Translation from Ottoman Turkish
“Strange!”
And I thought. Just in front of the railway bridge on the narrow road leading to the bank of the Vardar, we ran into cavalry lieutenant Emin Bey. There were two or three people from the notables with him, and a Bulgarian. We exchanged greetings.
Emin Bey said with a laugh, “Are you also from the Ahrar?” I and Akil laughed, saying “Yes, yes…” and passed by. While following the muddy, ruined banks of the Vardar, we were talking about the late writer from Serbestt newspaper, about the religious fanaticism of that lowly Murat Bey. Around the railway, unsuspecting children were abandoning their games, looking at Akil as if to say “Who is this stranger?” I felt a vague discomfort. Just to make conversation, I pointed the children out to him.
“They’re looking at your hair!” I said. He absolutely refused to accept redness, claiming that his hair was very blond, “asfer” like his pseudonym in the newspaper. I, on the contrary, was saying it was red and that’s why it attracted attention, that in fact there was no one like him in all of Köprülü. We entered the cemetery where the river separates from the railway. A few peasants returning from the fields were sitting there. They too seemed to fix their eyes to watch Akil’s hair. I told him this again. We laughed. We passed through dusty roads. The sun was setting under colorless clouds. The gray mountains, the blue and vague mists behind the mountains were growing darker, rising and dispersing like approaching invisible shadows. The sound of the miserable and sick Vardar, the color of mud, could be heard in the silence of the evening, flocks of crows rising from the manure heaps of the cavalry stables above the gardens were passing swiftly through the humid air, evoking the image of a sudden spade suit, disappearing among the thick and green-leaved trees of the opposite shore. We arrived at the station. There was no one. In the café garden, an official sat drinking rakı, watching how his appetizers were being eaten by the café’s dog. We sat down. Akil ordered beer, I ordered a soda. And I ate his appetizers. The approaching night was cool. I wrapped myself more tightly in my cape. My feet began to get cold. To forget the vague torment in our souls, we talked about the future and literature. Perhaps for the tenth time, I told him my aspirations. After serving twelve years in the military, I would resign and become a teacher. After spending my youth in the army, I wanted to spend my old age in schools, in classrooms. My first ambition was to teach history, to teach reasoning; to definitively convey and teach changing and transient truths. Akil thought of the future very feebly and modestly, or so he appeared. An hour later, returning by the roads we came, passing through the dry and gloomy shadows of this oppressive night, we arrived at the cook’s shop. There was no one but us. A few minutes later, a cavalry officer came, we greeted each other. Akil and I were laughing.
The cavalryman said in a distressed manner, “You surely don’t know.”
We were both astonished: “Why?”
Our morsels stuck in our throats, our appetites were suddenly cut off, the officer’s answer was terrible: “They’ve shot the Minister of War and the Grand Vizier. Ahmet Rıza is dangerously wounded…”
We immediately got up from our places. We entered the large café below the hotel. In the corner, the notables and riffraff who were or should have been members of the Committee of Union and Progress had gathered. There were several officers among them. A cold silence of caution reigned on their faces. Not knowing what to do, we sat near the door with a causeless hesitation and reverence as if in the presence of a venerable corpse. All those in the corner were looking at the door as if waiting for news. We too fell silent. We remained like that for five or ten minutes. Finally, from among those in the corner, the telegraph director—this is a very amiable and genuine Salonikin!—stood up. He came to us. He recounted the disaster. Apparently such news had been expected since yesterday. The district center of the Society was communicating with the Central Committee, they would go to Istanbul with the army and the people, and the Constitution would be restored. The “Muhammadan Union Society” had deceived the personnel of the Hunter Battalion. They too had attacked the parliament crying “We want Sharia!” and killed the Minister of Justice and so on…
Suddenly I felt such a deep and gloomy hopelessness that involuntarily: “Alas my dear, we’re ruined. This time we’re definitely ruined!” I said. A clear pain began to ache in my heart. I could no longer speak, couldn’t hear what Akil and the director were saying. A hazy Balkan map was coming before my eyes. I felt as if I was seeing Turkiye being torn apart, seeing the red and fiery lined borders of this terrible and non-existent map being corrupted and changed by a faint and ugly hand. The minutes of suffering, as in every disaster, were passing with the length of a torment demon, the article “Mal Ottoman” by Roland de Mares that I had read two or three years ago came to my mind. I was recalling the merciless and definitive judgments given by this pessimistic, nevertheless famous writer who sometimes pretended to prophecy and whose words usually came true, about us, about the future of us poor Turks. Every person entering the café was looked at hopefully as if to say “any news?” Akil couldn’t be patient. He got up to go to the telegraph office with the director.
