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

Bibi was very aware that her entire raison d’être now was to produce an heir quickly. It was expected of her, as it was expected of every married woman. Until Bibi was able to fulfil her part of the bargain by falling pregnant, preferably with a son, her insecurities and fears of failure overshadowed all else. If she could not produce a child, she feared that Hadi might divorce her and find someone else to marry. She was less concerned that he might take a second wife, as polygamy, although lawful, was frowned upon in his family.

Despite her worries, the issue of motherhood was not a subject Bibi felt comfortable discussing with anyone else in the household; she had not known any of the women long enough to engage in such an intimate conversation with them. But her obsession with conceiving was like a sore tooth that she couldn’t leave alone, a wound she was forever probing. She would immerse herself in dark thoughts, praying to every conceivable saint and visiting the Kazimiya shrine regularly, pleading with the Imam to grant her wish. She imagined bringing shame on herself and her mother, becoming socially ostracized. Barren, barren, barren.

She was disturbed when one evening Jamila told her the tale of Hadi’s dead aunt Burhan, the Nawab’s first wife. Shaking her head at the awfulness of it all, Jamila explained that Burhan had died young from an infection; apparently her illness had been caused by an infertility remedy prescribed by a backstreet quack.

On a visit to her mother’s house Bibi gave vent to her worries. Saeeda had to calm her down, holding her when she started to hyperventilate. ‘You must be patient, my child,’ Saeeda said softly. ‘You mustn’t do this to yourself. Have faith in God; you will become pregnant.’

Bibi groaned in despair and would not be comforted, so Saeeda suggested that they visit Imam Musa at the shrine again. Saeeda firmly believed that he was the granter of all wishes. Bibi was less sure; the Imam hadn’t listened to her prayers so far, even though she was his relative. As one of the Ahl-ul Bayt, she was a descendant of the Prophet and the twelve Shi’a Imams she prayed to.

Saeeda tried another approach. She suggested that Bibi go to Samarra, to the malwiya, the spiral tower at the Great Mosque, where she should climb all the way to the top. Then she should make her wish and throw her abaya to the ground below. ‘Like Fahima did, and she was pregnant soon after,’ Saeeda said confidently.

Bibi burst into tears. It was impossible for her to go to Samarra; if she did the Chalabi family would surely guess her predicament, and she would never recover from the shame. Even so, she spent many sleepless nights debating the pros and cons of such a trip, before finally deciding against it.

In spite of her anguish at not conceiving a child and her reservations about her new home, a warm relationship began to develop between Bibi and her husband’s family, who came to view her very fondly.

She developed a particular bond with her father-in-law. Rather than shy away from him like the young bride she was, Bibi engaged Abdul Hussein in conversation, finding in him an attentive ear to her stories and questions. She was hungry to learn about the world outside, and he indulged her curiosity. With her humour and quick wit, she soon gained a place in his heart and he embraced her as one of his daughters. Just as he had bought his daughters shares in the Kazimiya Tramway company that he now chaired, he bought Bibi some too, so fond of her had he become. At the time, shares were an unusual asset compared to land, which both men and women could inherit or own.

Hungry for paternal affection, Bibi became very attached to Abdul Hussein, and enjoyed his company tremendously. She may even have placed more importance on her relationship with him than on that with Hadi, who was often away at Military Headquarters. She also realized that her closeness to him earned her more respect in the household. A politician at heart, she slowly but surely made her mark in her new home.

She was perhaps fortunate that Jamila, her mother-in-law, was such a subdued creature, who remained at the mercy of Khadja. And the layout of the large house permitted Bibi to build a good relationship with Jamila and her children, especially her daughter Shamsa, while staying out of the dowager’s way. Jamila was very different to Rumia. She didn’t have the same oppressive piety; she enjoyed a good laugh, and when left alone by her fractious sisters-in-law, Munira, Amira and Shaouna, was very jolly. The wrath of God did not loom over her in the same way that it did for Rumia.

Hadi’s three aunts, who had come with Khadja to inspect her as a prospective bride, did not live in the big house, but hovered about its fringes. Bibi succeeded in winning them over too, appeasing them with flattery and politeness.

Yet for all that Bibi gradually settled into her new home, a secret corner of her heart remained in her mother’s house, the home of her childhood memories. One day Abdul Hussein overheard her singing a popular new song about the war:

Chalchal alayah al rumana, wil numi fiza’li

Hatha il hilu ma rida, waduni lahli …

Ya yumah la tintithrin, batlili al natra

Ma juz ana min hwai, wu maku kul charah …

The pomegranate tree engulfed me, and the sweet lemon came to my rescue;

I don’t want this sweetness, take me home …

Oh, mother don’t wait for me, there is no point in waiting;

I will never abandon my home, there is nothing to be done.

