Memoirs of an Early Arab Feminist

The Life and Activism of Anbara Salam Khalidi

Anbara Salam Khalidi

• Publisher: Pluto Press
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9780745333564
• eBook ISBN: 9781849648837
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Politics & International Relations
• Subtopic: Political Biographies
• Index: Politics & International Relations

* Shortlisted for the Palestine Book Awards 2016* Memoirs of an Early Arab Feminist is the first English translation of the memoirs of Anbara Salam Khalidi, the iconic Arab feminist. At a time when the effects of the revolution and counterrevolution of the Arab Spring loom heavy over Middle Eastern politics, this book brings to life an earlier period of social turmoil and women's activism through one remarkable life. Anbara Salam was born in 1897 to a notable Sunni Muslim family of Beirut. She grew up in 'Greater Syria', in which unhindered travel and cross-cultural exchange between Beirut, Jerusalem and Damascus was possible. Her political activities caused countless scandals, from the series of newspaper articles calling on women to fight for their rights within the Ottoman Empire, to removing her veil during a 1927 lecture at the American University of Beirut. In later life she translated Homer and Virgil into Arabic and fled from Jerusalem to Beirut following the establishment of Israel in 1948. She died in Beirut in 1986. These memoirs have long been acclaimed by Middle East historians as an essential resource for the social history of Beirut and the larger Arab world in the 19th and 20th centuries.

1

Upbringing and Family

My earliest memories go back to the early years of the twentieth century, but I first need to sketch our family life, socially and politically, at that moment in time.

I was born in 1897 into a family that was typical of traditional families in our social class, where I first sensed the amity that bound my two parents, although final authority rested with my father. My parents were connected also by a deep piety that made them follow the dictates of religion and adhere to its principles. We would wake up in the morning to the sound of Qur’anic verses being recited by one of my parents before my father left for his office and my mother commenced the heavy household duties of a large family. This took place after they had performed the dawn prayers and before the sun had risen. The house would echo with Qur’anic verses, softly and piously recited, followed by prayers to God for forgiveness and guidance. The atmosphere was one of deep faith, characterized by turning to God in all circumstances. I owe my memorization by heart of many Qur’anic verses to those recitations, in addition to studying the Qur’an at school later on. My father would often lead us in prayer if prayer time found him at home.

My father, Salim `Ali Salam (1868–1938), familiarly known as “Abu `Ali,” was a tall man of darkish complexion with a trimmed beard, well-dressed, and a man of courage and determination. He had a powerful personality and was a well-respected and prominent figure in his community, with friends of every religious sect. In all major local events his opinions counted for much; indeed this was true for all events in the Arab territories of the Ottoman Empire. He was in the first rank of merchants in his city and at the very heart of its charitable and social organizations. He held several public offices during Ottoman rule such as president of the Beirut Municipality, membership in the Council of the Province (the equivalent of a Council of Ministers), headed by the Ottoman Governor of Beirut, and membership in the Tribunal of Commerce, headed by a Turk appointed by the state. He also took over the presidency of the Maqasid Islamic Charitable Society, and was elected by the people of Beirut as their deputy to the Ottoman parliament in Istanbul (Majlis al-Mab`uthan). His activities after the end of Ottoman rule will be mentioned later on, as I recount the political history of the city.

With his great dignity and gravity of bearing, which attracted the attention of everyone, he was nonetheless immensely tender and gentle, especially towards his daughters. In addition, he was a skilled conversationalist who always argued with an open mind, even against views that contradicted his basic beliefs, and was fond of humor and a good joke, which he would retell even if it was at his own expense.

When necessary he could be inflexible, refusing to budge from an opinion he was convinced it was right, even if some stubbornness was involved, or even if that opinion ran against his own private interests. He was constantly being approached by people who needed his help, which he always gave willingly. I often saw him getting up from his sick bed to respond to a request for a service he had promised to perform. With his Christian compatriots he had firm friendships, which were reciprocated. I remember a charming little story typical of the amity that then obtained between religious sects. Bishop Masarra, then bishop of the Christian Greek Orthodox community, was about to travel abroad. Before leaving, he addressed those who had come to bid him farewell: “If any matter becomes too difficult for you to solve during my absence, there is Abu `Ali: he will take my place.” I remember that when I put on the veil and was forbidden from seeing men, I could nevertheless receive my father’s intimate Christian friends such as Habib Pasha al-Sa`d, Najib Trad and so forth.

