On Turkey as I knew it - by Honorine Gout (1883 Smyrna - 1986 Ndola, Zambia)
A talk given to a Theosophical Society in London - probably about 1970, contributed by Neville Ravensdale, 2010

Smyrna of the Seven Churches, Izmir of the Ataturk, was my birthplace, and I lived there most of my life.

The Middle East, where remains of the great civilisations are found scattered all over the country, was my playground as a child; my environment gave me a varied and unusual education regarding my religion as a young girl and in my mature years formed a puzzled and questing mind, ever asking where God was and his purpose in the splendour and the squalor, the riches and poverty, the love and hatred, the upheavals and the few peaceful years of quiet living that now lie behind me.

Born in 1883 of a mixed parentage, a French father and a Scots mother, I was brought up by two maiden aunts who were governesses in influential Turkish families, hence my direct and intimate knowledge of how the rich Turks lived in their town residences “Konaks” or their summer houses by the sea “Yalıs”. How the poor lived was there for everyone to see, the town dwellers in the narrow, cobbled, evil smelling streets of the cities; the peasants in their mud huts in the villages, and the nomads under their tents, roaming the Anatolian plateau to find pastures for their herds.

1887. My early childhood was spent on a farm between the town of Chanak Kale (the Dardenelles) and the ruins of Troy.
My father would often give me bits of pottery to play with that the peasants dug up in tilling the land; I little knew then that my toys were thousands of years old and of historic value!

The German Schlieman, Hellenist and archaeologist had discovered the actual site of the ancient city of Troy and had been excavating for many years among the ruins. A story my father used to love to tell was, that Schlieman, who had married a lovely Greek maiden, one day unearthed the tomb of Helen and in it a casket with some of her jewelry. It is said he decked her with the newly found treasure and covered her head and shoulders with her shawl. Eventually the jewels reached the museum in Berlin where they remained until the Second World War.

1889. At the age of six I was sent to my aunt Isabella Fyfe in Constantinople to be educated with the Pasha’s daughter Nadjie aged 9.
The change was great, from my mother’s tender care and the freedom of the farm, I came to a household full of strange beings, a fair Circassian slave my playmate, a black Nubian brought us our food, the coachman was an American, the cook a Turk from Bola [Bolu], where all the best cooks came from and his scullions were Greeks.
Most of the time I was closed up in the Haremlik [lady’s quarters], where my aunt (miss Bella as she was called) ruled with great severity.

1890. It was the year 1890, Abdul Hamid the 2nd had been on the throne since 1876, and the last but one of the long line of Sultans, some of great fame, Mohamed the son of Bayazid, Murat the 2nd 1442 - 51 and Mohamed the 2nd his brother who captured Constantinople in 1453 and the greatest of all Suleiman the 2nd the Magnificent 1520 - 56.
The titular ancestors of the Turks came from Central Asia in several waves and mingled freely with the indigenous population. The Ottoman Turkish invasion consistently mostly of men, who after massacring the male inhabitants settled down with the local women - whose ancestry might have been Greek, Hittite, Phrigian, Roman or a medley of all.
The Turks are a white race but occaissonally show a darker strain and sometimes a vived streak of Mongolian ancestry.
It is not well known that the Osmanli Turks started their career as a people and founded their Empire not in Asia but in Europe - in Thrace and in the Balkans. The absorbtion of the Christians was relatively easy and gave them the advantage over the rest of the population by their capacity for administration which was their strength, together with their background of Greek culture. Meanwhile the Osmanlis, still in Asia Minor, had captured Brusa under Osman and made it their capital and a few years later, joining the other Turks in Europe, captured Adrianople, thus surrounding Constantinople on all sides.
Constantinople, now Istanbul, a corruption of the Greek words “Estin Poli” which means “into town”, a phrase coined when there was no other city but Constantinople. The wonder of Istanbul lies in its site, the steep slopes covered with houses, dominated by domes flanked by slender minarets.
The waterway diverging in various directions, North through the Bosphoros to the Black Sea, South to the Marmara and the Mediterranean; the Golden Horn curving round the city walls to its dead end by the valley where Mohamed dragged his galleys overland to get inside the chain that the Byzantines had stretched across the Golden Horn. The city was doomed then and it has been threatened many a time.

