Excerpts

Foreword

              Once Upon a Time in Baghdad consists of a series of voices that join into a colourful mosaic about life in Baghdad as it once was and could be again. Seen through the eyes of a young Christian woman the Baghdad of the forties and fifties is interwoven with flashes of the recent events of war struggle and occupation, then again historical sketches are inserted telling of the Arab heritage in grand sweeps. The storytelling format is non linear, the different fragments however create a weave not unlike the intricate patterns of an oriental carpet with foreground and background merging and alternating in a dance of different colours, voices and intonations.

             The young woman's Baghdad is a multicultural city, with a life rich in different trajectories merging. Christian, Jewish and Moslem life interweave, as she herself offspring of Indian and Syrian parents, a not uncommon cosmopolitan figure in an Arab city rich with influences, cultures and traditions meeting in ways that are familiar but also different. It shows a way of life which in the Middle East has sadly vanished and given way to increasing monochrome tendencies.

              The young woman's close-ups of life of the Baghdad of that time are intimate memories triggered by the onslaught of the invasion of Iraq. Long seemingly lost voices come alive, painting portraits of the city, family life, customs and cultures. A young woman's coming of age in the Arab world is charmingly sketched, French Convent School, the Indian community in Baghdad, peaceful upper middle class everyday life is shown in its familiarity and self understoodness. Then again this world is set within historical developments and political interests of European and American powers in the Middle East, where the larger pictures is drawn.

              The jump in scale continues with even larger sweeps of a cultural background drawn back to the Assyrians, the Golden Age of Baghdad until an intricate palimpsest holds the various pieces as a journey in to the past with an eye on the present and a hope for the future of Baghdad, that it may

become once again a blooming multicultural hub open and vibrant to the world and its inhabitants.

              This book is a must read for all those interested in the multi-layered past and potential of a beautiful Arab city Baghdad.

Gabrielle von Bernstorff


Back Cover

At the beginning of the last century, the British established the state of Iraq, as we know it today, as a monarchy. The few who are left and who remember, refer with nostalgia, to the 1940s and 1950s as the golden era of Iraq. This is a story of a cosmopolitan pulsating modern city, seen through the eyes of a young Christian woman when Baghdad was a peaceful city of multi-cultural and diverse people of all backgrounds and beliefs. The tales give the reader another important viewpoint of Arabs seen through young female non-Moslem eyes. It shows the intricacies and complexities of what it means to be an arab. A must read for all who are interested in the multi-layers of diverse cultures.

Excerpts

Excerpt from
Chapter 3
The City of Peace
The Cosmopolitan Baghdad of my Youth

Forget the Baghdad of today for a moment and step with me into a recent forgotten past. Let me show you the Baghdad of my memories, a city of about 550’000 inhabitants, spread on both banks of the 1400 km long river Tigris. The Tigris runs from the north of Iraq as does the Euphrates river to the south, before both rivers flow into the Persian Gulf, Shatt al Arab. It is the Tigris, the heart and soul of the city of the Caliphs that makes Baghdad, the cradle of civilization in ancient Mesopotamia of the Sumerian, the Babylonian and the Assyrian civilizations. The city structure is vast for those days and has several centres. On the East bank of the river is a large quarter called Al-Rusafa, here we find several shrines and tombs of famous revered Imams. Al Karch is another large quarter found on the banks of the Tigris with Al Mansour Mosque. On the western bank of the river are the orchards and walled in gardens. It is said that the word ‘Baghdad’ means ‘God Given’ a meaning derived from Persian, Bagh meaning God and dad meaning given. During the Abbasid Caliphate, 800 years ago, when Baghdad was the centre and the jewel of the Islamic world, a Poet by the name of Ammu Ibn al Ala wrote ‘Consider the man who lives and dies in Baghdad. It is as if he moves from one heaven to another.’

