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

Abdul Hussein smiled. He was quite sure those sons deserved the eventual disappointment of discovering that the pot was filled with mud. The important principle, as always, was that until then good order and harmonious relations be restored within the family.

2

Stacking Rifles

Hadi and the War

(1914–1916)

BY EARLY NOVEMBER 1914, the frivolities of stone deer and spurious pots of gold were far from Abdul Hussein’s mind. Turkey had officially entered the Great War on Germany’s side.

The Germans had been consolidating their relationships with countries in the Middle East for several decades through a variety of measures, such as assisting in reforms within the Turkish military and helping to build railways. The ambitious Berlin–Baghdad railway project had been drawn up to give the Kaiser direct access to Mesopotamia’s oil fields. Given the strong German presence in the Ottoman Empire, there had been no real choice of sides for the Sultan to take once the war broke out.

A few days after this ominous development, the menfolk of the town convened in Abdul Hussein’s dawakhana in the late afternoon. The mood was bleak. They sat puffing away on their cigarettes, drinking istikan after istikan of tea nervously and noisily. Some slumped back in their chairs; others were hunched forward, chins propped glumly in their hands. Indeed, their heads looked so heavy that their various headdresses – fezes, yashmaks with i’gal cord which held the cloth on the head, charawiya caps – seemed to be falling off or else tilting sideways. All the assembled men, Abdul Hussein included, had but one thing on their minds: the lives of their sons.

The military had begun to enlist young Muslim men to serve at the front. During past military campaigns there had been a systematic procedure of conscription according to ages and professions, but this time the Turkish Sixth Army division, headquartered in Baghdad, had simply sent out sorties with instructions to bring back all able-looking men.

There were reports of boys as young as fifteen – a year younger than Abdul Hussein’s eldest son Hadi – being dragged screaming from their homes by roving patrols, even as their mothers pleaded with the soldiers. Men took to hiding, and locals helped each other to avoid conscription. At the sound of the first drumbeat in the town square, and the rallying cry of ‘Safarbarlik var, safarbarlik var’, many ran out of their shops and homes, some disguised in women’s abayas, some fleeing the city to seek refuge among the tribes. And so the army adopted a wilier and yet more pitiless strategy, arresting the next of kin in order to put pressure on dodgers and deserters. Some deserters were even hanged, pour encourager les autres.

Non-Muslims such as Christians and Jews were exempt from conscription as was traditional in the Ottoman Empire, where all wars were fought in the name of Islam. Instead, a hefty exemption tax of thirty Ottoman gold pounds was imposed on them. Military doctors and conscription officers profited by taking bribes and accepting favours from the effendis, the urban elite, to send their sons to local posts instead of to the front.

Abdul Hussein’s fears for Hadi were exacerbated by his worries over the wider political situation. The Ottoman Sultan had called on all his Muslim and Arab subjects to fight the British infidels who were attacking the realm. The pronouncement was clear: they should mobilize as Muslims in this war, a sentiment that resonated deeply in all of them. Yet this feeling was clouded by disquiet. Did the state really represent them any more?

For all his disappointment at the slow pace of reform, Abdul Hussein had a very deep attachment to his Ottoman world, yet much about Turkey’s involvement in the war seemed illogical to him. As the men in the dawakhana weighed the war in the balance, tempers became increasingly frayed and voices were raised. He endeavoured to be the voice of reason.

His brother-in-law Abdul Hussein al-Uzri was among those to fan the flames by dismissing the war as a European conflict that was irrelevant to their lives in Mesopotamia. Married to Abdul Hussein’s sister Amira, Uzri was a poet and the editor of a local newspaper, al-Misbah, in which he freely aired his views. His comments provoked a furious response from Abdul Ghani, Abdul Hussein’s younger brother, who argued that war in Europe concerned them greatly; that the Germans needed the Sultan to be on their side in order to buffer the Ottoman lands from the encroachment of the British and Russians. Moreover, he said, it was their basic religious duty to fight el-Ingiliz, the English, who were coming to occupy their land. He turned to Abdul Hussein for support.

Abdul Hussein chose his words carefully. ‘If they are attacking Islam we must defend our faith – after all, our Sultan is the head of the Caliphate – but we must be clearer on the premise of war.’

‘I say we must fight, we must defend our faith! They will attack our land, they will control our holy sites,’ Abdul Ghani insisted.

