I remember one dinner long ago at the University of London when the main dish was pheasant, which I very much enjoy. One of my colleagues looked at me in puzzlement. “But I thought you were an observant Jew and that pheasant was forbidden,” he said. I thought for a moment and then I said, “Yes, that’s right, it is, but I don’t go that far.” “But you always refuse to eat any dish with ham, pork or bacon. If you refuse those you should refuse pheasant, too. What’s the difference?” he asked. I replied, “When I was growing up the world was divided into people who ate pig meat and people who didn’t.” Pork and ham became the basic division of identity. As nobody ate pheasant, it was something else.
I was reminded of this years later when I was dining in a restaurant in the United States with a Reform rabbi who, to my surprise, ordered shrimp, which are, of course, on the forbidden list for an observant Jew. I said to him in astonishment, “You are eating shrimp!” He replied, “Yes, we’re Reform and not that strict.” “But,” I said, “you never eat pork or bacon.” “It’s not the same,” he said. “Shrimp and seafood are trafe [the opposite of kosher]; pork and bacon are anti-Semitic.”
Choosing a School
In 1957, when my daughter Melanie reached the age of five, my wife and I decided it was time to place her in a day school. We naturally wanted to find the best school possible for her. At that time, there were two day schools for girls in London which were, by common consent, the best in the region. One of them, St. Paul’s, was a Church of England school; the other, South Hampstead School for Girls, by a fortunate chance, was five minutes’ walk from where we lived. We decided to try both. At St. Paul’s, the headmistress said she would like to meet the parents of the girl. We went there; she asked us various questions which we answered and then I said to her: “Don’t you want to meet my daughter?” She looked at me in surprise and said: “What could I learn from interviewing a five-year-old child?”
The attitude of the neighboring school was very different. Each year they accepted about thirty girls. They interviewed about a hundred. As parents we had to take our daughters there and then leave them with the teachers who, by various procedures, chose half of the girls and then, some days later, summoned them for a further procedure by which they finally chose the thirty that they accepted. This school was what is known in England as a “direct grant school,” a private school which receives some government support. Since it received government support, it was subject to government rules of education, one of which was that they were not allowed to ask applicants their religion. At St. Paul’s of course they were entitled to do so, and they did. St. Paul’s school was primarily for Anglican children, but they accepted a limited number of pupils of other denominations. At South Hampstead, such selection was strictly forbidden. I had been interested in the fact that over the years this particular school had had a fairly consistent level of approximately one-third of the class being Jewish and I wondered how they managed to maintain this level without asking people their religion. On the last day of the interviews, when they were making their final choice, there was a senior school mistress in charge and she asked various questions about my daughter and then, just as we were leaving, she said: “Just one other thing. As you know, we include a class on scripture as part of the syllabus. Would your daughter be doing both Testaments or just the Old?” Mystery solved.
The first day of school is usually a Wednesday, in order to make the transition easier. On the Saturday after my daughter started school, my parents came as usual to pay us a visit. Melanie was full of her new experience and eager to talk about it. What really astonished me was the immediate and total communication that was established between my daughter and my mother. My mother too had started school at the age of five, more than half a century earlier, but when they talked about school, sharing experiences, procedures, games and all the rest, it was as if they had both been in the same place on the same day. My mother started school in 1900, when Queen Victoria was still on the throne. Melanie started more than half a century later, but the degree of similarity and continuity was remarkable. That would not happen now. There have been too many changes and transformations and the England of today is very different from the England in which I grew up, let alone that of my parents. But the continuity was very clear then. Melanie’s mother knew English well, but she had arrived in England for the first time in her late teens and had never been a little girl in England. Nor for that matter had my father or I been little girls. We were fascinated listeners but not participants in this conversation. I cannot imagine an exchange of this kind with any of my grandchildren. It is not only a different age; it is a different country and, in a sense, a different world.
Pakistan
In early 1957 I received an invitation to visit Pakistan. The occasion was the opening of the new campus of the University of the Punjab in Lahore. I was also invited to participate in an international conference of Islamic studies, to be held in Lahore at the same time. The invitation was issued jointly by the University of the Punjab and the government of West Pakistan. (This was before East Pakistan split off and became Bangladesh.) I accepted with alacrity and set off on what was to be my only visit to Pakistan, and the first of a series of visits to the Indian subcontinent.
I began my visit in Karachi where I spent a few days and managed to see some old friends, one of whom I had known when he was a law student during the brief interval when I was a law student myself. He had now reached a position of some importance and invited me to his home for dinner. On my arrival, he opened a cupboard and offered me a drink, a choice of various scotch whiskeys and other beverages. I was astonished since there was, in Pakistan at that time, a strict ban on alcohol—a ban, that is, for Muslims. There were bars in hotels and restaurants and other public places but the only people allowed to drink were non-Muslims and “certified dipsomaniacs” who could make a medical case for their absolute need of booze. I was therefore more than a little surprised when my host, a prominent law officer, opened his cupboard and offered me a drink. I asked if he wouldn’t have to prosecute himself. To which he replied, “Oh, no, I am a certified dipsomaniac.”
