Sulaimania, from which the Aoraman range that marks the frontier may be seen, lies actually about sixty miles from the nearest point of Persia, and one hundred from the Aoraman peak, which is visible from the town. It lies at the foot of the Azmir system of mountains, which support the Persian plateau at this point. It is also the largest Kurdish town of southern Turkish Kurdistan, but despite the importance, commercial and political, that it once possessed, it is a place without any noteworthy history.

It owes its origin indirectly to one Mulla Ahmad, who 350 years ago assisted the Turks in a war. This person, a Kurdish priest, was a native of the village of Dara Shamana, in Pishdr, north of Sulaimania, and a member of the Nuradini branch of the Baban tribe. For his services he was granted certain lands and villages by the reigning sultan, and established himself at the village of Qal’a-i-Chwalan, now called Qara Chulan, a village north of the Azmir range, a day’s journey from Sulaimania. Here he reigned till his death, and his successors became powerful rulers, semi-independent, ruling over Surchina, where Sulaimania is now situated, and the lands about Qal’a-i-Chwalan. These chiefs were, like so many of the frontier chiefs of Sulaimania, by no means too faithful to the Turks, and transferred their allegiance to Persia when it suited them.

In 1779, in the time of Sulaiman Pasha of Bagdad, the government was transferred to the site of the present town, and a government house and other buildings were constructed, and the new town called Sulaimani—not Sulaimania.

Now a dynasty of Kurdish pashas ruled, beginning with Ibrahim Pasha, and followed by his descendants. These governed until the time of Abdulla Pasha, who was contemporary with Namiq Pasha of Bagdad.50 The Sulaimani ruler, having come to Bagdad to visit the Vali, was seized, together with his brother Ahmad Pasha, and sent under a guard to Constantinople. This was in 1851, and was the end of Kurdish rule in Sulaimania. One Isma’il Pasha, a Turk, was appointed Qaim Maqam of Sulaimania, with a garrison, and Sulaimania has remained a Turkish government ever since. The two Kurdish pashas died about thirty years ago, and their sons live as pensioners in Constantinople.

The Kurdish Ibrahim Pasha, having gained the chieftainship of the district of Sulaimania, and Qaradagh to the south-east, built for himself a large house upon the hill-side—where the modern governor or Mutasarrif now resides. Around this and lower down, the town began to form. The old family of shaikhs, or religious leaders, established itself there also, and the construction of a bath and mosque gained for the place a certain importance. Kurds, however, are not good settlers, and the population of the new town began to form of the various classes of people who habitually follow trade. These are, in these regions, Turkoman of Kirkuk, Jews and Christian—Syrian and Chaldean, mainly the latter. It is said that out of a thousand houses constituting the town in 1825, eight hundred were occupied by Christians, Jews, and Turkomans.

As the neighbourhood is entirely peopled by Kurds of the Marga, Shuan, Hamavand, Bana, and Jaf tribes, the language of the place was from the first Kurdish. The shaikhs at the same time exercising their power for evil and fanaticism, made life so difficult for Christians and Jews that a large number each year deserted their own faiths to escape persecution, adopting after conversion the dress and speech of the local Kurds. From this very mixed material a people has sprung whose ancestors were the children of races widely different in sentiment and nature, mixtures of Aryan, Semitic, and Turkish stock, that possesses almost every one of the unpleasant qualities of each race, and a very lively fanaticism that has—under the inflammatory action of the shaikhs—never weakened, gaining for Sulaimania a name for the ignorant and savage isolation that has now brought about its own ruin.

Nevertheless, under the strong rule of the old pashas the priests were unable to gain or exert the malignant influence they ever hoped to do, and the town made very considerable progress, becoming an important market for the wool and skins of the tribespeople, and an entrepôt and distributing station for all goods imported into western Persian Kurdistan from Mosul and Bagdad. There was, on the land specially in the Qaradagh and Shahr-i-Zur, a population of Chaldeans and Jews, and these, whether retaining their own religion, or becoming included and intermingled with the Musulman population, furnished a keen and progressive business instinct.

The pasha always kept on good terms with the chiefs of the great Jaf tribe, and kept a sufficient number of armed and able horsemen to secure peace within his own borders; and accordingly Sulaimania became one of the most important of all the border towns.

During the wars of the early part of this century, the place with Shahr-i-Zur, its adjoining district, became Persian, as it had anciently been; but it was recovered by the Turks, and by the treaty of 1847 remained in their possession.

About this time a great massacre of Christians all over southern Turkish Kurdistan had occurred, in this part originated by a member of the shaikh family. Following this, the power of the independent Kurdish chieftains became very much decreased, and the Turks succeeded in preventing the continuance of their sway, as we have seen.