‘What a fool you are, Chalabi!’ Uzri countered. ‘They’re not interested in our holy sites; they want to protect the oil fields in the south, in Persia; that’s what they want – they don’t care about our Imams. This war is not our war; it doesn’t serve anything! Istanbul doesn’t care about us, the Ottomans simply want to sacrifice us for their vanity,’ he shouted excitedly, throwing his fez on the ground with force.

Abdul Ghani folded his arms stubbornly. ‘I disagree. This is about our faith, and we have to defend ourselves. What do we have if not our religion?’

Abdul Hussein watched in dismay as the dispute grew more heated. Several of his guests were of the view that the Ottomans were ill-prepared for war, whatever God’s will for the outcome might be. One man glumly volunteered that the British war machine would crush any Ottoman opposition. Another spoke in favour of adopting Iranian papers, as Iranians were exempt from conscription. Finally, one asked Abdul Hussein to tell them his opinion.

Abdul Hussein reflected for a moment before replying. Should he tell them what he really thought? That this was the beginning of the end? He cleared his throat. ‘Those new men in Istanbul have changed things so dramatically,’ he said. ‘They want to be Turkish now, not Ottoman or Muslim. We’re an afterthought for them.’ He was referring to the fact that the Ottoman Empire had always been a multi-ethnic Muslim territory even though its rulers were Turkish, but now the Young Turks were placing their own nationality centre stage. He shook his head. ‘This is a bad war, and I don’t know why the Sultan has agreed to be part of it. But he is our Caliph and he has declared jihad, holy war.’

When Basra fell to the British a month later, the Sultan called for jihad across the Empire. All of Baghdad’s mosques rallied men to join the fight, and Kazimiya’s men were roused to action by the fiery Friday prayer speeches of the mullahs at the shrine.

Hadi was only sixteen years old. After many sleepless nights, his father, desperate to save him from conscription, used his influence to secure him a post under a Turkish general who had taken up residence with his retinue in the Deer Palace. Abdul Hussein’s brother-in-law Agha Muhammad Nawab had died of old age in the summer, and Munira, now widowed, had wasted no time in moving to the Nawab’s other house in Kazimiya to be nearer to her mother and family. She had inherited property as well as a considerable fortune from her late husband, and the move also meant she could be closer to her farms. Curiously, Munira seemed much happier than when Abdul Hussein had visited her for that miserable lunch a year ago. These days she listened attentively to what he had to say, and took a real interest when he spoke of his concerns for Hadi’s safety and the problems with the education of his other children in these difficult times. Their sister Burhan no longer seemed to cast a shade over their conversations.

One evening Abdul Hussein returned home with the news that his son was to report for duty at the Deer Palace the following morning. Despite his initial disappointment at the lowly and loosely defined post assigned to him, Hadi approached his job with enthusiasm. Every day he rode out very early in the morning, often accompanied by Ni’mati, who was as sinewy and dark as Hadi was robust and fair, to collect fresh fruits and vegetables from his father’s lands for the officers. Knowing his father’s fondness for gaymar, Hadi purchased this for the men’s breakfast from a woman who lived in one of the reed huts by the riverfront further up from Kazimiya. The woman kept buffalo, and a few clay pots would arrive daily, filled with their lightweight, fluffy, extra-white cream, which was devoured by the officers.

A young Hadi, wearing the typical Keshida, standing behind male realtives, circa 1912.

In addition to ensuring that the Deer Palace was well stocked with fresh produce, Hadi soon became a messenger, delivering letters to and from the Military Headquarters in the Citadel in Baghdad. This gave him the opportunity to discover the city itself. Ni’mati, spared conscription like many of the Iranian household staff because he wasn’t an Ottoman subject, was often his companion on these errands too. Abdul Hussein’s steward Sattar, on the other hand, had fled north to hide among his relatives in the Kurdish mountains as soon as the forced conscriptions started. Two stable boys had also disappeared overnight without warning.

Usually dressed like his father in traditional attire, Hadi replaced his civilian clothes with a basic military uniform and carried a satchel for the post. He cut a pleasing figure in his new outfit, and was generally considered a charming young man. Raised and educated in the town, he was very attached to Kazimiya, and was known for his active involvement in community events. Every year he helped to organize the Ashura processions, and he was a talented horseman who enjoyed displaying his skills at both Ashura and the Eid holiday that marked the end of Ramadan, when he would parade through town on horseback, sporting a sword and shield.

For all his popularity, Hadi was humble by nature and earnest in his enthusiasm and concern for people. His honest round face appeared all the brighter for the dark fez he had begun to sport, again in the manner of his father. He had great respect for Abdul Hussein, but he was more impulsive than his father. He already had a keen eye for the ladies, but was skilful at concealing it most of the time.

