Let me tell you about Old Katamon, a neighborhood that embodies perhaps more intensely than any other in Jerusalem the layered complexity of history, displacement, and transformation that defines this contested city. Old Katamon, or Katamon Tet Vav as it’s sometimes called in Hebrew, sits just south of the main Katamon area, extending toward the neighborhoods of Talpiot and Arnona, and walking through its streets is like reading the palimpsest of Jerusalem’s twentieth-century history written in stone and absence, in architectural grandeur and human loss, in what remains and what has been erased.

The story of Old Katamon is inseparable from the story I began telling you about Katamon proper, but it has its own distinct character and trajectory. In the nineteen twenties and thirties, as wealthy Palestinian Arab families were building their grand villas in what would become known as the main Katamon area, an even more exclusive and prestigious development was taking shape on the hillsides to the south. This area, which would later be called Old Katamon, became home to some of Jerusalem’s most prominent Arab Christian and Muslim families, who built not just houses but estates, magnificent stone mansions with elaborate gardens, ornate architectural details, and all the grandeur that considerable wealth could command in Mandate Palestine.

These weren’t merely homes. These were statements of status, power, and permanence, built by families who had been prominent in Jerusalem for generations and who assumed they would remain so for generations to come. The architecture reflected sophisticated tastes and international influences, blending traditional Palestinian and Ottoman elements with Art Deco touches, neoclassical details, and European design sensibilities. Some villas featured marble staircases, hand-painted tiles imported from Europe, elaborate wrought ironwork, arched colonnades surrounding courtyards with fountains, and gardens that required teams of gardeners to maintain.

The families who built these estates were the cream of Palestinian Arab society: the Salameh family, the Husseinis, the Nashishibis, the Khalidis, physicians and lawyers, merchants and landowners, religious leaders and intellectuals. They sent their children to the best schools in Jerusalem, Cairo, Beirut, and Europe. They hosted salons where politics and culture were discussed in Arabic, English, and French. They lived lives of cultivation and privilege in one of Jerusalem’s most beautiful and desirable areas, surrounded by gardens and terraces overlooking the valleys and hills that give Jerusalem its extraordinary topography.

The neighborhood had churches serving the substantial Christian population, clubs and social institutions, and a whole infrastructure of privilege and culture. The streets were quiet and tree-lined, the estates generously spaced, the atmosphere one of refinement and exclusivity. This was where the Palestinian elite chose to live, as far as they could imagine from the crowded lanes of the Old City while remaining in Jerusalem, creating a garden suburb that rivaled anything in the region.

Then came nineteen forty-eight, and everything changed with a violence and finality that still echoes through the streets today. During the fighting for Jerusalem in Israel’s War of Independence, which Palestinians call the Nakba or catastrophe, Old Katamon became a battlefield. The area’s strategic position on high ground overlooking approaches to the city made it militarily valuable. Jewish forces fought to capture it, Arab forces fought to hold it, and the civilian population, those wealthy families in their grand villas, fled or were forced to leave as the battle raged around them.

The fighting was intense. Houses were damaged by artillery and gunfire, some burned, some partially destroyed. When the shooting stopped, Old Katamon was in Israeli hands, and it was empty. The families who had built those magnificent estates, who had lived there for decades, who had assumed their permanence in this place, were gone. Some fled to East Jerusalem, which remained under Jordanian control. Some went to Lebanon, to Jordan, to other Arab countries. Some went to refugee camps where they and their descendants remain to this day. They left behind not just houses but entire lives: furniture and books, photographs and documents, gardens they had planted, graves of ancestors in nearby cemeteries, a whole world that simply ended.

What happened next shaped the Old Katamon we see today. The abandoned properties were taken over by the Israeli government under laws dealing with absentee property. Unlike in main Katamon where the villas were often subdivided among multiple poor immigrant families, creating dense occupation of grand homes, many of the Old Katamon estates were allocated to Israeli government institutions, foreign embassies, and prominent Israeli figures. The strategic thinking seemed to be that these particularly grand properties should serve representational and institutional purposes rather than simply housing immigrants.

