At Faisal’s house she also met Jafar Pasha. A fat, jolly man, he was nonetheless a judicious authority and outstanding soldier who had won military honors from both the British and the Turks. Jafar, who was of Kurdish origin and came from Mosul, was fluent in seven languages—English, French, German, Arabic, Turkish, Kurdish, Persian—and tested her in all. (She did well in the first five, had never learned Kurdish, and had forgotten most of her Persian.) Knowing of her affection for the Arabs, he asked her to help him return to Iraq. She promised to try. “He is an honest man who would be useful to us,” she noted correctly, “and said to be by far the most capable administrator in the Arab Government.”
Nuri Said had been Faisal’s chief of staff in the Arab army and held a similar role in Faisal’s court. Born in Baghdad to a father who was an attorney, he was reserved and more of an introvert than Jafar but, like him, highly Westernized. The two men made a good team. They had met in military school and formed a strong bond, made even stronger by a pact to marry each other’s sister. If Jafar had the common touch, Nuri was politically more shrewd. Gertrude wrote with foresight, “Probably the best of them, a man of considerable intelligence.” Continually loyal to the British, Nuri would serve as Prime Minister under fourteen different Arab Governments in Iraq.
In a letter to her parents Gertrude described what she had seen in the city. Wherever she went, the desire for self-determination, “the Spirit of 1919,” had overtaken all. “If the French won’t recognize it, there will be risings and massacres and Heaven knows what.”
By October 12, her stay in Damascus complete, Gertrude went on to Aleppo, where she found her old aide-de-camp, the loyal Fattuh, living with his wife in a tiny, rented house. He was still suffering from the war. “The Turks dropped on him,” she wrote in her diary, “because he was my servant.” He had lost weight, his once round face was now haggard and he had aged a great deal. His years of service to the woman who had become a leading intelligence agent for the British had cost him dearly. Nonetheless, he was delighted to see her and, after warm embraces, told her what had happened. Drafted twice into the Turkish army, he had managed to buy his way out; but later he had been imprisoned and then impoverished by the Turks. Stripped of his two homes, his garden, his horses and even his carriages, he was drained of everything, forced to earn a meager living by carting wood.
He still had some of her camp kit from their desert travels, and pulling out her old plates and cups, he prepared a picnic for her motor trip to Iraq. Her old equipment brought to mind much happier days. “Oh Fattuh,” she said, “before the war our hearts were so light when we traveled; now they are so heavy that a camel could not carry us.”
Smiling, he answered good-naturedly, “My lady, no, a camel couldn’t carry you.”
“My poor Fattuh,” she grieved and gave him some money, promising to help him rent a garden from the Muslim authorities. They hugged again, and she left for Baghdad, unaware that in her absence A. T. Wilson had used his authority and abolished the Arab Bureau office in Baghdad. And in an ominous letter to a colleague in London he had written: “I shall be interested to know what Miss Bell is going to do when she comes here. She will take some handling.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A Change of Thinking
A wave of happiness surged through Gertrude as the motor car approached her walled house and lurched to a stop. Eight months had gone by since she left for the Paris Peace Conference, and she hurried to see her garden—a riot of zinnias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. Her villa, with its narrow columns in front, had been improved with the addition of new rooms; and her servants, happy to have her back, came running out to greet her. Word spread like wildfire that the Khatun had returned, and within hours of her arrival a stream of notables flowed through her doorway. She was home, happy to be there, amidst the familiar sights of the Tigris and the date palm groves, the familiar sounds of Victoria carriages clopping along the Baghdad streets, the familiar smells of fresh baked bread and sweetened turnips floating through the Mesopotamian air.
Now, besides seeing people, what she wanted to do most was to write her Syrian report.
