HOSPITALS—SCHOOLS—EDUCATION AND THE NATIONALIST WRITERS—THE DAYS PASS,
BUT THERE IS STILL MUCH TO BE DONE AND SEEN
ONE’S first impression of Angora would lead one to imagine that
everything could be seen in a very short time; but the days pass, and
there is still much to be done. I have visited the Governor, and
congratulated him on the progress of the town’s development, which has
advanced steadily, even since my arrival. If there were only peace, one
could soon hope for completion.
My guide, Vely Nedjdat Bey, understands what will interest me most; and
the efforts of the Red Crescent, disclosed on our round of the
hospitals, have given me a most agreeable surprise. The sanitation
leaves much to be desired from our Western standards, but progressive
Turks have now learnt the importance of such matters, and are determined
to change their old ways, after the peace. It would be a formidable
undertaking, at the moment impossible, to carry out the drastic
alterations that are essential in these primitive buildings, with no
modern heating apparatus, and so few well-trained professional nurses.
Under such conditions they have done marvels with serum, and have
actually kept down cholera, typhus, typhoid, and small-pox with
extraordinary success. It is only unfortunate that they have adopted the
French method of typhoid-inoculation right into the breast, which,
though often effective, is certainly dangerous for women.
The military hospital at Broussa—formerly the Splendid Hotel,
overlooking a magnificent stretch of landscape—is excellently organised;
and though asked for criticism by Dr. Nazoum, head of the Army Medical
Service, I could not think of any improvement to suggest.
We spent a morning at the Lycée for Girls, which was interesting, though
I could not, of course, follow any of the classes in detail. Here,
again, one can obtain the most charming views of the town of Angora, and
I told the headmistress how I longed to carry away their wonderful front
door. She was, evidently, pleased by the sincerity of my compliment, and
had no fear lest I should follow the example of the Ambassador at
Constantinople. His wife had so greatly admired a superb Byzantine
fountain in our garden, that my host promptly gave orders for it to be
dug up and sent to the Embassy, where it still remains!
Young as she seemed, the headmistress clearly recognised the
responsibilities of her position, which were—at once so hampered and so
increased—in a state of war. At many of the Lycées in Anatolia there was
a man as headmaster, his wife being the headmistress; during the war the
men, of course, had all gone! Education, after all, can do nothing if
there is no Fatherland—no one to educate!
One class was being instructed by a hodja on the meaning of their
prayers and the general principles of the Faith; and I also heard
classes in history and geography, literature and hygiene. I was told
that, in hygiene, the subject that morning was the evils of alcohol as a
beverage. They were taught, however, in what ways alcohol _can_ be used
actually to benefit mankind. All honour to those who teach their
children, from the first, the terrible curse of drink!
The girls recited patriotic poems for my benefit which sounded very
beautiful to the foreign ear. It is, I suppose, the sequence of even and
uneven syllables which produce this musical effect. They were taught,
apparently, in all subjects to stand up and answer questions in a short
speech: surely an admirable training, likely to ensure their knowing how
to use the language in writing and speaking with far more correctness,
elegance, and effect than most of our young people ever attempt.
I peeped into the dormitories, which, like the class-rooms, seemed in
excellent order. Coffee and tea were laid out for us in the
recreation-room; and before we left the head-girl expressed their
pleasure and thanks in what was—evidently—a neat and charming little
speech.
I felt, however, that, like the headmistress of Broussa College, my
hostess no doubt regretted that there were now neither Greeks nor
Armenians at the school. There had been no more difficulty in the
class-rooms than elsewhere through life, as to maintaining perfect
harmony between Moslem and Christian. I was told that, though the latter
were generally supposed to be the cleverer, Turkish girls were, in a
way, more keen and quick to learn. They had, at any rate, a quite
friendly desire not to be beaten, and now they miss the valuable
competition.
In olden days, though women even attained to fame in politics and
literature, the general standard for education was elementary, and no
public provision for it had been made.
Primary schools were started about sixty years ago; secondary and
professional schools soon followed. There are now girls’ schools
wherever one for boys has been established; in most towns also a Lycée
for Girls, and Normal Colleges in many counties of Asia Minor. There is
a Training College at Constantinople, from which the senior students
also attend lectures at the Women’s University, which shares
laboratories and lectures—in science and medicine—with the University
for men. I suspect, sometimes, Mustapha Kemal Pasha may introduce
co-education throughout!
