BAGDAD
Arabian nights and motor-cars--The old and the new in Bagdad--"Noah's
dinghy"--Bible history illustrated--At a famous tomb-mosque.
Who has not heard and read of Bagdad, of its former glory and its
greatness? I set foot in it for the first time on March 20th, 1918,
the day after the arrival of our little party at Hinaida Transit Camp
on the left bank of the Tigris.
As I tramped across the dusty Hinaida plain towards the belt of palm
groves which veils the city on the east, I had visions of Haroun al
Raschid, and fancied myself coming face to face with the wonders of
the "Arabian Nights." It was with something of a shock, then, that
on entering the city I encountered khaki-clad figures, and saw Ford
vans and motor lorries tearing wildly along the streets. In the main
thoroughfare, hard by British Headquarters, a steam roller was
travelling backwards and forwards over the freshly metalled roadway,
completing the work of an Indian Labour Corps; farther on, a watering
cart labelled "Bagdad Municipality" was busily drowning the fine-spun
desert dust that {49} had settled thickly on the newly born
macadamized street. Here was an Arab café, with low benches on the
inclined plane principle like seats in a theatre, where the occupants
sipped their Mocha from tiny cups, or inhaled tobacco-smoke through
the amber stem of a hubble-bubble, watching the passing show, and
betimes discussing the idiosyncrasies of the strange race of
unbelievers that has settled itself down in the fair city which once
had been the pride of Islam.
Truly a city of contrasts! Cheek by jowl with the Arab café was an
eating-house full of British soldiers. The principal street runs
parallel with the river and, as one proceeded, it was possible to
catch glimpses of pleasant gardens running down to the water's edge
and embowering handsome villas--gardens where pomegranates, figs,
oranges, and lemons grew in abundance. The Oriental readily adapts
himself to changing circumstances, and unhesitatingly abandons the
master of yesterday to follow the new one of to-day. Already traces
of the Ottoman dominion were being obliterated. The Turkish language
was disappearing from shop signs to be replaced by English or French,
with, in some cases, a total disregard of etymology, such choice gems
as "Englisch talking lessons," "Stanley Maude wash company" (this
over a laundry), "British tommy shave room," showing at all events a
praiseworthy attempt to wrestle with the niceties of the English
language.
Bagdad as I saw it in the first days following my {50} arrival struck
me as a place whose remains of faded greatness still clung about it.
No one could deny its claim to a certain wild beauty which age, dirt,
and decay have not been able wholly to eliminate. The glory of the
river scene is unsurpassable.
To see Bagdad at its best one must view it from the balcony of the
British Residency (now General Headquarters). Here, as you look down
upon the river, the old bridge of boats connecting with the western
bank is on your right, and handsome villas where flowers grow in
profusion, the residences of former Turkish officials or wealthy
citizens, adorn the foreshore.
The river is broad and majestic, and strange craft dot its surface.
Here is a Kufa, in itself a link with antiquity, a circular boat of
basketware covered with bitumen, sometimes big enough to hold ten men
and two or three laden donkeys. Its cross-river course is decidedly
eccentric. Propelled by crudely fashioned paddles wielded by sturdy
oarsmen, its progress from shore to shore is leisurely and cumbersome
as, caught into the eddying current, it twirls slowly, with a
rotatory movement, like the dying motion of some giant spinning-top.
The cheerful Thomas Atkins promptly christened the kufa "Noah's
Dinghy," and lost no time in getting afloat therein. Some of the
Australians at Hinaida Camp organized a kufa regatta, the course
being across river and back, a distance of about two miles. A
waterproof sheet was attached as a sail {51} by one enterprising
Anzac, but even that did not help to accelerate very appreciably the
snail-like progress of his aquatic tub. Local tradition avers that
Sinbad the Sailor came spinning down from Bagdad to Basra in a kufa,
when he signed on at the Gulf port for his first ocean voyage. Who
knows? Kufas are depicted on some of the old Assyrian monuments.
