Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  ~

  Jerusalem, 1905

  There were times when she didn’t think of Henry. Times when she was so overawed by the biblical surroundings, so overshadowed by the precipitous depths of the wadis, so enamoured of the antiquity of the buildings, that Henry, her father Hugh, the Swiss mountains, Rounton Grange and everything else in her European life faded into the distance, as though there were two Gertrudes. One was the Gertrude setting out to explore Jerusalem, Petra, Palmyra, Syria, and the Druze nation, the woman gaining a reputation as an adventuress, daring and resourceful, negotiating with tribal leaders and informally representing England as no other ambassador was able to do.

  The other Gertrude, the one who returned regularly to England to renew her soul with intimate dinners with friends, visits to museums and galleries, parties, lectures, writing her books and articles, was the daughter of Hugh, a woman alone who had lost her fiancée in the most tragic of circumstances, a perennial widow in perpetual mourning for her long-dead lover. She was becoming something of a Queen Victoria mourning eternally for her Albert, and knew she must stop it, or she would lose her identity.

  In London she was a curio, regularly invited to dinners just so hostesses could say that they’d had the extraordinary Gertrude Bell to their soirees. Rather like a circus freak, she knew that when she’d departed, the hostess and her coterie would talk about her mannishness, her lack of a husband, her childlessness, and especially the eccentricity of traveling to all these dangerous places instead of living the life of a British society lady.

  After only a few short months in London or at Rounton Grange, the leaden weight of the country and the memory of her love seemed to crush all enjoyment out of her. And that was when there came a time, inexplicable but ever present, when she knew she had to leave England within a week. Her peremptory withdrawals, with profuse apologies for not attending pre-arranged dinners or social functions, were now accepted as doing a Gertrude. It might suddenly come on her when she was watching a play, and one of the characters said something which transported her back in time to another place or circumstance. Or she might be at a social gathering, laughing and joking with the assemble or the coterie of young men gathered around her, when one of them would look at her in a certain way, and she’d see Henry standing in the young man’s place, smiling and nodding that everything was alright.

  It was then she felt the heat of the desert on her skin, smelled the purity of the air, saw the incalculable density of stars in the heavens. It was then she knew she had to leave England and wander again, to feel the limpidness of sand in her fingers, relish the luxurious taste of water, and breathe in the perfumes of roasting goat or lamb cooked beneath the brilliance of the firmament.

  She would write to her father and friends, send them apologies, beg their forgiveness and understanding, and get her maids to pack her trunks, book passage to the south of France, spend a week in Marseilles or Monte Carlo allowing the sun to revive her spirits and acclimatize her skin, and stock up on her favourite Russian special reserve Sobranie black cigarettes, unavailable in London. Then she would find a ship which was sailing east towards the ports of Tyre, Bodrum or Haifa. She would pack her maids off back to England and once in the Levant or Palestine, she would hire servants and discuss with the Ottoman port authorities where she could travel under her Carte d’Passage.

  Which was why she had begun this, her latest exploration of Arabia, in Jerusalem. She’d been to the ancient city of the Jews twice before, but only as a visitor. Now she wanted to spend at least a few months here, learning about Solomon’s temple, the mosques on the holy mountain and the Christian churches and especially learning more about the Druze community and their hatred of Muslims.

  She realized from the very beginning that the key to improvement of the women of Arabia lay in the Arab rise from tribal obscurity to a place at the table of the nations of the world. Once a great Arab leader arose, melded the tribes together as one grand nation, and became a figure of respect in the corridors of American and European power, he would have to improve the lot of the women of Arabia. For a dramatic transformation to occur, which might take several generations, it would have to start with Arabia feeling itself as an equal with Europe. In the old days, Saladin could have traveled to London or Paris or Rome and he would have been accorded the respect due to a national leader. But nobody in government or bureaucracy in Europe, and especially in America, would give a moment’s consideration to some minor Sheik or Emir who asked for an appointment.

