by Ahmet Altan
Cevat Bey woke up relaxed after a restless night, at least he wasn’t the only one who’d been excluded from the secret labyrinth, an object of ridicule, set apart from the few, everyone was being treated the same way; he found excuses for what Enver Bey and Talat Bey had done, he convinced himself that they’d done the right thing, but in fact inwardly he knew he didn’t believe this. At that time he didn’t have the strength to be honest with himself, he knowingly chose a lie and accepted it with gratitude.
They went to headquarters without talking and performed the duties they were assigned eagerly as if they’d made a decision together based on what they’d talked about the previous night. The military preparations were completed at an incredible speed.
The first units moved by train two days later. Cevat Bey took his place on the first train. He experienced the joy of going to war, of going to fight on a front where it was clear who was friend and who was foe.
On the day when Cevat Bey set out enveloping his disquiet and doubt with a peace constructed from false excuses, a man who looked like a Bulgarian came by Mehpare Hanım’s mansion in the evening to bring her a brief message.
“Rukiye Hanım is well, there’s no need to worry.”
That was all, there were no greetings, expressions of affection, nor was there any signature, though it was clear who had sent it. Someone who didn’t want Mehpare Hanım to be upset, to worry, who’d managed to get the message to Salonika in two days despite the turmoil on the roads, but who hadn’t even included a greeting.
After receiving this brief message consisting of a single sentence, Mehpare Hanım experienced three feelings, one was definitely related to the information, she didn’t know when or how the other two had formed; first she was going to leave Constantine but she knew she wasn’t going to do this in a hurry; second, she truly missed her children, she felt the need for their bodies to touch her body, to touch their faces, their hair, to look into their eyes, and she grasped that this was a real feeling and experienced firsthand how a person could know that a feeling was real.
Third, she was pleased to believe that the Sheikh still loved her.
That the message had not contained a single expression of love, that it hadn’t even contained a greeting, was enough to make Mehpare Hanım believe that the Sheikh still loved her.
If she’d seen the expression of love that was usually written at the end of every letter, she would probably have been saddened by the thought that she’d been forgotten.
14
The only thing Mihrişah Sultan was curious about was whether or not “that geezer” would be able to regain his former power. She’d never forgotten that the Sultan had once exiled her from the city, she only ever referred to him as “that geezer.” Every day when Tevfik Bey, the son of the residents of the neighboring waterfront mansion, a clerk at the chamber, returned from Babıali, Mihrişah Sultan greeted him excitedly and asked him to tell her everything that was going on and made assessments as if she was directing a war, depending on the news she would either fall into despair, get angry, or be pleased. Anyone might think that the mutiny in the city had broken out because of the dispute between the Sultan and Mihrişah Sultan.
She stopped giving the large parties that had terrified the neighborhood since the mutiny began and took a break from the concerts that all the ambassadors, diplomats, and Ottoman intellectuals attended as well as the balls from which the sounds of music and laughter spread almost throughout the neighborhood. At those balls, her deep eyes, overflowing beauty, and silent splendor left everyone else in the shade of ordinariness, then she illuminated those she chose with her own light. Even the most beautiful women could only reveal their beauty when they reflected her smile, and the most intelligent men only felt themselves to be intelligent when she appreciated their wits. She used everyone, indeed the whole world, like a mirror, she only saw and watched herself, the world around her only came to life when it reflected her image.
Her arrogance, which was as magnificent as her beauty, never begged to be satisfied like that of others, she was never sated by the miserable banquets composed of compliments and never boasted the way they did, she just smiled at the compliments and never stooped to boasting. Her arrogance could only be satisfied if the whole world was laid at her feet, and “that geezer,” who seemed to be growing more powerful again, breached her arrogance simply by existing.
It was this breach of her arrogance, which she’d believed nothing could limit, that led her to become interested in politics, which she’d viewed as male folly, and even military matters, which she’d described as “an even greater display of folly”; now she wanted to hear about everything that was happening, she wanted to hear about changes in the cabinet, about the Grand Vizier’s statements, about what the mutineers were doing, about the Sultan’s attitude, about the preparations the Committee was making in Salonika, she listened attentively to even the most insignificant details.
Every evening, Tevfik Bey, with his sandy hair flowing in waves from under his fez, his soft sandy moustache, eyes that were sometimes like those of a tired old man and sometimes like those of a naughty child, his unassuming nobility, which relied on a past that stretched back centuries, the deep knowledge of literature and music that he possessed despite his youth, the hidden sadness in his voice, which was full of tenderness, as if he was caressing a child, sat across from Mihrişah Sultan in the waterfront mansion’s large hall, which looked out over the Bosphorus, and told her all of the latest developments; there was a surprising richness in his talk, decorated with the amusing anecdotes caught by the fish hook of a sardonic wit that had been cast into daily life, important information known only to senior government officials, serious comments, descriptions of conflicts among the pashas, and comic gossip about misunderstandings. Perhaps because of the English governesses his father had brought from England when he was a child, he had a peculiarly English sense of humor as well as a coldness unusual among Ottomans, he didn’t panic when he was pressed, he related everything with a slight smile.
