Miss Bell had opened the new Iraqi Museum earlier in the summer of 1926. The museum was a largely British enterprise, but Abdul Hussein had been proud take part in the opening ceremony, welcoming King Faisal to the premises. In principle, the new museum and Directorate of Antiquities fell under the auspices of the Ministry of Education, so Abdul Hussein was theoretically in charge of Miss Bell’s domain, although he knew better than to try overtly to control her.
Through their relaxed conversations as they sat in his gardens, Abdul Hussein was better able to imagine his son’s alien surroundings. Miss Bell described her homeland in detail, and he used her descriptions to flesh out the university customs and magnificent buildings his son described in his letters.
Overwhelmed at first by the beauty of the colleges and the weight of history, Abdul Rasul had nonetheless applied himself to his studies to the best of his abilities. He thought it particularly auspicious that Downing College’s motto was Quaerere Verum – ‘Seek the Truth’.
The British climate, food, people and aesthetics could not have been more of a contrast to his world in Iraq. The few other foreign students who attended the university were mostly from India, so Abdul Rasul had to carve his own way socially. He enthusiastically adopted plus-fours and tweed jackets – much to his mother Jamila’s concern when she received a photo of him posing in this strange new costume – and although he didn’t really take to cricket, tennis became a passion for him.
Immersing himself in the cultural as well as academic opportunities, he enjoyed going to the Festival Theatre in town, where he saw Aeschylus’ Oresteia performed by actors in masks. His delight in being at Cambridge was stronger than any loneliness or difficulty he faced. His letters home were always cheerful, asking for everyone’s news, although of course he omitted to recount in them the stories of his meeting young ladies and the drunken evenings that often followed formal college dinners. Yet Iraq was never far from his mind, and in his letters he always included ideas that he wished to be adopted in his home country.
Abdul Rasul and friends in Cambridge, circa 1927.
Bibi particularly missed his daily newspaper ritual on the terrace, when he would often read out loud to her. She tried to keep up with the news herself, but much preferred listening to Abdul Rasul, who injected life into the driest of reports.
On 14 July 1926 she was leafing through the paper to see what had been written about Gertrude Bell, whose fifty-eighth birthday it would have been had she not died two days earlier. Talking to the ladies in the qabul, Bibi heard there was even talk of suicide – that Miss Bell had taken an overdose of barbiturates – but this rumour was quickly quashed by the authorities, and Miss Bell was to be given a respectable burial in the Protestant Cemetery in Baghdad. Nevertheless, Bibi believed the rumour. Projecting her own world view onto Miss Bell, she was convinced that she simply couldn’t bear to live alone, single and childless, any longer.
Miss Bell’s funeral was a small, private affair. King Faisal could not come, having left a few days earlier for his summer holidays in Europe. Unlike General Maude, who had died of cholera the same year his troops had captured Baghdad, Miss Bell was not given an elaborate monument to mark her grave, despite her crucial role in shaping Iraq. Hers was a simple, discreet tomb.
Abdul Hussein came home from the funeral service feeling pensive and quiet. It was the first Western service he had attended, and he had been impressed by the order and dignity of the ceremony. The restraint of Miss Bell’s colleagues was in marked contrast to the hysterical funerals he was used to.
The details of her life were entirely alien to him, yet her devotion to her work and her passion for Iraq were unquestioned. She had been a controversial figure; even when she had redirected her attention from Iraq’s political future to its archaeology she had ruffled many feathers by granting permission to teams of European and American archaeologists to excavate Iraqi ruins. These foreign missions were allowed to retain half of what they discovered on the proviso that they gave the rest to the Iraqi Museum, the domain of Miss Bell. The policy had resulted in many important discoveries, as the Iraqis themselves were not deeply concerned with their Mesopotamian past, being preoccupied with their new country’s future.
More than anything, Abdul Hussein felt sorry for Miss Bell for having died alone without her family. He wondered how her father, who he had once met briefly, would take this bad news. When he settled into a chair in the family sitting room it was a relief to find Bibi waiting for him, wanting to hear about every detail of the service. He found it endearing that she had taken such a keen interest in Miss Bell, and had been determined to be present at many of his meetings with her.
