The Great Dive
بِسۡمِ ٱللهِ ٱلرَّحۡمَـٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ
The following was taken
from The
Great Dive: The Unusual life of William Williamson
by Shaykh ‘Abd al-Hakim Murad Timothy John Winter.
The Anglo-Muslim
community has produced many stormy petrels over the centuries. Religious dissidents, adventurers, romancers,
scholar-pilgrims – all have enriched the diverse and colourful story that is
British Islam. Peter Lyall, the Scotsman
who became an admiral in the Ottoman navy; ‘Abdullah Quilliam, the Liverpool
solicitor who founded a mosque and orphanage in which Christian waifs were
raised as Muslims; Benjamin Bishop, His Majesty’s consul in Cairo who turned
Muslim and mysteriously disappeared; Lord Headley the peer; Lady Evelyn Cobbold
the explorer and pilgrim to Mecca; Mubarak Churchward, the stage-painter and
friend of Lily Langtry; the anonymous Scotsman who became governor of Madina;
and many more. Few, however, lived such
adventurous lives as the celebrated Haji ‘Abdullah Fadhil az-Zubayr, born
William Williamson, remembered even today in the Gulf and Iraq, where his many descendants
still retell his exploits.
Williamson was born in
Bristol in 1872, and when still a boy demonstrated a rebellious nature that sat
easily with a passionate hatred of injustice.
While a pupil at Clifton School he repeatedly courted both danger and
the ire of headmasters by climbing the famous Clifton suspension bridge which
soars over the Avon gorge. Beaten
regularly by his father, he was overjoyed when an uncle found him a place on a
tea-clipper bound for Australia. The
family’s hope was that the rigours of shipboard life would soon cause the
thirteen-year old to pine for the comparative comforts of a boarding
school. But although the new ship’s boy
was flogged and regularly “mast-headed” for his lubber’s clumsiness in Biscay
gales, he resolved never to return.
The barque landed its
cargo in New South Wales, and set course for Bristol via San Diego. Ashore in the Californian port, the ship’s
mates scattered in the traditional quest for beer and beauty. Williamson, however, clutching two dollars,
took “French leave”, and ran inland, praying that he would not be spotted by
his shipmates, who were likely to force him back on board. He found work on a farm just south of Los
Angeles, and then worked for his Aunt Amy, who had married a local
homesteader. A devout Seventh Day
Adventist, she would regularly dress in white robes and sing on nearby
hilltops; but she came to admire her nephew, who soon mastered all the usual
cowboy skills, including gun slinging and bronco-breaking, but refused to
accompany the other ranch-hands on their regular “busts” in the vice-dens of
neighbouring towns. Receptive to
California’s natural beauty, he had developed a strong belief in God, and a
dislike for throwing away what slender financial means he possessed.
Although gifted with a
natural aptitude for the cowboy life, Williamson’s imagination was soon fired
by tales of gold; and once he had acquired an old mule, an even older Mexican
shotgun, and a handful of dollars, he joined another cowboy, Jim Cook, and took
the gold trail to the Nevadas. They had
covered only a hundred miles before they were robbed while sleeping innocently
beneath the stars. The silent thieves
had taken their mule, the money in their pockets, and even their shoes. Cook turned back, disheartened, but the
barefoot Williamson was not beaten so easily.
He pressed on, pausing to work for a while as assistant to a quack
doctor in a ten-gallon hat. At last he
reached the Nevadas, where he staked a claim to a mine which, unlike many of
its neighbours, seemed to contain only limestone, quartz, and an inexhaustible
supply of Californian mud.
This new setback drove
Williamson back to San Francisco, where he enlisted on a cargo ship bound for
Bordeaux. A disastrous and near-lethal
passage via the Horn did nothing to dampen his love of adventure, and after
touching briefly in France, he joined an Irish fire-fighter who planned to work
on the construction of the Panama Canal.
