The Sea and the Hills - Oil, Politics and Justice 9781477242391

Table of contents :
Cover Page
The Sea and the Hills
© 2012 by Hussain Najadi. All rights reserved.
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

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THE SEA AND THE HILLS

OIL, POLITICS AND JUSTICE

THE LIFE OF HUSSAIN NAJADI

Hussain Najadi

AuthorHouse™ 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.authorhouse.com Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 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. Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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

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, ArabMalaysian 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

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

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.

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-inlaw?” ‘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-inlaw. 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 Fatima , 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 gorgeous golden-coloured baby gazelle that followed my mother everywhere. I remember seeing this gazelle, while she was still little, hop onto my mother’s lap and fall asleep there. My mother loved this fawn almost as if it were her second child. There were cats too, but none of them left as big an impression on our lives as this beautiful gazelle with her big, liquid brown eyes. Meanwhile, I grew steadily into a healthy, active boy. I was surrounded by so much love and attention—from my parents, from Uncle Hussain and Aunty Fatemeh, and from Uncle Mohammad, my father’s youngest brother, and his family. All of us lived in the same mahalah (neighbourhood), and relied upon each other for everything. Like most young children, I was mischievous, always testing boundaries, but was checked when I overstepped the line. Although she loved me more than she loved her own life, my mother was never indulgent. She was strict when she had to be. It is to her that I owe my sense of moral duty and responsibility and my religious faith. When I was two or three, she would make me sit with her while she prayed, so I learnt many prayers by heart and learnt to be patient. If ever I tried to deceive her or anyone else, her disappointment was more painful than any beating I could have received. It was from her, too, that I developed an aesthetic sensibility. My mother never decorated herself in jewels or finery. She never wore make-up. She did, however, have an eye for fine art. She had never been to school but understood instinctively the interplay of lines, colours, and proportions that produces works of beauty. Now and again, while we were walking in the bazaar, she would stop in front of a particularly beautiful pearl setting, a handwoven rug, or a painting and exclaim, ‘Hussain, look, isn’t this beautiful?’ When I was young, of course, her very acknowledgement of beauty was enough to validate the same for me. But as my sense of perception sharpened, I began to see what she saw, and I too was able to appreciate the aesthetic. Baba (my father) was not as strict as my mother. Cheerful and outgoing, he saw the good in everybody and gravitated towards people’s positive qualities. At the same time he, too, embodied the principles of the Koran and would never lie, cheat, or hurt anyone. What’s more, he would stand by what he believed to be right and would never be cowed into accepting any form of injustice. He often compared money to the dirt on his hands: the more he washed out this

impurity, the cleaner he would be. He was sceptical of people who amassed wealth. Somehow he had an inner God-given contentment, a virtue lost entirely in our so-called modern world. Throughout their lives, neither he nor my mother had an urge to have ‘more’. Enough was enough, and thus they both radiated happiness on their faces—the kind of which I have not found in modern man anywhere on this earth. My fondest memories of my father were from our holidays together in Bandar Taheri. The first such visit remains vivid in my mind. It was summer, when we had the longest school holidays, from mid-June till early September. By this time, my father knew a number of Iranians from the south living in Bahrain. With them, he planned a sailing trip back to Bandar Taheri. I was six years old and going to Iran for the first time. It was the first time I would be seeing my grandparents, my uncles, aunties, and cousins who still lived in Bandar Taheri. For weeks before the trip, I was filled with anticipation. I couldn’t wait. When our adventure finally began, I was not disappointed. Nothing had given me as much pleasure in the first six years of my life than the two days I spent on the dhow with my father and the other grown-up men. It was during those two days that I learnt how to fish. The Persian Gulf teemed with marine life and it didn’t take long after dropping a line to hook a tuna or snapper or wrasse. The men would wash everything I caught and cook it. The simple act of providing for our meals, of putting food on our plates and in our bellies, gave me such intense pleasure. There was much kissing and hugging when we got to Bandar Taheri. I was passed around, like a ball, from one relative to another. My cheeks kissed, my curly hair tussled. My grandparents, especially, couldn’t get enough of me, prodding me to speak about our life in Manama. ‘Listen to Hussain,’ they would say. ‘What a clever boy he is.’ I cannot overstate the love and affirmation I received from my family in my youth. In my paternal grandparents’ home, there were two courtyards, one for us— family members—in the front; and another, at the back, for the mules. These sturdy animals were extremely useful for transport purposes and quite luxurious too. We called them our Rolls Royces. My father still loved going up into the mountains, and with the other men made regular trips into the cool highlands. It was only five or six kilometres away, but because of the rocky, steep terrain, it

was rough going. To make the journey less arduous, they would ride on the mules. I, of course, accompanied them. The mountains were beautiful with waterfalls, mineral springs, rivers, and brooks in which flowed crystal-clear water. The air was fresh, scented by the plentiful citrus trees and date palms. We would spend a couple of days out in open fields, eating pheasants or deer that the men hunted, roasted over open bonfires, and sleeping under the clear starlit skies. When we weren’t in the mountains, we would go off in a sailing boat into the Persian Gulf on fishing expeditions, returning home with baskets sagging under the weight of crabs, prawns, and fish. There was always plenty to eat. My days were whirlwinds of fun and adventure. There was never a dull moment. As a child I grew to love the sea, whose waves still hum in me and the hills, with its deer and brooks, and pheasants and forests. One summer, when we stayed back in Manama, my father and Uncle Hussain took me to the owner of one of the oldest Persian pharmacies called Royan. It belonged to Jaafar Royan. They arranged for me to work for Uncle Jaafar in the shop. It wasn’t as if Uncle Jaafar needed an extra hand. He took me in only because we were good family friends. The experience alerted my senses to the workings of the bazaar. It was during my apprenticeship with Uncle Jaafar that I really smelt the cigars, the spices, the aromatherapeutic oils, liniments, and the myriad other scents associated with the exciting, colourful world that was the bazaar. The best part was, of course, the end of every month when Uncle Jaafar gave me thirty rupees. It was no small sum in those days! With it I bought myself my first bicycle, which I rode from home to the pharmacy. I rode all round Manama, feeling the thrill of freedom. Suddenly, I felt like I had entered the world of adults. Every summer after that, if I remained in Manama, I would work at Royan. Jaafar was a good friend of Uncle Hussain, to whom I owe so much. He was the relative I felt closest to, after my parents. Uncle Hussain was very much the figurehead of our family in Manama. He was our protector, our guardian angel. He would make sure everyone in the compound was asleep before he retired to bed himself. Uncle paid for almost everything, from shelter to food. When he gave pocket money to his children, he would include me.

His love for my parents and me was unconditional. Uncle Hussain was a constant beacon brightening my life. In the bazaar, where he supplied jute bags imported from Bangladesh to the local merchants, he was well known and well respected. He was always calm, kind, and had smiles for everyone. In all the years that we lived in his household, accompanying him to work and elsewhere, never once did I see him grow impatient with a difficult customer. Nor did I ever see him lose his temper, even as others started to raise their voices. He had an amazing ability to diffuse volatile situations with his wisdom and genuine concern for everyone. To my cousins and me, though, Uncle Hussain was a favourite because, no matter how busy he was, he always made time for us. I grew up to think and to feel that, besides my real father, I had another called Uncle Hussain. My education began at the age of four. Like most Iranian boys, I was sent to a madraseh (religious school). But madraseh in Manama then were quite unlike those that form the popular conception of today. There was no fanaticism. There was no indoctrination. These schools functioned to teach children to read the Koran, plain and simple. There was no other agenda. Reading the Koran served two purposes: it introduced children to the teachings of Islam; and it provided a firm foundation from which they could go on to master Arabic. In those days, most people were illiterate. To be able to read was a mark of honour; to be able to read something as difficult as the Koran was the highest possible honour. Not just read, mind you, but read aloud. For who would believe you, if you could only read it silently? At the end of the year, there was a graduation test at the madraseh. The whole procedure was quite nerve-wracking. All the children would be gathered in class, their families seated at the back, and the Ustaz (teacher) in a corner in the front. The Ustaz would call out the children one by one and ask them to read a particular chapter. There would be a Koran in front of the child, but it would be closed. The test was to see if the child was able to recite an entire chapter, chosen at random, without referring to the book. Every time a child stood up to recite loudly, his or her family would pray under their breath, silently. Having been exposed to my mother’s prayers from the age of two, I must have had a head start. When it came to my turn, though my heart was beating fast and my legs felt weak, I started off well enough and the more I recited, the more confident I became. After a while, it felt very natural; the words just came to me, from some mysterious source I know not where. I finished my chapter, without stopping even once. There was a silence. Then the Ustaz said, ‘Thanks to Allah,

God bless you all, you pass!’ In fact, I did not just pass. I was the best student in class. That was my first real achievement in life. I had made my parents and my family proud. I can still remember how good it felt. All of us who passed went home with our Korans on our heads. To celebrate my success, my parents organised a huge feast for the neighbourhood—with mutton, vegetables, and rice. There was no break from then on. At the age of five, I was enrolled in primary school. In those days, there were four years of primary education followed by another four years in secondary school. Today, the system has changed to six years in each primary and secondary, the same in most countries around the world. My school was not far from our home, just a few alleys away. It was in a big courtyard, next to which was another courtyard where the secondary school was located. To be honest, I don’t remember much about primary school, except that I developed a love for reading, a passion that has lasted till today. Although we had no money to buy books, I managed to find many newspapers, magazines, journals, and, yes, books to satiate my appetite for reading. I would read newspapers left in a shop; I would read books belonging to friends; I would go to the bookshop in the bazaar and read for as long as the shopkeeper would allow me. I went to the library and borrowed books from there. According to Arabic literature, the Prophet Muhammad is to have said, ‘Seek knowledge as far as China’. I had heard these words of guidance a number of times; they constantly resounded in my mind. I was truly hungry for knowledge and grabbed every opportunity to learn. Not surprisingly, I earned myself the nickname ‘professor’ among the boys in the Persian quarter where we lived. Not only did they think I was odd for preferring books over banter, but also because I began wearing glasses. The glasses were required not so much because I had spoiled my eyesight from reading in the dark; it just so happened that I had astigmatism. It didn’t help that the only glasses available in those days were the thin-rimmed ones that Gandhi made famous. With glasses like those, one could not help but look very scholarly. So every time groups of boys saw me approach, instead of call out, ‘Hey, Hussain, want to play?’ As they would with the others, they’d say, nudging each other, ‘Look, the professor’s coming!’ They weren’t malicious, though, just out to have fun.

Soon, I stopped hanging out with the boys on my own volition. Most of them were still chasing girls and sneaking into Grandol. Grandol was four to five alleys away from our mahalah towards the sea. It was where all the traders from all over the world who had descended on Manama could trade in another commodity: human flesh. Realising that prostitution would flourish in a bustling port like Manama, the British decided to concentrate this activity in one area, keeping the rest of the town clean. So this was where all the prostitutes lived. They’d done the same in Bombay. There, the prostitution dens were located along Grant Road. Grandol, in fact, is a localisation of the name Grant Road, altered a little, as names won’t do in translation. It goes without saying that the forbidden trip to Grandol was a rite of passage for all boys in our quarter. I’d already been with a couple of friends, and I will admit the trip was very exciting to us young, curious boys. But Grandol had no great sway over me. At least, its attraction was not as strong as the attraction of the written word. Paying for sex did not obsess my mind at that tender age. Grandol was not the only seeming anomaly in our quarter. I remember distinctly that, near our house, lived a Jewish family who received many visitors in the night. No, there were no women there but a product just as intoxicating: homemade liquor. After sunset, when the alley began to quieten, a number of men from other quarters would come and knock on the door of this house. The door would be opened, someone from inside would hand over a brown paper bag, its contents unseen, and money would change hands. With quick nods marking a successful transaction, the visitor would then slink away, and the door would be closed to the dark alley again. Bang in the middle of a very conservative, very Muslim community, the head of this family had for years been concocting a heady, sweet brew made from khorma (dates). Yet he was left to conduct this thriving bootleg business with not so much as a murmur of disapproval from the Muslims. In the quarter, where everybody had a kind word for everybody else, and looked out for each other, he was treated as an equal. My quest for knowledge intensified in secondary school. From seven in the morning till just after noon, I attended a local school, where I learnt all the usual subjects: geography, history, mathematics, language, and the sciences, in Arabic. After a short break for lunch, I went to a Persian school to learn Farsi, the

language of Iran. This was already enough to keep me occupied, but when I noticed there was an evening school offering a smattering of practical courses, such as English and typing, I decided to enrol myself here too. The school had just been opened by an enterprising Bahraini, opposite the Catholic School. I wanted to learn English because it was the language of the Protectorate. But why I wanted to learn typing, I’m not sure. Only secretaries and typists needed to know-how to type, yet I was just fascinated by the clicking of the keys, and the staccato appearance of neat letters on sheets of clean, white paper. I can still remember the bulky Olympus typewriters that we used, and the clacking and cranking noises produced as we typed furiously in class. I have to say, in retrospect, I’m very glad I put myself through typing classes because the skill has come in very handy in using PCs and laptops. At the same time, I have to admit, I know of many contemporaries who type with only two fingers and manage to do so faster than me! In secondary school, there was a Persian teacher, Reza Bostani, who came from the oil town of Abadan in Khuzestan. After the discovery of oil, the town flourished and gained intellectual renown. In particular, Abadan had many Tudeh Party of Iran⁷ supporters who were in favour of the essentially communist party’s aim of nationalising what was then the Anglo-Iranian oil company. Tudeh had been formed by intellectuals in northern Iran bordering the Soviet Union and eventually branched into Tehran, Ahwaz, Abadan, and other major cities in Iran. Reza was one such left-leaning politico. He was different from most of the other teachers, both because of his leftist inclination and because he was well read. When he entered our classroom, he would be met by a scene of rowdy boys talking and joking in those few minutes in between lessons. There would be one boy, however, who did not join in the general merrymaking but who had his nose stuck in a book. That boy was me. One day, after his class, Reza came up to me and said, ‘Hussain, I’ve noticed that you like reading. Do you mind if I ask what kind of books you read?’ ‘I don’t have any preference, I just read whatever comes into my hands,’ I replied. ‘Is that so? Tell me, what were you reading earlier on, before class?’ I reached into my desk and brought out the maritime magazine I had found lying

in my father’s shop. It was in English and I was reading it to learn new words. ‘I don’t always read magazines, sir, I also read proper books,’ I said. Reza seemed bemused. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Have you read any literature? Any classics, like Tolstoy or Dostoevsky?’ I shook my head. I had never heard of these names, as any book considered to be ‘socialist’ or to be sympathetic to socialist ideologies, had been banned in Bahrain. There was an underground communist movement, instigated mainly by Iranians influenced by the Russians and Azerbaijanis, which the British did everything in their power to quash. ‘Well then, what about Gogol, or Pushkin, or Voltaire or Victor Hugo?’ he asked, expectantly. When I shook my head in response to each name, he sighed and said, ‘No, of course you haven’t. This is what happens when there is no freedom of the people. And they say capitalism is about freedom, about free trade, and free markets. But what freedom do you have to read good books?’ He looked at me, but I could tell he wasn’t really expecting an answer. ‘Intelligent boys like you go through life without reading the greatest literature in the world. It’s such a waste. This cannot go on.’ I was only twelve at the time, and although I had heard the adults discuss politics, bandying words like ‘capitalist’, ‘socialist’, and ‘marxist’, I didn’t concern myself overly with such talk. Truth be known, it was over my head. ‘I have a book I think you might enjoy. If I lent it to you, would you read it?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir! It’s not easy to get good books, ones that I can read and understand and that have interesting stories. I would really like that, sir,’ I said. ‘Good. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you Great Expectations by Dickens. Let’s see what you make of it.’ True to his word, the following day, after class was over, Reza handed me a book that had been wrapped in plain brown paper. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘let me know when you’ve finished. Oh, and be discreet when you read. Certain people may not like you reading this book.’ I couldn’t wait to start. A book from Reza. It had to be good. Instead of eating

lunch that day, I sat in a corner under a tree and read. I wasn’t disappointed. Page after page, the story of Pip, Magwitch, Miss Haversham, and the cold-hearted but lovely Estella, translated into Arabic, had me in its grip. Every moment I was free, I would take out the book, make sure I was ‘safe’ and devour the story. In five days, I had finished. I handed it back to Reza and told him, truthfully, it was the best book I’d ever read. But he wasn’t satisfied with that. He asked me all sorts of questions about the book. What did I think of Pip? What did I think of Miss Haversham? What did the character of Magwitch, the escaped convict, say about the law? Did I think there was a moral to the story, and what was it? Only after I had answered all his questions did he look happy. ‘You know, Hussain,’ he said, finally. ‘Books can be fun to read, they can be very entertaining. But good books make you think. They make you think about people and their actions. Even if the stories are not real, they are realistic. Sometimes, you can learn much more from these books than from real life. Because, in real life, you are involved in what’s going on and you can’t distance yourself from the story. When you read a story, you have that distance, and you can see things more clearly.’ From then on, Reza would supply me with book after book, which he had managed to smuggle into Manama from Iran. After a few Dickens, whom I thoroughly enjoyed, I graduated to French writers like Victor Hugo, Balzac, and Voltaire; then to the great Russians—Dostoevsky, Gogol, Pushkin, Tolstoy (Reza was particularly fond of Russian writers). After each book, Reza would question me the way he had with Great Expectations. He wanted to know what I made of the books. Sometimes, he would not be satisfied with my answers, and we would discuss our points of view. He had the magnanimity not to expect me to adopt his stance all the time, but I had to be able to substantiate my reasons for disagreeing with him. Through these sessions with Reza, I was not only introduced to the great literary world, I also learnt the art of thinking and arguing logically. Without doubt, Reza was a huge influence in what was perhaps the most crucial years of my adolescence. I became enamoured with literature, and the ideas that I formed from reading Reza’s books shaped my belief system, my attitude to politics, society, and life in general. I dare say many of these beliefs continue to

bear upon my world view even today. If I had to point to any one aspect of my childhood that had a lasting and indelible effect on my character, it would have to be these books. Not my formal education. There was just one activity I enjoyed as much as I did reading—Football. From the earliest time I can remember, I was running after my cousins in the courtyard, in the alleys, trying to join their games of football. In school, I got to play even more in organized teams and on a proper field. By the age of twelve, I was a defender for the Bahrain team. In Manama, there was a Persian team called Ferdousi, after the great Persian poet; and an Arab team called Al-Ahli. The Persian team, to which I belonged, was superior. We were top in the national league and were invited one year to play in Qatar, against the Doha team, also the national champion. There was only one snag: I needed a passport. With the advent of air travel, movement within the region was no longer as free and easy as it used to be. In those days, children did not have any form of documentation—no birth certificate, no identity card. When I was born, a relative had written my name and the date on the back of my mother’s Koran. That was my only ‘birth certificate’. So there I was, a citizen of the world, with no document tying me to any one country, in need of a passport. My parents took me to the Immigration Department, where the officer in charge looked at us and said, ‘You need to prove this boy was born in Bahrain.’ ‘He’s my son. He was born in Bahrain,’ my father attempted. In actual fact, he had also registered my name as his own son, in the Red Family Book of the Iranian Identity Book affirming that I was born in Iran, and thus ensuring that I would never lose the privilege of Iranian citizenship. This came very handy in the coming years to facilitate my great escape from the enlarged prison of Bahrain as you will read later. But my father’s claim was not good enough for the immigration officer. ‘Go and get two witnesses. Two witnesses who are Bahraini citizens and have Bahraini passports,’ said the officer. So off we went. Uncle Hussain had a passport. So did our good family friend, the fruit merchant Ebrahim. My parents frogmarched me, first, to Uncle Hussain’s shop, then to Ebrahim’s home. As luck would have it, both of them

were in. Hearing our situation, both were more than happy to return with us to Immigration, armed with their passports. After a glance through these passports, the officer said, ‘OK. Now you have to go to the Government House and see the British Advisor, Mr Charles Belgrave.’ Government House was an imposing building in the centre of Manama, on Government Road leading to the Chancellery of the British Advisor, the de facto ruler of Bahrain. It was the seat of the British Protectorate. It was here that Belgrave carried out his duties as a judge, an advisor, and finance minister. He was the British administration, and it came as no surprise when, years later, he was knighted by the British sovereign for his years of exemplary service. Belgrave was a busy man. When we got to the Fort, we were asked by one of the clerks to kindly wait. ‘Mr Belgrave sir (who would eventually become Sir Charles Belgrave) will see you presently,’ he said. We were ushered into Belgrave’s spacious room. There was a desk at the far end, with a friendly faced Englishman sitting behind it. He smiled, saying, ‘So you’ve come for a passport?’ My father nodded. Belgrave then asked the Court’s Clerk, a well-educated Bahraini Arab, to produce a Koran, and this clerk said, looking at my father, ‘Do you swear on the Koran that this child was born in Bahrain?’ ‘Yes,’ said my father. Belgrave asked our two witnesses to swear on the Koran as well. They did. He then promptly stamped our application, which we now had to submit to the officer back at Immigration. The stamp from Belgrave was a guarantee that you would get your passport. There could be no further requests from anyone now. For five rupees, I was issued a passport. It took twenty minutes to produce. The officers had to calculate my date of birth using the Arabic calendar. As this is eleven days shorter than the Gregorian calendar (incidentally, invented by the Persian astrologer and poet Omar Khayyam), it made me three years older. My date of birth as stated on the passport is 13 September 1935. So from a gangly twelve-year-old I became a gangly fifteen-year-old. Strangely, I didn’t feel any different! ‘Would you like a hard cover?’ asked the officer. Seeing my eager face, my father said yes. ‘That will cost another ten rupees.’ We paid him, and got a hard

cover into which we could slot the passport. I treasured this document, which literally was a passport to greater freedom. Only a few people we knew had passports, none of whom were children. Becoming the proud owner of a passport was, for me, a turning point. It allowed me to make that football game in Doha and inspired a lifelong longing for more travel. I remember the trip to Doha very clearly. Even more exciting than the game itself was the flight to Qatar. I had seen aeroplanes in the sky before but had never been to the airport or got close to any of these flying machines. The airport was on an island called Muharraq, about seven kilometres north of Manama. It was made up of small buildings which served as immigration and customs, arrival, and departure. There was only one plane on the runway. It was a small aircraft, with a propeller at its tip. It just about managed to fit the fourteen of us. There was no partition between the passenger gallery and the cockpit, so we could observe the pilot and look through his window to see what was going on outside. When our motley crew was finally seated and securely strapped in, I noticed a small Indian boy in front of the plane. Upon a signal from the pilot, he jumped to get hold of a piece of string attached to the propeller and pulled down on it with his weight. He was the plane’s ignition! His first attempt to start the engine failed. Not a problem. He took a deep breath, jumped up again, and this time when he came down with the string, the engine spluttered to life. Emitting a puff of smoke, the plane moved forwards, gained momentum, and just as we thought we couldn’t possibly go any faster, it took off. We were in the air! The sound was deafening. After taking to the sky, the plane came down again to skim the sea. I think all of us were a little scared. We couldn’t work it out. But, of course, we all kept a brave face. Then, the plane rose again, and I’m not sure but I think I saw the pilot smile. Perhaps he just wanted to give us some extra drama to relate to our folks when we got home. The plane then maintained its height among the clouds until it was time to land some twenty minutes later. For us, the flight was over too soon. The game was good, particularly as we won. In the evening, we got onto the plane again and returned home—with our glorious cup. A big feast was held in the quarter to celebrate our victory. Unfortunately, I was not able to repeat this experience. During a practice session soon after the Doha trip, I was hit on the side of my torso by a viciously hard shot. I collapsed from the injury, and although I recovered soon enough, my parents made up their

minds. No more football for Hussain.

CHAPTER 3

Bahrainis Unite

I graduated from secondary school at the age of fifteen. At the time, there were no colleges or universities in Bahrain. As with schooling, those who could afford it sent their children for tertiary education to Bombay (Mumbai), Beirut, or Cairo; or if they were really wealthy, to London. The only institute of higher learning was an administrative school ran by the Bahrain Petroleum Company, BAPCO as it was known for short. It was a subsidiary of Caltex⁸, the American oil company that had found oil in Bahrain in 1935. Caltex built an oil town, Awali, about forty-five kilometres south of Manama, in the desert. It was close to BAPCO’s refinery, which had the distinction of being one of the first and largest in the region. Awali represented the administrative nucleus of the oil business, and provided secluded housing for the expatriate white community—the Americans, Australians, and British—in a guarded compound. Over the years, this became the most exclusive residential area in Bahrain, where country clubs, supermarkets, and schools, all modern and spotless, sprang up to cater to the Europeans and Americans. Every year, BAPCO would recruit local boys for training within the company. I was lucky. I was among a handful of students taken in on a kind of apprenticeship. We were taught all manner of administrative work, from accounting to auditing. What fascinated me most, however, were these huge, noisy machines, as tall as a human being, laid out majestically in a large hall cooled by an oversized air conditioner. They were IBM computers, those wondrous IT machines from America. There were no IBM computers anywhere else in Bahrain at the time, not even in the government. Even the Protectorate, within its fortressed walls, did not have the luxury of IBM data processing. BAPCO had the most advanced, or perhaps the only, IT facility in the country. And we, this group of young and raw apprentices, were given access to these

imposing machines. Not only could we look and stare in amazement, we were actually trained to use the data crunching inventions. But there was an interview to pass first, to decide who among us would be given the privilege of computer training. I was interviewed by a Mr Bamford, the Head of Accounts and Audits at the company. Bamford was a generous, intelligent man. I will never forget this Australian. He began our interview in English. ‘Hussain,’ he said, looking me squarely in the eyes. It felt odd to be addressed so informally by a white man, and this made me smile a little. Although we worked in the midst of so many British, Americans and Australians, it was almost as if we were invisible to them. We had supervisors, mainly Indian, who were the most senior people within the organisation who deigned to speak to us locals. They had to. They were tasked with supervising us. ‘You must be wondering what this little interview is all about.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I lied. The entire group of apprentices was dead keen to learn to use the computers, and we had heard rumours that some of us would be chosen for this honour. They said some really lucky ones would even be sent to England for higher learning, all expenses paid, for at least four years. ‘Well, no point beating round the bush,’ he said, tapping his pen on the desk. ‘We’re looking to train some of you to use the IBMs,’ he said, pausing for effect. ‘You’ve done some work on computers, no doubt.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘In fact, I’ve been told you picked up the basics very fast. It says here you’re a good typist,’ he said, glancing at a report he had in front of him. ‘Apparently, you can type properly with all fingers and fast and accurately.’ He looked at me again. ‘Yes, sir. I learnt how to type at the Al Tajer school,’ I said, feeling more than a little pleased. I had never realised that my typing would one day help me work on an IBM! ‘Well, well. What made you decide to learn typing, young man?’ he asked, genuinely interested.

‘Actually, sir, I don’t know. It was just something I thought I’d like to do. I had first enrolled to learn English at the school, and then I saw they had typing classes. I guess I just liked the idea of learning something new. And I like typewriters.’ Immediately after saying that, I regretted it. It sounded so juvenile, so uneducated. But Bamford seemed to find it amusing, in a good way. He laughed, rocking his chair back and forth. Then he did something that completely threw me. He said, in impeccable Farsi, ‘Hussain, you seem like a very intelligent young man. I think you would be perfect for the computer job. In fact, if you continue working hard the way you have, if you continue to show an interest in expanding your knowledge, who knows where you will go. Actually, if you stick around here, I’m pretty sure one day you’ll manage this company.’ This was so unexpected. A white man who could speak Farsi; and my being assigned the top job of learning IBM data processing. I felt like a wonder boy in a wonder jungle. Stunned, I asked Bamford how he had come to learn Farsi—an Australian in an Arab country controlled by the British? ‘Ah, Hussain, you’re surprised, and quite rightly so,’ he said, smiling. ‘You see, I was one of many expats working in the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company in Abadan, when the Prime Minister Mossadegh nationalised it. All of us foreign managers were expelled. We were replaced by Iranian managers. But I wasn’t ready to return to Australia. We were given the option of coming over here. Of course I took it. I hopped onto a boat, and here I am in Awali, in charge of Accounting and Audit . . . and IBM Data Processing.’ Bamford was not at all bitter about Mossadegh’s nationalisation programme which led to his expulsion from Iran. He said he would have done the same in his native Australia if he were Prime Minister. ‘Iran’s oil belongs to the Iranians,’ he maintained. It was a stroke of good luck to have been interviewed by Bamford. I took an instant liking to this man, who was not at all like the average arrogant white expatriate at BAPCO. He soon became another of my guru’s. Having been selected to apprentice in the data processing unit, he was my new boss—one who treated us locals as decent human beings.

When I first got the job at BAPCO, my parents, uncles—in fact all my relatives —were ecstatic. There was an outpour of congratulations upon my parents. Wasn’t it fantastic that their only child, Hussain, had been taken in by the oil company? BAPCO offered the most generous salaries on the Island. As an apprentice, my starting salary was 400 rupees a month, ten times the amount any other employer in Manama would pay. Then, I got the job in the IBM Data Processing Department, the only computer data centre in the whole Middle East, from Beirut to Bombay. I was certainly the golden boy of our quarter. I remember our house receiving what seemed like a never-ending stream of wellwishers, a good number with young, good-looking daughters in tow. What’s more, these girls looked at me with an interest I’d never noticed before. It turned out that they had been brought as prospective brides for the young and promising Hussain! Fortunately, my parents found this as amusing as I did. After the visitors left, if there had been a proposal, they would mention it to me casually. ‘What did you think of the girl?’ they would ask. My response was always the same. I’d shrug, saying my priorities were to study some more, travel, and discover the world. They never pushed the matter further than that. Soon, I was able to navigate through the seemingly complicated processes of computers. I learnt that the word computer meant a machine of computing technology. And I was able to use this technology to obtain the kind of results BAPCO required. But I wasn’t satisfied just to be able to use the machines. I wanted to find out more—how they worked, where they came from . . . To me, they represented all the mysteries of a world I knew nothing about. Like the white men, they represented a link to the ‘other side’—the West—where all modern inventions were created; where people drove cars, where schools had desks and chairs, the sick could be treated in clean hospitals, and where there was enough money left over from paying for daily necessities for people to save in banks, where, moreover, people like Sir Charles Belgrave came from, to rule countries in the East such as Bahrain. Unlike the white men, though, these machines were not beyond access. They did not distinguish between the white man, the Indian, or the local. They could not look at me as if I had no business being anywhere near them. So one

day, I went behind the computers to see where they were made. To my surprise, I discovered they were not produced in America but in Germany. Not even in a well known city in Germany, but a placed called Sindelfingen which, I later found out, is near Stuttgart. This was intriguing. I had to find out more. I had noticed a German engineer training some of the other managers and senior employees in programming. He looked approachable enough. Unlike most of the Europeans, he would acknowledge the locals in the company and actually smile or nod to them. As much as I wanted to approach him, however, I feared a communication gap. I had only heard him speak in German. Plucking up all my courage, I went up to him one morning while he was working on the computers and said, in English, ‘Excuse me, sir, can I ask you a question?’ He didn’t respond. He continued typing away on the keyboard, quite lost in the task at hand. I realised that he probably wasn’t used to being spoken to in English, as most of the IT men in BAPCO were German and spoke to each other in their own language. He probably didn’t think I was speaking to him. So I repeated my question, this time a little louder. Now, he looked up at me, baffled at first, because it takes time to switch the brain’s mode from one’s mother tongue to a foreign language. Then, grasping that this local chappie had asked him a question, he said, in thickly accented English, ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you. What is your question again, young man?’ ‘I just wanted to know, sir, why this computer is made in Germany when IBM is an American company?’ I said. ‘Yup, yup. That’s interesting, hein? But it’s quite a story. I’m a little busy now. I have to finish this piece of work urgently,’ he said. ‘Maybe we can talk at tea break. How is that for you? Will you be free then?’ Yes, I said, I would be free. We worked in the same department, so it was easy enough for me to keep an eye on him as tea break approached. At about three thirty, I noticed him glancing at his watch, then put down his pen, and look around the room. When he saw me, he smiled and waved, beckoning me to him.

I went up. Mueller, as he was called, took me aside and told me the story of Germany’s defeat at the hands of the Americans and Allied forces during World War Two. He said, while the Americans were superior in some ways, they could not match the computing technology that had been developed in Germany. During the war, it was business as usual in one German company, , in Sindelfingen. American intelligence had discovered that this company was developing amazing data processing technology within its humble walls. After the war, when Germany was still recovering from its massive losses, the Americans were able to muscle in on this computing company. They made ‘a ridiculously low offer’, as Mueller described it, which the company was in no position to refuse. The transaction over, the company’s name automatically changed to that of its new proprietor: International Business Machines or IBM. Mueller left a mark on me. He was the first white man who had spoken to me as an equal. Despite our age difference—he must have been at least twenty years older than me—and despite our different cultural and socio-economic backgrounds, we became friends. Mueller was interested in the locals and local life. He would ask numerous questions, which I endeavoured to the best of my ability to answer accurately. He wanted to know about our customs and traditions. He asked about our history, politics, and our affiliation (or not, as the case generally was) to the incorrigibly corrupt ruler of Bahrain, Al-Khalifah. He wanted to know why there were so many Iranians in Bahrain, how we related to the others, how closely we maintained our links with our motherland. Now and again, I would bring him some local snacks to try, and he would always be very polite, saying they were good. Because of the kind of person he was, always so considerate, I was never sure if he really liked everything I presented to him. But I was sufficiently emboldened to invite him to lunch at our home one Friday. I said nothing could beat my mum’s Persian cooking. I wasn’t sure if he would accept the offer. Europeans did not, as a rule, socialise with the locals. I didn’t know of any other white man within BAPCO who had gone for a meal at a Bahraini home. ‘You know,’ he said, looking genuinely pleased, ‘I’ve heard so much about Persian food, but I don’t know where to go to have a good meal. In our

compound, we just eat Western food. Steak, steak, and more steaks. It’s not so easy to digest in this hot weather. It would be an honour to have dinner with your family.’ Then, looking slightly perplexed, he asked, ‘Are you sure your parents won’t mind?’ Of course, my parents didn’t mind. It was a big occasion for them, for Uncle Hussain, for the entire family. Never before had a foreigner from the West eaten in our Persian quarter, let alone in our house. I gave my mum only three days’ notice for this meal, which was just as well for, if I had given her more time, she would have gone to even greater lengths to get the best fish and lamb, the freshest vegetables, and the most expensive Basmati rice we could afford. I gave almost all my monthly salary to contribute. In the end, Mueller was treated to one of the best meals I can remember we ever had at home. The best part, for all of us, was he truly seemed to like it. Although conversation between him and my family was difficult, he charmed them by having learnt a few expressions in Farsi and they, in return, made themselves understood through sign language and a lot of interpretation from me. For days after, my family kept reliving moments of the lunch, how Mueller managed—with some difficulty—to sit cross-legged like the rest of us, the expressions on his face when he tasted something new, his playfulness with the children, and general affability. Lunch had been a huge success. There was no doubt about it. Soon after, Mueller returned to Germany as his contract with BAPCO had expired. But before he left, he gave me his calling card. I had told him that it was my dream to visit Germany to which he had said, ‘Hussain, knowing you, you will come. Here’s my card. Keep it. You’ll be calling me one day.’ From Mueller, I not only glimpsed bits of German culture, their technological prowess as represented by companies such as Mercedes-Benz, Volkswagen, and Siemens, but I also came to realise that countries which I had in my naivety assumed were bastions of Western civilisation—Britain and America—were not, in fact, masters of the universe. Britain, I had held in awe for ruling the region; and America, for exporting companies such as BAPCO that took all our oil and paid a measly royalty of 7 per cent of the price of oil per barrel to the ruling family, Al-Khalifah, or, rather, directly to the Sheikh. At the time, oil was one US dollar per barrel, hence they shelled out seven cents per barrel.

The longer I worked at BAPCO, the more I came to be aware of the inequalities between the West and East. I could not understand, first of all, how an oil-rich country like Bahrain could allow complete foreigners to take a depleting and highly valuable natural asset from our soil, sell it, and pay only a pittance to the country. Not even to the government, mind you, but to the Sheikh who needless to say was not in the least bothered about sharing the spoils with the rest of the country. The seven cents per barrel were spent on satisfying his profligate tastes for imported wine, food, clothes, jewels, residences overseas . . . There was a world of difference between life at the palace and the life of ordinary Bahrainis. It was more stark even than the differences between the whites and us. At BAPCO, I experienced my first taste of racial discrimination. It was here that the seeds of my future rebellion were sown. Every morning, the locals who worked at the oil company, most of us from Manama, would ride on our rickety bikes for a good half hour or more to the makeshift company bus station on the outskirts of the capital called the BAPCO Compound. There would be three buses parked here. Depending on the colour of your bus token, handed to you ceremoniously by the human resources manager when you joined the company, you got into a particular bus. The tokens came in three colours: white for the white men, who boarded the most luxurious bus; blue for the Indians from the subcontinent, who made up the clerical force and who got a decent enough bus; and red for the rest of us, the riff-raff Bahrainis. Our bus was quite ramshackle, with benches that ran along its length as opposed to two orderly rows of two seats together, as was the arrangement in the other two buses. The discrimination worsened in the administrative office. Upon reaching the two-storey, longish building, we weren’t to troop in together, as one would reasonably expect, through the main entrance. Oh no, that wouldn’t do. The main entrance was for the white man. Then there was a smaller entrance to the side of the building for the Indians; and a dingy workers’ entrance at the back for the locals. The same tripartite demarcation could be found everywhere and for everything at BAPCO. There were whites-only washrooms, browns-only washrooms and locals-only washrooms.

Opposite the administrative building was a commissary or supermarket stocked with imported foodstuff—tins of preserved meats, biscuits, cakes, scented soaps, soft tissues, and other luxuries, exclusively for the white man—or ‘Englieesee’. Even if an Indian or local had the money, we weren’t allowed to buy anything from here. Not even a tin of sardines. Needless to say, there were huge discrepancies in our salaries too. The white men and white women would on average get as much as ten times the salary given to the locals for the same work and the same hours. What’s more, their travel costs from Britain or America to Bahrain were paid for. They received free housing in the guarded community. They were given free medical service—even surgery—at the beautiful, newly built hospital. In other words, there was actually very little that they could spend their stacks of money on, except for food and clothing. Almost all the money they saved was eventually channelled back into their original countries. It did not enter the local economy. It did not help in any way to bridge the chasm between the Western world and the East. The Indians, too, had it better than us; they were paid three times our salary. Daily, I became increasingly frustrated by such blatant discrimination. The books that I had read in secondary school, those socialist tracts that had been lent by Reza, didn’t help. They brought home even more strongly the injustice that encompassed me. I recalled the violent struggle that had been brought about by British colonialism in India, said to have been worse than their treatment of Persians in the south. I remembered similar atrocities in Africa and Indonesia. At the same time, I was reminded of the power of the masses in such historical events as the Bolshevik Revolution that overthrew the capitalist and largely corrupt Czars of Russia. Up until that point in my life, these stories had been merely that: stories of people in distant lands. The fact that they represented events that actually happened had not made much of an impression on me. But now, as I was confronted by the white man’s domination in Bahrain, our country; when I saw daily how even Indians were given preferential treatment, my entire perspective changed. The stories were no longer merely fiction; they took on a reality that affected me strongly. I chatted in English as much as possible, eager to improve my command of the language. There were some well-educated, highly intelligent Indians in the IBM section of BAPCO, mainly from Bombay and Kerala. Indeed, they spoke

English better than the Englishmen, albeit with an Indian accent. I befriended them and sometimes brought them local dates—Bahrain had one of the largest date plantations in the Arab world as the country was endowed by sweet water springs. Among this group, I got on really well with a particularly articulate Keralite called Thomas. We met frequently after work, sometimes in the coffee shops in Manama, sometimes at our homes. It was at Thomas’s small apartment, in the old section of the bazaar in Manama, that I was offered my first beer . . . shipped over on the P&O from Bombay. Foreigners in Bahrain were given a monthly ration card for alcohol. The Europeans didn’t need this ration card as they had unlimited access to alcohol at the British Gymkhana Club (later the British Club). The Indians, however, enjoyed an allowance of up to 400 rupees a month on alcoholic beverages, which they either consumed themselves or sold in the black market at higher prices to the locals. They were an enterprising lot and the sale of alcohol provided them with an additional source of income. Many were supporting families back home, so the extra money was very valuable. I enjoyed Thomas’s company because he, like my secondary school mentor Reza, was very well read. Soon, I discovered another parallel between the two; they were both communists. When Thomas realised I was a left-leaning socialist at heart, he confessed he was a member of the Communist Party of India (CPI). He started to pass me old copies of the STAR, the communist newspaper published in Kerala, brought along with the beer on the P&O. I was also maintaining contact with Reza. Whenever we met, he would tease, ‘So how’s the oil boy? Have you made your millions yet? Have you become as slick as your Anglo bosses?’ At first, I took slight offence to his tone, and to what he was implying. I was no capitalist. I was being discriminated against by them, for heaven’s sake. Soon, though, I realised he was goading me to react to events that were unfolding in the region. At the time, we were receiving daily updates on the radio on happenings in Egypt, Iran, and Algeria, where there was a growing movement for freedom from colonialists. All over the Arab world, there were calls for Arabs to unite against their Western rulers. In 1954, nationalistic Algerians began what would turn out to be a bloody, brutal war against the French who had occupied the country, ruling it since 1830. It was a complex uprising, with numerous Algerian factions fighting each other as well as the French. The main

socialist group with a pan-Arab agenda was the National Liberation Front (FLN) formed by the unification of several smaller groups seeking liberation. It was the FLN that launched the war for independence in Algeria on 1 November 1954. I remember the day clearly. It was announced on radio that the FLN was calling on all Algerian Muslims to join in a national struggle for the ‘restoration of the Algerian state, sovereign, democratic, and social, within the framework of the principles of Islam’. Soon after came the French response: ‘The only possible negotiation is war.’ In Bahrain, there was no organisation or political party that represented the wants and rights of the locals. Looking back, what we did—Reza, I, and three other socialist intellectual friends—was only inevitable. We decided to form our own party. Initially, we had no name. That didn’t seem to be important. What was important was that we meet, discuss what was going on in Algeria, and plan what we could do in our own country, Bahrain. The five of us gathered in date palm estates in Manama. I remember the first meeting. It was seven o’clock. I had come straight from BAPCO. The sun was setting, and it was getting dark. We had told each other to bring torches. I had mine with me. When I got to the estate, there was still some natural light, and I made my way in. Reza had informed us of where exactly to meet. There was a path leading into the thick of the date palms. I followed this. Within a couple of minutes, I got to a clearing and saw Reza seated, with Mehdi and Baqer. ‘Hey, so you didn’t get lost. Good job,’ he said to me. ‘Well, comrade, good instructions,’ I replied. ‘Is Mohsin coming?’ ‘Yes, I met him yesterday and he said he was,’ said Baqer. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before we heard a rustling in the undergrowth, then saw the beam of a torchlight, and Mohsin was with us. Reza, who at thirty-four was the eldest among us, began our meeting. ‘Rafiq,’ he said, referring to us in the Farsi equivalent of ‘comrade’, ‘here we are, in a land that is rightfully ours, but meeting not in a café, like they would in Paris or Vienna or any other free, liberated city. We meet in a date palm estate, because it’s not safe for us to be seen in the open. And why?’ he asked rhetorically, ‘why can we not meet in the bazaar or in the city? I’ll tell you why. Because those plain-clothed policemen of

the Special Branch of CID would arrest us if they knew what we’re about.’ There was a murmur of assent by the rest of us. ‘How have we let this come about? Why are we not free to meet and say as we please in our own city, in our own country? Who gave the British the right to be our Protectorate? Who are they protecting? Them or us?’ We nodded in agreement again. Eager to get to the point, I broke in, ‘But what can we do about it? What’s the plan? We have no weapons, like the FLN. We have no friends abroad, like they do, who supply them with guns and funds. We are nobody.’ ‘Patience, Hussain,’ Reza said. ‘We go step by step. The war doesn’t happen just like that. Even before this war in Algeria, we already knew the people were dissatisfied. We already heard their voice. Here in Bahrain, whose voices do we hear?’ At that moment, a weaver chirped. The yellow bird made us laugh. ‘We hear the voices of fishermen, the dispossessed,’ Reza continued, smiling. ‘But we’ve got to hear the voices of workers, of the average Bahraini who is fed up of being controlled by the British. Slowly, we need to organise a proper party that speaks for our rights and for our desire to see Bahrain returned to us.’ That’s how we started our movement for liberation. A rabble of five Bahraini youth aged sixteen to thirty-four meeting in date palm estates. We had no training in warfare, certainly no know-how in guerilla tactics. What we had instead was, however, just as important: youthful optimism and a fired-up passion for human justice. In our innocence, we had no idea how pervasive the secret police were. The idea that we may have been watched by intelligence officers at our workplace—certainly at BAPCO or at school—never crossed our minds. In any case, nobody would have been able to discern from our behaviour the internal turmoil we were experiencing. In the day, we continued to be all smiles and civility with the whites, yes sir-ing and no sir-ing the way we were expected to. At night, when we got together, we would cuss at their air of superiority and let loose our indignation.

From our initial group of five, we expanded. Each of us roped in another five members, who in turn brought in five more. To keep our meetings discreet, each cell of five would meet on its own, the identities of members not shared. That way, if ever a meeting was raided, only five members would be caught. And if any individual member was detained by the police and forced to release the names of others in the party, he would be able to squeal on only nine others —the four others who made up his own cell, and the five recruits he’d brought it. As we grew, we felt a need to have a name for our party, an identity. For want of a better name, we called ourselves the Bahraini Liberation Front (BLF) after the Algerian party that had inspired us. Most of our party-wide communication was conducted using peons, young boys who became our runners. Messages were passed verbally, using a special code; each head of a cell had his own daily changing codes. Nothing was written. While our party was expanding, a group of Sunni Arab intellectuals on the airport island of Muharraq, north of the main island, began forming their own dissenting group. They based themselves on Nasser’s Egyptian model. Their party was called the National Front. Like our BLF, they were a Pan Arab nationalist movement. Both parties were aware of each other and respected each other. Soon, we were emboldened by the strength of our numbers to take to the streets. In 1955, we decided to demonstrate in a show of solidarity for our fellow rafiq in the region. It was time that the whites knew Bahrainis were no longer content to be treated as secondclass citizens in their own country. At one of our council meetings, Reza had said, ‘I think we should make a stand on this. We’ve got to start making ourselves known, otherwise our brothers and sisters will feel we’re not achieving anything. What do you think?’ We were all for it. The only questions were how and when. We wanted to go on demonstration the very next day. As it was a Friday, it was ideal. We wouldn’t even have to take time off from work and have to explain ourselves. ‘But can we reach out to all our brothers and sisters so quickly? Do we have enough runners?’ asked Baqer. ‘We’ll soon find out,’ replied Reza. ‘This will be a test. Even if it’s a failure, it

doesn’t matter. We’ll learn from our mistakes and make the next demonstration better.’ ‘Let’s go for it,’ said Mohsin. We spent that evening making posters carrying slogans like: ‘Down with the British’, ‘British Go Home’, and ‘Bahrain for Bahrainis’. The demonstration was planned for ten in the morning. We would assemble at the bazaar and then make our way to the Police Fort. We were all really excited. This was the first demonstration ever in Bahrain, the first time the whites would open their eyes as to our true feelings. My family didn’t know what was happening. They had no knowledge of the BLF and were blissfully unaware that it existed at all. I didn’t tell them anything because I knew it would only cause them anxiety. They were peace-loving and would have done everything in their power to separate me from the party. That, I was not willing to do. The council met at midnight, in a back alley near my home, for last-minute coordination and to distribute the posters; Then we all returned to our respective homes for a good night’s rest. I, for one, barely slept a wink. I kept praying for a large turnout. The following morning, we were at the bazaar before nine. Already, we began to draw attention because of our posters. Strangers asked us what was going on, and we told them. Some of them gave us words of encouragement and wished us luck; others looked at us disbelievingly, as if we were mad. Our hearts were pumping fast. Please turn up, please turn up, we said to ourselves, willing our party members to show up. By nine thirty, there were about fifty boys; in the male-dominated society of Bahrain, we had not attracted any female members. This was the first time we were meeting. It felt quite strange to greet total strangers with whom we had been communicating over the past months. Fifty was not so impressive, but there was more time. Sure enough, as it drew closer to ten, more and more rafiq arrived. In the end, our total count was about two hundred. We knew we had about four hundred members, so roughly half had turned up. It was OK for the first go. At sharp ten, Reza announced that we were leaving. We five BLF founders— Reza, Mehdi, Baqer, Mohsin, and I—stood in a line at the front, each holding up a poster. The others followed behind. We began shouting out our slogans, and

the rest of the demonstrators echoed us. Although most of the people we passed just looked on in amazement, a handful joined us. The police didn’t know what to do. They’d never before been faced with a demonstration; they had never been trained to handle one. They just looked on in utter disbelief. By eleven, we had arrived at the fort. It was hot; our arms ached from holding up our posters. Our voices were hoarse from the shouting. The Fort was impenetrable. But from outside its high walls, we shouted even louder, using the last dregs of energy we had left in us. Faces peered at us from the windows, but no one came out. After about half an hour, we disbanded. We’d made our point. The next day’s paper carried a full page on our demonstration. A journalist had interviewed some of us, and our quotes were carried. Fortunately, my picture didn’t appear prominently, so my job at BAPCO was still secure. However, friends of the family had spotted me at the bazaar, and word got back—even more quickly than our runners would’ve carried it—that I’d been with this group of rebels. There was a lot of explaining to do at home—a lot of tears and recrimination. But when they asked me to promise to put an end ‘to all this nonsense’, I said no. I knew I was hurting my family, but I could not quell the rage I felt for so many acts of injustice that were being perpetrated. Out of principle, I could not appease them—just as my father had been unable to appease his parents in wanting to marry my mother. History was repeating itself. Later in 1980, a British-owned and—run Bahraini English daily named The Gulf Daily News branded me on its front-page article as the ‘rebel of Bahrain’. This, in the eyes of our people, meant that I am now a hero of my folk and a thorn in the eyes of the occupying British colonial masters then ruling Bahrain. We held a meeting that evening to discuss the demonstration. We agreed that it had been as successful as could have been hoped. The publicity we got brought in a fresh wave of members. After just one morning’s activity, our membership had swelled to six hundred. ‘It was great, wasn’t it?’ asked Reza. ‘I never felt better,’ I said. ‘And did you see the look on the coppers’ faces? They were so comic, I thought I was going to laugh.’

‘Yeah, but we got off so lightly this time because they were off guard. We’re not going to be so lucky next time. We’re going to have to be prepared for them to get nasty. Tear gas, maybe. Or batons. It won’t be nice.’ ‘Oh, we’re men enough,’ I said. Changing the topic, I added, ‘But now that we have six hundred members, you think we can still depend on our runners? I mean, we’ve only got about twenty of them. I don’t think they’re going to be able to cover all bases.’ ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing,’ Reza said. ‘In fact, I was wondering if we shouldn’t produce a wall bulletin of one page only—something very simple. But with the bulletin, we can make sure our messages are clear, and we can reach out to more people. I mean, we’re out in the open now. There’s no point hiding any more.’ Soon after, the Voice of Bahrain was born. Our first issue came out after a week. The editorial committee was made up of the five founders. The newspaper was just a one-pager, with an editorial and updates from Algeria and elsewhere in the region. We’d work on the editorials in the evenings, after work, rush the printing, and then get our runners to distribute them. Extra copies were plastered at major public spaces—on school walls, at bus stands . . . By now, the police were well aware of the BLF, but they didn’t know where our base was. They began to keep track of our movements and would tear down our posters. We, of course, kept finding new places to paste them on to. We were the first organised rebel group they had ever encountered in Bahrain, and it suddenly gave them something to sink their teeth into. A cat-and-mouse game began. From this point, whenever any major act of atrocity involving colonialists came to our attention, we would demonstrate against the British. Often, we would include the National Front too. Our ideologies were similar. We had the same objectives: to rid Bahrain of white imperialists. With the National Front, we could organise larger demonstrations. Our turnouts were now in the thousands. But because our demonstrations were always peaceful, no forceful action was taken against us. The tide turned when the British Foreign Secretary Selwyn Lloyd visited Bahrain. In the summer of 1956, Lloyd made an official trip to Bahrain as the first British

Foreign Secretary to visit the Ruler, Al-Khalifa and the British Air Force in Muharraq which was the largest in the Gulf region. Bahrain was also the base of the Royal British Navy. The BLF decided, with our sisters and brothers in the National Front, that we would teach Lloyd the lesson of his life. We were able to plan this particular demonstration well in advance as we knew about a month before that he was arriving. His plane would touch down at the international airport on Muharraq at dead noon. Sheikh Salman Bin Isa Al-Khalifa would be there to greet him. From the airport, they would be driven in the ruler’s limousine to the palace in the royal city of Riffa, towards the north of Manama, close to the white man’s enclave in Awali. The road from Muharraq to the main island was narrow. On many stretches, it was lined by shops or houses. We sent word round, asking families to collect Pepsi bottles, cans, tomatoes, eggs . . . We asked the locals in the area to gather at a particular spot to form a human barricade. The idea was for them to bring the limousine to a halt while others stationed on the rooftops pelted the foreign dignitary and the Sheikh with whatever ammunition they managed to collect. Once the limo was immobile, we also planned to burn its tires. We wouldn’t, however, harm the occupants of the car. We would simply scare the daylights out of them. The plan went like the workings of a Swiss Clock. As the Rolls Royce approached the human barricade, it was bombarded by all manner of bric-a-brac, absolutely anything the Bahrainis could lay their hands on. Then it came upon the body of men, women, and children, shouting, some punching their fists into the air, some waving their placards above their heads. The driver had no choice but to stop. We were part of the human barricade, which surrounded the car blocking its passage either forwards or backwards. I could see the look of alarm on both men’s faces. Al-Khalifa was shouting at the driver, no doubt imploring him to do something. Before long, security forces were alerted. Police turned up, but as in most of our rallies, they were caught unawares and were armed only with batons. They used this to try to disperse the group. But we outnumbered them, and they were quite powerless. Meanwhile, the British air force was radio-messaged. They had one military helicopter, which they immediately dispatched. Selwyn and Al-Khalifa

were airlifted to the palace. The next day, the same helicopter took Selwyn straight to the airport, which was now heavily guarded with armed men. This was a major coup for us. It was the first time we had shown any hostility towards the British. The British Government finally woke up to the fact that the national liberation movement in Bahrain was for real. They realised there were organised freedom fighters with leaders on both islands. This time, they decided to arrest us. At midnight, police officers appeared at our homes and took us in. I was one of the few arrested. We were locked up in the police station in the Fort for a few days. On the third day, I was brought before Sir Charles Belgrave, who still had that air of gentleness that had struck me the first time I met him, to get my passport. This time, however, there was a stern look on his face. ‘So,’ he said to the police officer who had led me from the cell to his room. ‘What do you have against Hussain Najadi? What has he done to deserve to be in custody?’ ‘He’s a rebel, sir. He’s been organising demonstrations against the British, sir. He was at the Muharraq incident. He was one of the leaders.’ ‘What proof do you have, officer?’ ‘I was there, sir. I saw him.’ ‘Yes, but who else saw him? Is there anybody else who can testify against him?’ The police officer thought for a while. ‘No, sir,’ he said finally. ‘Well then, Officer, I don’t think we have a strong enough case to detain Mr Najadi any longer. He will have to be released.’ Looking now at me, he said, ‘But let this be a warning to you and your friends, young man. We do not take such incidents lightly. If you are brought before me again on the same charges, and if there are witnesses against you and your actions, you will face harsh action. How old are you, incidentally?’ ‘Eighteen, sir.’ ‘You’re very young, Hussain. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t

spoil it.’ In retrospect, I can see that Sir Charles belonged to that rare breed of colonialists who was not bigoted. He was, in fact, an extremely fair legislator. But his words at the time did not make an impression on me. I was not to be stopped by a wellmeaning British advisor. The BLF continued to organise more and more demonstrations, and I was caught a number of times. Eventually, Sir Charles decided there was nothing more he could do in our favour. He decided to expel the leaders of BLF. Again, though, he was considerate. He asked us where we wanted to go. Reza and others decided to return to Iran. The other two went to Beirut and then Cairo. I still had Mueller’s card with me. I decided to go to Germany. Ironically, my expulsion allowed me to live out my dream.

CHAPTER 4

Across the Desert to Beirut

It was unheard of in those days for a young Bahraini, of whatever origin, to say, off the bat, he wanted to go to Germany. There were no connections between the two countries. Our Protectorate was British not German. There was no German school. We did not learn German history. So what made me choose Germany? The fact that I had befriended Mueller was not in itself sufficient reason for my choice. I had many more Arab friends from Iran and Egypt and friends from India. I think a little explanation is perhaps in order. From the time I first met Mueller and he started talking to me about Germany, I had become fascinated with this country. I started reading more about German history and culture. I would borrow books from the library and from Reza, who fuelled my interest in Germans, thanks to their anti-British sentiment. I discovered early connections between Germany and Iran. Persian civilization, one of the earliest in the history of the world, seemed to have links with Germany. My research led me to the following:

‘I am Darius, the great king, the king of kings The king of many countries and many people The king of this expansive land, The son of Wishtaspa of Achaemenid, Persian, the son of a Persian ‘Aryan’, from the Aryan race’

—from Darius the Great’s inscription in Naqshe-e-Rostam, near Persepolis, Iran

Here was the first parallel between Germans and Iranians—both were Aryan. But which way did the Aryans travel? Although the general belief is that the Aryans came from the north and spread gradually south, some Western historians have declined to accept this politicized version of history. Instead, they acknowledge that Iran was the origin of the Aryan race. The word ‘Aryan’ itself has roots in a word that Iranians used to call themselves—Ayria— which means free, noble, and steady. The word ‘Iran’ is derived from this very root, meaning the land of the Ayrians. This is the most ancient term applied to the Iranian Plateau, and such a term has never been detected anywhere else in the world, not in Europe nor Turkistan. Although I admit the following statements are merely that—statements—they serve to show the importance a number of Western intellectuals have placed on Iran’s place in the history and evolution of mankind. The German philosopher Hegel wrote in The Philosophy of History: ‘The principle of evolution begins with the history of Iran.’ Petri, in a famous speech, said, ‘When Egypt had only just begun the art of pottery, the people of Susa (in Iran) were painting beautiful pictures on ceramics.’ In other words, when Central Asia was totally buried under thick layers of ice, Iranians were creating pictures on earthenware. Considering the existence of this 12,000-year-old civilisation in Iran, is it not unlikely that 6,000 years ago, a group of people from the north spontaneously crossed the ice-covered Siberian lands, and wiped off such a civilisation from the face of the earth? Till today, Iranians are proud of our Aryan roots. Everywhere in Persia you see the word ‘arya’. I mentioned this to Mueller, who was intrigued. He, too, had an interest in history and in the links between peoples of different nations. We spent hours discussing the roots of Aryans, debating whether Germans were actually Persian or the other way round. Soon, Mueller came round to the belief—which I held—that Aryans were Persians first, then Germans. ‘We are the same volk,’ he would say. I learned a new word. Volk means ‘people’. It was incredible to think that this man, for all intents and purposes a stranger who came from a distant land and who looked so different from me, was

inextricably linked to my past, and to the past of my race. It was only through the divergence of our histories, over what we calculated to be 30,000 years that we had evolved to look different, to speak different languages (though these, too, had commonalities), to have different belief systems, cultures, religions. I found that truly fascinating. A second parallel I discovered with Germany was more current and more political in nature. Recalling the most recent history I had read in school, I was reminded of how the German Reich was against the British, just as we were against the British; and how Hitler had bombed the hell out of London. We, too, would have liked to have bombed the hell out of London, but for different reasons. While Hitler had been motivated by wanting to create a German empire, we simply wanted our own sovereignty. For centuries, Bahrain had been part and parcel of Iran. During the reign of Nader Shah, however, the British invaded by force and occupied Bahrain, killing all the Persian kozaks (soldiers) and taking over the centre of power—the Qalahe Nader (Fort) in the centre of Manama—where they imprisoned Bahrainis en masse. The British handed on paper the ruling of Bahrain to an Arab tribe from Nejd in central Arabia, called Al-Khalifa, who have continued to rule Bahrain till today. The Al-Khalifa were nothing more than sea pirates, yet they posed a real threat to the British and other ships plying in the Persian Gulf. The gift of Bahrain to these pirates was strategic. In return, they signed the Trucial State Peace treaty, ensuring safety of British vessels in the Persian Gulf, which formed an important part of marine trade routes. Iranians never really forgave the British for taking over Bahrain, then handing it over to pirates. In my mind, the Germans shared with us Iranians a common enmity against the British and, therefore, I believed they must be good. While these two commonalities with Germany engendered in me a keen interest in the country, and a desire to learn more, the most immediate reason that compelled me to choose Germany over any other country was its technological prowess. I had found it hard to get over the fact that BAPCO, a powerful American company managed by the ruling British, boasted as its most important and biggest business investment a German product. This was, of course, the IBM machines, which represented the most advanced information technology of the day. Not only did the computers come from Germany, a relatively unknown nation to us Bahrainis, but also they were actually made in a small, completely

unheard of town called Sindelfingen, near the manufacturing base of MercedesBenz and near Mueller’s home. I was convinced; therefore, that if I wanted to acquire the most technologically advanced knowledge available in the world that would elevate me through the ranks, the best place to go was Germany. Not England nor Arabia, Iran, India, Egypt, or Lebanon—all the countries I had some familiarity with as a result of people who had crossed my life. Nor even America which, though on the other side of the globe, was at least a country of which I had a reasonable amount of knowledge. No, it had to be Germany, the country that had produced these super IBM computers, the country that had declared war on Britain, the country moreover whose people shared a common ancestry with us Iranians. Nobody I knew, and certainly nobody my family knew, had ever gone to Germany. But this only increased its appeal. I was young. I was adventurous. The world was a vast stage to be explored. I felt very proud to be, at least in my mind, the first Bahraini of Persian stock to make my way to Germany. I had been given three days to make my exit from Bahrain. Reza, Mehdi, Baqer, and Mohsin had already been expelled to Iran and Beirut. But I needed to prepare for my long and by no means well trodden route. I brought out all the maps I could lay my hands on. Fortunately, geography had been, along with history, my two favourite subjects. With what little knowledge I had of the terrain of the Middle East and Europe, I plotted my journey. I decided I would take a dhow from Bahrain to the nearest port on the Saudi coast, Al Khobar, and from there travel overland to Beirut, a major trading centre called by some the Princess City of the Middle East or the Paris of the Middle East. Being on the lip of the Mediterranean, Beirut was a natural gateway to Europe. I could easily board a ship at Beirut headed towards Italy, and then make my way overland again to my final destination: Germany. My family, as always, rallied in full support of my plans. My mother, who had been initially shocked and saddened by what she said was my obstinate foolishness in getting involved in the BLF, started knitting me a jumper for my journey, shedding silent tears as she knitted. Although I had tried to dissuade her, saying it wouldn’t be necessary and she already had enough work to do, she, in her infinite wisdom, knew the woollen jumper would come in handy. My mother, who had only ever spent her days in the mountains of south Iran and,

now, in the hot and humid island of Bahrain, ‘knew’ of the harsh winters in the Arabian desert and in Europe. And she persisted, knitting furiously because there wasn’t much time. In fact, I dare say, time she would normally have spent in religious devotion she now passed in her urgent quest to finish my warm, goat’s wool jumper. One afternoon, I found her in her favourite spot—the Persian carpet in the courtyard under a palm tree. All Iranian families would have a few of these beautiful, handwoven carpets; they were an integral part of our 4,000-year-old culture. On her knee was my half-finished jumper. She was knitting when I went up to her. So engrossed was she at the task at hand, she seemed barely to hear me. I sat next to her and asked, ‘Mama, are you still angry at me?’ She glanced at me then returned her gaze to the knitting. She sighed. ‘Hussain, ever since you’ve been a little boy, I’ve never been able to stay angry with you for long. You’ve always been headstrong, like your father. But you’ve also made me happy in so many ways. You’ve done many good things. You’ve been good at school, good at football, good at sailing, good at fishing . . . And then you got such a good job at BAPCO. I just don’t understand.’ She looked up at me again, her brows knitted in a question. ‘You know, it’s not as if I ever intended to leave Bahrain. Leave you, father, Uncle Hussain, and all of this,’ I said, sweeping my hand in an arc. ‘But the BLF, our fight for freedom, it really means something to me. Nothing else I’ve done so far has made me feel as alive. I feel as if I’m doing something meaningful, Mama. And it’s not just for me. It’s for everyone in Bahrain.’ ‘But why did it have to be you?’ she asked quietly. ‘Why couldn’t you let the others do it? Why couldn’t you just help in the background? Didn’t you have an office? You could’ve just worked from the office. Do the paper-work. You’re good at that. You’re so young, Hussain, how could they let you play such a major role? How could you have gone out there, in the front?’ ‘It’s not they and me, Mama. It’s not like that. I am one of the leaders. I’m one of the founders of the party. I made decisions, like the other leaders. Nobody forced me to do anything.’ She shook her head. There were tears welling in her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to think, Hussain,’ she said finally. ‘I just know that you mean the world to me. I

want you to be safe.’ She put down her knitting, took my hands in hers, and looking me in the eyes. ‘Will you at least promise me one thing?’ ‘What is it, Mama?’ ‘Will you promise to look after yourself? Try not to get into any more trouble like this?’ ‘I will do my best, Mama,’ I said. She kissed my forehead. ‘And will you keep in touch?’ ‘Yes, Mama.’ My father and Uncle Hussain, meanwhile, scouted amongst their sailor friends, making enquiries as to who would be sailing to Al Khobar over the next few days. Today, there exists a twenty-four kilometre bridge—the King Fahd Causeway—linking Bahrain with this port, but in 1956 the only means of getting across to mainland Arabia was on a dhow. Their mission was easily accomplished, as between them they knew all the nakhoda on the island, every captain who sailed either east towards Iran or west to Saudi. Within an afternoon, they came back to me bearing news of having found my nakhoda. They gave me about 4,000 Indian rupees (the equivalent of 400 Deutsche Mark), which I converted into US dollars and put in my pocket. It was not much, but I knew if I was frugal it would get me to Germany. Once there, I’d be on my feet again. Mueller had assured me that as soon as I landed in Germany (he was surer than I at the time that I would find myself in his country!), he would get me a job that paid a decent salary, enough to pay for my living and studies. In other words, doing what I did at BAPCO, but in Germany. The idea was hugely appealing to me. Though I could not have foreseen how it would come true, now, suddenly, this cherished dream was actually going to be realised. To me, it was nothing less than a miracle. While circumstances that had led to the realisation of this dream were less than ideal, I was extremely excited by the turn of events in my life and could barely sleep at night. Other than the clothes on my back, I packed a couple of items, including the jumper my mother had made into a small suitcase. And that was it. In all honesty, I was not nervous. I was truly looking forward to what I believed would

be a great adventure. At the same time, though, I could see that the family, and especially my mother, was going to miss me terribly as I would them. They were all there at the port. Unlike most cheerful farewells, when the sendoff party knows the person departing will return, my family cut an uncommonly solemn sight. Even my little cousins, eleven of them, were not their usual rambunctious selves. Every one of them took their turn to give me a kiss, a hug, and made me promise to write and to come back as soon as I could. As I hugged each individual in turn, the tears started rolling, theirs and mine. I could not help it. I was leaving everyone who had loved me, who I had ever loved. My parents were heartbroken. As poor as they were, they had given me all that they could. They certainly never expected that their son would one day be exiled from their home and country for ten years. They had tried so hard to be brave not to cry. But here at the port, their grief was too much to contain. It tore me apart too. I had never wanted to cause them such pain. I swore then and there to make the best of what the future would bring. I wanted to make them proud of me once again. ‘Please write us letters, wherever you are,’ shouted Uncle Hussain as I boarded the dhow. With a blow of its horn, the dhow left. It was a fine winter’s afternoon. The air was cool but not cold. A soft breeze blew gently from the east. It took around six hours to cross the Gulf of Bahrain and arrive at Al Khobar. The small trading post was populated mainly by Bahraini merchants. As in Bahrain, oil had been discovered here in the 1930s and while the town was not as developed as Manama, it was all abuzz. Enterprising Bahrainis, recognising the as-yet untapped potential here, made the easy crossover and opened shops to cater to the growing population. Our family had friends in Al Khobar, amongst who was Abu Ehsan. He had been alerted about my arrival and was at the port to greet me. Abu Ehsan had visited our house in Manama several times to speak to my father or Uncle Hussain. Like my father, he was also a fruit and vegetable trader. Just before leaving for Al Khobar, some five years previously, he had visited quite often, seeking advice from Uncle Hussain. Should he leave Manama for Al Khobar or not? Uncle Hussain had contacted the few people he knew in Al Khobar and received positive news from them. He therefore said to Abu Ehsan, ‘Go, Abu Ehsan. All

our brothers in Saudi say business is good there. The Arabs are too busy crossing the desert on their camels to set up shop at the ports. So there’s plenty of opportunity for people like you . . . It’s an oil town, booming. If you start trading, you’re bound to do well.’ I was glad to see that Uncle Hussain’s advice had been good. Abu Ehsan lived in a modest but nicely furnished apartment above his rented shops in the high street of this oil service town. Al Khobar was only just developing. Its high street was the only paved road here. Abu Ehsan’s wife and children, whom I had not met before, seemed very contented with their new life. His wife had a happy face, and was a little plump, always a sign that business was good. The two of them were genuinely concerned about my journey, from what little they had already gleaned about my situation. That night, while we were having dinner, Abu Ehsan asked me about events that had led to my exile. I explained to the best of my ability. Having heard my story, he asked, ‘So, tell me, what are your plans now?’ ‘I’m on my way to Germany.’ ‘Germany?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You’ve come to Saudi Arabia, the kingdom of deserts. And you want to go to Germany? Exactly how do you plan to cross the thousands of kilometres of desert?’ I didn’t have a map of my route. I didn’t need one because I had already memorised it so well. I asked for a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. Then I drew, quite accurately I may add, all the countries from Saudi to Germany, and I marked out with a dotted line how I intended to make my way to Beirut and from there to Germany. Up to that moment, I believe, they were not convinced that I was serious about going to Germany. Now, however, they were fascinated. Even impressed. They realised I knew what I was doing. Germany was not some outlandish country I’d simply plucked out of the air, just for effect. ‘How can we help?’Abu Ehsan asked. I was very proud and never asked for money. But the one thing they could help me with was to get me on to the next leg of my journey. Every day, large trucks bearing all manner of goods arrived at Al Khobar from Beirut, through Syria then across the Sahara into Saudi Arabia. These hardy trucks travelled for days and nights from one end to the other, stopping at various points along the way to deliver fresh fruits and vegetables from Beirut and Damascus, the cradle of

civilisation of the Levant, and also to refuel and allow their drivers some rest. I wanted to go on one these trucks in the reverse direction. The next morning, Abu Ehsan took me to the wet market and introduced me to a Syrian driver. He was a small man with a wizened face, tanned from the desert sun, and deeply lined from the dry air. In truth, I cannot remember the name of this sincere, incredibly kind man. But I’ll call him Mohamad. In Arabia, if you do not know a man’s name, you just call him Mohamad. Even in Cairo, were you to enter a coffee shop and call out Mohamad, every man in the establishment would look at you as if to say, ‘Yes, I’m here’! Abu Ehsan said, ‘Mohamad, this Bahraini boy wants to go to Germany and study there. He’s a poor boy. Can you give him a lift to Beirut?’ I noticed for the first time a recurring theme I would encounter several times throughout my life: that for Arabs and also Iranians, being from Bahrain had very positive connotations. They trusted people from Bahrain. There was also a kind of respect for a nation that had acquired a reputation for being peaceful, caring, and loving. It was obvious that Mohamad, for one, held Bahrain and Bahrainis in such high regard. ‘Bahrain?’ he said, looking at me with a big smile. ‘Ah, what a wonderful place! I’ve been longing to visit your country for a long time. You’re like my son. Of course, you can come with me. It will be a pleasure to have company for a change.’ As it turned out, Mohamad was a head driver. In the desert, there were no roads. Because of strong winds that kept blowing the sand, there were no established tracks either. The only landmark was the Tapline, the pipeline belonging to American Standard Oil (Aramco). This pipeline, the first to be laid down in the Saudi Kingdom, stretched from the Eastern oil fields across the desert all the way to Beirut, criss-crossing Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Syria to reach Lebanon on the Mediterranean Sea. It took a man with many years of experience to be able to navigate the frighteningly vast expanse of shifting dunes and plains. The tradition was, one such driver—the head driver—would lead others behind him in a convoy or caravan that snaked its way across no-man’s-land. Mohamad told me to sit in the front, next to him, and we headed into the sea of

sand and domes of the Sahara, with a caravan of four or five trucks behind us. We set off in the morning, while the sun was still low on the horizon. From the market in Al Khobar, our starting point, we were on tarmac for about an hour, until we reached the edge of the town. Then, the tarmac gave way to gravel and sand as we entered the desert. For thousands of kilometres in this desert, there was nothing in sight, except sand and the odd cluster of shrub. No man, no beast, no vegetation. Every movement attracted attention. Every so often, my eyes would be drawn to small desert lizards basking in the sun, sand snakes moving lethargically in the still heat, and skeletons of camels, a sure reminder of the hostile environment we were in. As the morning wore on, the sun rose higher and the desert became progressively hotter. I saw more and more mirages, shimmering pools that somehow disappeared the closer we got. I could imagine how these would drive a parched man, lost in the desert, mad. By noon, it was too hot to continue. We stopped, and the men brought out dates, coffee, and water—typical desert fare— the same, in fact, as Arabs would have eaten for centuries before us. One driver set up a portable kerosene stove on which he boiled some water for the coffee. We shared this, sitting in a circle as if around a campsite. The meal over, one by one, the drivers disappeared from our circle into their trucks. They got into their seats, leant back and slept. At first, I thought they were only going to have a light, short siesta. But they continued sleeping for a good four hours. This was their way. They would sleep in the heat of the afternoons and drive through the cool nights. At about five in the evening, we packed up and were off again. Mohamad and I chatted about this and that. He, too, was curious as to why I wanted to go to Germany. He asked about Bahrain, his dream land, while I asked about his life. I learnt he was married, had four children. They all lived in Aleppo, where the children were at school. He said he was very proud of Sabera, his eldest daughter because she was very studious and wanted to become a teacher. The boys were not so keen on school, and Mohamad felt they would take after him, and become cross-desert truck drivers. ‘The pay is quite good,’ he said, drawing on his camel cigarette. ‘Not many men last long in this job because for so many hours you are alone, you have no one to talk to, and when it is night and you want to sleep, you cannot. You have to keep going. Sometimes there are sand storms, and you cannot move at all. You are stuck, maybe for one whole day. It is a very lonely job.’