  Nor did Gertrude think a national leader whom she could support and sponsor in Whitehall, would come from any of the tribes. Men like ibn Sa’ud or ibn Rashid or the other tribal leaders of the Bani or the Howeitat were little men in the bigger picture. For years, she’d been searching for a leader, a Muslim like Saladin, who could rise up from outside the tribes. And her search continued in Jerusalem. Perhaps the Druze would provide such a man.

  She viewed these holy places in Jerusalem as a scholar, not a tourist or a believer in their spirituality. Whenever she was in a building which others defined as holy, while respecting their beliefs, she retained her objectivity. At times it wasn’t easy to be objective, especially when she was in Constantinople and overwhelmed by the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia. But all she had to do to bring herself back to Earth was to remember the countless numbers of men, women, and children slaughtered throughout history for their belief in one god or another, one dominant theology or its heretical blood brother.

  She hated religion as much as she loved its architecture. She detested the pomposity of its spiritual leaders, be they Muslim, Christian or Jews. Whenever she spoke to them, she was outraged by their confident certainty that they were right and all others were wrong, their self-righteousness, haughtiness and aggrandizement. The art and architecture of religion had been amongst mankind’s finest achievements, but its inspiration had brought destruction to countless millions. Even the ancient artefacts she’d personally uncovered in the desert, monuments to humanity’s earliest attempts to come to terms with spiritual explanations for natural phenomena, had been exquisite, but etched into their stone or marble were the blood and bones of those who believed differently.

  And now she was in Jerusalem, the most ancient and mystical city of them all. High in the Judean hills, she thrilled as she wandered the streets of King David and King Solomon, of the prophets Elijah and Elisha, of the Maccabees and the Roman Emperor Vespasian, of Saladin and King Richard the Lionheart, of Umayyad Caliph Abd al-Malik, and now a virtual cascade of Jews fleeing the pogroms and anti-Semitism of Eastern Europe. What a hodge podge of humanity, of architectural styles, of history and culture. And why had this amazing city been allowed to devolve into a stinking hovel because of the absentee landlords and nepotistic Ottomans?

  Once she’d explored every inch of Jerusalem, of Jericho and Bethlehem, of the Dead Sea and the coastal city of Jaffa, she would slowly make her way into the nearby desert and visit the amazing Nabatean ruins of Petra, then travel north to Syria, from where she’d go to Aleppo or Damascus and enjoy the luxury of a good hotel, servants to attend to her every need, and perhaps, just perhaps, meet some exciting gentleman and have an illicit and very private liaison. She loved and relished such liaisons and was still sufficiently striking to have men buzzing around her in an hotel lobby or bar. She had had her fun in many cities around the Middle East, and had enjoyed the minds and bodies of diplomats, novelists, journalists, adventurers, dilettantes, rich wastrels and those who had been expelled from their lands because of some sexual scandal. She went by various names so that she could never be identified, the most exciting being Miss Byron, claiming to be the great granddaughter of the notorious poet. It was fun, foolish, disgraceful and she loved it. Perhaps in Jerusalem, she’d find some divorcee who might take her fancy.

  But before she could allow time for her own bodily pleasures, she had to see what was so mystical about the Druze religion and whether a leader might emerge, her main reason for coming
to Jerusalem. The Druze had been persecuted by the Muslims ever since the religion had been founded in 1017, and Gertrude wanted to find out why. And she especially wanted to understand the role of women in the Druze religion. She knew from close friends in Jerusalem, that Druze women were more than equal with men. Indeed, many of the learned and wise members and leaders of the religion were women who were respected for their knowledge and wisdom, and not disadvantaged because of their sex.

