I could see, in spite of Djimlah’s affection for me, and the old hanoum’s kindness and tolerance, and of the politeness of all the Turks toward us, that they held a Christian to be inferior to a Mohammedan. They did not say much about it, but I felt that they considered themselves a superior race, by virtue of their origin and religion. As I grew older, I no longer entered into national or religious discussions. I did not even mind their feeling superior, since I knew that this feeling was all they had, and that the real superiority lay with us, and if they did not have this mistaken conceit they would be very sorry for themselves. And, in spite of my kindly feelings toward them, I was always aware that deep down in my heart was planted the seed of hatred toward them—a seed which was never to wither and die, even if it were not to grow very large.
I wonder if there will ever come a time when little children will be spared the planting of these seeds, when they will be brought up in the teaching that there is but one God and one nationality—or that the God and the nationality of other little children is as good as our own: that we are all brothers and sisters, linked together by Nature to carry out her work, and to give to each other the best that is in us? I wonder whether we shall ever be trained so as not to care whether our particular nation is big and powerful, but whether every human being is receiving the chance to develop the best in him, in order that he may give that best to the rest of the world?
The bond which existed between Djimlah and Chakendé often gave me food for thought. For centuries their people fought each other. Then they amalgamated and made one, loved each other, and shared each other’s destiny. My people had fought their people, and they had conquered us—yet there was no amalgamation. My civilization stood on one side, and theirs on the other, and in that dividing line stood Christ and Mohammed, insurmountable barriers. I loved Djimlah, I loved Chakendé; but, if any question arose, I was fore-most a Greek, and they were Turks. They were Turks having the upper hand over us—a hand armed with a scourge. And if they kept that hand behind their back, and I could not see it, I knew that it held the whip, and that at times they used it both heavily and unjustly. And I felt that my race must watch its opportunity to get hold of that whip.
The arrival of Chakendé, and later of Nashan and Semmaya, brought into my friendship with Djimlah a feeling which did not exist before. It is true that, on the first day we met, Djimlah and I almost fought over the bravery of our respective nations, and her assumption of equality before God had almost ended our friendship; yet never by word or sign did she do anything to rouse our racial antagonism. But when the two of us grew into a group, and of that group I remained the only Greek, they sometimes forgot, and spoke unguardedly.
One day, for example, when Djimlah’s grandfather had given each of us some money to spend, we were waiting for the afternoon vendor to pass in order to buy candy. We waited for a long time—unendurably long, we thought—before the stillness of the afternoon vibrated with the words:
“Seker, sekerji!”
We rushed to the door, pennies in hand, and stamped impatiently for the white-clad figure to come near. Then Chakendé exclaimed peevishly:
“Oh, it isn’t Ali. It’s the Christian dog. Let’s not buy of him—let’s wait for Ali.”
In an instant I was transformed. I was wholly the child of my uncle, wearing the Turkish yoke. I got hold of Chakendé’s two long braids, and pulled and kicked—for when it came to real, not make-believe, fighting I was more than her equal.
Djimlah’s courtesy and tact alone saved the situation. She immediately called to the Christian sekerji, and told us she was going to treat us with all her pennies. Moreover, she addressed herself most politely to the vendor, approved of his wares, and even praised his complexion to him.