The Baghdad that I know from the 40s and 50s is a peaceful cosmopolitan city, flat and dusty, with an oriental exotic charm. Thick stemmed, tall, palm trees fan the clear blue skies above. During the season they are pregnant with bunches of honey coloured sweet dates, providing the natives with both food and shade from the burning hot sun. Typical Baghdad houses have first wooden bays with latticed windows and inner open courtyards. Some of the nicest old town houses of Baghdad are found along al Rashid Street. On the West bank of the river are the more modern houses each with surrounding gardens and high brick walls. On the opposite riverbank are government buildings, hotels and middle and upper class mansions. The streets and alleys in the very old parts of the city are narrow and the housing is low and clustered together. As we move away from the old buildings and shops, we see a Mosque and then several Kahwas, coffee shops and restaurants. Occasional parks and trees and flowers line the wide streets allowing ample room for the maze of traffic. Automobiles, bicycles, donkey and horse-drawn carriages crawl or race down the road with no specific traffic order.

            It is the right season and farmers are preparing themselves to climb up the palm trees to pluck the dates. They gather their dishdashas, long gowns, between their legs and tuck one end in front in their belt. With the help of a wide leather strap around the tree and around their waist they climb swiftly and effortlessly with their bare feet to the top to reach the dates. The poor natives’ favourite food is the Iraqi khibis, flat bread with fresh sweet dates. It is both delicious and healthy. There are several varieties of Iraqi dates, dry or moist, large and small, hard or soft, but all without exception sweet, tasty and nourishing. Let’s move on to look at the brightly coloured golden mosques and blue minarets, towering over other buildings. Church bell towers and high cathedrals topped with carved shiny crosses, stand proudly above the sea of flat buildings, to greet the rising golden sun every morning. Shops, schools, hotels, hospitals, cinemas, museums, libraries, cemeteries, commercial and public office buildings are scattered all over the city along both banks of the river Tigris and stretch out beyond, in all directions. Baghdad is a growing city buzzing with oriental sounds and vibration.

            At dawn, the cocks crow with zeal to announce the beginning of another day in Baghdad, the city of Ali Baba and the backdrop to the tales of One Thousand and One Nights. I stir, to tear myself away slowly and reluctantly from the land of dreams, to find my way back to the land of the conscious. Faintly, we hear the chants of the Muezzin. Perched on a minaret of a mosque, the devotee recites verses from Kor’an, in a soft harmonious voice, calling everyone for morning prayers, reminding one and all, of the presence of God the Almighty all around us. My eyes still closed, I listen to the prayer, as I lie in bed warm and snug under the covers. It is soothing to my soul. Very slowly I stir, yawn and stretch as I sit up and just as slowly, the city of Baghdad stirs, yawns and stretches as we both, fully awake now, listen to the Muezzin ending this morning prayer with the words Saddakka Allahul Addhim. Praise be to God the Great. As the Muezzin’s voice fades away, I make my way to the bathroom to prepare myself for the gift of another day. In the city, the faint din of traffic begins, softly at first, then gradually continues to grow into a loud mad roar of sounds, shouts, screeches and honks, clippety clop of carriage horses and donkeys braying, as everyone rushes to get to their destinations. Nothing to compare with today’s standards of noisy cities for sure, but for those days it was loud enough. Hundreds of radios are turned on everywhere, one after another, full blast. There is the wailing of the ageless Arab classical singer Um Kalthoum, revered by one and all in the entire Arab world. Her voice mixes and blends with the voice of the most popular composer and male singer of the forties and fifties, Abdel Wahab blaring out from other radios farther away. Somewhere else rises the distinctive sad voice of Asmahan – a legend and a great favourite of all the Arabs. They say that she had a liaison with King Farouk of Egypt, but then she was suspected to have been spying for the British, so King Farouk had her killed. Or so the rumour goes. The car she was in fell off a bridge down into the river Nile. The story is told again and again still today, whenever there is a gathering of Arabs anywhere in the world and Asmahan’s voice is heard. She was young, beautiful and famous, on her way to becoming a big star. Her sudden death made her immortal. Just about every Arab, even today, owns a tape of these three famous Arab singers. Amazingly, thanks to modern technology, all of them can be heard and seen on you tube today.

