The invention of the daguerreotype in France in 1839 revolutionized the way in which people recorded their experiences.1 Not only could people write or paint to remember, but now they could also freeze an image on glass and record it. This discovery immediately led to a flurry of portrait studios. And inevitably the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries brought a burst of photography in Palestine with such well-known names as Yessai Garabedian, Garabed Krikorian, Khalil Raad, and Daoud Abdo in Jerusalem and ‘Isa Sawabini and Daoud Sabounji in Jaffa.2
Most accounts about Palestinian history have heavily relied on written or oral sources—British government documents, records of the Palestinian national movement, oral histories, and autobiographies. However, in this essay I will examine Palestinian social history during the late Ottoman and British Mandate periods through a visual art form—amateur photography. These photographs provide us with a rare glimpse into the quotidian cultural and social life of Palestinians.
The urban middle class population who could afford cameras were inspired by early portrait photographers and quickly became budding amateur photographers who recorded their lives and the lives of their loved ones. With cameras in hand, they began to snap family gatherings, picnics, and outings in different parts of Palestine, such as Jericho, the Dead Sea, Lake Tiberias, Jaffa, and beyond.
This photo essay will focus on the Jerusalemite shatha (“outing” in colloquial Arabic, pl. shathat). Captured on photographic paper and frozen in time, these outings provide us with a window into pre-1948 Palestinian social history. Not only will we delve into the ethnography of these early days of Palestinian history, but we will also be encouraged to experience “nostalgia and the inspiration for continued struggle.”3
Why choose outings? The Palestinian shatha has always interested me. Being the daughter of a Nakba refugee family living in the diaspora, I have spent many hours dreaming about our lost homeland pre-1948. I grew up on stories my mother would tell me about her youthful days exploring different parts of her cherished Falasteen. She would open her maroon leather-covered photo album and start to recite every name and every place, almost as though her memories had been blocked inside her all this time, only to surge forward with force the moment she saw the photographs.