I could see what he meant. The desert landscape was awe-inspiringly beautiful yet also slightly menacing. It was certainly not an environment that invited the casual traveller. One entered the desert only for a specific reason. For these truck drivers, it was to earn their living. I looked in wonder at the seemingly endless plains, with naturally produced striations, and the dunes, some of which loomed taller than any building in Bahrain. As the sun set, the desert was enveloped in a beautiful sheen of orange before turning bluish-black. The sky was the clearest I’d ever seen, which made it not just pretty, but also a compass of sorts for the drivers or rather the head driver. Mohamad was not head driver for nothing. He knew all about the stars and could point out the different constellations with ease. His job, at night, was to fix on a particular star towards the west, and keep driving in its direction. What the Arab sailors did at sea—crossing the Indian Ocean on their way to the Malabar Coast of India, or the Spice Islands of Indonesia, the Kingdom of Malacca or China— these drivers did in the desert. Both the sailors and desert drivers had no navigational tools. Both relied heavily on the stars. For both, any mistake was costly; it could take them hundreds of kilometres off course. It could cost their very lives. These men not only had to understand the celestial bodies, they also had to be in tune with nature. They had to be able to detect signs of storms, and they had to know what to do to survive these. What brave men, and how adventurous . . . discovering continents and cultures by sheer tenacity and very, very hard work. On the second night, Mohamad started yawning after having driven about five hours. As head driver, though, he could not stop. The rest of the caravan was depending on him to cover a set distance through the night. We’d been silent for a while, as we were both a little weary. Suddenly, he turned to me and asked, ‘Hussain, can you drive?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘I’m really tired. Could you take over the wheel?’ I couldn’t believe my ears. Nobody had ever trusted me with a truck before. And in a desert! ‘Sure, Mohamad, no problem,’ I said, barely containing my excitement.

‘It’s quite easy, actually,’ said Mohamad. ‘There’s nothing to it. See that star over there?’ he asked, pointing to a star to the left of the sky ahead, slightly apart from the others. It was quite big and clear. ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, keep your eyes on it and keep driving towards it. Think you can do that?’ ‘Sure, Mohamad. Like you said, there’s nothing to it!’ We stopped the truck, and as I got out to move into the driver’s seat, Tawfiq, the driver in the truck behind us, gave me the thumbs up. Lowering his window, he teased, ‘Hey, chief, don’t get us lost, you hear?’ On the right of us was the Tapline, the only other landmark to guide me. But Mohamad warned the pipeline sometimes got covered in the sand and I could lose track of it. The star was the only reliable constant. Before Mohamad could change his mind, I quickly put the truck in gear and steered the heavy vehicle into the inky darkness. Within a few seconds, Mohamad was snoring. For all my involvement in the BLF, and for all the passion I had for the liberation of Bahrain, I was still a child at heart. And my childish heart was filled with the completely innocent glee of being in control of this huge, lumbering truck. What’s more, the head truck. I was the head driver of a caravan crossing the Arabian Desert in the middle of a starry, clear winter’s night. It was cold, and I had put on the goat-wool jumper my mother had made. How I wished she could see me now! How I wished my cousins could see me! Boy, would they have been envious! I kept a steady speed for a good couple of hours, my brain in overdrive with the adrenaline rush. Then, suddenly, I realised there was no longer just the one star but two. I rubbed my eyes, thinking perhaps the darkness was playing tricks on me. No, there were still two. I blinked. Still there were two stars. The pipeline on the right had disappeared as Mohamad had cautioned it might. I knew I could not carry on, not knowing which star to follow, so I braked and we came to a halt. Mohamad was still snoring peacefully. I shook his shoulder, saying, ‘Mohamad, Mohamad, get up.’

‘Eh, eh, what is it?’ he said, gradually coming to his senses. ‘Mohamad, I don’t know how, but there are two stars now. What do I do?’ ‘What are you talking about, Hussain? Have you gone mad?’ he asked. He thought I couldn’t be serious. ‘No, Mohamad. Please, you look for yourself and see. There are two of them,’ I said, pointing to the twin stars. He followed my glance. For a while, he was silent. ‘Damn, you’re right. There are two lights out there. All right, but they’re not both stars. One of them is a fire,’ he said, smiling. ‘I want you to follow the fire. That one there on the right.’ I thought either he was still steeped in slumber or he had a strange sense of humour. A fire in the middle of the desert, in the middle of a winter’s night? This was not the Australian bush. You don’t get spontaneous combustion in temperatures of five degrees centigrade. But who was I to argue with the head driver? Obediently, I followed Mohamad’s instructions and drove towards the light on the right. We drove for a good hour or so, the caravan following us in the rear, and then I realised Mohamad was absolutely right. As we neared the source of light, I could make out flames flickering and, close to the fire, some tents. The fire had been lit by a Bedouin tribe. As we approached their encampment, Mohamad explained these nomadic desert tribes traditionally built a big fire wherever they camped at night to help anybody who got lost in the desert. These fires were veritable beacons of life in the naked desert. Fire is very precious to the Bedouins. It gives light and lends warmth. Yet these nomads are willing to create fires bigger than necessary for their own purposes just for the benefit of others. Many have been saved by this wonderful tradition. The generosity of the Bedouins made a huge impression on me. Seeing our caravan approach, the camp, which had been asleep, slowly came alive. A couple of women busied themselves at a stove, while four men stood at the opening of their tent, looking out at us. Before we could even come down from our trucks, they had surrounded us with dallah (coffeepots) in hand, offering steaming cups of Arabic coffee. They didn’t know us. It didn’t matter if we were Arabs or

Muslims, they welcomed us with hearty greetings of assamalaikum—peace be upon you—and immediately offered us each a hot cup of coffee and plate of dates. Perhaps it was the magic of the entire evening or simply the infusion of cardamoms in the coffee, but my cup of coffee was the best I had ever had. There were only about 10 Bedouins in this tribe, all of whom were taking shelter under the one, big tent they had erected. I noticed there was a curtain separating the tent in half, and Mohamad later explained the women and children would sleep at the back, while the men guarded them in the front. The Bedouins, he further said, were very loyal to each other and to the sanctity of their women. At the same time, the women were not socially restricted. They were free to talk to men. The two Bedouin women who had prepared our coffee helped the men to serve us. Their hospitality was such that as soon as we had finished our cup, they would offer to refill it, smiling all the time. To this very day, the hospitality shown to us by these Bedouins continues to amaze me. I have only ever seen similar goodwill being granted by grand civil organisations—governments and their charitable bodies (NGOs)—or humanitarian institutions. Certainly, one does not expect it from the poor who have nothing. These Bedouins had very little. They were constantly moving— that was their life—so they had very few possessions, just the bare necessities. Next to their tent were some camels and sheep, their source of milk and meat. Dates and coffee were luxuries, as was also cardamom, which they had boiled in the water for our coffee. This would have come all the way from Indonesia, through India, and then the trading ports of the Middle East. It would have been quite expensive. Yet they shared their precious cardamom, coffee, and dates with us, strangers who had descended on their encampment in the middle of night. While to me the encounter with the Bedouins was an eye-opener, an awakening to the incredible acts of kindness that mankind is capable of exhibiting, the others in our caravan were obviously used to this show of hospitality. They were even prepared for it. After the caffeine had kicked their systems alive again, a number of men from our group, including Mohamad, brought out packets of cigarettes and boxes of dry biscuits and presented these to our hosts. The men accepted these little tokens of our appreciation quite happily. We offered two kinds of cigarettes—Camels and Chesterfields—and the Camels

were by far much more popular. The Bedouins were, not surprisingly, partial to anything that depicted the fascinating, gangly animal that was so crucial to their survival. Immediately after being given their Camels, the men opened their packets and offered us sticks. As we were enjoying our smoke and more coffee, one of the Bedouin elders asked the driver next to him, ‘Do you have any pain killer? My wife has a bad back, which has been hurting for a few days. We’ve run out of Aspirin. And we’re very far from the next town.’ It so happened that one of us did have some Aspirin, and these tablets were gladly given. The Bedouin elder was genuinely pleased. He kept thanking the young driver. We spent some three hours at the tent, drinking more coffee, and having more cigarettes. When the group finally decided it was time to move on, we asked the Bedouins where the next well was. As masters of the desert, they of course were able to guide us. Following their instructions, we managed to make our way to the well, just as the effects of our copious cups of coffee were wearing off and refreshed ourselves again, this time with pure spring water from shallow deep wells—cold, clean, totally refreshing. We washed our hands, feet, and face, squatted on the sand to thank Allah for our safe journey and for looking after our families and then continued on our journey to Damascus. We arrived after another night—this time of non-stop driving—at around noon on the fourth day of our long trek. Mohamad was back at his spot behind the wheel, and expertly led the convoy to the main wet market in the capital of Syria. I had read so much about this beautiful garden city, the capital of the Ommayaed Khalifat, with at least two thousand years of heritage, culture, architecture. I couldn’t believe I was actually here, in the mystic town of fables. I, a poor boy from Bahrain, was standing in the famous Ommayed Square, with its splendid 1,300-year-old mosque. It felt as if I were in a dream, the most wonderful, fantastic dream. We had parked, along with all the other lorry drivers, on the fringe of the old bazaar. The market was in full swing—goats and sheep bleating, camels chewing, crates of vegetables and fruit being carted from lorry to stall, and from stall into the buyers’ baskets. There was fish, meat, and lots of trading. Mohamad was on home ground. He seemed to know every other person, exchanging salaams and pleasantries. He took me to a café, made me sit, and ordered some food for the two of us. ‘Hussain’, he said, in between bites, ‘I’m not going to Beirut today. I’ve been

away from my family for ten days, and I’m missing my wife and children. I’m going to take a bus back to Aleppo. You are very welcome to come with me. I would love to introduce you to my family.’ ‘That’s a very kind offer, Mohamad, and I’m very tempted to say yes. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather make my way to Beirut. I still have a long way to go.’ ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, smiling. ‘You are young. You have a lot of energy. I’m getting old. That’s why I need to rest a few days and let my wife spoil me. But I understand. You want to carry on. That’s OK. After we finish, I will take you back to the lorry station, and I will find someone who can take you to Beirut. It’s not far, only about 200 kilometers. It will take you about five hours.’ ‘Thank you, Mohamad. You’ve been very kind. I wish there’s some way I could repay you. Will you take some . . . ?’ Before I could finish my question, he said, ‘Oh no no no. As I told your friends, you are more than my guest. You are like my son. This is the minimum I can do. And don’t worry, the driver who takes you to Beirut also won’t take your money. You are going on a long trip. You need to keep your money.’ True to his word, Mohamad found me a driver, another Syrian, who was leaving for Beirut that afternoon. He said to this driver, ‘Brother, please take this young man to Beirut. Take him to a family and make sure they look after him. He will need to go to the port because he wants to go to Italy. From Italy, he wants to go to Germany to study there . . . please take good care of this boy, just as one of your own sons’. The new driver wasn’t much of a talker. He just nodded his head, told me to jump in and, without further ado, drove his lorry out from the market, and onto the main road. As we exited the marketplace, I turned back to see if Mohamad was still there. Sure enough, he was rooted at the same spot. When he saw me look at him, he started waving vigorously. ‘God be with you, Hussain,’ he shouted. Mohamad was truly a kind soul, and I will never forget how well he looked after me. I still think of him sometimes and imagine what it would’ve been like to go back to his family with him. I just know that I would have been totally spoilt by them. I hope life has been good to him and his family. It saddens me, today, to know that I will never meet this kind man again, nor any of the many others who

have flitted in and out of my life, helping me in moments of great need, each in his own way, without asking for anything in return. In my heart, I thank them constantly even if I know they can’t hear me. The relatively short journey from Damascus to Beirut is quite spectacular. Lebanon, like Iran, is a mountainous country. There are two ranges that stretch longitudinally from north to south, Anti-Lebanon towards the east, which we first encountered on our drive, followed by the Biqaa Valley, and then the even higher Mount Lebanon. As it was winter, these mountains were snow-capped. It was the first time I was seeing snow. I was so amazed by the sight, I had to ask my driver companion if it was truly snow. He nodded, not taking his eyes off the narrow road that wound its way around the slopes. As we were crossing the Biqaa valley, I noticed to our right some ruins in the distance. Again, my curiosity could not be contained. I just had to ask my silent driver what it was. It was the first time I heard his voice. It was rough, as gravelly as the road we were on. ‘Baalbek,’ he said. I had read about Baalbek in history. It was an ancient city famous for opium, dancers, music, and its ruins. Some of the blocks of stones found in these ruins, I had read, are so big and weigh so much, that historians have yet to explain how they have come to rest at the site of the ancient temple. Though nobody can explain this extraordinary feat, it remains a sure sign of what must have been an amazingly advanced Phoenician civilisation. After having spent days in the desert, this short drive was a feast for the senses. I lapped in all the sights—the glistening snow on the tips of the mountains, the ruins of the ancient city of Baalbek, and then the glorious azure of the sea—the many-storied Mediterranean. We were there. We had reached the cosmopolitan, bustling capital of Lebanon: Beirut. Paris of the Orient as the French called it. The driver drove me straight to the port. He knew an Armenian Christian family there. The old man, however, had died, and his wife ran a modest bed and breakfast for merchants and travellers. For one Lebanese pound (30 US cents), she gave me part of a bedroom in her two-bedroom house. There was no other lodger at the time, just me, so I had the room all to myself. Sabrah, as the landlady was called, heated some water and brought it to my room so I could wash. It was so good to be able to wipe off the grime and dust of the desert with the damp towel and soap.

It was even better to be able to stretch out on a bed after so many nights of sleeping in a truck! We had arrived at about eight at night, and after washing myself, I lay on the bed thinking I would just relax a little before going out for some dinner. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep. When I awoke, the sun was up again. It was a bright, crisp morning. Through the window, I could hear gulls and noises of a busy port. I washed my face in a sink in the bedroom, then went to look for Sabrah. She was busy preparing my breakfast. ‘I thought I heard you get up,’ she said. ‘You must be very hungry. You didn’t have any dinner. Sit. You must have a good breakfast. You look like you’ve been starved.’ I was very thin as I never felt hungry. In my youth, I ate more out of necessity than desire. Yet the combination of the aromas arising from Sabrah’s breakfast and the fact that I had not eaten properly for a good many days meant I was truly ravenous. Her breakfast smelt so good. And it tasted just as wonderful. For the first time in my life, I had a breakfast fit for a king. Coffee, fresh, hot milk, croissants, homemade bread, home-made jam, butter . . . These were the kinds of food the white men had back at BAPCO but not the poor boy of Bahrain. Sabrah was very motherly. She kept making me eat until I literally was unable to take another morsel. ‘You must stay with me,’ she said. ‘You’re all skin and bones. I will look after you and fatten you up.’ I told her, as much as I would’ve liked to enjoy more of her wonderful cooking, I was on a mission. I wanted to get to Germany. Mohamad had told me that I would be able to buy myself a ticket to Italy from the port. I asked Sabrah if he meant the port that was just in front of her house. ‘I should think so,’ she said. ‘This is the main port in Beirut. If there are any ships going to Italy from Lebanon, they will go from here.’ I walked to the port after breakfast. After asking around, I found a counter for ships to Italy. From Beirut, the ships headed south to Alexandria, in Egypt, then north to Cyprus and Greece, and, finally, to Naples, Italy. The journey took ten days. I noticed on the board a price menu for first class, second class, and third class. They were all quite expensive. I asked the man behind the counter for the cheapest ticket.

‘On the deck?’ he asked. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘The ship comes on Saturday,’ he said. For a while, I wasn’t sure what day it was. I had to calculate mentally. Eventually, I worked out it was Monday. I had five more days in Beirut. It didn’t matter. I could wait. Beirut was in any case another city I had read so much about, and I was more than happy to spend some time here. I bought my ticket. It cost 30 Lebanese pounds, and entitled me to a folding chair and blanket. I left the port with my ticket in my pocket—my ticket to Europe, to Germany, to my dream. I was so excited, I skipped and danced as I made my way into the magical city of Beirut. Little did I know, as I left the port, that I would not make it to Italy, let alone Germany. As would happen so often in my life, destiny had other plans for me.

CHAPTER 5

Destiny’s Child Arrives in Iran

I had five days in Beirut, and I made the most of it. Beirut, the capital of Lebanon, was a truly beautiful, cosmopolitan city, one that not only basked in a glorious past but also in a glamorous present. I was determined to discover as much as I could of this Paris of the Orient, the multicultural, multilingual city of dreams, where intellectual life was valued and therefore flourished. In those days, any Arab with an adventurous soul who dreamt of travel and of experiencing the world would aspire to go to Beirut. Paris, London, and New York were too expensive, but Beirut gave a close approximation, the closest they could get, to what these other wondrous cities offered. As I breathed, I could almost feel the air of freedom fill my lungs and permeate my body. It was immensely liberating. Finally, it seemed, I was able to be true to my beliefs, my ideas, visions, and dreams, with neither control nor fear of the secret police. What struck me about Beirut was its working democracy, a first in the Middle East. I couldn’t get enough of the free press, couldn’t believe the country was governed by an elected parliament, whose members represented the people. Arab journalism was at its sharpest, most incisive, here in Beirut. There were numerous publishing houses, each churning out volumes of literary works that were well appreciated by the highly educated populace. Immediately after purchasing my ticket from the port, I took a tram into the city and walked around, admiring the architecture and natural beauty of Beirut. The more I absorbed, the more mesmerised I became by this living continuation of a vibrant history spanning some five thousand years. So many empires and civilisations were born or strengthened here—the Romans, Phoenicians, and Canaanites and later, the Persians, the Ottomans, the Abbasids, the Omayyads. Persians would have traversed Lebanon on their way to conquer Greece, just as the Crusaders, the Jews, and Armenians would have once populated this strategically placed city in their ambitious quest to expand the base of their

power and dominion. One of my favourite landmarks was the elegant promenade straddling the Mediterranean. Walking along the palm-lined Corniche, as it is called, I felt an indescribable joy at being at once in a place of such historical richness while also being so obviously close to the world I had only ever dreamt of entering— Europe. Just across the Mediterranean, from the direction in which the gentle breeze was blowing, lay Cyprus, while eastwards was the Middle East, beginning with Syria then leading on to Jordan, Palestine, Israel, and the Levant valleys . . . I was in the middle of two distinct civilisations, two geographically, historically, and culturally separated worlds, each with its own fascinating facets . . . mythical, fictional, and factual. And I wanted to discover it all. I was drunk with the prospect of divining secrets behind the glorious facades along Beirut’s magnificent boulevards. Given my penchant for learning, one of the buildings that held me in particular awe was the American University of Beirut, known simply as the AUB. Set up in 1866, it was by then already attracting thousands of students and earnest scholars from the Arab world. AUB housed one of the oldest, most fascinating museums in the Middle East which, of course, I visited. There was, moreover, a connection between AUB and Bahrain—the founder of the university, an American missionary by the name of Dr Daniel Bliss had also set up the first private but charitable hospital in Bahrain, in 1905, and built adjacent to it a school, a convent, and a church. The hospital was close to our home in Bahrain and my own uncle Rasool once received treatment for a heart problem there, completely free of charge. I came to realise that faith and knowledge are intertwined and neither is constrained by borders. They belong to all of us, to humanity at large. How noble it was of those men and women who came from faraway places to bring us the best of their learning and medical institutions in the emerging, less developed Middle East. Many years later, I had the great privilege to meet the grandson of Dr Bliss, Richard Bliss, who was president of the Bankers Trust in New York, a prominent figure during my banking days. University life is always associated with romance, and while I was not a student

of AUB, perhaps my close proximity and affinity to it influenced me in some mysterious way. It all happened at la Rouche, a particular spot along the Corniche, close to the university. La Rouche was so called because in the sea here loomed three large rocks, from which a number of spurned lovers jumped to their death. But on a more positive note, at la Rouche one got to enjoy the most spectacular sunset. It so happened that I was at la Rouche on my first evening in Beirut when the sun was disappearing beneath the horizon. I was enjoying the trail of pinks and oranges in the clear Mediterranean sky when I noticed, silhouetted against this backdrop, two girls sitting on a bench, so young, so lovely, and carefree. As shy as I was, I managed a gruff greeting, and was hugely gratified when they responded. To me, it was an invitation to sit down next to them, which I did. ‘The sunset here is really beautiful, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Haven’t you seen it before?’ asked one of the girls. She had long, dark hair, which was tied in a ponytail. ‘No, this is my first evening in Beirut,’ I replied. ‘Oh, so you’re not Lebanese?’ asked the longhaired girl again. ‘No, I’m Bahraini.’ ‘Oh! A Bahraini? The Gulf, the oil country? What’re you doing here then? Are you a student at the American University?’ This time, it was the prettier of the two girls, with a shortish bob, who spoke. ‘I’m just passing through. I’m on my way to Germany.’ And so began my conversation with the two friends. They were seventeen, just a year younger than me and going to college. They seemed to be very interested in me—why I was going to Germany; what I planned to do in Germany; how I was going to get there; what I thought of Beirut . . . They were also very keen to know more about the Gulf. The Lebanese, like most Arabs, are intrigued by people from the Gulf, whom they invariably associate with oil, and therefore easy wealth. This is so until today. We must’ve have chatted for a good hour before the girl with a bob—her name was Jehan—said it was time they got going.

‘Mama’ll be really upset if we don’t go home now,’ she said. ‘She’ll be waiting for me for dinner.’ ‘I have to go too,’ said Layla, her friend. Both of them stood up, and I thought that would be the extent of my time spent with these two lovely girls. But then Jehan turned to look at me and said, ‘I guess you don’t know anybody here. Would you like to meet again tomorrow? We could walk along the Corniche.’ ‘That would be great,’ I said, meaning it. ‘Same time, same place?’ ‘See you at la Rouche,’ I replied, feeling quite jubilant. I had just made my first date! We met again the next day, as planned. Jehan had college to attend, which finished around five thirty, giving her just enough time to make it to la Rouche for six. I had, once again, the whole day to explore Beirut. By the time I sat on the blue railing that stretched along the entire Corniche, I’d had my fill of historical sites, of synagogues, churches and mosques, cafés, and book shops . . . It was almost too much to take in, in one day. I was looking forward to meeting Jehan again, to tell her what I’d seen, ask her to explain the background of some buildings. And of course, just to see her lovely face again. She turned up almost on the dot of six, a satchel slung across her shoulder. ‘Hi, boy from Bahrain. Tell me, which is better. Manama or Beirut?’ she asked. ‘Manama has better looking boys, but Beirut has prettier girls,’ I said. She laughed as she sat next to me, laying her satchel on the ground next to her. Although we were roughly the same age, we came from vastly different worlds, me being Muslim, she a Christian, me coming from a poor background, she from a middle class family. Yet we connected in a way that only the young and innocent seem able to do, and the one hour we had together passed without either of us realising it. There was so much to talk about, and to discover about each other’s lives. Almost psychically, Jehan glanced at her watch at seven and

said, ‘Oh my god, I’ve got to go!’ We met one more time after that—on my third day in Beirut. The following day, my fourth, she had a birthday dinner of a cousin to attend in the evening after college. And I was to leave on my ship to Italy the day after that. Jehan and I had struck a chord in each other. We just enjoyed each other’s company, and there was a measure of sadness in our parting. ‘I guess I’ll never see you again,’ Jehan had said. ‘You never know. I’ll be in Europe. It’s just across the Mediterranean. Instead of sitting here every evening with Layla, you can always cross over too.’ ‘I’m sure we’ll bump into each other,’ she said. She looked so pretty, and looked at me so earnestly with her lovely eyes, I planted my lips on hers chastely. Jehan was the first young lady I ever kissed. Unfortunately, she was right. We never met again. There was, however, another person I met in Beirut—also at la Rouche—who would make an even greater impact on my life. The next day, in keeping with the pattern I had established, I wandered around the city the entire morning. But this time, I ambled over to the seaside promenade at around noon, rather than the evening. As usual I was armed with a newspaper—the Daily Star, a leading English language newspaper, which is still being printed. From my secondary school days, I had acquired the habit of reading newspapers every day. Back home in Manama, I would just grab a copy in one of the shops or a café, later from the BAPCO office, and read it from cover to cover. Initially, newspapers fed my hunger for words, any words. The contents, the messages, were not so important. Later, as my political thoughts began to take shape, news of the dominion of the West on Middle Eastern and other lesser developed countries fuelled my indignation and resentment against the colonialists. At the same time, I was intrigued by the innovations emerging in the West and in the various industries that were being innovated there. Although the newspapers in Bahrain were sanitised, one could still obtain the essentials and distil from the propaganda what was likely to be going on in reality.

I was seated on a bench looking out into the sea, reading the Daily Star, when I noticed a distinguished-looking elderly man, I would say in his sixties, wearing a Panama hat, walking towards me. There was something about him that commanded attention, and even from a distance, my eyes were drawn to him. As he got closer, I was able to make out his features and realised he was Iranian. Noticing my gaze, he too looked at me, and when he was within earshot, I said ‘salaam’. (In Arabic, the normal greeting is assalaimalaikum, but in Farsi, we just say salaam.) He responded with a nod and a salaam in return. Then, rather than continue along his way, he sat next to me. He had noticed the English newspaper in my hands and was for some reason very impressed. ‘Good afternoon, young man,’ he said in Farsi. ‘I notice you’re reading the Daily Star. You like reading English papers?’ ‘I like all papers, sir, Persian, Arabic, and English. But so far, in Beirut I’ve found that the Daily Star is the best,’ I replied. ‘So you’re not from Beirut,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘I must say I’m not surprised. I thought you looked a little different from most young men here. And much more polite! Not many young Lebanese men would salaam me. But perhaps that’s because you, like me, are Iranian. Where are you from?’ Once again, I launched into my story. Unlike Jehan, who had not seen anything odd about a boy from my background making my way to Germany, this gentleman was much more worldly and probed me a little deeper about my reason for leaving Bahrain. I did not, however, let on about the BLF and my expulsion from Bahrain. It was not something to be broadcast to all and sundry. I said merely that I had friends in Germany with whom I intended to stay while I studied. The elderly gentlemen nodded encouragingly at everything I said. He kept asking me questions—who my parents were, where they were from, why they left Siraf, what they did in Bahrain . . . Eventually, he looked at me gravely and said, ‘You know, my son, I admire you. I admire your courage for leaving your family and going off to Germany to further your studies. I think that’s very brave of you. And it shows real strength of character. But’ he paused for a while, ‘allow me also to say that I feel you should not be going off to a new country when you don’t even know your own motherland. In Iran, you’ve only been to Siraf and Jam, am I right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘The south is beautiful, no doubt,’ he said. ‘But it’s not Iran. You’re enjoying Beirut, no?’ I nodded. ‘You’re enjoying the culture, the air of learning?’ ‘Yes, sir. It’s fantastic.’ ‘Well it’s like this in Tehran. You must go to Tehran,’ he said. ‘Travel and adventure and learning are all very well and good, but one must start off with a firm knowledge of who one is, where one is from. It’s very important to have a strong sense of identity. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ ‘But, sir, I don’t have the time . . . or the money . . . to go to Tehran.’ ‘Time is on your side, young man. What’s your hurry?’ he replied. ‘As for money, it needn’t be a deterrent. It can be taken care of.’ ‘I also have a Bahraini passport, which they will definitely confiscate. I don’t want an Iranian passport, sir. I am Bahraini, after all.’ When the British tried to undermine Iran’s claims over Bahrain from the 1860s onwards, various countermeasures were adopted, culminating in members of the Iranian Parliament in November 1957 declaring Bahrain as the fourteenth province of Iran. One seat was even designated for representatives of this province. At the mention of preserving my nationality, the gentleman smiled at me the way a grandfather does his grandchild. ‘Young man, don’t worry about such details. I can help.’ ‘You can?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘Who are you, sir?’ ‘My name is Professor Allam. I’m the ambassador of Iran in Lebanon.’ I couldn’t believe my ears. For a good half hour, I had been talking to a man who came from the second most influential family in Iran, after the shah’s family. I’d heard the name Professor Allam before. He was a noted historian and political scientist at the University of Tehran, where he had taught for many years before

entering the diplomatic service. He had written several books and was something of a literary celebrity. A relative of his, I was not sure who, either a brother, uncle, or cousin, was chief of the Royal Court of Iran, literally the gatekeeper or director of the office of the imperial shah of Iran. His power was such that no one could see the shah before first going through Assadollah Allam. And here I was, chatting to a member of this illustrious family. While I was still trying to digest this latest piece of information, Professor Allam said, ‘Don’t worry about your passport. I will send a telegram to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and we will get you an exemption. We will also get you an airline ticket. And there will be someone at the airport to meet you. Then, whatever you want to do in Tehran, all you have to do is ask, and it will be done. How does that strike you?’ ‘Sir, I don’t know what to say,’ I managed to utter, for I was truly lost for words, emotionally choked by the incredible benevolence of this gentleman. ‘This is all too much . . . you’re too kind.’ ‘No, son. It’s not too kind. I can see you are good and intelligent. It would be a great shame to waste the potential you have. I would do the same to anyone else I met who impressed me the same way you have. Take my offer, and make the most of it. Tomorrow morning, I will send my driver to pick you up from your pension. He will take you to the embassy, and we will have lunch,’ he said. He got up, shook my hand, said ‘salaam’, and was off. The whole episode was surreal. Professor Allam had entered my life like the genie in the story of Aladdin. Here was a man of immense power, who lived in circles I could only read about and dream of, who appeared seemingly out of nowhere and said, no matter what it was I wanted, it would be granted. That whole afternoon and evening, I was walking on air. How I wished I could have shared this encounter, this opening in my life, with my mum or dad, my uncle, my family in Bahrain, and also . . . yes . . . with beautiful Jehan. I wanted so much to be able to tell somebody, anybody, about my good fortune. When I got back to Sabrah’s bed and breakfast that night, it was about nine in the night. Sabrah was still awake, enjoying her ritual cup of coffee in the lounge before retiring. Turkish coffee, she called it, while the Greeks insisted it was

Greek coffee, and in truth, they are one and the same. I had to pass the lounge to get to my bedroom. I must’ve have had a huge smile plastered on my face when I said goodnight, for, instead of wishing me goodnight too, she asked me to join her. ‘Hussain, come. You’re leaving Beirut in a few hours, yet I haven’t talked to you properly. How terrible of me! You must think I’m such a bad host? Come, come. Have a nice hot cup of Turkish coffee with me. It’s the best,’ she said. Her coffee smelt good, and I certainly was not ready for sleep. The excitement of the afternoon was still bubbling inside of me. Sabrah had made her coffee in a pot, and poured me a cup. Handing me some Lebanese sweets to go with the coffee, she said, ‘This is special coffee. Don’t finish it completely, OK? Leave a little behind in your cup.’ I didn’t think much of this, but nodded absent-mindedly. We chatted about what I’d been doing in the city over the week. I was recounting my experiences chronologically and had not got to the part of my genie on the Corniche. I was about to finish my coffee and launch into the afternoon’s incredible meeting, when Sabrah suddenly jumped up saying, ‘No no, don’t drink that! Give me your cup, and I’ll tell you about your life, about where you’re going. Would you like that?’ I had been brought up in a religious home, where we believed that every individual controlled to a large extent what happened to him in his life, by leading a principled life and working hard. At the same time, we believed that if we prayed hard enough, Allah would listen to our prayers and help us attain goals that appeared to be beyond the reach of our own efforts. We certainly did not believe in seeking our fortunes to be told. It was not part of our culture. Out of curiosity more than anything else, I agreed to Sabrah’s suggestion. Why not, I asked. It could do no harm. I handed over my cup to Sabrah, who promptly turned it over face down into a saucer and left it for a while, until all the liquid coffee emptied out. Then, she picked up the cup, turned it the right way up, put on her spectacles, and ‘read’ me. She told me about my past—where I was born, who my parents were, she mentioned my uncle Hussain as a central figure of my family. She also got that I was forced to leave Bahrain. It was all accurate, and I was suitably impressed.

Then, she got to the near present. ‘Hussain, you’ve bought a ticket to go to Italy. I know that, you already told me. And you’re meant to be leaving tomorrow. But you won’t be going on that ship,’ she said. ‘There’s an old man, a very wealthy and influential man who will send you in another direction. You will go somewhere else, and many things will happen—both good and bad—but you will come through, and you will be back here. Then you will go to Italy.’ She looked at me quizically, amazed by what she had seen in my coffee cup. ‘Is there any more?’ I asked. I wanted to know what good and bad things I would encounter in Iran. And I wanted to know if I would have a successful life. ‘You will do very well in life. You have a very good future, filled with successes. But certain things that happen in this place where you’re going to now could be very dangerous. You must be careful. If you’re careful, you’ll be fine. That’s all I can see,’ she said. ‘What I told you about the past, was I right or wrong?’ ‘You were right, Sabrah. In fact, this very afternoon, I met the old man you mentioned.’ As I related what had happened during my encounter with Professor Allam, the Iranian Ambassador, Sabrah listened, incredulous. She kept shaking her head in wonder. She too, as gifted as she was in ‘seeing’ destinies, would never have guessed that mine would be so incredibly exciting and blessed. ‘Hussain,’ she said finally. ‘You will have many amazing things happen to you in your life. Some will be life-threatening. But you are protected. You know why?’ ‘No,’ I replied, honestly. ‘Because of your mother’s prayers. She must be a pious woman, I’m sure of that. Your mother will keep you safe from harm.’ The next morning, I was ready and waiting for the Ambassador’s car well before nine. I had washed and Sabrah had pressed a clean set of clothes for me to put on. She was just as excited as I, and kept me company as I waited for the car that would take me to a future I could never in my wildest dreams have imagined. On the dot of nine, it showed up, a sleek, shining black limousine. ‘Oh, Hussain . . .,’ Sabrah said, her eyes wide in wonder. Touching the silver cross of Jesus she wore as a pendant, she added, ‘Go . . . and good luck. May the Lord bless you,

my son.’ As soon as the car stopped just outside the gate, the driver, in a smart grey suit and white gloves, got out and opened the passenger door closest to me. ‘Good morning, sir!’ he greeted crisply, as I got in, shutting the door firmly after me. He then returned to his seat, started the limousine, and drove me in the leatherupholstered, purring beauty, to the embassy. It was in a very wealthy quartier of Beirut. We passed mansion after mansion. All with perfectly manicured gardens and security guards manning high-gated entrances. Some of them were homes, others were embassies or served as premises of other equally significant establishments. The car turned into the driveway of one of these stately buildings. As we passed the guard post, the security personnel saluted us. The driver stopped the car at the porch, and rushed out once again to open my door. He then indicated that I should go into the building, wishing me well with a ‘Good day, sir!’ In the embassy, a tall, debonair man—who looked Greek or Italian—greeted me. ‘You must be Hussain?’ he asked. When I replied in the affirmative, he said, ‘Beheshti. I’m the councillor. Let’s go say hello to the ambassador, shall we? Then, we can sit down and discuss your travel plans.’ The ambassador’s room was spacious. He sat at a mahogany desk, with a portrait of the shah of Iran on the wall behind it and a bookshelf filled to its brim on his right. He got up immediately upon seeing us enter. ‘Hussain,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I’m so happy to see you again. The driver picked you up on time? No problems?’ When I assured him everything had gone smoothly, he said, ‘I would like to spend more time with you, young man. I wish I could have lunch with you as I promised. Unfortunately, I have a meeting later today, which I have to prepare for. But you are in good hands. Beheshti is my right hand man,’ he said, turning to smile at the councillor. ‘He will take care of you. You’re flying in a few days, I believe. I hope you have a good flight. And I hope to see you soon in Tehran.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ I managed. ‘Good luck, Hussain,’ he said.

There were a few administrative matters to settle. The Ambassador had asked me to bring my passport with me, which I did. Beheshti duly requested for it, explaining that details on my passport would have to be cabled over to the foreign office in Tehran, so they were aware of me, and when I arrived, they would not confiscate my travel document. In fact, they wouldn’t so much as stamp it. The airline ticket—I was to fly on Middle East Airlines (MEA) two days hence—had already been booked, and they were waiting for the agency to deliver it to the embassy. Beheshti said the ticket would arrive the next day, but I was not to worry—when the driver picked me up from Sabrah’s to take me to the airport, he would have my ticket. Everything was going like clockwork. And everything was being done for me. Although I was totally out of my depths and had no control over what was happening, I was not duly concerned. Something about Professor Allam inspired trust, and I felt secure in the belief that the embassy would ensure a safe journey and a safe stay for me in Tehran. The rest would be up to me. Once we had settled all the paper-work, it was time for lunch. Beheshti took me to the dining room at the embassy, a large room dominated by a long table. Some other embassy staff were already seated at one end, enjoying their meal. Beheshti told me to sit at the other side while he ordered our food. It was haute Persian cuisine, quite different from the food my mother cooked, lovely as that was too. Until then, I hadn’t realised such dishes as kebabs with rice in mounds and delicate mutton stew with saffron existed. It was like manna from heaven. He was the perfect host, replenishing my plate as soon as it looked empty. During lunch, he gave me a quick rundown of what would happen. ‘We’re going to give you a letter from the ambassador to the president of the Bank of Bazergan. When you arrive in Tehran, there will be a man from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs who will meet you. He will take you to a house, which will be made ready for you. And then he will take you to meet Mr Tajadod, who is president of the bank.’ As he was talking, I took mental notes, trying to commit to memory all the information I was being fed. From the newspapers, I knew Tajadod came from the same family as former Prime Minister Moussadegh, who had been overthrown by the shah. In other words, he was, like the Ambassador, very influential.

‘The Ambassador says you’d like to study. You were going to Germany for studies, yes?’ ‘That’s right, sir.’ ‘What exactly would you like to study?’ ‘Banking, sir.’ ‘Well then, Mr Tajadod is the perfect man for you. You can work at the bank as a trainee, and learn on the job.’ Mistaking my look of astonishment for concern, he quickly added, ‘Don’t worry, you will get good salary. You’ll be fine.’ After lunch, I was chauffeur-driven back to Sabrah’s bed and breakfast. I was flying. Sabrah was in, and made me tell her everything. ‘Don’t miss a single detail,’ she said. She just loved my story. ‘When you were born, the gods must’ve been in a very good mood, Hussain,’ she said. I don’t know about the Gods, but I was certainly ecstatic. I cannot remember how I passed the next two days. I went back to the Corniche hoping to bump into Jehan or her friend, Layla, but she of course thought I had already left on the boat to Italy. She never showed up. I therefore just wandered and took in more sights of Beirut, without really absorbing much. I was in such a state of bewilderment. First, the Bedouins in the desert, treating our caravan of drivers as if we were their dearest friends, and now . . . this. What was going on? I tried to make some sense of the series of fortunate events, but was unable to come to any logical conclusion. On the third day, as scheduled, the same driver came to Sabrah’s, in the same black limo. Sabrah and I were, once again, waiting expectantly. He looked surprised to see me with only a briefcase. ‘Is that all, sir?’ he asked, handing over my ticket, as well as two sealed envelopes. One was addressed to Mr Tajadod. ‘You are to give this to the President of the Bank of Bazergan,’ he instructed. The other envelope was addressed to me. ‘And this is for you,’ he said, with a smile. It was time to leave. For the fourth time in one month, I had to say goodbye. Although I had spent only eight days in Beirut with Sabrah, I had grown fond of the old lady, who had treated me very well; and who had foreseen this new

adventure I was embarking on. All this while, she was standing at the gate, looking in awe at the limousine and the smartly dressed driver. I went up to her and gave her a big hug. ‘No need for goodbyes,’ she said with conviction. ‘You’ll be back here at my gate not too long from now.’ Once again, she touched the cross hanging against her chest. ‘I look forward to that, Sabrah. Take care,’ I said. Because part of me believed her, I had not forgotten to take my boat ticket. It was in my pocket. Once ensconced in the soft leather seat, I put the envelope addressed to Mr Tajadod in my pocket and looked at the other envelope with my name on it. I had no idea what it may contain. Beheshti, who had given me such a thorough briefing, had not mentioned anything else I was to expect. As it was mine anyway, I opened it. Inside were Iranian notes. I counted them. There were 1,000 tomans, which was about 140 US dollars, a huge sum at the time. I had never held in my hand so much money. Life was definitely taking a wondrous turn. When the plane touched down in Mehrabad Airport in south Tehran, and the passengers alight from the craft, there was a man in a long coat and hat waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase leading out of the plane on the tarmac itself. ‘Mr Najadi?’ he asked. When I said yes, he said, ‘Welcome to Tehran.’ He was from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, just as Beheshti had informed me. He took my passport, saying, ‘Please, proceed.’ As I had no luggage, we walked straight through the terminal, without passing customs, and out of the airport. There was a car waiting. The Ministry official opened the door for me at the back, then got into the front, next to the driver. It was evening, and I’d already had some food on the plane, so politely declined an invitation to dinner. Instead, we went straight to my new home. It was a comfortable, three-bedroom house with a garden and a pond, in the middle of north Tehran, a plush suburb called Elahiyeh where the aristocracy lived. Not much further up was the shah’s palace. ‘It’s small, but it should do for a single man,’ said the officer. This ‘small’ home was the most spacious accommodation I had ever seen for a single person. Once he had shown me around, the officer said, ‘You have an

appointment tomorrow morning to see Mr Tajadod, president of the Bank of Bazergan. I will pick you up at nine.’ Once he was certain I was comfortable, he left me with a ‘good night’. True to his word, the man was back at nine. He took me to a very beautiful old building, one of the nicest heritage buildings in Tehran in terms of architecture. Entering this ornate blue-tiled building, one almost felt as if one were walking into an old mosque or church. I was whisked straight to the office of Tajadod’s personal assistant, Helga. She was an elderly German lady, blonde, who spoke lovely Farsi. Much later, it dawned on me that she was probably a spy from the German Secret Service, placed in a strategic position in Iran even before World War II. The previous Iranian ruler, Reza Shah Pahlavi, had been very close to Nazi Germany, unnerving the Allied powers. In 1941, British and Russian forces invaded and occupied Iran, forcefully removing Reza Shah from his seat and replacing him with his son, Mohammad Reza Shah. Not long after in 1944, the exiled shah died in Johannesburg, South Africa. Helga said she’d been expecting me and chatted away, explaining that the president was engaged for the moment but would receive me in a few minutes. She noticed the letter from Professor Allam I was carrying and asked if it was for the president. ‘Why don’t you give the letter to me, Hussain? I’ll take it to Mr Tajadod,’ she said. She promptly took the letter into the president’s room. A few minutes later, she emerged. ‘Come Hussain’, she said, ‘Mr Tajadod would like to meet you.’ Tajadod was an impressive man, tall and very good-looking, with aquiline features, green eyes, and well-groomed silvery hair—a blue-blooded Persian aristocrat. He stood up as I entered his massive room and walked towards me. ‘Good morning, Hussain,’ he said. ‘I’ve just read this letter from our good professor in Beirut. You seem to have made a strong impression on him. Professor Allam says you’re a bright young man and, moreover, you want to learn banking. Is that so?’ ‘Yes, sir. I grew up in the bazaar of Manama, so I know a little about trading. But I have no knowledge of banking. I think if I understood banking, I would have a clearer picture of how economies work,’ I said.

‘I see. Well, we have several divisions in this bank. I’m not sure . . . I tell you what. I’ll put you in the international division so you can learn about international trade and finance. That ties in nicely with your trading background,’ he said with a kind laugh. ‘How does that sound to you, Hussain?’ ‘Sir, I’m honoured to be given a job in your bank. I feel so blessed by all the kindness showered on me by Professor Allam and, now, you. I honestly do not mind working in any division at all. Wherever you put me, I promise I will work hard and do my best.’ ‘That’s the spirit, Hussain. You’ve not even started and already I like you! I’m beginning to see what our professor saw in you.’ Turning to his PA, he said, ‘Helga, please take Hussain to Mr Shirazi and let him know that I want this young man well taken care of.’ My ‘interview’ thus over, Helga whisked me across a hall with a very high ceiling and led me to the first floor to the international trade and finance division. Shirazi, the head of this department, had a room to himself while the others occupied desks in a common area. We went straight into Shirazi’s room. He was at his desk, mulling over some papers. He looked up and, upon seeing Helga, smiled. ‘Guten morgen, Helga. Was kanne ich fur Sie machen?’ (Good morning, Helga, what can I do for you?) he said, in a good German accent. He was a young man, educated in England. He’d obviously studied German and enjoyed practising it with Helga. She returned his smile, then introduced me and said, very officiously, that Tajadod had instructed him (Shirazi) to employ me in his department and, what’s more, to take good care of me. ‘So Mr Shirazi, I’m sure you know what to do.’ With that, she did a neat about turn on her heels, leaving us to each other. To his credit, Shirazi recovered from this revelation very quickly. He cleared his throat, then proceeded to ask me a few questions—what experience I’d had, what education, that sort of thing. I could see he was becoming more and more baffled by the second. After all, I was no young banking prodigy. In fact, I had absolutely no experience, no training, and no education that was directly relevant to the banking industry. ‘Yes, um . . . actually, it’s very fortunate that you’ve come because we have a vacancy which I’ve been meaning to fill up,’ he said, leading me to the empty

desk towards the middle of the international trade and finance department. ‘Here. This can be your desk. I will give you some papers to read on international trade and banking, and we’ll take it from there, OK?’ ‘OK and thank you, Mr Shirazi. I very much appreciate it,’ I said. My entry into the division created a sensation. It was an utterly unexpected and unexplained event. Everyone came to know that Tajadod had sent this young man, but that was it. They knew nothing else about me. I was like a special package, a special gift. Nobody could touch me, nobody could reprimand me. I was the blue-eyed boy of the President. That they were envious was obvious. Of course they were; they had every right to be. For my part, I was getting used to this dream I was living. At every juncture I turned since my opportune meeting with Professor Allam, things only looked brighter. Even here, in my new department within the bank, I had the incredibly good fortune to be seated in the middle of a bevy of Iranian beauties. The kind I had only read about in the poetry of Hafiz and Saadi, the Great Persian Poets ever. Some were married, some were single. But they all looked at me with a mix of curiosity and wonder. Who is this young man, they seemed to ask themselves. Why is he here? He’s Iranian yet doesn’t have Iranian ID and has never lived in Iran. He speaks Farsi but also Arabic and English. Every morning, I walked into the office carrying three newspapers—the Kayhan International and Teheran Times, in English, and which are still running, and an Iranian daily. This increased my novelty value even more. Even Shirazi was impressed. Wanting to learn more about me, these beautiful women issued me invitation after another to their homes for dinner. Part of it was out of sheer Iranian hospitality, but a good part of it was out of a keen desire to unravel my mystery. My life was so good, I wanted to share it with my parents. They weren’t that far away. And I knew they would be overjoyed to see me again, especially after thinking that we would not meet for ten years. So I wrote them a long letter. I had previously written to them from Beirut, while I was still expecting to board the ship to Italy. Since my meeting with the Ambassador, life had been a whirlwind, and I hadn’t had the time to collect my thoughts so as to put them down in a letter. Now that I

was more settled, I set to the task immediately. In my letter, I explained as best as I could how the Ambassador had changed my life. I wrote to my parents about my new job in the bank about my salary (which was an amazing 1,400 tomans equivalent of about US$200—the highest paid salary for a head of department in the bank and three times the average salary of my colleagues). I described my house, emphasising the fact that I had two spare bedrooms, so there was more than ample space for them. Please come, I had said. Just pack up your things and leave Manama. Needless to say, my parents were beside themselves with joy upon reading my letter. Ten days later, they were with me in Tehran. It was as joyful a reunion as could be expected. I was so happy to have them with me in my life again. It felt as if a vacuum that had been created from the time I left Manama had been filled again. I showed them around Tehran. Proudly, I took them to my bank, which they found simply beautiful. ‘Like a church in Venice,’ my father said. I could see they had aged somewhat in the one month that I had been away. My safety was constantly on their minds. My mother told me she had doubled her prayers for me. I shared with her what Sabrah had said, namely that her prayers were bringing me good fortune. She liked that. It made her smile. When they first arrived, naturally, they didn’t know anyone. After living in Uncle Hussain’s compound, where there were so many people and so much activity all the time, life was a little lonely for them here in Tehran. They took over the care of my house. My kitchen, which had been unused since my arrival, began to function. I was no longer at the mercy of the beauties at work to keep me fed. My parents would walk to the closest market every morning and buy all the provisions we needed. I would come home for lunch and then again at five or six in the evening. We would have our meals together. As they pottered around the garden and walked around the neighbourhood, they quickly made friends with my neighbours. Although my female colleagues stopped inviting me so regularly for dinner, I continued to meet one of them. Sima was a dark-haired Armenian Christian, with a milky complexion, a real beauty in her early twenties. Although she was married, she was drawn to me and I, in my youth, was naturally flattered by her attention. Like all the other women in the department, she had invited me to

dinner at her home. She lived with her in-laws. I did not meet her husband, though; he’d gone out to another dinner when I went over. After that, she would suggest that we meet at some of the lesser-known cafes and restaurants. Eagerly, I went. Sometimes, we would go for long walks in parks just outside Tehran, on the foothills of the 4,000m Elburz Mountains. It was from natural springs in the Elburz that clear water flowed into the city, meandering into its numerous rose gardens. As we had to keep our relationship discreet, we wouldn’t go out in public together. On my own, however, I was discovering the music, arts, and culture the city had to offer. The combination of a good salary, my clandestine romance, the attractions of a thriving, intellectual city, and the presence of my parents resulted in what was perhaps the most idyllic period of my life. I had everything I could possibly want. Yet one night, as I was flipping through an Iranian newspaper, I came across a small advertisement. I would have easily missed it, except that it was written in English. It was for the Canadian Embassy, which was opening in Tehran. The embassy needed a research student who was able to write fluently in English and Farsi. This research student had to be a university graduate. Although I didn’t satisfy this latter requirement, and although I loved my job in the bank, my curiosity was piqued. I saw it as a challenge. Up to that point, my career had been easy. Perhaps too easy. Everything at the bank had been handed to me, practically served on a silver platter. I don’t suppose it applies universally but there must be a grain of truth in the saying that if you don’t work hard for something, you don’t really appreciate it. I thought there was no harm in applying for the embassy job, so I did. I handwrote my application and posted it, not giving it much thought afterwards. But then, about ten days later, I got a phone call at the bank asking if I could go to the embassy for an interview. I went. There were over forty candidates. All of us were asked to write a paper on how Canada could make use of its technical know-how to gain a footing in Iran. I immediately thought of the fishing industry. The Canadians were well known for their trawlers and deep-sea fishing. Like Iran, they too produced caviar, though of an inferior quality. At the same time, the fishing industry in Iran was still very traditional. We did

not make use of any advances that could, I argued, improve the industry immeasurably, by making it more efficient. Canada could even help export Iranian seafood, I said, especially its unbeatable caviar. Only four candidates were shortlisted after the first interview, and I was one of them. I honestly thought that was as far as I would go. All three other candidates were graduates from the prestigious Tehran University. They were older and more mature than I, so I just put to the back of my mind all hopes of joining the Canadian Embassy. Two weeks later, however, another phone call came. This time, I was asked if I could present myself at the embassy to meet the commercial chancellor, Van Vleet, a Canadian of Dutch descent. I took a day off to make the interview. I had not told anyone at the bank about this job. I knew the news would not be well received. I rationalised, however, that there was no need to be open about it as I definitely wouldn’t get the research position. But now it looked like the embassy was quite serious about hiring me. Why else were they calling me? Suddenly, I felt somewhat guilty. What if they actually offered me the job? How was I going to let the bank know? At the embassy, I was greeted warmly by the receptionist and taken to Van Vleet’s room. After exchanging greetings, he said, ‘Mr Najadi, I’d like you to know that we were very impressed by the paper you wrote on the fishing industry. Nobody else had written about this, and it’s just the kind of input we’re looking for in our research student. Tell me, what gave you the idea for technical aid in fishing?’ ‘Sir, my family comes from the south of Iran, and I know the Persian Gulf is full of fish. I’ve gone fishing there many times, and each time I bring in a huge catch . . . not because I’m a talented angler, but just because it’s teeming with fish. I also know that most fishermen there go out on traditional sailing boats. They are motorised, but they are not equipped with modern tools like freezers.’ Van Vleet’s look of genuine interest spurred me on. ‘I have read about Canada’s expertise in fishing in the papers. You’ve helped modernise the industry in countries like Sri Lanka. You could do the same here.’ ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said. ‘We’ve provided aid to a few countries in south and south east Asia in fishing, irrigation . . . in fact, in many forms of infrastructure. We’ve had a presence in those countries since 1951 and we know what their

requirements are. But we’re new in Iran. What would help us a great deal is a man like you, who can point us in directions where our expertise is needed,’ he paused and looked at me earnestly. ‘I don’t suppose you know much about Canada’s economy, other than fishing?’ ‘Not much, sir.’ ‘That’s only natural, of course,’ he said, smiling. ‘We don’t expect you to know much about Canada. But we will give you a brief summary of the sectors in which we have some strengths, for example oil and gas, rail roads, aviation . . . You will need to match these with the needs of Iran. You’ll have to travel all over the country, talk to the people, to consumers, to workers, traders, merchants, government authorities, and organisations. It’s like marketing research. We’ll give you an embassy car, and we’ll give you a letter from the embassy explaining that you’re doing research for us,’ he paused, looking at me squarely in the eyes. ‘Would that interest you?’ he asked. ‘Sir, that sounds like a great job. I would definitely be interested in it. When do you want me to start?’ ‘Well, when can you start?’ That was my only concern. I had no choice now but to inform Shirazi, who would definitely inform Tajadod, of my intention to leave. I knew they would consider my move a defection of sorts. Even worse, a defection by a nobody whom they had taken in and nurtured. I felt guilty, but comforted myself by the fact that I was still being true to Professor Allam’s original idea, which was that I get to know my motherland better. By doing this research, I was certainly going to get a wider exposure to the machinery that ran the country than I would at the international trade and finance division of the bank. Later, I learned that Mr Tajadod had been extremely disappointed with me for leaving the bank so soon after joining it. I started at the embassy a month later, after serving the required notice at the bank. My new job was for a period of six months. I didn’t worry too much about what would happen at the end of my research. I felt quite certain that, should my work be satisfactory, the embassy would offer me a more permanent position. If not, something else would turn up. I was an irrepressible optimist. My new salary went up four times. Even better, as an employee of a foreign embassy, I

didn’t have to pay taxes. On my first day, I was called in to meet the Ambassador, Alex Broody, a bald, rotund, very good-humoured person. And as it turned out, well read and very knowledgeable. He, too, had gone through my paper on fishing and engaged in an intense debate with me on the practicalities of certain ideas I had proposed. At the end of our session, he said, ‘Mr Najadi, please don’t doubt my appreciation of your paper and the ideas you have given. I just want you to be absolutely clear in your mind that your research has a purpose.’ ‘The kinds of questions I have asked you just now are the kinds of questions you have to keep asking yourself as you go about gathering information. These questions will keep you on the right track. They will remind you that your market research has to be translated into action. It is not a purely academic exercise.’ In fact, this lesson I had from Broody served me well not only during my market research for the embassy but also throughout the rest of my life. I learned to look at the way things are done and question how they can be improved, in practical, workable ways. Work at the embassy was extremely cushy. As Friday was an official holiday in Iran, while Saturday and Sunday were the Canadians’ weekend, I had three days off a week. What’s more, the embassy closed at 2 p.m every day, so I had whole afternoons free. I was expected to travel for work, and that was precisely what I did; in good style too. One of my first trips was to Ramsar, in the north. Most people know the name Ramsar for the global agreement on wetlands conservation, formulated when world leaders met at this seaside town by the Caspian Sea. To Iranians, however, Ramsar is famous for its stunning landscape, of mountains that encroach onto the beach. The area is so beautiful that the shah built an imperial resort here. Many other wealthy locals also set up private seaside homes in Ramsar, which became the Iranian equivalent of the French Riviera—the playground of the rich and glamorous. I drove to the town in an embassy car, checked into a luxurious resort, and generally lived it up as I did my market research. My subject was caviar. Ramsar

was famous for its sturgeon roe, considered one of the best in the world. It was also well known for Russian vodka. And it so happened that while I was there, a Persian beauty contest was being held. Although not directly related to my research, I attended this pageant. It was all part of getting to know my country better! Later, I headed down south to Siraf, then travelled east along the coast to Bandar Abbas. On this trip, I took my parents, who were so proud to be able to show off to our relatives that I was working for the Canadian Embassy, doing research for them. I was the rebel who made good! In between my trips around the country, I would return to Tehran to compile all the information I had gathered and report on my progress to Van Vleet. One day, while walking along the beautiful tree-lined University Road, not far from the embassy, I stopped to buy an ice cream from a vendor who had set up his mobile stall next to the university. Who should I see emerging from the university gates, some fifty metres away, but a childhood friend from Manama, Bahram Taddayon. ‘Bahram!’ I called out. He turned around, and upon seeing me, broke into a big smile. He had put on a little weight, otherwise was the same raffish young man I remembered him as. A little scruffy with an absent-minded-professor’s air about him. ‘Hussain Najadi,’ he said, approaching me. ‘What a surprise! What are you doing here?’ The last time we met, he was leaving Manama for Beirut to study at the American University. I was at BAPCO. Now, here we were, in Tehran. He had been awarded a scholarship to study medicine at the University of Tehran, where he was to spend two years before completing his degree in America. Both of us were equally happy to see each other. Bahram had been in Tehran some months already and, like me, was thoroughly enjoying the experience of rediscovering himself within the context of his country of origin. But there’s nothing like reconnecting with friends you’ve known since childhood. We were able to pick up the threads of our friendship and knot them together again as if we’d never been separated. In fact, the years in which we had been apart served only to strengthen our ties. It gave us so much to catch up on. Bahram was here alone, unlike me, so

naturally I invited him often to my home. My parents, who knew his family well, were also extremely pleased to have his company; he was a connection for them to our family and friends back in Manama. From then on, Bahram and I met regularly. Ideologically, we were literally worlds apart. He was pro-West, pro-America, pro-Shah of Iran; I was the opposite. Yet we were good friends. Admittedly, Bahram never knew of my BLF background. At the same time, he respected my intellectual capacity and rapacious reading. Having Bahram around, in addition to my parents and several Persian beauties whom I dated as I pleased, my life wanted for nothing. A couple of months later, in late spring—I remember it being a cloudless, sunny day—while I was working on my research at the embassy, the secretary came to my room and said, ‘Hussain, there are two gentlemen here who’d like to see you.’ ‘Oh, really?’ I said, barely looking up from my papers. ‘Why don’t you ask them to come in?’ ‘Yes, I did, but they said they’d rather not come inside,’ she replied. ‘Maybe they’re your relatives.’ I knew we didn’t have relatives in Tehran, but perhaps they had travelled up from the south. I got up and went to meet these visitors. They were very trim, fitlooking Iranian gentlemen in well-cut dark suits—definitely not from my family. I did not recognise them at all. ‘Salaam,’ I greeted them. ‘What can I do for you?’ ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Najadi,’ one of them said. ‘Ask me questions, but . . . why? Who are you if you don’t mind my asking?’ I asked. ‘We’ll explain later. Just come with us. We need to take you away for a few questions, that’s it.’ I did not like the sound of this, and refused to go. ‘I really have a lot of work to do. And quite honestly, I don’t see why I should follow you anywhere. I don’t

know you,’ I said. ‘If you have any questions, feel free to ask them here.’ They refused. I was about to re-enter the embassy to alert the staff when they took out their badges. They were from SAVAK, Iran’s secret service. Suddenly, I was afraid. SAVAK had a particularly bad reputation, worse than any other secret service in the region. ‘You are not to go back to your office,’ the same man who spoke earlier said, this time with a distinct hard edge to his voice. ‘Don’t make a fuss and just follow us for a few questions. Then, you can go back.’ I had to follow them. I certainly didn’t want the embassy to know I was being interrogated by SAVAK. The embassy could not afford to employ locals with suspect records. It was diplomatically fatal. I was ushered into a car and taken to a house in the suburbs, with no number, no identification. They led me to a bare room, with only a table and three chairs, closed the door behind us, and waited. Then, silence. ‘My god,’ I thought to myself. ‘They’re the same as the Bahraini police.’ A half hour later, two other men came into room. One stood by the table, the other next to him gave me a blank piece of A4 paper and said, ‘We want to know everyone you know, starting from your parents. Please write down their names.’ They kept probing me for names of people I had played with, gone to school with, worked with . . ., and then they asked if I was ‘a founding member of the communist party of Bahrain, under the name BLF’. I knew that SAVAK was focused on wiping out all forms of communism in Iran and Bahrain. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not. I’m an intellectual. I may read leftist books, but that’s to satisfy my intellectual curiosity. I read everything. And I’m not a member of BLF.’ ‘So you read leftist literature?’ ‘Yes, I read leftist literature. But like I said, I also read right wing literature. I read everything,’ I repeated. ‘And you’re not a member of BLF?’

