Untitled

Erik J.
Zürcher is Professor of Turkish Studies at the University of Leiden

and Director of the International Institute of Social History at Amsterdam.
He is the author of numerous books on Turkey, including Turkey: A Modern
History (I.B.Tauris), which has been translated into seven languages; Arming
the State: Military Conscription in the Middle East and Central Asia, 1775–
1925; Identity Politics in Central Asia and the Muslim World; and Men of
Order: Authoritarian Modernization under Atatürk and Reza Shah (all
I.B.Tauris).
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Zurcher_i-xii.indd ii 3/23/2010 11:12:44 PM
The
YOUNG TURK
LEGACY
AND NATION BUILDING
From the Ottoman Empire to Atatürk’s Turkey
ERIK J. ZÜRCHER
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Published in 2010 by I.B.Tauris & Co Ltd
6 Salem Road, London W2 4BU
175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010
www.ibtauris.com
Distributed in the United States and Canada Exclusively by Palgrave Macmillan

175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010
© 2010 Erik J. Zürcher
The right of Erik J. Zürcher to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part
thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanial, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Library of Modern Middle East Studies: 87
ISBN: 978 1 84885 271 6 (HB)

978 1 84885 272 3 (PB)
A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available
Printed and bound in India by Thomson Press India Ltd
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In memory of Erik Zürcher
1928–2008
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Contents
Preface: Thirty Years of Turkish History ix
I. SOURCES AND LITERATURE 1

Introduction 3
1. The Politician as Historian, Historians in Politics: On
the Nutuk (Speech) of Mustafa Kemal Pasha 6
2. Young Turk Memoirs as a Historical Source: Kâzım
·
Karabekir’s Istiklâl Harbimiz 17
3. hThe Historiography of the Constitutional Revolution: Broad
Consensus, Some Disagreement and a Missed
Opportunity 26
4. The Rise and Fall of ‘Modern’ Turkey: Bernard Lewis’s
Emergence Fifty Years On 41
II. IMPERIAL TWILIGHT 55

Introduction 57
5. The Ottoman Empire 1850–1922: Unavoidable Failure? 59
6. The Ides of April: A Fundamentalist Uprising in Istanbul
in 1909? 73
7. Sultan Mehmet V’s Visit to Kosovo in June 1911 84
8. Who Were the Young Turks? 95
9. The Young Turk Mindset 110
10. Atatürk as a Unionist 124
11. The Ottoman Legacy of the Kemalist Republic 136
vii
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The Young Turk Legacy and Nation Building
III. THE GREAT WAR 151

Introduction 153
12. The Ottoman Conscription System in Theory and
Practice, 1844–1918 154
13. The Ottoman Soldier in World War I 167
14. The Ottoman Empire and the Armistice of Moudhros 188
15. Renewal and Silence: Post-war Unionist and
Kemalist Rhetoric on the Armenian Genocide 195
IV. TOWARDS THE NATION STATE 209

Introduction 211
16. Young Turks, Ottoman Muslims and Turkish Nationalists:
Identity Politics 1908–38 213
17. Were the Progressives Conservative? 236
18. Institution Building in the Kemalist Republic Compared with
Pahlevi Iran: The People’s Party 246
19. Touring Anatolia at the End of the Atatürk Era: Kemalist
Turkey Observed by Western Visitors 259
20. Islam in the Service of the Caliphate and the Secular State 271
21. Turning Points and Missed Opportunities in the Modern
History of Turkey: Where Could Things Have Gone
Differently? 285
Notes 297
Bibliography 343
viii
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Preface: Thirty Years of Turkish History
The year 1977 was a year of beginnings and ends. It was the year that Punk
and New Wave music made their major breakthrough (with albums by The
Clash, The Ramones and The Talking Heads among others) and in which
Liverpool FC won its fi rst of many European cups. It was the last year the
Orient Express, by then a slow and rather dirty shadow of its former self,
ran between Paris and Istanbul. It was also the year in which a 24-year-old
student of Turkology (to use the quaint terminology of European orien-
tal studies) at Leiden University, who incidentally had been on the Orient
Express four times in the preceding years, took a stab at his fi rst attempt at
historical research on early twentieth-century Turkey. I was that student,
and the product of my attempt was my MA thesis on the Izmir conspiracy of
1926 and the subsequent political trials.
Over the years many people have asked me, as undoubtedly they have
asked every single one of my colleagues, what it was that first brought me to
Turkish studies. As one does on such occasions, I have come up with many
reasonable and plausible answers, but the only honest one would be: ‘I really
don’t know.’ Having a father who for many years held the chair of East
Asian history at Leiden, obviously rendered thinking about oriental studies
an option. If one can make a living studying Chinese or Sanskrit, anything is
possible. Around age 12 I became fascinated with the classic adventure books
of the German author Karl May, not the better known ones about a hero
implausibly called Old Shatterhand among the North American Indians, but
the ones about the equally implausible protagonist called Kara Ben Nemsi, a
German traveller in the Ottoman Middle East of the late nineteenth century.
In spite of the rather strong anti-Turkish bias in these books (which romanti-
cized ‘noble savages’ like the Arab Bedouins and Albanian and Kurdish tribes-
men) they produced in me a lasting fascination for the Ottoman Empire. I
wrote term papers and did assignments on the Ottomans in high school. To
ix
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find true faith of course one first has to be tempted and I was, playing seri-
ously with the idea of studying Japanese before enrolling in the Middle East
Studies programme of Leiden University. Once there, I opted for Arabic as
my first language, but after a dismal first year, in which I failed nearly every
exam, changed to Turkish. That choice had as much to do with the teachers
as with the subjects taught. Having achieved my ‘candidacy’ (the equivalent
of the modern BA), I concentrated on Ottoman and Turkish history in my MA
years, guided by an inspirational and erudite teacher, Dr Alexander de Groot.
As for the last two years of my studies I was the only student in the class, it
was just as well that I hit upon such a good teacher. The alternative does not
bear thinking about. I myself must have been less inspiring, at least that is
what I concluded when on one occasion I looked up from my reading of a
seventeenth-century Ottoman chronicle to find my teacher sound asleep.
My MA thesis, though flawed in many respects, determined the direction
my research in the next decades would take. It was based on a hunch, an idea
that there was something very strange about the way the conspiracy and the
trials of 1926 were depicted in Turkish and Western historiography. After all,
in that historiography, the creation of modern Turkey was portrayed as the
work of one man, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, and a small circle of supporters. It
was also depicted as having started in 1919 after the demise of the empire and
disappearance of the Young Turks. Yet, in this historiography the 1926 purges
were a way for the new, Kemalist, regime to deal with a threat from the out-
side, i.e. that of the former Unionists. But why was there a need, seven years
after the end of the Unionist regime and three years after the establishment
of the republic to purge the remaining leaders of the former regime as well as
most of Mustafa Kemal’s co-leaders of the national independence movement
after World War I if the Kemalists had already successfully supplanted them?
My conclusion was that the trials were political purges and that Mustafa Kemal
felt the need for these because his movement in 1919 had been started by the
former Unionists and he had only gradually taken control of it. The movement
and the republic that came out of it were built on a foundation formed by the
former Committee of Union and Progress (CUP), and its former leaders could
therefore conceivably challenge Mustafa Kemal as its leader. The other group
to be purged, Mustafa Kemal’s co-leaders, were also former Unionists but had
the added prestige of being national heroes of the independence war. They,
too, could challenge his leadership and indeed had done so two years before,
when they had started an opposition party, the Progressive Republican Party.
In short, the independence movement and the republic were started and led
by Unionists and built on the remnants of the CUP. Far from being a reckoning
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Preface
with Unionist outsiders by Kemalist insiders as the accepted historiography

would have it, the 1926 trials were a way for one group of former Unionists
(that around Kemal) to ward off the challenges from within of other former
Unionists who could contest Kemal’s leadership because, like him, they had a
credible claim on the loyalty of the political élite.
After completing the MA degree, and facing a second temptation (this
time to enter the diplomatic service, which had always taken its share of
Leiden orientalists), I started teaching in Nijmegen University and over the
next 15 years produced two books that were the logical extension of the
MA thesis. One of them was my Ph.D. thesis, defended in Leiden in 1984
and published as The Unionist Factor. The Role of the Committee of Union
and Progress in the Turkish National Movement (1905–1926). This study
emphasized the continuity between the Young Turk period in late Ottoman
history and the early republic. It investigated Mustafa Kemal’s place within
the Committee and the Committee’s role in the independence movement led
by Kemal. My conclusion was far-reaching and ran counter to everything
that was and is sacred in the official historiography of the Turkish republic. I
attempted to show that the national resistance movement after World War I
was not only built on the remnants of the CUP, but that the CUP leadership
actually planned and organized the resistance and launched Mustafa Kemal
as its leader. I described his struggle to become the unchallenged leader of the
movement and explained the 1926 crackdown from the sense of vulnerability
this left him with. The second book came out in 1991. It was entitled Political
Opposition in the Early Turkish Republic. The Progressive Republican Party
(1924–5) and it dealt with the background of the second group to be purged
in 1926, the former co-leaders of the national resistance, who had broken
with Kemal in 1924. The study tried to show that the Progressive Republicans
had not been a conservative or even reactionary movement, but in fact part
of the secularist and nationalist mainstream of the Young Turk movement.
Where it differed from Kemal’s wing was in its emphasis on separation of
powers and economic liberalism. Both books had a fair degree of impact,
especially after they had been published in Turkish translation.
My work on the embryonic phase of the Turkish republic naturally
brought with it a confrontation with the established historiography and thus
also a critique of the sources and of the generally accepted periodization. I
strongly argued in favour of continuity between the late Ottoman Empire and
the early republic, something that was perhaps best expressed in the textbook
Turkey. A Modern History that appeared in 1993 and saw many editions and
translations over the next 15 years. The second section of the textbook was
xi
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called The Young Turk Period 1908–1950, a very controversial statement at

the time although more widely accepted nowadays.
In the 1990s my interest gradually switched from the political intrigues
of the élite to the social history of the period, as I came to see the period of
World War I, the era least explored in the literature, as the most traumatic
but also the most formative and important period in modern Turkish history.
I became particularly interested in the history of conscription and the fate
of the conscripted soldiery, but also came to realize that one cannot under-
stand modern Turkey adequately without taking into account both the mass
migration (and deportation) of Muslims from the Balkans and the Caucasus,
the Armenian genocide of 1915 and the expulsion of the Greek orthodox.
Together these processes produced the Anatolia that we know today.
Biography, and in particular the collective biography (or prosopography)
of the Young Turk generation has remained a strong interest throughout as I
have always felt very strongly that we need to get at the personal histories of
the Young Turks and Kemalists if we want to understand their ideas and their
political choices.
Early in 2008 I was tempted a third time to leave the field of Turkish stud-
ies and this time I succumbed, at least in part, when I accepted to become the
general director of the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam
for four days a week, remaining for one day a week in Leiden University. This
change seemed to be an excellent occasion to organize a small retrospective
of my work of the past 30 years by bringing together the texts of some of the
more interesting articles written during that period. Most of the chapters in
this volume were published before, but quite a few may now be difficult to
trace. Others were only published in Dutch or in Turkish.
The articles presented here have all been revised, some lightly and some
quite thoroughly. Overlaps between different articles have been taken out as
much as possible and in some cases several articles have been collapsed into
a single new text. In the way the chapters have been arranged in the volume,
I have tried to achieve at the same time a certain thematic unity and a logical
chronological sequence. I am very grateful to Rachel Prager for the copy edit-
ing and correction of the English, and to Kim van der Zouw for the final edit-
ing. I thank Lester Crook, commissioning editor at I.B.Tauris, for his patience
and encouragement.
Erik J. Zürcher
Leiden/Amsterdam.
xii
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I. SOURCES AND LITERATURE
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Introduction
In the late 1970s and the 1980s, when I was just starting out in the field,
Turkish state archives were still very inaccessible. This was especially true
in the years after the military takeover of September 1980, precisely when
I was working on my Ph.D. thesis. As a consequence, my efforts to present
a version of early twentieth-century Turkish history that differed substan-
tially from the generally accepted one had to be based largely on eyewitness
accounts. These had been published in quite large numbers in the 1950s and
1960s, when the introduction of democracy and the lifting of censorship
made it possible to do so. While many of these memoirs and autobiographies
of protagonists of the constitutional revolution and the national independ-
ence struggle sold quite well in their day, their impact on the established
version of ‘the history of the Turkish revolution’ (as the subject was and is
officially called) remained negligible. History teaching at all levels remained
true to the version propounded by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in the years
1922–7 and elaborated on by his followers.
In this first part of the volume we encounter discrepancies between this
official history, and a competing counter-history, written by Atatürk’s con-
temporary, brother-in-arms and then adversary, General Kâzım Karabekir.
His is but one of many memoirs, but it is especially interesting for two rea-
sons: Karabekir took part in all the important events that marked Atatürk’s
life, so theirs can be seen as parallel lives; and the book Karabekir wrote
(among many others, all of them published posthumously) adheres to the
same format as Nutuk, Atatürk’s great speech of 1927. It covers the same
period, is long and detailed, and is supported by many documents.
Of course, when comparing different memoirs and even more so when
we decide to use one set of memoirs to discount the version presented in
another, the question of credibility comes into play. If we argue that Atatürk
took liberties with the truth, why should Karabekir’s account be viewed as
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any more truthful? I was very much aware of this problem when working
with memoirs for my Unionist Factor (1984), and sought to tackle it the
best I could by evaluating accounts on the basis of four criteria: consist-
ency, inner logic, chronology and accumulation. The preferred version had
to be consistent with what the author is saying elsewhere and to display a
certain logic in the argument, it had to fit in with known chronological data
and, preferably, it had to be confirmed in other, similar, accounts by other
authors. Obviously the source gains in credibility whenever supporting doc-
uments are presented, in the original Ottoman even if not in facsimile. As
I argue in the chapter on Karabekir, the reliability of the memoirs is often
greatest, when the subject is furthest removed from the aim of the author.
In other words and to give but one example: Whereas we do not necessarily
have to believe every Young Turk who describes how he saved the fatherland
almost single-handedly, there is good cause to believe him when he describes
the initiation rites of the Committee for Union and Progress (CUP) in a
way that is consistent with the descriptions presented in two or three other
memoirs.
Recently, I have returned to the use of memoirs as a historical source when
preparing for the chapter that follows on the historiography of the constitu-
tional revolution and once again I have been surprised by the opportunities
that close – and parallel – reading of these sources affords the historian, not
instead of but in conjunction with archival sources. It is exactly in the similari-
ties between memoirs of, for instance, Niyazi and Enver, that the pattern in the
preparation of the revolution is revealed.
Efforts to undermine a hegemonic discourse like the Kemalist one on the
basis of alternative sources almost inevitably lead to a discussion on the perio-
dization that underlies the hegemonic version. Atatürk’s speech and the whole
historiography built on it, imposes a periodization that sharply separates the
national struggle period after World War I from the preceding second constitu-
tional period, and at the same time constructs continuity between this national
struggle period and the following republican era. In the chapter on Atatürk’s
speech I argue that a diametrically opposed periodization, which emphasizes
the continuities between the second constitutional period and the national
struggle on the one hand and sees the imposition of the secularist republican
regime in 1923 as a clear break with the immediate past makes more sense. As
I have argued elsewhere,1 it is also possible and interesting to attempt a further
periodization within both the Young Turk period and the Kemalist one. In
each of these periods we can discern three stages, one in which the movement
can be characterized as a liberation movement (1906–08 in the case of the
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Sources and Literature: Introduction
CUP, 1918–22 in the case of the Kemalists), one in which victory has been
achieved and democratic pluralism (including a free press and multi-party poli-
tics) gets a chance (1908–13 and 1922–5) and finally one in which an authori-
tarian regime is established during which the ruling party uses its monopoly
on power to execute far-reaching reforms that probably would not have been
possible under a democratic system (1913–18 and 1925–45 respectively).
One of the characteristics of the Kemalist view of history is that it is based
on a strict black-and-white opposition between the forces of progress (identi-
fied as the Tanzimat reformers of the mid-nineteenth century, the Young Turks
and of course the Kemalist republic itself) and the forces of reaction that try to
reverse the process of modernization, to halt Turkey’s progress on the ‘road to
contemporary civilization’ (to use Atatürk’s own phrase). As Andrew Davison
has remarked,2 the Kemalist interpretation fits very snugly in the modernization
paradigm that became dominant in Middle Eastern Studies in the 1950s after
the publication of Daniel Lerner’s Passing of Traditional Society in the Middle
East. It is only fitting therefore that a critique of one of the two most important
books on Turkish history to come out of the modernization school, Bernard
Lewis’s Emergence of Modern Turkey, a book that dominated the field for a
generation, should also be included in this part on sources and literature.
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1. The Politician as Historian, Historians in
Politics: On the Nutuk (Speech) of Mustafa
Kemal Pasha*
In October 1927 Mustafa Kemal Pasha, the later Atatürk, delivered a

speech to the congress of the Republican People’s Party (RPP). All in all
his speech at the congress, known in Turkish historiography simply as Nutuk
(Speech), would take 36 hours and 33 minutes, spread out over six days.
In this chapter I analyse the character of this speech and its role in the
modern history and historiography of Turkey. It is a subject that has been
significant for me personally, for my first foray into the field (my research
of the years 1978–84 into the role of the CUP in the Turkish independence
struggle and that of the years 1985–9 into the first opposition party of the
republic) often involved a direct confrontation with the version of the his-
tory of the period 1919–27 left to us by Atatürk.
In the spring of 1927 Atatürk began preparations for the great speech he
was to deliver in the autumn. He had at his disposal in his presidential villa
in Çankaya both his own correspondence files and the most important dossi-
ers from the archives of the republic. His method of working was as follows:
first he would seek out the most important documents, then he would take
notes, and from these notes he would then dictate for several hours on end
to secretaries who would be regularly relieved. The production of the day
would often be tried out on his circle of trusted friends and collaborators,
who were invited almost every night to the presidential villa to eat, drink
and talk. It therefore comes as no big surprise that it was common knowledge
in Ankara in 1927 that the president was preparing a detailed survey of the
events since 1919.1
In the night of 22–23 May Atatürk for the second time in four years suf-
fered a mild heart attack,2 which temporarily interrupted the writing of the
speech. After resting for two weeks, he then travelled to Istanbul for further
recovery at the end of June. This was actually the first time he set foot in
the old capital since he had left it in May 1919. He settled himself in the old
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The Politician as Historian, Historians in Politics
sultan’s palace of Dolmabahçe on the shore of the Bosphorus and there he

continued to work on the text.
His efforts ultimately resulted in the six-day speech at the first party con-
gress of the RPP, the party that had been founded by Atatürk himself in 1923
and that was the only legal party in Turkey at the time. Atatürk spoke every
day for about three hours in the morning and again for three hours in the
afternoon, from 15 to 20 October. The newspapers, which since the spring of
1925 had been under tight government control, published summaries of the
president’s words every day.
Officially, the subject matter of the speech was the history of the emer-
gence of the new Turkey, from the start of the national resistance movement in
1919 until the year 1927. In reality, the story ends roughly at the end of 1924,
with the events in the years 1925–7, comprising 30 per cent of the period dis-
cussed, covered in only about 1.5 per cent of the total text. It is possible that
this last period would have received more attention had Atatürk been able to
continue his work during the summer, but I don’t think that was the case. The
lack of attention to the most recent years can be adequately explained in light
of the real purpose of the speech, to which I will return later.
Publication history
Shortly after the party congress the speech became available in print under
the auspices of the Türk Tayyare Cemiyeti (Turkish Aeroplane Society).3
There were two editions: a luxury edition in two volumes, the text of which
had been printed in Istanbul with maps and illustrations printed in Vienna;
and a popular edition, also in two volumes, on cheaper paper. Of the popular
edition the Ministry of Education printed and distributed 50,000 copies. To
put this number into perspective, Turkey at the time had about 13.5 million
inhabitants, and only about 1.4 million of those inhabitants were literate.4
A first edition of 50,000 is enormous when set off against this number (the
equivalent of a print run of about 10.7 million copies in the contemporary
USA) and indicates the importance attached to the text by the leadership of
the Turkish republic right from the start.
In later years there were three more editions of the original text, all
of them in the new Latin alphabet that had been introduced from January
1929. Those of 1934 and 1938 were published by the Ministry of Culture,
that of 1952–9 by the Institute for the Study of the Turkish Revolution (Türk
Devrim Tarihi Enstitüsü) for the Ministry of Education. This last-named
edition was reprinted 14 times until 1981. 5 With the exception of the cheap
and heavily subsidized edition of 1938, all editions in the new alphabet
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consisted of three volumes, two of them containing text and one with sup-
porting documents.
Apart from these editions of the original text, which in linguistic terms
can only be termed Ottoman source documents, the Turkish Linguistic
Society (Türk Dil Kurumu) beginning in 1963 issued at least six printings of
a version called Söylev. ‘Söylev’, a neologism, is synonymous to ‘nutuk’ and is
used to designate a version of the text that has been converted, or translated,
into ‘pure’ Turkish by replacing most of the originally Arabic and Persian
vocabulary with Turkish words, many of which had been newly created by
the society. In 1973–5 yet another, different, modernized version appeared at
Ankara University Press, this time in two volumes and without the supporting
documents.6 This edition was a reaction to the one published by the Turkish
Linguistic Society a decade earlier that had been judged artificial and purist
by many. This time there was an attempt to write in a more natural Turkish,
closer to the everyday usage of the 1970s. Finally, the committee in charge of
the celebration of Atatürk’s 100th anniversary in 1981 decided to make one
more attempt to render the Ottoman of the 1927 version into modern Turkish
in a manner that would have made the text accessible and, it was hoped,
enjoyable to read. The commission was given to Professor Zeynep Korkmaz
and she produced the book in a single volume in 1991.7 It was published by the
Atatürk Research Institute in Ankara and it is probably the most successful of
the conversions. It goes without saying that in their efforts to modernize the
text each of the editors had to make choices in which a great deal of interpre-
tation was involved.
The reason that these editions in contemporary (or supposedly modern)
Turkish appeared was that the generations that could read and understand
Atatürk’s text were starting to die out. Atatürk’s language is late Ottoman.
He modelled his style on that of the great mid-nineteenth century writer and
politician Namık Kemal, with whose work he became familiar through his
schoolmate, the Young Turk poet and orator Ömer Naci.8 Although Namık
Kemal’s style was considered refreshingly direct and modern in the 1860s
and 1870s, his language is full of vocabulary and syntactical elements bor-
rowed from Arabic and Persian. The same is true for Atatürk’ usage in the
Nutuk. Of the vocabulary roughly 85 per cent is derived from these lan-
guages. The language reform that Turkey has undergone from the 1930s has
had such a great cumulative effect that modern-day Turks cannot read the
text without special training.
The conversion of the text into modern Turkish is called ‘simplifica-
tion’ (sadeleştirme) or ‘purification’ (özleştirme) in the different editions
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themselves. Nowadays the process is usually called ‘translation into Turkish’

(Türkçeye çevrilme), a term that seems to indicate that for modern Turks
Ottoman is no longer seen as part of their own language. It is ironic that this
is true even for the language of the founder of modern Turkey.
A really simplified version also exists in the shape of a kind of ‘children’s
bible’ published by the newspaper Milliyet, and over the years the Nutuk has
also been the subject matter of several (very serious) comic books.
The Nutuk was translated into French, German and English immedi-
ately after its first appearance. All of these translations were published by
Koehler’s publishing house in Leipzig, Germany. The German translation by
Dr Paul Roth9 is excellent, but the two other versions that were translated
from the German, are unreliable. Nevertheless, the English translation10 has
been reprinted by the Turkish Ministry of Education twice, in 1962 and
1973. A Russian translation in four volumes appeared in Moscow in the
years 1929–34.
Given the attention the text has received and the dominance it has
acquired as the master narrative for the history of Turkey in the years
1919–27, it is surprising that there still does not exist a truly scholarly, criti-
cal edition of the Nutuk. The manuscript, including corrections made by
Atatürk himself on the typescripts produced by his secretaries, was kept
in the presidential palace during his lifetime and then deposited in the safe
of the Agricultural Bank in Ankara. Later it was moved to the archives of
the War History Department of the Turkish General Staff (ATASE), which
is perhaps the most inaccessible of all Turkish archives. To the best of our
knowledge that is still where it remains. A critical edition based on the man-
uscript, the existing archives and the accounts of Atatürk’s contemporaries
undoubtedly would fill an important void. Very recently, in the spring of
2008, a team of leading Turkish historians (Ahmet Kuyaş, Cemil Koçak,
Mete Tunçay and Zafer Toprak) announced their intention to publish a criti-
cal edition, in which they will collate the text with evidence from Atatürk’s
contemporaries.11 Its publication will be a significant step forward, but the
project is based on the published version of 1927, not on the manuscript.
The influence of the Nutuk on Turkish historiography

The Nutuk has exerted immense influence on the historiography of the
national resistance movement and the emergence of the republic, both inside
Turkey and outside the country. Turkish history textbooks for school and
university paraphrase the Nutuk or include whole sections. In the popular
writing on Turkey, as well as in most of the academic literature, the version of
Zurcher_6-16.indd 9 3/23/2010 6:20:13 PM

events presented in the Nutuk is preserved in its essential points. This is true
both for publications from Turkey and for those from abroad.
Undoubtedly, Atatürk’s unassailable position as the liberator and founder
of modern Turkey partly explains the acceptance of his words as objective truth.
The existence of a law banning defamation of Atatürk in Turkey also plays a
role, but beyond that, it also has to do with the degree to which we have at our
disposal independent sources to verify Atatürk’s account. Here the situation
is still far from satisfactory. For many years the restrictive archival regime in
Turkey was criticized by historians both inside the country and out, and rightly
so, but since 1989 both access to, and cataloguing of, the main collections in the
state archives (the Ottoman and Republican Archives of the Prime Ministerial
Archives, Başbakanlık Arşivi) has vastly improved. With some exceptions, the
material older than 50 years that has been catalogued is now also freely acces-
sible to historians.
Where research on the Nutuk is concerned, however, this does not solve
all the problems. For the history of the national independence movement and
the birth of the republic, the main subjects of the Nutuk, the ATASE, the col-
lections of the Institute for the Study of the Turkish Revolution and the presi-
dential archives (which hold the ‘Atatürk Archive’) are the most important
archival resources and they are far less accessible. Because of this prevailing
situation, not only foreign historians, but also Turkish ones, have recourse
to the archival records of Britain, the United States, France, Germany and
Russia. They, however, can only very partially replace the Turkish materials
and they are of very little use where the real subject of Nutuk is concerned
(of which more below).
No systematic publication of documents on the Turkish independence
movement has ever been undertaken, in spite of the importance attached to
the ‘history of the Turkish revolution and principles of Atatürk’, a required
subject in secondary and higher education in Turkey. The Turkish press is
very useful source for the period up to March 1925, when very strict censor-
ship was introduced under the Law on the Maintenance of Order (Takrir-i
Sükûn Kanunu). Before that, the press, which had grown into a mature
medium in the second constitutional period, was quite active and critical.
Finally, we have at our disposal the accounts of Atatürk’s contemporaries
and colleagues. Many of them have published their reminiscences, but almost
without exception they did so starting in the 1950s, when the liberalization of
the Turkish political system and the softening of censorship created a climate
in which this was possible. Where the Turkish-speaking public was concerned,
therefore, the Nutuk held sway as the unchallenged truth for about 25 years, long
10
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enough for it to completely dominate historiography as it evolved in the repub-

lic. When, from the 1950s onwards, increasing numbers of memoirs appeared
that differed from the version given in the Nutuk, even if they did not openly
challenge it, it was too late for them to have any serious influence on the estab-
lished, official historiography that was being taught in schools and universities.
The official version, based on Atatürk’s testimony, was perpetuated in textbooks
and primers. With the increase of ideological challenges to Kemalism in Turkey
from the 1960s onwards, the correct teaching of ‘history of the Turkish revolu-
tion and the principles of Atatürk’ gained added importance as an antidote in
the eyes of the Kemalist state, which promoted Ataturkism in general, but with
even more emphasis in the context of the celebrations of 50 years of republic
(1973, at the end of the army-backed tutelary regime of 1971–3), the centenary
of Atatürk (1981, a year after the military takeover led by general Kenan Evren)
and the 75th anniversary of the republic (1998, a year after the ousting of the
Islamist government of Necmettin Erbakan by the military).
What is the Nutuk about?

In Atatürk’s own words he intended to ‘explain how a great nation, which was
thought to have come to the end of its national existence, had gained its inde-
pendence and had founded a national and modern state based on the latest
principles of science and technology’. He would be happy if he ‘had been able
to clear up some points that would be able to make my nation and our future
children attentive and wakeful’.12
Generally, his claim that the Nutuk is essentially concerned with writing
the history of the independence struggle and the founding of the republic has
been accepted both in Turkey and abroad. Beginning in the 1970s, there has
been some discussion in Turkey on the questions of whether the text should be
seen as straight history or as a source for historiography, and whether it was
right for a politician like Atatürk to write history himself, rather than leaving
that task to later generations.13 Some commentaries appear to recognize that
the speech is also a political document, with their characterization of the
Nutuk as a manifesto with which Atatürk symbolically closes one period and
points the way to the future. After all, he emphasizes that ‘this is the story
of a period that has finally come to an end’. This aspect receives scant atten-
tion in the discussion, however, and anyway is not seen as something that
undermines the essential truthfulness and reliability of the account. In the
eyes of Turkish historians the reliability of the Nutuk is demonstrated by the
inclusion of a large number of original documents. The fact that these were
selected by Atatürk himself is not seen as a problem.
11
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In my view this approach fundamentally fails to appreciate what the

Nutuk is about and why it was written. To understand its true function, we
have to set the speech in the time and context in which it was conceived.
The years immediately preceding the giving of the speech in October
1927 were not only a period of far-reaching, radical reform; they were also
the period in which all forms of political opposition were suppressed. The
tensions within the People’s Party between proponents of an authoritarian
regime and radical reform on the one hand and moderate liberals on the other
had resulted in late 1924 in a split in the party and the founding of an official
opposition party, the Progressive Republican Party (Terakkiperver Cumhuriyet
Fırkası) (PRP) by a number of leading figures in the national resistance move-
· ·
ment. With the exception of Fevzi Çakmak and Ismet Inönü (who, in 1924,
were chief of the general staff and prime minister, respectively), all the top
military leaders of the liberation war (i.e. Kâzım Karabekir, Refet Bele, Ali
Fuat [Cebesoy],14 Cafer Tayyar [Eğilmez], Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay]) joined the
opposition. At first the opposition was tolerated, but when a Kurdish rebellion
broke out in the southeast in February 1925, the radicals in the RPP used it
to proclaim martial law, push through the Law on the Maintenance of Order
(Takrir-i Sükûn Kanunu) and institute ‘Independence Tribunals’, which dealt
summarily with opponents of the regime. The Kurdish rebellion was sup-
pressed, but so too were the opposition party and the independent press.
In the summer of 1926 the discovery of a plot to assassinate the president
was used to eliminate all potential rivals to Atatürk and his party. In two show
trials, one in Izmir and one in Ankara, the remaining former leaders of the
CUP and the top ranks of the PRP were accused of complicity. Most of the
former Unionist leaders, people like Cavit and Dr Nâzım, were given a death
sentence and hanged, but the former PRP leaders, as heroes of the liberation
war, possessed enormous prestige among the population and especially within
the army, rendering similar treatment for them too risky. The only PRP leader
who was convicted was Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay]. This former naval captain had
become a national hero due to his exploits with the cruiser Hamidiye dur-
ing the Balkan War, and he had been the resistance movement’s second most
important figure until his arrest by the British in March 1920. After nearly two
years of internment on Malta, he had returned to serve as prime minister of
the national resistance movement in 1922–3. After falling out with Atatürk in
1923, he had become the leader of the PRP in 1924. Following the suppression
of the opposition party he had left the country and settled in London. The
Izmir independence tribunal convicted him in absentia to ten years imprison-
ment with hard labour in July 1926, but Rauf defended himself in two open
12
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letters, addressed to the president of the Turkish national assembly. In these

letters he characterized the behaviour of the government and the independence
tribunal as unlawful, pointing out that many of the accused were parliamen-
tarians who were entitled to inviolability under the constitution. Copies of the
letters were sent to the editorial offices of all major Turkish newspapers.
When Atatürk first started to write his great speech these events lay only
a few months in the past, and the position of the generals and the way they
had been treated in the tribunals were still debated among the public. I am
convinced that the Nutuk has to be seen, and read, primarily as an attempt
by Atatürk to vindicate the political purges six months earlier. Criticism of
the leaders of the opposition and systematic belittling of their role in the
independence struggle between 1919 and 1922 are recurrent themes in the
Nutuk. At least 52 passages are devoted to criticism, innuendo and sarcasm
directed against the former opposition leaders.15 Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay] and
Kâzım Karabekir, the most prominent PRP leaders, are singled out for the
most vehement attacks. Also, 20 per cent of the text is devoted to the split in
the nationalist movement after the proclamation of the republic in 1923 and
the emergence of the opposition. This process is described as a dark plot,
even an attempt at a coup d’état, inspired primarily by Rauf. In this context
it is only logical that the story of the Nutuk more or less ends in early 1925,
for by June of that year the opposition was effectively crushed.
The events of 1925–6 are summarized by Atatürk in one short
paragraph:
Of course, all these activities ended in a success for the republic.

The rebels were crushed. But the enemies of the republic did not
accept that the great conspiracy had reached its final pages. They
undertook one more vile attempt. This attempt showed itself as the
Izmir attack. The courts of the republic once more succeeded in sav-
ing the republic from the hands of the attackers.16
If we accept that the Nutuk’s real character is that of justification and even
a kind of apology for a, still hotly debated, political purge, we will not be
surprised to find that in some places it gives us a rather lopsided view of
historical realities. Let me try to summarize where in my view this is most
obviously the case. More important than any number of details are those
parts of the account that implicitly or explicitly have given us a warped view
of the history of this period because they suggest either ruptures or continui-
ties that really were not there.
13
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The speech begins with Atatürk’s landing in Anatolia. His first words
are: ‘On 19 May 1919 I landed in Samsun.’ He then depicts the situation
of the Ottoman Empire at that moment: exhausted and in despair, with
only some local groups calling for resistance against the dismemberment
of the empire. This picture distorts reality in a number of ways. First, the
regional resistance committees were formed at the behest of a central organ-
ization founded and manned by the CUP, which most probably also enabled
Atatürk’s own appointment as army inspector for east and central Anatolia.
The resistance movement was over six months old by the time he arrived
in Anatolia. Atatürk describes the Unionists as usurpers who tried to take
over his independent Anatolian organization, while in reality it was he who
gradually managed to get a grip on the organizations they had founded. So
in his version the continuity between the period before the end of the World
War (the second constitutional period) and the national resistance move-
ment is blurred.17
Second, Atatürk throughout his speech suggests that the independence
struggle was waged in order to establish a new national Turkish state. He
says this plan informed all his actions but that it was a ‘national secret’ that
could only be revealed piecemeal. As he carried out his far-reaching reforms
(abolition of the sultanate and caliphate, proclamation of the republic, mov-
ing the capital to Ankara etc.), former collaborators with limited views of
the future deserted him. The distortion involved here is that we lose sight of
the fact that the independence struggle was waged in the name of the con-
tinued independent existence of (a part of) the Ottoman Empire in a period
when the capital Istanbul was under occupation. The large majority of those
who took part (including most of the cadres) undoubtedly saw themselves
as fighting for ‘king and country’. It is significant that the campaign medals
with which soldiers were decorated after the battle on the Sakarya in 1921
were Ottoman ones, and equally significant that the sultan’s birthday was
officially celebrated in Ankara until 1922. Atatürk may well have cherished
the idea of establishing a Turkish national state, but this certainly is not
what motivated the movement as such.
A third important distortion is the continuity that is suggested between
the national movement of 1919–22 and the RPP in 1927. The independ-
ence struggle had been directed by the Great National Assembly, which had
opened in April 1920 and was composed of former Ottoman parliamentar-
ians, who had managed to escape Istanbul, leading military officers, former
provincial party bosses of the CUP, notables and religious leaders. In the
elections for the second Great National Assembly in the summer of 1923
14
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only candidates handpicked by Atatürk were allowed to stand and accord-

ingly this second assembly was dominated by his followers, mostly officers
and bureaucrats. The representatives in this assembly first met on 9 August
1923. There, they reconstituted themselves as the parliamentary arm of the
People’s Party (Halk Fırkası) and decided that the new party would take over
all material and immaterial assets of the national independence movement.
The national liberation struggle was thus fully identified with the People’s
Party and it was this that allowed Atatürk and his circle to denounce those
former leaders of the independence movement as traitors when they left the
party in 1924.
Not only the text of the Nutuk plays a role in this third form of distor-
tion. The place where the speech was held is important as well. Formally,
the speech was a report to the congress of the (by then Republican) People’s
Party and was accepted as such by the congress. In justifying his actions in
the years 1919–23 to the representatives of the party founded only in the
latter year, those actions become part of the history of the party. To illus-
trate this point, the 1927 congress is officially always called the ‘second
congress of the People’s Party’. The first congress of the national resistance
movement, in Sivas in September 1919, is retrospectively claimed as the first
congress of the party.
With the above I hope to have demonstrated that, while it is true that the
Nutuk has the outward characteristics of a piece of history writing, its form
and content are ultimately determined by Atatürk’s contemporary political
agenda. It is the product of a politician engaging in historiography to vindi-
cate himself, to strengthen his position and seal his hold on power: aims that
Atatürk had achieved gradually between 1923 and 1926.
At the same time, historians who engage with the version laid down in
the Nutuk or even contest its historical character, as I have done here, also
involve themselves in a political debate. This is certainly true for Turkish
historians who do so, and it is one reason why even those Turkish historians
who relate events in a manner that clearly diverges from the Nutuk never
make a point of saying so. The official Turkish historiography based on the
Nutuk is to a large extent an instrument to render the social, ethnic and reli-
gious divides in Turkish society innocuous. If there is one thing the nation
can gather around, it is the heroic period in modern Turkish history and its
protagonist, the founding father of the republic. A critical attitude towards
Atatürk’s role is almost completely confined to groups with an extremist
political agenda and in these circles it often degenerates into a mess of con-
spiracy theories and unconfirmed rumours. It is therefore incumbent on the
15
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historian of modern Turkey, who confronts Atatürk’s version in the convic-

tion that the Turks ultimately can only benefit from a realistic assessment of
their recent past, to be aware of these sensitivities. In this way the decision
of a politician in 1927 to act as a historian forces the historian of today to
act politically.
16
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2. Young Turk Memoirs as a Historical
Source: Kâzım Karabekir’s I·stiklâl
Harbimiz*
Historians of the Western world generally take it for granted that good his-
torical research, especially when it is concerned with the modern period, has
to be based on primary sources. In the language of the historian this nearly
always means archives. For the historian of the Middle East, however, it is
often impossible to consult the relevant archives. The older collections are
often inadequately systematized or catalogued and the modern archives
are often seen by the nation states of the Middle East, which guard them, as too
sensitive to be opened to researchers, especially to foreigners. This also obtains
for Turkey. Up until the late 1980s there, too, access to the archives, even for
Turkish historians, was limited. The Başbakanlık Arşivi (Archives of the Office
of the Prime Minister), into which the Ottoman state archives are incorpo-
rated, were for all intents and purposes closed for the period after 1914. Since
then, the situation has drastically improved. While not all collections are open
to everyone, the access policy is far more liberal, cataloguing has improved a
lot and there are now excellent facilities for copying materials.
In a situation with limited access to archives, the historian who strives to
evaluate the current representation of historical events in modern Turkey has
to look for alternative sources, which can take the place of the archival mate-
rials as primary sources, even if only temporarily. These alternative sources
include foreign archival collections, published documentary collections,1 con-
temporary Turkish and foreign press2 and the memoirs and autobiographies of
the protagonists of the period.
A large number of works in this last-named category have appeared in
Turkey in the last half of the previous century, especially in the 1950s and
1960s.3 They frequently offer facts and opinions about the history of the
national independence movement and the Kemalist ‘revolution’, which dif-
fer considerably from those of the generally accepted Turkish historiogra-
phy. Important was the account of the national resistance struggle published
17
Zurcher_17-25.indd 17 3/23/2010 9:34:29 PM

by Halide Edip [Adıvar], which in places was quite critical of Atatürk.

Halide Edip was a well-known author and educator, but hardly a leading
person in the resistance movement (in that respect her husband, Abdülhak
Adnan Adıvar was far more important). Nevertheless, her book, The Turkish
Ordeal,4 published in 1928, was very influential – influential, that is, with
a European and American audience, as the book was originally written in
English and only translated into Turkish a generation later.
As was mentioned in the previous chapter, one can discern in Turkey
an ‘official’ or ‘orthodox’ historical tradition which has developed since the
mid-1920s on the basis of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’s own version5 and which
has ever since been canonized in an endless stream of schoolbooks, official
publications and popular histories and guarded jealously by the Türk Tarih
Kurumu.6 The dissident autobiographies and memoirs seem hardly to have
affected this tradition, if at all, in spite of their sometimes wide readership.
Nevertheless, used in combination with other types of sources and with
each other, these works may offer the opportunity for an important recast-
ing of the image created by the Kemalist tradition.
The value of these Turkish memoirs and autobiographies for the histo-
rian is very unpredictable. It is determined by a number of factors. In the first
place there is the character of the author and the motives behind his writing.
There are the circumstances in which he writes, and the time-lag between
the events he describes and the time of writing. Because of the gradual lib-
eralization of the political climate in Turkey from the 1950s onwards many
memoirs have only been published 25–30 years after the events described
in them (which is not to say that all of them were only written at that time,
of course). There are also wide-ranging variations in the form in which the
memoirs are presented. In some cases we are dealing with verbal accounts
or notes which have been turned into a book by the protagonist himself or
by one of Turkey’s many popular historians or journalists with an interest
in historical topics, such as Cemal Kutay, Feridun Kandemir or Samih Nafiz
Tansu. Examples of this type of work are the memoirs of Ali Fethi [Okyar],7
an important young Turk officer and later Prime Minister of Turkey, and
of Hüsamettin Ertürk8 and Kuşçubaşızade Eşref,9 both important members
of the Teşkilât-ı Mahsusa (Special Organization), the Turkish secret service
in World War I, which played such an important role in the independence
movement after 1918.10 These kinds of memoirs are generally unsupported by
documents and are meant as a form of entertainment for a large public. They
should therefore be used only with the utmost caution. At the other side of
the spectrum – as far as information and controllability are concerned – are
18
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Young Turk Memoirs as a Historical Source
those works which really only consist of a connecting text between (some-
times large numbers of) published documents. Examples of this type are
·
Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’s own Nutuk11 of 1927 and Kâzım Karabekir’s Istiklâl
Harbimiz (Our Independence War), which was only released in 1968.12 In the
·
analysis that follows, this last-named work, Karabekir’s Istiklâl Harbimiz,
serves as a vehicle for exploring the potential importance of this type of
material.
Before going into its history and contents, it is perhaps useful to give a
short biographical sketch of its author, Kâzım Karabekir Pasha (1882–1948),
who is undoubtedly one of the major figures in the early history of modern
Turkey.
Kâzım Karabekir was born in Istanbul in 1882 as the son of an Ottoman
pasha. He received his education at the military schools of Fatih and Kuleli,
and subsequently at the Military Academy (Harbiye Mektebi) and the General
Staff College (Erkân-ı Harbiye Mektebi) in Pangaltı. In 1905 he graduated first
in his class. At the military academy he made the acquaintance of Mustafa
Kemal, the later Atatürk, who was senior to him by one year. In December
1906, when he was an officer with the staff of the Third Army in Macedonia,
he joined the Osmanlı Hürriyet Cemiyeti (Ottoman Freedom Society). This
was the secret committee founded in September 1906 in Salonica, which in
·
1907 merged with the Ittihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti (Committee of Union and
Progress, or CUP) of Ahmet Rıza in Paris, and in July 1908 brought about
the constitutional revolution under this latter name.13 Kâzım worked closely
with Enver in establishing the all important cell in Monastir (now Bitola),
but he never played an important political role in the CUP, concentrating
instead on his professional career as a soldier. During World War I he fought
on the Caucasian front, in Iraq and at the Dardanelles. When the armistice
of Moudhros was concluded in October 1918, he found himself in Azerbaijan
at the head of a Turkish expeditionary force. Soon after the armistice he was
recalled to Istanbul to head the General Staff. This, however, he refused, and
he instead assumed command of the Fourteenth Army Corps with divisions
in Tekirdağ and Bandırma.
Kâzım Pasha was one of the earliest supporters of the idea to organ-
ize a national resistance movement in Anatolia, plans for which were being
hatched within the CUP and especially among its military members from
October 1918 onwards. In early 1919 he ferried his troops in European
Turkey to the Anatolian side. He was convinced, however, that a real basis
for a national movement could only be found in the East, out of reach of the
Entente powers. In March 1919 he succeeded in having himself appointed
19
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Commanding Officer of the Fourteenth Army Corps (the former Ninth Army)
in eastern Anatolia with headquarters in Erzurum. There he immediately
supported the activities of the Vilâyat-i Şarkiye Müdafaa-i Hukuk-u Milliye
Cemiyeti (Society for the Defence of the National Rights of the Eastern
Provinces). This organization, founded in Istanbul in December 1918 by
a number of prominent Unionists from the eastern provinces, sought to
challenge Armenian claims on eastern Anatolia. At the time of Karabekir’s
appointment, it was in the midst of preparations for the famous congress of
Erzurum (July 1919).14
In the earliest phase of the national resistance movement (1918–20)
Kâzım Karabekir was the key military figure in Anatolia, because his force
was the only regular army of any size the nationalists had at their disposal.15
Kâzım successfully sabotaged the demobilization of his troops and in the
autumn of 1920 he used them to force the Armenian republic to recognize
Turkish territorial claims and cede the provinces of Kars and Ardahan to
Turkey.
Thereafter attention shifted to the western front and Kâzım’s role
gradually became less important. From 1920 onwards he was nominally
a member of the Great National Assembly, although he did not actually
attend the meetings. He came to belong to that group of pioneers of the
national resistance movement that was gradually cut off from the centre of
power from 1923 onwards and that, under the leadership of Hüseyin Rauf
[Orbay] (1881–1964)16 opposed the radical and authoritarian tendencies of
the group around Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. In 1924 this opposition culmi-
nated in the founding of the first opposition party of republican Turkey,
the Terakkiperver Cumhuriyet Fırkası (Progressive Republican Party – PRP).
Although the initiative for the founding of the party was not his, Kâzım
sympathized. He resigned his army inspectorate in order to be able to take
up his seat in the assembly17 and was elected president of the new party,
which presented itself as a moderate, liberal-democratic alternative to the
governing party, the Cumhuriyet Halk Fırkası (Republican People’s Party).
From the start the new party was under pressure and it was not long before it
was closed down after the introduction of the Takrir-i Sükûn Kanunu (Law
on the Maintenance of Order) in March 1925. During this period of rather
unsuccessful opposition, Kâzım remained a figurehead and did not play an
active role either in the organization of the party or in the drawing-up of its
programme.18
A year later the leaders of the PRP were among the groups, which were
purged with the trials following the Izmir conspiracy in the summer of
20
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1926.19 Although Kâzım Karabekir and the other prestigious military lead-
ers who had been involved with the PRP were acquitted, his career was at an
end so long as the radical wing around Mustafa Kemal Atatürk dominated
the scene.
In the years that followed, he lived in Istanbul, retired and embittered,
and devoted himself to writing a large number of books and composing
rather unsophisticated music. This life in relative obscurity lasted until after
Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’s death in 1938. He then made a comeback on the
political scene, which served as a form of rehabilitation, but gave him no
real power. In 1939 he was elected to the National Assembly again and
from 1946 until his death two years later he even served as president of that
body.
Of the many books, the manuscripts of which he wrote in the last 20
years of his life, by far the most important is his monumental (1,230 pages!)
·
Istiklâl Harbimiz. This book is a richly documented history of the Turkish
independence war on the basis of Kâzım Pasha’s own experience and his
personal archives, more than 1,000 documents from which are included in
the text.
The history of the publication of this work is interesting in itself as an
illustration of the development of the freedom of the press in modern Turkey.
Kâzım Karabekir seems to have collected the materials and to have prepared
the manuscript between 1927 and 1933. In 1933 he commissioned the publi-
cation of a short synopsis of his memoirs concerning the national resistance
·
movement under the title Istiklâl Harbimizin Esasları (The Foundations of
Our War of Independence) from the publisher Sinan Omur. 20 But in April
of that year the printing was halted on the orders of Kılıç Ali (1888–1971)
and Kel Ali Cetinkaya (1878–1949), two close associates of Mustafa Kemal
Atatürk, who had played a prominent role in the persecutions of 1925 and
·
1926, as members of the Istiklâl Mahkemesi (Independence Tribunal) of
Ankara.21 The proofs of the book were collected and burned. However, the
materials on which they were based had been rescued and hidden in time.22
No publication, either of the synopsis or of the complete work was attempted
during the rest of Kâzım Karabekir’s lifetime, but after the victory of the
Democratic Party in the elections of 1950 his heirs considered the politi-
cal climate more promising and the publication of the memoirs was taken
up again. First the Esaslar appeared in 1951. After this ‘trial balloon’ the
publication of the larger work could be considered and in 1959 Karabekir’s
daughters commissioned the publishing house Türkiye in Istanbul to print
and publish it. The printing of so large a work took considerable time, but in
21
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July 1960 it was offered for sale. For some months it was sold without inci-
dents in spite of the call for a ban in some newspapers. By now Turkey was
ruled by the National Unity Committee (Milli Birlik Komitesi), a military
junta, which had come to power in the coup d’état of 27 May 1960.
·
In January 1961 the whole situation concerning the publication of Istiklâl
Harbimiz changed, when the public prosecutor started an investigation and
later (in March) brought a lawsuit against the publisher of the book on the
grounds of infringement of articles 1 and 2 of law 5816 of 1951, which made
defamation of Atatürk’s memory a punishable act.23
In the indictment 34 passages from the book were quoted in illustration
of the charge. The fact that the decision to prosecute was made, however,
probably had more to do with the person of the publisher than with the
work itself. The publisher, Tahsin Demiray, was a controversial figure at the
time as co-founder and first secretary of the Justice Party (Adalet Partisi),
and the campaign against the book coincided with the first moves to found
this party, which was a barely disguised heir to the ousted and outlawed
Democratic Party (Demokrat Partisi). The trial of Demiray was suspended
in October when he was elected to the National Assembly and thus received
immunity. In 1965, however, Demiray decided not to stand for re-election
and he himself then asked for the trial to be reopened. The case was won
on a technicality, for the prosecutor had not decided to take action within
six months of the original publication of the book in 1960, as demanded
by law.24 The book was eventually released for publication in November
1968.
·
Istiklâl Harbimiz is in many ways an anti-Nutuk. Both memoirs resemble
each other closely in form and they also largely deal with the same subject
matter and period, although Karabekir stops in 1922 with the victory of the
nationalists over the Greek forces. Of the later period he says: ‘The events
of later date have been witnessed and are being witnessed by everyone.’25
The fact that we know that he wrote at least the first version of his memoirs
between 1926 and 1933 also makes it probable that the book is a reaction
· ·
to the Nutuk and the mottos both of Istiklâl Harbimiz (‘Istiklâl harbi yaptık.
Amilleri yazmazsa tarihi masal olur’ – ‘We fought the independence war. If
·
its creators do not write it, its history will become a fairytale’) and of Istiklâl
Harbimizin Esasları (‘Yanlıs bilgi felaket kaynağıdır’ – ‘Incorrect information
is a source of disaster’) can easily be interpreted as veiled criticisms of the
Nutuk.
In a number of places the version of history given by Karabekir dif-
fers considerably from the one in the Nutuk, on which modern Turkish
22
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historiography bases itself for this period. The most important differences
can be summarized as follows:
1. According to Karabekir, Mustafa Kemal waited and hesitated for too

long, before he decided to join his colleagues who were preparing a
national resistance movement in Anatolia.
2. When he came to Anatolia in May 1919, Mustafa Kemal tried to
bypass the embryonic nationalist organization in the eastern prov-
inces, which was preparing the congress of Erzurum, and to organize
a separate national congress in Sivas. Only with difficulty could he
be persuaded to come to Erzurum first and to convene the national
congress in Sivas only afterwards.
3. Mustafa Kemal forced the movement to take an independent and
radical line when he severed all communications with the govern-
ment in Istanbul, in effect making the national movement independ-
ent, while most other leaders still saw it as a temporary emergency.
4. Much attention is devoted to the relations between the Turkish
nationalists and the Bolsheviks. As commander on the eastern front
Karabekir witnessed the development of these relations at close quar-
ters, but while he realized the importance of Soviet aid, he found
Mustafa Kemal too accommodating to the Bolsheviks and their ideas.
Lacking the tactical subtlety of Kemal, he was afraid the latter was
allowing them to take over the national movement.
5. Mustafa Kemal is accused of developing an authoritarian and extrem-
ist attitude, which, Karabekir claims, resulted in widespread mistrust
within the movement, especially in the Eastern provinces, where even
the nationalist activists were ideologically much more conservative
than in the West. This feeling was strengthened by stories about the
‘immoral’ lifestyle of Kemal and his circle, and it led to attempts to
oust Kemal from the head of the movement.
6. Karabekir criticizes Mustafa Kemal’s last-minute decision in summer
1920 to call off the operations to recapture Kars and Ardahan due to
pressure from the Bolsheviks.
Throughout, Karabekir emphasizes his own role, for instance when he

describes his refusal to arrest Mustafa Kemal after the latter had come to
Erzurum in 1919, even though he was ordered to do so by the government,
and the fact that he continued to support him as leader even when he was
dismissed from the army and his army inspectorate was offered to Kâzım
23
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himself. This crucial episode, when Mustafa Kemal only survived as leader
thanks to the open support of Kâzım Karabekir, is left out of the Nutuk
completely, but it is well documented in other memoirs.26
·
What can we say about the reliability of Istiklâl Harbimiz? When we
review the criteria we listed earlier, we come first to the character and the
motives of the author. Karabekir comes alive from the pages of his book as
a rather limited, honest man with an unmistakable tendency for vanity and
self-importance. He certainly was not a far-sighted politician. The book is
clearly an attempt at vindication, written at a time when he was very bitter
about his forced retirement and the way his role was depicted in the Kemalist
sources, and especially in the Nutuk. Against this, the book may have been
published in the late 1960s, but it was almost certainly written relatively
shortly after the events described. It is extensively well documented and the
documents appear to have been rendered quite faithfully.
As to the specific differences between Karabekir’s version and that
of Atatürk, the former is supported by other sources in several important
instances. It is true that Mustafa Kemal was not one of the first high-
ranking officers to leave for Anatolia in 1918–19 (he was involved in
political intrigues in the capital for the first four to five months after his
return from the front) and that others persuaded him of the rightness of
the ‘Anatolian option’ and launched him on his way. 27 That he intended to
bypass the Erzurum congress and replace it with a national congress of his
own is confirmed by other memoirs, too. 28 Traces of criticism of Mustafa
Kemal’s authoritarianism and radicalism (and of his personal lifestyle)
can be found in many places. Such sentiments seem to have been espe-
cially strong in the eastern provinces, leading to the establishment of the
Muhafaza-i Mukaddesat Cemiyeti (Society for the Preservation of the Holy
·
Traditions) in 1921. 29 In Ankara the founders of the Ikinci Grup (Second
Group) in the National Assembly in 1922 were motivated by the same fac-
tors. 30 Mustafa Kemal’s reputation in this respect strengthened Enver Pasha’s
standing when the latter tried to return to Anatolia to replace Mustafa
Kemal in the summer of 1921. 31 No doubt the attention devoted to this
·
point in Istiklâl Harbimiz reflects Karabekir’s own religiously conservative
attitude, too.
The relationship between the Nationalists and the Soviet Union
presents a complicated and fascinating problem. 32 While it is clear that
Mustafa Kemal had to walk a tightrope, maintaining good relations with
the Bolsheviks (essential for the survival of the nationalist movement) while
avoiding ‘sovietization’ at the same time, it is most unlikely that he ever
24
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seriously contemplated founding a Soviet state in Anatolia. He played a

very delicate game, which was perhaps beyond the grasp of Karabekir.
In addition to offering these striking differences with the ‘official’ ver-
·
sion based on Nutuk, Istiklâl Harbimiz is a mine of information on all kinds
of detailed questions. However, I hope that even the few points enumerated
above may serve to give an idea of the potential value of Young Turk mem-
oirs like Kâzım Karabekir’s for a revaluation of modern Turkish history. In
the next chapter Karabekir’s memoirs will be consulted again, but this time
with special reference to his years before 1908.
25
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3. The Historiography of the Constitutional
Revolution: Broad Consensus,
Some Disagreement and a Missed
Opportunity*
It is a characteristic of most revolutions that the defining moment, the iconic

event by which they are remembered, is usually not the point at which the
aims of the revolution were achieved, but a ‘heroic’ event that is taken to
signal the start of the revolution. The declaration of independence on the
Fourth of July is remembered as the key date of the American Revolution
rather than the actual achieving of legal independence in 1783. The storm-
ing of the Bastille in Paris on 14 July 1789 has become a national holiday
rather than the abolition of the monarchy in September 1792. Likewise, the
storming of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg on 25 October 1917 rather
than the ultimate triumph of the Bolsheviks and the establishment of the
Soviet Union was celebrated yearly in the USSR.
The constitutional or Young Turk revolution in the Ottoman Empire in
July 1908 in many ways is a curious ‘revolution’. It did not result in regime
change as Sultan Abdülhamit II, who had been on the throne for 32 years,
remained so after the revolution. It did not result in the establishment of a
radically new revolutionary order, merely in the promise of the palace to act
according to the Ottoman constitution adopted in 1876 and to reconvene
parliament, which had been prorogued in 1878. This revolution is also an
exception to the rule where its iconic event is concerned. What was cel-
ebrated during the final decade of the Ottoman Empire and even beyond it,
during the national struggle period, was the date (10 July by the old Mali
calendar, 23/24 July under the Gregorian one) on which the Sultan accepted
the demands of the rebels and announced the reconvening of parliament,
not any heroic act or event that started off the revolutionary process.
Perhaps the reason for this can be found in the fact that the early phase
of the Young Turk revolution was anything but spectacular. There were no
masses storming government buildings or braving the bullets of the forces
of order; no barricades in the cities, no marches. Instead, what happened
26
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The Historiography of the Constitutional Revolution
was that over a period of three weeks a handful of junior officers took to the
hills of Macedonia with bands of between 20 and 200 irregulars – a series
of events that went unnoticed in the big cities of the empire and garnered
little attention even by the foreign observers of whom there were so many in
the region. There were very few casualties, too. Several of the officers sent
out by Abdülhamit to suppress the rebels and to investigate the activities of
the underground Young Turk network were killed or wounded, but that was
it. In fact, with mass action in an urban setting, bloody skirmishes that left
many dead, summary executions and a true regime change at the end of it,
the counterrevolution of April 1909 (the 31 Mart vakası) and its subsequent
suppression bear far more of the hallmarks of a classical revolutionary situ-
ation than does the constitutional revolution of 1908.
The literature
All of this helps explain why the actual run-up to the proclamation of free-
dom on 24 July receives relatively little attention in the specialist scholarly
literature on the period. This literature basically falls into two categories.
On the one hand we have the works dedicated primarily to the history of
the Young Turk movement between its inception in 1889 and the revolution
of 1908. On the other we have the studies concentrating on the Second
Constitutional Period, up to 1913 or even 1918. For the purposes of this
chapter I have looked at the works by Ernest Edmondson Ramsaur, Ahmed
Bedevi Kuran, Yusuf Hikmet Bayur, Feroz Ahmad, Sina Akşin, Aykut Kansu,
M.Şükrü Hanioğlu and George Gawrych.1
In the first category Ramsaur’s The Young Turks. Prelude to the Revolution
of 1908 was for a very long time the outstanding work. As explained in its
preface, work on the book started back in 1939, but was interrupted by
World War II. The author only managed to return to his project when he
was assigned to Turkey by the American Foreign Service in 1948 and the
book was finally published in 1957 by Princeton University Press. In con-
trast to the scholars who followed, Ramsaur was in a position to actually
interview some of the people involved in the Young Turk movement, but
such interviews do not seem to have been important to him in his render-
ing of the events of June–July 1908, probably because none of his inform-
ants was directly involved in the events of the revolution. It is a bit of a
mystery why, having taken the trouble to gain access to ‘old Young Turks’,
Ramsaur should not have approached important eyewitnesses. Many key
figures (Talât, Cemal, Enver, Kâzım Karabekir, Niyazi, Rahmi, Bahaettin
27
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Şakir, Dr Nâzım) were dead by the time he returned to Turkey, of course,

but people like Eyüp Sabri (died in 1950) and Mithat Şükrü [Bleda] (died in
1957) were still around.
For his account of the events of July 1908 Ramsaur relies on two
published sources: Charles Roden Buxton’s Turkey in Revolution and
E.F. Knight’s The Awakening of Turkey,2 published in 1909 and 1910 respec-
tively, as well as on newspaper articles and reports of the British embassy
in Constantinople. The fact that Ramsaur’s work was so long in the mak-
ing enabled him to make use of the two important studies in Turkish on
the subject that appeared in the 1940s. These were Ahmed Bedevi Kuran’s
· · ·
Inkılap Tarihimiz ve Jön Türkler (1945) and I nkılap Tarihimiz ve Ittihad ve
Terakki (1948), both of which focus to a large extent on the pre-1908 his-
tory of the Young Turks. These books by a veteran of the Young Turk move-
ment, who was a partisan of the anti-Unionist faction of Prince Sabahettin,
contain a wealth of documents, primarily correspondence within the move-
ment, of which Ramsaur only seems to have made sparing use. On the actual
insurrection of June–July 1908, in which he was not directly involved,
Kuran has very little to say – just a one-page overview of the best-known
facts.
Ramsaur’s summary of the events of June–July is very brief (only three
pages), but on the whole accurate. What is clear, however, is that he is not
well versed in the inner workings of the Committee for Progress and Union
(CUP) or its predecessor in Macedonia, the Ottoman Freedom Society
(Osmanlı Hürriyet Cemiyeti) founded in September 1906. As I will try
to show later, he clearly misunderstands the position of Enver and others
within the Macedonian underground, possibly because he relies so much on
the accounts of adversaries of the CUP, who were not involved in the plan-
ning of the revolt.
Ramsaur’s description of the early Young Turk movement stood as the
main work on the subject in a Western language until the publication in
1995 and 2001 respectively of M. Şükrü Hanioğlu’s definitive studies of the
Young Turk movement before the revolution, The Young Turks in Opposition
and Preparation for a Revolution. The Young Turks 1902–1908. Immeasurably
better documented, both with archival materials and published works of the
Young Turks themselves, these books set a new standard. The actual revo-
lution itself is dealt with on pages 265–78 of the second book. Hanioğlu’s
account is the most detailed and best documented that we have at our dis-
posal. He uses documentary evidence from both sides – Ottoman govern-
ment archival documents that were produced as part of the government’s
28
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effort to gain information on the Young Turk movement and to suppress

it, and documents from the CUP later published in the weekly supplement
to the Unionist party newspaper Şurayı Ümmet. In addition, Hanioğlu
refers to the published memoirs of key activists Enver, Niyazi and Kâzım
Karabekir.
Of the books dealing primarily with the post-revolutionary period,
pride of place should go to Yusuf Hikmet Bayur’s monumental Türk
·
Inkılabı Tarihi. This ten-volume work, published between 1940 and 1967,
was originally planned as a reference work for university teaching on the
‘Turkish revolution’ (meaning essentially the national independence strug-
gle and the establishment of the republic), but Bayur rightly saw that the
history of that period could not be understood or taught properly without
first devoting attention to the final years of the empire. His perspective, it
should be noted, was a modern and courageous standpoint at the time and
one that ran directly counter to official Kemalist historiography. In the end,
and in spite of its huge size, the work never progressed beyond the end of
World War I. Bayur gives a detailed account of the events of May–July 1908
on pages 436–79 of the first part of his first volume. He himself was only 17
years old and living in Istanbul at the time of the revolution, so he cannot
be regarded as having first-hand experience of the events that unfolded in
Salonika, Resne (now Resen or Resjna) and the surrounding areas. Bayur
was a politician, diplomat and administrator, and his legitimacy as an expert
depends primarily on the fact that he was the grandson of Grand Vizier
Kıbrıslı Kamil Pasha. Even though its first volumes, in which the revolu-
tion of 1908 is treated, were available by the time he resumed his research,
Bayur’s book does not seem to have been used by Ramsaur.
For his account of the revolution Bayur relies heavily on the memoirs of
Adjutant-Major (kolağası) Niyazi, which were published in Istanbul in 1910
·
as Hatırat-ı Niyazi Yahud Tarihçe-yi Inkılab-ı Kebir-i Osmaniden bir Sahife.3
For the basically unrelated, but contemporary Albanian demonstration at
Firzovik (now Verisovic or Ferisaj), he takes his data from Süleyman Külçe’s
Firzovik Toplantısı ve Meşrutiyet.4 Külçe served as adjutant and secretary
to General Şemsi Pasha who commanded the Mitrovica garrison and who
would be killed in Monastr when he was about to move against Niyazi’s
guerrilla band.
Niyazi’s memoirs also determine the perspective of Feroz Ahmad’s
account of the revolutionary days in his The Young Turks. The Committee of
Union and Progress in Turkish Politics 1908–1914 published in 1969, which
is based on Ahmad’s Ph.D. thesis of 1966. The strength of Ahmad’s book
29
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is undoubtedly in the analysis of the ebb and flow of the influence of the
CUP in the high politics of the empire between 1908 and 1914. The revo-
lution itself gets a relatively brief (10 pages out of 165) treatment. Here
as elsewhere the author relies mainly on British diplomatic reports and on
Ottoman newspapers, but for this part he also bases himself on Niyazi, both
directly and through the very full summary of the latter’s memoirs included
by E.F. Knight in his book. 5 The works of Kuran, as well as the collection
·
of documents from the days of the revolution published in 1956 by Ismail
Hakkı Uzunçarşılı6 are also referred to. For the Firzovik incident, Ahmad
like everybody else depends heavily on Külçe’s account.
The status of Ahmad’s book as the history par excellence of the second
constitutional period (at least until 1914) in English was rivalled by that of
·
Sina Akşin’s Jön Türkler ve Ittihat ve Terakki, published in Turkish in 1980.
In this work, too, the attention devoted to the actual revolution is slight,
even more so than in Ahmad’s Young Turks: 4 pages out of 308 (but it has to
be taken into account that Ahmad stops in 1914, while Akşin continues until
1918). Akşin’s summary of the main events seems to be based primarily on
Niyazi’s memoirs, Külçe’s book and the histories of Bayur and Ramsaur.
The most recent monographic treatment of the Young Turk period is
that by Aykut Kansu in his The Revolution of 1908 in Turkey, published in
Leiden in 1997. More than any other of the cited works, Kansu concentrates
on the revolutionary period itself, its immediate prelude (starting with the
tax revolts of 1906) and its aftermath (up to and including the elections of
1908). Yet, again, in this book of 241 pages (excluding appendices) the revo-
lution itself is treated in 12 pages (89–101). The account is based primarily
on British diplomatic correspondence, but also on Niyazi and Knight, Bayur
and Uzunçarşılı. For Firzovik, Kansu complements Külçe’s story with the
memoirs of Galip [Pasinler],7 the officer sent to placate the Albanians at
Firzovik, who, as a member of the CUP, in fact convinced them that they
should demand the reinstatement of the constitution rather than go home.
Finally, a recent addition to the literature on the revolution written from
a different angle needs to be mentioned. That is The Crescent and the Eagle.
Ottoman Rule and the Albanians, 1874–1923 by George Gawrych. Although
published in 2006, the book is in fact a reworked and updated Ph.D. thesis
defended in 1980. The framework in which the events of 1908 are described
obviously is different from that of the others discussed here, as it focuses
primarily on Albanian rather than on Ottoman history, but Gawrych’s work
distinguishes itself from earlier studies of Albanian nationalism in that he
makes extensive use of Ottoman sources and emphatically sees the Albanian
30
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road to independence as a part of late Ottoman history. This is particularly

relevant for two episodes: Niyazi’s rebellion and the Firzovik gathering.
Where his sources are concerned, Gawrych relies on the ‘usual suspects’
(Niyazi, Kuran, Ramsaur, Ahmad, etc.) but he makes significantly more use
·
of Albanian authors, notably Ibrahim Temo (one of the original founders
·
of the CUP back in 1889) and Ismail Kemal [Vlora] (a Tosk feudal lord and
leader of the Albanian national movement).
Consensus
The outline of the story of June–July 1908 is virtually the same in all of the
literature reviewed here, although there are a surprising number of minor
factual errors in various authors’ accounts. The story goes as described
below.
After discussions between the external headquarters of the CUP8 in
Paris and the internal headquarters in Salonica, a declaration was drawn up,
in which new demands for reforms in Macedonia on the part of the great
powers of Europe were rejected and in which the CUP revealed its existence.
This declaration was then left at the foreign consulates in Macedonia. This
put the Istanbul government on heightened alert and investigations into the
existence of the CUP underground network were initiated. Supervising this
work was the commander of the Salonica garrison, Nazim Bey, a brother-in-
law of Enver. On 11 June, the eve of his departure to Istanbul, where he was
to report on his findings, he was shot and wounded by a CUP fedaî. After
this, the government redoubled its efforts to uncover the plot and as a result
Major Enver Bey, who was implicated, had to go into hiding in the coun-
tryside. The CUP headquarters took this opportunity to ask him to set up a
guerrilla band in the Tikvesh area north of Salonica,9 where he had made his
name in 1906–7 as a successful fighter against Bulgarian bands.
During this time the situation became very tense due to the discussions
held between King Edward VII and Tsar Nicholas II in Reval (now Tallinn)
on 9–10 June, where a reform plan for Macedonia was known to be on the
agenda. Many in the CUP felt they needed to act now or it would be too late.
One of them was Adjutant-Major Niyazi Bey, who commanded a battalion
in his native Resne. Beginning on 28 June he started preparations to form a
guerrilla band on the pattern of the Greek, Bulgarian and Serb bands that had
become such a feature of life in Macedonia in the preceding decade. Having
received permission from the Monastır headquarters of the CUP, he sprung
into action on 3 July. Having lured the largest part of the garrison and its
commanding officers out of town by spreading rumours of an approaching
31
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armed Bulgarian band, Niyazi with a group of followers broke into the gar-
rison’s arms cache and took 70 rifles, ammunition and 600 Turkish pounds.
Thus equipped he took a band of some 160 volunteers with him into the
hills. The group consisted in part of civil volunteers who thought they were
going after Bulgarian Komitadjis and in part of CUP members who had
been involved in the plotting since 28 June. Only nine regular soldiers from
Niyazi’s own battalion were involved.10 Once in the hills, Niyazi was joined
by another 30 volunteers from nearby Prespe.11 He now stated his true aim,
that is, to force the government to reinstate the constitution, and asked who
wanted to join him in his struggle. Of the nine soldiers, four decided to
return to their barracks in Resne. All the others followed Niyazi. The band,
now called the ‘National Battalion of Resne’, started to roam from village to
village, while Niyazi used the excellent telegraph network of the empire to
send proclamations to local and provincial officials as well as to the palace
demanding the restoration of the constitution.
In response to the rebellion, the government called up fresh reserve
battalions in the province of Aydın,12 and ordered General Şemsi Pasha, the
commander of the garrison in the northern border town of Mitrovica and
an experienced and loyal Albanian officer with excellent contacts among
the Northern (Geg) Albanians, south to Monastir. Şemsi Pasha arrived in
Monastir on 7 July and was about to move on to Resne with two battalions
and an Albanian volunteer unit, when he was murdered by a CUP volun-
teer, Atıf [Kamçıl]. This murder is generally seen as the turning point in
the revolution, for it eliminated a very dangerous opponent of the Young
Turks, who could have mobilized Albanians against them, demonstrated
the power of the CUP in the towns, and demoralized the palace, all at the
same time.
In the days that followed Niyazi and Enver continued to roam the coun-
tryside and send telegrams, while a third CUP band of some 120 men now
left Monastir for the direction of Prilep. From 14 July the reserve units from
Aydın started to arrive in Macedonia, but CUP agents had worked on them
and they proved unreliable for the government. Meanwhile several officers
and police officials working for the palace were shot and on 22 July; Niyazi’s
‘National Battalion of Resne’ along with Albanian bands (çetes) as well as
a band from Ohrid, led by Adjutant-Major Eyüp Sabri (who had worked
closely with Niyazi since early July), launched an attack on Monastir, which
resulted in the kidnapping of Tatar Osman Pasha, the successor of Şemsi
Pasha. In the meantime CUP activists in different places in Macedonia con-
tinued to shower the palace with telegrams demanding the restoration of the
32
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constitution, but now these took on the character of an ultimatum. The CUP
threatened to have its forces march on the capital, if their demands were
not met by 26 July. Instead of waiting for an answer, the Monastir branch
of the CUP, which was now in control of the town and the most important
garrison in Macedonia, proclaimed the reinstatement of the constitution
on 23 July. Seeing that his options had run out, Sultan Abdülhamid fol-
lowed suit that night and the reopening of parliament was announced in the
Istanbul newspapers on the morning of the 24 July. The Young Turk revolu-
tion had taken place.
Independent from these developments, the gathering of Albanians at
Firzovik that started on 5 July (two days after Niyazi took to the hills)
added to the sense of alarm in Istanbul and in that sense contributed to the
collapse of resistance from the palace. As described in the sources, the gath-
ering was a spontaneous affair, triggered by rumours (which had been cir-
culating for a few weeks) that the Austrian army was coming to the South.
A planned picnic in the village of Firzovik for employees of the company
that was exploring the building of a potential track for an Austrian railway
through Macedonia somehow gave credence to these rumours. Albanians
gathered to prevent the picnic. Starting with 3,000 demonstrators from the
area, the crowd soon grew to 20,000 and Ottoman officers, led by Galip
Bey [Pasinler] were sent to persuade the demonstrators to disperse. Galip
Bey was an active member of the CUP, however, and he managed to con-
vince the gathering to take an oath (besa) to the constitution, explaining
that only a constitutional regime could avert the danger of foreign inter-
vention. A petition demanding the restoration of the constitution, signed
by 194 clerics, notables and tribal leaders present, was sent to the palace
on 21 July.
Disagreement
In the literature on the revolution, there are two key issues on which the
different authors disagree. One is the relative importance of external
events, more precisely the Reval meeting and the plans of the European
great powers to impose a new regime in Macedonia, on the one hand and
of internal pressures, notably the increasing success of the Sultan’s secu-
rity system in uncovering the CUP underground network, on the other.
The second is the question of agency. Was the insurgency in Macedonia
in June–July 1908 the work of individuals and small groups of soldiers,
who were inspired by the existence of the CUP and its propaganda but
33
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who acted independently and whose actions were only given the stamp of
approval by the CUP afterwards? Or were the different insurrections in
Resne, Ohrid, Monastir and Tikvesh in fact orchestrated carefully by the
CUP central committee in Salonica and its most important branch, that in
Monastir?
Basing ourselves on the state of the art of research in the field as well as
on a reappraisal of the accounts of the two key figures of Enver and Niyazi,
we can now reach a tentative conclusion on these two areas of disagree-
ment. On the first issue, Ramsaur and Ahmad seem to accord least impor-
tance to the Reval meeting between Tsar Nicholas II and King Edward VII
on 9–10 June, during which Russia and Great Britain reached far-reaching
agreement about the imposition of an autonomous regime in the empire’s
Macedonian provinces (Salonica, Kosovo and Monastir) with foreign super-
vision. Ramsaur attributes the revolutionaries’ decision to start an open
rebellion in June 1908 primarily to the fact that the palace was getting
very close to discovering the extent of the CUP underground network. He
accords only secondary importance to the news of the Reval meeting. He
relates how first Major Enver at the end of June ‘disappeared into the hills’
rather than obey orders to report to the general staff in Istanbul and then
on 4 July (should actually be 3 July), Niyazi ‘took to the hills for similar
reasons’.
In Ahmad’s eyes, Reval gave a greater sense of urgency to the consti-
tutionalists, and constituted a ‘psychological influence’, but European
observers at the time were mistaken when they thought there was a causal
relationship between Reval and the revolution. The real origins must be
sought elsewhere, that is, in the growing effectiveness of the Sultan’s spy
network. Akşin accords equal importance to the news of the Reval meet-
ing and to the exposure of the underground networks of the Young Turks,
highlighting the role of the regimental chaplain (alay müftüsü), who man-
aged to penetrate the CUP network in Monastir. Bayur, Ramsaur’s Turkish
contemporary, is rather ambiguous on this point. In his very brief descrip-
tion he says that the rebellion was prepared ‘in the atmosphere created by
the Reval meeting’ but does not go into details. His contemporary Ahmed
Bedevi Kuran sees the increased activities of the Bulgarian, Serb and Greek
bands as the factor that made the CUP attractive to officers of the Third
Army. He says that it was the Reval meeting that forced them to increase
their activities.
The more recent authors, Kansu, Hanioğlu and Gawrych, all seem to
agree that the rebellion was originally scheduled for a later date (possibly
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October or November 1908) but they agree with Kuran that the Reval meet-
ing ‘spurred the CUP to push for an early date’ (Gawrych) or even ‘forced
the hand of the committee’ (Kansu, quoting Knight). In Hanioğlu’s even
stronger words: ‘Reval compelled the leaders and members of the CUP to
risk all and start the revolution.’ In his eyes the discoveries of the Hamidian
spy network also played a role, but he definitely sees the Reval meeting
as the primary trigger. The conclusion therefore seems to be that the revi-
sionism of Ramsaur and Ahmad has in turn been revised, and that expert
opinion seems to be leaning once again towards the original opinion of con-
temporary observers, that is, that the Reval meeting was the primary trigger
of the constitutional revolution.
On the second question, that of agency either on the part of the com-
mittee or on the part of the individual soldiers who took to the hills, two
traditions seem to exist.
Ramsaur is quite categorical in his view that the uprising developed
spontaneously in several places at the same time and that the central com-
mittee of the CUP in Salonica had not masterminded it. As mentioned
earlier, this could be due to the fact that his main sources were people
outside the CUP, which leads him to misunderstand the inner workings of
this organization. He describes Enver as ‘a young officer … not at the time
any more important than the average young officer who had become affili-
ated with the society’. This, however, misses Enver’s crucial importance
as the man who provided the committee access to the Third Army and its
main base in Monastir. Enver had been admitted to the Ottoman Freedom
Society (which later merged with the Paris-based organization of Ahmet
Rıza to form the CUP) through the mediation of his uncle Halil [Kut] at a
very early stage of the development of the organization. He was in fact its
twelfth member. On his return to Monastir in 1906 he started a cell there,
in close collaboration with fellow officer Kâzım Karabekir. Enver was the
central figure in the Monastir organization and it was he, who enrolled
officers like Niyazi and Eyüp Sabri, who were to play key roles in the July
revolution.
Ahmad continues this tradition of denying the Committee agency. He
states that the memoirs of Niyazi were published with the blessing of the
CUP and that their bias is ‘to exaggerate the role of the Committee in the
insurrection’. He points out that Niyazi, in his first proclamations, ‘spoke,
not as a representative of the CUP as one might expect, but simply as the
leader of “my 200 men” ’. This could mean, he argues, that the action was
that of Niyazi’s own initiative and that the Committee only supported the
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insurrection in the towns, where it was master of the situation, and not in
the countryside where it had little influence. Ahmad does not offer any
hard evidence for his assertion that the CUP did not initiate the insurrec-
tion, however. Gawrych takes Ahmad’s approach one step further, stating
that ‘Niyazi’s first proclamation failed to mention the CUP at all.’ For this,
he refers to Ahmad’s statement quoted above, but as we can see, this is not
quite what Ahmad says. One glance at Niyazi’s actual proclamation (repro-
duced in his memoirs) makes it clear however, that he explicitly mentions
the ‘Union and Progress that is a powerful organisation throughout the
country’.
Bayur, who, it should be remembered, like Ramsaur’s sources, was con-
nected to the anti-Unionist political currents, also attributes agency prima-
rily to Niyazi Bey himself. He points out that Niyazi himself describes the
Resne insurrection as his own initiative and argues that Niyazi could hardly
have put forward such a claim if it were false at a time when all his friends,
who also had been involved in the revolution, were still alive. Bayur makes
a clear distinction between Niyazi’s actions and those of Enver. He is very
disparaging of Enver, saying that he only left Salonica for Tikvesh to go
into hiding and to save himself from arrest. He further charges that Enver’s
actions there were nowhere near as effective as those of Niyazi in Resne and
Eyüp Sabri in Ohrid, and that Enver was only made into a hero of the revolu-
tion by Talât after the event for political reasons. This interpretation has to
be rejected on the basis of what we know about Enver’s crucial role within
the CUP, discussed above. It is clearly based on political bias.
While Akşin does not address the issue of agency, Kansu and Hanioğlu
clearly offer a very different reading of events. Kansu, basing himself here
as elsewhere primarily on Knight and Uzunçarşılı, states that ‘throughout
his operations [he] was acting as the instrument of the Committee’ even
before July. While the actual initiative to take to the hills may have been
his, Kansu posits that he clearly acted and wanted to act as representative
of the Committee. Hanioğ lu shows that already in mid-June instructions
had been sent to CUP branches to prepare for insurrection and that officers
were given permission to form bands (çetes). He emphasizes the degree of
control on the part of the CUP, even going so far as to doubt the credibility
of Niyazi’s claim that he wrote the proclamations that were subsequently
sent to the central and local authorities himself the day before he took to
the hills. On the basis of documents published in Şurayı Ümmet after the
revolution, Hanioğ lu states that it was the Monastir branch that provided
the documents to Niyazi. It is difficult to reconcile this with the claim in
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Niyazi’s published memoirs, which at the time were not contradicted by

the CUP Perhaps and this is only a tentative suggestion, we should make a
distinction between the proclamation sent to the palace, the inspectorate
general and the governor of Monastir on the one hand and the telegrams
sent to local commanders and administrators on the other, with the former
being provided by the CUP branch in Monastir and the latter written by
Niyazi himself. Internal evidence gives some substance to this hypothesis as
the more political and ‘official’ discourse of the first proclamation is clearly
different from the more fiery, direct and personal discourse of the others.
The first text is much more programmatic than the others, which make
concrete and personal accusations and threats against specific persons. It
seems reasonable to attribute the first text to the CUP and the others to
Niyazi.
Alone among our authors, Hanioğlu makes use of Enver’s memoirs.
These were written shortly after the event, in 1909, but remained within the
family in the shape of notebooks until their publication as Enver Paşa’nın
Anıları in 1991.13 On the basis of these notes, as well as other sources,
Hanioğlu concludes that Enver was clearly sent to Tikvesh on a mission by
the Central Committee in Salonica and even given the title of ‘inspector-
general’ for the purpose. A close reading of Enver’s memoirs indeed shows
that he saw himself as acting on behalf of the CUP and that he was provided
with instructions, money and texts for proclamations.
The conclusion, to me, seems to be that, while Niyazi may indeed have
approached the Monastir branch with the suggestion that he raise the stand-
ard of revolt, he did so fully aware that the CUP had already authorized
this kind of action. He explicitly asked the branch for permission (which he
got two days later, but before he made his move). He remained in constant
touch with the Committee and was guided by it. The idea that individual
soldiers like Niyazi, Enver or Eyüp Sabri forced the hand of the CUP and
that the latter only mastered the situation on the eve of the proclamation of
the constitution, in my view has to be rejected, because it is based either on
the evidence of politically biased sources (Ramsaur, Kuran, Bayur) or not
based on hard evidence at all (Ahmad, Gawrych).
A missed opportunity?
Finally, a comparison between the published memoirs of Niyazi and the
unpublished ones of Enver affords us the opportunity to dig a little bit deeper
into the actual mechanics of the insurrection. Looking in detail at what
both officers did during their campaign in the mountains we can discern
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the tactics employed by the CUP to gain the support of the population. In
my view, the authors reviewed here have not exploited these accounts in
full, and as such, have missed an opportunity to draw powerful conclusions
about the nature of the constitutionalist movement.
To start with, what officers like Niyazi and Enver do not do, is as inter-
esting as what they do. Neither takes to the mountains as commander of
his own regular unit. Niyazi commanded a battalion in Resne, but his band
consisted of citizen volunteers, who avail themselves of the arms and money
of the garrison. Only nine soldiers join him at a time when his band is sup-
posedly going after Bulgarian bandits. Of those, four return to Resne once
the true aim of the operation is revealed. As for Enver, he does not take any
troops with him and raises a volunteer force in the villages of the Tikvesh
region. He steals away from Salonica like a thief in the night, travels in dis-
guise and tries to avoid contact with troops or gendarmes. In other words:
these Young Turk officers clearly did not trust their own troops enough
to involve them in the insurrection. This is an indication of the enormous
chasm between these college-educated officers and the common soldier,
who probably was still extremely loyal to the Sultan.
The second point to be made is that both Enver and Niyazi seek to build
their support first and foremost among Muslim villagers. When Niyazi first
headed for the mountains on 3 July, he carefully chose Albanian Muslim
villages as his first destination. As an Albanian from Resne and a member
of a landowning family, he had, of course, excellent connections with a
number of villages, but the religious aspect is as important as the ethnic one
here. When he sent his first soldiers into the first village, Niyazi ordered
them to recite prayers while moving in, to put the Muslims at ease. Clearly
the insurrection is primarily a Muslim movement, and the religious motif is
very strong here. The fact that later in the insurrection the officers try to
reassure the Macedo-Bulgarian population that the movement is not aimed
against them and call upon Bulgarian bands to join them, does not belie this
primary focus on the Muslims.
Third, the way officers try to latch on to the concerns of the peasant
population is interesting. According to Niyazi, he found strong support for
the CUP in some, or even most, of the Muslim villages. This is surprising,
as the CUP comprised about 2,000 members in all of Rumelia at the time,
nearly all of them urban (with a quarter of the members in Salonica). Enver’s
memoirs perhaps offer a clue as to how we should read Niyazi’s statement.
According to Enver, the CUP had no foothold in the villages, but quite a
few of the large landowners, who although they lived in town were very
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influential in ‘their’ villages, were CUP members and it was their influence
that mobilized the villagers in support of the CUP This likely is the reality
behind Niyazi’s statement as well.
How do the officers mobilize the support of the villagers? Certainly not
with abstract rhetoric about constitutionalism. They appeal to the villagers’
deep-rooted discontent about a government that imposes heavy taxation
but does not deliver either services (i.e. roads, schools) or protection from
the countless armed bands roving the region. Niyazi in particular not only
offers protection from these bands with his ‘national battalion’, but he also
implements additional measures, forcing local clans to declare a truce in
the internecine blood feuds that were endemic among both the Northern
Geg Albanians and the Tosk communities of the South. Niyazi presents his
‘national battalion’ as a patriotic Ottoman band (çete), which makes his
operation instantly recognizable for similar groups in the mountains and
encourages the bands of deserters, criminals on the run and Tosk Albanian
nationalists to join him. The fact that he manages to get the support of the
most important Tosk band leader Cercis Topulli is a major success in this
respect.
The officers also court the villagers by explicitly capitalizing on the
already existing fears about foreigners taking control of Macedonia. They
constantly point out that the country is in danger and that foreign (Christian)
control will mean the end for the Muslim ‘majority’ in Macedonia. The cor-
rupt and weak government in Istanbul, they argue, does nothing to avert
this danger, so the people have to put their trust in the Committee. The
constitution is thus presented as the solution to these very real and concrete
concerns of the village population.
In assuring themselves of the support of the villagers the officers make
use of traditional means. In the Albanian villages Niyazi induces them to
take a besa, a communal oath, of which there was a strong tradition in
Albanian culture. In the Turkish villages of Tikvesh Enver calls together the
council of village elders and working through them initiates whole villages
into the CUP.
On the basis of the documentary evidence and in particular the memoirs
of participants in the revolution we can now know a lot about the actual
nuts and bolts of the insurrection that led to the restoration of the constitu-
tion. A close and comparative reading of those details may still give us a
better insight into the nature of the Unionist movement. That is perhaps
the only missed opportunity of the historiography reviewed here. But on
the whole research on the revolution has progressed to the point where we
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are now able to construct a fairly satisfactory consensus view, which is clos-
est to Hanioğlu’s interpretation in that it accords an important place to the
‘Eastern Question’ and more particularly to the Reval meeting in triggering
the revolution, and it sees the insurrection as orchestrated by the CUP head-
quarters in Salonica and its branches in Monastir and Ohrid rather than as
the work of individual patriotic officers.
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4. The Rise and Fall of ‘Modern’
Turkey: Bernard Lewis’s
Emergence Fifty Years On*
In 1961 the famous Arabist, Islam scholar and Turkologist Bernard Lewis
published a book with Oxford University Press, which was immediately rec-
ognized as a classic in its field and would remain a leading textbook for a
generation. It was, of course, called The Emergence of Modern Turkey.1 It
was a hefty tome (511 pages), based on research executed in England and
Turkey during the years 1954–9.
The fact that nearly half a century has passed since the publication of
Emergence makes it appropriate to take a second look at the book from the
perspective of contemporary Turkology. In revisiting Lewis’s classic, we can
attempt to gauge if, and where, our field has produced different insights
and, who knows, progressed when measured against the yardstick of this
seminal work.
For me, a closer look at the book which was considered the bible of
modern Turkish history when I studied at Leiden University (and for much
longer) and which influenced my decision to make this my own area of spe-
cialization is of special significance.
Bernard Lewis and Turkish historiography

