LIFE IN SULAIMANIA (_continued_)
During this time Hama had returned once with a large number of
mule-loads of “run” from Halabja, and was great with projects of a
journey to Bagdad to buy sugar. The road to that place was still
closed, and the only means of access to the south was by Halabja and
Khaniqin, a large frontier town on the Bagdad Kermanshah road. All the
merchants of the place were itching to be off and away to Bagdad, for
the sugar that in April had cost two krans a loaf was now selling for
five, and there were days at the coffee-house when one could not get
tea, the sugar having run out, and people, from force of habit, sat
there smoking cigarettes and discussing politics, tealess.
But in his commercial schemes, Hama, with all the characteristic of
the Kurd to the fore, quite forgot that he had left outstanding at
Halabja a number of debts which he must collect before more money was
risked, and was hoping to rake in a good profit on a new undertaking,
while disregarding the loss on the old one. So I had to send him back
to Halabja, for he had disposed of the fifty pairs of shoes mostly
on credit, and had but a hazy idea of who the buyers were. He sat at
the edge of the tank twiddling his fingers and puzzling his brains to
remember to whom he had given the shoes, while I tried to make a list,
which was finely descriptive where he could not remember the names.
One had taken a pair for twelve krans, “who was the second rider of
Majid Beg’s men from Narinjalan”; another, “a big man who sits at the
corner of Shaul the Jew’s shop, in the bazaar”; another, “a man I met
in the coffee-house, who was talking to Hama Rasha of Ababail”; and so
on. Lady Adela herself had taken some, and there were quite a number of
her servants whose shoes, according to Hama, were also chargeable to
her, though apparently she never consented to pay for them. So I sent
him away again to Halabja, and in his place engaged a small boy, son of
the Hama who was the caravanserai keeper of Matti. This boy was content
to serve for a penny every three days, and his food. He was a child of
extraordinarily acute intelligence. He had picked up some Persian in
the bazaars, and displayed great aptitude in learning it when spoken
to him. But if his intelligence helped him thus, it also assisted in
making him a great trial to both his father and the Christians in
the caravanserai. For he was the leader of several gangs of small
hooligans, was continually fighting, and obeyed only in a small degree
his father. His mother, a most estimable soul, who came to make bread
for me, was in despair of him, for he was quite out of her hands, and
did just as he pleased with her. By making himself a great nuisance to
the Christians, he had instituted a kind of toll, which he received on
demand, a piastre or two at a time. He would, for instance, come to
Habib, demanding his fee, and if it be refused, as it was sometimes,
would jump upon the unfortunate man’s back and half throttle him, or
sweep round and round his office, overturning the wares and dealing
destruction as he went. If he were chastised, he returned, fortified
with genuine fury, to the fray, and the easiest way to deal with him
was to give him his twopence. When he came to me, I naturally earned
the gratitude of all his victims, but he still found time to run round
to the caravanserai and hurl a taunt or two at its occupants. He was a
child of the Aorami, that tribe of Kurdistan which is not Kurd, which
claims descent from Rustam himself, and counts its place of origin
to be Demavend. The neighbours were not particularly pleased at his
advent, for he carried war into their territory, and from the roofs,
the playground of children in the summer, he raided the courtyards,
and taught all the quiet children of the quarter the wild games he
delighted in. The women stood in dread of him, for he would, when sent
upon an errand to borrow a pot or pan, a common enough errand in these
parts, remain for an hour teasing.
[Sidenote: A KURDISH URCHIN]
According to the custom of Sulaimania, there were during the day none
but women in the houses; and in our quarter, where small merchants
and shopkeepers lived, the men were out from early morning to late
evening. My interests took me but little outside on some days of the
week, and as I became known, and the presence of the old dame rendered
such a proceeding not indecorous, the female portion of the surrounding
inhabitants would spend some part of their not too fully occupied
time chatting. For the most part they were merry people, like all
Kurdish women, free from any affectations of speech or manner, saying
what they meant without an attempt at softening rough corners from
the subject--saying it while they looked one straight in the eyes, so
to speak--and laughing heartily at the pleasantries that abound in
Kurdish conversation, with no sign of what we call “flirtation,” nor
self-conscious tricks of any kind.
Breadmaking days were the time for a regular meeting of such, and when,
if at home, I would retire to my room. The professional woman baker
would arrive early in the morning with a bag of flour, and Ghafur, the
child of wrath, would be sent round to borrow a big copper pan from
one of the neighbours, the capture of which he usually signalled by
beating a tattoo upon its resonant sides all the way up the street. The
woman baker was by this time drinking her tea with the old house-dame,
listening to the oft-told tale of her son’s death on the Bagdad road,
and weeping a tear or two in sympathy. With the advent of Ghafur, she
would speedily desert the tea--for she was, and I hope still is, a
busy woman--and get to mixing her flour. This operation was always
performed under the little space of roofing just inside the open
courtyard door, so when the neighbours, bound upon their multifarious
house-to-house errands, passed by, it was natural that they should
stroll in to assist. If they did not, then Ghafur would be sent to beat
them up, an operation which he fully appreciated, for to bake the bread
well required two or three, and as we had no earth-oven, someone else’s
must be heated, and then of course others who had a little bread to
bake would ask the favour of cooking theirs after ours, in the still
hot oven; for the heating costs money, and the opportunity of baking at
another’s fire is never lost by a good Kurdish housewife.
[Sidenote: BREAD BAKING]
So as a rule we had as assistants at the game of kneading and rolling
into balls, ready for slapping into thin flap-jacks, the carpenter’s
wife from opposite, a sturdy creature, hard-worked and hard-working.
She had five children, whom she kept clean and tidy, two of whom
usually accompanied her, fair, curly headed youngsters with pale blue
eyes, and as rosy cheeked as only a Kurd or a Persian is among the
Middle Eastern people. Then there were the two sisters from next door,
wives of two brothers who kept a coffee-house, lazy creatures who sat
about and smoked cigarettes. Occasionally one, Adela, wife of the ward
of the children in whose house I lived, would look in, but she was a
haughty creature, of velvets and golden ornaments and diamond rings,
the beauty of the quarter, who knew her own importance. She certainly
was very beautiful, and had the added advantage possessed by many
Kurdish women over those of the neighbouring races--height, and a fine
straight height too.
