Portrait Paths:
Studio Photography
in Ottoman Palestine
Stephen Sheehi
A Locality:
Wasif Jawhariyyeh’s Album
American Colony Photo Department,
Husayn Salim al-Husayni, glass, stereoscope,
dry plate, Jerusalem, 5 x 7 inches, Courtesy
of the Library of Congress.
In his personal chronicle, The Storyteller of
Jerusalem, Wasif Jawhariyyeh (1897–1972)
opens his account by calling attention to a
cherished portrait that was presented as a
gift to his father by his own namesake Wasif
Bey ‘Azim (‘Adhim). Wasif Bey was a close
friend of the senior Jawhariyyeh. ‘Azim came
from a prominent Damascene family and was
a jurist appointed by Istanbul to the Ottoman
criminal court of Jerusalem but also sent to
establish the civil nizamiye court in which
Jawhariyyeh and his father worked.1 Musician,
polyglot, libertine, litterateur, and municipal
bureaucrat, Jawhariyyeh came from a wellconnected middle-class family in Jerusalem.
His father was a well-respected lawyer and
civil servant, who also became the mukhtar for
the city’s Greek Orthodox (Rum) community
and maintained close connections with the
Husayni family, Jerusalem’s most powerful
family of notables. Wasif himself was a
municipal bureaucrat, who worked in the same
legal system as his father and Wasif al-‘Azim.
Despite this, he stands apart from what Peter
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 23 ]
Gran might call the “new men” or, better, “new men and women” of Palestine and the
Ottoman Empire, “a group of people across the planet more attuned to the laws of the
market and less so to the traditional laws and moralities of nation-states.”2
Thanks to the masterful work of Salim Tamari and Issam Nassar, we know much about
Jawhariyyeh. He left us an extensive chronicle of his life, starting at the turn of the century
until the 1960s, detailing the massive changes and challenges in Palestine that culminated
in mass dispossession of Palestinians in 1948.3 Yet, adjacent to his autobiography, his
unpublished photography albums, entitled Tarikh Filastin al- musawwar (The Illustrated
History of Palestine), have received less attention.4 These photography albums are a
visual narrative of Jawhariyyeh’s Palestine, opening not with an intimate account of his
family members and the Jerusalem quarter but with a litany of portraits of the Ottoman
officials, Palestinian notables, civil servants, and municipal functionaries. The preamble
of this visual narrative of the modern history of Palestine meanders from portraits of
Ottoman mutasarrifs (district officers) of the sanjak of Jerusalem and city notables to the
municipality civil servants and mayors (ru’us al-baladiyya). Annotated with the names,
posts, and dates (in hijri years), the litany includes ‘Izzat Pasha (governor of Damascus
before Jerusalem was made a sanjak in 1872); mutassarifs of Jerusalem Fa’iq Bey,
Nasim Bey, Subhi Bey, and ‘Azmi Bey (the latter three governors of the city after the
Committee of Union and Progress revolt of 1908); the accomplished Ottoman diplomat
Ibrahim Haqqi Pasha; an older Rashad Pasha; and Ra’uf Bey, along with an image of
Ra’uf with his son in an Ottoman maritime outfit for children.
The portraits of local officials, notables, and dignitaries comingle with the cartes
of Ottoman officials. ‘Arif Pasha al-Dajani, a Jerusalem notable, Arab nationalist
politician, and the mayor of Jerusalem during the final years of the First World War, poses
bespectacled in a suit at a table, hand on cheek, over papers. Dajani, like so many others
in Jawhariyyeh’s written and visual narrative, was a central figure in Palestinian politics
and in the heady politics following the Arab Revolt and the Mandate period. The image
is nested in an array of images of political figures such as Husayn Salim al-Husayni,
the son of Jawhariyyeh’s patron and friend Salim al-Husayni. Hailing from Jerusalem’s
most powerful political families, he was, along with the council of notables, given power
over Jerusalem upon the Ottoman withdrawal from the city. Moreover, he is the central
figure in the iconic photograph and painting of the surrender of Jerusalem to the British
during World War I.
This article looks at the “portrait paths” of the carte de visite mark, what I will call
“networks of sociability” of the “new men and women” of Ottoman Palestine and the
empire itself.5 The carte de visite as the first global phenomenon of mass visual culture
speaks to this “rise of the rich,” representing, in the words of Deborah Poole, “the shared
desire and sentiments of what was rapidly becoming a global class.”6 The constellation
of cartes de visite in an album such as Jawharriyeh’s did not only instantiate a vision of
modern Palestine or enact a Palestinian national narrative. Rather, this article will explore
how the photographic portrait served as a valuable material and ideological object that
connected, verified, and defined social and political networks at a time of “interactive
emergence” of new classes and subjects who form the bedrock of Ottoman and Mandate
[ 24 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
Palestinian society.7 In other words, the
portraits in Jawhariyyeh’s albums are
unintelligible when separated from the
changes in land tenure, the standardization
of currencies, the proliferation of printmedia, or the opening of new types of
schools and education during the late
Ottoman era, as well as the later Zionist
settlement and British occupation of
Palestine. We understand the carte de
visite as a particular material object that
imprinted and contained the morality,
ethics, and ideology of the new effendiyya
classes found throughout the Ottoman
Empire, connecting them socially but
also reifying the Osmanlilik and capitalist
ideology of the reform and proto-nationalist
eras. Therefore, this article reads the history
of portraits in Ottoman Palestine through
the photography album of Jawhariyyeh and
the photographic production of Jerusalem
Garabed Krikorian, ‘Ali Akram Bey (1906–1908),
twelfth mutassarif of Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Wasif
studios of Garabed Krikorian and Khalil
Jawhariyah Album, J 1/6-16. Courtesy of the Library
Raad. We will find, in doing so, that the
of the Institute for Palestine Studies.
portrait’s exchange tied new Ottoman
and Palestinian subjects to new collective
formations as well as institutions and a particularly ideological vision of society.
The procession of portraits in Jawhariyyeh’s photographic albums invites the
viewer to enter an ambulatory of Palestinian history rooted in the late Ottoman Empire.
