Cover Photo: Sultan bin Muhammad al-Qasimi at the time.
Shindagha: A Short Sojourn
Shindagha: A Short Sojourn Dr. Sultan bin Muhammad Al-Qasimi
Shindagha: A Short Sojourn First published in 2024 in Arabic as “Fi Alshandugha Eisht Layali Wayam” 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: 978-9948-740-39-1 Printing Permission: UAE Media Council No. MC 03-01-0840266, 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
5 Foreword This is a short narrative that can be classified under several genres: travel literature, geographical documentation, historical preservation, and heritage description. However, for me, it falls under the category of familial bonds. The author
7 Shindagha: A Short Sojourn In the warmth of a March day in 1948, I sat with my father in our dwelling area, which we called the makhzan. The air was still, with the quiet promise of the day ahead. Suddenly, just before noon, the soft rustle of fabric announced my mother’s presence. She stepped into our space, her voice tinged with urgency and a touch of reverence.
8 “Muhammad, my mother, Hamda, is here. She wishes to speak with you,” she said. Without hesitation, my father replied, “By all means, let her in.” My grandmother, Hamda bint Ali al-Rumaythi, entered. Accompanying her was her young grandson, Ghanim ibn Naser al-Marri, whom she affectionately called Al-Sheiba, a name that echoed the legacy of his and my grandfather, Ghanim ibn Salem al-Shamsi. “Assalamu Alaykum, Muhammad,” my grandmother greeted. “Wa Alaykum Assalam! Welcome, Hamda. Who is this boy with you?” my father inquired.
9 “This is Ghanim, the son of my daughter Aousha,” she began, her voice steady yet troubled. “You know Aousha married Naser al-Marri from Deira and had this boy. However, she couldn’t settle there and was divorced. She later married Saif ibn Thalith, who took her to his home, but Ghanim stayed with me, and I have been raising him. Three days ago, his father came wanting to take the boy back. I refused, but yesterday he returned with a man armed with a tofek (a distorted pronunciation of the Farsi word ,تفنـگ pronounced “tof-eng” meaning, rifle. Another common term for “rifle” is ,بندقيـة which is also taken from the Farsi word
10 bandooq), claiming the man was sent by the Sheikhs. Can you believe it? Bringing someone armed to my house! Is this acceptable to you, Sheikh Muhammad? Please, ensure they keep their distance from me.” My father, with a sigh, replied, “I can’t do that.” “Oh? I never thought I’d hear a Sheikh say ‘I can’t,’” my grandmother retorted, her voice quivering with frustration. With a chuckle, my father explained, “Oh, Hamda, Dubai has its own Sheikhs who govern there... We’re in Sharjah, and our authority only extends here.” Tears welled up in my grandmother’s
11 eyes as my mother entered the room. “This boy is all the company I have; I have no one else,” she said, her voice breaking. My father, compassionate yet pragmatic, turned to my mother. “Here is your daughter, Mariam. If she agrees, she can let you have Sultan for a few days to keep your company. Hopefully, things will settle down, God willing.” “I have no objections to that,” my mother replied softly. “Alright then, let’s get going. Come along, children,” my grandmother said, gathering her resolve. “Hold on, Hamda. The car will take you to Dubai,” my father interjected, handing
12 some money to my grandmother and giving me a smaller amount while my mother packed my clothes into a bukja (Turkish for bundle). “Sultan, go to the driver, Abdullah Bandari, and tell him to bring the car to take you to Dubai,” he instructed. After a quick lunch, my grandmother, Ghanim, and I climbed into the car, which began its journey toward Dubai. As we neared the outskirts of Deira, I marveled at a fortress that seemed to have legs. Abdullah Bandari, the driver, pointed and said, “That’s Umm Al-Riyool Square” (The term “Square” refers to the fortress’ square shape. “Al-Riyool” is dialectal Arabic
13 for “legs,” giving the name a literal meaning of “the Legged Square.”) We arrived at the taxi stand and made our way to the Deira market. The initial part of the market was uncovered, while the rest was shaded by palm fronds, leading us to the abra (ferry) dock, a bustling area where ferries lined the pier. Boarding the ferry, we began our journey through the expansive Dubai Creek to the southeast. As we approached the narrow pier on the Dubai mainland (Bur Dubai), the scene shifted from the confined bustle of Banyans (a community of Indians) to the vibrant chaos of the Bur Dubai market.
