Badass Women of History- Asmahan

Asmahan

The Spy

  

 

Syrian princess, Egyptian singer, British spy and Nazi double-agent - Asmahan was an alluring figure in the Middle East during the 1930s and 40s.

 

Born Amal al-Atrash into a prominent Syrian family, Asmahan's father was an Ottoman official in Turkey during WWI.

Her parents, both members of the Druze religion, fled Turkey in 1918 after the French and British invaded and occupied the Ottoman Empire's territories.

Supposedly, Asmahan was born on the ship that carried the family to Beirut from Turkey.

When they returned to Syria, Asmahan's father moved the family to his ancestral homeland in the south of the country.

Tensions between the Al-Atrash clan and the French government turned violent in 1921 after a man who tried to assassinate the French governor of Syria was aided in his escape attempt by the Al-Atrash patriarch.

Asmahan's mother, Alia, who felt her marriage was also on the rocks, decided to separate from her husband and move with her children to the relative safety of Egypt.

Despite her husband's objections, Alia left as the French stepped up their violent campaign against the Al-Atrash.

 

Asmahan (far right) with her mother and two brothers shortly 
after arriving in Egypt.

When they arrived in Egypt, Asmahan's mother was forced to moveher children into a humble Cairo apartment.

Well to do relatives in Egypt avoided contact with Alia because they felt she had disgraced the family by leaving her husband.

Though she was of upper class origins, Asmahan's mother supported her children by working as a seamstress and by singing at parties.

However, her aristocratic background allowed Alia to send her children to a prestigious French Catholic school. Eventually, the family made enough money to live comfortably again. Their fortunes improved dramatically after Asmahan's older brother, Farid, began to succeed as a musician. 

Asmahan as a teenager. 

Inspired by their mother's singing, Asmahan's older brother helped to pave the way for his own sister's rapid rise to fame.

At fourteen Asmahan began performing in concerts. By sixteen she had recorded her first album. Gaining notoriety on Egyptian radio, many of her songs were written by Farid who she would remain close to throughout her life.

Asmahan also transitioned well into the Egyptian film scene. She became one of the country's most prominent movie stars, gaining fame and notoriety across the Middle East for her beauty, charm and singing talent. 

 

Despite or perhaps because of her great success, Asmahan received resentment and criticism from her extended family in Syria who pressured her into marrying her cousin, an powerful amir, in 1933.

Returning with her new husband to Syria for the first time since her childhood, the Egyptian star's liberal, more Western lifestyle clashed with her husband's conservative worldview.

She refused to change and fit the role of a traditional Druze wife and began to spend more and more time away from her husband's mountain palace.

Her rocky marriage to her cousin ended in divorce in 1938 (they would marry and divorce one more time) and Asmahan decided to move on.

Free from her marriage, Asmahan made a new home for herself at the luxurious King David Hotel in Jerusalem. 

 

The King David Hotel in Jerusalem.

It was here, at what was regarded as the headquarters of British rule in the Middle East, that Asmahan developed a reputation as a fem-fatale.

Using her singing, charm and extraordinary good looks, 'The Lady of the Lobbies' was able to beguile prominent British and Arab officials alike who stayed at or worked out of the hotel. 

The life of many parties, she was regarded  as an 'agent of influence' who could win and trade favors from a variety of power players. Many important men were smitten with her .

General Edward Spears, a British official, once described Asmahan as: '...one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Her eyes were immense, green as the sea you cross to paradise. She bowled over British officers with the speed and accuracy of a machine gun.'

There was also a popular joke at the hotel that it was impossible to be alone in her room as you were likely to find one general in her bed, another under her bed and one more dangling from the chandelier.

Asmahan was also bisexual and had numerous affairs with prominent Jerusalem women. Her female lovers were mainly the wives of her male lovers.

It was this ability to charm and influence important men which would change her life once again in 1939 when war broke out in Europe between Britain and Nazi Germany. 

 

Hitler in Paris after the Fall of France

The German conquest of France in 1940 brought numerous French colonies and possessions under de'facto Nazi control. Syria, a French Mandate, came under the domain of Vichy French forces who were loyal to the Nazi government.