Now a part of him wished that he could indulge his adolescent dreams by putting on a proper soldier’s uniform and fighting in a battle. But he was also aware of the harshness of the army, and the cruelty with which soldiers were often treated. He was unsettled by the way in which civilians were sometimes pushed around by low-ranking soldiers, who were simply replicating what their superiors did to them. And he was disgusted by the sense of entitlement many of the officers displayed, showing no respect for people’s property. Some of them even raided shops for personal profit. Most of all, he hated the Turks’ disdain for the Arabs. He couldn’t understand why this should be so, since the Turks and Arabs shared a religion and a king.

Many decades later, Hadi would remember his humble role during the Great War, which he felt had imbued in him both his curiosity and his resourcefulness, which allowed him to thrive amidst chaos.

Employed in the offices of the Commander-in-Chief of the 6th Army, Nur al-Din Beg, Hadi learned how to make himself virtually invisible in a room, all the better to observe proceedings and acquire knowledge. Besides the idiosyncrasies of the generals he encountered, particularly their asperity and ill humour, he was fascinated by the organization of the military. He learned to appreciate the importance of timekeeping and personal accountability. While general morale was low, as the citizens of Baghdad and Kazimiya continued to feel that the conflict in their region was of marginal interest to the Ottoman government, it was still a war, and lives were at risk.

As more family friends and acquaintances became aware of Hadi’s new position, he was increasingly entrusted with letters to pass on to Nur al-Din Beg’s office. Initially this caused him concern: the proprieties of rank meant he was in no position simply to place such letters directly into the hands of his superiors, and he worried about how best to deliver them without breaking with protocol. He was uncomfortably aware that a good many of them were requests for compensation, usually relating to goods taken by the army without payment. However, some contained military intelligence about battles being waged on the front to the south of Baghdad.

It was Hadi’s good fortune that the first time he dared to hand over a letter it contained useful intelligence for the Commander rather than a simple grievance. Encouraged, he handed over more; some proved useful for gauging the mood of the civilian population, while others offered detailed information about the tribes further south, the morale of the enemy troops and even the weather, including the hazards of sandstorms and dust clouds.

Hadi began to feel personally involved in the war effort, and studied the generals carefully whenever he got the opportunity. He observed the tensions between them and the ways in which they organized their staff, and was horrified when he saw soldiers being flogged for their misdemeanours, or when he was forced to be present at the execution of deserters.

Closer to home, Hadi’s maternal uncle, the poet and newspaper editor Abdul Hussein al-Uzri, was rounded up from his house in Kazimiya in the spring of 1915 on the orders of Nur al-Din. Uzri had been outspoken in his editorials, criticizing the Ottoman position and calling for self-determination and Arab independence. As a punishment, he was imprisoned in Kayseri, ancient Caesaria, in the Anatolian heartland. With him were several Baghdadi men of letters, including the notable Pere Anastate al-Karmali, a Jesuit scholar who has contributed substantially to Iraq’s literary heritage.

Although he was at the Citadel that day, Hadi only learned about what had happened when he came home in the evening to find the house filled with a cacophony of raised voices. He panicked, thinking at first that someone had died. His young cousins were huddled together, holding on to their mother, Abdul Hussein’s sister Amira, who was sobbing loudly. Hadi had never seen his aunt like this. He knew her as a tough woman who was cowed only by her mother Khadja; not even Uzri’s fiery temper could intimidate her.

The heavy shadow of terror fell over the household as the family fretted over the possibility that further retributions might come their way. In these times of war, even Abdul Hussein’s good relations with the authorities could not be counted on to protect them.

As the days passed, Amira cried less and shouted more, becoming short-tempered with everyone, especially the servants, who tried to stay out of her way. Hadi’s mother Jamila, on the other hand, simply lost her appetite. She would only drink tea and nibble on bread, like the fragile little bird she resembled. She slept very poorly, yet she made sure to be up early each morning to see Hadi before he left for work, anxious that it might be the last time she saw him if he was also taken away.

Hadi, however, equipped with his enthusiasm for tackling every challenge that came his way, continued to make himself indispensable at the Citadel. When he was not at work, he preferred to stay away from his father’s dawakhana, where the endless complaints about the authorities bored him. Instead, he wandered among the bazaars near Headquarters in Qishla. From the stallholders and café owners he gained an insight into the soul of the country: what people bought, what they wanted, what they required. He found that the mechanics of the market interested him, and his eyes were opened to the world of commerce. The war had depleted the bazaars, but even as a young man Hadi smelt the endless opportunities that might lie ahead.

