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

by Tamara Chalabi

  Ahmad in 1961 at Seaford College receiving a prize from Douglas Bader, a famous WWII RAF pilot.

  As a foreigner, Ahmad was put in the lowest class in the fourth form. Within a term he had risen to the highest class, acquired a whole new vocabulary, learned to play rugby and managed to avoid the practice of ‘fagging’ by the skin of his teeth. There was now another aspect to his life beyond mere survival. He threw himself into his studies, and his newfound passion was mathematics.

  Yet he remained obsessed with Iraq, as his new English friends soon discovered. He missed his life there and the people he had left behind, as well as the comfort of a home whose security he had never questioned until it had been lost. He could not reconcile himself to the injustices that had been meted out to him and his family. He wrote often to his older brothers, asking for news, and read the Daily Telegraph religiously. His more carefree fellow pupils found his attachment to the news a little too serious for their own tastes. Whereas they contented themselves with Radio Luxembourg and the tunes of the Everly Brothers and Cliff Richard, Ahmad spent hours fiddling with his pink-and-white Akkord radio, trying to tune in to the insufferable Sawt al-Arab station in order to get more news from home.

  From the radio and his family, he learned that Nasserite Arab nationalists such as Abdul Salam Arif were pushing for a union between Iraq and Egypt, but that Abdul Karim Qassim was not in favour of this move. Arif had fallen foul of Qassim, who imprisoned him some months after the July coup. Ahmad surmised from various conversations he overheard when he visited his parents in London that they believed Qassim’s attempt to distance himself from the nationalists was proof of his strong ties to Britain, and that the British were advising him. Similarly, the dominance of the Communist Party in Iraq’s politics had become a cause for American concern, as several articles in the US broadsheets reflected. Qassim had been told to distance himself from Moscow. By playing the Communists off against the nationalists, he could focus his efforts on strengthening the state.

  When Ahmad tried to interest his schoolfriends in these developments, they looked at him askance. Nor could they understand his growing determination to get into the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the United States. There were constant debates among them late at night about the merits of America versus Britain, with Ahmad arguing with adolescent certainty that America was the future, as after the Suez Crisis Britain’s moment had passed. The anger he felt towards Britain’s treatment of Iraq was palpable.

  One morning at breakfast Ahmad had a disturbing premonition. He was sure that Saeeda had died. A few days later a letter from Baghdad confirmed the news. Ahmad was inconsolable; he walked outside and sat staring at the South Downs, unable to explain his loss in any language that would have been comprehensible to his schoolmates. Saeeda had been the linchpin in his life. He learned that she had been buried in Najaf, and that, not having any descendants of her own, she had left him her only valuable possession: a small plot of land in Kazimiya that Hadi had given her many years before.

  After six months of living together in London, Hadi and Bibi’s attitudes to the city could not have been more diametrically opposed. Bibi could not reconcile herself to life there, and took the British reserve as a personal affront. Her rejection of her surroundings extended to the activities of her own family members. One morning while she was having a cup of tea in the kitchen, she noticed that Hadi was attempting to make baklava. Bibi was so scandalized by the sight that she angrily barked at him: ‘I didn’t know I’d married a confectioner. Have you gone mad?’ Hadi shook his head wearily and got on with the task in hand.

  Hadi’s in-built serenity served him well in London. He was able to retreat inside himself and to find simple pleasures, such as feeding the pigeons in the park nearby. He didn’t mind being a foreigner, and believed that the city was as good a place as any in which to find work, even though he spoke little English and was not well-versed in British ways. He realized that he would need to rely on his grown-up sons, who spoke English much more fluently than he did.

