The Sea and the Hills

By Hussain Najadi

The Sea and the Hills
Elegantly written and suffused with optimism...
--Blueink Review, Colorado, USA
The Sea and the Hills: The Life of Hussain Najadi, is more than just a memoir of a man
with a talent for high fi nance. It is, as the cover notes, a story of oil, politics and justice,
and it is the latter that makes the book a good and worthwhile read.
-- Mark G. McLaughlin, Clarion Review, USA
Ultimately vindicated, the author (Hussain Najadi) reflects upon the ways that
fate, determination and the support of loved ones infl uenced his life. He later defi nes
success from a signifi cantly altered perspective as he continues to pursue the original
quest of building bridges among nations, cultures, and civilisations in order to
create a more equitable world in which everyone is able to share the fruits of our
global resources.
--Kirkus Indie, Texas, USA
As a friend for more than 30 years, from the day I met him in Kuala Lumpur, Im extremely
pleased that Hussain has told his story. It is fascinating in itself, but it is also worth reading
for the lessons it contains. The most obvious is that intellectual curiosity, combined with an
open mind and relentless drive, can go a long way towards compensating for the lack
of formal education. Readers will fi nd others as well.
--Barry Wain, Singapore, Author, former Managing Editor, Wall Street Journal Asia.
...its a fi ne piece of literature, a master piece I should say, true life experience of the
up & down, the different culture across the many continents brought down generation
after generation, the vision of the past live the present culture, oppression, colonialism,
powerful sheikh, fair play, the power that be of the day say it all, it is a very motivational
piece of literature to read.
-- Albert Cheong ys - Malaysia
A brilliant and inspirational story from a charismatic fi gure! A fascinating story not
only from a historical point of view, the rise of the Arab and Asian world, but touching
from a human perspective, the story of a man who is never defeated and goes ahead
despite of the adversities of his personal and his countrys history...this autobiography is
a masterpiece, its characters are beautifully portrayed, the story is superbly told ...
--Elena of Italy (also shown on Amazons review page)
Hussain Najadi is no stranger to hardships, and his autobiography, The Sea and the Hills,
showcases his extraordinary life. From being ejected from his home country Bahrain for plotting
against British colonial rule, to his golden triangle- Western technology, management, and
know-how, Asian natural resources, and Arab capital- he has had successes and triumphs at
every turn. The book tells the story of his rapid rise to success and his reign as the leader in
wholesale and corporate banking in Southeast Asia.
Matthew Bryant, Bohlsen Group, Indiana, USA

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477242391

Book preview

© 2012 by Hussain Najadi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/08/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4239-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1: Farewell, Land Of The Pure

Chapter 2: Here Comes The Professor!

Chapter 3: Bahrainis Unite

Chapter 4: Across The Desert To Beirut

Chapter 5: Destiny’s Child Arrives In Iran

Chapter 6: Germany . . . Finally!

Chapter 7: Love In The Time Of The Great German Ipos

Chapter 8: A Bahraini In Paris

Chapter 9: Success In Bahrain; Turning Point In America

Chapter 10: Blessed By Royalty

Chapter 11: The Oil Ambassador Is Saved By An Angel

Chapter 12: Marriage In Beirut And Supramar In Japan

Chapter 13: Supramar And The Kuwaiti Dinar Go International

Chapter 14: Arab Malaysian Development Bank Is Born

Chapter 15: The Bahraini Pm Visits Singapore

Chapter 16: Arab Malaysia—A Rising Star In The East

Chapter 17: Disaster Strikes . . . Seven Years In Prison

Chapter 18: Goodbye, Devil Island

Chapter 19: Rising From The Ashes Once More

Epilogue

Dedicated to my mother Balqis

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INTRODUCTION

Soon after arriving in Kuala Lumpur in 1977 to take up the post as Malaysia correspondent for the Asian edition of the Wall Street Journal, I heard the name Hussain Najadi. The business community was abuzz with the latest exploits of the managing director and chief executive of Arab-Malaysian Development Bank. Set up only a year earlier, the country’s 12th merchant bank had made a brilliant start and was snatching deals from the hands of its more-established competitors.

