Jerusalem Signs: Identity and Political Power

At a recent lecture hosted by the Council for British Research in the Levant (CBRL), Yasir Suleiman, professor of Modern Arabic Studies at the University of Cambridge guided the audience through the intricate linguistic landscape of Jerusalem. Exploring the Holy City’s street signs, Suleiman revealed how these seemingly mundane markers act as silent witnesses to history and power struggles, charting the evolution of identity and conflict in the region. 

“Language is important, not because it gives you information, but because it stands for something that is beyond language,” Suleiman explained. “Road signs, anywhere in the world, do tell a story. They present you with a narrative, a cultural map, a linguistic map, and a political map.”

Language Layers of Jerusalem 

Jerusalem’s street signs have long served as a battleground for identity and political power, reflecting the city’s historical transformations, from the Ottoman period through the British Mandate and into the present day. Suleiman traced this history, showing how language has shaped and been shaped by competing claims over the city’s public space. 

https://twitter.com/CBRL_news/status/1878758921340678444

Before the fall of the Ottoman Empire in 1917, Jerusalem’s signs prominently featured Ottoman Turkish (written in Arabic script) alongside English and occasionally French. Hebrew was largely absent. For instance, an original 1892 sign at the Jerusalem-Jaffa train station displayed the name of “Jerusalem” in English and Ottoman Turkish, with Hebrew was only added post-1948. 

This marked a time when Hebrew was largely absent from Jerusalem’s linguistic landscape, reflecting its limited presence in the population’s daily life, while Arabic script was present, but the Arabic language itself was absent.

However, the rise of the Zionist movement sought to change this, prioritising Hebrew revival as a cornerstone of its political and cultural agenda. 

Three Languages, One Hierarchy

Under British Mandate, it was decided that English, Arabic and Hebrew were all required on street signs. Yet, their arrangement revealed the prevailing power dynamics: English appeared at the top, Arabic in the middle, and Hebrew at the bottom, as stipulated by British authorities. 

This vertical hierarchy symbolised the ruling power, with English taking precedence and Arabic reflecting the majority population (around 90% of the people in Palestine were Arabic-speakers, including the Jews and Christians). Hebrew’s lower placement underscored its marginal status at the time. 

The Zionist movement, unhappy with this arrangement, lobbied for horizontal signs, where all three languages appeared side-by-side. Even so, Arabic retained a visual advantage because its right-to-left orientation naturally positioned it above Hebrew in terms of linguistic flow, as any right-to-left script placed on the right takes visual precedence over one positioned on the left.

Three Languages, Three Names

Suleiman highlighted how different languages on street signs often tell different stories about the same location. For instance, the famous Damascus Gate is labelled in Arabic “Bab el-’Amoud,” referencing Roman pillars in the area, while in Hebrew, it is called “Bab Nablus,” acknowledging Nablus’s religious significance for Jews, and in English, it is “Damascus Gate,” reflecting the trade connexions to the Syrian capital. Each language offers a distinct historical or cultural claim to the place, underscoring the city’s layered identity. 

Three languages, Two Boxes

The 1948-1967 Jordanian control of Jerusalem brought changes to Jerusalem’s signs. With almost no Jewish presence within the Old City’s walls, the Jordanian authorities only put street signs in Arabic and English. 

Arabic was placed above English, with the English text mirroring the Arabic perfectly (e.g., “Al-Malak Road”). This reflected a shift in status: English was no longer the language of the ruling power but had become merely a lingua franca, while Arabic took precedence as the dominant language.

However, after the Israelis occupation of East Jerusalem in 1967, the linguistic order shifted again. New signs were introduced, with Hebrew taking the top position, symbolising Israeli sovereignty. Arabic and English were relegated below it, marking a significant reordering of visual and political priorities. 

By 1980, when the Israeli Knesset declared Jerusalem the capital of Israel, the street signs further evolved to reflect political realities. A single box now contained all three languages, with Hebrew firmly at the top. Arabic began to diminish in influence, with English morphology increasingly aligning with Hebrew rather than Arabic conventions. For instance, “Ha-Malak Road” replaced “Al-Malak Road,” subtly asserting Hebrew’s dominance over Arabic. 

Signs of Power

This dynamic became even more pronounced in 2018 when the Israeli Knesset stripped Arabic of its status as an official language. On modern street signs like “Nablus Road,” Hebrew now appears on top of the three languages and often in its fully pointed form, a form traditionally reserved for sacred texts, emphasising its elevated status in Israel’s narrative of Jerusalem. 

Suleiman underscored how Jerusalem’s street signs are not just tools for navigation, they are symbols of power. “These signs are not about informing you where you are, they tell you who owns the place, who calls the shots.”

