In Jerusalem, some homes are instantly recognizable. Their defining features, such as arched verandas, broad stone facades, and patterned tile floors, display the city’s architectural legacy.
Commonly referred to as “Arabic Houses,” most were built between the late Ottoman era [1750-1918] and the 1940s, a period when Jerusalem was a crossroad for families who read French newspapers, traded across Beirut and Alexandria, spoke Arabic, Greek, and French, and moved fluidly among several worlds. They were families with education, commercial reach, and a sense of cultural belonging.
These homes were designed for the Jerusalem climate and lifestyle. The thick walls, shaded arched balconies, and high ceilings kept interiors cool without modern air conditioning. Large windows let the air move freely while keeping the light relaxing. Outdoor spaces – often verandas rather than enclosed gardens – encouraged community interaction while providing relief from the heat.
Residents who commissioned these houses often belonged to Jerusalem’s professional classes and had ties to Mediterranean cities such as Beirut, Alexandria, and Marseille. The architecture that emerged was neither Ottoman nor European but something distinctly local. Architectural historian David Kroyanker described it as “Jerusalem Mediterranean.”
Minds behind the magic
Two names stand out as architectural celebrities in this golden age: Andoni Baramki and Spyro Houris. Baramki, a Palestinian Arab educated in Athens, left behind a collection of villas, many of which are along the Jerusalem-Bethlehem Road and in the neighborhood of Talbiyeh. He was known for blending the classical, such as Corinthian columns, with the local, including arches striped in alternating stones. Baramki’s own house, which is now the Museum on the Seam, stands as an example of his extraordinary vision.
Spyro (Spyridon) Houris, with Greek Orthodox roots, worked across religious boundaries, creating homes for Jewish, Muslim, and Christian clients. Architectural historian Nasser Rabbat describes Houris’s style as both cosmopolitan and firmly rooted; Italianate symmetry blended seamlessly with Ottoman vitality. His buildings embodied openness and hospitality – generosity made solid in Jerusalem’s unofficial mother tongue: stone.
Still, it wasn’t only the visionaries whose legacies remain. Each arch and stone block owes its existence to the anonymous masons and artisans who shaped these homes. For them, the work was not about showing off but about creating spaces of balance, light, and day-to-day comfort. Their skill ensured that Jerusalem’s architecture feels almost alive, lasting long after eras and residents have passed.
Living examples
Villa Bisharat, built in 1926 on Marcus Street for Hanna Ibrahim Bisharat, exemplifies this synthesis. Its triple-arched balcony serves as an entry point and a social center, linking indoors and out. Interiors are balanced and restrained, with patterned tile floors and modest arches focused on ease.
After 1948, the state requisitioned the house, and it briefly became Golda Meir’s residence, not as prime minister but while she served in the government. She neither built nor owned it. The house belonged to another era, yet it took on its new role without losing itself; the proportions stayed true. The light fell as it always had. The architecture continues to express what it was built for – everyday life carried with ease rather than displayed.
A few blocks away, Villa Salameh, now the Belgian Consulate, offers a different design approach. Built for Constantine Salameh in the 1930s, the villa, with its original, smooth stonework facade, is set back from the street by a landscaped garden. The windows are arranged in a balanced, even pattern, giving the building a calm, composed look. One could pass it without realizing how carefully and unpretentiously it was constructed.
Diplomatic use has preserved the building. It is one of the few villas in Jerusalem whose form has not been compromised by subdivision, conversion, or aggressive renovation. It is both a house and a document – an intact expression of a chapter in the city’s cultural life that is often remembered politically but rarely understood architecturally.
Everyday genius
These houses are not nostalgic showpieces or political relics; they are studies in practical, thoughtful design. Built for families, they emphasize hospitality, routine, and a fluid boundary between indoors and out. The details and design aim not for show but for everyday enjoyment and durability.
Much of Jerusalem has changed: Denser blocks, high-rises, and newer styles dominate former garden neighborhoods. Yet the Arabic Houses persist, easily recognized by their design. Their survival demonstrates how adaptation to climate, context, and daily life produces spaces that continue to function comfortably and beautifully over generations.
Lives on the balcony
The architecture endures, but the meaning is shaped by those who live – and remember – these spaces. Summer evenings in Katamon, as described by Palestinian Arab composer and poet Wasif Jawhariyyeh, unfolded on shared balconies, where “neighbors called to each other across balconies as if we shared one house, and the neighborhood watched itself from above.”
Half a century later, Israeli novelist Amos Oz described his mother on a similar balcony in a Jerusalem stone house, reflecting that “other lives had been lived here before us, and the walls remembered them.”
The architecture is the same; the meanings are different; the balcony holds both. In a city defined by change, these houses quietly prove that attentive architecture can outlast its makers, holding memory, light, and the varied stories of all those who pass through.■
Jay Garfinkel is a Jerusalem-based photographer specializing in still life and landscape photography, who has exhibited widely in the United States and Israel. His work has been featured in Landscape Photography Magazine and Lens Culture Magazine. View his work: https://jaygarfinkel.zenfolio.com.