I was also invited to dinner by a prominent local Shi‘ite family. At one point in our dinner table discussion my host remarked reproachfully that in my book The Arabs in History I had praised Mu‘awiya’s statesmanship and even, in some measure, endorsed his legitimacy. For the Shi‘a he is the archvillain, the main perpetrator of their defeat in the succession of the Prophet; he is a figure of pure evil. To praise him was the equivalent of praising Hitler to Jews. My hosts were very gracious, but left me in no doubt about their feelings. My own feeling was of embarrassment (social, not intellectual).
One of my most vivid recollections from the trip is of a dinner at a Pakistani officers’ mess. At one point the conversation turned to the recent war—the 1956 war, known as the Suez Crisis, when Israel, in response to the Egyptian blockade of its shipping in the Red Sea, invaded Egypt with the complicity of Britain and France. President Eisenhower intervened and ordered them to leave, which they did. When I asked my Pakistani host, a general, his view of this episode, his reply was really surprising: “Our position is quite clear. We are strongly opposed to military aggression, especially when left unfinished.”
I was reminded of that when the memoirs of the widow of Anthony Eden were published, in the course of which she said that a little after the 1956 war she and her husband were talking to an American diplomat who asked, “Why didn’t you go on?” This combination of comments, one from a Pakistani and one from an American, raises interesting questions about what was really intended—but that is another topic entirely.
I went on to Lahore after that, where I was officially received and installed in my hotel, and where the very elaborate proceedings of the occasion began. The university ceremonies celebrated the opening of the new campus. As I was the formal representative of my own university I was in cap and gown and delivered the customary academic platitudes.
The other, more interesting, event to which I was invited in Pakistan was the International Congress of Islamic Studies. This was primarily a gathering of Muslims—representatives, many of them professional men of religion, from Muslim countries and Muslim communities all over the world. I was one of the very small group (about half a dozen or so) of non-Muslim specialists in Islamic studies who had been invited to come as guests and participate in the event. It was at times pleasant, at times difficult, but certainly interesting and informative.
Two incidents remain particularly vivid. At the end of the meeting, Gustave von Grunebaum, professor of Near East history at the University of California, and I were walking out of the building when we were stopped by a Pakistani who asked whether he could have the privilege of giving us a lift to our hotel. We accepted. No sooner had we set off than he came to the point. “I have a question which I would like to put to you two gentlemen, as experts on Islam. Would you be willing to consider my question?” We replied that we would be happy to do so. An uncle of his had recently died, leaving him a considerable fortune. The uncle had no children of his own and our host was his sole heir. The question that was troubling him was as follows. His uncle had accumulated his fortune by buying and selling shares on the stock exchange. Our host was a pious Muslim but not a learned one. He knew that trade and profit were permitted but that loans and interest were forbidden, as was gambling. His question was whether making money on the stock exchange counted as the one or the other—in a word, was it permitted or forbidden? As a pious Muslim, he did not feel that he could accept the money if it had been unlawfully acquired.
I said to him that what he was asking for was not a scholarly opinion but a fatwa, a religious ruling. Surely he would want to turn to one of his own jurists, not to infidel Orientalists. He replied with a grimace of disgust, “Our jurists! If they smell money they will authorize anything. I have more confidence in your scholarship than in their piety.”
Gustave and I looked at each other in embarrassment and we gave him the kind of vague and inconclusive answer that comes so naturally to academics. We were trying to make life easier for him without making the cost of doing so too onerous.
The other memorable occasion was when the non-Muslim Orientalists who were present at the conference were invited by the great Islamic ideologue Abu’l-‘Ala Mawdudi to visit him in his home. Mawdudi was a leading figure in the Muslim world and we felt both honored and privileged and we were eager to hear what he would have to say.
His opening remarks were not surprising: “You Orientalists, you all make the same mistake.”
“Oh dear,” we thought. “Here it comes . . .” But we were quite wrong. He went on to say, “You all learn Arabic; many of you learn Persian; some of you learn Turkish. That was all right in its day, but its day has passed. Today, the center of the world of Islam is here in Pakistan, and the dominant language of Islam is Urdu. If you want to know what is happening in the Islamic world, you can do so only through Urdu.” A surprising and interesting comment, and by no means entirely wrong. I never attempted to learn Urdu as I had decided early on to limit my specialized studies to the Islamic heartlands of the Middle East.
At the time of my visit Bangladesh was still East Pakistan, and my conference hosts suggested, and I readily agreed, that I might go there as part of my visit to Pakistan. There was no direct land link between West and East Pakistan. One could fly, or travel via India. I had never been to India and this seemed to offer an interesting possibility. Relations between India and Pakistan were at best chilly, and since I was there as a guest of Pakistan, I felt that I should not make a stop in India without asking permission. I therefore spoke with my host at the University of the Punjab, and asked whether he had any objection to my stopping in India briefly on my way to East Pakistan. “Not at all,” he said. “On the contrary, we would like you to see for yourself how our Muslim brothers are oppressed in India.” So I flew from Lahore to New Delhi and spent a few days there before proceeding to East Pakistan. During that brief visit I established some contacts with the Delhi Muslim community, and of course with the dominant Indian Hindu academic and learned organizations. This led to a series of subsequent visits, mostly to Delhi, once to Bombay, and, for a somewhat longer period, as a visiting professor at the Muslim University of Aligarh.
