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

by Tamara Chalabi

  Bibi became quite popular with the driver of the daily fruit and vegetable van that came to Oakwood Court to collect orders from the residents, as hers was always the largest order. Instead of the pound of onions ordered by other residents, Bibi ordered eight, and instead of three apples, she ordered four pounds of fruit. There were many mouths to feed, and however hard the van man struggled to fulfil her order, for Bibi the quantities always seemed a compromise when she compared them to the enormous crates of deliveries she had been used to in Baghdad.

  There was less of a feeling of transience as the family settled into Oakwood Court. The upmarket neighbourhood, with department stores nearby in High Street Kensington, was convivial, and Hadi was grateful for the proximity of the parks, taking daily walks through their wooded areas before lingering over the many different plants and colours of the formal gardens, remembering the elaborate flowerbeds of the Deer Palace. Before heading home he would often sit on a bench, watching the proud peacocks strut past.

  Rushdi was very grateful to be in London, and felt reassured by the city’s atmosphere of order and safety. Baghdad now seemed to him a place of evil, danger and chaos. As he considered the events of the past year, he cursed the day 900 years earlier when Haroun al-Rashid had moved his court near Baghdad, marking the rise of the city. Then he would curse his sixteenth-century forefathers for taking part in the Ottoman conquest of Baghdad, rather than staying at home in Turkey. ‘Then at the very least,’ he would say, ‘we’d have been Turks today, and still have a country.’

  Outside the family circle he flinched whenever he heard an Iraqi accent, because he now feared his fellow countrymen. Yet the option of integration into the upper levels of British society was not open to him, as it was a self-contained world with little interaction with foreigners. The main quality the family noted in the British was a combination of reserve and politeness. Few of them seemed to be aware of what had happened in Iraq, let alone of the Chalabis’ involvement in the country’s story. Like many newcomers in London, Rushdi and his family had to create their own little world. Their status put them on a par with other affluent exiles, such as ex-Maharajas from India, Persian Qajar grandees and the Egyptian aristocrats who had left following Nasser’s revolution in 1952. Rushdi began to explore possible business opportunities, and also took the time each week to visit his favourite restaurant, the Rib Room at the Carlton Tower Hotel in Chelsea, as well his favourite shop, Gardners’, a new supermarket on Kensington High Street.

  It was not long before the old topic of Dolphin Square was raised once more, with Rushdi arguing that his father had made the worst mistake of his life by not buying the development when he had had the chance. He elaborated at length on this point, enlisting his mother’s support. Hadi’s was not a confrontational character; he was more interested in keeping the peace, as his own father Abdul Hussein had been. He attempted to ignore the criticism directed at him by his son and wife, and became increasingly withdrawn.

  London was regarded by the Chalabis as merely a temporary home; none of them was interested in putting down roots there. The family was gathering its energies to determine what its next step should be on the road to survival.

  34

  Return to the Shrine

  A Life by the Sea

  (1959–1963)

  LEBANON WAS ENJOYING a golden age, most particularly Beirut. By the early sixties, the growth of its banking industry and the influx of money into the country meant that the city had a stronger claim than ever to be ‘the Paris of the East’. It boasted haute cuisine French restaurants and elegant nightclubs, as well as rustic gourmet Lebanese restaurants with captivating views of the sea. The Lebanese felt, perhaps rightly, that they outdid the rest of the world in their hospitality.

  Beirut had long been a place of refuge: the mountains behind it had for centuries been home to religious minorities such as Maronite, Druze and Shi’a communities fleeing persecution elsewhere. The Levantines had been expelled from Egypt by Nasser, and had been followed to Lebanon by Syrians and Palestinians. Following the revolution of 1958, there was an influx of Iraqis of the old regime.

  Bibi loved Beirut, with which she had been familiar for many years, and as soon as her grandchildren were settled in British schools, she began to agitate to leave London. There seemed to be no good reason for her and Hadi to stay on in the cold city, whereas it made complete sense to her to move to Lebanon. She could speak the language, and she knew many people there. Hadi agreed, and they flew to Beirut in October 1959. Bibi assumed that her daughters and Rushdi would see sense, and would follow soon afterwards.

