“I thought as he stood there in his white and gold lace, with his air of fine and simple dignity that there had never been an arrival more momentous—never anyone on whom more conflicting emotions were centred, hopes and doubts and fears, but above all confidence in his personal integrity and wisdom,” Gertrude recalled later. With all eyes focused upon him, Cox strode into the enclosure, and as he did, Sir Edgar presented Miss Bell. Nearly giddy and flushed with joy, she curtsied deeply; it was all she could do to keep from crying.
Out of the train stepped her longtime friend Mr. Philby, serving as Cox’s deputy; Captain Cheesman, Cox’s personal secretary; and Lady Cox. Like everyone else, Gertrude stared in amazement at the wife of the High Commissioner. After a ten-hour journey through showers of dust, she looked, Gertrude said, “as if she had emerged from the finest bandbox—‘a miracle,’ ” the group told Lady Cox as they all exchanged warm greetings.
After each of the dignitaries in the enclosure was presented to Cox, a welcoming address was read by Jamil Zahawi, a famous Baghdad orator. Sir Percy responded in Arabic, saying that he had come “by order of His Majesty’s Government to enter into counsel with the people of the Iraq for the purpose of setting up an Arab Government under the supervision of Great Britain.”
This was the first time the name “Iraq” was used officially by the British, a deliberate decision by Sir Percy to recognize the Arabic identity of the future state. Iraq would belong to the Arabic people and be ruled by the Arabic people. His words aroused a swell of pride and a chorus of cheers from the people gathered around.
Charged by Lord Curzon to obtain “a stable spot in the Middle East” and redeem the country “from misrule and anarchy,” Cox planned to fulfill his mission at once. As the crowd interrupted his speech with murmurs of praise and words of agreement, he asked that “the people cooperate with him in the establishment of settled conditions” so that he could proceed immediately with his task.
Then, it was off to Sir Percy’s house. Lady Cox (who had brought some things for Gertrude, among them her fur coats, an afternoon gown for the winter, a billycock riding hat, a pair of black riding boots and more flower bulbs from Kent and Brydon), now the official hostess, supervised the servants as they brought in tea, but she soon dashed out to see the new home being built for the High Commissioner.
It was then that Gertrude, Philby and Cox sat down to talk, and the moment Sir Percy spoke, Gertrude felt the pain of the past few months wash away. He intended to form a provisional Arab Government at once, without waiting for a complete halt to the rebellion, which was still going on in more than a third of the country. He planned to set up an Arab Council, call on a local notable to serve as Prime Minister and have him head a provisional Cabinet made up of Arab Ministers (whom the British would choose). Cox himself would appoint a British Adviser to each of the Arab Ministers; and he wanted the cabinet to take on the job of preparing and holding the first general election. Gertrude, Philby and Cox all agreed how difficult it would be to find the right person to serve as Prime Minister, but Sir Percy thought that the Basrah politician Sayid Talib, with his substantial constituency, could do the job.
Hearing the name made Gertrude anxious. “You had better see people here and form your opinion,” she said, trying to hide her distaste for the nominee. “But whatever you do,” she promised Cox, “we will do our utmost to further. The main thing is to decide on something and get it done.” She knew she would not have to worry. Sir Percy never jumped to decisions but moved with caution and care. A seasoned statesman, the model of a British diplomat, he was a man who projected strength in his very presence and offered wisdom in whatever he said. And if he had his eccentricities, like his passion for birds or keeping a pet bear in his home, they made him all the more an Englishman. Cox belonged to that special world inhabited by her father and few other men; she held him in the highest esteem.
Respected by the Arabs (as he still is today) and sympathetic to their plight, Cox was the antithesis of the imperious Wilson, who had belittled her and the Iraqis for desiring independence. Only a few days after Wilson’s departure she felt as if she had awakened from a nightmare. “I didn’t realise till he had left how horribly oppressive it had been,” she admitted in a letter home. “One thing is certain. I’ll never again work for A.T. If he comes back here, I step out, that instant. I can’t work with any man as unscrupulous as he. I’m not the first; Mr. Dobbs had the same doubts.” So too did the able Mr. Philby, who had clashed with the arrogant Wilson years before in Basrah and refused to work for him under any circumstances. But as for Cox, she revered him: “It is quite impossible to tell you the relief and comfort it is to serve under somebody in whose judgment one has complete confidence,” she wrote in girlish wonder; “he brings a single-eyed desire to act in the interests of the people of the country.”
