Cover Photo: The golden pawned dagger.
The Pawned Dagger
The Pawned Dagger Dr. Sultan bin Muhammad Al-Qasimi
The Pawned Dagger First published in 2024 in Arabic as “ALkhinjar ALmarhun” by: Al-Qasimi Publications Author: Dr. Sultan Bin Muhammad Al-Qasimi (United Arab Emirates) Publisher: Al-Qasimi Publications, Sharjah, United Arab Emirates Edition: First Year of publication: 2024 ©All rights reserved Al-Qasimi publications. Sharjah, United Arab Emirates * Translated from the Arabic by: Dr. Ahmed Ali Edited by: Elizabeth Munn * ISBN: 978-9948-740-38-4 Printing Permission: UAE Media Council No. MC 03-01-6992272, Date: 03-10-2024 Printing: AL Bony Press- Sharjah, UAE Age Classification: E The age group that matches the content of the books was classified according to the age classification issued by UAE Media Council * Al-Qasimi Publications, Al Tarfa, Sheikh Muhammad Bin Zayed Road PO Box 64009 Sharjah, United Arab Emirates. Tel: 0097165090000, Fax: 0097165520070 Email: info@aqp.ae
The Pawned Dagger
Sultan bin Muhammad Al-Qasimi, 1953.
7 Foreword I fell in love with books and reading due to my love and admiration for my uncle, Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr al-Qasimi, whom I often saw engrossed in his reading. I observed the various expressions on his face as he explored the many worlds of knowledge offered by the books he read. I used to imitate him without really understanding what was in the books that caused such reactions. This motivated me
to expedite my learning of reading and writing. I practiced reading so much that I became a proficient reader, and my dream was to have a book collection in a library just like his. Eventually, I achieved that dream. The Author 8
9 My uncle, Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr al-Qasimi, the Ruler of Sharjah, had two personal libraries: one in the Sharjah Fort and the other in the Western House. My father used to take me with him on his special visits to his brother, Sheikh Sultan. Their meetings often took place in one of these libraries, which were accessible both from the side of the Majlises (sitting areas) and from within the house. One time, in June 1948, my father and uncle met in the Western House library.
10 They sat in the library’s majlis, which was connected to the Public Majlis on one side, while the other side was accessible from Sheikh Sultan’s bedroom. While my father and uncle talked, I wandered into the library, where I found a book that my uncle had been reading, left open. At the age of nine, I could read well and eagerly tried to decipher the page in front of me. Suddenly, my uncle, Sheikh Sultan, walked in. Seeing I was trying to read, he said to me, “This book is not for children like you to read. Your father is leaving.” Several months later, Sheikh Sultan fell ill and was sent to Bombay for treatment in May 1949. He was then transferred to London on February 8, 1951,
11 for further treatment. Unfortunately, he passed away on March 23, 1951. The transportation of his body from London to Sharjah took a considerable amount of time due to the complicated procedures involved in transporting a corpse between countries, in addition to the duration of the journey itself. During this period, Sheikh Sultan’s sons, Salem and Abdullah, along with my brother Abdulaziz and some of their friends, gathered in the Western House library majlis to play cards. I, on the other hand, made my way to the library and began reading the books there. I was 12 years old at the time. The first book I came across and attempted to
12 read was “The Book of Animals” by the renowned Abbasid prose-writer, al-Jāhiz. It was then that I realized my uncle was right when he had said that some books were not meant for children. I spent an entire week copying the titles and authors’ names of the books into a notebook I had brought specifically for this purpose. Using an ink pot and a quill, I carefully transcribed the titles of all the books in the library. Later, I managed to purchase these books from the al-Mu’ayyid Bookstore in Bahrain, fulfilling my decision to create my own private collection and obtain all those titles. On April 2, 1951, the body of the late Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr al-Qasimi arrived to be buried in al-Jubail Cemetery.
