Commemorating Gallipoli through Music: Remembering and Forgetting 1498556205, 9781498556200

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Commemorating Gallipoli through Music

Commemorating Gallipoli through Music Remembering and Forgetting

John Morgan O’Connell

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2018 by Lexington Books All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: O’Connell, John Morgan, author. Title: Commemorating Gallipoli through music : remembering and forgetting / John Morgan O’Connell. Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017041709 (print) | LCCN 2017040476 (ebook) | ISBN 9781498556217 (Electronic) | ISBN 9781498556200 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: World War, 1914-1918—Campaigns—Turkey—Gallipoli Peninsula—Songs and music—History and criticism. | World War, 1914-1918—Campaigns—Turkey—Gallipoli Peninsula—Anniversaries, etc. Classification: LCC ML3780 (print) | LCC ML3780 .O26 2017 (ebook) | DDC 781.5/99—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041709 ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America

To my Mother: The Last of her Line

Contents

List of Figures

ix

List of Tables

xi

Prefacexiii Acknowledgmentsxv Prelude: Order of Mejidieh

xvii

1 A Soldier’s Lament

1

2 The Holy War

29

3 Old Gallipoli

65

4 Mehter in the Museum

97

5 Hybrid Turks

127

6 Sound Bites

157

7 Music as Memory

191

Coda: The Gallipoli Spirit

227

Appendix 1: Sheet Music Examples

241

Appendix 2: Lyrics

247

Bibliography253 Index271 About the Author

295 vii

List of Figures

Figure 0.1 Figure 0.2 Figure 0.3 Figure 2.1 Figure 2.2 Figure 3.1 Figure 4.1 Figure 4.2 Figure 6.1 Figure 7.1 Figure 7.2 Figure 7.3

“Order of Mejidieh”—John M. O’Connell “The River Clyde”—Maurice D. O’Connell “Map of Gallipoli”—Ian Dennis “Kampf vor den Dardanellen”—Ulrich Hüber “Der heilige Krieg”—Ernst Barlach “Billy MacCarthy-O’Leary”—Unknown “The Military Museum”—John M. O’Connell “The Janissary Band”—John M. O’Connell “Scottish Piper at the Battle of Krithia”—Allan Stewart “Suvla Bay from the Nek”—John M. O’Connell “Lone Pine”—John M. O’Connell “Anzac Cove”—John M. O’Connell

ix

xviii xx xxx 30 56 66 98 101 172 192 193 194

List of Tables

Table 1.1 Table 3.1 Table 3.2 Table 6.1 Table 6.2 Table 7.1

Order of Service at the Gallipoli Centenary List of Melodies Composed by William Hawes that are Discussed in the Text List of Ballads Written by Thomas Davis that are Discussed in the Text Textual Analysis of ‘The Diggers’ by Leon Gellert (Dated July, 1915) List of Documentaries, Dramas and Films that are Discussed in the Text List of Songs in English that are Discussed in the Text

xi

4 70 78 175 177 205

Preface

In this monograph, I employ a number of conventions that provide consistency and clarity to the publication. I represent contentious terms using inverted commas (“ ”) and unverifiable information using square parentheses ([ ]). In addition to these principles, I adopt a number of other rules. Since I cite sources that are mostly in the languages of the relevant belligerents, I use the following abbreviations: (en.), (fr.), (gr.) and (tr.) for words in English, French, German and Turkish, respectively. Of course, the text also refers to terms in Arabic (ar.), Armenian (am.), Greek (gk.), Irish (ir.), Māori (mā) and Persian (pr.), among others. With some exceptions, all transliterations are rendered in Latin script. For the most part, I use the Gregorian calendar (tr. milâdî) to represent all dates: that is, with the exception of published items where an Ottoman calendar (tr. rumi) is referenced. Where known, the dates of most individuals are provided. The representation of Ottoman sources is problematic. Since the Turkish language has undergone a profound transformation since 1928, I adopt a number of conventions that require explanation (see, also, O’Connell [2013: xiii-iv]). Where not detailed, all technical terms and institutional names use modern Turkish spellings found in Redhouse (1999). This source is especially relevant when representing diacritical marks and consonantal shifts, musical terms and instrument names. When not applying Turkish equivalents, words in Arabic and Persian employ spellings found in Wehr (1979) and Haim (1984), respectively. For the sake of simplicity, the plural forms of all relevant terms are represented by appending the English suffix (-s). When a particular plural is featured in a direct quote, the original spelling is maintained. As is usual in publications concerning the late Ottoman era (1826–1922) and the early Republican period (1923–38), the scientific transliteration of Ottoman terms is not provided (see, also, Shaw 1977, 2: ix). xiii

xiv Preface

The representation of names is especially problematic. For Europeans, I include first and second names in addition to titles and dates. For Ottomans, I include first names only along with titles and dates. Where pertinent, I also append second names in parenthesis, especially when talking about nonMuslims (such as, Bimen Dergazaryan [Şen]) or about Muslims (such as, Münir Nurettin [Selçuk]) who adopted a second name (following the implementation of the “surname law” [1934]). For example, I always represent the first president of the Turkish Republic as follows: Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938). In the Bibliography, I reference any publications by this important figure under “Mustafa Kemal” and not under “Atatürk.” As is usual, I cite other well-known figures in the Ottoman government by name and title only. For example, I refer to [İsmail] Enver Paşa (1881–1922) as Enver Paşa. For the most part, I do not mention the military rank of individual protagonists. There are a number of other issues that require explanation in this book. I refer to the First World War simply as “the War.” I allude to the opposing alliances during the War as the “Central Powers” and the “Triple Entente” (even after 1917). Since the soldiers of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force [MEF] who landed on the Gallipoli Peninsula are usually called “the Allies” (in English and Turkish sources), I repeat this convention. In this context, I reference the “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps” as the “ANZAC” forces (always using upper case, except when referring to Anzac Cove). While some scholars gloss over ethnic difference in the Ottoman Army and the British forces by representing the opposing armies simply as “Turks” and “English,” respectively, I have sought to counteract this simplification. However, musical materials (among other sources) sometimes serve to reinforce as well as call into question such generalizations. My use of capitals also needs explanation. I refer to ministerial positions (such as “president”) using lower case. Where appropriate, I insert the date of service (as “s.”): for example, president Recep T. Erdoğan (s. 2014-). However, I refer to rulers (such as “Kaiser”) using upper case. I also insert the date of reign (as “r.”): for example, Kaiser Wilhelm II (r. 1888–1918). I employ lower case to represent sensitive issues, especially when referring to genocide (when representing the Armenian position) or deportation (when representing the Turkish position). As is usual, I employ upper case when talking about religious groups (such as Protestants) and religious artifacts (such as the Qur’an). Here, I distinguish between the Unionists in Ireland and a unionist junta in Turkey. Finally, I supply English and Turkish names for strategic locations on the Gallipoli Peninsula, fully aware that place names in Greek and Armenian were once more widely recognized.

Acknowledgments

This book represents around thirty years of relevant research in archives and libraries. Although not always the primary focus of my study, it was inevitable that I looked at literature related to the War as I examined primary and secondary sources that concerned music-making during the late Ottoman era (1826–1922) and the early Republican period (1923–38). In particular, I amassed my own archive of documents that related to music during the Gallipoli Campaign (1915–6), for the most part newspaper columns and journal articles that appeared in English, French, German and Turkish media. In addition, I collated my own collection of sound recordings and music notations that informs the musical analyses and the cultural interpretations featured in this monograph. Also, I supplemented this information with online resources now available in digitized format in the guise of letters and diaries, photographs and pictures. Crucially, there is now an extended body of published memoirs that commemorate the Gallipoli Campaign. Accordingly, I am beholden to the librarians who facilitated my research. In Turkey, I am grateful to the staff of the following institutions: Atatürk Kitaplığı, Basım Müzesi, Beyazit Devlet Kütüphanesi, Millî Kütüphane, İstanbul Radyosu and TRT Ankara. In addition, I am thankful to the staff at the following foreign establishments in Istanbul including: the French Consulate, the German Archaeological Institute, the German Institute for Oriental Studies, and the American Research Institute in Turkey. Outside Turkey, I would like to mention the staff at the then Fachrichtung vergleichende Musikwissenschaft and the Preussicher Kulturbesitz in Berlin; the British Library and the School of Oriental and African Studies in London; and the Bibliothèque nationale in Paris, among others. Although not contacted in person, I would like to thank the archivists who digitized documents (available online) at the following libraries: the Australian War Memorial, the Imperial War xv

xvi Acknowledgments

Museum, The National Library of Ireland and the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, among others. I would like to thank individuals who have assisted me. These include the discographers Frank Andrews and Hugo Stötbaum; the collectors Ayhan Aktar and Muammer Karabey; the musicians Ruhi Ayangil and Fikret Bertuğ; and the scholars Murat Bardakçı and Cem Behar. I am especially grateful to Meral Selçuk who allowed me to catalog the personal archive of her father, Münir Nurettin [Selçuk]. This publication was also made possible by the assistance of Max Peter Baumann (then at the Freie Universität), Lucy Duran (then at the British Sound Archives), Brian McGee (Cork Archives Institute) and Deidre Wildly (Queen’s University, Belfast). I would also like to thank the following scholars (currently at Cardiff University) who reviewed parts of my manuscript. These include: Elizabeth Frierson, Kenneth Hamilton, Rod Lawford, Diarmait Mac Giolla Chríost, Nicki Maher, Carsten Müller, David Wyn Jones and Toby Thacker. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the input of my Australian companions, who accompanied me on a tour of the Gallipoli Peninsula. This publication would not have been possible without the personal help of my family. In particular, I would like to thank my mother (Elizabeth) and my brother (Maurice) for allowing me to peruse family documents. Here, I would also like to acknowledge the mentorship of A. Jihad Racy and Stanford Shaw, scholars who are highlighted in the text. I am grateful to Michelle Meinhart, Laudan Nooshin and Clair Rowden for encouraging me to present chapters from this work at colloquia and conferences in Durham, SOAS and Cardiff, respectively. I recognize the assistance of Adele West (at Alamy) and Valentina Bandelloni (at Skala) in enabling me to reproduce plates from wartime journals. In this capacity, I am grateful to Ian Dennis (Cardiff University), who allowed me to replicate a map of the Gallipoli Campaign. I would like to thank Cardiff University for a research grant and sabbatical leave to complete this book. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the helpful assistance of the production team in Rowman and Littlefield.