An unknown poet, after the treaty of San Stephano wrote these lines - Oh Symbol of thine Empire’s long decay, and city girdled by thy myriad graves, a voice amid the wind that slowly moves thy dark funereal cypresses asway above the dead; like him who calls to prayer from the minarets, moans and raves prophetic sorrows.!
Fate aweary craves to end thy lustful and luxurious days. Thy limbs are stiff, thy soul hath drunk despair. Poor city fallen from thy high estate, while prowling round the bed whereon thou liest, the jackel and the tiger and the bear, eye flashed on eye with fear and jealous hate would rend thee and each other eer thou diest!

But Constantinople is not dead; it is one of the great cities of the world, no parvenue capital like Berlin and Moscow, but the centre of history and human affairs and only rivalled by Athens, Rome and Jerusalem; its geographical position emphasises its importance, and that has not changed.
After Mohammed the conqueror had captured Constantinople he entered the Basilica on Agia Sophia, his charger, and bade an Imam to mount the pulpit and render thanks to Allah. The dome that had rung to the Psalms of Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison and Christos Anesti, Christ has risen, was filled with the chant “there is God but God and Mohammed is his Prophet”.
The Turks built their minarets round St. Sophia, painted over the interior decorations as the Moslem religion does not allow the representation of the human form.
One mosaic was left untouched, that of the head of Christ above the central door; Jesus is esteemed as a saint under the name of Hasret Issa.
Mohamed established his capital in Constantinople and did everything he could to show there would be little change from the rule of the Byzantine Emporers.
To this day in spite of the succession of Sultans and the different Governments, the Turk has been tolerant of Christians and Jew alike. Massacres there have been, levies on riches, expulsions were many, but what right have we to judge when nations calling themselves Christians have exterminated or allowed thousands to be exterminated by religious wars. The Crusaders went through Constantinople in 1204 to 1261 and so damaged and pillaged Agia Sophia that after half a century of Latin rule they found more destruction had been wrought than in five centuries of Turkish indifference. Many treasures are dispersed in the great museums of Europe, and in Paris the Sainte Chapelle was built to house some of the holiest relics.
In their pre-Islamic state the Turks had been accustomed to man made laws, but after the acceptance of Islam, Turkish customs became overlaid by the Moslem sacred law or the Sheik-ul-Islam or religious leader. Everything, whether secular or religious had to be interpreted by Doctors of Divinity, and the Sultans often bowed to the dictates of some powerful Imam; and not until Mustapha Kemal destroyed the various religious orders and their tekkes or seminaries, was the state free to bring western reforms into action. When factories, with their tall chimneys were built all over the country, the educated Turks would point to them and say, “There go Kemal’s minarets”.

I am straying from the object I have in mind, the telling of the life I shared with Hakki Pasha’s household and their kindness to me and my family.
As 40 minutes gives me little time to relate all my experiences, I shall dwell on one or two, - a Turkish marriage as far back as 1891 and the Armenian massacres and the burning of Smyrna.