Street signs of Jerusalem have become a linguistic archaeology, with layers of history etched into their evolving forms. From the Ottoman period to the present day, they quietly tell the story of a city at the centre of competing claims over its identity. 

This article was written by Sophie Constantin and appeared in the Jordan Times

CrossFireArabia

CrossFireArabia

Dr. Marwan Asmar holds a PhD from Leeds University and is a freelance writer specializing on the Middle East. He has worked as a journalist since the early 1990s in Jordan and the Gulf countries, and been widely published, including at Albawaba, Gulf News, Al Ghad, World Press Review and others.

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An Egyptian House in a German Town

An Arab house in a German town, all the trappings of a different culture, Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian, and Yemeni, an Oriental setting in a traditional western German context.

The town is Bruchsal, to the west of Frankfurt, owners, the Burkards, they fell in love with a different culture, and decided to “transport it” to their house and in their lands, having lived in Cairo in the 1970s and 1980s.

Helmut Burkard and his wife Beta decided to pack their belongings and their kids in 1974 and move to Cairo. Neighbors told him “you are mad” to go to the Middle East at that precise moment. “Its dangerous.”

But he wasn’t swayed. They loved every single minute of it. Helmut teaching music at a convent, Beta, an economist by training had become a proper housewife, and the two kids growing up.

Over the years Beta spent her time collecting traditional artifacts, souvenirs, paintings and different copies of the Quran from Cairo’s old Souqs and Bazaars as she had a preordained feeling that one day she and her family would go back to their home on Mozart Way and fill it and make it a house of converging cultures.

And so today as you enter the house, you are immediately struck by the mementos, artifacts, framed pictures, the rugs, swords, scabbards hanging on the different walls of the house. The speak of a different culture, and a far away civilization embedded in a geographical separateness, novel, yet very human.

What’s fascinating about this house is that it’s totally covered with trinkets and memorabilia. The stairs, landing, living room, bedrooms all smell of a civilization that is anything but German, yet relaxing and soothing.

Pottery, pans, Arabic coffee pots, earrings worm by Bedouin women adorned the place from head to foot together with wall paintings by different Egyptian artists.

In fact, if it wasn’t for the large black piano in the living room, and the number of German books, a visitor like way would be forgiven for thinking the house belongs to a foreign family living in rural Germany.

Every wall, every corner, nook and cranny of every room—literally—filled with every aspect of an Arab life which the Burkards lived either in the long stretch in Cairo, and or the vacationing he used to take his family to in different parts of Jordan, Syria and Yemen.

Beta just kept collecting on these holidays inevitably made driving through these areas. “I wanted my family to experience these countries by roads, and not through planes,” he used to say.

The house is an Arabic treasure. On Mozart Way, you can’t say, “oh I want to write an impressionistic piece on this house” simply because of the intricate detail involved in these artifacts. The house tells a story of a past the Burkard’s lived in. If you let Beta go on, she would speak for ages on how she got this piece, and from which Souq she had to go to.

You can’t point to any particular room and say this is the pride and joy of the Burkards. They are all special. Take the living room, for instance. One is struck by its aura of combination of religiosity, culture, art, music and literature that spanned across.

There was picture frame of Al Faateha (Opening chapter of the Quran), engravings of the name of Allah (God) and Prophet Mohammad on different plates.

In a small side section named by Helmut Burkard as the “Arabic room”, there is a mixture of Arabesque and teak, a desk, a large rounded Arabesque coffee table with a copper plate and a traditional wooden shield used as a divide from one section of the house to another.

Of course both husband and wife know what all these means. Helmut speaks good Arabic with an Egyptian accent, so does Beta although she didn’t let on. But Helmut was directly in touch with the local population, that’s why he picked up the accent and the slang.

After Egypt the Burkards went back to Germany, however, Helmut returned to Jordan in 1996 as a fellow teaching in the Music National Conservatory where he remained till 2003. He first came to Cairo when he was in his early 40s, now he was in his 70s, his kids grown up, and his wife Beta attending the garden and on frequent trips to Switzerland which is just around the corner from where they lived. But he was still a “musical fighter”, humming to himself a piece by Mozart or Bach as he went down the corridor.

At the Conservatory, he established an exchange program where German pupils came to Jordan to play music followed by Jordanian pupils going to Germany to play classical music with Arab themes. He called this a “musical culture of dialogue”; the German pupils would also learn different Arabic pieces and even sing them.

Helmut, now in his early 80s, and who brought the last German music group to play in Amman in 2010, is a strong believer in a culture of dialogue between east and west as a means to bringing people closer together.

His house is a testimony to that.

This artical is reprinted from my account on Hubpages

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