A JOURNEY ON FOOT—A COUNTRY MADE BY GOD, UNTOUCHED BY MAN
IT is not given to many in this enlightened twentieth century to travel
in a country as God made it, almost untouched by man. Upon the road from
Gunhani I saw no signs of man’s handiwork, save a few miles of
Deacoville, a tunnel, and the primitive carts of Anatolia. These are
made from a few logs nailed together, and fastened to two wheels, cut
solidly out of a block of wood. Their continuous squeak does not seem
out of keeping with the primitive surroundings, and may be regarded as
an “accompaniment” to the peasant’s songs.
The story is told of a “benevolent” American whose imagination was fired
by the project of turning this land into a “new America.” He would
subject the fertile soil to “intensive” cultivation and smother it with
sky-scrapers. So he persuaded a Turk to come over to “God’s own country”
(as man has made it) and study the United States.
His guest, however, refused to admire, took passage for home at the
earliest possible opportunity, and informed his friends that, “having
now seen man’s ‘best’ country, he would never again leave God’s.”
Nevertheless, in the Western mind these wide stretches of waste land
among the beautiful mountains, beneath a cloudless sky, cannot fail to
rouse a longing to break the silence by a “little emptying of our
crowded towns.” The women and old men _are_ digging, sowing, and
cultivating, with but slight return for their heavy labour; now that the
young are all “wanted” for defence.
“One day we _shall_ have peace,” said I to our carriers, and they
murmured “_Inch Allah!_” Turning my wish to prayer, I could only repeat,
“We _shall_ have peace.”
As often as I can persuade them to rest, I seize the chance of telling
them about England. When I mention our great Moslem King George they
naturally confuse him with Lloyd George. And, later, “if your King loves
his Moslem subjects, as you say he does, why does he permit his Minister
to remain?” I assure them that he will not, and their faces brighten as
they cry: “There will be peace, then.”
As we plunge into the tunnel, about a kilometre long, our men raise
strange howls which echo around us with the most weird effect; but we
are in darkness that can be felt, and anyone coming unwarned in an
opposite direction, which is _downhill_, could scarcely avoid a crash.
As it happens, there is an engineer on the line. Our men lift off his
wagonette and replace it, further down, than ours.
I marvelled that they had sufficient strength for the job, living on
coffee and bread. Meanwhile, our flashlight revealed Turkish ladies
walking along the tunnel without a glimmer of light to guide them, who
made their way by a continuous beating of sticks upon the wall.
In this strange land, one is not afraid! I think of all the alarm my
journey excited in Smyrna, and am more than ever convinced that I _only_
need an interpreter. If I knew the language, I would go alone and
without fear! Primitive people in Turkey have a high code of honour.
They would not steal a penny, they will not even accept what I offer to
pay. Though he would tear to pieces an enemy of his country, the Turk
would stand between me and danger, for he knows I am a friend.
At last we are out of the tunnel, stretching our legs with relief in the
open air. Suddenly a strange sound breaks on our ears from the
mountains. As we stop to listen, we hear someone calling upon us to
“Halt! You must go no further!” I remember—this day, they had told me,
there would be “war”! A strange figure seems to be hopping down the
mountains, about 800 metres in height, which proves to be the
_Commandant de la Place_. He had arrived at our tent very late the night
before, and left me a “message of welcome.” Is he now bringing the
terrible news the war has begun? No. Only offering us hospitality.
He had not expected us to start so early, and apologised for “calling in
his nightgown”—the only alternative to letting us pass his “inhospitable
doors.” I begged that I might take a photograph, and, leaving all our
belongings upon the wayside, we readily set out to climb the mountain,
while he shouted the news of our approach to hasten the preparations of
his wife. As a matter of fact, the difficulties of the ascent were quite
sufficient to give her ample time; and when we reached the house at
last, the pure, fresh air (that struck cold in spite of the brilliant
sunshine) inspired a hearty welcome to “rest” after so stiff a climb!
The commandant (who is richly bronzed by outdoor life in the sun) seemed
quite content with his two-roomed cabin among the hills, though one
could sense the tragic experiences he would never obtrude. Three of his
children had perished from cold and hardship, and I caught anxious
glances towards the two remaining, fine, sturdy-looking little creatures
as they were. His mother-in-law, busily intent on grinding the corn,
bore further witness to their hidden struggles.
I was immediately given a chair; a mattress was found for the cheik, and
once more we learned that in this country you are expected to have some
coffee _before_ a glass of tea, and then roasted almonds and
melon-seeds. I like to think it was the children who decorated their
little cat’s ears with pink tassels in our honour, much to the animal’s
annoyance. While the pig had been also “decorated,” to _his_ intense
delight!
Madame retired immediately on our arrival; but when “tea” was finished,
I begged that she might join us. Though veiled and shy, she came. Then
she and her husband brought their outes (a Turkish guitar played with a
feather) and sang to us without any restraint.
