CHAPTER XVII
ANGORA III.—THE MARVELLOUS ATMOSPHERE OF A GREAT BIRTH
In all my wanderings, East and West, over Europe and America, I have nowhere been so much thrilled by a dominating sense of “real effort” as at Angora. Against a background of prehistoric civilisations, the human bees swarm in and out of their Parliament, buzzing away night and day, a free and independent Turkey.
What will their “delegation” accomplish at Lausanne? Is the war only postponed, or will there be peace? “At one moment our spirits rise to the most daring hopes; we see ourselves marching into Constantinople. At the next, Younous Nadi Bey reports ‘grave news’ from abroad, and preparations for war are resumed.”
The colonel persists in “doubt” towards England. “Do you know,” said I, “I am astonished at my own superiority?”
He was not convinced, but demanded chapter and verse.
“We both love Turkey; but I also love your country and you dislike mine. Therefore, am I not immensely your superior?”
In a sense, no doubt, we exaggerate things away here in Angora. If Europe could ever realise what “a free and independent Turkey” really means to her own people, the miracle would still seem no more than one tiny step forward in the interests of the world. Yet sometimes I wonder over the words of Cardinal Gasparri: “Turkey has not only dictated to England, but to France and Italy as well.”
And now, here in Angora, I see them coming along their one wide road. All mingled without a thought of social distinctions; all intent upon the same goal—their country’s freedom; all alike proud of the price they have paid—officers and deputies, ministers and civil servants, soldiers, peasants, and caravan-drivers. Are not these, then, the one true democracy of the world?
“If I resent being called American,” I told my friends here, “it certainly is not because I dislike democracy. In Western practice, alas, it has been like ‘freedom for women’—so imperfectly carried out.”
From its original bungalow design, the building of the Grand Nationalist Assembly still retains a certain resemblance to the club-pavilion. But considerable extensions are being put forward as rapidly as a climate that only varies from ten to fifteen degrees below zero will permit; while its commanding position, and the care bestowed upon the entrance and grounds, are admirably calculated to uphold the honour and dignity of the Nationalist flag overhead.
There is a large ante-room on the left as you enter, where I generally spent a good part of the day, after my first visit to the Assembly, occasionally finding my way into the actual Debate. There were always coffee and cigarettes in the ante-room; and it was there I met practically all the ministers and deputies, who must, at last, have grown weary of my endless questions on every conceivable aspect of their ideals and their activities. “You must accept me,” I said, in half-serious apology, “as a self-constituted Father Confessor” to the new nation he loves and admires so much.
Across the corridor, too, I was allowed sometimes to say “good afternoon” over a cup of coffee to “the Pasha” (as M. Kemal is here known to all) in his Presidential Bureau.
Honestly, I believe the men “understood” all my questions, however indiscreet, and did not take offence. They seemed so eager for me to meet everyone and learn everything.
It was, indeed, a very pleasant and most human pursuit of knowledge—a continual succession of brilliant and zealous men, interpreting themselves and their dreams to an eager listener.
Among other matters, I was particularly anxious to know whether Constantinople or Angora was to be the permanent capital of the new State, and to understand all the reasons that would determine their choice.
I love every inch of Constantinople. There are obvious and important religious-historical associations with its mosques and its public buildings; comfort and dignity, space and beauty, are, as it were, already at hand. Yet, paradoxical as it may seem, to me it lacks, and will always lack, the marvellous atmosphere of a Great Birth that so impresses one in Angora.
The Turks, I found, were unanimous in having a similar preference and, naturally, put forward more precise and practical reasons for their choice. There may be occasion for a temporary sojourn in Constantinople.
But they want an “Asiatic” capital; they want to govern their own country beyond the reach of possible interference from dreadnoughts; they want to maintain an intimate continuity of association with the cradle of the movement that begot the State.
There is, moreover, a primitive and Asiatic charm in Angora, which should serve, as it were, to “keep them holy” from the materialisms and the intrigues of Western commerce-Empires.
Here we are all brothers, fellow-labourers in a common cause. All have suffered—at Malta, in Egypt, or from corrupt Ottoman Imperial Government. Could such union and natural intimacy exist elsewhere?
