by Alan Gold
“And does somebody come along?” she asked.
“Oh yes. The Jews are very well organized. There’s a very wealthy Jew called Rothschild, and he’s spent a fortune making sure they’ve got somewhere to go and clothes and stuff. He’s bought lots and lots of land from the Arabs and the Turks so the Jews can settle here. They all seemed to get absorbed into the small farms. They’re really very enterprising. I’ve only been here for a couple of months, and even in that space of time I’ve seen them transform the landscape. And they can’t even speak a word of English. Very enterprising, these Jews. Tell me, have you heard of this chappie called Rothschild. I’ve heard of him . . . I suppose he’s part of the banking family.”
Gertrude thought back seven years, before the Great War, when she was in London, and had attended a dinner party given by the chancellor of the exchequer at No. 11, Downing Street. She was the guest of the foreign secretary, and at the dinner party, the English, German, and French branches of the Rothschild family had been in attendance, probably for the last time together, bemoaning the fact that Europe was heading for a catastrophe.
“Yes,” she said casually, “I’ve heard of him.”
Gertrude was beginning to become a bit tired of the callow and ingenuous Timothy Haldane. At first, it had been amusing to be so anonymous in his youthful eyes. Everywhere she went her reputation seemed to precede her, and people treated her either with grave suspicion, or with embarrassing deference. When she first met him on the dockside, she was thrilled he didn’t know her, he didn’t treat her like some minor visiting royalty, and she enjoyed the experience of being treated like an ordinary English lady traveling the world after the war. But now she found Timothy to be somewhat silly and superficial, like all the young men she’d been introduced to when she was coming out, all marriageable candidates, yet none of whom held the slightest bit of interest for her.
“I’ve got a good idea,” she said enthusiastically. “Why don’t we go to Jerusalem, so you can introduce me to Haj Mohammed Amin al-Husseini.”
The young man looked surprised. “I think you mean Kamil al Husseini, who’s the Mufti of Jerusalem.”
“No,” Gertrude insisted. “I’ll meet the mufti at some stage in the near future. Right now, I want to meet Amin al-Husseini—same family, different person. You see, he’s much more interesting. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a young firebrand, and is setting himself up to become the next mufti when the current one shuffles off this mortal coil. Meeting Amin is a priority of mine, and it should be fun.”
Timothy looked at her in astonishment. “But . . . good God . . . Husseini? I’d be much happier if you met the current mufti, who’s a much more reasonable fellow. But not Amin. I really don’t think I could introduce you to him.”
“And why not?” she asked, her tone somewhat imperious.
“Do you know what kind of person he is?”
“Why don’t you tell me,” she asked in a much less harsh voice.
“Well from what I gather, he’s a nasty piece of work. I know he’s pro-British, indeed a keen supporter of our rule here, but I’m not given to trusting him. He’s running with a pretty nasty group of people, inciting all sorts of problems. He hates the Jews with a vengeance, and is whipping up trouble for them, talking about killing them and murder and pushing them into the sea and all that sort of stuff, an attitude which I must say I find quite surprising from a man of God.”
She turned to him, and asked, “What makes you think he’s a man of God?”
“Well, he’s studied Islam, and he’s preaching in the Mosques, and . . .”
“Dear boy,” she said, “I’ve studied Christianity, and I too could set up a platform and preach in the marketplace, but that wouldn’t make me a woman of God. Amin al-Husseini is a hideous anti-British, anti-Jewish bigot who’s going to cause the High Commissioner of Palestine, when one is appointed, the most awful trouble. Just because he’s got some qualifications in religious law from an Egyptian University, and just because he’s been on pilgrimage to Mecca, doesn’t make his heart or his mind holy. Quite the reverse, in fact. And as for him being pro-British, he’s the most anti-British person in Palestine. He fought for the Turks until a year before the war ended, and then when he realized they were going to lose, he defected from the army, crawled back to Jerusalem, and without feeling the slightest bit of shame, told everybody he’d swapped sides.”