My mother, Kulthum al-Barbir, was physically typical of many members of her family. She had white skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, was short in stature and had a lovely voice. She was a true example of an energetic mother who sacrificed herself totally for the sake of her husband’s and her children’s comfort. She was married to my father at the age of fourteen. The two were second cousins since the two grandmothers on their mothers’ side were sisters. She belonged to the Barbir family, an old Beirut family of scholars. My memory of her at that time is one of ceaseless activity, of a devoted wife and caring mother. Even with so many children, for there were twelve of us in all, she never made any of us feel neglected as we set off to school, nor did we ever find her absent when we returned home. She breast-fed all her children, from the eldest when she was sixteen years old, to the youngest when she was almost fifty. A brave soul, she would rush to care for the sick or injured among us, even when the sickness or injury was serious, and would carry out the doctor’s instructions patiently and carefully. Our family doctor used to call her al-doctora (the lady-doctor). When a child fell ill, she would at once quarantine him or her from their siblings, washing their laundry and their cups and plates separately, even if the illness was a simple tonsillitis. Since typhoid was common in Lebanon at that time, every single child of hers succumbed. She then took great care to nurse each child with total devotion until the child recovered, despite the fact that nursing and medication were then almost primitive when compared to the present day. Although she bore many children, none were lost to illness. As for admitting patients to a hospital, this was not regarded favorably in those days, because it was interpreted as putting the sick person’s life at risk, or else as not holding much hope for their recovery.

Though somewhat sharp-tempered, flaring up at the simplest domestic mishap, she was totally steadfast in a major crisis, accepting it patiently and wisely. Her deep faith aided her in transcending all difficulties and sorrows. She personally shouldered the burdens of the household even when she had domestic help. Given the political prominence of my father, our house was the scene of endless meetings and banquets, to the point where we had a separate room, next to the manzul [reception area for men], for putting up out-of-town visitors. She supervised all household expenses, whether my father’s business affairs were thriving or in dire straits, and would not spend recklessly in the former periods or grow disheartened in the latter. In times of crisis she would scrimp and save without showing my father any signs of discomfort or making him feel that the household was in financial need.

I now turn to my brothers and sisters to round out this family portrait. My very earliest memories were of my two elder brothers going to school at the Preparatory Section of the Syrian Protestant College (SPC), now the American University of Beirut. Although my father was severely criticized for sending his children to a foreign school, he never changed his view that knowledge must be sought from any source (“even from China,” as in a tradition from the Prophet). My brother Ali was the eldest child; he was an intelligent and hard-working student, a gifted poet and man of letters. When he graduated with a BSc degree from the SPC, he was chosen as the class orator/poet. In 1910, my father sent him to England where he graduated as an agricultural engineer from the Royal Cirencester College of Agriculture, becoming I think one of the earliest Beirut graduates of a European university. But for the rest of his life, he remained a man of little practical sense, always advocating certain theories about life which he was never able to put into effect. The second child, Muhyiddin, succumbed to pneumonia at age twenty, a victim of the fact that penicillin was then unknown, that is, before the First World War. He had finished his secondary education and had begun to help his father in his business since he was not particularly interested in furthering his education. His death was a great tragedy for us all, and for the first time in my life I sensed a pervasive sadness throughout our house. I felt his loss deeply because I was very attached to him but repressed my sorrow and said not a word. My mother took it all with great patience and deep faith and my father with much courage. He accepted the invitation to attend the Arab National Congress in Paris in 1913, though his son had died barely a fortnight before.

