Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West, Volume II

Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West Volume II

Edited by Colin Imber, Keiko Kiyotaki and Rhoads Murphey I.B. Tauris London . New York

Published in 2005 by I.B. Tauris & Co. Ltd 6 Salem Road, London W2 4BU 175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010 www.ibtauris.com In the United States of America and in Canada distributed by St Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010 Copyright © Colin Imber, Keiko Kiyotaki and Rhoads Murphey, 2005 The right of Colin Imber, Keiko Kiyotaki and Rhoads Murphey to be identified as the Proprietors of this work has been asserted by the Proprietors in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Volume 1. ISBN: 1 85043 631 2 EAN: 978 1 85043 631 7 Volume 2. ISBN: 1 85043 664 9 EAN: 978 1 85043 664 5 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress catalog card: available Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall Camera-ready copy edited and supplied by Keiko Kiyotaki

Contents

Introduction Rhoads Murphey

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Chapter 1: Ottoman-European International Relations Ibrahim Peçevi on War: a Note on the ‘European Military Revolution’ Colin Imber

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Some Remarks upon the Ottoman Geo-Political Vision of the Mediterranean in the Period of the Cyprus War (15701573) Maria Pia Pedani

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Ottoman Accounts of the Hungarian Movements against the Habsburgs at the Turn of the 17th and the 18th Centuries Sándor Papp

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Chapter 2: Ottoman Manuscripts in Europe The Collection of Ottoman-Turkish Documents in Sweden Elżbieta Święcicka

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Non-Ottoman Documents in the Kâdîs’ Courts (Môloviya, Medieval Charters): Examples from the Archive of the Hilandar Monastery (15th-18th C.) Aleksandar Fotić

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Johannes Heyman (1667-1737) His Manuscript Collection and the Dutch Community of Izmir Jan Schmidt

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Calendars and Guidebooks in Greek Language as Sources for Getting to Know an Ottoman City Engin Berber

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Chapter 3: Ottoman-European Cultural Exchange East is East and West is West, and Sometimes the Twain Did Meet Diplomatic Gift Exchange in the Ottoman Empire Hedda Reindl-Kiel

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Mapmaking in Ottoman Istanbul between 1650 and 1750: A Domain of Painters, Calligraphers or Cartographers? Sonja Brentjes

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Egyptian and Armenian Schools Where the Ottoman Students Studied in Paris Adnan Şişman

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Arab Scholars from the Ottoman Empire in Russian Universities in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries Svetlana Kirillina

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Wakfs in Ottoman Cyprus Netice Yıldız

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Chapter 4: Christian Influence and the Advent of the Europeans Negotiating for State Protection: Çiftlik-Holding by the Athonite Monasteries (Xeropotamou Monastery, Fifteenth-Sixteenth C.) Elias Kolovos

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Construction of Churches in Ottoman Provinces Muammer Demirel

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Accidents, Sabotage, and Terrorism: Work Hazards on Ottoman Railways Peter Mentzel

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Being a Part of the Cinderella Service: Consul Charles Blunt at Salonica in the 1840s Bülent Özdemir

241

Contributors Index

253 255

Introduction Rhoads Murphey

The sixteen articles selected for inclusion in this volume offer a comprehensive overview of the breadth and scope of Ottoman Studies and collectively make a significant contribution to the subfields of diplomatic history and international relations, Ottoman geographical knowledge and understanding and the nature of Ottoman artistic and architectural aesthetics. Interactions and exchanges (intellectual, cultural, technological and human) between the Ottoman world and the world which lay outside its own borders form a unifying theme for several of the contributors to the volume. Particularly in chapter three subtitled: ‘Ottoman-European Cultural Exchange’ this theme predominates. The fact that the Ottomans perceived their own world in nonspatial terms is brought out in the contribution by Brentjes on Ottoman map-making conventions. She concludes that rather than perceiving the world in terms of current dynastic geopolitical realities, Ottoman map-makers of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries tended to place the emphasis on common religious identity. Thus, rather than delineate the current political boundary between the Ottoman and Safavid empires in his Djihannuma, Hadji Khalifah opted instead to portray the Muslim world as a unit, indicating only the regional names inherited from Arab geographical literature of the early medieval period which reflected the political realities of a bygone era when the Abbasid caliphate ruled over the four corners of the Muslim world. Brentjes concludes (see pp.148-9) that for Ottoman geographers such as Abu Bakr al Dimishki: ‘political geography as a means to represent statehood was not a concept emphasised by [the authors] or the painters who produced [their] maps’. Pedani’s contribution to the volume addresses similar issues relating to Ottoman cartography and the conceptualisation of space. Pedani however concentrates not on the terrestrial sphere but on the Ottomans’ perception of their place in the shared maritime world of the Mediterranean characterised by wide cultural diversity and

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jurisdictional complexity. She notes that the effort to delineate maritime boundaries was a relatively late development both for the Ottomans and the Europeans and that the proprietary instincts of a later age cannot be applied un-problematically to the states bordering the shores of the Mediterranean in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In Pedani’s view, prior to the late eighteenth century the Ottomans tended to regard the maritime space which surrounded them in neither political nor in religious terms and gave priority in their thinking to economic considerations and pragmatic concerns. Shared sovereignty and co-operative arrangements, in particular with Venice, were considered the necessary and acceptable price to pay in exchange for general security and the protection of international commercial navigation from the ravages of piracy on the one hand and keeping the sea lanes vital to communication and exchange between Ottoman provinces open and safe on the other. According to Pedani, the key change to these mutually supportive interstate arrangements and consequently to Ottoman attitudes towards the shared maritime sphere came in the late eighteenth century when Russian fleets entered the Mediterranean with predominantly expansionist as opposed to commercial aims (see pp.23-35). The findings presented in the contributions by Brentjes and Pedani relating to Ottoman spatial perceptions and self-definitions provide a salutary reminder about the dangers implicit in overinterpretation of similarities and superficial resemblances between the Ottomans and their European contemporaries in the postSuleymanid era. They show, if indeed its demonstration can be still be considered necessary, the un-tenability of the premise and automatic assumption that all such apparent similarities ought to be regarded as indications of a consist and unswerving ‘Westernisation’ affecting all spheres of Ottoman life in the later imperial era. While its is certainly true that the Ottomans and their cohabitants in the Balkan and Mediterranean world shared many features in common, it is not always possible to infer a simple one-to- correlation between institutions, techniques and cultural traditions seemingly ‘borrowed’ from the West. The form which these European ‘borrowings’ assumed in the Ottoman environment involved a process of adaptation, reformulation and subtle transformation that gave them a new aspect. Identifying the ways in which the Ottoman empire remained different in spite of the widening scope if its dialogue with the West after circa 1700 remains one of the still largely unmet challenges facing Ottoman Studies as practiced today. By examining the world of Ottoman transport in the nineteenth century Mentzel observes that while marching in close parallel with other parts of the world in terms of the pace and impact of the modernisation and expansion

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of its rail network, the Ottomans experienced a much higher incidence of politically-motivated attacks and acts of sabotage. Thus, if only in terms of the underlying causes of rail accidents the Ottoman experience of transport modernisation remained distinct. What of patterns of rail use, integration of rail networks and a whole host of other dimensions of study and comparison? Mentzel’s contribution, though focused primarily on accident rates, provides a significant start along a path of much needed revisionist thinking that must now begin to re-evaluate and problematise other dimensions of the process of Ottoman modernisation that was once thought to be synonymous with Westernisation. The multi-layered interplay between opposing attitudes, values and cultural traditions is treated most comprehensively in the contribution to this volume by Reindel-Kiel which analyses the superficially similar but, in terms of indigenous audiences and their interpretive instincts perceptibly distinct, forms and practices of diplomatic gift-giving relying on detailed examples drawn from the late seventeenth century. As Reindel-Kiel rightly emphasises, the meaning and message which such gifts were meant to carry – typically Ottoman superiority and its logical counterpart Western subordination – was not always clearly understood by its recipients. Even when understood, it could be conveniently ignored or reinterpreted and registered in an appropriate place which accorded more closely with an assigned place belonging to the recipients’ cultural code and aesthetic norms. According to Reindel-Kiel signs, symbols even language itself could easily become the source of miscommunication which arose from the differing value and significance attached to the words, symbols and objects exchanged between the two sides involved in diplomatic negotiation and interchange. The distinctiveness of Ottoman culture and cultural norms deriving from their own rich blend of pre-Islamic Turkic traditions and later Islamic overlay is clearly revealed in Reidel-Kiel’s sensitive and insightful treatment of this key aspect of East-West relations in the early modern-modern era. Continuing on the theme of East-West diplomatic interchange, Papp’s article places similar stress on the fact that the diplomatic dialogue between the Hungarians and Ottomans was subject, on both sides, to both deliberate and inadvertent misinterpretation of the motives and intentions of the other during the involuted and often prolonged course of the treaty-negotiating process. The use of multiple languages alongside with the practice of exchanging preliminary draft versions of the final treaty texts left both sides relatively free to interpret the spirit of the agreement in ways that served their respective interests best. The notion of fixity of meaning was noticeably absent even from diplomatic agreements where one

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might have assumed that unambiguousness was the order of the day. Multiple meanings could and in a seventeenth and eighteenth century diplomatic context often did coexist comfortably in documents which had the superficial appearance of what, at one level of interpretation, seem to be jointly-agreed terms of a mutually-declared political settlement. Reindl-Kiel and Papp both note the tolerance on both sides for the circulation of disparate and contradictory interpretations–whether to save face or to avoid confrontation–of commonly employed diplomatic terms such as ‘gift’ and ‘present’ which implied a degree of free volition and ‘tribute’ which carried the strong suggestion of obligation and compulsion. The lesson gained from these contributions on Ottoman diplomatic practice is that the Ottoman world was constructed, both domestically and in its international relations, in a way that accommodated the full complexity of its multi-dimensional make-up and inherent multi-cultural composition. Through these contributions and others to volume two we gain a fuller appreciation not only of the complex composition of he Ottoman world itself, but of Ottoman techniques and success in navigating within and between an impressive array of different cultural, ethnic, religious and linguistic contexts. We learn too that, in spite of the many attempts to pigeon-hole it and characterise it as, according to some, exclusively Middle Eastern and Islamic or conversely, by others, as predominantly Western oriented and inspired, Ottoman civilization was anything but homogeneous. My remarks in this introduction have revolved in large part around the theme of the landscapes and seascapes that made up the Ottoman world and the relationship of this world to the worlds which surrounded it. This concentration in no way implies that the work contributed by authors focusing on other topics and themes is of secondary interest or importance. CIEPO, true to its institutional aims and organizational principles, has once again, in its fifteenth reconvening, provided us with a typically rich pot pourri of diverse disciplinary methods and approaches, all presented with equal intellectual rigour and offering at least something to suit all tastes. The subset of contributions which makes up the sixteen articles presented in this volume has truly succeeded in extending the frontiers of Ottoman Studies, making it fully deserving of the title which identifies it, not just for the limited and transitory purpose of the book trade, but also for the more permanent and noncommercial aim of library classification. This volume opens our eyes to the richness and diversity both of the modern interpretive communities encompassed by Ottoman Studies in its current academic context, but also of the richness and diversity of the

Introduction

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cultural, political, scientific and aesthetic world inhabited by the Ottomans themselves.

1 ___________________________________ OTTOMAN-EUROPEAN INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS Ibrahim Peçevi on War: a Note on the ‘European Military Revolution’ Colin Imber

The Problem The idea of an early modern ‘European military revolution’, which eventually allowed western Europe to dominate much of the globe, remains a subject of debate. Protagonists of the idea are not unanimous as to whether to place the ‘revolution in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries,1 while opponents reject the concept altogether,2 arguing that changes in military practices were evolutionary rather than revolutionary, and that the changes which occurred in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were no more ‘revolutionary’ than, for example, the introduction of gunpowder weapons in the fourteenth and fifteenth. Within this debate, there is a further discussion as to whether the ‘military revolution’—if such a thing occurred—gave European armies the advantage over the forces of the Ottoman Empire, which, it is assumed, did not adapt to the new practices. Geoffrey Parker argues that the Ottomans suffered from a failure to adapt to new forms of warfare already during the sixteenth century.3 Rhoads Murphey, on the other hand, maintains that there were no major disparities between Ottoman and western European armies before 1680.4 Among the most important of the new military practices, supporters of the ‘military revolution’ have identified the bastioned fortress and, on the battlefield, the increasing use of firearms, with

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arquebusiers or musketeers often ranged in formation on the flanks of protective pike squares. A corollary of the new battlefield formations was a growth in the proportion of infantry to cavalry, and an increase in the size of armies. The new tactics also necessitated the introduction of battlefield drill. By training soldiers in the use of weapons and in how to co-ordinate their actions in battle, it became possible, in theory at least, for arquebusiers to maintain continuous volley-fire and for ranks of pikemen to form a barrier to attacking cavalry without skewering any of their own side.5 To this one might add that the increased use of trenches and other battlefield fortifications was another feature of the new style of warfare. These essentially defensive tactics contrasted with Ottoman practice. There is, as yet, no evidence to suggest that the Ottomans adopted the new style of fortification, while on the battlefield it seems that the preferred Ottoman tactic was offensive: to disorganise the enemy with the shock of a cavalry charge and to drive them against the fortified centre of the line, within range of the gunfire of the Janissaries. Tactics varied according to the terrain and according to circumstances but, in essence, Ottoman armies relied primarily on the attack, the formations of the ‘military revolution’, primarily on defence. The Evidence In seeking an answer to the question of whether these new European tactics amounted to a ‘revolution’ and, if so, when exactly the ‘revolution’ occurred, European wars against the Ottomans might provide some answers. It is worth noting in the first place how effectively the Ottomans had adapted to earlier apparently revolutionary changes in warfare. During the fourteenth century Ottoman forces had evolved from a band of armed raiders to become an army capable of undertaking formal sieges, constructing castles and, as the Crusade of Nicopolis proved in 1396, defeating a western European army on the battlefield. During the fifteenth century, Ottoman armies adapted to the ‘gunpowder revolution’. Development was particularly rapid after the Hungarian wars of 1443-4, a period which also saw the Ottomans follow the Hungarians in adopting the Wagenburg as a battlefield formation. In the late fifteenth century, the French revolutionised siege warfare with the discovery that batteries of small cannon that were quick firing and manoeuvrable were more effective than single very large guns. In the early sixteenth century, probably after encountering French artillery at the siege of Mitylene in 1501, the Ottomans too began to use smaller cannon in sieges, reserving for specialised tasks the monster guns for which they had been renowned. It seems

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therefore that the Ottomans successfully absorbed the lessons of pre-sixteenth-century ‘European military revolutions’. Furthermore, wars against European enemies between 1500 and the war of Cyprus of 1570-3 do not suggest that Ottoman armies were at a tactical disadvantage before the last quarter of the century. This suggests that the ‘military revolution’—if indeed such a thing happened—had either not yet taken effect, or that the Ottomans had simply absorbed its lessons and adapted their own strategies.6 After 1573 there was a twenty year gap in hostilities in the west. Between 1579 and 1590 the Ottomans fought a war in the east, but the terrain in which it was fought, the tactics of the Safavid enemy and the political context of the war were very different from anything the Ottomans would experience in Europe. In 1593, therefore, when war with Austria broke out, Ottoman commanders would have been unaware of developments in European warfare during the previous twenty years. Indeed, the Ottomans had not fought the Austrians since 1566, and it was probably on the wars fought during the reign of Süleyman I (1520-66) that they based their assessment of Austrian capability in 1593. For this reason, the ‘Long War’ of 1593-1606 is important in assessing the question of whether there was ‘European military revolution’, and if so when it occurred, and whether the Ottomans adapted to it as easily as they had to earlier military changes. One source in particular—the chronicle of Ibrahim Peçevi7— gives a remarkable account of the Long War, which allows us to assess the impact of changes in the European style of warfare on Ottoman armies. This work concludes with the death of Sultan Murad IV in 1640, but it is clear that its author had compiled much of his narrative long before this date, and what is particularly important is that he bases his account of the Long War on his experiences as a participant in the following of Lala Mehmed Pasha, who became both grand vizier and army commander in 1604. Peçevi himself was a native of Hungary, born in Pécs in the early 1570s. He clearly spoke Hungarian and German as well as Turkish, and so had a role in negotiations between the opposing sides. Notably, it was he who negotiated both the Ottoman surrender of Esztergom in 15958 and, to his obvious delight, the Austrian surrender of the same fortress ten years later.9 But what is most important is that he took a close interest in warfare and in assessing the factors that determined the outcome of battles and sieges.10 As the late Vernon Parry remarked, ‘Peçevi was the only Ottoman historian who understood warfare’.11 It is true that Peçevi’s ultimate concerns were theological rather than secular, and it is these that shape the literary structure of his narrative. His account of the battle of Mezö-Keresztes in 1596, for example, hinges on the prayer which the Sultan’s tutor Sa‘deddin

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offered at a crucial moment when the battle appeared to be irrevocably lost. It was this prayer that God answered in granting an Ottoman victory. Other events such as the explosion of the Austrians’ powder magazine at Kanizsa in 1600, or the descent of a thick mist on the battlefield during the same action he also sees as signs of God’s grace. Equally, in ascribing Shah Abbas’ great victory over the Ottomans at Sufiyan in 1605—a defeat which he attributed to the incompetence of the Ottoman commander Cigalazade Sinan Pasha—he interpolates the comment: ‘When the decree of God, the Praised the Exalted, does not favour an undertaking, it is men like this who become commanders of the troops of Islam’.12 These theological points do not, however, negate a secular understanding of events. It is simply that Peçevi attributes the events that determined the outcome of battle to the hand of God. His story of the Long War is more interesting to military historians than it is to theologians. The war began successfully with the Koca Sinan Pasha’s capture of Veszprem and Paluta in 1593, and then of Györ in 1594, but Peçevi makes it clear that the conquest of Györ was ‘a miracle of his Excellency the Bearer of Prophecy’ rather than an indication of Ottoman superiority, since the garrison had no need to surrender. It was at full strength, and the overflowing river Raab had flooded the ditch around the fortress, hindering the miners, and allowing the attacking troops to approach the walls only after crossing the water four or five abreast over planks.13 Furthermore, Austrian victories at Novigrad and Hatvan and the capture of other smaller forts had already suggested that the Austrians now enjoyed a military advantage. This is a point which Peçevi makes very forcefully when he appends to his account of the fall of Esztergom in 1595, the Austrian commander Palffy’s comments on the Ottoman army. ‘The accursed man called Palffy’, he writes, ‘was an extremely effective and intelligent infidel. For whatever he said, he would usually provide a metaphor. The grand vizier Hoca Murad Pasha travelled to the infidels several times to negotiate peace, and he reported some of the accursed man’s sayings. One of these came from the time he was negotiating the surrender [of Esztergom], when Palffy said: “We used to compare the Muslims to a box which our ancestors did not dare to open. Anyone who asked what was in it received the reply that it was full of snakes, centipedes and scorpions. If the box were to be opened, they would swarm all over our land, biting and killing people. As this story went the rounds, they came to believe it, and so became firm in their mistaken convictions. Each of our emperors and kings put a lock on it, so that the box would not be opened and the world not be destroyed in his time. Now, out of necessity, we have opened it, and it turns out that the box is empty. There is

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nothing at all inside. What a pity that up until now we have lived our lives in this erroneous belief!’’’.14 Palffy’s comments, as Peçevi reports them, suggest a confidence in Austrian arms, which contrasts with the views of his predecessor in the 1560s, Lazarus Schwendi, who warned against attacking the Ottoman army during the summer when it was at full strength, and in particular against attacking the fortified Wagenburg at the centre of the line. He recommended instead a defensive strategy based on ‘well-equipped fortresses’.15 The contrast between the opinions of the two men suggests that, unless the Ottoman ‘box’ was already empty in the 1560s without Schwendi realising it, that there had been a major advance in Austrian effectiveness between the 1560s and the 1590s. Peçevi’s narrative suggests that this was indeed the case, and it was precisely on the battlefield, which Schwendi had seen as an Austrian’s weakest point, that Austrian superiority became evident. This is very clear from Peçevi’s narrative of two encounters which in fact ended in Ottoman victories. The first of these was the battle of Mezö-Keresztes in 1596. The battle followed the capture of Eger, when the victorious Ottomans found themselves confronting ‘a great army of all sorts from Bohemia and Poland (çeh ve leh), the Pope and the depths of the Frankish lands, ready to attack the troops of Islam when they were off their guard in the imperial camp’. On the first day of the battle, the vizier Hadim Ca‘fer Pasha reported that the enemy were too numerous to attack, but none of the commanders, including the Sultan who had accompanied the army, believed him and sent him forward for a second time. As he prepared for battle, his men ‘saw a limitless number of troops, an enemy without bounds … advancing rank on rank’. Ca‘fer Pasha himself ‘was standing firm when he saw that the troops were fleeing the field. Finally several of his experienced officers (ağas) … took their reins and willy-nilly, returned at a gallop to the imperial camp. All the zarbzens, tents and heavy items that they were carrying passed to the miserable enemy’. This event convinced the commanders that it would be necessary to encounter the enemy with the full strength of the army. When, on the following day, the Tatar troops captured ‘more than sixty infidels, clad in armour and fully armed’, each of these informants separately confirmed that ‘all the kings and dukes of the infidels had, by agreement, collected such an army that this many troops had never before been assembled. They are boundless and innumerable, greater than whatever you may estimate’. This intelligence led to the decision to attack the enemy before they attacked the Ottoman army. The battle that day was, however, limited in scale. ‘There was a ruined church near to a swamp,’ writes Peçevi. ‘Several thousand pigs had made a lair in the swamp, and brought up a few zarbzens and culverins to the place. They did not allow the Muslims to

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approach, but there was a battle with arquebus and cannon fire from both sides’. When the enemy emerged from the swamp, Cigalazade Sinan and the Tatars in the van of the army ‘attacked them and put most of them to the sword’. There was, however, another element in the battle which Peçevi notes in particular, and this was a new artillery weapon: ‘The accursed ones had culverins with a very long range. One of them even fired over the Felicitous Sultan’s array, and ricocheted behind it’. On the third day, the Ottomans engaged the entire Austrian army. The attack failed because the advancing cavalry could not withstand the enemy gunshot: ‘… the Muslim troops, rank on rank, crossed the swamp and began to advance on the enemy army. There was no movement on the enemy side, but the cannon shot from the army of the accursed ones kept the army of Islam at bay. Up until the time of the afternoon prayer, the accursed ones did not show themselves. Not a single one emerged from the army ready to fight. But when it was the time of the afternoon prayer, they advanced rank on rank’. Peçevi describes the Austrian line of battle: ‘Many Germans had assembled in one place like a parade of pigs, all of them in armour, and each with a single pike (harbe) in his hands; and many more ranks like this, clad in iron, in their hands the gun called ‘musket’, throwing a shot of ten to fifteen dirhems; and many Hungarian arquebusiers, that is hayduds. It is certain that there were a hundred—no more than a hundred—formations (alay) of infantrymen, with each formation made up of four or five hundred infidels. In the same manner, the ranks of Hungarian cavalrymen … looked—God Most High knows best—like a huge mountain. There were many ranks of German, and Bohemian and Polish (leh ve çeh) cavalry, with each one carrying at least three and at most five arquebuses’. As the enemy advanced, the Ottoman ‘ranks could not resist them. Not a single man could go against them … The infidels passed through the swamp … firing cannon and arquebus, and advancing straight towards the camp’. When the Rumelian troops on the right wing tried to block the enemy at the entrance to a pass, they found that ‘they could not resist for one moment or advance a single pace. As soon as the enemy arquebuses scattered shot into the company, the entire troop dispersed and joined their scattered companions’. The Austrians advanced with no effective resistance and, as they entered the Ottoman camp, the Janissaries and the cavalrymen of the Six Divisions who were guarding the Treasury withdrew. To complete the Ottoman rout, the sultan’s inner pages who had fled from the camp spread the rumour that the sultan himself had fled, causing panic and desertion among the already defeated troops. The Austrians in the meantime had abandoned themselves to plunder.

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It was at this point that ‘a miracle of God’ occurred. As ‘the troops of Islam abandoned all worldly hope … signs of victory and the favour [of God] were made manifest. At that moment the horsegrooms, chief cooks, cameleers, muleteers and other ghazis known as ‘orderlies’ (karakullukçu) attacked the accursed ones who had in places seized the tents, with things like tent pegs, woodcleavers, axes, cudgels and sticks. They gave a few of the infidels their just deserts and, from all sides, shouted out: “The infidel’s fled!” The troops who were wandering scattered and at a loss around the camp at once advanced and killed whomever they met wherever they met them. By the time of the evening prayer—before even an hour had passed—fifty thousand enemies of religion and state had fallen into the dust of destruction’.16 Peçevi not only gives a clear account of why the Ottomans won the battle of Mezö-Keresztes—something which confused the Austrians at the time and has confused historians ever since, he also gives a clear picture of the reasons for Austrian superiority on the battlefield. The first important point to emerge is the unprecedented size of the Austrian army; the second is the Austrian tactic on the final day of battle of luring the Ottoman cavalry to attack a strongly defended position and destroying it with gunshot. His description of the Austrian army as it emerged from behind its defences suggests a cavalry force reinforcing an infantry army composed of pike-squares protecting sleeves of musketeers and arquebusiers. The fact that Peçevi bothers to describe the Austrian line of battle in some detail suggests that this was the first time that he had encountered such a formation. It is noteworthy, too, that Peçevi also describes two new weapons, the long-range culverin17 and the musket,18 a firearm that was heavier than the arquebus and fired from a tripod, making it especially suitable for defensive fighting from fixed positions. These were not the only new weapons that Peçevi noticed. He devotes a section in his History to describing a petard.19 This was the weapon that Palffy used to blow in the gate at Györ in 1597, allowing him to recapture of the fortress.20 The victory at Mezö-Keresztes had a lasting effect on Ottoman fortunes. The Austrians clearly believed that, by retreating and allowing them to enter the camp, the Ottomans had deliberately lured them into a trap, and it was this mistaken idea that allowed the Ottomans to secure a similar victory at Kanizsa in 1600. As the Ottoman army prepared to besiege Kanizsa, an Austrian field army came to relieve the fortress: ‘One day,’ writes Peçevi, ‘because the weather was wet, the people were soaking. A fog clothed the oakgroves and forests. Suddenly the infidel ranks appeared, driving the troops in the van back into the camp’. As at Mezö-Keresztes, the Ottoman troops were unable to withstand the enemy fire and fled:

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‘The beylerbeyis, beys and other troops mounted their horses and went to encounter [the Austrians], but were not able to withstand the accursed ones’ gunshot. Because there was a need for infantry, they left no arquebusiers behind except the French,21 and brought all the Janissaries into the line. But these too, as soon as they met [with the enemy] were disobedient and fled to take up position in the camp, which they considered to be a place of safety… However, through the miracles of Muhammad, and with the blessing which came from the blow which they had suffered at Eger, they did not pursue them and enter the camp. They brought the cannon so close that shot which did not pass over our encampment struck our trenches’. At this stage the Austrians began to fortify their lines: ‘Their lines stood like this until evening, when their infantry began to dig trenches for the army. By morning the accursed ones had enclosed a vast area, encircling hills and plains with trenches to the depths of a lance. In places they built towers and yanyasdı trenches, and placed cannon and zarbzen in them’. The scene which followed recalled MezöKeresztes: ‘When morning came, the accursed ones drew up their ranks. They placed their arquebusiers in ranks in the van. The [Ottoman] commander was on horseback and drew up the troops in formation behind a swamp. The ağa of the Janissaries and the Janissaries were, as is customary, in rows, and the beylerbeyis drew up their ranks on the appropriate wings. However, the moment the infidels advanced, they retreated, and when they attacked the Janissaries, these too fled. There was no one left in the field but the honourable, the standard-bearers and those bearing the title of officer. Everyone took refuge by hiding in the forests, reed-beds and swamps. The unhappy Ibrahim Pasha was in floods of tears’. What saved the Ottomans from destruction was the Austrians’ belief that the flight of the Ottoman troops was a trick: ‘By the Grace of God Most High, everywhere was covered in mist and the infidels could not see properly. They thought that [our failure] to confront them and subsequent flight was a trick. All in all, eight days passed like this. On the ninth day they departed at midnight, saying: “The aim of the Turks in not confronting us or even showing their ranks is to find an opportunity to play a trick on us”’. With the departure of this force, the siege of Kanizsa proceeded to a victorious conclusion.22 Once again Peçevi describes a victory against the odds. In a direct confrontation, the Austrian tactic of combining gunfire and battlefield fortifications was so effective that the Ottoman soldiers saw flight as their only chance of survival. It was only their mistaken belief that the Ottomans had laid a trap that led to the Austrian withdrawal. In his description of an earlier confrontation at Vác in the autumn of 1597 Peçevi gives another clear account of this Austrian tactic. In a vain attempt to recapture Vác the Ottoman

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army had encamped on the plain at a time when ‘the rain and snow did not allow one to open one’s eyes’. There follows a description of the enemy position: ‘Now the enemy had come with an army (tabur) and encamped in a narrow pass above Vác on the shore of the Danube. They had evacuated the fortress and dug great trenches in front of the army. They had built redoubts on each hill and at the top of each slope, filling them with arquebusiers. As a result, it was impossible to approach’. A drawback of the style of warfare which the Austrians practised was that it was essentially defensive. The best form of attack was therefore to trick the enemy into approaching the entrenchments and annihilating them with gunfire. This is what the Austrians did: ‘When we reached the plain and came into contact with the enemy, stopping out of the range of gunfire, three or four Hungarian columns emerged. We fought them for a while, and they fled before us, drawing the Muslim troops into the sights of the cannon and onto the arquebusiers in the redoubts. There was quite a battle for three days. A number of infidels were killed but, because they were in range of the guns, a lot of our men also took the road to non-existence’. In concluding his description of this encounter, Peçevi hints that few in the Ottoman army realised that traditional Ottoman cavalry tactics were ineffective against the new style of warfare that the Austrians were practising. Instead they put the blame for the failure at Vác on the commander: ‘At that time, Tiryaki Hasan Pasha was beylerbeyi of Bosnia. He suffered reproach from the tongues of men who were ignorant of the situation, claiming that he had not attacked the enemy, and that if he had, the enemy army would have been broken. The truth is that their army was in a fortress-like place, on one side a high hill, on the other the Danube, which could not be circumvented from behind in three of four days. In front, there was a great ditch with ranks of arquebusiers arranged along it. The infidels escaping from the battlefield fled as far as this, and their pursuers followed until they came within range of the cannon and arquebus’. Furthermore, the Austrians were aware enough of their military superiority to reject an Ottoman peace overture shortly after the encounter at Vác. As Peçevi puts it: ‘The accursed ones’ noses were stuck up in the air, and they themselves were flying high, so nothing resulted’.23 The problem for the Ottomans, however, was not simply a failure of the commanders to understand Austrian tactics and to work out counter-measures. Another difficulty was that the troops themselves did not easily adapt to the new forms of warfare. Lala Mehmed Pasha’s failure to recapture Csepel island in the Danube in 1603 examplifies the problem.

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Lala Mehmed himself was an Ottoman commander who clearly understood that the old methods no longer worked. This is evident in the memorandum which he sent to the grand vizier Yemişçi Hasan Pasha in 1600: ‘Most of the troops of these accursed ones are on foot and arquebusiers. Most of the troops of Islam are horsemen, and not only are infantrymen few, but experts in the use of the arquebus are rare. For this reason, there is great trouble in battles and sieges’.24 He was also, it seems, quick to adopt enemy tactics. In his story of the Austrian conquest of Esztergom in 1595, Peçevi devotes space to what was evidently a new style of bombardment: ‘That night [the Austrians] brought up forty-one or forty-two great guns … At dawn they began the bombardment. Most of the time, when the sound of one cannon stopped, another one fired, and the earth and sky were filled with smoke. In this way, they fired sometimes forty-one and sometimes forty-two shots in continuous rotation. Sometimes they fired the ones in each trench in unison, as though they were using a stone of the fortress as a target and firing at one spot … If each gun threw at least fifty balls a day, it would make more than two thousand …’25 This technique impressed Lala Mehmed Pasha sufficiently for him to adopt it in the following year at the Ottoman siege of Eger: ‘Our late lord’, writes Peçevi, ‘the vizier Mehmed Pasha … was allotted eight siege cannon … Then, as the infidels had done when they bombardeded Esztergom, they aimed all eight at one stone in particular and fired them simultaneously, so that it was as though the balls were piling up one on top of the other. Sometimes they fired in turn. Before the sound of one cannon had died away, they fired another. All the soldiers said the Mehmed Pasha had learned to bombard a fortress in this way at Esztergom’.26 In 1603, when faced with the task of ejecting the Austrians from Csepel island in the Danube, as a preliminary to the recapture of Pest, Lala Mehmed clearly realised that in order to defeat the Austrians he would have to adopt their tactic of using fortified emplacements for the infantry. The action which followed, however, indicates not simply that some elements in the army were in position to defy the commanders, but also that they had not grasped the principles of the new style of warfare. Peçevi notes the outcome of the commanders’ deliberations: ‘“We too should build a bridge to the island and attack the enemy’s bastion (tabya)…”’, and outlines the plan: ‘Orders were given that in the evening a number of arquebusiers from the bölüks, with the promise of a pay rise, should begin to cross, together with sekbans [attached to] the beylerbeyis and commanders, and three, four or five thousand sekbans from the jelalis. They were instructed, by morning to, to build a stockade for the bastion and to dig a ditch around it’.

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The plan failed. In the first place, the ağa of the Janissaries insisted that the Janissaries should cross to the island. Then the Janissaries demanded cavalry reinforcements. The commanders objected: ‘That number or troops cannot resist the [enemy] army. When the enemy advance, only infantry should enter the bastion and fight with arquebus. By the time the bridge is ready, then the cavalry can cross. This is our plan’. The Janissaries, however, whom Peçevi describes as ‘thoroughly insubordinate’ had the strength to enforce their demands. The sequel indicates that the troops not only disobeyed the commanders of the army, but also that they had not understood Austrian tactics or how to counter them. Peçevi recalls what happened during the night: ‘It was exactly midnight. The architect came and said: “Not a stake has been planted for the fortification, and not [even] a hoe has been wielded for the ditch.” When he said this to the jelalis, they replied: “We fought many battles in Anatolia, but we never dug a ditch or set up a stockade, and we won’t do it now!’” This response from the jelalis was perhaps unsurprising, since their experience of warfare was in plundering defenceless settlements and fighting off usually ill-planned Ottoman attempts to suppress their activities. However, the Janissaries who had experienced warfare on the Hungarian front seem, according to Peçevi, to have been equally unable to understand their enemy: ‘As for the Janissaries, it was as if each one of them was digging a grave for himself. The sekbans and the bölük halkı [who had been promised] a [pay] increase followed the Janissaries’. The formation which the Ottoman troops adopted in attacking the Austrian position matched their unwillingness to construct fortifications in the field. Peçevi describes what he saw: ‘ … it was already morning. What we saw opposite was like a new graveyard. The men who had crossed should at least have stood [firm as a single body], waited in ambush in one place, or at least have drawn up their ranks. They had done none of these things. Instead they approached the enemy fortification in groups of two, five or ten’. The Austrian counter-attack came towards midday: ‘The accursed ones, firing cannon and arquebus, advanced one after the other like a herd of pigs. The Hungarian cavalry confronted our cavalry’. Pecevi’s description is imprecise, but gives the impression that after repelling the uncoordinated Ottoman attacks, the Austrian troops advanced in a cohesive formation under the shelter of gunfire, driving the Ottoman soldiers who survived the onslaught into the Danube.27 The problems which Peçevi highlights in this passage have to do with the nature of the Ottoman army. The army commanders seem, by this time, to have felt the need to adopt the Austrian tactic of establishing a strong defensive position on the battlefield and, in confronting the enemy, to co-ordinate the actions of the troops. This

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presumably was a lesson which they had learned from the experience of Austrian volley-fire and the lethal combination of mutually supporting pike and shot. In Peçevi’s version, the defeat on Csepel island was a result of the troops’ refusal to fortify their position properly or to co-ordinate their attack. The insubordination of the jelalis is not difficult to understand. Their training as soldiers, as Peçevi implies, came from their experiences as Anatolian brigands. They were used to defying Ottoman officers rather than to obeying them, and they looked to their own experience of warfare as the guide to action rather than to the orders of the army commanders. Peçevi also comments on the behaviour of the Janissaries: ‘This was a time when the Janissaries were thoroughly insubordinate and there was a fear of their unseemly behaviour’. As a result nobody dared to resist their demands: ‘Nobody dared to utter the words: “The Janissaries should not cross. There is no need for Janissaries” … Instead, fearing the sword of the Janissaries, they said: “Welcome!”’.28 In this action, therefore, the Ottoman troops acted contrary to their commanders’ wishes and attacked the enemy in an uncoordinated fashion. This contrasted with the Austrian tactics where troop movements seem to have been disciplined and coordinated. From Peçevi’s account, it is clear that the Ottomans experienced great difficulties in field warfare. The next question is whether the modernised fortresses of the ‘military revolution’ presented them with similar problems. Certainly these were not impregnable as Lala Mustafa’s conquest of Nicosia had shown already in 1570. However, Peçevi’s description of the re-conquest of Esztergom in 1605 suggests that they could form a very serious obstacle. The Austrians had captured Esztergom in 1595, and reconstructed it as a complex of fortresses between the citadel and the Danube. ‘A mighty fortress’, writes Peçevi, ‘had been built on the crag, and three more fortresses had been built up to the Danube. These had been linked to one another by cutting a great ditch’. Furthermore, he makes it clear that before Lala Mehmed Pasha’s successful attack, Ottoman commanders had regarded it as unassailable: ‘In the previous year it had proved impossible even to approach the wall of the fortress of Esztergom. Everyone was terrified of its strength and despaired of conquering it’. In view of Esztergom’s apparent invulnerability, the majority of those assembled in a war council advised against putting it under siege, and instead prepared to send raiding parties into Austrian territory. It was in the end the complaints of the soldiers who were expected to undertake these raids that swung the decision in favour of the siege. The factors which Peçevi emphasises in his account of the victory are more or less the opposite of those which had led to disaster on

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Csepel island. In the first place, the army clearly carried out all the details of Lala Mehmed’s plan. The siege began with a ten day bombardment of the outer fortresses. Then came the command for a full-scale assault. The troops mustered overnight in the trenches. Then ‘there was an announcement that, as soon as the first sign of dawn appeared, when three cannons fired together, and earth and sky resounded to the cry of “Allah! Allah!”, the ghazis should immediately advance and envelop the enemy in red blood’. At day break, under the cover of fog, the Ottoman army entered the upper fortress ‘before the infidels had even opened their eyes’. The same tactics were successful against the other outer fortresses. In his description of the assault on the town and citadel, Peçevi lays emphasis on the improved morale of the troops: ‘It was as though every one of the Muslims, who had been regarded as weak and helpless, became a ferocious lion, or a warrior as bold as Rustem of legend. At other times, great care was taken to motivate the troops for an assault. Increases were given and fine promises made. But this time they had only to say “There’s an assault,” and by morning not a single man would be left in the camp’. The assault again began at dawn, but the breach in the wall was wide enough for only one man, a testimony perhaps to the ability of the new style of fortress to withstand a ten-day bombardment. By the time the sun rose, the Austrians had driven back all assaults. Nevertheless, the fortress fell, and it is again the morale of the troops that Peçevi stresses in accounting for the victory. When Lala Mehmed saw that the initial attacks on the breach had been unsuccessful, he sent Peçevi to convey the instruction to the ağa of the Janissaries: ‘Encourage the ghazis! Whatever you promise them, do it; give them whatever you’re going to give! Don’t let the ghazis turn back! If once they lose their keenness, it will be very difficult to drive them forward again’. It was an assault under the command of the ağa after he had received this order that finally forced the breach. When the Ottoman troops entered, most of the defenders ‘drank the wine of death. Very few of them escaped, and all who did were taken prisoner’. The fact that ‘they took plentiful booty in the suburb’ must have further raised the morale of the victorious troops.29 The last phase of the battle opened with a ten-day bombardment of the citadel with plans for another dawn assault. Before, however, the soldiers left their trenches, the garrison sought a negotiated surrender. With the capitulation of the citadel, the modernised and supposedly impregnable fortress of Esztergom fell to the Ottomans. This victory was the last major action in the ‘Long war’ of 15931606.

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Peçevi’s narratives of the sieges and battles of the ‘Long War’ provide a basis for an assessment of the impact of the ‘military revolution’ on Ottoman warfare. What emerges most clearly is that the Ottomans found themselves at a disadvantage in field warfare. The course of the battle of Mezö-Keresztes before its unexpected dénouement indicates that the Ottoman cavalry which depended for its effect on the shock of the attack were unable even to approach the Austrian formations of pike and shot. It is also clear from the actions at Vác and Kanisza, that the Ottomans had no tactic that was effective against sustained firepower from entrenched positions. Peçevi’s narratives also show how the Austrians tried to overcome the drawback of these tactics. The problem with pike and shot and more so with trench warfare was that they were very effective in the defence, but not in the attack. At Mezö-Keresztes, the Austrians evidently did not emerge from their defensive positions until they had broken the shock of the Ottoman cavalry. At Vác they used cavalry to lure the Ottoman attackers into the range of shot from their entrenchments. The preferred tactic was not so much to attack the enemy, as to encourage the enemy to attack. By the time of the engagement on Csepel island, Ottoman commanders clearly wished to emulate Austrian tactics, but this they were unable to do. The operation failed, in Peçevi’s version, as a consequence of the indiscipline of the troops. In the last years of the war, the Ottomans clearly wished to emulate the Austrian example by increasing infantry numbers, whether by expanding the Janissary Corps or recruiting irregulars from Anatolia. This, however, was not a complete solution to their problems. Effective infantry tactics, such as the Austrian armies employed, required a new form of training which, in principle at least, made it possible for musketeers and arquebusiers to fire in continous volleys, for pikemen to act in unison, and to co-ordinate pike and shot. The way to inculcate these disciplines was through military drill, which historians have identified as an element in the ‘military revolution’ but which was not, it seems, something which the Ottomans adopted. The Janissaries certainly practised sharpshooting, and the other infantrymen were undoubtedly skilled in handling weapons, but the disaster on Csepel island shows that they had not learned, or even understood the need, to co-ordinate their actions. Although Peçevi makes it clear that the Ottomans faced severe difficulties in field battles, Ottoman success in capturing Austrian fortresses, and Esztergom in particular, might seem to indicate that the modernised fortresses of the ‘military revolution’ were not especially effective. Nonetheless, it is worth noting Peçevi’s

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comment that before the assault in 1605, the Ottomans had regarded Esztergom as impregnable and taken the decision not to put it under siege. Furthermore, to capture the complex of fortresses required almost a month of continuous bombardment. Esztergom, in short, while not impregnable was remarkably difficult to overcome. In sum, therefore, Peçevi’s narrative of the ‘Long War’ suggests that the ‘military revolution’ was real, and that the tactics that it introduced were extremely effective against Ottoman armies, especially in the field. Peçevi also allows us to date the ‘revolution’ at least insofar as it affected Austria. Schwendi’s comments from the 1560s suggest that he still considered Ottoman armies to be superior to the Austrians in the field. By the 1590s, experience showed that this was no longer true, suggesting that a major phase in the ‘military revolution’ in Austria occurred in the twenty year period between 1570 and 1590. On this evidence therefore one can say that there was indeed a ‘European military revolution’ and that it is possible to date the major transformation to the last three decades of the sixteenth century. The evidence of Peçevi alone is not enough to make this conclusion definitive. Nonetheless, Peçevi is a vitally important source and historians must take into the account the evidence which he provides.

Notes 1 For a summary of the debate, see Thomas F. Arnold, ‘War in sixteenth-century Europe: revolution and renaissance’, in Jeremy Black (ed.), European Warfare, 14531815 (London, 1999), 23-44. 2 For example, John Childs, Warfare in the Seventeenth Century (London, 2001), 16-17. 3 Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500-1800 (Cambridge,1988). 4 Rhoads Murphey, Ottoman Warfare, 1500-1700 (London, 1999). 5 Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution; Thomas Arnold, The Renaissance at War, (London, 2001). 6 For the development of Ottoman military practice, see Gabor Ágoston, ‘Ottoman artillery and European military technology in the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries’, Acta Orientalia (Budapest), XLVII (1994), 15-48; ‘Habsburgs and Ottomans: military changes and shifts in power’, Turkish Studies Association Bulletin, 22 (1998), 126-41; Colin Imber, The Ottoman Empire: The structure of power, 1300-1650 (Basingstoke, 2002), chapter 7. 7 İbrahim Peçevi, Tarih-i Peçevi (Istanbul, 1980), reprint, with introduction and index by Fahri Ç. Derin and Vahit Çabuk, of Tarih-i Peçevi (Istanbul, 1866). The printed text is highly unreliable. 8 Peçevi II, 181-4. 9 Peçevi II, 305-7. 10 On Peçevi, see Ahmed Refik (Altınay), Peçevi (Istanbul, 1933). 11 My thanks to Dr Colin Heywood for recording this hadith.

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Peçevi II, 264-5. Peçevi II, 153-4. 14 Peçevi II, 187-8. 15 Quoted in Vernon Parry, ‘La manière de combattre’ in V.J. Parry and M.E. Yapp (eds.), War, Technology and Society in the Middle East (London, 1975). 16 Peçevi II, 195-202. 17 Peçevi II,198. 18 Peçevi II, 199. 19 Peçevi II, 212-213. 20 Peçevi II, 211-212. 21 On the French, see Caroline Finkel, ‘French mercenaries in the HabsburgOttoman war of 1593-1606: the desertion of the Papa garrison’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, LV (1992), 451-71. 22 Peçevi II, 232-5. 23 Peçevi II, 208-9. 24 Quoted in V.J. Parry, ‘La manière’. 25 Peçevi II, 179. 26 Peçevi II, 193. 27 Peçevi II, 271-6. 28 Peçevi II, 273. 29 Peçevi II, 301-7. 13

Some Remarks upon the Ottoman Geo-Political Vision of the Mediterranean in the Period of the Cyprus War (1570-1573) Maria Pia Pedani

A Declaration of War According to a widespread historiographical tradition, the Cyprus war was fought because, at the beginning of his reign, Selim II wanted to imitate his father’s great deeds and because a friend of the sultan, the Jew Joseph Nassí, disliked Venetians and `wanted to create a Jewish settlement in the island. On the contrary, according to the declaration of war, issued in February 1570 and given to the doge Pietro Loredan by the çavuş Kubad at the end of the following March, the reasons which pushed the Ottomans to fight were different.1 This long document contains a list of charges against the Republic, that is to say: (i) [in Dalmatia] Venetians were building castles and villages beyond the borders which had been established at the time of Mehmed II and Bayezid II and, in the country near Klis, at the time of Süleyman the Magnificent; (ii) in summer [1569] Christians privateers received food and water in Cyprus and, thus, they were able to destroy two Ottoman ships and kill the persons who were on board; moreover Venetians refused to give the names of the privateers when the Ottoman authorities of Alexandria asked for them; (iii) in autumn [1569] another Ottoman ship was plundered between Alexandria and Rosetta in Egypt by privateers who had previously stopped in Cyprus; (iv) Venetians killed the levends they captured while, according to the capitulations, they were required to give them back to the Ottoman authorities; (v) the Venetian bailo in Istanbul did not receive instructions regularly and, in this way, many affairs could not be quickly solved; (vi) the father of a Christian Ottoman merchant was charged by the Venetians for trading in steel, that is a forbidden good, and then killed; (vii) the merchant Hacı Ali who went to Cattaro to trade was robbed by Uskoks and he was not indemnified, notwithstanding the guarantees by the Venetian authorities for the safe arrival of goods in Venice. From the Ottoman point of view the basis of the war was not Selim’s pride or Nassí’s envy, but had clear geo-political reasons, as

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the historian Selânikî Mustafa Efendi was also to point out.2 The major crimes that the Venetians had committed in the Mediterranean were to allow Christian privateers to stop in Cyprus before attacking Ottoman ships on the route between Istanbul and Alexandria, and to be unable to protect Ottoman merchants in the Gulf of Venice, as they proudly called the Adriatic sea. However, in those months in Istanbul two parties were struggling against and in favour of the idea of declaring war upon Venice. The sultan’s lala, Lala Mustafa Pasha, Piyale Pasha, the third vizier Pertev Pasha and the şeyhülislam Ebussuud Efendi wanted to fight, while the grand vizier Sokollu Mehmed Pasha did not.3 Mediterranean Geo-Strategy in the Sixteenth Century The historian Ibn Khaldūn4 considered the Mediterranean not as a single sea but as a series of water enclosures, such as the Black Sea and the Adriatic Sea, divided by larger or narrower straits; many centuries later another historian, Fernand Braudel, expressed the same ideas.5 In the same way, for centuries the Republic of Venice considered the Adriatic Sea its own Gulf, while the Ottoman sultan did not reject the idea that he could exert the same kind of sovereignty over the Black Sea and over the Eastern part of the Mediterranean.6 However, Ottoman geo-political strategy evolved over time and it underwent some important alterations, above all during the sixteenth century. In 1517 Selim I conquered Egypt; in 1522 Süleyman I acquired the island of Rhodes; in the same period Hayreddin gave Algiers to the sultan. In this period the Ottomans probably thought it was possible for them to conquer the whole Mediterranean by taking possession in advance of its wider, if weaker parts and only later of the most heavily fortified places.7 It has been written8 that in Süleyman’s age, between the battles of Prevesa (1538), and Lepanto (1571), and even after this date, the Ottoman Empire was the greatest single naval power in the Mediterranean, but this sea never belonged completely to the Ottomans; several states exerted their influences on its waters, and even in the middle of the sixteenth century, Spain, France and several Italian states used to patrol wide parts of this sea. In this period, vigorous Ottoman action was chiefly centred round the control of the Sicilian narrows, a vital area for the control of the whole Mediterranean. The unsuccessful siege of Malta (1565) frustrated this attempt and the following year the island of Chios, the last Genoese enclave in the Levant was taken. The following campaign was against Cyprus. It seems that in the years just before the battle of Lepanto there was a change in Ottoman strategy. In fact, after the siege of Malta, the Ottomans abandoned the idea of

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swallowing all the Mediterranean in favour of conquering only some strategic places; their aim became that of conquering all the islands and zones still in foreign hands, one after the other, proceeding from East to West. Moreover, if until this moment they had tried to guard every single merchant ship which sailed from Istanbul to Egypt and vice versa, now they began to watch over the route itself, which united the wealthiest province of the Empire with the capital.9 After the conquest of Chios, Cyprus remained the only Christian enclave in an Ottoman sea, and this presence troubled the pilgrimage and trade routes, these being the most important sea passages in the eyes of the central government.10 Since 1517 the Alexandria-Istanbul route had become the inner commerce of the empire. Ships usually proceeded along the Anatolian coast, went on between Rhodes and the mainland, called at Famagusta, Beirut, Sidon, continued southwards as far as Egypt and then they came back using the same route. Several far eastern products were brought to Istanbul by these ships, having come via Baghdad-Aleppo as well as via the Red Sea, together with Egyptian and Maghrebine goods. In fact the Indian Ocean and the Persian Gulf were still of great importance for the Ottoman Empire, and also for their Western commercial partners, as for instance Venice, notwithstanding the presence of the Portuguese in that area. However, these commercial rivals pushed the Ottomans to look for new routes. In fact around 1531-2 and later in 1568 and 1586, the Istanbul government began to think it possible to dig a Suez canal; the Venetians had had the same idea in 1504 when they tried to convince the Mamluks to build it. Moreover, around 1569, the Ottomans began to dig another canal to unite the Don with the Volga river, with a view to expelling the Russians from Kazan and Astrakhan, and to reaching the Caspian sea and attacking the Persians in the rear. This last enterprise, interrupted by the Cyprus war, was supported above all by the grand vizier Sokollu Mehmed Pasha, who clearly understood that what happened in the east of the Empire might also influence the sea of the Levant and their trade.11 Besides trade, the Istanbul-Alexandria route was also used by pilgrims who went from Anatolia and the Balkans to Mecca and Medina. By conquering Egypt in 1517, Selim I became ‘Servant of the Holy Places’ and for this reason he had to protect the pilgrimage routes. In this way his power had a new religious basis. Muslim pilgrims were not respected by Christian pirates and privateers, who often made them prisoners or slaves. For instance, we know from Ottoman sources that when Famagosta surrendered to the Ottomans, fifty Muslim pilgrims were still prisoners of the Christians and their murder on the night of the vere (surrender) was one of the things which greatly irritated Lala Mustafa Pasha.12

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In a sea still crossed by ships such as galleys, with a limited range, Cyprus was a vital port for Christian pirates and privateers seeing to plunder the ships on the Istanbul-Alexandria route. In that period, and even later, the usual Mediterranean war ship was the galley. It was not very big but it had a crew of as many as 200-300 men and it could not store enough supplies for all these persons. For this reason it had to stop every day, or every other day, in a harbour to take on water and food.13 This fact explains why, for instance, the towns of the Dalmatian coast are at a day’s distances from one another. It was possible to spend some days without going ashore but it happened only for unavoidable reasons.14 However, a galley could be easily steered between the many small islands and in the shallow waters of the Mediterranean coasts since it had both oars and sails. The huge oceanic ships, with so many sails, were much more clumsy in an environment of this kind and it was much more difficult to steer them; thus, they were never able to oust the galleys from their position in the Mediterranean, and even in the eighteenth century, Venetians continued to teach other people...Baltic sailors how to build this kind of ship. Before the Cyprus war, Christians often attacked Ottoman ships after a stop at that island. For instance, in 1569 the ship on which the treasurer (defterdar) of Egypt had embarked, was taken by pirates and, according to the historian Kâtip Çelebi, this was another of the reasons which pushed the angry sultan to declare the war against Venice.15 This episode, which took place in autumn was quoted in the declaration of war, together with another one which had taken place in the summer of the same year. To sum up, if we consider Ottoman land campaigns, we discover geo-political reasons for Ottoman behaviour, based for instance on the distance between Istanbul and the battlefields.16 The same happened for their sea campaigns, even if in this environment people had to consider not only the distances, but also the type of ships and the harbours. With this in mind, it is clear that in order to expel the privateers and pirates from the eastern part of the Mediterranean the Ottoman sovereign had to conquer the island of Cyprus. After about eighty years, the same geo-political considerations pushed the Ottomans to fight again against the Serenissima. This time the goal was the conquest of the island of Crete, the last Christian enclave in the eastern Mediterranean and the last Venetian possession. If we look at a map of the Near East, we see that the intention of this conquest was to change the whole Levant sea into an Ottoman lake.

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Cyprus, a Muslim Island? At the beginning of his reign, just after his father’s death, Selim II ratified a peace agreement with Venetians. For this reason, from a religious point of view, he could not declare war against them and break the peace, without a right reason confirmed by a fetva of the most important Muslim dignitary of the state, the şeyhülislam. However, the grand vizier Sokollu Mehmed Pasha was trying to avoid war and had secret contacts with the Venetian diplomatic envoy in Istanbul, Marcantonio Barbaro. Sokollu feared the formation of a Christian league, as in fact occurred after the opening of hostilities. To justify the declaration of war, Selim II asked for Ebussuud’s opinion about the possibility of a Muslim conquest of the island. The famous şeyhülisam answered that a ruler could not make peace with infidels if it was not useful for all the Muslims. If an advantage did not exist, the peace was not legitimate but could be broken if necessary. The Prophet acted in the same way when he made peace with the infidels and then broke it in order to conquer Mecca: thus, the «Caliph of God»’s behaviour had to imitate the sunna of the Prophet.17 In other discussions some Ottoman ulema reminded the sultan that the island of Cyprus had been in Muslim hands for about thirty years from the first raids in 647 and 653-4 to the time of the caliphs Mu‘āwiya (661-80) and Yazīd (680-3) and that its mosques had been converted into Christian churches.18 However, the island of Cyprus could be considered the land of Islam also from another point of view. In 1427 King Janus of Lusignano was made prisoner by the sultan of Egypt and secured his liberty only by promising that he and his heirs would pay 8,000 ducats in cloth every year. In the Mamluk period this revenue was assigned to the Holy Cities. Venice then acquired the island from the last king’s widow, Caterina Corner, in 1489, and went on paying the tribute. It is most likely that precious Venetian cloth was sent to Mecca and Medina in that period. The Ottomans conquered the Mamluk kingdom in 1517 and the Venetians went on paying the 8,000 ducats every year, but now in gold coins. Cyprus was then on the same level as the Republic of Ragusa or of the island of Zante, another land for which Venetians paid tribute from 1485 until 1699.19 Last but not least, some sources says that the inhabitants of the island of Cyprus desired Ottoman rule since they were oppressed by the Venetians and had to pay them an excessive amount of taxes.20

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In the 1570 declaration of war there were also other complaints about Ottoman merchants who had been robbed by Uskoks in the Adriatic sea. The Venetians considered this inner sea as their own Gulf and usually considered its south border an imaginary line which united Santa Maria di Leuca, on the Italian coast, to Valona, in Albania. They did not allow foreign warships, Christian or Muslim, to enter it. They had fought for years against the boats of Adriatic pirates, above all the Christian Uskoks, protected by Habsburgs, and Ottoman subjects from Dulcigno. The sultan could recognize this sovereignty only if the Venetians were also able to protect the Ottoman merchants who crossed the Adriatic en route to Italian ports, such as Venice or Ancona. When his subjects were robbed and, above all, when the Venetians refused to refund the stolen goods or to rescue the enslaved persons, then he threatened to send his war ships to that part of the Mediterranean. The Ottoman government often suspected a secret agreement between the Republic and the Uskoks even though, according to Venetian sources, this never existed. At the end of the sixteenth century, and even later, other privateers reached the Adriatic sea. These were levends from the Maghreb who were looking for rich new prey. In the 1570s, after the battle of Lepanto (1571) for some historians, or after the battle of Alcazar (1578) for others, the Ottoman government began to reduce the size of the central fleet and to limit the scope of its operation.21 The best example of this policy was perhaps the behaviour of the kapudan paşa Venedikli Hasan Pasha, who was a better book-keeper than a sailor and during his Istanbul career made only one raid with the imperial fleet.22 In this period the Ottoman central government’s attention shifted towards the land and looked for a less expensive policy in the Maghreb. This meant, above all, leaving the levends free to attack whoever they wanted. This policy created great troubles for the sultans above all in the eighteenth century, after the peace of Karlowitz (1699), when the Ottoman authorities were obliged to keep the agreements signed with the European states and to stop their raids. However, in the sixteenth century too, North African sea-captains created troubles. In this period they also began to plunder Christian ships also in the Adriatic;23 and, worse than this, they taught their way of fighting to Albanian seamen. After a time, pirates, above all from Dulcigno, began to raid ships in the Adriatic by themselves, disguised as Maghrib levends. From 1593 until 1634, a number of imperial letters ordered the governors and kadis of Herzegovina, Scutari, Castelnuovo, and Narenta to prevent their subjects from building ships, to burn the ships used by these pirates

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and to oblige them not to dress as Maghrebis.24 However, the situation did not change in the following period and after a century, after the peace of Passarowitz (1718), other imperial orders of the same kind, against the pirates of Dulcigno, can be found among the papers kept in the archives.25 When, after some raids, the Venetians captured Albanian or Maghreb seamen they used to kill them without distinguishing between pirates and privateers; this happened notwithstanding the peace agreements which had been ratified with the sultan where it was written that they had to give back those who had been seized. Ottoman-Venetian Borders Another complaint made by Selim II in 1570 was about OttomanVenetian relations in Dalmatia. He said that a border in that area had been established since Mehmed II’s period. In fact the Ottoman government began to agree to establish a real border, at least between Venice and the empire, only in the second half of the fifteenth century. The distance of a foreign state from the sultan’s territory influenced international relations in the early modern period. The Ottomans’ greatest enemies were the countries which bordered them, while the others were usually considered friends, as for instance France. Other Muslim rulers followed the same pattern of behaviour and distinguished between distant and nearby countries: the sovereigns of Egypt, for instance, used to give safeconducts (amān) to the subjects of foreign European countries and to ratify truces (hudna) with the Christian kings of the Levant coast.26 The Ottomans also accepted the idea that a ruler might exert his influence on inner waters, such as the Gulf of Venice or the Ottoman Marmara and the Black Seas. In fact Muslims thought that a country might rule over waters, while Europeans had difficulty in accepting this principle. According to some Muslim jurists, coastal waters were fay’, that is to say a zone acquired by a prince in a pacific way as, for instance, the land left by the sea when waters withdrew.27 In the second half of the fifteenth century, the first agreements to divide the waters were made by the Ottomans and the Knights of Rhodes and were respected by both Christian privateers and levends, even if they referred only to small zones between that island and the mainland.28 Other discussions about limits of waters took place between the Ottoman Empire and the Republic of Venice, albeit somewhat later. In 1670, for instance, the existence of a jurisdiction over coastal waters is clearly expressed in an Ottoman-Venetian peace agreement.29 After the fall of Crete to the Ottomans a question arose about some small islands which the Venetians needed as harbours for their merchant ships. These islands, together with the

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waters within cannon-range, were left to them and it was only in those years that European jurists began to define territorial waters according to this distance. There is also a hüccet issued by a kadi in 1701 where Ottoman and Venetian officials agreed about the freedom of navigation between the mainland and the island of Aya Mavra. A temessük issued on the same occasion by the Ottoman official in change of the border, Osman ağa, refers to a partition of waters in the gulf near Lepanto.30 In May 1709 the kapudan paşa ordered the reises of public ships and the levends of Algiers to respect three Venetian ships, in accordance with the bailo’s request. This document is a kind of passport and the kapudan paşa stated that it was valid ‘when these ships arrive at the limits (hudud ) of our waters’.31 After Passarowitz, the sultan himself established a kind of sea border, in response to Venetian requests. The document was issued at the beginning of March 1720. The sultan ordered the beylerbeyis of Tunis, Tripoli and Algiers to respect Venetian ships in the Adriatic, the Aegean and in a zone of thirty miles from the Ottoman coast, from Rhodes as far as Alexandria. This order was not completely fulfilled and it was sent to Tunis again in 1726, 1733 and 1734; in these years, especially when the levends of Tunis plundered Christian ships, letters of the same kind were written also by the kapudan paşa and the grand vizier.32 The most important document on this subject was perhaps an imperial order issued at the beginning of the war between France and England (1742-8), a war which was fought also on the seas of the Levant. On this occasion the sultan quoted the old line established in 1720 to protect Venetian ships from the attacks of pirates and levends, but since it was no longer of use, a new line had to be established; it had to unite the Morea with the coast of North Africa opposite and warships could not cross it, either along the coasts or on the high sea. If a Christian warship (not a merchant ship) crossed it, the Ottoman fleet was obliged to attack it and to take its crew captive.33 If, until that moment, the Mediterranean had been a frontier, with this document a new sea-border was created. If the Mediterranean had been a Mare Nostrum in the period of ancient Rome, which had ruled over all its coasts, now the eastern Mediterranean was changed into an Ottoman Mare Nostrum, according to the logic for which the wars of Cyprus and Crete had been fought. This new order collapsed some years later, during the war of 176874, when the Russian fleet entered the Mediterranean.34 The Ottomans tried to resist35 but everything had changed, since the Russians had come not to trade, as the Venetians, or to engage in

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privateering, as the North African levends or the knights of Malta, but to change borders. Who Actually Won the Battle of Lepanto? Ebussuud’s fetva allowed Selim II to begin the war against Venice while Sokollu Mehmed Pasha tried to avoid it: he maintained contacts with the Venetian bailo, tried to take the island without fighting and sent the çavuş Kubad to request it from the doge. His hope was disappointed and he was compelled to fight but, at the same time, he began another struggle with his political enemies, belonging to the party which wanted the war, as the Venetian secretary Alvise Buonrizzo had already pointed out in 1570, when considering how the grand vizier had got rid of his enemies on other occasions.36 It is clear that Sokollu used the Cyprus war to destroy his enemies and to secure his position. The only person of the war party who did not loose either his life or his position in those years was the şeyhülislam Ebussuud. The others disappeared from the political scene, at least for some years. Lala Mustafa Pasha, the conqueror of Famagusta, was charged with negligence for having lost too many men during the siege and he had to stand aside until 1577. In the same way the other captain who had a share in the conquest, Piyale Pasha, was charged with having lost some ships in the waters near Cyprus and was compelled to resign. The kapudan paşa Müezzinzade Ali Pasha was killed during the battle of Lepanto, while the serdar, Pertev Pasha, fled from that battlefield and was dismissed (mazul ) from his post. He saved his life by means of his wife, who was connected to the harem party, but he died just one year after the day of the famous sıngın donanma.37 During the years of the Cyprus war, among the sultan’s most powerful servants, Sokollu alone maintained his position. He used the conquest of the island to remove Lala Mustafa Pasha and Piyale Pasha and, perhaps, he also had a hand in the Ottoman defeat at Lepanto for a similar purpose. At the beginning of the campaign the imperial fleet received the command to find and to fight the Christian fleet. Not one but two leaders were sent to command the sultan’s ships, neither of whom was an experienced mariner. Even if some historians reject this hypothesis, considering behaviour of this kind too Machiavellian, others think it was possible. The Venetian bailo’s secretary, Alvise Buonrizzo, who knew Sokollu Mehmed Pasha personally, seems to consider him to have been a politician who might have behaved in this way if it was necessary.38 If so, Lepanto has to be considered a monument, not only to Christian

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bravery, but also to this Ottoman grand vizier’s political shrewdness: he lost a battle, but he won the war and destroyed his enemies.