The “Brotherhood” of the East does not mean anything like our various forms of socialism. The “democracy” or almost complete ignoring of class distinctions, does not destroy, or even modify, the inherited respectful submission of illiterate peasants to their “superiors” in intellect, authority, or military power. Their religion teaches them to obey.
It does mean a universal recognition of identity of interest; that the “good of all” is every man’s good and every man’s responsibility; that all have equal rights to know what can be done for them by the State, to give their opinions, to express their wishes or their complaints, and to be heard with courteous attention. You feel that literally the whole nation is being busy about its welfare and its hopes.
With us, of course, the submerged proletariat could not practise (and would not be allowed to practise) such real equality without perpetual self-assertion and loud outcries against the “slavery” of the past.
Every Turk, in his degree, has always been content with so little. His personal nature is uncomplaining, from a combination of fine feeling and what in us would mean lack of courage. Herein lies at once their great weakness and their great strength.
Even the “new,” soi-disant “arrogant” Turk does not complain. He may intend to, he may assure us that he will. Western friends, no doubt, are often tempted to wish him the master of a little more push and noise. Longer intimacy and a more sympathetic understanding, however, will cure us of this mistake. Were he not so supersensitive all the time, did he attempt our rush methods of progress, he would soon cease to be himself and lose the fine mystic idealism for which no sacrifice has been too great, no passion of waiting and working too prolonged.
They will not yet set up a Republic, as we understand the word. No nation on earth has less capacity or inclination for Bolshevism. There could never be any common chord between their faith and the principles of Lenin and Trotsky. One hears so much of the Red influence behind Nationalist demands that it is well to meet these men in their own houses (truly “in labour” for a Nation’s birth) to see and know that such accusations are absolutely false. Soviet Russia has been a “friend in need” to the Turks, and may befriend them again; but—nothing more.
The overpowering magnificence of the Bolshevik Embassy may be a measure of their designs, but carries no proof of achievement. When personages like Fethi Bey and Rauf Bey are working in tiny offices no better than glorified barns, one does not, of course, like to see the Soviets in possession of the only large and well-appointed building in the town. There is a staff of seventy, including an army of typists. The attachés are well supplied with cars, carriages, and other Western luxuries, paying their bills with gold Russian roubles.
They are allowed to distribute Red literature, though no one in Turkey thinks of reading it. When the Russians once sent a few Turks to Angora to preach Bolshevism, they were promptly shot by the Nationalist Government, pour encourager les autres! That was the end of Bolshevist propaganda!
I asked one of the deputies what Turkey thought she had gained from the Bolshevists. “When any foreign representative visits a country as friendless as Turkey,” he replied, “and says: ‘We thoroughly approve of all your ideas and principles; we want to show the world that we believe in the doctrines of freedom and independence that you are preaching,’ should we turn away from the only sympathy we received?
“Besides, we had many frontiers to defend; at least by shaking hands with the Soviet we secured one frontier. I know that this simple act of grateful friendship has been much discussed and severely criticised in Europe. It may have done us great harm; but beggars cannot be choosers. Who else stretched out a hand of friendship?”
“And gold and arms?” I inquired. “Forgive my indiscretion.”
“A very little gold,” he replied, “not a penny more than two million Turkish pounds. We had arms from all nations, no more from Russia than from Czecho-Slovakia. It will surprise you to know that most of them were bought from England and Greece.”
“But where could you get the money?” I next inquired.
“From our Anatolian population. In no other country, would the people have accepted such heavy taxation upon their lands, their cattle, and their corn. No other country has been driven to resist the whole world in defence of her very existence. Our taxes must have reached 75 per cent. So you see that if Europe does not care to help us, we can manage for ourselves, and waste no tears over her in difference.”
Certain European papers have published a report that Camerad Areloff has been admitted to the Cabinet Councils of New Turkey. When an Ambassador from Angora was asked why her Government did not contradict the obvious falsehood, he retorted: “If any paper, in any country, announced that your British Ambassador was taking part in the Councils of the French Cabinet, would your Government protest?” It was readily acknowledged that we should consider such a statement to be entirely beneath our notice.
“Of course you would,” said the Turk; “and we take precisely the same view.”