Prelude

Order of Mejidieh

There was a room at home that was always locked. Blocked by an oak door and guarded by a large clock, the room always solicited my attention. The key to the door was hidden in the clock. This I knew. A chair was needed to retrieve the key to unlock the door. A fumble in the clock, a rustle in the door and the room was opened. With a creak and a groan, an Aladdin’s trove of oriental memorabilia was revealed. An Ottoman flag and a Mahdi insignia were there. From old photographs, they had once occupied a prominent position on the stairwell. A Nubian sword and a Sudanese shield were also there. They too had once graced the hallway. At one end of the room, a cabinet enclosed a disheveled display of medals. An Order of St Louis (with a red sash) and a Red Hand of Ulster (with an orange ribbon) spoke to a family memory of social advancement during the reigns of a French King (Louis XVI [r. 1774–93]) and an English Queen (Victoria [r. 1837–1901]), respectively. Both medals were clearly labeled. My eye catches upon another medal. Like the Order of St Louis, it is starshaped. However, it bears an engraving in Arabic script (see Figure 0.1). However unlike the Order of St Louis, the medal is not labeled. In the center is the imperial monogram (tr. tuğra) on a silver boss. The tuğra is surrounded by a series of gold inscriptions that are engraved on red enamel. They read, “fidelity” (tr. “sadakat”), “life” (tr. “hayat”) and “perseverance” (tr. “gayret”). The date of the award is detailed on the bottom. It reads “Year 1902” (tr. “Sene 1318”). The medal is of course the Order of Mejidieh (tr. Mecidiye Nişanı), an honor bestowed by the Sultan (in this instance Sultan Abdülhamit II [r. 1876–1909]) upon the bearer for services rendered to the state. It was given to an ancestor, Seamus O’Connell (1863–1925), who had first fought in the Anglo-Egyptian War (1882) and who had then governed an Ottoman province in Sudan. For this service, Seamus received the Order of Osmanieh xvii

xviii Prelude

Figure 0.1  “Order of Mejidieh”—John M. O’Connell.

(Third Class) (tr. Osmanlı Devlet Nişanı) for his military prowess and the Order of Mejidieh (Fourth Class) for his administrative ability. Family memory is fickle. Where the adventures of family members in the courts of Europe during the eighteenth century are carefully remembered and



Order of Mejidieh

xix

clearly documented, the adventures of family members outside of Europe during the nineteenth century are mostly forgotten. There is a fine line here between amnesia and excision. Where relatives had fought in continental wars (mostly on the side of the French) during the eighteenth century to achieve national salvation,1 they now fought in the imperial wars (on the side of the British) during the nineteenth century in support of imperial expansion. In the aporia that exists between nationalism and imperialism, the memory of Seamus O’Connell has almost vanished. He is not especially remembered or exactly forgotten. His entry in official tracts is brief and unexceptional. In such sources, he lived and he died. Yet, a pungent font lurks within the wellsprings of family recollection. Seamus was more devoted to opium than to God. As an Irish Catholic with a Gaelic pedigree, his dedication to other activities of a salacious nature was best forgotten. The entry ends: “He died without issue.” That is all. The remains of Seamus remain with me. I relished his photograph album that documented his life in Cairo and Khartoum. There is a picture of the Suez Canal (c. 1882). Street musicians and water bearers are portrayed. Yet, Seamus was not the only relative with an “orientalist” inclination. There was an ancestor who, as a cartographer, documented Turkestan. There was an uncle who, as an Islamic jurist, resided in Kano. A letter here and a document there attest to their varied achievements. Another relative was a diplomat posted to the Ottoman Porte. His grave can today be found in the British Consulate (Istanbul). At home, the marginalia of these erstwhile orientalists still remains scattered and secreted. Where was the key to unlock this family devotion to the “east”? Yes, there were Persian miniatures and Arabic inscriptions. These were standard fare during the Victorian period. However, there is more. Family memory in the form of genealogical records sought to provide an “oriental” provenance for my forebears as Milesians. Accordingly, my kin traced their lineage to Moses and to Noah by way of the Phoenicians. Of course, ecclesiastical annals provided religious sanction to support such exotic tales of biblical origin.2 MEMORY I suppose it was inevitable that my relatives would fight in the Gallipoli Campaign. Not far from Miletus (a mythical home of the Milesians), many were killed and many were wounded. My grandfather, Maurice O’Connell (1889–1949), was one of them. He was present at the disastrous landings on “V” Beach at Cape Helles (April 25, 1915) when most of the Irish troops were decimated. In English and Turkish sources alike, the sea at the landing site is described as turning red with blood. My grandfather kept a folio of

xx Prelude

personal mementos. It includes the official portrayal of the Allied landings as they were reported in the press (see Figure 0.2). It is a practice run for the actual assault, soldiers disembarking from the landing vessel (the collier called the “River Clyde”) in single file and in singular order. The reality was anything but organized. It was a terrifying concoction of drowned soldiers

Figure 0.2  “The River Clyde”—Maurice D. O’Connell.



Order of Mejidieh

xxi

and dismembered combatants, the shrieks of the wounded and the cries of the dying. On and on, the Irish recruits were forced by their English commanders into the terrifying abyss without reprieve and without remorse.3 The official history of the Allied landings on “V” Beach is sterile and unimpassioned. Written by McCance ([1927] 2015: 45–54) with respect to the Royal Munster Fusiliers, it details systematically the achievements made and the casualties endured by the First Battalion of that infantry regiment. Noting the honor that was bestowed upon the soldiers on being selected to lead the assault at “V” Beach (ibid.: 45), McCance describes the preparations for and the landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula. After a rousing farewell by brass bands playing the well-known numbers “Tipperary” and “British Grenadiers,” he explains how Companies “W,” “X,” “Y” and “Z” were crammed into the River Clyde. He downplays the slaughter, seeking to highlight the bravery of individual officers (rather than ordinary soldiers). Names are itemized as dead or wounded. Promotions are mentioned and medals are listed. The glory of the Royal Munster Fusiliers is compared favorably with past victories (especially in India). Only one statement alludes to the terrible massacre on the Turkish shore. McCance (ibid.: 48) notes in passing: “The sight was ghastly, the water along the shore and especially around the boats was red with blood.”4 At home, I scanned family papers to ascertain my grandfather’s recollection of the Gallipoli landings. In contrast to his cousins (see chapter 3), he retained no letters and wrote no memoirs. When I asked my father about his father, he replied: “He never talked about it.” Here, silence operated as an unstated consensus between veterans. For them, the War was unspeakable. As Fussell ([1975] 2013: 184) reminds us: “We have made unspeakable mean indescribable [when] it really means nasty.” This was probably true for my grandfather. Wounded in Gallipoli and gassed in France, family photographs depict him as gaunt and reserved. As if to explain his aloofness, my aunt sympathetically emphasized the inescapable reality of his pain. Unlike Seamus though, my grandfather is celebrated in official histories. He was decorated (with a Military Cross) and promoted (to the rank of ADC). After the War, he returned home to a country in the grips of insurrection. Although an Irish Catholic, my grandfather as a British officer could find no place in the new order. Impoverished by the War and sidelined by the state, he had no choice but to remain silent about his past and his present. However, Fussell does have something to say. In his critical study of memory in the War, he argues that memory is fiction, be it in the realms of letters or memoirs. He contends that soldiers had to frame their experience of the War using the language of the past by making inter-textual references to previous works composed by poets (such as John Keats [1795–1821]) and writers (such as John Bunyan [1628–88]). Further, he emphasizes the role

xxii Prelude

of parody and irony in contemporary accounts of wartime experience where memories of the War were often structured using familiar juxtapositions or optimistic clichés. For example, strategic fortifications were called after wellknown landmarks (such as “Hyde Park”) and censored correspondence was framed by risible euphemisms (such as “I am well” [left undeleted]). Here, Fussell asserts that a literary canon enabled soldiers to reimagine their existing world according to the discourse of a preceding world. In this way, soldiers could envisage themselves as actors in a “theater of war” and trenches could be viewed as allotments in an “arcadia of sacrifice.” Of course, poppies were blood red precisely because they thrived upon the entrails of the fallen. Fussell addresses a growing body of critical literature as it relates to memory in war. While authors (like McCance) and journalists (like Bean [1920–42]) were quick to start writing official histories about Irish and Australian combatants, respectively, it would take almost a century before the focus on memory received adequate attention. As Ziino (2015) summarizes the relevant issues, he offers a systematic interrogation of the production and reception of memory. He questions: What is the distinction between historical memory and living memory? Is it just a difference between a written account and an oral testimony? Or, can living memory survive as historical memory? Again he asks: What is the difference between collective memory and personal memory? Are each simply representative of a social position and an individual perspective, respectively? Or, are they mutually interdependent, social forces shaping individual recollection, individual viewpoints shaping social recall. Further, he inquires: What is the role of family history in the bifurcated world of personal testimony and cultural knowledge? How is such family history inculcated (for example, in didactic contexts) and relayed (for example, by way of digital media)? Perhaps, Ziino cannot interrogate adequately the unspoken consensus of surviving combatants (like my grandfather). Yes, his analysis of written records is entirely apposite when critiquing the extensive output of personal testimonies (especially in private memoirs) and written records (especially in official histories) that appears, for example, in the ANZAC corpus, where scholars from Australia and New Zealand have sought to remember the Gallipoli Campaign as a decisive moment in the emergence of their nation states (see chapter 6). Yes too, his insight into historical memory is especially relevant when considering the formulaic character of personal reminiscence where authorities from Ireland and Britain (among others) have attempted to understand human experience in the context of inhuman circumstance. However, memorized fact is not always historical fiction. That is, personal accounts (in the form of diaries and letters) do speak about the terrible realities of war (see chapter 3). And, artistic portrayals (in the guise of poems and photographs) do convey the terrors of conflict. Without such testimony,



