Impatient to arrive, the girls jumped off first as always, provoking a few harsh words from Ni’mati, who was extremely protective of them. He scolded Raifa and Najla: ‘Shame on you for behaving like this – you’re Little God’s daughters. Cover up now!’ Amused by the way Ni’mati still called their father ‘Little God’ in remembrance of the way Hadi had rescued him as a child, both girls rolled their eyes and ran to the merry-go-round and swings.
For Jawad the highlight of the trip was a drink of Namlet, bottled soda water, which he gulped down with savoury gargari, boiled and salted lupin beans sold in a cone of old newspaper by a man on a little cart. The girls preferred pink candy floss, and Thamina ate several swathes in quick succession, making herself sick.
When they returned home, the house was packed with visitors paying their respects in the dawakhana. Hadi was out as usual on the first day of Eid, visiting relatives, friends and acquaintances, while their grandfather stayed at home to receive the guests. Some of these, such as the tribal sheikhs, would break into verse as they wished Abdul Hussein well. Listening from behind doors, the children loved spying on these colourful figures in their flamboyant costumes.
Over lunch they interrogated their mother about exactly who had come to the house, what had been said, what had been worn and, and, and … until Bibi nearly lost her temper with the barrage of questions. She was soon distracted by the splendid Eid lunch, which was even more sumptuous than usual. Even after all the rubbish they had eaten in the morning, the children devoured the festive dishes of kubbahs, kebabs and flavoured rice.
The next day was also devoted to visits and guests. Hadi gave the children more ’idiyahs, knowing that the girls and Jawad had already spent the money their grandfather had given them at the playground. Accompanied by Ni’mati, Rushdi decided to take his younger siblings to the cinema in Baghdad to see Mutiny on the Bounty. They loved going to the cinema, as did most of the population. Cinemas had appeared in Baghdad with the arrival of the British in 1917, and had flourished ever since. Usually owned by Christian Iraqi proprietors, some specialized in Arabic films, most often made in Egypt, while others – like this one – showed the latest British and Hollywood hits.
That night, as Hassan rolled over to go to sleep, he sensed that his sister Najla was standing by his bed.
‘Hassan,’ she whispered, ‘I’m scared. What if the people in this year’s Ashura parade rebel like the people in the boat in the film? What if they burn down the shrine with us in it? What will happen to Daddy’s horses in the procession?’
Hassan laughed. ‘The parade’s been held for hundreds of years; why would they want to burn the shrine down now?’
The streets of Baghdad were filled with music and verse. In the small cafés in the old neighbourhoods gramophones blared out Egyptian love songs and Iraqi melodies, increasingly performed by female singers. The music of Iraq catered for all tastes: there were popular tunes, Bedouin songs, gypsy songs, songs sung in falsetto by men dressed as women, women’s bands for female social occasions, the dirges of official mourners, religious music, the songs of labourers – ranging all the way to the more formal and elegant maqam that held a unique position in the high music of the region.
The Deer Palace children had grown up with a gramophone in the house. The selection of records was mostly determined by the grownups, and they became familiar with recordings by singing legends of the Arab world such as Umm Kalthoum and Abdul Wahab, as well as classical Iraqi music.
When the first Philco radio box entered the Deer Palace in the early thirties, the impact was instant. The BBC World Service acquired a central role in Rushdi’s life as he listened to its daily news broadcast. He became fascinated by the Spanish Civil War, and the way in which it represented the major ideological forces of Europe. From an early age Rushdi had had a negative opinion of Communism, which to his youthful mind represented anarchy and disorder. That is not to say that he was drawn to fascism, but that he believed in the authority of the state.
All the children listened for hours to the radio. They especially liked the Egyptian station, but they couldn’t help feeling a little deprived by the fact that all the stations were foreign. However, in 1936 the first Iraqi radio station went on air. With the launch of Baghdad’s own station, the leading Iraqi cultural figures of the day came to life on the airwaves for thousands of listeners. Every week people gathered around the radio to listen to Mulla Aboud Karkhi’s weekly poem. Much-loved singers such as Sultana Yussif and Zakiya George also sang live on air.