‘No, I’m not.’ ‘Sure?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘OK, then go.’ As I got up to leave, he said, ‘We might come back to you and ask you a few more questions later, but for now you’re free.’ They led me out of the house and called for a taxi. The whole episode had lasted four hours. I was quite shaken by it, and didn’t return to the embassy but went home instead. When I told my parents what had happened, they were frightened, understandably so. ‘Someone must’ve reported you to the SAVAK,’ my father said. His face had turned pale. ‘The British work hand in hand with SAVAK. Your name must be on their list because of that foreign secretary incident.’ ‘It wasn’t just the Foreign Secretary incident,’ my mother said. ‘Hussain was involved in so many demonstrations against the British. They must have a whole file on him.’ Seeing the anxiety in my parents made me strong. I did not want to cause them any more pain than I had already done, in Manama. I tried my best to assuage their fears. I said, ‘Look, they released me. They can’t be that interested in me if they let me go so easily.’ To a certain extent, I believed what I said. SAVAK was notorious. Yet they didn’t so much as lay a finger on me. They must just be doing random checks on Bahrainis, anyone with any connection to the BLF, I said to myself. But my parents were not comforted. Pandora’s box had been opened, and their apprehension could not be contained. Three days later, SAVAK went to my house looking for me. Till today, I wonder why they didn’t just go to the embassy. I certainly didn’t have any diplomatic immunity. It would’ve made their job so much easier. Perhaps they knew my parents were staying with me, and perhaps they realised that the fear they were able to instill in them would serve their purpose better. I wasn’t home at the time. They asked my parents where I was and they replied I

was probably in the city. They said they would wait for me. When I came home, they were in a car outside our gate and asked me to get in. ‘We have more questions for you,’ one of them said. Again, I was taken to the anonymous house. Again, I was led to the bare room with the table and three chairs. The same two officers who had questioned me the last time came in. They asked if I knew this gentleman, that gentleman, this gentleman . . . Without even listening to my answers, they said, ‘We know you’ve been here, you’ve done this, you’ve done that . . . ‘ They had a complete record of what I had done. Yet I kept denying any involvement with the BLF. Eventually, they were tired of my resistance. ‘Look’, my principal interrogator said, ‘we won’t waste any more of your time or our time. We’ll make it easier for you. We have arrested all your friends and they’re the ones saying you are their leader.’ ‘They can say what they like. It’s not true,’ I countered. ‘How do you think I managed to get a job at the embassy if all this is true? The Canadians have done their job. They’ve checked my records, they’ve found nothing. Why do you insist on believing what all these others are saying?’ I tried to persuade them I knew these people as students, on a purely social basis but was never in any organisation with them. ‘OK,’ my interrogator said finally. ‘We’ll let you go today, but tomorrow we’ll bring them here so you can meet them face-to-face.’ True to his word, they released me. They were extremely lenient with me because they knew I had been brought to Iran on invitation from Prof Allam, who was close to the shah. I thanked God they had not detained me overnight. But now there was no time to waste. I had to leave Iran, immediately. I went home to my parents, who were in tears. For the few hours I was being interrogated, they didn’t know if they were ever going to see me again. My mother had some relatives in Abadan, the oil town close to Iraq and Kuwait. I asked her if any of these relatives would be able to help me. She said there was an Aunt to whom she was close. Even better, she knew this Aunt’s address. Quickly, I scribbled a letter to the

Aunt on behalf of my mother, requesting that she take care of me and help me make my way to Kuwait or Iraq. My mother sealed the letter with her stamp, and I kept it in my pocket. I told my parents they should make their way to Siraf. As it was already evening, it was best for them to leave the next morning. Luckily, it was a Thursday, meaning the next day, Friday, was the weekend and I wouldn’t be missed at work. By Saturday morning, I reckoned, I’d be in Kuwait, out of Iran. Meanwhile, I would head straight to the train station. I had no idea about train schedules but planned to take the first train to Abadan. To my parents, I said, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be safe. Even if they come here and find you tomorrow, you just tell them I’ve gone into the city. They won’t do anything to you because you’re old and you don’t have any information they want.’ Within half an hour, I was out of the house. I was fortunate. That very night, there was a train for Abadan, which I boarded. Early next morning, I was at the house of my mother’s relative. I introduced myself, produced the letter, which my aunt and uncle read. They were very kind and, realising the danger I was in, acted extremely swiftly. They knew a few nakhoda and managed to find one who was going to Kuwait that very night. They explained to the nakhoda that I had to leave the country in cognito, without going through immigration. The nakhoda didn’t ask any questions. With a kiss and hug to my uncle and aunt, I got into the dhow, and we set off along a river towards the Shat El Arab, the famous estuary on which many wars have been fought between Iran and Iraq, the last being that between Saddam Hussein and the current Iranian regime. It was dark. I was on the deck of the motorised dhow, enjoying the breeze and the fact that I was on such a historical river, the cradle of two great civilisations, heading towards the coast of Kuwait. The nakhoda was highly spirited. He and his crew chatted away in Arabic (the region around Abadan is dominated by Arab Iranians). I joined them for a delicious al fresco dinner after which we sang lots of songs. Later, as the hours wore on, most of the crew fell asleep and we were enveloped by a peaceful silence. There was nothing except the sound of the motor and water. Although I was on the run, I was happy. I was finally starting

the journey I had originally intended to go on. I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Suddenly, around midnight, the beautiful silence of the river was broken by a loud siren. We could see, behind us, the bright searching lights of a patrol unit belonging to the Iranian navy. Its broad beam hit upon our boat, and the patrol unit was making its way towards us. The nakhoda quickly grabbed me and sent me down to the cargo space below the deck. It was packed with crates of tomatoes, potatoes, onions . . . He hid me behind the crates, saying, ‘My boy, don’t make any noise. I shall see to it.’ I heard the motor die and could make out sounds of the patrol unit parking itself alongside us. Someone from the patrol unit called out, familiarly, ‘Ah, Captain?’ There were warm greetings from both sides. I sighed. They obviously knew each other. There was no hostility. The naval officer came on board and was invited to some tea and dates. As he was slurping the last dregs of his tea, he asked, ‘So what are you carrying today?’ ‘The usual,’ replied the nakhoda, sounding nonchalant, ‘what I normally carry— tomatoes, potatoes, vegetables. You can see,’ he said. Some of the crates were also on the deck. ‘Let me see the crew manifest and the boat manifest, please,’ requested the officer. These are obligatory items and were handed over to him. There was a silence for a while, then the officer said, shining his torch all over the boat, ‘OK, everything’s in order. Very good, Captain. Have a good journey. And thank you for the tea.’ The engine of our dhow started up again, and I could make out sounds of the patrol boat leaving us. Once again, I’d been saved by an invisible hand. God is on my side, I thought to myself, but when I thought of God I was thinking of my mother. At that very moment, she was probably already back in Siraf, praying for me. Her prayers had once again saved me. After about an hour, the nakhoda came down for me. ‘Hussain,’ he said, ‘it’s safe, you can come out now. We’ve crossed Iranian waters and are now in Kuwait.’ He was a very fatherly figure. He knew my aunt and knew of my parents, even if they had never met. So he was genuinely concerned for my safety.

By now, it was six in the morning. In the distance, we could make out the skyline of Kuwait city. That, to me, was a sign of freedom. Eventually, we landed at the port. The old city of Kuwait was gated, and the nakhoda asked a friend to drive me to al Jahra gate, which faced the west. There, this same friend found me a lorry driver who would take me to Beirut. Thus, once again, I crossed the Arabian desert to Damascus, and then headed to Beirut. It took us four days and three nights. In Beirut, I went straight to Sabrah’s, and knocked on the door of her pension. It was late evening, about 7pm. She was not surprised. ‘I told you, you’d be back,’ she said, giving me a hug. ‘The important thing is, you’re back safe. The evil hand could not get you. And there are evils.’

CHAPTER 6

Germany . . . Finally!

It felt as if I were home again. Sabrah was genuinely pleased to see me and looked after me very well. She gave me a light soup and, seeing how tired I was —after the four-day cross continental journey—she told me to go up and sleep. I didn’t argue! I slept as soundly as a log, from about 8 p.m till the next morning. Once again, it was winter, and I woke up to a beautiful, crisp, cool day. Sabrah made me one of her enormous continental breakfasts, with croissants, eggs, juice, and coffee. I devoured it all. But of the two of us, Sabrah was the more hungry . . . for my news. ‘Tell me, my wandering star, what did you do in Tehran? What happened?’ she asked eagerly, sitting opposite me on the dining table. ‘I’m sure it’s all very exciting.’ So I told her. I described my house, the bank, Tajadod, Helga, Shirazi, the beautiful women, Sima, my parents, Van Vleet, Broody, the men from SAVAK . . . She listened intently, absorbing everything. ‘What a story. Even better than reading the papers,’ she interjected now and again. ‘I kept thinking about you, Hussain,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘I always wondered how you were getting on. I knew something terrible would happen, and I knew you would have the means to escape its clutches, but I couldn’t tell what it was. My god, the SAVAK were out for you,’ she said, clucking and shaking her head. ‘You’re so lucky to be alive, young man.’ I knew she was right. At the time, I was terrified. But now, in the safety of her house, thousands of miles away, my time with SAVAK took on a dream-like quality. It didn’t arouse in me the same fear, the same quickening of the heartbeat as it had all the time I was in Tehran after my first encounter with them. ‘Is that it, Sabrah?’ I asked my landlady. ‘Is all my bad luck over now? Will the rest of my life be plain sailing?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t call it plain sailing,’ she said solemnly. ‘I can still sense danger, though perhaps not as serious as SAVAK. But you still need to be careful. So long as you know what you’re doing, so long as you’re not rash, so long as you keep your head about you . . . and so long as your mother’s prayers continue, you’ll be fine.’ I was satisfied with that, and after breakfast, I made my way back to the port. I was back on track, my initial track, and was determined to continue. I returned to the same counter where I’d bought my first passage to Naples. In the one year I’d been away, I’d managed to lose the old ticket. In any case, it was probably no longer valid. Although I had saved quite a substantial sum of money in Tehran, the bulk of it was in my bank account, which I hadn’t had the time to withdraw. I had on me only a small portion of my savings, which I knew I had to spend carefully. So once again, I asked for the cheapest ticket, and once again I was given a place on the deck, with a deckchair and blanket. Not realising how bitterly cold it could get out on the sea, in the open air at night, I happily accepted this. This time, I had two days before the ship arrived from Cyprus before turning back around. My ticket sorted, I headed into the city, to my favourite spot—la Rouche on the Corniche, near the American University. Perhaps if I was lucky, I thought to myself, I would bump into Jehan. But I wished in vain. There was no sign of my Lebanese friend. By now, she would’ve finished college and would have moved on, either to work or to university. At the same time, I said to myself, ‘I hope I don’t meet the old man, Prof Allam. I dread to tell him what has happened.’ Despite all his good intentions, Professor Allam had been unable to control everything. He was not a genie after all, especially not within the realm of powerful organisations such as SAVAK which kept a tight rein over Iranian society and Iranian intellectuals, under the tutelage of the American CIA and British MI5. The day of my departure finally arrived. I was at the port well on time. I didn’t have much to pack—just a small suitcase. It was late afternoon on a wintry December day. There was a cold wind blowing. I had on the jumper my mother had knitted for me. Sabrah accompanied me to the port; she was my send-off party. As we neared the jetty, we spotted a huge ship. ‘Sabrah, look at that,’ I said, pointing to it. ‘Do you think that’s mine?’

‘I should think so, Hussain. I should definitely think so. You’re going out onto the sea, after all, not some small gulf,’ she replied. ‘Just make sure you don’t get lost on it,’ she said, laughing. Sabrah had her own unique brand of humour. As we were early, she came on board with me ‘to investigate’, as she put it. On the deck, where I set up my chair, she said, ‘Oh Hussain, I think you’re going to be very cold. I hope you have some more warm clothes in your bag?’ ‘I have one or two sweatshirts. I’ll be fine,’ I said. When the horn blasted to indicate we’d soon be moving, Sabrah gave me a quick hug, wished me luck, then got off the ship. I stood at the railing facing the port of Beirut and kept waving at her, my kind, eccentric landlady and seer, until I could no longer see her. Then, for the first time in a long while, I felt alone. No raucous nakhoda, no chatty lorry driver, just me and the sea. There were other passengers, but most were in cabins. On the deck with me were some three or four other men, much older, and not at all interested in the gawky youth I must’ve appeared to them. The ship sailed at a reasonable speed, and my first night was cold, but bearably so. I didn’t think much of Sabrah’s warning. I could handle this. No problem. At around eleven the next morning, we arrived in Larnaca Port, Cyprus. The captain announced that we would spend the day at the port and depart again in the evening. The ship had to be refuelled, and cargo onloaded as well as offloaded. Anyone who wanted to get off and explore the town was welcome to do so. I certainly did. This was, after all, my first destination in Europe. I walked around the area near the port and came across a number of cafes, which resembled those in Beirut. The people, too, looked similar—dark of hair, oliveskinned, and mostly dark brown-eyed. I treated myself to a coffee in one of the cafes. It tasted like Sabrah’s coffee. I made a note to tell her about this in a letter. That Cypriot coffee tastes the same as her Turkish coffee. I could just imagine her chuckling at this. Not wanting to miss my ship, I returned well in time. The weather was taking a turn for the worse. As I climbed up onto the deck, I heard some members of the crew warn other fellow passengers that a storm was brewing. By the time we left Cyprus for Alexandria in the Suez Canal, there was a full-blown gale. The sea was rough, the ship rolled upwards with the swell of waves, and then came

crashing down again. I was violently sick. Huddled in my chair, I was wet with rain and the sea, bitterly cold and uncontrollably nauseous. At first, I tried to scramble to the washroom to throw up, but the rolling of the ship made this impossible. No sooner had I taken a few steps than the ship would suddenly lurch and send me hurtling to the side, where I would hang on to the railing with all my life . . . and retch. After a while, I gave up all efforts to leave my chair. I just hung my head over the side when I had to and threw up. After three or four bouts of vomit, there was nothing more to come out, anyway, except bile. From time to time, sailors would pass, but I guess the sight of a sick passenger was commonplace, and they didn’t pay me anything more than a passing glance. Some of the other men on deck were also throwing up, the others were obviously hardened to this kind of weather. A couple of hours later, the weather had not let up. The sea was still throwing the ship this way and that. Amidst the crashing waves, I heard the unmistakable sound of a woman walking. All the men had soft shoes that made no sound. These clicking footsteps definitely belonged to a woman wearing heels. I looked up, and sure enough, standing over me was a woman. I couldn’t see her very well because it was dark, but I could make out that she was quite young. And she was wearing some perfume, which I could smell above the stench of my vomit and the salty sea. ‘You’re sick,’ she said in English, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. I was too sick to reply. ‘Get up,’ she said, firmly but gently. ‘I have a room. I’ll take you there. You’ll feel much better once you get off the deck.’ It was hard getting up, but she helped me. She held on to my arm and we walked slowly to her room. There was a small bed, more like a couch, in her cabin. ‘Lie down,’ she offered. ‘You can sleep on my bed until you feel better.’ I was still shivering from the cold. She told me to get out of my wet clothes, put on some dry ones, then she gave me a warm blanket and a glass of warm water. Immediately, I felt better. Before I knew it, she was out of the room. She returned about ten minutes later, with a bowl of hot soup with lemon and three

tablets. I sipped the soup slowly, and then took two of the tablets. They were to help with the nausea, she said. All the while, she sat next to me, watching me. Now that we were in a room with light, I could see she was very pretty. Her green eyes, especially, were shining bright. Twinkling in equal measure with goodness and mischief. To me, she looked like an angel sent by God to rescue me. The pills made me drowsy and I fell asleep. A few hours later, I woke up feeling much better. I looked around and saw my angel perched on the floor, next to the bed with a blanket around her. Her eyes were closed. ‘Miss,’ I said. ‘You come up and sleep. I’ll go on the floor.’ She opened her eyes slowly. She’d been asleep. ‘You sure? You’re better?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ I said. She laid her blanket on the floor, placed a pillow on it, and told me to lie there. Then she went to sleep on her couch. Even if I was on the floor, it was clean and warm, and best of all, I wasn’t feeling like throwing up any more. I slept soundly until morning broke. When we woke up, the storm had disappeared so completely, it was hard to imagine the wild sea of the night before. The ship sailed calmly, triumphantly, into the historical port of Alexandria. As in Cyprus, we had the day to explore the port. My angel and I walked together into the city, making our way to the bazaar. She was very chirpy, and knew her way. ‘Follow me,’ she said, walking jauntily in her heeled shoes. Although she didn’t know anyone in Alexandria, she would throw a hello here and a hello there as if she belonged to the place. She had such a lightness of heart, she laughed easily, warming herself to everyone. I watched her, completely taken. I’d never met anyone so full of joy before. As we approached the bazaar, I said, ‘Excuse me, miss, but who are you?’ ‘Me? I’m a cabaret dancer,’ she said, tossing her long red hair. ‘A cabaret dancer?’ I’d never met one before. ‘From where?’

‘Yugoslavia. Belgrade.’ That explained her exotic accent. ‘I’m a Serb.’ Yana was Catholic and very beautiful. She worked in nightclubs in Beirut most of the year to earn enough money for her and her family. She had a younger brother and sister, who were still in school. Her father worked as a carpenter. In December, she went home to celebrate Christmas. ‘So your job is to dance in cabarets?’ ‘Yes. You don’t approve?’ ‘No, not at all. I mean, I don’t not approve,’ I said, trying to get out of my selfmade muddle. To my relief, she laughed. I hadn’t offended her. ‘You plan to go back to Beirut again next year?’ ‘Maybe,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Maybe I’ll be back again in spring and work till the end of the year. The pay is good, you know. Much more than I can make at home. I have lots of rich Arab clients from the Gulf.’ Yana was obviously very happy with what she was doing. I envied her a little. Although I was also happy to be on my journey, I had made many sacrifices to do so. I had caused much anxiety to my parents. And this meant I was not, could not be, as light-hearted and carefree as she. We talked and became fast companions. After Alexandria, the ship continued its journey to the port city of Piraeus, just south of Athens and which served the capital of Greece for thousands of years. As a keen student of history, I was thrilled to be able to get off the ship and spend the days in Athens. Yana and I headed straight for the Acropolis where, amidst the ruins, my imagination ran wild. I could ‘see’ the Greeks during the height of their empire, the bazookas, the music, the dancers, the wine . . . Greek culture, representing as it does European civilisation, had always fascinated me. We spent an entire sunny afternoon at the Acropolis. By now, I knew a few other co-passengers. Yana, being Yana, had also made a number of friends. The group of us wandered around Acropolis together. Some of them, including Yana, had cameras and took loads of pictures. Walking up the steps of the Acropolis, I felt like a boy in magic land. My head was in the clouds. The Acropolis is to Greece what Persepolis, outside Shiraz, is to Iran—a relic of astounding early civilisation and immense power.

While Persepolis was capital of the Persian emperor Darius, Acropolis had been built by Alexander. Both have gone down the annals of history as amongst the greatest emperors who ever lived. I could’ve happily stayed here much longer, but all too soon, it seemed, we had to make our way back to Piraeus to board the ship. From Piraeus, the ship continued through the narrow straits of Sicily towards Naples, another fascinating old, romantic city. It had been founded, in fact, by the Greeks and was called originally Neapolis (Greek meaning ‘new city’). For about five-and-a-half centuries, it served as the capital of its own kingdom, the kingdom of Naples. I would’ve liked to have wandered around here too, but I was short of money and was concerned about arriving at my final destination. At Naples, the train station was—very conveniently for me—just opposite the port. But I faced a big dilemma. Trains from Naples went in two main directions—either east towards the Balkans or west towards Austria and then Germany. I, of course, had to take the westward route to get to Esslingen, the closest major train town to Sindelfingen, where Mueller lived. However, there was a strong pull in the opposite direction, for that was where Yana was headed. In the three days we had spent together, short as the time was, I had formed a strong attachment to this beautiful, carefree cabaret artiste with her flaming red hair and green, dancing eyes. I really didn’t want our paths to diverge. We’d only just met. A big part of me— in fact, my heart—said forget Germany, go with her to Yugoslavia. Beg her to take you. After all, Yugoslavia represented many of the ideals I stood for— communism, socialism. Its leader, President Tito, who had led the socialist revolution and founded the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, was a political figure I greatly admired. Germany, on the other hand, was right leaning and capitalistic. So here I was, truly and utterly torn between east and west; between socialism and liberalism; between a woman I cared for and whom I knew would care for me and the unknown. Yana had helped me and befriended me, relieving me from my pain and misery, without so much as knowing my name. Her friendship had been extended unsolicited and unconditionally. There was no need, no call for her to have been so kind to me. Yet she had been so, simply from the goodness

of her heart. She once again made me realise there is much goodness in the world that goes unrecognised. There are so many ordinary people who, in our day-to-day lives we ignore, or pass by, yet who hold in themselves so much humanity. We somehow don’t take the time to understand these people or appreciate them. Yana was one of them. In the end, I did not ask to go with her. I did not follow my heart and instead went with my mind. I wonder till today what would’ve happened if I had chosen the road to Belgrade. How different would my life have turned out? It is, however, one of those questions we like to ponder but which offer no definitive answer. Just one different choice at just one of life’s many crossroads can lead to a wildly different journey. It’s interesting to think about it but futile too. At the train station, we bought our tickets for different trains. Yana’s arrived and left before mine. While waiting, we sat and talked at the station café, making the most of the last few hours we had together. We laughed at our antics at the Acropolis, some of which she had captured on her camera. Remembering all the photos she had taken, she tore a page from her notebook which she always carried in her handbag and wrote down something on it. It was her address in Belgrade. ‘Write to me’, she said, ‘so I can send you the photos.’ Before long, her train arrived, and I helped her find her seat. I stored her bags in the luggage compartment for her. Unlike me, she had two decent-sized suitcases. She had many costumes, she explained. ‘One day, you should come and see me dance,’ she had joked. God knows, I would have loved to. I stayed on the train for as long as I could, not wanting to leave her. But the whistle finally blew, and I gave her a kiss. ‘All the best in your life, Hussain,’ she said softly. I could barely answer but managed a small smile. This farewell was very hard on me. I remained on the platform until the train was no longer in sight and cried. I felt as if I were losing a dear friend. My train eventually came, and I continued on my journey, my first leg in Europe. It was December, and it was cold. Frightfully, bone-chillingly cold. As night fell, a blizzard erupted. At certain stretches, where there were lights, I was able to see gusts of snow whipping across the window. At about five the next morning, while it was still dark, we reached the Austrian border. We were high in the

Alps, and as the first rays of the sun emerged, I could discern white snow everywhere, on the ground, on the pine trees, falling from the sky . . . It was magical. Some of the villages we passed already had their Christmas lights on. It was a fairy tale sight. The train stopped on the Austrian border with Germany. No passengers came in, neither did anyone alight. But an immigration officer boarded the train and checked everyone’s papers. ‘Passport, sir, passport,’ he said, moving down the aisle, looking at all the passengers’ passports in turn. When I gave him mine, he turned it around, left, right, centre, then asked in English, ‘What country are you from?’ ‘Bahrain,’ I replied. ‘Where is Bahrain?’ ‘In the Persian Gulf.’ ‘Persian Gulf?’ ‘Arabian Gulf, sir,’ I tried. ‘But where is that?’ Oh no, I thought to myself, this man obviously does not know the Middle East at all. ‘Come, bring your bag,’ he said, losing his patience. He grabbed my suitcase from the compartment above my seat, took hold of arm, and frogmarched me to the border police station, where a big German man was sitting behind his desk. He said something in German to the police officer, who turned to me and asked, also in English, ‘Sir, can you show me your passport?’ I gave it to him. And the same scene that had taken place in the train unfolded. He couldn’t make out the name of the country. ‘Where are you from?’ he enquired. ‘Bahrain.’’ ‘Where is Bahrain?’

Again, I tried to explain. But it was no good. Finally, he decided to consult an almanac he had in one of the drawers. It was a big, thick book which he thumped onto the desk. It was dusty from lack of use. He went to the page for countries beginning with B, but couldn’t find Bahrain. Then an idea occurred to me. ‘Bahrain is under the British. Try under Great Britain, sir,’ I suggested. He promptly went to G and found, listed under Great Britain, Canada, India, Ireland, and then, under a separate list of Protectorate countries, Aden, Bahrain, Seychelles . . . ‘Ah, there we are. Bahrain. A British Protectorate. Hmm. Very good,’ he said. ‘This means you don’t need a visa.’ Turning to the Immigration officer, who had been looking on with curiosity the whole time, he said something in German which I didn’t understand but which got me the results I wanted. The Immigration officer frogmarched me back to the train, opened the door of the closest carriage, and threw me and my suitcase in. Just in time too. A few seconds later, the train chugged off again. The train arrived at Esslingen, a little town outside Stuttgart at about noon. I got off onto the platform. It was very cold, and everything looked very clean and orderly. Around me, everybody was speaking German, of which I understood barely a word. I saw an information kiosk and went in. There were two German girls manning the kiosk. Fortunately, they spoke good English. ‘Good afternoon,’ one of them said. ‘Can I help you?’ ‘Yes, please,’ I said. ‘I’m here to study, but I have nowhere to stay. I was told that some families take in students as boarders. Are you aware of any family here that is willing to take in students?’ The girl who greeted me said, ‘Just one minute, let me see . . .’ She opened a book, and rang the first number. She spoke in German on the phone. Every now and again, she would pause, look at me, and ask me a question. ‘How old are you?’ Then, it was ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘What are you studying?’ Finally she put down the receiver. ‘Ya, this family, called Eisele is happy to have you. This is their address,’ she said, writing it down on a piece of paper. ‘There is a taxi stand over there,’ she said, pointing towards the road. ‘Show this to a taxi driver and he will take you to their house.’

‘Is it far from here?’ I asked. ‘No, it’s only about ten minutes by car.’ ‘Thanks!’ I said, truly gratified. I had converted some American dollars into Deutsche Mark at the train station in Naples, so was all set. I headed straight to the taxi stand. Within ten minutes, as the girl had predicted, I was at the Eisele home. It was a lovely house with a little garden, on a hill. The town itself was quaint, with an old castle on the hill and a church down below. I rang the bell of this charming house, and a middleaged lady opened the door. She greeted me with a big, warm smile. ‘You must be Herr Najadi,’ she said and took me into the house. ‘You look very, very tired. Shall I show you your room?’ I nodded, and she led me up to the attic. Like everything else I had seen in Esslingen, it was very clean and very neat. All the linen was fresh. There was a small wardrobe, which was enough for the few items of clothing I had brought with me. And opposite this was a washroom. I realised that this was it. I had arrived. Comforted with this knowledge, I collapsed onto the bed. Before I knew it, I had fallen into a long, deep sleep. I slept . . . and slept . . . and slept . . . for three days and three nights. Now and again, I recollect, I woke up to use the washroom. But each time, I went straight back to sleep again. My head was heavy; my eyes refused to open. The family, apparently, had come in to my room to check on me several times during these three days, but upon seeing me fast asleep decided against waking me up. ‘You had looked so, so tired when you came,’ Frau Eisele told me later, ‘it frightened me a little. Your eyes looked so hollow. But I knew you had travelled a long way, so I thought maybe you were just tired. I only hoped you were not sick. Now and again, I touched your forehead to make sure you had no fever. You weren’t hot, which was a relief. I knew you were OK.’ On the fourth day, when she came in to check on me, I finally opened my eyes and saw her. And managed a smile. ‘Welcome back to this world, Herr Najadi,’ she said happily. ‘I bet you don’t know where you are. You’re in Esslingen, with the Eiseles. I’m Frau Eisele,’ she added for good measure and laughed. ‘Have a quick wash and I’ll bring you something to eat.’

She quickly disappeared downstairs, but was soon back in the attic again, carrying a tray with a bowl of hot German soup and something brown, which turned out to be brot (German bread). It was a simple meal, but I was so hungry, it tasted divine. It was just what I needed to pick me up after my long sleep. Christmas was approaching, and all the colleges were closed for the seasonal holiday. I could not, therefore, make any enquiries on courses. Instead, I spent my time getting to know the Eiseles. Frau Eisele was a widow. Her husband was amongst the twenty million Germans who had died in World War II, while in combat in Russia. To compensate, the German Government paid a monthly stipend plus Herr Eisele’s pension to the family. Frau Eisele had three daughters —all very beautiful. The eldest, Helga, worked for the Scandinavian Airlines, SAS. She and her husband, Hans Koehn, a student, had their own rooms on the lower ground floor, a sort of independent unit. The second daughter, Gigi, had just been married and was on her honeymoon in Spain. So I didn’t get to meet her. Not yet, anyway. The youngest girl was Anna Marie, who was eighteen and completing her last year of high school. Frau Eisele’s mother also lived with the family. Everyone was extremely welcoming and made me feel at home. In fact, now and again, I got the strange feeling from the way Frau Eisele looked at me that I was the son she never had and whom she had been expecting for a long time. It didn’t bother me in the slightest as I genuinely liked Frau Eisele and her family. A few days after arriving and collecting my strength, I rang Mueller. I had his IBM office card and knew he was in Sindelfingen. He was very surprised to hear my voice. ‘Hussain!’ he said. ‘I knew you would come, but I didn’t think you would come so soon. What a wonderful surprise!’ The following day was Christmas eve, and Mueller invited me to his home for dinner. He explained that I could take one of the smaller trains to Sindelfingen. ‘I will meet you at the station,’ he said. True to his word, when I got off the train at Sindelfingen, the town responsible for the IBM computers at BAPCO, there was Mueller standing on the platform, waiting eagerly for me. He shook my hands warmly and drove me to his home, where I met his wife and three children. It was a lovely reunion. I thoroughly enjoyed the German dinner prepared by

Frau Mueller, and loved even more the carols that we sang (well, which they sang while I tried to join in). The strangest thing, though, was I didn’t feel like an outsider, a foreigner, a Bahraini in Germany. I felt instead as if I had lived in this town, in this country, for thousands of years. There was a strong spiritual connection. I felt at home. This was my soul’s home. Mueller, naturally, wanted to know about Bahrain, what had happened since he left. Happily, I filled him in. We talked about BAPCO, the people we knew in common, politics. I felt safe within the walls of the Mueller residence and told them about BLF, about my exile, all that happened to me in Beirut, my trip to Iran, the incidents with SAVAK, and my journey finally to Germany. They listened, astounded. I could see they were fascinated by my adventure which sounded almost too fantastical to be true. Yet they realised it was too bizarre to have been made up. ‘My god, Hussain,’ Mueller said warmly and with genuine concern. ‘You’ve been through so much. I would have never thought . . . I could never have imagined . . . Please, if you like, stay with us. Our home is your home. I want you to know you’re always welcome here.’ As much as I would’ve liked to stay with the Muellers, I thought of my foster family and, knowing Frau Eisele, I was sure she would be extremely worried if I didn’t return. It was too late to call them, as it was about 11pm, and I had not said anything about spending the night away. I explained all this to Mueller. ‘Thanks, Mueller, it would be great to spend more time with you. But not tonight,’ I said. ‘I understand. And . . . Hussain,’ he said. ‘Yes?’ ‘I’ll be in touch with you soon, to sort out some kind of job for you,’ he said, remembering the promise he made to me in Manama. I smiled and thanked him. He took me back to the train station and I managed to catch the last coach to Esslingen. Although it was late, I felt exhilarated from the Christmas eve dinner, and from meeting with Muller. I had accomplished my long-held dream. I was in Germany. I was in touch with Mueller. And he was going to help me get a job. I

walked happily and proudly, up the hill. The house was dark and quiet when I got back, but I had my own key, so I didn’t have to disturb anybody. I climbed up the wooden stairs as quietly as possible to get to my attic. Unable to sleep, I took out my writing pad and wrote a long letter to my parents, telling them how happy I was. How kind the Eiseles and Muellers were. How both families had embraced me wholeheartedly. I told them not to worry, that I was safe and in good hands. The next morning, I posted the letter to Bahrain.

* * *

CHAPTER 7

Love in the Time of the Great German IPOs

My arrival in Germany heralded a new chapter in my life. A chapter of true enlightenment, an age of discovery or as Chairman Mao envisioned in his ‘visionary’ plan for China, a great leap forward. His plan, unfortunately, was not the success he had hoped for. Rather than revolutionise agrarian China and modernise it, he did the reverse, leading some to call it the great leap backward. Not for me though. In Germany, my enlightenment led to many positive changes. In the process, I discovered much about myself and the world. After settling down in the Eisele home, which took no time at all considering how welcoming everyone in the family was, my immediate concern was to get two things going, as fast as possible. The first was to learn German. This was a prerequisite for any college or university in the country. In Germany, education was highly valued and because academia had ground to a halt during the war, there was now plentiful opportunity to study in the evening at night classes. But I would not gain admission to any course if I could not speak and read German. My plan to study would be thwarted. It was not, however, difficult to enroll into a good language school. With the help of Mueller, I joined the famous Goethe Institute in Stuttgart, and within six months, got my proficiency certificate in German. The second part of my plan was to get a job, so as to be able to support myself. Before leaving Tehran, fortunately, I had my wits about me and packed in my small suitcase my savings book. This I later posted to Dawood, an officer at the Bank of Bazergan whom I had befriended, along with a letter authorising him to withdraw all my money and to send it to me, in cash. This he did. But after some quick calculations, I realised that my savings would last me barely three months in Germany.

I needed to get a job. Again, Mueller came to my rescue. As he had promised in Manama, and as he had reassured me when I went to visit him and his family on Christmas eve, he found me employment. And pretty impressive employment too. A couple of days after our dinner, he called me at the Eisele home and told me that after the year-end holiday, he would take me to the main Mercedes-Benz factory in Stuttgart. He said he had already spoken to the human resources manager of the plant, who happened to be a friend of his, and who was interested in meeting me. ‘What do you think of working in Mercedes-Benz?’ he asked. ‘Are you joking, Mueller?’ I replied. ‘It would be fantastic! How did you manage to wangle that?’ ‘Oh, I know someone there. And I told him you’re a smart kid, that you were one of the shining stars at BAPCO. That kind of thing.’ ‘Mueller, you’re the star.’ I said, and I meant it. It felt great to know there was a good possibility of me getting a job at a company such as Mercedes-Benz too, and so soon after my arrival. Mueller called me again the following day and said he had fixed an appointment for me to meet the human resources manager of Mercedes-Benz on January 3, when all work and school resumed in Stuttgart. The human resources manager, his friend, was also called Mueller. I discovered that, in Germany, the names Hans and Mueller are like John and Smith in Britain. Throw a penny, as they say in Britain, or a pfennig in Germany, and you will hit a John/Hans or a Smith/Mueller. After having lived in Germany some weeks, I had already come to expect the highest levels of orderliness and efficiency in everything the Germans did. The Mercedes-Benz factory in Untertürkheim—located between Stuttgart to the north and Esslingen to the south—certainly lived up to this expectation. It was just as I’d imagined it to be—orderly, clean, and precise. Everything and everyone operated like clockwork. Men in clean overalls bustled about with car parts and did intricate work, such as stitching the upholstery, while machines did all the heavy assembling. At the end

of the production line stood the finished product—rows of gleaming cars just begging to be driven. Boys will be boys, and I fell in love with this factory. When a boy who considered a mule a Rolls Royce finally gets to see the production line in a major Mercedes-Benz factory, one can only expect such awe and wonder! Mueller’s friend Mueller, the human resources manager, looked me over and asked me a few perfunctory questions. Why had I come to Germany? What did I hope to do? Where was I living? Fortunately, like my friend Mueller, he could speak basic English. He did ask, however, if I was learning German and when I replied ‘jawohl’ (of course), he was pleased as punch. After some polite conversation, he asked, ‘So you think you’ll like to work in this factory?’ ‘Herr Mueller, I know I will like working here,’ I replied. ‘Mercedes-Benz has such a high reputation. It’s the star of the German industry. It would be an honour to work here.’ ‘You have no experience in mechanics, yes?’ he asked. ‘No, I don’t. But I can work in your finance or marketing departments. I was with a bank in Iran. And I have experience in market research.’ ‘Ah, that’s interesting. Tell me more about your bank experience.’ I filled him in on my work at the international finance and finance division at the Imperial Bank of Bazergan, which had a branch in Hamburg to facilitate trade between Iran and Germany. He seemed quite impressed. He then asked about my research work and again nodded encouragingly, saying ‘Hmm, yes, yes, very good’ every now and again. At the end, he said, ‘I tell you what. How about you start as the store clerk. From there, we will see how you go.’ ‘Great,’ I said. ‘When can I start?’ Herr Mueller (let’s call him Herr Mueller to differentiate him from my friend Mueller) asked me to return the following day to sort out my work permit.

‘Because you’re a student, you’re allowed to work up to six hours a day, so it won’t be difficult to get you a work permit,’ he explained. ‘Come in at ten tomorrow and meet Herr Fritz. He will take you to the Labour Department to get your permit, OK?’ he said. Thanks to super-efficient German bureaucracy, I managed to get my work permit within twenty-four hours, and just two days after my meeting with Herr Mueller, I started work at Mercedes-Benz. I was genuinely very pleased with my job. This time, unlike my experience at the Bank of Bazergan, I was not being handed anything on a silver platter. I was a normal Joe and was treated like anybody else. But that was fine because in Germany all jobs—even for the most menial of tasks—earned one a sufficient salary to live on decently. I was paid one Deutsche Mark an hour, which was equal to 25 US cents. While it may not sound like much, it was actually more than enough for me. In a day, working eight hours, I was able to make eight deutsche mark. In a month, I earned between 200 and 300 Deutsche Mark, while my monthly expenses were about 150-200 Deutsche Mark, so I managed to save some 100 Deutsche Mark. Considering that, at the Mercedes factory, we could have a substantial meal for only one Deutsche Mark, the amount I made from one hour’s none-too-taxing work, this was pretty good going. For 1.10 Deutsche Mark, I could have a main course with soup; and for an additional 10 pfennig they would throw in a dessert too, in other words a complete three-course meal. The salary structure, and particularly the purchasing power of the local currency, reflected the general level of rationality of the Germans, something I truly appreciated and admired about the country, its people and its leaders. Soon after getting my job, I wrote to my parents and gave them the good news about my employment. I knew they would not stop worrying until they were satisfied in their minds that I was settled. In my letter, I described my typical day, which saw me at the Mercedes factory from nine to five, and then hop onto a fast train to Stuttgart for my German class which began at six. This finished at about seven thirty, after which I would have a light meal with some other foreign students, from Algeria, Tunisia, Italy, and France, and then make my way back to Esslingen and the Eisele abode. Life with the Eiseles was good. Frau Eisele spent her day taking care of the household, her three daughters, her son-in-law Hans and her own mother. Her

mother just pottered around, reading the papers and books, and sleeping. As a stewardess, Helga spent a few days at a stretch away from home, and even when she was around, I did not see much of her because she and Hans had their own quarters in the basement. Whenever she came up to her mother’s living areas, though, she was always all smiles and good cheer. She was a very contented person at peace with her life, her marriage, and her job. Because of this, she radiated happiness and goodwill. Hans’s hours were a little like mine. He was studying Law at Stuttgart University and came home only late in the evening. Most of the time, he would go straight to his own ‘home’ and we saw him only when Helga was around or at the weekends. Anna Marie was also out most of the day, and sometimes hung out with her friends after school. At home, she would spend a lot of her time studying because she was sitting for her final school examination that year. She was a typical eighteen-year-old, fighting for her independence yet not quite mature enough or responsible enough to earn the freedom she wanted so desperately. She sometimes got into quarrels with her mother, but because both women were at heart so good, these outbursts never lasted long, and the next thing you knew they were hugging and kissing and joking with each other again. It was a very warm, cosy home environment. And I fell into the rhythm of this household without any effort. It felt so easy and so natural. About ten days after I moved into the Eisele house, however, the calm that had descended on me all but ruptured. I remember the occasion well. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was in my attic, studying from books and magazines which I had borrowed from the public library in Stuttgart. The bell on the main door rang. Nobody went to open the door. I wasn’t sure if the others were home or not and didn’t go down immediately. It rang again, slightly longer this time. Again, I heard no movement anywhere in the house. Within a few seconds, the bell rang a third time, and now the person ringing it didn’t let go of the button. It kept on ringing. I looked out the window of my attic and saw a black Opel outside the gate with a man in it. I ran down the steps because whoever was at the door was obviously very impatient and was not letting up on the bell. When I finally opened the front door, I came face-toface with a stunningly beautiful woman, with long, dark hair. She looked wild at heart, like a gypsy, one of the most attractive women I’d ever

laid eyes on. Behind her, I could make out the black Opel leaving. ‘Yes, may I help you?’ I asked in my halting German. ‘Who are you, please?’ She looked at me in total surprise and said, ‘Who are you?’ Oh dear, I thought to myself, I was not making a good start with this wild beauty. ‘I’m here taking care of the house. The family is out,’ I managed to mutter. ‘Oh,’ she said, looking a little disappointed. ‘My mother is out. Never mind. I’ll make myself at home.’ She came in brushing past me, saying under her breath, ‘This is my house, after all.’ ‘You must be Gigi,’ I said. Suddenly, it all clicked. ‘Of course, I’m Gigi,’ she said, but in a charming voice, smiling. She strode towards her bedroom, which was on the ground floor, threw her luggage in, then strode to the kitchen, where she made herself some good, fresh German coffee. ‘Want some?’ she asked, in a conciliatory tone. ‘No thanks, I’ve just had some lunch. I’m quite full,’ I replied. ‘Well, sit down anyway. Tell me about yourself. Who are you and what are you doing in our house?’ she asked, lighting a cigarette. I sat at the table with her and told her who I was. ‘Your mother told me you were on your honeymoon. I guess you’re back. But where’s your husband?’ I asked. ‘Oh, he’s gone back to his house,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘Was he the man in the black Opel?’ ‘Yup.’ ‘But . . . then, why are you here? Aren’t you going to live with him?’ I really didn’t understand what was going on. She gave a sigh and said, in good English, ‘No, I’m not going to live with my

husband. I’m not going to his home. I’m going to stay right here. This is my home.’ To me, this was a revelation. You get married and then straight after your honeymoon, you return to your mother’s home? Something was not right. And I said so. ‘I’m sorry, and please, if you think I’m being too inquisitive, just say so, but you’ve been with your husband for two weeks only. You’ve been on your honeymoon. Why this separation, now?’ She made a face, rolled her eyes, and looked at me. ‘If you were a woman, newly married, and your husband made love to you only once in two weeks, what would you do?’ ‘Oh,’ I said. Of course, I didn’t know what I would do. ‘And, that’s not all,’ she said, getting aggravated. ‘His popo (back) curved just like a woman’s. It made me feel like I was sleeping with another woman. Not a man.’ ‘Oh well,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I truly am. But I don’t understand . . . how is it that you didn’t know about his back before your honeymoon? And how is it you didn’t know about how often he likes to make love to you before your honeymoon?’ In my head, I was thinking of all the young German couples I had seen on the streets, in cafes, and in beer houses. They were very intimate, and it was obvious that sex was common amongst the youth. It was permissible. And some were definitely permissive. ‘Believe it or not, we decided not to have sex until we were married,’ she replied, with a curt laugh. ‘Both of us come from conservative families.’ I was genuinely surprised. This wild girl, with her wild hair and her wild eyes, was at heart a good old-fashioned German, who did not believe in premarital sex. That was the thing about Gigi as I would eventually discover—she was full of surprises and full of God-given kindness. For me, it was love at first sight. Gigi was so exotic, so full of life, so beautiful, she won my heart immediately. She did not seem at all German. Germans are in general restrained, reserved, and well behaved. Gigi was none of these. She was expressive, explosive, and didn’t give a damn what other people thought, about her or her actions. Yet once she had given her heart to someone, she was quite

different. With Manfred, her poor husband, for example, she had maintained her virtue until they got married. Poor Manfred. He ran a small business, painting homes, shops, and other small buildings. He was a good, honest man, but not bubbling with vigour and vitality as Gigi was. They were worlds apart in terms of personality. I wondered what had drawn them together in the first place. Actually, for Manfred, the attraction was easy to see. Gigi was beautiful. But for Gigi . . . ? As they say, though, opposites attract, and perhaps it had been so for her. As we got to know each other better, Gigi became increasingly fond of me. Of all three sisters, she spent the most time at home. She was what the Germans call a Schneider, a seamstress. She sewed clothes, cushion covers, curtains, and bedcovers, and did mending and alterations for others. Germany after the war was still relatively poor. People did not have much money. In the smaller towns and suburbs, especially, families led very thrifty, conservative lives. Rather than shop for clothes, which were quite expensive, they would buy material and have these tailored by a Schneider such as Gigi. As simple as her job was, Gigi loved it. She was her own boss. She could determine the hours she worked. She had enough time to do other things she liked. She was content with her lot. At home, she began to take a greater interest in me. She would make my bed, prepare food for me in the evening—cold German cuts with salad, black bread, and a glass of milk—and invite me down to the lounge to watch the eight o’clock evening news on television. ‘It’s good for you, Hussain,’ she would say. ‘It’ll help you improve your German.’ Of course, I didn’t argue. Any excuse I had to be near Gigi I grabbed. I was smitten with her. Soon, she became my lover, mother, and most devoted friend, someone who took care of me and my every need. She guided me in the ways of the German. She helped me learn the language. She answered any question I had about the country, its history, its people. She was so thoughtful of my needs, whenever she saw an item of clothing on the floor, needing to be washed, she would pick it up, take it away, launder it, and return in—nicely pressed—on my bed. She was what in those days the Germans called the wunder fraulein, which literally means wonder girl.

These women were beautiful and devoted; they would do everything for their lovers. Germany then was full of wunder fraulein, including Gigi’s mother, but now if you go to Germany you won’t find even one. It’s a sign of the times. We often walked together to the charming little town on the river Neckar, Esslingen am Neckar, where there was an old and very pretty burg (castle), a popular spot amongst young couples. We would walk to this burg, hand in hand, and watch the sunset from the hill. It was from here that the river Neckar originated and flowed down to Stuttgart and beyond. On weekends, we sometimes made trips outside Stuttgart, to Munich, to Garmish the Alps of Bavaria. Public transport in Germany was so efficient and affordable, we went everywhere by train, tram, or bus. Garmisch is about two hundred kilometres away from Stuttgart, on the border with Austria, in the alps. It’s a popular skiing resort. Here, I experienced the magic of being on top of the mountain and skiing down, the wind whipping against my face. Gigi was my instructress, and what patience she had! She would ski down the beginner slopes with me, walk back up, and come down again, several times, until both of us were exhausted. I was a fast learner. Who wouldn’t be, with a teacher as lovely as Gigi? Thanks to her, I began my love affair with skiing, an exhilarating sport that I enjoy till today. I was very happy. I had achieved my two main goals and more. I was at a German school, paying a subsidised rate because of my family background; I was working and saving; and, best of all, I had a beautiful girlfriend who was attentive, caring, and opening a new world of travel, sport, and adventure to me. Anna Marie, her younger sister, had also been a little smitten with me, but as soon as Gigi returned, she realised that this ‘wunder boy’ (that’s what the family called me) was reserved for her elder sister. So here I was, in the company of three lovely sisters, spoilt to the core by the middle one, Gigi and treated like a brother by the other two. There was also Mueller who was looking out for me, seeing to it that I was on my feet and doing well. What more could a young man have wished for? I had achieved much more than I had set out to. In this blissful existence, time flew without my being aware of it. Before I knew it, I had finished the six month intensive language course at

Goethe. I was by now quite fluent in German, mainly because I was immersed in the language—from the time I woke up till I shut my eyes for sleep at night, I spoke German and nothing else. I asked the Eiseles, who could speak English, to speak to me only in German. While it was awkward in the beginning, it meant that I acquired the language much more quickly than the hesitant learner. After a while, I was already thinking in German. Having completed my programme at Goethe, I was ready for my next course of study—something that would propel me towards a better job, equip me with knowledge that would be useful for the rest of my life. With the advice of Mueller, I enrolled in the famous academy of finance and management studies, AKAD, in Stuttgart. It was the first private sector academy in Germany to run the same degree syllabus as state universities. It offered a number of courses related to management and finance. I chose finance as I had some background in the subject—from my days at the Bank of Bazergan. And somehow, I felt my future lay in finance. Yet I attended only six months of evening study. The academia was somehow boring for me. I am a man of self-study, work, and life experience, and driven by my intuition and God-given sensibilities. Stuttgart was a culturally vibrant city. There was an endless choice of pop concerts, and on the weekends there were highbrow classical performances as well as opera. A lot of the cultural activity took place at the Amerika Haus, built by the Americans, who continued to maintain a strong presence in Stuttgart following the war. Amerika Haus served partly to cater to the cultural needs of their own community and partly to make amends for German casualty during the war. Events at Amerika Haus were advertised not only amongst the expatriates but also the locals. At Amerika Haus, one did not just get to enjoy cultural shows but also talks, seminars and . . . best of all as far as I was concerned . . . debates. Topics were varied, from politics to the economy and current issues. It was for me an amazing gift to be able to attend these debates. What made them so special was the fact the participants were generally leaders in their professions. A good number were well known personalities such as Dr Kittzinger, a poet and writer, and chief minister of the state of Baden-Württemberg, of which Stuttgart was the capital. Then there was Professor Walter Hallstein, an outstanding

economist and the first president of the European Commission. There was also someone whose nickname—Der Dicker—always made me chuckle. It meant ‘the fat man’, and the unfortunate man thus titled was Dr Ludwig Erhard, widely recognised as the father of Germany’s post-war economy, the person responsible for its revival after World War II. He was quite a character—short, fat, and always with a Churchillian cigar dangling from his mouth. All these men were amongst the top brains in Germany at the time, and they certainly didn’t exhaust the list of invited speakers—they are just the ones whom my memory serves well to recollect. What is more, I was able to go and listen to these great men, all wonderful orators, completely free. Anyone from academia was charged a small entrance fee, but students could enter without paying, on a first-come, first-served basis. One day, while attending a debate at Amerika Haus, I met an American named Bill, one of the finest men I’ve ever encountered in my life. He was living with his wife Diana in Stuttgart, attached to the American base which was nearby. Diana was a lovely, olive-skinned lady. She could’ve been Latin American or Spanish, I wasn’t sure which. What I did know was that she sang in operas, and regularly performed at the Opera Haus. When Bill found out I knew nothing about opera, he said, ‘Young man, you can’t go through life without being exposed to opera. It’s the highest form of culture.’ Then he smiled, adding, ‘And of course I say that because my lovely Diana is a singer!’ He duly took me to an opera in which she was performing. Diana sang in German. She had an amazing voice and I was truly moved. After the opera, Bill took me back to their apartment, where we had good German beer, which was another novelty for me. Again, he said, ‘My god, Hussain, where have you been all this time? How can you have lived so long in Germany without trying its wonderful, naturally brewed beer?’ Bill introduced me to many things. He opened my eyes to culture and to the good life. Needless to say, I found it all very exciting. As he got to know me better, he discovered why I had come to Germany and said, ‘You know, Hussain, I can help you make a little money.’ ‘That’d be good,’ I said. ‘But how?’ ‘I’m a salesman. I’m an agent for Encyclopaedia Britannica, which I sell at the

American base. It’s quite easy, really. Come with me this weekend. We’ll go to the base in my car. And then we’ll go door to door. I’ll show you how it’s done.’ ‘Do the Americans want to buy encyclopaedia?’ I asked. ‘Sure they do!’ he said with conviction, ‘especially if they know they’ll get a free Bible with the set.’ With my vague knowledge of Christianity I knew there were different Bibles for Protestants and Catholics. So I asked, ‘How do you know which Bible to give?’ ‘Don’t worry, young man,’ he said, brushing his hand as if to sweep away all my doubts. ‘We’ll be real pros. We’ll go with both Bibles and ask them which one they prefer! Now, you have to agree, that’s pretty neat, huh?’ ‘Yeah . . .,’ I said, still not entirely convinced. ‘Hey, Hussain, they’re only paying ten dollars a month for an entire set of encyclopaedia. Do you know how much knowledge is contained in these books? It’s pretty damn good value for money, I tell you. And you know what really gets them? When you reel off some amazing facts from these books, then they realise what they’re worth.’ ‘But, Bill . . .,’ I protested, ‘I’m really shy. I’ve never sold anything to anyone. I’m not sure if I can do it.’ He wasn’t about to be deterred. ‘You sold yourself to the Ambassador on the Corniche in Beirut, didn’t you? Yeah, I know you weren’t selling yourself consciously. But he liked you. It’s the same with selling. If they like you, they’ll buy. I admit, it can be depressing at times when you don’t sell anything, but you’ve got to learn to take rejection too. It builds your character. It makes you a man.’ Bill was very persuasive—he was, after all, a salesman and a pretty good one at that too—and I finally agreed to accompany him on his next sales trip, that coming weekend. ‘Don’t forget, I’m your boss,’ he said before I left. ‘So whatever sales you make, we split eighty twenty, OK?’ You of course take 80 per cent.

That Saturday evening, still feeling reluctant, I went to Bill’s place. Though I had my reservations, I was also curious about this sales thing. I wanted to see how good salesmen worked. After quick goodbyes to Diana, we were off. Bill drove to the American base. At the gated entrance, they stopped us but were not difficult. They obviously knew Bill. He was a regular visitor. They knew he came to sell encyclopaedias and were OK with it. He came with his boxes of encyclopaedia in the back seat, along with the order book—all clearly visible. One of the security guards looked at me and asked who I was. ‘He’s my friend, Hussain. He’s a student and will be helping me this evening,’ explained Bill. They let us through. The American base was very interesting. There were baseball fields, American stores, American cafes, an American school. It was like a microcosm of the United States transplanted into Germany. Even the apartments looked different from normal German apartments. We parked at the visitors’ lot of one large apartment block and entered the building with our encyclopaedias and Bibles. ‘We’ll go through the apartment floor by floor,’ said Bill. ‘Today, you’re my apprentice. You just observe.’ At the first door, he rang the bell and an American woman opened it. ‘What do you want?’ she said, a little suspiciously, I thought. ‘Madam, we’re from Encyclopaedia Britannica . . .’ Bill began, but before he could get any further, the door slammed on his face. It didn’t matter. He was not the least perturbed. ‘Don’t worry, Hussain,’ he said, straightening himself, full of confidence. ‘Don’t worry. Tonight, we’re going to make at least ten calls and I tell you at least one door will open.’ We went door to door, floor by floor. No one let us in. Not on the first floor, the second, third, or fourth. I was getting more and more despondent. On the fifth floor, however, a youngish man opened the door and let us in. He was married and had a young child who was very interested in the books. Bill made his presentation—he was very smooth, very persuasive—and closed the deal! We

sold one set. ‘See,’ he said jubilantly once we were out the door. ‘It’s not that difficult. The trick is to get in.’ By this time, it was about eight. We’d been at it for two hours already. ‘OK, so do we go home now?’ I asked. ‘Heck, no. Sure, we could, but it’s still early. I want to try some more.’ An hour later, he sold his second set. Now he was satisfied. ‘Look, now I have monthly income coming. You can do it too. Next week, you do the talking.’ Through Bill, I learned the art of self-confidence. He taught me to talk with conviction, even to strangers. It was no fear to learn how to overcome my shyness and sell. To boost my oratory skills, he introduced me to the Toastmasters. I had been to the Toastmasters in Manama. A friend from BAPCO, Michael Baldwin, had taken me to the club in Bahrain a couple of times, but I hadn’t been active there. I was more of a listener. At the Toastmasters here, I got more practice on public speaking. With time, I managed to overcome my nerves. It helped that our product was knowledge-based. In those days, there was no internet. If people wanted to find out facts, their best bet was the encyclopaedia. Deep down, though, I felt that most of our buyers were not actually knowledge-seekers. I sincerely doubt that more than 10 per cent of the encyclopaedia owners ever referred to the books more than twice. They just needed something to put on their shelves. The encyclopaedia Britannica made for nice décor. They were nice, thick, impressive books with titles embossed in gold. But that didn’t bother me. After all, they did also get their free Bibles. Bill gave me a badge to say that I was an Encyclopaedia Britannica agent. After a couple of times of us going to the base together, he said to me, ‘Hussain, you’re very good now. And the people at the gate know you. Every weekend, if you have nothing to do, go to the base. You don’t have to go with me. I’ll give you a map, so you can keep track of the areas you’ve covered.’ I looked at the map and realised for the first time how big the American base was. If one person were to cover the entire base on his own, it would have taken

years. Of course, there were other salesmen beside Bill and me. Even so, there was plentiful ground for us to cover. The pie, as they say, was big. What I loved about selling encyclopaedia was the fact it enabled me to make a sizeable side income. And it gave me the satisfaction of knowing that I had made this money entirely on my own. This was perhaps the beginning of Najadi the entrepreneur—my first taste of doing a small business. I was still young, yet I was making money by selling education. It was a huge confidence booster. It gave me faith in myself and the courage, which I’ve had ever since, to just go for opportunities whenever they arose. I stopped being shy. At the same time, Hans would occasionally ask me to join Helga and him when they went out to meet their friends. They generally went to a particular little Beiz, a pub-restaurant or, literally, a cosy place to get together with friends and have some drinks and something to eat. In a Beiz, you had a Stemmtisch or a main roundtable, and the regulars took it in turn to occupy this prime spot. There would typically be a lot of smoking, beer drinking, and talking. Topics discussed generally centred around current affairs. On one of the occasions when I was with Hans, Helga, and Gigi at the Beiz, there was a young banker from the Esslingen branch of Dresdner Bank, Heinrich. He said to Hans, referring to me, ‘This young friend of yours, Hussain, does he have a bank account?’ Hans didn’t know and looked at me enquiringly. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got round to opening an account yet.’ ‘Well, would you like me to help you open one in our bank?’ Heinrich asked. ‘Yes, why not? It would be handy. Thanks.’ So he opened a small savings account for me. The next time we met, he said to the group, ‘Have you heard? The government is going to privatise all the big companies. They’ve decided these companies need to be modernised, revitalised. Their systems are outdated and have to be reconstructed. Once this is done, they will be returned to the private sector.’ True enough, Germany at the time was embarking on a massive privatisation initiative, with the aim of distributing equity in the most profitable companies amongst the people, and giving the poor, especially, the opportunity to improve

their financial well-being. In fact, a large portion of the shares were reserved for lower income people. I was extremely fortunate to have arrived in the country at the same time of the birth of its IPOs or initial public offerings. The best of the best German companies—the blue chips—were going public. The Bank Manager encouraged all his friends to buy shares in the companies being privatised. ‘They’re a safe bet,’ he assured. ‘They’re the best companies we have. We cannot but make money with the privatisation.’ Everyone was keen. Heinrich looked at me. ‘What about you, Hussain? You going to join in?’ ‘OK. How much do I need to pay?’ I said. ‘Not much. About 1,000 Deutsche Mark will get you ten shares or so. Come to the bank on Monday and fill up the application.’ I did as he advised. At Dresdner Bank that Monday, I applied for twenty shares at 100 DM per share par value. In order to encourage as many people as possible to buy these shares, the government made the payment as painless as it could. It collected 25 per cent of the value of shares purchased in four instalments. If you were below a certain income, as I was, you got a 20 per cent social discount. I therefore had to pay a total of 1,600 DM in four instalments, which worked out to 400 DM per instalment, well within my budget. I didn’t even know what share I was buying, but Heinrich told me I could keep track of the price of my share from the window of the Bank. Every day, on my way to work, I would stop by the window and look at the share prices. Mine went up from 100 DM to 200 DM, then to 300 DM, 500 DM . . . 800 DM. I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep. Should I sell, should I hold on? What if the share price were suddenly to plunge as I knew share prices could do? My investment was real. It was different from reading Keynesian and other economic theories. I felt proud of the fact that many students of economics and finance study for many years without putting any of their learnings to practice, whereas here I was making money already.

I was getting nervous about the share suddenly plummeting and asked Heinrich when to sell. He advised me to wait. ‘I think it’ll reach 1,100 DM. To be on the safe side, sell at 1,000 DM,’ he said. Heinrich was my economics guru and I had faith in him. So I did as he said. I waited until my shares reached 1,000 DM. Then, without waiting a second, I sold them. Percentage wise, the profits I made through these IPOs were the biggest I have ever made in my life. Najadi the capitalist was thus born. I was fascinated by something called the miracle of Germany and the miracle of Bourse or the Stock Exchange. I thought to myself, no other activity allows one to make so much money so fast. Hans made an even bigger killing than I because he had bought even more shares, including some for Helga and Gigi. So he was just as ecstatic as I. ‘Hans, we’ve got to go back to the Beiz and find out when the next IPO is going to be announced,’ I said to him. ‘There’s no need. I already know,’ he said with a smile. ‘You do? Which company is it?’ I asked, hungry for more. ‘It’s going to be Mercedes-Benz, where you are working!’ ‘No!’ ‘Oh yes. And a big portion of the share is being reserved for employees, Hans. That means you can buy at an even lower price than the rest of us.’ I immediately did some scouting at work, and found out it was indeed true. Mercedes-Benz was issuing shares at 500 DM par value. I bought five shares, and read the papers every day hence to read the business pages and keep up with the share prices. The price of the Mercedes-Benz stock rose steadily. Again, I consulted my friend the Bank Manager. When should I sell? Again, he said, wait till it increases tenfold. As the price rose . . . and rose . . . I became increasingly nervous. I reasoned that Heinrich was right the last time round, so he was bound to be right again. After just a few weeks, the share price hit 5,000 DM and I sold. Suddenly, I realised, I had accumulated in just a few months about 50,000 DM in

my savings account, quite a hefty sum for a trainee student from Bahrain. Heinrich informed us that Siemens, the biggest German electronics company, was being floated next, followed by twenty other blue-chip companies. I said to myself: that’s it. This is my new source of income. I don’t have to work eight hours a day for eight DM mark at the Mercedes factory any more. I had enough capital, which I would continue to invest. Now, I felt, I was even in a position to settle my parents in a place they would be happy to live in. While they were contented enough in Manama, I was not able to visit them there. And they were living in a very small depilated house. They hadn’t made enough for their own house. What’s more, my father was still getting up at five every morning to say his prayers and then go to work. It was a tough life for a man who was well past his prime. I wrote to my parents, told them how much money I had made through my investments, and said to them I would like to set them up in a comfortable home in Shiraz, Iran, where I could go freely to visit them. I knew they would be very happy there, as they had quite a number of relatives in Shiraz. They liked my suggestion and agreed to meet me in Shiraz, where together we would look for a house for them. This time, I had the money to fly. There was no more the need for al fresco decks on ships and four-day desert crossings in a truck! No, this time I flew to Beirut, with money I had made myself, then flew again from Beirut to Shiraz. My parents met me at the airport. They had arrived a day earlier and were staying with some relatives. From our relatives, we found out about a Jewish developer who had built three houses next to each other, in one of the nicest residential areas in town. The houses were lovely—they had three floors, three bedrooms, a garage, garden, and a fountain. Because they were going at a reasonable price—about US$10,000 (77,000 Iranian tomans), two of the houses had already been taken. I bought the last one. My parents loved it. I also opened a savings account for my father at the Bank of Saderat, Iran. And to be able to keep in touch with them, I decided to get them a phone with international dialling. Because the official queue for telephone lines was very long, I bought them a second line from the grey market, which was as efficient as any market in Germany! The very next day, technicians came to install the

phone—coincidentally, a black Siemens model. Now, I could talk to my parents as often as we wanted. I also promised to send money to my father’s account every other month, so he would not have to work. I’m proud to say that I kept this promise until the end of my parents’ lives. My parents never had to worry about money after that. Having thus done my duty to parents, I returned to Germany. I could see they loved being back in Iran. They loved being in Shiraz, the city of culture, of gardens and roses . . . Finally, they could enjoy their golden years, going to the bazaar, visiting friends, and family. They were the happiest parents in the world.

* * *

CHAPTER 8 A Bahraini in Paris

I never finished my course in finance at AKAD. Instead, I had discovered the power of financial markets, the fact that I could make my own money, reinvest it, and then make some more. With this discovery, I felt, like most young, impatient young men would, why on earth should I bother working for someone else who paid me so little in comparison? Because this exciting world of shares, investments, the stock exchange, and IPOs was new to me, I decided my time would be better spent in a bank learning the ropes, understanding the structure of the share market, what it was, and how exactly it worked. What made prices go up or down? It was fascinating, and something I had as yet not been exposed to. I learnt that the movement in prices was determined not only by the financial performance of companies but also by market behaviour, by the sentiment of investors who could be totally irrational—and often is. One could therefore never predict with absolute certainty what would happen. It was infinitely more exciting than reading course books on finance and economics, most of which were not only dry but—more unforgiving—out of date. Hence I became, not quite a trader, but an investor. I was fortunate in that I had a good source of information—my economics guru, H, the Dresdner Bank manager. Both Hans and I asked H if he could give us a crash course on the share market, which he did. These lessons were much more applicable to real life and resonated with me more readily than the study of finance. I began to doubt the value of a purely academic study. What was the point of it? Yes, you got a certificate at the end but to me that degree was simply a means to an end, namely a better career, which I had already attained. A path had been opened, a wondrous mystery revealed. I felt compelled to master this mystery and make it work for me. So I focused wholeheartedly on my informal training with H and continued to buy more IPO shares. Soon, I was confident enough to invest in normal shares too, after conducting my own research on the relevant companies. In general, I was successful. In fact, I’d go

so far as to say I was pretty good at making money from the share market. Thanks to my new-found entrepreneurial venture, my bank account started to look quite impressive. In fact, to borrow the American idiom, it looked swell. I had participated in the IPO of Siemens, the third largest IPO in Germany at the time and made quite a killing. I had amassed some 100,000 DM from my shares. This was quite a revelation. My God, I said to myself, I’ve become a capitalist. What happened to that communist who founded the BLF? Where was the socialist fighting for the rights of downtrodden workers? Here I was, a poor boy from Bahrain, now a German capitalist, or as they say, a capitalist pig. Yes, I had to agree, I was a capitalist. But no, I was certainly not a pig. I still had my conscience. I still knew right from wrong. I came to terms with the possibility of being a socially responsible capitalist. Because of my background, because of where I have come from, I know what it is like to struggle. I have seen my own parents struggle. I know what it’s like to live with little, to make do with what you have, and to learn to be happy with it. All of this, my past, I will never forget. How can I? But I no longer believe, as I did in Bahrain, that those who had money were necessarily evil or selfish or arrogant or whatever. Making money and being good do not have to compete with each other. They can live side by side. Even within one person. Having quit AKAD, I also found myself with more disposable time. I have always loved travelling, discovering new places, meeting new people. I love the incredible sense of freedom you get from moving out of your normal sphere of life. What I needed, or rather what would make my life much more pleasurable, was to have my own wheels. With Gigi, we went to just about all the second hand car dealers in Stuttgart. We found a cute 1952 Volkswagen with two little windows at the back (more contemporary models had the normal single back window). It looked very dainty, not robust like most big cars. Yet belying all appearances, it had chalked up 300,000 kilometres! ‘It’s a good car,’ said the salesman. ‘It’s been kept well, and it can probably do another 300,000 kilometres.’