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the responsibility for murderous actions in the name of nationalist prejudice could never be adequately assessed (see chapter 7). However, it would be unfair to dismiss the nuanced reading of remembrance proffered by Ziino. After all, he summarizes successfully an extended body of literature on the topic. In particular, Ziino (ibid.: 3) invokes the work of Winter (2006) to reconsider the notion of memory as remembrance, arguing that it is individuals who remember and forget, and it is societies who commiserate and commemorate (see chapter 7). That is, Ziino restores agency back into the “discourse on memory” by privileging the “who” over the “what” in remembrance. Following Confino (1997), Ziino (ibid.: 4) recognizes the bifurcation of this “discourse on memory” into the personal (covering testimonies and genealogies) and the cultural (covering representations and transmissions), Ziino noting in particular the significance of editorial selection in the inter-personal circulation of remembered pasts. Further, Ziino (ibid.: 4–5) references Assmann (1995) to explore the sites of collective memory, where the individual and the cultural intersect in the enactment of ceremonies (see chapter 1), in the construction of museums (see chapter 4), in the circulation of literature (see chapter 5), and in the screening of films (see chapter 6), among others. There is one chapter in the edited collection by Ziino that concerns both remembering and forgetting. Written by the revisionist historian Jeffery (2015), the piece explores the national amnesia in Ireland toward the War. In contrast to the widespread assumption that the Irish contribution was forgotten, Jeffrey argues that Armistice Day (November 11) in particular was widely commemorated throughout Ireland, even after the establishment of the Irish Free State (1922). War monuments were erected and commemorative ceremonies were attended (ibid.: 168). Even Jeffrey concedes, however, that the Irish engagement with the War was not “enthusiastically and openly commemorated” after independence (ibid.: 168).5 Rather, he argues that Irish neutrality (during the Second World War [1939–45]) and Irish nationalism (during the “Troubles” [1968–98]) militated against Irish participation in commemorative events that were widely considered to be enactments of British militarism. More recently, this amnesia has been replaced by reminiscence, the Irish contribution to the War once again being remembered and not forgotten (see Coda). For my grandfather though, this change in national attitude came too late. For him, silence was his way of remembering. For others, silence was their way of forgetting. MUSIC How might this silence become song? In their contribution to the collection edited by Ziino, Grant and Hanna (2015) look at the role of music in

xxiv Prelude

remembrance. In particular, they focus on popular musicians who have questioned the sanitized display of musical performance in commemorative events. One of the songs is especially memorable. Entitled “Remembrance Day,” the piece provides an iconoclastic interpretation of the annual ceremonies which take place at the Cenotaph (London). Performed by the folk singer Leon Rosselson (1934-) on an album entitled “Turning Silence into Song” (2004) [track: 4], the following lines of the piece are noteworthy. Attributed “To the voice of the fallen / The voice of the dead,” a ghost cries out during the traditional silence of two minutes at the event: “I speak for the silent slaughtered / The ones who rot under the grass.” The ghost continues: “And we don’t want your two minutes silence / You can stick it up your arse.” Similar numbers by the punk band called “Disorder” (1983) and the rock artist named “PJ Harvey” (2011) are also highlighted in the relevant chapter for their subversive reading of war commemoration (see, also, chapter 7). However, Grant and Hanna also consider other areas of music and remembrance. They examine the musical monuments of commemoration, especially A World Requiem (1919–21) by John Foulds (1880–1939) and the War Requiem (1963) by Benjamin Britten (1913–76). In both works, they interrogate the eclectic juxtaposition of disparate elements, the inter-cultural mix in the first and the inter-denominational blend in the second. Surprisingly, the authors do not point out the outsider status of their principal protagonists in the context of war memorialization since Foulds advanced a heterogeneous palate worthy of ethnomusicological interest and Britten advocated a pacifist position attracting official disapprobation. The authors also explore the widespread dissemination of “soldier songs” during the War. Critiquing the authentic provenance of such numbers (ibid.: 111), they argue that veterans after the War sought to remember the fallen by singing a popular repertoire rather than listening to a “classical” canon. Indeed the iconoclastic tenor of recent artists against the sterilized manner of remembrance rituals found its precedence in Armistice Nights (during the 1920s), when veterans wished to celebrate the living with community songs while the establishment wanted to commemorate the dead with symphonic works. Grant and Hanna (ibid.: 110–1) frame their discussion by referencing two major issues. First, they note the relationship between music and memory in psychology.6 Citing Sloboda (1999), they argue that music plays a critical role in memory, especially when the past is to be retrieved in the present. Of course, the study of music and memory has received extensive attention in the scholarly literature that considers the neurological and the emotional, the clinical and the social. Critical here is the role of music in facilitating memory recall, be it to expand the intellectual capacity of the young or to prevent the intellectual decline of the old.7 Second, the authors explore the connection between music and monumentality. Citing Nora (1984–92), they view



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musical works as “sites of memory” (fr. “lieux de mémoire”). However, they do not develop the central argument posited by Nora (1996a): the relationship between memory and history. As I show above, they could have analyzed the distinction between a “classical” style of commemoration (such as the elitist compositions of art music) and a post-“classical” style of counter-commemoration (such as the subversive anthems of popular music).8 Further, Grant and Hanna fail to acknowledge another mode of remembrance, the milieux de mémoire. Described by Nora (ibid.: 1) as “settings in which memory is a real part of everyday experience,” the milieux de mémoire are considered by him to be vestiges of a pre-industrial past, no longer relevant in a [post-]modern France. However, the milieux de mémoire are important in “folk” memory. They speak to a collective memory of an agrarian population engaged in the War, be it Anatolian conscripts in the Ottoman army or Irish recruits in the British army. Two musical examples are exemplary. First, the song entitled “Çanakkale Türküsü” addresses the wartime experience of Turkish soldiers (see chapter 1). Unable to communicate in writing (most Turkish soldiers were illiterate), “Çanakkale Türküsü” conveys the futility of warfare, life envisaged in song as an endless graveyard framed by cypress trees. Second, the song entitled “Old Gallipoli” (see chapter 3) expresses the wartime experiences of Irish volunteers in the Gallipoli Campaign. Although literate (unlike their Turkish counterparts), Irish soldiers employed song to express a complex positionality in the Allied offensive, the Irish being both complicit in yet critical of a colonial encounter. Had Grant and Hanna considered these milieux de mémoire, they would have recognized the significance of oral transmission for conveying memory through music. For example, my father sang “Old Gallipoli.” He must have learned it from his father, a veteran of the Gallipoli Campaign. The setting and the version are different from standard recordings of the piece. Here is where silence turns into song, my grandfather communicating across the generations through music the irony of his wartime experience. Unfortunately, I did not pay attention at the time. If I had, I would have recognized the intertextual relationship between the trench song entitled “Old Gallipoli” and the vaudeville number entitled “The Mountains of Mourne.” There is a verbal relationship between both songs. There is also a musical connection between both songs (see chapter 3). Like other “soldiers’ songs,” “Old Gallipoli” is a parody of popular numbers. Unlike other “soldiers’ songs” though, “Old Gallipoli” is probably authentic since there are different renderings of the song and there are distinctive interpretations of the number. Most importantly, “Old Gallipoli” references geographical locations on the Gallipoli Peninsula where Irish soldiers were killed in the service of the British Empire. Of course, Grant and Hanna deal successfully with the notion of juxtaposition, both in terms of texts combined and melodies united in musical

xxvi Prelude

compositions. They also successfully interrogate the social conditions that underpin musical taste where distinctive styles speak to different classes, the ritual of remembrance being bound up with the industrial politics of post-War Britain. However, this is a flaw as well as a feat since the authors confine their criticism to “western” music in a “western” nation. However, musical memory transcends such a confined consideration of style and state. Although the relevant collection edited by Ziino features contributions about remembrance outside of Britain (in Austria and Belgium) and outside of Europe (in Australia and Turkey), the chapter by Grant and Hanna is for the most part anglocentric (in terms of language) and eurocentric (in terms of music). That is, the authors fail to consider other styles of musical production during the War and reflect upon other genres of musical remembrance after the War. Given that mobilization involved a diverse range of recruits from the British and French colonies, from the Russian and German empires, the omission in musical representation requires rectification. Ethnomusicology has traditionally positioned itself as the principled appraiser of musical ethnocentrism. In the past however, the field has often adopted a non-“western” counterpoint to a “western” canon. This has changed. Here, historical ethnomusicology has played a leading role in transcending the disciplinary distinctions between music outside the “west” and music in the “west.” There are two important collections that espouse such pluralism. First, Bithell (2006) edited a volume entitled “The Past in Music.” Examining European and non-European musical traditions, she considers the ways in which the past is constructed in the present, showing how music stores memory through inscription and music embodies memory through incorporation (ibid.: 5). Further, she highlights the significance of emotion in memory where the past is both uncovered in music but clothed with feeling (ibid.: 11). Second, McCollum and Herbert (2014) edited a collection devoted to historical ethnomusicology. Like Bithell, the editors solicited submissions from across a range of musical styles and musical traditions. In contrast to Bithell, the editors sought to develop a theory and method of historical approaches to music-making that embraced document collection and data analysis, historiographic criticism and performance practice. Yet both publications do not address two fundamental issues in historical ethnomusicology. In the first instance, they do not evaluate the significance of metaphor for interrogating the role of music in memoirs. As I show (see chapter 6), many soldiers describe their wartime experience in musical terms ranging from “the song of the shells” to the “siren call of this beach.” Indeed, many poems written at the battlefront were named after a musical genre (such as sonnet) or featured a musical imprint (such as “The Diggers”). In the second instance, they do not recognize the importance of mimesis for understanding the function of music in memory. As I also show (see chapter 3),