But the best of these good-looking Sulaimanian women--for they are a
well-favoured people--was Gulchin, flighty, good-hearted Gulchin. She
was a tall girl of about eighteen, a little pale for prettiness, but
of finely formed features. The gossips of the quarter objected to her
because she was light-hearted and ran from house to house much as my
serving-child Ghafur did, chaffing and teasing. She had quite a sad
little history, too, and concealed under her frivolous manner lay a
sorrow that broke out in tears sometimes when the other women returned
her harmless badinage with a taunt, when she would fly to her house
and sit in a corner sobbing till the natural buoyancy of her spirit
asserted itself, and she came forth a little sobered, but still ready
to meet the others.
She had been the young wife of a certain Taufiq, a handsome lad who had
a good position under the local government, and a large house. With him
she had been very happy, and had borne him a child. Unfortunately there
were a mother-in-law and grandmother, who, each detesting Gulchin, laid
their wits together to eject her. So they spread rumours concerning
her, to give a cause of irritation to her husband, and at the same
time, with the assistance of a hedge-priest, discovered certain
invalidities in her marriage bond. With this in hand, they continued
the dissemination of scandal, till the husband, hearing it from certain
respectable people, came in wrath to Gulchin. She being a spirited
girl, and moreover, innocent, naturally gave the retort very direct,
and a quarrel occurred which for the time embittered one against the
other. The old women now came to Taufiq with the defective bond, and
taking the opportune moment of his resentment and wrath, induced him to
divorce his wife.
So, disgraced and stripped of her good clothes and her ornaments,
which, though she might have taken, she refused, Gulchin came to the
house of her aunt Asima Khan, my neighbour, a descendant of the ancient
priestly families of Hakkari, and as such bearing the masculine title
“Khan.”
Here Gulchin was reduced to the level of a superior maid, and had to do
the housework, but her uncle gave her clothes and protected her, for
he, Abdullah, was a grave, respected man, the senior of the quarter.
Had Gulchin’s resentment against her husband continued, it would
have been well for her, but unfortunately, she was too good-hearted
a girl to hate anybody, and really loved him, so she wept tears of
regret and remembrance. And worst of all for her she had, in a soft
moment, confided her trouble to one of the other women, and had become
a subject for chaff, good-humoured enough certainly, but hurtful all
the same, and had she not been naturally light-hearted would have led a
very sorry life.
[Sidenote: GULCHIN]
What lost her the respect of her neighbours was the habit she had on
hot days of coming outside the house without her turban, bareheaded
except for a tiny skull-cap, her thick, long hair exposing its ten or
twelve ropes of thick plaits uncovered by the veil that accompanies the
turban. But she was perfectly honest; an immoral woman is the exception
in Sulaimania, and she scoffed at those who sacrificed comfort to
false modesty. Ghafur had succeeded, in a hunt for someone to mend my
clothes, in capturing her for the job, and she would spend some of her
mornings with the old house-dame, often dropping her work to romp with
the child. Her methods were original sometimes, for she had little
patience. One morning she swept into the courtyard at a moment when
I had just discovered a piece torn out of the sleeve of a shirt, and
called to her to mend it. She said she had no linen and no money to buy
any, and Ghafur not being there to get some from the bazaar, she tore
a piece from her own, and then, seeing the expanse of white skin thus
discovered, fled, blushing, to pin it up in a corner.
It was not long after my first visit from the police that Sayyid
Nuri again called. This time he came without the knowledge of old
Mustafa Beg, and was accompanied only by a kind of confidential
companion-servant and a hideous old man whom he made the excuse for
his visit, for he said he wanted to introduce him to me because he was
a doctor, and I had considerable knowledge in the science. He was a
horrible-looking old creature, with a beaked nose and but three yellow
teeth, and had an intensely evil look in his small eyes. Like all of
his class, and Sulaimanians in particular, he commenced asking a number
of questions concerning myself; but his native suspicion did not allow
him to believe most of the replies, and at last he asked if I had a
passport, to which I answered in the affirmative. Sayyid Nuri here
interrupted and objected to this inquisition, for though he himself had
no scruples in asking the most intimate and offensive questions, he
demurred when another would arrogate the privilege to himself. The old
creature bent towards him and said, “If we could only see his passport,
then we should know what he is”--but I interrupted him by telling him
that had I a dozen passports in my pocket I should not display them to
him, a remark which amused Sayyid Nuri and annoyed the old man. Then he
put forward the proposition he said he had come to make. It appeared
he possessed an old Arabic book setting forth the medical science as
understood by the Arabs; the old Greek theory of heat and cold, the
calorific and frigid temperament, with its diseases all classed under
the two headings and cured by medicines antagonistic to such conditions
of the body. He now proposed that he should produce this book, and with
a stock of herbs purchased from the Jews, go into partnership with me,
a proceeding which he asserted “would fill our pockets speedily enough,
for a combination of European and Oriental skill will cover all the
ailments of the people and provide an alternative to those cases which
you cannot now touch, namely, the conservative part of the populace
that objects to the “new Medicine”--the “Tibb-i-Jadid.”
The more I protested the impossibility of such a combination, the
component parts of which were too antagonistic to be possibly
considered together, the more he pressed his point, affirming that
I was a fool to let professional jealousy thus spoil my chances; to
which I replied, that I was not even a doctor--an assertion they both
laughed to scorn, and pointed to the bottles above their heads as
incontrovertible proof. The “doctor” absolutely failed to understand
why I should not join him, and exhibited very considerable chagrin at
my consistent refusal, waving aside all my excuses--that I did not
perform, even if I knew anything about medicine; that I had too small a
stock; that I was very shortly leaving Sulaimania; and so on.
[Sidenote: A QUACK DOCTOR]
“No drugs!” he said, “buy some Epsom salts and phenacetin, that is
as good a stock-in-trade as you can desire; and anything else you
may require, why, we will make up some kind of concoction. Names are
plentiful, and one looks no worse than another upon a bottle of the
same stuff.”
The creature pressed so hard that I did not know how to be rid of him,
when a diversion came from Sayyid Nuri. He had been wandering about the
room, and had discovered a small cube of yellowish-grey earth, the use
of which he demanded. I explained to him that this was a piece of earth
from the sacred tomb of the saint Ali, an apparatus of prayer not to be
dispensed with by any good Shi’a Musulman.
“What! do you pray to this?” he cried.