13 For two years afterward, I made every effort to build up my book collection and establish my own library. However, it was not easy to find people who could lend me money with the agreement that I would repay them by easy installments later. Consequently, I resorted to borrowing books from those who had any. One of these individuals was Abdul-Wahid al-Khājah, a Sharjah Municipality employee. At that time, the Municipality was located at one end of the Suq. To the south of the Suq were several government departments, including Customs and Port, headed by Abdulrahman bin Muhammad al-Midfa‘; the headquarters of the General Administration of Financial and Administrative Affairs, chaired by
14 Ahmad bin Muhammad al-Midfa‘; the Sharjah Municipality, headed by Sheikh Muhammad bin Sultan bin Saqr al-Qasimi; and the Majlis of Minister Ibrahim bin Muhammad al-Midfa‘. Abdul-Wahid al-Khājah’s house was to the east of the town, while the Municipality building was to the west. To get to his house, Abdul-Wahid would pass by the Sirbaz café, where I often spent time. Another person I frequently saw passing by the café on his way to and from work at the British Agency was Muhammad bin Saleh al-Qurq, who lived in the part of al-Sirkal’s house opposite the café. My cousin, Sheikh Saqr bin Humaid al-Qasimi, also lived nearby. One day, I found him
15 sitting on a long chair outside his house at the corner of the road leading from the town mosque and suq. He was reading a book titled “Sleepless” by the Egyptian novelist Ihsan Abdul-Quddous. I asked if I could borrow the book, but he declined, saying he was still reading it. “Just for one night,” I insisted, and he agreed to lend it to me. The next day, Sheikh Saqr was again sitting in front of his house. I went over to him and returned the book. He looked at me in surprise and asked, “You read this entire large book already? How?” “You can tell a lot about a book from its title,” I replied cryptically.
16 One of the people I requested a loan from was Ahmad bin Ibrahim al-Mulla. He owned a café, established in 1953, in the majlis of the house of Hassan bin Abdul-Rahman al-Midfa‘, which overlooked the Sharjah suq and creek. When I asked him for a loan, he said, “How much do you need?” “100 Rupees,” I replied. “Allahu Akbar! What? 100 Rupees? I sell a cup of tea for 1 Anna. I need to sell 16 cups to make 1 Rupee, and you want a 100 Rupees?!” he exclaimed. “What are you going to buy with this amount, anyway?” he asked. “Books,” I answered.
17 Ahmad al-Mulla then said, “Listen, I have no money at all. But my wife does. Wait here in the café, and I will go ask her.” Ahmad al-Mulla lived with his wife and daughter in the house adjacent to that of Hassan bin Abdul-Rahman al-Midfa‘. It only took him a few minutes to return, strutting proudly. I said eagerly, “Give me the good news!” “Yes, she agreed, but she demanded collateral,” he said. “Like what?” I asked. “Gold,” Ahmad al-Mulla replied. I asked him for his wife’s name, and he
18 said it was Nasrah bint Muhammad. I scribbled her name on a piece of paper from my pocket and rushed home. In May 1953, we were staying in the summer section of our Sharjah residence. That section was called Dihreez, a distorted form of the Persian word dihliz, meaning corridor. The dahāreez (plural) used to be built facing north, where the summer winds blow from. Adjacent to our dihreez was a barjeel, another word borrowed from the Farsi badgir, though its pronunciation is distorted by the local Arab population. It is what one may call a “windcatcher.” There are many words that our local
19 dialect has borrowed from Farsi. Among them are: • Shabriyyah: Originally “chārpāyeh” in Farsi. This word literally means “four legs” and is commonly used to refer to a stool or small bench with four legs. • Daricheh: A distorted pronunciation of the Farsi word “dar-e kuchak,” meaning small door. In our house, we had many servants: men, women, and boys. Among the boys were Saeed al-Dābit and Saeed al-Aswad. There was also a boy named Ibrahim, nicknamed Barhoom Sahn al-Hôtel, to distinguish him from another boy named Ibrahim. I have no recollection of this
20 latter Ibrahim, but there was a fourth boy named Hammoud wild Mininah. As time passed, both Ibrahim and Hammoud grew into men, and they were later joined in service by this Barhoom Sahn al-Hôtel. One day at noon in May, Barhoom arrived at our house and began talking with my mother through one of the many ventilation windows in the dihreez. During their conversation, my mother insisted, “Don’t leave until you’ve had lunch with us today.” Meanwhile, I hung my golden dagger on a peg at the back of the dihreez. That night, my mother noticed the dagger had gone missing. She urgently questioned me, “Sultan, where is your dagger?”
