We had flown east of Suez high over Saudi Arabia—arid, desolate, and hazy orange— and below us now was the Persian Gulf. That is, Iranians call it the Persian Gulf, as they still claim it. Arabs call it the Arabian Gulf. Like much in the Middle East, it depends on one’s politics.
Our plane was about to land on Muharraq, one of the islands that make up the little Arab Shaikhdom of Bahrain, ruled over by His Highness Isa bin Sulman al-Khalifah.
Connected to Muharraq by a causeway, Bahrain is the largest island of the Shaikhdom. It has long been known as the “Pearl of the Persian Gulf.” This seems an appropriate name, for not only does this island have more vegetation than any other in the Gulf, but from the air it even looks like a pearl, white in the sun-drenched atmosphere, surrounded by waters which change from turquoise to emerald, now shimmering blue in the depths, now opaque green in the shallows, always beautiful and always brilliant.
Anchored off the British Naval Base at Bahrain were several ships of the Royal Navy, and nearby, flying the Stars and Stripes, we could see COMIDEASTFOR’s flagship, the USS Valcour (AVP-55), a converted seaplane tender, painted white to withstand the heat.
My husband, Rear Admiral B. J. Semmes, Jr., was arriving to assume his duties as Commander, Middle East Force. He would be the U. S. Navy’s representative in the strategically important Red Sea-Indian Ocean area, a vast and little-known region which extends from the Suez Canal, down the Red Sea and the east coast of Africa as far as the Kenya-Somalia border and through the Indian Ocean to East Pakistan.
The job of COMIDEASTFOR is to represent the U. S. Navy in 22 nations and seven independent Shaikhdoms; to visit Arabian, Iranian, African, and Indian ports; to conduct yearly exercises with the CENTO powers; and to work closely with State Department officials to demonstrate U. S. support for the Shaikhdoms where 75 per cent of the known oil reserves of the Free World lie. More than half of these reserves are controlled by U. S. companies. (Next to the Abadan refinery in Iran, Bahrain’s refinery is the largest in the Middle East.)
Though Middle East Force ships deploy from Norfolk, Virginia, their center of operations is Bahrain, off the east coast of Saudi Arabia. The island is only 30 miles long, about ten miles wide, and has a population of approximately 145,000. Of this, 60,000 people live in Manama, on the northern tip of the island; 32,000 live in Muharraq, and 6,000 live in Rifaa, a village in the center of the island, the home town of the ruling shaikhs.
We landed and crossed the causeway by car to Bahrain. Nestled in between the two islands were all kinds of Arab dhows or fishing boats, built of teak, without nails, just as they have been built since time immemorial. The Kuwait dhows have long pointed prows. Some dhows have motors, and others have great lateen sails spread on long yards which are swung on masts that rake sharply forward. Some of the crew members are Somalis, their black torsos glistening in the sun, their heads wrapped in bright turbans, their waists covered with colorful sarongs of Madras. When the tide is low the boats are high and dry, propped up by stilts. At such times, the crew scrapes the bottom and topsides and caulks the seams. Fish oil is used to protect the boats instead of paint and everything is faded to a driftwood gray. And it is hot, steamy hot, over 100°.
The climate in the countries bordering the Persian Gulf has been described as the worst in the world. This is not quite true. Bahrain has a cold season from December to March which is actually very pleasant. This is the best time of the year for a visit, when the Shamal blows from the northwest and the west. April, May, October, and November are not too hot, but from June to the end of September, the temperature soars over 100°—though seldom over 120°. The humidity climbs above 90 per cent, and the island steams in the re- lendess sun. The Qaws is another common wind. Hot and dry, it blows from the southwest, bringing the nauseating, sweet smell of oil and carrying the desert sands from the south of the island. Being an island, Bahrain is subject to changing winds. Fortunately there are “breaks” which give occasional relief during the summer. The month of June, especially, often feels a cool north wind called the Bara, which makes it more endurable and pleasanter than May.