From this point, where the healthy restraining influence of the Kurdish pashas over the priests ceased, the members of the family of Sulaimania shaikhs began to make for themselves a position so strong that governor and governed alike lived in awe of them.

So long as Sultan Abdul Aziz lived—till 1876—the comparatively good order of his rule kept the Shaikhs in subjection, and they contented themselves with gaining a reputation for sanctity, and acquiring lands and villages by purchase. Shaikh Sa’id, the leader of the family, succeeded in these aims so well that he gained possession of lands all round Sulaimania, and spread abroad the assertion that he possessed the power of divining, and the knowledge of the invisible and the future.51 The former he possessed, certainly, by one of the most perfect systems of spies and communications. His prophecies were usually such as could be fulfilled by his secret agents with dagger and bullet. Not unnaturally his name became feared; such an exaggerated reverence being paid to him, that men would salute his horses.

Upon the death of Sultan Abdul Aziz, and after the accession of Sultan Abdul Hamid, this astute priest began the system of self-aggrandisement and enrichment that finally became the cause of his murder in 1909.

Seeing the Sultan corrupt and avaricious, and his entourage unusually sycophantic and treacherous, he made a journey—together with another famous priest, Shaikh Qadir—to Constantinople, and by a large present secured for himself and his family the Imperial favour. Also by his remarkable gift of plausibility, and by the aid of the religious obligation and law that he brought to support all his arguments, he became practically the religious adviser of Sultan Abdul Hamid. The final and triumphal stroke of genius was when Shaikh Sa’id, the Sultan, and Izzat Pasha—of evil memory—actually formed a ring for the exploitation of Sulaimania district, a combination whereby the trio became enriched. Izzat Pasha guaranteed to supply inefficient and corrupted officers for the local government, the Sultan would reap a yearly income besides taxes, and Shaikh Sa’id, without being in any way responsible officially for the situation in Sulaimania, was free to crush the people and squeeze the province till there remained but himself and his family, enormously enriched, contemplating the exhausted and ruined town and country.

At the moment of Sultan Abdul Hamid’s accession, Sulaimania was probably more important than it has ever been, before or since. It had become a market for the produce of all southern Kurdistan. The carpets of the country came here for sale, to be taken to Mosul and Bagdad. Gum tragacanth from Bana began to be sold here in preference to Sina, and a large number of Chaldeans of Mosul carried on an extensive and profitable business in the cotton cloths of Aleppo and the fabrics of Europe, which they sold in Sulaimania and exported even as far as Hamadan of western Persia; certain crafts found a place in the extensive bazaars, notably shoe- and saddle-making, and the manufacture of daggers and rifles. The begs and pashas of the Jaf tribe built caravanserais and bazaars, and entered into relations with Sulaimania merchants whereby all the produce of their large tribe—skins, wool, tobacco, and butter—passed through this market. The Bagdad caravan left and arrived every fortnight, and to and from Mosul at the same intervals. Frequent caravans, too, served Bana, Merivan, Sina, and Sauj Bulaq. The governorship was raised to that of Mutasarrif, and nominally a larger garrison was stationed at the place.

I was told that in 1880 there were fifty Mosul Chaldeans and twenty Hamadan Persian merchants established there. These last were so important a part of the commercial population as to occupy a special caravanserai, to which the name of Khan-i-Ajam (“The Persians’ Caravanserai,”) was given, a name it has retained to-day though not a single Persian remains in Sulaimania. The trade—exclusive of local supply business—was estimated at over half a million liras annually; a total it never reaches now, when the highest figure is supposed to be four hundred thousand liras on a good year, and that decreasing.

In 1881, the shaikhs’ tyranny, in concert with that of the Government, which extorted iniquitous taxes, led to a revolt upon the part of the people, and they summoned the Hamavands to besiege the town, and expel the governor and shaikhs. The town resisted for four days, and was upon the point of falling, when a battalion arriving from Kirkuk saved the situation, and at the same time delivered the town into the hands of the revengeful priests. Shaikh Sa’id commenced a campaign of open robbery. Large sums of money were extorted from merchants without any pretext whatever, and the prompt murder of the few who resisted these demands effectually intimidated the others. At the same time a policy of patriarchal hospitality and patronage was instituted. Any person presenting himself at the shaikhs’ house received food and became considered a retainer. In this way all the worthless members of the population became adherents of the priests; and as many opened shops in the bazaar, a new class of supporters arose which finally embraced nearly all the tradespeople of Sulaimania. In these days it was dangerous to express an opinion about the priests. In every shop, in every corner, were spies or adherents who reported to their masters the actions of everyone, and these individuals were aware of the private life and proceedings of every single individual—Christian, Jew, or Musulman—in Sulaimania. Murder became very frequent, for the disappearance of a “disaffected” person caused no comment for fear of consequences, and murderers had but to acknowledge allegiance to the shaikhs to hear commendation of their excesses in place of condemnation. Through it all, it was the merchants who suffered. The Persians, being Shi’as, suffered from the fanaticism of the Sunnis; none the less because the shaikhs were unable directly to oppress them, for the fear of Persia is still considerable in the border countries: nevertheless sufficient injury occurred to their business to drive them from Sulaimania.

