Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  She was already deeply embedded in plotting the future borders close to Syria in the west, when he had walked into her office unannounced, and said, “Khatun of the City, thy face is fair and thy back is straight, and thou art an honorable woman who should have been born a man.”

  She looked up, and beamed a smile as the old man, stick in his hand, walked slowly and painfully over to the chair. “And thou, Haji of revered standing, beloved of God and the apple of thy family, art a man of infinite wisdom whose mind is as bottomless as the ancient seas. Sit, master, and share thy thoughts with this unworthy woman.”

  Gertrude grinned mischievously, and came round the desk to kiss his hand. She loved the traditional and ancient greetings which Haji Naji insisted upon as a prelude to re-entering the twentieth century.

  She kissed his other hand, a sign of great respect, and poured him a glass of barley water, which he drank greedily.

  “Haji Naji, are you here to pass the time of day, or is there a purpose to your visit?”

  “Why would any visit to the revered Khatun be merely to pass the time of day?”

  She loved being called by her nickname, Khatun, which was Arabic flattery for a gentlewoman or a lady of fine quality. “Then what is the purpose for which you grace my offices, Haji Naji?” she asked.

  “Because, Khatun, you have the very finest barley water in the whole of Baghdad. That, alone, is reason enough to visit you,” he said.

  She knew it would take at least another fifteen minutes of flattery and evasion before he came to the purpose of his visit. Eventually, after spending ten minutes vacillating, searching for a way in, she managed to find the key question to ask him which opened up the conversation to the purpose of his visit.

  “And what does Haji Naji hear from other kingdoms of the Arabs.”

  He smiled, and nodded thoughtfully. “The news, Khatun, is disturbing. You are aware, of course, of the great resentment which was caused by Sharif Hussein calling himself King of the Hejaz. He sets himself up as caliph. His claim to be a direct descendent of the Prophet is also something with displeases many. But while the war was being fought, we Arabs paid little attention to the man’s aggrandizement. Now that the war is over, however, there are eyes which are looking towards the west and there are lips saying that a great wrong must be righted.”

  Knowing she should restrain herself and not interrupt, she felt impelled to say, “But Haji Naji, the Sharif’s sons, Ali, Abdullah, Faisal, and Zeid were among the bravest of all Arab warriors in fighting against the Turkish overlords.”

  “As were many sons of many fathers, Khatun. But this isn’t the issue. We Arabs acknowledge the Hashemite dynasty as one of the oldest Muslim families. We also acknowledge their line was founded by Hashim, he of the Name, the grandfather of the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him. But for Hussein of the Hashemites to call himself king of the Holy Cities, and to say he leads the Muslim community by also elevating himself to be the caliph is too much for some people, who also see themselves as leaders now that the war with the Turks is over.”

  Her heart beat faster. This was major intelligence she was being given, subject matter which could influence developments in the Middle East. But because of the convolutions of the Arab mind, she had to unpeel the meaning carefully.

  “Tell me, Haji Naji, the eyes of which you speak . . . from which direction do they look . . . towards the dawning sun, or towards the setting sun?”

  “As the sun rises, Khatun, the eyes which seek the future look towards the shadows of morning, and in the evening as the sun is setting and the shadows lengthening, Khatun, these eyes cannot look towards the object of their ambition for fear of being blinded by Allah’s majesty.”

  Gertrude nodded. So ibn Sa’ud in the east of Arabia was casting his eyes westwards ready to break out from his base in Riyadh towards Mecca and Medina in the Kingdom of the Hejaz with the intention of conquering it. She knew of his ambitions. He’d told her himself. But Haji Naji’s visit must have been impelled by ibn Sa’ud’s desire to bring forward his offensive.

  “And tell me, mighty warrior, for how long will these eyes be looking from the east before they can end the day bathing in the waters of the gulf, or worshipping in the Great Mosque of Mecca?”

  The old man shrugged, and said softly, “Insh’allah.”