Next among the boys was Muhammad. He was greatly attached to his father, and loved the company of his elders and their conversations, and he would share his own omniscient comments on these conversations with his siblings, much to their amusement and sarcasm. He would then flare up in anger. Though quick to take offence, he had a good heart, always asking the world to make his dreams come true. In fact, he did fulfill many of these dreams as he grew older when he turned to public and private service, and then devoted himself wholeheartedly to the Maqasid Society over which he presided towards the end of his life. He cherished learning, though he was somewhat inclined to assert his authority over those around him. But he was immensely generous and quick to offer help to those who needed it—as well as those who didn’t. My mother suffered much while raising him because of his stubbornness and his refusal to be disciplined. But she suffered even more from the next but one in line, `Umar, a hyperactive character, a veritable “demon” of Musaitbeh, our quarter. He was utterly fearless, would climb up to the roof of our house and walk on its outer parapets; our neighbors would rush over in panic to warn us when they saw him perform his dare-devil feats. But this did not prevent him from doing well at school, nor did it affect his sense of humor. Alone among his siblings, he was enrolled in a boarding school in an attempt to control his mischief. He would later become an energetic worker, though nothing could distract him from his hobby of hunting and shooting, at which he excelled. In his private business dealings he displayed a great deal of energy and enthusiasm. My brother Musbah fell between Muhammad and `Umar. He was a quiet character, of slight build and studious. He kept himself separate from the squabbles of his siblings and did not rely on any of them for help. He was my constant companion on our daily walks in the mountains where, as children, we spent our summer holidays. His introverted character was, I believe, what in later life made him independent-minded in business, solving all the family’s financial affairs without consulting anyone. Indeed, he would take decisions on his own that affected everyone, if he thought that he knew the right thing to do.

The next four, headed by Saeb, we called “the four youngsters.” By the time they had arrived, the world had changed somewhat so they were brought up according to a different routine than that of their older siblings. From their earliest years they were breast-fed, put to bed and did their studies, all on schedule. They went straight to elementary schools without first passing through the kuttab [elementary Qur’an school normally run by a single shaykh].

Saeb came into the world [in 1905] amid greater joy than that which had greeted his siblings, even the eldest as I imagine. The reason was that he was born following a very dangerous illness that befell my mother. He soon showed that he was worthy of that joyful reception. He was devoted to his studies, reading continuously. He was a model of good behavior both inside and outside the house, maintaining a dignity that no one could bruise. I don’t think he was ever slapped and the entire family took care not to offend him. He was also generous, brave in defending himself and others, and forthright in expressing his opinions, which began to take shape in his early years, without hesitation or fear. This made him the object of intense devotion on the part of his father, mother and family, and we all had high hopes for him. As he outgrew his childhood, there grew between us a strong friendship more like that between two sisters rather than one between a brother and sister. I would tell him all my secrets and he would tell me his. We would spend many hours together reading literary texts which we would then discuss or comment upon. His interest in politics became apparent as a youth when he began to take a serious interest in Arab and world affairs, in addition to Lebanese politics. The family soon entrusted him with its political activities. He was elected deputy for Beirut in parliament, became a cabinet minister, then was prime minister of Lebanon several times and a prominent national figure. In addition he became president of the Maqasid Society to which he devoted himself heart and soul.

Saeb was followed by `Abdullah. The difference in age between us allowed me to give him particular attention and care, and to become more attached to him than to all my brothers. He was best known for his sense of humor, quick wit, great attention to detail in his work, telling the truth regardless of the consequences, accepting the facts of the case when made apparent to him, and for having a completely open mind and heart to win friendships and serve others. He bore no grudges against anyone and never acted maliciously, winning the affection of all who came into contact with him. All these qualities served him well when he pursued a career in business, in which he is still active today.

`Abdullah was followed by Fu’ad. As a child he suffered a serious knee injury and was admitted to hospital where the operation unfortunately was not a success. This happened during the First World War and it was impossible to send him abroad for treatment, so he developed a slight limp. As a result, the entire family was always ready to spoil him and fulfill his wishes, increasing his sense of self-importance. He would behave like someone much older than his years and tried to prove his aptitude by a love of argument, armed with innumerable proofs. His injury did not prevent him from pursuing his studies with great earnestness. Because of his ambitions he refused to learn reading from a small elementary textbook but demanded a more advanced and bigger textbook. Close in age to `Abdullah, the two were inseparable, forming a sort of team which followed a single course, whether at school, at play or in their choice of friends. They rarely differed. From his youth Fu’ad was attracted to agriculture, devoting all his attention to it and becoming an expert. In recognition of his activities the government awarded him the Order of the Cedar Medal, Officer class, followed later by Commander class.

The youngest of the boys was Malik, who was everybody’s darling. Soft-spoken, kind and outstanding as a student from his earliest schooldays, his mathematical brilliance began to show even before he learned to read or formally study arithmetic. He would solve all the arithmetical puzzles we set him, and I don’t remember that he ever got an answer wrong. He won numerous school prizes when young and, having completed his secondary education in a Palestinian school, came very near the top of those who passed the Palestine Matriculation Exam. Later he studied at Loughborough University in England and obtained a BSc (Hons) degree in Civil Engineering. In character he was totally honest and without guile, and would never try to deny responsibility for any misstep. When he returned to Beirut he pursued a career in engineering and then held a number of high offices in the Lebanese state, eventually becoming a cabinet minister.