  He spent time with a few Iraqis he knew who were in the same predicament, often meeting them for afternoon tea at the Athenaeum Club on Pall Mall, where they would discuss the possibilities for changing the situation in Iraq. He had always been a great walker, and took to exploring the streets, closely examining the Georgian and Edwardian façades. Instead of the faisaliya he had worn in Baghdad, he now wore a tweed hat to keep his head warm. Trying to recapture his old life, he sometimes visited the antique shops where he had bought favourite items in the past. He remembered buying two large silver pieces that had belonged to an Austrian émigrée who had fled her country during the Second World War. The larger of the two, a sculpted bucolic scene depicting two young lovers in a wood, had touched him deeply. There was more resonance to the émigrée’s story for him now. He thanked God for his life, aware that he could have been killed in the coup.

  To calm Bibi down, he told her to be grateful, that money came and went. Besides the jewels that had been smuggled out in her granddaughter Leila’s coat, some of her clothes had been shipped over from Baghdad, but receiving them upset her further, as they carried so many memories. Throwing them in a heap on her bed, she looked at them in despair. They struck her as unfit for use in this life.

  In early March 1959, news from Baghdad further clouded Bibi’s horizon. A special military court launched a trial of the men of the ‘expired epoch’. Another of Karim’s cousins, Mahdawi, was the head of this court; during the course of the trials he was to become better known for his unmeasured outbursts and rough language than for any legal expertise, which he lacked entirely. All of the former Cabinet members as well as many other politicians of the old regime were to be charged, including Rushdi. Along with Abdul Rasul al-Khalisi and Abdul Wahab Murjan, he was accused of violations of the constitution and human rights. He had been present at a meeting several years earlier when the Cabinet had voted in favour of expelling a renowned Communist, as at the time it had been illegal to belong to the Communist Party in Iraq. The Communists now had powerful friends, and wanted to settle the score.

  32

  Escape to Nowhere

  The Threat of the Clown Court

  (1959)

  RUSHDI HAD BEEN under house arrest for four months by the time the trials were announced. He spent his time listening to the radio and watching the Mahdawi hearings on television, witnessing the ways in which his friends and former colleagues were derided and belittled one after the other. Rushdi lived and breathed the court, imagining what it would be like to endure the endless humiliation, foul language, insults and jeering crowds. Although he was still banned from leaving the house, he became obsessed with fleeing the country, and started to talk to his siblings about his plan. At the age of forty, he was prepared to create a new life for himself and his family, leaving everything behind.

  One day Saadoun, a friend of Hadi’s from the Dulaimi tribe near Falluja, came to visit him. It occurred to Rushdi that he could travel by car with Saadoun to Falluja, then with his help and knowledge of the local terrain, cross the western desert from there to Jordan. He and Jawad spent days making plans and mapping routes out of Iraq. Their younger brother Talal warmed to the plan as well, as did Najla, who was desperate to leave, although like all of them she was banned from travelling. Baghdad had changed for them. Their social lives had vanished, their assets had been frozen and their freedoms curtailed. They had to be careful who they talked to and what they said, as they were under constant scrutiny. Hassan was the only one who refused to become involved in the scheme. He thought it foolish and extremely risky, as failure could cost them their lives.

  At dawn one morning in March Rushdi’s wife Ilham and Najla quietly packed a few belongings, as well as milk, biscuits, water and canned food for the small children. They whispered as they got into the cars, one of which would be driven by Jawad, the other by Talal. The children worried them most, in case one of them started crying and woke the neigh
bours. Nannu, the houseboy, realized what was going on, but he could be trusted; and Ni’mati’s loyalty was never in question.

  The two cars drove slowly out of Taha Street and along the riverside, then crossed the A’zamiya bridge towards Karkh, on the right bank. Rushdi held his breath as the metal bridge rattled under the wheels. The shadows of night were gradually thinning as ribbons of light crossed the sky. Further down the river a lone fisherman waited silently for the day’s catch.

  They passed ’Atayfiya, then the Mansour district as they headed west towards Falluja, just over an hour’s drive from Baghdad. The dirt roads were lined with green fields and palm trees, with the occasional hut in the distance. Beyond the greenery, the desert beckoned. For the first half hour the only noise was from the vehicles themselves, bumping along as the children slept in the back and the other passengers, apart from Rushdi, who could not rest, dozed.