Notes 1 Archivio di Stato di Venezia (hereafter ASVe), Documenti turchi, b. 6, No. 808 (first part of ramazan 977); in M.P. Pedani Fabris (ed.), I ‘Documenti Turchi’ dell’Archivio di Stato di Venezia (Roma, 1994), 201-2, No. 808; cf. also 202-3, No. 810, on the same date; the letter of the grand vizier Sokollu Mehmed Pasha to the Venetian Signoria on the same subject. 2 Selânikî Mustafa Efendi, Tarih-i Selânikî, prep. M. İpşirli (Istanbul, 1989), vol. I, 77-9. 3 G. Veinstein, ‘Sokollu Mehmed Paşa’, in The Encyclopaedia of Islam (hereafter EI), (Leiden, 1972-), IX, 706-11; J.H. Kramers, ‘Mustafā Paşa, Lala’, EI, V, 640; F. Babinger, ‘Piyāle Paşa’, EI, VIII, 316-317; F. Babinger, ‘Pertew Paşa’, EI, VIII, 295-6; R.C. Repp, ‘Shaykh al-Islām’, EI, IX, 399-402; R. Dündar, ‘Conquest of Cyprus’, in H.C. Güzel, C.C. Oğuz, and O. Karatay (eds.), The Turks (Ankara, 2002), III, 332-43. 4 Ibn Khaldûn, The Muqaddimah. An Introduction to History, trans. F. Rosenthal (New York, 1958), I, 98-9. 5 F. Braudel, Civiltà e imperi del Mediterraneo nell’età di Filippo II (Torino, 1982), I, 102. 6 It is possible that they derived this idea from the Venetians. H. İnalcık, The Ottoman State: Economy and Society, 1300-1600, in H. İnalcık, D. Quataert (eds), An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, 1300-1914. (Cambridge, 1994), 9410; 192. 7 M.P. Pedani, Gli Ottomani e il Mediterraneo: considerazioni di geo-politica in età moderna in Meditando sull’evento di Lepanto. Odierne interpretazioni e memorie (Venezia, 2002), 110. 8 C. Imber, ‘The Navy of Süleyman the Magnificent’, Archivum Ottomanicum, 6 (1980), 221-82. 9 D. Panzac, Commerce et navigation dans l’Empire Ottoman au XVIIIe siècle (Istanbul, 1996), 195-216. 10 S. Faroqhi, ‘Crisis and Change, 1590-1699’, in An Economic and Social History cit., 411-636; 487-9; 507-9. 11 İnalcık, Part I. The Ottoman State, 327-31; R. Fulin, ‘Il Canale di Suez e la Repubblica di Venezia (MDIV)’, Archivio Veneto, 2 (1871), 175-213. 12 Peçevî İbrahim Efendi, Peçevî Tarihi, prep. B.S. Baykal (Ankara, 1999), vol. I, 469-70. These prisoners are also mentioned by Paruta but he said only that they existed; cf. P. Paruta, Dell’historia vinetiana della guerra di Cipro (Venezia, 1573), 125. 13 U. Tucci, L’alimentazione a bordo, in Storia di Venezia, XII, Il mare, A. Tenenti and U. Tucci (eds.) (Roma, 1991), 599-618. 14 About the Ottoman fleet, see İ. Bostan, Osmanlı bahriye teşkilâtı: XVII. yüzyıda tersâne-i âmire (Ankara, 1992); İ. Bostan, ‘Garp ocaklarının Avrupa ülkeleri ile siyasi ve ekonomik ilişkileri (1580-1624)’, Tarih Enstitüsü Dergisi, 14 (1994), 59-86; about the Ottoman fleet as seen by Venetians, see E. Alberi (ed.), Le relazioni degli ambasciatori veneti al Senato, III/1 (Firenze, 1840), 271-98; 280; 291-5; ‘Relazioni di ambasciatori veneti al Senato, XIV’, M.P. Pedani-Fabris (ed.), Costantinopoli. Relazioni inedite (1512-1789) (Padova, 1996), 197-8; 429-31; 665. 15 Kâtip Çelebi, Tuhfetü’l-kibar fi esfari’l-bihar, prep. O.Ş. Gökyay (Istanbul, 1980), Vol. I, 903.

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R. Murphey, Ottoman Warfare. 1500-1700 (London, 1999), 14. Fetva quoted in Peçevî, Peçevî Tarihi, 466-7. 18 M.P. Pedani, La dimora della pace. Considerazioni sulle capitolazioni tra i paesi islamici e l’Europa (Venezia, 1996), 36; Relazioni degli ambasciatori veneti al Senato, 145-6. 19 M.P. Pedani, ‘Le prime “sottoscrizioni a coda” dei tesorieri nell’imperio ottomano’, Quaderni di Studi Arabi, 8 (1990), 215-28. 20 B. Arbel, Roots of Poverty and Sources of Richness in Cyprus under Venetian Rule, in X.A. Maltezou (ed.), Plousioi kai Ftoxoi sten koinonia tes Ellenolatinikes anatoles, (Venetia 1998), 351-60; B. Arbel, ‘Cypriot Population under Venetian Rule: a Demographic Study’, Meletai kai upomnemata, 1 (1984), 181-215; B. Arbel, ‘Entre mythe et histoire: La légende noire de la domination vénitienne à Cypre’, Etudes balkaniques, 5 (1998), 81-107. 21 A.C. Hess, The Forgotten Frontier. A History of the Sixteenth-Century Ibero-African Frontier (Chicago and London, 1978), 74-87. 22 When he was beylerbeyi of Algers he was master of Miguel de Cervantes who portrays him in Don Qixote. A. Fabris, Hasan ‘“Il Veneziano” tra Algeri e Costantinopoli, in Veneziani in Levante. Musulmani a Venezia’, Quaderni di Studi Arabi, 15 suppl. (1997), 51-66. 23 A. Tenenti, Venezia e i corsari (Bari, 1960); S. Bono, I corsari barbareschi (Torino, 1964); S. Anselmi (ed.), Piratei e corsari in Adriatico (Cinisello Balsamo [Mi], 1998); E. Giannetti and L. Tosi (eds.), Turchi e barbareschi in Adriatico (Ortona, 1998). Cf. for instance ASVe, Bailo a Costantinopoli, b. 251, reg. 334, cc. 122a-121b; Istanbul, Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (hereafter BOA), Maliyeden Müdevver Defterler, reg. 6004, cc. 109-10. 24 ASVe, Bailo a Costantinopoli, b. 250, reg. 330, cc. 98 (beginning of şevval 999/23 July-1 Aug. 1591), 136; b. 252, reg. 343, cc. 14 (beginning of ramazan 1001/1-10 June 1593), 33 (end of zilhicce 1001/18-26 Sep. 1593), 57 (middle of muharrem 1003/26 Sep.-5 Oct. 1594), 62 (beginning of zilkade 1003/8-17 July 1595), 66 (beginning of receb 1005/18-27 Feb. 1597), 87-9 (without date); b. 250, reg. 331, cc. 14 (middle of receb 1013/3-12 Dec. 1604), 22 (beginning of şevval 1013/20 Feb.-1 Mar. 1605), 22-3 (end of şevval 1013/12-20 Mar. 1605), 57 (middle of cemaziyülevvel 1014/24 Sep.-3 Oct. 1605), 58 (middle of cemaziyülevvel 1014/4 Sep.-3 Oct. 1605), 59 (end of cemaziyülevvel 1014/4-13 Oct. 1605), 60 (beginning of cemaziyülahır 1014/14-23 Oct. 1605), 79 (end of şevval 1015/19-27 Feb. 1607), 85-6 (beginning of zilkade 1015/28 Feb.-9 Mar. 1607); cc. (from the other side of the same register), 28 (middle of cemaziyülahır 1021/10-19 July 1612), 29 (middle of rebiyülahır 1021/11-20 June 1612), 38 (zilkade 1021/24 Dec. 1612-22 Jan. 1613), 42 (middle of muharrem 1022/3-12 Mar. 1613), 47 (middle of muharrem 1022/3-12 Mar. 1613), 64-8 (middle of cemaziyülevvel 1022/29 June-8 July 1613); cf. also the following registers of the same series. 25 ASVe, Bailo a Costantinopoli, b. 255, reg. 351, c. 1 (letter of the Venetian bailo, 27 Nov. 1723); c. 2 (order of the great vizier); 6-7 (name-i hümayun, first part of rebiyülevvel 1136/29 Nov.-8 Dec. 1723); b. 256, reg. 353, c. 11 (10 Feb. 1727); cc. 12-13 (name-i hümayun, end of cemaziyülahır 1139/24 Jan.-2 Feb. 1727); b. 258, reg. 359, passim (1739-42); b. 259, reg. 361, cc. 47-8 (name-i hümayun, first part of muharrem 1160/13-22 Jan. 1747); reg. 362, passim (1746-8). 26 M.P. Pedani, Dalla frontiera al confine (Roma, 2002), 75-91, 103-4; Fabris, ‘The Ottoman Venetian Frontier’, in The Great Ottoman-Turkish Civilization, 171-7. 27 Khalilieh, Islamic Maritime Law. An Introduction (Leiden, Boston, and Köln, 1998), 133-48; D. Santillana, Istituzioni di diritto musulmano malichita con riguardo anche al sistema sciafiita, 2 Vols., (Roma, 1926-38), I, 318-9. 28 N. Vatin, L’ordre de Saint-Jean-de-Jérusalem, L’Empire ottoman et la Méditerranée orientale entre les deux sièges de Rhodes. 1480-1522 (Paris, 1994), 115-29. 16 17

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BOA, Ecnebi defterleri, 16.4, cc. 11-17. Documenti turchi, nn. 1615-17. 31 ASVe, Bailo a Costantinopoli, b. 253, reg. 346, cc. without number (1121/1709); b. 332, reg. 250, c. 91 (middle of rebiyülahır 1023); A.C. Hess, ‘The Forgotten Frontier: the Ottoman North African Provinces during the Eighteenth Century’, in T. Naff and R. Owen(eds.), Studies in Eighteenth Century Islamic History (Carbondale and Edwardsville, 1977), 74-87. 32 BOA, Mühimme Defteri, 129, cc. 207-8; ASVe, Bailo a Costantinopoli, b. 254, reg. 348, cc. 183-6 e 206-7, letter of the kapudan paşa Süleyman. Cf. also ASVe, Bailo a Costantinopoli, b. 254, reg. 349, cc. 89-91 (letter from Algeri), 100-2 (letter from Tripoli, first part of rebiyülevvel 1133/30 Jan.-8 Feb. 1721); b. 256, reg. 353, s.n., şaban 1140/13 Mar.-11 Apr. 1728; b. 257, reg. 356, cc. 30-32; b. 258, reg. 359, c. 158 (1153/1740-1); reg. 360, cc. 38-38v (i’lâm del kadı di Corinto, first part of receb 1157/10-19 Aug. 1744). M.P. Pedani, ‘Spunti per una ricerca sui confini del mare: gli Ottomani nel Mediterraneo’, Iacobus, 11-12 (2001), 221-39. 33 ASVe, Bailo a Costantinopoli, b. 258, reg. 360, cc. 1-2; Pedani, ‘Dalla frontiera al confine’, 89-90. 34 Hess, The Forgotten Frontier. A History, 371-3. 35 They also asked Venetians not to give the Russian ships from the Baltic free access to the Adriatic sea through some Italian river. There was somebody in the Ottoman court who did not know geography very well. B. Lewis, Europa barbara e infedele. I musulmani alla scoperta dell’Europa (Milano, 1983), 150. 36 ‘Relazioni di ambasciatori veneti’, 156-7: ‘La Serenità Vostra ha inteso che questa impresa de Cipro è proposta et ha da esser trattata principalmente da Mustaffà bassà, la grandezza del quale non può ragionevolmente piacer a niun modo al magnifico Memet, il quale potrebbe dubitar d’esser descavalcato dal grado principale da detto Mustaffà se appresso il molto amor che ’l Signor li porta li riuscisse anco felicemente una tal impresa, ch’è tanto a cuore a Sua Maestà; et però si deve creder che esso Memet procurerà con destrezza che detta impresa riuscisse vana per non aggrandir maggiormente il suo principal nemico, massime non la sentendo lui come ho già detto. La qual cosa non deve parer impossibile da rendere, poiché Vostra Serenità sa che appresso quei ministri dove si tratta di un loro minimo interesse non si ha alcuna consideratione al servitio del suo Signor, et per non andar cercando li essempii molto lontano la Serenità Vostra deve haver a memoria quello che è successo già dui anni fra li medesimi Memet e Mustaffà bassà, che esso Memet andò così lento in far le provisioni per la guerra del Gemen [Yemen], che causò li danni a Turchi che si sono intesi; et questo fece acciò che il predetto Mustaffà, che haveva il carico di quell’impresa, ne restasse con vergogna, perché esso magnifico Memet procurò poi col Signor di farli tagliar la testa, et per tal effetto mandò anco il chiausbassì, con altri chiaussi, se ben detto Mustaffà seppe così ben diffendersi che non solamente non hebbe danno, ma anzi ritornò in maggior consideratione che mai apresso il Signor, il che è un acutissimo spin negli occhi del magnifico Memet’. 37 Pertev’s wife was the widow of Mehmed, Sultan Selim II’s brother. She died at the end of February 1572. In June of the same year four reises who fled from Lepanto were hanged and twenty others were demoted. ASVe, Senato, Dispacci Costantinopoli, f. 5 (27 Feb. 1572, 13 Jun. 1572). 38 M. Lesure, Lépante, la crise de l’empire ottoman (Paris, 1972), 64; İ.H. Danışmend, İzahlı Osmanlı tarihi kronolojisi (Istanbul, 1948), Vol. II, 388-420; İ. Bostan, ‘Kıbrıs seferi günlüğü ve Osmanlı donanmasının sefer guzergâhı’, in Dünden Bugüne Kıbrıs Meselesi (Istanbul, 2001), 11-38; H. İnalcık, ‘Lepanto in the Ottoman Documents’, in Il Mediterraneo nella seconda metà del ’500 alla luce di Lepanto (Firenze, 1974), 185-92; R. Mantran, ‘L’écho de la bataille de Lépante à Constantinople’, in Il Mediterraneo, 29 30

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243-56; A.C. Hess, ‘The Battle of Lepanto and its Place in Mediterranean History’, Past and Present, 57 (1972), 53-73; Ö.L. Barkan, ‘L’Empire Ottoman face au monde chrétien au lendemain de Lépante’, in Il Mediterraneo, 95-108.

Ottoman Accounts of the Hungarian Movements against the Habsburgs at the Turn of the Seventeenth and the Eighteenth Centuries Sándor Papp

In the second half of the seventeenth century, as a consequence of the absolutist ambitions of the Habsburg Empire and the counterreformation, the Hungarian Estates were hostile to the Viennese Court.1 There were five movements between the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth centuries, which, ranging from plots and uprisings to wars of independence, were directed against the Habsburg House. These movements have a common character: they were trying gradually to make contacts with the Ottoman Empire. The Wesselényi Movement The first case was the plot of the Hungarian magnates, among whom the most important was the Palatine,2 Ferenc Wesselényi. After the victory of the Habsburg Army in 1664 at Szentgotthárd (Vas county in Hungary) came the Peace of Vasvár.3 The Hungarian nobility expected the Viennese Court to claim two fortresses, Várad4 and Érsekújvár5 which fell in 1660 and in 1663 respectively, and were converted into seats of two vilâyets by the Ottomans. However, the treaty was based on the status quo. The clauses of the peace-treaty were composed in a charter (‘ahdnâme) by Grand Vizier Köprülü Fazıl Ahmed on behalf of Sultan Mehmed IV in the camp at Érsekújvár between 22 September and 1 October 1664 (1-10 Rebi’ü levvel 1075 A.H.). The Hungarians protested against the 4th, 5th, and the 9th clauses, according to which the successors of the princes of Transylvania supported by the Habsburgs were excluded from power and banished from Transylvania. The Treaty also forbade both parties to accept refugees from the other side.6 The movement of Palatine Wesselényi was mentioned in Sarı Mehmed Pasha’s chronicle under the year 1092 A.H. (1681).7 The Ottoman chronicles mixed up the plot of Palatine Wesselényi and the subsequent insurrection, and the execution of Ferenc Nádasdy,

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Péter Zrínyi and Ferenc Frangepán. Another chronicler, Silahdâr started the account of this epoch with a religious classification of Hungarian society. According to his opinion, the Hungarian nation was split into two parts: an idolator (putperest) and a non-idolator (puta tapmaz). The editor of this chronicle, Ahmed Refik reminded the Turkish reader in a foot-note that the first category meant the Catholics and the second one the Protestants.8 Unfortunately, this simplification got into the Turkish historical literature and it is a still existing misconception for Turkish historians that the Hungarian opposition consisted only of Protestants.9 The program of the Ottoman alliance (or subordination) was made public by a document of Palatine Ferenc Wesselényi, on 27 August 1666, which was also an instruction for a Transylvanian envoy travelling to the Ottoman Porte. It was the first attempt of the Hungarian side to submit a draft of a treaty (‘ahdnâme) to the dignitaries of the Ottoman Porte. The most important issue in it was that the Hungarians agreed to pay a yearly tribute and accept the terms of vassalage. The tribute was as much as hundred thousand thalers. However, Palatine Wesselényi laid down several conditions. One of the paragraphs stated that Hungary was ready to pay taxes if its wishes were accepted. Palatine Wesselényi stipulated a tax of maximum one hundred thousand thalers and that the amount of the tax would be reduced in accordance with conditions the court of the sultan was willing to offer. The taxes from the part of Hungary under Ottoman rule which had been defined earlier were not to change and the Ottomans were not to interfere in the possessions of the nobility or carrying of arms and migration. If you read the draft carefully it is clear that this freedom of migration was basically supported by nobles who had their estates on the borderline with the territory under Ottoman rule and they wanted to secure their position. They also demanded that in return for paying the tax the Porte should not interfere with the country’s internal affairs and it should not encroach upon the liberties and the customs of the people. In addition, the Porte was to refrain from obstructing the election of its king and from forcing the country to make war without its consent. The Hungarians wished to call the payment not a tax or tribute but a ‘present’ as was customary in the Ottoman– Habsburgs relations. Customarily, the sum of thirty thousand Hungarian gold Forints paid to the Porte annually in the sixteenth century was called ‘Ehrengeschenk’.10 In the draft-contract Wesselényi requested that the sultan should be called the ‘patron’ of Hungary and not its lord.11 The entreaty of the Hungarian lords was sent to the Grand Vizier Köprülü Fazıl Ahmed, who was busy besieging Kandia, and refused by him, because of the peace-treaty with the Habsburg Empire.12

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The Péter Zrínyi Movement Later, the Ban13 of Croatia, Péter Zrínyi was in charge of HungarianOttoman relations. Unfortunately, we only have records of the interrogation, which were made after the movement had been suppressed and the participants were put in prison.14 It may be important to find original Ottoman documents about the movement, because it is apparent from the material, available that Péter Zrínyi was preparing his inaguration as king to the Hungarian throne by the sultan. The historical sources mention a hatt-i šerîf (it can be similar to a berât-i šerîf ) and a flag (sancak), which according to the Ottoman inaguration process are two insignia, symbolizing a vassal ruler. This theory can be confirmed by Ottoman narrative sources to the effect that Péter Zrínyi would have been helped by Köprülü Fazıl Ahmed, if he had not been busy in the war of Kandia.15 A short draft ‘ahdnâme proves this theory as well, which was sent to the Sublime Porte 1670 probably by the envoy of Péter Zrínyi and the conditions in the draft disclosed to the Turkish interpreter of Transylvania, Dávid Rozsnyai by a trusted man of the grand vizier.16 Probably, the same conclusion about Péter Zrínyi’s diplomatic relation can be drawn from an ‘ahdnâme of the ‘King of the Kurucs’, Imre Thököly.17 The Imre Thököly Movement The next period to be examined is the period of Kuruc18 attacks, it is the period of the insurrection led by Imre Thököly at the 70’s and 80’s in the seventeenth century. Then many people fled to Transylvania because several Hungarian aristocrats—rebels—were executed and their property was confiscated and because of the abuse of the Habsburg troops. These refugees soon started an armed uprising against Habsburg rule. Armed fights all over the country began only then. The Porte recognised the Kuruc king in the summer of 1682, who was at the zenith of his power, as the prince of Central Hungary in a letter of appointment by the sultan (berât-i hümâyun)19 and in a letter of contract consisting of 14 paragraphs (‘ahdnâme-i hümâyun).20 The first subject treated in the ‘ahdnâme was legitimacy of power, i.e. who would inherit the power in case Thököly should die. Thököly, who ‘was working hard for the interest of my empire and who was always sincerely faithful to it’ was under the protection of the sultan. The document emphasises that the Kuruc king is related to the family of Gábor Bethlen, who occupied and annexed important territories to Transylvania in the first third of the seventeenth century with with Ottoman backing.

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We learn from the document that the sultan took the same measures in case of the king of Central Hungary as in the case of Transylvania when recognising the prince. He declared Thököly ‘according to the kind elections and prayers of the people in Central Hungary’ the king of Central Hungary. When Thököly dies ‘the successor should be elected by the Hungarian nation and his name should be reported to my Sublime Porte. But no papists21 should be proposed for the Hungarian throne. If someone becomes a papist, but nevertheless he applies for this position he should be hindered by my empire and not allowed to become a king’. The quotation above partly regulates succession. It is highly interesting that the Ottomans declared their opposition to Catholics (papists). In relation to this paragraph I would like to call attention to two important elements. First, as we could see from narrative sources, the Ottoman chronicles say that the only reason for anti-Habsburg movements in Hungary is the conflict of religions which is in accordance with our quotation. Secondly, the fact that the Hungarian word ‘pápista’ is used in the original Turkish text instead of the word Catholic shows that the document in question relies on a Hungarian document. In my present study I wish only to refer to the fact that every Hungarian movement beginning with the Wesselényi movement wished to subjugate the rest of Hungary to the sultan in return for military support against the Habsburg Empire. The conditions of submission were organised in paragraphs and they were handed in to the Porte as a draft ‘ahdnâme. I believe that the document in question was made the following way. At first they translated the Hungarian sentences of the draft into Turkish where it was possible. If there was no adequate terminology in Turkish, they used the Hungarian word written in Arabic letters. There is another example of it in the third paragraph of the ‘ahdnâme, where it says: ‘the religious ceremonies (âyîn), customs (‘âdet) and the rights in Hungary and Croatia as part of Hungary should be respected. Accordingly, the ceremonies of the Calvinist22 and Lutheran23 religions must not be disturbed...’. It is noteworthy that the writer of the Turkish text was not acquainted with the real facts as the overwhelming majority of Croatians were Catholics. The abovementioned opinion is proved by the existence of a draft ‘ahdnâme (conditione; athname) from the year of 1681, which survived in the collection of a famoust Jesuit-scholar, Gábor Hevennesy. The content of the Latin version is 90% identical with the well-known Turkish text.24 By economic relations between Hungary and the Ottoman Empire they meant only tax paying and commerce. The sultan allowed the merchants of Central Hungary to trade freely. The annual tax was forty thousand kara (black) guruş which was the equivalent of the silver (imperial) thaler. The permanent Hungarian

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envoy at the Porte and the envoy extraordinary, whose task was to deliver the tribute from Hungary, were supported by the Porte. The same practice was applied in Transylvania. The anti-Catholic character of the document is evident. There is an extra paragraph about the Order of Jesuits. The last paragraph is about the relations between the Ottoman Empire and the new Hungarian state. It says that Ottoman troops must not disturb the Hungarian population. The castles, palisades (palanka) occupied by the Ottoman army must be handed over to the Hungarians so that they can reconstruct the ruined territories. Hungarian matters must be included in the peace treaty between the Ottomans and the Habsburgs. The Ottoman Empire must protect the Hungarians in the future. Clause 9 refers to parts of the agreement signed in 1664 by the Habsburgs and the Ottomans, the so-called Peace of Vasvár, which concerns Hungarians: ‘The paragraphs of the treaty in 1075 signed between us and the Habsburgs, which were made in the interest of Central Hungary in the frame of a letter of contract (‘ahdnâme-i hümâyun) must be respected. According to the conditions of the above treaty Hungarians must have the right to keep their villages, communities, the government of the country and other affairs as they used to’. The sultan confirmed the treaty with his oath as was customary. The Ferenc Rákóczi II Movement The next movement to be examined is the War of Independence under the leadership of Ferenc Rákóczi II. Ottoman chroniclers hardly ever mention his name when they speak about the War of Independence in 1703-11. Râšid was well acquinted with the fact that the fight started near the border between Hungary and Poland. He writes that Ferenc Rákóczi had an army of sixty thousand people. He gives an interesting fact: five hundred soldiers were sent to support Rákóczi both from the town of Belgrade and Temesvár.25 There is no evidence of it in Hungarian documents, but a nearly identical description can be found in the chronicle of Sarı Mehmed Pasha.26 Prince Ferenc Rákóczi II had decided to establish contacts in the same way as his forefather had with the French King Luis XIV. However, the great king supported the Hungarians since the first days of the revolt, because the Hungarian rebels made the position of the French army easier in the War of the Spanish Succession. At the same time the French king did not make an official alliance with the rebels, who revolted against their ‘anointed king’. Also, the Sublime Porte was considered as a most important ally. The Hungarian and Ottoman relations were necessary, because Hungary in revolt could obtain war material, provisions and cloth only from

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the Ottoman Empire. The ‘Kuruc State’ started a great diplomatic manoeuvre in 1704 to find a foreign supporter. Prince Rákóczi wanted to get involved in the conflict between Sweden and Russia, namely he wanted to turn the Ottoman State against the tsar, Peter the Great. He sent his envoy Pál Ráday to the Swedish King Carl XII and offered to help with arbitration between the Swedish king and the Ottoman Porte. The Swedish king did not want to have an official agreement with the Ottomans, but it would have been useful for him, if the sultan had gone against the tsar, too.27 It was enough for Prince Rákóczi to have an acquiescence of the Swedish king and he sent his envoy, János Pápay to the Sublime Porte. His instruction survives in Hungarian. The envoy has to inform the grand vizier in an audience about the election of Rákóczi as prince both in Hungary and Transylvania. He was to talk about the plan of his prince to wage a war against Russia and ask for eight thousand Albanian (Arnot) infantry and four thousand Ottoman cavalry, but the Porte should not send all of its army, because that might prompt the European states to intervene on the side of the Habsburg Empire. If the abovementioned conditions were accepted by the Porte he had to ask for such a contract (‘ahdnâme), in which Rákóczi, Hungary and Transylvania would be taken under protection by the sultan. If the Hungarians elected a new king, he would be protected by the Ottoman Porte too. Moreover, the border between the Ottoman Empire and Hungary, which was fixed by the Peace of Karlowitz (1699) would not be changed. If Hungary was attacked, the Ottoman sultan would give military support. If the above mentioned conditions of ‘ahdnâme were accepted by the sultan, Rákóczi would give a yearly tribute of thirty thousand thalers for Transylvania and forty thousand thalers for Hungary. The reasoning by which the Hungarian prince wanted to provoke the Ottomans against the Russians was very interesting. As the dependents of the Ottomans in the Balkans, the Greeks, Serbs, Albanians, Bulgarians, Moldavians, Wallachians alike were all Ortodox-Christians the same as the Russians. It would be possible that they might side with the Russians if the Russians were to attack the Ottomans. Keeping out of harm’s way it would be better to fling back the enemy from the northern borders of the Ottoman Empire.28 On reflection, we have to admit that the above mentioned reasoning was valid. For example, the Moldavian Voivode Dimitrie Cantemir, who was raised and educated in Istanbul, crossed to the side of the tsar in the battle on the Prut in 1711.29 The negotiations between the Hungarians and the Ottomans in Istanbul finished without success. One could continuously follow the diplomatic efforts of the Sublime Porte and Prince Rákóczi from the

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documents of the permanent Hungarian legation. It could already be seen by the summer of 1706 that the Ottoman Porte was reacting to the Hungarian proposal very slowly. When the Porte postponed the official answer for many years, the Russian Tsar Peter the Great offered the Hungarian prince the throne of the Polish King, Sanislo Leszczyński (1707).30 In the last years of the Hungarian War of Independence there was a possibility to make an agreement with the Ottoman Porte twice, through the beylerbeyi of Belgrade. In both cases the former conditions were repeated, so these efforts were unsuccessful as well.31 A much more detailed description can be found about an event which is considered to be only an episode in Hungarian history. After long years of exile Ferenc Rákóczi II received an invitation from the Porte. In Ottoman sources and in the special literature by Turkish specialists based on such primary sources it is stated that it was Ferenc Rákóczi II who took the initiative to enter into relations. He sent his confidential secretary János Pápay as his envoy to Wallachia who arrived at the Porte with the help of the Voivode of Wallachia ‘İskerletzâde Nikola’ (Nikolae Mavrocordat). Then the grand vizier sent one of his ağas, Lipveli Ahmed together with Pápay to the Prince who was then in France. Râšid in his chronicle quotes from the letter sent to Rákóczi: ‘We present you the kingdom of Transylvania and Hungary—like my noble forefathers used to present it to your forefather and to your father—which are parts of our well-defended empire and which have been occupied by the Habsburgs for a short time’ (dated the 2nd decade of Rebiyülâhir 1128/3-13 April 1716).32 As opposed to Râšid, Uzunçarşılı writes that it was Küçük Bahri Ağa who escorted János Pápay, Rákóczi’s diplomat at the Porte back to the Prince. His rank was more important in this case than his person; he was a kapucıbaşı. People in this rank used to be the representatives of the Porte when the Prince of Transylvania was inaugurated and they used to deliver the sultan’s letters of confirmation. Fortunately we know the Turkish copies of documents issued by the sultan and the grand vizier in those times. The most important data concerning my topic are that the above mentioned letter of the sultan sent to Rákóczi is nothing other than the document which installed him as Prince of Transylvania: ‘As you have spared no effort to defend and guard the country of Transylvania—our inherited possession—like your glorious forefathers who used to be the Princes of Transylvania and as you have met our lordly requirements of friendship we present you the principality of Transylvania’.33

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To close this study I would like to refer to the successful negotiations of the last Hungarian pretender, the son of Ferenc Rákóczi, József Rákóczi and the contents of his contract (‘ahdnâme) given to him by the sultan. It is well-known that the Prince Ferenc Rákóczi died on 8 April 1735 in Tekirdağ. Then the Habsburg and the Ottoman Empires waged war against each other again. The grand vizier wanted to start a Hungarian uprising supported by the Ottomans behind the Habsburg borders. In March 1737 József Rákóczi arrived at Tekirdağ, from whence he handed his memorandum to the Sublime Porte on 8 September.34 The timing of presenting the memorandum was carefully chosen as this period saw the worsening of relations between the two great empires. József Rákóczi achieved what his father could not years previously during the War of Independence. The Porte recognized him as Hungarian and Transylvanian Prince with all solemnity and a sultan’s ‘ahdnâme was issued and handed over to him. The ratification of this ‘ahdnâme in Latin preserved in Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Arşivi presents the circumstances of its issue. At first, according to the interposition of the Grand Vizier Yegen Mehmed Pasha an application (telhîs) was handed to the sultan, which was based on the abovementioned memorandum. Then the Sultan’s order was issued to make conditions acceptable for the Hungarians. Subsequently, a draft ‘ahdnâme was handed to the sultan, who accepted it and issued an ‘ahdnâme-i hümayun.35 The text of the contract was handed over to József Rákóczi, who compiled his agreement with the help of his men on 20 January 1738.36 The conditions of the ‘ahdnâme are as follows: 1. According to the old diplomatic traditions the rulers of Transylvania were confirmed by the Ottoman sultan after the free election of the estates. The former rulers’ family, the Bethlens and Apafis soon died off, but József Rákóczi, who descended from the old ruler family of Rákóczis is living at present. Therefore, he is confirmed as a Transylvanian governor (Erdel hâkimi) and as a Hungarian prince (Macaristan dukası). 2. Rulers, who have not been elected by the Hungarian nation, are not accepted by the sultan. 3. The reoccupied territories will be divided between the Hungarians and the Ottomans. The borders between the mentioned states will be fixed by the embassies of neutral states, which are accredited to Istanbul. 4. The Hungarian population should have the benefit of the freedom of religion; the destroyed churches should be rebuilt.

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5. Hungary should be friend of the friends and enemy of the enemies of the Ottoman Porte. Transylvania should keep twenty thousand soldiers inside the country and ten thousand outside of his border and Hungary should keep hundred thousand soldiers inside the country and thirty thousand ones outside of his border. In case of need, the Sublime Porte promised to send an army of eighty thousand soldiers. 6. After the proclamation of the prince, if somebody does not take the side of Rákóczi and the Ottomans, this person will be considered an enemy. 7. Until the liberation of Hungary and Transylvania, the Hungarian refugees, who arrived to support the Hungarian princes, will be accepted by the Porte. 8. Because the Ottoman sultan is a protector of Hungary and Transylvania both countries should give a present (yearly tribute) to the Sublime Porte. 9. Between the two sides a trade agreement should be made and Hungarian consulates should be opened in the Ottoman Empire and an embassy will be established in Istanbul with three diplomats by the Hungarians and all of this will be supported by the Porte. 10. After finishing the war new conditions should be included in a renewed contract. 11. If the effort is not crowned with success, the Hungarian refugees should stay in Tekirdağ under the same circumstances, as in the times of the former Prince Ferenc Rákóczi. If they want to leave the Ottoman Empire and move to another Christian country, it will be allowed by the sultan. The ‘ahdnâme was concluded with the oath of the sultan, and the ratificationdocument of the Hungarian with the oath of József Rákóczi. In the ceremonious audience of the grand vizier the documents of the contract were exchange on 25 January 1738 in Istanbul. Two days later Rákóczi published his manifest for the Christian European rulers explaining his contract with the sultan and the circumstances of the war against the Habsburg Empire.37 After the diplomatic arrangements he left Istanbul with his small army and made his way towards Vidin to participate in the liberation of his own country.38 His efforts were not crowned with success; he died on 10 November 1738 from plague.39 To sum up, it can be proved that for a part of the Hungarian Estates it was imaginable to break away from the Habsburg House, which based its rule on absolutism, and to accept the sultan’s supremacy. We have examined five Hungarian movements from 1666 to 1738. During these movements the Hungarian Estates

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offered to accept the sultan’s supremacy, if he guaranteed Hungarian autonomy and the rights of nobility. In exchange the Hungarians were willing to pay a tribute called ‘present’. Out of five efforts, two were successful with contracts between Hungarians and Ottomans. The Hungarians handed in a complete draft of ‘ahdnâme in all of the above mentioned cases. They were accepted by the Ottoman Porte with slight modifications. It can be seen that the proposals of the two Rákóczis submitted to the sultan had something in common. The conditions of the contracts were constructed always according to the political conditions of that time. Both ‘ahdnâmes from the years 1682 and 1738 contain conditions on the freedom of worship and the rebuilding of destroyed churches, but the ‘ahdnâme from the year 1682 has an anti-Catholic overtone. It is very important that both ‘ahdnâmes included a condition about a trade agreement, which would be realized after the peace treaty. By accepting to pay tribute the Estates of Hungary and Transylvania acknowledged Ottoman supremacy. It was well-known for the Hungarian politicians in this epoch that for small countries like Hungary and Transylvania, it was not possible to be independent between the two great empires. The only problem was, which ruler would guarantee more autonomy.

Notes Gábor Ágoston and Teréz Oborni, A tizenhetedik század története (Budapest, 2000), 202-210.; László Benczédi, Rendiség, abszolútizmus és centralizáció a XVII. század végi Magyarországon (1664-1685) (Budapest, 1980). 2 Palatinus (or palatine in English) is locum-tenens of the Hungarian kings. 3 The first copy was published in Latin by J. Du Mont , Corps universel diplomatique du droit de gens, VII/2 (Amsterdam et à la Haye, 1730), 23-5. 4 Nowadays Oradea in Roumania, Varat in Turkish, and Großwardein in German. 5 Nowadays Nové Zámky in Slovakia and Uyvâr in Turkish. 6 Mu‘ahedât Mecmu‘ası, 3 (İstanbul, 1297), 89-92. The original issue of the Peace of Vasvár is in ÖStA HHStA (Österreichische Staatsarchiv Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv) Türkische Urkunden 1. 10, 22 September 1664. 7 Defterdar Sari Mehmed Pasha, Zübde-i vekayiât. Tahlil ve metin (1066-1116/16561704) in Abdulkadir Özcan (ed.) (Ankara, 1995), 124. 8 Silahdâr Fındıklılı Mehmed Pasha, Silahdâr Tarîhi. I (İstanbul, 1928), 741. 9 Yaşar Yücel and Ali Sevim, Türkiye tarihi. 3 (Ankara, 1991), 173. Tayyib Gökbilgin, ‘Rákóczi Ferenc II. ve osmanlı devleti himayesinde Macar Mülteciler. In, Türk - Macar kültür münasebetleri ışığı altında II. Rákóczi Ferenc ve Macar mültecileri.; Thököly İmre ve Osmanlı - Avusturya ilişkilerindeki rolü. Birinci ölüm (1670-1682)’, Symposium on Rákóczi Ferenc II and the Hungarian Refugees in the Light of Turco - Hungarian Cultural Relations, 31 May–3 June 1976, University of İstanbul (İstanbul, 1976), 1-17.; 180-210. 10 Ernst Dieter Petritsch, ‚Tribut oder Ehrengeschenk? Ein Beitrag zu den habsburgisch-osmanischen Beziehungen in der zweiten Hälfte des 16. 1

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Jahrhunderts. Ein Beitrag zu den habsburgisch-osmanischen Beziehungen in der zweiten Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts, Archiv und Forschung’, Das Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv in seiner Bedeutung für die Geschichte Österreichs und Europas. Wiener Beiträge zur Geschichte der Neuzeit, 20 (1993), 49-58. 11 Farkas Deák, A bújdosók levéltára (Budapest, 1888), 227-32.; Benczédi, 20. 12 Gyula Pauler, Wesselényi Ferencz nádor és társainak összeesküvése 1664-1771, I (Budapest, 1876), 151-3. 13 The Hungarian king’s locum-tenens in Croatia. 14 Pauler I. 1876, 312-14. 15 Sarı Mehmed Pasha, 124. 16 Sándor Szilágyi, Rozsnyai Dávid, az utolsó török deák történeti maradványai, XXX. MHHS VIII (Pest, 1867). 17 Ilona Zrínyi is also mentioned in the sultan’s ‘ahdnâme of Imre Thököly. She was the daughter of Péter Zrínyi and the wife of Thököly. According to Turkish understanding the martyrdom of Péter Zrínyi was a sacrifice made for the sultan. Therefore the Ottoman dynasty is obliged to protect the ones who lost their parents and even their husbands and wives.’ [Thököly] ‘devlet-i ‘alîyemün sadâkatı ogurına cânını bezl ėden Zerîn oglınun İlona nâmında kızı zevcesi olmagla kadîmden tasarrufında olan emvâl u emlâkı devlet-i ‘alîyem cânibinden hıfz u siyânet oluna’, Göttingen, Niedersächsische Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek 4° Cod. Ms. Turc. 30. (Turcica 30.) (henceforth abbreviated: Göttingen, Turcica 30) 51v.-52v. 18 The word of ‘kuruc’ (read kuruts) means in Hungarian a soldier, who revolted against the Habsburgs at the turn of the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries. 19 ÖStA HHStA Türkishe Urkunden 26 July- 23 August 1682./Şaban 1093. German translation, Joseph Hammer-Purgstall, Geschichte des Osmanischen Reiches (henceforth abbreviated: GOR) VI. 731-2. 20 Göttingen, Turcica 30. 51v.–52v., Turcica 30. 51v.-52v.; Zdenka VeseláPřenosilová, ‘Quelques chartes Turques concernant la correspondance de la Porte Sublime avec Imre Thököly’, Archiv Orientální (AO, Praha) 29 (1961), 553-6. és 566-8.; Ahmet Refik, Türk hizmetinde kıral Tököli İmre (1683-1705). Orta Macar Kıralı Tököli İmre’nin Türkiye'de geçen hayatına dair Hazinei Evrak vesikalarını havidir (İstanbul, 1932), 8-10. The latter document—although its translation was available in Hungarian archives—escaped the attention of researchers. It was supposed that the document of appointment issued by Hammer-Purgstall was the so-called ‘ahdnâme (treaty) of Thököly. The part of the document written in Turkish was not taken notice of by Hungarian researchers. Its translation into French and its written version in Arabic were published by Zdenka Veselá-Přenosilová. A short representation, Vojtech Kopčan, ‘A török Porta Thököly-politikája’, in Benczédi László (ed.), A Thököly-felkelés és kora (Budapest, 1983), 125-6. 21 pâpişta, pápista in Hungarian. 22 kâlviništa, kálvinista in Hungarian. 23 lûterân, lutheránus in Hungarian. 24 Egyetemi könyvtár, Budapest. Coll. Hev. Tom. 69., 61–3. 1681. ‘Conditiones Athnamae Literarum assecuratoriarum Turcici Imperatoris propriae manu Subscriptarum, Sigillosque munitarum genti Hungariae elargitarum’. 25 Timişoare, nowadays in Roumania. Mehmed Râšid, Târih-i Râšid, III (İstanbul, 1282), 128. 26 Sarı Mehmed Pasha, 839. 27 Kálmán Benda, Tamás Esze, Ferenc Maksay, and László Pap (eds.), Ráday Pál iratai 1703-1706, Ráday Pál iratai I. (henceforth abbreviated, Ráday I.) (Budapest, 1955), 248-96. Documents of the Swedish and Polish legations in Latin.

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Ráday I. 1955. 442-4.; Benda, Kálmán, ‘II. Rákóczi Ferenc török politikájának első évei 1702-1705’, Történeti Szemle 5 (1962), 207. 29 Dimitri Kantemir (Dimitrie Cantemir), Osmanlı İmparatorluğu'nun yükseliş ve çöküş tarihi, II. (İstanbul, 1982), 865. 30 Benda, Kálmán and Maksay, Ferenc, Ráday Pál iratai (henceforth abbreviated, Ráday II) (Budapest, 1961), 208-74. 31 Ráday II, 403, 408. (12-13 April 1708); Thaly, Kálmán, Történelmi naplók 16631719 MHHS XXVII, (Budapest, 1875), 178-256. The conditions of the contract in Latin (February, 1709), Puncta Athname, 252-5. This conditions are identical with an other charter, which was compiled on 26 or 27 October 1705. The draft made by the chancallery, Dunamelléki Református Egyházkerület Levéltára. Ráday család levéltára. Ráday I. Pál iratai. Kancelláriai iratai. Külpolitikai iratai. IV. d/2-13. (Diplomáciai kapcsolatok a török Portával. 1703-10.) (later to be referred to as Ráday 1t. IV. d/2-13.) No. 10. document 49-51. 32 Râšid, IV. 219. 33 BOA (İstanbul), Nâme-i hümâyun defteri 6. 377-8. 34 Mikes, 123-4.; H.I.S., Leben und Thaten des Prätendenten von Ungarn und Siebenbürgen, Joseph Ragoczy und seiner Vorfahren aus zuverläßigen Nachrichten und Urkunden. (Franckfurt und Leipzig, 1739), 79-84. The text of the memorandum, Thaly, Kálmán, Az utolsó erdélyi trónjelölt törtnetéhez (Történeti Tár, 1890), 401-5. Copia di Memoriale presentanto alla Porta Ottomana in nome del Principe Gioseppe Rakotz. Li 8. 7-re 1737. 35 ‘tarafımuzdan iltimâs olunan hususlar vekîl-i mutlak hazretlerinün vesâtetleriyle pâye-i serîr-i â‘lâ-yi saltanatlarına ‘arz u telhîs olunub müsâ‘ade-i pâdišâhâneleri bîdirîg buyurılub der-i devlet-i ‘alîyeleriyle müzâkere olunmak üzre emr-i hümâyunları sudur ve iltimâslarımız suret-i ‘ahdnâmeye ifrâg olunmasına geregi gibi tetebbü‘ ve su‘ubetlü olan maddeler tenzîl u teshîl ve tarafeynün re‘yi ile tertîb u tekrîr olundukdan sonra rikâb-i şehrîyârîye yine ‘arz u telhîs ve makbul-i hümâyunları buyurılub tarafeynün re‘yi ile ‘ahdnâme-i hümâyun suretine ifrâg olunub ism-i hümâyun ve nişân-i şerîfleri ile devletlü se‘âdetlü vezîr-i â‘zam ve vekîl-i mutlak-i efhem hazretlerinün vesâtetleri ile yedimüze i‘tâ u şâyeste olan i‘tibâ u ta‘zîm birle makbul olub’. TSMA E. 8217. 32-9.; BOA Dîvân-i hümâyun defteri 7, 489-90.; Akmed Refik, Memâlik-i ‘Osmânîyede krâl Râkoçî ve tevâbi’i (1109-1154) (İstanbul, 1333 A.H.) 57-60, 13. Ramazân 1150/13 December 1737). BOA, Nâmei hümâyun defteri 7, 483-6. 36 This copy was found by Kálmán Thaly at the end of 19 century in Topkapı Saray Müzesi Kütübhanesi, and edited in Latin. The Turkish translation from the Latin text is in Topkapı Saray Müzesi Arşivi (TSMA E. 8217.) and in BOA Nâme-i hümâyun 7. defteri. ‘Krâlzâde prinç Yojef Râkoçîya i‘tâ olunan ‘ahdnâme-i hümâyun siyâkı üzre krâlzâde tarafından dahi lisân-i lâtin üzre ‘ahdnâme-i hümâyun mevâddıdur ‘ahda olundugını müş‘ir ‘ahdnâmeyi devletlü ‘inâyetlü sâhib-i devlet veliyü n-ni‘am mürüvvetlü efendimüz hazretlerinün hâk-pây-i devletlerine teslîm u mübâdele olun magla ‘ahdnâme-i hümâyun min evvelihi ilâ âhirihi tercüme olunub qrâlzâde-i mumâ ileyhün te‘ahhüdini müş‘ir ‘ahdnâmesinde bast eyledügi ancak dibâce vü hâtimenün tercümesidür" TSMA E. 8217. 1-5. 37 Leben und Thaten ...’, 1739. 88-95. 38 Refik, 1333. 60-8. 39 Kelemen, Mikes, Törökországi levelek. Budapest, 2000. Publishing House of Osiris 10. 28

2 ___________________________________ OTTOMAN MANUSCRIPTS IN EUROPE The Collection of Ottoman-Turkish Documents in Sweden Elżbieta Święcicka

After centuries of contact between Sweden and Ottoman Turkey, Sweden possesses a large collection of documents of archive quality. The bulk of existing documents, which constitutes the original historical records and copies of records, are kept in the Swedish National Archives (Riksarkivet) in Stockholm.1 The original letters from the sultans and the grand viziers (1656-1859), the Collection of Treaties (1657-1868), records belonging to the Royal Chancery (Kungl. Maj:ts kansli) as the minutes (Riksrådets protokoll), letter-books for foreign affairs (registratur i utrikesärenden), the records of payable accounts in connection to state visits (likvidationer) in the Treasury (Kammarkollegiet), all give evidence of the diplomatic relations between Sweden and the Ottoman Empire and its vassal states, especially the Tatar Khanate in the Crimea.2 A lesser number of documents are to be found in the Royal Library (Kungliga Biblioteket), in the Uppsala University Library (Carolina Rediviva) and in the Swedish Military Archives (Krigsarkivet). Some of the documents have been translated into Latin, Swedish and other languages. These translations were made either when the letters were dispatched or later by specially trained translators, known as dragomans. Some texts have been transcribed into Latin characters. In these Swedish collections there are also documents concerning matters of state of other foreign powers. These found their way to Sweden in the form of booty.3

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Most of the historic records are notifications written according to etiquette, informing of personal occurrences: ascensions to the throne, marriages, births and departures from life. There are also letters either congratulating or condoling these important events. A large number of documents relate to the credentials of newly appointed envoys. When concerning matters of state, such as negotiations of alliance and trade agreements, senior officials, often the grand viziers wrote the letters. In contrast to the letters of the sultans, these letters are often not dated; yet another category of letters is the private correspondence between different individuals. Ahmed III’s three letters to the Swedish court are a good example of the most frequent type of correspondence. Two of them are congratulations to King Fredric I and to his wife Queen Ulrica Eleonora on their ascension to the throne. The third one is a passport issued for a Swedish sea captain on account of the Ottoman envoy’s, Kozbekçi Mustafa Ağa, home journey to Constantinople in 1728, through the territorial waters of Northern African states, called in Sweden the Barbary States (Barbareskstaterna). 4 All the letters sent from the Ottoman Empire to Sweden had been written at the Sublime Porte, in the official Turkish language, which was named Ottoman, after the governing dynasty, on the large sheets of paper, most often in dīvānī style. Two kinds of paper were used, the white, which was the most lasting, and the yellow which was more fragile. The yellow paper was regarded as more elegant and was therefore used for the sultans’ correspondence with the royalties. All the sultans’ letters carry the respective monarch’s monogram, tughra, and were delivered in single-coloured silk bags, called kese or kise.5 Nowadays these silver, gold or purple bags are kept separately, sometimes together with pear shaped tickets, labels with the names of addressees, called kulak. The oldest authentic document in Swedish possession, dated 1587, is a ‘deed of gift’ from the Sultan Murad III to the Grand Vizier Mehmed Pasha. This approximately three meters long letter has no specific connection to Sweden. Relations between Sweden and the Ottoman Empire There is a copy of a letter closely connected to Swedish affairs, from the same year, 1587. The letter had been sent by John III to Sultan Murad III, regarding the absence of a ruler on the Polish throne.6 The name of the emissary is not known. The first emissary, not an official envoy, to the Ottoman Empire in 1616, whose name is known, was Bengt Bengtsson Oxenstierna, called in Sweden ‘Bengt the Traveler’ (Resare-Bengt).7 Seven years later, in 1623, another

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unofficial messenger, Sten Svantesson was sent to the same destination. In 1631 King Gustavus II Adolphus sent the first official envoy to the Ottoman Empire, Paul Strassburgk, to assess the possibility of Ottoman military and political aid against the Habsburg Empire or the Polish Kingdom. Sultan Murad IV rejected the King’s two proposals, suggesting that the Ottomans should declare war against Austria and give their support to Gustavus II Adolphus’s brother in law, the Prince of Siebenburgen, Bethlen Gabor. Strassburgk’s letter to the king and his report about this diplomatic mission are to be found among the documents in Swedish National Archives. During the reign of Queen Christina, yet another unofficial emissary, Bengt Skytte appeared in 1652. His journey has been described, for some unknown reason, as unsuitable and unnecessary.8 During the Swedish-Polish war of 1650-5, King Charles X Gustavus sent two legations, one with Claes Rålamb and another one with Gotthard Wellingk. Both had an important mission: to persuade Turks to attack Poland and to request the sultan order the Crimean Tatars to take the same course of action. Rålamb made a speech in Latin and handed over the king’s letter wrapped in a bluegolden cloth, equivalent to the Ottoman kese. The missions of both envoys were a disaster and resulted in a harsh diplomatic protest from the grand vizier to the Swedish King, stating that a war with the Ottoman state’s friend Poland was out of the question and would only strengthen the common enemy, Moscovy. Both journeys became very well documented. Rålamb kept a comprehensive diary, now to be seen in KB. Wellingk’s mission was described by an accompanying priest, C. J. Hiltebrand, and was published by Babinger in 1937. The two gentlemen’s reports to the king are kept in the Swedish National Archives. In 1669, Charles XI’s Regency Council corresponded with Sultan Mehmed IV about the safety of Swedish merchant vessels, which were often attacked and robed by the pirates from the aforementioned Barbary States. These states were Ottoman vassals and Ottoman sultans had the power to require and receive the obedience of their rulers. The messenger in this particular matter, who also came with the answer, was a certain Aslan Ağa, who visited Sweden in 1669 and 1671.9 The Swedish dual attitude towards this potential ally or enemy was clearly exemplified during the coronation parade of Charles XI in 1672. In Ehrenstrahl’s famous pictures one can admire the riders’ fantastic clothing and excellent horses. Swedish aristocrats were grouped and dressed as ‘Goths, Poles, Turks and other European Nations’. The riders were so grandiosely clothed, that ‘one was under impression, that these represented the very best their nation could

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‘The Turkish Supreme Commander, in the Persian clothing, on the horse covered with an elegant caparison. He is followed by the musicians in the Turkish fittings’. The picture no 32 in Ehrenstrahl’s Certamen equestre. Photo: Royal Library.

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afford’. However during the festivities’ dialogues, the Europeans proclaimed the own superiority and mocked the Turkish group.10 The Debts of Charles XII As it is well known, the Swedish King, Charles XII, called by Ottomans Demirbaş Şarl, spent five years in Bender, on Ottoman soil11. He had regular contacts with the Sublime Porte through his messengers, M. Neugebauer and S. Poniatowski.12 It is also known that he was in debt both to the Ottoman state and the other lenders, merchants and bankers.13 After his death, the Grand Vizier Ibrahim Pasha was of the opinion, that Charles XII’s successor, Fredric I, should pay the royal debts. In 1727, an envoy Kozbekçi Mustafa Ağa was sent to Sweden. This was the first official visit of such a high ranking envoy to Sweden. His legation resided in Stockholm in a house, which still exists, called Insenstiernska House. Kozbekçi Mustafa Ağa got many promises of settlement of the Swedish debts and many assurances of eternal friendship.14 His portrait, by Georg Engelhard Schröder, showing him smoking nargile (water-pipe) is to be found in Gripsholm Castle.15 Nevertheless he returned home empty-handed. The Sublime Porte waited indulgently for five years and then a new envoy, Çelebizāde Said Mehmed Efendi was sent. He came to Stockholm in 1733 accompanied by a retinue of 43 people to fulfill Ottoman expectations that a well educated and more experienced diplomat would be more effective in achieving repayment of the debt. But according to Johannes Kolmodin, the Swedish diplomat and dragoman, another, much more important motive led the legation: the Ottoman fear, that Sweden might sign a treaty with Russia. Said Mehmed Efendi’s visit coincided with a change of alliances among the European states. Most probably the envoy wanted to probe the Swedish position on this matter. As it will appear later these misgivings were not unmotivated.16 Said Mehmed Efendi was received with great pomp, accompanied by the firing of cannons. But the result of his visit was more or less the same as Kozbekçi Mustafa Ağa’s. Schröder also portrayed him, together with his retinue. The painting belongs to the famous Bibyer Collection of Turkish portraits and landscapes. The collection was initiated by Charles XII’s companion in arms and the first Swedish chargé d’affaires in Turkey, 1709-13, Gustaf von Celsing. Another trace of Said Mehmed Efendi’s visit to Sweden is his letter, kept at the Swedish National Archives, (Ekeblad’s Collection), to the countess Hedvig De la Gardie, written in French, after his return to Constantinople in 1734.

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The Turkish envoy to Sweden and Poland 1733 No 138 at the Exhibition Wojna i Pokój

Said Mehmed Efendi is also known for having founded the first Turkish printing house, together with Ibrahim Müteferrika, In this printing house were printed these thirteen Turkish incunables, which are today in possession of the Royal Library in Stockholm.17 They were bought in Constantinople by the Swedish diplomats, Edvard Carleson and Karl Fredrik von Höpken, (1735-42/45). Buying Turkish manuscripts and pieces of art was not the primary task of Swedish diplomats. The primary task was to discuss a trade agreement with the Ottoman Empire, and of course, the repayment Said Mehmed Efendi on his way back to Constantinople stopped in Warsaw, where he wanted to get information about Stanisław Leszczyński’s chances of regaining the Polish throne.18 He was

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received with all the marks of honour by interrex primate Teodor Potocki. At this occasion another portrait was made, a little engraving in half-length, which was used as an illustration in a book. Recently this picture was displayed at a Polish Turkish exhibition, entitled ‘anonymous Turkish envoy to Sweden’.19 of the Charles XII’s debts. The permanent Swedish embassy had been put up in 1736 during Carleson’s and von Höpken’s time in Constantinople. They left the interesting collection of letters and the journey reports to Ephesus and the Holy Land. With time the number of the duties increased and their successors, the sons of Gustaf von Celsing, Gustaf junior (1745-71) and Ulric (1756-60, 1769-79), among other commercial affairs continued the efforts to obtain further subsidies for Sweden, despite the fact that Sweden had not yet been able to pay back all the money borrowed by Charles XII. These two gentlemen collected a large number of oriental objects d’art and oriental manuscripts, among them also Turkish ones. Most of them were donated to Uppsala University Library, Carolina Rediviva. The Celsing family had also in their possession forty documents, among them letters from the sultans and Crimean Khans to the Swedish Royal House. The location of these documents is, as I understand, rather unclear.20 Since the financial situation in Sweden was still deplorable the successors of Celsings in Constantinople inherited the same mission to borrow more money. In 1789 the Ottoman government promised one million piaster in a long subsidy agreement, signed by Selim III, ‘under the obligation not to conclude a separate peace treaty with the Russians without a preceding agreement with the Ottomans. This promise was not kept by Gustav III’.21 Registers and Catalogues Since permanent diplomatic relations with the Ottoman state were established, the number of official documents kept at the Swedish embassy increased considerably. Some transcriptions of Turkish documents were at an early stage moved to Carolina Rediviva in Uppsala, where they came to constitute the primary sources for the above mentioned researcher and diplomat, Johannes Kolmodin’s studies. The lion’s share of diplomatic records was placed at the Swedish National Archives (RA), divided between the collection Turcica, (which constitutes a part of the National States Archives’ Diplomatica Collection) and the Archive of the Head of Chancellery, which later on was transferred to the archive of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.22 The greater part of the embassy archive, for the years 1734 (1675)-1949, is stored in the branch of the National Archives situated in Arninge, Täby, outside Stockholm. This archive

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contains correspondences with the Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, with foreign authorities and individuals. The Turcica Collection comprises the correspondence and reports from the Swedish envoys, the copies of the 134 letters of the sultans and the grand viziers to Sweden and a number of miscellaneous records. The original letters are kept in the collection of ‘Over-sized Turkish and Oriental records’.23 The very first catalogue of Turkish documents in the Swedish National Archives was prepared by T. Westrin in 1890 and in 1895 the first list of treaties concluded by Sweden with foreign powers, in which documents concerning the Swedish-Turkish relations are mentioned. The Turkish part was compiled by Herman Almkvist. This part comprises the diplomatic correspondence between Sweden and the vassal states of the Ottoman Empire: Siebenburgen, Tripoli, Tunis, Alger and the independent Sultanate of Morocco.24 All these states had Ottoman-Turkish as their official language. A part of these documents are letters to the Sublime Porte regarding the vassal states piracy against the Swedish ships. Within this part, under the heading ‘Turkey’, alongside the treaties ratified by the Ottoman sultans and the berats (description of duties and rights for interpreters), are named the documents of King Charles X Gustavus’s authorization, written in Latin, for Claes Rålamb and Gotthard Vellingk giving them the right to conclude an alliance with the Ottoman Empire, from 1657. The person who presented a near complete list regarding the Ottoman-Turkish documents in Sweden was Karl Vilhelm Zetterstéen, (1866-1953). He published in the catalogue of the manuscripts from Carolina Rediviva, Die arabischen persischen und türkischen Handschriften der Universitätsbibliotek zu Uppsala and wrote the first part of a comprehensive catalogue of documents kept in the Swedish National Archives, Türkische, tatarische und persische Urkunden im schwedischen Reichsarchiv verzeichnet und beschrieben. The catalogue Türkische, tatarische und persische Urkunden im schwedischen Reichsarchiv covers 218 different documents, 134 of them are mostly the letters to the Swedish Royal House from the sultans and grand viziers of the Ottoman Empire. The remaining two parts of the catalogue, still in the form of manuscript are stored in three boxes, containing numbered sheets of paper. Most of these Turkish documents originate from ‘the Embassy Archive in Constantinople’. They are numbered from 869 to 1298 and 1299-1734. Among them are letters from Mahmud I, Mustafa III, Abdülaziz and Abdülhamid to the Swedish kings and also fermans (permissions), diplomas and memoranda. Both unpublished parts have been microfilmed, but some of the notes are difficult to read.

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The letter from Mustafa III. to Gustaf III, 1772, Swedish National Archives. Photo: Kurt Eriksson

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The Diplomatica Collection was also presented by Zetterstéen in a number of separate articles.25 In 1980 Sören Tommos published a topical up to date description of Swedish diplomatic correspondence for the period 1634-1809, The Diplomatica Collection in the Swedish National Archives. The Diplomatica Collection was followed in 1981 by the inventory of the Swedish historical sources regarding North Africa, Asia and Oceania, published in English as a UNESCO project. The Turkish part was elaborated by the Senior Archivist Folke Ludvigs.26 In the Swedish National Archive there are also a number of special registers. The register called ‘Person-, family- and estate archives’ (Person-, släkt-, och gårds arkiv) contains information about specific individuals, for instance about Muradgea d’Ohsson, the dragoman and later on the Swedish ambassador in Constantinople.27 In another register, Subject Collections (Ämnessamlingar), under the heading Militaria—the register of the collection regarding the history of wars (Förteckningen öfver krigshistoriska samlingen)—it is possible to find records concerning the Swedes’ sojourns in Turkey. As mentioned previously, Zetterstéen accomplished and published (in two parts, 1930 and 1935) his opus magnum: Die arabischen persischen und türkischen Handschriften der Universitätsbibliotek zu Uppsala. He based his work on the preparatory works, done during the years by Swedish translators and researchers, especially Peter Rubens, Carl Aurivillius and C. J. Tornberg. Most of these manuscripts and documents, kept in Carolina Rediviva, were bought or donated by different individuals who are all mentioned in Zetterstéen’s preface to the Handschriften. Among the donors we find the Swedish scholars: J.G. Sparwenfeld, M. Sturtzenbecher and also Oscar II of Sweden, who in 1891donated to the library twelve valuable manuscripts, offered him during the official visit (1885) to the Ottoman Empire. Zetterstéen’s Uppsala Catalogue, (Handschriften), contains information about a large number of documents: original letters from the Ottoman sultans to the Swedish kings and vice versa, the messages from the dragomans, letters of safe conduct, the passes and fermans. Many of them concern Charles XII’s sojourn in Bender. Several documents, such as a treaty between Ahmed I and the British King James (1612) are of foreign provenance. In Carolina Rediviva there is also a handwritten catalogue started by Tornberg and continued by Zetterstéen. This catalogue is from a time before 1930 and contains information about a number of literary works, collections of fetvas and some dictionaries. Additional material about Charles XII (Demirbaş Şarl), excerpted from the Ottoman Archives by A. Refik and J. Kolmodin is listed separately. It contains non-catalogued letters in Turkish, diplomatic reports, clippings from Turkish newspapers, translations of articles etc.28

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According to documents in the Royal Library the manuscripts catalogue, Katalog över Kungl. Bibliotekets orientaliska handskrifter, was elaborated and published 1923 by W. Riedel, a Germen orientalist living in Sweden. According to the preface, the collection consists of manuscripts and documents bought in the Ottoman Empire on the behalf of the government office in Stockholm, which after 1727 were handed over to the Royal Library. Actually, among mainly literary works, there are some single documents, such as the Turkish passes for different ships and a ferman for a certain Swede, signed by the grand vizier, with permission to visit libraries in Constantinople, which apparently required as much hardship as today. Besides Riedel’s catalogue, there are two folders, entitled ‘Manuscripts, […] and Oriental Codex29 with information regarding a few records. At least one of them, ‘A description of the Turkish system of ziameti and timar’, possesses the qualities of a document. Both of them contain a reference to the Engström collection, again material about Charles XII’s stay in Bender. The Royal Library has also a large collection of Rålambiana, envoy Rålamb’s diary and drawings and obtained in Turkey paintings and miniatures. More about Charles XII, the subject which most interests Swedes, is to be found in the Swedish Military Archives, inter alia the letters of his officers (C. Sparre, C. Loos and H. Gyllenskepp), and records regarding the military administration of the Swedish forces in the Ottoman Empire and their return journey.30 Published Documents Few of the documents from Swedish archives and libraries have been analyzed and published. Most of them are sleeping like the princess in the fairy tale, untranslated and sometimes not even read, neither at arrival nor later. The aforementioned author, H. Almkvist, published 1899 a berat, a dragoman diploma, which had been issued for a interpreter who worked for the Swedish embassy. However the berat’s translation is regarded as erroneous. Forty years later, Zetterstéen in cooperation with the Turkish historian A. N. Kurat published thirteen documents from different archives. Three of them are from the Bibyer collection.31 The documents are presented both in facsimile form, rewritten versions and are translated into German. All of them except one, again, have a connection to Charles XII’s stay in Bender. The exception is a letter from Mehmed IV to the Polish King John Casmir. This letter, and three others, which concern Polish matters, has been commented on by Zygmunt Abrahamowicz in his article for Folia Orientalia in 1961.32 The Polish King John Casimir is also the addressee of the letters from Grand Vizier Kara Murad Pasha. The

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fourth letter has the Polish Chancellor Koryciński as addressee. The letters were dispatched from the Sublime Porte either with the Polish envoy Bieczyński or with the Turkish envoy to Poland, Mustafa Ağa. These two traveled together to Poland and were imprisoned near Warsaw, which was in 1655 under Swedish occupation. The letters were confiscated by Mazovia’s governor, Erik Oxenstierna. The last published document is the oldest document in Swedish possession, a deed of gift from 1587. It was published 1955 by Walter Björkman. Many years have passed since then, and there is a great deal to be done in this field, and much new historical knowledge to be gained.33

Notes 1 I am grateful to Swedish National Archives (Riksarkivet) for the possibility to publish the Ottoman letter from the TURCICA COLLECTION; and to Carolina Rediviva Library for the pictures from Ehrenstrahl’s book. I also would like to express my gratitude to the Senior Archivist of the Swedish National Archives Folke Ludwigs, for his valuable comments during writing this article. I owe much to Dr. Birgit Schlyter, the editor of Dragomanen, the annual of Swedish Istanbul Research Institute in which the Swedish version of this article was published 2000 and to David Williams who read the English version of the manuscript. 2 For a description of the Swedish National Archive’s collections of original letters, treaties, Turcica, Extranea, and the other records, see Riksarkivets beståndsöversikt (BÖ), Folke Ludwigs, Lisbeth Näslund & Stefan Söderlind, ‘Sources in Sweden’, in: Sources of the History of North Africa, Asia and Oceania in Finland, Norway and Sweden, (München, 1981); Sören Tommos, ‘The Diplomatica Collection in the Swedish National Archives’, in Skrifter utgivna av Svenska Riksarkivet, (Stockholm 1980). For the historical background, especially concerning the period when Sweden and the Ottoman Empire were superpowers, see T. J. Arne, ‘De äldre förbindelserna mellan Sverige och Turkiet’ [The Earlier Relations between Sweden and Turkey], in Hävd och Hembygd (Norrköping, 1927); Walther Björkman, ‘Die schwedischtürkischen Beziehungen bis 1800’, in Festschrift Georg Jacob zum siebzigsten Geburstag (Leipzig, 1932a); Walther Björkman, ‘Schwedisch-türkische Bezichungen seit 1800’, in Mitteilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen zu Berlin (MSOSW) 35, II (1932b); Ulla Ehrensvärd, ‘Sverige och Turkiet. Introduktion till utställning i Kungl. Biblioteket, Stockholm 14 april-7 augusti med anledning av Svenska Forskningsinstitutets i Istanbul 15-årsjubileum’, [Sweden and Turkey. Exhibition Catalogue...] in: Meddelanden 2 (1977); Gunnar Jarring, ‘Sveriges diplomatiska förbindelser med tatarerna på Krim’ [Diplomatic Relations between Sweden and the Crimean Tatars], in [ Utrikespolitik och historia. Studier tillägnade Wilhelm M. Carlgren (Stockholm, 1987); Elżbieta Święcicka, ‘Den diplomatiska trafiken mellan Sverige, Tatariet och Osmanska riket från Gustav Vasas tid till Karl XII’ [Diplomatic Traffic between Sweden, Tartary and the Ottoman Empire, from Gustav Vasa’s time to Charles XII], in Den nordiska mosaiken, (Uppsala, 1997); Kaj Falkman, Turkiet/Gränsfursten. Utsikter från Svenska Palatset i Istanbul [Turkey/The Boundary Prince...] (Stockholm, 1999).