The shaikh family had purchased nearly all the gardens about the town which supply fruit and vegetables, and now, in conjunction with the town authorities, new taxes were instituted upon out-turn and produce. Then the shaikhs commenced a system whereby three hundred per cent. special entry duty was charged upon loads of fruit coming to town. Within two years every cultivator had set fire to his fruit-trees, destroyed his irrigation canals, and fled to Persian soil, there to cultivate tobacco. Subsequent to the events of 1881, when the Hamavands so nearly succeeded in taking Sulaimania and destroying the family, Shaikh Sa’id realised the importance of the tribe and its possible use as a weapon. In order to gain control over it, he, by a series of judicious marriages, bound it to him by ties of relationship, which he strengthened by entering into cordial relations with the priests of Qaradagh. This policy succeeded so well that in 1908 the tribe found itself unable to disobey the shaikhs, when ordered to declare itself in rebellion. For the object of the family was now not only to acquire the wealth of Sulaimania, but to prove their power so great that the Government should be forced to make them the rulers of Sulaimania, in despair of obtaining peace and quiet by any other means. The “coup” at Constantinople of July 1908 had just occurred, Turkey was declared constitutional, and the shaikhs saw the possibility of a loss of their power, and even less pleasant to contemplate—retribution. The Sultan, however, had considerable power—more than the observers in Europe ever suspected—which he hoped to augment, and he was not averse to the outbreak of rebellion, which should increase the difficulties of the reformers’ task. The old power, corrupt as it was, was, notwithstanding, none the less effective, particularly in the remoter parts of Asiatic Turkey, for the Sultan had always on his side that most powerful section that increased for him his revenues through the means of robbery and brigandage,52 and when the interests of these persons coincided with those of order—as occasionally they did—justice was prompt and effective.

Needless to say, abandonment of the old régime meant alienation of these forces from the standard of the Constitutionalists, and it was this condition of the situation that at once gave hope to the Sultan and despair to the Majlis, which could not bring enough power to bear upon any anarchy or rebellion, the more that the new Government was no more able to meet the arrears of army pay than Sultan Abdul Hamid had been willing.

Particularly the Turkoman and Kurdish levies in the army were extremely disaffected, refusing any duty that appeared to them repugnant. Therefore, the Hamavands were perforce left to raid and spoil undisturbed. The situation was growing so bad in Sulaimania, however, that the shaikhs could no longer be disregarded by the new party at Constantinople. The merchants were now suffering doubly and trebly. If they did not lose their goods at the hands of the Hamavands, the Customs authorities, shaikhs, and town officials effectually ruined them. Repeated appeals arrived by wire from Sulaimania; and at last, the Government, knowing the impossibility of employing force, induced Shaikh Sa’id to come to Mosul, with some other members of the family. Here he was detained, and shortly afterwards the riot occurred in which he was murdered. The mystery of the criminal’s identity has never been cleared up. The disturbance arose among the people of Mosul regarding their own affairs, and after some time they were dislodged from the scene of the opening brawls. With one accord, apparently under directions received, they made a rush for the house of Shaikh Sa’id, and forcing it, a number entered, and the old priest was murdered.

This was the signal for redoubled anarchy in southern Kurdistan. Shaikh Sa’id had, as has been shown, acquired a reputation for unusual sanctity, and this, coupled with his power, gave reason for loudly expressed indignation on all sides. The representative in Constantinople, Shaikh Qadir, made a series of inflammatory speeches demanding in the name of all the laws of Islam, summary and awful vengeance upon the murderers. The younger members of the family in Mosul were allowed to return to Sulaimania after they had sworn an oath of vengeance upon the merchants of that town, for they chose to assume that the murder had occurred at their instigation.