  Gertrude poured him another barley water, and skirted around the subject for a few more minutes. It was possible he knew when ibn Sa’ud would launch his assault, but it was just as possible he knew no more than he’d told her. The Byzantine ways of extracting information from Arabs always fascinated her, but she had to be incredibly cautious not to overplay her relationship or she’d damage her standing in his eyes as an honorary man, and then she’d get nothing more out of him. So she decided to approach the subject from another tack.

  “Tell me, great leader, do you profess the beliefs of the great Muhammad ibn Abd al—Wahhab?” she asked innocuously.

  Contemptuously, he said, “Of course not, Khatun. Do I look as though I am a Wahhabist like the Sa’ud’s? Do you think one as me would practice the beliefs of the Muwahhidun?”

  “What does such a believer look like?” she asked, knowing the answer, but seeking to engage him in a subject which she knew would irritate him and perhaps force him to lower his defenses.

  “Such a believer looks like he lived in the desert over a thousand years ago. Such a believer wouldn’t know of the benefits of motorcars and airplanes and tanks and rifles. Such a believer wouldn’t know of the power of the British Empire and the American steel and iron industries, the railroads and telephones. Such a believer, Khatun, would wish to live in mud huts and turn his head backwards in time, rather than forwards towards the future.”

  “Could you explain to this humble woman why the Wahhabists look to the time of the Great Prophet and not to the promise of the future?” she asked.

  “You, Khatun, and outsiders, call them Wahhabists. They call themselves Muwahhidun, or those who strive for unity with the Prophet and His times. They look backwards, woman, because they despise the present and the ways of those of us who have advanced beyond the Caliphate. They see worship of Allah only by the worship of the time of Muhammad, and believe modern life holds only godlessness. They want to halt the future of the Arab people, and take us back to the time when we were safe in the desert. They would have all men wearing long beards and all women covered from head to toe. They would have no smoking or enjoyment. Our Mosques would be built as four walls, and we would not be allowed to have minarets, and we would be forced to pray every minute of every hour of every day. I tell you, Khatun, some may wish to live like this, but for me and those who follow me, it will never be thus. I look towards England and America for the future of Arabia. To be a Muslim means more than praying towards Mecca, it means fulfilling God’s promise, and not just promising God.”

  She smiled. “And ibn Sa’ud? If he took over the Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina, he would try to introduce the beliefs of Wahhabism to all of Arabia?”

  “Without a doubt. And beyond Arabia to all lands where Islam is the belief of the people—to India and the Far East and elsewhere. Ibn Sa’ud has made a pact with them. For the past seven years, he has established agricultural settlements around oases in order to re-settle those lands which once were his, and which he has taken over by conquest. Once he has order and security in his domain, he will continue his expansion. Then he will ride to the borders of the Hejaz, and wage war against Sharif Hussein. And if he wins, the whole of Arabia will be Sa’ud’s. From there, he will expand his kingdom, and then God help us all.”

  She could now ask a direct question. “When?”

  “When God wills it! But we are only talking of a handful of years. Now that the war is over, he is talking about moving his army to assault those of the Hejaz. It is time, Khatun, for England to throw its arms around Sharif Hussein and his sons, and to give them peace and security. Faisal did much for the British, and he has bee
n rewarded with a kingdom in Damascus. But Sharif Hussein gave his consent for the Arabs to support the British and now it is time for the British to support him in his hour of need. Tell that to your prime minister.”

  Tired, the old man stood, and again she kissed his hand. “Peace and blessings be upon you and your family, Haji Naji,” she said softly.

  He smiled as he looked at her. “What a waste of a life, Khatun. If only you had been born a man, you could have risen to greatness.”

  TWELVE

  Paris 1919

  It was ever meant to be thus!