Timothy Haldane looked at her in astonishment. “How on Earth did you know all that?” he asked.
“It’s my job to know all that. It’s also my job to meet with people like Husseini, and advise the British Foreign Office about what he’s likely to do in the future. He’s dangerous now, and I predict he’ll be a constant source of trouble for our administration, for the Jews, the Christians, and just about everybody else in the future.
“Now, young man, if you’ll kindly instruct your driver to turn south and take me to Jerusalem, I’d rather like to call in on Haj Amin al-Husseini, and see what he’s like for myself.”
Timothy did as he was told, and sat quietly beside the gray-haired lady as the car negotiated the narrow streets from the top of the hill overlooking Haifa to the coastal road which ran between the north and the new city of Tel Aviv, formed in 1909 when the Jewish quarter of Jaffa became so overcrowded with immigrants new buildings had to be erected with the creation of a nearby suburb. Gertrude took out some briefing notes from her portfolio, and began to read them.
After a few more minutes of silence, Timothy interrupted her, and asked, “I know this might sound impertinent . . . well, silly really, but are you important? I mean, and I don’t want to seem as if I’m being rude or anything, but the colonel usually escorts important people. I assumed because he’d asked me to look after you, you were, well, I don’t quite know how to say this, but . . .”
“Unimportant? I suppose importance is a relative thing. I don’t know your colonel, but I assume he views women as little more than adornments to men, and therefore not particularly worth bothering with.”
She turned back to the notes which the Foreign Office had prepared for her and which were waiting for her when her ship docked in Haifa.
Almost in a whisper, the increasingly concerned Timothy Haldane asked, “Are you in the government?”
“No,”
“Are you in the Foreign Office? I notice you’re reading—”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Timothy, what is this? A parlour game with lots of questions? Your intelligence service should have told you about me. I’m a senior political officer in Mesopotamia. I’m advising the British government on the mood of the Arabs throughout the whole of this area so they can decide future policy. That’s why the prime minister particularly asked me to come here to Palestine. And I’ve been here many times before you were born, living in the tents of Arabic and Druze tribal leaders.”
And suddenly his eyes widened in shock. “My God, you’re the woman who . . . Lawrence of Arabia . . . that woman from the Paris Peace Conference. You’re—”
“Gertrude Bell. Yes, Timothy, I know who I am, and I’d like to catch up on my reading. Keep an eye on the driver and don’t let us get lost.”
~
His house was large by Jerusalem standards. It was made of the cream-colored stone which made the city burn white in the morning and transmute into burnished gold as the sun descended into the Mediterranean. The house was set on one of the hills overlooking the old walled city, and in its grounds were olive trees and a small number of grape vines hung from trellises. In the gardens, beneath the trellises and in the house were large numbers of people, standing around in groups, talking and listening. And waiting.
Looking through the car window as it drew up to the front door, Timothy said urgently, “I think he’s having some sort of gathering. We’re not expected, so maybe we should come back tomorrow.”
“No! That’s what happens with the houses of all religious leaders. From morning till night, they’re packed with well-wishers and
supplicants and quacks and schemers. It’s common practice, believe me. We’ll just walk in, say we want to see the Haj, and he’ll see us.”
She put her hand on the doorknob, but Timothy restrained her. She knew he was terribly ill at ease, but didn’t know why. “Look Miss Bell, Gertrude, I’m not sure this is the best idea.”
“Timothy, please let me be the judge of that. I’ve considerable experience in dealing with people like Haj Husseini.”
“But I really don’t think my colonel would like us to be seeing him without the permission of HQ. My colonel always requires us to ask his permission on political and religious matters, and the colonel hasn’t given us permission to visit this gentleman.”
