There, where the old alleys lean on the rhythm of nostalgia in unforgettable moments, memories remain—hidden among the smoke of the taboon ovens drifting above the rooftops of ancient Salt houses, and the aroma of coffee mingling with the scent of this generous land.
Moments that take you back to the heart of Salt, to its narrow streets that preserve stories, where photographs were never just photographs but an inherited fingerprint for all of us—filling the place with warmth, longing, chatter, and tales of the good old days. Especially in Salt the sovereign, in Al-Midan Street.
That street, unlike any other, where the souls of passersby cross paths with childhood memories, held within its old stones a tiny studio called Studio Al-Ma'moun.
That place was like a hidden 'box of wonders' in the heart of Salt. Whoever entered it, never left the same.
The backwas draped in dark curtains with faded plastic flowers. In the corner stood a stuffed peacock staring sharply, as if ordering you to stand upright.
It was the early seventies, when my “first-ever picture” was taken there. My brother Akef took me, along with my sisters Ria and young Na‘meh in her embroidered little dress.
I still remember what I wore: striped shirt and pants, plastic sandals. That day, I felt as though I was dressed in Paris fashion.
The studio was strange: unusual lighting, photos hanging on the walls, the smell of dust, giant cameras, flashes like sudden lightning. And the photographer? Elegant, gentle, an artist unlike any other.
He asked us to pose in certain ways, saying: “This way the picture comes out better.” He told me specifically to place my finger on my cheek—an odd gesture, finger raised at an angle, palm tilted, as though I were doing something important… maybe advertising detergent!
Years later, I posted that photo. Comments poured in: — “Radiant!” — “Handsome and classy!” — “You look amazing, mashallah.” — “You look just like singer Mohamed Fouad, especially with that finger pose.” My brother Adel wrote warmly: “A natural-born player since then!”
My friend Abdelkarim added a comment I’ll never forget: “Listen, I swear you’re the spitting image of Mohamed Fouad in that pose… shining since your youth!” Hani confirmed, and soon I began to believe it.
I even imagined myself on stage, spotlights shining, singing “Bawadda‘ak.” But honestly, I was afraid to act it out—my voice would never save me!
In the early eighties came the second unforgettable photo, in my teenage years. I went with my friend Mohammad Al-Hashem to Amman to watch an Amitabh Bachchan film.
Afterwards we strolled downtown until we reached the Roman Amphitheater. There stood a peculiar street photographer beside a large wooden board painted with a cowboy riding a jungle lion. The cowboy’s face was cut out so that whoever stood behind could his own.
A quick snapshot cost half a dinar. I was thrilled then, though today I’d feel only embarrassment. Honestly—pay me fifty dinars now and I’d never repeat that photo!
Back then, photos weren’t taken casually. Each one was an official event.
Some posed with a pistol, a shotgun, a tape recorder, or even a cigarette. Others held a rose like they were off to a date. Some grew their hair long, wore big sunglasses indoors, or even shook their own hands in the photo as if saying farewell to life.
The peak of “style” was to look like you’d had natural Photoshop—slicked hair with olive oil, a few strands left loose, smiling as though bargaining with life.
Every photo, no matter how simple, carried within it the details that made the moment eternal.
And today, as I look again at that old picture—too shy to ever repost it—I remember everything: childhood, fear of the peacock, the photographer’s directions, the plastic sandals, and that mysterious smile whose secret I still don’t know.
But one thing I’m sure of: the very first photo was never just a photo. It was a moment of wonder, an innocent snapshot, and a birth certificate for our old memory.
By Atef Abuhajar
There, where the old alleys lean on the rhythm of nostalgia in unforgettable moments, memories remain—hidden among the smoke of the taboon ovens drifting above the rooftops of ancient Salt houses, and the aroma of coffee mingling with the scent of this generous land.
Moments that take you back to the heart of Salt, to its narrow streets that preserve stories, where photographs were never just photographs but an inherited fingerprint for all of us—filling the place with warmth, longing, chatter, and tales of the good old days. Especially in Salt the sovereign, in Al-Midan Street.
That street, unlike any other, where the souls of passersby cross paths with childhood memories, held within its old stones a tiny studio called Studio Al-Ma'moun.
That place was like a hidden 'box of wonders' in the heart of Salt. Whoever entered it, never left the same.
The backwas draped in dark curtains with faded plastic flowers. In the corner stood a stuffed peacock staring sharply, as if ordering you to stand upright.
It was the early seventies, when my “first-ever picture” was taken there. My brother Akef took me, along with my sisters Ria and young Na‘meh in her embroidered little dress.
I still remember what I wore: striped shirt and pants, plastic sandals. That day, I felt as though I was dressed in Paris fashion.
The studio was strange: unusual lighting, photos hanging on the walls, the smell of dust, giant cameras, flashes like sudden lightning. And the photographer? Elegant, gentle, an artist unlike any other.
He asked us to pose in certain ways, saying: “This way the picture comes out better.” He told me specifically to place my finger on my cheek—an odd gesture, finger raised at an angle, palm tilted, as though I were doing something important… maybe advertising detergent!
Years later, I posted that photo. Comments poured in: — “Radiant!” — “Handsome and classy!” — “You look amazing, mashallah.” — “You look just like singer Mohamed Fouad, especially with that finger pose.” My brother Adel wrote warmly: “A natural-born player since then!”
