Meet Karimeh Abbud – First ‘Lady Photographer’ of Palestine

Ahmad Mrowat’s collection

Ahmad Mrowat’s collection

Late Israeli prime minister Golda Meir once unashamedly said the Palestinians don’t exist and Israel was established on empty lands.

It was a view repeated time and again to justify the Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands and their subsequent grab of more Arab territories.

The photographs of Karimeh Abbud (1893-1940), the first Palestinian woman photographer, debunks that view and makes Israelis like Meir eat their words.

Google honoured her legacy by celebrating Abbud’s 123rd birthday with a Google doodle in 2016 two years before this article was first published.

“Abbud captured vast landscapes, many of which don’t exist today. Through her art, we’re able to experience the beauty of these regions as she saw them nearly 100 years ago,” said Google on November 18, 2016. “Thank you, Karimeh, for making art that endures.”

Only upon closer inspection it is clear that the tree is in fact painted on the negative, curving around her head and through her hands

Google also dwelled on her “photographs of family, friends and the surrounding landscape of Bethlehem, Palestine.”

Darat Al Funun of the Khaled Shoman Foundation in Amman presented the first comprehensive exhibition of photographs by Karimeh Abbud in late 2018 to continue January 11, 2019.

Documentary

The exhibition also included a short documentary on Karimeh’s life and work by Mahasen Nasser-Eldin.

Many art critics have commented on the impressive nature of her photography. In a tribute to Abbud Palestinian art critic Tammam Al Akhal said “she is friend of the light and sun… there is an artistic sense of the equilibrium inside her pictures. She was a true artist when taking a photograph.”

Al Akhal was giving a short presentation on the artistic poise in Abbud’s photographs as the Karimeh Abbud Photography Competition Prize was being launched by Dar Al Kalima University College of Arts and Culture in Bethlehem, Palestine, in 2016. The competition has since become an annual event designed to encourage young talent in art, culture and photography.

The Lady Photographer of Palestine

In her time, she established herself amongst the great photographers of the time with Al Akhal referring to her as standing as “tall as the skyscraper.”

Abbud was born in Bethlehem on November 18, 1893, in a Christian family which had settled in Palestine in the latter half of the 19th century. Her father was Said Abbud, an Anglican-Lutheran priest, who used to travel all over Palestine and take Abbud with him wherever he went.

Ivana Peric wrote that when Abbud was little she would accompany her father on his travels to distant places to serve his congregations in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Haifa and Nazareth “and this constant travel to Palestinian cities and villages allowed [Abbud] to see the diverse landscape of her homeland first-hand. She wanted to see more and capture the beauty she encountered.”

Reverend Mitri Al Raheb — who became a sort of unofficial biographer of Karimeh Abbud and her family — said when he came to Palestine, her father travelled to many places from Gaza in the south to Shaffa Amer in the north and then finally settled in Bethlehem in 1890. However, the family finally put down roots in Nazareth and this is where Abbud grew up, going to primary school there, then to Jerusalem and later to the American University in Beirut where she studied Arabic literature.

However her true passion was photography. She was merely 17 when her father gave her a camera and she started clicking there and then and didn’t stop until her death. She was buried in the Bethlehem Church where her father preached from the early 1900s until 1947 when he retired and left Palestine in January 1948 because of the troubles in Palestine and returned to Marj Ayoun in southern Lebanon where he originally came from.

During this period, however, the second of his six children quickly established herself by becoming a highly competent photographer, competing in a man’s world alongside such old hacks as Khalil Raad, Hanna Safieh and Fadil Saba and a handful of Armenian photographers who dominated the profession.

Ahmad Mrowat, the director of the Nazareth Archive Project devoted to collecting the works of the “Lady Photographer”, said Saba, the local photographer, moved to Haifa in the early 1930s and this made the emerging photographer a household name. He was invited to cover events all over Palestine, including one celebration in Hebron.

Social revolution

Abbud created a social revolution in photography. Unlike the male photographers who worked out of their own studios, Abbud did much more. She had two studios, one in Nazareth where she also had a laboratory for processing the photos and keeping the negatives in a safe place and adding colour to some of them, and a studio in Haifa. However, she visited homes to take photographs of women and children which male photographers could not do.

Abbud went into the homes of well-to-do and middle class families as Al Raheb points out. Increasingly, these people wanted her to come to their homes because of prevailing social constraints that made it inappropriate for them to venture outside their houses, especially to be photographed in studios.

So Abbud photographed women and children at different social occasions, during parties and marriage ceremonies. Her reputation was quickly cemented in the 1920s and 1930s when she took up the profession full time. In Al Carmel, a local newspaper, she advertised herself as “the only national photographer in Palestine [who] learned this beautiful art by well-known photographic personalities and is specialist in the service of women at reasonable prices…”

There are two points here to consider that could actually be inter-related. Jinan Abdo stresses the national element in this advertisement. She states in a 2012 documentary on Abbud made by Mahasen Nasser-Eldin: “when she calls herself a national photographer that feeds into the national context that was present at the time. In the 1920s, after the British Mandate began, Muslim and Christian associations started to counter the idea that we are sectarian groups and not a nation and to support the idea of the unification of our nation, so the rational element was essential and I think we can look at Karimeh through this national context,” Abdo says.