  Suddenly, military planes appeared in the sky and there was a loud bombing noise. Jawad and Talal braked hard, and Rushdi’s heart leapt to his mouth. His two-year-old son Muhammad woke with a start and began to cry. For a long minute they sat in the cars, expecting to be bombed at any moment. Najla recited a prayer, waiting to die. Then the bombing stopped and the planes banked away towards what the family assumed must be the Habbaniya air base.

  What they didn’t know was that the day of their escape coincided with an attempted military coup aimed at overthrowing Qassim. It was led by an Arab nationalist Free Officer based in Mosul, and Qassim’s planes were bombing the Abu Ghraib military camp, which lay on the route to Falluja, in retaliation. A few days earlier a large Communist rally in Mosul had provoked the disapproval of the Free Officers there, marking the beginning of a power struggle between the Communists and the nationalists throughout the region. Qassim, who sympathized with the Communists, had started to purge the armed forces of pro-Nasser nationalists in order to strengthen his grip on them.

  As the cars entered the outskirts of Falluja, they approached some military trucks that had been readied for action in the event of a coup. The last truck in the convoy stopped, an officer got out and waved at them to pull over. Everyone froze. This was surely the end. They would certainly be imprisoned, and any clemency that might have been shown to Rushdi would evaporate. The officer walked to the car, and asked Jawad why they were driving so early in the morning. Jawad told him they had come to spend some time on their farm, which lay further along the road, and that they had brought the children with them for a change of air.

  The officer peered into the back, and saw a row of little eyes staring back at him. He looked puzzled, then frowned. ‘I’ll need to take you to the Qa’immaqam, the district director of Falluja. Follow me.’ Trembling, Jawad restarted the car. The drive into Falluja took ten minutes, but it felt more like an hour. When Ilham started to wonder out loud what would happen to them, Rushdi snapped at her to be quiet.

  At the old district building, they were told to get out of the cars and were led into the offices. The Qa’immaqam had not arrived; it was not yet seven o’clock. Najla gave the children some biscuits to distract them. She kept her face lowered; women rarely entered such buildings, and certainly not in provincial towns. Luckily, as it was so early in the morning only a few employees were there to stare at them.

  The Qa’immaqam finally arrived, and loudly ordered tea as he walked towards his office. The family sat in suspense as he was briefed by the officer. Jawad, Rushdi and Talal were called in first. Having instructed them to take a seat, the Qa’immaqam asked them to explain the reason for their journey. He already knew who they were, and was aware that Hadi owned land in the district. He also knew that Rushdi was awaiting trial.

  The men repeated their story: they had come to check on the farm, to see the land manager and to give the children a change of scenery. The Qa’immaqam looked at them suspiciously. Why should he believe them? But he had no proof that they were up to anything. He left the room, glanced at the women and children, then went into the toilet along the corridor. Waiting in his office, Rushdi didn’t utter a word, even when Talal said, ‘Akalnaha, we’ve had it.’

  The Qa’immaqam came back in and sat at his desk. He explained to them that it was a dangerous day to be on the road, because a military coup had just been quashed. Jawad seized on this piece of information and started to ask him about the coup. The Qa’immaqam paused, then said that he recommended they return to Baghdad, as he expected there to be more military activity in the area. With that they got up, thanked him and left. Whether the Qa’immaqam believed their story or not, they could not tell. Talal wondered whether he had changed his mind when he saw the women and children, realizing they were harmless. Deflated, they returned to the cars and headed back to Baghdad.

  When Hassan came home from university at the end of the day, he was surprised and relieved when Talal greeted him at the door, sombre and shaken after the day’s adventure.

  Hassan had had enough. His family was falling to pieces, and he couldn’t stand idly by. Overcoming his reservations about his family’s growing debt to Hamed Qassim, he rang him one Friday and asked for an appointment. Jamila took him to the meeting, and sat with him as he made the case for his brother’s innocence.