21 “I have it,” I assured her. “You have it? Where exactly is it?” she pressed. “In safekeeping,” I responded. Dissatisfied with my vague answers, she concluded, “Impossible. Barhoom must have taken it. I saw how his eyes lingered on the dagger through the window. He’s the one who must have stolen it. Although I insisted he stay for lunch, I later learned he had left without eating. I’ll let Muhammad, your father, know what happened so he can punish him and even threaten to cut off his hand for stealing!” I then had to swear to my mother that the dagger was indeed with me, but she
22 remained skeptical, repeatedly muttering, “Where has this dagger gone?” The following morning, I left the house carrying my golden dagger, which I had kept hidden from my mother all night. I had wrapped it in an old piece of ghutra fabric to keep it out of sight. Had my mother persisted in seeing it, I would have reluctantly shown it to her. Yet, my concern was that she might have taken it upon herself to secure it in one of her lockboxes, where I would have no access to it. At the café, I handed Ahmad Al-Mulla my golden dagger, which he promptly took to his wife and then returned with a fabric pouch filled with money. I sat in a
23 secluded corner of the otherwise empty café, counting the money, rupee by rupee, and arranged it into ten stacks, each consisting of ten rupees. After recounting, I placed the money back into the pouch and left the café. I then headed towards the suq to the north, even though the locals in Sharjah refer to that direction as east. The Sharjah market begins at the Grand Mosque, hosting the suqs for vegetables, fish, and meat. Nearby lies the ironsmiths’ suq, situated opposite the Saffarin (copper) section of the market. Following this is the dates suq, which leads into the Shannasiyyah suq, a bustling area where shops sell mats
24 crafted from thatched palm leaves, various types of ropes, and salt. Beyond the Shannasiyyah suq is an area known as Arsat al-Fahm (Coal Court), encircled by shops specializing in coal. Behind this section is the designated resting area for camels, where they relax after a day spent transporting coal and before they depart to start all over. As I continued my walk, I approached the Darwazah (dar bozorg in Persian, meaning “big door”) of Suq Saqr, known as the Western Darwazah. The multi-purpose Suq Saqr stretched up to the Eastern gateway, beyond which stood the al-Sirkal house, formerly used as the British Agency. Opposite it was a single-story building
25 with the sign “British Bank” on its door. I entered the bank to arrange a transfer of 100 rupees to the Mu’ayyad Bookstore in Al-Manama, Bahrain. Purpose of Transfer: purchase of books. What books? Asked the clerk. I said to the bank clerk, “The only thing you need to do is transfer the amount to the bookstore.” That evening, I took out the papers where I had listed the books from the Western House library of my late uncle, Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr al-Qasimi. I drafted a letter to the owner of al-Mu’ayyad Bookstore in al-Manama, Bahrain. In the letter, I informed him that I had transferred
26 100 Rupees to the bookstore’s account as an advance payment for the books listed in the attachment. I also requested that if any funds remained, I would send another list of books I wished to obtain. I then added my name and address as follows: Sultan bin Muhammad al-Qasimi, Sharjah, the Coast of Oman. The book list included: 1. Nahjul Balaghah (The Path of Eloquence: a collection of sermons, letters, and sayings allegedly attributed to Imam Ali ibn Abi Talib) 2. Al-Shawqiyyat (a poetry collection by Ahmed Shawqi) 3. Al-Hassan al-Basri: A Biography 4. Antara bin Shaddad: A Biography
27 5. The 1001 Nights (Arabian Nights) 6. Jawaher al-Adab fi Sinā‘at Inshā’ al-Arab (Jewels of Literature on the Craft of Arabic Composition) I left our house and headed for the taxi rank where the cabs arriving from Dubai line up, and where Abu Ahmad, the mailman, brings and receives the post. I handed him the letter along with some money for the postage stamp. A few days later, a package with the books I had ordered from al-Mu’ayyad Bookstore in Bahrain arrived via Sharjah airport. Ibrahim Askar, an airport employee responsible for dispatching Sharjah airport mail to Dubai, recognized my name on the
28 package and brought it to our house in person. I received the package which one of the servants carried for me and placed it in the middle of the makhzan, a large building where we used to sleep. It was a dark place with no access for light whatsoever except for one single window. It had a door facing east to allow for the sun rays to bring warmth into the building. It was the winter of November 1953. I spread the books on the floor, right in the middle of the makhzan, and began inspecting each volume. The female servants were walking around, cleaning the makhzan, and moving items in and out. Annoyed by their presence as they
29 passed by me, I shouted, directing them away from my books, “Go from there! Don’t step here! Move away from here!” I eventually placed the books inside a niche on the wall and would bring them down one by one to check and read. Al-Hassan al-Basri’s book turned out to be a compilation of his biography, teachings, and views. It included religious rulings, preaching, sermons, and hadiths. Why did I order this book? The only reason was that it was one of the books in my uncle’s library. As the ruler of Sharjah, he needed to learn Islamic rulings, and this book was useful to him. I quickly read through the book on
30 Antara bin Shaddad. It was more of a tale, which I quite enjoyed, despite its broad stretches of imagination. “The 1001 Nights” (Arabian Nights) was a great book of fantasy and imagination. However, its content included many promiscuous tales. As I read the book, I crossed out many sections, deciding to narrate those heavily edited stories myself to the students, my neighbors, and my household members. “The Shawqiyyat” by the great Prince of Poets, Ahmed Shawqi, was a compilation of his lifetime poetic compositions. I felt my uncle needed this book more than I did, as he himself was a poet.