‘What do you think?’ I asked Gigi. ‘It’s adorable,’ she said. ‘How much are you asking for it?’ I asked the salesman. ‘Nothing much. Just one thousand,’ he replied. A thousand Deutsche Mark (about US$250) for a car at the time was a really good deal. I asked to test drive the beetle, and Gigi and I took it around a few blocks. I was not a car expert (despite having worked in the storeroom at Mercedes!) and was happy enough with the way it handled. ‘Shall I get it? You think it’s worth it? Will you happily sit by my side in this car?’ I asked my beautiful girlfriend sitting next to me. ‘Of course, silly!’ she replied with a laugh. ‘If you think it’s in good condition, get it.’ That settled it. We paid for the car, and I was now the proud owner of a red Beetle. Gigi shared my enthusiasm for the new old car; she even made curtains for the back windows. She and I started to go out much more in Stuttgart and explored nearby towns and villages. We’d take picnics and generally made the most of our freedom to wander, to seek new experiences, and to just enjoy life. I was really having fun with the car and soon became more adventurous. I decided I was finally going to make my long-held dream of visiting Paris come true. Also, I thought it would be a good distraction for Gigi, who was going through the process of getting a divorce from Manfred. He, expectedly, was not at all happy to divorce her, but she had made up her mind. I knew she was not too busy with her tailoring business, and a trip out of town would do her good. So I broached the subject with her. ‘Hey, you know how I’ve always wanted to go to Paris?’ I began. ‘Mmm,’ she said, with thread caught in her lips. She was sewing a dress for a Frau Kempner, one of our neighbours. ‘Well, I thought now’s a good time to go. I mean, I’m not busy or anything. And although you have some work to do, it’s not really urgent. We can go for a few

days. What do you think?’ She looked at me, thought for a while, then said, ‘Um, you go ahead, but I won’t go. There are things to do here, you know. I should really go see the lawyer . . . and I’ve got a few pieces of tailoring to finish. But you go.’ ‘Are you sure? I think it’d be a good break for you. You can see the lawyer later. And the tailoring can wait too.’ ‘I guess I don’t really feel like it. You go,’ she repeated. So I did. First, I bought a map from Stuttgart. The route was very straightforward. Germany had an extensive railway network as well as a network of Autobahns, built by the Nazis before the war, to transport tanks and other military units from one area to another. Given the German quest for perfection, this meant the road and railway infrastructure was excellent. From Stuttgart, I could go all the way to Alsace, on the German border with France, on the Autobahn. My Volkswagen would not go any faster than 80 km/h, even if you beat it like a horse. Still, it was good enough. The countryside was quite beautiful, and I soaked it all in as I tootled along, slowly but surely. The Rhine valley was especially picturesque, with old castles and vineyards, most of which produced the famous Mosel wine. As I was going through one charming village, I noticed a big gathering at what must have been its main square. Everyone was colourfully dressed in folk costume and young German fraulein were handing out glasses of wine. It must be a wine tasting festival, I thought to myself. Everybody looked incredibly happy, dancing, singing, and drinking wine. Giving myself a healthy dose of Bill courage, I parked in a corner of the square and joined the crowd. Before long, a young lady came up and offered me a glass of wine. I sipped it. It was light and refreshing. I finished the glass. There wasn’t that much in it, just about a quarter of a glass. Soon after, another lovely lady offered me another glass of a different wine. Again, it tasted great. And I finished the glass. In this fashion, no less than eight lovely ladies must have handed me eight glasses of wine, within the space of about half an hour. Unlike the others, who were actually tasting the wines— swirling the glass, sniffing the bouquet, taking a small sip, swishing it around the palate, and then spitting it out, I—not realising that’s what we were meant to do

—quaffed all the wine down, one after the other. Because I was not a wine drinker, and because of the speed at which I was imbibing all these delectable Mosel varieties, I was soon as inebriated as the most drunken sailor at the North Sea port of Hamburg. My vision became blurred. In fact, I could barely stand. I tried to make my way back to my car, staggering half blind. Just beyond the square, I collapsed in a heap and vomited the way I had on the ship to Alexander. I felt better after throwing up and managed to get myself back to my trusty car. Reclining the driver’s seat, I slumped backwards, finished a bottle of water that I was carrying with me, and slept. It was early afternoon, hardly the right time to get wasted, assuming there is ever a right time to get wasted. But it was part and parcel of what I consider now as my personal education, my learning about the ways of the world, and finding a space for myself in it. After this episode, I was never as reckless when drinking any form of alcohol, and never became intoxicated ever again. I felt very safe in my car, perhaps not comfortable, but safe. It was my mobile home. When I eventually woke up from my drunken slumber some three hours later, I felt almost normal. I drove around until I found a brook, refreshed myself with the clear, cold water, then looked for a pension to spend the night. The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, I had a good night’s sleep in the home of a friendly German family and woke up completely refreshed and raring to go onwards with my journey to Paris. Along the way, somewhere between Alsace and Paris, I was stopped by the French police. I was on a main road, and I didn’t think I was speeding, so I couldn’t work out why they were stopping me. A gendarme asked, ‘Francais?’ ‘Nein,’ I replied in German, ‘but I speak German.’ Politely, in German, he asked for my papers. I produced them all—my passport, my car ownership certificate, my driving licence. He looked at all of these, then said, ‘Monsieur, you’ve been speeding.’ I was taken aback. ‘But how could I have been speeding? Just look at this car. It’s as old as a dead donkey. It doesn’t go more than eighty.’ ‘Ah, but in the village, the limit is sixty and you were doing seventy, seventy-

five,’ he said. Using my charm, and all the speaking skills I had picked up from Bill and the Toastmasters, I tried to talk my way out of this, explaining I was a student, I was not from France. In fact, I was not German either. I was from Bahrain and this was the first time I was driving out of Stuttgart. I kept saying I was a penniless student. In my old, beat-up Beetle, I fit the part perfectly. Fortunately, he was sympathetic. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked. ‘Paris.’ ‘Why are you going to Paris?’ he asked. ‘I arrived in Europe only a few months ago, and I want to travel as much as I can,’ I said. ‘Of course, Paris is top of my list.’ ‘OK, go,’ he said. ‘And this time, no more speeding in the villages. Paris, c’est magnifique. Enjoy your trip.’ This gendarme was representative of most people in the villages. They were very kind, tres sympa, as the French would say. They were trusting and took you for your word. Today, sadly, this is too often no longer true if you are a Muslim. With the help of my simple map, I drove into the centre of Paris. I headed straight for what is probably the most famous landmark in Paris other than the Eiffel Tower: the Champs Elysees. The broad avenue with the lights, shops, the touristy restaurants, and sandwich bars was as I had expected it to be, bustling and grand. I found a place to park on a street connecting to the Champs Elysees, then walked around to discover this magical city. While wandering, I eventually found myself on Avenue Montaigne, a highly fashionable road where all the top boutiques are, famous brands such as YSL, Chanel, Lacroix. It was fascinating just to look into the shop windows. I didn’t realise it at the time but the French are so particular about presentation, and take their window dressing so seriously, there are people who specialise in this. Top window dressers are actually considered to be artistes of very high standing. It was a sunny evening, approaching 6 p.m, and I was walking around aimlessly

in this fashionable area, in my tatty jeans and sweatshirt. Suddenly, I noticed a snazzy convertible, white, gleaming. I couldn’t make out the model, but it was sleek, beautiful. There was an elegant Parisian woman with a white poodle sitting in the car. Feeling very chirpy, I said, ‘Hello, madame.’ She surprised me by responding with a greeting. Ooh, I thought, this is Paris! This is the city of love and romance . . . When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and when in Paris . . . She indicated the empty seat and signalled for me to get in. For a moment, I hesitated. Do I get in, do I not? What the hell, I said, I’m in Paris. Let me make the most of it. I got in, and we zoomed off. From the time I got into her car, this woman started rattling away in French, of which I knew very few words from a self-learning book. She talked a lot. I understood very little. After about ten minutes, she stopped the car outside an apartment building, got out of the convertible, and looked at me in invitation. I followed her into the building. It had an elevator with iron gates. I had never seen one like that before. It was old-fashioned but very chic. The woman, who smelt of an expensive perfume, pressed the button of the fourth floor. Up we went. On the fourth floor, she got out and opened the door to an apartment. I guessed it was hers. It was very modern, very expensive-looking in black and deep red décor. There was a little bar in the corner, which I thought was odd for a woman who apparently lived alone . . . other than her poodle, that is. But who was I to question? This was Paris. Perhaps it was their custom. She went behind the bar, still babbling away in French. By now, she had come to realise that I didn’t speak French, and asked in English where I was from and what I did. When I said I was a student, she looked a little displeased, and said, ‘Mon cadeau, s’il vouz plait.’ I looked at her questioningly. ‘Hmm?’ I asked. ‘Mon cadeau,’ repeated. ‘Mon cadeau.’ I had no idea what she was on about. The poodle was lying on the floor in front of me. I looked at it. Perhaps it was the dog’s name. So I said to the dog, ‘Moncadeau.’

The dog barked. The lady got angry. After repeating ‘mon cadeau’ a few times, she became truly exasperated, took out a wallet from her Louis Vuitton handbag, and produced some money. Waving the French francs at me, she said again, ‘Mon cadeau!’ I will never forget these words. They literally mean ‘my present’, but used by certain women, it meant ‘my money’. Money, I suddenly realised, for services she expected to render. I panicked. I had to extricate myself from her apartment. The door was behind me. I slowly edged backward while talking to her, nodding and saying, ‘Yes, yes, no problem.’ When I got close enough, I quickly opened the door and bolted. I didn’t wait for the elevator; I just sprinted down the stairs, four flights. All the while, I could hear her screeching, ‘you foreigner . . . You bastard!’ I finally got down and ran onto the street, puffing and panting. Phew! That had been a close call. Thank God. I certainly had knocked on the wrong door. She wasn’t the kind of elegant, intellectual Parisian woman I had thought she would be! She was no Parisian dream! I was safe from the woman, but I didn’t know where the hell I was. OK, I reasoned, I may be in Paris but I could do what I used to do in Germany. Hitchhike. Over there, everybody was kind to me and would stop. Here, though, I found Parisians were not as helpful. Nobody stopped except for a truck driver, pulling along a huge refrigerated container. I knew only one word: Champs Elysees. But that was sufficient. The driver said, come in. I discovered he was a butcher and was delivering meat to various customers. The minute I saw the Arc de Triomphe, which marked one end of the Champs Elysees, I thanked him and said I could get off. I was rid of the woman with the poodle. And I was on safe territory. I was set to enjoy Paris. As it was already dark, I decided to find a place to stay. Referring to the map, I drove to the Latin Quarter, the soul of Paris. It was here that you have the Sorbonne, the philosophers, the students. I parked the car and found a nice little hotel. After checking in and refreshing myself, I headed out again into the Parisian night. I walked around, chose a pleasant café to have a simple dinner—a steak and a glass of bourguignon. Although the wine was very good and very reasonably priced, I’d learnt my

lesson and limited myself. After dinner, I wandered some more. It was interesting just to observe people, the way they greeted each other, three kisses on the cheek, the enervated conversations. The women were slender, elegant. It was hard to say how old they were from the back because they were all so well dressed, made-up, and inviting. I did not stay out too late and got up at a decent hour the following morning. After my petit dejeuner at the hotel—coffee and croissants—I went into the narrow alley where I had parked the previous evening. But my red Beetle was not there. I searched from alley to alley, to no avail. There was no doubt about it, my Volkswagen was gone. I returned to the hotel and told the concierge about my missing car. ‘Where did you park, monsieur?’ she asked. ‘Just there, in the alley,’ I said, pointing towards the place I had last seen the vehicle. ‘Was it a yellow line or a white line?’ she asked. ‘What line?’ I asked, bewildered. ‘The line on the road, monsieur. Was it yellow or white?’ ‘Uh, I don’t know, but I think it was a yellow line.’ ‘Ooh la, la. You better go and find a policeman and ask him. I think they have taken away your car.’ Bad news! I immediately went out in search of a policeman. When I found one, I explained my predicament. He asked me to lead him to the alley where I had parked, which I did. He looked at me sternly and said, ‘But, monsieur, why did you park here? Don’t you know the sign? It says no parking. No stopping.’ ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m not from Paris. I’m not from France. I’ve come here on holiday, to visit your beautiful city,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t know I’m not meant to park here.’ ‘The law’s the law, you know. Anyway, your car’s been taken,’ he said with a shrug. ‘There’s nothing I can do. You better go to the police station.’

He was kind enough to take me to the nearest police station, where I repeated my story. They said my car was in the yard. The chief of the station was a cantankerous man in his fifties who proceeded to scold me. ‘In France, you have to follow French law, you know. You cannot come here and pretend you know nothing. Even if you are foreigner, you must obey our laws. You must pay a hundred French francs, then we give you your car back.’ I pleaded with him. I begged. As with the policeman who got me for speeding in the village, I said I was a student, penniless. I was in Paris because I had heard so much about the city and it had always been my dream to visit it. Extolling the many splendours of Paris seemed to work some kind of magic. The cantankerous middle-aged gendarme finally relented. ‘OK, since this is your first time in Paris, and because you are a typical young man who does not know the rules, I give you your car back. But never again, you hear?’ Back in my Beetle, I drove around Paris. It’s actually not a very big city and it’s possible to see all of Paris in a car in one day. But I decided to divide it into sections and spend time discovering each. I went to Montmartre, where the Sacre Coeur and the famous cabarets are, the Moulin Rouge, the Crazy Horse . . . It was here, on the little hill which they call la butte that Picasso, Matisse, and Lautrec had lived. Till today, Montmartre attracts artists, many of whom set up easels on the cobbled roads leading up to the white cathedral, to do portraits of passers-by. I spent a good part of the day here. Then, I decided to visit the Notre Dame, so I got into my car and headed towards this great work of gothic architecture with its flying buttresses and menacing gargoyles. Stopped at a traffic light, I noticed next to my car a Deux Chevaux, small like a Volkswagen but well-engineered. Although it literally means a two horsepowered car, in France they also referred to this sluggish but reliable product of French engineering as a bicycle with an umbrella. In it was a young, attractive Parisian girl. She looked at me, smiled, and when the lights changed, she revved and sped off. I gave chase. We began racing. Of course, neither of us could go very fast considering the cars we were driving, but she was absolutely crazy. She went through red lights, yellow lights, daring me to do the same. In my heart, I thought, my god she’s going to kill me.

But there was no way I was going to back off and let her win so easily. The machismo of the Bahraini man in me kicked in and I said if this young girl can do it, I can do it too. We were at it for a good ten minutes or so. It seemed much longer while we were driving, especially as my heart was on my sleeves but finally she stopped. She got out of her car, said something in French, and laughed. ‘Err, I don’t speak French,’ I said. ‘English, anglais?’ ‘Anglais, non,’ she said. Through a combination of a few words in English and sign language, she told me her friends were having a party. It was in a club very close to where we were. She asked me to join them. Sure, I said and followed her. Her friends were all students. Here I was, a young man, in the middle of so many young female students. I should have been in my element. But I wasn’t, really. Nobody, including my mad French girl racer, spoke English. And I didn’t speak French. After some time, I found there wasn’t enough common communication ground, and I left. I drove back to the Latin Quarter. This time, I parked properly and, as in the previous night, I just ambled. I spent a few days in Paris, visiting all the museums, the art galleries, and other famous sites. When I felt I had well and truly soaked in everything I could of Paris, I set back for Esslingen, the same way I had come—through the Rhine Valley, Alsace, and then home. As always when I travel, it felt good to be back home. It was great to be at the Eiseles again, and particularly to be with Gigi, who wanted to know everything I had done and seen. I told her all about my adventurous journey. On the surface, I was happy with my life in Esslingen, but at a deeper level I began to experience a feeling of disconnect with the culture or rather a specific aspect of it. Because the discomfort I experienced was quite profound, I feel I should explain this in some detail. Esslingen is part of the historical kingdom of Swabia, in southwestern Germany, which includes Stuttgart, Heidelberg, in fact much of the present state of Baden-Württemberg. Next to it is the kingdom of Bavaria, with Munich as its capital. The people of Swabia are lovely—poetic yet hardworking, with a strong sense of ethics. They are good Protestants who live frugal and simple lives. There was also amongst the people of Swabia what I believed to be a good old-fashioned attitude towards

sex. As I mentioned earlier, Gigi and Manfred had not slept together before getting married, and I had been very surprised, in a positive sense, by this. Yet there was another side to Swabia that I could not fathom, and which seemed to be diametrically opposed to all their other qualities, customs, and beliefs. Every year, in January, they celebrate a festival, Fasching, for about two weeks before Ash Wednesday. During this time, it seemed to me, everybody goes crazy. They dress up in costumes with masks and parade around town. There’s lots of music, drinking, and merrymaking. It’s a little like Rio, only with less flesh and more elaborate costumes. The idea is to celebrate to the hilt before the austerities of Lent begin. This is primarily a Catholic festival, and all Catholic-dominated countries celebrate it in one way or another. Germans, in particular, take it very seriously. So seriously, that in Esslingen and Stuttgart, musicians would start practising for Fasching months in advance. People prepare their costumes for the festival six months beforehand. Everyone goes out in the streets dressed in costume from head to toe, from babies to grandparents. Soon after I returned from my trip to Paris, Gigi began to get busy tailoring costumes for everyone at home. Every year, there is a theme, and people make a real effort to dress accordingly. For a people who are generally laid-back and easy-going, there is a real spirit of competition to outdo others during Fasching. I could not comprehend this. I didn’t understand the significance of it all. When the carnival finally arrived, Esslingen was transformed. For two weeks, people in outlandish costumes—witches, ghouls, gnomes, historical figures— thronged the streets. The music was loud, there were parades; the restaurants, beer houses, and Beiz were packed at all hours. What I really enjoyed were the cabarets or shows, dominated by clowns. These weren’t run-of-the-mill clowns, but professionals, some of whom actually had celebrity status. The reason being, they have traditionally played an important role within German society. Every Fasching, they take to the streets and create political satires often targeting the government. Yet it is tolerated. At Fasching, people are allowed to air their grievances. It’s like mass catharsis, the release of pent-up frustrations accumulated over the year. The clowns are the people’s conduit for this catharsis. Even in old Germany, before democracy, clowns performed the same function.

Effigies of German leaders would be paraded and parodied. And the police would do nothing to stop it. It was a free for all. While I could understand the need for the people to air their political discontent, Fasching was also a time for sexual catharsis. During these two weeks, women—even those who were in relationships or were married—were allowed to go off with any man they so desired, no questions asked. They could disappear for two, three, four days at a stretch and their partners or spouses were not allowed to ask them where they’d been or with whom. This was something I absolutely could not understand till today. In the evenings during Fasching, there are masked balls everywhere. Couples will agree to meet at a particular venue but without knowing what each other will be wearing. The idea is for men and women to have the chance to talk to complete strangers while supposedly searching for their partners. Men who sincerely want to find their partner, as I did, have to dance with a number of women, in the hope of finding the right one. It frustrated me no end to know that Gigi was there, somewhere, within this crowded hall, yet I had no idea which of the masked women she was. I danced with several women, and it was only when they started talking could I even make out if they were young or old. But none of the women was Gigi. She had made my costume, so she knew exactly where I was and I was expecting her to make her way to me. I thought she wouldn’t want me dancing with so many other women. The idea of her dancing with other men certainly didn’t please me. But she didn’t turn up. After a while, I got fed up of the whole thing and went home. Gigi returned soon after. I asked her about this concept of ‘frei tagen’ or free days, when all conventional rules and boundaries were broken. I asked if it didn’t bother Germans that their partners went off with other men or women. She looked surprised at the question. ‘No, actually, we don’t mind at all,’ she said. ‘But isn’t it strange that for fifty weeks of the year, you follow one set of rules, and then for two weeks, there are no rules at all?’ I asked. ‘It’s because we follow rules for most of the year that we’re given the chance to break them during Fasching. That’s the whole point. To do whatever you want so

that for the rest of the year you can be good again,’ she replied. ‘And a man will not get angry if his wife goes off with another man?’ I persisted. ‘Not at all. In fact, young women who are married are expected to go off with another man. This is their time for freedom. To do what they want.’ ‘The husband will not be jealous?’ I asked. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘No, he won’t.’ ‘But if his wife did the same thing at some other time of the year, would he be angry or jealous?’ ‘Yes, of course. He would be stark raving mad! He would probably divorce her.’ ‘But, Gigi, it doesn’t make sense,’ I said. ‘Don’t you see it, doesn’t make sense? Why is something that is unacceptable the rest of the year tolerated during Fasching?’ ‘It’s different, Hussain. I told you, it’s because we have the freedom we want during Fasching that we probably are able to be good wives the rest of the year.’ I was not satisfied. We were sitting in the kitchen, having coffee. The others were not back yet from the revelry, so the house was quiet. There were still so many questions bubbling inside of me. I wanted so much to be able to understand this German custom, but so far I was still flummoxed. ‘Do you realise I was desperately looking for you at the dance?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I could see you. I was standing not too far away, and I was keeping my eyes on you,’ she said. ‘Then why didn’t you come to me?’ ‘I just wanted to see what you did. Why? Are you angry with me?’ ‘I don’t know.’ The truth is, I was completely bewildered. Later, I asked Anna Marie and Helga about this. Their response was the same as Gigi’s. I was truly unsettled. How, I

asked myself, could this tradition of anything goes coexist with staunch Christian values, orthodox family values? To me, this represented such a profound contradiction within the German psyche. The Germans were not as a rule crazy. They were not fiery and fun-loving Latins, like the French, the Spanish, and the Italians. They were Anglo-Saxon—quiet, conservative, polite. I still hugely admired the country for its advances in modern technology and industry. I was beguiled by its stock market. But this aspect of German culture as disclosed by the carnival created for me a personal dilemma in my relationship with the country and its people. For the sake of maintaining peace, I eventually resorted to pretending to understand the concept of frei tagen. But in my heart, I never did. There was, actually, another German tradition similar to frei tagen, and which gnawed at my Middle Eastern ideals. This was the tradition of abducting new brides. After a couple is married, there will of course be drinks and dancing and general revelry at night. During this celebration, a young man will come on a horse (or, today, a car) and whisk off the bride. The groom then has to go searching for her. If he’s lucky, she returns to him that very night. If not, she could stay with her abductor. And when she returns the following day, her new husband has no right to question her, leave alone turn her away. This is allowed because it’s meant to be the final chapter of being single, a woman’s last chance to be with another man before devoting her life to her husband. But to my Bahraini blood and culture, I couldn’t understand this. For the first time, I noticed a significant difference in the way of thinking of the East and West. I am sure no Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Arab, or Persian man would allow his new bride to spend a night with another man. For us, it is completely and utterly unacceptable. A Muslim man would utter the word ‘talak’ three times and that would be it. He would be divorced from his wife! For us, marriage is a serious commitment; love means having to sacrifice. You sacrifice your personal freedom. You put the wants and needs of the person you love above your own wants and needs. Because you sacrifice so much for your loved one, you would not want to share her or him with anyone else. Of course, you’d be jealous if they spent time with another. And of course, you’d feel your pride shattered if they did. In Germany, Bill had introduced me to an American newspaper, the Herald

Tribune. Although printed in Paris, it was packed onto the earliest trains to all major cities in Europe and arrived at the American bases in Stuttgart by nine in the morning. The paper catered to Americans in Europe, many of whom had stayed back from the war. Bill would pass me his copies as soon as he had finished with them. I found it refreshing to read the Herald Tribune in addition to a German daily. It had good reviews of the theatre and a comprehensive business section. On the back page, until recently, it also had classified advertisements. One evening, as I was reading the Herald Tribune, I came across a classified ad by an investment house in Geneva, seeking executives. I was at the time going through my inner crisis concerning frei tagen. I was also still living off my investments in the share market. I did not have a full-time job. So I thought I might give it a try. I wrote a letter and sent it off to the investment bank. Ten days later, I received a call from Geneva, an American company called Investors Overseas Services (IOS). The name did not ring a bell, but about ten years later the investment company gained notoriety for selling funds which dropped in value and eventually became worthless, causing the ruin of a number of European and American banks. But as I said, when I joined the company, it was just setting up. Its founder, Bernard Cornfeld, was recruiting salesmen to sell to US personnel in bases around Europe and the Middle East. The man on the phone asked if I was willing to go to Geneva for an interview. He said IOS would mail me my train ticket. I said yes. I thought the job was to be a bank executive, and I was very excited by the prospect of being in banking in Geneva. I wasn’t sure how Gigi would react to this new development, but she was very positive. ‘You should definitely go,’ she said. ‘Switzerland is a dream country for all of us, including me. It’s a lovely country. What’s more, it’s the centre of world banking. It would be perfect for you.’ In a few days, my train ticket arrived. It was a first class ticket from Stuttgart to Geneva. I was also given IOS’ address: 119 rue de Lausanne. I will never forget this address. I believe, like the Chinese, that the feng shui of this building, this number, changed my life. When I went for my interview, I was greeted by a beautiful, bubbly receptionist

who took me to meet the Executive Vice President of IOS, W. Thad Lovett, the second man in the company. The entire office was bustling. There seemed to be a lot of people, and they were all very busy. The energy was palpable. It was electric. I hadn’t seen dynamism like this in Germany. My interview with Lovett lasted about forty-five minutes, during which he asked about me, what I had done, what qualifications I had . . . He seemed especially interested in my share market activity. He did not, however, tell me much about IOS. So when he said, ‘OK, Hussain, I think you’re the right man for us. I’d like you to join our team,’ I wasn’t sure what the job entailed. ‘Great,’ I replied. ‘But what exactly do I do?’ ‘Very simple. You join us, we train you. We’ll send you for a couple of days to our training centre. There, you will learn about mutual funds. In England, they call them unit trusts, but in America, we call them mutual funds,’ he said. ‘We need you to help us sell mutual funds.’ At the time, Germany didn’t have a single mutual fund. IOS was the exclusive distributor for two famous, top of the market funds in terms of performance—Dreyfus Funds and Fidelity Funds, which today is the largest in America. ‘OK’, I said, ‘but what about my salary?’ ‘There is no salary. You will be paid a commission. For every US$10,000 worth of funds you sell, we make 8 per cent, out of which 5 per cent goes to you. So out of $10,000, you make $500.’ This arrangement appealed to my spirit of entrepreneurship. It meant there was no limit to my potential earning. On the other hand, I could earn nothing at all. But if that happened, I reasoned, I could always go back to Germany. I said yes to the offer. ‘If it’s OK, I will start at the beginning of the month,’ I added. ‘Not a problem, Hussain. We look forward to your joining our team,’ said Lovett. Back in Esslingen, I told Gigi about the job offer.

‘The job sounds fantastic. There’s no guaranteed salary, but if I’m good, I can make a hell of a lot of money. And Geneva’s not that far away. We can always meet up on weekends. The train takes only around eight hours,’ I said. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m very happy for you. Honest. I really want you to take this job. It’d be good for you.’ ‘Listen, as soon as I settle down, maybe in three of four months, you can come and join me. Will you do that?’ ‘Of course, I will. It’d be great living in Geneva,’ said Gigi. I loved Geneva. It’s a beautiful, eclectic city, which seemed to combine all the best elements of neighbouring countries—the efficiency of Germany, the joie de vivre of France, and the style and passion of Italy. What’s more, it was the seat of so many international organisations, hence was a true melting pot of cultures and traditions. It was here that the League of Nations (which was later renamed the United Nations) was based, the Red Cross, the International Labour Organisation . . . Its liberalism attracted a number of philosophers, poets, and writers. There was a scenic lake in the middle of the city, which lent an air of romanticism. I settled in very fast. After my training, and when I had proven to be a competent enough salesman within Switzerland, I was told I had to branch out. ‘Where do you want me to sell?’ I asked my superior, Cantor. ‘We’re flexible, Hussain,’ he replied. ‘Where would you like to be based? You have a choice between Germany, where you already have experience with the American GIs, or you can try your own home region, the Persian Gulf. We don’t have any salesmen out there yet.’ It was a tough choice. There were pluses and minuses on both sides. Germany had the attraction of being familiar territory and of my being close to Gigi. At the same time, I would not be the only salesperson there. If I went to the Middle East, I would be going farther afield from Gigi. But I understood the local culture. I would have a natural advantage over non-Middle Easterners in terms of selling here. After a couple of weeks of deliberation, I went back to Cantor. ‘Mr Cantor’, I said, ‘I will go the Middle East, provided you pay for my air

tickets and hotel expenses. I don’t mind not having a salary, but I feel you should bear my out-of-pocket travelling expenses.’ ‘Ok, that’s doable,’ he said. ‘We can issue you some traveller’s cheques to look after your expenses.’ ‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘What’s that?’ ‘I’ve made a list of some 20 top men in the Middle East whom I think I should meet. They’re key people in the region, very important. I’m drafting a letter to them, saying that the president of IOS would like to discuss an important matter relating to Switzerland and their country, and that he has appointed Hussain Najadi to discuss this exciting project with them. But these letters will not spell out the reason for our meeting. They will not talk about mutual funds. They will only say it’s an important financial arrangement. The president must sign these letters. If the recipients reply, I will call them and confirm our meeting.’ ‘My god, Hussain, that’s a brilliant idea! Yes, I think we can manage that,’ said Cantor. ‘How did you come up with such a scheme?’ ‘Simple. I’ve been an encyclopaedia salesman. I know the hardest part it to get in the door. If you don’t get in, you can’t say a thing. I don’t want to go to the Middle East like some encyclopaedia salesman. I want to look like an important ambassador. That way, if they’re interested, they’ll definitely grant me a meeting.’ I finished the introductory letter I had drafted. IOS polished it up for me, and typed out twenty originals for the top twenty government officials and other top brass I had identified, then sent them off. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what kind of a response we would get. To my utter surprise, they all replied by telex saying they would love to meet Mr Najadi, please let us know when and how this meeting could take place! It was the first time that the president of a financial institution based in Geneva, Switzerland, had written to them, asking for a meeting to discuss an important matter. Switzerland in general, and Geneva in particular, has such clout, any missive from there carries significant weight. The recipients of my letters would have thought that I was an extremely important man, so of course, they wanted to

meet me. I was very naughty and had included the Head of Finance and the still serving Prime Minister of Bahrain Sheikh Khalifa Ibn Isa Al Khalifa in my list. He also replied in the affirmative. When I called Sheikh Khalifa’s office to make arrangements for our meeting, which I intended to be my first, I introduced myself, and the person at the other end said, ‘Yes, Mr Najadi, we know you. You’re from Bahrain, aren’t you? And now you’re the emissary of a very important institution. Very good. We’re proud of you. The Sheikh is eager to see you.’ I couldn’t believe it—I had broken the ice! From being an exile, I was being welcomed back into my country as if I were a different person, someone representing a high-ranking banker in Switzerland. The Bahrainis were very curious. What is he coming to talk to us about? The fact that I knew the game and they didn’t give me the upper hand. I flew to Bahrain full of confidence.

CHAPTER 9

Success in Bahrain; Turning Point in America

I flew from Geneva on Middle East Airlines back to my homeland, Bahrain, after having left it four years previously. It felt strange, to say the least, to arrive back in the country that had exiled me, a country I would eventually refer to as Devils’ Island for victimising me, and to return into an environment that was awaiting my arrival with great eagerness and anticipation. I had left persona non grata; I returned like some kind of local hero. I landed at the Bahrain International Airport with a briefcase containing not only letters from the founder president of IOS to the Crown prince and soon-to-be Prime Minister of Bahrain, Sheikh Khalifa Ibn Isa Khalifa, and to members of other leading merchant and banking families, namely the who’s who of Bahrain, the movers and shakers of the small island nation but also a reply from Sheikh Khalifa’s office welcoming me to Bahrain. It was as if Hussain Najadi, the exile, the politically blacklisted rabble-rouser, had been magically transformed and was now being returned to his native land from Geneva, the financial centre of the world, on a white horse . . . at least that’s how it felt to me. During this time Bahrain was largely unknown to the outside world. Other than its historical links with Britain, Bahrain had little to do with the West. The special branch of Bahrain’s super-efficient police, Mukhabarat, headed by a British Cypriot called Bob, knew from the start that this Najadi was ‘different’ from the Najadi they had expelled. The minute Sheikh Khalifa’s office received the letter from IOS, stating that a Husain Najadi planned to meet Sheikh Khalifa, they did a search on me. Mukhabarat was consulted and they, of course, pulled out my dossier and informed Sheikh Khalifa all about me.

However, my earlier ‘misdemeanour’ obviously was not serious enough to override Sheikh Khalifa’s interest in what I had to offer. Hence, the path was cleared for me to enter the country. Having money, and especially as my expenses were being paid for by IOS, I decided to check into the British Guest House, which belonged to the British Overseas Airway Company, or BOAC, the flagship of the British airline industry which now goes by the name of British Airways or BA. I remembered how, as a joke, we young Bahrainis used to call BOAC ‘Better On A Camel’. BOAC had routes from London to Australia stopping in Malta, Cyprus, Bahrain, Bombay (Mumbai), Sri Lanka, Singapore, and Hong Kong, all of which were either British colonies or protectorates. In Bahrain, they owned, in the old section of town, a very English-looking guest house called the Speed Bird. It was frequented mostly by British officers visiting Bahrain for a few days or on a stopover to one of the other British outposts in the East. It was also of course used by the crew of BOAC as well as passengers who had to spend one night or more in Bahrain before continuing with their journey further into the exotic East. I was perhaps the first Bahraini to stay in this British home away from home—the first local in a ‘white island’ dominated by the British. News of my staying at the Speed Bird spread faster than the spine-tailed swift. Hussain, the nationalist rebel, one of the founders of the Bahraini Liberation Front that had demonstrated against the British and traumatised its Foreign Secretary Selwyn Lloyd during his visit, was now staying at the British Guest House. He was a guest at a British establishment. Hobnobbing with the Brits. What was going on? Had he switched allegiance? Not only that, Najadi was now a somebody. He was an associate of a big financial company based in Geneva, Switzerland, which had American links. It was all too much for them. To add even more spice to the stewing grapevine, Najadi had a schedule of meetings with all the top guns on the island, starting with the Crown prince, who was being groomed by the British to become the first Prime Minister after independence in 1971. Sheikh Khalifa received me in the Government House. He was in charge of the finance department of Bahrain, under tutelage of the British Advisor, Charles

Belgrave, the man who had granted me my passport and then expelled me from the country. At his office, I was received warmly by the Finance Director, a Mr Zeera. Tall and good-looking, Zeera came from a prominent Bahraini Shia family that traditionally served the ruling Sunni family of Al-Khalifa. He was an Arab Bahraini, intelligent and articulate, fluent in several languages. No doubt, Zeera was aware of the communication that had taken place between IOS in Geneva and Sheikh Khalifa’s office. I could tell from his face and his broad smile that he was happy to see a fellow Shia call on the Crown prince on such an important mission, an event that was quite unheard of in those days in Bahrain. Although the Sunnis were a minority, representing no more than a fifth of the population, while the Shias made up the rest of the island, the Sunnis were favoured by the British, who had in fact brought them to Bahrain explicitly to rule. As British puppets, though, of course. The ruling Al-Khalifas were no different from the other Sunnis. They were not originally from Bahrain but were in fact pirates. With the British supporting them fully, however, these louts of the seas were now ruling the country. After explaining to Zeera that I was there to discuss certain investment possibilities with Sheikh Khalifa, he said, ‘Yes, yes, I’ve been informed of your appointment with Sheikh Khalifa.’ Then, more quietly, almost conspiratorially, he added, ‘Bravo, Hussain, you’ve made us proud of our own people. May Allah be with you always.’ I knew exactly what he meant and was touched by the candour of this indigenous Bahraini. ‘Shokrah!’ I replied to thank him. ‘But come, sit down first, and have a cup of coffee,’ he said. ‘Sheikh Khalifa is in a discussion with the head of education at the moment. He’s also the director of education as I’m sure you know. But the meeting won’t take long. He’ll be able to see you soon. Meanwhile, we can have a chat.’ I sat down in the lounge to which Zeera led me. Almost magically, it would seem, a peon duly arrived carrying a tray with refreshments—coffee and dates. Ah those dates that I had so loved and which I had not had since leaving Tehran. Zeera, ever the gracious host, kept offering me more, and I gladly took a couple at a time. They tasted so good—sweet, soft, the Middle Eastern equivalent to chocolates.

‘So tell me a little more about this company IOS. Is it Swiss?’ he asked, adding almost apologetically, ‘Over here, we don’t get much financial news from Europe.’ ‘Of course, of course,’ I replied, nodding sympathetically. ‘IOS stands for Investors Overseas Services. It’s actually owned by Americans, who have set up an office in Geneva to serve the European market.’ ‘I see. And you were working with them in Europe?’ ‘Yes, I was based in Geneva for a few months. I was learning about their financial products. But then they wanted to introduce something special in the Middle East,’ I said. ‘And here I am.’ Zeera smiled. We talked about life in Geneva. He had been to boarding school and then university in England. He talked about his days there with nostalgia. Before long, a young officer entered the room and said in Arabic that Sheikh Khalifa was ready to see us. Zeera looked at me and said, ‘OK, let’s go.’ We walked down a corridor to Sheikh Khalifa’s room. He was seated at this desk but got up immediately the moment we entered. ‘You must be Hussain,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Hussain from IOS. Is that right?’ ‘Yes, sir, absolutely,’ I replied. The three of us sat down at Sheikh Khalifa’s monumental desk, him on one side, Zeera, and I on the other. ‘I thought, when I received this letter from Mr Cornfeld, that you were Egyptian. I needn’t bother to ask you now if that’s the case, as I see very clearly you’re not Egyptian but Bahraini.’ In fact, Bob had already told him I was Bahraini and briefed him about my background. But out of tact, or perhaps because he didn’t want to admit that in Bahrain, money could buy one freedom, he didn’t allude to my past. Instead he took to playing a game of innocence and disbelief. He shook his head, saying, ‘But how can that be? I can’t believe you’re Bahraini.’ I played along with him. I had my passport on me, in the inside pocket of my jacket. So I produced it and slapped in onto the table in front of Sheikh Khalifa. ‘I am Bahraini, sir, and here’s the evidence,’ I said. He picked up my passport and inspected it. ‘Yes, my young man. You certainly are Bahraini, that is very clear to me. I’m just a little amazed,’ he said.

‘Why should it amaze you that I’m Bahraini, sir?’ I asked. ‘I can understand that you’ve never heard of my family. We’re not amongst the more affluent families of Bahrain. My father came from Bandar Taheri in Iran and moved to Manama in the 1930s. He was a simple man, just a vegetable seller in the bazaar. So of course you wouldn’t know him. But then there are many working class Bahrainis whom you wouldn’t know.’ ‘Forgive me, Hussain, but it is not common for a man of your age and from your background in Bahrain to set foot in Europe. You’ve not only gone there, but returned with some kind of exciting financial offer or so I’m led to believe from this letter,’ he said, holding up the letter that had been sent by IOS. ‘All that, surely, is amazing, truly amazing. So tell me, what is this all about?’ I told him about my work with IOS, how I represented the company based in Geneva that was the marketing organisation and sole distributor for Dreyfus and Fidelity Funds. I explained what mutual funds were all about, how they were managed professionally, and how Dreyfus and Fidelity were by far the best performing funds in America, now being offered to Europeans . . . and, through me, to Bahrainis. I told him about Jack Dreyfus, who came from the famous Jewish banking family that had custodianship of and was a trustee of the Bank of New York. I could see that much of what I said was above the head of Sheikh Khalifa. He had little idea of what I was talking about but was too arrogant to say so. He had never heard of the stock market nor of bonds or mutual funds. On the one hand, it gave me great pleasure to see how ill-informed he was, and the temptation was very strong to see him squirm in his ignorance, but the capitalist in me resisted all such malevolent notions. No, I said to myself, if I wanted his custom, at least his support—and there was no doubt about that—I could not afford to antagonise him. Instead, I spent a considerable amount of time explaining what stocks were and how the stock exchange worked; what an IPO was and, finally, I described how mutual funds were made up of a portfolio of different stocks and bonds, and that because of the carefully selected mix of investment tools, represented a relatively safe means of investing one’s savings. Later, I would have to repeat the same process with every merchant in town who wanted to know more about the ‘Swiss’ investment opportunity I was offering them.

Like most Bedouins, Sheikh Khalifa was very suspicious about anything he had not heard of before. At the end of my spiel, he said to me, very seriously, ‘Hussain, I have no doubt that this mutual fund is a very good investment. It sounds, as you say, very safe and very practical, and I wish you all the luck in selling it. But I’m afraid we are very conservative when it comes to our finances. We will need some time to think this over thoroughly.’ ‘Yes, I understand perfectly, sir,’ I said. ‘I came to you first out of respect. As the leader of our Bahraini community, I wanted to talk to you about these American mutual funds before approaching anybody else here. But I do understand your position and concerns. Of course, this is something very new, and it is only to be expected that you will need to consult the rest of the family and your advisors about it. But if you don’t mind, I’d like your permission to meet others in Bahrain about it.’ ‘Why not? Why not?’ he said, obviously glad to have diverted the focus away from himself. ‘I will put in a good word for you. I’m sure there are many merchants out there who will be very interested in these modern investments, and who may have the stomach for them. It will be good for them to see you and good for you too. By all means, please go ahead and all the best. You can even mention my name if you want.’ I could tell, although he was relieved to have got off the hook, so to speak, he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of others in Bahrain investing in these mutual funds and perhaps making money out of them. It was obvious that he was going to wait and see the general response of my marketing, that he would probably consult a posse of financial advisors, and if they felt collectively that it was a risk worth taking, he would come back to me. So although I had not converted him, yet I had little doubt that I would eventually do so. My meeting with Sheikh Khalifa had lasted about an hour. Immediately after, as I had his consent, I set about all the other appointments I had made with Bahrain’s elite. This included the Kanoos who traditionally advised the ruling Al-Khalifas, although for all intents and purposes, it was the British, headed by Charles Belgrave, who pulled all the strings. If I managed to convince a sufficient number of families like the Kanoos to buy into the IOS mutual funds —Dreyfus and Fidelity—Sheikh Khalifa would almost certainly follow suit. He

was highly unlikely to sit quietly and do nothing while others around him were reaping the lucrative benefits of investing in the world’s leading mutual funds. For about a week, I went about my business of selling, just as I had two or three years ago in Stuttgart. But there were significant differences. Then, I was cold selling encyclopaedias, going door-to-door in an American compound full of GIs; now I had a list of high-net-worth individuals representing the wealthiest, most influential Bahrainis and had letters of introduction to a few of these, which made my entry point that much easier. However, just as I had to sell the value of the encyclopaedia, I found that now I had to sell the value of the mutual funds, this time by explaining how the investment process worked. No one here had heard of mutual funds. The only means of making money that they understood was trading, and they parked the cash they made in savings accounts either with the Chartered Bank in Bahrain or the British Bank of the Middle East (now taken over by HSBC Banking Group). The savings of the entire population on the islands of Bahrain were parked in these two British banks. It goes without saying these banks operated along traditional imperialistic lines, and were what I called DCO institutions—banks that merely gave debit, credit, and overdraft facilities. They took the savings of the merchants and gave them overdrafts to finance their trade, and that was it. There was no other form of credit available, not even housing mortgage loans. What’s more, the banks only lent to members of leading Bahraini families known to them, more or less against their deposit or any business they conducted that facilitated trade between Britain and Bahrain or India. The banks made a handsome profit, which they transferred to the British Bank of the Middle East headquarters in London, to be invested elsewhere. So the concept I was trying to introduce—namely an alternative way to invest— was alien to this community. Yet given their history of trade and entrepreneurship, the business society here was receptive to the ideas I was sharing with them. I explained how the stock market itself was a risky venture, best left to experts, but that mutual funds represented a way to invest that was endorsed by experts, people who spent their working hours analysing companies and markets and putting together relatively safe portfolios for the keen investor. I added, of

course, that the mutual funds sold by IOS were amongst the best—and I had the figures to substantiate my claims. The merchants were intrigued, to put it mildly. They were extremely interested in Dreyfus and Fidelity Funds. As a result, after just a week of extensive marketing and salesmanship, I managed to close half a million US dollars worth of cash sales. I sent my application forms to Geneva with bank drafts for Arabs with (to the Swiss and Americans) long and unfamiliar names, including the ruling family. Yes, as I had predicted, Sheikh Khalifa eventually came round to the idea of mutual funds! In fact, after this initial meeting, Sheikh Khalifa would cross my life’s path many times, though not always with positive results. But more about this later. The applications set off a storm as they poured into the IOS office in Geneva. Even Cantor, my immediate boss who knew I had potential, was astounded by the volume of sales I managed to generate in Bahrain. Najadi, his young hire, had knocked the ball out of the park! From selling encyclopaedias to GIs in Germany for US$10-20 a month, he was selling mutual funds worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to Arab Muslim families. Cantor was fully aware that IOS could never have dreamt of obtaining these Bahraini merchants on its own. Yes, it was the leading Jewish investment house in New York and Geneva; it had the American and European markets in its pockets, but the Middle East was a different game altogether. It took someone with local knowledge and expertise to penetrate this culture-sensitive region. Hussain Najadi had done it. He had opened the door for IOS to enter the oil-producing Persian Gulf states. Having exhausted my list of Bahrainis, I decided to cross over the Gulf into Al Khobar, the town I had stopped at as I was leaving Bahrain four years previously, headed for Germany. Other than Abu Ehsan with whom I had stayed then, I knew perhaps ten merchants from Bahrain—old family friends—who had moved to this booming port in the eastern province of Saudi Arabia. I would introduce the mutual funds to them and all their prosperous merchant contacts in Al Khobar. More importantly, I was going to Al Khobar because it was very close to Dhahran. This was where Aramco was headquartered. Aramco was (and still is) the giant American oil company that had made the biggest oil discovery in Saudi, the jackpot in global oil. In fact, this subsidiary of the Standard Oil Company of California, itself a consortium of Esso, Chevron, and Mobil, remains to this day the world’s most prolific producer of oil.

I thought it was only befitting of a town that an American oil consortium had built to be presented now with the best of American investment management mutual funds. There were three expat compounds housing Aramco’s employees, but the one in Dhahran—called Dhahran camp—was the first to be built and the biggest. Today, it has the capacity to house two thousand residents. Dhahran camp is located within the oil company’s compound itself. To get in, you first passed through a main outer gate which let you into the industrial area, namely, the area where the employees worked. To get to the residential area, you had to go through a second, inner gate, where security was quite tight. Only cars with stickers were allowed in. Guests had to have a resident pick them up at the visitor’s centre before being given the green light to enter. Because IOS had written to some of the executives of Aramco, I was able to make inroads into the oil community here. My letters of introduction gave me access to this elite compound where all the expats—mainly Americans—lived. Like the American compound in Stuttgart, it was a microcosm of the United States. Once past its gates, you could forget you were in the Middle East. Everybody was white, everything was built according to American tastes. It was as if you had stepped into American suburbia bordering Houston, New York, Chicago, or Boston. Other than the weather, there was nothing Saudi or anything Arabian about this gated community. There were no street names, only street numbers—Fifth Avenue, Fourth Avenue, and so on—just like Manhattan, as I would soon discover. The landscaping was according to American tastes. Houses had neat gardens with neat flower beds. There were American shopping malls selling American goods and foods and American schools where the children were taught the American syllabus by American teachers and began every school day by singing the Star-Spangled Banner. There was, moreover, a level of freedom enjoyed in the American compound that didn’t exist anywhere else in Saudi. Women, who were not allowed to drive in the rest of Saudi, could sit behind the wheels of cars without fear of reprisal here. Expats in all the Aramco compounds—not just Dhahran camp—were immune from the religious police of Saudi and from shariah, the Muslim law. Alcohol, which was banned elsewhere in the country, flowed freely here (at least until a total ban was imposed in the mid-1970s).

The Americans had insisted that they could not, that they would not, develop the huge oil fields of Dhahran unless they were allowed to live the way they were used to and that they were not subject to the religious rules and regulations of the very strict Wahabi sect which was dominant in this area. The Saudi Government, ever keen to develop its oil resources in order to derive a healthy income, readily agreed to these conditions. I was extremely lucky in that I was perhaps the first or second person representing an American mutual firm in a community which numbered some two thousand Americans at the time, all of them earning top salaries. The only reason these Americans had dislocated from their comfortable homes in New York, Boston, or Texas to work in the scorching heat of the Arabian Desert, where temperatures often reached fifty degrees in the shade in summer, was the high salaries offered which were, moreover, tax free. Aramco further spoiled its expat employees by providing them with almost everything they could possibly need, from housing to free education for their children, free healthcare, and free trips by plane for the families to Beirut, London, or other destinations in Europe once every three months for rest and recreation. It was the same for American soldiers or navy personnel in Middle Eastern outposts. The Aramco executives made between US$60,000-100,000 a year, which in the early 1960s was a huge sum of money, especially given the purchasing power of the dollar. I was lucky also because I had one of the best products that American financial whiz kids on Wall Street could produce. So whereas in Stuttgart I was selling encyclopaedia to relatively poor Americans for whom shelling out US$10-20 a month was something they had to consider carefully, here I had a handle on American oil and gas men with huge salaries and very little to spend it on. Selling to these Americans was even easier than it had been to Bahrainis because they already knew about mutual funds, and a number had heard of Dreyfus and Fidelity. Through the Aramco top management, I also made contact with wealthy Arab merchant families with whom they had business or personal dealings. Needless to say, I enjoyed tremendous success in Dhahran. It was here that I made my first million US dollars in sales, upon which I derived a cut of US$50,000 which was considered big bucks in those days. After hitting my million milestone, I decided enough was enough, and flew back to Geneva via Beirut. My briefcase, which had contained letters of introduction

on my way out, was now full of cheques and application forms. After my initial success in Bahrain, this windfall in Dhahran was an added plume in my cap, another stripe on my epaulet. Back at the IOS headquarters in Geneva, I was hailed as a returning hero. Not just Cantor, but the President of the company, Bernie Cornfeld himself, received me warmly. On the morning I reported back to work, before I could even lay my briefcase down at my desk, the President’s PA approached me and said, smiling broadly, ‘Najadi, you’re back! No time to waste. Bernie wants to see you. Now. Come on’, she said, grabbing my hand, ‘let’s go. Can’t keep him waiting!’ She dragged me to the president’s office, knocked on the door, and when we heard a ‘Come in!’ swung the door open, and literally pushed me in. Bernie (as he liked to be called) wasn’t alone. Cantor was also there. Both of them stood up and smiled broadly at me. ‘Ah Najadi, my boy. I hear you’ve had great success in the Middle East,’ the president said, walking up to me and extending his hand. ‘Well, sir, it was a completely untouched territory, so it was not that difficult,’ I replied. ‘Oh no, even virgin territory can be difficult if you don’t approach it correctly. No, my boy, you’ve done an excellent job, and there are no two ways about that. Excellent. Truly excellent. We’re all very proud of you.’ ‘The letters from IOS helped, sir,’ I said. ‘Yes, and I believe there again the brilliant idea was from you. I only wish we could clone you and send a Hussain to every single market,’ he said, laughing. ‘What do you say, Cantor? Should we clone Hussain?’ ‘Absolutely,’ said Cantor. ‘If I had more salesmen like Hussain, we’d meet our five-year targets within a year! Come,’ he said, looking at me and at the briefcase which I had not managed to deposit at my desk. ‘Let’s see what you have. Are all the cheques here?’ I nodded and placed the briefcase on Bernie’s table, opened it, and took out two folders—one with the application forms and the other containing cheques. The application forms made quite a pile, and the two of them picked up one after another, reading out the names, some Arabic, some American. With names they

couldn’t pronounce, they asked for my help. Just as mutual funds I introduced to the Arabs were wondrously new to them, anything Arab that I brought back to IOS was exotically novel. They kept shaking their heads in wonder. They were like little boys again, going through the forms as if they were opening presents delivered by Santa. Only, today, I was Santa. Overnight, I became the darling of the firm, the blue-eyed boy of the president. Everyone who made their first million at IOS was rewarded with a prize. Because I had made mine in record time, I was going to be given two prizes, by none other than Bernie himself. Like everything IOS did, the presentation was carried out in the most glitzy ceremony conceivable at Disco 55 in Geneva, to which a horde of beautiful girls was invited. As for my prizes, they were truly magnificent—a gold Rolex watch and a red MG Midget, a convertible that was rare even on the streets of Geneva. As if this were not enough, I was subsequently invited to all company dinners and receptions. And there were many. On average, IOS hosted one or two dinners every month for wealthy clients and business partners at one or another of several swanky hotels and restaurants that lined Lake Geneva. Crates of champagne would be popped and beautiful women completed the picture of the unashamed high life. In those days, IOS was famous for bringing together real stunners—actresses, models, singers—and the best entertainment from Hollywood. No expense was spared to create unforgettably glamorous evenings. Suddenly, there were scores of women swarming around me—blondes, brunettes, redheads, young and not so young, single and married. They would wait for me in the corridor, outside the office, at the café’s I patronised. They wanted a ride in my car, they wanted to dine with me, and they even wanted to come back to my one-bedroom apartment. For a while, I savoured every bit of this sweet success. But I quickly realised they were after nothing more than the money, the sports car, and the good life. These glamour girls had no moral qualms. When I said to one, ‘Carla is coming for dinner and is staying overnight,’ she replied. ‘So what? I am better than Carla, and anyway we can both share you. I know Carla. She won’t have any objection. In fact, I’m sure she would welcome a threesome.’ I lapped up the attention, the accolades, the pampering. I was young and IOS made me feel like a star. The company was determined to keep me in good cheer so I would return to the Middle East and bring back even more clients with more

money than they knew what to do with from the oil-producing Gulf states. In the midst of all the glitz and celebration, I was given to understand that the founders of Dreyfus and Fidelity Funds in the United States were desirous of meeting me, the golden boy of IOS. What’s more, Bernie was prepared to pay for me to fly to America to spend some time at both the investment houses. Dreyfus, founded by Jack Dreyfus, was based in New York, while Fidelity, run by the Johnson family, operated from Boston. I was given a free ticket to spend ten days in New York as a guest of Dreyfus, followed by two weeks in Boston, where I would be hosted by the Johnsons. When he handed me my air ticket, Bernie said, ‘Hussain, as you know, we reward our people handsomely in IOS. You’ve done a marvellous job over the last couple of months and you deserve this trip to the United States. But it’s not a complete vacation, you understand,’ he smiled. ‘You will be meeting top salesmen in Dreyfus and Fidelity. Spend time with them, talk to them, and understand how their minds work. You are young. Already you’re very good at what you do. But these are seasoned salesmen who have proven their mettle in the very competitive environments of New York and Boston. It’ll do you good to pick up a thing or two from them.’ My trip was organised with typical Swiss efficiency—very quickly—and just days after arriving in Geneva, I found myself on a plane again, this time crossing the Atlantic towards the Big Apple. Though it was a new country, and though I knew no one there, I had nothing to worry about as everything had been arranged, from the limousine that picked me up at the John F Kennedy International Airport to the reservation at the Plaza Hotel fronting Central Park, perhaps one of the most famous and celebrated of America’s hotels which even today is a national landmark. Even then, in the early 60s, it was considered one of the most luxurious hotels in New York; today, after extensive refurbishment and renovation, a room costs US$3,750 a night. The very next morning after landing in New York, I took a cab to the Dreyfus headquarters on Wall Street, a dream address to any young ambitious man from Bahrain. I had been told to meet Jack Dreyfus directly, which I did. He was a very good-looking Jewish banker, around forty-four years of age, fit and tanned. I soon found out he was a very keen golfer who had won several amateur championships and, later in life, would become a champion in tennis doubles. In

fact, he was a bit of a jack of all trades. He also played a mean game of gin rummy, was excellent in bridge, and was chairman of the New York Racing Association. He was one of those larger than life Wall Street moguls, surrounded by a retinue of managers, secretaries, and assistants who created non-stop buzz around him all the time. Yet there was something down to earth and real about him. He took genuine interest in people, which was obvious from his interactions with me. Here I was, someone who had enjoyed a good run for a couple of months but otherwise a nobody, and yet he took pains to get to know me and contribute to my professional education. He was the Lion of Wall Street (a reference to the use of a lion as the company’s emblem, which was reflected in their TV ads featuring a lion roar as it prowled majestically down Wall Street), the man largely credited with popularising mutual funds amongst Americans in the 1950s and 1960s. Yet the lion—the king of Wall Street jungle—was prepared to entertain the hungry young wolf, which must have been what I seemed to him. ‘Hussain Najadi, it’s good to see you,’ he said when we met. ‘I’ve heard so much about you from Cornfeld and Cantor. I must say, I am very, very impressed by your performance in Bahrain and Saudi. The Middle East is one region I have always wondered about but have never actually been to. Please, come, sit down. Tell me more about yourself, young man. And tell me about the Middle East and the Arabs.’ And so I found myself talking to the founder of the best performing mutual fund (at the time). He was a great listener and took great pleasure in hearing about people and places he knew little about. He was himself a wonderful storyteller and, soon, I was listening to stories about his youth—how his parents thought he would never make anything of his life because he’d been lazy in school and in his early career had not managed to hold down any job for long. ‘At your age, I was kind of just drifting. The only passion I had was golf. I remember seriously thinking about approaching Rockefeller. You know, the guy with all that money?’ he asked, and when I nodded, carried on, ‘Well, I had a proposition that I knew he just couldn’t turn down. I was going to ask him to give me a million dollars to play golf, chase girls, and travel the world. And he

could enjoy all of this, second hand,’ he said, laughing. ‘Unfortunately, I never got around to asking him.’ Despite the stresses of work—millions of dollars were pouring every day into the Dreyfus Fund, and he knew he had to perform well— and his high public profile, Dreyfus had a great sense of humour. Not too long after our meeting, Jack sold his Dreyfus Fund Management Company to the Mellon Bank and quit Wall Street. He set up the Dreyfus Foundation, into which he poured no less than US$100 million of his own money, to research for cancer and other medical ailments. His lovely wife Liza died of cancer in 1998, by which time they were divorced. Notwithstanding the break-up, he was devastated by her death, which made him all the more passionate about his medical charity. Jack is one of a handful of bankers whom I truly admired. Till today, I feel blessed to have been able to meet him. He was my model of an ethical capitalist in every way. Dreyfus made sure I was well looked after during my stay in New York. He introduced me to his team of salesmen and instructed them to give me a crash course on Wall Street in general and Dreyfus Funds in particular. His team took me to the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, where I witnessed the crazy techniques of traders who shouted and used a complex system of hand signals to indicate whether they wanted to buy, sell, or stay their position. It was complete pandemonium and, to an outsider, looked as if everything was out of control, yet there was—to the initiated at least—a great deal of order in this general madness. In fact, diehards will vouch for the superiority of this ‘open outcry’ system over the newer form of electronic trading which is replacing it. Then, there were no digital computers, just a huge trading floor with madmen running from one corner to another, and hundreds of brokers shouting and gesticulating. While it was a zoo, it was also an electrifying experience, and one that I will never, ever forget. I loved being on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange. I loved being in the thick of this fast-moving centre of capitalism where billions of dollars were being made or lost. Analysts at Dreyfus not only monitored the movements of hundreds of stocks on the NYSE, but also conducted detailed and painstaking research on individual companies, visiting their headquarters, and spending considerable time with their CEOs, treasurers, or finance managers to ascertain their financial health.

Committees were formed at which the analysts would sit with Dreyfus money managers to decide on the investment-worthiness of companies. These committees eventually put together the consistently high-performing Dreyfus Fund, which during Jack Dreyfus’s entire leadership, outperformed all other American mutual funds. I had known that a considerable amount of research went into the creation of mutual funds, but I had not realised that this much work was behind Dreyfus’s winning formula. Of course, luck was still a factor in the eventual outcome of a stock’s performance, and some managers were known to have a nose for sniffing out the winners and weeding out the losers, but the element of luck was kept to a minimum, while scientific analysis and pure business acumen played predominant roles in choosing the cherries or white horses as the highperforming stocks were known. With so much research backing them, it wasn’t surprising that the Dreyfus Fund grew consistently at ninety to a 100 per cent per annum while other funds lagged at around 30 per cent per annum. The money, of course, flowed into the coffers of the winners. And who was the ultimate winner? Jack Dreyfus. He was the consummate capitalist. And I was being schooled by the team of this master of capitalism. My training was short, but it was very effective. And I was a willing student. I was in the Dreyfus office by sharp nine every morning and stayed until they literally had to kick me out after six in the evening. In the ten days I spent in New York, I got to know a number of my American colleagues quite well. Many lived in the suburbs, commuting about an hour or so every morning and evening to get to work, and then go home. They had never met a Middle Easterner and were as intrigued by me as they were by the incredible sales I had achieved in the Gulf. Once they realised I was happy to mingle, the invitations came for dinners and other social gatherings. I had mentioned to a young salesman who lived on Long Island the fishing expeditions I used to go on as a young boy, in Manama and also back in Iran, with my father and uncles. ‘What do you know?’ he had said, looking very pleased. ‘We have something in common. Fishing is my number one pastime too. Why don’t you come fishing with me this weekend? I’ll bet you’ve never fished in the Atlantic!’

I certainly hadn’t and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. It had been such a long time since I last held a fishing rod, felt the tug at the end of the line, and had the pleasure of reeling in a catch. Henry, my new fishing friend, and I returned to his home with a basket full of tuna and garoupas, to the delight of the rest of the family. His mother grilled the fish and we had a superb dinner. I enjoyed discovering Manhattan. I appreciated the easy-going lifestyle, the quality of the theatre, the abundance of concerts . . . and encountering Americans in their home ground. While I had had contact with Americans in Stuttgart and Dhahran, I had not been on the same footing with them as I was here and, later, in Boston. In Germany and Saudi, I was a Bahraini trying to sell the expatriate Americans something—first encyclopaedias and then mutual funds. Here, I was a colleague, a co-worker. We were on the same level. I found the Americans warm, simple, friendly, and straight-shooting, who generally trusted those they encountered. They were definitely more open, welcoming, and friendly than the British in Bahrain who in comparison were suspicious and small-minded. The Brits treated you as if you were guilty until proven innocent, as if they were masters looking down on their slaves. In America, when I was introduced to someone new, we immediately called each other by our first names. Even the lion of Wall Street had introduced himself to me simply as Jack. Till today, I think Americans are amongst the best people I have met in my life: generous, down to earth, and uncomplicated. I will never forget their open houses, their generosity, and their eagerness to help train a poor boy from Bahrain. What wonderful folk! God bless them always. When ten days were over, I bid farewell to Dreyfus and his team and left for Boston, to the home of Dreyfus’s keenest competitor, the Fidelity Fund. It was owned and run by the most influential and respected family in Boston, a family that continues to give employment to a large number of Bostonians (about 8,500 of its 37,000 employees are from Boston), supports educational and cultural initiatives in the city; and provides retirement funds to almost everyone in this puritanical Protestant city. Fidelity Investments was founded in 1946 by Edward Johnson II, who was still helming the company at the time of my visit (he passed over the reins of the investment house to his son, Edward Johnson III—better known as Ned—in 1977, when his health began to deteriorate from Alzheimer’s).

Ned was already in the family-run organisation when I visited there. He was in his mid-thirties, a sharp, impressive financier, who occupied an office right next to his father’s. So when the time was right, the transition to the CEO’s office was just a step into the room adjacent to his. Boston, New England, was an interesting city. In some ways, it was more British than American. People here were traditionally conservative though dynamic, prudent, and extremely honest. These principles chracterised Fidelity Investment. It was a dynamic company run by men of integrity who contributed greatly to the community in a quiet way. I felt truly privileged to be a part of this extremely progressive group, to sit in on the discussions of the management, to be asked for my view, and to give it without fear of repercussion or ridicule. The opinions of individuals were truly valued. The culture was meritocratic and performance driven. Once you had proven yourself, you were given positions of increasing responsibility. Indeed, the importance placed on individuals was the one way in which Fidelity differed significantly from Dreyfus. Whereas at Dreyfus, investment decisions were made by committees of analysts and money managers, at Fidelity those who had proven their mettle were made fund managers, solely responsible for one or more funds entrusted to them. While consultation was encouraged, portfolio decisions were ultimately made by these fund managers. And the star fund manager at Fidelity was a Chinese émigré, Gerald Tsai. He handled the investment house’s best performing funds— the Fidelity Trend and Fidelity Capital. Gerald had arrived in America from Shanghai with his father as refugees. Later, he was accepted into Harvard Business School, where he excelled, and was hired by Fidelity immediately upon graduating. Gerald was my mentor in Boston and took his assignment seriously. He would invite me to lunch and dinner, discuss the performance of his funds, seek my opinion on decisions he had to make, ultimately make up his own mind, and then explain why he had chosen to do what he did. He was about the same age as Ned, also in his thirties, but had a hunger for success that was more pronounced than the Fidelity heir apparent. I could sense in him also a kindred spirit of entrepreneurship, a certain confidence in his abilities and judgment. I remember one conversation we had over dinner at which he asked, ‘Hussain,

have you ever thought of becoming your own boss?’ ‘What do you mean?’ I replied. ‘In a way, I am my own boss at IOS. I mean, I make decisions as to where I want to work and I earn according to how much I manage to sell.’ ‘But you’re not really your own boss,’ he said. ‘You’re earning, what, 5 per cent of the sales you generate. You could triple or quadruple that if you had your own money management boutique.’ ‘What’re you saying, Gerald?’ I asked. ‘I’m saying you have what it takes to run your own investment company. Instead of working for IOS, you could become your own IOS. It’s not very capital intensive. What do you need to invest in? Just some basic equipment—a fax, a phone. Then you need to sign a deal with a fund like Fidelity or Dreyfus, and you’re off. Has the thought never occurred to you?’ ‘To be honest, not really. Don’t forget, funds are entirely new to me. I’d never heard of them before IOS. So I’m really still learning the ropes.’ ‘I think you’ve learnt enough, Hussain. Come on, you’re a star. How many at IOS have brought in the volume of sales you did from the Middle East in just a month? I don’t think there’s even one other person who’s done it.’ ‘I guess. But there are so many reasons for that. And perhaps those reasons won’t always be applicable,’ I countered. ‘Hussain, you have a great advantage working for you. You’re unique. You come from a unique part of the world. There’s nobody else at IOS or perhaps in the whole of Europe at the moment with your background. You can combine Western culture with your Middle Eastern culture and you can go on your own and do what your bosses do in IOS, if not better.’ ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘You have that unique combination too.’ ‘Yes, well . . .,’ he said evasively, ‘but we’re not talking about me. I’m your mentor and I’m giving you a plan, so listen to me. Don’t forget what I’ve told you, Hussain. And if you decide to take my advice, if you start your own investment management company and you need help, you can always come to us

at Fidelity. We’d be more than happy to guide you.’ That conversation with Gerald was a turning point. Although at the time I still had my doubts about going it alone, I did start to think about it. And the more I thought about it, the more I came round to his point of view. I saw that he was absolutely right. There was no reason I could not do what I was doing now, on my own. Ironically, the training that I was sent to America to receive in order to be a better salesman was so good that I left the country feeling empowered enough to start my own boutique investment firm! I decided that, yes, I would return to Geneva and, yes, I would continue to work for IOS for another three or four months—and perhaps go to the Middle East to bring in more sales for the company—but after that I would leave and branch off on my own. Not long after I left Boston, and America, I read in the press that Gerald Tsai had started his own management company in New York and was now running his own fund called the Manhattan Fund. The Manhattan Fund, through an IPO, raised US$800 million in just a few days. This was the first time in the history of the United States that an open-end fund was sold overnight by a select list of underwriters such as Merrill Lynch, Goldman Sachs, and Solomon Brothers. There’s a saying that money follows the talent. And a huge part of the talent at Fidelity was in its Chinese-American star.

CHAPTER 10

Blessed by Royalty

After my crash course in Boston and New York, where I met with the best possible brains on Wall Street, I returned to IOS on 119 Rue de Lausanne, Geneva. Bernie and Cantor were pleased with my report of the US trip but were keen for me to make a second visit to the Middle East for my next big catch— bluefin tuna from the Persian Gulf, i.e. rich sheikhs and investors. And so within a few days, I was back at work digging in IOS’ newest gold mine. On the face of it, I was there to bring in more applications for mutual funds for IOS, but in reality I was on a more personal mission: to see what I could do to follow my guru Gerald Tsai’s advice. I was by now convinced of the merits of starting my own boutique investment management firm. The question as to where to lay the foundation for this was easy enough to answer. From conversations I had had in Bahrain and then in Dhahran, and from what I could glean from the newspapers, Kuwait was the most promising country in the Middle East for any kind of entrepreneurial activity. It was by far the most liberal nation in the Gulf. Its people were forward-looking while the government was the most democratic in the region. I therefore headed straight for Kuwait. The only truly international hotel in Kuwait then was the Carlton, and it is here that I stayed. In the coffee house, I had the good fortune to meet Dr Isam Al Taher, head of the Kuwait Military Hospital. He was, in fact, the first head of this hospital. Dr Isam was a Palestinian intellectual, a graduate of the University of Graz, Austria, thus had something in common with me—we both spoke German. It was after hearing him speak German on the phone in the coffee house that I felt compelled to introduce myself. There were, after all, very few Arabs who spoke German; therefore I was naturally drawn to this kind doctor.

Through Dr Isam, I got to meet some influential and enlightened individuals who represented the bright new generation of Kuwaitis, a number of whom had studied abroad. Although there was no university in Kuwait until 1966, Kuwaitis were naturally inquisitive, outward-looking, and open to new ideas. This was 1962, just one year after the country had been granted independence from the British, so it was at an exciting juncture in its path towards the future. Oil, which had been discovered in the 1930s, was fuelling much of the nation’s development. Kuwait is blessed with the world’s fifth largest oil reserves, and the government was maximising returns from this natural asset. Amongst the circle of young intellectuals, to whom I was introduced, was a softspoken, unassuming gentleman—one of the finest I’ve ever met—Suleiman AlHaddad. Suleiman comes from an old Arab Kuwaiti family and was a key figure in the opposition. There were no political parties as such, but there were the yes-men, who could be considered the ‘ruling party’ and then there were those who questioned every decision. These individuals, who numbered perhaps six out of fifty in the parliament, made up the ‘opposition’. They were headed by my friend Suleiman. Their minority status did nothing to diminish the respect they garnered from their ruling party counterparts. These were men of honour, highly principled, and highly regarded by the population in general. They were called nationalists given that they were avid followers of Egyptian leader Nasser, Nehru of India, Sukarno of Indonesia, Tito of Yugoslavia, and Chou-en-Lai of China. They supported the Palestinians and all other peoples fighting for self-determination and political freedom. In Kuwait, they had a sort of affiliation with the ruling Al-Sabah family. I met a number of these impressive nationalists at meetings, called majlis, held regularly in homes of groups of intellectuals, generally after dinner. The venue would change from one individual’s home to another, but the quality of debate at these majlis remained constant. The majlis brought to mind images I had formed of the Parisian salons held in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—they were highly charged occasions at which current events were discussed and debated till the early hours of the morning, when we would surreptitiously sneak off to our respective homes. In this tradition, Kuwait was unique; it was the only Persian Gulf state where

debate was not frowned upon and opinions were shared freely. There was a conspicuous absence of a police regime and a definite feeling of personal freedom. Needless to say, it was liberating for us, the young, who questioned everything feudal and everything colonial. I have a great respect for Kuwaiti democracy born from my early days in this new nation. Till today, I say bravo to this refined Kuwaiti spirit. The Kuwaiti people were as energetic in the financial arena as in the political one. They were by and large a liberal mercantilist community that lived in peace and harmony. Matters that gave rise to dispute were debated openly and freely until a consensus was reached. During my time there, I did not know of any instance that begot violence. Truth be said, I have not seen any society manage the diverse philosophical and political viewpoints of its people as even-handedly as Kuwait did then. Not surprisingly, the press was relatively free and there was, to my knowledge, at least one newspaper dedicated to the ‘opposition’, called Al-Watan, owned by the liberal Al-Sabah family. It must have been at one of the majlis Dr Isam and I attended that I met Suleiman although the exact circumstances and details of this first meeting are unfortunately fuzzy in my memory. I cannot recall when or how I had the privilege of making his acquaintance. Yet I know for certain that Suleiman belonged to the group with whom Dr Isam mixed freely and frequently. And I will never forget how he came to play such a significant role in my life. Like Gerald Tsai, he was instrumental to one of my turning points, a decisive moment that altered the course of my personal journey qualitatively. We’d got to know each other quite well, and I had confided in him my intention to start an investment boutique. He must have felt a kindred connection with me because he then took it upon himself to introduce me to a number of wealthy merchant families, in the hope that I would be able to get sufficient funds to get my small business going. I was still working for IOS and whatever Dreyfus or Fidelity mutual funds I sold came under the IOS banner. However, each sale earned me a healthy commission and it was certainly to my advantage to meet and become acquainted with the well heeled of this sovereign Arab emirate.