“No,” I replied, “but we place it before us on the ground. As you know,
among the Sunni you place your foreheads upon the ground in praying,
you prostrate yourselves upon any earth or any dust upon which you find
yourselves. We do the same, but we see no harm in having a piece of
consecrated earth between our foreheads and the ground, so that when we
touch earth in our prostrations we may rest the head upon a spot more
sacred than the place we are in, and at the same time have before us a
reminder of the great man and saint and martyr whom even Sunni revere.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “and that is how a Shi’a says his prayers! Why, I
tell you, man, that such is idolatry and heathenism. Your prayers are
worthless said over such a thing, and you stand in danger of terrible
and eternal retribution for such a sin.”
“And you Shi’a,” he recommenced with some heat, “are the folk that
curse the name of Uthman, Umar, and Abu Bekr, and revile us, rising in
the morning with abuse of us on your lips, and not slumbering till you
have cursed us!”
The boy was losing his temper, and began to fumble with his dagger, but
the “doctor” did his best to get him away out of the room, telling him
that though some Shi’a might do as he said, I was not of the rampant
kind, and at any rate should not be responsible for others’ actions.
“Then let him renounce the schism,” he grumbled; but the old man had
his answer ready to this:
“Shall not he follow his fathers? and be damned or saved with them?
Were he to desert now, he would fling off his new tenets directly
he got away. Let him be, I say, he has not attempted to spread his
doctrine; let him pray in his fashion, the sin is upon him for
continuing, and the merit yours, for you have pointed it out.”
With that he rose and took his leave, and the boy seeing no further
amusement in staying, followed him, bidding me adieu sullenly and with
a bad grace. That was the last time he entered my house, for, a day or
two after, Shaikh Ahmad was appointed Qaim Maqam of Chemchemal, and
took his son with him.
But I was not to have peace for long. Only a few mornings after this,
two policemen turned up, with a message from the commissaire of police,
that he wished to see me at once. As I had imagined that he had ceased
worrying about my passport, I followed them, wondering what he wanted.
He was seated in a tailor’s shop in the bazaar, a fat man, with a
cunning look in his little blue eyes, and his mouth concealed under a
heavy yellow moustache.
He spoke nothing but Turkish and Arabic, and as I reached him,
addressed me in the former.
“Have you a passport?” he asked; “if so, why have you not submitted it
to me?”
“Because so far you have not asked for it, nor done anything except
hint at the illegal objects of my visit here; had you asked reasonably
for it I would have shown it.”
[Sidenote: A POLICE ENQUIRY]
“Well, I wish to know what you are doing here--why you came, why you do
not go, where you came from, your name, your----”
“These,” I broke in, “are known to everyone in Sulaimania but yourself.
I came here to do business, and have done some, and would have done
more had the place here been in a normal state of quietness. I came
from Kirkuk, and as you were with the same caravan you should have
known that; and as at Kirkuk my passport was seen and stamped, I am not
going to volunteer details as to whence I came there, for it is not
your business. As to why I do not go, I am hoping to leave very soon
for Bagdad--as soon as your bold Turkish army can induce the Hamavands
to leave a road open.”
This kind of conversation in the open bazaar, and among a crowd of
Kurds, half of whom understood, he had not expected, and appeared a
little hurt at a tone he was not apparently used to.
“Well,” he said, “at any rate I must see your passport, so you had
better fetch it.”
So, accompanied by a policeman I went back to the house and got my
English passport, and the Turkish travelling passport issued to all who
journey in that country. By now it had received ill-use, and the name
was illegible, as well as particulars of religion and birthplace. These
I brought to him there, and he inspected the travelling passport, and
after humming and hawing, said:
“Yes, this is very well, but the essential thing is an identification
passport. Where is it?”
I showed him the Foreign Office passport, which also interested the
Kurds round about.
“This,” he said, “is not a passport, it is merely a permit from your
Government to travel.”
“Well,” I said, “can you read it?” a remark that elicited guffaws from
the listeners.
“No,” he answered, “of course I cannot.”
“Then,” I said, “you must either take my word or suspend the enquiry,
you cannot blame me because you do not know English. I have stated
that I am a British subject, and there is my British passport, with
the visé of the Turkish Consul in London on the back, and there is my
name, ‘Ghulam Husain,’ upon it,” and I pointed to where my own name was
written in English.
“Well, that may be,” he said; “but yet it is not the personal passport
such as we all carry, and which is essential for identification.”
“Such a document,” I said, “is before you.”
Somewhat annoyed, he broke out:
“No! no! it is not, this is a travelling passport; where is the
passport you were given when you had completed your time in the army?”
“Well,” I said, “that I do not possess----”
“Oh! oh! why not?”
“Simply because we have the honour not to be Turkish subjects, do not
have to serve in the army unless we please, and are not called upon to
carry passports of identification everywhere with us; for we are not
subject to the inquisition and annoyance enjoyed under Turkish rule,
and there are too many of us, and we have too much to do, to waste our
time and money on paying ornaments like yourself to harass us.”
The poor police effendi had never been thus insulted before, and rose
furious. The Kurds were enjoying the scene, and one or two advised the
policeman to leave me alone, as it was evident that I was not to be
scared sufficiently to bribe him.
He had my passports in his hand, and stood for a moment irresolute, so,
thinking to bring matters to an end, I said:
“What do you want?--tell me, and perhaps we can conclude.”
“What do I want?” he exclaimed; “why, satisfaction for the indignities
you have put me to, your passport of identification, and a surety that
you are not a seditious person: I must hold an examination!”
“Good,” I said, “let us hold an examination, but not before I have seen
the Governor. As a foreign subject I demand my right of appeal to him,
and as you know, a British Consul is coming here in a few days (such
was the bazaar rumour), and complaint of you and your ways will then be
easy.”
“Very well,” and he shrugged in anger, “if you desire to increase your
troubles, come along.”
So together we left the bazaars and came through the long, busy street
to the outside edge of the town. He became friendly. He took me by the
hand, and we walked thus hand in hand while he began asking me again,
and this time in a friendly, solicitous way, why I had wanted to come
here.
“Why,” I said, “in olden times, when there were Hamadan merchants here,
you did not question them, and annoy them by such queries and doubts.
They were buyers and sellers, and so would I be, were the country more
secure. Meanwhile, what can I possibly do but wait the moment when
peace will allow of commercial venture?”
“With what places would you trade?” he asked.
“With Saqiz and Bana, Keui and Kirkuk, Panjwin and Sina, as do others,”
I said.