The first thing that strikes one on making the renewed acquaintance with
the book is how many things, which were self-evident 50 years ago, have
now become problematic. It starts on with the title page: The Emergence of
Modern Turkey. What does ‘emergence’ really mean? Lewis does not address
the matter in his preface, but the word surely suggests that we are faced
with a spontaneous and gradual process, through which modern Turkey
hatches like a chick from its egg. Feroz Ahmad has more recently pointed
out that this is a fallacy.2 For Turkey as we know it is not the inevitable
result of a natural development but the product of wilful acts on the part of
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ideologically motivated leaders. ‘Emergence’ is not, of course, a value-free

term. It suggests not only gradual development, but also the fulfilment of a
destiny: the chick was in the egg waiting to be hatched. It also suggests the
reaching of a higher phase in history. That is something Lewis does not try
to hide. In the first sentence of the preface we read: ‘The theme of this book
is the emergence of a new Turkey from the decay of the old.’ The old Turkey
is not only old, but decayed as well. What, now, is ‘modern’ Turkey and what
is the old, decayed Turkey which it has come to replace?
To start with the latter, ‘modern Turkey’ is not just the opposite of ‘older
Turkey’. The contrast is that between the republic of Turkey, which was
founded in 1923 and celebrates its 85th anniversary this year, and its pred-
ecessor, the 600-year-old Ottoman Empire. In this respect, Lewis’s terminol-
ogy reflects a tradition which has been well-established since the mid-1920s.
The authors of the stream of books written about the new republic had a
strong predilection for this and similar descriptions: Eliot Grinnell Mears,
Modern Turkey (1924); Berthe Georges-Gaulis, La Nouvelle Turquie (1924);
Kurt Ziemke, Die neue Türkei (1930); Jean Deny, Petit manuel de la Turquie
Nouvelle (1933); Henry Elisha Allen, The Turkish Transformation (1935); Sir
Harry Luke, The Old Turkey and the New (1936); August, Ritter von Kral,
Das Land Kemal Atatürks. Der Werdegang der modernen Türkei (1937);
anonymous, The New Turkey (1938); Geoffrey Lewis, Modern Turkey (1955);
Eleanor Bisbee, The New Turks (1956); Irfan Orga, Phoenix Ascendant. The
Rise of Modern Turkey (1958) and Pia Angela Göktürk, Werdegang der neuen
Türkei (1983).
Some authors preferred more colourful wordings to oppose new to old:
Karl Klinghardt, Die Schleier Fallen! (1933); Lilo Linke, Allah Dethroned
(1937) and Barbro Karabuda, Goodbye to the Fez (1959), but the message
remains the same. In all of these books the essential opposition between
‘old’ and ‘new’, which coincides with the transition from empire to republic,
is the framework within which the story of the Turks is told. But what is
‘modern’? We shall return to that particular question later.
When we now look at Emergence, we immediately notice that Lewis’s
attitude towards the problem of continuity and change is ambivalent. On the
one hand he sees the developments after 1918 as ‘a radical and violent break
with the past’, 3 but on the other he interprets that break as the culminating
point of a much longer process of reforms. He writes:
The Turkish revolution began in a formal sense with the forcible

overthrow of an old political order and the establishment of a new
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The Rise and Fall of ‘Modern’ Turkey
one in 1908. In another sense, however, it had been going on for

nearly two centuries.4
In this respect, Lewis’s work differs from that of the real Kemalist histori-
ans, who, like Afet I·nan, see the republic as a radically new departure which
owes hardly anything to the Ottoman past and which has been created by
Mustafa Kemal Pasha Atatürk as a kind of deus ex machina.
Lewis fits much better in a generation of scholars who made their name
in Turkey after World War II, people like the sociologist Niyazi Berkes5
and the jurist and political scientist Tarık Zafer Tunaya,6 who also see in
the Republic of Turkey a new and in a sense final phase in Turkish history,
but who have an open eye for those who prepared it: the architects of the
Ottoman administrative and cultural modernization in the nineteenth cen-
tury and, especially, the Young Turk movement in the early twentieth cen-
tury, which, in Tunaya’s words, constituted the ‘laboratory of the republic’.
Although this approach is certainly much less forced than that of the
orthodox Kemalist historians of an earlier generation, it has one impor-
tant disadvantage. Through it, late Ottoman history almost automatically
acquires a teleological character. It turns into ‘prehistory’ of the republic.
This in turn changes late Ottoman history into Turkish history avant la let-
tre, which misrepresents the multicultural, multi-ethnic character of that
history in which Armenians, Greeks, Jews, Kurds, Arabs, Albanians and
Bosnians all played important parts within a dynastic and religious political
system. That Lewis fits into this Turkish-nationalist tendency is shown, for
instance, by a passage in his introduction:
So completely had the Turks identified themselves with Islam that

the very concept of a Turkish nationality was submerged.7
Turkish national identity submerged in an Islamic ocean. This seems to indi-

cate that Lewis sees the Turkish nation as a primordial entity that waited for
its chance to shed all Ottoman and Islamic ballast and rise to the surface. Of
course, that is the classic way in which nationalists regard nationality. But
to modern historians, who have been sensitized by scholars like Benedict
Anderson, Eric Hobsbawm and Ernest Gellner to the ways nationalists con-
struct a nation’s past as a weapon in their political struggles, it seems a trifle
naive. A remark on page 7 is, if necessary, even more illustrative of Lewis’s
position. He writes: ‘The Turkish language, which, despite long subjection
to alien influences, survives triumphantly’. Here, Lewis adopts the basic
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idea of Kemalist linguistic purism, that there exists a pure or ‘real’ Turkish,
which has to be decolonialized and cleansed of foreign influences. Here,
too, he seems to see Turkish identity, expressed in the language, as some-
thing submerged in something non-Turkish (Ottoman?) but with a latent
existence of its own.
Contents and format of Emergence

Emergence consists of two parts. Part one is a chronologically ordered over-
view in nine chapters, starting in the seventeenth century and ending with
the coming to power of Menderes’ Democrat Party in 1950. Part two is
thematically ordered, with each of its five chapters describing a particular
aspect of change. Lewis starts his chronological overview with the ‘decline’
of the empire, itself a notion which has come under attack rather severely
in recent years.8 Then he treats the attempts to restore the state with tra-
ditional means, the growing influence of Europe, the bureaucratic reforms
of the early nineteenth century, the Young Ottoman movement, Sultan
Abdülhamit’s long reign, the Young Turks, the Kemalist republic and the
republic after Kemal. In the thematic part he deals with changing collective
identities, state and government, religion and culture and class structure.
The book is based on literature in English, German, French and Turkish
and on published Ottoman authors, whom Lewis quotes frequently and
effectively, both in the text and in the notes. Archival materials do not seem
to have been used.
Fifty years on
When we now look at the book from where we are nearly 50 years later and
try to compare it with the state of the art in the field of modern Turkish his-
tory, what transpires? I think there are three aspects, or rather three groups
of aspects which play an important role here: intellectual versus total his-
tory, chronology and periodization, and the modernization paradigm.
Intellectual versus total history

The first concerns the kind of history Lewis has written and clearly has
wanted to write. Emergence is first a history of the élite and its instrument
of power, the central state, and second an intellectual history, a history of
ideas. Whichever chapter we look at, Lewis concerns himself with the mem-
bers of the administrative and intellectual élite, the development of their
thinking, the terminology they used (and partly invented) and the measures
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they took. Because he concentrates to such an extent on the history of ideas,

Lewis seems to work from the premise that people act from ideological
motives. Such an approach overlooks the extent to which people use ideas
to defend their political and social interests. A logical result is that policy,
in the sense of the formulation of aims and the promulgation of laws and
regulations gets much more attention than the power struggles in which the
Ottoman (and Turkish) policy makers were involved at the same time. Here,
Carter Findley’s two-volume history, both institutional and social, of the
Ottoman civil bureaucracy has given us a much fuller picture.9
In Emergence, the writing of intellectual history is at the expense of the
depiction of social realities. When one reads the passage about the consti-
tutional revolution of 1876,10 one could be forgiven for thinking that it was
Namık Kemal’s play The Fatherland or Silistria which brought down the old
regime, and not the famine in Anatolia, the insurrection in the Balkans or
the financial crisis of the state. When Lewis does write about the financial
crisis, he sees its root cause in the extravagances of the court11 (and in this
he is clearly influenced by the Ottoman reformers with whom he identifies)
instead of in the immense financial burden created by the introduction of a
conscript army, the acquisition of modern armaments and the ballooning of
the Ottoman bureaucracy. The question how the reforms worked out in the
provinces is not really answered, the question what it all meant for the average
Ottoman subject is not even posed. We do not discover what the introduc-
tion of conscription or the eradication of the plague meant for the people,
even though we can assume that developments such as these were far more
influential that the ideological constructs of the intellectual élite in Istanbul.
Something similar is true for the famous reforms of the age of Atatürk. There,
too, we see the reforms exclusively through the eyes of the élite. When discuss-
ing, for instance, the prohibition of the Fez or the introduction of the Swiss
civil code in 1926, Lewis does recognize that there was resistance, but he does
not ask why. The negative reactions are all those of ‘Muslim conservatives’.12
In all these respects our field has undergone a sea change in the last
25 years. We no longer concentrate exclusively on the central state, on the
élite, its ideas and its measures. In these last 15 years, economic history of the
late Ottoman Empire has come of age, with French researchers and American
and Turkish colleagues attached to the Braudel Centre in Binghamton play-
ing a leading role in this development. Jacques Thobie’s impressive 1977
study of French economic interests in the Ottoman Empire13 was a pioneer-
ing effort, but in the 1980s conference proceedings and monographs were
published in rapid succession. Something nearly all of these publications
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have in common, is that they not only chart the developments within the
late-Ottoman economy, but also try to place these in the context of the
capitalist world economy centred on Europe. This is no coincidence. Many
of the historians who have done this work, people like Donald Quataert,
·
Şevket Pamuk, Çağlar Keyder, Huri Islamoğlu and Reşat Kasaba, have been
inspired by the ideas of André Gunder Frank and in particular by Emanuel
Wallerstein’s ‘World System’ model. It is interesting, however, to note that
the best work emerging from this school shows up the inadequacies of that
model. Quataert, for instance, shows how Ottoman manufacture, instead
of declining or disappearing under the influence of the incorporation of the
Ottoman economy into the periphery of the capitalist world system as one
would expect, adapted itself and resisted the onslaught of the Europeans
through cost control, use of imported commodities and products and exploi-
tation of niche markets.14 Kasaba shows that the Armenian and Greek bour-
geoisie did not, in fact, have a ‘compradore’ character and that it competed
successfully with the metropolitan European capitalists.15
Social history is, of course, not entirely separate from economic his-
tory. Two of the path-breaking collections in this field, Economies et sociétés
dans l’Empire Ottoman, edited by Jean-Louis Bacqué Grammont and Paul
Dumont in 1983 and Social and Economic History of Turkey, edited by Halil
·
Inalcık and Osman Okyar in 1980, show the connection between the two
fields even in their titles. Paul Dumont, together with the Turkish politi-
cal scientist Mete Tunçay, can be regarded as the pioneer of the history of
Ottoman socialism, while Quataert has been the first to give us a picture of
the lives of Ottoman workers at the railways, in the docks and in the mines.16
The lowest step on the Ottoman social ladder, that of the slaves, first gained
attention in Ehud Toledano’s study of the Ottoman slave trade.17
Since 25 years, historians have been able to build on solid historical
demographic studies, such as those published by Kemal Karpat18 and, espe-
cially, Justin McCarthy.19 These make use of the data collected by those,
who – in McCarthy’s words – were the only ones in a position to actu-
ally count: the Ottoman administration. Thanks to their work we can now
answer questions about the size and composition of the late Ottoman popu-
lation with a degree of exactness unthinkable 30 years ago. Alan Duben and
Cem Behar have shown what is possible in the field of demographic micro-
studies in their book about the development of Istanbul households.20
Apart from the development of social and economic history proper,
the work of French Turkologists such as François Georgeon, Paul Dumont
and Stéfane Yérasimos has broadened the scope of cultural history in the
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direction of a history of mentalities which tries to chart society’s attitudes

and worldview and which merges imperceptibly into social history.21
As early as 1973, Halil I·nalcık made an attempt to see how the nine-
teenth-century reforms were received in the Balkan provinces in his article
‘The application of the Tanzimat and its social effects’.22 Since then, many
local studies based on Ottoman archives in the Balkans and in the Arab
world have given us a much fuller picture of what actually happened on the
ground (as opposed to what Istanbul bureaucrats thought should happen).
The economic history of the republic has made great strides thanks to
the work of people like Zvi Yehuda Hershlag, Korkut Boratav, Osman Okyar,
William Hale and Şevket Pamuk. We now have a reasonably accurate idea
of economic growth, production and income distribution. The same cannot
be said for the social history of the republic. Şehmus Güzel and others have
done important work on labour relations and the workers’ movement,23 but
there still is an almost total lack of history ‘written from below’, a historiog-
raphy which focuses on the experiences of ordinary people and the way they
have undergone the modernization process. The most promising attempt so
far has been made by Gavin Brockett,24 who studied resistance to the Kemalist
reforms, but it is clear that this aspect of the field awaits further development.
To sum up the first point, I think we can say that the most important
development in this sector of Turkology has been that the history of ideas
and institutions, of the central state and the élite, has given way to a much
broader approach in which history of mentalities, social history, demog-
raphy and economics all play a role, although this development has gone
further for the late empire than for the republic.
Chronology
The second aspect of Emergence that may be considered outdated, concerns
the degree of continuity between the Ottoman Empire and the republic and
the periodization which follows from it. We have already noted Lewis’s
ambivalence vis-à-vis this question. He sees the development of modern
Turkey as a long-term process, but at the same time he sees a ‘radical and
violent break’ in that development after 1918, when something substantially
new emerges in the shape of the national resistance movement in Anatolia.
What he loses sight of in this context, is the degree to which this movement
and the republic which grew from it was the work of the same circle of
Young Turk politicians and officers who had brought about the constitu-
tional revolution of 1908, and the extent to which it was the result of con-
scious planning on the part of these Young Turks.
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I think this is an area where my own work has contributed to a substan-

tial revision. My main conclusion has been that the traditional periodiza-
tion, which is followed by Lewis, and which sees the ‘national struggle’
(Millî Mücadele) between 1919 and 1922 as the first phase of the history of
the republic, is very distorting for two reasons: first, the initiative for this
struggle was taken by those same Young Turk leaders who had held power
in Turkey between 1913 and 1918; and second, the proclamation of the
republic was really the result of a coup d’état within the movement by a rad-
ical wing led by Mustafa Kemal Pasha Atatürk. For the large majority – not
only of the rank and file, but also of the leadership – the aim of the struggle
between 1918 and 1922 was not the founding of a Turkish state but the
preservation of the Ottoman Sultanate and Caliphate. In short: the most
important dividing line in post-war history is not that of 1918 but that of
1923.25 In my view, Lewis is therefore wrong when he says (speaking about
the situation in 1919): ‘A new Turkish state was emerging in Anatolia.’26
· ·
Recent work by Turkish historians such as Selim I lkin, Ilhan Tekeli,
Bülent Tanör and Engin Berber on regional resistance movements, by Bilge
Criss on Istanbul during the British occupation and by Ahmet Demirel on
the first national assembly in Ankara seem to confirm the importance of
Young Turk organizations in the national resistance, and thus the continuity
with the empire.27
An important reason why Lewis is able to characterize the national inde-
pendence movement as new, is his neglect of precisely that period which has
been both the most traumatic time in modern Turkish history and its most
formative phase: World War I. Lewis devotes a great deal of attention to
the debates among Young Turk intellectuals and publicists on the eve of the
World War, but the war itself is dealt with in two sentences:
It was while they were still discussing this question that, in October
1914, the Turks stumbled into a major European war, as allies of
one group of European powers against another. By 1918 it was clear
that their time had run out.28
Quite apart from the fact that Lewis does not explain anything about this
fatal stumble, he thus neglects even to mention the following developments,
which all contributed decisively to the way Turkey took shape after the war.
First: The abolition of the capitulations, those centuries-old economic
and juridical privileges held by the Europeans and their protégés in the
empire and the introduction of a nationalist economic policy, aimed at the
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formation of a native Muslim class of traders and industrialists. This policy

·
of ‘National Economy’ (Millî Iktisat), which has been described in detail
by Toprak in his book of the same title and many subsequent books cover-
ing the same ground 29 is a direct precursor of the economic policies of the
republic which also aimed at the creation of a national bourgeoisie under the
protective umbrella of a military-bureaucratic élite.
Second: The intimidation and discrimination of the Young Turk regime
which led to the flight of hundreds of thousands of Greeks and the depor-
tation and death of possibly seven to eight hundred thousand Armenians.
In the thematic part of his book, Lewis does mention a holocaust of 1916,
when ‘a million and a half Armenians perished’. 30 This means, incidentally,
that in quantitative terms he accepts the most extreme Armenian claims.
But he describes the events as a ‘struggle between two nations for the pos-
session of a single homeland’ and lays no connection between this episode
and later history. All too often in the field of Turkology we forget that the
modern state of Turkey was built on ethnic cleansing on a massive scale. The
historiography on the issue has been in the grip of very emotional polemics
between Turks and Armenians for 80 years. Nevertheless, it has to be said
that for a long time research, which really gives us a degree of new insight
into what happened in those horrible years 1915–17, has been done almost
exclusively by Armenian scholars like Vahakn Dadrian and Ara Sarafian.
Since 1992 the Turkish sociologist Taner Akçam, who was deeply influ-
enced by Dadrian, has come to the fore as the leading ‘dissident’ voice on
the Turkish side. His work only received international attention when one
of his books was translated into English in 2006.31 Akçam has called atten-
tion to the effect this continued silence on the ethnic policies of the Young
Turks has had on Turkish society at large. A very painful point that has been
raised specifically by Akçam is the fact that so many people who had been
deeply involved in the persecution of the Armenians, and who thus had to
fear either Armenian revenge or punitive action by the British, became pro-
tagonists in the national struggle and thus founding fathers of the republic.
At the start of the twenty-first century, the most promising development
seemed to be the joint effort made by the Workshop for Armenian-Turkish
Scholarship (WATS) to create a platform for discussion based on empirical
evidence. Donald Bloxham made a successful effort to situate the Armenian
genocide in the framework of imperialist rivalry. 32
In the same way, Greek scholars like Paschalis Kitromilidis and Alexis
Alexandris are the ones who do research on the million and a half Greek
Orthodox who lived in Anatolia before 1922. In Turkey only one scholarly
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study on the population exchange with Greece was published. 33 This reflects
the fact that, whereas the ‘Catastrophe’ of 1922–4 had always been a defin-
ing moment in the Greek historical consciousness, attention to it in Turkey
remained scant until well into the 1990s.
Third: The loss of the Arab provinces which had been under Ottoman
rule for 400 years, coming so soon after the loss (in the Balkan War, which
Lewis does not treat in any detail either) of European core provinces which
had been Ottoman for 500 years. The loss of these old imperial domains has
been very important in the development of a separate Turkish identity. After
all, we should not forget that the founders of the republic had all witnessed
these events personally, and often at the military front. Since the 1990s we
have seen the appearance of a spate of good books about Arab–Turkish rela-
tions in this era, notably by Sabine Prätor and Hasan Kayalı. 34
Finally: the war itself. Justin McCarthy has shown how ten years of
continuous warfare turned Anatolia into a land of widows (with a net popu-
lation loss of two and a half million Muslims and hundreds of thousands
of Christians through war, persecution, hunger and disease),35 while I have
tried to show how serving in the Ottoman army itself almost meant a death
sentence. 36 At the moment there seems to be a spectacular increase in the
interest of young Turkologists in the World War I period.
In conclusion to this point, I would say that we can now see that Lewis,
through his neglect for the World War, misses essential steps in the develop-
ment of modern Turkey.
The modernization paradigm

The third, and at the same time the most important, aspect of obsolescence
concerns the paradigm, the fundamental vision of history which underlies
Emergence. This paradigm is that of modernization. Lewis sees the his-
tory of Turkey in dialectical terms as the struggle between an enlightened
élite, which is open to the ideas of the West (the Tanzimat bureaucrats, the
Young Ottomans, Young Turks and Kemalists), and representatives of tradi-
tional, mostly religious, values. Slowly and at great cost, the reforming élite
of Turkey in the end succeeds in making Turkey a modern country on the
European model.
Although he does not explicitly define ‘modern’ anywhere, it is clear what
the concept means to Lewis: the nation state, a constitutional-parliamentarian
regime and industrialization. Fundamental to his concept of modernity is
that of secularism – the removal of religious elements from government,
law, education and culture. Just as for the Turkish Kemalists, modernization
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and secularism seem to him to be almost synonymous. This, of course, is a

key element in the Kemalist tradition. After all, when Niyazi’s great work
The Development of Secularism in Turkey was translated and published in
Turkish, its title was Türkiye’de Çağdaşlaşma (Modernization in Turkey).
In Lewis’s eyes – and this, too, is typical of writers from the moderniza-
tion school – the march of modern, Western civilization is irresistible. There
is resistance, both among the élite and the masses, but that resistance is
the rear-guard action of traditional sectors, which in the end will prove to
be backward islands in a modernizing society. They are the ones of whom
Lewis can say in the context of the proclamation of the republic: ‘Not all
the Sultan’s former subjects were able to view the march of events with the
same historical realism.’37
In this respect Emergence is a typical product of the 1950s and 60s.
Since then, contemporary developments in Turkey and in the world of Islam
generally have taught us a degree of scepticism. That the secular nation state
in Turkey has only been maintained for the last 50 years with the help of four
military interventions and continuous limitations on civil liberties, tends
to undermine Lewis’s optimistic assessment of Turkey as a country where
‘westernizing revolution is accomplished and irreversible’38 and where ‘the
social changes that preceded and accompanied the rise of democracy have
continued and given greater strength and numbers to the new groups and
elements whose interests and aspirations are with freedom.’39
Lewis’s conclusion that Atatürk’s nationalism was ‘healthy and reason-
able’, without ‘arrogant trampling on the rights and aspirations of other
nations’40 is strange in itself, given the suppression of widespread Kurdish
revolts in the 1920s and 30s. But for us, who have witnessed 15 years of open
warfare between the Turkish army and the Partiya Karkerên Kurdistan (PKK),
it is almost surreal. Generally speaking, one can say that it is striking that the
problem of the Kurdish community in Turkey is not dealt with in Emergence,
not even in the chapter on ‘community and nation’. This would certainly be
impossible in our day. Not only the ongoing propaganda war, but also the
work of serious scholars such as Peter Andrews, Martin van Bruinessen and
Hamid Bozarslan has emphasized the ethnic complexity of Turkey, which
had been hidden from view by the Kemalist nation-building process.41
One does not have to look only at the shortcomings and limitations
of the secularist and nationalist modernization policies to call Lewis’s
dichotomy of modern versus reactionary into question. Perhaps the great-
est success of Turkey’s modernizing élite is the very fact that it has lost its
monopoly on political and cultural debate. Through the spread of higher
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education and wealth a large and vocal middle class has emerged, important
parts of which no longer regard a strong religious identity and a modern
way of life as incompatible. Social scientists who work on Islam in Turkey,
people like Şerif Mardin, Nilüfer Göle and Sencer Ayata have realized that
movements such as that of the Nurcus or of the Welfare Party are not sim-
ply ‘reactionary’ or ‘fundamentalist’. Quite to the contrary, they argue that
these are ideological movements which function in modern industrializing
society and try to formulate answers to the problems it poses.42
Sadly, the debate among historians of modern Turkey is less sophis-
ticated. The 1993 textbook by Lewis’s pupil Feroz Ahmad (which I have
mentioned earlier), The Making of Modern Turkey is a prime example of
the survival of the modernization paradigm with its black and white con-
trasts and simplifications. Witness for instance the claim: ‘Nationalism was
accepted by everyone except reactionaries,’ or the statement, ‘Secularism
was also accepted by nearly everyone.’43
In Turkey itself, the growth of a strong Islamist movement has led to a
polarization in which many intellectuals feel threatened and turn back to
the original Kemalist modernization model.
Conclusion
What, then, should be our conclusion both regarding Emergence and regard-
ing the development of this part of Turkology over the last 50 years?
I think we can say with confidence that Emergence is outdated in a
number of ways. Fortunately so, because it means that Turkology has pro-
gressed. In three crucial areas we now have a richer and much more com-
plete picture of Turkish history. In the first place people have finally marched
into the historical picture. No longer are we only interested in the question
of whether the Young Turks were Ottomanists, Islamists or Westernists, we
also want to know whether their policies meant people starved; not only do
we analyse what ‘populism’ meant in Kemalist ideology, we want to know
whether workers had the right to organize or strike. In the second place we
have become aware of the fact that the developments in the late Ottoman
Empire served not only an arsenal, or a laboratory, for the republic, but that
the Young Turk power élite had set in motion a number of developments
which made Turkey what it became after 1923. We realize, or we should
realize, that Turkey carries with it the traumas of a state which lost most of
its centuries-old core provinces in the spate of five years and could survive
only after massive and vicious ethnic cleansing. In the third place, our history
writing no longer needs to be caught in the clair-obscur of enlightened élite
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who have been touched with the magic wand of the West on the one hand
and religious reactionaries on the other. We can see that modernization, such
as that which Turkey has undergone in the last 200 years, is a multi-faceted
phenomenon, which evokes very different reactions. Many of these reac-
tions, even if they are advertised as ‘Islamic’ or ‘traditional’, do not necessar-
ily signify rejection of the modernizing process. They may even be the form
in which modernization can most successfully penetrate an Islamic society.
Nevertheless, Emergence remains an imposing tour de force, an ele-
gantly written survey, with a clear central theme, rich in detail and based
on astounding erudition. Nowhere is the struggle of the Ottoman, and later
Turkish, élite to catch up with the modern world depicted better. The fact
alone that the book can serve as the subject for this chapter after nearly
50 years says enough about its qualities.
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Zurcher_41-54.indd 54 3/23/2010 6:54:43 PM
II. IMPERIAL TWILIGHT
Zurcher_55-58.indd 55 3/23/2010 6:56:05 PM

Zurcher_55-58.indd 56 3/23/2010 6:56:05 PM
Introduction
One of the pitfalls that threatens any student of twentieth-century Turkish

history is the temptation to see the late Ottoman Empire as the prehistory
of the Turkish nation state that succeeded it. Of course, no one can deny
the important continuities that exist between the last decades of the empire
and the early republic (indeed, my own early work in the 1980s was con-
cerned precisely with showing up these continuities), but nevertheless it is
dangerous to succumb to the temptation. As we will see time and again in
the course of this part, the story can easily become an analysis of contrasts
where Ottoman ‘failure’ and ‘decadence’ is juxtaposed with Turkish ‘suc-
cess’ and ‘strength’. Such a view almost automatically sees the early advo-
cates of the ‘national’ solution as the realists and the ones best attuned to
the march of history and too easily forgets that it is precisely these pioneers
of nationalism who made other (imperial, multi-ethnic, federated) solutions
impossible. Talk of self-fulfilling prophecies!
The history of the last decade of the Ottoman state, the ‘imperial twi-
light’ of this part, is one of trial and error. From the last Hamidian decade,
the state inherited steady economic growth and fast-growing interna-
tional trade, which favoured an emerging urban bourgeoisie dominated by
non-Muslims, and an expanding state machinery with all its trimmings in
the shape of barracks, schools, clock towers and telegraph lines, that was
dominated by Muslims. Interreligious tensions, which were at the same time
inter-ethnic tensions because in the Ottoman Empire religious affiliation
was the primary ethnic marker, were part of the picture and interplayed
in complicated ways with the policies of the European great powers. The
tensions and dangers were all too visible to the Young Turks who brought
about the constitutional revolution of July 1908. As its name indicates, the
Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) saw the basic solution for the
problems of the empire in two things: a shared Ottoman citizenship of all
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different ethnic communities and a rational, ‘scientific’, social and political

order – progress in the positivist sense. But after the short-lived euphoria
of the summer of 1908 it soon became clear to them how difficult it would
be to achieve these aims. The Christian communities had a very different
interpretation of Ottoman citizenship, based on a recognition of differences
and historical privileges in a decentralized state, from that of the Unionists,
who envisaged a unified state on the French pattern. Less than a year after
the constitutional revolution the fragility of the Unionists’ hold on power
as well as their lack of support among the Muslim masses was shown up by
the counterrevolution of April 1909 in the capital. Continued unrest and
rebellions among the Albanians threatened the already precarious Ottoman
position in the Western Balkans, where Albanians had formed the only com-
munity that was not the object of irredentist agitation on the part of one of
the Christian neighbour states.
The chapters in this part show the difficulties of the environment within
which the Young Turks tried to operate: the vast economic, financial and
demographic differences that separated the empire from its main European
rivals, the resistance the Young Turks met from conservative Muslim public
opinion and from communities with a ‘national’ agenda. These chapters also
attempt to show how they tried to deal with this extremely complex situation
(for instance in orchestrating the Sultan’s visit to Kosovo) and to explain how
the environment in which they grew up and gained their first professional
experience influenced their world view and their policies. The final chapter
in this part describes the legacy this soul-searching of the last years of empire
left to one of the many nation states to grow out of the Ottoman Empire: the
republic of Turkey. Thus, in the end, although we are back to the question of
continuities between the Ottoman Empire and its successor, hopefully the
chapters of this part also show how the Young Turks explored the different
options available to them as they were trying to preserve and modernize their
state against all odds.
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5. The Ottoman Empire 1850–1922:
Unavoidable Failure?*
It is a safe assumption that a state can be deemed to have failed in its primary
functions if it is incapable of defending its territory and keeping together its
population. Judged by these standards the Ottoman State of the nineteenth-
and early twentieth centuries was a failure. Having already lost control of
large sections of its territories in the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth
centuries to the expansionist Russian Empire on the one hand and indig-
enous nationalist movements (Serbian and Greek) on the other, the empire
suffered two more great waves of territorial losses. First in 1877–8, Romania
and Bulgaria came into existence, Bosnia was lost to the Austrians, and the
easternmost parts of Anatolia were seized by Russia. Then, from 1912–20,
almost all remaining European possessions were lost to the young national
states of the Balkans in the Balkan Wars and the Arab provinces were lost
to the British Empire in World War I. The possessions thus lost had been
Ottoman for nearly 500 years and they all shared an Ottoman legacy.1 In
the case of the Balkans, the lost territories had also been the richest, most
advanced and most densely populated provinces in the empire, and had been
home to a disproportionate part of the Ottoman ruling élite.
The continued military and political weakness of the Ottoman Empire
was very apparent to the European policy makers of the day. After all, the
term ‘Eastern Question’ was used throughout Europe as diplomatic short-
hand for the way in which continued Ottoman weakness would ultimately
endanger the stability of Europe by creating a power vacuum for competing
European great powers to fill.2 In spite of strenuous efforts on the part of
the Ottoman élite to strengthen the state through the adoption of European
technology and practice, very few doubted that the empire was moribund.
Contemporary European observers often blamed the continued weak-
ness of the Ottoman state on a lack of understanding on the part of Ottoman
reformers about the underlying reasons for Europe’s strength. The reformers
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were depicted as superficial imitators (‘Oriental gentlemen’) and their efforts

described as half-hearted. This harsh judgement was shared by the more
radical wing of the Young Turk movement after 1908 and still later by the
Kemalist movement in the Turkish Republic.3 Disillusioned by the failure
of the nineteenth-century reformers to halt either the encroachments of
European imperialism or the rise of indigenous nationalisms, the Young
Turks and Kemalists abandoned the fundamental ideal of the earlier gen-
eration, the ‘Unity of the Ethnic Elements’ (İttihad-i anasır) in favour of,
first Muslim, and then (after 1923) Turkish nationalism.4 In their judgement,
which was strongly influenced by social Darwinism of a particular kind
(focused on nations rather than on social categories), the reformers of the
nineteenth century had been naive and unfit to compete in the struggle for
survival between nations.5
It is probably true that the Ottoman reformers were late in recognizing
the power of nationalism and the danger it brought to the empire, but it is
questionable whether their policies can really be held responsible for the
‘failure’ of the Ottoman Empire. In an attempt to paint a more nuanced
picture, let us take a fresh look at the two fundamental problems that faced
the empire – first, the maintenance of the external position of the empire or
in other terms, the ‘defence of the realm’, and second, the construction of a
collective identity, which could underpin imperial rule.
Defence of the realm

The sudden defeats of 1774 and 1792 at the hands of the Russians, after half a
century without major wars, left the Ottomans acutely aware of their military
inferiority. The disastrous defeat once again at the hands of Russia in 1829,
which was accompanied by a flood of Muslim refugees from the Black Sea
littoral, made military modernization even more of a priority. Modernizing
the army remained the driving force behind the whole complex of reforms,
at least until 1856. The transition to an army dressed, equipped and com-
manded in the European manner began in 1826 with the founding of the
‘Trained Victorious Muhammadan Soldiers’ (Muallem Asakir-i Mansure-i
Muhammadiye). Conscription on the Prussian model, with a standing army,
an active reserve and a militia, was introduced in 1844. Conscription was
by drawing of lots among age classes, as in Europe.6 The exact nature of the
Ottoman conscription system, its strengths and weaknesses will be dealt
with in the first chapter of the part on the Great War.
Though the initial impetuses for reform were military modernization and
the establishment of a state monopoly on the use of violence, the achievement
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The Ottoman Empire 1850–1922
of these goals required the reformers to cast the net of modernization ever
more widely. The building of a modern army necessitated a population census
(for efficient recruitment), the construction of barracks and the improvement
of roads and bridges. Enhancing state control was dependent on communica-
tions, which translated into the building of an extended network of telegraph
cables from the 1850s onwards and of trunk railways from the 1880s. The
reforms created their own need for modern educational establishments (and
a market for their graduates).7 Thus, the Ottomans created professional col-
leges to turn out engineers and architects, (military) doctors and veterinaries,
accountants and administrators. The utilitarian drive behind the creation of
the new schools is shown by the fact that a university on the European model
was founded only at the very end of the century – remarkable, considering
the enormous development of the Humboldtian university in the European
countries, which the Ottomans took for their model, in this very period.
As products of these new schools and members of modernized Ottoman
institutions, the bureaucrats of the fast-growing state machinery were social-
ized into a system of clear hierarchical relationships, division of labour, end-
less regulation and regular pay. By the mid-late nineteenth century something
resembling Weber’s model of a rational bureaucracy came into existence,8 thus
paralleling the growth of a European-style officer corps in the army. Much
as one may criticize the reforms for their shallowness, half-heartedness or
inefficiency, something resembling a modern centralized state nevertheless
emerged. Anyone doubting the Ottomans’ achievement in this field need only
compare the Turkey of the 1920s, when Mustafa Kemal Atatürk unleashed
his radical secularist and nationalist programme, with the Iran of the same
period, in which Reza Shah Pahlevi established his power monopoly. Reza
Shah’s policies necessarily aimed at the construction of a modern state where
under the last Qajar Shahs royal authority had barely been noticeable outside
Teheran and Tebriz. In this sense his position resembled that of the Ottoman
Sultan Mahmut II (r. 1808–39) far more than it did that of Atatürk, who
inherited a complete and ruthlessly efficient state apparatus, which he could
then employ to effect a cultural revolution of sorts.9
The introduction of a Western-style army with up-to-date equipment and
armaments, the building of a state bureaucracy and the investment in infra-
structure, limited as they were, required a dramatic increase in state expendi-
ture. The introduction of conscription in order to compete with European
mass armies meant a significant increase in the required manpower. In other
words, the two main requirements for successful military reform were money
and men.
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Money and men

The Ottoman Empire was, of course, an agricultural state. Its two most impor-
tant sources of tax revenue until 1856 were the tithe (and similar taxes like
the ‘sheep tax’ – ağnam resmi) and the cizye, the tax levied on the ‘protected’
minorities (the Christian and Jewish communities) in exchange for their right
to live and worship as distinct confessional groups. Taxes were always imposed
on the heads of households and a system of tax farming was in place through-
out the empire. In the past tax farms had been sold to the highest bidder for
a period of three years, but in the eighteenth century the lifetime tax farm
(malikane) had become the prevailing practice. Successive governments tried
to replace it with direct tax collection throughout the nineteenth century, but
they never succeeded in fully eradicating the tax farming system.10 While tax
farming was a rational choice on the part of the central government as it elimi-
nated the risk of crop failure and the need for a system of tax collectors, it did
tend to increase the tax burden of the peasants, thus ultimately damaging the
government’s tax base. As for tax revenue from the Christian and Jewish com-
munities, the cizye was replaced in 1856 with a military exemption tax called
bedel (about which more below) when the Sultan, under pressure from Britain
and France, granted equality before the law to non-Muslims. Customs duties,
excises, tolls, port fees and market fees were among the other sources of state
income, most of them also farmed out to contractors.
Trade with Europe, which had been on the increase since the second half
of the eighteenth century, increased rapidly from 1840 onwards and contin-
ued to do so until 1873. Direct investment by Europeans began to grow
significantly after the Crimean war (1853), when the empire was viewed as
a land of opportunity and attracted serious business as well as many adven-
turers. After a period of stagnation, which reflected trends in the world
economy, trade and investment picked up again after 1896.11
However, the central government was in no position to profit financially
from this economic expansion. After the signing of the free trade treaty of
Balta Limanı with Great Britain in 1838 (and similar treaties with other
powers shortly after) it lost its freedom of action in the sphere of custom
duties and tolls. The political climate after the Crimean War created favour-
able conditions for borrowing in the European capital markets, but in 1875
the state defaulted on its external debt and it could only restore its credit by
handing over a number of important sources of income directly to its foreign
creditors, represented by the Caisse de la Dette Publique Ottomane, which
was created in 1881.12 This Public Debt Administration was given direct
access to a number of important revenue sources of the state, thus further
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eroding the empire’s fiscal position. The war of 1877–8 also deprived the
empire of some of its richest provinces in Europe.
We do not have any reliable figures on total state revenue in the nineteenth
century. The figures for this period thus have to be regarded as rough esti-
mates. The first reliable budget, which gives realistic estimations of state
income and expenditure, was put together in 1909 by the financial wizard
in the Young Turk regime, Cavit Bey. This budget reports a state income of
just over 25 million Turkish pounds (27.5 million pounds sterling).13 To see
how that compares to the income of those states with whom the empire had
to compete, I have taken the state income for Great Britain, France, Austro-
Hungary and Russia in 1900, as reported in Mitchell’s Historical Statistics14
(which, incidentally, gives no data on the Ottoman Empire). In order to cre-
ate a basis for comparison, I have used rates of exchange tables, drawn up by
Posthumus in 1943,15 to convert the national currencies into Dutch guilders as
a unit of account (only for purposes of comparison). The result is as follows:
Great Britain 1,680 million

France 1,831 million
Austro-Hungary 1,321 million
Russia 2,113 million
Ottoman Empire 330 million
In other words, the means at the disposal of its greatest rival, Russia, were
seven times those of the Ottoman state. In any arms race, this would of
course be a factor of enormous importance. It also helps to explain the
expanding and ultimately crushing debt the Ottomans loaded themselves
with. It was not so much the extravagances of the court, as both European
and Ottoman critics assumed, but battleships, guns and salaries, which
accounted for massive state spending.
A similar picture emerges when we look at the problem of manpower.
Like the figures for state income, estimates of the Ottoman population are
similarly uncertain. By the beginning of the nineteenth century the population
had probably been in decline for over a century, and numbered about 26 mil-
lion.16 The need for more effective taxation and the introduction of military
conscription turned counting the population into a priority. The first census
was taken in 1831–8, but it was reasonably accurate only in a number of central
provinces. The quality of the censuses improved over the next 70 years, but the
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Ottomans always undercounted their population and in the more inhospitable

areas under marginal state control, such as Kurdistan, Albania or Yemen, the
numbers were little more than guesses. On the eve of World War I, the popula-
tion was stated to be slightly in excess of 21 million, but if all the outlying areas
are included, a number some five million higher is probably closer to reality.17
On the face of it, then, the population numbers for 1800 and 1914 are much
the same. But when Ottoman territorial losses of the nineteenth century are
taken into account, these roughly equal figures reflect a completely different
reality. Though the Ottoman population had experienced strong growth in the
1880s and 1890s, huge tracts of land were lost in the peace settlements of 1878
and 1913. These lost territories were among the most densely populated in
the empire. If these provinces had remained within the Ottoman fold, natural
growth would have seen to it that the empire’s population in 1914 would have
been around 42.5 million instead of 26 million. The empire was caught in a
vicious circle: loss of land meant loss of income and population, which in turn
decreased its ability to defend itself and led to more loss of land.
Comparisons are telling here. The populations of the major competitors
of the Ottoman Empire all grew significantly over the century, as this table
shows:
1851 1901
Great Britain 27.3 million 42.5 million

France 35.8 million 38.5 million
Austria/Austro-Hungary 30.7 million 45.2 million
Russia N/A 126.4 million (1897)
Germany 41 million (1871) 56.4 million
Ottoman Empire 32 million (1844) 26.0 million
(Source: Mitchell’s Historical Statistics)
In other words: populations, which had been comparable in size to that of

the Ottoman Empire in the early nineteenth century, were 30–50 per cent
larger at the end of the century, while the population of the eternal rival
Russia was five times that of the Ottomans.
Looked at in purely military terms, however, the Ottoman situation was
far worse, given the huge number of individuals granted exemption from
Ottoman military service. Certain categories of Muslims were exempted,
like religious scholars and students, pilgrims or residents of Istanbul or the
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holy places. But the main exempted group was that of the non-Muslims.
From the start in 1844, the empire had only conscripted Muslim men into
its army. This continued to be the case even after full equality before the law
had been introduced in 1856. Until 1909, Christians and Jews continued
to pay a special exemption tax (bedel) instead of serving in the army. As
Christians and Jews made up close to 40 per cent of the population until
1878, this reduced the recruitment base of the army in a major way. They
constituted 20 per cent even as late as 1914. Thus, the actual recruitment
base of the army consisted of the male, sedentary, Muslim population. No
wonder, then, that the actual recruitment rate was among the lowest in
Europe: in peacetime only 0.35 per cent of the population was conscripted
each year. Fully mobilized, 4 per cent of the population served, as opposed
to, for instance, 10 per cent in France in World War I.18
Industrial base and transport infrastructure

The army’s primary problem did not stem from a lack of modern hardware;
much of the money borrowed by the state was in fact used to buy modern
European arms. But the lack of an industrial base meant that equipment and
most of the munitions for the Ottoman guns had to be imported. As wars
grew more industrial starting with the American Civil War, the lack of an
industrial base became an ever more severe handicap. When World War I
broke out, the empire still did not produce heavy artillery shells. Although
the country was a cotton producer, it did not even have the capacity to pro-
duce enough bandages.
There are no data on overall Ottoman industrial output, but if we look
at one vital precondition for industrialization, coal production, a very clear
picture emerges. Coal production in the major Ottoman mining area, the
Ereğli coalfields near the Black Sea shore, more than doubled after French
interests started developing the local mines in 1896, and by the early 1900s
it stood at about 600,000 tons per annum.19 Compare this to the coal pro-
duction of some major European countries in 1900:
Great Britain 229.0 million metric tons

France 33.4 million
Austro-Hungary 11.0 million
Russia 16.2 million
Ottoman Empire 0.6 million
(Source: Mitchell’s Historical Statistics)
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Oil could have been an alternative to coal, but the Ottomans did not have
this luxury. Ottoman troops took the oilfields of Baku in 1918, when they
were still among the most important oil producing areas in the world, but
the government was forced to withdraw its troops a few months later under
the armistice of October 1918. Of course, some of the Ottoman Arab prov-
inces would later become major oil producers, but, although important oil
reserves had been discovered in Mesopotamia before the war, exploitation
did not start until after the peace settlement, when these areas had already
been lost to the empire.
One final element that had significant impact on the empire’s ability to
defend itself is that of rail transport, an element which had proved decisive
in other contexts, such as the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. In 1914, the
Ottoman Empire was still largely dependent on coastal shipping for trans-
port of bulk goods (something which made it highly vulnerable in case of
war). But the importance of railways had been increasing strongly, and on
the eve of World War I, the country had 5759 kilometres of railways of all
gauges in operation.20 Once again, though, Ottoman railway capacity was
no match for that of major European countries:
Great Britain 32,623 kilometres of rail

France 40,770 kilometres
Germany 63,378 kilometres
Austro-Hungary 22,981 kilometres
Russia 62,300 kilometres
Ottoman Empire 5,759 kilometres
Even India, with twice the surface area of the Ottoman Empire, had nearly
ten times as big a rail network. The nature of the Ottoman railway system
was also different from that of its European rivals. The railway networks
of France and Great Britain resembled a spider’s web with lines radiating
from the metropolis (Paris or London). This spider’s web structure had a
strong integrative effect, enhancing state control and increasing outlying
population’s dependence on the centre. In the continental empires, military
considerations (i.e. the necessity to move troops massively and quickly to the
borders) had been taken into account when granting railway concessions. In
the Ottoman Empire this was not the case for the railways built by foreign
interests between 1860 and 1890. These were essentially lines constructed to
connect ports with productive hinterlands. Only when the German-owned
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Anatolian railway and Baghdad railway were built from 1888 onwards and
the Hejaz pilgrimage railway from 1901 onwards, did the empire begin to
acquire a network which actually connected the interior to the capital and
which could play a strategic role in enhancing state power.
When discussing the ultimate failure of the Ottoman Empire to defend
itself effectively, we should remember these numbers. In a struggle with a
country like Russia, which was seven times as rich, five times as populous,
produced almost thirty times as much coal and had eleven times as big a rail
network, who should be surprised at the outcome?
National cohesion
The loss of territory and the ultimate demise of the Ottoman Empire was not
the result of external pressure alone, however, but of the interplay of that pres-
sure with separatist nationalism developed by the non-Muslim communities of
the empire. The European idea of political nationalism spread in the wake of
the French revolution primarily to those communities, which had the strongest
overseas or overland trading networks with Europe: the Greeks and the Serbs.
After these two had achieved independence (albeit certainly not to the full
extent of their territorial ambitions), Bulgarians, Rumanians, Montenegrins,
Macedonians and Armenians followed suit. This spread of nationalist ideolo-
gies among the intelligentsia of the Christian communities coincided with the
spread of European patronage. The Ottomans had always granted the repre-
sentatives of foreign powers the right to grant protection to a limited number of
local employees, primarily to the embassy interpreters (dragomans) who were
responsible for contacts with the Ottoman authorities and who were recruited
mostly from Levantine (Catholic), but also from Greek orthodox and Armenian
families. We now know that the number of these protected Christians remained
very limited (hundreds rather than thousands) until the late eighteenth centu-
ry.21 This changed in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars. Between 1820
and 1880 the number of protected Christians, whose status as protégés of a
European power was officially recognized by the Porte (the Ottoman govern-
ment) through the issuance of a diploma (berat) grew explosively. This was the
period in which each island in the Aegean was reported to have its own Russian
honorary consul with its own circle of protégés. The expansion of the protégé
system continued until the 1880s, by which time both the Ottoman Empire
and the European states had embraced more modern ideas on citizenship and
agreed that the protected Christians should opt either for full citizenship of the
European protector state or for Ottoman nationality.
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The protected status of the Christians at the precise time (1830s–60s)

when trade expanded very rapidly, allowed an entrepreneurial middle class
to develop. The increased wealth and self-confidence of the Christian middle
class in turn was reflected in the creation of an increasingly dense network
of institutions – schools, but also gentlemen’s clubs, café’s, charitable organ-
izations and (towards the end of the century) sports clubs, which allowed the
expression of a distinct sociability of the non-Muslim communities.
By the 1860s, the very visible increase in wealth and status of the
Christian communities gave rise to a Muslim backlash. This expressed itself
on a popular level in mob violence, of which the best-known example is the
pogrom in Damascus in 1860. On an élite level the Muslim reaction took the
form of the ‘Young Ottoman’ movement.22 This was created by young and
middle-ranking Ottoman bureaucrats in 1865. The central idea of the Young
Ottomans (whose ideas otherwise show a great deal of variety and inconsist-
ency) was that reforms should not be based on imitation of the West, but on
a true and modern understanding of Islam, the premise being that Islam was
a rational religion receptive to scientific innovation and that in its original
form the Islamic community had been an embryonic democracy. The Young
Ottomans advocated the introduction of constitutional, parliamentary rule,
arguing that this would give all the different communities a stake in the well
being of the empire and thus create a ‘Unity of the Elements’ (İttihad-ı Anasır).
But although a constitutional parliamentary regime was introduced in 1876,
the Ottomanist ideology proved to have a very limited appeal. The new social
space created by the non-Muslim minorities instead proved to be the ideal
breeding ground for ethnic nationalism. When war broke out between the
empire and Russia in 1877 over the question of Bulgarian reforms, the rela-
tions between Muslims and non-Muslims again were under severe strain. The
disastrous defeat in the war of 1877–8 discredited the idea of parliamentary
constitutionalism in the eyes of most Muslims, including the Sultan himself.
Faced with the onslaught of nationalism and liberalism, Sultan
Abdülhamit II (r. 1876–1909) reacted in much the same manner as did his
contemporaries Francis-Joseph of Austria-Hungary and Alexander III of
Russia. Over the heads of the middle class intelligentsia, in whose midst
the constitutional movement had been born, he reached out to the masses
by projecting a paternalistic image and by emphasizing the sacral nature of
his rule. The Islamist and Pan-Islamist policies of Abdülhamit have been
much studied, but they are interpreted in the context of the political and
religious traditions of the Middle East and hence seen as a unique phenom-
enon. If we look at the East- and Central-European context, however, we
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notice that Emperor Francis-Joseph very definitely positioned himself both

as a father figure and as a Catholic monarch, while Tsar Nicholas II strongly
emphasized his role as champion of the Orthodoxy.23
In employing these ideological tools, the Sultan was at a great disad-
vantage when compared to his European counterparts, however. Both the
Austrian and the Russian monarchs could effect a certain degree of bond-
ing with the majority and the dominant groups in society. The vast major-
ity of the Austro-Hungarian populations were Roman Catholic and this
included the two titular ethnic groups (Germans and Hungarians). While
imperial Russia included important minorities of different faiths (Catholic,
Georgian and Armenian Christianity, Islam both Sunni and Shi’i), the reli-
gious element could be used to cement the bond between the monarch and
the vast majority of the population as well as with the sections of society,
which dominated economic and political life. The situation in the Ottoman
Empire was fundamentally different. The division of labour between the
fast-growing state bureaucracy (and army) composed primarily of Muslims
on the one hand, and the modern trade and industry sector dominated by
non-Muslims on the other,24 meant that the sultan-caliph could not use
religion as a cohesive force in his relation to those non-Muslim groups who
dominated the modern sectors of the economy. He did succeed, though,
in effecting a degree of bonding with the Ottoman Muslim population.
The Christian population of the empire as a percentage of the whole had
declined from about 40 per cent early in the nineteenth century to about 20
per cent in the early twentieth century, but that 20 per cent – or rather the
bourgeoisie from among that 20 per cent – controlled the vast majority of
the industrial sector and a similar percentage of international trade.
The Young Turks who carried out the constitutional revolution in July
1908 and deposed Sultan Abdülhamit nine months later presented themselves
as the heirs to the constitutionalists of the 1860s and 70s. Ostensibly, they
acted in the name of the ‘Unity of the Elements’ ideal. In reality, however,
both the confidential statements of the revolutionaries before 1908 and
their policies thereafter show that they had already become thoroughly dis-
illusioned with this concept and that their real commitment lay elsewhere. It
is debatable whether they were already in the grip of Turkish nationalism or
inspired by a Muslim-Ottoman proto-nationalism, but it is absolutely clear
that the Young Turks of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) identi-
fied themselves with the interests of the state (which they served as soldiers
and bureaucrats) and of the Muslim majority. Their perceived enemy was as
much an ‘enemy within’ as an ‘enemy without’.25
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Almost immediately after the constitutional revolution of July 1908, the

CUP started to address the fundamental questions of money and men. On
the money front, its possibilities were limited. Its main contribution was the
drawing up of a realistic state budget. Cavit Bey, the new finance minister,
was able to achieve a significant increase in the tax income, but also a more
realistic and much higher level of expenditure, caused in part by the early
retirement and paying off of large numbers of servants of the old regime.
Attempts by the Committee to negotiate the abolition of the capitulations
or the introduction of differential import tariffs (instead of the ad valorem
ones) were rejected by all European powers, however.
Where manpower was concerned, the Young Turks took the obvious
course of eliminating the existing regime of exemptions through new leg-
islation. Discussions about this started soon after the constitutional revolu-
tion of 1908, but the legislation was enacted only after the suppression of
the counterrevolution of April 1909. In July 1909 military service became
obligatory for all male Ottoman subjects. In October, recruitment of con-
scripts irrespective of religion was ordered for the first time. At this time, the
communal leaders of the various Christian communities were by and large
still ready to cooperate with the Young Turk regime, even though it was
already apparent that their vision of what Ottoman citizenship, the ‘Union
of the Elements’ entailed differed fundamentally from the Young Turks’
vision of a unitary state. On the face of it, the Greek, Bulgarian, Syrian
and Armenian community leaders agreed to universal conscription, but they
added a number of conditions that ran directly counter to the intentions of
the Young Turks, that is, to use the army as a melting pot for the different
ethnicities. They demanded that units be ethnically and religiously homo-
geneous, be officered by Christians and – in the case of the Bulgarians – be
stationed only in the European provinces of the empire. There was very little
enthusiasm for military service among the mass of the Christian population
and many of those who could afford it (mostly children of the bourgeoisie)
opted to leave the country physically while the recruitment drive was under-
way or to get a foreign passport, which would render them exempt from
military service.26
The outbreak of World War I finally gave the Young Turks the oppor-
tunity to free themselves from the constraints, which had been preventing
the Ottomans from fully exploiting their available resources. On 2 August
1914 the Ottoman government announced that it was suspending payments
on the national debt and on 1 October 1914 the age-old capitulations were
unilaterally abolished. By this time, however, identity politics, aiming at
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the creation of, if not a Turkish, certainly an Ottoman-Muslim nation took

precedence over economic and military rationality. In other words: of the
two problems facing the Ottoman reformers that of national cohesion now
completely overshadowed that of financial and human resources.
Economic and fiscal rationality would have dictated the expansion of
existing and growing modern industrial and commercial sector, which was
almost wholly owned by members of the non-Muslim communities, and the
extraction of this surplus through effective taxation. This was no longer
an option by 1914, however, after the trauma caused by the Balkan Wars,
in which hundreds of thousand of Muslims, including a disproportionate
percentage of the political and cultural élite, lost their ancestral homes. The
‘National Economy’ (Millî İktisat) programme launched by the Young Turks
in 1914 therefore was primarily the product of ethno-religious nationalism
and served a political rather than an economic purpose. It aimed at replac-
ing the non-Muslim entrepreneurs with Muslim ones. As many as 150,000
Greeks were expelled in 1914 even before the outbreak of war, and life was
made extremely hard for the remaining Christian entrepreneurs. While it is
true that the ‘National Economy’ programme laid the groundwork for the
growth of a native Turkish entrepreneurial class, which came into its own in
the republic, for the empire economic nationalism meant a loss in commer-
cial, technical and managerial skills and a fall in productivity.27
Military rationality would have pointed to increasing the fighting
strength of the army and navy by reducing the number of exemptions, and
calling up as many recruits as possible. But here too, the logic of ethnic
and religious antagonism prevailed. The Young Turks (not entirely without
reason) doubted the loyalties of the Greek and Armenian communities and
they were not prepared to run any risks with Greek and Armenian soldiers.
This was shown in dramatic fashion when, after the failure – with great loss
of life – of the Ottoman winter offensive against the Russians of December
1914–January 1915, the Armenian soldiers were disarmed and reassigned to
labour battalions. Most of them were later killed.
The deportation of the Armenian population of Anatolia to the Syrian
desert that started in May 1915, and the wholesale killings which accom-
panied it, contradicted both economic and military rationality. In the
countryside of Eastern Anatolia, it destroyed a very important part of the
agricultural sector, thus ensuring that the Ottoman army would have to
fight without local supplies of food and fodder. Likewise, in the towns a
major part of the industrial and commercial infrastructure was destroyed,
affecting the productive capacity of the empire as a whole.
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The ethnic policies of World War I started a process, which, together

with the flight of the Greeks in 1922 and the population exchange executed
under the aegis of the League of Nations in 1924, rendered Anatolia far
more homogeneous ethnically and religiously. These policies formed the
basis for the creation of a successful national state, the Republic of Turkey,
but they could not save the empire from collapse.
Conclusion
The reasons for the Ottoman Empire’s ultimate failure to sustain its viability
thus are manifold. It lacked the manpower, the money and the industrial
base necessary to compete successfully with European powers. The pre-
rogatives of the European states under the system of capitulations severely
limited its room for manoeuvre in the economic sphere. The division of
labour between a vastly increased state apparatus, dominated by Muslims,
and a modern industrial and commercial sector, completely dominated by
Christians under foreign protection, meant that economic growth could
hardly be tapped by the state to increase its resources. At the same time
the explosive growth of the number of protected Christians and of their
wealth created the social and cultural space in which separatist nationalisms
could blossom. By the time the Ottoman élite tried to counter these with
emotional appeals to a shared Ottoman citizenship and patriotism in the
1860s, it was already too late. Sultan Abdülhamit’s emphasis on the Islamic
character of the state during his rule in the 1880s and 1890s served to fur-
ther alienate the non-Muslims. The Young Turk movement, which emerged
in the 1890s and held power between 1908 and 1918, was born out of a
Muslim reaction against the perceived failure of the sultan’s regime to stop
the weakening of the Ottoman state and the encroachments of foreigners
and local Christians. When external circumstances gave them the opportu-
nity to act independently, identity politics, or solving the ethnic issue, took
priority over increasing the financial and human resources of the state.
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6. The Ides of April: A Fundamentalist
Uprising in Istanbul in 1909?*
Secularism in the Ottoman Empire

The development of secularism has been a dominant theme in the history
of the Ottoman Empire and the Turkish Republic from the early nineteenth
century onwards.1 Prior to the establishment of the Turkish Republic secu-
larization was not a primary aim of the policy makers, but a side effect of the
policies formulated, which were aimed at strengthening the Ottoman State
through the adoption of European methods. It was not until the mid-1920s
that the Republican government under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal
Atatürk expressly sought to end the political, social and cultural influence
of Islamic institutions and to achieve a total dominance of the secular state
over those institutions.
The policies which prevailed during most of the nineteenth- and early
twentieth centuries, especially during the period of the Tanzimat, or ‘reforms’
(1839–78),2 were motivated primarily by two factors: first, the realization
by a number of leading statesmen and bureaucrats that the only way for the
Ottoman Empire to survive the onslaught of the European nation states was
imitation of these states’ apparently successful ways and, second, the desire on
the part of these statesmen to gain the support of the European powers (espe-
cially Britain) against external enemies (mainly the Russian Empire) and inter-
nal ones (first of all Muhammad Ali Pasha, the governor of Egypt) through
the adoption of measures which would inspire confidence in Europe.
One important element of the nineteenth-century Ottoman reforms, which
followed the famous edict of Gülhane of 1839, was the creation of a modern
conscripted army and navy, equipped with European hardware, and the crea-
tion of a bureaucracy along Western, primarily French, lines.3 Together these
reforms enabled the central government to strengthen its hold on the prov-
inces of the empire to a degree which was unprecedented in the history of the
Middle East.4 Even if this in itself did not necessarily constitute a secularizing
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influence, the establishment of schools and academies for the training of the
new civil servants and soldiers did. The founding of these schools undermined
the position of the ulema in education, culminating in the complete emancipa-
tion of the educational system from the control of the ulema in 1924.
The second important development of this period was the opening up of
the Ottoman economy to the West and its incorporation into the capitalist
world system, a process which picked up steam following the Ottoman–
British commercial treaty of 1838. 5 This, too, had a secularizing influence,
because the legislation and the courts introduced to enable foreigners to
trade under conditions acceptable to them, were of a Western type and func-
tioned outside the sharia, which, at least theoretically, had been the basis of
the Ottoman legal system in the past.
In the third place, the Ottoman reformists felt compelled to comply with
Western demands on the very sensitive issue of the relation between Muslims
and non-Muslims in the empire, introducing the concept of equal Ottoman
citizenship for all. The introduction of this concept, which of course had no
place in the sharia, was a form of radical secularization, even if it did not
strike root in the mentality of the great majority of the Muslim, or indeed
Christian population. In the second half of the century, especially after the
I·slahat Fermanı edict of 1856 (which was seen as being issued under foreign
pressure), these developments, and the privileged position which the Christian
minorities of the empire managed to gain under the aegis of the European
powers, led to growing resentment of the Tanzimat policies on the part of the
Muslim population.6 This resentment not only found expression in conspira-
cies, popular uprisings and anti-Christian riots such as those in Syria in 1860,
but also in criticism voiced by the emerging Muslim intelligentsia, the second
generation reformers who were active in the 1860s and 70s, the so-called
‘Young Ottomans’. The Young Ottomans sought to limit the power of the
new bureaucrats through the introduction of a constitutional, parliamentary
monarchy, which in their eyes was fundamentally consistent with Islam.7
The Young Ottoman programme was realized with the introduction of
the Ottoman constitution in 1876,8 but the new Sultan, Abdülhamit II, who
had initially appeared receptive to Young Ottoman aims, soon reverted to
autocratic rule, suspending constitution and parliament. Abdülhamit, while
continuing the modernizations of the Tanzimat in many ways, emphasized
the Islamic character of his reign and of the empire in an attempt to coun-
terbalance the influence of Western liberal ideas.9
During his reign, however, the agitation for a return to constitutional
and parliamentarian rule continued, and even gained a far broader basis
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The Ides of April
through the expansion of modern, Western-type education in the empire.10

The constitutional movement started to expand rapidly in the 1890s, but in
1896 the Hamidian police succeeded in crushing the underground move-
ment and for the next ten years the reformists were active mostly as exiles:
in Cairo, Geneva and first and foremost: in Paris. There the movement crys-
tallized into two distinct factions: the nationalist and centralist one around
·
Ahmet Rıza (the Committee of Union and Progress – Ittihad ve Terakki
Cemiyeti) and the liberal and decentralist one around Prince Sabahettin
(The League for Private Initiative and Decentralization – Teşebbüs-ü Şahsi
ve Adem-i Merkeziyet Cemiyeti).11
From 1906 onwards, the constitutional movement underwent a new
period of growth within the empire, especially within the Ottoman armies
in European Turkey. Basically, this was an autonomous growth, but the
movement merged with the faction of Ahmet Rıza and adopted the name
‘Committee of Progress and Union’ in 1907.12 It later reverted to the better
known ‘Committee of Union and Progress’ (CUP).
The constitutional revolution

In July 1908, the CUP, threatening the Ottoman government with armed
intervention, succeeded in forcing the Sultan to restore the constitution and
reconvene parliament. But the CUP did not utilize the revolution as a means
of taking over power itself. In the Ottoman context of 1908 junior officers
and civil servants were simply not acceptable as members of government.
Neither did the Unionists see in themselves the ability to govern. Instead
they left government in the hands of a senior statesman of the old regime
with a relatively liberal reputation, Kıbrıslı Kâmil Pasha (1832–1912), and
set themselves up as a sort of watchdog committee.13
Thanks to their superior organization, the parliamentary elections of
the autumn of 1908 resulted in a complete Unionist victory. But here, too,
the Unionist influence remained indirect rather than direct, because in
many parts of the empire they had to rely on local notables who allowed
their names to be put forward as candidates on the Unionist list, rather than
on members of the CUP itself.14
After the astounding success of the revolution, the CUP was the most pow-
erful force in the country, but increasingly through 1908 and the early months
of 1909 it had to contend with two types of opposition. One was that of the
followers of Prince Sabahattin, united since September in the Ahrar Fırkası
(Liberal Party),15 who had done badly in the elections and felt increasingly
frustrated. Kâmil Pasha, who, like the Liberals, resented the pressure of the
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CUP, allied himself with this group and relations between him and the CUP
became increasingly strained. On 14 February, the CUP succeeded in having
the Grand Vizier voted out of office in parliament and having him replaced
with Hüseyin Hilmi Pasha (1855–1921), who was close to the Committee.16
Hereafter a bitter press campaign was started by the opposition, which was
answered by the Unionist organs in kind. On 6 April, Hasan Fehmi, the editor
of one of the fiercest anti-Unionist papers, Serbestî (Freedom), was killed on
the Galata-bridge by a Unionist ‘volunteer’ (fedaî). His funeral the next day
turned into a mass demonstration against the Committee.17
The second type of opposition which faced the CUP was that posed
by conservative religious circles, notably the lower ulema and sheykhs of
the tarikats. During the month of Ramadan, which coincided with October
1908, there were a number of incidents and at least two serious and vio-
lent demonstrations, during which the closure of bars and theatres, the pro-
hibition of photography and restrictions on the freedom of movement of
women were demanded.18 On 3 April, the religious extremists, who were
already active as a group around the newspaper Volkan of the Nakhsibandi
Sheykh Dervish Vahdeti, organized themselves as the I·ttihad-i Muhammedi
(Muhammadan Union), whose president was considered to be the prophet
himself.19 This group organized large-scale propaganda against the policies
and mentality of the Young Turks.
The counterrevolution
In spite of all this political infighting and the rising tensions of the past
months, it came as a complete surprise to Unionists and foreign observ-
ers alike, when, on the night of 12–13 April 1909 an armed insurrection
broke out in the capital in the name of the restoration of Islam and sharia.
Not meeting significant opposition from government, CUP or the Army,
the insurgents took over the capital in less than 24 hours. In the capital,
the Committee seemed vanquished, but its position in the provinces, most
of all in Macedonia, remained intact and within a fortnight troops loyal to
the CUP suppressed the counterrevolution and returned the Committee to
power. Although the insurrection was suppressed with relative ease, the 31
Mart vakası, or ‘31 March incident’, as it is known in Turkish history because
of its date in the old Rumi calendar, made a deep impression on the reform-
ists. The fact that a revolt in the name of Islam had been able to shake the
foundations of their regime so easily and quickly came as a rude shock to
them. Nearly all the Kemalists, who succeeded the Unionists after World War
I and went on to found the secular republic of Turkey, had been members of
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The Ides of April
the CUP. Therefore, the memory, or trauma, of the 1909 revolt was theirs,
too. To the supporters of secularism in Turkey the ‘31 March incident’ served
as a constant reminder of the danger of Islamic fundamentalism. Even today,
whenever the secular system of government of Turkey seems threatened, ref-
erences to the incident are frequently made.
After a short description of the events of April 1909, and a survey of
their possible causes and instigators, I shall address the question whether the
qualification ‘fundamentalist’ is adequate or even helpful in this context. At
the same time, I shall try to determine the place of the events of 1909 in the
development of the relations between Islam and the State in modern Turkey.
Quite an extensive secondary literature, both scholarly and popular,
exists on the subject, much of which is based on memoirs, 20 newspaper
reports and foreign archives. The Turkish archives as yet do not seem to have
been used for the study of this subject to any extent. A new and far more lib-
eral archival regime was established in Turkey in 1989. Theoretically all the
materials pertinent to the events of 1909 should now be open to researchers
and this seems indeed to be the case. The cataloguing of the collections has
also progressed enormously.
For this occasion I have looked into the Dutch legation reports, kept in
the State Archives in The Hague (ARA). The coverage given in these records
to the insurrection, its prelude and its aftermath is quite extensive (reports
being sent daily during the crisis) and, given the limitations of intelligence
gathering by a small embassy, the quality is quite remarkable. Even if it
offers no startling revelations, it does give a detailed picture of what hap-
pened, and a good ‘feel’ for the period.
The crisis of April 1909 lasted for only 11 days. During the night of
12/13 April, the battalions of Macedonian troops at Taşkışla barracks,
which had been brought in only a week before by the CUP to replace
the (supposedly less reliable) Arab and Albanian troops,21 mutinied, after
having taken their officers prisoner. Together with a large number of sof-
tas, students from the religious schools, they marched to the At Meydanı
where the parliament building stood. During the morning, more and more
troops and ulema joined them. The government was in disarray and did
not dare to send in the loyal troops, but instead dispatched the Chief of
Police to listen to the demands of the mob. The spokesmen of the insur-
gent troops formulated six demands: dismissal of the Grand Vizier and the
Ministers of War and of the Navy, replacement of a number of Unionist
officers, replacement of the Unionist President of the Chamber of Deputies
(Ahmet Riza), banishment of a number of Unionist deputies from Istanbul,
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restoration of the sharia, and an amnesty for the rebellious troops.22

Confronted with these demands, the Grand Vizier went to the palace in the
afternoon and tendered his resignation, which was accepted by the Sultan.
The next morning, it was announced that the colourless diplomat Tevfik
Pasha [Okday] (1845–1936) had been appointed Grand Vizier. The War
Minister in the new cabinet, Field-Marshal Ethem Pasha visited the sol-
diers at the At Meydanı, praised them and promised that all their demands
would be met.23
The troops and the softas celebrated their victory extensively. At the
same time, a pogrom against known Unionists developed, resulting in the
deaths of at least 20 people, mostly officers, but also two deputies, who were
mistaken for Hüseyin Cahit [Yalçin], the editor of the Unionist organ Tanin,
and Ahmet Rıza. The offices of the Tanin were also ransacked.24
The Unionists went underground or fled the capital. As a result, the
Chamber of Deputies, in which the CUP held the majority, did not have
a quorum. Nevertheless, the deputies who did attend at the instigation of
·
the Liberal (and Albanian) deputy Ismail Kemal Bey [Vlora] accepted the
demands of the soldiers and at the same time issued a proclamation, saying
that sharia and constitution would be maintained.25
From the first day on, the leaders of the Ahrar tried without success
to get a grip on events and to prevent the insurrection from moving into a
reactionary, anti-constitutionalist and pro-Abdülhamit direction. It should
be noted, too, that the higher ranking ulema (those who in the ambassa-
dor’s report are called ‘ulema’, as opposed to the ‘hojas’ who supported the
· ·
revolt), who were united in the Cemiyet-i Ilmiye-i Islamiye (Society of the
Islamic Scholarly Profession) never supported the insurrection and from the
16 April onwards openly denounced it.26
The CUP had been driven out of Istanbul, but had kept its position in
the provinces, notably in Macedonia, and it started to take countermeas-
ures right away. It organized public demonstrations in the provincial towns,
and showered the parliament and palace with telegrams.27 In Macedonia,
especially, it easily won the propaganda battle, convincing the population
that the constitution was in danger. From 15 April it started organizing a
military campaign against the rebels. The ‘Action Army’ (Hareket Ordusu),
as it was termed, consisted of regular units of the Third and Second Armies,
reinforced with volunteer units, which consisted mostly of Albanians, led
by Niyazi Bey, one of the heroes of the revolution of 1908.28 By train, these
troops were moved first to Çatalca and Hademköy and then to Ayastefanos
(nowadays Yeşilköy) on the outskirts of Istanbul.29
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The Ides of April
The Chamber of Deputies sent a delegation to the Action Army’s

headquarters to try to prevent it from taking the city by force. Unable to
obtain a positive response, the members of the delegation decided to stay
in Ayastefanos and issued a call to their colleagues to join them. From 22
April onwards both chambers of parliament sat together in Ayastefanos as a
‘National Assembly’ (meclis-i umumi-i millî).30
In the early morning of 24 April, the Action Army began to occupy
the city. It did not encounter much resistance – only at the Taksim and
Taşkışla barracks did the resistance amount to anything. By four o’clock in
the afternoon the last rebels had surrendered. 31 Three days later, the two
chambers of parliament, still sitting together, deposed Sultan Abdülhamit,
who was succeeded by his younger brother Mehmet Res, at. 32 In the days that
followed, two courts martial were instituted, which convicted and executed
a large number of the rebels, including Derwish Vahdeti. A number of Ahrar
leaders were arrested, but set free again under British pressure.
Now, after this brief overview of the events, let us try to summarize the
causes of the revolt, the demands of the insurgents and the reaction of the
Unionists, in order to establish the character of the insurgency and its place
in modern Turkish history.
A fundamentalist uprising?
Several different causes for the events of April 1909 can be discerned.
Different groups had become disenchanted with the constitutional regime
for different reasons. The overthrow of the old regime in the 1908 revolu-
tion had hurt those who had earned a living or enjoyed status as members
of the Hamidian apparatus, including the thousands of government spies
active in Istanbul, who had supplied the Sultan with their jurnals (reports).
The rationalizing policies of the new government, which aimed at end-
ing the overstaffing of government departments, which had been the result
of the old regime’s policies of favouritism, had already made thousands of
civil servants jobless. In a city like Istanbul, where government was the main
industry, this had far-reaching consequences.
In the army, the main source of trouble was the friction between the
mektepli officers, who had been trained in the military schools and acad-
emy, and the alaylı officers, who had risen through the ranks. The latter had
been favoured by the old regime, being paid regularly and stationed in the
First Army in and around Istanbul, while the former had been mistrusted
(rightly so, because it was these modern educated officers who brought
about the constitutional revolution of 1908). Now that the mektepli officers
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had taken over, many of the alaylı officers had been dismissed or demoted.
Even worse, the whole system of promotion from the ranks was discon-
tinued. The troops themselves, too, had reason for discontent. They were
accustomed to the very slack discipline and relaxed atmosphere of the old
army, and were now confronted with young officers who wanted to impose
Prussian training methods, among other things abolishing the pauses for
ablutions and prayers during the exercises. 33
While no explicitly secularist legislation had been enacted in the eight
months since the constitutional revolution, the lower ulema clearly felt
threatened by the change in atmosphere. One particular measure which
aroused feeling among this group was a new measure, stipulating that stu-
dents at the religious schools who did not pass their exams in time were no
longer exempted from military service.34
The discord within the Young Turk ranks, with the Ahrar opposing what
they saw as the irresponsible policies and the monopoly of power of the
Unionists, also helped foster an atmosphere conducive to revolt. The debate
between the two factions grew more and more fierce in the first months of
1909. These acrimonious verbal exchanges, which could easily spill over
into real violence, helped to create a climate in which political opposition
came to be regarded as treason. The Dutch legation noted on several occa-
sions that this climate would leave the field open to the conservatives. 35 The
exaggerated and immoderate political debate, with its personal attacks, was
characteristic both of the Young Turk era and of the Kemalist period. (And
even, one might add, of Turkish politics of recent years.)
Finally, the fact that the Unionists were out of touch with important parts
of public opinion – and thus were completely taken by surprise by the dis-
content which existed even among their own Macedonian troops – was also
a contributing factor to the crisis. The Young Turks in all guises (Unionists,
Liberals and Kemalists) were always very much an enlightened élite, who saw
it as their task to educate the masses. Their positivist, liberal and nationalist
vision was not supported by what, in a European context, would be consid-
ered its natural base, an emerging indigenous bourgeoisie. Instead this vision
was forced on a conservative and deeply religious population from above.
Thus, a number of factors can be pointed to as having contributed to a
climate, in which the insurrection could take place. But who were the actual
instigators? This has been the subject of a lot of speculation, both at the time
of the revolt and later.36
In all its statements, the CUP characterized the insurrection as an
instance of ‘reaction’ (irtica). It laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of
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The Ides of April
·
Sultan Abdülhamit and the religious opposition of the Ittihad-i Muhammedi
of Sheykh Vahdeti. At the time, the hand of the Sultan was also seen in the
fact, reported on by the Dutch legation that the insurgents had ample funds
and that the soldiers had apparently been paid in gold.37 Nevertheless, it
is clear that throughout the 11-day revolt, the Sultan acted with extreme
caution. While he did not openly disavow the soldiers, he never openly sup-
ported their demands or tried to lead their movement.
When the Action Army entered the city, he apparently greeted it with
relief and ordered the palace troops not to offer resistance. All through the
revolt he made the impression of being frightened and demoralized. 38 In his
memoirs, he later denied having had anything to do with the revolt.
Conservative opinion in Turkey has sometimes accused the Unionists of
staging the whole revolt in order to be able to establish a dictatorship, adduc-
ing the fact that the revolt started in the Macedonian battalions as proof.39
This, however, seems fanciful, in view of the patent unpreparedness of lead-
ing Unionists, who had to flee or go underground, some of them just escaping
being lynched. No trace of evidence for this thesis has ever been found.
The demands formulated by the insurgents and the evidence presented
both before the courts martial and in the memoirs of opposition leaders point
to the political opposition, the Ahrar, as the prime instigators.40 The selective
way in which the insurgents attacked Unionist individuals and offices also
supports this view. At the same time, it is clear that the religious opposi-
·
tion centred around Sheykh Vahdeti and the Ittihad-i Muhammedi played a
very important part in organizing the uprising and in rousing the troops.41
Most probably the liberal opposition was the original instigator of the revolt.
Overestimating its own strength, Ahrar thought it could use the religious
groups for that purpose, but soon after the start of the revolt, it became
clear that it was in no position to exert control. The willingness of one group
of basically secularist reformers to form an opportunistic alliance with
Islamic groups in its struggle for power with another group of reformers –
in the mistaken belief that less sophisticated religious groups can be easily
manipulated – is a recurring phenomenon in the politics of modern Turkey.
There were persistent rumours in 1909, reflected in the literature on
the revolt, that Great Britain was behind the uprising. The gold distributed
among the troops attracted suspicion and attention was drawn to the close
links between Ahrar leaders and the British embassy. No hard evidence of
British involvement has ever come to light, however.
Now, coming to the question of the fundamentalist Islamic character of
the revolt, there is no denying that the call for reinstatement of the sharia
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played a large role in the insurrection, which was seen by Unionists and foreign
observers such as the Dutch envoy alike as a reactionary Islamic movement.
On the other hand, there are good grounds to consider this label inadequate.
First, there is strong evidence that the Liberals, who were no more Islamic or
fundamentalist than the Unionists, instigated the revolt. Second, there is no
relation whatsoever between the call for the sharia and the other demands
put forward. Third, the insurgents never formulated specific demands for the
way the sharia should be implemented. Neither did they demand the dissolu-
tion of parliament and/or the prorogation of the constitution. It appears that
the call for the sharia was either a tactical move designed to legitimize the
uprising and provide it with a rallying-cry or a kind of ‘shorthand’ for justice
and a return to the good old ways. It should be remembered that the sharia
had not actually been abolished by the Young Turks.
The CUP, in its counter-propaganda, immediately identified the insur-
rection as irtica (political reaction), which endangered constitution and par-
liament. This may have been in part a psychological reaction. Both their
positivist ideology and their history of struggle against Sultan Abdülhamit’s
regime had conditioned them to see religious conservatism as the main threat
to the realization of their ideals. The 31 March incident seems to have been
a genuinely traumatic experience for the Unionists.
It cannot be denied, however, that labelling the insurrection as reac-
tionary and Islamic also had practical political advantages: it enabled the
Committee to isolate their opponents by posing as the defenders of the con-
stitution, thereby attracting the support of those Young Turks who shared
their secularist outlook but had become disenchanted with the Committee’s
policies after the revolution. In this way they could eliminate the liberal
opposition by identifying them with the insurrection. It also gave them a
chance to dethrone Abdülhamit, something which they had not been able to
do in 1908 and which was seen by them (and also by neutral observers) as
essential to the consolidation of their position.42
Both the use of the call for sharia as a battle-cry by the opposition and
the labelling of the revolt as irtica by the Unionists allows for an interest-
ing comparison of the April 1909 counter-revolution with the February
1925 insurrection of Sheykh Sait (a Nakhsibandi sheykh, just like Derwish
Vahdeti) in Eastern Turkey.43 This revolt was at least partly Kurdish nation-
alist in character and it was motivated by discontent with the social and
economic situation in the Kurdish provinces. Nevertheless, the leaders
used the call for the sharia as a rallying-cry. The rebellion was immediately
labelled as irtica by the then Turkish government (which consisted of former
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The Ides of April
Unionists) and subsequently suppressed with the utmost severity. The Prime
Minister, Fethi [Okyar], explicitly compared the situation to of the revolt of
April 1909 in a speech in the National Assembly.44 It was on this occasion
that, through an amendment to the High Treason Law, the political use of
religion was outlawed in Turkey for the first time (it has remained so ever
since). The High Treason Law was subsequently used to suppress the liberal
opposition within the National Assembly, the Progressive Republican Party,
the left-wing opposition outside the Assembly and the opposition press, even
though none of these could be linked to the Kurdish rebellion.
Along with the suppression of the socialist, liberal and Kurdish oppo-
sitions in 1925, the Kemalist regime intensified its drive to crush institu-
tionalized Islam. Unfortunately, this policy also strengthened the tendency,
already evident in 1909, for Islam to become the vehicle for opposition to
the policies of an authoritarian state. Likewise, it also rendered supporters
of the secular State allergic to expressions of Islamic feeling. This seems to
be the vicious circle in which the debate on the relation between Islam and
State has been caught in Turkey for much of this century.
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7. Sultan Mehmet V’s Visit to
Kosovo in June 1911*
The context
For the Young Turks of the CUP, whose movement had started in Macedonia
in 1906, the situation in that rich but unruly region of the empire1 in 1910–11
was all but reassuring. Although the constitutional revolution of July 1908
initially had produced rejoicing and reconciliation between the ethnic com-
munities in Macedonia, this had proved short-lived, with agitation and small-
scale guerrilla warfare by Serb, Bulgarian and Greek bands recommencing
soon after. More worrying from the point of view of the CUP was the attitude
of the Albanians. After all, the Committee had originally been an organiza-
tion of Ottoman Muslims2 who aimed to strengthen the Ottoman state and
the position of the Muslims within it. Most Albanians were Muslims and
some Albanians, like the famous Niyazi Bey of Resne (nowadays known as
Resen or Resnja)3 had played leading roles both in the revolution of 1908 and
in the suppression of the counterrevolution of April 1909. In the case of the
latter, it was military units from Macedonia which, having stayed loyal to the
CUP, were instrumental in re-establishing Unionist control.
Nevertheless, attempts by the constitutional regime to strengthen the
hold of the state, to make taxation more effective, and to standardize educa-
tion (in the Ottoman language and script)4 soon led to disenchantment on
the part of the Albanians. The enforcement of military conscription and the
disarming of populations also caused great resentment among the Albanians.
There were revolts in Northern Albania and Kosovo even in 1909, but in
early April 1910, 12 Albanian tribes from the province of Kosovo rose up
in arms, led by two tribal chiefs: İsa Boletin, who controlled the Mitrovica
area, and İdris Sefer, a chief from Skopska Crna Gora. Led by İdris, 5,000
Albanians cut off the railway between Salonica and Üsküp (now Skoplje) at
Kacanik, while İsa led 2,000 rebels against Firzovik (Verisovic/Ferisaj) and
Prizren. The insurrection was suppressed with some difficulty by 16,000
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Sultan Mehmet V’s Visit to Kosovo in June 1911
Ottoman troops under Şevket Turgut Pasha 5 and by August order had been
re-established.6 The government now took harsh measures to ensure that the
area remained under control: all men between the ages of 15 and 60 were
registered, with those who were eligible conscripted into the army; Albanian
men were disarmed and nearly 150,000 guns confiscated; a new tax on live-
stock was introduced; and farmers were ordered to widen the windows of
their homes (to make them less suitable as loophole).
Nevertheless, rebellion flared up again in February 1911, this time in
the area of Dibra. On 24 March, Albanian refugees in Montenegro launched
an attack that spilled over into the bordering Skutari (Üsküdar/Skhoder) dis-
trict. Again Şevket Turgut Pasha was ordered to suppress the rebellion and he
arrived with 8,000 troops in Skutari on 17 April.7 After a difficult campaign
the rebels were forced back, but when war with Montenegro threatened, the
government ordered the Pasha to declare a ten-day armistice on 17 June. In
the meantime, yet another rebellion had flared up, this time among Catholic
Albanians more to the South.8
The CUP was deeply worried about the situation in Macedonia. One
of the reasons they had unleashed the constitutional revolution when they
did, in July 1908, was their fear that the European powers would militarily
intervene in Macedonia.9 With the situation in Macedonia all the more pre-
carious, the danger of European intervention certainly had not passed. The
Committee therefore decided on a campaign of counter-propaganda built
around the most powerful symbol of national unity at their disposal: the
figure of the Sultan himself.
Tours of the provinces were not a part of the Ottoman monarchic tradition.
Of course, until the seventeenth century, sultans had personally conducted
military campaigns which took them through the length and the breadth of
their domains. Later sultans had largely restricted themselves to hunting trips.
The nineteenth-century sultans who oversaw the process of institutional and
legal reforms known as the Tanzimat, Abdülmecit (r. 1839–61) and Abdülaziz
(r. 1861–76) left their palace with increasing frequency and travelled outside
the capital. Sultan Abdülmecit visited İzmir and Bursa in 1845 and Salonica
in 1859, a visit during which he was accompanied by his sons, among them
the young Prince Reşat – the protagonist of this story.10 Sultan Abdülaziz had
visited Bursa in 1861, Egypt in 1863, and the most famous voyage of all was
of course his visit to the Paris World Exhibition in 1867.
During the long reign of Sultan Abdülhamit II (1876–1909), the Sultan
had only rarely ventured outside the palace of Yıldız, situated on a hill
overlooking the Bosphorus and quite isolated from the capital. He had
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never made any effort to personally acquaint himself directly with the
situation outside the capital or the populations in the provinces. Instead,
Abdülhamit relied on his bureaucracy and his extensive network of inform-
ers for his intelligence, and on propaganda through the printed media and
through the pulpits of the mosques for the projection of his image as just
ruler and defender of Islam.11 The Sultan certainly used modern propa-
ganda techniques to promote his image abroad,12 but he did not do so by
personally boarding ship and going there. Nor did he use the new railway
network to tour his country. So, by 1909, when Abdülhamit was deposed,
the memory of sultans actually going out to meet their flock was quite a
distant one.
Prince Res,at,13 on the other hand, had already made two very symbolic
journeys outside his capital since he had ascended the throne as Mehmet V14
in April 1909. He had visited the old Ottoman capitals of Bursa and Edirne.
But these expeditions had been minor ones compared with the one he was
now undertaking.
The expedition to Macedonia was planned meticulously, not only by
the government, but also by the palace, especially the palace kitchens, the
stables and, of course, the privy purse, the monarch’s own allowance from
the treasury. For the Sultan and his entourage to move, eat, drink and dress
according to their custom, the palace would have to bring everything along
for the trip, from kitchen utensils to carriages.15 The visit was originally
planned for April, but the unrest in Albania and the complexity of the prepa-
rations had necessitated a postponement.
The imperial visit

The Sultan left Istanbul on 5 June 1911 amid great pomp and circumstance
and watched by a large crowd on the banks of the Bosphorus. He trav-
elled aboard the battleship Barbaros Hayrettin with part of his entourage,
escorted by the cruiser Turgut Reis16 and the steamer Gülcemal. After a
short stop in Çanakkale, where there was a great demonstration of loyalty
on the part of the population, the imperial flotilla arrived before Salonica
on the morning of 8 June, a day of continuous rain. There seem to have
been worries whether Reşat would be able to withstand the exhaustion of
the long trip, particularly the sea voyage to which he was unaccustomed,
but according to his private secretary, once at sea he seemed rejuvenated
and relaxed and altogether changed from the person he was in Istanbul. He
even spoke fluently in public, whereas in Istanbul he had been notoriously
shy.17
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The flotilla was met at sea by a squadron of warships carrying dig-

nitaries, such as the governor of Salonica, the inspectors of the Fourth,
Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Army Corps, and the secretary-general of the
CUP, Haci Adil [Arda]. The steamer Mithat Pasha held a special delegation
composed of representatives from all parts of the empire. The fleet greeted
the Sultan with a 21-gun salute, after which he watched naval manoeuvres.
The flotilla then moved into the Salonica harbour escorted by the naval
squadron. After a second 21-gun salute, the Barbaros Hayrettin anchored
off the quay and the official reception committee, which consisted of town
representatives and parliamentarians hailing from Macedonia, went on
board.18
The Sultan stayed aboard the battleship overnight, but within an hour of
his arrival he despatched his secretary, Halit Ziya Bey [Uşaklıgil]19 and the
inspector of the armies of Rumelia (the European provinces), Hadi Pasha, on
a very delicate mission. They were instructed to go to the villa of the Alatini
family of Salonica industrialists, just outside Salonica, where the former
Sultan Abdülhamit lived under strict house arrest. Reşat apparently felt it
necessary to enquire after the ex-Sultan’s health because he was afraid the
latter might see the tour of Macedonia as an affront. For Halit Ziya, meeting
the man who had ruled the empire for 33 years and who had been the hated
enemy of the Young Turks for 20 of them, was an awesome experience, but
the mission proved easier than expected. The ex-Sultan politely wished his
brother success on his trip and used the occasion for some personal requests.
He asked for his son Abid to be allowed to study and to live in Istanbul and
he enquired after a bag full of jewellery which had disappeared when he was
moved from the Yıldız palace to Salonica.
The next morning, the Sultan disembarked, flanked by Grand Vizier
Hakkı Pasha. Two sheep were sacrificed and the mufti of Salonica led the
prayers. Then the Sultan, dressed in full military uniform, drove to the main
government building (the Konak) in an open carriage. The streets, which
had been newly paved with the houses along the route freshly painted, 20
were lined with schoolchildren singing Greek and Turkish national songs.
By all accounts, the monarch was greeted warmly, although, according to
the British consul, ‘much less so than in the West on such occasions’.21 The
afternoon was filled with audiences. During these, Evrenos Bey, a local
notable and a scion of the most famous Christian gazi dynasty22 was singled
out for praise by the Sultan, who pointed out how his family had served
his own forefathers back in the fifteenth century – a clear call for loyalty
from the contemporary Ottoman Greek community. Then Reşat received
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a delegation from the garrison, whom he greeted saying that ‘the army was
the soul of the nation’. He also received a delegation from the schools of
Salonica.23 During the day the Sultan received delegations from all over the
empire (Skutari, Janina, Erzurum, Trabzon, Crete and Lebanon), who had
come to Salonica for the occasion.24
Right from the start the CUP made it its business to associate itself
as closely as possible with the imperial visit. Rahmi Bey [Arslan] one of
the founding members of the CUP in Salonica and also a descendant of
the aforementioned Gazi Evrenos, thanked the Sultan for his efforts, to
which the latter answered that he was grateful for the opportunity to get
in touch with his people. The famous CUP orator Ömer Naci addressed
the representatives of the province on behalf of the committee and later the
Sultan visited the CUP club, where top Unionists like Talât Bey, Cavit Bey
and Mithat Şükrü [Bleda], as well as the historian Abdürrahman Şeref were
present to welcome him.
On the morning of 9 June, the Sultan received the mücahit-i muhterem
(honoured fighter), Niyazi Bey, who in his dual capacity as hero of the con-
stitutional revolution and revered (although politically marginal) member
of the CUP on the one hand and ethnic Albanian on the other, was a key
figure throughout the whole Macedonian tour. Niyazi Bey was reported as
having come to town with 600 well-built men from his native Resne.25 After
the Friday prayers in the Aya Sofya mosque of Salonica, the Sultan distrib-
uted 4,500 lira in largesse to benevolent societies, to the poor and to stu-
dents.26 In the late afternoon Cavit Bey gave a speech in the public gardens
of Beşçınar, which was attended by a large crowd (10,000 people according
to the Unionist newspapers) in which he called for unity between the com-
munities and praised the CUP.
On Saturday, 10 June, the Sultan first received a delegation from İzmir.
This was followed by a series of audiences with delegations from all over
the empire (groups from Crete and Lebanon had already been received).
Thereafter leading officials and Unionist politicians were presented with
decorations (Mecidiye order first class), gold watches and – in the case of
the editor of the local paper Rumeli, Yunus Nadi [Abalıoğlu] who would
later gained fame as the founder of the newspaper Cumhuriyet – with a ruby
ring.
The programme continued with a visit to the army barracks, where
the foundation stone was laid for a monument commemorating the consti-
tutional revolution. The Sultan then received CUP secretary-general Haci
Adil [Arda] and praised the CUP for its work. In the afternoon, the Sultan
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attended a sema (religious ceremony) in the Mevlevihane, the local head-

quarters of the Mevlevi derwish order, of which the Sultan was a devoted
member.
In the meantime, an auction in support of the Ottoman Fleet Society
(Donanma Cemiyeti – modelled after Germany’s Flottenverein)27 had been
organized in the Beşçınar gardens. Among the items being auctioned were
carpets, and the Sultan, at the request of the organizers, agreed to walk over
them in order to increase their value.
The Sultan’s departure for the interior was on 11 June. The trip to
Üsküp was made by train – a seven-hour journey. A pilot train carrying part
of the entourage and also Niyazi Bey preceded the imperial train, and it was
announced that anyone attempting to come near the tracks between the two
trains would be shot on sight. The Sultan boarded the train (on which the
director-general of the Oriental Railways, Mr Müller, acted as guard)28 in
the company of CUP grandees Haci Adil and Ömer Naci, and the governors
of the Salonica and Kosovo provinces. The military commander and mayor
of Üsküp also joined the company. Along the route three stops were made,
the first of which was a three-minute stop at Karasulu Kimence to take on
water, the second, a ten-minute stop at Gevgili, and the third, a 15-minute
stop in Köprülü (Velez). During this last stop an ‘old and historic banner
(sancak)’ was presented to the Sultan, who took it in his hand and prayed
that ‘God make the Ottoman banner ever honoured’. The theme of ‘Unity
of the Elements’ was again brought out in the ceremonies at the station:
a Bulgarian girl made a moving speech and a Muslim girl recited a poem.
Both were rewarded, the Bulgarian girl being offered an education at the
Sultan’s expense. Four sheep were sacrificed, after which the governor of
Salonica officially handed over responsibility for the Sultan’s well-being to
the governor of Kosovo.
On his arrival in the capital of Kosovo province, Üsküp, the Sultan was
driven in a four-horse carriage (brought from Istanbul) from the station
to the government Konak, but he was lodged in the arts and crafts school,
because that was the most comfortable building around. Upon his arrival,
he addressed the local dignitaries, repeating the central themes of his visit.
He stated that his aim was the ‘mutual understanding of the [ethnic] ele-
ments’ and that the CUP deserved the gratitude of the fatherland for its serv-
ices. The Sultan was enthusiastically received by the Albanian population.
Albanians performed folk dances after which each of them received a lira.
Some 5,000 Albanians had come to the town from villages up to 20 kilo-
metres away, but considerable effort seems to have gone into ‘engineering’
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this Albanian enthusiasm. According to one report, the district governor