In wrath they returned. The town of Sulaimania was forced to go into the deepest mourning. All gramophones and musical instruments were taken by force from their owners and destroyed, and any celebration at weddings was brought to an abrupt and melancholy termination. Shaikh Mahmud assumed leadership of the family, and displayed an ability for violence and crime unequalled by Shaikh Sa’id in the days of his greatest power. A number of the most important merchants were murdered for the sake of what could be extorted from them under the pretext of vengeance. Robberies and burglary occurred in every direction. To express an opinion of even a scullion of the shaikh, was to meet death the same night. And after every new outrage the police and governor received their commission, and the miserable people, wringing their hands, whispered the name of the criminals, and “Piaoi shaikhana”—“They are the Shaikh’s men.”

The Vali of Mosul was now ordered to proceed to Sulaimania for two reasons. To attempt an investigation of the troubles there, was one; and to punish the robbers of the Mutasarrif, who had left the town and had been assaulted by the shaikhs’ horsemen, nearly losing his life, was the other. The shaikhs were, of course, the delinquents; but there was no possibility of fixing the crime upon them, for the people were too much intimidated to utter any complaint openly, and the few Government officials remaining in the town were bought.

The Vali speedily settled upon a line of proceeding that should not place him in conflict with those he could not subdue, and that might at the same time result in pecuniary profit to himself. While yet at Chemchemal, a station on the western border of the Hamavand country, he succeeded in communicating to the shaikhs his idea of “strict and impartial investigation and report.”

As is the custom, the population of Sulaimania rode out some distance to meet and greet him, and in that meeting the merchants realised that their hopes were useless. The two parties, shaikhs and merchants, had ridden out, and encountered the approaching Vali near the river which crosses the Surchina valley. The shaikhs, spurring forward, were received with the politest of greetings, the most solicitous enquiries; and the Vali, joining their party, rode ahead with them at a canter, passing and ignoring the waiting merchants.

Within twenty-four hours a summons had been issued to all of the merchant class, demanding their presence at the Serai, or Government House, to answer why they had caused so much trouble and strife in the province by their attitude of opposition to the bereaved and mourning shaikhs. Despite this peremptory message, couched in the most abrupt terms of the naturally uncouth Turkish language, these Kurds displayed a little of their native courage, and refused to reply to charges so basely unjust, or even acknowledge the existence of so corrupt an official by coming near his residence.

This afforded the Vali the opportunity he awaited. He now reported that he had called a conference to discuss the matters of the province, to be composed of merchants on one side, and shaikhs upon the other, at which each might state their grievances and produce evidence. The shaikhs had duly appeared, but as the merchants had refused to come, he could but assume them to be the guilty parties, the instigators of rebellion, the malcontents and malignants, now too ashamed to even attempt to justify their backslidings. The priests had, on the contrary, appeared, and laid before him well-substantiated complaints against the merchants, and provided him with evidence implicating them in the murder of the venerated Shaikh Sa’id.

Having pocketed a large sum,53 the Vali bid farewell to the Sulaimania and returned to Mosul, satisfied with himself and the shaikhs, and leaving them in undisputed possession of right and might.

A new governor was sent, not a creature of the Vali, with a staff and a new commissioner of police. These were bought immediately upon their arrival. The few troops allotted to Sulaimania were distributed as usual along the frontier guard-houses, and at Panjwin, Bistan, Gulambar, and Halabja, leaving not more than one hundred and fifty undisciplined ruffians and natives of the Kifri and Kirkuk district—Turkoman and mongrel Kurd. The situation grew worse. Now the Hamavands were called up to the gates of Sulaimania, and threats of instant sacking kept the population subservient to the will of the shaikhs. The Majlis at Constantinople had now become a more recognised institution, and at least possessed enough power to control the appointment of Vali of Mosul and Mutasarrif of Sulaimania. Moreover, Sultan Abdul Hamid’s days as ruler were coming to an end, and the shaikhs knew it. Izzat Pasha was in exile in Cairo, and Shaikh Qadir at Constantinople, in disrepute. So the shaikhs opened a campaign against Government. The efforts of the Hamavands were directed against authority in the shape of the army. Here and there small bodies of soldiers were cut to pieces and their arms taken. The roads from Kirkuk to Bagdad, Kirkuk to Sulaimania, and Sulaimania to Bagdad, were closed entirely; and now Sulaimania, already impoverished, shut half its bazaars for want of goods to put in them, and the few merchants who still had the courage to keep their offices open sat in empty rooms and idleness. Then the talk of “ta’qib” (pursuit and punishment) of the Hamavands arose, and we have seen how it was carried out. Corruption everywhere thwarted the best designs of the Majlis, and the Hamavands got away while the shaikhs sat in Sulaimania unaccused, and still maintaining an attitude of injured righteousness that called for justice.