From Suleiman’s introductions, I managed to build up quite a sizeable client base. Sales were good; I was doing well. But at the back of my mind, I was thinking of ways to make my break and branch off on my own. I was convinced I would do it but was waiting for the right moment. It came soon enough. And to be expected, Suleiman was behind this incredible turn of events. I was in my room at the Carlton Hotel one evening, sorting out some accounts, when I got a call from the reception saying a gentleman by the name of Suleiman had come to see me. It was around six, roughly the time most people wrapped up their day’s work and went to a café for some tea and chit chat before heading home. So it wasn’t unusual for Suleiman to visit at this hour. He had a small shop selling furniture in town and must have just closed up for the evening. The Carlton was on his way back home. I went down to the lobby. Sure enough, he was there. ‘Salaam, Hussain,’ he said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’ ‘Salaam. Not at all. I have finished all my appointments for the day and was just sorting out some paper-work. Come, would you like some tea?’ ‘Yes, sure,’ he replied. ‘I was hoping you’d have the time.’ We went to the coffee house and ordered our tea. ‘How’s it going? Any new clients?’ asked Suleiman. ‘A couple. Things are going well, all things considered. I mean, I’m still a new kid here. Things like this take time,’ I said. ‘Of course, of course,’ he replied, nodding. ‘But tell me, would you like to meet Sheikh Jaber Ahmad Al-Sabah?’ I looked at him to see if he was joking. But Suleiman is one of these people with deadpan expressions, the perfect poker face, and I couldn’t make out if he was serious. Sheikh Jaber is the son of the late Ahmad Jabar al Sabah, the former ruler of Kuwait. What’s more, Sheikh Jaber was Kuwait’s Minister of Oil and Finance. Oil was the only source of income for the state. It was the country’s most

important asset. Nothing else mattered. As he was in charge of this black gold, Sheikh Jaber was the second most powerful man in the country, after the ruler, who was his uncle. Everyone in Kuwait knew Sheikh Jaber. Being articulate, honest, God-fearing, and nationalistic, he was well-respected and honoured. Despite all this, he remained down to earth and unassuming. ‘Would I like to meet him?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Of course, I’d like to meet him. I’d jump at the chance of meeting him. Why do you ask, Suleiman? Do you have some trick up your sleeve? Come on, let it out.’ ‘Well, let’s say I think I can get you an appointment with him. Would you like that?’ Again, there was no expression on his face other than a slight smile that conveyed nothing but good intentions. It was as if he was asking if I’d like some salt on my omelette. ‘Suleiman, I would be forever indebted to you if you could wangle that. But how do you intend to do this? You think Sheikh Jaber would be interested in meeting me?’ I had met a number of wealthy merchants in Kuwait since arriving but nobody in real positions of power. ‘Of course, he would.’ ‘Why?’ ‘For the same reasons that Sheikh Khalifa was interested in meeting you, and all those merchants and Americans in Dhahran were interested in meeting you. Hussain, you have something to offer that no one else in Kuwait is able to offer to Sheikh Jaber—the opportunity to invest in the best-selling funds from America. Of course, he’d be keen to meet you,’ Suleiman repeated. ‘But it’s different. With Sheikh Khalifa, I had a letter of introduction from the president of IOS. I was the emissary of a big wig. Now I have nothing but the mutual funds. I’m nobody important,’ I countered. ‘Hussain, listen to me. Sheikh Jaber is not out to make quick money. You don’t have to impress him with your Swiss connection or by any grand Swiss scheme. He’s a man of integrity. He’ll be interested in meeting you if he feels you are genuine.

Once I let him know you’re one of the brightest young exports from Bahrain, that you are a passionate nationalist, and one of the most promising young stars amongst the new generation of indigenous bankers, he will be interested in meeting you. In fact, I think he could be the man to help you start your own company.’ I could see that Suleiman had been thinking about this for a while and was truly desirous of setting up a meeting between the Oil and Finance Minister and me. What’s more, what he said made sense. If anyone in Kuwait had the means and clout to get my boutique firm going, it was him. Looking at Suleiman, his face so serene and serious, I was filled with a brotherly love for him. This young man who didn’t really know me from Jacob was hell-bent on helping me achieve my dreams. From then on, I called Suleiman not by his name but by a term in Arab—Akhi Abu Ahmad—which is used between the closest of friends. It means ‘father of Ahmad’, Ahmad being the name traditionally given to one’s first son. Using this term, those not related by blood established ties that are as close as those of true kinship. Three days later, Suleiman made another unexpected visit to the Carlton to see me in the evening. When I met him in the lobby, his face bore the minutest trace of a jubilant smile. He said, ‘Hussain, it’s done! You meet Sheikh Jaber day after tomorrow at ten in the morning in his Ministry.’ The wheels of the next phase of my life were thus put in motion. The Carlton Hotel was on one of the main avenues of Kuwait, just a stone’s throw from the imposing building that housed the Ministry of Oil and Finance. Although oil was selling at a mere US$1 a barrel, the volume being produced in Kuwait was sufficient to crank up its economy. It helped that the Al-Sabah family had great foresight and that the Cabinet was made up one of the finest administrations in the Gulf, one that was certainly far better than that found in either Bahrain or Saudi. Through meticulous and strategic planning, the ruler and his administration managed to fast track the country’s development such that it was already outshining many of its neighbours. Not that there was no corruption. No doubt, government contracts were regularly awarded without public tenders

to the wealthy and, sometimes, not so wealthy, including members of the ruling family. But the level of nepotism here was nowhere near the business monopoly of the sheikhs of Bahrain or the Saudi princes. Kuwait was developing along the lines of caring and paternalistic Scandinavian society, where there was much emphasis on social welfare. On the day of my meeting with Sheikh Jaber, Suleiman arrived at the Carlton in his black Chrysler to pick me up. In those days, practically everyone in the Gulf drove American cars, models from General Motors, Chrysler, Ford . . . European cars other than Mercedes-Benz were rare. Suleiman drove up to the main entrance in his impressive automobile at nine thirty sharp. I was, of course, all ready and waiting. The drive to the ministry took less than five minutes as it was only a few hundred metres away, but it felt good to arrive in style. Besides, Suleiman had said it made sense for him to pick me up as the hotel was on his route. The building that housed the ministry was eight storeys high and Sheikh Jaber’s office was on the top floor. Although I had seen images of him, I was still pleasantly surprised by how lean and elegant he looked, in sharp contrast with the majority of wealthy Arabs who had a propensity to put on weight and carted around protruding bellies. He was in his late thirties and had a quiet confidence with classical Arab Bedouin grace in his movements. He greeted Suleiman warmly, like an old friend, when we entered his room, which had a desk at one end and a more relaxed sitting area at the other. He got up from the desk and came to shake our hands. When Suleiman introduced me, he smiled and said, ‘Ah yes, Hussain Najadi, the indigenous banker.’ He spoke softly, graciously. Gesturing the comfortable lounge chairs, he added, ‘Come, please, sit down.’ Sheikh Jaber asked his personal assistant, a young traditional Arab Kuwaiti, to get us some tea. Then, he turned to look at me. There was genuine interest in his eyes, but he did not utter a word. It was common for the ruling elite to receive commoners—citizens or visitors—who wanted favours. Therefore whenever an unknown person showed up to see them, they were guarded, in preparation for the request that would inevitably follow. Most times, they would keep their eyes fixed on something, anything, a cup of coffee, the table, just so they would not have to look into the eyes of the person asking the favour.

In my instance, the presence of Suleiman quelled to a large extent the awkwardness of the situation. Sheikh Jaber knew him to be unassuming and undemanding. After studying me for a while, the minister looked at Suleiman as if to ask him to explain our visit. Although Suleiman had already spoken to him about me, he had not explained in detail what I was doing and how Sheikh Jaber could come into the picture. Moreover, protocol demanded that everything be made clear there and then, in my presence. Suleiman broached the subject very gently, in characteristic low-key fashion, so as not to appear to be asking for a favour. He started by reminding Sheikh Jaber of the conversation he had had with him earlier about me. ‘When we met last week, I mentioned to you that Hussain Najadi is bringing in mutual funds to Kuwait,’ he said. ‘Yes, indeed, you did,’ Sheikh Jaber said with a nod. ‘Many Kuwaitis are investing in these mutual funds. We came to see you, Sheikh Jaber because it is only fitting that the ruling family be introduced formally to these investments that are becoming so popular here.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ Sheikh Jaber said. Then, turning to me, he said, ‘I’m glad you are bringing new kinds of investment options to Kuwait. It’s good for the people.’ ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘If you would like to invest in these funds, Hussain will be able to help you,’ Suleiman added. This underselling worked. Tradition ruled that Sheikh Jaber could not turn down any reasonable request from a member of the Opposition. On the contrary, he was there to please them, if not to buy them over. So he gave his consent immediately and asked if there was any form to be signed. This was the easiest sale ever in my life! Protocol, which Suleiman executed with the greatest finesse; and tradition, which Sheikh Jaber upheld with honour and grace, did the job for me. The sale was completed within ten minutes, setting a new record which I have yet to beat. And I didn’t even have to utter a single word. Silence truly can be golden! Having thus broken the ice, I had the perfect opportunity to speak about my

business plan. I mentioned my wish to bring not only mutual funds business but also the entire listed securities business to Kuwait, under my own boutique firm. Sheikh Jaber nodded encouragingly. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked. ‘If you would be kind enough to issue me a Ministry of Finance licence to deal in securities in Kuwait, I would be truly honoured,’ I said. ‘That can be arranged. You have my backing, Hussain,’ he said. ‘In fact, I will open my own family account at your boutique. You can count on my being one of your first clients.’ I couldn’t believe my luck. This time, though, I felt my ‘luck’ was not entirely mine. It stemmed from my good friend, Suleiman, who had played my cards superbly for me, and made sure I left with a winning hand. It was he who had primed Sheikh Jaber. It was because of the respect Sheikh Jaber had for Suleiman that I did not leave his office empty-handed. As a modern, progressive leader, Sheikh Jaber was keen to prove that his family and the government represented all Kuwaitis, not just the ruling class. The fact that Suleiman had approached him not for his own personal gain, but to help a friend, was perhaps another reason that motivated the Minister of oil and finance to demonstrate his own selflessness. Whatever the reason, to me, a young man of twenty-four, it was nothing less than a miracle to be treated with such generosity and to be accorded such faith by a man of his position. Very much later, when I got to know Sheikh Jaber better and he began to trust me, just as he did Suleiman, I told him he should become the General de Gaulle of Arabia. De Gaulle was a staunch nationalist, unwilling to compromise on issues of freedom and independence. He stood his ground even against the superpowers—the United States and Britain—unlike most sheikhs and other leaders in the Gulf who danced to the tune of these two nations. After this meeting, Suleiman and I walked out hand in hand. ‘You know’, he said, smiling, ‘Sheikh Jaber seldom speaks as much as he did just now. He’s a man of few words. He must’ve really taken to you, Hussain. He’s a man of instincts. He either trusts someone or he doesn’t. It’s obvious that he trusts you.’ We didn’t feel like getting into the car but walked instead. We were so elated; we

had to walk off all that energy. About an hour later, we were back at the Carlton. I didn’t have any other appointments that morning, and Suleiman was also free, so I invited him for a cup of tea. ‘It’s the least I can do to repay you,’ I offered. We went to the coffee house where we had met several times before. Suleiman didn’t say much. But I could see from his face, from his smile however faint it was, that he was as happy at the outcome of our meeting as I was. What was truly amazing was that his happiness derived not from any material benefit for himself or his family. He was way above that. No, he was happy simply because he had accomplished something significant for me. It was a selfless joy, one of the purest emotions that man can experience. After my initial state of euphoria, during which I prattled on about how I was going to build my company, how I would emulate Gerald Tsai and become the financial whiz kid of the Middle East, I, too, was suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of what that meeting meant. As the reality of this new chapter opening in my life began to sink in, I was overcome with emotions—a feeling of joy because the gate to financial heaven had been opened to me; but more than that, gratitude for the purity of Suleiman’s heart. I didn’t know how to thank him. Looking back at our early encounters, I remember that Suleiman and I had not talked about investment or finance. When we first met, he had been more interested in my personal circumstances and I had spoken about my childhood and youth in Bahrain. I had described how miserable the situation was in Bahrain for the average citizen, who found himself constantly struggling against the racist, arrogant attitude of the British; and the oppression of the manipulative, corrupt ruling family. ‘You cannot believe how different the Al-Khalifas are from your ruling family. They are the complete opposite,’ I said. I recounted my run-ins with the British and described how the Al-Khalifas were no better than puppets playing to the Protectorate’s whims and fancies. They were not interested in protecting a Bahraini who was only seeking independence from the British. Instead, they felt compelled to punish any Bahraini who had the courage to stand up to the foreign advisors. Given his own political inclinations and deep-rooted sense of nationalism, Suleiman felt a sense of solidarity with me. He was deeply touched by the fact that I had gone to prison for my political convictions at a young age. This made him feel very protective of me.

Sheikh Jaber’s assurance that he would back me in any way he could was sufficient for me to make my break from IOS. A few days later, I flew back to Geneva, both to hand in the new business I had made in Kuwait as well as to hand in my resignation. This was it. I was going to set up my own investment firm, the first indigenous Gulf investment firm. The first thing I did on my first day back at the office on 119 Rue de Lausanne was to meet Cornfeld. He was totally unprepared for my announcement. In fact, he was shocked. He tried his best to make me change my mind. He invited me to an endless series of glamorous parties, introduced me to a bevy of beautiful women, wined, and dined me with the most expensive, most indulgent food and drink. He did everything he knew how to. But his actions only served to have the opposite effect that he desired. The harder he tried to keep me, the more convinced I was that I had to leave. I realised that Cornfeld’s values and mine were vastly different. And so, I quit. My next move was to decide where to set up base for my firm. There were two places in my mind—Geneva, which I had grown accustomed to, or Germany, where I had many more friends. I was unable to make up my mind in Geneva, so I flew back to Germany, to Stuttgart, back to the Eiseles. This time, I turned up at their doorstep not as an impoverished, seasick Bahraini but a young man of the world. I made sure to buy everyone gifts from Switzerland—chocolates for Frau Eisele and her mother; perfume for the three girls and a couple of bottles of wine for Hans. The family was delighted to see me. Gigi and her mother cooked an excellent dinner, and we all sat around the dining table to enjoy it. For me, it was the first home-cooked meal, or rather the first meal cooked in a home that felt like home, I had had for nine months. I absolutely loved it. As they say, there’s nothing like your mother’s cooking, and Frau Eisele had become as close as a non-biological mother could possibly get to fulfiling that role, during my days in Esslingen. While thoroughly enjoying the meal, I asked Hans what he would do if he were in my shoes and wanted to start his own firm. ‘Would you start your company in Switzerland or in Germany?’ I queried. Without so much as a blink of an eye, Hans said, ‘Hussain, we love you and we would love for you to be based in Germany. But German taxes are very high. It’s

about 50 per cent of your income. And it doesn’t matter where you make your income, in Germany or abroad. Why should you have to pay such high tax for income you make overseas?’ he said, pausing to have some wine. ‘So if you really want my advice, I say Switzerland.’ In fact, I can even tell you where in Switzerland. You don’t have to go to Geneva or Lausanne, or any of these big, expensive cities. In the German part of Switzerland, close to Zurich, just a half hour away by train, is the beautiful canton of Zug. Until today, Zug has the lowest tax rates amongst all the cantons in Switzerland. ‘Zug?’ I said, trying the word in my mouth. I had never heard of this place and said so. ‘Ach, Hussain. You’ve got to trust me,’ Hans said. ‘Zug is a growing low-tax financial centre. If you want to be successful in the investment world, that’s where you should be.’ I was beginning to veer towards Switzerland as the location for my company. It was after all the global centre of finance. But I was still not convinced about this little town called Zug. ‘I tell you what, Hussain. I can see that you have doubts about Zug. So why don’t I drive you to Munich. I have a friend, a brilliant lawyer, in Munich. You can talk to him and see what he says. What do you think?’ ‘Ok, that sounds good. When can we go?’ I replied. We went soon enough. Like a number of Germans, who drive to Switzerland in their Mercedes-Benz, their booths containing stashes of money to be deposited into Swiss banks to evade high German taxes, Hans insisted on driving me to Munich in his Benz. ‘So we look like one of these fat cats,’ he said. Gigi accompanied us. The drive was fun. Hans, Gigi, and I had so much to talk about, so much to catch up on. Hans was now in his last year of law, preparing for his final examination, while Gigi was still a seamstress and still happy with her job. In Munich, we went straight to the office of Dr Strobel, a prominent corporate lawyer, in the heart of the city.

Dr Strobel was about fifty-five, a good-looking, tall German. He had law degrees from Munich University and Harvard and came from one of the most powerful German families, the von Tuchers, which controlled the elite Bayerische Vereinsbank (BV). The family had started off as traders, bringing salt and pepper to Germany from the Far East during a time when Europe did not have refrigerators and relied on these condiments to preserve meat. From this highly successful trade, the family branched into banking (BV focused primarily on private banking and corporate banking), HB cigarettes (although not well known outside Germany today, it was a leading cigarette brand in the 60s and 70s) as well as local beer: Lowenbrau (the ‘champagne beer’ of elite Europe). Sitting in front of Dr Strobel, I asked what I should do. ‘I have an affinity for Germany and I love my German friends,’ I explained. ‘But they’re all telling me I should go to Switzerland. In fact, they’re not just telling me to go there. My good friend Hans has physically brought me here, to see you,’ I said, with a laugh. ‘Well, I can tell you with complete honesty they’re not trying to get rid of you!’ Dr Strobel responded, also laughing. ‘No, Hussain, they’re absolutely right. Hans’s advice is very good. Zug really is becoming the new centre for finance. A number of multinationals have set up their bases there because it has the lowest tax regime.’ ‘And there will be no problem for me to set up an investment boutique there? Will I need any licence?’ I asked. ‘Not that I know of. But the man you should be talking to is Guido Renggli. He’s a good friend of mine. He is a lawyer in Zug. He’s very knowledgeable about the business environment in Zug and will answer all your questions,’ he said, writing down something on a piece of paper. ‘Here,’ he said, handing me the paper. ‘This is Guido’s office address. I suggest you take a train today to Zurich, change at the main station, and within three of four hours, you should be in Zug. By the time you get there, it will be evening. Check into a hotel, and tomorrow morning, call Guido.’ Dr Strobel obviously knew what he was talking about, and I was by this time more than happy to make a trip to Zug to investigate opportunities there. I

thanked him and asked if I could pay something for his advice, but Hans’s friend would not hear of it. ‘No need to pay me now, Hussain,’ he said. ‘You’re the first man I know from the Middle East. One day, somehow, we shall meet again. And I would like to think that you and I will be able to become business friends.’ ‘That would be good,’ I said, shaking his hand. Outside his office, I turned to Hans, saying, ‘Looks like your mission is accomplished. Zug, here I come!’ ‘And about time too,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a lift to the station.’ At the station, I said goodbye to Hans and Gigi. As I made my way to Zug, they returned to Esslingen. I took the train to Zurich, on the eastern side of Switzerland, then changed trains for Zug, just as Dr Strobel had instructed. It was an old town, with cobblestoned roads and horses and quite small. Its population was only about 20,000 to 40,000. It didn’t take me long to find a cosy, charming eighteenth century hotel close to the lake. It was evening by the time I arrived, and I was quite tired from the drive from Esslingen, then the train ride. So I retired quite early. The next day, I rang Renggli, told him I had met Dr Strobel concerning a business plan, and that Dr Strobel had recommended that I see him. He was very gracious, and told me to make my way to his ‘office’, the address of which I already had. It turned out to be Renggli’s home, a beautiful stone house on a hill overlooking the lake. Like most family lawyers, he operated from home. Sitting in his living room, I explained that I wanted to set up a small investment management company, that I had contacts in New York and Boston, and that the bulk of my clients would be in the Middle East. I explained also that I had initially toyed with the idea of carrying out my plan in Germany, but that Hans and Dr Strobel had dissuaded me. He listened intently and repeated what everybody else had said—that I was much better off setting up my firm in Zug. I repeated the question I had asked Dr Strobel. ‘Do I need a licence from the central banking commission or from the financial authorities?’

‘No,’ said Renggli. ‘For a small investment management company . . . in fact for any company, so long as you are bringing in business or investment, you don’t need a licence. But you can’t incorporate the word ‘bank’ in your company name. If it’s not a bank, you can literally do anything under the sun without a licence.’ ‘Then what do I need?’ I asked. ‘I can form for you a limited liability company with a minimum paid up capital of 20,000 Swiss francs,’ he said. ‘Do you have this money?’ I did some quick calculations. At the time, the exchange rate was about 4.3 Swiss francs to the dollar, hence 20,000 Swiss francs was roughly US$5,000. I had more than that in my bank account in Geneva. So I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Good. How soon would you like this company?’ he asked. ‘Now,’ I replied. ‘As soon as possible.’ ‘Fine, no problem, but I will need a name. Have you thought of a name for your company.’ In fact, I had. It was something I had been mulling over for the last few weeks. I had even asked Gigi and Hans for their opinion and, together, we had decided on INTEREIT, short for inter-European investments. I gave Renggli the name. ‘INTEREIT,’ he repeated, testing the name. ‘Yes, I think that would work. INTEREIT. It’s a good name. Brilliant.’ And that was it. Renggli formed my company. After the formalities, I thanked him and left to look for a suitable office. I only needed something small. After all, I was starting as a one-man show. My search didn’t take long. In fact, it had hardly begun when it ended. Next to Renggli’s home was another beautiful old building that had just been renovated. Like his house, it had huge windows overlooking the lake. Outside, I noticed a signboard saying ‘office space to rent’. So I went in and found a small room, no more than three hundred or three hundred and fifty square feet. It was ideal for my purposes. I searched out the owner, who was in the management office on the ground floor, and gave him a down payment.

From my new office, I walked to the main square, which served as the nucleus of the city. At one end of the square was the post office and opposite it, the Cantonal Bank of Zug, the parliament, and various government administrative offices. The square also housed Credit Suisse, the largest and best-known conservative Swiss bank. These were all within a five or seven minute walk from my office. Renggli kindly opened a bank account and a securities account for INTEREIT at Credit Suisse. No questions were asked. No one even blinked at the fact that this Asiaticlooking stranger was starting an investment business in the medieval city of Zug. My next step was to link INTEREIT with an American brokerage house. A friend of mine, Henry Rabat, an Egyptian industrialist living in Lausanne, had mentioned an Egyptian banker named Michel Takla, who was a manager at a famous Jewish powerhouse called Bache. Bache had branch offices in Geneva and Lausanne. I decided to approach Takla, a Copt, the oldest Christian minority community of Egyptians from Alexandria. I called Henry, who arranged for me to meet Takla for dinner in Lausanne. The restaurant was on the lake. I was there before the appointed time and, soon enough, in walked a couple who looked unmistakably Egyptian—dark haired, dark eyed, and speaking Arabic. I waved at them as they entered the restaurant, and Takla waved back. At the table, we introduced ourselves. Michel’s lovely wife was called Gigi. I took that to be a good omen. Over dinner, I explained I was starting a firm and needed a correspondent investment house in New York where I could place and clear my orders, and which would provide me with up to date investment advice, to be shared with my clients. ‘That wouldn’t be a problem for us,’ Michel said. ‘Bache doesn’t have a presence in the Middle East and as far as I know, we have no intention of going there in the near future. So in effect, we have no conflict of interest. Yes, why not?’ he said, pondering. ‘You be our man in the Middle East, your firm can be an extension of Bache in the Middle East. You go, you do the marketing, pass your orders to us, and we shall do the rest.’ ‘Great!’ I said enthusiastically. ‘But how will the relationship between INTEREIT and Bache work? What kind of commission will you be looking at

and will the orders come under INTEREIT or Bache?’ I asked. ‘The commission will be the New York Stock Exchange established standard. We will give you 60 per cent of what we earn out of your account. But everything will be under your name, under your company’s name, INTEREIT— the administration, clearance, operations, custodianship, and the rest. How does that sound?’ ‘It sounds perfect,’ I said. And I meant it. Under the arrangement Michel was suggesting, I would not have to spend a centime on administrative or operational procedures in my own office in Zug. As soon as I got an order in Kuwait, I would telex it to Michel’s office in Lausanne or Geneva and this would be transmitted immediately to New York, where it would be executed within minutes. For Kuwaitis, this would definitely be a first. They had never before enjoyed speedy access to research-backed American investment services. The set-up was perfect. After my wonderful dinner with Gigi and Michel, I returned to Zug, knowing I had made the all important link with Wall Street and the floor of the NYSE. I was over the moon! Soon after, I flew back to Kuwait to sort out my outfit there. The first thing I did was to meet up with Suleiman and give him the good news. As I thought, he was as excited by the turn of events as I was. ‘First things first,’ he said. ‘Now that you have a proper boutique going, you need an office. You can’t operate from your room at the Carlton any more. I think I have the perfect location for you. It’s in town, near the bazaar.’ I went with Suleiman to have a look at the office he was proposing. It was in a relatively new three-storeyed building in central Kuwait, not very far from the Carlton. It would serve me well, and I said so. Without wasting any time, Suleiman sorted out all the paper-work for me, and I was the proud tenant of this working space. Suleiman also got a carpenter in the bazaar to make a wooden placard for my office, with the name INTEREIT painted on boldly. The next crucial step was to fix a telex machine in my office so I could telex my orders, and anything else that needed to be communicated, to my little office in Zug from where it would be transmitted to Bache’s office in Geneva and then on to New York. But there was a problem. The only people who had a telex in

Kuwait, the single telex number that existed in this rapidly modernising city, belonged to the Post, Telephone and Telegraph office, or PTT, the telecommunications company of Kuwait. No bank or any trading family operated a telex. They functioned solely on cables. If there was something urgent that had to be communicated overseas, they would write a cable and take it to the telegraph office, which was not too far from the Carlton. In terms of location, the telegraph office was ideal for me. But in terms of the time it took to send messages, it was too slow. The process was archaic. I talked to Suleiman about this and asked if any of his friends knew the Director of Telecommunications. He was the man I needed to see. I reasoned that if he knew Sheikh Jaber himself had granted a licence for me to operate an investment securities firm, surely he —the Minister of Telecommunications—would feel obliged to ensure I had the best, the most efficient telecommunications facilities to make my venture a success. All I needed, all I would ask for, was an independent telex line. I prepared my speech diligently before the appointed meeting. I practised it on Suleiman, who said it was good. Then we met the Minister of Telecommunications, and I presented my case to him. At the end of my spiel, the Minister of Telecommunications said, ‘Even if I wanted to help you, Hussain, as indeed I do, I don’t know how. I have no lines to give.’ I then had another brainwave. Cable and Wireless (C&W), the British telecommunications company, had operations in countries that fell under the British Protectorate, including Hong Kong, Singapore, Bahrain, Cyprus . . . and Kuwait. C&W was effectively the overseas telecommunications arm of the British Government, run independently as a public limited liability company listed on the London Stock Exchange. I contacted the manager—an Englishman —of the very efficient C&W outfit in Bahrain. ‘Don’t worry. I will send my team and we will operate your telex through radio waves. All we need is a licence authorising us to operate radio waves,’ he assured me. ‘Using radio waves, you can communicate directly with our headquarters in Bahrain and, through them, you’ll be connected to the world instantly. As matter of fact, you will own and run your PTT under license of the Telecommunications Ministry.’

I couldn’t thank him enough. That was just the kind of information I wanted to hear! Jubilant, I went back to the Minister of Telecommunications to inform him that C&W was willing to help up set up telex operation with a big piece of machine which functioned using radio frequencies. He wanted to speak to the engineers from C&W. I arranged for the meeting, and the Minister was satisfied that all was in order. There were no rules or regulations he knew of that we would be contravening. He issued us a one-paragraph licence authorising INTEREIT Kuwait to have an independent telex which bypassed Kuwait’s PTT. In other words, he was giving me the licence to run my own communications company. It indicated great trust because the Kuwaiti authorities would have no control at all over my system. It would bypass them entirely. My connection with Sheikh Jaber and Suleiman and my own background of Swiss high finance linked with America’s Wall Street had worked to my benefit. PTT of Kuwait felt reasonably comfortable that I would not misuse the freedom and trust they were granting me in my infant operation. After obtaining my hard-won licence, engineers from C&W installed a huge antenna on top of the building that housed INTEREIT Kuwait and set up the telex system linking me directly and instantaneously to Europe, the United States, and the rest of the world. To me, it was momentous; I had my own telegraph office! I could start work, which is exactly what I did. Relying on Suleiman once again, I built up a credible customer base. Because of the time difference, I opened my office at about two in the afternoon and worked through till midnight. Once everything was operating smoothly, I went back to Sheikh Jaber and gave him the good news of my newly opened office in Kuwait. As tactfully as possible, I also reminded him of his promise to open an account with me. He was pleased to see me and even more pleased by my news. ‘How much should I start off with, Hussain?’ he asked, regarding the investment he had promised to make. ‘Start with modest sum and see how well I do,’ I said. ‘If my performance is satisfactory, you can always increase your investment.’ ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘How much would a modest sum be?’ ‘Maybe 100,000 Kuwaiti dinars?’ I ventured. That was equal to US$360,000, not

a bad sum of money for those days. Without so much as batting an eye, Sheikh Jaber signed my single-page account opening form and transferred 100,000 KDs immediately from his family account in the British Bank of Middle East Kuwait to my company’s bank account in Zug, Switzerland. INTEREIT got off to a great start. A new chapter in my life opened with the royal blessings of Sheikh Jaber and the powerful merchant families of Kuwait.

CHAPTER 11

The Oil Ambassador is Saved by an Angel

Having got my licence and my own telex machine, I was now busy installing the peripherals for INTEREIT—basic office equipment, furniture, stationery, etc. But I still made an effort to attend the meetings of the intellectuals to whom I had been introduced by Dr Isam, head of the Kuwait Military Hospital as I really enjoyed these. At one such meeting, there was a young man who looked familiar and yet unfamiliar. I had not met him before, but there was something about him that I felt I knew. He was soft-spoken, easy-going, and had a very genial way about him. I asked Suleiman, who was seated next to me, who that young man was. ‘Which one?’ asked Suleiman. I pointed him out. He was sitting opposite us, engrossed in a discussion with a couple of other young men around him. ‘Oh him. Have you never met before?’ he asked, very surprised. ‘He’s Bader, my elder brother!’ Bader, it turned out, had not attended a number of recent meetings because of a certain project he had been entrusted to carry out at work, which meant he often left the office later than normal. He was general manager of the National Bank of Kuwait (NBK), the first Kuwaiti bank in the country, opened and owned by local merchant families. Most of the other banks were British-owned, such as the British Bank of the Middle East (which had begun as the Imperial Bank of Iran, now HSBC). However, NBK was able to do very well, given the sense of patriotism of

Kuwaitis who would rather give their business to a local enterprise than a foreign one. ‘If you need any banking help, you should go to him,’ Suleiman said. ‘I will introduce you.’ True to his word, later that night as the discussions were dying down, Suleiman said, ‘Come, let’s meet Bader.’ To his brother, he said, ‘Bader, I didn’t realise I’ve never introduced you to Hussain before. But I know I’ve talked to you about him. He’s the one starting the first investment securities firm in Kuwait. Sheikh Jaber has given him the licence. You should ask some of your bank customers to see him.’ ‘Sure, sure. In fact, I’d like to know more about Hussain’s company myself,’ Bader said to his brother. Then, turning to me, he added, ‘You cannot imagine how much I’ve heard from Suleiman, but there’s nothing like getting information first hand.’ I could see why he had reminded me so much of Suleiman. He had the same earnestness, the same core of honesty, and goodness as his elder brother. Like all Kuwaitis who worked for the government or a state-run enterprise, Bader also had his own private trading company to augment his earnings. ‘Please come and see me at my shop so we can talk some more. I’m in the bazaar, not far from Suleiman’s shop and not far from your company too.’ ‘I’d be pleased to do so. You just tell me when, and I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘Ok, why don’t we fix a time, otherwise you’ll find yourself too busy and you’ll never come. How about tomorrow, around six in the evening? I should be able to leave the bank by then.’ ‘That’s good with me,’ I said. We continued talking for a while, but as everyone was saying their goodbyes, we too were obliged to take leave of our host and of each other. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said to Bader. ‘Yes, tomorrow,’ he replied.

As general manager of the NBK, Bader was well known amongst the merchant community. In the bazaar, he was highly respected not only for his official position but also for his kindness and generosity. The next day, when I went to meet him in his shop, I had absolutely no trouble finding it, even if it was in the old section, which was a bit of a maze. All I had to do was mention his name, Bader Al-Haddad, and there would be a chorus of recognition. ‘Bader? Bader, bank manager? Yes, over there.’ In typical Arabic fashion, Bader immediately offered me a cup of tea when I showed up at his door. Then, we sat to chat. Because we hadn’t had much time to talk about my business venture the night before, he asked me lots of questions about it. He was amazed by the ingenuity of my telex system, and how I had managed to set it up. He explained the trading which took place in the bazaar. Most of the merchants were importers, he said, who brought in foodstuff, clothes, household goods, and other daily necessities to feed the growing consumer market. Almost everyone had an exclusive licence or distributorship for foreign brands of foreign consumer goods. The only commodity that was being exported was oil, and that was run by the Kuwaiti Government through the American firm Gulf Oil, which later became the Kuwait National Petroleum Company (KNPC). Bader himself imported a few items but in a modest way. However, he seemed content enough. I’d been with him for a good hour and a half and knew he had a family to go home to, so I made attempts to leave. Just as I was about to get up, he reached under his desk and brought out a brown paper bag that had been folded, saying, ‘This is for you.’ I was taken by surprise and asked what was in the bag. ‘It’s nothing. Just some money to help you set up your office.’ I was very hesitant to take it. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I will take it but only as a loan. How much is there?’ ‘Oh, just a small sum of money I can afford to give you. You count it yourself,’ Bader replied. ‘Suleiman and I want to make sure you become successful in Kuwait. Please take it. It gives me great pleasure to give it to you.’ I sat down again, took out the notes from the bag, and counted them on the desk.

There were 10,000 Kuwaiti dinars. It was not a small sum of money. 10,000 KDs was equivalent to US$36,000. ‘Bader,’ I said. ‘I cannot take so much money from you. I thank you for your kindness, but I cannot do it.’ ‘No no, please. You must,’ he said. But seeing my determination to refuse, he quickly added, ‘Ok, if you want to treat it as a loan, then that’s fine.’ ‘That I can accept,’ I said. I asked him for a sheet of white paper, which he produced from his desk, and wrote in Arabic: ‘This is to certify that Hussain has accepted a loan of 10,000 KDs given to him by Bader, which he will repay within one year with interest.’ I signed and dated this ‘official’ receipt and left it on his desk. Bader was too shy to look at it properly, let alone read it, and just folded the paper before placing it back in the drawer from which it had been produced. My life has been filled with generous people like the Bedouins in the desert, the Iranian Ambassador in Beirut, my American guru in Stuttgart, Suleiman and, now, Bader. As I walked out of Bader’s shop, I was filled with gratitude for these kind souls whom I have never forgotten and never will. Once again, my destiny was being shaped by people who flitted into my life, without my asking or planning. Oh god, I said to myself, who’s in charge—me or you? With Bader’s contribution, which I repaid in full with 12 per cent interest after twelve months, I got my office up and running in no time. Through my telex, I was not only able to send orders and other forms of communication from Kuwait to Bache in Geneva and onward to New York, I also got daily quotes from Wall Street on the ticker tape. Although this technology had been widely used in the West since the nineteenth century, in Kuwait it was a novelty. Stocks of companies in abbreviated symbols and their prices came through almost continuously, printed on a brown piece of paper. To avail oneself of this service, you had to subscribe to the ticker tape, just as today you subscribe to the Internet. It was the most commonly used technology for almost near-time stock price information before computer networks made it obsolete. Because it was new in Kuwait, I invited the entire merchant community to come to my office and observe how it worked. The ticker tape created a sensation! Nobody had seen anything like it before; not in Kuwait nor Lebanon nor anywhere in the Middle East. I showed them how we

were connected to the New York Stock Exchange, where they could buy shares in companies they were familiar with, such as Daimler, Chrysler, or IBM. These were companies they had already invested in, by buying their products. The familiarity of these companies was all that was needed for some of these merchants to open accounts with INTEREIT and remit funds. Upon seeing my company flourish, the Minister of Oil and Finance, Sheikh Jaber, decided to increase his investment in INTEREIT. I got word from Suleiman that Sheikh Jaber wanted to see me, to talk about further investments. In fact, Suleiman had said, the Minister wanted to see me urgently, the very next day if possible. I wondered at his sense of urgency but duly reported to the Ministry the following day. Sheikh Jaber seemed both happy and relieved to see me so soon. ‘You told me to wait and see how you performed. I’ve waited, and I can see that you’re doing very well. So I’d like to invest some more,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you’re satisfied with my performance. I did have a lot of help from many friends. And of course, you’ve been the biggest investor. So I really do owe you a big thank you,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to thank me, Hussain. In the end, any businessman will invest only in companies or people he has good reason to believe will be successful. From the first time I met you, I could see that you’re very driven, and if anyone could make happen what you planned to do, it was you,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have invested in you if I didn’t have faith in your abilities and your commitment and above all, your sense of integrity.’ ‘You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘I try to be, Hussain. But I cannot afford to be kind in the same way to everyone. It would be foolish to give a beggar a hundred thousand dinars just because I wanted to be kind. Giving you a hundred thousand KDs has given me more in return. Which is why I asked you here,’ he said. ‘I actually have an assignment I’d like you to handle. Do you think you could do this for me?’ ‘That depends. I need to know what you expect of me, sir. If it’s within my abilities, of course I’d be more than happy to oblige. One good deed, after all, deserves another,’ I said.

‘Don’t start that again,’ he said, laughing. ‘No, seriously, we’re planning to build a petrochemical plant using crude from the refinery in Ahmadi. You see, at the moment, we’re producing oil and we’re exporting it for others to process into chemicals, which are used in consumer goods which we then import. Why let them process our oil and sell back to us again? If we had a petrochemical plant and were able to manufacture petrochemicals, it reduces our imports and increases our exports.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘But how do I come into the picture? I know nothing about petrochemical plants.’ ‘Nobody in Kuwait does, other than the Americans, of course. But the Americans have already made enough money from our oil. We’ve begun talking to an Italian company. They’re giants in the petrochemical industry. They’ve built several of the largest petrochemical plants in the world.’ ‘What’s the name of this company?’ ‘Impianti DeNoura. The company belongs to the DeNoura family, from the north of Italy. We have a legal advisor, Mustafa, an Egyptian, very sharp. He will be going to Milan to negotiate with DeNoura soon in a week or so. After Milan, he goes to Rome to meet the president of ENI, the state energy company. You’ve heard of ENI?’ he asked. ‘Yes. I know they’ve gone into Iran in a big way. They’ve offered a good deal to the government, from what I can gather.’ ‘Absolutely. Much better than what the Americans were offering. With ENI, it’s a fifty-fifty profit sharing deal. And in exploration, ENI takes all the risk. If there’s no oil, the Iranians don’t pay anything. They’ve done the same in Egypt too. And they’re in Tunisia, Morocco, and in the Soviet Block. They’re becoming quite big. A growing threat to the American and British monopolies,’ he said. In fact, ENI’s founder, Enrico Mattei, was a left wing Christian democrat who was determined to break up the Anglo-American oligopoly by what he called the Seven Sisters. He likened the undeveloped oil-producing countries to a cat which tries to get some food from a pot around which are a pack of dogs. The dogs attack the cat and toss it away. The pot of food is symbolic of oil while

the dogs represent the Seven Sisters. ‘In the pot there’s enough oil for everyone, but someone doesn’t want to let us get close to it,’ Mattei would say. ‘ENI has shown a keen interest in coming here, to Kuwait, too. Slowly, quietly, they’ve been trying to find some way through our doors. We just need to make sure we get the best possible deal from them,’ Sheikh Jaber said. ‘I see. But I still don’t understand what you’d like me to do.’ ‘When you go and talk to these giant companies, you can’t just send one man. That would be like sending a lamb to the slaughter. They expect to see a proper team. I was hoping you could accompany Mustafa. Make up the Kuwaiti oil team with him. Go with him to Milan and Rome. And help in the negotiations,’ he said. The Minister’s request sounded extremely interesting, and I felt honoured to be picked by him for an assignment that obviously carried much weight. I said as much to Sheikh Jaber. ‘But will you do it?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I will. It would be an honour and a pleasure.’ I decided to combine this trip to Italy with a flying visit to my office in Zug, to make sure all was in order there. I was by this time renting a lovely apartment on the twenty-eighth floor of the first high-rise condominium in this charming little town, overlooking the lake, and had a snazzy Carmen Ghia VW sports car—a slight improvement from my old Beetle! I looked forward to enjoying these creature comforts, knowing that I had paid for all of it from my own efforts. I was to spend only a couple of days in Zug, before flying off to Milan, on the mission that Sheikh Jaber had entrusted me with. On the second evening I was there, as I was coming out of the office building where I worked, I noticed a beautiful dark-haired woman in front of me. She opened her arms in welcome. It was Gigi! She had not told me she was planning to visit. It was a complete surprise. And what a pleasant surprise! Gigi was looking as lovely as ever. Seeing her there, I suddenly realised how good it was to have her around.

‘For heaven’s sake, how did you manage to find me?’ I asked, dazed. ‘It wasn’t difficult at all, though you never wrote to me. I went to the police station and said I was looking for you. The Swiss police are so efficient. They checked their records and found the address of your office. So here I am,’ she replied, smiling. ‘You clever girl,’ I said. ‘But you’re lucky because I’ve been spending a lot of time recently in Kuwait and came back here only yesterday. So if you’d come two days earlier or even one day later, you would have missed me. Tomorrow, I have to go off again on a business trip.’ She looked a little disappointed but quickly cheered up again, saying, ‘Anyway, we are here together now. Let’s go and have a drink to celebrate, shall we?’ ‘We can do better than that. Let me treat you to a nice dinner and drinks on this lovely Zugersee (Lake Zug).’ Hand in hand, we walked to the Aklin, a famous restaurant in Zug set up in 1848 by the eponymous family. It served good, hearty meals and had a great view of the lake. I will always remember that evening. We were so comfortable with each other and had so much to share. Gigi was positively glowing with happiness. She said she wanted to try to make her marriage with Manfred work. She had made up her mind and was happy with it. She had come to see me because she wanted to say goodbye properly, not in a letter or over the phone. I felt a little sad that I was going to lose her, but at the same time, I knew that if she could make the marriage work, that was the best possible outcome for all concerned. After dinner, I told her she was welcome to spend the night at my apartment. ‘In fact, please stay as long as you want. I’ll give you the keys, and when you leave again, you can just leave them with the concierge. How long are you planning to stay?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t make any real plans before coming. But I guess I can spend one extra day and just see what Zug’s like. It looks very pretty,’ she said. ‘You’re welcome to stay, Gigi. I wish I didn’t have to go off tomorrow. I have to be at the airport at seven in the morning. You really should’ve called, you know,

and given me some notice that you were coming. Then I could’ve taken you around. We could’ve had a great time,’ I said. ‘Yeah, but I didn’t have your number. And anyway, you know what I’m like. Never been good at planning.’ I did know what Gigi was like. Rather unkindly, some Germans even called her a gypsy, which was considered slightly derogatory to blue-blooded Germans. We had a lovely dinner; then I drove Gigi back to my apartment. She was impressed by my sports car just as she had been amazed by what I had achieved in a relatively short time. She couldn’t believe that I was on a mission to Italy to negotiate with a state oil company. Moreover, that I was representing Sheikh Jaber, the Minister of Oil and Finance of Kuwait. The following morning, I was to fly out from Kloten Airport, in Zurich, to Rome for the meeting with the incredible Mattei. Then, in the evening, I was to go to Milan ahead of a lunch meeting the following day with DeNoura. After that meeting, I would take a train to Lucerne, then back to Zug. ‘Wow, Hussain, you’ve really made it into the big league!’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I’m so proud of you.’ Her eyes, always so expressive, were positively glittering. I could tell she was genuinely pleased that I had made a success of the preceding twenty months. There was no hint of regret that she was no longer a part of my life and that she had decided to continue hers with Manfred. We went back to my apartment and had some more wine. Knowing I would probably not see Gigi again for a long time, I wanted to make the night last forever. But of course it didn’t, and the next morning, as a result of my excesses, I woke up an hour late. It would take an hour and a half to get from Zug to the airport, and I drove as fast as I could on the old road. I kept thinking in my mind, let the plane be delayed, let the plane be delayed. I made it to the airport in about an hour, but I was still thirty minutes late. I parked, then dashed to the check-in counter. It was odd because the airport seemed to be in a state of total chaos. People were running left, right, and centre. But I could not think about this too much as I had to get onto the plane. At the Swissair counter, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m late for my flight to Rome, but can I still check in please?’

The lady looked at me in wonder and shouted over the heads of other colleagues, ‘He’s here, for the Swissair flight—the last man.’ Everyone looked at me as if I were a zombie or an alien from another planet. I couldn’t understand what was happening. What was wrong? Finally, the Swissair lady said, ‘Sir, you don’t realise how lucky you are. You’ve missed your flight. It took off ten minutes ago, but it crashed soon after take-off, into the village of Kloten.’ As we talked, a rescue team had been dispatched to see if there were any survivors. There were none. All 146 passengers and crew had been killed instantly. Mine had been the only empty seat on the French-built Caravelle. I was shaken. My mind went blank and I didn’t know what to say or do. All I knew was that I had escaped death. And Gigi was the angel who had saved me. I was in no state to travel anywhere after that. I felt completely drained of energy and returned to Zug. This time, I drove very slowly, but it was still relatively early in the morning when I reached my apartment. As I didn’t have the key, I rang the bell. Gigi opened the door. She was still in her pyjamas. She was very surprised to see me. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Why are you back?’ I told her about the plane crash. She threw her arms around me, kissed me, and said, ‘Oh my god, this is God-given protection.’ Mattei was not as fortunate. Not too long after my brush with death, he was killed in a mysterious plane crash. There were rumours of foul play. Just before boarding the fateful flight, he had been in a discussion with David Rockefeller whose father John D. Rockefeller had founded Standard Oil, the oil conglomerate which subsequently split into several major oil companies, such as Esso, Chevron, and Texaco. An officer entrusted with investigating the crash mysteriously disappeared, never to be found. In Italy and across Europe, rumour had it that a bomb had been planted in the plane by the CIA to get rid of this troublemaker Mattei once and for all. I can’t vouch for this myself as I’ve no evidence of CIA’s involvement. I called my office and postponed the trip to Milan for a couple of weeks and got to spend some time with Gigi after all. We drove around the countryside and just

enjoyed each other’s company as well as the beauty of our surroundings. Eventually, when it was time to leave for Italy, I told her I would be away for only three days and repeated my initial offer that she stay in my apartment until I got back. She said OK. So I left on Swissair for Milan, where Mustafa was already waiting for me. He had arranged the meetings with DeNoura and ENI. DeNoura turned out to be a charming north Italian industrialist, and we closed the deal for Sheikh Jaber, bringing the Italians to Kuwait. We signed a joint venture in which Kuwait had 60 per cent equity and the DeNoura family in Milan, 40 per cent. Unfortunately, we were not as successful with ENI. The entire upper echelons at this oil giant had changed, and I was unable to get anywhere with them. A mysterious hand pushed off Kuwait’s agenda. When I reported this back to Sheikh Jaber, he immediately sank deep into thought. Although he did not say anything or dropped any hint, he was probably cussing the CIA and the Americans. His silence was deafening. Upon my return to Zug from Italy, I rushed to my apartment, in anticipation of meeting Gigi again. I rang the doorbell, a big smile on my face. When the door opened, however, it was not Gigi. Instead there was a beautiful young German girl, a graduate student of twenty-two. It was early in the morning, about eight, and she was in a transparent negligee that showed all her endowments—and she was well endowed. ‘Guten Morgen, Hussain,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, stunned. ‘What are you doing in my apartment?’ ‘I’m a good friend of Gigi’s from Germany,’ she replied, smiling. ‘While you were away, I came to visit Gigi. Then she left and asked me to stay here until you came back from your trip to Italy.’ ‘But what happened to Gigi? Why did she leave so suddenly?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. She said she wanted to travel. She rented a car and left.’ ‘Is she coming back?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know, she didn’t say. But she took the bag she had with her. And from her goodbye, I think she’s not coming back.’ ‘What do you mean? What did she say when she left?’ ‘She said that I should take care of you.’ I couldn’t make head or tail of what was going on. Gigi had just disappeared and in her place was another young girl, also very beautiful, apparently a friend. ‘Can I make a cup of coffee for you?’ this girl asked. When I went to put my suitcase away in my bedroom, I could tell from the crumpled bed that the girl had slept on my own bed. She was extremely provocative and sexy. In fact, she continued to sleep in my bed for the next few days that she spent with me in Zug. Then she, like Gigi, disappeared without saying goodbye and without any trace. Since then, there have been many other beautiful women in my life, who appeared, spent some glorious time with me, and then disappeared again. Only very recently, I was able to locate Gigi again. I managed to send her a letter. She replied to say she is well. I would love to see her again, the angel who saved me from death. Whenever I think of her, I am reminded of the question of who’s in charge of my life. I have no doubt that my actions and beliefs are responsible for charting the general course of my life. But many major twists and turns, such as the meeting with the Iranian Ambassador along the Corniche in Beirut, meeting Dr Isam at the Carlton Hotel in Kuwait, and Gigi coming to visit me in Zug—all of these were driven by kismet, destiny. In fact, till today, my life continues to be shaped by people who appear suddenly and propel me to new heights or save me from disaster or affect me in some other profound way. There is no reason or logical explanation for their appearance in my life. I have to admit, at the time, I found it hard to reconcile the dual, seemingly polar opposite forces, in action. On the one hand, I was taken by knowledge, by the technology, and scientific methods of management that I had been exposed to in

Europe and America—all of which I considered as points along the path of enlightenment. Then, suddenly and out of nowhere, the hand of fate appears and changes the course of my life. So the question I ask myself is, how much of our life stories are determined by ourselves and how much by destiny? Till today, I have no answer. I made more trips to Kuwait, then Saudi Arabia. Through intensive networking, my contact base kept increasing and eventually brought me to leading families in Jeddah, including King Faisal of Saudi Arabia. This was brought about through the president of Saudi Airlines, whom I met in Geneva as a client. After talking to him for a while, he asked if I would like to visit the king. It was tradition for anyone who did business in Saudi Arabia to pay a courtesy call to him, he said. ‘I’m OK with the idea. I would be more than happy to visit the king,’ I said. ‘But isn’t there a lot of protocol or bureaucracy that would have to be overcome first?’ ‘No, not at all. You don’t even need an appointment. King Faisal has an open majlis every morning from seven till nine, before moving to his own Ministry,’ he said. The king also held the post of Foreign Minister. ‘Everyone from the ruling family will be there . . . his brothers, his advisors. This is when he meets businessmen and important visitors. I think you should go.’ This was at the height of the war in Yemen between the Nasserist-supporting nationalists and monarchists. King Faisal was backing the King of Yemen against the nationalists, who were fortified by the Egyptian army. I was surprised that the Saudi ruler was continuing with his tradition of the open majlis at such a time of conflict. Yet the tradition continued, and I had the honour of meeting him, though only briefly. All the visitors entered the majlis at the same and were served some excellent Arabic coffee. After ten or fifteen minutes, we stood up and, one by one, went to the king to kiss him on the nose, as is tradition, and say goodbye. I was also commuting regularly between Kuwait and Zug as well as Bache’s offices in Geneva and Lausanne. Michel proved to be an excellent business associate. He made sure all communication between Kuwait and his offices and then between his offices and New York proceeded smoothly. There were no hitches. Everything was running as planned, like a Swiss watch made in Geneva.

CHAPTER 12

Marriage in Beirut and Supramar in Japan

My ticker tape at INTEREIT in Kuwait meant that I received Dow Jones updates minute by minute. In fact, stock prices from the Wall Street flowed into my machine every second, and these were instantly displayed on a large black board by an Indian clerk I had hired. I had also decked the office with a number of comfortable chairs so clients could come and while away their afternoons, away from the blistering heat. Some of them would sit for hours, fascinated by the movements of their share prices up and down. I made my office as inviting as possible, providing endless cups of tea and coffee and glasses of water for the thirsty. To the merchants, it was like discovering a new form of entertainment. One, moreover, that presented a new way of trading and earning money. Word of my office and the services I offered spread very quickly. I was even interviewed by the leading local newspaper Al Ayam, which credited me for having brought a new dimension to finance and capitalism in Kuwait. Through the grapevine, everybody knew that the most powerful man in the country, Sheikh Jaber, was one of my clients. But nobody knew how much he had invested. They tried to dig the information out of me, some blatantly, some in more subtle ways. They wanted to know how much he had put in so they could do the same. But like a doctor sworn to secrecy, I protected my client’s privacy. I would not tell. Smiling, laughing, I would say it was not professional to disclose the dealings of a client, any client, and just as I would not divulge the information they wanted, they could rest assured that all their dealings with me would be as closely guarded. ‘But Sheikh Jaber is a client of yours, isn’t he?’ some would ask, not satisfied with my discretion.

‘I cannot answer your question,’ I would reply, to their great disappointment. The straightforward, principled investment banking option I offered to Kuwaitis appealed to them immensely. Until then, if they wanted to save, the only financial tool available was fixed deposits which they could place either in the British Bank of Middle East or the new National Bank of Kuwait. Beyond that, nobody had any investment. They owned no shares nor bonds nor mutual funds . . . except the few who had earlier invested in the Fidelity of Dreyfus Funds I had introduced. So the whole market was evolving. A new investment climate was emerging, and I was the key agent of this change. I had scores of people, rich merchants, knocking on my door to open accounts and to avail themselves of the research advice I was receiving from Bache, one of the most reputable boutique investment firms on Wall Street. If the analysts said ‘buy’, they bought. If they said ‘sell’, they sold. If they said ‘hold’, my clients would hold on to their shares but only for the short term. Being merchants, these Kuwaitis did not really want to build long-term portfolios; they preferred to trade. They basically looked at money as a commodity. Hence, the shares I offered were commodities to be bought and sold. The fact that they could invest in the copper, gold, and silver markets was an added bonus. These investments appealed to them even more than shares as they were more similar to the goods they traditionally traded in. The merchants realised there was no need to buy and physically bring these precious metals by ship to Kuwait to be sold, when instead they could buy contracts in the relevant markets whenever they wanted and sell the next day, making a profit or losing money, depending on market movements. Dr Isam, who had introduced me to my circle of intellectual friends, eventually also arranged for me to meet the ruler himself, Sheikh Salem Al-Sabah. He became, after Sheikh Jaber, my second most important client, in terms of the volume of investments made. The doctor, meanwhile, had been very prudent. He had not himself shown any interest in investing in Wall Street shares or the commodities markets. But one day, he showed up at my office carrying a briefcase which didn’t look like the medical bag he usually carted around with him.

‘Salaam, Doctor,’ I said in greeting. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ It was a weekday afternoon when Dr Isam was normally at the hospital. ‘You’ve done it, Hussain. You’ve done it,’ he said, rather cryptically. ‘Done it? What have I done, my good doctor?’ I asked. ‘You’ve made me bring all my savings to you, Hussain, to invest.’ I was stunned. I had accepted the fact that Dr Isam was not the kind of person who was comfortable with investing and never queried him about it. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel awkward as if I expected him to buy shares or other investments through me. Our friendship was much more valuable than that. ‘I’m so pleased that you’ve brought your savings, I truly am,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m quite speechless. I thought you were just not interested in investing. How much money have you brought?’ ‘About US$ 50,000. It’s all in here,’ he said, shaking his briefcase. ‘Is that enough to start with?’ ‘Enough? Are you joking? That’s a lot of money! What have you done, Isam? Have you withdrawn all your savings from the bank?’ I asked. ‘No. I’ve just taken it out from under my mother’s bed,’ he said. I thought he was joking. But of course he wasn’t. It turned out Dr Isam was so conservative that he did not trust any financial institution. Not even banks. And so, all these years, this fine thirty-five-year-old doctor, a graduate of one of the best universities in Europe, had been stashing his money under his mother’s mattress at home. Thank God, none of the maids were diligent enough to sweep under it! The fact is, actually, not that many Kuwaitis had bank accounts. Only the merchants, who were more ‘worldly’ than the others, had placed their money in fixed deposits. Most of the others in Kuwait, including some top professionals, had no savings in banks nor investments in any financial tool. The field was wide open, and I was the only player on it.

It was getting tricky to run my office in Kuwait and in Zug. As Kuwait was where I had to focus all my marketing efforts, that’s where I spent most of my time. However, I realised I needed to hire someone to handle things at the other end, in Zug. More than anything, I needed a secretary, to keep all administrative matters up to date. The Arabs in the Gulf and in Kuwait were attracted by the fact they were opening accounts with a Swiss institution. Everyone wanted a Swiss banking account or an investment account. The fashion or the buzz lasted some fifty years thence. I advertised for a secretary in the local paper in the nearby city of Lucerne and got several replies. Some I interviewed in the office itself; some at a restaurant nearby, Movenpick. On the third day of interviews, I found myself sitting in front of a twenty-four-year-old Swiss lady, a qualified secretary who was working at a leading travel agency in Lucerne. From the moment I saw her, I had a feeling that she was right for the job. She was beautiful, confident, and charming, with lovely olive-coloured eyes and blonde hair. After ascertaining the essentials and being satisfied with her answers —yes, she could type and yes, she could do shorthand—we just talked the way two young people would. I asked her why she wanted to leave the travel agency she was with. She said she was bored sitting at the counter waiting for clients to walk in. She said I was much younger than she had expected and asked me how I managed to form my own company at my age. After all, I was only a few years older than her. We very naturally fell into a conversation that lasted all evening and ended with dinner that I offered to buy for her. I offered her the job the next day, and she accepted. My new secretary’s name was Heidi. I spent a few days in Zug after hiring her, to show her the ropes and explain exactly what was required of her. She was smart and it didn’t take her long to catch on. Zug was a small, quiet town. I had not really made good friends here, mainly because I was hardly ever around. Hence, Heidi and I quickly became very close. Every evening, after I locked up for the day, I would invite her for dinner, often at my home, which by now was a

lovely, small, three-bedroom chalet directly on Lake Zug in a village called Immensee. I was renting from a Jewish textile merchant, Herr Leber. The house had a balcony from which I could fish whenever I wanted. Given my childhood, I found myself on the balcony, a fishing rod in hand, almost every evening that I was there. My efforts were never in vain. Within an hour, I would emerge with sometimes perch, sometimes trout, and now and then even eels. Because these were wild fish, as opposed to the farmed variety, they tasted absolutely divine. Before Heidi entered my life, I would enjoy my catch by myself. I derived a great sense of satisfaction from procuring my own food, just as our ancestors no doubt did for centuries before us. But it was infinitely more satisfying to share this pleasure with somebody else, and especially somebody as effervescent and bubbly as Heidi. She kept me entertained for hours on end with anecdotes about her childhood, her school, her former job, her family . . . Despite her cheerful demeanour, I could detect a certain sadness in Heidi which she tried very hard to conceal. Eventually, I came to understand it stemmed from the loss of her mother, who died at her prime, aged forty, just a few years after Heidi was born. She was young, very beautiful, very elegant, and came from a family of Swiss politicians. Heidi’s maternal uncle, Rudolf Minger, was Defense Minister during World War II, and put up a credible defense against German invasion, which Germany never dared to penetrate. Later, he became president of the Confederation of Switzerland. Every school child in every corner of the four-language-speaking Switzerland knew the name Minger. Heidi, however, never boasted about her family connections. In fact, she never mentioned her famous uncle. It was only much later, and from others, that I discovered this link. She was modest, principled, and completely honest. Her younger brother, Hans-Peter, was at the time studying Medicine at the University of Zurich. Later, he became a famous lung surgeon and was once even flown to Moscow to treat Leonard Brezhnev, who had lung cancer. Talking and laughing, Heidi and I would clean the fish we caught, then barbecue the lot. Heidi had a healthy diet and taught me to enjoy light and refreshing salads, which we had with the fish. And Swiss white wine. Life was great. My parents were not with me, and I missed them, but I knew they were well and

happy in Shiraz. I was happy because I knew they were happy. And I was happy because I had Heidi. I could not have asked for anything more. My relationship with Heidi gradually grew more intense. I was already twentysix years old and ready to settle down. So a year later, I asked her to marry me. Heidi said yes, but our marriage was not to be as simple as that. She was Catholic and I was Muslim. Her father, Robert Andrhub, was a member of the church council in Zug, and could not marry his only daughter to a foreigner, what more a Muslim, without the consent of the Bishop of Basel. I was advised by my prospective father-in-law to write to the council for permission to marry Heidi. I did as he suggested, but my request was turned down. I was not to be deterred by one rejection, however. In my life, the more obstacles I have faced, the more determined I have been to achieve my goals. So OK, I have a letter rejecting my request to marry Heidi. What do I do next? Obviously, I had to put plan B into action. It was a setback but not defeat. For work, I had to fly to Kuwait, to oversee the INTEREIT office. Amongst my clientele was a fine, polished American, Mr Scott, the president of Gulf Oil of Kuwait. I had a chat with Scott and told him of my dilemma. He smiled and invited me to his home, a lovely villa in the Golf Club of Ahmadi. At the dinner table, Scott and his wife, Dorothy, said they were delighted to hear I was ready for marriage. They asked if I had pictures of Heidi. And I did. I carried three photos of her in my pocket all the time, which I showed them with pride. ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Scott. ‘And the reason I invited you to dinner was to let you know I think I may be able to help. I happen to know Archbishop Smith of Boston, who’s now a Pope delegate in Beit Mary, Beirut. I will write him a personal note. He’s a very sympathetic man. I’m sure he will give you the consent you need. Just go and see him personally with my letter.’ Scott was confident that his request would be granted by the Archbishop in Beirut. So confident, in fact, that he insisted I call Heidi then and there to let her know everything would be all right. He didn’t have to persuade me too much. I was just as keen to give Heidi the good news. I called, and she was over the moon. A few days later, Heidi and I made a trip to Beirut, the city that had charmed me

not too many years previously. We stayed at the Intercontinental Phoenicia, on the Corniche, overlooking the lovely blue Mediterranean. The morning after arriving, we set off to meet the man who held our future in his hands. Archbishop Smith lived in a lovely house in a village on a hill overlooking the sea. We had not written to him beforehand. We had given no warning that we were coming. We weren’t sure if he would see us. But when we knocked on the large bronze handles at the entrance of his house, we were invited in by a man who looked like a butler. We explained that we had come to speak to the Archbishop on a personal matter and were asked to enter and wait in the lounge while the Archbishop was alerted to our presence. In less than ten minutes, he came to attend to us. He was middle-aged, slight, and very paternal. ‘What can I do for you, my children?’ he asked. I explained our predicament and quickly handed over Scott’s letter. He read it carefully, then asked Heidi, ‘Child, are you a practising Catholic?’ ‘I go to church every now and again, your holiness, but not as often as I probably should,’ Heidi replied honestly. ‘Will you continue to go to church after marrying Hussain?’ he asked. ‘Yes. I have every intention of continuing with the tradition of my family,’ she said. Then, the Archbishop looked at me and asked, ‘Son, are you a practising Muslim?’ ‘Unfortunately, I don’t go to the mosque as often as I should. In fact, I do not observe the requirement that we pray five times a day,’ I said as honestly as Heidi had done. ‘So I guess I can’t call myself a practising Muslim.’ ‘But you have been taught about your religion? You understand the basic tenets of Islam, and you know what is expected of a Muslim man to lead an honest, good, and upright life?’ he asked. ‘Yes. Like all young boys in Bahrain, where I was brought up, I attended a religious school, where we had to memorise the Koran. After that, I don’t think I will ever forget the teachings of Islam!’

‘Have you any intention of converting Heidi after marriage?’ ‘No, not at all.’ ‘What about your children? Will they be brought up as Muslims or as Catholics?’ ‘I don’t know, your holiness. I have not thought about this properly yet. But it is something I will discuss with Heidi and we will make a decision together.’ Turning back to Heidi, Archbishop Smith asked, gently, ‘Child, do you trust this man? Do you believe in him and have faith in him?’ ‘Yes, your holiness, I do. He’s a good man,’ Heidi said, looking at me with a smile. ‘Then I can see no reason why the two of you can’t get married. I can feel the presence of respect and openness between the two of you, which is required in all marriages. I believe you have what it takes to create a healthy marriage and a happy home for your children. You have my blessings to get married.’ ‘Thank you!’ both of us said in unison. Then we looked at each other and smiled. We were so relieved and so happy with such a speedy, positive outcome. ‘You’re most welcome, my children. In fact, I will go one step further and offer my services to marry you, here in my house. I have a chapel on the lower ground. It’s not grand or anything, but it’s a house of God. Would you like me to marry you?’ Of course we welcomed his offer. But we said, we needed to call Heidi’s father in Zug to discuss our marriage and finalise the date with him. Robert was very excited. We got married two days later—two individuals of different religious faiths conjoined by our love and respect for each other. It was a very simple affair. Heidi wore a long white dress in silk and a veil over her face. I was in a suit. About five friends attended the wedding, including the Swiss Ambassador to Lebanon, who was alerted by the Archbishop. After this ceremony, we flew to Bahrain so I could introduce Heidi to my uncles, aunts, and cousins, after which we headed to Shiraz to be with my parents.