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an unpretentious song (such as “Old Gallipoli”) can reveal complex notions of national identity among Irish recruits through the simple reiteration of a musical frame by way of inscription (in the melodic structure) and incorporation (in the performative moment).9 Drawing upon a literary precedent (see, e.g., Fussell [[1975] 2013]), the past is inscribed in and incorporated into the present. For Irish soldiers, the historic tropes of militarism and orientalism are uncovered through the very act of musical rendition. GALLIPOLI There are more tangible ways in which music ignites memory. On stage (see chapter 5) and in film (see chapter 6), music can uncover, respectively, forgotten notions of Turkish difference (as in the play called “Yarım Türkler”) or challenge remembered readings of Australian heroism (as in the film called “Gallipoli”). Should war be celebrated (as in the centennial celebration of the Gallipoli landings) or should it be commemorated (as in the centenary commemoration of the Armenian genocide)? As I show in chapters 1 and 7, both events were scheduled to take place on the same date, April 24 (2015). Such a coincidence did not occur without an international outcry. However, there is more to music and memory in the Gallipoli Campaign. The battle involved the composition of musical genres during the conflict (such as the military march entitled “Mehter Marşı”) and after the conflict (such as the symphonic work entitled “The Gallipoli Symphony”). Among these musical compositions, the most popular are still remembered. Yet, some musicmakers are often forgotten such as the janissary musicians who fought in the War (see chapter 4) or the Jewish entrepreneurs who worked during the War (see chapter 2). Perhaps, the German contribution to the Turkish victory in the Gallipoli Campaign is most overlooked (see chapter 2).10 From a military perspective, the major involvement of German advisors in the protection of the Dardanelles Straits and the defense of the Gallipoli Peninsula is downplayed. Either, Turkish historians have criticized German strategy as tactical, drawing Allied troops away from the Western Front to fight on Turkish soil. Or, Turkish historians have ignored German assistance, thereby emphasizing a Turkish victory and the ascendency of a Turkish leader, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938). Interestingly, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] was not immediately recognized as the principal victor of the Gallipoli Campaign in Ottoman circles.11 From a cultural perspective, the important contribution of Germanic impresarios in the promotion of German culture during the early twentieth century is almost forgotten.12 Sometimes called the “German epoch” (tr. “Alman zamanı”), German music was heard and German literature was

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read by the Ottoman intelligentsia, German lecturers being employed at the university in Istanbul (then called the “Darülfünun”) to address a contemporary demand for language instruction. Critical here was the rapid expansion of the German Mission in Istanbul during the War. However, the Gallipoli Campaign is especially memorialized in English and Turkish sources. In English, James (1965) and Moorhead (1956) have published academic studies and popular accounts, respectively, of the Gallipoli Campaign. In Turkish, Erikan (1964) and Conk (1959) have issued general (on the Gallipoli victory) and particular (on the Chunuk Bair battles) reports on the Gallipoli Campaign. These are just a few of the extant studies. The chief personalities in the Gallipoli Campaign are suitably remembered such as an extended memoir by Sir Ian Hamilton (1920) and a short history by Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1962). Of course, the German contribution to the Ottoman victory is not entirely forgotten (see, e.g., the history by Kannengiesser [1927] and the diary by Sanders [1920]). These publications also appeared in Turkish translation (as Kannengiesser [2010] and Sanders [1968]). However, the French contribution is less well represented (see, e.g., the personal diary by Charles-Roux [1920] and the illustrated account by Guépratte [1935]), indicating the diminished status accorded to the Gallipoli Campaign in the French imagination: this despite the heavy losses endured by the French forces during the Gallipoli Campaign.13 Recently, many publications have appeared to mark the centenary of the Gallipoli landings. Although too numerous to itemize here, some outputs are worthy of mention. They include memoirs in English (see Crawford Ed. [2014]) and Turkish (see Altay [2002]); diaries in English (see King [2013]) and Turkish (see Açıkel Ed. [2015]); letters in English (see Lee [2015]) and Turkish (see Gölbaşı [2016]); and histories in English (see Fitzsimmons [2015]) and in Turkish (see Tutkun [2015]). Books on the Turkish perspective have been published in English (see Broadbent [2015]) and translations of English originals have appeared in Turkish (see Moorhead [2003]). Further, there have been relevant studies that concern cartography (see Şevki Paşa [2009]) and photography (see Bradley Ed. [2014]), archeology (see Sagona Eds [2016]) and oceanography (see Frame [2000]), indicating an on-going preoccupation with the Gallipoli Campaign especially in Australia and Turkey. Surprisingly, there have been few studies about music-making in the Gallipoli Campaign. In contrast to the Western Front where authoritative monographs are extant (see, e.g., Watkins [2003] and Tyler [2016]), relevant analyses have been confined to a short overview (see Holden [2014]) and an unpublished pamphlet (see Latham [unpubl.]).14 Most of these publications tell a version of the same story. In English, they usually begin with a military stalemate on the Western Front (following the Battle of the Marne in September, 1914) and a strategic rescue on the



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Eastern Front (following an advance into the Russian Empire by the Central Powers). To outflank the Germanic assaults in the “west” and the “east,” Winston Churchill (1874–1965) as the first lord of the Admiralty (s. 1911–5) proposed a diversionary tactic, the breach of the Dardanelles. This strategy would guarantee the withdrawal of the Turks from and the continuation of the Russians in the War. In Turkish, they usually begin with the debilitating state of the Ottoman Empire after a century of disastrous wars (such as the Russo-Turkish War [1877–8]) and unfavorable treaties (such as the Treaty of Berlin [1878]). During the twentieth century, Ottoman sovereignty was further eroded in the Balkans and the Aegean. There was one bright spot in this decline of imperial grandeur, the recapture of Edirne (1913) by [İsmail] Enver Paşa (1881–1922), an Ottoman general with a Prussian manner who led a coup d’état (1913) and became minister of war (s. 1914–8). In the Gallipoli Campaign, Enver Paşa was a pivotal figure. As an ardent teutophile, Enver Paşa ensured that the Ottoman Empire sided with the Central Powers rather than the Triple Entente. He signed a secret pact with German diplomats (August 2, 1914) and agreed to the provocative shelter of German warships (August 10, 1914). Although the declaration of war occurred later (November 11, 1914), mobilization for war was instigated earlier (August 2, 1914) in anticipation of a military campaign against Russia, among others (see chapter 2). In the Dardanelles, German engineers updated first the naval fortifications and second the land defenses. These improvements proved to be critical in the successful repulse of the Allied navies in the Dardanelles Straits (on March 18, 1915) and the effective containment of the Allied armies on the Gallipoli Peninsula (after April 25, 1915). Of course, both the Germans and the Turks benefitted from Allied incompetence especially in the relay of military command and the provision of military supplies. Further, the inhospitable geographical conditions on the Gallipoli Peninsula and the inclement meteorological conditions during the Gallipoli Campaign favored disproportionately the defenders over the invaders. The Gallipoli Campaign is usually represented in three stages (see Figure 0.3). First, the naval bombardment of the defensive positions along the Dardanelles (begun on February 19, 1915) culminated in a naval attack to breach the Straits (March 18, 1915). Organized into three waves of ships in formation, the attack was repulsed through a combination of mines and guns. In total, three ships were destroyed and three were disabled. The goal of capturing Istanbul by means of a naval assault was not realized. Second, the Allied landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula occurred more than a month later. Three sites were envisaged: the French landing at Kum Kale, the British landings on Cape Helles (tr. İlyas Burnu) and the ANZAC landing beneath Gaba Tepe (tr. Kaba Tepe). As is well known, the ANZACs landed too far north at Anzac Cove (tr. Arı Burnu). They were lucky. As noted earlier, the

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Figure 0.3  “Map of Gallipoli”—Ian Dennis. Permission provided by Ian Dennis.



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Irish soldiers who landed at Cape Helles (on “V” Beach [tr. Ertuğrul Koyu]) were not so lucky. More than two thirds of their contingent was annihilated. Third, the Allied forces made another landing at Suvla Bay (August 9, 1915) hoping to break a deadlock in the Gallipoli Campaign. The Gallipoli Campaign was characterized by attack and counterattack. Little territory was gained or lost. The slaughter on both sides was terrifying and terrible, the Allied forces and the Ottoman armies each losing around fifty thousand dead and over a hundred thousand wounded. There were three battles alone for the inland settlement called “Krithia” (tr. “Kirte”). All three battles were pointless and inconclusive. The ANZAC forces led a diversionary attack known as the “ANZAC Breakout” (August 6–9, 1915) that coincided with the Suvla landings. The Turkish mounted a counteroffensive at Cape Helles (August 12–3, 1915) and the British launched an offensive in Suvla Bay (August 21, 1915). However, the stalemate was not alleviated by either side. What with illness (especially dysentery and typhoid) and weather (either too hot or too cold), the Allied position looked increasingly untenable. A negative report by an Australian journalist (Keith Murdoch [1885–1952]) and an alternative campaign (in the Balkans) sealed the fate of the misguided adventure. While Sir Ian Hamilton (1853–1947) was maligned and Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] would be venerated, there was one final outcome: the successful evacuation of the Allied forces with minimal losses. REMEMBERING AND FORGETTING That is how the story is usually told. However, it is not my story. In particular, I am interested in the ways in which music can be used to uncover an archeology of memory by disclosing multiple strata of disremembered identities and disregarded ideologies (see chapters 3 and 4).15 That is, where language might be used to forget, music may be used to remember. I also explore how music was used on stage or in film to interrogate the complex positionality of the principal protagonists who might be imperialists or nationalists (see chapter 5), warmongers or peacemakers (see chapter 6). Further, I argue that rituals of remembrance are themselves instruments of war since they perpetuate militarism in the guise of pacifism whether employed to celebrate the centenary of a campaign (see chapter 1) or to commemorate the centennial of a genocide (see chapter 7). Of course, I do not ignore the role played by minorities in the conflict such as the musical contribution of Māoris among the Allies (see chapter 1) and Jews among the Ottomans (see chapter 2). The monograph is organized into seven chapters. Each chapter opens with an ethnographic vignette (be it a play or a film, a picture or a memoir, an event or a tour) that allows for the study of a specific issue in connection

