The long process of the disappearance of the religious schools and their occasional inclusion under the ægis of the Alliance or, later, in the Hebrew school system drained significantly over the course of many years the community’s religious attachment, which had anyhow been poor even previously. The absence of a rabbinical class of stature reduced further its commitment to religion and its values. Parallel to the secularisation process in the community, a popular, folkloric religion—lacking a specific emphasis on Jewish law—began to take root. Rivlin described the situation as follows: Indeed, there is no room to describe here the disobedience of the religious commandments and of the reformist movement. There is no comparison to these occurrences in the quiet and moderate Orient. This waywardness takes place almost on its own, without any fuss or tragedies between fathers and sons. In general, the tolerance in which the Orient excels prevails here. The devout and the ‘free-thinking’ go along like brothers and friends [cf. Psalms 35.14], without fanaticism—even private resentment does not exist. Moreover, there are cases where an individual observes a [specific] commandment with precision, while dismissing another one much more vital than the former.

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He sometimes believes in hallucinations, which our forefathers already put behind them, but is not careful [when it comes to] serious commandments. It appears as though religion has received here a special interpretation, and if not for the contact with the Jewish centres in the Land of Israel, a wholly unique form [of Judaism] would emerge here.49 Therefore, a class of religious intellectuals who supported Zionism never developed in Damascus. Unlike other Middle Eastern communities, no element of Damascus society mastered both traditional religious culture, as well as Hebrew literature and new Hebrew press.50 It is thus possible that it was actually secularism or religious tolerance that facilitated identification with the Zionist movement. The full participation of females was a further indication of the social and class aspect of Zionist activity in Damascus. Such involvement to a certain extent countered the norms of religious law and tradition.51 It may be that the secular nature of Zionism in Damascus was influenced by the secular Arab idea promoted by Faysal. Regardless, neither religious yearning nor national and ˙ messianic longing tipped the scales in favour of Zionism and Palestine. Rather, it was the understanding that the rapid development of Palestine—so close to Damascus—transformed it into a realistic destination for the members of the lower social classes who wished to improve their living conditions. Furthermore, the adoption of Zionist ideas and socialist ideology may have represented a kind of rebellion against the old social ordering of Jewish society. Members of the upper classes, primarily the graduates of the AIU schools, had no need for the socialist ideology that was essentially undermining their social standing. They could integrate into the institutions of the French Mandate, which, from the summer of 1923, began to pursue a policy of appointing officials from all communities in proportion to their size. The high commission’s request of the chief rabbi Danon to prepare a list of 30 young Jews suitable for receiving positions in government officers generated excitement and numerous youths submitted their names. The future

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of the Jewish bourgeoisie appeared, under the French Mandate, as rosy as ever.52

On the path to dissolution: The attitude of the Zionist institutions At the peak of the Hebrew schools’ success during the summer of 1919, opinions voicing reconsideration and misgiving could already be heard at a meeting of the Greater Zionist General Council on 11 September 1919 regarding the continued funding for the Hebrew schools in Damascus and its expansion to Aleppo. Defending the continuation of the support was none other than Menachem Ussishkin himself, on the eve of his departure for Palestine to head the Zionist Commission, in determining that ‘this will be a moral setback if the schools in Damascus and Aleppo will be forced to close’. Dr Yaakov Tehon (1880– 1950) argued that aid for Aleppo in any event was out of the question and the assistance of 10,000 pounds sterling would be directed only to Damascus and Sidon. Indeed, the decision reached adopted his position and the educational support for Damascus continued.53 The Zionist institutions’ enthusiasm for the Hebrew schools and their willingness to maintain them faded following the French occupation of Damascus and dwindled further after restrictions were imposed on travel between Palestine and Syria. The budgetary burden also grew heavier. Damascus was no longer seen as part of Palestine and questions over the need to include its Hebrew educational schools in the Palestinian educational budget grew stronger. The Zionist schools in Damascus operated, in the aftermath of the toppling of Faysal, under a constant threat of the cessation of ˙ support from the Palestinian Education Committee. Each of the latter’s discussions of the Hebrew educational enterprise in Damascus concluded usually with a decision to limit it further.54 This threat, which hovered persistently in the air, certainly did not make Zionist work any easier in Damascus, an Arab city where the language of the intelligentsia was becoming French.

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The Palestinian Education Committee, which sowed the seeds of Hebrew nationalism in Damascus, failed to reap the benefits and turn the schools into a lever for promoting Zionist activity. Thus, for example, after World War I, Shalem (Ka¯mil) Arazi, an enthusiastic young Zionist in Damascus, went at the encouragement of David Yellin to study at the teachers’ seminary in Jerusalem. His aim was to return to Damascus in order to spread the Zionist national idea and teach the Hebrew language. Three years later, after Arazi completed his studies, the Education Committee informed him that it had no position for him in Damascus. Arazi and his friends who remained in Damascus took this as a great insult and slap in the face for all the supporters of the Hebrew schools. They knew that the AIU school directors could use this to convince Damascus youth that there was no point or hope in Hebrew education and that it was impossible to rely upon the Zionist institutions when it came to livelihood and future vocation.55 The feeling at this time was that the Zionist institutions did not see the Jews of the Middle East, including those of Damascus, as a suitable target for the full attention of the Zionist leadership. In an interview with a French newspaper in March 1921, about five months before he was elected as president of the Zionist Organisation, Chaim Weizmann expressed his pleasure that France had received the Mandate for Syria and his hope that it would lead to the development of the land. According to him, it was in France’s interest that Palestine be a good neighbour and, therefore, it was necessary to continue to support the realisation of Zionist goals. He praised France for its past encouragement of Zionism and saw it as a good sign for Syrian Jewry, whom he supposed were mostly Zionists. In the interview, Weizmann emphasised the need for France’s moral backing of Zionism, as it was an international movement seeking the support of all civilised nations desiring a solution to the Jewish Problem in Eastern Europe.56 In other words, Weizmann did not see, at this point, Zionism as a movement coming to solve the problems of the Jewish nation as a whole, but only the Jewish Question in Eastern Europe. If this attitude reflected the perspective of the Zionist institutions at that time, then surely the nurturing of the Zionist

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movement in Damascus did not hold paramount interest for the leaders of the movement. Moreover, Damascus Jewry, the nearest diaspora to Palestine, was not perceived as capable of helping the advancement of the Zionist idea and its implementation. The Zionist leadership also failed to understand the role that the Damascus community could play as a mediator and intermediary between Arab nationalism and the Zionist movement. Dr Shlomo Felman, Weizmann’s emissary in Damascus, had already, prior to his mission, proposed to Weizmann that the Zionist Commission’s intended office there would also employ individuals from the local Jewish community, since, according to him, ‘we can find in the Jewish population of Damascus many useful elements’—yet Weizmann did not respond to this suggestion.57 Such disregard for local forces by the leaders of Zionism provoked Abraham Elmaleh’s outrage and anger during the San Remo Conference, when it appeared to him that the Zionist leadership did not understand anything about Arab affairs.58 Eliahu Sasson, one of the young Zionist intellectuals in Damascus, suggested to the Zionist Commission back in the summer of 1919 to bring a group of the young and educated elite from Damascus to Palestine and integrate it into Yishuv life. This proposal was rejected on the argument that Palestine had enough unemployed educated youths from the Sephardi community and it was not necessary to add to the problem.59 Neglect brought about the weakening of Zionist activity in Damascus and, as a consequence, even the immediate results of the educational endeavour went unseen. It appears that the inability of the Zionist emissaries to present overwhelming evidence of the sweeping success of their work led to a further reduction in the aid they received from the Zionist institutions. Thus, for example, in September 1922, the first class graduated from the Hebrew schools—but with only 15 male and female students. They performed very well on their official final examinations, but when considering the enrolment of hundreds of students in the schools over the course of years, a crop of only 15 graduates was disappointingly minute by all accounts.60 ʿAliyyah from Middle Eastern countries during the early 1920s was quite limited. One might have expected that most immigrants

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would have come from Damascus, the nearest community to Palestine, where intensive Zionist activity was taking place. Surprisingly, according to the records of the Immigration Department of the Zionist Executive, it appears that there were almost no immigrants at all from Damascus. These matters take on double significance when compared with ʿaliyyah from Aleppo, where no organised Zionist activity at all was taking place. A table of ‘Oriental immigration according to communities, Tishrey – Tammuz 5623 (September 1922– July 1923)’, which lists all those who contacted the Immigration Office in Jerusalem during this period, contains not even one Damascene on the list. By contrast, 64 Jews from Aleppo are mentioned.61 Similar figures can be found in statistical tables of immigrants who arrived in Palestine in September 1923. During that month, 56 Jews came from Aleppo, but not one Damascene.62 It is also worth mentioning that, since 1919, the Hakhnasat Orhim society in Damascus dealt with aid for the dozens ˙ of immigrants from Middle Eastern communities who passed through the city each week on their way to Palestine. This raises the question of why there was no ʿaliyyah from Damascus during this period. It appears that there are a number of answers. Damascus’ proximity to Palestine, the Zionist Commission’s financial support, the intensive Zionist activity that including the Palestinian Education Committee funding for the Hebrew schools generated a ‘Palestinian’ atmosphere in Damascus, such that no real need felt was to emigrate. Perhaps for this reason, the Zionist Executive did not bother to open a ‘Palestine Office’ there to deal with ʿaliyyah. To these reasons, the difficulties raised by the French authorities on travel to Palestine should also be added. As a result, it is possible that immigration from Damascus, like that from other communities in the Middle East, was not conducted through formal channels and was therefore not officially documented in the Zionist Executive’s records. Likewise, the figures mentioned above deal with the 1922 – 3 year, during which the British government refused entry to all those with less than 500 EGP unless they could demonstrate proof of guaranteed employment. The Zionist Executive, for its part, could only sponsor a certain number of masons, carpenters, and

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metalworkers. Since most of the Jews of Damascus were manual labourers or small traders, it was not possible to provide them with entry permits.63 The Hakhnasat Orhim society asked the Zionist ˙ Executive to recognise it as the formal representative of its institutions for the purpose of negotiating with the British consul in Damascus to arrange matters for the immigrants passing through the city. The Immigration Department did not respond to this request, but sought instead to appoint someone in Damascus to be responsible for the distribution of immigration permits that would be sent to the local community. The Department of Oriental Jews recommended Burla, who agreed to accept the role for a trial period of six months, but barely dealt with this matter before he left the city.64 It is possible that slight demand for ʿaliyyah cooled the enthusiasm and desire of Zionist Executive leaders to continue supporting the Damascus community as if it was part of the Palestinian Yishuv. In light of these things, the Zionist Executive could fall back on the excuse of budgetary problems and announce its cessation of support for the Hebrew schools starting from the 1923 –4 academic year.65

Damascus’ cry Damascus never sent any representative to a Zionist Organisation congress. Initially, this was because the community lacked a broad foundation for Zionist activity until the Eleventh Congress held in Vienna during 1913. One might have expected that the community would send at least one delegate to the Twelfth Congress held in Karlovy Vary, Czechoslovakia, in the summer of 1921. According to the regulations of the Zionist Executive, the number of ‘Zionist sheqels’ sold in each country determined the number of delegates it was entitled to send. Fearing open Zionist activity under the French Mandate, it was not possible to sell publicly the ‘Zionist sheqel’ in Damascus and, therefore, the city did not send a representative to the congress. Nevertheless, the young Zionists in the city sought to make their voices heard at the congress and, in August 1921, Sasson published ‘An Open letter to the delegates of the 12th Congress in Karslbad [i.e., Karlovy Vary]’. The letter begins by apologising for

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Damascus’ lack of a representative in the congress and continues with a harsh indictment of the Zionist Executive for abandoning the Jews of the Middle East as a whole and those of Damascus in particular, a desertion that pushed them time and time again into the arms of the Alliance. Sasson criticised the intended budgetary cuts and their failure to involve of Damascenes in co-ordinating contacts with the Arabs whose national aspirations allegedly countered Zionist aims. Sasson did not simply make accusations, but also presented constructive suggestions for reorganisation that he argued would lead to greater appreciation by Arabs that Zionism was not harming them, but the opposite. He envisioned that Syrian Jewry as a whole and the Damascus community specifically could play a major role in such reorganisation. Because of the importance of this letter, it is presented below in its entirety: Since it is impossible to carry out freely Zionist work in Syria due to the opposition to Zionism by the government in charge, we could not sell here the sheqels and we are hereby forced to address you in this letter of ours so as to bring to your attention the laying of Zionist foundations in Syria, a matter that will greatly influence the course of the enterprise in Palestine. The moment of the Balfour Declaration and of San Remo has caught us completely unprepared. Had the channels of influence of the Jewish centres upon Syria not ceased and had we not found ourselves continually under deficient rule, we would have been able to produce from our [community] individuals of great accomplishment possessing political influence and many obstacles that appear most serious would have been easily removed. We would have known to speak to the Arab nation and to its representatives, we would have placed most of the Syrian newspapers under our sphere of influence, we would have spoken to the Arab nation and explained to it the benefit bound up in the Zionist endeavour, we would have obtained as in other countries an important place in the government, and we would have stopped the ‘anti-Zionist’ effect in Arab circles in Palestine and Syria; and

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moreover, we would have been able to create a Zionist Arab group that would fight devotedly for the benefit of the Arabs in favour of Zionism. From the bare facts, we can see that the Balfour Declaration is greeted without any opposition from the masses at large and with open rejoicing in certain circles. Foreigners mingling with the Arabs or becoming close to them have managed to create this separation between us and the Arabs, a divide that can only be destroyed by the Jewry living amongst the Arabs. For this purpose, the worldwide Zionist Organisation should designate a special representative that will deal with the matter of Syria and the Orient. The Zionist Organisation has committed a mortal sin that will not be forgiven by ignoring completely Oriental Jewry. We have, for no short time, been left under the ‘Alliancist’ influence that has managed to disconnect the last ties binding us to Judaism; our children do not feed from Jewish culture and do not absorb the sorrow of the Jewish nation or its eternal longings for its land. Deliberately, [the Alliance] provided initially our children only with foreign education, stuffing them with the prattle of words, glorifying to them the heroes of various peoples and the names of cities of different countries, while our heroes and our cities are being erased from [their] hearts, in this way the abyss created between us and European Jewry for geographical and historical reasons continues to grow. Syrian Jewry is now like ‘an organ torn from a living body’, and the good of Palestine’s development demands its recuperation so that it might become an active part of the body. The Zionist Commission used to appoint those Jews who had influence over the Arabs and thereby won the sympathy of Arab leaders for Zionism. At the start of the crisis, it ceased, among other things, providing such support. We always opposed the Zionist Organisation’s acquiring of

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people with money. Here [Syria] is the place that left its imprint upon the Arab movement and the Jewish effort should be in this direction, to strengthen those of them with influence who can establish Arab groups fighting for Zionism with open eyes for the benefit of their brethren. We had the opportunity to create here powerful institutions for this purpose, but nevertheless the obstacles [placed] by the government prevented us and thus at a time when the Arabs of Palestine were quiet, the ‘Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯’, together with the newspapers under its sphere of influence, aroused the people against us. Tens of thousands of fliers were distributed amongst the Arabs of Palestine and Syria [by the Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯], special envoys would go to the villages and would deliver their anti-Semitic speeches. Local youths decided to create here a newspaper aimed inwards—at creating ties between Syrian Jewry and that of the diaspora—and outwards—explaining our [national] movement to the Arabs. From the first issues, we realised how large our influence was over the masses, but due to the waves of hatred from our enemies, the government closed it on the pretext that it was impossible to allow the publication here of a newspaper appearing in Hebrew (our newspaper appeared in both Hebrew and Arabic).66 We did not despair and we continued to produce a weekly paper in Arabic, which we distributed for free amongst the Arabs, but when we provided a translation of an article ‘from Jabotinsky’ that had been censored, the state shut our other newspaper and, since then, the government has threatened us and informed us officially that it is impossible to engage here in Zionist propaganda.67 We think that our political success in Palestine depends to a considerable extent on the efforts in Syria and, therefore, we propose to you [the following]: 1. To create a special committee to deal with Oriental affairs. 2. To remove the local government’s obstacles from our

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Zionist endeavours through negotiation with the government in Paris. 3. To establish an official newspaper that will clarify the essence of the Zionist movement to Jews and Arabs. Through such actions, we will succeed, perhaps in only [some] years, to incorporate Syrian Jewry into the Zionist enterprise and, most importantly, to generate a circle of Arabs who will fight in favour of Zionism. On behalf of the nationalist youths in Damascus. Damascus, 12 Av 1921. Eliahu Sasson68 Since the episode of their ‘flight’ from Damascus, the Hebrew teachers worked with the feeling that they were ‘step-children’ of the Palestinian Education Committee.69 This sense grew much stronger over the course of the 1922 –3 academic year, as indications made it clear that the schools would close at the end of the year. Throughout the year, they sounded their voice in every platform possible, condemning what seemed to them as the abandonment of the Damascus community. Burla cautioned Ussishkin against neglecting ties with Damascus and underestimating its political importance.70 But the Hebrew teachers were fighting a losing battle from one meeting of the Zionist General Council to the next.71 Burla continued to warn that the closing of the schools would constitute a political and moral collapse; to demonstrate just how much the schools propelled Damascus Jewry to Zionist action, Burla wrote: Indisputable proof! Damascus has contributed in the last three years hundreds of individual pounds annually to the Jewish National Fund and the Redemption Fund. Who is responsible for this? The Hebrew schools and the teachers. Nothing has been done in Aleppo and no voice has sounded in Baghdad. Indeed, there is also a material calculation here: Provide for the spirit of this Jewry because, after all, it has given and will continue to give more [of its] property.72

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Again and again, the matter of the teachers’ departure arose, this time to prevent the closure of the schools. Burla repeatedly emphasised that the earlier reprimands by Ussishkin and Luria regarding harm to the ‘national honour’ (when the Damascus instructors left the city in fear of their lives) had left a mark on the teachers who internalised the message. He was baffled why Ussishkin and Luria were now ready to harm the ‘national honour’ due to lack of funds. The teachers tried to draw the Zionist institutions’ attention to the great political importance in store for Syria and stressed that the Hebrew schools were not simply an educational establishment but also ‘a significant political factor’, whose role was to prepare Damascene Jewry to fulfil in the future a major political part on behalf of Palestine.73 At the end of May 1922, the Education Committee again notified the communal council in Damascus about a further reduction in its aid owing to financial difficulties. The council was requested to take more responsibility for the maintenance of the Hebrew schools.74 The appointment of Shelomo Tajer as chief rabbi for the Jewish communities of Syria in August 1922 stirred the Hebrew teachers’ hopes for assistance in preventing the closure of the schools, since, by virtue of his position, Tajer was also in charge of all the Jewish schools throughout Syria. In his visit to Damascus at the end of September to mediate the dispute between the communal leadership and the chief rabbi Danon, Tajer did not overlook the educational institutions of the community. When he visited the orphanages founded nearly four years earlier by the American Joint Distribution Committee, he was greeted with Hebrew songs. After he delivered a speech in Hebrew and expressed his satisfaction with the education that the orphans received, the event concluded with the singing of the Zionist anthem ‘ha-Tiqwah’. Afterwards, he stopped at the Hebrew schools, where members of Young Maccabi awaited him in their uniforms with the national symbols and their movement’s band. The Maccabi participants performed a number of physical stunts for the rabbi, after which Burla provided him with an overview of the Hebrew educational efforts in the city. He invited Tajer to quiz the students in any subject, both Hebrew and general, in order to demonstrate their high level of proficiency. Here, too, Tajer gave a speech in Hebrew, full of nationalist

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feeling. He admired the education given to the Damascene youth and stressed the magnitude of the national role cast upon the shoulders of the young generation ‘after the agreement of the Great Powers to return our nation from captivity and revive it’. He added that ‘only members of this generation are the real ones who are the sparks of light, dispelling the darkness of the Exilic lives and the hopes of Israel [hang] upon them’. The rabbi called upon the students to learn Torah and the Hebrew language, Jewish history alongside language study and the sciences, in order to be worthy of being called ‘the generation of revival’. At the conclusion of his talk, the students sang Hebrew songs, the band performed ‘ha-Tiqwah’, and the audience stood on its feet. Afterwards, the French anthem was played and the rabbi stood and cried in French: ‘Long live the nation of Israel! Long live France and long live the Arab nation!’75 This call symbolised clearly the complexity of the various and conflicting feelings of loyalty, which the Damascus Jews were required to express. On the Sabbath, the rabbi delivered a sermon at the al-Franj synagogue on the necessity of education and on the need for Judaic studies, Hebrew, and Jewish history as the basis of instruction. Subtly, he was expressing disdain for the AIU’s educational approach and rejecting a reliance upon a minimal education consisting of knowledge of some articles in French: Even though comprehension of this language—the language of the state—and familiarity with the language of our neighbours are required of us, the foundation of our education must be an understanding of Judaism and the history of our ancestors so that we might see how much they suffered for the sanctity of Judaism and [we might] find comfort in our existence.76 He also spoke about the need for active participation in the rebuilding of the Holy Land, which had entered into a new chapter with the establishment of the British Mandate. Tajer complained that Damascus Jewry was not doing enough nor was sufficiently interested in the affairs of the Jewish world and that he could not find, during his stay in the city, even one Hebrew newspaper to read.77

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His words, his open sympathy for the national revival, and his promise to assist in bringing about the cancellation of the Arab government’s edict banning Hebrew study in the schools all led Burla to cast slightly-hesitant hopes upon the new leader, which he expressed well in stating that the rabbi ‘will not [side] with our foes at all’.78 Yet, these hopes were dashed after Tajer made no effort to make his voice heard at the state level—or perhaps he was unable to influence the decision of the Zionist institutions to close the Hebrew schools once and for all. In his efforts to convince the Zionist Executive of the importance of the Zionist education activity in Damascus, Burla presciently perceived of the long-term importance of developing relationships between Jews and Arabs. He wrote: The education institutions are a strong foundation, healthy for generating influence and friendly, mutual ties in the capital of the nation with whom our fate will always be bound . . . aside from the nationalist influence inherent in the schools and the reawakening of nationalist sentiment amongst the Jews of the Orient, the gaining of support we need from the Jewish communities of the Orient—there is tremendous external value in gaining certain trust and breaking down the barriers of hostilities between the two peoples.79 Burla wavered between hope and despair. He felt lonely in the struggle, without any support from the people of Damascus. His exhaustion from the fights over the communal leadership and for the support of the Zionist institutions finally brought him to terms with the closing of the schools. A few months before the official notice of the cessation of support arrived from the Zionist Executive, he wrote: Regarding our forthcoming work, it is difficult to say now what will its fate will be. It would have been possible to leave something behind, had individuals who understand something been leading the community. But now, the people serving on

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the ‘city council’—which was always a deficient and backwards institution—are unjust and have no grasp [of anything]. In any event, before we leave this place, we must do all we can to leave Hebrew education in Damascus alive.80 The announcement in the summer of 1923 by the Palestinian Zionist institutions that they were closing the Hebrew schools in Damascus did not reach the community and the Palestinian teachers without any warning. Already in January of that year, the communal council had planned, perhaps as a preventative measure, to establish a new modern high school outside the city that would function like a college. The committee established to investigate the plan consisted of 13 members and included Burla, who, as stated, had accepted the eventuality of the impending closure and sought to help prepare a suitable educational alternative. The members of the committee also included his hated opponent Robert Haı¨moff, who was certainly pleased to take part in building upon the ruins of the Zionist schools, and Joseph Kahanoff, the son of the director of the AIU boys’ school, Eliyahu Kahanoff. Ultimately, this school never took shape.81 In September of that year, shortly after the notification of the closure of the schools, the communal council decided to appoint a committee to study the situation. Its members included Moses Elijah Totah, Yu¯suf Farh¯ı, Khidr Indibu¯, Za¯ki Turkiyyah, Tawfı¯q Mizrahi, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Ado¯n Lewi, Ibra¯hı¯m Mughrabı¯, and Ha¯ru¯n Za¯gah. The committee decided to assume management for the Hebrew schools and asked the Education Committee in Jerusalem for enough funds to maintain just two Hebrew teachers.82 The shutting of the schools and the return of the Hebrew teachers to Palestine was essentially an act of abandonment of both Damascus Jewry and the city’s major political arena. Yet, more than all else, the desertion was a great triumph for the Alliance, which absorbed some of the students into its institutions. Those with lesser means sent their children to the Protestant English school, which did not require tuition. Since even together both the AIU and missionary schools had limited capacity, hundreds of students were released from the educational system and wandered the city streets aimlessly.83 Within

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a short span of time, Luria recognised the magnitude of the mistake, writing to the Zionist Executive in London: The Zionist Executive has dealt for years with the Hebrew educational enterprise in Syria. Its work in Damascus was particularly great. During the first years after the war, it allocated for this endeavour about three thousand Egyptian pounds annually. With such funds, hundreds of children were educated in the Hebrew spirit and in the Hebrew language. Reductions in the educational budget forced us to decrease this effort to the point where we ceased it altogether last year. As a result, all our children transferred to the Alliance school, where students are instructed there without any general knowledge, neither Torah nor familiarity with the Hebrew language. The large Jewish community of Damascus, which lies across the border from Palestine, is growing distant itself from us and from the whole national enterprise; and this is a huge blunder in terms of saving the national forces that we need for building Palestine . . . Hebrew education also impacted the rest of the cities of Syria. Interest in Zionism and the movement for Hebrew revival grew. There is a desire for Hebrew education in all the Syrian communities . . . through Hebrew education, we could win over numerous souls to Judaism and to nationalism. These communities, [located] near Palestine and connected to it geographically and economically, are important to us. It is critical to lift up Syrian Jewry so that it might become a significant driving force in the building of our land. This Oriental Jewry belongs to us and, through minimal means, we could raise it out of its baseness and instil a whole revolution in its life.84 This call went unanswered. The Hebrew schools never re-opened. Their closure, and the decline of Zionist activity in Damascus that ensued, signalled the end of the first phase of Zionism in Damascus.