Why, I wonder, did I start with the boys of the family and leave the girls to the end? This is perhaps due to their number and their combined effect, for we were three girls alongside eight boys. The eldest girl, Fatimah, left the house while still very young, having been married at the age of fifteen. A calm and gentle soul, she was tender and loving to all her siblings. She helped our mother in running the household and from her pocket money would buy sweets and distribute them to us. Sadly, she did not enjoy her share of carefree youth, and even at thirteen years of age she behaved like a woman of twenty. I imagine that my mother’s need for a reliable helping hand caused her to bear the burdens of an older person. I don’t think she had enough time before her marriage to build up strong friendships with her siblings and yet we all felt her absence, especially my mother, when she moved to her new husband’s house.

There remains Rasha, the youngest of all. Between her and the others there was a gap of many years to the point where her childhood friends were her nephews and nieces. We all came forward to adopt her and care for her, especially Saeb and I. Thus, when I was about to travel to London to study, Rasha was just three years old, and my mother, who was at that time over fifty years old, confronted me, saying: “You either take Rasha with you or you stay put. She will die in your absence and I can no longer care for her now that she has grown so used to you.” And so it was that I took her with me, and never felt the burden of caring for her during the two years I spent in England. In fact she was a great comfort to me during my stay abroad. She was extremely intelligent, active and independent, and a sharp observer, which together with her Middle Eastern appearance, made her the object of everyone’s attention, old and young; people competed for her affections wherever we went during our stay. She later pursued her studies at university and, after her marriage, devoted herself wholeheartedly to the Palestinian cause.

This large family with its diverse characters was cared for by a mother who never tired and supported by a father who never complained of fatigue. When evening came, we all gathered around the dinner table. I still thrill to the memory of a lovely portrait of that large gathering which brought an entire family together to share a meal and engage in discussions, some quiet, some rowdy. How often did we hear the sounds of laughter echoing around that large room, and woe to him who would lose an argument! Upon his head sarcasm was heaped from all sides. Or else, when someone revealed another’s secret to the assembled company, shouts of glee and derision would ring out. Once dinner had ended, my mother would stretch out on a settee while my father sat near her, reading his newspapers and smoking his nargileh, for he only came home in the evening. Lunch was normally sent to him in his place of business by a servant, as was the custom among all Beiruti merchants. Once home, the children would surround their parents, shouting at each other and competing to be spoilt by their father. The very young would sit on his knees and he would pay special attention to the girls. But a single word from him sufficed to silence everyone, and the hubbub would cease, and all would troop off to bed. If during the day something had happened, politically or commercially, to annoy him and he came home looking angry or indignant, a mere glance at his face was enough to silence every voice in the house.

This then is a portrait of my family with which I thought I would begin this memoir. As I stated above, during my early and later years it was in many ways typical of other such families. When I first became aware of the life around me, we were living in the Musaitbeh quarter, an old quarter of Beirut. It was more like a village, with its own inhabitants and their own distinctive accent. Each city quarter had a recognizable accent: Musaitbeh, Ras Beirut, Basta and so forth. Most residents of our quarter were made up of extended families closely or distantly related, and many lived off the trade of transporting stone and sand, which was carried on donkeys and mules to the various building sites in the city. The streets were narrow, sandy and unpaved, lined with cactus plants or crumbling walls. Our house overlooked the city without any building blocking its view of the sea. To the east we could gaze at the mountains of Lebanon, with nothing obstructing the view of their green slopes by day and the shimmering village lights by night. In winter, the mountains could be seen covered in snow. The house was first built by my grandfather, `Ali Salam, in the Italian–French style. Like many houses of old Beirut, it had very high ceil...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Copyright page
• Contents
• List of Illustrations
• Foreword by Marina Warner
• Translator’s Acknowledgments
• Prologue
• 1. Upbringing and Family
• 2. Political Events Before the First World War
• 3. An Engagement that was Not Completed
• Illustrations
• 4. The War’s End
• 5. Society for Women’s Renaissance
• 6. Back to the Literary Scene of the 1920s and Beyond
• 7. The Story of My Marriage
• 8. Exile
• Loss of homeland, loss of partner
• Index