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3 They are to be found within the ‘EXTRANEA’ Collection: ‘Turkey, records and letters’. (Turkiet, handlingar, och brev). The Swedish term ‘arkivhandlingar’ is used to convey the meaning of two Anglo-Saxon terms: ‘(archival) documents’, and ‘historical records’. I wish to extend my thanks to Dr. Staffan Smedberg for his helpful review of the terminology. The Swedish collections contain also manuscripts, miniatures, incunables, maps, etc, but these are not objects of this article. 4Zetterstéen, K. V., Türkische, tatarische und persische Urkunden im Schwedischen Reichsarchiv verzeichnet und beschrieben [Nos.1-218], (Uppsala, 1945), No 7, 8 and 9. Alger, Tunis and Tripoli. They were very important for the Swedish sea trade and there were Swedish consuls in their capital towns. 5 The excellent description of these oriental letter covers is to be found in Agnes Geijer & Carl Johan Lamm, ‘Orientalische Briefumschläge in schwedischem Besitz’ in: Vitterhets-historie- och antikvitetsakademiens handlingar (VHAAH) 58:1, (1945). 6K. V. Zetterstéen,., ‘De orientaliska urkunderna i svenska riksarkivet’ [The Oriental Documents in the Swedish National Archives], in: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitets Akademiens Handlingar, Part 80, (Historiska studier, I.), (Stockholm, 1952b), 212 7 T. J. Arne, Svenskarna och Österlandet [The Swedes and the Orient] (Stockholm, 1952); Sven Hedin, Bengt Bengtsson Oxenstierna (ResareBengt) (Stockholm, 1919). 8 Arne, Svenskarna, 154 9 Kaj Ettlinger, ‘Aslan Aga – turkisk ambassadör till Sverige eller svenskt sändebud med diplomatiska uppdrag till Turkiet?’[Aslan Aga – the Turkish Ambassador to Sweden or the Swedish Envoy with Diplomatic Mission to Turkey?], in Personhistorisk tidskrift (1998). 10 The quotations after Ehrenstrahl 1685 (?) in translation from German 11Eric Tengberg, Från Poltava till Bender. Studie i Karl XII:s turkiska politik 1709-1713, [From Poltava to Bender...], (Lund, 1953); see also Karolinska Förbundets Årsböcker, especially the article of A. Refik, KFÅ 1919; BÖ, Vol I, Part 2, 87, 283, 317. 12 They were received in audience by the Sultan in 1709. Neugebauer was later succeeded by T. Funk. 13 BÖ, Vol. I, Part 1, 87, Part 2, 145 14 Arne, 93 15The Topkapı Museum has another portrait of Kozbekçi Mustafa Ağa. 16 Kolmodin’s later comments to the translation of Said Mehmed Efendi’s report on journey in Karolinska Förbundets Årsbok 1920, 256-303. 17 Faik Reşit Unat, Osmanlï Sefirleri ve Sefaretnameleri, (Ankara 1968); John Rohnström, ‘The Turkish Incunabula in the Royal Library’, in: Turcica et Orientalia, Studies in honour of Gunnar Jarring on his eightieth birthday 12 October 1987, editor Ulla Ehrensvärd, (Stockholm, 1988), 122 18 S. Leszczyński was supported by France, the Ottoman Empire and initially by Charles XII. His concurrent, Augustus III of Saxony, was supported by Russia. 19 Wojna i Pokój: Skarby sztuki turekiej ze zbiorów polskich. Katalog wystawy, Muzeum Narodowe [War and Peace: Ottoman-Polish Relations in the 15th-19th Centuries], National Museum, Exhibition Catalogue (Warszawa, 2000), No 138, 244 20 Kurat & Zetterstéen published the full list of these documents in 1938. In 1968 Reychman and Zajączkowski wrote as follows: ‘Oriental documents […] exist in the Bibyer Archives’. According to Fredrik von Celsing from Biby Estate, all the documents have been transferred to Carolina Rediviva. Although, I could not find any notation about this fact. According to the unprinted, undated catalogue by Tornberg & Zetterstéen in the Uppsala University Library (Carolina Rediviva), the Library possesses only ‘the duplicates of the documents, which are kept at the

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Celsings’ Trust Biby, in Södermanland’. I went through this archive’s minutes without finding any trace of these forty documents. Perhaps the original letters were given to Muradgea d’Ohsson while he was writing his monumental ‘Tableau Générale’. 21 Arne, 93 22 Utrikesdepartamentet med föregångare, Huvudarkivet 1681-1952 23 The complete list of Ottoman-Turkish documents in BÖ, Vols. I, II and index in Vol. VII. 24 Bernhard Taube & Severin Bergh, ‘Förteckning öfver Samlingen af Originaltraktater i Svenska Riksarkivet’, [The Collection of Original Treaties] in: Meddelanden Riksarkivet (MRA), Vols XVII, XVIII 1894, XIX 1895, 329 25 Zetterstéen 1930, 1936, 1941 and 1948. 26 Ludwigs, Näslund.& Söderlind, ‘Sources in Sweden’. 27 Most of d’Ohsson’s papers were donated to the Lund University Library. 28 Carolina Rediviva, Caps. Fol. Q15:11, Q15:12, Q15:20. 29 VU and Cod. Orient. 30 Krigsarkivet: Stora nordiska kriget, VII Turkiet. See also B. Broomé, ‘Privatarkiv och enskilda personers arbetspapper i Kungl. Krigsarkivet’ [Private Papers in the Royal Military Record Office], in: Kommissionen för riksinventering av de enskilda arkiven. (Stockholm, 1963). 31 Among them, there are letters written to Charles XII by the high Ottoman officials 32 The letters No 2, 54, 55 and 112 in Zetterstéen’s Catalogue. 33 A part of collection of the diplomatic letters in Ottoman-Tatar language, written by the Crimean Khans’ mothers and wives, became published by I. Ianbay (Jerusalem) in Manuscripta Orientalia T. VIII/1, 2002 and Elżbieta Święcicka (Uppsala) in Rocznik Orientalistyczny T. LV/1, 2002.

Non-Ottoman Documents in the Kâdîs’ Courts (Môloviya, Medieval Charters): Examples from the Archive of the Hilandar Monastery (15th–18th C.) Aleksandar Fotić

Between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries, and subsequently as well, there circulated in the Ottoman Empire not only documents written in Arabic script and the Ottoman Turkish or Arabic languages but also those in other scripts and languages. They were composed both by the Ottoman administration and by other institutions and individuals. Official documents in languages other than Ottoman issued by the Porte or by local Ottoman authorities in the first centuries of the empire have long been known and they are not relevant to the subject of this paper; nor is the correspondence of Ottoman high officials, frequently written in various languages, especially in the empire’s border regions. What is interesting and has not been sufficiently studied is the use and validity in the Ottoman shari‘a court of old medieval charters, and of various contemporary documents, contracts, involving nonMuslim subjects. Many of these documents were issued by the church chancellery, or are related to matters of indebtedness of persons or institutions, especially churches and monasteries. What is particularly worth emphasizing is the fact that these contemporary documents written in Cyrillic script and in the Serbian/Bulgarian language, as well as those in the Greek language, sometimes involved Muslim dealings with non-Muslim subjects. Muslim subjects were involved even in very important documents, such as those concerning payment of debts or giving land as security. The fact should also be pointed out that such agreements were not only made in border regions or recently conquered areas, but also in those that had been under Ottoman rule for centuries, i.e. in the regions where the zimmîs were familiar with the functioning of the Ottoman shari‘a courts and were accustomed to turn to them often and of their own free will even when a problem was soluble without the intervention of the Ottoman authorities. The purpose of this paper is to demonstrate the use of nonOttoman documents and their validity in the shari‘a court. Naturally,

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I am well aware of the fewness and limitations of the examples I am about to discuss. Môloviya The sixteenth- and seventeenth-century documents from Hilandar Monastery (Mount Athos) written in Cyrillic or in Greek scripts have been known to scholarship for almost one hundred years. They comprise sales contracts, realty exchange contracts, certificates confirming discharge of debt, settlement acts concluding long disputes etc.1 Also long-known are numerous similar documents from the archives of the Monastery of Cetinje, the seat of the Montenegrin metropolitan. The latter also include documents about donating fields and vineyards to the Monastery of Cetinje for the peace of one’s soul. In some documents, even in those just mentioned, local Muslims occur along with Christian witnesses. In some, on the other hand, for example in documents concerning the exchange or sale of plots of land, there occurs a Muslim acting as party to a contract. There are also classical documents confirming that the Monastery took land as security until the debt was paid. Interestingly, the Muslims also used to take loans from the Monastery of Cetinje, and to compose contracts in Serbian and without Muslim witnesses.2 Such documents have been relied on as a historical source in various ways and countless times. It seems, however, that a crucial question has never been posed: why were they written in the languages of local Christians, especially when one of the parties involved was a Muslim? Furthermore, were those documents valid in the Ottoman state court and did the kâdîs consider them admissible? Also, if they were not accepted as valid proof in the shari‘a court, did they make any sense at all? It is clear today that a number of such documents were either free and abridged translations of the tapunâmes and hüccets originally composed before the Ottoman authorities, made for internal use, or constituted a special type of official documents derived from tapunâmes and hüccets. Their purpose must have been to facilitate communication with the other party, and to make the monastic archive easier to handle. And yet, even those translations occasionally contain the signatures of Muslim witnesses and the seals of Ottoman officials, as, for example, the bôstâncı zâbıt’s seal in some Hilandar documents. At times they were even more accurate than the Turkish originals in describing the boundaries of the fields bought or exchanged. This is the case of the Cyrillic documents concerning the exchange of fields in Komitissa and Proavlax/Prevlaka between a Hasan Çelebi and the monks of

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Hilandar in 1590.3 The case of the cerificate of settlement concluding the 1644 dispute between Hilandar and Zographou over some land is different. This case shows clearly that the dispute had been settled by the kâdî, and that according to the hüccet, each brotherhood composed its own Cyrillic document омолоћиа (omolodjia), which they sealed and exchanged.4 Transactions including sale, purchase or exchange of land, or other immovable property had to be registered in the kâdî’s court, and confirmed by Ottoman officials. Not only were fees assessed on such transactions, but also the holder of the land had to be known to the authorities. However, contracts and certificates concerning debt payments and the giving of realty as a security could have missed the kâdî’s court at any time, despite the fact that the recording of such contracts in the sicills, and the obtainment of hüccets would have provided an additional guarantee that a particular obligation would be fulfilled. Nevertheless, it seems that the parties found it sufficient to put the contract together in Greek or Slavic, or any other language depending on the region. Such cases did happen, and the Ottoman documents from the Hilandar Monastery Archive themselves provide the proof. The first hüccet I dealt with no more than indicated the problem. The solution was suggested only later, when I came across some documents expressing a similar situation in a slightly different way. In the summer of 1716 Mübâşir ‘Ali Ağa was assigned to act for the state and take over the property of the late ‘Ayşe Hâtûn of Thessaloniki. Among her papers he found a certificate which was titled ‘môliya’ (‫)ﻤﻮﻠﻴﻪ‬, stamped with the seal of Hilandar, and concerned a 500-gurûş debt (…manâstır-i mezbûr mühr ile memhûr ), stamped with the seal of Hilandar, and concerned a 500-gurûş debt (…manâstır-i mezbûr mühr ile memhûr môliya [sic] ta‘bîr olunur temessükleri…). Actually, the monastery had given one of its metochia (çiftlik) in Kalamaria, near Thessaloniki, as security for the loan. The monks paid their debt to ‘Ali Ağa and the metochion was released from its pledge.5 Unfortunately, the hüccet reveals nothing else. The following examples will show that the kâtib of the hüccet omitted one letter ‘vav’ (‫ )ﻮ‬while writing a term unfamiliar to him. In another document, the same type of certificate was referred to in a somewhat more precise manner. ‘Ali Beğ, son of ‘Abdullah, a cündî from Thessaloniki, had given a loan to Hilandar. In the summer of 1610, when the monks discharged their debt with interest (22,000 akçes), that was registered in the shari‘a court of Thessaloniki. The kâdî issued a hüccet containing ‘Ali Beğ’s acknowledgment of the full discharge of their debt. The following part of his statement is worthy of quoting: ‘…should I subsequently produce the certificate called môloviya [sic] in relation to this case, let it not be enforced…’ (…eğer

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ba‘de zamân bu husûs içün môloviya nâmında tezkirelerin ibrâz edersem ‘amel olunmıya…).6 Naturally, until it has become clear what it all was about, this word written in Arabic script (‫ )ﻤﻮﻠﻴﻪ‬could be read in a variety of ways (mevleviye, müvelviye, etc.). It was only thanks to a third document that it became possible to draw some reliable inferences. Once again, it concerned a secured loan. The brotherhood of Hilandar had taken a loan from Süleyman Beğ, son of ‘Abdulmenan of Siderokavsia (Sidrekapsi), giving as security a meadow and a summer pasture near Novo Selo/Yeñi Köy (today Neohorion). As a certificate of security, the monks ‘…gave him a môloviya [sic] stamped with the seal of the aforesaid monastery and written in their script…’ (…yedine manâstır-i merkûm hâtemile mahtûme ve kendü hattlar ile tahrîr olunmuş môloviya virmişler…). After Süleyman’s death, the document was inherited by his underage children. That is what ‘Ayşe Hâtûn, the mother and representative of his children, said before the shari‘a court in 1616, when the monks decided to repay the debt of 8,000 akçes. Having been given the money, ‘Ayşe Hâtûn released the monastic property from pledge. Also, in a form similar to the hüccet described above, she obliged the court to consider this môloviya inadmissible should she ever reopen the case again. And she emphasized that, because she had lost the document and was therefore unable to return it to the monks: ‘…çayırı ve yaylakı teslîm edüb fekk-i rehn eyledi lakin zikr olunan môloviyaları zâyı‘ olmağın mezbûrlara virilmedi ba‘d el-yevm eğer môloviya ibrâz olunub husûs-i mezbûre müte‘allık da‘vâ u nizâ‘ sâdire olursa led el-hükkâm ül-kirâm mesmû‘a ve makbûla olmasın…’.7 What inferences may be drawn from the three hüccets? First of all, we obviously are dealing with documents written in a nonOttoman language. Given that Hilandar was a Serbian monastery, and that a mixture of Serbian and Bulgarian was widely in use in the Chalcidice, such documents could have been written both in Greek or in Cyrillic scripts. Having been issued in the name of the monastery, the documents bore the latter’s seal. A thorough reading of several Cyrillic documents of a similar type and of those from the monastery’s archive makes it clear that for such contracts the Serbs and Bulgarians almost as a rule used the word: ωмологїа, ωмолоћїа (omologia, omolodjia). Obviously, this is the Greek word omologia (οµολογία), meaning: admission, confession, debenture etc.8 That is to say, the exact equivalent of the Ottoman terms: temessük and tezkire. There is almost no doubt that the term used in the hüccets was omologia, but slightly modified to suit the Turkish pronunciation. So, the word in Arabic script should be read as môloviya, or môlôyia and not in any other way. The omologias, as we have seen, were accepted by the shari‘a court as valid proof. This is demonstrated by the one allowing a suit

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to be filed before the kâdî. It could be said with certainty that a challenge to the authenticity of an omologia by one side would, according to the Islamic law, require the witnesses to be called to testify. Many of such documents contain the names of the witnesses to the case, written after the main text. The other conclusion is that the procedure of lending money and giving security was not necessarily registered in court. Not even when one party was Christian and the other Muslim. Once the debt was discharged, the related omologia was simply returned to those who had written it. It is quite clear why the discharge of a debt and the release from pledge were registered in cases where the original omologia was lost. What remains insufficiently clear is the reason for the registration in court in the case where an omologia existed. Why would the discharge of a debt be registered by the kâdî when the loan itself had not been? Apparently the decision was made exclusively by the actual parties to the contract, who could—but did not have to—protect themselves against any claims or future litigation. Some previous experience must have taught the monastery’s administration the lesson that a discharge of debt should be additionally confirmed by the kâdî’s official hüccet. The existence of omologias in mixed milieus, with predominantly Christian population, shows that the Muslim community sometimes accepted the local customs and traditions of the zimmîs. They observed local customs although there was a safer possibility, that of registering loans in the kâdî’s shari‘a court. An attempt to avoid the registration costs does not seem to me a satisfying explanation. These costs were insignificant compared with the possible loss. Rather, this could be the universally known legal action of taking a loan going together with the borrower’s written obligation, the language of the document being legally irrelevant. Of course, to write omologias in Greek or Bulgarian/Serbian was just one possible way of putting a contract on paper, not a custom in Sidrekapsı or in other areas with a mixed population. The majority of loan contracts were registered in the kâdî’s protocol book (sicill), as evidenced by a number of examples from Hilandar Monastery’s Ottoman archive. I shall once more emphasize the fact that in all the three mentioned cases it was not a Muslim lender who turned to the shari‘a court in order to protect himself, but the Christians who wanted an official confirmation that they had paid the debt back. The occurrence of documents written in ‘another’ language has been also noticed in areas that came under the rule of Islamic states in the early period of Islamic expansion. This is encountered in areas where the shari‘a court had functioned for centuries prior to the Ottoman conquest. A student of the life of the Jewish people in Jerusalem under Ottoman rule, Amnon Cohen, has found among the

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sicills of the kâdî of Jerusalem from the first half of the sixteenth century a few cases of the use of documents written in ‘Jewish script’ or in the ‘Hebrew language’ (muktatab bi-hatt al-yahûd; al-muktatab bi’l ‘ibrânî ). In addition to witnesses providing evidence for their cases, the Jews of Jerusalem also submitted their marriage certificates and documents concerning financial transactions, most commonly the giving or taking of a loan. Examples included two contracts written ‘in Jewish script and in Hebrew’ made by a Muslim lender and a Jewish borrower.9 These case are very similar to the cited examples from the Balkan area. It is therefore reasonable to infer that the recognition of documents in ‘other’ languages and scripts was a practice known in the shari‘a court even before the Ottoman conquest. Medieval Charters The use of medieval charters also pertains to the subject discussed in this paper, although the date of such documents precedes the Ottoman conquest of the Balkans, sometimes by several centuries. The Ottoman documents preserved in the Hilandar Monastery Archive provide information about the way this category of nonOttoman documents was used and accepted by the shari‘a courts. Almost all of the medieval charters mentioned in Ottoman documents are false. However, their being original or false is irrelevant to this topic. There were many reasons to watch very carefully over old medieval charters. Their practical significance was unquestionable in the Ottoman period too. In addition to having been accepted as proof in the Ottoman shari‘a court, they were often taken to the Metropolitan courts and the Patriarchal court in Istanbul, which also used to settle many an inter-monastic dispute. On the other hand, the Athonite monks sometimes took the old charters with them on their alms-collecting tours of the Balkan hinterland. They were to illustrate the great appreciation of the monastery showed by the earlier medieval nobility, conveying the clear message that the future donors should follow their example in accordance with their own means. After the Ottoman conquest of the Balkans, charters of medieval rulers and nobility, Byzantine, Serbian and other, were accepted as the certificate of origin and tenure of the monastic metochia and other estates, despite all the difficulties accompanying the recognition of such possessions including selective attitude, changes in property status and boundaries. In Ottoman documents, such charters were frequently referred to as vakfiyye or vakıfnâme, terms designating a Muslim deed of foundation.10

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The fact that such documents were accepted as proof in Ottoman courts is unambiguously testified to in the statement the monks of Hilandar gave in court during a well-prepared and capably managed dispute with Esphigmenou over a part of their usurped estate on Mount Athos. In a hüccet of 1561, the monks of Hilandar, defending their rights and delineating the estate’s boundaries, explained that the plot of land in question had before the imperial conquest been donated to their monastery in conformity with their ‘false customs’, that it had since ancient times been registered in their ‘worthless’ vakfiyye [deed of donation] and that, after the imperial conquest, everything concerning them was confirmed by the previous rulers the way it had always been, upon which the fermân was issued: ‘...feth-i hâkâniden akdem âyîn-i bâtılumuz üzere manâstırımuza vakf olub ve kadîm ül-eyyâmdan vakfiyye-i ‘âtılamuzda mestûr olub feth-i hâkâniden soñra mülûk-i mâziyye rahamahum-llah kemâkân cümle umûrumuzı mukarrer tutub fermân sâdır etmişler...’.11 A ‘arz of Fethullah, kâdî of Gömülcine (present-day Komotini), dated 1485/86 testifies that the 1347 charter of the emperor Dušan (although apparently being false) was produced as proof in the dispute between the monasteries of Hilandar and Zographou over an estate in Komitissa: ‘…This is a vakıf of the Hilandar monastery of Despotic origin … for this we have our vakıfnâme and witnesses also … we have shown the document that this bounded plot of our land was donated 144 years ago…’ (...Despôt aslından Hilândar manâstırına vakf olub ... bu vechle olduğuna vakıfnâmemüz ve şâhidlerimüz dâhî var ... mahdûd yerimüz yüz kırk dört yıldan berü vakf edügine nâme ibrâz edüb...).12 After Ebu’s-su‘ud’s systematization of land regime and land taxes in 1568/69, remembered among the Christian subjects as the ‘confiscation affair’, all the monasteries had to possess tapunâmes (or hudûdnâmes – if the possessions were within the borders of Mount Athos) as a proof of their right to hold a piece of land.13 After that date one would not expect the medieval charters to have appeared in the kâdî’s courts any more, but in fact they did. In a hüccet issued in 1583, concerning Hilandar’s dispute with Esphigmenou, relevant witnesses confirmed that certain sites on Mount Athos belonged to Hilandar. They pointed out that the monks: ‘possess the papers written some four or five hundred years ago, in the Greek language’ (...dört beşyüz yıldan Rûm dilince yazılan kâğıdlarımızda her manâstırıñ yerleri ki ta‘yîn olunmuşdur...).14 In this dispute, the charter was not presented as a key proof; Hilandar had provided itself with relevant Ottoman documents. The charter was mentioned here just as an illustration of Hilandar’s ‘centuries-old’ right to those sites. It was used to enhance that right and to facilitate the introduction of the new relevant witnesses, the Athonite elders and the protos himself. In intermonastic disputes over the property

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within the limits of Mount Athos, the opinion of the members of Athonite Synaxis was of great importance. In this case, their oppinion was presented to the kâdî just as a notification that the Athonite community was on Hilandar’s side and that his possible acceptance of invalid arguments produced by the other side would not pass smoothly. On the other hand, Hilandar once objected to the use of Byzantine charters as a proof in favour of the opposing party. In October 1614, in the course of its long dispute with Iviron, Hilandar requested from the Porte that the fermân be issued forbidding encroachments on its pasture in Komitissa/Styliaria. As a result, the kâdî of Thessaloniki was ordered not to accept the certificates dating from the times of the ‘infidel’, which were submitted by Iviron (...elimüzde kâfir zamânından temessükümüz vardır deyü...), should Hilandar’s claim turn out to be true that it had been holding the land regularly, with a title-deed (tapu ile), for thirty years.15 In this case, the fermân pointed to the validity of a proof. An official Ottoman document could not be contested by a Byzantine charter. In order to contest the official tapunâme, Iviron had to provide additional evidence, which it was unable to manage for centuries. Similar examples can be found in the archives of other Athonite monasteries as well. I am indebted to Dr. Ilias Kolovos for the data from the Xeropotamou Monastery Archive. During the dispute with the monks of Xeropotamou in 1615, the brotherhood of Simonopetra submitted to the kâdî of Thessaloniki a document written in Greek script (Rûm hattile). It was, without doubt, the wellknown copy in Greek of a false (?) charter of Despot Jovan Uglješa, dated 1364. Simonopetra failed to obtain the land in question because their rivals produced a valid hüccet proving their rights.16 Although there is not sufficient evidence to confirm, it may be easily assumed that the acceptance of charters was not associated exclusively with the territory of Mount Athos and its monasteries. In 1638 when the local villagers tried to arrogate the ‘baštine’ of the Monastery of Cetinje (Montenegro) to themselves, the metropolitan Mardarije brought his suit to the ‘emperor’s kâdî’. Why to the kâdî? ‘Because’—as the metropolitan explained in the same document— ‘the Turks ruled at the time’. The following words also belong to the metropolitan: he ‘produced to the kâdî the chrysobulls of Ivan Crnojević and other documents given to us by the Turkish squires’. Thereupon ‘the kâdî confirmed the monastery’s property [baštine]’. We know the whole story about the dispute from a settlement act in Serbian Cyrillic written in the metropolitan’s office.17 It should be emphasized though that, in addition to medieval charters, the Athonite monasteries always substantiated their cases by providing witnesses who were either to confirm the charter’s content

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or to give independent testimony. This should not be considered the sign of distrust of charters as such. Rather, in Islamic law, oral testimony always had precedence over written documents. Although mostly in theory, written documents were to be accepted as evidence only if their content was confirmed by the testimony of witnesses. If it applied to Islamic documents, it must also have applied to nonIslamic documents. If their content had been challenged, even hüccets, although bearing the kâdî’s personal signature and seal, were sometimes only accepted as valid proof after having been authenticated by the witnesses in attendance. Although neglected in theory, in practice written documents were widely accepted by all Islamic governments.18 It is clear that centuries-old charters would have been worthless in the kâdî’s court without witnesses to confirm their contents, particularly if the opposite party supplied the court with valid contemporary Ottoman documents relevant to the case. The examples from the history of Hilandar and its possessions show that the monks presented the charters almost exclusively in the disputes for which they were not able to provide valid Ottoman documents. Once they had won a case on the basis of an old charter and witnesses, and had obtained the lawful hüccet, tapunâme, or hudûdnâme in the case of estates within Mount Athos, they ceased using the charter. From that time on, all the disputes, over the same location were built on the arguments contained in the Ottoman documents. This can be clearly seen from the history of the disputes in the Komitissa region and from the way the hudûdnâme was issued and used.19 Self-evidently, medieval charters as a form of document have nothing to do with documents, omologias, from the Ottoman period. What links them together in this research is the fact that both forms, as documents written in some of the Balkan languages and scripts, were officially used in the Ottoman shari‘a courts and in approximately the same historical period. The examples, although limited in number, have shown that both forms of documents did have legal force. Especially if their authenticity and content were confirmed by witnesses. The spread and use of non-Ottoman documents in the Balkans and other parts of the Ottoman empire seems to have been a much more common phenomenon than may be inferred from the few sources studied. The legal life of such documents was not reduced to a single level determined by the requirement that the parties involved both belong to the same religious or ethnic community. As the Islamic legal system placed no bar on the acceptance of such documents in the shari‘a court, Muslims were free to join in if they wanted to. The study of the everyday life of non-Muslim peoples in the Ottoman empire,

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particularly when based on the sources such as shari‘a sicills and hüccets, frequently raises new and exciting questions. Given the small amount of information, I am far from proposing any final conclusions, but I certainly intend this contribution as a means to draw attention to an interesting phenomenon that is well worth studying.

Notes The research for this paper and the participation in the fifteenth CIEPO symposium was made possible through the grant from The Skilliter Centre for Ottoman Studies, Newnham College, Cambridge. I would like to thank them for their support. Actes de Chilandar, prep. Petit et B. Korablev [Actes de l’Athos V] Vizantijskij Vremennik XVII (1911) No. 166; St. M. Dimitrijević, ‘Dokumenti hilendarske arhive do XVIII veka’, Spomenik LV (1922) 25-8; V. Mošin, ‘Akti iz svetogorskih arhiva’, Spomenik XCI (1939) 191-2; V. Mošin in A. Sovre, Dodatki na grškim listinam Hilandarja. Supplementa ad acta Graeca Chilandarii (Ljubljana, 1948), 44-9. 2 T. Nikčević and B. Pavićević, Cetinje (eds.), Crnogorske isprave XVI–XIX vijeka (1964), 1-16. 3 Dimitrijević, 25-6. The surviving Ottoman documents include a tapunâme and a hüccet (in an uncertified transcript of a later date) regarding a property exchange. See Hilandar Monastery Archive, Turcica (further HMAT), 1/95, 12/37/28. 4 Dimitrijević, 27. 5 HMAT, 3/243. 6 HMAT, 2/120. 7 HMAT, 2/123. 8 Εµµ. Κριαράς, Λεξικό της µεσαιωνικής ελληνικής δηµώδους γραµµατείας (1100–1669), τοµ. ΙΒ΄, Θεσσαλονίκη 1993, 311. 9 A. Cohen, Jewish Life under Islam. Jerusalem in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge, 1984), 124. 10 HMAT, 1/37, 11/1, 11/2. An Ottoman document of 1572 from Kastamonitou, probably forged, also makes mention of ‘vakfiyes in Greek script’. J. C. Alexander (Alexandropoulos), ‘The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away: Athos and the Confiscation Affair of 1568-1569’, Mount Athos in the 14th-sixteenth Centuries (Athonika Symmeikta 4) (Athens, 1997), 171-2. The references to the vakfiyye/ vakıfnâme in the Greek, Serbian or other languages should by no means be confused with the frequently mentioned and well-known general vakıfnâmes of the Athonite monasteries written in Ottoman and issued at the time of the confiscation and redemption of monastic estates in 1569. Alexander, 169-76; A. Fotić, ‘Sveta Gora u doba Selima II’, Hilandarski zbornik 9 (1997) 153-5. 11 HMAT, 1/37. 12 HMAT, 11/1, 11/2. Published with a facsimile and a Serbian translation in V. Boškov, ‘Mara Branković u turskim dokumentima iz Svete Gore’, Hilandarski zbornik 5 (1983) 206-8. 13 For the confiscation and redemption of the Athonite monasteries’ estates, see Fotić, ‘Sveta Gora u doba Selima II’; idem, Sveta Gora i Hilandar u Osmanskom carstvu (XV–XVII vek) (Beograd, 2000), 49-52; Alexander (Alexandropoulos), ‘The 1

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Lord Giveth’; E. Kermeli, ‘The Confiscation and Repossession of Monastic Properties in Mount Athos and Patmos Monasteries, 1568-1570’, Bulgarian Historical Review XXVIII, 3-4 (2000), 39-53 (the author does not mention previous articles on confiscation affair in Mount Athos). 14 HMAT, 1/81. 15 HMAT, 12/37/51. 16 Η. Κολοβός, Χωρικοί και Μοναχοί στην Οθωµανική Χαλκιδική (15ος–16ος αι.) Όψεις της οικονοµικής και κοινονικής Μωνίς στην ύπαιθρο και η Μοωή Ξηροπότάµου, Θεσσαλονίκη 2000, 170 [Ph.D. Diss. in manuscript]. 17 Crnogorske isprave XVI–XIX vijeka, 8-10. 18 R. Brunschvig, ‘Bayyina’, EI2; J. Schacht, An Introduction to Islamic Law (Oxford, 1964), 82-3, 192-4; R. C. Jennings, ‘Limitations of the Judicial Powers of the Kadi in 17th C. Ottoman Kayseri’, Studia Islamica 50 (1979), 173-4. 19 A. Fotić, ‘Dispute between Chilandar and Vatopedi over the Boundaries in Komitissa (1500)’, The Monastery of Vatopedi. History and Art (Athonika Symmeikta 7), (Athens, 1999), 97-101; idem, Sveta Gora i Hilandar u Osmanskom carstvu, 252-65, 275, 280, 283-5.

Johannes Heyman (1667-1737) His Manuscript Collection and the Dutch Community of Izmir Jan Schmidt

Introduction: Manuscripts and the Rise of Orientalism in the Netherlands The history of Oriental studies in the Netherlands witnessed a serious take-off in the late sixteenth century and flourished significantly during the next, seventeenth, century. The times were ripe for this. Economic and diplomatic contacts between the Dutch Republic and, firstly, Morocco, and soon afterwards, the Ottoman Empire, came in the wake of a marked increase of Dutch navigation into the Mediterranean area during the last decade of the sixteenth century. Another factor was the expansion of the Empire towards the centre of Europe which threatened the Catholic world directly but provided an unexpected political opportunity for the Protestant nations. The Dutch Republic established regular diplomatic relations with the Moroccan (Sa’did) sultans in 1610 and with the Porte in 1612. By then the study of Islamic languages, particularly of Arabic, was no longer exclusively regarded as a suspicious activity in the West but increasingly valued as useful by scholars, merchants and politicians. A pivotal role in the scholarly exploration of the East was played, as far as the Dutch Republic was concerned, by Leiden University, founded in 1575. Key figures who taught there were the internationally famous, all-round Renaissance scholar of French Protestant background Joseph Justus Scaliger (1540-1609), appointed in 1593, and Golius (Jacob Gool, 1596-1667), professor of Oriental Languages and Mathematics from 1626 and 1629. The thirst for Oriental knowledge expressed itself at first particularly in the acquisition of documentation on the languages, religion, history, culture and scholarship of the Middle East and beyond. This documentation was primarily furnished by books, that is, handwritten books. In the following, I will emphasise this codicological aspect of the crossing of the linguistic and cultural West-East divide by Dutch scholars. Golius, who travelled in Morocco and the Middle East (1622-4 and 1625-9), and his student Levinus Warner (1619-65),

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who resided in Istanbul from 1644, where he was appointed Dutch envoy in 1654, brought together a substantial collection of Oriental, mostly Arabic, manuscripts, about 1200 of which were acquired by the Leiden University Library. Although Golius—Scaliger had not been an orientalist in the narrower sense of the word—diligently went to work compiling dictionaries and producing text-editions and translations (into Latin) of texts that particularly drew his attention, the mass of material which came to rest on University Library shelves in the second half of the seventeenth century remained, inevitably, largely unexplored. After the death of Golius in 1667, there was a distinct lull in orientalistic—as distinct from theological and Hebrew—activities. The Dutch Golden Age had, perhaps not coincidentally, reached its apex by then and a marked decline had set in on all ways of life, including scholarship. Thus, the chair of Oriental Languages remained unoccupied for 43 years. It was only occupied again by a largely self-educated pastor, Johannes Heyman, to whom and to whose orientalistic activities I would like to draw your attention in the following. Johannes Heyman: Career and Achievements Heyman was appointed professor in Leiden in 1710. He was born in Wesel (at present in Germany) in 1667. Not much seems to be known about his background and early career.1 After a study of theology in Franeker, he was Protestant minister in Urmond and Grevenbicht near his birthplace. Later, in 1699, he was sent by the board of Directors of the Levantine Trade (which supported and coordinated mercantile activities of Dutchmen in the Mediterranean area) to Izmir in order to administer pastoral care to the small local Dutch community. He arrived in the Levantine port in June 1700. He remained in function until September 1705 to the satisfaction, it seems, of the local churchgoers. After short trips to nearby Ephesus in 1701 and Istanbul in 1703, Heyman undertook a longer journey during the final period of his pastorate to Egypt, Palestine and Syria, in order to increase his knowledge of matters Oriental, the local languages in particular. After he had been released from his job, he remained in the Levant. From surviving letters it is clear that Heyman aimed at eventually acquiring an academic position in Holland, and on the instigation of a friend, the scholar and mayor of Deventer, Gisbert Cuper, a correspondent in close touch with learned Academies in Europe,2 he was asked by the curators of Leiden University to come and ‘translate the hand-written books of the Warner Legacy [as the Oriental collection was, and is, known]’. This was in 1707. It was agreed that Heyman should first increase his

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knowledge by further travel; for this he obtained a grant of 1000 guilders for two years. The journey seems to have led him to Chios, Egypt, Palestine, Damascus and Aleppo. In 1708 he was in Safad in Palestine, and during this time he probably (again) met the Dutch merchant Paul Maashoek who lived, more or less integrated in the local Arab society, in Acre.3 In 1709 he was back in Holland and was appointed in Leiden for the next year. He remained in function until his death in 1737. During the last years of his life, Heyman’s health declined and Albert Schultens, already in charge of the manuscript collection from 1729 onwards, was appointed as second professor of Oriental Languages in 1732. The task which Heyman had, on instigation of the Senate, obliged himself to perform was ambitious, to say the least, and little came of it. After nine years, in May 1719, the University curators enquired about his progress with the translations, but this did not seem to have inspired Heyman to show more diligence, although the next year, perhaps stimulated by the alarming letter, he does seem to have initiated a course on Islamic history, or rather on comparative theology in defence of the true Christian faith, based on the text in one of the treasures of the Oriental collection: a fifteen-volume manuscript copy, at least partly an autograph, of the Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn al-adab, an encyclopaedia by ‘Abd al-Wahhāb an-Nuwayrī (d. 732/1332).4 No edition or translation, however, was published, although a partial transcription with Latin translation and notes, as well as the (Latin) text of his academic lectures on the subject have been preserved in Heyman’s handwriting in the University Library.5 What he did get through the press was his inaugural lecture.6 During the years 1710 to 1716 he also worked on a catalogue of the Leiden manuscripts, six volumes of which have been preserved in his handwriting.7 But only an index to it was published.8 Later cataloguers of the collection were rather critical of the work and considered it useless.9 This was a meagre result for 27 years and Heyman’s scholarly activities have, on the whole, been discarded as insignificant and of little value in the few works in which he is referred to. C. Sepp, a nineteenth-century historian of Dutch theological education, characterised him as ‘little known among persons of little significance’,10 and his judgement was repeated by later scholars. Heyman did not publish much, as I will point out later, but—and this is interesting—he seems to have been the first Dutch orientalist, as far as I can see, who was primarily interested in the contemporary Ottoman world, in the historical relations between the Dutch Republic and the Ottoman Empire, in Ottoman Islam and Islamic law, and less so in the more abstract fields of philology, philosophy and literature. A negative judgement on Heyman’s achievements may

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in part also have been inspired by slander: Carolus Schaaf, who had been lecturer in Hebrew and Oriental Languages from 1680 onwards, had aspired to Heyman’s position, and after he had been passed by in 1710, repeatedly wrote letters to the University Senate casting doubt on Heyman’s capability and behaviour.11 Although Heyman was clearly not as brilliant a scholar as Scaliger or Golius before him, the overall negative judgment on his orientalistic activities is exaggerated and needs some revision. Although Heyman did not, or was unable to, publish much during his lifetime, that is not to say that he was lazy or taught badly, or that he was a bad orientalist. Perhaps, in view of the rather nepotistic way in which he obtained his professorate—quite normal for the times in which he lived—it might be thought he was not much interested in academic work in the first place. This does not seem to have been the case. Firstly, his activities were not restricted to the university: his practical linguistic knowledge acquired in loco made him an excellent translator and he earned a substantial income from acting as interpreter, both oral and in writing, for the Directors of the Levantine Trade and the States General.12 Secondly, codicological evidence suggests that he was interested in contemporary Turkish texts; he was a collector of manuscripts, like his predecessors. He bought quite a number of them from a man or had some of them perhaps even copied by him in Izmir. This copyist most probably was a dragoman who worked for the Dutch consulate13 and wrote in an idiosyncratic divanî script (see my inventory below, Nos. 4, 9, 127, copied between 1690-1 and 1708-9). The plethora of glosses in Heyman’s handwriting also shows that he thoroughly studied at least part of these manuscripts. The lexical and colloquial texts clearly had been used in acquiring/increasing his knowledge of Arabic, Persian, and, particularly, Turkish during his sojourn in the Levant. Heyman’s Manuscripts Before going into further details, let us first look at the Heyman collection as a whole. His library seems to have been dispersed after his death, and probably was sold or given away some time after 1737, either at an auction—although no auction catalogue seems to have survived—or item by item. A number of these manuscripts found their way to the Leiden University Library from, mostly, the estates of Dutch orientalists of later generations. The exact extent of the collection can only be traced from internal, codicological evidence (in particular identification of his handwriting), and may have been greater - he may not have added glosses to the texts in all his manuscripts - than my inventory given below suggests. One manuscript, at least, did not find its way to the Leiden library but

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came into the possession of the British Iranist Nathaniel Bland (1803-65) and afterwards, as I discovered during cataloguing work there, into that of the John Rylands University Library in Manchester.14 The Leiden collections comprise, apart from the aforementioned ‘Nuwayriana’ and manuscript catalogue, the following items. For practical reasons15 I restrict myself in the following to items with, mostly, Turkish texts: 1. The Oriental collection (Legatum Warnerianum) of Leiden University Library (a) Acquired from the estate of the Dutch orientalist, Jan Jacob Schultens (1716-78) in 1780: (i) Or. 1228.16 A collection of letters and documents with texts in, mostly, Arabic, Persian and Turkish, among them private letters addressed to the Dutch orientalists Erpenius and Golius, as well as business letters of the Dutch merchant Paul Maashoek - these are accompanied by annotations in Dutch and Italian in Heyman’s handwriting; it forms a twin volume with the aforementioned Manchester MS Persian 913. (ii) Or. 1276.17 A copy of a collection of fetvas by ‘Kör’ Pir Mehmed Efendi of Üsküb (d. 1020/1611 or 1030/1620), dated 1067/1656-7. The work is preceded by a two-page index accompanied by transcriptions and notes in Dutch and Latin in Heyman’s handwriting. (iii) Or. 1288.18 A copy of the popular treatise on the principles of Islam, Vasiyet-name, by Birgili Mehmed Efendi (d. 981/1573), undated. The text is accompanied by transcriptions and notes in Dutch and Latin in Heyman’s handwriting. (iv) Or. 1289.19 A copy of a collection of Aesop’s Fables in an anonymous Turkish translation, completed in Izmir in 1114/1703. Folios with the Turkish text are alternated with leaves containing a three-column glossary of words taken from the adjacent text, with transcriptions and translations into Dutch, Latin and Italian in Heyman’s handwriting. (b) Acquired in the early nineteenth century, source unknown. (v) Or. 1310. A Turkish-Latin glossary in double columns in a neat draft made by Heyman, with additional notes in French. Acquired before 1828. (vi) Or. 1395. Three bundles with papers containing scholarly annotations on the religion, history and geography of the Near East by Heyman in Latin and Dutch with quotations in Arabic, Greek and Hebrew. The third bundle contains a Dutch translation by Heyman of the Treaty of the Pruth

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(xiii) Or. 14.456.20 The MS, copied in Izmir in 1114/1703 by the same copyist who made No. 4, contains two works: a collection of proverbs and a collection of letters and documents, some of them written in Izmir in 1113/1701-2 (from f. 69b). A part of the text is also found in Cod. Or. 1591, No. 9, above. The folios of the original text are alternated by leaves with transcriptions and translations in Italian and Dutch in Heyman’s handwriting. 2. The collection of the Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences, on permanent loan in the Leiden University Library (the collection had formerly belonged to Joannes Willmet (1750-1835) and was purchased at auction by King William I for the Academy in 1837). (xiv) Acad. 76. A copy of an anonymous versified ArabicTurkish dictionary, entitled Müfīdü l-müstefidin and completed in 1053/1663-4. The copy was completed in Izmir in 1104/1692 by the same copyist who made No. 4. The work is preceded by a Latin title in Heyman’s handwriting. (The MS had belonged to Jan Jacob Schultens before it was purchased by Willmet.) (xv) Acad. 80. A copy of an anonymous Turkish vocabulary and phrase-book, accompanied by transcriptions and Italian translations by Heyman, completed in Izmir in 1702 by the same copyist who made No. 4. The work is preceded by Latin and Italian titles in Heyman’s handwriting. (The MS had belonged to Jan Jacob Schultens before it was purchased by Willmet.) (xvi) Acad. 87. Three collections of letters followed by an anonymous Arabic-Persian-Turkish glossary of epistolary terms, partly accompanied by transcriptions and glosses in Dutch, probably not by Heyman, completed in Izmir in 1102/1690-1 by the same copyist who made No. 4. The work is preceded by Latin and Italian titles in Heyman’s handwriting. (The MS had belonged to Jan Jacob Schultens before it was purchased by Willmet.) (xvii) Acad. 96. Two copies of an anonymous collection of dialogues, with transcriptions and Italian translations (pp. 29), and completed in Izmir in 1702 by the same copyist who made No. 4. The work is preceded by Latin and Italian titles in Heyman’s handwriting. (The MS had belonged to Jan Jacob Schultens before it was purchased by Willmet.) The most outstanding items of the collection are, doubtless, the collection of original Arabic and Turkish letters, found in No. 1, and a collection of copies of fermans and accompanying correspondence

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issued on behalf of the Dutch community of Izmir during the years 1684-90 found in No. 16 (Acad. 87(2), pp. 141-261). The former I have described elsewhere in detail,21 so I will not discuss them here; the latter item I will describe in the following. A Collection of Fermans and Accompanying Correspondence The fermans, 26 in number, found in MS Acad. 87, were all issued on instigation of the Dutch envoy at the Porte, Jacob (‘Giacomo’) Colyer (in office 1682-1725), to the Ottoman authorities, mostly the local kadi—sometimes also to the kapudan/emin or customs officers—in Izmir. There are also seven letters and a legal document (hüccet), mostly on the same subjects; one undated business letter stands apart in the series. Their contents provide a lively documentation on the life of the small Dutch nation in the town just prior to Heyman’s arrival in 1700. Most fermans, fifteen in number, concern the unlawful harassment of, and levying of duties from Dutch captains or individuals, including consular personnel and protégés, belonging to the Dutch community in Izmir; seven concern problems caused by the earthquake of 1688; three treat the lack of safety and violence caused by the presence of Algerian corsairs in Izmir and surroundings; and two discuss the obstruction of Dutch trade. Problems with Ottoman officials about duties and taxes as well as conflicts related to shipping and trade were of all periods, but the 1688 earthquake and its consequences, and the problems with Algerian corsairs were not. These in particular inspired a lively exchange of letters between Dutch diplomats and the Ottoman authorities, but also between the diplomats and the Dutch authorities: the States General in The Hague and the Directors of the Levantine Trade in Amsterdam (preserved in the National Archives in The Hague). They merit some attention because they demonstrate the precarious existence of Western expatriates in the Empire during times of crises. The Earthquake of 1688 The first detailed news of the earthquake was sent to Amsterdam by the Dutch consul, Jacob van Dam (in function 1668-88—he had just been succeeded by Daniël Jan de Hochepied), five days after the first shock had been felt.22 Writing from the French ship Les Daufins anchored in the bay of Izmir, he described how between eleven and twelve o’clock in the morning of the 20th, during ‘uncommonly beautiful and lovely weather’, the earth was shaken briefly but vehemently, as a result of which nearly all houses and the Izmir

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castle were destroyed. Immediately afterwards a fire broke out which, fanned by a fierce wind, turned the remains of the buildings to ashes; it was still smouldering as he wrote. Van Dam had escaped a certain death because it had not yet been time for luncheon and he had been in his garden at sixty to seventy paces from his house. It seemed as if the Final Hour had struck or a great number of mines had gone off, and soon day turned into night because of the dust of collapsing houses and walls. The disaster had been made worse by the appearance of people with axes and knives who had come to rob and plunder, carrying off anything they could dig out or cut away. An unbearable stench from the bodies of men and animals hung over the ruins, which by night looked like the burning Sodom and Gomorrah. Van Dam spent an anxious day and night in his garden, without food or drink, watching the fire and the water of the blocked river Meles closing in on him. In the end he had, with the help of consular staff and two Janissaries, been able to escape—as he had in April 1667 from the earthquake of Ragusa—together with the Directorate’s coffers, to the aforementioned French ship. Of the about twenty-five Dutch merchants residing in the city, miraculously only one had been killed, and two or three wounded. The French consul had perished and two German priests (Dutch protégés) had been burned alive. About a thousand Turks had reportedly been among the victims. The Dutch chancery, the Directorate’s seals, and the consular papers had been lost. After-shocks were still being felt fourteen or fifteen times each day, causing the collapse of remaining walls and chimneystacks. The harbour had become useless. Van Dam had lost all his earthly possessions. His successor, De Hochepied, writing from the village of Hacılar on 8 October, reported to the States General23 that workmen and materials were arriving every day to rebuild the city, although the men to be sent from Istanbul for rebuilding the local han had not yet shown up; the foreign merchants had decided to look for temporary lodging in the old town—the ‘Franks’ street’ (Christene Straat), where the French, English and Dutch merchants had been living had been reduced to rubble—before the winter would set in. Of the merchants living in tents, four Englishmen had already died of ‘heavy illnesses’; some of the Dutchmen had also fallen ill. Meanwhile, the Dutch envoy, Colyer, had complained to the Porte on a number of issues related to the difficult situation of the Dutchmen in the town, and fermans had been sent forbidding the local authorities from obstructing the Dutch trying to recover possessions from the debris of their houses and warehouses24; the message was repeated a fortnight later, adding that the kadi should bring to justice those guilty of robbing Dutchmen of retrieved possessions.25 In the same week, the Porte urged the local naib to

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forbid the levying of export duty for the second time on goods dug out from the rubble and brought to safety on French and English ships.26 Two months later, another ferman was issued to the kadi of Izmir, ordering him to see to the well being of the Dutchmen, forbidding their harassment: they should not be prevented from finding lodgings or trade.27 A ferman issued a week earlier had ordered the restitution of rent to Dutchmen paid in advance for houses no longer extant.28 In the spring of the next year, 1689, a ferman forbade the establishment of taverns (meyhane) by unsavoury elements (‘bandits’) amidst the dwellings temporarily inhabited by the Dutch consul and merchants after the earthquake; they had already caused all sorts of mischief.29 The message was repeated more than a year later.30 Terrorising Algerians Anxious months were also spent by the Dutch during the years 1689 and 1690, when Izmir was visited by Algerian corsairs (levends). During their presence one Dutch merchant was killed and two servants of Dutch houses were kidnapped and only released after a substantial ransom had been paid. The merchant killed was Daniël Cosson, who was a business partner of Willem Marcquis. De Hochepied sent a detailed report to The Hague on 12 September 1689.31 During that year a small fleet— De Hochepied mentions the number of fifteen—of Algerian, Tunisian and Tripolitan ships manned by corsairs had come to reinforce the Ottoman navy consisting of galleons under the command of the kapudan pasha which was anchored off the island of Chios. The navy lay ready for an attack against the Venetians who had captured Navplio in the Morea peninsula (Peleponnese). The enrolment of the corsairs had become feasible after a treaty had been concluded between Algiers and France, formerly at war, during the same year. On their way to the eastern Mediterranean, the corsairs had already captured a French ship off Sardinia and some other vessels, and had enslaved 140 Christians. Parts of the combined fleet were anchored in the bay of Izmir and off Foça, also with the intention to scrape the vessels clean. Members of the crew, disconcertingly, were often seen in the streets of Izmir and the surrounding villages where they behaved raucously and violently, harassing ladies and cutting off noses and ears of Jews. Shops remained closed on such days, and the inhabitants stayed at home. On the evening of 3 August 1689, Cosson, who, in order to escape contagion by plague, was staying with Dutch colleagues, among them his business partner Marcquis, in a house in the village of Hacılar, went out for a walk. While he was passing by the last

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house of the village, Cosson observed three Algerians sitting there, busy eating and drinking. As soon as they spotted him, he was invited to join them, and forced, much against his will, to eat a boiled egg. When it appeared that he was a Dutchmen, one of the Algerians said: ‘Well, that means that you are our enemy’32—the Dutch Republic as member of the League of Augsburg had been at war with France since the previous year. A rope was put around his body, he was tied up, and the Algerians proposed to drink his blood. His heels were slashed to bloody pieces with their swords. When rumour of the crime spread through the village, a searching party reinforced with a number of armed English merchants went out to hunt the culprits. Two Algerians were captured by local farmers, and soon Cosson’s body was found, the back of his head crushed. The kadi of Bornova was summoned, but only his deputy, naib, appeared towards midnight. One of the captured Algerians was interrogated, but he was too drunk to be able to respond coherently. Fearing revenge, the Dutch and English merchants retreated to the house of the English consul, William Raye, in Seydiköy near Izmir, barricading the gate, and begging the kadi of Izmir by letter to have the sailors removed from the town. A part of the merchants had remained on the English ship that had evacuated them from Hacılar. Meanwhile, the Algerians—one of their mates had been killed—continued to harass English and Dutch merchants in the Izmir streets and had demanded blood money from the same kadi to compensate for their dead friend. More letters were sent by the Dutch and English consuls to the kadi and the kapudan, demanding justice. The kapudan, Mustafa Pasha, promised to withdraw his men to the ships, and informed them that the perpetrator of the murder had been punished with 500 strokes. On the 12th, the merchants returned to the town, now considered safe against the plague, and a legal document (hüccet) on the case was issued by the kadi of Bornova. The kadi of Izmir had the inhabitants of Hacılar arrested, and a great number of them were conducted in chains to Izmir on the 22nd, accused of having allowed the Algerians to kill a European merchant and neglected to warn his friends. In a joint meeting with members of the foreign community, who were served coffee, sherbet and attar of roses, the kadi proposed—the foreigners eventually agreed—that the farmers of Hacılar (who declared that they had been intimidated by the Algerians) be released after having received a beating on the soles of their feet. Later in the year, a ferman was sent to the kadi on the request of Colyer, mentioning the murder and instructing the official to take care that the rights of the Dutchmen were guaranteed.33 The Barbary corsairs, however, did not stay on board their ships and, as De Hochepied reported in great detail to the Directors on

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behalf of the Dutch merchants on 1 August 1690,34 kept harassing the locals in the streets of Izmir. They not only intimidated the Franks but also the local Turks and Greeks; on 4 June 1690 a Greek lady had been assailed (gesolemniseert). This resulted in a riot during which four to five Algerians were molested; one was killed—a Frenchman was accused of this - and another wounded. Another crisis arose after it appeared that a slave, originally from the town of Lübeck—he pretended to be a Dutchman—and purchased for 4,000 aspers, had escaped from the lodgings of his master, the Algerian corsair Sağır (‘Deaf’) Ahmed. This was on 26 June. The next day, 27 June, the latter came in the company of some cronies to the house of De Hochepied and demanded compensation. Later in the afternoon, action was undertaken; the Algerians went to the houses of the Dutch merchants Marcquis, Bourgois and Van Wijck, found their doors unlocked and captured two Dutchmen who had formerly been slaves of Barbary corsairs but subsequently released. Thereupon the consuls of England, France and Holland held a meeting and sent a delegation to the kadi. The latter refused to appear, but after threats that the foreign merchants would retreat on their ships in protest, he came forward but declared that he stood powerless because of the absence of the Janissary garrison and their commander (serdar), but he agreed to send a man, shaykh Mehmed Ağa, to the han where the Algerians had lodgings. It soon appeared that they were refusing to let the Dutchmen go unless a ransom was paid. After much hesitation the kadi eventually agreed to write an official document (ars informe) which would inform the Porte of the case. The next day, 28 June, it became clear that the kidnapped Dutchmen had been removed to the countryside, and another meeting was held by the consul, the merchants, the kadi and other local dignitaries. The kadi expressed his fear of the corsairs and refused to publicly hand over the aforementioned document. (The hüccet issued by the kadi, Ahmed Efendi, and addressing the Dutch ‘balyoz’ and merchants, which describes the events is found in MS Acad. 87.35 The same manuscript also contains a copy of a complaint from the kadi to the Porte about the behaviour of the corsairs, relating the murder of one of them—three Muslims had brought the corpse to the court-room and had demanded a hüccet—the flight of one of their slaves, and the kidnapping of two müste’min by them.36) After that, it was decided to send a delegation: the dragoman accompanied by Janissaries, to the kapudan pasha at Foça. He was politely received by the vice-admiral, Ömer Ağa, who declared himself ready to see to it that the ars reached Istanbul. (This was probably the petition, found in MS Acad. 87, in which the Dutch balyoz requests the protection of the Dutch nation in the aftermath of the murder of a ‘Maghribian’ and the raiding of the house of a

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Dutchman by five levends in order to release a slave).37 This soon resulted in the arrival on the 30th of the çavuş of the kaimmakam with a ferman, issued on request of the French ambassador, Châteauneuf, and addressing the kadi and the kapudan pasha, which ordered them to restore the peace and recommended an amicable settlement of the matter with the Algerians, who after all were, like the French, friends of the sultan. Another ferman of about the same date was issued on the instigation of Colyer, ordering the protection of the local Dutchmen and the punishment of corsairs and brigands who were harassing them.38 Ömer Ağa, during the ensuing meeting, urged the French consul to pay compensation for the murdered Algerian, and told De Hochepied to pay the requested ransom and save the hostages. After some bargaining, the consul agreed to pay the demanded 500 Lion’s Dollars. On 2 July, the Dutchmen were released; the consul also received a legal document (hüccet) from Sağır Ahmed in which the official release of his slave, the man from Lübeck, was confirmed. At the end of the same month, a kapucıbaşı of the grand vizier arrived in Izmir, bringing another ferman addressing the kadi and the kapudan, ordering them to hold the Barbary corsairs in check; offenders should be punished—it was read out in the presence of the dragomans of the three consulates. Two days later, on the 22nd, the English and Dutch consuls approached the kapucıbaşı and asked him to co-operate in the restitution of the ransom. He refused politely, but promised to show the ferman to the captains of the corsair ships. For this he received a golden watch and some money - which clearly disappointed him, but he was reassured that these were only preliminary gifts. Colyer, meanwhile, had approached the grand vizier on the matter, a ferman had been issued, but it had no effect, as De Hochepied reported to the Directors on 6 September. The Algerians had even attacked a Turkish vessel near Izmir, thereby killing its captain. The Dutch merchant Van Wijck had been chased through the streets of Izmir and had barely escaped with his life inside his house. Epilogue Although I do not know when the Ottoman fleet and their corsair allies left the waters near Izmir, no more complaints about them seem to have been heard from the Dutch nation. By the time Heyman arrived in Izmir, peace had been restored in Europe (with the Treaty of Rijswijk in 1697), the Ottoman Empire (with the treaty of Karlowitz in 1699), and in Izmir, where the manuscript documenting in ornate prose the rough times of a decade earlier awaited him. Whether he read the letters and documents is not

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certain, but if he did, they must have contributed to his understanding of the local, Ottoman world and, eventually, to his task as translator and orientalist.

Notes 1 For a brief biography, see Nieuw Nederlandsch Biografisch Woordenboek IX (Leiden, 1933), cols. 361-2, where other sources are mentioned; on his Levantine period, see Jan Willem Samberg, De Hollandsche gereformeerde gemeente te Smirna. De geschienis eener handelskerk (Leiden, 1928), 111-15. 2 Heyman and Cuper exchanged letters between 1699 and 1710, see A.H. Huussen en C. Wes-Patoir, ‘Hoe een ambitieuze predikant te Smirna professor te Leiden werd. Brieven van Ds. Johannes Heyman en Gisbert Cuper, 1699-1700’, in Holland, historisch tijdschrift (31) 1999, 87-100. Heyman had promised to collect data on classical coins and inscriptions in the Levant for his friend (letter of 6.11.1700) and describe his travels in his letters. Nothing much came of this and Heyman stopped writing to his patron after he had been appointed in Leiden. 3 See my ‘An Ostrich Egg for Golius. The Heyman Papers Preserved in the Leiden and Manchester University Libraries and Early-Modern Contacts Between the Netherlands and the Middle East’, in The Joys of Philology. Studies in Ottoman Literature, History and Orientalism II (Analecta Isisiana LX, Istanbul, 2002), 9-74, esp. 59 ff. In a letter in Cod.Or. 1380 (first unnumbered document), dated 1117/1705, Heyman informs an unknown agha that he had had problems with the governor (müsellim) of Acre and had been forced to pay 12 kuruş to the French consul. Both the Dutch consul in Izmir, Daniel de Hochepied, and Paul Maashoek are explicitly mentioned in the letter. 4 Preserved as Cod.Or. 2a-o, cf. P. Voorhoeve, Handlist of Arabic Manuscripts in the Library of the University of Leiden and Other Collections in the Netherlands, 2nd ed. (Leiden, 1980), 252-3; for the author and the work, see Carl Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Literatur 2 Vols., 2nd ed. (Leiden, 1946-9) II, 140. 5 Preserved as Cod.Or. 1393-4 (cf. Voorhoeve, Handlist, 253). Purchased by the library from the pastor Johannes Dresselhuis (1789-1861) between 1831 and 1836. 6 Oratio inauguralis de commendando studio Linguarum Orientalium (Leiden, 1710). 7 Preserved as Cod.Or. 1372. Acquired by the library from an unknown source between 1831 and 1836. 8 As part of a more general catalogue: Catalogus librorum tam impressorum quam manuscriptorum Bibliothecae Publicae Universitatis Lugduno-Batavae by Senguerdius and Gronovius (Leiden, 1716). 9 Cf. H.E. Weijers, Orientalia I (Amsterdam, 1840), 301-3. 10 Quoted in Willem Otterspeer, Groepsportret met Dame II. De vesting van de macht. De Leidse universiteit, 1673-1775 (Amsterdam 2002), 184. 11 Otterspeer, Groepsportret II, 185. 12 Cf. K. Heeringa, Bronnen tot de geschiedenis van den Levantschen handel II (The Hague 1917), 344-6, 350, 497-99, 531, 532, 546. Transcriptions of original letters in Arabic and Turkish with annotations in Heyman’s handwriting are found in Codices Or. 1395 and 1598 (see also below). A translation by Heyman is also found in Cod.Or. 1380 (2). 13 His handwriting is also found in a letter in Turkish, referred to above, from Heyman to an unknown agha, dated 1117/1705 (in Cod. Or. 1380, first unnumbered document); it also appears in a letter from the Dutch consul in Izmir,

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Daniel de Hochepied, to the Commander of the Ottoman Fleet, undated, preserved in the Leiden Museum voor Volkenkunde (Ethnographic Museum), No. 369550. 14 Preserved as MS Persian 913; see my An Ostrich Egg for Golius’. 15 That is: the insufficient cataloguing of the Arabic, Persian and other Leiden collections. 16 Described in detail in my Catalogue of Turkish Manuscripts in the Library of Leiden University and Other Collections of the Netherlands I (Leiden, 2000), 521-33. 17 See my Catalogue, 568-70. 18 See my Catalogue, 586-8. 19 See my Catalogue, 588-90. 20 The contents are analysed by Alexander H. de Groot, ‘An Eighteenth Century Ottoman Turkish-Dutch Letterbook and Some of Its Implications’, in Hans Georg Majer (ed.), Osmanische Studien zur Wirtschaft- und Sozialgeschichte, In Memoriam Vančo Boškov (Wiesbaden 1986), 34-45. 21 See my ‘An Ostrich Egg for Golius’. 22 Letter of 25 July 1688, preserved in the National Archives, The Hague (hereafter NA), Archive of the Directors of the Levantine Trade (LH), 125. See on Van Dam: W.E. van Dam van Isselt, ‘Eenige lotgevallen van Jacob van Dam, consul te Smirna van 1668-1688’, in Bijdragen voor vaderlandsche geschiedenis en oudheidkunde IV/6 (1907), 78-134. 23 Letter in NA, Liassen Constantinopel, Archive of the States General (SG) 6917. 24 Hükm-i hümayun, dated last days of Ramazan 1099 (20-29 July 1688), MS Acad. 87, 195-9. 25 Hükm-i şerif of the middle of Şevval 1099/8-17 August 1688, ibid. 199-203. 26 Hükm-i hümayun of the same date, ibid. 203-6. 27 Hükm-i şerif of the middle of Zilhicce 1099/6-15 October 1688, ibid. 158-63. 28 Hükm-i hümayun, dated the first days of Zilhicce 1099/27 September - 5 October 1680, ibid. 163-6. 29 Hükm-i şerif, dated the last days of Cemazilahir 1100 (11-20 April 1689), ibid. 206-9. 30 Hükm-i şerif of the early days of Zilkade 1101 (6-15 August 1690), ibid. 174-8. 31 Preserved in NA, SG 6917. 32 ‘wel soo seijt ghij dan onsen vijant’ 33 Hükm-i şerif, dated the middle of Zilhicce 1100/26 September - 4 October 1689, in MS Acad. 87, 169-74. 34 Preserved in NA, LH 126. 35 Dated 21 Ramazan 1101/28 June 1690, in MS Acad. 87, 30-2. 36 ibid. 232-4. 37 ibid. 251-3. 38 Hükm-i şerif, dated the final days of Ramazan 1101/28 June - 7 July 1690, ibid. 224-30.