CONCLUSION

The only limit to our realisation of tomorrow will be our doubts of today. —Franklin Delano Roosevelt The 15 years that are the focus of this book were a time of uncertainty for Jews and Arabs alike. The upheavals taking place in that time— the Young Turk Revolution, World War I, the Balfour Declaration, the British occupation of Palestine and Damascus, and the founding of Faysal’s kingdom and the establishment of the French Mandate ˙ upon its ruins—generated frequent changes that fostered great hopes alongside feelings of despair and disappointment. The final collapse of the old order in the wake of World War I required Damascus Jewry to find its place in the new world, which provided more than one possibility. The Jews found themselves forced to choose between one of four options: Ottomanism, Jewish nationalism, Arab nationalism, and Western colonialism in the form of the French Mandate. Attraction to Zionism within the community grew out of the economic and social distress that enveloped its society ever since the financial collapse of the communal notables in October 1875. This hardship only grew stronger, peaking during the years of World War I. Despite the proximity to Palestine, or perhaps due to the contiguity, it was beyond the meagre means of this impoverished community, which was concerned mainly with obtaining bread for

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the morrow and which existed on the margins of Syrian society, to articulate a far-sighted vision on a national level. The ties that Damascus Jews developed with groups and societies outside Syria prior to World War I were generally dependent upon the latter’s ability to offer material aid to the community. Damascus Jewry maintained contact with their successful emigrant brethren in the New World and with the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle society, which was active for decades in the fields of education and philanthropy in the city. The Jews did not consider their relationship with the Zionist movement, which had never provided monetary assistance before the war, save for a paltry sum for educational purposes, as either necessary or of particular importance. The Zionist dream of emigration to the Land of Israel appeared to Damascus Jewry as a solution for the Ashkenazim being persecuted in Eastern Europe. Nor did the Halakhic consideration of Syria as part of the Holy Land, foster a yearning for ʿaliyyah. Indeed, emigration to Palestine, the poor neighbour to the south of Damascus, also under the rule of the Ottoman sultan, did not entice the city’s Jews at all. Furthermore, proximity explains why a religious-messianic vision of return to the Holy Land never emerged in Damascus. The ancestral land, as it was in reality and not as it was depicted in the imaginations of distant Jewish communities, was immediately at hand and within walking distance. Therefore, it is impossible to describe Damascus Zionism as one of tradition, continuity, and revival, or one of redemption (such as messianic Zionism).1 Moreover, due the migration of youths from Damascus, the community lacked an educated middle class. These youths, whose education at the French AIU or European missionary schools made them Westernised, turned their eyes towards a brighter future overseas, rather than in Palestine, which still belonged to the Old World from which they sought to escape. Even if, here and there, following the Young Turk Revolution, there were preliminary initiatives by local youths to encourage the use of the Hebrew language or to propagate national education, the driving force for the adoption of the Zionist idea came primarily from the activity of individuals from outside the city who came to the city at a certain

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point, remained for a while, and then abandoned it. Individuals such as Abraham Elmaleh from Jerusalem, Barukh Paʾis from Russia, Yis´raʾel Eytan from Jerusalem, Dr David Yellin and the other Palestinian exiles, and Yehudah Burla, Joseph Joel Rivlin, and the staff of Hebrew teachers were the ones to impart the idea, the experience, and the ability for implementation. In order to instil the Zionist idea, these aforementioned figures did not hesitate to try and take over the community, or at least to forge bonds or form alliances with members of the communal leadership in order to influence it from within. For this purpose, they often relied on their own finances or funding from Zionist institutions. Elmaleh, who directed the national school, worked under the ægis of his father-inlaw, the Chief Rabbi Jacob Danon (himself an import to Damascus). Paʾis succeeded in developing the communal educational system only through great personal investment. The Palestinian exiles and, after them, the Hebrew teachers succeeded in large part due to monetary support from the American Joint Distribution Committee, the Zionist Commission, and later the Zionist Executive.2 Opposing the Zionists were the Alliancists. Officially, the AIU envisioned its duty as bringing progress to the Jews of the Middle East so that they might be worthy of legal emancipation, thereby allowing them to become citizens of equal status in their countries and beneficial to the Jewish and the surrounding societies alike. Yet, in reality, the AIU did not follow its stated agenda to transform Damascus Jewry into Syrian Arab Jews, much like French Jews had become French. Rather, the organisation sought to open the eyes of the young generation to the possibilities that a Western education might provide for emigrating and improving their lives overseas. Palestine did not figure in this vision; indeed, the promise of integration into Western society aimed to solve the problems of Jewish individuals, but not the Jewish national problem—for which Zionism, by contrast, sought to provide an answer. Each side believed it held in its hands the key to the advancement of Damascus Jewry and that the rival movement would push the community towards cultural assimilation on the one hand or a life of poverty and backwardness on the other. The Zionists were shocked by

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the neglect of Hebrew study, the placing of emphasis on French, and the displacement of the time-cherished land from the focal point of the educational experience. For their part, the AIU representatives believed, certainly after the establishment of the French Mandate for Syria, that there was a clear interest to draw the Jews of the city to the side of the foreign Western ruler and enable them to integrate into the ruling and administrative systems. In the heat of their struggle and activity, both groups ignored almost entirely the local leadership, considering it an obstacle to the realisation of what each saw as its own good intentions. The two sides behaved in a paternalistic, missionising manner and sought to inculcate and implement their ideologies for the good of ‘their clients’, even when it appeared that the latter misunderstood their ideas or even refused to internalise the values that the AIU and Zionist activists sought to instil in them. The good intention of the two forces led them to adopt a similar approach in their attitude towards the local population, which essentially caused them to treat communal figures and notables, as well as religious scholars, in an insulting and humiliating manner. As a result, the AIU and the Zionist emissaries alike found themselves in frequent and recurring struggles with the local Jewish leadership. The tribulations of the war and the arrival of the Palestinian exiles—who expressed willingness to take responsibility for the educational activity of the city’s youth—was a stage during which the Damascus community evinced a clear affinity for Zionism. The gradual disappearance of nearly all the Jews of financial means or elect lineage and even to a great extent the religious elite in the years since the economic disaster of 1875 generated a leadership vacuum that attracted youth seeking to lead the community down the path of Zionism. Nevertheless, from the start, nearly all the individuals who supported Hebrew education came from the intellectual class, which, paradoxically, was primarily the product of the Alliance educational institutions. The Balfour Declaration and the appointment of Herbert Samuel for British High Commissioner for Palestine strengthened Zionist momentum within the community. Yet the main factor of influence was the monetary aid provided by the Zionist

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Commission and the Joint Distribution Committee to the Damascus population and the inclusion of the communal educational system in the Palestinian one under the supervision of the Palestinian Education Committee. These external bodies were themselves carried away by the enthusiasm that gripped the Palestinian exiles in their ‘annexation’ of the Damascus community to the rest of Palestinian Jewish society. The lack of clarity that prevailed in the aftermath of World War I regarding the political future of Palestine also contributed to this sentiment. The broad support given to the Damascus community enabled the impoverished masses, most of whom had previously studied in the old religious schools, to also enjoy modern education that stressed Hebrew culture. It appeared to them that the strength of the Zionist movement would remove them from their traditional place in society and reposition them atop the communal leadership. This feeling, in addition to the socialist orientation that accompanied Zionist activity in Damascus, fostered an identification amongst Damascus Jews of Zionism with the lower class and the impression that the Jewish nationalist aspiration strove to solve the plight of the poor alone. On a similar note, the activities of Zionist societies, like Maccabi and Qadimah, provided an opportunity for females to participate in senior leadership positions. Two explanations largely account for this phenomenon: the absence of numerous young men who migrated from the city, which turned girls into a majority of the Jewish youth, and the secular nature of Zionist activity, which did not impose gender segregation. In 1919, the chasm between the objectives of the Arab national movement and those of the Zionist movement began to become clear. Amidst the frenzied international developments of World War I, each side believed it stood on the brink of realising its goals. The independent nationalist Arab re´gime established under Faysal in ˙ Damascus, which worked towards the formation of a Greater Syria, was one of its kind during this period. The Arab government, inspired by the Emir Faysal, offered the Jews full equality. In the era ˙ of Syrian nationalist enthusiasm, the Muslims saw the Jews as fellow Arab brethren belonging to the Mosaı¨c faith. However, the Jews in

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Syria, unlike many of their coreligionists in Iraq, for example, did not see themselves as Arabs or as part of the Arab nation. Their centuriesold religio-cultural detachment and their political suspicion and caution held them back from taking part in the construction of Syrian Arab nationalism already in the late nineteenth century. Yet, unlike in the past, during the postwar period, the two competing sides—the Arab nationalist movement and the Zionist movement— demanded the total solidarity of the Jews of Damascus. The problem is that any such identification would have turned Damascus Jews into traitors in the eyes of the other party; betrayal of Arab nationalism would place their lives in grave danger. The rise of the question of Jewish nationalism in tandem with the rise of the question of Arab nationalism, which trapped the Jews at the forefront of the struggle between a rock and a hard place, produced a unique situation in the history of Zionism that affected the communities of Syria alone, especially the one residing in the capital of the modern Arab kingdom, Damascus. If Zionism in Europe had not threatened local nationalisms, here the case was entirely exceptional, since the Arabs made competing territorial claims on Palestine as part of the intended Arab nation state. The Jewish national home stood in total contradiction to the ambition of those steering the Arab kingdom and its Muslim inhabitants to include southern Syria—Palestine—within the bounds of the new kingdom. Damascus Jewry stepped gingerly so long as Zionism seemed successful to them. Initially, it appears that the emergence of the Arab nationalist movement aroused a need amongst the Jews to identify with a nationalist movement of their own. Only after the ejection of Faysal from Damascus and the French take-over of Syria ˙ did the Jewish bourgeoisie in Damascus slowly tip towards a third path: the expression of loyalty to and the adoption of the culture of the foreign Western ruler, which absolved them of the need to decide between Syrian Arab nationalism and Zionist Jewish nationalism. It also allowed this segment of Jewish society to regain the reins of leadership in the community, which had been held since the end of the war by supporters of Zionism with the support and intervention of the emissaries of the Palestinian Education Committee.

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The fatal blow suffered by Arab nationalism, accompanied by the feeling of humiliation with the chasing of Faysal out of Damascus and ˙ the inauguration of the French Mandate for Syria, facilitated the choice of the city’s Jews to turn towards the third option. The Jews observed the Mandate officials’ anti-Zionist policies and feared being suspected of being Zionist by the authorities. The French re´gime’s heavy-handed approach towards its opponents, the Syrian nationalists, amplified the fears of the Jews to appear as enemies of the Mandate. The decision to align themselves with the French ruling power occurred at the encouragement of the French Alliance, whose representatives underwent a tremendous change in standing, such that they felt to a certain degree that they were a part of the new governing system. The policies of the French Mandate, whose officials for many years neglected to cultivate a sense of internal Syrian unity around the institutions of the state, also simplified the Jews’ decision to adopt the culture of the French ruler and to demonstrate unquestioning loyalty towards it. In this way, they did not differ much from a large section of the local urban Syrian Arab elites, who chose to co-operate with the Mandatory authorities, seizing the opportunity to regain their senior position in Damascene society after having been deposed by the nationalists during Faysal’s ˙ rule. As stated, the Jews’ embrace of this path was easier due to the French educational tradition and the fostering of its culture by the AIU institutions, which enabled them to acquire positions in the Mandatory public administration. Thus, the cultural and political orientations of Damascus Jewry were united, relieving them of the sense of split loyalties between the three forces influencing their lives: Zionism, Arabism, and Francophilia. The blocking of free passage to Palestine and the Zionist Executive’s reduction of support and ultimate disengagement from activity in Damascus also pushed the city’s Jews into the arms of the Alliance. On the other hand, the Mandate for Syria given to France, which essentially separated Damascus politically from Palestine, the restrictions placed by the French authorities on travel between Palestine and Damascus, the anti-Zionist policies expressed by Mandatory officials who identified Zionism with British political

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interests, the internal quarrels within the Hebrew schools, the unceasing rivalry with the AIU educational institutions, the lack of continuous and close co-operation with the communal leadership, and the focus on the struggle with the Arabs over Palestine were all factors contributing to the Zionist Executive’s decision to abandon Damascus. This determination was made far from Damascus and contrary to the opinion of the Zionist emissaries in the town. Although, in moments of disagreement with the communal institutions, these individuals did not hesitate to express their negative estimation of the character of Damascene Jewry, they did not usually do so from a condescending perspective and, most certainly, not from an Orientalist one.3 The most prominent Zionists, such as Abraham Elmaleh and Yehudah Burla, were themselves Middle Eastern, while Joseph Joel Rivlin, as his later behaviour revealed, identified entirely with the Orient. For most of the period on which this study deals, Damascus appeared as a politically and intellectually vibrant city, with a wide-ranging cultural life and journalistic activities that nurtured and were fed by Arab nationalist intellectual discourses in no small number of political and literary salons. It was actually the European spirit, represented in the Jewish community by the AIU and its emissaries that won the enmity of the Zionists for having promoted assimilation amongst Damascus Jewry. In any event, the Zionist institutions and their representatives in Damascus differed entirely regarding their impressions of this Jewish community and the need to invest in bringing it closer to the Jewish national idea. Here, the Zionist leadership’s attitude towards the Damascus community did not diverge from its attitude to the other Jewish communities in the Islamic world.4 Thus, the Zionist representatives on location fought this approach to no avail. Damascus was abandoned. This desertion appeared to the Zionist teachers and their local supporters as a shameful and unforgiveable abandonment of the ancient and nearest community to Palestine, on the one hand, and of the most important political arena in the Middle East—Damascus, seen as the centre of the Arab world—on the other. However, from the point of view of the Zionist leaders in Europe, it

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was clear that the future of the Middle East lay in the hands of Britain and France and that the Arab inhabitants of the region would play— if at all—a secondary role in political developments. It is possible that their attitude towards the Arabs engendered a similar view of the Jews who lived amongst them. Instead of continuing to draw the Damascene Jews towards the Zionist idea and use them as a bridge to the Arab nationalist movement in order to forge an anti-colonialist front that would aid both nationalist movements in achieving their objectives, the Zionist leadership decided to detach itself entirely from these Jews. Later, Joseph Joel Rivlin would express well the sense of missed opportunity: And the important issue was the Arab question. For if [Chaim] Weizmann and [Menahem] Ussishkin had not thought that the ˙ Arabs were of no worth, and if they had listened to [Joseph] Farh¯ı, the father of Elmaleh’s daughter-in-law, [who] was then ˙ in Beirut, and had listened to Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, [who] was then in Damascus [and] a confidant of Faysal I, and had listened to ˙ other Jews . . . they might have accomplished far more and perhaps even reached the goal—and maybe things would have turned out quite differently.5

GLOSSARY

Ashkenazi

‘German’ Jews of Western and Eastern European background ʿaliyyah emigration to the Land of Israel (Palestine) bedel-i askeri Ottoman military service exemption tax for nonMuslim minorities dhimmı¯ Islamic term for monotheistic ‘peoples of the book’, who, in exchange for payment of a special tax and certain restrictions on lifestyle, are entitled to official protection ferman imperial decree or order gabela Jewish communal tax on specific food items, such as ritually-slaughtered meat hahambas¸ı chief rabbi Halakhah Jewish religious law kashrut Jewish dietary laws massah unleavened bread eaten by Jews during Passover ˙˙ (pl. massot) ˙˙ meclis-i cismani lay council (steering committee) millet autonomous confessional community in the Ottoman Empire mufti Islamic scholar and interpreter of religious law; in Ottoman times, appointed by the state

Glossary

qa¯dı¯ ˙ sharı¯f talmud torah yeshivah Yishuv

ziya¯rah

281

Islamic judge; in the Ottoman Empire, appointed by the state with administrative duties ruler of the Muslim holy cities of the Hija¯z, Mecca ˙ and Medina traditional Jewish religious school Jewish religious seminary (pl. yeshivot) the Jewish settlement in the Land of Israel; the Old Yishuv being the religious, traditional society that existed prior to the arrival of Zionist immigrants beginning in 1882 and the New Yishuv being the Zionist society that existed until the founding of the State of Israel in 1948 visitation or pilgrimage

NOTES

Prologue: Between Collapse and Revolution 1. Abraham Zevi Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel be-Dammes´eq’ [‘The Israelite community in Damascus’], Luʾah Eres Yis´raʾel 16 (1911/5671), 105. ˙ ˙ 2. See Resat Kasaba, The Ottoman Empire and the world economy: The nineteenth century ˙ (Albany, 1988); I˙lkay Sunar, ‘State and economy in the Ottoman Empire’, in The Ottoman Empire and the world economy, ed. Huri I˙slamog˘lu-I˙nan (Cambridge, 1987), 63 – 87; Immanuel Maurice Wallerstein, Hale Decdeli, and Res¸at Kasaba, ‘The Incorporation of the Ottoman Empire into the world economy’, in The Ottoman Empire and the world economy, ed. Huri I˙slamog˘lu-I˙nan (Cambridge, 1987), 88 – 97; Immanuel Maurice Wallerstein and Res¸at Kasaba, ‘Incorporation into the world-economy: Change in the structure of the Ottoman Empire, 1750– 1839’, in E´conomie et socie´te´ dans l’Empire ottoman, ed. Jean-Louis Bacque´Grammont and Paul Dumont (Paris, 1983), 335– 54; S¸evket Pamuk, The Ottoman Empire and European capitalism, 1820– 1913: Trade, investment, and production (Cambridge, 1987). 3. For further discussion, see Yaron Harel, Syrian Jewry in transition, 1840– 1880, transl. Dena Ordan (Oxford/Portland, 2010), 71 – 6. 4. For the specifics of the debt, see Fresco, 3 November 1880, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 146. See also Stambuli to Dickson, Damascus, 12 July 1882, FO 195/1412; ibid., 15 July 1882; Stambuli to Dickson, Damascus, 17 December 1885, FO 195/1514; Jews British subjects, Damascus, 26 April 1883, FO 195/1448. 5. Jago to Elliot, Damascus, 21 November 1876, FO 195/1113; Guys, 20 June 1877, AECPdC, Turquie, Damas, vol. 11, 117–20. 6. Halfon, 23 April 1877, AAIU, Syrie XI E, Damas, 94; Jago to Elliot, Damascus, 21 November 1876, FO 195/1113; JC (7 June 1878), 13.

NOTES TO PAGES 2 –8

283

7. Alhalel, 3 March 1903, AAIU, Syrie XI E, Damas, 100; Richards to O’Conor, Damascus, 16 March 1904, FO 195/2165. 8. Abraham Elmaleh, ha-Yehudim be-Dammes´eq we-masavam ha-kalkali we-ha˙ tarbuti [The Jews of Damascus and their economic and cultural situation ] (Jaffa, 1912/5672), 21. 9. JC (25 May 1886), 14b; Halfon [to Karl Netter], Damascus, 23 July 1881, CZA J41/83. 10. See Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 21; Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel’, 94 – 5. 11. For further discussion of the communal organisation of the Jewish community in Damascus during the second half of the nineteenth century, see Harel, Syrian Jewry, 61 – 6. 12. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 17. 13. Guys, 23 August 1875, AECCC, Damas, vol. 5, 177. On the drought and famine, see Henry Harris Jessup, Fifty-three years in Syria (London, 1910), 378. 14. Yago, Damascus, 24 March 1878, FO 78/2850. 15. See Zvi Zohar, Masoret u-temurah: Hitmodedut ḥakhmey Yis´raʾel be-Misrayim u-ve˙ Suryah ʿim etgerey ha-modernizasyah 1880– 1920 [Tradition and change: Halakhic ˙ responses of Egyptian and Syrian rabbis to legal and technological change ] (Jerusalem, 1993), 29 – 32. 16. See, for example, Damascus scholars to Adolphe Cre´mieux, 8 Heshwan 1879, ˙ AAIU, Syrie I B 5, Damas. 17. See Harel, Syrian Jewry, 36– 9. 18. Damascus scholars to Cre´mieux, 8 Heshwan 1879, AAIU, Syrie I B 5, Damas. ˙ 19. Ibid. 20. See ibid.; Isaac ben Moses Abulafia, Sefer Peney Yishaq [The Face of Isaac ] ˙˙ (Aleppo/Livorno/Izmir/Jerusalem, 1870/5631 –1908/5668), vol. 2, 38a n. 9. 21. See Bertrand, 21 March 1865, AECCC, Alep, vol. 33, 106– 26. 22. See, for example, Hillel Ezra de Picciotto to Abraham Hayyim Gagin, Aleppo, ˙ 27 Heshwan 1843, NLI V-736/72. ˙ 23. See Harel, Syrian Jewry, 201. 24. Rabbi Aaron Jacob and Rabbi Jacob Peres to Rabbi Nathan Adler in London, ˙ 17 Elul 1870, FO 78/2259. 25. Jews holding Prussian citizenship to the AIU, Damascus, 22 Siwan 1881, AAIU, Syrie I C 5, Damas. On the conduct of Britain in this regard, see Albert Montefiore Hyamson, The British consulate in Jerusalem in relation to the Jews of Palestine, 1838 –1914 (London, 1939 –41), vol. 2, 391ff. 26. For further discussion, see Yaron Harel, ‘The Citizenship of the Algerian-Jewish immigrants in Damascus’, Maghreb Review 28.4 (2003), 294– 305. 27. See idem, Beyn tekhakhim le-mahpekhah: Minuy rabbanim raʾshiyyim we-hadahatam ˙ bi-qehillot Bagdad, Dammes´eq, we-Halab, 1744– 1914 [Between intrigues and ˙ revolution: The Appointment and dismissal of chief rabbis in Baghdad, Damascus, and Aleppo, 1744– 1914 ] (Jerusalem, 2007/5767), 194– 5. 28. For further discussion of these events, see idem, Syrian Jewry, 174– 83.

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29. For further discussion, see Moshe Maʿoz, Ottoman reform in Syria and Palestine, 1840– 1861: The Impact of the Tanzimat on politics and society (Oxford, 1968), 242– 8. 30. On Iraq, see Reuven Snir, ʿArviyyut, Yahadut, Siyonut: Maʾavaq zehuyyot bi˙ yesiratam shel Yehudey ʻIraq [Arabness, Jewishness, Zionism: A Clash of identities in ˙ the literature of Iraqi Jews] (Jerusalem, 2005). The interest and activity of Jewish intellectuals in subjects common to them and to Arab-Muslim and Christian thinkers developed in Beirut during this period. For further discussion, see Shmuel Moreh and Philip Sadgrove, Jewish contributions to nineteenth century Arabic theatre: Plays from Algeria and Syria: A Study and texts (Oxford, 1996), 74. 31. Philip Shukry Khoury, Urban notables and Arab nationalism: The Politics of Damascus, 1860– 1920 (Cambridge, 1983), 45 – 6. 32. Moshe Maʿoz, Suryah ha-hadashah: Temurot politiyyot we-hevratiyyot be-tahalikh ˙ ˙ ˙ haqamat qehillah leʾummit [Modern Syria: Political and social changes in the process of establishing a national community] (Tel-Aviv, 1974), 47 –8. 33. Simon Schwarzfuchs, ed. L’Alliance dans les communaute´s du bassin me´diterrane´en a` la fin du 19e`me sie`cle et son influence sur la situation sociale et culturelle [The Alliance Israe´lite Universelle in the Mediterranean communities at the end of the nineteenth century and its influence on the social and cultural situation] (Jerusalem, 1987), 4. On the integration of other minority groups into the Arab ‘nation’, see Kais M Firro, Metamorphosis of the nation (al-umma): The Rise of Arabism and minorities in Syria and Lebanon, 1850– 1940 (Brighton & Portland, 2009). 34. On the Ottoman parliamentary elections and the candidacy of non-Muslim deputies, see Bernard Lewis, The Emergence of modern Turkey (London, 1968), 167 – 9; Enver Ziya Karal, ‘Non-Muslim representatives in the First Constitutional Assembly, 1876– 1877’, in Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a plural society, ed. Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis, vol. 1 (New York City/London, 1982), 387– 400; Hasan Kayalı, ‘Jewish representation in the Ottoman parliaments’, in The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Avigdor Levy (Princeton, 1994), 507– 17. 35. On the Ottoman reforms and the response of the Syrian Jews to their promulgation and the process of their implementation, see Harel, Syrian Jewry, 98 – 147. 36. Gillois, 20 January 1983, AECCC, Damas, vol. 7, 169. 37. Letter from the heads of the Damascus community to the AIU Central Committee, Heshwan 1879, AAIU, Syrie I B 5, Damas. ˙ 38. On the triangle of relationships between Muslims, Christians, and Jews, see Harel, Syrian Jewry, 161– 8. On the improvement of the ties between the two non-Muslim minority communities, see BAIU 2nd ser. 11 (2nd semester 1886), 65 – 66. 39. On the unsuccessful sporadic attempts to revive the blood libel, see, for example, JC (21 January 1870), 10a; ibid. (3 August 1877), 13a. On Muslim religious fanaticism that threatened to harm the Jews, see Elliot to Dickson,

NOTES TO PAGES 12 –15

40. 41.

42.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

52. 53.

285

Damascus, 15 April 1876, FO 195/1113; Guys, Damascus, 12 April 1876, AECPdC, Turquie, Damas, vol. 11, 46 – 8. On the blood libel, see Jonathan Frankel, The Damascus Affair: ‘Ritual murder’, politics, and the Jews in 1840 (Cambridge/New York City, 1997). Even in subsequent years, the judicial authorities in Damascus refused to investigate on more than one occasion similar accusations made against the Jews. According to them, this was due to the existence of a decree (Ott. Tur. ferman) from the sultan forbidding the acceptance of testimony about the murder of Christians by Jews for ritual purposes. See JC (12 August 1892), 6a. On the ferman and the reasons for its promulgation, see David Kushnir, ‘Ferman meʾet ha-sultan ha-ʿOthmani ha-mafrikh ʿalilot-dam neged ha-Yehudim: Mavoʾ ˙ we-heʿarot’ [‘A Ferman from the Ottoman sultan refuting the blood libels against the Jews: Introduction and notes’], Peʿamim 20 (1984/5744), 37 – 45. On the appreciation for the actions of the British consul in protecting the Jews, see the protocols of the meeting of the Conjoint Foreign Committee of the Anglo-Jewish Association and the Jewish Board of Deputies, 9 June 1890, London Metropolitan Archives ACC/3121/C11A/001. On the blood libel, the involvement of the consuls, the attitude of the Ottoman authorities, and the interest of Jewish figures from Europe, see Gillois, 19 April 1890, AECPdC, Turquie, Damas, vol. 15; ibid., 19 April 1890; ibid., 4 May 1890; Dickson to the Marquis of Salisbury, Damascus, 26 August 1890, FO 78/4290; JC (16 May 1890), 9a. See Gillois, 4 May 1890, AECPdC, Turquie, Damas, vol. 15. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 22. See Havasselet (19 Iyyar 1890), 217. On the Christian press in Beirut, see Shaul ˙ ˙˙ Sehayik, ‘Parashat Drayfus ba-ʿIttonut ha-ʿArvit’ [‘The Dreyfuss Affair in the Arabic press’], Mikhaʾel 14 (1997/5757), 192. On this matter, see Yaron Harel, ‘In the wake of the Dreyfus Affair: An Alexandrian Jewish intellectual reconsiders his admiration for France’, Revue des E´tudes Juives 166.3 – 4 (July – December 2007). Gillois, 24 January 1891, AECADN, Constantinople, Correspondance avec les E´chelles, Damas, 807 (1890– 1), Carton 15. ha-Or 38 (3 Elul 1892), 150. On the harassment by Christians of Jews in the wake of blood libels, see Rabbi Abulafia and others to AIU, Damascus, 17 Av 1894, AAIU, Syrie XI E, 96. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 19. See, for example, Eyres to Clare-Ford, Damascus, 19 May 1892, FO 195/1765. See, for example, Abulafia, Peney Yishaq, vol. 6, 1b. On the unfavourable ˙˙ developments for the Jewish religious court in the French Mandatory period, see Benjamin Thomas White, The Emergence of minorities in the Middle East: The Politics of community in French mandate Syria (Edinburgh, 2011), 164. For further discussion, see Harel, Syrian Jewry, 91 –4. For further discussion, see idem, Beyn tekhakhim le-mahpekhah, 197– 8.

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NOTES TO PAGES 18 –21

54. Ezra ben Elijah ha-Kohen Maslaton-Tarab, Sefer Milley de-ʿEzra [The Words of ˙ Ezra] (Jerusalem, 1924/5684), Even ha-ʿezer, 66b n. 3. 55. Ouziel, 7 August 1898, AAIU, Syrie XIX E, Damas, 190a. 56. For more on the beginnings of missionary activity and the tolerance that it received within the Damascus community, see Harel, Syrian Jewry, 186– 93. 57. William Thomas Gidney, The History of the London Society for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews: From 1809 to 1908 (London, 1908), 560. 58. Ibid., 460–2. 59. Details on the various schools can be found in Bertrand, 10 October 1893, AECPdC, Turquie, Damas, vol. 17, 85 – 109. 60. See, for example, ha-Sevi (9 Heshwan 1896), 12. ˙ ˙ 61. Isaac Abulafia to AIU, Damascus, 29 Nisan 1892, AAIU, Syrie XI E, Damas, 96. See also Gidney, Society 558– 9. 62. Ibid., 463. 63. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 29 –30. 64. In 1884, the authorities tried eight Jews for violent crimes. See Havasselet (27 ˙ ˙˙ Siwan 1884), 238. 65. ha-Ahdut (08 Kislew 1910), 10. ˙ 66. For a broad discussion of the phenomenon of prostitution in the Damascus community, see Yaron Harel, ‘ʿAl “ha-meshorerot”, “ha-menagenot” we-“hameranenot” ha-Yehudiyyot be-Dammes´eq’ [The Jewish “girl-singers” in Damascus], in Ishah ba-Mizrah, ishah mi-Mizrah: Sippurah shel ha-Yehudiyyah ˙ ˙ bat ha-Mizrah, ed. Shaul Regev and Tova Cohen (Ramat-Gan, 2005). ˙ 67. Ouziel, 7 August 1898, AAIU, Syrie XIX E, Damas, 190a. 68. Rabbi Jacob Danon to Rabbi Haı¨m Nahoum, Damascus, 29 Heshwan 1910, ˙ ACRI TR/Is 72a. 69. Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel’, 98; BAIU 3rd ser. 33 (1908), 38 – 9. 70. ha-Ahdut (08 Kislew 1910), 9. ˙ 71. Rabbi Danon to Rabbi Nahoum, Damascus, 22 Av 1911, ACRI TR/Is 72a. On the assistance and contribution of the harlots to the community, see also the stories ‘Meranenet’ [‘A Singer’], ‘ha-Malkah’ [‘The Queen’], and ‘Etnan’ [‘Prostitute’s fee’] in Yehudah Burla, Merannenet [A Singer] (Tel-Aviv, 1930/5690). 72. ha-Ahdut (08 Kislew 1910), 8. ˙ 73. On the Ottoman censuses, see Kemal Karpat, ‘Ottoman population records and the Census of 1881/82 –1893’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 17.2 (May 1978), 265. For other reports, see Gillois, 20 January 1893, AECCC, Damas, vol. 7, 169; BAIU 2nd ser. 3 (1st semester 1881), 74; BAIU 2nd ser. 13 (1st and 2nd semesters 1888), 51; BAIU 2nd ser. 16 (1st and 2nd semesters 1891), 73; BAIU 2nd ser. 21 (1st and 2nd semesters 1896), 89; BAIU 2nd ser. 25 (1900), 141; BAIU 2nd ser. 29 (1904), 112. 74. See ʿAbd al-ʿAzı¯z Muhammad ʿAwad, al-Ida¯rah al-ʿUthma¯niyyah fı¯ wila¯yat ˙ ˙ Su¯riyyah 1864– 1914 [Ottoman administration in the province of Syria, 1864–

NOTES TO PAGES 21 – 28

75.

76. 77. 78.

79.

80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87.