Hassan’s world suddenly expanded. He became the keeper of the Deer Palace radio, knowing exactly how to tune it with his sensitive fingertips. Soon he knew the Baghdad station’s daily programme by heart, and the radio would be his lifelong friend, accompanying him through the ebbs and flows of his life. At night it became the lullaby that transported him to his dreams, as he listened to the soporific cadences of Umm Kalthuom yearning for a long-lost love. It was the voice through which he could see the world.
Sometimes his grandfather Abdul Hussein would join him and they would listen to the Quran being recited by one of Egypt’s famous readers, or to songs of unrequited love. Bibi would sit with Hassan by the radio in her sitting room on winter evenings, while Hadi was away on business. Hassan would entertain her with his mimickry, and they would both sometimes break spontaneously into song. A particular favourite of theirs was the hit song Amantu Billah by Laure Daccache, a Lebanese artist who composed her own music, played the lute, sang, and directed her own orchestra:
Having you in my life is proof to me that there is a God.
The splendour of your beauty is a vision from God.
The splendour of your beauty is strange;
It makes the heart cry from burning desire.
The healing tears run down and all meet in your wonder.
The splendour of your beauty is a vision from God.
Having you in my life is proof to me that there is a God.
Bibi had a good voice, and was never shy of using it. When she had been younger at her mother Rumia’s house, she had often sung out of a sense of protest and boredom; now singing became her eccentric way of displaying the fact that she was attuned to life’s disappointments and love’s betrayals. She was extremely pleased when she realized that her blind son shared her talent for music.
The Haidarkhana Mosque in Baghdad, late 1930s.
Inspired by the songs he heard on the radio as well as by the musical Egyptian films screened at the Royale cinema in Baghdad, Hassan decided to learn to play the oud, a Middle Eastern form of lute. Bibi gave him her full support, buying him an instrument and encouraging him in his lessons.
His first teacher was Master Yusuf Habib, who lived in an old house in the Haidarkhana district of Baghdad. Upon entering the courtyard, Hassan was always struck by the strong smell of siraj, the sesame oil that was used for cooking in keeping with kosher requirements. It had a distinctive sharp aroma that lingered in the air, unlike the ghee he was more familiar with.
Hassan enjoyed his lessons. However, he soon realized that although Master Yusuf had trained generations of musicians, he remained strictly a teacher rather than an artist or composer. After a while Hassan wanted to expand his knowledge, and sought out a new teacher. He eventually found his way to the Kuwaiti brothers, Daoud and Saleh, who were also Iraqi Jews but who were more experimental in their approach. In time they would refresh Iraq’s musical traditions with new tunes sung by popular artists such as Salima Murad.
Salima Murad, who was later bestowed with the honorific masculine title of Pasha, was a Baghdadi Jew who became the voice of Iraq. She and her orchestra performed throughout Baghdad, in singing clubs and cafés and in the few theatre halls that existed, as well as the royal court. Soon she had become a leading figure of society and a darling of the political elite. She was also a great favourite among the people, and Hadji Hadi the cook saw her perform on the large stage at the Jawahiri hotel, as well as at smaller venues. H
adji Hadi knew that Hassan was a fellow music-lover, and took him to many of Salima Pasha’s performances.
Hassan’s interest in attending these concerts was encouraged by Bibi, who only wished she could go to them herself, but they were purely male affairs. She had heard how Salima Pasha was said to seduce her audience with her voice. The singer was always elegant on stage, with softly curled, shoulder-length dark hair, full lips and tailored knee-length dresses – which sounded thrillingly risqué to Bibi. She performed with a veneer of innocence, yet captured the audience completely with her demeanour, inspiring frenzied applause. One particular tune of Salima Pasha’s stuck in Bibi’s mind; it was called Khadri el chai khadri – ‘Brew the Tea, Brew it’ – and Bibi would hum it before nearly every cup of tea she drank.
While Hassan was taking lessons with Daoud Kuwaiti, the brothers were invited to form and direct the orchestra of the new Iraq radio station. Hassan was even invited to join the orchestra on a few occasions to play on air; Bibi was thrilled.