“How do you know all these places, if you are a stranger, and where
did you learn Kurdish? I am afraid you do not tell the truth about
your past, my brother; were it not better to tell me at once why you
are here. Your passports are defective. I have no personal animosity
against you, and should like to see you often, but there are strong
suspicions, and if we cannot be satisfied of your harmlessness, we
shall have to deport you to Mosul.”
“Good,” I said, “I am not enchanted with Sulaimania, and such a
step would put me in your debt, for as I am a foreign subject, you
would have to provide me with guards there, and on my arrival your
Government would have to reimburse my commercial losses due to the
abandonment of my business here, besides which, with the assistance of
the Consul, I should be able to complain direct to the Vali of you and
your methods.”
With this we arrived at the Serai, or Government house, and he took
me into a little office where three or four Turks were seated upon
a bench, idle. These saluted me, and having asked the reason of my
visit, and having been informed by the policeman, looked upon me with
suspicion, and while he retired to make an appointment, asked if I
had not a passport. I explained that I had all necessary passports,
but that the ignorance of their officials apparently involved them in
difficulties. At this they looked serious and offended, and held their
peace.
Anon the effendi returned, and took me down a dark passage to another
little office where was a fat Turk called the “Tabur Aghassi,” and
before him I was arraigned. Two or three Kurds were present, and as I
knew one of them he took the opportunity to ask what the trouble was,
while the policeman explained it in Turkish to the fat man. I suppose I
expressed my disgust very freely, for the Kurds laughed heartily, and
the policeman, who did not understand a word of Kurdish, turned sharply
and asked what I was saying. Meanwhile the Tabur Aghassi was examining
my English passport upside down, and looking grave. The various seals
and endorsements upon the back interested him immensely, and at last
he found a partially erased visé of the Turkish Consul in Kermanshah,
which had been attached some time before I left that place for Bagdad.
The sight of a Turkish seal seemed to reassure him, so I pointed out
the visé of the Turkish Consul in London, which he examined closely.
These seemed to allay his suspicions, and in conjunction with the
Turkish travelling passport appeared to put them at rest, and he told
the policeman so. That individual--who had not been able to read the
various endorsements--was somewhat chagrined, but thought to raise
a difficulty by asking how I had got through Kirkuk without police
inspection and seal upon my passport. I took the document from him
and showed him the Kirkuk police seal, but he could not read it, and
professed to believe it false; so I handed it to a Kurd, who with some
gusto read out the inscription on the seal, at which even the Tabur
Aghassi smiled, and the Kurds laughed, for I could not refrain from a
complimentary expression upon the capabilities of a police commissaire
who could not read the seals of his confrère and must rely on Kurds to
do it for him. By now he had lost his temper, and I had too, for he
continued to make fatuous remarks, and I commenced talking to him in
a strain he was not used to hear, certainly not before Kurds, so he
snatched up the passport and departed. The Tabur Aghassi was looking
rather cross too, for he naturally did not approve of such procedure,
but he sent a man after the policeman to tell him to seal and record
my passports and let me get away, for I had done enough damage in the
place already.
[Sidenote: ACQUITTAL]
In five minutes he returned the document passed and sealed, and
demanded half a mejidie, a last attempt. I took the paper from him,
bade farewell to the Tabur Aghassi, and as I left the room told him in
Kurdish that I would pay him in Mosul when I was deported. By the time
this was translated I was away.
The whole place had heard of the affair, and I passed a row of
sympathetic Kurds as I left, who made uncomplimentary remarks anent all
policemen and Government officials as I bade them good-morning.
From here I went to the caravanserai, and found Habib and Matti in a
terrible stew, for they had already heard that I had been locked in a
dungeon and fined heavily, and I was greeted by them and by the Kurdish
merchants with a pleasant warmth as I entered the place, appearing
to them as one who had escaped from certain disaster by a rare and
wonderful luck.
Habib’s fear had been doubled, for the policeman, before he sent for
me, had been to his shop and held an examination of him, hinting that
by his actions and friendliness with me, a suspect, he laid himself
out to punishment and fines. Altogether, Habib was in a sore mood,
for he, being a progressive fellow, talking Turkish, had cultivated
an acquaintance with the Turkish officials, and the policeman had
naturally annoyed him sooner than Matti, who spoke only Arabic and
Kurdish, but who had a great deal more to do with me than had Habib.
Besides, the Kurds and Christians held it a splendid opportunity to
chaff Habib over the desire for Turkish favour and acquaintance that
had thus led him near danger.
Despite the satisfactory ending of the affair, I knew that now I had
definitely made enemies of the officials in the place, and should be
worried whenever possible. Sulaimania possessed no particular charms,
and as the country was getting more and more disturbed each day--for
the Hamavands now burned the posts--the prospect of business was
absolutely nothing; so I began to consider the possibility of going
away. Matti, to whom I carried most of my troubles, was gloomy, and
predicted no good to anyone staying in Sulaimania. If they did not go
now, he said, they would be forced to leave later, for with the shaikhs
and Turks together, prices going up, taxes increasing, and security
always doubtful, trade was ceasing to exist, and there would soon be no
bread to buy, and no money to buy it with.
He was feeling very sore just then, for he had tried to get some
carpets to Mosul by sending them _via_ Keui Sanjaq, where the road was
open, but they had been looted on the way. He now strongly advised me
to leave Sulaimania if I could, but pointed out, at the same time, the
impossibility of such a step, for several reasons. First, Hama was
still at Halabja, the Jew not having fetched in the second consignment
of “run,” and dallying in the villages; secondly, if I left matters
thus, Matti could not be responsible for getting the money back, for,
as he truly said, “An absentee owner is the blessing of the dishonest
debtor, and the despair of the agent”; and then, worse than all, there
was no road to anywhere, except to Persia, and I was not keen just at
that moment to go there. Had I been able to get to Kermanshah, I might
have done so, but the road by Juanru was absolutely impassable, and
the Kalhur country was upside down, so a journey there was out of the
question. I could have got to Mosul, but my object was Bagdad, and the
roads there either _via_ Kifri or Kirkuk were absolutely closed, the
Hamavands making it their business to see that none passed. The posts
now only went at intervals, and refused to carry anything larger than
letters, which could be concealed under the clothing of the peasant who
carried them, and even then the Hamavands sometimes caught him and beat
him, burning the letters. So all I could do was, like Matti and the
rest of them, sit quiet and wait.
