A Lebanese Immigrant story of 1910

Posted by: adonis49 on: May 27, 2023

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Maghdouche – History & Heritage is in Maghdouche.

Note: English translation follows. My mother also suffered from sea-sickness and the Captain conjectured that she won’t make it to Marseille in 1947. It was common for parents to leave their children with their grandparents when immigrating.

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** قُصِّةْ سَعْدَة ** The Story of Sadie (Sa3dat al Naashef from Maghdoushi near Saida)- A Lebanese Immigrant **

* الجزء الأول * [Part 1] * [ENGLISH BELOW] *

كان يَوم السبت، ٥ تشرين التاني سنة ال١٩١٠، لِمِّنْ وُصْلِت باخرتنا، باخرة القديس بولس، عَ مرفأ نيو يُرْك. وُصُلْت مستويِّي عالآخر،

لعيانة نفسي ومَعْش قادرة أوقف عَ جْرَيِّي: ٦ إيام بالبحر من فْرَنسا،

وقَبْلُنْ الرِّحلة من بيروت. وكنت بعدني زغيري، ما كَنْشْ إلي ٧ اشهر مطبّْقة ال١٥ سنة! وأني كِنْتِش معوَّدي عالسَّفر، يِعني أطوَل مُشوار كان عَ حمارِةْ جِدّي الياس من الضيعة لَ المتَيّرِيِّي!

نْزِلْت من الباخرة ونطرْت دَوري، و من بعد تلات أربع ساعات تفتيش وشحشطة قطعت. الحمدلله قطَعت فحص الحكيم،

كنت عتلاني همّ عَيَدّْ سْمِعنا إنُّه في ناس حطّوهن بالحجر. بالآخر وصلت قدام صف مفتّشين، لابسين بدلات كِحليِّي، وقاعدين عَ كراسي كبار هَالعِلي! وُصِل دَوري وعيّطلي المترجم. مسِك المفتِّش ورقة وصار يُقرا ويسألني بالأنكليزي والمترجم بالعربي.

– «إسمِك؟»

– «سَعْدَة النّاشِف»

– «إسم بيِّك؟»

– «نقولا… نقولا الياس مخايل الناشف»

– «وإسم إمِّك؟»

– «هيلانة جِحا»

– «مواليد أي سنة؟»

– «ال٩٥… ٢٠ نيسان ١٨٩٥»

أني ما كنتش أعرفْ لا إكتب ولا أُقرا… بس كنت حافظة كل شي عالغيب، قالولي اللي بِجاوبْش مِتلَ مكتوب عالورقة بوقّفوه عَ جنب.

وكمّل المترجم يسأل:

– «وَين؟… مواليد وين؟»

– «مغدوشي، جبل لِبنان.»

سمعتُه بقلُّه بالأنكليزي: «مغدوشي، سيريا.» قِلت بقلبي: «تخمين بضمّونا مع بلاد الشام هَون.» مع إنّه نحنا كان نُصّ الضّيعة تابع لَ مِتْصَرّْفِيِّة جبل لِبنان والنص التاني لولاية سوريا، وقبل ما إخلق بْكَم سنة، ضمّونا لولاية بيروت.

وبِكَمِّل المترجم:

– «عند مين جايي هون؟»

– «عند إمّي وبَيِّي.»

مَنُّه إمّي وبيّي تَرَكوني مع بَت جِدّي أني وزغيري وهاجروا عَ كندا. ورجعوا إجوا عَ أميركا قبلي بخمس سنين.

ما كَنْش يخلِّص أسئلة هالمفتّش وأني بقلبي صرت صلّي: «يا عدرا دَخْل جْرَيْكي يخلص بقى، بدّي الصَّرفي أوصل شوف إمّي وبَيّي وإخواتي الزغار، هالفصافيص الأمركان!» ما أني إخواتي كنت بعدني مش شايفتُن ولا مرّة، ولا سامعة صوتُن. وإمّي وبيّي…

كانت صورتُن براسي عم تغَبِّش، وصَوتُن عم يِخْتْفي… مَنُّه ما كَنْش في عنّا لا كاميرات ولامسَجّلات ولا تَليفونات بْهَدِيك الإيام يا تُقْبُرنَي!

[يتبع]

Part 1

It was on Saturday, the 5th of November 1910, when our ship, the SS Saint Paul, arrived at New York’s port. I was nauseous and worn out… I was ready to drop. In fact, I was still very young: I had turned 15 that year. Also, I wasn’t used to traveling; the longest trip I had taken was on Jiddo Elias’s donkey from our village to Mtayriye, less than two miles from home!

Once we got off the ship, doctors started examining us one by one. Thank God I passed the medical inspection; I was worried as we heard that some people were being quarantined.

Finally, after waiting in line for several hours, I was called forward by an Arabic interpreter. I stood in front of an inspector; he was wearing a blue navy suit and seated on a tall stool in front of a high desk. He started asking me questions in English and the inspector translated them to Arabic.

– “Your full name?”

– “Sadie Nashif.”

– “Your father’s full name?”

– “Nicholas… Nicholas Elias Mikhael Nashif.”

– “And your mother’s?”

– “Helene Jeha”

– “When were you born?”

– “I was born in the year 95… April 20, 1895.”

I was illiterate, I could neither read nor write. However, I had made sure to memorize my birthday because I was told that if my answers didn’t match the information they had, I could get in trouble.

The inspector carried on with the questions:

– “What is your place of birth?”

– “Maghdoushe, Mount Lebanon.”

I heard the interpreter telling him: “Maghdoushe, Syria”. I thought to myself: “apparently, they consider us as part of Bilad Al Sham (the Greater Syria)”. Even though, back then Maghdoushe was partly in the Mutasarrifate of Mount Lebanon and partly in the Vilayet of Syria and a few years before I was born, it was added to the new Vilayet of Beirut.

The inspector then asks:

– “Are you meeting a relative here in America?”

– “Yes, my parents.”

In fact, my parents had left me with my grand-parents and immigrated to Canada when I was a kid. Then, they moved to the States five years before my arrival.

That interrogation seemed like an eternity! I silently prayed: “Jesus, let this end! I can’t wait to see my parents and my little brother’s… those little American punkins!”

I had neither seen my brother’s nor heard their voices. And my parents… well I would close my eyes and see them as silhouettes against a dimming sky and their voices were fading away. In fact, my dear, we didn’t have cameras and phones back in the day!

[To Be Continued]

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