287

1914] (Cairo, 1969), 307; Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 48; Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Yosef Aslan Farhi’ [‘Joseph Aslan Farhi’], Hed ha-Mizrah 3 (1949), 11. ˙ ˙ ˙ See Philip Khuri Hitti, ed., The Syrians in America (New York City, 1924), 109. See also Najib E Saliba, ‘Emigration from Syria’, Arab Studies Quarterly 3.1 (1981); Liz Hamui de Halabe and Fredy Charabati, Los Judı´os de Alepo en Me´xico [The Aleppan Jews in Mexico] (Mexico, 1989); Joseph A D Sutton, Aleppo chronicles: The Story of the unique Sephardeem of the Ancient Near East, in their own words (New York City, 1988); Yaron Harel, ‘The First Jews from Aleppo in Manchester: New documentary evidence’, AJS Review 23.2 (November 1998); Robert Chira, From Aleppo to America (New York City, 1994); Walter P Zenner, A Global community: The Jews from Aleppo, Syria (Detroit, 2000); Susana BraunerRogers, ‘Yehudey Halab be-Buʾenos Ayres, 1920– 1960: Manhigutam we˙ zehutam ha-datit’ [‘Aleppan Jews in Buenos Aires, 1920– 1960: Their leadership and religious identity’], Peʿamim 80 (Summer 1999/5759), 129– 30. See Maʿoz, Ottoman reform in Syria and Palestine, 241; Abdul Latif Tibawi, A Modern history of Syria, including Lebanon and Palestine (London, 1969), 175. See, for example, Guys, 2 May 1877, AECPdC, Turquie, Damas, vol. 11, 89 – 90; Hitti, ed. Syrians, 50– 2. Some have argued that, for the Christian population, the deterioration of socioeconomic conditions was the primary factor behind the emigration; see Kemal Karpat, ‘The Ottoman emigration to America, 1860– 1914’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 17.2 (May 1985), 176– 80. See Haim Avni, Mi-bitul ha-Inqwizisyah we-ʿad ‘Hoq ha-shevut’: Toldot ha-hagirah ˙ ˙ ˙ ha-Yehudit le-Argentinah [From the abolition of the Inquisition to the Law of Return: ˙ History of the Jewish migration to Argentina] (Jerusalem, 1982/5742), 112; Hitti, ed. Syrians, 49 – 50. Nicola A Ziadeh, Syria and Lebanon (London, 1957), 39. See, for example, Behor, 24 March 1875, AAIU, Syrie III E, Alep, 23. On the missionaries’ policies with respect to emigration, see Hitti, ed. Syrians, 55. ha-Ahdut (08 Kislew 1910), 11 – 12. ˙ Larons, 28 October 1909, AENS, Turquie (Syrie-Liban), 112. ha-Ahdut (08 Kislew 1910), 7. ˙ Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 42. Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel’, 96; JC (09 September 2010), 12b. Ahad ha-ʿAm, ‘Emet me-Eres Yis´raʾel’ [Truth from the Land of Israel], in ʿAl ˙ ˙ parashat derakhim: Mivhar maʾamarim, vol. 1 (Tel-Aviv, 1968/5728), 47. ˙

Chapter 1

Between Revolution and War

1. ha-Herut (29 August 1911), 1 – 2. 2. Lewis, Emergence of modern Turkey, 212– 3. 3. Harel, Beyn tekhakhim le-mahpekhah, 222–33.

288

NOTES TO PAGES 28 –37

4. Public feeling in Damascus as regards the Constitution and Izzet Pas¸a, FO 618/3; State of Affairs in Damascus relating to the new rejime [sic], Damascus, 12 August 1908, FO 618/3; Farhi, 16 August 1908, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142a. 5. People of Damascus to Rabbi Haı¨m Nahoum, Damascus, 4 Elul 1908, ACRI TR/Is 164a. 6. Rabbi Isaac Abulafia to Rabbi Haı¨m Nahoum, Damascus, 8 Elul 1908, ACRI TR/Is 164a; JC (04 September 1908), 9. 7. Farhi, 3 November 1908, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142b. 8. Farhi, 7 January 1910, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142b. 9. For greater examination of the considerations of Rabbi Nahoum regarding the appointment of chief rabbis, see Harel, Beyn tekhakhim le-mahpekhah, 236– 40. 10. See Farhi, 7 January 1910, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142b. 11. General report for the June quarter, Damascus, 12 July 1910, FO 618/3. For further discussion of the trip, its motivations, and its results, see Esther Benbassa, ha-Yahadut ha-ʿOthmanit beyn hitmaʿarevut le-Ṣiyyonut, 1908– 1920 [Ottoman Jewry between Westernisation and Zionism, 1908–1920], transl. Meir Yisrael (Jerusalem, 1996), 70 – 6; Tal Harshoshanim-Breitbart, ‘Massaʿ hahakham bashi Hayyim Nahum me-Istanbul li-Yrushalayim, Aviv 1910: ˙ ˙ ˙ Haslahah o kishshalon?’ [‘Journey of chacham bashi Chaim Nachum from ˙ ˙ Istanbul to Jerusalem’], (MA thesis, Bar-Ilan University, 2006/5766). 12. For more on Elmaleh, see Moshe David Gaon and Isaac Rafael Molho, eds., Minḥah le-Avraham: Sefer yovel li-khevod Avraham Elmaliʾaḥ bi-meloʾt lo shivʿim shanah, 645– 715 [Hommage à Abraham: A Festschrift in honour of Abraham Elmaleh for his seventieth year, 1885– 1955] (Jerusalem, 1959/5719); Haim Zeev Hirschberg, ed. Zekhor le-Avraham: Qoves maʾamarim le-zekher R Avraham ˙ Elmaliʾaḥ, hamesh shanim li-fetirato [Remember Abraham: A Collection of articles in ˙ ˙ memory of Rabbi Abraham Elmaleh, five years after his passing] (Jerusalem, 1972/5732). 13. ha-Herut (6 January 1911), 2; ibid. (29 August 1911), 1 – 2. ˙ 14. Rabbi Jacob Danon to Rabbi Haı¨m Nahoum, Damascus, 27 October 1911, ACRI TR/Is 160a. 15. Danon to Nahoum, Damascus, 30 Av 1911, ACRI TR/Is 72a. 16. Danon to Nahoum, Damascus, 22 Av 1911 and 15 Elul 1911, ACRI TR/Is 72a. 17. See Danon to Nahoum, Damascus, 29 September 1911, ACRI TR/Is 160a. 18. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 38. 19. ha-Herut (14 September 1911), 1. See also Danon to Elmaleh, Damascus, 28 ˙ Kislew 1910, JMA 63. 20. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 26. 21. On the method of appraisal, see Maslaton-Tarab, Milley de-ʿEzra, 86b, omission ˙ 10 n. 2. 22. On the law that established the collection of the gabela in Damascus, see Danon to Nahoum, Damascus, 16 Tevet 1911, ACRI TR/Is 160a. ˙ 23. For further discussion, see Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 38 – 42.

NOTES TO PAGES 38 – 48

289

24. For more detail on the activity of these associations, see Harel, Beyn tekhakhim le-mahpekhah, 225– 9. 25. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 43 –4. 26. Nahon, 04 May 1914, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 27. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 44 –5. 28. See Hevrat ʿOzer Dallim be-Dammes´eq, Hevrat ʿOzer Dallim be-Dammes´eq, ha˙ ˙ Shem yehayyehem we-yishmerehem [The Poor Aid Society in Damascus, may God ˙ revitalise them and protect them] (Beirut, 1913/5673). For more information on the Poor Aid Society, see also Zohar, Masoret u-temurah, 45 – 6. 29. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 23. 30. Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel’, 99. 31. Nahon, 9 March 1914, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 32. Moriyyah (21 July 1914), 1. 33. Jessup, Syria, 786– 7. 34. See Lewis, Emergence of modern Turkey, 213– 20. 35. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 26. 36. ha-Or (14 Elul 1910), 2. 37. On Erlich, see David Tidhar, ed. Ensiqlopedyah le-halusey ha-Yishuv u-vonaw: ˙ ˙ ˙ Demuyut u-temonot [Encyclopedia of the founders and builders of Israel] (Tel-Aviv, 1947– 1971), vol. 2, 946 –9. 38. On Jewish groups promoting Ottomanism in the aftermath of the revolution, see Benbassa, ha-Yahadut ha-ʿOthmanit, 102– 3. 39. ha-Or (14 Elul 1910), 2. 40. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 42 – 3. Basing themselves upon Elmaleh, others also misunderstood this society; see Hayim J Cohen, ha-Yehudim be-arsot ha˙ Mizrah ha-tikhon be-yamenu [The Jews in the Middle Eastern countries (1860 – ˙ 1971)] (Tel-Aviv, 1972/5733), 84; Jacob M Landau and Moshe Maʿoz, ‘Yehudim we-loʾ Yehudim be-Misrayim u-ve-Suryah ba-meʾah ha-teshaʿ ʿes´reh’ ˙ [‘Jews and non-Jews in Egypt and Syria in the nineteenth century’], Peʿamim 9 (1981/5741), 12. 41. JC (17 February 1911), 10a. 42. ha-Or (18 Heshwan 1911), 2. ˙ 43. ha-Herut (17 November 1912), 2. ˙ 44. Danon to Nahoum, Damascus, 22 Av 1911 and 30 Av 1911, AAIU, TR/Is/72a. 45. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 48. 46. Danon to Nahoum, Damascus, 22 Av 1911, AAIU, TR/Is/72a. 47. JC (15 September 1911), 12a. 48. For more elaboration, see Donald J Cioeta, ‘Ottoman censorship in Lebanon and Syria, 1876– 1908’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 10.2 (May 1979), 1979. 49. Nissim Malul, ‘ha-ʿIttonut ha-ʿArvit’ [‘The Arabic press’], ha-Shiloʾah 31 ˙ (1914– 1915/5674 – 5675), 445, 9. 50. On Shukrı¯ Bey al-ʿAsalı¯, his efforts to promote Arab interests in the Ottoman government, and his assessment that Zionism was a danger to the Arabs, see

290

51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

57.

58.

NOTES TO PAGES 48 –54 Emanuel Beska, ‘Shukri al-ʿAsali, an extraordinary anti-Zionist activist’, Asian and African Studies 19.2 (2010). See also Muhammad Kurd ʿAlı¯, Kita¯b Khitat al˙ ˙ ˙ Sha¯m [Description of Syria] (Damascus, 1925– 1928), vol. 3, 130– 3. On his prior activity to sever Syria from the Ottoman Empire and to join it to Egypt, see Ahmed Lutfi el-Sayed, Qissat haya¯tı¯ [The Story of my life] (Cairo, 1962), 137; ˙˙ ˙ Eliezer Tauber, Agudot hashaʾiyyot u-tenuʿot mered ba-Sahar ha-Poreh, 1875– 1920 ˙ [Secret societies and resistance movements in the Fertile Crescent, 1875– 1920] (RamatGan, 1994), 16 – 7. JC (24 November 1911), 12b. In a report dated 30 April 1913, the French viceconsul in Haifa reported that he did not know of any collective organisation, ˙ overt or covert, against Jewish settlement in any location, not even in Damascus. In his opinion, the campaign against Zionism was first and foremost one limited to the press and he listed Arab newspapers in the region that opposed Zionism, among them al-Muqtabas in Damascus. From the list, it appears that the bulk of the Syrian newspapers were anti-Zionist; see AENS, Turquie (Syrie-Liban), vol. 112, 22 –7. According to an interesting consular report from Damascus dated 21 November 1913, the anti-Zionist Arab newspapers in Damascus identified Zionism as an instrument for strengthening Russian influence on Palestine and Syria and for this reason they opposed it; AENS, Turquie (Syrie-Liban), vol. 123, 141. ha-Herut (30 September 1913), 2. ˙ For more on this matter, see Harel, Beyn tekhakhim le-mahpekhah, 263. See Benbassa, ha-Yahadut ha-ʿOthmanit, 77 – 8. See also Walter F Weiker, Ottomans, Turks, and the Jewish polity: A History of the Jews of Turkey (Lanham, 1992), 234– 7. On the relationship between the Jews and the CUP committee throughout the empire, see Benbassa, ha-Yahadut ha-ʿOthmanit, 165– 74. On the anti-Zionist and anti-Semitic activities of the opposition in the Ottoman Chamber of Deputies (Meclis-i Mebusan), see Kayalı, ‘Jewish representation’, 513– 5; Benbassa, ha-Yahadut ha-ʿOthmanit, 84, 124; idem, Hayyim Nahum: Rav raʾshi Sefaraddi be-politiqah, 1892 – 1923: Mivhar ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ mikhtavam we-teʿudot [Grand rabbin se´pharade en politique, 1892– 1923], transl. Tsivyah Zemiri (Jerusalem, 1998/5759), 25. ha-Herut (22 March 1912), 1 – 2. On the relations between the Young Turks and ˙ Zionism at the start of the twentieth century, see Mehmet S¸u¨kru¨ Haniog˘lu, ‘Jews in the Young Turk movement to the 1908 Revolution’, in The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Avigdor Levy (Princeton, 1994), 524. On their attitude towards Zionism in the period following the revolution and until World War I, see I˙lber Ortaylı, ‘Ottomanism and Zionism during the Second Constitutional Period, 1908– 1915’, in The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Avigdor Levy, transl. Ays¸egu¨l Acar (Princeton, 1994). ha-Herut (19 April 1912), 2. ˙

NOTES TO PAGES 55 –62

291

59. For more on this subject, see Jacob M Landau, ‘Heʿarot ʿal yahasam shel “ha˙ Turkim ha-Seʿirim” la-Siyyonut’ [‘Some comments on the “Young Turks’” ˙ ˙ attitude toward Zionism’], ha-Siyyonut 9 (1984/5744), 195– 205. ˙ 60. Philip Schaff, Through Bible lands: Notes of travel in Egypt, the desert, and Palestine (New York City, 1878), 368– 9. 61. At the same time, Midhat Pas¸a was busy laying the rail lines from Beirut to Damascus. See JC (16 May 1879), 13a. 62. ha-Maggid (3 November 1887), 335. 63. Zvi Ilan, ‘“he-Halus” be-Suryah we-ha-hityashvut be-Horan, 1928– 1936’ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘“He-Halus” in Syria and the settlement in Hawra¯n, 1928– 1936’], Peʿamim 14 ˙ ˙ ˙ (1982), 45. On ʿAbdu¯ Farh¯ı, the secretary-governor of Hawra¯n in Darʿa¯ and the ˙ ˙ JCA agent in Syria, who dealt with land purchase and was well-liked by the Arabs of Damascus to the extent that Arab poets wrote a book of lamentations in his honour, see idem, ha-Kemihah le-hityashvut Yehudit be-ʿEver ha-Yarden [The Longing for Jewish settlement in Transjordan] (Jerusalem, 1985/5745), 260– 1; Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Yosef Dawid Farhi’ [‘Joseph David Farhi’], Hed ha-Mizrah ˙ ˙ ˙ (8 June 1945), 6. 64. Ouziel, 03 July 1898, AAIU, Syrie XIX E, Damas, 190a. On the reservations of the chief rabbi in Istanbul regarding identification with Zionism during those years, see, for example, Eliyahu Elyashar, Li-heyot ʿim Yehudim [Living with Jews] ˙ (Jerusalem, 1980/5741), 31. 65. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 23 –5. 66. See ibid., 22. 67. See, for example, Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel’, 100– 1; Elmaleh, Yehudim beDammes´eq, 17 – 8. 68. ha-ʿOlam (25 March 1908), 168.

Chapter 2 Between Universalism and Nationalism 1. ha-Herut (20 March 1912), 1 – 2. ˙ 2. An AIU school was first founded in Damascus in 1864, but closed in 1869. It was re-founded in 1880. A girls’ school was opened in 1883. For more information, see Harel, Syrian Jewry, 80– 4. 3. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 29 –31. 4. On traditional and modern education for boys and girls in the Syrian community until 1935, see Harel, Syrian Jewry, 79 – 91; idem, ‘Rabbi Isaac Aboulafia: Leader of the education revolution in Damascus 1864– 1895’, International Journal of Jewish Education Research 4 (2013), 14– 6. See also Zvi Zohar, ‘Hinnukh Yehudim be-Suryah me-emsaʿ ha-meʾah ha-teshaʿ-ʿes´reh we˙ ˙ ʿad reʾshit ha-meʾah ha-ʿes´rim we-ahat’ [‘Education of Jews in Syria: From the ˙ mid-Nineteenth to the early Twenty-First Centuries’], Peʿamim 109 (2007/5767), 5 – 13; Shaul Sehayik, ‘Peraqim be-toldot ha-hinnukh ha-ʿIvri ˙

292

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24.

NOTES TO PAGES 62 –71 ba-Mizrah ha-tikhon ha-ʿArvi, 1900– 1935’ [‘Chapters in the history of ˙ Hebrew education in the Arab Middle East, 1900–1935’], Shorashim ba-Mizrah ˙ 2 (1989), 4 – 6, 21 – 2, 32 – 6. For more on the attitude of Jewish Middle Eastern religious scholars towards modern education, see Yaron Harel, ‘Mi-petihut le˙ histagrut: Meniʿey ha-temurah be-yahasah shel ha-elitah ha-toranit ha-Mizrah ˙ ˙ ˙ tikhonit le-ʿerkhey ha-modernah’ [‘From openness to insularity: Motives for the changes in the relations of the traditional Sephardic elite to modern values’], AJS Review 26.2 (October 2002). Tibawi, Modern history of Syria, 194– 5; Rosen, 4 August 1912, AAIU, Syrie XX E, 204. Yaron Harel, ‘Midhat Pasha and the Jewish community of Damascus: Two new documents’, Turcica 28 (1996). See idem, Beyn tekhakhim le-mahpekhah, 218– 22. Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel’, 99; BAIU 2nd ser. 29 (1904), 113. Farhi, 13 March 1910, 10 April 1910, and 8 May 1910, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142b. See, for example, the telegramme from Danon in Farhi, 20 October 1910, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142b. al-Muqtabas (10 November 1910); al-ʿAsr al-jadı¯d (24 November 1910). ˙ See Idelsohn, ‘Qehillat Yis´raʾel’, 99. See, for example, the report of David Stambu¯lı¯ in al-Muqtabas (05 May 1910). ˙ al-ʿAsr al-jadı¯d (03 December 1910), 2. ˙ More than a decade later, Abraham Elmaleh wrote that the educational institutions were called then ‘the national schools (al-mada¯ris al-wataniyyah) . . . ˙ not so that the government will consider them hers in terms of the Arabic language, but so that we ourselves can enjoy as much as possible all the rights that other state schools receive, without also giving up our rights to a national language and education, and without the government impinging in any way on our rights’. See Doʾar ha-yom (26 July 1922), 2. Farhi, 11 December 1910, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142b. Farh¯ı identified ˙ two of the three as Jacob Zagah and Hayyim Du¯ra¯; the third name is unclear. ˙ On the circumstances of Elmaleh’s arrival, see the previous chapter. ha-Herut (28 August 1911), 3. ˙ ha-Herut (28 August 1911), 1; ibid. (14 September 1911), 1; ibid. (20 October ˙ 1911), 3. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 35 –6. Farhi, 22 August 1911, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142b. ha-Herut (14 September 1911), 2. On the efforts of the Hilfsverein to support ˙ kindergartens in Palestine, see Moshe Rinott, Hevrat ha-ʿEzrah li-Yehudey ˙ Germanyah bi-yesirah u-ve-maʾavaq: Pereq be-toldot ha-hinnukh ha-ʿIvri be-Eres ˙ ˙ ˙ Yis´raʾel u-ve-toldot Yehudey Germanyah [“Hilfsverein der Deutschen Juden”— Creation and struggle] (Jerusalem, 1971/5732), 80 – 8. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 29. ha-Herut (20 September 1911), 2. ˙

NOTES TO PAGES 72 –85 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55. 56. 57. 58.

293

ha-Or (18 Heshwan 1911), 2; Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 35. ˙ ha-Herut (15 January 1912), 2. ˙ Ibid. (15 January 1912), 2. Ibid. (20 March 1912), 1 – 2. Ibid., 2. Ibid. (9 February 1913), 3. Elmaleh to Luria, Damascus, 29 Siwan 1912, AJEID 4.13/1141, BS 446. Ibid. Ibid. Aron Rodrigue, French Jews, Turkish Jews: The Alliance Israe´lite Universelle and the politics of Jewish schooling in Turkey, 1860– 1925 (Bloomington, 1990), 138. Elmaleh to Luria, Damascus, 29 Siwan 1912, AJEID 4.13/1141, BS 446. ha-Herut (29 December 1913), 2– 3. Samuel was the son of Barukh Paʾis, upon ˙ whom I shall expand further below. It is possible that the renewed founding of Tehiyyah in 1913 related to the unrest and demand for reform, which, while ˙ centred in Beirut, reached Damascus; this matter deserves further exploration. On the reform movement in this period, see the reports found in FO 195/2451. Hadashot ha-ares (27 July 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ ha-Herut (29 December 1913), 2– 3. ˙ Ibid. (19 November 1912), 3. Ephraim Rosen to Rabbi Haı¨m Nahoum, Damascus, 16 February 1912, ACRI TR/Is 81a. Rosen, 11 August 1912, AAIU, Syrie XX E, Damas, 204. ha-Herut (3 December 1912), 2. ˙ Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 27 – 8; ha-Poʿel ha-Saʿir 5.14– 15 (15 Iyyar ˙ 5672/02 May 1912), 23 – 4. ha-Herut (19 November 1912), 3. ˙ Ibid. (4 November 1912), 3. Ibid. (11 May 1913), 2. Ibid. (23 July 1913), 2. Ibid. (28 December 1913), 2. Ibid. (19 Tevet 1915), 1. ˙ Nahon, 10 April 1914, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. Meeting of the Teachers’ Central Committee, 11 Tishrey 1913, AJEID 9.5/4, 4. Elmaleh to Luria, Damascus, 7 Heshwan 1913, AJEID 4.13/1141, BS 446. ˙ ha-Herut (30 September 1913), 2. ˙ See Abraham Elmaleh, ‘Eykh husal ha-yishuv ha-Yehudi be-ʿAzzah [I]’ [‘How ˙ the Jewish settlement in Gaza was eliminated [I]’], Hed ha-Mizrah 8 (1943); ˙ idem, ‘Eykh husal ha-yishuv ha-Yehudi be-ʿAzzah [II]’ [‘How the Jewish ˙ settlement in Gaza was eliminated [II]’], Hed ha-Mizrah 9 (1943). ˙ Elmaleh to Luria, Damascus, 07 Heshwan 1913, AJEID 4.13/1141, BS 446. ˙ ha-Herut (28 December 1913), 2. ˙ Ibid. (29 December 1913), 2– 3. Ibid.

294

NOTES TO PAGES 86 – 95

59. For further examination of the position of the Sephardi public in Palestine and in the Diaspora regarding the ‘language wars’, see Itzhak Bezalel, Noladetem Siyyonim: ha-Sefaraddim be-Eres Yis´raʾel ba-Siyonut u-wa-teḥiyyah ha-ʿIvrit ba˙ ˙ ˙ tequfah ha-ʿOthmanit [You were born Zionists: The Sephardim in Eretz Israel in Zionism and the Hebrew revival during the Ottoman period] (Jerusalem, 2007/5768), 256– 79. 60. ha-Herut (29 December 1913), 2– 3. ˙ 61. Ibid. 62. Qamhajı¯ was apparently a subject or prote´ge´ of Britain; four of his relatives, ˙ Salı¯m, Hayyim, Mu¯sa¯, and Nu¯zha¯ʾ, appear in the list of British and British ˙ protected subjects resident at Damascus, FO 684, vol. 1. Although there is no date, the list appears to be from 1923, the year written on the back of the file. 63. ha-Herut (28 December 1913), 2. ˙ 64. Ibid. (29 December 1913), 3. 65. Ibid. (17 February 1914), 2. 66. Ibid. 67. Nahon, 15 December 1913, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 68. Elmaleh to Luria, Damascus, 29 Siwan 1912, AJEID 4.13/1141, BS 446. 69. ha-Herut (3 December 1912), 2. ˙ 70. Ibid. (1 March 1914), 3. The personality of Nahon led Elmaleh to change his opinion from one extreme to the other regarding co-operation with the AIU institutions in Damascus. Moreover, he did not that believe that the Hebrew national school would survive after his resignation. Therefore, when he heard about Luria’s guarantee of support, he sought to dissuade the latter and to convince him, behind the backs of the members of the Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment, to shift his backing to the AIU schools. See Elmaleh to Luria, Damascus, 07 Heshwan 1913, AJEID 4.13/1141, BS 446. ˙ 71. See, for example, ha-Herut (30 September 1913), 2. ˙ 72. Paʾis to Edmond de Rothschild, Damascus, 27 February 1914 and David Dawrah to Edmond de Rothschild, Damascus, 27 February 1914, in Nahon, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 73. Nahon, 09 March 1914, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 74. Paʾis to de Rothschild, 10 March 1914 in Nahon, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 75. ha-Herut (30 March 1914), 2 – 3; Nahon, 09 March 1914, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, ˙ Syrie, Damas, 182. 76. For further exploration, see Rachel Elboim-Dror, ha-Hinnukh ha-ʿIvri be-Eres ˙ ˙ Yis´raʾel [Hebrew education in the Land of Israel], vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 1986), 346– 50. For more on the language war, see Yoseph Lang, Dabber ʿIvrit!: Hayyey ˙ Eliʿezer Ben Yehudah [Speak Hebrew!: The Life of Eliezer Ben-Yehudah] (Jerusalem, 2008/5768), 721– 66. 77. See Biram to the Teachers’ Central Committee, 16 Nisan 1914, AJEID 4.13/1141, BS 446. 78. Nahon, 18 April 1914, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 79. Nahon, 10 April 1914, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182.

NOTES TO PAGES 95 –101

295

80. For further detail, see Nahon, 22 May 1914, 30 June 1914, 21 August 1914, and 25 September 1914, as well as Paʾis to Nahon, Damascus, 26 Iyyar 1914, in AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 81. Augustine Haı¨moff to Rabbi Haı¨m Nahoum, Damascus, 13 January 1915, ACRI TR/Is 89. 82. Nahon, 28 January 1915, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182. 83. Yis´raʾel Eytan to Yaakov Tehon, Damascus, 5 Nisan 1917, CZA S2/493.

Chapter 3 Between Exiles and Locals 1. Abraham Elmaleh, ‘ʿAl ha-Yahadut ha-Surit’ [‘On Syrian Jewry’], ha-ʿOlam (19 December 1920), 20. 2. See the prologue above. 3. List of religious scholars in Damascus, CZA J90/231. On the weakening of the status of the scholars in Damascus, see Zohar, Masoret u-temurah, 69 – 76. 4. Hadashot ha-ares (29 Tammuz 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ 5. Rabbi Jacob Danon to Dr Arthur Ruppin, 12 Av 1915, CZA L2/111. 6. See Henry Morgenthau to Danon, 21 April 1916, ACR TR/Is 94a. 7. Mordecai Ben Hillel ha-Kohen, Milhemet ha-ʿamim (Yoman) [Civil war ˙ (A Diary)], ed. Shimʿon Rubinshtayn (Jerusalem, 1981– 5), vol. 1, 217. ˙ Paradoxically, during the war, Damascus underwent accelerated development. See the memoirs of the engineer Gedaliah Vilbushevich (1865– 1943), appointed by Cemal Pas¸a to oversee Damascus’ development, in ha-ʿOlam (26 October 1939), 95 – 6; Sarah Chizhiq, Barukh bi-netivotaw: Bi-mehisato shel ˙˙ Barukh Chizhiq [Blessed in his ways: In the company of Barukh Chizhiq], ed. Yosef Menachem Margalit (Tel-Aviv, 1965/5726), 23 – 5. 8. Yosef Costica, Yamim shel ʿoz—Sippur hayyaw shel Yosef Qostiqah we-taʿalumat 23 ˙ ˙ yordey ha-sirah [Days of strength—The Story of the life of Yosef Costica and the mystery of the 23 seamen] (Holon, 2011), 12 – 3. See also ʿAzriʾel Qamon, ed. Mishpehot ˙ ˙ Duʾer, Saqal, beney qehillat Dammes´eq [The Douer and Saqal families, members of the Damascene community] (Ramat-Ef ʿal, 1995), 34 – 6. On the situation in Syria over the entire course of the war and the atmosphere of terror and the executions, see Na¯s¯ıf Abu¯ Zayd, Taʾrı¯kh al-ʿasr al-Damawı¯ [History of the bloody era] (Damascus, ˙ ˙ 1919); Tauber, Agudot hashaʾiyyot, 105– 9. ˙ 9. Liberman to the Education Committee, Jaffa, 13 I Adar 1916, CZA S2/777. 10. Liberman to his colleagues, Damascus, 21 Kislew 1915, and Liberman, report to the Education Committee on the work at the Damascus schools in 5676/1916, Jaffa, 13 Tammuz 1916, CZA S2/493; Paʾis to Bezalel Yaffe, Damascus, 30 Shevat 1916, Mordecai ben Hillel Hacohen to Yaakov Tehon, ˙ Damascus, 25 Iyyar 1916, and Education Committee to Barukh Paʾis, 18 Tishrey 1916, CZA S2/777; Nahon, Alexandrie, 28 January 1915, AAIU, Syrie XVIII E, Damas, 182.

