1. Don’t speak to X, Y and Z. We know that they’ve already made contact with the new government and might harm us if you’ve said anything.
2. Stay in London; don’t go anywhere else.
3. The money in Switzerland has to cover the costs of all the schools as well as your stay.
4. Don’t start any new business venture; just stay put.
5. Bibi’s still forbidden to travel, but we’re working on it.
6. We’re still trying to get Rushdi released from jail, even if under house arrest.
Rushdi’s daughter Nadia and her two Agha Jaafar cousins, the children of Najla, followed next. All were under the age of ten. They were sent with an acquaintance of the family who they did not know well, and who didn’t pay much attention to them. During their stopover in Rome she left them alone in their hotel room while she went out. Nadia was so frightened she cried herself to sleep.
By the time Thamina’s daughters Leila and Kuku were ready to go to Britain a few weeks later, a bolder plan had been concocted. Now that the initial goal of staying alive had been achieved, the family started to think of how best to safeguard any valuables they had left, since it had become clear that leaving the country was an inevitability for all of them. Bibi’s precious jewels had to be smuggled out somehow, but she could not be the one to do it, because that would have been too obvious. Instead, Bibi and her three daughters devised a plan to smuggle them out in Leila’s thick blue woollen coat.
The coat was unstitched, the shoulderpads taken out and the hemline unpicked. Piece by piece, Bibi ran her hands over her jewellery before handing it to her daughters to sew into place. Each item had its own special story: she lingered over her large solitaire, her topaz from Istanbul, her rubies and emeralds from Geneva, the long strings of delicate Bahraini pearls that Hadi had bought her several years earlier and the diamond watches she had once collected.
Finally, the coat was restitched, and under her mother’s watchful eye Leila wriggled into it with its heavy invisible cargo. Terrified that she would be searched, she repeated the prayers Bibi had taught her for protection. Convinced that she would be separated from her sister at the airport, she stormed ahead of Kuku, and passed through the security checks unhindered.
30
Hunger Pangs
Yearning for Home
(1958)
IN LONDON, HADI dedicated himself to organizing his grandchildren’s lives, sorting out their schools and establishing a daily routine for everyone living in the apartment at Dolphin Square. It was his way of compensating the children for what had happened to them. Organization was something he had always been good at, and he preferred having something to focus on to dwelling on his family’s predicament. No task was too menial for him. Eight-year-old Kuku would stand obediently in the bath while he scrubbed her back for her. She was so confused by the situation and her new circumstances that she stiffened like a statue.
The older children found it very disconcerting to see their grandfather in this strange domestic setting, away from their familiar world. Hadi had always been a remote figure in their lives, a commanding, totemic presence who exuded power and confidence. Here, in the dingy little flat, he seemed disconcertingly smaller than he had appeared at home in Iraq.
The darkness and dampness of London seeped into the children’s bones from the moment they arrived. The city seemed a forlorn place to them. It had not yet recovered fully from the hardships of the Second World War, although rationing had ended seven years earlier. They could not help comparing grey London to golden Baghdad, which for them represented space, safety, warmth and plenty. They knew why they were there, but somehow they could not square the circle. The leap from the palm-lined roads of Baghdad to the grey streets of London was too big. Food was another sore point. Used to crates full of fresh fruits and vegetables, they found the idea of buying a single apple or banana from a shop depressing.
The boys escaped from their straitened circumstances by going as often as they could to Leicester Square to see the latest films. The cinema had played an important part in their lives in Baghdad, and it continued to do so. But they were disillusioned with London itself. It was not the modern metropolis they had dreamed it would be.
The children also felt starved emotionally, for Hadi could only provide them with so much care and affection. They initially felt resentment towards the people they encountered in shops and Dolphin Square, and later, at their boarding schools, they disliked being called by their surnames and bristled when yelled at for walking with their hands in their pockets. At school their feelings were compounded by constant hunger, owing to the tiny portions they were served and the inedible nature of the soggy dishes.
The reserved manner of the British equated in their minds to coldness and emotional meanness. Several times a day there would be subtle reminders of their foreignness when they couldn’t make themselves understood, or a passer-by would scrutinize them in the street. Unlike other immigrants who were able to join existing expatriate circles in the city, the children became their own community, isolated and separate. But London was their home now.
31
Arrivals and Departures
The Importance of Contacts
(1958–1959)
THE NEW PRESIDENT’S brother Hamed Qassim soon became the most important contact that the family had, as he was able to keep them informed about Rushdi’s situation in prison. Bibi arranged to be at the office one afternoon when she knew that Hamed would be visiting, although she usually stayed away from it. When she heard Hamed coming through the front door, she bustled into the hallway as if she were just on her way out. She exclaimed brightly at the sight of Hamed; he smiled politely, they exchanged pleasantries and Hamed proceeded to share what news he had of Rushdi. As Bibi turned to leave, she paused as though a thought had just occurred to her. ‘Perhaps it might be possible to speak to the President, to explain Rushdi’s unique circumstances?’ She left the question dangling in the air.