“Allow me,” I said, “I’ll go to the barracks.”
After them, I too left. I was walking alone and slowly through the deserted and dark street. The city clock was striking four. I passed the fountain. In the Big Poplar Square, the dogs began to bark as always. The watchman sitting on the bench of a shop on the other side of the corner stood like a pile of darkness in this moonless night illuminated by stars, his occasionally drawn cigarette shining like an orphaned and trembling firefly. I was passing through the cemetery. I remembered how five or six months ago we had mockingly buried here those killed in an hour by the eruption of reaction and fanaticism. Still the killers, the instigators haven’t been punished. Perhaps they’ll be pardoned. Yes, would the hand of justice that doesn’t touch “Blind Ali” who directly, explicitly, openly conspired against the Constitution, who raised the capital, who even caresses this traitor, burn their lives? Alas!… Poor Remzi… I wonder, does your soul now see that outburst, that abhorrent pioneer whose entirety is now shedding blood in Istanbul, which extinguished you at the most sensitive and pitiable moment of your hope and youth? Or… I walked slowly. The lantern across from the road entering the cemetery had gone out. The mute gravestones stood calm and gloomy with an illusory life as if mentally preoccupied. I walked slowly… From below, the Vardar, which has been flowing since an unknown day of unknown centuries that the fabrication and corruption of future history cannot invent, was roaring as it struck the mill dams, and its palpitation was making this mournful night tremble with invisible shivers. I was now approaching the barracks. The empty blacksmith shops of the Gypsies presented a strange life. Weak lights were flowing from between their benches. Yes, even the Gypsies of this country, of Turkiye, which is the homeland of all of God’s prophets, which rains the fever of struggle on all its religions, are fanatics! Tomorrow is Friday… They’ve all lit candles on their anvils, they’re gladdening the souls of their fairies!…
I came to the room. The lamp on the table was dimmed, my captain was under his red blanket, Fat Galip was in his bed in the corner, the duty officer was sleeping in his bed. I woke them up. I recounted the incident. I exaggerated a bit with excitement. But still they didn’t give much importance. It hasn’t even been an hour. While I’m writing these things, they’re sleeping peacefully and comfortably. Whereas I… My nerves are so excited that I don’t hope to be able to sleep tonight, only my captain, who is of the opinion that Albanian should be written with Latin letters, involuntarily said, “Ah these hodjas,” “aren’t they the ones preventing our letters too?…”
Duty officer Hüsnü didn’t say a word.
Fat Galip, after delivering a long and heavy curse, said, “Ah these softas… Military deserters… They should all be cut…” and closed his eyes. “Now they’re all sleeping!”
I, my poor little notebook, am pulling you out from under my books again. I’ve been idle for six months. Important events will probably occur again to be entrusted to you. Things that cannot be said to anyone, to even the most young-minded, newest-thinking friend, with fear of “misunderstanding,” I can write on your impartial and unprejudiced, pure and white pages and be consoled. Hundreds of your pages have been filled. I wrote the bloodiest and most tragic scenes to you. I read you to be moved. As long as I live, you’ll be my companion. If after I die you fall into the hands of a fanatic, a compatriot, he won’t find me to insult, to rebuke, perhaps he’ll tear you to pieces!… Midnight has passed. I’m going to bed now. Let’s see what will happen in the morning?