* * * * *
So much interesting literature has been produced by the Nationalist
movement, that one must hope Professor E. G. Browne may, one day, pursue
his splendid defence of Turkey by giving us extensive extracts from
these writers in English. The greatest of all our living scholars in
Turkish, Persian, and Arabic, he has devoted his whole life to the
fascinating subject; and Prince Samad Khan has told me that he lectures
in Persian without the trace of an accent.
Graciously writing a Preface to my “Englishwoman in a Turkish Harem,” he
said that as “a friend and admirer of the Turks, as well as a student of
their language and literature, it is always a satisfaction to me to find
a fresh opportunity of testifying to my belief in the virtues of this
much-maligned and ill-used race.”
Recent events, however, seem to have paralysed his enthusiasm, bringing
depression that killed his zeal for the task he now felt it would be of
no avail to pursue.
The Nationalist victory, let us hope, will encourage him to resume work
with a revived, and ever greater, enthusiasm. I had intended, indeed, to
ask him for a summary of the “Nationalist Literary Revival,” by way of a
chapter in this book. But there was not time to presume so far on the
kindness he has never refused to show.
I have, therefore, reproduced, to the best of my ability, a few notes
put together for me by that distinguished Professor, Hussein Raghib Bey,
formerly Director of the Angora Press, and now Charge d’Affaires at the
Paris Embassy. He is an exceptionally well-informed critic in the
education, literature and politics of his own country, which travel also
enables him to compare with the educational systems of Europe. He told
me that, while he admired the thoroughness of German methods, he could
not tolerate their unjust administration of corporal punishment, which,
in his judgment, vitiated the whole system. Turkish schools have all
adopted French methods; and, myself a proud pupil of the École Normale
Supérieure de Sèvres, I do not believe there is any finer instruction in
the world. But in the fullest sense of real and complete education, the
best work is being done in England. The ideal would seem to be a
combination of the two.
* * * * *
Hussein Raghib took me right back to the “Divans,” a collection, or
portfolio, of more or less national poems, celebrating the virtues of
God and the Prophet. Love-poetry does not begin before Fouzouli, in the
reign of Suliman the Magnificent. Any ghazals (_i.e._, love songs) that
I have heard sung here do not seem to express our conception of love.
The music sounds more tender and mournful than passionate, and the song
itself is often addressed to the Unknown, to Love in the Abstract, and
not to the individual Beloved. Again and again I caught the word “pity,”
suggesting ideas and moods we should not expect to find.
After the “Divans,” we notice the strong influence of Persian literature
in Turkey, even the introduction of Persian words—a consequence, no
doubt, of wars in Persia and Arabia. Moreover, the Koran was then a
predominating influence in all literature, as well as in science; and
Arabic was the language of religion.
It was Selim, to whom the King of Egypt handed over the Holy Relics—the
standard, the coat, and the wooden sculptured shoes—with the solemn
injunction, “They are yours—to hold; for you are qualified to be
Khalife.” From that day and for ever, any Khalife who shall desert his
guardianship of the Relics is, by that sin, self-deposed. And Great
Britain, the largest Moslem Power in the whole world, revealed her
ignorance, or her indifference, by calling Wahid-Eddin, “The Khalife,”
long after his escape to Malta!
* * * * *
We see, then, that in the days of Sultan Mahmoud (that is, in our
eighteenth century), the Turkish language was largely composed of Arabic
and Persian, through the influence of religion. Then, precisely as our
people in the old days could not read or speak the scholar’s Latin of
our great literature, the people of Turkey could not understand their
own writers.
It was about 1339 (in our nineteenth century) that the cultured and
intelligent Schinassi Effendi was sent to France. As other scholars and
men of letters began to study Western culture in England, in her turn,
Turkey was following European progress, towards desertion of any
scholastic influences and academic style. Windows, that looked
Westwards, were opening at last, to religion and literature alike.
Schinassi Effendi was inspired by a fine, broad-minded enthusiasm. He
secured introductions to Lamartine and other great French writers; and,
when he returned to Constantinople, immediately set to work upon a
complete revolution of style and outlook in Turkish literature. With an
ideal of most admirable and direct simplicity, he succeeded in modelling
the language upon the best French, clear and logical way of
construction.