This was the position in August 1909, when I left Sulaimania.

At that time the merchants were awaiting the collection of outstanding debts to leave the province, which they saw would never recover from its ruin so long as the shaikh family exists and is allowed its iniquitous power. Trade has deserted Sulaimania to a great extent. Merchants are going to Persia, which in its worst times never tolerated such a situation as this, and where business—decreased and weak—yet finds a way. Now the Customs duty, increased to the figure of fifteen per cent., will assist the ruin of its trade, which is now reduced to the import of produce from Persia, notably gum and carpets. Transit trade will of course continue to a certain extent, but as a great proportion of the business originated with migratory tribes, its transfer to another place is possible.

When I arrived in May 1909, affairs were bad. Our caravan had excited the greatest interest by reason of its having been able to get through from Kirkuk whole, and news was eagerly sought of all who arrived, particularly regarding any possible amelioration of the situation. However, worse was to come, for no other caravans came through.

I had taken a room in the caravanserai of Ghafur Agha—who was then the Mayor—and found there no other residents save an old Arab gentleman, a native of Tripoli of Africa, who held a post of “mudir” or petty governor of a village, whither he could not proceed, as the village in question had not hitherto possessed such an official, and the Kurdish inhabitants would have slain any one bold enough to attempt to establish himself there as their ruler.

My neighbour, Mustafa Beg, was a courteous and well-educated old man, whose life had been spent in the Mediterranean ports and consulates at Malta, Trieste, and such places. He spoke Arabic and Turkish perfectly, but knew no word of Kurdish; nor could his well-bred and gentle nature at all cope with the rough manners he met in Sulaimania. A more complete example of the absurd disregard of suitability of man for post could not have been seen. Failing the opportunity of assuming his duties, the old man lived alone in a miserable room in the caravanserai. He possessed no covering for his floor; his only furniture was a couple of boxes containing his clothing, a coffee-boiler, an old spirit stove, one coffee cup, and some bedding. He slept at nights in a disused palanquin whose owner had been killed, and it was partly owing to this habit that he met his ghastly death some months later.

In the entrance to the caravanserai a merchant, half-owner of the place, had an office, and some Jewish pedlars stored their wares in two rooms. The rest remained empty, their bare walls testifying to the condition of Sulaimania. The courtyard lay deep in dust and scraps of paper, and a stagnant pool stank in its midst. Desolation was near it, and by the shaikhs’ agency eventually lay upon it.

I arrived at about half an hour to sunset, and being foodless, locked my door—that slid like a shutter, up and down—and went out to find something. Bread was naturally the first thing needful, and this I found of two kinds, one very thin flaps and the other thick round cakes, each being sold for two “pul”—the pul being a copper coin of Persia worth about a seventh of a penny. Three flaps (or a pennyworth) was enough for my needs, and this, with two lettuces—at a farthing each—a sticky lump of dates, very dear in this cold country, and a bowl full of watered curds, or “du,” made an excellent dinner.

Buying anything at first was rather an ordeal, for Sulaimania has retained the Persian currency, though it is many a long year since it belonged to that nation, no Turkish coins except the mejidie being accepted. Thus old names and coins remain, while the names of Turkish coins are applied to the currency as well, resulting in confusion. There are three actual tokens: the copper “pul”; the silver “baichu,” or Persian “panj shahi”; and the ordinary two-kran piece of Persia, here called “tihrani.” But we encounter such names as “charkhi,” “jout,” “deh para,” “ghazi,” “qamari,” “qran,” and “qran-i-rash,” besides these.

Everything is reckoned in “qamari,” and this imaginary coin is worth four “pul,” and the “baichu” (which being the actual token must be handled) is worth seven pul. For larger amounts the tihrani is quoted, consisting of five baichu and one pul, or nine qamari; and the stranger plunges about in despair, not lessened by the fact that in Kirkuk they call the baichu a qamari, and the tihrani a qran.

I quote an example of the working of this system, which, it is to be hoped, is not more confusing than the unexplained situation. When I would go to where fragments of a sheep suspended from a pole constituted a butcher’s shop, to ask the price, I was informed “thirty-two.” I must know that this means thirty-two qamari, or three qrans and five qamaris, which is in tokens, three qran and two baichu and six pul. This is the price of a Sulaimania “oke,” or as the Kurd calls it, “huqqa.” Every town in the East fixes its own scheme of weights; and being asked, the Sulaimanian will, with excess of lucidity, explain that the local huqqa is four-fifths of the Panjwin huqqa, five-fourths of a Tabriz “man,” two-fifths of the Halabja “man,” and will not, till the last moment, give the information that it equals two and a half of the Stamboul “oke,” which passes as a base for calculation throughout Asiatic Turkey.