Since A Vichy/Nazi controlled Syria threatened British possessions in Palestine and Iraq, British military officials knew they needed support from the peoples of Syria to bring the territory under their control.

In 1941, MI6 recruited Asmahan as an agent and sent her back to Syria. She agreed to work as their operative under the promise that Syria would be granted full and immediate independence once the British invaded it.

Going to Damascus and then to Southern Syria, her mission was to charm and bribe various local leaders into supporting the British invasion and turn their backs on the pro-German French authorities.

She also traveled through the Druze majority areas on the borders of Palestine and Syria convincing her father's people to fight for the British.

With her assistance, the British army in Palestine easily captured Syri. The Free French leader Charles De Gaulle thanked Asmahan personally for her assistance.

Asmahan's honeymoon with the Allies, however, was short lived. 

The British failed to deliver on their promise of Syrian independence. The territory was given to Free French forces opposed to Nazi Germany instead.

This betrayal prompted Asmahan to turn into a double agent.

Operating in Damascus, Asmahan used her seductive charms to steal British military secrets from her high ranking lovers for German intelligence.

Eventually, though Asmahan was captured with British military secrets while trying to reach a German contact in Turkey. She bit the border official who arrested her and she was booted out of Syria by the Free French.

Despite being caught red handed as a double-agent, Asmahan charmed her way out of a firing squad and returned to Jerusalem in 1942.

There, at the age of 24, she resumed her life as the  'Lady of the Lobbies' at the King David Hotel.

She lived there for the next two years, entertaining local notables, restarting her film career, and enjoying her favorite drink a champagne-whiskey cocktail on a daily basis.

She continued to have many affairs and lovers.

In 1944, Asmahan returned to Egypt to star in the film: 'Love and Vengeance' a move which she hoped would make her a prominent star once more.

While filming, she took a car-ride with a friend and a chauffeur in the Nile Delta.

According to the driver, who was the only witness of the event, he lost control of the vehicle which went off the road and dove straight into the Nile River.

Asmahan and her friend drowned before the chauffeur could pull them out.

The odd circumstances around Asmahan's death have prompted many to speculate that the accident was arranged by one of many different parties that would have wished the star harm.

Did MI6 kill her for her betrayal during the war? Did the Germans silence her out of fear that she would reveal secrets? Was a jaded ex-lover or a rebuffed suitor looking for vengeance?

It's unlikely any evidence of a plot will ever emerge. Yet Asmahan's death, like her life, was anything but typical.

Though she wasn't a warrior or a political leader, her skill at charming others made her an invaluable intelligence asset and she showed time and again how great her powers of persuasion were.

Dying only at the age of twenty seven, she lived an exciting albeit tumultuous life and remains an intriguing figure even to this day.

Then Why Am I Still Alive? - A Response to the Vitriol Against Syrian Refugees

Some of the more vitriolic rhetoric about the danger of Syrian Refugees has got me thinking:

'Why am I alive?'

I've been thinking of this as a rhetorical question recently in light of the paranoid flurry of social media activity regarding Syrian refugees and the Paris Attacks.

(Never mind that none of the shooters appear to be refugees and seem to be Muslim citizens of Belgium and France.)

I ask this because if certain voices on the right are correct concerning the nature of Muslims, I shouldn't be alive today.

You see I was an American who spent two and half years living in a Muslim majority country. Egypt to be precise.

I did not live in a walled off compound surrounded by guards. I lived in an apartment building near downtown Cairo. My neighbors and practically everyone in the building were Muslim.

Every workday I would grab a taxi (usually driven by a Muslim) to my company where I would work with Muslims and Christians making advertisements. I would eat with Muslim colleagues and would sometimes have discussions with conservative colleagues about US involvement in the region.

After work I would often go to a coffee shop (run by Muslims) and drink coffee having a conversation with the Muslim owner.

I would then walk home past Muslim owned shops and restaurants to my apartment occasionally saying hi to a Muslim neighbor I might see in the hall.

Sometimes I would go out at night with Muslim friends. I would sometimes accompany them into mosques (or restaurants or movie theatres depending on what we wanted to do). Occasionally, I would even have a beer or to with one of them.

 I would celebrate the end of day fast with Muslim friends during Ramadan (I actually fasted the full month one year).