Perhaps the most distinguished of his pupils were Namik Kemal Bey and
Adbul Hak-Hamid; but there were many who helped to extend, and
establish, his literary revolution. They did not, of course, cut away
the whole traditional influence of the Arabs and the Persians; but, with
orderly methods that were Western, produced almost a new Turkish
language (which their own people could read and appreciate) that was
perfectly adapted for the artistic and imaginative expression of modern
thought and contemporary life. The European style and intellect, in its
purely native setting, was, naturally, most apparent in their fiction.
* * * * *
Namik Kemal Bey was among those who died in exile for their ideals,
leaving behind him some most touching pages in honour of the English
character and constitution. When Zeyneb came to England she read some of
his work to me, just at the time when some of our Liberal statesmen, to
their eternal shame, had begun to declare their admiration for the
Russia of the Czars. We arranged open-air meetings outside Sloane Square
Station and at a big Opera House—to protest against the British M.P.’s
visit to Russia. Zeyneb’s comment was simple: “What would our great
Kemal say?” Constitutional England allied to Czarist Russia!
* * * * *
The acknowledged leader of the New literature was Abdul Hak-Hamid, for
some time a member of the Turkish Embassy in London. Schinassi and Kemal
stood half-way between the past and this great modern writer,
representing, also, patriotism in literature, as it dominated prose, at
the declaration of the Constitution.
At this time, of course, “patriotism” meant “the Revolution of 1908,” a
united attack on the tyranny of Abdul Hamid, who had persecuted Turks,
Greeks, and Armenians alike.
Once the Constitution had been proclaimed, however, the Armenians turned
to Russia for help to establish their own independence; the Greeks
sought to revive an “Empire” from Athens.
The Turks, who had never hesitated to appoint a Greek or an Armenian
among their Viziers and Foreign Ministers, who always sent Christian
Ambassadors to England, and who had chosen the Armenian, Gabriel Effendi
Nouradunghian, for their Minister of Foreign Affairs, were now driven to
concentrate their betrayed enthusiasm upon building up a Turkish nation
_of their own_—for themselves alone.
Their scholars, therefore, devoted themselves to scientific research;
social institutions were founded; they studied philosophy, national
economy, and sociology; they prepared their own ethnography, history,
and geography, and the reformed Turkish language.
They had, as it were, to build up a complete learning; almost a
universal knowledge; a true world-culture for Eastern peoples; that, by
its “National” inspiration, should create for Turkey a spirit and a
soul.
That great _savant_, Zia Gueuk Alp, one of the Malta victims, and
afterwards Professor of Sociology at Constantinople, has done more for
the New literature than any other one writer; as Mehmet Emin Bey, who
lives at Adalia, is their leading poet. They have others, of course, who
produced fine work; among whom Yahia Kemal would probably prove the
outstanding genius, had he the energy to maintain his highest gifts. The
pangs of a Nation’s Birth, out of Sacrifice, have found voice.
There are two women of genius in this group. To Halidé Hanoum we have
already devoted a chapter, in honour of a wise and passionate
personality that has impressed itself on the whole history of a
generation. We in England, I hope, are shortly to have a translation of
her remarkable “Nouveau Touran.”
Mufidé Hanoum (Mme. Ferid Bey) also approaches, though she has not
reached, the outstanding genius of Halidé Hanoum. She is a younger
woman, a less experienced writer, and, maybe, she lacks the inspiration
that comes from long strain and suffering.
“There are others,” concluded Hussein Raghib, “whom you _ought_ to know,
though they are not equally great.”
“But I’ve stayed too long already,” I replied, “interrupting your work.”
And busy men, even in the East, must not neglect the State for
courtesies too prolonged.
Hussein Raghib himself has published a very delightful “Story of
Nationalism,” dating from the Closing of the Turkish Parliament. “As a
matter of fact,” he writes, “the _Turc Odjagui_ was the beginning of
Nationalism.” This was a club founded by Hamdoullah Soubhi Bey as a
protest against “Union and Progress,” and to place the movement on a
national, as opposed to a party, basis. Halidé Hanoum and other
prominent women were admitted; and its three thousand members included
professional men like officers, lawyers, doctors, professors and
writers; and men of all nationalities—Greeks and Armenians, Persians and
Arabs. It was closed by the English, but has recently been re-assembled.