On one of these visits, in the late seventies, I was invited to lecture by the Institute of Islamic Studies in New Delhi. After the lecture my hosts said that they hoped I would understand that they were unable to pay me the kind of lecture fee to which I was no doubt accustomed but they would like to show their appreciation and had a suggestion to make. They proceeded to explain that they had rented a houseboat on Lake Kashmir and had made arrangements to fly me and my Turkish companion to Kashmir where we were to be picked up and taken to the houseboat which was all ready for our cruise round the lake. It was a fascinating experience, and in many ways the most rewarding remuneration I have ever received for a lecture.
Afghanistan
Sometime in the 1960s the British government signed a treaty for an exchange of cultural activities with what was then the Kingdom of Afghanistan. Having signed this document they wondered what on earth to do next. The answer to that was not very obvious and then someone had the idea of sending me to Afghanistan to give a couple of lectures, talk to some people and explore possibilities. This sounded interesting and as I had never been to Afghanistan and was always willing to add another country to my list, off I went over the summer for a visit of a couple of months.
At that time there was no way to fly directly from England to Afghanistan so I went via Tehran. When I boarded the plane in Tehran I was surprised to see a man from the University of Hamburg whom I knew marginally well. It turned out he was bound for Kabul on a mission identical to mine as the West German government had just signed a cultural convention with the Kingdom of Afghanistan.
Each of our programs began with a major public lecture in the university’s largest auditorium and it was my good luck that his lecture came first. On the platform were the minister of education, dignitaries of the university, other VIPs and, in the front row, the staffs of the German, Austrian and Swiss embassies and others from the German-speaking community. The auditorium was packed with faculty and students.
My German colleague began his lecture, in German, and was translated, paragraph by paragraph, by an interpreter. He had been told by his sponsors in Berlin, exactly as I had been told in London, “Show them pictures.” So he had some slides, as I did, and as soon as the lights went dim for the slide show there was a stampede for the exits. But the authorities had anticipated this. The exits were bolted and barred and guarded by fierce Pathan warriors who flung the students back into their seats—and the lecture continued. I thought, my God, what am I in for?
The next day it was my turn to give my lecture. I began as my colleague had done and then I also asked for the lights to be dimmed to show my slides. I did this with considerable apprehension. Nothing happened. Nobody moved. The audience remained in their seats and I continued my lecture. It had gone well, I thought. Maybe more people in Kabul knew English than German. That’s certainly true, but it wasn’t the explanation, which I discovered when the lecture was over. In Afghanistan there is no question period after lectures; there are lectures and that’s it. When my lecture was over and I was leaving, several students came up to me and said they would like to thank me for my lecture and then asked, very hesitantly, if they could ask me some questions. I responded affirmatively and they asked their questions most apologetically. They said, “We’re sorry to bother you with these questions, but you see, tomorrow we’re going to be examined on your lecture.” That’s one way of keeping students in their seats.
Afghanistan has two national languages, Pashto and Dari. Pashto is a language of the Indian family and it is widely spoken in Pakistan. Dari is Persian by another name. Dari is not identical with the Persian spoken in Iran, but it’s closer than English
and American. There are, however, some differences. Several examples: my hosts provided me with a car and driver and after a visit with some officials I went outside and there was no sign of the car. I wanted to ask, “Where are my driver and car?” In Iranian Persian, the driver would be chauffeur-i māshīn; chauffeur is a driver, māshīn is a car, so I said chauffeur-i māshīn. Nobody understood. Eventually the driver appeared and it was explained to me: “What you want is the driver-i motor.” Obvious!
When I flew to Herat after my stay in Kabul, my luggage disappeared. It was just one case, but all I had. I was worried. I was trying to ask about it and my problem was how to say “luggage.” I tried the usual word in Persian; it didn’t work. I tried Arabic; it didn’t work. I tried a sort of international language, “baggage”; even that didn’t work. Eventually someone appeared carrying it. “There it is.” “Ah,” he said, “Box-i shumā!” “Box” is the Afghan-Persian word for luggage.
One of the striking things about Afghanistan at that time, and different from other countries in the region, was the frankness and directness of its people. One day I was meeting with officials of the university, discussing the purpose of my visit, when a young professor turned to me and said, “The real question of Anglo-Afghan cultural cooperation is whether British universities are prepared to recognize our degrees as equal.” You can guess the answer to that. As I was trying to think of a diplomatic formulation the minister of education, whom I had come to know over the course of the trip, turned to him and said, “Don’t be silly. How could they possibly recognize our degrees as equal?”
Notes on a Century: Reflections of A Middle East Historian Page 13