April 2, 1325 (1909)
I had just gone to bed and hadn’t fallen asleep. The door opened. Cavalry Captain Arif Bey entered. This is a fat, always cheerful, mocking friend. He addresses everyone as “My life!” His nickname has become “my life.” He walked toward my bed and said in an excited voice, “Come on, get up, quickly.” “The officers are gathering at the club. There will be a discussion, get dressed. Wake the friends too. I’m going to wake the cavalrymen.”
I immediately got up. I woke the friends. Galip couldn’t get up. Together with duty officer Hasan, we went to the Fifth Cavalry Company room. From there we went down to the club with the officers. The club’s chic and somewhat snobbish hall, which is closed at night, was lit. Upon entering through the door, the commander pasha was standing in the game room on the left, his chief of staff was decoding a cipher beside him. There were about twenty officers in the hall. They were all talking to each other, Sultan Hamid’s name was frequently passing between gnashing teeth. I understood that a meeting would be held in the morning, protests would be made; the reserve battalion would be assembled, volunteers would be recruited from Christians. What we talked about… Hours passed. We were waiting for morning. No one was thinking of sleeping. The door opened. Akil and the municipal doctor came. They drank tea. Akil hadn’t slept at all either, he had written a speech at the post office for the director to read at the meeting. Officers gradually began to arrive. The commander went upstairs.
The cavalry regiment commander and our battalion commander, Chief of Staff Müfit Bey, also came. Müfit Bey started the conversation. This is already a nervous and I suppose hysterical, nevertheless strong and enterprising, fearless man. He directly accused Sultan Hamid.
“Friends!” he began, “Be assured that this new and unbearable blow struck at the Constitution, at the nation’s hope, is from Sultan Hamid! Don’t look for another criminal, another killer! The Constitution is death for him; he cannot live without oppressing, having people killed, making them cry, shedding blood and tears, he dies.”
And he continued more vehemently. The pasha, who hadn’t left Istanbul until his colonelcy, was undoubtedly recalling the calm and sweet days of obedience he had experienced before. He was silent. As Müfit Bey incited the young officers who had lost their judgment from rage and distress, saying “Let’s demand his deposition, let’s insist, let this action of ours be final and definitive!”, he was getting uncomfortable and thinking of a “management of affairs” miracle, a “wise method” to calm this excited situation.
When Müfit Bey’s speech ended, Akil and the doctor—because they were civilians—got up and left. There were brief but nevertheless vehement discussions. The pasha was advising calm, saying that haste makes waste. It was decided that cavalry regiment commander Hasan Bey, who had played an important role in the July revolution, would deliver a speech on behalf of the soldiers at the meeting. And everyone dispersed. Perhaps many went to play. I came to the New Hotel garden. I found Akil there. We went to the telegraph office. The director was going over his speech now to read it well, asking Akil about the parts he couldn’t read. The clerks were continuously busy in the telegraph room. I was sitting by the window. The girls of the house across were talking to each other in the sweet and cool warmth of the just-risen sun, they were also catching other girls passing in front of their door. They doubtless couldn’t understand what the excitement continuing since last night was about. But it was clear from their manner that they sensed something extraordinary. Two of them had put on their heads, in their hair, those white-red things we call “freedom ribbons.” They were talking, even laughing; they were looking at me with distrustful Slavic eyes as if to say “I wonder what’s happening?”
A telegraph operator entered the room. “The meeting has started,” he said. While the director was saying we were late, we quickly got up, we descended the steep hill somewhat vigorously.