31 Then there was “Jawaher al-Adab fi Sinā‘at Inshā’ al-Arab (Jewels of Literature on the Craft of Arabic Composition),” which I read occasionally. It contained short topics, each comprising a few pages. The final book to check was “Nahjul Balaghah,” an anthology of the sayings of Imam Ali - may Allah be pleased with him - compiled by al-Sharif al-Radi. As I went through this book, I kept asking myself if all the efforts made to obtain these books, including the pawning of my dagger, had been worth it just to obtain this particular book, especially since I was not very impressed with the other ones. Consequently, I spent most of
32 my time reading it and eventually memorized most of it. The situation in our house changed significantly after the death of the ruler of Sharjah. Previously, our house had been that of the deputy ruler, but then it became the headquarters of the ruler himself, my father. Consequently, it witnessed constant invitations and banquets. The dishes would come into our house empty and leave heaped with food for guests. The bustling activity was non-stop throughout the day, only quieting down at night. This continued until my father abdicated in favor of his nephew, Sheikh Saqr ibn Sultan al-Qasimi, who was also his son-in-law. The house then experienced
33 some peace and quiet. There was no more shouting or noise, nor the constant smell of food. My father regularly attended the open council held by his nephew, Sheikh Saqr al-Qasimi, the ruler of Sharjah. Often, individuals with grievance would come and sit before my father, who would promptly redirect them to Sheikh Saqr, saying, “There is the ruler, not me… This is the ruler to speak to.” Occasionally, Sheikh Saqr himself would point this out, addressing the complainant and saying, “Come over here; I am the ruler.” As such incidents became more frequent, my father felt increasingly uncomfortable attending the ruler’s open
34 council and eventually chose to remain in his own council (majlis) instead. Nevertheless, this decision did not resolve the issue. People continued to come to my father’s council seeking help, lodging complaints, or visiting as guests from outside Sharjah, choosing to approach my father’s house rather than the ruler’s. Consequently, my father decided to close his council altogether. Yet, people persisted in gathering at the council’s door, waiting for my father to come out. Our house had alternative exit that opened towards the court in front of the Fort, but he would not use that door either if he wanted to go out. Instead, he used the kitchen door for his outings whenever he
35 needed to visit the house of Sheikh Saif al-Midfa‘, the town’s judge, go to the market to oversee his trade and properties, or meet with fellow merchants. In the morning or evening, my father would anoint himself with perfume and incense before exiting through the kitchen door. To his right, the rich aromas of cooking mingled with the smoke of burning firewood, while to his left, the cowshed exuded the earthy scents of cow dung. Stepping out, he would enter a small courtyard, cluttered with stacks of firewood and scattered cattle fodder. He would navigate through this space, enclosed by houses constructed from palm fronds. As he made his way out of this enclave, he
36 would reach the main road, which led directly to the town judge’s residence and the bustling markets. Every evening, as my father returned from his visit to the house of Sheikh Saif al-Midfa‘, he would find me deeply engrossed in reading. He often asked, “Read to me from that book you were reading yesterday,” referring to Imam Ali’s “Nahjul Balaghah.” Once, I suggested, “Why don’t you take the book and read it at your leisure?” “I like the way you read,” was my father’s reply One evening, my father returned to find me immersed in reading the “Nahjul
37 Balaghah,” book. He sat next to me, and I began reading to him on topics that uplift the heart, he was so pleased that he asked, “Where did you find this extraordinary book?” “I bought it,” I replied, “along with some other books from Bahrain.” “How much did they cost you?” he queried. “100 Rupees,” I answered. “Where did you get that kind of money?” he further inquired. “I pawned my golden dagger for 100 Rupees,” I responded. Upon overhearing this, my mother,
38 who had been resting nearby on the ground, exclaimed, “May Allah protect us against your Devil! All this time, I had suspected Barhoom Sahn al-Hôtel while it was your doing!” “What’s this about Barhoom Sahn al-Hôtel?” my father asked, puzzled. My mother then recounted what had happened the day the golden dagger went missing. Hearing this, my father took me to one end of the makhzan where he had an iron safe. He opened it, took out 100 Rupees, gave them to me and instructed, “Tomorrow, go settle the pawn and retrieve your dagger.”