Formalistically, these portraits offer nothing new. They reproduce, to borrow from Paul
De Man, the “genetic patterns” repeated in the formalism of portraits taken by native and
European photographers throughout the empire.8 They are frontal and side portraits of
officials of the new Ottoman military and bureaucratic classes, of officials in uniforms
and fezzes, and adorned with a variety of Ottoman medals. They are interspersed between
cartes de visite of civilian and local notables, clerics, and officials such as the suave
Tawfiq Bey, with his hand on cane; Rashid Bey, whose front head shot looks straight into
the camera; and a soft vignette of the twelfth mutassarif of Jerusalem, ‘Ali Akram Bey.9
Jawhariyyeh’s photographic album confirms that the carte de visite was a common
social practice in which every Ottoman official, from the grand vizier to governors,
participated since the introduction of commercial photography studios into the empire
in the 1850s. Photographers such as Garabed Kerkorian and Khalil Raad produced these
portraits as easily in Jerusalem and Jaffa as Abdullah Frères, Sébah, or Jurji Saboungi
did in Istanbul and Beirut. The mobility of Ottoman officials, who might be governor
or bureaucrat one year, only to be reassigned to another province the next, echoed the
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 25 ]
mobility of the carte de visite as a means
to shore up relations between provincial
capitals, the imperial center, and the locales
that they were sent to manage. Ottoman
officials disseminated their cartes among
local effendiyya, bureaucrats, and notables
only to move to other localities and repeat
the practice.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the
images of mayors of Jerusalem, notables,
clerics and religious scholars, friends, and
relatives in Jawhariyyeh’s photographic
albums form a male visual gallery that reflect
the ruling political and socio-economic
spaces of Palestine, particularly Jerusalem.
This gallery stretches from portraits of the
new bureaucratic bourgeoisie, such as Ishaq
Abu al-Sa‘ud – the Orthodox Patriarchate’s
attorney, sitting on an ornately carved wood
Anonymous, Ahmad ‘Arif Husayni, [s.d.] J 1-18chair at a desk with papers – to those of
40-IPS, Courtesy of the Library of the Institute for
Palestine Studies.
Palestinians with a quite different pedigree,
such as al-Shaykh Ahmad ‘Arif al-Husayni,
scion of the prominent Gaza branch of the Husayni family and once a candidate for the
Ottoman parliament.10 That particular portrait’s inscription reminds us of the reason
for Husayni’s celebrity: “Executed at the orders of Jamal the Butcher,” the notorious
Ottoman governor of Syria noted for hanging Arab nationalists during World War I.11
Simultaneously, portraits of local bureaucrats such as Ahmad Sharif Effendi, the former
comptroller of the mutassarrif, dated 1288 hijri (1879), and of imperial officials such
as the mutasarrif Rashad Pasha (pictured sitting on a wicker chair, legs crossed, arm on
table) conjoin the Ottoman leadership with the locals who manned their administrative
system along a plane of shared representation, ideology, and sociability.
In the words of Christopher Pinney, “what photography makes possible is not the
creation of a dramatically new aesthetic mise-en-scène, but the mass-production and
democratization of such an aesthetic.”12 This aesthetic of the Ottoman carte de visite was
not a matter of colonial mimicry, of Ottoman Arab, Turkish, Armenian, and Greek subjects
imitating Western forms of dress and portraiture. Rather, the aesthetic of the carte was the
aesthetic of the ideology of Osmanlilik modernity and Nahda discourses and subjectivity.
Against the backdrop of the Ottoman Tanzimat, the Arab Nahda, commonly referred to as
the Arab Renaissance, was the era in which Arab intellectuals and reformers articulated
and instituted discourses of cultural, political, and social reform. These discourses were,
simply put, formulated on discourses of “progress and civilization.” Whether the topic
was governance, commerce, education, or photography, these discourses articulated
new national, class, gender, and individualist subjectivities that mediated the massive
[ 26 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
transformations in the political economy of nineteenth century.13 What is important for
this article is to understand that the photographic portrait of turn-of-the-century Palestine
was as bound to these Osmanlilik and Nahda discourses as it was to the formation of
new effendiyya, who themselves were charged with managing and stabilizing the social
transformations and economic reorganization instituted by the Tanzimat and increased
European penetration.14
Mary Roberts provides us with titillating examples of how Sultans ‘Abd al-‘Aziz and
‘Abd al-Hamid used “photographic portraiture as a tool of Ottoman statecraft,” which we
can then extend to the sultans’ own domestic political programs.15 With this understanding
of photography as a political and social object, Jawhariyyeh’s albums show us the
extent to which cartes de visites and cabinet cards circulated among Ottoman officials,
local bureaucrats, and new middle class individuals – including intellectuals, educators,
professionals and merchants – and thus, by extension, the degree to which new forms
of Osmanlilik ideology and governance saturated localities in the empire. Moreover, the
appearance of portraits in albums, homes, and institutions in provincial capitals such as
Jerusalem or Beirut also show us the networks of social relations between new and old
classes of subjects, between petit-bureaucrats, members of the new military class, rural
clients of urban patrons, professionals, and educators of Palestine and Greater Syria.
For this study, Jawhariyyeh’s portrait gallery in the first pages of his illustrated
Palestinian history demonstrates that photographic portraiture was a local act of
sociability that reached beyond its immediate geography. This act was inseparable from
the discourses and practices of social, economic, and political reform in the empire and
the radical transformations in political economy and society that produced them. If we
approach the photographic portrait as an ideological act of a particular kind of sociability
(arranged around particular kinds of political and economic order, a new class order), we
therefore recognize photographic studios such as that of Garabed Krikorian not as sources
of production of nationalist, class, or subjectivity discourse or representation. Rather, we
understand these studios as a site of material production, whose product worked to stabilize
the class ideology of the Ottoman Empire through two coterminous and interlocking
means. On the level of social practice, the circulation of portraits among individuals,
institutions, and communities shored up class relations between them. Simultaneously,
the portrait itself was a representational instantiation of class ideology as expressed in
the discourses of the Nahda and Osmanlilik modernity.
Photographers: The Krikorians and Raad
Garabed Krikorian (1847–1920) is undoubtedly Palestine’s most prolific and well known
photographer. He learned photography at the hands of Yesayi Garabedian (1825–1885),
the Armenian patriarch of Jerusalem, who established Palestine’s first native-run
educational atelier – probably the first in the Arab world – in the Monastery of St. James
in 1859.16 Garabedian studied in Manchester and Paris, writing four technical manuals
in Armenian, which remain unpublished. He is credited for training several generations
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 27 ]
of leading Armenian photographers, most prominently Krikorian. Krikorian established
a studio in the 1870s in Jerusalem. The evidence from early cartes de visite suggests
that he associated with Beirut’s most prominent photographer, Jurji Saboungi, and later
trained and partnered with Daoud Saboungi in Jaffa.