The song was about the Ottomans, referred to as bitter pomegranates, and the British, who were the sweet lemons. The words expressed the longing of a soldier or prisoner for his home, with the implication being that he wanted neither the sour Ottomans nor the sweet antidote to their bitterness, the British. Hearing Bibi sing, Abdul Hussein could tell that the song might just as well be about her own longing for her mother. The wistfulness in her voice said it all.

When she finished, he came into the room clapping his hands, praising her for her fine voice. Bibi laughed, and asked him teasingly whether he thought she could make a career of it.

He started laughing too: ‘No, no, Bibi – you’re too good to be wasted in the cafés!’

Bibi smiled. Neither of them spoke of the sentiment that echoed through the verse.

Outside the Chalabi house, change was bearing down on the city gates. Ever since 1914, British forces had been a hostile presence in Mesopotamia, capturing the southern cities of Basra, Nassiriya and Samawa. Although they had suffered a crushing defeat at Kut in 1916, losing 23,000 soldiers to disease and famine, a new military commander had rallied the troops and resumed the advance towards Baghdad.

In March 1917, under the instructions of their Commander-in-Chief Khalil Pasha, the Ottoman troops spent several days digging trenches outside Baghdad in preparation for the British offensive. On 10 March a sandstorm descended on the city. In the face of the relentless storm and the advancing British army, Khalil Pasha realized that he had insufficient men under his command, that too many had been diverted to fight the Russians in Persia. He ordered a retreat.

However, first he issued orders to destroy all the major factories and arms depots in the city. The pontoon bridge was burned and factories were blown up, as was the telecommunication station the Germans had built. Supplies of ammunition were dumped in the Tigris, and the retreating Turks blew up one of the four main gates to the city, the Talisman gate. Most of the Ottoman administrative personnel fled, taking with them official documents and registers. Baghdad was left exposed, the corpses of dead Ottoman soldiers brought in from nearby fronts littered the streets, and a mob of impoverished city dwellers and tribesmen from the outskirts took over the city, looting what was left. Some, such as the Bedouins, were motivated to loot simply as one of their own customs of war, while others were expressing their resentment of the Ottomans and the harshness they had witnessed during the war.

Across the River Tigris in Kazimiya, people heard explosions but could not see what was happening because of the sandstorm that blacked out the sun. At the Chalabi house, family members gathered on the rooftop. In the darkness they could not tell what time of day it was, and sand seeped into their noses and ears even when they retreated indoors. Bibi and her sister-in-law Shamsa clutched each other’s hands as they heard a thunderous sequence of the explosions set off by the retreating army.

In the streets outside, people dashed around, desperately seeking shelter, crashing into each other or into walls because of the sand that stung their eyes. Their cries added to the clamour. The thickness of the air, dense with sand, increased the panic.

Amidst this chaos, townspeople watched in disbelief as Khalil Pasha and his officers arrived at Kazimiya station and brazenly boarded a train for Samarra. Luckily, the town was spared looting by the nearby desert tribes, the ruffians and bandits who appeared during chaotic times, as the town’s notables came together and took Kazimiya’s security into their own hands.

The next morning, General Sir Frederick Maude’s Anglo-Indian troops entered Baghdad and marched along the avenue built by Khalil Pasha’s troops to facilitate their own military manoeuvres in the city. The avenue cut through the very heart of Baghdad, from the northern gate at Bab al-Mu’adam near the Citadel, all the way towards the central Maidan Square and the river beyond it.

British troops entering Baghdad, March 1917.

Maude’s troops met no resistance. They found a vanquished city, its buildings looted and destroyed. Many Baghdadis were uneasy about the possibility of a Turkish reprisal, so there were few cheers and little applause in the streets. The British flag was hoisted at the clock tower in the former Ottoman government complex in Qishla, the old city, and public order was swiftly restored. It was soon apparent, however, that there was no clear plan for political action. Maude read out an elaborate and flowery speech to the people of Baghdad six days after the city’s capture, penned earlier by a British adventurer and diplomat in the region, Sir Mark Sykes. In it, he emphasized that the purpose of the British presence was not occupation, but rather emancipation:

Our armies come into your cities and lands not as conquerors or enemies, but as liberators … Between your people and the dominions of my King there has been a close bond of interest. For 200 years have the merchants of Baghdad and Great Britain traded together in mutual profit and friendship … Many noble Arabs have perished in the cause of Arab freedom, at the hands of those alien rulers, the Turks, who oppressed them. It is the determination of the Government of Great Britain and the great Powers allied to Great Britain that these noble Arabs shall not have suffered in vain … I am commanded to invite you, through your nobles and elders and representatives, to participate in the management of your civil affairs in collaboration with the political representatives of Great Britain who accompany the British Army, so that you may be united with your kinsmen in North, East, South, and West in realizing the aspirations of your race.

