by Ahmet Altan
The Sultan put the gun back on the table.
“Let’s go try out these guns.”
As they were leaving the hall to go try out the guns, they heard a commotion outside; at that time the Sultan was particularly suspicious of any unusual noise and he looked around anxiously and asked loudly what was going on.
“There’s a crowd gathered outside, Your Majesty, they want to see you.”
“Send for the chief clerk Ali Cevat Bey.”
Ali Cevat Bey came rushing in, his face flushed.
“You summoned me, Your Majesty.”
“A crowd has gathered outside and wants to see us, go take a look and see what’s what, find out what they want.”
Ali Cevat Bey went out in front of the palace and saw that a crowd of roughly a thousand people had gathered; they were all grumbling, shivering impatiently in their misshapen fezzes and dirty turbans, waving their green flags.
The chief clerk approached Blind Ali, who was in front of the mob.
“What’s going on, what do you want?”
As Blind Ali began to speak in his bubbling voice, the murmuring of the crowd died down.
“The taverns must be closed, photography must be prohibited. Muslim women should not be allowed out onto the street.”
Ali Cevat Bey didn’t understand what the man was saying. He asked a turbaned young man with a red face and scraggly beard who was holding Blind Ali by the arm.
“What does Hodja Efendi want?”
The young, red-faced man got straight to the point.
“We don’t want the constitution.”
The chief clerk returned to the palace, but his quick arrival and brief presence had encouraged the crowd and they shouted that they wanted to see his Majesty the Caliph, and tramps in the vicinity heard the noise and joined the crowd.
The Sultan asked Ali Cevat Bey what they wanted.
“They don’t want the constitution, Your Majesty.”
The Sultan replied without letting on whether he was pleased or angry.
“Then they should go to whoever wrote the constitution.”
“Sir, the crowd is growing larger, perhaps if you showed your blessed face, I don’t think they’re going to disperse without seeing you.”
The Sultan knew that if anything happened, the Committee would blame him, so he made his way to the reception chamber to disperse the crowd before it grew larger, the window looking out onto the square opened, and the Sultan’s head appeared.
They raised Blind Ali toward the window.
“My Sultan, we want a shepherd . . . No flock can be without a shepherd. Sharia commands that Muslim women not go outside uncovered, that photography should be prohibited, that the taverns and theaters should be closed. Have no fear, my Sultan, there have been revelations, the saint has been seen under the curtain, have no fear!”
The Sultan pretended not to hear people telling him to his face to have no fear.
“The necessary commands will be given, the dictates of sharia will be obeyed, be at ease, Hodja Efendi.”
The Sultan turned to his physician in distress.
“Oh, doctor, the fool-saints have appeared, this is an omen of the apocalypse, there’s trouble coming for us. Who stirred this man up and sent him here, did the Committee put him up to it, are they betting on being able to say that the Sultan is stirring up the reactionaries and then put the blame on me?”
“Why are you saying this, Your Majesty, your subjects were troubled and ran to you, they wanted to see your blessed face and hear your voice.”
“But my subjects applauded the Committee too. As I’ve always told you, doctor, don’t trust the crowds, never trust them. Whenever crowds appear in this nation, someone dies. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it will always be. May God bring this to an end before anything distasteful happens.”
Blind Ali had no idea of what was being said about him. This was the most magnificent day of his life, he’d made the crowds follow him, he’d made the Sultan come to the window and show his face. This crippled body that had been humiliated and pushed was full of joy as the crowd carried him down from Yıldız Palace on their hands as the Sultan’s spies, the Committee’s spies, the police chief’s spies, the official police, and the guards in front of the Beşiktaş police station looked on and composed the reports they would write.
Even though Istanbul was being neglected, it was not so neglected that a protest would go unnoticed. At that time neither Blind Ali nor the people carrying him on their shoulders knew that there was a price to pay for seeing the Sultan’s face, and that Blind Ali would pay this price by hanging from the gallows; even if it was only briefly, success had made the desperate crowd forget their troubles and gave them a reason to feel important, and, as usual, they would be satisfied with this.