A Turkish wedding of the well to do, some 70 years ago, was an elaborate affair and its preperations started months ahead, before the date fixed for the ceremony.
The choice of the bride, whose age was generally between 12 to 15 years was an arduous business and full of amusing incidents. As soon as a young man of good family intimated to his parents that he wished to marry, a round of visits into the homes of friendly families with eligible daughters would start. The mother and sisters of the young man would call unexpectedly at one of their friends, and to show the purpose of their visit, would remove their shoes and place them in a special way near the entrance of the “Moussafir Odasse”, or visitors room. At once the atmosphere in the house became electrified. The slave who had ushered them in would quickly rush to the head of the house, mother or grandmother, and announce the importance of the visitors. The unsuspecting victim, generally playing with her sisters or the young slaves attached to her person, would be dragged away, dressed up as quickly as possible and told she was to take in the cups of coffee which were always served as soon as visitors arrived. Meanwhile the mother and grannie if stll alive, would carefully deck themselves out and enter the drawing room where the would be bride had already, with downcast eyes and slow movements, walked up the length of the room and presented the tray of coffee cups to the callers. Retreating a few steps, holding the tray, the child would stand with downcast eyes while the seer, or lookers on, slowly sipping their coffee, would inspect her up and down noting her good points.
Casual conversation took place between the respective parents and then, the cups being empty, slowly the young girl would bend down to place the cups in the tray while those eagle eyes would scour her face to detect any flaws and so impress the child’s features on their memory that they could give all the details of it’s beauty, freshness and colouring to their son or brother.
As soon as this ordeal was over, the young girl sensing, or perhaps having been told what was in store, retreated a little more hastily, and then, handing the tray to a waiting slave or her old nurse, would fly down the hall, either to shut herself up in her room and cry her eyes out or run back to her playmates and shout with joy at what had happened. Weeks would elapse and then if the maiden was suitable to the young male, gifts would be exchanged and a date fixed for the nuptials.

I remember one such wedding. The daughter of the then Vali, or Govenor of Mecca was to be married to the son of the first admiral of the Fleet “Captan Pasha”.
Both families were amongst the wealthiest under the Abdul Hamid regime. The Porte then ruled over Arabia and the religious towns of Islam, Mecca and Medina, were a source of immence revenue to the Sultan and subrosa, to the Governor who was lucky enough to get the post.
Muslem pilgrims from all over the Islamic world would flock to the Holy City, and a great many came from Judea. The rich Rajahes brought princely gifts and the Governor had his share. I saw at that wedding the most wonderful necklace of black pearls worn by the Governor’s wife. They turned up some twenty odd years later at Cartiers in Paris where the Governor and his wife had fled when the young Turks came into power in 1908.
Back to the Pasha and his family. Hakki Pasha spoke English fluently and had been twice to the Court of St. James during Queen Victoria’s reign. He was an Anglophile and persuaded the Sultan that the Turkish fleet, then practically non-existant had to be strengthened and new ships bought, also the necessity of an English naval officer and men. Henry Woods, later Sir Henry or Woods Pasha, was sent over. He married one of the Constantinople Whittals and has a son Harold Woods was still living when I left Turkey in 1950. They often visited the Pasha, and their house in Pera was the rendez-vous of many celebrities who visited Turkey.
Nadjie or Abla, (big sister) as I used to call her was promised in marriage to the Turkish Attaché in Paris so most of our lessons were in French, since he spoke no English. Nadjie was my companion during lessons, but no playmate. She had to grow up quickly and get married at thirteen. A child in years she was burdened by the thought of marriage to a man twenty years older than her. In her dreams she must have reverted to chldhood, for often she would come into my room and wake me up to tell me fairy tales, Ali Baba, Sinbad the Sailor, stories from the Arabian Nights and of Nasreddin Hodja and his donkey. The stories were told with a magic touch of mimickery that set us both laughing, until my Aunt woke up and we were both punished in the morning.