296 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

NOTES TO PAGES 101 –103 Haı¨moff and Nahoum to Nahoum, Damascus, 3 January 1916, ACRI TR/Is 89. Mme. Haı¨moff, Damascus, 13 March 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. See, for example, Haı¨moff, Damas, 06 April 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. Yis´raʾel Eytan to Tehon, Damascus, 10 Elul1917, CZA S2/493. For more on Yis´raʾel Eytan, see below. Yellin to Ruppin, Damascus, 29 March 1918 and 8 April 1918, CZA A153/146/1. Yellin to Ruppin, Damascus, 15 January 1918, in ibid. See Yis´raʾel (3 Kislew 1921), 4. Yellin to Ruppin, Damascus, 5 April 1918, CZA A153/146/1. On Syria during World War I, see Yaacov Shimoni, Medinot ʿArav: Pirqey historyah medinit ˙ [The Arab states: Their contemporary history and politics] (Tel-Aviv, 1994/5755), 92 – 102. On the contributions of the Damascus Jews to the ‘National Defence League’, see ha-Herut (8 Adar 1916), 1. ˙ On the ordeals of the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine during World War I, see Nathan Efrati, Mi-mashber le-tiqwah: ha-Yishuv ha-Yehudi be-Eres Yis´raʾel be˙ milhemet ha-ʿolam ha-riʾshonah [The Jewish community in Eretz-Israel during World ˙ War I (1914 – 1918)] (Jerusalem, 1991/5751); Mordechai Eliav, Be-masor u-ve˙ masoq: Eres Yis´raʾel be-milhemet ha-ʿolam ha-riʾshonah [Siege and distress: Palestine ˙ ˙ ˙ during World War I] (Jerusalem, 1991). On the expulsion and the settling of the exiles in Egypt, see Nurith Govrin, ‘Pegishatam shel goley Eres-Yis´raʾel ʿim ˙ Misrayim we-ha-qehillah ha-Yehudit bah bi-milhemet-ha-ʿolam ha-riʾshonah’ ˙ ˙ [‘The Encounter of Palestinian Jewish exiles with Egypt and its Jewish community during World War I’], Peʿamim 52 (1986/5746), 73 – 101; Yoseph Lang, ‘Ziqat goley Eres-Yis´raʾel be-Aleksandriyyah el ha-Yishuv ha-Yehudi ˙ bi-ymey ha-milhamah’, in Be-masor u-ve-masoq: Eres Yis´raʾel be-milhemet ha-ʿolam ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ha-riʾshonah, ed. Mordechai Eliav (Jerusalem, 1991), 132– 53. Menachem places the arrival of the Palestinian exiles in Damascus earlier, in 1915; Nachum Menachem, ‘Yehudey Suryah u-Levanon beyn ha-leʾummiyut ha-ʿArvit we-ha-tenuʿah ha-Siyyonit (beyn shetey milhamot ha-ʿolam’ [‘Syrian ˙ ˙ and Lebanese Jewry in the crossfire of Arab nationalism and the Zionist movement (between the two world wars)’], (PhD dissertation, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1990), 83. Certainly, individual deportees or small groups of foreign subjects reached Damascus before October 1917, but as a distinct group, the refugees began arriving only from that date. On this episode, see, for example, Jacob Yaari-Poleskin, Parashat ‘NILI’ [The ‘NILI’ affair] (Tel-Aviv, 1958/5718); Eliezer Livneh, Joseph Nedava, and Yoram Efrati, NILI: Toldoteyha shel heʿazah medinit [NILI: History of political audacity] (Jerusalem, 1960/5721). See, for example, Meir Dizengoff, ʿIm Tel-Aviv ba-golah: Pirqey zikhronot min he-ʿavar ha-qarov [With Tel Aviv in exile: Remembrances from the recent past] (Tel-Aviv, 1931/5691), 108–12. On the trauma of the first deportation in the

NOTES TO PAGES 103 –106

24.

25.

26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

35.

297

national collective consciousness, see Govrin, ‘Pegishatam shel goley Eres-Yis´raʾel’, 73 – 6. ˙ See Y Cherezli, ‘Harpatqaʾot be-Dammes´eq’ [‘Adventures in Damascus’], Bamaʿarakhah 7.3/75 (Tammuz 1967/5727), 15. Unusual in this regard was Rabbi Eliezer Rivlin; on him and his literary work in Damascus, see Yaron Harel, ‘Qehillat Dammes´eq u-minhageyha ba-reshimot shel Eliʿezer Rivlin’ [‘The Damascus Jewish community and its customs in the notes of Eliezer Rivlin’], Peʿamim 74 (1998/5758), 131– 51. An illustrative example of this alienation is a diary entry composed by Rabbi Eliezer Rivlin and dated Monday 18 Nisan 1918, during the Passover festival. On the prior evening, a strong storm had raged through the city, together with much rain. The exiles wondered at such weather during the month of Nisan, ‘and the truth is that the Damascenes wonder about this powerful wind and say that the order of Creation has been changed here and only the “emigrant Ashkenazis (ha-Shiknaz ha-mehagrim)” [must have] brought the wind-storm, or maybe it is a sign of the times’; Rivlin Collection. Ben Hillel ha-Kohen, Milhemet ha-ʿamim, vol. 1, 220. ˙ Professor David Yellin (19 March 1864– 12 December 1941) was a teacher, scholar of Hebrew, and public figure, one of the leaders of the Yishuv and organisers of the Teachers’ Federation and the Hebrew Language Committee, as well as a founder of the Jerusalem neighbourhood Zikhron Mosheh. See the contributions made by David Yellin to the management of the national schools in Damascus at the start of 5675/1915, CZA A153/146/3. Yellin to Tehon, 25 Adar 1917, CZA, A153/146/1. Rivlin, diary entry dated Monday 18 Nisan 1918, Rivlin Collection. Yellin to Eliezer Siegfried Hoofien, Damascus, 17 Tishrey 1917, CZA, A153/146/6. See also ha-ʿOlam (27 Kislew 1919), 10. See, for example, Yaʿaqov Kanterowitz, ‘Mi-maʾasar le-maʾasar’ [‘From imprisonment to imprisonment’], Reshumot n.s. 4 (1947/5707), 66 –89. Yishaq Livni, Be-maʾasar u-va-golah: Meqorot redifot ha-Yehudim be-Eres Yis´raʾel ˙ ˙˙ bi-shenat 678 [Imprisoned and exiled: Sources on the persecution of Jews in Palestine in 1918] (Jaffa, 1919/5679), 56. On Bella Reiter and Tsipporah Drucker, girls who volunteered to help the prisoners, see S´arah Ben-Reʾuven and Rami BenReʾuven, Nashim ʿIvriyyot be-Dammes´ 1917– 1918 [Hebrew women in Damascus, 1917– 1918] (Jerusalem, 2010), 54 – 75. Efrayim Blumenfeld and Shimʿon Levin to hahambas¸ı Jacob Danon and the members of the council, Damascus, 12 Nisan 1918, CZA, J90/218. Nevertheless, the hahambas¸ı, or at least his representative, visited the NILI internees prior to their execution by hanging. See Aziz Beg, Modiʿin we-rigul bi-Levanon, Suryah we-Eres Yis´raʾel be-milhemet ha-ʿolam (1913 – 1918) [Intelligence ˙ ˙ and espionage in Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine during the World War, 1913– 1918], transl. Eliezer Tauber, ed. Eliezer Tauber (Tel-Aviv, 1991/5752), 110 n. 20. For a description of their hanging, see the Costica, Yamim shel ʿoz, 22. Ittel Yellin to Alter Stralser, Damascus, 5677/1917, CZA, A153/146/14. ˙

298

NOTES TO PAGES 106 –111

36. Rivlin, diary entry dated Monday 18 Nisan 1918, Rivlin Collection. 37. Ibid. 38. Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Qawim le-demuto shel Avraham Elmaliʾah’ [‘A Brief ˙ biography of Abraham Elmaleh’], Mahberet (Elul 1967/5727), 4. According to ˙ other testimony, Elmaleh was sentenced to death in Damascus, but the endeavours of his father-in-law Danon and other senior personages in Istanbul succeeded in cancelling this verdict before it was executed. See Eliyahu Elyashar, ‘Birkat Avraham’ [‘The Blessing of Abraham’], Mahberet (Elul 1967/5727), 6. ˙ 39. ha-ʿOlam (27 Kislew 1919), 10. 40. See the memoirs of Vilbushevich from the time of World War I in Damascus, as they appeared serially in Omer (14 May 1940), 2, (15 May 1940), 2, (16 May 1940), 2, (17 July 1941), 2, and (18 July 1941), 2. See also ha-ʿOlam (26 October 1939), 95 – 6. 41. On the founding of various committees in the Yishuv during the course of the war, see Dizengoff, ʿIm Tel-Aviv ba-golah, 45ff. For more detail on the Migration Committee, see Efrati, Mi-mashber le-tiqwah, 284– 336. 42. See Yaari-Poleskin, Parashat ‘NILI’, 93 – 4. 43. For the protocols of the meetings of the Migration Committee from the first eight months of 1918, see CZA, J90/216. For a list of letters sent to the Migration Committee during that period, see CZA, J90/221. It is not possible that the absence of correspondence is due to oral arrangements, since the scant documentation that exists indicates that decisions were not made verbally and, moreover, almost all the Migration Committee’s activity was documented in writing. 44. Yellin to Tehon, Damascus, 12 Adar 1917, CZA, S2/777. 45. Yellin to Tehon, Damascus, 25 Adar 1917, CZA, A153/146/1. The approach of non-reliance upon the local Jewish leadership in Damascus was adopted later by the Zionist leadership, a matter that attracted criticism from some. See Rivlin, ‘Avraham Elmaliʾah’, 4; Menachem, ‘Yehudey Suryah u-Levanon’, 192– 7, 240. ˙ 46. For detail on the organisation of the committee and on those who held various positions in it, see Dizengoff to Ruppin, Damascus, 18 December 1917, CZA, Z3/1680; Zionist Organisation office in Copenhagen to Tehon, Copenhagen, 12 March 1918, CZA, L2/545. 47. Protocol of a meeting of the Migration Committee, 25 January 1918, CZA, J90/216; Report of the central office for migration in Damascus on its expenses for the period from 1 October 1917 to 31 January 1918, CZA, L2/645. 48. See Govrin, ‘Pegishatam shel goley Eres-Yis´raʾel’, 84; Lang, ‘Ziqat goley Eres˙ ˙ Yis´raʾel’, 148. 49. Hoofien to Yellin, Jerusalem, 31 August 1917, Yellin to Hoofien, Damascus, 17 Tishrey 1917, and Hoofein’s response, Jerusalem, 16 October 1917, CZA, A153/146/6. 50. Drafts of the letter, lacking sender’s name and date, addressed to the aforementioned destinations, CZA, J90/231.

NOTES TO PAGES 111 –115

299

51. Protocol of the discussion of the Migration Committee, 16 February 1918, CZA, J90/216. 52. Blumenfeld (Bloch) to Dizengoff, Damascus, 9 March 1918, CZA, J90/218; Yellin to Ruppin, Damascus, 29 March 1918, CZA, A153/146/1. 53. Protocol of the meeting of the Migration Committee, 25 May 1918, CZA, J90/216; Haı¨moff to Dizengoff, president of the aid committee, Damascus, 13 December 1918, CZA, J90/233. 54. Yis´raʾel Eytan to Tehon, Damascus, 10 Elul 1917, CZA, S2/493. 55. Report of the activities of the ʿIvriyyah council from 15 Siwan to 15 Elul [5678] (26 May– 23 August 1918), CZA, A153/146/3. 56. Ibid.; Yellin to Dr Kriger, Damascus, 12 Tishrey 1918, CZA, A153/146/3. 57. Rivlin, diary entry dated Sunday 12 Av 1918, Rivlin Collection. On the use of the lectures in order to attract Damascus Jews and the young exiles to the Labour Zionist movement, see Yishaq Livni, ‘Herut be-tokh ʿavdut’ [Freedom in ˙ ˙˙ slavery], in Sefer ha-yovel shel Histadrut ha-morim, 5663– 5688, ed. Dov Qimhi ˙ (Jerusalem, 1929/5689), 183. 58. Apparently, it was not difficult to enlist the Damascus population in memorialising this date (20 Tammuz), since it had previously been marked in the communal calendar as a celebration observing their emergence unscathed from the events that took place in the city in July 1860, when thousands of Christians were slaughtered, but not one Jew was killed. See Harel, ‘Qehillat Dammes´eq’, 141. 59. See ha-Herut (30 Kislew 1913), 2 – 3; Loupo, Damas, 27 June 1919, AAIU, ˙ Syrie XVI E, Damas 151c; Liberman report, Damascus, 21 Kislew 1915, CZA, S2/493. 60. The community’s disowning of these youths can be understood against the background of the numerous foreign subjects executed by hanging in Syria during the war on the suspicion of disloyalty. See, for example, Sa¯tiʿ al-Husrı¯, ˙ ˙ ˙ ‘Shuhada¯ʾ al-ʿUru¯bah fı¯ al-harb al-ʿa¯lamiyyah al-u¯la¯ bi-diya¯r al-Sha¯m’ [‘Martyrs ˙ of Arabism in World War Iin Syria’], al-ʿArabı¯ 3 (1961), 20 – 6. Tauber presents an announcement from Cemal Pas¸a regarding the executions and their circumstances; idem, Agudot hashaʾiyyot, 105– 9. ˙ 61. Ka¯mil Arazı¯ to Yellin, Damascus, undated, CZA, A153/146/3. 62. Report of the activities of the ʿIvriyyah council from 15 Siwan to 15 Elul [5678] (26 May– 23 August 1918), CZA, A153/146/3. 63. Yis´raʾel Eytan to Tehon, 10 Elul 1917, CZA, S2/493. 64. Ibid.; Nachum Menachem, ‘Peʿilutah shel tenuʿat ha-Maccabi be-Dammes´eq uve-Beyrut beyn shetey milhamot ha-ʿolam’ [‘The Activity of the Maccabi ˙ movement in Damascus and in Beirut between the two world wars’], Ba-tenuʿah 3 (1992/5752), 8. 65. Yellin to Tehon, Damascus, 22 Siwan 1917, 18 Tammuz 1917, and 20 Tammuz 1917, CZA, A153/146/1.

300

NOTES TO PAGES 115 –117

66. Protocol of the discussions of the Migration Committee, 06 February 1918, 24 April 1918, CZA, J90/216; Dr Salamon Schiller to the Migration Committee, Damascus, 03 Siwan 1918, CZA, J90/230. 67. Eytan to Tehon, Damascus, 22 November 1916, 14 January 1917, 28 June 1917, CZA, S2/493. 68. Eytan to Tehon, 05 Nisan 1917, CZA, S2/493. On the Douer School, see Qamon, ed. Mishpehot Duʾer, Saqal, 37. On the appointment of Eytan, see ha˙ Herut (25 Tishrey 1916), 4. For the guidelines regarding his position in ˙ Damascus, see Education Committee to Eytan, Jerusalem, 18 Tishrey 1916, CZA, S2/493. 69. For a detailed description about Feigenbaum’s exile, see the attachment to Tehon’s letter to Wilshanski, Jerusalem, 05 Siwan 1918, CZA, L2/545. 70. The personnel salaries of the Hebrew schools in Damascus, undated, CZA, J90/231; Personnel of the schools and the Hebrew kindergarten in Damascus, 14 April 1918, CZA, J90/230. See also Yellin to Ruppin, Damascus, 06 March 1918 and 29 March 1918, CZA, A153/146/1; protocol of the discussions of the Migration Committee, 24 April 1918 and 22 May 1918, CZA, J90/216. 71. Eytan to Tehon, Damascus, 10 Elul 1917, CZA, S2/493. 72. The following sources are but some of the material written in the aftermath of the Damascus exile: David Yellin, ‘ʿEs´rim shirim mi-shirey “Sheʾerit Yis´raʾel” le-R’ Yis´raʾel Najarah’ [Twenty poems from “Sheʾerit Yis´raʾel” by Rabbi Israel Najara], in Jewish studies in memory of George A. Kohut, 1874– 1933, ed. Salo Wittmayer Baron and Alexander Marx (New York City, 1935), 59 – 88; Eliezer Rivlin and Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Le-Qorot ha-Yehudim be-Dammes´eq ba-meʾah ha-reviʿit la-elef ha-shishi’ [‘On the history of the Jews of Damascus in the Fourth Century of the Sixth Millennium (1540 – 1639)’], Reshumot 3 (1926/5686), 77 – 119; Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Pizmonim ahadim me-Rabbi ˙ Yaʿaqov ʿAntebi Z”L’ [‘Some hymns by Rabbi Jacob ʿAntebi, of blessed memory’], Mizrah u-Maʿarav 3 (Adar I– Adar II 1929/5689), 191– 3; idem, ˙ ‘Die Elisa Synagoge im Dshobar’ [‘The Elijah synagogue in Jobar’], ArmeeZeitung Jildirim (28 September 1918); Aviezer Yelin, ‘ʿAl ha-ketarim be-Dammes´eq [I]’ [‘On the Bible manuscripts in Damascus [I]’], Mizrah ˙ u-Maʿarav 1.1 (Av – Elul 1919/5679), 19 – 26; idem, ‘ʿAl ha-ketarim be-Dammes´eq [II]’ [‘On the Bible manuscripts in Damascus [II]’], Mizrah ˙ u-Maʿarav 1.2 (Tishrey – Kislew 1919/5680), 117– 27; see also Shlomo Tzuker, Rafael Weiser, and Rivka Plesser, eds., Tesugat megillot Torah we-sifrey TaNaKH: ˙ ha-Shayyakhim le-qehillat yosʾey Suryah be-Yis´raʾel: Beyt nas´iʾ ha-medinah, ˙ Yerushalayim, 16 be-Heshwan 761—14 be-November 2000 [An Exhibition of ˙ Torah scrolls and Bibles belonging to the Syrian community in Israel, the President’s House, Jerusalem, 14 November 2000] (Jerusalem, 2000). For Yellin’s extensive correspondence with various individuals about the ancient manuscripts in Damascus, in which he recommended purchasing them for the National Library in Jerusalem, see CZA, A153/146/1. For the catalogue of books in the religious seminaries, see Harel, ‘Qehillat Dammes´eq’, 135, 40. Parenthetically, one

NOTES TO PAGES 117 –121

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86.

301

should note that Yellin suggested to Cemal Pas¸a that he establish a large Oriental library in Damascus, under his supervision. Ultimately, the plan was never implemented. See Yellin’s lengthy memorandum to Cemal Pas¸a in this matter, Damascus, May 1917, CZA, A153/146/4. On the extensive reorganisation of the community, see Yellin, Report on my journey to Damascus, Jerusalem, Elul 1919, CZA, S2/657. Yellin to Danon and the members of the communal council, Damascus, 21 Tishrey 1918, CZA, A153/146/6. Protocol of the discussions of the local council in Damascus, Damascus, 20 August 1918, CZA, J90/216. Yellin to Yehoshua Yellin, Damascus, 26 Tishrey 1919, CZA, A153/146/10. Hadashot ha-ares (29 Tammuz 1919), 4. See also Yellin’s memoirs, ‘Athalta di˙ ˙ ˙ geʾullah’ [‘The Beginning of redemption’, in ha-Ares (27 Siwan 1928), 14. ˙ Haı¨moff, Damas, 12 January 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c; Rivlin, diary entry dated Sunday 8 Heshwan 1918, Rivlin Collection. ˙ In 1918, this society had 78 members, mostly from wealthy households. See Yellin, Report on my journey to Damascus, Jerusalem, Elul 1919, CZA, S2/657. On its work, Teachers’ Federation in Palestine, ʿAl ha-ʿavodah ha-tarbutit beDammes´eq [On the cultural enterprise in Damascus] (Damascus, 1919/5679), 9. Haı¨moff, Damas, 7 May 1919 and 8 July 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. See also David Luzia and others to Yellin, Damascus, October 1918, CZA, A153/146/14. ha-Ares (27 Siwan 1928), 14. Sokolow’s telegramme is found in CZA, ˙ A153/146/7. Danon to Sokolow, Damascus, 9 October 1918, CZA, A153/146/7. ha-ʿOlam (27 Kislew 1919), 10. Eytan to Luria, Damascus, 3 Tevet 1918, CZA, S2/493. ˙ The appointment of Samuel made a most great impression upon the Jews of Damascus. See Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Paʿamey geʾullah—Pizmoney tefillah u-tehillah le-hasharat Balfur u-minuy ha-Sir Herbert Samuʾel le-nasiv ʿelyon ˙ ˙ ˙ be-Eres Yis´raʾel’ [The Ringing of salvation—Hymns of prayer and praise for the ˙ Balfour Declaration and the appointment of Sir Herbert Samuel as high commissioner of Palestine], in Minḥah le-Avraham: Sefer yovel li-khevod Avraham Elmaliʾaḥ bi-meloʾt lo shivʿim shanah, 645– 715, ed. Moshe David Gaon and Isaac Rafael Molho (Jerusalem, 1959/5719), 40 – 8.

Chapter 4 Between Rehabilitation and Political Turmoil 1. David Yellin, Report on my journey to Damascus, Elul 1919, CZA, S2/657. 2. Elizabeth Thompson, Colonial citizens: Republican rights, paternal privilege, and gender in French Syria and Lebanon (New York City, 2000), 19– 38.

302

NOTES TO PAGES 122 –123

3. Binyamin Eliav, ha-Yishuv bi-yemey ha-bayit ha-leʾummi, 1917– 1948 [The Jewish national home from the Balfour Declaration to independence] (Jerusalem, 1979), 137. 4. Telegram from David Yellin and Efrayim Blumenfeld (David Bloch) to Dr Yaakov Tehon, Damascus, 6 October 1918, CZA, L4/53n; Blumenfeld (Bloch) and Shimʿon Levin of the Migration Committee to Meir Dizengoff and Tehon, Damascus, 16 Heshwan 1918, CZA, L2/209. ˙ 5. Tehon of the Palestine Office of the Zionist Organisation to the Zionist Commission, Jaffa, 23 October 1918, and Zionist Commission to BrigadierGeneral Gilbert Falkingham Clayton, Chief Political Officer, General Headquarters (hereafter, GHQ), 1st Echelon, 25 October 1918, CZA, L4/53n. 6. Apparently, Yellin became deeply attached psychologically to this community, perhaps also as a result of the fact that he lost his son Shemarya (1892 – 1917) in this city during the exile and buried him there. Evidence of this deep connection can be found in Yellin’s words to the Damascus public and published in Hadashot me-ha-ares (8 Heshwan 1918), 10: ‘I lost one son here, ˙ ˙ ˙ but God has provided me with many more sons in this place.’ 7. Telegram from Eder to Sokolow in London, 31 October 1918, CZA, L4/54n. 8. For further background on Mosseri, see Shlomo Barad, ‘ha-Peʿilut ha-Siyyonit ˙ be-Misrayim, 1917 – 1952’ [‘Zionist activity in Egypt, 1917 – 1952’], ˙ Shorashim ba-Mizrah 2 (1988), 71 – 4; Jack Mosseri, ‘Osarot hadashim shel ˙ ˙ ˙ kitvey yad Yehudim be-Qaʾiro’ [‘New collections of Jewish manuscripts in Cairo’], Mizrah u-Maʿarav 1.1 (Av– Elul 1919/5679), 27, note by Abraham ˙ Elmaleh. 9. The expenditure of aid money in Damascus required special permission. See, for example, the unsigned appeal to Major James Armand de Rothschild (1878– 1957), the aide to the British liaison to the Zionist commission, Major William Ormsby-Gore (1885 –1964), dated 18 November 1918, asking to distribute the funds in Damascus, CZA, L4/54n. See also the directives sent by Dr David Montagu Eder (‘MDE’) to Yellin and Mosseri in advance of their departure for Damascus, 5 December 1918, CZA, L4/54n. 10. The money originated from the Preparation Fund established simultaneously in the United States and Europe at the start of 1918 in order to fund the activities of the Zionist Commission in rebuilding the Yishuv in the aftermath of the war. The Preparation Fund was described as donations to the Zionist Organisation for the Zionist enterprise in Palestine. Later, this fund was consolidated with the Redemption Fund and their aim was defined as ‘building Palestine’. For more information on these funds, see Hagit Lavsky, Yesodot ha-taqsiv la-mifʿal ha-Siyyoni: Waʿad ha-sirim 1918– 1921 [The ˙ ˙ ˙ Foundations of Zionist Financial Policy: The Zionist Commission 1918– 1921] (Jerusalem, 1980/5741), 49. 11. This allocation to Danon was made, apparently, in order to quiet somewhat the conflict between him and the communal council over his high salary and other financial payments he demanded of the community. See, for example, the

NOTES TO PAGES 123 –128

12.

13. 14. 15.

16.

17.

18.

303

arbitration decision of the special committee established to resolve this issue already during the time when the Palestinian exiles were still residing in Damascus, Yellin to Danon and the communal council, Damascus, 21 Tishrey 1918, CZA, A153/146/6. Ultimately, the problem was solved almost entirely after the Arab governor of Damascus accepted Danon’s personal appeal to fund the chief rabbi’s salary from his official budget; see Uziel, travel notes (p. 7ff., 16), Damascus, 5679/1919, CZA, L4/51n. Damascus aid budget for January 1919—Transfer of funds made by David Yellin in Damascus, CZA, L3/619; Confirmation dated 12 Tevet 1918 of the ˙ receipt of money by the Jewish council of Damascus, CZA, L3/619. The signatories to this document include the head of the council Moses Hayyim ˙ Hazzan Totah, Meʾir ʿAbba¯dı¯ (treasurer), Salam Avraham ʿAtta¯r (treasurer). ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ On the Laniado and Totah families, see Harel, ‘Qehillat Dammes´eq’, 139– 40. ˙ ˙ ˙ On the circumstances of the opening of the pharmacy, see the chapter above, ‘Between revolution and war’. At the time of the visit of Yellin and Mosseri, the following individuals served on the council: Moses David Totah (communal president), Moses Elijah Totah, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Barukh Paʾis, Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯, Joseph Laniado, Yu¯suf Farhı¯, Moses Mawa¯s, ˙ Moses La¯lu¯, Salı¯m ʿAtta¯r, and Nathan Ata¯sh. Chief Rabbi Danon attended the ˙˙ ˙ council’s meetings. A common label for the Hebrew teachers during this time was ‘Mr Shalom’, in reference to their common greeting; see Yehoshuʿa Hameiri, ‘Be-galut Dammes´eq’ [‘In exile in Damascus’], Hed ha-hinnukh 27 ˙ (1964/5624), 6 –8. This teacher was the educator Yehoshuʿa Meʾiri. On him and his pedagogical activity, see Yehoshuʿa Meʾiri, Beḥar lekha berakhah: Sefer shimushi ḥadshani, hameʾafsher lekha le-varekh [Choose a blessing: A New handbook for benedictions] (TelAviv, 1981/5741), 4; see also Hameiri, ‘Be-galut Dammes´eq’, 6 – 8. The relations of al-Rika¯bı¯ and other Arab figures in the Arab administration of Syria after World War I with Zionists and Zionism have yet to be fully explored. Joseph Joel Rivlin, who managed the girls’ school in Damascus during this time and who maintained friendships with Rika¯bı¯ and others in the government of Faysal (1885 – 1933, r. 1920 [Syria], 1921– 33 [Iraq]), ˙ hints at this in his letter to Lord Hebert Samuel on 7 Nisan 1960, located in JMA, Joseph Joel Rivlin archive, 2715: ‘I recall when I, with my meagre strength, carried in my shoes—to hide it—a letter from Damascus brought to me by my friend and contemporary, the son of the then-Syrian minister Jamı¯l al-Ulshı¯, regarding an attack being plotted by the Arabs, at France’s initiative, on the Hawran, in order to undermine the Balfour Declaration. I saw it ˙ incumbent upon myself to bring this information to your office. Likewise, it was me who wrote a memorandum—no small one—on the proposal of ʿAlı¯ Rida¯ʾ Pa¯sha¯ al-Rika¯bı¯ to appoint himself as commissioner of eastern ˙ Transjordan, prior to the appointment of King ʿAbd-Alla¯h. ʿAlı¯ Rida¯ʾ was one ˙ of the ministers in Faysal I’s kingdom and I won much of his trust and ˙

304

19.

20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32.