As the crowd dispersed slowly to houses that were dimly lit by feeble oil lamps, damp single rooms, isolated shacks, unkempt madrasa cells, and coffeehouses through dark, narrow streets, Hasan Efendi, once again feeling hungry, headed for the tekke.
His Sheikh and his dwarf wife, the sheikh’s third daughter, were waiting for him and no matter how far afield he wandered or what he experienced it was his destiny to return to the tekke to find his Sheikh, the light of his life, and his wife, the darkness of his life, to experience joy and distress there in the same place, under the same roof.
It was dark and the snow was falling faster. The tekke on the shores of the Golden Horn, with its tall cypress trees, quiet courtyards, illuminated windows, incense-scented walls and the warmth one felt on passing through the door, awaited its guests like a haven and accepted all who came.
Sheikh Efendi, who had a pale, transparent face, a black beard and long black hair with a streak of white in it, was sitting alone in the zikir room reading the Koran as usual. When Hasan Efendi entered he raised his head slowly, looked at Hasan Efendi, and gestured for him to sit next to him.
In this shadowy hall that smelled of agarwood, Sheikh Efendi’s face seemed to glow with a white light and his black eyes, misted with his own sorrows, seemed to understand everything; Hasan Efendi was deeply impressed by this in the same way that others were impressed with the patience of this person who could only ease the restlessness of his own soul by giving peace to others, who was always ready to listen to people’s troubles, his quietness wrapping him like a shawl to cover the storms within, the great faith that helped him carry the disappointments of life with a melancholy derision, a voice like water from a sacred spring that refreshed all who heard it, the humility of the belief that he could only approach God by getting closer to people, his legendary power, was able to make Hasan Efendi rise above the turmoil of his life with a single glance, and once again he calmed his son-in-law with a single glance and caused him to forget his weariness.
His strength refreshed, and in a quiet tone appropriate for the hall they were in, Hasan Efendi began to relate the events he’d witnessed. As usual, Sheikh Efendi stared straight ahead as he listened, expressionless, as if he was thinking about something else and only once, when Hasan Efendi said, “Ali Hodja,” when he was referring to Blind Ali, did he frown slightly and raise his head.
“Excuse me?”
Hasan Efendi continued talking as if he didn’t understand why Sheikh Efendi was angry.
“Ali Hodja . . . Ali Hodja.”
The Sheikh looked at Hasan Efendi’s face, the pace of the clicking of his prayer beads increasing slightly.
“It seems as if they’ve made all the tramps pashas and all the fool-saints hodjas.”
Hasan Efendi said nothing, afraid to go too far, and waited for Sheikh Efendi to continue; without realizing it, the Sheikh shared some concerns with the Sultan, with whom he never agreed on almost any subject.
“When God is going to punish someone, he first takes away the person’s mind, then mak
es him blind, if madmen are appearing as leaders it’s a sign that our minds have been taken away and that we’re blind. Let us pray that today this poor, sinless crowd won’t pay for the Ottomans’ sinful money and all the blood they’ve shed.”
Then, as if he was issuing Hasan Efendi a warning, he said:
“It’s clear that death is at the city gates, who will it take, who will it leave unscathed, after this, everything is darkness, everyone’s life is at risk, everyone from the Caliph to a stableman in Sütlüce. We have no part in the power struggles of the world, if anything is to happen to us, let it happen as we follow our own path. We have nothing to gain from the conflicts of this world, nor do we have anything to offer . . . Warn everyone, no one from the tekke will have any part in this, I am responsible for every one of them, if I lose even one of them I will have to account for it on judgment day.”