Hamed reflected for a moment, before saying that such a meeting would be very difficult to arrange. He suggested that an alternative might be to call on his wife, Umm Adnan. She was his first cousin, and as a blood relative she was highly trusted by Abdul Karim. Bibi knew of her, although she had never socialized with her. That was the way things worked in Iraq: people knew of each other even if they moved in different circles. There was always a brother-in-law of a cousin who was the husband of the sister of someone … In short, connections were always to be found. Hadi’s high standing in Iraqi society had meant that the Chalabi family had an extensive social network, yet there had never been a reason for Bibi’s path to cross Umm Adnan’s before. Had it done so, Umm Adnan would have been the one paying a visit to Bibi, as the more socially eminent of the two; but now the tables had been turned.
Bibi went to visit Umm Adnan the next day at her house in Karadat Mariam. She listened respectfully while Umm Adnan sang Abdul Karim’s praises, telling her how much the new President relied on her, how hers was the only food he ate, for fear of being poisoned, and how he relied on her two sons as trusted guards. Bibi was pleased to hear all this, as it suggested that Abdul Karim Qassim would listen to Umm Adnan if she were to put in a word on Rushdi’s behalf.
Bibi told her, ‘I can see how dear you are to the Za’im, and I’m confident he wouldn’t refuse you anything. You’re a mother, and you wouldn’t want your son to be sitting in jail for no reason …’
Umm Adnan took a deep breath, then nodded her head. She got up and walked to the hallway, where Bibi saw two telephones on a narrow table. She picked up the receiver of the nearest phone and asked to speak to the Za’im. She was connected immediately, and repeated to him what Bibi had said to her. Bibi watched her, clutching her handbag as her heart beat very loudly in her ears.
‘Fine. I’ll see you later.’ Umm Adnan put down the receiver and came back through to join Bibi. She smiled. ‘Inshallah, it’s good news. The Za’im promises your son will come to no h
arm. He’ll do his best for him. You have his word.’
Holding back her tears, Bibi thanked her profusely, then excused herself and left. This was the best she could do for Rushdi: a promise wrung out of a tenuous connection with the new leader’s cousin. Such an arbitrary event symbolized the situation in Iraq, where powerful individuals dominated and the rule of law went only so far.
Umm Adnan was as good as her word. A week later Rushdi was allowed to come home and live under house arrest. He moved into his parents’ house in A’zamiya to be near the rest of the family, but his eldest two children, Hussein and Nadia, were at boarding school in England. Rushdi’s situation remained uncertain, as he was still awaiting trial. Four soldiers were posted outside the house around the clock, and Rushdi had to report each day to the nearby Farouk police station, until another intervention from Hamed spared him that ordeal. His wife Ilham revealed that she had made a nidir, a plea, to one of the saints to release him, in return for which she had promised to wear black during Muharram and the following month.
Inside the house, Rushdi could do as he pleased. His family were allowed to visit him, as well as a limited number of friends. He could use the telephone, but it was bugged. The guards wrote a report on him every day which was delivered to the secret police at the Ministry of the Interior. They were not abusive, but their presence about the house was stifling, particularly when they strode in to collect their meals from the kitchen, and made themselves at home.
Bibi had expended much of her energy in her efforts to have Rushdi released. Resorting to comfort eating, she had put on a lot of weight. She was still under great emotional strain, and was fearful that she might be arrested next, as she had always freely expressed her opinions about Nasser at social gatherings and during her ladies’ card games. Fearing that someone might report her to the authorities, she made plans to join Hadi, Ahmad and her grandchildren in London.
Bibi’s permit to leave Iraq was finally obtained with Hamed’s help. She was loath to leave her older children, but they urged her to go. Her goodbye was tearful: she was leaving everything behind, including her past. Yet a large part of her felt such revulsion at the place, and many of the people, that she couldn’t wait to obliterate the last six months from her memory. These days she felt like an outsider in her own home. Her existence was steeped in terror and apprehension as each new proclamation chipped away a little further at her old way of life, with more lands being taken, more laws implemented. She would never have believed that her mother’s Communist relatives could have been so gleeful about what had happened to the country, or to her, and was deeply hurt by their comments on her situation. Her memories of the violence of the early days of the coup – the regicide and Nuri Said’s murder, as well as that of her friend Umm Abdul Amir – were indelible. A very deep root had been severed, and the damage was irreparable. Her life in Iraq would never be the same again. She felt deeply betrayed by what had happened to those she loved and to her country.
This time, Bibi had no choice but to fly, despite her fears. She went first to Beirut, and from there to London, arriving in January 1959. She cried when she saw Hadi at the airport, her emotions a chaotic mixture of joy and sorrow. But she became downright depressed when she set foot in the flat in Dolphin Square. When she saw her granddaughter Leila, she burst out uncontrollably, ‘Your father’s in jail – he might die and you’ll become orphans. What are we going to do?’ It hadn’t occurred to her to put on a brave face in front of the children. Her sense of release at having left Baghdad was soon replaced by an overwhelming horror of being stuck in London. She was a nobody there, another foreigner drifting through the city. She was fifty-eight years old, and had fifteen grandchildren. She was too old for this.