(mütesarrif) of Prizren had given Albanian villagers five days food supplies
to enable them to make the trip.29
Attempts at reconciliation with the Albanians now took centre-stage,
given the Sultan’s proximity to areas with an Albanian majority. Two
Albanian chiefs who had taken part in the revolts of spring 1910, Süleyman
Batuşa and Hasan Aga of Plevlje (Pljevlja), came to swear fealty to the
Ottoman throne and were pardoned, but the notorious İsa Boletin, who had
been expected, did not show up. Largesse was again employed as a means to
win support for the throne, this time not only in the form of donations to
charitable institutions (for instance, a promise to build a medrese in Priştine/
Prishtina and 300 lira towards the cost of building a school in Firzovik), but
also in the form of blood money, distributed to pay off blood feuds. A sum
of 30,000 lira is reported to have been spent for this purpose. 30 Another
instrument for reconciliation was the granting of amnesties. There had been
high hopes among the Christian communities of a large-scale or even gen-
eral amnesty, but during the visit to Salonica nothing had materialized. Now
an amnesty for all except convicted murderers was announced, and 107
Albanians and 134 Bulgarians were released from Üsküp prison. 31
After the visit to Üsküp, the time had come for what was meant to
be the climax of the whole imperial visit: the Sultan’s pilgrimage to the
Meşhed-i Hüdavendigar, the tomb of Sultan Murat I, located on the old bat-
tlefield of Kosovopolje near Prishtina. The visit had been publicized widely
beforehand. On the day the Sultan left for Salonica, CUP secretary-general
Haci Adil issued a statement reminding the population that in the battle
of Kosovopolje in 1389, the crusading Christians, ‘numerous as locusts’,
had wanted to throw the Ottomans out of Europe, but that, thanks to the
sacrifice of Sultan Murat and his warriors, they had failed. Muslims were
called upon to come to Kosovo in great numbers to show their determina-
tion to follow Murat’s example, and expectations about the number of peo-
ple attending were very high. In the newspapers, 150,000 or even 200,000
Albanians were reported to be assembling in the plain. The British consul in
Üsküp expected 100,000 to turn up. 32
On 15 June the Sultan left Üsküp for Prishtina by train. During a short
stop in Firzovik, two sheep were offered. After three and a half hours, the
Sultan arrived in Prishtina, where the mass of people awaiting him had
swelled to 300,000, according to Unionist press. Four sheep were sacrificed
and an amnesty declared for those who had taken part in the rebellions of
1910 and 1911.
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In Prishtina the local Serbian community played an interesting role in

the events of the day. A visit by a direct descendent of Sultan Murat I to the
battlefield of Kosovopolje, which played (and still plays) such a vital part
in the national identity of Serbia, might be expected to meet with strong
Serbian resistance. But at this time the Serbs saw the Ottomans as less of
a danger than the Albanian and Macedonian/Bulgarian nationalists, and
were therefore supportive of Young Turk policies to a certain extent. The
Serbian crown prince had originally even been expected to come to Üsküp,
but that visit had not materialized, as he had to attend the coronation of
King George V in London.33 In Prishtina, however, the Sultan was serenaded
by the choir of the Serbian Orthodox seminary and the Serbian vice-consul
Raki had gathered a large Serb crowd. 34
The next day the royal entourage left for Kosovopolje, arriving there
at 10 a.m. Reports on what actually happened there vary widely. The pro-
CUP press depicted the meeting as an enormous success and stated that
300,000 Albanians attended. Sir Edwin Pears gives a number of 80,000 in
his memoirs, 35 while Halit Ziya, who was present in Kosovopolje, reports
that there were about 50,000 people. He says that many more had wanted
to come, but that they were stopped for fear of overcrowding. 36 According
to British consular reports, however, the Ottomans had real trouble gather-
ing a credible number of people. The Grand Vizier had made a personal
request to local notables such as Hasan Bey (a representative for Prishtina)
and Beytullah Bey of Gilan, and most of the villagers came from their areas.
From places such as İpek (Peç), Djakova and Prizren, where resentment
against the repression by the Ottoman army was strongest, only a few official
representatives appeared.37 Indeed, photographs taken during the ceremony
and published in the journal Resimli Kitab seem to show an attendance of
20,000 people at most.
Facing the mausoleum of Murat I, a historic tent originally belonging to
Sultan Selim I (1512–20) had been erected for the Sultan’s use. To the right
of the tent stood the mihrab and the pulpit. After the communal prayer (in
which the Sultan took part), the traditional Friday sermon was delivered by
a local notable who was at the same time a well-known doctor of Islamic
law and a senator, Manastırlı İsmail Hakkı Efendi. According to one report
the imam Reşit İbrehim Efendi at the same time ‘walked through the ranks
of the believers, exhorting them to be brothers and reminding them that the
late Sultan Murat I, in his testament, had ordered Muslims to love Christians
and Jews as their brothers’. 38 Then a declaration by the Grand Vizier was
read out. According to Halit Ziya, this was supposed to be translated into
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Albanian by Manastırlı İsmail Hakkı Efendi, who, however, did not know
any Albanian. The ceremonies were ended with a military parade and with
the laying of a foundation stone for a new university.
After this high point of the visit the Sultan returned to Salonica via
Prishtina and Üsküp, where he changed trains for Monastir (Bitola), the
main base of the Third Army. The Sultan’s visit of three and a half days
to the garrison town was again depicted as a great success by the Unionist
press, but according to the British consul he was ‘rather coolly received’. 39
Mahmud Şevket Pasha, who, as commander of the First, Second and Third
Armies was the military strong man of the empire, and who had joined the
Sultan’s entourage on 15 June, used the visit to this military centre to give a
speech in which he asked the officers not to meddle in politics. The faction-
alism of the officer corps was by now seriously undermining the discipline of
the Ottoman army. In Monastir, too, an amnesty was declared which again
fell short of the expectations of the local Christians. Prisoners numbering
108 were pardoned, but 12 others (among them leading Bulgarian national-
ists) were banished to Anatolia and the status of 12 others remained unclear.
Another interesting event in Monastir was the re-enactment by troops
under the command of Niyazi Bey of scenes from the constitutional revolu-
tion, notably the entry into town of the constitutional forces on 10/24 July
1908.40
After his visit to Monastir, the Sultan returned to Salonica and, after a
short stop, he travelled onward to Istanbul, where he was greeted by large
and enthusiastic crowds, as the surviving pictures show. The whole town
was illuminated to celebrate the return of the monarch and a torch parade
was held from Sirkeci to the palace of Dolmabahçe and back. Newspaper
editorials commented that many Ottoman sultans had returned to their cap-
ital carrying the keys of conquered cities but that this sultan had returned
with the keys to the hearts of the people of Rumelia.41
Conclusion
What was the Sultan’s Macedonian voyage meant to achieve and what did
it accomplish? I think we can say that Sultan Reşat’s Macedonian jour-
ney served four distinct – but interconnected – political purposes: In the
first place it was meant to cement ties with the Albanian Muslim popula-
tion, which was regarded by the CUP as a crucial factor in retaining its
hold over the area. After the insurrections of the past year, reconciliation
with the Albanians was the most urgent issue on the agenda. The Sultan’s
visit to Kosovo and the high profile role played by Niyazi Bey throughout
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served this purpose, as did the amnesties which were declared during the
visit and the paying of blood-money. The second, more general political
aim was to strengthen the policy of İttihad-i Anasır (Unity of the Elements
or ‘Ottomanism’) by the organization of demonstrations of inter-ethnic
solidarity in the most ethnically mixed area of the empire; hence the dem-
onstrations of loyalty by Bulgarians and Greeks and references to Gazi
Evrenos. Third, the journey served to strengthen the political position of
the CUP, which had been losing public support and political power over
the past year, through the close and very visible association of the Sultan
with leading committee members. Top people of the committee, such as
the orator Ömer Naci and CUP secretary-general Haci Adil constantly
accompanied the monarch, and the latter expressed his gratitude to the
CUP in all four towns he visited. Fourth, the visit, and in particular the
ceremonies on the battlefield of Kosovopolje, served the more general pur-
pose of strengthening Ottoman (and more specifically Ottoman-Muslim)
national consciousness through reference to historically significant sym-
bols. In this sense, the visit to Kosovopolje was a logical sequence to the
Sultan’s earlier imperial visits to Bursa and Edirne – the first and second
Ottoman capitals.
Apart from its political and ideological content, the Sultan’s journey
is an interesting phenomenon in its shape. It is an example of something
quite novel: attempts of the regime to promote the ruler as a popular figure,
highly visible and close to his people. Hence the constant emphasis on the
way the Sultan tried to get in touch with his people, showing himself to them
and inviting them to join him. Reşat was projected as a ‘father of the nation’
and he was, of course, very suitable, both physically and mentally, for this
role. The years until Reşat’s death in 1918 would show many more examples
of this use of the monarchy.
It is no exaggeration, however, to say that in the end the tour failed
in most of its objectives. In 1912 the Balkan War, the immediate cause of
which was the Porte’s rejection of Greek, Serb, Montenegrin and Bulgarian
demands for far-reaching reforms in Macedonia, put to rest any hopes
of achieving a ‘Unity of the Elements’. After the collapse of the Ottoman
defence, the Albanians opted for complete independence and severed their
ties with the Ottoman throne. As for the CUP, it failed to increase its popu-
larity, losing political power in 1912 and only managing to regain it through
a coup d’état in January 1913. The efforts to strengthen Ottoman-Muslim
consciousness, though, may be termed successful. There can be no doubt
that in the ten years between 1912 and 1922 Ottoman-Muslim nationalism
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became the strongest ideological current in the country. It was discarded, at

least on an official level, in favour of Turkish nationalism after the founding
of the Turkish Republic in 1923, but in the crucial years when the survival
of the Ottoman state was at stake in the Balkan War, World War I and the
Independence War, it served as the prime vehicle for mobilization.42
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8. Who Were the Young Turks?*
For many years I have cherished the ambition to do some serious prosopo-
graphical research, to write a collective biography of the people who played
roles in all those crucial and traumatic events of the end of the nineteenth-
and the first half of the twentieth century: the constitutional revolution of
July 1908, the counterrevolution in Istanbul of April 1909, the guerrilla
movement in Tripolitania against the Italian invader in 1911, the Balkan
War that broke out in October 1912, the Unionist coup d’état of January
1913, the outbreak of World War I, the persecution of the Armenians in
1915–16, the armistice of October 1918, the almost simultaneous start of
the resistance against the break-up of the empire, the independence war
of 1920–2, the establishment, first of a republic in October 1923 and then
of a dictatorship in March 1925, the purges of 1926 and, finally, the cultural
revolution unleashed by the republican leadership in the 1920s and 30s. I
have wanted to know who these people were, where they were born and
when, where their families came from, what their fathers did for a living,
how and where they were educated and what kind of careers they had (apart
from their political activities).
In particular, I have desired to study the individuals and the networks
that composed the three manifestations of the Young Turk movement: the
Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) before 1918, the leadership of
the ‘national struggle’ (Millî Mücadele) between 1918 and 1922, and the
early republican leadership (up to 1945). How did these three groupings
fit together and how were they connected? How, for instance, did Mustafa
Kemal fit into the picture?
In spite of the Young Turk’s enormous importance in the modern history
of Turkey, the literature provides little in the way of answers. The stand-
ard works on the period abound in generalizations. Feroz Ahmad calls the
Young Turks ‘lower middle class’ and ‘newly emerging professional classes’.
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Allen says they were ‘young officers’, which is also Geoffrey Lewis’s classifi-
cation, while Bernard Lewis talks about ‘Muslim Turks, mostly soldiers’ and
‘members of the ruling élite’, which is in direct contrast with Stanford Shaw’s
‘lower class’ and ‘subject class’. Richard Robinson describes them as ‘new
technicians, newly awakened intelligentsia, western-oriented army officers’,
while Sina Akşin1 summed them up as ‘Turks, youngsters, members of the
ruling class, western-educated with a bourgeois mentality’. These obviously
are very broad, and in some cases contradictory, generalizations.
This chapter is an attempt to be a bit more precise; to draw, if not yet
a group portrait of the Young Turks, then at least a preliminary sketch.
The underlying premise behind this attempt at a group portrait is that it
makes sense to look at the political élite of the period stretching from the
1908 constitutional revolution to the end of one-party rule in the republic
as one single group of people. The reason for this is that almost every per-
son of influence in Mustafa Kemal’s ruling Republican People’s Party had
been a member of the CUP and had started his political career in the Second
Constitutional period (1908–18).
In order to find out what the Young Turks2 shared and what distin-
guished them from one another, I first look at their geographical origins and
family background, their age, education and early careers. Here, I divide
the Young Turks into subgroups, whose membership in some cases overlap:
(1) the founders of the Young Turk movement; (2) the leaders of the 1908
constitutional revolution; (3) the politically active officers in the Ottoman
army; (4) the members of the Central Committee (CC) of the CUP; (5) the
leadership of the nationalist resistance after World War I and (6) the early
republican ruling élite.
The available sources offering insight into these individuals’ lives are rich
and varied, but at the same time problematical. First, there are biographical
reference tools, ranging from printed ones such as I· brahim Alaettin Gövsa’s
Türk Mes,hurları Ansiklopedisi (Encyclopaedia of famous Turks) of 19463
to the latest web-based ones, such as Biografi.Net, as well as a number of
Turkish encyclopaedias and more specialized biographical tools, focusing,
for instance, on the persons mentioned in Mustafa Kemal’s Nutuk. These are
indispensable tools, but they also pose problems in that the entries are often
unpredictable and the data contradictory. As for biographies of the protago-
nists of the period, they are not very numerous and with few exceptions,4
do not meet scholarly standards. The number of published memoirs is far
greater than that of the biographies. Most of them were first published in
serialized form in Turkish newspapers of the 1950s and 60s and later, often
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Who Were the Young Turks?
much later, as books. The quality of the memoirs varies a great deal, both
in their literary qualities and in the information they offer. Newspaper clip-
pings (in particular obituaries) can be very useful. A large and important
·
collection of this type of material, collected by the late Ismail Arar, is held
in the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam. In addition,
if the persons under review held administrative positions, their personal
data can be found in the collections of sicilli ahval of the Ottoman and later
Turkish home office. If they were members of the Ottoman parliament or
the Great National Assembly of the republic, their personal details are on
record. Likewise, if they had a military career, the details of that career, up
to the last medal, can be found in the records of the General Staff’s person-
nel section. The military history section of the General Staff has published
many biographical details in its journals and in separate publications.
It remains very difficult, however, to trace those people who stayed out
of the limelight and did not hold prominent positions in public life, but were
very influential nevertheless: some members of the CC of the CUP, the lower
ranking officers who, as ‘volunteers’ (fedaiin) did the CUP’s dirty work and
the party bosses in the capital and in the provinces. Even when the biographi-
cal data are easily accessible, as in the case of the military pashas, the details
one would like to have, such networks of family and friends or ethnic back-
ground often remain out of reach. Given these limitations, this chapter can-
not be more than a snapshot of the state of play in this research field.
Let us now turn to the Young Turks and try to discern key commonali-
ties and differences within and between subgroups.
Founding fathers
By the late 1880s the number of students in the modern European-style
higher education establishments was growing, due to the expansion of sec-
ondary education under Abdülhamit. At the same time disenchantment with
the regime was growing among the students in the colleges, given increasing
repression after 1882 on the part of the regime and the regime’s responsibil-
ity for the murder of the ‘father’ of the Ottoman constitution, Mithat Pasha,
in 1885. The British occupation of Cyprus in 1878 and of Egypt in 1882
were also laid at the door of Abdülhamit’s regime.
In 1889 a group of four students in the military medical college in
·
Istanbul founded the Ottoman Unity Society (Ittihadi Osmani Cemiyeti)
with the aim of agitating for the restoration of a parliamentary regime, which
had been prorogued by the Sultan in February 1878, a mere ten months after
the parliament had first convened. They were soon joined by other medical
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students, who were specializing in the Gülhane and Haydarpas, a hospitals.

At the same time, but independently of them, Ahmet Rıza, an agricultural
engineer and former director of public education in Bursa, went to Paris
to attend the celebrations of the centenary of the French Revolution, an
event which served as an inspiration to many Ottoman students and young
civil servants at the time. In the years that followed the opposition move-
ment in the empire grew. It spread to provincial centres like Edirne where
the lawyer Faik [Kaltakkıran], the Albanian Hoca I· brahim and postal clerk
Mehmet Talât formed a cell. Activity outside the empire increased as well,
with Ahmet Rıza agreeing in 1895 to act as the president of the Paris branch.
In 1896, the underground resistance network, which now went by the name
of Ottoman Committee (or: Society) for Union and Progress (CUP) was
betrayed on the eve of a coup d’état it was planning to execute. Most of its
leading members were sent into internal exile in Tripolitania, and the move-
ment inside the empire would lay dormant for nearly a decade.
But the branch in Paris survived and in the years that followed new
‘Young Turks’, as they called themselves in the European press, went to
Europe, either to study or as political refugees. Some of these already had a
reputation, like Murat Bey, who had taught history at the civil service acad-
emy (Mülkiye) and published the journal Mizan. Others were young patriotic
students like Mithat Şükrü or Evranoszade Rahmi from Salonica. Muslims
·
from the Russian Empire, who were inspired by Ismail Gasprinskii’s Usul-u
Cedid (New Method) movement of educational reform also joined the soci-
ety. In contrast, activity in the empire was mostly limited to the illegal dis-
tribution of Young Turk journals published abroad.
The opposition in exile, though, was haunted by internal divisions
and defections. Tensions came to a head during the ‘Congress of Ottoman
Liberals’ in Paris in 1902, and the movement split into two wings, with
Prince Sabahattin founding an offshoot faction, the ‘Society of Ottoman
Liberals’, and Ahmet Rıza continuing to lead the CUP, which was the more
nationalist and centrist of the two wings. Ahmet Rıza was more of an intel-
lectual and theoretician than an organizer, and the CUP was only turned
into a more disciplined and effective organization in 1905 with the arrival
of Dr Bahaettin Şakir, a prominent Unionist and former personal physician
to the Ottoman crown prince.
When we look a representative selection of 14 of the most important of
these activists of the first generation, 5 we discover that they share a number
of important characteristics. With the exception of Ahmet Rıza, Ahmet
Saip and Mizancı Murat, who were slightly older, all the members of this
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group were born between 1864 and 1874, the average age being 27 in 1896.
All of these 14 important early Young Turks possessed a post-secondary
education. In fact: the early Young Turk movement could be described as
a conspiracy of medical doctors. No less than eight out of fourteen were
trained as military doctors, seven of them in the Military Medical School
(Mektebi Tıbbiyeyi Askeriye), two went to the War College (Harbiye) but one
of them was kicked out and went on to study Political Science in Paris, one
studied Agriculture in Paris and three obtained higher education in Russia
before coming to the Ottoman Empire (one of them also studying in Paris).
Interestingly, not one of these Young Turks ever actively served in the army,
even though so many of them were trained in military institutions. This
strongly suggests they availed themselves of the opportunity to study in the
most advanced Ottoman schools (which is what the military schools were)
but lacked military ambitions.
When we look at their religious, ethnic and geographic background,
we see that they were all Muslims, but only a minority among them were
Ottoman Turks. Among the four original founders of the Ottoman Unity
Society there was an Albanian, two Kurds and a Circassian, but no Turks
at all. Another striking feature is the important contribution made to the
movement by immigrants from the Russian Empire. Five out of fourteen had
been born in the Caucasus or the Transcaucasian provinces of the Russian
Empire, one in Russia proper. Of the others, four hailed from the Balkans,
one form Istanbul, one from Bursa (born in a family from Istanbul) and
two from Eastern Anatolia. As for the social background of the early Young
Turks, they were all urban and literate, but in terms of occupation and social
status of their fathers, their origins seem to have been quite varied. We
encounter low to middle civil servants, a trader and an industrialist, but also
an Ottoman senator, a notable and a tribal chief among the fathers.
Leaders of the 1908 constitutional revolution

With one exception all of the first generation Young Turks lived to see the
realization of their goal, the re-establishment of parliamentary, constitu-
tional government, in July 1908. Very few of them were actively involved in
this momentous event, however. The roots of the constitutional revolution
lay with a group of ten people,6 who came together in Salonica in the sum-
mer of 1906 and founded a secret society, the Osmanlı Hürriyet Cemiyeti
(Ottoman Freedom Society or OFS), to take up the cause of constitutional-
ism. The initiative came from first generation Young Turk Mehmet Talât, a
native of Edirne, who had been exiled to Salonica in 1896 and was now the
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chief clerk of the Salonica Telegraph Office. The two people he confided in
most were two contemporaries from Salonica, Mithat S, ükrü (who had been
involved in the Young Turk movement in Geneva) and Evranoszade Rahmi, a
scion of a famous family of Rumelian notables, who had also joined the CUP
while in France. All three were born in 1873–4, so they were 32 years old
at the time the society was founded. While they were all civilians, they real-
ized that success in the struggle depended on the army, so they approached
seven army officers. Two of these stood out in that they were both older and
higher in rank. They were the director and the French teacher of the local
military secondary school: a colonel who was 45 (who like Talât had been
involved in the CUP in the early 1890s) and a major who was 40 years old.
The other army officers were significantly more junior in both respects; they
were captains of between 22 and 29 years old with an average age of 26.
In addition to being all male and all Muslim, they all possessed an urban
and literate background and all of them except Talât had enjoyed a higher
education. Civilian or military, they were all in one way or another in the
service of the state.
Another common factor in their background, which would prove to
be significant later on, is their geographical origin: Six hailed from the
Ottoman Balkans, two from the capital Istanbul, and two from the extreme
north-western part of Anatolia (one from Bursa and one from Adapazarı).
The complete absence of individuals from the Anatolian inland, Kurdistan,
the Arab provinces or the Muslim areas of the Russian Empire makes this
group noticeably different from the subgroup of early Young Turks with
respect to geographical origin. Like the first-generation founders, though,
the status and social standings of their fathers varied from that of landed
gentry (Rahmi) to lowly clerk (Talât).
Politically active officers in the Ottoman army

From the start the founders of the OFS actively sought to involve Ottoman
army officers stationed in the European provinces of the empire. Although
the Inspectorate of the European Armies was headquartered in Salonica,
the most important concentrations of officers could be found in the Second
and Third Army headquarters in Monastir and Edirne. The officers, mostly
captains and lieutenants along with a few majors, who were involved in set-
ting up the first cells of the OFS in Monastir and Salonica, included people
like Enver,7 Fethi [Okyar], Colonel Sadık, Aziz Ali al-Misri (who would end
· ·
up as Egyptian ambassador to Moscow under Nasser), Ismet [Inönü], Kâzım
[Karabekir], Ali [Çetinkaya] and Kâzım [Özalp]. These officers were key
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players in that they brought the army onto the side of the society and thus
gave it its decisive political power.Between late 1906 and the summer of
1908 the number of officers joining the society grew quite fast. At the time
of the revolution, the CUP had about 2,000 members, of whom about two-
thirds or more seem to have been military men. Of these, maybe three dozen
can be considered as politically influential in the inner circles of the com-
mittee. Obviously, the exact size of the group is open to debate as there are
no strict formal criteria circumscribing the group. Having looked in detail
at 21 prominent members of the group of activist officers, I have found some
interesting shared characteristics, which overlap to a degree with those of
the founders of the OFS.8
Geographically, the picture is very clear: Ten of them came from the
Balkan provinces, eight from Istanbul, one from the Aegean littoral (Izmir)
and one from inland Anatolia. Without exception the young officers came
from an urban and literate background. Their fathers had been in the serv-
ice of the State in one capacity or another, and in the majority of cases
the officers were also officers’ sons. Social status varied a great deal, mak-
ing any label like ‘lower middle class’ or ‘establishment’ quite meaningless.
The fathers of Mustafa Kemal and Enver, for example, were small-time civil
servants, while their friends and colleagues Kâzım Karabekir and Ali Fuat
[Cebesoy] were children of pashas and quite rich.
In terms of age, these activist officers warranted the label ‘Young Turks’.
At the time of the constitutional revolution of 1908 they were on average
29 years old, which makes them about seven years younger on average than
the group of civilian leaders (or party bosses) around Talât. The age dif-
ferentials within this group of young officers were very small, with most of
them being born in a narrow band between 1878 and 1883.9 This also means
that many of them had known each other as classmates in the military col-
leges of the empire or during their traineeships in the army.
Although most of the officers were first lieutenants, captains or adjutant-
majors at the time of the revolution, their career prospects were very differ-
·
ent. Some officers, like Mustafa Kemal (the later Atatürk), Enver, Ali I hsan
or Kâzım Karabekir had graduated among the top pupils of the General
Staff Academy in Istanbul. They entered the army as Staff Captains and
were earmarked for fast-track promotion. They would go on to become gen-
erals or at least colonels. Those who graduated from the Staff Academy but
did not make the top third of the class, entered the army as ‘distinguished
captains’ with slightly less brilliant career prospects. Those, finally, who
graduated from the War College, but whose marks were not good enough
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for entry into the General Staff Academy, entered the army as lieutenants
and would form the middle cadres of the officer corps. Some of these got the
chance to go through the Staff Academy later in their careers.
The volunteers
Élite officers like Enver, Kâzım, Fethi and Mustafa Kemal clearly formed a
separate subgroup but at the same time bonds of friendship, often based on
a shared history as classmates, tied them personally to lower ranking offic-
ers. These ties were important and could be mobilized, as indeed they were,
most spectacularly by Enver at the start of World War I, when he created the
Teşkilat-i Mahsusa or ‘Special Organization’ (a covert group within the War
Ministry that facilitated the Armenian massacres) out of the loosely defined
group known as the fedaiin (volunteers). Already in the run-up to the con-
stitutional revolution some officers volunteered for dangerous missions, like
political murders. These officers were organized as a separate unit and con-
tinued to do the CUP’s dirty work after the revolution. When the Italians
invaded Tripolitania in 1911, for example, they flocked there to serve in
the anti-Italian guerrilla under staff officers like Enver, Fethi and Mustafa
Kemal and one year later, during the Balkan War, they were charged with
setting up a guerrilla movement and even an ostensibly independent Muslim
republic in Western Thrace. They would later play an important role both
in the persecution of the Armenians during World War I and in the resist-
ance movement after the war. A great deal, mostly sensational, stuff has
been written about the exploits of this group, but actually we still know very
little about the background of most its members, people like Kuşçubaşızade
Eşref, Sapancalı Hakkı, Yakup Cemil, I·zmitli Mümtaz or Çerkes Reşit. We
do know, though, that members of the one million strong Circassian minor-
ity in the Ottoman Empire, the children and grandchildren of nineteenth-
century refugees from the Caucasus, played a key role in this group.10
Members of the Central Committee

In September 1907 the Ottoman Freedom Society merged with the Paris-
based Committee of Union and Progress to form the Committee of Progress
and Union (CPU). In July 1908 it orchestrated a campaign in which sev-
eral Young Turk officers in different parts of Ottoman Macedonia took the
troops under their command out into the field and demanded the restora-
tion of constitution and parliament. When the Sultan responded by deploy-
ing troops, the troops’ commander, Şemsi Pasha, was murdered in broad
daylight by a CUP fedaî. Troops brought over from Anatolia were met by
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Young Turk agitators on the ships that took them from Izmir to Salonica. On
24 July, the Sultan gave in. The constitutional revolution had taken place.
When elections were organized later in 1908 the CPU, which had by
then renamed itself the CUP, won a handsome (albeit somewhat unstable)
majority in parliament, and was able to install a government sympathetic to
its ideas. The CUP itself, meanwhile, decided to remain a closed, secretive,
society ruled by its Salonica-based CC. The party it founded merely con-
sisted of its parliamentary faction and had no independent existence outside
parliament.
The members of the opposition who had been sent into internal exile by
the Sultan as well as the Young Turk veterans based in Europe came back in
triumph, but they soon discovered that they were out of touch with devel-
opments in the empire. Mizancı Murat, Abdullah Cevdet, I· brahim Temo
and even Ahmet Rıza: they all fell out with the CC of the CUP and had to
retreat from political life. Murat left for his native Tiflis, while Temo set-
tled in Romania, where he had lived before 1908. At the end of his long
life, he would become a member of the senate, but of the Romanian, not
the Ottoman one. Ahmet Rıza was first given a seat on the CC because of
his undoubted status as the veteran Young Turk leader, but when he voiced
criticism of the policies of the CUP he was soon ‘kicked upstairs’ to the
powerless senate. The only two people from among the ‘old’ Young Turks
who really counted politically after 1908 were the two who had reorganized
the movement after 1902 and who had been in close touch with the group
in Salonica, Bahaettin Şakir and Dr Nâzım. The CC would remain until
the end of World War I ten years later the centre of power in the Ottoman
Empire. The number of members of the CC numbered from three to twelve
and from 1916 a change in the regulations introduced a Central Council
(Meclisi Umumi), but right to the end the Central Committee (Merkezi
Umumi) constituted the real centre of power. A total of 26 people served on
the CC between 1908 and 1918.11
To understand the power structures of the Young Turk era it is not
enough to look at the centre alone. For its hold on power the CUP depended
not only on its ability to mobilize the army through its officer members, but
also on its representatives in the provincial centres. Important members of
the CUP, people like Circassian Mehmet Res,it (one of the original founders
of the Ottoman Unity Society in 1889) in Diyarbakır, Azmi in Trabzon and
Evranoszade Rahmi in Izmir held sway in the provincial capitals, and often
had a large degree of discretionary power. Rahmi in particular ruled the
Aydın province from Izmir as though it was an autonomous region. Apart
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from infiltrating the structures of the provincial administration, the CUP

also set up its own parallel networks. It established Unionist clubs in all the
major provincial centres and a network of party bosses, variously called
‘responsible secretaries’, ‘delegates’ and ‘inspectors.’ However, as this chap-
ter is concerned with the core leadership of the Young Turks, the provincial
party leaders are not included in the survey. Focus will be on the members
of the CUP Central Committee.
When we look at the geographical origins of those Committee mem-
bers, we see a picture emerging that is by now familiar: out of the 25 people
whose origins I have so far been able to find out, eleven hailed from the
Balkan provinces, four from Istanbul, four from the Aegean (islands and
littoral) and four from Anatolia. One was born in Cairo (as a scion of the
Khedivial family), one in the Kurdish areas and one in the Caucasus.
The CC was dominated by the civilian element within the CUP, in par-
ticular, Talât. The officers, who had played such a crucial role in the consti-
tutional revolution, the suppression of the counterrevolution of April 1909
and the coup d’état of January 1913, were hardly represented at all except
for two of the original ‘heroes of the revolution’ (officers who had started
the rebellion in July 1908): Enver and Eyüp Sabri. The civilian element that
dominated the CC was older by about seven years than the military. Civilians
and officers alike had at least a college education (with the aforementioned
exception of Talât).
Although the members of the CC also had an urban and literate back-
ground, their social origins were more varied. Where most of the military
officers were sons of officers, we find notables, landowners, postal officials,
traders and financial controllers among the fathers of the CC members.
However, a paucity of data prevents us from drawing definite conclusions.
The leadership of the national resistance

After the Ottoman defeat in World War I, the paths of the members of the
unionist ruling élite diverged. A small group of key leaders, who carried
the main responsibility for the entry of the Ottoman Empire into the war
and particularly for the persecution of the Armenians (Enver, Talât, Cemâl,
Bahaettin Şakir, Dr Nazım and a few others) left the country aboard a
German warship. During the de facto occupation of Istanbul by the Entente
in 1919–20 some 144 Ottomans were arrested by the Sultan’s government
or by the British and interned in Malta. Among this group were former
members of the CC, former ministers, governors, members of parliament,
publicists and prominent military men. The departure of these leaders from
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the scene, however, did not prevent the emergence of a powerful resistance
movement, which had already been in the planning stages prior to the sign-
ing of the armistice. Both the central leadership of the CUP and the local
party bosses in those areas that seemed in danger of being ceded to the
Armenians in the east or the Greeks in the west charged party members with
raising public consciousness of the danger and with the preparation of guer-
rilla warfare.
These people involved with the start of the national struggle do not
constitute a new group. They are familiar figures from the preceding era.
Three groups in particular seem to have been important: First, politically
active military officers (by now mostly colonels and generals, people like Ali
Fuat [Cebesoy], Kâzım Karabekir, I· smet [I· nönü], Refet [Bele] but also Deli
Halit, Seyfi [Düzgören], Kâzım [Özalp] or Cafer Tayyar [Eğilmez] – all of
them early CUP members; second, CUP party bosses like Yenibahçeli Nail,
Mazhar Müfit [Kansu], Celâl [Bayar] and Filibeli Hilmi; and third, former
fedaiin from the Special Organization. At the same time as Mustafa Kemal
made his much publicized landfall in Samsun on 19 May 1919, the ‘second
man’ of the resistance, former Navy Minister Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay], made a
much less obtrusive tour of Western Anatolia, visiting Special Organization
veterans, all Circassians like himself, and making Special Organization arms
caches available to them. The number of Circassians among the command-
ers of the resistance is remarkably high: Halit, Ali Fuat, Refet and Rauf were
all members of immigrant families from the Caucasus.
The political leadership of the resistance movement, as apart from
the military leadership, was formed by the Council of Commissars (heyeti
vükela), whose members were elected by the National Assembly from April
1920 onwards. This was a rather instable organ, whose membership under-
went frequent changes, but if we look at the council of 1920 we see that 17
people served on it.12 If we exclude I· smail Fazıl Pasha, the general who was
elected a commissar out of respect for his support to the national movement
in which his son Ali Fuat [Cebesoy] played such a prominent role, they were
on average 41 years old in 1920. This makes them very slightly older than
the group of military leaders (with which there is some overlap in the shape
of Mustafa Kemal, I· smet and Fevzi Pashas). Twelve commissars hailed from
Istanbul, the Marmara region, the Aegean or the Balkans, four from the rest
of Anatolia and one from the Caucasus. Five can be considered members
of muhacir families. All except one (Celâl) had a higher education, with
the great colleges of Istanbul once more well represented: five came from
the Harbiye, three from the Mülkiye and two from the Tıbbiye. Five of the
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commissars had been educated partly in Europe – in Paris or Berlin. Almost

all of them had gained political as well as professional experience under the
empire, with no less than seven out of seventeen having served as members
of the Ottoman parliament.
The CUP leaders who had fled the country in 1918 never managed to
return. The Unionists interned in Malta did return but they were absent
at the critical period when the national resistance movement took shape.
This allowed a new leadership around Mustafa Kemal Pasha to emerge and
assume control over the resistance organization. Having taken over the
movement, Mustafa Kemal and his circle successfully beat off attempts by
former Unionists to regain control (in 1921) or to make political comebacks
(in 1923). Over the period 1925–6 Mustafa Kemal finally established full
control by eliminating all those among the former Unionists and former
resistance leaders who could provide a credible challenge to his leadership.
The early republican ruling élite

During the first 20 or so years of the republic the trimmings of a democratic
parliamentarian political system were in place, although emergency pow-
ers gave the government a relatively free hand from 1925–9 and 1939–46.
Real power, however, did not lie with parliament but with a small group of
politicians, who figured in the top of the Republican People’s Party and in
the cabinets of the period. The party functioned in practice as a branch of
the state, creating a support base for the Kemalist policies and spreading the
regime’s ideological message.
As for assembling a representative sampling of the early republican rul-
ing élite, the 23 individuals who served in at least a quarter of the cabinets
of the first 20 years of the republic are a good place to start. In addition, the
long-time president of the assembly, Kâzım [Özalp] should be included in
any group of most influential leaders. In view of the overwhelming impor-
tance of the army in the founding of the republic, Fevzi [Cakmak], who was
Chief of the General Staff through the period should also be on the list.13
This is not the whole story, however. During the last ten years of his
life (1928–38) Mustafa Kemal Pasha rarely occupied himself with the day-
to-day running of the country, concentrating instead on the great reform
projects, such as the change of alphabet and the linguistic purification cam-
paign, and embarking on long inspection tours of the country. Nevertheless,
he remained the unquestioned leader of the country, and the governing élite
who consisted in large part of former military officers continued to adhere
to the principle of the ‘chain of command’. The fact that the president was so
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powerful, while at the same time being quite distant from the daily business
of government made it possible for his ‘kitchen cabinet’, a circle of friends,
who visited him frequently in his presidential villa, to exert significant influ-
ence even if they held no major positions. The members of this group, some
ten people who had been close to Mustafa Kemal since his army days and
sometimes since his youth in Salonica therefore deserve to be included in
any consideration of the élite of the early republic.14
The 36 people thus selected show up a number of characteristics that are
already familiar to us from our review of earlier subgroups of Young Turk
leadership. Geographically, 35 per cent of them hailed from the Ottoman
Balkans, 20 per cent from the Aegean, the same number from Istanbul and
11 per cent from the Marmara basin. In other words: fully 86 per cent of
them were born in an area that can be considered a cohesive and integrated
zone, one which in terms of integration with Europe, literacy, material
and cultural development was completely different from that of Central-
and Eastern Anatolia. Someone like Evranoszade Rahmi [Arslan], born and
bred in Salonica, could easily feel at home in Izmir, where he became the
long serving governor, because the cities were very similar in terms of amen-
ities and cultural climate. Central and Eastern Anatolia, the areas adopted
as the true Turkish heartland by the Kemalists, brought forth no more than
five members of the republican leadership in Ankara. No less than half of
the people who led the new republic came from areas that were lost by the
empire in the period 1911–13. In a technical sense they were refugees.
With a single exception, the leaders came from an urban environment
(the exception being Mahmut Celâl [Bayar], later the third president of the
republic). Out of 36, 75 per cent were educated in the great colleges of the
empire – 15 of them in the War Academy (Harbiye), two in the Military
Medical College (Tıbbiyei Askeriye) and ten in the Civil Service Academy
(Mülkiye). The education of two persons I have not yet been able to find
out, but six others came from an array of higher education establishments,
ranging from the arts faculty of the university to the agricultural college to a
school for postal officials. The only member of the élite with a village back-
ground, Celâl, was also the only one without higher education. He received
on-the-job training in a bank.
In other words: the leaders of the republic, like the Unionists before
them, had received a European-styled modern education in secular schools.
They all were proficient in at least one foreign language, most often French.
People with a traditional religious education are lacking: there was not a
single medrese student among them.
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Conclusion: continuities and discontinuities

The turbulence of the decades spanning the constitutional revolution,
World War I, the War of Independence, and the early years of the Republic
is reflected in the degree of discontinuity of political leadership at the top
level. The constitutional revolution – organized by a group of young civil
servants and even younger officers in the Balkan provinces of the empire
and followed within a year by a counterrevolution in the capital that had to
be suppressed by the army – very quickly led to the sidelining of the lead-
ers of the first generation Young Turks, the men who had been active in
the opposition movement abroad since 1889. These pioneers, with a strong
intellectual streak, yielded to the men of action. Then, the defeat of the
Young Turk-led empire in World War I led to the flight of the top political
leaders and the internment of dozens of leading members of the CUP. This
gave Mustafa Kemal the chance gradually to establish his supremacy. Having
beaten off different challenges of the older leaders and having purged the
remnants of the old leadership in 1926, he created a power monopoly for
himself and his followers.
However, under the top level of leadership we see a lot of continuity
among the political élite of the whole period 1908–45. The three elements
that together made up the core of the national resistance movement were mil-
itary officers with a Unionist background, activists with a background in the
Special Organization, and CUP party bosses and organizers in the provincial
centres. The leadership of the early republic reflected these three ingredients,
with a dominant position for (former) military men. Having been Unionists
themselves, they shared the basic characteristics possessed by the top-level of
the pre-1918 Unionist leadership. They were Muslim males of varied ethnic
descent, Turks being the largest group. On average they were born in 1883,
which makes them almost precisely the same age as the officers who had
founded the Ottoman Freedom Society in Salonica in 1906, as well as the
politically active officers of the CUP and their representatives on the CC.
This similarity in age also reflects the fact that the slightly older (by about
seven years on average) civilian group around Talât that had dominated the
CC before 1918 had been eliminated, partly in 1918 and partly in 1926.
Surprisingly, perhaps, the new Republic, consisting almost entirely of
Anatolia, continued to be dominated by people born in the Balkans, Istanbul
or the Aegean. Three quarters of the founders of the OFS and the members
of the CC of the CUP had hailed from these three areas. We find exactly the
same percentage among the republican leaders. Only the politically active
officers of 1908 display an even higher percentage (95 per cent!).
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Although the position and wealth of their families varied a great deal,
the republican leaders just like earlier Young Turk groupings came from an
urban background (with a single exception) and from literate families. All
subgroups reviewed here share a background in secular, European-modelled
higher education, be it military or civil. There were only two exceptions of
people who had no higher education but were trained on the job: Talât among
the Unionists and Celâl [Bayar] among the Kemalists. One was to become
grand vizier, the other president. The only person with a religious medrese
education was the Unionist Şeyhülislam Hayri Efendi. With very few excep-
tions (Celâl again being one) they made their careers as officers, bureaucrats
or teachers in the service of the State they had attempted to save.
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9. The Young Turk Mindset*
The constitutional revolution of 1908 and the proclamation of the republic

in 1923 were very much the work of a single group, a closely-knit generation
of young officers and administrators, who, as we have seen in the previous
chapter, shared a number of characteristics in their personal background.
There is a common profile to this group of important Young Turks (includ-
ing both the leading members of the Committee of Union and Progress and
the ruling élite of the republic). It consisted of Muslim males, born almost
exclusively between 1875 and 1885, with an urban literate background (albeit
hailing from different social strata). The majority of them had their roots
in the Southern Balkans, the Aegean or the capital, a region vastly different
from inland Anatolia and the Arab provinces. Ethnically the composition of
the Young Turks was diverse, with a majority of Turks but important compo-
nents of Albanians and Caucasian immigrants, some Kurds and Arabs. The
two factors that, apart from their age, clearly were common to nearly all of
them were a higher education in one of the European-type colleges of the
empire and a career in the service of the state. The influence of the military
in the Young Turk movement was important from 1906 onwards and grew as
time wore on: the early republic was completely dominated by the military
element, albeit they had by then resigned or retired from the armed forces.
Having thus established a somewhat clearer picture of the Young Turks,
their origins, background and age, we can now chart the crucial shared
experiences of this group from their adolescent years until the demise of
the Ottoman Empire and examine to what extent these experiences may
have shaped their mentality and their worldview: their youth in Balkan
towns, education, professional experience and political activism.
The Christian bourgeoisie: threat and model

Three quarters of the Young Turks grew up in the 1880s and 1890s in the
Balkans, the Aegean or Istanbul. Consequently, they witnessed at close range
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The Young Turk Mindset
the rise of the Christian bourgeoisie in the towns and cities of the empire.
The area they hailed from had been integrating into the European economy
since the late eighteenth century and trade with Europe had increased at
a high rate since the 1830s.1 It was primarily the Christian middle class
that profited, sometimes working with European economic interests, some-
times in competition with them.2 From the mid-1890s the pace of integra-
tion picked up, and by the end of the century the overwhelming majority
of the industrial establishments of the empire were in the hands of foreign-
ers or local Christians. The two categories overlapped to a certain extent
because many among the Christians who had earlier acquired protection
of a European power later opted for full foreign citizenship.3 In cities like
Istanbul, Salonica or Izmir the gap between the Muslims and non-Muslims in
terms of wealth, education and lifestyle grew visibly larger. New neighbour-
hoods with French-style apartment blocks and villas and with tramways and
electric light grew outside the old towns. The emergence of the new largely
Christian bourgeoisie led to the creation of new sociabilities: gentlemen’s
clubs, cafés and restaurants, charitable societies and Masonic lodges, parks
and promenades, sports clubs and hippodromes.4 Young Muslims with an
urban literate background and an education in modern secular schools lived
on the margins of this new world, participating in parts of it but aware of the
inferior status they occupied within it. Talât and his friends joined a lodge
(partly to shield them from the omnipresent Hamidian secret police) and
expounded on the future of the country in the cafés of Salonica. Mustafa
Kemal frequented the same cafes of his native town from 1907 onwards.
Later, he would stay at the Pera Palas hotel and frequent the Cercle d’Orient
club in Istanbul. At the same time the Young Turks were very conscious of the
increasing wealth and influence of the non-Muslims, which contrasted with
their own situation as young officers and bureaucrats whose pay was often
in arrears by months. Their collective identity was certainly formed in oppo-
sition to non-Muslims, as is proven by the fact that the Ottoman Freedom
Society founded in Salonica in 1906 explicitly excluded non-Muslims.5 The
first 70 members were all Muslims and even when the society expanded its
membership in 1907–8 only a handful of non-Muslims were allowed in,
almost all of them either dönme (Sabbataic Jews) or Vlahs (members of the
Romanian-speaking minority in Macedonia). When they took to the moun-
tains in June–July 1908, Young Turk officers first of all mobilized Muslim
villages against the threat of a European Christian takeover.6
At the same time the Christian bourgeoisie of the Ottoman towns pro-
vided these Young Turks with model of modernity. The modernity to which
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the Young Turks – Unionists and Kemalists alike – aspired is clearly visible
in the architecture they promoted and in the rearrangement of the public
space. The Unionists had little room for manoeuvre in this field as seven
years of their ten-year rule were war years, but when the dust had settled,
the Kemalists had the opportunity to rebuild Turkey according to their ideal
of modernity. The result was that in every Anatolian provincial town, where
the Kemalists in the 1930s laid out new areas, we see parks, cafés, tearooms
and theatres. Ankara, the showcase of the new state, had straight (rational)
avenues lined with villas that could have been taken from the Balkans, a
gentlemen’s club, an opera house and a racecourse. The model of modernity
they aspired to is also visible in their lifestyle. In their personal attire and
behaviour the Young Turks mimicked the example of the Christian bourgeoi-
sie. They dressed in European clothes (something made compulsory for the
population as a whole with the Kemalist dress code of 1925) or uniforms.
Pictures of wives and daughters of Unionist leaders show them in European
dresses, sometimes with ‘voiles’ replacing the veil, and in the 1920s and 30s
the female relatives of the republican leadership are often shown in high heels
and sleeveless dresses or fur coats. Enver promoted the boy scout movement
and the (originally German) vogue of dressing children in naval uniform
reached the Ottoman Empire too. The Young Turks used calling cards, held
dogs as pets and went out of their way to learn ballroom dancing. It is hard,
therefore, to escape the notion that the Young Turk interpretation of moder-
nity was in fact the European bourgeois way of life, as presented to them in
the towns and cities of the Southern Balkans and the Aegean.
Education and revelation

Although many Young Turks had some experience in traditional neighbour-
hood schools where the Koran was learned by heart, the characteristic fea-
ture of their education was that they were schooled in secular Western-type
schools both at the secondary and higher education level. This imbued them
with a science-oriented and materialist worldview, which is particularly evi-
dent among the many doctors in the Young Turk movement. As Hanioğlu
has shown, the writings of the Young Turks are full of references to the need
for a rational, scientific approach to replace traditionalism.7 This is actually
a more important theme in their writings than politics. From them there
runs a straight line to the Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, who pronounced that ‘the
truest spiritual guide in life is science’ (Hayatta en hakiki mürşit ilimdir) and
that ‘the torch that the Turkish nation held in its hand on its road to progress
and civilisation, is exact science’.8
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Learning French in these Western-styled schools opened up entirely

new worlds to them, even if the level of proficiency was often mediocre,
and we know that they used this knowledge to read, not only textbooks,
but also French journals (in particular the popular illustrated ones) and
books. Besides information on the wider world the periodicals also serial-
ized novels in the shape of feuilletons.9 What they took from this literature
is a penchant for romantic activism, for great and heroic acts and a high
regard for youth. The Young Turks were quite young in a literal sense when
they came onto the scene in 1908, but they were also the first generation of
Ottomans to see youth as an asset. Being young and well-educated, they felt
they understood the world much better than older people and believed that
their youth was a factor that legitimized their actions.10 This was in stark
contrast to the worldview of earlier generations of Ottomans, who saw a
positive relationship between old age and authority. That the emphasis on
the key role of the young persisted in the republic is shown best by the final
paragraph of Mustafa Kemal’s great six-day speech of 1927. In the famous
section of the speech, Gençliğe Hitabe (Address to Youth), which can still
be found inscribed all over Turkey, the president emphatically entrusts the
Turkish youth with his legacy.11
Seeing as the Young Turks by and large owed their career to their higher
education, it therefore makes sense that they believed in the power of edu-
cation to produce progress and enlightenment. This belief in education
was particularly important as a constituent element in the self-view of the
Kemalists, who often portrayed themselves as educators of a backward pop-
ulation. When the new alphabet was introduced in 1928, Mustafa Kemal
Pasha gave public lessons explaining it. Pictures of him with blackboard and
chalk are still among the most popular items in the Atatürk iconography.
It was also during their time in college that most of the Young Turks
discovered the existence of a constitutional opposition movement. By word
of mouth they were made aware of the banned works of the constitutional
movement of the 1860s, the Young Ottomans and especially of the fiery
calls for reform and patriotism of Namık Kemal. Handwritten copies were
passed from student to student in the dormitories. After 1896, the journals
of the Young Turk movement abroad (papers like Meşveret, Şurayı Ümmet
or Osmanlı) were read and distributed illegally in the colleges. They propa-
gated a message of political opposition in the name of constitution and par-
liament, and called for renewal on the basis of science and rationalism. Most
of all they attacked the sultan’s government for failing to defend the empire
against foreign encroachments.12
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For some of the Young Turks, particularly those who stayed in Europe, the
sudden discovery of one particular European thinker became all-important.
One has to remember that these people were not academic theoreticians or
researchers (even if some of them came to hold chairs in universities), but
were instead activists on the look out for a solution that would save their
state and bring about a reinvigoration of Ottoman society. There was an
urgency to their quest for a philosopher’s stone that made them impatiently
embrace a single idea or thinker uncritically, once they thought they had
found it. This happened to Ahmet Rıza with Auguste Comte and his disciple
Pierre Lafitte, to Prince Sabahattin with Camille Demolins and Frederic le
Play, to Abdullah Cevdet with Gustave Le Bon and Ludwig Büchner, and to
Ziya Gökalp with Emile Durkheim.
Guerrilla warfare and the Third Army

The officers that graduated from the War College and the General Staff
school had to do their practical field training with one of the Ottoman
armies. Nearly all of them served at one time or another with the Third
Army, which was garrisoned in Albania, Kosovo and Macedonia. Here
they were confronted with the ongoing guerrilla warfare of Greek, Serbian,
Albanian, Macedonian and Bulgarian bands that was endemic in these
areas. These Greek, Bulgarian and Serbian bands often acted in the name
of nationalist demands, even if their actions were indistinguishable from
other robber bands. The continuous small-scale, but sometimes atrocious,
confrontations between Ottoman army units and these bands constitute the
dominant professional experience for most Young Turk officers up to 1911.
Some of them, like Enver, gained fame through their exploits in this strug-
gle. Though the guerrilla bands were not able to defeat regular army units,
what made them so dangerous in Ottoman eyes was that the unrest they cre-
ated could attract foreign interference. Macedonia was already under foreign
tutelage of the combined European powers since the Mürzsteg agreement of
1903,13 and officers from different European countries acted as inspectors
of the Ottoman gendarmerie, something that hurt the national pride of the
young officers a great deal.14 As in any typical guerrilla situation it was very
difficult for the army to distinguish between the bands themselves and the
population that sheltered them, thus increasing the officers’ mistrust of the
Christian communities as a whole. For people whose identity formation had
already taken place in the context of the growing divide between Muslims
and non-Muslims in the towns, their experiences in the Third Army, fighting
Christian bands, of course reinforced that aspect of their development.15
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At the same time, the Young Turk officers had a grudging admiration for
the fierce nationalism of the bands and for the effectiveness of their meth-
ods of warfare. Simply put, the Young Turks learned their lesson. Already
in May–June 1908, the CUP had decided to start ‘Ottoman national bands’
on the pattern of the Greek, Bulgar and Serb bands.16 When Italy invaded
Tripolitania in 1911and regular Ottoman forces could not reach the province
(the Italians had mastery of the sea and the British would not allow troops
to cross Egypt), a few dozen Unionist officers, staff officers like Enver, Fethi
and Mustafa Kemal as well as many Unionist fedaiin, went there to organize
guerrilla units composed from Arab tribes from the interior. Likewise, when
the Balkan War broke out in October 1912, the fedaiin were charged with
starting a guerrilla in Western Thrace, an area populated by Muslims and
contested between the Ottoman Empire, Bulgaria and Greece. This group
of Young Turk officers and fedaiin behind these guerrilla movements formed
the nucleus of the Special Organization officially founded in 1914.17 When an
allied breakthrough at the Dardanelles seemed imminent in 1915 and again,
when defeat in the World War I had become inevitable in 1918, the CUP
leadership prepared the ground for a guerrilla war in Anatolia. When that
guerrilla war started in 1919 under the aegis of the Society for the Defence
of the National Rights of Anatolia and Rumelia (the national resistance led
by Mustafa Kemal Pasha), the volunteers of the Special Organization played
a leading role, applying the lessons they had learned in the Balkans.18 The
importance of the Balkan experience before 1908 can also be seen in the
Turks’ adoption of the Serbian and Bulgarian terms for this type of guerrilla
band: Çete and Komitacı respectively, terms still in use (with very negative
connotations) in Turkey today.
Initiation into the CUP

Between September 1906 and July 1908 a few hundred young officers serv-
ing in the Second and Third Armies were sworn in as members of the under-
ground resistance known, first, as the Ottoman Freedom Society and then
as the Society for Progress and Union (the more familiar name of Society (or
Committee) for Union and Progress was reintroduced after the revolution).
Initiation into this society was strictly regulated and ritualized. The new
member was introduced by a guide (rehber) and brought to a house at night,
to be interrogated by three members in masks and gowns. He then had to
swear loyalty and silence on pain of death over a Koran and a revolver.19 The
ritual, which shares many characteristics with the initiation rites of European
secret societies like the Italian Carbonari, the Greek Philiki Hetairia or the
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Serb Black Hand Society, clearly had religious overtones and we know from
the personal recollections of the Young Turks that it was an experience they
never forgot. They were imbued with a feeling of belonging to a dedicated
vanguard with a mission; it is not unusual to find references in their mem-
oirs to the cemiyeti mukaddes (holy society).20 For some it created bonds of
loyalty that would outlast the CUP itself, which was formally disbanded in
1918.
Revolution and counterrevolution

For the lower-ranking officers in their late twenties, toppling in three weeks
the regime of an autocratic monarch who had been on the throne since before
they were born and becoming the masters of an empire that still stretched
from Albania to the Yemen must have been a heady, indeed an intoxicating,
experience, giving a sense of unlimited possibilities for those who were bold
enough to try. Belief in the force of the human will to change things is a char-
acteristic of Young Turk leaders like Enver and Mustafa Kemal and in their
eyes it contrasted sharply with what they saw as the fatalism of the conserva-
tive masses.
But if the revolution of 1908 was a euphoric experience, the counterrev-
olution of April 1909 (or ‘31 March incident’) was one of the most traumatic
ones in any Young Turk’s life. The fact that the Unionists, who saw them-
selves as the saviours of the country and who had been hailed as the ‘Heroes
of Freedom’ (hürriyet kahramanları) eight months before, proved helpless
in their own capital in the face of a rebellion by dissatisfied soldiers from
the battalions they had themselves picked for garrison duty and a bunch of
religious students, came as a tremendous shock. Even though they succeeded
in re-establishing order with the help of loyal army units from Macedonia
within a fortnight, it left them with an acute sense of vulnerability. From
this time onwards, irtica (religious reaction, or something we would now
perhaps call ‘fundamentalism’) would become their worst nightmare. They
were left with the feeling that it would always be possible for reactionary
figures to mobilize the ignorant masses against the forces of progress with
an appeal to Islam. Later, when rebellions or manifestations against the
Kemalist regime occurred that had religious overtones, as in the Sheikh Sait
rebellion of 1925 or the ‘Menemen incident’ of 1930, the former Unionists
who made up the republican élite immediately referred to the experience of
April 1909 in their efforts to understand what was happening. Even today,
when the secularist establishment of Turkey feels under threat, references to
the ‘31 Mart incident’ surface in speeches and newspaper headlines. 21
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In the service of the state

Almost without exception the Young Turks made their careers in the service
of the Ottoman state. This factor undoubtedly left a deep imprint on their
worldview. As had been pointed time and again, the most urgent question
they faced was: ‘How can this state be saved?’ As we have seen in the chapter
on the Historiography of the Constitutional Revolution (Part I), the event
that triggered this revolution in 1908 was Great Britain’s offer (at the meet-
ing in Reval (Tallinn) between Edward VII and Tsar Nicholas II) to support
full autonomy under a Christian governor for the Macedonian provinces, a
solution that would have fatally weakened the empire in Europe. Likewise,
saving the State (as well as their own position) was behind the Unionist
coup d’état of January 1913, behind the decision to join Germany in the
World War and behind the national resistance movement in 1919. For the
Unionists saving the state was conditional on strengthening the position of
the only really dependable part of its population, the Ottoman Muslims
and, increasingly, the Turks, and the claim to be acting to save the state
ultimately legitimized every kind of measure.
The state-centred view of the Young Turks also meant that they almost
automatically saw the state as the engine for change in society. The only Young
Turk faction that looked beyond the state was Prince Sabahettin’s ‘League
for Private Initiative and Decentralization’. In Sabahettin’s eyes the key to
progress lay in the development, through education, of an enterprising and
individualistic élite. His ideas were attractive to the Christian communities
because of his advocacy of far-reaching decentralization, but he only had the
support of a small minority of the Young Turks and played only a marginal
role after the revolution. After the counterrevolution of 1909 he had to leave
the country. The Kemalists were very firmly in the statist tradition of the
Young Turks, seeing the interest of the (republican) State as something of tran-
scendent value. That is also a legacy that is still very much with us today.
The military mind

At least two-thirds of the early Unionists were soldiers by trade and it is not
surprising that their approach to problem resolution should reflect their mili-
tary background. Handan Nezir has shown how German military thinking
(primarily that of Colmar von der Golz, who trained generations of Ottoman
officers) as well as the Russia’s military defeat in 1905 at the hands of a
non-Western power, the Japanese, deeply influenced this generation of offic-
ers.22 They gleaned from these sources the idea that the modern state should
be built on a ‘nation in arms’ and that the strength of the state could only
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be ensured by creating a nation of soldiers. The idea that the Turks should
become a nation of soldiers became very popular in the Unionist media after
the outbreak of the Balkan War in 1912. Even in respectable ladies’ journals,
the readers were exhorted to bring up their sons as soldiers for the fatherland.
The idea that the Turks actually are a nation of soldiers, or even a soldier race
later became an integral part of Turkish republican nationalism and it still
lives on even today in nationalist circles. One of the best-known marches and
one that every recruit has to learn by heart during the first weeks of military
training is ‘Every Turk is Born a Soldier’ (Her Türk Asker Doğar).23
Coupled to the idea of the nation in arms was a particularly grim
Darwinist worldview, clearly derived from thinkers like Gustave Le Bon (who
was very popular among military men worldwide), which held that a strug-
gle for survival was underway in the world, in which nations had to earn the
right to exist. When we look at what Young Turk writers say about the defeat
in the Balkan War or the Armenian genocide, this aspect stands out. These
writers, for instance, posit that the Ottomans lose out in the Balkans because
they have failed to train their children to be soldiers and to hate the enemy.
In the same vein, the Armenians forfeit the right to exist because in a struggle
to the death they prove to be the weaker ones. Mustafa Kemal later uses this
same rhetoric, albeit in a different context, when he urges the Turkish nation
to modernize and develop: the Turks have to earn the right to exist in a world
of competing nations. If they fail, stronger nations will devour them.
Losing the ancestral land and the adoption of Anatolia

With half of the Young Turk leaders hailing from areas lost to the empire
in 1911–13, the loss of the Balkan provinces and the Aegean islands consti-
tuted a trauma of the first order. To much of the Ottoman élite, the Balkans
(Rumeli) was their home, their ancestral land. It is perhaps useful here to
remind ourselves just how long some of the main towns and cities of the
Balkans had been in Ottoman hands: places like Prishtina, Üsküp (Skopje),
Monastir (Bitola) and Salonica (Thessaloniki) had all been conquered
between 1385 and 1390 and so had an Ottoman past stretching back more
than 500 years. There was a strong consciousness of this fact and a feeling
that the legacy of the glorious forefathers had now been lost. This is visible,
for instance, in the lines of one of the best-known poems of the famous poet
Yahya Kemal Beyatlı, himself born in Skopje in 1884:
When I passed my youth in Balkan towns

I felt a yearning with every breath
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I took. Byron’s sad melancholy rules my heart then.

In youth’s daydreams I roamed the mountains
Breathed the free air of Rakofça´s fields.
I felt the passion of my raiding ancestors
Every summer, for centuries, a run to the North
That has left a thundering echo in my breast.
While the army was in defeat, the whole country in mourning
A conqueror’s thought entered my dreams every night
Feelings of melancholy, a sad remnant of the fl ight.24
It would not have been surprising had a strong irredentist movement, aim-
ing to reconquer the lost territories, developed among the Ottoman élite
after 1913. This, however, was not the case. The attack by the Balkan states
caused enormous bitterness and both the periodicals and the literature of
the years 1912–14 are full of calls for revenge.25 But these emotions did not
result in any strong revanchist political movement for reconquest (as in post-
1871 France). Though reversing the losses of 1913 was part of the war aims
formulated by the Ottoman government when it joined German by in World
War I, this had no practical effect, as drawing Bulgaria into the orbit of
the Central Powers (and thereby opening up the vital supply route between
Germany and the Ottoman Empire) took precedence over rearranging the
borders in the Southern Balkans. After World War I and the Turkish vic-
tory in the independence struggle (1919–22), the Turkish delegation to the
Lausanne peace conference sought a plebiscite in Western Thrace (the area
west of the Maritza river populated by a Muslim majority) and the return
of the Aegean islands adjacent to the Anatolian coast, but did not make
demands concerning Macedonia. When Greece, Britain and France refused
to grant the plebiscite in Western Thrace or the return of the Aegean islands,
the delegations acquiesced. The National Assembly in Ankara then ratified
this decision.
After 1923, during the Kemalist republic, relations between Turkey and
its Balkan neighbours actually became quite good. While a distinct Rumeli
identity can be discerned in literary products such as Yahya Kemal's poem,
in the naming of shops and restaurants, in the performance of Macedonian
music at President Atatürk's dinner table, and, after the introduction of fam-
ily names in 1934, in the naming of families, by and large the ‘generation
of 1880’ did not react to the loss of their homeland by focusing on the
lost provinces. Instead the Young Turks after 1912 invested their emotional
capital in the discovery and adoption of Anatolia as the new fatherland and
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fostered a deep mistrust for the non-Muslim communities whose loyalty to

the empire now seemed very doubtful indeed.
A new interest in Anatolia can already be discerned immediately
after the constitutional revolution. It is visible in historian Ahmet Şerif’s
reports from Anatolia published in the Unionist daily Tanin (Echo) in 1909,
which opened the eyes of many city dwellers to the harsh realities of life
in Anatolia. After the loss of the Balkans in 1912, Mehmet Ziya Gökalp,
the leading ideologue of the Young Turk era, propagated the idea that the
peasants of Anatolia represent ‘true’ Turkish culture and values as opposed
to the ‘Byzantine’ and ‘Arab’ high culture of the Ottomans. In 1916, the
‘Toward the People’ (Halka doğru) movement, inspired by the same sort of
idea, started in Izmir. In the republic this was to develop into the idealiza-
tion of the Anatolian peasant (köylücülük), symbolized by Atatürk’s dictum
‘the true master of this country is the peasant.’
The feeling that Anatolia was the ‘Turk’s last stand’, the homeland that
had to be secured at all cost, underpinned Unionists and, later, Kemalist
attempts to homogenize the population of Anatolia and turn it into a land
for Turks only. This process started in 1914, with the expulsion of over
150,000 Greek orthodox from the Aegean seaboard in retaliation for the
expulsion of hundreds of thousands of Muslims from the Balkans, and cul-
minated in the Armenian genocide of 1915–16. It is no coincidence that
refugees both from the Balkans and from the Caucasus played a critical
role in the persecution of the Armenians. The Young Turks’ nervousness
about the future of Anatolia is demonstrated also by the fact that in late
1916, very shortly after the end of the major Armenian persecutions, the
Turkish nationalist ‘Turkish Hearths’ (Türk Ocakları) organization, which
was closely linked to the CUP, sent an emissary to Anatolia to investigate
whether the heterodox Muslims living there, such as Alevites and Tahtacis,
were in fact converted Christians and thus of doubtful loyalty. 26 This illus-
trates the fact that Anatolia was relatively unknown to the Macedonians
who made up the core of the CUP. As Talât Pasha himself admitted:
We are at the head of a nation. But Anatolia is a closed book to us. I

think we fi rst have to learn what is in it and then to provide services
that suit this nation.27
Those Armenians who remained or returned after the end of World War
I, were largely killed or forced to flee by a campaign of intimidations dur-
ing the war of independence. The Turkish victory over the invading Greek
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army in September 1922 led to a mass panic among the Greek Orthodox
of Western Anatolia, with three quarters of a million people crossing the
Aegean aboard almost anything that could float. The agreement concluded
between Turkey and Greece in Lausanne in 1923 not only saw to it that
the remaining Greek Orthodox of Anatolia were forcibly exchanged with
the Muslims of Greece (with the exception of the community in Eastern
Thrace), it also legitimized and made permanent all population movements
that had taken place since October 1912 (the start of the Balkan war).
The independence struggle after World War I was waged in order to
‘safeguard the national rights of Anatolia and Rumelia’ and the leaders of
the resistance, including Mustafa Kemal Pasha, made a conscious effort to
identify Anatolia as the historic home of the Turks, whose earth had been
coloured red by the blood of the ‘martyrs’ since the first Turkish conquest in
1071. Emotional appeals were made to the populations to defend the father-
land. After the proclamation of the republic, the cult of Anatolia persisted
and, particularly in the 1930s, the old Anatolian civilizations, such as that of
the Hittites, were claimed as Turkish, thus staking out a historical claim to
the territory older than that of the Greeks, Armenians, Arabs or Kurds.
The adoption of Anatolia as the true homeland of the Turks went deep,
and it was a feeling shared even by many who were not Kemalists. Turkey’s
most famous modern poet, Nazım Hikmet [Ran], a communist and an inter-
nationalist who many times fell afoul of the Kemalist authorities, spent years
in Turkish prisons and died in Moscow, in one of his best-known and loved
poems, Vasiyet (Testament), expresses his wish to be buried in an Anatolian
village:
Comrades, if I am not granted to see that day

If I should die before freedom comes
Lift me up and carry me
Bury me in an Anatolian village cemetery.28
The poet who wrote these lines in 1953 was born in Salonica in 1902 and
first set foot in Anatolia when he was 18 years old (and left again for Russia
after nine months)!
Victory from the clutches of defeat

One of the most amazing episodes in the history of the Young Turks is the
resilience they showed after the crushing Ottoman defeat in World War I.
A significant number of officers and party bosses were determined to resist
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the attempts of the victorious Entente to dismember the country. The

Unionists who had fled abroad, in particular Enver, immediately started
to organize support for the resistance and to plan a worldwide struggle
against British and French interests through a network of former agents
resoundingly called the ‘General Union of Islamic Revolutionary Societies’.
It is easy to dismiss these plans hatched in Berlin coffee houses as fanciful
and adventurist, but then again: only a couple of years earlier Lenin had
been hatching plans for worldwide revolution in Zürich coffee houses and
been dismissed as a dreamer. Mustafa Kemal’s defiance of the British and
French in Anatolia was also dismissed as reckless adventurism by many at
the time. The point is that from the moment the armistice was concluded,
the Young Turks found the energy and the determination to continue the
struggle. This is something unheard of in any of the other defeated coun-
tries of World War I. Where did they find this strength, this belief in their
cause? I think the answer can be found at least partly in the history of the
previous five years.
In January 1913, with the Bulgarian army at the Çatalca lines 30 miles
from Istanbul, the Unionists had taken over power when the government
seemed ready to cede Edirne and most of Eastern Thrace to the Bulgarians.
Their first attempts to turn the tide and break through the Bulgarian lines
failed, but later in 1913, when the Bulgarians were at war with the Greeks
and the Serbians, they went on the offensive and Enver could make a trium-
phant entry into Edirne. Then, in February and March 1915 a large Franco-
British battle fleet attacked the Dardanelles in order to break through to
Istanbul, join forces with the Russians and put the Ottoman Empire out
of action. Everyone, including the Unionists themselves, expected them to
break through and emergency measures were taken to relocate the govern-
ment to Konya, but then, on 18 March, the Entente suffered such severe
losses that they gave up. The attack was broken off. All through 1915
and 1916 the Russian army, that had inflicted a devastating defeat on the
Otomans at Sarıkamış in December 1914, continued its march through
Eastern Anatolia, taking Erzurum, Trabzon and Van. The road to Istanbul
seemed open to it, when the Russian revolution broke out. The Russian
army melted away and the Ottomans regained all their losses and more at
the treaty of Brest-Litovsk.
In other words: the Young Turk leaders had witnessed a number of occa-
sions where disaster seemed unavoidable, but where through totally unexpected
developments, the tables had been turned in a miraculous fashion and they had
emerged victorious. I am convinced that these examples were in the minds of
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those people like Enver or Mustafa Kemal (and many others), who in 1918–19
decided that the battle had been lost, but that the war could still be won.
Conclusion
The Young Turks we have discussed in the preceding pages formed a remark-
able generation, a generation who took fate into their own hands – and in
doing so determined the fate of others. We have tried to answer the question
of who they were by looking at their background, their shared experiences,
and the mental attitudes and worldview they displayed. Having established
these, an effort was made to detect linkages between their background, their
experiences and their ideas. It is not my intention to ‘prove’ that some ideas
derived directly from elements in the biography of the Young Turks. This
would be quite impossible. After all, one can establish who the Young Turks
were and what they did, but not why they did it; at best why they said
they did it. One can trace the reasons for their actions in their memoirs,
but then again, memoirs most often are means at vindication, so who is to
tell whether the reasons given were actually the decisive factor at the time?
So, no definitive proof is claimed or aimed for. Instead, this chapter is an
attempt to suggest, hopefully convincingly, that there is something that can
usefully be called the ‘Young Turk mindset’ and that it can be explained and
understood better by taking into account the life stories of those involved.
Understanding the mindset of the Young Turks is relevant to our reading
of modern Ottoman and Turkish history, because it concerns the ideas, not
of academics, but of people who actually held power for half a century and
who to some extent were able to shape their society according to their vision.
This is true as much for the policies executed during World War I as for the
nation building process and ‘cultural revolution’ of the Kemalist republic.
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10. Atatürk as a Unionist*
In the historiography of modern Turkey the relationship of Mustafa Kemal

[Atatürk] with the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) is depicted as
very contentious. While it is recognized that Mustafa Kemal was a member
of the CUP and remained so until the dissolution of that organization in
1918, his disagreements with the leadership of the CUP, both before and
during World War I are emphasized. The ‘storyline’ is usually that of rivalry
between two military leaders, Enver Pasha on the one hand and Mustafa
Kemal on the other, with Enver cast as an irresponsible and vainglorious
gambler and Mustafa Kemal as the prescient voice of reason, who was
disregarded for reasons of political and personal jealousy. This version of
events ultimately seems to go back to Kemal’s published memoirs of 1922
and 1926, which stem from an era when he was establishing his hold on
the political system of the new republic and purging potential rivals, who
were all former Unionists. Kemal’s position and prestige made sure that this
version of history took hold, but perhaps seeing recent history in terms of
a comparison between the two supreme military leaders of the age, one
of whom had presided over the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the
other over the emergence of the Turkish republic, was a tempting paradigm
in itself. The very fact, however, that this version of history originated in,
and was so closely linked to, the political struggles of the period, makes it
imperative that we should look at the evidence afresh and form ourselves an
independent opinion of what exactly was Kemal’s place in the CUP, dealing
also with the issue of the supposed rivalry with Enver.
This is precisely what I aimed to do in the second chapter of my 1984
book The Unionist Factor. However since then almost 25 years have passed
and important new biographies of Atatürk1 as well as monographs on topics
like the Ottoman officer corps, the Balkan War and the Ottoman Empire
in World War I 2 have appeared. So it is, I think, a worthwhile exercise both
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Atatürk as a Unionist
to summarize the findings of the 1984 chapter and the evidence presented
in the more recent literature to get at a clearer picture of Mustafa Kemal, or
Atatürk as we have come to know him, in his Young Turk days.
Kemal joined the CUP in February 1908 with membership number 322.3
This in fact means that he was the 232nd person to join, as the CUP, to make
itself look stronger and more attractive to prospective members had decided
to number new members joining after the initial ten from 111 upwards.
By the time he joined, the CUP was already well established and had a
clear leadership, consisting of the founders of the Ottoman Freedom Society
in Salonica (people like Talât, Rahmi and Mithat Şükrü), some of the mem-
bers of the Paris-based Committee of Progress and Union with which the OFS
had merged in September 1907 (people like Bahaettin Şakir and Dr Nâzım)
and the founders of the CUP branch in the most important military cen-
tre, Monastir (Enver, Kâzım Karabekir, Ali Fethi [Okyar]). Kemal was not
among the leading strata of the society and this is something that probably
rankled with him, as he may well have seen himself as one the initiators of
revolutionary activity in Macedonia. Here is why.
Like many of his colleagues, he had been involved in embryonic secret
societies, both in Damascus in 1905 and in Salonica, 1906. Between February
and May 1906, Kemal used extended sick leave to visit his hometown of
Salonica, where he met with some former classmates (Ömer Naci, Hüsrev
Sami and Hakkı Baha) and founded the Fatherland and Freedom Society
(Vatan ve Hürriyet Cemiyeti), which was intended as a branch of another
small secret society that he had founded in Damascus the year before. After
Kemal’s return to Syria, this society proved to be stillborn, but some of its
members soon after became important in the OFS/CPU/CUP. Ömer Naci
was among the founders of the OFS in September 1906 and he and Hüsrev
Sami were sent to Paris to negotiate the merger with the CPU a year later.
In September 1907, Mustafa Kemal managed to secure a posting in
Salonica and a transfer from Southern Palestine, where he was stationed at
the time. From September 1907 until June 1908 he served on the staff of
the Third Army in Salonica. In early July 1908 he was appointed inspector
of the railway line between Salonica and Skopje, a position that gave him
mobility and allowed him to fulfil a role in the internal communications of
the CUP. This proved important when shortly after Enver took to the hills
and started the constitutional revolution in the Tikvesh area and Kemal was
used as the messenger, who brought him both arms and a document from
the Central Committee, appointing him ‘General Inspector of the Internal
Organisation and Executive Forces in Rumeli’.4
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During the revolutionary days of July 1908 Mustafa Kemal did not
come to the fore as one of the leading representatives of the committee. He
was not one of the ‘Heroes of Freedom’ whose image was reproduced in
journals and on picture postcards. On the other hand, he clearly was closer
to the centre of power than most ordinary members of the CUP (and there
were about 2,000 of them in July 1908). This was due not so much to his
own position or activities, but to his friendship with fellow officers Ahmet
Cemal (the later Cemal Pasha), Ömer Naci and Ali Fethi [Okyar], who were
at the centre of things.
Several sources suggest that Mustafa Kemal was one of the members of
the CUP, who, after the revolution, pleaded for a complete disengagement
of the army from politics and he seems to have made enemies by his insist-
ence on this point at the first post-revolutionary congress of the CUP. 5 Soon
after, in September 1908, he was sent by the Committee to Tripolitania on
a mission to explain the revolution to its inhabitants and build support for
the CUP. Mustafa Kemal claimed that the Unionist leaders intended this
mission to be a kind of exile, but this seems unlikely. In the first place it was
a short mission so if the intention as to remove Mustafa Kemal from either
Salonica or the capital, it was not very effective and in the second place
the mission was not unimportant. Tripolitania was the empire’s last African
possession and it was well known that Italy had designs on the province.
Had the deeply religious Arab population of the province rejected the Young
Turks or openly rebelled against the new regime, that would have created
a serious embarrassment and might have led to the loss of the province. At
the same time, it must be said that, while Mustafa Kemal was thus given
an important political assignment, the plum jobs went to others: Ali Fuat
[Cebesoy] was appointed military attaché in Rome, Ali Fethi in Paris, Hafız
Hakkı in Vienna and Enver in Berlin.
After his return from Tripolitania, Mustafa Kemal was appointed chief
of staff of the 11th Reserve Division in Salonica. When the counterrevolution
broke out in Istanbul in April 1909, the CUP gained the support of General
Mahmut Şevket Pasha, the commander of the Third Army and inspector of
the European Armies, who had his headquarters in Salonica. He ordered the
11th Reserve Division to advance by rail to the Çatalca lines 30 miles west
of Istanbul as part of what was called (possibly on the suggestion of Mustafa
Kemal)6 the ‘Action Army’ (Hareket Ordusu). So, in the first phase of the
operations against the insurgency Mustafa Kemal played quite an important
role, but his position was not that of commander or chief of staff of the
whole Action Army, nor did he command the 11th Reserve Division. When
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the army had achieved its first objectives, Mahmut Şevket Pasha himself
came over to take up the command for the march into the city. He brought
with him his own staff including Ali Fethi, Enver and Hafız Hakkı, who
had been recalled from their diplomatic postings for the purpose. Mustafa
Kemal, the same age but junior in rank and with less political clout, was
expected to serve under them in the divisional staff. Again we see the same
pattern: Mustafa Kemal was a prominent Unionist officer, who was trusted
with a key position during the life and death struggle of the CUP with its
opponents, but he was definitely second rank when compared to figures like
Enver, Cemal, Hafız Hakkı or Fethi.
After the suppression of the counterrevolution Mustafa Kemal served
in an officer training unit in Salonica and then on the staff of the Third
Army. In 1910, as an adjutant-major he temporarily commanded the 38th
Regiment in Salonica because of illness of the commanding officer and in
1911 he served on the staff of Mahmut Şevket Pasha during the suppression
of the Albanian rebellion of that year. In September 1911 he was appointed
to the general staff in Istanbul, but he never took up his post as he left for
Tripolitania once more on 11 October.
The Italians had invaded Tripolitania on the flimsiest of pretexts and
occupied the coastal areas. Their naval superiority made it impossible for
the Ottoman government to send an expeditionary force, but a number of
Unionist officers decided to go to the province to organize resistance from
the desert. Some, like Fethi, went by way of France and Tunisia, but most
went through Egypt, disguised as civilians. Mustafa Kemal travelled with his
old friend Ömer Naci and two Unionist fedaîs, Yakup Cemil and Sapancalı
Hakkı. In Egypt he fell ill, but having recovered he joined another old friend
(and distant family member) Nuri [Conker] and crossed the border into
Tripolitania. Between December 1911 and October 1912 he fought with
distinction in the guerrilla war against the Italians. His headquarters were
opposite Derne in Cyrneaica and he served under Enver, who had overall
command of the operations in North Africa and whose headquarters were
nearby. Although they seem to have worked well together professionally,
relations between the two men seem to have soured during their months in
the desert. By the time they got back to Istanbul the problems between them
seem to have been well known within army circles.7
Many of the volunteers who fought in North Africa belonged to the
fedaî (‘self sacrificing volunteer’) wing of the CUP. They were mostly lower
ranking officers, who were used in the most dangerous missions. In 1914 the
volunteers would be reorganized by Enver into the ‘Special Organisation’
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(Teşkilat-i Mahsusa), but Mustafa Kemal seems to have been quite close to
a number of them as well. We already noted that he travelled to Egypt in
the company of two notorious fedaîs and in Tripolitania he fought side by
side with Ali [Çetinkaya], the man who would later become a close col-
laborator and notorious as president of the independence tribunal of 1926.
Some of Mustafa Kemal’s close friends, like Nuri [Conker] and Hüsrev Sami
[Kızıldoğan] and his long serving adjutant Cevat Abbas [Gürer] were all
‘volunteers’.
The Ottoman officers were still in North Africa, organizing the anti-
Italian resistance, when the Balkan War broke out in October 1912. When
the news of the war reached Tripolitania, it was first decided that Enver
would return to Istanbul and that Mustafa Kemal would take over, but when
the extent of the disaster that had befallen the Ottoman arms became clear,
most of the officers decided to return and they left Enver’s younger brother
Nuri [Kıllıgil] in charge of the guerrilla war. By the time they arrived back
in the capital, the Bulgarians had occupied Thrace and the Ottoman armies
held the Çatalca line to the west of Istanbul, the encircled fortress city of
Edirne and the Gallipoli peninsula. Enver was appointed chief of staff of
the Tenth Army Corps, the strategic reserve with divisions in Istanbul, Izmit
and Bandırma. Fethi was made chief of staff of the Bolayır Army Corps that
defended the Gallipoli peninsula, while his friend Mustafa Kemal served
under him as the head of operations on the army corps staff.
Militarily the situation was deadlocked and in December an armistice
was concluded. When the negotiations broke down, the great powers, on
the initiative of Great Britain communicated an ultimatum to the Porte on
17 January, in which the Ottoman Empire was asked to acquiesce in a new
border along a line running from Enez on the Aegean to Midye on the Black
Sea coast. This implied the loss of the old capital city of Edirne, a town that
was still in Ottoman hands. When signs began to emerge that Kamil Pasha’s
government might accede to the demands, the CUP leaders, who had been
exposed to persecution by Kamil and his cabinet for months, decided to
act. On 23 January they executed a coup d’état and took over power. The
decision for the coup was taken in a small inner circle of Unionists. Some
leading Unionist officers in the field, like Enver and Fethi had been con-
sulted beforehand and as Fethi opposed the plan, he was left out of the final
preparations. Enver, on the other hand, personally led the coup.
The weakness of the army left the new government just as powerless
to regain the lost territories as the old one had been. In order to satisfy the
·
demands for offensive action, the chief of the general staff Izzet Pasha now
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decided to execute a plan prepared by the staff for an amphibious opera-

tion against the Bulgarian troops opposite the Gallipoli peninsula. The plan
envisaged a combined operation of the Bolayır Corps and the reserve, the
Tenth Corps. The Bolayır Corps (commanded by Fahri Pasha with Fethi and
Mustafa Kemal on his staff) would engage the Bulgarians in front of Bolayır,
while units from the Tenth Corps, commanded by Hurşit Pasha with Enver
as chief of staff, would simultaneously land in the rear of the Bulgarian army
facing the Gallipoli peninsula at Şarköy and I· nce Burun. The operation was
planned in detail and extensively rehearsed in January. After a week’s delay
due to storm it was executed in the second week of February, but it ended in
disaster. The Bolayır Corps attacked the Bulgarians at the agreed time with-
out checking whether the Tenth Corps had actually arrived and the Tenth
Corps was half a day late in landing due to the late arrival of the Ottoman
battleships that were to provide covering fire. In the end, the landings went
relatively well and the Ottomans established a beach head west of Şarköy,
but by that time the Bolayır Corps had been mauled by the Bulgarians, los-
ing half its strength in casualties. This put an end to any idea of catching
the Bulgarians in a pincer movement and after three days the expeditionary
force was recalled. Amazingly, and thanks to Enver’s staff work, it escaped
almost unscathed. After re-embarking, the Tenth Corps was ordered to
Gallipoli to strengthen the now depleted forces on the peninsula.8
Now an acrimonious debate started between Gallipoli and Bolayır. Both
army corps commanders and their staff officers entered the blame game
with gusto. When Hurşit Pasha was appointed commander of the whole
Dardanelles force, Fahri Pasha, Fethi and Mustafa Kemal all handed in their
resignations to the vice-commander in chief (I· zzet Pasha), who in turn noti-
fied the Grand Vizier on 20 February. Mahmut Şevket Pasha decided that
the situation was so serious that he needed to go to Gallipoli in person to
settle the affair. On 21 February he heard all parties and then relieved Fahri
Pasha, who seemed to be the most quarrelsome and who was responsible
for the fiasco at Bolayır, of his command. He intended to take Enver with
him to serve as head of operations on the general staff in Istanbul, but the
·
chief of that staff, Izzet Pasha now intervened and asked the Grand Vizier to
discuss the matter with him before taking such a step. The reason was that
·
Izzet had by now received letters of resignation, written on the 19th (before
Mahmut Şevket’s visit to Gallipoli), from Fethi and Mustafa Kemal and a
memorandum in which they demanded a resumption of the offensive against
·
the Bulgarians in order to save Edirne. Izzet submitted both to Mahmut
Şevket.9
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The existence of this memorandum has been known to modern histori-

ans since 1968 when Mithat Sertoğlu found it among the papers of Mahmut
Şevket Pasha and published it,10 but neither he nor later Turkish authors
seem to see its true significance. Sertoğlu does not link it to the contro-
versy following the failed Şarköy operation, but simply interprets it as an
exhortation to liberate Edirne. Later Münir Aktepe in the 1970s and Naim
Tufan in the 1990s have interpreted the memorandum as a plan of action for
the amphibious operation of 8–10 February, in other words: as a text writ-
ten before that date.11 This interpretation has to be rejected, however. The
document is dated 4–5 February (Şubat) 1328 according to the old (Rumi)
calendar, which means it was written on 18/19 February 1913 according
to the Gregorian calendar, that is, after the Şarköy action. The amphibi-
ous operation anyway had been planned and prepared from early January
onwards. Tufan’s assertion that the Fethi and Mustafa Kemal wrote ‘4–5
Şubat 1328’ by mistake and really meant ‘4–5 Şubat 1913’ is not substanti-
ated and extremely unlikely for Ottoman officers of the time. In addition
the memorandum recommends the immediate transfer of the troops ‘that
are in Gallipoli harbour’ to the Çatalca front and those troops (the Tenth
Army Corps) only arrived there after the Şarköy expedition. In the end this
recommendation was followed and the whole Tenth Corps with Fahri Pasha
and Enver was shipped to the Çatalca front. Fethi and Mustafa Kemal were
persuaded – either by the Grand Vizier or by Talât, who also got himself
involved, to remain in their posts in Bolayır.
The events of February, described in such detail here (and in much more
detail by Aktepe and Tufan), deserve our attention for two reasons. In the
first place, it illustrates the extent to which discipline within the officer
corps of the Ottoman army had broken down under the impact of politi-
cization (a point also emphasized by Tufan). A row between three young
officers, two of them lieutenant-colonels and one a major, was solved not by
disciplinary measures but through the direct involvement of the chief of the
general staff and the Grand Vizier. Instead of coming in for a punitive post-
ing to Basra or the Yemen, Fethi and Mustafa Kemal, who had been partly
responsible for a disastrous defeat, handed in their resignation and wrote a
memorandum in which they made demands in a peremptory tone for a dif-
ferent strategy, were persuaded to remain in their posts.
The second point, and the one directly relevant to the subject of this
chapter, is that it allows us to place Mustafa Kemal within the CUP. During
the whole episode he emphatically sided with his friend Fethi against
Enver, with whom he seems to have been on bad terms since their time in
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North Africa. The documentation makes it very clear, however, that the
row was considered by all concerned to be one between Fethi and Enver,
with Mustafa Kemal very much in a supporting role. That figures: Fethi
was higher in rank than Mustafa Kemal and equal in rank to Enver. They
were both army corps chiefs of staff and lieutenant-colonels. Mustafa
Kemal was a major in charge of a section of the staff. Fethi and Enver were
both important military members of the CUP inner circle, so much so that
Fethi had been consulted during the planning stage of the coup d’état in
January. Mustafa Kemal was close to – but not in – the inner circle. While
they resigned together and wrote their memorandum together, it was Fethi,
who, a year later, was to publish a booklet (that seems to have escaped
the attention of historians so far), called Bolayır Muharebesinde Adem-
Muvaffakiyetin Esbabı. ‘Askeri Mağlubiyetlerimizin Esbabı’ Muharririne
Cevap (The Reasons for the Lack of Success in the Battle of Bolayır. An
Answer to the Author of ‘The Reasons for Our Military Defeats’). In the
booklet he defends himself against the accusation that it was the staff of the
Bolayır Corps that had ruined the operation by going on the attack without
waiting for the Tenth Corps in order to claim the honour of defeating the
Bulgarians.12
Clearly, the events of February 1913 mark the breakdown of relations
between Fethi and Mustafa Kemal and Enver, which was unfortunate for
the former as in the next months Enver was to emerge as the undoubted
leader of the military within the CUP. In June the Bulgarians attacked their
former allies Greece and Serbia and the Ottomans decided to make use of
the opportunity to liberate Edirne. By joining the advance cavalry that was
nearing the city unopposed, Enver managed to position himself as the lib-
erator of Edirne. Mustafa Kemal was engaged in a sideshow, commanding
the troops that broke out of Bolayır to conquer the port of Dedeağaç. On
4 January 1914, Enver was appointed minister of war. Fethi drew his con-
clusions. Rather than serve under Enver he left the army. He was offered
the post of secretary-general of the CUP, but instead opted for the post
of ambassador to Sofia. Mustafa Kemal was clearly under a cloud as well
because of his support for Fethi and he was persuaded by the latter and by
Ahmet Cemal to join him in Sofia as military attaché.
Mustafa Kemal stayed in Sofia until after the entry of the Ottoman
Empire in the World War in November 1914. He then asked for a military
command, a wish that was granted with his appointment as commander of
the Nineteenth Division that was being formed in Tekirdağ for service on
the Gallipoli peninsula.
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The military career of Mustafa Kemal in World War I is covered in

detail in the major biographies. He played an important role, first as com-
mander of the Arıburnu section and then of the whole Anafartalar front
during the Dardanelles campaign in 1915. His success as a front line com-
mander under Esat Pasha and General Otto Liman von Sanders was known
within the army. The journal Harb Mecmuası (War Journal) honoured him
with a full-length photograph, but he was not known to the wider public.
The Dardanelles campaign in 1915 gave him a reputation in the army as
a very able commander, but also as a hypersensitive and quarrelsome col-
league. He had constant problems with the German officers, with Enver and
ultimately also with Liman. Again he had to be dissuaded from resigning.
The pattern remained the same throughout the war. Mustafa Kemal served
with distinction as commander of the Sixteenth Army Corps in Eastern
Anatolia in 1916 and then as commander of the Seventh Army in Palestine
in 1917 under Von Falkenhayn and again in 1918 under Liman von Sanders.
After the Ottoman retreat from Syria and the armistice of Moudros, he suc-
ceeded Liman as commander of the remnants of the Syrian armies. All this
time he was involved in activities that at the very least undermined military
discipline and which can often also be called political.
The trouble started when he left the Anafartalar front on ‘sick leave’
and returned to Istanbul in November 1915. He approached a cabinet min-
ister, Ahmet Nesimi, to voice his criticism of the military situation and in
particular of the German role. The minister apparently simply told him to
address his complaints to the general staff. He also reported the conversa-
tion in a meeting of the cabinet.13 In 1916, while serving on the eastern
front Mustafa Kemal circulated a cipher telegram to the other commanders
in the East, again criticizing the conduct of the war and asking them to take
concerted action. Vehip Pasha, the commander of the Second Army and a
man who was close to Enver, intercepted the cable and notified Enver Pasha
in Istanbul. Enver reacted by offering Mustafa Kemal a choice: either to
refrain from further political activity or to resign from the army and to enter
politics officially. In case he chose the latter alternative, Enver was prepared
to offer him a seat in parliament. It was a clever way of turning the tables
on Kemal, who had so forcefully advocated a separation between army and
politics back in 1908.
The same year Kemal’s name came up in connection with the attempted
coup d’état of Unionist fedaî Yakup Cemil.14 After his arrest, the latter told
his interrogators that he had wanted to replace Enver with Mustafa Kemal.
There is no further indication of any involvement on Mustafa Kemal’s part,
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but one of the other conspirators, a Dr Hilmi, who was also arrested and
interrogated, sought refuge with Mustafa Kemal at his headquarters in
Silvan, north of Diyarbakır. Mustafa Kemal gave him a position on his staff
and thus granted him protection.15
Mustafa Kemal had had strained relations with the German officers in
Gallipoli. As a proud Turkish nationalist he deeply resented the overbearing
attitude of many of the Prussian officers. In 1917, this showed itself again
when he was appointed commander of the Seventh Army and had to serve
under Erich von Falkenhayn. This former chief of the imperial general staff
had been replaced by Von Hindenburg after his failure at Verdun and trans-
ferred to the Syrian command in 1917. He relied solely on his German staff
and understood little of the circumstances in the Ottoman Empire and did
not consult his Ottoman commanders. Mustafa Kemal not only found this
treatment unacceptable, he also opposed the, in his eyes totally unrealistic,
offensive strategy agreed by Enver and Von Falkenhayn. On 20 September
1917 he sent a long report to the war minister, detailing his criticism. Not
content with sending this report to Enver, he also went over the war minis-
ter’s head and sent a copy to the cabinet.16 When he received only a formal
reply from Enver, he resigned his command. When also refused the offer of
the command of the Second Army in Eastern Anatolia, he was recalled and
put at the disposal of the general staff in Istanbul. Back in the capital he
seems to have teamed up with his old friend Fethi again, both of them trying
to find a hearing with Talât and to turn him against Enver.17
Mustafa Kemal stayed away from the front lines for almost a year, only
returning to Syria, again to command the Seventh Army, in August 1918. By
that time Von Falkenhayn had been replaced with Liman von Sanders, who
handed over his command to Mustafa Kemal at the time of the armistice.
The object of this short chapter is not to tell the story of Mustafa Kemal’s
life in the last decade of the empire. That has been done far better elsewhere.
The aim is to establish what was his place within the CUP. In order to do
that, we have first to understand the structure of the CUP. This was not a
monolithic organization with a single powerful leader. Nor was it led by
a ‘triumvirate’ as contemporary European observers often thought. Enver
dominated the Unionist officers in the army after 1913 and Talât dominated
the civilian wing of the CUP throughout, but the organization they headed
was a complicated whole of interlocking and overlapping networks. As we
have seen, Mustafa Kemal joined the CUP relatively late and was not part of
the first echelon of the military wing of the CUP. He did not come to the fore
in any of the big events of the first five years of CUP rule: the constitutional
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revolution, the suppression of the 31 March rebellion, the Babı Ali coup or the
retaking of Edirne. Of the members of CUP with access to power, he seems
to have been particularly close to Ali Fethi and to a lesser extent to Cemal
Pasha, with whom he worked closely in 1908 and again in 1917. His relations
with Enver seem to have soured during their tour of duty in Tripolitania in
1911–12 and especially as a result of the botched Şarköy-Bolayır operation of
February 1913, in which Fethi and he jointly opposed Enver.
This meant that Mustafa Kemal was positioned very badly – politically –
from 1913 onwards. After the liberation of Edirne, Enver’s star rose quickly
and Fethi had to go into exile as ambassador to Sofia. From late 1914,
Cemal Pasha took over the Syrian front, which meant that he was almost
all-powerful in Syria and Palestine but also that he lost most of his influence
in the capital. Mustafa Kemal was left without effective protection. His spir-
ited defence of the Anafartalar front gained him a reputation in the army
(although he was never the highest commander on the Dardanelles front,
or even the second or third highest), but it brought him little in the way of
influence within the CUP. In 1916–18 he served with distinction, although
without spectacular results on the Eastern Anatolian and Palestine fronts,
but he also gained a reputation as a trouble maker through his constant
breaches of army discipline and his political meddling. Still, as I said back
in 1984, ‘the really amazing thing is that he was kept in important positions
in the army at all. In what other army could an officer, who had laid down
or refused a command four times, openly criticized the high command, not
only to his military superiors, but also to [a minister], the cabinet and the
head of state and whose name had been mentioned in an attempted coup
d’état have finished up commanding an army group?’18
The answer, I think, lies in two factors. The first is that the CUP was
so powerful that prominent members were almost untouchable under law or
army discipline. This showed itself very clearly in 1913, when chief of staff
and full general Ahmet I· zzet Pasha had to conclude that it was impossible to
discipline two quarrelling lieutenant-colonels and a major because they were
prominent Unionists. The second factor has to be that the internal structure
of the CUP with its intricate web of interlocking networks made it very diffi-
cult to take action against a prominent member of one of the factions, without
setting off a chain reaction. Talât, the ultimate ‘people manager’ kept his hold
on the CUP precisely through his ability to manipulate and cajole the different
factions and to play them against each other without alienating any of them.
Was there a rivalry between Enver and Mustafa Kemal, as the latter sug-
gested in his memoirs and has been assumed by many later historians and
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biographers? Not really. Mustafa Kemal never came close to challenging