Fifty men a day were dying of malaria in this first, ill-fated attempt
to cut a channel across the Isthmus, and wages were high; but the
fire-fighter’s wife was soon convinced that Panama was “no country for a white
man”, and the threesome, afflicted with the malaria that was to dog Williamson
for the rest of his life, travelled on to California. The bankruptcy of the railroad company that
took them on left them penniless; but under Williamson’s direction, they formed
a travelling theatrical troupe, barnstorming out-of-the-way settlements with a
vaudeville act whose highlight was Williamson’s unusual gift for juggling. A severe winter trapped the party in the
Nevadas, but they reached the coast safely on skis made for them by a
sympathetic Swede. Here Williamson
struck out alone yet again, this time trying his luck as an amateur boxer. He won his first three bouts in the San
Francisco championships, but his career as a pugilist was cut short when he
accepted a beer laced with opium in the city’s red light district, the ‘Sodom
of the Pacific’, and, in the view of local preachers, the probable cause of the
1906 earthquake. He awoke with a
hangover, in the forecastle of a ship, and realised that he had been “crimped”
– his senseless form sold to a short-handed and unscrupulous captain.
The Sitka Brave turned
out to be a whaler. Crewed mainly by
shanghaied landsmen, the large, square-rigged brig welcomed Williamson as a
seasoned mariner, and he soon became fourth mate on a journey which scoured the
ironbound coasts of the Bering Straits.
While the captain was ashore, wearing a wig to charm the Eskimo ladies
of easy virtue who eked out a living in the Alaska settlements, the brig was
often left in Williamson’s charge. Eight
months later, the Sitka Brave returned to ’Frisco for a long-overdue refit, but
Williamson chose to remain with her for a second tour of the frozen Northern waters. After this, another visit to inland
California ended with a fruitless search for work with his Aunt Amy, who was
now somewhere in the high hills, awaiting the Second Coming. He returned to San Francisco, where he signed
up with the former captain of the Sitka Brave, now the proud owner of a
schooner, for a trading voyage to the South Seas. He was eighteen years old.
Williamson now set up as
a small trader in the Caroline Islands, specialising in the sea-cucumbers which
are a delicacy for the Chinese palate the world over. He soon acquired considerable expertise in
the harvesting and storage of the creatures; but again, as so often before, his
fortunes were suddenly overturned.
Arrested in his outrigger canoe by the Spanish colonial authorities, he
was accused of selling rifles to rebel tribesmen, and thrown into a Manila
jail.
Conditions in the prison
were appalling, and Williamson later recalled this period behind Spanish bars
as the worst in his life. Detainees
lived in constant fear of beating, interrogation, or death by garroting. On one occasion Williamson was punished by
being placed in a metal tank which gradually filled with water, and he could
only save himself from drowning by desperately working a pump, a torment which
was prolonged for several hours. After
this ordeal he was forced to work in a chain gang, hobbling to work in the
docks each morning holding an iron ball.
Famously, the
Englishman’s instinct in a prison is to attempt to escape. Williamson managed to bribe a guard to leave
his shackles unlocked, and then, judging his moment, raced past the guards and
down an alley. Shots rang out all around
him, but he reached his destination, the United States consulate,
unharmed. ‘Help me!’ he cried, as he
raced in, and the employees rushed to bolt the door behind him. On the other side, the Spanish soldiers were
shouting and banging at the door.
The consul who now coolly
surveyed the desperate and ragged escapee was Alexander Russell Webb, later to
win fame as one of America’s leading converts to Islam. Having heard his story, Webb contacted the
British consulate, only to learn that the British authorities were so anxious
to avoid association with a possible rebel that they would not lift a finger to
help. But a visit by the American consul
to the docks turned up the English captain of a tramp steamer. Disguised as a drunken sailor, Williamson
lurched down to the docks, and was hidden on board until the ship was warped
from the quay, and laid a course for the British colony of Hong Kong.