Thus, receiving the reply “thirty-two,” one arrives, or is expected to arrive, at the knowledge that the amount of meat necessary, usually a quarter of a huqqa, costs eight qamari, which must be paid for by four baichu and four pul. At the same time is discovered the fact that the huqqa—like a Persian “man,” which it really is—misnamed, is divided into four hundred dirhams, and that all fractions of the huqqa must be expressed in Turkish and not in the native Kurdish.

It was a great relief to find that nearly all the population knew some Persian, for the northern and eastern Kurdish I knew was not current here, and to the population less comprehensible than Persian. At first, and before I became recognised, the fact of my wearing a fez gave everyone to think that I was a Turk; and those who possessed any would air their little Turkish upon me, and, it must be said, show considerably more gratification at the opportunity of talking Persian.

Among other customs strange and stupid, is the one which forbids a woman to appear in the bazaars at the risk of loss of her good name54: why, seems hard to say, for there never was a more moral town than Sulaimania. Possibly it is for the same reason that reckons it improper for a man to wear ornamented socks, or bows on his slippers, or to remain in his house by day or treat his wife as a woman, and a hundred other pranks of caprice which are hard and fast rules of Sulaimania society and life. And the infringement of any one of these little rules is met by a horrified look and the hackneyed old expression, “Aiba Bokum,”55 which has worked so hard here, and is used to prevent so many actions, that any progress or improvement is always stifled by that terrible “Aiba Bokum.”

If I would speak to my own wife in the street, if I would bare my head to a cool breeze in a public place, if I would be too friendly with a Christian, or speak civilly to a Jew, these are all “Aiba Bokum,” and but the least of them. But would I in rash moments of philanthropy and idealism suggest killing the flies on the putrid meat of the shops, or ridding the town of fraudulent beggars, or building a sanitary house, or cleaning a street, or doing anything of any benefit to myself or others, then I should become a raving lunatic from hearing day and night the pained protest of “Aiba bokum”; if, indeed, I were allowed to remain in the town.

In this, Sulaimania is only too like the rest of the Muhammadan East, particularly those parts farther removed from the West, whose creed is, “That I do as did my fathers, and leave undone that which they did not, and curse the innovator.”

Nor is this creed to be set aside lightly, even though it mean inconvenience to the people themselves. Some years ago a doctor of some skill came here, hoping—as he was the first arrival in a town full of dirt-diseases—to make a speedy fortune, as others have done among the Kurds.56 Two months after he had established himself he left for Persian Kurdistan, carrying his implements upon his back, his head ringing with the phrase “Aiba bokum.”

After him came a photographer, who at first was fairly successful, but a Sulaimanian of profound knowledge unearthed the saying of a holy man that representations of persons must have the head cut off with a penknife, or the artist’s soul would annoy that of the portrayed, appearing in his likeness in the last day. So the unfortunate Sulaimanians beheaded themselves on paper and expelled the photographer. After a time came the phonograph, the most popular of all Western inventions in the Orient, and this was taken up by some individuals, and stopped upon the death of Shaikh Sa’id as an impious instrument.

This habit of mind, and constant abhorrence of all that is new, explains why the Sulaimanian still walks about in the costumes we see in prints of books of travellers to Persia in the 16th century, why his shirt-sleeves hang to the ground, why the skirts of his tunic wipe the filth along the streets as he walks. These are the conservators of the bad old customs, would-be slayers of the Jews among them, ignoring the tie of blood that binds ninety per cent. of them to that race. The custom and law relating to clothing is so strong that strangers living among them, if they would hope to live without annoyance, must adopt their style of raiment and reject the more convenient garments of their own lands.

Their isolation has made them very suspicious of all strangers, and from this suspicion has developed an inquisitorial bearing almost intolerable. It is the right of every Sulaimanian to enquire closely into the aims and identity of every new arrival. Fortunately he does not resent equally close enquiry, even rather welcoming it as affording an opportunity for self-aggrandisement and a self-righteous exposition of his own respectability. Also, the intense suspicion with which they approach the stranger renders it quite immaterial whether lies or truth are given in answer to their queries. Inconsistent as it may seem, once their questions are answered, and the information disseminated about the town, the stranger is accepted at his own valuation and becomes part of the population.

Having learned somewhat of these matters, I was not surprised to receive a visit from a gorgeous individual, who came to see me at the caravanserai one morning. This person was enveloped in a fine cloak of camel’s hair, the right-hand side of the back of which was covered with gold thread work: between its folds stuck out from the waistbelt the sheath of a huge knife, and as he entered he removed from his feet a new pair of Bagdad shoes. He saluted in excellent Persian, and having accepted a cigarette, commenced without preambulation his queries, which I answered as briefly as possible.