Enver for the leadership of the military wing of the CUP. Cemal, Fethi and
Hafız Hakkı all were much more serious rivals to Enver before his meteoric
rise in 1913. Mustafa Kemal’s memoirs seem to show that he developed an
‘Enver complex’ but there is no evidence that this was reciprocal. Nor is
there any evidence that his career suffered or that it was sabotaged by Enver
or other circles within the CUP. His career shows a normal pattern of pro-
motions. He was made a brigadier and a pasha in 1916, after his successes at
the Dardanelles, at the age of 35. Perhaps a promotion to lieutenant general
would have been on the cards in 1918, but then again: he spent almost a year
without active duty in 1917–18. The postings he received were substantial,
including the command of an army corps, an army and, finally, an army
group. Where he was thwarted, was in his ambition to influence govern-
ment policy and the conduct of the war in general. For that, he lacked the
political clout.
Mustafa Kemal’s lack of political access during World War I would
become his greatest asset after the war. When the Unionists looked for a
commander with an excellent military reputation, who was a Unionist and
a nationalist, but without too close an association with the wartime policies
of the CUP, he was their man. It was his own political acumen and tactical
brilliance, as well as the fact that the top echelon of the CUP had either fled
abroad or been arrested by the British, that allowed him to emerge as the
unquestioned leader of the Turkish independence movement.
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11. The Ottoman Legacy of the
Kemalist Republic*
The Kemalist experiment of the 1920s and 30s was both a classic example
of nation building and a daring modernization project. The state that
emerged in the shape of the Republic of Turkey in 1923 had to be built
on the basis of a population that was 90 per cent Muslim, but ethnically
mixed, impoverished and numerically decimated. To turn this mass of
people into a nation, to make citizens out of subjects and to install a
sense of patriotism in the population was one of the two main aims of the
Kemalists. The other was to make society ‘modern’ (muasir) and ‘civilized’
(medeni). Both of these terms, which at times were used as synonyms,
referred to contemporary European civilization, which the Kemalists,
like the radical ‘Westernizers’ among the Young Turks before them, con-
sidered the only viable civilization in the world. These goals could only
be reached by enlightening the masses, which required forcing organ-
ized religion to relinquish its hold on people’s minds. That is, unless reli-
gion could be used as a state-controlled channel to spread the message of
enlightenment.
The policies that resulted from this ideological programme, such as
the abolition of the mystical fraternities (tarikat) and the introduction of
the Swiss civil code to replace the religious law (sharia or şeriat), consti-
tuted such a far-reaching form of interference in the daily and personal
lives of the citizens, that they aroused both resentment and resistance. If
we want to understand the Kemalists and their policies, we must take a step
back and look at their shared past, in other words at the final years of the
Ottoman Empire. That period shaped the future leaders of the republic as
well as the country they tried to reshape. Both the material circumstances
and the ideological toolkit available to the Kemalists were products of the
constitutional period after 1908 and the decade of war between 1912 and
1922.
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The Ottoman Legacy of the Kemalist Republic
The new borders

One look at the map suffices to make clear that in geographical terms the new
republic was very different from the empire of even 1912. The Arab prov-
inces which had formed part of the empire for 400 years had been lost, as had
the southern Balkan (‘Rumelian’) provinces which had been Ottoman since
the fifteenth (and in some cases, the fourteenth) century, and had produced
the bulk of the Ottoman bureaucratic and military élite. Losing such impor-
tant areas clearly was a traumatic affair. At the same time, it is important to
understand the nature of the new borders. They were not ‘natural’ borders
in any sense, but determined by the political and military realities of 1918.
The national borders were laid down in the ‘National Pact’ (Misak-i Millî)
adopted by the last Ottoman parliament in February 1920. In essence these
were none other than the armistice lines of October 1918 (although con-
fusingly two versions of the text seem to have been in existence from the
very start, one calling for independence of the Ottoman-Muslim majority
within the armistice lines and the other within and without the armistice
lines).1 In other words: the territory of the republic was that which was still
under Ottoman control in 1918, a fact which was recognized in so many
words by Mustafa Kemal Pasha, the leader of the national resistance move-
ment.2 It is important to note that in 1918–19 not even nationalist officers
like Mustafa Kemal objected to the terms of the Armistice of Moudhros as
such – they objected to the violation of these terms by the allies, primarily
the British.3 These infringements in part consisted of the occupation of ter-
ritory, which had still been in Ottoman hands at noon on 31 October, when
the armistice formally came into effect. The most important of these were
the occupation of areas around Mosul in the East and around Iskenderun on
the Mediterranean. Who held what in the inland areas of the Syrian desert
was completely unclear. This would later create problems during the peace
negotiations in Lausanne in 1922–3. At Lausanne, the Turkish delegation
argued for a new southern border, which would run from a point south of
Iskenderun on the Mediterranean coast, along the Euphrates and then on to
the Iranian border, thus including the province of Mosul in the new Turkey.
As we know, it was unsuccessful in its demands. Arbitration by the League
of Nations awarded the province of Mosul to Iraq in 1926, but Turkey man-
aged to regain the district of Iskenderun (or Hatay) in 1939. The border with
the French protectorate of Syria was determined in Lausanne as it had been
in the Franco-Turkish agreement of 1920, and ran just south of the track of
the Baghdad railway. As for the Arab provinces under British occupation on
the day of the armistice, the ‘National Pact’ demanded a plebiscite, but not
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automatic inclusion in the post-war Ottoman state. While disillusionment

with the attitude of the Arabs during the World War I probably played a role,
the leadership in Ankara was also realistic enough to see that reconquest of
the Arab lands was beyond their means. There were attempts to cooperate
with Arab nationalists in 1919–21, but inclusion of the former Arab prov-
inces (Damascus, Baghdad, Basra, Hejaz) was never seriously contemplated.
On the Caucasian border, the National Pact demanded a plebiscite for
the three provinces of Kars, Ardahan and Batumi. These had been lost to
Russia in 1878, regained after the collapse of the Russian army in 1918, and
lost again to the British and their Armenian and Georgian allies in 1919. The
Turkish nationalist general Kâzım Karabekir reconquered Kars and Ardahan
in a short war against the Republic of Armenia in 1920–1, thus making the
plebiscite superfluous in these two provinces. This left only the fate of Batumi
to be decided. The threat of a clash with the Red Army and the need for
Soviet military and financial support led to a compromise with Russia, which
left Batumi and its hinterland in the hands of Soviet-controlled Georgia.
In the West, the National Pact foresaw a plebiscite in Western Thrace
(Garbi Trakya) with its Muslim majority. At Lausanne, the Turkish delega-
tion also forwarded the claim that a number of Aegean islands adjoining the
Anatolian mainland should be ceded by Greece. Like the demands for inclu-
sion of Iskenderun and Mosul, these claims, too, were rejected. In the end,
the Turks acquiesced, although the fact that the Lausanne treaty left sizeable
Turkish and Muslim communities outside the new national borders caused
acrimonious debates in the Turkish National Assembly.4
Thus, in essence the borders of 1918, which were recognized in the peace
treaty of Lausanne in 1923, were no different in principle from those estab-
lished in 1878 or in 1913: They corresponded to that which the Ottomans
had managed to hold on to and were not the result of any principled choice
for a ‘Turkish’ homeland. In this sense the borders of Turkey were very dif-
ferent from the lines drawn in Eastern Europe after 1918, which at least
pretended to do justice to the right to self-determination of nations. The
Republic of Turkey, created within the former Ottoman borders, was still a
multi-ethnic, multi-lingual society, with a large majority of Turks and sig-
nificant minorities of Kurds, Arabs and many smaller groups. It was far less
multi-ethnic that it had been, however.
Demographic change
The population composition of the new state was very different even from
that of the same geographical area in late Ottoman times. This was the
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result of large-scale migration and warfare in the decade prior to the proc-
lamation of the republic in 1923. The demographic effects of the ten years
of warfare between 1912 and 1922 cannot be overstated. Mortality among
the Anatolian population had been incredibly high. The Ottoman army
had recruited most of its soldiers from among the peasant population of
Anatolia. As such, the Anatolian peasantry composed a very large pro-
portion of the 800,000 fatal casualties of the campaigns in the Caucasus,
Gallipoli, Palestine, Mesopotamia, Galicia and Romania. Roughly half of
these casualties, as we shall see in more detail in the next section of this vol-
ume, were due to disease, rather than warfare. Furthermore, from the spring
of 1915 onwards, eastern Anatolia had become a war theatre itself. This
had led to great suffering among the Muslim population, in part because
the retreating Ottoman armies stimulated the spread of epidemics, notably
typhus in winter and cholera in summer. 5 The decade of war also brought
an end to the old Christian communities in Anatolia, primarily those of
the Greek Orthodox and the Armenians. The Armenian community was
ravaged by the large-scale persecutions organized by the Young Turks in
1915–16. Massacres, death marches and neglect combined to kill some
800,000 Armenians, which probably constituted at least 40 per cent of the
community as a whole.
World War I had been followed by an independence war during which
campaigns had been fought in the east and the west, in addition to guer-
rilla action in the south and the west, and civil war between supporters of
the Istanbul government and the nationalists in the interior. On the west-
ern front the retreating Greek forces had committed large-scale atrocities
against the Muslim population and some of the advancing Turkish troops
had acted with comparable brutality against the Greek Orthodox.
As a result of war, epidemics and starvation, some 2.5 million Anatolian
Muslims, as well as up to 800,000 Armenians and some 300,000 Greeks,
had lost their lives. All in all, the population of Anatolia declined by 20 per
cent through mortality – a percentage 20 times higher than that of France,
which was the hardest hit western European country in World War I. The
effects of war and disease were spread unevenly, however: in some eastern
provinces fully half of the population had perished and another quarter were
refugees. There were 12 provinces, most of them in the west, where more
than 30 per cent of adult women were widows.6 Turkey after the war was
an empty country. Travellers who visited the country in the 1920s and 30s,
like the young Turkologists whose exploits are described in Part IV, remark
without exception on the desertedness of its countryside.7
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Apart from mortality, the Anatolian population of the new Republic also
showed the effects of large-scale migration. All through the nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries Muslims had fled, or been forced to flee, from ter-
ritories, which were lost by the empire to Christian states: Russia, Romania,
Bulgaria, Serbia and Greece. Eventually, these people had been resettled in
Anatolia (often on former Armenian properties). These refugees and their
children now comprised about a third of the post-war population. The loss
of the predominantly Christian areas and the immigration of Muslims had
meant that in 1913, for the first time in its entire history, the Ottoman
Empire had a Turkish majority.
During and after the World War almost all of the surviving Armenians
left the country for Russia, France or the United States. In the aftermath of
the Balkan War up to 200,000 Greeks (out of 450,000 living on the Aegean
coast) had been forced to leave Western Anatolia. Three quarters of them
returned in the wake of the Greek occupation in 1919.8 When the Greek army
in Anatolia collapsed in 1922, almost the whole of the Greek community in
the west, fled to Greece. This situation was made official with the agree-
ment on the exchange of populations (the mübadele), which was annexed
to the peace treaty of Lausanne. Under this agreement the last remaining
Greek Orthodox communities of Anatolia, mainly those of the Black Sea
coast (the ‘Pontic’ Greeks) and the Karamanlis (Turkish-speaking Greek
Orthodox from Central Anatolia), were exchanged for the Muslim commu-
nity in Greece. In total about a million Greeks left Anatolia in 1922–4, and
about 400,000 Muslims from Greece came in. The migratory movements of
during and following the war resulted in a net population loss of 10 per cent,
which should be added to the 20 per cent loss due to mortality.
The changes in population also meant that from a cultural standpoint,
Anatolia in 1923 was a completely different place from what it had been
in 1913. The larger Christian communities were practically gone, and the
population of about 13 million was now 98 per cent Muslim, compared with
80 per cent before the war. Linguistically, only two large groups were left:
Turks and Kurds, though half a dozen smaller but still important language
groups endured. The country was also more rural than it had been with only
18 per cent of the population living in towns of 10,000 or more inhabitants,
as opposed to 25 per cent before the war.9 This reflected the fact that the
Christian communities had been more heavily urbanized. They had also
completely dominated the modern sector of the economy. The cotton mills
of Çukurova, the silk of Bursa, the exports of figs and raisins in the West,
shipping, banking, the railways, hotels and restaurants – all had been almost
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exclusively in the hands of Christians before the war. In 1923 Turkey was
not only a country almost without managers and engineers – it was a coun-
try almost without trained waiters, welders or electricians. It would take at
least a generation to rebuild the skills that had disappeared.
A new state?
The republic created out of the ruins of Ottoman Anatolia in October 1923
was, of course, legally and formally a new state. It was only one of the
many new states which were created out of the Ottoman Empire and carried
part of the Ottoman heritage with them. Comparisons with the experiences
of other successor states in the Balkans and the Arab World (such as that
pioneered by Carl Brown in his Imperial Legacy. The Ottoman Imprint on
the Balkans and the Middle East) are helpful in understanding the way the
Ottoman heritage continued to play a role in the ‘new’ states. At the same
time, it is evident that in some ways Turkey is a very different heir to the
empire from, say, Syria or Albania. It was created by the dominant ethnic
and cultural elements of the empire and it inherited not one of the limbs, but
the head and heart of the empire, its cultural and administrative centre. It
inherited a disproportionate part of the military and civil bureaucracy, and
of the people with political experience.
One could argue that this position made defining the identity of the new
state more, not less, difficult than in any of the other successor states, which
could distance themselves from the Ottoman past by redefining it as a for-
eign occupation and seek inspiration from a mythical ‘national’ golden age
that preceded the Ottoman conquest. In this respect, the Turkish experience
can perhaps be usefully compared to that of Austria. Where pre-war inhab-
itants of the German speaking parts of the Habsburg Empire had thought
of themselves both as German and as subjects of a Catholic and dynastic
empire, the élite of the new republic of Austria almost had to invent a ‘small
Austrian’ identity from scratch. So the Turks, too, who had thought of them-
selves as Muslim subjects of an Islamic empire, now had to start thinking of
themselves as Turks.
The following section turns to the legal, political and institutional
aspects of this transition.
The legal framework

On the face of it, the question of when the change from empire to repub-
lic took place seems easy enough to answer. After all, the Republic of
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Turkey (Türkiye Cumhuriyeti) was proclaimed on 29 October 1923. But the

Ottoman sultanate had been abolished almost a year earlier, on 1 November
1922. The delegation dispatched to the Lausanne conference that month
represented ‘the government of the Great National Assembly’. Very well,
but what state was that the government of? One could argue that it was,
in fact, the Ottoman Empire, because the imperial constitution of 1876,
as modified in 1908–9, remained in force until the promulgation of the
new republican constitution of April 1924. Nor had the dynasty altogether
disappeared. After the deposition of the last sultan in November 1922, his
cousin Abdülmecit Efendi had been proclaimed caliph. The concept of a
purely religious caliphate was alien to both Islamic and Ottoman tradition,
however, and there can be little doubt that in the eyes of the population
Abdülmecit was as much a monarch as Vahdettin, the last Ottoman Sultan,
had been. Many in the leadership, too, felt an emotional bond of loyalty
to the dynasty which they and their forefathers had served.10 This was, in
fact, the main reason why the republican leadership decided to abolish the
caliphate in March 1924.
On the other hand, as early as January 1921, the national assembly in
Ankara had proclaimed the ‘Law on Fundamental Organisation’ (Teşkilât-i
Esasiye Kanunu). This law has generally been regarded by Turkish historians
as the first republican constitution. In Turkish politics, it has been seen as
the ultimate source of political legitimacy; both the future leaders of the
Democratic Party in their famous dörtlü takrir (‘Memorandum of the Four’)
of 1945, which helped usher in the era of multi-party politics the following
year, and the generals who staged a coup against the Democrats in May
1960 in their first official statement referred to this law in an effort to justify
their actions. Strictly speaking, this view of the law as Turkey’s first repub-
lican constitution is incorrect. The Ottoman constitution was not abrogated
in 1921 and the Law on Fundamental Organization was primarily an instru-
ment to enable the nationalist de-facto government in Anatolia to function,
while Istanbul was occupied. It was in force alongside the Ottoman consti-
tution.11 At the same time, it cannot be denied that the law, with its emphasis
on unrestricted popular sovereignty vested in the nation and exercised solely
by the national assembly on the nation’s behalf, is an expression of republi-
canism in the radical tradition of the French revolution, and sits awkwardly
with a system of constitutional monarchy.12
In the one-year period between the abolition of the sultanate and the
proclamation of the republic, Mustafa Kemal Pasha in his public statements
said that the nationalists had founded ‘a new state’, although at this time
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he still maintained that it resembled neither a monarchy nor a republic and

was, in fact, sui generis. The term ‘Türkiye’, which had been used occasion-
ally as a synonym for ‘Ottoman Empire’ by him and others, now became the
sole term describing the country.13
The conclusion, therefore, has to be that in the legal sense the transi-
tion from empire to republic was a gradual one, which took place between
February 1921 and April 1924.
The leadership
As we have seen in the previous chapters of this part, political leadership, both
of the resistance movement (1918–22) and of the republic (1923 onwards),
consisted of a well-defined group of people, who shared a number of char-
acteristics. Their most distinctive characteristic, though, was that they were
all products of the modern educational establishments of the empire, cre-
ated by the Tanzimat reformers of the nineteenth century.
Apart from their social characteristics, we have seen that they also shared
a number of experiences. Almost without exception they were former mem-
bers of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) and played a role in the
politics of the second constitutional period (1908–18). They were bound
together by a common past which included a number of the greatest upheav-
als in modern Ottoman history. Most had participated in the constitutional
revolution of 1908; the suppression of the counterrevolution of April 1909
by the ‘Action Army’ (Hareket Ordusu); the organizing of Bedouin resist-
ance in Tripolitania against the Italian invaders in 1911; the Balkan War
disaster of 1913; the World War and the resistance movement after the war.
For the typical leading Kemalist politician of the 1920s these were all part
of his personal curriculum vitae.
The great military victory of August–September 1922 made Mustafa
Kemal, who had been granted the title of Gazi by the Grand National
Assembly one year before, the undisputed political leader. In the years after
the proclamation of the republic, more particularly between the promulga-
tion of the ‘Law on the Maintenance of Order’ (Takrir-i Sükûn Kanunu) in
March 1925 and the political trials of June–August 1926, the remaining
members of the top echelon of the former CUP as well as those command-
ers of the national resistance movement who had played a leading role in
the start of that movement (in some cases even before Mustafa Kemal Pasha
arrived in Anatolia) were eliminated physically or politically.14 From then
on, Mustafa Kemal Pasha ruled unchallenged. Gradually, younger men were
brought into the political centre, but throughout the years of the Kemalist
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single party state and to a certain extent even into the 1950s, the key posi-
tions remained in the hands of individuals who had made their political and
military careers during the Young Turk era.
The state apparatus

In the execution of its policies, the political leadership could count on the
support of the large bureaucratic and military apparatus which had been
built up under the empire from the 1840s onwards. This is not to say that
the Kemalists took over the servants of the empire without some purging of
the ranks, a practice that had been utilized by the Young Turks in the years
before. Civil servants who had compromised themselves by corruption or
spying on behalf of the Hamidian regime were thrown out after the consti-
tutional revolution of 1908. Likewise, many of the officers who had risen
from within the ranks under the old regime had been purged by Enver Pasha
in 1913–14 and replaced with officers who had graduated from the modern
military colleges. In the same fashion, the Kemalists, too, resorted to purges.
On 25 September 1923, Law 347 was passed, which enabled the dismissal of
army officers who had not joined the national resistance movement. Three
years later, on 26 May 1926, a similar law was passed (Law 854) for civil
servants. But with respect to the application of these laws, the scope of
the purges seems to have been fairly limited and as early as 24 May 1928,
Law 1289 created a review panel for officers and civil servants who felt they
had been wrongfully dismissed.15
In essence, therefore, the army of the republic was the army of the late
empire. And it was this army, and certainly also the gendarmerie, which
allowed the republican regime to extend its control over the population and
land to a degree the empire had never achieved.16 In fact, one could argue
that it was this establishment of effective control, more than any of the
famous Kemalist reforms (clothing, alphabet or calendar), which heralded
the arrival of the modern state in Anatolia. As for the bureaucracy, it was by
and large the imperial bureaucracy. In the early years of the national strug-
gle, the nationalists weeded out members of the provincial bureaucracy who
were considered unreliable because of their links to the Istanbul govern-
ment. The persons concerned were mostly provincial and district governors
(valis and kaymakams), who had been political appointees. But on the lower
levels the provincial administration remained intact, and this enabled the
nationalists to conscript soldiers and raise taxes in the areas under their
control. Another branch of the bureaucracy, the Ottoman telegraph serv-
ice, proved itself loyal to the nationalists, rendering sterling service to the
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nationalists, and as such its ranks also remained largely the same. Though
the Kemalists secured the right at the peace conference of Lausanne in 1923
to ban 150 undesirable Ottoman Muslims from the country, these 150
names (a number that by the way was totally arbitrary) were only filled in
with some difficulty more than a year after the conclusion of peace.17 There
was a number of army officers and bureaucrats among those banned, but
obviously it concerned only a very small number of people.
In the field of finance, the republic inherited two separate bureaucratic
structures from the empire. One was the Ministry of Finance, which had
been thoroughly modernized under the Young Turk finance minister Cavit
Bey, and the other the administration of the Ottoman Public Debt, which
since 1881 had taken control of the collection of taxes, duties and excises
in areas such as the sale of tobacco, tobacco products, salt and fisheries on
behalf of the European creditors of the empire. Although the new Turkey
shouldered part of the Ottoman debt at the peace of Lausanne in 1923, the
autonomous operation of the Public Debt Administration was terminated
and the existing monopolies were taken over by the Turkish state. In 1932
they were united under the Directorate of Monopolies. The monopolies pro-
vided vital income for the new state in the 1920s and 30s.
Of all the branches of the state bureaucracy, the one to undergo the
greatest change under the republic was undoubtedly the religious institu-
tion. The passing of the law on the unification of education in 1924 and the
introduction of a European-style family law in 1926 meant that the secular
state now took direct control of these important fields and that the role
of the religious establishment contracted accordingly. The abolition of the
caliphate and the simultaneous replacement of the office of the Şeyhülislam,
the highest religious authority, by a directorate under the prime minister,
certainly meant that the upper echelon of the religious establishment lost
much of its room for manoeuvre. But it should be noted that the reforms of
1916, when the Şeyhülislam had been removed from the cabinet and had
lost his jurisdiction over the sharia courts, the foundations (evkaf) and the
religious colleges (medreses), had already severely circumscribed its func-
tion. The fact that Mustafa Kemal Pasha could push through his reforms
almost without opposition from the senior clergy is testimony to the degree
to which the Ottoman religious establishment had already been bureaucra-
tized and brought under state control in the late Ottoman Empire.
Not only were these key branches of the state inherited by the republic,
but the means of filling the ranks of these branches also remained virtu-
ally unchanged. The great schools of the empire, modelled on the French
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grandes écoles, which had bred the officers and civil servants of the Tanzimat,
Hamidian and Young Turk eras, continued to do so under the republic. The
military academy, which was provisionally relocated to Ankara during the
national struggle, moved back to Istanbul in 1923 and then moved one final
time to Ankara in 1936, all the while retaining its function and way of
working. The same is true for the civil service academy (Mülkiye), which
was reconstituted as the Political Science Faculty in Ankara in 1935. It con-
tinued to provide the state with its governors, diplomats and administrators.
In time both institutions also became centres of Kemalist indoctrination,
where nationalism, republicanism and secularism were articles of faith for
staff and students alike – a situation, which continues to this day.
The Unionists had tried to reform the medreses, by including science in
their curriculum, but the Kemalists thought they were beyond redemption
and closed them down in 1924. From now on, the education of religious
specialists was in the hand of the Faculty of Theology of the university in
Istanbul and of two dozen imam-hatip okulları (schools for prayer leaders
and preachers), but the former was closed down in 1935 and the latter over
the years 1930–31. The decline in the level of religious learning only became
apparent when the older Ottoman-educated generation started to fade, how-
ever, something which can be roughly dated from the mid-1940s.
The party
A new instrument at the disposal of the Republican regime was the People’s
Party (Halk Fırkası, Halk Partisi), which from 1925 onwards was the only
legal political party in Turkey, save a three-month, dual-party period in 1930.
Of course, political parties themselves were not entirely new; the country
had been ruled by a one-party regime in 1908 and 1913–18. But these prior
experiences with political parties differed in a few major respects: in the
second constitutional period power ultimately rested with the secret, extra-
parliamentary committee, which dominated both the parliament and the
cabinet. In the republic, the People’s Party, created by Mustafa Kemal in the
national assembly, functioned to a large extent as an annexe to the state.
Between 1925 and 1929, the emergency legislation in force meant that the
parliamentary party abdicated all of its powers to the cabinet, so, ironically,
the parliamentary party exercised no power at all during the time when
most of the radical reforms were adopted. In these years reform laws were
usually adopted unanimously or with very large majorities, but the number
of votes cast was often less than half of the total.18 From 1930 onwards, the
People’s Party, especially through its educational arm, the People’s Houses
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(Halk Evleri) became an instrument for indoctrination and mobilization, but

it always remained under tight state control. This culminated in the formal
unification of state and party in 1936. The CUP had also reached out to the
public through its ‘clubs’ and through the branches of the ‘Turkish Hearth’
(Türk Ocağı) movement, but these had never been under the kind of central
state control that the People’s Houses were under during the republic.19
Ideology
If it is true that there was a high degree of continuity in political leadership
and the state apparatus, the picture is more complicated where the aims and
underlying ideology of the regime are concerned.20
Before the outbreak of the Balkan War in 1912, the heated ideological
debates among the Young Turks, all of whom were preoccupied with finding
a way to save the Ottoman state, had centred around two main questions.
The first concerned the degree of Westernization needed to strengthen state
and society, and in particular the way in which the use of Western science
and technology could be reconciled with continued adherence to Turkish cul-
ture and Islamic civilization. As Mardin and Hanioğlu have shown, the vast
majority of Ottoman intellectuals (who were at the same time in the service
of the state) came to believe from the mid-nineteenth century onwards that
Westernization was the only way to achieve material progress and political
strength.21 Equally widespread was a belief in modern science and biologi-
cal materialism. Relatively few Young Turks were committed positivists in
the strict sense (Ahmet Rıza being the best-known example), but nearly all
were influenced by positivism in a broad sense. Its combination of belief
in progress through science and intellectual elitism appealed to the Young
Turks, many of whom were influenced by LeBon’s deeply distrustful ideas
on mass psychology.22 Without exception, however, Young Turk thinkers
defended the idea that ‘real’ Islam (which they contrasted with the obscu-
rantism of the clerics of their day) was receptive to, and quite compatible
with, science. Even if they were not religious men themselves, they regarded
religion as an important ‘national cement’.23 As such, the question over
whether the republic could reconcile borrowing from Europe with the main-
tenance of an Islamic value system constituted a key part of this debate.
The second question occupying the minds of Young Turk authors was
that of the communal basis of any future Ottoman state, with debates
centring on whether this future state should be based on a single nation-
ality, on a voluntary union of nationalities or perhaps on religion. By the
early twentieth century, sincere belief in a ‘Union of the (ethnic) Elements’
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(İttihad-ı Anasır) was probably limited to some Greek, Arab and Albanian
intellectuals and the ‘Liberal’ group led by Prince Sabahattin. The vast major-
ity, certainly of the Unionists, already before the 1908 revolution subscribed
to a kind of Ottoman Muslim nationalism in which the dominant position
of the Turks was taken for granted. While there was a growing awareness of
Turkishness among the Young Turks, they seem to have regarded it as one
facet of a complex identity in which being an Ottoman and a Muslim played
equally important parts. From the start the organizers of the 1908 revolu-
tion opened up their ranks to non-Turkish Muslims, but not (or at least
not automatically) to non-Muslims.24 Contrary to what is often supposed,
Pan-Turkism was popular only among a very small circle of intellectuals
in which Russian émigrés played a dominant role. Islamist or Pan-Islamist
sentiments were used politically by the Unionists, but played almost no part
in their ideological make-up.
The Young Turk thinkers, their intellectual debates and the journals
which formed the mouthpieces of the different currents have been described
in detail.25 However, with the outbreak of the Balkan War, these theoreti-
cal questions paled in significance. There was a national emergency and the
most important issue now was the mobilization of all national resources.
What was deemed ‘national’ was no longer in doubt by the end of 1912:
the empire had been attacked by a coalition of Christian Balkan states, the
loyalties of the Ottoman Christian communities were questionable at best
and the big powers of Europe did not lift a finger to help the empire in
distress. When the Young Turks organized the war effort through countless
political, social, economic and cultural organizations, all of which carried
the title millî (‘national’), it was clear what this term meant: by and for the
Ottoman Muslims. Defining the national as Ottoman Muslim continued
throughout the years of World War I (which was also officially declared a
Jihad and which was partly fought out as a brutal ethnic/religious conflict in
Anatolia) and beyond. The proclamations of the national resistance move-
ment in Anatolia after 1918, for example, make it abundantly clear that the
movement fought for the continued independence and unity of Ottoman
Muslims. The religious character of the movement was often remarked upon
at the time, with religious ceremonies accompanying every major event. It
was the only period in recent Turkish history when the country knew pro-
hibition of alcohol.26
After the war had been won in 1922, this ideological orientation changed
quite suddenly. With the passing of the national emergency the need for
mass mobilization had also passed. The debates conducted before 1912 now
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resumed their importance and here the republican regime made some very
deliberate choices. In the debate over the degree of Westernization needed,
Mustafa Kemal and his circle identified themselves with the position of
the most extreme ‘Westernists’ (garbcılar) of the Young Turk era, who
held that European civilization was indivisible and should be adopted in
toto.27 There was no attempt to harmonize European civilization (medeni-
yet) with Turkish culture (hars), although these terms, which had been
coined by Ziya Gökalp to differentiate between the acquired Gesellschaft
and the organic Gemeinschaft28 remained in use. In fact, the Kemalists
envisaged a cultural revolution in which not only the ‘high’ Islamic civili-
zation would be exchanged for that of Europe, but also the ‘low’ or popu-
lar culture would be transformed. Like the Young Turk ideological writers,
Mustafa Kemal insisted that Islam was a ‘rational’ religion and adaptable
to the contemporary world, but there was no attempt to turn a ‘purged’
Islam into a major constituent of the republican ideology. The Jadidist
ideas of Akçura and Ağaoğlu were rejected along with Gökalp’s proposals
for a Turkified Islam and Said Nursi’s ideas on Islamic moral rearmament.
Instead, secularism (laiklik, derived from the French laique) became one
of the main planks of Kemalist ideology. Scientism and biological mate-
rialism (as well as social Darwinism) occupied a more prominent place in
Kemalist thinking than they had in that of the Unionists. Witness Mustafa
Kemal’s famous dictum, ‘the only real spiritual guide in life is positive sci-
ence’ (müspet ilim), or the passage in his 1933 anniversary speech, where
he proclaims that ‘the torch, which the Turkish nation holds in its hand
while marching on the road towards progress and civilization, is positive
science.’
On the issue of national identity, a radical choice was also made.
Ottomanism obviously no longer was an option. But the Muslim national-
ism which had been championed from 1912–22 was now also abandoned, as
it sat awkwardly with the ideal of wholesale adoption of European civiliza-
tion. Instead an immense effort at nation-building within the borders of the
new republic was made, based on the idea of a ‘Turkish’ nation. Although
Turkish nationalism was territorial and based on a shared Turkish language
and culture (with nationality being open to anyone willing to adopt these),
a romantic idealization of the Turkish national character, with racist ele-
ments, became more and more important in the 1930s (in line with develop-
ments in Europe). In practice, the adoption of Turkish nationalism led to the
forced assimilation of the 30 per cent or so of the population which did not
have Turkish as its mother tongue.
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One aspect of ideology where there was marked continuity between the
Unionists and the Kemalists was in their firm rejection of the role of classes
and class struggle. Both Unionist and Kemalist policies aimed at the creation
of a national bourgeoisie and rejected any kind of change in property rela-
tionships. The CUP had reacted to the wave of strikes after the constitutional
revolution of 1908 with repressive legislation, and its ‘National Economy’
programme after 1913 had been geared towards the creation of a class of
Muslim traders and industrialists under state protection.29 Corporatism
gained a measure of popularity among the political élite both between 1913
and 1918 and in the early years of the republic. The creation of societies
of traders and artisans by the CUP after it had disbanded the old guilds
was an expression of the importance attached to professional organizations.
This interest continued into the republic, but proposals, such as those put
forward by the nationalist ideologist Gökalp, to base the political system
on corporatist structures, were rejected. 30 Instead, the republic adopted a
vaguely defined notion of ‘populism’ (halkçılık) or national solidarity, which
was partly derived from the Russian Narodniki and partly from the romantic
nationalist Halka doğru (Towards the People) movement, founded in Izmir
in 1916.31 In practice, the republican regime supported the capitalists and
left both peasants and workers at the mercy of the ruling coalition of offic-
ers, bureaucrats and large landowners and the ‘national’ bourgeoisie which
gradually grew up under its protection. Socialism, trade unions and strike
action: all were banned under the Kemalist republic and land redistribution
did not become a government policy until 1945.
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III. THE GREAT WAR
Zurcher_151-153.indd 151 3/23/2010 7:58:38 PM

Zurcher_151-153.indd 152 3/23/2010 7:58:38 PM
Introduction
It has long been a consensus opinion in European historiography that World

War I marks the end of the long nineteenth century, the end of the Edwardian
age of self-confident belief in progress and ultimately of European global
dominance. It marked the end of an old world order and led to the disap-
pearance of four empires. Eastern Europe was broken up into newly created
nation states and the Near East into British and French mandates that would
become very problematic nation states a generation later. World War I has
left an indelible imprint on European memory as the first industrial war, a
war in which killing itself became an industrialized process.
For the Ottoman Empire and Turkey the war and its sequel (the ‘national
struggle’ or ‘liberation war’, which lasted until 1922) also are the formative
experiences of the era in that without them, modern Turkey could not have
come into existence. Nevertheless, and with the single exception of the issue of
the Armenian genocide, it remains the most understudied period in twentieth-
century Turkish history. In Turkey, outside a very limited circle of purely military
historians, World War I was eclipsed by the story of the national struggle, which
generally has been set in the context of the emergence of the Turkish republic
rather than in that of the war of which it was in essence a prolongation.
The chapters in this part seek to add to our knowledge of the Ottoman
war experience, putting the focus on those who bore the brunt of the fight-
ing: the conscripted soldiers who, under conditions of almost inconceivable
hardship, managed to beat the British army four times, in Mesopotamia,
Palestine and Gallipoli. The last three chapters in this part focus on the end
of the war, in particular the armistice, and the national resistance that fol-
lowed it, demonstrating that that struggle was not waged in the name of any
new Turkish nation state but instead was very much a struggle for empire and
Islam. The last chapter reflects the truth that nations are built not only on
collective memory, but also sometimes on collective silence about the past.
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12. The Ottoman Conscription System in
Theory and Practice, 1844–1918*
The introduction of conscription in the Ottoman Empire was closely linked

to the introduction of a European-style army, but it did not coincide with
it. The first attempt to create an army, which was trained, equipped and
dressed in the contemporary European fashion, was made by Sultan Selim III
in 1792. His Nizam-i Cedid (New Order) army by all accounts was quite an
impressive achievement. Starting from a strength of about 2,500, the corps
quickly expanded to 22,685 men and 1,590 officers by 1806, with half of
them stationed in the capital and the rest in provincial centres in Anatolia.
When pressure against him and his new army on the part of the old army
establishment, primarily the Janissaries, mounted, however, the Sultan suc-
cumbed without any attempt to use the considerable strength of his new
army and disbanded the corps in 1808.1
The Nizam troops constituted a professional army. They were not
recruited on the basis of universal conscription, but rather in a fashion
reminiscent of the system introduced by Peter the Great in Russia or the
Bunicheh system in Persia.2 Governors and notables in Anatolia (not in the
Balkans or the Arab provinces) were required to send contingents of peasant
boys to Istanbul for training. Those enrolled in the corps remained under
arms for an unspecified period.
The reforming Sultan was toppled in 1808, but the arguments for a wide-
ranging reform of the army remained as compelling after Selim’s demise
as they had been before. The great defeats of the Ottoman army against
Russia in 1774 and 1792 had exposed its weakness; the Napoleonic wars and
especially the actions of the French and British troops in Egypt and Syria in
1798–1800 had made a deep impression on those who had witnessed them;
and, from the 1820s onwards, the successes of the Pasha of Egypt, Mehmet
Ali, with his French-trained army served as a source both of inspiration and
envy.3
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The Ottoman Conscription System
When Sultan Mahmut II finally felt secure enough to take up the mili-
tary reforms of Selim III in 1826, he first tried to avoid the clash with the
army establishment, which had been fatal to Selim, by forming his modern-
ized army from the active parts of the Janissaries (most of whom by this time
were not soldiers at all, but shopkeepers who held a Janissary pay ticket and
thus enjoyed the privileges of the military ruling class). When this, too, met
with stiff opposition and even open rebellion, Mahmut had the Janissaries
shot to pieces in their barracks. The next day the venerable corps was for-
mally disbanded (although in some provinces Janissary troops continued to
exist into the 1840s) and the forming of a new army, the Muallem Asakir-i
Mansure-i Muhammadiye (Trained Victorious Mohammedan Soldiers), was
announced.
The new army, which was modelled entirely on the earlier Nizam-i
Cedid corps, quickly grew from 1,500 to 27,000 men. The army was organ-
ized along European lines, with the basic units being the regiment (tertip,
later alay), consisting of three battalions (tabur). Once again, this was a pro-
fessional army manned by volunteers and peasants recruited by the Sultan’s
officials in the provinces. There was no real system of recruitment, but the
ranks of the army would be filled according to need. Each year the require-
ments of the army would be determined in a decision (kararname) of the
imperial council and then communicated to the provincial authorities, who
were left a free hand in the way they filled their quota.
Recruitment age was between 15 and 30 years and, once recruited, the
minimum term of service was 12 years. After 12 years the soldiers could opt
for a civilian life, but in order to qualify for a pension, soldiers were obliged
to serve until overtaken by old age or infirmity.
Parallel to the Mansure army, a second modernized unit was formed out
of the old corps of Imperial Gardeners (Bostanciyan) who for centuries had
guarded the imperial palaces and the seafront along the Bosphorus. They
were now reconstituted as an Imperial Guard, called the Hassa (Special)
army, whose strength reached about 11,000 by the end of the 1830s.4
In July 1834, a further momentous step in the modernization of the army
was the establishment of a reserve army or militia, based on the Prussian
‘Landwehr’, called the Asakir-i redife-i mansure (Victorious reserve soldiers),
or Redif for short. In each province between ten and twelve battalions were
established, manned with able-bodied men of between 23 and 32 years of
age. They trained twice a year and added their strength to the regular army
(now again generally known as Nizamiye (Regular), which name was reintro-
duced officially in 1841) in times of war. Initially composed of 57,000 men
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in 1834, the Redif after a reorganization in 1836 grew to 100,000 men.

During the nineteenth century the main task of the Redif was that of keeping
law and order in the countryside. In conformity with the Prussian regula-
tions of 1814, the Redif had its own separate officer corps, whose members
at first were drawn from the younger members of the local notable families
(who were supposed to take the role of the Landjunker in Prussia). These
officers served for two days a week and received a salary one quarter of that
of equivalent regular army officers.5
Universal conscription on the modern European model began to be dis-
cussed towards the end of Mahmut II’s reign and there can be no doubt that
this time the role model was very much Mehmet Ali, whose well-trained
army of conscripted Egyptian peasants had shown its superiority over the
Mansure army in Syria in 1831–3.
The ‘Military Council’ (Dâr-i Şûrâ-yi Askerî), which was established in
1837, a year later proposed that a five-year term of military service should
be introduced and this suggestion was incorporated in the famous ‘Imperial
Edict of Gülhane’, the reform charter promulgated in 1839. The edict noted
that up to now the burden of defence had fallen unequally on different prov-
inces and that lifetime service had damaged the population as well as the
quality of the army.6 The passage in question reads:
As regards military matters, for the above-mentioned reasons these

are among the most important. Although it is the duty of the sub-
jects to provide soldiers for the defense of the fatherland, it is also
true that up to now the size of the population of a province has not
been taken into account and because some [provinces] had to pro-
vide more [soldiers] than they could, others less, this has become the
cause of all kinds of disorder and chaos in useful occupations such
as agriculture and trade. As life-long service for those who enter the
army causes loss of zeal and decline in the population, it is necessary
with regard to those soldiers who will be recruited in each province
according to need, to establish some good rules and to establish a
system of alteration with a term of service of four to five years.
This led to the new army regulations, which were promulgated in September
1843 under Rıza Pasha. Primarily inspired by Prussian regulations, with
some French influences, this established a regular Nizamiye army manned
by conscripts (muvazzaf), who served for five years (later reduced to four,
three and – finally – two years), and a reserve army (Redif), manned by those
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who had completed their service with the regular army and those who had
drawn a low number in the kur’a (drawing of lots). The term of service in
the Redif was seven years, during which time the reservists were called up
for training for one month a year. When this proved too disruptive, this was
later changed to once every two years. Each of the five armies into which the
Ottoman Army was divided – the Guard, Istanbul, the European provinces,
Anatolia and the Arab provinces – had its own separate reserve attached to
it.7 The Redif army would continue in this fashion until 1912, when a deci-
sion was taken to merge it with the regular army. Due to the upheavals of the
Balkan War, this merger only took place in the course of 1914.8
The system of conscription was first established in detail under the Kur’a
Nizamnamesi (regulation on the drawing of lots) of 1848. It put the strength
of the army at 150,000 (two classes), which meant that, with five-year serv-
ice, the army needed to recruit 30,000 men a year. This quota consisted of
volunteers and conscripts. Conscription took place through the drawing of
lots among those eligible on the basis of sex, health and age. Those, whose
names were drawn, were drafted into the Nizamiye army, while the others
were relegated to the Redif, without first having to serve with the regular
army.
The system remained more or less unchanged until the new army
regulations were proclaimed in August 1869 under Hüseyin Avni Pasha.
Under these regulations the army was now divided into three categories:
the Nizamiye (regulars), the Redif (reserve – Landwehr) and the Mustahfız
(guards reserve – Landsturm). The regular army was divided into two classes:
conscripts (Muvazzaf), composed of men who were performing their four-
year, full-time service, and active reserve (I·htiyat), composed of those who,
having had completed these four years, remained under arms for one to two
years in their region of origin and acted as a kind of permanent ‘backbone’
to the local Redif battalion. The total active land army of the Empire after
the changes of 1869 is put at 210,000; 150,000 under arms and 60,000 in
the active reserve.
Those who had completed their service with the regular army, those who
had been allowed to return to their homes because they were sole breadwinners
and those who were over 32 years of age served with the Redif for a further six
years, as did those whose name had not come up to begin with. In 1869, the
strength of the reserve was foreseen as being slightly over 190,000.9
The Mustahfız (guards) reserve was the least active, least well-armed
part of the army. It was not expected to take the field in times of war, but
rather to take over garrison duties and maintain law and order when the
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regular army and the reserve were at the front. It consisted of (relatively)
able-bodied men who had done their service in the Nizamiye and/or Redif.
They served for eight years, between the ages of 32 and 40. Total strength
was 300,000.
In March 1870 the whole system of recruitment was reviewed and codi-
fied in a new Kur’a Kanunnamesi (Conscription Law), promulgated in 1871.
This remained the basic set of regulations until after the constitutional revo-
lution of 1908, but some of its provisions were modified during the army
reforms of 1879 (after the disastrous defeat in the war against Russia) and
1885–7 (when the German military advisors led by Colmar Freiherr von der
Goltz worked in Istanbul).
The law consists of 77 articles, grouped in seven chapters: General
ground rules for the conscription; Reasons for exemption from military
service; Treatment of those who dodge the draft or intend to use tricks to
escape from military service; Execution of the draft; Measures to be exe-
cuted after the draft; Conditions for the acceptance of volunteers in the
army; and Conditions pertaining to the people who send replacements or
pay the exemption tax.
The way the draft should be executed is described in great detail: First,
conscription councils are formed in each recruiting district (which coin-
cided with the Redif districts). Three months before the drawing of lots
is to take place, the population records are checked and lists of possible
recruits drawn up. All those who figure in the records are then ordered to
appear in person in the district capital. After those who can show that they
have a right to exemption on the basis of health or other reasons have been
separated, all those who are going to be included in the draft are arranged
around a square or open place. Two bags are put in the centre, one filled
with envelopes, each containing a small piece of paper with the name of one
of the men on it; the other, with an equal number of pieces of paper in enve-
lopes. Depending on the number of recruits needed, that number of slips
of paper in the second bag is inscribed with ‘asker oldum’ (I have become a
soldier), the rest being blanks. The envelopes are then taken from the first
bag, and the names read, one after each other and they are matched with a
paper from the second bag. This goes on until all the slips with asker oldum
on them, have been read.10 Later legislation, such as the military service law
of 1916 is even more detailed and specific. Under article 14 of this law all
males who have reached age 18 before the first of March in any given year
have to report in person and in the company of their village headman to the
authorities in the district capital before the end of October. Recruitment
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starts on the first of May and includes all those who have turned 20 before
the first of March.11
It seems, however, that these procedures were not always followed in
areas such as Albania or Kurdistan, where feudal relationships were strong.
According to one British military report, the conscription in Albania was purely
a façade and recruits were really selected and sent by their tribal chiefs.12
In the reforms of 1879 (which also introduced the division as the basic
unit of the army) the term of service with the infantry of the regular army
was brought to six years, of which three were spent under arms and three in
the active reserve. The period of service in the Redif was brought down from
eight to six years, of which three were classed as Mukaddem (vanguard) and
three as Tali (rear). Service with the Mustahfız likewise was reduced from
eight to six years. In 1887 the Redif districts were reorganized.
At the end of empire, the Young Turks changed the term of service
with the regular army again: in 1909 it was brought down from three to
two years for those soldiers serving in particularly severe climes – with the
Sixth Army in Iraq and the Seventh in Yemen.13 With the passing of the last
Ottoman conscription law in May 1914, the term was brought down from
three to two years for the whole infantry, but as mobilization started almost
immediately afterwards, this measure was not implemented.
The problem of exemptions

In introducing conscription as the basis for its recruitment system, the empire
faced the same problems as European states. Conscription presupposed
the existence of a fairly reliable census to determine where the potential
manpower could be found. Producing a reliable census required a sizeable
growth in the state, and especially the provincial, bureaucracy. A census in
the strict sense of the word, that is, a population count of the whole empire
at one and the same time, remained outside the possibilities of the Ottomans
until the very end of the empire. Only the republic was able to introduce it
in 1927. The Ottomans had a tradition of population registration, however,
and the first one of modern times (counting only male heads of households)
was held in the years 1831–8. A second registration, specifically for the pur-
pose of enabling conscription to work, was conducted in 1844. As actual
counting was impossible in many areas due to lack of manpower or to popu-
lar resistance, particularly on the part of tribes, the results were no more
than a rough estimate, and certainly a serious undercount of the population.
European writers working from the 1844 results put the total population of
the empire (excluding Africa) at about 32 million. The much more reliable
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data from the later nineteenth century, particularly the registration carried
out between 1882 and 1890 and published in 1893, give a total of about 17.5
million, which is not entirely incredible given the large losses in land and
population of 1877–8, but certainly represents an undercount.14 For 1914,
at the beginning of the last large-scale war ever fought by the Ottomans,
the number is put at 18.5 million for the core provinces15 or between 23 and
26 million, if all of the outlying provinces are included.16
The lack of an accurate census made it especially difficult for the
Ottoman authorities to compel those who were liable to serve to take part
in the draft. Although some wars, such as the 1897 war with Greece and
the 1912 Balkan War did arouse enthusiasm in some places, resulting in
quite large numbers of volunteers,17 under normal circumstances military
service was very unpopular. This was due primarily to the length of service.
The lack of manpower, especially in combination with the attrition caused,
not so much by the great wars, but by the never-ending guerrilla warfare
in Albania, Macedonia, the Hawran and above all Yemen, meant that con-
scripts were very often kept under arms for far longer than their legal term.
Some reports describe conscripts serving for ten years and more.18 Even
when there was initially an enthusiastic response, this tended to evaporate
very fast when recruits were faced with conditions in the army.19 The lack
of an industrial base meant that the state had the greatest difficulty in feed-
ing, clothing and equipping its soldiers. Pay was regularly in arrears. The
conditions under which the army had to fight in wartime were atrocious.
In the 1877–8 Russian war, in the Balkan War of 1912–13 and in World
War I large parts of the army were starving and many more soldiers died of
cholera, typhus and dysentery than did of wounds.
In the countryside it was relatively easy to go into hiding, even for those
who were registered. ‘Leaving for the mountains’ to stay out of the hands of
the representatives of the state was a well-established tradition in the Ottoman
Balkans and Anatolia. Like other countries, therefore, the empire had a sys-
tem of heavy penalties for draft dodgers and people who hid or helped them.
The regulations adopted in 1909 also included a system of material and per-
sonal sureties, whereby those who had no property were required to have a
male family member (father, brother or uncle) vouch for them.20
What made the manpower problem even more serious is the excep-
tionally large proportion of those exempted from military service. Broadly
speaking, one can say that there existed two types of exemption: individ-
ual and collective. Groups which were exempt were: women; non-Muslims
(formally until 1856, in practice until 1909); inhabitants of the holy places,
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Mecca and Medina; religious functionaries and students in religious schools;

and a whole range of professional groups. Exemption from the draft was a
prime attraction of membership of each of these groups. It is even reported
that young men went on pilgrimage to Mecca when recruitment threatened.
The regulations of 1871, 1886, 1909 and 1916 all contain provisions about
exemptions. The 1916 regulations are particularly specific, with long lists of
exempted professions. Some of these (i.e. top civil servants, judges, muftis) are
exempted under all circumstances, while others (i.e. lower ranking civil serv-
ants, policemen, railway clerks) are exempt except in case of mobilization.21
Nomads, even if not legally exempt, by and large were so in practice.
Istanbul with its outlying districts (and a population of over a million) also
did not deliver a single soldier to the army.22 The Ottoman army, therefore,
was an army of sedentary Muslim men and, as over 80 per cent of the popu-
lation was rural even at the dawn of the twentieth century, primarily one of
sedentary Muslim peasants.
Individuals who belonged to those sections of the populations which
were obliged to serve could claim exemption if they could show that they
were muinsiz (without support, or the sole breadwinner in their household).
The actual regulations are quite complicated and interesting as they clearly
reflect the realities of life and family relationships of the time, as in these
examples:
The father-in-law is not to be considered as the supporter of a hus-

band, but he may be so considered in a case where the wife inhab-
its the home of the father-in-law of her husband (i.e. of her own
father).
A young married man whose wife is dead or divorced leaving
children is exempted. The care of the latter is the duty of the young
father, even though natural supporters of the young woman exist, as
for example, her father, father-in-law and brother. This is in order
that the orphans may not be allowed to fall into the hands of the
stepmother.23
The essential point was that those men who could not be replaced as bread-
winners of their household were considered muinsiz, and therefore exempt.
Those who were not without support could only escape conscription by a
lucky draw or through payment. Anyone drawing a blank for six years in a row
and so escaping service in the regular army was enrolled in the reserve, but any
Muslim man liable to serve, could also buy exemption. The first conscription
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law of 1848 allowed conscripts to send a personal replacement (bedel-i şahsî).

In other words, they could send someone else if they could force, persuade
or pay anyone to go in their place. The 1870 regulations, while still mention-
ing personal replacement as a possibility, also detail the way in which service
could be bought off. Exemption could be bought for 5,000 kuruş or 50 gold
lira (a very considerable sum at the time). Those seeking exemption were not
allowed to sell land, house or tools in order to pay.24
This payment, called bedel-i nakdî (cash payment-in-lieu) in the sources,
should not be confused with the – much lower – sums paid by non-Muslims
until 1909. Those who had bought their exemption, like those who drew a
lucky lot, were declared reservists, until a change in the law in 1914, which
stipulated that they should serve for six months with the active army and
only then be classified as reservists. The same law of May 1914 also made the
bedel applicable in peacetime only, but it seems doubtful that the Ottoman
government, always hungry for money, actually suspended the practice dur-
ing World War I. The regulations for payment of the bedel also found their
way into the first military service law of the republic (of 1927), but by then
the amount was determined as 600 lira.25
With the famous exception of the Janissary corps, which had been
recruited from among the Christian peasantry (but whose members con-
verted to Islam), primarily in the European provinces, the empire had only
rarely employed non-Muslims for its land forces. Traditionally the bearing
of arms had been the prerogative of the ruling élite, the Askerî (military)
servants of the sultan. When lack of manpower forced the government to
start arming members of the subject class (reaya) in the form of irregulars
(Levent) drawn from the peasantry and the town roughs, this use was again
confined to Muslims.
The reform edict of Gülhane in 1839, the first conscription law of 1844
and the regulations of 1871 all specified that all Muslims (bilcümle ahaliyi
müslime) were liable to serve in the army. At that time, the idea that non-
Muslims should be allowed, or forced, to serve seems to have been as alien
as the idea of female soldiers. But the reform edict, which Ali Pasha drew
up in 1856 in close cooperation with the French and British ambassadors
and which formed the empire’s entry ticket into the ‘Concert of Europe’,
emphasized equality between Muslims and non-Muslims. Application of
this principle meant that the discriminatory practice of conscription would
have to cease and non-Muslims would have to take part in the drawing of
lots as well.26 In reality, there was very little enthusiasm for the idea on
either side. The army feared that an intake of Christian peasants would
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burden it and that non-Muslims would damage morale. This was a serious
point, because, as all observers of the Ottoman army between 1850 and
1918 agree, the fighting spirit of the Ottoman troops was to a very high
degree religious. Attacks were always carried out under simultaneous shout-
ing of ‘Allah, Allah’ and ‘Allahüekber’ (God is great). It would be hard to
envisage a religiously mixed army do the same. Most Muslims, especially in
the countryside, disliked the idea of Christians bearing arms (one observer
compares their feelings to those in the southern United States on the equal-
ity of blacks).27
Most Ottoman Christians were equally unenthusiastic. By and large
they felt themselves to be subjects of the Ottoman state, not members of an
Ottoman nation. The idea of Ottoman nation building (known at the time
as the before mentioned idea of the ‘Unity of the Elements’) was embraced
only by a small, mostly Muslim, élite.
The Ottoman government, finally, had the strongest incentive of all to
not conscript non-Muslims. The reform edict’s emphasis on equality before
the law meant that the cizye tax, which Ottoman Christians and Jews tradi-
tionally paid as a tribute to the Islamic state, had to go. Although the number
of Ottoman Christians dropped considerably during the last century of the
empire due to the loss of European provinces, they still represented nearly
30 per cent of the population in Abdülhamit’s reign and close to 20 per cent
on the eve of World War I. Not surprisingly, the cizye was the second most
important source of tax revenue (after the tithe) for the state. No wonder,
then, that the state actually preferred that the Christians pay an exemption
tax (first called iane-i askerî – military assistance, and then bedel-i askerî –
military payment-in-lieu), rather than serve. Thus, the non-Muslim exemp-
tion tax remained universal practice until 1909. The bedel was much lower
than that required of Muslims and just like the cizye before it, it was paid
collectively by Christian and Jewish communities to tax-farmers and, later,
salaried treasury officials.
That the recruitment of Christian subjects into the army was rejected as an
option before 1909 is shown very clearly by the text of the 1870 regulations,
even though, as Tobias Heinzelmann’s recent research has shown, it was an
option that was discussed in the highest echelons of the state in the first half of
the nineteenth century.28 The first article of the 1870 regulation reads:
All of the Muslim population of the Well-protected domains of His

Majesty are personally obliged to fulfill the military service which
is incumbent on them.
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There is no mention of non-Muslims anywhere, which clearly suggests that

in the Ottomans’ eyes they did not come within the compass of the military
service law.
Military service for non-Christians thus remained a theoretical option
until 1909. This is not to say that there were no Christians in the army –
there were, but they were in the officer corps, primarily in the medical
corps, which consisted in large part of Armenian and Greek army doctors
who held the ranks of lieutenant and captain.
The Young Turks, who came to power in July 1908 and for whom unity
and equality between the different ethnic ‘elements’ of the empire was a
top priority, started work on the change of the recruitment law soon after
they had suppressed the counterrevolution of April 1909 in Istanbul. In July
1909 military service was made compulsory for all Ottoman subjects. At
the same time a number of Muslim groups – for instance, not only students
in religious colleges who had failed their exams, but also the inhabitants
of Istanbul – lost their exempt status. In October 1909, the recruitment of
conscripts irrespective of religion was ordered for the first time.29
The reactions of the Christian communities to the new law were mixed,
but there was no real enthusiasm anywhere. The spokesmen of the Greek,
Syrian, Armenian and Bulgarian communities agreed in principle, but with
the all-important proviso that the members of their communities serve in
separate, ethnically uniform units officered by Christians. The Bulgarians
also insisted on serving in the European provinces only. 30 This was totally
unacceptable to the Young Turks, who saw it as just another way to boost
the centrifugal forces of nationalism in the empire – the opposite of what
they were aiming for. In response to the compulsory service requirement,
many young Christian men, especially Greeks, who could afford it and who
had the overseas connections, opted to leave the country or at least to get a
foreign passport.31
Those who could not leave, change their nationality, or pay the much
higher bedel-i nakdî (along with well-to-do Muslims), were indeed recruited
when World War I broke out, but the Ottoman government continued to
mistrust its Christian subjects to such an extent that almost without excep-
tion they were left unarmed. Instead they served in labour battalions, doing
repair work on the roads and railways and, especially, carrying supplies to
the front.
The result of the extensive system of exemptions employed was that the
empire, already far less populous than its rivals, drew less conscripts from
its relatively small population as well. Its yearly required intake of recruits in
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1913–14 (when the term of service was still three years) was 70,000 or about
0.35 per cent of the population. In reality the intake was probably lower.
In Bulgaria the ratio at the same time was 0.75 per cent. Fully mobilized,
as in early 1915, only 4 per cent of the population was under arms and on
active duty, compared with, for instance, 10 per cent in France. 32 The actual
strength of the army on the eve of World War I is not altogether clear, but it
is certain that it was relatively small by contemporary continental European
standards. The reports of the British military attaché for 1910 give the peace
strength as 300,000 and service in the regular army as three years. This
means that 100,000 recruits per year were needed, but the actual annual
contingent was put at 90,000, of which 50,000 were really enrolled after
exemptions. This meant that the actual peacetime establishment was only
about 150,000 and the inclusion of large numbers of redifs was necessary
to bring the army up to strength. A British report written in 1914 puts the
peace strength of the army at 230,000 before the Balkan Wars and 200,000
thereafter. Larcher, on the other hand, states that in 1914 the active army
was composed of two classes of about 90,000 each, which would mean an
army of between 180,000 and 200,000 men. 33 The peacetime establishment
of the Russian army (which also recruited a low percentage of the popula-
tion, but could afford it because of the sheer size of that population) was five
times its size in the early twentieth century. The Austrian army was at least
twice the size of the Ottoman one. 34
When fully mobilized, the Ottoman army was of course much big-
ger – this, after all, was the main advantage of the conscription system, but
mobilization was painfully slow, taking four to five months to complete (if
transport to the front is included). The mass mobilizations of 1912 and 1914
showed up all the inherent weaknesses in the Ottoman system. The slow
mobilization of 1912 (mainly due to lack of good roads, but also to confu-
sion and the inability of the armies to absorb, equip and feed the reservists)
meant that the Balkan War had been lost before the troops from the Asiatic
provinces could even reach the European fronts. With only one single-track
railway available for supplies and troop movements, the troops at the front
(only 30 miles from the capital Istanbul for most of the war!) were starving,
and when the Syrian reserves finally arrived the cholera they brought killed
off a significant number of them. At the outset of the war there seems to have
been very little enthusiasm, but nevertheless a genuine and quite widespread
readiness to serve, but this evaporated quickly under the circumstances. Even
during the first days of marching after leaving their depots, the supplies ran
out. Troops had to live off the land and large-scale desertions started.35
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The outbreak of World War I in 1914 again saw a very slow process of
mobilization (even slower than that of the Russians). This time it had to take
place in winter, which made the whole process more burdensome, especially
in Eastern Anatolia. On the other hand, warfare was practically impossible
in winter on the Caucasian front and if Enver Pasha had not squandered
72,000 soldiers’ lives (out of 90,000) by ordering an attack over the moun-
tain passes at Sarıkamış, the Ottoman Army could have been at full wartime
strength in the spring. Once again, the call to arms was answered relatively
well, in Anatolia if not in the Arab provinces. But as in the Balkan War, the
conditions in the army (payment with worthless paper money, undernour-
ishment, lack of medical care, epidemics of typhus, cholera and dysentery,
bad or non-existent clothing and shoes) were so bad, that desertions soon
started to become a problem of enormous proportions. By the end of the
war the number of deserters was four times that of soldiers on the front.
Desertion rates and the World War I experience of the Ottoman soldier are
the focus of the next chapter of this volume.
The conclusion would seem to be that the Ottomans, over a period of
60 years and as part of a more general programme of modernizations, man-
aged to put in place a sophisticated system of recruitment through conscrip-
tion modelled on that of Prussia/Germany, but the lack of infrastructure
and an industrial base meant that they could not really cope with the mass
army they had so diligently created. Conscription failed as an instrument of
Ottoman nation-building, too. The system of exemptions through the bedel-i
nakdî and the bedel-i askerî meant that the burden never fell equally on all
Ottoman subjects. Even after these reforms, the Ottoman army remained an
army of Anatolian Muslim peasants, in a sense foreshadowing the establish-
ment of a Turkish nation state in Anatolia after World War I.
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13. The Ottoman Soldier in World War I*
The limits of the sources

For some 35 years now, in the prolific field of World War I studies a certain
approach to the history of the war has been popular; an approach which is
epitomized by Martin Middlebrook’s famous The First Day on the Somme
(1971) and by the various works of John Terraine. This is the attempt to
write the war’s social history, to examine the war experience from below,
through the eyes of the men who served in the trenches, the people who
drove the ambulances, the women who filled the shells in the factories.
In the case of Europe, there is ample material available for this way of
writing history: letters and diaries, stories, poems and paintings, autobiog-
raphies and oral history. Where the Ottoman Empire is concerned, though,
the situation could not be more different. The reason is a simple one: the vast
majority of the common soldiers of the Ottoman army were illiterate.1 Even
as late as 1927, four years after the establishment of the Turkish republic and
a decade after the war, only 10.6 per cent of the whole population was able
to read and write. This overall average hid vast differences, however. While
of the men in the towns of over 10,000 inhabitants 41.5 per cent was able to
read and write, at the other end of the scale only 1.4 per cent of the women
in the villages could do so. As 80–85 per cent of the population lived in the
countryside and as the vast majority of the recruits were villagers, the most
relevant statistic is that of the 11.4 per cent of male villagers who were lit-
erate.2 Sometimes non-commissioned officers (sergeants) functioned as the
official scribe for a company, writing letters which were dictated to them,
but it was more usual for new arrivals from a village to the front to bring the
news orally – and for discharged or convalescent soldiers from a particular
area to take messages back the same way.3 This means that the Ottoman
soldier has not left much in the way of written monuments: no letters home,
no diaries. Naturalist painting of course was not a Middle Eastern tradition,
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being frowned upon by Sunni Islam, so we have no sketches. Oral history

has come into fashion in Turkey, but only in the last 25 years – more than
three decades too late to be of much use for the study of World War I.
We do have a number of sources, which tell us something about the con-
ditions in which the Ottoman soldier tried to survive, but with one excep-
tion they are typical ‘top-down’ documents, which view the war from the
standpoint of high-ranking officers. There are scores of memoirs and auto-
biographies of Ottoman officers (Ali İhsan Pasha Sâbis, Cemal Pasha, Ahmet
İzzet Pasha [Furgaç], Selâhettin Adil Pasha, Halil Pasha [Kut], Mustafa
Kemal Pasha [Atatürk], Kâzim Pasha Karabekir and others), German
officers (Liman von Sanders, Kress von Kressenstein, Kannengiesser,
Von Gleich, Guhr, Guse, Von Seeckt and others), and even Austrian ones
(Joseph Pomiankowski). An important source for the recollections of the
members of the German military mission serving in the Ottoman Empire,
some 18,000–20,000 men in all, is the journal Mitteilungen der Bundes des
Asienkämpfer (Bulletin of the Society of Veterans of Asia), later rechristened
Orientrundschau, and the yearbooks of the same society, entitled Zwischen
Kaukasus und Sinai (Between Caucasus and Sinai).4
The complexities of the German–Ottoman alliance have been studied
exhaustively, but these studies are essentially diplomatic, not so much mili-
tary in nature.5 As far as histories of the Ottoman war effort go, there is
the large-scale official history, published by the War History and Strategic
Studies Directorate of the General Staff in Ankara,6 but relatively little in
the way of regimental histories or histories of specific battles or fronts, as
far as World War I is concerned. Most efforts in this field in Turkey seem
to be concentrated on the independence war, which followed between 1919
and 1922. World War I does receive some attention in the historical sections
(tarih kısmı) of the journal Askerî Mecmua (Military Journal) published by
the Military Press in Istanbul between the wars, as well as in some 131
publications on the war published in Turkish up until 1955. This amounts to
0.2 per cent of the number of titles on the war published in English, French
and German during the same period, and since then, interest in the war does
not seem to have revived to any large extent in Turkey.7
In European languages the only detailed history of the Ottoman war
for 70 years was Maurice Larcher’s La guerre turque dans la guerre mondiale
(Paris, 1926). It has now been joined by Ed Erickson’s Ordered to Die. A
Study of the Ottoman Army in the First World War (Westport, 2001). For the
economic and social history of the war, Ahmet Emin [Yalman]’s Turkey in
the World War (Yale, 1930) is indispensable.
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The Ottoman Soldier in World War I
The Turkish General Staff archives are almost completely closed to for-
eigners (and to most Turkish scholars as well). Among the foreign archives,
the German military archives (Bundesarchiv-Militärarchiv or BA-MA) in
Freiburg are obviously the pre-eminent sources. However, these too have
their limitations. The German Empire as such had hardly any national
(imperial) ground forces. Only its navy, air force and colonial troops
were imperial forces. The rest of the army consisted of the contingents of
Prussia, Bavaria, Württemberg and Saxonia, which operated as separate
units and were put at the disposal of the imperial general staff in case of
war. It follows that the German Empire had no central military archives.
Of the contingents, the Prussian one was of course by far the most impor-
tant. Unfortunately, 98 per cent of the documents pertaining to the Prussian
army were destroyed in an allied air strike on Potsdam in April 1945. As the
large majority of the German officers serving in the Near East was Prussian,
this is a great handicap. For the much smaller number of Bavarian officers
(among them Kress von Kressenstein), it is worth consulting the Central
Archives of the Bavarian Free State in Munich, in which the documents
of the Royal Bavarian Army have been preserved. I have also consulted
the political reports from the Constantinople embassy in the Dutch state
archives. The Netherlands being neutral, these reports continue throughout
World War I and at times yield interesting insights.
But what all these sources have in common is that they share a ‘top-down’
vision, which keeps us distanced from the realities of the war experience.
This vision views casualties as a manpower problem rather than as some-
thing involving pain and death. The only officers who do devote considera-
ble attention to the living conditions of the soldiery are the German medical
doctors who served in the empire.8
The one source which may be said to give us the soldier’s voice – albeit
indirectly – is formed by the daily and weekly ‘intelligence summaries’ of
British military intelligence on the Egyptian and Mesopotamian fronts and
of the British expedition forces in Salonica, the Dardanelles and Persia.
These intelligence summaries are based on agents’ reports and debriefings
of neutral travellers, but also on interrogations of Ottoman prisoners of war
(POWs) and deserters, and on letters to Ottoman POWs. (If this seems in con-
tradiction with the earlier statement about the vast majority of the Ottoman
soldiers being illiterate, it should be remembered that relatively many of the
POWs and deserters were Armenians and that literacy among the Armenians
and Greeks, even in the countryside, was very much higher than among the
Muslims.9)
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The Ottoman army: size and composition

The most amazing thing about the Ottoman army in World War I is that an
army which had been beaten comprehensively by four small Balkan states
a year earlier, managed to fight for as long as it did and as well as it did.
During the war, the general opinion among the British and French was that
this was wholly due to the efforts of the German officers and troops serv-
ing in the empire; but in reality it was also the result of the reforms pushed
through in the year following the Balkan War by the Young Turk leader
and Ottoman War Minister Enver Pasha, and his German advisors. These
reforms entailed the retirement of a large number of older officers, many of
whom had risen from the ranks, and their replacement with modern edu-
cated younger officers. According to German observers, this new generation
of officers knew the theoretical bases of modern warfare extremely well and
thanks to them, the level of staff work in particular was greatly improved.
However, often their whole experience had been in the general staff, and
as such lacked command experience. They now took over units in the field
for the first time.10 That the army generally performed far better when it
defended than when it attacked, was due mainly to the lack of experienced
non-commissioned officers (NCOs) who could lead and inspire the units.
Too many of these had died in the Balkan War of 1912–13.11
The army these officers had to lead into battle was burdened with two
almost insurmountable problems right from the start: lack of manpower
and lack of communications. We shall return to the lack of communications
later, in the context of a discussion of the army’s supply situation. Lack
of manpower had been a problem for the Ottomans all through the nine-
teenth century, that is to say: once they came up against large conscripted
European armies. The Ottoman population, even though it had been grow-
ing quite fast over the last 30 years, was still comparatively small: about
19 million people in the core provinces and, if the outlying areas (where
no reliable census existed) are included and the undercount of the Ottoman
census system is taken into account, perhaps between 23 and 26 million in
total.12 Not all Ottoman adult males were equally available for military serv-
ice, however. The non-Muslims (Christians and Jews, about 20 per cent of
the population in 1914) traditionally had paid an exemption tax (the bedel).
Many Muslims also made use of this possibility, but for them the exemption
tax was considerably higher, so those who managed to raise enough money
mostly came from among the more affluent town dwellers.
From 1909, the Young Turk government had started to enforce the con-
scription for non-Muslims as well, but in practice the majority of eligible
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Christians still managed to avoid military service, paying the higher rate
Muslims paid. Those who did serve, though, could not rise above the rank
of lieutenant, with the exception of army doctors who held the rank of cap-
tain.13 During the war the poorer Christians who could not pay the exemp-
tion fee generally were employed in unarmed labour battalions.14 Just like
the other armies of the day, the Ottoman army had labour battalions (amele
taburları) included in both its peacetime and its mobilized strength. These
battalions were attached to the inspectorates of lines of communication
(menzil müfettişlikleri) of the seven armies into which the Ottoman army was
organized. The number of labour battalions varied throughout the war, but
between 70 and 120 units seem to have been active at any given time.15 Total
strength may have varied between 25,000 and 50,000 men.16 The primary
functions of the labour battalions were transport and road repairs (carry-
ing and digging). Apart from these primary functions within the field army,
labour battalions also fulfilled a number of functions for the Office of the
Quartermaster General (Levazim Dairesi) of the armed forces. These were
partly industrial, with a number of munitions, arms, shoes and clothing fac-
tories in and around Istanbul run as military establishments (as they had been
even in peacetime).17 They were partly artisanal (repair shops, bakeries) and
partly agricultural, with labour battalions formed to replace peasants sent
to the front, especially in the vital grain-growing areas of Central Anatolia.
These last named units, which seem to have been formed from non-Muslims,
but also from women, played an important role in increasing the area under
cultivation, which had dropped by two-thirds in the first year of the war due
to lack of manpower.18 This was especially important, because the supplies
of Russian and Romanian wheat, which had been the main sources for the
provisioning of Istanbul, had dried up in the first years of the war as well.
By and large the labour battalions were composed of Armenians – one
source puts them at 75 per cent,19 but also Syrian Christians and Greeks.
These Christian minorities, whose loyalty was suspect in the eyes of the
Ottoman army, were obvious candidates for recruitment into these unarmed
and guarded battalions.20 With respect to the Armenian recruits, at first
only younger (age 15–20) and older (age 45–60) males were put to work,
with those aged 20–45 drafted into the regular army. But the decision of
25 February 1915, in the wake of the failure of the Ottoman army’s eastern
offensive and the defeat of Sarıkamış, to disarm all Armenians in the army
for fear that they would collaborate with the Russians obviously meant that
many of those Armenians who had been recruited into the regular army
units were now transferred to the labour battalions as well. This certainly
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was the practice on the Caucasian front, though it may not have been uni-
versal, as we find mention of Armenian soldiers serving in the front line on
the Sinai front as late as the spring of 1916.
Eyewitnesses describe atrocious conditions in the Armenian labour bat-
talions. Like Muslim soldiers, Armenian recruits were underfed, exhausted,
suffering from disease,21 though support units like the labour battalions, as
well as fortress garrisons, were even worse off than the front soldiers.22 The
mistreatment of Armenian recruits in the labour battalions in the winter of
1914–15 was but an extreme case of what was going on throughout the army.
These labour battalions, though not created for the specific purpose
of killing off Armenians, certainly facilitated the process once the mas-
sacres started in April 1915. The massacres were aimed primarily at the
Armenian male population, and at this point there were tens of thousands
of Armenian men, who were already assembled and under guard of armed
soldiers. They did not stand a chance once the decision to attack them was
taken. The timing and method of the killings seems to have differed from
place to place, however. On the Caucasian front, with the Russian army on
the attack, the priority was to make the Armenians harmless and to pre-
vent them from deserting to the enemy.23 After the disarming most were
sent to join labour battalions, but many were simply kept under guard in
prison-like circumstances and eventually marched off to their deaths. The
actual killing is reported as having been the work both of soldiers and gen-
darmes, and of Kurdish tribes. The former are described as taking groups
of 50 to 100 Armenians to secluded spots and finishing them off with bul-
lets and bayonets.24 The latter lay in waiting to attack the convoys on the
road.25 On other fronts, such as the Dardanelles and the Sinai, as well as
on the construction sites of the Baghdad Railway, the Armenians seem to
have continued their work in the labour battalions until the end of 1915
and even the summer of 1916. It is probably correct to say that the killing
off of the Armenian soldiers was concentrated at either end of the great
terror campaign of 1915–16. Those in the East were among the first to fall
victim, even before the deportations started in earnest in May 1915, while
others were part of the last sweep, aimed at those who, until then, had been
considered indispensable. Of course, for the army being deprived of work-
ers and carriers wrought havoc on its logistics. No wonder that a prominent
general like Vehip Pasha, the commander of the Caucasus front, instigated
court martial proceedings against those responsible for killing all of ‘his’
Armenian labourers, who were engaged in road repairs.26 But once the fury
was unleashed, rational arguments, even if they were based on the interests
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of the army, ultimately fell on deaf ears. This was for instance the case with
the Baghdad Railway Company, which depended on the skilled Armenian
workers and clerks for its smooth operation. It fought hard and with some
success to protect its own employees from deportation, in the face of grow-
ing pressure from the Ottoman government. This resorted to the deporta-
tion of wives and children as a means to put pressure on the workers. The
railway company ultimately failed to protect the construction workers in the
tunnels through the Amanos range from deportation and death, in spite of
the vital strategic importance of these tunnels.27
Some Armenian soldiers seem to have escaped deportation by converting
to Islam. Sarafian estimates that between 5 and 10 per cent of the Ottoman
Armenians escaped the death marches by converting, either voluntarily (if
one can call it that, in view of the circumstances) or under government
pressure, but the practice of (forced) conversion is usually associated with
Armenian women and children who were taken into Muslim households or
orphanages.28 The practice of forced mass conversion seems to have existed
in the army as well, however, as an eyewitness account from the Sinai front
in the spring of 1916 relates. Apparently, quite significant numbers of
Armenian soldiers agreed to become Muslims, change their names and be
circumcised in field hospitals and dressing stations, and this was an occasion
for official celebrations.29
Not only the Christians were kept separate. As far as I have been able
to make out, the units of the Ottoman Army were ethnically uniform up to
the level of regiments or even divisions. German officers routinely speak of
‘Arab divisions’ and ‘Turkish divisions’. The British reports do the same. We
frequently find statements such as ‘the 51st division is composed of good
Anatolian Turks and Kurds’ and ‘the 141st and 142nd divisions are Arab
and Syrian’.30 This is only to be expected as regiments had their own regu-
lar recruiting areas. There were exceptions – we do find evidence of mixed
units – but this most probably was due to the fact that in the last phase of
the war many units were so far below strength that they had to be broken up
and merged with other ones.
Arab troops, of which there were many, were primarily used for gar-
rison and lines of communication duties, but sheer lack of manpower meant
that, increasingly during the war, the Ottoman government had to use Arabs
from Syria and Iraq in front line fighting units. By the end of the war four
out of ten divisions on the Palestine front were Arab. But Arab troops were
considered inferior to the Turkish troops, as evidenced by the exchange
of prisoners of war. The Ottomans used to insist that they be given ‘real
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Turkish troops, not Arabs’ in exchange for British troops and offered only
Indian troops in exchange for Arabs. 31 In Liman von Sanders’s opinion the
Arab troops were not necessarily bad, but needed ‘just but strict command’.32
Kress considered them ‘more lively and intelligent, but less reliable’ than the
Anatolian troops. 33 Some of the nomad tribes of the empire, notably Kurds,
did contribute to the war effort, but largely as irregular cavalry units which
were only loosely attached to the regular army and their usefulness seems
to have been extremely limited. 34 So the burden of military service in the
regular units posted to the front line fell overwhelmingly on the Turkish
peasant population of Anatolia, which constituted about 40 per cent of the
total population, or nine to ten million.
After deduction of those who could pay the exemption tax, about 100,000
men were called up for military service each year and of these only about
three quarters actually joined the army, most of the others being rejected for
reasons of health.35 This meant that the peacetime strength of the army was
about 150,000 (two classes). There is a lot of uncertainty about the mobilized
strength of the army, but probably the maximum number of men actually
under arms at anyone time was slightly under 800,000. 36 Mobilization, how-
ever, was extremely slow and took at least six months to be fully effective.
(As we have seen in the previous chapter, this meant that even after full
mobilization, only about 4 per cent of the population was under arms and on
active duty.37) In the course of the mobilization males between the ages of 19
and 45 were called up. By 1916, however, the age limits had been extended
to 15 and 55 respectively and, according to British reports by mid-1917, 12
per cent of the total were between the ages of 16 and 19.38 In April 1915, a
new military service law tried to reduce the number of exempted males, but
it remained possible to pay instead of serving, albeit that the amount was now
an astronomical 50 Turkish pounds. Shortly afterwards even Muslim for-
eigners residing in the empire were made eligible for military service (under
the pretext that they too should take part in the holy war, cihat, proclaimed
by the Sultan in 1914), but they could buy it off for 45 pounds. 39 These meas-
ures, though undoubtedly lucrative, did little to strengthen the army.
Offensive strategy
Neither the Ottoman nor the German military leadership took the man-
power problem into account when deciding on the strategy to be followed.
Even though lack of manpower in the face of the Russian army was a major
headache, the German high command imposed an offensive strategy on the
Ottoman government. The German chief of the general staff, von Moltke,
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told Enver Pasha on 10 August 1914 that it was the task of the Ottomans
to draw away the largest possible number of British and Russian troops
from the European battlefields.40 The German military attaché in Istanbul,
Von Lossow, energetically supported this line, but the head of the German
military mission in the Ottoman Empire, Liman von Sanders, favoured a
defensive strategy.41 Enver, whose personal relations with Liman were never
good, sided with Moltke and Lossow and the offensive strategy, which he
opted for from the outset wasted human life on a grand scale. The greatest
disaster was Enver’s ill-conceived winter offensive towards the Russian for-
tress of Kars in December 1914. The troops were forced to cross mountain
ridges deep in snow and as a result of the combined effects of cold, starva-
tion and typhus, a mere 12,000 of the 90,000 troops of the Third Army who
took part in the attack survived into spring. The attacks on the Suez canal in
February 1915 and August 1916, and the attempt to round the Russian flank
in Eastern Anatolia through an adventurous offensive in Persia, although
much less costly, were also irresponsible adventures which brought no tan-
gible results. The decision to hold on to Yemen and the Hejaz (with the holy
cities of Mecca and Medina) was a purely political one, which left the army
stretched out along a thousand mile single-track railway and tied up a large
garrison in Medina. Finally, the decision to send Ottoman divisions to fight
in support of the Austrians in Galicia and the Germans in Rumania perhaps
enhanced Ottoman prestige with its allies, but it was a luxury the country
could ill-afford.
The high point of the Ottoman war effort of course was the Gallipoli
campaign of 1915. After the repulse of the Franco-British attempt to force
the straits by naval force alone had ended in a totally unexpected Ottoman
victory, the Ottoman army just managed to block the allied attempt at a
breakthrough overland on the Gallipoli peninsula. There can hardly be any
doubt that this was a great strategic victory, which gave the empire a new
lease on life (or prolonged its misery, whichever way you choose to look at
it). The victory over first the British fleet and then the allied expedition force
was a tremendous morale booster for the Ottomans, but in the long run it
broke the back of the army. The Dardanelles campaign cost the Ottomans
nearly 90,000 dead and 165,000 wounded and sick (by their own official
figures which are certainly an underestimate),42 almost all of them from the
best-equipped and most experienced divisions in the army. In spite of the
carnage at the Dardanelles, the Ottoman army reached its peak numeric
strength at the beginning of 1916, the year the British General Sir Charles
Townshend had to surrender to the Ottomans at Kut al-Imara. But in terms
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of quality the damage caused by Gallipoli could not be repaired. After 1916,
quality went down and numbers started to dwindle: In winter 1916, when
the unfortunate Third Army in Eastern Anatolia sustained attacks by much
superior Russian forces in terrain where neither its supply trains nor its
medical service could follow, it was thrown back and lost both Trabzon and
Erzurum. Following the defeat a large part of the Third Army simply melted
away. According to one source, the Third Army alone had 50,000 deserters
at this time.43
The Second Army lost about two-thirds of its strength (over 60,000 men)
on the southern section of that same front (the Muş-Bitlis area) in the winter
of 1916–17.44 As a result the total number of combatants fell to 400,000 in
March 1917 and 200,000 in March 1918. When the armistice was signed in
October 1918, less than 100,000 troops remained in the field.45
Disease
This dwindling of the numeric strength of the army was due mainly to two
causes: disease and desertion. Malaria, typhus, typhoid, syphilis, cholera
and dysentery were rampant.46 Especially in winter the ubiquitous lice car-
ried in clothing and upholstery caused typhus to spread all along the routes
to the front, killing soldiers, Armenian deportees and Muslim refugees
alike. Among the Ottoman troops casualties were very high. Without treat-
ment, the disease killed about 50 per cent of those affected. Even among
the Germans, who were very well cared for by their own medical service,
mortality was 10 per cent. The delousing ovens built by the Germans were
excellent, but they remained inoperative a lot of the time due to lack of fire-
wood, which also hampered the heating of washing water.47 Summer saw
the spread of malaria, which was especially bad along the Black Sea coast
and the Bosphorus, in some places in Anatolia (such as Ankara and Konya)
and, most of all, around Adana and İskenderun – an area through which
all of the troops destined for the Mesopotamian and Syrian fronts had to
pass. In late summer and autumn, cholera, caused mainly by contaminated
drinking water, was the great killer.48 In the dry months the soldiers drank
from the remaining stagnant pools and besides, they preferred defecating
close to open water because it was customary to wash afterwards. Syphilis
and gonorrhea were also widespread, with Istanbul, Izmir and Beirut
being mentioned specifically as sources from which the infections spread.
These venereal diseases were treated in the battalions and sufferers were
not hospitalized.49 The German army surgeons, through efficient inocula-
tion programmes, but even more through the introduction of basic hygiene,
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managed to bring down the number of sick soldiers quite drastically where
they were active, but the Ottoman medical service often lacked even the
most basic materials. Especially in the first two years of the war, practically
all medicines and equipment had to be imported. The biggest problem of
all, however, was the lack of sufficient and healthy food. This made the
troops vulnerable to disease and it made recovery in hospital very difficult.
We shall return to the food problem shortly, but the combined effect of the
factors mentioned here was that nearly seven times as many men died of ill-
ness as who died of wounds during the war. 50 One report on the Third Army
(Eastern Anatolia) states that in March 1917 its hospitals held 16,956 sick
compared with 1,340 wounded. 51
Desertion
In terms of loss of available manpower, however, desertion was an even
bigger problem for the army than was disease. Though all armies engaged
in the fighting of the ‘Great War’ encountered the problem of desertions,
in the Ottoman case it reached unmanageable proportions. By December
1917 over 300,000 men had deserted.52 By the end of the war the number
stood at nearly half a million. This is a number over three times that of the
deserters from the far larger German army. Where European armies lost
between 0.7 and 1.0 per cent of their total mobilized strength to desertion,
the percentage for the Ottoman Empire is at least twenty times as high.
According to Liman, every single division that was transported or marched
to the front lost thousands from its original strength. Bavarian officer Kress
von Kressenstein in October 1917 reported that the 24th Division that had
left Istanbul with 10,057 men had arrived at the Palestinian front with only
4,635. Nearly a quarter of the soldiers in the division had deserted before it
reached the front. The others were either hospitalized or poached by other
units along the way.
Most of these deserters as a rule did not go over to the enemy, although
especially in the second half of the war the number of Armenians and Arabs
who deserted to the British increased sharply. Most recruits fled while en
route to the front or while escaping from enemy armies on the march, espe-
cially when they passed close to their hometown or village. They roamed
the countryside, living off the land and turning into robber bands. Further
troops had to be detached in ever greater numbers to deal with the insecu-
rity these bands created behind the frontlines. 53 The population often sym-
pathized with the deserters and hid them in their homes.54 When deserters
were caught, they generally were punished only lightly and returned to their
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units as soon as possible in order not to deplete the strength of the army any
further. As early as May 1916 we find a Dutch embassy report stating that
the army had replaced prison sentences with corporal punishment in the
field.55 Only rarely do we find reports of deserters being executed, but the
army did try to make it difficult to desert. Troops, especially those consist-
ing of Arab recruits, were mistrusted so much that they were sometimes
brought to the front unarmed, and under armed escort of Turkish guards.56
In Syria extreme coercion had to be used, with Arab soldiers sometimes
being marched to the front in chains. Also, in Syria as well as in Palestine,
Bedouins were offered a reward of five Ottoman pounds for every deserter
they captured and returned. 57
Pay, arms, equipment, food and fodder