Williamson’s nautical
skills were by now sufficiently developed to land him the position of
quartermaster on a crack liner, the SS Chusan, heading for Singapore and
India. In Bombay he was paid off, and
found work in the P & O offices. His
spare time was spent wandering the streets of the Gateway to India, where he
contemplated, as thousands of others have done before and since, the extremes
of the human condition which the city displays to passers-by. All the religions of the world were present,
their conspicuous performers side-by-side with hawkers, beggars,
scorpion-eaters, and prostitutes in cages.
Temples, churches and mosques offered havens of peace, and everywhere
there was the mingling of sanctity, destitution and indulgence for which India
is famous. The spiritual yearning
kindled during his solitary wanderings in the Californian sierra broke surface
again, and he took to wondering when God would Send him a sign. He was still a teenager, but he had seen much
of the world and of humanity. Which of
the many roads should he take? Which
would lead him most surely towards the Maker of such marvels?
The sign he was praying
for came during his next sea-crossing.
On the SS Siam, en route to Aden, Williamson found, in the small ship’s
library, a book by Imam ‘Abdullah Quilliam, then the Shaykh al-Islam of
the British Isles. He read it again and
again, fascinated. Here, it seemed, was
the answer to the questions which had been raised in his mind during years of
spectacular experience, energised by the earnestness of which the teenage mind
is so often capable. Here was a
monotheism far closer to his practical, English outlook than the mysteries of
Trinity, reinforced by a no-nonsense set of clear rules for worship and the
conduct of his life. This was no
religion for dreamers or nancy-boys. It
was a faith for tough, single-minded men of independent spirit.
On landing at Aden, his
luck suddenly began to change. An Arab
runner brought him a request to pay a visit to the Assistant Resident. The official turned out to be an old friend
of his father, and immediately offered him a position with the Aden
Constabulary. Discreetly adding two
years to his official age, Williamson accepted with alacrity. Here was a chance to earn good money, which
at the same time afforded the opportunity to live among Muslims and to see how
their faith worked in practice. The work
was dangerous, particularly in the harbour district, but Williamson’s skill
with his fists and his service revolver, acquired in the hard school of the
Wild West, soon made him an exemplary policeman in the eyes of the authorities.
Less satisfactory was the
youth’s inexplicable desire to associate with the natives. Aden was administered from British India, and
a stern social apartheid dictated how burra
“sahibs” might behave in the presence of the local population. Williamson visited the mosque and the tomb of
Imam Abu Bakr al-Aydarus (q.s.), as
well as making the acquaintance of the sayyidun
and other religious notables of the Arabian port. Although the ‘ulama advised him to take his time and not rush into an
ill-considered conversion, the colonial authorities came to the opinion that
the brawny Bristol policeman was “Not Quite the Thing”. A crisis flared when another constable who
had publicly converted and announced that he had memorised much of the Qur’an
even before joining the faith, was deported to India. Williamson was summoned to the Assistant
Resident, and to various army padres, and was given a good talking-to about the
Christian duties of all white servants of the Raj. If he did not pull his socks up, he might be
deported like his predecessor.
He paid no
attention. After a year of study under
the courteous and patient ‘ulama of
Aden, Williamson wrote passionate letters to his father and his Aunt Amy,
inviting them to the truth of Islam. He
then travelled to the court of the Sultan of the neighbouring town of Lahj,
where he made his formal shahadah,
and was circumcised using the wire-and-egg method familiar to many converts of
the time. Henceforth, he was ‘Abdullah
Fadhil, a fact which, on his return to Aden, he lost no time in proclaiming to
the local European community.
The reaction of the
colonial authorities was swift. The
Muslim constable was packed off to India, and it was put about that he was
suffering from “a touch of the Sun.” In
Bombay, his request to be released from the police was granted, and he was
offered a free passage back to England.
