Learning My Family Name

by Norm Solomon

          I belong to what must be the world’s smallest minority:  Arabs with a Jewish surname.  I am one of the first generation of Solomons to be so blessed.  How I attained that status and how I learned of its origin is my purpose in writing today.

          My father and his siblings emigrated from Syria to America early in the 20^th century, coming one or two at a time over the course of ten years.  (My father was 60 years old when I was born, which provides context for what I am telling you, but which is a story for another day.)

          Uncle George came first.  The first leg of the journey was by boat from one of the eastern Mediterranean ports to Marseilles.  From there he traveled by train to the port city of leHavre, on the coast of northern France.  As he boarded the ship at leHavre, those responsible for the ship manifest engaged him in a conversation that went something like the following:

          “What is your name?”

          “Jurjis.”

          “That’s Arabic for ‘George’; so, in America, your name will be George.  What is your last name?”

          That question made no sense within Uncle George’s culture, since there is no such thing among Arabs as a personal last name.  Had the question been one of family name, the result of the inquiry would have been different.  Instead, the rest of the conversation continued as follows:

          “I only have one name.”

          “Well, everyone in America has a first and last name.  So, what is your father’s name?”

          “Sleimaan.”

          ‘That’s Arabic for ‘Solomon’; so, from now on, your name will be George Solomon.”

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          When I retired a century after George and my father and the rest of the family arrived in America, my preoccupation became family history research.  My daughter and I, with the help of others, had traced my mother’s ancestry on most lines 10 generations or more back to England, Switzerland, France and Germany.

          My father’s genealogy, however, was quite another matter.  First of all, records available on this side of the Atlantic were quite sparse.  The only information we had was an oral history interview I had conducted with my father on a Sunday afternoon as a youth.  During the course of that interview, I learned my grandparents’ given names, and those of my great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather.

          My grandmother’s family name was Hweibi and her sister had married into the Atiyeh family of the Younes clan.  (Her sister’s grandson later became Oregon’s Governor Victor Atiyeh — 1979-1987).

          Armed with that little information, I prepared for a genealogical research excursion to my father’s village.  My preparation included courses in Arabic language and Middle East Studies at Portland State University.   And for the first time I became affiliated with Portland’s Syrian-Lebanese-American Club.

          While preparing an ethnography for my Middle East Anthropology class, I interviewed three immigrants from my father’s village.  They had visited my home several times when they first arrived in Portland; so, it was a renewal of a relationship only dimly remembered.  Khalil Azar and his brother Aziz assisted as interpreters for their mother, the focus of my interview.  She spoke very little English, and my second-year Arabic was not good enough for a meaningful interview.  So, I learned much about the culture of my father’s village from all three.

          The interesting thing about the Syrian-Lebanese-American Club is that the name is far more expansive than the reality.  The preponderance of club members, indeed of Portland’s Syrian-Lebanese community, have their roots in my father’s village, Amar el-Hosn.  The largest Syrian community in the United States is located in Allentown, Pennsylvania, and members there are less pretentious.  They named their club The Amarian Society.

          From our interview, Khalil Azar knew of my intention to visit Amar.  As we gathered for a club meeting several months later, he approached me to ask where I intended to stay while in the village.  I told him that I supposed I would stay in a hotel and asked him whether there was one close by.

He assured me that there was but was surprised to learn that I had not planned to stay with relatives. 

          “You do have relatives in the village, don’t you?”

          “I probably do, but I have no idea who they are,” I replied.

          “Well, let me put you in touch with Selma Barchini.”[1]

          Shortly thereafter, Selma, who was thrilled to learn that she had extended family in the Portland area, invited my wife and me to dinner.  By way of introduction, I took a picture of my father.  As soon as she saw it, she exclaimed, “He looks just like my jiddu!” (Grandfather)

          I got a similar reaction when I arrived in Syria the following spring and was hosted by Selma’s Uncle Saloum.  When I showed him the picture, his response was a similar exclamation, “He looks just like my father!”

          Khalil Azar’s assertion that I should make contact with Selma Barchini was my first clue to my family name.  As an immigrant child visiting our home, I assume that his parents spoke of visiting Khalil Barchini, my father.  The reactions of Selma and Saloum to my father’s picture confirmed my assumption.  More recently, I received additional confirmation from my long-lost cousin Virginia, who told me that as a child she had been told that the family name was Barchini.

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          The origin of that family name is equally intriguing.  The name means “the people from Barsheen.”  My grandmother was from the village of Barsheen, an apple-growing center north of Amar el-Hosn.  My grandfather’s earliest known ancestors, Christian Arabs named Hadeed, originally came from Ramallah in present-day Palestine.  A branch of the family traveled north to Barsheen to avoid the marriage of their sister to a Moslem man.  Generations later, one of the Hadeed men moved to Amar and married a woman in that village.  To distinguish him from the other Hadeeds already living in Amar, he was called Barchini, the man from Barsheen.

          Of the five dimensions of family history research — name, event, date, place and relationship — none is more important than name.  One’s name is both paramount and precious, and I have found my own.

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[1] The name ‘Barchini’ reflects the French transliteration from the Arabic script, probably owing to the League of Nations Mandate over Syria following World War I.  The English transliteration would be ‘Barsheeni.’