14 The market began with narrow, palm-frond-covered pathways that suddenly opened into a wide expanse, where shop owners displayed their goods in front of their stores on tables laden with fruits and sweets. The Bur Dubai market extended to the fish souq on the southern bank of the creek, where uncovered land stretched before us. To our left, a rhythmic “tak-tak... tak-tak” sound emanated from a rectangular building. “What’s that sound?” I asked my grandmother. “That’s the flour mill. People bring their grain here to be ground,” she explained.
15 On our right stood a tall square building. “And what is this?” I inquired. “That’s the sheikhs’ Square (fortress),” she replied. Before us, the vast sea stretched out, and as we reached its edge, I exclaimed, “A sea... Where’s the ferry?” My grandmother and Ghanim laughed. “Look at those buildings at the far end of the sea; that’s Shindagha. We live there,” she said. “How do we cross this sea?” I asked, bewildered. “This area is called al-Ghubaiba (“tidal flat” or “mudflat.”) When the sea rises, it
16 covers it; when it recedes, it dries up. Watch your brother Ghanim and do as he does,” my grandmother instructed. We waded through the knee-deep water until we reached Shindagha and arrived at a large house. “Is this your house?” I asked. “This is the house of Sheikh Mubarak ibn Ali al-Shamsi,” she replied. We passed behind it into a narrow lane, flanked by houses made of palm fronds, with a plaster building to our right. My grandmother opened a door, and we entered a home with a tent, an arbor, and a kitchen, all fashioned from palm fronds.
17 “Is this your entire house?” I asked. “This is my paradise. The scent of your grandfather, God rest his soul, is in this place,” she said, her voice filled with nostalgia. Turning to Ghanim, she instructed, “Take Sultan to the sea.” We left the lane and emerged onto an endless beach, where the blue sea melded with the horizon. We raced along the shore until Ghanim pointed to a house. “This is the house of my uncle, Ghanim al-Rumaythi, who is my grandmother Hamda’s brother,” he explained. We were warmly welcomed by “my uncle,” who was actually my mother’s
18 uncle, Ghanim ibn Kharbāsh. After a brief visit, we returned to my grandmother’s house. That night, we slept in my grandmother’s tent on the bed of my grandfather, Ghanim ibn Salem al-Shamsi. Ghanim ibn Naser lay to my grandmother’s right, and I was on her left. She was overjoyed, her happiness palpable as she played with us until we drifted into sleep. The following day, an abrupt knock on the door shattered the morning calm. As we opened it, there stood Naser al-Marri, accompanied by the man with the ominous rifle. Fear struck us, and we rushed to our grandmother’s side, seeking her protection. With the grace of a
19 matriarch, she stepped forward, speaking to Naser with an unexpected kindness. “Let Ghanim visit me from time to time,” she pleaded. Naser, perhaps swayed by her gentle tone, agreed. Then, turning his gaze to me, he inquired, “And who is this boy?” My grandmother replied, “This is Sultan, the son of my daughter Mariam bint Ghanim.” Naser al-Marri’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Give him to us as well to keep Ghanim company,” he suggested. Indignation flashed across my grandmother’s face as she glanced around,
20 searching for something to hit him with. But Naser laughed off her defiance and walked away, his son trailing behind, followed by the rifle-bearing man. In the quiet aftermath, my grandmother clung to me, her tears soaking into my shoulder. That evening, restless and eager for adventure, I told my grandmother of my desire to explore the lane where I had seen children playing. She allowed it, but with a stern condition. “Do not be late,” she warned. The children were gathered in two groups. One group ventured south, weaving through the houses made of palm fronds. The other headed toward
21 al-Ghubaiba, where the water had swelled to its highest level. I joined the latter, following a path alongside the fortified wall of Sheikh Mubarak al-Shamsi’s house. The wall, built to the height of an arm’s length, protected the grounds from al-Ghubaiba’s encroaching waters. We navigated the path, heading east, and then turned north. We arrived at a raised land that acted as a bulwark against the waters. There, in the shade of Sheikh Mubarak al-Shamsi’s house, a group of men sat on rectangular benches. One of them spotted me and called out, “There’s a stranger among the children. Call him over.” I approached the men. The one who
22 had called out to me asked, “Whose son are you?” “I am the son of Muhammad ibn Saqr,” I replied. “You mean Sheikh Muhammad ibn Saqr from Sharjah, and your mother is Mariam, the daughter of Sheikh Ghanim?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with recognition. “Yes,” I confirmed. “Do you know any of those children?” he continued. “No,” I admitted. “These children are going home, towards the sheikhs’ houses. Sit with us...
