Guests of the Sheik: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village (27 page)

forces to make her life miserable. They left the most

unpleasant household tasks for her to do, insulted her before

guests, and shouted at her from morning to night. When the

husband came home, they complained that the girl was lazy

and ill-bred.

Even while the girl was talking, one of Selma’s little boys

ran in to whisper loudly in his mother’s ear that a man had just

arrived in the mudhif and said he had come to take his wife

home. When the girl heard this, her face changed expression;

she looked at the ground and we waited for what was to come.

After we had eaten a few more pumpkin seeds, Kulthum

moved closer to the girl.

“Is your husband kind to you?” she asked gently, and the

girl nodded, her eyes still cast down.

“Then you would be foolish not to return to him,” Kulthum

counseled.

The girl still kept silent. Selma spoke up.

“Tell your husband how mean the other women are,” she

said. “If he really loves you, he will beat them and they will

understand that they cannot treat you so badly.”

Several of the women disagreed loudly. Kulthum and

Bahiga, the sheik’s two older wives, looked at each other and

looked away. What part of their past were they recalling?

Kulthum spoke again.

“It will be better in the long run if you would try to make

friends with them,” she offered.

“Make friends with them!” The girl’s head flew up and she

exploded in a frenzy. “They hate me, they hide the sugar and

steal my cigarettes, they pour salt into the food I prepare for

my husband, they gossip about me to the neighbors and they

tell my husband I am mean and will not help with the

housework. They want nothing except to get me out. How can

I make friends with them?” She broke down and sobbed

loudly into her abayah. Kulthum moved closer to the girl and

touched her shoulder.

“You are still young and pretty,” she said. “Remember that.

They are old and ugly now and barren. You can still bear

children who will be your comfort when you are old.”

“I am five months along with child,” hiccuped the girl

through her sobs.

“Ah, then,” said Bahiga, “you must go back.”

Kulthum nodded and several other women voiced

agreement.

Selma’s servant Amina brought tea and we sipped it,

talking of other things. Kulthum and Bahiga rose to leave, as

did many others. Selma and the girl talked together in low

tones. I realized that Selma had been unusually quiet during

the evening, perhaps because of the presence of the two older

wives, but perhaps also because the girl’s troubles had revived

memories of her own problems of adjustment when she had

first married the sheik.

Laila and I rose to go, and Selma said, “Did you understand

what we were saying this evening?”

I nodded.

She spoke to the girl, who was drying her eyes on a corner

of her abayah. She looked at me hard.

“I am telling her,” said Selma, “that in your country it is

forbidden for a man to marry two wives at the same time, and

if that were true here, she would not have been able to marry.”

We all tried to laugh, and even the girl managed a smile.

“Well,” said Laila, as she bade me good night at the door of

her house, “I hope my father doesn’t think of taking another

wife, because she would be very unhappy. All of my sisters

and I love our mother.”

As I did not answer, she went on, “After all, that man might

never have married the girl if his first wife had been a better

wife.”

“How?” I asked, though I thought I knew what Laila would

say.

“Served and respected her husband, worked hard, kept

herself beautiful for him, made him laugh, and of course borne

him sons.”

What could I answer? I knew, as did Laila, that her mother

had done a magnificent job on all counts except one: there

were no sons.

“Of course I know my father wants a son,” Laila half

hissed, half whispered, “so Fatima and I have bought a charm

from Um Khalil to put in my mother’s bed so she can

conceive a boy. It cost three pounds. She doesn’t know, but

just in case that doesn’t work, we have bought another to put

under my father’s pillow to drive out all thoughts of a second

wife.”

A group of men were approaching on their way home from

late evening tea at the mudhif, and Laila said good night

hurriedly and stepped inside her door out of sight. I walked on

down the path to my gate, thinking about Laila and her sisters,

who appeared so happy and industrious and claimed to be

above the magic of the ignorant. Yet they were silently

helping their mother in every way they could to wrestle with

the problem that faced all women, rich and poor, educated and

uneducated: how to keep the love of one man and remain the

only woman in a happy and respected household, surrounded

by children who would provide for their mother in her old age.

To achieve this end, they were prepared to do almost

anything.

On the other hand, there were polygamous households in

the settlement that were genuinely happy. The house of

Abdulla, the sheik’s older brother, was a shining example.

Abdulla had married Bassoul, the young daughter of a

Bedouin chieftain, after his first wife Khariya had been unwell

for several years. She had rheumatism and various female

complaints which made it difficult for her to complete the

daily drudgery of the household. Some said that Khariya

herself had urged Abdulla to take another wife to help her out.

Others discounted this. But wherever the suggestion had

originated, it had been a good one. From the early days of the

marriage, Bassoul had been Khariya’s friend, and now, when

one saw them together, they seemed devoted to each other.

Bassoul was young and strong, with bright eyes and rosy

cheeks. She relieved Khariya of the burdens of carrying water,

washing and other tasks which wearied the older woman.

When Bassoul did not conceive, Khariya took her to the local

mullah, who wrote a sura from the Koran for her. Khariya

paid for this blessing. Five years after her marriage, Bassoul

finally conceived and Khariya seemed as happy as though it

were her own daughter.

I had asked many women about the secret of this

household’s happiness, and the best answer came from

Khariya herself.

“You wonder why Bassoul and I are happier together than

the sheik’s wives, don’t you?” she said. I nodded.