            Shops, small and large, offering a variety of local and imported goods, cinemas, hotels, banks and offices line the streets. Shareh al Rashid is the main, busiest and longest street in Baghdad snaking through from the North Gate to the South Gate. It was the first illuminated street built in Baghdad in 1917 by Khalil Pasha. Scattered here and there are restaurants, kebab stands and of course, the inevitable kahwas, some with an open front, frequented by men only. Men sit, smoke and drink their tea served in istikans, small narrow glass cups without a handle. They sip sweet or bitter Turkish coffee in mini coffee cups, play tawla or dominos while they exchange small talk. Merchants of fabrics, carpets, antiques, grains, dates, leather and wood as well as farmers and estate agents frequented the kahwas. Young and old engaged in heated debates; writers and journalists in one corner of a kahwa while painters, sculptors, poets and singers debate in another corner. My father frequents a kahwa near where we live in the early forties. He enjoys his game of tawla before dinner. Some men prefer to puff on a water pipe, nerkile, as they share their thoughts, business and life experiences. Music and songs from radios here turned to happy Arab folk music. Popular singers of the moment, like Sabah, Feiruz or Farid al Atrash who was Asmahan’s brother singing love songs and ballads, make the background to the noisy busy atmosphere in the kahwas. ‘Margo, go and fetch your father,’ my mother says, ‘dinner is ready.’ Until I was about ten I didn’t mind running over to the kahwa to fetch my father. After that I was too self-conscious to walk in to the kahwa with all the men staring me or teasing me, so my mother sends my sister Laura to tell him that dinner is ready. Sometimes it is difficult for him to tear himself away from his game especially if he is winning in which case we need to go for him more than once tugging at his sleeve to pull him away.

Tantalizing oriental smells greet all those who are on foot. Whiffs of coffee and spices, grilled kebab or bread baked either in tannours or bakeries blend with smells of the Tigris and fish, a whiff of scented flowers or sand from the desert. Occasionally the pleasant smells are interrupted by some pungent smell of horse dung or foul stench of garbage, depending on which part of the city we happen to be passing through. The diversity of sounds and street noises, music blasting away from every corner, loud shrieks of children playing on the streets and people talking with loud voices, does not disturb anyone. Arabs have a habit of talking at the top of their voices, which often gives the impression that they are shouting or quarrelling but in reality they’re just communicating with exaggerated emotions and intensive passion, not different to some Italians or Spaniards. Arab eardrums have long accustomed themselves to the daily ruthless onslaught of a mixture of loud fervent chatter, traffic noise, donkeys braying, peddlers’ cries, arabana bells, mules and music. As if that is not enough, at various hours of the day, we hear church bells, beckoning Christians to mass or the Muezzin calling Moslems to prayer. The heart-rending melancholic or happy rhythmic variations known to Arab music seem to blend in unison with all other day sounds.

As our taxi joins the line of traffic on the main road, we get lost in the confusion of cars and small buses as they zigzag their way through a maze of streets, all without exception impatient to reach their goal. There is no meter, the price is set according to the distance by the driver which is negotiated before. Our taxi driver does what all other drivers do as they race through the streets ...................

In one of the stalls sits the letter write cross-legged on the wooden floor of his small booth. He is busy writing with feather and ink. An illiterate woman in a black abaya, including a black thin veil covering her face, sits in front of him at the edge of the stall with her legs dangling. All we can see are her hands covered with henna and her feet also covered with a design of henna in open slippers. As the letter writer dips his feather in the ink, he listens intently above the din as she tells him what to write. The letter is addressed to her son who has left home to live and work somewhere else and from whom she has not had any news for weeks. I hear her explain the address to the letter writer and he writes down on the envelope: To the hand of Aziz Khaled, who lives with his uncle the honorable Hadji Hamid in the village, opposite the bakery of Abu Adnan! ................