It was also Tevfik Bey who informed Mihrişah Sultan that the Movement Army had set out.
“When will they reach Istanbul?” Mihrişah Sultan asked excitedly.
“I think we’ll see them on the outskirts of Istanbul within a week, I’ve heard they’re moving quickly.”
“What do you think is going to happen when the Committee’s army arrives?”
“I think that more blood will be shed, my lady.”
“Do you think there’ll be war?”
“The mutineers are preparing to stand against the Movement Army, they’re bringing all the units in the area into Istanbul, it looks as if there will be fighting, even if only on a small scale.”
“So what is that geezer doing?”
“He’s not doing anything, he’ll support whoever wins, but there’s not much of a chance that the mutineers will win.”
“What are you saying, Tevfik Bey, do you mean that the geezer will cooperate with the Committee?”
“The Sultan would cooperate with them if it meant he could keep his throne, but the Committee isn’t prepared to cooperate with him anymore, they won’t miss this opportunity to dethrone him. They would have to be stupid to miss this opportunity that the mutineers have given them, and even though I’ve never encountered anyone who considers them intelligent, I doubt if they’re that stupid.”
“What does Tevfik Pasha have to say about this?”
“That Grand Vizier, my lady?”
“Yes, Grand Vizier Tevfik Pasha.”
“He hasn’t decided what to say yet, ma’am. You know, making decisions always tires the Grand Vizier, that’s why he always waits for others to make decisions for him before he decides himself. I think that this time, once again, whoever wins will decide what the Grand Vizier decides.”
From that day onwards, Mihrişah Sultan followed the Movement Army’s ev
ery step, as Tevfik Bey told Osman, “Mihrişah Sultan, whose grasp of geography was limited to the fact the world was round and that Paris was at one point and Istanbul was at another,” learned the locations not only of all the cities between Salonika and Istanbul but of all the towns as well. She waited excitedly for Tevfik Bey every evening, she was as pleased as a victorious general to hear that the Movement Army had advanced past a town or two.
Mihrişah Sultan wasn’t the only one who waited excitedly for Tevfik Bey, every evening, for other reasons, Rukiye waited for this Ottoman prince who didn’t like the Sultan to return from Babıali. It would have been easy to surmise that this young girl was on the verge of falling in love with Tevfik Bey, but it would not have been easy to deduce her reason for falling in love.
Because Hikmet Bey visited the waterfront mansion often ever since Mihrişah Sultan moved there, Tevfik Bey often came with Selim Bey and Ahmed Samim Bey, who was known for the fiery articles he wrote, and had become friendly with Hikmet Bey and Mihrişah Sultan; in time he began visiting even when Hikmet Bey wasn’t there; he amused both Mihrişah Sultan and her French ladies in waiting. It couldn’t be said that he paid too much attention to Rukiye.
Although there was no apparent reason, perhaps because of Tevfik Bey’s studied lack of interest in Rukiye, or a woman’s extraordinary instincts, or just to make conversation, Mihrişah Sultan said to Rukiye, “Is this young man in love with you, he comes so often.”
Sometimes all the doors of a person’s soul open up to life like a cheap tavern that’s ready to accept anyone who passes by, on such days, someone who until then had been unimportant, or a sentence that would not previously have made sense, enters the door of a person’s soul and finds an important place for themselves, when the doors close again, that person or that sentence settles in and stays. Perhaps it was on such an occasion that a sentence Mihrişah soon forgot found a place for itself in Rukiye’s soul, she began to watch Tevfik Bey’s every move to see if he was in love with her; she enjoyed watching him more and more, enjoyed listening to him more and more, and she decided this young man was in love with her, but when she made this decision, she was in fact passionately attached to the idea that Tevfik Bey was in love with her.
At that time, even if she’d given up on Tevfik Bey, she would have been unable to give up that idea, she was unable to carry on with her life without that idea, but she was not aware of this. She asked herself what would happen if she returned his love, even the question itself excited her, she wanted to see what would happen when she fell in love, the magic of the words “loving” and “being loved” stood in front of the feelings that had not yet appeared, they paved the way for these feelings, the words even gave birth to the feelings they described; in fact it was a peculiar and reverse birth, no names were given to the feelings, the names gave birth to the feelings.
From then on she looked for a sign in Tevfik Bey’s every word, every deed, every smile, and she found the sign she was seeking each time; even today, none of Osman’s dead knew whether these signs had really existed; for Rukiye, however, believing that they existed changed her feelings in a real way.
Once she’d decided that Tevfik Bey was in love with her, she was seized by a sudden impatience, she began to have an unbearable desire for the feelings that had appeared in the signs to be proven to her with words. She sidled up to Tevfik Bey more than usual to provoke him into speaking and expressing his feelings, she spoke in an insinuating manner, but she couldn’t bring about the closeness she wanted and didn’t hear the words she longed to hear.