When I arrived at the Assembly one afternoon the band was playing in the gardens—a strange accompaniment, I thought, to the serious business of Parliament. I asked one of the deputies whether this was a national holiday, or a day of thanksgiving for the arrival of the ex-Khalif at Malta? It was lucky for me that the rather dangerous little joke only raised a smile, while he explained that, as the Imperial Band had fled from Constantinople with the Nationalists, its loyalty must be acknowledged and its services utilised. It did, in fact, play here for a short time every day. Now I remembered that I had heard bands also in Smyrna and Constantinople.
It was graciously suggested that I should choose something myself for the band to play, and I asked that we might have some Turkish music. One of the deputies, it appeared, had written an opera; and after listening with great pleasure to some selections from his work, I was introduced to the composer. The opera, naturally written round the cause, is full of a pathos that brings tears to the eyes of an understanding audience. They also gave me a patriotic love song—the reunion of two lovers (Anatolia and Roumelia) after long years of separation—which I should like to have heard again and brought away with me. Its beauty was haunting, though not quite easy to follow at a first hearing.
For Roumelia, we know, her share in the horrors of war is over. Now it is Anatolia who must suffer. Trouble was even fomented among the tribes. First, the rebellion of the Roums, who were encouraged to stand for private independence; then the hostility of the Alewites, and the rebellion of Armenians in Cilicia; finally a rising of Circassian tribes—Durdje, Khandeke, Adabazar. Naturally again, the men to whom Abdul Medjid had given the villayet of Sivas, after the horrible massacres of 1864, were loyal to the Khalif’s successor and furious at any idea of Nationalist interference.
The course of true love between these two nations had not run smoothly. No wonder their reunion should be celebrated with such appealing remorse!
The President of the Assembly, Mustapha Kemal Pasha, was talking to me one day of the French Revolution, and compared what he called his own “very elegant” beginning with the poor little Assembly in which Michelet had to work, with its single table and just a couple of chairs!
Here, in addition to the large ante-room and M. Kemal’s bureau, the Vice-President, Adnan Bey, husband of Halidé Edib Hanoum—has his bureau; and the actual Assembly Hall (built for concerts) is a fine room, with its Strangers’ and Press Galleries, its platform, and Speaker’s desk.
The Speaker (in this case the Vice-President) appeared to me to be ringing his bell for order all the time; but the whole scene recalls the French Chamber of Deputies, and here, too, they all talk at once and interrupt each other without ceremony.
When I mentioned to “the Pasha” how strange it seemed to me that a Parliament should be so noisy, Fethi Bey explained by describing to his chief the dignity of our proceedings at Westminster.[[1]] He proved, once more, to be a keen observer, quick to decide and act, though a man of few words. His cold reception in London did not diminish his keen interest in our civilisation, which appeals to him immensely, and which he was always ready to praise. He told me he wanted to go back to England, this time incognito, and really master all the institutions, activities, and policies of the country, in order to explain us to his own people.
[1]. Fortunately he saw us on our best behaviour at Westminster.
I only wish that he could make time for such a mission. The interfering propaganda of Europe has made Turkish nationalism very touchy. One certainly cannot blame them for any suspicion or readiness to take offence, nor wonder at the reception they might accord to offers of help from even the best foreign specialists whom they had not themselves elected to invite or consult. The fight for freedom has been single-handed, and the price too heavy for them to endure a thought of taking the slightest risk.
I noticed one more evidence of Democracy in this Hall of Assembly. There is absolutely no formal division, either by rank or office, in the seating accommodation. The deputies sit anywhere, each at a sort of school-desk, and when the President comes in to hear a debate, he simply looks round for the first vacant seat.
There is, however, a tribune for speeches in front of the Speaker’s table, from which I enjoyed much fluent and animated oratory. The Turks speak mostly without notes and their constant gestures recall the French. Others, however, no doubt partly from my not knowing the language, produced a similar impression to that of prayers in a Jewish synagogue.
The Assembly is never closed, each member, however, being entitled to three months’ holiday. At this time about two hundred were in attendance and crowded the hall to overflowing. The total membership is three hundred and forty.
I am not allowed to forget that it was England who really created the Nationalist Assembly—May 16, 1920, is the historic date—when we took possession of the Turkish Parliament in Constantinople, and the patriots (a hundred and fifty of the most enlightened Turks) were imprisoned at Malta. Then it was that Nationalism demanded, and set up, its own Assembly.