This he refused, since his heart was set on returning to the Middle
East. However, he soon found that
invisible hands obstructed his plans. No
shipmaster heading for Arabia would take him on, thanks to the determined
efficiency of the Raj authorities. Yet
he eluded official scrutiny by buying the ticket of a Basra-bound horse-dealer,
and soon found himself in the great Ottoman city, exploring its bazaars and
mosques, and improving his Arabic with every hour that passed.
At the time, Basra was a
centre of Protestant missionary activity.
This had made no discernible impression on the Muslim population, but
had made significant inroads among the local Ottoman Christians. ‘Abdullah Fadhil soon found himself at the
centre of religious controversies, with the local Arabs recognising him as
their natural spokesman when confronted with Westerners. One of these debates took place in the house
of a Basran notable, who had invited Sunnis, Shi’ah, Jews, Sabians, and two
American missionaries to celebrate a feast day under his roof. One of the Americans turned out to be Samuel
Zwemer, probably the best-known missionary in the Middle East in those
days. Zwemer demanded a debate, and
although the missionary’s fluent Arabic placed him on the linguistic high
ground, ‘Abdullah defended, without much difficulty, the Qur’anic doctrine of
the absolute Unity of God against Zwemer’s insistence that within God there are
three distinct persons. A further point
to which Haji ‘Abdullah adverted was the unity which characterised the Muslim
world. Southern Iraq contained both Shi’ah
and Sunni Muslims, who rarely intermarried, but who treated one another as
brother Muslims; in stark contrast to the deep divisions separating the
Christians of Basra, who were divided between Protestant, Jesuit, and Chaldean
churches, between whom there lurked a bitter and sometimes fatal rivalry.
The new convert was safe
from the Christians religiously, but he soon discovered that the long arm of
the Raj could reach him even in Ottoman lands.
The British Consul ordered him to report to the consulate, with a view
to returning him to England, and even managed to pressurise the Ottoman
governor into accepting this situation.
But the former cowboy and gold-panner was not so easily corralled. He apologised to his hosts, and vanished into
the Arabian night.
For the next two years,
‘Abdullah studied Arabic and Islam under the ‘ulama of Kuwait. He also
spent time travelling through the flat immensities of the northern Arabian
deserts, where he learned to love the camel and the Arabian horse. Buying and selling these animals brought him
a modest income, with which he was able to contemplate the next great
turning-point of his life: joining the haj
caravan of 1894.
The point of departure
was to be the walled city of Zubair, from which three thousand pilgrims would
set out through the territories of the Rashid family, hereditary rulers of
Najd. In the hujjaj’s bazaar of
Zubair, he bought seven pack camels, and loaded them with a tent, rugs, cooking
pots, coffee, rice, flour, ghee and sugar, enough, he hoped, for the first
weeks of the journey, which would bring him to the city of Hail.
The caravan assembled in
the month of Shawwal. Iranian and Indian
pilgrims had joined the Arabs of Iraq, following the bayraq, caliphal banner, carried by the Amir al-Haj. This spectacular flag would accompany them
throughout the pilgrimage. By day, it
took the form of a nine-foot red and green banner adorned with the crescent and
star and the shahadah. At night, it was topped by a great
lantern. So long as this great symbol
was visible, those lost in crowds during the haj, or in the northern wilderness of Arabia, could always make
their way back to the Amir’s side.
Discipline on the caravan
was strict and efficient. Outriders went
ahead to check the road for obstacles or Bedouin raiders, while a second group
followed up the rear to gather any items of value left behind by the great mass
of humanity as it lumbered slowly across the dry terrain. In the evening, scholars would preach, recite
the Qur’an, and sing the praises of the Blessed Prophet (s.a.w.).
‘Abdullah
had bought a dilul, a swift riding
camel, and would often ride up to the standard bearer and the drummer who
headed the procession, to chat with the Amir’s entourage. He would then rest and watch in fascination
as, for a whole hour, the great caravan moved past. Different languages, sects, and genders were
united in fellowship as they travelled along the ancient Darb Zubayda, the road
fortified and supplied with wells by the great and pious Abbasid princess a
thousand years before.