23 Are you staying with your grandmother Hamda?” he inquired further. “Yes,” I answered. “Come see me here every afternoon,” he said, offering a smile of welcome. I excused myself and returned to my grandmother’s house, feeling a sense of belonging growing within me. That night, I lay beside my grandmother on a wide bed. Her voice softened as she began to tell me stories about my grandfather, Ghanim. “He would rest his head on this pillow,” she said, her fingers tracing the outline of the pillow, “and he had a long white beard.”
24 Her tales of my grandfather were mesmerizing, filled with feats that bordered on the mythical. I couldn’t help but ask, “Was he a sorcerer?” Her face darkened with anger, and she scolded me. “Grandmother, no one has ever told me things like this!” I exclaimed, feeling a mix of fear and curiosity. “Are you different from other children?” she retorted, her tone softening. I drifted off to sleep that night, comforted by her gentle words and the rich legacy of stories she shared. The next morning, my grandmother
25 took me to see Sheikh Obaid ibn Jum‘a alMaktoum, who had built an arbor from palm fronds near the shore, where he trained falcons for hunting. That evening, I went to the gathering at Sheikh Mubarak al-Shamsi’s majlis, in front of his house, as my grandmother had told me. He welcomed me warmly and invited me to sit beside him. The gathering was animated with conversation, and Sheikh Mubarak resumed a story that immediately drew me in. “May God’s curse be upon them,” he began. “Thirty-eight years ago, in 1910, the British attacked Dubai, landing soldiers at night with the intent to occupy it. But the
26 locals fiercely resisted, undeterred by the warships that lined up in front of the city, firing shells day and night intermittently.” “What happened after that?” someone asked, their voice filled with anticipation. “The British came, claiming they wanted to make peace after killing those who fought in defense of their country,” Sheikh Mubarak replied. “Moreover, they forced the locals to pay money and surrender a number of rifles.” A while later, he turned to me, and said, “Sultan, go back home now. There is a strong north wind tonight.” He then instructed some of his servants to escort me to my grandmother’s house.
27 I was mesmerized by Sheikh Mubarak al-Shamsi’s story, and I repeated it to my grandmother, my voice full of wonder. That night, the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves accompanied us as we settled in. Suddenly, voices called out from the lane in front of my grandmother’s house. “Sultan, go to the door and see who is there,” my grandmother said. I opened the courtyard gate, and two women rushed in, their voices urgent. “Where is your mother? Where is your mother?” they asked repeatedly. “She is in the tent,” I replied, leading them inside. The women continued, “We’re lost;
28 there’s sea on one side and sea on the other.” One of them added, “We’ve been calling out to the house opposite yours for a while, and no one answered.” “That house belongs to Mariam; she cannot hear,” my grandmother explained. Then she turned to me, “Sultan, is the courtyard gate closed?” “No,” I answered. “Go and close the gate,” she instructed. As I went to close the gate, I wondered: is our neighbor Mariam truly deaf, or does she simply choose not to open her door? Returning to the tent, I lay down beside
29 my grandmother. The two women settled in the middle of the tent, and only the sound of the waves filled the air. “Oh no... did you wet yourself?” one woman suddenly exclaimed. “I swear I didn’t!” the second woman retorted. “It’s like you’ve opened a waterskin! You’ve embarrassed us,” the first woman accused. I stifled a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. “Oh, you foolish women... the sea is coming in on us,” my grandmother said, exasperation in her voice.