Calendars and Guidebooks in Greek Language as Sources for Getting to Know an Ottoman City Engin Berber

This study aims at introducing Greek calendars (imerologion) and guidebooks (odigos), which had simultaneously been published with the Ottoman yearbooks, to acknowledge their value in getting to know an Ottoman city, in particular the city of Izmir. Sources in my study are catalogues of auctions (a total of seventeen) named as ‘antique (or) rare books’ that were carried out by various institutions in Athens. In addition to these, a thematic catalogue,1 which also included sâlnâmes, prepared by Emmanuil Aleks Kepas for the exhibition2 ‘Press in Asia Minor’, the information gathered from Izmir bibliographies in Greek,3 and samples of yearbooks—most of which are about Izmir— which we have gathered in our own private library through photocopying them in various libraries in Athens or purchasing from antique bookshops. According to these sources, I classified the yearbooks into three groups: (i) yearbooks printed within Greece, (ii) yearbooks printed outside the Ottoman Empire; and (iii) yearbooks in Greek printed within the Ottoman Empire. The books are listed in the tables according to these classifications, with their Greek titles, the authors, the place and date of print, and the year of new editions. Almost all of the yearbooks were published by private institutions or people of no official status.4 Some of them contain rich descriptions of contemporary history. Based on the list of comprehensive catalogues and bibliographies of Greek yearbooks and calendars, I give an overview of the collection and some examples of the contents that give important historical information about the Ottoman cities.5 Calendars and Yearbooks Published within the Kingdom of Greece The oldest yearbook that we came across in auction catalogues is Yearbook of Athens by Irineos Asopiu, dated 1870.6 The early examples include: Yearbook of All Years;7 National Yearbook by

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İoannis Arseni and Konstantinos F. Skoku;8 Yearbook by Konstantinos F. Skoku;9 Practical Yearbook;10 Yearbook of Great Greece by G. Drosini;11 Yearbook of Izmir12 by Evang. D. Pandelidu; Yearbook of Jerusalem by Dimıtriu Taku;13 Yearbook of Asia Minor by Eleni Svoronu;14 Yearbook of Salonika by Meropis P. Çiomu;15 Encyclopedic Yearbook by A. Vretu;16 Yearbook of Piraeus;17 Yearbook of Siros;18 Yearbook of Macedonia;19 Guidebook of Greece by Nikolaos G. Igglesi;20 Greek Guidebook by G. N. Mihail;21 and The Asian Greece or The Greek Guidebook of Asia Minor.22 The last of these was probably published in 1921. (See Group I of the Table) Even though we could/did not have the chance to see all of them, the samples in our possession made it suffice to conceive the fact that these yearbooks contain rich and original information about the Ottoman Empire and Ottoman cities. Therefore we would like to draw some conclusions based on these samples. Guidebook of Greece by Nikolaos G. Igglesi,23 dated 1911, devotes an important place to Cyprus and its cities, which, although officially an Ottoman territory, was administered by Great Britain at that time. The chapter titled ‘Guidebook of Cyprus Island’ (pp.194-201) begins with the geographical location and a brief history of the island followed by descriptions of issues such as governmental institutions and administrators, laws in effect, religious posts and authorities, agricultural products and harvest, language, local administration and administrators, military and domestic security, taxes, trade, population, education, forests, mines, ports, fishery, transportation and communication. Consequently, it gives detailed information of all the settlements on the island. I would like to give a more detailed description of The Greek Guidebook dated 1920,24 whose chapter on Izmir I recently translated into Turkish in the previous years. G. N. Mihail, whose identity is unknown, prepared the guidebook. It was printed in 1919 by the Geo Advertising Company, owned by Kirieris-Giannopulos and their partners, the central office of which was in Constitution Square in Athens. More than a hundred pages of this guidebook were devoted to description of Izmir.25 This attitude should be explained that since Izmir was occupied in the same year that this guidebook was printed, the publishers already began to perceive the city as a Greek city, or possibly as a wish to make propaganda prior to the final decision of the West on the fate of the Ottoman Empire. In the preface it states that: ‘the guidebook was based ‘… on rich and abundant material from many sources compiled by both the foreign and local specialists as a result of a long, systematic and careful effort’ and starts with a brief history of Anatolia (pp. 1-4)’.

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The history of Izmir is presented under titles ‘prehistoric’, ‘historical times’, ‘Lydian period’, ‘Persian conquest’, ‘the time of Alexander the Great’, ‘Byzantine period’, ‘Turkish conquest’, ‘contemporary Izmir’, and ‘population’ (pp. 4-6). Another issue that Zeki Arıkan pointed out is the fact that the guidebook mentions Çaka Bey had established the first Turkish Beylik in Izmir and its surroundings at the end of the eleventh century, which was unknown to many Turkish historians at that time.26 Under the title ‘Izmir’s Economy’ information on agriculture, trade, export products, industrial and harbor activities are presented (pp. 6-12) with the accompaniment of quantitative data, which we have not come across in the sources (pp. 13-15). Following the section mentioning the length of railroads extending from Izmir to Anatolia is the alphabetical catalogue of the streets of Izmir (pp. 15-22), which is another new and valuable contribution to our knowledge. It is not possible to acquire such information in twenty five official sâlnâmes of Aydın Province published between 1879/1296 and 1908/1326.27 The guidebook lays out a clear portrait of the departments and officials of the municipality (pp. 23-6) thereby shedding light on the administrative and military structure of the city during the Greek occupation about which Turkish sources give little information if any. Unique details, which could not be encountered in other sources regarding members of the clergy and the buildings of various religious communities, schools, associations, social clubs, charitable foundations, historical sights, chambers of commerce, newspapers, cinemas, theaters, hospitals and thermal springs, foreign agents and chiefs of diplomatic mission, and prisons (pp. 23-46) are included as well, which shed light on the socio-cultural life of Izmir’s nonMuslim communities. Since the readers of our translation are already familiar with the details, it is not the subject of this article to enumerate them one by one. Last but not least, the alphabetical catalogue (pp. 43-98) titled ‘the businessmen of Izmir’ is the most important and voluminous section of the Greek Guide. While this unique catalogue sheds lights on Izmir’s economic life and the actors as a maritime trade center,28 it helps us to discover commercial buildings and sites like bazaars and khans not mentioned in the sâlnâmes of Aydın Province or in other Turkish sources.29 Calendars and Yearbooks Published Outside the Kingdom of Greece Including the Ottoman Empire The category of foreign editions include the Yearbook and Muslim Calendar of 1896 and 1897, printed in Venice by Finiks (presumably the publishing house); 30 the Calendar and Guidebook of Izmir With

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Neighboring Islands Pertaining to 1890 printed in Alexandria,31 and the Yearbook of Egypt of 1921, printed in Alexandria.32 The Calendar and Guidebook of Izmir With Neighboring Islands, of which we possess an original copy, is the third yearbook of Amalthia (1838-1922), a Greek newspaper published in Izmir. The yearbook, printed at Omonia Printing Office in 1889, contained 373 pages. Fifty two of these have no page numbers and devoted to advertisements (whole or half-page) some of which are illustrated. The first advertisement belongs to Amalthia Printing Office, the address of which is the Agiu Georgiu Street. The International Marine Insurance Company, Musical Instruments Shop of Cerardo Korletti, Tipos Printing Office and Lithography Workshop of Mih. Nikolaidu, The Big Warehouse of H. Homsi and Partners, Hotel Manoli, American Bazaar of Palamari Brothers, The Pastry Shop of Evan. L. Zarboni and Partners, Stationery and Bookstore of D. Vretopulu and an advertisement of Amalthia newspaper are some examples that attract attention at first sight in the yearbook. The yearbook consists of five chapters. The first chapter is mostly dedicated to literature (pp. 1-128) containing the following articles: ‘Seven Islands, Historical Notes’ by G. D. Kanale; ‘Pages from the History of Izmir’ by G. K. İperidu; ‘Jewish Literature’ by David Korri; ‘The Natural Beauties of Aynaroz’ by Kim. Papamihailof; ‘Traditions in Asia Minor’ by M. Çakiroğlu; ‘Christmas Eve in Venice’ by P. Athinogenus; ‘Earthquakes in the East’ by Sp. Foru; ‘Small Intestine Disease and Medicine’ by İ. Th. Paleologu; ‘Chemistry, Food and Beverage’ by H. Kutuzi; ‘Rose in Literature’ by Em. Giannakopulu; ‘Giant Statue from Ephesus’ by G. Weber; ‘The Ones Who Cut Our Grandmothers’ Hair’ by S. Solomonidu. The poems of İp. G. Leon, M. Krendiropulu, G. Voncalidu, D. Stai, G. Vogiaci and others are also included in this chapter. Following the second chapter, where there is the information on the calendar (pp. 129-37), is the third and lengthiest chapter (pp. 138-274) entitled ‘Guidebook of Izmir’. In our opinion it is more striking to give the headings and sub-headings of this chapter rather than writing on the importance of them: 1. Turkey: (i) area and population; (ii) administrative divisions. 2. Aydın province: (i) agriculture; (ii) income and expenditures; (iii) industry; (iv) minerals and mines, forests; (v) marketplaces; (vi)distances and roads. 3. Izmir city: (i) history of Izmir; (ii) population; (iii) administrative assembly of the city; (iv) judicial courts; (v) prisons and prison guards; (vi) chairmanship of the port; (vii) passport department, (viii) quarantine; (viiii) municipalities, (x) consulate authorities; (xi) religious personalities; (xii) customs; (xiii) Ottoman Public

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Debt; (xiv) Tobacco Monopoly (Regie); (xv) Telegraph and Post Offices; (xvi) Dock Company (Rıhtım Şirketi); (xvii) public utility gas, electricity; (xviii) chamber of commerce; (xviiii) maritime companies; (xx) railroads, trolleys; (xxi) fire and vessel insurances; (xxii) religious buildings; (xxiii) charity foundations; (xxiv) educational institutions; (xxv) museums and libraries; (xxvi) inventory of archaeological remains; (xxvii) newspapers, printing offices. 4. careers and employees 5. suburbs. In the fourth chapter (pp. 274-85) titled ‘Statistical Notes’, records of birth, marriage, death, and health status of Greek-Orthodox community pertaining to 1888 and 1889, the number of passengers and amount of cargo transported by Aydın Railroad Company are presented in addition to the quantitative data of fires occurring in 1889. The final chapter of the yearbook is titled ‘A Guide to the Environs’ (pp. 286-373). Following the descriptions of capital districts of Aydın Province, Province of the Islands of the Aegean Archipelago (Cos, Lesbos, Rhodes, Samos, Chios and others), a list of the members of the community is given acknowledging their efforts in gathering and dispatching the necessary information. Almost all of the yearbooks published within the Ottoman Empire focus on Izmir, Istanbul and their environs. The Yearbook of Pontus and Guidebook of Trabzon with Its Environs prepared by İ. Yoannidu in 1904;33 Yearbook of Asia Minor pertaining to 1907, prepared by Eleni S. Svoronu and printed in Samos;34 the illustrated Pan-Hellenic Yearbook prepared by Ang. Simiriotu-Perikl. Angelidu in 1909;35 and the Yearbook of the Brotherhood of Mersin Orthodoxy in 1909.36 The earliest Greek yearbook printed in Izmir that we were able to recognize is Yearbook and Muslim Calendar of 1838.37 The Calendar of 1855;38 Annual Calendar of 1857;39 Guidebook of Syria;40 Eastern Yearbook Pertaining to the Leap year of 1868 and Essential Yearbook;41 Eternal Yearbook printed in 1869;42 Amalthia’s Yearbook Pertaining to 1893 printed in 1892; Amalthia’s Yearbook Pertaining to 1894, printed in 1893; Guidebook of World Trade pertaining to 1908;43 Greek Guidebook of Commerce in Turkey pertaining to 1909-10; Yearbook of ‘New Life’44 and Eastern Yearbook 191345 are other yearbooks that were obviously printed in Izmir. Although these yearbooks give considerable weight to Izmir and Istanbul, original and detailed information is also provided about the Ottoman Empire and other Ottoman cities.

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On the cover of Amalthia newspaper’s fourth yearbook named: Yearbook of Amalthia Newspaper Pertaining to 1893, it states that ‘printed with order 818 of the Imperial Ministry of Education’. The first 16 pages of this 258-page yearbook contain human portraits, and eighteen large size advertisements at the end. There are two chapters in the yearbook the first of which consists of the calendar (pp. 1-16). The second chapter (pp. 17-254) is dedicated to art and history with articles such as, Sokratis Solomonidi’s: ‘The First Greek Newspapers of Izmir; G. K. İperidu’s: ‘Plague in Izmir’; Sp. Foru’s: ‘Commerce in Izmir from 1600 to 1820s’; Mih. Çakiroğlu’s: ‘Grand Viziers’; G. Weber’s: ‘Bridge of Caravans.’ Poems and short stories of F. G. Delaggrammatika, Efr. Sekiari, Arist. Kalliga, G. Voncalidu ve Mih. Argiropulu, S. Kessisoğlu, A. Kurniakti, Arm. Hamudopulu, K. Papadimitriu, S. Pittaki various works of art were also included in the yearbook.46 Almost whole of Amalthia newspaper’s fifth yearbook (291 pages) of 1894, which carried the same title as the fourth one, is dedicated to art and history (chapter one, pp. 1-275). G. Weber’s: ‘Castle of Saint Peter in Izmir’; Mih. Çakiroğlu’s: ‘Cholera Epidemic of 1893 in Izmir’; K. Papamihailof’s: ‘A Sketch of Bornova’ and Mitropolit Vasiliu’s: ‘Catalogue of Izmir’s Famous Bishops from Jesus Christ till Today’, are notable articles of the yearbook.47 The Guidebook of World Trade was printed in Amalthia Printing Office and prepared by Mihail I. Mihailidu, about whose identity is unknown. The guidebook is 556 pages long and published in both Greek and French.48 On the cover of the guidebook it says, in Greek: ‘Printed with the license granted by the Imperial Ministry of Education no: 310/2131, of 22 August 1906 (16 Şaban 1324).’ In the foreword (p. 4) Mihailidis says that these annual guidebooks of trade attracted great interest in the civilized world, and underlines the role of advertising played by guidebooks with a view to the promotion and consumption of products. He goes on to say that the motivation behind publishing such a guidebook was the needs of his fellow countrymen, and expresses his gratitude for the contributions of Greeks from all over the world in preparation of the guidebook. Following the foreword, the guidebook quotes news and articles about this particular guidebook from Izmir, Istanbul, and Salonica and Athens newspapers. Patris Newspaper (Athens), stating that the guidebook gave information on 211 cities of the Ottoman Empire points out the importance of the guidebook by claiming: ‘It covers all merchants, industrialists, brokers and producers of Europe, Greece and the East’. The guidebook gives alphabetical index (pp. 78) titled, ‘A Geographical Panel of the Prominent Cities of the Ottoman Empire and Other Countries’. The guidebook analyzes the cities after giving information about the area, population, capital city,

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dynasty, and members of the cabinet (pp. 9 and others) of the Ottoman Empire. What the guidebook says about Izmir, which we are about to mention, will set an example for the other cities included in it. After a two-page introduction (pp. 271-2) to the brief history, the administrative state, agricultural and commercial situation, railroads, suburbs, chiefs of diplomatic missions of the city; and schools, churches, hospitals, associations and social clubs of the GreekOrthodox community in Izmir, the Rum49 merchants, industrialists, brokers and the producers are enumerated by profession. Advertisements presented in this 27-page catalogue (pp. 272-98) provide useful information that enables the readers to perceive the social and economic dimensions of the city with ease. On the cover of Nikolas Vamvakidu’s Greek Guidebook of Commerce in Turkey, an original copy of which could be found in the library of Asia Minor Research Center (Athens), it says: ‘Printed with the license granted by the Ministry of Education no: 341, of 25 October 1324’ and ‘first issue’. The guidebook could be purchased from N. Vamvakidis50 at Avrupa Road, Sponti Arcade (pasaj) (Izmir), for one Mecidiye (p. 2). The price of the guidebook was five francs in foreign countries. (p. 2). The last thirty-eight pages and the back cover of this 154-page guidebook are devoted to advertisements where there is a lithograph and a colored illustration. As a Greek colleague states all of this guidebook was dedicated to the ‘commercial life of Izmir’.51 The yearbooks that were printed in Istanbul are as follows: Yearbook, Almanac of the Leap Year52 1864 with the financial support of Simeon Andreadu;53 Yearbook, pertaining to 1866, prepared by G. Vafiadu;54 Yearbook of the East, pertaining to years 1883, 1884, 1885, prepared by Ath. Paleologu;55 Yearbook, Almanac of the Leap Year 1884, prepared by K. Lazaridu;56 Eastern Yearbook, pertaining to 1896, prepared by Konstantinu Vakalopulu;57 an encyclopedic yearbook: Lantern of the East, pertaining to 1901 prepared byI. G. Sakellariu and his partners;58 Yearbook, pertaining to 1904 prepared by I. Sioti, Leondos Kazanova and Stef. Narli;59 The Yearbook of 1905;60 The Yearbooks of the National Charity Foundations in Istanbul61 Pertaining to 1905, 1906 and 1907;62 Yearbook of Satan, pertaining to 1910 and 1911 prepared by Mavridis-Papadimitriu;63 An illustrated yearbook pertaining to 1911: National Eros, prepared by Fot. G. Tapinu and Georg. D. Baygini;64 The yearbook prepared by the students of 1911 of the School of National Languages and Trade: Expectations;65 Yearbook Expectation-191266 prepared by the students of Zografion;67 Calendar of 1913 prepared by Gerasimu Aleksandratu;68 Trik-Trak, a humorous yearbook pertaining to 1914, prepared by Georgio

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Lambridu;69 Star, which is a Yearbook of Asia Minor, pertaining to 191470 and Easter Saloon, pertaining to 1915, prepared by Sofokli Andoniu and Mihail Kunelaki.71 As far as we know, the first Greek yearbook printed in Izmir and carrying the title ‘Izmir’ is Yearbook of Izmir, pertaining to 1873, which was printed at Proodos Printing Office in 1872. Following this guidebook decorated with colored illustrations72 is the Calendar and Guidebook of the Leap Year 1876, which was printed at Izmir Printing Office in November 1875.73 After that came six yearbooks printed at the printing office of Izmir’s most long-lived Greek newspaper Amalthia,74 which Slomonidis describes as the ‘cultural light of East’.75 The first of the Amalthia publication was Izmir’s Calendar and Guidebook of 1888 printed in December 1887. The first chapter (pp. 1-99) is dedicated to literature; the second (pp. 99-131) information on the calendar; and the third (pp. 131-237) to the description of Izmir and the neighboring cities and islands. Nine pages of advertisements and a panoramic view of Izmir are also added at the end of this 240-page yearbook. The yearbook also mentions fourteen newspapers that were being published in that period (p. 209 and others). From the ‘table of contents’ page we see that the following articles were written: G. K. İperidi’s: ‘Knights of Rhodes and Timurlenk in Izmir’; G. Latri’s: ‘Healing Waters of Aydın Province’; Sokrati Solomonidi’s: ‘Izmir in the Past Two Centuries’; Mihail Çakiroğlu’s: ‘On Ethnologic Character of Turks’; Ad. Effremidi’s: ‘The Language and Traditions of People of Trabzon.’ The same page also acknowledges the contributions of İ. İ. Skilissi, N. Nikolaidi, G. Voncalidi and E. Sekiari. Mih. Nikolaidi, an artist from Izmir painted most of the pictures in the yearbook. Hacidimos says that the yearbook is: ‘a valuable source in which all kinds of information can be found about Izmir.’76 The yearbook was still on sale in 1890 and the price of the standard edition was a half Mecidiye, whereas the lacquered edition was sold for one Mecidiye.77 The Calendar and Guidebook of Izmir With Its Neighboring Cities and Islands Pertaining to 1889, is the second yearbook printed at Amalthia’s Printing Office in December 1888. The first chapter (pp. 1-172) is devoted to art and literature; the second (pp. 173-94) to the calendar, the third (pp. 194-323) to the description of Izmir, and the fourth (pp. 326-81) to the environs of the city. There are eight illustrations in the yearbook and thirty-six pages of this 387page yearbook are devoted only to advertisements. Compared to the first one, this yearbook has richer contents and it is more voluminous. We learn from a book written by Sokrati Solomonidi that he wrote and article titled ‘What Did Our Grandmothers Used to Wear?’ for this yearbook.78 The fourth chapter of the yearbook, of

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which we have a photocopy, is an explanatory alphabetical guide of Ottoman cities of Western Anatolia. In this chapter, which starts with Edremit (Adramittion), the sub-titles of Aydın (Aidinion) Province, for instance, is described under titles such as: ‘Administration’, ‘Administrative Assembly’, ‘Judicial Courts’, ‘Municipality’, ‘Post Office’, ‘Gendarmerie’, ‘Religious Posts’, ‘Representatives of Consulates’, ‘Greek Schools’, ‘The Imperial Ottoman Bank’, ‘Regie Office’ Associations-Clubs.’ Together with the introduction part, which gives a brief history of the city, administrative units, production range and harvest, and a catalogue (pp. 326-9) where the prominent businessmen of various professions are listed, this chapter reveals a lively portrait of the provinces of the empire. The demand for the yearbook was so high that it was out of print the next year.79 In the previous pages we have already mentioned Amalthia’s third yearbook (printed in Alexandria) pertaining to 1890 carrying the same title with the former, and the fourth and fifth yearbooks carrying titles ‘Yearbook of Amalthia Newspaper Pertaining to …’ belonging to 1893 and 1894.80 The Commercial Guidebook of Izmir and Its Environs, dated 1901,81 which appears to be the sixth yearbook of Amalthia newspaper uses ‘Izmir’ in its title again, like the first and the second ones, after thirteen years. On the cover of the guidebook, which was printed in Amalthia Printing Office, it says ‘second issue’, which brings in mind that it could be perceived as the successor of the guidebook of 1889 printed in Izmir, describing the city and its environs. This 168-page guidebook, the last 30 pages of which were devoted to advertisements, was prepared by Panayiotu Farduli and his partners and published with the ‘permission of the Imperial Ministry of Education no: 264 of July 3rd.’82 The Calendar and Guidebook of the Leap Year 1876,83 which we have a photocopy of, 84 was prepared by Th. K. and S. K. Although we do not have clear information of these initials, it appears that the former belongs to Themistoklis Ktena;85 manager and editor of a Greek newspaper Ameroliptos (Izmir), which began publishing in 1909. We also come across some articles written by him in Amalthia newspaper.86 The latter initials probably belong to his brother. On the cover of this 83-page yearbook it denotes that it is the ‘first issue.’ The first chapter (pp. 5- 24) is devoted to calendar; the second (p. 27-72) to a description of Izmir, and a concise explanation in p. 25 outlines a frame for the description of the city: The Guidebook consists of, Assemblies in Izmir (province, municipality) together with the officials, judicial courts and official departments, sanctuaries (of various religious

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communities), graveyards and religious personalities, consulates (together with their employees), official and private schools (belonging to foreigners and various religious communities), libraries and museums, associations, clubs and charity organizations, newspapers and magazines (in all languages), printing offices, bookstores, stationeries, bookbinders’ shops (with the names of its owners), lawyers, doctors, medical employees, dentists, pharmacists, artists, bankers and exchange offices, merchants, commissioners and vessel brokers, post offices, agencies (of maritime transportation), insurance companies, hotels, tobacco workshop, pastry shops, industrial companies, departure and arrival hours, and price lists of ships (belonging to various companies), price list of telegraph and the new regulations regarding wakf properties. The last ten pages (pp. 73-83) are devoted to advertisements the first of which is, ‘Calendar and Guidebook of Izmir’ (p. 73) shedding light on the general principles and advertising prices of the yearbook. Accordingly, information regarding professions and directorates, associations, charity organizations and educational institutions were registered in the yearbook free of charge. The advertisements were to take place at the end of the yearbook. The price was 100 kuruş for a half-page and 150 for a whole-page advertisement. Five copies of the yearbook were to be given as a gift in return for the advertisements. A perfect yearbook named Guidebook of Izmir and Its Environs with enriched contents and updated information was to be completed soon. For this purpose, necessary information was being dispatched to the publisher or to the bookstore of Athanasiu Zahariu at Evangeliki Sholi Street. Conclusion It is not an unknown state of affairs that sources written in a variety of languages should be used for acquiring knowledge about the Ottoman Empire and its cities. For instance there are quite a number of studies about Izmir that made use of German, English, Italian, Greek and French sources. The use of Greek yearbooks in particular, in which all kinds of information from history to geography, literature to archeology, demography to folklore and natural disasters can be found would make an enormous contribution in understanding the Ottoman universe. It would make us very happy to encounter examples in that direction. Translated by Elif Yeneroğlu Kutbay

Athens

Athens

Asiatiki Ellas i Ellinikos Odigos Mikra Asia

Attikon İmerologion

Athens

Ethnikon Imerologion

National Yearbook

İoannis Arseni/ Konstantinos F. Skoku

Athens

Imerologion

Yearbook

Konstantinos F. Skoku

Athens

Yearbook of All ton Eton Panton Years İmerologion

İrineos Asopiu

Athens

The Asian Greece or The Greek Guidebook of Asia Minor Yearbook of Athens

Evang. D. Pandelidu

Smirnaikon Imerologion

City

Yearbook of İzmir

Prepared by

Name in Greek

Name

Table 1. Yearbooks Printed within the Kingdom of Greece

1891

1888

1880

1870

1890, 1891, 1904, 1906, 1907,1908, 1909, 1910, 1912, 1913 1900,1902,1905, 1906,1912,1916, 1917,1918

1871,1875,1878, 1879,1880,1888

Date of Following Editions Print

The 1891 issue was prepared by Arseni, the following issues were prepared by Skoku.

Published in memory of Yoannu Pesmazoğlu from İzmir.

Explanations

Eleni Svoronu Nikolaos G. İgglesi

Mikrasiatikon Imerologion

Odigos tis Ellados

Yearbook of Asia Minor Guidebook of Greece

G. N. Mihail Meropis P. Çiomu G. Drosini

Greek Guidebook Ellinikos Odigos

Imerologion Thessalonikis

Imerologion tis Megalis Ellados

Yearbook of Salonika Yearbook of Great Greece

Athens

Salonika

Athens

Athens

Samos

1922

1920

1919

1915

1913

1909

Imerologion Egkiklopedikon

Encyclopedic Yearbook

Athens

1902

Siros İ. A. Vretu

1899

Athens

Imerologion ton Ierosolimon Imerologion tis Siru

Dimitriu Taku

1898

Athens

Piraykon Imerologion

1894 1897

Athens

Makedonikon Imerologion

Praktikon Imerologion

Table 1 cont. Practical Yearbook Yearbook of Macedonia Yearbook of Piraeus Yearbook of Jerusalem Yearbook of Siros 1914, 1916, 1917

The one dated 1915 is the 4th edition, the one dated 1911 is prepared by Aspiotis Brothers and printed in Kerkira is the 3rd issue.

The one published in 1914 and prepared by Yoannis D. Kollaros is the 14th edition.

First edition.

Name in Greek

City

Alexandria

Alexandria

Finiks (presumably Venice the name of the printing house)

Prepared by

Calendar and Guidebook of İmerologion ke Odigos Newspaper İzmir With Neighboring Islands tis Smirnis ke ton Periks Pertaining to 1890 Poleon ke Nision tu Etus 1890 Yearbook of Egypt Egiptiakon İmerologion

Yearbook and Muslim Calendar İmerologion ke Selinodromion

Name

Table 2. Yearbooks Printed outside the Ottoman Empire

1889

Omonia Printing House

Date of Following Print Editions 1896 1897

The third yearbook of Amalthia newspaper, 373 pages. Pertaining to 1921.

Explanations

G. Vafiadu

Hronos

İstanbul

İstanbul

İzmir

Yearbook

D.Hristoyannopulo

O Hronos, İmerologion tu Visektu Etus 1864

İmerologion Kazamias tu 1857 Odigos tis Sirias

İzmir

İzmir

İzmir

İzmir

Annual Calendar of 1857 Guidebook of Syria Yearbook, Almanac of the Leap Year 1864

Mihail İl. Mihailidu

City

İzmir

Pagkosmios Emborikos Odigos İmerologion tis “Neas Zois” İmerologion ke Selinodromion tu Etus 1838

Guidebook of World Trade Yearbook of ‘New Life’ Yearbook and Muslim Calendar of 1838

Prepared by

Calendar of 1855 Kazamias tu 1855

Name in Greek

Name

Table 3. Yearbooks in Greek Printed within the Ottoman Empire

1863

1856

1856

1854

Date of Print

A. Koromila Printing House

American Printing House administered by Father Daniil Templu P. Markopulu’s Printing House A. Damianu’s Printing House

Amalthia Printing House

Name of Printing House

1884

Following Editions

Financed by Simeon Andreadu. The one belonged to 1884 (printing date: 1883) was prepared by K. Lazaridu Pertains to 1866

Illustrated calendar

Presumably the first Greek yearbook printed in İzmir. 48 pages

In Greek and French. 556 pages

Explanations

Sinoptikon İmerologion

Anatolikon İmerologion

İmerologion ke Odigos Smirnis tu Visektu Etus 1876 İmerologion tis Anatolis

İmerologion ke Odigos tis Smirnis tu Etus 1888 İmerologion ke Odigos tis Smirnis ke ton Periks Poleon ke Nision tu Etus 1889

Calendar and Guidebook of the Leap Year 1876 Yearbook of the East

İzmir’s Calendar and Guidebook of 1888 Calendar and Guidebook of İzmir With Its Neighboring Cities and Islands ertaining to 1889

Kalendarion Eonion Yearbook of İzmir Smirnaikon İmerologion

Eternal Yearbook

Essential Yearbook

Table 3 cont. Eastern Yearbook

Amalthia Newspaper’s second yearbook. 387 pages

December Amalthia 1888 Printing House

İzmir

İzmir

Trakya Printing 1884,1885 The last two were House published at İ. Palamari’s Printing House December Amalthia Amalthia Newspaper’s 1887 Printing House first yearbook. 240 pages

1882

İstanbul

Pertains to 1873 Presumably the first yearbook bearing the title “İzmir.”

Pertains to 1868 The second yearbook was also published at the same printing house

Ath. Paleologu

November İzmir Printing 1875 House

1872 (Pertains to 1873)

Pertains to 1868

İzmir

1872

İzmir

P. Markopulu’s Printing House Proodos Printing House

Daveroni and Sudzoli Printing House Daveroni and Sudzoli Printing House

Th.K./S.K.

1869

1867

1867

İzmir

İzmir

İzmir

İ. G. Sakellariu and Partners

O Faros tis Anatolis

İmerologion

İmerologion tu Etus 1905 İmerologion tu İ. Yoannidu Pontu ke Odigos tis Trapezuntos ke ton Perihoron

Yearbook

Yearbook of 1905

İ. Sioti/Leondos Kazanova/Stef Narli

Panayiotu Farduli and Partners.

Yearbook of Pontus and Guidebook of Trabzon with Its Environs

İzmir

İzmir

Trabzon

İstanbul

İstanbul

İstanbul

İzmir

Konstantinu Vakalopulu İstanbul

Emborikos Odigos tis Smirnis ke ton Perihoron

İmerologoin tis Efimeridas Amalthias tu Etus 1893 İmerologoin tis Efimeridas Amalthias tu Etus 1894 Anatolikon İmerologion

Commercial Guidebook of İzmir and Its Environs, Lantern of the East

Eastern Yearbook

Amalthia’s Yearbook Pertaining to 1894

Table 3 cont. Amalthia’s Yearbook Pertaining to 1893

1904

1904

1895

1893

1892

D. H. Serasi’s lithography workshop

Gerardos Brothers’ Printing House

Printed by F. Cumeka and E. Suma Amalthia Printing House

Amalthia Printing House

Amalthia Printing House

Pertaining to 1905

Pertains to 1904

It is an encyclopedic yearbook belonging to 1901

Presumably Amalthia’s sixth yearbook Pertains to 1901, 168 pages

Pertains to 1896

Fifth yearbook of Amalthia. 291 pages

Fourth yearbook of Amalthia. 258 pages

İmerologion Adelfotitos Orthodoksias Mersinis Ellinikis Emborikos Odigos tis Turkias Ethnikos Eros

İmerologion Satan

Yearbook of Satan, pertaining to 1910

İmerologion tu Etus 1905, 1906 and 1907 ton Ethnikon Filanthropikon Katastimaton en Konstantinupoli Mikrasiatikon İmerologion Panellinion İmerologion

Yearbook of the Brotherhood of Mersin Orthodoxy Greek Guidebook of Commerce in Turkey National Eros

Yearbook of Asia Minor Pan-Hellenic Yearbook

Table 3 Cont. The Yearbooks of the National Charity Foundations in İstanbul Samos

Fot. G. Tapinu/Georg. İstanbul D. Baygini Mavridis/Papadimitriu İstanbul

Vas. Kandis/ Pavlos İstanbul Karolidis/ D. Kaklamanos/ Arist. Kurtidis/ Sp. Lambros Nikolaos Vamvakidu İzmir

Ang. Simiriotu/Perikl. Angelidu

Eleni S. Svoronu

İstanbul

1904

A. Koromila’s Printing House

N. G. Kefalidu’s Printing House

1911

The second yearbook was prepared by Konstantinos Makridu and printed at the Eastern Printing House.

Pertains to 1911

Pertains to 1909-1910. 154 pages

Pertains to 1909. 264 pages

Pertaining to 1909

Pertaining to 1907

1906, 1907 The last two were printed in 1905 and 1906

Astir

Star

Trik-Trak

İmerologion Elpis1912 Anatolikon İmerologion 1913 Kazamias tu Etus 1913 Trik-Trak

Elpides

Yearbook Expectation-1912 Eastern Yearbook 1913 Calendar of 1913

Table 3 cont. Expectations

İstanbul

İstanbul

İstanbul

Gerasimu Aleksandratu Georgio Lambridu

İzmir

İstanbul

The students of Zografion (boys school) Thras. M. Mali

İstanbul

1913

Printing House of P. Angelidu and his Partners

It is a yearbook of Asia Minor for the year 1914

A humorous yearbook for the year 1914

Yearbook of the students of School of National Languages and Trade in İstanbul (1911)

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Notes 1 Emmanuil Aleks Kepas, Ekthesi Mikrasiatiku Tipu 1984, Katalogos Ekthematon, Efimerideseriodika ke İmerologia, Athens. 2 This exhibition was opened in 1984, at Cultural Center of Athens Municipality. 3 The main ones are: 1. Hacidimos D. Ath., ‘Smirnaiki Vivliografia (1764-1836)’, Mikrasiatika Hronika, 4, (1948), 340-4 and 371-410; (1856-76), 5, 1952, 295-354 and (1877-94), 6, (1955), 381-437. 2. Falbos K. Filippos, ‘Simvoli sti Smirnaiki Vivliografia’, Mikrasiatika Hronika, 13, (1967), 401-34; ‘Nea Simvoli sti Smirnaiki Vivliografia’, 15, (1972), 406-22. 3. Kavvadas D. Stefanos, ‘Ekdosis tis Smirnis en ti Vivliothiki ‘O Korais’ tis Hiu’, Mikrasiatika Hronika, 7, (1957), 449-76. 4. Giannokopulos A. Giorgos, ‘Ellinika Vivlia Tipomena sti Smirni’, Deltio Kentro Mikrasiatikon Spudon, 7, (1988-9), 247-94. 4 Although some of them are published under the title ‘kalendarion’ and ‘kazamias’ they are very few in number. 5 A study aimed at making a comprehensive catalogue and bibliography of Greek yearbooks and calendars has not been conducted yet. A study regarding this subject would be a valuable guide to those who study bilateral relations of Greece and the Ottoman Empire. A recent catalogue comprising the Greek and other foreign newspapers and journals present in the Library of the Greek National Assembly is a distinguished example: Hristopulosanagiotis F., Efimerides Apokimenes sti Vivliothiki tis Vulis (1789-1970) (Athens, 1994), this study has replaced another valuable publication, Sta’, S. E., Katalogos Vivliothikis Vulis (Athens, 1900). 6 Vivliofilika Nea, 14-15 May, 1992, 38. We understand that the same yearbook was also published in: 1871, 1875, 1878, 1879, 1880, 1888 from, Vivliofilika Nea, (14-15 October, 1993), 63, 14-15 May 1992, 32 and 3-4 March 1992, 41. 7 Vivliofilika Nea, 14-15 October 1993, 63, dated 1880. 8 From, Vivliofilia, 3-4 October 1991, 30; 63, January-February-March 1994, 60 and 59, January-February-March 1993, 56, Vivliofilika Nea, 14-15 May 1992, 38; 3-4 March 1992, 41 and 3-4 December 1991, 24: we found out that they were published in 1891(prepared by Yo. Arseni), 1900, 1902, 1905, 1906, 1912, 1916, 1917 and 1918 (all prepared by Konstantinos F. Skoku). 9 From, Vivliofilia, 59, January-February-March 1993, 56; 58, October-NovemberDecember 1992, 50 and 60, April-May-June 1993, 63: we found out that they were published in 1888, 1890, 1891, 1904, 1906, 1907, 1908, 1909, 1910, 1912, 1913. 10 From, Vivliofilia, 60, April-May-June 1993, 63, dated 1894. 11 From, Vivliofilia, 64, April-May-June 1994, 19, dated 1922. 12 In Kepas, 10rinted in Athens. In Falbos, 13, 433, it says that the yearbook consists of articles written by Greek intellectuals and poets of Izmir. Falbos also states, in page 3, that the yearbook was published in memory of Yoannu Pesmazoğlu from Izmir, and that Pandelidis was the publisher of the journal Kosmos (1908-12). 13 Dimoprasia Palion Vivlion, 8-9 October 1991, 44, dated 1899 and printed in Athens. 14 Vivliofilia, 58, October-November-December 1992, 50, dated 1913 and printed in Samos. 15 Vivliofilia, 58, October-November-December 1992, 50, dated 1920 and printed in Salonika. 16 Vivliofilia, 60 April-May-June 1993, 63, dated 1909, 1916 and 1917. We have a photocopy of this yearbook in our own private library, dated 1914 and printed in

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Athens by the publisher Yoannis D. Kollaros. The cover of the yearbook states that it is the fourteenth issue. 17 Dimoprasia Palion Vivlion, 8-9 October 1991, 44, dated 1898. 18 Dimoprasia Palion Vivlion, 8-9 October 1991, 44, dated, 1902, first issue and printed in Siros (one of the Cyclad islands). 19 Vivliofilika Nea, 30-1 March 1995, 22, dated 1897. 20 From Vivliofilika Nea, 14-15 May 1992, 41, we learn that it is the fourth issue and dated 1915. We have the photocopy of the third issue of this yearbook in our own private library dated 1911. We understand that it was prepared by Aspiotis Brothers and printed in the island of Kerkira (Corfu). 21 G. N. Mihail, Ellinikos Odigos 1920, Athens, 1919. 22 Falbos, 15, 421 (no: 179). The yearbook is 116 pages and printed in Athens. 23 Odigos tis Ellados, Samu* Kritis* Kipru ke Apasis tis Makedonias, 3rd issue, Corfu, 1911. (Cited in footnote 42). 24 The guidebook cited in footnote 43: Berber, Engin, Izmir 1920, Yunanistan Rehberinden İşgal Altındaki Bir Kentin Öyküsü, Akademi Kitabevi, Izmir, 1998, 104. 25 ‘Pontiki’, a weekly humor magazine in Athens printed the Izmir section of the guidebook under the heading: Izmir Before the Catastrophe (İ Smirni prin apo tin Katastrofi), for the 70th anniversary (1992) of Asia Minor Catastrophe which means ‘the breaking off of the roots Hellenism beyond the Aegean’ in Greece. In Turkey, the same year was celebrated as the 70th anniversary of liberation from Greek invasion. See, BerberI-V for a comprehensive catalogue of symposiums, conferences, etc, and publications in both countries with regards to this anniversary. 26 Zeki Arıkan, ‘Türkiye Cumhuriyeti Tarihi Anabilim Dalı Jürileri’, Cumhuriyet Bilim Teknik, 624, 6 Mart 1999, 16. 27 During this period Izmir was the capital sanjak (subdivision of a province) and the administrative capital of Aydın Province, one of the twenty-two provinces of the Asian territories of the Ottoman Empire. The other sanjaks of the Province were: Aydın, Manisa and Denizli. 28 In accordance with the specific purpose of the guidebook, it is clear that it underestimated the place of Turks in Izmir’s economy. Although there is an independent study prepared by Turks five years (1915/1330 A.H.) before the publication of the Greek Guidebook named Izmir Tüccarân ve Esnafân-ı İslâmiyesine Mahsus Rehber (A Guidebook of the Muslim Merchants and Artisans of Izmir), it is extremely poor compared to the Greek one because it does not cover the nonMuslim communities of the city. 29 For further detail on these commercial buildings and sites, see, Berber, VI, footnote 30. 30 Dimoprasia Palion Vivlion, 8-9 October 1991, 44. 31 İmerologion ke Odigos tis Smirnis ke ton Periks Poleon ke Nision tu Etus 1890, 3rd issue, Alexandria, 1889. 32 Vivliofilika Nea, 3-4 December 1991, 24. 33 In, Kepas, 10, it states that it was printed in 1904 at D. H. Serasi’s lithography workshop in Trabzon. 34 Kepas, 10. See footnote 36, for a yearbook prepared by Eleni Svoronu under the same title when Samos was ceded to the Kingdom of Greece. 35 In, Kepas, 10, it states that the yearbook was printed at N. G. Kefalidu’s printing office. 36 Kepas, 10. In, Falbos, 13, 431, it is stated that this 264 page yearbook prepared by Vas. Kandisavlos Karolidis, D. Kaklamanos, Arist. Kurtidis ve SLambros was decorated by statistical tables regarding products and was presumably printed in Istanbul.

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In, Hacidimos, 4, 382 (no: 77), it states that this forty-eight-page yearbook was printed in American Printing Office, the director of which was Father Daniil (Daniel) Templu. 38 In, Hacidimos, 4, 407 (no: 281). Printed in 1854 at Markopulu’s Printing Office. 39 In, Hacidimos, 4, 410 (no: 298). Illustrated calendarrinted in 1856 at A. Damianu’s Printing Office. 40 In, Hacidimos, 4, 410 (no: 303). Prepared by D. Hristoyannopulo and printed in 1856. 41 In, Hacidimos, 5, 325 (no: 467) and p.326 (no: 474). Both yearbooks were printed in 1867 at Daveroni and Sudzoli Printing Office. At 340 (no: 553), Essential Yearbook pertaining to 1873, was also printed in 1872 at the same printing office. 42 In, Hacidimos, 5, 330 (no: 490)rinted at Markopulu’s Printing Office. 43 Mihailidu, İ. Mihailagkosmios Emborikos Odigos tu Etus 1908, Izmir. This yearbook could not be determined by the bibliographic studies cited in footnote 27. 44 Falbos, 15, 421 (no: 180). 45 In, Kepas, 10, it states that the yearbook was prepared by Thras. M. Mali. 46 Hacidimos, 6432-433 (no: 904), Solomonidi, 91. 47 Hacidimos, 6, 436 (no: 936), Solomonidi, 91. 48 The guidebook, of which we gave a full bibliographic reference in footnote 66, was re-numerated until page 184 after page 372. 49 The word ‘Rum’ is what the Ottoman sources of that period refer as ‘the Greek subjects of the Ottoman Empire.’ 50 In, Solomonidi, Hristu, Sokr., İ Dimosiografia sti Smirni (1821-1922) (Athens, 1959), 205, it states that in 1909 Vamvakidis published a short-lived monthly newspaper, in both French and Greek, named ‘Reklam’, the contents of which covered commercial and economic matters. He also states that the issues of this guidebook dated 26.5.1909 and 18.6.1909 are at Korais Library in Chios, registered under number 17. 51 Giannokopulos, 274. 52 The years which February has 29 day instead of 28 days. The Greeks usually avoid getting married in the leap years because of the belief that it may bring bad luck. 53 Vivliofilika Nea, 9-10 December 1993, 60resumably dated 1863. 54 From, Kepas, 9, we understand that it was printed at A Koromila Printing Office. 55 In, Kepas, 10, it states the first (dated 1882) of these yearbooks was printed at Trakya Printing Office, and the others (dated 1883 and 1884) were printed at İ. Palamari’s Printing Office. 56 In, Vivliofilia, 68, April-May-June 1995, 19, dated 1883. 57 In, Kepas, 10, it states that it is dated 1895 and printed by F. Cumeka ile E. Suma. 58 In, Kepas, 10, it states that it was printed at the Printing Office of Gerardos Brothers. 59 Kepas, 10. 60 Vivliofilika Nea, 30-31 March 1995, 22, dated 1904. 61 In, Alexis Alexandris, The Greek Minority of İstanbul and Greek-Turkish Relations 1918-1974, Athens, 1983, 48, The rich Rums of Istanbul did not only help the building of a large network of education in the capital of the Ottoman Empire, but they also supported, with their donations, the establishment and survival of many churches and charity organization in the city. The author states that the most important of these charity organizations was Balıklı Hospital in Yedikule, which was

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the most sophisticated hospital of the Balkans until 1910. This hospital is still on duty today. 62 From, Alexandris, 48, first one is dated 1904, from, Dimoprasia Palion Vivlio, 8-9 October 1991, 44; the second dated 1905, from Kepas, 10, and the third dated 1906. 63 From, Vivliofilika Nea, 30-1 March 1995, 9, we understand that of the two humorous yearbooks the one pertaining to 1910, which is the first issue, was decorated with Karolidi’s colored caricatures, from Kepas, 10, the one pertaining to 1911 was prepared by Konstantinos Makridu and printed at Doğu Printing Office. 64 In, Kepas, 10, it states that it was printed at Koromila Printing Office. 65 Kepas, 10. 66 Kepas, 10. 67 Alexandris, 47 states that, ‘Zografion was a high school for boys in Beyoğlu built in 1890 by the donations of banker Christaki Zographos.’ 68 Kepas, 10. 69 In, Kepas, 10, it was printed at the Printing Office of Angelidu and Partners. 70 Kepas, 10. 71 In, Kepas, 10, it was printed at the Printing Office of A. Hristidu. 72 Hacidimos, 5, 340 (no: 552). 73 Th. K. and S. K., İmerologio ke Odigos Smirnis tu Visektu Etus 1876, Izmir, 1875. Hacidimos, 5, 347 (no: 608). 74 In, Hacidimos, 4, 359, it states that Konstantinos Rodes printed the first issue of Amalthia newspaper in July 1838 at Antoniu Patrikiu’s Printing Office, and in 1839 he acquired his own printing office: ‘Amalthia’s Ionia Printing Office’ and that until 1922 it was the biggest and most popular printing office in Izmir. 75 Solomonidi, 26. 76 Hacidimos, 6, 426 (no: 862), Solomonidi, 90-1. 77 İmerologion ke Odigos tis Smirnis ke ton Periks Poleon ke Nision tu Etus 1890, Alexandria, from an advertisement in 1889. 78 Hacidimos, 6, 427 (no: 868), Solomonidi 91. 79 From the same advertisement cited in footnote 100. 80 See, above for the yearbooks of 1890 and 1893/1894. 81 Hacidimos could not determine the sixth one. He says, ‘There are five yearbooks of Amalthia which we know of’ in, Hacidimos 6, 427. 82 Giannokopulos, 267-8 (no: 48). 83 Denoted in Hacidimos, 5, 347, no: 608. 84 The original copy is at the Library of Enosi Smirneon (Athens). 85 Solomonidi, 205. In 1909 the printers of the Greek newspapers went on strike demanding a raise in their salaries. The newspaper owners in turn decided to publish a monthly newspaper every copy of which would bear the name of one of the four biggest morning newspapers, that is, ‘Amalthia’, ‘Armonia’, ‘Nea Smirni’ and ‘İmerisia’ in order to break the strike. The strike committee, in return, decided to publish Ameroliptos to serve as a financial support for the strike. Th. Ktena was both the director and editor in chief of this newspaper. The newspaper suspended the publication when the strike ended. 86 Solomonidi, 93, the title of one of the articles was: ‘Göztepe and the Great Martyr’.

3 ___________________________________ OTTOMAN-EUROPEAN CULTURAL EXCHANGE East is East and West is West, and Sometimes the Twain Did Meet Diplomatic Gift Exchange in the Ottoman Empire Hedda Reindl-Kiel

Salomon Schweigger, who accompanied the German embassy to the Porte in 1578-81 as the official Protestant chaplain, writes in his travelogue about the diplomatic gifts his embassy presented to the Ottoman court, mainly gilded clocks, watches and silver vessels, that ‘all superbly exquisite work, which would have to be valued higher than the metal, the gold or silver, is not appreciated by these people, who are amazed by it but, I am told, have it melted down again and made into coins and money. It has also been reported that the beautiful clocks brought to the Sultan over many years are hoarded by him in a big chamber where they are ruined by rust. Many have been sold off, although he sometimes has them changed around, with a different one being placed in his apartment…’1 This passage suggests a fundamental disagreement between East and West concerning gifts, especially state gifts. We have to deal, it seems, with two diverging traditions about the proper handling of a gift. This is in a way connected, as we shall see, with the gift’s function in society. Since Mauss’ classical study2 the theoretical literature on gift exchange has multiplied, yet most systems cover only one or maybe several aspects of our problem. Of course, diplomatic gifts are by their nature reciprocal in Mauss’ sense; but to regard the exchange of goods between Ottomans and Germans or other Westerners as interaction between two groups integrated in a system of total performance, a ‘fait social total ’, as Mauss also suggests, seems, in this

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context, not too plausible. As a whole, Mauss places more emphasis on systems of exchange in an economic sense than on individual gifts. Some of Bourdieu’s ideas, though, are interesting for our purpose, especially his concept of honour as symbolic capital.3 On the other hand Bourdieu sees gifts as a possible method to dominate others, since presents in whatever form create social asymmetries. The latter notion, developed in the Kabylian setting of the sixties, might in a sense even have a grain of truth for diplomatic gifts between two highly developed pre-modern empires, as in our case. For the Ottoman society with its intensely hierarchical character honour was a key word. Very few formal divisions (as classes, for example) existed, and even small groups and sub-groups had hierarchical structures. The decisive factor for a person’s status was the amount of honour, or ‘symbolic capital’, he or she had. Accordingly, an elaborate etiquette was used to make all hierarchies and sub-hierarchies evident. A special part of this etiquette was covered, I think, by gift exchange, which precisely made the status of the present’s receiver visible and tangible. Thus gifts established not only real values but also what we might call symbolic capital in kind. Contemporary Western societies, which also had hierarchical structures, possessed a higher degree of formal division, while subhierarchies in smaller groups might have been slightly less distinct. This does not mean, of course, that questions of honour and etiquette generally played a considerably smaller role in Western societies. But status was, it seems, not demonstrated so much by receiving gifts as in the Ottoman Empire. During the earlier Middle Ages a somewhat similar attitude can be traced in the West as well.4 This might have changed, however, in the course of time. Natalie Zemon Davis’ monograph on The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France 5 unfortunately does not deal with this question. Thus we might conclude ex silencio that conspicuous gift receiving did not play a crucial role in the West at that time. In the Ottoman Empire, however, gifts were, as I said, a part of a person’s honour and hence an essential element of etiquette. We should probably see the frequent lamentations of Western diplomats about the greediness of Ottoman dignitaries demanding more or better gifts in this context. In Ottoman eyes, Western Barbarians lacking the appropriate knowledge about suitable behaviour obviously had to be educated, while visitors from the East usually played their role with grace and grandezza. Of course, affronts were no privilege of the West. Sometimes Muslim fellow believers could be pretty good at it. When in 1481 an embassy delegation from the Indian Bahmanî ruler Shams al-Dîn Muhammad Shâh was arrested in Jeddah by the

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local governor, who also confiscated the gifts (among them a diamond-studded dagger) for the Ottoman ruler, the Ottoman side was scandalised. Contemporary Ottoman chronicles accordingly attribute the outbreak of the Ottoman-Mamluk war of 1485-91 to this incident.6 It does not matter here whether this was really a reason for the conflict. The point is that it indicates the significance of diplomatic gifts to sultans and Ottoman society. A clear pointer to the importance of state gifts is to be found in the ceremony of the Ottoman court. Bertrandon de la Broquière reports in 1432 that the gifts were brought behind the envoy when he entered the court for audience. The officials carrying the gifts lifted them regularly so that the ruler and all spectators could see them.7 Apparently in the seventeenth century8 a change in the custom took place: the presents were sent to the palace the day before the audience and were put on display on benches along the left portico in the second court.9 This practice demonstrates clearly that the Ottomans understood this kind of gift exchange as a special form of conspicuous consumption. Schweigger’s observation, which I quoted at the beginning, suggests that in the West the attitude towards personal offerings as symbolic substitutes for the giver’s affection or admiration had already started to develop, while in the Ottoman world a gift largely lost its symbolic worth after it was received. It turned into real value, when it was put into the treasury, hazine, which was a part of almost every well-to-do household. Unlike in the West, presents received by an individual were not necessarily put on show, although this could happen with especially prestigious objects. When in 1628 the Kaiser’s ambassador Hans Ludwig von Kuefstein arrived in Edirne, he was received by an imposing contingent of people along with two elephants. Both animals were displayed again the next day, during the ambassador’s meal.10 We can be rather sure that they were a gift either from the Safavid or the Mughal court. In Şevvâl 1150/February 1738 ‘Abd al-Kerîm Beğ, ambassador of Nâdir Shâh, presented, for example, next to precious brocades and silks an elephant to the Sultan, mükemmel takımı ile zincir (a complete set with chain), as the register reports.11 According to Rüstem Pasha’s chronicle in 1515, an elephant sent by the Mamluk Sultan Qânsûh al-Ghawrî arrived at the Ottoman court. This animal had been part of a gift package of four elephants from ‘the King of India’, as an Arabic source12 puts it. Only two of the four giants, however, had survived the journey to Cairo.13 Not to put items like European silver vessels etc. on show was on one hand certainly linked with a kind of Ottoman superiority complex towards the West. On the other hand, it had without doubt to do with the Ottoman (and generally Islamic) housing and

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furnishing styles, which obviously shaped the aesthetic tastes of the day. Until well into the nineteenth century the interiors of all Turkish houses were largely designed as an unbroken space with grandly wide and flat surfaces. The conventional level of indoor activity (eating, reading, writing etc.) was perhaps about one foot (or approximately 30 cm) above the floor, which was covered by carpets or flat-weaves. This meant that the windows providing light were set considerably deeper than in the West. Interior decorations sought to maintain and deepen the sense of space formed by the architecture. Thus, threedimensional decoration had to be generally avoided. The preference for two-dimensional decoration seems to have influenced Ottoman aesthetics to such an extent that perspective views were—although known—not valued in miniatures and, to conclude from existing paintings, were not wanted at all before the eighteenth century. Aside from this fondness for two-dimensional decorative elements, monochrome items or objects with empty surfaces were, for the most part, held in less esteem than ornamented ones. In this context, textiles and embroideries had an importance hardly to be underestimated. Yet, even metal objects were largely adorned in a textile-like manner,14 either by means of engraving or by incrustations, which could result in a sort of relief. But even reliefed surfaces, such as in some Safavid metalwork, were less ‘threedimensional’ than those of the West. Moreover, the Ottoman elite was Persophile enough to accept and admire artefacts of this kind, as long as they were of Persian origin. However, Western Baroquestyle metal work reliefs, giving an illusion of perspective view, definitely did not belong to the repertoire of classical Ottoman aesthetics. In the classical period Ottoman chambers could have tiny niches, which usually did not disturb the two-dimensional face of the wall; this was achieved by a curtain wall in front of such niches, with openings a bit smaller than the recesses themselves.15 Although these were places to put lamps, and in rare cases also vases or other utensils, they were not primarily meant for putting precious items on show to demonstrate one’s social status. That was accomplished by wearing valuable material (including furs), by furnishing a room with costly textile coverings, by using delicate objects in daily life and by wearing jewellery or, occasionally, expensively adorned weapons. As indicated above, gifts in the Ottoman world confirmed status at the moment of being handed over to the receiver, who then added them to his treasury. After that, the same present could be re-used as a gift to somebody else. While lying in the treasury the item was deprived of its emotional and symbolic value. However, this quality could return to the object when it was bestowed to another person.

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This was quite common in Ottoman society, and the court was in this respect no exception, as indicated by a dispatch of presents to the Mughal court in 1744 which included entire sets of Western clocks.16 In accordance with tradition, the Prophet himself received from the Byzantine governor of Egypt, al-Muqawqis, four slave girls, one eunuch (who then died in Medina), a mule, a donkey, a horse, gold, textiles, honey and other Egyptian specialities. The mule (the famous Duldul) and the donkey became his favourite animals for riding, three of the slave girls he married off, and the gold pieces he gave as alms.17 Thus, he must have considered gifts in a similar way to the Ottomans in later times, regarding them as the transfer of moveable property. For an Ottoman, a fine gift was a perfect item to emphasise the honour of another individual, since its symbolic worth turned into a real material value at the moment it was received and put into the treasury. As I said, impressive gifts were evidently conceived as a part of a secondary currency in kind. Another source of misunderstandings must have been the different codes developed by East and West for official gifts. In both cases these codes promoted a general impression of the person’s status. However, this tendency seems to have been rather more strongly emphasised in the Ottoman Empire. In the Islamic world a whole package of possible gifts suitable for other rulers had been developed long before the Ottomans stepped onto the stage of history. The range of gifts the caliph Hârûn al-Rashîd sent in 807 to Charlemagne in Aix-la-Chapelle is already a legendary case in point. ‘Abdallâh, the envoy from Baghdad, brought in addition to costly silks two huge chandeliers, a big intricate water-clock, scents and balsam, an elephant (who died on the way in Cologne) and an enormous tent.18 Thus, the set of gold, incense and myrrh, said to have been presented to the Infant Jesus by the Three Wise Men from the East,19 seems to have gained an ‘Islamic’ component by the addition of a tent. Other favoured items for a state gift were jewelled weapons and jewellery in general, horses and horse equipment. Exotic animals, falcons and slaves completed the collection. In later times another type of item became fashionable, of course only for inner-Islamic diplomatic contacts: religious books, especially Koran copies. By bestowing a religious book, the giving side demonstrated its own religiousness and alluded at the same time to the ideal of the pious and just Islamic ruler. The gift-receiving party could understand this as acknowledgement of his perfect exercise of Islamic rule. Diplomatic gift exchange with Safavid Iran contained also nonreligious books, especially miniature manuscripts.20 An example for

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such a gift, which is mentioned in Ottoman historiography, was Koran and a complete edition of al-Bukhârî’s (810-70) al-jâmi‘ alsahîh, sent in 1489 (?) by Sultan ‘Uthmân of Tunis to Sultan Bâyezîd II.21 Later Ottoman archival sources contain quite a lot of material about received or bestowed Koran-copies as diplomatic gifts. Although these standardised offerings were diplomatically very correct, they seem to have not always aroused enthusiasm on the part of the beneficiary. In the diplomatic intercourse with the West, members of the ruling family sometimes took matters in their own hands and bluntly informed Western heads of state as to their wishes and supplied detailed descriptions. In this manner Mehmed III could add to his state galley (baştarda-i hümâyûn) three splendidly glittering ship’s lanterns from Venice, as Hans Theunissen pointed out a few years ago in a fascinating paper.22 In another case, the vâlide sultân, the sultan’s mother, let Elizabeth I know she would prefer ‘distilled waters ... for the face’, ‘odoriferous oils for the hands’ and ‘cloths of silk or wool’ from England to jewellery.23 Textiles were in general favourite gifts of the pre-modern Ottoman Empire, and Michael Rogers has rightly called them ‘the currency of the Ottoman honours system’.24 They were not only easy to transport but also the preferred way to display status. Furthermore they were, compared with the income of the lower strata of society, extremely expensive. Embroidered handkerchiefs, napkins, towels, wrappers, barber’s aprons, but also underwear, caftans and fabrics of all kinds and prices were considered to be fashionable gifts in all circles of society. The Ottoman court indulged, very similar to other pre-modern Middle Eastern courts, in this ‘textilomania’ as well. The bulk of textile presents were, though, robes of honour, hil‘at, a legacy of earlier Islamic and pre-Islamic states.25 A hil‘at was an institutionalised gift, which was not to be ritually exchanged, since, in terms of the status hierarchy, it was always handed over in a downward movement.26 Hence it is never to be found among the tributary gifts (pîşkeş) sent by pashas to the Porte. Hil‘ats were given out by the court, i.e. (at least in principle) by the sultan. In times of war the commander in chief—acting as the ruler’s deputy—used to have a sufficient amount of these attires at his disposal to reward bravery on the battle field. Commanders or provincial governors of lower rank would also receive certain amounts of hil‘ats to distribute them among their subordinates as a reward.27 The same was true for the ağa (general) of the janissaries.28 It is a common view that the hil‘at served as the equivalent of a Western badge of honour, which is for the most part correct. But the symbolism of a garment was, of course, entirely different from that of a Western medal. Accordingly, the distribution of hil‘ats diverged

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in many aspects from the Western approach to the handing out of medals. Since it stood for protection by the sultan for the receiver, which implied loyalty to the ruler by the bestowed, it symbolised a kind of vassalage. This component made it a highly inappropriate gift for another sovereign, and normally we find it only sent to princelings like the voyvoda of Transylvania,29 who were indeed Ottoman vassals. To the ‘king of Austria’ (Nemce kıralına), however, the Ottoman court dispatched in spring 1650 an almost classical set of diplomatic gifts, 14 horses, all kinds of costly horse trappings, bridles, stirrups, saddles, various horse blankets, embroideries, two small and four large Persian carpets, a small silk carpet, 15 Uşak seccâdes, a ball (top) of ambergris, a royal tent (otak) with equipment and awnings, 20 pieces of musk, a jewelled (curved) horn, 10 pieces of bezoar-stone (an antidote) and, a bit unusual, no less than 50 turbans destâr-i paşa, one hundred other turbans of the best quality (mu‘allâ) and five robes of honour made of serâser (hil‘at-ı serâser),30 probably the most costly of all Ottoman silks, a cloth of gold and silver woven in a taqueté structure.31 Turbans, carpets and hil‘ats cost the impressive sum of three hundred nine thousand akçe.32 Except for the robes of honour and perhaps the turbans, all items correspond to the image of a ruler spreading splendour and constituted therefore an appropriate selection of diplomatic gifts. To a Christian monarch the masses of turbans appeared somewhat odd, though. Was this connected with the established sultanic custom of providing converts to Islam at least with a turban? If so, it had to be taken as a request to convert. Hence we might understand it as a kind of ersatz for the Koran copies sent to Muslim rulers. Even odder than the turbans were, however, the hil‘ats. It was certainly possible to send garments to another monarch without being diplomatically incorrect. But in such a case any allusion to robes of honour had to be avoided. However, in the context of a register of ceremonies (teşrîfât defteri), from which our entry comes, the term hil‘at is certainly not chosen by accident. It clearly emphasises a message of Ottoman superiority over the Austrians, showing them their appropriate place in the political landscape. There is little doubt, however, that the Ottomans just continued with this gift a tradition already practised in the diplomatic intercourse with the Kaiser, who, in their system of values, had been an important enemy who simply refused to accept his inferior status as a vassal of the Porte. By now the Austrian envoy Schmid von Schwarzenhorn (the former resident to Constantinople) had successfully renewed the peace treaty of Zsitvatorok (1606). At the same time he succeeded in reducing the amount of ‘presents’ to the Porte. In particular, Schmid

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had the task of ensuring that the Austrian gifts would not be referred to in the official document as ‘duty’ (Abgabe), thus trying to bring the two empires diplomatically to a status of equal powers.33 The diplomatic gifts to the court of Vienna are an unmistakable hint that the Porte was irritated by and disliked this settlement. If the Austrians stopped to call their tributary gifts by their proper name, the robes of honour would remind the Kaiser of his status as an Ottoman vassal. This solution put, at least for the master of ceremonies, the world in order again. In Ottoman eyes, this settlement must have been a success, because in 1665 the Ottoman envoy Kara Mehmed Pasha brought to the court of Vienna not only a jewelled aigrette (sorguc) but also a single-poled tent, ten prayer rugs (seccâde), five Persian carpets, one okka (1.2828 kg)34 ambergris, two purebred Arab horses (küheylan) preciously saddled up, eight spare horses and no less than a hundred turbans (sarık) and forty robes of honour.35 The very nature of a hil‘at made it a perfect item for this purpose. It is very likely that a robe of honour did not differ from a normal courtly dress worn by certain ranks. Unfortunately there seem to exist only very few depictions of hil‘ats and even less of a robing ceremony.36 As far as conclusions on the basis of this limited account are possible, it is evident that the bestowed attires corresponded to current courtly fashions. This impression is strengthened by Fındıklızâde, who mentions in his Nusretnâme a banquet given (28 Şa‘bân 1106 /13 April 1695) by the grand vizier for the Sultan (Mustafâ II); at this occasion the sadrıa‘zam offered to his exalted guest, among other gifts (a jewelled belt worth 1,000 pieces of gold, four wrappers with dîbâ (brocaded satin)37, a fully-equipped mare and another, level-headed gently moving horse, a samur erkân kürkü (sable fur for the ‘pillars of state’),38 a garment normally assigned as a robe of honour to the highest ranks of state.39 Even if we assume that a garment designed as a hil‘at might have had somewhere a mark highlighting it as special gift by the sultan,40 this must have been far less visible than modern brand names of so-called designer clothes. Hence, what made up a hil‘at, was mainly naming it as such. In a sending of diplomatic gifts, robes of honour therefore could be understood as innocent garments presented from an equal to an equal, at least if not specified otherwise in the accompanying documentation. We do not yet know the wording of this list of presents for 1650, although it might well have survived in the HausHof- und Staatsarchiv in Vienna; in all probability it followed verbatim the entry in our register. Of course, we cannot exclude the possibility that a meek translation made the text agreeable for the Kaiser’s ear, avoiding the harshness of the original. Since the neutral term câme (‘garment’)41 is frequently used in the early sixteenth

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century ‘registers of royal favours’ (in‘âmât defterleri) instead of hil‘at, it is also possible that a diplomatically harmless diction was chosen. Whether the implicit message was understood on the Austrian side is not completely clear. If the term ‘robe of honour’ was conveyed to the Kaiser, it is very likely that the court of Vienna chose to ignore the affront and remain silent. In any case, the Austrian resident in Constantinople, Schmid von Schwarzenhorn must have been well-informed about the customs of the Ottoman court. Faux pas like that of Richard Lionheart, who walked happily around in Jerusalem wearing a robe of honour he had received from Saladin,42 probably belonged to the past. Nevertheless, we can be sure that despite all diplomatic annoyances the Ottoman gifts were very much appreciated in Vienna for their exotic quality. Although the great times of Turkomania had not yet started, the turbans were very welcome items indeed, to be used, I suppose, at courtly carnival parties.43 This, of course, had not exactly been what the Ottomans intended. Neither of the two sides, as we can see, could thus escape their own cultural codes, and both remained captives of their respective system. Hence, without entering the Orientalism debate, we may conclude that even when East and West did meet, a third guest was usually present: cultural misunderstanding.