Why did so many Turkish soldiers desert, even though they were considered
good soldiers and (as was pointed out to them many times) there was a spe-
cific Quranic injunction (8:15–16) against leaving the battlefield? In 1917,
Liman primarily blames the policies of the army. Since the beginning of the
war training had been neglected. Depleted units had been brought up to
strength with raw recruits. Units were constantly being broken up and reas-
sembled and therefore lacked cohesion and team spirit. Soldiers also did not
know or trust their officers and had very little idea of what was going on.
‘They only knew that they were being sent somewhere where things were
going wrong,’ states Liman.
At heart, though, both the troops’ tendency to desert as well as their
vulnerability to disease was in large part a result of the lack of basic care for
their welfare: the troops were ill-paid or not paid at all, worn out march-
ing, undernourished and badly clothed. Time and again lack of pay and
lack of food are mentioned as reasons to desert in the British reports. 58
Theoretically, the soldiers were paid 5 kuruş a month during the first year
and 10 a month during subsequent years, 59 but in reality they were paid very
irregularly. Sometimes pay was in arrears for three months.60
While the troops seem to have been well armed, the same cannot be
said for the rest of their equipment. Footwear seems to have been an espe-
cially serious problem, which is mentioned time and again in the reports. It
was not unusual for Turkish troops to fight – and march – barefoot or with
their feet covered in rags.61 The fact that the Russians who were captured
on the eastern front all turned out to be wearing boots was a tremendous
source of envy for the Ottoman soldiers.62 As a matter of fact, the war is
still known as ‘the barefoot war’ in Syria.63 Reports describe how on the
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Palestinian front no new shoes had been available for almost a year. As a last
resort, the troops in the front line were given yellow Bedouin slippers, which
were bound to the feet with throngs. Those on garrison duty had to make
do with shoes made of straw, with wooden soles.64 Nor was the situation
much better where uniforms were concerned. Most soldiers were dressed in
rags.65 In March 1918 one deserter said that the troops on the Palestinian
front had not received new clothing for 15 months.66 The Turkish journal-
ist Falih Rıfkı Atay, who served under Cemal Pasha on the Fourth Army
staff in Syria from 1915 to 1918, vividly describes the contrast between
the lack of everything on the Ottoman side and the plentiful supplies over
which the British disposed. Soldiers halted in the middle of the battlefield,
under intense enemy fire, to rob dead British soldiers of their boots and, in
at least one incident, an Ottoman regiment after a successful attack on a
British trench, returned unrecognizable, having exchanged their own rags
with British uniforms taken from the dead (most of them did not take to the
short trousers worn by the British, though).67
Theoretically, the army should have been adequately fed. In spite of the
fact that the production of foodstuffs dropped by 40 per cent during the
war, mainly due to lack of manpower, Anatolia had a wheat surplus, and
Syria had adequate supplies overall except after the disastrous locust plague
of 1915.68 Throughout the war, the Ottoman Empire exported wheat to the
Central powers as payment for deliveries of armaments. The German army
reckoned that the Arab provinces produced enough grain to support the local
population and the armies on the Palestinian and Mesopotamian fronts.
Official figures at first sight support this idea. The official daily rations of
an Ottoman soldier consisted of: 900 grams of bread, 600 grams of biscuit,
250 grams of meat, 150 grams of bulgur (broken wheat), 20 grams of butter,
and 20 grams of salt.69
The reality, though, was very different. Although it varied a great deal it
was never anywhere near as good as these figures suggest. Each year the gov-
ernment would announce the percentage of the harvest of basic foodstuffs
(mainly wheat and barley), which it would need. On the average this was
between 40 and 50 per cent, 10 per cent of which was collected as tithe, the
rest being bought, but at official prices, not market value. Because the actual
purchase of wheat and barley was decentralized and done by the commis-
sariat of each army, and because transport was such a tremendous problem,
the food situation of the different armies varied enormously, depending on
whether they were close to, or far away from, grain-producing areas.70 This
was the case, for instance, on the Palestinian front, where the troops on the
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east bank of the Jordan in as-Salt were supplied from the rich grain growing
area of the Hawran, while the troops to the west of the Jordan in Nablus
and Jaffa went hungry. The amount of bread the troops were given daily, for
instance, is given as follows in different reports:
Comparison of Daily Bread Rations
Dardanelles, 1916 900 grams

Palestinian front, 1918 350–600 grams
Damascus, 1918 500–600 grams
Haifa, 1918 900 grams
Mesopotamia, 1918 300 grams
When and where wheat was scarce, bread was made of wheat mixed with
barley or ground beans. In addition to the bread, the troops generally
received two warm meals a day, one in the morning and one in the evening.
These meals consisted of flour soup or bulgur. Sometimes there was meat
or stew, but a ration of meat once a week seems to have been the rule and
in outlying stations it could be once a month. When there was meat, it had
to be shared out among a lot of people: according to one report the daily
supply was one ox or four sheep for 450 men. Most often, though, the meat
was camel meat, as dead camels were not in short supply. Unlike the officers,
who had their field kitchens and cooks, the men were catered for by ser-
geants, who, with the help of a couple of men from each company, doubled
as butchers and cooks. Of course, food had to be cooked and bread had to
be baked – with wood. Officially each soldier was entitled to 700 grams of
wood a day, but we find one report of a mess officer on the Palestinian front
which gives a picture of the difficult reality. This mess officer, a man by the
name of Abdüllatif, threatens to resign as he has never received more than
300 grams of wood per soldier and the supply is now down to 100 grams.
He does not know how the food is to be cooked.71
Whenever possible, the soldiers complemented their diet with dates,
figs, raisins or olives, but on the whole the diet contained very little in the
way of vegetables or fruit. Scurvy therefore was a serious problem, with
soldiers’ teeth falling out and large sores forming in their mouths or even
through their cheeks.72 According to one report, 20 per cent of the army was
affected by scurvy.73
On the eastern front the food shortage was exacerbated by the deporta-
tion and massacre of the Armenian population, which created an agricultural
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wasteland in the very area where the Ottoman army had to operate.74 In
Western Anatolia the food situation was badly affected by the deportation
of Greeks from the coastal plains in 1915.75
Animals of course suffered as much as people, as feeding the tens of
thousands of camels, oxen, mules and horses in areas where grazing was
impossible, proved an almost insurmountable problem.
Everywhere, the troops on the front line were better fed than those on
garrison or lines of communication duty. It has to be remembered, though,
that even they were better off than the civilian population, especially in the
towns. The overall food situation seems to have been worst in the winter of
1917–18, though from the spring of 1918 onwards, the effects of the armi-
stice with Russia and the opening of the Black Sea began to be felt and the
harvest of May–June 1918 was exceptionally good almost everywhere.76
As for the impact of the food shortage on desertion, Liman assesses
that the supply situation was not a driving factor. But the reports we have
on the mobilization for the Balkan War in October 1912 seem to suggest
otherwise. British consuls state that conscripts had reported for duty at the
depots in large numbers, but that after a few days march, when supplies
ran out, the hungry troops started to desert in droves. Consistently supply-
ing the troops in Palestine, Mesopotamia and Eastern Anatolia with food,
medicines, clothing and even cooking fuel proved beyond the means of the
Ottoman state, and hunger and disease were widespread. It stands to reason
that if the lack of provisioning was a reason to desert in 1912, it must cer-
tainly have been so five years later.
If sheer misery and hunger was a driving force behind the mass deser-
tions, the Ottoman soldier also had opportunities to escape that his
European counterparts lacked. In countries like Britain, France or Germany
soldiers were under constant surveillance from the moment they reported
to the depot to the moment they reached the front. Once at the front they
had little opportunity to escape, as the densely populated hinterland was
patrolled constantly by a vigilant military police on the lookout for ‘strag-
glers’. In the Ottoman Empire, by contrast, the troops were slowly moved
thousands of kilometres through sparsely populated terrain, marches of a
month or more not being exceptional. Many soldiers used the opportunities
this afforded them. In Liman’s words ‘they jump out of the train just like
they flee from the marching columns in complicated terrain or from the
camp.’ This is perhaps the most important difference with the situation in
the European countries during World War I. The Ottoman Empire may have
been involved in a modern, industrialized war that forced it to mobilize all
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of its resources, but its war effort was not accompanied by a modern mobi-
lization of the population through effective propaganda and indoctrination.
In the Ottoman Empire an effort was made, with German assistance, to set
up a propaganda machine, but it barely reached into the (almost completely
illiterate) countryside and by and large failed as an effort at mobilization.
As such, villagers felt more akin to the peasant lads on the run than to the
state or the army.
Transport – the biggest problem of all

The one single factor which, more than anything else, was responsible for
the disastrous supply situation was the lack of transport facilities. Before the
war the empire had been dependent on the sea for internal transport of bulk
goods and the British blockade now made shipping impossible anywhere but
in the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. Even in the Black Sea shipping,
for instance of coal from the Ereğli coalfield, was often interrupted by the
actions of the Russian fleet.
The railways were totally overburdened. There were only 5,700 kilome-
tres of railway (one kilometre per 304 square kilometres of territory – the
figure for France was one in ten and for India one in sixty).77 They were
single track everywhere and the key connections between Anatolia and the
Arab provinces through the Taurus and Amanos mountain ranges had not
been completed yet (the crucial tunnels through the Taurus were only fin-
ished by September 1918). The railway was normal gauge down to Rayak
(east of Beirut) and low-capacity narrow gauge from there southwards. This
meant that supplies imported from Germany or Austria (for instance, almost
all artillery shells) had to be unloaded and reloaded seven times before they
reached the front: first they had to be shipped across the Bosphorus and put
on the train at Haydarpaşa on the Asiatic shore; then they were taken by train
to Pozantı; carried by trucks or camels across the Taurus ridge; reloaded on
board a train in Gülek and taken to Mamure (a stretch of railway that was
within reach of British naval guns) and then loaded onto camels to cross the
Amanos range, or – after the completion of the tunnels through the Amanos
in early 1917 – put on open narrow gauge carriages to be carried through
them. The completion of the tunnels through the mountains was delayed by
six months when the deportation of the Armenians, who made up almost
all of the skilled workforce, was ordered in 1915.78 They were replaced in
part by British POWs who had been captured in Mesopotamia. East of the
Amanos range, the camels or narrow gauge carriages had to be unloaded
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and the supplies reloaded aboard a normal train in İslahiye; this train then
went as far as Rayak, where everything had to be unloaded and reloaded
again because of the change from normal to narrow gauge rolling stock.
The British computed that the line from Rayak to the front at Beersheba
could handle a maximum of nine light trains a day.79 No wonder, therefore,
that it often took between four and six weeks to get from Istanbul to the
Palestinian front by rail and seven to get to the front in Mesopotamia.80
The fact that all of the fronts were fed through the bottleneck of Istanbul
also made the supply situation extremely vulnerable, as was shown when
the ammunition depot in Haydarpaşa blew up on 6 September 1917. Twelve
ammunition dumps, and oil and petrol tanks exploded and all of the stocks
of rubber and medical supplies as well as 300 freight cars went up in smoke.
This delayed the start of the Yıldırım operations for months.81
In Anatolia the railway to the East extended some 60 kilometres beyond
Ankara and ended at Çerekli. From there to Erzurum, the main Ottoman
fortress in the East, was 35 days marching.82 Efforts to extend the railway
towards Sivas were underway but remained unfinished by the end of the war.
The Eastern front (always optimistically called the ‘Caucasian front’) was
supplied mainly from the railheads at Ulukışla and Rasülayn, both about a
month’s march away from the front line at Erzurum.
There was an acute shortage of locomotives (Turkey had only 280 of them)
and of coal to stoke them with. Instead the locomotives had to be fired with
dwindling supplies of wood and large sections of the olive groves in Syria were
cut down for this purpose.83 Wood being bulkier than coal, the locomotives
had to stop frequently to refill their bunker and they had to reduce speed in
order to save fuel. Thus, the 200 kilometre stretch from Aleppo to Homs took
26–28 hours and from there to Rayak another 10–20.84 Damascus–Aleppo
took 3–4 days as opposed to 17 hours before the war.85 Carrying capacity was
insufficient (troops were transported 60 men to a freight car)86 and freight
cars often were allocated on the basis of corruption and political influence.
The roads were so primitive that the lorries, which the Germans and
Austrians sent in considerable numbers, constantly broke down. According
to Yalman, even ten years after the war, their wrecks could still be encoun-
tered everywhere along the roads.87 Where the roads were adequate, the
lorries ran at a maximum speed of 30 kilometres per hour.88
There also was a lack of transport animals. The Ottoman Empire bred
excellent riding horses and useful, albeit small, pack horses, but draught
horses had to be imported.89 For draught animals, the army mainly relied
on oxen (one heavy gun needing eight) or mules. For carrying it relied on
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camels. It had between 5,000 and 10,000 (the estimates vary) of these ani-
mals in service behind the Palestinian front alone. But they were reared by
the Arab Bedouin, and had to be paid for in gold. Paper money was unpopu-
lar everywhere and in the settled areas those who refused it faced heavy
penalties, but the Bedouin could not be coerced in this way.90 Anyway, from
1916 onwards many of the Arab tribes were in open revolt, and even before
the standard of revolt was raised by the Sharif of Mecca in June 1916, the
most important tribal federation in Syria, the Anazi, were already refusing to
sell camels to the army. The Shammar, more to the east, did deliver camels in
large quantities, but they could not cross Anazi territory. Hence, ‘shaggy’ or
Anatolian-type camels had to be brought in from the north, taking up more
precious space on the railway.91 The condition of the army camels seems to
have been quite bad, the animals being overworked and underfed.92
Corruption
As a result of the lack of transport facilities, not only the availability but also
the price of foodstuffs differed widely (in 1916 wheat was over six times as
expensive in Istanbul as it was in the central Anatolian grain-growing area
of Konya). As such, fortunes could be made by those who managed to get
hold of freight cars – and a government permit to use them.93
Corruption was widespread and encouraged by the fact that army com-
manders received the money for their army as a lump sum, with complete
discretionary powers as to how to spend it – as one German observer put
it: ‘on food for his troops, or on building a cinema’.94 Officers, who had the
right to buy a certain amount of flour from government stocks, often man-
aged to get extra supplies, which they sold on the market.
The graft on the part of government employees was only to be expected.
The war years were a time of high inflation (the cost of living index in
Istanbul more than quadrupled) and salaries were low. In addition, several
different extraordinary levies were imposed, which were subtracted con-
secutively from the salaries: 25 per cent ‘war fund’; 5 per cent ‘red crescent
fund’; 5 per cent ‘aviation fund’ and 5 per cent ‘defense of the faith fund’.95
As a result of the combined effect of disease and desertion, the actual
strength of most of the units by 1917 was at or below 50 per cent of their
nominal strength, with battalions numbering 300–400 troops, regiments
800–1,500 and divisions between 2,500–4,000.96 Reports indicate that a
loss of about 50 per cent between departure of a division from Istanbul and
arrival at the front was not unusual.97
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The voice of the soldier

The numbers do indeed tell a tale, a tale of extreme hardship, which again
makes one wonder at the ability of this army to keep on fighting so well for
so long, but still the voice of the Turkish soldier remains largely unheard.
While the figures concerning disease, desertion, the availability of food and
the like tell us something about what the soldiers had to go through and
how they coped, they do not tell us much about the psychology involved, or
in other words about morale. It is a striking fact that in spite of the horren-
dous conditions there were no significant mutinies at all among the regular
troops. Indeed, sometimes British reports, while stating that morale was
very low among the civil population, say that it was high among the troops.
But what exactly did this mean?
One authentic expression of feeling on the part of the soldiers we do have
is contained in the songs, which were popular in the trenches. Many of these
were older than the war itself, with melodies taken from already known songs
and new lyrics reflecting the experiences of 1914–18 added. This is the case
with, for instance, the Çanakkale Türküsü (Dardanelles Song), one of the best
known of them all. Even when the songs were new, though, they reflected the
experience of the past hundred years rather than that of just World War I.
The great wars against the Russians of the nineteenth century (1828–9,
the Crimean War, the disaster of 1876–8) and the attrition caused by con-
tinuous small-scale warfare against rebel-bands and tribes in places as far
apart as Albania and Arabia, meant that those who were unfortunate enough
to be conscripted into the Ottoman Army and who did not have the means
to buy off conscription, had very little chance of returning alive. Thus, the
prevailing sentiment in the lyrics of the songs is that those who went on
campaign had no chance of returning and that they would die in some far
off desert. The symbol that came to represent this feeling, as well as the idea
that young lives were being wasted to defend some unknown faraway place,
was the Yemen.
Yemen and the ‘Yemen songs’

After the Ottoman reoccupation of the Yemen and its capital, Sana’a, in
1872 the country remained unruly, with major insurrections in 1882, 1898
and 1904. Constant harassment by Arab bands cost the Ottoman army any-
where from a few hundred to a few thousand casualties a year all through
this period. It was the major rebellions, though, that really caused large-
scale slaughter: the 1904–5 rebellion left 30,000 out of 55,000 Ottoman
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troops dead. The period 1910–11 saw another rebellion, with the mortality
rate rising once again to between 30 and 50 a day. It is clear, therefore, that
the Yemen had earned its bloody reputation.98
Especially popular among the troops serving in Syria, Palestine and
Mesopotamia were the ‘Yemen Songs’. There are at least a dozen with names
like ‘Does grass grow in Yemen?’, ‘The Band is Playing’, ‘The Mobilization
Song’, ‘The Exercise Song’, ‘No Water Flows in Yemen’, ‘No Cloud in the
Sky’, ‘On the Road to Yemen’, ‘In the Desert of Yemen’ and, of course,
‘The Yemen Song’.99 The feelings expressed in these songs are not startlingly
original, but they are telling: There is no heroism here, and no patriotism.
Nor do the songs express the kind of dogged determination of contempo-
rary Western front hits such as ‘Pack up your troubles’ or ‘Keep right on to
the end of the road’. More than anything they express a feeling of homesick-
ness, hopelessness and doom, of being sacrificed. In the eyes of the people
who sang these songs, being called to the colours was a death sentence. At
the same time the songs convey a sense of resignation.100 So perhaps that is
what the relatively high morale of the Ottoman troops was about: a feeling
that they had nothing to lose as they felt they were as good as dead anyway.
Perhaps it was this that gave them their ability to fight so well, especially
when on the defensive, in the face of overwhelming odds.
The death toll

In many cases, of course, they were right about their chances of survival.
There is much that is not clear about the casualties of the Ottoman army.
Probably about 325,000 Ottoman soldiers were directly killed in action.101
The number of wounded varies in the sources, with both slightly over 700,000
and about 400,000 cited. The latter number may refer to those permanently
injured when the war ended, while the former probably refers to the number
of people registered in field hospitals. Of the latter, nearly 60,000 died from
their wounds. The number of soldiers who died of various diseases was nearly
seven times as high at over 400,000. How many people were still ill when the
war ended is unclear. So the ‘net loss’ (to use the term of the British reports)
may have been 785,000. To this number over 250,000 people missing or cap-
tive and roughly half a million who had deserted, must be added.
These numbers mean that for an Ottoman soldier the risk of dying,
both from wounds and from disease, was very much higher than in any of
the European armies. Of the 1,037,000 battlefield casualties, 385,000 or
37 per cent died (325,000 killed in action plus 60,000 who died on wounds
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in hospital). To put this percentage into perspective, we can compare this

number to the well-documented British and Franco-British losses in some
of the most notoriously murderous campaigns of the war where mortality
was much higher than average. Of the casualties sustained on the famous
first day of the Somme offensive in 1916, 33 per cent were fatal; for the
Flanders campaign of 1917 the number is 25 per cent and for the atrocious
Gallipoli campaign it is ‘only’ 16 per cent. And this, unlike the Ottoman
total, includes persons missing in action.
Of the number of admissions to field hospitals for various illnesses (if
that is the way the number of sick given in the Ottoman statistics should
be read), 400,000 ended in death. This means that, quite apart from bat-
tlefield casualties, about one-seventh of the total mobilized strength of the
army succumbed to disease – a percentage unheard of on the western front.
Malaria was by far the most widespread of the diseases, but dysentery and
typhus were the greatest killers.
These numbers make dismal reading. On the other hand, it has to be
said that the Ottoman soldier had an infinitely better chance than any sol-
dier on the western front to escape the mass slaughter of the front altogether
by deserting. One has to agree with Larcher that the desertion of over half
a million men must have constituted a major factor in the success of the
Turkish struggle for independence between 1918 and 1922. Not that all of
the deserters of 1914–18 willingly or enthusiastically served Mustafa Kemal
Pasha,102 but instead of sacrificing themselves in an ultimately doomed
cause, through their desertion they had lived to fight another day – when it
really mattered for the survival of an independent Muslim Turkish state in
Anatolia.
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14. The Ottoman Empire and the Armistice
of Moudhros*
Each year Turkey has a day of national mourning on 10 November. This,

however, has nothing to do with the celebrations and commemorations that
take place all over Europe one day later. This day, 10 November, is the
anniversary of the death of Mustafa Kemal Pasha Atatürk (1881–1938),
Turkey’s first president. The next day, 11 November – the day that the
armistice treaty was signed between the Allies and Germany thus ending
Word War I – carries no special meaning in Turkish collective memory.
For the Ottoman Empire the end of World War I came on 31 October
1918. It was triggered by the almost simultaneous collapse of the Macedonian
and the Palestinian fronts. The Allied attack on the Macedonian front, which
started on 15 September, resulted in a breakthrough when whole regiments
of the Bulgarian army simply left the trenches and revolted. Two weeks later,
on 29 September, Bulgaria was forced to sign an unconditional armistice, that
is to say: with the terms to be established unilaterally by the Allies. The col-
lapse of the Bulgarian front left European Turkey, including the Dardanelles
and the capital Istanbul, open to attack, for the Ottomans had no means
of defence left as this section of the front was held by less than five weak
divisions.1 On the Palestinian front, British Commander Edmund Allenby’s
forces had broken through on 19 September. The Ottoman forces had to beat
a hasty retreat to the north of Aleppo, losing two-thirds of their strength.2
The real cause of the collapse was total exhaustion. The Ottoman
Empire was essentially an agricultural state, which had thrown itself head
over heels into an industrialized war. The result was that, while the empire
proved able to field a large and fairly modern conscripted army, it was not
capable of supporting it adequately. The previous chapters of this section
have shown that means of transport were completely insufficient, food,
clothing (especially shoes) and medical care were totally inadequate, and
diseases were omnipresent. The conditions in the army affected morale to
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The Ottoman Empire and the Armistice of Moudhros
the extent that, by the end of the war, over 400,000 men had deserted and
the army numbered about 100,000 men or only 15 per cent of its peak
strength reached in early 1916.
Conditions in the army were very bad, but as the needs of the army over-
rode everything else, the living conditions of the civilian population were if
anything worse. Official consumer price inflation during the war was 400
per cent, but many articles were available on the black market only, where
prices were, of course, much higher. 3 Shortages of food and fuel made life
particularly hard in the cities. The persecution of the Armenian and Greek
communities also had a detrimental effect on the economy, as the com-
mercial and professional middle classes of the empire hailed to a very high
degree from these communities.
To sum up the situation: by mid-1918 the empire was exhausted mili-
tarily, economically, financially and morally. Public discontent, especially
with the very visible corruption and profiteering on the part of the protégés
of the ruling Committee of Union and Progress (CUP), was rising fast. In
an effort to defuse this discontent, the CUP relaxed its hold over parliament
and lifted political censorship to allow criticism of profiteers and corrupt
officials to be vented.4
The breakthrough in Macedonia convinced the Young Turk leader-
ship and especially Grand Vizier Talât Pasha (who had witnessed the chaos
in Bulgaria on his return from Berlin) that the war was lost. The cabinet
decided to ask for an armistice and, pinning its hopes on President Wilson’s
‘Fourteen Points’, it approached the Americans through Spain’s mediation
on 5 October. When no reply was received and the British and French troops
in Thrace kept moving steadily forward, approaching the Maritza river, the
Young Turk cabinet resigned on 8 October. It was succeeded by a cabinet
headed by one of the Ottoman Empire’s top military officers, Field-Marshal
Ahmet I· zzet Pasha [Furgaç], who was trusted by the Young Turks as a nation-
alist, though he had never been a member of the CUP himself. His cabinet,
which took office on the 14 October, was politically neutral, and included
a small number of important CUP politicians, but none of the people who
were closely identified with the wartime policies of the committee.
The new cabinet immediately made another attempt to open negotia-
tions with the Allies, this time by sending General Townshend, who had
been held as a prisoner of war on the island of Prinkipo near Istanbul since
the fall of Kut in 1916, to meet with Admiral Calthorpe, the commander of
the Mediterranean Station of the Royal Navy, whose squadron lay at anchor
in Moudhros harbour on the island of Lemnos. On 23 October, five days
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after the start of Townshend’s mission, Calthorpe informed the Ottoman

government that he was empowered to negotiate on behalf of the Allies.
That Admiral Calthorpe was empowered to negotiate on behalf of the Allies
in spite of the fact that the supreme naval command in the Mediterranean
had been in French hands throughout the war, amounted to recognition of
Britain’s dominant role in the Ottoman war theatre.
The next day the Ottoman delegation, consisting of Lieutenant Colonel
Sadullah (Chief of Staff of the Eighth Army), Reşat Hikmet Bey (Secretary
General at the Foreign Office) and Hüseyin Rauf Bey (Navy Minister
and head of the delegation) left for Moudhros, where they arrived on the
26 October. The Ottoman delegation was armed with cabinet instructions,
which, considering the hopeless situation of the Ottoman army seemed to
display a certain lack of realism. They agreed to the opening of the straits,
but demanded that foreign warships not remain in the Marmara Sea for more
than a day, claimed full responsibility for the maintenance of law and order
and rejected any foreign interference and the landing of troops, demanded
the preservation of sultanate and caliphate, accepted only administrative
(but not political) Allied control in the occupied (i.e. Arab) provinces, and
even demanded financial assistance for the empire. 5
The actual negotiations took place aboard Calthorpe’s flagship
Agamemnon in Moudhros harbour. Although the admiral made it known
right at the start that no substantial alterations to the Allies’ already agreed
upon set of conditions would be entertained, the talks lasted for four days
because the Ottoman side did what it could to mitigate some of the toughest
conditions. In doing so it tried to remain in touch with the cabinet in Istanbul,
but this proved very difficult. Attempts of a British cable ship to lay a connec-
tion to Çeşme on the Anatolian mainland failed because of bad weather, so
the delegation had to communicate by wireless transmissions to the Ottoman
wireless station in Okmeydanı (Istanbul). They only managed to get instruc-
tions regarding the Allied conditions on 29 October and again on 30 October.
The Ottoman worries, as reflected in these instructions, centred on three
points: First, while they were prepared to accept that the fortifications on the
Dardanelles and the Bosphorus would be occupied, they tried to get assur-
ances that this occupation would be executed with British and French troops,
without participation of the Italians and particularly the Greeks. Second, the
Ottomans wanted guarantees that the capital Istanbul itself would not be
occupied. Third, they were extremely worried about possible abuse of arti-
cles 7 and 24 of the armistice agreement. Article 7 stated that, when faced
with a situation in which their security may be endangered, the Allies would
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have the right to occupy any strategic point, while article 24 said that, in case
of disturbances in the six ‘Armenian’ provinces, the Allies reserved the right
to occupy any part of these provinces. In Ottoman eyes, these articles opened
the door wide for attempts by Greek or Armenian nationalists to provoke
Allied interference. They therefore requested that article 24 in particular be
kept secret. This, however, was rejected by Admiral Calthorpe, who pointed
out that the principles laid down by President Wilson made secret diplomacy
of this kind a thing of the past.6
In the end the Ottoman delegation decided to accept the 25-point armi-
stice text without major alterations, even though it did not have full authori-
zation to do so. It did, however, persuade Admiral Calthorpe to write a
personal letter, intended only for the eyes of Rauf Bey, the Grand Vizier
and the Sultan, in which he promised on behalf of the British government
that only British and French troops would be used in the occupation of
the Straits fortifications. In addition, Calthorpe said that he had strongly
recommended to his government that a small number of Ottoman troops
would be allowed to stay on in the occupied areas as a symbol of sovereignty.
Finally he said that he had conveyed to his government the urgent requests
of the Ottoman delegation that no Greek troops be allowed to land either
in Istanbul or Izmir and that Istanbul should not be occupied as long as the
Ottoman government could protect Allied lives and possessions there.7
The delegation left the Agamemnon on the evening of 30 October and
reached Izmir by noon the next day. After telegraphic communication with
Istanbul they now received the cabinet’s approval for the signature of the
armistice.
When we now try to gauge the immediate popular reaction to the con-
clusion of the armistice, we have to make a clear distinction between the
Muslims of the empire and the Christian communities. It should come as no
surprise that the latter were elated. The loyalty of the Greek and Armenian
communities to the Ottoman state was in grave doubt even before the war
and the ethnic policies of the wartime government, which resulted in the
deaths of up to 800,000 Armenians and the flight and expulsion of hun-
dreds of thousand of Greeks, had caused both communities to look upon the
Allies as liberators. This had been clear even in 1915, when foreign observ-
ers in Istanbul noted the Christians’ great hopes of an Allied breakthrough
in Gallipoli and their disappointment when that failed to materialize.8 It
was also apparent in the way the Allied commanders were greeted when
they entered Istanbul after the war. General Franchet d’Esperey, the French
commander of the Armée de l’Orient (the army of Salonica) entered the city
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astride a white stallion donated by the Greek community and the whole
Christian part of the city (Pera, or modern Beyoğlu) was decorated with
Greek, Italian, French and British flags.
The Ottoman government was well aware of these sentiments. When
the delegation returned to Istanbul on 1 November, Rauf Bey was met by
a group of newspaper editors. He agreed to speak to them, but only off
the record. He emphasized the delicacy of the situation and implored the
editors to avoid publishing anything that could raise tensions between the
communities or give the Ottoman Christians (malûm unsurlar or ‘certain
elements’) an excuse to start disturbances and call for the help of the Allies
under article 7. The newspapers complied and anyway, from the next day
there was another issue which diverted public attention from the armistice:
the flight, during the night and aboard a German submarine, of the war-
time leaders Enver, Talât and Cemal. When word of their flight got out on
2 November, the cabinet (which still contained a small number of former
members of the Young Turk Committee of Union and Progress) was accused
of conniving at their escape. It was the sign for a general assault by the press
on the Committee and its wartime policies, in which all the anger and disap-
pointment of the public was vented.9
Among the Muslim population, reactions to the armistice were more
varied than among the Ottoman Christians. Those who bore responsibility
for the conduct of the war, such as the leading echelons of the Committee
and the members of parliament, were of course disenchanted with the for-
mal recognition that the war was effectively lost, but the public seems to
have been relieved, rather than anything else, by the armistice.10 One can
point at several reasons for this relief.
The main reason obviously was the fact that the war had finally ended.
The war had never been popular. While a defensive war against the Russians
could count on a great deal of popular support, war against the British
and the French, who had enormous prestige and cultural influence among
the urban Ottoman élite, even when the empire was linked politically to
Germany, was seen by many as unnatural and even suicidal. The hardships
endured during the final years of the war had dissipated what enthusiasm
there had been.
Another reason for relief lay in the comparison between the armistice
of Moudhros and the armistice imposed on Bulgaria just before, which
amounted to an unconditional surrender of that country. Seen in that light,
the conditions of the Ottoman armistice were favourable in that they left the
defeated empire with a qualified independence and some dignity.
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The fact that the empire survived as an empire with the revered institu-
tions of the sultanate and caliphate intact was a consolation. Looking back
from where we are, the Ottoman Empire is only one of the great continental
empires to disappear in the wake of World War I, but we should not for-
get that in 1918 the Ottoman dynasty, unlike that of the Romanovs, the
Habsburgs or the Hohenzollerns, did manage to hang on to its throne.
Finally, there was a widespread belief in British fair play on the one
hand, and in the promises of a new world order based on the principles
enunciated by President Wilson on the other. Quite a few members of the
Istanbul bourgeoisie enthusiastically joined the ‘Society of the Friends of
England’ or the ‘Wilsonian League’ after the war and there was much talk
of the benefits of an American mandate.11
Perhaps the most striking point, when one reads the contemporary dec-
larations and speeches where the armistice is discussed, is this: the armistice
was not in itself seen as unjust or unacceptable, even by those national-
ist Young Turk officers who would go on to lead the national resistance
movement in Anatolia and eventually found the Turkish Republic. There
were clear worries about the elasticity of articles 7 and 24 and as early as
November 1918 the population in those areas that could be disputed by the
Greeks (in the west) and the Armenians (in the east and south) was being
mobilized to resist those claims. But the armistice as such was not a bone of
contention among the Ottoman élite. There was no feeling, as there was to
be in Germany, of betrayal or injustice.
Turkish historiography has conditioned us to juxtapose the defeat of 1918
and the armistice that ensued with the triumph of 1922, which resulted in the
armistice of Mudanya and then, in 1923, the peace of Lausanne. Armistice,
occupation and the treaty of Sèvres with its complete dismemberment of
the Ottoman state and huge concessions to Greeks, Armenians, Kurds,
Italians and French now all seem part of one dark page in Turkish history.
That Hüseyin Rauf Bey, the chief of the Ottoman delegation in Moudhros,
emerged as the leader of the political opposition against Atatürk in the young
Turkish Republic after 1923 and that he was purged in a political trial in
1926, gave added impetus to the tendency to see the armistice as a piece of
treason, to which no true Turk could or should have put his signature.12
In reality, though, the immediate reaction to the armistice on the part
of the Ottoman Muslims was generally one of relief and hope. It would be
the Allies’ policies, in particular the decision to allow Greek troops to land
in Izmir in May 1919 and the occupation of Istanbul in March 1920, rather
than the armistice as such, which turned public opinion against the Allies
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and eventually persuaded the majority to throw in their lot with the nation-
alist resistance. When we read the speeches and declarations of Mustafa
Kemal and other resistance leaders from this period, we see that these are
full of complaints and indignation about the way the Allies, especially the
British, abused and exceeded the terms of the armistice.13 That the Greek
occupation of Izmir galvanized public opinion is well known. It gave rise to
mass protest rallies in Constantinople and to armed resistance in Anatolia.
The occupation of Constantinople, however, was an equally traumatic expe-
rience. Both memoirs and novels show the anger and dismay experienced
by Ottoman Muslims at the almost colonial way they were treated in their
own capital by the officers of the Entente and their Greek and Armenian
protégés.14
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15. Renewal and Silence: Post-war Unionist
and Kemalist Rhetoric on the Armenian
Genocide*
It was 25 years ago that I published my first book, The Unionist Factor.1
The theme of the book was the continuity between the Young Turk period
in Ottoman history and the history of the early republic. It charted the way
in which leading members of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP)
built the national resistance movement after World War I and the way in
which Mustafa Kemal Pasha gradually managed to take over this movement
and concentrate power in his own hands by eliminating his former Unionist
colleagues.
Generally, the book was received quite favourably, both in Turkey (after
its Turkish translation appeared as Milli Mücadelede İttihatçılık) and abroad.
One day, an Armenian friend and colleague of mine brought to my atten-
tion a review in an Armenian journal (which he had kindly translated) that,
although on the whole quite favourable, was critical on one important point.
In the eyes of the author of the review, the analysis of the power strug-
gles within the Unionist/nationalist camp lacked a historical context. In the
words of the author, I had ‘depicted figures in an empty landscape’. He
referred to the fact that I had described the political developments of the
period without taking into account the persecutions of Armenians and their
aftermath in Anatolia – events which in his mind had created the backdrop
against which the Unionists acted.
At the time, I thought the criticism misplaced. Although I had no inten-
tion of denying the Armenian ‘holocaust’ (to quote Bernard Lewis),2 my book
simply had not been about that. It was about something else. Later, however,
I came to realize that the reviewer had been right. Study of the ideological
changes that occurred between 1908 and 1928 made me aware of the degree
to which identity formation in this period had been defined by the opposition
between Muslims and non-Muslims, a process in which religious identity had
become an ethnic marker and which ultimately resulted in the emergence of a
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fierce Ottoman-Muslim nationalism.3 As Deringil and Yavuz have shown,4 the

foundations for this had been laid during the reign, and through the policies,
of Sultan Abdülhamit II, but it was the ten-year period of war between 1912
and 1922 that gave rise to mass mobilization of the population on this basis.
This mass mobilization was effected by a Young Turk leadership, both
civilian and military, that overwhelmingly hailed from the Balkan provinces
and the Aegean littoral. Although they are never denoted as muhacir (refu-
gee), a term reserved for lower class migrants, many of them were in effect
refugees after the loss of the Dodecanese to Italy in 1911–12 and the Balkan
War of 1912–13. The same is true for the first generation of leaders of the
Republic of Turkey.5 In the years that followed they had to grapple with this
trauma of territorial loss and military defeat, and find a new basis for their
identity. From 1913 onwards, the reaction of the Young Turk leadership to
the loss of their ancestral lands seems to have manifested itself in four differ-
ent ways, which were not mutually exclusive and in fact often overlapped:
Irredentism: perhaps surprisingly, political irredentism was rela-

tively subdued, although the hope of recovering at least some of the
lost territory did play a role in the decision to go to war in 1914.
Pan-Turkist escapism: the loss of a real empire in the West certainly
encouraged dreams of a virtual empire in the East, especially after
war with Russia had broken out, but to my mind the importance of
Pan-Turkism in the events that followed has been drastically over-
stated by Armenian scholars.
Resentment: there is no doubt that the resentment against the
Christian minorities that had been growing since the 1860s and had
become very tangible after the constitutional revolution, was given a
strong impetus by the sometimes blatantly disloyal behaviour of the
Christian communities in the Ottoman Empire during the Balkan
War. We can certainly detect a discourse of revenge, violence and
hatred in the Turkish writings of this period.6
The discovery of Anatolia as the true Turkish fatherland: there had
been a rise in interest in Anatolia since the constitutional revolu-
tion, but after 1912 it was embraced as the true home of the Turks
even, or perhaps primarily, by those (like Mustafa Kemal) who had
been born and bred in south-eastern Europe and discovered their
new homeland when in their thirties. The same can be said for the
smaller but also influential group of immigrants from the Caucasus
and the Black Sea littoral.
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Renewal and Silence
The combination of resentment against the Ottoman Christian communities

and the adoption of Anatolia as the new homeland made it crucial for the
Unionists to make sure that Anatolia was and would remain an Ottoman-
Muslim land. These sentiments served as the impetus for the policies of eth-
nic cleansing that started in the summer of 1914 with the expulsion of the
Greeks from the coastal areas in the west. It is certainly no coincidence that
the man in charge of these expulsions, Mahmut Celâl, was a son of refugees
from Bulgaria, as was the main architect of the Armenian massacres, Dr
Bahaettin Şakir.
In the post-war environment, when the carve-up of Anatolia by the
Entente and their Greek and Armenian clients seemed imminent, the leaders
of the resistance movement that emerged from November 1918 onwards once
again had recourse to mobilization on the basis of an ethnicized religious
identity. The dominant discourse of the movement between 1919 and 1922
is one of ‘us’ and ‘them’, in which the other is defined as the non-Muslim.
In fact, as I have argued elsewhere, it is precisely in the post-war era, under
Mustafa Kemal’s leadership, that Muslim nationalism reaches its climax,
something illustrated and symbolized by the text of Mehmet Akif’s strongly
Islamic ‘Independence March’ of 1921, which paradoxically went on to
become the national anthem of the secular republic.7
In other words, and to turn back to where I started, I must now concede
that my Armenian reviewer was right: one can only fully understand the
post-war policies of the former Unionists who made up the national resist-
ance movement by taking into account the experiences that shaped them
in the preceding period. Of these, the persecution of the Armenians is no
doubt one of the most important. Leaving this out indeed risks turning the
nationalist leaders into figures in an empty landscape.
Time, then, to look again at the impact of the Armenian massacres on
the post-war attitudes of the Unionists. I want to do this by looking at their
public statements in order to establish to what extent an effort was made
either to distance themselves from, or conversely to justify, the ethnic poli-
cies of the war years. After all: if this was the defining moment in their
immediate past, they would have to deal with it one way or another, when
trying to find a new political role in the post-war environment.
Post-war statements on the persecution of Armenians

The public statements of Unionists in the post-war environment were issued
in two contexts: (1) the activities of Unionist parliamentarians in new parties
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and parliamentary groupings that can be regarded as successors to the Party

of Union and Progress (the CUP’s parliamentary party that was ostensi-
bly merged with the committee in 1916); and (2) the embryonic national
resistance movement that was to a large extent based on the local branches
and Unionist clubs in the provincial centres. Of course, individual former
Unionists quite often played a role in both of these settings. The activities
of the secret underground networks,8 such as Karakol (the Guard), founded
in October 1918 at the behest of Enver and Talât Pashas, no doubt would
be a fascinating context for the study of Unionists’ post-war sentiments and
attitudes, but as these networks did not produce public statements, they fall
outside the purview of this chapter.
The heirs to the Party of Union and Progress

Two political parties were clearly identified at the time as being heirs
to the old Party of Union and Progress, which had dissolved itself at its
final congress on 5 November 1918: the Renewal Party (Teceddüt Fırkası)
and the Ottoman Liberal People’s Party (Osmanlı Hürriyetperver Avam
Fırkası).
The Renewal Party was founded by the Unionists present at the final
CUP party congress on 9 November 1918. Although the party officially
denied that it was a continuation of the CUP, its takeover of CUP assets,
such as organizational networks, real estate (the clubs) and cash detracted
from the credibility of this claim.
The party published a detailed party programme (prepared by a com-
mission during the CUP’s last party congress), containing 175 articles on
all aspects of internal and external policy.9 This is in some ways a very
interesting document. In part it reads like a constitution, not as a party pro-
gramme at all, suggestive perhaps of the degree to which the Unionists had
come to identify themselves with the state. The first section, consisting of
33 articles, describes the principles underpinning the Ottoman state order
and its main institutional elements. It deals with issues like sovereignty, the
role of the dynasty, state religion and language and the fundamental rights
of the citizen. The party itself is not mentioned even once in this whole
section.
The document is also interesting in the way it presages some of the later
reforms of the Kemalist republic. Article 22 announces the abolition of all
civilian honorary titles (Pasha, Bey, Efendi etc.). Article 54 calls for the intro-
duction of a national anthem, an official name and arms for the state (all of
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Renewal and Silence
which the Ottoman Empire never had). The next article, 55, states that the
constitution will be modified to comply with the principles of national sov-
ereignty (hakimiyeti milliye) and parliamentarism. This of course reminds
one of the Law of Fundamental Organisation, adopted by the assembly
in Ankara in early 1921, with its famous first article ‘Sovereignty belongs
unconditionally to the nation’ (Hakimiyet bilakaydüşart milletindir). Article
70 calls for a reform of the calendar, article 96 for the introduction of fam-
ily names and article 118 for a reform of the Turkish language, all of them
ultimately realized under Atatürk in the 1920s and 30s. Improvement of
conditions in the countryside is sought through the reclamation of marsh-
land (article 130) and the abolition of the tithe (article 159) precisely in the
way the republic was to do.
In other words: the party programme of the Renewal Party is quite
an elaborate and also a forward-looking document, which announces a
number of bold policy initiatives. It also seems to be totally divorced from
the reality of late 1918. There is no mention of the war, of the dire economic
circumstances of the country or, indeed, of the persecution of Armenians.
Security of life, honour and property is emphasized as a common right of all
Ottoman citizens and the rights of minorities are guaranteed (articles 3–6)
but no mention is made of any past transgressions, let alone of the need to
deal with the past and punish the culprits. This is remarkable, as everyone
knew that the Entente powers had announced they would take action on this
issue once the war was over.
The Liberal People’s Party had come into being as the result of a split
within the CUP. It was founded in mid-October 1918 by Mustafa Kemal’s
old friend Ali Fethi [Okyar] and Hüseyin Kadri, the member of parliament
for Karesi, who, together with a small group of Unionist parliamentarians,
announced their departure from the CUP. Although all its members had a
Unionist background and were even invited to the last party congress of
the CUP after they had split off, the Liberal People’s Party was not a suc-
cessor of the CUP in the sense that it took over CUP assets as the Renewal
Party did.
The Liberal People’s Party, too, published a very detailed (94 arti-
cles) party programme immediately after its foundation.10 Like that of the
Renewal Party, its first sections are strongly reminiscent of a constitution
and describe the state order rather than formulating any party policies. In
the rest of the document we encounter many of the elements present in
the programme of the Renewal Party, although it lacks the more radical
reform proposals of the latter – surprising, perhaps, if one bears in mind
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that Mustafa Kemal was close to the party and even became co-owner of the
party newspaper Minber after his return from the Syrian front.11
Like the programme of the Renewal Party, that of the Liberal People’s
Party seems to have been drawn up with great care, but in complete isola-
tion from the realities of the day. Those realities – rocketing inflation, severe
shortages, displaced persons, mass desertions – are not mentioned, and there
is no call for any kind of reckoning, redress or persecution of the culprits of
the Armenian massacres. This is perhaps more surprising in the case of the
Liberal People’s Party than in that of the Renewal Party, as Ali Fethi’s group
had officially and openly resigned from the CUP and thus could be expected
to feel more freedom in this respect.
Both parties were closed down on the orders of the government in May
1919 because they were considered direct successors to the CUP, but they
were quite active and vocal in parliament and outside it in the early months
of 1919.
The Anatolian resistance movement

By the time the parties were closed, the efforts to organize a resistance
movement in Anatolia, based partly on the network of Unionist clubs and
branches and partly on the infrastructure of the army, were well under-
way. The Congress of Sivas (4–11 September 1919) was the first attempt
to unite all the regional resistance initiatives in a common national front,
and it was there that the ‘Society for the Defence of the National Rights [a
reference to President Wilson’s Fourteen Points] of Anatolia and Rumelia’
was founded. The congress was completely dominated by people with a
Unionist background, but like the parties discussed earlier, those present
made a point of denying any continuity between the CUP and themselves,
even going so far as to swear a solemn oath that they would not revive
the CUP.
The formal declaration of the congress formed the basis of the ‘National
Pact’, the nationalist programme that was officially adopted by the final
Ottoman parliament four months later. Unlike the documents produced
by the parties in Istanbul, this declaration was very much focused on the
actual events and circumstances of the day. What did this text have to say
about the Armenian issue? The text refers to the Armenians and Greeks
explicitly in article 3 and implicitly in article 4. Article 3 states that strug-
gle against the attempts to found independent Greek and Armenian entities
(Rumluk ve Ermenilik) on Ottoman soil is legitimate, and article 4 promises
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Renewal and Silence
equality before the law to non-Muslims, but rejects the reintroduction of the
capitulations.12
It could be argued that the document deals with the current situation
and with political goals and that it is therefore natural that it should not
refer to the events of the immediate past. One could, however, expect the
issue of the persecution of the Armenians to come up in the discussions on
the oath not to revive the CUP. This oath was debated quite seriously, opin-
ions being divided between those who merely wanted to swear not to work
for personal gain or party political interests and those who expressly wanted
to mention the CUP.13 Some of those who supported the latter option, like
Bekir Sami [Kunduh] or Rauf [Orbay]) referred to the ‘Unionist nightmare’
and to the ‘disasters to which the CUP had led the country’, while others like
Mehmet Şükrü said that the CUP had had an exalted idealist programme,
which still commanded respect in the greater Turkic and Islamic world and
that it would be unjust to reject its legacy just because of the misdeeds of
a few individuals. Ultimately, the argument that there was a great deal of
suspicion in the country that the congress would revive the CUP and that
it was therefore necessary publicly to vow not to do so, carried the day, on
the understanding that the oath would be valid only for the duration of the
congress. The interesting point is that at no time during these discussions
was the treatment of the Armenians mentioned, not even by those who were
most critical of the CUP. The same is true for Mustafa Kemal’s opening
speech at the congress, which set out the necessity of organizing national
resistance. He mentioned the Armenians but only to say: ‘In the East the
Armenians have begun their preparations to expand their state up to the
banks of the Kızılırmak and even now their genocidal policy has started to
reach our borders.’14
This set the tone. In the first public speech Mustafa Kemal gave after
establishing his headquarters in Ankara in December 1919, he again warned
about the dangers facing the country both from the victorious Entente and
from the non-Muslim minorities, and especially from the combination of
the two. He firmly rejected the idea that the Turkish nation was an oppres-
sor (zalim), praised the tolerance shown by the Ottoman Muslims in the past
and had this, and only this, to say about the Armenian massacres during the
war:
Whatever has befallen the non-Muslim elements living in our

country, is the result of the policies of separatism they pursued in
a savage manner, when they allowed themselves to be made tools
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of foreign intrigues and abused their privileges. There are probably

many reasons and excuses for the undesired events that have taken
place in Turkey. And I want definitely to say that these events are on
a level far removed from the many forms of oppression which are
committed in the states of Europe without any excuse.15
All the classic elements in the defence of violent aggression are here: they
asked for it, it was not really so bad and anyway, others have done the same
and worse.
Conclusion: the dog in the night-time

In a sense the outcome of these findings resembles Sherlock Holmes’ famous
‘curious incident of the dog in the night-time’. In other words: when we
scan the policy documents of those post-war organizations that had a
clearly Unionist character for references to the persecution of the Ottoman
Armenians barely two years earlier or for attempts to either express regret
or justify the events or unequivocally distance the said organizations from
them, we draw a complete blank. As is well known, there were those in the
post-war Ottoman environment who did call for the culprits of the genocide
to be brought to justice. These were not limited to the Liberal opposition
(people like Ali Kemal), and also included the Young Turk eminence grise
Ahmet Rıza. But the two parties that directly sprang from the bosom of the
CUP did no such thing. Both the Renewal Party and the Liberal People’s
Party came up with detailed, one might even say, remarkably mature policy
documents, but one looks in vain for a single reference to the treatment of
the Armenians in the immediate past. This is the more surprising for Fethi
Okyar’s Liberal People’s Party, as that group was a dissident grouping that
had broken away from the CUP before its last party congress. The same
is true for the leadership of the national resistance movement in Anatolia.
The language employed with regards to the Armenians and Greeks where
their political or territorial claims are concerned, in Erzurum, Sivas and
Ankara is quite uncompromising and references to the events of 1915–16 are
completely lacking save for the one very severe statement of Mustafa Kemal
in Ankara, quoted in extenso above.
In this respect, the argument, sometimes voiced even by concerned his-
torians, that Turks do not have to fear a reopening of the debate on the
Armenian issue, because the republic is clearly distinct from the late empire
and that Mustafa Kemal ‘has never spoken in support of the genocide’, sounds
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Renewal and Silence
rather weak. When it mattered, in 1918–20, Mustafa Kemal never spoke out
against the genocide either and he surrounded himself with people, his own
bodyguard Topal Osman among them, who were quite notorious for having
blood on their hands. His keynote address in Ankara in December 1919 put
the blame squarely on the victims.
Taner Akçam, a Turkish sociologist who has written extensively on
the Armenian genocide, provides a somewhat dubious explanation for this
dog that didn’t bark. In a recent article,16 Akçam argues that the attitude of
the Turkish nationalists after the war can be explained by the fact that the
British at the same time conducted an aggressive imperialist policy aimed
at the destruction of the empire AND took the initiative in opening the
case against the people responsible for the genocide. So closely identified
were the two that supporting the legal persecution of the Unionists became
an unpatriotic act by association. His argument is that a different policy
on the part of the British, which would take seriously the national aspira-
tions of the Turks, might have allowed Mustafa Kemal’s nationalists to
distance themselves from the Unionists who were responsible for the geno-
cide. I have to say that I very much doubt if this is realistic. After all the
party programmes of the Renewal Party and of the Liberal People’s Party
(with which Mustafa Kemal was associated) date from before the arrival
of the British. Still, both parties denied themselves the opportunity to dis-
tance themselves from the crimes committed during the war. The Unionist
underground organization Karakol was founded as early as October 1918
to smuggle arms and people to Anatolia with the twin aims of strengthen-
ing any future resistance and to keep those who were at risk of arrest out
of the hands of the British. It thus linked the two elements of national
resistance and sabotaging the persecution of Unionist officials right from
the start.
I fear that it was simply impossible for Unionists in 1918–19 to dis-
tance themselves too visibly from the crimes of 1915–16 and those who
had committed them. Those crimes occurred at the height of the period in
which the population had been mobilized by the Unionists themselves on
the basis of a Muslim-Ottoman identity, an identity that had been formed
in continuous and conscious opposition to the Ottoman Christians. The
Unionists depended on this sentiment for their grass-root support and
could not afford a break with the past. This was as true for Mustafa
Kemal and his men in Anatolia as it was for the politicians in the capital.
Therefore, the silence of the post-war documents on the issue does not, I
think, indicate a conspiracy of silence, an effort to cover up the past. Nor
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does it indicate that the Armenian massacres had become a taboo. Quite
simply, I think the most logical explanation is that for an effort to gen-
erate political support among the Ottoman Muslims, whom they clearly
regarded as their constituency (witness Rauf Bey’s statement in Sivas: ‘the
aim of the Defence of Rights Association is to unite the Muslim popula-
tion’), discussing the massacres was counterproductive and thus politically
irrelevant.
The Kemalist republic

In the first few years of the republic, the Armenian issue does not seem
to have been discussed at a political level. When Mustafa Kemal finally
decided to deal with the remaining Unionist leaders and eliminate them
once and for all in the show trials conducted in the summer of 1926, they
were fiercely castigated by the Independence Tribunal before which they
had to appear for the way they had dragged the Ottoman Empire into
World War I, for acts of corruption during the war and for their behaviour
in the after-war years, but not for their ethnic policies. In other words: even
when an effort was made to publicly disgrace the former Unionist leaders,
the treatment of the Armenians apparently was not considered something
to disgrace them with in the eyes of the Turkish public.17 One could argue
that Mustafa Kemal did condemn them for the treatment of the Armenians
in his well-known interview with the ‘Swiss reporter’ Emile Hilderbrand
that was published in the Los Angeles Examiner on 1 August 1926, in which
he is supposed to have said that ‘they should have been made to account
for the lives of millions of our Christian subjects who were ruthlessly
driven en masse, from their homes and massacred …’. There can be serious
doubt, however, about the authenticity and reliability of this text, and even
if it should be authentic, it was meant for foreign consumption. The fact
remains that the massacres did not figure in the actual trials or in Mustafa
Kemal’s statements to the Turkish public.18 On the contrary, in the very year
when these Unionist leaders were purged, the Turkish national assembly
adopted a law granting pensions to the widows and orphans of the Unionist
leaders who had been murdered by Armenian revenge killers in ‘Operation
Nemesis’ and of those hanged by the military tribunal of Nemrut Mustafa
Pasha in Istanbul in 1919.19
That no need was felt to distance oneself from the perpetrators of the
genocide in the early republic is also shown by another interesting example.
In 1936, ten years after the purges, veteran journalist and editor Hüseyin
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Renewal and Silence
Cahit Yalçın published a series of biographical portraits of people he had

known in the paper Yedigün. Among the people whose portrait Yalçın
draws, is the man now generally considered the architect of the genocide,
Dr Bahaettin Şakir. Yalçın first describes Bahaettin’s character:
Bahaettin Şakir had become a single hard unit through his exploits,
like a piece of steel that had been toughened in hardship, deprivation
and pain. He solved his whole life and all political problems with
a sharp and decisive reasoning: What wasn’t black was white; a
man who wasn’t good, was bad – forever. Subtle differences, vague
colours did not exist in his eyes. One could say he lived far removed
from reality and from the world. In him there was an ideal of
freedom that formed life’s driving force and goal. For him this had
become a creed. He had buried himself in that ideal, that creed, had
withdrawn from the human world and had made himself a world in
the abstract and the absolute.
In the assemblies and central committee meetings of the
Committee of Union and Progress Bahaettin Şakir was always the
most ardent supporter of the most radical measures. He could not
envisage sacrificing ideas or opinions to reach a compromise. In his
view, there was no world, there were no opponents, no problems,
just an ideal and a creed, and the process of moving towards it with
decisive steps without thinking of anything.
And then he goes on the openly address the question of Bahaettin’s role in
the Armenian question:
What is Bahaettin Şakir’s role in the deportations? Even in our

most intimate meetings this issue was not made clear to us. I have
no clear, defi nitive opinion, but based on a word here that escaped
from his lips when we discussed other matters, a thought there that
came out, involuntary gests, subtle and slight, even imperceptible,
indications, which aroused suspicion in a person, one idea imposed
itself on me with great strength: that he was the prime shaper and
executor of the deportation business. I am strongly convinced that
he prepared the ground when he travelled the East by himself,
took the basic decisions and that, while he worked to put his own
personal ideas into practice, his position meant that his orders were
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taken to be orders of the Central Committee and of the government

and that in the end he carried some of his influential friends in the
government with him. That is why, if one day it would be necessary
to revive Bahaettin Şakir’s memory, the provinces in the east will be
more than ready to put up his statue. [my italics]20
First of all, this statement is interesting for its contents. It is clear that this
old Unionist has no hesitation in describing Bahaettin’s role quite openly
(even if it is the deportations rather than the killings that are being dis-
cussed here). That the Armenian policy was not discussed openly in his
presence is entirely credible. After all, Hüseyin Cahit was certainly trusted
by Talât’s circle up to a point, but he was not one of the people who had
been actively involved in the planning of the constitutional revolution and
definitely not a member of the innermost circle of power. He also probably
gives too much credence to the idea that Bahaettin worked on his own. The
important thing, however, is that he concludes that Bahaettin must have
been the one who was primarily responsible and then goes on, not to blame
him or to distance himself from him, but instead to suggest that his memory
should be honoured.
The most interesting aspect of the publication is of course that it was
published at all. In 1936 Kemalist Turkey had one of the most draconian
press laws in existence, which even prohibited ‘any publication at odds with
the general policies of the state’. Censorship was strictly enforced, so we
may assume that a statement like the above was published with the implicit
agreement of the government.
In short: in the early republic the political and intellectual élite felt
just as little need to distance itself from the genocide and its perpetrators
as had been the case in the immediate post-war environment. In the years
1918–22 the continued need to mobilize the Muslim population of Anatolia
had made any serious reckoning with this aspect of the immediate past an
impossibility. After the proclamation of the republic it was the composition
of the ruling élite that precluded it. Turkey was ruled by an élite that con-
sisted of bureaucrats and military officers with a Unionist background, who
overwhelmingly hailed from the Balkans and had adopted Anatolia as their
new fatherland because they had nowhere else to turn. Quite a few of the
people in central positions of power (Şükrü Kaya, Kazım Özalp, Abdülhalik
Renda, Kılıç Ali) had been personally involved in the massacres, but the rul-
ing élite as a whole depended for its position (and in fact had done so since
the start of the national resistance movement) on a coalition with provincial
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Renewal and Silence
notables, landlords and tribal chiefs, who had profited immensely from the
departure of the Armenians and the Greeks. It was what Fatma Müge Göçek
has called an unspoken ‘devil’s bargain’.21 A serious attempt to distance the
republic from the genocide could have destabilized the ruling coalition on
which the republic depended for its stability.
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IV. TOWARDS THE NATION STATE
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Zurcher_209-212.indd 210 3/23/2010 8:52:01 PM
Introduction
Out of the decade of war that was the subject of the previous part came a
new state, the Republic of Turkey proclaimed on 29 October 1923.
The story of this new state is a paradox. On the one hand there is an unde-
niable continuity between the empire and the republic at the level of political
leadership and that of the state apparatus (both bureaucratic and military). On
the other hand, the political and cultural élite of the young republic opted for
a radically different definition of its own identity: they decided to be Turks and
to take Turkishness as the basis their new national state. This identity was then
imposed gradually on the population through a process of nation building in
which, as in similar processes the world over, historiography and linguistics
played a key role, as did suppression of alternative or even sub-identities.
The process through which first Ottomanism and then Islamism lost their
appeal and were replaced with Turkish nationalism is often described as a log-
ical process of elimination in which Ottomanism, still the rallying cry of the
1908 revolution, lost its credibility because of the disaffection of the Ottoman
Christian communities during the Balkan War and Islamism had to be jetti-
soned after the Arab revolt, leaving only Turkism as a viable option. The chap-
ter on ‘Ottoman Muslims, Young Turks and Turkish Nationalists’ suggests a
different rationality, based on the predominant concern of the Young Turks,
that is, to save and strengthen the state they served rather than on an ideo-
logical preference per se. In the war years (1912–22) this imposed the need
to turn to Ottoman Muslim nationalism (in which ‘Ottoman Muslim’ served
as an ethnic marker rather than as a religious category) in order to mobilize
the population of Anatolia. After the wars, the same underlying logic, that
of saving and strengthening the state, in the eyes of the Kemalists imposed
the need for radical modernization and secularization. Turkey had to become
‘civilized’ in order to survive. As the population no longer had to be mobilized
for war, the appeal to Islamic sentiments lost its relevance.
Within a few years after the victory in the independence war, the move-
ment split into a moderate and a more radical faction, but as the chapter on
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the Progressive Republican Party (PRP) shows, the argument was about the
political system rather than about conflicting ideologies, as both the rul-
ing People’s Party and the opposition PRP fundamentally shared the same
modernist and secularist agenda, which had its roots in French positivism
and ultimately the enlightenment. Where the PRP was closed down in 1925,
the (Republican) People’ s Party went on to become the most important tool
for the Kemalist state in spreading the nationalist, modernist and secularist
message of that state. The party never gained ascendancy over the state but
it was important for the institution-building of the republican regime and
provided a training ground for politicians and administrators.
While the republic had a secularist agenda, which went way beyond that of
the Tanzimat era or even of the Young Turks, at the same time it reinforced the
control over Sunni Islam that the empire had already exercised. The chapter
on ‘Islam in the Service of the Caliphate and the Secular State’ investigates this
uniquely Turkish ambivalence in the relationship between state and religion.
All of these chapters deal with ideologies and policies formulated at the
centre, be it the central committee of the CUP, the leadership of the national
resistance movement or the government of the early republic. This is fairly
typical, not only of my own work, but of the field in general. The histori-
ography of the Kemalist republic is completely dominated by the centre,
its ideas, its plans and ambitions and its infighting. It is healthy, therefore,
to also include at least one chapter that looks at the actual impact of the
reforms on the country at large after 15 years of Kemalist rule. The chap-
ter based on the travelogues of Anhegger, Tietze and Linke is an attempt
to look away from the centre and it yields some surprising results, clearly
demonstrating how important it is to distinguish between the policies of the
centre and the realities on the ground. Six years after its original publication
there is still a great need for studies on the impact of the Kemalist regime
on the population outside the major towns. There have been some attempts
to look at the history of modern Turkey through the lens of local communi-
ties, as in Michael Meeker’s very important anthropological study A Nation
of Empire (which combines anthropological with historical methodologies)1
and some younger scholars are trying their hand at subaltern history of the
period, but the difficulty of this approach is that there is a great scarcity of
authentic source materials so that one is forced to get at the people’s voice
through the records of the authorities of a very authoritarian state.2 There
can be little doubt that the subaltern history approach that has been so fruit-
ful in the case of Indian history in spite of all its difficulties, 3 still holds a lot
of promise for the field of Turkish studies.
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16. Young Turks, Ottoman Muslims and
Turkish Nationalists: Identity Politics
1908–38*
When did the Turks start identifying themselves primarily as ‘Turks’? More
specifically, when did they begin to see the state to which they belonged pri-
marily as the political home of the Turks, instead of as the Ottomans’ state
or the Islamic Caliphate? For the majority of the population, those questions
are impossible to answer. At the time the Republic of Turkey was established
only slightly over 10 per cent of the population was able to read and write,
and sociological and anthropological field work really took off only in the
post-World War II era. Yet even if we confine ourselves to the ideological
make up of the élite, or just to that of the political leadership, the questions
remain very complicated.
The Young Turks

All through the nineteenth century, nationalism proved a debilitating
virus for the multinational Islamic state that was the Ottoman Empire.
As it infected first the Serbs and the Greeks, then the Bulgarians and the
Armenians, nationalist agitators tried, in many cases successfully, to pro-
voke intervention by the major powers of the day (Russia, Britain and
France) to further their aims. Meanwhile, successive Ottoman governments
seemed powerless to halt the disintegration of the empire in the face of
the combined efforts of those Ottoman Christian nationalists and foreign
diplomats.1 From the late 1880s onward, young (junior) Ottoman bureau-
crats, who had been educated in the modern, European-style colleges of
the empire and often had studied in Europe as well, became increasingly
restless under the apparent impotence of the government they served, in the
face of this double nationalist and imperialist challenge. People with such
a background founded the Young Turk movement in 1889, the centenary of
the French revolution.
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The Young Turks started a campaign of agitation and subversion to

overthrow the autocratic Sultan Abdülhamit II and establish a constitu-
tional, parliamentary regime (with which the Ottoman Empire had a few
months experience before the Sultan suspended it in 1878). Establishing
such a regime, they hoped, would cut the ground from under the feet of
both the nationalist separatists and the European imperialists, taking away
their arguments for intervention in the internal affairs of the empire. As
Hanioğlu has shown, however, their espousal of constitutionalism clashed
with their elitism.2 Their background as members of the administrative élite
and their adherence to positivism, with its fundamentally undemocratic atti-
tudes and deep-rooted mistrust of the masses, led them to see themselves
as an enlightened élite on a mission to educate their people. In their eyes,
the constitution was an instrument and an emblem of modernity, but not a
goal per se. The history of both the second constitutional period and the
Republic would show that when the Young Turk and Kemalist leadership
faced a choice between modernization and genuine democracy, they always
opted for the former.3
During its first 15 years, the Young Turk movement largely confined
itself to holding meetings, writing pamphlets and distributing illegal news-
papers. Then in 1906 a new activist organization based in Salonica, the
‘Ottoman Freedom Society’ (Osmanlı Hürriyet Cemiyeti) started to spread
throughout the officer corps of the Third and Second Ottoman Armies in
Macedonia and Thrace. The following year it merged with the most influen-
tial Young Turk organization abroad, the Committee of Union and Progress
·
(Ittihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti), and at the request of the leadership of the
unified society, the officers in Macedonia and Thrace raised the standard
of revolt in July 1908, forcing the Sultan to reinstate the parliament and
constitution.4
Ideological debates
Under Abdülhamit, extremely strict censorship had banned any political
discussion from the Ottoman media. Although some public debate had been
kept going by the Young Turk emigrants in Europe, until 1906 they remained
preoccupied with scientific and cultural questions and despised ‘pure poli-
tics’. 5 Their primary concern was to instil a positivist mentality and world-
view in the Ottoman public so they had given scarcely any thought to what
their political programme would be once the constitutional-parliamentary
system was reinstated.
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Young Turks, Ottoman Muslims and Turkish Nationalists
After the revolution of July 1908 the situation in the empire changed
dramatically. The number of newspapers and magazines increased thirty
fold, fostering a very lively debate about all kinds of questions. The one
question, however, that occupied the Young Turks more than any other was
‘How can this [the Ottoman] state be saved?’6 In this context they addressed
two sets of problems: how the empire could be modernized sufficiently
(and sufficiently quickly) to take its place among the leading powers of the
world and what would be the binding element, on which the state would be
built (what Bernard Lewis has called ‘the questions of corporate political
identity’).7 In the historiography of Turkey, the debate on the second ques-
tion traditionally is depicted as a contest among three currents of think-
ing: Ottomanism, (Pan-)Islamism and (Pan-) Turkism. This representation
is as old as the debate itself, going back to the famous essay ‘Three types of
policy’ (Üç Tarz-i Siyaset) published by the Tatar Yusuf Akçura in the Turkist
‘émigré’ paper Türk in Cairo in 1904,8 although modern scholars gener-
ally have failed to appreciate that Akçura’s position at the time was highly
exceptional.
Ottomanism was the idea that all of the different ethnic and religious
communities of the Empire would coalesce into one Ottoman citizenry and
remain loyal to the Ottoman dynasty if only Muslims and non-Muslims
were granted full equality before the law and parliamentary representa-
·
tion. Its adherents themselves called it the Ittihad-ı Anasır, or ‘Unity of the
Elements’. This ideal, which originated in the 1860s, had been the official
ideology of the Ottoman Constitution of 18769 as well as of the constitu-
tional revolution which restored it in 1908, but it is debatable how many of
the revolutionaries actually believed in Ottomanism.
The second of the three currents, Islamism, took the community of
Muslims, the ümmet, as its basis and saw return to Islamic values and Islamic
law as preconditions for a regeneration of the Ottoman state. It, too, had its
origins in the intellectual movement of the 1860s. Pan-Islamism, the expan-
sionist version of this ideology, had gained popularity and government back-
ing under Sultan Abdülhamit II (1876–1909) and aimed at strengthening the
bonds within the Muslim world community under the aegis of the Ottoman
Sultan/Caliph. The Young Turks in exile constantly wrote about the cul-
tural, social and economic development of the Islamic community, inter-
preting Qur’an and tradition in a positivist and materialistic way,10 but they
did not develop an Islamist political programme. Soon after the revolution
and ‘liberation’ of July 1908, the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP)
became deeply suspicious of Islamist political activity when activists of the
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·
‘Muhammadan Union’ (Ittihad-ı Muhammedi) led a failed attempt at coun-
terrevolution against the constitutional regime in April 1909. This counter-
revolution and the ease with which it swept the Young Turks from power in
the capital before they managed to reinstate the constitutional order by force
of arms came as an enormous shock.11 The Young Turks were quite prepared
to use Islam, however, especially to strengthen the international position of
the empire, having the Sultan proclaim Holy War (cihat) in 1914.12
Turkish nationalism was the youngest of the currents and really not one,
but two different movements. The older was Pan-Turkism, which originated
among the Tatars of Kazan on the Volga, of the Crimea and of Azerbaijan
and was brought to the Ottoman Empire by Russian émigrés after 1908.
Emphasizing the common historical roots of the Turkic peoples (includ-
ing the Ottomans), its programme consisted of the cultural and political
unification of these peoples.13 From 1911 onwards, Pan-Turkist nationalists
had their own organization in the ‘Turkish Hearths’ (Türk Ocakları) which
were closely linked to the CUP. The younger Turkish nationalist movement
romantically idealized the Anatolian peasants as the ‘real Turks’, whose vir-
tues should be rediscovered and adopted by the Ottomans. It gained impetus
after 1913 and particularly with the founding of the Halka Doğru (To the
People) movement by the CUP in 1917.14
Some authors, taking their cue from Niyazi Berkes’ highly influential
work, The Development of Secularism in Turkey, have described the debate
as being among ‘Islamists, Turkists and Westernists’.15 These were indeed the
labels used during the second constitutional period (mainly by opponents of
the movements in question), but they confuse the issue. In fact, the debate
about the degree of Westernization permitted, or needed, for the empire’s
survival and regeneration was quite different from, and ran right through,
the debate on corporate political identity. Among the Islamists in particu-
lar there was wide variation between those prepared to accept considerable
Westernization in order to strengthen the Islamic community and those who
rejected any kind of innovation.16 Conversely, the positivist Westernists dif-
fered in the extent to which they tried to clothe their ideas in Islamic ter-
minology or reconcile them with Islamic doctrine. Berkes’ discussion in the
part of his book entitled ‘In Search of a Fulcrum’ actually concerns finding a
fulcrum for the regeneration of society rather than its political identity.
The traditional representation of ideological development

Most traditional accounts of the debates on national identity depict the
Young Turks as gradually discarding both Ottomanism (because the
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Greeks, Macedonians, Bulgars and Armenians did not renounce their

nationalist claims in exchange for equality after the constitutional rev-
olution) and Islamism (because first the Albanians and later the Arabs
developed separatist movements of their own). Turkism then remained
the only option. During World War I, especially after the Russian
Revolution seemed to open the way to Central Asia, the Pan-Turkist vari-
ety gained strength with Enver Pasha, the Young Turk generalissimo and
war minister, as its strongest advocate. After the defeat in the World War
Turkish nationalism still remained the only option, but the Turkish resist-
ance movement led by Mustafa Kemal Pasha, the later Atatürk, opted
for Anatolian Turkish nationalism and rejected irredentist claims. This,
roughly, is how the ideological development of the Young Turks has been
described from the 1920s onward by influential writers such as Toynbee
and Luke and in many textbooks of today, such as those by Stanford Shaw
and Geoffrey Lewis.17
Hanioğlu, however, takes a different view. He maintains that the CUP
centre in Paris was gradually converted to Turkish nationalism before the
constitutional revolution, in the period 1902–6, so that by 1906 ‘CUP prop-
aganda realized a nationalist focus’.18 Hanioğlu also states that this change
was accomplished under pressure from groups formed to counter the Greek
and Armenian committees, which themselves were working in the empire at
a time when Balkan Turkish journals claimed that ‘Islam and nationalism
had merged into a single construct.’ In view of what I hope to demonstrate
later, the fact that the changeover to nationalism was made in these circum-
stances is highly significant, for it leads me to doubt that the nationalism of
the Young Turks was truly ‘Turkish’.
Young Turk ideology and CUP policies

The ideological debates of the second constitutional period have been the
subject of extensive study, both inside Turkey and outside Turkey and rightly
so. They form an important experimental phase in the modern history of
Turkey. By contrast, there never has been any attempt to relate the ideologi-
cal debates of the years between 1908 and 1918 to the actual policies of
the Young Turks in those years. When the policies are mentioned, it is only
to point out that they were inconsistent, seeming to be Ottomanist at one
point and Islamist or Turkist at others. In others words, there seems to be
a tacit assumption that the ideological constructs of journalists, educators
and academics formed the frame of reference for the political leadership of
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the Young Turks and thus determined their actions and the role they played
in the creation of modern Turkey. But in my view this is very questionable.
It is quite conceivable, indeed probable, that the politicians formed their
policies under the impetus of fast-changing political realities of the day and
used the ideological toolkit available to them in an essentially pragmatic
manner.
Although the people who actually brought about the revolution in 1908
formally belonged to the same CUP to which most of the émigrés in Europe
belonged, since 1906 the character of the organization had changed dra-
matically. In 1906 the arrival in Paris of Dr Bahaettin Şakir and Dr Nâzim
gave the CUP organizational strength and an activist programme, and in
the same year the ‘Ottoman Freedom Society’ (Osmanlı Hürriyet Cemiyeti)
was founded by Mehmet Talât and his circle in Salonica. As the new group
built up a network among the officers of the Ottoman army in Europe, it
kept in close contact with Bahaettin Şakir and Nâzim and in 1907 decided
to adopt the hallowed name of the older organization. This ‘new’ CUP was
now dominated by activists, not publicists, that is, by Bahaettin Şakır, Tâlat
and Enver, not Ahmet Rıza, Abdullah Cevdet and Mizancı Murat. After the
revolution the latter were honoured (in some cases), but not trusted with
any real power.19
Although the activists had not written about ideological issues to any
great extent and probably were not that interested in them, for a decade and
a half (1908–23) their actions largely determined the course of Ottoman
history. If we are to understand the history of the period (and its legacy),
therefore, it is essential that we understand what made these Young Turk
politicians tick, but we have to take their actions as our point of departure,
rather than try to place them in the Ottomanism-Islamism-Turkism para-
digm. The activists of the CUP, who had been the strongest political force
in the country from 1908 to 1913, held a monopoly of power between their
coup d’état in January 1913 and the Ottoman defeat in World War I in
October 1918. Subsequently, until 1922 former CUP leaders initiated and
shaped the national independence movement, which fought off attempts
to hand parts of Anatolia to the Greeks and Armenians, and in October
1923 gave rise to the Turkish Republic.20 Consequently we can learn from
that movement how the Young Turks used political power and whether the
Ottomanism-Islamism-Turkism debate really did influence or even deter-
mine the course adopted by the Young Turk political leaders.
The argument of this chapter is threefold. First, I contend that, if we
look at the actual policies of the decennium 1913–23, those policies do not,
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in fact, seem to relate very closely to any of the ideological currents described
above. Second, given that discrepancy, the policies – rather than the ideo-
logical debates – are what shaped both the Turkey that emerged from the
turmoil of the years 1912–22 and the psyche of its people. I shall try to dem-
onstrate this point by discussing four of the most important developments
of those years: the attempts to nationalize the economy, the persecution
of Ottoman Christians during World War I, the struggle for independence
after the war, and finally the population exchange of 1923–4. Third, I shall
briefly analyse the nationality concept of the early Republic, to determine
where it constituted a break with the immediate past.
National economy
·
The programme of the ‘National Economy’ (Millî Iktisat) launched in 1914,21
constituted a break with the economic policies pursued between 1908 and
1913, which had been liberal in the classical sense. Between 1903 and 1913,
the Young Turks by and large had expected economic development to result
from free market policies, but growing disillusionment with the liberal
countries of Europe, as well as increased German influence, engendered
a shift to economic nationalism. At the start of the World War, with the
European powers occupied elsewhere, the Unionists unilaterally abolished
the capitulations on 1 October 1914.
The Young Turk government now proceeded to build a strong ‘national’
bourgeoisie by forming entrepreneurial cadres from among the Muslim
traders, guild members and even bureaucrats.22 They then encouraged the
members of this embryonic bourgeoisie to accumulate capital by exploiting
the wartime market conditions that made extensive profiteering possible.
The ‘National Economy’ programme gained impetus from 1915 onwards.
As 80 new joint-stock companies were founded between 1916 and 1918
with the active support of the CUP, traders and small businesses were
organized into large societies and encouraged to invest their profits in the
new companies.
The war created an extraordinary demand for all kinds of goods, espe-
cially foodstuffs, because the empire was cut off from its traditional suppli-
ers Rumania and Ukraine. The rising demand, in turn, created new wealth
in the countryside, but not through the operation of market forces alone.
The CUP government and army held a monopoly or railway transport, so
only provincial merchants with good political connections managed to get
the necessary freight cars to transport wheat to Istanbul or to the army.
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While this policy led to the intended capital accumulation by the Muslim
traders, large landowners and Unionist functionaries, the price for it was, of
course, paid by consumers and by Greek and Armenian businessmen, who
did not have political backing like their Muslim competitors. The non-Turks
were forced to use Turkish in their administration and to take Muslims
onto their boards as all kinds of pressures were brought to bear on them by
the government and by the Unionist ‘secret army’, the Teşkilât-i Mahsusa
(Special Organization).23 Approximately 130,000 Greeks from the western
coastal zone alone left for Greece, and many Armenians decided to emi-
grate as well, leaving their companies to be bought by the new Muslim busi-
nessmen (or would-be businessmen) at far below their market value. Celâl
Bayar,24 who was in charge of the ‘nationalization’ (millileştirme) campaign
in Izmir/Smyrna, quotes in his memoirs a report by a Special Organization
agent describing the removal of the ‘internal tumors’ whose ‘treacherous
and shameless greed’ endangered the country – in other words, how the
Greeks were driven out of business.25
The persecution of the Armenians

As is well known, the Young Turks’ confrontation with the Christian com-
munities during the war was not limited to the business sector, for beginning
in early 1915 they carried out a large-scale persecution of the Armenian
community. There is a voluminous, but also very polemical, literature on
the subject, both by Armenians and by Turks and supporters of the Turkish
position. Nevertheless, I think the testimony of the survivors, the reports of
German and Austrian officials (allies of the Young Turk government of the
day), and the proceedings of the post-war court martial in Istanbul, which
tried a number of people accused of involvement in genocide, all offer con-
vincing evidence that an inner circle within the CUP used the deportations
(which were horrendous enough in themselves) to execute a planned ‘ethnic
cleansing’ or genocide of the Armenian population. While many Ottoman
provincial and military officials opposed the killings, the provincial party
chiefs and special emissaries pushed them through, utilizing the forces of
the Special Organization.26
The persecution of the Armenians can be understood only in the con-
text of the traumas suffered previously by the Muslims of the empire, fully
one quarter of whom were either fugitives from Russia and the Balkans
or the children of fugitives. Those same Young Turks who ordered and
executed the wholesale killing of Armenians had seen the European
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provinces where many of them were born and raised lost in the Balkan
War. They joined the CUP while serving in the fight against separatist
Greek, Macedonian and Bulgarian bands in Macedonia and Thrace, and
now they were convinced that what had happened in the Caucasus and
the Balkans was about to repeat itself in Anatolia. In this sense the geno-
cide was a product of the reactive Muslim nationalism that motivated the
Young Turks.
At the same time, the persecution of the Armenians shaped and polar-
ized identities in Anatolia. After the massacres, no Armenian could regard
himself wholeheartedly as an Ottoman citizen. The thousands of Muslims
who had been directly involved in the persecution and the hundreds of
thousands who had witnessed them, could no longer envisage living in
anything but a Muslim state. This was, of course, especially true for the
CUP functionaries from top-level politicians, military leaders and provin-
cial governors down to the Special Organization thugs who did the actual
killing. These people then were the first to support the struggle for con-
tinued Ottoman Muslim independence in Anatolia, known in Turkish his-
toriography as the Millî Mücadele (National Struggle) or Kurtuluş Savaşı
(Liberation War). It is no exaggeration to say that the period of the national
independence movement (between 1918 and 1920) and the subsequent war
for independence (between 1920 and 1922) was the zenith of Ottoman
Muslim nationalism.
The national independence movement

The Ottoman Empire, having been defeated by the British in Palestine and
Mesopotamia, was forced to conclude an armistice on 30 October 1918.
In the following months and years successive governments in Istanbul con-
sidered close cooperation with the victorious Allies as their only option.
Leading members of the Young Turk Committee of Union and Progress,
who had been in power before and during the war and had foreseen the dis-
memberment of what remained of the Ottoman possessions, however, had
prepared the ground both for armed resistance and for the mobilization of
public opinion even before the war ended. ‘Societies for the Defence of the
National Rights’ were founded in many different places, nearly always by
members of the local branches of the CUP, sometimes in conjunction with
the representatives of their province in the capital. These local Unionist
leaders co-opted notables, such as müftüs (Islamic legal advisors) and eşraf
(officially recognized descendants of the Prophet Muhammad, members of
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the local élite) onto the boards of the societies which emphatically declared
their non-partisan status. The first thing the societies did was to organize
a regional congress whose participants were invited, rather than elected,
from among the notables and Unionist party bosses. All in all, 28 of these
congresses were held between 5 November 1918 and 9 October 1920, 3 of
them in 1918, 17 in 1919 and 8 in 1920.27 Not surprisingly the resistance
societies organized earliest and were most active in areas under the great-
est threat of cession to Greece, Armenia or one of the victorious Allies: the
six easternmost provinces (which were claimed by the Armenians), Cilicia
(claimed by France and the Armenians) and the mixed areas in the west
around Izmir (Smyrna) and in Thrace that Greek Prime Minister Venizelos
claimed for his country.
The Republic of Turkey proclaimed in October 1923, which devel-
oped into a Western-oriented, secularist and Turkish nationalist state, had
its roots in the Anatolian resistance movement of 1918–22, so modern
Turkish historiography, shaped as it has been by the nation-building poli-
cies of the early republic, sees the resistance as Turkish nationalist from
its start. Indeed the period of the resistance movement (1919–22) is rel-
egated to the status of prehistory of the Republic. This is clear not only in
the periodization used by Turkish textbooks, but also in the fact that the
first nationwide congress of the resistance movement at Sivas in September
1919 is retrospectively claimed as the first congress of the Republican
People’s Party, which was founded by Mustafa Kemal Pasha (Atatürk)
only in 1923. Although Western historiography on the whole has taken
its cue from this Turkish interpretation, the important role of religion in
the ‘nationalist’ mobilization of the Anatolian peasantry was recognized
as early as 1936 by the unrivalled authority on the Turkish independence
movement, Gotthard Jäschke, 28 and 20 years later by Dankwart Rustow. 29
Rustow emphasizes that the national independence struggle had a strong
Islamic flavour and was waged until the end in the name of caliphate and
sultanate. Kemal Karpat has also pointed to the identification of national-
ism with religion among the Turkish population, 30 and recently this aspect
has been emphasized by Binnaz Toprak. 31 The two last named authors,
however, see the role of Islam as that of a tactical instrument. They speak
about the political use of religion by an implicitly non-Islamic, or not pri-
marily Islamic, leadership, and they see the leaders’ Islamic rhetoric as the
translation of abstract notions, such as the ‘nation’, into the discourse of
the peasant population. 32 Feroz Ahmad makes a slightly different point
when he says, ‘The nationalists were forced to use Islamic propaganda
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in order to counter Istanbul’s propaganda against them.’33 All of these

authors thus seem to agree that the rural population of Anatolia could
only be won over to the cause of the resistance by an appeal to religious
sentiments. But is it really true that what we have here is a ‘translation’ of
a nationalist message?
If we try to look at the movement afresh, without taking into account
its eventual outcome, a different picture emerges from the avowed aims
of its founders. In the week after the armistice was concluded, on 5
November 1918 the Millî I·slam Şurası (National Muslim Council) was
founded in Kars, the chief town in the three eastern provinces, which had
been Russian between 1878 and 1917, were reconquered by the Ottoman
army in 1918, and now were expected to be ceded to the Armenians at
the peace conference in Paris. The new organization’s name is significant.
Although the word ‘şura’ undoubtedly is a translation of the Russian term
‘soviet’, ‘Islam’ appears to be a synonym of ‘Muslim’ in the usage of the
leaders of the council (thus denoting the person or persons rather than the
belief system, a usage that still is current in Turkey). 34 The stated aim of
the council was to prevent ‘the splitting up the Muslim population living
in the Caucasus’ (ahâli-i islâmiyye’nin tefrik-i ictimaları). 35 Like all of the
later congresses of local ‘Defence of Rights’ societies, they produced mate-
rial ‘proving’ that the majority of the population in their area had been
Muslim even before the war. This was essential because all such societies
and, indeed, the later nationwide resistance movement based their claims
on President Woodrow Wilson’s ‘Fourteen Points’ and the principle of
self-determination for ‘the Turkish parts of the Ottoman Empire’ embed-
ded in them. 36 The organization in Kars, which had changed its name to
‘Temporary Government of the South Western Caucasus’, was suppressed
by the British on 17 April 1919. Subsequently the torch of resistance passed
to organizations in Trabzon and Erzurum further to the west. Held in
July 1919, the congress of Erzurum, representing the seven easternmost
provinces, 37 generally is considered the real starting point of the resistance
movement. It is, therefore, important that we look closely at the statutes
of the ‘Organization for the Defence of the National Rights of the Eastern
Provinces’, which convened the conference, as well as at the proclamation
and decisions of the congress itself.
According to article 1 of the statutes that the organization submitted to
the governor of Erzurum to comply with the empire’s Law on Associations,
its goal was ‘to defend the historic and national rights (hukuk-u tarihiye
ve milliye) of the Muslim population’ (ahâli-i islâmiye).38 The report issued
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by the local congress held in Erzurum on 17 June in preparation for the

regional one held one month later refers to ‘the Muslims who form one
nation (millet), consisting of Turks and Kurds’39 and to ‘the Muslim major-
ity consisting of Turks and Kurds who for centuries have mixed their blood
in an intimate relationship and who form the community (ümmet) of one
prophet’.40 The statutes of the society organizing the Erzurum congress,
however, speak about ‘all Islamic elements (bilcümle anasır-i islâmiye) of
the population’41 and say that ‘all Muslim compatriots (bilumûm islâm
vatandaşlar) are natural members of this society.’42 A few passages in the
Erzurum documents mention Turkish as an ethnic identity, but even in most
of these, the concepts of ‘Turkish and Islamic’ are closely linked. Just as it
described the Turks and Kurds as forming one community (ümmet), the
proclamation of the local Erzurum branch countered Armenian claims that
the Turks ‘have only ever destroyed civilizations’ by saying that ‘(Erzurum)
was a pasture of Turkish tribes and that Islam had sent its light as far as this
area when it first appeared’. The Seljuk dynasty had spread ‘Turkish culture
and Islamic civilization’ (Türk harsını ve islam medeniyeti – a formula taken
directly from the writings of the Young Turk ideologue Ziya Gökalp).43 The
proclamation goes on to say that the Armenian population of the eastern
provinces has never been above 15 per cent and that ‘the voice of truth,
which had risen from the other side of the ocean (meaning President Wilson)
will never recognize the right to rule over these lands of any nation but the
Turks.’ Here, the use of ‘Turks’ may simply be borrowed from the American
original of President Wilson’s Fourteen Points. Although in the congress
report of the Erzurum branch the Turks are described as ‘an oppressed race’
(mazlûm bir ırk), that use of a racially based concept of ethnicity seems to
have been extremely rare.44
What the society aims to achieve in political terms is made abundantly
clear: it portrays itself as the ‘guard of the Islamic Caliphate and the Ottoman
Sultanate’ and the ‘real protector of the Muslim rights’.45 The latter term,
hukuk-u islamiye, appears to be a synonym for the better known and more
widely used hukuk-u milliye (national rights). The Muslims it represents want
to remain part and parcel of the Ottoman Empire. Apart from the terms
one would expect in this context (‘Ottoman state’ or devlet-i Osmaniye and
‘Ottoman rule’ or hakimiyet-i Osmaniye as well as the above-mentioned
‘Ottoman Sultanate’) the society states it desire not to be separated from
the ‘Ottoman and Islamic community’ (camia-i Osmaniye ve islamiye).
In the Western Anatolian regions that were in danger of cession to
Greece, the Muslim population was dominated more clearly by a Turkish
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majority. There Kurds are not explicitly mentioned in the documents put
out by ‘Defence of Rights’ organizations, but at the congresses of Balıkesir
and Alaşehir, which were held almost simultaneously with that in Erzurum
(in July and August 1919 respectively), the resolutions address ‘our beloved
Turkish and Muslim compatriots’ and talk about ‘our Turkish and Islamic
fatherland (Türk ve müslüman olan memleketimiz) and our holy ground
colored red by the blood sacrificed for our religion’. In different places within
the same proclamation first ‘our innocent Muslim brothers and sisters’ and
then ‘all of our Turkish brothers and sisters’ are mentioned. Similarly the
‘compatriots of Anatolia’ (Anadolu vatandaşlar) work with ‘religious and
patriotic feelings’ (hiss-i dinî ve vatanperverî).46
In September 1919, after an abortive attempt in June, a congress
purporting to speak on behalf of all the regional resistance initiatives in
Anatolia and in European Turkey was finally convened by Mustafa Kemal
Pasha in Sivas.47 It adopted the resolutions of the congress in Erzurum
and likewise made Muslim solidarity the basis of all activities to preserve
existence of ‘our state which belongs to the Muslims’.48 As in Erzurum,
the documents emanating from the congress in Sivas make very clear who
the enemy is: ‘movements which strive for the establishment of Greek or
Armenian entities (Rumluk ve Ermenilik) on Ottoman soil’. Yet the termi-
nology also makes clear that the members of the congress were not against
Greece (Yunanistan) or Armenia (Ermenistan) as such, but only against
Greek or Armenian entities within the armistice lines. Indeed, Mustafa
Kemal Pasha, the president of the congress and of the representative
committee, himself stated in an interview on 25 October 1919 that the
nationalists ‘were in favor of an Armenia outside the Ottoman borders’.49
What the congress demands is that those parts of the empire inhabited by
a Muslim majority be recognized as inseparable from each other and from
‘the Ottoman community’, for the ‘Islamic elements’ (anasır-i islâmiye)
living there are ‘true brothers’ (öz kardeşler) who respect each other’s
racial (ırkiye) and social rights. 50 Article 6 of the same document adduces
another argument and another definition of the area that should remain
united and independent, speaking about ‘(these lands) where cultural and
civil superiority belongs to the Muslims (harsî ve medenî faikiyet)’. As had
the Erzurum congress it thus uses a formula that echoes the thinking of
Ziya Gökalp. 51
In his own speeches and declarations during the early phase of the
struggle, Mustafa Kemal Pasha was extremely cautious when describing the
national basis of the movement; his central terms were millet (‘nation’) and
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millî (‘national’). In his 15-minute opening speech at Sivas the terms occur
41 times, but, as Rustow has remarked, they undoubtedly still had religious
connotations for most Ottoman Muslims.52 This point recently has been
repeated by Feroz Ahmad, who notes that ‘millî came to mean national ...
through evolution.’53 Indeed one could argue that even today the millî in
millî görüş carries a very different meaning from that in millî piyango – in
other words: that the religious and national meanings of the term have con-
tinued to exist side by side and that, if we are to use Darwinian concepts, the
older species has not died out.
In his opening speech at Sivas Kemal explained that the Allies were
breaching the conditions laid down in the armistice and encroaching upon
the rights of the Ottomans every day. Next he described the inactivity and
treason of the central government in the face of the injustices perpetrated by
the Allies and argued that, therefore, the nation could find salvation only in
its own spirit (ruh). Although, according to Kemal, the congresses at Erzurum
and Sivas represented this ‘national spirit’ (ruh-u millî), the religious flavour
was there, too: The Greek oppressors have entered ‘the innermost shrine of
Islam (I·slam’ın harîm-i ismet) in the Western Anatolia’. In addition, he spoke
about the preservation of the ‘sacred things’ (mukaddesat) of the nation and
the country. 54 This latter term later became identified with the conserva-
tive religious wing within Kemal’s national movement, which founded the
‘Muhafaza-i Mukaddesat Cemiyeti’ or ‘Society for the Preservation of Sacred
Things’ in Erzurum in March 1921.
In December 1919, the leadership of the resistance movement, the
‘Representative Committee’ headed by Mustafa Kemal, moved from Sivas
to Ankara, which had a more central location and a direct rail link with
the outside world. In a speech to notables in Ankara, 55 immediately after
his arrival, Kemal again related how the Allies had trampled underfoot
both the principles laid down by President Wilson and the original con-
ditions of the armistice. He then described the work of the congresses
at Erzurum and Sivas and set out the goals of the movement: ‘saving the
fatherland from dismemberment and the nation from captivity’ (vatanın
inkısamdan ve milletin esaretten tahlisi).56 Again Kemal constantly used the
term ‘nation’ (millet). First, he mentioned the ‘Ottoman state and nation’
(Osmanlı devlet ve milleti) which seems to indicate a political definition of
the concept, but he went on to give a definite religious meaning to millet,
albeit without actually describing the nation as ‘Muslim’ or ‘Islamic’. He
apparently took its Muslim character for granted. For instance, he rejected
claims that ‘our nation’ was oppressive by pointing out that ‘our nation’
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had granted the non-Muslims every freedom ever since the conquest of
Constantinople. 57 He very much spoke in terms of ‘us’ and ‘them’ as in biz,
bizimle beraber yaşayan anasır-i gayrimuslime (‘we and the non-Muslim
elements living among us’). 58 By implication, the ‘we’ must have meant ‘we
Ottoman Muslims’.
Kemal did not use the ethnic concept of nationality at the time he moved
to Ankara. The word ‘Turk’ does not occur in the text of his speeches,
so in this respect he appears to have trod even more carefully than the
congresses did in their official statements. He did use the term ‘Turkey’
(Türkiye) several times to describe the country for whose liberty the fight
was being waged, something we do not see in the earlier documents from
Kars, Erzurum or Sivas. It could be misleading, however, to read into this
an indication that Kemal was already thinking of a new Turkish state to
replace the Ottoman Empire. True, he later claimed to cherish this ambi-
tion as a ‘national secret’ (millî sır) that he could not divulge until the time
and public opinion would he ripe for it, 59 and although there is no con-
temporary evidence to support his claim, it is quite conceivable in light of
his later policies. But in his speech in December 1919 he also referred to
the persecution of the Armenians in 1915–17 as Türkiye’de zuhûra gelmiş
şayan-i arzu olmayan bazı ahval (‘Some undesirable events which have
occurred in Turkey’)60 apparently using ‘Turkey’ simply as a synonym for
‘Ottoman Empire’.
Kemal employed two arguments to defend the ‘national borders’ (millî
hudud) laid down in Sivas. First, this was the area controlled and defended
by the Ottoman army on the day of the armistice. Furthermore, ‘this bor-
der delineates the part of our fatherland inhabited by Kurds and Turks. To
the south of it live our Arabic- speaking co-religionists.’61 He proceeded to
express his solidarity with the Arabs and wished ‘our co-religionists (dinda
ş-larımız), our brothers and sisters’, success in their efforts to liberate every
corner of the ‘world of Islam’ (alem-i I·slâm) without making their libera-
tion part of his own programme.62 Parting with the Arab provinces does not
seem to have been a problem for the leadership of the resistance movement,
who simply did not see them as part of the fatherland. Even before the
end of the World War many of the Young Turk officers and administrators
serving in the Arab provinces had come to realize how tenuous were the
cultural, social and political links between those areas and the Ottoman
centre.63 In many memoirs Turkish officers depict the Arab troops as very
much unreliable. The Arab troops felt they were being sacrificed in a cause
they did not understand, and the Arab population often appeared to be
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hostile. In short, because nearly all of the leading cadres of the national
movement had served in the Arab provinces during the war, they were far
too disillusioned to harbour any dreams of re-establishing Ottoman rule
there.
The official demands of the national resistance movement were laid
down in January 1920 in the so-called National Pact (Misâk-i millî).64
Adopted by the last Ottoman parliament on 28 January 1920 and published
three weeks later, it remained the official statement of aims of the resist-
ance movement until the conclusion of the Peace of Lausanne in 1923. This
document closely follows the provisions of Erzurum and Sivas. It demands
the right of self-determination through a plebiscite for the population of
the Arab provinces, Western Thrace (i.e. west of the Maritza River) and the
three easternmost provinces of Kars, Ardahan and Batumi. Its central state-
ment, however, is that:
The totality of the parts within the lines of the armistice65 which
are inhabited by an Ottoman Muslim majority, which is united in
religion, race and origin,66 and imbued with feelings of the fullest
mutual respect and sacrifice and with full consideration for each
other’s racial and social rights and circumstances, forms a whole
whose partition cannot be accepted in reality or in law for any rea-
son whatsoever.
(Bu mütareke hattı içinde dînen, ırkan ve aslen müttehit yekdiğerine

karşı hürmet-i mütekabile ve fedâkarlık hissiyatiyle meşhun ve
hukuk-u ırkiye ve ictimaiyeleriyle şerait-i muhitiyelerine tamami-
yle riayetkâr Osmanlı I·slam ekseriyetiyle meskûn bulunan aksamın
heyet-i mecmuası hakikaten veya hükmen hiç bir sebeple tefrik kabul
etmez bir küldür).67
The population exchange

The victory of the Defence of Rights movement was recognized, after dif-
ficult and long drawn out negotiations, in the Peace Treaty of Lausanne
(1923). The ambitions of the National Pact were not realized completely in
Lausanne, but its main demand, unity and independence for the Muslims
within the armistice lines, was largely met. Lausanne also meant a major
step in the direction of the creation of a homogenous Muslim state.
In appendix 6 of the Lausanne treaty, signed on 30 January 1923, Turkey
and Greece agreed upon an exchange of populations. Mass migration had,
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of course, been a feature of the history of the region for a century. Over
2 million Muslims had migrated from the Caucasus to the Ottoman Empire
rather than remain under Russian rule; 800,000 Muslims had fled from
Bulgaria and Rumania in 1877–8 and 400,000 had emigrated to the empire
during and after the Balkan War of 1912–13. The same Balkan War had led
to increased pressure on the Greeks of the Ottoman Empire, over 130,000
of whom had decided, or been forced, to leave for Greece in 1913–14. Many
of the surviving Armenians, too, had fled the country. The agreement of
January 1923 thus constituted the final act in a long drama in these ethni-
cally, linguistically and religiously mixed lands.
The significance of the population exchange, therefore, is not that it
was a novelty. Even the mechanism of a formal exchange of populations
between states was not new as Greece and Bulgaria had concluded a very
similar agreement in 1919 (with the significant difference that under that
agreement the exchange formally was on a voluntary basis). From the view-
point of this chapter, what was significant in 1923 was that the criterion for
deportation was religious affiliation and nothing else. According to the first
article of the agreement:
From the First of May, 1923 a start will be made with the forced
exchange of the Turkish citizens of Greek Orthodox faith who live
on Turkish soil with the Greek citizens of Muslim faith who live on
Greek soil ... 68
All told, over 1.2 million Greek Orthodox were exchanged with 400,000
Muslims and the exchange included those Greek Orthodox citizens, the
Karamanlı, who spoke only Turkish.69 As a matter of fact, however, the pop-
ulation exchange agreement put an official seal on something that already
had taken place, for most Greek inhabitants of Western Anatolia had
already left the country, and the communities exchanged, apart from the
Karamanlı, mostly hailed from the Black Sea Coast. That Greeks and Turks
alike were of the opinion that it was Orthodox Christians and Muslims
who could no longer live together, again indicates the total dominance of
the religious component in the identities shaped in the preceding decade.
Conclusion
My conclusion, therefore, would be that the political and military lead-
ers of the crucial decade under review were guided not by Ottomanism,
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not by Turkism and not by Islamism. The Young Turks were not guided
by Ottomanism because they did not desire to win over the non-Muslim
communities by granting them equal rights; quite the opposite was true.
They consistently aimed at reducing the Greeks and Armenians’ position in
society in order to become masters in their own Ottoman Muslim house.
Turkism they espoused only in the sense that the majority of Ottoman
Muslims, certainly in the west of the country, were Turks and the terms
‘Turkish’ and ‘Muslim’ often were interchangeable or used in juxtaposition
(Türk-Müslüman Unsuru) there unlike in the mixed areas of the empire,
where the term Müslüman covered Turks, Kurds, Arabs and other groups.
Indeed the role of expansionist Pan-Turkism to my mind is vastly overrated,
especially by Armenian historians, as it was never widespread. The domi-
nant ideology of the Young Turk politicians of the decade under review was
not Islamism either. At first sight this statement may seem surprising after
so much evidence of the Muslim character of the policies of the decade.
Islamism, however, was not only about taking the Islamic community, the
ümmet, as the basis for corporate political identity, but also about basing
state and society on Islamic values and Islamic law. No trace of these aims
is found in the policies of the CUP. On the contrary, once the Unionists
were in power, they reduced the influence both of the doctors of Islamic
law and of the Islamic law (şeriat) itself. The head of the religious hierarchy,
the Şeyhülislam, was even removed from the cabinet during the World War.
Instead Pan-Islamic rhetoric was used, both in the World War and in the
War of Independence, only as a political expedient to help strengthen the
position of the Ottomans.
Instead, the Unionists were motivated by a peculiar brand of Ottoman-
Muslim nationalism, which was to a very high degree reactive. It was defined
in a particular and antagonistic relationship between Muslims who had been
on the losing side in terms of wealth and power for the best part of a century
and Ottoman Christians who had been the winners. The Unionists’ ideol-
ogy was nationalist in the sense that they demanded the establishment of a
state of their own: before 1918 they took every step to make the existing
Ottoman state the Muslims’ own and after 1918 they fought to preserve
what remained of that Ottoman Muslim state and to prevent it from being
carved up. But the nation for which they demanded this political home was
that of the Ottoman Muslims – not that of all of the Ottomans, not only that
of the Turks and certainly not that of the Muslims of the world. In other
words, what we see here is an ethnicizing of religion; the movement was
political and not religious, but the nationalist programme is based on an
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ethnicity whose membership is determined largely by religious affiliation.