Krikorian also trained Khalil Raad (Ra‘d), who would become his rival, partner, and
in-law. Khalil Raad was born in 1854, in Bhamdoun, Lebanon, where his father was killed
in the massacres of 1860. Raad converted to Protestantism and relocated to Jerusalem
because his paternal uncle taught in Jerusalem’s famous missionary Bishop Gobat School.
Much to the displeasure of Krikorian, Raad eventually broke off to open his own studio
immediately across the street from his mentor in 1890.17 After years of acrimony, the two
photographers made peace after Krikorian’s son Johannes (John) returned from studying
in Germany, took over his father’s studio, and married Najla, Raad’s niece.18 Issam
Nassar’s pioneer work on these studios surmises that Najla worked in the Krikorians’
studio, making her potentially the Arab world’s first native woman studio photographer.19
The two studios made an agreement to divide the market. Krikorian’s studio dedicated
its energies to studio portraiture while Raad photographed Palestine’s daily life, current
events, and archeological sites. Indeed, on the cover of his 1933 “Catalogue for Lantern
Slides and Views,” Raad advertises that he is a “photographer of sites, scenes, ceremonies,
costumes, etc. etc.”20 Regardless, just as we find portraits produced by Raad, Krikorian,
too, catered to the thirst for biblical and Orientalist imagery by Holy Land tourists and
the American and European markets.21 Likewise, their photographs illustrate a number
of European publications with explicitly colonial underpinnings.22
The impact of Krikorian’s and Raad’s studio portraiture, like that of Abdullah Frères,
Sébah, and Jurji Saboungi, has been overshadowed by the prominence of their lucrative
“biblical” and Orientalist photographs. Even in Jawhariyyeh’s albums, the introductory
portraits give way to documentary photographs by Jaffa photographer ‘Isa Sawabini and
Jerusalem photographers such as Khalil Raad and the American Colony’s photography
studio, depicting current events and Palestinian communal life. The political relevance
and ideological impact of the quotidian photograph in Jawhariyyeh’s album is a clear
riposte to the true claims of Orientalist and tourist photography. Local photographers’ Holy
Land photography serves to displace Western claims on the representation of Palestine.
In addition to their formalistic tourist photographs, these photographers also register
Palestinian Arabs, not Western pilgrims, celebrating trademark religious festivities such as
the Washing of the Feet in the Jordan River on Maundy Thursday (‘id al-ghitas) in 1905.
Furthermore, their photography of Palestine during World War I offers a keen counternarrative to Lowell Thomas’s vision. Thomas, famed for his portrayal of T. E. Lawrence,
crafted a narrative where Arabs were auxiliaries to British forces, which purportedly
liberated Palestine from the Ottomans. Jawhariyyeh’s albums provide a counterweight
where photographs of the mobilization of Palestine, Bedouin irregulars, sabotaged trains,
and the surrender of Jerusalem are squarely situated in Arab and Palestinian politics and
political participation.
Yet, Krikorian and Raad also produced an archive of portraiture, spanning from
Palestinian peasants to high-ranking officials. The Krikorian name in particular is
[ 28 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
ubiquitous in the cartes de visites, cabinet cards, and portraits of Palestinians from the
1880s until 1948, when the Krikorian and Raad studios were lost behind the Green
Line. Their oeuvre and practice, and the circulation, exchange, display, and loss of their
portraits, precisely demonstrate photography as expressing a series of social relations
that gave it power and necessity.
History as a Photographic Album
Organizing a discussion and excavation of the Krikorians and Raad around Jawhariyyeh’s
photography albums reveals how photography offered a visual habitus for the complex
network of social, political, and economic relations, local and regional, in the Ottoman
Arab world. Jawhariyyeh’s photographic album is a visual narrative of Jerusalem’s
modern Ottoman history, rooted in the figures of Ottoman mutassarrifs, notables, and
local functionaries. His photographic album is also a variation of the biographical
dictionaries, new histories, and scientific journals produced during the Nahda. Journals
such as al-Hilal and al-Muqtataf broke new ground in popularizing and disseminating
portraits of “famous people” (al-mashahir) decades before the Krikorian and Raad studios.
Initially, they were reproduced as half-tones usually on the first pages of their editions.
Over time, technology and financing permitted the number and frequency of portraits in
these journals’ pages to increase.
Simultaneously, the images of famous men and women were reproduced in a variety
of different printed genres. The first volume of Viscount Philippe (Filib) de Tarrazi’s
monumental Tarikh al-sahafa al-‘Arabiyya (History of Arabic Journalism), for example,
served to codify the portraits of Nahda political and intellectual figures as representational
doxa.23 Tarrazi was a scion of a wealthy merchant family in Beirut whose connections with
the papacy resulted in the honorific title of viscount. He was an encyclopedist and founder
of the Lebanese National Library, whose biographies of Nahda intellectuals, reformers,
and “journalists” institutionalized the Arab nationalist narrative of the “Renaissance,”
even though, ironically, Tarrazi later became a parochial Lebanese nationalist. The
portraits in Tarikh al-sahafa al-‘Arabiyya became a visual compendium to new forms
of Arabic fiction, poetry, and social and scientific commentary that were produced by
the biographical subjects of Tarrazi’s encyclopedia. Tarrazi’s photographic compendium,
while not necessarily the first, articulates the ideology of the “new men and women” into
a visual narrative of progress. His portraits present a set of representational indices that
bind private achievement and individuality to the civilizational discourses and national
subjectivities of the Nahda. Jawhariyyeh’s albums are a reiteration of Tarrazi’s historical
encyclopedia, moving from the biography of “great men” to the story of venerable
institutions of Palestine to understanding all current events as national events.