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with a particular group. In each chapter, a musical work or a music-maker is foregrounded. Chapter 1 is entitled “A Soldier’s Lament.” It presents a “thick description” of the centennial celebration in Turkey (April 24, 2015). It also provides a musical analysis of a Turkish song entitled “Çanakkale Türküsü,” a number that is intimately associated with the Gallipoli Campaign. Chapter 2 is entitled “The Holy War.” It focuses on a German music director and German-speaking musical entrepreneurs in the Ottoman capital. It views music-making as an integral part of the Germanic desire to build “an empire in the sun.” Chapter 3 is entitled “Old Gallipoli.” It reconsiders the role of Irish soldiers who served in the British army on the Gallipoli Peninsula. It analyses an Irish song that reveals through parody and satire how the Irish were at once complicit in yet critical of the colonial project. Chapter 4 is entitled “Mehter in the Museum.” It traces the revival of the janissary band (tr. mehter takımı) in the Military Museum just before the War. It interrogates the martial character of the musical repertoire associated with this military ensemble. Chapter 5 is entitled “Hybrid Turks.” It looks at the contemporary preoccupation among Ottoman ideologues with hybrid Turks (who were pejoratively called “half Turks” [tr. “yarım Türkler”]). Through staged performance, it examines the audible and the visible display of a pristine identity, one that is exclusively Turkish by race and Muslim by creed. Chapter 6 is entitled “Sound Bites.” It investigates the strategic use of music in films about the Gallipoli Campaign. Through an extensive perusal of relevant memoirs and poems, it revisits the sounds of the battle front, especially from the perspective of the ANZAC combatants. Chapter 7 is entitled “Music as Memory.” It describes how music has been employed to remember or forget, to celebrate or commemorate the Gallipoli Campaign. It is especially critical of the bellicose militarism that accompanies commemorative events: be it in Turkey or Australia, Armenia or Ireland. The monograph builds upon my research record especially in the areas of music and conflict (see O’Connell [2010a], [2011a]) and music and minorities (see O’Connell [2015a], [2015b]). The book draws upon my published output that concerns music-making in the late Ottoman Empire (see O’Connell [2005]) and the early Turkish Republic (see O’Connell [2013]). Here, my work on Jewish instrumentalists (see O’Connell [2011b]) and Christian vocalists (see O’Connell [2006]) is especially relevant. Further, field research completed by me in Germany and Turkey, and academic appointments held by me in Ireland and New Zealand inform the musical content and the cultural substance of the publication. Recently, a growing body of literature on Irish orientalism (see, e.g., Lennon [2004]) and Irish militarism (see, e.g., Dungan [2014]) provide an intellectual context for this output. Most importantly, I had access to family documents, for the most part memoirs and memorabilia of relations who fought and died in the War.



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Although my grandfather remained silent about his wartime experiences, I aim to “turn [his] silence into song” by showing how music can recover memories of the Gallipoli Campaign. NOTES 1. For an overview of the O’Connells who fought in the continental wars and who were ennobled in the Austrian (Moritz Baron O’Connell [1738–1830]) and the French (Daniel Count O’Connell [1745–1833]) courts, see [Mary A.] O’Connell (1892). For a more general study of Irish soldiers who fought in the continental wars and who prospered in the continental courts during the eighteenth century, see McGarry (2013). 2. Genealogy presented a fertile locus for engaging with the “east.” As represented in medieval sources (see, e.g., the “Book of Invasions” [ir. “Lebor Gabála Érenn”]), the Irish race was descended from Milesius (an invader from Spain), who was directly descended from Noah (separated by twenty-six generations) and from Adam (separated by another ten generations). A Hebrew (Magog grandson of Noah), a Scythian (Boath son of Magog) and a Phoenician (Phœnius Farsaidh son of Boath) are part of this mythical pedigree. Calculated according to the exact timeline for creation proposed by Archbishop James Usher (1581–1656), Milesius came to Ireland in 1700 BC as the thirty-sixth descendent of Adam; that is, around two thousand and three hundred years after human genesis (in 4004 BC). Historians (such as Geoffrey Keating [1569–1644]) and musicians (such as Turlough O’Carolan [1670–1738]) reiterated in words and in songs this pseudo-account of Irish lineage. Later, antiquarians (like O’Ferrall [1709]) and balladeers (like Moore [1835–1845]) would reinforce the biblical provenance and the “oriental” derivation of the Irish people, respectively. 3. Aboard the River Clyde, the assault party was under the command of Herbert Carrington Smith (d. 1915), an English Lieutenant Colonel in the Hampshire Regiment. During the beach landings when Carrington Smith was killed, Henry Tizard (1866–1943) assumed command, an English Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Munster Fusiliers. Although Tizard was English by birth he may have had Irish relatives since he christened his daughter “Eileen,” an Irish name. Backed by the captain of the River Clyde, Edward Unwin (1864–1950), it was Tizard who insisted upon the continued assault on “V” Beach by Irish soldiers, this despite the horrific casualties experienced by the Irish contingent. McCance ([1927] 2015: 51) calculates that around six hundred men (including non-commissioned officers) were killed or wounded during the assault, representing around two thirds of the original contingent. Because of the crippled state of the Irish forces after the Gallipoli landings, the Royal Munster Fusiliers was amalgamated with the Royal Dublin Fusiliers to form the “Dubsters.” 4. For other harrowing accounts of Irish soldiers slaughtered on “V” Beach, see Dungan (2014: 24–46) and Lecane (2015: 146–209), among others. Some accounts are more sanguine. They include the “classic” account of the Allied landings at Cape Helles by Masefield (1926) and the general history of Irish soldiers in the War by Johnstone (1992). See Myers (2015: 97–113) for an alternative interpretation of the

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Irish landings on “V” Beach. Of interest, Myers suggests that the number of dead was exaggerated to suit a “classical” narrative of heroic martyrdom, an Irish version of the Greek sacrifice on the Trojan shore. 5. Jeffery (2000: 107–43) offers a detailed coverage of the politics associated with commemoration in Ireland following the War. Although he acknowledges that successive governments in Southern Ireland wished to commemorate the Irish dead with a specially-designated monument, he notes a contemporary ambivalence among nationalist politicians to create a new site for unionist commemoration, Armistice Day (November 11), like the Battle of the Boyne (July 12), becoming a new date to celebrate Ulster’s independence from the Irish Free State. 6. The study of music and memory is extensive. In the realm of cognition, Snyder (2000) provides a useful coverage of the relevant issues, be it the operation of shortterm and long-term memory or in the perception of melody and meter, metaphor and form. In the realm of neurology, Sacks (2011) presents an accessible overview of pertinent matters that include amusia and dysharmonia, talent and emotion. His consideration of music and memory in terms of amnesia is especially relevant to this study. In ethnomusicology, there have been many studies that consider the selective memory of a contested past with reference to music-making such as Anderson (2001) in the field of music criticism, Romero (2001) in the area of identity formation, and Harris (2004) in the domain of ritual practice, among others. 7. In music therapy, two edited collections are relevant here. First, Thaut and Hoemberg Eds (2014) discuss the role of music in rehabilitation, covering such issues as music and autism, and music and dementia. Second, Tamplin and Baker (2006) provide practical guides for using musical compositions and musical instruments in clinical conditions to promote memory recall among children and adults alike. Here, the role of music in developing immediate memory and abstract thought is especially important. 8. Nora (1996b: 614–5) distinguishes between a “classical” style of commemoration that involves intervention from above (such as the state construction of monuments and the official organization of rituals) and a post-“classical” style of commemoration that involves organization from below (such as theatrical productions and musical performances). Although Nora does not use the term “post-classical,” Rehding (2009: 12–3) interpolates Nora’s original typology when discussing modern (that is, “classical”) and postmodern (that is, “post-classical”) modes of memory in his critical study of music and monumentality. Of interest, Rehding also discusses Nora’s notion of milieu[x] de mémoire as a mode of memory associated with a preindustrial or agrarian society. See Bithell (2006: 15), among others, for an ethnomusicological consideration of Nora with respect to the theorization of the past in music. See, also, Tischler Ed. (2006) for a consideration of Nora’s concepts of milieu[x] de mémoire and lieu[x] de mémoire as they relate to the cultural memory of Istanbul during the twentieth century. 9. I consider elsewhere the roles of musical inscription and choreographic incorporation in my study of music and difference in Badakhshan (Tajikistan). In these studies, I examine the ways in which memory is encoded differently in the realms of sound and movement (see O’Connell [2004], [2015b]). Elsewhere, I have traced



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the re-inscription of and the re-incorporation of an “oriental” alterity (the alaturka phenomenon) in musical discourse by recourse to poststructuralist analysis (see O’Connell [2005]). 10. See Trumpener (1968) for an authoritative account of German-Ottoman relations during the War. 11. Mango (1999: 159) notes that Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] was not recognized at first for his military achievements in the Gallipoli Campaign. He argues that Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] was applauded publically three years later in a commemorative edition of the journal Yeni Mecmua ([March 5, 1334] March 18, 1918 [No. 81]) when the future president was recognized for his strategic intervention as commander of the Anafarta Group. Mango (1999) suggests that Enver Paşa was instrumental in countermining the public recognition of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] as the victor of the Gallipoli Campaign. 12. See chapter 2 for a consideration of German culture in the twentieth century. Although the role of German musicians is mentioned by some authorities (see, e.g., Baydar [2010]), many sources overlook the contribution of Germanic musicians and Germanic entrepreneurs to the music culture of the Ottoman capital. For example, the recent study of “western” music in the Ottoman Empire by Alimdar (2016) only mentions German institutions in passing (ibid.: 55, 187, 261–2). That is, this major study is for the most part devoted to Turkish protagonists. With the exception of some citations in English and French, nearly all of the sources referenced by Alimdar are either in Turkish or Ottoman. 13. Greenhalgh and Guelton (2013) published a chapter on the French in Gallipoli. They explore the reasons for the French involvement in the Gallipoli Campaign, colonial expansion in the Levant and a strategic alliance with Russia (among others) determining their decision to join the Allied contingent. Although the French suffered heavy casualties (an estimated ten thousand dead and twenty thousand wounded), they do not recognize the Gallipoli Campaign as an important site for commemoration. In this matter, the war historian John Horne (1949-) suggests that other battles involving French troops on the Western Front and the significant presence of “Senegalese” infantry on the Gallipoli Peninsula militated against the French recognition of the Gallipoli Campaign in remembrance rituals. See “Why We Don’t Hear about 10,000 French Deaths at Gallipoli” by John Horne at the following web address: www.theconversation.com [Access Date: September 6, 2016]. For a general history in French on the Battle for the Dardanelles (fr. La bataille des Dardanelles) based upon secondary sources, see Hérubel (1998). 14. See Watt (2014) for a study of two songs that are intimately associated in Australia with the War. He also provides a relevant bibliography of pertinent sources, especially in the form of postgraduate research. Like me, Watt shows the importance of parody and satire in the composition of wartime numbers, both of us completing analyses of the song entitled “For Auld Lang Syne! Australia will be There” (see chapter 6). Watt links the contemporary construction of Australian manhood (to be found in this song) not only to an Edwardian conception of militarism but also to a Darwinian notion of evolution where Australian men represented the zenith of human development. I would like to thank an anonymous reviewer for suggesting this source to me.