That is why the Muslim nationalism of the Young Turks could go hand-in-
hand with secularist modernizing policies.
The policies of the Unionists were not inconsistent. Ottomanism,
Islamism and Turkism were tools to be used to strengthen the position of
the Ottoman Muslims (as was Westernization), not ends in themselves. The
Unionist politicians, therefore, felt free to use any and all of these ideologies
as they saw fit to accomplish their ultimate goal of establishing a strong,
modern and unified state.
The legacy inherited by the Turkish republic

The predominance of Muslim nationalism in the formative phase of mod-
ern Turkey (the years of the Balkan War, World War I and the war for
national independence) is highly relevant to understanding the way the
Turkish Republic developed after 1923. According to the traditional tele-
ological account of the Young Turks’ ideological development, they dis-
carded Ottomanism and Islamism after 1908 out of disillusionment with
the attitude of, respectively, the Christian minorities and the Muslim
Albanians and Arabs, leaving Turkish nationalism their only option – and
therefore their dominant ideology – after 1913. Creation of a Turkish
national state ten years later then was the logical outcome of this develop-
ment. This account, however, does not explain why the Kemalist regime,
which established the secular national state, met with so much stubborn
opposition from large parts of the population and even from parts of the
national movement itself and why it was voted out of office as soon as that
population gained the right to express itself in free elections after World
War II. On the other hand, the problems of the Kemalists become under-
standable if we accept that the formative phase in the development of mod-
ern Turkey was a decade totally dominated on the level of politics and of
public opinion by an anti- Christian, and especially an anti-Greek and anti-
Armenian, Muslim nationalism. In 1923 the Anatolian Muslim population
had managed, against all odds, to secure the continued existence of a state
of their own in Anatolia, but from 1923–4 on the Kemalist leadership of
the Republic broke the bonds of solidarity forged during the preceding ten
years and opted instead for far-reaching secularization and for Turkish (as
opposed to Ottoman-Muslim) nationalism and nation building.
More research is needed on the reasons underlying the change, but
there can be no doubt that the decision was deliberate to seek a new Turkish
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national and secular corporate political identity in order to replace the

Ottoman-Muslim one. There was certainly nothing inevitable about it, and
the switch was far too sudden to be explicable on the basis of any underly-
ing socio-economic process. One can only assume that the crucial question
the Young Turks had faced about corporate political identity lost some of
its urgency once independent survival had been secured and the society had
become relatively homogeneous in religious terms, so then the question of
‘catching up with Europe’ again moved to centre-stage. In the debate about
Westernization, Kemal and his circle belonged to the radical wing of the
Young Turks who believed implicitly in a popularized version of nineteenth-
century European positivism. In their eyes only scientific rationalism could
form the basis for the modernization leap Turkey would have to make, and
only a nation state could give Turkey the coherence needed to compete with
the national states of Europe. Because they thus emphasized secularism in
their thinking on modernization, they did not find a nationality in which
religion was the dominant factor a suitable basis for a nation state. Now
that the danger to independence had passed and they could create what
they considered the ideal circumstances for successful modernization, they
opted for secular Turkish nationalism. This of course precluded any idea of
Kurdish autonomy.
Kemalist nation-building
As early as 1923 laws, government proclamations, and the statutes and
programs of the People’s Party – the direct successor of and heir to the
Defence of Rights movement – had ceased to speak of ‘Muslims’ or ‘Kurds
and Turks.’ The third article of its 1923 statutes states: ‘Every Turk and
every outsider who accepts Turkish nationality and culture [Italics: EJZ] can
join the People’s Party.’70 Two years later, on 8 December 1925, the Ministry
of Education announced in a proclamation on ‘Currents trying to under-
mine Turkish unity’ that use of the terms Kürt, Laz, Çerkez, Kürdistan and
Lazistan would be banned.71 Subsequently article 5 of the party programme
of 1927 declared spreading the Turkish language and culture to be a guid-
ing principle because ‘among compatriots unity of language, of feelings and
thoughts forms the strongest tie’.72
In 1931, at the second (officially, ‘third’) party congress, ‘nationalism’
was included among the Six Arrows (Altı Ok) that formed the basic princi-
ples of the People’s Party and were included in the party programme. In the
secondary school history text Tarih (History), the fourth and final volume
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of which appeared in the same year, ‘Turk’ is defined in the context of the
second ‘arrow’: ‘Any individual within the Republic of Turkey, whatever
his faith, who speaks Turkish, grows up with Turkish culture and adopts
the Turkish ideal, is a Turk.’ 73 The Kemalist concept of nationality was thus
firmly based on language, culture and common purpose (‘ideal’). As a result,
authors who place the nationalism of the Turkish Republic fully within
the traditions of the French Revolution, with its emphasis on national self-
determination and its legalist-voluntarist definition of ‘nation’, claim that
Turkish nationalism is in no way based on racial or religious characteristics
and that therefore anyone is free to join this nationality.74 It is not quite
so simple, however, because of the way the central concept of ‘culture’ is
defined.
There are surprisingly few texts from the Kemalist period that describe
the national basis of the new state. Mustafa Kemal Pasha so constantly
appealed to Turkish national pride, exhorting his people to show the world
what Turks could accomplish, that the inscription on the monument in
Ankara’s Güven Park, ‘Türk, Çalış, Güven, Öğün!’ (Turk, Work, Trust, Be
proud!) well summarizes many of his speeches. Nevertheless, he did not try
to define the identity of the nation in either his six-day speech of 1927 or in
the speech he gave in 1933 on the tenth anniversary of the Republic, from
which is taken the famous dictum ‘Ne mutlu Türk’üm diyene!’ (How fortu-
nate is the one who can say ‘I am a Turk’). Rather, in most of the speeches
muasir (modern) and medenî (civilized) are the central terms, indicating the
Kemalists considered the issue of national identity settled and that, after a
decade in which Young Turk leaders had been preoccupied with national
survival, they had returned modernizing society to the central position it
had held before 1912.
Other texts from the early Republic, where one would expect a high
ideological content, also yield very little reflection on the problems of
nationality and nationalism. Ülkü (Ideal), the journal of the Halk Evleri
(People’s Homes) that were the educational arm of the People’s Party from
1932 to 1951, concentrates almost entirely on spreading general knowledge.
·
The booklet I nkılâp Dersleri (Revolutionary Lessons) by Recep Peker, the
general secretary and ‘ideologue’ of the People’s Party, is equally barren
in this respect although Peker obviously is an ardent nationalist defend-
ing the ‘national state’ and a statist, one-party regime with a strong leader.
He refutes internationalism, Marxism and liberalism, and he praises the
‘national unity’ of the Turks, but he does not devote a single paragraph
to the nature of modern Turkey’s ‘corporate political identity’. Still, Peker
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emphatically rejects expressions of minority identities, such as ‘Kurdism’

and ‘Circassianism’, arguing they are ‘false conceptions’ resulting from his-
torical oppression and that the minority groups are too small numerically
to form a nation.75
One of the very few people to address the philosophical implication
of the kind of nationalism adopted by the Kemalists after 1923 was the
Kemalist ideologue Tekin Alp (Moise Cohen) who discusses the Kemalist
concept of the nation in his book Le Kémalisme published in 1937.76 He
points out that the programme of the People’s Party sees unity of lan-
guage, culture and ideal as constituting the nation and says that these
have replaced the older concepts of nationality based on race or religion.
Because Tekin Alp considers unity of ideal the self-evident prerequisite
for nation-building and language as part of culture, he discusses only the
cultural element in detail. Drawing on Ziya Gökalp’s distinction between
culture (hars) and civilization (medeniyet),77 Tekin Alp states that culture
consists of the sentiments and attitudes adopted from earliest childhood
onwards from one’s parents and immediate surroundings, but civiliza-
tion is the high culture consciously learned at a later age, which is inter-
national and can be changed at will. In this Tekin Alp is the archetypal
Kemalist.
Tekin Alp seems to be unaware of the inconsistencies in his description
of culture and its role in the nation. On principle, the change over from
an Islamic to a European civilization was possible in his (and Gökalp’s)
thinking as ‘civilization’, like ‘ideal’, was something one could consciously
adhere to. Changing one’s culture (hars), however, is intrinsically impos-
sible because in Tekin Alp’s own words, it is ‘natural and so to speak
biological’.78 He quotes with approval Meyer’s description of culture as
‘a product of history, which one cannot create at will’. In other words,
culture in this understanding is an exclusive category as much as race:
you either belong or you do not. Asking Kurds, Arabs or Circassians to
adopt Turkish culture is, therefore, an impossible demand even in the eyes
of the ideologues of Kemalism. Because adoption of Turkish culture was
a prerequisite for being a member of the Turkish nation, both in Tekin
Alp’s eyes and according to the statutes of the People’s Party, it posed a
problem the Kemalists could not solve. The Muslim nationalism of the
period before 1923 was a genuine popular movement, which made possi-
ble the mobilization of the masses, but it was unsuitable as the glue to hold
together a society modernizing itself on the basis of secularism and posi-
tivism. Although the imposition of Turkish nationalism fitted in with this
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modernization project, it was based in part on an organic view of ‘Turkish

culture’ and not fully on a voluntarist/legalist concept of nationality. This
Turkish nationalism could only exclude significant parts of the population
within the new borders from full and equal membership in the nation and
lead to a politics of assimilation.
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17. Were the Progressives Conservative?*
Conservatism as a political philosophy

As a doctrine, conservatism is notoriously hard to define, partly because its
adherents explicitly reject doctrines as the basis for politics. Nevertheless, it
is probably justified to say that those who have sought to establish philosoph-
ical foundations for political conservatism from Edmund Burke,1 through
(Lord) Hugh Cecil and (Lord) Hailsham 2 to Roger Scruton3 in the 1980s,
have shown a remarkable consistency in what they see as its central charac-
teristics. Burke, the father of conservatism as an ideology, developed in his
Reflections on the Revolution in France six themes, which have remained
characteristic of conservative thought ever since its publication in 1790: the
importance of religion; the danger of inflicting injustice on individuals in the
name of reform; the reality and desirability of distinctions of rank and sta-
tion; the inviolability of private property; the view of society as an organism,
rather than a mechanism; and finally, the value of continuity with the past.4
Central to the concept of conservatism is the notion that legitimate rule
is based on established patterns of governance (what Scruton calls ‘estab-
lished usage’5) rather than on a mandate or any other form of ‘contractual’
relationship between the rulers and the ruled. This notion of transcend-
ent authority made an institution like the House of Lords, with its core
body of members selected on the basis of hereditary peers, acceptable, yes
even desirable to British conservatives.6 It was also the aspect of conserva-
tive thinking, which lay at the heart of Metternich’s restoration in Europe
between 1813 and 1848.
Karl Mannheim, the pre-eminent student of continental conservatism,
sees the transition from semi-conscious traditionalism to conscious politi-
cal conservatism as a result of the emergence of the class-based capitalist
society. The expressions of this dynamic movement vary over time and from
place to place, but conservatism’s underlying worldview is based on a very
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Were the Progressives Conservative?
stable set of attitudes. These include a strong attachment to the individual,

the concrete, the qualitative, the historical and the organic, and a rejec-
tion of the collective, the abstract, the quantitative, the programmatic, the
mechanistic and the universal.7
In its nineteenth- and early twentieth-century form this ideology, or
rather: set of attitudes, opposed the political and philosophical movements,
which took their inspiration from the enlightenment (in particular Rousseau)
and the French Revolution, that is to say: liberalism and socialism in their
many guises. Under the leadership of modern political leaders, such as
Disraeli in Britain or Bismarck and Windthorst in Germany, conservatives
managed to reach out to the lower middle class and sections of the proletariat
and build mass parties, often in close collaboration with the churches. In the
Netherlands, for instance, the first modern mass party to be founded (in 1876)
was composed of a breakaway section of the reformed protestant church. Its
conservative credentials showed in its name: Anti-Revolutionary Party – the
revolution in question being the French Revolution of 80 years earlier!
That conservative, and conservative Christian parties not only managed
to survive in the twentieth century but actually thrive, has to be attrib-
uted to their ideological flexibility, which allowed them to adopt, first social
democratic ideas on the welfare state and social security and then extreme
free-market liberalism, which had been the complete antithesis of conserva-
tive thinking a century before.
Political and philosophical conservatism in the form described above was
never a powerful influence in the Ottoman Empire or in the early Republic,
and only gained force in Turkey in the second half of the twentieth century.
One strand of direct influence, though, can be seen in the League for Private
Initiative and Decentralization of Prince Sabahattin, which, in spite of the
fact that it advertised itself as ‘Liberal’ in Europe, owed more to the ideas
of the anti-revolutionary, aristocratic and catholic conservatives around
Frederic Le Play in France than to any genuine liberals. After all: like them,
Prince Sabahattin saw a central role for a reinvigorated ‘aristocracy’, which
he equated with the provincial notables (ayan) in the regeneration of the
Ottoman Empire, a role modelled on that of the British aristocracy in the
management of the British Empire.
The main body of Young Turk writers and politicians, united (if that
is the word) in the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP), consisted of
people, who stood firmly in the traditions of the enlightenment and the
French Revolution. They greatly admired the French revolutionaries (it is no
coincidence that the Committee was founded in 1889, the centenary of the
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revolution) and some of their attitudes can certainly be described as Jacobin.

But the main ideological influence on their worldview derived from a
popular form of late nineteenth-century positivism, mixed with Büchnerian
materialism.8 Their greatest source of inspiration was Gustave LeBon, the
founder of ‘mass psychology’, whose popularity among the French right
(military officers in particular) was due to a deep-rooted fear of ‘the masses’
(la foule), engendered by the events following the 1870 Paris commune.9 The
ambiguity of the Young Turks’ view of the French Revolution echoes that of
the Positivists themselves. These rejected violent and revolutionary change
(as well as democracy), but advocated a secularism and rationalism that was
clearly rooted in the enlightenment and the ideals of the revolution. Their
rationalism was intimately linked to their scientism. After all, the essence of
positivism lies in its assumption that universal laws akin to the laws of sci-
ence underlie the evolution of societies. The Unionists and later the Kemalists
clearly share this secularist, rationalist and scientist, but at the same time
authoritarian and elitist outlook. They were inspired by late nineteenth-
century thinkers, who regarded popular democracy as outmoded, but at the
same time their project was ultimately a social and political ‘grand design’,
which was based on rationalism, guided by universal truths, and involved
radical change – all things abhorred by true conservatives like Burke.
It is clear, therefore, that measured by the aforementioned criteria for
conservatism, the Unionists and Kemalists did not qualify. They did not
advocate an organic view of society, legitimized by tradition and religion.
They did not reject abstract reasoning or a mechanistic view of social
change. The policies of the period 1913–18 (i.e. ethnic cleansing and the
‘National Economy’ programme) and even more those of the 1920s and 30s
were inspired by utopian views on an ideal society of the future. Nor did the
Young Turks reject the social contract. Far from it. No better proof of the
indebtedness of the Kemalists to the French Revolution can be adduced than
the fundamental political principle enshrined in the Law on Fundamental
Organization of 1921: ‘sovereignty belongs unconditionally to the nation’
(hakimiyet bila kayd-ü şart milletindir). This idea was, after all, copied
directly from the French revolutionary Declaration of the Rights of Man
(Déclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen) of 1789.
The accusations levelled at the Progressive Republican Party

In the political debates and power struggles of the mid-1920s, out of which
the short-lived Progressive Republican Party (PRP) was born in November
1924, ‘conservatism’ as a philosophical concept played no role of importance.
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This should come as no surprise, as the debates were part of a struggle

within the Kemalist movement, which had been started by Unionists after
World War I and only gradually acquired an identity of its own.10 As we have
seen above, the Unionist-Kemalist current in Turkish politics, from which
the PRP emerged, was squarely in the tradition of the French Revolution
as well as in that of positivism. Those who can reasonably be regarded as
true conservatives in the Turkish context, the followers of Sabahattin and
the monarchists, had been all but excluded from the political debate years
before, with the nationalist victory in the war of independence in August
1922, the abolition of the sultanate in November 1922 and the changes
to the High Treason Law of April 1923. This is not to say that the anti-
modernist or anti-rationalist currents in European philosophy, the ideas of
people like Friederich Nietzsche or Henri Bergson, were entirely without
influence in Turkey, but their following consisted of small groups of intel-
lectuals without serious political influence.11
When the PRP emerged in November 1924, it was criticized, or rather
attacked, quite fiercely by Mustafa Kemal Pasha and his followers. Three
different accusations were levelled at the party.
The first argument was that it was not a real party with a real pro-
gramme, but in fact a creation of opportunistic generals and politicians
(Mustafa Kemal’s old comrades in arms in the independence war), who
were jealous of Kemal’s success and could not stomach the idea that they
had been sidelined while new (and often younger) followers of Kemal took
over the most influential positions after the conclusion of the war of inde-
pendence. Proponents of this argument charged that the PRP leaders, by
claiming that they had a right to be heard in post-war political decisions on
the basis of their earlier merits in the war of independence, were in breach
of the democratic order and were advocating junta-style government ‘just
like in China’.12 The Kemalists levelled this accusation against them in
particular at the time of the proclamation of the republic by the national
assembly in October 1923, a year before the establishment of the party.
By coincidence, most of the leading figures in the independence war, such
as Hüseyin Rauf, Refet, Dr Adnan, Kâzım Karabekir and Ali Fuat, were
in Istanbul at the time of the proclamation, but were not consulted on
the decision, only learning of it like the public at large, when they heard
cannons being fired in celebration. When they criticized the proclamation
decision, with the charge that it was not the name of the political system,
which was important, but instead its democratic content, their opponents
labelled them as disloyal and inspired by personal resentment.
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Mustafa Kemal echoed these sentiments in his Nutuk of October 1927.

There, he describes the establishment of the PRP as the outcome of a plot
hatched by ambitious generals in the summer of 1924. Generals like Kâzım
Karabekir, Ali Fuat, Refet and Cafer Tayyar had been awarded positions as
deputies in the National Assembly in the elections of 1923, but they did not
actually exercise their mandates, because they also held active command
positions in the army at the same time. According to Mustafa Kemal he
realized that he was faced with a plot when the generals first tried to win
over the army and then the representatives in the National Assembly and,
through friendly media, public opinion. He describes how he called the gen-
erals’ bluff by forcing them to choose between their military position and
their political role as representatives in the assembly. Faced with the choice,
they opted to leave the army and this was the first step on the road to the
establishment of an opposition party.13
The second argument used at the time was that the Progressives were not
honest conservatives but crypto-monarchists. Mustafa Kemal himself used
this line in his interview of 21 November 1924 with Maxwell Macartney
of The Times. There he said that he would have respected the opposition
if it had come out with an openly conservative programme, but that as it
was, its political programme was more or less identical with that of his own
Republican People’s Party (RPP), thus proving that the opposition was not
sincere. If this were really their programme, he charged, they could just
as well have stayed within the RPP. Instead, on the basis of what he knew
about especially Rauf Bey’s loyalty to the former caliph and his critical
stance towards the republic, he suspected them of being closet monarchists,
whose real aim was to restore the Ottoman family to the throne.14
The loyalty of the PRP leaders, particularly of Rauf Bey, to the Ottoman
family and to the caliphate is referred to in Mustafa Kemal’s Nutuk as well.
When he wrote it in 1927, Mustafa Kemal clearly intended the Nutuk to be
a vindication of the suppression of the PRP in 1925 and of the political trials
in the summer of 1926, during which the former PRP leaders were purged
and, in some cases, convicted. Depicting the PRP chiefs as closet monar-
chists with doubtful loyalty to the republic fit this storyline. As reported
by Kemal, Rauf had pleaded for a stronger position for the caliph as late as
4 August 1923, when he came to tender his resignation as prime minister,
thus implying that Rauf likely was a monarchist in 1924–5 as well.
The third accusation levelled against the opposition party was that the
PRP’s programme and stance encouraged religious reaction, irtica. This was
the main argument used by the Independence Tribunal, when it proposed
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to the cabinet on 5 May 1925 the closure of the PRP. The cabinet followed
the tribunal’s recommendations and on 3 June decided to close down the
party on the grounds that article 6 of its party programme, which advocated
respect for religious opinions and beliefs, could be used and in fact had
been used by party officials to gain the support of reactionaries and to sub-
vert the existing political order. The term ‘religious reaction’ (irtica) specifi-
cally refers to the overthrow of the secular republican order established in
1923–4. In the context of the spring of 1925 it was used to link the PRP to
the Kurdish and fundamentalist insurrection of Sheykh Sait of Palu, which
had broken out in February 1925 and was suppressed by the army a month
later. The restoration of Islamic law and of the caliphate had been among
the demands of the rebels.
The political framework erected for the repression of the rebellion was
also utilized for closing down the PRP and suppressing its supporters. First,
on 25 February, martial law was declared in 14 Eastern provinces and the
1920 High Treason Law (already changed in 1923) was amended to include
the political use of religion as a treasonable offence. Then, roughly a week
later, the Law on the Maintenance of Order was passed, which gave the
executive almost unlimited powers for a period of two years, and established
two Independence Tribunals – one for the East, in Diyarbakır and one for
the rest of the country, in Ankara. It was the Diyarbakır Independence
Tribunal, which first acted against the PRP, closing down all its branch
offices in the East, even though there was no evidence of collaboration
of the party branches with the rebels. While the PRP had supported the
25 February measures in a show of national solidarity, it opposed the 4
March measures, but not because it was in sympathy with the fundamen-
talist uprising. The PRP’s argument against the passing of the Law on the
Maintenance of Order was that it was dangerously elastic and that it was
not necessary to take repressive measures throughout the country as the
Sheykh Sait rebellion was first and foremost a Kurdish movement, which
was unlikely to spread beyond the areas with a Kurdish majority.
As for the conservative credentials of the PRP, monarchism and respect
for religion certainly would be typical characteristics of a conservative polit-
ical movement in a European context. But in the Turkish political climate
of the 1920s and 30s favouring restoration of the monarchy and aiding and
abetting politics based on religious feeling rendered PRP members danger-
ous reactionaries, rather than legitimate conservatives. When Recep Peker,
the powerful general secretary of the RPP gave his ‘Lessons on the reforms’
(İnkılâp Dersleri) in Ankara’s law faculty in 1934–5, he accused conservative
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parties of harbouring reactionary elements (‘In truth the worst reactionar-

ies hide within an outward appearance, which pleases those who are not
wide awake’). While he recognized the merits of the British Conservatives,
he also stated: ‘In new born countries, which have started out on reform,
it is necessary to be very watchful of parties that hide their identity under
the mask of moderates or conservatives and commit the worst reactionary
acts.’15 Although his statements were made a decade after the closure of the
PRP, they seem to be characteristic of the thinking of Ankara’s hard-line
Kemalists in both periods.
The party manifesto and the political programme

The only way to discern whether these different accusations against the PRP
hold water is to look at the PRP’s manifesto and the political programme
published in November 1924. Together with the speeches and voting pat-
terns of its representatives in the National Assembly, these give the clearest
picture of the party’s political stance. So let us now look at the political
statements of the PRP to see whether these four charges laid at the door of
the Progressives are sustainable.
The charge that the PRP founders were motivated by resentment is
not entirely without foundation. They saw themselves as the men, who,
together with Mustafa Kemal, had started and led the national resistance
movement. They had already had difficulty accepting that relative latecom-
ers to the struggle such as İsmet and Fevzi [Çakmak] had become Mustafa
Kemal’s most trusted aides during the struggle. The fact that they were
sidelined even more after the Peace of Lausanne, was still harder to swal-
low. Nevertheless, the PRP’s detailed programme and its manifesto with a
clear and closely argued philosophical and political message seem to mili-
tate against the idea that it was personal pique alone that motivated its
founders. Furthermore, as we shall see, in spite of what Mustafa Kemal
said, there were clear differences between the PRP programme and his own
‘Nine Principles’ in April 1923.16
Do we find indications of monarchism and religious reaction in the
manifesto and the programme? Let us first look at the manifesto. It starts
off with a long paragraph, describing how all sovereignty resides in the
nation on principle, but how the exercise of this sovereignty needs to be
delegated for practical reasons to representative organs. It argues the case
for a separation of powers along the lines of the classic ‘trias politica’ and
then goes on to defend the multi-party system. In these respects it is a
classical, liberal political treatise. The manifesto makes reference to the
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political realities in Turkey as well. The authors state that the nation ‘dis-
plays the necessary maturity to steer its own destiny’, thus refuting the
idea (proposed by Mustafa Kemal in his speeches in Trabzon and Samsun
in September)17 that the country was not ripe for political competition.
Gradual change, rather than ‘exposing the country to shocks’ is what the
PRP appears to have had in mind. Emphasis is put on the principle of indi-
vidual liberty (described as a ‘social necessity’) and on protection of the
individual from arbitrary rule.
The liberal and moderate, but in no sense reactionary, tone of the mani-
festo is repeated in the programme. The party reaffirms that Turkey is a
republic based on the sovereignty of the people; that liberalism and democ-
racy form the basis for the party’s actions; and that it supports general and
individual freedoms. The programme also advocates a reduction in the role
of the state, and in a clear reference to the RPP’s actions of 1923–4, it states
(in article 5) that the constitution will not be changed without a clear man-
date from the people.
Article 6 is the famous article, which was used by the Independence
Tribunal to argue that the PRP fostered religious reaction. Literally, it runs:
‘The party respects religious beliefs and convictions.’ Hüseyin Rauf Bey
argued at the time that this article was an expression of true secularism (as
it speaks of beliefs in the plural) at a time when Islam was still the official
state religion. If so, it clearly reflects a different concept of secularism from
that used by the Kemalists at the time, which was based on control over
rather than respect for religion.
As in the manifesto, so in the programme, too, the separation of executive
from legislative and judicial powers received great emphasis. In the chapter
on internal affairs, local democracy (with elected officials on all levels) and
decentralization were the main themes. The liberal tendencies of the party
could also be seen in the articles (17, 18 and 22) that called for an investigation
into the working of the bureaucracy, with a view to simplifying its procedures.
Neutrality of the state apparatus was sought through a prohibition of mem-
bership of political parties for civil servants and soldiers (article 13).
The PRP programme thus was different both from the Nine Principles
and from the praxis of the Kemalist majority in important ways: decentral-
ism and separation of powers; individual liberty and a desire for a smaller,
depoliticized state against centralism; concentration of powers; and a ten-
dency to strengthen and politicize the state. At the same time, its philosophi-
cal basis clearly was to be found in liberalism, not conservatism and there
are no traces of monarchism or religious reaction anywhere.
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The conclusion has to be that the PRP was not an entirely opportunistic
venture, even though personal resentment played a role; that it was not in
any way a reactionary or fundamentalist movement; but neither was the
party conservative in its philosophy. It saw political legitimacy very much in
a ‘contractual or semi-contractual agreement’ of the rulers with the people,
not in ‘established usage’.18
Instead, it can be characterized as a party with a moderate programme
in the late nineteenth-century liberal and secular tradition. In this, the
Progressives were out of tune with the political developments and the atmos-
phere in the Ankara of the mid-1920s. Their behaviour as well as the texts
of the manifesto and the programme makes it clear that their basic assump-
tion was that, after the decade of war (1912–22) and the radical changes of
1923–4, the time had now come for a return to normality, with room for
political debate and respect for personal liberties. Their manifesto stated
that the nation, having attained its independence, had now entered a new
era and reached a stage of maturity, in which it would be able to steer its
own destiny. In this they were clearly at odds with the hard-line Kemalists,
who felt that the country was in the midst of a ‘social and cultural revo-
lution’, the success of which, the Kemalists believed, could be threatened
by allowing political dissent or a separation of powers. We can therefore
agree with Frederick Frey’s characterization of the PRP as ‘post-independ-
ence conservatives’.19 As Frey explains in his general theory on élite politics,
after a struggle for independence, there is often a split in the movement,
which had before been held together by the desire to maintain or regain
independence. One wing of the movement, which Frey labels the ‘ardent
nationalists’, wants to use its new status to embark on far-reaching social
and cultural reform, which must make the hard-won independence unas-
sailable in future. To push through this reform programme in the absence of
a broad national consensus, these ardent nationalists need to increase and
concentrate state power. Opposing the ‘ardent nationalists’ are the ‘post-
independence conservatives’, who see the achievement of independence as
the fulfilment of their ambitions and reject further radical social and cul-
tural change. They see in further upheaval the danger of losing the hard-
won gains of the independence struggle and favour evolutionary rather than
revolutionary change. They also reject the authoritarian use of concentrated
power for a reform programme, which they see as tantamount to the estab-
lishment of a dictatorship.
Although clearly inspired by the Turkish case, Frey’s model is not
tailor-made for Turkey alone. Examples abound in the post-World War II
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decolonization process (from Indonesia to Algeria and Zimbabwe), but for

the Middle East it is perhaps most useful to point to the post-independence
regimes in the Arab World (Egypt, Syria, Iraq). These representatives of the
last phase of what Albert Hourani has called ‘the liberal age’ fit the descrip-
tion to a large extent, but within a few years these regimes were toppled
by ‘Arab socialist’ military officers with a radical reformist agenda, who
established authoritarian regimes and increased and concentrated the state’s
power. Although there are many differences between the process in the Arab
world and that in Turkey, the almost universal rule that post-independence
conservatives lose out to the radicals seems to apply.
While the description ‘post-independence conservatives’ seems to fit the
PRP perfectly, we should bear in mind what ‘conservative’ means in this
context. It is a term denoting the moderate wing of the independence move-
ment, consisting of advocates of evolutionary change and democracy. It has
nothing to do with the political philosophy of conservatism as it had been
developed in nineteenth-century Europe. As the party’s leaders themselves
acknowledged, their European example was the French Radical Party of
Edouard Herriot 20 and not any of the conservative or religious-conservative
political movements of the day.
This was also (belatedly) recognized by İsmet Inönü, who was directly
responsible for the suppression of the PRP in 1925. He later seems to have
come round to the view that the party represented an acceptable form of
moderate politics within the progressive reformist camp. In 1963 he stated
in his article ‘Siyasî hayatımın 40. yılı ve CHP’ that the PRP had been consid-
ered an expression of a ‘conservative mentality’ (muhafazakâr bir zihniyet)
at the time, but that the party had never described itself as conservative and
that its leaders were in fact ‘progressive and reformist people’ (ileri fikirli ve
ıslahatçı insanlar).21 They were.
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18. Institution Building in the Kemalist
Republic Compared with Pahlevi Iran:
The People’s Party*
Imperial heritage
In spite of the striking ideological and programmatic similarities between
the regimes of Atatürk and Reza Shah in the 1920s and 1930s, their short-
term successes and long-term legacies have been very different. This is
undoubtedly caused in part by the very different degrees to which the two
leaders were able to institutionalize their personal authoritarian rule and to
transfer authority to collective bodies that were able to survive the death,
or in the Iranian case, deposition, of the founding father. When discussing
the issue of institutionalization in Iran and Turkey, one has to distinguish
carefully between state building on the one hand and the underpinning of a
particular kind of regime and policies on the other. In terms of state build-
ing and the degree to which the characteristics of the modern centralized
state had been established, there was a world of difference between the late
Ottoman Empire and Qajar Iran. While it is undoubtedly true that there
was an old tradition of a state in Iran and a widely shared consciousness of
belonging to the realm of the Shah, the indispensable attributes of a mod-
ern state, such as efficient taxation, a bureaucratic administration by sala-
ried officials with clear divisions of power and a distinct hierarchy, military
conscription and a census enabling both conscription and taxation were all
practically non-existent. In the Ottoman Empire, on the other hand, all of
these attributes had gradually been developing during a century of reforms,
which preceded the coming to power of Mustafa Kemal Pasha.
When looked at from an Ottoman perspective, therefore, the task that
faced Reza Khan and his accomplishments resemble those of the reforming
Sultan Mahmut II (1808–39) as much as they do Atatürk’s. Certainly in his
early years his main accomplishments were the building of a unified army
and of a degree of centralized control, which contrasted sharply with condi-
tions in the late Qajar Empire, where the ruler had very little effective power
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Institution Building in the Kemalist Republic Compared with Pahlevi Iran
outside his own capital. Mustafa Kemal Pasha, on the other hand, could
build on a century of achievement in this field. To take just one example:
where Reza Khan’s main effort in the 1920s was to build a national army
out of such disparate elements as the Cossack corps, tribal forces and the
Gendarmerie, and then to introduce modern conscription (as opposed to
the traditional bunichah system),1 the Ottoman Empire had had military
conscription and a unified army since 1844.
Despite the importance of this Ottoman heritage, the Kemalist republic
itself had powerful incentives for emphasizing the differences between itself
and the empire. First, Mustafa Kemal gradually emerged as the undisputed
leader of the post-World War I national resistance movement, a movement
that had been started by the leadership of the Committee of Union and
Progress (CUP), to which he himself had also belonged, but in whose circles
he had played only a minor role. Depicting himself as a deus ex machina
who created the new Turkey out of nothing, without any reference to the
Young Turk heritage, was an important weapon in his elimination of politi-
cal competitors.2 Second, as Mustafa Kemal himself remarked at the time,
the essential novelty of Kemalist Turkey, and its rejection of the Ottoman
past, bolstered Turkey’s prestige in Europe. European public opinion had
had very little confidence in Ottoman readiness to reform, but Mustafa
Kemal’s radically new departure gave him a considerable amount of cred-
ibility in their eyes.
The essential novelty of the Kemalist republic and its clean break with
the Ottoman past was the theme, not only of Kemalist historiography itself,
but also of dozens of books published in the West from the 1920s onwards,
most of which contrasted the decay of the ‘old Turkey’ and the dynamism
and youthful vigour of the ‘new’. 3 From the 1950s onwards (a period and the
partial dismantling of the Kemalist state), a different approach has become
influential, one associated with political scientist Tarık Zafer Tunaya and
sociologists Niyazi Berkes and Şerif Mardin in Turkey, and with Bernard
Lewis and Stanford Shaw in the West. This school, if we can call it that,
acknowledges the debt of the republic to its immediate predecessors, the
Tanzimat reformers of the nineteenth century, and particularly the Young
Turks of the second constitutional period (1908–18), characterized by
Tunaya as the ‘laboratory of the republic’.4
Both schools, the traditional Kemalist and the ‘revisionist’ one, have
tended to concentrate on questions of policy and ideology – primarily
the issues of modernization and national identity. Interesting and compli-
cated though these are, I would like instead to focus on the question of
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institutional links between empire and republic. Here a picture of almost

total continuity emerges. This is true first of all of the army. The success of
the nationalist movement in Anatolia was ultimately based on the strength
of the remains of the Ottoman army. Although by the end of World
War I in October 1918, the army had an effective strength of only some
100,0005 (down from a peak of around 800,000 in 1916) and was plagued
by war weariness and high levels of desertion, it is nevertheless true that
it remained intact as an organized, indeed a disciplined, body. It did not
disintegrate, nor was there a tendency for leading officers of the regular
army to establish themselves as warlords. As Rustow has shown, the main
body of officers, those who were now in their thirties and forties, who had
been educated in the Western-style military schools and academy and had
gained experience and rapid promotion during the years of the Balkan War
(1912–13) and the World War (1914–18), supported the national struggle.6
Once the top officers like Kâzım Karabekir and Ali Fuat accepted Mustafa
Kemal’s leadership (even after he had been sacked by the Sultan’s govern-
ment) they were in a position to carry out his strategy, because the chain
of command remained intact. The army of the national movement contin-
ued largely without change under the republic. Until Turkey’s entry into
NATO in 1952 its doctrines and organization remained much the same,
and as late as the 1960s it was still commanded by officers who were the
product of the Ottoman Military Academy and had gained their first com-
mand experience in World War I (officers like republican presidents Cemal
Gürsel and Cevdet Sunay, and the founder of the Justice Party, Ragıp
Gümüşpala).
When we turn to the civilian bureaucracy we see almost the same pic-
ture. The nationalists early on in the independence struggle weeded out
members of the provincial bureaucracy (viz. political appointees like provin-
cial and district governors), who were considered unreliable because of their
links to the Istanbul government. Lower levels of provincial administration,
though, remained intact. As for the field of finance, the republic inher-
ited two separate bureaucratic structures from the empire: the Ministry of
Finance and the administration of the Ottoman public debt, with the latter
of the two terminated in 1925.
The means of reproducing these bureaucratic branches also remained
virtually unchanged, with the great schools of the empire, which had turned
out the officers and civil servants of the Tanzimat, Hamidian and Young Turk
eras, continuing to fulfil the same function under the republic. Institutions
like the Military Academy, the General Staff College and the Civil Service
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Academy (Mülkiye) continued to provide the state with its governors, diplo-
mats and administrators. In time, these institutions came to serve as centres
of Kemalist indoctrination.
As for the composition of the Kemalist bureaucracy, there were no
wholesale purges after the nationalists’ victory. At the peace conference
of Lausanne in 1923, the Turks secured the right to ban 150 undesirable
Ottoman Muslims from the country. The number of 150 was completely
arbitrary and the names were only filled in (with some difficulty) more than
a year after the conclusion of peace. There were a number of army offic-
ers and bureaucrats among those banned, but obviously it concerned only
a very small number of people. The early years of the republic witnessed
political purges within the leadership (notably in the show trials of 1926),
but the attempts to purge the state apparatus were rather limited: Law 347
of 25 September 1923 prescribed the expulsion from the armed forces of
those officers who had stayed abroad or declined to serve in the ‘national
forces’, while Law 854 of 26 May 1925 did the same for civil servants. The
number of people affected seems to have been small, however, and two years
later, on 24 May 1928, the passing of Law 1289 gave those officers and
civil servants who felt they had been wrongfully sacked the opportunity to
appeal.7 The one major occasion when many civil servants left government
service had nothing to do with political purges: when the (then still very
small and extremely uncomfortable) town of Ankara was declared the per-
manent seat of government in October 1923 an important part of the staff
of the ministries in Istanbul declined to move with their departments to
Ankara.
The one branch of state bureaucracy that did undergo the greatest change
was undoubtedly the religious institution. The abolishing of the caliphate
and the simultaneous replacement of the office of the Şeyhülislam, the high-
est religious authority, by a directorate under the prime minister; the pass-
ing of the law on the unification of education in 1924 and the introduction
of a European-style family law in 1926 all increased the power of the state,
with the role of the religious establishment contracting accordingly. The
reproduction of religious learning also was severely affected by the closure
of the medreses in 1924, a decline that would only become apparent in the
mid-1940s when the older Ottoman-educated generation started to fade.
Mustafa Kemal Pasha’s ability to push through these reforms almost without
opposition from the clergy is testimony to the degree to which the Ottoman
religious establishment had already been bureaucratized and brought under
state control in the Ottoman Empire.
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The People’s Party

If the Kemalist republic was the receiver of such a rich institutional inherit-
ance from the empire, what were the Kemalists’ own particular contribu-
tions to the institutions of the republic? In other words: if the building of a
Kemalist state was no longer a priority, what instruments did the Kemalists
create for the institutionalization of their regime? Here, I think, the answer
can be quite unequivocal: that instrument was the party created by Mustafa
Kemal in 1923, the People’s Party (Halk Fırkası).
Mustafa Kemal announced his intention to transform the Defence of
Rights Group, the majority faction in the first National Assembly (1920–3),
into a political party on 6 December 1922. At the same time he announced
the new party’s name, Halk Fırkası, which was remarkable in two respects.
Fırka was the most commonly used term for political party at the time, but
the term had distinctly negative connotations. It recalled the bickering of
factions in the parliaments of the second constitutional period and lacked
the positive connotations associated with cemiyet (society), the word used
in the title of the Society for the Defence of the National Rights, in whose
name the independence war had been fought and whose president Mustafa
Kemal still was. Both in this context and in the earlier one of the CUP
(which was often called a cemiyet-i mukaddes or ‘holy society’ by its mem-
bers, a term also used by Mustafa Kemal for the People’s Party in his speech
in Trabzon on 16 September 19248), ‘society’ seemed a more prestigious as
well as a more inclusive term than ‘party’. Had not the delegates to the con-
gress in Sivas (September 1919) sworn, each one of them, to work ‘free from
party strife’ (fırkacılık amal-inden münezzeh)?9
The fact that fırka was associated with party strife made the choice
of the other word in its name, halk, even more remarkable. As Tunçay
has pointed out,10 this term had gained currency in leftist circles, where
it meant the mass of the population (peasants and workers). In nation-
alist circles at the time the word millet was the word more commonly
used to denote the (Muslim) population as a whole. The name of the new
party therefore aroused the suspicion that it had leftist leanings and might
embrace the idea of class struggle. Mustafa Kemal was quick to dispel any
such thoughts, however. During his tour of the country in early 1923,
in particular during the extensive interviews and speeches he gave in
Eskişehir and Izmit on 15–17 January 1923, he emphatically stated that
large landowners and capitalists were so rare in Turkey that there was
no reason why improving the living standard of the peasants should be
at their expense. Industrial workers, he said, did not number more than
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20,000 in all of Turkey, so they could not form the basis of a political
party either. The new party would be a party for all sections of society,
preaching harmony and not class struggle.11 Still, the deliberate choice of
the word ‘halk’ indicates the desire on the part of Mustafa Kemal to depict
the new party as anti-elitist and working for the masses. In this sense, the
use of the term is reminiscent of its use by the Halka Doğru (Towards the
People) group, founded by Unionists in Izmir in 1917, a group that aimed
to spread the message of nationalism and modernism among the masses,
but was definitely not socialist.12
What Mustafa Kemal had in mind in founding the party was, on
the one hand, to create a disciplined and reliable majority in the second
National Assembly after the 1923 elections (discipline which had been
notably lacking in the first assembly), and on the other, to unite all ‘enlight-
ened’ elements in the country as a vanguard for the social and cultural
revolution he wanted to accomplish. Although Mustafa Kemal himself and
the party always claimed to represent the national will and to act in har-
mony with the wishes of the population at large, his campaign in the spring
of 1923 seems to have been aimed rather at uniting the enlightened élite
behind him.
The elections in the summer of 1923 took place before the official
founding of the new party, but a kind of rudimentary party programme, the
Nine Principles (Dokuz Umde) was published by Mustafa Kemal, and only
candidates who subscribed to them were given the support of the Defence
of Rights Group in the elections. The Nine Principles were a concoction of
very broad statements on issues like national sovereignty on the one hand,
and very specific proposals, designed to win the support of different social
groups, on the other.
After the elections, the newly elected members of the Defence of Rights
Group in the National Assembly (which comprised all but one of the depu-
ties), reconstituted themselves as the People’s Party (PP) on 9 August 1923.
Shortly afterwards, they formally declared that the PP was the only heir to
the Society for the Defence of the National Rights of Anatolia and Rumelia,
and that the PP had taken over all the Society’s assets. The local branches of
the Defence of Rights organization were not consulted on this move, but nei-
ther they nor those politicians who had been equally active in the national
resistance movement but who had not been included in Mustafa Kemal’s
slate for the elections, were in a position to protest. The spurious pedigree of
the new party was displayed in particular at the 1927 party congress, when
the PP leadership deemed the congress the ‘second’ PP congress; apparently,
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the first national conference of the resistance movement, that of Sivas back
in September 1919, had been its first!
It is no exaggeration to say that the creation of the PP was one in a
chain of events, through which Mustafa Kemal gradually established a
power monopoly in 1923–5. Other links in this chain are the change in the
High Treason Law in April 1923,13 the promulgation of the republic with
Mustafa Kemal as first president in October, the abolition of the caliphate
in March 1924, and the suppression of the liberal and socialist opposition
beginning in March 1925. From June 1925 onwards the PP was the only
legal party in Turkey, and within this single party, Mustafa Kemal Pasha’s
position was unassailable. The internal structure of the party, as described
by the statutes of 1927, gave him almost unlimited power: he was perma-
nent chairman of the party and he appointed the two other functionar-
ies, the vice-chairman and the secretary-general, who together with him
made up the party leadership. As party chairman, he alone was entitled to
name candidates for the National Assembly.14 Since the split in the party in
November 1924 (when Mustafa Kemal briefly allowed another party, the
Progressive Republican Party to stand alongside the PP) new disciplinary
measures were in force, which prevented individual deputies from venting
dissident opinions in the National Assembly. All debate was now limited to
the closed sessions of the parliamentary party. One could thus be excused
for thinking that, with complete control over the only legitimate political
party, Kemal would turn it into the main vehicle for enforcing Kemalist
policies.
But in March 1925 the parliamentary party agreed to give the govern-
· ·
ment (whose prime minister, Ismet Inönü was appointed by Mustafa Kemal
in his other capacity as president of the republic) dictatorial powers under
the Law on the Maintenance of Order (Takrir-i Sükûn Kanunu), which
remained in force for four years. During these years when the enactment of
all the most famous Westernizing and secularizing measures that together
constitute the Kemalist ‘revolution’ was done, the party, therefore, played
hardly any political role at all. One can therefore say that, having helped to
create a secure platform for the president to execute his policies, the party
had more or less served its purpose.
The party certainly did not function as an instrument for mass mobi-
lization on the pattern of the socialist or fascist parties that operated in
Europe during this era. In the first six years of its existence (1923–9) the
party publicly defended the policies of the government, but it made very
little effort to actually drum up support for these policies or to encourage
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grassroots activism. This picture changes from 1930 onwards when the PP
began to play a much more active role in these fields. It became much more
involved in education and propaganda, and it is certainly no coincidence
that the party school for orators was founded in 1931.
The changing role of the PP in the 1930s is directly linked to a change
in the nature of the Kemalist regime, which – I would contend – underwent
a transition from authoritarian to totalitarian rule, or at least an attempt
at it. From the early 1930s onwards, the PP government organized a drive
to eliminate all forms of civil society organizations that were not linked
to the party. The best-known examples of organizations that were closed
down were the Turkish Women’s Union, the Freemasons lodges, profes-
sional organizations such as the Teachers’ Union, the Reserve Officers
Society and the Society of Newspaper Journalists, and the cultural and
educational clubs of the Turkish Hearths (Türk Ocakları), which had sur-
vived from the Young Turk era and had been the main meeting place of
supporters of cultural Turkish (and Turkic) nationalism since 1912. Nor
were education institutions immune; Istanbul University was reformed
and purged as well.
These independent organizations were replaced with new ones that
were completely under party control: the women’s branch of the PP replaced
the Women’s Union and the People’s Houses (Halkevleri) were founded in
February 1932 as successor to the Turkish Hearths and took over the latter’s
assets, primarily its buildings. The People’s Houses soon became by far the
most significant vehicle for mobilization of the party.
The aims of the People’s Houses, as articulated by the party leadership
were to build national unity through the spread of culture and ideals, to
bring villagers and town dwellers closer together, and to explain the prin-
ciples of the PP to the masses. These aims would be fulfilled by activities in
nine different fields: language and literature; fine arts, theatre, sports, wel-
fare, educational courses, libraries and publications, village development,
and history. Membership was open to all. It was fully subsidized by the
PP and the board of each People’s House was appointed by the local party
leadership, except for that of Ankara which was appointed by the national
leadership. In the first few years after their inception in 1932, the number of
houses increased dramatically. In total, 478 People’s Houses were founded
and from 1940 onwards a total of 4,322 of a rudimentary version of these
Houses, called People’s Rooms (Halkodaları) operated in villages. The
People’s Houses and the People’s Rooms, well aware that over 80 per cent
of the population was illiterate, employed various means of communication
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to spread the message of Kemalist modernization, the most important of

which were lectures and speeches. Other forms of communication included
films, theatre productions, puppet shows, concerts, expositions and, in the
villages, oral instruction and wall posters. For those who were literate, the
People’s Houses also produced a large number of journals, the most impor-
tant of which was Ülkü (Ideal), the journal of the Ankara People’s House.15
It may be doubted, however, whether the People’s Houses really suc-
ceeded in their mission of propagating the Kemalist ideals among the
broader strata of the Turkish population. Contemporary accounts seem to
indicate that, in spite of all the high-minded ideals, the Houses to a large
extent remained a meeting place for intellectuals, teachers, professionals
and bureaucrats, and very few peasants or workers ever set foot in them.
The People’s Houses’ greatest success was probably in helping the Kemalists
build a dedicated middle class cadre in the towns that would support their
policies, rather than in gaining mass support for the reforms. Thus, while
the Houses may have helped create a corporate identity for an important
section of the ‘enlightened’ urban middle class, the efforts to encourage a
European lifestyle and culture and the Kemalists’ lack of interest in, and
respect for, expressions of traditional cultures may actually have created
resentment among the masses.
One contemporary traveller was Lilo Linke, whose Allah Dethroned:
A Journey through Modern Turkey, which appeared first in 1937, will fig-
ure prominently in the next chapter.16 She actually made a point of visiting
the People’s Houses and describes the Samsun Halk Evi in some detail.17
According to her account, one in 40 of Samsun’s inhabitants was a member.
At the time this would amount to about 800 people. ‘Those higher up the
social scale’ were ‘as good as obliged’ to take up membership. She copied the
week’s timetable of activities of the People’s House, which looked like this:
Monday: Women’s needlework class

Football club meeting
Drama group
Reading and writing class for adults
Free legal advice
Tuesday: Turkish history group
Choir practice
Party meeting
Bookbinding and handicrafts
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Wednesday: Committee meetings

Women’s dressmaking class
Chamber music class
Turkish language and art group
Thursday: Military band practice

Reading and writing class
Girl’s gymnasium group
Museum and exhibition committee
Friday: Orchestra practice

Free medical advice
Village group meeting
Saturday: Sports clubs

Foreign language classes
Sunday: Lectures, concerts, conferences.
Clearly a provincial centre like Samsun had a sizeable core of activists, who
devoted quite a bit of spare time to the spreading of Kemalist values. Linke’s
description of the activities of the House’s ‘village group’ that returned from
what was clearly a routine visit to a number of villages, also makes clear
why these activities may have created resentment in the countryside. The
group (consisting of a student, a dentist, a teacher and the owner of the car
in which they travelled) had given literacy classes and medical briefings,
but they had also carried out the registration of villagers for the census
and enforced the new law on family names. In the eyes of the villagers, the
People’s House delegation must have looked like just another bunch of state
officials making incomprehensible demands.
More than anything else, the development of the People’s Houses marks
the transformation of the People’s Party from a fairly closed cadre party into
an instrument for control and mobilization. Three reasons can be discerned
for the PP’s changing role in the early 1930s. First, the world economic crisis
with its attendant dramatic fall in the price of agricultural products severely
affected Turkey from 1930 onwards. This in itself created a demand for a
more active and interventionist government policy.
Second, Mustafa Kemal’s short-lived experiment with a legitimate (but
tame) political opposition in 1930 (the Free Republican Party or Serbest
Cumhuriyet Fırkası) had revealed the widespread discontent in the country
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and the unpopularity of the PP. When the experiment threatened to run
out of control because of the enormous support shown for the opposition
party, it was quickly terminated. But for many in the PP, the popularity of
the Free Republican Party had come as a rude awakening. Together with a
particularly horrifying ritual murder of a junior officer (in Menemen near
Izmir on 23 December 1930), which raised the spectre of religious reac-
tion or irtica, this led to a realization within the PP that the party’s mes-
sage of social and cultural modernization had not yet gotten across to the
mass of the population. This meant that more effort had to be devoted to
education and propaganda and that democratization had to be postponed
indefinitely.
Third, the seeming inability of the Western democracies to deal with
the world economic crisis undermined their credibility as role models. The
Soviet Union and Fascist Italy seemed to deal with the crisis much more
effectively, with the former continuing its expansionist programme of
industrialization and the latter pursuing economic self-sufficiency.18 While
Italy’s economic programme ultimately would prove disastrous, this was
not so clear at the time. These authoritarian regimes, as well as Hitler’s
Germany after 1933, undeniably gained many admirers among the leading
cadres of the PP. Already in 1932 a group of prominent intellectuals with
PP connections had formed the ‘Kadro’ (Cadre) group, which advocated
a much more active role for the party in all sorts of social and cultural
spheres. Slightly later, in 1935, the very powerful secretary-general of the
party, Recep Peker, proposed that the party take charge of the country’s
administration. Peker’s inspiration was Nazi Germany rather than the
Soviet Union, as had been the case with the Kadro group.19 His recom-
mendations were rejected, as Atatürk preferred to put his trust in the state
apparatus of army and bureaucracy, but the fact that Turkey was officially
declared a one-party state a year later, with state and party functions being
merged on all levels, certainly owed a great deal to the authoritarian exam-
ples in Europe.
The transition of the PP from a fairly closed, elitist, political organi-
zation whose activities were confined almost completely to the National
Assembly, to one which attempted to monopolize cultural and social life in
an effort to spread Kemalist values to the masses is symbolized by the cel-
ebrations of the tenth anniversary of the republic in 1933. Whereas before
that date, Mustafa Kemal Pasha usually addressed party caucuses at indoor
venues (even for such a momentous occasion as his famous six-day speech
of 1927), his speech of 1933 was held in an open-air stadium in Ankara,
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before a mass audience. The programme of the celebrations, with its parades
and gymnastics, clearly resembled similar occasions in Fascist Italy in its
imagery and choreography.
Comparing Turkey and Iran

When we compare this development to that in Iran, we see that the exam-
ples of Kemalist Turkey and of Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany became
increasingly important in Iran in the 1930s. There was a great deal of
similarity between the manner in which Reza Shah employed history and
linguistics in the service of nation building during the ‘Vahdat-e Milli’
campaign and the efforts of the Turkish History Society and the Turkish
Language Society. The suppression of the Azeri Turks and the discrimi-
nation against Assyrians and Armenians recall the anti-minority polem-
ics of PP stalwarts such as Mahmut Esat Bozkurt and Recep Peker. The
denial of a Kurdish identity after 1928 in Iran echoes that in Turkey after
1926. The influence of the Kemalist example seems to have grown after
the shah’s 1934 state visit to Turkey. Nevertheless, there were important
differences between the regimes. Where the PP became more important in
the early 1930s as an instrument for mobilization and control, the parties
that had been created by Reza Shah and his Minister of Court Taimurtash
to replace the ones banned in 1927, first the Iran-e Now (New Iran) party,
and then its successor, the Hezb-e Teraqqi (Progressive Party), although
probably modelled on the Kemalist example, never gained a life of their
own. The original aim of the Iran-e Now party was much the same as
that of the PP in Turkey: to ‘form a disciplined majority in parliament
and ensure that radical, reforming proposals could be passed into law’. 20
But these parties never gained anything like the organizational strength,
support or discipline of the PP. Reza Shah dissolved the Hezb-e Teraqqi in
1932. He seems to have relied on individuals who were totally dependent
on his whim and deeply mistrusted institutions and collective bodies, even
those created by himself. Mustafa Kemal, on the other hand, created a
party, which, although it was undoubtedly an instrument for authoritar-
ian and later even totalitarian policies, nevertheless formed the training
ground where the politicians of the post-war multi-party democracy could
learn their trade. It started out as an instrument for control of the National
Assembly, but from about 1930 onwards it also began to give a corporate
identity to an important section of the urban middle class that saw itself
as the ‘enlightened’ vanguard of a social and cultural revolution. Ervand
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Abrahamian sums it up nicely when he says:
Whereas Mustafa Kemal conscientiously channeled the enthusi-

astic backing of the intelligentsia into the Republican Party [obvi-
ously, the (Republican) People’s Party is meant here, EJZ], Reza
Shah gradually lost his initial civilian support, and, failing to secure
social foundations for his institutions, ruled without the assistance
of an organized political party.21
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19. Touring Anatolia at the End of the
Atatürk Era: Kemalist Turkey
Observed by Western Visitors*
In the mid-1930s, two people who, after World War II would gain first-rate
reputations as scholars in the field of Ottoman studies, decided to travel the
length and breadth of Turkey (or as much of it as they could). Their names
were Robert Anhegger and Andreas Tietze.
A brief summary of their biographical details may be useful for those
who are not intimately familiar with the field of Turkology. Robert Anhegger
was born in Vienna in 1911, the son of a German trader. After World War I
(much of which he spent in Switzerland), Anhegger moved with his parents
to Rotterdam. In 1923 the family moved to Zürich. In Zürich, Anhegger
began to study Law, History and Literature at the university, before mov-
ing to Vienna in 1932. There he continued his studies, this time in the field
of Economic History, Slavonic studies and Islamic studies. He also started
to learn Turkish. It was during his studies in Vienna that he befriended
Andreas Tietze. They not only shared scholarly interests, but also a passion
for left-wing politics. Anhegger made his first trip to Turkey in 1935. In
1939 he received his Ph.D. degree at the University of Zürich and in 1940 he
moved (and as it turned out emigrated) to Istanbul. He had several motives
for doing so: quite apart from his scholarly interest in Turkey, his back-
ground in the Communist movement and the fact that he at that time shared
his life with Sura Lisier, a Jewish woman, made him feel unsafe so close to
Germany. In Istanbul he worked at the German Archeological Institute until
he was dismissed in 1942 for refusing to join up when called to serve in the
German army. After his dismissal he worked as a teacher of German lan-
guage and literature in a number of places, notably Istanbul University. As a
German with intimate knowledge of Turkey, who was untainted by any Nazi
connections, Anhegger from the early 1950s onwards became the lynchpin
of German cultural activities in Istanbul, culminating in his directorship
of the Goethe Institute from 1961 to 1968. In 1958 Anhegger married the
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Turkish architect Muallâ Eyüboğlu, the sister of the painter Bedri Rahmi.
His connections with modern Turkish painters led him to found the first
private art gallery in Istanbul in 1957. He later became director of the
Goethe Institute in Amsterdam, living alternately in this Dutch city and in
Jerusalem. Anhegger died in 2001 in Amsterdam.
Andreas Tietze was born into a Jewish Austrian family in Vienna in
1914. He studied in Vienna and Paris from 1932 to 1937, after which he
received his doctorate at the University of Vienna. In 1937 he moved to
Istanbul, both to continue his research and, obviously, to escape Nazi perse-
cution, which, as a Jew and Communist, he had every reason to fear. Tietze
stayed in Istanbul until 1949. In 1949 he was appointed as assistant profes-
sor of Turkish studies at the University of Illinois. After a second stay in
Istanbul in 1957–8, he moved to Los Angeles, where he had been appointed
at the University of California to teach Turkish and Ottoman language and
literature. Tietze, who by now had built a reputation as one of the lead-
ing Turkologists of his generation and as an inspiring teacher of the next,
eventually became head of department at UCLA, but in the mid-1970s he
decided to go back to Vienna as chair of Turkish studies at the university in
his native city. There he engaged in a few more fruitful decades of scholar-
ship, until he passed away in 2003.
Anhegger and Tietze undertook their travels in Anatolia in 1936–7.
Their 1936 trip lasted from 27 August to 24 September and took them
through Central Anatolia. The 1937 journey lasted from 5 September to
3 October and covered West- and Southwest-Anatolia. On both trips they
were accompanied by two lady friends, Anhegger’s partner Sura and a medi-
cal doctor called Erika, whose family name I have been unable to trace. This
last-named person is the author of all but a few pages of the travel diaries,
which describe the two journeys.
These diaries have come to us in the shape of two typescripts. The
first one, 80 pages long (on A-4 format, double-spaced), is entitled Unsere
Anatolienreise 27.8–24.9.1936. The second, 78 pages long, has the same
appearance and is entitled Die Zweite Anatolienreise 5.9–3.10.1937. A copy
of each of the typescripts was afterwards given to each of the travel com-
panions and Robert Anhegger allowed his to be copied and deposited in
the archives of the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam.
I have been unable to trace the whereabouts of the dozens of photographs,
which were taken during the trips.
Of course, much of what is being described in these diaries is trivial
or of interest to the travellers themselves only. Nevertheless, the text is
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Touring Anatolia at the End of the Atatürk Era
significant for students of twentieth-century Turkish history. After all, at

least two of the travellers were interested and well-qualified observers.
They knew the language and were well versed in Turkish, Ottoman and
pre-Ottoman history. Added to that is the comparative rarity of this type
of source. There is, of course, a sizeable literature on the ‘new Turkey’
in Western languages, consisting of books which appeared in the 1920s
and 30s when the Turkish ‘miracle’ was still fresh, but hardly any of these
books is based on actual first-hand observation in the countryside, outside
Istanbul and Ankara.
An exception to this rule is a book published in 1937 by Lilo Linke,
called Allah Dethroned. A Journey through Modern Turkey.1 Like Anhegger,
Linke was a German. She was born in Berlin in 1906 and worked as a
journalist and social worker. Because of her leftist and antimilitarist sym-
pathies, she had had to leave Germany after Hitler’s coming to power and
settled in London. Beginning her journey in 1935, she travelled north-
eastern Anatolia (with special permission from the Ministry of Defence)
and then central and Western Anatolia. Later, her focus shifted to Latin
America. She wrote a book and numerous articles about the Andes countries.
After World War II she became UNESCO’s consultant on Latin American
literature. As far as I have been able to make out, she never returned to
Turkey.
Linke came with the express intention to write a book on the changes
in Turkey. Hence, her manner of travelling and the way she put her experi-
ences in writing are very different from the Anhegger/Tietze diaries. For
one thing, she deliberately sought out officials and members of the govern-
ing Kemalist élite to get their views and describe their personalities. The
Anhegger/Tietze party, in contrast, had very little contact with these people
and depended on their own observations alone. Nevertheless, Linke trav-
elled the same country, and at least partly along the same routes, at almost
exactly the same time as Anhegger and Tietze. This, and the fact that she is
a sympathetic, but by no means naive, observer of the Kemalist experiment,
make it worth our while to compare the data from the Anhegger/Tietze
diaries with her findings.
Taken together, these texts afford us a chance to see what had been
the effect of the Kemalist modernization programme in the provincial
towns and villages of Turkey 12 to 14 years after the establishment of the
republic. When trying to measure this effect, it is perhaps useful to make a
distinction between the more ideologically inspired measures aimed at the
Westernization of Turkey – in other words, what Atatürk himself used to
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call ‘the social and cultural revolution’, and the nuts and bolts of moderni-
zation: trains, factories and hospitals. I therefore propose to treat the data
under the following headings: transport, changing townscapes, health and
hygiene, the Kemalist ‘revolution’, and state control.
Transport
The one thing uppermost in the mind of travellers, who depend on public
transport to get anywhere, obviously is the availability and quality of means
of transportation. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that the diaries
give us a great deal of information on the subject.
Basically, the party travelled by train wherever that was possible, if
only for the simple reason that on both trips they had a third class ticket
for one month’s unlimited travel (bought at 30 liras per person). Judging
by their account, the Turkish railway system, consisting of older foreign-
owned railways acquired by the republic and newly built extensions, worked
rather well. Trains were almost always full, certainly in third class, and most
of the time the trains ran on time. Women like Linke, travelling without
male companions could still avail themselves of ladies compartments (kadın
kompartımanı), although, obviously, these were of no use to the mixed
Anhegger/Tietze party. If travelling by train was relatively comfortable,
arriving by train created a few problems. This was because in every single
Anatolian provincial town the railway station was built at a considerable
distance from the town centre. This distance differed from 2 kilometres
in the case of Konya (on the old Ottoman line) to as much as 8 kilometres
in the case of Malatya.
Railway building had been a top priority among the modernization
projects of the Kemalist republic and both the Anhegger/Tietze party and
Lilo Linke visited the building site of the most important of the railway
projects, that of SIMERYOL (Sivas–Malatya–Erzurum), which aimed to
connect the northeast of the country with the rail network and to create a
third north–south connection by linking the Sivas–Erzurum line with the
Adana–Malatya–Diyarbakır one.
Where trains were unavailable, both the Anhegger/Tietze party and
Linke had to travel by road. In the west of the country this meant by bus.
The diaries contain lively descriptions of this mode of travel. The busses,
mostly American Fords or Chevrolets, were relatively fast. On good roads
they averaged up to 70 kilometres an hour. Sometimes they were fully
equipped with seats, while at other times the passengers had to sit on
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carpets, sheepskins and sacks as best they could. Even in the mid-1930s
some of routes were quite busy. In Denizli, the travellers saw buses from
Muğla, Tavas, Sarayköy, Çal, Uşak and Afyon roll into the han they were
staying in. For budget travellers the hans, with their open courtyards where
the busses could unload their passengers, were still the obvious places to
stay, hotels being more expensive and not always better. In the east of the
country, roughly east of the line Sivas–Kayseri–Adana, busses were rare.
Instead, people travelled by truck (kamyon). The descriptions of the trucks
in the diaries and those by Linke tally exactly with each other. Like the
busses, they were strongly built American Fords and Chevrolets. They were
privately owned and usually one owner would employ three or four drivers.
The trucks could accommodate up to 17 passengers. Luggage was stored
on the roof (if there was a roof) and partly on the floor. Passengers sat on
and in between the sacks and cases. The average speed of the trucks obvi-
ously depended on the state of repair of the road, but lay between 12 and
20 kilometres an hour.
The quality of the roads differed a great deal. In the east in particular
they were often very bad indeed and frequent punctures could add hours,
indeed days, to the journey. Efforts to improve the roads were underway, but
they were still limited to connections between the main towns. Improvements
in the road (which had been going on for many years) made it possible for
trucks to replace camels on the Iran–Erzurum–Trabzon route, for instance.
On the other hand, Alanya could not be reached by motor transport at all.
All goods of any size had to be brought in by ship.
Older forms of transport were still very much in evidence. Camel cara-
vans were becoming something of a rarity in east and central Anatolia, but
that may also have been due to the fact that there was very little long dis-
tance trade. In the southwest, the travellers come across them all the time.
Hardly anyone owned a private car and even the trains, busses and trucks
were too expensive for many. Those who could not afford this type of mod-
ern transport walked or rode a donkey. The diaries state that distances eve-
rywhere were still measured in the time it took to walk anywhere (donkeys
not being very much quicker).
Changing townscapes
To what extent was life changing in the provincial towns of Anatolia after
15 years of Kemalist rule? When answering this question, it is important to
make a distinction between the old towns and the new extensions. The old
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towns largely were in a very bad state of repair, sometimes even in ruins.
The traces of war and ethno-religious conflict between 1912 and 1922
were still much in evidence. A town like Kayseri was full of ruins, among
other things of churches, which had been shot to pieces. The town had
reputedly deteriorated much since the Greek and Armenian communities,
which had once made up one-third of the population, had been ‘destroyed’.
The travellers hear the same story in Niğde: the town has gone down since
the ‘slaughter’ of the Armenians. When Linke visits the Black Sea towns
of Samsun, İnebolu and Giresun, she is told that the economy (notably the
trade in hazelnuts and tobacco) has suffered badly because of the departure
of the Pontic Greeks, but that Turks have now filled their places and things
have improved. Along the railway from Eskişehir to Afyon-Karahisar and
İzmir, she sees lots of deserted and ruinous villages and both the diaries and
Linke describe how, 13 to 15 years after the great fire, the old Greek and
Armenian quarters of İzmir are in ruins, with the debris still being cleared.
Some building activity was going on but it was still very patchy.
Outside the old towns it was a different story. There the Kemalists
were creating a new Turkey according to their vision of modernity. Three
features seem to have been common to all new towns: First, a European-
type municipal park (belediye parkı), with flower beds, fountains and tea
gardens; second, a statue of the Gazi, the president of the republic; and
third, a cinema, which in most towns could still only show silent pictures.
Most or all of these features recur in the travellers’ descriptions of the
towns they visit, be it Konya, Adana, Ödemiş, Isparta, Amasya, Tarsus,
Sivas or Malatya.
In those towns which were linked to the rail network, development of
this type centred on the (often very long, see above) road linking the station
to the old town, which in every case developed into the central axis of the
new town. With the exception of Ankara and Adana, this road was also the
only one covered with cement or asphalt.
While one could argue that this type of innovation – parks, statues and
cinemas – was largely symbolic, serving at best to give the Kemalist élite an
opportunity to express a new lifestyle, more substantial improvements were
in evidence as well. A crucial element in the development of the country
was, of course, electrification. Turkey did not yet have a national grid – that
was an achievement of the 1950s and 60s – but a number of towns had local
electricity plants. While some towns had built their plants in the 1920s
(Malatya had electricity since 1928), electricity was a recent phenomenon
in most towns. Sivas, for instance, had electricity since 1934, but the cities
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to the east, Erzincan, Erzurum, Kars, still had none at the time of Linke and
the party’s travels. In areas where electricity was introduced, street lighting
soon followed. Provision of electricity to private houses often took much
longer. In the mid-1930s it was still a rarity outside Istanbul, Ankara, Izmir
and Adana. According to the travellers, Amasya acquired electric power
shortly before they arrived there in 1936, but there is no street lighting yet
and for the time being the power plant only supplies the local cinema.
There are other practical improvements too, but they are fairly small-
scale: a new covered market here, a new and hygienic abattoir there.
Sometimes a new primary school catches the eye of the travellers, always
with its own little school ‘museum’ where drawings (mostly of the Gazi) and
graphs about the development of Turkey are displayed.
Twice the Anhegger/Tietze party come across a major new industrializa-
tion project, which was clearly a result of the etatist policies, which had been
in place since the early 1930s. In Turhal they visit a new sugar factory. The
complex, which is quite separate from the old village, also contains houses
for the factory engineers and apartment blocks for the workers. The whole
complex is attractively laid out with gardens. A much larger complex of a
similar type is visited both by the Anhegger/Tietze party and by Linke. It is
a huge new cotton mill, which is being built outside Kayseri with the help
of Russian specialists. The complex has extensive sports facilities and living
quarters for the staff.
Health and hygiene

By the 1930s, the population of Anatolia was recovering fast from the blows
inflicted upon it by the ten years of incessant warfare, ethnic conflict, expul-
sions, persecutions, hunger and epidemic diseases between 1912 and 1922.
According to the 1935 census, the population of Turkey stood at 16.2 mil-
lion, with an annual net growth of 2.3 per cent – a marked increase when
compared with the estimated 13.5 million people who lived in the country
in 1927. That the population increased so sharply in the 1920s and 30s was
largely due to the disappearance of these Malthusian checks. A number of
persistent problems of health and hygiene remained, however.
The overwhelming impression one gets from reading the diaries is that
the provincial towns of Turkey before the war were still very dirty (much
more so, the travellers say, than the villages). The problem is not limited to
the ubiquitous dust. Again and again the travellers describe how the rooms
in the hans and hotels are infested with all manner of vermin: flees, lice and
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bedbugs, of which Tietze on one occasion catches over 300 in one night.
This in itself must have increased the risk of disease, in particular of typhus,
but the only disease which is described in the diaries as endemic and wide-
spread is malaria.
Combating malaria was the highest priority for the medical services of
the young republic. A law on the fight against the disease had been passed
in 1926. The campaign to eradicate it is described in detail by Linke, who
watched health inspectors and doctors at work in the Çukurova in 1935.
She describes how, after strong initial resistance, the government cam-
paigns were received much more positively by the village population. Large
areas were still infested with malaria, in particular: Izmit, Bursa-Balıkesir,
Manisa, Aydın, Eskişehir, Ankara, Konya, Antalya, Mersin and Adana, but,
as we know, the anti-malaria campaign would prove one of the most suc-
cessful centrally organized activities of the republic.
The Kemalist ‘revolution’

So far, we have discussed very concrete and tangible signs of development.
What about the effect of the famous Kemalist reforms of the mid- to late
1920s, what Kemal himself called his ‘social and cultural revolution’? What
about the change in dress, alphabet, clock in the countryside?
Actually, the diaries tell us relatively little about these aspects of the
Kemalist programme, and what they do tell us leaves a very mixed picture
of the degree of change. By and large, the population in the provincial towns
now dressed in the European style, but the forced changeover to a new style
of dress on the part of an impoverished population had apparently created
problems. The lack of good tailors meant that clothes were often ill fitting
and the novelty of the dress style meant that people wore combinations,
which looked very odd to a European eye. Also, people had to wear their
clothes for a very long time, as clothing was expensive. Turkey, although a
large cotton producer itself, was still dependent on imports of cloth at this
time. The total effect, as both the diaries and Linke confirm, was that the
town population looked poor and bedraggled. In the villages many people
still wore traditional clothes, but in the towns, traditional clothing had not
completely disappeared either: in Malatya many men still wore turbans.
The alphabet reform of 1928 meant that everywhere children were now
being taught to read and write in the new alphabet. It also meant that the
largest part of school libraries went unused, as the great majority, in fact
three quarters, of the books were still in Ottoman script. The Ottoman
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books in the library of the Halk Evi (People’s Home) visited by Linke had
even been consigned to the basement and could no longer be read. Adults
still continued to use the old script in private (as they would do until the
1970s) and even the policeman, who draws up a long report about the travel-
lers in Izmir, does so in Ottoman writing.
The diaries afford an interesting insight into both the achievements
and the limits of the alphabet revolution. On a visit to a small village near
Konya, the travellers note that the majority of the adult inhabitants are able
to read the new script, because a teacher was sent to the village during the
campaign to introduce the new alphabet. This means that these villagers can
collect out-of-date newspapers and get some idea of what is happening in
the world at large. At the same time, though, the village children grow up
illiterate because there is no village school.
As for changes in measuring time, the old method (dependent on the
numbers of hours of daylight) is still in universal use. When people use
the European clock (which had been adopted officially in Turkey in 1926
along with the Christian era) they always mention that they mean ‘alafranga’
time.
And what about secularization, that cornerstone of Kemalism? The state
made its position abundantly clear: the Anhegger/Tietze group notices that
in Tire, mosques are now being used as munitions depots. Linke meets with
many people, not all of them Kemalist officials, who seem to relish the fact
that the power of the clergy has been broken. She also says that she saw
hardly any person under 30 years of age perform the prayers. On the other
hand, a decade after the banning of the religious orders and the closure of
the saint’s tombs (türbe), the türbe she visits in Malatya is still being used as
a place of pilgrimage.
What is clear, is that the state had technology on its side in its efforts
to spread its message. The committees of the Halk Evleri (People’s Homes –
the cultural and educational centres of the ruling People’s Party) conducted
their tours of the countryside by car and the radio was becoming a part of
everyday life in the towns. Numbers of radio sets were still small (100 in
Samsun, and 30 in Malatya, a town of 27,000 inhabitants) but more often
than not listening to the radio would have been a communal affair.
State control
One aspect of modern states is that they make unprecedented claims on
their citizens and their resources. For these claims to be exerted, effective
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control over the length and breadth of the country is a precondition. As far
as we can tell from the diaries, Kemalist Turkey had been spectacularly suc-
cessful in this respect by the mid-1930s. The state and its representatives are
literally everywhere. This would have been very clear to Turkish citizens,
but for our travellers, the all-embracing control of the state manifested itself
primarily in the way it kept track of foreigners.
Foreigners not only needed a valid passport and visa to enter the coun-
try, but their movements within the country were also strictly controlled.
Upon arrival in any locality, they were required to have their residence per-
mits (ikamet tezkeresi) checked and registered. Before travelling to their
next destination, a permit for that specific place was required. And specific
meant precisely that: when the party visited Birgi, but only had a travel per-
mit for Ödemiş, nine kilometres away, they were immediately picked up on
their return to Ödemiş by two gendarmes and received a thorough dressing
down from the district governor. The gendarmerie, which was responsible
for law and order in the countryside, seems to have been especially zealous.
Gendarmes were everywhere and their posts were connected to the nearest
military exchange in the centre of the kaza. In a village near Aksaray, the
gendarmes insisted on registering the travellers although they stayed there for
less than an hour. In Kayseri they are registered three times, each time when
they change trains there. When their bus stops for 20 minutes in a village near
Aydın on their second trip, the gendarmerie post is immediately called and
the bus has to wait while they are being registered. The police in the towns
were much more friendly and polite towards foreigners than the gendarmes.
Indeed, they often defended and protected the foreigners, as in Amasya, where
the local police officer gave a stern warning to the owner of the hotel where
the party stayed, saying ‘Bu köylü değil, bu yabancı!’ (This isn’t a peasant,
but a foreigner!). Nevertheless, they took their task no less seriously for that.
When the travellers lose their way in Konya, they are immediately spotted by
police officers. They are then handed from karakol (police station) to karakol
until they are back safely in their hotel. In Aksaray, the police accompanied
the group to the restaurant where they ate and to the park where they had tea.
When they returned to their hotel, the same policeman was waiting for them
in their hotel room. When they leave for Nevşehir next morning, the police-
man is standing by the bus. In Tarsus they are followed by plain-clothes police
and then taken to the karakol.
Linke confirms the intensity of state control. In her case, the picture
is slightly distorted because she travelled to the northeast of the country,
which was a strategically sensitive area. She relates how the truck she is
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travelling in is halted at Ilıca, 16 kilometres to the west of Erzurum. There

all foreigners have to disembark and wait until the garrison in Erzurum has
been notified and an officer can come to collect them. Even in the company
of an officer she is then stopped twice more, once for a password and once
for passport control. Further to the east, she is confronted with a blanket
ban on photography in Kars. She is only allowed to travel from Kars to
Ardahan in the company of a military officer and once in Ardahan she is
forbidden to walk certain streets, to take excursions or to take pictures.
That this type of very tight police control was not limited to foreigners
is shown by the passage in the diaries, which describes how the bus from
Sivas to Divrik is stopped a number of times at successive police checkpoints
before finally clearing the town.
The degree of control over the countryside aimed at, and achieved, by
the modernizing state, was not the result of simple policing either. More than
once the travellers caught a glimpse of a grimmer reality too. At the train
station of Afyon-Karahisar, early into their second journey, they meet Kurds
who are being deported. They are dressed in rags and extremely dirty (‘much
more so than gypsies’). All they carry in the way of possessions is a wooden
trunk, which is opened by the police in order to find a letter from the minis-
try giving a list of names and the route they are to take. They are ‘loaded and
unloaded like cattle by the officials’. The party comes across a similar scene
once more, almost a fortnight later in Aydın. There, in the ruins of a mosque
which had been struck by lightning and burnt down the year before, they find
figures dressed in rags, who, their guides tell them, are the remains of a large
transport of Kurds from Dersim/Tunceli. They ‘are simply removed there and
distributed over the country. They are then dumped anywhere, without a roof
over their head or employment. They do not know a single word of Turkish’.
Linke’s travelogue also contains passages, which make clear that the
Kurdish problem was still on everybody’s minds, although the last large-
scale insurrections had been in 1925 and 1929–30. She is told in Malatya
that the new governor there ‘acted with great firmness’ against the ‘wild
Kurds’, hanging the ‘most reckless’ as an example. She also hears from an
incident in the adjoining province to the east, where a whole village was
destroyed on the orders of the army commander because two gendarmes
had been killed there. According to her source, ‘it worked wonders.’
Conclusion
Thus, the diaries, in combination with Linke’s book, give us a fairly
complicated picture of a country in the midst of change. Clearly, in the
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provincial towns of Turkey life was being affected by the Kemalist reform
programmes. Although people stuck to their old ways in private, and some-
times in public, the appearance of towns, and of the inhabitants, was trans-
formed. The Kemalists spent little effort at improving or restoring the old
town centres, but rather built a new Turkey of their own outside them.
While many of the changes were of a largely symbolic nature, the quality
of life was slowly improving too. Improved roads and railways, the coming
of radio and telephone and increasing literacy broadened people’s horizons,
at least in the towns. Electrification spread year by year. Effective cam-
paigns against endemic diseases like malaria and trachoma were increasing
life expectancy even in the villages. The state industries being developed
were beginning to give Turkey a measure of self-reliance in some sectors:
textiles, sugar, cement. In all of these fields, which together constitute the
tangible development of Turkey rather than its ideological reorientation
towards the West, the apparently drab İnönü years of the 1930s, rather
than the exiting ‘revolutionary’ phase of the mid-1920s, seem to have made
the difference. Underpinning this change was a state apparatus, which had
managed to establish full and effective control over the length and breadth
of the country to a degree the Ottoman reformers of the nineteenth century
could only dream.
Linke, more than the diaries, gives us a picture of the new Kemalist
élite, which was shaping the country at this time. She shows them to be opti-
mistic, dynamic, nationalistic and zealous, filled with a sense of hope and
pride. But she also refers to their utter disdain for the ‘backward’ population
in the countryside, which, in their eyes, ‘needs whipping’. At heart, though,
the diaries, and Linke’s travelogue, give us a glimpse of the country in tran-
sition as it was observed by well-intentioned and well-informed foreigners,
who went to see it for themselves, rather than rely on government sources or
second-hand information. Therein, rather than in any startling revelations,
lies their importance.
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20. Islam in the Service of the Caliphate and
the Secular State*
The importance of being secular