I went to Muslim engagement parties and weddings.

And at times my Muslim friends and I would also have lively discussions and disagreements with each other.

Now, here’s what confuses me about my time there in light of some of the rhetoric about Syrian refugees:

Why was I never threatened with conversion or death once during my two and a half years there?

Why was I never made to feel unwelcome as a Westerner?

Why is it that people treated me the same after learning I was American?

Why could I walk down the streets of Cairo with a cross around my neck and not end of decapitated?

Why is it that I was never kidnapped or held hostage as I walked through the streets after work when I was known in the area as an American?

Why is it that even after having religious disagreements with Muslim colleagues at work they still talked to me and were friendly the next morning?

Why is it that even though I lived in Egypt through the Arab Spring and the election of the Muslim Brotherhood I wasn’t immediately dragged out of my apartment and shot?

All these ‘whys?’ can be summed up with one question.

‘If all 1.6 billion Muslims are so inherently dangerous, intolerant, violent and hellbent on destroying Western civilization- Why am I still alive???’

Why is it that in the two and a half years (and in the midst of political discord and upheaval no less) my Muslim neighbors, colleagues and friends didn’t show their ‘true faces’ and murder me?

The answer is this- The friendly, hospitable, generous and tolerant faces they showed me were their true faces.

A friend and I (I have the long hair.)

It makes me sad that I have to write that.

I do not deny that Islamic Extremism is a problem in the Middle East and many Muslim communities. I don’t deny the tragedy of the victims of terror attacks in the West and in the Muslim world. And there are many different social and cultural practices in Egypt that I don't think are right.

But those who would eagerly judge four million Syrian refugees by the actions of seven men who shared their faith but not their nationality are slandering.

If all the hundreds of Muslims I knew and interacted with daily truly were the knife and Kalashnikov wielding fanatics of ISIS I wouldn’t be writing this.

If that doesn’t somehow show how blind fear is driving the hateful anti-refugee rhetoric coming out of some Western circles, I don’t know what will.  

Remember Charlie and Don't Forget Ahmed- Thoughts on Charlie Hebdo

Writing about the Charlie Hebdo attack and the violence that took place in its aftermath is difficult for me. Last night, after I finished eating with my parents, all I could do in my small apartment was think about what happened in France. I spent several hours in my apartment alternating between scanning social media for reactions and watching Al Jazeera's coverage of the standoff with the shooters. 

Yet as mulled over whether to discuss the nature of Islam or the marginalization of European Muslims there was one face and name that kept popping up in my mind. 

The man in this photo is Ahmed Merabet. He was one of two police officers killed by the Kouachi brothers in their attack on Charlie Hebdo's main office which also resulted in the deaths of ten other innocent people. According to the Guardian  and a number of other media outlets, Ahmed was assigned to the area where the building was located. On foot, he went to the scene of the shooting and confronted the attackers in the street as they were fleeing the scene. He was shot during the ensuing engagement and was then executed with a bullet to the head as he lay wounded on the pavement. The scene was captured on amateur video. 

Still shot from the video.

I think there are a few reasons why Ahmed's story in relation to the tragedy of the Hebdo attack has stuck with me. First, he shared much in common with the men who killed him. Like them he was Muslim, like them he was of North African descent, like them he was raised in France and was a member of that country's often marginalized minority community of immigrants and immigrant descendants. Yet on that day when the masked militants and the uniformed officer met each other in the streets of Paris, their ensuing battle represented how despite sharing such similar backgrounds their lives had followed radically different paths. 

With so much media coverage of the attack focusing on free-speech, the nature of Islam as a religion of violence or peace, and the struggle to find an appropriate response to extremism, I think it's important that Ahmed's life and the lives of the many, many Muslims like him are not muffled by calls of outrage, finger pointing and name calling. 

I don't deny that Islam as a faith as a number of issues and problems. I've studied them academically. As someone who has read the Qur'an and the Sunnah, studied Islamic law and the works of Muslim scholars, I know firsthand about the verses, commentaries, fatwas that drive extremist elements in Muslim communities. Extremism is real, repressive practices inspired by religious teachings are real. 

However, in this post this is not what I would like to focus on, even though these are incredibly important topics.