Highly unorthodox in conservative Malaysia, Arab-Malaysian was the subject of speculation not only because of its outstanding performance, but also its operating conditions and methods. Part commercial bank in practice, Arab-Malaysian had an overseas branch that other merchant banks lacked and could accept offshore deposits without restriction, while local banks had to apply for approval to Bank Negara Malaysia, the country’s central bank, each time.

But as I discovered when I met the suave, forty-two-year-old Mr. Najadi, that was not because of favouritism, as his envious rivals suggested. It was an integral component of the package—‘my philosophy’, as he put it in an interview with me—that he had proposed to Malaysia before he opened shop. A Bahraini backed by a company in Kuwait representing seventeen leading families involved in banking, industry, shipping, and general trade, Mr. Najadi was bent on trail-blazing, not relying on government connections to play the same old investment banking game. Besides, it was impossible to winkle any kind of favour from Ismail Mohamad Ali, the governor of Bank Negara, for whom integrity was a byword and the merest hint of corruption was anathema.

Hussain Najadi’s philosophy, which he called ‘the golden triangle’, was to harness Western technology, management, know-how, and machinery with Asian natural resources and labour and Arab capital. Arab-Malaysia became the first to pump petro-dollars into East Asia, channelling all its non-Malaysian currency funding through its branch in Bahrain. Most of the bank’s foreign business was done in member countries of the fledgling Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN), with Mr. Najadi declaring himself ‘a great believer in regionalism’.

If anyone expected Hussain Najadi to be apologetic about Arab-Malaysian’s early success and defensive about the swirling gossip, some of it personal, they did not understand him and his style. Exuding the supreme confidence that irritated his critics, he announced his intention to become the leader of wholesale and corporate banking in Malaysia within five years, a target he reached in two years. He then lifted his sights to be the biggest in Southeast Asia within five years, a goal he achieved this time with four years to spare.

While the creation of Arab-Malaysian Development Bank was a singular achievement, it was not the only time Hussain Najadi tasted success or introduced innovation in the business world. As a young man, he had been the first to take American mutual funds to the Middle East; later, he sold advanced hydrofoil technology that his company developed to the Japanese; and he added Kuwaiti dinar deposits to Singapore’s offshore banking industry before anyone else thought of it. For this self-described poor boy from Bahrain, It was all part of an ‘extraordinary life’ that constitutes part of the title of this book.

After an inauspicious start, being expelled from Bahrain as a teenager for plotting against British colonial rule, he began anew and prospered in Germany. With restless energy and the help of friends—as well as the fickle hand of fate—doors kept opening, leading onwards and upwards. As one of his friends once told him, everything he touched seemed to turn golden.

But Hussain’s charmed run was not to last. Ironically, he was brought down not by market forces but by his homeland Bahrain, whose rulers treated him even more abysmally than the country’s former colonial masters. Because he had the audacity to insist that the Minister of Highest level in Bahrain repay a loan, Hussain was deprived of his liberty for fifteen years, a blight on the reputation of Bahrain and the reason that ‘justice’ figures in the title.

As a friend for more than thirty years, from the day I met him in Kuala Lumpur, I’m extremely pleased that Hussain has told his story. It is fascinating in itself, but it is also worth reading for the lessons it contains. The most obvious is that intellectual curiosity, combined with an open mind and relentless drive, can go a long way towards compensating for the lack of formal education. Readers will find others as well.

Barry Wain

Singapore

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PROLOGUE

This book is an affirmation of belief in life’s purpose, of a spirit of adventure, and of unbridled optimism. The dramatic arc of my story rises in success, surely, but cannot be said to crash in tragedy; the setbacks I have faced have fed my further growth as wave feeds energy to wave.

The holistic moral of any man’s life story—and I have no doubt each man has his own lesson to learn—is best appreciated when seen from a distance, with the benefit of time and perspective. Only then is the landscape laid out in its full beauty: the hills and valleys, the glittering sea on the horizon.

My own story starts in a different era. Life then had been lived as it was by generation upon generation for perhaps a thousand years. This tradition provided society with its rules and ritual, its comfort and stability. From my youngest years onwards, I was to break the mould of that tradition.

Whether I was destined to, or took it upon myself; whether it was the time and the place that presented the opportunity, I was carried upon the shoulders of chance and, indeed, made the most of it. Yet one never loses the responsibility to remain true to his character, his internal conscience.