The dialogue was somewhat thus:—

“Where is your native country?”

“Persia.”

“Which town?”

“Shiraz.”

“Are there any Sulaimanians in Shiraz?”

“No, nor ever were.”

“Are you going to Persia?”

“I do not know at present.”

“Why do you not know at present? How shall a man not know his destinations?”

“Because my plans are not formed.”

“Stay here, it is the best place—good water, good air, and a kindly population. What are you by trade? Are you a doctor?”

“No, why?”

“Because of your European style of dress, which for any but a doctor is an impropriety here. Are you a merchant?”

“Yes, I might be.”

“What are your wares?”

“Cloths and such like.”

“Have you also scented soap?”

“No; why do you ask that?”

“Because a merchant came from Mosul twenty years ago with scented soap, but it is an impropriety here.”

“Why?”

“Because it was never used formerly; besides, children always die when they smell it.”

“Then do the children of Sulaimania fear sweet or clean smells?”

“Yes, they are not accustomed to them. Where did you buy those shoes?”

“In Kirkuk.”

“Here they are improper, having laces.”

He cast about for a new question, then suddenly:

“What is in these cases?”

“Clothing.”

“Have you no things in them to sell? What kind of merchant are you without wares and loads?”

“I await samples, no wise man brings new goods unless first proved saleable by samples!”

“You speak truth, but what is in your boxes?”

“I told you, clothes.”

“Where did you buy those trunks?”

“In London.”

“In London; why did you go there?”

“I had business.”

“What business?”

“My own business; every man has his own business and affairs.”

“Quite true; but I came here to tell you, as a friend, that you should not sit in a caravanserai, it is not proper.”

My patience came to an end, and I reversed the order of things, and started an inquisition of my own.

“Why do you wear a torquoise ring?”57 I enquired severely.

“What?”

“I say, why do you wear a torquoise ring?—it is improper in my country.”

“I came here as a friend, why do you ask such unkind and ridiculous questions?” he asked in a hurt tone.

“Because,” I replied, “in my country of Shiraz there is a saying, ‘He who annoys the stranger by inquisitiveness, seeks after such abuse and ridicule that ill-manners may call forth from the tormented!’”

Frowning with indignation, he gathered his gay cloak about him and departed swiftly, not even deigning to answer my farewell. Five minutes afterwards the caravanserai keeper came to the door somewhat perturbed, and informed me that he who had come as a friend and gone as an enemy was owner of the place and mayor of the town, Ghafur Agha himself.

In those first few days there, I found out how the Sulaimanian deems himself entitled to treat the stranger; and to complete the lesson, the day before I left for Halabja, I was hauled up by a seller of enamelled-ware plates, sherbet glasses, matches, and pedlary generally.

“Ra wussa!” I heard in stentorian tones behind my ear.

Obedient to the summons I stopped, and turning, found myself face to face with an apparently outraged and obviously outrageous individual, who demanded in the fiercest tones the eleven krans I owed him. In the idiom of his native Kurdish, and with no excess of politeness, I denied the debt, and he advanced with half-drawn dagger; but finding that I neither fled nor paid, stopped, a little at a loss as to what his next step should be.

For a moment he glared at me, then with a contemptuous laugh, retired behind a pile of his tin bowls upon his booth, and stood lost in contemplation of the arched bazaar roof. I was told afterwards that this is but a little joke of the Sulaimanian, who occasionally, before the Turks frightened them away by their gross cupidity, would catch with the trick a meek pilgrim en route from Khorasan to Kerbela.

One of my first acquaintances in Sulaimania was a Syrian Christian of Mosul, one Matti Tuma. At that place I had experienced some difficulty in the matter of transporting the money I had brought with me, but finally found two Christians, known as Safu and Samu, who were prepared to give me a bill upon their correspondent in Sulaimania. This I took, having the draft made payable to Ghulam Husain, the Persian, under which name I was passing. This draft was at seven days after sight, but the first morning after my arrival an elderly man appeared, dressed exactly like the Sulaimanians, except for his small turban, and introduced himself as Matti Tuma, giving me the welcome information that he had the money ready waiting. His quiet manner, coupled with the assurance of his desire to assist me in every way, induced me to tell him more or less my plans, without, of course, hinting at my identity.