To her delight, at the dinner given by the Commander-in-Chief that evening, Sir Percy was seated beside her. Her excitement nearly heated up the drafty room—not enough, however, to keep from making her bronchitis worse. Nevertheless, early the following morning she made her way cheerfully to the Residency. Sir Percy summoned her almost at once. “We talked over some telegrams,” she reported to her father, “I trying to conceal the fact that it was a wholly novel experience to be taken into confidence on matters of importance!”
Returning down the hall, she found her own office deluged with visitors and letters, but it took her aback when she learned they had all come to express their anger: the notables invited to the welcoming ceremonies had been herded together, kept outside the privileged area, left to stand humiliatingly in the open dust. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to shake Sir Percy’s hand, they complained. One old sheikh cried furiously, “We came in love and obedience, and when we tried to get near His Excellency we were pushed away.” Kokus was enormously admired by the Arabs, but she knew this sort of rebuff could lead to a dangerous reaction. It was clear that something had to be done to heal the wounds.
“I decided at once to invest myself with the duties of Oriental Secretary,” Gertrude explained to Hugh. The title had been hers under Wilson, but all of its power had been stripped. Now, using the position to full advantage, she called in her colleague Philby, and together they drafted a letter to one hundred Baghdad notables, inviting them to meet the next day with Sir Percy Cox. Then, in view of the fact that in at least half the country, the insurrection, although it had quieted down, had not ceased, they planned for the High Commissioner to take a trip to Mosul to explain his ideas. Lastly, as she explained later to Cox, it would be good for him to confer with the Euphrates sheikhs and Fahad Bey of the Anazeh. The High Commissioner Cox agreed enthusiastically to all her proposals. “I shan’t go on running the affairs of Mesopotamia,” she acknowledged to Hugh, “but for the moment there wasn’t anyone else to do it and as there wasn’t a second to lose I just upped and did it.”
The following day she and Cox talked confidentially about possible Arab Ministers. The biggest question of all was: Who should be asked to take on the job of Prime Minister and form the Arab Cabinet? To her vast relief, Cox had already learned of the animosity toward Sayid Talib. Many people were now suggesting the Naqib as Prime Minister. As the religious authority, he was held in the highest esteem, and though he was elderly and ill, he would make a fine transitional leader.
When Sir Percy asked if she would like to be his Oriental Secretary or take some other job, she answered yes to her old post without a moment’s hestitation. It was, undoubtedly, the perfect place for her; as liaison between the High Commissioner and the Arab Government she could promote the interests of both and, not incidentally, poke her nose in everyone’s affairs. She had struggled hard under Wilson just to stay in place; now, those on the staff who felt loyal to Wilson had been dismissed, and she was in the lead brigade advancing toward an Arab state. Her spirits were stronger than they had been in years, but the bronchitis was getting the better of her; her body racked from the chest cou
gh.
As weak as she was and confined to bed, she was besieged by a stream of Baghdadis. On the pretext of inquiring after her health, the Mayor, the son of the Naqib and a string of Euphrates sheikhs, led by the eighty-year-old Fahad Bey (who had recently married two new wives), appeared at her doorstep, made their way to her dining room and, plopping down on the new Persian sofa, poured out their hopes and fears. At the end of each day she wrote up her notes, turning their rumors and gossip into valuable reports.
While she was still at home, a message arrived from Cox that he had called a “Council of State”; since Gertrude could not come to the office, he informed her, the council would come to her. Sir Percy, Philby, Bullard, Bonham Carter and two others arrived to discuss a scheme for the provisional Arab Cabinet. At the end of the meeting Sir Percy said he would now approach the Naqib to head it up as Prime Minister. Far and away the best-qualified candidate, the holy man was moved by considerations that were above suspicion; his influence among the Sunni community was unequaled; his religious and social position commanded universal respect. Gertrude was all in favor, but she was sure the Naqib would turn it down. For two days she heard no news. Then, on Saturday, after she had received the portly Jafar Pasha, the first of the Iraqis to return from Faisal’s Syrian Government, Sir Percy rushed in, breathless with excitement. Gertrude waited anxiously. “Well,” said Cox at last, “he has accepted.”