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15. Ashplant, Dawson and Roper Eds (2009: 32–52) speak about an “archaeology of memory” where different “templates” (ibid.: 34–6) serve to frame distinctive memories of past conflicts. Although the authors refer to films and monuments, music could equally be considered to be “template” where melody offers distinctive readings of identity and ideology; that is, music may call into question the singular representation of the past proffered by language. Of importance, the editors attempt to mediate the divide between a structuralist (see Hobsbawm and Ranger Eds [1983]) and symbolic (see Winter [1995]) interpretation of memory by recourse to a transnational dimension.

Chapter 1

A Soldier’s Lament

The location is Turkey. The season is spring. At noon on April 24 (2015), a boat glides across the Dardanelles Strait toward the Gallipoli Peninsula. On board, the president of the Turkish Republic (Recep T. Erdoğan [1954–]) is about to officiate at the centenary celebrations to mark the Allied landings on April 25 (1915). As it is Friday, he attends a service at a local mosque before entertaining his guests for lunch, thirteen presidents from different Islamic nations.1 While the Turkish media is quick to emphasize that seventy dignitaries from around the world will attend the commemorative event, the picture is quite not so simple. Many foreign officials have boycotted the ceremonies in protest at the inappropriate alteration of the memorial date, a date that coincides with the centennial remembrance of the Armenian genocide. The change from April 25 to April 24 incites widespread protest at home and abroad. Not deterred, Erdoğan proceeds with his revised schedule, inviting the heads of state from Muslim countries to counteract criticism. This has not been an easy year for Erdoğan. Although he oversaw an expanding economy since being appointed as prime minister (s. 2003–14), his zeal to accrue power as president (inaugurated 2014) has not gone without criticism. Combining a religious conservatism with an ardent nationalism, he has sought to promote his own version of Islamicism by counteracting the secular agenda of the Turkish Republic (founded in 1923) and by reviving the sacral aspirations of the Ottoman Empire (1299–1922). Called by some “neoOttomanism” (tr. “neo-Osmanlıcılık”), his policies have attempted to revive the imperial glories of an Ottoman past by courting political favor with former Ottoman territories (such as Egypt) and by shunning economic relations with past Turkish allies (such as Israel). Trappings of neo-Ottomanism are evident in the widespread use of headscarves among women (once discouraged) and in the expansion of religious schools for men (once frowned upon). 1

2

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Erdoğan has even sought to resuscitate Ottoman Turkish (tr. Osmanlıca), a hybrid language using Arabic script that was replaced by modern Turkish using Latin script (1928). Erdoğan is clearly not happy. As his boat arrives at the port of Eceabat on the southern shore of the Gallipoli Peninsula, he wears sunglasses to disguise his discomfort. Recently, he has aged considerably. His presidency has been marred by corruption scandals and anti-government protests. Journalists have been imprisoned. His foreign policy of neighborly relations with former Ottoman territories has unraveled with the civil war in Syria and the military coup in Egypt. More seriously, he has lost the support of the Kurdish people, the largest ethnic minority in Turkey (population c. ten million) who had traditionally voted for his party called the “Justice and Development Party” (tr. “Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi” [AKP]) but who now have pledged allegiance to another party with a Kurdish agenda called the “Democratic Party of the People” (tr. “Halkların Demokratik Partisi” [HDP]). Faced with a forthcoming election, Erdoğan needs to secure two-thirds of the vote to ensure more powers for his presidential office. Without the Kurds, he will not acquire the expected majority. Erdoğan has other concerns. At the time, more than two million refugees have fled to Turkey from Syria. It has already cost the government US$ six billion. The problem is two-fold. First, Turkey has had to close its southern border either to halt the influx of migrants or to prevent the infiltration of militants, volunteers who wish to fight for Islamic State (ISIL) (tr. İslam Devleti [IŞİD]). Some of these militants are Turkish citizens. Second, Turkey has had to recognize a safe zone in northern Syria to house displaced persons. This is a narrow strip of border territory inhabited mostly by Kurdish militias. Where the United States (and its allies) has supplied Kurdish forces with army equipment and has supported Kurdish maneuvers with air defense, Turkey is deeply distrustful of this strategy. Since Turkey does not wish to envisage an independent Kurdish enclave in the region, it has secretly backed Islamic State. The result has been a public showdown between Turks and Kurds on the Syrian border with Turkish tanks failing to support Kurdish soldiers when Islamic State attacked a strategic location. Erdoğan is in a quandary. As he is transported in a cavalcade from Eceabat to the Martyrs’ Memorial (tr. Şehitler Anıtı), he has to present a convincing display of national accord to his non-Turkish guests and portray a credible international standing to his Turkish audiences. The centennial commemoration provides an ideal medium for achieving both goals. It has been widely publicized in the press and is being extensively followed on the television.2 Arriving at the ceremonial site autocratically late, he first greets the British delegation that is headed by Charles, Prince of Wales (or Prince Charles [1948–]). Prince Henry of Wales (1984–) is also in attendance. The



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British dignitaries are dressed superbly in military uniform, both comfortable with the ritualistic display of martial regalia suited to such occasions. By contrast, Erdoğan looks out of place in his dark suit and dark spectacles. He is not alone. The president of Turkey next greets the president of Ireland (Michael D. Higgins [s. 2011–]), an Irish nationalist who is clearly discomfited by the militaristic expressions of imperial grandeur. The presence of a British contingent and an Irish delegation at the event is worthy of interrogation. While Britain has traditionally commemorated its war dead on Remembrance Sunday at the Cenotaph (London), it has usually failed to memorialize specifically the Gallipoli Campaign. This is in part because the Allied landings were a military disaster (and therefore best forgotten) and in part because the Gallipoli ritual has become a martial spectacle for others, especially for the supporters of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC). Importantly, the relevant celebrations are normally held on ANZAC Day (April 25). By comparison, Ireland has historically not participated in battlefield services for nationalistic reasons, especially in those ceremonies that honor Irish soldiers who were killed in the service of the British army. However, peace in Northern Ireland (following the Belfast Agreement [1998]) has fueled a growing interest in commemorating the Irish dead (both Catholic and Protestant) who fell during the War. Recently, Irish presidents have attended services at war memorials in Ireland and Belgium. Today, it is the turn of Higgins to recognize the Irish sacrifice in Turkey.3 Erdoğan leads the proceedings. Wreaths are laid at the base of the Soldier’s Memorial (tr. Mehmetçik Anıtı). Prayers are read by a Muslim imam and a Christian minister for the fallen soldiers. Prince Charles presents a short speech that concerns the tragedy of conflict. Erdoğan is not so succinct. Finally removing his sunglasses, he launches into an extended monologue that addresses the glories of victory and the sorrows of defeat. His central message is a “message of peace” (tr. “barış mesajı”), one in which the international community works together to combat Islamophobia and to promote freedom. This is a powerful address by a consummate politician. Delivered ad libitum, it is a very different speech from the Gallipoli prayer recited by Erdoğan four days previously.4 Where the Gallipoli speech focuses on heroism and humanity, the Gallipoli prayer highlights triumphalism and patriotism. In recognition of the Gallipoli centenary, the Turkish president shows two faces, Erdoğan the nationalist in the Gallipoli prayer and Erdoğan the internationalist in the Gallipoli address. Clearly, the president wishes to win a national election on an international stage. Yet, how international are the centennial ceremonies at Gallipoli? True, the prime ministers of Australia (Tony Abbott [s. 2013–5]) and New Zealand (John Kay [s. 2008–16]) are present, in addition to the other dignitaries mentioned above. True too, statesmen and politicians from a

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number of Muslim nations are attending including luminaries from Mali and ­Somalia (in Africa), Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan (in Asia), and Bosnia and Macedonia (in Europe). However, there are notable absences: the presidents of France (François Hollande [s. 2012–7]) and Russia (Vladimir Putin [s. 2012–]) have boycotted the event, attending instead the centenary commemoration of the Armenian genocide in Yerevan. Of course, the president of Armenia (Serzh Sargsyan [S. 2008–]) has refused the invitation to attend for obvious reasons. Significantly, Germany only sent a junior representative to the memorial celebrations, a Markus Grübel (1959–) from the Ministry of Defense. In many ways, this is a major blow to Turkish pride since German officers played a crucial role in the major victory that was achieved against the Allied forces in the Gallipoli Campaign. SOUNDS OF COMMEMORATION Music plays an important role in the commemoration (see Table 1.1). Military music frames the complex proceedings. Religious chant punctuates the numerous speeches. Folk music underscores the central messages. Popular music accompanies the spectacular demonstrations. Interestingly, the musical repertoire transcends the Ottoman Empire and the Turkish Republic with a janissary ensemble (tr. mehter takımı) and a military band (tr. bando) representative of an imperial epoch and a national era, respectively; an “eastern” style (tr. alaturka) contrasting with a “western” manner (tr. alafranga) reflective of the conservative and the progressive ambitions of the Turkish presidency. There are other juxtapositions. Recitations in Arabic precede Table 1.1  Order of Service at the Gallipoli Centenary Time 14.46 15.01 15.09 15.14 15.15 15.18 15.22 15.34 15.36 15.44 15.58 16.10 16.24 16.28 16.30