In the month of Dzu al-Qa’idah
the pilgrims reached Hail. In a
customary act of hospitality, the local Amir, Muhammad al-Rashid, slaughtered
enough camels to feed every member of the caravan. The English pilgrim watched as entire camels
were tipped into great cauldrons, and as vast hills of rice were served out to
the hungry guests. An even greater feast
ensued the following day when the Baghdad caravan arrived, punctual to the
hour.
Two weeks later, the
united procession sighted the magnificent city walls of Madina. The spectacle of the well-tended market
gardens, filled with melons, oranges and date palms, was a delight to the tired
eyes of the English pilgrim. He left his
camel at the Manakha, the caravan-plaza between the Mosque and the Ottoman barracks
at al-Anbariyya, found a small top-floor apartment in an ancient house, and
then, having performed wudhu from an earthenware jug, entered the mosque.
Inside, past the Bab
as-Salam, all was peace. The Garden of
Fathimah (r.a.), the doves, the rows
of quiet pillars, each with its name and venerable associations, formed a
fitting environment for the rites of visitation to the presence of the Holy
Prophet (s.a.w.). All around, too, were scholars; for in those
times the mosques of Makkah and Madina were great universities, and pilgrims
sojourning in the holy cities were able not only to worship, but to attend
classes on every subject of law, doctrine, and scriptural interpretation. Few indeed were the ‘ulama who did not hope to retire to Madina; and those who did,
including many of the greatest Ottoman scholars, found corners in the capacious
mosque where they would expound the classical texts to an immense variety of
students and pilgrims who had come from every land of Islam.
The time for haj was fast approaching; and the young
‘Abdullah was soon obliged to tear himself away from the solemn, pious circles
of sages, in order to learn the secrets of the ihram garment, which was
all that would protect him from the blazing Sun and bitter nights for the next
few weeks. His caravan took the road
past Quba’ and Dzu al-Hulayfah, towards the desert city in the south. From the basalt hills that crowded around the
Makkah road now resounded with the ancient cry, “Labbayk, Allahumma, labbayk!”
The suburb of Kudayy,
then the City itself. The great mosque
of those days had almost no exterior, with houses being built up against its
walls, and the effect of entering was that of leaving narrow shaded streets and
bazaars suddenly to be dazzled by the Sun which blazed down upon the Ka’bah
itself. Marble paths led to the House
through the gravel, around which were Sinan’s famous arcades and the ancient
ashlar minarets. Following his muthawwif, ‘Abdullah made the seven
rounds, and then prayed at the maqamat
of Ibrahim (a.s.), Isma’il (a.s.), and Muhammad (s.a.w.), invoking peace upon all of
them. He entered the Pavilion of Zamzam,
and watched as amphorae were lowered by ropes into the cool depths by busy
attendants. Finally came the rite of sa’iy, the sevenfold procession along
the open street, flanked with clothiers and bookshops, that stretched in a
straight line between the little hills of Swafa’ and Marwah.
‘Abdullah
was performing the qiran type of
pilgrimage, and after this first ‘umrah,
he left with his comrades for Mina, pausing to pay his respects at the tomb of
Sayyidatina Khadijah bint Khuwaylid (r.a.). The Day of Tarwiyyah was spent in the great
city of tents at Mina. Before the advent
of motor transport, this was a beehive of the recitation of the Qur’an and
religious poetry, with each tent resonating with the sonorities proper to some
corner of the Islamic domains. But after
the fajr prayer, the multitudes left
for Arafat, some with pack-animals, while others struggled along with sacks,
babies and other baggage. The
traditional Namirah sermon was delivered in the Caliph’s name, and the muhajirun held out their hands in
prayer, until the voice of a cannon and the burst of fireworks overhead
announced that the Sun had set, and the multitudes could make their way towards
Muzdalifah. ‘Abdullah himself, with
typical tenacity, had insisted on spending the day at the summit of the Mount
of Mercy beside the great white pillar, and he spent some anxious minutes trying
to locate his muthawwif’s flag in the
huge crowds when he descended once more to the plain, which was packed with
praying, weeping, jostling pilgrims. Not
far away, equal to the other pilgrims in their white ihram, and seemingly
unprotected by guards, rode the Sharif of Makkah and the Turkish
governor.