What I would like to focus on is this. There are many Muslims like Ahmed Merabet who follow paths in their own communities that are different from violent Salafis and Jihadis. There are many Muslim voices denouncing religious violence in their communities (Malala Yousafzai for one). There are Muslim organizations who donate generously to charities that benefit many people. And then there are many, many others who simply want to live lives in peace and dignity and who won't decapitate you with a scimitar for sharing a different opinion, or a different faith.

I firmly believe this not just because of what I have read or watched but also because of what I have lived through.

I've spent a lot of time in countries with large Muslim populations. I studied in Egypt for four months in 2009 and traveled for a month through Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel and the West Bank. 

Between 2010 and 2012 (two and half years) I lived in Cairo. I worked in an Egyptian graphic design company alongside Egyptian Muslims and Christians. I witnessed the Arab Spring, the first open elections in that country's history, and the rise of Islamists like the Muslim Brotherhood. 

In my time in the Middle East, I got to know Muslims. I ate with Muslims, drank coffee with Muslims, smoked shisha with Muslims (too many times), fasted with Muslims during Ramadan and occasionally had a beer or two with them. 

Sure, it wasn't all sunshine and exotic joyful dances to Bedouin music in the desert. I saw widespread poverty.  Through female friends I learned of the pain caused by widespread sexual harassment of women. I saw the negative and all consuming power that firebrand imams (preachers) can have over an uneducated and illiterate congregation. I heard tearful stories of persecuted Christians who felt that their grievances were easily dismissed by their Muslim colleagues and peers.  Too many times, Muslim friends I knew and loved would share dark and sinister opinions about Jews and Atheists that would make me cringe. 

And yet, and yet for me to say that these negative aspects are what solely defined the people I know there would be slander. 

Yes they share the same God as ISIL, read the same Qur'an Osama Bin Laden did, read some of the same Hadiths that the Kouachi Brothers read, and no doubt listen to a few very similar sermons delivered at Friday noon prayers in their local mosques or prayer halls. But they are not Bin Laden or the Kouachi Brothers. 

They are Tamer, the aspiring screen writer, Scorsese fan and aspiring author who I shared fantasy and sci-fi story ideas with. 

They are Mohamed, the graphic designer at my company, who despite belonging to the ultraconservative Salafi movement, had no qualms about putting women in bikinis on the covers of our magazines and joking with me (a kafr) over shisha. 

They are Ingy, the aspiring English translator and kindergarten teaching assistant who fell in love with the game Dutch Blitz. 

They are Fatimah, the college student who introduced me to Arab literary giants like Naguib Mahfouz and Alaa al Aswany. 

They are Nada, the sweet veiled woman designer at my company who became one of my closest friends.

They are Bassem, the cycling scrawny artist who loved discussing the merits of his country's Revolution with me. 

They are Ismail, one of the most generous people I've ever met in my entire life. A man from a small and highly conservative oasis in the desert who opened the doors of his house to many of his Western friends allowing me to visit his beautiful hometown.  

They are Ghalis,  The company courier and Islamist who sometimes argued with me over politics but told me that I was 'the best American' he had ever encountered.

They are Mo, a dear but troubled friend who would discuss life and love with me over a few beers at my apartment despite believing that alcohol should be illegal.  

They are the woman in a black face veil who, when my parents were visiting me, warned me about a potentially volatile protest on a day when they were supposed to leave. 

They are doormen at the hotel my mother and father stayed at during the Revolution who courageously guarded them throughout the night of looting. 

They are the cab driver, who on a particularly rough night generously comforted me like an uncle when I inextricably broke into tears over a personal issue. 

I could list many more but twelve his enough. Twelve individuals to match the number of victims killed at Charlie Hebdo, including Ahmed Merabet.

I don't ask that you take these names as atonement for the attack. I don't ask you not to analyze or criticize the teachings of Islam. I don't ask you to believe that all 1.6 billion Muslims on this planet are perfect people. All I ask is that when you think of Charlie Hebdo you don't forget Ahmed or any of the other millions of Muslims across the world like the ones I've listed who live their lives, and are not above helping, befriending and loving one of the non-believers that a pair of brothers would have shot dead. 
  

Some friends.