Who All Delegates Recep T. Erdoğan Recep T. Erdoğan, Prince Charles All Delegates Turkish Soldiers Mehmet Görmez Mehmet Görmez David Coulter Prince Charles Recep T. Erdoğan Peace Choir Janissary Band Recep T. Erdoğan, Prince Charles All Delegates All Delegates

Activity Arrival Arrival Laying of Wreathes Silence and Salvo Prayer in Arabic Prayer in Turkish Prayer in English Address in English Address in Turkish

Music Military Marches ‘Last Post’ Turkish Anthem Qur’anic Chant

Three Songs March Three Marches Salute and Parade Two Marches Book of Condolences Laying of Flowers



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prayers in English. A folk song from Turkey is performed along with a popular number from France. Film music provides a setting for a staged display. In this sonic heteroglossia, a number of sounds are missing. The expressive culture of Ottoman soldiers (such as Arabs) and British volunteers (such as Indians) is not honored. The commemorative songs of Turkish minorities (such as the Kurds) and British subjects (such as the Irish) are not heard (see, also, the Coda). Religious chant occupies a prominent position at the event. Even before arriving at the commemorative space, Erdoğan (with his Muslim guests) is summoned to Friday worship (tr. cuma namazı) by a call to prayer (tr. ezan) at the recently built Yahya Çavuş Martyrs’ Mosque (tr. Yahya Çavuş Şehitler Camii) in Eceabat. However, the sounds of worship are not foregrounded by the media. At the commemoration, the director of religious affairs (tr. diyanet işleri başkanı), Mehmet Görmez (s. 2010–), recites the first sura of the Qur’an (tr. Sure-i Fatiha). Articulated with exquisite precision and chanted with perfect intonation, the chief imam melds Arabic words with Turkish modes to realize musically a particular version of Ottomanism. He continues with an extended prayer (tr. dua) in Turkish for the fallen soldiers. Punctuating phrases with the words “my God” (tr. “Allah’ım”), he adopts a rhetorical style not unfamiliar to the Christian audience in attendance. On a single tone, he acknowledges the self-sacrifice (tr. fedakârlık) of combatants and the necessity for compassion (tr. merhamet) among adversaries.5 Children serve to reinforce this message. Organized into a Peace Choir (tr. Barış Korosu), they have been training for four months especially for this event. Perhaps, they should have trained for a little bit longer. Following an instrumental introduction on an electronic keyboard, they sing three numbers in three languages. The first song is in Turkish. Entitled “Olive Branches” (tr. “Zeytin Dalları”), the song invokes children around the world to raise their voices in the cause of brotherhood and to decorate their homes with the symbols of peace, olive branches. The tuning is not quite accurate, the arrangement is not entirely appropriate. The second song is in French and the third song is in English. Entitled “Je suis un enfant de paix” and “A Song of Peace,” respectively, they are equally as anodyne as the first. This does not stop the conductress from coaxing her young adepts with operatic abandon. Nor does it prevent the audience from engaging in knowing smiles. In particular, Prince Charles happily taps his foot and beats his knee to the music. Military ensembles suggest an alternative message; one of virile might over infantile delight. As a musical representative of the Republican present, the Military Band of the Second Army Corp (tr. İkinci Kolordu Bölge Bando Komutanlığı) opens the ceremony with three marches (politely applauded) and closes the commemoration with a military parade (enthusiastically received), the musicians not always playing together in unison, the soldiers

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not always marching together in time. Following the laying of wreaths, the band rouses the celebrants with an impassioned performance of the Turkish national anthem, entitled “Independence March” (tr. “İstiklâl Marşı”). Although the anthem was originally set to music by Ali Rıfat [Çağatay] (1869–1935), the piece now performed was composed by Osman Zeki [Üngör] (1880–1958). Soldiers on parade sing two verses of the original lyrics (written by Mehmet Akif [Ersoy] [1873–1936]). The tone of this rendition is raucous and the tenor of this performance is bellicose. Prince Charles smiles discretely as he listens to the untrained voices. His smile does not alter as he witnesses the untutored drill. Militaristic sounds permeate the ritual space. A snare drum anticipates the onset of a military parade. A bass drum marks the pace of a military march. The whole is choreographed by a bandmaster who waves a baton and presents a salute. The militaristic sounds extend beyond the realm of the musical. They range from a minute of silence (tr. saygı duruşu) in honor of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938) to a gun salute in honor of his fallen comrades (three volleys in total). Then, a Turkish version of the “Last Post” is sounded. It is distinctive from standard versions of the piece not just because a high note is fluffed by the bugler. Further, a number of military commands are yelled such as “attention!” (tr. “hazır ol!”) and “at ease!” (tr. “rahat!”). Other orders like “present arms!” (tr. “selam dur!”) or “get into line!” (tr. “hizaya gel!”) are familiar to any drill sergeant (tr. talim çavuşu). The metronomic step of a modern army is regulated by the shouts “march!” (tr. “marş!”) and “halt” (tr. “dur!”). As a musical representative of the Ottoman past, the janissary band of the Turkish Armed Forces (tr. Türk Silâhlı Kuvvetleri) provides a powerful reminder of imperial strength. Founded again for a second time (1952) in association with the Military Museum (tr. Asker Müzesi), the current company consists of nine units, six of which are represented by specific instruments (each usually performed by six musicians): these include the aerophones oboe (tr. zurna) and trumpet (tr. boru); the idiophones cymbal (tr. zil) and bell (tr. çevgân); and the membranophones a twin-small kettledrum (tr. nakare) and a double-headed drum (tr. davul). Pride of place is accorded to the bass drum (tr. kös), two of which occupy center stage. In addition, soldiers in janissary uniform carry nine standards made out of horsehair (tr. tuğ-s) and three flags (tr. sancak-s), representing nationhood (in red), freedom (in white) and faith (in green). The whole group is guarded by four soldiers (wearing mail and brandishing swords) and commanded by a single conductor (tr. çorbacıbaşı). In total, sixty four “band members” (tr. “mehterân”) are present (see, also, chapter 4). The international guests are enthralled by this military display. They marvel at the eccentric march of the janissary band, two steps forward and



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one step sideways. They revel in the colorful costumes, typically blues and blacks for the instrumental performers and usually reds and greens for the standard bearers. They are especially impressed with the precision of the marching order, the rumble of membranophones that historically promoted unity in step among friends and the shrill of aerophones that traditionally provoked terror in flight among foes. Following the ancient piece entitled the “Ambassadorial March” (tr. “Elçi Marşı”), the company halts in the middle of the stadium. It forms a perfect semicircle. After shouted commands by the çorbacıbaşı, the “March of the Standard” (tr. “Sancak Marşı”) by İzzettin Hümayi [Elçioğlu] (187[5]–1950) and the “Old Army March” (tr. “Eski Ordu Marşı”) by “Muallim” İsmail Hakkı Bey (1865–1927) are performed in situ. The words are sung lustily by the çevgân players. They concern the worship of the Turkish flag and the glorification of the Turkish nation. The ceremony discloses a number of paradoxes. The speeches and the choirs espouse peace while the soldiers and the bands embrace war. The military ensembles either invoke a national modernity or evoke an imperial tradition. While Christian and Muslim clerics pray together and Allied and Turkish soldiers march together, the event is dominated by a specific reading of Ottomanism, where language and music are deployed to underscore a particular version of a new empire, a Muslim state with Turkey at its heart and with Erdoğan as its leader. Perhaps, Higgins in the stand offers a visible clue of this paradox. He is clearly entranced by the Peace Choir, nodding cheerfully to his neighbors on the podium. He is evidently disturbed by the janissary band. Instinctively, he places a finger in his ear as if to silence the blare of battle. Most notably, his face shows confusion: pleasure at the sight but displeasure in the sound; a divine apparition of voices in praise of peace, a fiendish reverberation of instruments in deference to war. INSTRUMENTS OF WAR There are other ceremonies at Gallipoli. In the evening (at 6 o’clock on April 24), representatives of the British and Irish governments arrive at the Helles Memorial, which is located in the commonwealth graveyard at Cape Helles (tr. İlyas Burnu). A pipe band plays a lament and a brass band performs a hymn. Prayers are uttered and odes are delivered, sonnets are recited and letters are read. The following morning at a dawn service on Anzac Beach (tr. Anzac Koyu), representatives of the ANZAC forces repeat the ritual. Again a bagpipe and a band frame musically the order of service. At separate ceremonies on Lone Pine (tr. Kanlı Sırt) and Chunuk Bair (tr. Conkbayırı), an aboriginal didgeridoo and a Māori chant, respectively, add an antipodean flavor to the proceedings. On all occasions, anthems are