Maude’s mention of emancipation had some echo in Baghdad, especially among those officers who had participated in the Arab revolt further south against the Ottomans in 1916. Discontent with the Ottomans had grown ever since the Young Turks’ revolt of 1908, and was now shared by many. However, their notions of ‘liberation’ also implied independence and self-rule – features that appeared to be lacking in British plans, which seemed to be more concerned with economic factors such as their ability to maintain control of the oil fields in Iraq and Iran and to secure a route to India, where they continued to have an imperial presence. It seemed that the British were in no immediate hurry to make up their minds as far as the future of Mesopotamia was concerned. Uncertainty filled the air.

The war had taken its toll on Baghdad’s population. The Ottomans had confiscated many essential goods, such as agricultural produce, livestock and pack animals, as well as less vital but nonetheless desirable goods such as women’s clothing and printing presses. In return, merchants had simply been given signed slips of paper, offering an unspecified amount in reimbursement after the war.

Within the Ottoman army, officers had sometimes made profits on the goods they confiscated. The war had created the perfect conditions for bureaucratic corruption and the abuse of power; it was in effect official looting – of market goods, animals, crops, everything and anything the army and its associates could lay their hands on.

In Baghdad, food shortages had been made worse by the onslaught of a cholera epidemic, as well as river floods which had forced many out of their homes in 1916. Those in Kazimiya, such as Abdul Hussein and his family, had been luckier, as the lie of the land was higher and more protected from the rising waters of the Tigris. The town received many refugees following the floods in Baghdad.

Although there was a sense of relief that the war was over, this alone could not subdue the shock caused by the collapse of the Ottoman administration and the subsequent British occupation. The war had brought with it many aspects of modernity that had rattled the population, most notably the mass mobilization of civilians and military. It had also brought profound loss, and now an important layer of their identity was being stripped from the inhabitants of the Baghdad Province. They had, after all, been Ottomans for centuries.

For Hadi, the biggest shock came days after the fall of Baghdad, when he saw British soldiers on the upper deck of a tramcar approaching Kazimiya, sitting casually on the same benches that had been occupied only days earlier by Ottoman soldiers. Having worked for the past couple of years in close proximity to the Ottoman Military Headquarters and its staff, Hadi could not but feel some attachment and loyalty to his erstwhile colleagues.

Not long afterwards, while walking along the path to the Citadel, he was unsettled by the sight of thousands of Ottoman soldiers who were being detained in a large camp by the British. It seemed only yesterday that the opposite had been the case; he remembered the public celebrations following the siege of Kut, which had lasted for 140 days from December 1915 to April 1916. Then, 13,000 British and Indian prisoners of war had been paraded on foot through Baghdad on their way to detention centres in Anatolia.

Hadi wondered what this British army had in store for Baghdad. He already felt a stranger in his city. Everything that he had taken for granted as a Muslim living in an Ottoman Muslim province was collapsing around him.

As an older man with a longer memory of his Ottoman heritage, Hadi’s father had an even stronger reaction to the recent developments. For Abdul Hussein this went much deeper than mere politics – the Ottoman Empire had defined who he and his family were for several centuries. The Sultan had always existed in his memory and imagination, whatever the shortcomings of his rule in Mesopotamia. The situation had been unbearable for the population during the war, but even so he had never desired this outcome. Like many others, Hadi and Abdul Hussein had to grapple with the implications of the Ottoman defeat.

After securing Baghdad, Maude moved north towards Mosul, fighting the remaining Ottoman army there. Several other battles were being fought by the Ottomans against the Allies, who were moving in on many fronts in the Mediterranean, Mesopotamia and Palestine. A blockade of the Dardanelles incapacitated the Ottomans, and Istanbul became awash with refugees fleeing the fighting. Unable to withstand further pressure, the Ottoman government surrendered unconditionally at Mudros, a harbour on Lemnos, a Greek island in the Aegean, on 31 October 1918.

Four hundred years of Ottoman rule in Mesopotamia had ended. What would replace it?

NOVEMBER 1999, BEIRUT

It’s a Saturday night and I’m out for dinner with a couple of friends. Another friend calls on his cell phone, inviting us to join him at a place nearby where there’s music. Slowly we make our way through the lively night to join him. I haven’t bothered to ask what kind of music it is or who will be performing.

On a small stage in the middle of the room, a short, unassuming and serious-looking man takes his place on a chair with a guitar on his lap and starts singing. I discover he is a well-known Iraqi artist, Ilham al-Madfa’i. To my surprise he sings a popular old Iraqi folk song fused with flamenco beats.

Mali Shughul bil Soug, maret ashufak