A close relative surely to the Kufa is the Kellik or Mussik raft of
the upper Tigris. Constructed of a square framework of wood buoyed
by inflated goat-skins, it is widely utilized as a cargo carrier on
these inland waterways. Piled high with hay and a miscellaneous
collection of live-stock, it will waddle off down river with a crew
of three or four, and half a dozen or so passengers. Sometimes the
cargo shifts, or the goat-skin bladders become deflated, and the
kellik, down by the nose or stern, grows more unwieldy than ever. A
little mishap of this kind never bothers the crew. They steer for
some convenient point on the river-bank where the water is shallow,
unhitch the defective skins, and inflate them afresh with the unaided
power of their own lungs. The cargo righted, and the trim of their
cumbersome raft restored, they will push off into midstream and
continue their venturesome journey, logging a steady two knots.
But on an upstream trip it is another story. Then the laden or empty
kellik has to be towed, and hard work it is to make headway when the
river is in {52} flood and racing down to meet its brother, the
Euphrates, on their joint way to the Gulf.
Going upstream the kellik keeps as close in shore as possible. Two
men in the boat keep her from going aground, while a couple of others
yoke themselves to a towline and move along the margin of the stream
much like the canal bargees in Holland. But on the Tigris there is
no well-defined towing path, and the course resolves itself into a
kind of zigzag cross-country obstacle race, and the agility and
dexterity with which these muscular native rivermen harnessed to the
towline of a heavily laden raft will negotiate sunken ground, canal
ditches, tumble-down village walls, and a few other natural hazards
on a stretch of Tigris' river-bank, is extraordinary to behold. The
life of a galley slave in Carthage must have been a soft snap indeed
compared with that of the dark-skinned toilers who tug at an up-river
kellik under the full force of a Mesopotamian sun.
Bagdad as a city takes us back to the horizon rim of the world's
history. There still clings to it an air of musty antiquity and
prehistoric dirt which the efforts of its new masters, the British,
with pick-and-shovel sanitary science, and other new-fangled
inventions of Western civilization, have not entirely eradicated.
The beardless invaders from over the seas have sought to scrape clean
its ancient bones, to straighten out the kink in its narrow,
tortuous, and evil-smelling streets, and to let the light of day and
a little wholesome fresh air penetrate into the {53} gloom and
dampness of its rabbit-warren of a bazaar. Staid, solemn-looking
citizens, with the green turban of Mecca enveloping their venerable
heads, whose ancestors probably drifted in here when overland travel
was resumed after the Flood, have looked on in pious horror while
festering slum areas have been laid low by British pickaxes. These
Hadjis, fervent believers in tradition, and uncompromising opponents
of innovation, have caressed their beards thoughtfully when
confronted with the new order of things, and come to the philosophic
conclusion that, as Kipling has it, "Allah created the English mad,
the maddest of all mankind."
Biblical history is no longer vague and shadowy, but takes on a new
meaning and an added significance to anyone who explores old Bagdad
with eyes to see. As I wandered through its bazaars in quest of
antiquities and bargains in bric-à-brac and rare damascened weapons,
I often forgot the primary object of my visit while strolling
silently about contentedly studying the hastening crowds who elbowed
and fought their way along the narrow streets, or watching the
complacent shopkeepers who sat cross-legged in their narrow,
cell-like shops, haggling over prices with some prospective buyer.
It was like throwing Biblical romance and Biblical tragedy on a
cinema screen, only that now it lived and was real flesh and blood.
Here were the descendants of the Jews of the
Captivity--shrewd-looking, sharp-featured merchants, traffickers in
gold and silver, {54} dealers in antiquities, a living link between
that very remote yesterday and the modern to-day, amassing much
wealth in the land of their perpetual exile, carrying on unbrokenly
the religion and traditions of Judaism--in dress, manners, customs,
and speech as unchanged and unchanging as on the day when the heavy
hand of the Babylonian oppressor smote their forbears and they were
led away into slavery.
And here, too, now competing in commercial rivalry with the sons of
Abraham, are lineal descendants of Assyrians, Chaldeans, Medes,
Persians, and of those other warring races who between them made
history in the long ago.
The descendants of the Jews of the Captivity have never wandered far
afield, and it would even seem that they have preferred exile to
repatriation. Bagdad formed part of Babylonia, and a three hours'
train journey to Hilleh on the Euphrates will land the Bagdad Jew of
an archæological turn of mind amidst the ruins of ancient Babylon.