Both in political debates on the current state of affairs in Turkey and in the
historiography of the country, the dichotomy of religion and secularism is
without doubt the dominant paradigm within which analysis takes place.
Observers and commentators (both from within Turkey and from abroad)
are so preoccupied with the problem of secularism, or to be more exact: with
that of laicism, the separation of religion and state, that one’s position on the
issue has come to be seen as the yardstick whereby any prominent Turkish
public figure or intellectual should be judged. Author Orhan Pamuk pub-
lished his novel Benim Adım Kırmızı (‘My Name is Red’) to such a degree of
worldwide critical acclaim that he is now a Nobel laureate, but the debate on
this and subsequent novels of the author in Turkey itself was more about his
stance on Islam and Westernization than on the literary merits of his work.
The candidature of former Islamist Abdullah Gül for the presidency of the
republic and in particularly the fact that, if he were to become president, the
first lady would be a woman wearing an Islamic headscarf (türban) in public
caused an uproar. Militant Kemalists in Turkey, led by the army top brass,
hinted darkly that Turkey’s secular order was in mortal danger, and declared
his candidacy unconstitutional. The campaign for the parliamentary elec-
tions that were called to resolve this presidential crisis had as its main issue
the threat or otherwise to the secular order and the army’s right to interfere
in politics to defend that order. The elections ended in a landslide victory for
the AKP and Gül was duly elected president by the new assembly.
Historical figures, too, are judged on their stance in the debate on sec-
ularism as much as contemporary ones. Indeed, the contemporary debate
on secularism is often structured around historical events and figures
from the past: For a long time Prime Minister Adnan Menderes, executed
by the military in 1961, was hated by Kemalists as the man who allowed
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Islam ‘back in’, but in the 1980s, Izmir international airport was officially
named Adnan Menderes Airport, by people who regarded him as the sec-
ond great architect of modern Turkey (after Atatürk) and who wanted to
make a point about their own political stance. The reappraisal of the once
despised ‘tyrant’ Sultan Abdülhamit II by Islamists (who, in this, tend to
follow the lead established by right wing Nakshibendi poet/publicist Necip
Fazıl Kısakürek in the 1940s and 50s) is as much an illustration of this phe-
nomenon as is the constant reference to figures like Dervish Vahdeti and
Kubilay by hardcore Kemalists. The former was an Islamist firebrand, who
as one of the leaders of the ‘Muhammedan Union’ (Ittihad-i Muhammadi)
and editor of the paper Volkan in 1908–9 constantly called for the restora-
tion of religious law. He was accused of instigating the 1909 counterrevolu-
tion against the ‘secular’ Young Turks in Istanbul, and convicted and hanged
once the Young Turks had regained control of the capital. The latter was the
young teacher and reserve officer, who confronted a group of radical young
mystics that came to the Aegean town of Menemen in 1930 and announced
that they were the advance guard of an army of Islam that would bring
down the ‘infidel’ republic. Kubilay paid for his courage with his life when
his head was sawn off while the populace of Menemen watched in silence.
Both of these figures, like Menderes and Abdülhamit, thus serve as markers
of the boundary between secularism and (political) Islam in contemporary
Kemalist discourse.
The other issue, which has dominated the public debate in – and on –
Turkey in recent years, is that of Turkey’s possible accession to the European
Union (EU). In this debate, too, the question whether Turkey is ‘truly secular’
is constantly raised and the credentials in this field of leading politicians and
other public figures are scrutinized. There is nothing on religion or secularism
in the official criteria (the so-called ‘Copenhagen criteria’) that have to be met
by candidate countries; indeed, the issue of religion was never raised in the
negotiations with the ten countries that acceded in 2004. In the Turkish case,
however, it is raised in the context of concern about the depth and irreversibil-
ity of Turkey’s secular (laik) order. European fears over the stability of Turkey’s
secular order arose following the 1978–9 revolution in Iran, with governments
in the West becoming gravely concerned that Turkey would go the same way.
These governments tended to side with the classic Kemalist interpretation of
secularism as a protective shield against ‘Islamic reaction’ (irtica). This tendency
was strengthened when political Islam was identified as the main threat to the
West after the end of the Cold War in the early 1990s and, of course, became
even more prominent after the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington
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Islam in the Service of the Caliphate and the Secular State
of 11 September 2001. Fear of a reversal of the Kemalist laicist order is a con-

stant element in the debate on Turkey’s accession to the EU. Does Europe risk
the entry of a Trojan horse from that animal’s country of origin?
Ironically it has been Europe, which regards itself as secular (although
in fact secularism in Europe has never been absolute and in every single
European country formal links between state and religion can be demon-
strated) that has introduced the religious factor into the membership nego-
tiations. European concerns over Turkish secularism then feed, of course,
into the already existing debate on the issue in Turkey, a debate that is exac-
erbated by the numerous inconsistencies in the European position that stem
from fundamentally different views on the nature of secularism.
Side by side with this concern about an Islamic revival, an increasingly
fierce critique of the Kemalist interpretation of secularism is also part of the
debate both within and outside of Turkey. The dominant Christian-Democrat
current in Europe in particular tends to see it as intolerant and unnecessarily
restrictive of religious, and religiously inspired, political practice. In taking
up this position (which was endorsed by the European Parliament in May
2003), these Europeans seem to side with the interpretation of secularism
put forward by Turkish rightwing politicians from Menderes via Demirel
and Özal to Erdoğan; an interpretation that sees secularism as an order pro-
tecting freedom of conscience and religion, and makes a distinction between
a lay public arena and religiously inspired individuals who should be allowed
to function in it and express their religiosity.
There can thus be little doubt that the nature of the relationship between
state and religion in Turkey is an important one, but is also an issue on which
misconceptions are widespread. Rather than trying to categorize actors
along strict and somewhat artificial lines of secular versus Islamist, it is per-
haps enlightening to look at the specific policies of successive late Ottoman
and Republican Turkish regimes to get a better picture of the position they
have taken with regard to the relationship between state and Islam, and the
relationship between nationalism and religion. In this chapter I intend to
look in particular at four instances where the state faced acute challenges
to its authority and even survival: Sultan Abdülhamit’s use of religion to
ward of the threats of nationalism and imperialism; the Young Turks’ mobi-
lization of Ottoman Muslims against the perceived threat of the Christian
minorities; the use of religion by the Turkish nationalists in their struggle
against the occupying forces after World War I; and, finally, the attempt of
the military rulers of 1980–3 to merge religion and Kemalist nationalism in
an effort to break the hold of both socialism and fundamentalism over the
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Turkish youth. The article is based on a critical reading of the recent mono-
graphic literature on the topic (by authors like Deringil, Toprak, Georgeon,
Karpat, Yavuz, Poulton, Seufert, Bora, Davison, Fortna and others).1
Abdülhamit II and his new moral order

It is now generally recognized that the long reign of Abdülhamit II (1876–
1909) in many ways laid the foundations of what became modern Turkey.
This is true in the fields of education, administration (with the expansion
of the state bureaucracy and the extension of state control), and communi-
cations (telegraph and railways). It can be argued that it is also true where
the management of religion is concerned. Abdülhamit was faced first and
foremost with the necessity to rebuild a state and society shattered by the
disastrous war against Russia of 1877–8. This war, caused ultimately by
separatist Serbian and Bulgarian nationalism, had resulted in huge losses
of land and income and a very serious refugee problem, as well as a loss of
prestige and credibility for the Ottoman ruler. Having lost all confidence in
·
solutions based on a ‘Unity of the (Ethnic) Elements’ (Ittihad-i Anasır) – the
remedy that had been so close to the heart of the Young Ottoman con-
stitutionalists, Abdülhamit started an ideological counteroffensive, which
Poulton has likened to Bismarck’s Kulturkampf.2 The policy had two fun-
damental aims. One was to create a new basis for solidarity and national
unity. The losses of 1878 had decreased the percentage of Christians in the
population from 40 to 20 per cent, so it made sense to ground this new basis
of solidarity in the shared religious heritage of the Muslim majority. This
way, not only could the millions of refugees from the Crimea, the Caucasus
and the Balkans, who had been forced to flee their homes because they were
Muslims, be integrated more easily on the basis of Muslim solidarity, but the
embryonic national movements among the non-Turkish Muslim communi-
ties (Albanians, Arabs and Kurds) could also be countered. The other aim
of Abdülhamit’s policies was to increase his authority and affect a degree of
bonding with the population by sacralizing the institution of the monarchy.
In order to increase solidarity and unity on the basis of Islam, a single,
standardized and controlled form of ‘national’ or Ottoman Islam had to
be promoted, a process dubbed by Deringil as the ‘Ottomanization of the
şeriat’.3 The Hanefi school, which had always been the preferred mezhep
of the Ottomans, increasingly became the sole recognized authority, even
in Arab provinces where the Shafii school had traditionally predominated.
The Hanefi interpretation of the religious law was ultimately codified in
Ahmed Cevdet Pasha’s monumental Mecelle, which meant that local judges
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and muftis to a large degree lost their freedom of interpretation and were
expected to refer to a written authoritative text.
An officially sanctioned brand of Islam was disseminated through
Abdülhamit’s fast-growing educational network (Fortna’s ‘Imperial class-
rooms’), with textbooks on religion and morality being written for the differ-
ent levels in primary and secondary education, and through the distribution
of popular and simply written publications such as catechisms (ilmi hal). The
standardized religious message emphasized loyalty to the state and obedi-
ence to the authorities. Its central notion, as Georgeon has pointed out, was
that of ahlak (morality). The order that the Sultan wanted to impose on
society was presented as a moral order in which modernization was encour-
aged but what was seen as the libertarian excesses of the Tanzimat era were
rejected. This moral order clearly appealed to the Sunni Muslim townspeo-
ple of Anatolia, but of course Anatolia was far from uniformly Sunni. In its
effort to unify the population, the state undertook campaigns to convert the
many dissident Muslim communities of Anatolia and Kurdistan to respect-
able Sunni Islam. Taking his cue from Western missionaries, the Sultan sent
preachers to the Alevi areas and even had mosques and schools built in Alevi
villages.
The efforts to increase the authority of the monarchy were based on the
sultan’s position as caliph. Adülhamit not only used the spurious claim to
the caliphate – so brilliantly exploited by the Ottoman negotiating team at
the Peace of Kücük Kaynarca in 1774 – to implicitly threaten the imperialist
powers of his day; he also used the caliphate to buttress his regime inter-
nally. By emphasizing the sacral nature of his office, he could demand not
only the loyalty of his subjects, but also the obedience due to successors of
the prophet. Loyalty to the throne thus became a religious duty.
The Sultan actively sought the cooperation of religious leaders (pri-
marily dervish sheikhs) as intermediaries, who could connect with the
Muslim community and spread the message. Most famous among these was
Abdülhamit’s long time favourite Ebulhuda from Aleppo, who was consid-
ered to be the eminence grise of the Yildiz palace at the time, but there were
many others.
Abdülhamit was far from unique in his attempts to strengthen his
throne by sacralizing it. The emperor Francis-Joseph II of Austria and Tsars
Alexander III and Nicolas II also tried to affect a bond with the large major-
ity of their subjects by emphasizing their role as defender of the faith. Even
in Queen Victoria’s Britain the monarchy projected a far more Christian and
virtuous image than it had under the later Georges.
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The Young Turks: ‘national’ means ‘Muslim’

In the historiography of Turkey, the rule of the Committee of Union and
Progress (CUP) after 1908, and especially after the dethronement of
Abdülhamit in 1909, is usually contrasted sharply with the preceding era.
There are good reasons for this. The atmosphere of public debate and
openness after the revolution was in marked contrast with the suffocating
atmosphere of Abdülhamit’s final years. Likewise, on the ideological level
there was a world of difference between Abdülhamit and the Young Turks.
The latter were deeply influenced by a popularized version of positivism as
well as by Büchnerian materialism. Their political outlook may have been
elitist and authoritarian, but still contrasted sharply with the autocracy of
the former sultan.
Nevertheless, the contrast can be overdone. The Young Turks took great
pains to juxtapose their own rule with that of Abdülhamit’s – the paradigm
they touted was that of ‘Freedom’ (Hürriyet – the usual description of the
1908 constitutional revolution) and ‘Oppression’ (Istibdad – Abdülhamit’s
reign), and the scholarship on this period is in part a reflection of this. It can
also be argued that there is an underlying ideological relationship between
Abdülhamit’s reign and the Young Turk’s rule. Abdülhamit consciously
tried to shape Ottoman Muslim solidarity into the fulcrum of a reinvigor-
ated Ottoman state and while one can argue whether this constituted the
fostering of an Ottoman-Muslim nationalism or rather of a kind of proto-
nationalism, there is no doubt that over the years he mobilized Ottoman-
Muslim sentiment. In doing so, the Sultan was in tune with underlying
developments in society, where, as Keyder has argued, a religiously over-
determined division of labour between a fast-growing non-Muslim bour-
geoisie and an equally fast-growing Muslim-dominated state bureaucracy
created increasing and ultimately unbearable tensions.4 The roots of the
CUP were to be found in the resentment felt by young Muslim bureaucrats
and officers at the change in the balance of power between on the one hand
the Christian bourgeoisie and the European powers who were perceived
as being hand in glove with them and the Ottoman state and its servants
on the other. The main grievance of the Young Turks against the Sultan
was that his regime weakened the state and failed to protect the Ottoman
nation. Their solution, endlessly repeated in their pamphlets and émigré
journals, was to create a modern state (with all the trimmings such as a
parliament and a constitution) with a rational, ‘scientific’ system of admin-
istration. They were not, however, anti-Islamic, far from it. As Hanioğ lu
has shown, it was an unquestioning belief in science and education rather
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than any democratic sentiment that dominated their thinking. Inspired by

positivism, they were vehemently anti-clerical, but with the possible excep-
tion of Abdullah Cevdet, the ‘atheist philosopher’ (dinsiz mutefekkir) every
one of them saw in a ‘true’ or ‘purified’ Islam, which was envisioned as a
‘rational’ religion open to science, a valuable building block of Ottoman
reconstruction and a social cement. 5
In its reconstituted form (from 1906 onwards) the CUP was an organ-
ization of Muslim civil servants and army officers, and as we have seen
in earlier chapters, in its early days it was not even open to non-Mus-
lims. It was, in other words, a political movement of Ottoman Muslims
for Ottoman Muslims. After the period of compromise, inter-party strife
and political turmoil between the constitutional revolution of 1908 and
the outbreak of the Balkan War in 1912, the policies of the CUP were a –
sometimes awkward – compromise between its professed adherence to the
ideal of the ‘Unity of the (Ethnic) Elements’, the underlying principle of
the Ottoman constitution and its Ottoman-Muslim nationalism. But from
1912 onwards, and certainly after the Unionist coup d’état of January 1913,
Ottoman Muslim nationalism held sway. The Christian communities were
now defined as the ‘others’ and a whole range of ‘national’ (millî) societies,
clubs, firms, cooperatives and periodicals was founded in quick succession.
Looking at the aims and the membership of these, it is immediately appar-
ent that ‘national’ now meant ‘Ottoman Muslim’ only. The identification of
the CUP with the Muslim majority produced both the nationalist economic
·
policies of the Millî I ktisat, through which the committee tried to create a
level playing field for Muslim entrepreneurs through state interference in
the economy, and to the oppressive and ultimately genocidal ethnic policies
of the war years. As in Abdülhamit’s days, the politics of Muslim solidar-
ity held a special attraction for the large immigrant communities from the
Balkans and the Caucasus, who had themselves been victims of religiously
inspired persecution. Shared Muslim identity was a perfect path towards
integration and it should thus cause no surprise that immigrants, especially
Circassians, were so prominent among the CUP militants (especially in the
so-called ‘Special Organization’, the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa).
Of course, the turn to Muslim nationalism was not due solely to the
social make-up of the CUP or to the ideological preferences of its leaders.
Just as Abdülhamit’s ‘Islamic turn’ had in part been a rational answer to the
changed territorial and demographic realities of the empire, so the appeal
to Muslim solidarity of the Young Turks was caused in part by the need to
mobilize the population in times of war. Most of the empire’s soldiers hailed
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from Anatolia; appealing to the religious worldview of the peasant popula-

tion of Anatolia made good sense.
Both elements – religious nationalism (with a strong anti-Greek and
anti-Armenian bias) and military necessity – continued to play a role in the
post-war era, when, during the ‘National Struggle’ (Millî Mücadele) Ottoman
Muslim nationalism reached its apogee. From the congresses of Erzurum and
Sivas in July and September 1919 to the final sessions of the Ottoman parlia-
ment in early 1920; in the rhetoric of Mustafa Kemal Pasha and others in the
National Assembly after April 1920: the struggle was always defined as one
of Ottoman Muslims for self determination and against the unjust claims
of Armenians and Greeks and their European supporters. The definition of
‘us’ and ‘them’ in religious terms of course persisted until the exchange of
populations agreed upon in Lausanne. It was after all Muslims from Greece
who were exchanged with Orthodox from Anatolia, without other factors
(for instance, linguistic ones) playing any role at all.6
Sacralization
Sultan Abdülhamit had made strong efforts to further sacralize his rule by
using religious imagery and most of all through the exaltation of the institu-
tion of the caliphate. The Young Turks, minor civil servants and officers,
were in a totally different position and any sacralization of their persons was
out of the question. They did, however try to sacralize both the committee
itself, which was often referred to as a ‘Holy Society’ (cemiyeti mukaddes)
and its mission. This came out most clearly with the outbreak of World War
I, which was officially declared a jihad, but it is also visible in the way the
person of the sultan-caliph, Mehmet V Reşat, was presented to the public.
Even before the war, during his public visits to Bursa, Edirne and Macedonia
in 1910–11, the sultan emphasized the importance of solidarity between the
ethnic communities, but he also visited shrines, mosques and dervish con-
vents and surrounded himself with relics.
During the national struggle after war, sacralization was utilized to
shore up support for the defence of Anatolia. In Mustafa Kemal’s speeches,
the earth of Anatolia is not only sacred in the sense that for any nationalist
the national territory is sacred but also because Anatolia is the ‘heartland of
Islam’ (Islamin harîmi ismeti). What is at stake is the rescuing of the mukad-
desat, the holy traditions. The flavour of the times and the degree to which
the struggle was sacralized is perhaps most visible in the text of the Turkish
·
national anthem, the I stiklâl Marşı (Independence March), written in 1921
by Mehmet Akif. If it were not anachronistic to say so, one would be tempted
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to say that it describes the struggle entirely in terms of a clash of civilizations.

Witness verse four:
Even if a wall of steel surrounds the western horizon

My heart full of belief is a mighty bulwark.
You are full of power, don’t be afraid! How can the toothless monster
You call civilization strangle a religion that is so great?
Bureaucratizing Islam
Another important element of continuity between the Hamidian and Young
Turk periods is in the efforts to modernize the state apparatus and extend
its hold over the country. As in Abdülhamit’s days, integrating Sunni Islam
into the state bureaucracy (politicizing it in the process) was part of these
efforts and a matter of priority for the CUP after the counterrevolution
of April 1909 had shown up the vulnerability of the Young Turk regime.
First the Sheihülislam was given a seat in the cabinet, a move that played an
important role in legitimizing the policies of the Committee in particular
during the tenure of Sheihülislam Musa Kazim. Then, from 1916 onwards,
the Sheihülislam was removed from the cabinet and subordinated to it,
with the jurisdiction over Islamic family law, charitable foundations and
religious education being transferred to secular ministries. On the face of
it these measures contrast sharply with those of the Hamidian era: where
Abdülhamit empowered his preferred Islamic authorities and used them as
props to his rule, the Young Turks reduced the status and independence of
the Islamic authorities as a whole. The underlying aim, however, remained
much the same: to fully control the Islamic establishment and to use it to
strengthen the state. Both regimes, Sultan Abdülhamit as much as the CUP,
were extremely suspicious of manifestations of Islam that were outside gov-
ernment control.
This tradition of state control of course reached its apogee during the
republic. The image of the Kemalist republic, right from the start, was that
of a regime that radically broke with the past and introduced a secular, or
laicist, order. It is true that the republic took radical measures to limit the
influence of Islam on the state within months of its founding. The functions
of caliph and of Sheihülislam were both abolished by the republic’s national
assembly in March 1924. At the same time, however, the republic actually
increased the state’s hold over religion. The Presidium for Religious Affairs
(Diyanet İşleri Baskanligi) that replaced the Sheikhulislamate was given sole
responsibility for religious guidance. All imams and muftis were now civil
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servants. As the central state increased its hold over the country, so did its
religious arm: the presidium centrally determined the contents of Friday ser-
mons and instructed muftis on the correct advice to be given to the believ-
ers. Over time, the Diyanet was turned into a centralized and hierarchical
bureaucracy to an extent that had never been achieved by Abdülhamit II.
As Davison points out, the state not only restricted religious education – it
also fostered it if it could fully control it.7
As in the empire, in the republic, too, the state exclusively looked after
the religious needs of the Sunni majority, leaving all Muslim dissenters, such
as the Alevi, to their own devices. In this respect, the nation state turned out
to be as much a Sunni state as the late empire had been.
Morality
If there is one aspect in which there is a clear discontinuity between the late
empire on the one hand and the Young Turk and Kemalist eras on the other, it
is that of morality. Abdülhamit had sought to base his revived empire on a rein-
vigorated public morality, the ahlak propagated in his school textbooks and in
the sermons of the hatips. The Young Turks and Kemalists did nothing of the
sort. The Unionist policies after 1913 definitely sought to secularize the social
and cultural spheres even when the Unionists were appealing to a sentiment
of Muslim nationalism at the same time. The Young Turks and the Kemalists
wanted an Islam that was compatible with science and that supported their
understanding of the national interest. In the republic this meant that the mes-
sage was a double one: on the one hand religion was depicted as nothing but
the private affair of the believer, on the other the believer was addressed as
citizen of the republic with a religious duty to pay taxes and serve in the army.8
Though there were efforts to strengthen the cohesion of society through the
strengthening of a morality based in Islam, these efforts were made by Islamist
revivalist movements such as those of Sait Nursi and Süleyman Tunahan. The
state only became involved in moral rearmament in the late 1970s.
Kenan Evren: Islam as an antidote

When the Turkish General Staff took power on 12 September 1980, combat-
ing the hold of ‘foreign’ ideologies such as socialism, communism or Islamic
fundamentalism over the Turkish youth was at the top of its agenda. Even
in their first proclamation after the coup the generals talked about the need
to combat ‘perverse’ (sapık) ideologies. Although the military suppressed
the leftist and Islamist movements mercilessly, they also realized that an
ideological alternative was needed and that traditional secularist Kemalism
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had too limited an appeal to be able to do the job. Under the personal guid-
ance of coup leader General Kenan Evren (himself the son of an imam), they
turned to the ideas of the ‘Hearths of the Enlightened’ (Aydınlar Ocakları).
This was an organization of conservative nationalist academics, politicians
and businessmen, founded in 1970 to break the hold of left-wing intellectu-
als over the political debate. The central element in its ideology, which was
·
developed by its first president, I brahim Kafesoğlu and called the ‘Turkish-
Islamic Synthesis’, was the idea that Islam and the pre-Islamic culture of
the Turks displayed a great number of similarities. Turks were therefore
naturally attracted to Islam and destined to be its soldiers. As Turkish cul-
ture and national identity were shaped by a 2,500-year-old Turkic tradition
and a 1,000-year-old religion, Islam was not only compatible with Turkish
nationalism, but an integral part of it.
The Hearths of the Enlightened had been gaining influence in govern-
ment circles since Demirel’s ‘National Front’ coalitions in the late 1970s, but
after the 1980 coup they achieved complete control in the fields of culture
and education. The organs of the state were given the task of spreading the
message of the Turkish–Islamic Synthesis. Poulton has remarked (without
further elaborating the theme) that the ideological policies of Kenan Evren
bear a certain resemblance to those of Abdülhamit and indeed, the resem-
blance is striking, both in the medium and in the message.9
Religious education was enshrined in the constitution the military had
adopted in 1982 (article 24). It proclaimed that the state – and the state
alone – was charged with religious education and that instruction in reli-
gious culture and moral education was to be compulsory in both primary
and secondary education. In school textbooks, Islam was directly linked to
values such as nationalism, the unity and indivisibility of the nation, respect
for authority and militarism. The Diyanet was given a constitutional posi-
tion as well, and its functions were now more than ever completely subservi-
ent to the interests of the state. Yavuz’s characterization of Hamidian Islam
(‘in practice religion was subordinate and acted primarily as a shield for the
preservation of the state’) is true for the Islam of Evren’s Diyanet as well.
·
The message put out by the presidium in publications such as its Cep I lmihali
(Pocket Catechism) is unashamedly nationalist, authoritarian and milita-
rist. National unity was depicted as a religious duty. The Gazi-ethos was
promoted. A special missionary department was set up in 1981 to combat
Kurdish separatist agitation in the southeast. Sunni mosques were built in
Alevi villages in considerable numbers. The Diyanet benefited enormously
from the central role it played in the ideological campaign of the military
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and of its successors. The number of Diyanet employees grew from slightly
over 50,000 to nearly 85,000 between 1979 and 1989.
So, all the elements that were prominent in Abdülhamit’s era were once
again present in the early 1980s: the establishment of state control, the use
of the mosque and the school, the emphasis on morality (ahlak), missionary
activity and mosque-building to combat diversity and unify the nation, and
above all the attempt to monopolize religious instruction and use it to sup-
port the state. The intermediaries were there as well: Fethullah Gülen, who
was to become the most prominent religious figure of the 1990s, owed his
meteoric rise in part to his support for the coup d’état of 1980 and his sup-
port for the policies of the Diyanet afterwards. Throughout the 1980s and
the early 1990s Gülen had privileged access to the seat of political power in
Ankara. His movement profited from this privileged position and continued
to grow. After the fall of the Soviet Union it developed a network of schools
in the Balkans, the Caucasus and Central Asia. It was only when the army
top brass reversed course and decided to crack down on Islamic organiza-
tions from 1997 onwards, that the Fethullahcis came under pressure and
their leader was forced to leave the country and settle in the USA.
At the same time, the policies of Kenan Evren also showed up continui-
ties with the Kemalist era in that political activities (or activities that could
be interpreted as such) of Islamic movements that were not under state con-
trol continued to be regarded as illegal.
Conclusion
What a comparison of these case studies of instances in which the Ottoman/
Turkish state instrumentalized Islam to achieve political goals seems to
show is an underlying continuity between the late Ottoman Empire and the
republic where their ‘Islamic’ policies are concerned.
Abdülhamit’s policies of establishing far-reaching state control over the
contents of religious education and instruction, his standardization of the
Sharia and his attempts to use the religious message to increase loyalty to
the throne in a sense presage the Young Turk measures aimed at a further
subjugation of Islam to the state. What the Young Turks did during World
War I – removing the Sheihülislam from the cabinet and bringing all forms
of education, the administration of Islamic law and the charitable founda-
tions (evkaf) under the control of secular ministries – was on the face of it
different from what the Sultan had done. Where he strengthened the Islamic
institutions, the Young Turks weakened them. But both limited the freedom
of action of the religious authorities, integrated them further into the state
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machinery and politicized them. This continued in the Kemalist republic,

when all responsibility for religious matters and for the charitable founda-
tions was devolved onto a new Presidium for Religious Affairs, which oper-
ated directly under the prime minister and was given extensive powers to
centrally determine the message spread in mosques and by muftis.
The early republic clearly broke with the policies of the Hamidian and
Young Turk eras in the field of education. Both regimes had put great stock
in religious education, centrally determining the curriculum to suit their
ideological programme. The Kemalists, by contrast, eliminated religious
education altogether. In this area continuity was restored by the neo-Kemal-
ist regime of Kenan Evren after 1980. Determining the content of religious
education and using it to buttress loyalty to the state again became a priority
for the regime.
If there is a strong continuity between the successive regimes in their
quest for control over and instrumentalization of religion, the same is true
for the character of the debate surrounding religion. The debate never was
one for or against religion. It was, as Andrews has pointed out, about the
interpretation of religion. The Hamidian regime, the Young Turks, the
Kemalists and the neo-Kemalists all employed the means at their disposal to
argue the case for true Islam: loyal to the Caliph in Abdülhamit’s case, open
to science in that of the Young Turks, private and non-political in that of
the Kemalists, and nationalist with Evren. This Islam was always presented
in opposition to an unacceptable Islam that the regimes sought to discredit:
liberal in the case of Abdülhamit, obscurantist for the Young Turks, political
for the Kemalists and fundamentalist in the eyes of Evren’s junta.
What the investigation of these four particular case studies has taught
us, I think, is that there are striking similarities in the way successive
Ottoman and Turkish republican regimes have handled acute challenges:
In times of crisis these regimes recognized that the Muslim component was
so central to the identity of the vast majority of their citizenry, that they
had no option but to appeal to religion when trying to master the crisis.
At the same time we have seen that different types of crises demanded dif-
ferent kinds of appeals to Islam. Abdülhamit II and General Evren were
faced by ideological challenges that were felt to be life threatening to their
regimes and even to the survival of the state. In the first case, the challenge
lay in the centrifugal forces of minority nationalism and in that of political
liberalism; in the second case the challenge came from different brands of
socialism, from Islamic fundamentalism and – to a lesser extent at the time –
from Kurdish separatism. To counter these ideological challenges the rulers
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had recourse to an appeal to Islamic norms and values, explicitly linked to

the political message of dynastic loyalty in the first case and state-centred
Turkish nationalism and militarism in the second.
The Young Turks during World War I and the Turkish nationalists of the
post-World War I era appealed to religion in a very different manner. Faced
with an uphill battle for the survival of their state, they had to mobilize the
largest possible majority on the basis of an appeal to a shared identity. What
they were concerned with in the years 1912–22 was to find a new ‘national’
basis on which to build their state. This they found in the Ottoman Muslim
identity. Against the backdrop of the rising tensions between Muslims and
non-Muslims in the last decades of the nineteenth century and the Balkan
Wars of 1912–13 identities had been shaped primarily on the basis of reli-
gious affiliation. The loyalty of the Christian minorities was in serious doubt
after the Balkan Wars and there was really no other option but to appeal to
the core Muslim population of Anatolia, from where most of the Ottoman
soldiery was recruited. The same problem presented itself to the resistance
movement after World War I. Between 1914 and 1922, sacralization of the
struggle, in the shape of jihad or a ‘holy ideal’ and of the national territory
(as earth drenched in the blood of martyrs) certainly took place, but, as the
policies of the Young Turks during the war and those of the Kemalists after
1922 showed, illumination of state and society was not part of the Young
Turk/Kemalist agenda, quite the opposite. The element of ‘moral rearma-
ment’ was lacking and this makes the policies of the Young Turks and early
Kemalists during the large-scale armed struggles of their time very different
from those of the preceding Hamidian regime and of the junta of 1980–3,
both of which were faced primarily with ideological competition. It was
the nature of the challenge, which ultimately determined the way in which
Islam was instrumentalized, as a basis for a national identity or as a defen-
sive ideology.
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21. Turning Points and Missed
Opportunities in the Modern History
of Turkey: Where Could Things Have
Gone Differently?*
For nearly 30 years now I have occupied myself in one way or another with
the history of the late Ottoman Empire and the early republic of Turkey,
roughly the period between 1880 and 1950. The issues I have touched upon
have varied a great deal, from the life in the trenches of Ottoman soldiers in
World War I to political purges in 1926; from Sultan Reşat’s visit to Kosovo
in 1911 to travellers’ accounts of Turkey in the late 1930s. Nevertheless, this
volume shows that it is possible to discern a thread, a grand narrative, if you
like, that connects the different research projects. This thread is the conti-
nuity between the late Ottoman Empire, particularly the Young Turk period
and the Kemalist republic, politically, ideologically and socially. Within this
narrative of continuity I have emphasized the importance of World War I,
arguing that the republic of Turkey could only come into existence thanks
to the legacy of mobilization, demographic engineering and nationalist eco-
nomic policies of the war years. I have also emphasized the importance of
migration in shaping these processes.
When one studies the transition from the multi-ethnic Ottoman Empire
to the secularist (though not secular) Turkish nation state, it is tempting to
see the process as one of inevitability. This is still the underlying assumption
in many modern studies on Turkey. But, as I have argued in the preceding
chapters, the assumption that the Turkish nation was somehow embedded
or submerged in the empire, ready to emerge (as I have quoted Bernard
Lewis)1 once the conditions were right, should be questioned. The same is
true for the notion that the late Ottoman Empire was a decadent or mori-
bund structure and that the ‘national’ solution, be it Turkish, Greek, Arab or
Armenian, was the only viable one. The emergence of Mustafa Kemal Pasha
as the leader of the national resistance movement after World War I was
far from inevitable, and Kemalist nationalism and secularism were not the
only options open to the ruling élite of the early republic. Freeing ourselves
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from the teleological mindset, which sees the nation state as the inevitable
outcome and relegates the history of the late Ottoman Empire to the status
of prehistory of that nation state, is important if we are to gain a realistic
insight into the social and political developments of the late Ottoman era
and the options open to the people of that era. It is all very well for us to
say, with the benefit of hindsight, that they were experiencing the ‘imperial
twilight’, but the time of day may not have been quite as evident to them. Of
course, speculation on the collapse of the Ottoman Empire was rife at the
turn of the twentieth century, but then again: that had been the situation for
nearly a hundred years.
If we try to look at the history of the period afresh, without the benefit
of hindsight, we are automatically faced with the question: where could
things have gone differently? What were the turning points that shaped
Ottoman and Turkish history? This is the question I want to ask here and
in doing so I am inspired primarily by Geoffrey Hawthorne’s 1991 ground-
breaking book Plausible Worlds: Possibility and Understanding in History
and the Social Sciences.
Of course, a number of them are obvious: the constitutional revolution,
the outbreak of World War I, the proclamation of the republic – clearly these
are very significant moments. I would like to use this final chapter to review
a number of turning points that are not often defined as such in the histo-
riography of Turkey and speculate on the possible alternative histories that
might have been, had things taken a different turn. These contemplations do
not pretend to be based on original research. This is a thought experiment,
an exercise in counterfactual history.
Any such discussion, indeed any discussion of late Ottoman history, must
begin with the disaster of 1877–8, the great ‘War of ‘93’ as it was known to
earlier generations who used the Hijri calendar. It is difficult to overestimate
the importance of this event. To recapitulate the main course of events: in
April 1876, in the aftermath of a Christian uprising in Bosnia, Bulgarian
nationalists based in Romania and Russia organized a rebellion to the south
of the Danube, which was brutally suppressed by the Ottomans with the
help of militias (the so-called Bashibozuks). Some 15,000 Bulgarian peasants
died at the hands of these irregulars, many of whom were Circassians who
had themselves been resettled in the area after they had been chased from
the Caucasus by the Russians a decade earlier. These events led to war with
Serbia and Montenegro, a war which the Ottomans won in three months.
They also led to the publication in Britain of William Gladstone’s famous
pamphlet The Bulgarian Horrors and the Question of the East, which after its
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Turning Points and Missed Opportunities in the Modern History of Turkey
publication in September 1876 sold over 200,000 copies and turned liberal
and Christian opinion in Britain against the Ottomans and left them isolated
when Russia intervened on behalf of the Bulgarians. A diplomatic confer-
ence in Istanbul in December proposed the creation of two large autono-
mous Bulgarian provinces under Christian governors, proposals which were
rejected by the Ottoman government. As a result, war broke out between
Russia and the Ottoman Empire in April 1877. The Russian assault was
halted at Kars in the East and famously by Gazi Osman Pasha at Plevna in
the West, but the fortresses were taken in November–December, after which
Ottoman resistance collapsed and the Russian army marched on, ultimately
to camp at San Stefano (now Yeşilköy). The Ottoman Empire was forced to
sign a peace agreement, which basically ended Ottoman rule in Europe. At
the subsequent conference in Berlin the terms were somewhat mitigated,
but still the magnitude of the disaster, in terms of loss of territory, income,
population and prestige was such that the subsequent decades of Hamidian
rule can only be understood meaningfully as a period of slow recovery and
adjustment, of finding a new equilibrium administratively, culturally and
financially. The extreme caution of the Hamidian regime may have been due
in part to the growing paranoia of the sultan himself. It was certainly also
caused by a feeling that all had nearly been lost in 1878.
The ‘93 war’ also led to a well-documented human tragedy. Over half a
million Muslim refugees permanently left the areas now lost and were reset-
tled elsewhere in the empire. This was to have serious consequences one gen-
eration later. The memory of the tragedy was vividly instilled in the minds
of the children born in the late 1870s and early 1880s by their refugee par-
ents. The very same people who would become active in the Committee
of Union and Progress (CUP) 20 years later came from this generation of
children, and the fear of another ‘93’ was part of their mental make up. It is
certainly no coincidence that the leading perpetrators of the Armenian mas-
sacres counted so many refugees and children of refugees (muhacirs) among
their number. Dr Bahaettin Şakir’s parents had to flee from Bulgaria, Çerkes
Mehmet Reşit, the governor of Diyarbakır, was himself a fugitive from the
Caucasus and Bulgaria. Celâl Bayar, who organized the expulsion of the
Greeks from Western Anatolia in 1914, hailed from Gemlik but he was also
the child of refugees from Bulgaria. These people were traumatized by the
loss of their homeland in 1878 and determined to prevent a repetition.
But what if the war had not occurred? What if the liberal powers of
Western Europe had supported the Ottomans, like they had done in the
Crimean War 20 years earlier and thus possibly pre-empted the Russian
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assault? It is tempting to speculate on the possibility that the parliamentar-

ian and constitutional regime introduced in 1876 could have endured. The
constitution was a document that was quite in line with mid-nineteenth cen-
tury European practice, even if a number of clauses gave it a less liberal char-
acter than the Belgian original on which it was based. As Robert Devereux
has shown, the elections for parliament can hardly be called democratic in
a modern sense but parliament acquitted itself rather well during its two
sessions.2 Without the war it would have been very difficult for Abdülhamit
to prorogue parliament indefinitely, as he did, and parliament would have
been given the opportunity to mature and gain experience. There would
have been a platform where the different ethnic communities could voice
their interests, but the divisions between liberals and conservatives would
have run across the ethnic divisions (as indeed they did in 1877–8 and even
in 1908–13) and might have defused ethnic tension to some degree. It is per-
haps not likely that such an arrangement could have stopped the march of
separatist nationalism in the long run, but it might have left both the Turks
and the other successor states with stronger civic and democratic traditions.
The history of the late Ottoman Empire, in other words, could perhaps have
been more like that of the Habsburg Empire.
In addition, without the war the muhacir problem would not have
assumed the importance that it did and the Young Turk generation of 1880
would conceivably not have been poisoned by feelings of resentment and
revenge against the Christian communities of the empire.
Of course, much of this argument could be repeated for the Balkan War
that broke out in October 1912. The Balkan War in a sense can be seen as the
sequel to the ‘war of 93’, because it was the unresolved questions of 1878 and
the unfulfilled ambitions of the Balkan states, particularly in Macedonia, that
led them to attack the empire. This war led once again to an influx of refugees
on a scale similar to that of 35 years earlier, and among the Young Turks, who
predominantly hailed from the Balkans, the Aegean and the capital, there
were many who now lost their ancestral home. Their resentment and deter-
mination not to let anything similar happen in Anatolia produced in many of
them a militancy similar to that of Bahaettin Şakir. Examples are Abdülhalik
Renda, the infamous governor of Bitlis and Aleppo in 1915–16 (and a native
of Yanina in the Western Balkans) and Şükrü Kaya, the director of resettle-
ment during World War I (a native of Kos). As in 1878, the military disaster of
the Balkan War led to the imposition of authoritarian rule, this time through
the Unionist coup d’état of January 1913. Parliament was not prorogued this
time but it was to all intents and purposes left powerless.
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The second turning point that has left a lasting imprint on Turkish his-
tory is, I think, the insurrection in Istanbul in April 1909, known as the
‘31 March incident’ (31 Mart vakası). The rebellion itself was suppressed
with relative ease after 11 days by troops loyal to the CUP. Martial law was
declared and a large number of rebels was summarily tried and hanged.
Nevertheless it constituted a traumatic experience, which left deep scars on
the collective psyche of the Young Turk generation and its successors. The
trauma was caused by the fact that the rule of those who saw themselves as
the ‘heroes of freedom’ and as the vanguard of progress had proved to be so
fragile, even in their own capital. It was toppled in a morning by a bunch of
unruly soldiers and students, without the population of the capital coming to
the aid of either the Young Turks or the constitution. Unionist rule could be
restored only by intervention of the army. The events of April 1909 installed
a deep fear in the Young Turk generation, a fear of the exploitation of the
ignorant mass of the population by religious fanatics, resulting in ‘religious
reaction’ (irtica), a term that seems to have gained currency in this period.
From now on, the Young Turks (Unionists and later, the Kemalists) inter-
preted events as parts of a master narrative in which the forces of enlight-
enment were locked in battle with the forces of darkness and in which the
illiterate population could not be trusted to make the right choices and could
thus easily be manipulated. When in February 1925, an insurrection led by
the Nakşibendi dervish Sheikh Sait broke out to the north of Diyarbakır
and the rebels demanded the restoration of the caliphate and the Sharia
(which even then had not been abolished), Kemalist representatives in the
national assembly were quick to point out the parallels with the ‘31 Mart’.
The same happened when a small group of stoned dervishes calling them-
selves the ‘Army of the Caliphate’ descended on the Western Anatolian town
of Menemen in December 1930 and ritually killed a young teacher who was
on duty as a reserve officer at the time. As in the case of the ‘31 Mart’, what
particularly shocked the Kemalists about this incident was the fact that the
population of the town did not lift a finger to defend either the young officer
or the secular republican order.
The legacy of 31 Mart, Sheikh Sait and Menemen is still very much with
us today as the master narrative through which Kemalists see contempo-
rary developments. That Unionist rule was ultimately restored by the armed
forces is a lesson that has not been lost on the Kemalists of our day either. Is
it going too far to think that without the events of April 1909, the concept of
irtica, and the attendant Manichean view of society would not have become
so dominant in the minds of this generation and the generations educated
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by them and that the army would not have built quite such a tradition of
involvement in politics?
The third turning point of the twentieth century and one that is often
overlooked, is, I think, the transformation both of the nature of the Kemalist
regime and of the character of Turkish nationalism in the early 1930s. As
we know, Mustafa Kemal Pasha himself encouraged his old friend Fethi in
1930 to form an opposition party that shared the fundamental ideals of the
governing People’s Party (PP) – secularism, nationalism and republicanism –
but favoured more economic and political liberalism. When this party, the
Free Republican Party (Serbest Cumhuriyet Fırkası) proved hugely popular,
especially in the developed west of the country, it was closed down after
three months. The party establishment of the PP had never been happy with
the experiment and it exerted increasing pressure on the president (who had
remained party leader) to leave his neutral position and commit himself to
his party. In November Mustafa Kemal gave in. An embittered Fethi Okyar
felt he had no option but to close down the party rather than having to
oppose the president in the political arena.
This, however, was only the beginning of a more far-reaching change
in Turkey’s political landscape. A month after the closure of the Free
Republican Party (FRP), the Menemen incident shocked the Kemalist lead-
ership. Although Mustafa Kemal Pasha’s initial plans to deport the popula-
tion and raze Menemen to the ground were never executed, the incident
strengthened the position of the hardliners within the party. They now
embarked on a campaign to put an end to all genuine civil society organiza-
tions and bring social and cultural life in the country entirely under party
control. The first such organization to be suppressed was that of the Turkish
Hearths (Türk Ocakları). This society, originally founded by the national-
ist wing of the Young Turks in 1912, had been revived after the founding
of the republic by education minister Hamdullah Suphi Tanrıöver. When it
was closed down in 1931, the organization had a network of 267 clubs with
over 30,000 members and a programme of activities consisting of lectures,
courses, exhibitions and concerts. In 1932 the clubs were replaced with the
People’s Houses (Halk Evleri), which had a very similar programme, but
were directly linked to the party.
In the same year, 1931, one of the last remaining newspapers that was
critical of government policies, Yarın (‘Tomorrow’), published by Arif Oruç,
an old friend of Mustafa Kemal and Fethi, was closed down after the intro-
duction of a new draconian press law that allowed the government to ban
any newspaper that published articles ‘contrary to the general policies of
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the nation’. In 1933, the university in Istanbul, the Darülfünun, was for-
mally closed down and reconstituted as the University of Istanbul (İstanbul
Üniversitesi). The aim of the operation was certainly in part to raise the
level of academic education in Turkey, but it was also an ideological purge.
When the university was reopened only a third of the former professors
were hired.
The attack on independent civil society institutions reached its zenith
in 1935, when the Turkish Women’s Union, originally founded by women
who had been active in the independence war, was pressured into dissolv-
ing itself. Already in 1928 the Union had been forced to give up its political
demands and had then continued as a social club. But now its activities were
halted altogether, ostensibly because its aims (equal rights for women) had
now been realized by the government. Also in 1935 the Masonic lodges
linked to the Grand Orient of Turkey were told by Interior Minister (and fel-
low mason) Şükrü Kaya that they would have to extend their summer break
indefinitely – which they did for the next 12 years. Even dissident currents
within the party, notably the group that had published the journal Kadro
that favoured a farther-reaching social revolution in 1932–4, had to stop
their activities, when İnönü and Atatürk, who had earlier afforded them a
degree of protection, gave in to hardliners within the party leadership.
The most interesting aspect of this wave of suppression is that the closed
down organizations all shared the basic elements of the Kemalist world
view. The people involved were by and large nationalists, secularists and
strong believers in education and emancipation. This makes the suppression
of these groups very different from that of the derwish orders (tarikat) of the
mid-1920s. We have to conclude that the suppression of civil society in the
1930s was not primarily about ideology but about an attempt at totalitarian
control on the part of the state through the party. The 1930s also witnessed
a shift in the content of Kemalist nationalism. Increasingly it was the narrow
and xenophobic nationalism of people like Mahmut Esat and Yunus Nadi
that dominated the discourse. In their way of thinking the non-Muslim
citizens of the republic definitely qualified as ‘foreigners’ and members of
international networks like the masons were branded kozmopolit, implying
that they could not be loyal citizens of the republic at the same time. This
development was, of course, not unique to Turkey. Rather, it reflected the
dominant trend all over Central and Eastern Europe.
What if the change in direction of 1930–5 had not taken place? Had
Mustafa Kemal Pasha stuck to the course he had himself charted three
months earlier and retained his above-party position, it is not unlikely that
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the FRP could have survived and played a role somewhat similar to that of
the Democrat Party (DP) 20 years later. The Kemalist regime was probably
not as unpopular in 1930 as it would be in 1950 after the years of economic
hardship and repression during World War II, but in free elections the FRP
would clearly have been a force to reckon with. If Kemal had supported a
degree of pluralism, it is hard to see how the hardliners within the RPP could
have developed the totalitarian tendencies I described earlier. In response
to the challenge of the FRP, dissident groups within the RPP like Kadro
could have formulated a new ideological position for the party 30 years
before the advent of Bülent Ecevit’s ‘Left of Center’ programme. Civil soci-
ety organizations like the Women’s Union, the Journalists’ Association,
the Turkish Hearths and the Masonic lodges could have gathered strength
over the years. There would have been less opportunity, perhaps, for the
extreme nationalists with their xenophobic tendencies like Mahmud Esat
Bozkurt to impose their views. Tragedies like the anti-Jewish pogroms in
Thrace in 1934 and the discriminatory Wealth Tax (Varlık Vergisi), which
wiped out the non-Muslim bourgeoisie in 1942, possibly could have been
avoided.
Beyond this, if we take our counterfactual exercise even further, a more
pluralistic Turkey with a stronger civil society, led perhaps by French-oriented
Fethi Okyar with (after Atatürk’s death) a man like veteran opposition
leader Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay] (a hero of the Balkan War and of the struggle
for independence, but also a confirmed Anglophile) by his side, would have
fit naturally in the camp of the Allies during World War II.İnönü’s Turkey,
as we know, concluded a mutual assistance treaty with France and Britain
in 1939, but then reneged on it for the next five years, only declaring war on
Germany in February 1945. A more liberal Turkey would still have driven a
hard bargain, but possibly it would have joined the Allied war effort if not in
1939, then in early 1943 when the Germans had had begun to lose the war.
Turkey then would have been among the victors in 1945.
The 1945–7 period is, I think, the final episode that we should consider
during this exercise in counterfactual history. The protagonist of this period
is without doubt İsmet İnönü. As early as 19 May 1945 he had announced
his desire to make Turkey more democratic and on 1 November of that
year he declared that Turkey needed an opposition party. As we know, that
opposition party came into being in January 1946, when four former RPP
members founded the DP. The elections that followed (and which had been
brought forward from June 1947 to July 1946) were clearly full of irregu-
larities, but even so the DP was able to show its strength, winning 62 seats
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in the national assembly. As in 1930, tension between the two parties rose
sharply and the hawks within the RPP, led by Prime Minister Recep Peker,
did everything they could to delegitimize the opposition, branding them
as traitors, communists and even psychopaths. But unlike Mustafa Kemal
Pasha in 1930, İsmet stuck to his guns. He conferred with Peker and with
opposition leader Celâl Bayar in a manner that is reminiscent of Mustafa
Kemal’s talks with İsmet and Fethi in 1930. Then, on 12 July 1947 he issued
a statement in which he said that political opposition was legitimate and
natural and in which he called upon the organs of the state to act impar-
tially. This marked the end of the hardliners. Recep Peker had to resign.
From then on until the elections almost three years later, the process of
democratization continued to gather pace. The RPP did everything it could
to regain popularity by adopting much of the opposition’s programme,
but with 25 years of authoritarian rule behind it, it lacked credibility in
the eyes of the electorate that brought the Democrats to power in May
1950.
Now what would have happened if İsmet had not supported this proc-
ess, if he had made the same choice that Atatürk made in 1930? This, I
think, would not have spoilt Turkey’s ability to procure United States sup-
port and aid in the context of the start of the Cold War. It may be true that
İnönü introduced his reforms partly to carry favour with the West after a
war in which Turkey had lost much prestige and was in danger of isolation,
but then again: the United States supported, and relied on, regimes as varied
and as undemocratic as South Korea, Pakistan and Iran in its global strug-
gle against communism, so it could probably have lived with a dictatorial
Turkey as ally. Continued dictatorship, however, would in all probability
have blocked Turkey’s access to NATO (since even after the introduction of
multi-party democracy the Northern European NATO countries still felt
very hesitant about Turkish membership of the organization in 1952) and as
a corollary its access to the European Economic Community (EEC). After
all, in European eyes the main reason why Turkey was seen as a candidate
country for the EEC was its value as a NATO partner and the desire to keep
the country stable by increasing its prospects for economic growth. It is very
unlikely that the association agreement of 1963 would ever have been con-
cluded if Turkey had not been a NATO member.
It is perhaps not too far-fetched to suppose that a continued İnönü dic-
tatorship would have placed Turkey in a position very similar to that of
Franco’s Spain. Of course, the regimes would have differed a great deal in
some respects. İnönü’s strict secularism bore no resemblance to Franco’s
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fanatical religiosity and the regime in Spain displayed a violence and brutal-
ity that its counterpart in Turkey never had. But still, both countries would
have been safely inside the Western bloc, but outside NATO and the EEC/
EC, with state-led economic growth; they would have had militarized socie-
ties with centralist administrations and strict suppression of dissident (in
particular socialist) currents and regional minorities. With the support of
the army, such a 1930s political structure could conceivably have lasted
until İnönü’s death in 1973, much like the old regime in Spain did until the
Caudillo’s death in 1975. By then, however, such a regime would have been
so out of step with the ambitions of the emerging middle classes within the
country as well as with developments in Europe, that it would probably
collapse.
All in all, Turkey’s real history of the post-war period, in spite of all its
upheavals, looks much more attractive than this counterfactual scenario.
Nevertheless, there is another side to this coin, too. A complete collapse of
the regime as in Spain could have paved the way for a radical break with
the dictatorial past. In Spain after 1975, Franco’s regime had lost all legiti-
macy outside the circle of hardcore Falangists. That allowed conservatives,
liberals and social democrats to battle it out in the political arena without
serious outside interference and create a genuine modern democracy. The
fact that in Turkey dictatorship made a ‘soft landing’ after 1945 meant that
fundamental structures of the one-party state, as well as part of the ideo-
logical legacy have been able to survive within the multi-party environment,
a source of much social and political tension in Turkey today.
But this intellectual exercise that I’ve here engaged in is one of fantasy.
The wars of 1877 and 1912 did take place. The counterrevolution of April
1909 did permanently damage the constitutional period. The embryonic
Ottoman parliaments were dissolved and emasculated in 1878 and 1913
respectively. The army was given a dominant role in the administration
under martial law in 1909 and again in 1913. A decade after he had estab-
lished a republic based on the concept of national sovereignty (hakimiyeti
milliye) Mustafa Kemal Pasha did not dare to go for multi-party democ-
racy and instead oversaw the establishment of an almost totalitarian grip of
state and party over the country. His successor İnönü, however, against the
expectation of many, made the opposite choice and opened the way for the
development of multi-party democracy in Turkey while preserving much of
the legacy of the dictatorial era.
Nevertheless: however unrealistic the alternative scenarios presented
in this essay may be, I think it is a very useful exercise for us historians to
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remind ourselves that the historical developments with which we are all too
familiar, should not be seen as inevitable; that from time to time we should
deny ourselves the benefit of hindsight. Thinking about what could have
been makes us more sensitive to processes and contingencies that we too
easily overlook when we already know how the story ends.
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Notes
I. Sources and Literature: Introduction

1. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The Ottoman Empire and the Turkish republic: an
attempt at a new periodisation’, Welt des Islams 32/2 (1992), pp. 237–53.
2. Davison, Andrew, Secularism and Revivalism. A Hermeneutic Reconsidera-
tion (New Haven, 1998), p. 177.
1. The Politician as Historian, Historians in Politics:

On the Nutuk (Speech) of Mustafa Kemal Pasha
* This chapter was published in Dutch in 1992 in modified form: ‘De politicus
als geschiedschrijver, de historicus in de politiek’, in E. de Moor (ed.), Elf wijzen
van interpreteren. Essays over het lezen van teksten uit het islamitisch cultuurge-
bied (Nijmegen: Mandara, 1992), pp. 127–37.
1. Şimşir, Bilâl N., Atatürk’ün Büyük Söylevi Üzerine Belgeler (Ankara, 1991),
is a collection of contemporary reports and documents on the Nutuk,
mainly from French and British archives.
2. Şehsuvaroğlu, Bedi, Atatürk’ün Sağlık Hayatı (Istanbul, 1981), p. 12.
3. Gazi Mustafa Kemal, Nutuk (Ankara, 1927).
4. The republic’s first reliable census, conducted in 1927, reported that
10.6 per cent of the Turkish population was literate.
5. Kemal Atatürk, Nutuk 3 Cilt (Istanbul, 1952–9).
6. Kemal Atatürk, Söylev/Nutuk (Ankara, 1973–5).
7. Kemal Atatürk, Nutuk 1919–1927. Bugünkü Dille Yayına Hazırlayan Prof.
Dr. Zeynep Korkmaz (Ankara, 1991).
8. Cf. Atay, Falih Rıfkı, Çankaya (Istanbul, 1968), pp. 31 and 551.
9. Gasi Mustafa Kemal pascha, Die neue Türkei 1919–1927: Rede gehalten in
Angora vom 15–20. Oktober 1927 vor den Abgeordneten und Delegierten
der republikanischen Volkspartei (Leipzig, 1928–9).
10. A Speech Delivered by Ghazi Mustapha Kemal. President of the Turkish
Republic (Leipzig, 1929) [translator anonymous].
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11. See http://www.habertek.net/article.php?article_id=3900.

12. Nutuk, 1952 edition (1967 printing), vol. 2, p. 897.
13. Felsefe Kurumu Seminerleri (1974–1975). Türkiye’ de Tarih Eğitimi (Ankara,
1977), pp. 258, 404–32.
14. Family names were only made compulsory in Turkey in 1934. The family
names of leading figures who are best known by their birthname or by the
name they were given at an early age are given between square brackets.
15. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist factor: The Role of the Committee of Union
and Progress in the Turkish National Movement 1905–1926 (Leiden, 1984),
p. 162.
16. Nutuk, vol. 2, pp. 893–4.
17. This is the main argument of my Unionist Factor.
2. Young Turk Memoirs as a Historical Source: Kâzım

Karabekir’s İstiklâl Harbimiz
* Originally published as: ‘Young Turk memoirs as a historical source’, Middle
Eastern Studies 22/4 (1986), pp. 561–70 (translated with additions as: ‘Kâzim
Karabekir ve İstiklâl Harbimiz kitabı’, Tarih ve Toplum 38 [1986], pp. 339–43).
1. For instance, the collections published by Bilâl N. Şimşir since 1973 ( Şimşir,
Bilâl N, İgiliz Belgelerinde Atatürk [Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1973],
vol. 1, 1975; vol. 2, 1979; vol. 3), and such Turkish journals as Belgelerle
Türk Tarihi Dergisi and Tarih Vesikaları.
2. Large collections of early Turkish newspapers are to be found both in the
Millî Kütüphane in Ankara and in the Atatürk Kitaplığı in Istanbul.
3. For instance, those of Ali İhsan Sâbis (1943, 1951–2), Ali Fuat [Cebesoy]
(1953, 1955, 1960), Kâzım Nami Duru (1957), Kılıç Ali (1955), Hüseyin
Rauf [Orbay] (1962–3), Mazhar Müfit Kansu (1966), Mahmut Celâl Bayar
(1967), Kâzım Özalp (1971), Halil Kut (1972) and Rıza Nur (1967–8).
4. Halide Edib [Adıvar], The Turkish Ordeal. Being the Further Memoirs of
Halide Edib (New York/London, 1928).
5. As laid down by him in interviews with the newspapers Vakit (in January
1922) and Milliyet (in March 1926), and in his speech before the congress
of the RPP in 1927, the Nutuk.
6. Cf. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist Factor. The Role of the Committee of
Union and Progress in the Turkish National Movement (1905–1926) (Leiden:
Brill, 1984), pp. 24–30. For a recent example of a widely used history of
the Turkish revolution which displays all the characteristics of the ‘offi-
cial’ Kemalist tradition, see Kili, Suna, Türk Devrim Tarihi (İstanbul: Tekin,
1982).
7. Fethi Okyar, quoted in: Kutay, Cemal (ed.) Üç Devirde Bir Adam (İstanbul:
Tercüman, 1980).
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Notes
8. Hüsamettin Ertürk was a leading staff-officer of the Teşkilât-ı Mahsusa. He

was ordered by Enver Pasha in 1918 to keep the organization intact after
the war, as an instrument for the Turkish resistance in the coming strug-
gle. After March, 1920, he served as liaison officer between the General
Staff in Ankara and the nationalist underground in Istanbul. His memoirs
were published as: Ertürk, Hüsamettin (Samih Nafiz Tansu, ed.), İki Devrin
Perde Arkası (İstanbul: Nurgök, 1957).
9. Eşref was an important field-officer of the Teşkilât. His handwritten mem-
oirs form the basis of several books by Cemal Kutay and are used exten-
sively in Celâl Bayar’s memoirs.
10. Cf. Kutay, Cemal, Birinci Dünya Harbinde Teşkilât-ı Mahsusa (İstanbul:
Tarih, 1962); Stoddard, Philip H., The Ottoman Government and the Arabs,
1911–1918. A Preliminary Study of the Teskilat-i Mahsusa (unpublished
Ph.D. thesis, Princeton, 1963, for which Eşref was interviewed) and Zürcher,
The Unionist Factor, pp. 83–8.
11. There are many editions of the Nutuk (cf. the previous chapter). The best-
known modern Turkish edition (and the one I used) is Kemal Atatürk,
Nutuk (İstanbul: Millî Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1967) 3 vols. The English transla-
tion published in Istanbul in 1963 (A Speech Delivered by Mustafa Kemal
Atatürk 1927) is notoriously unreliable.
12. Karabekir, Kâzım, İstiklâl Harbimiz (İstanbul: Türkiye, 1960).
13. Cf. Zürcher, The Unionist Factor, pp. 38–44. For Karabekir’s own role in
the CUP see his: İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti 1896–1908 (İstanbul: Faruk
Özerengin, 1982), written in 1945.
14. Cf. Dursunoğlu, Cevat, Millî Mücadelede Erzurum (Ankara: Ziraat Bankası,
1946) and Tunaya, Tarık Zafer, Türkiyede Siyasî Partiler (İstanbul: Doğan
Kardeş, 1952), pp. 490–1.
15. In 1919 the strength of Karabekir’s Fifteenth Army Corps was 17,860. In
the case of total mobilization this strength rose to 30,000 regulars and
about 20,000 irregulars (Karabekir, İstiklâl Harbimiz, p. 25).
16. Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay] was the son of an Ottoman admiral. He himself
became a national hero as commander of the cruiser Hamidiye in the Balkan
War of 1913. In 1919 he was one of the pioneers of the national resistance
movement, sitting on the Heyet-i Temsiliye (Representative Committee) of
the nationalists and serving in the last Ottoman Parliament. Following his
return from exile (the British deported him to Malta in 1920) he served
as Minister and Prime Minister in Ankara. His memoirs first appeared in
Yakın Tarihimiz, a weekly published by Feridun Kandemir for Türkpetrol
between March 1962 and February 1963.
17. According to a decree of July 1923, army officers could only sit in the
assembly after having given up their army command (they were not required
to leave the army), but this rule was only enforced in November, 1924.
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(Cf. Finefrock, Michael M., From Sultanate to Republic: Mustafa Kemal

Atatürk and the Structure of Turkish Politics 1922–1924 (unpublished
Ph.D. thesis, Princeton, 1976) p. 227.
18. Cf. Zürcher, Erik Jan, Political Opposition in the Early Turkish Republic. The
Progressive Republican Party (1924–1925) (Leiden: Brill, 1991), p. 177.
19. Cf. Erman, Azmi Nihat, İzmir Suikastı ve İstiklâl Mahkemeleri (İstanbul:
Temel, 1971); Kandemir, Feridun, İzmir Suikastının İçyüzü (İstanbul:
Ekicigil, 1955). Also Zürcher, The Unionist Factor, pp. 142–65.
20. Karabekir, Kâzım, İstiklâl Harbimizin Esasları (İstanbul: Sinan, 1951).
21. The Independence Tribunals had originally been instituted in 1920 to deal
with espionage and desertion. They had been abolished after the Nationalist
victory, but two tribunals had been instituted after the passing of the Takrir-i
Sükûn Kanunu in March 1925, one to deal with the Kurdish insurgency in
the east and one to deal with the opposition in the rest of the country.
22. Karabekir, İstiklâl Harbimizin Esasları, pp. 190–2.
23. Atatürk’ün hâtırasına alenen hakaret eden veya söven kimse bir yıldan üç
yıla kadar hapis cezasıyla cezalandırılır (Anyone attacking or insulting the
memory of Ataturk shall be punished with one to three years imprisonment)
(Article 1).
24. The whole story of the trial of Tahsin Demiray is given in Demiray, Tahsin,
İstiklâl Harbimizin Müdafaası (İstanbul: Türkiye, 1969).
25. Bundan sonraki ahval herkesçe görülmüş ve görülmektedir (Karabekir,
İstiklâl Harbimiz, p. l).
26. For instance, those of Rauf Orbay in Yakın Tarihimiz, vol. 3, pp. 50–2. Cf.
also Talât Hasırcıoğ lu, ‘Kâzım Karabekir Mustafa Kemal Paşayı Tutuklamayı
reddediyor’, Belgelerle Türk Tarihi Dergisi 4 (1968), pp. 10–14.
27. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Ataturk and the start of the national resistance move-
ment’, Anatolica 8 (1981), pp. 99–113.
28. Rauf [Orbay] in Yakın Tarihimiz, vol. 3, p. 48; Ali Fuat [Cebesoy], Milli
Mücadele Hatıraları, (İstanbul: Vatan, 1953), p. 72.
29. Atatürk, Nutuk, vol. 2, pp. 596–601.
30. Tunaya, Türkiyede Siyasî Partiler, pp. 537–9; Frey, Frederick W., The Turkish
Political Elite (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1965), pp. 306–23; Tunçay, Mete,
Türkiye Cumhuriyetinde Tek Parti Yönetiminin Kurulması (1923–1931)
(Ankara: Yurt, 1981), pp. 42–7.
31. Cf. Karaman, Sami Sabit, Trabzon ve Kars Hatıraları: İstiklâl Mücadelesi
ve Enver PaŞa (İstanbul, 1949). Also Dumont, Paul, ‘La fascination du
bolchévisme. Enver Pacha et le parti des soviets populaires. 1919–1922’,
Cahiers du Monde Russe et Soviétique 16/2 (1975), pp. 141–66.
32. Cf. Dumont, ‘La fascination du bolchévisme’, and Dumont, Paul,
‘Bolchévisme et Orient. Le parti communiste Turc de Mustafa Suphi.
1918–21’, Cahiers du Monde Russe et Soviétique 18/4 (1977), pp. 377–409.
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Notes
Also Yerasimos, Stefanos, Türk-Sovyet İlişkileri. Ekim Devriminden Milli

Mücadeleye (İstanbul: Gözlem, 1979).
3. The Historiography of the Constitutional Revolution:

Broad Consensus, Some Disagreement and a Missed
Opportunity
* This text was presented as a paper at the Conference Ivresse de la Liberté, held
in Paris in 2008, and has not been published before.
1. Ramsaur, Ernest Edmonton, The Young Turks: Prelude to the Revolution
of 1908 (Princeton, 1957); Kuran, Ahmed Bedevi, İnkılap Tarihimiz ve
Jön Türkler (Istanbul, 1945), and İnkılap Tarihimiz ve İttihad ve Terakki
(Istanbul, 1948); Bayur, Yusuf Hikmet , Türk İnkılabı Tarihi 10 Cilt (Istanbul,
1940–67); Ahmad, Feroz, The Young Turks. The Committee of Union and
Progress in Turkish Politics 1908–1914 (Oxford, 1969); Akşin, Sina, Jön
Türkler ve İttihat ve Terakki (Istanbul, 1980); Kansu, Aykut, The Revolution
of 1908 in Turkey (Leiden, 1997); Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, The Young Turks
in Opposition (Oxford, 1995), and Preparation for a Revolution. The Young
Turks 1902–1908 (Oxford, 2002); Gawrych, George, The Crescent and the
Eagle. Ottoman Rule and the Albanians, 1874–1923 (London, 2006).
2. Roden Buxton, Charles, Turkey in Revolution (London, 1909); Knight,
E.F., The Awakening of Turkey. The Turkish Revolution of 1908 (Boston and
Tokyo, 1910).
3. Niyazi, Ahmet, Hatırat-ı Niyazi yahud Tarihçe-yi İnkılab-ı Kebir-i Osmaniden
bir Sahife (Istanbul, 1910).
4. Külçe, Süleyman, Firzovik Toplantısı ve Meşrutiyet (Izmir, 1944).
5. Knight, Awakening, pp. 135ff.
6. Uzunçarşılı, İsmail Hakkı ‘1908 Yılında ikinci meşrutiyetin ne suretle ilan
edildiğine dair vesikalar’, Belleten 20 (1956), pp. 103–74.
7. Pasinler, Galip, ‘Galip Paşa’ nın hatıraları’, Hayat Tarih Mecmuası 2/6–9
(July–October 1966).
8. Actually the main Young Turk organization led by Ahmed Rıza was called
the Committee of Progress and Union (Terakki ve İttihad Cemiyeti) after
the second congress of Ottoman liberals in 1907 and it was under this name
that it merged with the Salonika-based Ottoman Freedom Society (Osmanlı
Hürriyet Cemiyeti). At the time of the revolution, therefore, this was the
name of the organization, but soon after the revolution the older and better
known name Committee of Union and Progress (İttihad ve Terakki Cemiyeti)
was adopted once more. In this chapter I have therefore used the more com-
mon abbreviation CUP instead of the historically correct CPU.
9. Gawrych incorrectly identifies this area as near Resne (see Gawrych,
The Crescent and the Eagle, p. 150). Also, Ahmad incorrectly states that
301
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Enver – in setting up this band – was following Niyazi’s example (see Ahmad,
The Young Turks, p. 7). Enver in fact moved a week earlier than Niyazi.
10. There certainly were not the 200 mentioned by Ahmad in The Young
Turks, p. 7.
11. The 800 waiting for him in the hills mentioned by Kansu (The Revolution
of 1908 in Turkey, p. 90) are not supported by any evidence.
12. Aydın belonged to the same Third Army military region as did Macedonia –
a point not made clear by any of the works mentioned here.
13. Enver Paşa’nın Anıları (Istanbul: İletişim Yayınları, 1991).
4. The Rise and Fall of ‘Modern’ Turkey: Bernard Lewis’s

Emergence Fifty Years On
* This chapter was originally published as Opkomst en Ondergang van het
‘Moderne’ Turkije (Leiden, CNWS, 1998).
1. Lewis, Bernard, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (London: Oxford
University Press, 1961. Revised edition: 1968).
2. Ahmad, Feroz, The Making of Modern Turkey (London: Routledge, 1993),
p. ix.
3. Lewis, Emergence, p. 1.
5. Berkes, Niyazi, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (Montreal: McGill
University Press, 1964).
6. Tunaya, Tarık Zafer, Türkiye’de Siyasi Partiler 1859–1952 (Istanbul,
n.p., 1952).
8. Faroqhi, Suraiya, ‘Crisis and change’, in İnalcık, Halil, with Quataert,
Donald, An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), p. 413 and Abou-el-Haj,
Rifaat, The Formation of the Modern State: The Ottoman Empire, Sixteenth
to Eighteenth Centuries (Albany: SUNY Press, 1991). The pioneers of this
critique were Owen, Roger, ‘The Middle East in the eighteenth century. An
“Islamic” society in decline: A critique of Gibb and Bowen’ s Islamic Society
and the West,’ in Review of Middle Eastern Studies 1 (1975), pp. 101–12,
and İslamoğlu, Huri and Keyder, Çağlar, ‘Osmanlı tarihi nasıl yazılmalı?’
in Toplum ve Bilim 1/1 (1977), pp. 49–80.
9. Findley, Carter Vaughn, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire. The
Sublime Porte, 1789–1922 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980)
and Ottoman Civil Officialdom. A Social History (Princeton: Princeton
10. Lewis, Emergence, pp. 155–6.
302
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Notes
13. Thobie, Jacques, Intérêts et Imperialisme Français dans l’ Empire Ottoman

(Paris: Sorbonne, 1977).
14. Quataert, Donald, Ottoman Manufacturing in the Age of the Industrial
Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 161ff.
15. Kasaba, Reşat, The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy. The Nineteenth
Century (Albany: SUNY Press, 1988), pp. 87–106.
16. Quataert, Donald, Social Disintegration and Popular Resistance in the
Ottoman Empire 1881–1908. Reactions to European Economic Penetration
(New York: NYU Press, 1983).
17. Toledano, Ehud, Osmanlı Köle Ticareti 1840–1890 (Istanbul: Yurt, 1994).
Translation of his unpublished Ph.D. thesis (Princeton, 1980).
18. Karpat, Kemal, Ottoman Population 1830–1914. Demographic and Social
Characteristic (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985).
19. McCarthy, Justin, The Arab World, Turkey and the Balkans (1878–1914). A
Handbook of Historical Statistics (Boston: G.K. Hall, 1982).
20. Duben, Allen, and Behar, Cem, Istanbul Households. Marriage, Family and
Fertility (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).
21. A good example is: Georgeon, François and Dumont, Paul (ed.), Vivre dans
l’ Empire Ottoman. Sociabilités et relations intercommunautaires (xviiie –
xxe siècles) (Paris: l’Harmattan, 1997).
22. Archivum Ottomanicum 5 (1973), pp. 97–128.
23. For instance in Quataert, Donald and Zürcher, Erik Jan, Workers and
Working Class in the Ottoman Empire and the Turkish Republic (London:
I.B.Tauris, 1995), pp. 127–46.
24. Brockett, Gavin, ‘Collective action and the Turkish revolution: towards
a framework for the social history of the Atatürk era, 1923–38’, Middle
Eastern Studies 34/4 (October 1998), pp. 44–66.
25. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist Factor. The Role of the Committee of Union
and Progress in the Turkish National Movement (1905–1926) (Leiden: Brill,
1984) and; by the same author,’The Ottoman Empire and the Turkish republic.
An attempt at a new periodization’, Welt des Islams 32/2 (1992), pp. 237–53.
27. See primarily Berber, Engin, Sancılı Yıllar: İzmir 1918–1922. Mütareke ve Yunan
İşgali Döneminde İzmir Sancağı (Ankara: Ayraç, 1997); Criss, Nur Bilge, Istanbul
under Allied Occupation 1918–1923 (Leiden: Brill, 1999); Demirel, Ahmet,
Birinci Meclis’ te Muhalefet. İkinci Grup (Istanbul: İletişim, 1994) and Tanör,
Bülent, Türkiye’de Yerel Kongre İktidarları (1918–1920) (Istanbul: AFA, 1992).
29. Toprak, Zafer, Türkiye’de ‘Milli İktisat’ (1908–1918) (Ankara: Yurt, 1982).
A revised and expanded edition was published by Tarih Vakfı/Yurt in
Istanbul in 1995.
303
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31. Akçam, Taner, A Shameful Act. The Armenian Genocide and the Question
of Turkish Responsibility (New York: Metropolitan, 2006).
32. Bloxham, Donald, The Great Game of Genocide. Imperialism, Nationalism,
and the Destruction of the Ottoman Armenians (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2005).
33. Arı, Kemal, Büyük Mübadele. Türkiye’ ye Zorunlu Göç 1923–1925 (Istanbul:
Tarih Vakfı/Yurt, 1999).
34. Prätor, Sabine, Der Arabische Faktor in der Jungtürkischen Politik (Berlin:
Klaus Schwarz, 1993); Kayalı, Hasan, Arabs and Young Turks (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1997).
35. McCarthy, Justin, Muslims and Minorities. The Population of Ottoman
Anatolia and the End of Empire (New York: NYU Press, 1983).
36. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Between death and desertion. The experience of the
Ottoman soldier in World War I’, Turcica 28 (1996), pp. 236–57.
41. Andrews, Peter, Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, TAVO Reihe B
Nr. 60 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1989); Van Bruinessen, Martin, Agha,
Sheikh and State. The Social and Political Structures of Kurdistan (London:
ZED, 1992) (and many subsequent articles) and Bozarslan, Hamit, La
Question Kurde: Etats et Minorities au Moyen-Orient, (Paris: Presses de
Sciences-Po, 1997) (and many articles).
42. Cf. especially: Mardin, Şerif, Religion and Social Change in Modern Turkey.
The Case of Bediüzzaman Said Nursi (Albany: SUNY Press, 1989) and Göle,
Nilüfer, The Forbidden Modern [a mistranslation of ‘ Modern Mahrem’,
which should be rendered something like ‘ The Modern Taboo’], (Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1996).
5. The Ottoman Empire 1850–1922: Unavoidable Failure?

* This chapter has not been published before. It was presented in 2004 as a paper
at the conference Empires in Modern Times in Geneva.
1. Brown, Carl L., Imperial Legacy. The Ottoman Imprint on the Balkans and
the Middle East (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996).
2. The expression ‘Eastern Question’ entered into diplomatic parlance at the
time of the Congress of Verona in 1822. For a detailed survey of the prob-
lem see Anderson, Matthew A., The Eastern Question 1774–1923 A Study in
International Relations (London: Macmillan, 1972) (first edition 1966). For
an excellent brief summary, see: Phillips, Walter Alison, ‘Eastern Question,
304
Zurcher_297-342.indd 304 3/23/2010 10:36:35 PM

Notes
the’ in Encyclopaedia Britannica (Chicago/London, 1962, vol. 7), pp. 861–8,

based on the same author’s contributions to the Cambridge Modern History.
3. The most influential of these critics was Mehmet Ziya Gökalp (1876–1924),
often regarded as the ‘father of Turkish nationalism’. See: Heyd, Uriel,
Foundations of Turkish Nationalism. The Life and Teachings of Ziya Gökalp
(London, 1950), pp. 74ff.
4. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Young Turks, Ottoman Muslims and Turkish national-
ists: identity politics 1908–1938’, in Karpat, Kemal H. (ed.), Ottoman Past
and Today’s Turkey (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 150–79.
5. Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, Preparing for a Revolution. The Young Turks
1902–1908 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), p. 292.
6. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The Ottoman conscription system in theory and practice,
1844–1918’, International Review of Social History 43/3 (1998), pp. 437–49.
7. Shaw, Stanford and Shaw, Ezel, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern
Turkey. Vol. 2. Reform, Revolution and Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1977), pp. 106–13.
8. See: Findley, Carter Vaughn, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire.
The Sublime Porte 1792–1922 (Princeton, 1980).
9. Stephanie Cronin makes this clear in ‘Conscription and popular resistance
in Iran (1925–1941)’ in Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Arming the State. Military
Conscription in the Middle East and Central Asia 1775–1925 (London:
I.B.Tauris, 1999), pp. 145–68. For further comparisons between the two
countries, see: Atabaki, Touraj and Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Men of Order.
Authoritarian Modernisation in Turkey and Iran (London: I.B.Tauris, 2003).
10. ‘Malikane’, Encyclopaedia of Islam. New edition, vol. 6 (Leiden: Brill,
1991), pp. 277–8; ‘Mültezim’, Encyclopaedia of Islam. New edition, vol. 7
(Leiden: Brill, 1993), pp. 550–1.
11. For these macro-economic trends, see: Pamuk, Şevket, The Ottoman Empire
and European capitalism, 1820–1913. Trade, Investment and Production
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987).
12. Clay, Christopher, Gold for the Sultan. Western Bankers and Ottoman
Finance 1865–1881 (London: I.B.Tauris, 2000), pp. 503ff.
13. Ahmed Emin [Yalman], Turkey in the World War (New Haven: Yale, 1930),
p. 157.
14. Mitchell, Brian, International Historical Statistics. Europe 1750–1988 (third
edition) (New York: Stockton, 1992).
15. Posthumus, Nicolaas W., Goederenprijzen op de beurs van Amsterdam
1585–1914. Wisselkoersen te Amsterdam 1609–1914 (Leiden: Brill, 1943).
16. For a useful summary, based on recent research, of the problems involved
in estimating the population, see: Quataert, Donald, ‘The age of reforms,
1812–1914’, in İnalcık, Halil with Quataert, Donald (ed.), An Economic and
Social History of the Ottoman Empire 1300–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge
305
Zurcher_297-342.indd 305 3/23/2010 10:36:35 PM

University Press, 1994), in particular, pp. 777–98. The main problem is

uncertainty about the average size of the households. Adding one person
per household adds five million people to the total.
17. Ahmed Emin [Yalman], Turkey in the World War, pp. 78–80.
18. Larcher, Maurice, La guerre turque dans la guerre mondiale (Paris: Chiron,
1926), pp. 589–90.
19. Quataert, Donald, Social Disintegration and Popular Resistance in the
Ottoman Empire, 1881–1908. Reactions to European Economic Penetration
(New York: New York University Press, 1983), pp. 48–9.
20. Ahmed Emin [Yalman], Turkey in the World War, p. 89.
21. See: Van den Boogert, Maurits H., Ottoman Dragomans and European
Consuls. The Protection System in Eighteenth-Century Aleppo, unpub-
lished Ph.D. thesis (Leiden University, 2002).
22. Mardin, Şerif, The Genesis of Young Ottoman Thought. A Study in the
Modernization of Turkish Political Ideas (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1962).
23. Gorgeon, François, Abdulhamid II le Sultan Caliphe (Paris: Fayard, 2003),
pp. 192ff; Deringil, Selim, The Well-protected Domains. Ideology and
the Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire 1876–1909 (London:
I.B.Tauris, 1998). On p. 17 Deringil explicitly compares Abdülhamit’s poli-
cies with those of the Tsars.
24. See Keyder, Çağlar, State and Class in Turkey. A Study in Capitalist
Development (London: Verso, 1987), pp. 49–90.
ists: identity politics 1908–1938’ in Karpat, Kemal H. (ed.), Ottoman Past
and Today’s Turkey (Leiden, 2000), pp. 150–79.
26. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The Ottoman conscription system in theory and prac-
tice, 1844–1918’, International Review of Social History 43/3 (1998),
pp. 437–49. The information is based on British consular reports.
27. Toprak, Zafer, Türkiye’de Millî İktisat (Ankara: Yurt, 1982) was the ground-
breaking work on this subject. Since then, Toprak has published several
works on the same subject but with the emphasis on different aspects of
the national economy programme. The latest is: İttihat ve Terakki ve Cihan
Harbi. Savaş Ekonomisi ve Türkiye’de Devletçilik (İstanbul: Homer, 2003).
6. The Ides of April: A Fundamentalist Uprising in

Istanbul in 1909?
* Originally published as: ‘The Ides of April. A fundamentalist uprising in
Istanbul in 1909?’ in Van Dijk, C. and De Groot, A.H., State and Islam (Leiden,
1996), pp. 64–76.
1. Berkes, Niyazi, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (Montreal:
McGill, 1964).
306
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Notes
2. Davison, Roderic H., Reform in the Ottoman Empire 1856–1876 (New

York: Gordian, 1973); Lewis, Bernard, The Emergence of Modern Turkey
(London: Oxford University Press, 1961).
3. Findley, Carter Vaughn, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire. The
Sublime Porte 1789–1922 (Princeton: Princeton University, 1980).
4. Yapp, Malcolm E., The Making of the Modern Middle East 1792–1923 [A
History of the Middle East, vol. 5] (London/New York: Longman, 1987),
pp. 36–45.
5. Pamuk, Şevket, The Ottoman Empire and European Capitalism, 1820–1913.
Trade, Investment and Production (Cambridge: Cambridge University,
1987); Keyder, Çağlar, State and Class in Turkey. A Study in Capitalist
Development (London/New York: Verso, 1987), pp. 27–48; Kasaba, Reşat,
The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy. The Nineteenth Century
(Binghamton: State University of New York, 1988).
6. Davison, Reform, pp. 100–2; Yapp, The Making of the Modern Middle East,
pp. 112–14.
7. Mardin, Şerif, The Genesis of Young Ottoman Thought. A Study in the
Modernization of Turkish Political Ideas (Princeton: Princeton University,
1962).
8. Devereux, Robert, The First Ottoman Constitutional Period. A Study of
the Mithat Constitution and Parliament (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1963),
pp. 21–94; Davison, Reform, pp. 358–408.
9. Lewis, Emergence, pp. 174–82. Shaw, Stanford, History of the Ottoman
Empire and Modern Turkey Vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1977), pp. 172–272.
10. Shaw, History, pp. 112–13.
11. Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, Bir Siyasal Örgüt Olarak ‘Osmanlı İttihad ve Terakki
Cemiyeti’ ve ‘Jön Türklük’, Cilt 1: (1889–1902) (İstanbul: İletişim, 1986);
Ramsaur, Ernest Edmondson, The Young Turks. Prelude to the Revolution
of 1908 (New York: Russel and Russel, Second printing [First printing:
Princeton: Princeton University, 1957], 1970).
12. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist Factor. The Role of the Committee of
Union and Progress in the Turkish National Movement (Leiden: Brill, 1984),
pp. 19–44.
13. Ahmad, Feroz, The Young Turks. The Committee of Union and Progress in
Turkish Politics 1908–1914 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969), pp. 15–21.
14. Akşin, Sina, Jön Türkler ve İttihat ve Terakki (İstanbul: Remzi, 1987),
pp. 107–8.
15. Tunaya, Tarık Zafer, Türkiye’de Siyasî Partiler 1859–1952 (Istanbul: n.p.,
1952), pp. 239–47.
16. Akşin, Jön Türkler, pp. 110–16.
17. Akşin, Jön Türkler, pp. 122–3.
307
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18. Güven, Gül Çağalı, ‘80 Yılında 31 Mart’, Cumhuriyet, 13 April 1989,
p. 13.
19. Tunaya, Siyasî Partiler, pp. 261–75.
20. The most important scholarly literature is: Bayur, Yusuf Hikmet, Türk
İnkılâbî Tarihi. Cilt: I-Kısım: 2 (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1983), pp.
182–217; and Akşin, Sina, Jön Türkler ve İttihat ve Terakki, pp. 121–40.
For popular literature based on memoirs see: Danişmend, İsmail Hami,
Sadr-ı-a’zam Tevfik Paşa’nın’ Dosyasındaki Resmi ve Hususi Vesikalara
Göre: 31 Mart Vak’ası (İstanbul: İstanbul, Third printing, 1986); Adıvar,
Halide Edib, Memoirs of Halide Edib (London/New York: Century, 1926)
and Yalçın, Hüseyin Cahit, Siyasal Anılar (Istanbul: İş Bankası, 1976).
21. Algemeen Rijksarchief’s Gravenhage, Tweede Afdeling, Kabinetsarchief
van het Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken betrefffende politieke rap-
portage door Nederlandse diplomatieke vertegenwoordigers in het buiten-
land 1871–1940 [hereafter referred to as ARA], 471/162 (1 April 1909);
ARA, 506/175 (6 April 1909).
22. ARA 543/191 (14 April 1909).
23. ARA 546/192 (15 April 1909).
24. Adıvar, Memoirs, p. 279; Akşin, Jön Türkler, p. 127.
25. ARA 550/194 (16 April 1909).
26. ARA, 553/196 (17 April 1909).
27. Danişmend, Sadr-ı-a’zam, pp. 40–97.
28. ARA, 553/196 (17 April 1909).
29. ARA, 578/200 (20 April 1909).
30. Akşin, Jön Türkler, p. 133.
31. ARA, 601/206 (25 April 1909).
32. ARA, 624/214 (27 April 1909), ARA 636/219 (29 April 1909).
33. Güven, ‘80 Yılında 31 Mart’, Akşin, Jön Türkler, p. 121.
34. Güven, ‘80 Yılında 31 Mart’, p. 11.
35. ARA 490/172 (5 April 1909).
36. Güven, ‘80 Yılında 31 Mart’.
37. ARA 553/196 (17 April 1909).
38. Akşin, Jön Türkler, p. 127; Bayur , Türk İnkılâbı Tarihi, pp. 186–7;
Danişmend, Sadr-ı-a’zam, pp. 21–3.
39. Güven, ‘80 Yılında 31 Mart’.
40. Akşin, Jön Türkler, pp. 128–30; Bayur, Türk İnkılâbı Tarihi, pp. 184–5.
41. ARA, 540/190 (13 April 1909).
42. ARA, 562/199 (19 April 1909).
43. Olson, Robert, The Emergence of Kurdish Nationalism and the Sheikh
Said Rebellion, 1880–1925 (Austin: University of Texas, 1989),
pp. 91–127.
44. TCBMM Zabit Ceridesi, vol. 14, pp. 306–11.
308
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Notes
7. Sultan Mehmet V’s Visit to Kosovo in June 1911

* Originally published as: ‘Kosovo revisited: Sultan Reshad’s Macedonian jour-
ney in 1911’, Middle Eastern Studies 35/4 (1999), pp. 26–39.
1. It is perhaps useful to point out that Macedonia was not an Ottoman admin-
istrative unit. The area so described comprised the provinces (vilâyets) of
Salonica, Kosovo (capital: Üsküp) and Monastir.
2. This is evident from Karabekir, Kâzım, İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti
1896–1909 (İstanbul: private, 1982 [written in 1945]), p. 176.
3. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Niyâzî Bey, Ahmed’ in Encyclopaedia of Islam. New
Edition, vol. 8 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 67–8.
4. In November 1908 a so-called Pan-Albanian conference in Monastir (Bitola)
endorsed a plan to use a modified Latin alphabet for the Albanian language
and to introduce it in schools in Albania.
5. Şevket Turgut Pasha was an officer of Circassian descent, who commanded
the Kosovo army corps during the 1908 revolution and after. He also was the
Commander of the Thracian army corps in the Balkan War. After World War
I he held the position of Minister of Supplies and of War under Damat Ferit
Pasha, but had to resign because of his nationalist sympathies. After his retire-
ment from the army in 1919 he worked as a trader until his death in 1924.
6. Malcolm, Noel, Kosovo. A Short History (London: Macmillan, 1998), pp.
239–43. Malcolm gives the number of Albanians who blocked the railway
at Kaçanik as 9,000.
7. Malcolm gives the total number of Ottoman troops involved in the cam-
paign as 40,000 (Malcolm, Kosovo), p. 242.
8. Bartl, Ernst, Die albanische Muslime zur Zeit der nationalen
Unabhängigkeitsbewegung 1878 – 1912 (Wiesbaden, 1968), pp. 167ff. For
a more recent study of Albanian nationalism and the Ottoman reaction in
this period, see Gawrych, George, The Crescent and the Eagle. Ottoman
Rule, Islam and the Albanians 1874–1913 (London: I.B.Tauris, 2006).
9. On the Macedonian question see Adanır, Fikret, Makedonya Sorunu
(Istanbul, 1996).
10. In 1911, the newspapers stated that Mehmet Reşat’s earlier visit to Salonica
with his father had taken place in 1863, but that must be a mistake since his
father died in 1861.
11. Georgeon, François, ‘Le Sultan caché. Réclusion du souverain et mise en
scène du pouvoir à l’époque d’Abdülhamid II (1876–1909)’, Turcica 29
(1997), pp. 93–124.
12. Deringil, Selim, The Well-protected Domains. Ideology and the Legitimation
of Power in the Ottoman Empire, 1876–1909 (London, 1998).
13. Prince Reşat was born as son of Sultan Abdülmecit in the Çirağan Palace
in Istanbul on 16 November 1844. He succeeded his brother Abdülhamit
as Sultan on 27 April 1909 and reigned until his death on 3 July 1918.
309
Zurcher_297-342.indd 309 3/23/2010 10:36:36 PM

For a biography see Karal, Enver Ziya, ‘Mehmed V’ in İslam Ansiklopedisi,

vol. 7 (İstanbul: Millî Eğitim Matbaası, no date), pp. 557–62.
14. That Prince Reşat took the official name of Mehmet V on his accession was
also an act of historic symbolism. The name Mehmet had not been used by
rulers since the late seventeenth century and its revival on this occasion was
meant to evoke memories of Mehmet II, the conqueror of Istanbul in 1453.
Reşat was portrayed as a second conqueror because his accession was the
result of the taking of the city by the Action Army which suppressed the
counterrevolution known as the 31 March incident (31 Mart vakası).
15. The Sultan’s private secretary at the time, Halit Ziya Uşaklıgil, describes the
preparations in detail in Saray ve Ötesi. Son Hatıralar (İstanbul: İnkılâp ve
Aka, 1965) (second edition, two volumes in one binding), pp. 238–9, 260–1.
16. The Turgut Reis and the Barbaros Hayrettin were the largest capital ships in
the Ottoman navy in 1911. They had been built in Germany in 1890–1 as
the Weissenburg and the Kurfürst Friedrich Wilhelm of the imperial German
navy. By 1910 these pre-dreadnought battleships were obsolete and sold to
the Ottoman navy. The Barbaros Hayrettin was sunk by a British submarine
in 1915, while the Turgut Reis went on to serve as a stationary training ship
in Gölcük and was finally broken up in 1950 (Bernd Langensiepen and
Ahmet Güleryüz, The Ottoman Steam Navy 1828–1923 [London, 1995]).
17. Uşaklıgil, Saray ve Ötesi, p. 245.
18. Unless otherwise stated, the facts are given as reported in Senin (the temporary
name of the newspaper Tanin when the latter was banned by the government).
Many of the reports are by Hakkı Tarik (Us). Us is his family name, but family
names were introduced only in 1934, so at this time he was still only H.T. The
reporting in the newspaper is detailed, but it should be kept in mind that it was
the unofficial organ of the CUP and strongly biased in favour of that organiza-
tion. In the references the Mali date generally used in the Ottoman Empire at
the time is followed by the date in the Gregorian calendar (e.g. 1/14 June).
19. Halit Ziya (1869–1945) was a scion of a prominent trading family from Izmir,
the Uşakizadeler, to which Atatürk’s wife, Latife Hanım, also belonged. He
first worked in the tobacco monopoly and then served Sultan Reşat as sec-
retary for four years. Thereafter his career was an academic one. Halit Ziya
is known as Turkey’s first successful novelist in the European manner.
20. PRO/FO 195/2381/54. Consulate in Salonica (Lamb) to Embassy in Istanbul.
Report of 11 June 1911.
21. Ibid.
22. Gazi Evrenos Bey (d. 1417), a Greek convert to Islam, was an Ottoman
military commander under both Sultan Murat I and Sultan Bayezit I. His
son and grandsons also served with distinction in the Ottoman army.
23. Among these was Şemsi Efendi, the founder (in 1870) of the first private
primary school for Muslims in the empire. His was the primary school
310
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Notes
attended by Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk). In 1879 the school was renamed

Terakki Mektebi (Progress School) when it received Rüşdiye (middle school)
status. In 1919 the school was moved to Şişli in Istanbul. It continues to
exist today. Since 1994 it has been located in Levent.
24. Lloyd Ottoman 134 (10 June 1911), p. 4.
25. Lloyd Ottoman 131 (7 June 1911), p. 4. Whether this report (based on
rumours circulating before the arrival of the sultan) is actually correct, is
unclear.
26. Senin of 28 May/11 June 1911; PRO/FO 195/2381/54.
27. On this interesting society see Özçelik, Selahittin, Donanma-yı Osmani
Muavenet-i Milliye Cemiyeti (Ankara, 2000).
28. Lloyd Ottoman 136 (13 June 1911), p. 4.
29. PRO/FO 195/2381/25. Report from consul Üsküp (Hugh) to consul Salonica
(Lamb), 19 June 1911.
30. Ibid.
(Lamb), 22 June 1911.
(Lamb), 19 June 1911.
33. Senin, 2/15 June 1911 (report of 1/14 June); Lloyd Ottoman 137
(14 June 1911), report of the Agence Ottomane.
34. Malcolm, Kosovo, p. 244. Malcolm bases his work on the memoirs of
Serbian vice-consul Rakic.
35. Pears, Sir Edwin, Forty Years in Constantinople. The Recollections of Sir
Edwin Pears 1873–1915 (London: Herbert Jenkins, 1916), p. 308.
36. Uşaklıgil, p. 266.
(Lamb), 26 June 1911.
38. Lloyd Ottoman 139 (16 June 1911).
39. PRO/FO 294/47 (political correspondence Monastir)/38 Report by Arthur
Geary (consul) to Sir C.M. Marling, Chargé d’Affaires, Constantinople,
27 June 1911.
40. Lloyd Ottoman 145 (23 June 1911).
41. Quotation from Senin in Osmanische Lloyd 148 (27 June 1911), 1
‘Pressestimmen’.
42. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Muslim nationalism: the missing link in the genesis
of modern Turkey’, Hamizrah Hehadash (The New East) 39 (Jerusalem:
Magnes Press, 1998), pp. 67–83.
8. Who Were the Young Turks?