Excerpt from
Chapter 9
Cinema Life in Baghdad
40s and 50s

The cinema played an important role in our family's social life as it did for many Baghdadis. Cinemas Ghazi, Rex, Roxy, Omar al Khayam and several other movie houses brought us Hollywood's latest films always shown in the original version with Arabic subtitles. I knew all the popular actors of the time: Hedy Lamar, Greta Garbo, Jennifer Jones, Joseph Cotton, Olivia de Havilland, and later Ava Gardner, Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, Robert Taylor, Vivien Leigh, and many other stars of their decades. We also saw many of the latest Arabic movies from Egypt with all the popular Egyptian actors, singers and dancers, Tahia Carioca, Samia Gamal, Sabah, farid al Athrash, young Omar al Sharif, before he was discovered by Hollywood, with his Egyptian wife, Fatin Hamaama, whom he later divorced and lived to regret, as he openly admitted years later to the public. The Arabic movies were mostly produced in Egypt and the dialogue was in Egyptian Arabic, which is quite a different dialect to the Iraqi Arabic.

The cinemas were all large to accommodate several hundred moviegoers. In the forties Television did not exist and in the late fifties, when television arrived, the programs offered were minimal and were no competition for the movies. Cinema remained the main source of entertainment for families next to private socializing. The cheaper seats were on the ground floor nearest to the screen and the audience there, were all local mostly illiterate young men. The price for their ticket was 40 fils, which almost everyone could afford, in comparison the general seats that cost 70 fils each. The most expensive were the loges, which lined the front of the balcony level, exactly the same as one sees in many opera houses in the west. There was a morning show, an afternoon show, an evening show and for those who preferred to see a movie without having to listen to screaming or chatter of children in between, a late midnight show. All the cinemas were usually completely packed for every showing as the films never played for more than one week. A very popular movie might have played a second week but rarely longer than that. The Iraqi public was insatiable. Contrary to a movie audience in the west, the audience in Baghdad was noisy. The movie was inevitably accompanied with loud chatter, babies crying, whistles, boos and comments from the emotional audience. Comments varied from 'look behind you you fool,' 'he's standing rich behind you,' he's going to kill you,' 'he's got a a gun in his hand!' 'can't you see him?' 'Are you blind or what?' ' I can't stand to look at this' or 'come on man, give her a kiss!' and more of the same. If a villain in the movie died, there would be comments such as 'serve you right, you creep' or 'you deserve to die.' If a good guy died there would be a general sigh of sympathy from the audience with gasps and 'oh no, why?' 'poor thing.' If the stars kissed, there would be loud whistles, cooing noises, laughter or clapping of hands. People displayed their emotions unabashedly. The louder whistles and comments came from the front rows of 40 fils seats of course, but the rest of the audience was just as emotional. Self control was unheard of and is not a general Arab character trait. Emotions rule the day.............