The pebbles of Muzdalifah
were flung at the Devil’s Pillars, animals were sacrificed, and another thawaf and procession along the Street
of Running brought ‘Abdullah the pilgrim’s crown. Twice again, in 1898 and 1936, would he
repeat the rites of haj, each visit
bringing a new range of experiences and reflections; but it was his first stay
in the grand and ancient City which supplied the most profound and
extraordinary memories of his life, which he would cherish and revisit in his
old age.
Old age lay far ahead,
however; and the return to Zubair provided the haji with ample time to consider his next move. He realised that his aspirations had been
more radically changed by the pilgrimage than by the experience of conversion
itself. Before his haj, he had cherished the hope of returning to America and resuming
the cowboy’s life he had once loved so passionately. Grown to man’s estate, he had felt confident
that his vigour and independence would allow him to carve out a substantial
ranch, where he could employ cowboys of his own. But the visit to the Ka’bah seemed to have
instilled a different set of priorities.
He decided to settle down in the East, trusting to Allah (s.w.t.) to Provide. And in due course, He Did.
Haji ‘Abdullah became a
trader along the Kuwait coastline, up the mighty Shatt al-Arab and into the
Iraqi hinterland. On occasion, he would
take prime Arab horses to Bombay, to be sold to the British cavalry. His growing business connections allowed him
access to European goods never before seen in Iraq. His arrival in the marketplace of Zubair on a
penny-farthing provoked a riot, as terrified Arabs prayed for deliverance from
the “Jinn of the Big and Little Wheel”,
while others drew their daggers and attempted to pounce on the young man in
Arab robes who was riding about on it, and must certainly be Shaythan himself. On another occasion, he brought consternation
to a desert encampment when he produced a phonograph and played a Qur’anic
recording which he had made with a mullah
of Zubair – possibly the first recording ever made in Iraq. An evening’s explanation of the box’s nature
and purpose could not persuade the sons of the desert that the box was not
filled with jinn, who had been
trapped inside by some magical process.
He spent a total of
twelve years trading in horses, amassing a small financial competence which
allowed him to acquire a medium-sized dhow.
Never able to ignore the salt in his veins, he embarked on a series of expeditions
ranging from Bushehr to the Trucial Coast, now known as the United Arab
Emirates, and, inevitably, he came once again to the attention of the British
authorities. An official report
described him as “one William Richard Williamson professing to be Haji
‘Abdullah Fadhil, a Moslem Arab”. But
imperial suspiciousness had faded; and the British Muslim mariner enjoyed
generally cordial relations with the British gunboats which periodically
stopped and searched local vessels, looking for rifles, slaves, and other
contraband.
It was during this period
that the Haji traded in his camelhair tent for a comfortable house in Basra,
and his mind slowly turned to thoughts of matrimony. Until that time he had always brushed the
subject aside with the laughing observation that “a day’s hunting with the hawk
is worth many women”, but he now sought out the hand of a young Zubair girl,
breaking with local custom by insisting on seeing her face before agreeing to
the match. Married life suited him well,
and he later acquired a wife in Baghdad as well, together with a large brood of
children.
The Gulf was at the time
one of the world’s most productive pearl-fisheries. Modern Arabian absentmindedness about
pollution, reinforced by the depredations of a giant starfish, have drastically
reduced the oyster population of those waters; but in the Haji’s time it was a
perennial temptation for a man blessed with a good dhow and a willing crew to
hire a team of divers and head for the pearl banks, hoping and praying for a
fortune.
