The subtitle of Seven Pillars of Wisdom is A triumph. This is fitting, as if you manage to finish this book, it is like conquering the deserts of Arabia as Lawrence and his ragtag gang of misfits had done. Pillars is an autobiography, a travelogue, a historical account, all rolled into one about some of the most understudied and often overlooked war in World War I — the Eastern front against the old Ottoman Empire. Nobody really gave a hoot about the desert, but weakening the Ottoman stronghold in the East would also have stretched their resources defending Turkey herself, and to be fair, the Ottoman Empire toppled after this defeat.
In the eye of the storm was an Englishman, T.E. Lawrence, who architected the logistics for the Arab Revolt which facilitated Prince Feisal to be a de facto leader among the Arabs and knock each Ottoman-occupied desert towns like dominoes, all the way to Damascus. If you haven’t already, I’d recommend watching Lawrence of Arabia in Netflix, T.E. Lawrence’s biopic directed by David Lean. Some people I know marked this as their favourite movie of all time, and time will tell whether it will become one of mine also. Lawrence’s story is remarkable, and deserves that movie. Lawrence is a protagonist, though not necessarily a hero. Mind you, though the events in the movie borrow heavily from the book, the movie Lawrence and the book Lawrence are two different characters.
The book Lawrence is calm and collected. The tone of his writing is consistent throughout, thus it is difficult to penetrate his emotional state lest he explicitly says so. His recollections are often accounts of the events that happened, such as his detailed observations of the lay of the land and the interactions he had with the characters he met. In the book, we cannot see Lawrence’s tics and subtle smiles when he knew he “had” someone, to have persuaded them to join his cause. Peter O’Toole did a magnificent job on that, but his countenance in the print version was largely up to us.
There is no further use to compare the book Lawrence and the movie Lawrence, except to say that the book Lawrence seems to be less rebellious and more compliant to his superiors than he was portrayed in the movie. The attack on Aqaba was a detour from direct command, but in reality, Lawrence had almost free rein on the resources and strategies that he wanted to use in his campaigns in Arabia. In fact, Lawrence is staunchly English. His intentions were to further the goals of the empire and he remains loyal to his line. He spurned the Arab ways towards the end of the campaign as he got a little bit sick of it, though he seemed to have absorbed the culture and the language to be brave enough to sneak in as a local in Derra — to a miserable failure.
As a reader, we can compare the journey of our reading to Lawrence’s expansive journeys in the sand: It is largely monotonous, with oasis of respite; some of the landscape is plainly magnificent while a large part is just damn plain; we itch with idleness as Lawrence rode on the camel’s back; and we look forward to the next dogfight with the Turks. We learn about the region as Lawrence sprawled across the deserts and pick up the knowledge firsthand. Except of course, his trip is far more perilous and we are reading from the comfort of our coffee tables. Much of his thoughts are derived from his diaries, and it is gruelling at times to read one man’s minute thoughts.
Some of those thoughts perhaps should have been left unpublished. Lawrence’s thoughts on his Arab compatriots are condescending to say the least:
“They were a limited, narrow-minded people, whose inert intellects lay fallow in incurious resignation.”
I feel that the Arabs in the book were otherised through Lawrence’s writing. Though we get to see the temperament of the Arab leaders, and the description of some of his subordinates, they’re a sideshow in the book even though the success of the English campaign in Arabia depended on them. Lawrence is the hero in his own autobiography and he’s annoyingly front and centre.
Lawrence’s position in this place of history is assured via his autobiography and other history books regarding the era. But his position is conflicted: how to be close to the Arabs and promise them independence, while at the same time knowing British intentions to clench control over the region after the dismissal of the Ottomans? He brushes over the convenience of Feisal’s leadership after they had taken over Damascus, though most times, Lawrence acted and spoke as a soldier would: as a man of duty. Despite his falling out with the intentions of the Arab Revolt, he carried through his task. But his duality and the friction between Arab objectives and his nation’s own put him in an opaque position.
But there are patches of writing I find simultaneously brutal and beautiful, a bracken oasis in the book to start us off in our long voyage:
“Blood was always on our hands: we were licensed to it. Wounding and killing seemed ephemeral pains, so very brief and sore was life with us. With the sorrow of living so great, the sorrow of punishment had to be pitiless. We lived for the day and died for it.”
This passage had so much promise for the book, but the remainder of the book fell short for its monotonousness. By the time we reached Damascus, as the troops had, we were exhausted as they were. The book is a war of attrition, but there are worthwhile gems buried in its dunes for us to have lived through as Lawrence had, traversing over a tired camel’s back over uncertain grounds.
