Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family

by Tamara Chalabi

  As a young man, Hadi had been no less enchanted than Rushdi by the singers of his day, and as Bibi suspected, he continued on occasion to indulge his interest; but there should be a subtlety to the way these things were done. Hadi had never challenged the authority of his parents. Besides, he had come of age during the war, and had not had much time in which to enjoy himself before a strong sense of duty had taken over his life. Moreover, he had been subject to his grandmother’s marriage decree when he was the age that Rushdi was today.

  But Hadi’s frustration with his eldest son went beyond the generation gap between them. He saw in Rushdi a pampered boy with a fear of the world that lay beyond the comfort zone his mother had created for him. Hadi knew that Rushdi belonged to a different age from his own. His frustration stemmed from the powerlessness he felt when it came to teaching his son to become a man.

  In this respect, Hadi felt that he was thwarted by his own father, Abdul Hussein, whose authority reigned supreme in the household, and also by his wife. Bibi had always ensured that Rushdi remained protected from the harsher realities of life. Rushdi’s ‘specialness’ was marked in everything: he had his own room, he ate his own food and received extra care from the staff. His siblings all accepted without question that he was special, and behaved accordingly.

  Some months later, Rushdi started to campaign to be sent to England for his university education. Naturally, Bibi gave him her full support. She was even prepared to sacrifice having him near her in order for him to fulfil his desire to study abroad.

  Hadi was against this new plan, as he believed his lazy son would not make the most of his time abroad, or actually do any studying. He had certainly not been impressed by the manner in which Rushdi had prepared for his final school exams, with the support of his mother. A man had been employed to read Rushdi’s lessons out loud while the youth lay on his day bed and languorously ate grapes from a bowl placed behind him.

  However, Hadi was unable to overcome Bibi’s determination to make sure that Rushdi got what he wanted. Overpowered by her constant nagging, he relented, and in 1937 Rushdi was equipped for his journey into British academia.

  Of course, for Rushdi England meant London – and most particularly those parts of the city where his exquisite silk ties and tailor-made suits came from.

  His trip to England was an elaborate one. First he crossed the desert from Baghdad to Damascus by a bus from the fleet of the Nairn Bus Company, founded in the early 1920s by two New Zealand brothers. He was met by family friends in Damascus, who provided a car to take him to Beirut. After several days of regal repose there, he took a first-class passage by ship to Marseilles. The journey to Paris was equally pleasant. Once there, he spent many days exploring the city, and visited the International World Fair, where Picasso’s Guernica was displayed for the first time.

  Rushdi was an eager traveller, and his curiosity about the world appeared to be a family trait, shared by his grandfather and father, as well as his mother. He was in some respects very much a product of his environment, in his obsession with appearance and hygiene, his generous hospitable streak, his political and social conservatism and family pride. But he was a great fan of all that was modern and novel, and was in awe of European – or more specifically French and British – luxuries and the fine life.

  Perhaps more than any other member of his family, Rushdi felt an acute sense of frustration over the situation of the Shi’a in Iraq, for which he partly blamed the British. He was preoccupied by the fact that the Shi’a were still second-class citizens when it came to political power, although they were the majority numerically. Equally, he resented Britain’s heavy-handed role in Iraq, especially with respect to the economy, which he considered to be abusive to Iraqis, including his father. His almost metaphysical interpretation of history never ceased to surprise others. He had a firm respect for institutions of any kind, and this extended to a long list of establishments, ranging from the National Geographic magazine to Harrods and the Stock Exchange.

  Newly arrived in London, Rushdi relied on several of his father’s friends and acquaintances to help him settle into city life. Some of these were Hadi’s business contacts, including several Iraqis, predominantly Jews, who acted as agents for London firms in their dealings with Iraq. His home became the Savoy Hotel, where he indulged his love of luxury. His aim was to attend the London School of Economics, like his uncle Muhammad Ali years earlier. However, first he had to pass the entrance exams.