Before the mutiny began she decided, without realizing that what she was doing would change the entire course of her life, to write Tevfik Bey a letter; when the mutiny erupted suddenly and Tevfik Bey became more interested in Mihrişah Sultan and the mutiny in the city she decided to put it off, but the reason she put it off wasn’t that she thought a love letter would be insignificant in the midst of a great battle—as Tevfik Bey, who didn’t yet know he would die young, told Osman later with his distinctive smile, “What woman believes that war is more important than love, it was male stupidity to believe this”—it was only because she dreamed about what they would do after Tevfik Bey answered and she was worried they wouldn’t find time for this.
Like Mihrişah Sultan, she too listened to news of the war with excitement every evening, growing impatient for what was to come, she waited for this mutiny, which seemed to be blocking the path to love, to come to an end and make way for her to experience what she wanted to experience. Because politics was foreign to her it took her some time to decide which side to choose, when she finally realized the Committee had a better chance of winning, and because she wanted this victory to happen at once, she started to support the Committee inwardly and, like Mihrişah Sultan, she began to be pleased by their every advance.
She didn’t know that the Committee she awaited with such longing would shoot and kill the man she loved some years later in a raid, she had a fierce desire for what she wanted to come true, and she waited for the people who would execute the man she loved to arrive in the city and be victorious with the terrifying helplessness of a person who didn’t and couldn’t know the outcome of what she wanted. If during these days Rukiye had been given control of destiny, she would without realizing it have drawn it just as God did, she would bring the Committee to Istanbul quickly and set the stage for the disaster that would befall her and the man she loved.
Not just Mihrişah Sultan and Rukiye but everyone, the entire city, waited for events to unfold, some anxiously, some hopefully, but all excitedly, every day new information, new rumors, and new gossip spread, and everyone reached their own conclusions from what they heard.
The Ottoman Association of Education, an Islamic education association composed of high-level religious teachers, and of which Sheikh Yusuf Efendi was a member, gathered and released a statement denouncing the mutiny and supporting constitutional monarchy, demonstrating that the men who appeared to be mullahs and who had stirred up the mutineers were not associated with the prominent religious ulema of Istanbul. During the meeting at which they composed this statement, Hoca Rıza Efendi asked openly:
“Do any of you know any of these so-called mullahs wandering around with green flags?”
No one spoke, only Sheikh Sadullah Efendi, who always spoke with a melodic undulation as if he was singing a hymn, answered.
“I met one of them once, a man called Derviş Vahdeti. I entreat God that I not be unfair to anyone, but the man seemed to me to be completely ignorant. He seemed to have memorized a few hadiths so he could pretend to be a hodja.”
In a dramatic voice that suited his inborn anger, Necmi Efendi, a teacher of Islamic jurisprudence, stated what was on everyone’s mind.
“How can this ignorant mob use our name so crassly, how dare they come out in our name and equate themselves with sheikhs and hodjas who spent years putting their noses to the grindstone in madrasas. How could they presume to lead the soldiers without consulting anyone, without bothering to seek the opinion of the ulema, with such impious bravado? If they’re this audacious today, who knows if they won’t knock down the doors of our mosques, madrasas, and tekkes and try to teach us our own religion, that they won’t interfere in our worship?”
As everyone nodded their heads in agreement with Necmi Efendi, Sheikh Yusuf Efendi took the floor and began to speak in his usual manner.
“Of course you know better than I do, but it has to be said, sharia has soldiers, but soldiers can’t have sharia. In a land where a Muslim community lives according to sharia law, for one group to pick up guns and demand sharia as if it wasn’t already being practiced constitutes the tyranny of Muslims by Muslims. Muslims with guns oppress those without guns. I think it would be prudent to warn everyone before things go too far, I think that we should make a statement that our association does not approve of this movement.”
No one present objec
ted to this idea, they decided to write the statement together; in fact even this statement was a sign that the mutineers would lose; if these hodjas, who had connections in the four corners of the empire and who heard even the least significant details, thought that the mutineers would win, at least some of them would have declined to be part of this unified stance, but they all sensed how things were going to go; some agreed to openly oppose the mutiny because they realized what was going to happen, while others, like Sheikh Yusuf Efendi, sincerely believed that this was the right thing to do.
Whatever their reasons, whatever reckoning led them to participate in writing that statement, it was a significant undertaking for a nation on the verge of a religious war, but the Committee ignored the ulema’s initiative. They even stated that they suspected hostility by saying that “they opposed the mutiny, but their statement didn’t support the Committee.”
This statement was erased from the history books, ignored, reduced to footnotes in fine print, the voice of the sheikhs, hodjas, and mudarris melted and vanished into the void.
Later, Sheikh Efendi told Osman in a tone that was devoid of anger and bitterness, “To kill someone you first have to kill their voice, you have to destroy the voice that proclaims beliefs, the owner of the voice disappears on his own, they killed our voice, the voice that was protecting religion, if you look carefully you can see that by killing our voice, they kept Derviş Vahdeti’s voice alive, and that was the voice that was most hostile to them. So many years have passed since then, I’m dead now, those who killed my voice are also dead, but now if you listen carefully you can still hear Derviş Vahdeti’s voice, he’s still alive, they kept his voice alive and therefore they also kept him alive. Like everyone who owes their existence to their enemies, they most loved the voice of the man they dragged to the gallows.”