My entire family was delighted with my marriage and welcomed Heidi wholeheartedly. Three years later, on 20 August 1967, our son Pascal was born in a small but efficient hospital run by Catholic nuns in Lucerne. From the time I met Heidi, and certainly after we got married, I found myself spending more time in Switzerland than in Kuwait. After Pascal was born, I started to think about relocating my office to be closer to our home in Lucerne. Thus began a search for a suitable space. In the classifieds, I came across an ad for a small office in the heart of Lucerne. I asked Heidi what she thought of the location and she said it would definitely be closer to her family. That was all the confirmation I needed. The next day, I went to the firm renting the one-room office. I was taken to speak to an accountant by the name of Mueller. When the door to his office opened, I saw a man in his early forties wearing a hat, smoking a cigar while reading a newspaper. There was an air of a suave detective about him. Thinking about it, I realise that a good auditor would actually have to have a number of characteristics in common with a good snoop, yet one would never associate ‘suave’ with an auditor. Just one of those unfortunate oddities, I suppose, for auditors that is. I asked Mueller, my detective-auditor, if the office that had been advertised was still available, and he answered in the affirmative. ‘Not only is it available, it’s going for a song,’ he said, blowing out a puff of smoke. He named a figure which was, in fact, very reasonable. I was about to say I would come back the next day to sign the lease agreement when he asked me what kind of business I was in. When I explained my set-up, the fact that I ran a boutique investment management company principally for Middle Eastern clients, his sleepy eyes immediately lit up. ‘You deal with sheikhs from Arabia?’ he asked, sitting up and putting his feet down from the table. ‘Yes. Some of my clients are sheikhs, but I also have clients who are simple merchants very keen on trading. I also have some professionals, lawyers, doctors, and engineers, investing in shares and bonds,’ I said. ‘Mr Najadi, I have something that may interest you. Something other than the

office, I mean,’ Mueller said, pulling out a file from a drawer. ‘I am also a parttime managing director of a very high-tech Swiss hydrofoil company called Supramar AG (Limited). It’s going through a bad time financially because the shareholders—all German—are unable to repay UBS (Union Bank of Switzerland, the largest bank in the country) the loan they took out to finance the company. So all the shares in the company are mortgaged to the bank. The bank has given up the loan as a bad debt and has engaged a lawyer in Zurich to dispose of the company, failing which he is to liquidate it and close it down.’ He gave me the file, adding, ‘You may be able to do something to revive this company. I mean, its technology is superb, one of the best in the world. It’s just highly unfortunate that the management did not know how to handle the finances properly. I was asked to be the managing director of this hydrofoil company, but I know nothing of marketing and technology. I know accounts only,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Why don’t you go through the papers and tell me what you think? Perhaps you might be able to find a financier to take over the company. Who knows? Perhaps you may like to take it over yourself.’ ‘It sounds interesting. Let me go through the file tonight and come back to you tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You’re right, who knows? I may be able to come up with an interesting offer.’ As soon as I got home that evening, I started going through the documents and found myself becoming more and more intrigued by this company, Supramar AG. It had been founded on a technology developed by a German scientist of noble blood, Baron von Schertel. He had fled the country during the Russian invasion of Berlin which defeated Hitler, taking with him across the border to Switzerland as many designs and patents as he could of a unique hydrofoil technology he had created over the years. He became a political refugee in Lucerne where, with no capital at all, he managed to ride on his family name to amass 50,000 Swiss francs, borrowed from friends and bankers, to start a new company, Supramar. While the Baron was a scientific genius, he was no marketing man. Indeed, he had little business acumen if at all. From the looks of it, the company lacked any kind of business plan and just ambled along without any focus. Baron von Schertel and his team of scientists relied solely on word of mouth to spread knowledge of the technology they were harnessing. They also published

several papers in leading science and technology journals around the world. Because of this, everybody who was anybody in the world of ship building and passenger ferries, where people knew about hydrofoils, would have heard of Baron von Schertel and Supramar. However that was about as far it went. Supramar did not know how to build on its reputation; how to commercialise its successful technology. It had awarded only two licences to market its technology —one in Italy and the other in Mandal, in northern Norway, facing the North Pole. So it was no surprise that the company was financially challenged. However, it still employed a team of about twenty and was still the owner of hundreds of designs and patents of an incredible hydrofoil technology. I believed Supramar had a lot of potential. The next afternoon, I went back to Mueller’s office. This time, I found him still in his hat but without the cigar and with his feet planted on the floor. ‘Mr Mueller, I’ve gone through the file you gave me’, I said, ‘and I’m interested in Supramar. I think it’s possible to revive the company.’ ‘Great!’ he said. ‘Just as I thought. It’s a good company. It has all the fundamentals. Just needs a good businessman to lead it.’ ‘You’d mentioned a lawyer handling the bad debt. Who is he? Can we meet him?’ ‘Of course. The lawyer is Dr Andreas Rickenbach, in Zurich. He’s the legal representative having power of attorney of the bank. He’s also chairman of the board or directors of Supramar. I have his number. When can you meet him?’ ‘Today? Tomorrow? There’s no better time than now.’ Mueller called Dr Rickenbach then and there, and made arrangements for us to meet at the Supramar office in Lucerne the next day. First thing the following morning, I headed to Mueller’s office. Then we went together to Supramar. Mueller took me straight to his room, namely the office of the part-time managing director. Dr Rickenbach turned up soon after. He lived on the lake of Zurich, an hour away from Lucerne, and like Renggli, worked from his lovely home. He was in

his fifties, silver-haired, serious yet pleasant looking. Our discussion was very matter of fact. I explained that I was not a technological man, I had no training in anything high tech, but I had a good head for business and I recognised in Supramar the potential to market its designs and patents to shipbuilders not just in Europe but around the world. Anybody who wanted to build fast passenger ferries or hydrofoils for commuting across small bodies of water would be very interested in what Supramar had to offer, I said. And I was prepared to take on this marketing role, which till then was lacking. ‘So Mr Najadi, can I take it that you’re interested in buying the company?’ Dr Rickenbach asked. ‘If the price is right, and if certain conditions are agreed to, yes,’ I replied. I could feel my heart racing. Until then, I had bought blue-chip bonds, stocks, and funds on Wall Street—nothing too risky. This was my first takeover. It was an entirely new game altogether and I wasn’t a 100 per cent sure how I was going to turn around the ailing company, but I let myself be guided by instinct, which was pushing me towards Supramar. ‘The company has a debt of a 1,000,000 Swiss francs. If you want Supramar, you will have to pay off this sum. Can you afford it?’ asked Dr Rickenbach. ‘No, I can’t afford that kind of money. What I will offer is half a million francs. The choice is yours. Take 50 per cent of your debt and write-off the other half or keep the company till it truly runs into the ground.’ I was gambling on the fact that the company had been in dire straits for a while now and nobody else had shown any interest in bailing it out. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Mr Najadi. Can we expect the half million upfront?’ ‘No. Let’s say I pay a 10 per cent down payment and undertake to pay the rest within six months?’ ‘Anything else?’ ‘Yes, I’d like to have full control over the marketing, business development, and financials of the company from the day we sign the agreement.’ Dr Rickenbach was silent for a while, then said, ‘OK, I accept your terms. Give

me a day or two to consult my client, UBS. I will come back to you as soon as possible.’ Two days later, he called and officially accepted my terms. That was how I came to own a twenty-year-old technology company. Although I wasn’t tech savvy at all—I wouldn’t know what to do with a screwdriver if I were given one—I reasoned to myself that I was not really exposing myself to too big a risk. I had 50,000 Swiss francs (about US$12,000) in savings, and this was the sum I had put on the line. If my endeavour to save Supramar failed, all I would lose was this amount, nothing more. If, on the other hand, I managed to save the company, I stood to gain an unlimited amount. The six months I had given myself to come up with the 450,000 Swiss francs was a period of testing the waters. Six months was not very long but enough to figure out if there was any real future for Supramar. The acquisition of the near-bankrupt company changed my life once again. Now I had two companies to manage—INTEREIT and Supramar. Both demanded considerable amount of my time and attention, in different ways. With INTEREIT, I had to be on top of the share market, which was constantly changing. With Supramar, I was faced with the entirely new challenge of breathing life into an ailing company. It was going to be tough, but I was determined to manage. The one immediate good that had come out of my Supramar deal was that, now, I no longer needed to rent an office, which had been my purpose in meeting Mueller in the first place because the Supramar office occupied two floors, and amongst the twenty employees were secretaries, who could double up to handle the paper-work for INTEREIT. I was convinced I’d be able to manage both companies, at least for a while, though it didn’t take me long to realise that handling two companies is a little like handling two wives—not a situation I would advocate to anybody! The problem was there just aren’t enough hours a day to devote to both. My first plan of action was to acquaint myself properly with the history of Supramar, find out what had been and had not been done. I spent hours talking to Baron von Schertel, an amazingly intelligent yet financially naïve man in his sixties. From this ‘father of the flying ship’ I learnt everything I needed to know about hydrofoil technology.

I also devoted entire days going through the volumes of files containing Supramar’s correspondence and records over its twenty-year existence. Amongst the letters, I came across one from Hitachi, the Japanese conglomerate, indicating interest in the new hydrofoil technology Supramar was developing. Japan was evolving after the war, building its economy by buying technology wherever it could lay its hands on it—Europe, America, Australia—fine-tuning this and offering products that were either superior to, or cheaper than, what the original manufacturers were offering. In the ship building industry, they were trying to muscle in for a spot amongst the established nations—Germany, Britain, Scandinavia, and the United States. Already, their cheaper labour and more efficient processes were enabling them to come out with ships and other vessels at nearly half the price offered by their Western counterparts. I asked the Baron why he had not acted on this letter from Hitachi. ‘I remember discussing it with my managers,’ he said. ‘But the general consensus was that Japan is on the other side of the world. There are all sorts of cultural and language barriers. We felt the effort was too much.’ ‘But the Japanese are big in ship building. They have a lot of inland seas, so there’s a real need for hydrofoils there. Plus, they’re exporting ships. I think it’s worth investigating Hitachi further. We just need to fly there, spend a few days talking to them, and see what they have to say. What do you think?’ ‘OK, why not?’ Baron von Schertel said. The more I got to know him, the more I came to realise he was very open to exploring new ideas, new markets, new people. He had simply been surrounded by a very conservative circle of managers who were Eurocentric in their vision and way of thinking. Without wasting any time, we sent off telexes to Hitachi and managed to make an appointment with its directors to discuss Supramar designs and patents. I asked the Baron if he could prepare a presentation, which he happily did, putting together a superbly comprehensive set of slides highlighting our superior technology. With his brilliant mind and my somewhat checkered history in negotiation and marketing, we set off for the Land of the Rising Sun. We flew Air France from Paris to Moscow, and then over the edge of the North Pole to Tokyo. For me, the trip was incredibly exciting. I had never been further east than the Persian Gulf states and was fully aware of a whole continent that

was awakening both politically and economically. We stayed at the elite Palace Hotel in central Tokyo, facing the Imperial Palace. Across from the Imperial Gardens was a tall glass tower housing Hitachi management and international departments. The shipyards, meanwhile, were located in Osaka. Hitachi was one of the four largest shipbuilders in Japan, besides Mitsubishi, IHI, and Sumitomo. Japan’s economy was built on family based empires, called zaibatsu, each of which had its own bank that funded all its activities, the backing of influential politicians, and a network of companies from almost all major industries that were fully supportive of each other. After World War II, the Allied forces that occupied Japan tried to break up the structure of the zaibatsu, but after their departure, many of the fractured companies grouped together again, or at least maintained close, loyal links with each other. The innate strength of these zaibatsu helped tremendously in making the country an economic force to be reckoned with. Hitachi itself was not a zaibatsu, but was traditionally linked with the Fuji zaibatsu, and was therefore considered an influential, powerful company. Because of the complex structure of the zaibatsu, important decisions had to be deliberated on by a number of executives. When Baron von Schertel and I turned up at the Hitachi headquarters for our meeting, we were escorted by a Japanese lady in a kimono to a ‘meeting room’, which turned out to be a boardroom. Around a table about twenty feet long sat fifteen men, all directors and senior management. They were extremely polite. Everyone got up and bowed. The lady in the kimono showed us to our seats then departed, also with a bow. Thereafter began a series of presentations and negotiations that lasted six intense days. The Japanese were obviously very interested in the technology we had to offer, but they were very systematic and thorough in the way they conducted business transactions. Their representatives would not be satisfied until we had gone through every detail and every point of the entire deal. First we had to satisfy the technical team, who questioned the Baron extensively on his presentation, grueling him about the minutest details on every slide. Then, we had to deal with the financial and marketing teams, and convince them of the advantages of a technology that allowed hydrofoils to skim across water at forty knots an hour, as compared to most hydrofoils that cruised along at about half that speed.

As the Baron had forewarned, communication was sometimes an issue. Not all the men we were dealing with were conversant in English. However, there were a couple of Hitachi directors who were reasonably fluent in the language and intervened whenever we seemed to hit a language impasse. What surprised Baron von Schertel and me was the sense of responsibility that the Japanese team felt in making us as comfortable as possible. This hospitality extended to their inviting us out every evening for dinner and then drinks at one of the many geisha bars in downtown Tokyo. Our hosts took these nocturnal outings almost as seriously as they did our discussions during the day. As Watanaba, one of the chief negotiators from Hitachi, and also one of the best English speakers, said, ‘For the Japanese, it is not enough to talk business. We want to feel as if we can trust you and that you can trust us. So it is important that we spend time with each other, to get to know each other.’ Of course, von Schertel and I were not about to complain. We got to eat at some of the best restaurants in Tokyo and were entertained at some of the most reputable geisha bars. Amazingly, the Japanese were able to compartmentalise their socialising from their interrogating and negotiating. By night, they were the perfect hosts, and by day they magically transformed into the most exacting business associates. Von Schertel and I must have done something right, though, because on the sixth day, they announced they were willing to close the deal. The Hitachi team had agreed amongst themselves to sign on as Supramar’s exclusive licensee for not just Japan but the whole of Asia. We asked for a down payment of 500,000 thousand Swiss francs, the price I had to pay for a complete takeover of the company and for 5 per cent as royalty for every Supramar hydrofoil sold. They agreed. A contract was drafted in English, which was duly signed and executed. When Von Schertel and I emerged from their headquarters that evening, we were mentally exhausted but also elated. We’d done it! We had sealed the deal with one of Japan’s major conglomerates, a company of unquestionable quality and integrity. After six days, I finally allowed myself to relax. Back in Lucerne, the first thing I did was to call Supramar’s chairman at his home/office in Zurich. ‘Dr Rickenbach, I have some money to pass to you. Can you buy me lunch?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘What? Just lunch,’ he asked. ‘How much do you have?’ ‘Oh, a decent sum. But I’ll save the amount for lunch. Are you able to meet on the lake, near your office?’ I didn’t want to spoil the pleasure of seeing his reaction when I handed him the complete amount I owed to take over Supramar. ‘Sure, see you at Baur au Lac (a famous hotel on Lake Zurich) at one.’ At lunch, after we had ordered, I produced an envelope with a cheque in it for 450,000 Swiss francs. ‘Sir, this is the balance of 90 per cent which I promised to pay within six months,’ I said. He was flabbergasted. He opened the envelope, not quite believing what he had heard, and looked at the cheque. Yes, it was made out to UBS for the sum of 450 Swiss francs. ‘My god, Mr Najadi,’ he said, ‘how did you manage to get this money so fast?’ I told him about the trip to Japan, about the six days of hard negotiation Von Schertel and I were subject to, the honesty and seriousness of the Japanese, their amazing work culture . . . I mentioned also that Hitachi had already received orders for five hydrofoils and that we would be getting 5 per cent royalty on each sale. ‘This is quite unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Mr Najadi, you’re a genius! Why didn’t we, the Swiss, think about it?’ ‘Sometimes it pays to look out of the box,’ I said. ‘Supramar was aware of the letter from Hitachi but was unwilling to act on it. The Japanese seemed too alien. And I guess the bank was not as hungry as I am to make Supramar work. You have enough money to write-off a 1,000,000 Swiss francs. I was not willing to lose the 50,000 I invested. The bank had no real motive to fly to the ends of the world to revive Supramar. I did. It was my destiny.’ ‘Well. At least we got half of our debts covered,’ he said. ‘And I got my company.’ Soon after I became the legal owner of Supramar, I decided to close down INTEREIT. It was becoming too much of a stress to keep both running, and Supramar was now my new ‘baby’. It offered me fresh challenges, while

INTEREIT had become somewhat routine. I felt I had done basically all I could for the investment management company. Yes, I could market it even more intensively, but that meant doing more of the same thing. Supramar, on the other hand, excited me because it represented a new venture, a new business direction, the opportunity to further expand my knowledge and horizons. It was one of the first turnaround companies in the history of corporate Switzerland. Having made this decision, I called Michel of Bache and asked if we could meet. He hadn’t heard from me for a while and was pleased to have the opportunity to catch up. He arranged a dinner for the three of us, including his charming wife Gigi. It was, as always, lovely to spend time with the two of them. They were enthralled by my account of what had happened leading to my acquisition of Supramar, but Michel very quickly cottoned on that something would have to give. ‘What about INTEREIT?’ he asked. ‘Actually, that was one reason I wanted to meet you,’ I replied. ‘Would you be willing to take on all my clients? You could handle them as well as I was. You just need to station someone in Kuwait to run the office there. Of course, it will no longer be INTEREIT. It will be Bache Kuwait.’ ‘But, Hussain, it seems like such a shame. You’ve done extremely well with INTEREIT. You’ve put in so much time and effort into that company.’ ‘Yes, but I’m a family man now. I have a wife and a one-year-old son whom I hardly ever see. I don’t want to be the kind of father who’s never there. I simply cannot find the time to manage INTEREIT as well as Supramar. And don’t forget, I also still act as an advisor to Sheikh Jaber. I would really appreciate it if you could take over the accounts I have built up and perhaps pay me a commission from the income you derive from these.’ My relationship with the Minister of Oil and Finance was becoming more and more cordial as he grew to trust me and have faith in my judgments. This meant that, every now and again, I would receive a call asking if I could make myself free for a business trip to meet with one or another oil and gas baron from around the world.

Gigi saw my predicament very clearly, especially my desire to spend more time with my young family. ‘Michel, of course Hussain cannot go on like this,’ she said, her brows frowning. ‘It is completely impossible! You must help him out.’ ‘By all means, dear,’ Michel said, patting her hand. ‘Why wouldn’t I help? It would increase business for Bache. We’d be only too happy to have this inroad to the Middle East. It’s not a problem, Hussain. Your clients will be in good hands.’ He offered to pay me 40 per cent of all income from my clients in a monthly cheque, accompanied by a statement of accounts. I accepted this and thanked him profusely. I then returned to Kuwait to explain to my clients the switch in accounts from INTEREIT to Bache in Geneva, the dream city for many Kuwaitis. There was some consternation initially, but I managed to convince the Kuwaiti merchants that they would be as well looked after by Bache as they had been by me. Having settled this, I was able finally to focus on Supramar and grow this company. I am proud to say that if you were to google the company today, you will find a Wikipedia entry which talks about the history of the company, and the fact that it was taken over by Hussain Najadi from Bahrain in 1968. And that leads me to the next chapter in my life: Supramar and the miracle of the East. Another dream come true.

CHAPTER 13

Supramar and the Kuwaiti Dinar Go International

Supramar presented a very exciting challenge during my youth and was, in fact, one of the most successful turnarounds to take place in Switzerland up to that point. What’s more, this turnaround was based in the financial centre of Switzerland—Zurich—a city of formidable powers who operated in utter secrecy, prompting former British Shadow Chancellor Harold Wilson to describe them as gnomes. Under the noses of these ‘gnomes’ who ran the largest and quite arrogant bank of UBS, a poor boy from Bahrain had beat Swiss bankers in their own game of investing. It was truly spectacular and Dr Andreas Rickenbach would repeat the story over and again to clients and colleagues. ‘Just watch this young, brown-eyed, black-haired Bahraini. He amazes me. He did what we could not do and in record time too!’ he would say. Neither Baron Von Schertel, father of the new-generation hydrofoil nor Mueller, the managing director accountant of Supramar, had been able to do anything to resurrect the ailing company. It took this young Bahraini with no formal university education to execute the unprecedented international deal. The turnaround, for me, was intensely exciting because it reminded me of crucial surgery. It was a question of life and death. You either get the patient up and running or the patient dies under the surgical knife. Every turnaround I have been involved in since has held the same sense of desperate urgency. In each situation I have done my very best to ensure my patient did not die but instead would emerge stronger and with its lifespan lengthened indefinitely. After this success with Hitachi, my team at Supramar did intense research on other locations where the hydrofoils would make a significant difference to the lives of local commuters. One such area was Scandinavia. In particular, we saw that there was a lot of traffic between Malmo, on the southernmost tip of

Sweden, and Copenhagen, situated about eight kilometres to its west, across the Oresund Straits. At the time, there was no bridge connecting the two cities and the only means of getting from one side to the other was via conventional, slow ferries. It was perfect for us. Three engineers from Supramar and I packed our bags and went to Malmo. We set up meetings with authorities from the Swedish and Danish railways, who operated the ferries, and convinced them of the benefits of the hydrofoils. Although very conservative, they saw that the hydrofoils would mean greater capacity for straits crossings and would, therefore, increase the volume of train passengers, hence they agreed to take on a fleet of hydrofoils. And I’m pleased to say these are still plying the waters of the Oresund Straits, some forty years after they were first introduced. The last time I was in Copenhagen, in the year 2001, I hopped onto one of these hydrofoils and enjoyed the ride. It’s hard to describe the feeling of experiencing an innovation one has helped to create, especially after the lapse of nearly four decades. Unlike our deal with Hitachi, in which we sold them the technology to build hydrofoils, with the Danish and Swedish railways, we were to build the hydrofoils and supply the finished product to our clients. These hydrofoils were built in Mandal, south Norway, at the Westermon Yard. This yard dedicated to our vessels in Scandinavia proved to be a real asset; thanks to it, we were able to capture large sections of the European market. First, we targeted the Channel Islands of Guernsey and Jersey as well as the Isle of Man and St Malo in France. As between Malmo and Copenhagen, there was heavy traffic between England and Guernsey, Jersey and France. Again, the existing means of transport were old-fashioned ferries, dominated by the Dorey family (Onesimus Dorey had started the business in 1887). The family business went through a spell of bad luck but managed to survive with Dorey transporting coal to the Channel Islands from Swansea and the northeast English coast. At the time we were eyeing the ferry business in the Channel, Onesimus’s grandson Peter owned a majority stake in the business. He was immediately sold on the idea of the hydrofoils, and we made another successful deal here. Then, we went to Messina, on the north east of Sicily. Here, there was regular

traffic between the island port and Regio di Calabria on the mainland. Sicily being the birthplace of the mafia, it was only to be expected that the shipping industry would be controlled by a family. Fortunately for us, the mafia concerned was the rather sleepy, approachable Rodriguez, who ran both the shipyard and the ferry business connecting Sicily to the mainland. Supramar’s chief German engineer, Volker Jost, and I spent days and nights discussing hydrofoils with the eldest of the Rodriguez brothers, Carlo, in a charming, sprawling house. Throughout the duration of our rather lengthy stay there, we were plied with an endless supply of excellent Sicilian wine and good food. We certainly could not complain about the hospitality we received! On the eleventh day, Carlo summoned us to a family meeting. The entire clan was present. ‘Mr Najadi,’ Carlo said, ‘we have discussed your hydrofoils, all of us in the family. We think they are good. We think it would be in our interest to use these hydrofoils. But we are not so sure about the licence fees. How much did you say?’ ‘Two hundred thousand Swiss Francs in down payment and then 7 per cent of future sales,’ I replied. ‘It’s the standard fee we’ve been charging all our licence holders.’ ‘No no,’ he said dismissively. ‘That’s too much. Much too much. You need to bring down your fees. The family does not agree to such a figure. We’re a small Italian family, you must understand. We’re not a big Japanese conglomerate like Hitachi. We don’t have as many ferry passengers as they have. If you want to sell us your license, you need to be more reasonable.’ ‘What do you consider a reasonable figure here, Mr Rodriguez? You name me your price,’ I said. ‘Five per cent of sales, and no single cent down payment,’ he said. We had actually expected a deal like this and were willing to accept it. We had started off with a hugely inflated asking price because we’d been forewarned by Von Schertel, who was more accustomed to the culture and workings of European aristocrats, that the mafia was notorious for striking bargains, therefore you never opened with your desired price with them. In the end, though, it didn’t matter what price we settled on because the Rodriguez proved to be an

incredibly bad contracting party. They were meant to pay a licence fee for every Supramar hydrofoil built and sold, which they did . . . but only for the first couple of months. Then, they started to default. Initially, we tried to resolve the problem over the phone. I’d speak to old man Carlo himself. He would be as charming as ever. ‘Ah Mr Najadi, my good friend, what can I do for you?’ he would ask every time I called, despite being fully aware of the reason for the call. When I explained that the family had not paid the last two or three licences, he would be extremely apologetic. ‘No, really, we have not paid? This is terrible. I am so ashamed. I must speak to my brother Alberto. He is a lazy, good for nothing fat bastard, forgive his mother. I will speak to him. Don’t worry.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Rodriguez, I would really appreciate that.’ These conversations took place almost every other day for a month, after which I said to my team we had to go to Sicily and sort out the problem once and for all; otherwise we would never get our money. They were, however, not so keen on the idea, especially not after I reported my last conversation with Rodriguez. ‘Mr Rodriguez,’ I had said firmly. ‘You have not responded to my request for payment for over a month now. I have no choice but to visit you and stand over your accountant as he writes out our cheque.’ ‘Mr Najadi, it would be very nice to see you,’ he said, as always very charmingly and without any show of concern. ‘I have an excellent bottle of nero d’avola which I think you will enjoy. You are most welcome to share it with me. But I must warn you, if you come, that may be the last wine you will ever taste in your life. Think over it, Mr Najadi, the decision is yours.’ Baron and the rest of the crew were adamant. Nobody from Supramar was to go to Sicily. We would instead engage a lawyer to deal with the errant Rodriguez clan. This of course came to nothing as Sicilian justice knew how to take care of us foreigners vs. Carlo the Master Builder of Messina. We never got a lira of our licence fees. Fortunately, soon after this dent in our business, we made our next big coup. For some weeks, we had been in communication with General Dynamics of the

United States, one of the big defense contractors for the Pentagon. General Dynamics built shipyards, aircraft, marine vessels, and submarines for the US Navy and had shown interest in the new-generation hydrofoil which Von Schertel and his engineers had conceptualised. While the old version of the Supramar hydrofoil was capable of speeds of up to forty-one nautical miles, the new technology they had designed and were proposing to develop used a completely novel supercavitation technology which would enable hydrofoils to hit fifty nautical miles or more. General Dynamics invited us over for more detailed presentations, which is how I found myself spending a good number of days in Washington DC, at the Watergate Hotel, more or less at the same time the Watergate scandal was unfolding. It soon became apparent that we needed a lawyer to represent us in negotiating a contract with the Pentagon. The procedure turned out to be very rigorous and bureaucratic. First we needed to get clearance by the Swiss army and navy—yes, the Swiss do have a navy, although not many are aware of this—as we were dealing with the defense department of a superpower. Then, we had to be cleared by the FBI, which did a thorough check on Supramar and everybody in the company. They called it an intelligence clearance check. It’s a little like going to the doctor for a clean bill of health; if they detected any undesirable element in Supramar, they would just say, sorry, the deal is off. General Dynamics introduced us to the very capable and personable Stanley Bergman, a noted Washington DC lobbyist lawyer. Stanley was a liberal Jew. He was fully aware of my background, the fact that I am Muslim and come from Bahrain. Despite this, he was very generous and helpful. I remember him vividly also because of his wife, a vivacious, attractive woman who flirted outrageously with any and every young good-looking man. The surprising thing was, Stanley didn’t seem in the least to mind. While it embarrassed me to be at the receiving end of his wife’s overt attention, Stanley just turned a blind eye to it all. I couldn’t work out how he did it or why, but he did. In any case, the entire atmosphere in Washington was licentious. There were so many attractive young PAs and secretaries and countless other women working in government agencies and embassies.

At the same time, the men who walked the corridors of Washington’s hallowed buildings were in every sense alpha males, highly ambitious men who are very attractive to many women. Not surprisingly, the administrative capital of the United States was a hotbed of illicit affairs, notorious scandals . . . and expensive divorces. It was certainly no place to raise a family, unless you were old or ugly. Who said Washington was boring? Not I, for sure. Despite the sexual wantonness, a lot of real work did get done in Washington. This included the successful completion of our deal. It was a feat for us, indeed for corporate Switzerland as Supramar was the first Swiss company in defense to get a research contract by the Pentagon. They desperately wanted our supercavitation technology and were willing to pay our scientists to put in the research and tests required to bring it to fruition. This was incredibly good news for us because, truth be told, we didn’t have the funds to undertake such large-scale research. What’s more, the research and contract with the Pentagon would be further accomplishments to shout about in our company profile. Meanwhile, our portfolio of licensees expanded with the addition of Vosper Thornycroft, the British equivalent of General Dynamics. Based in Southampton, Vosper was the contractor for the British Navy, building patrol boats, naval vessels, and fighting ships. With them ensconced in our stable, we attracted the attention of Rolls Royce, which wanted to replace Mercedes-Benz as the supplier of our engines, the most important component of the functioning of a hydrofoil. And they were not alone. Across in Scandinavia, Volvo was also eyeing the engine contract. Thus began a heated contest between the two giants in the field of skimmers, while we—Supramar—sat snugly at the centre of all the attention! Rolls Royce used every trick in the book to convince us their engines were superior and could make our hydrofoils go faster. When the British engineering giant heard that we were embarking on a roadshow with Hitachi to expand our market in Asia, beginning with Hong Kong, they used their clout as a blue-chip British establishment to open doors to us in the former British colony. Their agent in Hong Kong was Jardine Matheson, the original tai pan (or boss) of the British trading houses set up in the outpost. Hence, Jardine Matheson, the company that literally founded Hong Kong, became the agent of my mosquitosized company, Supramar, during our stay on the island. When I landed in Kai

Tak Airport, there to meet me was a lovely English girl with dark hair, not unlike those femme’s fatales of Bond movies—sent with compliments of Jardine Matheson. She took me to the Jardines-owned Mandarin (today the Mandarin Oriental) in a Rolls Royce, of course. My entire stay in Hong Kong was super-luxurious, to say the least, and made all the more pleasurable by the constant companionship of the beautiful twenty-four year-old who took great pains to see to it that I was suitably entertained in the Colony, to the extent of even moving into my room at the Mandarin. Like the Rodriguez in Sicily, Jardines controlled Hong Kong, but were infinitely more trustworthy. What Jardines lacked in terms of the extroverted Latino charm of the Rodriguez they more than compensated for in terms of integrity and good old-fashioned British, or rather Scottish, honour. Through marriage with the Jardines in the nineteenth century, the Keswick family from Scotland became entwined into the ownership and management of the trading company in Hong Kong, beginning with William Keswick, who entered the business in 1855. I had the pleasure of meeting Sir John Keswick, a third generation Keswick in Jardines. He was already in his mid-sixties and was the executive chairman of the conglomerate, which by this time was headed by his nephew, Henry, the CEO. Sir John was very influential in Hong Kong; he could just pick up the phone or rather his PA would pick up the phone and call any businessman in Hong Kong or Macau and this person would fly to see him. I mentioned to Sir John that Supramar and our licensee, Hitachi, the well known Japanese shipbuilders, were keen to market our super-fast sea skimming hydrofoils in the Hong Kong and Macau markets. We knew that there was quite a lot of traffic between Hong Kong and Macau, which was popular amongst Hong Kong’s denizens because of its casinos. In fact, the founder and majority shareholder of the syndicate that controlled the casinos, Stanley Ho, ran the ferry business. Immediately, Jardines arranged a meeting with Stanley and Henry Fok, chairman of the syndicate and a substantial shareholder. Henry was a low key, nonEnglish-speaking self-made billionaire who had made his ‘killing’ during the Korean War. The Allied forces had prohibited sales of kerosene, oil, diesel, and other

petroleum products to Communist China. Seizing the opportunity, Henry sold these prohibited items at a fantastic profit, smuggling them from Hong Kong to Macau on innocent-looking Chinese fishing junks. In the dark of the night, the commodities would be transferred from the junks onto Chinese vessels, which would take them into China. While these nightly trips helped motherland China, Henry accrued billions which he sank into dirt cheap prime property in Kowloon and Hong Kong Island, which later became his second gold mine. China’s mandarins never forgot how Henry had put his life on the line to keep supplies of essentials flowing into the mainland and backed him in his ventures in Hong Kong in any way they could. In our meeting with Henry Fok and Stanley Ho, we demonstrated that with a small hydrofoil they could cut the eight hour, noisy journey from Hong Kong to the mainland peninsula that was Macau to a mere one-and-a-quarter quiet hours. The casino in Macau depended on the patronage of Hong Kong’s inhabitants as Chinese from the mainland were prohibited from gambling. Don’t forget, this was the time of Mao, who enforced a regime of austerity, hard work, and no play. Because Macau was under Portuguese rule, and Hong Kong under the British, they were spared Mao’s restrictions. After spending days and nights in various cabarets and clubs with Stanley, Henry, and their many concubines, we managed to tie up a contract for twentythree hydrofoils in one go, at US$250,000 each, totaling US$6 million. This was a very big sum of money at the time, especially for a small company. It was equivalent to US$60 million today. Hitachi’s role in this deal cannot be ignored; their reputation as one of the largest proven shipbuilders with over a hundred and eighty years of experience was definitely one of our trump cards. In fact, we discovered that the same Scotsmen who founded Jardines in Hong Kong had also founded Hitachi Zosen Shipbuilding on the banks of the river in Osaka, Japan. These visionary Scotsmen—merchants and builders who left their native lands—were perhaps the best exports of the British Empire in the days when the Sun never set upon it. Jardine Matheson organised a press conference to announce the deal in Jardine house, an old colonial mansion which has probably been razed from the concrete jungle today.

I remember clearly that the press conference was held in a very elegant meeting room with dark timber paneling and a portrait of an Indian-looking man with old ships in the background. A large group of print and TV media turned up. After making the announcement that a partnership between Jardine Matheson and Supramar had been established to bring high technology hydrofoils to ply the Hong Kong-Macau route, owned by Stanley and Henry, Sir John asked the media if they had any more questions. One member of the press asked him something I myself had been wanting to ask: ‘Who’s the man in the portrait?’ ‘Ah yes, Sir Jamshedjee Jejeebhoy. He was an Indian-Parsi from Bombay. When Dr William Jardine, one of the founders of Jardine Matheson, first started his trading business, this Parsi gentleman was a great benefactor and help. Ships from Britain to China would stop in Bombay, which is how William got to know Sir Jamshedjee. In trying times, the Parsi would extend financial help, with no guarantee except trust,’ he said, as the press snapped pictures of the stately looking Parsi with an impressive handle-bar moustache. ‘If not for him, we would not have become what we are today. My grandfather would tell us this story. And this is what I’ve passed on to my children and grandchildren—as long as we live, we shouldn’t forget this great man.’ Sir John’s announcement about the ferry opened the prime time eight o’clock news on Hong Kong TV. They did not go on to highlight what he said about Sir Jamshedjee, but this side story made a real impression on me. Not just because Parsis are of Persian origin, which of course made me feel very proud about my own cultural roots, but because Sir John was so open and candid about the help that the founders of Jardine Matheson, one of the most successful trading companies in the world, had received from a relatively little-known man in Bombay, India. After our success in Hong Kong, we proceeded to create a blitzkrieg throughout Asia. We had already cornered Japan, we now had Hong Kong. We then approached Hyundai of Korea and finally set off for Singapore. As one success followed another, the media lapped it all up and splashed the news everywhere, from Japan to the United Kingdom. The age of the hydrofoil had arrived in Asia, and we were behind this technological expansion and evolution. Supramar was unique, very exclusive and had no competition from any source. We were the fathers of hydrofoils, and the industrialised world from the

Pentagon to British defence establishments, the Hitachi zaibatsu of Japan, tai pans of Hong Kong, and the Sicilian mafia at Massina, Sicily, all knew our name. I was riding high on the waves of success of our new skimming technology. In Singapore, we sold our licence to a taiko (the Singaporean equivalent of a tai pan) called James Lim, who had invested in the Vosper Thornycroft shipyard on the island republic. Like its parent company in Southampton, Vosper Thornycroft in Singapore was also supplying vessels to royal navies, here to Singapore, Thailand, Indonesia, Brunei, and Malaysia. While this in itself was a coup, my personal success in Singapore was even greater. I discovered a new and very interesting way of increasing my wealth, through wealth creation of others. Lim was an entrepreneur in the true sense, always looking for new opportunities to expand his business. Like most Chinese businessmen, he was investing in prime property in Singapore, buying up hotels for upgrade, or building new ones. While discussing Supramar hydrofoil technology with him one afternoon, I mentioned Sir John and the connection between Jardine Matheson and its longago Bombay Parsi benefactor. Lim suddenly sat up straighter and said, ‘It’s funny that you should mention a man from Bombay. Right now, I am also being approached by a Bombay businessman to get into a hotel venture with him.’ ‘Who is this Bombay businessman? And what’s his interest in Singapore?’ I asked. ‘His name is Bikki Oberoi. His family owns two hotels in India, in Bombay and in Simla. Have you heard of Simla?’ he asked. When I shook my head, he continued, ‘It was the summer capital of the British Raj, in the hills. It’s meant to be very beautiful. Anyway, the Oberois are very keen to expand overseas. They were introduced to me by some shipping people. They’ve got their eyes on an old hotel here, the Imperial on Serangoon Road. The owners are willing to sell, but Bikki doesn’t have the money to buy. That’s why he approached me. He thought maybe I could help. I would own the hotel, but the Oberois would run it, manage the hotel on a day-to-day basis under their own brand. Good idea, you must agree.’

‘Yes. So what’s stopping you?’ I asked. ‘Well, I’m also a little strapped for funds, to tell the truth. We’ve been looking for financiers but it’s not been so easy.’ ‘How much are they asking for?’ I don’t know what prompted me to ask this, but I did. ‘This hotel is not that old, but the owners want sixty million Singapore dollars. I don’t have this sum. I can provide a bank guarantee for this amount but not the cash.’ ‘I tell you what, I’ll raise the money,’ I said. ‘What?’ he asked, surprised. ‘How much?’ ‘The full amount. 100 per cent,’ I replied. He almost fell off his chair, stunned. ‘You’re joking, right?’ he wanted to know. ‘Not at all. I’ve never been more serious. But I have conditions.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘You have to sign a mandate agreeing to give me two and half per cent flat commission.’ ‘Sure, no problem.’ ‘You need to give me that solid bank guarantee. I don’t know about mortgages and such crap. I just want a bank guarantee. You can pick and choose any bank in Singapore to provide the guarantee and I will raise the money.’ ‘Ok. Anything else?’ ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘One last condition. I’ll give you the money not in Sing dollars, but in Kuwaiti dinars.’ I knew from the highest authority, Sheikh Jaber himself, that Kuwait was keen to internationalise the then unknown Kuwaiti currency. As matter of fact, I myself had advised Sheikh Jaber to expand his lending in dinars beyond Kuwaiti borders.

Lim left, elated—because he had finally found a willing financier—but also concerned. What was this Kuwaiti dinar? He’d asked me the very question. He said he’d never heard of it. I reassured him that it wasn’t just Monopoly money. The Kuwaiti dinar (KD) was pegged to the US dollar at a fixed rate of US$3.65 per KD. This exchange rate has remained till today, unshakeable as the Rock of Gibraltar. Lim had connections with the Moscow Narodny Bank of Singapore, the Soviet Russian communist bank that operated out of London. They had opened an offshore branch in Singapore. Ironically, although Lee Kuan Yew detained any Singaporean communist, he had the foresight to allow the Soviet-owned bank to open its first overseas branch in Singapore. The Russian head of KGB was at the helm of this branch bank but kept well out of sight. All day-to-day operations were handled by a smiling Chinese banker appointed on the advice of the Singaporean Government called P. K. Teo. I later discovered that he also had extremely close links with the Taiwan Government, the arch enemy of communist China as well as the government of Singapore. Lim knew Teo very well and explained the situation to him. Teo was intrigued, especially by my wanting to trade in Kuwaiti Dinars. He called me to confirm this piece of information. ‘I wasn’t sure if I heard it right, Mr Najadi. You did say Kuwaiti dinars to Mr Lim?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I did. As I explained to Mr Lim, it’s a strong currency and freely convertible. You take the money, you convert it the next the day in the London market. There’ll be no problem,’ I reassured. Teo called the head office of the bank in London and told them they had a very young man, some Bollywood, Amitabh Bachchan-type, who was offering money as deposit to the Singapore branch in KDs, so long as he had the bank’s guarantee. London did some background checks. They were fully aware that the Singapore branch had no deposits. No Chinese businessman in the region was going to deposit his money in a communist bank belonging to the Soviet Union. Hence, this was a godsend. London came back to Teo through his Russian boss and gave him the green light to proceed.

Now it was my turn to get moving. I immediately called my friend, Dr Isam in Kuwait. ‘Isam, I’m onto something big,’ I said. ‘But I need your help.’ ‘What is it, Hussain? Tell me,’ he said, and I could detect the slight amusement in his voice. He was obviously wandering what outrageous scheme I had got myself into this time. ‘Go to the Kuwaiti Gulf Bank and speak to Robert Sinclair. Ask him if he’s willing to send me five million dinars. I need that money deposited into the Moscow Narodny Bank in Singapore. Tell him not to worry. The London branch of Moscow Narodny will guarantee the money. I need to know if he will give me the deposit and at what rate.’ ‘What?’ he asked, incredulous? This time, there was no hint of amusement. He clearly thought I was mad. ‘This country is anti-communist. No communist can put even a toe onto this land and you’re offering them the Soviet Union Stalin bank in London guarantee?’ ‘Yes. Trust me. Go and speak to Robert, please. Put him on the phone to me,’ I pleaded. Robert Sinclair, another export from Britain, a Scotsman who happened to be a friend of Dr Isam’s and mine, ran the Kuwaiti Gulf Bank. Although he was reluctant, Dr Isam did as I had requested. He went immediately to see Robert and repeated what I had said to him. ‘I told him he was mad,’ he added, ‘but I think you need to talk to him. Can you please call him?’ So Robert called me from his office. ‘What’s going on, Hussain? What’s this about getting a guarantee from a Red Russian bank?’ he asked. ‘You know our policies are true blue, anti-red.’ ‘Before you say anything else, just hear me out, Robert,’ I countered. ‘Isn’t it true that this bank has existed from even before the Russian revolution?’ ‘Yes, it certainly has.’ ‘And in its long history, has it ever defaulted, to your knowledge as a British banker?’ ‘Well, no.’

‘So the guarantee is triple A?’ ‘Well, yes.’ ‘Good. So will you give me a deposit for five million KD?’ ‘What kind of rate are you looking at?’ ‘You give me the rate. But I need that deposit in Moscow Narodny Bank Singapore. You really needn’t worry. If the Singapore bank goes down, London will pay.’ ‘How about three-and-a-half per cent?’ ‘Come now. Surely you can make that three-and-a-quarter?’ I bargained. ‘OK. Done. How much do you want?’ ‘Five million.’ ‘No, take ten. We have so much liquidity at the bank, and we want to lend in Kuwaiti dinars. We don’t want to show our balance sheet in dollars. What’s more, the government is asking us to lend in KD. Go on, make KD international, they say. Easier said than done, of course,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Nobody’s even heard of the KD, for God’s sake. I’m surprised your guys in Singapore are willing to take it. How’d you do it, Hussain?’ ‘With a lot of pleading and grovelling,’ I said, joking. Robert laughed, then said, ‘Well, keep on pleading and grovelling, Hussain. Whatever it is you’re doing, it’s working. You’re the first person to have come up with a viable international window for us. Thanks.’ I went to the Imperial Hotel, where Lim, Teo, and Bikki Oberoi were waiting. I had told them I was going to sort out the financing and would meet up with them, hopefully with good news. The instant they saw me walk into the lobby, with a big smile plastered on my face, they knew my mission had been successful. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘the deal is done. Our partner bank in the United Kingdom

has accepted to act as the depositor. For bringing you your deposit all the way from the Gulf, you may now do me the kind favour of signing my commission— exclusive, please.’ They signed and got their money the very next day. The year was 1973. And I’d made history. This was the first time in offshore banking in Singapore that a significant deposit was arriving in Kuwaiti dinars . . . what was more, not to your average humdrum bank, but to the Singapore branch of a famous communist bank, a red chip. The news spread quickly to the monetary authority of Singapore. Even Lee Kuan Yew’s office was buzzed. Suddenly, a gate of heaven opened up to a whole new dimension. You may well ask why. I’ll tell you. The interest rate in Singapore was between 7 per cent and 12 per cent. They were getting money that was fixed to the US dollar at 3.25 per cent, which meant that if they added 2 per cent to 3 per cent to their margin they could lend at 5.25 per cent to 6.25 per cent, and completely take over the market. Everyone goes to your bank if it’s offering a cheaper lending rate than the next bank. In reality, the bank closest to the Moscow Narodny in Shenton Way was the American flagship Citibank, just opposite the road. It made me laugh to think that potential borrowers who would normally head straight for the stalwart American bank would now proceed in the other direction through the portals of Moscow Narodny. The two superpowers were now facing off through their banks, and this former underground leftist Bahraini was helping the Moscow arm to out-wrestle its globally known Yankee competitor. I was delighted by the idea that I had started a cold war in banking scene between the two different banking systems ever, one being a communist, and another representing all the American dream of a free and fair capitalistic society. Thus my interest in merchant banking was born. Suddenly, I could see that the Singapore market—the financial hub of Southeast Asia—was hungry for investment. It lacked liquidity and needed more deposits. Moscow Narodny had the guarantee and the credibility but no deposits. No Chinese bank would deposit into a Russian bank, and all the local banks in Singapore were Chinese—OCBC, OUB, Hong Leong, Tat Lee Bank, United Overseas Bank . . . That meant I had an exclusive mandate. I called Dr Isam and urged him to come over to

Singapore. I wanted to discuss the possibility of starting a new investment venture with him. Dr Isam had been amazed by the deal I orchestrated for Lim and flew down without kicking up too much of a fuss. Not too many days after this spectacular success, therefore, I found myself sitting with my good friend in the Imperial, which I had made my base. ‘Isam, we’re sitting on a gold mine. This paper is a gold mine,’ I said, waving the agreement that Teo, representing the Moscow Narodny Bank, had signed on behalf of Lim. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘How did you manage to make them sign? How do you do it, Hussain?’ ‘Look, they are rich and yet they are poor. They are rich in status in the City of London but poor in deposits,’ I explained. ‘The bloody Kuwaitis, meanwhile, are rich. So rich, they have a surplus and don’t know what to do with it. Nobody ever thought of borrowing in Kuwaiti dinars, but what’s to stop us from doing it? From now on, we will take the KD and make it international.’ ‘What do you mean ‘we’?’ he asked, looking at me with a worried expression. My friend Isam was a medical doctor, after all, and had no head for finance. He was the one who had kept all his money under his mother’s mattress. ‘Look, Isam, I need a contact in Kuwait. I am here in Singapore. You are there in Kuwait. Don’t you see, it’s a perfect set-up? We can have the whole financial market in Singapore exclusively in our hands. We’d have a monopoly. We could shake Southeast Asia,’ I said excitedly. ‘This bank, Moscow Narodny, is hungry for deposits. The whole of Arabia, Saudi, and Kuwait are anti-Russia and anti-communist, but I’ve cracked the ice. I’ve created a bridge between Kuwaitis, with surplus, sending dinars to a bank starving for deposit—a Soviet Russian bank in Singapore with full guarantee of London. With this set-up, I can bring them any borrower.’ Dr Isam was initially hesitant but eventually came round to the idea of being my man in Kuwait. I offered him an attractive deal of 40 per cent of all our income from bringing in KDs, while I kept 60 per cent for myself as I was doing the

bulk of the work. I couldn’t wait to get this new leg of business off the ground. Once again, I had found a new source of income generation, something novel that would keep me challenged . . . at least for a while! I had decided that the place to be and to focus my attentions was Asia. And while I was very happy with Japan and Macau, where I had enjoyed considerable success, Singapore now represented the ideal location given that I had acquired a small shipbuilding licensee here and was now embarking on an exciting new financing opportunity in this island republic. The Singapore Government was well aware of my presence, and especially of my financial activities. Being a small country, and having a very efficient bureaucracy, it was easy enough for the powers that be to keep tabs on everything and everyone on the island. In fact, although a democracy, Singapore had a culture that reminded one a little of China, in the sense that it was extremely regulated. The nation was run like a good, conservative school, with the Prime Minister taking on the role of the well-intentioned but slightly interfering Principal. Not long after I established Singapore as my base, it became known by the slightly more rebellious citizens as a ‘fine’ country; that is, there was a fine for practically anything you did: for jaywalking; for chewing gum; for throwing cigarette butts onto the road . . . In any case, I was offered by the government a beautiful colonial bungalow at 13 Napier Road, which formerly housed the chief of the British Armed Forces. I rented this charming residence, opposite the British High Commission, from the Ministry of Finance at the ridiculous rate of $250. It was peanuts. I came to learn that the government used incentives such as this to induce people whom they believed could help in the development of the nation to stay on in Singapore. I was obviously one of the chosen few. As I was making quite a neat sum of money, I treated myself to a maroon Jaguar which went on to provide me with an endless series of problems as Jags did in the old days. Other than that, though, I settled in very well in Singapore. It became my second home. Unfortunately, all the travelling I had done in the preceding months and years had its price. Yes, I was successful, I was making inroads everywhere, but I was spending less and less time with my young family. Heidi, of course, was none too happy with the physical distance between us and that led to some heated

arguments between us. I could not blame her at all, given my perpetual state of living in a suitcase. We agreed to a trial separation, after which we said we would decide what to do with our marriage—whether to give it another go or to go for a divorce. As it turned out, we went for the divorce. As far as I could see, my future was in Asia, whereas Heidi was reluctant to leave the house we had bought in the suburbs of Lucerne. However, it was an amicable decision and we remained friends. I eventually transferred our lovely house in Lucerne to her name. And we are still friends. Our son Pascal was six years old at the time, and I was determined to maintain a good, close relationship with him. I therefore invited both Heidi and Pascal to spend their summer vacations with me in my bungalow on Napier Road. It was ideal for Pascal as it was next to the Botanic Gardens. My house itself had a garden, and I employed a fine Malay-Singaporean driver, Harun, a guard and a Hainanese couple who cooked for me. In other words, I had a retinue of helpers to keep my housing running efficiently. I had only to inform Mr and Mrs Lee—my cooks—how many people to expect for lunch or dinner—it could be two, four, or twenty—and Mr Lee would pick up the phone to the grocer who then promptly delivered the required food items in a van. The couple would then proceed to produce a faultless meal. There was never any misappropriation of money. They were honest to the last cent. What’s more, Mr and Mrs Lee had a lovely disposition and would always serve with a smile. It was all very colonial—and given the circumstances of my youth, very ironical. Here I was, a former leftist from Bahrain, living the imperialist’s life in Singapore, with British, American, Egyptian Ambassadors coming home as guests, hosting the likes of anti-communist Defence Minister Dr Goh Keng Swee (who eventually became Deputy Prime Minister), and Mr Rajaratnam, the Foreign Minister. They all became familiar figures in my home, intrigued as they were by this young man who was bringing Arab money to Singapore. In Singapore, where every little step is assiduously planned, my feat was compelling not least because it was never part of the nation’s vision. It was not part of the plan. Yet it happened. And because it happened, the seeds of AIAK were sown. AIAK became another flagship—the Arab Investments for Asia

Kuwait Limited.

CHAPTER 14

Arab Malaysian Development Bank is Born

I had been Singapore fourteen months and was really settled into my colonial bungalow on Napier Road, when I invited Heidi to fly over with Pascal so both of them could spend his long summer holidays with me. Pascal was by now a pensive boy of eight. I had already missed quite a lot of his childhood and was determined to spend as much time as possible with him. Heidi and I had agreed that we would remain in close contact if for no other reason than to allow Pascal and me to develop a good relationship, which I’m proud to say we have managed to achieve. Till today, Pascal is a good friend, business partner, and confidant. I could not ask for a better son. So Heidi and Pascal visited me for the first time in Singapore in the following summer, and we had a wonderful time. For some, the number thirteen is meant to be unlucky, but for others it is the opposite. I believe I belong to the ‘others’ camp. I have some very fond memories of my bungalow at No 13 Napier Road. I still remember the frangipani trees, and how can I forget the coterie of house helpers I had managed to put together? Without them, the house would have been just that—a house—but with them it was a warm, fully functioning home. Also, the location couldn’t have been better. Napier Road is just a stone’s throw from Orchard Road in central Singapore, an upmarket, expat-dominated residential area. Facing the house was Tanglin Square with little fountains, close to which was the Marco Polo Hotel, which no longer stands but was famous in those days for having perhaps the only French restaurant on the island: Brasserie la Fontaine. It was here, at this house, that I noticed for first time that my son was able to speak English. That would not strike one as being worthy of mention except for the fact that, throughout his eight years, Heidi had spoken to him exclusively in

German, and Swiss; German to be precise, and I spoke to him always in English. This discovery was made one evening while Heidi and I were upstairs in the living room, which opened out into a verandah. Suddenly, we realised that Pascal, who had been with us earlier, was no longer there. I searched the entire first floor, but could not find him. So I went downstairs. I could hear voices in the porch, and sure enough there was my driver, Harun, our Malay guard and Pascal. Pascal was looking earnestly at the pistol that the guard carried and was asking lots of questions about it . . . in English. And not just pidgin Swiss-English but good English. I was amazed and went upstairs to get Heidi. ‘Quick, come down,’ I said to her. ‘You must see this.’ ‘See what?’ she asked. ‘Pascal. But hurry, or you may miss it,’ I urged. ‘What about Pascal? What is he doing?’ ‘Just come quick. You’ll see for yourself.’ Downstairs, I cautioned her to be quiet and told her to stand behind a column, from which vantage point she could observe Pascal without him seeing her. Soon enough she, too, heard him conversing with the guard. ‘Can I carry it, please?’ he was asking, referring to the gun. ‘No, Pascal. Cannot. Sir will not allow it,’ the guard replied. To the guard and my driver, I was ‘Sir’, a nomenclature I took time getting used to. ‘Then, can I touch it, please?’ he pleaded. ‘OK, touch only. No hold,’ the guard said, holding out the object of Pascal’s fascination in front of him. Pascal was delighted to be able to touch the pistol, just as we—his mother and I —were delighted that our son had somehow picked up good English and was able to use it to communicate with people in his new surroundings.

Just as I was maintaining close links with my family, I also made monthly trips to Kuwait to keep in contact with my friends and with Sheikh Jaber. On one of these trips, in early 1974, I remember having a lengthy debate with Suleiman and Isam about how much we, the Arabs, relied on the Western world for political, defense, military, and financial expertise as a result of which our compatriots were developing very Western tastes and desires. This was just a few months after the 1973 Arab-Israeli War which ended with Arab OPEC member countries—Algeria, Bahrain, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Libya, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Tunisia, and the UAE—imposing an oil embargo on the United States in retaliation for the superpower having supported Israel. Hence, relations between the Arab world and the West were still strained. I felt it was time we loosened our ties with the West and started forming new ones with the East, our Asian neighbours, whom we had completely ignored. ‘It’s not even as if the East is backward. Look at Japan. They’ve learnt the rules of Western games and are beating them at it. They’re technically as superior as any Western nation,’ I said to them. ‘Look at Hong Kong. Look at Singapore. They’re thriving as financial centres. Now, you even have emerging economies in Indonesia and Malaysia . . . There’s no question about it. Asia is a big growth area, and it doesn’t make sense to ignore this potentially lucrative mine.’ I mentioned the same points at a meeting with Sheikh Jaber, who was by now Prime Minister of Kuwait. He was very interested in what I was saying, and asked, ‘Hussain, it’s all very good to say we should be doing this or we should be doing that. What is important is to know how to do it. How do you propose to go about creating this link with Asia?’ ‘There’s nothing like the personal touch,’ I said. ‘Meaning?’ ‘I think it would make a difference, a huge, positive difference, if we sent a factfinding mission of the right people to Asia, starting first with Southeast Asia.’ ‘And why Southeast Asia?’ ‘Because Southeast Asia has a lot to offer. I’ve been in Singapore now for a number of years and I’ve seen how quickly countries in this region are developing. There’s a lot of potential for investment by Arab bankers and merchants,’ I said. ‘What’s more, there’s an association of five Southeast Asian

countries called ASEAN. Its members are Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, the Philippines, and Indonesia. These countries have agreed to help each other develop economically, so any business venture we manage to form in one country would automatically get the attention of the other member countries.’ ‘I like the idea. Who do you propose we send?’ Sheikh Jaber asked. ‘Top people from the financial and political spheres of Kuwait and a few neighbouring Arab countries. Leading businessmen, bankers, ministers, a few politicians . . . ‘ ‘A delegation from the Arab region to the ASEAN region. Yes, that would definitely work,’ he said, nodding. ‘I’m with you, Hussain. Prepare a list of whom you consider appropriate for this mission, and I will invite them here. I’ll tell them this is what I want.’ I couldn’t have asked for a more encouraging response. Not only was Sheikh Jaber supportive of my idea, he was willing to endorse it as his own in order to get the buy-in of the others. I got to work immediately, roping in the help of Suleiman and Isam. Together, we listed out thirty-five prominent figures from the Gulf states to form our delegation, twenty-four from Kuwait, and the rest from the region. They represented the first business delegation ever from the Arab Gulf. Sheikh Jaber was happy with the list and called in all the Kuwaitis named for a meeting. ‘Gentlemen, you must be wondering why I’ve called all of you here,’ he said, addressing them. ‘The fact is, I’ve been thinking about our foreign relations for a while, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we have not tapped into the potential of our eastern neighbours as much as we could have, and perhaps should have. ‘Now’s the time to do something about it,’ he paused and looked at the group. ‘Western powers have been omnipresent in our politics, our economy, and even, to an extent, our culture. ‘It’s time to diversify from this imperialist influence and to develop relations with countries in Asia. I’ve asked Hussain to do some research and he believes Southeast Asian countries belonging to ASEAN would be ideal for this. I want all of you to go Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia, and the Philippines and find out how we can develop economic, business ties with these countries. The idea, I must say, has come from Hussain. Any questions?’

‘Yes, who is to lead this delegation?’ The question came, not surprisingly, from the sole journalist in the group—the editor of the daily Al-Syassah. Sheikh Jaber looked at me and said, firmly, ‘Hussain Najadi is most suited to lead this delegation.’ There was a shocked silence, and I could feel everyone looking at me. Because they were in the presence of Sheikh Jaber, nobody dared say anything. There was not even a murmur. But I could just imagine what was racing through the minds of these arrogant Kuwaitis. If thoughts could kill, I’m sure I would not have left that room alive! Amongst the group was Abdul Ahmad Mottalib, a huge young man whose role in Kuwaiti Government was growing to match his physical size. He was at the time chairman of the Finance and Petroleum Committee, the most powerful committee in Kuwaiti parliament. After this trip, he was made Minister of Oil, the most powerful portfolio in cabinet. He was a physically and politically imposing young man, definitely a rising star. The first non-Al Sabah, the first non-sheikh to become a minister in Kuwait. Everybody had thought that Sheikh Jaber would appoint him to lead the delegation. But no, the Prime Minister had singled me out for the distinction. Kuwait is small and the news spread. Without wasting any time, I went to Qatar and approached a few delegates. Then I headed to Saudi, Bahrain, the UAE, and Oman. In each country, I chose a couple of leading figures who would portray their countries in good light. When the final group was ready, there were thirtyfive of us. Some of those in the original list were unable to make the trip but were very keen to go on a later trade or investment mission if another one was organised. Through its very efficient diplomatic and intelligence network, the Singapore Government got wind of this delegation. They wanted to be the first country that our delegation visited. To guarantee this, the government offered the use of one of its private Boeing 707s. The plane arrived in Kuwait the day before we were to fly and took us in style to the Singapore International Airport in Paya Lebar. What the Singaporeans didn’t manage to sniff out was that the delegation was being headed by me. They thought it was being led by the chairman of the Oil and Finance

Committee, Abdul Mottalib. In any case, when we arrived in Paya Lebar, there was a press corps awaiting us—both TV and print media. They accosted us with loads of questions and the flashbulbs kept popping. It was a good start for the delegation, who were inspired by this totally unexpected media frenzy. That day itself, we began a series of meetings with the who’s who of Singapore, the Minister of Finance, the Minister of Foreign Affairs S. Rajaratnam, Minister of Defence Dr. Goh, and so on. We were also taken around the island and given a very comprehensive briefing on the Singaporean economy under the EDB (Economic Development Board). Finally, after two days of intense tours and meetings, we finally got to meet the numero uno, Premier Lee Kuan Yew. Not all of us, though. He had gone through the names on our list and picked only seven whom he considered important enough to grant a face-to-face meeting. Of course, being the leader, I was one of them. On his side, there was only Mr Lee himself . . . no minister, no corporate bigwig. We were led to his conference room where, after perfunctory words of greeting, he proceeded to lecture us for half an hour as if we were school boys. I will never forget this—Lee’s air of intellectual superiority. He talked about the oil embargo against the United States, which had precipitated the global economic crisis, and said it was the duty of Arab leaders to act as responsible citizens of the world, and to behave in a manner that would avert such pervasive economic disaster ever again. Not those exact words, of course, but something to that effect. The fact is, rather than use this opportunity to find answers to questions he surely must have had on the oil crisis and to enquire about what was going through the minds of Arab Sheikhs, he decided to take on the role of a headmaster and drum into us a sense of responsibility and fair play which he obviously thought was lacking in us. When we finally had the chance to say something, we explained our mission and said this was our first stop in a tour which would take us to all the other ASEAN member countries. Lee then gave us a spiel about how, for anything and everything we wanted to do in finance or trade, Singapore was the ‘natural base’. After Singapore, we went to Indonesia to see President Suharto in Jakarta, following which we flew over to Thailand, and then the Philippines where we

met President Marcos. Finally, we arrived in Malaysia. We were very well received by the nation’s second Prime Minister, Tun Abdul Razak (father of Malaysia’s current Prime Minister Najib Tun Razak), his Deputy Hussein Onn, the Foreign Affairs Minister, the Minister of Finance, and Governor of Bank Negara Tan Sri Ismail Mohd Ali (who was later given the highest honorific title of Tun). Our meeting took place in the former Prime Minister’s office near Jalan Kuching. I had brought a gift for every head of state whom we were going to meet on this ASEAN tour. For Tun Razak, I had selected a painting by a young Bahraini artist which I duly presented to him. ‘This is very nice, thank you,’ he said appreciatively. ‘I hope you like it, sir,’ I said. ‘Oh yes, very much. I will hang it on my wall,’ Tun Razak replied. ‘Every time I look at it, I will be reminded of you and your country. I hope to visit it some day.’ ‘You must, sir. I think you will find it very interesting.’ ‘Actually, Mr Najadi, we find your proposition in general very interesting. Since your delegation has been here, we’ve been talking about developing more economic relations with countries from the Gulf. It’s something that definitely interests us,’ the Malaysian Prime Minister said. ‘But we need your advice. What would be the best way to go about it?’ In this moment, I instinctively saw a great opportunity and took it. ‘I think the best way is to start a licensed bank, perhaps a merchant bank at first and then expand it into a commercial bank. What the Gulf has which Malaysia does not at the moment is surplus money in the banks,’ I said. ‘Some of this money could be invested into infrastructural development in Malaysia. It could be a joint venture, with the majority owned by the Government of Malaysia.’ ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Tun Razak said, and turning towards Tan Sri Ismail Ali, he asked, ‘What do you think?’ ‘I agree. It would be an excellent start to more ventures between the Gulf and

Malaysia,’ he said. ‘Good, perhaps the two of you can meet up again and discuss this further. Thank you, Mr Najadi, for the painting and for this wonderful suggestion. Tan Sri Ismail will work out the details with you, and we can all look forward to an Arab Malaysian bank,’ said Tun Razak. It was no wonder he was called Bapa Pembangunan, or Malaysia’s ‘Father of Development’. It was Tun Razak, concerned about racial disparities in the country, which had led to riots in May 1969, who implemented the New Economic Policy (NEP). The idea was to elevate the economic standing of the Malays so as to be on par with the more enterprising Chinese and Indians. Once the three ethnic groups achieved roughly the same economic status, he reckoned, existing tension between them would naturally dissipate. Tan Sri Ismail could see that Tun Razak was genuinely keen to get this banking joint venture implemented, hence he invited four of us to his office in Bank Negara, the national bank, the very next day. After lengthy discussion, we agreed on some broad parameters regarding the new bank, which we decided to call the Arab Malaysia Development Bank Berhad (AMDB). It was to be 55 per cent owned by the Malaysian Government, and 45 per cent by the Kuwaiti Investment firm I have set up already called AIAK. According to Tan Sri Ismail, the Malaysian Government would distribute equity in the bank between two government institutions—Maybank and the Malaysian Industrial Development Finance (MIDF). Negotiations proceeded smoothly after this initial discussion, and after the third or fourth meeting, an agreement was signed and a licence for AMDB issued, we, the Arab partners, laid down one important condition: that although we were the minority shareholder, we would have control of the day-to-day running and management of the bank. That means we would have the power to appoint the chief executive officer, the managing director, and all the other top management executives. The Malaysians were not duly concerned about this and agreed. Soon after, I formed Arab Investments for Asia Kuwait Ltd, better known as AIAK as a holding company. It is the firm that I still run in Kuala Lumpur as Founder Chairman. A year later, in April 1975, AMDB began operations as a quasi-

government financial institution. In 2012, as I write this book, AIAK remains operational—some 35 years after it was set-up. In Singapore, meanwhile, the network that I was gradually establishing brought me into contact with a number of well known and influential personalities. These included Joe Grimberg, a senior partner at Drew & Napier, the first British legal firm to be established on the island, by John Simons Atchison—known for ‘always agitating against the government’. Whatever legal matters I had, I used Drew & Napier as my lawyers. In 2009, the firm celebrated its 150th anniversary. Joe is no longer with them, but Drew & Napier continues to be the largest law firm in Singapore. Joe was a Jew and, through him, I got to meet another prominent Jew in Singapore—the first Chief Minister, David Saul Marshall. He was a consultant at Drew & Napier. David spoke wonderful Arabic because his parents were émigrés from Baghdad, Iraq. His real name was Davoud Mashal (Davoud being the Arabic equivalent of David; and Mashal meaning ‘torch’). His parents were quite poor when they arrived in Singapore. David, their first child, was born in 1908. He was always very interested in people, and as an adolescent, his ambition was to become a psychiatrist so he could research people to discover what happens to them between their impassioned youth—when they are so idealistic about saving the world—and their thirties, by which time they were generally jaded, cynical, and self-centred. His parents could not afford to put him through medical school, though, and his only ticket was the Queen’s Scholarship. However, in his last year of school, he developed tuberculosis and had to be sent to a sanatorium in Switzerland to recover. Although this put an end to his childhood dreams, in later years he himself would say it was definitely a good thing because ‘I don’t know whether I have the intellectual ability to do first class research into the mind and emotions of man.’ Also, he did not regret a moment’s work as the lawyer he would instead become. In an interview he gave to a college student in 1994, a year before he died of lung cancer, he said, ‘I fell, by accident, into the right career at the right time and it has been wonderful. ‘I’m full of gratitude for having become a lawyer and, especially, a criminal lawyer—for having helped thousands of people terrified, helpless before the silly

forces of society. They’ve looked into me as their protector. I have no regrets at all for having helped them—humanity if you can understand this.’ He was a formidable litigating lawyer with a booming voice, intimidating bushy eyebrows, and a shock of white hair. Upon election as Chief Minister in 1955, he was determined to gain political independence for Singapore by April 1957. When, in 1956, the British Government made it clear this was not going to happen, by insisting on having control of internal as well as external defense, a dejected Marshall resigned as Chief Minister. He withdrew from the Labour Front, which he had headed, and also from the Assembly. However, being the kind of person he was, he could not withdraw from politics entirely and continued to contribute to a free and just Singapore in various political capacities throughout the rest of his life. Also through Joe, I was introduced to a senior partner of Coopers and Lybrand, John Curran, an Englishman. John was a bachelor, and therefore had more free time on his hands than most of our acquaintances. He was a regular visitor to my house, and a frequent dining companion—either in my home, where we would enjoy the Lees’s sumptuous Hainanese cuisine or out. The Tanglin Club was one of our haunts and sometimes we would be joined by John’s girlfriend as well as Joe. One evening, John rang and suggested dinner at the Brasserie la Fontaine. I knew this meant something significant had happened because the Brasserie was a good deal more upmarket and expensive than 13 Napier Road or even Tanglin Club. As we sat to our hors d’oeuvres and French wine, John said he had two announcements to make. Ah, I thought to myself as I had expected. ‘The first piece of news is that I am leaving Coopers,’ he said. ‘What? Why?’ I asked. Coopers was a well known and well-respected accounting firm, and a very good employer. ‘I’ve been offered a more attractive job. It pays more. At Rothschilds’. They want me to head their first Asian subsidiary, which is to be in Singapore. What do you think of that?’ he asked, clearly very pleased. And he had every reason to be. Who would not want to be part of the banking empire dating back to fifteenth century Europe? The Rothschilds are merchant banking. In 1875, it was Rothschilds that funded the British Government’s

acquisition of majority interest in the Suez Canal. It was also Rothschilds that funded and assisted in the formation of the Bank of England as a privately held commercial bank and not part of the British Government. But they do not just control merchant banking, they also have businesses in winemaking and publishing, amongst others. Within the luxurious folds of the Rothschild empire lie the famous publishing house Pearson, which owned two leading financial newspapers in Britain—the Financial Times and The Economist—in addition to a string of lesser known publications. ‘The second piece of news, Hussain, is the main reason we’re having this dinner,’ John continued. ‘The Financial Times is organising a conference on energy. It’s the first time they’re doing so, and the fact they’ve decided to hold it here in Singapore is major coup. It puts Singapore on the global financial map, which is why it’s important that this conference is a success.’ As a result of the oil embargo on the United States, and creating a supply shortage, the Arab countries had managed to push the price of oil from US$1 per barrel to US$12, then US$15, US$20, US$40, causing the first oil crisis which upset the financial system worldwide. For first time, people were talking about petrodollars, about Arab money, oil money, the energy shortage. The financial market was in a state of panic and turmoil. An energy conference was, therefore, very timely. The choice of Singapore as a venue was also strategic, as Singapore was a neutral country in the unfolding oil saga, yet sandwiched between two newly producing oil countries—Indonesia and Malaysia. ‘I think it’s a great idea. World leaders need to sit down together and discuss the crisis. And Singapore is an ideal location. But how do I come into the picture?’ I asked. ‘The FT editor has asked me to find a suitable person from the region to deliver the keynote address of this conference. They’ve already got Lee Kuan Yew to open the conference but haven’t been able to find a really exciting person to deliver the main speech. So what do you think, Hussain?’ ‘I think I may be able to help. I can put some feelers out and get you someone from the Gulf, if that’s what you want,’ I replied.

‘No no no,’ John said, shaking his head vehemently, ‘that’s not what I want at all. What I want is you.’ ‘Me?’ I asked, still not comprehending. ‘Me to do what exactly?’ ‘Come now, Hussain. You’ve been in the thick of oil development in the Middle East. You’ve represented the Kuwaiti ruler in his dealings with the oil majors. You know what’s going on in the minds of the Arab Sheikhs, and you understand the situation that’s developed far better than anyone else I know. ‘An Arab speaker would be too volatile. He would speak from a very heavy Arab perspective. You’re neutral. You understand the Arabs, but you also understand the Western perspective and our fears. You’re just the right man for the job.’ At this point he looked at me earnestly, then asked, ‘Will you do it?’ It took a while for this to sink in. At first, I wasn’t sure if I was hearing right. But when it became clear that John was indeed asking me to deliver the keynote address of this prestigious meeting of minds, on a topic that was of paramount interest and significance to the whole world, I was thrilled. It was as if I had just heard news of being awarded a Nobel Prize. I had in my life gone into various interesting and exciting ventures, but I had never delivered a speech to an audience of intellectuals. I never thought of myself as an intellectual. Privately, I wondered what Lee Kuan Yew would think when he discovered that I was to deliver the keynote address, especially after the dressing down my delegation had received from him only a few months back. This was going to be interesting! Internally, I was jumping up and down with the sheer joy of this latest unfolding. Externally, I was all calm and poise. ‘Yes, OK,’ I said, keeping my tone even. ‘I don’t mind doing this. You can tell the editor so. Ask him to fax me the official invitation, and I’ll start work on my speech.’ ‘Fantastic!’ John said. I couldn’t have described the situation any better. The two-day conference was held on 5 February 1974, in the grand ballroom of the Shangri-La, just off Orchard Road. It was so well-attended that the ballroom was packed with some four hundred and fifty politicians, corporate executives, chairmen, presidents, and CEOs of companies not only from Singapore Inc. but

most Asian countries as well as Europe. At the conference, I got to meet a number of heads of state from the region, some of whom, like Premier Lee, President Suharto and Tengku Ahmad Rithauddeen, I had already encountered during the Arab delegation’s tour of ASEAN. In addition, I got to meet and speak to Ibnu Suetowe, president and director general of Pertamina, the Indonesian national oil company, and President Suharto’s right-hand man; and other political heavyweights. In my speech, I talked candidly about the oil situation, reserves, production levels, and surplus dollars. I assured the conference participants they had nothing to worry about because any surplus from oil would be used by the Arab states to advance their fourteenth century economies so as to catch up with Western nations’ twentieth century economy. Such massive development would necessarily require a lot of funds and this would be channelled towards Western contractors because the Arabs did not have the technical know-how to effect progress. Whatever surplus there was after this, which would not be much, would once again be managed by European and American bankers, investors, or fund managers because the Arabs were not even able to manage their own companies. Even today, if you go an Arab oil-producing country, you will find expatriates filling almost all top-level executive and management positions. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the Arabs will handle their own bookkeeping. They are good at the debit and credit system. Debit Shell, debit Esso, and credit Government of Kuwait. But then, where does the money finally go? The money in the government’s coffers will be recycled to Westerners to build roads, bridges, schools, hospitals, and to pay Westerners to manage these roads, bridges, schools, and hospitals. You have nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen. The petrodollars from the Gulf will find its way into your hands. Rest assured, it will travel far and wide, to London, Paris, New York, and Hong Kong.’ I hammered home the fact that this oil bonanza was a mere bookkeeping asset transfer and not real wealth transfer. It could even in some cases become the curse of these OPEC oil-producing nations. I could see the smiles on the face of my audience; I could feel them warming to my speech. Clearly, they had not expected Najadi to clear the mist of the petrodollar.

