Equally, his wife Jamila had to fulfil her share of social duties as a minister’s wife. She began to make social calls on Baghdad’s elite, during which she was often accompanied by her daughter Shamsa and by Bibi. More important than these visits were the weekly female get-togethers called qabuls that she hosted in the men’s dawakhana on the first floor. Qabuls were the customary practice in all elegant households, and now that Abdul Hussein was in government it was appropriate that his wife should hold them in their new home.
The Deer Palace qabuls took place on Wednesday afternoons in the long and narrow upstairs room, which was covered with the Persian carpets Abdul Hussein had inherited from his father, Ali. Along the walls were sofas and chairs upholstered in floral Genoese velvet of red, white and green, on which the ladies could sit comfortably. Hexagonal coffee tables were interspersed across the room, their marble tops in frames of coloured glass that sparkled with the reflections of the large chandeliers overhead.
Freed from the despotic influence of her mother-in-law and her husband’s sisters, Jamila dressed up for the qabuls in rich silks and a typical Baghdadi headdress, wearing her hair in two braids which hung down over her shoulders. The area above her forehead was covered by an usbah, a band underneath a boyana, another piece of cloth that covered her crown. Unlike Rumia, Jamila was not strictly devout, and didn’t cover her hair completely as pious women did; Bibi wondered if this was because she had grown up in Baghdad rather than in conservative Kazimiya.
Dressed in her finery, Jamila always welcomed her guests dutifully and with good humour. The ladies would come into the room and greet those already seated with elaborate hand salutations before sitting down themselves. Bibi always delighted in company, and was especially animated on these occasions. The conversation ranged from the latest British contraption to appear on the market, to the scandals of Baghdad’s musical divas, to the tragic death of someone or other.
Abdul Hussein’s servant Habib Chaigahwa, who got his name from his job of serving chai (tea) and gahwa (coffee), would be on hand to serve the ladies. Habib Chaigahwa prided himself on his new concoction of chocolat chaud, which he served in winter in dainty green porcelain cups with gold rims. In the summer, when the qabul began a few hours later, he created frozen sherbet with orange-blossom water made from the flowering trees in the orchard, which was drunk at speed by the heat-exhausted women.
Abdul Hussein’s two grown-up sons, Hadi and Abdul Rasul, flourished in the new country. Whenever he saw them set off early in the morning on horseback – one to college and the other to the new lands he was cultivating – Abdul Hussein felt deep gratitude for his good fortune in having such fine boys.
King Faisal’s reign marked a vibrant new era in Iraq’s development, despite the political challenges with which he struggled as he tried to balance Iraq’s interests with the continued British presence. The country’s independence could now be glimpsed on the horizon, albeit at some years’ distance. Building activity continued to flourish, the market buzzed with new products and the port at Basra was full of agricultural produce ready to be shipped out to the world.
Hadi was, as ever, full of enthusiasm for new projects, and the times were particularly receptive to his kind of energy. In addition to improving the management of his family’s lands and organizing the sale of their produce, he took advantage of a new law that awarded notables and tribal sheikhs the right to acquire empty miri, state-owned land, with a view to cultivating it for a period of time before ultimately being granted the right to own it. Besides the advantages of being his father’s son and having the resources of his family’s lands to draw upon, Hadi had accumulated some money from a small business venture when, a few years earlier, he had organized caravans of mules and donkeys to transport goods back and forth from Iran.
The new legislation was the perfect formula for Hadi, who managed to acquire many large plots of land. His hard work and good luck enabled him to cultivate fertile lands near Baghdad, in Diala province and near Kut, where the laws of the desert persisted. Many of the tribes in Diala lived off raiding travelling caravans or cultivated land. Water was a much coveted commodity in these regions, and whenever a well was dug, or an irrigation canal set up, raiding Bedouins would soon move in to take control of it.