“Everyone says,” she continued, “that it is because Bassoul

is a good girl and helps me. This is true. But even if she were

the best-hearted girl in the village and worked harder than any

servant, we would not be happy together if Abdulla were not

the kind of man he is. He believes the Koran and does what it

says. When he goes to Baghdad, he brings back two presents:

a gold bracelet for Bassoul and one for me. When Bassoul

gets money for a new abayah, he always asks me whether I

need one. And he divides his nights equally between us.

Women always stand together before strangers and say they

are happy together; they are ashamed to admit that they have

not been clever enough to remain the only wife, and so they

pretend that whatever they have is good. Don’t believe them.

Women will always fight and quarrel and be discontented if

the man is not strong enough to give each of them what she

needs and wants from him.”

PART III

15

Summer

Haji Hamid was preparing to leave for his summer vacation in

Lebanon. Each year he spent the two hottest months in a small

mountain hotel above Beirut, where he met sheiks from Iraq,

Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Syria, men distantly related to him

by blood or by tribal affiliation. In the cool mountain air the

men would talk away the summer, drinking tea and coffee,

playing
trictrac
(backgammon) and occasionally driving into

town to tour the fleshpots of Beirut. When September came

they would head back to the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula,

to towns and tribal settlements where many of them, like Haji

Hamid, were still responsible for the welfare of many people.

Summer sojourns to fashionable watering places like

Lebanon were a comparatively new thing among the sheiks of

southern Iraq. Haji’s father had been one of the first to go, and

each summer he had taken one of his sons with him. When

Haji had assumed the sheikship, he decided to be adventurous;

scorning the little mountain hotel, he traveled to Cyprus one

summer, accompanied by three retainers.

The men checked into a second-class hotel in Nicosia, and

all might have been well if the hotel had not unexpectedly

caught fire in the middle of the first night. Servants rushed up

and down the hallways, pounding on doors and shouting

“Fire! Fire!” alternately in Greek, Turkish and English. Haji

put on his eyeglasses and opened the door of his room to see

what the commotion was about, but of the clerk’s screaming

neither he nor his retainers understood a word. No smoke had

yet penetrated the floor and the four Arab gentlemen stood

looking at the frantic clerk in some perplexity. Finally in

desperation the clerk pulled at the sleeve of Haji’s white

nightshirt; the three retainers stepped forward, but Haji

apparently realized that it was no plot, the clerk simply wanted

them to come with him, and they did so.

Hustled downstairs and out onto the lawn, the four Arabs

were greeted by a sight which Haji told Bob he never forgot.

All the hotel guests were assembled on the lawn, attired in

odds and ends of clothes which they had been able to don

quickly in their flight from the burning building. Some wore

almost nothing. These half-clad men and women were talking

and joking together, and Haji, coming from a society where

strange men and women
never
talk together, and the women

are always covered up to their eyes, found the scene very

upsetting. Eventually the fire was put out, and little damage

had been done. The guests returned to their rooms, but Haji

had had enough. Next morning he packed his bags and

returned to Lebanon.

The sheik was planning to drive to Baghdad and take the

plane to Beirut. His car was being washed and waxed, and

when I went to see Selma she was putting her husband’s

summer wardrobe in order for traveling: boiling the

undershirts, dishdashas and long-legged drawers, and

bleaching them in the sun to a dazzling whiteness. She was

also cooking his favorite meals for him, “so he’ll be anxious

to come home,” she explained. “Haji says the food in the hotel

is very bad. You never know what they put in the stew.”

I had wondered whether Selma might accompany him to

Lebanon, because I knew she had gone to Baghdad with him

at least twice and had stayed in the house of relatives.

“Yes, but I only had Feisal then,” she said. “He was a baby

and easy to take. I couldn’t go now. It would be expensive to

take all of us, and who would take care of my five children

while I was gone?”

I nodded. “But it might be a pleasant change,” I suggested

tentatively.

Selma eyed me. “Pleasant? Why? To live in a strange room

all by myself, keep out of sight of strange men, eat I don’t

know what?”

“But don’t you miss Haji?”

“Of course,” answered Selma. She paused. “But I have a

change when he’s gone. Of course I miss him, but it is much

less work for me. And then,” she paused again, “he misses me,

and he is much happier to see me when he comes home.” She

looked down at the row of gold necklaces about her throat and

fingered one of lovely tapered cone-shaped gold beads. “See,

Beeja,” she laughed, “he brought me this last year. Lebanese

goldwork is very good.”

The night before Haji’s departure, Bob brought him over

from the mudhif to have tea with us in the garden. Haji sat

down in one of our folding aluminum armchairs, took off his

glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired and complained

that the heat seemed to affect him more every year.

“But it is very pleasant here,” he amended. After the 110-

degree heat of the day, the garden was cool and peaceful, and

I realized how hospitable our host was. This was his only

garden, he obviously enjoyed sitting in it on summer evenings,

but now that he had offered it to us, he would not have

dreamed of intruding.

A light breeze rustled the hot leaves on the orange and

lemon trees, the dried banana stalks rasped against each other

softly, and the stray cat we had adopted, who slept all day in

the shade of a palm tree, was slithering about the yard, hunting

for hedgehogs. I brought tea.

From the coffee shop on the canal we heard the announcer’s

voice from Radio Baghdad, giving the time and the station

break. A pause, and the sound of a cello, round and full, of a