In front of the Serbian school, the director said, “I need to down two cognacs to read well!” left us and turned off by the Central Hotel. We slowly advanced toward the Government building. The small and disorderly square was completely full. We barely crossed the bridge. The district’s correspondence clerk, a young boy standing at the back of the crowd, had climbed onto a chair by the edge of the column next to the Government gate, was shouting at the top of his lungs, reading the paper in his hand, cursing despotism. After him, a young and amiable lawyer took the podium… He spoke very long. Sometimes he looked at the paper he took from his pocket and was getting applause in inappropriate places, for example when the word despotism was mentioned. Some of the people were also clapping at places of insult and curse. The speakers succeeded each other. A Bulgarian with black glasses came out. Then one with a hat, after him a daskal… These too were speaking long and exaggeratedly. I only understood the word “Tsarigrad” from their speeches, which means “Istanbul.” Later the district governor came out. He began speaking without reaction. He was shouting quite valuably with a provincial Rumelian accent. He was fearlessly repeating that religion, sect, and nationality had no relation to government; that governments were established not for religion, sect, nationality, but on interest, and that governments existed not with religion and nationality but with interest. He was properly applauded. From the windows of the gendarmerie station, old gendarmes were looking with smiles at the eloquence of their governor. The windows of the District Administrative Center of the Committee of Union and Progress were closed. From the adjacent medrese rooms, old and young hodjas, turbaned men were watching this crowd with distorted faces, never participating in the applause. The heat of the sun had increased. From behind, the soda seller boy was trying to push his handcart into the crowd, a coachman wanting to hear the speeches better was trying to drive his horses further forward. The cheerlessness of the turbaned men looking from the medrese windows awakened a literary memory in me. Ten years ago, when I was attempting to study the works of Pierre Loti, I had also read Aziyade. There are a few pages there about the first Ottoman Constitution. A rainy day is described. Allegedly in Beyazıt Square, cannons are fired. Loti had entered an old Turkish café. The turbaned old men there had mocked Mithat Pasha’s Constitution, had laughed while peacefully smoking their pipes at the fired cannons… Perhaps the effect of delusion… But I too saw the same insult and hostility toward the Constitution and society in the turbaned men looking from the medrese room. After all, doesn’t history show us that only priests have opposed every form of freedom and liberty and have ultimately been defeated?
After the governor, Cavalry Regiment Commander Hasan Bey came out. He was a bit stuttering and very formal. He had white gloves in his hand. He was leaning on his sword and every so often was repeating the address “Gentlemen…” with an external posture. He spoke more freely than the governor. He said that although this state was established by Turks, all the peoples in this country, that is, Albanians, Arabs, Bulgarians, Greeks, in short all elements were working for its expansion and progress, that the homeland belonged to all elements. He even said, “Our homeland, gentlemen,” he said, “is the places from Baghdad all the way to Vienna. There are the bones of our ancestors there. We must progress and even strive to reclaim those places. For this, Constitution and equality are absolutely necessary…”
A few more people came out, the heat of the sun began to burn. I said to Akil, “let’s go.” We pushed through the crowd and left. The small bridge was deserted. We passed from there. I left him to come to the barracks. Because the posts on the railway line will be assembled. Our battalion will probably also move. I came to the barracks.
There was no one in the room. They were all sitting outside. A special train was supposedly coming from Üsküp. There’s a monastery here! It was its day… I wrote today’s impressions inside. Now I’m going to join them and watch the passing of the pilgrims. The weather is so hot, so hot that I can’t sit with my jacket on.
April 3, 1325 (1909)
Today is Friday… Volunteers are coming. The reserve battalion is assembling. Unprecedented activity! All the battalion friends hope we will move. Our soldiers have all worn white caps. We distributed the white turbans from the depot. We too will wear white caps. Our sandals have been oiled. I’ve collected the books and papers. I’ve arranged them in the big trunk. I’ve set aside one set of laundry clothes in a suitcase. My dear dog Koton, who hasn’t left my side for five years, I’ll leave with Veterinarian Mazlum Bey. I’m completely ready. The battalion imam coming from Friday prayer gave very important news. When the sermon was being read in the mosque, Sultan Hamid’s name wasn’t read. There was an order from the mufti. From now on his name will never be mentioned in sermons… This strange order made me think. I thought that now in Istanbul, how many viziers, how many marshals, how many generals, how many pashas, how many aides, how many soldiers are performing the ceremonial greeting; to him, to that ominous and indestructible power, to that terrible and red shadow of God that hasn’t gone out in our country for thirty-two years, they worship and fawn…
Ömer Seyfettin