It was the first time he had met a Persian in Sulaimania since the Hamadan merchants had left. In order to facilitate my life in Kurdistan, where an aimless wanderer is but an object of suspicion, I had resolved, before starting, to open relationships with several firms, and was now in a position to talk about various samples, and enquire into the prices of local products.

Upon these points I found Matti very ready to inform me, at the same time giving me some sound advice regarding the purchase of whatever I might need, and inviting me to use his services and experience of Sulaimania—where he had been for twenty years—without hesitation. He strongly advocated my settling in Sulaimania for a time, for he said that there was yet hope of improved trade. As I expressed my intention of seeing more of Kurdistan, ostensibly with the idea of ascertaining what business was a profitable one, and where the commodities of the country were best purchased, he offered no further opposition, and even told me to leave in his hands the matter of finding mules for my journey.

He then took me to his office, which was at the caravanserai called the Khan-i-Ajam. The office was a long narrow room, opening upon the raised verandah of the serai courtyard. Round the walls were shelves bearing the usual wares of the Mosul merchant, packets of cigarette papers, cottons, prints, calico, Aleppo cloth, cheap tapestry; and two large bags of nails, which, imported from Europe, find here a ready sale.

The floor was carpeted with rugs of Hamadan, and Matti sat upon one by his doorway, in front of a big Russian iron box that opened with a key as large as that of a stage jailer, and rang a bell three times in the process.

As in most caravanserais in Sulaimania, the rooms are really nothing more than deep recesses across the front of which a wooden screen in three sections has been built. These sections open by sliding up, and are held in that position by a piece of iron hooked across the groove in which they travel.

Matti’s immediate neighbours were also Mosul Christians, and opposite—for the office was in a long arcade that entered the serai—were the rooms of three Kurdish merchants, to whom I was introduced by Matti. In the custom of the place they had boldly come to enquire who the newcomer might be, and I had to answer a string of questions. These people spoke Persian quite well, and fortunately accepted my own version of affairs as true, and I became known there and then as Mirza Ghulam Husain of Shiraz.

I was also introduced to one Habib Badria, a Mosul Christian, a man of extraordinary appearance for a man of Arab race. Fair and freckled of skin, his hair was that particular hue called “carroty,” and his moustache the same. His blue eyes and generally Scotch appearance made him appear most incongruous in his Arab dress and fez. And as if this had had an effect upon his nature, he evinced the most progressive ideas. Immediately he heard that I had been to Europe, he asked me to write for a snapshot camera, scented soap, a French dictionary, and some other Ferangi articles. He professed disgust with the clothing custom forced him to wear, and sighed for the delights of collar and cuffs. Despite these affectations, however, he turned out later to be an excellent and sincere friend.

My way back to the caravanserai of Ghafur Agha lay through a large part of the bazaars, and I could not help noticing the deserted appearance caused by rows and rows of shops left empty by proprietors disgusted and disheartened by the evil and oppression of Sulaimania. As I entered the serai I was greeted by the merchant-owner, whose office was in the entrance. His habit was to sit outside his room in the verandah, upon a bench whence he could look out down the arcaded entry to the street outside and note everyone who passed in. He invited me to a seat upon a bench, and when I had mounted there, asked if he could assist me in any way by the loan of household utensils or furniture till I settled down. I informed him that I was going to Halabja, and he at once displayed unusual interest. I could only give him perfectly logical reasons for wishing to visit the place, for he knew Uthman Pasha of Halabja quite well, and had done business there himself. So I talked of seeing the Pasha’s lady with reference to the cultivation of silk (which I knew she wished to undertake), and to gain her influence in order to buy the products of the mountains in her territory. Learning this, he told me that the Pasha himself was in Sulaimania and would be coming to pay him a visit in the afternoon, when he advised me to be present.

At about three that afternoon he arrived and took his place of honour upon the carpeted bench. My friend, the merchant, introduced me as a trader of Persia desirous of visiting Halabja, to which place the Pasha invited me in excellent Persian, and then relapsed into a silence which I afterwards found to be typical of the Jaf chiefs.

I had thus good opportunity to examine a man whose name is respected throughout a great part of Kurdistan, and who is chief of a large part of the great Jaf tribe, and governor of Halabja and Shahr-i-Zur.

His dress was that of his tribe, but of the best quality. Except his white waist-band, no garment was not of silk. The long tunic of striped honey colour, the zouave jacket embroidered with gold thread, and the white undershirt, were all of the finest silk. A richly ornamented dagger was thrust in his belt, and a little Browning pistol hung by its side in a red-leather case. His feet were thrust into Kurdish top-boots of scarlet leather, with upturned points; and his head was enveloped in many silk handkerchiefs, rolled into a turban bigger at the top than at the bottom.