While they loved it, they also hated it at the same time. Why? Because I completely exposed the West, and I stripped them naked. And Western powers do not like to be read like a pack of cards—what’s more in full sight of such a powerful audience. To my surprise, my speech made headline news on Singapore TV and in the international press, the Financial Times, the Herald Tribune of Paris, Die Welt of Germany. It was comforting for the international society at large to hear a Middle Easterner allay their fears regarding the potential havoc that Arab OPEC countries could wreak by not only controlling the flow of oil but also that of the petrodollar. Suddenly, this young banker was a pundit of the times, and everybody was lapping up his every word. The general reaction made me uncover an interesting characteristic of human nature. People are so desperate to hear what they want to hear, from a credible source, that they will ‘make’ someone credible, even if he is not, so long as he delivers the message they seek. Soon after the Financial Times conference, I made one of my regular trips to Kuwait. As always, the first of my calls was on was the Prime Minister. Over the months, I had become—unofficially at least—an advisor of sorts to Sheikh Jaber. In addition to keeping him updated on events, I would also upon his request offer my opinion on what the government of Kuwait should do. I had paid my courtesy call to Sheikh Jaber at his office and was rushing off to meet Suleiman, when the chief editor of Al Hawadeth, a weekly journal published in Lebanon that was widely read in the Arabic world, saw me: a young man leaving the office of the Prime Minister, after having what was obviously a one-on-one discussion. Naturally, the editor, Saleem Al-Lowzi, was curious. His journalistic curiosity was piqued. Who was this young man, and what business did he have with Sheikh Jaber? He could not, of course, be so brazen as to ask the Prime Minister about me. Instead, he approached the director of the Prime Minister’s office. ‘Just as I was about to enter Sheikh Jaber’s room, a young man left. He’d had a private discussion with the Prime Minister. Who is he?’ he asked. ‘Oh, you mean Hussain Najadi,’ replied the director. ‘He’s a banker—originally

from Bahrain. He’s just come in from Singapore and is on his way to Switzerland. He’s a good friend of Suleiman’s. And he meets the Prime Minister every month.’ ‘Why is that?’ Saleem wanted to know. ‘He’s a de facto financial advisor to the Prime Minister. He has connections with bankers and financiers in Switzerland and on Wall Street. But that’s all I can tell you.’ ‘Very interesting,’ Saleem said. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance know where he’s staying, would you?’ ‘Oh yes. He always stays at the Carlton.’ That very afternoon, Saleem called me at the Carlton. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Najadi. This is Saleem Al-Lowzi, chief editor of Al Hawadeth. I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time?’ ‘Not at all,’ I replied. I had never met Saleem before but I knew of him. I had seen his byline in the journal many times. He was a respected journalist, and his articles were read by thousands across the Arab world. He was hugely influential. And I realised I needed the support of the media to convince Arab investors to look east, and especially at Southeast Asia. ‘What can I do for you?’ ‘I won’t beat around the bush, Mr Najadi. I saw you leaving Sheikh Jaber’s office this morning. And I believe you’re based in Singapore.’ He had obviously done some research on me after leaving Sheikh Jaber. ‘And that you’ve organised a delegation from Arab countries to Southeast Asia. I would be very interested in interviewing you, Mr Najadi. Are you agreeable to being interviewed?’ ‘Yes, that’s fine with me,’ I said. ‘We could have the interview either this evening in Kuwait or in my head office in Beirut later as I am leaving for Beirut tonight. Which would be more suitable for you?’

‘This evening will be difficult as I’m meeting some people. But Beirut is definitely possible. I can stop over in Beirut on my way to Switzerland. So we can have the interview there, say this Saturday?’ ‘Yes, that’s good for me. Let me give you my number. Call me once you get into Beirut.’ Isam had just bought a beautiful apartment in Beirut facing the Mediterranean and was there when I showed up for my interview. He had decided to make Lebanon his second home. I had by now become something of a creature of habit. I liked to stay in hotels I was familiar with, so I booked into the Intercontinental Phoenicia, the hotel where Heidi and I had spent a couple of nights when we made our trip to Beirut to meet the Archbishop. Isam being the intellectual he was, quickly got into the intellectual circles in Beirut, and knew Saleem. When he heard I was going to be interviewed by him, he was very excited and promptly invited himself over to sit in on the session. He brought with him Ebrahim Abu Naab, a famous Arab Journalist. Hence, when Saleem turned up at my suite at the Intercontinental, he was met by a sizeable group. He was totally unfazed, though, and proceeded to question me for about an hour and a half on my hydrofoils and my connections with the East. The extensive feature article appeared the following week, with a large photo of me, under which the headline read: Arabs, Open Your Eyes to the East. In this interview, I emphasised the very same points I had been stressing to Sheikh Jaber, Suleiman, Isam, and indeed everybody who cared to listen, namely that the East, or Asia, was hungry for funds to oil the wheels of development, and we, the Arabs, had the funds to invest in these countries. Instead of looking West all the time, I said, we should start looking East. In 1974, such sentiments were unheard of in the Arab world. So my article caused a bit of a sensation, which was precisely what I had wanted. I wanted denizens of the Middle East to question their long-held beliefs. I wanted them to realise that there was more to the world than the United States, Britain, and Europe—that there existed growing financial centres in the East, and, more importantly, that there existed vast opportunities in the Southeast Asian region. Al Hawadeth had a strong following throughout the Arab states

and caught the eyes of all the powers that be. The Arab Malaysia Development Bank started in April 1975, a momentous occasion for me. Who would’ve ever thought that a boy from Bahrain, the son of a fruit and vegetable seller, would one day open a bank? Yet a month before that saw another momentous occasion. I will never forget March 25, 1975, for two reasons. First, I had been asked by the Harvard Club of Singapore to deliver a speech at its annual dinner. The president of the Harvard Club of Singapore was an American of Persian origin, Joe Nakohisteen, manager of Chase Manhattan which later merged to become JP Morgan Chaste. Nakohisteen knew me. He had met me in Kuwait, during one of my meetings with Sheikh Jaber. He was a close advisor to the son of Ashraf Pahlavi, the twin sister of the late shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. Ashraf was as powerful as she was beautiful. Her brother, the shah of Iran, was incapable of refusing any of her requests. Her first marriage was to a handsome Egyptian air force pilot with whom she had her first son, Shahram, who was a school mate of Nakohisteen in Lausanne, where the shah of Iran had also schooled. Although I did not share Nakohisteen’s privileged background, there was enough in common between us—two Iranians operating within top financial circles in Singapore—for there to be a natural connection. And it was he who approached me to give this speech. The Harvard Club of Singapore was made up of alumni from the prestigious Ivy League University, top lawyers, bankers, architects, politicians . . . namely the top brass of Singaporean society. Every year, they invited an eminent personality to speak at their dinner. That year, it was me. Although I was organising the first OPEC conference in Bali, which was to take place just a few days after this dinner, I accepted the invitation to speak. Sheikh Jaber was at the time chairman of OPEC, and I had advised him to hold the conference in Asia, in OPEC founder member country Indonesia. President Suharto was approached; he loved the idea; and so invitations were sent to all OPEC members to gather in Bali. There was only one slight snag. There were no direct flights from the Middle East to Indonesia, and so it was arranged for all the delegates from the region to meet in Saudi and fly together in a private plane belonging to Sheikh Jaber to Singapore, where I would receive

them and put them onto a flight to Bali the following day. They were meeting in Saudi because the head of this delegation was Ahmed Zaki Yamani, the Saudi Minister who held the Oil and Mineral Resources portfolio for twenty-four years. While in Saudi, the delegates would naturally pay a courtesy call to King Faisal. They would then board the plane for Singapore and were to arrive on the morning after the Harvard Club dinner. As I was driving to the Shangri-La for this dinner, however, I heard some devastating news on the radio. King Faisal had just been shot and killed in Jeddah. What’s more, he had been assassinated during the courtesy visit of the OPEC delegation. In fact, he had been shot while shaking the hands of the Minister of Oil and Finance of Kuwait, Abdul Mutaleb Kazimi, the man who had toured ASEAN with me, and who had expected to head the mission. The assassinator was none other than King Faisal’s blood relative, Faisal bin Musa’id, the son of his half-brother. There is history behind this event as to be expected. Faisal bin Musa’id’s brother, Khaled, had been killed by Saudi Defense Force members while taking part in a demonstration against the introduction of television in the conservative country by the forward-looking and open-minded King Faisal. Ever since, the nephew Faisal just bided his time for the perfect opportunity to avenge his brother’s death. The perfect opportunity arose when news of the Kuwaiti delegation visiting the King was made known. The articles named members of the delegation who were to visit King Faisal. The would-be assassinator Faisal noticed a familiar name in the list—that of Abdul Mutaleb Kazimi. He and Abdul Mutaleb had been friends at the University of Colorado, in the United States. He had also only recently been appointed Oil and Finance Minister of Kuwait. That gave Faisal a legitimate reason to tag along with the Kuwaiti delegation as its members personally greeted the King. When palace guards asked him what he was doing with the delegation, he replied that he wanted to catch up with the newly appointed Oil Minister of Kuwait, who was an old school mate. So the guards let him in. After all, the guards reckoned, he was a member of the royal family. He was a prince, the son of the King’s half-brother. As he hoped, Faisal managed to secure a position behind Abdul Mutaleb, the gargantuan Minister, who was in traditional Arab costume, the flowing abaya.

Just as Mutaleb took the King’s hand to greet him, Faisal drew his gun and, from behind Mutaleb’s abaya, shot the king in his face three times. The King collapsed in the hand of Mutaleb, who could not make sense of what was happening. Everything unfolded so fast, and so unexpectedly, he was for a while unsure whether it was he who had killed the King. Security guards, too, were not sure if he was involved in the murder. Faisal tried to make a dash for it but was immediately caught by palace guards and brought down. But they also brought down the bulky Mutaleb and proceeded to beat him. Fortunately, the present King Abdullah bin Abdul Aziz Al Saud was also there, as head of the royal guard. Standing next to the King, he saw what had happened and shouted to the guards to leave the Kuwaiti Oil Minister alone. Once his innocence was vouchsafed by Abdullah, the battered and bruised Mutaleb was taken by car back to his hotel, with many apologies, and implored to please have a good rest to recover. The poor chap was in such a state of shock, he just couldn’t believe what he had seen and experienced. The event served as a very bad omen for Kuwait’s newly appointed Minister of Oil and Finance. News of the death of King Faisal spread immediately. He was still conscious when he was taken to hospital but died soon after. He had apparently requested that his nephew not be executed. However, this wish was not granted. Despite being declared of unsound mind, Faisal was tried and found guilty of regicide. Within hours of the verdict, he was publicly beheaded. Like my compatriots in the Arab world, I was shocked by this totally unexpected assassination. My speech that evening was, therefore, heartfelt and more emotional than I had planned. In a voice that I could barely keep together, I informed the audience of King Faisal’s death. My audience, however, were not as affected as I was and wanted to know about the petrodollar and the bigger energy picture. I forced myself to regain my composure and completed my speech as planned. As I had with the FT conference, I assured them that their future was safe. Although King Faisal had been killed, the petrol policy of Saudi Arabia would not change. This was just what they wanted to hear.

CHAPTER 15

The Bahraini PM Visits Singapore

Back in Singapore, I decided to move into my own house, a sanctuary that reflected who I am, my tastes, my culture . . . In my search for something suitable, I came across a very old house for sale on a hill in the fashionable district of Queen’s Road. Although it was old and falling apart, it had a lovely setting and I could ‘see’ in my mind’s eye how nicely it could transform after some renovation. I bought the house and converted it into a Moorish-styled home—all white, with arches, a rolling garden, a pool, and even maids quarters. In those days, houses were quite common in Singapore. All the expats, certainly all the British, lived in large, spacious bungalows. Mine, however, with its Moorish design, definitely stood out. Some referred to it as the White House, which seemed too insipid for me. My home had an aura of romance, of mystique. I called it Casablanca. I moved into Casablanca in January 1974, taking with me my house staff—Mr and Mrs Lee, and Harun, my driver and guard. At Casablanca, I continued in the tradition I had started at 13 Napier Road, that of entertaining the people I was meeting and coming into contact with through the likes of Joe Grimberg, my lawyer friend at Drew & Napier. Amongst the regular visitors was David Marshall, an advisor at the prominent legal firm who himself had a lovely house on the beach in Changi, which was then an untouched, forested area fringing the sea. His wife, Jean, was a fantastic cook, a wonderful mother to the couple’s two children, and a great companion to the colourful lawyer who won about two hundred criminal cases in Singapore, which Lee Kuan Yew cited as a reason for eventually abolishing the jury (Marshall’s cases had been tried by juries). ‘David Marshall is responsible for two hundred murderers roaming the streets of

Singapore,’ the premier would say. To which Marshall’s response was: ‘I’m glad to have helped them. Singapore would be poorer without these men.’ Marshall did not think capital punishment was effective as a deterrent of crime and felt that punishments should not be meted out according to the crime but rather should serve the character of society. There were definitely differences in ideology between the liberal, humanitarian Marshall and the more draconian, controlling Lee. Needless to say, too, Marshall held some resentment against Lee for ousting him in the first elections after independence. But although he was very outspoken against the government on various issues, he was also on the whole—as contradictory as this may seem—one of its most staunch and loyal supporters. One fine Sunday, much later (towards 1977), this tall, impressive man with wild, white Einsteinian hair and brows—already nearing seventy years of age—invited me to his home for an Indian curry lunch. This custom of the Sunday curry was something the British had introduced in Singapore and it amused me to see how Marshall, the arch nationalist, had adopted this colonial custom as his own. But that was one of his great characteristics; he had the ability to distinguish the positive from the negative that existed side by side in one and the same entity, and to borrow from the good while rejecting the bad. Not everything about the British in Singapore was objectionable, especially not their delectable Sunday curries! I shared his penchant for curries and duly turned up at his lovely beach house. During lunch, I discovered why he had invited me. It was to discuss a proposition put to him by Lee. ‘Hussain, you won’t believe this, but Lee Kuan Yew called me to his office the other day and offered me an ambassadorship, to any country in the world I like. He said choose any country you want. I don’t know what this is all about. Perhaps he’s really sick and tired of me and wants to get rid of me,’ he said in Arabic, with a laugh. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ We always spoke in Arabic when we were together as we were proud of our heritage and cherished the rare opportunities to speak our mother tongue. ‘I think he wants me to die on foreign soil, so as not to bespoil his beloved country.’

‘Oh, come now. There’s a lot of life left in you yet, old chap,’ I said. ‘I’m sure this is just a peace offering from him. A way of thanking you for all that you’ve done for this country.’ ‘Ha! That would be funny if it’s true. And highly inconsistent with Lee Kuan Yew’s character. Every time I open my mouth, that man accuses me of slander.’ ‘That’s obviously not true,’ I reasoned. ‘The last thing he wants is an ambassador who has nothing good to say about his country. And it’s not even as if he’s sending you off to some God-forsaken place nobody’s ever heard of. He’s asking you to choose, which means you can ask for the cushiest of postings. Think about it, David, this is a really great opportunity to spend time in a country that interests you.’ ‘You have a point. And as a matter of fact, there is one country that has always fascinated me. France. I just love their culture, the food, the literature. While I was at that sanatorium in Switzerland, recovering from TB, I learnt French. Ever since, I’ve said to myself one day I will go and live in France. Liberté, egalité, and fraternité. These are the very same principles that have guided me, that have inspired me all my life.’ ‘There you go, then. Now you can finally live in France, meet with all the intellectuals you admire. What more could you ask for? It’s a dream posting,’ I said. ‘Of course, while I’m gone they’re finally going to take my land away for that bloody airport, aren’t they? Actually that’s probably what this is all about. Imagine that, sending me away just so they can seize my land,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But seeing as there’s nothing I can do about it, its better not to be here. I don’t want to be here when it happens. It would break Jean’s heart to see them tear down the house. Do you know she was in tears when I told her about their plans?’ It was true. For all his professional skills as a lawyer, for all the difficult cases he had won, and his political triumphs as an opposition leader, Marshall was not able to save his house from being demolished to make way for Changi Airport. The law was such that if the government intended to use your land for public development, they had the right to pay you off and do as they saw fit. Build a

road, a highway, a hospital, or in this case a new, bigger, and (as always) better airport. When Marshall went back to Lee to accept the diplomatic role being offered, and to request for a posting to Paris, the Singaporean premier was only too happy to hand it to him. In 1978, David and Jean left for France where David began his new life in the diplomatic service. He did not return to Singapore for another fifteen years, after serving not only in Paris, but also in Lisbon, Madrid, and Geneva. After he left Singapore in 1978, I lost touch with David and was not sure what had happened to my good Iraqi-Singaporean friend until a Forbes dinner held in Kuala Lumpur in 2007, when I was seated next to the newly appointed Singaporean Ambassador to Malaysia, T. Jasudasen. He looked familiar, and I asked where he had been posted to prior to coming to Malaysia. He said Paris. I immediately asked after David Marshall. How was he? Where was he? It was then that I found out David had died, of lung cancer, back in Singapore in 1995. Rajaratnam, too, had died. I felt like Rip Van Winkle; so much had happened in the years that I was away from Singapore. So many of my friends and acquaintances, the old guard, had gone. I will always miss these colourful personalities who were integral to Singapore’s history and contributed to the success story it is today. It was during one dinner at home to which I had invited the articulate, highly educated Rajaratnam, the Foreign Minister, as well as some foreign dignitaries, that the seeds of yet another chapter in my life were sown. Unfortunately, this chapter was to prove none too pleasant, but after the string of fortuitous events that had graced my life, I cannot begrudge fate too harshly for throwing this spanner in the works. My guests included the US and Egyptian Ambassadors (I would’ve invited the Ambassadors from other Arab countries too, but Egypt was the only Arab nation with an embassy in Singapore then) as well as the British High Commissioner, Peter Tripp, my former neighbour on Napier Road. Each of these emissaries came with his wife. Tripp was accompanied not only by his charming wife but also his lovely daughter. Soon after arriving, the Egyptian Ambassador informed me that he would have to take leave from the party but

that his wife Fifi would stay on. ‘Fifi is hosting an important guest from your country, Hussain. I have to be at the airport at eight thirty, which is about the time his plane arrives,’ Kamal, the ambassador, said. ‘That’s interesting. Who exactly is this person?’ I asked. ‘Sheikh Tahnoun. Do you know him?’ ‘Of course I do. He’s a high Minister. Every time I go back to Bahrain to renew my passport, I meet him. He used to be head of the passport department. How does Fifi know him?’ ‘She was introduced to Sheikh Tahnoun’s wife in Cairo not too long ago. They were there for a short visit.’ ‘I see. I would love to greet him at the airport too, but obviously I can’t leave all my guests here. Why don’t you persuade him to come here? I’m sure he would like to meet everyone here.’ ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise.’ Kamal returned to my house about two hours later but without Sheikh Tahnoun. ‘He said he was feeling tired from the journey, but he’s staying in one of the suites at the Shangri-La. I can give you the suite number. He asked that you call him there,’ Kamal said. Sheikh Tahnoun was more or less the same age as I, but although we were both Bahraini, we came from entirely different backgrounds. He was not only a Cabinet minister but also the first cousin of the Ruler of Bahrain. In other words, Sheikh Tahnoun was royalty. At the same time, he had been pleasant enough to me on the few occasions when I had had to return to Bahrain to sort out my passport. He always displayed a curious interest in my comings and goings, and after I had submitted all the documents required by Immigration, he would invite me into his office for some coffee. Because of this ‘history’, I felt comfortable enough to call him. I sometimes

wonder if I hadn’t, how differently the next few years of my life would have been. But such thought games are futile. The fact is, I called Sheikh Tahnoun, and set in motion the wheels of a train of events that would lead to several years of misery in Bahrain. The very next morning, I made my phone call. ‘Salaam, Abu Jasim,’ I said, addressing Sheikh Tahnoun using the traditional Arabic custom of calling respected men the father of their first son, Sheikh Tahnoun’s son being Jasim. ‘This is Hussain Najadi. Kamal informed me you were here in Singapore. Welcome to my second home.’ ‘Hussain, what a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were in Singapore. You can imagine how happy I was to hear from Kamal that you are here,’ he replied. But I knew he was not being completely truthful. As a High Minister, he had access to Bahrain’s intelligence, and would have definitely done his homework to discover who from Bahrain was in Singapore, and especially who from Bahrain may be of interest for him to meet up with. ‘Ammi,’ I said, using another traditional title given to superiors, ‘it is I who am happy to have you here. I’m calling to find out if you have any free time, and if you would like me to show you around Singapore. It would be an honour for me to do so.’ Sheikh Tahnoun readily agreed to my offer, and that same afternoon I began my specialised, tailor-made tour of Singapore for Bahrain’s Minister Sheikh Tahnoun was in Singapore for ten days and spent most of his time with me. As I was financially well-placed, given a number of property developments I had managed to finance using Moscow Narodny Bank, I was able to show my guest a good time. And he seemed to appreciate this. By the time he left, we had become, not quite good friends, but friends nonetheless. Before leaving, Sheikh Tahnoun asked, ‘Do you not come to Bahrain any more, like you used to? You don’t have to wait until you need to renew your passport, you know.’ ‘You’re right, I don’t. I guess I just have been really short of time in the last few years. And now, with a son, it’s different. I hardly ever see him. So I try to get to Switzerland in the quickest possible way, without making too many detours,’ I

said. ‘Yes, I can imagine,’ he said, nodding. Then, he added, ‘Hussain, you’ve been a wonderful host to me, and I would like to be able to reciprocate your hospitality by inviting you to Bahrain. Please come. I’m sure one short trip to your homeland is not out of the question. Come as my guest.’ I could tell he was genuine about wanting me in Bahrain, but he had an ulterior motive. He had sensed my importance in Singapore. From Kamal, he had found out that I moved amongst the diplomatic corps and that I had friends within the top political circles of this very rapidly developing, very impressive country. He obviously wanted to tap into the networks I was able to open up to him and the Bahraini royalty. ‘In fact, I make a trip to Switzerland every month. I will stop in Bahrain on my next trip. It will be a pleasure to meet you there.’ True to my word, I arranged to spend one day and night in Bahrain on my following trip to Switzerland. I called a pleased Sheikh Tahnoun to let him know. When the plane landed at the international airport, there was a Rolls Royce waiting for me on the tarmac, just steps away from the stairway of the plane. Along with the limousine, Sheikh Tahnoun had dispatched his deputy, the director of His Excelleny office, who took me to the newly opened Hilton Hotel. As he had promised, Sheikh Tahnoun hosted me during this lightning visit. He had booked me into the Amiri suite, equivalent to the royal suite, which must have carried a plum price. The next morning, I was picked up by the same chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce and taken to the Ministry, which was in the huge police headquarters, the Portuguese fort where I had been detained so many times in my youth. It felt uncanny to be chauffeur-driven in a Rolls into this bastion of corrupt Bahraini bureaucracy, the centre of injustice and unfair play. When I had arrived in the country a few years prior to this to market the Dreyfus and Fidelity mutual funds, after years in exile, it had felt strange enough. But now, to be given VIP treatment, to be a guest of the very people who had kicked me out of my country, it was surreal. Sheikh Tahnoun welcomed me warmly in his office, as if I were a long-lost friend, and then took me to his villa outside Manama town, for luncheon.

‘I’m so glad you have come now. I have an invitation for you tonight. There’s going to be a dinner at the Royal Guest Palace—Gudhaibiya Palace, and you’ve been invited by his Highness, the Ruler Sheikh Isa,’ he said. ‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked, intrigued. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about it. Today, the Concorde arrives for the first time in Bahrain. It’s a trial flight, and Prince Edward from Britain is on the plane. The Queen was unable to come. His Highness is hosting this dinner in Prince Edward’s honour.’ He was right. I was aware of this inaugural flight. In fact, after Bahrain, the plane was to proceed to Singapore, and the Singaporeans were eagerly awaiting the arrival of this supersonic jet. I was just not aware that the Bahraini ruler was organising a royal reception for its crew and VIP guests in Manama. That evening, I found myself being driven, by a chauffeur again of course, from the swanky Hilton in the business centre of Bahrain to the Gudhaibiya Palace, which in my youth had been a strictly prohibited zone. No one was allowed anywhere near the palace unless he was invited. In fact, it was used only to entertain royalty. Now, here I was, entering this no common man’s land, where I found the guests neatly segregated. All the Sheikhs, namely members of royalty and therefore most of the Cabinet ministers, were on one side of the banquet hall while the merchants and other non-titled businessmen were seated on the other side. In the middle was the main table, with the ruler and his VVIP guests. I was seated with the merchants, but at the top merchants’ table. There were name cards at every seat, and mine read: Excellency Hussain Najadi! Somehow, Sheikh Tahnoun had convinced the organising committee that I was a very important person—not just a VIP but a VVIP. We had a wonderful, lavish dinner, after which Prince Edward made his exit. Before taking me back to the hotel, Sheikh Tahnoun asked me to meet the Prime Minister, Sheikh Khalifa Ibn Isa Khalifa. Like that high level Minister, he was roughly the same age as I, in the pink of health and still alive and kicking as I write. Sheikh Khalifa remembered me and asked what I was doing those days. ‘I’m in Singapore, sir. I’m operating out of Singapore, doing various projects.

Mainly financing,’ I said. ‘Singapore? I thought you were in Europe, Switzerland wasn’t it?’ ‘Yes, I was in Switzerland for a while. But I’m now in Singapore. There are a lot of opportunities in Asia, I’ve discovered.’ ‘You certainly get around Hussain. But what kind of business opportunities are you talking about?’ he asked. ‘Your High level Minister was in Singapore only a few weeks ago. I’m sure he’s given you a report. I showed him around personally. I would be happy to do the same for you. Why don’t you make a visit some time soon?’ ‘Hussain, I have a very tight schedule. But visiting Singapore is a fascinating idea . . . hum!’ ‘With Concorde flights from Bahrain to Singapore, and even from London to Singapore, the travelling won’t take up too much of your time, sir,’ I reasoned. ‘I think you would find Singapore very interesting. Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew is a man of great vision and is achieving great progress for the country. ‘Also, there is so much in common between Bahrain and Singapore. Both are islands, both were under the British. In fact, both islands are exactly the same size . . . It really would be worth your time and effort. Bahrain could one day be another Singapore.’ That last statement made an impression on him. ‘Let’s see what we can do,’ he said, looking as if he were genuinely considering the proposition. After that short interlude, I returned to my hotel—Sheikh Tahnoun very kindly took me back. This time, we were in his Mercedes, the car he used for personal pleasure and which he drove himself. The next morning I was to fly off to Switzerland, so I thanked him profusely for being the perfect host. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘I hope to see more of you from now on.’ A couple of weeks later, when I was back in Singapore, I received a call from the Bahraini Prime Minister’s office, informing me that Sheikh Khalifa and a

delegation of Cabinet ministers would be arriving in Singapore a couple of weeks later. Please make all the arrangements, the officer said. I immediately contacted the Singaporean Foreign Minister, Rajaratnam, and let him know about this development. He was delighted. No ruler from Bahrain had yet made an official visit to the island. When he reported the impending visit to Lee Kuan Yew, the premier was very pleased too. Remembering the earlier delegation of oil players from Kuwait and the Gulf, he reportedly said, ‘Hussain Najadi is doing a great job as an ambassador to Arab countries for Singapore.’ The Singaporean political and diplomatic machinery set about to welcome the Bahrainis. True to form, the Singaporeans treated their foreign visitors with flawless decorum and hospitality. There were numerous welcome luncheons, and even more dinners for Sheikh Khalifa and his entourage, which included the director of his office and seven Cabinet ministers. More than half of his Cabinet was there. I could sense, however, that despite the warm, royal treatment they were accorded—or perhaps because of it—the Bahraini Prime Minister was not completely happy. Soon, I realised, his discontent had nothing to do with the hospitality of his Singaporean hosts, but was centred completely on me. From the questions he was fielding, some subtle, some not so subtle, it was apparent that he could not understand how this poor boy from Bahrain, this nobody, could have transformed into an influential figure in Singapore. And he didn’t like that one bit. Jealousy and envy were his trademarks. One evening, during a particularly lavish reception at the Singaporean President’s residence, he asked me, very directly, ‘How is it that everybody in Singapore knows you?’ It was beyond the powers of someone of his background and experience to come to terms with the fact that a boy from the bazaar who had been kicked around by the bureaucracy could have made such a success for himself in another country. Yet at a dinner I hosted in Casablanca a few days later, towards the end of the delegation’s stay in Singapore, Sheikh Khalifa came up to me and said, ‘Hussain, I’ve been very impressed by the way you have organised this entire

trip. And I’ve also been thinking that it would be good for us to have a diplomatic presence here in Singapore. I think you’d be perfect as either the Consul or Ambassador. Would you accept such a posting?’ Although his offer was a step down for me, I couldn’t exactly say so. Instead, I replied, ‘Sir, you’re being very kind. I agree that you should set up a high commission or embassy in Singapore. It’s a brilliant idea. But I wouldn’t be able to represent Bahrain in that capacity because my hands are tied at the moment. I’m involved in starting a new Arab bank in Malaysia and am commuting to Kuala Lumpur every other day. In fact, I think I’m going to have to relocate to Kuala Lumpur because the bank is young and there’s a lot to do to get it up and going.’ I thought I had extricated myself quite elegantly from the spot he’d put me into, but Sheikh Khalifa obviously did not. He took it as a personal snub. The look of displeasure on his face was the first overt sign of hostility he displayed towards me. There would be more to come. Later, I found out from the grapevine in Bahrain that the reason he had made this trip was to observe me in my milieu and to find out for himself who I was and who I knew in Singapore. He wanted me in foreign affairs so he could tap into my networks and my resources for his own benefit. No wonder he left Singapore a disgruntled man. The fact is my ‘excuse’ to get out of Sheikh Khalifa’s unattractive offer was not an excuse at all. I was commuting between Singapore and Kuala Lumpur on a very regular basis, to meet up with the shareholders of Arab Malaysia. The meetings were organised by the Central Bank. Tan Sri Ismail, the first Central Bank Governor who had readily agreed to the idea of Arab Malaysia, was playing his part to get this innovative project moving. And he was just the man to do so. Tan Sri Ismail, who was also brother-in-law of Tun Dr Mahathir, the country’s fourth and longest-serving Prime Minister (1981-2003), was feared by many because of his unrelenting integrity and intolerance for any form of corruption. This was a man of few words but many principles. In one of our early meetings, when we were still thrashing out the formalities of setting up Arab Malaysia, he

suddenly turned to me and asked, ‘Hussain, where do you live?’ ‘At the Regent Hotel, Tan Sri,’ I replied. The Regent was a well known hotel in central Kuala Lumpur. ‘That’s a hotel. Where do you actually live?’ he persisted. ‘I live in Singapore, sir.’ ‘No no. That won’t do. If you’re going to run this bank, you had better live in Kuala Lumpur. In fact, I insist that you move to Kuala Lumpur right away,’ he said, looking at me straight in the eye. ‘Yes, Tan Sri. In fact, I myself was thinking about it. I’ll be glad to move here to run the bank. It makes sense for me to move.’ ‘Good. Because we need you to be here. You cannot run a bank from another country. It’s not something you do by proxy,’ he said, allowing himself to smile. It certainly was in everyone’s interest for me to move. And so I set about tying up loose ends in Singapore. There was no need to cut off all my activities there, as Kuala Lumpur was close enough for me to keep tabs on ongoing projects, however, I did have to scale down my involvement in my former second home. As hard as it was, I also had to sell off Casablanca and eventually found a ready buyer in a lady lawyer, who took it for a sum way below its actual value. Meanwhile, I moved into first a suite at the then five star Regent hotel and later bought a lovely house on Jalan Ampang Hilir, close to the Polo Club. Like my house in Singapore, this was an old villa, which I renovated in the classic Arab Moorish style. It had a fruit garden which attracted colourful birds that added gaiety to the house with their chirps and songs. The bank operated out of an office in the Hong Leong Finance Building on Jalan Tun Perak. We shared the same floor with Reuters. There were just the four of us in the beginning: me, the managing director; Betty Yeo, a Eurasian lady whom I employed as my personal assistant; the former general manager of Chartered Bank of Bahrain, whom I brought in to be our GM; and Trevor Rowe, an Australian corporate financier, who later became a leading banker in Sydney. Because of our connections with Tan Sri Ismail Ali and because I had met the

Prime Minister Tun Abduk Razak a couple of times, as well as Tan Sri Hussein Onn, the second Finance Minister after independence, we were given the kid glove treatment. Even before we had officially launched the bank, we received a surprise visit by Najib Razak, the current Prime Minister who was at the time public affairs manager at Petronas, the national oil corporation that was then under the helm of Tengku Razaleigh Hamzah, its first chairman. As our operations grew, we expanded very rapidly by employing able young Malaysians. Within a year, our office was too small for us and we moved across the road to Dato’ Zainal Building, where we rented the ground floor and seven other floors. Soon after, on April 1, 1976, we officially opened the bank. By this time, Tun Abdul Razak had passed away and Hussein Onn was the new Prime Minister, paving the way for Razaleigh to step into the position of Finance Minister. Within a year, we acquired 100 per cent shareholding in Malaysian Industrial Finance Company Limited, which we renamed Arab-Malaysian Finance Berhad. Arab-Malaysian Finance operated from the ground floor of our new home, and it is here that we took in deposits and lent money. The top floors were used to house our merchant banking arm, Arab Malaysia Development Bank, which was later renamed Arab Malaysia Merchant Bank. One of our early marketing innovations was the ‘camel bank’. I got the idea of this during our grand opening, which was attended by a number of ministers, who were mainly Malay. Seeing them, I was reminded of the fact that Malaysia is a predominantly Islamic country. This being the case, the piggy bank was unlikely to have been attractive to a large percentage of the population, especially those conservative Malays in kampongs (villages) who kept their money at home, probably under the mattress like my friend Isam. So I approached Johan from our advertising agency and asked if instead of the piggy bank, we could introduce a camel bank. They liked the idea, and we produced a series of different camels. They were a real hit. Everybody who opened an account got to choose a nice camel. But we limited it to one account, one camel, so some customers opened more than one account just to have more than one camel.

The Chinese, who are generally very superstitious, would come into the bank just to touch the camel, for luck. The camel came to represent a lucky mascot of sorts for Arab Malaysia. Until today, it’s the hallmark of the bank. When you ask people about Arab Malaysia, they almost invariably think about the camel. It really was an excellent choice of an animal in terms of branding because the camel is not only so typical of the Arab world, it is also an incredibly beautiful and graceful animal with amazingly resilient characteristics. Once we began the finance company, Arab Malaysia Finance, our growth in retail banking really took off. From a one-branch bank, we expanded across the country, setting up branches in all the major towns along the length and breadth of the peninsula as well as across the South China Sea in Sabah and Sarawak. We were constantly hiring new people and training them. Getting good recruits was always a problem but somehow we managed. Everyone worked hard, and the bank did well. While the camel brought us a lot of public deposits, I brought in a lot of public mandates. The first mandate was for the Malaysian Treasury, an RM400 million syndication under the leadership of Arab Malaysia. This was followed by a mandate from Malaysia Airlines, to whom we lent RM100 million to buy two DC10s to ply the Kuala LumpurLondon route. I was able to get these huge mandates easily because of various connections. Tan Sri Ismail, as Governor of the Central Bank, was also Chairman of MIDF, the holding company of Arab Malaysia Bank. Our Chairman, Raja Tan Sri Mohar, who was from Perak royalty, was chief advisor to Tun Razak, the previous Prime Minister and then also to his successor, Hussein Onn. Tan Sri Mohar was very soft-spoken and gentle and also very principled. Whenever the government wanted somebody it could trust implicitly in a strategic place, they would nominate him. In addition to being our chairman, he was also chairman of Malaysia Airlines and, later, Bank Islam. Given Arab Malaysia’s strong political ties, I was able to secure contracts with powerful government linked companies. Amongst the earliest big breaks for us was a mandate for US Dollars: 1.5 billion to build the Bintulu LNG plant for Petronas. For this mammoth project, we brought in Morgan Guaranty (now JP Morgan), Deutsche Bank, and a number of other international banks. This project put Arab Malaysia on the map of merchant banks. Within this niche, the bigger the mandate, the greater the status of the merchant bank.

To get ourselves known and respected, we by and large ignored the small businessmen—the traders and merchants—and instead went for the biggest and toughest clients. After Malaysia Airlines, the Treasury and Petronas, we got involved with Shell, Esso, and other top of the league companies in Malaysia. It didn’t take long for the financial markets in Kuala Lumpur and Singapore to sit up and take notice of Arab Malaysia. This young bank was certainly making waves.

CHAPTER 16

Arab Malaysia—a Rising Star in the East

In the early years of Arab Malaysia Bank, I got a call in Kuala Lumpur from the French Ambassador, informing me of a delegation of professors from INSEAD, the leading European business school based in Fontainebleau, France, who had arrived in Malaysia and were keen to meet me. Would I be able to set aside some time for such a meeting? I was intrigued and, of course, said yes. Sure enough, a few days later our bank resounded with the accented tones of a French-speaking contingent led by His Excellency, the Ambassador. He was accompanied by five others, all distinguished members of the INSEAD academic faculty. After exchanging pleasantries, the Ambassador introduced me to one of the leading lights of INSEAD, Professor Henri-Claude de Battignies, saying, ‘Mr Najadi, Prof Henri-Claude is very interested in the development of Asia, and when we read your op ed (opinion editorial) in the Asian Wall Street Journal, we felt we had to put the two of you together.’ In that article I had discussed ASEAN and argued that this consortium of Southeast Asian countries needed another dimension to become a real force to be reckoned with. I went so far as to say it should form links with the European Common Market because both ASEAN and the European countries would benefit a great deal from such an alliance. Both regions would be sufficiently fortified as to be able to counterbalance the political power and economic might of the United States and the emergence of a growing Japan. ‘I liked your statement that Europeans still nurture a colonial mentality. It may be harsh, and I’m sure it rankled with many people, but it is by and large true,’ said Prof Henri-Claude. ‘We have to learn to stop thinking like that.’ ‘Of course, ASEAN countries are not equal to European nations. They might not be equal partners exactly, but they can strengthen the position of the European

Common Market and I think this region is important to the future growth of Europe,’ I said. ‘We agree completely, Mr Najadi, which is why we have asked to see you,’ said Prof Henri-Claude. ‘We’d like to discuss how we can put this theory into practice. On paper, it looks easy enough—form a bridge between the European Common Market and ASEAN. But in practice, it’s not so easy to do because as you rightly point out our politicians, our industry leaders, and bankers are still living in the colonial era. I guess they can’t help it; most of them are old men in their sixties!’ I was absolutely delighted that representatives from an important country in the European Common Market (which later became the European Union)—France, its political leader—were in the small developing kampong of Kuala Lumpur to discuss a matter of global importance. These professors from INSEAD, situated about forty kilometres from Paris in the lovely forested area of Fontainebleau, where Napoleon used to have his hunting lodges and palaces, wanted to hear from me how to evolve the situation in the heart of old Europe. Addressing Prof Henri Claude, I said, ‘INSEAD is the Harvard of Europe. So why not start a Euro-Asia centre at INSEAD where you train future European managers and corporate leaders on Asian culture, Asian politics and development issues so that when they go out to Asia to manage the Asian divisions of their companies, they know what they’re doing?’ I elaborated that a Euro-Asia programme could easily be incorporated into the MBA curriculum offered at INSEAD, via this Euro-Asia centre. Basically, this centre would educate young, upcoming Europeans on all relevant aspects of Asia so they are properly equipped to deal with Asians and do business with Asia. ‘Maybe this centre can be funded on a fifty-fifty basis between leading corporations in Asia and Europe,’ I added. The delegation welcomed this suggestion and, before leaving, extended an official invitation to INSEAD. Its President, Olivier d’Estaing, brother of Giscard d’Estaing, President of the Republic of France and of the powerful Paris Chamber of Commerce and Industry, would receive me. A few weeks later, I took them up on their offer. Landing at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle Airport, I was met by a driver and taken to the Ritz—where on August

31, 1997, Princess Diana and Dodi al Fayed had their last supper before their fatal car ride. I stayed the night at this very same Parisian landmark. The next day, I was chauffeur-driven to Fontainebleau where I met the whole board of INSEAD. The academic luminaries said they had discussed my idea of a Euro-Asia centre and had in fact already decided to assemble a group of fifty leading industrialists and corporate players to become the founding members. Each founding member would contribute towards an endowment fund to support this centre. ‘As you had suggested, we aim to have 50 per cent representation of Europeans and 50 per cent Asians,’ Prof Henri-Claude said. He was leading this INSEAD initiative. ‘We’re going to launch a campaign soon to get our twenty-five European founding members. But we don’t have any connections in Asia. We were wondering if you could help us out.’ ‘To be sure,’ I replied. ‘It would be an honour. Could I suggest that you form a delegation and that I lead this delegation? I will make a list of all the leading companies in Asia which we could visit.’ Eventually, I led the INSEAD delegation to conglomerates in Asia with Prof Henri Claude. As they had said, the French discussed amongst themselves who to invite from the European multinationals. Both sides were successful; together, we managed to bring in powerful houses like Shell, Mitsubishi, Sony Corporation, BNP Paribas, Epson of Japan, Cathay Pacific, part of the John Swire Group of Hong Kong, Jardine Matheson, Deutsche Bank, and several multinational firms from Europe and Asia. The Euro-Asia Centre was established, with Arab Malaysia playing a central role. I was invited to sit on the executive board, without a single vote of dissension. This contributed to the evolution of Arab Malaysia, as Hussain Najadi was Arab Malaysia. We had made the transition from advising the oldest powerful family of the Roman empire to being on a board occupied by presidents of top corporations in Europe and Asia. This was without doubt my greatest achievement in 1978. The bank grew from strength to strength. One early feather in our cap that I remember distinctly was our first regional loan, that is our first loan to an ASEAN member nation other than Malaysia. This was to the government of the

Philippines. We spearheaded and then managed a syndicate of international as well as regional Arab banks in lending to the Philippine National Bank. I had visited Manila over the course of a number of years as a guest observer of the Asian Development Bank, but this was the first time I was getting personally involved in investment and financing in the country. Philippine’s Finance Minister Cesar Virata (who later became Prime Minister) and the Minister of Trade and Industry Bobby Ong were good friends of mine. After the successful completion of the deal for the Philippine National Bank, they arranged for me to pay a courtesy call on President Marcos, who had instructed he wanted to thank me for the country’s first loan from the Arab capital market. During this meeting, Marcos turned to his Finance Minister and said, ‘Cesar, why don’t we ask Mr Najadi to form an Arab Philippine Development Bank, similar to what he has done in Kuala Lumpur? The concept of a local development bank with links to Arab countries is brilliant. We have many development projects we want to initiate, and they have the money to finance them.’ Cesar looked at me and asked, ‘What do you think, Hussain? Could that work?’ I turned to Marcos to reply. ‘With all due respect, Mr President, although I agree it’s a good idea, it’s too early for us to start a second development bank in Asia. Arab Malaysian Bank is still very young and comparatively small.’ ‘We are devoting all our energies to growing the bank in Malaysia as well as consolidating our operations in Bahrain. We’re also in the process of partnering with a financial institution in London,’ I said. ‘If you permit, allow me to come back to you on this in a few months or even in a year or two, when I’m sure we will be stronger in terms of capital funding and managerial capabilities.’ ‘At the moment, we have spread ourselves much too thin. We’re growing very fast and we simply don’t have the capital or manpower to manage another country in ASEAN. But I thank you for your faith in our abilities, and I will come back to you when we feel we can do the job.’ In actual fact, I was wary of doing anything in the Philippines because of

Marcos’ wife, Imelda. She was a force of destruction that was best given a wide berth. It was she who controlled much that was going on. I was willing to bet my last dollar that the first applicant for a loan—and a huge loan at that—would have been the indomitable, inimitable Imelda Marcos. But of course I couldn’t say as much to her husband the President. I was in fact to meet the woman whose reputation preceded her that very evening. Imelda had organised a grand reception at the Palace for all the bankers involved in the loan to the central bank. During the cultural extravaganza that showcased Filipino talent in all its glory, the First Lady turned to me, smiling, and said, ‘Don’t you think we’re blessed with the most beautiful women in the world?’ Turning to the stage, she continued, ‘Look at these dancers. Just look at how beautiful they are.’ In truth, they were very attractive. ‘Yes, you’re right. There’s no doubt they are very beautiful, but do you know the reason?’ She started. ‘What do you mean? Why?’ ‘As you yourself have mentioned a few times, you have links with the Spanish (most Filipinos, even the political leaders, are very proud of their mixed European-Asian lineage). The Spanish came here, married the locals, and the result of these mixed marriages are all these beautiful, elegant women. There has been a lot of intermingling of Spanish and Americans with Chinese and Japanese blood in your country over a period of three hundred or four hundred years.’ Imelda nodded in agreement. She herself is of Spanish, Chinese, and Filipino blood, and was one of these beautiful products of mixed bloodlines. When Marcos became President of the Philippines in 1965, she was considered to be the most beautiful First Lady the country had seen. I could see in her perfectly made-up face she was waiting to hear the point I was about to make. So I continued, ‘But allow me to say that we Arabs beautified Spain for over seven hundred years before they came to beautify the Philippines!’ Not just Imelda, but everybody on our table burst into laughter. Mrs Marcos, our gracious host, was so delighted she stood up holding her glass of champagne and toasted to me. That was the first and last time I ever encountered Mr and Mrs Marcos.

A year or so later, I received an invitation to a lavish birthday party that Imelda was organising for Marcos. However, I was ‘indisposed’ at the time and had to turn down this invitation. As it turned out, that decision saved me my life. The story evolved like this: In August 1978, Arab Malaysian Bank launched the first ever floating rate note issue (FRN) in Malaysia. I had gone to Abu Dhabi, the emerging capital of United Arab Emirates, and talked to one of the leading bankers there, Majdi AlTanamli, an American citizen of Egyptian origin. Majdi, who was then CEO of the Abu Dhabi Investment Company, an arm of the Abu Dhabi Investment Authority (ADIA), now the richest sovereign fund in the Middle East. After lengthy discussions, drinking copious cups of Arabic coffee and eating biscuits, Majdi finally got the agreement of the Chairman of the ADIA to underwrite, manage, and place Malaysia’s first merchant bank FRN in dollars. This was effectively ADIA’s first entry into Asia, and one of many firsts that we accomplished at Arab Malaysian Bank. We were always taking the country by surprise. No Malaysian merchant bank, indeed no Malaysian bank in general, had placed its medium or long-term bonds or notes outside Malaysia. Only the Government had done that and, again, it was Arab Malaysian Bank that underwrote and managed the Government’s first DM100 million bonds. This time, we were placing our own bonds overseas, and we were nothing near as powerful or as rich as the Government; in fact, we were merely a ‘teenyweeny bank’, as many referred to us. Yet we had the clout to launch this floating rate note (FRN), to the absolute delight of Bank Negara and the Ministry of Finance. Majdi came himself with a team of lawyers and auditors to Kuala Lumpur to carry out their due diligence. When this was completed without any hitch, I said to Majdi we deserved a vacation. As he was already in Malaysia, I chose Tioman, off Malaysia’s east coast, once nominated one of the world’s ten most beautiful islands. Some scenes of the Hollywood musical South Pacific were filmed here. ‘What about my family in Abu Dhabi?’ he asked. ‘Fly them over. Bring them along,’ I said. The timing coincided with Pascal’s summer school holidays, so it was perfect. Pascal and Heidi were also there. Tioman in the late 1970s was practically undeveloped. The only hotel on the

island was the Merlin. There were no telephones, no TV, no communication with the outside world. We had a lovely time, fishing, swimming, and snorkelling. On our third day there, while we were on the beach, we noticed a speedboat approaching from the direction of the mainland. A young Malay man was at its helm. When he got to the beach, he jumped off the boat, pulled it ashore, and approached us, saying he was looking for Hussain Najadi. ‘That’s me,’ I told him. ‘How can I help you?’ ‘You have an urgent message, sir. From your office in Kuala Lumpur. They sent it to the Hotel Merlin office in Mersing,’ he said, handing over a piece of memo pad on which the following message had been scribbled: ‘Mr Najadi, Imelda Marcos has invited you to the 61st birthday party of Ferdinand Marcos in Laoag City, north of Philippines and the birthplace of the President, on September 11. You need to RSVP in two days. Can you attend? Betty Yeo.’ Betty was my secretary at Arab Malaysian Bank. I took a pen from Majdi and scribbled my reply, ‘Betty, regrets. Have gone fishing. Hussain.’ I gave the boy some money and told him to communicate this message to Betty. My message bearer left and our party continued with our wonderful vacation uninterrupted. After nine glorious days in Tioman, I returned to work. When I entered the Arab Malaysian Bank headquarters, I noticed everyone was looking at me strangely— even Betty. Entering my own room, I noticed a newspaper clipping on the desk. The article was about a plane crash in which guests to President Marcos’ birthday celebration in Laoag City had been killed when the private plane carrying them back to Manila hit a storm. There were only six survivors and thirty-three dead. I said to myself, God is with me. If I had received that invitation on an ordinary working day, when I was in my office, I would in all likelihood have replied in the affirmative. Once again, I remembered my dear mum’s prayers. My guests Majdi and his family, Heidi and Pascal were still with me. To celebrate my second escape from the clutches of death, I threw a small party at my new home in Ampang Hilir, a popular residential area on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur.

At the party, I announced to my astonished guests what the occasion was. After reading all the related news stories, I gathered that Marcos’ party had gone to Laoag City, where they had enjoyed the super lavish birthday party, and were put up in a plush resort for three days. On September 14, two planes left Laoag City to return to Manila—one for Marcos’ immediate family; the other for the guests. What struck everyone as particularly strange was that Marcos’ son, Ferdinand Jr, had got onto the second plane—for guests—and was asked to disembark. The first plane, with the Marcos family, had already taken off but was radio-ed to return to Laoag City Airport to pick up Ferdinand. Both planes then departed for Manila. The twin turboprop Fokker F27 carrying the guests went straight into a storm just outside Manila, is thought to have been hit by lightning, whereupon it plunged into some houses and finally exploded in a shallow fishpond. So I had escaped death—for the second time in my life—by celebrating Arab Malaysian Bank’s FRN-launch success with Majdi and our families in Tioman. Time passed. The bank was doing well. Then, in 1980, the first Iran-Iraq war erupted, engulfing Persia which was only just emerging from its own internal Islamic revolution of 1979. While it is now generally accepted that Saddam Hussein initiated this eight year bloodbath, some earlier accounts implied the war began with Iran attacking Iraq. These arose out of general fears of the spread of Islamic fundamentalism which had overtaken Iran. The Americans, Europeans as well as Saudis and Kuwaitis, although they didn’t like Saddam Hussein, backed him financially, politically, and militarily to keep the Iranian revolution within its borders. When the war broke out, I got a call from Mohamad al Aradi, who was director of the office of the ruler of Kuwait. By now, my old friend Sheikh Jaber had become the ruler. Mohamad told me that his highness Sheikh Jaber wanted to meet me as soon as possible. I noticed a sense of urgency in Mohamad’s voice, so I said I would fly there the next day. I was picked up at the airport and carted off to the new luxurious Sheraton Kuwait. At nine the following morning, I was met by the driver again and taken this time to Seif Palace, an old Moorish-style palace on the shores of the Persian Gulf, where the ruler lived and conducted his official duties. Sheikh Jaber was pleased, I thought perhaps even relieved, to see me. After greeting me, he came

to the point of my visit. Scratching his goatee, he said, ‘Hussain, I called you here because you’re now a leading figure in banking. You’re advising multinationals, you have made political connections in Singapore and Malaysia. You have strong connections with Europe too. You’ve come a long way since I first met you in the early sixties.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘You’re of Persian background, but you are an Arab citizen,’ he continued, in an earnest voice. ‘In fact, you are a son of the world, you’re a worldly man with a worldly outlook. Because of your experience of the world, and no doubt your wide-ranging knowledge, I want your opinion on the war.’ ‘The Iran-Iraq war?’ I asked. ‘Yes. What do you think will be the consequence of this war? Where do you think it will end and what will happen to us, who are immediate neighbours of Iraq? We have a long border with Iraq, as you know, and this war makes me, indeed it makes everyone, very nervous.’ ‘I can understand that.’ ‘While Saddam Hussein is Arab and we feel we should support our Arab brothers, we’re not happy with many of the things he has done.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘At the same time, we see a young Islamic revolution which threatens to be exported outside the borders of Iran. We are also concerned about that. So you see we’re caught between the devil and the blue sea.’ This was the first time Sheikh Jaber had asked for my advice on a non-financial matter. This Arab ruler was, in fact, seeking political advice. Honoured, I answered him to the best of my ability. ‘There can be no doubt that Saddam is the aggressor in this war,’ I said. ‘The Iranians have just come out of a revolution, and although I can understand your anxiety concerning this revolution, you must not forget that for centuries Iran has

not gone beyond its borders to attack any country. ‘The history of Iranian shahs has been confined to their borders for past hundred to two hundred years. So I honestly don’t see any real threat of Iranian expansion to the Gulf or Iraq. On the other hand, we have to watch this cruel dictator of Iraq.’ From my point of view, Kuwait needed to concern itself with what Saddam would do were he to be successful in his campaign against Iran. ‘Even if he’s half successful, it would be enough for him. He would have money pouring in from Kuwait because you’ve been blackmailed into lending Iraq huge sums of money, I know. I also know that Saudi Arabia, the United States, and France have also been supporting him with funds, weapons, and other valuable assets. Saddam’s been using the Iranian revolution as his winning ticket to obtain political goodwill from almost everyone, from the Americans to the Europeans and even many within Arabia. I think this will inflate his sense off self-worth and he will feel empowered to not only teach Iran a lesson but also to try and annex countries to the south of Iraq. Sheikh Jaber was by now looking extremely pensive. South of Iraq lie Kuwait, Saudi, and the rest of the Gulf. My analysis of Saddam’s speeches had led me to believe he saw himself as another Salahuddin, the famous twelfth century Kurdish Turkish leader who came out of Egypt to liberate Palestine and Egypt from the crusaders. Or he saw himself as the Napoleon of Arabia. He had once ominously referred to the Gulf states as ‘temporary states’. ‘Kuwait is a former province of Basrah (Iraq) and you are the nearest target,’ I continued. ‘If he gets Iran, he will be the most powerful man in the Middle East, and Kuwait will fall within twenty-four hours. If he loses Iran, he will try the next easiest target, which again is Kuwait,’ I said. ‘Either way—whether Iraq wins the war or not—Kuwait would still be vulnerable. Given either outcome, Kuwait’s existence and your rule is in danger.’ I got the feeling that my opinion was not entirely new or shocking to Sheikh Jaber. It was as if he had feared the very same, but wanted to hear it from someone distanced enough from the Middle East to have a more objective, clear view. ‘I don’t trust this man Saddam. You have to be wary of him,’ I said grimly.

The atmosphere during our twenty-minute meeting up to that point had been very sober. As much as I would have liked not to have pronounced my dark sentiments, I owed Sheikh Jaber my openness and honesty. To lighten the mood, and to give him a positive action to carry out, I said to Sheikh Jaber that it would be in his interest to diversify the assets of the country as much as possible. ‘Go East, sir,’ I said, repeating the advice I had given him previously. ‘Perhaps you should consider an official visit to Malaysia. I could arrange for you to meet the Prime Minister and the Agung (King) as well. In difficult times such as this, you need friends. Malaysia is ideal. It’s an Islamic country and a rapidly developing country.’ Sheikh Jaber nodded and said he would think about it and let me know his decision through his brother, the Foreign Minister who is now, as I’m writing, the current ruler of Kuwait. Sheikh Jaber hated to travel by air, and that acted as a strong deterrent to taking me up on my suggestion. Upon leaving Sheikh Jaber’s office, I passed the French Foreign Minister and the French Ambassador at the reception. The Foreign Minister was visiting with a message from the President of France. He looked at me, I said bonjour, we shook hands and exchanged names, then I walked out. In my mind, I thought to myself Sheikh Jaber must see me as an equal to someone as important as the French Foreign Minister. At a turbulent time such as this, he had chosen to see me even before meeting the French dignitary. Elated, I returned to the hotel. I had informed my friends of my lightning visit, and all of them came to see me that evening, including Suleiman. It was wonderful catching up with this group. Every time we met, even if it was after a few months, it was as if we had never parted. There was always that strong feeling of camaraderie and closeness. I went to sleep feeling a sense of accomplishment at having advised the ruler, and of well-being, having met and reconnected with my good friends. The next morning, that sense of well-being was totally shattered. As always, one of the first things I did upon waking was to read the papers. At the hotel, we were provided with the leading Arab national daily paper, Al Watan, as well as the second most widely read daily in Kuwait, the Al Syassah. On the front page of Al Watan, there was a short new piece with my photograph, saying I was in

Kuwait on a secret mission and that the only person I was visiting was the ruler. The article went on to say no one knew the purpose of my visit, but added that I was leaving for Malaysia that afternoon. Of course, it made me extremely proud to have been given front page news. But the second I flipped the page, my heart sank. I saw on page two a photo of Sheikh Khalifa, the ruler of Bahrain, who apparently had arrived with half of his cabinet, also to visit Sheikh Jaber. My heart almost stopped. My god, I could just imagine what would go through his mind when he saw me, this troublemaker poor boy from the bazaars, on the front page whereas he, the powerful ruler of Bahrain, had been relegated to the second page. It was a potentially explosive situation. I knew Sheikh Khalifa was staying at the Guest Palace. I immediately called the Palace and asked to speak to one of his ministers, Yusuf al Sherawi, the late Minister of Industries and Oil. ‘Yusuf, what do you know, I am here in Kuwait,’ I said, keeping my voice as light and breezy as possible. Perhaps he hadn’t read the papers yet. ‘Yes, we know,’ he replied, his tone friendly enough but tentative, cautious, not at all light-hearted the way he usually was with me. ‘You’re all over the papers. We know you’re here.’ ‘God, Yusuf, I had no idea this was going to happen,’ I tried to explain. ‘Do you think it’s advisable for me to come and pay a courtesy visit to the Prime Minister?’ ‘I don’t know, Hussain. I will tell him that you wish to see him, but I doubt you will get an audience.’ That was the third clash between the ruler of Bahrain and me. I returned to Kuala Lumpur and, a couple of weeks later, received a call from the director of Sheikh Jaber’s office, giving me the date of arrival of His Highness, the ruler of Kuwait, to Malaysia’s capital city. At the time, Kuwait had no embassy, no emissary in Malaysia. They had only one ambassador in the East, and he was in Tokyo. They asked this Ambassador, Ahmad Al-Gaith to come to Kuala Lumpur the same time that Sheikh Jaber and his twenty-man delegation were to be in the country. I received them all at Subang Airport. This was the first visit of a ruler from Kuwait east of the Suez, that is to Asia. He arrived on

his private Boeing 727 and spent three days in Kuala Lumpur. I had arranged a full programme of receptions and discussions with the Malaysian King, Prime Minister, Minister of Finance, and Governor of The Central Bank. There were a couple of significant outcomes of this trip, one being the sale of the former official residence in Kuala Lumpur of Tun Mustapha, the first Governor of the Malaysian state of Sabah, to the Kuwait administration for use of their embassy in Malaysia. This property in central Kuala Lumpur had first been taken over by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs as a guest house for visiting foreign dignitaries. Members of the Kuwaiti delegation themselves stayed at this stately home. Second, a Kuwait-Malaysia investment company was formed as a joint venture between the Kuwaiti Ministry of Finance and the Government of Malaysia as a second leg of an Arab presence in the economy of Malaysia. This in turn led to Kuwaiti ownership of another piece of land on which the five-star Hotel Istana now stands. When Dr Mahathir Mohamad became Prime Minister of Malaysia in 1981, he was keen to build upon the ties that had been developed with countries of the Gulf. I had the honour of meeting him a couple of times during the very early days of his premiership, mostly at public functions held at hotels and other venues regularly used for VIP meetings. One day, though, I got a call from his personal secretary requesting my presence at the Pejabat Perdana Menteri (the official Prime Minister’s Department) on Jalan Kuching (this was before the new administrative capital was built in Putrajaya—one of Dr Mahathir’s legacies). It was the very same office I had been to, to visit the previous Prime Ministers Tun Razak and Tun Hussein Onn. In fact, Dr Mahathir had inherited Tun Hussein Onn’s office—a very simple, functional office with modest furniture. At our appointed meeting, he quickly broached the reason he had summoned me. ‘Hussain, I would like to make an official visit to the Arab Gulf countries. I’d like to go to Kuwait, Bahrain, Saudi, and the UAE,’ he said. ‘That’s wonderful. I’m glad to hear that,’ I said, meaning it. ‘We’ve brought Sheikh Jaber, the ruler of Kuwait, here. We’ve brought Sheikh Khalifa, the ruler of Bahrain. We’ve brought various ministers of finance from the Gulf, Sheikh Zaki Amani of Saudi to Malaysia . . . so it would be good if you make an official

visit.’ ‘That’s why I called you here. I’d like to discuss my trip with you. We have posted an ambassador, as you know, in Kuwait. But I’d like you to do the groundwork for me before my visit. You’d be the best person to do all the preparatory work.’ ‘I would be honoured,’ I said. ‘But you need to tell me the main reason for your visit. There must be something on your mind, something you’d like to achieve at the end of it.’ ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ll tell you what I want to achieve. I want to establish an international Islamic University in Malaysia. A top university meeting international standards that will attract the brightest students from all over the world who are interested in Islamic culture, politics, history . . . All our best students are sent abroad and many don’t return. Why should we always send our children to Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard, Yale, Monash? Why not establish a world-class university here in KL? This is a country with a tremendous dream and tremendous potential. It’s an Islamic country but a progressive Islamic country. We can attract future leaders here, captains of industry, doctors, engineers, intellectuals. We will train them at our Islamic university.’ Dr Mahathir was very animated, very genuine in his desire to create what could best be described as a modern Al-Azhar, the thousand-year-old theological university in Cairo which till today enjoys the reputation of being one of the best institutions of Islamic study in the world. Students from all over are sent by the governments of their home countries to undertake Islamic studies, mostly on scholarship. It wasn’t at all surprising that Dr Mahathir should have aspirations of building an educational establishment of repute, given that he was formerly a Minister of Education. In fact, I liked his idea very much and said so. ‘Sir, if you can provide a good location for the university, I don’t think you will have any problems raising the funds. But the university must be independent, preferably not under the Ministry of Education. It should be created by a separate act of parliament,’ I said. ‘And to reflect its international stature, its curriculum should be taught in English as well as Arabic.’

‘Yes, yes! That’s exactly what I have in mind,’ Dr Mahathir said, pleased that we were thinking along the same lines. ‘If you can assure me of a suitable plot of land for the university, I will be the first to contribute. I have been given this option of shares of Arab Malaysia which is going public, it’s a considerable sum of money. I will allocate that as my personal contribution to this good cause. I agree that Asia should have a world-class university. Why not Malaysia?’ I said. In fact, the shares that I handed over to Dr Mahathir represented the only savings I had. It was my payment from the bank in lieu of a hefty bonus and ran into millions. ‘Great!’ Dr Mahathir said. He was very pleased. ‘But I need more than your share of the investment. I need you to make a trip to the Middle East and sound out the idea to those who would be interested in investing in the university. Perhaps then we can meet in Bahrain, and you can brief me on how well this idea was received. You pave the way in for me.’ Soon after, I flew to the Gulf on Dr Mahathir’s mission. As requested, I tested the idea of an international Islamic university with a number of government officials from the various Gulf countries. Then, as Dr Mahathir had suggested, we met up in Bahrain. As the Prime Minister of Malaysia, he was put up at the Guest Palace, reserved for the highest ranking officials on state visits. Dr Mahathir is a man of infinite energy. Although it was early in the morning after his arrival in Bahrain just the night before, he was bright as a lark and ready for heavy-duty talks. I briefed him in detail about my advance trip, reporting that most of the sheikhs and leaders whom I had discussed the idea of the university thought it was a good idea. They viewed it in very positive light and indicated a keen interest in being part of this development. ‘I’m almost certain you will not encounter much resistance if you were to approach these leaders yourself . . .,’ I said, ‘except in Bahrain.’ ‘Why? Why not Bahrain?’ Dr Mahathir asked, intrigued. Here he was in Bahrain, received with an outward show of great hospitality and courtesy, yet I was warning him against the very same hosts who were treating him so well.

‘Although I’m Bahraini, I’m not representative of the current government of my country, I’m afraid,’ I replied, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. ‘They are still mired in their colonial mentality. Bahrain may be an independent country . . . on paper . . . but in fact, the presence and influence of the British is still very strong. Their chief of intelligence is a Scotsman, Ian Henderson. He has a very strong presence in the police and in the military. In fact, you can say he rules the country. ‘Bahrain is more like a suburb of Birmingham or Manchester rather than an independent country,’ I said with a wry laugh. ‘But don’t worry, I’m happy to contribute to the university and you can take that as a contribution from Bahrain.’ Dr Mahathir accepted my explanation and left it at that. Till today, I have grave doubts about that conversation. Although I cannot say it with absolute certainty, I believe the room in which we had this meeting was bugged by the Britishcontrolled intelligence service I was cautioning Dr Mahathir about. Given the events that soon unfolded, I have strong reason to believe ‘they’ were listening to our conversation. Dr Mahathir went on to visit leaders in various Gulf countries and managed to get contributions for the University from Kuwait and Saudi, later Abu Dhabi, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Turkey, and others. He also managed to secure a huge tract of land in Gombak, on the outskirts of metropolitan Kuala Lumpur where the International Islamic University of Malaysia was built. It opened its doors to Islamic scholars from all over the world in 1983. As I had forewarned Dr Mahathir, Bahrain—despite all its ‘we shall consider’, ‘we shall see’ pleasantries—never weighed in with any contribution. I remained the only investor from Bahrain. It was around this time, in 1981, as CEO of Arab Malaysia, I was invited to attend the Davos Economic Symposium in Switzerland. This was the annual gathering of world leaders—politicians, captains of industry, bankers, and intellectuals—in the beautiful village of Davos. Later, its founder Professor Klaus Schwab would change its name to the World Economic Forum (today, WEF is second only to the United Nations in terms of profile and importance). All leaders of the world attend the WEF. I had met Prof Schwab briefly during a

lunch with my lawyer in Geneva. Prof. Schwab, who was Professor of Business Policy at the University of Geneva, was a friend of his. During this lunch I had talked about my involvement in Asia, and the professor was very taken by some of the initiatives I had brought about. However, it was still a huge surprise—and a delightful one at that—when he asked me to chair the first gathering of developing countries of the WEF in Davos. I was very proud and happy to even be considered for this role and did my best to make it a success. I managed to bring in Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi of India, Tengku Ahmad Rithauddeen Ismail, Foreign Minister of Malaysia, the Prime Minister of Lebanon, the Governor of the Saudi Arabian Monetary Agency (SAMA), which acted as the central bank of Saudi Arabia, and many other prominent leaders from the region. I chaired this first Davos Economic Symposium meeting between the North and South and remained a member of the organisation until 1985. That’s when disaster struck.