She turned to stare at him, and laughed. “Your colonel’s permission? Dear boy, I have the permission of the prime minister of England, Mr. Lloyd George, to investigate the feelings of the Arabs in Palestine. That means I can visit anyone I like. I also report directly to the foreign secretary. I really don’t need your colonel’s permission to do anything.”
He breathed deeply. “But I’m not ready for this. I’m only a junior officer. Mr. Husseini is a very important man, and a long way above my level. His uncle is the mayor of Jerusalem. My colonel should be visiting him, not me.”
She smiled, and put her gloved hand on his. “Timothy, just follow me, do everything I do, salute to show you’re British and you’re not intimidated, and don’t say a single word. Nod if you want to, but remain absolutely silent during the whole interview. Is that clear?”
He nodded. She got out of the car, straightened her dress, and marched confidently down the path and into the house. Timothy rushed to follow in her wake.
Inside the house, they were looked at with suspicion by Husseini’s servants as an aisle opened through the throng to allow them access to the inner rooms. In fluent Arabic, much to Timothy’s surprise, she said to a servant, “Inform His Excellency Haj Mohammed Amin al-Husseini that Miss Gertrude Bell representing the prime minister of Great Britain is here and seeks an audience with him.”
They were shown into a large room, at the end of which was seated the man who’s aspirations were to become the mufti of Jerusalem and spiritual and political leader of the Arabic world. Haj al-Husseini was a thin young man with an angular face and a growth of goatee beard on his chin. His clean-shaven cheeks were ruddy and leathery. Sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions, he was wearing the black robes of a cleric but, Gertrude noticed with surprise, the white turban of a mufti, a rank to which he was not yet entitled, and an indication of the man’s hubris.
Gertrude bowed low, so did Timothy, who straightened up immediately, and saluted. Gertrude continued her abasement until Husseini said, “Rise Miss Bell. Please, come and sit before me. And your young man may also approach.”
Gertrude told Timothy to follow her and sit behind her.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Your reputation precedes you. You are known throughout Palestine and the lands of Arabia and Mesopotamia. But I didn’t know you were in Jerusalem, or I would have invited you to dine with me.”
“Excellency,” she said, “I only arrived in Palestine this morning, and my first visit has been to pay you my respects.”
He beamed a smile, but behind his obvious pride and delight, she perceived the eyes of a rodent.
“You visit me before you visit the mufti? Is this courtesy or disrespect for Islam?” he asked.
“It is political expediency. His Holiness the Mufti is a man of august bearing and great stature. He dislikes the French, which pleases me, and he believes Palestine is and should continue to be Syria and has aligned himself with my friend and counsellor, Faisal, which also pleases me. But Excellency, I concern myself today with one who would be leader of Palestine. It is your views I seek on what should be done in this land of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”
“And Mohammed, Miss Bell? Where is the Prophet in this trinity of yours? Never forget that Islam has given the world the last and greatest of all the prophets of God, Mohammed, and that the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, has received all the truth from God that is ever to be revealed, and that Mohammed rested overnight here in Jerusalem with his horse Borak before he ascended into heaven and sat at the feet of Allah.”
His followers murmured in assent, and repeated the reverence of the Prophet. Timothy, too nervous to look around and not understanding a word of what was happening, began to wonder if they’d get out of there alive.
She frowned. “But Excellency, my reading of the Koran finds no mention, even once, of the holy city of Jerusalem. And surely it is questionable as to whether Mohammed, peace and blessings be upon him, ever set foot in Jerusalem? My knowledge of the Koran, again, tells me his nocturnal journey was nothing more than a vision during which the Prophet visited a remote mosque. This is said in sura 17, verse 1. Yet how could the Prophet visit a mosque when the great religion of Islam had not yet spread beyond him and his immediate followers in Mecca and Medina? Your predecessors in the time of the Caliphate believed that by the words remote, the Prophet was referring to a vision of Kairuoan in Tunisia, or of Damascus in Syria. Never was Jerusalem mentioned.”