* This chapter was newly written, based on several earlier publications: ‘Yıkımın
ve yenilenmenin mimarları: Kemalist jenerasyona ve Jön Türklere dair bir grup
311
Zurcher_297-342.indd 311 3/23/2010 10:36:36 PM

biyografisi denemesi’, in Alkan, Mehmet Ö, Bora, Tanıl and Koraltürk, Murat,

(ed.), Mete Tunçay’a Armağan (Istanbul: Iletişim, 2007), pp. 539–72; ‘How
Europeans adopted Anatolia and discovered Turkey’, European Review 13/3
(2005), pp. 379–94, and ‘The Young Turks – Children of the borderlands?’,
International Journal of Turkish Studies 9/1–2 (2003), pp. 275–86. The latter
was translated into Italian as ‘I “Giovanni Turchi”: Figli delle terre di frontiera?’,
Rivista Storica Italiana 115/2 (2003), pp. 543–55.
1. Ahmad, Feroz, The Young Turks. The Committee of Union and Progress in
Turkish Politics 1908–14 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969); Allen, Henry Elisha, The
Turkish Transformation. A Study in Social and Religious Development (Chicago:
University of Chicago, 1935) [reprinted, New York: Greenwood Press, 1968];
Lewis, Geoffrey, Modern Turkey (London & Tonbridge: Ernest Benn Limited,
1974); Lewis, Bernard, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1961); Shaw, Stanford and Shaw, Ezel, History of the Ottoman
Empire and Modern Turkey. Vol. II: Reform, Revolution and Republic: The
Rise of Modern Turkey, 1808–1975 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1977); Robinson, Richard D., The First Turkish Republic. A Case Study in
National Development (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963) and
Akşin, Sina, Jön Türkler ve Ittihat ve Terakki (Istanbul: Remzi, 1987).
2. Following the usage established in my Unionist Factor and later in Turkey A
Modern History (1993) I use the term ‘Young Turk’ for the whole group that
was involved in the constitutionalist agitation before 1908, the CUP and its off-
shoots between 1908 and 1918, the leadership of the national resistance move-
ment after World War I and the leadership of the early republic (until 1950).
3. Gövsa, İbrahim Alâettin, Türk Meşhurları Ansiklopedisi (Istanbul: Yedigün
Nesriyati, 1946).
4. Notable exceptions are Camilla Dawletschin-Linder’s biography of Celâl
Bayar: Diener seines Staates. Celâl Bayar (1883–1986) und die Entwicklung der
modernen Türkei (Wiesbaden: Harassowitz, 2003); Şükrü Hanioğlu’s study
of Abdullah Cevdet: Bir Siyasal Düşünür olarak Doktor Abdullah Cevdet ve
Dönemi (Istanbul, 1981); Ada Holly Shissler’s Between Two Worlds. Ahmet
Ağaoğlu and the New Turkey (London: I.B.Tauris, 2003) or Andrew Mango’s
Atatürk (London: John Murray, 1999).
5. I have chosen the following 14 representative activists of the first
generation:
Ishak Sükuti (Diyarbakır, 1868)
Abdullah Cevdet (Arapkır, 1869)
İbrahim Temo (Struga near Ohrid, 1865)
Hüseyinzade Ali (Selyan, Azerbaijan, 1864)
Ahmet Rıza (Istanbul, 1859)
Mizancı Murat (Dargi (Caucasus), 1854)
Bahaettin Şakır (Sliven, 1870)
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Notes
Nazım (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1870)

Ağaoğlu Ahmet (Shusa, Azerbaijan, 1869)
Ahmet Ferit (Bursa, 1877)
Ahmet Saip (Lezgi, Caucasus, 1859)
Yusuf Akçura (Simbirsk, 1874)
Tunalı Hilmi (Turgovishte, 1871)
Çerkes Mehmet Reşit (Bjedno, Caucasus, 1873)
6. Those ten leaders were:
Mehmet Talât (Edirne, 1874)
Mithat Şükrü [Bleda] (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1874)
Evranoszade Rahmi [Arslan] (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1874)
Mehmet Tahir (Bursa, 1861)
Nakiyüddin [Yücekök] (Nasliç/Neapolis, 1866)
Edip Servet [Tör] (Adapazarı, 1880)
Kâzım Nami [Duru] (Istanbul, 1877)
Ömer Naci (Istanbul, 1878),
İsmail Canbolat (Istanbul, 1880)
Hakkı Baha [Pars] (Bursa, ?)
7. Enver, hero of the 1908 revolution and of the wars in Tripolitania and the
Balkans, of course later became the Ottoman Minister of War and Vice-
commander in Chief. His is an interesting example of the complications
involved in tracing the geographical background of the Young Turks. He was
born in Istanbul, where his father and mother had also been born, but the
family, originally Christian Gagauz Turks, hailed from the Crimea. After the
Russian occupation of the Crimea, they had moved to Kilia on the Danube.
When the Russians occupied that area in 1877, the family fled to Abana in
the province of Kastamonu, whence they moved to Istanbul. Although Enver
was born there in 1881, he grew up mostly in Monastir, where his father got
a job as a technician for the Ministry of Public Works before he was eight
years old (Şevket Süreyya Aydemir, Makedonya’ dan Orta Asya’ ya Enver
Paşa Cilt. 1 (1860–1908) (Istanbul: Remzi, 1972), pp. 177ff.).
8. As representatives of the group of politically active officers, I have chosen:
Enver (Istanbul, 1880)
Ali Fethi [Okyar] (Pirlepe/Prilep, 1880)
Sadık (Istanbul, 1860)
İsmail Hakkı (Monastir/Bitola, 1879)
Fahrettin [Altay] (İşkodra/Skhoder, 1880)
Ali İhsan (Sabis) (Istanbul, 1882)
Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1881)
Ali Fuat [Cebesoy] (Istanbul, 1883, but born in a Circassian family that
had been settled in Crete)
Halil [Kut] (Istanbul, 1881)
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Kâzım Karabekir (Istanbul, 1882)

Kâzım [Özalp] (Köprülü/Velesh, 1880)
Süleyman Askeri (?, 1884)
İsmet [İnönü] (Izmir, 1884, but born in a Kurdish family from Malatya)
Ali [Çetinkaya] (Afyon, 1878)
Seyfi [Düzgören] (Istanbul, 1880)
Cafer Tayyar [Eğilmez] (Priştine/Prishtina, 1879)
Niyazi (Resne/Resen, 1874)
Eyüp Sabri (Ohri/Ohrid, 1876)
Hüsrev Sami [Kızıldoğan] (Gümülcine/Dimetoka, 1884)
Aziz Ali (Cairo, 1879)
Ahmet Cemal (Istanbul, 1872)
9. The one striking exception was Colonel Sadık, the commander of the cav-
alry regiment in Monastir, who protected the Unionist officers there. He
was born in Istanbul in 1860. But Sadık was exceptional in other ways as
well. A deeply religious man, he fell out with the committee after the revo-
lution and ultimately was forced to leave the country after the Unionist
coup d’état of 1913.
10. Vagyan, Arsen, Osmanlı İmparatorluğu ve Kemalist Türkiyenin Devlet-
İktidar Sisteminde Çerkesler (İstanbul: Belge, 2004), p. 280.
11. I have studied the following members of the Central Committee:
Hüseyin Kadri (?, 1870)
Mehmet Talât (Edirne, 1874)
Midhat Şükrü [Bleda] (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1874)
Hayri Efendi (Ürgüp, 1867)
Ahmet Rıza (Istanbul, 1859)
Enver (Istanbul, 1880)
Habib
İpekli Hafız İbrahim (İpek/Pec, ?)
Nâzım (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1870)
Ömer Naci (Istanbul, 1878),
İhsan Namık
Haci Adil [Arda] (Edirne, 1869)
Eyüp Sabri [Akgöl] (Ohri/Ohrid, 1876)
Ziya
Ahmet Nesimi [Sayman] (Crete, ?)
Hüseyinzade Ali [Turan] (Selyan, Azerbaijan, 1864)
Ali Fethi [Okyar] (Pirlepe/Prilep, 1880)
Halil [Menteşe] (Milas, 1874)
Sait Halim (Cairo, 1863)
Bahaettin Şakir (İslimiye/Sliven, 1870)
Ziya Gökalp (Diyarbakır, 1875)
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Notes
Rüsuhi
Emrullah Ef. (Lüleburgaz, 1858)
Küçük Talat [Muşkara]
Kara Kemal (Istanbul, 1868)
Hilmi (Şavşat, 1885)
12. For the leadership of the national resistance I have looked at:
Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1881)
Mahmut Celâl [Bayar] (Gemlik, 1884 in a family of refugees from
Bulgaria)
Kavaklı Fevzi [Çakmak] (Istanbul, 1876)
İsmet [İnönü] (Izmir, 1884, in a Kurdish family from Malatya)
Cami [Aykut] (Istanbul, 1877)
Celalettin Arif (Erzurum, 1875)
İsmail Fazıl (Kandiye/Iraklion, 1856, from an immigrant Circassian
family)
Bekir Sami [Kunduh] (Sambay (Caucasus), 1867, Ossetian)
Adnan [Adıvar] (Gallipoli/Gelibolu, 1882)
Yusuf Kemal (Tengirşenk) (Boyabat, 1878)
Hakkı Behiç [Bayiç] (Istanbul, 1886, in a Circassian immigrant family)
Rıza Nur (Sinop, 1878)
Ahmet Ferit [Tek] (Bursa, 1879, in an Istanbul-based family)
Ahmet Muhtar (Çanakkale, 1870)
Abdülkadır Kemali [Öğütçü] (Adana, 1881)
Zekai [Apaydın] (Graveshka (Bosnia), 1877)
Hamdullah Suphi [Tanrıöver] (Istanbul, 1886)
13. This list consists of the following persons:
Ismet Inönü (Izmir, 1884)
Fevzi Çakmak (Istanbul, 1876)
Kâzım Özalp (Köprülü/Veles, 1880)
Mustafa Abdülhalik Renda (Yanya/Janina, 1881)
Refik Saydam (Istanbul, 1882)
Şükrü Kaya (Istanköy/Kos, 1883)
Şükrü Saraçoglu (Ödemiş, 1887)
Recep Peker (Istanbul, 1888)
Ali Çetinkaya (Afyonkarahisar, 1878)
Mahmut Celâl Bayar (Gemlik, 1884)
Fuat Ağrali (Midilli/Lesbos, 1878)
Tevfik Rüştü Aras (Çanakkale, 1883)
Ali Rana Tarhan (Istanbul, 1883)
Muhlis Erkmen (Bursa, 1891)
Hulusi Alatas (Beyşehir, 1882)
Saffet Arikan (Erzincan, 1887)
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Şakir Kesebir (Köprülü/Velesh, 1889)

Süleyman Sırrı (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1874)
Hasan Ali Yücel (Istanbul, 1897)
Reşit Galip (Rodos, 1893)
Hasan Hüsnü Saka (Trabzon, 1885)
Zekai Apaydın (Bosna/Bosnia, 1877)
Mahmut Esat Bozkurt (Kuşadası, 1892)
Esat Sagay (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1874)
Hilmi Uran (Bodrum, 1884)
Naci Tınaz (Serfice/Servia, 1882)
14. The president and his circle consists of the following persons:
Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1881)
Kılıç Ali (Emrullahzade Asaf) (Istanbul, 1889)
Nuri Conker (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1881)
Salih Bozok (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1881)
İsmail Müştak Mayakon (Yenişehir/Larissa, 1882)
Müfit Özdeş (Kırsehir, 1874)
Falih Rıfkı Atay (Istanbul, 1893)
Hasan Cavit Betül (?)
Cevat Abbas Gürer (Niş /Nish, 1887)
Tahsin Uzer (Salonica/Thessaloniki, 1879)
Edip Servet Tör (Adapazarı, 1880).
9. The Young Turk Mindset

* This chapter is based on: ‘Yıkımın ve yenilenmenin mimarları: Kemalist
jenerasyona ve Jön Türklere dair bir grup biyografisi denemesi’, in Alkan,
Mehmet Ö, Bora, Tanıl and Koraltürk, Murat (ed.), Mete Tunçay’a Armağan
(Istanbul: Iletişim, 2007), pp. 539–72.
1. Pamuk, Şevket, The Ottoman Empire and European Capitalism 1820–1913:
Trade, Investment and Production (Cambridge, 1987).
2. Reşat Kasaba has argued against the ‘compradore’ character of the Christian
bourgeoisie in his The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy: The
Nineteenth Century (Albany, 1988); Hilmar Kaiser has criticized the idea that
the Christians enriched themselves at the expense of the Ottoman Empire in
his Imperialism, Racism, and Development Theories. The Construction of a
Dominant Paradigm on Ottoman Armenians (Ann Arbor, 1997).
3. The process is described very well in: Schmitt, Oliver Jens, Levantiner.
Lebenswelten und Identitäten einer ethnokonfessionellen Gruppe im osma-
nischen Reich im ‘langen 19. Jahrhundert’(Habil.-Schr.) (München, 2005).
4. Göçek, Fatma Müge, Rise of the Bourgeoisie, Demise of Empire: Ottoman
Westernization and Social Change (Oxford, 1996); Fawaz, Laila, Merchants
and in Nineteenth-century Beirut (Cambridge, MA, 1983); Anastassiadou,
316
Zurcher_297-342.indd 316 3/23/2010 10:36:36 PM

Notes
Meropi, Salonique 1830–1912: une ville ottomane à l’age des Réformes

(Leiden, 1997); Mazower, Mark, Salonica, City of Ghosts: Christians,
Muslims and Jews, 1430–1950 (London, 2004).
5. Karabekir, Kâzım, İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti 1896–1909. [written in 1945]
(İstanbul, 1982), p. 138.
6. See, for instance, Enver’s speech to the villagers of the Tikvesh region
in Enver Paşa’ nın Anıları 1881–1908 (Yayına Hazırlayan Halil Erdoşan
Cengiz) (İstanbul, 1991), pp. 105ff.
7. M. Şükrü Hanioğlu, The Young Turks in Opposition (New York/Oxford,
1995).
8. In his speech at the opening of the tenth anniversary celebrations of the
republic in Ankara on 29 October 1933.
9. Tunaya, Tarık Zafer, Türkiye’ de Siyasal Partiler III İttihat ve Terakki
(İstanbul, 1989), p. 22. Many of the popular works of French romantic nov-
elists were also available in Ottoman Turkish. The Count of Monte Cristo
by Dumas Père, a very topical novel for Young Turk conspirators, had been
available in translation since 1871, for instance.
10. Tunaya, Siyasal Partiler, p. 214.
11. ‘O child of the Turkish future! Look: Even in these circumstances your duty
is to save the Turkish independence and republic! The strength you need is
present in the pure blood in your veins! (Ey Türk istikbalinin evladı! İşte bu
ahval ve şerait içinde dahi vazifen Türk istiklal ve cumhuriyetini kurtarmaktır!
Muhtacolduğun kudret, damarlarındaki asıl kanda mevcuttur!).
12. In a sense the Young Turk criticisms of Sultan Abdülhamit were paradoxi-
cal. On the one hand they described his regime as over-powerful and even
a tyranny, but on the other they accused him of weakness vis-à-vis the
European powers.
13. The Mürzsteg agreement between Russia and Austria was concluded in
October 1903 as a reaction to the Ilinden uprising of August 1903, which
had been repressed with great brutality by the Ottoman army. It foresaw
the establishment of an international gendarmerie force in Macedonia.
14. Duru, Kâzım, ‘İttihat ve Terakki’ Hatıralarım (İstanbul, 1957), p. 14.
15. The only exception were the Romanian-speaking Vlahs, who as a small
minority were as much under threat of Serbian and Greek irredentism as
the Turks. This explains the fact that some Vlahs, like the famous Batzaria
Efendi, would enter the CUP before the revolution.
16. Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, Preparation for a Revolution. The Young Turks
1902–1908 (Oxford, 2001), p. 267.
17. The formation of special volunteer units, composed of members who were
ready to offer their lives for the ‘sacred cause’ was foreseen in articles 49
and 50 of the CUP Regulations. See, for instance, Bayar, Celâl, Ben de
Yazdım. Milli Mücadele’ye Gidiş, Vol. 1 (İstanbul, 1965), p. 128. The formal
317
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founding of the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa seems to have occurred only in 1914

(Bıyıklıoğlu, Tevfik, Trakya’ da Milli Mücadele I (Ankara, 1955), pp. 88–90)
but it seems to have existed as an informal grouping before that date.
18. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist Factor. The Role of the Committee of Union
and Progress in the Turkish National Movement (1905–1926) (Leiden, 1984),
pp. 83ff.
19. The initiation ritual is described by Enver (Enver Paşa’ nın Anıları,
pp. 60–1) and Kâzım Karabekir (İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti, pp. 166ff.).
20. Tunaya, Siyasal Partiler; Bayar, Ben de Yazdım, p. 128.
21. See also the chapters ‘Ides of April’ and ‘Turning Points and Missed
Opportunities in the Modern History of Turkey’ in this volume.
22. Nezir-Akmeşe, Handan, The Birth of Modern Turkey: The Ottoman Military
and the March to World War I (London, 2005).
23. For a groundbreaking analysis of militarist nationalism in contemporary
Turkey, see: Altınay, Ayşegül, The Myth of the Military-Nation: Militarism,
Gender, and Education in Turkey (New York, 2005).
24. Balkan şehirlerinde geçerken çocukluğum
Her lahzâ bir alev gibi hasretti duyduğum
Kalbimde vardı Byron’u bedbaht eden melâl
Gezdim o yaşta dağları hülyâm içinde lâl
Aldım Rakofça kırlarının hür havasını
Duydum akıncı cedlerinin ihtirasını
Her yaz şimâle doğru asırlarca bir koşu
Bağrımda bir akis gibi kalmış uğultulu
Malüpken ordu, yaslı dururken bütün vatan
Rüyama girdi her gece bir fatihâne zan
Hicretlerin bakıyyesi, hicrânlı duygular;
25. Köroğlu, Erol, Türk Edebiyatı ve Birinci Dünya Savaşı (1914–1918).
Propagandadan Milli Kimlik Inşasına (İstanbul, 2004), p. 121.
26. Birdoğan, Nejat, İttihat-Terakki’nin Alevilik Bektaşilik Araştırması (Baha
Sait Bey) (İstanbul, 1994).
27. Birdoğan, İttihat, p. 7.
28. Yoldaşlar, nasip olmazsa görmek o günü, Ölürsem kurtuluştan once yani,
Alıp götürün Anadolu’ da bir köy mezarlığına gömün beni.
10. Atatürk as a Unionist

* Annual lecture of the LSE chair of Turkish Studies, at SOAS, London, February
2009.
1. Mango, Andrew, Atatürk (London: John Murray, 1999); McFie, A.L.,
Atatürk (London: Longman, 1994), Kreiser, Klaus, Atatürk Eine Biographie
(München: Beck, 2008).
318
Zurcher_297-342.indd 318 3/23/2010 10:36:36 PM

Notes
2. Erickson, Edward J., Defeat in Detail. The Ottoman Army in the Balkans
1912–1913 (Westport: Praeger, 2003); Erickson, Edward J., Ordered to Die. A
History of the Ottoman Army in the First World War (Westport: Greenwood,
2001); Handan Nezir-Akmese, The Birth of Modern Turkey. The Ottoman
Military and the March to World War I (London: I.B.Tauris, 2005).
3. Karabekir, Kâzım, İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti 1896–1909 (Istanbul:
n.p, 1982), p. 179.
4. Cengiz, Halil Erdoğan, Enver Paşa’nın Anıları 1881–1908 (Istanbul:
İletişim, 1991), pp. 107–8.
5. Mango, Atatürk, p. 84.
6. Mango, Atatürk, p. 87 (on the basis of Atatürk’s own recollections).
7. Aktepe, Münir, ‘Atatürk’ün Sofya ataşeliğine kadar İttihat ve Terakki ile
olan münasebetleri’, Belleten 38 (1974), p. 285.
8. Erickson, Defeat in Detail, pp. 259–72.
9. Aktepe, ‘Atatürkün Münasebetleri’, pp. 284–5.
10. Sertoğlu, Mithat, ‘Balkan savaşı sonlarında Edirne’nin kurtarılması
hususunda hemen teşebbüse geçilmesi için Atatürk’ün harbiye nezaretine
uyarışına dair bilinmeyen bir belge’, Belleten 32 (1968), pp. 459–68.
11. Tufan, Naim M., Rise of the Young Turks. Politics, the Military and Ottoman
Collapse (London: I.B.Tauris, 2000), p. 290.
12. Ali Fethi [Okyar], Bolayır Muharebesinde Adem-Muvaffakiyetin Esbabı.
‘Askeri Mağlubiyetlerimizin Esbabı’ Muharririne Cevap (İstanbul:
Tüccarzade İbrahim Hilmi, 1330/1914–15).
13. According to Atatürk’s recollection in 1926. See: Borak, Sadi and Kocatürk,
Utkan (eds), Atatürk’ün Söylev ve Demeçleri (Ankara: TİTE, 1972),
pp. 108–10.
14. For the story of the coup see Esath, Mustafa Ragip, İttihat ve Terakki
Tarihinde Esrar Perdesi ve Yakup Cemil Niçin Öldürüldü (İstanbul: Hürriyet,
1975).
15. Deny, Jean, ‘Les souvenirs du Gazi Moustapha Kemal. Version française
d’après l’original turc’, Revue des études islamiques 1 (1927), pp. 117–222,
specifically 132–3 and 207–17.
16. Atatürk’ün Tamim, Telgraf ve Beyannameleri IV (1917–1938) (Ankara:
TİTE, 1964), pp. 1–8.
17. Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay] in Yakın Tarihimiz, vol. 2, pp. 337, 368.
18. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist Factor (Leiden: Brill, 1984), p. 65.
11. The Ottoman Legacy of the Kemalist Republic

* Originally published as: ‘The Ottoman legacy of the Kemalist republic’, in
Atabaki, Touraj (ed.), The State and the Subaltern. Modernization, Society and
the State in Turkey and Iran (London: I.B.Tauris, 2007), pp. 95–110.
319
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ists: identity politics 1908–1938’, in Karpat, Kemal H. (ed.), Ottoman Past
and Today’s Turkey (Leiden: Brill, 2000), p. 170.
2. Zürcher, ‘Identity politics’, p. 169.
3. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The Ottoman Empire and the armistice of Mudros’ in Cecil,
Hugh and Liddle, Peter H. (ed.), At the Eleventh Hour. Reflections, Hopes and
Anxieties at the Closing of the Great War, 1918 (London: Leo Cooper), pp.
266–75. This was still true as late as 1923. See Unan, Nimet (ed.), Atatürk’ün
Söylev ve Demeçleri II (19-6-1938) (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1959), p. 60.
4. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The borders of the republic reconsidered’, Bilanço
1923/1998. International Conference on History of the Turkish Republic a
Reassessment. Volume I: Politics – Culture – International Relations (Ankara:
TUBA, 1999), pp. 53–9.
5. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Between death and desertion. The experience of the
Ottoman soldier in World War I’, Turcica 28 (1996), pp. 235–58.
6. This data has been taken from McCarthy, Justin, Muslims and Minorities.
The Population of Ottoman Anatolia and the End of the Empire (New York:
NY University Press, 1983), and in particular from chapter 7, ‘The end of
Ottoman Anatolia’. Although McCarthy has often been criticized for his
interpretation of the Armenian massacres, I am not aware of a better analy-
sis of population statistics than his.
7. Cf. Hartmann, Richard, Im neuen Anatolien (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1928),
p. 86; Linke, Lilo, Allah Dethroned. A Journey through Modern Turkey
(London: Constable, 1937), p. 278; and Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Two young
Ottomanists discover Kemalist Turkey: the travel diaries of Robert Anhegger
and Andreas Tietze’, Journal of Turkish Studies 26/2 (2002), pp. 359–69.
8. The population movements are described in Berber, Engin, Sancılı Yıllar:
İzmir 1918–1922 Mütareke ve Yunan İşgali Döneminde İzmir Sancağı
(Ankara: Ayraç, 1997), pp. 57–70 and 317–30 (for the Sancak of Izmir
only), and by Şenşekerci, Erkan, Türk Devriminde Celâl Bayar (1918–1960)
(İstanbul: Alfa Yayınları, 2000), pp. 35–8. The latter work is based in part
on the memoirs of Bayar, who together with the military commanders Pertev
(Demirhan) and Cafer Tayyar (Eğilmez) was in charge of the deportations.
9. See McCarthy, Muslims and Minorities, chapter 7.
10. Kemal [Atatürk], Nutuk (Vol. 2) (İstanbul: Millî Eğitim Basımevi, 1967),
p. 684.
11. For a comprehensive discussion of the problem, see Akın, Rıdvan, TBMM
Devleti (1920–1923). Birinci Meclis Döneminde Devlet Erkleri ve İdare
(İstanbul: İletişim, 2001), pp. 197–217.
12. Tarık Zafer Tunaya describes the legal aspects of the transition to a new
state in ‘Türkiye Büyük Millet Meclisisi hükümetinin kuruluşu ve hukukî
karakteri’, İstanbul Hukuk Fakültesi Mecmuası 23 (1957), pp. 227–47.
320
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Notes
13. Unan, Nimet (ed.), Atatürk’ün Söylev ve Demeçleri II (19–6-1938) (Ankara:

Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1959), pp. 70, 92.
14. Zürcher, Erik Jan, Political Opposition in the Early Turkish Republic. The
Progressive Republican Party (1924–1925) (Leiden: Brill, 1991); Tunçay,
Mete, T.C.’nde Tek Parti Yönetimi’nin Kurulması (1923–1931) (reprint of
1981 edition) (İstanbul: Cem, 1989).
15. Jaeschke, Gotthard, Türk İnkılabı Tarihi Kronolojisi, vol. 2 (İstanbul:
İstanbul Üniversitesi, 1941), p. 73 (translated by Niyazi Recep Aksu).
16. Zürcher, ‘Two young Ottomanists’, pp. 359–69.
17. Soysal, İlhami, Yüzellilikler (İstanbul: Gür, 1985).
18. Tunçay, T.C.’nde Tek Parti Yönetimi’nin Kurulması (1923–1931), p. 178.
19. Çavdar, Tevfik, ‘Halkevleri’, in Belge, Murat (ed.), Cumhuriyet Dönemi
Türkiye Ansiklopedisi (İstanbul: İletişim, 1984), p. 878.
20. Cf. Dumont, Paul, ‘The origins of Kemalist ideology’, in Landau, Jacob
(ed.), Atatürk and the Modernization of Turkey (Boulder: Westview, 1984),
pp. 25–44.
21. Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, The Young Turks in Opposition (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1995), pp. 7–18.
22. Nye, Robert A., The Origins of Crowd Psychology. Gustave Le Bon and the
Crisis of Mass Democracy in the Third Republic (London: Sage, 1975). Le Bon
was extremely popular and influential, not only among the Young Turks, but
also among contemporary intellectuals in the Balkans and the Arab world.
23. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Ottoman sources of Kemalist thought’, in: Özdalga,
Elisabeth (ed.), Late Ottoman Society. The Intellectual Legacy (London:
Routledge/Curzon, 2005), pp. 14–27.
24. Karabekir, Kâzım, İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti 1896–1909 (İstanbul: private
publication, 1982), pp. 176. The text dates from 1945.
25. Among the most important studies are: Mardin, Şerif, Jön Türklerin Siyasi
Fikirleri 1898–1908 (Ankara: İş Bankası, 1964); Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü,
The Young Turks in Opposition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995);
Heyd, Uriel Foundations of Turkish Nationalism. The Life and Teachings of
Ziya Gökalp (London: Luzac, 1950); Parla, Taha, The Social and Political
Thought of Ziya Gökalp 1871–1924 (Leiden: Brill, 1985); Shissler, A. Holly,
Turkish Identity between two Empires. Ahmet Ağaoğlu 1869–1919 (London:
I.B.Tauris, 2002); Georgeon, François, Türk Milliyetçiliğinin Kökenleri.
Yusuf Akçura (1876–1935) (Ankara, 1986); Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, Bir Siyasal
Düşünür olarak Doctor Abdullah Cevdet ve Dönemi (Ankara: Üçdal, 1981);
Üstel, Füsun, Türk Ocakları (1912–1931) (İstanbul: İlestişim, 1997); Arai,
Masami, Turkish Nationalism in the Young Turk Era (Leiden: Brill, 1992)
and Debus, Esther, Sebilürreşad: Eine Vergleichende Untersuchung zur
Islamischen Opposition der vor- und nachkemalistischen Ära (Frankfurt:
Peter Lang, 1991).
321
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26. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The vocabulary of Muslim nationalism’, International

Journal of the Sociology of Language 137 (1999), pp. 81–92.
27. Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü ,’Garbcılar: their attitudes toward religion and their
impact on the official ideology of the Turkish Republic’, Studia Islamica 86
(1997/2), pp. 134–58.
28. Heyd, Foundations of Turkish Nationalism, pp. 63 ff.
29. Toprak, Zafer, Türkiye’ de Milli İktisat 1908–1918 (İstanbul: Yurt, 1982)
and later editions.
30. Georgeon, Türk Milliyetçiliğinin Kökenleri, p. 109.
31. For detailed discussions of Turkish populism, see Toprak, Zafer, ‘İkinci
meşrutiyette solidarist düşünce: halkçılık’, Toplum ve Bilim 1 (1977),
pp. 92–123; Tekeli, İlhan and Şaylan, Gencay, ‘Türkiye’ de halkçılık ideolo-
jisinin evrimi’, Toplum ve Bilim 6–7 (1978), pp. 44–110.
12. The Ottoman Conscription System in Theory and

Practice, 1844–1918
* This chapter was previously published, though in slightly different form, as ‘The
Ottoman conscription system in theory and practice, 1844–1918’, International
Review of Social History 43/3 (1998), pp. 437–49.
1. On the reign of Selim III: Shaw, Stanford J, Between Old and New. The
Ottoman Empire under Selim III, 1789–1807 (Cambridge, MA, 1971); On
Selim’s fall: Between Old and New, pp. 345ff.; On the Nizam-i Cedid army:
Shaw, Stanford J. ‘The origins of Ottoman military reform: the Nizam-i Cedid
army of Sultan Selim III’, Journal of Modern History 37 (1965), pp. 291–306.
2. See Cronin, Stephanie, ‘Conscription and popular resistance in Iran, 1925–
1941’, International Review of Social History 43/3 (1998), pp. 451–71.
3. See Fahmy, Khaled, ‘The Nation and its deserters: conscription in
Mehmed Ali’s Egypt’, International Review of Social History 43/3 (1998),
pp. 421–36.
4. The army reforms of Sultan Mahmut II are described in Shaw, Stanford
and Shaw, Ezel, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey.
Volume II: Reform, Revolution and Republic. The Rise of Modern Turkey
1808–1975 (Cambridge, 1977), pp. 41–5 and in Çoker, Fahri, ‘Tanzimat
ve ordudaki yenilikler’, in Murat Belge (ed.), Tanzimattan Cumhuriyete
Türkiye Ansiklopedisi, vol. 5 (İstanbul, 1985), pp. 1260–6.
5. Deny, Jean, ‘Redif’ in: Encyclopaedia of Islam. New Edition, Vol. VIII
(Leiden, 1995), pp. 370–1.
6. There are several editions of the Edict of Gülhane. I relied on Petermann
(mit Ramis Efendi), Beiträge zu einer Geschichte der neuesten Reformen des
Osmanischen Reiches, enthaltend den Hattischerif von Gülhane, den Ferman
von 21 November 1839 und das neueste Strafgesetzbuch (Berlin, 1842). The
quote is taken from pp. 11–12.
322
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Notes
7. ‘Redif’ in Islâm Ansiklopedisi 9 (Istanbul, 1971), pp. 666–8.

8. Deny, Jean, ‘Redif’ in Encyclopaedia of Islam gives 31 August 1912 as the
date of the decision to abolish the Redif, on the authority of the official col-
lection of Ottoman legislation known as Düstur, vol. IV, p. 615.
9. Belge, Murat (ed.), Tanzimattan Cumhuriyete Türkiye Ansiklopedisi,
vol. 5 (İstanbul, 1985), p. 1263.
10. Qurà qânûnnâme-i humâyûnu (Istanbul, 1286/1870–1), parts 1 and 4.
11. Mükellefiyet-i askeriye qânûn-u muvaqqatası (İstanbul, 1332/1916), articles
14 and 21.
12. PRO/FO 195/2323, report of 20 June 1909 by military attaché,
Constantinople (H. Conyers Surtees).
13. PRO/FO 195/2323, report of 28 May 1909 by military attaché,
Constantinople.
14. Karpat, Kemal H., Ottoman Population 1830–1914. Demographic and
Social Characteristics (Madison, 1985); McCarthy, Justin, The Arab World,
Turkey and the Balkans: A Handbook of Historical Statistics (Boston, 1982);
Akbayar, Nuri,’Tanzimat’tan sonra Osmanlı devleti nüfusu’, in Belge, Murat
(ed.), Tanzimattan Cumhuriyete Türkiye Ansiklopedisi, vol. 5 (İstanbul,
1985), pp. 1238–46.
15. Shaw, Stanford J., ‘The Ottoman census system and population’,
International Journal of Middle East Studies 9 (1978), pp. 325–38.
16. Ahmed Emin [Yalman], Turkey in the World War (New Haven, 1930),
p. 79.
17. See for instance the biography of Atatürk’s bodyguard: Coşar, Ömer Sami ,
Atatürk’ün Muhafızı Topal Osman (n.p., n.d.), p. 5, describing recruitment
in Giresun. However, when the British consuls reported on the reactions to
mobilization in their stations at the request of the Committee of Imperial
Defence (request by Sir Maurice Hankey, secretary to the CID, dated
25 October 1912), they described a very patchy response: Salonica:
‘prompt’; Gallipoli: ‘sullen’; Izmit: ‘willing’; Adana: ‘unwilling’; Adalia
(Antalya): ‘reluctant’; Alexandretta (Iskenderun): ‘prompt and willing’
(PRO/FO 195/2445, pp. 260–322).
18. PRO/FO 195/2346, report of 10 April 1910 by military attaché, Constantinople
(Tyrrell). The same general picture emerges from many eyewitness reports.
19. Reports by the British consuls in Damascus and Antalya are illustrative. The
consul in Damascus, in his report of 7 December 1912 says that in the first
weeks of October there was much enthusiasm to go to the war. As many
as 60–70 per cent of Muslims presented themselves, but after reverses and
because of bad treatment, enthusiasm dropped and by the end of October
only 30 per cent of Muslims responded. People started to flee and hide. Of
a company of 130 regulars sent from Damascus to Aleppo, 40 deserted on
the way (PRO/FO 195/2445, pp. 291, 311).
323
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20. PRO/FO 195/2323. Report from embassy Constantinople containing a

summary of the new recruitment law in translation.
21. Mükellefiyet-i Askeriye Qânûn-u Muvaqqatisi (1916 conscription law),
articles 91, 92.
22. Ahmet İzzet [Furgaç], Denkwürdigkeiten des Marschalls Izzet Pascha
(Leipzig, 1927), p. 169.
23. PRO/FO 195/2323, report of 26 September 1909.
24. Qurà qânûnnâme-i humâyûnu, (Istanbul: Matbaà-i Âmire, (1286/1870–1)),
article 70.
25. Bowen, H., ‘Bedel’ in Encyclopaedia of Islam. New Edition, vol. I (Leiden,
1960), p. 855.
26. Davison, Roderic H, Reform in the Ottoman Empire 1856–1876 (New York,
1973) (reprint of 1963 edition), pp. 94–5.
27. PRO/FO 195/2323, report of 20 June 1909.
28. Heinzelmann, Tobias, Heiliger Kampf oder Landesverteidigung? Die
Diskussion um die Einführung der allgemeinen Militärpflicht im Osmanischen
Reich 1826 – 1856 (Frankfurt am Main, 2004).
29. At this time, the measure may well have been largely symbolic. In 1912 only
5 per cent of those liable to serve seem to have answered the call (PRO/FO
195/2445, p. 291) and according to one report (PRO/FO 195/2456, p. 60 yearly
military report, Constantinople), no Christians were called up in 1914.
30. PRO/FO 195/2323, report of 20 June 1909.
31. According to reports from Gallipoli and Rhodes in 1912 (PRO/FO 195/2445,
pp. 275, 363).
32. Larcher, Maurice, La guerre turque dans la guerre mondiale (Paris, 1926),
pp. 589–90.
33. PRO/FO 195/2346 (report of 17 January 1910), p. 126; PRO/FO 195/2456,
p. 60 (report of 1914); Larcher, La guerre turque, p. 590.
34. Schrader, F., et al, Atlas de la géographie moderne (Paris, 1914), maps 28
and 33.
35. There are quite a few eyewitness reports from the Turkish side of the front
in the Balkan War. Among the best are: Ashmead-Bartlett, Ellis, With the
Turks in Thrace (London, 1913); and James, Lionel, With the Conquered
Turk. The Story of a Latter-Day Adventurer (London, [1913]).
13. The Ottoman Soldier in World War I

* This chapter is a combination of three published works: ‘Ottoman labour battal-
ions in World War I’, in Kieser, Hans-Lukas, and Schaller, Dominik J. (ed.), Der
Völkermord an den Armeniern und die Shoah. The Armenian Genocide and the Shoah,
(Zürich: Chronos, 2002), pp. 187–96; ‘Between death and desertion. The experi-
ence of Ottoman soldier in World War I’, Turcica 28 (1996), pp. 235–58 and ‘Hizmet
etmeyi başka biçimlerle reddetmek: Osmanlı imparatorluğunun son dönemlerinde
324
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Notes
asker kaçaklığı’, in Heval Çınar, Özgür and Üsterci Coşkun (eds), Çarklardaki Kum:
Vicdani Red (Istanbul: Iletişim, 2008), pp. 59–68. Prior to that, parts of ‘Between
death and desertion’ were presented as papers at the conference The war experienced
in Leeds, September 1994 and at the 7th conference on the social and economic his-
tory of the Ottoman Empire in Heidelberg in July 1995. These papers benefited from
the critical remarks made by colleagues at these conferences, in particular those of
Peter Liddell, Yigal Sheffy, Justin McCarthy and Ercüment Kuran.
1. There are many testimonies to this effect. See, for example, Kress von
Kressenstein, Friedrich Freiherr, Mit den Türken zum Suezkanal (Berlin:
Otto Schlegel, 1938), p. 39.
2. Tütengil, Cavit Orhan, ‘1927 yılında Türkiye’ in Atatürk’ün Büyük Söylevi’nin
50. Yılı Semineri. Bildiriler ve tartışmalar (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu,
1980), p. 56. Because the numbers quoted refer to 1927, the villagers con-
cerned are almost exclusively Muslim, the Armenians and Greeks, who had
a much higher rate of literacy, having left or having been killed.
3. Kannengiesser, Hans, The Campaign in Gallipoli (London: Hutchinson,
1927), p. 157.
4. A complete collection of the journal is to be found in the library of the Oriental
Institute of the University of Bonn, while the university library of Tübingen
has a collection of the yearbooks (Zwischen Kaukasus and Sinai. Jahrbuch
des Bundes der Asienkämpfer (Berlin-Tempelhof: Deutsche Buchhandlung
Mulzer und Cleeman), vols 1 (1921), 2 (1922), 3 (1923).
5. Apart from Wallach, Jehuda L., Anatomie einer Militärhilfe. Die Preussisch-
deutschen Militärmissionen in der Türkei 1835 – 1919 (Düsseldorf: Droste,
1976), which does concentrate on military matters, the other leading stud-
ies are: Trumpener, Ulrich, Germany and the Ottoman Empire 1914–1918
(Princeton, 1966) and Weber, F.G., Eagles on the Crescent. Germany, Austria
and the Diplomacy of the Turkish Alliance, 1914–1918 (Ithaca, 1970). The
pre-war German–Ottoman rapprochement is studied in Sullivan, Charles D.,
Stamboul Crossings. German Diplomacy in Turkey 1908–1914, Ph.D. thesis
(Nashville: Vanderbilt University, 1977).
6. Belen, Fahri, Birinci Cihan Harbinde Türk Harbi, 5 vols (Ankara: Genelkurmay
Harb Tarihi ve Stratejik Etüt Başkanlığı, 1963–7).
7. Stoddard, Phillip, in his unpublished Ph. D. thesis, The Ottoman Government
and the Arabs 1911–1918: A Preliminary Study of the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa
(Princeton, 1963), p. 231.
8. Such as Schilling, Dr Victor, ‘Kriegshygienische Erfahrungen in der Türkei’,
Zwischen Kaukasus und Sinai 2 (1922), pp. 71–89. A detailed study of the
German medical service in the Ottoman Empire is: Becker, Helmut, Aeskulap
zwischen Reichsadler und Halbmond. Sanitätswesen und Seuchenbekämpfung
im türkischen Reich während des Ersten Weltkrieges (Herzogenrath: Murken-
Altrogge, 1990).
325
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9. The existence of this source was kindly pointed out to me by Dr Yigal

Sheffy of the Dayan Center, Tel-Aviv. It can be found in the monthly intel-
ligence summaries, ref. PRO/WO 157/687ff. (Egyptian front) and PRO/WO
157/776ff. (Mesopotamian front).
10. Kress, Mit den Türken zum Suezkanal, p. 36.
12. Ahmed Emin [Yalman], Turkey in the World War (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1930) p. 79.
13. PRO/WO 157/735, 25 May 1918.
14. Pomiankowski, Joseph, Der Zusammenbruch des Ottomanischen Reiches
(Graz: Akademische Druck und Verlagsanstalt, 1969) (reprint of the 1928
edition), p. 103.
15. The lower number is arrived at on the basis of the enumeration given by
Erol Çatma in his Asker İşçiler (İstanbul: Ceylan, 1998, pp. 40ff.) The
higher number is given by Austrian ambassador Pomiankowski in his
Zusammenbruch des Osmanischen Reiches, p. 93.
16. During the war most Ottoman units were seriously undermanned. One of
the witnesses, whose testimony is given by Raymond H. Kevorkian in his
‘Receuil de témoignages sur l’estermination des amele tabouri ou bataillons
de soldats-ouvriers Arméniens de l’armée Ottomane pendant la première
guerre mondiale’, Revue d’histoire arménienne contemporaine, 1 (1995),
pp. 289–303, says there were 350 men in the battalion to start with. Another
says that 280 were killed in the battalion he was a part of.
17. Çatma, Asker İşçiler, pp. 41–2.
18. Toprak, Zafer, Türkiye’de ‘Milli İktisat’(1908–1918) (Ankara: Yurt, 1982),
p. 318.
19. Document 33 (no. 6738) in Documents (Ankara: Directorate General of
Press and Information, n. d.), pp. 91–2, kindly provided by Hilmar Kaiser.
20. Document 33 (no. 6738), where the communication commander asks for more
armed troops to watch the workers and also a telegram of 25 July 1915 from
the Chief of Staff in Istanbul asking for special watchfulness. Askeri Tarih
Belgeleri Dergisi, special issue 1, p. 92, kindly provided by Hilmar Kaiser.
21. Morgenthau, Harry, Secrets of the Bosphorus (London: Hutchinson, 1918),
p. 199.
22. Zürcher, ‘Between death and desertion’, pp. 249–50.
23. Nogales, Rafael de, Four Years beneath the Crescent (London: Scribner’s,
1926), p. 45. The author describes wholesale desertion of Armenian troops
as a very serious threat to the Ottomans.
24. Kevorkian, ‘Receuil de témoignages’, p. 290 (testimony of the Swiss
Zurlinden). The same method is described by the German Künzler in Urfa
and (on the authority of others) by Morgenthau in his memoirs. (Cf. Akçam,
İnsan Hakları, p. 243).
326
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Notes
25. Kevorkian, ‘Receuil de témoignages’, p. 295.

26. Akçam, İnsan Hakları, p. 244.
27. Kaiser, Hilmar, ‘The Baghdad Railway and the Armenian genocide, 1915–
1916’ in Hovannisian, Richard G. (ed.), Remembrance and Denial: The
Case of the Armenian Genocide (Detroit: Wayne State University Press,
1999), pp. 67–112.
28. Sarafian, Ara, ‘The absorption of Armenian women and children into Muslim
households as a structural component of the Armenian genocide’ in Bartov,
Omer and Mack, Phyllis (ed.), In God’s Name: Genocide and Religion in the
Twentieth Century (Oxford/New York: Berghahn, 2001), p. 211.
29. Report by a Dr Krieger, discovered by Hilmar Kaiser in the Central Zionist
Archives in Jerusalem in Z 3 (Zionistischer Zentralbüro Berlin 1911–20),
file 66 (Konstantinopel 1913–18) and used with his kind permission.
30. PRO/WO 157/700, 12 January 1916.
31. Kut, Halil, Bitmeyen Savaş. Kütulamare Kahramanı Halil Paşa’nın Anıları,
ed. by M. Taylan Sorgun (İstanbul: Yedigün, 1972), p. 191. This is con-
firmed on the British side by Aubrey Herbert in Mons, Anzac and Kut
(London: Hutchinson, 1919), p. 253.
32. Liman von Sanders, Fünf Jahre Türkei [Five years in Turkey] (Berlin: Scherl,
1920), p. 242.
34. According to one German witness, the Kurdish troops were totally unreli-
able and it was impossible to form more regular units out of them because
they refused to obey other Kurds, taking their orders only from the Turkish
commander-in-chief (Hans-Joachim von Loeschebrand-Horn, ‘Der Feldzug
der Süleimanije-Gruppe in Kurdistan im Sommer 1916’, Zwischen Kaukasus
und Sinai 3 (1923), p. 121.
35. According to Dr Georg Mayer, who was charged with reforming the
Ottoman army medical service in December 1913, syphilis was so wide-
spread that it did not count as a ground for rejection. Instead, the syphilit-
ics were formed into labour battalions (report by Mayer cited in Becker,
Aeskulap, p. 42).
36. Larcher, Maurice, La guerre turque dans la guerre mondiale, appendices
44 and 50. Larcher bases himself on the official statistics released by the
Ottoman War Ministry in 1919. The number of 800,000 refers to the
number of armed and trained regulars. A much higher number (around
2 million) is also mentioned, but this is impossibly high: Indeed, the number
given by Ahmed Emin Yalman for the maximum reservists of all types. This
is also true for the total number of men called up, which Larcher puts at
2.85 million. All numbers are in fact rough estimates. The British estimates
varied a great deal from time to time and from place to place, but the aver-
age was 600,000–700,000.
327
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37. Larcher, La guerre turque, appendix 45, 48.

38. PRO/WO 157/703, 1 April 1916 and PRO/WO 157/704, 12 May 1916.
Also: PRO/WO 157/717, 26 July 1917.
39. Pomiankowski, Zusammenbruch, pp. 242–3.
41. Cf. Pomiankowski, Zusammenbruch, p. 57.
42. Figures given in Rhodes James, Robert, Gallipoli (London: Pan, 1974),
p. 348. Rhodes James estimates the actual number of casualties at about
300,000. Liman gives the rather optimistic estimates of 66,000 dead and
152,000 wounded (Liman, Fünf Jahre Türkei, p. 135).
43. Pomiankowski, Zusammenbruch, p. 225.
44. Liman, Fünf Jahre Türkei, p. 240.
45. Larcher, La guerre turque, appendix 50.
46. Cf. Yalman, Turkey in the World War, p. 81.
47. Schilling, Kriegshygiënische Erfahrungen, pp. 75–6; PRO/WO 157/735,
26 April 1918.
48. Schilling, Kriegshygiënische Erfahrungen, p. 88.
49. PRO/WO 157/735, 1 March 1918.
50. Larcher, La guerre turque, appendix 51, p. 602.
51. PRO/WO 157/713, 8 March 1917.
54. Guse, Felix, Die Kaukasusfront im Weltkrieg bis zum Frieden von Brest
(Leipzig: Koehler und Amelang, 1940), p. 92.
55. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘Welingelichte kringen? De politieke berichtgeving
van de Nederlandse ambassade in Istanbul in de eerste wereldoorlog’,
Sharqiyyat 1/1 (1988), p. 78. This is confirmed by Pomiankowski, who says
that one stroke equalled two days of arrest or one day of incarceration
(Pomiankowski, Zusammenbruch, p. 243).
56. PRO/WO 157/724, 15 February 1918.
57. PRO/WO 157/714, 3 March 1917.
58. For instance: PRO/WO 157/700, 4 January 1916; 157/723, 10 January
1918; 157/735, 25 April 1918.
59. PRO/WO 157/700, 4 January 1916.
60. Ibid.
61. Cf. Sâbis, Ali Ihsan, Hatıralarım. Birinci Dünya Harbi, vol. 3 (Istanbul:
Nehir, 1991), p. 331.
62. Ölçen, Mehmet Arif, Vetluga Irmağı (Ankara: Ümit, 1994), p. 38.
63. I am indebted to my colleague Dr Dick Douwes for this observation.
64. PRO/WO, 157/725, 10 March 1918.
65. PRO/WO 157/724, 17 February 1918.
66. PRO/WO 157/735, 29 May 1918.
328
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Notes
67. Atay, Falih Rıfkı, Zeytindağı (İstanbul: Varlık, 1964) (5th impression),
p. 191.
68. Cf. the report by General von Seeckt in Wallach, Jehuda L., Anatomie einer
Militärhilfe, p. 263.
69. PRO/WO, 157/735, 29 May 1918.
70. Ibid.
71. These data come from several different reports: PRO/WO 157/700, 16
January 1916; 157/724, 9 February 1918; 157/725, 14 March 1918; 157/735,
25 April 1918.
72. Becker, Aeskulap, pp. 126, 167.
73. 60, PRO/WO 175/715, 10 May 1917.
74. Pomiankowski, Zusammenbruch, p. 165.
75. A report by Mayer in Becker, Aeskulap, p. 59.
76. WO/PRO 157/753, passim.
77. Yalman, Turkey in the World War, p. 85.
79. PRO/WO 157/700, Appendix III, January 1916.
80. Becker,Aeskulap, p. 66; PRO/WO 157/703, 12–18 April 1916.
81. Becker, Aeskulap, p. 63. The Yıldırım operations (code-named ‘Pasha II’ by the
Germans) was a plan for the concentration of a Turkish-German force the size
of an army group in Northern Syria for an attack on Baghdad. When the situa-
tion on the Syrian front became very threatening later in 1917, the project was
abandoned and the force was directed south, to the Palestinian front instead.
82. PRO/WO 157/701, 19 February 1916.
83. Kress, Mit den Türken zum Suezkanal, p. 170. Pomiankowski (Zusammen-
bruch) also mentions this fact.
84. PRO/WO 157/725, 3 March 1918.
85. PRO/WO 157/700, 7 January 1916.
88. PRO/WO 157/700, 20 January 1916.
90. PRO/WO 157/701, 3 February 1916.
91. PRO/WO 157/700, 20 January 1916.
92. PRO/WO l57/713, 2 March 1917. A deserter’s statement of 5 March that over
80 per cent of the camels at the front had died does not seem credible.
93. See for a discussion of the problems with the food supply and the attendant
corruption: ‘Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nun 1. dünya savaşındaki ekonomik
düzenlemeleri içinde iaşe nezareti ve Kara Kemal Bey’in yeri’, in İlkin, Selim
and Tekeli, İlhan (ed.), Cumhuriyetin Harcı, Cilt 2, Köktenci Modernitenin
Ekonomik Politikasının Gelişimi içinde Yeri (İstanbul, 2004), pp. 1–44.
94. Von Seeckt, in Wallach, Anatomie einer Militärhilfe, p. 263.
329
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95. PRO/WO 157/701, 25 February 1916.

96. Sâbis, Hatıralarım, p. 332.
97. PRO/WO 157/703, 20 April 1916.
98. These data are taken from: Baldry, John, ‘Al-Yaman and the Turkish occu-
pation 1849–1914’, Arabica XXIII, 1976, pp. 156–96.
99. ‘Yemen songs’ are published in a number of collections of folk songs, for
instance in: Özbek, Mehmet, Folklor ve Türkülerimiz (İstanbul: Ötüken,
1975).
100. That this was the prevailing sentiment is attested by Guse, Der
Kaukaususfront, p. 92.
101. Larcher in La guerre turque gives the following numbers: killed 325,000;
wounded 400,000; missing, deserted, prisoner: 1.5 million. Becker
(Aeskulap, p. 441) gives several different estimates, of which one has the
same numbers for total strength, killed and wounded, but an unrealistically
low 250,000 for missing/prisoner. This apparently does not count deserters
among the missing. Another estimate (by Wicker) cited by Becker gives a
total of 1.6 million for the number of soldiers the empire put into the field.
This must refer to the number effectively serving rather than the number of
those called up. Wicker gives the number of persons killed as 300,000 and
that of the wounded as 600,000. The official Turkish data, cited by Ahmet
Emin Yalman (Turkey in the World War, p. 252), give the numbers for sick
(over 3 million, of whom over 400,000 died) and wounded (nearly 712,000,
of whom nearly 60,000 died) but these numbers are hardly exact.
102. The political and military leadership in Ankara was faced both with the
problem of desertion it inherited from the world war, which had resulted in
a countryside infested with armed bands, and with the continuing problem
of desertion in its own forces. As early as July 1920 the assembly debated
a proposal to introduce ‘independence tribunals’ (İstiklal Mahkemeleri)
to combat desertion. Over the summer of 1920 the number of desertions
kept on growing and by September 1920 the assembly was ready to take
action. At the insistence of the government and Chief of Staff Fevzi Pasha
a Law on Deserters (Firari Kanunu) was enacted on 11 September, and the
Independence Tribunals were instituted and given unrestricted authority
to enforce the law. Two weeks later the tribunals were also given jurisdic-
tion over cases brought under the ‘High Treason Law’ (Hıyaneti Vataniye
Kanunu).
14. The Ottoman Empire and the Armistice of Moudhros

* Originally published as: ‘The Ottoman Empire and the armistice of Mudros’,
in Cecil, Hugh and Liddle, Peter H. (ed.), At the Eleventh Hour. Reflections,
Hopes and Anxieties at the Closing of the Great War (London: Leo Cooper,
1998), pp. 266–75.
330
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Notes
1. Belen, Fahri, Birinci Cihan Harbinde Türk Harbi. 1918 Yıl Hareketleri.
Beşinci Cilt (Ankara: Genelkurmay, 1967), p. 205.
2. Belen, Türk Harbi, p. 204.
3. Toprak, Zafer, Türkiye’de Millî İktisat (1908–1918) (Ankara: Yurt, 1982),
pp. 313–44.
4. Ahmed Emin [Yalman], Turkey in the World War (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1930), p. 265.
6. The Turkish source on the negotiations is the serialized version of Rauf
[Orbay]’s memoirs, published in Yakın Tarihimiz [Our Recent History], vol. 1,
pp. 112, 144, 177, 208, 239, 272, 304, 336; vol. 2, pp. 16–18; 48–50; 80–82
(Ankara: Türkpetrol, n. d.).
7. Text in Yakın Tarihimiz, vol. 2, p. 49.
8. Cf. Einstein, Lewis, Inside Constantinople. A Diplomatist’s Diary during the
Dardanelles Expedition (London: John Murray, 1917).
9. Yakın Tarihimiz, vol. 2, pp. 82, 144–6.
11. Tunaya, Tarık Zafer, Türkiye’de Siyasî Partiler. Cilt 2: Mütareke Dönemi
(İstanbul: Hürriyet Vakfı, 1986), pp. 245–63, 472–92.
12. Zürcher, Erik Jan, Opposition in the Early Turkish Republic. The Progressive
Republican Party (1924–1925) (Leiden: Brill, 1991).
13. See, for instance, Mustafa Kemal Pasha’s speech on his arrival in Ankara in
December 1919, in Unan, Nimet (ed.), Atatürk’ ün Söylev ve Demeçleri 2
(1906–1938) (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1959), pp. 4–15.
14. See, for instance, Halide Edib [Adıvar], The Turkish Ordeal (London: The
Century, 1928); Atay, Falih Rıfkı, Çankaya (Istanbul: Bateş, 1980) and
Karaosmanoğlu, Yakup Kadri, Sodom ve Gomore (İstanbul: Bilgi, 1966)
[original edition: 1928].
15. Renewal and Silence: Post-war Unionist and Kemalist

Rhetoric on the Armenian Genocide
* Paper presented in 2007 at the W.A.T.S-conference at Stanford University,
Palo Alto. To be published in: Suny, Ronald and Göçek, Fatma Müge (ed.), A
Question of Genocide, 1915, Armenians and Turks at the End of the Ottoman
Empire (Oxford University Press, forthcoming).
1. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist Factor. The Role of the Committee of Union and
Progress in the Turkish National Movement (1905–1926) (Leiden: Brill, 1984).
2. Lewis, Bernard, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (London: Oxford
ists: identity politics 1908–1938’ in: Karpat, Kemal H. (ed.), Ottoman Past
and Today’s Turkey (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 150–79.
331
Zurcher_297-342.indd 331 3/23/2010 10:36:37 PM


of Power in the Ottoman Empire (1876–1909) (London: I.B.Tauris, 1998)
and Yavuz, Hakan, Islamic Political Identity in Turkey (London: Oxford
5. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘How Europeans adopted Anatolia and created Turkey’,
European Review 13/3 (2005), pp. 379–94.
6. Cf. Gawrych, George, ‘The culture and politics of violence in Turkish soci-
ety 1903–1914’, Middle Eastern Studies 3 (1986), pp. 307–30.
7. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The vocabulary of Muslim nationalism’, International
Journal of the Sociology of Language 137 (1999), pp. 81–92.
8. Underground networks trying to prepare for the post-war situation became
active as soon as the armistice had been concluded. Members of Enver Pasha’s
‘Special Organization’ (Teşkilat-i Mahsusa), especially those of Circassian
origin, seem to have formed the backbone of these networks. The most
important of the networks was Karakol (The Guard), founded in October
1918 at the behest of Enver and Talât Pashas. This network smuggled quite
significant amounts of weaponry and equipment as well as a large number of
people to Anatolia in the period between November 1918 and March 1920.
Many of those smuggled to Anatolia were people who not only brought vital
skills to the emerging resistance movement but who could also be expected
to arrested for alleged war crimes. In 1919–20 Karakol also nursed politi-
cal ambitions, trying to determine the course of the national resistance in
Anatolia and establishing independent relations with the Bolsheviks.
9. Tunaya, Tarık Zafer, Türkiye’de Siyasal Partiler. Cilt II Mütareke Dönemi
(İstanbul: Hürriyet, 1986), pp. 92–137.
10. Tunaya, Siyasal Partiler, pp. 71–84.
11. Mango, Andrew, Atatürk (London: John Murray, 1999), p. 199.
12. İğdemir, Uluğ, Sivas Kongresi Tutanakları (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu,
1969), p. 113.
13. İğdemir, Sivas Kongresi Tutanakları, pp. 2–22.
14. İğdemir, Sivas Kongresi Tutanakları, p. 107.
15. Unan, Nimet (ed.), Atatürk’ün Söylev ve Demeçleri, vol. 2 (1906–1938)
(Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1959), p. 12.
16. Akçam, Taner, ‘Sevr ve Lozan’ın başka tarihi’ in Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.),
Türkiye’ de Etnik Çatışma. İmparatorluktan Cumhuriyete (İstanbul:
İletişim, 2005), pp. 51–89.
17. Ilıkan, Selma and Ilıkan, Faruk, Ankara İstiklâl Mahkemesi (İstanbul:
Simurg, 2005) [a transcript of the court records].
18. The reasons to doubt the authenticity of the text are internal as well as exter-
nal. The provenance is unclear as, to the best of my knowledge, no one has
been able to trace this supposed Swiss journalist, not even under the more usual
spelling of Emil Hildebrandt or any other permutation. There is no mention
332
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Notes
of the interview in contemporary Turkish sources either. The text itself seems
to be strangely at odds with the actual proceedings of the tribunals (which
did not mention the massacres). There are slips, which may have been due to
the reporter, but are otherwise hard to explain. Surely, someone as intimately
familiar with the CUP. as Mustafa Kemal would not talk about the ‘Committee
of the Union of the Young Turks’? The ‘interview’ could easily have been made
up, as it contains no actual facts beyond those that were common knowledge in
Turkey by July 1926 and were widely published in the Turkish press.
19. Akçam, Taner, A Shameful Act. The Armenian Question and the Question of
Turkish Responsibility (New York: Metropolitan, 2006), p. 11.
20. Yalçın, Hüseyin Cahit, Tanıdıklarım (İstanbul: YKY, 2001), pp. 81–3.
21. I gratefully acknowledge the contribution of Müge Göçek here, who has
pointed out to me the importance of the existence of this coalition in
explaining the silence of the early republic on the Armenian.
IV. Towards the Nation State: Introduction

1. Meeker, Michael E, A Nation of Empire. The Ottoman Legacy of Turkish
Modernity (Berkeley, 2001).
2. See for a good example: Brockett, Gavin, ‘Collective action and the Turkish
revolution: towards a framework for the social history of the Atatürk era,
1923–38’ in Kedourie, Sylvia (ed.), Turkey before and after Atatürk: Internal
and External Affairs (London: Frank Cass, 1999), pp. 44–66. See also:
Atabaki, Touraj (ed.), The State and the Subaltern. Modernization, Society
and the State in Turkey and Iran (London, 2007).
3. For a discussion of the problems involved, see History and Theory, 40/1
(2002), pp. 135–48.
16. Young Turks, Ottoman Muslims and Turkish

Nationalists: Identity Politics 1908–38
* This text was originally submitted as a paper for a conference in Madison,
Wisconsin in June 1996. I could not be present at the conference in Madison
because of (very happy) personal circumstances at the time, but I did submit my
draft paper and I also presented preliminary versions at workshops in Vienna
in 1996 and in Princeton in 1997. I would like to thank the conveners of the
conference (Kemal Karpat) and of the workshops (Gabriele Paleczek and Şükrü
Hanioğlu) for the opportunity to raise these issues and the colleagues who com-
mented on the papers, notably Mete Tunçay, Andrew Mango and Çağlar Keyder
in Vienna and Martin van Bruinessen and Halil Berktay in Princeton, for sharp-
ening my focus.
1. The best concise description of this process can be found in Anderson,
Matthew, The Eastern Question, 1774–1923: A Study in International
Relations (London, 1972).
333
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2. Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, The Young Turks in Opposition (Oxford, 1995),

pp. 205–6.
3. Zürcher, Erik Jan, ‘The Ottoman Empire and the Turkish republic: an
attempt at a new periodization’, Welt des Islams 32 (1992), pp. 237–53.
4. There are a number of excellent studies on the Young Turk movement:
Ramsaur, Ernest, The Young Turks: Prelude to the Revolution of 1908 (New
York, 1957); Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, The Young Turks in Opposition; Ahmad,
Feroz, The Young Turks: The Committee of Union and Progress in Turkish
Politics 1908–1914 (Oxford, 1969); Akşin, Şina, Jön Türkler ve İttihat ve
Terakki (Istanbul, 1987).
5. Hanioğlu, Young Turks in Opposition, p. 208.
6. Cf. Lewis, Bernard, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (Oxford, 1961),
p. 208.
7. Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey, p. 229.
8. Georgeon, François, Aux origines du nationalisme turc: Yusuf Akçura
(1876–1935) (Paris, 1980).
9. Devereux, Robert, The First Ottoman Constitutional Period: A Study of the
Midhat Constitution and Parliament (Baltimore, 1964), p. 74.
10. Hanioğlu, Young Turks in Opposition, pp. 200–3.
11. Cf. Akşin, Şina, 31 Mart Olayı (Ankara, 1970).
12. For the Pan-Islamist current, see: Landau, Jacob, The Politics of Pan-Islam:
Ideology and Organization (Oxford, 1990), esp. pp. 73–142.
13. Cf. Landau, Jacob, Panturkism in Turkey: A Study in Irredentism (London,
1981), pp. 28–71.
14. Cf. Kushner, David, The Rise of Turkish Nationalism, 1876–1908 (London,
1977) and Ami, Masami, Turkish Nationalism in the Young Turk Era
(Leiden, 1992).
15. Berkes, Niyazi, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (Montreal, 1964),
pp. 337–66.
16. See for example Debus, Esther, Sebilürreşat. Eine vergleichende Unter-
suchung zur islamischen Opposition der vor- und nachkemalistischen Ära
(Frankfurt, 1991).
17. See for instance, Shaw, Stanford and Shaw, Ezel, A History of The Ottoman
Empire and the Turkish Republic, vol. 2, The Rise of Modern Turkey 1808–
1975 (Cambridge, 1977), pp. 301–10 and Lewis, Geoffrey, Modern Turkey
(London, 1974), pp. 55–6.
18. Hanioğlu, Young Turks in Opposition, p. 211.
19. Cf. Zürcher, Erik Jan, The Unionist Factor: The Role of the Committee of
Union and Progress in the Turkish National Movement 1905–1926 (Leiden,
1984), pp. 34–43.
20. That the CUP did create the national resistance movement after World War
I is the main thesis of my Unionist Factor.
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Notes
21. The most authoritative study of the ‘National Economy’ programme is

Toprak, Zafer, Türkiye’de ‘Milli İktisat’ (1908–1918) (Ankara, 1982).
22. Obviously, we are not talking here about the Marxist concept of a ‘progres-
sive national bourgeoisie’ as the opposite of a ‘compradore bourgeoisie’ (Cf.
Gordon, Alec, ‘The theory of the “progressive” national bourgeoisie’, Journal
of Contemporary Asia, 3 (1973), pp. 192–303. Our use of the concept reflects
that of the Unionists themselves.
23. Cf. Stoddard, Philip, The Ottoman Government and the Arabs, 1911 to
1918: A Preliminary Study of the Teskilat-i Mahsusa (Unpublished Ph.D.
dissertation, Princeton University, 1963) a pioneering study of the organi-
zation. But Stoddard concentrates on the organization’s activities in the
Arab lands and hardly mentions either the economic programme or the
persecution of the Armenians.
24. Mahmut Celâl Bayar (1884–1987), trained as a banker, joined the CUP in
1907. From 1908 to 1918 he headed the party organization in Izmir. He
helped to organize the national resistance against the Greeks in Izmir in
1919, was Economic Affairs Minister, 1932–7; Prime Minister, 1937–9;
and third President of the Turkish Republic, 1950–60.
25. Celâl Bayar, Ben de Yazdım. Millî Mücadeleye Giriş, vol. 5 (İstanbul, 1967),
pp. 1572–82.
26. The Armenian scholar Vahakn Dadrian has published both on the 1919
court martial (‘The Documentation of the World War I Armenian mas-
sacres in the proceedings of the Turkish military tribunal’, International
Journal of Middle East Studies 23 (1991), pp. 549–76) and on the German
and Austrian witnesses (‘Documentation of the Armenian genocide in
German and Austrian sources’ in Charny, Israel (ed.), The Widening Circle
of Genocide (New Brunswick, 1994), pp. 77–125. For an interesting study
by a Turkish scholar who accepts the reality of the genocide, see Akçam,
Taner, Türk Ulusal Kimliği ve Ermeni Sorunu (İstanbul, 1992).
27. Tanör, Bülent, Türkiye’de Yerel Kongre İktidarları (1918–1920) (İstanbul,
1992), pp. 21–2. A number of these congresses have been described in
detail, partly by their organizers themselves. The best known works of this
type are Dursunoğlu, Cevat, Millî Mücadelede Erzurum (Ankara, 1946);
Çarıklı, Hacim Muhittin, Balıkesir ve Alaşehir Kongreleri (Ankara, 1967)
and Bıyıklıoğlu, Tevfik, Trakya’da Millî Mücadele (Ankara, 1956). Recently,
an excellent study on the genesis of the resistance movement of the Aegean
Coast, on the basis of the papers of one of its leaders, has been published: İlkin,
Selim and Tekeli, İlhan, Ege’de Sivil Direnişten Kurtuluş Savaşına Geçerken
Uşak Heyet-i Merkeziyesi ve İbrahim (Tahtakılıç) Bey (Ankara, 1991).
28. Jäschke, Gotthard, ‘Nationalismus und Religion im türkischen
Befreiungskriege’, Welt des Islams 18 (1936), pp. 54–69.
29. Rustow, Dankwart A., Politics and Islam.
335
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30. Karpat, Kemal H., Turkey’s Politics: The Transition to a Multi-party System
(Princeton, 1959), p. 254.
31. Toprak, Türkiye’de ‘Millî İktisat’, pp. 63–6.
32. Toprak, Türkiye’de ‘Millî İktisat’, p. 63.
33. Ahmad, Young Turks, p. 6.
34. This is shown by the use of the plural, as in islâmlara yapılan mezâlim
(atrocities committed on the Muslims) (Arslanoğlu, Cem-Ender, Kars
Millî İslâm Şûrâsî (5.11.1918–17.1.1919) ve Cenubigarbî Kafkas Hükûmeti
Muvakkata-i Milliyesi (18 Ocak-13 Nisan 1919) (Ankara, 1986 [?]),
p. 149.
35. Arslanoğlu, Kars Millî, pp. 149–50.
36. The twelfth of Wilson’s Fourteen Points guarantees the Turkish parts of the
Ottoman Empire ‘a secure sovereignty’. See Helmreich, Paul C., From Paris
to Sèvres. The Partition of the Ottoman Empire at the Peace Conference of
1919–1920 (Columbus, 1974), p. 8.
37. Trabzon, Erzurum, Sivas, Diyarbekir, Mamuerelaziz, Van, Bitlis and the
sancak (district) of Canik.
38. Dursunoğlu, Millî Mücadelede Erzurum, p. 143.
40. Dursunoğlu, Millî Mücadelede Erzurum, p.152.
41. Dursunoğlu, Millî Mücadelede Erzurum, p.160.
43. Dursunoğlu, Millî Mücadelede Erzurum, p. 147. See: Heyd, Uriel,
Foundations of Turkish Nationalism: The Life and Teachings of Ziya Gökalp
(London, 1950), pp. 63ff. Gökalp derived this part of his ideas from the
German sociologist Ferdinand Tönnies.
44. It is interesting to note that the 1921 edition of the famous Redhouse dic-
tionary does not list ‘race’ among the meanings of ırk (p. 1295).
46. Çarıklı, Kongreleri, p. 211; Rustow has pointed out that Cilicia seems to
have been the only area where the local resistance movement claimed to
speak for the Turks. The society claimed that over 90 per cent of the popula-
tion in the area was Turkish. The explanation of this attitude may be that in
Cilicia the danger of incorporation into a larger Armenia was secondary to
that of being made a part of French Syria. Basing the argument on Muslim
identity would not have set apart the population of Cilicia from that of Syria
(see Rustow, Dankwart A., ‘Politics and Islam in Turkey 1920–1955’ in Frye,
Richard N. Frye, Islam and the West [The Hague, 1957], p. 71).
47. In fact the representative character of this congress is even more doubtful
than that of the regional ones. The number of participants is uncertain, but
it was definitely small: between 21 and 25 at the start of the conference and
between 29 and 38 by the end, when a number of members of Mustafa Kemal’s
336
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Notes
staff had been appointed representatives of different provinces which had not
sent any. (Tanör, Bülent, ‘Millî Mücadele’de kongreler’ in Belge, Murat (ed.),
Tanzimat’tan Cumhuriyet’e Türkiye Ansiklopedisi, vol. 4 (İstanbul, 1985),
pp. 1146–7.
48. İğdemir, Uluğ, Sivas Kongre Tutanakları (Ankara, 1969), p. 113.
49. Arsan, Nimet (ed.), Atatürk’ün Söylev ve Demeçleri, vol. 3 (1918–37)
(Ankara, 1961), p. 12.
50. İğdemir, Sivas Kongre Tutanakları, pp. 113–14.
51. İğdemir, Sivas Kongre Tutanakları, p. 114.
52. Rustow, ‘Politics and Islam’, p. 72.
53. Ahmad, Feroz, ‘Politics and Islam in modern Turkey’, Middle Eastern
Studies 19, pp. 3–21.
54. İğdemir, Sivas Kongre Tutanakları, pp. 107–11.
55. Unan, Nimet (ed.), Atatürk’ün Söylev ve Demeçleri, vol. 2 (1906–38)
(Ankara, 1959), p. 12. This speech of 28 December 1919 is incorrectly
dated 28 December 1920.
56. Unan, Söylev, vol. 2, p. 14.
59. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, Nutuk, vol. 1 (İstanbul, 1967), pp. 12–16.
63. A very clear example of this is Falih Rıfkı Atay’ s Zeytindağı (1938), which
contain his memoirs of his days as a young officer attached to Cemal Pasha’s
headquarters in Jerusalem and Damascus.
64. An English translation of the text may be found in Smith, Elaine Diana,
Turkey. The Origins of the Kemalist Movement (1919–1923) (Washington,
1959), pp. 153–4. The translation, taken from Ahmet Emin [Yalman], con-
tains mistakes, however.
65. Curiously, some versions of this text (for instance: Smith on the authority of
Ahmed Emin [Yalman], but also Goloğlu, Mahmut, Millî Mücadele Tarihi 3:
Üçüncü Meşrutiyet. 1920 [Ankara, 1970], p. 80) read ‘inside or outside the lines
of the armistice’. This is also the version given in Grinnell Mears, Eliot, Modern
Turkey (New York, 1929), who relies on Toynbee and two other sources of 1922.
Mears claims that his text is a ‘close translation from the Turkish’ (p. 630).
66. This passage presents another interesting textual problem: the text as
presented by Smith speaks of ‘Ottoman Muslims, united in religion, in
race and in aim’. This is also the version we find in Ateş, Toktamış, Türk
Devrim Tarihi (İstanbul, 1980), p. 155 (‘dini, soyu, istekleri bir olan’); in
Goloğlu, Millî Mücadele Tarihi, p. 3 and Stanford Shaw, History of the
Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, p. 2 (‘United in religion, in race and
337
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in aspirations’). This textual tradition goes back to the 1920s when we find
this formula in Arnold Toynbee and Kenneth Kirkwood’s Turkey (p. 85)
and in Mears’ Modern Turkey (p. 630). But there is another textual tradi-
tion in which ‘origin’ takes the place of ‘aim’. This is the one we find in
modern texts such as Kili, Suna, Türk Devrim Tarihi (İstanbul, 1982), p. 48
(‘dince, soyca ve asılca’) and Aydemir, Şevket Süreyya, Tek Adam. Mustafa
Kemal (İstanbul, 1975), vol. 2, p. 226 (‘dinen, ırkan ve aslen’). This tradi-
tion goes back at least to the 1930s, because in the school textbook Tarih IV
(İstanbul, 1931) we find on p. 46 the same expression. The confusion seems
to be between ‘emelen’ (in aspiration), which is what we find in the İnönü/
Türk Ansiklopedisi, and ‘aslen’ (in origin). If this is indeed the case, the con-
fusion must be a very old one, because this is an easy mistake to make with
a manuscript text, but it is hardly conceivable with a printed one.
67. Aydemir, Tek Adam, p. 226.
68. Parla, Reha, Belgelerle Türkiye Cumhuriyetinin Uluslararası Temelleri
(Lefkoşa, private publication, 1985), p. 72.
69. The population exchange or mübadele recently has begun to receive atten-
tion in Turkey, but it still awaits serious research.
70. Beşikçi, İsmail, Cumhuriyet Halk Fırkasının Tüzüğü (1927) ve Kürt Sorunu
(İstanbul, 1978), p. 83.
71. Sami N. Özerdim, Atatürk Devrimi Kronolojisi (Ankara, 1974), p. 75.
72. Beşikçi, Cumhuriyet Halk Fırkasının Tüzüğü, p. 94.
73. Tarih IV Türkiye Cumhuriyeti (İstanbul, 1931), p. 182.
74. See, for example. Karal, Enver Ziya, ‘The principles of Kemalism’, in
Kazancıgil, Ali and Özbudun, Ergun (ed.), Atatürk Founder of a Modern
State (London, 1991), p. 18.
75. Quoted in Dumont, Paul, ‘Origins of Kemalist ideology’ in Landau, Jacob
(ed.)., Atatürk and the Modernization of Turkey (Boulder, 1984), p. 29.
76. Alp, Tekin, Le Kémalisme (Paris, 1937), pp. 251ff.
77. See Heyd, Foundations, pp. 63ff. Gökalp also derived this part of his ideas
from the German sociologist Ferdinand Tönnies.
78. Alp, Tekin, Kémalisme, p. 264.
17. Were the Progressives Conservative?

* This chapter was previously published in Turkish as: ‘Terakkiperver cumhuri-
yet fırkası ve siyasal muhafazakârlık’, in Çigdem, Ahmet (ed.), Modern Türkiye’de
Siyasî Düşünce: Muhafazakârlık, Vol. 5 (Istanbul: İletişim, 2003), pp. 40–53.
1. Burke, Edmund, Reflections on the Revolution in France (London, 1790).
2. Lord Hailsham [Quintin Hogg], The Case for Conservatism (London:
Penguin, 1947).
3. Scruton, Roger, The Meaning of Conservatism (London: Macmillan,
1980).
338
Zurcher_297-342.indd 338 3/23/2010 10:36:38 PM

Notes
4. Cecil, Lord Hugh, Conservatism (London: Williams & Northgate, 1912),

p. 48.
5. Scruton, The Meaning of Conservatism, p. 55.
6. Scruton, The Meaning of Conservatism, pp. 53ff.
7. Mannheim, Karl, Konservatismus. Ein Beitrag zur Soziologie des Wissens
(Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1984) [orig. Habilitation, Heidelberg, 1925],
p. 124.
8. Friedrich Karl Christian Ludwig Büchner (29 March 1824–1 May
1889), author of Kraft und Stoff: Empirisch-naturphilosophische Studien
(Force and Matter: Empiricophilosophical Studies, 1855), the ‘ bible’ of
nineteenth-century materialism.
9. Nye, Robert, The Origins of Crowd Psychology. Guave LeBon and the Crisis
of Mass Democracy in the Third Republic (London: Sage, 1975), p. 39.
LeBon was an important source of inspiration to the Action Française in
France and the Fascists in Italy.
10. Cf. Zürcher, Erik Jan, Millî Mücadelede İttihatçılık (Istanbul, 1987),
chapters 3 and 4.
11. İrem, Nazım, ‘Turkish conservative modernism: birth of a national quest for
cultural renewal’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002),
pp. 87–112 is a very interesting account of one such intellectual group, the
followers of Bergson. Although the author clearly shows that there existed
in Turkey intellectuals who rejected the dominant positivist and rational-
ist paradigm, I do not think he succeeds in showing that they had any real
political influence. The author incorrectly identifies the PRP as an attempt
by the Kemalist state to organize a ‘loyal opposition’ (p. 87).
12. Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk], Nutuk (Ankara: Milli Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1967),
p. 729; Hüseyin Rauf [Orbay], Hatıraları, Yakın Tarihimiz, p. 167; Zabıt
Ceridesi, vol. 10, p. 133.
13. Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk,] Nutuk, II, pp. 852–61.
14. Though The Times never published the interview, Mustafa Kemal’s state-
ments were included in Macartney’s report on the interview to the British
ambassador in Istanbul. Interestingly, a Turkish version of the interview pub-
lished in Hakimiyeti Milliye on 11 December 1924, but it had a completely
different and conciliatory tone towards the opposition, almost diametrically
opposed to Macartney’s unpublished rendering of Kemal’s statements. Cf.
Zürcher, Erik Jan, Political Opposition in the Early Turkish Republic. The
Progressive Republican Party 1924–1925 (Brill: Leiden, 1991), pp. 60–2.
15. Peker, Recep, İnkılab Dersleri Notları (Ankara, 1935), p. 74.
16. As the RPP did not yet have a full programme, the Nine Principles are the
only point of reference for a comparison between the programmes of two
parties.
17. Zürcher, Political Opposition, pp. 125–6.
339
Zurcher_297-342.indd 339 3/23/2010 10:36:38 PM

18. Scruton, The Meaning of Conservatism, p. 55.

19. Frey, Frederick W., The Turkish Political Elite (Cambridge: MIT Press,
1965), pp. 327–30.
20. Zürcher, Political Opposition, p. 106.
21. Tevetoğlu, Fetih, ‘Terakkiperver cumhuriyet partisi’, Türk Kültürü, 264
(1985), p. 286.
18. Institution Building in the Kemalist Republic Compared

with Pahlevi Iran: The People’s Party
* Originally published in: Atabaki, Touraj and Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Men of
Order: Authoritarian Modernization under Atatürk and Reza Shah (London: I.B.
Tauris, 2004), pp. 98–112.
1. Cronin, Stephanie, ‘Conscription and popular resistance in Iran (1925–
1941)’ in Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Arming the State. Military Conscription
in the Middle East and Asia 1775–1925 (London: I.B.Tauris, 1999),
pp. 145–68.
2. This issue is debated in my The Unionist Factor. The Role of the Committee of
Union and Progress in the Turkish National Movement 1905–1926 (Leiden:
Brill, 1984).
3. Even as late as 1993, leading scholar Feroz Ahmad in his The Making of
Modern Turkey (London: Routledge, 1993), writes: ‘The destruction of the
Ottoman Empire proved to be a blessing, for the Turks were now free to
rediscover themselves and to make a fresh start by abandoning a decadent
past’ (p. 77 [italics added for emphasis, EJZ]).
4. Tunaya, Tarık Zafer, Türkiye’de Siyasal Partiler. Cilt 1, İkinci Meşrutiyet
Dönemi (İstanbul: Hürriyet, 1984), p. XXI.
5. Larcher, Maurice, La guerre turque dans la guerre mondiale (Paris: Chiron,
1926), appendices 44 and 50.
6. Rustow, Dankwart A., ‘The army and the founding of the Turkish republic’,
World Politics 11 (1959), pp. 513–52.
7. Jäschke, Gotthard, Türk Inkılâbı Tarihi Kronolojisi (Istanbul: Millî Mecmua,
1939), vol. 1, p. 156; vol. 2, pp. 50, 73.
8. Hakimiyet-i Milliye, 18 September 1924.
9. İğdemir, Uluğ, Sivas Kongresi Tutankları (Ankara: TTK, 1969), p. 3.
10. Tunçay, Mete, T.C.’nde Tek Parti Yönetimi’nin Kurulması (1923–31)
(Istanbul: Cem, 1989 (1981)), p. 48.
11. İnan, Arı, Gazi Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’ün 1923 Eskişehir – İzmit Konuşmaları
(Ankara: TTK, 1982), pp. 118ff.
12. Tunaya, Siyasal Partiler, p. 417.
13. Finefrock, Michael M., From Sultanate to Republic. Mustafa Kemal and the
Structure of Turkish Politics 1922–24, unpublished Ph.D. thesis (Princeton
University, 1976).
340
Zurcher_297-342.indd 340 3/23/2010 10:36:38 PM

Notes
14. Tunçay, T. C.’nde Tek Parti, p. 384.

15. Çavdar, Tevfik, ‘Halkevleri’ in Belge, Murat Belge (ed.), Cumhuriyet Dönemi
Türkiye Ansiklopedisi, vol. 4, (Istanbul: İletişim, n. d. [1984]), p. 878 gives all
the essential information on the People’s Houses’ aims and organization.
16. Linke, Lilo, Allah Dethroned. A Journey through Modern Turkey (London:
Constable, 1937).
17. Linke, Allah Dethroned, pp. 169ff.
18. Cassels, Alan, Fascist Italy. Second Edition (Arlington Heights: Harlan
Davidson, 1985), pp. 60–2.
19. Mango, Andrew, Atatürk (London: John Murray, 1999), p. 501.
20. Elliot, Matthew, ‘New Iran and the dissolution of party politics under
Reza Shah’, in: Atabaki, Touraj and Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Men of Order:
Authoritarian Modernization under Ataturk and Reza Shah (London:
I.B.Tauris, 2004), pp. 65–97.
21. Abrahamian, Ervand, Iran between Two Revolutions (Princeton: Princeton
19. Touring Anatolia at the End of the Atatürk Era: Kemalist

Turkey Observed by Western Visitors
* Formerly published as ‘Two young Ottomanists discover Kemalist Turkey.
The travel diaries of Robert Anhegger and Andreas Tietze’, Journal of Turkish
Studies 26/1 (2006), pp. 359–69.
1. Linke, Lilo, Allah Dethroned. A Journey through Modern Turkey (London:

Constable, 1937).
20. Islam in the Service of the Caliphate and

the Secular State
* Paper presented in 2005 at St Anthony’s College, Oxford.
of Power in the Ottoman Empire 1876–1909 (London, 1998); Toprak,
Binnaz, Islam and Political Development in Turkey (Leiden, 1981); Georgeon,
François, Abdulhamit II. Le sultan calife (Paris, 2003); Karpat, Kemal H. (ed.),
Ottoman Past and Today’s Turkey (Leiden, 2000); Yavuz, Hakan, Islamic
Political Identity in Turkey (Oxford, 2003); Poulton, Hugh, Top Hat, Grey
Wolf and Crescent. Turkish Nationalism and the Turkish Republic (London,
1997); Seufert, Günter, Politischer Islam in der Türkei. Islamismus als symbol-
ische Repräsentation einer sich moderniesirenden muslimischen Gesellschaft
(Stuttgart, 1997); Bora, Tanıl, Türk Sağının Üç Hali (Istanbul, 1999);
Shankland, David, Islam and Society in Turkey (Beverley, 1999); Davison,
Andrew, Secularism and Revivalism. A Hermeneutic Reconsideration (New
341
Zurcher_297-342.indd 341 3/23/2010 10:36:38 PM

Haven, 1998); Fortna, Benjamin, Imperial Classroom. Islam, the State and
Education in the Late Ottoman Empire (Oxford, 2002).
2. Poulton, Top Hat, Grey Wolf and Crescent, p. 59.
3. Whether we can actually say, as Yavuz does, that the state promoted Muslim
nationalism is debatable, because the Hamidian regime promoted loyalty to
the state and to the sovereign, not to any nation (cf. Yavuz, Islamic Political
Identity, p. 44).
4. Keyder, Çağlar, State and Class in Turkey. A Study in Capitalist Development
(London, 1987), chapters 2–3.
5. Hanioğlu, M. Şükrü, The Young Turks in Opposition (Oxford, 1995),
chapter 9.
6. Kitromilidis, Paschalis, ‘The Greek–Turkish population exchange’, in:
Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Philologiae et Historiae Turcicae Fundamenta IV.
History of Turkey in the Twentieth Century (Berlin, 2008); Ladas, Stephen,
The Exchange of Minorities: Bulgaria, Greece and Turkey (New York, 1932).
7. Davison, Secularism, p. 139. In Davison’ s view the interpretations that
emphasize the control element, such as those offered by Binnaz Toprak,
Çağlar Keyder and Şerif Mardin, are one-sided and should be balanced with
an appreciation of the degree to which separation of the religious and the
political was achieved.
8. See: Soymen, M., Cep İlmihali (Ankara, 2000), pp. 115–17.
9. Poulton, Top Hat, Grey Wolf and Crescent, p. 184.
21. Turning Points and Missed Opportunities in the Modern

History of Turkey: Where Could Things Have Gone
Differently?
* This is the text of a lecture given to history students of Middle East Technical
University at the Netherlands Institute for Higher Education in Ankara in
November 2007.
1. Cf. Part I of this collection.
2. Devereux, Robert, The First Ottoman Constitutional Period: A Study of
the Midhat Constitution and Parliament (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins
342
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‘Terakkiperver Cumhuriyet Fırkası’, Sosyalizm ve Toplumsal Mücadeleler
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‘The influence of the French Radical Party on Young Turk political thinking’,
in Turan, İlter and Bacqué-Grammont, Jean-Jacques (ed.), De la révolution
française à la Turquie d’Atatürk (Istanbul: Isis, 1990), pp. 197–203.
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Party (1924–1925) (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 177 p. [translated as: Terakkiperver
Cumhuriyet Fırkası, (Istanbul: Bağlam, 1991), 205 p.].
‘The last phase in the history of the committee of union and progress (1923–
1924)’, in: Actes de la première rencontre internationale sur l’Empire Ottoman
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1908–1938’, in Karpat, Kemal H. (ed.), Ottoman Past and Today’s Turkey
(Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 150–79.
‘The core terminology of Kemalism: mefkure, millî, muasir, medenî’, in
Georgeon, François (ed.), Les mots de politique de l’Empire Ottoman
a la Turquie kemaliste (Paris: EHESS/ ESA 8032 (CN R S), 2000),
pp. 55–64.
Review of: Mango, Andrew, Atatürk, Middle Eastern Studies 36/3 (2000),
pp. 253–7.
Review article: ‘The Ottoman Twilight’, reviews of: Kleinert, Claudia, Die
Revision der Historiographie des Osmanischen Reiches am Beispiel von
Abdülhamid II; Deringil, Selim, The Well-protected Domains, Özcan, Azmi,
Indian Muslims, the Ottomans and Britain (1877–1924); Kayalı, Hasan, Arabs
and Young Turks; Poulton, Hugh, Top Hat, Grey Wolf and Crescent; Macfie,
A.L., The End of the Ottoman Empire, British Journal of Middle East Studies
27/2 (2000), pp. 201–7.
Ed. with Van Schendel, Willem, Identity Politics in Central Asia and the Muslim
world: Nationalism, Ethnicity and Labour in the 20th Century (London: I.B.
Tauris, 2001), 235 p. [translated as: Orta Asya ve İslam Dünyasında Kimlik
Politikaları. 20. Yüzyılda Milliyetçilik, Etnisite ve Emek (Istanbul: İletişim,
2004), 296 p.].
With Willem van Schendel, ‘Introduction: opting out, opting in, exclusion and
assimilation: States and nations in the twentieth century’, in Van Schendel,
Willem and Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Identity Politics in Central Asia and
the Muslim World: Nationalism, Ethnicity and Labour in the 20th Century
(London: I.B.Tauris, 2001), pp. 1–12.
‘ “Fundamentalism” as an exclusionary device in Kemalist Turkish national-
ism’, in Van Schendel, Willem and Zürcher, Erik Jan (ed.), Identity Politics in
Central Asia and the Muslim World: Nationalism, Ethnicity and Labour in the
20th Century (London: I.B.Tauris, 2001), pp. 209–22.
‘Yeni Othmanlilar’, Encyclopaedia of Islam. New Edition, vol. 11 (Leiden: Brill,
2002), pp. 331–2.
‘Two young Ottomanists discover Kemalist Turkey. The travel diaries of Robert
Anhegger and Andreas Tietze’, Journal of Turkish Studies, 26/1 (2002),
pp. 359–69.
‘Ottoman labour battalions in World War I’, in Kieser, Hans-Lukas and Schaller,
Dominik J. (ed.), Der Völkermord an den Armeniern und die Shoah. The
Armenian Genocide and the Shoah (Zürich: Chronos, 2002), pp. 187–96.
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(Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2004), pp.79–170 [translated as

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Islam (Amsterdam University Press, 2004), pp. 83–174).
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dönemlerinde asker kaçaklığı’, in Heval Çınar, Özgün and Üsterci, Coşkun
(ed.), Çarklardaki Kum: Vicdani Red (Istanbul: İletişim, 2008), pp. 59–68.
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Erik J.

Zürcher is Professor of Turkish Studies at the University of Leiden

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From the Ottoman Empire to Atatürk’s Turkey

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Distributed in the United States and Canada Exclusively by Palgrave Macmillan

© 2010 Erik J. Zürcher

Library of Modern Middle East Studies: 87

ISBN: 978 1 84885 271 6 (HB)

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available

Printed and bound in India by Thomson Press India Ltd

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Preface: Thirty Years of Turkish History ix

I. SOURCES AND LITERATURE 1

II. IMPERIAL TWILIGHT 55

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III. THE GREAT WAR 151

IV. TOWARDS THE NATION STATE 209

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with Unionist outsiders by Kemalist insiders as the accepted historiography

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called The Young Turk Period 1908–1950, a very controversial statement at

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In October 1927 Mustafa Kemal Pasha, the later Atatürk, delivered a

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sultan’s palace of Dolmabahçe on the shore of the Bosphorus and there he

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themselves. Nowadays the process is usually called ‘translation into Turkish’

The influence of the Nutuk on Turkish historiography

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enough for it to completely dominate historiography as it evolved in the repub-

What is the Nutuk about?

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In my view this approach fundamentally fails to appreciate what the

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letters, addressed to the president of the Turkish national assembly. In these

Of course, all these activities ended in a success for the republic.

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only candidates handpicked by Atatürk were allowed to stand and accord-

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historian of modern Turkey, who confronts Atatürk’s version in the convic-

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by Halide Edip [Adıvar], which in places was quite critical of Atatürk.

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1. According to Karabekir, Mustafa Kemal waited and hesitated for too