“Humankind Is My family”: Mahmoud Jiddah Reflects on the Connection between Jerusalem and Its People

Mahmoud Jiddah is a familiar Palestinian Jerusalemite known for his compelling tours of the Old City, whose history is as familiar to him as his own.

In an intimate conversation with Jerusalem Story, Mahmoud walked us to one of his “offices,” an open spot on a hill between Damascus Gate and Herod’s Gate. Having spent 17 years in Israeli prisons (1968–85), he prefers to be outdoors rather than confined between four walls. He refers to several open spaces in Jerusalem as his “offices.”

Mahmoud refuses restrictions, not only physically but mentally as well. When asked how he as an African Palestinian in Jerusalem identifies, he is quick to interrupt: “No . . . I do not limit myself like that. I would define myself by saying: I am Mahmoud Jiddah. A Jerusalem resident, but the entire world is my homeland, and humankind is my family. I don’t discriminate between African, Palestinian, and whatnot. We are all human beings.”1

Born in Jerusalem on May 25, 1948, just a few weeks after the establishment of the State of Israel, Mahmoud spent most of his childhood in Bab al-Majlis, near the African Quarter, on the northern side of al-Buraq Wall or the Western Wall, at the heart of the Old City of Jerusalem. His father’s family came from Chad on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the early 1920s and stayed. His African father had a French passport, as Chad had been under colonial rule prior to 1960. His mother is from Jordan.

“I feel like I encompass all identities,” he stresses. Mahmoud had questioned his identities, including his religious identity, as early as age 10. His father, a sheikh, had sent him to the Collège des Frères [Christian] school near the New Gate, and he did not see any difference between his principles and values and those of his classmates.

His earliest memories are of daily walks to his school, which were like explorations of sorts. He would take a different route each time, discovering new narrow pathways, alleys, and shortcuts. This not only acquainted him with Jerusalem but also bonded him to the place, which he saw as an essential part of his being (see Revisiting My Favorite Place).

Mahmoud is a self-educated man. The political upheavals in Jerusalem determined the trajectory of his life and prevented him from pursuing his formal education.

Mahmoud was taking classes at al-Rashidiyya high school in the Old City when the 1967 War broke out in early June. Soon thereafter, the Israelis, who had occupied the eastern side of the city, banned Jordanian textbooks and imposed the Israeli curriculum on Jerusalem public schools, which angered Mahmoud; he considered this an attempt to dominate the minds of Palestinian students (see Husni al-Ashhab). The way he describes it: “They were going beyond occupying territories and seeping into the educational system by forcing a political agenda.”

He transferred to the Ibrahimiyya College, a private school in al-Suwana neighborhood, for his last year of high school and took the high school matriculation examination (Tawjihi) there. He then registered for a two-year medical training program at the Augusta Victoria Hospital.

Angry about the imposition of the school curriculums, Mahmoud started to get politically involved; he helped establish the first student union that encouraged students and teachers to withdraw from schools as a way of opposing the educational measures: “We spoke with students, parents, and teachers, rejected the curriculum, and boycotted the education system they tried to enforce.”

In autumn 1968, only two weeks into his medical training, Mahmoud was called in by the Israeli authorities for questioning for his political involvement and for joining the resistance movement of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. What he assumed would be a 10-minute affair turned into 17 years in prison.

As he describes it, Mahmoud was not only denied the chance to pursue his education, but his ambition to pursue a career in sports was also thwarted. In high school, he had been a skilled volleyball and soccer player, and he was considered one of the best basketball players in town. In 1967, he was selected to represent Jordan at the national basketball league, which would qualify him to play at national tournaments. But that dream, too, was shattered.

After his release in 1985, Mahmoud wanted to study legal policy. He enrolled in the Faculty of Law at Al-Quds University for two semesters, but financial difficulties prevented him from continuing. “Despite the short time, I could say that I trained in both medicine and law, which technically makes me both a doctor and a lawyer,” he smiles.

When thinking about his experience, Mahmoud recalls the deep despair and anger he had felt during the first year of Israel’s occupation of his beloved city.

It was unfathomable for him at the age of 18 to make sense of how Jerusalem—the massive, captivating city whose history and diversity endlessly fascinated him—would fall in a single day. Among the shocking incidents for him was the complete destruction of the Moroccan Quarter and expulsion of its inhabitants during the night of June 10 and the early morning hours of June 11, 1967.

He saw that in addition to the removal of the people, the Palestinian narrative was getting intentionally and forcibly erased. Palestinians in custody were not allowed reading or writing materials, he says. “We used to smuggle books and newspapers during our time in Ramla Prison . . . It was forbidden for us to read. We’d get hold of any piece of paper and hide it.” Many of the prison letters that Mahmoud wrote, including to his mother, during his time of confinement are available (in Arabic) online at the Mahmoud Jiddah Collection at the Palestinian Museum Digital Archive.

Mahmoud was imprisoned at age 19 and got out at age 37, seven years ahead of schedule; his cousin Ali, who had also been imprisoned with him, got out in the same year. They were released as part of a prisoner exchange operation on May 20, 1985, known as the Galilee (Jibreel) Operation, when Israel released 1,150 Palestinian prisoners in exchange for three Israeli soldiers captured in Lebanon.2

Being imprisoned was a horrible experience, but it opened his eyes, he says. “Human life is precious, and there is no justifiable reason for hatred. None of us really chose how to be born, and we all deserve to live with dignity.”