Mustapha Kemal Pasha contributed handsomely to the funds, and Hamdoullah
Soubhi came from Angora for the re-opening. “As our territory has become
smaller, our intellectual empire must become wider,” said Hussein
Raghib. “That is the spirit behind the club.” I had, unfortunately, to
leave for Lausanne before the opening ceremony.
* * * * *
I have just been to the famous Hadgi Bairam Mosque, and found its chief
charm, as I expected, in the exquisite colouring of the carpets and
antique faïences. These glowing scarlets and blues, mauves and
terra-cottas, surely compensate, in some measure, for all the grey that
overshadows life. Europe would not seem so sordid if we imported more
bright colours from the East—for our _East_ Ends! Nothing fascinates me
so much as the atmosphere of a mosque; the un-selfconsciousness and
natural reverence of the men at prayers; out of the world, in Allah’s
home.
Surely faith is the same for all men, making all men equal!
“The gods,” said my guide, “are three—Goodness, Beauty, and Truth.”
“To which I would add Courage,” was my response.
“As you please,” he answered.
He told me that “The Pasha” and the first Deputies all came to visit the
Mosque before the opening of the Grand National Assembly, joined by
everyone in Angora—even sceptics—“to lift our hands to Heaven in prayer,
confident that victory must be ours.”
We went on to the tomb of the Sainted Man, robed in shawl and turban,
after the picturesque Eastern manner. The guardian of the tomb was
seated before it on his crossed legs, reading the Koran; and around him
were many women, weeping over their prayers.... “Is it for peace, or for
their dead?” I wondered!
* * * * *
That afternoon I determined to try and find out all I could about the
army from some of my friends at the Assembly.
“You are very indiscreet,” said the officer, whose attention I had
managed to secure.
“I know that,” was my reply; “it is a little like asking St. Peter for
just a peep into Heaven. But you _can_ tell me something?”
“What do you wish to know? Our normal military service is for three
years. We naturally have to adopt conscription for an indefinite period
in times of war.”
“What was the meaning of the large crowd at the Town Hall to-day?”
“They were enlisting. We cannot let go now. The sovereign rights of the
people must be maintained.”
“You were beaten to the dust in the Great War,” I suggested.
“We _were_ defeated in Palestine. But most of our troops went to
Cilicia; we were victorious in the Dardanelles and the Caucasus. Few of
the Powers were forced to scatter their forces along so many frontiers.
“The English were nowhere near Mosul,” he went on, “and they never
really broke up our army; they just took possession of Constantinople
and, through the Greeks, of Smyrna. They taught us the _fait accompli_.
“It was necessary for us, of course, after the rupture with
Constantinople, to reorganise the whole army. The Pasha was forced to
call in officers to train companies, even irregulars. Ali Fuad commanded
in the North; Refet Pasha in the South. At the first battle we had two
big guns only!
[Illustration:
AGHA AGLOU AHMED BEY.
DIRECTOR OF THE ANGORA PRESS.
He sent a charming message to the author of this book complimenting
her on her courage.
p. 224
]
“The work went on day and night: collecting and training men, making or
repairing arms and munitions, gathering metal—often from railway lines.
No one thought of rest till all was ready in numbers and construction.
We had ten thousand men in July, 1920, we are four hundred thousand
to-day! We obtained four hundred and fifty big guns, and a fleet of
aeroplanes from the Greeks; a thousand machine-guns, besides clothing,
tents, horses and mules, from the English.
“Now we have no grounds for fear, though you in England will not attempt
to realise our Mosul figures: _Turks_, 150,000; _Kurds_, 450,000;
_Arabs_, 30,000; _Nestorians_, 30,000. The _Kurds_ wish to unite with
us. The _Nestorians_ will fight, either as independent allies or under
Turkish officers.”
“Colonel Mougin says that your army is the best officered in the world,”
I said.
“Our Staff is composed of picked men with great experience and
knowledge; the officers have been chosen with great care. We are young,
energetic, well-trained, and, above all, fired with enthusiasm for the
cause.
“There is no calling more honoured than that of the army. None may marry
without the consent of his superior officer.”
“Can he marry a Christian?” I asked.
He hesitated a moment, and then replied: “It isn’t done.”
“Ah!” I smiled, “you have stolen our English _credo_.”
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