The National, February 20, 2010
If the layout of Nazareth’s old city seems to defy human logic, that’s because it does – when men laid the first roads here during Roman times, they traced donkey paths. The Fauzi Azar Inn is tucked deep in this labyrinth of slivered streets, and although the resulting jumble is confusing, finding the inn is easy. Just follow the English signs.
I still manage to get lost, however, walking through the shuk [souq]. Dizzied by colourful scarves hanging above, distracted by the array of costume jewellery, enticed by the smell of cardamom-spiked coffee, I forget about directions. I navigate by following my senses. But my nose fails me and, disorientated, I stop at a small store. An elderly Arab man – thin, bald and white-moustached – stands in the doorway. I nod hello and, in Hebrew, ask for directions to Fauzi. “Do you speak Arabic?” he responds, in heavily accented English. I tell him I don’t. He wags a finger at me. “Then speak English. You are in Nazareth!” He walks away, leaving me alone and embarrassed at the store’s entrance. I take heart in the fact that tension is nothing new here.
Nazareth has seen many waves of soldiers – Persian, Roman, Muslim, Crusader, Ottoman and British. Then, in 1948, came the Jews. This last conquest continues to reverberate through Nazareth, Israel’s largest Arab city. Nazareth also absorbed a massive influx of Palestinian Muslim refugees in 1948 and, over time, the historically largely Christian city became predominately Muslim.
According to the New Testament, Nazareth is where Mary received the annunciation – the Archangel Gabriel’s announcement that she would give birth to the son of God. And it is widely believed that Jesus spent his boyhood here. But while Christian pilgrims have been flocking to Nazareth for centuries, increasing numbers of tourists are being attracted by lovingly restored Ottoman-era mansions such as the Fauzi Azar Inn.
Although my guidebook contains a long list of churches, modern-day Nazareth is a long way from any idealised image, not a place filled with mangers, robed villagers and pilgrims. Even the still-picturesque old city makes a gruff first impression. Beyond the shuk, stalls are clamped shut. Stone streets are quiet and dotted with litter. The occasional palm tree – neglected and in need of pruning – gives a sagging salute.
Fauzi is tucked off of a nameless cement alley. Ducking as I step through the low, green door, I feel like I’m bowing to an exiled queen. When I stand, I’m greeted with a plant-studded courtyard and soaring stone arches. The trickle of a fountain provides a relaxing soundtrack. Then there’s the alcove lined with jewel-tone silk pillows and Bedouin-style straw mats, topped by a vaulted ceiling. The only thing missing is shisha. I’m tempted to lounge, but I head upstairs to check in.
If the courtyard felt removed from today’s old city, the reception hall – a 19th-century salon – feels even further away. The floors are made of marble, imported from Turkey. The ceiling, adorned with paintings depicting flowers and plump cherubs, lends the room a decidedly European feel.
The most obvious reminder of the building’s Arab heritage comes in the arched windows. Fauzi Azar has a cluster of three – as do all the Ottoman-era mansions – and they offer an exquisite view of the Old City, which looks rustic rather than rundown from this vantage point. As I check in, I notice that manager Surida Nasser bears a striking resemblance to the gentleman in the black and white portrait hanging on the wall. The man pictured, Nasser explains, was her grandfather, Fauzi Azar. The last male heir of the Azar family (the others fled to Syria in 1948), he died here in 1980, fighting a fire that threatened to destroy the home.
Today, Azar’s five daughters own the mansion and Maoz Inon, the Jewish Israeli who runs the place, leases the property from them. The partnership between Inon and Azar’s daughters is a pleasing story of coexistence. Nasser, too, reminds me of that. When I ask if she prefers to speak English, she responds, in Hebrew, “Whatever suits you.” And, in a warm display, she offers me Turkish coffee, served in a traditional thimble-sized cup, and a slice of semolina cake, similar to Egyptian basboosa.
My mouth and mood sweetened, I take the key and head to my room, which is nestled at the top of a narrow flight of steep stairs. It’s a cosy space with exposed wooden roof beams, honey-toned wood floors and burgundy curtains. A pair of small lamps cast a warm glow. In the bathroom, a window large enough to sit in offers a stunning view of Nazareth. I perch in the frame, look at the city, and listen to the neighbours’ children playing in the wisp of a street below.