On the other hand, Jawhariyyeh’s photographic albums are a narrative version of the
montage portraits that were popular by World War I. Montage portraits were an assemblage
of multiple images from throughout a distinguished notable’s life, combining images of
family with military, governmental, educational, or religious institutions. As explicitly
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 29 ]
Portrait montage of Amir Faysal bin Husayn and leaders of the Arab Kingdom of Syria. Courtesy of and
permission granted by al-Mukhtar Kamal Rebeiz, Ra’s Beirut.
patriarchal, these montages are usually organized around hierarchy, placing the patriarch
or leader in the middle. One example of a popular montage found in many homes and
institutions in Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine, and reproduced in many publications, is that
of Amir Faysal bin Husayn in military uniform surrounded by a host of other portraits
of political and military figures from the heady days of the Arab nationalist uprising and
the Arab Kingdom of Syria. The picture assembles all the leading figures of the Arab
Kingdom of Syria, crushed by the French in 1920. This montage assemblage can be found
in numerous Ottoman institutional photographs and offers, quite literally, the after-image
and imprint of the social networks birthed by the interactive emergence of a new social
group that reached to photography as one way to instantiate its ideological program.24
Arabic literary-scientific journals, encyclopedias, photographic albums, and portrait
montages testify to the predominance of a photographic practice by which turn-ofthe-century Ottoman Arab, in this case Palestinian, subjects not only were looking
at themselves but had organized that vision based on particular class formations and
civilizational nahdawi discourses. Walid Khalidi’s Before Their Diaspora is a testimony
to how Raad’s and Krikorian’s studios, for example, contributed so intimately to
[ 30 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
interpellating Palestinians into national and class subjects.25 Naseeb Shaheen’s two-volume
Pictorial History of Ramallah, likewise, is a photographic mass of generations of men,
women, and children from Ramallah’s native families.26 The overwhelming presence of
Krikorian and Raad portraits shows that their pull was not limited to Jerusalem’s effendiyya
class, merchant families, municipal civil servants, and Ottoman fonctionnaires. Shaheen’s
publications are awash with portraits of families and individuals from rural areas, small
towns, and villages surrounding Jerusalem and Ramallah.27 Many oral accounts told to
me while in Palestine relayed how going to Jerusalem to have one’s portrait taken by
Krikorian was a celebrated event and practiced by people from the villages surrounding
the city. Edward Said describes his interactions with the Krikorian and Raad studios in
the 1940s. He personally witnessed Raad laboriously photograph a wedding rehearsal,
alluding to the photographer’s “finickiness,” if not boorishness.28
The literary-scientific journal, the illustrated encyclopedia, and the photograph album
naturalized a practice of nesting national and local histories in a vestibule of portraits.
The photographic album and the montage followed journals and encyclopedias in that
they interpellated subjects into national, class, and personal histories and narratives.
But photography albums also interpellated the social relations and the “portrait paths”
between Palestine’s national figures, new classes, and new national and imperial subjects.
Portrait Paths
The predominance of the Krikorian and Raad portraits in such a variety of social spaces
confirms to us that photographic practices were a regular enactment of sociability that
connected individuals, classes, institutions, and leaders, locally and throughout the empire.
This is precisely what Jawhariyyeh’s diaries give us when read against his photographic
album. On the most localized level, people from every class, including working and
peasant classes, are likely to have had their portrait produced at least once in their lifetime.
Such conjecture is based not only on the prevalence of portraits of new effendi-types,
students, military cadets, low-level bureaucrats, brides, grooms, fathers, mothers, and
children but also on the frequency of images of peasants found scattered in peoples homes.
Shaheen compiled such images, for example, to write a local history of Ramallah. What is
important about this anecdotal observation is that their production, like that of middle- and
upper-class portraits, should be seen as a valued social act that produced a social object,
an object of exchange and display imbued with considerable social currency, especially
in a society that was so demonstratively defined by clan and personal ties. In reading
Krikorian and Raad’s photography against Jawhariyyeh’s visual and written narratives,
this article provides a case study in how the portrait’s exchange tethered individuals to
collectives, collectives to other collectives, and individuals and collectives to institutions
and the state. The pairing provides us with an explicit demonstration of the interactive
emergence provided by the habitus of photography.
The “portrait paths” of these subjects’, collectives’, and institutions’ sociability are the
common denominator to the work of Khalidi, Shaheen, and Jawhariyyeh, each of whom
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 31 ]
cluster portraits of officials, notables, and
remarkable figures as the narrative bedrock
of national narration and local history.
Indeed, these shared portrait paths come to
fuller attention when we find the same cartes
de visites in collections across territories,
as the presence of Jawad al-Husayni’s
portrait in the American Colony albums
(now in the Library of Congress) and the
American University of Beirut’s archives
demonstrates. Detailing how Palestinian
political life functioned upon complex
sets of connections between notables,
leading families, local functionaries,
peasants, clans, and the Ottoman center,
the visual archive is more than a historical
documentation. It is more than a reified
vestige of the social enactments of forms of
Garabed Krikorian, Jawad Husayni, carte de visite,
Nahda, Osmanlilik, and national sociability.
Jerusalem, Album, 9 (also found also at the World
The visual archive contains the map
War I Collection, Jaffet Library, American University
of Beirut). Courtesy of John D. Whiting Papers,
of a dynamic sociability that operated on
Library of Congress.
levels of representation and materiality.
Cooperating on these two levels, this map
shows us how the portrait ideologically and socially facilitated networks of power, politics,
economy, and indeed intimacy by connecting the empire’s “new men and women” to one
another, to institutions, and to ideological formations. Rather than show the history of
Palestine built on “great men,” Ottoman secularizing order, and Palestinian sociability,
Jawhariyyeh’s portraits show how subjects, who were both viewers and sitters, recipients and
givers of the image, found identifications within the new configurations of social relations
that were facilitated by the national and class ideals, and their concomitant economic order.
In examining the self-presentation of the “new lady” in Republican China, particularly
in women’s journals, Joan Judge observes that the portrait functions on the seam of the
tension between “representation and materiality,” the “evocative and repeatable photographic
image,” “photographic metonymy and photographic exigency,” between “an image that
gestures beyond itself” and “an image that interpolates us as viewers.”29 Krikorian’s and
Raad’s representation of a local Palestinian-Ottoman vernacular functions along this seam.