  In the event, it was Hassan who was the first to arrive, taking a sabbatical in late 1959 and travelling to Beirut with Jamila. He had not seen his father since the revolution, and they had an emotionally charged reunion. Both had survived so much in the intervening year that it was difficult to know where to begin.

  Hadi and Bibi found an apartment on the top floor of the Kazan building, in the elegant quarter of Verdun. There were many exiled Iraqis like themselves in Beirut, as well as their old Lebanese friends and acquaintances. Owing to the local pronunciation, Hadi and Bibi soon became Mr and Mrs Shalabi, or Jalabi.

  Hadi’s brother Muhammad Ali, a successful banker, was living in the city with his family, and he and Hadi started exploring the possibility of founding a new bank with Lebanese partners. While Muhammad Ali had been one of the founders of the Iraq state bank al-Rafidain, and was well-versed in international banking, Hadi’s social and diplomatic expertise was to prove essential in smoothing the way and resolving disagreements with their local partners.

  Bibi with her sons in 1960s Beirut: left to right, Jawad, Hazem and Talal.

  Bibi established a rapport with the charismatic but often ill-tempered doorman of the Kazan building, Khalil, a 1948 Palestinian refugee from Nahariya in Israel. He began to run errands for her, and in time several members of his family came to be in her employ. His unique style of swearing caused great amusement among the younger generation, as he freely mixed the religious with the profane, mentioning prophets, shoes and vaginas in the same breath to tremendous dramatic effect. He had certain allergies, including an intolerance of chewing gum which was so extreme that he once stopped the lift to escape the torture of a woman chewing it.

  From left to right: Raifa, Thamina, Bibi and Najla at a function in Beirut in the 1960s.

  Bibi ensconced herself so quickly in Beirut society that in the early 1960s her sons Hazem and Talal married women from prominent Shi’a Lebanese families, the Beydouns and the Khalils respectively. The substantial Lebanese Shi’a community originated mostly in the south of the country, and were predominantly impoverished and disempowered. They had suffered from similar prejudices as other Arab Shi’a, labelled ill-educated and backward. The Shi’a elite, however, were mostly well-educated and based in Beirut. They were generally more Westernized and open than their Iraqi counterparts, by virtue of living in a more Westernized society.

  The rest of the family moved in stages. Thamina came to Beirut after her husband was released from jail in 1960, while Rushdi moved his family in 1962. Bibi and Hadi came to represent the nucleus of the family, a substitute homeland. The sense of exile had become so entrenched in the whole family’s world view that it formed an integral part of their identity. Bibi developed a hierarchy of trust within the family: at the centre were her children, with whom she could express herself uncensored, whereas most non-blood relatives were viewed with caution. She became even more dependent on her daughters, insisting that one or other of them accompanied her wherever she went.

  Try as he might, Hassan could not find work in Beirut. He didn’t want to be a financial burden on the household, and he certainly didn’t want to lose the only career open to him, so he decided to return to Baghdad with Jamila and take up his old post at the university. As an academic, he was able to avoid politics to some degree and dedicate himself to his work. Within a year of his return to the university he
was made head of the Law Department.

  Among his many students he encountered a few exceptional individuals, such as Jalal Talabani, a future leading Kurdish politician who would rise to become the President of Iraq and the first non-Arab leader of an Arab country. Another notable student and future President was Saddam Hussein, who at that time was rising through the ranks of the Ba’ath Party, which espoused an even more extreme version of Arab nationalism than Nasser did in Egypt. Saddam was academically unexceptional, but he had already established a reputation on campus as a thug. When Hassan failed him for his poor work, he became the target of Saddam’s insults. He would hear him growling at the back of the room: ‘Only a blind man would wear a ridiculous tie like that – or a member of the bourgeoisie.’ Hassan refused to be drawn into an argument with the young bully.