NOTES TO PAGES 128 –132 friendship. This offer came after the toppling of Faysal I in Damascus . . ..’ See ˙ also Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Be-Dammes´eq’ [‘In Damascus’], Hed ha-Mizrah 8 ˙ (1949), 9. On the relations of the Jewish community with Faysal, see the ˙ following chapter. Yellin and Mosseri, ‘Report on the Jewish Community of Damascus’, CZA, L4/51n. See also Hadashot me-ha-ares (8 Shevat 1919), 10. Albert Totah, one of ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ the heads of the Zionist club, gave a festive speech in their honour, praising the activity of David Yellin and the other Palestinian exiles in Damascus during the war; see Damascus, 12 December 1919, CZA, S2/578. Yellin’s summary, CZA, L4/51n. Page of instructions to Mosseri and Uziel, 2 February 1919, CZA, L4/54n. Acting chairman of the Zionist Commission to the military governor of Damascus, 2 February 1919, CZA, L4/54n. It appears that Uziel, too, had received a deportation order to Damascus, but Cemal Pas¸a had returned him to Jerusalem; Ben Hillel ha-Kohen, Milhemet ha˙ ʿamim, vol. 2, 797, a note by the editor. Uziel to the Zionist Commission, Jaffa, 19 Adar 1919, CZA, L4/51n. The rest of the report deals with the communities of Beirut and Sidon and includes useful and important comments on communities and sites in Haifa, ʿAkko, ˙ Kafr Ya¯sı¯f, Shefarʿam, Yarka¯, and the Biqa¯ʿ. Uziel, travel notes (p. 1), Damascus, 5679/1919, CZA, L4/51n. Ibid., 2. Ibid., 3 – 4; see also Hadashot me-ha-ares (04 II Adar 1919), 11. ˙ ˙ Uziel, travel notes (p. 5), Damascus, 5679/1919, CZA, L4/51n. For more information on Hecker, see David Kroyanker, Adrikhalut “hamedinah she-ba-derekh”: Bi-reʾi yesiratam shel Heqer-Yelin [Architecture of Hecker˙ Yellin, 1945– 1920] (Jerusalem, 2006), 31 – 2. Meir Dizengoff, David Yellin, and Efrayim Blumenfeld (David Bloch) to Dr Yaakov Tehon, Jaffa, 20 Shevat 1919, CZA, L2/645. Tehon from the Palestine ˙ Office of the Zionist Organisation to the Zionist Commission, Jaffa, 26 January 1919, CZA, L2/186III. Hecker to the Zionist Commission, memorandum on the improvement of the Jewish Quarter in Damascus, Damascus, 15 February 1919, CZA, L4/51n. Ibid. In this matter, Hecker did not differ from the majority of the Palestinian exiles who stayed in Damascus during the war. Even the principal of the AIU girls’ school had raised the possibility that the exaggerated ‘Zionism’ of some of the city’s notables stemmed only from their business considerations of economic profit and loss. She claimed, for example, that Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯’s Zionism was motivated by his interest in purchasing lands and from the fact that he received a monthly stipend of 1,800 francs from the Zionist Commission and that he was a representative of the Anglo-Palestine Bank in Damascus. She concluded, ‘one becomes a fanatic Zionism for even less than that’; see Haı¨moff, Damas, 8 July 1919, 5 October 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. Nor did the British consul in Damascus hold ʿAbba¯dı¯ in high

NOTES TO PAGES 132 –136

33. 34. 35.

36. 37.

38.

39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

305

regard and described him as ‘untrustworthy and a time-server’; see Palmer to Earl Curzon, Damascus, 27 April 1921, FO 406/46. Hecker to the Zionist Commission, memorandum on the improvement of the Jewish Quarter in Damascus, Damascus, 15 February 1919, CZA, L4/51n. Lavsky, Yesodot ha-taqsiv, 81. ˙ It is my estimation that the author of the recommendation to reject this plan was Gedaliah Vilbushevich, who had served as chief engineer under Cemal Pas¸a when Damascus underwent an expansion of its open areas and an improvement of the city’s image, during World War I. Gedaliah and his brother Nahum Vilbush (1879 – 1971) headed the Industry and Public Works Office of the Zionist Commission; see unsigned, Scheme for amelioration of living conditions of Damascus Jewry, 8 July 1919, CZA, L3/48. Aside from Yellin, Mosseri, and Uziel, Eliahu Zeev Halevi Levin-Epstein (1863– 1932), then the head of the Zionist Commission, visited Damascus in February 1919; see Hadashot me-ha-ares (20 I Adar 1919), 11. ˙ ˙ Hadashot me-ha-ares (08 Shevat 1919), 10. Nissim Bey ʿAdes and Joseph ˙ ˙ ˙ ʿAbba¯dı¯ are mentioned in lists of Jewish notables in a biographical booklet prepared by British intelligence; see Who’s who in Damascus 1919 (secret), FO 371/6455, 10. ʿAdas, then forty years old, had already left his position as director of the railway and worked as the counsel and agent of the firm Smooha and Partners in Manchester. He was described by British intelligence as bright, talented, and having a positive character. Yaakov Moshli was born in Jaffa and studied mechanical engineering in Germany. In 1910, he was invited by the Ottoman government to serve as supervisor for the construction of the Hija¯z Railway, a roˆle he held also during the course of World War I and for ˙ which he even received commendations. Paʾis to the directors of the Hebrew schools in Damascus, Damascus, 9 Shevat ˙ 1919, CZA, L4/51n. A month later, for political reasons, the name of the committee was changed to the ‘Committee for Improvement of Schools, Founding of New Educational Institutions, Founding of Orphanages, and Concern for the Raising of the Physical and Intellectual Condition of the Workshops and Damascus Indigent’; see Paʾis to the Zionist Commission, Damascus, 12 II Adar 1919, CZA, L4/51n. Uziel, travel notes (p. 4), Damascus, 5679/1919, CZA, L4/51n. Paʾis to the Zionist Commission, Damascus, 12 II Adar 1919, CZA, L4/51n. Ibid. Kahanoff, Damas, 7 July 1919, AAIU, Syrie Damas XVII E, 167a. Hadashot me-ha-ares (4 II Adar 1919), 11. ˙ ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (16 Heshwan 1920), 1. ˙ Budget for Damascus, Jaffa, 5 January 1919, CZA, L4/51n. Eliav, ha-Yishuv, 139. Efron, born in Belarus, served during the war as a military doctor in the Ottoman army; see Yellin to Efron, Damascus, 13 Nisan 1917, and Efron to Yellin, 15 June 1918, CZA, A153/146/14; see also Zionist Organisation

306

48.

49. 50. 51.

52.

53. 54. 55.

56.

NOTES TO PAGES 136 –138 Palestine Executive, Derishot shalom mi-beney Eres Yis´raʾel li-qeroveyhem she-ba˙ hus la-ares [Greetings from the children of the Land of Israel to their relatives abroad] ˙ ˙ ˙ (Jaffa, 1919/5679), §517. Dr Efron’s commitment to the Zionist Commission, 20 January 1919, CZA, L4/50n. For Efron’s first report, inventory and miscellaneous statistics, see Compte du dispensaire Israe´lite de Damas pour le mois de fe´vrier 1919, CZA, L4/51n. Zionist Commission to Moses Hayyim Totah, president of the Jewish ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ community of Damascus, 21 January 1919, CZA, L4/50n. Moses Hayyim Totah to the Zionist Commission, 12 I Adar 1919, CZA, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ L4/51n. In the aftermath of the Balfour Declaration, the Italian Foreign Ministry decided to appoint two Jews to the Zionist Commission who would represent Italian interests. The two chosen for this task were Angelo Levi Bianchini (1877– 1920) and Dr Giacomo Artom, a military physician. See Sergio Itzhak Minerbi, ‘Anjelo Lewi Bianqini u-feʿilotaw [sic] ba-Mizrah (1918– 1920)’ ˙ [‘Angelo Levi Bianchini and his activity in the East (1918– 1920)’], haSiyyonut 1 (1970/5730), 296– 356; Maurice Fargeon, Me´decins et avocats juifs au ˙ service de l’E´gypte: Histoire ge´nerale depuis l’antiquite´ nos jours, suivie d’un recueil de biographies des principaux me´decins et avocats juifs d’E´gypte contemporains [ Jewish physicians and lawyers in the service of Egypt: A General history from Antiquity to the present, according to a collection of biographies of important contemporary Jewish physicians and lawyers] (Cairo, 1939), 31. Artom later served as director of the Italian hospital in Cairo, where he died in 1954. I received this information from Ms Leah Hartum of Jerusalem. A report compiled by Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯ for the representative of the Joint Distribution Committee, Rabbi Aaron Teitelbaum (1890 – 1950), also emphasises the link between unemployment and the downward spiral of the Jewish girls to the street and the spread of venereal diseases; idem, 18 Av 1919, CZA, A153/146/3. Dr Capt. Artom, Rapport sur le service sanitaire a` Damas, CZA, L4/51n. Moses Salı¯m Totah, the president of the communal council, to the Zionist ˙ ˙ ˙ Commission, Damascus, 22 July 1919, CZA, L4/51n; Kahanoff, Damas, 24 November 1919, AAIU, Syrie Damas XVII E, 167a. Burla, General survey on the condition of boys’ education in Damascus, Damascus, 1 Av 1919, CZA, S2/493. The Jerusalem Hotel, the first Jewish European hotel in Damascus and apparently its only hotel, was opened only in November – December 1919 by A B Levin of Jerusalem; see Hadashot ha-ares ˙ ˙ (20 Kislew 1919), 3. This hotel was not located in the Jewish Quarter, but on the more modern al-Hı¯ra¯b Street. Undated copy of the letter from the hahambas¸ı in Damascus, Danon, and the head of the communal council to the Jaffa municipal council, CZA, L4/54n; Moses Hayyim Totah, head of the communal council to the Zionist ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Commission in Jaffa, Damascus, 12 I Adar 1919, CZA, L4/51n.

NOTES TO PAGES 138 –141

307

57. Damascus Jewish communal council to the Zionist Commission in Jaffa, Damascus, 28 II Adar 1919, CZA, L4/55n. 58. Acting president of the Zionist Commission to the Damascus Jewish communal council, Jaffa, 8 April 1919, CZA, L4/55n. 59. Report on relief work in Damascus, Beirut and Sidon, CZA, L4/51n. For the sake of comparison, we should note that, during the comparable period, the Beirut community received the amount of 701 EGP and that of Sidon received 216 EGP. On the value of the Egyptian pound during this period, see Lavsky, Yesodot ha-taqsiv, 59 –60. ˙ 60. Damascus relief fund account, CZA, L4/51n. 61. Schlomith Frieda Flaum, Bat-Yis´raʾel nodedet: Zikhronot, massaʿot u-fegishot [Wandering daughter of Israel: Memories, travels, and meetings] (Jerusalem, 1936/5696), 85 – 96. On the life of Flaum, see Nurith Govrin, Nosaʿat almonit: Shelomit Flaʾum: Hayyim wi-ysirah [Forgotten traveler: Shlomith F Flaum: Her life ˙ ˙ and work] (Jerusalem, 2005). 62. Rivlin, Flaum, and Efron to the Zionist Commission, Damascus, 12 Tammuz 1919, CZA, L4/51n. 63. On the participation of Jewish representatives of Syria in the MiZRaHI ˙ conference in Jerusalem in Elul 1919, see Doʾar ha-yom (23 Elul 1919), 3. 64. Judah Hayyim ha-Kohen Maslaton, the head of the Waʿad Hakhmey Sedeq ˙ ˙ ˙ (Committee of Righteous Sages), David Blanco, and Mordechai Arazı¯ to the Zionist Commission, Damascus, 09 II Adar 1919, CZA, L3/619; Zionist Commission to the Mohar ha-Betulot (‘Maidens’ Dowry’) Association, 11 May 1919, CZA, L3/619. 65. On the JDC and its co-operation with the Zionist Commission, see Lavsky, Yesodot ha-taqsiv, 56. ˙ 66. For more information on Teitelbaum, see Tidhar, ed. Ensiqlopedyah, 4115– 6. ˙ 67. Hadashot ha-ares (9 Elul 1919), 3; Report to Rabbi Teitelbaum, Damascus, 18 ˙ ˙ Av 1919, CZA, A153/146/3. 68. Report to Teitelbaum (pp. 6, 8–9), Damascus, 18 Av 1919, CZA, A153/146/3. 69. Joseph ʿAbba¯dı¯ to David Yellin, Damascus, 11 September 1919, CZA, A153/146/3. 70. Hadashot ha-ares (14 Heshwan 1919), 4; ibid. (6 Tevet 1919), 4; (26 Nisan ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 1920), 3; Doʾar ha-yom (15 Tevet 1920), 4; ibid. (8 Iyyar 1920), 2. ˙ 71. Doʾar ha-yom (27 Elul 1919), 1. 72. Report from the meeting of the Palestine Education Committee in Damascus, Damascus, 04 Heshwan 1918), CZA, A153/146/3. ˙ 73. David Yellin to Ittel Yellin, Jerusalem, 11 Kislew 1918, CZA A153/146/10. On Ka¯mil Arazı¯, one of the graduates of the seminary, see Rivlin to Yellin, Damascus, 18 Tammuz 1921, CZA, A153/146/6. 74. Yellin to Paʾis, Jerusalem, 28 Tevet 1918, CZA, L4/50n. ˙ 75. Yellin to Arazı¯, Damascus, 12 Tishrey 1918, and Arazı¯ to Yellin, Damascus, undated, CZA, A153/146/3.

308

NOTES TO PAGES 142 –144

76. The need for the opening of a Hebrew girls’ school was already recognised from the time when Elmaleh directed the Hebrew national school in Damascus. Yis´raʾel Eytan repeatedly mentioned this matter in his letters to the Palestinian Education Committee back in 5677/1917. Indeed, during the period of exile, the deported teachers attempted to found a girls’ school in the summer of 1918, but it closed and thereafter operated only irregularly until the arrival of Rivlin; see Eytan to the Education Committee, Damascus, 5 Nisan 1917, and Report of Joseph Joel Rivlin on the girls’ school in Damascus, Damascus, 12 Av 1919, CZA, S2/493. 77. See Qadimah club committee to the Education Committee, Damascus, 12 Shevat 1919, and Barukh Paʾis to Luria, Damascus, undated, CZA, S2/657. ˙ Eytan himself claimed that the head of the Hebrew institutions should be ‘specifically a European man, of broad intellect and better knowledge of French than the Alliancists here’; see Eytan to Luria, Damascus, 3 Tevet 1918, CZA, ˙ S2/493. 78. Teachers’ Federation in Palestine, ha-ʿAvodah ha-tarbutit, 9. 79. Burla to Luria, Damascus, 01 Shevat 1919, CZA, S2/493. Burla and his work ˙ were so etched into the memory of the Damascus community that the years in which he lived and work there were later termed the ‘Burla period’; see M Berger, ‘ʿIvrit be-Dammes´eq’ [‘Hebrew in Damascus’], ʿAm we-sefer (Elul 1944/5704), 40. For a depiction of Burla, Rivlin, and the rest of the educators as ‘angels from heaven’ in the consciousness of their students, see Menahem ˙ Luzia, ‘Sheloshet ha-meʾorot be-qehillat Yehudey Dammes´eq’ [‘The Three leading lights of the Jewish community of Damascus’], Ba-maʿarakhah 11.4/124 (1971/5731), 20. 80. On the progression of the plan to absorb the old religious schools into the Hebrew institutions and for the primary correspondence on this matter, see Teachers’ Federation in Palestine, ha-ʿAvodah ha-tarbutit, 6– 16. 81. For a summation of the numbers of students and the arrangements put into practice at the schools, see Sehayik, ‘ha-Hinnukh ha-ʿIvri’, 32. ˙ 82. Yenni, Damas, 27 October 1918, AAIU, Syrie XXI E, Damas, 223; Loupo, Damas, 27 June 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c; Haı¨moff, Damas, 12 January 1919 and 7 May 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c; Kahanoff, Damas, 7 July 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. For more on the struggle between the Hebrew and AIU schools, see Menachem, ‘Yehudey Suryah u-Levanon’, 80 – 3. 83. Haı¨moff, Damas, 12 January 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas 151c. 84. Hadashot ha-ares (10 Heshwan 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ ˙ 85. A list of places of operation outside the framework of the schools appears in Sehayik, ‘ha-Hinnukh ha-ʿIvri’, 33. ˙ 86. Rivlin, Report on the girls’ school in Damascus, Damascus, 12 Av 1919, CZA, S2/493. 87. Menachem, ‘Yehudey Suryah u-Levanon’, 108. 88. Hadashot ha-ares (10 Av 1919). ˙ ˙

NOTES TO PAGES 145 –146

309

89. Rivlin to Yellin, Damascus, 25 Iyyar 1919, CZA, A153/146/3. 90. Education Committee to Rivlin, Jerusalem, 18 Nisan 1919, CZA, S2/657; Burla, General survey of the situation of boys’ education in Damascus, Damascus, 1 Av 1919, CZA, S2/493. 91. See the poem by the poet Jamı¯l Sidqı¯ al-Zaha¯wı¯ (1863– 1936), cited in Albert ˙ Habib Hourani, Syria and Lebanon, a political essay (London, 1946), 269. For further elaboration of this issue, see Mustafa¯ Tala¯s, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah ˙ ˙˙ al-kubra¯ [The Great Arab revolt] (Damascus, 1987), 263. 92. On the foreign interest in Syria before and after the war, which led to the granting of assurances to the rule of Faysal in Damascus, see Hourani, Syria ˙ and Lebanon, 146– 62. On the arrival of Faysal to Damascus after the war and ˙ his activity there up until the official start of his reign, see Kha¯lid al-ʿAzm, ˙ Mudhakkira¯t Kha¯lid al-ʿAzm [Remembrances of Kha¯lid al-ʿAzm] (Beirut, 1972), 88 – 107; Qadrı¯ Qalʿajı¯, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, 1916– 1925 [The Great Arab revolt, 1916– 1925] (Beirut, 1993), 259. For further exploration of the period of Faysal’s rule in Damascus, see Yu¯suf al-Hakı¯m, Su¯riyyah wa-ʾl˙ ˙ ʿahd al-Faysalı¯ [Syria under Faysal] (Beirut, 1980); Sa¯tiʿ al-Husrı¯, Yawm ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Maysalu¯n: Safhah min taʾrı¯kh al-ʿArab al-hadı¯th: Mudhakkira¯t musawwarah bi˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ muqaddimah ʿan tana¯zuʿ al-duwal hawla al-bila¯d al-ʿArabiyyah wa-mudhayyalah ˙ bi-watha¯ʾiq wa-suwar [The Battle-day of Maysalu¯n] (Beirut, 1965); Khairia ˙ Kasmieh, al-Huku¯mah al-ʿArabiyyah fı¯ Dimashq bayn 1918– 1920 [The Arab ˙ government in Damascus between 1918– 1920] (Cairo, 1971); Malcolm B Russell, The First modern Arab state: Syria under Faysal, 1918– 1920 (Minneapolis, 1985); Zeine N Zeine, The Struggle for Arab independence: Western diplomacy and the rise and fall of Faisal’s kingdom in Syria (Beirut, 1960). See also the following chapter. 93. Shimoni, Medinot ʿArav, 110– 3; Tala¯s, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, ˙ 289– 92. See also below. 94. For extensive elaboration of the circumstances of Felman’s mission, see Nakdimon Rogel, ‘ha-Ish shel Weysman be-Dammes´eq: Le-Parashat shelihuto ˙ ˙ shel Dr Shlomoh Felman la-hasero shel Faysal, September 1919– Yuli 1920’ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘Weizmann’s man in Damascus: Dr Shlomo Felman’s mission to Faysal’s ˙ court, September 1919– July 1920’], ha-Siyyonut 8 (1983/5743), 289– 92. On ˙ the contacts between the Zionist movement and Arab activists in Syria before 1918, see Eliezer Tauber, ‘Yahas ha-leʾummiyyim ha-Surim la-tenuʿah ha˙ Siyyonit ʿad tom milhemet ha-ʿolam ha-riʾshonah’ [‘The Attitude of Syrian ˙ ˙ nationalists towards the Zionist movement until the end of World War I’], Historyah Yehudit 5 (Autumn 1991/5751), 7 – 24. For more information on the ˙ Zionist – Arab negotiations during this period, see Mayir Verete´, ‘ha-Mas´a umatan ha-Siyyoni – ʿArvi be-aviv 1919 we-ha-mediniyyut ha-Anglit’ [‘The ˙ Zionist – Arab negotiations in the Spring of 1919 and the English policy’], Siyyon 32 (1967/5727), 76 – 115; Evyatar Friesel, ha-Mediniyyut ha-Siyyonit le˙ ˙ ahar hasharat Balfur: 1917– 1922 [Zionist policy after the Balfour Declaration: ˙ ˙ 1917– 1922] (Tel-Aviv, 1977/5737), 60 – 2. See also below.

310

NOTES TO PAGES 146 –150

95. Menachem, ‘Yehudey Suryah u-Levanon’, 188– 9. Menachem also began his discussion of the question of the ‘dual loyalty’ of Syrian and Lebanese Jews only with the Syrian public preparations for the arrival of the King-Crane Commission; see also below. On the mood of Damascus in the period following the British occupation, see Kurd ʿAlı¯, Khitat al-Sha¯m, vol. 3, 169– ˙ ˙ 71; Ameen Fares Rihani, Faysal al-awwal [Faysal I] (Beirut, 1934), 26 – 7; ˙ ˙ Tibawi, Modern history of Syria, 305– 30; Tala¯s, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al˙ kubra¯, 335– 7. 96. See Moshe Medzini, ʿEs´er shanim shel mediniyut Eresyis´reʾeli [Ten years of Palestine ˙ politics] (Tel-Aviv, 1928/5688), 70– 1. 97. On the circumstances of the founding of this club, see Yehoshua Porath, Semihat ha-tenuʿah ha-leʾummit ha-ʿArvit – ha-Palestinaʾit, 1918– 1929 [The ˙ ˙ ˙ Emergence of the Palestinian-Arab national movement, 1918– 1929] (Jerusalem, 1971/5731), 62 – 3. See also Eliezer Tauber, ‘Waʿadat King-Qreyn be-Eres ˙ Yis´raʾel—Tazkir sodi’ [‘The King-Crane Commission in Palestine—A Secret memorandum’], Qatedrah 69 (1994/5754), 32 – 3, 138 – 41; idem, The Formation of modern Syria and Iraq, transl. Joseph A Reif (Ilford/Portland, 1995), 79 – 90. 98. This protest letter was largely adopted as the second document drafted at the first congress of the Muslim– Christian Associations in Jerusalem, which began operating on 1 February 1919; see Porath, Semihat ha-tenuʿah, 64 – 6; ˙ ˙ Tauber, Modern Syria and Iraq, 82 – 3. 99. Uziel, travel notes (p. 4), Damascus, 5679/1919, CZA, L4/51n. 100. Ibid. 101. Nevertheless, the Arab stance was not uniform and there were numerous differences of opinion in various aspects. The only matter in which they were of one mind was in their opposition to the establishment of a Jewish national home in Palestine; see Tauber, ‘Waʿadat King-Qreyn’, 122– 32; Tala¯s, ˙ al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, 337– 8; Qalʿajı¯, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, 305. On the commission itself, see Harry Nicholas Howard, The King-Crane Commission: An American inquiry in the Middle East (Beirut, 1963); Esco Foundation for Palestine, Palestine: A Study of Jewish, Arab, and British policies (New Haven, 1949), 213–22. 102. See Elmaleh, Lecture on my journey to the cities of Syria, Av 1919, CZA, L3/13Ia-b. An announcement by al-Na¯dı¯ al-ʿArabı¯ called for all the city’s Arabs to come and protest before the American commission; see Tauber, Agudot hashaʾiyyot, 141– 2. ˙ 103. Pe´titions juillet 1919, AECPC, Se´rie ‘E’, Levant 1918 –1940, Sous Se´rie SyrieLiban-Cilicie, vol. 43. 104. Elmaleh, Lecture on my journey to the cities of Syria, Av 1919, CZA, L3/13Ia-b. 105. Kahanoff, despite between an Alliancist, was a Palestinian and was even one of those exiled to Damascus at the end of World War I. He also complained severely about the anti-Zionist activity of Haı¨moff, the principal of the AIU

NOTES TO PAGES 150 –157

106. 107.

108.

109.

110. 111.

112. 113. 114.

311

girls’ school, and her husband; see the chapter below, ‘Between France and Zion’ and also the entry on Kahanoff in Tidhar, ed. Ensiqlopedyah, 3308. ˙ Elmaleh, Lecture on my journey to the cities of Syria, Av 1919, CZA, L3/13Ia-b. Ibid. In one account, it is even reported that the chief rabbi demanded the absolute separation of Palestine from Syria and the establishment of a Jewish state as a British protectorate; see Cousse au Haut Commissaire de la Re´publique Francaise, Damas, 9 July 1919, AECPC, Se´rie ‘E’, Levant 1918– 1940, Sous Se´rie Syrie-Liban-Cilicie, vol. 14. Elmaleh to Professor Harry Friedenwald (1864– 1950), Damascus, 27 June 1919, CZA, Z4/1392I/B. Nevertheless, one must note that the ten-member Syrian nationalist delegation included one Jew, Joseph Laniado; see the Schedule of Commission appointments and events, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2343/C1. A phenomenon worthy of mention is Arab historiography’s total disregard for the appearance of the Jewish delegation before the commission. In the Arabiclanguage studies that I have examined, I could find no mention of it. One should note that no representative of the Jewish community participated in Faysal’s first meeting with leaders of the various Syrian communities in ˙ April 1919. The available sources listing the names of the participants in this meeting and their comments, do not reveal whether the Jews were invited or whether they did not attend for other reasons; see Qalʿajı¯, al-Thawrah alʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, 294– 303. Nevertheless, Faysal himself, already in his ˙ acceptance speech for the welcome given him in Damascus on 3 October 1918, announced that, as far as he was concerned, no distinction would be made between the Muslim Arabs, the Christians, and the Jews along religious lines; see Hourani, Syria and Lebanon, 271– 2. This is expanded upon in the following chapter. Hadashot ha-ares (10 Av 1919). ˙ ˙ The delegation that was supposed to meet Faysal in Damascus in May 1919 ˙ would have included Eder, Mosseri, and the American Zionist Robert Szold (1889– 1977). On the attempts at meeting and the strategic planning underlying them, see Rogel, ‘ha-Ish shel Weysman be-Dammes´eq’, 279– 84. ˙ Paʾis to the Zionist Commission, by Yellin and Mosseri, Jerusalem, 12 Av 1919, CZA, L4/51n. Yellin, Report on my journey to Damascus, Elul 1919, CZA, S2/657. Frankfurter (1882– 1965) was one of the heads of American Zionism. Ibid.