Driving in to Manama for the first time, we observed the souk or bazaar. Low cubes of buildings of bleached beige with faded blue balconies stood with new white civic buildings designed by Sir Charles Belgrave, the Englishman who for some 30 years was advisor to Shaikh Sulman al-Khalifah, father of the present Ruler. At the end of the main shopping street the shade in the covered bazaar seemed almost black in contrast to the glare of the sun. From there the side streets were of dirt, and so narrow people had to walk—or ride donkeys—cars could not get through. The streets were teeming with people: Arabs in flowing thobes, blue-white in the sun; women, covered from head to toe, including their faces, with billowing black veils called abbas . . . only a protruding sandal to hint whether a raving beauty or a toothless hag was inside . . . Indians in baggy white pants (dhotis) and colorful saris: Sikhs, in orange turbans . . . countless ragged children, begging . . . trachoma victims with outstretched hands shouting “Baksheesh” “Baksheesh” ... money ... money ... British, in khaki shorts: both R.A.F. pilots and oil company workers from Awali, half-way down the island . . . bicycles, push-carts, donkeys, goats. Everything converged on the marketplace . . . vegetables spread on the ground in the shade of umbrellas . . . food, rotting in the sun . . . oranges . . . papaya, donkey grass, flies. American-made taxis jockeying for the few remaining parking places while policemen in khakis, wearing incongruous wool berets, motioned to keep traffic moving . . . Cadillacs and dirt streets, booths with gaudy materials from India, Damascus, and Hong Kong. Spice stalls, saffron, chickens under straw baskets, tribal rugs hanging on bleached blue doors . . . the bleating of goats, the blare of off-key music, and guttural Arabic sounds. . . .
Around the corner, on Shaikh Abdullah Road, for three blocks there were nothing but goldsmiths’ shops. Women in black came in to shop, and when an arm protruded from under an abba it usually had a dozen golden bracelets on it. These bracelets constituted the woman’s dowry, worn safely for emergencies. Indian craftsmen sat cross-legged on the floor working behind their little glass counters filled with exotic treasures: necklaces of golden coins inscribed with exquisite Arabic calligraphy, bracelets and earrings of age-old Persian design, rubies, sapphires, and pearls. But by far the most beautiful were the pearls. Still more amazing were the Arab pearl merchants.
Bahrain is famous for its pearls. Before oil was discovered, pearling was the main industry, and the pearl trade probably reached its height about 1912. Half the able-bodied men were divers. These divers would go to sea in fleets of dhows and head for the coral reefs about six or eight hours’ sail from Manama. They still dive in the same manner, but there are not many pearling dhows left. The industry is now in a decline because of the popularity of the cultured pearl.
The divers fasten a clip on their noses and go over the side holding on to a rope. The divers go down a maximum of 12 fathoms, and they stay at most a minute and a half. Whenever they tug the rope a swarthy sarong-wrapped crew member pulls them up. The oysters are opened and the pearls sorted out while still on board. It used to be the custom for merchants to row out to meet the divers and barter even before they went ashore.
The pearls are of various colors: white, cream, pink, and black. The shapes vary, too, some being quite irregular, some perfecdy round. The latter are the most valuable, of course, but the uneven ones have a lovely iridescent glow. In the souk, merchants barter and haggle, wrap and unwrap their precious gems, always using bright pink tissue paper. It is said that they become so expert they can recognize certain pearls which they have traded before. All through the Middle East pearls have always been the favorite jewel for a dowry, thus there is always a market for Bahrain pearls, particularly in India.
As much a part of Bahrain as its pearls il are its mosques. Graceful minarets thrust upwards from a monotonously flat landscape. A mosque consists of a courtyard with a three-sided building at one end, opening into the court. A semi-circular alcove forms a prayer niche, and this marks the direction of Mecca. The Mullah does not actually pray in the niche; he mounts the stairway nearby to read the Koran. Muslims pray both from the courtyard and inside the mosque. Five times a day the muezzin mounts the minaret. Off-key chants fill the air, as the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer. Nowadays, he frequently takes the lazy way out and uses a record player and loud speaker!
The average Muslim is devout, to outward appearances much more so than his Christian brethren. Islam teaches that the rich must help the poor, and since there are no organized charities, begging is a recognized profession. Life in the desert is hard. Poor health and malnutrition are the rule. The people rely on their faith in Allah to make life bearable. Islam plays a dominant role in Arab life. The Mullahs have great power and they are not for Western change.
In Bahrain there are two sects of Muslims: the Sunnis and the Shi’as. The Sunnis predominate in Bahrain and on the whole are quite friendly. The Shi’as live mostly in Muharraq; they have had less contact with foreigners and are more orthodox than the Sunnis. They are also more pro-Nasser. Occasionally there are demonstrations for Arab unity in Muharraq. In 1956, the anti-British demonstrations were intense.