[Sidenote: THE SHAIKH UL ISLAM AGAIN]
One morning Hama turned up unexpectedly with four loads of “run” that
I had not been expecting, an instalment of the last amount. He also
produced some tomans he had collected on account of the shoes. He had
also had some interesting experience with the Shaikh ul Islam, that
disagreeable person I had gone to Biara specially to see when I had
been at Halabja. It appeared that one afternoon Hama had turned up as
usual at Lady Adela’s “divan,” and had found the Shaikh ul Islam there.
Without returning Hama’s salutation, he asked what he had done with his
Christian master. This created quite a sensation, and Hama hardly knew
what to say. Lady Adela and Uthman Pasha, who were both there, demanded
explanations, and the Shaikh ul Islam rose and denounced me, saying
that he had met me in Constantinople, where I wore European clothes;
that there I professed to be a European, while here in Musulman
garments I claimed to be a Persian. In Constantinople, he said, he was
convinced that I was not a European. He failed to understand what I
was, but thought it probable that I was not a Musulman, and I must
have evil designs to have found my way in an unobtrusive manner thus to
the heart of southern Kurdistan, with the Persian side of which I was
familiar. He rose and denounced me as a spy, a maker of mischief and a
danger to the country, and ended by cursing Hama for having anything to
do with me. But he had been too hasty, for he received an unexpected
rebuff from Lady Adela. She had apparently seen me saying my Musulman
prayers on several occasions, and, with almost as much heat as the
Shaikh ul Islam himself, defended me, saying that it was perfectly well
known that I was a Persian of Shiraz, a fact which was evident also by
my speech, and in this she was supported by Mansur, who strenuously
denied that I was a Christian, for he also had seen me praying, and
that in his own room. Others testified to my good faith, and the Shaikh
ul Islam’s position began to appear uncomfortable, when Hama put the
cap upon his discomfiture by an extraordinary statement. He recalled to
the memory of those present my journey to Biara, and said he would now
explain the reason of the Shaikh ul Islam’s enmity to me, and went on
to describe how in Constantinople I had lent him a certain sum of money
to help him to go back to his own country. This had never been repaid,
and I had, on my way to Persia, purposely come by Sulaimania hoping
to get back the loan, and for this purpose had visited the Shaikh ul
Islam at Biara. He, wishing to evade his just debts, had repudiated it,
and taken an attitude of enmity in order to scare me away; and now,
finding that I was in the neighbourhood, doubtless hoped, by provoking
a feeling hostile to me, to induce me to leave the district. The tables
were now fairly turned, and Lady Adela, speaking for herself and the
Pasha, signified their disapproval in forcible terms, and told the
Shaikh ul Islam that unless he apologised to Hama there and then, they
would eject him not only from their house, but from their lands. So
with extremely bad grace he did so, and Hama came away covered with the
glory that rests upon the vindicated and triumphant.
He was now the bearer of renewed invitations from Uthman Pasha, Lady
Adela, and Tahir Beg, to stay with them at Halabja, and was full of
schemes for extended trade under their protection. But he also bore bad
news, for he had been escorting several loads of “run” and had lost
one, worth the--to him--immense sum of forty tomans, or about seven
pounds. The caravan he had accompanied had arrived at Sulaimania very
early in the morning, and his attention being taken to a mule that had
fallen, he had let his other loads go ahead, through a village outside
the town.
[Sidenote: THEFT OF A LOAD]
Here someone had taken advantage of the absence of a guardian quietly
to lead a donkey and his load into a courtyard, and the caravan passed
on, the absence of the animal not being discovered till they got into
Sulaimania. Hama had spent a morning raising witnesses to the theft, a
quite possible thing, although no one could possibly have seen it, and
having fixed the crime upon certain villagers in collusion with a rival
dealer in “run,” he was going to find the police and have an enquiry
held. It did not appear to me of much use to do anything, for I knew
the matter must go to the police commissaire, and I knew also that he
would take such steps in the affair as would fulfil two aims: one, that
I should not receive my goods again; the other, that he should get out
of this that emolument which he had hoped to gain by his prosecution of
the passport scheme. However, the owner of the donkey would do his best
to assist Hama, if the stuff were to be found, of which I was doubtful,
for it was a thousand to one by now that it had been disposed of in
jars and pots, and the skins destroyed. So I let Hama do what he could.
Matti and Habib were much perturbed, swearing that the whole affair was
arranged out of revenge by the police commissaire, and urging me to
represent the matter to the temporary mutasarrif or governor, a certain
colonel who was replacing the senior while he was at Chemchemal waiting
to condemn the Hamavands--when caught.
Old Mustafa Beg, too, who had never ceased his morning calls, also
came and insisted on being allowed to go and see the police commissaire
himself and urge him to move in the matter. The old man always had
a great sense of his own importance, and could not see what was so
obvious, that he had been shelved, stowed away into this remote corner
of the Turkish Empire to be allowed to wear out and give out gradually.
He had received a fresh appointment in the last few days, which was
equally a sinecure with the former one, for he could not get to the
place, and had he done so the Kurds would have ejected him.
He was very keen for me to accept the invitation of the Mudir of the
Military School to a great rejoicing to be held by the Turkish part
of the population in honour of the anniversary of popular government
in Turkey, and he showed me copies of telegrams received by various
officials. There were orders for no less than one hundred and twenty
guns to be fired; five hundred liras from the revenue were to be
expended on a feast and upon decorations. All loyal subjects were
called upon to place lamps upon their roofs at night, and flags over
their doors by day.
The bazaar was to be closed, and a band was to play from morning till
night, when the fireworks were to be let off in the big open space in
front of the Serai. The band played, I remember, by fits and starts;
but it was somewhat defective, for the bandmaster, whose pay was
irregular and small, had pawned several of the brass instruments. Some
ten guns were fired, the Tabur Aghassi, who was temporarily responsible
for the affair, having abstracted the full amount of gunpowder from the
armoury and sold the bulk to the gunmakers of the town. So the affair
was a little ineffective, particularly as the Kurds refused to close
the bazaars or decorate.
Mustafa Beg, however, did not foresee this, and imagined it was going
to be a very fine affair, and his disgust afterwards was as loudly
expressed as his praise before.