The result is a neighborhood unlike any other in Jerusalem. Walking through Old Katamon today, you encounter street after street of magnificent stone villas, many of them now housing government offices, foreign consulates, cultural institutions, and international organizations. The French Consulate occupies a beautiful estate. Various Israeli government ministries use former Arab mansions for offices and official residences. International organizations have their headquarters in converted villas. Some properties house cultural centers or museums. A relatively small number remain as private residences, occupied by wealthy Israelis or diplomats.

The architecture is stunning and heartbreaking in equal measure. These buildings represent some of the finest domestic architecture in Jerusalem, sophisticated designs beautifully executed in the golden Jerusalem stone that glows in the afternoon sun. The craftsmanship is extraordinary: stone arches perfectly proportioned, decorative elements carved with skill and care, ironwork forged by master craftsmen, tiles and mosaics created by artists. Many buildings retain original details, architectural elements that speak to the wealth and taste of those who commissioned them.

But there’s also a quality of frozen time, of interrupted lives. You see Arabic inscriptions on some buildings, family names or Quranic verses or dates of construction, marking these as Arab creations even as they now serve Israeli purposes. You see architectural styles and decorative choices that reflect Palestinian and broader Arab aesthetic traditions rather than European Jewish influences. You walk through gardens that were clearly planned and planted generations ago, with mature trees and established landscaping that speaks to decades or even a century of cultivation, though now often maintained by Israeli gardeners serving Israeli institutions.

The neighborhood is eerily quiet, especially compared to the bustle of residential areas. Because so many properties are institutional rather than residential, there’s little of the daily life that animates neighborhoods where people actually live. During business hours, you see some activity as people work in the various offices and institutions. But in evenings and on weekends, many streets are nearly deserted, giving Old Katamon an atmosphere of a beautiful but somewhat empty stage set, all the physical elements present but the human drama largely absent.

The residential population of Old Katamon is quite small, perhaps only a few thousand people, making it more of a district of institutions than a proper neighborhood. Those who do live there are a diverse group: some are wealthy Israelis who have purchased or rent the few private homes available, attracted by the beautiful properties and the prestige of the address. Some are diplomats and foreign workers occupying residences provided by their embassies or organizations. Some are caretakers or employees of the institutions living on-site. And some are elderly longtime residents, often in modest apartments in buildings that were subdivided decades ago, living on rent control in what has become one of Jerusalem’s most exclusive areas.

There’s virtually no Anglo immigrant community in Old Katamon as a residential neighborhood. The lack of available housing, the institutional character, and the absence of community infrastructure mean English-speaking immigrants seeking to build lives in Jerusalem look elsewhere. The few Anglos you encounter are more likely to be diplomats or employees of international organizations temporarily posted to Jerusalem than immigrants building permanent lives.

The real estate market in Old Katamon is unusual and limited. Because so many properties are institutional and not available for private sale or rent, the market is thin. When private homes do become available, prices are astronomical, often reaching the highest levels in Jerusalem. A magnificent villa, if you could find one for sale, might command twenty to forty million shekels or more, six to twelve million dollars, putting it beyond all but the wealthiest buyers. Even apartments in the few residential buildings command premium prices, often matching or exceeding those in Rehavia or the German Colony.

But these transactions are rare. The market is characterized more by its absence than its activity. Properties change hands infrequently, institutional control remains stable, and the neighborhood’s character as a preserve of embassies and government offices continues decade after decade.

The architecture itself tells multiple stories simultaneously. There are buildings that have been beautifully maintained, their stone cleaned and repaired, their gardens professionally landscaped, their interiors updated with climate control and modern systems while preserving historic details. The French Consulate, for instance, maintains its property impeccably, and various government institutions keep their buildings in excellent condition, seeing them as representing Israeli prestige and permanence.