Men from Malta and the other deputies who escaped from Constantinople form two-thirds of the present Parliament; the remaining third have been elected in the country itself.
Its composition is, indeed, unique, representing all sorts and conditions of men, as varied in age, social position, and dress as they are in ideas.
As I looked down from the gallery on this strange, eager group, my eye was caught by the picturesque figure of that “ancient of days,” the Deputy for Dersim. Diab is a Kurd, ninety years old, who speaks Turkish with difficulty. A tall, erect old man, with a long white beard and large piercing blue eyes that need no aid from glasses; he wears the tribal head-dress and robes, carrying an amber chaplet. Though the only deputy who can neither read nor write, he is a great personage in his own country, the chief of an important tribe. As, however, he has only twice spoken in the Assembly, we may suppose that the mountain population are generally able to settle their own grievances outside Angora. He tells me that, like most of his constituents, he lives almost entirely upon goats’ milk and bread, and that, as many of them have reached their hundred and twentieth year, he himself is reckoned a young man!
Curiously enough, however, it is the Dancing Dervishes who have sent up one of the most progressive spirits to the Assembly. The “Grand Tchelebi,” too, is a picturesque figure in his long brown cylinder felt hat and ecclesiastical robes. Descended from an even older family than Osman’s, he yet voted with the Hodjas for the dethronement of the ex-Khalif.
The hostility of many deputies towards the Hodjas is rather puzzling; but the journalist who said, “These men cannot think as we think,” may be right. He added: “Every big nation except the English has recognised the wisdom of separating Church and State. Yet when we advocate the same policy we are severely censured.” It is also stated that the Hodjas themselves cannot keep pace with the most progressive among the leaders, and are, therefore, quite willing to stand outside the Councils of the State. The Assembly no doubt would not suffer any religious element to hamper progress or interfere with its newly acquired freedom and independence.
The predominance of military uniforms will strike any Western observer; but one should remember the country is still at war. A few still wear the fez; but the very great majority have adopted the more picturesque kalpak, that varies in colour from grey and brown to black, and must be comfortable and warm in winter.
There are, naturally, many of the special difficulties in this Assembly that are inseparable from all beginnings of progress, in a country with no experience of self-government. The more illiterate deputies, for example, know nothing of Europe, and regard everything Western with bitter hostility and distrust. On the other hand, I met one day a brilliant Socialist munition-worker who, having studied Karl Marx and Arthur Henderson, wants to establish a precise replica of English trade unionism in Turkey—which God forbid!
There are some simple farm labourers, shopkeepers, lawyers, doctors who have studied in Paris, newspaper editors, University professors, and Valis.
The most enlightened speak practically every language in Europe, and are thoroughly well acquainted with public life on the Continent. They stand for the Freedom of Women, and did their best to make Halidé Hanoum a member of the Assembly. They would be perfectly at home in our most exclusive drawing-rooms; yet they work well, in the Cabinet itself, with men absolutely ignorant of any country except their own. “Social, or class, differences,” I am told, “have no place in any Parliament. They are created by Society women outside!”
During the Conference at Lausanne, the papers published a scandalous statement that “a deputy could purchase a seat in the Assembly for ten gold Turkish pounds!” As a matter of fact, all Turkish elections are very carefully controlled by inspectors and the municipal authorities. No one who knows anything of M. Kemal and his colleagues would dream of imagining that this form of bribery or purchase could be allowed.
Smarting under the policy of Malta (not unlike that of Daudet’s hero, who locked his goat in a room but forgot to close the window), the Grand “National” Assembly lives up to its name, and is, above all, anti-everything that could interfere with real freedom. For three and a half years of untold hardship and self-sacrifice the gospel of Nationalism has schooled the people. It is their religion to-day, from the “Pasha” himself to the humblest shepherd of the hills.
At Angora we read the papers and talk politics all day; at night we dream of the National Pact. Everyone watches for foreign telegrams; we all attend the Assembly; the statesmen work without ceasing through the twenty-four hours. The genius of M. Kemal as military chief and civil organiser is unequalled.
Why, then, do the nations doubt? Turks to-day are fully determined to run their own country; they will find the necessary ability and will suffer no interference. Europe has so far condemned them unheard and refused them a square deal. We must change all that and see to it that the East may have her chance!
The more closely I have studied the National Assembly the greater confidence I feel.