Their portraits are objects with social currency, objects of exchange, texts with ideological
weight, and opportunities of enactment of social relations and performativity of the class
and national identities that were organized and envision in Nahda writing. Krikorian and
Raad were consummate local photographers with a regional impact; they were close to
the power elite, Ottoman functionaries, the new middle class, Palestinian nationalists, and
colonial administrators. Their biographies fit Nahda ideals; they were masters of a particular
form of modern knowledge, patriotic Jerusalemites, and successful entrepreneurs. Their
[ 32 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
portraits participated in larger Ottoman discourses of photography, modernity, and social
reorganization, while at the same time articulating local politics that involved the self, family,
notables, education, governance, and a whole slew of other factors and figures to maintain
and expand the social relations of Palestine’s new political economy. In other words, portrait
production operated within “portrait paths” that were concurrently ideological and social,
national and local, semiological and material. Portraits activated identifications between
individuals, collectives, and institutions that drew on the authority of sets of representation,
signification, and ideology that were integral to networks of sociability that lay at the heart
of Palestine’s and the Ottoman Empire’s modernity.
Sartorial Palestinian Vernacular
Edward Said relates in the opening pages of his memoir that the reason for his father’s
immigration to the United States was due to the threat of being conscripted into the Ottoman
army.30 Such an anecdote finds meaning in the preponderance in pre-war portraiture of
officials, officers, and rank and file soldiers, not to mention children in maritime and military
uniforms and boy scouts. While images of uniformed men are found in Egyptian and SyroLebanese collections, the prevalence of uniformed officers, soldiers, professionals, and
civil servants are particularly evocative in the family albums and archives of Palestinians
as Jawhariyyeh, Shaheen, and Khalidi’s collections show. This representational category
of portraits so powerfully narrating the first pages of Jawhariyyeh’s “illustrated history”
reminds us of the words of Vincent Rafael, that photographs “awaken in us, the unknown
viewer from the future, a flood of associations that can barely find expression. Conceived
from fantasies about identity, they propel their recipient to follow further identifications.”31
With this in mind, it is not surprising that the images conjure anachronistically a prescient
story of a people in the dawn of settler colonialism.
Costume and dress tell us little, but their enigma parrots the nature of photography
itself. They are indices that highlight the technical and semiotic mechanisms at work in
the portrait, most notably ideological and subjective identification and repetition. Sartorial
codes are not determinative of the social relations of the portrait or the sitter but they offer
“genetic patterns” – within systems of ideology, within and across class identifications
and affiliations, and within systems of sociability. After all, uniforms were not always
military. More often, they were official “honorary” Ottoman costumes, awarded by the
Sublime Porte and granted through accomplishment on intercession by high-ranking and
well-positioned friends, connections, and superiors. Clothes, formal dress, and traditional
costume convey political and social choices but should not be overvalued as a definitive
designator of photographic meaning or subject position of the photograph. These choices
are not deterministic, even if they are not innocent, inherited, or coincidental. They are
opportunities to cathect material and semiotic objects as ideological acts. Sartorial codes
are opportunities for enactments.
For example, in Shaheen’s Pictorial History of Ramallah, Palestinian families are
photographed in “traditional” costume, worn by the peasant and middle classes alike
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 33 ]
Garabed Krikorian, Hasan ‘Arif al-Husayni (extreme left), Jerusalem, 1914; Musa al-Husseini Collection,
Courtesy of Foundation for the Arab Image.
on a daily basis, but especially during ceremonial occasions. The portraits contrast the
secularizing ubiquity of the standardized portrait of the Ottoman Palestinian uniformed
subject. These images contrast the sub-genre of self-Orientalizing portrait that was prevalent
throughout the Arab provinces but particularly noteworthy in the Krikorian and Raad studio.
Middle class urban Palestinians frequently posed for studio portraits dressed in “Bedouin”
costume or village attire. This phenomenon was especially popular with urban women,
[ 34 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
who would pose in skillfully embroidered thiyab for which Palestinians are well known.
Sartorial codes are statements of ideology that are far too easily confused with empirical
truths. The repetition of genetic sartorial patterns direct us precisely to the forces at play on
the “seam” of the portrait: the meeting between the materiality of history, the production
of the image, the semiotic system at play that makes the image ideologically trenchant and
intelligible, and the circuits of exchange that constitute its value and sociability. These
patterns alert us to the degree to which the Ottoman and Nahda discourses of reform, its
languages, priorities, nomenclature, and concerns were interwoven into all segments of
Palestinian life and insisted on being enacted visually.
The portraits of uniformed Palestinians were indexically circumscribed by the portraits
of the empire’s highest officials, such as Abdullah Frères’s portraits of Fu’ad Pasha, Dawud
Pasha, or Sultan ‘Abd al-‘Aziz himself. These high ranking figures did not define such
representation but they imbued this formal uniformed representation of the new Ottoman
subject with political and social currency. The uniforms that appear in early twentiethcentury Palestinian portraiture are signs – both material and semiotic – of the social and
economic relations in which the sitter and society were imbricated. The repetition of
uniforms in portraits underscores Ottomanlilik ideology but also its sociability. In the
case of Palestine, this is represented in the “portrait path” of mutassarifs, mayors, jurists,
and Palestinian functionaries in the first half of Jawhariyyeh’s first volume, just as the
portrait paths of those villagers in Ramallah circulated among newly educated villagers
who immigrated to urban centers as well as abroad.
Those “traditionally” dressed and uniformed Palestinians were the mediating classes
between prominent indigenous families, old modes of distribution of political offices, the
Ottoman central bureaucracy, and the new classes and subjective consciousness emanating
from Jerusalem, Ramallah, Bethlehem, Bayt Jala, Nablus, Nazareth, Haifa, and Jaffa, not
to mention Beirut, Alexandria, and Cairo. This administrative rationalization of society and
economy came packaged in the same discourses seen in the Arab print media regarding
photography. Photography is not formative of these discourses. It did not create them;
it did, however, manifest them. As such, photography stabilized Osmanlilik and Nahda
discourses that were involved in the reorganization of land, wealth, social organization,
and power. Just as the carte de visite circulated among the tarbush-wearing effendiyya in
Egypt and among the new urban bourgeoisie in Beirut, the photographic portrait functioned
similarly in Jerusalem. It tied new functionaries to the Ottoman bureaucracy in Palestine
and other provincial cities (such as Beirut) just as it brought together individuals from
ascending local families and traditional elites.