He was chatting to a pomegranate-juice seller late one afternoon when the sky suddenly seemed to rip in two above them.

‘Ya Allah, what is it!’ yelled the juice seller, instinctively ducking. Other men nearby had pressed themselves into doorways, or against walls, their eyes wide with fear.

Looking up into the blue overhead, Hadi spotted a trail of white, then the sun glinting on the wings of a flying machine. His heart was beating furiously, but he could hardly contain his excitement when he realized what he was looking at: an aeroplane! He had heard his father talk of such things, and now he had seen one. He rushed home to tell his younger brothers, Abdul Rasul and Muhammad Ali. The future was coming to Baghdad.

New technology was not the only thing to arrive in the city. After a defeat at Shuyaba in the winter of 1915, the Turkish army reshuffled some of its military leaders in Baghdad. One of the newcomers was Field Marshal Colmar Freiherr von der Goltz, on ‘loan’ from Germany to the Ottoman army. With a long history of military service, beginning as a Prussian officer before German unification, Goltz had contributed to the modernization of the Ottoman army in the 1890s. His arrival in Baghdad on 15 December 1915, in the company of thirty German officers, caused some consternation as he made strategic decisions from the outset without consulting the leading Turkish commander. Nonetheless, when he arrived he was ceremoniously welcomed in the streets by crowds of school children.

Muhammad Ali and Ibrahim in a studio shot.

Hadi was curious about the Germans’ motives in posting these officers to Baghdad. He wondered why they were here, fighting with the Sultan in Mesopotamia, rather than fighting the British in their own country. Although he listened carefully to his father’s explanations, and to Uncle Abdul Ghani’s arguments about fighting the infidel, he wasn’t sure if he understood why this war was being fought at all. And if what his uncle said was true, then surely the Ottomans shouldn’t be fighting alongside the infidel here, in Baghdad.

He hadn’t witnessed many encounters between men of the East and Europeans, and he found the interaction between Goltz and his Ottoman colleagues absorbing. When irritated, Goltz would take off his round spectacles and wave them around, while his face turned very red, and he would lift his hands up to his hair and down again in rigid, mechanical fashion like a wind-up toy. He was especially impatient with his local staff, reprimanding them in his pidgin Turkish for the slightest mistake. Hadi once witnessed the flogging of a tea boy who had accidentally dropped a glass on one of Goltz’s documents.

One day, while walking back to Headquarters, Hadi spotted Goltz patting his handsome pair of Turkish Kangal sheepdogs. The way he fussed over them, murmuring to them and affectionately stroking them, was in complete contrast to the way he treated people.

Whatever his personal idiosyncrasies, Goltz earned his military reputation. He was regarded as a hero by many for his successful planning of the famous siege of Kut in Mesopotamia in 1916, which inflicted a humiliating defeat upon the British. All the same, having seen how he treated his staff, Hadi wasn’t sure if Goltz really cared about the fate of the Arab people.

The fighting continued unabated as the British pushed north towards Baghdad. The sound of weeping became a constant in the streets as women feared for the safety of their conscripted sons, husbands and fathers. There were shocking reports of children dying of starvation, of women selling themselves in order to survive, and of harsh reprisals by the Ottoman military authorities. Hadi knew the last of these to be true, as he had seen for himself the bodies of army deserters left to rot on poles in several of Baghdad’s squares.

One morning, a woman approached him as he stood outside the Citadel talking to a friend. In spite of her youthful voice, she looked old. She was haggard with worry, and had barely started talking when her tears welled up. Both her sons had been conscripted a year earlier, she explained, and she hadn’t even seen them go as they had been forcibly carted away from their shop in the soug al saffafir, the metal market, where they were coppersmiths. She begged Hadi to find out where they were, as no one had responded to her many pleas. He wrote down their names and told her he would do his best.

Hadi approached some of his colleagues, who simply shrugged their shoulders and said that it was probably lucky the boys’ mother didn’t know their fate, as they had most likely perished on the Eastern Front in Russia. Unable to give the woman the news she wanted, instead he started to give her food secretly, which he could arrange fairly easily as he was delivering supplies to the officer at the Deer Palace. She took the food gratefully, especially as the price of staples such as sugar and wheat had risen drastically in recent months. Yet the look of hollowness in her eyes never left her as she waited for her sons to return.