The Jew venerates Bagdad as a sort of lesser Zion. It was long the
seat of the Exilarch, and is still the rallying centre of Eastern
Judaism. Monuments and tombs of the mighty ones of the Chosen Race
are scattered over Lower Mesopotamia. There is the reputed tomb of
Ezra on the Shatt el Arab near Korna, that of Ezekiel in the village
called Kefil, while the prophet Daniel has a holy well bearing his
name at Hilleh near the ruins of Babylon. But the chief place of
pious pilgrimage for Bagdad Jews lies {55} in a palm grove an hour's
journey from the city on the Euphrates road. Here is said to be
buried Joshua, son of Josedech, a high priest towards the end of the
captivity period.
Western Bagdad, on the right bank of the Tigris, always recognizing
and rendering a somewhat sullen obedience to the sway of the Turkish
Sultan, is separated from Eastern Bagdad by much more than the deep
waters of the river. Its inhabitants for the most part are
Mohammedans of the Shi'ite sect, as opposed to the orthodox or Sunni
creed of the Turks. The Shias may be described as Islamic
dissenters, and their cult is the state religion of Persia.
Ethnologically and politically they are closer akin to Iran than to
Turkey, and their eyes are more frequently turned to Teheran than to
Istambul. In Western Bagdad they have their own mosques, their own
bazaars, and their own shrines, and lead lives more or less isolated
from their Asiatic brethren on the opposite side of the river.
During a visit to the famous Shi'ite mosque and shrine at Kazemain, a
suburb of the Western City, I found that the people, while outwardly
friendly and polite, were much more fanatical than the average Sunni
Mussulman, and were inclined to resent any attempt on the part of a
Giaour like myself to see the interior of their mosques and shrines.
I had for companions General Byron and Lieutenant Akhbar, the latter
a professing Shi'ite. We crossed by the new pontoon swing bridge
which now connects the {56} two shores, superseding the old bridge of
boats of Turkish days.
The houses are huddled together, and are squat and meanly built, with
the low encircling walls and roofed parapets of sun-dried mud so
common to Persian villages. The streets are barely wide enough for
two pedestrians to pass abreast, and are full of holes or covered
with garbage. As for the inhabitants, they were miserably clad, and
the few women whom we chanced to encounter in our path hastily
stepped aside and, turning from us, made a furtive effort to veil
themselves by covering the upper part of their faces with a dirty
piece of rag produced from the voluminous folds of a sleeve-pocket.
We did not tarry here very long. Quitting this waterside hamlet we
drove three miles to Kazemain itself, passing en route the terminus
of the Bagdad-Anatolian Railway, that great link of steel in the
chain of German world-expansion the completion of which, under the
existing concession, would have been commercially and economically
fatal to us in Western Asia.
The tomb-mosque of Kazemain is one of the architectural landmarks of
Bagdad. Its twin domes and its four lofty minarets, all overlaid
with gold, are visible for miles as the traveller approaches Bagdad
from the west. When the rays of the noonday sun strike on these
gilded cupolas and graceful tapering columns it enhances their beauty
a hundredfold, and throws into bold relief all their harmony and {57}
symmetry. It recalled to me vividly, but in a minor degree, some of
the wonder and the glory of that other great monument of an Eastern
land--the Taj Mahal at Agra. But while the one is secular and
commemorative of earthly love, the other has a deeply religious
significance, for in the imposing mosque of Kazemain are buried Musa
Ibn Ja'far el Kazim and his grandson, Ibn Ali el Jawad, the seventh
and ninth of the successors of Ali, the son-in-law of Mahomet, and
recognized by the Shias as the rightful Caliphs of Islam. As a
centre of pilgrimage for Shi'ite Moslems, Kazemain ranks second after
Kerbela, the tomb of Hosain the Martyr; and from the point of view of
sanctity, Kazemain is considered to take even higher place than
either Samarra or Nejef, the other two Shi'ite shrines in the Vilayet
of Bagdad.