On many occasions Hadi was involved in these incidents, and as a result he always carried a rifle with him. He would set out before dawn on horseback with his weapon on his back and his money tucked inside his vest to pay the farmers, accompanied by Ni’mati and a few other armed men, and ride for several hours into the desert. The roads were unsafe, and many robberies took place along them. As they approached his lands, such as the large plot he rented in Jurf al-Sakhir near Musayib, the men would invariably hear the firing of rifles in the distance, an attempt by the Bedouins to intimidate them. Hadi would respond by shooting back.
Sometimes bullets flew close to Hadi and his party, occasionally grazing someone’s cheek or ear. Sometimes the horses took fright and unseated their riders. The important thing was to establish their presence in the land, and this Hadi succeeded in doing. He was popular with the farmers, and particularly with the tribal chief of the Jurf al-Sakhir region, who was grateful for his help in combating the marauding tribes.
Often Hadi and his party returned home late at night, muddied and bloody from a close scrape with the Bedouins. Bibi would look at him in horror, and chastise him for risking his life. She made a scene every time he set out, convinced that he would be killed.
Hadi showed an uncanny ability for managing his new properties, organizing people and production in an efficient manner that soon attracted notice at the royal court. Advised by his contacts in the Baghdad markets, he was always interested in the new types of agricultural machinery that were becoming available. He was among the first to invest in water pumps for irrigation, which proved far more efficient than any prior method. These new products made their way to Baghdad via local agents who represented the foreign companies that imported them from Europe – and from Britain in particular.
The same old trading system continued as before, albeit upgraded to more modern methods, with money lenders replaced by banks issuing letters of credit. Like any other market, that in Baghdad functioned on a basis of supply and demand. And where Hadi perceived a demand, he was willing to help create the supply.
Whereas Hadi devoted himself wholeheartedly to commerce, his younger brother Abdul Rasul was of a different temperament entirely. He had already broken with the family mould by leaving the kutab, the basic classes taught by a sheikh in one of the shrine’s alcoves in Kazimiya, to attend one of the modern government schools. First he went to the primary Amiriye, then the secondary Mulukiye schools in Baghdad. He was now in the process of completing his final year at the former Ottoman Rashidiye Law School, which had been established some years earlier in order to train local bureaucrats. He was one of the few Shi’a students there.
Abdul Rasul distinguished himself amongst the family and his father’s dawakhana regulars by taking part in political discussions, in which he argued persuasively and knowledgeably. He always wanted more for the country, and was often frustrated by the pace of change.
He observed a daily ritual of reading all the available newspapers, including the English-language Baghdad Times. Sitting on the terrace at the back of the house after college, he would lose himself in the press despite the background noise from the younger children and the chatter of the women. Whenever she passed through the terrace, Bibi would always interrupt him to get the latest news.
One day he came home enthusiastically with a new publication, Layla, the first women’s cultural weekly to be published in Iraq. It included poems, literary essays and articles on science and child-rearing. He found his mother sitting on the terrace, and started reading the opening page to her. Jamila stopped him for a second while her granddaughter Thamina clambered up onto her lap. Irritated, Abdul Rasul glared at them both. ‘Honestly,’ he declared, ‘if the pr
ogress of women were left in the hands of the ladies in this house, nothing would be achieved in a hundred years!’
Jamila chuckled softly: ‘But, my dear, you’ve hardly chosen the right candidate in me for this mighty task. What do you expect me to do?’
One afternoon Rustum Haidar, King Faisal’s Chief of Staff, dropped in at the Deer Palace for an informal visit. He was a close friend of Abdul Hussein’s, yet whenever they talked their conversation inevitably steered towards politics. On this occasion Haidar told his friend that the King was under extreme pressure owing to the complicated Kurdish situation, as the Turks and the British fought over who was to control oil-rich Mosul province. He confided to Abdul Hussein that relations with the British were tense, and he feared they might even attempt to remove Faisal, as the French had done in Syria five years earlier.