The favoured season was
known as al-Ghaws al-Kabir, “the
Great Dive”, extending from May until mid-September. It is a time of sandy winds and intense heat;
indeed, to this day the waters of the Bahr al-Banat off Qatar register the
highest sea temperatures recorded anywhere in the world. The pearl banks, which were informally
allocated to the tribes of neighbouring coasts, were at their most fruitful off
Bahrain, Qatar, and the Trucial Coast. Halhul Island, sixty miles east of
Qatar, is surrounded by beds which, in their heyday, gave birth to pearls which
came to adorn the crowns of many Indian and European monarchs.
In Haji ‘Abdullah’s time,
the Great Dive would involve approximately four thousand vessels. The excitement was enhanced by the knowledge
that the whole enterprise was, in essence, a form of gambling. Many were the
ships which returned to port empty-handed; but the discovery of a large pink or
white pearl would bring riches to the entire crew, from the nakhuda captain, to the lowliest cook on
board. To ‘Abdullah, it was all
reminiscent of his gold-panning days, and he joined in the preparations with
relish.
Thus, did the English haji set sail in his forty-ton dhow, the
Fath al-Khayr. He had laid in ample
stores, although he knew that the pearling ships could remain at sea
indefinitely. Food could be obtained
from the sea itself, given that the waters of the Gulf teem with delicious
fish; and water could be had by sending divers down to fill skins from the
numerous underwater freshwater springs whose locations had been known for
generations.
The dive would begin each
day at dawn, after prayers. The divers
would rhythmically fill and empty their lungs, utter a short prayer, close
their noses with ivory pegs, expel their remaining breath, and then, clutching
a lead weight and a basket, jump into the sea.
The best could work at a depth of twenty fathoms, filling the basket
with oysters before being pulled to the surface after a couple of busy minutes
beneath the waves, always on the alert for sharks, barracudas, or venomous
sea-snakes. The work would continue all
day, until, after the maghrib prayers,
the crew would eat, and then prise open the oysters in search of the gleaming
pearls.
The Haji never struck it rich on the
pearl-beds. Accepting the Decree of
Allah (s.w.t.), he instead travelled
to Damascus, where he spent two precious years in the city’s madaris improving his knowledge of
Islam. On his return, he sold his dhow
and found work with the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company, which needed qualified
guides for its prospecting activities, once it was rumoured that there was some
possibility of oil being present in the region.
In 1935, he led the company’s negotiations with the ruler of Abu Dhabi,
thereby heralding the arrival of the oil industry. His advice was also sought out by Imperial
Airways, which needed to survey the coast for emergency landing areas suitable
for the flying boats which then plied its England-India route.
The Haji left the oil
business in 1937, and retired to a small house in the village of Kut al-Hajjaj
near Basra. Here he raised children and
grandchildren, amazing them with tales of his remarkable life. For fifteen years thereafter, until his
health failed him, he was a regular sight at the Ashar Mosque in Basra, and
seldom missed the opportunity of attending a well-delivered class on
religion. Back at home, he would sit
with his amber and black prayer beads, his collection of religious books, and -
a lifetime indulgence - a set of penny-Westerns with titles like Two-Gun Pete and
Mayhem in Dodge City. Nothing could be
more remote from the quiet, desk-bound career which his father had planned for
him on a distant Victorian afternoon; but the Haji, whose path through life
demonstrated so colourfully the universal appeal of Islam and the resilience of
his native temper, would not have had it any other way. Loved by his large and vigorous family, he
passed into the Mercy of his Lord with a heart as serene as it was full of
years.
What a life! Thank-you for sharing the story of this amazing traveller, sailor, goldminer, cowboy, Hajji, all-round adventurer, seeker of Truth and student of life.
ReplyDeleteGreat story, well told!
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