Chapter 5 Between Zion and Arab 1. Doʾar ha-yom (18 November 1919), 3. 2. Ibid. (18 Heshwan 1919), 2. ˙

312

NOTES TO PAGES 157 –160

3. See Tauber, Modern Syria and Iraq, 49 – 67. 4. On the development of this secular conception, see Hourani, Syria and Lebanon, 81 –3. 5. Maʿoz, Suryah ha-hadashah, 54. Newspapers that later published articles ˙ calling to impair minority rights were closed by order of the authorities; see Lt Colonel Cousse, liaison office in Damascus, to the High Commissioner of the French Republic in Syria and Armenia, Damascus, 16 June 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth: Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2343/C1. 6. These matters were published in an official announcement in the newspaper Lisa¯n al-ʿArab (4 October 1918), 3. See also al-Husrı¯, Yawm Maysalu¯n, 194– 5; ˙ ˙ Amı¯n Saʿı¯d, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯—Taʾrı¯kh mufassal ja¯miʿ li-l˙˙ qadiyyah al-ʿArabiyyah fı¯ rubʿ qarn [The Great Arab revolt—A Collected detailed ˙ history of the Arab cause in a quarter century] (Cairo, 1934), 10. 7. Kurd ʿAlı¯, Khitat al-Sha¯m, vol. 3, 170. For a survey of the political parties ˙ ˙ operating in Syria between 1918 and 1920, see Suhaylah Rı¯ma¯wı¯, al-Hukm al˙ hizbı¯ fı¯ Su¯riyya¯: Ayya¯m al-ʿahd al-Faysalı¯, 1918– 1920 [The Party rule in Syria: ˙ ˙ The Days of the Faysal era, 1918– 1920] (ʿAmma¯n, 1998), 23 – 64. 8. The Laniado family was part of the aristocracy of Jewish Damascene society; see Harel, ‘Qehillat Dammes´eq’, 139. Laniado himself was described in British intelligence reports as 45 years of age and as the richest Jew in the city, a banker and money-lender; see Who’s who in Damascus 1919 (secret), FO 371/6455, 10. In her discussion on the members of the SNC, Kasmieh did not mention the Jewish representative at all; idem, al-Huku¯mah al-ʿArabiyyah, ˙ 108– 10. I do not know if this was for lack of knowledge or whether this was an intentional omission. In any event, even though Laniado was very rich, his relationship with the Jewish community was very weak and he was not involved in it; see ha-Ares (22 July 1920), 3. When he announced his ˙ candidacy in 1934 for the communal council, he did not receive even one vote; see Information no. 38/ss, Damascus, 5 September 1934, AECADN, Mandat Syrie– Liban, Beyrouth, Cabinet politique, Inv. 5, 610/F4. Laniado appeared before the King-Crane Commission as one of the ten representatives of Damascus—not as part of the Jewish delegation. For more on his political activity in these years and later, see Palmer to Earl Curzon, Damascus, 2 April 1921, FO 406/46; Salma¯ al-Haffa¯r al-Kuzbarı¯, Lutfı¯ al-Haffa¯r, 1885– 1968: ˙ ˙ ˙ Mudhakkira¯thu, haya¯tuhu wa-ʿasrih [Lutfı¯ al-Haffa¯r, 1885 – 1968: His ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ remembrances, his life, and his times] (London/Beirut, 1997), 178, 269; Philip Shukry Khoury, Syria and the French Mandate: The politics of Arab nationalism, 1920– 1945 (Princeton, 1987), 259, Tables 3 – 10. 9. See the captions below the photographs of Laniado and the other members of the Congress in the bulletin reproduced by Pierre Fournie´ and Jean-Louis Riccioli, La France et le Proche-Orient, 1916– 1946: Une chronique photographique de la pre´sence française en Syrie et au Liban, en Palestine, au Hedjaz et en Cilicie [France and the Near East, 1916– 1946: A Photographic chronicle of the French

NOTES TO PAGES 160 –164

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

313

presence in Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, the Hijaz, and Cicilia] (Tournai, 1996), 67; Khoury, Syria and the French Mandate. See also al-Hakı¯m, Su¯riyyah, 90 – 4; ˙ Saʿı¯d, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, 201– 25. On the meaning of this step and its significance, see al-Husrı¯, Yawm Maysalu¯n, ˙ ˙ 96; Kasmieh, al-Huku¯mah al-ʿArabiyyah, 126– 9. ˙ al-Husrı¯, Yawm Maysalu¯n, 257. ˙ ˙ The draft of the constitution is provided by Hasan al-Amı¯n, Sira¯t al-istiqla¯l fı¯ ˙ bala¯d ash-Sha¯m, 1918– 1920 [The Cost of independence in Greater Syria, 1918– 1920] (Beirut, 1998), 169– 90. See also Zeine, Struggle for Arab independence, 148– 51. For a description of the coronation ceremony of Faysal, see al-Difa¯ʿ ˙ (9 March 1920). On the composition of the government and its founding principles, see Rı¯ma¯wı¯, al-Hukm al-hizbı¯ fı¯ Su¯riyya¯, 213– 5. ˙ ˙ Hourani, Syria and Lebanon, 54. A version of the ultimatum appears in alHusrı¯, Yawm Maysalu¯n, 284– 92; al-Amı¯n, Sira¯t al-istiqla¯l, 239– 46. ˙ ˙ For the resolutions issued by the SNC, see al-Husrı¯, Yawm Maysalu¯n, 259– 60. ˙ ˙ Hourani, Syria and Lebanon, 54; al-Husrı¯, Yawm Maysalu¯n, 139– 44; David ˙ ˙ Fromkin, A Peace to end all peace: Creating the modern Middle East, 1914– 1922 (London, 1989), 438– 9. Chaim Weizmann, Massah u-maʿas´: Zikhronot hayyaw shel nes´iʾ Yis´raʾel [Trial ˙ and error: The Autobiography of Chaim Weizmann], transl. Asher Barash (Jerusalem, 1949/5709), 231. On the British in Faysal’s life, see Yaʿqu¯b Yu¯suf ˙ Ku¯riyyah, Inkilı¯z fı¯ haya¯t Faysal al-Awwal [The English in the life of Faysal I] ˙ ˙ ˙ (ʿAmma¯n, 1988). Medzini, ʿEs´er shanim, 60. Weizmann, Massah u-maʿas´, 233– 4. One Syrian historiographical approach claims that Weizmann misinterpreted Faysal’s words; see, for example, ˙ Kasmieh, al-Huku¯mah al-ʿArabiyyah, 43. ˙ See, for example, his conversation with a Reuters reporter on 12 December 1918, reproduced in Chaim Merchavia, ed. ha-Siyyonut: Osar ha-teʿudot ha˙ ˙ politiyyot be-seruf maftehot [Zionism: A Collection of political documents with indexes] ˙ ˙ ˙ (Jerusalem, 1943/5704), 143– 4. See also Christopher Sykes, Me-Balfur ʿad Bewin: Maʾavaqim ʿal Eres-Yis´raʾel [Crossroads to Israel, 1917– 1948], transl. ˙ Shlomo Gonen (Tel-Aviv, 1966), 40 – 1. Thus, for example, in one of his letters to Allenby, apparently prior to May 1920, he emphasised that Palestine was an inseparable part of Syria in all respects, including according to British promises. The Muslim and Christian Syrian Arab population was unwilling to accept the separation of Palestine and the establishment of a Jewish national home. He continued: As regards question of my acquiescence to creation of a national home for Jews in Palestine I believe there is some misunderstanding; all that I have admitted is to safeguard rights of Jews in that country as much as rights of indigenous Arab inhabitants are safeguarded and to allow some rights and privileges . . . (Copy of Emir Feisal’s reply to Lord

314

NOTES TO PAGES 164 –166 Allenby, undated, AECPC, Se´rie ‘E’, Levant 1918– 1940, Sous Se´rie Syrie-Liban-Cilicie, vol. 28.)

22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

For a detailed summation of Faysal’s policy in this regard, see Rogel, ‘ha-Ish ˙ shel Weysman be-Dammes´eq’, 279– 87. ˙ Arab historiography argues that Faysal signed the agreement because he had ˙ been deceived by his British advisors. Moreover, Kurd ʿAlı¯ claimed that he learned later from someone in the emir’s entourage that the British Colonel Thomas Edward (T E) Lawrence had presented him with a letter to sign in English. Faysal, who considered Lawrence his confidant, did not even bother to ˙ read the letter, which contained pro-Zionist statements and was later sent to the American Zionist leader Felix Frankfurter; see Kurd ʿAlı¯, Khitat al-Sha¯m, ˙ ˙ 220. See also Sulayma¯n Mu¯sa¯, al-Harakah al-ʿArabiyyah: Sirat al-marhalah al˙ ˙ u¯la¯ li-ʾl-nahdah al-ʿArabiyyah al-hadı¯thah, 1908– 1924 [The Arab national ˙ ˙ movement: History of the first stage of the modern Arab renaissance, 1908–1924] (Beirut, 1986), 438. See, for example, Eliezer Tauber, ‘Heskem beyn ha-miflagah ha-leʾummit haSurit la-tenuʿah ha-Siyyonit, Mars 1920’ [‘An Agreement between the Syrian ˙ Nationalist Part and the Zionist movement, March 1920’], Qatedrah 97 (2000/5761), 149– 56; Elyakim Rubinstein, ‘Qawim le-toldot ha-ʿamadot ha-Siyyoniyyot ba-sikhsukh ha-Yehudi– Arvi ʿad shenat 1936’ [An Outline ˙ of Zionist positions on the Jewish-Arab conflict before 1936], in ha-Siyyonut ˙ we-ha-sheʾelah ha-ʿArvit: Qoves maʾamarim, ed. Yitshak Cohen (Jerusalem, ˙ 1996), 47 – 8. Kasmieh, al-Huku¯mah al-ʿArabiyyah, 111. ˙ Abdul Karim Rafeq, ‘Arabism, society, and economy in Syria, 1918– 1920’, in State and society in Syria and Lebanon, ed. Youssef M Choueiri (Exeter, 1993), 14. Felman’s report, 31 October 1919, Damascus, CZA, L4/52; al-Mufı¯d (23 November 1919). Meinertzhagen to Earl Curzon, Cairo, 10 November 1919, FO 406/41. Felman’s report, 11 November 1919, Damascus, CZA, L4/52. Hadashot ha-ares (12 December 1919), 3. On the Committee for National ˙ ˙ Defence, see Tauber, Modern Syria and Iraq, 68 – 78. Hadashot ha-ares (29 December 1919), 3. See also below. ˙ ˙ Rafeq, ‘Arabism, society, and economy’, 11 – 2. Cousse to Picot, Damascus, 21 November 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth: Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2343/C1. Despite this, the adherence of the Zionist Jews to the idea of return to their homeland was often used as a model by the Syrian nationalists to arouse the Arab public to fight on behalf of an independent Syria. For example, a public call to the Syrian public on the eve of the British withdrawal stated: See the Jews, misfortunate and dispersed, awaking now in order to declare Palestine as the land of their fathers and forefathers. Shall you

NOTES TO PAGES 166 –169

315

not imitate the Jews? Do you not wish to safeguard the country of your ancestors who repelled bravely the Crusader onslaught in the days of Sala¯h ad-Dı¯n? Why should you not go charging to fend off their ˙ ˙ today? The Jews, who have nothing, wish to create a kingdom attacks and you, who already possess your land, given to you by your noble ancestors, know therefore that you must protect it and safeguard it despite the colonialists. At least take the Jews’ example (suivez a` tout le moins l’example des juifs). (AECADN, Mandat Syrie –Liban, Beyrouth: Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2344/C1.) 34. Kahanoff, Damascus, 11 February 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Moses Hayyim Totah to the Zionist Commission, Damascus, 4 Adar 1920, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ CZA, L3/110; Yis´raʾel (30 [sic] Tammuz 1920), 3. 35. Danon to the president of the AIU, Damascus, 9 January 1920, AAIU, Syrie I B 5, Damas. 36. Doʾar ha-yom (26 April 1920), p. 2; Hadashot ha-ares (26 February 1920), 3. ˙ ˙ 37. Report from Felman to Weizmann, Damascus, 23 April 1920, CZA, Z4/16078; Medzini identified the day following the coronation of Faysal as a ˙ turning point after which they began to hear calls against all the Jews and not just against the Zionist during Arab protests in Jaffa and Jerusalem; idem, ʿEs´er shanim, 113. 38. Doʾar ha-yom (19 April 1920), 2. 39. Translation of a supplement to the newspaper Hermon (vol. 35), published in ˙ Damascus in May 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth: Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2343/C1. 40. Felman to Weizmann, Damascus, 23 April 1920, CZA, Z4/16078. 41. Hadashot ha-ares (30 December 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ 42. Kahanoff, Damascus, 11 February 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Haı¨moff, Damascus, 24 June 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. For a detailed description of such a meeting, see Flaum, Bat-Yis´raʾel nodedet, 90 – 3. 43. Kahanoff, Damascus, 11 February 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Haı¨moff, Damascus, 13 November 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. 44. ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq (5 July 1920), 2. ˙ 45. Doʾar ha-yom (16 June 1920), 2. 46. Doʾar ha-yom (27 February 1920), p. 3. On the blacklist, see Tauber, Modern Syria and Iraq, 73. 47. Doʾar ha-yom (8 August 1921), 2. See also Yaron Harel, ‘Beyn merkaz leperiferyah: Histamkhutam shel ha-mehagrim ha-Surim be-Argentinah ʿal ˙ hakhmey qehillot ha-mosaʾ (1905– 1948)’ [‘Between heartland and periphery: ˙ ˙ The Reliance of Syrian emigrants in Argentina upon the rabbis of their origin communities (1905 – 1948)’], Peʿamim (forthcoming). 48. Doʾar ha-yom (18 November 1919), 3. The testimony of a French official supports on the one hand the claims of Sasson, reporting that, a few days prior to the protest, al-Muzaffar and other Muslim notables approached the Greek ˙ Catholic patriarch in order to enlist the Christians in the struggle. They did

316

49. 50.

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73.

NOTES TO PAGES 169 –176 not speak with the chief rabbi Danon. On the other hand, another report from the same official states that Jews and Orthodox Christians were ordered to participate in this demonstration, while it was the Catholics who did not take part. See Cousse a` Picot, Damascus, 5 November 1919 and 10 November 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie-Liban, Beyrouth: Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2344/C1. Cousse a` Picot, Damascus, 17 November 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth: Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2344/C1. Hadashot ha-ares (23 November 1919), 3; see also Efron to Mosseri, Haifa, 26 ˙ ˙ ˙ Heshwan 1919, CZA, L3/48. On Joseph Joel Rivlin’s relationship with al˙ Muzaffar, see Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Beyt Hashem be-meʿarbolet’ [‘The ˙ Hashimite House in a windstorm’], Hed ha-Mizrah 20 (1950), 4. ˙ Burla to Luria, Damascus, 27 Tevet 1920, CZA, S2, 578. It is possible that the ˙ students of the AIU school were banished from the protest owing to the institution’s French orientation. Doʾar ha-yom (11 November 1919), 4. Ibid. (28 November 1919), 4. Hadashot ha-ares (3 February 1920), 4. ˙ Ibid. (4 July 1920), 4. Doʾar ha-yom (30 April 1920), 2. Hadashot ha-ares (13 May 1920), 4. ˙ ˙ Yis´raʾel (30 [sic] Tammuz 1920), 3. Burla to Luria, Damascus, 2 Siwan 1920, CZA, S2/578. ha-Mizrah (9 July 1920), 1. ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (21 July 1920), 2; see also Kahanoff, Damascus, 18 August 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. Hadashot ha-ares (18 April 1920), 4. ˙ ˙ On the departure of the teachers prior to the British withdrawal, see below. Doʾar ha-yom (21 July 1920), 2; ha-Ares (21 July 1920), 4. ˙ ha-Ares (27 July 1920), 4. ˙ Ibid. Doʾar ha-yom (25 July 1920), 3. Ibid. (27 July 1920), 2. On the patrols, see Kahanoff, Damascus, 18 August 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. ha-Ares (22 July 1920), 3. ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (27 July 1920), 3. ha-Ares (23 July 1920), 3 – 4. On the Jews who escaped from Faysal’s army, see ˙ ˙ ʿOvadyah Kohen to the immigration office management by the Zionist Commission, Jerusalem, 21 Tammuz 1920, CZA, L3/662. The matter caused resentment amongst some of the Jewish public in Damascus, but the Zionist reporter, Joseph Joel Rivlin, judges the communal leaders favourably. See ha-Ares (1 August 1920), 3. ˙ Cioeta, ‘Ottoman censorship’, 167– 86.

NOTES TO PAGES 176 –183

317

74. Kasmieh, al-Huku¯mah al-ʿArabiyyah, 261. For a broad survey of the Syrian ˙ press during the period of Faysal, see ibid., 247– 9. ˙ 75. See Ami Ayalon, Toldot ha-ʿittonut ha-ʿArvit [History of the Arabic press] (Jerusalem, 2000), 105. 76. On the reaction of Chaim Weizmann to this incitement, see Rogel, ‘ha-Ish shel Weysman be-Dammes´eq’, 287. ˙ 77. Doʾar ha-yom (6 January 1920), 4. 78. Doʾar ha-yom (5 Heshwan 1919), 3; Yis´raʾel (30 [sic] Tammuz 1920), 3. ˙ 79. Doʾar ha-yom (14 Heshwan 1919), 2 – 3. ˙ 80. Doʾar ha-yom (26 April 1920), 3. 81. Hadashot ha-arets [The News of the land] 301 (30 June 1920), p. 3. 82. On the damage suffered by the Alliance institutions during the course of the war, see Yaron Harel, ‘“Me-hurban Yafo nivnetah Dammes´eq”—ha-Mifgash ˙ beyn goley Eres Yis´raʾel le-qehillat Dammes´eq we-tosʾotaw’ [‘The Encounter ˙ ˙ of Exiles from Palestine with Damascus Jewry in the twentieth century’], Siyyon 61.2 (1996/5756), 190. ˙ 83. Menachem, ‘Yehudey Suryah u-Levanon’, 80 – 3. 84. Hadashot ha-ares (10 Heshwan 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ 85. Doʾar ha-yom (18 Heshwan 1919), 2. ˙ 86. Doʾar ha-yom (13 Heshwan 1919), 2 – 3. ˙ 87. On the Deauville Agreement, see Hourani, Syria and Lebanon, 53. 88. Cousse to Picot, Damascus, 3 September 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2344/C1. 89. Doʾar ha-yom (24 November 1919), 3. 90. Cousse to Picot, Damascus, 17 November 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2344/C1. 91. Report by Yehuda Burla, no. 356, [28 Heshwan 1919?], CZA, S2/578. ˙ 92. Dr Efron to Mosseri, Haifa, 26 Heshwan 1919, CZA, L3/48. ˙ ˙ 93. Kahanoff, Damascus, 2 December 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Haı¨moff, Damascus, 16 December 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, 151c. For French reports on the impending danger following from the departure of the British forces without waiting for the entry of another military force to replace them, see Cousse to Picot, Damascus, 6 October 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie– Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2344/C1. 94. Dr Efron to Mosseri, Haifa, 26 Heshwan 1919, CZA, L3/48. ˙ ˙ 95. Hadashot ha-ares (23 November 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ 96. The teachers in Damascus to Luria, Damascus, 3 Kislew 1919, CZA, S2/578. 97. Sasson to Elmaleh, Damascus, 9 Kislew 1919, CZA, S2/578; Rivlin to Yellin, Damascus, 9 Kislew 1919, CZA, A153/146/3. 98. Education Committee to the teachers in Damascus, 28 Heshwan 1919, CZA, ˙ S2/578. 99. The teachers of the Hebrew schools to Luria, Damascus, 2 Kislew 1919, CZA, S2/578.

318

NOTES TO PAGES 184 –191

100. Report by Yehuda Burla, no. 356, [28 Heshwan 1919?], with an addendum from 1 Kislew 1919, CZA, S2/578. 101. See, for example, Doʾar ha-yom (18 September 1919), 3; ha-ʿOlam (7 Heshwan 1919), 14. 102. Hadashot ha-arets (28 December 1919), 4. See also the report by Yu¯suf Farhı¯ in ˙ Palestine, 30 [sic] Tammuz 1920, 3. 103. Rogel, ‘ha-Ish shel Weysman be-Dammes´eq’, 299. ˙ 104. Doʾar ha-yom (29 Adar 1920), 2. The idea to found an Arabic or Arabic – Hebrew newspaper in Palestine was discussed even prior to World War I in the pages of the Hebrew press. See, for example, Herut (8 September 1911), 2. 105. Haı¨moff, Damascus, 13 November 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, 151c. 106. See Rivlin, ‘Beyt Hashem’, 4. 107. Doʾar ha-yom (1 January 1920), 2. See also ha-ʿOlam (1 Adar 1920), 18; and also the speech by Mosheh Sevi on the founding of ha-Mizrah, in CZA, L3/45/6. ˙ ˙ 108. Sevi to Luria, Damascus, 21 Iyyar 1920, CZA, S2/578; ha-Ares (28 December ˙ ˙ 1919), 4, and (30 December 1919), 3. 109. Hadashot ha-ares (26 February 1920), 3. ˙ ˙ 110. Doʾar ha-yom (23 March 1920), 2, and (27 May 1920), 2. 111. Hadashot ha-ares (14 April 1920), 3. ˙ 112. Sevi to Rivlin, Damascus, 17 Nisan 1920, Harʾel Collection. See also Kahanoff ˙ to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 19 July 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Rivlin, ‘Beyt Hashem’, 4. 113. Doʾar ha-yom (23 March 1920), 2. 114. ha-Ares (7 July 1920), 3. ˙ 115. ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq (5 July 1920), 1. ˙ 116. Ibid. 117. Ibid. 118. The full version was published simultaneously; see Joseph Joel Rivlin, ‘Letoldot ha-defus be-Eres Yis´raʾel we-Surya’ [‘A History of printing in the Land ˙ of Israel and Syria’], Mizrah u-Maʿarav 1 (1920/5680), 104– 9. 294– 7. ˙ 119. Alhalel, Damascus, 3 June 1906, AAIU, Syrie XI E, Damas, 101b; Farhi, 5 June 1907, AAIU, Syrie XV E, Damas, 142a. 120. See Hameiri, ‘Be-galut Dammes´eq’. 121. Doʾar ha-yom (11 January 1920), 2. On the connection between the class consciousness of the workers of the Second ʿAliyyah and the development of Hebrew culture, see Yaacov Shavit, ‘Tarbut u-masav qulturi: Qawey yesod le˙ ˙ hitpathut ha-tarbut ha-ʿIvrit bi-tequfat ha-ʿAliyyah ha-sheniyyah’ [Culture and ˙ cultural status: Basic developments in Hebrew culture during the Second ʿAliyyah period], in ha-ʿAliyyah ha-sheniyyah, ed. Israel Bartal, Zeev Tzahor and Yehoshua Kaniel, vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 1997/5758), 343–66. 122. Hadashot ha-ares (11 January 1920), 3; Doʾar ha-yom (24 March 1920), 2; ibid. ˙ (11 January 1920), 2; ibid. (26 April 1920), 2; Hadashot ha-ares (15 June ˙ ˙ 1920), 3. 123. Elijah Kohen to Burla, 16 Adar 1920, Harʾel Collection.

NOTES TO PAGES 192 –197

319

124. Doʾar ha-yom (22 November 1920), 2 – 3. 125. Miriam Melammed, Batyah Lewi, Amalyah Lewi, [?], Rahel Melammed, ˙ Rahel Mizrahi, Hannah Mizrahi, and Rivqah Peres, kindergarten teaching ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ assistants in Damascus to Luria, Damascus, 1 Nisan 1920, Harʾel Collection. 126. Kahanoff, Damascus, 15 March 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 127. For more information on the guilds, see Abdul Karim Rafeq, ‘Mazahir min al˙ tanzim al-hirfı¯ fı¯ bila¯d al-Sha¯m fı¯ al-ʿahd al-ʿUthma¯nı¯’ [‘Aspects of craft ˙ ˙ organisation in Greater Syria during the Ottoman period’], Dira¯sa¯t taʾrı¯khiyyah 4 (1981), 30 –62. 128. Aharon Cohen, Tenuʿat ha-poʿalim ha-ʿArvit (Misrayim, Eres-Yis´raʾel, ha˙ ˙ Levanon, Suryah, ʿIraq): Toldot, sikkumim, baʿayot [Arab worker’s movement (Egypt, Palestine, the Lebanon, Syria, Iraq): History, conclusions, problems] (Tel-Aviv, 1947), 8 – 9. 129. Jews were active in the maintenance of the electricity network in Damascus. Barukh Paʾis and his Muslim partner were the ‘owners of the assets of the installation service in place of the joint Ottoman company for electric lighting in Damascus’. See ha-Herut (19 Tevet 1915), 1. ˙ 130. Maʿoz, Ottoman reform in Syria and Palestine, 180. 131. See the picture of young girl labourers in Rahel Yanait Ben-Zvi, Bi-shelihut li˙ ˙ Levanon u-le-Suryah, 1943 [Mission to Lebanon and Syria, 1943] (Tel-Aviv, 1979), between pp. 48 and 49. 132. Elmaleh, Yehudim be-Dammes´eq, 21. 133. Ibid., 22. 134. See Zeev Tzahor, ‘Semihat ha-zeramim ha-politiyyim we-irguney ha-poʿalim’ ˙ ˙ ˙ [The Growth of political factions and workers’ organisations], in ha-ʿAliyyah hasheniyyah, ed. Israel Bartal, Zeev Tzahor and Yehoshua Kaniel, vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 1997/5758), 215– 34. 135. Yehoshua Kaniel, ‘Anshey ha-ʿAliyyah ha-sheniyyah u-veney ha-ʿedah haSefaraddit’ [Members of the Second ʿAliyyah and the Sephardic community], in haʿAliyyah ha-sheniyyah, ed. Israel Bartal, Zeev Tzahor and Yehoshua Kaniel, vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 1997/5758), 307– 19. 136. Cohen, Tenuʿat ha-poʿalim ha-ʿArvit, 10 – 1. 137. Rafeq, ‘Mazahir min al-tanzim al-hirfı¯’, 6, 25 – 6. ˙ ˙ ˙ 138. The printers’ union, which was considered the strongest of the professional unions in Damascus, was only founded in 1922. See Cohen, Tenuʿat ha-poʿalim ha-ʿArvit, 51. 139. ha-Ares (12 July 1920), 4, and (16 July 1920), 4. ˙ 140. Doʾar ha-yom (15 July 1920), 2. 141. Kahanoff, Damascus, 19 July 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 142. These figures were extreme Arab nationalists and for this reason, there is special significance to their very willingness to meet with MargaliotKalvarisky—despite the fact that, in the course of their meetings, they rejected every effort for a compromise in which Palestine would be detached from Syria. See ha-Ares (22 June 1920), 4, and (24 June 1920), 3. ˙

320

NOTES TO PAGES 198 –202

143. ha-Ares (4 July 1920), 2 – 3. ˙ 144. Ibid., 3, and (12 July 1920), 3. 145. Al-ʿA¯rif had fled from Jerusalem to Damascus in the wake of the riots that erupted in April and served as the secretary-general of al-Jamiʿah alʿArabiyyah al-Filastiniyyah (‘The Palestinian-Arab League’), which was founded on 31 May 1920, and spearheaded the campaign against Zionism; Tauber, Modern Syria and Iraq, 95. 146. Doʾar ha-yom (15 July 1920), 2. 147. ha-Ares (20 July 1920), 3. ˙ 148. The newspapers al-Urdun (‘The Jordan’) and ʿUqa¯b (‘The Eagle’) were shut down for having printed articles supporting the actions of the Turkish leader Mustafa Kemal Atatu¨rk (1881– 1938). Nonetheless, they recommenced publication after a few days. See Doʾar ha-yom (15 July 1920), 2; Hadashot ha˙ yom (21 June 1920), 3. On the phenomenon of closing down newspapers even for a limited period of time, see Rı¯ma¯wı¯, al-Hukm al-hizbı¯ fı¯ Su¯riyya¯, 177– 8. ˙ ˙ 149. ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq (9 July 1920), [3]. ˙ 150. ha-Ares (15 July 1920), 4. ˙ 151. ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq (12 July 1920), [1 – 2]. ˙ 152. Doʾar ha-yom (21 July 1920), 2. 153. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 19 July 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. For a later summary of the episode of the publication of this newspaper and its closure, see ha-Ares (1 March 1922), 6. See also the ˙ recollection by Mosheh Sevi in ha-Poʿel ha-saʿir (2 March 1921), 14. ˙ ˙ 154. For detailed coverage of the developments culminating in the Arab army’s rout and the departure of Faysal for Haifa, see al-Husrı¯, Yawm Maysalu¯n, 145– 57. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ On the period of Faysal’s rule in Damascus, see at length James L Gelvin, ˙ Divided loyalties: Nationalism and mass politics in Syria at the close of empire (Berkeley, 1998); Khairia Kasmieh, ‘An Evaluation of the Arab government in Damascus, 1918 –1920’, in State and society in Syria and Lebanon, ed. Youssef M Choueiri (Exeter, 1993), 27 – 31.

Chapter 6

Between France and Zion

1. Doʾar ha-yom (27 June 1921), 2. 2. On the growing political weakness of France in the Levant, see Dan Eldar, ‘haMediniyyut ha-Sarfatit be-Levant we-yahasah la-leʾummiyyut ha-ʿAravit u-la˙ ˙ Siyyonut beyn ha-shanim 1914– 1920’ [‘French policy in the Levant and its ˙ attitude towards Arab nationalism and Zionism between the years 1914 and 1920’], (PhD dissertation, Tel-Aviv University, 1978), 8 –29. 3. See, for example, the article by Raymond Recouly in Le Figaro on 18 May 1913. See also Bertie to Bart, 18 May 1913, FO 195/2451. 4. On Britain’s interests, see Eldar, ‘ha-Mediniyyut ha-Sarfatit’, 44 – 53. ˙

NOTES TO PAGES 203 –207

321

5. Medzini, ʿEs´er shanim, 50; Eldar, ‘ha-Mediniyyut ha-Sarfatit’, 300– 32. ˙ 6. Doʾar ha-yom (22 August 1920), 2; ibid. (1 September 1920), 3. 7. Doʾar ha-yom (19 August 1920), 2. On the French demands in general, see Bulletin de renseignements no. 1, Damascus, 21 August 1920, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2373. See also Saʿı¯d, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, 206– 7. 8. On the French policies towards the press in Damascus immediately following the occupation, see Bulletin de renseignements no. 1, Damascus, 21 August 1920, AECADN, Mandat Syrie-Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2373. 9. Doʾar ha-yom (18 November 1920), 2. 10. Doʾar ha-yom (25 September 1920), 2; Bulletin de renseignements no. 1, Rapport sur la presse, Damascus, 11 September 1920, AECADN, Mandat Syrie– Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2373. 11. Bulletin de renseignements no. 1, Rapport sur la presse, Damascus, 11 September 1920, AECADN, Mandat Syrie– Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2373. 12. Eliahu Sasson, Ba-derekh el ha-shalom: Iggerot we-s´ihot [On the road to peace: Letters ˙ and conversations] (Tel-Aviv, 1978/5738), 15. The number of copies mentioned is no doubt exaggerated. During those years, a newspaper that reached a circulation of 500 issues was considered impressive. 13. Yu¯suf Farh¯ı, in Yis´raʾel (30 [sic] Tammuz 1920), 3. Nevertheless, the ˙ newspaper al-Hayya¯t, edited by Eliahu Sasson, has been mentioned in various ˙ bibliographical books as having been published in 1919; see, for example, Shmuel Moreh, Hibburey Yehudim ba-lashon ha-ʿArvit: 1863– 1973 [ Jewish ˙ compositions in the Arabic language: 1863– 1973] (Jerusalem, 1974/5734), 107, and the sources provided. It appears that the various researchers all relied upon one misleading source. 14. Doʾar ha-yom (4 July 1921), 3. 15. My efforts and those of my late friend Moshe Sasson, the son of Eliahu Sasson, to locate copies of this newspaper’s issues in libraries throughout the Arab world failed—perhaps the small number of issues published is the reason why none of them survived. 16. Burla to Yellin, Damascus, 1 Kislew 1922, CZA, A153/146/3. 17. Doʾar ha-yom (6 October 1921), 2. It appears that the French authorities made it difficult, but did not prohibit unequivocally the Cairene Jewish newspaper Yis´raʾel in Damascus, despite their knowledge that the editor of the newspaper, Albert Mosseri, had Zionist tendencies. This was the case even when the newspaper published an interview with the deposed king Faysal in which he ˙ called for the Jewish notables to assist in renewing the good ties that he had with the heads of the Zionist movement in Europe, in hopes that Arabs and Jews might live together in harmony. See, for example, Bulletin de la presse,

322

18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

NOTES TO PAGES 207 –210 no. 2, Rapport sur la presse, Damascus, 23 August 1920, AECADN, Mandat Syrie– Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 17, Petits fonds politiques ou administratifs, 2373. Saʿı¯d, al-Thawrah al-ʿArabiyyah al-kubra¯, 237–41. The Syrian Bank and the Ottoman Bank continued to do so in successive years. See, for example, Doʾar ha-yom (6 October 1921), 2. Doʾar ha-yom (8 October 1920), 3. During World War I, al-Ayyu¯bı¯ had been imprisoned with the Jewish detainees in Kha¯n al-Ba¯sha¯, where he learned from them about Zionism. He developed friendly relations with the Jewish prisoners and participated actively in their celebrations in prison and even began to learn Hebrew; Rivlin, ‘Be-Dammes´eq’, 8 – 9. Doʾar ha-yom (17 October 1920), 2; al-Barq (22 November 1920); Fontana to HM Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Beirut, 19 December 1920, FO 371/6458. ha-Ares (18 August 1920), 4. ˙ Alif Ba¯ʾ (21 May 1921), 3; ibid. (25 May 1921), 4. See also Palmer to Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Damascus, 25 May 1921, FO 371/6455; ibid., 6 June 1921; Eustin to GSI, GHQ Cairo, Damascus, 3 June 1921, in ibid.; Palmer to Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Damascus, 9 August 1921, FO 371/6460. See, for example, Alif Ba¯ʾ (06 May 1921), 4; ibid. (13 May 1921), 1. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 9 June 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151d. Doʾar ha-yom (8 November 1921), 2. ha-Ares (17 February 1922), 3. ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (14 July 1921), 2; ibid. (3 January 1922), 3. The British Foreign Office, which was aware of the French suspicions and the Arab opposition, instructed its representatives in Damascus to use great discretion regarding the Zionist schools in the city and warned them not to offer them any official assistance. Even Herbert Samuel, the British Commissioner in Palestine, supported this approach. The issue was provoked following a proposal by Rivlin to the British consul in Damascus to visit the schools and to assist in adding English to the educational curriculum, as well as his request that British provide sponsorship for the Zionist schools funded by the Zionist organisations, most of them in Britain; see Palmer to HM’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Damascus, 5 April 1921, FO 371/6458; Telegram from the High Commissioner of Palestine to the Secretary of the State for the Colonies, Jerusalem, 18 May 1921, in ibid.; Oliphant to Palmer, London, 31 May 1921, in ibid. Doʾar ha-yom (12 April 1922), 3. Doʾar ha-yom (1 May 1922), 3. ha-Ares (19 August 1920), 3. There were also those who hoped that, under ˙ French rule, which championed freedom, equality, and fraternity (liberte´,

NOTES TO PAGES 210 –217

32.