A night or two after this we were awakened, as we were nearly every
night, by shots, but this time they were very close, and an uproar
accompanied them. Two or three dark figures could be discerned running
along the roof of the bazaar, and they ran the gauntlet of all the
fire of the surrounding population, that was sleeping on the roofs
with its guns beside it. Like all these affairs, however, it died down
without anyone being the wiser, and we slept again. In the dusk of
early morning I heard a voice calling from the street, “Agha Ghulam
Husain!” and looking over the roof edge saw Matti, who had run from the
caravanserai, and who was still doing up his waistbelt.
[Sidenote: DEATH OF MUSTAFA BEG]
“Come quickly!” he said.
Snatching up my abba, I ran downstairs and joined him in the street.
He was very agitated, and in reply to my questions could only gasp out
“Khan-i-Ghafur Agha”--the Ghafur Agha caravanserai--towards which we
were proceeding almost at a run.
Round the door a little crowd had gathered, and at the far side, near
the room I had once stayed in, next door to Mustafa Beg, a knot, among
whom I recognised the municipal and regimental surgeon, a little Greek.
As I approached they beckoned, and I ran forward to see what they
surrounded.
Lying where he had fallen was old Mustafa Beg, his face, always white,
now a dreadful colour in the dusk of dawn, contrasting with the orgy
of red his body displayed. A knife had entered the pit of his stomach,
ripped it for nine inches, and allowed all that was inside to emerge.
He lay in a pool of blood into which the bystanders stepped, and which
made a little morass around him. He was conscious, but too feeble to do
aught except move his eyes and whisper. He had asked for me, and now I
had come, and leaned over, ear to his mouth, he whispered to me to undo
his belt.
This I asked the surgeon to do, and as gently as he could he removed
it. This was not all, for the old man had a little to say, which he
could only do gradually. I caught the words as they came from his lips:
“Geundir Tarabulusda, har- ... bir shai ... var. Allah! Allah! oghlu
... oghlu ... san insanidin ... baqi ... haivanlar. Tav ... akkul ...
ullah, Allah, Al ...”
His life passed, his last breath calling God.
“Send to Tripoli all that there is,” he had said. “God, God ... son!
... son! ... thou wert human ... the rest ... savages ... I resign
myself to God ... God...!”
Matti, who stood a little distance away, was gulping and weeping, for
he had a soft and true heart, and the little Greek snivelled as he
began to prepare the body for removal. I sat a space away off and wept,
for I had loved the old man. Only the Kurds stood around unmoved: they
had seen worse than this, and might do or suffer it any day.
The surgeon, who was a capable little man, had already ordered a
coffin, and this, hastily prepared, now arrived, and we left the
caravanserai to the washers of the dead, who had arrived. We should
return when the work was done. Because there is nowhere else to wait,
we went to the coffee-house, and there heard how it happened.
Ghafur Agha, who owned the caravanserai, had been “Rais-i-Baladiyya,”
or Mayor, till a short time ago, and while holding that post had fallen
out with the shaikhs. Now he had been deprived of his office, and the
Shaikh family lost no time in showing him their open hostility by
raiding his caravanserai. There were in the place one or two business
offices, of which that of Haji Fattah was a prey they hoped to seize.
The robbers had also known that one of the Jewish merchants had brought
to his office the day before a thousand tomans in silver, and they
hoped to loot this. How they got into the caravanserai no one seemed
to know, the doorkeeper waking to find his heavy portals open. The
noise of their breaking into the office of Haji Fattah had awakened
Mustafa Beg, who slept in an old palanquin on the opposite verandah,
and impetuous as he always was, he commenced shouting loudly for Hasan
the doorkeeper. The robbers came to see who it was, and found him
sitting there, and warned him if he made any more noise they would kill
him. So for a moment he was silent. But he emerged from his palanquin,
apparently to see that the door of his cell was locked, and could not
restrain his inclination to advise the outside world of what was going
on. So he shouted loudly for the night-watchmen of the streets; but
before a moment had passed, a Turkoman, one of the robbers, had clasped
him round the neck, and with his long, curved dagger ripped him and
left him where he fell.
[Sidenote: MUSTAFA BEG’S MURDER]
This we learned from the people in the coffee-house, one of whom had
heard the deposition which the doorkeeper had made to the police; and
we learned with considerable satisfaction that the robbers had got
away with nothing of value, for the Jew’s money had been too well
concealed, and Haji Fattah’s valuables were in a heavy iron box; and
as the night-watchmen appeared soon after the murder of Mustafa Beg
and roused the town by firing, they had been forced to climb to the
roof and escape that way. The men were recognised by the doorkeeper,
who had told their names to the police. This had been kept quiet, but
it was known that they were shaikhs’ people, so when one arrived and
told us that the police commissaire effendi was examining the roofs for
footmarks, a smile of derision went round, for the roofs were almost
as hard as stone, and no footmark could possibly leave a trace, and if
it could, would have been obliterated by those of the people who had
already passed and repassed the course of escape, for in Sulaimania the
women use the roofs as a thoroughfare.
As no one came to inform us of the readiness of the body, we went
to Matti’s office there to wait. Matti was much affected by the sad
event, and seemed to have no inclination for business that morning,
and as the talk was bound to turn upon the ways and means of getting
out of Sulaimania, we once more got to the subject of my leaving,
and we arranged that if it were possible I should do so as soon as
any opportunity offered, by caravan to Keui, whence I could get to
Altun Keupri, or by one of the Shuan donkey-owners, who struck away
from Sulaimania and reached Kirkuk by a long detour through their own
country.
And in that way, things being thus settled, it came about that Matti
brought himself to the point of asking a question I suppose he must
have wanted to put many a time.
“Now, as you are soon going to leave us,” he said, “I want to put a
question to you, at which, if you do not approve, you must not be
offended, and will not answer. It is some time now since you first
came here, and we have come to know one another pretty well, and I
have done my best to help you. But I have seen one thing, and that is,
that you have never done business before in Kurdistan, and that even
had you, you are not sufficiently interested in the getting of money
to succeed. You do not seem to care whether your speculations render
you a profit or not, and your conversation, unlike that of a merchant,
is never of money, but of such subjects as those talk of who are at no
need to study business. You seem at more pains to cultivate a knowledge
of Kurdish and Kurdistan than of its business, and you put yourself
at more pains to buy a book than to do anything else. Habib, too, has
noticed this, and we have often wondered the reason for a Persian, and
a Persian of Shiraz at that, coming here at all; for though there were
Persians in the old days here, they were of Hamadan, and a Shirazi has
never been seen before. Still, you never volunteered any information,
and I have not ventured to put any questions, for fear of offending. I
must say that it is this very characteristic, this neglect of business
for which you are ostensibly here, that has caused the police to
notice you, and had you not won your way out of their clutches, Habib
and myself would have suffered severely, for they lose no opportunity
of bleeding one, and we might have been put under suspicion and
blackmailed unmercifully.”