  The novelty of London’s clubs and department stores soon wore thin, while the task of studying for the exams became more challenging for Rushdi with each day that passed. The British weather also took its toll on him – he hated the endless grey skies and the rain, and he began to feel bored. He found London cold and lonely, and resented the condescending attitude of the English. He was reminded of his foreignness constantly; he felt like a fish out of water, and longed for sun and warmth.

  He started lingering in his hotel suite all day, wondering how he could get out of his predicament without losing face in front of his father. He paced up and down the room, thinking through various scenarios in his head, until one evening he was sure he had found the solution. It could not have been simpler, he thought.

  The next day he had lunch as usual at his local, Simpson’s in the Strand, next to the hotel, where he tucked into roast chicken, his favourite dish. He then commissioned a photographer to take some pictures of him in his hotel room. They showed him in his usual indoors attire: silk pyjamas, stylish dressing gown and velvet slippers. He was sitting on an easy chair by the hotel window, and was clearly sobbing. Who said a picture wasn’t worth a thousand words? When the photographs had been developed he sent the most moving one to his mother, without any accompanying note.

  The effect was instantaneous. No sooner had Bibi opened the envelope than she frantically set out to save her son from his terrible plight. Hadi begrudgingly met her demands yet again, and arranged for Rushdi to return from London. Once he was home he cautiously explained that he would prefer to go to the American University in Beirut. His father agreed to let him go a few weeks later.

  In Beirut, Rushdi rented elegant rooms on campus and befriended the elite among his classmates. The city suited his tastes as it had entered a belle époque of its own, modelling itself on the French Riviera. Lebanon was a French mandate, and the cultural influences of France were evident in the lifestyle of its capital. Being a Mediterranean port, Beirut was also open to the world, to the large emigrant Lebanese communities in Egypt and beyond, as well as to the Arab elites who passed through it. It was a dynamic, religiously diverse city, although it was the Christians, with their strong identification with France, who most influenced taste and fashion.

  Lebanon was home to many schools and several universities that were more advanced than those in the rest of the region. A lot of the schools had been founded in the nineteenth century by Christian missionary groups. It was a popular destination for students, who were drawn to its pleasant climate and attractive lifestyle. There were Iranian, Iraqi, Turkish and even some European students, in addition to the Lebanese.

  The picturesque campus of the American University was situated amongst pine trees on a hill that overlooked the Mediterranean. Rushdi thrived on the variety of its students, on the abundance of good restaurants, clubs and beautiful women. But although he was very happy in his new surroundings, he was aware that the forces of Fascism were looming large on the horizon in Europe. He was not to know that the world was on the brink of war; that the fates of Palestine and the Jews would be dramatically reconfigured by events which would segregate communities that had co-existed for hundreds of years.

  18

  A New Home

  The Shadow of Death

  (1937–1939)

  MANY THINGS HAD happened during Rushdi’s absence. One of the most significant of these was a change of address for the family. A new house had been designed for them by an architect with the elaborate name of Say
yid Muhammad al-Hassani Jawa al-Tag, who had studied in Britain.

  The move was in some respects inevitable. While the gardens of the Deer Palace were large, the house was getting too small for Bibi and Hadi’s growing family. Moreover, the family’s social standing meant that they now required a larger space for the many social functions they hosted.

  The plot purchased for the new house was vast, and there were no other buildings nearby. The architect, obviously influenced by the Regency period, had created a sumptuous palace of local yellow brick, concrete and marble, surrounded by elaborate gardens, fountains and classical statues.

  The prospect of their new home excited everyone, but leaving the Deer Palace was not a simple matter, and there were some complicated logistics involved. First and foremost, the statue of the deer was moved from its rectangular pool and installed in an even more prominent position in front of the new building. It was placed on a large, circular island surrounded by a pond, around which a gravel driveway circled to the front steps of the house, which had been designed as a classical portico with arches.