But there are also buildings showing signs of neglect or inappropriate use. Some have been altered in ways that compromise their architectural integrity, with additions or modifications that clash with original design. Some sit partly empty, maintained minimally, their potential unrealized. Some gardens have been paved over for parking, ornate gates removed for security reasons, original features lost to changing needs and priorities.

The streets of Old Katamon are quiet and often empty in ways that would be impossible in a truly residential neighborhood. You can walk for blocks and encounter almost no one, seeing only the occasional security guard outside an embassy or institutional building, a gardener maintaining grounds, someone entering or leaving an office. The contrast with the life and activity of residential neighborhoods is striking. This isn’t urban vitality. This is institutional order, secure and controlled but also somewhat sterile.

There are almost no commercial establishments in Old Katamon proper. No cafés where residents gather, no grocery stores serving daily needs, no schools filled with children, no synagogues or churches creating community, no parks where families play. The institutional character precludes normal neighborhood life. For daily needs, the handful of residents must travel to adjacent neighborhoods, to main Katamon or the German Colony or Talpiot, to find shops and services.

This absence of community infrastructure means there’s no real social scene in Old Katamon as a neighborhood. The few residents don’t constitute a community in any meaningful sense. They’re individuals or families living in proximity but without the shared institutions and interactions that create neighborhood identity. Diplomats socialize within diplomatic circles, wealthy private residents within their own networks, and the various populations sharing the geography rarely intersect.

Education is not a factor in Old Katamon because there are essentially no families with children living there as a residential community. The few children who do live in the neighborhood attend schools elsewhere, their educational choices shaped by family background and preferences rather than neighborhood infrastructure.

Religious life is similarly absent. There are no synagogues in Old Katamon serving a residential community because there’s no substantial residential community to serve. Religious residents attend synagogues in adjacent neighborhoods. The historic churches that served the Palestinian Christian population before nineteen forty-eight are gone or repurposed, the congregations that filled them scattered to refugee camps and distant countries.

Transportation through Old Katamon is straightforward, with buses running on main roads that border or traverse the area, but there’s little need for robust public transportation serving a residential population that barely exists. Those who work in the various institutions generally arrive by car, parking in the ample spaces that institutional properties provide. The quiet streets see little traffic, making Old Katamon easy to navigate but also contributing to the empty atmosphere.

The question of what Old Katamon represents is complex and contested. For Israelis and supporters of Israel, the neighborhood demonstrates Israeli control and permanence in united Jerusalem. The presence of government institutions and foreign embassies in these beautiful historic buildings normalizes Israeli sovereignty, making it visible and institutional. The fact that the French government and other countries maintain consulates here, regardless of their official positions on Jerusalem’s status, creates a kind of practical acceptance of Israeli control.

But for Palestinians and critics of Israel, Old Katamon represents ongoing injustice and dispossession. The families who built these magnificent homes, whose names are sometimes still visible on buildings, are mostly refugees or their descendants, barred from returning to properties they legally owned. The Israeli use of these homes, particularly for government purposes, is seen as adding insult to injury, not just occupying stolen property but using it to administer the occupation. The beautiful gardens and well-maintained buildings stand as evidence of what was lost, Palestinian culture and achievement literally built in stone but controlled by others.

The international status of Jerusalem complicates this further. Many countries don’t recognize Israeli sovereignty over any part of Jerusalem, viewing it as territory whose final status must be determined through negotiations. The presence of consulates in Old Katamon creates diplomatic ambiguities and careful language about location and jurisdiction. The institutions that occupy these buildings often navigate complex political realities, present in Jerusalem but officially not endorsing any particular claim to sovereignty.

Walking through Old Katamon, you feel this layered complexity in almost physical form. The beauty of the architecture is undeniable, these are magnificent buildings that represent significant artistic and cultural achievement. But the absence of the people who created that beauty, the emptiness of streets that should be filled with life, creates a melancholy atmosphere. It’s like walking through a museum of displacement, where every building tells a story of interrupted lives and contested claims.