Dr Issam Nassar, an academic at Illinois State University who teaches Middle East history, focuses on the “micro” element in her photography. “Taking portraits in studios at that time required preparations” whilst “in the clients’ homes… it was more relaxing because people felt at ease in their natural sorroundings.”

Hani Hourani, a social science researcher who studied art and photography, says: “If we look at the family and group photos [taken by Karimeh Abbud] the viewer doesn’t see the traditional style of the setting, the background décor and the fixed distribution of light but the onlooker sees such marked diversity in all these elements.

“The home was an opportunity for more improvisation and diversity in the styles captured by the photo leading many to suggest Karimeh Abbud was a non-traditional photographer calling for change in the way she clicked photos.”

Abbud’s photographs on show at Darat Al Funun were recently acquired accidentally after much cajoling.

Mrowat answered an advertisement placed in an Arab newspaper by an antiquarian Jewish collector named Boki Boazz calling for more information about Karimeh Abbud. That was in 2006.

Mrowat says at first the collector was not willing to divulge any information but after being pressed, it turned out that he had 4,000 photographs which he got hold of in one of the houses in the Qatamon district in Jerusalem after their owners fled in 1948; the photographs, he adds were of Karimeh Abbud because her name was initialled on each of the photographs — the first signed picture postcard belonging to her was dated October 1919.

Mrowat says his heart was set on obtaining the collection which he felt were a very important part of Palestinian heritage, finally persuading Boazz to give up his collection by offering him an old edition of the Torah printed in the Palestinian city of Safad in 1860.

The photos on show form only a part of the collection at Darat Al Funun and are only a fraction of the huge number of photographs said to number 9,000 still believed to be in the possession of the Israeli army as an article in the Haaretz newspaper stated.

The photos present a narrative of the Palestinian society and travel before 1948. Abbud took photos of cities and villages that flourished in the early part of the 20th century.

It was easy for Abbud to get around, Mrowat says, as she was probably the first woman to have an automobile and a driving licence in Palestine and the Arab world. She used to travel frequently to photograph Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Tiberias and Haifa. Many photos were taken of beaches, markets, mosques and churches, providing a unique glimpse of Palestinian life.

Mrowat, Dr Nassar and others suggest she would act, at times, as a tour guide, accompanying visitors to many tourist locations including the Jordan River and Yarmouk River as well as many other places. In between these, she was interested also in photographing the daily lives of Palestinian women, the different stitches they would make as they embroidered their garments which represented different villages, farming, women carrying water and wood as well as other scenes in both the countryside and in towns and cities.

Nassar puts it in another way when he says that Abbud was able to bring out the human aspects of the personalities she was photographing and this added value to her work and individuality because she succeeded in preserving the modesty and humanity of the Palestinian existence “through what professional photographers call the “aura” of the photograph and its phantasmical imagination.”

Al Akhal agrees, saying this is why Abbud’s photographs surpassed time. It was the “professionalism”, “creativity” and “high quality” that produced good negatives and in turn excellent photographs that “allowed her work to continue to be seen long after,” she says. “Through these pictures she [Karimeh Abbud] talks to us in silence, we build a dialogue with her, become friendly with her and construct strong relations with her.”

Through her images, Abbud provided a pictorial documentation of Palestinian life.

Nasser-Eldin, also coordinator of the the Karimeh Abbud Photograph Competition Prize, says “Abbud started what we can call ‘documentary photography’ documenting the lives of people through her studios and through her movement in the country carrying her bulky tripod and her camera wherever she went.

“Through her lens we got to know the forms of Palestinians living in Palestine before 1948. Her photos give us a change concept, a new picture of windows and images of Palestine and Palestinians, totally different from the pictures of orientalists who showed our country [Palestine] was empty of people and/or showed images of people spread out and not as an integrated community with civilisation and culture living in towns and cities and in modernity at that time,” Nasser Eldin added.

Her photos were well-taken and are a vital part of history, so at various times Israel has sought to adopt her as one of its own. This is what one book, published in 2011, titled Karimeh Abbud: Israeli Portrait and Wedding Photography by Monica Millian tried to do. Many have questioned its credibility as it is primarily sourced from Wikipedia and other online resources.

It can easily be understood why Israel would want to “cash in” on such an historic cultural figure, but Abbud is a Palestinian through and through as judged by historical evidence.

Marwan Asmar is a commentator based in Amman. He has long worked in journalism and has a Phd in Political Science from Leeds University in the UK. This article originally written for and appeared in Gulf News and is now reprinted in crossfirearabia.com.

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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

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