Portraits’ Currency
“The photographic portraiture,” Vincent Rafael tells us in regard to photography in the
Philippines, “was meant not only to convey the person’s likeness but to situate it in relation
to the viewer. Such was the function of the dedications . . . addressed to specific recipients,
evoking a sense of intimacy between sender and receiver.”32 The dedications and signatures
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 35 ]
Garabed Kirkorian, Portrait of ‘Asim Effendi, mudir
al-tahrira, 1308 hijri [1890]; gifted to Bishara
Effendi Habib in 1305 hijri [1887]; carte de visite,
J-1/ 21-54, Courtesy of the Library of the Institute
for Palestine Studies.
Garabed Krikorian & Georges Sabounji, Portrait of
‘Asim Effendi, mudir al-tahrira, 1308 hijri [1890],
Jerusalem and Jaffa; gifted to Bishara Effendi Habib;
carte de visite, Courtesy of the Library of the Institute
for Palestine Studies.
on the cartes of Jawhariyyeh’s first album
bear the stain of sentiment, intimacy, and
social history. They trace vectors and
connections essential to Palestinian social
and political relations.
Among the first pages of Jawhariyyah’s
Tarikh are three images of the enigmatic
‘Asim Effendi, “director of the registry”
(mudir al-tahrira). The first image is a
close head shot vignette taken by Garabed
Krikorian. It is dated 1305 hijri (1887), the
end of the administration of Ra’uf Pasha,
mutassarif of Jerusalem. Adjacent to this
portrait, there is a second carte de visite
of ‘Asim Effendi, this time produced by
Krikorian and Jurji Saboungi, who coowned a studio in Jaffa.
While the Krikorian and Saboungi
portrait is more groomed, compositionally
and in content, the soft head vignette
formalistically conveys a subjective depth
that precisely illustrates the subjectivity
of ‘Asim Effendi, an indication of his
humanity as a characteristic that enriched
his position as Palestinian-Ottoman
notable. Yet, in the end, little is known
about ‘Asim Effendi. He could be the same
‘Asim Effendi who served as lieutenant
governor of Jerusalem in the early 1890s.
If this is the case, his dedication to Bishara
Habib on the photograph is telling of both
his position and his relationship with other
lesser functionaries. Bishara Effendi Habib
was a high-ranking functionary in Ra’uf
Pasha’s office and mainstay in the office
of the mutassarif, outlasting an assortment
of subsequent governors in the Jerusalem
administration. ‘Asim’s expression of
loyalty and appreciation to Habib is better
understood when one remembers that
Ra’uf Pasha attempted to dislodge both
of Jerusalem’s rival leading families, the
Husaynis and the Khalidis, from municipal
[ 36 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
and judicial positions that they dominated
for centuries, calling them “parasites” on
the peasantry.33 Perhaps this might be the
evidence that the image is certainly not
‘Asim Effendi al-Husayni. In the narrative
of Arab nationalism, this attempt was
spun anachronistically as an attempt to
Turkify the administration of the sanjak.
More accurately, however, Ra’uf Pasha
was implementing governmental policies
to curb notables’ power in rationalizing
principles of Ottoman governance. Simply
put, he was attempting to implement the
same forms of Osmanlilik governmentality
that were being extended throughout the
empire.34 ‘Asim Effendi shared a social
network with Bishara Effendi Habib, who
as secretary and interpreter to successive
governors was an established functionary,
with a degree of influence, if not power.35
Anonymous, [Jacob] Sarabian Murad, “To Ibrahim
If the story of ‘Asim Effendi suggests
Kalis,” carte de visite, J-1 44, Courtesy of the Library
the political and social relations around
of the Institute for Palestine Studies.
men who were sent to rationalize Palestine,
another portrait suggests how those relations reach into Palestinian society. On the verso
of Jacob Sarabian Murad’s portrait, the American vice-consul writes, “With warm regards
to Ibrahim Effendi Kayin.” While Ibrahim Effendi may have disappeared in history, we
do know that Murad – who served as a consular agent to the United States’ consulate
– maintained an expansive network of close relationships with notables, officials,
missionaries, landowners, peasants, and foreign diplomats. These relations allowed
him to secure his brother Simeon a position as the German vice-consular in Palestine.36
However, a complaint from a disgruntled American resident of Jaffa claims that Jacob was
“destitute of education and totally ignorant of English and any other European language.”37
Another account similarly criticized Simeon, stating “beyond a slight acquaintance of
our language [English], his culture was limited.”38 In fact, Jacob and his brother were
the sons of an Armenian rosary peddler in Jerusalem, all of whom were enfranchised by
the eldest brother’s considerable network of professional acquaintances.39
Jacob Murad had come into his position through his own close relationship with the
previous native consular representative for the United States, named Arutin Murad, who
effectively adopted him and eventually married him to his niece.40 No doubt, Jacob’s
relationship with Arutin allowed him in 1846 to secure such a well-connected post, which
required not only the approval of American officials in Washington and Istanbul but
also an endorsement from the Sublime Porte.41 Jacob’s and Simeon’s lavish homes and
“beautiful garden” in Jaffa gained quite a reputation, but this is not the only evidence of
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 37 ]
their financial success and connections.42 The brothers were involved in lending money and
land dealings, and each, at some point, faced accusations of misusing their considerable
connections for graft or favor. It is uncertain whether these accusations were true or the
protestations of a slighted and disgruntled foreign diplomat. However, Jacob and his
brother argued that their position as consular agents actually hurt them financially, because
they often advocated for American citizens in the affairs of Palestine and consequently
were targeted vindictive locals and a vengeful peasantry.43
The portraits of characters like Jacob Murad and ‘Asim Effendi operate on a series of
feuilles, the crossing vectors of social relations, political culture, and economic systems in
Palestine. Beneath the surface of the image, we learn how foreign interests were embroiled
with discontented peasants, who were angered by the rearrangement of property rights
and patron-client relations, while imperial policies relied on the mediation of a local
functionary class that used those portraits adeptly. The portrait of the slightly cross-eyed
Murad and the two cartes of ‘Asim Effendi do not disclose this history per se. They do
not tell of their own histories as children of peddlers and notables, respectively. But they
do interpellate discourses and practices that they instrumentalized. Through photographic
enactments, exchange, and circulation, the portrait bound Ottoman elites along with
Palestinian notables to lower and mid-tier petit-fonctionnaires, new patrons with clients,
and individuals to systems. It hid discontent and projected ideological continuity. Neither
Jacob Murad nor ‘Asim Effendi occupy enormous historical consequence. That is precisely
the point. One need not look at the biographies and portraits of political and intellectual
colossi in order to search for evidence for the portrait’s social currency. Rather, one only
has to look to the scattered portraits among the array of social groups within Palestine,
who were collectively transforming the political economy and local and communal
governance. The social currency of a photographic portrait came from its ability not only
to circulate within networks of relations, but also to traverse them. This sociability of the
portrait was as public as it was private but also was intended to go between these two
spheres. Its circulation then tracked new social relations between citizens and institutions
as easily as between men and women.