Notes 1

Salomon Schweigger, Ein newe Reyßbeschreibung auß Teutschland Nach Constantinopel und Jerusalem (11578-1581). Nürnberg 1608, reprint: Graz (Akademische Druckund Verlagsanstalt) 1964, 61. 2 Marcel Mauss, The Gift: the Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies. (transl. By W.D. Halls), New York (W.W. Norton) 1990. 3 Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge/UK (Cambridge University Press) 142000, 171-83. 4 Cf. Jürgen Hannig, ‘Ars donandi. Zur Ökonomie des Schenkens im frühen Mittelalter’, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 38 (1986), 150. 5 Madison, Wisconsin (The University of Wisconsin Press) 2000. 6 Cf. Brigitte Moser, Die Chronik des Ahmed Sinan Čelebi, genannt Bihišti: Eine Quelle zur Geschichte des Osmanischen Reiches unter Sultan Bâyezid II. München (Trofenik) 1980, 104. For greater detail in this matter see Shai Har-El, Struggle for Domination in the Middle East: The Ottoman-Mamluk War, 1885-1491. Leiden-New York-Köln (Brill) 1995, p113-4. Among the gifts which finally reached the Ottoman court were ‘several bales of fabric’ (Moser, ibidem). 7 Bertrandon de la Broquière, Le voyage d'outremer de Bertrandon de la Broquière (1432). Ed. Ch. Schefer (= Recueil de voyages et documents pour servir à l'histoire de la géographie, No. XII), Paris 1892, 190.

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8 In 1608 the presents, which were brought to the seraglio the day before, were shown to the spectators the day of the audience. Cf. Maximilian Brandstetter, ‘Itinerarium oder Raisbeschreibung’, in: Karl Nehring, Adam Freiherrn zu Herbersteins Gesandtschaftsreise nach Konstantinopel. Ein Beitrag zum Frieden von Zsitvatorok (1606). (= Südosteuropäische Arbeiten 78) München (Oldenbourg) 1983, 124-6. In 1628 the Kaiser’s envoy Hans Ludwig von Kuefstein reports also that the gifts were lifted by the Sultan’s court officials when he went to the audience. Cf. Karl Teply, Die kaiserliche Großbotschaft an Sultan Murad IV. 1628: Des Freiherrn Hans Ludwig von Kuefsteins Fahrt zur Hohen Pforte. Wien (A. Schendl), s.a., 81. 9 Gülru Necipoğlu, Architecture, Ceremonial and Power: The Topkapı Palace in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries. Cambridge, MA – London (The MIT Press) 1991, 66. 10 Karl Teply, Die kaiserliche Großbotschaft, 40 f. To watch elephants must have been considered a noble way of passing the time, as Silahdâr found it important enough to mention that Sultan Mustafa II ‘had the elephants brought and was watching them for a while’, (Silâhdar Fındıklı Mehmed Ağa, Nusretname. I, ed. İsmet Parmaksızoğlu. Istanbul 1962-4, 6). 11 Istanbul, Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (BOA) A.TŞF 348, fol. 3 b. 12 Ludwig Forrer, Die osmanische Chronik des Rüstem Pascha. (= Georg Jacob und Rudolf Tschudi, ed., Türkische Bibliothek 21), Leipzig 1923, 43. 13 Celia J. Kerslake, ‘The Correspondence Between Selîm I and Kânsûh al-Gawrî’, in: Prilozi za Orientalnu Filologiju 30 (1980), 227 (according to Ibn Iyâs the Indian legation had arrived in Cairo 2 Ramadân 918/11 November 1512). Sometimes elephants were taken on military expeditions as well, cf. Forrer, Chronik des Rüstem Pascha, 59. 14 Cf. to this topic in general Lisa Golombek, ‘The Draped Universe of Islam ‘, in: Priscilla P. Soucek (ed.), Content and Context of Visual Arts in the Islamic World. (= Monographs on the fine arts 44), University Park, Pa-London (Pennsylvania State University Press) 1988, 25-49. 15 In architectural decoration a pronounced sense of three-dimensionality became evident at the beginning of the eithteenth century, cf. Shirine Hamadeh, ‘Splash and Spectacle: The Obsession with Fountains in Eighteenth-Century Istanbul’, in: Muqarnas 19 (2002), 126-8. 16 BOA, Mal. Müd. 9054, 599; D.BŞM 2779, 1-2. Cf. also Hedda Reindl-Kiel, ‘Pracht und Ehre. Zum Geschenkwesen im Osmanischen Reich’, in: Das Osmanische Reich in seinen Archivalien und Chroniken. Nejat Göyünç zu Ehren..ed. Klaus Kreiser u. Christoph K. Neumann, (= Beiruter Texte und Studien Bd. 65, Türkische Welten Bd.1) Istanbul-Stuttgart (Franz Steiner)1997, 187. 17 Ghâda al-Hijjâwî al-Qaddûmî, Book of Gifts and Rarities (kitâb al-Hadâyâ wa alTuhâf): Selections Compiled in the Fifteenth Century from an Eleventh-Century Manuscript on Gifts and Treasures. Cambridge, MA (Havard University Press) 1996, 63-5. 18 S. Abel (fortgesetzt durch B. Simson), Jahrbücher des fränkischen Reiches unter Karl dem Großen II (789-814), (= Jahrbücher der deutschen Geschichte, historische Comission der königlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Bayern) Leipzig 1883, 365-8 (German translation and Latin original). 19 Matthew, 2:11. 20 Cf. Filiz Çağman and Zeren Tanındı, ‘Remarks on some manuscripts from the Topkapı Palace treasury in the context of Ottoman-Safavid relations’, in: Muqarnas 13 (1996), 132-48. 21 Brigitte Moser, Die Chronik des Ahmed Sinan Čelebi, 132 f. 22 Hans Theunissen, ‘The Venetian Lanterns of Mehmed III’s State Galley’, paper at the 11th International Congress of Turkish Art in Utrecht, August 1999.

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Susan A. Skilliter, ‘Three Letters from the Ottoman ‘Sultana’ Sâfiye to Queen Elizabeth I.’, in: S.M. Stern (ed.), Documents from Islamic Chanceries. First Series. Oxford (Bruno Cassirer) 1965, 142. 24 Michael Rogers, ‘Ottoman Luxury Trades and their Regulation’, in: Hans Georg Majer (ed.), Osmanistische Studien zur Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte. In memoriam Vančo Boškov. Wiesbaden (Otto Harrassowitz) 1986, 139. 25 Cf. N.A.Stillman, ‘Khil‘a’, in: The Encyclopaedia of Islam.2 Vol. V, Leiden 1986, 6-7. M. Fuad Köprülü, ‘Hil‘at’, in: İslam Ansiklopedisi. Vol. V, İstanbul 1964, 483-6. Mehmet Şeker, ‘Hil‘at’, in: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslâm Ansiklopedisi. Vol. 18, Istanbul 1998, 22-25. Filiz Karaca, ‘Osmanlılar'da Hil‘at’, in: Ibidem, 25-7. See also Monika Springberg-Hinsen, Die Hil‘a: Studien zur Geschichte des geschenkten Gewandes im islamischen Kulturkreis.(= Mitteilungen zur Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte der islamischen Welt VII) Würzburg (Ergon) 2000. Steward Gordon (ed.), Robes and Honor: The Medieval World of Investiture. New York (Palgrave) 2001. I am grateful to Prof. Avinoam Shalem, Munich, who drew my attention to the latter books. 26 Cf. Springberg-Hinsen, Hil‘a, 22. 27 See, for example, BOA, Kepeci 667 mükerrer, 19, reporting an irsâliye (sending) of robes of honour for this purpose to the beğlerbeği of Anatolia, in 1042/1632-3. 28 Kepeci 667 mükerrer, 62 (1042/1632-3). 29 BOA, Kepeci 669, 13 (5 Muharrem 1094/5 December 1682) 30 BOA, Kepeci 668, 22. 31 Julian Raby & Alison Effeny (eds), İpek: Imperial Ottoman Silks and Velvets. Istanbul-London (TEB) 2001, 341. See also Hülya Tezcan, Atlaslar Atlası: Pamuklu, Yün ve İpek Kumaş Koleksiyonu/Cotton, Woolen and Silk: Fabrics Collection. Istanbul (Yapı ve Kredi Bankası) 1993, 34. 32 BOA Kepeci 668, 22. 33 In addition, the agreed treaty stipulated that the value of gifts on either side was not to exceed 40,000 florins, cf. Johann Wilhelm Zinkeisen, Geschichte des osmanischen Reiches in Europa. Vol. 4, Gotha 1856, 867-869. Joseph v. Hammer, Geschichte des Osmanischen Reiches. Vol. 5, Pest 1829, 492. 34 1 okka (vukiyye) = 1.2828 kg, see Halil İnalcık, ‘Introduction to Ottoman Metrology,’ in: Turcica XV (1983), 320. 35 Silahdâr Fındıklı Mehmed Ağa, Silahdâr Târîhi. I, Istanbul 1928, 377. In the list of gifts for emperor Charles VI, in 1740, however, neither robes of honour nor turbans are mentioned, BOA Mal. Müd. 9054, 387-388. 36 Three examples are given in Raby/Effeny (eds), İpek, 30-31, figs. 18, 19, 20. 37 Cf. Tezcan, Atlaslar Atlası, 30. 38 Silâhdar, Nusretname. I, 25. 39 For example, Silâhdar, Nusretname. I 20, 31, 97, 107, 132. 40 Stewart Gordon, ‘Robes, Kings, and Semiotic Ambiguity’, in: Idem (ed.), Robes and Honor: The Medieval World of Investiture. New York (Palgrave) 2001, 282-3, writes, unfortunately without giving any reference, ‘The exact monetary value was stitched into robes bestowed in Ottoman Turkey’. 41 A good example is the İn‘âmât Defteri of 909/1503-4, Ömer Lütfü Barkan, ‘İstanbul Saraylarına ait Muhasebe Defterleri’, in: Belgeler IX/13 (1979), 296-380. 42 Cf. Francesco Gabrieli, Arab Historians of the Crusades: selected and translated from the Arabic sources. London (Routledge& Paul) 1969, 242. 43 Best documented, it seems, are the disguising divertiments of the Saxonian court in Dresden. Cf. Claudia Schnitzer, Höfische Maskeraden: Funktion und Ausstattung von Verkleidungsdivertissements an deutschen Höfen der Frühen Neuzeit. Tübingen (Max Niemeyer) 1999. There is no doubt, however, that masquerades were not much less in favour at the court of Vienna.

Mapmaking in Ottoman Istanbul between 1650 and 1750: A Domain of Painters, Calligraphers or Cartographers? Sonja Brentjes

The question as to whether mapmaking in Ottoman Istanbul between 1650 and 1750 was a domain of painters, calligraphers or cartographers, cannot be answered fully and with certainty. Many maps did not survive and many of those, which did are so fragile that libraries denied me access to them. Thus, my study focuses on one kind of map—maps found in manuscripts of the works of Hājjī Khalīfa and Abū Bakr al- Dimashqī. These manuscripts contain two kinds of works. The first type is constituted by translations of Gerhard Mercator’s ‘Atlas minor’ and of Wilhelm Blaeu’s ‘Atlas maior’ made from Latin into Ottoman Turkish. The second type is formed by Hājjī Khalīfa’s and Abū Bakr al-Dimashqī’s own texts using parts of the earlier translations that are abbreviated and rearranged into new works. I studied only manuscripts produced definitely or most likely in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Although I tried— with the help of colleagues in Istanbul—to find other material essential for this study such as remnants of map-producing workshops from early modern Istanbul, information about mapmakers aside from the brief statement in Evliya Çelebi’s travel account or registers of salaries and gratuities paid to calligraphers, painters and map-makers, nothing came out of this approach. The only material my paper is based upon remained the maps found in the manuscripts of the two authors in the two major libraries of Istanbul, i.e. the Süleymaniye and the library of the Topkapı Palace. The third major library, that of Istanbul University, remained inaccessible during the two periods of research I spent in Istanbul. My original interest in the manuscripts and maps of Hājjī Khalīfa and Abū Bakr al-Dimashqī stems from my larger research project on the exchange of geographical and astronomical knowledge across the Mediterranean Sea during the early modern period. Within this project and with respect to the maps found in the manuscripts of the two Ottoman geographers, I explore primarily the following three issues:

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1. What kind of knowledge was necessary for translating the maps of Gerhard Mercator’s ‘Atlas minor’ and Wilhelm Blaeu’s ‘Atlas maior’ into Ottoman Turkish? 2. What kind of knowledge was involved in the process of transmitting the maps? 3. What kind of changes happened in the confrontation between the knowledge and views embodied in the Latin maps and the knowledge and views present among Ottoman producers and consumers of maps? In this paper, however, I will turn to a fourth issue which came up while I studied the extant manuscript-maps, including those of the autographs of Hājjī Khalīfa (MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2998 ‘Levami’ al-nur’; Topkapı Sarayı R 1624 ‘Cihannüma II’) and the fine copy of Abū Bakr al-Dimashqī’s work (Ms Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı B 325-32). This issue concerns the question formulated in the title of my paper, namely, who was involved in producing and copying maps—cartographers, painters or calligraphers? In order to find answers to this new question, I determined features characterizing the maps in the two autographs ascribed to Hājjī Khalīfa, one of ‘Levami’ al-nur’, i.e. the translation of Mercator’s ‘Atlas minor’, and the other of ‘Cihan-nüma II’, i.e. Hājjī Khalīfa’s own geographical work. I did the same kind of analysis with Abū Bakr alDimashqī’s fine copy of the translation of Blaeu’s ‘Atlas maior’, with the various epitomes of this translation ascribed to Abū Bakr and with Abū Bakr’s Arabic summary of geography. I included in this analysis an inspection of the material properties of the maps, i.e. I searched for traces of instruments, templates and other auxiliary means for drawing a map. Finally, I compared the handwritings of maps and texts within one manuscript as well as with other manuscripts of the same text or style of drawing and colouring. My paper presents the results gained from this analysis in four sections, the two first being devoted to Hājjī Khalīfa’s autographs and Abū Bakr’s fine copy and the two subsequent ones dealing with workshops, painters and calligraphers. Features of the Maps in Hājjī Khalīfa’s Autographs Hājjī Khalīfa claimed that the French convert Mehmet Ikhlas who cooperated with him in translating Mercator’s ‘Atlas minor’ had also taught him how to draw maps. Most of the maps in Ms Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2998 are, however, free-hand drawings. Even the few maps, which possess a projectional grid, that is the hemispheres and the maps of Europe, Africa, Asia, the Americas and the Northern and Southern poles, show no clear signs of having

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been constructed with mathematical instruments. Despite the lack of technical knowledge embodied in these maps, there are several indications that a person of foreign and more specifically French origin was involved in producing them. In the map of the Safavid Empire, for instance, transliterations, not translations and culturally incongruent, not culturally sustained interpretations dominate the scenery.

Persicum Regnum, MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2998

A culturally incongruent interpretation is for instance the explanation in the map’s title that the ‘Persicum Regnum’ means ‘farsî saltanatî’. A culturally sustained interpretation would have been either ‘mamlakat-e îrân’ or ‘mamlakat-e ‘ajam’. Transliterated words are often spelled wrongly. The cause of the misspelling is a letter-by-letter transliteration of the written Latin forms, unfamiliarity with the local names, the omission of endings and several misreading of Latin names caused by the small size of the Latin map and the low quality of the print. Corrupt Latin forms of Persian geographical names are not corrected and occasionally take on an even worse form. Latin fantasy names of regions and places are not removed. A legend and

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some names have been omitted while others have been added. Strikingly enough, in both maps Isfahan and Shiraz are missing. The repeated transliteration of ‘ch’ by the letter ‘shin’, the omission of an ending letter ‘e’, the use of the letter ‘jim’ for ‘j’ as well as ‘g’ (before ‘e’ and ‘i’) indicate a French pronunciation. Since MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2998 is considered to be Hājjī Khalīfa’s autograph of the translation, the maps in it are also taken to be made by him, an assumption supported by the identity of the handwriting in text and maps. Gottfried Hagen who worked extensively on Hājjī Khalīfa’s geographical oeuvre believes that Mehmet Ikhlas read the names of the maps aloud and Hājjī Khalīfa wrote them down according to what he understood. In my view, however, the spelling errors favour the idea that the French convert transferred the names in a new map, which the Ottoman scholar then copied in his autograph. An adjunct scribe as an intermediary between the two scholars also may have been involved. While the repeated transformation of ‘m’ into ‘n’ or ‘s’ into ‘z’ point to an oral element in the cooperation, the change of Dinch into l-r-nj or the spelling of Cjarcjan as q-yârk-yân seem to favour a transfer through writing. The differing representation of vowels and certain consonants may point to the involvement of additional persons. In general, there is no standard strategy recognizable, which the collaborators may have discussed, agreed upon, and then applied to the transformation of the maps from Latin into Ottoman Turkish. Examples for the various renditions are shown in the following list. Examples from the Map of Persia Latin names

transliterated from

Persicum Regnum Cjarcjan Zagataj Lop Simman Buccara Cusistan Ormuz Sablestã Serva Dinch Desertum bealbauct Bigul Desert

Parsiqûm raghnûm q-yârk-yân zîghâtây jûb (sic) Sûmân bûqârâ kûz-stân Ûrmûz sâbl-st-h s-rvâ l-r-nj bâlbankt beriyeh-si Ûl beriyeh-si (sic)

explanatory addition or my comment ya’nî farsî saltanatî in Central Asia Çaghatay Bukhâra Khuzistân Hormuz Zabulistân ya’nî shirvân

Ottoman-European Cultural Exchange Cont. Jesset Circan (region) Macran Casmin Adilbegian (region) Bedane (region) Diarbech Balsara Masul Guzarate Sind (town) Die Madresabam (?) Babachi Machmuabat Tach castr Varcand Ieselbas (region) Cabul (region) Frat flu. Lexd (sic, region) Mesat (region) Mare Balsora (east of Hormuz)

j-s-t (or: h-s-t) shîrqân (region) mâkrân qâsmîn adîlb b-dân diyârb-k bâlsarah mâsûl kûzârât (?) suwît (sic) (town yd-r-h sabâ bûlbâsh (sic) mâshmûyâbât tâsh q-l’-h-si missing jezel (town) missing missing missing Mesât (region) bâlsarâ denizi (close to Basra)

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Yazd Shîrkân (town) Makrân Qazvîn Adharbayjân Diyâr Bakr Basra Mausil Gujarat Sind (region) Mahmûdâbâd Tâj castle Iezilbash, name for the Sunni Uzbeks Euphrates Yazd ya’nî Mashhad ya’nî Basrah

Other important features of the maps in Hājjī Khalīfa’s autograph of the translation of Gerhard Mercator’s ‘Atlas minor’ are the introduction of a small number of Turkish words, in particular for seas and rivers, and the incompleteness of the technical aspects such as scales and gradation. The maps in Hājjī Khalīfa’s autograph of his work ‘Cihan-nüma II’ possess similar features. Their degree of incompleteness surpasses that of the maps in MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2998. Major maps as those of the hemispheres, Europe and Asia are unfinished. They suggest that Hājjī Khalīfa did not start with constructing the frame, gradation and grid when drawing the maps, but began with outlining the boundaries of the terra firma and of islands. Such a sequence of the singular steps in drawing a map can be found in other copies of his text too. A new aspect of MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1624 is the replacement of the maps of the Ottoman and

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such maps remained fragmentary too, as for instance the maps of Kermân, Hormuz, Lâr and of Khûzistân. Safavid Empires by newly constructed regional maps. A number of

MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1624, Hemispheres

MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1624, Asia

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MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1624, Khûzistân

These findings demonstrate that in the stage of translation, cartographic projections, geographical coordinates, measurements and precise geometrical constructions were not guiding principles. The mathematical and cartographic knowledge shared between Mehmet Ikhlas and Hājjī Khalīfa remained private and unused. It did not even enter into the earliest manuscripts, i.e. the autographs of the translation and the new ‘Cihan-nüma’. Neither Hājjī Khalīfa nor Mehmet Ikhlas considered Ottoman Turkish geographical nomenclature an indispensable element of their work as translators. Apparently, Hājjī Khalīfa regarded the ‘Levami’al-nur’ only as a translation forhis own private use, i.e. as an intermediary stage in his geographical enterprise. When Hājjī Khalīfa wrote his second version of the ‘Cihan-nüma’, the situation was different. Concerned now with producing a geographical work for an Ottoman audience, he applied himself to transform the parts he borrowed from the translated Latin atlas into locally identifiable items, i.e. he

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‘ottomanized’ them. He replaced, for instance, the map of Iran by a series of regional maps. In these newly invented mappings of regions of the Muslim world, no remainder was left of the transliterated vocabulary. The new maps spoke only in Persian and Ottoman Turkish tongue. This shift of mapped space and mapping languages brought with itself a change of geographical, historical and political concepts. ‘Persia’ ceased to be portrayed as the territory ruled by the Safavids. It was reduced to the province Fars, a concept taken from Muslim geography and history. Most of the towns and villages populating the transliterated map made place for Iranian localities described and defined in Arabic, Persian and Ottoman Turkish geographies and histories. In Hājjī Khalīfa’s cartography the Safavid Empire did not possess territorial integrity and coherence. It was identified as the sum of its provinces. These provinces did not follow the contemporary administrative and political structure of Safavid Iran, but were defined by Hājjī Khalīfa’s literary sources. Features of the Maps in Abū Bakr al-Dimashqī’s Fine Copy of Blaeu’s ‘Atlas major ’ When we turn to Abū Bakr al-Dimashqī’s ‘Nüsret al-islam’ and focus on four of the maps contained in MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı B 325 and B 330 (the map of the hemispheres, Europe, Africa, Asia), we find some similarities between them and the maps in the autographs of Hājjī Khalīfa. One of the four maps (Africa) does not contain a projectional grid, scale and gradation. The maps of Europe and Asia are also unfinished in their technical aspects. In the maps of Europe and Africa, the auxiliary parallels introduced for making the drawing of the contours easier were not erased. The map of the hemispheres shows clearly that it was not constructed, but drawn by other means. The irregular shapes of the curves and the random size of the distances between them may have been generated either by free-hand drawing, the use of templates or the use of other mechanical means. The smoothness of the curvature, the interruptions occurring in some of the curves and the instable character of the irregularities make templates as well as free-hand drawings unlikely. A non-rigid mechanical device as an auxiliary means for drawing the grid may explain the various irregularities. Errors such as the misplacement of the tropics of Capricorn in the hemisphere of the New World, the omission of the Caspian Sea in the hemisphere of the Old World or the misspelling of bahr-e tata for bahr-e tatar point to a copyist and not a cartographer at work. The difference in technical style is not the only deviation between W. Blaeu’s ‘Atlas maior’ and Abū Bakr’s translation. The abundant

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iconography of Blaeu’s work is completely missing in all versions of Abū Bakr’s work. The parts describing Asia and Africa in Abū Bakr’s translation are adorned with only one general map of each continent. None of the African and Western Asian regional maps of countries, provinces or territories from Blaeu’s atlas were incorporated in the fine copy, while Europe and the New World were portrayed by general as well as numerous regional maps. Abū Bakr may have

MS Istanbul, Topkapı Saray B325, Hemisphere of the Old World

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thought that these two areas mattered most to his sovereign and patron. Furthermore, the maps of MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı B 325-32 contain a mixture of transliterations and Ottoman names for seas, islands, cities, countries and regions. In the map of Europe, for instance, we find side by side names such as ‘Muhît-e gharbî, bahr-e duqaleduniya, Jazâ’îr-e khalîdât, Aq denizi, Hibernîya, Fransa, Flamank, Nurvejîya, Leh, Sûs-e aqsâ, Jazâ’îr, Rashîd, Dimashq-e Shâm, Quds, Qara denizi, bahr-e shirvân, Bûdûlîya and Musqû’. Abū Bakr obviously had a different opinion than Hājjī Khalīfa about what translating a map meant. Already in the process of translation, he determined which Latin names had equivalents in Ottoman Turkish geographical nomenclature. This different stance was probably caused by the different purposes in translating the two atlases. Abū Bakr did not engage in the project in order to produce a private translation for him, but had been ordered by the Grand Vizier Ahmed Fazil Köprülü-zade to render accessible to the Ottoman sultan and court a political gift from the Dutch consul. For this audience, mere transliterations and culturally incongruent explanations was insufficient and hence meant that the work was not finished yet. The amount of mathematical knowledge involved in the translation of

W. Janszoon Blaeu, Atlas maior, Amsterdam 1665, Asia (courtesy Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Staatsbibliothek Berlin, map department)

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Blaeu’s atlas cannot be judged since no indisputable trace of it can be seen in the manuscripts of the translation or in those of the later abbreviations. The lack of such signs implies that Abū Bakr was not strongly interested in mathematical precision or in technical elegance.If the extant manuscripts, i.e. Mss Istanbul Topkapı Sarayı B 325 - B 332 , were indeed the fine copy of the translated ‘Atlas maior’, then Abū Bakr obviously perceived the Ottoman sultan and his court as willing to overlook the lack of finesse in the maps. Who Produced the Maps in Later Copies of Hājjī Khalīfa’s and Abū Bakr’s Works? When we turn to the question whether the maps in later copies of the ‘Levami’ al-nur’, the ‘Cihan-nüma II’, Abū Bakr’s various abbreviations and his Arabic summary called ‘Geography’ have been produced by cartographers, calligraphers or painters, the characteristics of the extant maps point in a similar direction as that discussed with regard to the autographs and the fine copy. For a few spheres and maps, a compass and ruler was used as indicated by material traces in the paper. Examples can be found in the manuscripts Paris, BNF, Turc Supplement 215 (the sphere) and Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1622 (the sphere).

MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1622, Sphere

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Other manuscripts such as Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2998 (hemispheres) and Topkapı Sarayı R 1629 (sphere) do not show such material traces. The differences in size between the drawings in the individual manuscripts and the irregularity of the distances between the curves speak against the use of templates. The subtle differences between the various copies of one and the same map suggest that workshops provided extensive training in free-hand drawing of curved and straight lines.

MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1629 and R 1634, Caspian Sea (Superimposition)

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The maps in four manuscripts of the ‘Cihan-nüma II’ and in one manuscript of Abū Bakr’s abbreviations (MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Hamidiye 988, Nuruosmaniye 3275, Topkapı Sarayı R 1629, Paris, BNF, Supplement Turc 215 and Topkapı Sarayı 1634) have been undoubtedly produced in such a workshop. (See Appendix 1) A sixth manuscript, MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1632 is related in some of its maps to the style of this workshop as shown by the map of the North Pole. Since most of its maps follow the drawing style of sea charts, the manuscript may have been produced elsewhere and taken its cartographic inspirations from different sources. (See Appendix 2) The maps of at least two, if not three manuscripts of Abū Bakr’s abbreviations (MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1634, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2996 and Süleymaniye Köprülü Kısım II, 173) come from a different workshop sharing among themselves the same kind of drawing style, sparse topographical design and preference for the written word. The two manuscripts mentioned first are also very close in the way how and which parts of the maps they coloured, while the third deviates in this point more from these two manuscripts than with respect to the other enumerated elements. (See Appendix 3) The two workshops followed different approaches to mapmaking. The maps of ‘Cihan-nüma II’ in Mss Istanbul, Süleymaniye Hamidiye 988 and Paris, BNF, Supplement Turc 215 are all integrated into the presentation of the text. Text and map appear as a unit in the same manner as miniatures are often combined with the text they illustrate. The light colours chosen for the maps in these manuscripts increase the impression that the maps were seen to be similar to miniatures. (See Map on next page) Some maps in MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 3275 such as the one of the North Pole shown in the Appendix 2 continue to follow this concept, but most of its maps have lost their immediate integration into the text and appear on separate sheets. (See Appendix 4) In the fourth manuscript of this group, MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1629, there is no trace left of an immediate miniature-like integration between maps and text. All maps appear now on separate sheets (see the map of the North Pole in Appendix 2). MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1634, the only manuscript of the Abū Bakr-group which also contains several maps from the ‘Cihan-nüma II’, shows that the workshop at some point abandoned completely its identification of maps with text-bound miniatures and started to sell the maps independently from the text (see the map of the North and South Poles in Appendix 1). Consumers appear to have shared this attitude of detaching maps and texts, since the maps from the ‘Cihan-

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nüma II’ in MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1634 were attached to textual passages to which they have no connection whatsoever.

MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Hamidiye 988, Ptolemaic Universe

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The maps of the manuscripts of Abū Bakr’s abbreviations which seem to have originated in one and the same workshop in Istanbul share the same detached connection with the text. The maps were added later to the text since they are glued on a strip of paper. In some cases they are drawn on a different kind and format of paper than the one used for the text. The separation of text and maps indicates that the two have been produced in different steps. This suggests that different people were responsible for the text and the maps. Such a separation can be seen in other manuscripts of Abū Bakr’s abbreviations too. In MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2995, for instance, the handwriting of the text and the handwriting in the maps differ to some extent and some of the maps appear in a textual environment unrelated to their contents. The map of Asia, for instance, is included between the folios before Benin.

MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2995, Asia

In the case of the ‘Cihan-nüma II’ group, MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Hamidiye 988 does not show such a separation between the scribe of

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the text and the painter of the map, while the handwriting in the text of MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 3275 and in the maps differs considerably (see the maps in Appendix 1). Thus, we can conclude, that while calligraphers occasionally produced text and maps, it was more common that there was a separation of labour between calligraphers and map-painters. The extant material does not allow, however, determining whether the roles were interchangeable. Cartographic Changes Introduced by Map-Painters, Calligraphers or Workshops Calligraphers and map-painters were, by no means, simple copyists. They replaced the topographical vocabulary translated and commented upon in an earlier phase of work by local names. They introduced the one or the other new regional map of the Ottoman and the Safavid Empires, Northern Africa, Central Asia and SouthEastern Europe. They also kept informed about new developments and replaced outdated maps by new ones. The most important case of this activity is the replacement of Hājjī Khalīfa’s map of the Caspian Sea in MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1624 by variants of the new map of the Caspian Sea in the four manuscripts of the ‘Cihan-nüma II’ and in the one manuscript of Abū Bakr’s abbreviations discussed previously. (See Appendix 5) The dating of MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Hamidiye 988 as 1114/1701 poses a problem with regard to this new form of the Caspian Sea since this form was developed only in the early 1720’s by Russian and French cartographers. The dating of Ms Paris, BNF, Supplement Turc 215 as 1142/1729 fits better into the known series of events. Since both manuscripts have been written by the same calligrapher Mahmûd b. al-Shaykh ‘Abdallâh b. al-Shaykh alMustaqîm, the first date probably is erroneous. Furthermore, it is unknown how and when maps of the new form of the Caspian Sea arrived in Istanbul and who persuaded the map-painters to replace Hājjī Khalīfa’s map by the new one. Another issue, which needs a more thorough investigation, is the close relationship between the four manuscripts of the ‘Cihan-nüma II’ produced in this workshop and Ibrahim Müteferrika’s printed edition of the ‘Cihan-nüma’. Surprisingly, Müteferrika did not include a map of the new form of the Caspian Sea in his edition. Map-painters may have been more actively involved in all these ventures than commonly credited. MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2996, Nuruosmaniye 3275 and Paris, BNF, Supplement Turc 215, namely, show that the new form of the Caspian Sea even migrated into a manuscript of Abū Bakr’s epitome which does not contain any other map made in this

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workshop as well as into the map of the hemispheres produced later in this workshop. Conclusion The analysis of the maps contained in the manuscripts of Hājjī Khalīfa’s and Abū Bakr al-Dimashqī’s translations of Gerhard Mercator’s ‘Atlas minor’ and Wilhelm Blaeu’s ‘Atlas maior’ and in those of Hājjī Khalīfa’s and Abū Bakr al-Dimashqī’s own geographical works derived from these translations shows clearly that mathematical constructions, geographical coordinates and scales were only of minor importance for the translators, writers and consumers. Lavish pictorial embellishment of the geographical representation of lands and seas was equally of no importance. The need for identifying Western European geographical terms with those available in the various fields of Ottoman geography was seen differently by the two Ottoman geographers. While Hājjī Khalīfa did not enforce such a transformation within the process of translation, Abū Bakr replaced as many foreign names as possible. This difference in attitude was probably caused by the difference in audience for whom the translations were made. When the two scholars created their own works based on the translations, all foreign names disappeared as far as maps of the Muslim world are concerned. Hājjī Khalīfa did not stop there, but introduced new maps of provinces and regions of Muslim India, Central Asia and Iran, while ignoring the transliterated copy of Mercator’s map of Iran. As a result, the Safavid Empire disappeared from the Muslim world as portrayed in the ‘Cihan-nüma II’. Abū Bakr reintroduced into his epitomes the regional maps of countries in Asia and Africa left out in the fine copy of the translation. He did not follow Hājjī Khalīfa’s approach, but reproduced the view of the Safavid and Ottoman Empires delivered in Blaeu’s atlas. This meant that the Ottoman Empire was split up into several regional maps often with no indication that the mapped regions were part of the Empire, while the Safavid Empire was portrayed as a single, coherent state. Blaeu’s maps of parts of the Ottoman Empire often lacked explicit verbal attachment to the Empire too, but used human figures and occasionally instruments and emblems to let the observer know that the ‘Turks’ ruled the mapped region. The omission of all pictorial elements and the reduction of the text of the cartouches to its simplest form, i.e. the name of the region, in Abū Bakr’s epitomes meant that the information about the current state of political affairs was lost too. Political geography as a means to represent statehood was not a concept emphasized by Abū Bakr himself or the painters who produced the maps in the later copies.

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The extant manuscripts of Hājjī Khalīfa’s and Abū Bakr’s works indicate that two different workshops emerged in Istanbul with different attitudes towards the relationship between text and maps. One workshop treated maps as if they were miniatures and established an integrated relationship between text and maps. Such a relationship did not exist in the texts from which they were derived, i.e. in Mercator’s ‘Atlas minor’, Hājjī Khalīfa’s and Mehmet Ikhlas’ ‘Levami’ al-nur’ and Hājjī Khalīfa’s ‘Cihan-nüma II’. Over time, this integrated relationship dissolved. The workshop began producing its miniature-like maps independent from the text of the ‘Cihan-nüma II’ and even sold them separately. The second workshop produced texts and maps of Abū Bakr’s abbreviations of the translated ‘Atlas major’ in separate processes of labour giving the two types of work to different workers, i.e. calligraphers and painters. Whether the two types of labour were interchangeable remains an open issue. The great amount of agreement in the drawing of the contours of lands and seas in the maps produced within each of the two workshops implies that the map-painters received a substantial training in freehand drawing of curves and other images. The material state of the maps indicates that mathematical instruments such as rulers, compasses and proportional compasses were used by some mappainters while others were capable of producing smooth curves without leaving any trace of the used instruments. Some painters seem to have used non-rigid mechanical devices for producing smooth curves, but could not handle them well enough and thus left gaps and other inconsistencies. The subtle differences in size and shape suggest that no templates were made for producing the maps. The producers of the manuscripts also took an active role in deciding whether new or modernized maps were to be included into the texts to be copied. The most striking example for this attention to new geographical developments is the replacement in the late 1720s of the original sketch of the Caspian Sea in Hājjī Khalīfa’s ‘Cihan-nüma II’ by the new form of the sea produced in the early 1720s by Russian and French explorers and geographers.

Acknowledgements: I thank Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, Süleymaniye Kütüphanesi, and the Bibliothèque Nationale de France for permitting to publish maps from manuscripts in their collections. I also thank my daughter Rana for her diligent and enthusiastic work on the producing of fine copies of all the maps I had need of as well as for her patience in discussing with me their features.

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MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Hamidiye 988, Africa

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MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 3275, North Pole

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MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1629, North Pole

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MS Paris, BNF, Supplement Turc 215, Hemispheres

MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1634, North and South Poles

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MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1632, North Pole

MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1632, Asia

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MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1634, Europe

MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2996, Africa

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MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Köprülü Kısım II, 173, Asia

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MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 3275, Africa

MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 3275, Africa

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MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1624, Caspian Sea (the east is at the top)

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MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Hamidiye 988, Caspian Sea

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MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 3275, Caspian Sea

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MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1629, Caspian Sea

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MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 2996, Caspian Sea

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MS Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı R 1634, Capian Sea and Shirvān

MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Nuruosmaniye 3275, Hemispheres with New Caspian Sea

Egyptian and Armanian Schools Where the Ottoman Students Studied in Paris Adnan Şişman

In the nineteenth century, new movements influenced by the west were seen to continue in the education system of the Ottoman Empire. In this context, sending students to Europe especially to France is an important point. Ottoman students studied in French schools in Paris and Mekteb-i Osmani (the School of Ottoman)1 established by the Ottoman Empire (Devlet-i Aliyye-yi Osmaniye). Also, they studied in École Militarie Égyptienne (the Military School of Eygpt) founded by Egyptians and Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat (College of Saint-Samuel Moorat Armenian or the other name mentioned in the record as the Mouradian School of Armenians). Bernard Lewis in his paper ‘Comment l’Islam regardait I’Occident’ expressed the opinion that Muslims did not want to learn nonMuslim languages and when it was necessary to send representatives to the western countries, they usually appointed Christians or Jewish subjects of the empire. 2 After the Ottoman Empire established permanent embassies in the western capitals,3 they tended to learn western languages and began to send military officers in different ranks and many students to the western countries. The same author (Bernard Lewis) in another book, The Middle East and the West, indicated that Mohammed Ali Pasha, the governor of Egypt, sent students to Italy in 1809. Also, Lewis mentioned in his book that there were twenty three Egyptian students in Europe in 1818 and forty four Egyptian students in Paris in 1826. In the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was known that Mohammed Ali Pasha called some technicians and specialists from Europe to meet the urgent needs of Egypt.4 According to records, the first Ottoman student sent to Europe was Nicola Nassabiki whose origin was Syrian and who was sent by Mohammed Ali Pasha to Italy to study printing in 1815. Osman Nurettin was one of the first students sent to France by Mohammed Ali Pasha in 1818. This person studied French, English, and mathematics in Paris. After his returning to Cairo in 1820 and took some positions, he was

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promoted to the command of Navy in 1828. Also, he taught French and was appointed as a director of Bulak School and its library.5 After Mohammed Ali Pasha had met French Navy Commander Robillard visiting Alexandria and Pyramids before returning to Toulon, with the influence of Robillard he sent forty four students, as sixteen of whom were Turkish born in Istanbul and the others who were Armenian and Circassian, to France in April 1826.6 All of these students were born in Cairo and came mainly from aristocrat and wealthy families. After thirty two days travelling by the sea route, these students arrived at Marseilles, France on 15 May 1826 and they were under control for eighteen days due to health quarantine or cordon. The public paid them a lot of attention. Spending two months in Marseilles, they went to Paris and moved into Clichy Avenue number 33 on 5 August. They commenced to study French, mathematics, and arts. The heavy defeat suffered by Egyptian Navy at Navarin on 20 October 1827 made the Pasha take a decision in August, 1828 to send six students to Toulon in order to study and learn ship making. At the end of the same year, other students were sent to Paris. Later on, new students were sent in 1829, 1830, and 1832, respectively. These students studied at École Égyptienne in 1826 and for them the school stayed open until 1835.7 The number of students in the school was 115 in 1833.8 In the return, these students took some active positions, such as Abdi the head of Supreme Judiciary Board, Muhtar the Minister of Education, Artin and Stephan the Minister of Foreign Relations respectively, Mazhar the Minister of Infrastructure, the best students according to Mohammed Ali Pasha, Hasan from Alexendiria the Minister of Navy, and Mahmut Nami the Minister of Finance.9 Although four of the students sent to Paris by the Ottoman government came to high level in science and military sciences, for them there was no proper place found in the first hand to continue their studies in 1847. There were some places found for them to study but these schools did not have enough equipment to meet their needs. Therefore, it was thought that they could go to École Militaire Égyptienne 10 founded in 1844 by the governor of Egypt, Mohammed Ali Pasha in Paris. The director of the École Militaire Égyptienne, Stephan, acknowledged to the embassy that those students mentioned above could pursue their education and studies in the school.11 As a result, these four students entered to the mentioned school above.12 The faculty and military officers of the school were chosen from among the best at the time. The school, founded in the second half of the nineteenth century, imitated École Militaire de Saint-Cry and École Polytechnique (the Saint-Cry Military School and Polytechnic School), and had two purposes. They were to prepare students in very short time for the School of Military

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Academy for high level officers and École d’Application et d’Artillerie et de Génie. For this reason, the programs in the school were divided into two main categories as mentioned below.13 1st category: (a) French; (b) Applied General Geography; (c) General History and the History of Eastern Countries; (d) Algebra;(e) Arithmetic; (f) General Geometry; (g) Trigonometry; (h) Statistics (i) Basic Design Geometry; (j) Basic Physics and Chemistry; and (k) Art (Drawing Landscapes). In this category, there were some general courses found in the private and public schools in French education system at that time. 2nd category: (a) Design Geometry; (b) Mechanics; (c) Topography; (d) Fortification; (e) the Course of Artillery; (f) The Method of Military Arrangement Rules and the Method of Military Administration; (g) the Techniques and Methods of Making War; (h) Instructions of Land Forces, as Person, Division, and Battalion; (i)The Course of Architecture; and (j) Basic Astronomical Concepts. In this category, special courses and information not found in the other schools were given to teach how to use some equipment. Ahmet Muhtar, one of the four students who came to Paris in September 1847 and graduated from the academy (school) of war, entered to École Militaire Égyptienne. After this school, he studied in École d’Application et d’Artillerie et de Génie and returned to Turkey. He was appointed at the ministry of war as a captain. Mehmet Salim, one of the other students who studied in École Égyptienne in Paris graduated from the School of Polytechnic and returned to Turkey in 1853. Mehmet Tevfık, another student, who studied in École Égyptienne, graduated from the École d’Application et d’Artillerie et de Génie14 and returned to Turkey.15 He was appointed at the Ministry of War as a captain in 185416. Mustafa, the last student who went to the École Militaire Égyptienne, returned to Turkey and was also appointed at the Ministry of War as a captain in 1854.17 In August 1849, the École Égyptienne was closed by order of Abbas Pasha and the students finishing their studies returned to Egypt with their school director Stephan. For the students who remained in Paris, the Accountant of the School, Lemercier was appointed as their head. Other than those students who received scholarships from the Ottoman government there were also non-Muslim self-financed students in Paris. These non-Muslim students mostly attended to the Saint-Samuel Moorat College of Armenian (12, Rue de Monsieur). According to a document found in the department of the Ottoman Archives dated 26 March 1857 (Selh-i Receb 1273),

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because of an increase in the number of students who study language and science in Paris, Armenians demanded a new school to be founded in Paris by the embassy of the Ottoman government. They also demanded the school to be financed by the Ottoman government. Another archival document dated 19 January 1857 (22 Cemaziyelâhir 1273) shows that the Ottoman government approved this demand. However, there is an uncertainty about the date of establishment of the school, the Saint-Samuel Moorat College of Armenian. In a letter dated 11 February 1864 and written by the administrator of the school, P. Auxence Kurken, to the Ottoman ambassador Cemil Pasha in Paris, the foundation of the school was mentioned as 1844.19 The letter also acknowledged the support and help of the Ottoman government to the school. The administrator stated that their students were looking forward to serving in the Ottoman schools and they were paying special attention to Turkish language course. Other courses in the school’s curriculum included conduct, catechism, Armenian language and literature, rhetoric, history and religion of foreign countries, chronology, physical and political geography, French and French literature, Turkish, English, algebra, arithmetic, geometry, mechanics, psychics, history of nature, geology, philosophy, law, economics and politics, accounting, commerce, calligraphy, painting, oil painting, vocal music, instrumental music (piano), and gymnastics.20 The Ottoman ambassador in Paris, Cemil Pasha, wrote on 15 March 1867 that Foreign Minister Fuat Pasha requested Cemil Pasha to select thirty students among from those who continued their education in Paris, in order to be sent to École des Mines and École des Ponts et Chaussées. Acting upon this request, Cemil Pasha wrote to the administrators of the Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat and the Ottoman Student Association of Paris and demanded a list of students who would succeed in the École des Mines and the École des Ponts et Chaussées.21 In the following years, they made the list of Armenian students graduated from the Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat and of Turkish students, both of whom were sponsored by the Ottoman government.22 When Paris was surrounded by the Prussian Army in 1870, thirty two students of the Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat were transferred to Istanbul. The Cemil Pasha’s telegraph of 7 September 1870 sent to the Foreign Minister Âli Pasha stated that according to Kurken, in order to transfer thirty two students 11,000 francs was necessary and this was beyond the capabilities of the school. Kurken requested the Ottoman government to bear the expense of the students’ transfer to Istanbul.23 An archival document dated 17 December 1870 (21 Receb 1287) shows that the Finance Ministry reimbursed the expenditures of students’ tranfers.24 In the documents dated 13 June

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186025 and 30 October 187326, names of P. Léon M. Alishan and de Erémian were also mentioned as the administrators of the school. The Ottoman government paid close attention to the Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat. Even a priest was sent for nonMuslim students. Armenian Patriarch requested a Gregorian priest from the Ottoman government to serve to the non-Muslim students at the school and the Ottoman Student Association. In 1863, this request was approved and the priest Ohanes Hünkarbeyendiyan was sent to France with a salary of 400 francs. This person returned to Istanbul in 1870 but re-appointed to Brussels one year later with the same assignment.27 Hünkarbeyendiyan and his son who happened to be a student in Paris28 were paid a 900 francs allowance (450 each) for their return to Istanbul.29 Until 1867, Tahsin Efendi was responsible for instruction of religion course.30 Together with Selim Sabit Efendi, he was sent to Paris in 1857 to study natural sciences and calculation and to teach Turkish to Christian students for them to prepare for teaching positions at the Darülfünun.31 He attended physics and chemistry courses at the college and at Collège de France, and also taught Oriental languages and Armenian dialect at the Mekteb-i Osmaniye.32 After his return to Istanbul, no one remained to serve as the priest to the Muslim students in Paris. For example, as a student called Ibrahim Hasan Hilmi was giving his last breath; his friends were unable to find an Ottoman Muslim priest in Paris. Since the Ottoman Student Association had a priest for the nonMuslims but not for the Muslims, the association requested a priest for Muslim students on 28 May 1875 from the Embassy33 but all students sponsored by the Ottoman government were ordered to return to home on 30 June 1875.34 The administrator of the Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat, M. I’Arman, accepted the invitation of the Ottoman ambassador held to the home of the ambassador on 26 May 1866. This also showed the government’s support for and interest in the Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat.35 The governor of Egypt, Mehmet Ali Pasha, sent the first group of students to France for education. This first group was sent to the École Égyptienne in 1826. The Ottoman government started to send its own student to Paris in 1830. It stopped sending students to Paris after 1840 for a short time. After the establishment of the École Militaire Égyptienne in 1844, the government restarted sending students in 1847, even some of these students attended the École Militaire Égyptienne. The government opened the Mekteb-i Osmani in 1857 in Paris after the École Militaire Égyptienne was closed in 1849. It appears that there is a relationship between the Ottoman and Egyptian governments on their behaviour.

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The non-discriminatory support of the Ottoman government to the Collège Arménien de Saint-Samuel Moorat shows the impartiality and equality of the government towards non-Muslim subjects. Armenians retained their position as the Millet-i Sadıka (faithful nation to the Empire) until the later part of the nineteenth century.

Notes 1

Adnan Şişman ‘Mekteb-i Osmânî’, Ottoman Studies V (Istanbul, 1986), 83-160. Bernard Lewis, ‘Comment l’Islam regardait l’Occident’, L’histoire, No:6 (1983) 51. 3 Ercümend Kuran, Avrupa’da Osmanlı İkamet Elçiliklerinin Kuruluşu ve İlk Elçiliklerin Siyasi Faaliyetleri, 1793-1821 (Ankara, 1968), 71. 4 Şinasi Altundağ, ‘Mehmet Ali Paşa, Kavalalı’ İA, VII, İstanbul 1979, 574-5; J.H.Kramers, ‘Mısır’, Mehmed Ali Hanedanı Devri ve İstiklâl, İA, VIII, İstanbul 1979, 250-68; Anouar Louca, Voyageurs et Ecrivains Egyptiens en France au XIXe Siècle, (Paris 1970), 33-4. 5 Anouar Louca, idem, 34-5. 6 AMAE, Paris ‘Correspondance Consulaire, le Caire’, Cilt: XXVI, s. 282, 4 Nisan 1826; Anouar Louca, idem, 3, 40. 7 Anouar Louca, idem, 3, 40. Anouar Louca, idem, 3, 40. 8 Anouar Louca, idem, 46. nouar Louca, idem, 46. 9 Anouar Louca, idem, 51; Adnan Şişman, ‘ XIX. Yüzyıl Başlarında Fransa’daki İlk Osmanlı Öğrencileri’, Osmanlı 5, Yeni Türkiye Yayınları (Ankara, 1999), 246. 10 Anouar Louca, idem, 362. 11 Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivleri Dairesi (BOAD.) İrâde Hâriciye (İH.) 2161. 12 Paris Türk Büyükelçiliği Arşivi (PTBA.) 5/1; Archives Nationales, Paris (AN.) F17 4147/1; BOAD. İH. 2380. 13 BOAD. İH. 2161. 14 PTBA. 5/1; BOAD . İD. 8147, 7702, 19892, İH. 2049. 15 Anouar Louca, Idem, 362 ; BOAD. İH.2161; PTBA. 5/1; AN F17 4147/1. 16 PTBA. 5/1; BOAD. İD. 8417, 7702, 19892, İH. 2049. 17 PTBA. 5/1; BOAD. İD. 8147, 7702, 19892; İH. 2049. 19 Hariciye Arşivi (HA) İdâre (İ) /147, 148. 20 Adnan Şişman, ‘Tanzimat Döneminde Fransa'ya Gönderilen Gayr-i Müslim Osmanlı Öğrencileri’, 10. Turkish Historical Board Congress (Ankara, 1994), 2520-1. 21 HA. İ/148: Adnan Şişman, Tanzimat Döneminde Fransa'ya Gönderilen Gayr-i Müslim Osmanlı Öğrencileri 1839-1876, (İstanbul University, Ph.D. Thesis, 1983). 22 PTBA 29/3, 34/1, 54/5; HA. İ/147, 148. 23 HA. İ/147; PTBA 67/Eylül 1870. 24 BOAD. İrade Dahiliye 43199; PTBA. 67/Eylül 1870. 25 HA.I/147. 26 PTBA.81/2. 27 HA.İ/148; PTBA. 39/3, 74/1, 62/1, 60/1. 28 PTBA. 34/1. 29 PTBA. 92/2. 30 Richard L. Chambers, ‘Notes on the Mekteb-i Osmanî in Paris, 1857-1874’, in W.Polk and R. Chambers (eds.), Beginnings of Modernization in the Middle East (London, 1968), 324. 31 BOAD. İH. 7197; Cengiz Orhonlu; ‘Edebiyat Fakültesi Kuruluşu Gelişmesi (1901-1933) Hakkında Bazı Düşünceler’ Cumhuriyetin 50. Yılına Armağan (Istanbul, 2

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1973), 57-8; Sadrettin Celâl Antel, ‘Tanzimat Maarifi’, Tanzimat I (Istanbul, 1940), 448. 32 AN. F17 4147/5; Şişman, ‘Mekteb-i Osmânî’, 96-7. 33 The Death of Ambassador of Paris, Arifi Paşazâde Ali Pasha between 1289-1292 A.H., Beyrut on 1 Receb 1306/3 March 1889. See Mehmet Süreyya, Sicill-i Osmani III (Istanbul, 1311 A.H.), 580 34 PTBA. 94/2. 35 PTBA. 38/1.

Arab Scholars from the Ottoman Empire in Russian Universities in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries Svetlana Kirillina

For centuries the Russian people were aware of the Arab world and Arab-Muslim culture. Despite that, the first notable steps in studying language, history and religion of the Arab East were made only at the beginning of the eighteenth century. The autocratic reformer Peter the Great imposed in Russia the New Order, which became the basic framework for the country’s future drive for modernity. His reformatory undertakings in diplomatic, cultural and educational fields were complemented by an initiative to send several promising young men to Iran to study Oriental languages, mainly Turkish, Arabic and Persian.1 The new stage of exploration of the Middle East by Russian Oriental scientists began in the nineteenth century that turned out to be ‘the age of discovery of the Arab world by Europe’. Russia actively participated in the development of the cross-cultural ‘EastWest’ dialogue, which was determined not only by internal yearnings and external necessities, but also by growing and extensive needs of the increasing academic milieu engaged in Oriental studies. One of the founders of Russian Oriental studies, academician Vasili Bartold emphasized the progress of Russia in this field. He stated: ‘In the nineteenth century the study of the East in Russia presumably made even more significant steps than in the Western Europe.’2 The important role in the rise of scientific and cultural contacts between Russia and the Middle East was played by Arab scholars who worked in Russian universities and contributed to a considerable extent to the field of education and science. Despite the fact that the number of highly educated Arabs who settled in Russia was quite small, the essence of the intellectual exchange is not represented only by quantitative characteristics. This paper seeks to examine the importance of the role of socalled ‘Russian Arabs’ in the Russian academic circles and endeavors to evaluate their attempts to bring the Orient much closer to Russia than it was ever attempted before.

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According to the first general Statute of Russian universities issued in 1804 teaching of Turkish, Persian and Arabic was officially incorporated into curriculums of universities in Moscow, Kharkov and Kazan. St. Petersburg University was re-founded in 1819 on the basis of the Central Pedagogical Institute and soon became the acknowledged Russian center of Oriental studies. In the early period of Arabic studies’ development, the teaching of Arabic language, literature and history was carried out mostly by foreigners. As in many other fields of Russian culture and science, Oriental studies was widely opened to scholars from France, Germany, Holland, Denmark, Italy, Poland, etc. In the mid-nineteenth century academicians from the Middle East joined this group of intellectuals. The original impulse to the establishment and further progress of Arab-Russian ties in the academic and educational fields was given by an outstanding Arab scholar and writer, contemporary of the Egyptian ruler Muhammad Ali, shaykh Muhammad Ayyad alTantawi (1810-61).3 In 1847 he was appointed as a professor of St. Petersburg University. Among his predecessors at the Chair of Arabic Language was a Frenchman Jean François Demange (181922), who, according to his colleagues, ‘hated not only his job, but also all sorts of academic activities in general’.4 After Demange ‘there was not a trace that remained of him besides the falsely attributed honour of having taught Persian to the famous Russian poet Griboedov’.5 Following Demange, the post was occupied by a gifted Polish scholar and talented writer Osip (Julian) Senkowski (literary pseudonym ‘Baron Brambeus’) (1822-47). Shaykh Tantawi arrived in Russia in 1840. A popular periodical of that time St. Petersburg Gazette6 immediately depicted an exotic looking foreigner walking down the Nevski prospect. ‘You could ask me, – wrote a journalist, – who is that handsome man wearing an Oriental dress and white turban with jet-black beard, lively eyes and witty expression on his face? … It is shaykh Muhammad Ayyad alTantawi who came here from banks of the Nile to occupy a vacant post in the Chair of Arabic Language at the Institute of Oriental Languages in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Now you have an opportunity to learn Arabic intensively without leaving St. Petersburg’.7 The idea of inviting Tantawi to St. Petersburg belonged to a prominent Arabist, member of the Russian Academy of Sciences and leader of the Russian Orientalists of the first half of nineteenth century Christian Martin (Hristian Danilovitsh) Frähn (1782-1851). He recommended the minister of Foreign Affaires count Karl Nesselrode to issue an order according to which a new teacher of Arabic should be found among ‘the educated Arabs’. Tantawi was fully supported by Russian consul-general in Egypt A.I. Medem as an

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appropriate candidate. However, the choice was not spontaneous at all; Russians surely knew whom they were inviting. Tantawi was ‘an exemplary intellectual product’ of Muhammad Ali’s époque. Despite the fact that by that time Muhammad Ayyad al-Tantawi had not reached the age of 30, he already gained wide popularity as a skilful teacher of Arabic and literature not only among students and scholars of al-Azhar, but also in the European community of Cairo. Tantawi’s high scholarly reputation among foreigners could be partially explained by the fact that he belonged to a handful of Islamic intellectuals, who supported the Egyptian governor Muhammad Ali in his revolutionary undertakings. Among European apprentices and friends of Tantawi we should mention the prominent German Arabist and acknowledged specialist on the history of the Arab Caliphate Gustave Weil (1808-89) and the French traveller and diplomat F. Fresnel (1795-1855), known by his Letters on the Pre-Islamic History of Arabs.8 Before his appointment as a consul to Jeddah, under the guidance of Tantawi Fresnel significantly improved his knowledge of Arabic. Later Fresnel characterised his mentor as ‘un des hommes les plus savants de l’Égypte’ and portrayed him with a certain degree of exaggeration as ‘a sole representative of the Egyptian ulama who studied native language and ancient Arabic literature with sincere love and admiration’. Tantawi’s deep knowledge of medieval Arabic literature was highly appreciated by Edward William Lane whose influential work The Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians was a virtual Bible to travellers throughout the nineteenth century. Tantawi assisted Lane in translation of the most difficult verses from The Thousand and One Nights. In the introduction to this publication the British scholar mentioned his colleague as ‘the first philologist of the first Arab college of the present day’9 – al-Azhar. This opinion was also shared by a number of Russian diplomats who joined a circle of students and admirers of Tantawi. The shaykh named two of them in his short autobiography: the first, N. Mukhin who served as a dragoman in the Russian consulate in Cairo between 1835 and 1837 and the second, the successor of Mukhin in the post of dragoman Rudolf Frähn, son of the mentioned above famous Russian Arabist Christian Frähn. Both of them benefited considerably from their lessons with Tantawi and did their best to encourage him to move to Russia. As a final point of long-lasting official correspondence regarding the invitation of shaykh Tantawi to the Russian capital the vice-roi of Egypt gave a ceremonial reception. Muhammad Ali agreed to send the shaykh to Russia and ordered him to learn Russian thoroughly wishing that his knowledge would be used by his homeland in future.

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It is worth mentioning that at that time Russia played a significant role in the international relations of the Middle and Near East. Muhammad Ali’s first Syrian campaign had forced the Ottoman Sultan to seek Russia’s assistance. Russian troops landed on the coast of the Bosporus and in July 1833 Mahmud II was forced to sign the Hunkar Iskelesi treaty, which included a stipulation that both sides would consult before taking steps in foreign affaires. As a result of this impressive diplomatic victory Russian international prestige and influence grew considerably. Moreover, the British prime minister lord Palmerston constantly received reports from Istanbul with warnings of a possible alliance between Russia and Muhammad Ali. In addition, Russia was actively involved in the adjustment of the ‘Egyptian question’ during the crucial years from 1839 to 1841, when the most dramatic chapter in Muhammad Ali’s remarkable career came to an end. The shaykh began fulfilling the wishes of the Egyptian ruler on board of the ship that left Istanbul in April 1840. He started learning Russian under the guidance of his student N. Mukhin who by the order of Russian ambassador accompanied Tantawi during his trip to Russia. In a few months shaykh Tantawi was able to translate into Arabic some verses of Russian poets and from then on he signed all official papers in Russian. In summer 1840 Tantawi began his pedagogical activities in St. Petersburg as a teacher of Arabic at the Educational Department of Oriental Languages at the Asiatic Division of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. That specialized institution, which contemporaries occasionally called the Institute of Oriental Languages, was founded in the first decades of the nineteenth century in accordance with European standards using the French École des langues orientales as a model. The main goal of the institution was to train staff for Russian diplomatic missions in the Middle East. During the seven years of teaching at the institution shaykh Tantawi succeeded in proper organization of the educational process and prepared the textbook for teaching of spoken Arabic Traité de la langue arabe vulgaire, which was published in Leipzig in 1848 and was welcomed by the majority of his European colleagues. Tantawi’s recognized merits, scholarly and teaching achievements gave the Academic Council of St. Petersburg University an opportunity to offer him professorship in the Chair of Arabic Language and Literature in 1847. After that and almost until the end of his life shaykh Tantawi’s career was linked with St. Petersburg University. It is worth mentioning that it was the only case in the nineteenth century history of all Russian Universities that a person of Arabic origin became a professor and headed a University department. Later Tantawi was also granted the rank of a civil general (state adviser), decorated with Orders of St. Anna and St.

