When Israel was born in 1948, the government of Iraq decided things looked safe enough to go to war. A small war. And I was there to watch it happen.
Protected from the newborn Zionist enemy to the west by an expanse of wild, roadless desert, the Iraqis looked around for closer, more convenient, foes to fight. They found them behind the commercial counters of Iraq's financial institutions, administration offices and other places of business — the harmless, peaceful, Jewish business clerks who kept the wheels of Iraq's national commerce turning in efficient fashion. In a gesture of pan-Arab solidarity, Iraq's government decided to banish these Jews and their families to the newly established State of Israel — which, itself, the Iraqi army was planning to help obliterate, eventually.
At once, the airport in Basra — Iraq's second city — became the scene of bewildered Jewish innocents lined up with the single suitcase each was allowed to carry. They watched Iraqi customs officers examine their few belongings during a rough search, usually ending with the contents of any jars, bottles or toothpaste tubes being squirted over the whole jumbled-up mess. Then they were piled onto Israel-bound planes and told never to come back.
They were the lucky ones.
The more unlucky ones, those with large amounts of money, had their fortunes confiscated. To forestall any possibility of later arguments, they were publicly hanged in the city centre in front of thousands of cheering onlookers and clicking cameras.
During the following months, business and bank transactions became a comedy of errors, owing to Iraq having so few capable employees left. But the operation was nevertheless declared a complete success. To prove it, for a dinar or two, one could buy a set of photographs of the hangings, including close-ups of still strung-up moldering faces of dead millionaires.
Having won that battle, the Iraqis then decided to send an armed expeditionary force in the general direction of Israel, so that they might at least arrive in time to tag along behind the soon-to-be triumphant Egyptian and Syrian troops and share in the glory of the planned victory parades in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
As troop transport was limited, it was decided the bulk of the rank and file would have to march bravely along the constantly shifting desert tracks that crossed the then roadless miles between Baghdad and Damascus.
The trouble was the rank and file weren't too good at marching. Or even walking. Few had ever worn heavy footwear before. And certainly not the old, ill-fitting, secondhand army boots with which the recruits were outfitted from hopelessly jumbled-up piles cast off by who knows what colonial force. Many a poor date-palm lad answered the call to duty, only to be handed either two left-foot or two right-foot boots --or, if lucky enough to get one right and one left, would probably find they were of differing sizes.
It was especially painful for the young rural folk of the Shatt-al-Arab region, where generations of treading the extremely soft mud of the river banks had led to the evolution of splayed feet. Suddenly, these poor recruits were ordered to cram their flat feet into warped, ill-fitting boots and march toward Israel with a military gait.
They could hardly hobble. And there was little that could be done about it. Good boots were just not available in Iraq at that time. There wasn't a real boot maker in the whole
Many a poor lad answered the Iraqi call to duty, only to be handed two left-foot or two right-foot boots of Iraq. It would have been easier to buy a pair of Bertie Wooster spats than a pair of stout boots. Iraqis at that time just went plain bootless. A pair of sandals, ok. And for taxi drivers and government officials, maybe a smart pair of two-tone, pointy-toed, Italian brothel creepers. But stout, solid, clumpy marching boots? Nothing.
Several weeks after their disastrous western foray, the "victorious" Iraqi army staged a convincing rerun of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. Minus the snow. Just mile after mile of desert dust. Back across the hundreds of miles of shifting desert tracks, they streamed back home.
Though many died with their boots on, many more must have died with their boots cast off. Disease and midday heat exhaustion, insufficient clothing for the biting cold of the nighttime desert, poor food and ridiculous, crippling footwear — these were the real enemies they had faced and to which they had succumbed.
Still, such little setbacks could not be allowed to stop the show. So a victory party was held in the Basra football stadium, with several long speeches by army generals, cabinet ministers and sheikhs in long flowing gowns, who kissed each other while exchanging medals and honours.
For a couple of hours, the jubilant crowd roared its approval, yelled slogans and made frenzied gestures. And for one spellbinding magical moment, a hush descended on the unruly throng as a lovely woman began to sing. She sang a most beguiling song, absolutely mesmerizing, even to me, who understood no word of it.
And then it was all over.
But it was not forgotten. One local side-result of those initial upheavals in Palestine 60 years ago was the establishment of a slave camp out in the desert near Basra. Here, unfortunate orphans and other displaced persons from the conflict were sold or given away as servants, family members or what have you. Not a very strange happening, really, by Middle Eastern standards.
How did I come to observe all this? In 1948, I was 22 years old, an ex-Royal Navy Seafire pilot, trained in Canada. On an old Nairn Transport desert bus from Damascus to Baghdad, in 1947, an Iraqi army colonel offered me payment — in gold coin — to join the Iraqi air force. From Baghdad, I travelled to Fao (now called Faw) to take command of a small hydrographic survey vessel, manned by a 20-strong Iraqi crew, and charged with monitoring the navigational approaches to the Shatt-al-Arab.
On the night of Basra's great celebration, 60 years ago, I went alone to mingle amid the celebration, blending myself in with the throng by jumping about, waving my arms and shouting unintelligible noises. As they say: When in Rome …
I'm glad I did. It was a "victory" party I shall never forget.
John Ough lives in Ottawa. He left Iraq in 1952, then spent six years exploring Arctic Canada. He worked with the National Film Board of Canada until 1972.
Read our complete Israel at 60 series at www.nationalpost.com/israel _________________ He who is merciful with the cruel, will end-up being cruel to the merciful
- Kohelet Rabba 7:16
You cannot post new topics in this forum You cannot reply to topics in this forum You cannot edit your posts in this forum You cannot delete your posts in this forum You cannot vote in polls in this forum
Forum FAQ
Search
Usergroups
Favorites
Profile
Log in
