Portraits of a City #1: The Old City
So I've realised that, although I've banged on a fair bit about politics, I haven't really told you lovely people anything about where I'm staying. So this week, and maybe in the weeks to follow, I will write a little about the city of Nablus, and its inhabitants.
Today, #1: The Larch The Old City.
Nablus is old. Unbelievably old. A bit of it, out towards the Askar camp, is around 4000-5000 years old, and somewhere around here is the site of the biblical city of Shechem. On the hill overlooking city is one of the two remaining Samaritan settlements in existence, and when, in John's Gospel, Jesus talks to the woman at the well... well, that was here.
Walking around the tiny streets of the old city (now dwarfed buy modern Nablus), it isn't hard to imagine yourself in any century from the last two millenia. Precious little has changed, and there is little evidence of the incursions of modern living (save for the odd cable on a wall, or light to brighten an obscure alleyway.
Unlike Jerusalem, which bustles with tourists, and where stepping onto the street frequently feels like wading into a fast-flowing river, only to be sucked along with its currents, the back streets of Old Nablus are quiet, sleepy. Children play (and never cease to practise their English: "Hello. How you? What your name? Where you from?" - the is no verb 'to be' in Arabic), and cycle around. Sturdy steel doors lead through archways into small, tumbledown courtyards, around which hang washing and weeds (and cats, of course).
Passing through a doorway on a warm Thursday afternoon, we followed our local guide up a flight of stairs, across litter-strewn patch of undergrowth, and under a tiny arch. Stepping through, we walked into the beautiful, crumbling courtyard of a forgotten Ottoman palace from the 19th century. I know little of 19th century middle eastern architecture, but it was not hard to imagine this as a sun-dappled atrium, with a fountain gently flowing in the centre and luxurious fabrics adorning the floors and walls.
Climbing yet higher, above the rooftops, and onto a dome that topped off the palace, we encountered and entrancing view, across the the domes and minarets of the old, stone city, past the concrete constructions of modern Nablus, and to the two peaks of Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim (Curses and Blessings). So overwhelmed by the view were we that we returned (with a picnic) a few evenings later.
In the depths of the city is one of the two remaining Nablusian soap factories. Soap has been a major export for over a thousand years. It feels smooth and smells amazing - made in a more or less traditional method (although in far smaller quantities than former years) with Olive Oil, Water and Caustic Soda, and with no perfume at all. The factory is owned by the Touqans, who, in times past, were the most powerful families in Nablus. It was they that built the palace which now affords us such spectacular views.
In 2002, in the Second Intifada, the Israeli rolled their tanks into Nablus. To give themselves space in the old city, they knocked down two soap factories, forming a space which is now a derelict car park. The Touqan palace was used as a space for Palestinian fighters to hide (they have walled up windows to limit the entrances) and many walls in the city are adorned with posters of martyred fighters (which, disconcertingly, resemble action movie posters, with their heroes brandishing huge weapons).
This is a city where the past, as well as being cherished, cannot always be escaped. From the Roman and Byzantine stonework, to the places of worship with shifting landlords; from the coins sold in the antique shops, demonstrating an arab presence for hundreds of years, to the recently-rebuilt homes, destroyed in the last decade by Israeli forces - the past here is not so much another country, but the streets people walk down, the homes they live in, and for all too many people, a matter of unfinished business. History isn't something that gets put in a museum; it's a way of life.