Somewhat reluctant to leave, I set out in search of more mansions. I keep my eyes turned up, looking for those three telltale windows. It’s not long before I spy some at Al Mutran Guest House (www.al-mutran.com), a boutique hotel where an employee graciously gives me a tour. Inon is the proprietor of this one, too, and like Fauzi, he rents the building from descendants of the first owners. The mansion was built by the Kattouf family in the 1800s. Renowned jewellers, the Kattoufs seem to have brought an artistic eye to their home as well: windows are accented with stained glass; colourful hand-painted tiles dot the floors. It’s worth a visit to Nazareth just to see Al Mutran’s floors. Similar examples can be found throughout Israel – I have some in my apartment in Tel Aviv – but I’ve never seen them in such good condition.
Hypnotised, I sweep a foot over the tiles, tracing a pattern. “These are new, right?” I ask. My impromptu guide corrects me, and says that the tiles were made in the 19th century in Jaffa, Palestine’s bustling port city.
At the end of the tour, my guide doesn’t ask for money as would be the norm in many places in the world. He asks, instead, if he can give me coffee.
That evening, I meet a Dutch tourist from the salon and we head to Sudfeh on Hamaain Square for dinner. Like the other restored mansions, the building has seen its share of history. Here’s one chapter: during the British Mandate that began when the Ottoman Empire fell at the end of the First World War, the house was used as a military post.
But we haven’t gone to Sudfeh for the history. We’re there for the legendary cocktails, including the Ancient Nazareth – arak, triple sec, grapefruit and mint. The food is excellent, too. We take the Sudfeh salad – a perfect symphony of baby greens, sprouts, apples and dried figs, tossed in citrus vinaigrette; carpaccio – paper-thin, flavourful and topped with slivers of salty Parmesan; sirloin rolls – tender courgette and tangy green onion, wrapped in sliced steak and served with a sharp mustard sauce; and the knafeh shrimp breaded in the dough traditionally used for Levant pastries.
I wash the meal down with an arak and water. My companion sips a Taybeh beer, which is brewed in the West Bank. He starts then on the heavy stuff that foreigners like to talk to Israelis about – the Holocaust, 1948, the peace process today.
On my final day, I stop at El-Reda, a restaurant in an 120-year-old building on the edge of the old city. It’s just past noon and I’m the first customer to arrive. Fairuz, the popular Lebanese singer, is blasting from the stereo, echoing off of the vaulted ceilings. It’s December, and a large Christmas tree is by the bar. I feel a bit like I’ve been transported, suddenly, to Beirut.
I’m greeted by a large portrait of Umm Kulthum on the wall – owner Daher Zeidani plays her every day, but only at night. “She’s very special,” he remarks as he brings me tea – syrupy sweet with a sprig of fresh mint. “The moment we start [Umm Kulthum] we don’t mix it. No matter whether we start at eight or 11, the moment we start it, that is the last word.” The music is very important, Zeidani explains, because El-Reda, which means happiness in Arabic, offers visitors more than food: the restaurant offers a “comprehensive experience”.
I skip the wood chairs and tables and head towards a leather armchair in a book-lined corner. I peruse the selection – which runs the gamut from Arabic poetry to Islamic architecture – and settle in with a beautifully illustrated Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, which I am acquainted with but have never read. I order a hot tea; it comes quickly, served the local way. For lunch, I take the Arabic salad with olive oil, spring onion, mint and goat’s cheese. The vegetables are crisp and finely chopped, as they ought to be; the goat’s cheese provides a creamy, smooth balance to the onion, and the mint is refreshing.
But eating salad in an armchair is a messy, if not impossible, ordeal, so I move to a table. Setting aside Ali Baba, I chat with Zeidani, from whom I get a much richer story. Zeidani is the descendant of Daher al Omar al Zeidani, a sheikh who ruled a vast area of the Levant, from Beirut to Jaffa, during the 18th century. Speaking of his namesake, Zeidani says, “He was the last Arab ruler of Palestine.”
The Zeidani family owns the mansion that houses El-Reda and many of the nearby buildings. Talking to Zeidani, I get a sense that, like many of Nazareth’s residents, he is as proud of his family’s story as he is weighed down by it. On the wall are family photographs, including a black and white shot of a class of students, taken in Jerusalem in 1925 at a prestigious law school. Zeidani points out an uncle and then his finger moves to another face, Ahmad al Shukeiri.
“He was the first head of the PLO,” Zeidani says.
“For me, it is very important that this is not just a place to eat,” he says. “Yes, there are some books about European art, but most are about Arab culture and architecture.” Arabic readers will find work by authors from Palestine and Nazareth, including acclaimed poet Taha Muhammad Ali.
And preserving the Ottoman-era mansions and sharing them with visitors is equally important, Zeidani says. “The only thing they [the Israelis] can’t take is the beauty of the old city.”