Yasser and I
I hate sewing. All you can get me to do is sew on a button... eventually. So what do I do with all the inevitable sewing that a family creates? (I also hate sewing piles.) Sometimes I give it to our neighborhood "Mrs. Fixit" - but she's best for serious alterations or creative work. Sometimes, if I'm going to visit my B'nai Brak buddy, Debbie, I'll take some to her, and she can sew while we sip a cup of ... no, not tea or coffee: I don't drink tea or coffee ... try me on carrot juice.
"People like you are my parnassa," Debbie tells me. She can even finish sewing jobs while we're on the phone.
But if I'm not going over to Debbie, and "Mrs. Fixit" is overloaded with work, and I have a simple seam that just can't wait, I go over to Yasser. No, no, not Arafat, Heaven forbid! This is Yasser the tailor on the seam between the Cardo and the Arab Market in the Old City of Jerusalem. He sits in front of his machine in the smallest of storefronts. It's more of a hole in the wall, with a storefront selling Armenian ceramics and scarves on one side, and a second- or third-hand clothes vendor on the other. Above him, in the roof of the covered Cardo is a large, pane-less window through which you can look down when you are on your way across the rooftops of the market to the Galicia Compound, the Jewish enclave above the Shuk. Until recently, a cobbler worked opposite him, but now he's been replaced with a candy store. On more than one occasion I would get my shoes shod and my sewing done at the same time. Yasser has a tiny straw stool next to him and sometimes a man, Jew or Arab, will sit there while Yasser fixes his pants.
In the past, when tourists were not such a rarity, groups coming to visit the ancient Roman Cardo would stop and snap pictures of Yasser at work, and I guess some of them would get me in their frame as well.
My husband first introduced me to him some twenty-two years ago, when we first moved into the Jewish Quarter. After all, my husband needed repairs done, too. In those days, all the sewing pile went to Yasser. Holes in knees of pants, dangling hems, ripped sleeves... you name it. When my first-grader needed a cloth cover for his siddur in school, where did I turn? To Yasser, of course! I bought the navy-blue velvet and gold braid for decoration, and showed Yasser exactly what I wanted. Between my instructions and Yasser's skill on the sewing machine, my son had a decent cover for his siddur.
At that time, Yasser never took a holiday. The first time he took a vacation was after he spent the whole of Rosh Hashanah and the following Shabbat of 1993 making Palestinian flags. That was two days after Prime Minister Rabin's memorable handshake with Yasser's namesake on the White House lawns following the signing of the peace accords. I happened to have some sewing that was needed for Rosh Hashanah, so, that Wednesday morning, on the eve of the holiday, I pushed my way through the circle of Arab youths that surrounded his machine in the Cardo. Each one carried a black plastic bag containing pre-cut pieces of black, white, green and red silky material.
Yasser looked up from the flag he was creating as I reached him and gave me a big "ahlein" (Hello), lengthening the second syllable. He looked very relieved to have a break in a day of flags. (Remember, until that fateful handshake, such flags had been illegal.)
"Come back in half an hour," he told me after I showed him what was needed. I, too, was relieved to have my husband's suit ready for Rosh Hashanah.
Only after that four-day flag frenzy did Yasser take off to visit family in Jordan for a few days, just an hour away by bus, he told me.
Yasser isn't interested in politics. "Leave me alone with politics," he says with a hand gesture of throwing them over his shoulder. All he wants is to make a decent living to support his wife and eight children. He's seen the British come and go. The Israelis leave him alone, and, like you and me, all he wants is peace. Peace, to live with his family and have enough to eat.
"Salaam Eileikum," he wishes me.
"Eileikum salaam, islam idak," I wish peace on the hand that has worked for me.
I hate sewing. All you can get me to do is sew on a button... eventually. So what do I do with all the inevitable sewing that a family creates? (I also hate sewing piles.) Sometimes I give it to our neighborhood "Mrs. Fixit" - but she's best for serious alterations or creative work. Sometimes, if I'm going to visit my B'nai Brak buddy, Debbie, I'll take some to her, and she can sew while we sip a cup of ... no, not tea or coffee: I don't drink tea or coffee ... try me on carrot juice.
"People like you are my parnassa," Debbie tells me. She can even finish sewing jobs while we're on the phone.
But if I'm not going over to Debbie, and "Mrs. Fixit" is overloaded with work, and I have a simple seam that just can't wait, I go over to Yasser. No, no, not Arafat, Heaven forbid! This is Yasser the tailor on the seam between the Cardo and the Arab Market in the Old City of Jerusalem. He sits in front of his machine in the smallest of storefronts. It's more of a hole in the wall, with a storefront selling Armenian ceramics and scarves on one side, and a second- or third-hand clothes vendor on the other. Above him, in the roof of the covered Cardo is a large, pane-less window through which you can look down when you are on your way across the rooftops of the market to the Galicia Compound, the Jewish enclave above the Shuk. Until recently, a cobbler worked opposite him, but now he's been replaced with a candy store. On more than one occasion I would get my shoes shod and my sewing done at the same time. Yasser has a tiny straw stool next to him and sometimes a man, Jew or Arab, will sit there while Yasser fixes his pants.
In the past, when tourists were not such a rarity, groups coming to visit the ancient Roman Cardo would stop and snap pictures of Yasser at work, and I guess some of them would get me in their frame as well.
My husband first introduced me to him some twenty-two years ago, when we first moved into the Jewish Quarter. After all, my husband needed repairs done, too. In those days, all the sewing pile went to Yasser. Holes in knees of pants, dangling hems, ripped sleeves... you name it. When my first-grader needed a cloth cover for his siddur in school, where did I turn? To Yasser, of course! I bought the navy-blue velvet and gold braid for decoration, and showed Yasser exactly what I wanted. Between my instructions and Yasser's skill on the sewing machine, my son had a decent cover for his siddur.
At that time, Yasser never took a holiday. The first time he took a vacation was after he spent the whole of Rosh Hashanah and the following Shabbat of 1993 making Palestinian flags. That was two days after Prime Minister Rabin's memorable handshake with Yasser's namesake on the White House lawns following the signing of the peace accords. I happened to have some sewing that was needed for Rosh Hashanah, so, that Wednesday morning, on the eve of the holiday, I pushed my way through the circle of Arab youths that surrounded his machine in the Cardo. Each one carried a black plastic bag containing pre-cut pieces of black, white, green and red silky material.
Yasser looked up from the flag he was creating as I reached him and gave me a big "ahlein" (Hello), lengthening the second syllable. He looked very relieved to have a break in a day of flags. (Remember, until that fateful handshake, such flags had been illegal.)
"Come back in half an hour," he told me after I showed him what was needed. I, too, was relieved to have my husband's suit ready for Rosh Hashanah.
Only after that four-day flag frenzy did Yasser take off to visit family in Jordan for a few days, just an hour away by bus, he told me.
Yasser isn't interested in politics. "Leave me alone with politics," he says with a hand gesture of throwing them over his shoulder. All he wants is to make a decent living to support his wife and eight children. He's seen the British come and go. The Israelis leave him alone, and, like you and me, all he wants is peace. Peace, to live with his family and have enough to eat.
"Salaam Eileikum," he wishes me.
"Eileikum salaam, islam idak," I wish peace on the hand that has worked for me.
This story first appeared
in the Jerusalem Post Magazine, 23 November 2001
in the Jerusalem Post Magazine, 23 November 2001