Sometimes the reward is great; other times the price to pay is dear. I have found that it’s best to embrace the outcome no matter what it is—life’s most important lessons are delivered in seeming setbacks. Man’s character is sculpted not from luxury and comfort but under duress and in distress.

Destiny is a theme explored in this book. A guiding hand and the prayers and well-wishes of those closest to me seemed to have set my course in life. I have known the glory of fame and renown, and the gut-wrenching grief of the loss of personal freedom and the frustration of suffering injustice.

But in the face of everything, I am happy to say I have retained the wide-eyed wonder of a poor boy from the bazaar in Bahrain as he crossed the known world over and over (and still going to this day). From the elite world of high finance to the power-play of big oil to the fickle fancy of politics.

I have brushed against the great figures of modern history—though some would be better termed notorious than great—who have made their impression on me, and upon whom, I dare say, I have also left my mark. But it is the simplest people—good, honest, sincere—that I applaud most loudly.

I have been uncommonly blessed, as you will read, with extraordinary good fortune. Family, friends, and strangers alike have bestowed upon me acts of kindness by which I have been humbled time and again to this day. My greatest hope is that I’ve learned to reciprocate the selflessness of giving.

The adventurer roams, sometimes in peril, but always in a sense of wonder and amazement. This has been my hallmark, and I have been blessed to meet with like-minded travellers along the way. To them I have offered my heart-felt appreciation, respect, love, and prayers in the pages that follow.

I should be remiss if I did not thank my friends, colleagues, associates, and family without whom I could not have seen this task through to its—I dare say successful—conclusion. Special thanks and my deep gratitude goes to Dan Arnold of USA who helped in my come back and the success which we are having today. I would like to thank Barry Wain, an accomplished Author, a renowned Journalist, and over thirty-eight years a good guide and a close friend; also Ena Gill a Malaysian writer who assisted me in writing this book and my good friend Asad Sultan, who edited my work, and to many other friends who not only encouraged but insisted that I should put to pen this book now in front of you.

Hussain Najadi

Kuala Lumpur

16 January 2012

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CHAPTER 1

Farewell, Land of the Pure

The year was 1937. A young couple stood at the edge of a jetty, waiting for their turn to board the dhow¹ bobbing gently on the water. Members of their families had gathered to say goodbye and wish them luck on the other side of the Persian Gulf, where trade was flourishing between the Western world and the great expanse of the East. The young man, Ahmad, held his trusting wife’s hand tight to reassure her. At the tender age of eighteen, she was leaving her family to begin a new life in a new land with a husband of only two years. Although she was as eager as Ahmad to explore the land of opportunity, as many called it, she was a little anxious.

Ahmad had met his wife during a jaunt to the picturesque village of Jam, in the southern range of the rugged Zagros Mountains. It was just north of the port of Bandar Taheri, now renamed Siraf—its original name, where he lived. Ahmad liked going up into the mountains; it made for a pleasant, cool change from the hot, humid coastal plains. On one trip, he had stopped over for tea at the home of a friend. He didn’t realise this cup of tea would change his life! There he met a beguiling girl with big hazel eyes, alabaster skin, and a demeanour that was serious yet serene.

Ahmad decided his fate on the spot. There was a slight problem, though. Ahmad was already betrothed to his cousin Mariam. The two families had decided they would be a fine match when they were children. It was customary for Iranian families to betroth their children and then marry them off in their teens. Ahmad’s feelings for his Mariam were, however, slight.

He knew he could not follow through with this engagement. As soon as he returned home that evening, he told his parents about the wonderful girl he had met. Her name was Balqis, he said, and he wanted to marry her.

As to be expected, this piece of news caused great consternation.

‘But you’re already engaged,’ his parents said.

‘Not out of my choice,’ he replied. ‘I was too young even to be consulted!’

‘But you don’t know this girl. You don’t know her family,’ they tried.

‘I feel as if I know her. And you can visit her family to get to know them.’

‘But Mariam will be heartbroken,’ they persisted.

‘Her feelings for me are no stronger than mine for her. She cannot be heartbroken.’

No matter what his parents said, Ahmad countered with reasons for shelving the engagement. It was inevitable that their discussion would reach a stalemate, and when it did, he said, ‘Nothing will stop me from marrying Balqis. Even without your blessings, I will go ahead, and after we’re married, we’ll migrate.’