In order to take his playing of the oud to a new level, Hassan took classes with Jamil Bashir, one of Iraq’s most talented musicians, who had been trained at the national music conservatory in Baghdad after the Great War. Meanwhile the concert halls in Baghdad continued to be filled with eager listeners. The entertainment industry was largely in the hands of Christian and Jewish Iraqis, who were given licences to run these establishments, which was forbidden to Muslims in a tradition going back to Ottoman times.
Salima Marad, aka Salima Pasha, one of Iraq’s most famous singers, in the early 1930s.
Hammudi the Arabanchi, or ‘tram-man’, was a regular driver on the Kazimiya–Baghdad line. He usually drove the evening shifts, and would sometimes stop off for a cup of tea in the servants’ quarters in the Deer Palace, especially if he had to wait for the remaining dawakhana visitors to catch the last ride home. He struck up a friendship with Hadji Hadi the cook, and they discovered that they shared a passion for wrestling.
The zorkhanas, underground gymnasiums, were an integral part of Baghdad’s popular culture. The wrestling performed in them combined physical exertion with a spiritual dimension, and the matches and training sessions were accompanied by musicians and singers who performed classical maqams.
When Hassan, Rushdi and Saleh asked Hadji Hadi and Hammudi to introduce them to the world of zorkhanas and wrestling champions, the two men were flattered that the boys were interested in their passion, and were very happy to share their knowledge. Sometimes, egged on by the boys, they would have a practice bout in the garden next to the kitchen, Saleh providing Hassan with a detailed commentary on the action. In spite of his fastidious nature and dislike of physical exertion, Rushdi took a keen interest in the zorkhana gossip.
One day, Hammudi and Hadji Hadi offered to take the three boys to a zorkhana. Having gained Hadi’s permission, they set out by tram with Hadji Hadi to the terminus in Karkh next to the busy pontoon bridge, then took a gharri, a horse-drawn carriage, to the Dahana neighbourhood where Hammudi lived. When the alleyways became too narrow for the carriage to pass through, they walked the final stretch to the zorkhana, where they found Hammudi waiting for them. He greeted them enthusiastically, proud to show his friends in the club what important friends he had, and ushered them through the narrow entrance and down the stairs.
At first the boys were overwhelmed by the strong smell of incense that pervaded the room. Then Rushdi spotted the man who ran the zorkhana: one of Iraq’s most famous wrestlers, Hajj Abbas Dittch, whose surname meant cockerel, in reference to his greatness, and who was especially revered for his defeat of Herr Kramer, a visiting German champion. Hammudi introduced the boys to some of the wrestlers. Many of them had sweaty palms, and Rushdi regretted not having brought a small vial of cologne with him.
In the centre of the room was a pit, about six metres in diameter, where the wrestlers trained and performed. Hanging on the walls were Quranic verses, images of Imam Ali and his son Imam Hussein, photographs of famous wrestlers and displays of the special costumes that were worn on important occasions, tight-fitting, heavily embroidered sarwals, like knee-length kilts. Leaning against one wall were the practice instruments, including large batons carved from walnut.
At a sign from Abbas Dittch, everyone took their seats on low wooden boards covered in worn-out reed rugs. Saleh described to Hassan how the murshid, the guide, supervised the entire room from an alcove diagonally across from where they were sitting. He had a smoking incense holder and a large dunbuk drum. He pulled a string to ring a bell, then uttered a chant-like greeting that the audience repeated back to him.
The first wrestler to enter the pit bent down to kiss the floor, as if in a house of God. When all the wrestlers had gathered in the pit, they formed a crescent and looked up at the murshid to receive their instructions and repeat chants after him. The warm-up exercises began, and silence fell on the room. The exercises were interspersed with calls to prayer, and each was accompanied by a different drumbeat, as well as traditional rhapsodies and elegant maqams. The overall effect was hypnotic.