My friend Abdelkarim added a comment I’ll never forget: “Listen, I swear you’re the spitting image of Mohamed Fouad in that pose… shining since your youth!” Hani confirmed, and soon I began to believe it.
I even imagined myself on stage, spotlights shining, singing “Bawadda‘ak.” But honestly, I was afraid to act it out—my voice would never save me!
In the early eighties came the second unforgettable photo, in my teenage years. I went with my friend Mohammad Al-Hashem to Amman to watch an Amitabh Bachchan film.
Afterwards we strolled downtown until we reached the Roman Amphitheater. There stood a peculiar street photographer beside a large wooden board painted with a cowboy riding a jungle lion. The cowboy’s face was cut out so that whoever stood behind could his own.
A quick snapshot cost half a dinar. I was thrilled then, though today I’d feel only embarrassment. Honestly—pay me fifty dinars now and I’d never repeat that photo!
Back then, photos weren’t taken casually. Each one was an official event.
Some posed with a pistol, a shotgun, a tape recorder, or even a cigarette. Others held a rose like they were off to a date. Some grew their hair long, wore big sunglasses indoors, or even shook their own hands in the photo as if saying farewell to life.
The peak of “style” was to look like you’d had natural Photoshop—slicked hair with olive oil, a few strands left loose, smiling as though bargaining with life.
Every photo, no matter how simple, carried within it the details that made the moment eternal.
And today, as I look again at that old picture—too shy to ever repost it—I remember everything: childhood, fear of the peacock, the photographer’s directions, the plastic sandals, and that mysterious smile whose secret I still don’t know.
But one thing I’m sure of: the very first photo was never just a photo. It was a moment of wonder, an innocent snapshot, and a birth certificate for our old memory.
By Atef Abuhajar
There, where the old alleys lean on the rhythm of nostalgia in unforgettable moments, memories remain—hidden among the smoke of the taboon ovens drifting above the rooftops of ancient Salt houses, and the aroma of coffee mingling with the scent of this generous land.
Moments that take you back to the heart of Salt, to its narrow streets that preserve stories, where photographs were never just photographs but an inherited fingerprint for all of us—filling the place with warmth, longing, chatter, and tales of the good old days. Especially in Salt the sovereign, in Al-Midan Street.
That street, unlike any other, where the souls of passersby cross paths with childhood memories, held within its old stones a tiny studio called Studio Al-Ma'moun.
That place was like a hidden 'box of wonders' in the heart of Salt. Whoever entered it, never left the same.
The backwas draped in dark curtains with faded plastic flowers. In the corner stood a stuffed peacock staring sharply, as if ordering you to stand upright.
It was the early seventies, when my “first-ever picture” was taken there. My brother Akef took me, along with my sisters Ria and young Na‘meh in her embroidered little dress.
I still remember what I wore: striped shirt and pants, plastic sandals. That day, I felt as though I was dressed in Paris fashion.
The studio was strange: unusual lighting, photos hanging on the walls, the smell of dust, giant cameras, flashes like sudden lightning. And the photographer? Elegant, gentle, an artist unlike any other.
He asked us to pose in certain ways, saying: “This way the picture comes out better.” He told me specifically to place my finger on my cheek—an odd gesture, finger raised at an angle, palm tilted, as though I were doing something important… maybe advertising detergent!
Years later, I posted that photo. Comments poured in: — “Radiant!” — “Handsome and classy!” — “You look amazing, mashallah.” — “You look just like singer Mohamed Fouad, especially with that finger pose.” My brother Adel wrote warmly: “A natural-born player since then!”
My friend Abdelkarim added a comment I’ll never forget: “Listen, I swear you’re the spitting image of Mohamed Fouad in that pose… shining since your youth!” Hani confirmed, and soon I began to believe it.
I even imagined myself on stage, spotlights shining, singing “Bawadda‘ak.” But honestly, I was afraid to act it out—my voice would never save me!
In the early eighties came the second unforgettable photo, in my teenage years. I went with my friend Mohammad Al-Hashem to Amman to watch an Amitabh Bachchan film.
Afterwards we strolled downtown until we reached the Roman Amphitheater. There stood a peculiar street photographer beside a large wooden board painted with a cowboy riding a jungle lion. The cowboy’s face was cut out so that whoever stood behind could his own.
A quick snapshot cost half a dinar. I was thrilled then, though today I’d feel only embarrassment. Honestly—pay me fifty dinars now and I’d never repeat that photo!
Back then, photos weren’t taken casually. Each one was an official event.
Some posed with a pistol, a shotgun, a tape recorder, or even a cigarette. Others held a rose like they were off to a date. Some grew their hair long, wore big sunglasses indoors, or even shook their own hands in the photo as if saying farewell to life.
The peak of “style” was to look like you’d had natural Photoshop—slicked hair with olive oil, a few strands left loose, smiling as though bargaining with life.
Every photo, no matter how simple, carried within it the details that made the moment eternal.
And today, as I look again at that old picture—too shy to ever repost it—I remember everything: childhood, fear of the peacock, the photographer’s directions, the plastic sandals, and that mysterious smile whose secret I still don’t know.
But one thing I’m sure of: the very first photo was never just a photo. It was a moment of wonder, an innocent snapshot, and a birth certificate for our old memory.
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Pictures of the Past
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