“The only reply to frankness,” I said, “is frankness itself, and I
will tell what may possibly surprise you, and which will not, I hope,
lead you to consider me an impostor. You, like all the rest, have been
deceived into thinking me what I originally represented myself to be,
and I have a satisfaction in feeling that while I shall leave the
others still under the delusion, I shall have been able to pay you part
of the debt of gratitude I owe you by putting you alone in possession
of the truth.
[Sidenote: A CONFESSION OF IDENTITY]
“So I must tell you that I am neither Persian nor Turk, nor Kurd nor
Chaldean, but an Englishman, born of English parents in England, and
brought up in that land; and that fact will perhaps in itself go to
partly explain my presence here, for you must know that people of my
race are given to wandering over the face of the earth with no other
reason than to see it and the people it supports. I have spent nine
years of my life in Persia, and there acquired the language and a
knowledge of the habits and customs. To gain an intimate acquaintance
with the people of that land, I turned Musulman--ostensibly--and
passed through a long course of theological training. Two years ago I
found myself in Kermanshah, of south-eastern Kurdistan, and finding
the people and language an interesting study, resolved to pursue it
whenever possible. So, after having been in England last year for some
time, I found the fascination of Kurdistan and its mountains upon me,
and resolved to visit it once more for a time. But as a European it was
impossible and undesirable; for, as you know, a European would be an
alien, a stranger without acquaintance, in an isolated position and a
dangerous one, hampered in his movements, and often enough not allowed
to go from place to place. Moreover, had I desired to travel thus I
could not have done so, for I possessed but little money; so you see,
everything pointed to the fact that if I wished to see Kurdistan again,
I must go humbly, and as a native. So from Constantinople I set out,
disguised, and came away gradually here, where I had wished to remain,
in order to learn the language of Sulaimania, which up to the present
has been unknown to the Europeans. I have now accomplished this, and
want to leave Kurdistan again for a while. But I cannot look over the
months I have passed here, Matti, without realising that had you not
been here, with your help, your sincerity, your advice, and brotherly
friendship--all extended to a man of whom you knew nothing--I should
have fared much worse, have fared hardly perhaps, instead of living
comfortably with a feeling that when anything went wrong there was
always Matti to go to. So, brother, you know now what I am, and why
here, and all that remains is to ask your forgiveness, and to tell you
that I am, like yourself, a Christian, and no Musulman.”
“Allahu akbar!” cried Matti, using a Musulman phrase in his
astonishment, “see the works of God, how inexplicable they are! Ghulam
Husain, thou who art not Ghulam Husain, all that you tell me of being
an Englishman I know to be true, for I see the truth in your eyes; but
what matter it, if the friend be English or Russian, Turk or Kurd. What
gives me greater joy than ever I felt before, is to think that he, in
whom I found a friendly spirit, is of ourselves--of a Christian nation.
“Yet, had I known it before, how much more help I would have given you,
for what I have done has been nought but the calling of mere courtesy,
and the hospitable spirit incumbent upon all to the stranger, of
whatever faith or race he be. Now, if you are resolved to go, I will
give you letters to Khwaja Salim, my agent in Kirkuk, and to Matlub in
Bagdad. But I place upon you an obligation, by your soul! that you will
not, with the European clothes, put off the thoughts and remembrances
of Kurdistan, nor let our names slip from your memory. For we are rough
and savage, our ways are not yours--though you know ours, and follow
them here like ourselves--what we deem comfort you deem savagery, and
the European (I know this, for I have been in Beyrout and Aleppo and
met the European) ever scoffs at the Eastern land; but we are still
men, and if our lives are spent in a gloom of uncivilisation, it is
not because we have refused to emerge from it, but because we cannot;
perhaps we should lose our few good points in the strong light of
Westernism, and, taking to its comforts, spurn its obligations and
become worthless--as I have seen so many become, who have been to
Europe and returned. So you have taken us all by surprise; like an
enemy in disguise you have penetrated the walls of our strongholds, and
I for one am not going to tell the bazaar who has been amongst us.”
[Sidenote: BURIAL OF MUSTAFA BEG]
Then he went on to ask details of my former life in Persia, and the way
I had acquired sufficient knowledge of the land and life to pass in
bazaar and mosque as I was doing.
During this conversation, one came to inform us that they were about to
inter the body of Mustafa Beg. So, following him, we went outside to
the graveyard on the southern hill, where on a bare stony slope three
or four mulberry trees, bent double by the fierce “rashaba,” find a
footing among Sulaimania’s dead. Here we met the coffin-bearers, who
brought the coffin and without ceremony laid it in a shallow grave,
covering it with stones and earth. There were but a few of us present,
the master of the Military School, Matti, and myself, besides the
people hired to bury him; nor could we stay, for the Hamavands were
circling about on their ponies not far away.
The town surgeon had paid for his funeral out of the various almost
worthless odds and ends he had possessed, together with his clothing,
so that all that remained of the estate of the old Mustafa Beg was the
four liras he had entrusted to my care. These I guarded, and would
take to Bagdad, whence I could send them safely by postal remittance
to Tripoli, and be reasonably certain of their getting to their proper
destination.
The few of us who had seen the body buried were much affected by
the death of the old man, though he was neither of our race nor
countries; he was a stranger, and his horrible death in a place
where he had lived an unhappy and lonely life, showed at once in a
vivid manner the insecurity, and brought home to both Matti and the
master of the School the danger in which they lived, and made them
compare involuntarily their own positions in the town with that of
Mustafa Beg. For though they were nothing like so friendless, they
were equally unprotected, and above all they were strangers in the
land. The sympathy of the Kurd and the people of Persia and Kurdistan
generally for the stranger is a lively one; in these lands, to be away
from home means more than in countries where communication is rapid
and intercourse between distant points is frequent. The native place
is very dear indeed to the Turk, Persian, and Kurd. It is an innocent
enthusiasm that prompts the dweller in a pestilential and fever-ridden
village with salt water, to extol it as little less than Paradise
itself, for the discomforts of life in a strange land, far from his own
language or dialect, make the place he left appear far superior, and
distance lends an enchantment to his view that leads him to make the
most flattering descriptions of his native place. How often had old
Mustafa Beg told of the beauties of his Tripoli, its fruits, its busy
sea-coast, its climate, the hospitable nature of its inhabitants; and
how often had he sighed to go back, and counted the months to the time
when he should have sufficient money to return; and all his eulogies
had ended with a hope, expressed fervently, that at least he might die
among his own people; but here we were burying his remains in a land
which he hated, whose people he hated, and of whose language he knew
not two words.
