King Abdul of Arabia- Profile

ARABIA: "The Grandmaster"
By Benny Moss

Sunday, May 13, 1940

From Jerusalem's rooftops, watching women sang out with joy, their shrill voices sounding like the collective cooing of a thousand pigeons. Robed Bedouin and smartly-dressed Orthodox Jews paused in their work to acknowledge their sovereign. In the crowded streets, the people yelled: "Yaish el Malek—Long live the King!" Abdul Aziz bin Mithab Al Rashid, Emir of Arabia, Syria and Palestine, Caliph and commander of the faithful, also known to his good Italian friends as "Il Ab", had just returned from his grand progress across the great expanse of his new Kingdom. 
 
Calmest man in the kingdom was the monarch himself. In an unadorned chamber of his hilltop palace he settled down on his throne—a raised, overstuffed armchair. The tough little man wore a simple black silk abbaya (flowing robe) with a gleaming white shirtfront, a white and gold headdress, and the gold chain which in Arab countries takes the place of a crown. Near him were his two sons and his kinsman Sultan bin Hamud, Emir of Mesopotamia (which Abdul dreams of drawing into his own domain).
 
No emissaries came from Nejd's Ibn Saud, the King's old enemy, nor from the Federation of Worker's Republics, which is in a state of undeclared war with the new Italian-sponsored state. Abdul I made a polite speech from the throne, carefully avoiding most of the Middle East's hottest issues, whereupon the court and guests proceeded to Kalandia airfield to review Arabia's British-trained army. Its leader, Fuller Pasha (occidental title: General Sir James Frederick Charles Fuller, D.S.O., C.B, O.B.E.) stood next to His Majesty on the sun-scathed reviewing stand, picturesquely martial in a spiked helmet, with a long sword by his side. After the two-hour parade, everybody had lunch (main course: 56 whole roast sheep), while Arabia's masses launched on a three-day fete involving much shooting, soothsaying, and the consumption of vast quantities of stuffed peppers with soda pop.
 
King Abdul is a shrewd man, whose years of tribal warfare against his mortal enemy the House of Saud, have forged him into what the British would call a "tough nut". He likes to shoot and hunt, composes delicate Arabic poetry, recites from the Koran, and plays chess excellently. He spent his youth as a tribal ruler in the perpetually war-torn region of northern Arabia, but through a combination of clever diplomacy and sheer gall inherited much of the southern portion of the Ottoman realm when it collapsed during the Great War. Having already expanded his domain into the rich lands of Palestine and Syria, he openly aspires to enlarge his kingdom still further. Last week, fingering a set of exquisitely carved chess pieces in his summer palace at Chebaa, a few miles south of Mount Hermon, he told me: "Politics is like chess: you cannot rush your pawns across enemy territory, but rather seek favorable openings."
 
But those who have played chess with him know that Abdul, who plays well and likes swift moves, gets bored if the game lasts too long. What moves, wondered officials in Berlin, London and Rome, was the wily brain planning to make in neighboring Egypt? He is already openly funding the growing religious rebellion in the "Worker's Republic"- might he commit his more powerful pieces? In the Middle East chess game, he has a powerful Queen—a well-trained, Italian-armed, and British-led army, the most efficient Arab fighting force in the Middle East. In a bold move he might use his army, half of which is already in the Sinai to keep order along the Suez Canal, to seize chunks, or all, of Egypt for himself.
 
I know King Abdul appreciates boldness, so I ask him outright, would he like to be Khedive as well as Amir? He pauses, and then, much to my relief, laughs uproariously. "Which man would not? Two thrones are always better than one. But it is too early to talk about such things. The important matter is to ensure that Egypt is brought back within the Ummah (Islamic community) as quickly as possible- then its people can make their own choice."
 
Does this mean that he will use his army to accomplish the task? The monarch refuses to be drawn. "The Egyptian people have clearly rejected, and are in the middle of expelling, the Synidcalist Kuffar (unbelievers). The Arab world will help them in which ever way they need most."

I ask the King whether the same is true of the Arabs under Turkish rule in Aleppo and Alexandretta, and to my surprise the wily ruler grins at me in appreciation. "You know how to ask the difficult questions!" he exclaims, reaching for an orange from the fruit basket by his chair. He takes a small knife and peels it methodically as he talks.

"I have no love for what the Turks have become. Before the Great War I was a loyal follower of the Caliph in Constantinople, and only assumed his mantle when Karaosmanoğlu decided that being Turkish was more important than being Muslim. Now, it seems as if he would rather be German than Turkish. They are little better than the Syndicalists in my view. But I have no wish to fight them; I killed enough Turks trying to preserve the rule of the Sultan." He throws his hands in the air. "Imagine, a nation desperate to destroy its own Empire and its subject peoples fighting to preserve it! But such contrariness is what the Kadrists are made of. I shall leave them to be the Germans' lap-dogs; we, however will deal with our Italian friends as equals."

Something in the way he spits the word "German" interests me, and I ask him if he dislikes the Reich.

"Dislike? The Germans are the biggest hypocrites in the world! At least the British and Russians made no pretence of hiding their motives– they were honest Imperialists. But the Germans? They are just the same underneath, but conceal it with pious moral superiority and preaching about 'Democracy'. Democracy! As if their Socialist paradise is not built on the backs of starving Polish factory workers!"

I make to reply, but he is now in full flow. "Take an example– look at the way in which they condemn me for my treatment of the Jews. Me! They hardly mention the Tsar. But then Arabia is smaller than Russia, and easier to bully."

The King refers to the Jizya, or religious poll tax, that the Kingdom imposes on Jews who choose to settle in Palestine. He pauses for a second, and his anger seems to fade so rapidly that I wonder if it was a deliberate act.

"The Jews are welcome here," he eventually continues, popping a segment of orange into his mouth. "This fruit comes from a Jewish farm! But, I think it is fair that they pay. They have a choice, after all. They can go to Australia and avoid the Jizya if they wish. If they want to stay here, they pay the tax."

He contemplates the half-eaten orange in his hand. "Let me explain. My family comes from Ha'il. We are rich because the city lies on the route of the Hajj. By levying a charge on pilgrims and the merchants who came to trade with them, we ensured the prosperity of our lands. I ask you this, how is the Jizya any different? Jerusalem is the Jews' holy city, so they can pay a charge-" he pauses again as he thinks of the correct word in English, "- a premium- to live there."

The monarch sweeps his hand across the glorious panorama visible from his garden terrace, encompassing the verdant Huleh valley. In the far distance, the waters of Lake Galilee glitter.

"And who would not want to live in this great Kingdom?" he asks, grinning. "We have all we need. The markets of Europe are increasingly full of Arabian oranges– soon their automobiles will be fuelled with Arabian petroleum. In the far eastern corner of my Kingdom, I have just granted an oil concession to a joint American-Chinese consortium. We shall prosper. We are prospering!"

King Abdul triumphantly picks up the Black King on his chess set, and brandishes it as if he has won the game. "The Chinese like to say that the next hundred years will be theirs," he says, with firm conviction, "But they have not seen what competition they have from the Arabs."

No-one who saw the wiry old warrior so fiercely stating his people's right to walk the world stage could deny that this Arab, at least, is a force to be reckoned with.