  Soon after Hassan returned to Baghdad, Jawad followed him. Like his older brother, he had not held a political position prior to 1958, and so was not in danger of being arrested.

  The brothers lived in Jawad’s house, a few doors down from the old family home, which had been seized by the government. Tormented by this daily reminder of the family’s misfortunes, Jawad dedicated himself to securing the release of his father’s frozen assets. Although Latifiyyah had been sequestered by the government and was gone forever, the mill was still functioning and generating some income, and there was a hope that some of Hadi’s other lands might be reclaimed, as they had not been legally confiscated. However, there was little that the brothers could achieve in the absence of Hadi, the owner of the lands. Hassan decided that the only way forward was for an agreement to be reached with the Qassim government that would permit Hadi to return to Iraq for a short visit, on the understanding that he would not resume his political activities.

  Authorization was cautiously given for Hadi to return to Baghdad in late March 1962. He knew that he was taking a great risk by going back, as he was inextricably linked with the old regime. His journey home was extremely poignant. He had been abroad at the time of the revolution, and had never had an opportunity to say his goodbyes. Now, at last, he would be able to bid his home farewell properly.

  Hadi’s grain-trading protégé from the old days, President Qassim’s brother Hamed, met him at Baghdad airport, where an unexpected reception was held for him. And when he reached A’zamiya a large group of people were waiting outside his old house to welcome him back. As a public figure he had known people from all walks of life – tribal sheikhs and small landowners, bureaucrats and merchants – and many of these old acquaintances were now nostalgic for the old days, as the revolution had not delivered all that it had promised them.

  Ni’mati was also waiting for him, delight lighting up his tired face. He had been worried for days that something might happen to Hadi at the airport should the authorities change their mind about his visit. The two childhood companions embraced each other clumsily in the manner of old men, the lack of words between them compensated for by the many pats they gave each other on the back. Ni’mati’s life had changed drastically after the family’s departure. He had aged quickly, retreating to the little house Hadi had given him near Kazimiya, close to his grownup children. He still came to visit Hassan each week, and received a monthly salary, as did several other former household employees.

  While in A’zamiya, Hadi stayed with his sons, but he did visit his house nearby. When he first entered it everything seemed reassuringly familiar, yet on closer inspection it was all quite different from how it had been when he left it four years earlier. The house was dark. Most of the furniture was covered with sheets that had collected dust and a fine covering of the sand that had seeped into the rooms. There was no life. However, he was so happy to be back that he didn’t dwell on these differences. Instead, he immersed himself in the sights, smells and tastes of his beloved home and country. He felt alive again. Being in Iraq once more reinforced his sense of how inextricably linked to and defined by his country he was, just as being away from it made him feel powerless and redundant.

  He was overwhelmed by the warmth of his reception, especially when a large banquet was held in his honour by Kazimiya’s leading families, the Jawahiris, Istrabadis, Hasouni, Kazimi, Ugaili and Kanaan. He caught up with many old friends and acquaintances, and momentarily forgot all that had passed. Yet when he entered the courtyard to the Kazimiya shrine he gave in to his tears as he stood by the grille of the tomb in the inner room. Kazimiya lay at the very core of his being, and since 1958 he had always kept a picture of the shrine with him.

  The Communists’ power in the town was waning, now that Qassim had been pressurized by the West to curb Communist activities in the region as a whole. The Nasserists and increasingly the Ba’athists were on the prowl. There were some loud mutterings among them about Hadi’s presence in the area as he seemingly moved freely among his old network of friends and erstwhile colleagues. However, he was not allowed outside Baghdad, and his requests to visit the shrines of Najaf and Karbala were rejected.

  The state security forces became increasingly suspicious as to the purpose of his visit, and articles by Yunis al Tai in the official newspaper, al-Thawra, criticized the government for allowing such an anti-revolutionary figurehead to enter Iraq. When his sons urged him to leave the country promptly, Hadi put up as much resistance as he could, but his sons’ arguments were stronger. He was so distressed on the day of his departure that he was unable to speak.