And as we saw the last shovelfuls of earth placed upon his grave, the
watchers on the hill-top cried out to us to get away to town quickly,
for over the valley came a small party of horsemen, the Hamavands,
shooting at targets as they galloped; and we had to hasten back lest
the living should follow the new-buried dead.
At the house I found Hama, looking wretched. He had not succeeded in
finding the stolen “run,” and had called in the police, who were more
disposed to work up a case against him than help; for they heard whose
servant he was, and had some hope of getting out of this business
what they failed to get out of the passport affair--some money. I am
afraid I did not care much, for I was resolved to leave very soon,
and knew that it would be impossible to get satisfaction. But as he
urged, I went to the acting Mutasarrif, whom I found in a little
garden, surrounded by several colonels, all drinking coffee. Once
more I had to go through the nuisance of introducing myself, hearing
the same comments upon Persia, and answering the same questions
regarding my native country, my travels, trade, and aims. Three or
four spoke Persian, and were glad of the opportunity to display their
knowledge to their more ignorant fellows, so with a few compliments
upon their knowledge, I became friendly with them. In the middle of
it the police commissaire came in, and seeing me upon the right hand
of the deputy-governor, approached with smiles and compliments. The
usual course of such things followed. The deputy-governor gave orders
in a fierce voice that the stolen property should be immediately
forthcoming. The commissaire assured him that that was the only aim
in life of his four men, all at work on the affair, and bowed himself
out to complete their operations. A soldier was sent to the scene of
action, in town, “to make sure the stuff was produced immediately,” and
I took my leave perfectly satisfied that nothing would be done--as it
most surely was not.
[Sidenote: PREPARATIONS TO LEAVE]
During the next two or three days I began to think how I could get
away, and had almost settled a contract with a Shuan Kurd to go
by donkey through the villages, and by making a detour to the Zab
River, come at Kirkuk from the north. But hardly had I provisionally
settled with him, than news and a caravan came direct from Kirkuk.
The Hamavands had moved south, across the Bagdad road, and the Turks,
who had not dared to come out of Chemchemal while they still remained
in their country, were now scouring Bazian and its hills, and for the
first time since March the road was passable; it was now the end of
July.
The caravan was to go back in a day or two to bring some of the
merchandise that had accumulated during the four months of insecurity.
So I made haste to avail myself of this opportunity, and arranged
to hire a mule from one Salih, a long-limbed Turkoman of Kirkuk. I
paid the rent of my little house, and bade farewell to the various
people with whom I had made friends. Asima Khan, the lady who had been
instrumental in ridding me of the trouble caused by Sayyid Nuri, came
with a number of the other neighbours’ wives, and made the occasion of
a call upon the old house-dame an opportunity for bidding me good-bye.
I was sorry to part from Gulchin, for she was the freest, most
frank, and candid character of all, and her light-hearted ways and
open sincerity had done a great deal to make the life in Sulaimania
pleasant. She was looking very serious to-day in the company of her
aunt Asima Khan, and presented the subdued and humble appearance due
from a divorced girl in the presence of her seniors and superiors.
So, since it would not be etiquette, even in free Kurdistan, to have
held long conversation with the assembled company of women, I returned
their farewell compliments and retired again to the house where I
was settling with Hama, who tried to induce me by every means in his
power to take him. But this I did not wish, for I intended, once clear
of Sulaimania, to declare myself Christian, and see how one of that
religion fared among the people of these parts, and Hama’s attachment
to me was greatly due to my piousness as a Musulman. Besides, he had
sworn to my orthodoxy before Uthman Pasha and the assembled company, so
I could not undeceive him, quite apart from the fact that did I ever
return, I hoped to be welcomed again as Mirza Ghulam Husain.
In the custom of Sulaimania, we were to leave in the afternoon; not
like the Persian habit, which enjoins rising in the cold, dark dawn.
I had therefore to buy some food to last at least three days, for we
were not going to Chemchemal, and between Sulaimania and our first
inhabited stopping-place it might be three days. Gulchin had made me
some road bread, sheets the size of a sheet of brown paper, and little
thicker, of white, crisp bread. This with some pears was all I took,
and all that would be considered necessary by any ordinary person
in these parts. A little bowl for drinking-water completed the road
outfit, with the exception of a cotton quilt, which served both for a
cover at night and a softener over the hard pack-saddle.
[Sidenote: DEPARTURE FROM SULAIMANIA]
I spent the morning bidding farewell to the numerous friends and
acquaintances I had made during my stay in Sulaimania, and entrusted
such affairs as were as yet unsettled to Matti. Then we had the usual
“merchants’ lunch” of kebab and bread together, and on foot set out on
the road to walk a little way together, and join the caravan outside.
It was the first time for months past that any one had dared venture
outside the town on the Chemchemal side, for, but a week before, the
Hamavands had been scouring the plain right up to the gates of the town.
Matti had not informed the muleteer who I was or of what creed and
nationality, and I did not propose to him to do so. I should be asked,
and that soon, and I could give such answer as I felt inclined. Habib,
I think, had a notion that I was not what I pretended to be, for he
was of a prying nature, and he had professed it difficult to believe
several of my assertions in the face of the English and French books,
and the maps he saw at my house, which to him suggested disguises and
intrigues, because he could not understand them.
We came up to the waiting animals--a little group of three or four, for
the main caravan had not arrived--and here took leave of one another,
an incident of no little regret upon my part, and I hope, too, upon
that of Matti; and before we left the brow of the hillock, I looked
my last upon Sulaimania, a cluster of flat roofs in a hollow almost
invisible a mile away, so well did the old pashas hide their town
from the view of Turk and Kurd alike. I gazed, too, for a moment upon
distant Aoraman, a frowning wall, black now, the snows invisible from
the distance--the frontier of Persia, from which I once more receded.