  ~

  She was fussing in the bathroom of her hotel in the old city of Jerusalem longer than her maid, Fatima considered necessary. She was a strange one, this English woman. Were she not so generous, both to Fatima by paying her more wages than she’d ever before earned, and to Fatima’s children in buying them presents, her maid would have left her employment. She didn’t like all the mystery, all the strange and guarded conversations. She’d served visiting English and French and German ladies before, many times before, but this English was different. She wasn’t nearly as interested in seeing the tourist sites of Jerusalem and the Dead Sea and Jericho, even though she visited them once or twice in the three weeks since she’d first taken up residence at the hotel. But this woman kept bringing men back into her room, and closing the door. All sorts of men. Englishmen from the embassy, Egyptians who worked in the money houses, Frenchmen who worked in importing institutions, and Arabs. Arabs from all over the Middle East came to her room. It was unseemly, undignified. What was she doing with all these men behind the closed doors of her suite? And why was an English talking to so many Arabs? Tall Arabs from the desert country, fat Arabs from the south, old Arabs who were tribal leaders, young Arabs who were Imams to a religious community. Was there no end to the men this English would entertain?

  And now she was in the bathroom for what seemed to be hours. Fatima had cleaned the room, opened the windows to let the cigarette smoke out, and prepared the lady’s evening meal. But why was she so long in the bathroom?

  It wasn’t until Gertrude emerged that Fatima got the biggest shock of her life, and determined this would be the last minute she’d work for this ridiculous English. She was supposed to be a lady, but she emerged from the hotel’s bathroom wearing a galabeya and an Arab headdress, with a red cord around the middle and a sword dangling from her waist. She was dressed like a man, like a rich Egyptian. And worse, she had glued some black hair to her face as though she had suddenly grown a beard and a moustache. She was mad. No, this was worse than dressing like a man, this was a blasphemy against Allah. A woman dressed as a man. Fatima spat on the floor to ward off the servants of Satan, and screamed as the English approached her.

  Fatima threw up her hands, and shouted. “No, lady. I go. I no stay here with you. Satan’s demons will eat your eyes before the night is ended.”

  And with that, Fatima spat twice over her left shoulder to ward off any evil spirits sitting there, left the hotel suite with a string of foul Arabic curses and swear words, and ran down the stairs into the street.

  Amazed by her reaction, Gertrude wondered what on Earth was wrong with her maid. She’d paid her well, treated her with respect, spoken to her in faultless street Arabic, bought presents for her brood of children, but despite all that, the woman had been lazy, indolent, and resentful. Gertrude was stunned by Fatima’s swearing at her. It would never have happened in London, but now that she was alone, she realized she’d been saved the trouble of firing the woman in the morning. She intended to leave Jerusalem tomorrow, and had bought Fatima and her family some lovely presents which she intended to give to her when she returned from her observations of the Druze mystical religious rituals, a ceremony which could only be seen by a man. Women had their own special service, but she wanted to see what the men were up to, and in this particular service, women were haram—forbidden. Which was why she’d been forced to buy an Arabic man’s outfit from a Jerusalem clothier and a beard and moustache made from leftover hair from a local barber. She would give the gifts intended for Fatima’s children to the hotel’s manager, to donate to the poor of Jerusalem.

  Gertrude walked downstairs into the hotel’s reception, where she met her guide for the night, Lieutenant Colonel Lionel Sonter of the British Consulate’s signals section, one of Jerusalem’s most knowledgeable residents concerning the Druze and their customs. Lionel had lived in Jerusalem for six years, and was now trusted by the Druze community, so much so that they allowed him to observe their religious rituals. Because of their faith in him, they’d allowed him to bring along a friend of his, an Egyptian Coptic Christian gentleman called Gamal.

  “You look splendid, Gertrude,” he told her as she entered the lobby bar, but might I remind you that you will be killed if the Druze suspect you’re not a man. This particular service is for men only. So I’d most strongly advise you to remain silent, and not draw attention to yourself.”

  “I’ve faced much greater dangers, Lionel, and it’s Gamal, if you don’t mind, effendi, not Gertrude.”

  Lionel smiled, and said “That’s your first mistake, Gertrude. ‘Effendi’ is a Turkish honorific, which I doubt an Egyptian would use, now that Britain has taken back Egypt.”