“No one but Sir Percy could have done it,” she wrote admiringly; “it’s nothing short of a miracle.”
The following week was fraught with delicious tension. The Naqib’s acceptance was well worth celebrating, but the provisional Arab Cabinet still had to be formed. On Monday Gertrude invited two of her colleagues to dine with her and Jafar Pasha. It was hoped that the extroverted Jafar, an able military commander, would accept the offer to become Minister of Defense. His success during the Arab Revolt and afterward as a Military Governor in Syria, she believed, would ensure a strong Arab army, able to control the insurgent tribes. Over dinner at her house, they discussed the bitter disappointment of Faisal and his coterie of Mesopotamian officers, their sense of betrayal when they found themselves without British support in Damascus. To repair his feelings, she confided her conviction that one of the sons of the Sharif Hussein should be chosen by the Mesopotamians as Emir. Unlike the experience in Syria, she vowed, in Iraq the British Government would not oppose the choice, nor would it rescind its support.
But Jafar worried about the extreme nationalists. Troublesome in Damascus, they were still unreasonable to deal with in Iraq and demanded total withdrawal by the British. Yet he was aware that Mesopotamia did not have the infrastructure nor its people the experience to assume complete independence. He explained his position vis-à-vis the nationalists: “I say to them: you want complete independence? So do I. Do we not each and all dream of a beautiful maiden, her age fourteen, her hair touching her waist? She does not exist! So complete independence under existing condition is impossible.” He turned to Gertrude: “But because I believe in your honesty of purpose, I am ready to work with you for the salvation of my country—and when I go to my brothers to persuade them to help they turn aside and say: ‘You’re English.’ ”
Gertrude empathized. She had often been accused by her colleagues of being too sympathetic toward the Arabs: “It’s your turn,” she answered. “For the last year when I spoke to my brothers they turned from me and said: ‘You’re an Arab.’ ” But, she reassured him, “complete independence is what we ultimately wish to give.” The canny general was quick to reply: “Sitti [My lady],” he said, “complete independence is never given; it is always taken.”
Things were progressing well, yet every day seemed to bring a small crisis. One of the worst came when the pro-British Sasun Effendi Eskail (“the ablest man here,” she had called him), a well-known Jewish businessman, who, it was assumed, would become Minister of Finance, turned down the post. When Gertrude heard the news she left the cup of tea on her desk and rushed to tell Philby, but he was out. Spying the light on in Sir Percy’s office, she reported at once to him. The High Commissioner was obviously upset. Make Sasun change his mind, he demanded.
Leaving the Residency, she went off, “feeling as if I carried the future of Iraq in my hands,” and arrived at Sasun’s house in the nick of time. Philby and Captain Clayton were already there, but they had made no headway convincing their host to take the job. It seemed that Sasun Effendi wanted nothing to do with a cabinet that included Sayid Talib. Yet the British had little choice but to include him. Talib was too powerful with the people to be left out of the government. Nevertheless, if Sasun refused to join the Cabinet, Gertrude believed, it would be damned from the beginning, doomed to failure.
Quickly taking the reins of the conversation, she tried to persuade Sasun that the British were not pushing Talib on anyone, but the man must be given a chance. Give him enough rope, she argued; if he failed, he would hang himself. After an hour, Sasun still would not give in. But he did agree to think it over. That night she hardly slept, tossing and turning, going over the arguments she had used. Could she have done a better job? How else could she have convinced him? At ten o’clock the next morning the tall, slim Sasun appeared at her office. To her great relief, he announced that he had decided to accept the post.