Our house was in the outskirts of Manama, a block from the quiet sandy beach where swimming might have been enticing except for sharks, seasnakes, and sewage. This house, which the Navy rented for us from Mr. Yateem, a rich Arab merchant, was about 15 years old. It was low, white, and air-conditioned, and was surrounded by a walled garden or compound. It was nicer than most houses on the island, with three bedrooms, modern baths and kitchen and a washing machine in the laundry which, however, did not have enough water pressure to be worth using. It proved cheaper and easier to send the laundry out to be pounded on the rocks by the Indian dhobis and spread on the sand to dry.
Our garden was one of the few in the area. It was dry and sandy and reminded me of Palm Springs, California. We had wonderfully fragrant pink and white oleanders, sweet-smelling jasmine over the front door, and a delicate yellow bloom on a tree that looked like an acacia.
Flower gardens did not exist in Bahrain before the development of artesian wells, and certain plants, shrubs, and trees which now appear to be growing wild were introduced from India or from Iraq sometime during the last 35 years.
One of the problems is how to obtain sufficient fertilizer. Before so many people took an interest in gardening, cow manure could be obtained by anyone who sent a cart to remove it from the owner’s shed. Today it is a marketable commodity and has to be paid for.
In spite of all difficulties, however, gardening has become a popular hobby, not only among the Europeans, but also among the Arabs.
To have a garden on a desert island one must have a gardener who spends the day watering. Our gardener was named Saif A1 Islam which means “Sword of Islam.” Saif was about four feet eight inches tall. Bahrain Arabs in general are short and slight in build but on the whole strong and healthy; the average height of a man is 5'5". Saifs face was wrinkled, and he had a long gray beard. He looked about 60 but was probably nearer 40. His legs were bowed and wiry. He was extremely polite and anxious to please. His two words of English were, “finished” and “okay.”
Like all Bedouin, Saif lived a very simple life. He occupied a small room off the garage, cooked his own food—rice, coffee, dates, goat on Fridays—on a little kerosene burner set on the ground in his courtyard. He cooked, squatting on his haunches in typical Arab fashion, feet flat on the ground. This posture has to be learned before the age of ten in order for it to be comfortable. He was thoroughly unaccustomed to chairs and preferred not to sit on one.
Saif wore on old brown sarong, a cast-off Navy undershirt, a head cloth or kajiya, and sandals which he made himself from old rubber tires. On Fridays he used to get cleaned up, put his thobe over his second sarong, and wear his bright orange wool turban. This let the world know that he was from the Oman, a mountainous province in the southeastern section of the Arabian peninsula. Ready at last, he would pick up his camel- stick and stride out the garden gate. This was the Muslim Sunday, and he was off to the mosque in Manama.
Saif always seemed to have plenty of time. He would sit under the palm tree by the garage every afternoon and read the Koran. He had already raked the garden using only his fingers. He refused to use a rake. Several times a day his gate would be closed, and we knew that he was praying. Saif was a good man; his Muslim acceptance of his lot in life Irish’ Allah, “As Allah Wills,” was written on his face. He was at peace with the world.
Behind our house was a date grove with a spring running through it. Arabs came there to bathe and fetch water. Across the street, beyond an empty lot used by some boys for soccer, there was a straw village called a barasti. In it were about 30 huts made of palm fronds, cleverly woven. Most of the people who lived in this barasti were of Persian extraction. In Bahrain, all women are veiled, but Persian women are easily identified by their colored veils in contrast to the black veils of the Arab women. Their abbas are worn over the face and extend from head to toe. If they are thrown back from the face, they wear a black mask over their eyes and nose. Abbas look terribly hot and uncomfortable, but actually they are of a thin gauze-like material which allows the breeze to go right through; they also protect the wearer from the sun and the flies. Underneath, the women often wear loose-fitting pants embroidered in gold, and tightly fastened at the ankles. These are Muslim women and they are in purdah.
Although it is gradually being modified, the purdah system still exists in Bahrain, and women are veiled when they appear in public. Only at home do they remove their abbas. No men outside the immediate family ever see their faces. Nor do they go out in mixed company. Women who have grown up in purdah do not readily give up the veil. It protects them from curious eyes and affords them the only privacy they know. Only the daughters of a few rich merchants who have gone to school in Europe want to remove their veils, and most of them still find it a convenience on the street.