33. 34. 35. 36.

37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48.

323

egalite´, fraternite´ ), the Jewish community would be able to revive Hebrew culture in Syria; see al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (7 September 1922), 4. Unaddressed AIU document, Paris, 05 August 1920, AECPC, Se´rie ‘E’, Levant 1918– 1940, Sous Se´rie Syrie – Liban– Cilicie, vol. 109; General Gouraud to Georges Leygues, President of the Council, Ministry of Foreign Affaires, Aley, 7 September 1920, AECPC, Se´rie ‘E’, Levant 1918– 40, Sous Se´rie Syrie –Liban – Cilicie, vol. 112. On French policy in all aspects of life throughout the period of the Mandate, see at length Khoury, Syria and the French Mandate; Stephen Hemsley Longrigg, Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate (London & New York City, 1958). Doʾar ha-yom (19 August 1920), 2. ha-Ares (11 July 1921), 3. ˙ Burla to Luria, Damascus, 29 Tammuz 1922, CZA, S2/628. On Kurd ʿAlı¯’s perception of education in Damascus, see Rapport de Mahommed effendi Kurd-Ali, Directeur Ge´ne´ral de l’Instruction Publique dans le Gouvernement de Damas, au sujet de la restoration, 1920, pp. 9 – 10, AECADN, Mandat Syrie-Liban, Beyrouth, Inv. 22, Beyrouth 2e`me vers., IP, 02. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 9 July 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151d. Schoffler was known as a greater anti-Zionist than the Arabs, although his anti-Zionism—like that of many other bureaucrats in the service of the French Mandate—stemmed apparently from his fear that Zionism was nothing other than the long arm of Britain; see Frederick Hermann Kisch, Yoman Eres-Yis´reʾeli [Palestine diary], transl. Isaac Abraham ˙ Abbady (Jerusalem, 1939/5699), 135. On the displeasure of numerous AIU graduates with what seemed to them like France’s betrayal of its principles, see, for example, Harel, ‘Alexandrian Jewish intellectual’, 473–91. Doʾar ha-yom (26 July 1922), 2. ha-Ares (28 July 1922), 2. ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (30 July 1922), 6. ¯ al-ʿAlam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (27 December 1921), 4. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 26 June 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151d. Doʾar ha-yom (5 August 1921), 2. Doʾar ha-yom (9 September 1919), 2. See also Yehudah Burla, ‘Beyt ha-sefer haʿIvri be-Dammes´eq’ [The Hebrew school in Damascus], in Sefer ha-yovel shel Histadrut ha-morim, 5663– 5688, ed. Dov Qimhi (Jerusalem, 1929/5689), ˙ 175. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 11 February 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 19 March 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. ha-Ares (22 August 1922), 2. ˙

324

NOTES TO PAGES 218 –224

49. Doʾar ha-yom (11 November 1919), 2 – 3. 50. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, 1 January 1919, AAIU, Syria XVII E, Damas, 167a. 51. Hadashot ha-ares (14 November 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ 52. Liberman to his colleagues, Damascus, 21 Kislew 1915, CZA, S2/493. 53. Hadashot ha-ares (29 October 1919), 3. ˙ ˙ 54. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 29 February 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas 151c. 55. For the details of the demands, see J Bigart to Moussa H Totah, Paris, 30 December 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie-Liban, Inv. 17, 2373/f. 56. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 19 October 1919, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. 57. Kahanoff and Haı¨moff to Colonel Cousse, French liaison officer, Damascus, 24 October 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie– Liban, Inv. 17, 2373/f. 58. Cousse to the director of the AIU boys’ school, Damascus, 15 March 1920, AECADN, Mandat Syrie-Liban, Inv. 17, 2373/f; Cousse to the director of the AIU girls’ school, Damascus, 15 March 1920, in ibid.; Organisation of ‘French propaganda’ in Syria, Beirut, 1 December 1919, AECADN, Mandat Syrie – Liban, Inv. 17, 2373/z. 59. Doʾar ha-yom (19 August 1920), 2. 60. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 4 July 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 61. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 30 September 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 62. Doʾar ha-yom (10 October 1920), 3. 63. Haı¨moff to the head of the political cabinet of the high commissioner, Damascus, 15 October 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c; Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 23 May 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Rivlin to Luria, Damascus, 17 Iyyar 1921, CZA, S2/691. 64. Doʾar ha-yom (8 September 1921), 2. 65. See al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (02 November 1922), 4– 5; ibid. (23 November 1922), 6; ibid. (11 January 1923), 5; ibid. (1 February 1923), 5; ibid. (15 February 1923), 2; ibid. (22 February 1923), 4; ibid. (15 March 1923), 3. See also Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 2 February 1923, AAIU, Syrie I G 2, Damas. 66. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 1 March 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151d. 67. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 31 December 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 68. On the influence of Germanophobia on France’s own negative attitude towards Zionism prior to World War I, see Benbassa, ha-Yahadut ha-ʿOthmanit, 41. 69. Michael Abitbul, ‘KYH—Kol Yis´raʾel Haverim’ [AIU—Alliance Israe´lite ˙ ˙ Universelle], in Zeman Yehudi hadash: Tarbut Yehudit be-ʿidan hiloni: Mabat ˙ ˙ ˙

NOTES TO PAGES 224 –234

70.

71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79.

80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91.

325

ensiqlopedi, ed. Yirmiyahu Yovel, vol. 2 (Jerusalem, 2007), 16 – 7; Benbassa, ˙ ha-Yahadut ha-ʿOthmanit, 104– 12. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 31 December 1920, AAIU, Syrie, XVII E, Damas, 167a; Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 15 March 1921, in ibid.; Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 23 May 1921, in ibid. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 19 July 1921, AAIU, Syrie, XVII E, Damas, 167a. All above quotations from Doʾar ha-yom (27 June 1921), 2; see also Alif Ba¯ʾ (22 June 1921), 2. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 17 November 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 1 March 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. See, for example, ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq (5 July 1920), 1 – 2. ˙ R Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 8 January 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. Doʾar ha-yom (12 July 1921), 2. Doʾar ha-yom (10 October 1920), 3. Haı¨moff to the head of the political cabinet of the high commissioner, Damascus, 15 October 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. Farhı¯ indeed ˙ tended to sign his letters for a certain period, ‘with the blessings of Zion and the revival (bi-virkat Siyyon we-ha-tehiyyah)’; see, for example, Farh¯ı to David ˙ ˙ ˙ Yellin, Damascus, 10 Adar 1920, CZA, A153/146/6. Doʾar ha-yom (28 October 1920), 1. ha-Ares (31 October 1920), 4. ˙ Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 19 October 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c; Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 17 November 1920, AAIU, XVII E, Damas, 167a. Doʾar ha-yom (22 August 1921), 2. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 17 November 1920 and 1 February 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. Doʾar ha-yom (23 August 1921), 2. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 3 December 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c; Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 31 December 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 30 March 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 7 April 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. Doʾar ha-yom (21 June 1921), 2. Ibid. (23 June 1921), 2. Ibid. (23 August 1921), 2. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 30 January 1920, 9 May 1920, and 20 April 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Kahanoff to Edward

NOTES TO PAGES 234 –242

326

92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99.

100. 101. 102.

103. 104.

Stern, Damascus, 9 March 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a; Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 7 April 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. See also the thank you letter from D Shoham, director of the orphanage in Damascus, to Dr Efron, 8 November 1921, Prigan Collection. Doʾar ha-yom (22 August 1921), 2. Rodfey Kevod ha-Ummah to the Zionist Commission, 9 II Adar 1919, Damascus, CZA, L3/619. ha-Ares (26 July 1921), 3. ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (2 July 1921), 2. ha-Ares (17 August 1921), 3. ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (23 June 1921), 2. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 11 September 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. Ultimately, the Arab neighbours submitted a complaint to the government on the pretext that the fence was being built in the public domain and was blocking free passage, and an order was given for the immediate cessation of the work; see ha-Ares (26 January 1922), 3. ˙ Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 6 January 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, 151d. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 7 February 1922, 23 March 1922, and 9 June 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, 151d. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 9 July 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151d. For more discussion of Tajer as a leader, see Yaron Harel, ‘Demuto shel ha-Rav Shelomoh Tajer ke-manhig politi le-or teʿudot hadashot’ ˙ ˙ ˙ [‘The figure of Rabbi Shelomo Tajer as a political leader in light of new documentation’], Iran Bukharah Afganistan 4 (2011/5771), 6– 25. On his activity during the Druze revolt, see Shimʿon Rubinshtayn, Mofet shel rav: ʿAl hassalatah shel qehillat Dammes´eq ʿal yedey roʾsh rabbaney Dammes´eq ha-Rav Dr ˙˙ Shlomoh Tajer bi-ymey ha-mered ha-Druzi 1925 [Exemplary rabbi: On the rescue of the Damascene community by the head of the Damascus rabbinate, Rabbi Dr Shelomo Tajer, during the Druze Rebellion of 1925] (Jerusalem, 1995). al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (19 November 1922), 3. Ibid. (16 August 1923), 2; ibid. (27 September 1923), 2.

Epilogue

Between Failure and Abandonment

1. Luria to the Zionist Executive in London, Jerusalem, 8 July 1924, CZA, S2/617. 2. See chapter 6 above, ‘Between Zion and Arab’. See also Menachem, ‘Peʿilutah shel tenuʿat ha-Makkabi’, 15. 3. Rivlin to Luria, Damascus, 20 November 1919, CZA, S2/578.

NOTES TO PAGES 242 –247

327

4. The teachers of the Hebrew school to the Hebrew Education Committee, Damascus, 12 Shevat 1919, CZA, S2/657; Rivlin to Yellin, Damascus, 9 Kislew ˙ 1919, CZA, A154/146/3. 5. City council to Luria, Damascus, 22 Tevet 1923, CZA, S2/168. ˙ ˙ 6. Burla to Luria, Damascus, 17 Adar 1920, CZA, S2/578. 7. The teachers of Damascus to Burla, Damascus, 3 Kislew 1919, CZA, S2/578. See also the claims of the plaintiff in the matter of the dispute between Efron and the teachers’ branch in Damascus and the directors of the Hebrew schools Mr Burla and Mr Rivlin, Damascus, 14 December 1920, Prigan Collection; Efron to the Association of Doctors in Palestine, Damascus, 13 December 1920, Prigan Collection. 8. Rivlin to Yosef Ozerkowsky, Jerusalem, 15 Elul 1921, CZA, S2/691; the teachers of the girls’ school to Dr Luria, Damascus, 12 Av 1921, CZA, S2/691. 9. Luria [?] to Damascus, 23 Nisan 1920, CZA, S2/578. 10. Education Committee to Yehoshua Drukarski, Jerusalem, 28 Tishrey 1921, CZA, S2/691. 11. Drukarski to Luria, Damascus, 15 Av 1922, CZA, A153/146/3; the teachers of the girls’ school to Dr Luria, Damascus, 12 Av 1922, CZA, S2/691. Rivlin also accused Burla of ‘framing’ him during Stuart Samuel’s visit to Damascus, when he revealed to the Haı¨moffs that Samuel had visited Rivlin at his home and thus caused Robert to denounce him to the authorities as a British Zionist agent; see Rivlin to Ozerkowsky, Jerusalem, 15 Elul 1921, CZA, S2/691. 12. Drukarski to Yellin, Damascus, 3 Elul 1922, CZA, A153/146/3. 13. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 20 April 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 14. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 22 October 1922, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 151d; Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 17 November 1921, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 15. Kahanoff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 14 November 1919, 11 February 1920, and 29 March 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVII E, Damas, 167a. 16. Doʾar ha-yom (27 May 1921), 4. 17. al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (07 September 1922), 9 – 10. 18. For more on this matter, see Eliav, ha-Yishuv, 24 – 5. 19. Doʾar ha-yom (27 May 1921), 4. 20. ha-Ares (1 July 1921), 4. ˙ 21. Doʾar ha-yom (15 November 1920), 2. 22. Doʾar ha-yom (8 November 1921), 2. 23. ha-Ares (2 August 1921), 3. ˙ 24. Doʾar ha-yom (23 December 1920), 2. 25. Ibid. (11 January 1919), 2. 26. For greater detail on the Maccabi movement in Damascus, see Menachem, ‘Peʿilutah shel tenuʿat ha-Makkabi’, 7 – 17. 27. ha-Ares (20 June 1922), 3. ˙

328

NOTES TO PAGES 248 –254

28. Ibid. (18 January 1922), 3. Dr David Pinto served during the 1930s as chairman ˙ of the communal council. 29. Ibid. (1 January 1920), 2. 30. Doʾar ha-yom (15 September 1921), 3; ibid. (6 December 1921); ha-Ares (20 ˙ June 1922), 3. 31. ha-Ares (6 July 1922), 3. For a table of donations to the JNF in Damascus ˙ during the first half of the 1920– 1 year, see Doʾar ha-yom (31 May 1921), 4. 32. ha-Ares (19 November 1922), 7. ˙ 33. Ibid. (11 July 1922), 3. 34. Ibid. (31 July 1922), 3. 35. Ibid. (8 August 1922), 3. 36. Ibid. (12 June 1922), 4. Alter Weinberg was a young ultra-Orthodox Jew, one of 24 children born to Shosha Weinberg. In 1918, at the age of 20 and while his parents were abroad, he abandoned his wife and converted to Islam. After two years of living as a Muslim, Alter returned to Judaism. When his parents returned to Palestine, they could not bear the shame and therefore provided him with a fair amount of money and instructed him to go abroad for a period of time until the matter was forgotten. Alter went to Vienna, where, 11 months later, he jumped into a river and took his own life. For more on Alter Weinberg, see the article by Nili Ben Ari, ‘Zeqenah ahat she-haytah bi-Yrushalayim [An ˙ Old woman was in Jerusalem]’, which appeared in Maqor Riʾshon (2 August 2009). A collection of Weinberg’s anti-Zionist articles are found in the Israel State Archives, Jerusalem, 62.2.1.24. 37. ha-Ares (12 June 1922), 4. ˙ 38. Haı¨moff to the President of the AIU, Damascus, 27 April 1920, AAIU, Syrie XVI E, Damas, 151c. 39. Liberman to his colleagues, Damascus, 21 Kislew 1915, CZA, S2/493. 40. Burla to Luria, Damascus, 20 Heshwan 1920, CZA, S2/578. ˙ 41. Burla and Rivlin to Luria, Damascus, 21 Shevat 1920, CZA, S2/578. ˙ 42. Doʾar ha-yom (8 August 1921), 2. 43. Burla to Ozerkowsky, Damascus, 29 Elul 1921, CZA, S2/691. 44. Rivlin’s report on the general situation of the Hebrew girls’ school in Damascus during the winter of 1919– 20, CZA, S2/578. 45. Burla, ‘Beyt ha-sefer ha-ʿIvri’, 175. On the efforts to fight the phenomenon of enrolling children in the Christian missionary schools, see al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (6 October 1922), 3. 46. Following the closure of the Hebrew schools, individuals began visiting the city to instil the spirit of the values of the Labour Zionist movement and, particularly, of the emerging working class in Palestine in the young Damascus graduates of the Hebrew schools. This youth then formed the human reserve for the class-oriented Zionist societies, such as ha-Poʿel (‘The Worker’) and heHalus (‘The Pioneer’), which were founded in Damascus at the end of the 1930s. ˙ ˙ For much more on this matter, see Chana Avrahami, ‘“he-Halus” we-ha-ʿaliyyah ˙ ˙

NOTES TO PAGES 254 –259

47. 48. 49. 50.

51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

60.

61. 62.

329

mi-Suryah: he-ʿAs´or ha-riʾshon, 1929– 1939’ [‘“He-Halus” and immigration ˙ ˙ from Syria: The First decade, 1929– 1939’], Shorashim ba-Mizrah 2 (1989). ˙ Doʾar ha-yom (25 August 1921), 3. See more in Allon Gal, ha-Siyyonut le-ezoreyha: Heybetim geʾo-tarbutiyyim [World ˙ ˙ regional Zionism: Geo-cultural dimensions] (Jerusalem, 2010/5770), 15 –6, 26, and the conclusion. Hadashot ha-ares (3 October 1919), 6. ˙ ˙ On the existence of such a group in Morocco, see Yaron Tsur, ‘Mi-hus le˙ ˙ Eyropah: ha-Siyyonut be-Maroqo be-reʾshitah u-ve-hitpathutah’ [Outside of ˙ ˙ Europe: The Origins of Moroccan Zionism and its evolution], in ha-Siyyonut le˙ ezoreyha: Heybetim geʾo-tarbutiyyim, ed. Allon Gal, vol. 2 (Jerusalem, 2010/5770), ˙ 223– 4. On the participation of girls, see Yael Shinan-Tzur, ‘Porsot gader: Nashim ba˙ peʿilut ha-Siyyonit be-Dammes´eq, 1917– 1945’ [‘Those who broke down the ˙ fence: Women in Zionist activity in Damascus, 1917– 1945’], (MA thesis, BarIlan University, 2005/5765). ha-Ares (21 August 1923), 3. ˙ Gedalia Yogev and Yehoshua Freundlich, eds, ha-Protoqolim shel ha-Waʿad– ha˙ Poʿel ha-Siyyoni, 1919– 1929 [The Minutes of the Zionist General Council, 1919– ˙ 1929] (Tel-Aviv, 1975/5735), 226. Educational Division to Burla and Rivlin, Jerusalem, 22 Siwan 1921, CZA, S2/691; Luria to Burla and Rivlin, Jerusalem, 7 II Adar 1921, CZA, S2/691. Rivlin to Yellin, Damascus, 18 Tammuz 1921, CZA, A153/146/6. ha-Ares (31 March 1921), 2. ˙ Rogel, ‘ha-Ish shel Weysman be-Dammes´eq’, 309. ˙ Rivlin, ‘Avraham Elmaliʾah’, 4. See also Menachem, ‘Yehudey Suryah u˙ Levanon’, 192– 7. Zionist Commission to Sasson, 26 Av 1919, CZA, L3/48. Indeed, until the end of 1919, the Zionist office sought to avoid bringing immigrants to Palestine until an orderly plan of ʿaliyyah could be determined, out of fear that unplanned ʿaliyyah would endanger the immigrants themselves and even the future of the settlement enterprise as a whole; see Lavsky, Yesodot ha-taqsiv, 71. Nevertheless, ˙ it is worth devoting a study to investigate the question of the Zionist movement’s encouragement of young Jews from Arab countries to achieve personal fulfilment through ʿaliyyah in the years after World War I. See, for example, the comments in Barad, ‘ha-Peʿilut ha-Siyyonit’, 76. ˙ ha-Ares (3 September 1922), 2. The final examinations of these students, which ˙ included writing an essay on the subject of ‘The Redemption of our nation in Palestine’, can be found in the Archives of the Labour movement, Section VI234– 531, file 6. The students’ writing is clear and attractive and their Hebrew is fluent. Department of Oriental Jews to Burla, Jerusalem, 25 October 1922, CZA, J1/210. This document is found in CZA, S6/267.

330

NOTES TO PAGES 260 –270

63. Hakhnasat Orhim society to the Zionist administration in Jerusalem, ˙ Damascus, 5 Tishrey 1922, CZA, S6/285I; Department of Immigration to the Hakhnasat Orhim society in Damascus, Jerusalem, 6 October 1922, CZA, ˙ S6/285I. 64. Department of Oriental Jews to Burla, Jerusalem, 25 October 1922, CZA, J1/210; Burla to the Department of Oriental Jews, Damascus, 7 Heshwan 1922, ˙ CZA, J1/210. 65. al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (27 September 1923), 2. 66. The reference is to the newspaper ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq. ˙ 67. The reference here is to the newspaper al-Hayya¯t. ˙ 68. Doʾar ha-yom (25 August 1921), 2. Sasson was not satisfied with simply criticising the Zionist Executive, but tried also to influence Middle Eastern Jews as a whole to take a more active part in the building of Palestine, and especially, land purchases there. He laid out a detailed plan for establishing a Middle Eastern Jewish association of 5,000 members wishing to settle in Palestine. For more on this, see Yis´raʾel (17 Heshwan 1921), 2 –3. ˙ 69. Damascus teachers to Luria, Damascus, 26 Kislew 1920, CZA, S2/691. 70. Burla to Yellin, Damascus, 1 Kislew 1922, CZA, A153/146/3. 71. Rivlin to Luria, Damascus, 27 I Adar 1921, CZA, S2/691. 72. Burla to Luria, Damascus, 20 Adar 1922, CZA, S2/628. 73. Protocols of a meeting of the teachers in Damascus, Damascus, 8 Adar 1922, CZA, S2/628. 74. Palestinian Education Committee to the Damascus communal council, Damascus, 29 May 1922, CZA, S2/628. 75. ha-Ares (22 September 1922), 3. ˙ 76. Ibid. 77. ha-Ares (22 September 1922), 3. ˙ 78. Burla to Luria, Damascus, 19 Elul 1922, CZA, S2/628. 79. Burla to Luria, Damascus, 2 Tishrey 1922, CZA, S2/628. 80. Burla to Yellin, Damascus, 20 Iyyar 1923, CZA, A153/146/3. 81. The other members of the committee were Moses Elijah Totah, Mu¯sa¯ (Moses) ˙ ˙ ˙ Mawa¯s, Salı¯m ʿAtta¯r, David Halabı¯, Jamı¯l Mizrahi, Salı¯m Saqa¯l, Mura¯d Totah, ˙˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ David Totah, Ibra¯hı¯m Turkiyyah, and Mawa¯s Mizrahi. See al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ (01 February 1923), 5. 82. al-ʿA¯lam al-Isra¯ʾı¯lı¯ (27 September 1923), 2. 83. Ibid. (20 December 1923), 6. On the appeal of those underprivileged families to the English mission, see Hemdah Qatari, Blangah—Sippurah shel shoshelet ˙ ˙ mishpahtit [Blangah—The Story of a familial dynasty] (n.p., n.d.), 29 – 30. ˙ 84. Luria to the Zionist Executive in London, Jerusalem, 8 July 1924, CZA, S2/617.