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Stanislav and the tsar Nicholas I expressed to Tantawi his ‘highest gratitude’ for ‘diligence in teaching students… at St. Petersburg University’. In addition Tantawi received a ring with diamonds from the throne-heir, later tsar Alexander II for ‘special efforts in organization of a Turkish chamber in the Tsarskoye Selo palace,’ where some of Tantawi’s books and manuscripts were preserved. Tantawi participated in the decoration of this chamber as a calligrapher by making Arabic inscriptions on the chamber’s wall. Tantawi’s autograph represented several odes on important occasions of the life of the court. Tantawi’s productive pedagogical activities at the University included lessons of spoken Arabic and calligraphy for senior students, as well as lectures on Arabic literature with his own commentaries on medieval texts, such as the Makamat of al-Hariri (1054-1122).10 Starting in1855 he delivered a course of lectures on Arab history with a special stress on the history of the Caliphate before the Mongolian invasion. This course was based on several Arabic medieval chronicles and also on the superb works of Ibn Khaldun and al-Suyuti. The Oriental Faculty of the St. Petersburg University was established in 1855. At the same time Tantawi fell seriously ill (he was half-paralysed) and two years later his severe disease forced him to stop teaching at the Educational Department of Oriental Languages in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. However, he remained a professor of the Chair of Arabic Language and Literature in the St. Petersburg University until his retirement in 1861. A few months later Tantawi died and was buried at Volkowskoye (Tartar) cemetery in St. Petersburg. As a patriarch of Russian Arabists Ignati Kratchkowski sadly stated, ‘for Russia Tantawi remained an exotic flower, which faded fast because of painful illness’.11 The shaykh’s wife, who was an Egyptian, had passed away before Tantawi. According to a romantic legend, in her young years she was s slave. Before moving to Russia the shaykh bought his future wife, organized her education in Paris and afterwards married her. Tantawi’s only son Ahmad (1850-80s) preferred to settle in Russia and became a subject of the Russian Empire. The shaykh’s granddaughter Helena converted to Christianity and was registered in the noble estate. By the beginning of the 1920s Tantawi’s name was mostly forgotten and just by chance his figure attracted the attention of a distinguished Russian Arabist Ignati Kratchkowski (1883-1951). According to the recently published correspondence between Kratchkowski and another renowned Russian expert on Oriental cultures Agafangel Krimski (1871-1942), an idea to write a biographical sketch on Tantawi came to Kratchkowski when he read

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the publication on Arabic manuscripts of Istanbul libraries with a reference to Tantawi’s manuscript under the title Tuhfat al-athkia bi akhbar bilad Rusia (A Gift to the Clever with the Report on Russia).12 Soon after arrival in St. Petersburg Tantawi began collecting and summarizing his reminiscences about the trip and finished the final version of the book around 1850. The manuscript was dedicated to the Ottoman sovereign Abdulmejid (1839-61) whose reign was marked by a series of military and administrative reforms aimed to modernize Ottoman society. The manuscript, discovered in one of Istanbul’s mosques, was the original presented to the sultan. Kratchkowski succeeded in getting its copy in 1927 and soon published two short articles on Tantawi’s Description of Russia (in 1927 and 1928). Later, in 1930 he published a more detailed description of shaykh Tantawi’s life and pedagogical activities at St. Petersburg University.13 In 1928 another copy of The Description of Russia was discovered in one of the rare books’ shops in St. Petersburg. This time it was a draft of the manuscript with numerous corrections and notes of the author. According to an eminent Russian Arabist Agafangel Krimski the treatise of Tantawi, if published, could exercise the same considerable influence on the literature and cultural life of the Arab East as the famous Description of Paris (Tahlis al-ibriz fi talhis Baris) by Rifa‛a Rafi‛i al-Tahtawi.14 Tantawi’s travelogue is divided into three parts. The first one, a competent account of his journey from Cairo to St. Petersburg, is the most attractive from the literary and historical point of view. There Tantawi expressed his straightforward perception of the Russian reality, which was marked by sometimes naïve but often deep understanding of the events he had witnessed. In the meantime, two other parts, the second one on the history of Russia and the final one on the manners and customs of Russians, could be appealing for his Arab contemporaries mainly due to the Tantawi’s vivid depiction of Peter the Great’s reforms, especially those in cultural field. In historical part of Tantawi’s Description of Russia we came across an important note about the shaykh’s translation into Arabic of a short essay on Russian history written by St. Petersburg historian N. Ustryalov (1805-70). This script didn’t survive and we cannot say anything about the quality of this translation. Moreover, we don’t know the exact source of this translation (Ustryalov produced two short publications on this subject). Nonetheless this fact proves Tantawi’s intention to introduce to Arab readers the history of his second homeland. Tantawi also wrote an accurate and informative description of popular Egyptian festivals (Hal al-a‛yad wa-l-mawasim fi Misr),

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which could be used as a valuable supplement to particular parts of Lane’s Manners and Customs. It was translated into Russian by the Soviet researcher D.V. Semenov, however, to our regret, it has not yet been published. The scholarly and literary heritage of the Egyptian shaykh embraced not less than 30 manuscripts, half of then written during the Russian period of his life, which were complemented by several printed works composed mainly in French. As a scholar Tantawi was a devoted follower of the scholastic tradition of his alma mater the college-mosque al-Azhar, which possessed the highest reputation as ‘the bearer of Islamic values and knowledge’ and ‘the stronghold of Sunni Islam’. Tantawi’s ‘al-Azhar roots’ predetermined his life-lasting ‘obsession’ with manuscripts and the strictly classical style of his creative works. Still it is unreasonable to consider Tantawi a pure representative of the traditional Islamic school. He came in touch with European Orientalists when he was relatively young and he was deeply impressed by Western methods of scientific critique and research. Tantawi’s scholarly attitude and sincere devotion to his native language and literature was very significant. His first European student–a French diplomat and scholar Fresnel made an important remark about his mentor in this respect: ‘It seems that he, Tantawi, was the only one in the East who dedicated himself to the restoration to life of ancient monuments of the Arabic literature’.15 Due to his fruitful contacts with European scholars the shaykh gradually mastered methods of European philology and demonstrated a rare capacity for critical analysis of literary Arabic language and Egyptian dialect unusual for an Arab scholar of his time. Moreover, as a Muslim, shaykh Tantawi was devoid of religious fanaticism and professed an idea of religious tolerance. One of his St. Petersburg pupils, the scholar and traveller from Finland George August Wallin described his murshid as ‘a man who overcame his Muhammedan intolerance, didn’t try to hide his talents and answered all questions including those which could be considered delicate and even ticklish by a rigorous Muslim’.16 It is interesting to note that Tantawi was also a prolific writer of panegyrics and epitaph odes on happy and sad occasions of the Russian royal family life. His Traité de la langue arabe vulgaire opens by a glorifying ode addressed to the family of the future emperor Alexander II on occasion of the birth of his son ‘al-amir al-kabir shah-zade Hikula Alexandrowitch’ (1843). Often Tantawi was accepted at the court where he recited his emotional verses, composed in traditional Arabic classical poetry style. During his life Tantawi amassed a large collection of Arabic manuscripts and books, which was presented to the St. Petersburg University library in 1871, ten years after the Arab scholar’s death.

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The study of more than 300 manuscripts from Tantawi’s collection, preserved in the Oriental section of this library, is still in progress. This extraordinary collection shows a wide range of Tantawi’s scholarly, literary and pedagogical interests. It includes hand written copies of different textbooks, treatises on Arabic grammar and metrics, Tantawi’s personal works and his profound commentaries on works of other authors. The collection contains a number of rarities, such as ‘unicum of universal value’–Glossary of the Egyptian Dialect of Yusuf al-Maghribi (beginning of the seventeenth century). Tantawi gradually and methodically gathered Sufi treatises. The real gems of that part of his collection are works of eminent al-Shaykh alAkbar Ibn Arabi, the prominent Egyptian mystic of the sixteenth century Abd al-Wahhab al-Sha‛rani and a devoted follower of Islamic mystical tradition Badr al-Din al-Shurunbabili (first half of the eighteenth century), whose intellectual heritage is mostly unknown to Orientalists.17 The successful career of shaykh Tantawi opened the way to Russian Universities for other Arabs, who came mostly from Syria and Lebanon. A member of the famous Arab-Christian family from Tripoli, the Syrian Arab Salim (Irinei) Noufal (1828-1902) filled Tantawi’s post after his retirement at the Educational Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He taught Arabic language and Islamic law. According to Kratchkowski, Noufal ‘was an aggressive opponent of Islam and his nasty remarks on Muhammad and Islam that he often included in his publications led to protests by the Turkish ambassador and demands for the confiscation of these booklets’.18 Nonetheless, Salim Noufal made a successful career in the Ministry of Foreign Affaires and became so ‘russified’ that his children never visited the Arab East and forgot Arabic completely. At the St. Petersburg University Tantawi was succeeded by other teachers of Arab origin, who were invited there for improvement of students’ knowledge of colloquial Arabic. The former teacher of Arabic in Kazan Ahmad ibn Husayn al-Makki from Arabia taught language in the Oriental Faculty for a short period of time (1856-57). A teaching career of his colleague Abdallah (Feodor) Kelzi (18191912), an Arab from Aleppo and Armenian Catholic by religion, lasted a quarter century. The successor of Kelzi was Fadlallah Sarruf (1826-1903), a Christian Arab from Damascus. From 1848 he served in the first Russian ecclesiastical mission in Palestine under the guidance of one of Russia’s foremost nineteenth century religious scholars archimandrite Porfiri Uspenski. In 1857 Fadlallah Sarruf settled in St. Petersburg, accepted Russian citizenship and in 1882 began teaching Arabic at the University. After his death the position was given to another Syrian Arab from Tripoli–Antun Hashab (Hashshab) (b. in 1874) who graduated from the Oriental Faculty of

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St. Petersburg University. He was the last lector of Arabic origin at the University untill 1919. His main contribution to the teaching process was literary Arabic grammar and a collection of widely used Arabic documentation and correspondence samples. As mentioned above, Greater Syria was the main ‘Arab source’ of the human resources for Russian educational centres. The majority of immigrants from Syria and Palestine were Christians and the Eastern Christian community had traditional close links with the Russian Orthodox Church. In the second half of the nineteenth century a recognized and influential leader guided the ‘Arab Orthodox lobby’ in Russia. It was an acknowledged religious authority and well-known ingenious scholar Georgi (Juri) Murkos (1846-1911). He was born in 1846 in Damascus and his father Avraam, a close confident and adviser of the patriarch of Antioch, was considered to be one of the key figures in the Christian Orthodox community of the city. Murkos the Junior got his secondary education in Turkey in Greek seminary and after that he moved to Russia and graduated from the St. Petersburg Ecclesiastic Seminary and the Faculty of Oriental Languages of St. Petersburg University. In 1872 he became the second (after Tantawi) professor of Arabic origin in Russia and the head of the Chair of Arabic Philology in the first Oriental educational institution in Moscow – Lazarev Institute of Oriental Languages.19 His knowledge of Russian was extraordinary. University professor Mikhail Navrotski once told his talented student: ‘You are from Damascus and your Russian is as fluent as Russian of an Egyptian–shaykh Tantawi; yet the shaykh had a peculiar ascent and your pronunciation is excellent’.20 Among his scholarly publications we should point out the superb short research on modern Arabic literature,21 which Russian specialists still quote quite often. The significant part of Murkos’s academic production was devoted to translations from Arabic. He published a commentated translation of famous muallaqa of Imr alQais (Moscow, 1882; St. Petersburg, 1885) and Fragments from Kuran and other Authoritative Islamic Books about Attitudes towards Adherents of Different Faith (Moscow, 1877). Deeply interested in the history of his fellow believers Murkos translated and published twice The History of Patriarchs of Antioch,22 one of the most valuable sources on the history of Christian Arabs of the thirteenth to seventeenth centuries. The lifetime work of Murkos was a translation and commentaries on travel account of an outstanding value–the journey (1652-59) of patriarch of Antioch Makarius to Moscovy during the reign of the Russian tsar Aleksei Mikhailowitsh.23 Murkos devoted thirty years to this five volumes, one thousand pages’ opus magnum. He began

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working on the translation in 1871 and published it part by part from 1896 to 1900. Even today this work of Murkos remains the most considerable and complete translation of this unique source, which covers the history of the Ottoman Empire, Danube principalities, Ukraine and Russia in the mid-seventeenth century. Academician Kratchkowski emphasized that publication of this traveler literature masterpiece ‘would keep the name of Murkos in the annals of the Russian Arabic studies and in history of the Russian culture in general’.24 It is worth outlining that Murkos represented the majority of the Arab Christian community in Russia. He was an uncompromising opponent of Greek hegemony in the administration of the Eastern Orthodox Churches. Murkos was also known as an ideologist of the national movement among Christian Arabs against the Greek clerical hierarchy, which emerged in Syria and Palestine in the second half of the nineteenth century.25 He published numerous articles on this issue in Russian periodicals of that time,26 describing the Greek clergy as ‘greedy, treacherous and rigid xenocrats’ who treated deprived Arab Christians without any compassion or indulgence. Murkos tried to convince the public that Russia should support Arabs with direct and immediate actions. The Arab-Greek conflict on its own, together with the apparent position of Murkos on the subject provoked contradictory reactions in Russian society–from enthusiasm to suspicion and indignation. Murkos became a target of intense criticism in the Russian proGreek circles and in the pages of the book New Advocates of Orthodox Christianity, which was printed in Moscow in 1892. Although Murkos was indeed deeply and truly concerned with the needs and sorrows of Eastern Christians, his best intentions and frank intellect were bounded and coloured by various prejudices. His anti-Islamic attitudes and beliefs were quite obvious. In one of his articles he made a remarkable comment: ‘A Christian, guided by his sacred faith, is able to stand passionately an oppression of the Muslim conqueror and the life of Muslims might be happy and peaceful under the Christian dominance, however, neither Christian nor Muslim could be equal subjects of one and the same state’.27 According to Krimski, Murkos was planning to translate a scandalous treatise of Rizqallah Hassun Lifting the Veil from Islam (Hasr al-litham ‛an al-Islam) into Russian (1859).28 Written copies of this pamphlet were secretly spread among Christian Arabs after its author was condemned to death by the Ottoman authorities and finally immigrated to Russia. Unfortunately Murkos had to abandon the idea of its translation because of his work on Journey of Makarius.

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In addition, Murkos was widely known as a patron and generous sponsor of Christian Arabs who came to continue their education in Russia. Among his protégés we can name Alexander, the metropolitan of Tripoli, and Rafail,29 the prior of the mission of the Patriarchy of Antioch in Moscow and later the head of the first eparchy of the Greek Orthodox Church in the United Stated of America – the bishop of Brooklyn. In 1906 Murkos returned to his homeland, where he died in 1911 in the monastery of Saydanayya near Damascus. According to the Murkos’s will and testament, one-third of his enormous possessions, namely eighty thousand roubles, were left to the Arab charity organizations and Russian academic institutions. Of course, his professor’s salary was not the main source of his sizable income. Murkos fortunately and at the right time invested in a profitable business enterprise, which exported lemons and oranges from Syria to Russia, and that gave him a chance to amass a fabulous fortune. The assistant and successor of Murkos, an Arab from Damascus Mikhail Attaya (1852-1924) kept close links with the Moscow Lazarev Institute for more than 50 years. In 1920 he was elected the director of the Institute of Living Oriental Languages and later taught at the Moscow Institute of Oriental Studies and other educational institutions. He produced several textbooks, among them A Textbook for Learning a Spoken Arabic (Syrian Dialect), which was published several times (Kazan, 1884; Moscow, 1900, 1910), Arabic-Russian Dictionary (1913) and A Handbook of Arabic Colloquial Language (1923). Attaya was highly respected by numerous students as a competent teacher of Arabic, Muslim law and history of Arabic literature and became a popular figure in Moscow academic milieu. In the Soviet period he participated in the translation of the first Russian Soviet Federate Socialist Republic Constitution and explanatory political dictionary into Arabic. The main centre of the so-called ‘missionary school’ of Oriental studies in Russia during the described period was the Ecclesiastic Academy of Kazan and its Chair of Arabic30 Language and ‘Denunciation of the Muhammedan Religion.’ One of its graduates, a Palestinian from Jerusalem Panteleymon K. Jooze (Bendeli al-Jawzi) (1870-1942) was another notable ‘Russian Arab’ who spent his entire adult life in Russia. His dissertation on doctrinal foundations of Mutazilites, which appeared in 1899, was highly esteemed by Russian academics. Jooze started his teaching career at the Kazan Ecclesiastic Academy and in 1916 he moved to the Kazan University where he taught basically Islamic law. Jooze became an author of the manual of Russian language for Arabs (1898-9)–the first textbook of this kind in the history of Russian teaching literature and he also compiled a big Russian-Arabic dictionary, which was published in

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Kazan in 1903. Jooze considerably contributed to the improvement of the Oriental studies in Kazan, as well as in Baku, where he became the professor of the local university after the October revolution of 1917 and produced a number of valuable publications about Arabic sources on the history of the Caucasus. We know that the majority of ‘Russian Arabs’ maintained constant contacts with their homeland, often visited the native places and wrote for the Arab press. The vivid example is a Palestinian Arab Taufiq Kezma (1882-1958), who lived in Kiev, where he graduated from the Ecclesiastic Seminary and Academy. From 1918 he taught in different educational institutions of Kiev and was a staff member of the Arabic and Iranian Philology Cabinet in the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences. Along with his teaching activities Taufiq Kezma willingly informed Arab readers of his Russian colleaguesArabists’ academic achievements and even published their portraits in Arab scientific and popular periodicals. Professor of the Kazan Ecclesiastic Seminary Panteleymon Jooze translated into Arabic and published in the Arab press several important scholarly works on the pre-Islamic and early Islamic history including a study by the European scholar and corresponding member of the Russian Academy of Science F. Wilken (1777-1832) on the matriarchate among Arabs during Jahiliyya period and essay on the false prophet Mysaylima by the world-wide known Russian academician Vasili Bartold (1869-1930). In our attempt to understand the development of Russian Oriental studies we should keep in mind a strong impact, which was made on it by the representatives of the ‘Arab intellectual establishment’. ‘Russian Arabs’ had different mentality, different research techniques and even different schools of creative thought. Their academic and literary interests were remarkably diverse and they were truly dedicated to their craft, deeply convinced of its importance. These scholars effectively contributed to the teaching process in major Russian educational institutions, enlarged Russian collections of Arabic manuscripts and rare books and created cultural inheritance of substantial value for modern Oriental studies.

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Notes 1

V.V. Bartold. ‘Obzor dejatelnosti faculteta vostochnih jazikov (Review of the Activities of the Faculty of Oriental Languages),’ V.V. Bartold. Collected Works, vol. 9, Moscow, 1977, 29. 2 V.V. Bartold. Istoria izutschenia Vostoka v Evrope i v Rossii (The History of Study of the East in Europe and Russia). V.V. Bartold. Collected Works, vol. 9, Moscow, 1977, 418. 3 Muhammad ibn Sa‛d ibn Sulayman ‛Ayyad al-Marhumi al-Tantawi al-Shafi‛i. 4 N.I. Veselovski. Svedenia ob ofitsialnom prepodavanii vostochnih jazikov v Rossii (Information about the Official Education of Oriental Languages in Russia). St. Petersburg, 1879, 131. 5 I.U. Kratchkowski. ‘Otcherki po istorii russkoy arabistiki (Sketches of the History of Russian Arabic Studies),’ I.U. Kratchkowski. Selected Works, vol. 4. Moscow; Leningrad, 1957, 175. 6 St.-Peterburgskie vedomosti. 7 I.U. Kratchkowski. ‘Nad arabskimi rukopisami (Working on Arabic Manuscripts),’ I.U. Kratchkowski. Selected Works, vol. 1. Moscow; Leningrad, 1955. 8 Letters sur l’histoire des Arabes avant l’islamisme. 1836. 9 E.W. Lane. The Thousand and One Nights. A new translation from the Arabic by E.W. Lane. 3 vols. London, 1839-41. Vol.1, XVI. 10 The complete translation of the Makamat into Russian has been recently done by Russian Arabists. See: Abu Muhammad al-Hariri. Makamat. Arabskiye srednevekoviye plutovskiye novelli. Translation from Arabic by V.M. Borisova, A.A. Dolinina, V.N. Kirpichenko. Moscow, 1987. 11 I.U. Kratchkowski. ‘Otcherki po istorii russkoy arabistiki (Sketches of the History of Russian Arabic Studies).’ P. 82. 12 ‘Perepiska akademikov A.E. Krimskogo i I.U. Kratchkowskogo 1920-1930-h godov (Correspondence of Academicians A.E. Krimski and I.U. Kratchkowski in 1920s-1930s),’ Neizvistnie stranizi otechestvennogo vostokovedenia (Unknown Pages of the Russian Oriental Science). Moscow, 1997, 195. 13 Kratchkowski dedicated to the shaykh Tantawi several special research papers: I.U. Kratchkowski. ‘Sheykh Tantawi, professor S.-Peterburgskogo universiteta (1810–1861) (Shaykh Tantawi, Professor of St. Petersburg University),’ I.U. Kratchkowski. Selected Works. Vol. 5. Moscow; Leningrad, 1958, 229-299; ‘Neizvestnoe sochineniye sheykha at-Tantawi (An Unknown Treatise of Shaykh alTantawi),’ Selected Works. Vol. 1. P.165-170; ‘Novaya rukopis opisaniya Rossii sheykha at-Tantawi (A New Manuscript of the Description of Russia by Shaykh alTantawi),’ Selected Works. Vol. 1, 171-174. 14 A.E. Krimski. Istoriya novoy arabskoy literaturi (XIX – nachalo XX veka) (The History of the Modern Arabic Literature [the Nineteenth – Beginning of the Twentieth Cent.]). Moscow, 1971, 176. 15 I.U. Kratchkowski. ‘Sheykh Tantawi, professor S.-Peterburgskogo Universiteta (1810-61) (Shaykh Tantawi, Professor of St. Petersburg University)’, 262, 280. 16 Ibid, 271. 17 Arabskie rukopisi vostochnogo otdela nauchnoy biblioteki Sankt-Peterburgskogo Gosudarsvennogo universiteta (Arabic Manuscripts of Oriental Section of St. Petersburg University Scientific Library). A Brief Catalogue. Compiled by O.B. Frolova and T.P. Deryagina, (St. Petersburg, 1996). 18 I.U. Kratchkowski, ‘Nad arabskimi rukopisami (Working on Arabic Manuscripts)’, 118. 19 Lazarev Institute was founded in 1815. It was named after a rich Armenian, state official Lazarev who made a substantial donation (200,000 roubles) to this

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institution. From 1848 Armenian, Georgian, Turkish, Tatar, Persian and Arabic languages started to be taught at this Institute. 20 A.E. Krimski, Istoriya novoy arabskoy literaturi (The History of the Modern Arabic Literature), 177. 21 G.A. Murkos, ‘Noveishaya literatura arabov (Modern Literature of the Arabs)’, in V.F. Korsh and A. Kirpitchnikov (ed.), Vseobshaya istoria literaturi (The General History of Literature) 2 vols. (St. Petersburg, 1885), ii. 374-80. 22 ‘Peretchen Antiohiyskih patriarhov (The List of Patriarchs of Antioch),’ Soobshenia Imperatorskogo Palestinskogo Pravoslavnogo obshestva, 1896; supplement to vol. v. Puteshestvie Antiohiyskogo patriarha Makaria v Rossiy v polovine XVII veka, opisannoe ego sinom arhidiakonom Pavlom Aleppskim (Journey of Patriarch of Antioch Makarius to Russia in the Mid-Seventeenth Century, described by his Son, Archdeacon Pavel of Aleppo) (Moscow, 1900). 23 Puteshestvie Antiohiyskogo patriarha Makaria v Rossiy v polovine XVII veka, opisannoe ego sinom arhidiakonom Pavlom Aleppskim (Journey of Patriarch of Antioch Makarius to Russia in the Mid-Seventeenth Century, described by his Son, Archdeacon Pavel of Aleppo), 5 vols. (Moscow, 1896-1900). 24 I.U. Kratchkowski. ‘Otcherki po istorii russkoy arabistiki (Sketches of the History of Russian Arabic Studies)’, 114-5. 25 Encyclopeditcheski slovar, izdateli F.A. Brokgaus i I.A. Efron (The Encyclopedia, published by F.A. Brokgaus and I.A. Efron) (St. Petersburg, 1897), vol. 39. 26 See: G.A. Murkos. Interesi Rossii v Palestine (Interests of Russia in Palestine), (Moscow, 1882). 27 G.A. Murkos. ‘Mnenie pravoslavnih arabov o greko-bolgarskoy raspri (The Arab-Christians’ Opinion about the Greek-Bulgarian Conflict),’ Pravoslavnoe obozrenie, vol. iii, 1880, 165. 28 A.E. Krimski. Istoriya novoy arabskoy literaturi (The History of the Modern Arabic Literature), 227. 29 About archimandrite Rafail see: R.M. Valeev. Kazanskoe vostokovedenie: istoki i razvitie (XIX v. – 20 gg. XX v.) (Oriental Studies in Kazan: Roots and Development [the Nineteenth Century – 1920s]) (Kazan, 1998), 224.

Wakfs in Ottoman Cyprus Netice Yıldız

This paper deals with the wakf monuments and artefacts, nowadays administered by Cyprus Turkish Wakf Administration (Fig. 1), which gives the Ottoman identity of the past for the island mainly from an art historical point of view as well as brief information about their formation and problems arising from the loss of much of its incomes and property in the twentieth century. The study mainly focuses on wakfs established in the early period of the Ottoman regime. Among the earliest wakfs to be concerned in my study are Aya Sofya Wakf—the first wakf in Cyprus established over most of the estates formerly belonged to the Latin Rulers and citizens,1 the wakfs of Lala Mustafa Pasha, Arab Ahmed Pasha, Cafer Pasha, Okcı Zade Mehmed Pasha, Sefer Pasha, Frenk Cafer Pasha2 and Sinan Pasha.3 All the important religious monuments in Cyprus were also financially supported by the income of properties assigned to the wakfs. Among these, which need to be surveyed, are Büyük Hamam, Büyük Han (Fig. 5), Bedesten near Aya Sofya Cami’i, Cafer Pasha Hamamı in Famagusta, Hamam-ı Cedid in Paphos, the rent of several shops and houses and the produce of large estates called çiftlik. The first important Ottoman monuments built on the island were baths, aqueducts, inns, mills and schools, which were set up as wakfs.4 Having a religious connotation, the water systems, with the maintaining of the existing systems as well as construction of new aqueducts and conduits in Turkish style were given particular attention in the Ottoman wakfs.5 These monuments have partly survived which comprised a significant part of the island’s cultural heritage besides in some cases showing examples of the cultural amalgamation. This study is based on a research from several documents dating back from the last quarter of the sixteenth century until the end of the nineteenth century such as Mühimme Defterleri, Vakıf Defterleri, published articles and books based on the information given in the Şeriye Sicilleri, as well as personal observations of the existing monuments and artefacts, which are included as illustrations in Figures 1-8.

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Aya Sofya cathedral of the capital city in Nicosia originally built under the Lusignan Kingdom was converted into a mosque,6 as it was the tradition in every conquered land to symbolise the political power of the Ottoman Empire. Lala Mustafa Pasha with other commanders and religious authorities held the first Friday prayers there, blessing the conquest on 15 September 1570. He then established the first and greatest pious foundation in Cyprus in the name of the sultan during the first Friday prayer.7 Aya Sofya (Selimiye) Cami’i is a gothic monument, (Fig. 3) which is a long rectangular building with a central nave, two aisles at the sides and four additional chapels on its southern and northern sides. The building is oriented on the east west axis. Therefore the altar was demolished and an Islamic altar was built on the southern wall. The southern portal was removed to the eastern part and an inscription tablet was attached on the tympanum of the door. The interior of the building was completely organized in the Islamic character by removing the altar, all the stain glasses, icons, sculptures and wall paintings and providing it with mihrap, minber and kürsü (desk) as described by Ottoman chronicles.8 However, little is known about how far they have gone in the conversion of the cathedral into mosque during these first days after the conquest. The earliest minarets were added in 1572, two minarets for the mosque in Nicosia, one to the mosque in Famagusta as indicated in a contemporary document. This was the sultan’s order issued on 17 Zilhicce 979/1 May 1572 addressing to the beylerbeyi and defterdar (treasurer) of Cyprus upon their petition to the sultan seeking his opinion about the number of minarets to be constructed for the mosques in Nicosia and Famagusta, which were lacking until then.9 The minarets on the western part of the building were constructed on the remains of the towers. Both minarets are decorated with muqarnas carvings and they are the highest minarets of Ottoman Cyprus with their towers each having 170 steps.10 These minarets were renewed several times since they could not survive during earthquakes. Three mihraps were built in the mosque, the right one being the oldest. The ayet above this is dated as 1004/1595 and bears the signature of the calligrapher Mahmud. The main mihrap of the mosque was constructed in the form of a curtain screen in front of the wall to gain the necessary orientation towards Mecca without giving harm to the original wall of the building. This is also made in harmony with the size of the building. It is the largest mihrap in all of the mosques in Cyprus. The niche of the altar has a muqarnas decoration, the stalactites of which are brightly painted with red,

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black, cream and gold colours. A gilded ball hangs over in the middle of this muqarnas decoration. The brushwork ornamentation in baroque style may be assumed to be of a later date, presumably early nineteenth century. There is İmran Sureh, in a fine calligraphic workmanship on the mihrap. There is no date of this inscription. The repertoire of decoration in the niche, the bands outlining the mihrap and the crown show different characters, some parts being in rather classical Rumi style while others have Rococo style decoration, which recalls different stages. The marble kürsü (desk) ornamented in classical style with pierced latticed work and brushwork paintings suggests an earlier stage. The minber is made up of marble, and the kiosk and its cupola is of wood, decorated with detailed brushwork. Also the imam mahfili (dikka) of the mosque is ornamented with star motifs in brushwork. This existing furniture most probably dates to later times. During the first Friday prayers Lala Mustafa Pasha also donated a sword and a Koran as symbolic wakfs to bless the conquest forever. This manuscript is assumed to be the one in the collection of the Turkish Ethnographic Museum in Mevlevi Tekke with the inventory number 135 (Fig. 2). The deed of foundation of the Koran is full of praise-full words about the bravery of Lala Mustafa Pasha as well as blessing the conquest forever by dedicating the holy book as a wakf in the name sultan Selim II. The inscription of the manuscript mentioned about this wakf that has been transcribed by the late Orhan Şaik Gökyay contains rather praising words as follows: Thanks to the God who is unique and great and to the Prophet that will be the last one Lala Mustafa Pasha, the lion of war, brave man who destroyed the castles of the infidels. May the God give him power to perform his wishes and desires. He devoted this Holy Book by asking the permission of the generous, Great God to this noble and honourable mosque, which is within the walls of the castle of Lefkoşa, on the condition that it will always remain within this holy shrine and cannot be transferred to another place. Thus, the members of the committee gathered to confirm the conditions of this deed of trust of the pious foundation is correct and it is in accordance with the laws of Islamic religion. Therefore, it cannot be sold, purchased, transferred, inherited, mortgaged, lent or donated. It is solely the property of the most generous, noble, eternal and Great God.

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On the top of this inscription is the stamp of a kadı, the top religious authority, who determined and confirmed the conditions of the pious foundation. Presumably, this is the stamp of the first kadı Ekmel Efendi. There is also another inscription on the last page of the Koran giving the following meaning: This beautiful Koran, the holy book was donated to the Great Mosque on the island of Cyprus which is protected by the God, by the generous will of Lala Mustafa Pasha, the conqueror of the island. The word ‘Wakf’ which is inscribed on every single page also stamped its being a pious foundation. But in spite of all this information, the location of the foundation is not defined clearly. This holy Koran is a rather delicately illuminated manuscript, which needs special care for its art value as well as its historical value. But unfortunately, it is in a rather ruined condition and is in need of a special restoration by experts. The manuscript which is registered with the inventory number 135 in the Cyprus Turkish Ethnographic Museum comprises of 320 folios with the dimensions 24.5x17.5 cm. The folios of the manuscript are not numbered. The manuscript has a brown leather binding, stamped and tooled with a lobed central medallion and pendants filled with the saz style leaves, hatayis and floral scroll ornamentation. These are so much worn that they are hardly visible in some parts. The flap is simple with no stamp. The doublure of the binding is covered with crimson coloured leather, which recalls a previous restoration. The most important illuminated part of the manuscript is the serlevha of the Koran, where the surehs of Fatiha and Bakara are situated. This is illuminated in the classical Ottoman style and painted with dark blue, gold, red, black, crimson red and pink colours. Dark blue and gold are dominant colours in the illumination. Unfortunately the dark blue painting at some parts have been faded and fallen down. The edges of the folios are also worn out. The Koran ends with the ‘Nas Sureh’. Below the last words, an inscription indicates that it was donated as a pious foundation to a mosque and also there is a stamp that could not be deciphered t the present moment but presumably it bears the name of the kadı Ekmel Efendi. The manuscript is not dated. The illumination of the serlevha of the Koran recalls the illumination style of the early sixteenth century manuscripts. In view of the wakfiye inscription of the deed of trust expressing the owner’s wish of donating it as a pious foundation, it could be said that this manuscript was prepared before 1570. The illumination of the serlevha of this Koran shows similarities with the serlevha of a valuable manuscript preserved at

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the Topkapı Palace Library (Inv. No. E.H. 227)11 The Topkapı Koran was inscribed in the thirteenth century by the Persian calligrapher Yakut el-Mustasimi and illuminated in Istanbul by an Ottoman artist in the sixteenth century. The composition of the serlevhas of both manuscripts shows similarities with the pattern used in the illumination but lacking the side projections. The most important similarity in both Korans is in the selection of colour and the thin border decorations both of which are on black ground. The characteristic of having such a black ground with floral scrolls came to Ottoman art from the Safavids.12 The manuscript does not bear any date or colophon indicating the details about the calligrapher, illumination or its provenance. But the inscription added to folio 1a and the last folio gives some approximate information about its date. These inscriptions also contributed to the historical facts about this manuscript which enhances in spiritual rather than its material value. The other symbolic foundation according to legend is the steel sword, which was used every Friday and at bayram praying in the preaching of the hutbe. The preacher used to climb up the stairs of the minber by touching each step with this sword and then did his preaching by leaning on this sword. It is a known fact that in the conquered lands it was customary to convert the largest church into a mosque as the symbol of the power of the Ottoman Empire. Aya Sofya in Istanbul is known to have practiced the same tradition until lately13 and the preacher of the mosque used to deliver his speech on political and social matters by leaning on the sword or a sceptre.14 Unfortunately this sword was stolen in 1987. Enlarging of Aya Sofya Wakf and Creation of New Ones Sultan Selim II sent imperial orders for the recording of all the properties gained through the conquest immediately just after the foundation of the Aya Sofya Wakf. According to one of these orders written to Lala Mustafa Pasha on 31 October 1570, it was requested that he should take actions to include the ones that are of value and would be profitable for the maintenance of Aya Sofya foundation. It is also required that Bali Efendi, the treasurer must sell the rest of the property for the benefit of the treasury at the best price and record each group of items into separate books for the inspection of the sultan.15 One document dated Rebi’ülahır 978/November 1570 mentioned about Ekmel Efendi, the müderris appointing Abdülgaffar as the chair of the board of trustees with a salary of 40 akçe for the inspection of the mosque, shops and other property and income of the wakf.16 All properties found of value for the wakf as well as those that had already been included in the Aya Sofya Foundation must be

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retained while the rest of the properties connected to the churches would be sold away. In fact it may be gathered from the information given by Nicholas Coureas that the amount of the properties of Aya Sofya Cathedral in Nicosia (Fig. 3) and Aya Nicholas Cathedral in Famagusta (Fig. 4) began during the Lusignan period were too high since the archbishopric had usually acquired land through donations as cash money or land and property donated by the kings, the earliest known to be in 1195. There were different cases, which increased the wealth of the Latin Church on the island by donations such as the incomes of salt-pans at Salines from Larnaca,17 or donation in the form of granting milling rights at the royal flour-mills in Kytherea as it was done by Queen Alice or contributions with cash money. With this income, the church even purchased whole villages with its land and serfs.18 During the Venetian occupation the Latin Church continued to retain its property, which was overtaken by Ottoman rule after the conquest. It was the same for Aya Nicholas Cathedral in Famagusta (Fig. 4) that was converted into the mosque in the name of the sultan with the preaching of a hutbe.19 This imposing Gothic cathedral is still the main mosque in Famagusta although it retains many Christian medieval decorative elements on its western façade. This mosque called Aya Nikola20 was then mainly referred to as Aya Sofya in Famagusta or merely as Small Aya Sofya while it was very rarely mentioned as Selimiye Cami’i.21 An imperial order instructed the governor to retain the necessary part of its foundation and to sell the rest of the property connected to the church.22 Moreover, the Ottoman army was able to capture huge foundations belonging to thirty one churches in Famagusta. It was then ordered that the so-called Aya Yorgi (St. George)23 including its foundations must be given to the local people while the rest of thirty churches with their foundations must be sold away for the benefit of the treasury after getting the necessary amount for the wakf of the Aya Sofya Mosque in Famagusta.24 The wakf of Selim, usually referred to as the Aya Sofya Wakf was organized so as to support the expenses and salaries of the mosque complex, which also included the medrese with the income of the shops, water distribution, mills, fields and farm units. This wakf included mainly the Bedesten (Suk-i Sultaniye),25 Great Inn (Büyük Han), New Great Inn (Yeni Büyük Han), çiftliks (farms) and mills in Kythrea (Değirmenlik), Machara and Yırnalı.26 The sultan’s foundation then continued to enlarge with new additions by the governors sometimes even without asking his permission as we could see from one of the documents dated 17 Shevval 984/9 January 1577.27 Accordingly, the sultan was informed that the Governor had pulled down the shops that were the wakfs of the mosque and replaced them with a caravansary. Upon this, it is

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requested to enquire about the income of this new foundation and in case this is unsatisfactory, then the building would be converted into shops as it was before. The beylerbeyi Okçızade Mehmed Pasha made a wakf of at least one shop and others had donated a butcher shop, other shops and large estates (çiftlik) for Aya Sofya in 1002/1593-4. An important contribution was the wakf of Cafer Pasha set up in addition to the previously established wakfs to maintain Aya Sofya in Famagusta from the revenues of his estate that had 280 trees, nine carob trees along with houses at a village in Tuzla district and five two-storied and single-storied houses, fruit trees, gardens with irrigation channels, eight shops in various places, a coffee house, two grist (tahuni) mills, a well and more were set aside.28 Several people also established Wakfs for Aya Sofya for payment to Koran readers or for other expenses such as candle wax for the mosque. Among the donors there was also a Jewish person.29 In view of this document and some others, Büyük Han (Fig. 5) is another noteworthy monuments inherited from the enormous wakf of Sultan Selim. Büyük Han is the largest Ottoman complex ever built on the island, which was established mainly to support the mosque. It is quite interesting with its small mescid in the middle of the courtyard, which is raised on a circular arcaded colonnade with double staircase arranged in baroque style, leading into the shrine. The space below is reserved for the fountain and the circular water tank. The whole complex can be considered as a small model of Koza Han in Bursa. The capitals of the columns as well as the altar of the mescid are of local sandstone cut into crude muqarnas decoration. The rooms of Büyük Han are arranged around the courtyard, which is entered through an iwan. The whole complex consists of 68 rooms and 10 shops. The rooms on the ground floor were supposed to have been rented as storerooms to the merchants, while the first level was rented for accommodation. The rooms are all covered with a vaulted roof and each one is equipped with a fireplace. The chimneypieces on the roof of the building bring a dynamic appearance to the building.30 A few documents give some ideas about the rent and usage of Büyük Han in earlier days. It appears that 28,200 akçe/year was gained from the rent of 12 rooms and 8 shoe-stores, coffee-shop and pie oven in Zilkade 1002/July 1594.31 It is rather surprising not to find any information about the Büyük Han or any of the other Turkish hans in the travel books of the Europeans of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The restoration of Büyük Han started in the 1960s is now nearly complete and all rooms rented as shops for souvenir sellers or to the local artists. Nowadays with a new function as a culture and tourist centre, it is one of the most attractive places in Nicosia.

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Coffee-shops, as the popular social gathering places for the male folk since 1550 in the Ottoman Empire were also established in Cyprus often in the possession of the wakfs.32 They were also one of the most important income sources of the Selim wakf. Aya Sofya Wakf also included several medreses, the earliest reference in documents studied is referred to as Dar-ül Hidaya33 built before 1578 by Sultan Selim. Unfortunately the whole property under the wakf of Selim II is not exactly known today. A printed document entitled ‘Evkaf Mazbouta’34 prepared by the British Evkaf Delegate and sent to the Turkish Embassy in London about the income and expenses of the sultan’s wakfs for the year 1898 both amounting to 4,558 pounds, 15 shillings and 8 pence is far from reflecting the real property. The list which recorded merely a short account of the yearly income and expenditure of the sultan’s wakfs included çiftliks (farmhouses) like Goloş (Kolossi) and Çite (Chiti or Kiti) farms, property of land in Nicosia, Famagusta, Limassol (Leymosun), Larnaca (Tuzla) and mills and water as well as a share of the income from carob and grape harvests. The short length of the list reflects the loss of a great majority of the estates of the Imperial Wakf by the end of nineteenth century. Among the farm complexes in the Wakf of Sultan Selim II, Golos (Kolossi) is renowned for its richest agricultural produce for many centuries since the Lusignan period. Kolossi, now known with its historical castle was in fact a rich fief with its worldwide famous Commandaria wine and cane sugar production. It was well equipped with the aqueduct system to irrigate the cane plantations and to drive the waterwheels as well as an imposing castle rebuilt in fifteenth century and it continued its sugar production in the Ottoman period. The sugar factory was reconstructed under Murad Pasha in 1591, which he has seen recorded on the gable of the building.35 Other Wakfs New wakfs were established as soon as the Ottoman administrative units were put into practice in mid-September 1570. It is naturally expected that wakfs are usually established by devout Muslims proud of their cities, who wanted to beautify them as well as wishing to serve God or to be generous with their fellow Muslims. According to Ronald Jennings, of 32 foundations mentioned in the judicial registers until 1611, at least 16 had military origins. Of the remainder, three were imperial foundations (Sultan Selim Han, Haremeyn-i Şerif, and Medine-i Münevvere), one attached to a village, another two to churches, and the Valide Sultan wakf was added to these in 1633. Only two (Mevlana Muslihiddin Efendi and Müftü Sa’deddin Efendi bn Muharrem) were identified as deriving from the religious

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class (ulema). Of the military founders, two bore the title bey, two çavuş, and three ağa, while six had been high-salaried imperial provincial governors (mir miran or beylerbeyi) of Cyprus (Lala Mustafa Pasha, Sefer Pasha, and Frenk Cafer Pasha). In all likelihood they had acquired that property while in office and their mütevellis (administrators) were also usually from the same class.36 They also managed to purchase estates with their own means at lower prices from the sales by the Ottoman government. New buildings followed these in the forthcoming years. But these were slow and fewer as compared with the wakfs established in Anatolia except the water systems. As it is expected, the wakf established in the name of Lala Mustafa Pasha was the second largest one after Selim II Wakf. The foundation of Lala Mustafa Pasha included thousands of dönüm of land with its water sources in all parts of Cyprus mainly in Lakatamia, Morphou, Yalya, Balikitre, Kyrenia (Girne) and in Tuzla, and çiftliks such as Lapsiniye, Lorü, Demboi and Kaşala. The largest of these were in Lakatamia consisting of 14, 492 dönüm of land with over 9,000 olive trees, 35 houses, several other trees and the enormous land in Kyrenia stretching from the coast to the mountains. There were several mills and wells in all these lands.37 He contributed to these lands by constructing the earliest Turkish monuments, all for the needs of the local people. Büyük Hamam, Ömeriye Cami’i and Hamam were important contributions, while Ömeriye Garden, buildings in Nicosia, warehouses and a han in Famagusta were also important parts of his wakfs. Among his wakfs in Nicosia, the Garden of Orta Odası (The chamber of the Yeniçeris) was an important property.38 Presently Pheneromeni Church, the largest Greek Orthodox Church is on its location. According to the wakf conditions, expenses for the maintenance of the mosque, repairing and sanitation of the water channels to maintain regular water supply to the mosque as well as other expenses such as olive oil, oil burners and wax supplies, preparing and distributing helva to fukaras, salaries of the staff working in the mosque doing either religious or service works derived from the income of the wakf.39 The income of the two baths, Hamam-ı Kebir (Büyük Hamam) and Hamam-ı Cedid (Ömeriye Hamam) in Nicosia), were allocated to the expenses of Ömeriye Cami’i. It is interesting to see that despite the large amount of property to be registered as wakf in the name of Lala Mustafa Pasha, he had to get permission for every detail from the sultan. According to a record quoted from the şeriye sicilli by Jennings, he made a petition to the sultan for permission to build a mosque, which was dedicated to Hazret-i Ömer, as a spiritual patron, on the spot where he had his first prayer. Upon his petition

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for permission to build a hamam for imam, hatib and other functionaries, the sultan expressed his idea that a hamam was unnecessary and useless as it would not bring any profit to the wakf and made recommendations to let someone else to build the hamam.40 Although some of these wakfs merely remained a family property, there were some important wakfs that were wholly dedicated to some religious establishments on the island while some were contributing to Haremeyn-i Şerifeyn or Celaliye Wakf. Several documents give proof of this fact. The records of the first four şeriye sicills studied by Jennings reveal the fact that the wakfs of Aya Sofya, Mevlevi Tekke, Ömeriye Cami’i, Haremeyn-i Şerifeyn and Medine-i Münevvere were the most extensive ones, which were almost supported by each wakf established by the commanders of the conquest and by other people including the non-Muslims continuously.41 Forty thousand akçes per year were donated wakf for the evkaf of Medine-i Münevvere by Cafer Pasha ibn Abdul-Mennan.42 According to one of these, a certain amount of the income gained through the tax collected from the trade of silk and cotton textiles locally produced such as kutni, keremsud, silk cloth, peşkir, yasdık, harir şal, kuşak, dimi şal and penbe (cotton) was allocated to Mevlevihane in Lefkoşa in 1138/1725-6.43 Another document dated 12 Muharrem 1262/11 January 1846 gives information about the sum of 4,999 kuruş from the income of the textiles such as silk and cotton goods that was allocated to the Haremeyn-i Şerifeyn Wakf in the name of Mehmet II, the conqueror.44 In another register book bearing the tuğra of Murat III and prepared by an inspector Mehmed upon the order of Mehmet Ağa, the Ağa of Darüssade and the director of Haremeyn Wakf in Cyprus is also included among other provinces as contributor to the Haremeyn Wakf. In view of these documents Haremeyn Wakfs presumably started as early as the conquest, particularly with the establishment of Aya Sofya and Lala Mustafa Pasha Wakfs.45 The number of the contributors to the Haremeyn Wakf increased during the later years. The Umurga (Aphendrika) Çiftlik is registered to be the property of Ayşe Sultan and İbrahim Pasha under Wakf of Haremeyn according to a document dated 1182/1768-946 while another document from the British period classified it as a wakf of Hala Sultan Tekke.47 Ruznamçe-i Evvel Süleyman Efendi is one case of an individual whose entire estate in the form of buildings and land was donated as wakf to the Haremeyn in 1198/1783-4.48 Another case is related to the property of Haydar Paşazade Mehmed Bey which was also dedicated to the Haremeyn Wakf.49

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The government in Istanbul usually inspected the income or administration of these wakfs whether they were utilized properly. The treasurer was responsible to collect the income of these wakf estates and sent it to its destination. There was one severe case against the ex-treasurer Bali Efendi who spent the money obtained for the fukara of Medine on textiles for the navy which was not in fact requested. So he was ordered to sell the textile immediately and send the income to Medine as usual.50 Sometimes it is rather difficult to determine the real founder of the wakfs since most of these passed through inheritance to the daughters or sons although the conditions of wakfs to contribute to certain foundations were respected. According to a document dated 1912 although Çite Farm is classified as the estate of the Haremeyn treasury, Lala Mustafa Pasha is recorded as its founder. This is not surprising when one would notice the lack of information about the wakf of Selim II as compared to the long list of the wakfs of Lala Mustafa Pasha or Çinili Valide Sultan upon a glance at the lists given in a recent publication concerning the Turkish property as well as the wakf foundations. 51 Another reason for this kind of neglect is the complications arising as the result of the change of the administration system of the wakfs, which was automatically transferred to the British Crown who possessed little information about the operation of the complicated system. During the British period the newly established Delegate of Evkaf Office took care of the wakfs and this included the mazbuta wakfs founded for the Haremeyn Wakf, which is explained to have been the wakfs established by the Turkish conquerors and dedicated for the provision of the Holy cities of Mecca and Medina. The money derived from such wakfs were paid into the General Funds of the Evkaf Ministry of Turkey while then during the British occupation of Cyprus, this money was collected by the Delegates of Evkaf and formed the basis of Mazbuta Wakfs on behalf of the Crown. So according to this file, Sultan Selim II, Lala Mustafa Pasha, Çorlulu Ali Pasha,52 Mazhar Efendi, Abdül Mennan Zade Mehmed Efendi, Haydar Pasha Zade Mehmed Bey, Çinili Valide Sultan53 and Ağa Cafer Pasha (partly attached) were treated under this category. Accordingly all these wakfs except the wakf of Çinili Valide Sultan, which was then still administered by mütevellis, were directly administered by the Ministry of Evkaf at Istanbul (Constantinople) under the Turkish regime while after the British occupation this practice had been abandoned and all money were kept in Cyprus for the upkeep and maintenance of the various religious establishments.54 The third reason is the insufficiency of the studies on the wakfiyes that are distributed in the libraries of the whole world although a great amount of these are in the archive of the

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Wakf Administration in Ankara and partly in the Cyprus Wakf Administration (Fig. 1) and National Archive in North Cyprus. One could see that most of the Cypriot wakfs are considered as sultanic property under the Aya Sofya Wakfs as they used to be in the Latin period. A glance at the history of the pre-Ottoman monuments and estates clearly shows their origin as part of the foundation of Aya Sofya from the earliest times. In the case of Çite or Kiti farm, it was first mentioned as Le Quit in the cartulary of St. Sophia. This was an important fief during the Lusignan period belonging to the Archbishopric of Cyprus. Egyptians burned it down on their landing at Limassol in 1426. Then it was confiscated by James the Bastard from his uncle who was the grandfather of Father Stephen Lusignan, by force while it was purchased from the Venetian Republic by Hercules Podocatoro at the end of the fifteenth century or in the beginning of the sixteenth century as a fief.55 The wakfiye of Cafer Pasha, the beylerbeyi of the island at the end of seventeenth century is one of the rare ones to survive, which gives much information about the property all laid as wakfs and citing item by item for the amount to be paid for the services from the income of his estate.56 Besides his wakfs to Haremeyn, the Tomb of Muhammed and the Konya Mevlevihane, his water wakfs in Famagusta is rather important.57 Much is known about the wakfs of Mehmet Bey ibn Ebubekir mainly in Paphos district, which includes an aqueduct, mosque, bath, coffee shop, olive-oil mills.58 These wakfs were recorded in the şeriye sicilleri with the names of the mütevellis personally appointed to supervise them. Although the freed slaves of the owners were appointed for this mission in the case of the wakfs of Lala Mustafa Pasha and Cafer Pasha, it was the son or grandson for the wakf of large farm estates established by Yusuf Aga ibn Perviz beg, the Janissary Ağa in Cyprus. According to his deed, if these would perish, then the supervision would pass to the derviş lodge (zaviye).59 This lasted until the foundation of the Evkaf-ı Hümayun Nezareti in 1826 and El-Hac Yusuf Efendi was appointed as the director in Cyprus then.60 Today, the wakf lands and monuments that were lost because of ill administration of the wakfs during the British Period and also the land now on the southern part of the island after the division of the island into two is one of the important part of the peace negotiations. The Wakf Administration is taking great care of the old monuments found in the northern part of the island with the income they are gaining through tourism complexes, rents from business centres and other buildings, banking, and farms. Contrary to the past experience giving its income to the Haremeyn Wakf or other Institutions in Anatolia, today the Wakf Administration of Turkey is

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greatly contributing to and supporting all the maintenance of the buildings in North Cyprus, which have historical religious character. Recently completed restoration projects include particularly the Büyük Han (Fig. 5), the Arab Ahmet Cami’i and almost all of the mosques in North Cyprus as well as new mosques constructed in many parts of the island.61 The Mederese building in Famagusta (Fig. 6) with its front walls in Latin style and dome in Turkish style is the symbol of the cultural amalgamation while the library of Sultan Mahmud II (Fig. 7) is one of the best examples to identify the Turkish culture. During 300 years of the Ottoman Rule on the island, the number of Turkish wakfs increased, while the ill administration of the wakfs during the British Rule as well as the enthusiasm and excitement for the adoption of new concepts and ideas based on western culture and the great attempt to form a secular society by following the revolutionary cultural movements started by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in Turkey, caused to the neglect and lost of some of the Turkish wakf monuments. Saray Önü Mosque (Fig. 8) is rather interesting as a wakf monument in Orientalist style to show this fact. I conclude with hope that this study will contribute to express my forthcoming studies on the subject.62

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Figure1: Wakf Administration Building, Nicosia. Late 19th century.

Figure 2: Lala Mustafa Pasha Koran, Turkish Ethnography Museum Envt. No: 135.

Figure 3: Aya Sofya (Selimiye) Cami’i, Nicosia. Illustrated London News, 1878.

Figure 4: Aya Nikola (Lala Mustafa Pasha) Cami’i, Famagusta. Illustrated London News, 1878.

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Wakfs cont.

Figure 5: Büyük Han, Nicosia. 16th century.

Figure 7: Sultan Mahmud Library, Nicosia. Early 19th century.

Figure 6: Medrese Building, Famagusta. C. 18th century.

Figure 8: Sarayönü Mosque, Nicosia, 1904.

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1 There were 800 or 900 villages on the island during the Venetian Rule. According to Father Lusignan, there were 30 to 33 Maronite villages, three Armenian villages and one Gypsy village near Nicosia. Benjamin Arbel (1984/2000). ‘Cypriot Population Under Venetian Rule (1473-1571): A Demographic Study’, in the Franks and Venice 13th-16th Centuries (Aldershot, 1984/2000), 203. 2 Ronald C. Jennings, Christians and Muslims in Ottoman Cyprus and the Mediterranean World, 1570-1640 (New York, 1993), 41. 3 Pir Ali Dede Cami’i in Limassol and shops in Famagusta are cited as the wakfs of Sinan Pasha. Bş. Bk. O. Ar. (Başbakanlık Arşivleri, Osmanlı Arşivi/Prime Ministry Archives, Ottoman Archive, Istanbul) Bab-ı ali Evrak Odası Mümtaz Kalemi, Kıbrıs, Kıbrıs ve Bosna Kataloğu, MTZ. KB. 1338-3-15 file no: 1-A/1-5, lef: 15. 4 See Netice Yıldız (1995). ‘Osmanlı Dönemi Kıbrıs Türk Mimari ve Sanatı’, 9th International Congress of Turkish Arts, Contributions, 23-27 September, 1991, İstanbu, Vol. III, (Ankara, 1995), 521-32; Netice Yıldız, ‘Aqueducts in Cyprus’, Journal for Cypriot Studies, 2/2, (1996), 89-111; Netice Yıldız, ‘Kıbrıs`ta Osmanlı Kültür Mirasına Genel Bir Bakış’, in H. C. Güzel, K. Çiçek, S. Koca (eds.), Türkler , Vol. 19 (2002), 966-93; Oktay Aslanpa, Kıbrıs’ta Türk Eserleri (Istanbul, 1975). Fikret Çuhadıroğlu & Filiz Oğuz (1975). ‘Kıbrıs’ta Türk Eserleri/Turkish Historical Monuments in Cyprus’, Vakıflar, Rölöve ve Restorasyon Dergisi, No: 2, (1975), 1-76. 5 Halil İnalcık (1994). ‘The Ottoman State: Economy and Society, 1300-1600’, in An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire 1300-1914, Halil İnalcık with Donald Quataert (ed.) (Cambridge, 1994), 81. 6 Şerafettin Turan, 1958 ( ). ‘Lala Mustafa Pasha Hakkında Notlar’, Belleten, XXll /88, 517. 7 Anonym. Feth-i Cezire-i Kıbrıs, Topkapı Palace Library MS. Revan 1294. fol. 85. 8 Arif Dede, Kıbrıs Tarihçesi, Topkapı Palace Library MS., YY. 319 13, 36. 9 H. Sahillioğlu Osmanlı İdaresinde Kıbrıs'ın İlk Yılı Bütçesi , Belgeler, lV 7-8, ,‘ ’ / (1969), 18; Bş. Bk. O. Ar., Mühimme 12, No: 1211. 10 Recently it has become customary to add two minarets to the newly built mosques by the Wakf Administration. 11 For the picture of this see J. M. Rogers & R. W. Ward, Süleyman the Magnificent, (London, 1988), 72-3; Esin Atıl, The Age of Süleyman the Magnificent (New York, 1987), 54. 12 Rogers & Ward , 73. 13 Gülru Necipoğlu, ‘The Life of An Imperial Monument: Hagia Sophia After Byzantium’, in Robert Mark & Ahmet Ş. Çakmak (eds.), Hagia Sophia From the Age of Justinian to the Present (Cambridge, 1992), 204. 14 See A. J. Wensinck, ‘Hutbe’, in İslam Ansiklopedisi, Vol. 5 (Istanbul, 1997), 61720. 15 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Mühimme 14, No: 727. 16 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Divan-ı Hümayun Ruus Kalemi, Defter No: 221 özel sayı: 14 A, No: 76. 17 Nicholas Coureas, The Latin Church in Cyprus 1195-1312, (Suffolk, 1997), 54-5. 18 Ibid 47-58. 19 Hammer, VI, 263; Şerafettin Turan, (1958), 577. 20 See Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Mühimme 16, No: 304. 21 The contemporary names Selimiye Cami’i and Lala Mustafa Pasha Cami’i were officially given in 1954 with the suggestion of Müftü M. Dana Efendi. Halkın Sesi, 13 August 1954. Yıldız, 67. 22 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Mühimme, 14 s. no: 727) 18 Zilhicce 979/3 Mayıs 1572.

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This is presumably St. George, the Greek Church. Although it is not exactly recorded about its being demolished by earthquake, it is said that the Greek rite was reported as being celebrated in a church dedicated to St. George after 1571. Camille Enlart (1987). Gothic Art and the Renaissance in Cyprus, tr. by David Hunt, London: Trigraph, p. 254; Pococke, visited Cyprus in 1738 refers to this monument to have been thrown into ruins during an earthquake that happened three years ago. E. D. Cobham (ed.), Excerpta Cypria (Cambridge, 1908; repr. New York, 1986), 255. 24 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Mühimme, 16, No: 304. 25 Jennings, 314. 26 Cyprus Turkish Vakıf Administration Files, No: 67/94. 27 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Muhimme 29, no: 135. 28 Jennings, 60. 29 Ibid. 54. 30 Gönül Öney Lefkoşe’d Büyük Han ve Kumarcılar Hanı Milletleraras Birinci ,‘ e ’, ı Kıbrıs Tetkikleri Kongresi (14-19 Nisan 1969) Türk Heyeti Tebliğleri (1971), 271-97, Pl.I, II; Oktay Aslanapa (1975), 15-16. 31 Jennings, 332. 32 Ibid. 331. 33 Bş. B. O. Ar. Mühimme, No: 34, no: 422. 34 London Turkish Embassy, Ottoman Archive, File No: LBA K.342.5. 35 Enlart, 494-5. 36 Jennings, 41-4. 37 Yusuf Sarınay (ed.), Osmanlı İdaresinde Kıbrıs (Ankara, 2000), 330-41. 38 A document for the extension of the rent of this garden exists in the Cyprus Turkish Wakf Administration Files, No: 424/98. Dated 1898. 39 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Divan-ı Hümayun Muhasebesi, No: 21386. 40 Jennings, 55. 41 Ibid. 53-60. 42 Ibid. 56. 43 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Maliyeden Müdevver Defterler, No: 10168, Gurre: 1138/1725-6. Also see Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Cevdet – Evkaf, No: 24, 316 Dated 15 R. 1162/1749. 44 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Divan-ı Hümayun Muhasebe Defterleri (D.H.M) No: 21939. Also D.H.M No. 21479 and 21550, 21588. 45 Maliyeden Müdevver Defterler, Defter No: 684 dated Guree-i B. 997 /1589Gaye-i Ca 998 /1590. 46 Bş. Bk. O. Ar. Cevdet - Evkaf, No: 12689. 47 Mustafa Haşim Altan (1986). Belgelerle Kıbrıs Türk Vakıflar Tarihi (Lefkoşa, 1986), 1014. 48 Topkapı Palace Archive, Documents, E. No: 3803. 49 Topkapı Palaca Archive, Tahriratlar, Ar. No: 2281. 50 Topkapı Palace Archive, Documents, E. No: 3125. The document is not dated. 51 See Sarınay, 207-211, 330–41. 52 This Vakıf included Sultan or Poli Çiftlik in the village called Poli covering a land 752 dönüm, and the çiftlik complex, another land 1000 dönüms and 120 olive and 15 fig trees in the Hrisofi area. Sarınay, 213. 53 She is Mahpeyker Sultan. In her Wakfs in Cyprus were the Koklia Çiftlik with its 1339 dönüm land, 22 rooms in the complex, Mamonya Çiftlik with its 232 dönüm land, 3 water- mills, a mulberry garden, Aşelya Çiftlik with its 4217 dönüm land, 27 rooms, one mill, a garden on a land of 15 dönüm with 500 mulberry trees. Sarınay, 209-10. 54 Cyprus Turkish Wakf Administration. Wakf Files No: 48.1927. (1-3). Dated 9-10 March 1927.