Her work entailed constant meetings with Iraqis; editing local newspapers for propaganda in Arabic and English; compiling fortnightly Intelligence reports on the Arabs’ activities for the Foreign Office; maintaining a network of agents throughout the country; reading secret reports that arrived from around the world; and at least three times a week hosting teas and dinners at home for British and Arab notables. In short, her house became the center of Baghdadi power. On one Saturday night, when the guests included leading Iraqis—Sasun Effendi, Jafar Pasha and Abdul Majid Shawi—and three of her most important British colleagues—Philby, Captain Clayton and Major Murray—the talk turned to the insurgents. Jafar pleaded eloquently for an end to the tribal rebellion: “The peasant must return to his plow, the shepherd to his flock. The blood of our people must cease to flow and the land must once more be rich with crops. Shall our tribes be wasted in battle and our towns die of starvation?” he asked.
“Long Life to the Arab Government,” Gertrude wrote to her father the next day. “Give them responsibility and make them settle their own affairs and they’ll do it every time a thousand times better than we can. Moreover, once they’ve got responsibility they’ll realise the needs and the difficulties of government and they’ll eliminate hot air in favour of good sense. Because they’ve got to run the show, and they can’t run it on hot air.”
“The Council of State of the first Arab government in Mesopotamia since the [thirteenth-century] Abbasids” met on Tuesday, November 2, 1920. Along with Sasun Effendi as Minister of Finance, Jafar Pasha as Minister of Defense, and six other ministers, the Council included the inevitable Sayid Talib as Minister of the Interior. For the most part, the members did little besides trying to figure out the relationship between the Arab Ministers and their British Advisers. Nevertheless, there were problems. The Shiites, almost to a man, stood entirely against the Arab Government; it looked to them like a British scheme, and worse, although there were a million and a half of them and fewer than a million Sunnis, few Shiites were in the Council. The Sunnis made every effort to keep them out of power, arguing that they had never taken part in any administration under the Turks and had not the slightest knowledge of public affairs. The only way to stall more rebellions was to hold an election as soon as possible for a national assembly. Gertrude was certain the assembly delegates would ask for a son of the Sharif Hussein—either Faisal or Abdullah—as Emir. “I regard that as the only solution,” she affirmed.
A few nights later, at another of her dinners, her partner, a wise politician, turned to her and said: “You British wish to build the Government of Iraq in the usual solid English fashion. You want to begin with the foundations and then foll
ow with the walls, the roof and then the decorations. That is not my idea of the way to build now for Iraq.”
Gertrude was taken aback. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Begin with a roof,” he answered, “supported by a few pillars. The roof will encourage us to continue. Otherwise the slowness of building may discourage us. Give us a king. He will be our roof and we will work downwards.” She took careful note of his words.
November’s cold weather coaxed her chrysanthemums to bloom, and although Marie had not yet had time to make new coats for the dogs, nor to sew a new winter gown for Gertrude, it mattered little; for the month that followed, the Khatun’s thoughts were focused mainly on the machinations of Sayid Talib. The most feared yet most able and influential representative on the Council, he took up everyone’s attention. One day he demanded to become Emir, the next day he threatened to resign. Jafar Pasha, she learned, had joined the Council just to make sure that Talib did not abscond with power.
Yet Gertrude’s own opinion of Talib wavered. In early December she called him “a rogue” and wrote to her father: “If they select him as Emir all I can say is they’ve got what they deserve. But they won’t,” she added, as if to reassure herself. The following week Sayid Talib paid her a call. “I must confess that he made a favourable impression on me,” she said. “He told me frankly that he wished to be Emir of Iraq. We discussed his position at length and I thought he showed wisdom and good sense.”
The Cabinet member whose wisdom she admired throughout was Sasun Effendi. “He is out and away the best we’ve got and I am proud and pleased that he should have made friends with me. One can talk to him as man to man and exchange genuine opinions.” Like other, though not all, Baghdadi Jews, he appreciated the treatment by the British and had prospered under the reign of the Turks during much of the Ottoman period. The ancient Jewish community, largest in the Middle East, had thrived since Babylonian times; its educational system reached the highest standards, its medical care was good, and its people flourished among the Arabs. To many, the cry for a Jewish homeland in Palestine struck a discordant note; it meant only trouble from the Arab world. That Sasun was anti-Zionist was not unappealing to Gertrude.
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