30 The second wave of the sea wet the floor of the tent. “Get up... the whole world is turning into the sea,” the first woman urged. “Let’s sleep with them on the bed,” the second woman suggested. “No, no. There’s no room on the bed,” my grandmother firmly replied. She opened the tent door and said, “Get up and go sleep in the arbor.” The two women reluctantly left the tent and headed to the arbor. Finally, my grandmother closed the tent door, sighing, “Finally, some peace.” “You were the one who told me to
31 open the gate,” I reminded her. “I thought Ghanim was running away from his father. See the blessings of your grandfather upon us? The wave came and drove them out of the tent. Who knows what they would have done... now go to sleep, go to sleep,” she murmured. The next morning, I woke to the smell of breakfast being prepared. “Where are the women?” I asked. “They left during the night,” my grandmother replied, a hint of relief in her voice. Later that morning, I ventured to the beach where Sheikh Obaid ibn Jum‘a al-Maktoum’s arbor was situated. A group
32 of Dubai residents surrounded the arbor, discussing the town’s affairs. But I paid little attention to them, my focus entirely on the magnificent falcons. That evening, I returned to Sheikh Mubarak al-Shamsi’s gathering. As I sat close to him, someone asked about the days of the pearl trade. Sheikh Mubarak began to explain the challenges that had beset the pearl merchants. “There were several reasons,” he said. “The emergence of Japanese cultured pearls, the World War, and the oil companies in the Gulf where most people now worked.” “Nineteen years ago, there were sixty
33 vessels in Dubai alone that did not go out to sea,” Sheikh Mubarak continued. “Major traders like Muhammad ibn Ahmad ibn Dalmūk were affected. He was the one who brought the first car to Dubai during that difficult period and gifted it to Sheikh Saeed bin Maktoum.” Returning to my grandmother’s house, I found her with tears streaming down her face. “Grandmother, don’t cry. I am here with you,” I said, trying to comfort her. “I worry when you are away from me. I fear for your safety,” she replied, her voice heavy with concern. We spent that night talking about my
34 grandfather, our voices weaving together memories of a man whose legacy could hardly be forgotten. The next morning, I eagerly returned to the beach, expecting to see Sheikh Obaid ibn Jum‘a al-Maktoum and his group. However, the arbor stood desolate, stripped of its furniture. “They must have gone hunting,” I mused to myself. I sat on the shore, my eyes scanning the horizon. To my left stretched an empty expanse of sand, save for the industrious white crabs, known as “shanayib,” scurrying about to build their intricate towers. To my right, a ship with a billowing white sail glided smoothly, towing a small boat called a “mashwa” (a Swahili word
35 meaning a small boat that ferries passengers to the shore.) The ship soon vanished behind the beach, signaling its entry into Dubai Creek. As evening descended, I made my way to Sheikh Mubarak al-Shamsi’s majlis, only to find the chairs empty and the door closed. “He must have traveled,” I thought, a pang of disappointment in my heart. I turned my gaze to the waters of al-Ghubaiba, which had swelled to embrace the continuous houses of Shindagha, forming a crescent that revealed the whereabouts of Dubai Creek. Yet, the buildings of Bur Dubai obscured it from view. As I looked back at the waters, I spotted a man with a boy
36 approaching me. I squinted, then shouted with joy, “Ghanim... Ghanim,” as I waded through the waters of al-Ghubaiba, my clothes clinging to me. We embraced, our reunion filled with unspoken words of relief and happiness. On our way to my grandmother’s house, I turned to Naser al-Marri and said, “Thank you for bringing Ghanim back to us.” My grandmother, overwhelmed with emotion, hugged Ghanim tightly, oblivious to Naser al-Marri’s words. “This boy has exhausted me; he disappears, and I keep searching for him everywhere,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration.
37 It was only when Naser al-Marri said the following that my grandmother finally paid attention to his words. “It’s better for the boy to stay with you, Hamda. I will come myself to visit him,” he declared. My grandmother was overjoyed to hear this. The three of us entered the tent, and Naser al-Marri took his leave. That night, Ghanim slept on my grandmother’s right side, and I on her left. Her joy was palpable, and she whispered, “Tomorrow we will go to Sharjah and return Sultan to his family.”
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