The average woman on the street is shy, as are her children, who cling to their mother’s abba as it blows out behind her and crawl under it to hide from curious eyes. Very few women on the street can speak English, and at first I could only greet them with a polite Salaam al lay kun, “Peace be unto you.” Starting at dawn, the women from the barasti came to fetch water from our spring. They walked, barefooted, with regal carriage, carrying pots of every conceivable size and shape on their heads: earthenware water jugs and aluminum pots for cooking. Later in the morning they brought, again on their heads, straw rugs and clothes to wash. Squatting on their haunches, they pounded clothes on the rocks, their abbas still over their heads. If a man came by, they covered their faces with their abbas. Half naked children played in the stream while gossip flowed. In the afternoon the women disappeared and men and boys came to the spring to bathe or to fetch water in oil drums lashed to donkeys.
With the wife of the director of the Bahrain American Oil Company, I was invited to call on the Ruler’s wife. Her Highness set the time—eight in the morning.
Accompanied by our interpreter, we drove down the new four-lane highway built by the Ruler’s father. The countryside here was pure desert, absolutely barren. On either side of the road were ancient burial mounds called tumuli, some of which date back to the Copper Age—3000 B.C. Archeologists say that this is the largest prehistoric cemetery in the world. The mounds cover stone, T-shaped burial chambers which are unique because nowhere else in the world have such elaborate single graves been built for common people. All the graves were plundered centuries ago. According to experts, seals found here prove that Bahrain was the ancient city of Dilmun, famous for its trade with Ur in Mesopotamia, now Iraq, and with Mohenjo-Daro, now in Pakistan.
Beyond the tumuli there are the ruins of an old Persian palace, about 300 years old. The Persians ruled Bahrain before the Khalifah family came up from the peninsula of Qatar in 1782 and conquered it. A beautiful ogee arch formed the entrance to the ruins. Benches were built in its shade where people could sit and talk—a favorite Arab pastime. A teak door, studded and bleached to the softest gray, lay on the ground, too heavy to have been plundered. Inside, the courtyard was dazzingly white and searingly hot. In the center was a pool where formerly donkeys had emptied their water drums. Rows and rows of arches surrounded the courtyard. There were openings in the walls ingeniously made for cross currents of air; flat roofs which could be used for sleeping; latticework windows that made lovely patterns of light and dark; intricately carved old teak doors.
From the ruin we drove through Rifaa to Shaikh Isa’s palace; a cluster of dazzling white arches and courtyards, with an occasional domed mosque. On one side of the street were His Highness’ offices; on the other Her Highness’ apartments. We went past a traffic circle built by the Shaikh’s father to slow down his sons’ racing cars, past some fine Arabian horses, and into a sun-drenched courtyard with one lone, crooked tree. Arab women were leaving their sandals outside a doorway as we entered a large reception room.
My first impression was of a melange of clashing colors: a highly patterned Kirman rug, lavender walls, and striped curtains. Chairs were lined up stiffly around the edges of the room; in the center was a large table with a rococo mirror and several large bottles of French cologne.
After a few moments Her Highness entered, and sat down in the center of the row of chairs. She spoke to each of her callers in turn, using the interpreter when she spoke to us. Shaikha Hessa, as she was called, was about 25; she wore the usual black abba, but not over her face, since she was at home. Under it she wore a long pale blue filmy dress, bordered in gold. On her feet were light blue sandals. Her fingers and toes were hennaed a deep purple, as were the marks in the palms of her hands. She appeared to be covered with beautiful gold jewelry. A necklace of golden coins, triangular in shape, went from her neck to her waist. Her earrings were at least three inches long, of gold filigree with strings of tiny pearls. An occasional garnet or ruby was set in the gold. On her arms were some ten thin golden bracelets. When we admired a large sapphire ring, she laughed and said she had copied it from a piece of costume jewelry from London.
Serving women rolled a table into the room and offered us, first an orange drink, then watermelon, mangoes, apricots, candies, and pistachio nuts, all of which came from Lebanon. After we had eaten, a serving girl sprinkled rose water over my right hand. In Arab countries only the right hand is used for eating. Etiquette demands that you never pass food with the left hand; it must be kept in your lap. This is an age-old custom, because the left hand is used only for toilet purposes.