Their conversation was interrupted when Abdul Rasul entered and greeted Haidar, whom he held in high esteem. The talk quickly moved on to the subject of Lebanon, Haidar’s homeland. Abdul Rasul asked him a few questions about the renowned American University of Beirut, which had been founded by Protestant missionaries in the mid-nineteenth century and which was regarded as the elite educational establishment in the region. He also wanted to know, more pressingly, about Haidar’s own university education in Europe.
Watching Abdul Rasul carefully, Abdul Hussein noted his son’s unusual line of enquiry, and heard the underlying tension in his voice. He understood that this was his oblique way of communicating his desire to travel to him. When Haidar left, Abdul Hussein asked Abdul Rasul to take a walk with him around the rose garden by the river.
Stooping to inhale the scent of a deep red rose, Abdul Hussein glanced up at his son and asked, ‘So tell me, what do you intend to do now that your college course is ending?’ Before Abdul Rasul had a chance to reply, he continued, ‘Would you like to go abroad, maybe travel around a bit?’
A studio print of Abdul Rasul in his scholar’s gown.
Abdul Rasul grinned with relief. He had already discussed his desire to go abroad with Hadi, who had encouraged him, but he had been worried about broaching the subject with his father, unsure of how Abdul Hussein would react.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I have to confess that I have thought about it. I think we’ll only ever get to lead this country if we have some understanding of what lies beyond its borders.’ He didn’t need to explain that in using the word ‘we’ he didn’t mean himself or his immediate family, but their community and countrymen.
Within months of receiving his father’s blessing, Abdul Rasul had left home to study at the American University in Beirut. Shortly afterwards he learned that he had been accepted by Downing College, Cambridge to read Economics, and in 1925 he was among the first Iraqi nationals to attend the British university. Abdul Hussein felt that, in going to Cambridge, Abdul Rasul had vindicated his own efforts in the face of his opponent Husri’s unyielding animosity.
At the Deer Palace, Bibi was preoccupied with her expanding family. She had given birth to her second daughter, Raifa, in late 1924, and hoped to have yet more children. She also watched with satisfaction as Hadi made a name for himself in public life and began to show others the full extent of his entrepreneurial flair. She exercised her own talents by busying herself with the qabuls and other functions she attended both at the Deer Palace and elsewhere. Her maternal duties never restricted her from pursuing her other interests, as she was fortunate to live in a house with many servants.
In 1925 a sandstorm hit Baghdad. One of the effects of such storms is that sand grains seep through people’s hair, nostrils and clothes, causing chaos, as had happened on the night before Baghdad fell to the British in March 1917. On this occasion, Bibi’s three-year-old son Hassan appeared to have got some grains in his left eye, and developed a mild infection.
A doctor was promptly summoned to treat him. Misdiagnosing the little boy, he gave him the wrong treatment, which damaged the eye. Too young to understand what was happening to him, Hassan exacerbated the problem by rubbing at it. Another doctor examined him, and gave him a different prescription. Yet as the weeks went by, his eye still would not open, although the initial infection had disappeared. A third doctor was called, who found that Hassan had completely lost the sight of his left eye. Bibi was guilt-stricken, despite all the words of comfort her mother offered her; Rumia insisted that she should be grateful that Hassan still had another eye to see with. Hadi was equally pained by his son’s suffering, although he tried to remain optimistic.
A few months later, Hassan was playing with his five-year-old uncle Saleh and his little sister in the back garden when he suddenly started to shriek with pain. He fell to the ground and covered his right eye with his hands. Ni’mati rushed over to him, but couldn’t touch him, so violently was he shaking and kicking his legs. Bibi summoned the doctor, who confirmed what everyone had been dreading: Hassan had been bitten by an ukhut sand fly in his right eye. In most cases the sand fly bites people on the face or the limbs, leaving an ugly scar or ‘Baghdad boil’ which some think of as almost an authenticating mark of having lived in Iraq. Until a vaccination was discovered in the fifties, almost everyone in Iraq had one somewhere on his or her body. For Hassan, the sand fly cost him his remaining good eye, and he lost his sight forever.