At the office, visitors filled her days, taking up too much of her time, she complained. She had already been to see the Naqib, the holy man, informing him of what she had learned in Paris and London and on her trip through the East, and she had paid a condolence call on the family of one of her Arab friends, Abdul Rahman Jamil. Although he had been dead for a month, the women of the family were still in deepest mourning, his wife and sisters dressed in somber black, their hair shorn, their cheeks covered with streaming tears. “I’m very sorry he’s dead,” she wrote to Florence, adding tartly: “But I’m glad he won’t have the opportunity of doing it again, so that I shall not have to pay another visit of condolence. It was awful.” No one, she remarked, “unless they determine to do so, can cry solidly for a month.” She seemed to forget how long she mourned for Doughty-Wylie.
The influx of five hundred and fifty British wives, children and relatives, given permission to arrive after the war, had dramatically changed the lives of the British officials. “Brides come out in swarms to be married here,” she wrote. Two weddings took place just after she came back. A social whirlwind was sweeping the town, and she was carried along, in her new clothes, to a round of receptions and teas given by British, Muslim and Jewish women. A public library was being built, a law school opened, a female ward built in the civic hospital and a school opened for Muslim girls. But all too soon her colleagues’ wives became a moaning brigade complaining about the heat and the dust, the sloppy mud, the awful food, the horrible Arabs. “These idle women” were getting on her nerves, demanding that she pay them social calls, yet when she asked them to attend ceremonies for the Arabs, they refused to come. “They can think what they like about me but I won’t bother about them any more,” she wrote angrily to Florence.
She was more at home among the Arab men than among the British women. When, in early November, her colleague Sir Edgar Bonham Carter hosted an at-home for Arab notables, Gertrude was one of only five British officials invited to attend. She arrived, dressed in a high-necked, long-sleeved gown and frilly hat, and looked around the room: fifty Arab men were seated in typical fashion, chairs arranged in a circle. As soon as they saw her they rose, and she walked around the room, going from one to the next, shaking hands, knowing them all by name, saying something significant to each. How was his wife? she asked. How was the health of his eldest son? What was the state of his crops? What did he think about the political situation?
Not only did she enjoy the company of the Arab men (and used their friendship in her work), but her special status appealed to her snobbishness. Toward the end of November, she was invited to visit one of the most learned Muslims in Baghdad. The notable did not like the British, yet he always treated her as a friend. “He doesn’t consort with Europeans at all,” she wrote home, but “he had a select little party to meet me. I must say I feel a sense of personal triumph when I sit in that house as an intimate.”
Her own house was more comfortable than ever: with some good bargaining in the bazaar, she had acquired a charming black cupboard and a chest; her maid Marie, who had just arrived by ship, was sewing curtains and busily fixing up the rooms; her new cook was preparing vegetables from the garden. She wished only that the new furniture and crockery she had ordered from Maples in England would arrive so that she could increase the size of her parties. With her staff in place, she hosted dinners for friends like Frank Balfour, the new Governor of Baghdad, Bonham Carter, the Justice Minister, and General MacMunn, the Commander-in-Chief. Whoever the guests, she dominated the conversation. Her voice deep from the smoke of tobacco, her eyes sparkling, her enthusiasm boundless, she magnetized the men. Her conversation leapt from French to English to Arabic; it bounced from politics to gossip, from the attitudes at Whitehall to how best to administer the Arabs; from how to do the newest dances, to the number of stitches to the inc
h in the finest Persian carpets, to the proper way to dine in the tent of a sheikh, to the excavations at Babylon, to the horse given her by General MacMunn, to the pair of salukis—tall, slender, silken-haired dogs—that had just arrived from Fahad Bey. “On any subject that arose,” said the enchanted Sir George MacMunn, “she was sure to be interesting and entertaining.”
But before it all, she worked on her report. Reviewing for the Foreign Office what she had seen and heard, she detailed everything on her trip, from Zionism to nationalism, emphasizing the Arab Government that stretched from Damascus to Aleppo and the importance of the Arab nationalist cliques. At last, after toiling in her office late into the night, every night for three weeks, she finished. Ending with a lengthy analysis of Syria, she dated her report November 15, 1919, and signed it GLB.