Although Abdul Hussein had been raised in a conservative town, where women had no role in public life, he was able to appreciate Bibi’s social skills and ambition. His mother, Khadja, was a strong-minded woman whose influence extended well beyond the walls of her home in Kazimiya, yet hers was a purely domestic domain. Bibi was different; she enjoyed people and the limelight, and she had an enquiring mind. Abdul Hussein was convinced that Bibi had brought good luck with her when she joined the family, in spite of the turmoil they had experienced in recent years.
It was an especially hot July, and everyone was grateful for the elaborate summer roof arrangements of the Deer Palace. The roof was in many respects just as important as the interior of the house, because it was here that the family slept under mosquito nets in the summer months, while taking their siestas in the cool of the sirdab, the basement. The roof, covered only by the sky above, reflected the family structure downstairs, with a brick wall separating Abdul Hussein’s quarters from Hadi and Bibi’s.
The creeping light of dawn would nudge each member of the household awake at different times, and one by one they would climb down the stairs to their bedrooms on the first floor, to snooze away a few more hours until the day was officially launched. Bibi’s ascent and descent to and from the roof had become a rather cumbersome business, because she had to take her jewels up with her every night at Abdul Hussein’s insistence. He suspected Ali Akbar, the generator man, of having light fingers, as Bibi had recently lost a ruby ring and a mina, a gold enamelled bracelet. Bibi was also in the early stages of pregnancy again, and she was relieved when the summer was nearly over so her ascents to the roof could be suspended till the next year. Najla, her third daughter, was born in the late spring of 1927.
Despite the summer nights on the roof and the continuous activity in the dawakhana, the true heart of the house lay in the andaroun, the private rooms where the family lived. On the ground floor, just behind the dawakhana, the andaroun rooms were situated on each side of the house in two parallel rows, leading to a large winter family sitting room, and finally to the entrance to the house’s Turkish bath, which extended into the garden. Abdul Hussein, Jamila and his younger children had separate quarters in the andaroun from Hadi’s growing family.
Abdul Hussein was much loved by his grandchildren, who saw more of him than of their father. He gave each of them a nickname that he teased them with. Rushdi and Thamina were his favourites among Bibi’s brood, although he tried to bestow his affection on all the children equally. He playfully demanded that they stand in line once a week, when he would give them each an individual share of the farm produce, which they promptly took to the kitchen. This distribution of goods was his way of making them aware of the family’s main source of income.
However, he was quite strict with them when it came to what parts of the house they were allowed to enter. One that was out of bounds was the formal dining room upstairs, which fascinated three-year-old Raifa because of the crystal candelabras she could see shimmering through the doorway. The magnificent dining table could seat twenty-four, and was used for the official receptions Abdul Hussein held for personages such as the King, the members of the Cabinet, official foreign visitors or the British High Commissioner.
In the hours before a formal event the dining room became the sole domain
of Mahin Najafi, an enterprising Iranian woman who had an atelier in town where she produced embroidered napkins and elaborate floral arrangements. She had a great sense of style and elegance, and was especially talented at arranging flowers and folding the ornate napkins, which she also did in preparation for the qabul. Soon so many parties were held at the Deer Palace that she became a fixture in the house, arranging vase after vase of flowers that she picked from the garden.
The garden and the orchard behind it were open to the children, who were free to run amok and to swim in the small pool behind the terrace, under the supervision of Ni’mati or Zahra. There was little need for them to set foot outside the Deer Palace. Besides all the visitors and workers on hand to entertain them, there were many activities on the estate that were more typical of what took place on a farm. Every morning Fatima the bread-maker came to bake the bread in the special oven by the kitchen, and a daily delivery of fresh vegetables from the family farms arrived in baskets on two donkeys led by a tall man called Ibrahim. He soon acquired the added name of Daraza – tall – given to him by the Persian cooks to signify his size. The donkeys also delivered two large copper containers of fresh milk from the Dutch cows Hadi had recently imported for one of his farms. Thamina and Saleh looked out for these, so that they could steal the cream on the top. They would then break into the pantry to steal bread – much to the dismay of old Dayyah Saadah, who was responsible for storing the bread, and who would shout out to Jamila, ‘Come, come, they’ve burgled your house!’
