How Old City Shopkeepers Are Facing an Unprecedented Closure: Voices from the Souks

“We are steadfast, and we will remain so . . . but we don’t know till when,”1 said the restaurant owner of the oldest chicken and barbeque restaurant in Jerusalem’s  Old City and one of my friends, who prefers to remain anonymous.

His restaurant has been closed for over a month, so much so that when you enter, you smell the stench that pervades most of Jerusalem’s shops these days—a musty, damp, and suffocating odor due to the stagnation and lack of ventilation. He ushered me inside and immediately locked the door, fearing that one of the Israeli patrols, which circulate around the clock to ensure that businesses are closed, might spot him. Anyone who tries to open their shop will receive a fine of NIS 5,000 (about $1,500). Before Israeli authorities forced most places in the Old City to close under the pretext of a state of emergency due to the US–Israel war on Iran, the restaurant was usually busy on Saturdays with many Jewish customers. Easter Sunday was also packed with Christians following the end of Lent.

Strangely, Israeli patrols never enter the Jewish Quarter, where daily life is normal, and all shops are open. The Jewish Quarter is only a few meters away from the other eight quarters of the Old City; sadly, however, in non-Jewish quarters, life is dead.

As soon as my friend closed the shop door, the restaurant was plunged into complete darkness. With remarkable agility, as if he knew the place intimately, he went to the electrical outlet and switched it on, so that we could see ourselves in our normal sizes and not as giant silhouettes on the walls. He addressed me, saying, “This has been our situation since the declaration of the war on Iran: utter destruction and indescribable losses, and I believe it will take us years to repair the damage caused by these Israeli measures.” He added, “Look outside Damascus Gate in Jerusalem’s Musrara neighborhood; all the shops are open, and the same is true on Salah al-Din Street, but the Old City remains closed, imprisoned, and punished. Why? This question arises and evokes much fear when we consider the causes and consequences.”

Before he could finish speaking, a shop owner across the street, who prefers to remain anonymous, opened his shop’s door for us, and we went inside with him. His shop, which he inherited from his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, is well-known in the Old City. He poured us coffee that he prepared and joined our conversation. “The police told me I could open my shop, because I sell food, provided I don’t display any of the merchandise in front of it. Otherwise, I'll be fined, and the shop will be closed,”2 he told us.

“When I first opened the door over a month ago, I couldn’t breathe because of the stench of mold and dampness. It took more than an hour for the shop to be ventilated and for fresh air to enter,” he shared. “I finally got inside to find that much of the merchandise had spoiled, and some of it had expired, so I threw it in the trash,” he added. “I truly pity the owners of other shops that haven’t opened; their situation is also disastrous, because of this unprecedentedly long closure in the history of Jerusalem.”

He explained that his brother owns a shop in the Jerusalem neighborhood of Beit Hanina, which Israeli police did not order to close during the war, unlike shops in the Old City. “They are targeting the Old City, but we are steadfast and will not abandon it as long as we have any life left in us,” he said.

After my friend and restaurant owner smoked his cigarette—which has become his last resort these days to vent his anger, he said:

He spoke in a torrent of words, as if a volcano had finally erupted after a long wait. He is one of the best people to speak with about the Old City and its people, because he grew up in the city and has a deep love for it. “I am ready to pay the ultimate price to ensure that the Old City remains the beating heart of Jerusalem and the protective wall for al-Aqsa Mosque and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” he told Jerusalem Story.

Before concluding the conversation, he revealed that he had to visit the bank to sort out his difficult financial affairs that are a result of the devastating economic situation merchants and shop owners in the Old City are experiencing. “Rest assured, my friend, that we are steadfast and will remain so, and we will not lose hope for a better tomorrow; this injustice that we experience every day and every hour will not last long,” he said.

We left the closed restaurant together, each in a different direction. He headed towards Bab al-Khalil (Jaffa Gate), and I headed towards the spice market, passing through the historic marketplace of Khan al-Zeit in the Old City. I stood in front of the al-Halabi Library, which is currently closed, and I remembered how it used to shine with light under the archway in front of the Via Dolorosa; now, the place is enveloped in a gloomy darkness that arouses fear in the hearts of the few passersby. At the end of the Khan, I found an old sweets seller standing in front of his shop, which used to bustle all year round with customers coming from everywhere to buy sweets with different flavors. At his shop, I remembered the traditional, solid, bright white sweets that were once common in Jerusalem markets.

“I open the shop despite the lack of customers; I open it only to light the way for passersby, including the elderly, women, and children,”3 the sweets seller, who prefers to remain anonymous, said. “As you can see, the streets are desolate and shrouded in darkness, even in broad daylight, and the nearby dark alleys have a frightening quality.”

I looked over at the shop in front of him, “Qirsh,” a cassette and music record shop that was a hub since the 1960s for music lovers from Jerusalem as well as those from across Palestine and the Arab world. Its owner used to travel to Egypt twice a year to bring back records. He recently recorded a rare recording of the legendary Arab singer Umm Kulthum reciting the Quran, and he still boasts about it. “This shop has been closed for many months; its owner would come twice a week, on Saturdays and Tuesdays, to open his shop and let the street hear the sound of the Quran in the morning, modern and traditional songs at noon, and songs by Umm Kulthum, Abd al-Wahab, and Farid al-Atrash in the afternoon—music of the Tarab era,” the seller said. Many other nearby shops have also closed, including the Hawash sweets shop and a place that used to serve the most delicious plate of cheese-filled pastry in Jerusalem.

Today, the voices of Jerusalem, which are drowning in a difficult life of solitude, have disappeared. Even the whisper of its stones is no longer audible because of the noise of Israeli police patrols stopping young men to aggressively check their identity, closing shops, and monitoring the Old City’s places.

At the entrance of the spice market, which looks like a ghostly passageway, people gather in front of the closed shops. It turns out they are not ghosts, but shop owners who longed for their market and shops. They came and stood in front of their doors, waiting for the police patrol to leave so that they could sneak into the shop and close the door behind them, touching their merchandise and kissing every piece of it. An owner of a shop selling electronic devices and mobile phones, who prefers to remain anonymous, said:4

As I was talking to him, people mentioned that Israeli police had arrived at the Khan al-Zeit gate. “Let’s move away from the shop so we don’t get a ticket,” he said. In normal times, a harissa seller used to display his food items in the market, and within an hour, he would sell everything he had. Right in front of it was a carob juice and lemonade seller, known for his elegant white apron to everyone, young and old, in Jerusalem. His son has now taken his place, who only speaks with gestures; before Israeli authorities closed the stalls, everyone was keen to drink a glass of carob juice from him.

“We are not complaining or begging, but we are explaining the daily reality in which we live. In the end, we are steadfast and will remain so,” my friend, the restaurant owner, said. “This is Jerusalem: here we lived our best days, and here we will die, but not before we are certain. “May the journey continue through our children and our descendants,” he added.

Upon exiting through Damascus Gate, there was a strange feeling of sadness, oppression, and hope. The story of the Old City has not yet been told, and the suffering cannot be described in words, no matter how profound. The oppression in the hearts of those who live and walk in its alleys, lanes, and streets cannot be explained except by those who reside in the city. Every child, merchant, woman, elderly resident, and young person who lives in the Old City deserves all the appreciation and respect from people. They are the real heroes, the ones who hold onto the embers, and who are patient with the Israeli campaign that is aimed at uprooting them from their homeland to transform the Old City into an Israeli museum without people, and one with a Jewish narrative that has no basis, geography, history, or antiquities.