Her ideas had turned almost one hundred and eighty degrees from where they had been before her trip. She had gone from believing the Arabs could never rule themselves to seeing them govern themselves in Syria. She had gone from denying the notion that there is an Arab nation comprised of one Arab people to seeing the fervor of Arab nationalism in Palestine and in Syria. She had gone from assuming that Britain must stay in total control to recognizing the need for it to cede considerable authority. With General Clayton’s help in Cairo, she had seen the light: compromise would prolong British importance, not reduce it. The more the British helped the Arabs achieve self-rule, she now proposed, the longer the British could retain their economic and political influence. The paper marked a seminal change in her thinking.
It was useless to speculate on who was to blame for the current situation in Syria—the British installation of an Arab government while the French claimed control—or why it had happened, she wrote: “A more profitable line of thought lies in the direction of considering how the twelve-month existence—even if it fails to exist longer—of an independent Arab State [in Syria] has affected and will affect Mesopotamia. It is true that the Arab administration [in Syria] has left much to be desired, and equally true that it has been artificially financed by our subsidy to the Sharif; but it has presented, nevertheless, the outward appearance of a national Government; public business has been kept going, tramways have run, streets have been lighted, people have bought and sold, and a normal world has been maintained.” If Faisal’s government failed in Syria, she said, the Arabs would blame the British for their lack of support as much as they would blame the French for their aggression. “If it crumbles … its failure will be attributed, not to inherent defect, but to British indifference and French ambition.”
Referring to the Anglo-French Declaration of November 1918, which promised self-determination to the Arabs, she wrote, “We have stated that it is our intention to assist and establish in Syria and in Mesopotamia indigenous governments and administrations. I believe that events of the last year have left us no choice in Mesopotamia.” Yet, she acknowledged, the choice was not an easy one. “Local conditions, the vast potential wealth of the country, the tribal character of its rural population, the lack of material from which to draw official personnel will make the problem harder to solve than elsewhere.” But, she could envision no other response. “I venture to think that the answer to such objections is that any alternative line of action would create problems the solution of which we are learning to be harder still.”
Then came her inescapable conclusion: “An Arab State in Mesopotamia … within a short period of years is a possibility, and …the recognition or creation of a logical scheme of government on these lines, in supercession of those on which we are now working on Mesopotamia, would be practical and popular.”
The report threw Wilson into a rage. And it hardly pleased most of her other colleagues in Baghdad. Britain’s commercial interest in Mesopotamia was long and deep, emmeshed in a marketplace that imported nearly half its goods—including coal and iron, textiles and manufactured goods—from British supplies, and provided Britain with some thirty-five percent of its exports, including dates, figs, olive oil and grain. In addition, Britain’s navy and its newly emerging air force needed to find substantial sources of oil. Unlike the United States, which was already producing 376 million barrels a year, England had no oil of its own; to retain her independence, she had to develop her own fields.
The same month that Gertrude called for self-rule in Mesopotamia, the General Staff in Baghdad issued a memorandum stating Mesopotamia’s critical importance to the British Empire: “The future power of the world is oil,” they wrote. “The oil fields of southern Persia, now under British control, are the most inexhaustible ‘proved’ fields in the world. The Mosul province and the banks of the mid-Euphrates promise to afford oil in great quantities, although the extent of the fields is not yet proved.… With a railway and pipeline in the Mediterranean, which is forecast within the next ten years, the position of England as a naval power in the Mediterranean could be doubly assured, and our dependence on the Suez canal, which is a vulnerable point in our line of communication with the East, would be considerably lessened.”
A. T. Wilson was well aware of the value of oil; he would not take the risk of losing Mesopotamia. When Gertrude’s report reached his desk, he seethed with anger. Writing a cover letter to Whitehall that said, politely, “I have the honour to enclose herewith an interesting and valuable note by Miss G. L. Bell CBE, entitled ‘Syria in 1919,’ ” Wilson went on to include a few of his own observations to London:
“The fundamental assumption throughout this note and, I should add, throughout recent correspondence which has reached me from London, is that an Arab State in Mesopotamia and elsewhere within a short period of years is a possibility, and that the recognition and creation of a logical scheme of Government along these lines …would be practicable and popular; in other words the assumption is that the Anglo-French Declaration of November 18th, 1918, represents a practical line of policy to pursue in the near future. My observations in this country and elsewhere have forced me to the conclusion that this assumption is erroneous.”