After about 20 minutes, we took our leave and went to call on Shaikha Latifa, the Ruler’s stepmother. She was the widow of the old Shaikh Sulman, his favorite wife, although not the mother of the present Ruler. She was childless, so another wife had borne his children. The old Shaikha was about 65, but looked 85. Her face was wrinkled, long, and thin. Her appearance would have been aristocratic if she had not had the misfortune to lose one eye to trachoma. She was both friendly and curious. The conversation turned to traveling, and I asked her if she were going to make a trip where she would prefer to go— east or west. She replied that she had never given it any thought because she did not have permission to go anywhere. She was a simple person who had lived a sheltered life. Even so, she had a strong character and was influential in her own environment. Never having been exposed to Western customs, she ate with her fingers, as do all Arabs. What silver we used was used only as a courtesy to me.
Each of the three Khalifah brothers has only one wife, though by Muslim law each could have four. If a man has four, however, he is bound by law to treat them equally. And anyone as rich as the Ruler is expected to support all his wives’ relatives. Perhaps this discouraged them. In general, men’s activities included other men only; the women ruled supreme in the home, raising the children, but men and women seldom did anything together. No Arab women were ever present at social functions at the Palace.
No description of Bahrain would be complete without an account of the dinner at the Palace of His Highness Shaikh Isa bin Sulman al-Khalifah in Rifaa.
One Saturday evening we had invited all the American naval officers in Bahrain and their wives to an “at home.” My husband walked in just before the guests were due to arrive and handed me a gold-encrusted invitation. I looked at the translation of it and saw that it was an invitation to the Palace— for that very evening! . . . One doesn’t regret a Ruler’s invitation, however, so we explained to our guests, and at eight o’clock off we went down the island to the Ruler’s Palace. We got out of the car, walked over a red carpet which had been spread on the ground in front of the entrance, and into a large reception room. Chairs lined the walls as at the Shaikha’s, only this room was larger and more sumptuous. His Highness sat at the far end. We were announced; then, we had to walk the length of the room while being stared at from all sides. His Highness was in traditional Arab dress: gold bands on his kqfiya (head cloth), a brown cloak bordered in gold, and white thobe. He was very young, having been king for only a year. He spoke good English. After paying our respects, carefully observing the proper protocol by speaking to Sir William Luce, the British Political Resident next, then to the Political Agent, we took our places in chairs to one side. Foreign guests continued to arrive. About a hundred Arab men were already seated in order of importance down from the Shaikh. Negro servants wearing Arab dress, with daggers in their belts—they were part of His Highness’s bodyguard— poured coffee from brass pots with long curved spouts. Cardamon seeds are placed in the spouts which gave the coffee a distinct flavor. A long thin stream of coffee managed miraculously to hit a tiny handleless cup. The pourer always stopped just in time. When you wished to indicate that you had had enough, you shook the cup. It is considered good manners to let the pourer fill the cup three times. If he fills it more, you have stayed too long; less, and the host will be offended. When the pourer picks up your cup, he shakes the few remaining drops on the carpet then stacks the little cups in the palm of his hand. He is perfectly capable of using your cup to serve someone else without washing it. After about 15 minutes we started in to the dining room.
The dining table was large enough to seat about 100 guests and was literally covered with food. The Arabian idea of hospitality is to have plenty—whole roasted sheep, chickens, round trays of saffron rice, beans, watermelon, mangoes, salads, and other strange dishes. I sat next to Shaikh Khalifah bin Sulman, His Highness’ youngest brother who also spoke excellent English.
Dinner did not last long. No one waited for food to be passed, though a servant would help you pull a leg off a chicken, or give you a piece of lamb, or goat pulled off by hand. When we had finished, we returned to the first reception room for coffee and conversation. The next sitting was waiting to come in. When they had finished, the next group came in, until all the retainers were fed, all the food was gone, and His Highness had taken care of everybody in attendance with the utmost of Arab hospitality.
Three servants stood outside the dining room door; one with a pitcher of water, with a long skinny spout; the next with a bowl to catch the water, and a third with a towel and rose water to sprinkle over your hand. Back in the reception room someone was passing incense. The Shaikhs let the fumes envelop their gowns; a custom from long ago. Coffee and incense marked the end of the party and we all departed for home.
Desert nights . . . crystal clear, with every star shining . . . jasmine by the door ... a fascinating life. As we drove into the driveway of our own small compound, the sleepy Bedouin guard put down his rifle to open the gate (a courtesy extended the American admiral since 1956 when anti-English riots took place). Saif greeted us. Saif, in his homemade rubber sandals, Navy issue shirt, and rumpled sarong. Bowing and smiling, he scurried to open the garage door. Always polite. Always helpful, “Salaam al lay hum,” he said. Peace be unto you.