Rushdi, who was a few years older than his siblings, preferred the company of his school friends and the visitors to his grandfather’s dawakhana. As Abdul Hussein smoked his nargilleh and conversed with his guests, Rushdi sat near him, listening and observing quietly, but rarely speaking. He was a slender, delicate child and his conversations were mainly with his mother, which whom he shared his opinions on everything.
Hassan, however, enjoyed playing with his siblings, braving scrapes and bumps as he felt his way around the garden, following the sounds around him in order to determine his next movement. When Hadi bought the children bicycles, Hassan sat behind Saleh while he rode. The kitchen and its annexe, separate from the Deer Palace, formed a vibrant world for Hassan. Like a second dawakhana, the annexe received visitors from Kazimiya, such as the friends of the staff who called by. They brought the news and gossip of the town, as well as their own stories, which Hassan enjoyed hearing.
His favourite member of the kitchen staff was Hadji Hadi, the Iranian cook. As a token of his loyalty to the Shah, Hadji Hadi always wore a Cossack hat when he went out, in contrast to the faisaliya that Habib Chaigahwa wore. He bickered constantly with Ni’mati, who didn’t like the Shah, and also with Habib, whom he considered haughty.
Although he was too young to understand their debates, Hassan was struck by one particular argument between Hadji Hadi and Habib about the latest political flashpoint: military conscription in Iraq. Hadji Hadi criticized Habib for objecting to the new decree, declaring that he personally would be proud to serve the Shah if required to do so. Habib told him in no uncertain terms that he should mind his own business, and not meddle in the affairs of other people’s countries. He berated Hadji Hadi for being unsympathetic to his fellow Shi’a, whom conscription was going to affect the most, as they were the largest group in the Kazimiya community. Moreover, he couldn’t see why the Shi’a should help the government in any way, let alone by joining the military.
Habib’s voice grew louder and louder as he unconsciously mimicked some of Abdul Hussein’s constituents who came to the dawakhana to complain about this very issue – that the Shi’a were still not proportionally represented in the state. The two only stopped arguing when Zahra came looking for Hassan, and chided them for bickering like children.
Hassan only began to feel different from the other children when they started to go to school and he didn’t. Only then did he realize consciously that he was blind.
One day he was playing ball with his sisters in the garden, and threw the ball to his sister Thamina a bit too hard, hitting her in the face. She shouted at him, ‘Careful, blind eyes!’ Horrified by what she had said, she covered her mouth with her hands before running away. It was the first time Hassan was aware of anyone referring to his disability.
Around the time his siblings started school, a private tutor was hired for Hassan. In those days there were few ways for blind people to earn a living, and the only school for the blind in Baghdad was for the Jewish community. It was recommended to Hadi that Hassan be taught to memorize and recite the Quran as he himself had done as a child, so five days a week a certain Sheikh Abbas would come to the Deer Palace and recite verses which Hassan would repeat after him. They would sit together in the pantry next to the kitchen, and while Hassan had his lessons many people would come into the room, including Habib Chaigahwa, Abdul Hussein’s loud driver Karim and Ali the clerk, who smoked and drank tea whenever they could. They always talked loudly, often about the recent discovery of oil in the north and how this would flood Iraq with money. Hassan was so bored with his lessons that he started playing about with the words, swapping them around until he was reprimanded by his teacher for messing up God’s sacred verses, although his antics made the others laugh. Finally, one day the Sheikh announced to the household that Hassan had ‘completed’ the Quran. To celebrate, a dinner was held at which Hassan stood up and recited verses out loud.