The boys were dizzied by the two-hour event. By the time they left, it was early evening. Hammudi stopped to buy them a snack from a stallholder, who was singing to advertise his wares: ‘Shalgham hillu hillu el shalgham’ – ‘Turnips are sweet, sweet are the turnips’.
The tram-man said, ‘These boiled turnips are simply the best, and the sweet molasses covering them is delicious. You won’t find a tastier bite to eat anywhere.’
Saleh and Hassan devoured the sweet purple turnips, which seemed to taste all the better for having been bought on the street. Rushdi, however, was in a state of great inner turmoil. On the one hand, he felt guilty that Hammudi had paid for this food when he knew the tram-man was poor – he told himself that he must give him a tip at the appropriate moment – but more critically, he didn’t know how he could eat these turnips when he knew how poorly washed the metal plates on which they were served were. He forced one piece into his mouth, and gave the rest to Saleh and Hassan.
The turnip-seller, noting Rushdi’s discomfort and his well-made suit, sarcastically commented to Hammudi, ‘Doesn’t your friend like turnips? Well, I guess he does look a bit nazik, delicate. Yes, that’s it: delicate.’ The word spoke volumes: the boy had clearly never savoured the rich and robust flavours of life on the city streets, but belonged to a sheltered world.
Rushdi concluded that he preferred to follow the zorkhana through Hammudi’s gossip and the newspapers. One live performance was quite enough for him.
17
A Dark Cloud
The End of a Generation
(1938–1939)
IN IRAQ, THE first stages of the war that was about to erupt in Europe were played out on the long-wave radio frequencies. Soon, images of uniformed men and the increasingly militarized societies in Germany and Italy were seen in the short newsreels that were played at cinemas.
One morning the children awoke to the sound of shouting downstairs. It sounded as if Hadi was shouting at Rushdi, while Abdul Hussein and Bibi were attempting to reason with their father. Although Bibi and Hadi had their skirmishes, Hadi rarely raised his voice with the children.
Raifa and Jawad crept down the hallway and peered into the andaroun, where they could glimpse Rushdi hiding behind a chair, his pale hands raised above his head defensively as Hadi towered over him, shouting at him.
Having already acquired a taste for the good things in life, Rushdi had recently started to enjoy Baghdad’s nightlife. Young men often spent their evenings at all-male gatherings where the entertainment was female and often lewd, although in recent years it had come to reflect the audiences’ more sophisticated appreciation of music and performance.
Rushdi had gone out the night before, and hadn’t returned till six in the morning. Bibi had been beside herself with worry, imagining the worst as usual. When Rushdi walked into the house he had been met by a committee of parents and grandparents in the hallway. His fat
her was in a rage, especially when it transpired that Rushdi and his friends had spent the night listening to a performance by a rising star, Afifa Eskandar.
Coquettish and blessed with a sweet voice, Afifa represented a new generation of singers who were as prominent socially as poets and the literati. She fused different singing styles, could perform in various languages and had the discipline to perform long pieces that required great vocal elasticity. She held a salon that attracted the most influential cultural, social and political figures in the country, and where she captivated them with her beautiful voice. Forever subject to the stinging gossip of Baghdad, she held her own with elegance and dignity.
Afifa Eskandar, another renowned Iraqi singer, in the late 1930s.
Hadi was incensed that his eldest son had stayed out all night, especially as it was very near the time of his final examinations at school. His behaviour showed a flagrant disrespect for his elders that Hadi could not tolerate. Held back by Abdul Hussein from striking Rushdi, Hadi turned his anger on Bibi: ‘I congratulate you on such a fine upbringing! This is the result of all your pampering: a good-for-nothing, spoilt boy who’s a slave to the melodies of an upstart singer. Well done!’
Bibi defended herself and Rushdi stoutly, while Abdul Hussein attempted to broker peace. Hadi’s face was red with anger, and he made as if to strike Rushdi again. He reminded them all that at Rushdi’s age he was already a married man with responsibilities, not gadding around town like a lazy young fool. Gesturing scornfully at Rushdi, who was peeking over the chair back, he bellowed, ‘I won’t tolerate such behaviour.’ With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared to his office until late that night.
Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family Page 20