She deliberately didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes focussed on the ground at his feet. To look him directly in the eyes would be too much of a challenge at this stage of their conversation. She had said enough. Now it was time for her to remain silent, and for him to respond.
He nodded. “You are both right, and wrong,” he said slowly, his voice rising so the followers could hear. “Tradition has it that by the remote mosque, the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, was referring to Jerusalem. It is for this reason I will put a covering of purest gold on the dome of the Mosque of Omar, and also restore to magnificence the mosque of al-Aqsa when I am in command of this nation.”
“And will you seek the help of your brothers, the Jews, in purchasing the gold? They have excellent contacts in the markets and bourses of Europe.”
“I will seek the help of nobody, Miss Bell, especially the Jews. Their home is in Europe. Their houses are the slums of Warsaw and Moscow and Budapest and Riga, in the ghettos which have been constructed and walled so Christians will not be tainted by having to look at them. And we’re not the first to wish to exclude the Jews. Don’t forget the founder of Protestantism, Martin Luther, sought to have all Jews in Europe killed.”
“Only when they rejected his teachings,” she interrupted.
“And we will accept them as brothers when they convert to Islam. But while ever they remain Jews, Miss Bell, while ever they reject Mohammed, and your Jesus, then their home is not and never will be in Jerusalem and Jaffa and Haifa. This is our land, Miss Bell. It doesn’t belong to the British or the Jews or the Christians. We have inhabited this land since the beginning of recorded history.”
“Your land, Excellency? But most of the coastal plain of this land was a barren malarial swampland until the Jews invited your people in to assist them in the orange groves and the farms which they created. This was the land of nomads and a handful of villages until the Jews began to build their agriculture and their industries and their towns and cities.”
In anger, Amin al-Husseini shouted, “We are the owners, and we are being invaded by Jews from across the sea . . .”
“But your own Prophet, Excellency, talked of your common links with the People of the Book.”
“Our Prophet, Miss Bell, tried to win the Jews over to the truth of the Koran, but they rejected him, and so it is our mission to expunge the Jews from Arabic lands. How can we tolerate a cancer growing amongst us? For Palestine and the whole of Arabia to be truly Islamic, it must contain only Muslims—not Jews, not Christians, not Kurds, not Druze, not infidels, and not those of loose morals and ways which will cause us to stray from the path of righteousness.”
“But the Jews have been separated from their homeland for two thousand years . . .”
“I am not a Zionist, Miss Bell,” he sa
id harshly. “Palestine is Arab. It always was, and it always will be. Even your own Mr. Edwin Montagu, a Jew and a member of Mr. Lloyd George’s government, agrees.”
Husseini reached down, and picked up a letter. He told her, “Mr. Montague wrote a memorandum to his cabinet colleagues after the Balfour Declaration was published. It was translated into Arabic and sent to me by my friends in London. I’ll read you what he said.
“‘Zionism has always seemed to me to be a mischievous political creed, untenable by any patriotic citizen of the United Kingdom. If a Jewish Englishman sets his eyes on the Mount of Olives and longs for the day when he will shake British soil from his shoes and go back to agricultural pursuits in Palestine, he has always seemed to me to have acknowledged aims inconsistent with British citizenship and to have admitted that he is unfit for a share in public life in Great Britain, or to be treated as an Englishman’.”
He put down the document, and Gertrude, mentally cursing the Balfour Declaration and Montagu’s memorandum in response, said, “Mr. Montagu speaks as a patriotic and powerfully assimilated Englishman who is accorded all the privileges which a democracy like England has to offer. But the same can’t be said for the millions of downtrodden Jews who, for a thousand years, have been subjected to hideous persecution at the hands of the Russians and the Poles and the other governments of Eastern Europe. These pathetic wretches aren’t members of the British establishment—they’re a demoralized, subjugated, and oppressed minority living in a murderous atmosphere of hatred. They look towards Palestine as their own land to which they can return and which they can share with their brother Muslims.”