The air at home was tense for several days. This was the first time a son was resisting an arranged marriage. Bandar Taheri was soon abuzz with this gossip. Family affairs were by and large considered public property, and the village elders, especially, felt justified in discussing Ahmad’s rebellion, as it was termed. They would visit the house and offer words of advice to Ahmad’s parents. Try as his parents might with threats and later entreaties, Ahmad was resolute. Eventually, his parents gave in. They realised it would be unfair for Mariam to be married to Ahmad when his heart belonged to another. So an official visit to Balqis’s home was arranged.

After her parents agreed to a meeting, a group of Ahmad’s uncles and brothers trekked to Jam to ask for Balqis’s hand in marriage. All the necessary enquiries were made by her family and, satisfied that Ahmad came from a good lineage that worked the land, as they did too, the marriage took place. Because this marriage broke with tradition, there was no lavish dowry. Instead of the numbers of sheep that were usually given by the groom’s family to the bride’s, Ahmad’s family presented a lump of sugar and a Koran. The gesture was purely symbolic.

Balqis joined her husband and his family in Bandar Taheri, south of Iran. The name Taheri means pure in Persian or Arabic. True to its name, its inhabitants led God-fearing lives. Ahmad’s family was sustained by farming and fishing. They didn’t reap much, but enough to get by. Simple though he was, Ahmad was not averse to adventure.

Balqis’s eldest brother, Hussain, had migrated to Bahrain, the archipelago of islands off the western coast of the Persian Gulf, where the American oil company Caltex, a subsidiary of Texaco, found oil in 1935. Every so often, he would send word about life of the Iranian émigrés. His letters arrived, full of news, though they weren’t written by him. Hussain, like Ahmad and Balqis, was illiterate. In those days, most farmers in Iran could neither read nor write. As a result, there was a thriving trade of scribes, called munshi, who both read and wrote letters for clients. They could be found in all major towns, and even in Bandar Taheri which, after all, functioned as a port of some distinction, and was thus an important point in the mail network. Via a munshi, Hussain described the bustling bazaar where he had started a business.

He also wrote about his large house, which had running water and, even better, electricity. Ahmad’s interest was piqued. Bahrain was not a great distance from Bandar Taheri. When Hussain sent news that he was prospering as a jute trader, and entreated Ahmad to join him along with his favourite sister Balqis, Ahmad could think of no reason to say no.

And so they found themselves on the jetty, ready for their big adventure. Neither had much in the way of personal belongings. So they travelled light, with just a small bag of clothes each. In any case, there was no need to take more than the bare essentials, for Hussain had welcomed them to his own home in Manama, the capital of Bahrain, where they would be well taken care of. After protracted and—certainly among the women—tearful farewells, Ahmad and Balqis boarded the dhow. There were ten others on board, consisting of three seamen to handle the boat and seven passengers. There were no cabins, just an open-air deck, protected from the elements by a jute covering in a corner. The nakhoda², Hakim, brought on board a large jute sack of rice and two fishing lines, which his assistants later threw into the waters of the Persian Gulf. When all was set, they left the port of Bandar Taheri, the large lateen sails quivering in the soft, warm breeze as the dhow headed in a westerly direction.

The journey would take two days and nights depending on the wind. It was part of the crew’s job to fish for the passengers’ meals. Their catch—tuna, kingfish, wrasse, perch, garoupa, and mackerel—would be thrown into a pot, after being gutted and washed, to be stewed with salt, ghee,³ and curry powder on a bed of half-cooked rice. It served the passengers and crew well.

When night fell, the sailors kept their eyes on the stars to navigate but still found time to join the male passengers on deck to exchange stories and sing. Ahmad, ever jovial, would join in while Balqis kept to herself, smiling inwardly. Though she seldom expressed her joy, she had a great propensity for happiness, which was derived primarily from seeing others happy. She was already missing her family but was at the same time confident about her new life in Bahrain. She had a kind, honest man as her husband and her brother’s household was awaiting her.

And, so while my parents slept under the moon, on the open deck of the dhow taking them to their new life in Bahrain, they slept with light hearts, full of hope for what the future would bring.