  The Sif Palace, 1930s.

  The new house, nicknamed the Sif Palace, was divided into two wings: one for Hadi and his family, and the other for Abdul Hussein and his. The dawakhana featured prominently on Abdul Hussein’s side of the house, while the andaroun sprawled behind it and upstairs.

  Bibi was pleased that she didn’t have to share her space with her in-laws, while having them live next-door meant that the bulk of social traffic and domestic organization remained with them, allowing her to dip in and out as she pleased. Her lack of interest in running the house remained unchanged, and she was content to delegate most decisions to the others.

  Hitler’s rise to power in Germany had not gone unnoticed in the Chalabi household, although the family did not share some Iraqis’ enthusiasm for him. Bibi believed that they liked Hitler because he was standing up to the British. The Iraqi newspapers were full of praise for him from journalists she considered to be extreme nationalists. The changing climate in Europe worried her, and she engaged in lengthy discussions with her son Hassan and her brothers-in-law.

  The Chalabis had not long moved into their lavish new house when thoughts of Europe were pushed from their minds by sad events in their own home. Bibi’s long-suffering mother-in-law, Jamila, had suffered from diabetes for a while; her condition had led to gangrene, and she was rushed to hospital. Seeing that there was no hope, Abdul Hussein insisted she be allowed to die in her own home. She had become a living skeleton; even her teeth were a source of terror for her granddaughter Thamina, as they had become too big for her mouth.

  When Jamila died, Abdul Hussein was filled with sadness, guilt and regret. After all those years of brutish behaviour, he realized how dear she had been to him, and her death marked him deeply. He confided to Bibi, ‘She suffered terribly. She never really got over the death of Abdul Rasul; she loved that boy so much. I’m sure that’s when she first became ill.’ His voice wavered. ‘And she was such a good woman.’ For a moment Bibi thought he was going cry in front of her, but he composed himself. However, she knew that he often wept in his private quarters.

  In truth, Abdul Hussein was inconsolable. He set out on a trip to Istanbul, where he languished for several months, losing himself in the streets of the city, remembering his youth and nursing his hurt. A passionate lover of all varieties of dolma, he tried to consume his sorrows by indulging his large appetite with the sumptuous dishes of the Bosphorus.

  When he finally returned home, he quietly resumed his afternoon get-togethers at the dawakhana and listening to the radio with Hassan, comparing notes on songs and the Quran reciters. However, his overindulgence in food soon came back to haunt him.

  On 9 March 1939, Hassan awoke to piercing cries. He followed the sounds to his grandfather’s room, where he found Abdul Hussein screaming: ‘I’m burning, I’m burning – help me, I’m burning!’ The room filled with raised voices, but there was nothing anyone could do to quell the fire. Abdul Hussein’s spleen was infected, which before the days of antibiotics was lethal. His was a very painful death.

  His female relatives took turns to keep a vigil by his side, crying and reading out prayers to facilitate his transition to heaven, appealing to God in their wretchedness. Later that morning his male relatives came to collect him for his burial, after his body had been wrapped in a temporary shroud. As was the tradition, the women would not be attending the burial ceremony. With high-pitched wailing, his sisters bade him farewell, crying, ‘May God be with you, may He open the gates of heaven to you. There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His Prophet. May God have mercy on you …’ Bibi held tightly to Shamsa’s hand. There was nothing left to say.

  The men carried the body on their shoulders, and the funeral procession set off towards the Kazimiya shrine, where once Abdul Hussein had been forbidden entry. At the shrine maghsal, or special washroom for the dead, his body was washed and prayers were read over him to prepare him for burial. His body was then wrapped once more in a white cotton shroud until only his head remained exposed. Then he was taken on a last visit to the shrine, where he was carried around the tomb of the Imam as more prayers were read.