  In 1963, less than a year after Hadi’s visit, another coup d’état took place in Iraq. The Arab nationalist wing within the military, which had supported Abdul Salam Arif in the 1958 coup, challenged Qassim’s rule on the grounds that he did not favour pan-Arab policies, and had given the Communists too much leeway. Qassim had become politically isolated over the last year as he attempted to strengthen his grip on the country through his security services and by undermining any opposition.

  A growing number of army officers had joined the Ba’ath (or Renaissance) Party, which had existed since the late 1940s. It was Arab nationalist in orientation, and espoused some socialist ideology, mostly linked to economic matters. Originally inspired by the conservative doctrines of a group of nineteenth-century German thinkers, the party operated on a cell-based system. The bloody coup of February 1963 was led by the Ba’athists, who had put a lot of energy into rallying support for their cause. Qassim, like Abdul Ilah and Nuri before him, had refused to believe the rumours about growing dissent within the armed forces. He was arrested and executed by firing squad outside the Ministry of Defence, where only five years earlier the mutilated remains of Crown Prince Abdul Ilah had hung.

  Hassan and Jawad found themselves in yet another nightmarish situation; there was talk that the new regime might arrest them because of their links with Qassim’s brother Hamed. Fortunately, the rumours came to nothing. Back in Beirut, Hadi tried to come to terms with the fact that his children were in danger once more, and that his prospects of returning to Iraq were now non-existent. Yet he still held out hope that the monarchy might be restored with the help of King Hussein of Jordan and the Shah of Iran. In late 1959, when Hadi had first moved to Lebanon, the Shah had sent the head of his secret services, Teymour Bakhtiar, to meet several prominent Iraqi exiles for discussions about overthrowing Qassim’s regime and restoring the monarchy. Hadi had hosted several of these meetings. Subsequently, King Hussein had sent various messages to Iraqi exiles in Beirut through the Jordanian Embassy, exploring the possibility of taking action against the Iraqi government. The plan was always the same: to contact officers in the army who remained loyal to the old regime and convince them to stage a coup with the support of Iran and later Jordan. A combination of factors prevented these schemes from taking shape, and many Iraqi exiles later felt that the Shah had never really intended to act for fear of incurring Western wrath.

  At this time, in 1963, the relationship between the Iraqi exiles and the Iraqi Army was undoubtedly poor. The new government officially requested the Lebanese government
to extradite several leading exiles, Hadi among them, to Baghdad, accusing them of conspiracy. Hassan received threats in Baghdad which he relayed to his father in Beirut. Rather than comply with the Iraqi government’s demands, the Lebanese authorities suggested to the exiles that they should leave Lebanon temporarily until the situation had calmed down. Thus, Hadi and the former Iraqi Prime Ministers Tawfiq Suwaidi, Ali Jawdat Ayubi and Ahmad Mukhtar Baban departed for Europe. As the charges against the exiles were based on hearsay, the Iraqi government could not apply pressure on European governments to extradite its citizens. Hadi sat out two months in London waiting for the storm to pass.

  The Ba’athists’ takeover in 1963 proved short-lived. The party was disorganized, and could not sustain its grip on power; it was, moreover, ideologically divided and indecisive about where the future of Iraq lay. This lack of cohesion was reflected within the army and the National Guard. Once more Iraq’s troubled relationship with Nasser of Egypt came to the surface, and factional fighting spilled out onto the streets. Abdul Salim ’Arif, a Nasserite but not a Ba’athist, took charge of the military and established order. He ruled for the next three years by decree as Supreme Commander of the army and President, perpetuating the military rule that Qassim had established. Under his reign the Republican Guards were established, an elite fighting unit that would play a brutal repressive role in the future. During ’Arif’s dictatorial rule, civil liberties were suspended and clan and tribal loyalties superseded those of state bureaucracy.