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Enlart, 483-4. Altan, 16-20, 471. 57 Jennings, 19, 60. 58 Sarınay, 203-4; Altan, 505-12. 59 Jennings, 49. 60 Rauf Ünsal, ‘Kıbrıs Vakıflarının Kuruluşundan Bu Yana Gelişimi’, VII. Vakıf Haftası Vakıf Mevzuatının Aksayan Yönleri, Kıbrıs Vakıf İdaresi Çalışmaları ve Türk Vakıf Medeniyetinde Vakıf Eski Eserlerinin Restorasyonu Seminerleri, Ankara, 5-7 Aralık 1989, (1989), 195 61 Ayer Barış, ‘Kıbrıs Vakıflarının Bugünkü Durumu ve Vakıflar İdaresinin Fonksiyonları’, VII. Vakıf Haftası Vakıf Mevzuatının Aksayan Yönleri, Kıbrıs Vakıf İdaresi Çalışmaları ve Türk Vakıf Medeniyetinde Vakıf Eski Eserlerinin Restorasyonu Seminerleri, Ankara, 5-7 Aralık 1989 (1989), 201-7 62 The author would like to dedicate this paper to the memory of Prof. Dr. Nurhan Atasoy, Prof. Dr. Halil Sahillioğlu and Retired Col. Hayri Mutluçağ. 56

4 ___________________________________ CHRISTIAN INFLUENCE AND THE ADVENT OF THE EUROPEANS Negotiating for State Protection: Çiftlik-Holding by the Athonite Monasteries (Xeropotamou Monastery, Fifteenth-Sixteenth C.) Elias Kolovos

The Orthodox Christian monasteries of Mount Athos were social and cultural institutions in the Byzantine and later in the Ottoman Empire. In both empires, they had established and preserved roots in the rural economy, from which they drew their sustenance. The present paper deals with the rural estates of the Athonite monasteries, held as çiftliks under the Ottoman administration of fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, through successful negotiations for their protection. I shall examine, as a case study, the evidence on two estates of the Monastery of Xeropotamou, in the countryside between Thessalonica (Selânik), Sidirokafsia (Sidrekapsı) and Mount Athos (Ayanoros, Aynoroz), which had been established under Byzantine administration and continued to exist as çiftliks during the Ottoman centuries. The Athonite Monasteries and Their Rural Estates under the Ottomans: Negotiating for State Protection Already from the period of Ottoman expansion, the Orthodox Christian monasteries had offered their allegiance to the sultans, negotiating with the Ottoman state for protection. Providing such protection for the monasteries constituted a strong legitimating policy for the sultans, vis-à-vis the Orthodox Christian population. It was under Ottoman state protection that the monasteries managed to maintain their position in the social and cultural hierarchy of the

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Christian zimmîs. Thus, it can be argued that mutual interests had established a certain political alliance of mutual legitimacy between monasteries and the Ottoman state.1 The monasteries negotiated with the Ottoman state, especially for the protection of their rural estates, under different circumstances in the course of time. Recent Ottomanist historiography has studied the mechanisms of such political negotiations, mainly through the petitioning process, on the part of the re‘âyâ who had a certain degree of economic, social, and cultural power.2 Political activity of this kind, however unrecognised on the level of Ottoman political ideology, is a proof of a vivid interaction between society and state in the Ottoman Empire. In this paper, the stress is on the zimmîs’ participation in this interaction, through important institutions such as the monasteries, already from the early years of Ottoman history. This active participation in Ottoman society discredits the conventional Balkan historiography, which has produced, in the case of the non-Muslims, a contradictory image of ‘oppressed slaves’ under ‘Muslim rule’, with however separate ‘national’ political institutions, especially the Church, conserving their identity under the ‘Turkish yoke’ (thus ascribing the political activity of the zimmîs to their ‘national’ identity - which was invented later).3 It has been suggested that the monasteries of Mount Athos, repeatedly suffering from Muslim raids, had already negotiated for Ottoman protection in the reign of Orhan, through the mediation of his father-in-law, John Kantakouzinos.4 In any event, it is certain that the Athonite monasteries had survived at no cost the first Ottoman conquest of the surroundings of Thessalonica (1384). Moreover, they had managed to preserve their rural estates as well, most probably as full properties and endowments (mülks, vakfs), and even to expand them during this period.5 On the basis of Greek documents issued after the restoration of Byzantine rule around Thessalonica (1403), it is known that the Athonite monasteries in the previous years had been collecting tax revenues from their dependent peasants according to Ottoman fiscal practice.6 It appears that the monasteries were collecting a tax called harâç from the peasants, rendering one-third of it to the Ottoman state. This third of the haraç could be identified with the poll-tax (cizye), which nonMuslims had to pay to the Ottoman state (however, there is no reference to the monks themselves). The two-thirds of the harâç was probably equivalent to the resm-i çift, which the peasants had to pay to their landlords, in this case the monasteries. According to the same documents, the monasteries were also collecting the tithe (dekaton/‘öşür) from their peasants, and a tax called kephalatikion (salariye?), the former paid again to the Ottoman state. After the battle of Ankara (1402), the restored Byzantine administration in the

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area of Thessalonica kept up the Ottoman taxation and continued to collect from the Athonite monasteries its share of the peasant taxes. During this transitional period of establishment of Ottoman rule, it seems that the Athonite monasteries fully exploited in their negotiations with the Ottoman state the sultans’ need for legitimacy vis-à-vis the Orthodox Christian population. In 1423/24, when the Ottoman troops appeared again in the area of Thessalonica, and Venice took control of the city, the Athonite monks, with the accord of the despot Andronikos Palaiologos, went to Adrianople/Edirne and submitted to Murad II.7 When Murad finally conquered Thessalonica, the Athonite monks presented themselves again before him and asked for a confirmation of the documents issued by the previous sultans (Beyazid I and Mehmed I) concerning their status. The confirmation order of Murad II in 1430 describes in detail the status, and especially the tax exemptions, which the Athonite monasteries had obtained from the Ottoman sultans, already in the previous century. Nobody was to enter Mount Athos or its rural estates without permission from the sultan or from the monks (benüm destûrümsüz ve bunlarun destûrünsüz kımesne girmiye). Their rural estates had the status of vakfs and mülks and were exempt from taxation (mu‘âf ve müsellem). Kâdıs and subaşıs had no right to collect taxes from them and the collectors of the harâç had no power on their estates. The monks were also exempt from extraordinary taxation (avârız-ı divâniyyeden emîn olalar). Finally, they could freely transport by ship the produce of their estates to Mount Athos. This document, however, does not mention the obligation of the Athonite monasteries to pay one-third of their dependent peasants’ harâç to the Ottoman state, which is discussed above.8 Two or three years after the capture of Thessalonica, however, during the census (tahrîr) ordered by Murad, both Mount Athos and its rural estates had lost, at least in part, their previous status.9 The full imposition of the Ottoman tîmâr system (distribution of this area’s tax revenues as hâses, ze‘âmets, and tîmârs) in the area of Thessalonica after 1430, part of a general policy of centralisation pursued by Murad II, had abolished the tax exemption of Mount Athos. The tax revenues of the Mount Athos peninsula were reserved for the sultan’s privy estates (havâss-ı hümâyûn). However, it appears that the monks had bargained to pay both their poll tax (cizye), as well as the ‘tithe on grain, orchards, and gardens’ of the peninsula, in the form of a lump sum (maktû‘, or kesim), unified for all the monasteries there. This special status was confirmed by berâts of successive sultans, until Selim II. Moreover, according to the same berâts, the Athonite monks retained an exemption from extraordinary taxes.10

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The Athonite monasteries had also to start paying taxes for their rural estates in the area of Thessalonica, which they continued to possess as çiftliks according to the registers (defters). Their tax revenues, as well as these of their former dependent peasants, were allotted to various revenue-holders established there after 1430.11 However, it appears that in many cases the monasteries had bargained with the Ottoman central, or local, administration to pay a lump sum instead of the tithe of their çiftliks, just like the taxation of the Athos peninsula itself.12 Even though they had lost their full tax-exempt status, as well as the tax revenues from their dependent peasants, the Athonite monasteries continued during this period to enjoy state protection for their rural estates. According to a berât of Beyazid II, dated 1485, which renewed previous diplomas of Mehmed II and Murad II, the monks of Aynoroz could legitimately possess (tasarruf ) their churches, houses, mills, and fields in the districts of Serres and Thessalonica, insofar as they did not abandon them, regularly registered them in the defters, and did not alter their architectural form and established functioning. Nobody had the right to deprive them of their possessions. State officials were ordered to protect the monk’s legal rights in every case. They, also, should not oppress them (zulm ve ta‘addî), in contradiction of legislation of the sultan (kânûn) and customary practice (‘âdet).13 After the conquest of Thessalonica in 1430, the Ottoman policy of state building through centralisation had abolished the Athonite monasteries’ special tax revenue status in this area. It seems though that the monks negotiated with the state, probably asserting their previous loyalty, and their right, as documented in the sultanic decrees, to possess their rural estates under state protection, and, in a lot of cases, under a favourable tax status as well. In the context of the 1568-9 crisis, however, when the Ottoman state decided to confiscate all the ecclesiastical and monastic lands, in accordance with the general legal definition by the şeyhülislâm Ebûssu‘ûd of all agricultural and animal husbandry land as ‘state land’ (arz-i memleket)14, the Athonite monks were forced to renegotiate the status of their lands. Ebûssu‘ûd’s argument was that monasteries and churches were not paying title-deed imposts (tapu) for their lands, considering them as vakfs. In order to continue possessing their lands, the monks had to start paying the tapu, just like the other tax-paying population (re‘âyâ). This principle put in question the whole status of the ecclesiastical and monastic lands all over the empire, which, for the most part, as already noted, had been established before the Ottoman conquest and were controlled institutionally by the bishoprics or the monasteries, not personally by the monks as in the case of common re‘âyâ. In parallel with that, all

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lump sum tax payments (maktû‘) were revoked, in favour of the tithe and the other taxes. The Athonite monks actually paid 14,000 gold pieces in order to redeem their lands in the districts of Thessalonica and Serres. However, they refused to come under tapu status. In the negotiations, held in Istanbul, they used as a bargaining counter the threat of flight and subsequent fiscal loss of their taxation. Selim II in fact accepted the exemption of their lands from tapu status and a special regulation was recorded in the tahrîr registers.15 Moreover, with the concurring legal opinion of Ebûssu‘ûd, the monasteries proceeded to the official establishment of monastic vakfs, which included the buildings of their çiftliks. Foundation documents (vakfiyes or vakfnâmes) were drawn up for every monastery, between February and March 1569 at Istanbul, by the kâdî of the capital and Ebûssu‘ûd himself.16 Thus, the Athonite monks had again successfully obtained state protection of their vital interests. Through successive political bargaining with the Ottoman state, the Athonite monks had secured at least the possession of rural estates, established either during the middle or late Byzantine centuries, or under Ottoman administration. Thus, they had the capability of supporting adequately the monastic population on Mount Athos. However, since in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries their rural resources became dependent on the Ottoman tîmâr system of tax revenue distribution, the monks now had to negotiate their share from them with the tax revenue holders. A Case Study on Two Athonite Çiftliks: Negotiating a Share from Rural Production In the paragraphs which follow, I shall examine two çiftliks17 of the Xeropotamou Monastery in the countryside of Thessalonica, during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, through their registration in the surviving tahrîr defters and the relevant Ottoman documents from the archive of the monastery.18 I shall focus on the taxation process, since it constituted, as shown in the documentation, the nexus of the monastic çiftliks’ relations with the Ottoman administration. The estate of the Xeropotamou Monastery in the plain of Ormylia was established in the second half of the thirteenth century, when a local landowner, who had become a monk, bequeathed his movable and immovable property, including a church, to the monastery.19 His estate became a dependency (metochion) of the Xeropotamou Monastery.20 The monks had a tower built there and succeeded in extending its arable lands, on different occasions during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.21 From 1407 on, after the first Ottoman conquest, the arable lands of the metochion covered an

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area of 2,200 modioi (3 km2; 1 modioi = 1,279.78 m2), to the west of the river of Ormylia.22 In the list of the Athonite properties included in the defter of 1568/69, the Xeropotamou çiftlik in Ormylia was registered as a church, a tower, houses and vineyards, as well as a watermill in the nearby village of Kalyvia.23 According to the Xeropotamou Monastery’s vakfnâme (1569), the çiftlik’s buildings were registered as consisting of a veranda (çardak), a room (oda), a barn and two fountains. Its boundaries were the villages of Vatopet (Vatopedi), Kalyvia, Ayo Dimitri (Hagios Demetrios) and the sea.24 This can lead to the assumption that in the sixteenth century the Xeropotamou çiftlik still controlled the same 2,200 modioi of arable land as at the beginning of the fifteenth century. Ιn a document of 1565, there is a mention of a wageworker (ücretle ırgat) of the çiftlik.25 The employment of such workers for the cultivation of the çiftlik’s arable lands was probably the rule, considering its size. There is more documentation on this issue for the later centuries. The evidence concerning the taxation of the çiftlik consists of several documents. From a document of 1465, issued by Hasan Ağa, we are informed that the sancakbeği of Thessalonica, Şihâbeddîn Pasha26, had earlier issued an order, establishing a lump sum of 400 akçes per year, which the Xeropotamou monks had to pay instead of the tithe (‘öşür) and due (resim) for their çifts, vineyards, mills, and buffaloes in Ormylia. The order of Şihâbeddîn Pasha was later confirmed by the governor Hızır Ağa as well. Hasan Ağa, governor of Thessalonica also himself, confirmed the earlier arrangement and ordered that either his people in Ormylia, or whoever acted as tax collector, should collect no more that 400 akçes from the Xeropotamou monks and stay away from their holdings.27 Compared to tithe assessment, the maktû‘ system of taxation clearly protected the monastery’s share of the rural production. The Xeropotamou çiftlik in Ormylia was registered as paying the same due (resm-i çiftlik) of 400 akçes per year in the tahrîr defter of 1478 as well. The plain of Ormylia then belonged to the privy revenues of the sultan (havâss-ı hümâyûn).28 According to the documents from the archive of the Xeropotamou Monastery, dated after 1478, the plain of Ormylia was until 1545 a part of the mukâta‘a of the Avrethisarı hâsları of the Sultan. The tax revenues of Ormylia, including the lump sum (maktû‘) of the Xeropotamou çiftlik there, were in most cases farmed out, on a three-year basis, from the superintendent (emîn) of the hasses to Muslim, Christian, or Jewish tax collectors (‘âmils). According to the documents dated between the years 1566 and 1580, Ormylia had been included in the havâss of Ahmed Pasha; its tax

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revenues were then collected by his voyvodas.29 Later on, Ormylia passed to the havass of Nişancı Mehmed Pasha (before 1583-before 1593); again, tax collection was carried out by his voyvodas. In Table 1, I have put together all the available information on the tax payments of the Xeropotamou çiftlik in Ormylia, compared to the sums fixed in the tahrîr registers. Table 1. Taxation on the Xeropotamou Monastery’s Çiftlik at the Plain of Ormylia Sums Fixed in the Tahrîr Registers year 1478

tax 400 (resm-i çiftlik)

Tax payments year 1510-11 1513 1512-14

1519

444

1516-19 1518-20 1521-23 1524-26

1527

800 (maktû‘)

1528 1533 1534 1535 1537 1539-40 1542-45

Before 1566 1568

1,000 (bedel-i ‘öşür, maktû‘) 2,000 (‘öşür)

1593

tax 600 (resm-i çiftlik, maktû‘) according to the register 600 (resm-i çiftlik) 400 (maktû‘) according to the old custom 600 (bedel-i ‘öşür, maktû‘) 581.33 (1,744/3) (rüsûm, maktû‘) 673 (maktû‘) 444 (maktû‘) according to the register 444 (maktû‘) 550 (bedel-i ‘öşür, maktû‘) 500 (maktû‘) 500 (bedel-i ‘öşür, maktû‘) 550 (maktû‘) according to an imperial order 550 (bedel-i ‘öşür kesim) 500 (maktû‘) 800 (maktû‘, or kesim) according to the register

8,000 (mahsûl)

Table 1 shows that real tax payments, as recorded in the documents of the archives of the monastery, do not follow in all cases the sums fixed in the tahrîr registers. The real payments describe a more complicated situation, the result of a continuous bargaining process between monks, tax farmers and the Ottoman administration for a share from rural production.30 It seems that the monks took great pains to keep maktû‘ taxation at a low level, in order to protect their share. Sometimes, as in the case of the

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payments between 1512-14, it seems that they had succeeded in a recalculation of the increased maktû‘ according to the old custom. In the case of the payments between 1533-40, it was perhaps through an imperial order, as indicated in the document of 1535, that the monks succeeded in obtaining another recalculation of the maktû‘, despite the register of 1527. The last mention of a maktû‘ type payment of the Xeropotamou çiftlik in Ormylia is recorded in a document of 1570. The sum of the maktû‘, however, is not mentioned. From a document of 1593 we can conclude that the taxation on the Xeropotamou çiftlik had increased enormously, following, however, the sharp devaluation of the akçe 31. Another çiftlik of the Xeropotamou Monastery was located in the isthmus of Hierissos (Provlakas). It had been established in the tenth century, when, following an imperial order, 950 modioi of arable land were most probably sold to the monastery.32 According to a document of the eleventh century, the monastery had also a church in the same area, to the west of the village.33 In 1315/20 the Xeropotamou metochion in the isthmus of Hierissos controlled 2,251 modioi of arable land (ca. 3 km2) around a church and a tower.34 In 1569, according to the Xeropotamou Monastery’s vakıfname, its çiftlik’s buildings in Provlika consisted of a tower (burgaz), an oda, a house, a stable, a barn and two fountains. Its boundaries were the tower of the Lavra Monastery (Lavra burgazι), the village of Ereso (Hierissos), the village of Gomat (Gomatou) and the sea.35 As in the case of Ormylia, the Hierissos çiftlik in the sixteenth century most probably still controlled the same arable land as in the Byzantine period. In the sixteenth century, the Hierissos area was a mukâta‘a of the sultan’s revenues from the Sidirokafsia mines (ma‘den-i Sidrekapsı). Tax collection was farmed out, on a three-year basis, by the superintendent (emîn) of the mines to Muslim or Christian tax farmers (‘âmils). At the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Xeropotamou monks paid for their çiftlik in Hierissos a lump sum (maktû‘), as in Ormylia. However, the maktû‘ taxation in Hierissos had already been suppressed in the 1540s. Perhaps this was related to an investigation on the back taxes of Sidirokafsia by a special agent of the Sultan, silahdâr Mehmed Bey, in 1540-1.36 Table 2 shows below clearly that after the abolition of the maktû‘, the taxes paid by the Xeropotamou çiftlik increased, in any event, following the sharp devaluation of the akçe. Since there is no evidence on the productivity of either çiftlik at this period, we can not estimate the relation between production and taxation. Consequently, it is not possible to estimate the real share of the

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Xeropotamou monks from the çiftliks’ yield. In any case, it should be stressed that the monks used every opportunity of asking the Ottoman administration to protect such a share against the tax farmers. Table 2. Taxation on the Xeropotamou Çiftlik at the Isthmus of Hierissos Sums Fixed in the Tahrir Registers year 1519 1527

1568

tax 1,136 800 (bedel-i ‘öşür, maktû‘)

500 (bedel-i öşür)

Tax payments year 1525-27 1528-29 1531-33 1535 1569 1570-72 1584

tax 700 (maktû‘) according to the register 800 (maktû‘) 850 (bedel-i ‘öşür, maktû‘) 800 (bedel-i ‘öşür, maktû‘) 5,853 ( ‘aşâr ve rüsûm) 3,068 (for half year’s mahsûl) 7,000 (for half year’s mahsûlâtı maktû‘u)

The written receipts for tax payments were kept very carefully by the monks and were used against possible demands of the tax farmers. In 1524, for example, the ‘âmil Mustafa bin Bayramlu prosecuted the Xeropotamou monk Christophoros in the kâdî court of Sidrekapsı, accusing him of not having delivered the lump sum of 600 akçes for the monastery’s arable field (mezra‘a) in Ormylia. The monk defended himself by presenting an earlier hüccet of the kâdî, proving that he had made the payment. The charges were dropped.37 The monks protested to the kâdî’s court when the tax farmers tried to overtax their çiftliks. In 1551, the monks of Xeropotamou sued the mültezims Durak bin Ali and Mustafa bin ‘Abdulhayr at the court of Sidrekapsı. According to the monks, the tax farmers did not appear to collect the tithe of their fields in Hierissos at the proper time, according to the law of the sultan (kânûn), that is, when the grain was moved to the threshing-floor. They forced them instead to pay in cash, overestimating the yield of their fields. The kâdî warned the two tax farmers to collect the tithe on the prescribed days and not to ask for cash, without the consent of the monks (rızâları olmadan). A similar document from the Monastery of Aghiou Pavlou, which also had a çiftlik near Hierissos, leads us to the possible conclusion that the Athonite monks in the area had co-ordinated their protests.38

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The monks supported their protests against the tax farmers by asking for fetvâs as well. In two such documents, referring to the Xeropotamou çiftliks of Ormylia and Hierissos respectively, the müfti Ahmed was asked whether an ‘âmil had the right, according to Islamic law, to collect excessive taxation from a monastery’s vakf yeri and a mill which had already paid its harâç (poll-tax) and kesim instead of the tithe (established according to a sultanic order, hükm-i şâhî). The answer of the müfti was clearly negative. The same müfti Ahmed issued another fetvâ in the case of a non-Muslim (zimmî), most probably a tax farmer, who had put the monks in chains and had taken from them 700 akçes and a horse. The müfti’s statement was that, according to Islamic law, the monks should be given back their money and the horse.39 The monks also appealed directly to the central administration, asking for protection of their çiftliks against excess taxation. In 1566, the monks of Xeropotamou delivered a petition to the court of the Sultan (Bâb-ι Sa‘âdet), complaining that the revenue holder (sâhib-i arz) of Ormylia (Ahmed Pasha himself, although his name was not recorded in the petition) was violating the tahrîr register. The monks, together with their petition, also submitted a copy of the register.40 Whereas, according the register, they had to pay a lump sum of 1,000 akçes for their land in Ormylia, the sâhib-i arz was extracting from them 1,500 or 2,000 akçes. A fermân was issued on this case, ordering the kâdî of Sidrekapsı to enforce the regulation of the register.41 However, we do not know the result of this case. Had the voyvodas of Ahmed Pasha really contented themselves with the tax fixed in the register? Conclusion The Athonite monasteries under Ottoman administration in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries controlled important land resources (çiftliks), which, however, were subject to taxation. The Athonite monasteries, as zimmî institutions with a certain influence, exploited all the legitimate possibilities to secure their landed assets and their share in their production, negotiating for protection with the Ottoman administration. Thus, they were integrated to Ottoman society as active subjects, bargaining for better survival.

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Notes 1 J. C. Alexander (Alexandropoulos), ‘The Social and Economic Role of the Orthodox Christian Monasteries in the Ottoman Empire’, paper presented at the 7th Congress of Social and Economic History of Turkey, Heidelberg, 25-29 July, 1995; idem, ‘The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away: Athos and the Confiscation Affair of 1568-1569’ in Mount Athos in the 14th-16th Centuries, (Athens, 1997), 149-51. 2 S. Faroqhi, ‘Political Initiatives ‘from the Bottom up’ in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Ottoman Empire: Some Evidence for their Existence’ in: H. G. Majer (ed.), Osmanische Studien zur Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte in Memoriam Vanco Boskov, Wiesbaden, 1986, 24-33; eadem, ‘Political Activity among Ottoman Taxpayers and the Problem of Sultanic Legitimation (15701650)’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 34 (1992), 1-39; Linda T. Darling, Revenue-Raising and Legitimacy, Tax Collection and Finance Administration in the Ottoman Empire, 1560-1660, (Leiden, New York, Köln, 1996), 246-304. 3 For the conventional Greek historiography of the ‘Turkish yoke’ see K. Paparrigipoulos, Istoria tou Ellinikou Ethnous, vol. 5, part II, Athens, 61932; A. E. Vakalopoulos, Istoria tou Neou Ellinismou, vol. 2, Tourkokratia, 1453-1669, Thessalonica, 21976. 4 E. A. Zachariadou, ‘Some Remarks about Dedications to Monasteries in the late 14th century’ in: Mount Athos in the 14th-16th centuries, Athens, 1997, 27-28; eadem, ‘A Safe and Holy Mountain’: Early Ottoman Athos’, in: A. Bryer and M. Cunningham (eds), Mount Athos and Byzantine Monasticism (Aldershot, 1996), 127-32. 5 N. Oikonomides, ‘Monastères et moines lors de la conquête ottomane,’ SüdostForschungen 36 (1976), 1-10. 6 N. Oikonomides, ‘Le haradj dans l’empire byzantin du XVe siècle’ in: Actes du Premier Congres International d’ Etudes Balkaniques et Sud Est Européennes, Sofia, 1969, vol. III, 681-88; idem, ‘Ottoman Influence on Late Byzantine Fiscal Practice’ in: H. W. Lowry and R. S. Hattox (eds), Third Congress on the Social and Economic History of Turkey, Proceedings, Istanbul, Washington, Paris, 1990, 23759. 7 P. Schreiner, Die Byzantinischen Kleinchroniken, Vol. 1 (Wien, 1975), 473. 8 V. Demetriades, ‘Athonite Documents and the Ottoman Occupation’ in Mount Athos, 47, 56. 9 E. A. Zachariadou, ‘Ottoman Documents from the Archives of Dionysiou (Mount Athos) 1495-1520,’ Südost-Forschungen, 30 (1971), 23-7, commenting on Ioannes Anagnostes’s account. 10 Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi (hereafter: BOA), ΤΤ 70 (1519), p. 9; ΤΤ 403 (1527), p. 1043; ΤΤ 723 (copy of a register of 1568/69), p. 181; cf. H. W. Lowry, ‘A Note on the Population and Status of the Athonite Monasteries under Ottoman Rule (ca. 1520),’ Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 73 (1981), 114-35. See also an order issued by Bayezid II in 1499, concerning the bargaining with the Ottoman state on the amount of Mount Athos’ lump sum (maktû‘) taxation (called harâç in this document); the document is published by G. Salakides, Sultansurkunden des Athos-klosters Vatopedi aus der Zeit Bayezid II. und Selim I, Thessalonica, 1995, 69-70. For the maktû‘ see: H. İnalcık, ‘Military and Fiscal Transformation in the Ottoman Empire, 1600-1700’, Archivum Ottomanicum, 6 (1980), 333-4; Linda T. Darling, op. cit., 103-5. 11 I have prepared a full list of the Athonite properties and their taxation in the area between Thessalonica and Mount Athos, based on information mainly from

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BOA, TT 7 (1478), TT 70 (1519), TT 403 (1527), and TT 723 (copy of a register of 1568/69), in my Ph. D. Dissertation: E. Kolovos, Horikoi kai monahoi stin Othomaniki Halkidiki (15os-16os aiones); Opseis tis koinonikis kai oikonomikis zois kai i moni Xiropotamou, University of Thessalonica, 2000. 12 E. A. Zachariadou, ‘Ottoman Documents from the Archives of Dionysiou (Mount Athos) 1495-1520,’ op. cit., 7-10, 12-13, 27-32 (on Dionysiou); V. Demetriades, ‘Athonite Documents and the Ottoman Occupation’, op. cit., 49-50, 61, 64-6 (on Vatopedi and Lavra); also see below, for Xeropotamou. 13 V. Demetriades, ‘Athonite Documents and the Ottoman Occupation’, op. cit., 50, 67. A tecdîd berâtı of Selim I (1512) has been published by G. Salakides, op. cit., 74-7. I have also located two undated copies of a tecdîd berâtı of Selim II in the Xeropotamou Monastery. 14 For the ‘confiscation crisis’ see P. Lemerle and P. Wittek, ‘Recherches sur l’histoire et le statut des monastères athonites sous la domination turque’, Archives d’histoire du droit oriental 3 (1947/48) 411-72; A. Fotić, ‘The Official Explanations for the Confiscation and Sale of Monasteries (Churches) and their Estates at the Time of Selim II,’ Turcica 26 (1994) 33-54; J. C. Alexander, ‘The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away...’, op. cit.; E. Kermeli, ‘The Confiscation and Repossession of Monastic Properties in Mount Athos and Patmos Monasteries, 1568-1570,’ Bulgarian Historical Review, 28/3-4 (2000), 39-53. 15 J. C. Alexander, ‘The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away...’, op. cit., 162-69, 185-200 (fermân of 1569); see also the list of the monastic properties in TT 723, 1048-59 (Emlâk-i kenâis-i Ayanoroz ve gayrihu), passim: ‘Manastır-ı mezbûrde sâkin olan ruhbânlar zira‘ât etdikleri tarlaları ve çayırları ve kışlak ve yaylakları mürd olduklarında yine yerinde kalanlar tasarruf edüp ‘öşür ve salâriyelerin verdiklerinden sonra tarlalarına ve gayrına kimesne dahl etmeye ve tapu taleb etmeye’. 16 J. C. Alexander, ‘The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away...’, op. cit., 169-73. Being a Muslim was not required for the establishment of a vakf. See The Encyclopaedia of Islam (new edition), art. ‘Wakf’, I (R. Peters), and IV (R. Deguilhem). 17 Çiftlik: A derivative of çift (the fiscal unit of plough-team arable land equivalency assigned to an individual or a household) meaning the total agricultural holding, not necessary equivalent to a yoke-land unit. See J. C. Alexander, Toward a History of Post-Byzantine Greece: The Ottoman Kanunnames for the Greek Lands, circa 1500-circa 1600, Athens, 1985, 392. G. Veinstein, ‘On the Çiftlik Debate’ in: Ç. Keyder and F. Tabak (eds.), Landholding and Commercial Agriculture in the Middle East (New York, 1991), 35-53. It criticizes the older theories on the çiftliks in the light of recent research. 18 I have prepared a detailed catalogue of the Ottoman documents from the archive of Xeropotamou in my Ph. D. Diss., see above, fn. 11. 19 J. Bompaire (ed.), Actes de Xéropotamou, Archives de l’Athos III (Paris, 1964), doc. 9 (c. 1270-4). 20 Actes de Xéropotamou, doc. 11 (c. 1289-93). 21 Actes de Xéropotamou, docs. 18D (ca. 1315/20) I, ll. 22-25, and 26 (1349). For the tower see N. Oikonomidès, Actes de Docheiariou, Archives de l’Athos XIII, Paris, 1984, doc. 54 (1414), l. 3-4. 22 Actes de Xéropotamou, doc. 29 (1407). 23 TT 723, 1054. 24 Xeropotamou monastery (hereafter X. M. ), vakfnâme, evâhir-i Ramazan 976 (918 March 1569). 25 X. M., Hüccet, 28 Zilkade 972 (27 June 1565).

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On Şihabeddîn Pasha, the vezîr of Murad II and Mehmed II, see H. İnalcık, Fatih devri üzerinde tetkikler ve vesikalar, I, (Istanbul, 1954), 84-7; E. A. Zachariadou, ‘The Worrisome Wealth of the Čelnik Radić’ in: C. Heywood and C. Imber (eds.), Studies in Ottoman History in Honour of Professor V. L. Ménage, (Istanbul, 1994), 38397; idem., ‘Another Document of Shehab al-Din Pasha Concerning Mount Athos (1455)’ in B. Kellner-Heinkele and P. Zeime (eds.), Studia Ottomanica, Festgabe für György Hazai zum 65 (Geburtstag, Wiebaden, 1997), 217-22. Şihabeddîn Pasha was holding the sancak of Thessalonica in the 1450s. Thessalonica in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was given as a pension (ber vech-i tekaüd) to important Ottoman officials. M. T. Gökbilgin, ‘Kanunî Sultan Süleyman Devri Başlarında Rumeli Eyaleti, Livaları, Şehir ve Kasabaları’, Belleten, 20/78 (1956), 253. 27 X. M., Order of Hasan Ağa, evâil-i Şevvâl 869 (27 May - 5 June 1465). 28 TT 7, p. 585. 29 I identify Ahmed Pasha with Semüz Ahmed Pasha, beğlerbeği of Anadolu (1563-64), then of Rumili, and later vezîr and sadr‘âzam (1579-80). Mehmed Süreyya, Sicill-i ‘Osmânî, İstanbul 1308-1315 (1890-97), I, 202. 30 Cf. A. Singer, Palestinian Peasants and Ottoman Officials; Rural Administration Around Sixteenth-Century Jerusalem (Cambridge, 1994), 64-88. 31 See Ş. Pamuk, A Monetary History of the Ottoman Empire (Cambridge, 2000), 636 and Tables 4.1, and 4.2. 32 Actes de Xéropotamou, doc. 1 (956). 33 Actes de Xéropotamou, doc. 5 (1032). 34 Actes de Xéropotamou, doc. 18D (c. 1315/20) I, ll. 6-13. 35 X. M., vakfnâme, evâhir-i Ramazan 976 (9-18 March 1569). 36 X. M., hüccet, evâsıd-ı Şevval 946 (19-28 February 1540). Cf. D. S. Goffman, ‘The Maktu‘ System and the Jewish Community of Sixteenth-Century Safed: A Study of Two Documents from the Ottoman Archives’, Osmanlı Araştırmaları, 3 (1982), 81-90. 37 X. M., hüccet, evâsıd-ı Safer 931 (8-17 December 1524). 38 X. M., hüccet, 22 Şevvâl 958 (23 October 1551). For the Aghiou Pavlou Monastery’s complaints see P. Kotzageorgis, I Athoniki moni Agiou Pavlou kata tin othomaniki periodo, Thessalonica, 2002, 146. 39 X. M., fetvâs signed by Ahmed. 40 X. M., sûret-i defter-i hakânî, evâil-i Şabân 973 (21 February - 2 March 1566). 41 X. M., fermân of Süleymân, evâsıd-ı Şabân 973 (3-12 March 1566).

Construction of Churches in Ottoman Provinces Muammer Demirel

In this study, we evaluate the construction of non-Muslim churches in the Ottoman lands and general improvements during Mahmud II’s reign and the Tanzimat period. Because of broadness of the subject, in this paper we will mainly focus on the construction of Armenian churches up to about 1860. When Turks came to Anatolia, political, economical, cultural and spiritual life had collapsed. The communities or followers of the churches and monasteries decreased, so that their income was also less and, for this reason some bishopric and metropolitan centres were closed while they survived through the charity of other districts.1 Internal positions of the Christians were also the same during the Ottoman reign. The policy of the Ottoman administrators in any case was not to oppose their community regulations, but allow them to regulate their own affairs in both religious and worldly matters. In fact, the Ottoman administrators were tolerant towards the Catholic missionaries who were sent to the eastern Christians from the sixteenth century onwards.2 The Ottoman state was ruled according to Islamic codes and behaved just as the Prophet Muhammed and the four caliphs had behaved towards non-Muslims as regards their worship, temple and appointment of religious leaders or clergy. Those new measures which the Ottoman government implemented were generally in favour of the non-Muslims.3 Within the boundaries of the Ottoman Empire, freedom of movement and dwelling for non-Muslims were nearly same as for Muslim population. The Muslim holy places especially the towns of Mecca and Medina, mosques and holy tombs were restricted for non-Muslims. This rule came from Islamic code, and was precisely applied by Ottomans. On the other hand, non-Muslims’ holy places like churches, monasteries and especially holy places in Jerusalem were also restricted for Muslims. As could be noticed, practices of the Ottoman state with regards to both communities, Muslim and non-Muslim were based on the principle of reciprocity. In fact, there is no pronouncement or prohibition in the Islamic law (shariah) for

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the Muslims to enter non-Muslim holy places. The possible explanation for this application could be that the Ottoman state was respectful of the faith of its non-Muslim subjects. Not only were Muslim people prohibited to enter to the temples of non-Muslims but also Ottoman officials were prohibited to enter such places. The reason for the prohibition was to prevent disruption of non-Muslims during prayer. In general, officials, like the mir-i miran, mirliva, subaşı, iş erleri, were unequivocally forbidden from going into the non-Muslim holy places by Yavuz Sultan Selim with a firman dated 9 November 1517. Kanuni Sultan Süleyman, (the Magnificent) also approved this prohibition with a firman on 27 February 1521.4 Non-Muslim citizens had full rights of worship in their churches and synagogues in the Ottoman territories with one exception, the ringing of the bell. Additionally, every security measure was taken by the authorities to let them worship and undertake religious ceremonies freely. The state had given full authority to their religious leaders to perform all religious ceremonies freely which amounted to a kind of religious autonomy in the state.5 Nevertheless generally speaking the construction of new temples by the non-Muslim subjects was not been allowed in the Ottoman state, as was the tradition of former Islamic states. This custom was due to the opinion of Islamic jurists that forbade building new churches and synagogues. According to the Islamic jurists new churches and synagogues could not be built on Islamic soil, but old churches and synagogues could be renovated. In this subject, there are four entries in the first Ankara şer’iye sicilli which concern the repair of Surp Nişan Armenian Church in the Mihriyar quarter of the city.6 This viewpoint of the Islamic jurists was not based on any of the principal sources of Islamic law which are the Koran, Hadis, Icma and Kiyas. In the Koran, the relevant verses about mosques ordered protection places of worship. For example, verses 114 and 115 of the chapter Bakara in the Koran states that: 114. And who is more unjust than he who forbids that in places for the worship of Allah, His name should be celebrated?whose zeal is (in fact) to ruin them? It was not fitting that such should themselves enter them except in fear. For them there is nothing but disgrace in this world, and in the world to come, and exceeding torment. 115. To Allah belong the East and the West: whithersoever ye turn, there is Allah’s face. For Allah is All-Embracing, AllKnowing.7

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According to the opinion of most commentators of the Koran, the reason for these verses was related to the destruction of Masjid-i Aqsa which had been demolished by Greeks and Christians.8 In the 40th verse of the chapter Haj, concerning temples the Koran states that: (They are) those who have been expelled from their homes in defiance of right, (for no cause) except that they say, ‘Our Lord is Allah’. Did not Allah check one set of people by means of another, there would surely have been pulled down monasteries, churches, synagogues, and mosques, in which the name of Allah is commemorated in abundant measure. Allah will certainly aid those who aid his (cause); for verily Allah is full of Strength, Exalted in Might, (able to enforce His Will).9 In this verse, the names of non-Muslim temples were clearly stated and, their protection was recommended. While building of new non-Moslem temple has not been mentioned, there is no restriction for that either. Besides, there were some special exceptions. The Ottoman government allowed non-Muslims to build churches and synagogues despite the general prohibition.10 That is, permission for the construction of those buildings was given according to the needs of non-Muslims. For instance, the Jews from Spain and Portugal coming to settle permanently in Salonica had different religious beliefs or sects. According to writings of Tahrir Defteri of Salonica Livasi dated 1022 A.H. (1613 A.D.), twenty seven Jewish sects were recorded as Cemaat-i Arogan, Cemaat-i Ispanya, Cemaat-i Kastilya, and Cemaat-i Katalan, etc. Every community built its own synagogue. When Salonica was conquered, there were only a few synagogues, but by the beginning of the seventeenth century, the number of synagogues had increased to about thirty. Another example was Safed in Palestine. Although there were only three synagogues in the city, at the time of the Ottoman conquest their number had increased to thirty two by the seventeenth century.11 Certainly, similar conditions applied for the Christians, too. After the conquest of Istanbul, the Surp Kevork Church (Sulu Monastery) in Samatya, the Surp Asdvadzadzin Church in Kumkapi, and the Surp Hresdaga Church in Balat which belonged to the Greeks had been given to the Armenians that were brought and settled in Istanbul, and then the Surp Kevork Church has been appropriated as the Armenian Patriarchate. In 1461, Sultan Mehmed II brought Bishop Ovakim from Bursa and declared him as the first Armenian Patriarch in that church. Afterwards this church had been repaired and expanded twice. The first repair was made by Sultan Bayezid II

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with a firman dated 1485, and the second was made by Ahmed III with a firman decreed in 1722.12 Then the Armenian Patriarchate was transferred to the Surp Asdvadzadzin Church in Kumkapi in 1641. After that this church was destroyed by fire or earthquake and was rebuilt in different times with different plans. In the early nineteenth century, according to Cevdet Pasha, the church was described as a huge building. The Kumkapi Armenian Patriarchate was burnt in the famous Istanbul fire that took place on 2 September 1818 (11 Şevval 1235),13 and the church was renovated in 1820.14 Mahmud II made the first attempt to introduce an equal status in social life between the non-Muslim and Muslim communities. For example, Mahmud II gave an indication of his views on the equality of Muslim and non-Muslims and an end to the millet-i hakime (dominant nation) status in the following statement attributed to him: Henceforth, I will recognize to Moslems in mosque, to Christians in church and to Jewish in synagogue. I wish every person to benefit from the same political rights and my protection (himaye-i pederanem) out side their temples. Apart from worship and temples, Mahmud II allowed the nonMuslim to wear the same clothes as Muslim’s and non-Muslim women to wear the same clogs as Muslim women in the baths, and he started to change discriminations against non-Muslims in the Ottoman state.15 Before the Tanzimat, Mahmud II had established the idea of Osmanlılık (Ottoman unity) to make strong friendship between Muslim and non-Muslim communities, and he made considerable progress in changing the comprehension of religion in the Ottoman state. With this application, Mahmud II had been aiming to prevent the rapid disintegration and to end the opposition among the Ottoman minority communities as well as to reinstate close friendship between all levels of society. A writer explained this situation after touring European Turkey in the time of Mahmud II: I had witnessed putting on kavuk (Ottoman cap) on Greek’s head when I was travelling to European Turkey. This may perhaps appear meaningless, but it is not. The distinctive difference between Turkish and Christian is in dress, name and manner of greeting. The dress is important mostly. In this time (1832) unless there is law to dress, it is certain that this differences will be over. I am sure that two nations will join with each other in this position if this joining together is not effect by a foreign force. Some persons that I talked with them

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had been telling this joining together. I have remembered to saying of a Christian monastic that if this Sadrazam (Prime Minister) continues ten years more, you are sure that Turkish will make the feast with us and we also will make the bayram (Islamic holy day). In the same period I had been meeting to senior persons had had the firmans (imperial edict) of permission of construction of the church. As known the cause of developing a grudge of Greek against Turkish is the forbidding of construction of the church of Turkish. As for in these days not only it has been tolerated the prohibitions, Sadrazam but also in personally has been helping by giving of aiding of 80,000 kuruş (Turkish pound)… A church was finished in 1831 that was built very pretty style. In this time, Turkish had been saying to the Christians citizens as following: “you built the church, if only you would have added four minares…16 As seen, Mahmud II was the first padişah who brought into novelty on construction of church and gave even monetary aid for the building of new churches in Ottoman history. Mahmud II had recognized the Catholic Armenian church as a different religious community on 6 January 1830, and let them set up their Armenian Catholic Patriarchate. During this time, the Catholic Armenians had taken permission to build new churches in some part of Istanbul and the constructions were completed. One of these churches was Galata Catholic Armenian Church that obtained permission in 1830 for construction and was completed in 1834.17 After that, the construction of four different churches were also completed in various locations of Istanbul like in Ortaköy, Büyükdere, Taksim and Beyoğlu (Sakız Ağacı) in 1839, 1847, 1860 and 1866 respectively.18 Table 1. Churches Newly Constructed and Repaired (in Istanbul) Church Kumkapi Armenian Patriarchate Galata Catholic Armenian Church Ortaköy Church Büyükdere Church Bulgarian Priest House Beyoğlu Anglican Church Taksim Church Beyoğlu (Sakız Ağacı) Church

Place Istanbul ” ” ” ” ” ” ”

Year 1820 1834 1839 1847 1849 1858 1860 1866

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After starting the new church construction during Mahmud II’s reign, it continued during the period of the Tanzimat, too. For example, the permission for building a new Protestant church for English and German subjects living in Jerusalem had been taken by the attempts of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe (Canning), the British ambassador in Istanbul.19 In 1843, the construction of a new Armenian church was completed in Erzurum. Then the third Armenian church was added to the two Armenian churches that had already been in use in the city. This church was bigger and prettier than that of the previous churches. Its bell tower was even made from carved stone.20 The Bulgarians also wanted to benefit from the empire-wide tolerance for the construction of new churches with the intention of reducing the influence of the Fener Greek Patriarchate. As the first step to establish the Bulgarian National Church, the Bulgarian Priest House was built in Fener by the permission of the Bâbıâli (Sublime Porte) in 1849.21 The concept of solidarity and unity for the collective motherland idea had been started by Mahmud II and continued with intensified emphasis by the Tanzimat authorities. In this period, the number of churches was increased, and so many permissions for orphanages and schools were given to the non-Muslim subjects.22 In this period, the equality reforms had been progressed further by the Islahat Ferman (reform firman). The construction of non-Muslim temples which was provided for by special firmans partially affected the solidarity in the periods of Mahmud II and the Tanzimat. The Islahat Ferman had increased general freedom in the state. But the expectations for unity were not fully achieved. Unfortunately, as Urquhart related, foreign interference had always become effective on the non-Muslim subjects of the Ottomans. Meanwhile, the effect of national movements in the nineteenth century must not be forgotten. In the Islahat Ferman, repairing of temples, hospitals, schools and cemeteries of non-Muslim had been allowed while new construction of these things was possible by the permission of the sultan.23 In the firman, in spite of the general freedom for the renovation of churches, schools and so on, according to the Ottoman archival documents, all repair activities were made by the permission of the government.24 The non-Muslim subjects were encouraged by the rights provided in the firman and started rapidly to construct new churches. After the declaration of the Islahat Ferman, as the Ottoman archive documents indicated the non-Muslim subjects started to campaign to take advantage of the situation and sought permission for the construction of new churches and renovation of old churches. The

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ruined churches were rebuilt, and in some places where there had not been any church formerly or not enough, new churches were built. As made clear in the firman, the application of permission for churches, with some exceptions, had been made by the Patriarchate. About the constructions, the Ottoman government had applied the same procedure both for the repair and new construction of churches. The only consideration to gain permission for temples was its necessity for the community. Table 2. Churches Newly Constructed after 1858 (in the Region) Church Armenian Church Latin Church Satariye Church (Akçaabat) Arğaliye Church (Akçaabat) Kirobi Church (Vakfisağır) Anifa Church (Vakfisağır) Arfan Church Yenice Church Şepeşpik Church (Çarşancak) Çukurdere Church Çömlekçi Church Adapazarı Church Timurtaş Church Samarokos Church (Vakfısağır) Kumyalı Church Protestant Church Akşehir Church Tifanc Church Zitahuh Church Devrek Church Antep Church Kilis Church Sovuhçermik Church

Length (m)

Width (m)

Height (m)

Square (m2)

1857

38

22

16

836

Trabzon

1857

34

19

15

646

Trabzon

1857

34

19

19

646

Trabzon

1857

38

22

19

836

Erzincan Harput (Elazığ) Harput (Elazığ) Malatya Çorum Adapazarı Edirne

1858

24

13

14

312

1858

15

14

9

210

1858

15

11

10

165

1858 1858 1858 1858

30 19 49 22

19 11 19 11

13 9 9 10

570 209 931 242

Trabzon

1858

22

15

11

330

Giresun Maraş Konya Erzurum Erzurum Bolu Antep Kilis Erzurum

1858 1858 1859 1859 1859 1859 1860 1860 1860

22 22 28 19 30

12 26 22 11 19

9 11 15 9 11

264 572 616 209 570

19

13

9

247

Place

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Erzurum Erzurum

1843 1856

Trabzon

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Frontiers of Ottoman Studies Table 3. Churches Repaired after 1856 Churce Zimar Church Pazarpon Church Hazarı Church Sakaret Church Hekimhan Church Zan Church Various Churches Pazarköy Church Various Churches Meryemana (Virgin Mary) Church

Place Divriği, Sivas Çemişgezek, Harput Çemişgezek, Harput Palu, Harput Harput Erzincan Trabzon İzmit Halep Mancusun, Kayseri

Year 1858 1858 1858 1858 1858 1858 1858 1858 1858 1860

In 1857, permissions for the construction of Armenian churches were given for four different places in Trabzon province by the same irâde (imperial edict). The written permission for the construction of four churches was sealed by the stamp of Armenian Patriarchate which read Millet-i Meclis-i Ermeniyan and in another stamp the phrase ‘Haza Bende Agob Bokos Patrik-i Ermeniyan Istanbul ve Tavabiha’ was inscribed. 25 One of the permissions was for a church in the Koz quarter of Satari26 village of Akchaabat kaza of Trabzon province. Because there was no church in Koz quarter for the Armenian people to worship. The permission was given to build a new church. In Trabzon province, a second church was built in Kirobi village of Vakfısağir kaza where the church had been ruined. The third church was in Arğaliye village of Akchaabat kaza where the existing church was ruined. A fourth was built in Anifa27 village of Vakfısağir. There was no church in Anifa at that time, and this church was built in the Armenian graveyard.28 In Harput and Erzincan, the construction of two churches had been authorized by an irâde issued on 28 March 1858.29 In Yenice village in the vicinity of Harput permission was given to build a church for the Armenians who did not have a church. For Yenice church, two times permission had been asked, and the permission was granted by two different irâdes, on 24 December 185730, and on 28 March 1858. On 28 July 1858, a lot of permissions were given by an irâde for the new construction or restoration of old churches and building of schools in various provinces of the empire such as Sivas, Harput, Erzurum, Halep, Trabzon, Ankara, Adapazarı and Edirne. Permission for repair a number of ruined churches was also granted in various locations of empire like in Zimar village of Divriği kaza in Sivas province, in Pazarpon and Hazarı villages of Chemishgezek kaza, in Sakaret village of Palu kaza and in Hekimhan kaza in Harput

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province, in Zan village of Erzincan in Erzurum province, in Gürlezemi village of Pazarköy of Izmit, in Halep province and in various parts of Trabzon province.31 In spite of the Islahat Ferman which given general authorisation for the repair of churches, permissions were still granted with a written document by the government. With this irâde the building of new churches were also permitted in various provinces of empire. For example, there was no church for Armenians in the locations like Shepeshpik village in Malatya, Harput, Amasya, Timurtash in Edirne, Samarokos village of Vakfısağir in Trabzon province. The building of an Armenian school was also permitted by the same irâde in Ichme village of Harput province.32 The building of new churches had been permitted in various places, some of which had no church and some of which had been ruined. One of these was Shepeshpik village of Charshancak kaza in Harput where there was no church to worship for Armenian subjects. There was no church for the Armenian people in the Chukurdere quarter of Malatya of Harput province, and permission was given for the building of a new church. There was no church for the Armenian people in the Chömlekchi quarter of Chorum kaza of Amasya sancak and the permission was given for the building of a new church. In Adapazarı kaza of Kocaeli sancak, the Armenians had a church, and it was not enough for the community so construction of new church was permitted. In Timurtash village of Edirne province building a new church was permitted for Armenian people who did not have a church. In Saraylar quarter of Samarokos village of Vakfısağır kaza of Trabzon province, permission for building of a new church was given in the Armenian cemetery for Armenian people that did not have a church. The number of permissions given by this irâde were nineteen, some of them were for the restoration of churches and some were for new church buildings while one of them was for the building of an Armenian school. In Giresun city, building of a new church has been permitted by an irâde dated 10 March 1858 to the Armenian people who did not have a church in which to worship. At first, the Armenian people wanted to worship inside the Armenian school and a permission was given to worship inside a room of the Armenian school. But later this room became insufficient for their ceremony. Therefore the Armenian community wanted to build a new church on a vacant space near to the Armenian school in Giresun. Then the Armenian community got a license from the Ottoman government to build a new church.33

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The Armenian people did not have a church for worship in Akshehir kaza of Konya province. On 19 April 1859, the permission for the construction of a new church was granted by an irâde of the sultan, and the church was built in Seydi quarter of Akshehir.34 In Tifanc35 and Zitahuh36 villages of Erzurum the Armenian people had churches but they were ruined. Restoration of these churches had been permitted on 8 September 1859.37 On 27 February 1860, the construction of two new churches had been permitted by an irâde of the sultan for the Armenians in Sovuhchermik38 village in Erzurum and in Mancusu39 village in Kayseri.40 In Sovuhchermik village, there was no church for Armenians to worship so the permission was given to build a new church. In Mancusu village, the Meryemana (the Virgin Mary) church had been ruined, and the permission for building of a new church instead of restoration was asked by Armenian Patriarch. But, only the repair license for the Meryemana church was issued by the government. The construction of new church in place of the previously ruined church was permitted by the government in 1859 for Armenians in Devrek village of Bolu. Before starting the construction which was in preparation stage, some Muslims applied to Müfti for cancellation of the permission, and also some Muslims raided the church and the Armenian school, and they blocked the construction. Armenians applied to the local government to have security, and the construction continued. For this matter, a direction had been sent to Bolu Mutasarrıflığı (sub-governorship) by the Sublime Porte on 24 August 1859.41 With the declaration of Islahat Ferman the construction of churches had been promoted, nevertheless the differences between the big and small sects (madhab) of the Christians were causing some problems among the Christian community itself, and the sectarian problems had also been resolved. For example, the small Christian sects had not been paid much attention by the Ottoman government, and it became a big controversy among themselves. Henceforth, every Christian sect was taken into account and treated equally by the Ottoman state.42 This status had a great service to the Protestant sects that had been protected by British government. By this section of Islahat Ferman the equality of among the Christian sects had been guaranteed, the conversion rights between the sects for Christians had been also allowed, and forcing converted Christians to return to their previous sects was forbidden. This section was one of the successes of the British government which had facilitated the business of British missionaries who had been working to spread their belief throughout the Ottoman territories. So the Protestants who had been expelled from their church and had a

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difficulty to conduct their religious ceremony got permission to build their own churches freely. After that, the foundations of an Anglican church was laid on the land given by the sultan to the memory of soldiers who died in the Crimean War by the attempts of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe on 19 October 1858.43 The British government sent an appreciation letter to the sultan for allocating the land for the church on 26 June 1858.44 In Marash, the Armenians who changed their sect to Protestant had been given permission to build the their own church by the irâde of sultan on 22 November 1858.45 The number of Armenian who had changed their own sect to Protestant was increasing day by day. According to their own declaration, at that time the number of Protestant Armenians in Marash had reached 300-500 people. The measurements of this church were 22 meters in length, 26 meters in width and 11 meters in height. Approximately, the size of this church was 572 square meters. 46 In this region, other than Marash, three more churches had been built without any obstruction or opposition in Antep, Kesab and Kilis. On 4 August 1860, Skene the British consul in Aleppo reported that the Christians of this region were not permitted by the Muslims who reacted verbally to the construction of these churches and to the religious ceremonies of the Christians.47 Not only did the Christian subjects of the Ottoman state construct their own churches, but the Christian missionaries who were loyal to France and Great Britain also constructed some churches in the Ottoman Empire with the supports or aid of these states. The target people for these missionaries were the Armenian community in Anatolia. As mentioned above, the Protestant church of Marash had been constructed by the patronage of the British while the Latin church was constructed by the protection of France on the other side of the country, at Erzurum. The construction of a new church under the control of Latin priests had been permitted in Erzurum by the irâde of sultan dated 12 December 1856.48 Later on, a priest cabin and a classroom for the education of pupils had been added to this church again by the permission of irâde of sultan on 7 July 1857.49 Despite the religious freedoms in the Ottoman state, there were some prohibitions on the religious ceremonies. The most important of these restrictions was the prohibition of ringing the bell. Additionally, praying outside of church or synagogue was also prohibited.50 In the Islahat Ferman, however some progress was also made on this subject. If the other non-Muslim communities did not object, they could also have the right to worship publicly sing their hymns loudly.51 The ringing of wooden bells had also been permitted in the

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churches.52 However, ringing the bell had been protested by the Muslim communities in some localities.53 Conclusions In the classical age, in general, the Ottoman state had forbidden construction of new churches in line with the application of former Islamic states. However, the Ottoman state had not maintained this prohibition strictly and gave some permissions for the construction of non-Muslim temples. The Jewish synagogues in Salonica were the temples founded in the classical age of the Ottoman Empire. In practice, the general prohibition had been loosened to some extent by Mahmud II. As mentioned in the Koran all temples are Allah’s house, and they are thus all protected. As could be understood from this verse, there is no explicit prohibition in the Islamic fundamental law on this subject. Mahmud II benefited from the position of ambiguous prohibitions in Islamic law and tolerated the construction of non-Muslim temples. With the announcing of the Tanzimat firman, the liberties had been broadened but on this issue, the main progress was made by Islahat Ferman. After the Islahat Ferman, Armenians, Greeks, Protestants, Catholics and other non-Muslims communities had started to construct temples at a rapid pace due to the needs that had accumulated over years. Countless permissions for the construction of churches had been granted and the churches were completed. The completion of these churches could be verified by the reports of the British consulates, various memoirs and the ruins of these churches in Anatolia. For example, in Erzurum district, these churches and their ruins are being seen even now. The destruction activities on these churches have also been verified by the people who lived in those districts. Every matter for the churches had been registered to the church notebooks since 1869, and the number of these notebooks totals ten.54

Notes 1

Yavuz Ercan, Osmanlı Yönetiminde Gayrimüslimler: Kuruluştan Tanzimat’a Kadar Sosyal, Ekonomik ve Hukuki Durumları (Ankara, 2001), 131. 2 J.H.Kramers, ‘Nasara’, Milli Eğitim Bakanlığı İslâm Ansiklopedisi (İ.A.), Vol. 9, 82. 3 Ercan, Osmanlı Yönetiminde, 229. 4 Yavuz Ercan, Kudüs Ermeni Patrikhanesi (Ankara, 1988), 15; Osmanlı Yönetiminde, 173-4. 5 Ercan, Osmanlı Yönetiminde, 239-241.

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6 Yavuz Ercan, ‘Türkiye’de XV. ve XVI. yüzyıllarda Gayrimüslimlerin Hukuki, İçtimai ve İktisadi Durumu’, Belleten, XLVII, 188, (Ekim 1983), 1123. 7 Elmalılı M.Hamdi Yazır, Hak Dini Kur’an Dili, Vol. I (Istanbul, 1992), 390. 8 Ibid. 391. 9 Ibid. 491. 10 Osman Nuri (Ergin), Mecelle-i Umur-ı Belediye, Vol. I (Istanbul, 1922), 217. 11 Ahmet Hikmet Eroğlu, Osmanlı Devletinde Yahudiler (XIX. Yüzyılın Sonuna Kadar) (Ankara, 2000), 20. 12 Y.G.Çark, Türk Devleti Hizmetinde Ermeniler (1453-1953) (Istanbul, 1953), 8-9. 13 Ahmed Cevdet Paşa, Tarih-i Cevdet, Vol. XI, Dersaadet, 1301, 50. 14 Cevdet Paşa, Tarih-i Cevdet, Vol. XI, 79. 15 Ziyaeddin Fahri Fındıkoğlu, ‘Tanzımatta İctimaî Hayat’, Tanzimat-ı (Ankara, 1940), Milli Eğitim Bakanlığı Yayınları, 629-30. 16 David Urquhart, Turkey and its resources (London, 1833), 34. 17 Ahmed Lütfi Efendi, Vak’anüvis Ahmed Lütfi Efendi Tarihi, Vol. 2-3 (Istanbul, 1999), 456; Çark, Türk devleti, 87. 18 Çark, Türk devleti, 87. 19 Stanley Lane Poole, Lord Stratford Canning’in Türkiye Anıları, Trans. by Can Yücel, (Ankara, 1988), 88. 20 Robert Curzon, Armenia: A Year at Erzeroum on the Frontiers of Russia, Turkey and Persia (London, 1853), 40. 21 Mahir Aydın, Şarkî Rumeli Vilâyeti (Ankara, 1992), 5. 22 İlber Ortaylı, “Tanzimat Döneminde Tanassur ve Din Değiştirme Olayları”, Tanzimat’ın 150. Yıldönümü Uluslararası Sempozyumu (Ankara 31 Ekim-3 Kasım 1989), (Ankara 1994), 481. 23 “Islâhât Fermân-i Âlisi”, Dustûr, Cild-i Evvel (Matbaa-i Âmire, 1289), 7-14; Enver Ziya Karal, Osmanlı Tarihi, Vol. V (Ankara, 1983), 260. 24 There are numbers of documents concerning this subject, e.g: BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.7964, 21 Aralık 1857 (3 Cemâziyelevvel 1274); BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8137, 27 Mart 1858 (11 Şaban 1274); BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8244, 25 Mayıs 1858 (12 Şevval 1274). 25 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.7950, 26 Rebiyülâhir 1274 (14 December 1857). 26 The name of Satariye is now Kaleönü village. 27 The present name of Anifa is Akoluk in Çağlayan. Bilge Umar, Türkiye’deki Tahrihsel Adlar (İstanbul, 1993), 73. 28 BOA,İrâde Hariciye, No.7950 29 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8137, 28 March 1858 (12 Şaban 1274). 30 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8076. 31 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8373, 28 July 1858 (16 Zilhicce 1274). 32 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8373. 33 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.7881, 10 March 1858 (24 Receb 1274). 34 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8935, 19 April 1859 (16 Ramazan 1275). 35 Called Tufanç by people, new name of this village is Güzelova. 36 Called Sitahuh by people, new name of this village is Yolgeçti. 37 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.9232, 8 September 1859 (10 Safer 1276). 38 Called Soğuk-çermik by people, new name of this village is Soğucak. 39 New name of this village is Güneşli (Suny). 40 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.9513, 27 February 1860 (5 Şaban 1276). 41 Osmanlı Belgelerinde Ermeniler, Vol. I (1691-1870), (İstanbul, 1987), No.146, 31214. 42 Dustur, Birinci Tertib, Vol. I, 10. 43 Poole, Lord Stratford Canning’in, 172. 44 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8332, 9 July 1858 (27 Zilkade 1274).