  He was to be buried in the Imam Ali Shrine in Najaf, where most Shi’a desired to be laid to rest, and his body was placed in a hearse for the long journey. The funeral party followed in their own vehicles. At Najaf they unloaded Abdul Hussein’s body and took him to visit the shrine there too, circling the silver-encrusted tomb of Imam Ali, before performing another prayer for the dead.

  After this, Abdul Hussein was taken to the family tomb inside the shrine, where he was buried next to his son and wife, to the accompaniment of prayers. He was laid to rest with a turbah, a palm-sized disk baked from the clay of Karbala where Ali’s son Hussein was slain.

  Abdul Hussein’s obituary dominated the front pages of the main newspapers, and for forty days the house was filled with mourners come to pay their respects. The popular German Ambassador to Baghdad, Herr Grobba, approached at least one Iraqi notable during the funeral proceedings in an attempt to find new supporters for the Reich.

  On 1 September 1939 Hitler invaded Poland, and Britain and France declared war on Germany.

  The Second World War contributed to the increasingly dual identity of Iraq. Independent though the country was, it was still bound by the Anglo-Iraqi Treaty that had been imposed on it by Britain in 1930, and which stated that Iraq would support Britain in the event of war. But while Iraq was officially an ally of Britain, many Iraqis felt exceedingly hostile towards it and its colonial interests. This schism divided the country.

  Hitler had already made his mark in Iraq. Radio Berlin, an Arabic-language radio station, started broadcasting to the nation from Germany in 1938 through the crisp, strong voice of its leading Iraqi anchorman, Yunis Bahri. Suitably blond and blue-eyed, Bahri was an intrepid world traveller with a penchant for the Far East. Originally from Mosul, he was already a well-established broadcaster in Baghdad when he fled the country, it was said on board a German plane that was carrying a press delegation.

  Anointed by his good friend Goebbels as a maréchal, Bahri bombarded the Iraqi airwaves daily, always with the same introduction: ‘This is Berlin. I greet the Arabs. My brothers, people of Iraq, swell out the earth.’ In his broadcasts he attacked the British and their imperialism, calling for people to rise up against them everywhere. His appeal was great, and he became a fixture in the new battle of the airwaves.

  Perhaps it was a residue of the Ottoman period, but Iraqi attitudes towards Germany were not coloured by the same hostility as those towards Britain. The Germans were not seen as imperial; they had been allies of the Sultan, and had contributed to many modernizing projects in the Empire from the late nineteenth century onwards. With nationalist sentiments running high across the region, many Arabs sought a rapprochement with Hitler, as an enemy of their enemies. Many admired his military organization, and sought to emulate it by c
reating local paramilitary groups such as the Futuwwah in Iraq. The irony was that the Arabs were low on the list of inferior races as far as the Germans were concerned, being like the Jews, of Semitic stock.

  Sati’ al-Husri, Abdul Hussein’s opponent during his time at the Ministry of Education and regarded by many as the father of Arab nationalism in Iraq, was greatly influenced by German nationalist theories. His admiration of Hitler’s Germany even influenced the Iraq museum, which was then under his direction. Disapproving of Gertrude Bell’s concentration on Iraq’s rich pre-Islamic heritage, Sati’ initiated excavations of Islamic archaeology. When discussions started about building a permanent museum to house the many artifacts that were unearthed, Sati’ sought out Walter March, one of two brothers who had built the 1936 Berlin Olympic Stadium under Goebbels. Although the museum was not constructed until after Sati’s expulsion from Iraq in 1941, it would be to March’s design.

  OCTOBER 2006

  My father calls from Baghdad to tell me that our friend Imad al-Farun has been shot dead outside his house. I am at a loss for words. I was very fond of Imad, a charming old lawyer who seemed to belong to another era with his neatly combed hair and moustache, Old Spice eau de cologne and pressed suits. We often used to sit drinking tea in the late afternoon in my grandfather’s palm garden in Baghdad, where Imad would fondly remember the old days. He was one of the closest links I had to my grandparents’ world in Baghdad.