Talal (third from left) in military uniform with friends during his military service in 1959.
Soon after Bibi arrived, most of the family moved out of Dolphin Square into a slightly larger flat near Regent’s Park, leaving Hazem to enjoy the restored tranquillity of his modest apartment. A tall, modern building, the White House looked more like a hotel than a home. The park was within walking distance, but Bibi missed her old life and her house, especially the conservatory on the first floor where she used to sit in the winter sun. Even her interest in clothes and materials waned, despite the many choices that were available in London. She didn’t interact positively with the city, feeling rejected by its very bricks and stones, which seemed to speak a different language to her. For all the time she spent there, she never warmed to the city. It was as if she were allergic to it.
Within the confines of their characterless new home, she prayed out loud, ‘Please, God, get me out of here,’ and waited for divine intervention as she worried ceaselessly about her children back in Baghdad. Her days were slow and dull, punctuated by prayers and the meals she threw together, her afternoon siestas and ineffectual attempts to do the household chores.
When her daughter Raifa followed her to London soon after, she listened patiently to her mother’s woes, managed the house and ensured that Bibi and the family were well looked after. She attempted to exert some control over the wayward Ghazi, but was relieved when her younger brother Hazem stepped in to help.
Food remained an important focus for all the household, particularly the matter of where to acquire it, and they often resorted to the Greek shops around Charlotte Street. The ease of the family’s old life in Baghdad was in dramatic contrast to the laboriousness of their existence in London. Bibi repeatedly lamented her fate, asking time and time again: ‘Whatever happened to us?’
Schools were found for the children through the recommendations of friends and acquaintances; the fees were to be paid from the funds Rushdi had transferred out of Iraq on Hadi’s behalf a couple of years earlier. Interviews were arranged for Ghazi, Mahdi and Ahmad at Seaford College in Sussex. Positively revolted by the place, Ghazi and Mahdi were irreverent to the headmaster during their interviews, and were duly denied admission. Ahmad, on the other hand, displayed all the required respect. As far as he was concerned, the situation was so awful that it made no difference what school he attended. He was told that he could start immediately.
The girls went to Huntington House in Surrey, where they had to wear an orange uniform, except for Najla’s daughters, who had inherited their father’s family superstition about the evils of that colour and were allowed to wear yellow instead. All the girls suffered unbearable homesickness. They hated the cold and the rain, and felt bewildered at having being yanked from their lives to come to this austere, loveless place. Nadia took to staring out of the classroom window. She concocted a daring escape plan with her cousin Kuku, but they were caught in the act of creeping out of the school. Their punishment was to clean the dining-hall tables for several weeks.
While the younger boys were sent to St Leonard’s Forest School in Horsham, Sussex, where they were overwhelmed by an atmosphere of Protestant religiosity, the two rebels, Ghazi and Mahdi, were the last to find a suitable institution that would take them. After the Seaford fiasco, Hazem decided to send them to Lysses School in Hampshire. Within seventy-two hours of their arrival, Mahdi had stolen a map of the area, noted down the local train times and drawn up an escape plan, which Ghazi codenamed ‘the X plan’. They sneaked out of school one evening, walked through the woods to the station and caught a train to London, where they made their way back to Dolphin Square.
Hazem was not pleased to see them, although he didn’t send them straight back to school. Instead, as a punishment they had to endure a harsh regime of their uncle’s devising: they were allowed no heating and little bath water, Ghazi had to sleep on the dining table and Mahdi in the bathtub. Several weeks later, seething from the punishment Hazem had inflicted upon them, the boys bought some red ink which they added to his underwear when it was being washed at the launderette. Unfazed, Hazem wore the pink underwear until it decomposed many years later. Eventually the boys were accepted by Millfield College in Somerset, where they remained des
pite their antics.
The first three months at Seaford College were gruelling for Ahmad as he slowly adapted to the dampness and the cold, the constant feeling of hunger and the shock of sharing bathwater which had taken on a sickly tinge of brown by the time the third boy had stepped out of it. In time, he found the solution to his bath dilemma: once he had proven his academic mettle, he did the prefects’ prep for them in return for getting cleaner water.
Although he wasn't the only foreigner at his new school – there were a handful of boys who came from overseas – but the majority of the pupils were from the English middle classes. As he had joined the school late in the term, he stuck out from the others, and in the classroom he adopted the survival techniques he had perfected at school in Baghdad, shrugging off the teasing until it ceased. Fortunately, there was a friendlier atmosphere at the school house where his dorm was, and where his sympathetic house master, John Ellerton, a former RAF pilot, reached out to him through literature. Later Mr Ellerton encouraged Ahmad to sign up to the air force cadets, and he joined other cadets on flights all over the British isles, testing radar.
At first his hunger followed him to school, where there was a scarcity of food. This was eventually remedied by Najla, who set up a standing order for him from a shop in nearby East Mosley. Each week the shop sent him a package that included six boiled eggs, two loaves of bread, cheese, two cans of tuna, six oranges, four Cadbury sandwiches, two tins of corned beef, a packet of raisins and a packet of McVities digestive biscuits.
Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family Page 33