This adventure, as great as it was for them, was by no means unique. Large numbers of Iranians, especially from the south, were leaving their motherland for work and generally better opportunities in the Arabian Peninsula—in Kuwait, Oman, and Saudi Arabia. Iran, once the seat of the first true world empire, under the Achaemenid rulers Cyrus the Great (559-531 BC) and Darius the Great (522-486 BC), by the turn of the twentieth century had been overshadowed by its more colourful, vibrant neighbours across the Persian Gulf. The country, of which no less than the Prophet Muhammad noted, ‘If learning were suspended in the highest parts of heaven, the Persians would attain it’, was losing its edge.

Because of its mountainous topography and size (the country occupies a sprawling 1,636,000 square kilometres), communication within Iran was difficult. People lived in isolated plateaus separated by rugged mountains. Development took place and was contained within these plateaus, mostly concentrated in a mid-northern area cushioned by the Elburz Mountains up north and the Zagros Mountains towards the south-west. This area included the bigger towns such as Teheran, Esfahan, Shiraz, and Tabriz, where all the power, the politics, the culture, and education were concentrated. Coastal areas in the south were cut off from mainstream Iranian life by the Zagros.

There was no thriving economy to speak of. As beautiful as it was, the south was home to sheep-rearing peasants, who hunted in the mountains rich with wildlife (deer were so common that some were kept as pets). They managed to make ends meet but had to work very hard to do so. The disparity between the south and the rest of the country was immense. While the north had produced poets such as Rumi, Omar Khayyam, Saadi, and Hafiz, in the south, most of the villagers were illiterate. This inequality only increased with time.

Although Iranians left for ‘greener pastures’, in reality their adopted lands across the Persian Gulf were generally dry and non-arable. However, these countries had flourishing trade, and when oil was discovered in the 1930s, they needed extra labour for the petroleum industry. Thus, even greater numbers of Iranians migrated to help build and operate platforms, rigs, and plants.

As with migration elsewhere, it takes only a few enterprising pioneers to cut an initial trail. Then, if they are successful in their adopted countries, thousands of others follow—the early migrants pulling their families, sometimes across whole continents, to join them. That essentially was how my parents arrived in Bahrain. Not only was my uncle Hussain there, but also my father had a brother who had migrated earlier. He was a fruit seller in the bazaar of Manama. So there was family on both my paternal and maternal sides. In other words, there was a world all set up and ready for them to enter in Bahrain.

It helped also that there was far greater freedom in those days to travel and settle where your heart desired. No passports were required. Iranians would arrive in Bahrain with pieces of paper that served as identity cards, claiming to want to work as traders.

Their IDs would be stamped, and they’d be allowed ashore to go about their business. What they did thereafter was anyone’s guess. Nobody really cared. It was the same for traders from all over the region. Until 1971, Bahrain along with most of the Gulf nations and slightly beyond from India (including Pakistan and Bangladesh) to the countries of Trucial States, currently called Oman, the United Arab Emirates, Bahrain, Kuwait, and Qatar, were controlled by the British, either directly as British colonies or indirectly under the British Protectorate as in the case of Bahrain.

Nationals from all these countries enjoyed the liberties of a kind of free trade zone. Movement and commercial transactions within nations under British rule were unrestricted. In Bahrain, a typical conversation between a newly arrived trader and a customs official would go like this:

CUSTOMS OFFICER: What are you?(Meaning what do you do?)

VISITOR: Trader.

CUSTOMS OFFICER: How many days do you want?

VISITOR: ‘Thirty days.’

The customs officer would then stamp the trader’s papers without further ado, saying, ‘Go and trade.’

If anything, traders were welcomed as the British imposed a small levy on every boat or ship that docked in the harbour, the money financing the Treasury. Some of the traders would carry out their work and then return to their home countries, particularly if life was better there, but a significant number stayed on. Thanks to the laissez-faire attitude of the British, Bahrain grew to become a cosmopolitan melting pot. It was very much come and go as you like. In similar fashion, the British later built Dubai to become the biggest trading hub in the Middle East. Even to this day, Iran has a population of 75 million, Dubai a mere 1.5 million, but non-oil trade in Dubai is ten times that of Iran.