We stayed with them so many hours that, at last, I began to fear I was
expected to make the first move. At three o’clock I asked the cheik when
we were going to continue our journey, and he quickly answered: “When
you please”—confirming my suspicions.
I was now informed that we should probably be too late for the one train
in the day, and have to face a journey of many hours in bullock-wagons,
drawn perhaps by mules. No one even hinted that I was to blame; yet no
one would have dreamt of being so rude as to tell me that it was _my_
place to break up the party!
The line from Smyrna to Angora had been cut at Gunhani, as had the line
from Haïdar Pasha at Bilidjik and Kara-Keuy.
From Gunhani we had to reach Afioun-Karahissar as we best could, partly
by Deacoville, then by ox-wagon and luggage trains to Ouchak and on to
Afioun. The railway bridge destroyed at Gunhani was a fine example of
French engineering, which went right over the mountains, from eight
hundred to a thousand feet high. It will take years to rebuild. The
Turks do not complain, and have cheerfully accepted the terrible
discomfort to passengers and goods traffic, with their usual philosophy.
“The destruction of an important railway,” as they calmly remark, “is
legitimate warfare and first-class strategy.”
We could realise, however, what the disaster really _meant_, as we
climbed down, without the help of any kind of pathway, from the
commandant’s little house on the steep hills. Once on the road we took
an ox-wagon, drawn by mules, for what was still little better than a
mountain track, to the nearest point of the railway that was in order,
in the direction of Afioun-Karahissar. Unable, like the cheik or any
Oriental, to sit on my legs, I had to let them hang over the side of our
wagon.
This scurrying down from the commandant’s house was not “a picnic!” Our
fearless drivers and their marvellously sure-footed beasts, could not
prevent our being flung from side to side of the springless cart,
holding on for dear life. Sometimes the officer had to spring out and
push from behind to save us from falling backwards.
The telegraph wires, of course, were also cut; but the rapidity with
which messengers are able to run and leap over these ragged mountain
ways enabled them to bring news _back_ to us, of the quickest way to
find a train, in an incredibly short time.
[Illustration:
IN AN OX WAGON.
“Unable to sit on my legs, I have to let them hang over the side of
our wagon.”
]
I had found it a herculean task to reach, and return, from our resting
place on the hill-top. The bullock-cart seemed to find it scarcely
_less_ difficult to manipulate the narrow and broken roadway. Yet the
Turkish soldiers had _somehow_ found means and strength to heave their
heavy artillery over these awe-inspiring passes, from which one slip of
the foot meant instant death.
There was, naturally, “nothing doing” at the station till very late that
night, when we should have to pass the dark hours in a luggage train.
Just before it was due to start, however, the Governor arrived with
sardines, fruit, and bread, of which we managed to make a good dinner
“on board,” actually our first meal that day, except for the
commandant’s almonds.
A chair was found for me in the empty carriage, but others had to sit on
the floor. We had candles and, by some means, word was sent in advance
of our approach. They tell me it is quite a short journey, but I cannot
help wishing that we had been able to stay in the bullock-carts.
Through that strange night—not so cold, indeed, as yesterday—we seemed
to crawl on one mile and then shunt back two, to an awful accompaniment
of clanging metal that made it impossible to sleep. I had only to close
my eyes for a moment and our train was certain to be violently thrown
back. Really, I thought my head would be shaken off my body.
As always, the cheik made heroic efforts to wile away the dark hours and
distract my mind. There was no question I could ask him about Islam in
vain. Here is the best I can reproduce of that fascinating lesson in
faith and philosophy delivered in a luggage train by night:
“The very word _Obedience_ (_i.e._ Islam) is contrary to all Bolshevist
ideas, just as Bolshevism itself is contradicted by the Reign of Terror
in Russia. Islam teaches the ‘preservation of property,’ Bolshevism
destroys it. Verily, the Turks must have passed through sorrow and
tribulation before they could ever have felt any temptation to ally
themselves with the Russia of to-day. Yet the Soviet has helped us in
our time of need, and we owe our fidelity to the alliance.”
I spoke of the vast sums paid out by Russia to Abdul Hamid to maintain
enmity between the Turks and Great Britain.... “That you have made
friends with your hereditary enemy surely means grave peril to India.”
“So we all feel,” answered the cheik. “But we can never forget the shock
to the Moslem world of the ‘rumour’ that Constantinople (the seat of
Caliphat) would be handed over to Russia. England had gone back on her
word and lost our respect for ever. Henceforth we could be deceived no
longer. We were cyphers, mere pawns, on the political chess-board of the
Powers. The principles of Islam were distorted without hesitation to
prove that no Christian peoples could live unmolested under Turkish
rule. How could Great Britain be so blind to the unbounded respect she
had earned from Islam by her fine tolerance of _all_ religions in India?