When Hasan Efendi was sitting with the Sheikh, everything seemed bright, as if he was sitting next to a light, but as soon as he left the hall his soul darkened and he felt a deep disquiet. In fact he too wanted to join the crowds that were demanding sharia, to shout, he wanted to find himself an enemy, he might not be able to rebel against his destiny and change it but he could find something else to rebel against and change, yet the Sheikh would not allow this. He had to carry on with the heavy weight he felt in his soul.
As he neared the harem his anger and sense of oppression increased, when he entered his room he found his dwarf wife waiting for him in her nightdress with her hair down and falling over her shoulders. When she saw her husband enter the room, when she saw that he nearly filled the room with his bulky body, she gave a smile that seemed devious to Hasan Efendi, though someone who knew more about women might have thought it reflected selfish lust.
Unlike her sister, who had married Ragıp Bey, Binnaz Hanım was fond of physical pleasure, every night she waited for her husband with the smile of a hunter waiting for his prey, certain that he would catch it. After putting Hasan Efendi to bed, this small woman got to work, moving all over his body, arousing him each time, she took what she wanted from her husband but also truly gave him pleasure, though there was an aspect of this pleasure that he found repugnant. Even though the pleasure was fleeting, the disgust had a permanent side, the more pleasure he experienced the more disgusted he felt, and this disgust seeped deeper into him.
As usual, when he saw his wife waiting for him he grew angry because he felt that, as always, someone was going to force him to do something he didn’t want to do.
“You’re still up, Binnaz Hanım?”
Every night he never failed to ask the same question, and his wife always gave the same answer.
“I waited for you, Hasan Efendi.”
When he received the same answer again, he grumbled through his moustache as usual.
“You needn’t have.”
Binnaz Hanım didn’t mind her husband’s grumbling, all that mattered was for her to get what she wanted; this tiny woman had a determination and willpower that no one would have guessed she had, when she wanted something, whether it was great or small, she did whatever it took to get what she wanted and reach her goal. Belittlement, contempt, even insults—no one but her parents had the power to insult the Sheikh’s daughter and even they could never change her mind. Once she’d learned to carry the heavy load of being a dwarf she learned not to care about the feelings of these large, healthy, good-looking people who differed from her, she took revenge on them without caring about them enough to even realize that it was revenge. She wasn’t one of them, so their rules didn’t apply to her.
Her husband came into this room every night unwillingly, angry and grumbling, but she knew how to make him do what she wanted, she usually solved his ill-tempered stress with a simple question, and once again she asked the same question.
“Have you eaten?”
Binnaz Hanım could withstand hunger and sleeplessness without complaint in spite of her tiny body, she could go days without sleep or food, but in spite of Hasan Efendi’s robust body and gigantic appearance, he could not withstand sleeplessness or hunger; in the strange and tragic coupling of a dwarf and a giant, the one who seemed stronger in mind and body was in fact the weaker one. As his mother-in-law, who loved complaining about her sons-in-law out of the sheikh’s hearing, used to say about Hasan Efendi, “The camel is big but a colt was able to lead it.”
When Hasan Efendi heard his wife’s question he realized he was hungry, he hadn’t eaten since lunch.
“I haven’t, I’m starving.”
“I’ll bring you something at once.”
Binnaz Hanım jumped out of bed, put on her tiny slippers, put a shawl over her shoulders, and darted off, she’d already had a tray prepared for Hasan Efendi, after a servant brought the tray to the door she brought it in herself; the tray was almost bigger than her and fully loaded but, as her mother used to say, she had the strength of a demon, she could lift a weight that large men couldn’t lift, she would just pick it up with her short arms and let out a grunt.
She put the tray on the table; Hasan Efendi, who had undressed and put on his nightshirt when his wife went to the kitchen, sat at the table, and Binnaz Hanım got back into bed and watched this big man eat. There was something in Hasan Efendi’s appetite that she found arousing, watching him eat gave her an almost sexual pleasure; once again that strange, lustful smile appeared on her face.