Excerpt from
Chapter 4
Destiny at Work
Love comes to Baghdad Spring 1938

We were a God fearing family but we were not fanatically religious. we attended church sporadically, Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Armenian, Anglican, Assyrian, it did not make any difference. Church was church and attendance at Easter and Christmas was a must. I personally always enjoyed the Orthodox church of Damascus most of all., the service was in Aramaic and the church smelt strongly of frankincense and candles. I loved that. Many a time did I make the trip on foot through the narrow alleys of the old town of Damascus, with my grandmother. I skipped and half ran next to her holding her hand, as she's explain, 'I must light a candle for St. George so that he sends us a boy.' She prayed to St. George for my mother to have a boy and a solemn promise was made to call the baby George. Had I even an inkling what a baby brother would mean to my status in the family I surely would have objected and would have rather prayed for another sister. The reason why so many first-born sons of Arab Christian families, are named George in Syria and Lebanon, is due to the fact that mothers and grandmothers pray to St. George for a boy. The orthodox priests wear long black robes, black hard tall caps, have long hair tied at the back in a knot, a long beard and they chant and pray in Arabic or Aramaic very similar to Russian Orthodox churches. The churches were always packed solid for the Christmas midnight mass. People stood in the aisles and all the way behind near the main doors so that one could hardly come into the church once mass had begun.
I recall in particular Christmas mass in Baghdad. A crowd of young women who always came in late and stood together at the back of the aisles, as if ready to be the first to leave the church once mass was over. They looked different because of the way they dressed. Their clothes were ostentatious, they had lots of eye make up and bright red lipstick, some with curly read hair and others with blond or black long hair, long red fingernails and very high heeled shoes. People around us nudged each other with their elbows and I could hear them whispering. 'Look, look here they come, the bad foreign girls, mouzeinaat. Look at the way they dress, shameless prostitutes.' I personally couldn't get enough of them they were all very pretty I thought as I stared to get an eyeful. 'What's prostitutes mama?' I whispered looking up to my mother tugging at her skirt. 'Shush, be quiet and don't stare. They are just bad women.' ' At lest they remember Jesus at Christmas time.' Another would whisper. 'Yeah, they come to cleanse their soul and ask God to forgive them theirs sins.' Even at my young age I recognized envy in their voices. 'But why are they bad? what did they do, mama?' I persisted I wanted to know. 'Turn around, look front and stop asking questions. You're too little to understand and watch your candle don't burn anyone.' A gentle slap on my head usually accompanied this. I could see some of the men turning around curiously, trying to get a good look, and their wives pinching their arm or slapping their shoulder telling them to turn around and look in front. I figured prostitutes have something to do with men that wives and mothers did not approve of. I wondered what it was. But I forgot about it as we left church, only to be reminded again at the Christmas midnight mass the following year. Some years later, I gathered that most of these women were Greeks, Egyptians, Armenians or East Europeans.

Although my father converted to christianity and often read the Bible early mornings, at heart he always remained a Hindu. In the years that followed after he left India, he learned to embrace Christianity as well as have understanding for the Moslem and the Jewish religions without discarding the Bhagavad Gita. I was convinced of this because he worked with and had many Jewish friends and he also spent a lot of time with Sufis with whom he had great deal of respect. He had many Mullah friends with whom he loved to philosophize about life. ............

Contents

Foreword
Introduction
1 - The Sandstorm - Baghdad Spring 1959
2 - Operation Desert Storm - Lucerne Winter 1991
3 - The City of Peace - The Cosmopolitan Baghdad of my Youth
4 - Destiny at Work - Love comes to Baghdad 1938
5 - Madrassat al Rahbat - The French Convent Baghdad 1943
6 - Courtyards and Gardens - In the 40s
7 - End of Courtyards - Early 50s
8 - The Summers in Baghdad - In the 40s and 50s
9 - Cinema Life in Baghdad - In the 40s and 50s
10- Beit Saliba -A Thousand and One Nights 40s
11 - Summers in Damascus - 40s and 50s
12 - Shaam Forty Years Later - Summer 1997
13 - Arab Family Life - Baghdad 40s and 50s
14 - The Indian Community in Baghdad - from WW1 to the 50s
15 - Voyage to India - Mid 50s
16 - The Roaring 50s - Baghdad City
17 - Local Customs and Arab Hospitality
18 - Operation Iraqi Freedom - Switzerland 2003
19 - Historical Facts about the State of Iraq - Late 1800 to the Present
20 - The Original Christian Arabs - First Century AD
21 - Christmas in Baghdad - 40s and 50s
22 - The muezzin Reciting - Zurich 1990
23 - Folly a Privilege of Youth - late 50s
24 - The Thawra - Baghdad 14 July 1958
25 - End of Sandstorm - Baghdad Spring 1959
Afterword
Appendix - Christianity and the Churches of Iraq
Glossary
Sources
Photo Gallery

My young parents in al-Rashid Street in Baghdad in the early 1940s