  “Wrong, Lionel. An Egyptian who hates the British and is still loyal to the Ottomans, even when addressing Muhammad Ali Pasha, would continue to use “effendi.” I was in Egypt two months ago, and so I know I’m right. Anyway, we’d better get going if we’re not going to miss the show.”

  They walked out of the hotel and into a network of narrow interconnected laneways, each built of the pure white Jerusalem stone. Even at night, with just a few street lights dimly identifying the laneways and paths, the pale stone from which the buildings were constructed seemed to glow and illuminate their way. The Old City was the most biblical place in the world, smelling of centuries of perfumed cooking and aromatic drinks like peach and pomegranate, of ancient rugs and burning incense. The men and women were almost exclusively Arab, with the occasional Jew dressed in black leggings and a fur hat walking back from the Wailing Wall in his Hasidic costume dating back to 17th century Europe.

  Lionel directed her along the narrow streets until they came to a house guarded by two burly men, one in a turban, the other in a fez. “This gentleman is with me,” said Lionel, his Arabic still retaining an overtone of his English upbringing.

  Silently, Gertrude nodded to the two Druze guards and followed Lionel through the door. She was nearly overpowered by the smell of smoke from the candles and the incense burning. In the dimly lit room were, perhaps, fifty men, all sitting on rugs, their hands upturned on their laps as though they were cupping them together to drink water.

  On a raised dais at the other end of the room, was the Druze religious leader.

  “That’s the Uqqal,” said Lionel quietly. “He’s the religious leader, or the sage. The people praying here are the Juhaall. They’re just the ordinary people. They’re not allowed to read the holy books of the Druze, because they’re considered insufficiently educated.”

  She listened for a moment to what the Uqqal was reciting to his followers. It was familiar to her. In a lowered voice, trying to speak like a man, she whispered to Lionel, “but they’re reading the Koran. I thought they had their own books.”

  “They do,” said Lionel. “But they consider the Koran to be just the outer shell of their belief, the inner being of their faith is the text known as the Kitab Al Hikma, or the Book of Wisdom. Druze are monotheists and view Adam and Noah and Abraham and Jesus and Mohammed as their prophets. They believe that at death, one’s soul is instantly transformed and reincarnated, and if you’ve been good, you’ll get into a better person, but if you’ve been bad, you’re next incarnation is downhill.”

  Gertrude nodded. “I know how they feel. But if they use the Koran, and if they believe in Mohammed, why are the Muslims persecuting them?” she asked.

  Lionel thought for a moment before he whispered. “I’m afraid the Muslims will persecute anything and anybody who doesn’t follow their particular ideology. Mo
hammed was a pretty rum chap, all those centuries ago. He slaughtered his way out of Arabia and his followers have conquered by causing fear and mayhem. They issue fatwas, virtual death sentences, at the drop of a hat. I know you have a liking for them, m’dear, but I have far more experience with Muslims than you do, and I’m afraid I have a very different opinion of the blighters. The Druze are alright, because they’re followers of many different prophets, and they’re against involving themselves in wars and politics. But the Muslims! No, I’m afraid I have very little time for them. And I foresee them causing enormous trouble for the British Empire. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think they’re going to be a big problem for us. You mark my words.”

  Gertrude hoped that Lionel’s words weren’t a forerunner of difficulties ahead.

  ~

  Mesopotamia, 1910

  Tall, elegant, windswept, Gertrude Bell was dressed in a fur coat, cloche hat, trousers, and long boots to protect her against the freezing early morning of the desert. Riding as majestically as her camel made possible, she and her entourage sauntered away from the camp and the dying embers of the breakfast fire as they entered the final stage of their journey to see what the Englishmen in the desert were up to.

  Famous in England for her travels and revered as a writer and translator, Gertrude’s reputation now preceded her. She could no longer be anonymous walking the streets of Jerusalem or Cairo or Damascus without some local coming up to her with a copy of one of her books and begging to touch the cheek of the English lady who was making Arabia known to the West.