The customary crowd of beggars, maimed, halt, and blind, whined to us
as we alighted before the great gate of Kazemain Mosque. Three or
four small boys, who had stolen a free ride by clinging to the back
of the automobile while it crawled dead slow through the gloomy,
winding streets of the bazaar, now demanded a pishkash (the Persian
equivalent of backsheesh). Mollahs, Sayyeds, and other reputed holy
men, springing apparently from nowhere, formed a ring around us,
deeply interested in our dress, our speech, the colour of our hair,
and our beardless faces. More especially was the wondering attention
of the crowd concentrated on Akhbar, himself a native Persian,
holding the King's commission and wearing {58} the King's khaki.
"What manner of man is this?" asked the puzzled onlookers. "Is he
Infidel or True Believer? for, by the Beard of the Prophet, he speaks
our holy tongue as well as we do ourselves!"
Now there intervened an elderly personage in the Abba or flowing
robes affected by the better class of Persian, with a green kamarband
indicating his claim to lineal descent from the Prophet. The
new-comer, whose hair and beard were plentifully dyed with henna--a
never-failing sign, I was assured, of virtue and virility--offered to
go in search of the Mujtahid or Chief Priest.
He returned presently with that important functionary, who salaamed,
but looked at us coldly and suspiciously, I thought. A whispered
colloquy now took place between himself and Akhbar. He had no doubt
as to the heterodoxy of the General and myself, but, on the other
hand, at first he was not convinced of the orthodoxy of Akhbar, this
professed Believer clad in Infidel garb. All Akhbar's impassioned
pleading failed to move him. Akhbar himself might enter freely, but
as for the two Unbelievers, they must not set foot within the
jealously guarded portals of the holy place.
Up to this point the negotiations had been singularly free from
anything even remotely connected with coin of the realm. I think it
was the Mujtahid himself who, in his most winning manner, hinted that
"Blessed is he that giveth," and that even the dole of an Unbeliever
might win merit in the sight {59} of Allah. We gave accordingly,
whereupon the Mujtahid, out of the kindness of his heart, and by way
of requiting our generosity, said he would enable us to see something
of the Shi'ite "holy of holies." With himself as guide we were led
by a circular route to a caravanserai for pilgrims which stood close
to the high wall of the mosque. The place was untenanted, but,
mounting by a flight of rickety stairs to the flat and somewhat
unstable roof, we were able to overlook the interior courtyard of the
mosque, to note its gilt façade, and to watch the worshippers
performing their ablutions at the fountain in the centre of the
courtyard. With this we had to be content.
The Shrine down to recent days had been a sanctuary for criminals
fleeing from justice, but the Turkish overlords, it is said, when a
fugitive happened to be of sufficient importance, were able by
cajolery and bribery to override Sanctuary and secure the man they
wanted. In consequence, Kazemain lost its popularity with fugitive
law-breakers.
The populace at the termination of our visit gave us a hearty
send-off, and the beggars, whose persistence and persuasiveness it
was difficult to resist, having relieved us of sundry krans and
rupees, called down the blessing of Allah on our heads.
The Sunni Moslems have many imposing places of worship in Bagdad.
The Mosque of Marjanieh is noted for its very fine Arabesque work,
bearing considerable resemblance to the ornamentations on the {60}
Mosque at Cordova, in Spain. There is also the Mosque of Khaseki,
which is believed to have been once a Christian Church. Its Roman
arch, with square pedestals and its spirally-fluted columns, reveal
an architectural school that is not Oriental.
Outside the walls of the Western City is the reputed site of the tomb
of Zobeide, the wife of Haroun al Raschid. The eroding hand of Time
has dealt heavily with this once splendid mausoleum, but its
curiously-shaped pineapple dome is still intact, and survives proudly
amongst the ruin and decay of a dead-and-gone civilization. Niebuhr,
the German traveller who visited this tomb in the middle of the
eighteenth century, says he discovered an inscription setting forth
that it was the site of the ancient burying-place of Zobeide, but
that about 1488, Ayesha Khanum, wife of a Governor of Bagdad, was
also given sepulture there. Doubt is thrown upon the historical
accuracy of Niebuhr by many scholars, and there is a legend that
Zobeide was buried at Kazemain.
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