Every year at Christmas, the Pasha who was nicknamed Giour Hakkı by the religious Turks would insist that a big fir tree be brought down from Tchamlidja to be erected in the Selamlık [men’s quarters]. It was done to please my Aunt and for my sake. The whole household enjoyed the event. The piano was brought down, hymns were sung, the favourites being “While Shepherds watched their flocks by night” and “Hark the Herald Angels sing”.
It was a strange sight to watch, for the entire retinue of servants, the slaves and the Pasha’s orderlies, all reverently listening to the singing by my Aunt, her friends, the Pasha’s daughter and myself. Presents were given while the Master of the house sat in his big armchair wrapped in a huge dressing gown looking like an Oriental father Christmas. In a room upstairs, an old relation of Hakkı Pasha’s who had been to Mecca and was a “hadji”, a pilgrim, would say her prayers five times a day to break the evil spell of Christendom. After her ablutions, heavily veiled, on a prayer rug facing East towards Mecca, she would kneel, get up, kneel again bend and touch the ground with her forehead, fingering the while her amber beads “tespi”. This tespi was of 99 beads in remembrance of the 99 beautiful names of Allah. It is interesting to note here that when this form of prayer was first given by Mohammed the direction of the worshipper’s body faced Jerusalem which shows that the Prophet tried to win Jews and Christians for his disciples. Islam in 1922 was said to number 221 million adherents. In Turkey itself in recent years there has been a strong reaction against Islam in the Ankara Republic and the young generation has very little time for prayer. Inland in the towns and villages the peasants which form the core of the country are deeply religious.

Going back to the Pasha and his great kindness and sense of justice, I must relate how he saved a number of Armenians during the local massacre in 1890. I was only seven at the time but well remember how tense the atmosphere in the house was.
The Sultan got wind of a plot to assassinate him, engineered it was said by Armenians, so he armed Kurds and Softas with knives and heavy cudgels and ordered them to murder all Armenians they met in the streets and enter their houses including houses where Armenians were sheltering with friends. The massacre started early on a Friday morning, the religious day of rest of the Turks and while the Sultan was driving to the Selamlik the hordes began their deadly work in Pera and Galate, coming down to the bridge which spans the Golden Horn, which was soon heaped with dead and dying. Towards the evening the Softas were boarding the ferry boats and making for Moda and Cadikeny [Kadıköy] where many Armenians lived.
Already the Pasha’s backyard was filled with women and their children whose husbands were out at work, and the Pasha’s Armenian coachman had told them that the Pasha would protect them. All gates and doors were closed. The Pasha had dressed himself in his Admiral’s uniform, now much too tight for him. He looked so funny that I giggled when I saw him wheeled out in his chair from his bedroom to his front door. My Aunt slapped my face and told me this was no time for laughter. There he sat, I can still see him, his sword on his lap and his two orderlies on each side of him. Soon we heard the yells and screams of fierce killers and terrified humans, entering a few houses near us, but when they stopped before ours and saw the Pasha they saluted and passed on. It was past midnight when all was still and the Pasha retired to his room. The frightened Armenians had kept quiet and the children put to sleep on mattresses spread all over the servant’s quarters.
This lasted three days and the Pasha kept vigil at the main entrance buying all the bread he could from the man with a donkey whose side panniers were emptied at one go. Gradually by twos and threes the Armenians left and the Pasha’s house returned to normal. Such was the man called Giour Hakkı; genial and kind he fitted his title as, sipping numerous glasses of “Rakı” - Ouso, he whispered to his friends, “We shall all have to become Giours if we want to live in this nation”.

I’m afraid this is a conglomeration of events and recollections the listeners must forgive me for. For this is just an old woman talking of her childhood.