You notice details that speak to the original inhabitants: a family name in Arabic carved above a doorway, now housing an Israeli ministry. A decorative tile pattern clearly Palestinian in origin, now part of a building serving the Israeli government. A garden with plantings that reflect Palestinian agricultural and horticultural traditions, now maintained by Israeli gardeners who may not even know the history. These details survive as ghostly presences, evidence of what was but no longer is.

The neighborhood also reflects the different approaches Israel has taken to abandoned Arab property over the decades. Unlike areas that were completely redeveloped with new construction erasing all traces of what preceded it, Old Katamon preserves the physical structures while transforming their use and ownership. This preservation is partly practical, the buildings were too grand and well-built to demolish, and partly strategic, demonstrating Israeli appreciation for architectural heritage while asserting Israeli control over that heritage.

The silence of Old Katamon is perhaps its most striking feature. In a city as intense and contested as Jerusalem, where most neighborhoods pulse with life and activity, religious fervor or commercial energy, family life or cultural vitality, Old Katamon stands apart in its quiet. The silence isn’t peaceful exactly. It feels more like absence, like something missing, like a neighborhood waiting for a future that never arrives or mourning a past that can never return.

On Shabbat, this silence intensifies. With the institutional offices closed and already minimal residential population even quieter, Old Katamon becomes almost ghostly. You can walk for long periods seeing virtually no one, hearing only birds and wind in the trees, your footsteps echoing on empty sidewalks. It’s beautiful in a way, the golden stone and mature gardens and elegant architecture creating scenes of remarkable beauty. But it’s also unsettling, this beautiful emptiness, this preservation without animation.

The future of Old Katamon is uncertain and bound up with larger questions about Jerusalem’s status and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In any final status agreement that involves division of Jerusalem, Old Katamon’s fate would be on the table. The properties were originally Arab-owned, making them potentially subject to claims and negotiations. But decades of Israeli institutional presence create facts on the ground that complicate any simple reversion to previous ownership.

For now, Old Katamon continues as it has for decades: a preserve of institutions and embassies, beautifully maintained buildings serving official purposes, quiet streets with little residential life, a neighborhood that’s more symbol than community. It represents Israeli sovereignty to those who accept that framework, ongoing dispossession to those who reject it, and complicated ambiguity to those navigating the diplomatic complexities.

For the rare visitor or the few residents, Old Katamon offers a unique Jerusalem experience. The beauty is genuine, some of the finest domestic architecture in the city exists here, and the quiet can be a relief from Jerusalem’s intensity. The location is excellent, close to the city center and adjacent to vibrant neighborhoods while maintaining its own separate character. The prestige is real, this is objectively one of Jerusalem’s most exclusive addresses.

But there’s also an emptiness that no amount of architectural beauty can fill. Old Katamon lacks the essential element that makes neighborhoods live and thrive: people building ordinary lives, raising children and creating memories, forming communities and traditions, inhabiting space not just officially but intimately and personally. The institutions that occupy these buildings use them but don’t love them, maintain them but don’t make them home, preserve them but can’t restore what’s been lost.

Old Katamon stands as perhaps the most physically beautiful and emotionally complicated neighborhood in Jerusalem, a place where every stone tells contested stories, where magnificence and melancholy coexist, where the past is preserved but transformed beyond recognition, where absence is as present as presence. It’s a neighborhood that works as a diplomatic district and institutional preserve but fails as a community, that succeeds at demonstrating control but cannot escape the ghosts of displacement, that offers physical beauty while embodying historical tragedy.

To walk through Old Katamon is to confront directly the costs and complexities of the conflict that defines this region, to see in architectural form the human consequences of war and displacement, to experience beauty shadowed by loss. It’s a neighborhood that asks difficult questions about justice and history, ownership and belonging, preservation and transformation. And it offers no easy answers, standing instead as evidence that in Jerusalem, perhaps more than anywhere else on earth, the past is never truly past, history is never simply history, and the stones themselves bear witness to stories that remain unresolved and deeply, painfully contested.