CHAPTER 17

Disaster Strikes . . . Seven Years in Prison

Before launching into my personal annus horribilis in 1985, let me provide some background information. In 1982, I decided to exit the Malaysian banking scene. I sold all my shares of Arab Malaysian Bank to Azman Hashim, who was at the time Executive Director of Malayan Banking. I felt restricted operating within the regulatory parameters in Malaysia. Merchant banks in the country were not allowed to borrow in US dollars, hence could not fund themselves in the global currency. Because of this, we had from the beginning set up a Bahrain branch of Arab Malaysian Bank. It functioned as an offshore branch, collecting dollar deposits, which could then be channelled into investments or projects of Arab Malaysian clients from anywhere. I decided to concentrate my efforts in this bank, which had greater potential for lending and financing, not just to projects in Malaysia but those in the region. Countries like China and the Philippines were already seeking funds and became our early clients. Later, as a result of changes in local regulations, all branches of foreign banks in Bahrain had to be incorporated as local banks. So we were the first Asian bank to open an offshore branch in the emerging financial centre of Bahrain, which we later renamed Arab Asian Bank. This was appropriate as we were now lending to a broader base of Asian, as opposed to Malaysian, clients. I became chairman of the bank, based in Bahrain. We had also, around 1983, acquired United City Merchant (UCM), a public listed company based in London. We wanted a licence for taking deposits in London to give us more funds and had been advised that it was best to buy an old trading company with a subsidiary licence. UCM fit the bill nicely. It had a very small subsidiary called CE Coates, a licensed deposit taking company. With its acquisition, we thus managed to kill two birds with one stone—we inherited a trading arm plus a deposit taking arm in London. Of course, we had to get the approval of the Bank of England; once

that came through we were the new owners of UCM, taking over from the Russian Jewish Susnov family, who had been aided by the august house of Rothschilds. Also as part of our international expansion, we went to the Hong Kong Monetary Authority to obtain a licence for a deposit taking company, which we called Arab Asia International Hong Kong. With all these acquisitions and expansions, I found myself travelling constantly between Malaysia, Hong Kong, Singapore, Bahrain, London, and Geneva on many missions. Either I was further developing the young Arab Malaysia Bank or I was attending one international conference or another. I was also receiving numerous invitations to speak at institutions and was becoming, though unpaid, a close advisor to some of the leading ruling dignitaries and politicians in the region. In a sense, I was riding very high. Perhaps too high because the Bahrain Government could not help but notice that this poor boy from the bazaar was becoming an international figure . . . much to the chagrin of its top leaders. It must have truly riled them to read references to me as the Henry Kissinger of Arabia. One fine day in January 1985, I got a call from the infamous chief of intelligence, the young Scotsman Ian Henderson. He was very flattering. ‘Hussain, it’s so wonderful to have you back here in Bahrain,’ he said. ‘Everybody is talking about you. You’re something of a national hero. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you before and was wondering if you could drop by at my office for a quick chat. I know you must be busy, so I won’t take up too much of your time. Just five minutes. What do you say?’ This was the first time that the head of intelligence, seconded by the MI5 of Britain, was calling me for an appointment. Despite the flattery, I certainly did not take it as a good omen. At the same time, I felt compelled to oblige. One did not step on the toes of Ian Henderson, even lightly. ‘Sure, Ian. Let me know when and at what time,’ I said. Henderson gave me an appointment for the following morning at ten. Accordingly, I made my way to the old fort where as a youth I had been detained many times and later where I had visited Sheikh Tahnoun, that famous Minister. Now, I was there to meet the invisible hand that was ruling Bahrain. The

nationalists called him ‘the butcher’. A number of young, impassioned Bahrainis were imprisoned, tortured, and died in his jail. This was not someone you messed around with. Henderson greeted me in a very friendly manner. ‘Hussain,’ he said, extending is hand. ‘Finally, I get to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. In fact, I’ve kept track of your amazing journey from the time you were just a young boy in Manama. You are such a source of inspiration for so many young Bahrainis. We’re all so proud of you.’ ‘Thank you. You’re being too kind,’ I managed. I was wondering where this conversation was going to take us. ‘You have achieved so much Hussain, and what’s more, all by yourself. You’re a self-made man. Bahrain needs people like you.’ ‘Well, I am here now. I’ve been based here for the last three years,’ I said. ‘I know, I know, and we’re very glad that you’ve done so. In the last three years, you have been in the papers constantly, arranging transactions, negotiating deals, representing Bahrain at international conferences . . . Very impressive, Hussain. Very impressive. In fact, you have impressed us so much, I would like to nominate you as Minister of Finance of Bahrain,’ he said, pausing to look at me for effect. ‘Are you inclined to accept this position?’ ‘This is very sudden. I’m not sure what to say,’ I muttered. I was genuinely taken by surprise. A little part of me did yield to the temptation of high office; I have to admit while the rest of me said NO. ‘If you say yes, I will go straight to the Prime Minister’s office and give him the good news. Needless to say, we have already discussed this and we both feel you would be perfect for the job, what with all your international banking and financial experience.’ Finally, I said, ‘Ian, believe me when I say I would like to contribute to my country. But I feel I’m already doing the best that I can, with the banking and advisory work I’m involved in. I cannot accept your offer as I’m fully engaged internationally in London, Geneva, Davos, Fontainebleau, Bahrain, Malaysia, Hong Kong, the Philippines . . . I have too many commitments. Recently, I’ve even been asked by the foreign committee of the US Senate to appear in

Washington DC to discuss America’s policy towards the Middle East. ‘Besides, Ian,’ I added, rashly. ‘You know that this government of the Al-Khalifa is totally corrupt, from top to bottom.’ The second I said that, I knew I had made a grave mistake. The cordial atmosphere changed in an instant. I could almost feel a sudden chill in the room. Henderson looked at me with his piercing blue eyes, and said softly, deliberately, ‘Hussain, I can make all of this come to nothing. I can turn it all into ash. Believe me, I can make it happen. You’ve forgotten who you really are.’ I was alarmed. There was real menace in his whole being—his voice, his body, the way he was looking at me. To myself, I said how could I possibly join a government that was asking me to choose between marching to their orders or to my grave? How could I devote my intellect and sense of belonging to someone who threatens to turn my entire life’s work into nothing? This was not an invitation, it was a blatant threat. Seeing that I was not about to change my mind, Henderson got up and said, ‘Thank you, Hussain, I believe our conversation is over. You may leave now.’ I was not aware of it at the time, but no doubt this conversation had been taped. It set the stage for the disaster that was about to happen. I made my exit from the fort as quickly as I could, got into my car, and drove straight to my Arab Asian Bank office. The meeting had chilled me to the bones. It was in no uncertain terms a portent of danger. I had never had the misfortune of meeting Henderson before but I could understand now why certain people called him a master of torture, a butcher. He hadn’t butchered me physically . . . yet . . . but he had slashed all hopes of my living with a peaceful mind in my motherland. To think that he harboured even the slightest hope I would agree to becoming a part of this corrupt, authoritarian regime that had imprisoned not only me but many other of Bahrain’s best sons and daughters! Although I was shaken, I did not say a word about my encounter with Henderson to anyone except my closest family members in Bahrain, entreating them not to speak about it to anyone from outside the walls of their homes. Four months passed without any serious repercussions. I did not hear from Henderson again. I did not hear from anyone within the top echelons of the country. The lull was deceptive. It turned out to be the calm before the storm.

In April 1985, during our monthly Arab Asian Bank board meeting, attended by all our shareholders, the long-standing ‘problem’ we had with our loan to that His Excelleny Sheikh Tahnoun, was aired . . . once again. This was in fact the first loan that Arab Asian had given out, in 1976, for the construction of Diplomat Tower, the tallest mixed housing and office tower then in Bahrain. It was for the sum of 20 million Bahrain dinars (about US$55 million). The board had approved it because I recommended it. Also, we had thought this would serve to link us to the ruling family, put us in a good position with them, just as I had done with INTEREIT and Sheikh Jaber before. Only, then, Sheikh Jaber had come in as an investor, whereas now Sheikh Tahnoun came in as a begging borrower. We did not want to get into the bad books of the ruling family of Bahrain, therefore for nine years we had just sent reminders through messengers for them to pay interest on the loan or to repay the capital. However, no funds were forthcoming. The bank did not have any obvious channel of recourse as there were no strict rules on non-performing loans. Because our interest was set at 2 per cent above that of the London Interbank Offered Rate (Libor), which was 18 per cent, it came up to 20 per cent. For a loan that had not been serviced for nine years, the interest was easily something like 200 per cent of the capital. In the case of Sheikh Tahnoun’s loan, it had ballooned to roughly 40 million dinars, close to US$110 million. We were asked for the first time by our auditor what to do with this loan. The auditor felt it was time to qualify the account. ‘Either we write-off this loan or we exercise our right under the mortgage and auction off the building legally to repay the loan,’ he said. ‘Writing it off is not an option,’ said Karim, the Egyptian General Manager of the bank. ‘We would go under. It would wipe out our entire capital base.’ ‘What do you suggest we do?’ I asked. ‘We have no choice. It’s been nine years. If we continue pussyfooting like this, it can go on for another nine years. We will lose our credibility. As it is, people are wondering at our inability to recoup this loan,’ said the auditor, Krishnan, from Price Waterhouse, Bahrain. ‘I suggest that we write a letter demanding payment or auction,’ said Karim.

‘What’s to guarantee Sheikh Tahnoun will respond to the letter?’ asked Omar, one of our shareholders. ‘He hasn’t so far. Why should that change?’ ‘This time, we will send the letter personally, from one of us,’ Karim said. ‘OK. Who?’ asked Omar. ‘Who’s going to agree to go to Sheikh Tahnoun like a lamb to the slaughter?’ Karim turned to look at me. ‘Hussain, since you were the once who recommended this loan, will you hand over the letter?’ ‘I didn’t realise I was digging my grave at the time,’ I said. ‘I guess it’s time I lie in it now. Yes, OK, I’ll do it.’ Our legal counsel, the Bahrain branch of the credible Norton Rose of London, wrote a letter demanding that Sheikh Tahnoun either pay the loan or the bank would auction his property. The letter was typed, signed, and handed over to me to take personally to Sheikh Tahnoun. The next day, I called his office and arranged to see him at the Fort. When I walked in, he was all cordiality and smiles. ‘Hussain, my friend. How have you been? We haven’t seen you for a while. Jetsetting here and there, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Yes, it has been quite hectic over the last few months. We’re trying to set up our branch in Hong Kong, as you know, and I’ve been attending a few conferences in Europe,’ I replied. ‘Ah, what a life! Bahrain’s top banker,’ he said. ‘So tell me, what can I do for you. You’re a very busy man. No doubt this is more than a social visit.’ ‘Actually, Sheikh Tahnoun, I have come to present you with a letter from the board of Arab Asian,’ I said, handing over the letter, which was in an envelope. ‘Oh?’ he asked, barely concealing his surprise. ‘What’s this letter about?’ He tore open the envelope and read the contents. His face changed. It turned red. ‘What is this, Hussain? What is this?’ He was enraged and completely disbelieving. ‘Sheikh Tahnoun, this loan has been outstanding for the past nine years,’ I said as calmly and as politely as I could. ‘The board of directors is merely asking for

a repayment.’ ‘Yes, but what is this clause that if I don’t pay within ten days, the building will be auctioned? Surely this is a joke.’ ‘No, it’s not. The board is very serious. They have waited nine years, sir. The liquidity of our bank is endangered by this loan. We cannot let the situation go on.’ ‘We or do you mean you?’ he asked, furious. ‘You own the bank. You are the Chairman. If you say so, the loan can be written off.’ ‘No, sir. The bank belongs to the shareholders. And if no payment is coming or if you do not present a repayment schedule acceptable to the bank, the situation will get out of my hand. It’ll end up in court for auctioning of your building.’ He got up. Shaking his head, he said, ‘How dare you come to me with this letter and speak to me like this? No Bahraini ever born in this country has addressed me in this way.’ He approached me and shouted, ‘Who are you to auction my building, which is under my name, in my country. How dare you carry such a demand letter and how dare you come to see me about this. You think you’re such a hotshot chairman, you have lost all sense of reality. Don’t you ever forget who I am and who you are!’ ‘Sir, please listen to me,’ I said, trying to placate him. ‘You must realise I’m only doing my duty as Executive Chairman of the bank. The whole board and the auditor have asked me to carry out this unpleasant task of presenting you with the demand letter. Don’t forget, sir, it was I, out of our friendship and out of my respect for you, who introduced the loan and recommended it to the board. It therefore is my duty to report to you the board’s decision.’ Having vented his rage, Sheikh Tahnoun calmed down a little. ‘I will come and see you at your bank in seven days with a solution,’ he said. I conveyed the Minister’s parting words to the board. The next day, I was scheduled to leave for Kuwait to meet with certain government officials there and my friend, Taher Isam, whom I had brought in as a director of the bank. Having him on the board gave me a measure of security.

Isam was perhaps one of my oldest and closest friends, someone I had known for twenty-five years. At the airport immigration counter, where I was well known given my frequent travels, the officer who took my passport looked at me and said, ‘Mr Najadi, I’m afraid we’ve been given orders not to let you leave the country. We’ve been told to confiscate your passport. You cannot go through, sir.’ ‘What do you mean? Why can’t I travel? Whose orders are these?’ I asked, shocked. ‘Sheikh Tahnoun, sir. Please,’ he pleaded, ‘go back home. If you want your passport back, go and see that Minister.’ I realised then the danger I was in. I was not allowed to travel. My passport had been confiscated. As soon as I got back home, I phoned my co-directors, all of whom were outside Bahrain, in Kuwait, Saudi, and Malaysia and informed them of exactly what had happened. I asked for an emergency extraordinary meeting of the shareholders as well as of the board of directors to discuss the situation and to protest. I said we had to go to the Chairman of the Bahrain Monetary Agency (who was also the Prime Minister) and the Governor of the Central Bank Abdullah Saif to protest against the behaviour and tyrannical actions of that High level Minister. The gentlemen arrived as I had requested, and we asked for an audience with the Prime Minister/Chairman of the Bahrain Monetary Agency but were told he declined. He passed us the message to see the Governor of the Central Bank. So we visited the Central Bank Governor and explained to him in detail about the nine-year non-payment of the loan given to Sheikh Tahnoun, about my conversation with the Minister, and now the confiscation of my passport. ‘What can I do? What should the bank and I do?’ we asked him. ‘Hussain, this is out of my hands,’ Abdullah Saif said, looking apologetic. ‘I’m just a civil servant. This is a battle of giants, and I have no stomach for such things. I’m nobody. I’m too small for this. If I were you, just wait for the Minister to see you, as he said he would, and see what he says. Stay put. Do nothing. Go nowhere. Wait for the Minister to call you.’ We left his office empty-handed. I was beginning to see that nobody was willing

to take any action against Sheikh Tahnoun, who was a cousin of the Ruler Sheikh Isa and the Prime Minister Sheikh Khalifa. News of my passport confiscation spread beyond the walls of the bank and into the community. In the little country of Bahrain, there can be no secrets. All my friends very quickly got to know of the clash between Sheikh Tahnoun and his old buddy, Hussain Najadi. Six days later, we received a call from the Minister’s office saying Sheikh Tahnoun would be there later, at four thirty in the afternoon at our Arab Asian Bank office. All of us were ready for this significant meeting. The entire management was present. The minister arrived with Abdullah Saif, the Central Bank Governor whom we had gone to see to complain about the ban on my travel! They sat down, I offered them tea or coffee. They said they did not have the time for any drink. Then Abdullah Saif said, ‘Sheikh Tahnoun has approached me about this delicate situation he finds himself in. We have discussed it thoroughly and come up with what we believe is a good counter offer, an offer of settlement.’ ‘Sir, that is excellent news,’ I replied. ‘We’re delighted. Please tell us what you propose. As you can see, everyone from the bank is here, waiting to know of your decision.’ ‘You remove the mortgage on the building, write-off 50 per cent of the loan immediately, and we will give you four post-dated cheques in the coming four years to settle the remaining 50 per cent of the loan,’ the Central Bank Governor pronounced. ‘Sir, it is beyond anyone’s authority, except the bank’s shareholders, to write-off such a big and important asset. It must be agreed to by the board, the shareholders, and by the Central Bank of Malaysia,’ I said. ‘I’m the Governor,’ he replied. ‘Obviously, the Central Bank has already approved this counter offer. You can go ahead.’ ‘But what about our shareholders? And the Malaysian Central Bank? What about their right to accept or reject this massive write-off? If we cannot exercise our rights on this, if we are powerless to exercise our rights on the mortgage of our building, how can we exercise our rights on totally unsecured post-dated

cheques four years from now? In fact, the use of post-dated cheques is prohibited by regulations of Central Bank on a circular signed by you. ‘You have instructed all banks in Bahrain, including offshore banks, not to accept any cheques from any clients that are post-dated. Yet here you are, sitting with His Royalty Sheikh Tahnoun, telling me to remove the mortgage, the only legal document we have against the non-payment of this loan. You are telling me to write-off half of the loan and forsake the cheques.’ I knew I was venting, but I could not control myself. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and was as enraged as Sheikh Tahnoun had been when I had presented the board’s letter to him. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m in no position to offer this suicidal measure to my board and penalise my shareholders, even if you, the Governor, ask me to do so,’ I said. The minister got up, his face a crimson red. ‘I will take you to hell, and then you will agree,’ he said in Arabic. ‘You will see what I can do to you. You don’t know how insignificant you are.’ Almost the same words had been said to me four months previously, by Ian Henderson, the mercenary chief of intelligence. ‘You’ve forgotten who you really are.’ On the afternoon of April 22, 1985, my house was surrounded by four plainclothes policemen from the intelligence special branch of the CID— Henderson’s men. A couple of them entered my house and asked me to accompany them to the Fort. I obliged and was taken to a part of the Fort I’d not been to before. They put me in a secluded office which looked like it had just been vacated. It was air-conditioned and had a policeman guarding the door. Next to it was a room full of intelligence officers. This was the beginning of my seven-and-a-half years of detention. A detention brought about by the same man I had helped, the same man whom I had taken around in Singapore, and whom I had provided full financing for the Diplomat Tower. News of my detention spread very quickly in town, but nobody knew the reason for it. I was not able to communicate with anyone as I was not allowed any

visitors and I was not allowed to contact anyone by phone or letter. I was kept incommunicado. By law, they were supposed to bring me within forty-eight hours to a judge to charge me with any wrongdoing, which they did not do. My friends and family, through lawyers, asked the government either to release me or charge me in court. Meanwhile, the authorities at the Fort asked me to sign a bunch of papers, saying words to the effect that if I signed I could go home. ‘We have nothing against you. We just want you to sign these papers,’ they said. ‘What are these papers?’ I asked. They wouldn’t say. So I read the documents. They spelt out my resignation from the Arab Asian Bank and the handover of all my shares at the bank to the Central Bank of Bahrain, for a nominal one dollar consideration. ‘This is a real bargain,’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘You expect me to give up my only savings, all my shares in Arab Asian Bank. It’s about 10 per cent of the entire capital of the bank. And you want me to resign from the bank which I have built up from scratch. What are you leaving me with?’ ‘It’s simple, Hussain,’ said my interlocutor. ‘It’s your bank or your freedom. Which do you choose?’ Of course I chose my freedom. But before I could sign, they said it had to be done in front of a witness. They left me alone for a few hours and then returned, strangely enough, with Klaus Buchi, the Swiss counsel who represented the Union Bank of Switzerland in Bahrain. UBS was the Swiss bank with billions of dollars of Al-Khalifah black money deposited at UBS, in Switzerland. ‘Mr Buchi, why are you here?’ I asked. ‘How have you got involved in this drama?’ ‘Because you’re a resident of Switzerland and you have companies in Switzerland, they’ve asked me to be here to be a witness,’ he said, uncomfortably. ‘You do realise what they’re asking me to do? What you’re going to be witness to?’ I asked him. ‘You are to be witness to an act which is totally illegal under the law of any country, even the law of this country not to mention the fine democratic laws of Switzerland. You are asking me to sign these papers in this

place called prison and under duress, Buchi?’ I shouted at him. He had nothing to say. What could he say? After I signed the papers, he added his signature as the witness. Days came and went. Nothing happened. They had never intended to give me my freedom. It was a plan masterfully thought out in advance by The British Advisor Henderson and Al-Khalifah family. From April 22, 1985, when I was detained, until January 5, 1986, I remained in the small office in the Fort. Although it was comfortable enough, there was no communication with anyone else—I was alone—and I had nothing to do. The absence of mental stimulation was unbearable. I asked repeatedly for reading material—newspapers and books—but my requests fell on deaf ears. Eventually, I resorted to going on a hunger strike. I would not eat or drink until I was provided with daily newspapers and books. The chief of police informed Sheikh Tahnoun of this. Sheikh Tahnoun didn’t budge for three days. On the fourth day, realising I was damned serious about my hunger strike, he relented. That was my first victory. I was empowered by the fact that I had done nothing wrong. I had only protected the assets of a bank which belonged to Malaysian and Arab investors. While news of my detention had spread like fire in the little town of Manama, despite the Government’s tight control of all media, now it appeared also in the regional press. The Asian Wall Street Journal and Financial Times carried articles on my detention without trial. This led to a mounting local, regional, and international lobby for my trial or release, led by my family and close associates. To counter this, in January 1986, the Bahraini authorities decided to file a fictitious law suit against me in the penal court, for alleged breach of trust and mismanagement of the bank’s assets. The presiding judge was Sheikh Salman Bin Khalifa AlKhalifa, cousin of both the Prime Minister and our High level borrower the Sheikh. He was assisted by an Egyptian and a Sudanese advisor. They kept this case alive, stretching it out like a rubber band, for over seven years. After January 5, 1986, they relocated me to a fortified prison in the garrison town of Jau, forty kilometres out of the capital Manama, in the southern tip of Bahrain. This was the main prison. I found myself in a cell with five others.

A number of inmates here had been incarcerated because of their opposition to the regime. I wasn’t the only one. The move to this prison was good for me. Now, at least, I had compatriots to talk to. I organised some of the bright political prisoners and others to start a modest library. We sought permission from the prison authorities to allow our families to donate books. This was granted. My own family got the ball rolling and others followed suit. Later, we asked for simple pieces of wood to build shelves in a room dedicated as our library. It took us three months to finish and, at the end of our campaign, we had collected over four hundred books from the families of the three hundred prisoners, 40 per cent of whom were hard-core criminals, and about 20 per cent of whom were political activists who had no idea how long they were to stay behind bars as they were there under the Internal Security Act (ISA). They could be freed in days or they could stay for years. Nobody knew. This was the regime installed and fully supported by the great democratic nation called Great Britain and later backed by the United States—so much for human rights and equality as pronounced by Western powers. After the library got going, I realised many of the prisoners were keen to learn languages. I collected signatures from all those who wanted classes in Arabic and English and got permission from the authorities to run these. There were some very highly educated writers, musicians, artists, and historians in prison who agreed to teach. I myself took on the English and, later, German classes. By popular demand, I also taught Farsi. We used our library as our classroom, where the various courses were taught from eight in the morning after exercise and breakfast, until six in the evening. So the days passed either reading or teaching and one hour of exercise a day, mostly volleyball and football. Our exercise took place on a football field facing the blue waters of the Persian Gulf. I treasured my time outdoors and the view of the sea. As always, the water had a calming effect on me. That, in addition to my love of reading (now that I had all the time in the world to read), helped me keep my sanity. During this detention period of over seven years, I had immediate family visitors to see me at the Police Fort. Pascal, Heidi and Dr. Hans-Peter Anderhub (brother of Heidi) also visited me and the following account was well described by my son Pascal:

“Dramatic visit with consequences to follow in Bahrain. Pascal been granted by his Swiss Army Commanders special leave from a Swiss Air Force and Defence Manoeuvre—to visit his father granted for a mere 30 minutes in the Manama Police Fort, just a few days after the final bomb runs and when Operation Desert Storm had been terminated on February 28th 1991. During the final weeks of Operation Desert Storm being in full swing in remote Iraq, Pascal attended a special manoeuvre, as a 23 year young commanding corporal within the Swiss Air force and Air Defence Brigade in Switzerland. It was a specialized drill operation running for several weeks whereby Air Force Jets attacked with laser measuring technology on Air Defence and vis a versa in almost battle realistic conditions 24/7 non stop out in the Swiss low lands as well as in the Swiss Alps. Communication in to the field form family members was restricted and the now so common mobile phones resembled then still more like a 2 kg attaché case, hence communication with family members was limited to the Army field post and if lucky a side step in to a road side PTT phone booth if then the situation allowed it and only with permission from Senior Commanders. In the midst of those Army manoeuvres Pascal was informed to liaise with his mother, Heidi, who ran an a special Bahrain intel desk at home. An impromptu window of opportunity opened up to visit his father for 30 minutes in Bahrain. It was a long overdue visit since the by the Bahraini Intelligence foiled operation of May 26th, 1988, when Heidi, her brother Hans-Peter and Pascal visited Hussain at the Police fort trying to get statements on to a smuggled SONY camcorder. Swiftly Pascal got special permission to leave the duties, do the Bahrain run and return back in to formation. He was in excellent terms with his commanders and for them it was clear that he had to be allowed to leave to the right thing. The flight was a Swissair service arriving in March 1991 early around 0300 hrs in the morning. Pascal was slightly tired as he came straight out of a war game and the jet lag did not help either. He presented to the immigration officer his two passports, his Swiss one and then the same red coloured Bahraini one, granted to him as an ad on, an exception and against their laws, in earlier happier days by Sheikh Tahoun himself.

The officer on duty looked up, then grabbed the receiver and called for the CID (Special Branch). Two men in civil clothing arrived and told him that he had to surrender both passports on the spot. After him protesting they issued a receipt, hand written in Arabic, worst looking than a Tesco cold storage payment receipt i.e. almost worthless in legal terms. Nothing could be done, now he had to just proceed to the Sheraton Hotel where a room was booked and in hindsight probably expertise bugged by the CID. The check in was standard procedure except for the long explanation to the desk clerk as to why he had no passport on him. That sorted the room was taken and he was told by an unmarked CID runner that he had to remain on stand by at the Sheraton Hotel, the final day and time were not set, another tactic by the CID to make the visit not so easy. What else to do but to read a book poolside and wait. The pool area was divided in a British Air force (Tornado Jet Pilots and Bomb Commander) section, the British flying crew was ordered to line up their deck chairs in one line and any contact with any outsider or lady was for them strictly out of bounds. So there they grilled on the other side of the basin, and Pascal and a scarce number of Hotel Guests on the other. During the waiting time he befriended a young lady from Europe, attractive, who worked for an NGO helping with oil clean up operations necessary due to the oil leaking and fall out from Operation Desert Storm. Her presence helped shortening the Hotel grounding and stand by time for Pascal and made days of normally boring waiting fly almost like in time warp. The two reportedly got along well and became new friends comparing notes and Pascal telling her in French the details as to why he was at the Sheraton then and here. Suddenly another runner appeared, after two full days of standby at the Hotel, Pascal had to make a move and we were able to meet under rather sad and dull conditions in a heavily guarded section of the old Police Fort in Bahrain. The 30 minutes flew by like seconds and we had to separate, enforced with gentle persuasion of the guard. On the same day Pascal was then ordered to see Sheikh Khalifah the then Head of Bahrain immigration, another powerful Al Khalifa Sheikh. He was told to be able to get his Passport back, a detail absolutely necessary to return back in to safety on Swissair. He entered the rather oversized office of the Sheikh who gestured to take a seat at his rather large desk, big enough for a Helicopter to

land on. The Sheikh said that it looked bad for getting any passport back. Pascal used this moment of sordid Sheikh’s bluff and did not hesitate to make it clear and with no ambiguity that he demanded his Swiss Passport back. He went on telling the Sheikh in soft tone, pulling out of his shirt his active Swiss Air force “Dog Mark”, that he was expected back in the special Air Force operations by his Commanders and that any delay would trigger a diplomatic problem for Bahrain by Switzerland, all according to the Vienna conventions. The Sheikh was not amused having to end his cat and mouse game right there and for his game plan perhaps an hour to early not allowing a grilling session to unfold. The Sheikh made then another attempt to temper with time saying that such a process would take time, and then he stretched out both red documents, one with a cantered white cross and the other a passport one really wishes not to be born with. Pascal grabbed his Swiss passport then the Sheikh pulled it back saying that he needs a written attestation rejecting the Bahrain citizenship. Pascal did not hesitate then to grab a plain paper out of the Sheikhs tray and in front of his nose writing by hand in about two sentences in plain English language, dated it and duly signed the ticket to freedom. That meeting ended then abrupt with the Sheikh saying that it wold be very difficult for Pascal to get Bahraini citizenship back. No further comments, back to the Hotel for a quick dinner with Pascal’s European NGO lady, then all was packed and readied to leave early the next morning to catch the Swissair flight back to democracy. The alarm was set, his NGO lady elected to sleep over that last night. At 0300 hrs, unexpected by all means, the room phone rang. Pascal picked up the receiver, still in a half sleep condition when a perfect Oxbridge Gentleman’s voice spoke, soflty but with determination: “We do not want you to see Miss (name suppressed for her protection) any more. You have a few hours left to leave the Island” then the line went dead. Pascal immediately ushered his NGO lady friend to get dressed and leave the Hotel, he could not explain much, she perfectly got the message and left immediately the Hotel to relay to NGO colleagues house near by. The goodbye was perhaps not the nicest but there was no room for error or time waste, both were on high alert. Then a few hours later Pascal boarded the Swissair Airbus A310 and when the doors were shut by the crew was then rather relived.

About six months later a letter bearing the insignia of a Belgium Mine Sweeper Group, stationed in Dubai, arrived in his Zurich apartment. In his amazement he swiftly opened the envelope and in it was a handwritten one page double side letter sent by his NGO lady friend, obviously smuggled out of Bahrain by EU military officers via Dubai to Zurich. The letter stated without any special drama but in a gripping way, that the day he left the Island on Swissair, she was intercepted on the street by plain clothed intelligence officers and whisked away for special interrogations. The summary of this letter is only quoted here: “Be careful, the men of Sheik Tahoun are mean and dangerous, I hope your dad will be fine after all this injustice. They interrogated me for hours using those oversized lamps like the ones we see in those spy movies. The stupid intelligence did not get anything out of me, they are so dumb and I am much stronger than them, those thugs. Stay well; dear Pascal and next time bring me some Swiss Chocolates, will you? Good bye . . .” I lived this routine until my hodgepodge case was put together. In June 1992, after seven years of ‘deliberation’, the High Court ruled against the government and pronounced me innocent of all the cooked-up charges. The news leaked to the press in the Persian Gulf. My family and sympathisers in Bahrain and Switzerland were finally able to rejoice. Their years of tireless crusading had finally come to fruition, or so they thought. It was unprecedented—the government losing in their own court. The judge took a brave action by pronouncing a sentence against his own ruling family of Al-Khalifa. But of course the ruling party was not about to accept defeat so easily. Undeterred, they then clamped me officially with detention under ISA, a relic in many ex-colonies of the British Raj. Their hope was that after a few years, everyone would tire of fighting Hussain Najadi’s hopeless battle, forget about me, and the case would just fade into nothingness. As desperate as my situation was, I didn’t give in to despair. Heidi and Pascal visited me at the Fort and hinted in not so many words that there was an international movement to free me. Pascal went to see my old friend, the powerful German banker in Munich, Dr Hans Peter Linss, chairman of Bavarian

State Bank (BLB), who was formerly the Managing Director of Deutsche Bank, Frankfurt, responsible for the Middle East. Dr Linss went all-out to secure my release. He appealed to Dr Poehl, president of Bundesbank (Central Bank) in Frankfurt, whom I had met several times at the annual IMF—World Bank meetings in Washington DC. He brought up my case with the German branch of Amnesty International. His efforts were not in vain. Dr Poehl got the green light from the office of Chancellor Kohl to write a letter to the Prime Minister of Bahrain demanding my release. This letter was delivered to the Prime Minister on September 15, 1992, by the German Ambassador to Bahrain. Later, after my release, the ambassador himself showed me a copy of that letter. In it, the German authorities explained that the German Government was very concerned about what had happened to me. They questioned my detention without any legal basis, arguing the Bahrain court had declared me innocent, and that the Bahrain Government had failed to produce any evidence justifying my continued detention under ISA. In the letter, it was also clearly stated that the Germans had every intention of bringing up the matter to the attention of the hundred and forty-six members of the IMF and the World Bank during their upcoming annual meeting in Washington DC on September 22, 1992. The implications were clear. If Hussain Najadi was not freed by then, the international financial fraternity would take action. That same day, the Chief of Police came to pick me up from the prison in Jau, and before lunch deposited me personally at the home of my cousin, Robab, in Muharraq island. The Chief of Police warned me that although I was now free, they would be watching me, even at home. ‘Be careful, Mr Najadi. Be careful about what you say about us, about the ruling family. You are not to give any sermons. You are not to hold any meetings. You are not to cause any trouble whatsoever.’ Robab, her husband Mohammad, and four children were delighted to have me. I called Pascal and Heidi in Switzerland to give them the news of my release. They flew as soon as they could to Bahrain to see me and to be with me. My parents, who were still living in the house I had bought for them in Shiraz, also came to be with me. I was surrounded by the people who were closest to me.

Although the secret police kept a twenty-four-hour shift around Robab’s house . . . as if to constantly remind me, my family, and friends not to step out of line . . . to me, my seven-year nightmare was finally over. I would be able to build my life again. However, I wasn’t completely free because although I was out of jail, I remained in the larger prison called Bahrain. The authorities refused to hand over my passport. I could not leave the country.

CHAPTER 18

Goodbye, Devil Island

Despite my state of statelessness, I was determined to make the most of my time. One by one, bankers, merchants, family members, and friends came to see me for financial advice and I gradually slipped into the role of a consultant. Before long, I set up my own little office as a base from which I conducted advisory work on corporate management and strategy. At the same time I just enjoyed breathing in the fresh sea air, swimming, fishing around the shore, reading, and getting back to normal life. Till today, I cannot describe how much I cherished this freedom after seven and half years of detention. Eight years passed in this fashion. The one shadow that hung over me during this time, other than my inability to leave the country, was my father’s deteriorating health. He had been faring poorly for a while, coughing and complaining of pain in the chest. Towards 2000, he knew his time was almost up and decided to return to the country of his origin, Iran. My mother, of course, accompanied him back to Shiraz. As much as I wanted to, I could not be with them because I had no passport. Fortunately, on the day my father died, a number of my cousins were visiting them, so he had his family with him. One of my cousins, Hassan, a teacher in Shiraz, took on the responsibility of arranging my father’s burial. He was asked to produce my father’s ID in order to obtain the certificate of death. My mother brought out a bundle of documents in which was a red book that served as my father’s ID. It included not only my father’s particulars but also those of my mother and me. Going through this book, Hassan found my name in it, stating I was my father’s son. He knew my dilemma that I could not travel. Immediately, it struck him that this ID was evidence of my Persian origins, which I could use to obtain a Persian passport. He called me at my office, saying there was something he wanted to tell me. Fearing that my phone may be tapped, he asked me to go out and call him from a public phone, which I did.

‘Salaam, Hassan. What’s up?’ I asked. ‘Hussain, I think I have a solution to your problem. I have a way out for you,’ he said excitedly. ‘I had to produce your father’s ID to get his death certificate. In it, there is your name and your date of birth and the place of your birth, Siraf. According to this ID, you are Persian. You should therefore be entitled to a Persian passport!’ ‘My god, Hassan, you’re right. I never knew my particulars were in my father’s ID. You’re right. This might get me my passport to freedom.’ ‘Shall I send this ID to you?’ he asked. ‘Yes, yes, please send it. But not by post. I will never get it. Give it to Menaf (our nephew) and ask him to come personally to Bahrain to give to me.’ Hassan did as I asked, and a few days later, I was in possession of this important ID. I immediately took it to the Iranian Ambassador in Bahrain, showed the red document to him, pointing out my details and asked, ‘Doesn’t this make me Iranian?’ ‘Yes, Hussain, it certainly does. It is evident that your parents are Iranian and that you were born in Iran. That’s enough to make you Iranian.’ ‘Then, can you give me a passport?’ I asked immediately. ‘Hussain, you’re such a well known man. Your case has been so thoroughly publicised, frankly I don’t dare to give you a passport. I need the permission of more senior authorities. Let me send a cable to our Minister of Foreign Affairs and see what he says.’ He kept his word. The case was raised all the way to President Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani who said, yes, we should welcome Hussain Najadi. We should give him a passport. The Iranian Ambassador came to my house after three days with my new Iranian passport. It was like receiving a new lease of life. I felt so empowered, I was no longer afraid of the Bahraini authorities. What could they possibly do to stop me from leaving the country now? They were still following me, keeping track of my every move. To goad them, I informed them through various channels that I was going to leave Bahrain with

my Iranian passport. That took them by surprise. They could not work out how on earth I managed to do this—to get myself an Iranian passport. I even made known to the intelligence officers surrounding me exactly how I was going to leave Bahrain. The plan was to set off on a little fishing boat, from a jetty in the fishing village of Deh, behind the Al Muharraq International Airport, at nine in the morning on Thursday, 15 June 2000. I said that my relatives would pick me up and take me back to Siraf, back to my roots, to the seaside town where my parents came from. True to plan, at the set time and day, under the naked eyes of the powerless immigration and police officers, a little boat captained by Jassin, a fisherman, arrived for me, carrying my nephew Menaf. I got in with Menaf, and the captain set sail for international waters in the middle of the Persian Gulf, where I had arranged with cousins from Bandar Taheri to meet us. The advent of GPS was a huge aid in coordinating our positions. As we approached international waters, we could see Bahraini patrol boats receding into the distance. At the same time, a boat with a green flag approached us. It was the boat of my nephew, Captain Majeed, who was captain of the navy during the Iran-Iraq war. When the two boats met, I jumped into Majeed’s vessel and I knew my mission was accomplished. At exactly twelve noon, I was well and truly free! Majeed had brought with him water from the mountain of Jam to drink and watermelons for me to eat. I devoured the sweet spring water and the succulent fruit, which has always been my favourite. An hour later, we could make out the peaks of mountains from which the water had come. Before long, we were home. I was back in Siraf. In Iran, I met my dear, dear mother who had returned to Bandar Taheri and was now living with our family there. She hugged me as if never to let me go again. I was reunited with cousins and nephews and nieces and close family friends. It was such a joyful reunion. I stayed three or four days in Bandar Taheri, then with another nephew, drove all the way through the beautiful country, passing the garden city of Shiraz and Isfahan headed for the Azerbaijan border on the Caspian Sea, on our way to the capital, Tehran. There, I contacted another relative, Mohamad, who was living in Goteborg, Sweden, and said I would be coming to see him. I knew there were a number of

political refugees from Bahrain, like me, in Sweden and Denmark. About twenty-five families or so in Sweden were families of old friends of mine, members of the Bahraini Liberation Front (BLF). I was very eager to meet up with them. Through his company in Sweden, Mohamad sent me an invitation to visit him. This was sufficient to obtain a visa from the Swedish embassy in Tehran, which was processed in two days. Soon after, I bought a ticket and flew via Istanbul to Stockholm, then took a speed train to Goteborg, the second largest city in Sweden, where Mohamad lived. Mohamad, too, was a political refugee. He lived with his lovely Latin American wife, Angela, in a comfortable flat, which he very kindly vacated so I could have a place to stay. Angela and he, meanwhile, moved to another flat belonging to Angela. I spent months catching up with old friends, walking, reading, and contemplating life. Goteborg is by the sea and I would frequently go to the harbour to watch the boats coming and going. This was a period in my life when I truly appreciated the meaning and the beauty of freedom. I was free to read, I was free to write, and I was free to talk. Pascal and Heidi joined me for Christmas and New Year. Then, I moved to Copenhagen where there was an even bigger group of Bahraini refugees who had since been nationalised. Here, I stayed with yet another relative called Reza. Pascal played an important role during this phase of my life. He was determined to help me regain a part of my life that I had lost—involvement in the exciting world of banking. He contacted our American friends in Washington DC and arranged for me to obtain a visa from the American embassy in Copenhagen. Once this was accomplished, I flew to New York, then Washington. I spent a couple of weeks here, until a good friend of Pascal’s, Sam Hoskinson, who ran a business consultancy firm called Jefferson Waterman International in Washington DC, arranged for me to meet Anthony Bryan, whose family owned a small merchant bank called the Watley Group. The bank was based in Los Angeles. I flew there to meet Anthony, who immediately hired me as a senior advisor. I worked for one of their major clients, Sears, Roebuck and Co, owners of the

famous Sears department stores, in Los Angelos until 5 September 2001. I enjoyed the work as it enabled me to put to use my merchant banking experience. For a change, I didn’t need any assets or capital, just my health and my personal ambition. Eventually, however, I had to go back to Copenhagen because I had arrived in the United States on a tourist visa and was not authorised to work in the country. The plan was to apply for a work permit in Copenhagen and then return. I went back to my cousin Reza, who had a lovely house in a forest, by a lake. Together, we went to the American embassy on 10 September 2001 and made an appointment to meet the counsellor in charge of visas the following day. At nine on the morning of 11 September 2001, we went back to the embassy with my photos, my documents, the relevant supporting letters from Washington DC, my permit to work, my contract. I also deposited my Iranian passport. The counsellor went through everything thoroughly and was satisfied. ‘Everything is in order, Mr Najadi,’ he said with a smile. ‘We will approve the visa within a few days. You needn’t come back to retrieve your passport. We will send the passport with the visa to your residential address in Copenhagen.’ It was a great relief to know that, in a few days, I would be entitled to work in the United States legally. Anthony, who was pleased with my work, had mentioned moving me to Washington DC, where I would take on a position of greater responsibility. Reza and I walked by the waterfront of Copenhagen. I had told him about Supramar and our hydrofoils, which were still plying between Copenhagen and Malmo. We saw some of these hydrofoils I had introduced and Reza teased me about my past successes. ‘Everything you touched turned to gold, Hussain. How is it you were born the Midas of Manama?’ We had a delightful lunch and coffee by the waterfront and then strolled through the forest towards the lake next to his apartment. Back in his flat, we switched on the TV to watch CNN and saw a surreal scene of two planes crashing into the twin towers in New York. This was five in the evening Copenhagen time, which was around nine in the morning in New York. We thought we were watching some horror movie we had tuned into by mistake. It took us a few seconds to realise the truth. That it was in fact breaking news. This was live coverage of the terrorist attack in the United States. And of course, it changed everything.

‘My god, Reza, you know what this means. It’s the end of my dream of going back to the United States. I’m definitely not going to get my visa now. I’m a Muslim, an Iranian by birth. Even if they have already granted my visa, it will be cancelled.’ We sat in shocked silence, our eyes glued to the screen. We couldn’t believe such an outrage on humanity could be perpetrated. We saw the flames, the building crumbling, and the people who were stuck inside the burning inferno. Bodies leaping to their death. I cried for the insanity of mankind. And I knew I was never going to go back to the new life I had built in the United States. A few days later, on 14 September, I called the embassy and asked about my visa and passport. The secretary of the counsellor whom I had met said, ‘Mr Hussain Najadi? Oh yes, we have your passport, sir, but I’m afraid your visa has been cancelled. We will return your passport by post. You should get it in a few days’ time.’ I was expecting it, so was neither surprised nor any more despondent than I had been from the time we saw the terrorist attack. ‘Well?’ asked Reza, who was in the room with me. ‘As I said, they’re not giving me the visa. They’re blacklisting all Muslims, everyone from a Muslim country. Reza looked at me sympathetically. ‘What now? What are you going to do? You know you can stay here as long as you want . . . ‘ I thanked him, but I could not depend on his hospitality forever. Instead, I made my way to Switzerland and stayed with Heidi and Pascal for a while. I made calls to various friends and family to ascertain all my options. Amongst the people I contacted was my former legal counsel in Arab Malaysian Bank, who had since retired and was running his own small legal practice. His name was Soni Pillai. He was extremely surprised to hear my voice. ‘Hussain!’ he said, in total disbelief. ‘Boss, is that really you?’ ‘Of course it is. Why shouldn’t it be?’ I asked. ‘I’m delighted. I’m so happy to hear your voice again. We were wondering what

had happened to you. For a while we were getting news about you, but after a few years, there was nothing. There were many stories circulating saying you were dead. That the Bahraini authorities had killed you in prison.’ ‘I’m sure they would have if they could!’ I said, laughing. It was so good to hear the positive, cheerful voice of Soni. ‘There’s no love lost between the Bahraini authorities and me. But no, I’m very much alive and kicking. And I’m planning on coming to Malaysia.’ ‘That would be wonderful, Hussain. Simply wonderful! Just tell me when.’ I asked Soni for his email address and told him I would keep in contact with him via electronic mail until I could sort out my trip to Malaysia. I arrived in Malaysia beginning 2002. I would like to be able to say that I naturally fell back into the flow of life and work as I had experienced it before leaving the country in 1982. But that would be highly misleading. The fact is, when I returned from Europe to Malaysia, I was depressed, disillusioned, and broken. Before I left Kuala Lumpur some twenty years beforehand, I had a bank; I was meeting prime ministers, ministers, central bank governors, foreign dignitaries . . . Everybody, it had seemed, wanted to know Hussain Najadi and wanted a piece of me. In the interim, I had lost my bank, I had lost my assets, and I had lost my capital. The country, meanwhile, had experienced tremendous growth. Dr Mahathir had served Malaysia well. The Twin Towers housing Petronas and other major multinationals had been built and was for a while one of the tallest buildings in the world. All around in the city stood skyscrapers, flyovers, steel, and glass structures. Kuala Lumpur was no longer a big kampong. Even if I had wanted to visit Dr Mahathir (and I didn’t, not yet anyway), I wouldn’t have known where to go. His office had moved to Putrajaya, the new administrative centre of the country. Through luck and, again, the wheels of destiny, I found one of my former employees at Arab Malaysian Bank, Rose, whom I had hired when she was just eighteen, a beauty of mixed Malay and Chinese parentage. Rose and her second husband, the politician Dato Aziz, a former political advisor to Dr Mahathir, had a reunion dinner with me at the Shangri-La Hotel, Kuala Lumpur. Aziz, ever kind and considerate, informed Dr Mahathir of my return and arranged for us to

meet at eight in the morning of the coming Monday. At this meeting, I recounted the drama that had unfolded after I left Malaysia and Dr Mahathir was not in the least surprised. He intimated that he knew how I had suffered in the hands of the Bahraini ruling family. ‘Hussain, you’ve been a good friend—to me and to Malaysia. If there’s anything at all I can do for you . . . a PR (permanent residency) . . . anything, let me know,’ he said. ‘This time, don’t leave. Treat this as your country. We need people like you.’ It isn’t often that I find myself speechless, but this was one such occasion. Dr Mahathir’s kindness could not have had more meaning after all that I had experienced in my own country. At that moment, I questioned why I had left Malaysia and its fine people to return to the despotic clutches of Bahrain. Till today, I have yet to find a satisfactory answer. Despite the kindness of so many Malaysians, however, it took me time to regain a semblance of my former self. Kuala Lumpur drove home the realisation that while the rest of the world had made progress, I had regressed. But, with steely resolve, I was determined to build myself up again. I met up with my old friends, including Soni. I started on a drive to raise funds from my American friends so as to get AIAK, the holding company of Arab Malaysian Bank, off the ground again. I would use AIAK to build a boutique corporate finance advisory. I bought myself a Perdana, a Malaysian car, and to keep in good cheer, used it whenever possible to get close to the one aspect of nature that I feel an affinity to —the sea. On weekends, I would pack my bags, grab the day’s newspapers and whichever books I happened to be reading, then drive off to islands like Tioman on the East Coast, or Langkawi on the West Coast. If I didn’t want to go too far, I would head for Port Dickson, just an hour’s drive or so south of Kuala Lumpur, on the Straits of Melaka. One Friday afternoon, I set off to the Regency in Port Dickson. Unfortunately, I had tucked into a rather big lunch beforehand and, while driving at about 140 km/h along the Kuala Lumpur-Seremban highway, the heat of the midday sun lulled me to sleep. I couldn’t have dozed off for more than a few seconds, but when I awoke again, there was a huge lorry directly in front of me.

When I registered it, I didn’t see a lorry; I saw death. There was no point slamming on the brake; I would still ram into the lorry. Luckily, there was an emergency lane on my left, a narrow lane, and in a split second—although at moments like these, time has a way of slowing down so you see and think so much more clearly than you ever do under normal circumstances—I swerved left. As I did, my door got hinged in a hook at the back of the lorry, which was used to bind its canvas cover, and as I overtook the lorry on its left, my door spliced open, like a piece of cake. I managed to stop. The lorry driver saw my car emerge in front of it, a slice of door missing, and also stopped. Fortunately, nothing happened to the lorry itself. I was so thoroughly shaken, I was unable to move. The driver came up to me, a Malay man in his thirties. He looked very concerned. He wasn’t sure if I was OK. When he realised I was fine, just dazed, he said, ‘What happened to you? Why were you driving like a maniac, so fast and so close behind me?’ I uttered a few words from the Koran, thanking God for sparing my life. Hearing me, the man said, ‘You are Arab?’ ‘Yes, I’m Arab. I’m Persian. I’m very sorry. You won’t believe this, but I fell asleep for a few seconds and when I opened my eyes, I found you in front of me,’ I said. I kept repeating that I was very sorry. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he reassured me. ‘But are you OK? Shall I call someone?’ he asked. He was truly concerned. ‘Please, no. Don’t worry. I’m OK,’ I said. What I had to do was to somehow bind the sliced off door back to the car. The lorry driver had a piece of string, and he helped me to do this. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked. ‘To the Regency. It’s in Port Dickson.’ ‘Oh yes, I know. Next to the Yacht Club.’ ‘Yes, that’s the one.’ ‘I can take you there. You can leave the car here and send AAM (Automobile

Association of Malaysia) to pick it up later. I can drive you,’ he said. ‘No no, the car is OK. I’m OK. I can drive. It will be a bigger problem if I leave the car,’ I insisted. I always carried a bottle of water with me. I took out the bottle I had in the passenger’s seat and poured the contents over my head, both to wake me up and to shake me out of my stupor. This kind man would not let me drive unaccompanied. He followed me all the way to the hotel. He stayed with me till we entered the gates of the Regency, where the guard gave both my wounded car and the lorry a good long look. After parking our vehicles, I said to the lorry driver, ‘Tuan (sir), can I offer you some small makan (snack)?’ He agreed. I took him to the hotel’s café on the beach, ordered some tea and cakes. He had his fill, and then he went on his way. Before leaving me, he looked in wonder and said, ‘Sir, Allah is with you. Allah wants you to live.’ Both the terrifying brush with death and an article I read in the papers that weekend strengthened my resolve to succeed. Not just to survive, but to really live, to thrive, and make the most of what I have. The article was in the New Straits Times, the country’s leading English language daily, written by its business editor PY. Chin, whom I knew quite well from my earlier days in Malaysia when he was business editor at a rival paper, The Star. I was on a deckchair on the beach—always my favourite place in the world— when my eyes caught a picture of Azman Hashim, the man to whom I had sold my shares in Arab Malaysian Bank. The accompanying article glorified his role in the success of the bank and went so far as to state that Azman had founded the bank. There was no mention of me. It was a piece of sycophantic public relations drivel not worthy of PY. Reading that article, I said Goddammit, this is blatant falsification of history. It’s not even as if I’m dead and can legitimately be forgotten. I’m here. Alive . . . though barely so, after my near-death experience! As soon as I returned to Kuala Lumpur, I hunted down PY’s email address, and once I got it, shot off an email to him. It read: ‘Dear PY Chin, This is Hussain Najadi, founder of Arab Malaysian Bank. You have written

about me and my bank many times while you were at The Star. You attended almost all the press conferences I called in my office. We have had numerous lunches together. You know that Arab Malaysian Bank is my brainchild, the result of my efforts. How then is it that you can now write that Azman Hashim founded the bank?’ His reply came immediately: ‘Hussain, you are here in Malaysia?’ I said, ‘Yes, I’m here.’ He said, ‘Hussain, so sorry! I thought you were dead. Azman told me you were dead.’ I said, ‘Unless I’m a ghost, I’m here in my office.’ And I gave him my new AIAK address, which was now located in Menara Haw Par in central Kuala Lumpur. PY came the very next day to my office and apologised profusely. He then wrote another long article in the New Straits Times to make amends for the inaccuracies of the previous article. This appeared in the newspaper on 20 July 2003. In it, PY acknowledged that ‘in the early years of the bank, Najadi was already making waves in the local banking industry when he turned the bank into the top merchant banking group in Malaysia with group assets hitting RM1 billion in 1979—only after four years in operation . . . His track record in building AMDB into what it was in those days still stays unbeatable till today.’ Many people read that article and called me. I was sure Azman would also have read the article, hence felt compelled to get in touch with him. Although he seemed a little apprehensive upon hearing my voice on the phone, with typical Malaysian hospitality he invited me to lunch. Our meeting was very civilised. He said he had read PY’s article and had been pleasantly surprised to know I was back. He wanted to know more about what had happened to me in my twenty year absence. I filled him in as much as I could or I thought was expedient. We talked about AIAK, which was when I said I had indeed revived the company but that we were a little low on funds. My friends had reminded me about the Malaysian pensioners’ fund called the Employees’ Provident Fund (EPF). They said I must have accumulated quite a little sum in my EPF, based on my earnings at the bank. I asked Azman about this.

‘Oh yes. I’m sure you have some little pension somewhere. Let me go back and check,’ he said. The next day, he called and said he had found my EPF file and that I had the equivalent of US$84,000 in my account. ‘That’s not bad,’ I said. ‘Considering all the money I’ve lost over the last few years, I’m very pleasantly surprised, indeed I am touched, that this neat sum has been waiting for me so faithfully and diligently!’ Azman laughed. ‘Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Hussain.’ ‘Once a man loses the ability to laugh, he loses the ability to live,’ I replied. He was silent a while, then added, ‘Go and see the CEO of EPF. You can probably manage to convince him to let you withdraw your savings.’

CHAPTER 19

Rising From the Ashes Once More

The turn my life has taken since I returned to Malaysia has its roots in an earlier episode. In Kuwait, in 1973, along with some friends I had founded a licensed investment firm, Arab Investments for Asia Kuwait or AIAK for short. AIAK became the holding enterprise through which we formed the Arab Malaysian Development Bank in Kuala Lumpur and, later, the Arab Asian Bank in Bahrain. The former, as my last chapter revealed, was taken over by Azman Hashim and today is thriving under the name of AmBank. The latter was hijacked by the ruling Al-Khalifa which sold it overnight, under some underhanded deal, to the Saudi banking family of Bin Mahfouz. In effect, the ruling Al-Khalifa not only deprived me of fifteen years of my personal freedom, but also usurped my life’s savings. Everything I had managed to save in the thirty-five years of my entrepreneurial life had been invested in shares of the then Arab Asian Bank. The bank was now, of course, beyond my reach; but I could revive its precursor—AIAK—and resume the interrupted history of the firm I had established in Kuwait. AIAK Capital was thus reincorporated, in Malaysia, in the autumn of 2002, with a meagre capital of US$180,000. I made it an ironclad policy that, this time round, AIAK would steer well clear of owning a bank. I was too advanced in age and possessed too little capital to venture into the great brand game that banking has become. No, I was quite set in my mind that AIAK would be a unique corporate finance advisory boutique focusing on rendering strategic counsel to affluent Middle Eastern trading families and to corporate clients in Malaysia, ASEAN and beyond. It took me some eight years of dogged work to raise the AIAK ship from the

bottom of the ocean and get it going again. Those eight years have by no means been plain sailing, but I’ve been helped in this mission by a dedicated two-man team of my son Pascal and some of my key Malaysian staff. Pascal had by now accumulated quite an impressive Resume in international finance. He had spent some sixteen years working in top investment and commercial banks in Zurich and London such as Merrill Lynch, Dresdner Kleinwort Benson, UBS, and Credit Suisse. He became on his own steam an allround merchant banker, making use of the strong network he had built. Pascal and I managed to close some very interesting cross-border transactions for clients in Germany, Sweden, Malaysia, and members of the Gulf Cooperation Council Countries (GCC) with the exception of Bahrain. We’ve helped wealthy trading houses in Dubai to form four investment banking firms in Malaysia and continue to provide them with strategic consultancy as and when needed. Meanwhile, as I write, another investment bank is in the pipeline. What drives me in these ventures is the idea of bringing people and cultures closer so there is better understanding and cooperation across borders. Recently, I have been able to do this with a continent that has to date been ‘closed’ to Asia —Africa. There have been no physical or even political barriers to the creation of economic ties between these two continents as such. However, the courses of history and sheer geographical distance have kept the two continents apart. If not for my network of corporate finance boutiques and well-placed connections in Washington DC, I too would probably not have been able to put wind under the sails of my venture to link Africa to the dynamic capital markets in Asia. My target has been Ghana. Why Ghana? Because it has a democratic government, a sizeable population of 26 million—about the same of my adoptive home, Malaysia—and abundant natural resources which can be tapped into to bridge socio-economic chasms. Although I had been doing some groundwork on my Ghana project for a while, my first breakthrough was achieved during a working trip to Accra, the capital, in April 2011, when I managed to fix a meeting with the Ghanaian President Professor John Atta Mills. I knew of Prof Mills’s impressive credentials—in the process of completing a doctorate in taxation and economic development at the London School of Oriental and African Studies, he was selected as a Fulbright Scholar by Stanford Law School in the US.

A forward-looking leader, his dream, as he has repeated often is to ‘see Ghana be the nation that leads Africa . . . An educated, thriving, and prosperous democracy, that we can hold up as an example to the world of what Africa can be, when its people move and work together.’ His objective is to transform the country so as to attain middle-income status by 2028. Prior to assuming leadership of the country in 2008, he was the Commissioner of the Inland Revenue Service and was instrumental in raising the tax/GDP ratio from a mere 8 per cent to over 16 per cent. This is a man with a clear sense of social justice. I felt we would have much in common. My intuition proved to be justified. We had an intense meeting in Ghana’s own White House, the President’s Office on the shores of the Atlantic facing the Americas. It is called The Osu Castle. This the fort dates back to the 16th century and has changed hands many times. The Danish built the first substantial fort in the 1660s, though rebuilding has occurred on many occasions since. It began to serve as the seat of government under British colonial rule and continued to perform that function up to present. Osu Castle remains the seat of government in Ghana. I explained to Prof Mills how I fully supported his vision of developing the African continent; how I would love to help leaders of this vast continent shape a new Africa that was able finally to shed the last remnants of being a battleground of colonial powers and become instead a battleground of economic powerhouses wanting to capitalise on its bounteous commodities—its cocoa, timber, gold, silver, iron ore, coal, oil, and gas. I explained that the world, having destroyed most of its agricultural land, would also be looking to the vast stretches of arable land in Africa to grow food—not just for the poor but for everyone. ‘Now is the time to get Malaysian, Middle Eastern, and Singaporean multinationals involved in Africa, starting with Ghana,’ I stressed. Prof Mills couldn’t agree more. By the time I left Ghana, I had a signed agreement to advise and manage the Fidelity Asia Bank based in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia for the parent banking corporation—Fidelity Bank Limited—in Ghana, and this Fidelity Asia Bank will be managed by our family boutique firm called AIAK. So back in full circle to the banking world, without any cent of own capital. So the original quest of building bridges amongst nations, cultures, and

civilisations now serves my idealism to serve the emerging economies of Africa with the sophisticated capital markets of Malaysia and Asia, in its conventional form or in the fast-growing Islamic capital markets. When I look back on life today, I see clearly how my outlook has come around full circle. From a leftist idealist I had become a capitalist (with a conscience) and am now back to being an idealist, concerned with creating a more equitable world in which everyone is able to share the fruits of our global resources. I am no longer driven by the quest for power—to own and control a bank or some other mega corporation. Instead, I am more interested in sharing whatever knowledge and expertise I have gained throughout my colourful and chequered life to help others make the most of what they have. I truly enjoy my new vocation of financial engineering—advising clients and helping them manage their banking and other institutions. So far, AIAK has helped to raise over US$200 million for various financial ventures without us owning a single share. I think of myself not as a banker but more as a financial surgeon in the ever-changing landscape of Asia, the Middle East, and Africa. Today I derive most pleasure from winning the trust of clients—from all walks of life and from anywhere in the world—and serving them well. From my brief stint of teaching English, German, and Farsi in prison in Bahrain, I am now a guru of finance, teaching, advising, and guiding people in this intricate game of high finance. I continue to be driven by my eternal quest for knowledge and for disseminating knowledge. Through Pascal’s network, I was invited by the University of St Gallen in Switzerland to deliver a lecture on Islamic Finance in October 2010 and then again in October 2011, when it brought its School of Finance to Kuala Lumpur. The university has subsequently decided to set up an Asian campus in Singapore and has appointed me as their Asian advisor. Once again, I see this as completing a circle, this time one that began with my involvement in INSEAD. Through this initiative, I find myself building crosscultural bridges through academia—something that resonates strongly with the essence of my being. I am no longer the ‘lost’ man who arrived in Malaysia in 2002. It’s taken its time, but now I can say with complete honesty that I have created for myself a

comfortable niche in which I derive both personal and professional fulfilment. A turning point came in 2004 when I had the immensely good fortune of meeting a lovely Malaysian Chinese lady, May Cheong, whom I married in Sydney, Australia in 2007. With her in my life, I find I am attracting a lot of positive energy. The most dramatic of these, I have to say, took place in 2009. In early March 2009, I received a call out of the blue from Ahmad Hariri, the suave Asian Director of the Islamic Development Bank (IDB) which is owned by fifty-five Islamic nations, including the government of Bahrain. ‘Hussain,’ he said. ‘I have a reporter from one of the most powerful Arab media, Al-Jazeera TV, in my office and he wants to talk to you.’ ‘Al-Jazeera? What do they want to talk to me about?’ I asked. I was truly puzzled. ‘They wish to interview you and produce your life story on prime time AlJazeera.’ ‘You mean they want me to go to Qatar for an interview?’ ‘No no,’ he said. ‘They want to film you here in Malaysia, in your home, your office, the places you go to. It’s going to be like a documentary, a feature of your life’s story.’ To me, this was news from heaven. Al-Jazeera is owned by the ruling family of Qatar, an ally of neighbouring Bahrain. Yet they wanted to feature me, Hussain Najadi, as a model Arab citizen of the world. Al-Jazeera has a viewership of about a 150 million viewers, mainly in the Gulf countries but also elsewhere around the world. If they produced a documentary on me, it would definitely catch the eyes of my nemesis in Bahrain. I saw this as an opportunity, finally, to have the last say in the series of staged events that landed me in jail for seven years. An opportunity to state the truth and have it said to the face of the Bahraini ruling party. This was my redemption and a comeuppance for the Al-Khalifa. It would put right the many wrongs that were committed by the powers that be. Of course I said yes. An Al-Jazeera crew was dispatched from Doha. The producer, Majid, and his

team accompanied me all around Malaysia for fourteen days to film me in the country I now call home. My documentary was aired by the TV station three times a day after the news hour. This was a jolt for the Al-Khalifa . . . a political slap in the face! After the Najadi programme was first aired in April 2009, my phone didn’t stop ringing. Relatives and friends in Bahrain called to let me know they had seen the documentary and to share with me their feelings of pride. It was very therapeutic to know so many people shared my pain and disillusionment with the ruling party, for whom the programme was a welcome gift of truth and justice. I was informed by Bahraini acquaintances in high quarters that as soon as the AlKhalifa family had become aware of this programme, they called the Government of Qatar with the intention of stopping it at all costs. To my utter delight, the Qataris stuck to their guns, pointing out that the TV station was independent, run by a professional management team without any interference from its owners, the government. Even more damning for the Bahrain Government was that Al-Jazeera, like other TV stations, announced upcoming programmes via short thirty-second clips. Clips of my programme therefore appeared regularly ten days before the actual documentary, stating the time and date it was to premier. What’s more, in these clips, they referred to me as ‘an outstanding personality not only from Bahrain but the Arab world’. Once again, I caused a buzz in the streets, coffee shops, and in the dewanyeh and majlis (traditional get-togethers in the evenings of families and friends) in Bahrain. The consensus was that God was teaching the ruling elite a lesson, using the example of the poor boy from Bahrain, Hussain Najadi. I have had a life many can only dream of. I’ve ridden high and then fallen into the deepest, darkest pit. But I have survived and live to tell the tale. It is because of Al-Jazeera that I have sat down in the evenings and over the weekends to pen this book. After my programme, they implored me to write a fuller account of the many trials and tribulations I’ve been through. I must say, it has been a cathartic process. As I have relived my past, I have come to see things more clearly; events that once appeared in my mind as a blur have come sharply into focus. And I have

become more philosophical about those who I believe have treated me unjustly. What goes round comes round. My life has come a full circle. I am a man at peace with myself, my lovely wife, and my life. I have sufficient work— meaningful work—that gives me a sense of quiet satisfaction. I have good friends with whom I enjoy life—long bonds based on respect and honesty. I have family in Iran and Bahrain with whom I stay in touch and visit regularly. I miss my dear mother terribly. I know that my good fortune has been her doing—her strong love for me and her piety has saved me from the clutches of death on numerous occasions. I think of her and of my father every day and send them my love through my thoughts. Pascal is now a part of my life and infects me with his youthful energy and vigour. With May by my side and all the good fortune I enjoy, I thank God for his blessings and try, in my own way, to discover the meaning of it all. I do believe there has to be some profound meaning. Otherwise, I would not still be here.

The end

EPILOGUE

My life and its story are not at an end, so an epilogue is not yet warranted and indeed premature. On the contrary, I am invigorated by my personal growth and optimistic that I have yet more roles to play on the grand stage. If there is one great reward from undertaking these reminisces, it is recognizing that my life is coming full circle with great force. Today, I find my voice ringing loudly amongst those of the next generation—when many of my own have retired into their evening years. I am talking of course of the momentous revolutions of the Arab spring, and its ongoing collective push at the pedestals of power. Whereas the foundations have quivered in some countries—Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Yemen—and have yielded to the people’s will to build their own political structures, in others—including my own birthplace of Bahrain—the despots are digging themselves in deeper. However, this time they are on the wrong side of history and are swimming feebly against its tide. I now feel confident I will see the change my friends and compatriots campaigned to bring about in our youth—many giving up their best years to the struggle against oppression and injustice. It gives me great comfort to know that their efforts and sacrifices—and my own—weren’t in vain, and that we will soon see the day when the House of Khalifa slips its tethers—along with the other outdated autocrats in the Arab world—and sinks to the bottom of the sea alongside history’s other villains. And yet Britain remains the backbone propping up the ruling family in Bahrain, as they have been for almost 200 years. The British government has turned a blind eye to the brutal crackdown which has left an entire population under siege. Meanwhile British firms are reaping a windfall from provisioning the Bahrain government with goods and services that are used to oppress its people. This self-serving and mercenary stance has received unanimous blistering criticism from the rest of the World, as well as from within the British political establishment itself and the domestic press. British officials claim they can do nothing to pressurize the Al Khalifa regime

and to make them stop the human rights atrocities. The opposite is true, of course. The British have the greatest leverage over the Bahraini’s and are their only lifeline. The situation on the ground is in contrast to everything liberal democracies of the West stand for, and represents everything they decry. There is no moral ground on which the British can even pretend to stand on, only the threat that greater insecurity will ensue if the Iranians occupy the vacuum created by the demise of the regime. The quest for independence in Bahrain, and for rights for its citizens, is a Bahraini aspiration that burns in the heart of her every citizen. Injustice lies, and hypocrisy only stokes the fire to burn ever more brightly. Iran doesn’t factor into it. It didn’t in the days of Charles Belgrave and the British ‘advisers’, and it doesn’t today. Instead, Britain should realize it will forever endure in the eyes of the locals in the image of Ian Henderson, the ‘Butcher of Bahrain’, as poignant now as in my day. For a great Nation with her many notable achievements, this will remain a black mark in her history. It is high time the British realize it is not in her interest to stand against the tide of the uprisings. The Al Khalifa’s may not go without a fight, but they will go. A new generation of my countrymen are suffering from their sinister network of secret policemen—highly trained and efficient, but thugs all the same—and their techniques of spying, beating, jailing, and killing. I feel a kindred affinity with the protestors; they are my co-combatants in an honourable struggle for dignity, freedom, and human rights against a pariah state. No amount of censorship or propaganda can change this truth.

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1 A dhow is a traditional Arab wooden sailing boat. Today, dhows are equipped with motors, which are used to ease navigation into and out of sea ports. 2 The captain of the boat. 3 Clarified butter used in Indian cooking. The ghee would have come from Bombay, now Mumbai, which was closely linked to the Gulf states by trade.

4 A small port in south Iran, called Meenab, acted as a gateway for the slave trade. Arab traders would pick up African slaves from Zanzibar and take them to Meenab, from where they went on to others parts of Persia and Arabia. 5 In Farsi, the legendary Queen of Sheba, who visited King Solomon of Jerusalem, is also known as Balqis. 6 Fatima was the daughter of Prophet Muhammad. 7 Tudeh means ‘the people’. 8 Caltex was a joint venture between Standard Oil of California (now Chevron) and the Texas Company (now Texaco).