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BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8662, 22 November 1858 (15 Rebiülevvel 1275). BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.8662. 47 Bilal Şimşir, British Documents on Ottoman Armenians, V.I, (Ankara, 1989), 27. 48 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No.7175. 49 BOA, İrâde Hariciye, No7600. 50 Ercan, 241. 51 Dustûr, Vol. I, 7-14. 52 BOA,AMD, No.78/35. 53 BOA,MKT.MVL, No.113/42. 54 BOA, Kilise Defterleri, No.1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and the numbers 8,9 and 10 of these notebooks were registered in the name of Kamame. 46

Accidents, Sabotage, and Terrorism: Work Hazards on Ottoman Railways Peter Mentzel

The steam railways of the nineteenth and early twentieth century were inherently dangerous places to work. Work around heavy pieces of iron and steel machinery which were frequently in motion led to numerous accidents, injuries, and even fatalities among railway workers. On the other hand, important safety devices such as the famous Westinghouse air brake, were only introduced gradually during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. While encouraging their employees to be careful, and enjoining on them various safety related practices (such as sobriety), railway companies during the nineteenth century were generally slow in implementing devices or policies that would contribute to a safer working environment. Workers on Ottoman railways during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries laboured under similar circumstances. But in addition to the normal dangers associated with the operation of steam railways, Ottoman workers had to contend with threats, such as sabotage and acts of terrorism, seldom encountered by workers on other European railway systems. Based on reports in railway company and government archives, as well as in the Ottoman press, it seems that attacks on the railways were at least as great a problem as accidents and mechanical failures. As was the case on other European and North American railways, both workers and management were clearly interested in running safe railroads but each side had differing ideas as to how that goal was best reached. Similarly, when accidents or attacks did occur, the reactions of the Ottoman railway companies were mixed. While the companies had medical insurance accounts for their salaried workers, they were apparently sometimes willing to provide additional support for injured workers or their families. On the other hand, they seemed extremely reluctant to offer similar sorts of support in the event that the workers were injured in an attack on a train or as a result of deliberate sabotage. To put it another way, while the railway companies actually had in place fairly sophisticated systems of compensation for workers injured in the course of their jobs, they

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seem to have considered injuries resulting from terrorism or sabotage as different from other sorts of hazards. A by-product of the dangers of railway work was a strong sense of solidarity among railway workers that seems to have transcended national or ethnic divisions. Railway workers of different backgrounds were generally able to cooperate in efforts to force the railway companies to adopt policies that would make railway work more secure. Ottoman Railways: An Overview While this is not the place to present a detailed history of railways in the Ottoman Empire, a few observations may be worthwhile. Perhaps of greatest importance to this present study is the fact that almost all of the railways in the Empire were built and operated as foreign enterprises with the active support of the Imperial Ottoman Government. That is, the railways were not simply expressions of European (or North American) imperial policy introduced in the teeth of local opposition, as was the case with many railway projects in Asia, Africa, and South America. While the railways frequently did act as tools in European imperial strategies for the Ottoman Empire in particular, or the Near East in general, the Ottoman state, and indeed Ottoman society in general, were supporters of the railways and fostered their construction. By 1914 there were (depending on how one counts) eight railroad companies operating 8,334 km of track on Ottoman soil.1 All but one of these (the Hijaz Railroad) were European enterprises. That is, they were financed overwhelmingly by European capital. This is not to say that they did not include Ottoman shareholders, but only that most of the biggest shareholders and principal administrators were subjects of European countries. The railroad companies tended to be associated with the national interests of a particular European state, but they were all international in the sense that their shareholders were citizens of a wide variety of European and non-European states. Thus, while the Ottoman Anatolian Railway (generally known by the initials of its French name; CFOA) was famously controlled by German financial interests, non-Germans had some important roles in the upper echelons of the company’s administration.2 By 1914, the railroad companies collectively employed 10,000 to 15,000 workers, both Ottoman subjects and foreigners.3 In all of the companies, the Ottoman workers outnumbered the foreigners by wide margins. One scholar asserted that 90 percent of the workers on the CFOA were Ottomans.4 A CFOA roster of the 670 full time, salaried employees (i.e. not the entire workforce) listed 68 percent of the workers as Ottoman.5 Within the workforce itself many have

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remarked upon the existence of an ‘ethnic division of labour’. According to this hypothesis, the upper levels of the companies were dominated by foreigners, the middle echelons by Ottoman Christians, and the lowest rungs of the ladder by Ottoman Muslims.6 While this seems to have been broadly the case, the data suggest that below the highest levels of railroad administration (which were indeed dominated by foreigners) there was a remarkably rich mixture of foreigners with Ottoman Christians, Jews, and Muslims. This paper will concentrate on two important railroad companies in the Ottoman Empire, the Oriental Railway Company and the Ottoman Anatolian Railway. The former, (officially, the Betriebsgesellschaft der Orientalischen Eisenbahnen) grew out of the pioneering efforts of Baron Moritz von Hirsch who, in 1870, gained a broad (and eventually very profitable) concession from the Ottoman government for the construction of an elaborate railroad network in the Ottoman Balkans and the linkage of this network to the rest of Europe.7 Over the next ten years, Hirsch seems to have used his railroad construction company as a great cash cow and became fabulously wealthy by issuing and manipulating various stock and company bond offerings. In 1890 he decided to sell the company to a consortium of banks dominated by the Wiener Bankverein and the Deutsche Bank. This consortium in turn established the Bank for Oriental Railroads, based in Zurich, that had the controlling interest in the Oriental Railway Company.8 Besides making Hirsch and some of the stockholders very rich, the company even managed to construct some railroad, although far less than originally planned. The company operated lines between Salonica and the towns of Mitrovice (in Kosovo) and Monastir (Bitlola, Bitolj). Another line linked Istanbul to the port of Dedeağaç (Alexandropolis), via Edirne. Probably the most important line, however, was that which connected Istanbul to Belgrade and, thus, to the general European rail network. Completed in 1888 it made possible, in that same year, the maiden voyage of the famous Orient Express. Another important development in the Ottoman European railroad network was the construction, between 1892 and 1896, of a railroad linking Salonica to the rail terminus at Dedeağaç. This railroad, called the Salonica-Constantinople Junction Railway, thus made possible direct rail transit not only between the important cities of Salonica, Edirne, and Istanbul, but also linked Istanbul to the Macedonian hinterland (via Salonica).9 The other important railroad that this paper will investigate originated in 1888. In that year, the Ottoman government arranged with a German group dominated by the Deutsche Bank to form a company for the construction of railroads in Anatolia. The resulting

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Ottoman Anatolian Railway (Chemin de Fer Ottoman d’Anatolie, CFOA) completed the line from Istanbul to Ankara, via Eskişehir in 1893 and also built extensions to Konya. In 1903 the same financial interests formed the Baghdad Railway Company with the purpose of extending the track from Konya to Basra. By 1914 the Anatolian Railway totaled 1,032 km and the Baghdad Railway 531.10 Accidents As mentioned in the introduction, railway work was by its very nature extremely hazardous. On most railways in the world, the most dangerous work involved the actual running of the trains and operation of the locomotives. According to data from North American and European railways, train crews suffered a disproportionate share of injuries and fatalities.11 For Ottoman railways, hard statistics showing the number and kind of accidents per train/mile covered were, unfortunately, either not kept or have been lost. As a result I have been forced to use mainly anecdotal material drawn from railroad company and government archives as well as newspapers. The overwhelming number of injuries mentioned in these sources involve members of train crews. Many of these accidents occurred when workers fell out of moving trains and were subsequently injured or killed. In one report dated 1 December 1907, for example, the conductor of a train on the Salonica-Monastir line, a Belgian named in the report as ‘Mösyö Kozoka’, fell out of a moving train and lost his left arm.12 On the same line in August 1909, a fireman named Ürgüplü Ramazan likewise was injured when he fell from a train.13 Personnel who were not members of train crews were also at risk of injury or death. In August 1904, for example, a watchman was crushed by the Vienna bound train near Edirne.14 There were also frequent accidents involving mechanical failure or derailments. On what must have been a particularly bad day (16 August 1903), trains on both the Salonica-Monastir and SalonicaMitrovice lines derailed.15 In another incident, in October 1907, on the Salonica-Monastir line, the Monastir-bound post train broke a wheel while passing the village of Golişan.16 In yet another accident on the same line, in March 1908, a locomotive exploded while passing Banice station.17 Some accidents seem to have been freakish or connected somehow with the transport of hazardous material. One such, in March 1904, involved the explosion of a car loaded with nitric acid at the Üsküb (Skopje) station. Despite the dramatic and destructive nature of the incident, foul play was not suspected.18 Other sorts of accidents involved pedestrians or workers not directly connected to the railway or the train crew. In one case in

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May 1903, a worker named Atnos Mosto who worked at the Izvor mines tried to jump out of the way of an accelerating car. He apparently slipped on some stones and was crushed.19 Most of the accidents involving trains and non-railway personnel, however, seem to have been cases of tragic inattention by pedestrians or train crews or both. A woman named Saliha bint Abdullah, for example, was crushed by a Salonica bound train near the village of Pileste in June 1909.20 A similar accident in March 1907 is reported on the Hijaz Railway near Amman.21 Nearer to Istanbul, a victim described in the account only as ‘a peasant’ was killed near Çukurhisar station (just west of Eskişehir) on the CFOA while crossing the track with his horse.22 Sometimes strange events occurred in or near the trains that had happier endings. A report from Izmir noted that a woman successfully delivered a pair of healthy twins in a railway carriage as the train approached Develi station.23 Attacks and Sabotage These accidents, however gruesome, were part of the work experience of railway men and unfortunate civilians in the Ottoman Empire and elsewhere in the world at this time. Yet, there is a related body of data that gives an idea of the perils posed to Ottoman railway workers by politically motivated terrorism. While banditry (and in the case of North American railways, attacks by Indians) were occasional nuisances to railwaymen in western Europe and North America, acts of political terrorism and sabotage were relatively rare. In Ottoman railway company and state archives and in newspapers, on the other hand, these sorts of incidents were at least as common and destructive to Ottoman railways and their personnel as were mechanical accidents. The most common sort of terrorist action against Ottoman railways were bomb or dynamite attacks against bridges or sections of track. These incidents occurred overwhelmingly in Ottoman Macedonia and Thrace and were especially prevalent between 1903 and 1911. Occasionally, the acts involved loosening spikes or bolts from the sleepers (ties) or otherwise compromising the structural integrity of the track. One such incident occurred in June 1910 between Lüleburgaz and Babaeski, a very high traffic area. Sections of the track on the bridge spanning the Ergene river had been unbolted causing the locomotive, tender, the baggage and postal wagons and the sleeping car to crash into the river. Members of the train crew and nine of the passengers were injured, three of them seriously, but remarkably no one seems to have been killed. The accident was blamed on Bulgarian terrorists (komitacis) who allegedly attacked the train in the (apparently mistaken) belief that General

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Mahmut Şevket Pasha was on board.24 A similar incident occurred near Lyubimets in Bulgaria just over the Ottoman frontier. ‘Unknown individuals’ loosened the rails from the railway bridge near the town. Apparently the vandalism was discovered in time because no accidents resulted.25 While acts of sabotage against track or rolling stock were reported, the most common sort of terrorist action against Ottoman railways were bomb or dynamite attacks. Government documents, railway company reports and newspapers are full of reports of such attacks. Beginning in 1903, the attacks seem to have been initially directed against the track, tunnels, and bridges and only gradually targeted the trains themselves. For example, on the night of 30 March 1903, a bridge near the Ottoman-Bulgarian frontier town of Mustafa Pasha was blown up.26 A few days later, a similar case occurred near Inceste station on the Salonica-Monastir line when individuals destroyed a bridge and tunnel.27 Sometimes such sabotage was foiled. A British diplomatic report from 1903 noted that a band attempting to blow up a bridge on the line between Velles and Gradsko was surprised by a battalion of Ottoman soldiers. After a ten hour gun battle they nevertheless managed to escape.28 In another dramatic episode in July 1904, individuals fired upon the Üsküb train near the Ahmatova station. They then fled, however, pursued by one of the train watchmen who discovered four bombs under a nearby bridge.29 Occasionally, the vigilance of police or railway personnel failed to prevent such attacks, which evidently intensified in 1910 and 1911. On the evening of 13 October 1910, for example, a bomb exploded on the tracks near the Macedonian town of Kumanovo just as a southbound freight train was passing. The explosion derailed the train, completely destroying three of the cars and badly damaging four others. More seriously, the brakeman was badly wounded.30 Just several days later, on 27 October, another bombing occurred on the track near Kumanovo. On that occasion, the driver of the freight train was able to stop in time to avoid a disaster. Although the locomotive was badly damaged, there were no injuries.31 The summer and fall of 1911 witnessed a particularly large number of attacks on trains in Ottoman Macedonia. On 14 July 1911 the night train from Zibefçe to Salonica was derailed by a bomb explosion near Gradsko station. Although no one was seriously hurt, the train was delayed for three and one half hours.32 Several months later, on 20 August, another bomb intended for the same train was detonated accidentally by five maintenance workers when their hand-car passed over the targeted track. One of the workers was killed and three badly injured.33 On 3 December 1911 there were three serious attacks on trains. Two occurred near Köprülü (Veleze) station. One

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destroyed a baggage shed at the station and the second derailed a freight train, damaging the locomotive and some cars. The third of the attacks, on the Salonica-Constantinople Junction Railway between the stations of Doyran and Akincilar, was much more serious. A bomb exploded in the baggage car, destroying it and derailing the train. The chief conductor, named Israel Revah, and another conductor named Riza were both killed and a third worker was seriously injured.34 The fear produced by these attacks is demonstrated by one incident on the Salonica-Constantinople Junction Railway between Okçılar and Yeniköy (Amphipolis) on 4 May 1911. In the early morning, a sentry, thinking that he saw someone moving near the mouth of a tunnel, fired in that direction. The sound of his weapon brought out his comrades who all began to fire in the same direction. The rugged landscape amplified the echoes of the rifle reports and soon other guard posts began to fire as well. The din soon convinced everyone that a full fledged fire-fight was in progress between the guards and terrorists. The gun fire brought down a stretch of telegraph wire, isolating the station and furthering the sense of panic. The train from Istanbul was held up for eight hours at Okçılar station as the firing died down. It was soon established that the entire incident had been the result of the frightened imagination of that first guard.35 If this incident is in anyway indicative of the general situation, then the activities of the terrorists had indeed succeeded in disrupting the normal functioning of the Ottoman Balkan railway system by 1911. Workers’ Response The railway men were of course, very much aware of the hazardous nature of their profession and had some clear ideas about the causes of many accidents. The records of the Oriental Railway Company are full of the negotiations and conversations that occurred between September and December 1908 between representatives of the workers and the company management. These negotiations occurred in the aftermath of a short but very important strike of the workers of the Oriental Railway Company in early September 1908. A detailed discussion of the strike is beyond the scope of this paper.36 For the purposes of this essay, it is sufficient to note that on 18 September 1908 more than 3,000 of the company’s workers went on strike, largely over unsatisfied wage demands37. Freight and passenger traffic, including the Orient Express, was halted. The strike gave rise to a diplomatic crisis with Bulgaria and led to increasing pressure on the Ottoman government by various European embassies, especially that of Austria-Hungary, to end the

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strike. Finally, on 21 September, the Ottoman government announced that troops would begin to occupy the railroad unless the strike ended. Unwilling to confront the possibility of armed conflict, the strike committee abandoned its other demands and agreed to resume work on the basis of a 40% wage increase alone.38 The provisional return to work in late September is not, however, the end of the story. Between 17-18 October delegates from the workers met with the General Director of the railroad, Dr. Ulrich Gross, and the Director of Traffic, Jacques Müller, and produced six, sometimes overlapping, lists of demands. These were eventually further refined to 46 individual points. The Company and the delegates continued to negotiate and finally reached a comprehensive settlement in December 1908. Besides the continuing and very detailed discussions over pay raises, one is struck by the many demands made by the workers that are directly or indirectly concerned with safety issues. Perhaps the most prominent of such demands focused on a shortened work day and periods of rest between train runs. For example, in the second round of discussions in October 1908, points number 10, 14, 15 all concerned the length of the work day and rest periods. The delegates demanded that the work day be no longer than 12 hours and that locomotive crews get a day off for every two consecutive days on duty.39 As in the case of railways in other parts of the world, workers recognized the close correlation between a tired train crew and accidents. It is certainly worth noting that the workers asked for a 12 hour day. While we do not know how many hours workers generally worked, they likely considered 12 to be an improvement. Besides a shorter workday and longer rest periods, workers also demanded the introduction of safety devices and changes in work practices. For example, the workers’ delegates demanded that necessary repairs to locomotives should be undertaken promptly. Furthermore, when freight cars were in need of repair, the workers wanted the older style brakemens’ huts replaced with the newer models, which were safer and more comfortable.40 The company’s negotiators accepted both points. Similarly, the workers’ 28th demand was that trains operating on the company’s Salonica-Monastir line should be outfitted with Hardy brakes, a kind of air brake. This point, accepted by the company’s negotiators pending approval from the Board in Vienna, can be interpreted in several different ways. Was the Salonica-Monastir line particularly dangerous? Or had the company’s trains on other lines already been equipped with Hardy brakes and workers were seeking a standardization of equipment? In either case, the introduction of the Hardy brake on the Company’s trains would have made the operations of the trains much safer.

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The multi-ethnic and international make-up of the railway companies’ workforces plays an interesting, if understated role in this narrative. The names of the workers’ representatives in discussions between Oriental Railway Company personnel and management hint at a very mixed group. Some of the most vocal and active representatives had Germanic surnames, strongly suggesting that they were not Ottoman subjects. On the other hand, many of the representatives had names that hinted at Greek, Armenian, or Muslim backgrounds. For example, the officers of the strike committee that first met with the company officials in September had the following surnames: Yaglitziyan, Aidonides, Rotnagel, Melirytos, Lupovitz, and Diner. The other members of the committee were named Gibbon, Hatzopoulos, Eliades, Yeser, Goerke, Yovantsos, Paravantsos, Hussein, Romanos, and Blau. During the subsequent meetings in October many of these names reappear and several new ones make their appearance. Of the original group of delegates, only Rotnagel (spelled Rothnagel in some of the records) was present at all of the meetings. Indeed, some of the meeting reports filed by the Company present him as a spokesman for the delegates. Of the other officers, Aidonides, Diner, Hussein, Lupovitz and Yaglitziyan (many alternate spellings) attended at least one of the meetings. Besides these, many new names make their appearance. Of these, the most common is Rump who participated in all of the October meetings. The next most common was Albrecht who attended four. Some of the other delegates that appear at more than one of the meetings were Goldstein, Cohen, Benado, Reffet, and Gatzoni. Unfortunately, we do not know much about most of these people. Based on the names that also turn up in company records, however, many of them seem to have been salaried workers who had jobs as trainmen, i.e. locomotive drivers, firemen, conductors, etc. Thus, they would have been exposed to the most dangerous working conditions. This situation probably fostered cooperation between the diverse ethnic and national groups represented by the workers. The Companies’ Reactions The reaction by the railway companies to accidents, terrorist attacks, and workers’ demands was very complex. That is, the companies themselves were very concerned with safety and wanted to operate with a minimum of accidents. Their general approach to this goal, however, seems to have been largely limited to encouraging good behaviour among their employees. The Oriental Railway Company’s employee regulations, for example, promise severe punishments for any employee acting in a way that will endanger the ‘life, health, or

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security’ of railway personnel.41 The companies also seem generally to have operated pension and sickness funds, at least for their salaried employees. One gets the sense, however, that the medical insurance funds sponsored by the companies were not necessarily to be taken for granted in case of an accident on the job. The Oriental Railway Company’s book of employee regulations outlines in some detail the compensation process for injured or ill workers. The company operated a sickness and accident insurance fund in which all employees, even day labourers, were required to participate. The operation of this fund, however, differed somewhat depending upon the rank of the worker. If a salaried employee fell ill or was injured, he had first to report to a company physician. The physician had to determine if the worker was incapacitated due to an accident or as a result of some personal failing. Even in the latter case, that is, if the worker’s injury was his own fault, or his illness the result of ‘intemperance or vice’, he could nevertheless get up to three months paid leave, but his subsequent re-employment would be up to the company. On the other hand, if the worker had been injured or become ill through no fault of his own, he could draw his pay for up to six months and get his job back upon his return to duty. The workers were paid out of the medical insurance fund, which would also be used to cover the costs of hospitalization, if necessary.42 In case of death, a salaried employee’s family would receive two month’s of the deceased worker’s salary. Day labourers and other non-salaried or lower echelon employees (such as apprentices) had a similar, but less generous, policy. If they contracted an illness or sustained an injury that was in some way determined to be their own fault or otherwise not connected to their jobs, and if this illness or condition prevented their employment, they had the right to their medical expenses for one month but would not receive any part of their usual pay. On the other hand, if they contracted some illness while at work or in the course of their job, they received their medical expenses as well as half their usual pay for 15 days. In case of a job-related accident that was not the fault of the worker, he would receive his usual pay for the first month he was off work, and half pay for the second. After the third month he would receive nothing.43 Thus, it seems that the company tried to make provisions for ill or injured workers. Further examination of the company records, however, suggests that the situation did not satisfy all of the workers. For one thing, most of the benefits of the company’s plan were contingent upon the decision of the company physician. There is no indication anywhere in the personnel rule book that the physician’s medical assessment could be appealed or challenged by the worker seeking sick leave or compensation. Also, it seems that the

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company’s directors were not sure what to do about accidents or deaths that resulted from attacks on the trains or acts of sabotage. The picture that emerges is that the company seems to have been reluctant to compensate workers (or their widows) in these cases. The incomplete records of the company give us a tantalizing glimpse of this situation. A short report from the railway’s headquarters to its regional office in Istanbul mentions four cases concerning the deaths or injuries of workers. The station waiter (stationsdiener) Mehmed Danilowitsch [sic] apparently had a fatal accident on 12 September 1908. The Direction’s memo of 8 May 1909 indicates that his survivors should get 690 francs. The other case mentioned in the memo was of a watchman (bahnwachter) Mustafa Ağa who met a similarly fatal but unrecorded accident on 15 November 1908. The Direction indicated that his next of kin should get 760 francs.44 An equally tantalizing bit of information in the same memo concerns a station porter (lasträger) Ali Tschaoush [sic] who had some sort of non-fatal accident on 12 October 1908. The memo stipulated that he should receive 560 francs but was also shut out from reemployment with the company. Perhaps the company physician decided that his accident had been his own fault. If Ali Çavuş (or ‘Tschaoush’) was for some reason only given this one time compensation, others in the company seem to have been more fortunate, or perhaps more persistent. The memo mentions that the widow of a fireman named Goerke (who had been apparently killed in some accident) who had already received 10 Turkish lira (ltq) should be given an additional ‘Mercy gift’ (Gnadengeschenk) of ltq 15.45 The fact that these four cases had been the subject of discussion at the company’s headquarters in Vienna is very interesting. First, none of these employees, with the exception of the fireman Goerke, were salaried employees. Thus, according to the information set out in the company’s personnel policies, the widows would receive nothing. Yet, the memo clearly stipulates that these workers’ next of kin should receive some compensation. Unfortunately we do not know why. While only a guess, it seems possible that these decisions resulted from petitions or letters sent to the company’s directors or management by the workers’ surviving family. The case of Goerke’s widow is perhaps even more interesting. As a fireman, Goerke was a salaried worker. As such, his widow would have received automatically his salary for two months following his death. The two payments referred to in this memo, therefore, must represent additional compensation provided by the company. The sums involved were considerable. Firemen on other Ottoman railways made only about ltq 4 1/2 a month. The two payments to

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Goerke’s widow, therefore, amounted to several months salary. Again, we do not have enough information to ascertain the reason for these payments. It is intriguing, however, that one of the representatives of the striking workers in the September negotiations was a fireman named ‘Goerke’. If this is indeed the same person, perhaps the company decided that his widow was a person of some standing among his fellow workers. Might these two payments to her, therefore, have been an attempt by the company to demonstrate its goodwill following the short but bitter strike? Unfortunately, the available documents do not provide enough information to make any definite determination. These cases, for one reason or another, all ended in the company providing some restitution to the bereaved families. A later company memo, dated 12 November 1911, on the other hand, addresses a somewhat different case. Apparently, a train had been attacked on 21 August 1911 and had resulted in the death of two of the crew. The widows had petitioned the company for compensation. The local company officials denied the request, but the petition somehow found its way to the Direction of the company which seems to have had mixed feelings. The letter in the company archives, addressed to Gross, advises him to do nothing ‘for the time being’ (vorderhand) until the company directors could reach some sort of conclusion. Interestingly, this was the last mention of this case in the company’s archives. It is thus quite likely that the matter ended then and there and the widows did not receive any compensation. Despite the patchy, incomplete nature of the archival material, a very general picture emerges. The most striking aspect of these company memos are their ad hoc feel. That is, one is left with the impression that the pay-outs recorded in these correspondences are somehow the result of individual petitions or requests, as in the case of Goerke’s widow. The very fact that the company headquarters took up these issues and made special note of them to their railway’s local administration in the Ottoman Empire strongly suggests that while the company had in place a standing policy regulating or governing compensation to workers who were somehow injured or killed while on the job, there was also the possibility that workers or their families could receive extra compensation from the company in the event of an injury or death. Conclusions This brief investigation into work hazards on Ottoman railways prompts a number of conclusions about the nature of railway work and the relations between railway workers and railway company management. The data, anecdotal though they undeniably are, paint

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a picture of an extremely hazardous work environment on Ottoman railways. Ottoman railwaymen faced injury or even death from a number of mechanical failures, freak accidents, or personal error. The long hours and, in some cases at least, dangerous equipment, that surrounded the workers surely contributed to this unhealthy environment. As this paper has demonstrated, though, railwaymen faced additional dangers from terrorists and saboteurs. There are at least as many reports in company and government archives that mention such attacks as more mundane railway accidents. These attacks themselves raise some interesting questions. First, there is very little information in the reports as to the identity of the culprits. They are usually referred to as ‘unknown individuals’ or as bandits (eşkiya) or ‘trouble makers’ (fesatciler). I found no evidence, however, that any of the attacks were accompanied by robberies. Indeed, in most cases a train or track was simply damaged without any sign of the perpetrators. This mode of operation strongly suggests that the attackers in these incidents were politically motivated terrorists. Significantly, the 5 November 1910 issue of the Levant Herald quoted the Sofia, Bulgaria, correspondent for The Times of London as saying that several recent railway bombings carried out in Ottoman Macedonia were in fact the work of the IMRO (Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization). Similarly, the British minister in Sofia reported in April 1903 that his sources informed him that the IMRO had ‘abandoned the policy of a general rising in Macedonia and substituted for it that of destroying railroads and telegraphs.’46 This scenario, if correct, begs the question of why the railways were targets. Did the terrorists see them as symbols of European imperialism, or of the Ottoman state, or both? Or, were they simply convenient and visible targets, the destruction of which would help create a generally unstable and chaotic environment? The data presented in this paper do not provide enough information to answer these questions. Most of the workers on Ottoman railways responded to the dangerous work environment with demands for safer working conditions. For example, workers on the Oriental Railway Company lines in Ottoman Macedonia demanded a shorter workday and clearly defined rest periods, especially for train crews. They also wanted to be sure the rolling stock was in good condition. In particular, they demanded assurances that the repairs to locomotives would be carried out swiftly. They also wanted the Company to introduce up-to-date safety equipment like the Hardy Air Brake. The attitudes of the railway companies to their workers’ concerns and demands also come across as nuanced and complex. Rather than simply dismiss out of hand the concerns of the railwaymen,

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management seems to have tried to address these different situations. For example, the Oriental Railway Company negotiators accepted rather easily the calls for shorter working hours and mechanical improvements to the rolling stock. Likewise, the company made provisions for accident insurance and for time off work, with pay, for both salaried employees and for non-salaried workers and even day-labourers. On the other hand, one gets the sense that in spite of the obvious attempt to regularize the entire problem of accident compensation there remained many gaps in the company’s program. In particular, at least some workers (or their next-of-kin) felt that they were entitled to some sort of extra compensation not officially offered by the company’s policies. The company documents seem to demonstrate that, at least in some cases, workers (or their families) were indeed able to make successful requests for extra compensation for death or injury. The other aspect of the story hinted at by some of the data presented in this paper, is that the exceptionally hazardous nature of railway work promoted a sense of solidarity among the multi-ethnic and international workforce. In the sparse records remaining to us, one finds workers with a wide variety of surnames (very likely corresponding to different ethnic or national identities) cooperating in their petitions to the Oriental Railway Company. This information strongly suggests that Ottoman and foreign workers were able to put aside whatever ethnic or national antagonisms or prejudices they might have had in order to cooperate in their struggle for a safer workplace.

Notes 1

The railroad companies operating on Ottoman territory in 1914 were the: Izmir Aydin, and Izmir-Kasaba Railways; Hijaz Railway; Ottoman Anatolian Railroad (CFOA); Bagdad Railway; Oriental Railway; Damascus, Hama, and Extension Railway (DHP), and the Jaffa-Jerusalem Railway. Vedat Eldem, Osmanlı Imparatorluğu’nun Iktisadi Şartları Hakkında Bir Tetkik (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basimevi, 1994), 102-5. 2 Of the 15 members of the CFOA’s administration council (Verwaltungsrat) five were from Austria, France, or Switzerland. Archives of the Deutsche Bank (hereafter ADB.), Auftrag 1348/96, Sig.8030. Anatolische Eisenbahn Geselschaft/Societe du Chemin de Fer Ottoman d’Anatolie. Bericht des Verwaltungsrates uber die Einundzwanziges Geschaftsjahr 1909, 5. 3 Halil Inalcik and Donald Quataert, eds., An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, 1300-1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 810. Yaqub N. Karkar, Railway Development in the Ottoman Empire, (New York: Vantage Press, 1972), 75-6.

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4 Donald Quataert, ‘A Provisional Report concerning the Impact of European Capital on Ottoman Port and Railway workers, 1888-1909’, in Jean-Louis BacqueGrammont and Paul Dumont, eds. Economie et Sociétés dans l’Empire Ottoman (Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1983), 467. 5 ADB, Auftrag 1348/96, Sig.8049, A Personnel Commissionne. 6 Inalcik and Quataert, 810-11. Basil C. Gounaris, Steam over Macedonia, 1870-1912 (Boulder: East European Monographs, 1993), 68. Donald Quataert, ‘Labour and Working Class History during the Late Ottoman Period’, Turkish Studies Association Bulletin, XV, 2, 1991, 370. 7 For a detailed account of this concession, including its text, see Vahedettin Engin, Rumeli Demiryollari, (Istanbul: Eren Yayincilik, 1993), 51-6. 8 For details see Gounaris, 42-50. 9 Ibid. 55-8. 10 Karkar, 70. Charles Issawi, Economic History of the Middle East and North Africa, (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), 56-7. 11 Walter Licht, Working for the Railroad: The Organization of Work in the Nineteenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 191 12 Başbakanlik Osmanli Arşivi (hereafter BOA) Rumeli Mufettişliği Selanik (hereafter TFR-I-SL) 210/20949 13 BOA TFR-I-SL 215/21407 14 BOA Yildiz Mütenevvi Maruzat Evraki (hereafter Y.MTV) 2461/262/214/1322 15 BOA TFR-I-SL 16/1589, 16/1592 16 BOA TFR-I-SL 160/15984 1325.9.3 17 BOA TFR-I-SL 176/17582/1326.2.12 18 BOA TFR-I-SL 33/3290/1321.12.28 19 BOA TFR-I-SL 10/980/1321.2.15 20 BOA TFR-I-SL 210/20949 21 BOA Y-MTV 3034/296/73/1325 22 Levant Herald, XXVI, 30 (28 July 1906) 23 Ibid. XXVI, 29 (21 July 1906) 24 The members of the train crew who were injured were named as ‘huber’ the locomotive driver, ‘Milo’ the conductor, and an unnamed ‘Greek employee’ who was working in the mail car at the time of the accident. Levant Herald, XXX, 25, 18 June 1910 25 Ibid. XXX, 33, 13 August 1910 26 British Foreign Office Archives (hereafter FO) 78/5293/63 27 BOA TFR-I-SL 8/717/1321.1.10 28 FO 78/5293/91 29 BOA TFR-I-SL 45/4428/1322.4.27 30 Levant Herald, XXX, 42, 15 October 1910 31 Ibid. XXX, 44, 29 October 1910 32 FO 195/2382 fl.71 33 FO 195/2382 fl.212 34 FO 195/2382 fl.479 35 FO 195/2381 fl.419 36 For more information regarding the 1908 ‘Strike Wave’ in the Ottoman Empire see, Yavuz Selim Karakışla, ‘The Great Strike Wave of 1908,’ Turkish Studies Association Bulletin XVI, 2, 1992. See also, Hakki Onur, A1908 Işçi Hareketleri ve Jön Türkler’, Yurt ve Dunya, Mart 1977), 277. For several different explanations of the 1908 strike wave see Donald Quataert ‘The 1908 Young Turk Revolution: Old and New Approaches’, Middle East Studies Association Bulletin, XIII, 1 (1979), 22-9. 37 Stefan Velikov, ‘Sur le mouvement ouvrier et socialiste en Turquie après la revolution Jeune Turque de 1908’, Études Balkaniques, 1 (1964), 41. Sami Özkara,

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Türkische Arbeiterbewegung 1908 im Osmanischen Reich im Spiegel des Botschaftsberichte, der volkwirtschaftlichen und politischen Entwicklungen (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag Peter Lang, 1985), 101-2. FO 371/552/35322. Haus, Hof, und Staats Archiv (hereafter HHStA). Adm. Reg. F 31/8/7081. 38 Özkara, 104-5. 39 The Company’s administration accepted these demands. ADB, Auftrag 1348/96, Sig.8003 40 Ibid. Demands Number 20 and 21. The Company accepted both. 41 ‘Reglement Concernant le Personnel’, ADB, Auftrag 1348/96, Sig. 8003, 138. 42 Ibid. 18-19. 43 Ibid. 36. 44 ADB. Auftrag 1348/96, Sig.8003. ASchreiben der Direktion vom 8. Mai 1909, 85-6. 45 Ibid. 46 Levant Herald, XXX, 50 (5 November 1910). FO 78/5293/71

Being a Part of The Cinderella Service: Consul Charles Blunt at Salonica in the 1840s Bülent Özdemir

The British consular service was considered as ‘Cinderella Service’ referring to the well-known old folk tale by D. C. M. Platt who was the pioneer of writing the history of British consular service.1 For the nineteenth-century Ottoman history, the historical value and richness of consular reports are impressive. It is possible to use them in terms of how the foreign consulates in Ottoman cities functioned, because one can encounter details of everyday life of an Ottoman city that related not just to the diplomatic, bureaucratic and mercantile duties of a consulate but also to the social, cultural and local aspects of society. This paper will mainly focus on one aspect of the nineteenthcentury history, the British consular service and the significance of consular reports as a primary source in explaining the Ottoman cities. The purpose of this study is to write an introductory paper of collective biography of British consuls who served in the Ottoman cities during the nineteenth century. Writing about a group of people is not an easy task and mostly depends on the richness of the materials. Since they clearly reflected almost all the characteristics of a group and left huge volumes of rich materials, it will be possible to write the collective biography of the British consuls served in the Ottoman cities. There is two other purposes as by-products of this project. First, it gives a good credit to the consular reports as an important contemporary source not only for diplomatic and political studies, but also for social history. Consular reports have been widely used as the historical sources mostly for diplomatic and political history. However, my studies on these contemporary historical accounts clearly show that the reports contain rich material for social historiography, as well. Second, I would like to check the reliability of these accounts against the other contemporary sources and to show the possibilities for using the official correspondence of the consul to study the social reality in the different settings.

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Before the early nineteenth century, British trade and representation in the dominions of the Ottoman Empire were monopolized by the Levant Company. The consuls of Levant Company had been in the region since the last part of the sixteenth century. However, when Britain became a power in the region especially after its ascendancy in the Mediterranean after the Napoleonic and Revolutionary wars and its commercial interests resulting from its industrial pre-eminence, the British parliament decided to dissolve the Levant Company which was considered illequipped to meet Britain’s new objectives and interests in the region.2 Starting from the early nineteenth century onwards, Britain concerned itself with this distinctive pluralistic empire expanding from the Balkans in Europe to the region comprising the Eastern Mediterranean parts of Asia and North Africa because of the increasing number of British subjects who lived, traded and exploited the advantages available to them.3 In the early nineteenth century, the British political interests—when Russia became a real source of anxiety—and commercial interests for the extension of trade in the whole area demanded the extension of a consular service to the Ottoman Empire.4 However, if we compare British exports to USA, which were worth about £23 million and the amount of consular salaries about £5000 with British exports to the Ottoman Empire, which were about £2 million, and consular salaries amounted to £21,150, we can conclude that the main reason behind the establishment of many British consulates in the Ottoman dominions was political.5 Consequently, British consuls officially appointed to the Ottoman cities were faced with an important dilemma. On the one hand, they were expected to serve the interests of Britain and to maintain law and order among the native British and their protected subjects, who were interspersed in a mosaic of peoples of different religions, social conditions and ethnic origins. On the other, they had to follow and accommodate the orders of Foreign Office, often idiosyncratically, to the different socioeconomic and political conditions of the Ottoman Empire.6 According to Platt, generally, consuls serving at isolated posts overseas had to take into account the local conditions of service and the prejudices and traditions of their areas. Another point, which Platt brings out, is the shaping of the British official outlook by the restricted educational background of its consuls. Again, Platt describes the nineteenth-century consuls as ‘lonely, fragmented, distant and unable to communicate among themselves’.7 He stressed that ‘to a diplomat the consular official was regarded as a maid of all work’ and ‘British consuls were treated as a second-class citizens within their own department’.8 However, I will try to show in this paper that the real situation of the consuls and their roles as

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influential factors in the Ottoman domains in the nineteenth century have to be regarded seriously in terms both of Ottoman social history and of British diplomatic history. Since Charles Blunt was appointed to Salonica in 1835 as the first officially recognised consul in the city and lived there until 1856, in this paper, we try to analyse and understand the social position and intimate life of Blunt in the city of Salonica in the period between 1830 and 1850, based on the information given in his both private and official reports. Consequently, it is of some importance that the character of Charles Blunt’s reporting be given consideration. The consular reports, which have been consulted, were mainly the correspondence of the consul Blunt with both the British Embassy in Istanbul and the Foreign Office in London. We do not have much information about him even in the basic biographical reference books. However, one thing is clear: he was the very successful British consul in the Ottoman Empire. The long period of service to Great Britain, the very thorough knowledge of and integration in Ottoman society, and the fact that his son, John E. Blunt, followed his father’s footsteps as the successful British consul in the Ottoman Empire, all lend considerable credibility to his account. There is a clear need to talk firstly about consular reports as a source for the history of Ottoman Empire in the early nineteenth century as compared to the European travellers’ accounts. First of all, consular reports were written by state officials who were responsible to their superiors for providing accurate information. Because they had official responsibilities in the cities, they were better placed than travellers in gaining access to the required data for their reports. Most of the time, there was mutual understanding and common interest between local Ottoman government officials and the foreign consuls. They were given certain rights and privileges and these rights were protected by Ottoman laws. In addition to this, they constituted a part of the higher echelon of the cities and were usually in close contact with government officials. At the same time, they also had other, more remote sources for their information. They had informants in the countryside and in different towns in order to learn about the state of affairs in the region. Secondly, their reports were not written for the public and neither published nor publicized. Therefore there was no need for falsified or arbitrary estimates and criteria added for the purpose of attracting or convincing the general reader. The case in the travellers’ accounts was precisely the opposite. Third, consuls mostly sent their reports to two basic centres; one was to Istanbul, where the ambassador lived, and sometimes directly to the Foreign Office in London. The secrecy of their reports as official papers also increased their accuracy. They remained in the cities or regions for a long period of time

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(sometimes 25-30 years as in the case of Consul Blunt in Salonica) and they were familiar with all the special characteristics of the society, region and city, making their situation for accounts reporting far superior to that of travellers. They often learned the language and were able to read the local press. They also compiled detailed tables and statistics on trade and military matters. Consul Blunt’s opinion of the way in which travellers obtained information in the Ottoman Empire was as follows: Strangers of any appearance of respectability when travelling in the interior of the Ottoman Empire are generally, in consequence of their travelling with ferman or buyruldu either quartered upon the Christian Bishops, or at the houses of the çorbacı or rich Christian reayas. If at the house of the latter, his host in all probability a member of the community, will he give the requisite information and compromise himself? If he remains a day or two with the Bishop all the information he will obtain will most certainly mislead him. A passage through Turkey or a year or two in the country will not afford the necessary opportunities for obtaining the requisite information.9 The Position of a Consulate at the Local Level Needless to say, the power of the consulates in the interior increased when they had begun to give protection to the Christian subjects of the Ottoman Empire since the first capitulations. In the nineteenth century these legal rights were fully exercised by the foreign consuls in the interior in order to become a prestigious power point of their areas. Most of them used this right not for the economic reasons such as stimulating trade activities by giving certain privileges to the merchants, but for the political and diplomatic objectives by which they could put pressure upon the local authorities and to a certain degree become independent and get whatever they wanted easily. It is very interesting that most of the time the local authorities knew that the consulates abused the protection right by granting protection to so many and sometimes unqualified subjects of the Ottoman Empire, but they could not do anything because of either the complexity of the subject or to avoid causing complaints against themselves through the ambassadors in Istanbul. For example, in 1840 Namık Pasha of Salonica wanted to check the exercise of granting foreign protection to the reaya, because of the increasing irregularities of the Greek consul in that place. In consequence, he was fearful that he might give cause to the consuls to write against him. Also he very justly observed that unless their ambassadors are well understood upon the subject nothing would be done. Then

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Namık Pasha applied to the Porte for a ferman (imperial order) giving him efficient power to put a stop to these irregularities of the consuls in Salonica. As we have seen particularly in the case of Namık Pasha and also some other cases, the consulates in the interior just like the embassies at the Porte, had already had enough power to effect the decisions and the acts—respecting the internal affairs—of the local authorities.10 For instance, we have seen in their reports that not only did they have informants to get information regarding a newly appointed pasha but also they had enough power to obtain detailed knowledge about the income and wage of a pasha.11 They could find easy access to Ottoman officials who had come to the region for inspection or else and had conversations about the regional matters (social, economic and political) and even presented their view of things as suggestions or objections. After that, they forwarded all the information to either London or Istanbul.12 The persons who provided information to the consuls at the local level ranged from Ottoman high officials to ordinary servants. However, most of the time the best informants were the Ottoman pashas. For instance, the following case shows the intimate relations Consul Blunt managed to establish with Ömer Pasha who was the governor of Salonica in the 1840s: ‘When Ömer Pasha informed me of these particulars, and made me acquainted with the contents of the ilam, I strongly advised him to forward it to the Porte’.13 Consular reports contain useful inside information about both contemporary international affairs such as Egyptian Question and the new reform regulations of the Ottoman government such as the Tanzimat. Particularly, the local people’s thoughts about certain matters and their reactions and opinions were reported in detail.14 In regarding this, not only did consuls stay in their residential city, they also travelled around the region and visited even small villages to obtain the required information for their reports.15 The power of consulates in the interior grew so significantly that people of the region regardless of their religious and ethnic differences began to apply to the consulates to present their cases in order to find solutions. It can be seen in the reports that ordinary people or even Muslim villagers were coming to the British consulate with the hope of finding solutions to their problems.16 This can be seen as the reflection of the position of Britain in international politics as a world power at the local level and also provided confidence and more power to the British consuls in local politics. I should also stress here that the attitudes and position of British consuls toward the representation of any problems, which the people faced to the local authorities was almost the same. Regardless of their religious differences, most of the time people received good

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treatment and representation from the consul Blunt to their complaints against the local authorities. When Blunt prepared petitions for the complaints of the people, he most of the time referred to a certain Ottoman regulation or law, which indicates his knowledge of the Ottoman law and well-preparedness in local politics.17 Although there is no clear evidence, I have the impression that they were informed of almost every new government regulation. For example, Consul Blunt says: ‘A ferman has been received which ordains that the Mollahs and Kadıs can in no case demand for dues more than one piastre...’18 The rivalry of the Great Powers can be seen between the consulates in the interior as a microcosm. They always controlled and checked each other’s activities especially in economic matters. Their instructions both from the foreign offices and the embassies were the major concern for them. Then they had to be aware of the local administrative, mercantile, and social affairs of the place, in order to make reports to their embassies. In some cases, either due to their personal prejudices, preoccupations, or their educational level, the consuls overreacted and exaggerated minor affairs as if they were important ones. For instance, the following case is very illustrative: ‘A young woman, a native of Damascus arrived at Salonica with a Greek vessel. Two Turkish passengers reported to the local authorities that there was a Muslim woman on board the Greek vessel whom the captain had detained by force. When the pasha heard of the affair, he proposed to question her respecting her religion in an open assembly with the participation of all the consuls. When the woman was questioned, she declared herself to be a member of the Greek Church and was immediately given over to the bishop. The French and Austrian Consuls had an idea that she was a Catholic and since all classes of Christians in Syria were now under French protection, the woman should have been given to him. Then, the woman was questioned again and she declared herself a Christian of the Greek Church’.19 On the other hand, it can be observable in the Blunt’s reports that most of the time; foreign consuls exchanged certain information easily among themselves. Particularly, if the issue was related to conversion or apostasy, they paid special attention and helped each other by exchanging all sorts of news and information. The most important point in the writings of the consuls was their attitudes to their superiors’ weaknesses on certain subjects. If they were aware of their superiors’ special interest in certain issues, they channelled all their efforts to report something on that issue in order to show that they were acting justly. Securing their position in the city and thinking of appointment to higher posts or offices must have affected their discourse and choice of subjects to write about.

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Consuls as Diplomats In theory, consuls were supervised by the orders of the ambassador at the capital city or those of minister. But in practice, the direct personal contact with their superiors was the main problem in the nineteenth century context because of the difficulties of transport and communication. Being a foreign consul in an Ottoman port-city in the nineteenth century was to some extent more advantageous than being a consul in the small cities of the interior or of the remote east. Particularly, in terms of the social activities, Salonica offered many opportunities to the European families such as newspapers, music, theatre and food.20 Most of the buildings of foreign consulates were in the west part of the city known as the ‘Frank quarter’, which provided cultural and social interactions between the families of European consulates in Salonica. With the introduction of regular steamship connections to Salonica after the 1840s, the consular officers and their families could get easier access to news, fashion, food etc. All these were real needs for consular officials because they were almost permanently living there and as Richard Burton said: ‘An English gentleman, in the nineteenth century, was rarely prepared to adapt his customs and his standards to the local way of life’.21 According to the reports, some other important functionaries in the foreign consulates were the interpreters. Whenever an affair of a trifling nature occurred in the city it was left entirely in the hands of the interpreters, who were, according to Consul Blunt, ‘too well known for their cupidity and impertinence’. The consuls saw it as beneath their dignity ever to treat affairs personally with the local Ottoman authorities. Rivalries among the foreign consulates were not limited to economic and commercial matters but also extended to religious ones. The protection of different Christian sects created serious disputes particularly in the cosmopolitan port-cities such as Salonica.22 After the opening of Greek consulate in Salonica, we observe in the Blunt’s reports that the activities of Greek consul respecting the protection of Orthodox Ottoman subjects were sufficient to irritate the authorities of any government. He criticized the Greek Consul’s irresponsible, undiplomatic and also impertinent acts and attitudes against Ottoman government officials. Indeed, Consul Blunt complained against the Greek Consul several times in his reports for maintaining close relations with the Russian Consul and for not following up his advice but the advice of the Russian Consul.23 In this sense, the attitudes of the Greek Consul in Salonica were interesting and illustrative. In any event, relating to the Greeks, the

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consul always refused to make contact with the local authorities in person and just sent the vice-consul, who was the father in law of the Russian Consul, in order to present the case. Even in simple affairs the Greek Consul forced the matters to a degree of dispute, because of the influence of the Russian Consul, Mr. Valliano. The Greek Consul adopted a captious rather then a conciliatory spirit upon all occasions, which was always badly received by the local authorities. The Greek Consul of Salonica appeared to connive with the local authorities who showed little disposition to bring the guilty to punishment. Blunt says: ‘when a Greek commits a crime and is captured by the local authorities, he is always given up to the Greek Consul upon his promising that he is going to be punished, but it is never done’.24 Indeed, we should not forget that an effective Foreign Office strategy for the containment of Russia in that period demanded constant information and for this they largely relied on outlying consulates. Reporting of Social Problems in the Interior The consuls’ reporting of social problems in the interior was also considered as one of their major duties. As a common practice, they record their observations regarding certain cultural practices or local customs, but exceptionally, they report extreme social problems as the confidential reports to their superiors such as homosexuality, abortion and drug use. What is interesting in these reports is their having been written in such detail that even certain names and dates were given. Undoubtedly, if the contents of the reports are true, their value as a source which shed lights on the social conditions of Ottoman society at the local level would be great. How we confirm the contents of these reports as true or made up accounts is the duty of historians. It will not be dealt with here. However, now I am going to quote Consul Blunt in order to give you some ideas about his style of reporting. Abortion was widely practiced in Salonica as a means of birth control. According to the reports it was as common in this city as in the rest of the Empire. Abortion was carried out in the city with the assistance of Jewish midwives. Consul Blunt reported the situation as follows: Using drugs to cause abortion is too general in Salonica as well as the other parts of Turkey in the early nineteenth century. There are mostly Jewish women who are employed solely in the commission of this crime. The way they are doing abortion is either an operation is performed or the patient is taken five or six successive days to the Turkish bath, where she is so reduced by the continual heat, that abortion is easily produced. This

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crime is committed not only in the harems of the beys but also especially amongst the less wealthy classes of the Turkish and Greek population. In the latter the economic reason seems most likely to be the major factor of committing this crime. In the year 1839, because of the generosity of these crimes especially in the interior induced the Ottoman government to publish a ferman in order to put an end to this commission.25 In another confidential report regarding homosexuality in Salonica Consul Blunt says: Increase of intoxication has I regret to say led to an alarming increase of unnatural crime. When I say alarming I do not attempt, from disgust, to exaggerate for I can assure your Excellency that it has become so shameless that it is generally spoken of. The Jewish community has turned its attention particularly to it. Any children (of which there are hundreds exposed to temptation by the poverty and depravity of their parents) supposed to have in any way submitted to incitement are severely punished by the Grand Rabbie. The Turkish baths are full of children who act as tellacks or washers, hence it is that these baths are the resort of all the most depraved and where the crime is openly tolerated.26 At the end of the report Consul Blunt cited the names of the persons who were addicted to this crime as Vasıf Pasha, the governor of Salonica, the defterdar, Hasan Pasha, some of the Franks at Salonica and a consul of one of the European states. Did I not report to you Excellency, the horrible and alarming increase of crime in this part of Turkey but in doing so, as I shall have to name persons of all classes… I regret to say in Salonica, especially amongst the higher class of the Turkish population intoxication was so general. There were very few of the better class of Turks, in this place, who are free from imputation. Drinking alcohol had become more and more widespread amongst the Turks even during the Ramazan, which was not the case not many years since. Governor of Salonica Vasıf Pasha and the Mollah had been repeatedly seen intoxicated during the Ramazan in 1845.27 Reporting of Infrastructure and Statistics About a Place Consuls at the local level produced so many useful statistical data for their superiors. These accounts provided valuable inside information

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about the local conditions of the Ottoman Empire. The most common of all were the commercial returns required of consuls as a matter of annual routine.28 They were expected to make an annual return of all their receipts and disbursements for any purpose. In this sense, Consul Blunt was an exceptional one. Though he was not ordered or required to do so, he produced well-presented statistical tables about Salonica and its features. Among the information provided by consuls the quality and quantity of agricultural products and their commercial value was particularly noted. Any mines or minerals which might be of interest to Britain were reported, sometimes with detailed financial worksheets with explanations regarding how expensively or cheaply they might be obtained.29 Apart from commercial and agricultural reports, he also prepared statistical tables about the fairs in the region, the population of Salonica and its ethnic and religious differences. Consul Blunt also provided some statistics about the infrastructure of Salonica such as schools, churches, mosques, synagogues, post houses and horses, castles and guns. For instance, according to Blunt, in Salonica, there was a Post House with 100 horses. Also the Castle of Salonica mounted in all 250 guns. The lower guns of the Castle, which command the port, were in all 21 and each requiring a charge of 20.5 kg of powder. These guns were alleged to be Venetian.30 Surprisingly enough, Consuls collected serious biographical accounts and information about the persons who were either Ottoman government officials or local notables. These biographical data included not only their well-being or wealth, but also their mutual interests, interactions, relations and co-operation on any particular event and explained the probable reasons behind their activities.31 In some cases, Consul Blunt noted some biographical stories going back to three or four hundred years about the certain notables. For example he told us the story of Yusuf Bey, muhassıl of Salonica in the 1841, who claimed to be a descendant of Evrenos Bey, who had taken possession of the city of Salonica in 1430 in the name of the sultan, in order to receive a part of the revenue of the region as an historical grant which was only given to the descendants of Evrenos Bey, though he was not entitled.32 As we understand from the reports, any particular missionary group always made contact with the consulates first as soon as they arrived at Salonica. This was logical because they knew that they could only obtain proper and essential information they needed from the consulates. It is interesting to note that the coming of missionaries to Salonica was not perceived as a threat to the Muslim community, but instead the Orthodox community and its religious leaders were most of the time fearful about their activities in the city because their main target group was the Orthodox community. For

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instance, the activities of Protestant missionaries concentrated on the Orthodox community of Salonica in the 1840s. Most of the time they were successful and effective by providing financial support and better education opportunities to the needy Orthodox population. However, this irritated the Orthodox religious leaders and the Patriarchate proclaimed a new edict in 1838 in order to prohibit the attendance of the children of Orthodox community to the Protestant missionary schools.33 Conclusion It should be kept in mind when using the consular reports that consuls were not neutral foreign entities who evaluated everything from their own perspectives and according to their own objectives. Even the discourse that they used to define or understand any cultural phenomena or any particular affair represented their own socio-cultural background. For instance, Consul Blunt’s use of the term ‘to turn Turk’ when he tried to explain the conversion issue and his use of the term ‘ the sacred law of their prophet’ when he talked about an Islamic law and also the term ‘the tomb of a saint’ when he referred to the Gazi Evrenos Bey’s tomb clearly shows that he was the typical product of Britain at a certain time.34 This ‘otherness’ always consciously or unconsciously directed them to deal with the affairs or things which conveyed value as news or strange or problematic. Whenever a consul would like to write report about something favourable, he was easily labelled as ‘proTurk’ in the literature as in the case of Charles Blunt.35 Therefore, as is the case with the contents of the Ottoman court records, consular reports also consisted of selected historical materials, which were most of the time collected and reported according to the perception of consuls.

Notes 1 D.C. M. Platt, The Cinderella Service: British Consuls since 1825 (Edinburgh: Longman, 1971) 2 Alfred C. Wood, A History of the Levant Company (London, 1935), 113-4. Roger Owen, The Middle East in the World Economy, 1800-1914 (London, 1981), 85. 3 ‘In 1826 the Levant establishment amounted to two consuls-general and eleven consuls and vice-consuls, with salaries totalling £8,358. By 1855 it had risen to three consuls-general and forty-one consuls and vise-consuls, at the cost, in salaries, of £21,150’. See, D.C. M. Platt, The Cinderella Service, 127. 4 Maria Todorova, ‘The Establishment of British Consulates in the Bulgarian Lands and British Commercial Interests,’ Etudes Balkaniques, v. 4, (1973), 80-8.

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D.C. M. Platt, The Cinderella Service, 126. John P. Spagnolo, ‘Portents of Empire in Britain’s Ottoman Extraterritorial Jurisdiction’, Middle Eastern Studies, v. 8, n.2, 256-81. 7 D.C. M. Platt, The Cinderella Service, 1. 8 Ibid. 2-3. 9 FO 195/176 Blunt to Ponsonby, January 1841. 10 FO 195/176 Blunt to Porsonby, 9 April 1840 11 FO 195/176 Blunt to Ponsonby, 30 January 1840 12 FO 195/240 Blunt to Canning, 27 June 1845 13 FO 195/176 Blunt to Ponsonby, 1841 14 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 30 January 1838 15 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 6 May 1838 16 FO 195/176 Blunt to Ponsonby, 1841 17 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 23 November 1838 18 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 31 August 1838 19 FO 195/240 Blunt to Canning,, 17 May 1844. 20 According to an Ottoman document, foreign consulates were allowed to establish bakeries to produce French bread and peksimet for the needs of both consulates and ship crews. See, Salonica Sicil, 235: 21, 55, 15 Muharrem 1254. 21 Quoted from Platt, Cinderella Service, 39. 22 FO 195/240 Blunt to Canning, 17 May 1844. 23 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 20 June 1839. 24 FO 195/100 Blunt to Porsonby, 20 June 1839. 25 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 9 January 1839. 26 FO 195/240 Blunt to Canning, 16 October 1845. 27 Ibid. 28 According to Platt, these reports were not regarded as important documents by the Foreign Office and sent directly to the Board of Trade. See Platt, 56. 29 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 21 March 1839. 30 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 25 January 1839. 31 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 20 July 1837. 32 FO 195/176 Blunt to Ponsonby, 1841 33 FO 195/100 Blunt to Ponsonby, 10 March 1838. 34 FO 195/240 Blunt to Ponsonby, 1841 35 This can be clearly seen in the writings of some of the Greek historians who used Consul Blunt’s reports. 5 6

Contributors Engin Berber: Department of International Relations, Ege University Sonja Brentjes: Institute for the Study of Muslim Civilisation, Aga Khan University Muammer Demirel: Department of History, Atatürk University Aleksandar Fotić: Department of History, Belgrade University Colin Imber: Department of Middle Eastern Studies, University of Manchester Hedda Reindl-Kiel: Seminar for Oriental Language, University of Bonn Svetlana Kirillina: Department of the Middle and Near East History, Moscow State University Elias Kolovos: Programme of Turkish Studies, Institute for Mediterranean Studies, Foundation of Research and Technology Hellas Peter Mentzel: Department of History, Utah State University Bülent Özdemir: Department of History, Balikesir University Sándor Papp: Department of Early Modern History, Károli Gáspár Protestant University Maria Pia Pedani: Department of History of the Near East, University ‘Ca Foscari’ of Venice Jan Schmidt: Leiden University Library Elżbieta Święcicka: Department of Asian and African Languages, Uppsala University Adnan Şişman: Department of Contemporary Ottoman History, Afyon Kocatepe University Netice Yıldız: Department of Art History, Eastern Mediterranean University

Index

Abdallâh, envoy from Baghdad, 117 Abdülmecid, 170 ahdnâme, 37-42, 44-46 Ahmed III, 50 Aleppo, 77, 164 Alexander II, 171 Ali Pasha, Mohammed, 157 Ankara, 212, 218, 228 Armenians, 215 Catholic church, 215 Arabic-Turkish dictionary, 81-2 Arnot, Albanian, 42 Athens, 91-2, 96-7 Athonite monasteries, 70, 73n, 197200, 206 Attaya, Mikhail, 167 Austria, 119 avârız-ı divâniyye, 199 âyîn, 40, 119 see also teşrîfât defteri Aya Sofya, mosque, 179, 184 Baghdad Railway Company, 228 bailo, Venetian, 23, 31 Balkans, 42, 68, 71, 198, 227, 242 Ban of Croatia, 39 Bartold, Vasili, 157, 168 Bertrandon de la Broquière, 115 Bethlen, Gábor, 39 Blunt, Charles, 242-51 biography of, 241 British consul, 244-6 battle of Ankara (1402), 199 Beyazid I, 199-200 Beyazid II, 23, 118, 200 Bland, Nathaniel, 78 British Evkaf Delegate, 186 Bohemia and Poland (çeh ve leh), 11-2 bôstâncı zâbıt, 64 Bourdieu, 115 al-Bukhârî, 118; and al-jâmi‘ al-sahîh, 118 Bulgarians, 42

Bulgarian National Church, 215 Byzantine, 197-9, 201, 204 Cafer Pasha, Hadim, 11 Cafer Pasha, Hamamı, 179 Cairo, 115, 122n calendar, 91, 93-100 calligraphers, 125-6, 128, 132-4, 180, 182-3 Canning, Lord Stratford, 215, 220 Carl XII, king, 42 Carleson, Edvard, 55 cartographers, 125-8, 133 Casimir, John, Polish King, 59 von Celsing, Gustaf, 53, 55 Cemil Pasha, Ambassador in Paris, 160-1 census (tahrîr), 199 ceremonies, see âyîn Charlemagne in Aix-la-Chapelle, 117 Charles XII, king, 53, 55, 58-9, 60n, 61n, 62n see also Carl XII Chios, 76, 84 churches, 180-5, 215-20 Aya Sofya Cathedral, 180, 183 Aya Nikola, 184, Aya Yorgi (St. George), 184 çiftlik, 179, 184-8, 193n, 197, 200-6 cizye, 198-9 Collège Arménian de Saint-Samuel Moorat, 157 Coureas, Nicholas, 183 Crimea, 49-55 Tatars in, 51 Khans of, 55 Croatia, 39-40, 47n Crusade of Nicopolis, 8 Cyprus, 23-7, 179-82, 185-90 war of, 9, 23-7, 30-1 Cyrillic, 63-5, 70 Damascus, 77, 246

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Dedeağaç (Alexandropolis), 227 Deutsche Bank, 227, 238n al-Dimashqī, Abū Bakr, 125-7, 132 dīvānī style, 50 dragoman, 49, 53, 58-9 Dutch merchant, 77, 79, 82-3, 85, 87 ‘duty’ (Abgabe), 120 Ebüssu‘ûd Efendi, 24, 200-1 Ecole Militarie Egyptienne, 157 Edirne, 115, 199, 227-8 Egypt, 76, 117, 245 and governor, al-Muqawqis, 117 Ekmel Efendi, 182-3 see also kadı Elizabeth I, 118 Érsekújvár, 37 Eskişehir, 228-9 Evliya Çelebi, 125 Evrenos Bey, Gazi, 250-1 Famagusta, 179-80, 183-7, 190 Fazıl Ahmed Pasha, Köprülü, 37 firman, 81, 83, 85-7, 212, 214, 216, 218, 220-2, 245-6, 249 floral scroll ornamentation, 182-3 Frangepán, Ferenc, 38 Fredric I, king, 50 Galata, 215 German embassy, 114 gift exchange, 113-15, 117 Golius (Jacob Gool), 75-6, 78-9 Greece, 91-3, 96 Greeks, 42; 64, 91-100, 167, 216, 245-8 scripts, 64 calendar, 91; guidebook, 91-3, 95-100; Orthodox Church, 167; Patriarchate, 215 consul in Salonica, 245, 247-8 Habsburg Empire, 37 harâç, 198-9, 206 Haremeyn wakf, 186, 188-90 see also vakıf Hârûn al-Rashîd, 117 Hasan Ağa, 202 Hasan Pasha, Tiryaki, 15 Hashab (Hashshab), Antun, 164 hatayis, 182 hazine, 115 Hazret-i Ömer, 187 Heyman, Johannes, 76-81, 87

Hicaz Railways, 226 Hilandar Monastery, 64-5, 67-9, 72n hil‘at, 118 von Hirsch, Baron Moritz, 227 historiography, 198 Holland, 76-7, 85, 87n von Höpken, Karl Fredrik, 55 hudûdnâme, 69, 71 hüccet, 64-7, 69-72 Hungary, 37-43, 45-6 Hungarians, 37, 39 Ibn Arabi, al-Shaykh al-Akbar, 170 Ibn Khaldun, 161 Ibrahim Pasha, 53 Ikhlas, Mehmet, 126, 127, 6, 14 ilam, 245 Islam, 164, 166 Islamic laws, 67, 71, 73n, 212, 221 Islahat Ferman (reform firman), 216, 218, 220-2 Istanbul, 227-9, 231, 235 Izmir, 76, 78-87, 88n, 91-112n Jeddah, 115 Jooze, K., (Bendeli al-Jawzi), 167-8 Kabylian, 115 kadı, 64-7, 70, 81, 83-6, 201, 205-6 Kaiser, 115, 119-20, 121n Kanizsa, 10 Kantakouzinos, John, 198 kapucıbaşı, 86-7 kapudan, 81, 84-6 Karlowitz, treaty of 1699, 42 Kazan Ecclesiastic Academy, 168 Kazan University, 167 Kelzi, Abdallah (Feodor), 172 al-Kerîm Beğ, ‘Abd, 115 Kezma, Taufiq, 168 Khalīfa, Hajjī, 125-7, 129-32, 140-2 Komitissa, 64, 69-71, 73n Konya, 228 Koran, 181-3, 185 Kubad, çavuş , 31 von Kuefstein, Hans Ludwig, ambassador, 115 Kuruc, 39, 42 Leszczyński, Sanislo, Polish king, 43 Levant, 76, 78, 82, 87n Levant Company, 242 levend, 23, 28-31 library (libraries), 91, 95,97, 109n112n

Index Lipveli Ahmed, 43 Loredan, Pietro, the doge, 23 Luis XIV, king, 41 Lübeck, 85-6 Mahmud II, 211, 214-6, 221 al-Makki, Ahmad ibn Husayn, 172 Mamluk war of 1485-91, 115 mapmaking, 125, 137 Mauss, Protestant chaplain, 115 Mecca, 180, 189 medrese, 184, 186 Mezö-Keresztes, 20 battle of, 9,15 victory at, 13, 15 Mehmed I, 199-200 Mehmed II, 23, 29, 200 Mehmed III, 118 Mehmed IV, 37 Mehmed Efendi, Said, 53, 55, 60n Mehmed Pasha, Kara, 120 Mehmed Pasha, Lala, 9, 15-16, 18 Mehmed Pasha, Okçızade, 184 Mehmed Pasha, Sokollu, 24-5, 27, 31, 32n Mehmed Pasha, Yegen, 44 Mekteb-i Osmani, 157 Mevlevi, 181, 188 see also tekke military revolution, 7-9, 18, 20-1 Ministry of Evkaf of Turkey, 189 Mitrovice (in Kosovo), 227 Moldavians, 42 môloviya, 64, 66 Mount Athos, 197-9, 201 monasteries, 63-70, 197-206 Cetinje (Montenegro), 64, 70 Xeropotamou, 197, 201-6 Aynoroz, 200 Aghiou Pavlou, 206 Monastir (Bitlola, Bitolj), 227-8, 230, 232 Moscow Lazarev Institute, 165, 167 Mughal court, 115, 117 Muhammad Shâh, Shams al-Dîn, 115 muhassıl, 250 muqarnas decoration, 181 al-Muqawqis, 117 see also Egypt Murad II, 199-200 Murad III, 50 Murad IV, 9 Murkos, Georgi (Juri), 165-7 Mustafa II, 120

257 Mustafa Ağa, Kozbekçi, 50, 53, 61n Mustafa Pasha, Lala, 31 el-Mustasimi, Yakut, 182 see also calligraphers Mutazilites, 167 mülk,198-9 mütevelli, 186, 189-90 mültezim, 205 Nádasdy, Ferenc, 38 Nâdir Shâh, 115 Namık Pasha, 244-5 Nemce kıralına, 119 Netherlands, 75, 87, 88n newspapers, 93-6, 98-100, 109n, 110n, 112n Nicosia, 180, 182-3, 185-7 Nikola, İskerletzâde, 43 Noufal, Salim (Irinei), 172 Nusretnâme, 120 Orhan, 198 Oriental Languages, 75-7 Orthodox Christians, 42, 166, 197, 199 Ottoman Anatolian Railway (CFOA), 226-9 Ottoman court, 113, 115, 118-20, 121n ceremony of, 115 Oriental Railroads, 227, 238n Oriental Railway Company, 227, 231, 233-4, 237-8 Oxenstierna, Erik, 60 and governor, Mazovia, 60 Ömer Pasha, 245 painters, 125-6, 132, 135-6, 140 Palaiologos, Andronikos, 199 Palestine, 76-7 Palffy, 10-11, 13 Pápay, János, 42-3 pápista, 40, 47n Patriarchy of Antioch in Moscow, 167 Peace of Vasvár, 41 Peçevi, Ibrahim, 7-21; chronicle of, 9 Peter the Great, 42-3 Pertev Pasha, 23 pîşkeş, 118 Piyale Pasha, 24, 31 Poland, 51, 60 poll-tax, see cizye population, 197, 199, 200-1, 249-51

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Frontiers of Ottoman Studies

Protestants, 75-6 Prut, 42 Rákóczi II, Ferenc, 41-3, 41 Rákóczi, József, 44-5 Ráday, Pál, 42 reaya, 198, 200, 244 resm-i çift, 198, 202-3 royal tent (otak), 119 Russia, 42-3, 242 Russians, 42, 159-69, 247-8 Cantemir, Dimitrie, 42 consul in Salonica, 247-8 Orientalists, 166-8 Arabists 159, 161-2, 169 Russian Arabs, 157, 167-8 Russian-Arabic dictionary, 167 Safavids, 9, 115-17, 132, 136, 142-3 St. Petersburg University, 166 and Institute of Oriental Languages, 166 sâlnâme, 91, 93 Salonica, 227-33, 241, 243-51 Monastir line, 228, 230, 232 Mitrovice lines, 228 Sarruf, Fadlallah, 172 saz style leave, 182 School of Ottoman in Paris, see Mekteb-i Osmani von Schwarzenhorn, Schmid, 119 Schweigger, Salomon, 113-14 Selim, Yavuz, 212 Selim II, 23, 27, 29, 31, 34, 172, 183 Selim III, 55 Serbs, 42 şer’iye, 63-8, 187, 190, 212 court, 63, 65-8 sicili, 187, 190, 212 şeyhülislâm, 200 Shah Abbas, 10 Sidirokafsia, 197, 204-5 Silahdâr, chronicler, 38 Sinan Pasha, Cigalazade, 4, 10, 12 Stockholm, 49, 53, 55-6, 59, 60n, 61n, 62n Sublime Porte, 39, 41, 43-5 Süleyman, the Magnificent, 212 Sweden, 42, 49-51, 53, 55-6, 58-9 Swedish National Archives, 49, 51, 53, 56-7, 60n, 61n tahrîr registers, 199, 201-4, 206 al-Tantawi, Muhammad Ayyad, 16673

Tanzimat, 211, 214-6, 221 tapu, 200-1 tapunâme, 64, 69-71, 72n Tatar Khanate, 49 tekke, 181, 188 teşrîfât defteri, 119 Thessalonica (Selânik), 197-202 Thököly, Imre, 39, 40, 46n, 47n tîmâr, 199, 201 tithe (dekaton/‘öşür), 198-202, 205-6 Trabzon, 216-9 Transylvania, 40, 119 tributary gifts, see pîşkeş treaty, 79, 87 of Pruth in 1711, 79 of Karlowitz in 1699, 87 of Rijswijk in 1697, 87 Turkish Ethnographic Museum, 181 Ulrica Eleonora, queen, 50 Uthmân of Tunis, 118 Üsküb (Skopje), 228, 230 vakıf, 198-202, 206 see also wakf Vasıf Pasha, 249-50 Venetians, 23-30, 118 Vienna, 120-1 vâlide sultân, 118 wakf, 179-91 Ahmed Pasha, Arab, 179 Aya Sofya, 179-80, 183-5, 188-9 Büyük Hamam, Büyük Han, 179 Cafer Pasha, Frenk, 179, 185 Mehmed Pasha, Okcı Zade, 179 Mustafa Pasha, Lala, 179-83, 18690 Sefer Pasha, 179 Sinan Pasha, 179 Valide Sultan, 186, 189 Wallachia, 42-3 War of Spanish Succession, 41 Warner, Levinus, 75-6, 79 Warsaw, 55, 60 Wesselényi, Ferenc, 37 Wiener Bankverein, 227 zimmî, 63, 67, 198, 206 Zographou, 65, 69 Zrínyi, Péter, 39 Zurich, 227