  This was the life to which she’d been born, and after years of living in tents and second rate government accommodations in cities with almost no modern amenities, this was the life to which she had now returned. A life of extraordinary luxury after years of making-do, a life of elegance after decades of traveling on top of camels and being deprived of those little extravagances which English men and women took for granted every day.

  Her life of denial and rigour now became one in which the men wore silk toppers and white ties and tails as though they were a second skin, and their women simply blended into the environment in organza swathes of indecently colored fabrics mimicking the hues of parrots flying in the canopy of some South American jungle. It became a life in which the convolutions and guarded meanings, codes and double-entendres of speaking to an Arab tribal leader, became the much more straightforward language of diplomacy, where nothing was directly stated, but everything covert was understood.

  Even the very perfumed air of the Élysée Palace seemed to be a participant in the Peace Conference—at once thick with conspiracy and double-dealings, yet erotically fragrant with the hair washes and pomades and colognes in which the most important men in the world presented themselves as they emerged from their early-morning clusters and confabulations and caucuses.

  But it wasn’t only men who were meeting to carve up the world! One woman stood above the crowd, tall and proud, to be numbered amongst their ranks! A British woman, an expert, an enigma, a cause for comment and speculation, here to advise Lloyd George and Winston Churchill about Mesopotamia and the confluence of British and Arab interests. Only one woman of importance as a participant, along with the hundreds of men who had assembled at the invitation of the diminutive premier of France, Tiger Clemenceau, to—what was the phrase he had used?—‘decide upon the disposition of what remains of the world now that the snakes have been sent slithering back to their pits and the whipped dogs are cowering in fear of their punishment.’

  There were many things to discuss in a freezing cold and snowy Paris in the early months after the end of the war. One thing upon which Clemenceau had demanded was that each of the five treaties which would eventually emerge from the conference, being held to deal with the defeated powers, had to carry the name of a Parisian suburb, so that posterity would remember for all time the suffering of the French people. This had brought sneers from the British and the Americans, and a loud aside from David Lloyd George for the entire table to hear, when he whispered to his principle advisor in a thick Welsh accent, “odd that, because I don’t remember France really being involved in this war. I thought it was British boys who had suffered most, and British blood which was watering French soil.”

  Nonetheless, in order not to alienate the irascible French premier, the allies had agreed the treaties would be designated with French names . . . Versailles for the treaty concerning Germany, St. Germain for Austria, Trianon for Hungary, Neuilly-sur-Seine for Bulgaria, and Sèvres for Turkey.

  Gertrude glanced around the room. It was still early in the day, yet the atmosphere was already charged with intent as foreign secretaries, counsellors and advisors and walked into and out of the antechamber and the conference room, carrying their portmanteaux under their arms, and in their hands holding cups of coffee or glasses of aperitif, talking and huddling and discussing the items which their political masters were due to raise when the rulers of the world recommenced their deliberations. Although sometimes abrasive, the atmosphere was one of victors dividing up the spoils of conquest, and everybody seemed to wear a perpetual smile.

  It was only her second time in the precincts of the conference hall of the palace. She had been requested to attend the conference by Percy Cox and the redoubtable A.T. Wilson, Percy’s one-time deputy with whom she had had an abrasive relationship, yet who recognised her unique qualifications for assisting Great Britain in Paris, even though she was a woman.

  Since Percy had left Mesopotamia for Persia and Wilson had taken over in his stead, Gertrude had supported and respected him, but increasingly, her support had not been reciprocated, and her respect had not been returned. At times, he had been more than off-hand and curt . . . in staff meetings he had often been deliberately rude. She hoped their time together in Paris could establish a better working relationship. But what concerned her was that he was pushing Britain’s interests at all costs, regardless of the consequences for the Arabs and Gertrude knew this would lead to disaster. His insensitivity also encompassed a conversation she and he had held some time ago, concerning the need for Arabic unification.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, women,” he’d snapped long before they’d left for Paris. “Divided we’ll rule them—allow them to form a union and Britain will be squeezed out.”