Conclusion
Jawharriyeh’s visual narrative is staged as a constellation of portraits of Palestine’s “new
men and women” whose rise, in Peter Gran’s words, “in politics and diplomacy . . . led to
a new form of relations among elements from around the world,” including the Eastern
Mediterranean and the Ottoman Empire.44 The bricolage of Jawhariyyeh’s portraits exhibit
how the social currency of the carte de visite emerge from the portrait paths binding
men and women within the interactive emergence of new individuals, institutions, and
social groups. As a material object, the portrait was a currency exchanged as means of
shoring up new networks of sociability. It was the object of a specific social practice with
a concrete role in establishing new social relations between actors and classes. But as an
ideological object, the portrait instantiated discourses that naturalized the very existence
[ 38 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
and necessity of those class formations and social relations.
Ottoman portraits dovetail with Jawhariyyeh’s national narrative because they
took value from the same ideological systems that were at play within Palestine’s
social relations at the beginning of the century. The portrait stabilized that ideology by
reproducing it repetitiously and drawing subjects into its networks of sociability. The
portraits in Jawhariyyeh’s albums could not be imagined without changes in land tenure,
the standardization of currencies, the proliferation of print media, or the opening of new
types of schools and education. The portrait was the surface where these transformations,
institutions, and social relations appeared natural but also acted as a mediating object to
gauge and make sense of the changes underway in Palestine.
The studio practice of Krikorian and Raad as seen in Jawharriyeh’s illustrated history
cogently stands as representative of how the portrait was a visual condensation of a modern
subjective ideal to which the composite new citizen, new class subject, new gendered
subject, new national subject, and new individual could ideologically identify. Therefore,
Jawhariyyeh’s album evinces that portraits were the after-image of social and economic
shifts that had already inaugurated changes in what constituted selfhood itself, changes
in what structured identification, and indeed subjective-social desire.
Stephen Sheehi is the Sultan Qaboos bin Said Professor of Middle East Studies at the
College of William and Mary.
Endnotes
1 See Wasif Jawhariyyeh, The Storyteller of
Jerusalem: The Life and Times of Wasif
Jawhariyyeh, 1904–1948, ed. Salim Tamari
and Issam Nassar, trans. by Nada Elzeer (North
Hampton, MA: Olive Branch Press, 2014).
2 Peter Gran, Rise of the Rich: A New View of
Modern History (Syracuse: Syracuse University
Press, 2009), 60.
3 For more information, see Tarikh Filastin
al-musawwar fi al-‘ahd al-‘Uthmani [The
Illustrated History of Palestine in the Ottoman
Era], 2 vols., found in the collection of the
Institute for Palestine Studies, Beirut. The
photographs in the album correspond with
annotated notes in Jawhariyyeh’s memoir,
which has been published in full in Arabic in
two volumes: Wasif Jawhariyyeh, al-Quds al‘Uthmaniyya fi al-mudhakkirat al-Jawhariyyeh:
al-Kitab al-awal min al-musiqi Wasif
Jawhariyyeh, 1904–1917 [Ottoman Jerusalem
in the Jawhariyyeh Memoirs: The First Book of
the Musician Wasif Jawhariyyeh, 1904–1917],
ed. Salim Tamari and Issam Nassar (Beirut:
Mu’assasat al-dirasat al-Filastiniyya, 2003) and
Wasif Jawhariyyeh, al-Quds al-intidabiyya fi
al-mudhakkirat al-Jawhariyyeh: al-Kitab al-
4
5
6
7
thani min al-musiqi Wasif Jawhariyah, 1918–
1948 [Mandate Jerusalem in the Jawhariyyeh
Memoirs: The Second Book of the Musician
Wasif Jawhariyyeh, 1918–1948], ed. Salim
Tamari and Issam Nassar (Beirut: Mu’assasat
al-dirasat al-Filastiniyya, 2005). Also, for an
introduction to Jawhariyyeh, see Salim Tamari,
“Jerusalem’s Ottoman Modernity: The Time
and Lives of Wasif Jawhariyyeh,” Jerusalem
Quarterly 1 (Summer 2000): 1–34.
See Jawhariyyah, Tarikh Filastin al-musawwar.
The first volume of the album ends at 1918.
I am elaborating and playing with the phrase
“portrait path” as offered by Sarvos and Frohich.
I use it here to mean the paths in which the
portrait is produced and exchanged rather than
the path society took in choosing a medium for
photographic portraiture alone. For more on the
idea of “portrait paths,” see Risto Sarvos and
David Frohich, From Snapshot to Social Media –
The Changing Picture of Domestic Photography
(London: Springer, 2011), 23–44.
Deborah Poole, Vision, Race, and Modernity,
112.
John E. Willis, Jr., “Maritime Asia 1500–
1899: The Interactive Emergence of European
Domination,” American Historical Review 98
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 39 ]
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
(February 1993): 83–105.
Paul De Man, Allegories of Reading (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1979), 79.
The images are found in the first pages of
Jawhariyyeh, Tarikh Filastin al-musawwar.
Ilan Pappe, The Rise and Fall of a Palestinian
Dynasty: The Husaynis, 1700–1948 (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2010), 156.
Jawhariyyeh, Tarikh Filastin al-musawwar, J-1,
18/47.
Christopher Pinney, The Coming of Photography
to India (London: British Library, 2008), 134–35.
For a critical examination of these discourses
of the Nahda, in particular their relationship
to subjective formation, see Stephen Sheehi,
Foundations of Modern Arab Identity
(Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2004).