In reflecting upon his experience in prison, Mahmoud finds that those who suffer and pay such a high price are often the common folk—ordinary, genuine (or helpless and unfortunate) people who may be underprivileged or low-ranking. Meanwhile, the higher-up and influential powerbrokers and politicians sidestep potential risks.

A year after his release, he got married. “I wasn’t mature, as I hadn’t really lived my adolescence or 20s,” he remembers. “I didn’t know how to pick a wife, but I wanted to please my mom with some good news.”

He found it difficult to readjust to life outside a prison cell (see For Palestinian Jerusalemite Prisoners, Release Does Not Equate to Freedom).

He is proud to have built a family with his wife, Rabiha. Their two sons, Nidal and Hassan, are accomplished members of Jerusalem society in the fields of business and computer engineering. He has four grandchildren.

Mahmoud has become a key figure of the African Palestinian community in Jerusalem. A knowledgeable guide in the local and alternative tourism sector, he received several invitations to participate in global conferences through various human rights institutes.

His travels abroad have broadened his horizons and made him consider the concept of freedom further. He describes an emotional moment he had while visiting the Promenade des Bastions in the old city of Geneva, Switzerland, in January 1992. He was moved by the giant chess boards, reformation wall, statues, and section of the park depicting the history of the city. He could not help wondering whether Jerusalem would ever be able to narrate the history of its exceptional people in the manner it deserved.

After that walk, he was invited to dinner at the Café de Paris, a fancy restaurant; his “nerves were surrendering to the fine tunes” of the accordion playing in the background, and he started to think of the poor Palestinians thrown out of their homes in Jerusalem. He could not contain himself. “My tears were streaming. I tried to hold it together, but my temperature rose so much I felt like I might explode. So I let go, unbound. For about five minutes, I let the storm rage until I managed to regain control.”

Although several people had been envious of the fact that he was in Geneva and had been taken to a world-class restaurant, he carried a heavy weight with him.

He recalls another moving visit, in 2012, to the Marka (also known as Schneller or Hittin) refugee camp in northern Amman, which was erected in 1968 to shelter over 15,000 Palestinian refugees fleeing after the 1967 War. As of 2023, there were nearly 62,000 registered refugees in the camp.3 Mahmoud describes the sights in the camp as “extremely heartbreaking”:

He goes on to describe high-level meetings he attended at the United Nations where he saw politicians and not people who have expertise on human rights dominating discussions. He could easily see the imbalance of power in the world—“all based on the benefits of the strong countries . . . And off to another meeting.”

Years later, in Strasbourg, France, he attended a global human rights conference (with about 700 people from more than 100 countries) that would profoundly affect him. He also felt unique in the sense that he identified with all groups, including oppressed blacks, Muslims, and Christians from around the world.

He became convinced of the urgent need to end fighting; millions of people die of poverty, disease, and hunger while resources are wasted on weapons.

Mahmoud speaks not only of meaningless differences rooted in nationality, race, or religion but also of the fruitless sociocultural distinction. He considered how his mother and her two sisters have dissimilar lifestyles: his mother is a (Jerusalem) city girl, while one of her sisters is a Bedouin (in Damia by the Jordan Valley), and the other a farmer (in the Nablus village of al-Sawiya). His wife is a refugee who grew up in Dheisheh camp and whose family originally lived in the village of Zakariyya, near Hebron.

Mahmoud saw much to value in every lifestyle found in Palestine:

Upon reflecting on his mother, aunts, and wife, he would once again realize that no one really chooses who they are; none of them chose the circumstances in which they live.

The connection to Jerusalem, Mahmoud explains, is a distinctive trait that only Jerusalemites recognize. The beauty of Jerusalem, as he sees it, is that it serves as a canopy for shared and merged identities from all over the world.

“During imprisonment,” he shares, “only the Jerusalemites would walk the streets of our city from memory; we would take [other prisoners] on virtual tours and share the ways of the gates, souks, neighborhoods, corners, mosques, and churches.” The city’s symbolism is so rich and intricate that almost every step feels like a lesson unfolding a story of culture, faith, and history, he explains.

Upon reflecting on the many tragedies and destructions that have befallen the city, he comes up with his own description of Jerusalem: it is maqbarat al-ghuza, the graveyard of invaders. Based on his personal experience and reading of history, Mahmoud is convinced that no government, state, or people who attempt to conquer this city ever prevail for long; the city remains for those who simply live in it, rather than those who aim to dominate it.

“None of us entered this world with a deed or proof of ownership of any land or country,” he insists.

Today, Mahmoud conducts tours in Jerusalem and tells visitors and local residents countless stories about the place and its people from past and present. A natural walker who rarely ever needs to drive, he takes them on journeys that open the gates of history. He also doesn’t eat much; “I got used to that in jail.” This also keeps him young.

“It’s more accurate to say I was born in 1984, not 1948,” he says with a smile.