  She’d begun to explain why he was wrong, but he’d refused to listen and had walked out of her office without the courtesy of a goodbye.

  During the weeks she had been in Paris, Gertrude had visited many people from all over the world in their hotels to lobby them over the future of the Middle East. She had dined with them at Fouquet’s and Le Pré Catalan and Le Trianon, she had walked with them through the parks and along the banks of the Seine, and she had shopped with their wives and attended theater parties with delegates from America, Japan, Italy, Greece, and Australia. The Australian delegation—more British than the British—were particularly excited to be present and participating because this was the country’s first time as an independent nation representing its own interests in an international forum. And the delegation felt that after their fledgling nation’s army had fought with such extraordinary distinction in the Middle East, as well as its unconscionable losses at Gallipoli, they had merited a seat at the table and the respect of the gathering. By directly negotiating on behalf of their young government, the Australian delegates were relishing the legitimacy their presence would give them in the eyes of the rest of the world.

  Most of the deliberations of the conference concerned the disposition of Europe after the war. The fate of the former territories of Germany and Austria-Hungary were up for grabs, and because of the numbing losses of young men’s lives on the battlefields of the Somme and the Marne and Ypres, numbers which Gertrude was incapable of absorbing, the dismemberment of the German and Austro-Hungarian territories of the belligerents took precedence over all other theaters of war.

  Mesopotamia, Persia, and the former Ottoman Turkish lands were barely discussed in the early weeks of the conference, but were always in the background. Indeed, the word oil seemed to resonate constantly from wall to wall, salon to salon, like some dark mantra which held the secret of eternal life.

  Britain had struggled in the latter part of the war because her battleships were oil-powered, and she had no natural oil of her own, France wanted to maintain its territorial hold in the Middle East because of its own need for oil, as did Italy and Russia. Only America and Persia were self-sufficient in oil and, as though to prove its potential for the future, John D. Rockefeller, the founder of the Standard Oil Company in America, had become, almost overnight, the world’s richest man.

  But in the question of oil lay the source of the intractable problems facing Gertrude, for Britain wanted mastery of the entire area, Great Britain wanted both Persia’s oil and also to remain firmly in place in Arabia because it held out similar promises of huge reserves. Yet British officials had made promises to King Faisal and King Abdullah and
ibn Sa’ud and others about independence for their lands after the war, and Britain had made diametrically opposite promises to the French, to the Russians, and to other allies in return for their co-operation in the war effort. The Arab Office in Cairo had made promises to the sheiks and emirs about collaborating with them in the best way to gain their independence after the war. Colonel Lawrence had given assurances in the British government’s name that Arabia would be sovereign in return for its Arab revolt against the Turks. Britain’s Indian government clearly stated its intention to continue ruling the area and expanding its influence out of the borders of the sub-continent as far as the banks of the Suez Canal. Italy had expectations, as did France and Russia.

  The environment Gertrude entered was a seething mass of distortions, contradictions, lies, evasions, prejudices, denials, and demands that promises be upheld. It was a poisonous place, and because she was the British expert, she was expected to clean up the mess which had been made without her knowledge or approval by British politicians, diplomats, civil servants, and military men.

  Sitting in the chandeliered hall of the Élysée Palace, looking at the men whose faces she knew from the pages of The Times or the Tatler, Gertrude felt as though this was where capricious destiny had determined she would be. The idea of convincing the world’s leaders of the necessity and value of uniting all Arab tribes and peoples into one nation with a single voice was still her goal, even if the political realities of the place would cause her insuperable difficulties. And to make matters even more complicated, she’d have to use all her subtlety, all the guile which she’d learned in observing how Arabs negotiated, to ensure that she wasn’t marginalized because she was a woman.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the stentorian voice of Winston Churchill, who always sounded to Gertrude as though he was inebriated.

  “Ah! The redoubtable Gertrude Bell, peerless I see, as the only woman here. How very charming you look this morning, my dear.”