It was heartbreaking for the family to watch as Hassan struggled to cope with the darkness that suddenly surrounded him. Hadi and Bibi felt powerless as their little boy attempted to connect once more with the spaces and faces that had once been familiar to him. Hadi had always been proud of his ability to resolve problems swiftly, but he was helpless in the face of Hassan’s plight. There was nothing he could do to make his son see again. He could only ensure that Hassan was cared for; and to provide him with all that he required physically.
Bibi reacted to her son’s tragedy with far less stoicism, taking it very personally. She wept every day for weeks, prayed to God for help, and continued to nurse the hope that one day he would be cured. Finally, she withdrew into herself for months, unable to sleep properly or to nurse her infant daughter Raifa.
Watching Hassan slowly feel his way along the walls of the house or up the railings on the stairs, Bibi couldn’t shake off her despair. She was far too overcome by Hassan’s handicap to notice the determination with which he fought to be like everyone else, as he tried to keep up with his siblings and Ni’mati’s growing brood. She became terrified of glimpsing her reflection in his hollow eyes, their once-glittering blue now muted as though a fog had settled over them. Hassan’s blindness taunted her: it was a betrayal to her because he was a part of her. She had failed him, and the shame embittered her.
It was fortunate that Bibi was not alone, as the rest of the household quickly adapted to Hassan’s predicament. However, she wished that Saeeda was with her to help her cope. Although very supportive of Bibi, Saeeda had always been prone to angry outbursts of her own – indeed, she had come to Rumia’s household after a falling-out with her previous mistress – and a couple of years earlier she had left the Deer Palace in one of her fits of rage, returning to the household of Bibi’s old friend Bibi Istrabadi in Kazimiya. Bibi suspected that the real reason for Saeeda’s departure was that she wanted to get married, and believed that being in Kazimiya rather than stuck out at the Deer Palace would increase her chances of finding a husband.
In spite of Bibi’s troubled attitude to his difficulties, Hassan’s childhood was happy and warm, as he lost himself in the crowd of children in the household, who took his affliction in their stride so unquestioningly and lovingly that he almost forgot he was in any way different to them. Moreover, Bibi insisted that no one ever mention his blindness to him, with the result that it was never acknowledged verbally by anyone in the house.
12
In Between
A Home Between Two Cities
(1926–1929)
ONE DAY, SEVERAL months after Hassan became blind, Zahra al-Duwayh arrived at the Deer Palace, holding a sm
all boy by the hand. Bibi received her and invited her to sit down.
Zahra declined Bibi’s offer and remained standing, still holding on to the boy’s hand. ‘I’ve come to your house to find work, Khanum. People have told me what kind people live here, and I very much hope that you and your family can find it in your hearts to be kind to me too.’ Bibi noted her soft accent, which was from the south of Iraq. With tears welling up in her eyes, Zahra explained that she was on her own with her little boy, Rahim. Her husband had taken a second wife and had begun to beat her. Not knowing what else to do to protect herself and her child, she had run away.
Bibi’s heart went out to her; she liked her sweet face and her gentle demeanour. She made up her mind there and then: ‘Yes, I’m sure we can find work for you here. There’s plenty of space for you both,’ she assured her, and immediately made arrangements for Zahra and Rahim to be housed in one of the staff cottages on the estate.
When Zahra had settled in, Bibi told her about Hassan’s plight and the need to give him special attention. Zahra assured her that she would put him in her eyes – akhali bi ’yuni, as the saying went.
Zahra and her son would stay at the Deer Palace for many years, becoming an integral part of the household. Rahim played with the other children and went to school; he eventually became an army officer after Hadi sent him to military college. Zahra proved true to her word, as she cared deeply for Hassan and also for the girls, all of whom became extremely attached to her.
Abdul Rasul had been at Cambridge University for a year, and was greatly missed by his family. His father loved sharing news of him with his friends, especially with Miss Bell, who always asked after Abdul Rasul whenever she visited the Deer Palace.
Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family Page 15