Thanks to the British, also the Gulf states became highly influenced by India. P&O ships, owned by the British, regularly plied routes established from India to the Gulf states and back, which took two weeks to complete. The ships would leave Bombay for, first, Karachi then Gwadur or Pasni in Pakistan, Muscat in Oman, Bandar Abbas in Iran, Dubai in the UAE, Bahrain, Kuwait, Bushire, Khorramshahr in Iran, and then stop over for two or three nights in Basra in Iraq, before returning to Bombay via the same ports. These liners brought mail, goods, and people. In addition, numerous dhows also set sail from the Malabar Coast in India headed for the Arab Peninsula, mainly Dubai. Until this day, at any given time you will find at least two hundred boats in the port in Dubai. About 70 per cent of boats docked in Dubai are from India and Pakistan, the rest from Iran.

So the British Raj brought Indian culture to the Arab states. Daily trade in the Gulf was conducted in Indian rupees. People would count in rupees, paisas, and annas. The British shilling was considered foreign currency. The culture that ensued was a mixture of ruling Arabs, Europeans due to the British influence, Persians, and finally Indians. Despite having a British Advisor, the equivalent really of a disguised governor, the population in Bahrain got to enjoy Bombay talkies as Indian movies produced in Bombay were called. They ate chapattis, and those who could afford it would send their children to Bombay or London for education. Eventually, Bahrain would become the first Arab country to boast schools offering free education, but until 1919, when the first elementary school for boys was built, Bombay remained the destination of choice for schooling. Bahrainis would also go to Bombay for medical treatment. Bombay was, for Bahrain and indeed the Gulf in general, the London of the East.

Bonds between the Gulf and Bombay were established at every level of society. These bonds have lasted till today. My own uncle Mohamad Abbas died in a hospital in Bombay in 2000.

In addition to the Indians, who worked primarily as traders and clerks, there were many Iranians. In fact, about 70 per cent of the population in Bahrain was of Iranian origin. On the streets, you could hear at least four languages—Arabic, Persian, Hindi, and English. And everyone, of every race—except the British, who would keep to themselves in their walled residences and exclusive gymkhanas—would mingle in the local coffee shops.

Children grew up in an environment of non-exclusivity. Everybody dealt with everybody else. Everybody talked with everybody else at social and commercial levels. It was a liberal, open, tolerant society with few restrictions.

Indeed, an egalitarian atmosphere developed in all the Persian Gulf countries where the British had built sufficient trade to attract large numbers of various nationalities. A former Kuwaiti Ruler, Sheikh Saad bin Saleh Al-Sabah, for example, was born of an African slave.⁴ His mother, one of the many slaves brought to the Gulf states from the African continent, was made the second wife of his father, who ruled Kuwait before him. It’s a remarkable consequence of equally remarkable tolerance among Arab Bedouin society that permits the marriage of two persons from diametrically opposed social standing and cultural origins.

There weren’t many Bedouins in Bahrain. But the tolerance and acceptance that existed in their culture pervaded the region and was found on these islands too. This was the Bahrain that my parents inhabited. And this was the Bahrain into which I was born.

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CHAPTER 2

Here Comes the Professor!

As the dhow got progressively closer to the Port of Manama, Uncle Hussain became more excited. He had been waiting patiently for an hour, scrutinizing each boat that arrived, his eyes darting from one passenger to the next as they emerged. Now, finally, he could see his sister Balqis’s floral chador (headscarf) on the dhow my parents were on. It would take them another fifteen minutes before the captain managed to manoeuvre the sailing boat around the other vessels. All the while, a smile was fixed upon Uncle Hussain’s good-looking face. Clapping his hands, he turned to his younger brother Abbas, next to him, and said, "Do you see her, Abbas, she’s there. She is wearing the chador we sent last year. I wonder which one is Ahmad. Which one is my lucky brother-in-law?"

‘I think he’s the one next to Balqis, Brother. If you had eyes for anyone else than our Queen of Sheba⁵, you’d see it’s him. Why else would he be next to her, and why would he be waving at you?’

‘Ah yes. Of course you’re right. That must be him. He looks OK, our brother-in-law. Not so rebel-looking, don’t you think? Quite decent.’