For some recent studies about the rise of the
effendi class, see Wilson Chacko Jacobs,
Working Out Egypt: Effendi Masculinity and
Subject Formation in Colonial Modernity 18701940 (Durham NC: Duke University Press, 2011)
and Lucie Ryzova, The Age of the Efenidiyya:
Passage to Modernity in National-Colonial
Egypt (Oxford: Oxford Historical Monographs,
2014).
Mary Roberts, “The Limits of Circumscription,”
in Photography’s Orientalism: New Essays on
Colonial Representation, ed. Ali Behdad and
Luke Gartlan (Los Angeles: Getty Research
Institute, 2013), 54.
Badr el-Hage, L’Orient des photographes
Arméniens (Paris: Institut du Monde Arabe,
2007), 42–43.
Badr al-Hajj (Badr el-Hage), “Khalil Raad –
Jerusalem Photographer,” Jerusalem Quarterly
(Winter 2001): 39.
Hajj, “Khalil Raad,” 11–12, 39.
Issam Nassar, Laqatat Mughayira: al-taswir
al-futughrafi al-mahalli al-mubakkir fi Filastin
[Different Snapshots: Early Local Photography
in Palestine] (Ramallah: Kutub and Qattan
Foundation, 2005), 23.
Nassar provides an image and brief comment on
this catalogue in Laqatat Mughayira, 26.
Annelies Moors, “Presenting Palestine’s
Population Premonitions of the Nakba,” MIT
Electronic Journal of Middle East Studies 1
(May 2001): 1–12. Also, see Annelies Moors,
“Presenting People: The Politics of Picture
Postcards of Palestine/Israel,” in Postcards:
Ephemeral Histories of Modernity, ed. David
Prochaska and Jordana Mendelson (University
Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press,
2010), 93–105.
Raad’s and Krikorian’s images of monuments,
construction projects, and holy sites in Palestine
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
and Transjordan appeared alongside photographs
by the Zangaki Brothers, Bonfils, photographers
of the American Colony, the famous James
Robertson, and Beato in publications such
as Gaunt’s Touring the Ancient World with
a Camera and Edwin Sherman Wallace’s
Jerusalem the Holy as well as publications and
archives of the Palestine Exploration Committee.
See Colin Osman, Jerusalem: Caught in Time
(Reading, UK: Garnet, 1999) and Eyal Onne,
Photographic Heritage of the Holy Land
1839–1914 (Manchester: Institute of Advanced
Studies, Manchester Polytechnic, 1980).
Phillippe Tarrazi, Tarikh al-sahafa al-‘Arabiyya
[History of Arab Journalism] (Beirut: al-Matba‘a
al-adabiyya, 1913), vols. 1–3.
Willis, “Maritime Asia.”
Walid Khalidi, Before Their Diaspora: A
Photographic History of the Palestinians,
1876–1948 (Washington: Institute for Palestine
Studies, 1984).
Naseeb Shaheen, A Pictorial History of
Ramallah (Beirut: Arab Institute for Research
and Publishing, 1992); Naseeb Shaheen, A
Pictorial History of Ramallah, Part II (Birzeit:
Birzeit University Press and the Naseeb Shaheen
Charitable Foundation, 2006).
A large amount of these photographic family
(immediate family, extended, and clan),
individual, school, and group portraits, especially
those en plein air, were the product of the very
mobile atelier of the American Colony, which
deserves closer attention beyond the scope of
this study.
Edward Said, Out of Place: A Memoir (New
York: Vintage, 1999), 76–77.
Joan Judge, “Portraits of Republican Ladies:
Materiality and Representation in Early
Twentieth-Century Chinese Photographs,” in
Visualising China, 1845–1964: Moving and Still
Image in Historical Narratives, ed. Christian
Henriot and Wen-hsin Yeh (Leiden: Brill, 2013),
131.
Said, Out of Place, 8. For corroborating studies
about the threat of conscription, particularly after
the Ottomans changed conscription laws in 1908
to include all men over twenty years of age, see
Sarah Graham Brown, Palestinians and Their
Society, 1880–1946 (London: Quartet, 1980),
158–59. See also: E. J. Zucher, “The Ottoman
Conscription System in Theory and Practice,”
International Review of Social History 43, no.
3 (1998): 437–449.
Vincent Rafael, “The Undead: Notes on
Photography in the Philippines, 1898–1920s,” in
White Love and Other Events in Filipino History
(Durham NC: Duke University Press, 2000), 101.
[ 40 ] Portrait Paths: Studio Photography in Ottoman Palestine
32 Vincent Rafael, “The Undead,” 92.
33 Simon Sebag Montefiore, Jerusalem: A
Biography (New York: Random House, 2011),
381.
34 For one exemplary micro-study of the negotiation
of these local versus imperial forces and projects,
see Alexander Schölch, “An Ottoman Bismarck
from Jerusalem: Yusuf al-Diya’ al-Khalidi
(1842–1906),” Jerusalem Quarterly 24 (2005):
65–76.
35 Little is known about Bishara Habib and less
about ‘Asim Effendi, save scattered mention of
him in studies about the period. For an example,
see Neville Mandel, Arabs and Zionism before
World War One (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1976), 42, 49.
36 See some of his correspondence to Berlin as viceconsul in Johann Büssow, Hamidian Palestine:
Politics and Society in the District of Jerusalem,
1872–1908 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 373.
37 Mr. Wigley, who had been rejected as the
American vice-consul in favor of Murad, as
quoted in Ruth Kark, American Consuls in the
Holy Land, 1932–1914 (Detroit: Magnes and
Wayne State University Press, 1994), 105.
38 Edwin Leon, “An American in Palestine,” Frank
Leslie’s Sunday Magazine 13 (January–June
1883): 179. For how Jacob Serabian Murad
quickly accumulated his wealth (through
marriage and/or “subterfuge”) see Kark,
American Consuls, 103.
39 As cited in Kark, American Consuls, 102.
40 Kark, American Consuls, 102–3.
41 Kark, American Consuls, 103.
42 Karl Baedeker, Palestine and Syria: Handbook
for Travellers (Leipzig: Karl Baedeker Publisher,
1876), 128; Kark, American Consuls, 105.
43 Kark, American Consuls, 105–6.
44 Gran, Rise of the Rich, 61.
Jerusalem Quarterly 61 [ 41 ]