NOTES TO PAGES 272 –279

331

Conclusion 1. This conclusion supports the findings of Benbassa and Kimhi regarding the ˙ communities of Ottoman Turkey and Egypt; see Benbassa, Hayyim Nahum, 36 – ˙ ˙ 40; Ruth Kimche, Siyyonut be-sel ha-piramidot: ha-Tenuʿah ha-Siyyonit be-Misrayim, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 1918– 1948 [Zionism in the shadow of the pyramids: The Zionist movement in Egypt, 1918– 1948] (Tel-Aviv, 2009), 607. 2. In this respect, there is a similarity to the first stirrings of Zionist societies in Morocco. They, too, were inspired by individuals who came from outside to Morocco or who were returning or visiting Moroccans. For further elaboration, see Tsur, ‘Mi-hus le-Eyropah’, 204– 13. Further research is needed to investigate ˙ ˙ this matter with respect to other communities and to inquire not only if it was a common feature in the case of all Jewish communities in the Middle East, but whether it is possible to refer to a single, uniform Zionism for all Jews in Muslim countries or whether each case is unique. 3. On this matter, see Bezalel, Noladetem Siyyonim, 413. ˙ 4. Zionist emissaries to Egypt also adopted this stance. See Kimche, Siyyonut be-sel ˙ ˙ ha-piramidot, 597–602. 5. Rivlin, ‘Avraham Elmaliʾah’, 4. ˙

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347

INDEX

Aaronsohn, Aaron, 93 ‘Abba¯dı¯, Joseph, 30, 40, 303 n. 15 ‘Abba¯dı¯, Me’ir, 303 n. 12 ‘Abba¯dı¯, Shaha¯diyyah, 39 ˙ Abdu¨lhamit II, 22, 27, 29, 49, 62 Abulafia, Isaac, 7, 15, 28, 30, 38, 57, 63, 64 ‘Ades, Nissim Bek, 133, 305 n. 37 ʿAjami, Elijah Kohen, 191 ‘Akko, 208, 304 n. 24 ‘al-A¯lam al-Isra¯’ı¯lı¯”, 215 Alexandria, 58, 96, 103 Alfandari, Solomon Eliezer, 28 – 9, 30, 34, 38, 63 – 4, 67, 86 Alhambra Cinema, 171 ‘Alı¯, Muhammad Kurd, 211– 2 ˙ AlifBa¯, 211, 235, 251 ‘aliyyah. See immigration to Palestine, Jewish Allenby, Edmund, 158, 162 Allepo, 58, 59, 159, 185– 6, 257, 260 Alliance Israe´lite Universelle (AIU), 22, 59, 91 – 2, 178– 9, 181, 215– 28, 231, 235, 253– 5 262, 269– 70, 272, 274, 277 boys’ school, 69, 71, 100, 143, 216, 253 and Damascus pharmacy, 38, 218

educational institutions, 62, 65, 70, 77, 79, 90, 93 – 4, 101, 218 emissaries, 4, 79, 189–90, 196–7, 217 and French authorities, 206, 210, 221, 226, 244 girls’ school, 69, 71, 81, 91, 93, 96, 101, 116, 216, 219, 223, 226 and Hebrew teaching, 92, 116, 118, 220 and Jewish social elite, 126, 220, 235, 253 and literary society, 222– 3 Paris management, 57, 210, 249 and religious schools, 63 – 4, 67, 69, 79, 85, 90, 255 school closure, 95, 101 school directors, 57, 79, 91, 100, 150, 180, 217, 225, 236, 249 See also French language; Haı¨moff, Augustine America, 22, 80, 123, 169, 248 American Relief Committee. See Joint Distribution Committee Anatolia, 100, 103, 109, 110 ‘Aqabah, 163 Arab nationalist movements, 10 Arabic, 39, 43 –6, 65– 6, 85, 89, 200, 204, 211 Arab-Muslim movement, 10

INDEX Arazi, ShalemKa¯mil, 258 A¯rif, A¯rif al-, 187, 198, 320 n. 145 Artom, Giacomo, 136– 7, 306 n. 51 ‘Asalı¯, Shukrı¯, al-, 49, 54 ‘A¯simah, al- (gazette), 196 ˙ ‘Asr al-jadı¯d, al- (newspaper), 66, 67 ˙ Ata¯sh, Nathan, 303 n. 15 ˙ Ata¯sı¯, Ha¯shim al-, 161, 197 ‘Atta¯r, Salam Avraham, 303 n. 12 ˙˙ ‘Atta¯r, Salı¯m, 231, 240, 303 n. 15, ˙˙ 330 n. 81 Ayyu¯bı¯, Shukrı¯ al-, 158, 207, 322 n. 20 ʿAzariyyah, al- (Christian school), 205 ‘Azm, Haqqı¯Bek al-, 211, 227, 233 ˙ ˙ ‘Azmah, Yu¯suf, 161, 200, 203 ˙ Badr al-Dı¯n, 174– 5 Baghdad, 9, 265 Balfour Declaration, 120, 133 145, 163, 202, 207, 212, 249, 251, 262– 3, 271, 274, 303 n. 18 day marking, 208, 246 Baliyyah, Mu¯sa¯, 39 Balkan War (1912), 46, 80 bankruptcy of 1875, 1 – 3, 22, 47, 49, 133, 179, 271, 274 Basra¯wı¯, Besal’el, 171, 247 ˙ ˙ Bastia, 210 Beirut, 9, 13, 17, 23, 42, 43, 57, 63, 80, 82, 99, 185– 6, 202, 210, 215, 239, 244, 284 n. 30, 293 n. 36, 304 n. 24, 307 n. 59 Ben Simon, Shlomo, 210 Ben-Shabbat, Shmu’el, 185 Ben-Siyyon Raful’. See Elmaleh, Avraham ˙ Ben-Yehudah, Eli‘ezer, 58 Berlin, 70, 111 Bianchini, Angelo Levi, 306 n. 51 Biqa¯‘, the, 304 n. 24 Biqqur Holim (‘Sick Visit’) association, ˙ 235 Biram, Arthur, 94 blood libel, 8, 208 1840, 10, 12 – 3, 26

349

1890, 13, 17 Istanbul, 48 B’nai B’rith, 81 BneySion (‘Sons of Zion’), 78 ˙ Brenner, Yosef Hayyim, 245 ˙ Britain, 22, 101, 160– 2, 164– 6, 173, 180, 201– 2, 254, 260 British Mandate for Palestine, 251, 267 British military re´gime (Palestine), 122, 154 Burla, Yehudah, 137, 142, 144, 150, 155, 177– 8, 180–1, 186, 215, 219, 226, 231, 241, 253, 273, 278, 327 n. 11 conflict with Joseph Joel Rivlin, 242– 4 Cairo, 58, 62 Catroux, George, 223– 4, 227 Cemal Pas¸a, 108– 10, 212, 295 n. 7, 301 n. 72, 304 n. 33 Central Syrian Independence Association, 149 Chief Rabbinate (Palestine), 245, 246, 249 Christians, 6, 8 – 10, 12 – 13, 51, 85, 165–6, 169, 208, 284 n. 30, 287 n. 78, 299 n. 15, 313 n. 21, 316 n. 48 Catholic, 13 – 14, 16, 170, 201, 316 n. 48 Orthodox, 166, 169 City Council for the Improvement of the Schools . . . and Zionist Matters, 118, 134 Cohn-Reiss, Ephraim, 70 Committee for the Spread of Enlightenment, 72, 81 – 7, 90, 92– 5, 294 n. 70. See also Education Committee (Damascus, Jewish) Committee of Union and Progress (CUP; I˙ttihatve Terakki Cemiyeti), 41, 52 – 5, 66

350

ZIONISM IN DAMASCUS

communal council (Damascus Jews’), 30, 40, 81, 83 – 4, 87, 106, 115, 118, 125, 128, 129, 136, 138, 142, 148, 150, 153, 170, 177, 217, 220, 224, 228–40, 242 ‘Branch . . . for the Improvement of the New Schools’, 118, 134 and Burla, 144, 219, 242, 243 changes in the character of, 248 and Hebrew schools, 219, 266 identification with the Yishuv, 245 and Palestine riots (1921), 245 and Rivlin, 144, 242 and Zionist emissaries in Damascus, 168 Constitution, Ottoman (1909), 24, 29, 35, 40, 50 – 1, 53, 65 consular protection, 6 conversion to Christianity, 17, 135 to Islam, 15, 234 Cornwallis, Kinahan, 128 Costica, Yosef, 99 Cousse, E´douard Sylvain, 221 Crane, Charles Richard, 209. See also King-Crane Commission Damascus events (1860), 8 Danon, Jacob, 31 – 7, 40 – 1, 46 – 54, 64, 67, 79, 81, 87, 94, 98, 101, 106, 110, 117, 119, 123, 125, 130, 138, 148, 150 – 1, 153, 167 – 8, 173, 175, 178, 203, 208, 221, 224 – 5, 227, 232 – 3, 235 – 9, 240, 246, 249, 256, 266, 298 n. 38, 302 n. 11, 303 n. 15, 316 n. 48 Danon, Sarah, 71 Deauville Agreement, 180 Dizengoff, Meir, 108 Do’ar ha-yom, 185, 189, 204, 206, 207, 209, 228, 235 Du¯ra¯, Hayyim, 40, 292 ˙ Dwek, Joseph, 39

Eder, David Montagu, 122, 302 n. 9, 311 n. 111 Education Committee (Damascus, Jewish) Education Committee (General; Damascus), 222 exiles’, 115, 125 local, 141 private, 65 – 7, 70 Education Committee, Palestinian, 68, 92, 95, 100, 112, 114– 6, 137, 141–2, 145, 183, 193, 217, 219, 241–3, 350, 257–60, 265–6, 269, 275, 277 Efron, Aryeh Leib, 136– 8, 155, 234, 243, 305 n. 47 Egypt, 21 – 3, 25, 99, 102– 3, 128, 154, 185–6, 244 Eliyah, ‘Abd-Alla¯h, 239 Elmaleh, Abraham, 41, 46 – 7, 58 – 9, 71, 78 –83, 90– 1, 107– 8, 116, 118–19, 212, 273, 292 n. 15, 298 n. 38 and AIU, 69 – 70, 294 n. 70 on Arabisation, 45 on Christian schools, 17 community secretary, 32, 36, 37, 78 on emigration, 24 and Hebrew national education, 32, 67 – 9, 71 – 8, 84, 273 and Rabbi Danon, 31 –2, 67 and Zionism, 36, 52 – 4, 58 – 9, 149– 52, 194– 5, 259, 278 emigration, 21 – 5, 26, 42, 48, 124, 244–5 to America, 123, 244, 248 to Palestine, 54, 149, 151, 164, 187, 254, 272 Erlich, Asher, 43 Eytan, Yis´ra’el, 101, 112, 114– 16, 142, 273, 308 n n. 76 – 7 Farah, Shaha¯diyyah, 39 ˙ ˙ Farhi, ‘Abduh, 46, 48, 57 ˙

INDEX Farhi, Mordechai (Mura¯d) Moses, 30 ˙ Farhi, Mura¯d, 73 ˙ Farhi, Nissim, 30, 65, 67 ˙ Farhi, Yu¯su¯f, 40, 231, 237, 269, ˙ 303 n. 15 Faysal b. Husayn, 145– 6, 149, 152–4, ˙ ˙ 158– 69, 173– 8, 181, 196– 8, 200, 203– 7, 212, 229– 30, 247, 256, 271, 275– 7, 303 n. 18, 311 n. 109, 311 n. 111, 313 n. 19, 313 n. 22, 321 n. 17 Feigenbaum, Aryeh (Leopold), 115– 16 Felman, Shlomo, 146, 182, 259 Flaum, Schlomith Frieda, 138 France, 12 – 13, 103, 146, 160–2, 179, 201– 15, 218, 220– 1, 224, 226– 8, 258, 279 Franck, Henri, 95 Frankfurt, 111 Frankfurter, Felix, 154 French language, 23, 66, 95, 126, 216, 223, 227– 8, 267, 274 and AIU, 59, 62, 66, 90 – 2, 126, 217, 220– 1 and AIU graduates, 43 opposition to teaching of, 84 – 6 taught in missionary schools, 16 teachers, 68, 72, 217, 221 French Mandate over Syria, 160, 161, 207, 218, 221, 223, 228, 230, 244, 249, 256–7, 261, 271, 274, 277 Friedlander, Shlomo, 208 Gaza, 83 Germany, 213– 14 ‘girl singers’. See prostitution Gouraud, Henri, 161–2, 175, 200, 210, 221, 226– 8, 230 Grasovsky (Gur), Yehuda, 108, 115 ha-Ares (newsp.), 204, 206, 235 ˙ Hadir, Indibu¯, 240 ˙ hahambas¸i, 7, 28 – 9, 32 –3, 35, 37, 46, 52, 57, 64, 98, 106

351

Haifa, 31, 58, 91, 94, 109, 117, 180, ˙ 181, 197, 290 n. 51, 304 n. 24 Haı¨moff, Augustine, 96, 101, 219, 220, 222, 224– 5, 231, 243, 244 Haı¨moff, Robert, 221, 226–7, 229–39, 243, 250, 269, 327 n. 11 Hakham, Me’ir, 40 ˙ Hakhnasat Orhim (Hospitality to ˙ Guests) lodges, 39, 117, 237, 260–1 Hakim Bey, 63 Hakı¯m, Me’ir, 87 ˙ Halabı¯, David, 330 n. 81 ˙ Halevi, Aaron Yedid, 30 ha-Levi, Ezra Daniel, 80 Ha-Mizrah/al-Sharq (newsp.), 177, ˙ 184–200, 203, 229 HaMiZRaHI, 139, 193, 217 ˙ Hankin, Yehoshua, 164, 184 ha-Poʿel(society), 328 n. 46 ha-Poʿel ha-Saʿir (newsp.), 80 ˙ Haqiqah, al-(newsp.), 185 Ha¯ris, Eli, 239, 240 ˙ ha-Tehiyyah (association), 77 – 8, 113, ˙ 118, 141, 293 n. 36 ha-Tehiyyah-Maccabi, 113 ˙ ha-Tiqwah (Hebrew association), 114 Hawra¯n, 45, 57, 59, 209 ˙ Hayya¯t, al- (newsp.), 205– 6, ˙ 321 n. 13 Hazan-Totah. See Totah ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ head tax (of the Jewish community), 36– 37 Hebrew kindergartens, 40, 65, 68, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75 – 7, 81, 83, 92, 126, 180, 192, 243, 247 Hebrew language, 39 –40, 43, 46, 58, 66, 100, 112– 6, 118, 124– 6, 128, 130, 135, 141, 143, 157, 178, 183, 186– 8, 190– 1, 199, 216–7, 221, 224, 231 in AIU schools, 62, 217, 219– 20, 222 acquisition of, 42, 125

352

ZIONISM IN DAMASCUS

Hebrew language cont. ban on teaching, 211– 15, 239 and girls’ social status, 229– 30 Hebrew national schools, 32, 55, 68 – 71, 76 – 82, 84, 86 – 8, 90, 92 – 4, 96, 100, 114, 118, 134, 216, 294 n. 70, 308 n. 76 Hebrew schools, 37, 88 – 9, 100, 115, 120, 126, 141– 3, 172, 184, 212, 216– 23, 229, 234, 243– 4, 246– 7, 250– 1, 253– 5, 257– 61, 266– 7, 269, 278 and AIU, 96, 216 closure, 215, 240– 1, 265– 268– 70 and religious schools, 126, 142, 256 Hebrew teachers, 68, 75, 94 – 5, 142–3, 157, 172, 191, 216– 17, 219– 20, 225, 232– 3, 237, 248– 50, 266, 269, 273, 303 n. 16 leaving Damascus, 181, 265, 270 Hebrew Teachers’ Committee, 242 Hecker, Wilhelm, 131– 2, 133, 304 n. 32 he-Halus (society), 328 n. 46 ˙ Herzfeld, Avraham, 190 Herzl, Theodor, 57, 59, 118 memorial day, 113, 143, 153, 172, 199, 246– 7 Hesedshel Emet association, 235, 238 ˙ Hilfsverein der Deutschen Juden, 39 – 40, 65, 70, 81, 93, 111 teaching college of, 68 Hizb al-Istiqla¯l al-‘Arabı¯ (Arab Inde˙ pendence Party), 160 Hoofien, Eliezer Siegfried, 111 Hovevey Tsiyyon, 70, 76 ˙ Immigration Office (Jerusalem), 260 immigration to Palestine, Jewish, 53 – 7, 150, 152, 197, 259– 61, 272, 329 n. 59 immorality. See prostitution, Jewish Indibu¯, Khidr, 240, 269 ˙ Iraq, 207, 245

‘I¯sa¯, Yu¯suf al-, 252 Isirov, Barukh, 77 Istanbul, 27, 28, 51, 55, 111, 186 Istiqlal al-‘Arabı¯, al- (newsp.), 185 Italy, 46, 161 ʿIvriyyah council, 112– 14, 125, 127 Jaffa, 57, 102, 103, 187, 245, 315 n. 37 municipal council, 108, 138 Jamaʿiyyat al-ʿAhd (Covenant Society), 160 Jaza¯’irı¯, Sa‘id al-, 158 Jewish Colonisation Association (JCA), 57, 59, 73, 213 Jewish Literary Society, 45 Jewish National Council, 245, 249, 250 Jewish National Fund, 127, 144, 226, 249 Jewish Quarter, 14 – 15, 37, 47– 8, 50, 53, 74, 104, 125, 132– 3, 135, 137, 143– 4, 173, 175, 177, 203, 208, 222, 229, 247 and AIU, 223 emigration from, 47, 244 missionary activity in 143, 179 number of inhabitants, 123 WWI in, 99 – 100 Joint Distribution Committee, 98, 108, 140, 229, 230, 231– 2, 234, 237–8, 244, 265, 273, 275, 306 n. 52 Kahanoff, Eliyahu, 150–51, 180, 217, 221–2, 225, 235–6, 244, 249–50, 326 n. 105 Kahanoff, Joseph, 269 Kamil Bey, 88, 89 – 90, 93 Karı¯m, Siyyon, 222 ˙ Karmil, al- (‘The Carmel’), 45 Kasmieh, Khairia, 176 Khalı¯l, Aaron, al-, 59 Kha¯n al-Ba¯sha¯, 322 n. 20 Khidr, Karı¯m,, 239, 240 ˙ al-Kina¯nah (newsp.), 199

INDEX King-Crane Commission, 146, 148–51, 155–7, 160, 166, 225, 312 n. 8 Labour Zionist movement, 328 n. 46 La¯lu¯, Moses, 40, 231, 303 n. 15 ‘languages war’ (in the Yishuv), 85 – 6, 89, 93 Laniado family, 73, 123, 312 n. 8 Laniado, Joseph, 30, 40, 123, 160, 175, 221, 238, 303 n. 15, 311 n. 108, 312 n. 8 Laniado, Moses Hayyim, 109, 111 ˙ Lawrence, Thomas Edward (T E), 314 n. 22 Lay council, Damascus Jewish community’s, 34, 36 League of Nations, 161 League of Ottoman Jews, 42 Lebanon, 201, 207 Levi [ha-Levi], Moshe, 28 Le´vi, Sylvain, 224 Levin, A B, 306 n. 55 Levin, Shim‘on, 111 Levin-Epstein, Eliahu Zeev Halevi, 305 n. 36 Levontin, Zalman David, 83 Lewi, Ado¯n, 269 Liberal Union Party (AhrarFırkası), 52 Liberman, Yosef, 100 Lisa¯n al-‘Arab (newspaper), 207 Lloyd George–Cle´menceau agreement, 170 London, 38, 123, 186, 249 London Society for Promoting Christianity, 16 Luria, Yosef, 75, 76, 88, 192, 242, 243, 266, 270, 310 n. 70 Lu¯ziyyah, Mura¯d, 39 Luziyyah, Nisim, 247 Ma‘aravi, Elijah, 39 Maccabi (Damascus), 126– 8, 143, 144, 171, 208, 245, 247–8, 275. See also Maccabi ha- Sa‘ir, ha˙

353

Maccabi (Palestine), 113 Maccabi ha-Sa‘ir, ha-, 144, 172, 226, ˙ 247–8, 266 Mahadı¯b, Shaha¯diyyah, 39 ˙ Margaliot-Kalvarisky, Haim, 164, 197–9, 319 n. 142 Maslaton, Judah Hayyim ha-Kohen, 234 ˙ Maslaton-Tarab, Ezra ben Elijah, 87 ˙ Matalon, Joseph Moses, 40 ˙ Mawa¯s, Mu¯sa¯ (Moses), 231, 238, 240, 303 n. 15, 330 n. 81 Meat tax (gabela), 7, 36 – 7, 229, 237 Midhat Pas¸a, 56 Migration Committee (Palestine), 105, 109–11, 115– 17, 147, 298 n. 43 Military service exemption tax (Ott. Tur. bedel-iaskeri), 7 millet, Jewish, 34, 35 missions and missionaries, 15 – 17, 22 Protestant, 14, 77, 179 schools, 84 – 5, 93, 143, 244 Mizrahi, Jamı¯l, 239, 330 n. 81 ˙ Mizrahi, Mawa¯s, 330 n. 81 ˙ Mizrahi, Tawfı¯q, 221, 239, 245, 269 ˙ modernisation, 5, 20, 24, 63, 146 Mohar ha-Betulot (association), 234 Morgenthau, Henry, 94, 98 Moshli, Yaakov, 133 Mosseri, Albert, 321 n. 17 Mosseri, Jack (Ya‘aqov), 123– 30, 133, 136, 138, 147, 311 n. 111 Mufı¯d, al- (newsp.), 185 Mughrabı¯, Ibra¯hı¯m, 231, 269 Mughrabı¯, Salı¯m, 240 Mugrabı¯, Rahel, 247 ˙ municipal schools: support by AIU and Baron de Rothschild, 95 Muqattam, al-(newsp.), 185 ˙˙ Muqtabas, al- (newsp.), 45, 48, 49, 291 n. 51 Mura¯d, Sa‘adya¯,39 Mustafa Kemal, 320 n. 48 Muzaffar, ‘Abd al-Qa¯dir al-, 169– 70, ˙ 180, 315 n. 48

354

ZIONISM IN DAMASCUS

Na¯bı¯ Mu¯sa¯ riots in, 167, 249 Na¯dı¯ al-‘Arabı¯, al- (The Arab Club), 146, 148– 9, 160, 165– 6, 169, 170, 310 n. 102 Nahdah, an- (Renaissance), 42, 46, 51 ˙ Nahon, Isaac, 91 – 2, 94 –66, 294 n. 70 Nahoum, Haı¨m, 28 – 33, 42, 52, 64, 67, 79, 101– 2 national defence league, 166 New York, 98 newspapers in the Middle East, Jewish, 206, 215 NILI, 103, 297 n. 34 North Africa, 202 Occupied Enemy Territory Administration (OETA), 122 Odessa, 70, 76 orphanages, 134, 1370 n. 40, 226, 228, 232, 234, 244, 245, 266 Ouziel, Rahamim, 57 – 8 ˙ Ozer Dallim be-Dammes´eq society, 38 – 40, 65, 117 Pa’is, Barukh, 80– 82, 84, 87– 89, 92 – 93, 95, 100, 113, 118, 134, 138, 139, 142, 151, 273, 303 n. 15, 319 n. 129 Pa’is, Samuel, 78 Palestine Jewish Colonisation Association (PICA), 57 Palestine Office, 108, 131 Palestine, 25 – 26, 32, 39, 45 – 6, 49, 52 – 60, 70 – 1, 83, 90– 1, 98,120, 150– 2, 154, 160, 163– 4, 166–7, 172– 3, 186, 206– 7, 314 n. 33, 319 n. 142 Arab nationalist ambitions in, 179 Arabic-language press in, 177 British conquest of, 103 and France, 258. See also French Mandate over Syria Herbert Samuel’s arrival, 172 Jewish workers’ organisations, 195

1921 riots, 245 as part of Syria, 160, 165, 313 n. 21 and Zionism, 49, 149, 211, 224. See also Yishuv Palestinian Teachers’ Central Committee (Palestinian Education Committee), 68, 75, 86, 88, 90, 93– 4, 96 Paris, 58, 217, 220, 230, 244, 249, 250 patriotic movement, Arab, 10 Penso, Abraham, 40 Peres, Solomon, 87 ˙ Pesah, Eli‘ezer, 247 ˙ Pichon, Stephen, 146 Pinto, David, 248 ˙ press , 58, 177 press, Arabic, 65, 67, 113, 178– 9, 199, 205–9, 211, 251 press, Hebrew, 46, 154, 185, 256 in Palestine, 178, 186, 189, 197, 204, 206, 235, 318 n. 104 prostitution, Jewish, 18 – 19, 25, 32 – 4, 35– 6, 80, 99, 234–6 Prussia, 22 Public Debt Administration, Ottoman, 2 Qadimah (1922; association), 226 Qadimah (association), 118, 119– 20, 123, 125, 127, 128, 133, 159, 171, 177, 222, 275 Qam‘u¯, Aaron, 40 Qamhajı¯, David, 30 ˙ Qamhajı¯, Hayyim, 87 ˙ ˙ Qamhajı¯, Mu¯sa¯, 39 ˙ rabbinical courts, 5, 14, 15 Redemption Fund, 176, 250, 265 reforms, Ottoman, 9, 11, 19, 28 religious schools, 33, 63 – 4, 67 – 9, 79, 82– 5, 87, 90, 115, 126, 141– 2, 228, 253, 255 and AIU, 63, 255 Douer, 115, 126 Du¯rah, 126

INDEX al-kita¯b al-jadı¯d (the new school), 96, 112 Rika¯bı¯, ‘Ali Rida¯’ al-, 127, 128, 158, ˙ 175, 303 n. 18 Rivlin, Eliezer, 105, 107 Rivlin, Joseph Joel, 132, 140, 142, 144– 5, 150, 155, 174, 177– 8, 180– 1, 186, 187, 189, 219, 226, 231, 253, 255, 273, 278– 9, 316 n. 72, 322 n. 28, 327 n. 11 conflict with Burla, 242–4 Rodfey Kevod ha-Ummah (‘Seekers of the Nation’s Honour’), 250, 252– 3 Rogel, Nakdimon, 153 Rosen, Efrayim, 73, 79 Rosenwald, Julius, 109 Rothschild, Baron Edmond de, 92 – 5, 225 Ruppin, Arthur, 98, 111 Ru¨s¸diyeschool, 100 Russian Jews, 249 Safed, 26, 57, 58, 110 ˙ Sami Pasa, 45 ˙ Samuel, Herbert, 120, 172, 189, 274, 301 n. 86, 322 n. 28 Samuel, Stuart, 225, 327 n. 11 San Remo Conference, 145, 161, 203, 205, 249, 259, 262 Saqa¯l, Salı¯m, 231, 330 n. 81 S´as´on, David, 39 Sasson, Eliahu, 169– 70, 182, 186, 190, 205– 6, 209, 214– 15, 228, 235, 243, 247, 259, 261–2, 265, 315 n. 48, 321 n. 13, 330 n. 68 Schiller, Salamon, 116 Schoffler, Ernest, 212, 323 n. 37 scholars, religious, 4– 5, 7, 14 – 15, 28, 35 – 7, 56, 62, 82, 111, 168, 251, 274 financial support for, 4, 14, 97, 123, 136, 231, 237 as teachers, 64, 72, 198, 217

355

schools, Christian, 17, 69 –71, 84, 143, 179, 205, 219, 253 secularism and secularisation, 5, 8, 10, 15, 21, 36, 158, 255, 256, 275 ‘The Seeing (Watchful) Eye’, 172 Sevi, Mosheh, 186– 7, 190– 1, 216 ˙ Shahbandar, ‘Abd al-Rahman al-, ˙ 161, 197 Shami, Yitzhak, 170 n. 8, 19 –20 Shefar ‘am, 304 n. 24 Sheqel society, 117 sheqel, Zionist, 118, 127, 247, 261, 263 Shertok, Moshe, 184 ShevetAhim (Dwelling of Brethren) ˙ society, 118, 125, 127 Sidon, 257, 304 n. 24, 307 n. 59 Sigler (Livni), Yitshaq, 105 ˙ ˙˙ socialism, 189– 91, 195– 6, 254, 256, 275 Sokolow, Nahum, 118– 19, 123 spiritual council (Jewish community), 34 Stern, Edward, 38, 218, 234 Suez Canal, 37 Sulh, Rida¯’ al-, 199 ˙ ˙ ˙ Sulh, Riya¯d al-, 198 ˙ ˙ ˙ Sweyd, Eliyah, 239 Sykes – Picot Agreement, 103 Syrian National Congress, 160– 1, 165 Syrian patriotism, 8 Szold, Robert, 311 n. 111 Tajer, Shelomo, 239– 40, 240, 266– 8 talmudtorah. See religious schools Tarra¯b, Ibra¯hı¯m, 239 ˙ teacher training college (AIU; Paris), 2160 n. 7 teachers seminary (Jerusalem), 118, 129, 141 teachers, Hebrew kindergarten, 68, 70, 71, 83, 84, 87, 96, 192, 217, 252, 257 Teachers’ Central Committee in Palestine, 68, 75, 86, 90, 93 – 4, 96

356

ZIONISM IN DAMASCUS

Tehiyyah (Revival; Zionist association), ˙ 77 – 8, 113, 118, 141 Tehon, Yaakov, 109, 257 Teitelbaum, Aaron, 140, 306 n. 52 Tel Aviv, 102 Tel-Hay, 167 ˙ Tiberias, 26, 30, 32, 57, 58, 110 ˙ Ticho, Abraham Albert, 108, 111, 115 Torah scholars. See religious scholars Totah family, 73, 123 ˙ ˙ ˙ Totah, David, 221, 330 n. 81 ˙ ˙ ˙ Totah, Moses David, 151, 165, 219, ˙ ˙ ˙ 221, 303 n. 15 Totah, Moses Elijah, 30, 231, 240, 269, ˙ ˙ ˙ 303 n. 15, 330 n. 81 Totah, Moses Hayyim, 40, 138, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ 303 n. 12 Totah, Mura¯d, 330 n. 81 ˙ ˙ ˙ Turkey, 245 Turkification, 41 – 2, 212 Turkiyyah, Hayyim, 40 ˙ Turkiyyah, Ibra¯hı¯m, 239– 40, 330 n. 81 Turkiyyah, Za¯kı¯, 231, 269 Twelfth Zionist Congress, 261 Ummayad Mosque, 174 ‘union of female teacher aides’, 192, 270 United States, 16, 22, 98, 103, 181, 202, 302 n. 10 support from Damascus e´migre´s in, 102 ‘Uqa¯b, al- (newsp.), 320 n. 48 Urdun, al- (newsp.), 320 n. 48 Ussishkin, Menachem, 146, 257, 265, 266, 279 Uziel, Baruch, 116 Uziel, Ben-Zion Me’irHai, 129– 31, ˙ 134, 147– 8, 304 n. 23 Vienna, 111, 186 Vilbush, Nahum, 305 n. 35 Vilbushevich (Vilbush), Gedaliah, 108, 305 n. 35 ‘voluntary war tax’, 4

war between the Ottoman Empire and Russia, 4 Weinberg, Alter, 251, 328 n. 26 Weinberg, Shosha, 328 n. 26 Weizmann, Chaim, 122, 145– 6, 153–4, 162– 3, 258– 9, 279, 313 n. 19 Women’s Aid society, 71 Women’s Committee (Jerusalem), 244 workers’ movement (Palestine), 255 workers’ union [organization], 190– 6 World War I, 20, 34, 40 – 1, 60, 95, 97– 8, 102, 121, 190, 216, 258, 322 n. 20 Ya¯tsheh, Isaac, 39 Yellin, Aviezer, 112, 116 Yellin, Avinoam, 116 Yellin, David, 106, 108, 111, 115– 19, 130, 133, 141, 153– 4, 273, 304 n. 19 and Damascus Jewry, 104– 5, 109– 10, 302 n. 6 See also Yellin-Mosseri Survey Yellin, Ittel (Ita), 106 Yellin, Shemarya, 302 n. 6 Yellin-Mosseri Survey, 122– 9 Yishuv, 39, 69, 74, 86, 98, 100, 102, 107–9, 111, 117, 121, 135, 141, 182, 245, 259, 261 Yis´ra’el (Egyptian Jewish newsp.), 206 Young Turks, 28 – 29, 35, 38, 40, 48, 51– 2, 65, 212 Youths of Zion (Se’ireySiyyon), 75 ˙ ˙ Za¯gah, Ha¯ru¯n, 269 Zagah, Jacob, 80 – 1, 84, 87, 292 n. 16 Zagah, Salı¯m, 239, 240 Zat¯ır, Tawfı¯q, al-, 199 ˙ Zaytu¯niyyah, Abraham, 39 Zegul, Hayyim, 186, 244 ˙ Zikhron Ya‘aqov, 93 Zionist Commission, 120– 1, 121, 123, 131–6, 142– 6, 155– 8, 178, 181,

INDEX 186, 207, 229– 31, 237, 257, 273– 75 emissaries, 138, 144, 146, 178, 182 Zionist Executive (Jerusalem), 164, 244, 252, 260– 2, 273, 278 cessation of support for Damascus Hebrew schools, 261, 268, 277

357

Zionist Executive (London), 270 Zionist movement, 10 Zionist Organisation, 60, 127, 129, 153, 171, 225, 228, 261, 263 Education Committee of the Palestinian Bureau, 183