Hassan was left frustrated by the experience, especially as each day he heard new stories from his young uncle, brother and sisters about their time at school. He wanted to be like everyone else, and didn’t understand why he should be stuck at home reciting the Quran. He confided in his uncle Saleh, who encouraged him to come with him to school, promising to help him and to introduce him to all the teachers. Hassan asked him many questions – about the classes, the teachers, where the pupils sat, what they did. Having considered Saleh’s replies, he concluded that he probably needed more help than Saleh alone could offer him.
One childhood friend of Hassan’s was Muhammad Ni’mati, the son of Hadi’s old companion Ni’mati. Hassan asked Muhammad whether he would help him with getting to and from school. When Muhammad agreed, Hassan announced his plan to his mother. He didn’t ask for her permission; he simply informed her that both Saleh and Muhammad Ni’mati would be helping him, and that he had it all sorted out.
Bibi didn’t oppose Hassan, as he was so determined. She wanted him to be happy, but she worried about whether he could really manage at school. Nevertheless, she took him to the shops to buy school clothes as she had done for the others. Hadi and Abdul Hussein decided not to interfere, although both of them worried about Hassan too.
The night before his first day at school, Hassan couldn’t sleep. He tried to imagine what it would be like – his teachers, the boys, his lessons, how he would find his way around the building. Filled with excitement and anticipation, he knew he couldn’t let fear get the better of him, or he would be stuck at home forever.
The school was in an area called Shosa, near Kazimiya. The morning of his first day, Zahra helped Hassan dress before he went downstairs to brush his teeth and wash his face in the outside sink near the kitchen – the one sink he knew how to reach on his own. Then he joined the other children for a quick breakfast of tea with milk, freshly baked bread and cheese.
Then Muhammad Ni’mati and Hassan walked behind his siblings to the tramway stop across the road from the Deer Palace, where Muhammad flagged the tram down. Over the following days his jumping and shouting for the tram to stop became a signal for Hassan, who learned to ready himself to climb on board. The carriage was always noisy with the clacking noise of the horses’ hoofs and the wheels. The trip took half an hour, and Hassan always enjoyed it because of the variety of people on board, whose conversations he listened to intently.
At school, Hassan and Muhammad Ni’mati were placed in different sections, which meant that it was very hard for Hassan at the beginn
ing. When Saleh introduced him to his teacher on his first day, the teacher commented loudly, ‘You’re bringing me a blind boy to teach? What use do I have for him?’ Until he became familiar with the spaces and distances, Hassan sat at his desk even during breaks, listening to the other boys play outside. In the early days he could only go to the bathroom if Saleh took him.
Soon Hassan made the teacher regret his words, as he surpassed most of his classmates in his studies. He was gifted with a powerful intellect and an excellent memory. Overcoming the injustice of his handicap became the driving force of his life. He compensated for the loss of his eyesight with an insatiable curiosity and attention to detail, always asking for information, memorizing spaces by counting his footsteps and paying careful attention to any variations on the surfaces of walls in order to guide himself from room to room.
He also learned to read people well, recognizing them by their voices, which also told him about their movements. He could detect whether a person was rising from a chair or approaching him by the sound of his or her voice. Soon he would be able to tell whether someone was thin or fat, tall or short, by their voice alone.
He never referred to his blindness as such, only to ‘my difficulties’. He felt a lot of anger – or as he put it, ‘Anger was born onto me’ – but it pushed him forward, prompting him to find solutions to his problems as he navigated his way through life with courage and persistence.
13
Stolen Hopes
A Young Life Lost
(1928–1929)
BY THE TIME Abdul Rasul returned to Baghdad with an Economics degree from Cambridge, a great future was being predicted for him. Surely the old communal grievance of being Shi’a would not be relevant to him, as he was clearly as well – if not better – educated and equipped than any of his Sunni counterparts. Several luncheon parties were held to welcome him back, and many visitors came to the dawakhana at the Deer Palace to congratulate Abdul Hussein on the safe return of his son.
Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family Page 16
