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.
Footnote 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.
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