Now a few words on Magnesia where my other Aunt lived. Lying at the foot of Mount Sypellus, the old city of Magnesia has been described by historians. I often went there, for Annie Fyfe was the governess of the Karaosman family nearly all her life and brought up and educated three generations. She had all her faculties when I brought her over to England in 1950 and she died there three years later at the age of 95.
Karaosmans were the Dere Beys of this part of Asia Minor. They owned half the town of Manissa and all the pasture and fertile lands on both sides of the river Gediz or ancient Hermes as it was called, and their house was one of the show places in Turkey. Beadeker speaks of it in his volume written over a 100 years ago and many tourists visited the place until it was burned down I believe in 1922. In the old days the Kara Osmans paid tribute to the Sultans in men during war and money during peace. Originally they were independent rulers and fought against the Ottoman Porte. It was during an epidemic of cholera that started in Istanbul that I was sent down to stay with the Karaosmans. I am stressing on this visit to give you an example of how the really orthodox deeply religious Turks lived some 70 years ago.
The house was situated a good half hours drive above the town, in a huge garden surrounded by high walls, the garden being the Haremlik mounted up in tiers along the side of Mount Sypullus (shades of Babylon). The drive through narrow streets where always flowed a rivulet of dirty water. The jutting latticed balconies of the upper floors of most houses kept out the light and kept in the evil smells, but the Bazaars gave one the full gammut of odours. An agglomeration of tiny shops spreading out in all directions from a central square, where stood a mosque and fountain. The narrow streets were covered by canvas tents or trellissed vines to keep the place cool and there was always the peculiar atmosphere that always strikes one in Oriental Bazaars. The din and confusion to which was added the noise of our passing carriage, the continual cry of Dibosen from our Albanian guard was such that I could hardly hear the reply my Aunt gave to my many questions and so across the turmoil of men offering their wares, dogs barking and lazily getting out of the way, of scents varying from roses to camel’s flesh cured in garlic, we reached the opening and came out in God’s untainted air.
The walls of the garden appeared in view and soon we reached the massive door of the Selamlik. It was thrown open by the guard and our carriage drove in. Here were no Giours or infidels, but Turks steeped in their religion, following to the letter the Islamic laws. The two great religious feasts of Islam were the feast of Leker Baisam, that was preceeded by a fast of one lunar month and followed by Courban Bairam or feast of Lamb.
At sunrise a shot was fired from an old canon at the top of Mount Sypillus. It was the sign for the fasting to start. Not a drop water not a crumb of bread.
A puff of a cigarette was allowed, but a husband could not even kiss his wife. The body was non-existent during the twelve hours between sunrise and sunset. Most people dozed or woke to pray after their ablutions.
It was tiring for us children, and my Aunt took us for long walks along the railway line; sometimes we had picnics and went as far as the statue of Niobe; Niobe crying for her children etc. etc.
Long before sunset we hurried back and after being tidied up ran to the window to watch for the puff of smoke, the streak of fire and hear the rumbling sound of the canon, roar down the slopes of Mount Sypillus. Then we ran down the stairs into the dining room where fifteen different kinds of food were passed round and at the end the national dish of pillaff made of rice to fill in the gaps. Büyük Hanum (The first lady) was the last of the Karaosmans and head of the family. She had buried two husbands and was now about 50, tall and thin. She wore long flowing robes held by a girdle. At the opening of the neck appeared frills of Brussa silk edged with needle point lace made by herself. The only work I ever saw her do.
I must now relate how the old Hanum (at the time of my story) fell in love with the voice of a young Imam and would send us all out of the house to bask in the sunshine of his youthful presence, by way of his voice, calling the faithful to prayers, which had first attracted her attention.
She listened, and stronger grew her longing to meet the man with the magic voice. One day she sent for him. Deeply veiled, surrounded by her slaves she got him to read verses from the Koran. While his voice droned out the sacred words her keen eyes watched him and she made up her mind to wed him. Presents of money and clothes were sent to his poor home and little by little the bearers insinuated that he might become the master of the big house he visited as a poor chanting Muezzin. Nothing loath, he accepted and the grandmother of fifty had to tell her daughter that she and her husband and children including Miss Fyfe and myself had to leave her house.
That episode ended my stay in Magnesia and here too I must end my talk on Turkey. A last word about Nadjie, the Pasha’s daughter. She was sent by Ataturk to lecture in America about Turkey, and Nedjib Chianer was the young Karaosman who, when the British Council came to Smyrna in 1940, was a co-director with the Englishman who came out to direct its activities.

My thoughts often go back to my life in Smyrna and Istanbul and the happy times I spent roaming alone in the villages and among the ruins of ancient cities, talking to the peasants.
The path of God is a right of way that every man must patrol, whatever his faith, to safeguard the traveller on his journey.