‘I wouldn’t know, Brother. I really don’t know what a rebel looks like,’ Uncle Abbas said, laughing. He didn’t adore my mother to the same extent as did Uncle Hussain, but he loved her dearly all the same, in much the manner as he did all his brothers and sisters. When Uncle Hussain started talking about bringing my parents over to Manama, he had supported the idea full-heartedly.

If there was one aspect of life in Manama that was lacking, it was the warmth and support of family. Here, Uncle Hussain and Uncle Abbas had only each other. All the others were back in Iran.

News travelled far and wide and quickly too. Despite being separated by the Persian Gulf, Uncle Hussain and Uncle Abbas had been alerted to the ultimatum my father had issued to his parents, exhorting them to allow him to marry my mother.

They weren’t quite sure what to make of this. On the one hand, it could mean that Ahmad was overly headstrong, a rebel as he’d been labelled by the more orthodox members of society. Or it could mean simply that he, like the two brothers, was simply besotted by Balqis. They hoped and prayed it was the latter. From the sight of him on the dhow, his soft, gentle face beaming with a mix of optimistic anticipation and excitement, they felt quite certain that Balqis’s beauty had worked its magic on the hapless Ahmad. As, of course, it had!

When my mother saw her brothers on the dock, she too smiled broadly, making her face look even prettier. Not given to extravagant gestures, however, she remained quite composed, belying the fact that she could hardly wait to get off the yawing dhow and onto land again. She was no sailor.

‘They’re here, Ahmad,’ she said, turning to my father. ‘Oh, I’m so glad. Aren’t we lucky?’

‘Yes Balqis. We’re very, very lucky.’

Indeed, my parents had much to be grateful about. Uncle Hussain’s home, on one of the narrow back alleys in the Persian quarter of Manama, was ready in every possible way to welcome them. Like all traditional homes in the region, it was built as a compound, rectangular in shape, the rooms and quarters forming a perimeter enclosing a central courtyard in which stood a well.

To the right of the main entrance was the majlis or meeting room, where visitors were entertained. Next to the majlis was the kitchen, which in traditional Iranian compounds was a communal space. All the women of an extended family used the common kitchen to prepare food for the family together. Further in were the living rooms for family members, and the bedrooms.

Perhaps when Uncle Hussain built his house, he did so with the intention of bringing in relatives from Iran to live with him and his lovely wife Fatemeh. Being the social person he was, nothing could possibly make him happier. My younger uncle Abbas lived in the compound too. Still, there were a couple of empty rooms. My parents moved into one of these and very easily slipped into life in Manama.

With some financial help from family members and the generosity of the local fruit wholesaler, my father was soon able to set up his own corner fruit and vegetable shop in the local bazaar within walking distance from home. No license was needed from the balidyaeh or municipality.

It was a small shop, along a row of other fruit and vegetable sellers, measuring some fifteen feet by ten feet, but it was enough for his needs. He would get up early every morning, say his prayers, have a cup of tea with some naan (bread), then make his way to the wholesale market, which was bustling at the crack of dawn, even before the sun rose. He’d make his rounds, choose the freshest, plumpest, most succulent fruit and vegetables, mainly imported from across the Persian Gulf from south of Iran, pack them neatly in wooden boxes, and cart these to his shop. By six or six thirty in the morning, his shop door would be thrown wide open, and he would be behind his stacks of produce, ready for customers. He had to go first to the wholesale fruit and vegetable market and buy from the wholesaler merchants, few wooden boxes or cartons of apple, orange, bananas, and the like and resell them in his own rented hole in the wall or dukan (small dingy shop) for a small mark up in prices.

Ahmad manned his shop from sunrise to sunset, with a break in the afternoon when he would go home for lunch and a siesta. In Manama, it gets very hot in the afternoons, especially in the summer when the thermometer can commonly climb to forty-five, sometimes fifty degrees. What makes it worse, though, is the humidity, often a smothering ninety to 95 per cent.

All of us suffered from the heaviness of the heat, including those born in the country. The fact is one never gets used to such high levels of humidity. But it was immeasurably worse for the British and especially the more delicate among the women. English roses were certainly not made for the harsh Gulf climate, and a number would positively wilt when the temperature soared. The British used to say of Bahrain that one could slice into the atmosphere as a hot knife does through butter.