The dispute was irreparable; the bridge that Gertrude and Wilson had built between them was shattered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Desert Storms
Shunned by most of the British staff, who were vehemently opposed to her Syrian report, Gertrude could at least take solace in the Arabs who flocked to her office seeking advice. Umm al Muminin, they called her, the Mother of the Faithful. “The last person who bore that name was Ayishah, the wife of the Prophet,” she wrote proudly to Hugh. But by December 1919, all sorts of problems were cropping up. Small personal matters, like her need for household supplies: sheets, blankets, pillowcases and towels, and damask cloths for her new dining room table. And oh, the high cost of living since the end of the war! Meat was very expensive, eggs less, but as a civilian no longer receiving army rations, she had suddenly come face to face with the price of food. She was paying her cook a hundred and eight pounds a year, her butler eighty-four pounds, and he was due for a raise. Even Harrods had sent her a bill for four pounds, but she’d paid it “somehow!” she swore.
She felt saddened too over the sudden death of her generous landlord, Musa Pachachi. He was one of Baghdad’s most prominent families and along with the Naqib, had been her earliest Baghdad friend. “It wasn’t only unvarying affectionate kindness I got from him,” she explained to her father, “but a very frank and valuable appreciation of politics. He was fearless and outspoken, had no axe to grind and I could go to him for information and advice as I could go to no one else. I do grieve for him—Baghdad isn’t the same place without him.”
His wise political counsel might have saved her heartache over the difficult issues arising in the north. But he was gone, and the tribes along the Euphrates were becoming of some concern. There were signs that a major uprising was about to begin. An Arab force had seized Dair al Zor, a Euphrates town four hundred miles north of Baghdad, where the border with Syria was still undefined. The local tribes were caught up in the Syria
n nationalist movement. A question had arisen over who would administer the territory: a British Political Officer from Mesopotamia or a representative of the Arab Government in Syria. When it was rumored that an Arab force was moving down to attack the area, the British Political Officer in Dair rushed to the scene to make a recconaissance. Finding no trace of any unusual movement, the Political Officer tried to return to his post, but on the way back he was ambushed and fired at by tribesmen. Only with difficulty did he reach Dair.
Still not suspecting serious trouble, but just to be safe, he alerted Baghdad and arrested the Mayor of Dair (who he thought had been conniving with the agitators). Early the following morning, a force of tribesmen marched in from the south, joined the townsmen and ransacked Dair: they raided the hospital, the church, the mosques and the Political Office, where they broke open the safe and stole the contents. They blew up the oil dump, wounding ninety people, released all the prisoners in the jail and attacked the British army barracks. When the Political Officer tried to make peace in the town, the sheikhs attacked him in a fury. Just as they were about to kill him, two British airplanes flew overhead, spraying the town with machine-gun fire. “The sheikhs changed their note at once,” Gertrude reported. Minutes after the airplanes left, the notables signed an armistice with the British. But it was only a temporary truce.
That afternoon, Ramadhan al Shallash, a leader of Mesopotamian origin and a member of al Ahd al Iraqi, the nationalist group, arrived from Damascus. He promised the British officers safe passage, but then, changing his mind, kept them hostage. He quickly established himself in authority, called in the local sheikhs from the region around the Euphrates, gave them generous payments and incited them to rebel against the British. He even encouraged them to carry the war to India. Fortunately, a few of the sheikhs, including Fahad Bey, the Paramount Chief of the Anazeh, remained loyal to the British. For two weeks the situation in Dair remained extremely tense. In Baghdad the mood was hardly better. Gertrude and Wilson were sliding farther apart. He ignored her in the mess and belittled her in front of colleagues. In a letter to a friend, Wilson wrote, “I am having some trouble with Miss Bell. On political questions, she is rather fanatic.” At about the same time, on December 20, Gertrude wrote home: “Rather a trying week, for A. T. has been overworked—a chronic state—and in a condition when he ought not to be working, which results in making him savagely cross and all our lives rather a burden in consequence.”
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