Now she has ‘changed all that,’ and the war in the Near East was a
_religious_ war.”
When I attempted to frame some excuses for the pro-Greek attitude of the
British Government, he reminded me of our “old pride in Moslem
allegiance. You have more Moslem than Christian subjects.... Is not your
Prime Minister, Mr. Lloyd George, a democrat? Where can he find more
perfect democracies than in the East, under Moslem rule? It is a ‘new’
ideal in the West. When President Wilson began to preach it, he was
derided as a Utopian, because he was three centuries ahead of his time!
Every Moslem has _always_ been equal before the law—the Sultan stands
_with_ his subjects.”
“That does not quite ‘explain’ Abdul Hamid,” I said.
“He was the exception we shall never repeat. You cannot argue from
exceptions.... It is the English who have ceased to value the precepts
of Islam. The Koran bids us obey those in authority. Rather than rebel,
we leave the country.”
“And M. Kemal Pasha? Has he not rebelled?”
“No, indeed. He simply defended his country, deposed the
vassal-traitor-Sultan.... M. Kemal Pasha rules direct from the Koran. He
will have strength to set aside the heresies of the Byzantines that have
been grafted on to our Government. It is nonsense to say that the Koran
has been found unfitted for the requirements of the twentieth century.”
“There, I fear, I must plead guilty.”
“You will see, when you have stayed among us a little longer, that it
can be honestly interpreted to meet man’s present needs.”
“The freedom of women——?”
“The ‘seclusion’ comes from Byzantium. M. Kemal will change that, if
only he does not himself make a foolish marriage.”
“How do you mean—foolish?”
“A princess. We attribute Enver’s downfall to his having married a
princess. He then required money to maintain his ‘royal’ position; we do
not inquire from whence it came! If M. Kemal Pasha follows his example
we shall lose faith in his democracy.”
“And a foreigner?”
“That is almost as bad. The helpmeet of _our_ choice for him should be
one who would help the country to progress along Eastern lines, not
Western. Rather a peasant than a foreigner or a princess.”
“I hope he may find one with the intelligence of Halidé Hanoum, and with
her womanly charm. To me she seems wholly delightful. She can advance,
and remain a woman, as our Anglo-Saxon reformers have seldom done.”
“We shall see; but you must make no mistake. You imagine that women ‘do
not count’ in the East, yet I assure you a foolish marriage for M. Kemal
Pasha would be a national disaster.”
“I wish you were not so much against British rule.”
“I must face facts. You have been doing strange things here for the last
twenty-three years. We do not object to you because you are rulers, but
to the way in which you now rule. In Islam all the faiths co-operate.
Israel has its place, and we venerate Christ no less than our Prophet.
It is the same in England itself, yet the very men whom you receive in
your London drawing-rooms are spoken of in Egypt and India as
‘natives.’”
“Neither can I understand that.” I agreed.
“No, _you_ would not; but, if you really want to know the truth, we are
discouraged and hurt. How can your Empire accept your ex-Premier’s
pro-Greek campaign after his _glorious_ speeches in support of
democracy?”
“The more I think about it,” said I, “the less I understand.”
“Well, the consequences for us are black. We were so long content to
pass our days in confidence that all was well with British at the helm.
Now we are watching with anxious eyes; only we pray that the ‘to-morrow’
which all good Moslems desire, may yet come with M. Kemal Pasha. I have
sons, who must all be soldiers, since we no longer trust the West.”
“Will they be educated in England, at Oxford?”
“No, alas! They are in Germany. They must learn to put the
responsibilities of citizenship before sport. They must not associate
with men who might afterwards settle in Egypt and call them ‘niggers.’”
These were bitter truths for my pride in England.
The cheik, by the way, was born in Egypt, and regarded as a dangerous
Moslem foe! I wonder if that can in any sense justify his exile from his
native land?
As he tells me: The victory of M. Kemal is the direct result of an
attempt to express the spirit of nationalism, which will not be kept
down. For the first time Moslems have adopted the Nationalist appeal. If
that fail, you will be confronted by a Pan-Islam uprising. The eyes of
all Moslem are on Turkey. Strike her, who is Islam’s head, and every
limb will rise in protest against the blow.
“As a man of God,” I protested, “you have no right to speak of war.
There must _not_ be war.”
“When responsible British Ministers refer to Salonika as the Gate of
Christendom, we can no longer stand aside.”
* * * * *
The Governor and all the “notables” of Ouchak were on the platform as
our luggage train arrived “in state.” When they invited us to stay the
night, I accepted at once, without giving anyone else the chance to
refuse. After three days and two nights on the road, I could not forego
the luxury of a wash and a change of clothes, or the chance to brush and
comb out my hair!
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