My father would return to work at four in the evening and stay there till he heard the call for prayer at sunset. He would say his prayers in the shop, then close up for the night. He made about five rupees a day, equivalent to fifty American cents at the time. That was enough for him to feed his wife and, later, also me.

At home, my mother would have spent the day doing numerous chores—sweeping, dusting, cooking, washing. She felt so blessed to be in this house, where water flowed through the taps, and there were electric lights and fans. Back in Iran, in my parents’ villages, they had to pump water from wells and use hurricane lamps for light after dark. The provision of basic utilities made her daily work so much lighter. But she didn’t waste the extra time it freed up. She would toil some more, or she would pray. That was the kind of person she was.

Although her sister-in-law was very different in temperament, the two women got on extremely well. Aunty Fatemeh, who was a few years older than my mother, took on the role of her elder sister. Gregarious and chatty, she would constantly tease my mother, in a good-natured manner, and try to stop her from working so hard all the time. Uncle Hussain and Aunty Fatemeh already had four children of their own—whom my mother quickly grew attached to. They, in return, started treating her like a second mother. When Aunty Fatemeh was out buying groceries or too busy cooking, they would go to my mother when they scraped a knee or when they wanted a drink or something to eat or just the attention of an adult.

My mother enjoyed their company, but her favourite parts of the day were when my father returned for his afternoon siesta; and later, when he came home in the evening. She would always sit with him as he ate his lunch. After he got up from his siesta, she would prepare some tea, and they would both drink together. At dinner time, the whole family sat down on a Persian carpet laid out in the open air courtyard. The dishes were placed in the middle—vegetables, fish, or meat curries, accompanied always by naan—and everyone shared whatever had been prepared.

My mother was never a big eater. She was slim and naturally did not have a big appetite. But one night, a few months after their arrival in Manama, Uncle Hussain noticed that she was eating even less than usual. While the others were tucking in, she just played with the okra on her plate, moving the pieces around looking as though she might pick up a bite, but never doing so. Ever the concerned brother, Uncle Hussain asked, ‘Khaer (sister), what’s the matter? Why aren’t you eating? Are you not well?’

Everyone turned to look at Balqis. Reddening, she lowered her eyes and said, ‘No, Brader, I’m very well. I’m just not very hungry, that’s all.’

Not missing a beat, Aunty Fatemeh chipped in, ‘Is there something you have to tell us? I’ve noticed a lovely glow on your face these days. You always look pretty, but somehow you’re looking even prettier. I think you have something to tell us?’

My mother blushed even harder but didn’t say a thing. My father cleared his throat. ‘Actually,’ he said, smiling, ‘we’ve been wanting to tell you, but we thought we should be sure first. Balqis and I will be having a baby.’

Oh, the excitement! Aunty Fatemeh shrieked; Uncle Hussain praised God Almighty and all the young members of the family chanted, ‘We’re going to get a baby! We’re going to get a baby!’ The little niece, Soraya, laughed heartily while clapping her hands although she didn’t really understand what was going on.

‘I had a dream soon not too long ago of Fatima⁶, and she asked me what it was that I wished for. I said I’d always wanted to have a son, whom I would call Hussain after her own son’, my mother said, then turning to Uncle Hussain, added, ‘And after you, too. Fatima smiled at me and said my wish would be granted.’

So, right from the start, my mother knew that the child she was carrying was a boy. And she had already named him—me—Hussain.

My mother had an easy pregnancy. Being young, she remained active throughout, continuing with her daily routine with little change. Then, the day came—2 September 1938—the day I arrived into this world. As was tradition, a midwife was brought in to help with the delivery. Perhaps because the delivery was long and protracted; or perhaps the midwife was tired from an earlier delivery; perhaps she was distracted by some worries. Nobody knows what the reason was, but after I finally came out, she did not wait for the placenta to be expelled, as it should have. It remained in my mother’s womb, where it caused an infection. My mother went into toxic shock a couple of days after delivery and was ill for a long time. Initially, her life hung in the balance.

Nobody could be sure if she was going to live. There was no hospital in Manama for the poor. A local doctor was called who prescribed some traditional medicines. Fortunately, they worked. Slowly, my mother recovered, but she was never to have another child.

To compensate for this great loss, a few years later, relatives from Bandar Taheri sent over a fawn, a