At first Hasan Efendi ate quickly but later he slowed, he wanted to delay going to bed for as long as possible, but eventually he finished his meal and had to go to bed. As soon as he got into bed and pulled the quilt over him, Binnaz Hanım blew out the oil lamp and disappeared under the quilt, and as soon as he felt her tiny hand reaching under his nightshirt he tried to stop her in an angry but hopeless tone.
“Stop, woman, I’m tired.”
Binnaz Hanım didn’t care.
“You don’t get tired, my lion, could a brave man like you ever get tired?”
Hasan Efendi tried to push Binnaz Hanım away, but he was ashamed to do this and couldn’t do it decisively, this huge man wasn’t strong enough to push away the tiny woman on top of him.
“Just a minute,” said Binnaz Hanım, “stop for a minute, my lion, leave yourself to me.”
Hasan Efendi struggled a little, then left himself to her, he didn’t complain about his wife moving all over his body, touching his genitals, and pulling up his nightshirt with her tiny hands even though he felt disgusted, as if a wet reptile was crawling all over him; as usual this disgust gave way to a reluctant pleasure, then into a blind, deaf carnal lust that was without love, and indeed without desire.
He did what his wife wanted like a mating animal, without kissing her once, without smelling her neck or even her hair. He ground his teeth in his sleep all night, tossing and turning, his anger not diminishing even in his sleep, but Binnaz Hanım, for her part, fell into a peaceful sleep.
Hasan Efendi set out early the next morning, there were lively discussions in all the tekkes, lodges, mosques, and coffee-houses about what Blind Ali had done. Although they did not disapprove openly, seasoned hodjas, members of religious brotherhoods, and strictly observant Muslims made it felt that they disapproved of what Blind Ali had done and said it wasn’t appropriate to become involved in a power struggle between the Sultan and the Committee, that it might lead to a conflict in which Muslims killed Muslims. Those who were desperate, hungry, seeking shelter and an authority they could trust, those who hoped to benefit from this power struggle, supported Blind Ali enthusiastically. It seemed as if the Muslim community was split in two.
The palace and the Committee’s members of parliament and military officers put their spies into action in the capital, they watched what was going on and tried to predict the political outcomes of this event; the palace was anxious and the Committee was angry.
A few days later, when they became alarmed that
if no measures were taken, these religious mobs flocking to the palace to support the Caliph would grow much bigger, the Committee had Blind Ali arrested. Immediately the loud discussions in mosque courtyards became whispers. However, this uprising on the part of the devout poor was not yet keen enough for them to risk their lives; they concealed their anger beneath prayers and curses, but these whispers were more dangerous than loud discussions, they now grew in darkness like seeds planted in the soil.
Blind Ali’s trial proceeded very quickly, at first the defendant arrived in court with an air of indifference, tried to frighten the judges, and shouted about revelations in his bubbly voice, but later he became meek and fewer and fewer of his supporters gathered in front of the court. Everyone had smelled the smell of death.
Toward the end of the trial Blind Ali said that he had nothing to do with politics and that he had simply been reminding the Caliph of the dictates of God and of sharia, but the judges no longer listened to him, even though they realized he was just a pathetic madman, they couldn’t set him free once he’d appeared before the court; the decision had been made when Blind Ali was sent to trial.
The sour-faced judge announced his ruling and broke his reed pen.
“Death by hanging.”
At dawn on a snowy day much like the day Blind Ali was carried out the gate of Fatih Mosque on his followers’ shoulders, Hasan Efendi was among the crowd that gathered to watch his execution. The sky was the color of cold iron, bluish snow was falling, and the morning frost stung the faces of all present. When a red glow appeared on the other side of the Marmara Sea, the prisoner was brought in by a squad of gendarmes; he was in handcuffs and he seemed smaller, he was wearing an execution shroud that swept the ground and there was a placard on his chest proclaiming his death sentence. Two gendarmes seized him by the arms and dragged him up to the gallows.