  Hassan told Hamed that there was no basis for the case against Rushdi, as the Cabinet had taken a collective decision to act against the individual in question, and that decision had not been in violation of the law, since the Communist Party had been banned at that time. To single out individuals with trumped-up charges spoke of revenge, not justice. He also pointed out that the court was regarded as a joke, and had acquired the nickname ‘the clown court’. Hassan suggested that the hearing be delayed, secretly hoping that the court would run out of steam after seven months of mockery. He left Hamed’s house with assurances that he would do his best to spare Rushdi the trial. A week later, the court announced that Rushdi’s hearing had been delayed.

  33

  A Temporary Home

  Visits to the Park

  (1959)

  IN JULY 1959, a year after the revolution had taken place, Rushdi’s travel ban was finally lifted, again with Hamed’s help. It had become clear that the government didn’t have much use for Rushdi as a scapegoat: he had never posed a serious threat to them, and their appetite for revenge had been partially sated. The Mahdawi court fizzled out after sentencing thirty members of the old regime to death, four of whom were hanged. The executions took place because the court needed to validate its purpose and authority in the eyes of the public. Several military officers, the Arab nationalists who had participated in the revolution, were also executed for their roles in the attempt to overthrow Qassim.

  The most intense trial was that of Said Qazzaz, the former Interior Minister. He never wavered, even when the judge insulted him in the foulest language. When the time came for him to speak in his defence, he stood up and with a firm voice told the court that it was little more than a circus of prejudice and abuse. He declared: ‘This situation has convinced me that my fate was decided before the beginning of this trial. Yet as long as I remain alive, so long my fate is known, and since I don’t fear death or the noose, I will make this statement so that my voice will be heard outside this court by all my Iraqi brethren. I confirm to them that I have served them with all my loyalty and honesty for more than thirty years. If I have committed any mistakes, let them know that I was denied the right to defend myself, and that I was brought to this place only to be insulted and cursed by officials. I have listened to the witnesses you have brought. There isn’t a single specific event in which I have committed a legal violation.’ He concluded, ‘As a Muslim who sees only God’s justice, as an Iraqi who has served for thirty-three years for national unity, I declare that I am proud for what I have given to my dear country.’

  The news that Rushdi would be spared a trial and that his travel ban had been lifted raised the spirits of everyone in the Chalabi household in London immeasurably. Even Bibi was moved to suspend h
er ritual critique of life in the city (temporarily) as she counted the days and hours until Rushdi arrived.

  When he landed at Heathrow with Ilham and his youngest son Muhammad, he was greeted by Hadi, Hazem, Raifa and Najla’s husband Abdul Latif Agha Jaafar. Although both men rarely displayed physical affection, Hadi and Rushdi embraced and held each other tight as Hadi’s eyes welled with tears. Ilham stood next to them, weeping quietly with relief and exhaustion. Meanwhile, Bibi waited impatiently at the flat near Regent’s Park.

  Now that his eldest son was safe, Hadi was keen to attend to a pending matter. It concerned the £100,000 that Abdul Ilah had asked him to deposit abroad on his behalf three years earlier. The money was still there, secure in Rushdi’s bank account, but he and Hadi were the only people who knew of its existence now that the Crown Prince and his family were dead. Hadi decided to give the money to the royal family’s next of kin, their cousin King Hussein of Jordan, who was now the head of the Hashemite family. He still hoped against hope that Hussein would help restore the monarchy in Iraq. It was decided that Najla’s husband the Agha, who knew the King personally, would go to Amman and inform him of the amount to be transferred to him. The King accepted it with delight, asking a legal notary to validate the transaction.

  Morale improved in London once Rushdi joined them. His arrival led to another migration a month later, from Regent’s Park to a spacious flat in Oakwood Court, a large red-brick Victorian mansion block in Kensington. The entire family rejoiced in their more comfortable new surroundings; it felt as if the frayed and confusing first phase of their flight out of Iraq had finally come to an end. The apartment was bright and airy, with two large drawing rooms and a kitchen that was big enough to cater for the entire family. They employed a Spanish maid, who could never come to terms with the number of different family members who kept appearing in the apartment at all hours of the day.