39 He paused, then asked with a hint of a smile, “Sultan, don’t you want a little something for yourself?” I chuckled, and he handed me an extra 10 Rupees. The next morning, I visited Ahmad Ibrahim al-Mulla’s café, paid off the 100 Rupees, and he brought me back my dagger from his wife, Nasrah bint Muhammad. One mid-morning, my father came to the makhzan where we had been staying and greeted us. My mother returned his greeting and sitting near her was another woman. Addressing my father, my mother said,
40 “Muhammad, this is Amina bint Badr... your milk-sister, nursed with your late brother, Sheikh Sultan, may God have mercy on him.” My father replied, “I know her. My late brother had told me about her.” My father’s eyes wandered around the makhzan, looking for me. He then asked, “Mariam, where is Sultan? The makhzan is dark; there are no one around here.” My mother responded, “He is over there in the corner of the makhzan, sitting like a pot with a book on his face.” My father called me and took me with him, saying, “Enough sitting among the women.”
41 He took me to his private majlis, a beautifully arranged room with an attached windcatcher (barjeel) and a courtyard in front of it. The courtyard had two doors, one leading to the house’s exit and another to the interior, along with a bathroom. In the middle of the courtyard stood a large, shady neem tree known as the Shereesh tree, which has fragrant white flowers, and there was a bench under that tree for sitting. My father led me into his private majlis, declaring, “This is your home, Sultan.” I was astounded by what I saw; the majlis had been converted into a bedroom, complete with a bed and other amenities.
I thanked my father, to which he responded, “When I want to read your books, I’ll come here while you are at school.” “That would make me very happy,” I replied. My father noted, “But you have too few books. Order many more, and I will provide whatever money you need.” Then my father asked, “How do you know the names of the books?” I recounted what I had done following the death of my uncle, Sheikh Sultan. While my brothers and cousins waited for his body to arrive from London in the library hall, playing cards for an entire week, I was in the 42
43 library copying down the titles of my uncle’s books. I still have that list and will bring it to you. I rushed to the makhzan and retrieved the papers containing the titles of the books. I then went back to my father’s private majlis—my own space—where I found my father overwhelmed with tears. He embraced me tightly, showering me with kisses, and said, “I remembered your late uncle, may God have mercy on him.” My father began to give me substantial sums of money, and in turn, I acquired books from al-Mu’ayyad Library in Bahrain. My father would read and memorize the contents, until one day, at a gathering
44 at Sheikh Saif al-Midfa‘s place, where scholars and jurists met, my father, who had previously only listened, began to participate in the discussions. He confidently recited the words of the renowned poet, Ahmad Shawqi: In halls of thought where wisdom’s pillars rise, Knowledge constructs a house that defies the skies. While ignorance, with heavy hand, does smother The noble house of honor and dignity—no other. In November 1954, as we were en route to the Hajj, we passed through Bahrain.
45 There, I left the hotel in search of the “Mu’ayyad” bookstore. Guided by locals, I found it brimming with books stacked from floor to ceiling. Absorbed in the sight of the books, I hardly noticed the man seated at a desk until he prompted, “How can I help you, young man?” I turned to him and recognized an elderly man. I greeted him and asked, “Are you al-Mu’ayyad?” “Yes, and what do you want?” he replied. “I am your friend, Sultan al-Qasimi, from Sharjah,” I introduced myself. “You are Sultan? The one who corresponds with me from Sharjah?” he
46 exclaimed in surprise. “Yes,” I confirmed. “And what do you do with the books you buy, and those I send you as gifts?” he asked. “I read them,” I replied, and proceeded to share my story with him about my connection with books. Then al-Mu’ayyad asked, “What is your relation to the late Sheikh Sultan bin Saqr?” “He was my uncle,” I answered. He nodded as if to say, “It makes sense!”
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