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sung: some either perfunctorily (such as the Irish national anthem called “The Soldier’s Song”) or passionately (such as the Australian national anthem entitled “Advance Australia Fair”). Above all, speeches mark the occasion, addresses by political luminaries who are fully aware of the media interest in the commemorative event. In the centennial services, the composition of the marching bands is almost identical. Consisting of brass instruments (such as horns and tubas) and woodwind instruments (such as clarinets and saxophones), each ensemble has a different number of aerophones. All of the bands feature as snare drum (to supply ruffles) and a bass drum (to mark time). In each instance, the ensembles are conducted by a bandmaster who wields a baton. In addition, idiophones (such as cymbals and triangles) are found in the larger formations. As is usual, chordophones are entirely absent. Significantly, a bugle is found in all bands, either performing the “Last Post” (or its equivalent) in honor of the dead or playing the “First Post” (or the “Reveille”) at the appropriate time. The musical repertoire is also similar, each group playing anthems and marches either to underscore participants while singing or to accompany soldiers on parade. While there are small variations in the hymns chanted or the airs played, the military bands from former combatant nations are remarkably uniform with respect to style and formation. Uniformity in the present disguises diversity in the past. The current formation of the military band represents a complex assemblage of musical pathways. The presence of brass instruments can be traced to a Byzantine and a Roman past, the Arabs in particular being especially influential by using horns (ar. al-nafīr-s) to signal maneuvers and drums (ar. al-ṭabl-s) to terrify enemies during the Crusades.6 Of interest, the Celts had their own take on horns that were used in military campaigns and during ceremonial rites. The janissary band (tr. mehter takımı) was also important. In particular, large drums (tr. kös-s) and shrill oboes (tr. zurna-s) were appropriated into the military instrumentarium throughout Europe, not only because of their sonic properties but also because of their ritual value. Here, the military band and the janissary band coalesced to become a model band for accompanying a modern army and a sonic medium for marking social status; that is, the hybrid ensemble was a way of instilling discipline and a medium for inciting admiration. Of importance, the bass drum also occupies an elevated position in this military troupe. The military band and the janissary band also dispersed. During the eighteenth century, the janissary ensemble was the object of orientalist fascination in the Hapsburg Empire, being frequently represented in theatrical displays and concert performances. This contemporary engagement with exoticism also found expression in military bands, the fife and drum units being replaced by Feldmusik ensembles, a musical troupe consisting of oboes,



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bassoons and horns. As Jäger shows,7 these bands were also called “Turkish ensembles” since the woodwind and the brass sections were directly appropriated from an Ottoman original. During the nineteenth century, the military band was itself the object of occidentalist aspiration in the Ottoman Empire. With the capitulation of the janissaries (1826), the janissary ensemble was disbanded and the military band was adopted. Bandmasters from Europe instilled a new discipline among bandsmen from Asia, using musical literacy (rather than oral transmission) to inculcate a musical system (based on equal temperament), one that was “western” in origin (tr. alafranga) rather than “eastern” (tr. alaturka) in derivation.8 Two duos represent two survivals of two bands. On one edge of Europe, the fife and drum is the precursor of the military band. It has become intimately associated with the marching bands of Ulster Protestants. Playing folk tunes of Irish extraction (see Cooper [2010]), band members transgress the boundaries of inter-denominational segregation, proclaiming with bellicose intent the supremacy of British colonization over Irish independence. It is noteworthy that a bass drum of Turkish extraction is deployed by Ulster Protestants to reinforce sonically the immutable reality of an alien conquest. On the other side of Europe, a double-reed aerophone (tr. zurna) and a double-headed drum (tr. davul) retain their militarist function inherited from a janissary prototype. During the Ottoman past, the duo was employed to rally the troops, especially in the provinces where irregulars (tr. başıbozuk-s) were recruited. In the Republican present though, the duo has not only been connected with Turkish celebration (being featured, for example, at weddings) but it has also been linked with Kurdish irredentism where the instruments accompany dances of ethnic difference (such as the halay) and herald events of political dissent (such as rallies). Perhaps, the bagpipe is the most iconic symbol of militarism in this context. Originally, the instrument was a war pipe that accompanied rival troops into battle on the Celtic fringe. It was also used to express sorrow (in the form of laments) and to celebrate pleasure (as an accompaniment for dance). When the Scotts were finally subdued by the English (at the Battle of Culloden [1745]), the bagpipe became part of the military paraphernalia of British imperialism. That is, the bagpipe replaced the fife as the musical weapon of choice, now being accompanied by the snare drum in military formations (such as Royal Tattoos). Along with the kilt and the tartan, the bagpipe came to represent an invented tradition, a vision of Scotland in the imagination of England (see Trevor-Roper [1992]). With the global dispersal of Scottish migrants, the bagpipe came to symbolize an idealized homeland, occupying a central position in Scottish festivities (such as the Highland Games). It is noteworthy that the bagpipe is used by Commonwealth bands with a Scottish connection at the Gallipoli centenary.

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In short, the military band shows a measure of uniformity with regard to the membranophones played and a degree of diversity with respect to the aerophones performed. It is noteworthy that fifes are still found in American bands and pipes are now played in European bands. However, chordophones have rarely played a major role in commemorative proceedings. Only one guitar is featured at the Gallipoli centennial, an acoustic guitar used to accompany a Māori version of the hymn entitled “How Great Thou Art” (mā. “Whakaaria Mai”). The relative absence of chordophones is interesting. Either these instruments are not loud enough to be heard in war, or they are not portable enough to be performed on parade. Indeed, the acoustic guitar has often been associated with expressions of peace. For example, the ballad entitled “Ein bißchen Frieden” is a song of peace, a winning entry that was sung with a guitar by Nicole Holbach (1965–) at the Eurovision Song Contest (1982). On the other hand, electric guitars have often been associated with protest. The guitar solo entitled “Star Spangled Banner” by Jimi Hendrix (1942–70) at Woodstock (1969) comes to mind. Yet, chordophones have played an important part in the memorialization of war. Lutes have accompanied singers celebrating heroic actions in war or condemning enemy atrocities in battle. Be it the long-necked lute (tr. divan sazı) used for poetic dueling (tr. atışma) in eastern Turkey or the short-necked lute (fr. luth) employed to accompany court music in northern France, the lute has been the preferred instrument of balladeers in Asia and Europe. Of course, other chordophones, such as the bowed lute among epic singers in former Yugoslavia and the plucked harp among bards in ancient Ireland, had a similar function. Lutes often transcend the distinction between war and religion. For example, the folk lute in Turkey (tr. saz) among the Alevi-s is believed to represent the sword of ʿAlī (d. 661), called “Zülfikar.” In this capacity, the instrument is employed as a sacred artifact to accompany wandering minstrels (tr. âşık-s) who spread Shīʿah heterodoxy in Sunni lands. Related spiritually to the Alevi-s (as Bektaşi-s), the janissaries often depicted the sword of ʿAlī (Zülfikar) on their emblems during battle.9 WAR CHANT The janissary band provides an excellent example of instruments used in war. It also offers representative instances of songs sung about war, be they the nostalgic reflection upon a naval bombardment in the Crimean War (1853– 16) such as the “Sebastopol March” (tr. “Sivastapol Marşı”) in the makam Rast and the usûl nîm sofyan by the composer Rif’at Bey (1820–88). Or, be they the jingoistic celebration of a military hero during the Russo-Turkish War (1877–8) such as the “Gazi Osman Pasha March” (tr. “Gazi Osman Paşa



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Marşı”) in the makam Kürdî and the usûl semaî by the bandmaster Mehmet Ali Bey (1840–95). It is noteworthy that these marches postdate the original abolition of the janissaries. Also, they feature a song text with an instrumental accompaniment, a juxtaposition of word and melody that is rarely found in notated representations of mehter compositions before the nineteenth century (see Sanal [1964]). With the first reconstitution of the mehter (1911), a number of composers wrote marches for the ensemble that could be sung as well as played (see chapter 4). The janissary band includes songs that are performed without instruments. These are often chants that have a religious function. The janissary prayer entitled “Mehter Gülbankı” is representative. There are two versions or the piece, one to be recited after sentry duty (tr. nöbet) and one to be recited before battle. The second is performed at the Gallipoli commemorations. It consists of lines in Arabic and Turkish. It is delivered on a single tone with a cadential slide at particular moments in the text. Then, the mystical word “He” (tr. “Hu”) is voiced breathily as a melodic slide. The sound is not dissimilar to the birdcall “coo” (tr. “hu” or “ku”). In some versions, membranophones and idiophones accompany the ecstatic utterance. There follows a verse of the Qur’an (usually, sura 61: 13), a line that concerns victory for believers. Here, different modes (tr. makam-s) are employed depending upon the reciter. The prayer ends with an invocation to the Prophet (tr. “Ya Muhammed”) and to God (tr. “Ya Allah”), before a battle cry is screamed, “God is Great!” (tr. “Allahuekber!”). The janissary band provides a fascinating context for exploring the speechsong continuum (see List [1963]). Prayers and orders are delivered in a rhetorical style that extends from declamation to intonation. Critical here is the centrality of the word, a logocentrism that is germane to religious observance. The “Janissary Prayer” is one example of words intoned. The “Janissary Invitation” (tr. “Mehter Cağırı”) is another. At the Gallipoli celebrations, the ritual greeting is fully realized. The lead chorister (tr. içoğlan başçavuşu) announces in an undulating vocalize “it is time for pleasure and happiness, o bandleader!” (tr. “vakt-i sürûru sefâ, o mehterbaşı!”). Following a fanfare, he continues with a salutation: “Greetings, o mehter musicians!” (tr. “Merhaba, ey mehterân!”). Calling “shoulder arms!” (tr. “hasdur!”), he announces the piece to be performed. He ends with “well, let’s get going!” (tr. “haydi yallah!”), taking his place among the musicians gathered. Although the welcome address has a military purpose, it also has a mystical role; that is, it emulates a discursive style traditionally associated with the Bektaşi order of dervishes. The janissary band today is rather different form the janissary band of yesterday. Although great care has been taken in the musical reconstruction of the ensemble, less care has been taken in the historical revival of its function. At the Gallipoli commemoration, the mehter is a tangible expression of

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militarism and Islamicism, a visible illustration and sonic articulation of neoOttomanism. It is a reaffirmation of Ottoman culture that is consistent with the political aspirations of the Turkish president. However, the mehter in the past was not simply focused on military conquest and religious observance. From contemporary illustrations by the artist Levnî (d. 1732), the mehter accompanied outdoor festivities such as sports events and hunting parties (see Atıl [2000]). The mehter performed at guild parades and for dancing boys. The mehter sometimes featured tambourine players (tr. dairezen-s), musicians who probably also performed as vocalists. While some scholars have distinguished between an official (tr. resmi) and an unofficial (tr. gayri resmi) mehter (see, e.g., Sanlıkol [2011]), it is clear that the mehter had a wider remit in the past than in the present (see, also, chapter 4). The janissary band provides a useful medium for understanding the role of song in war at the Gallipoli ceremonies. Like the mehter, a number of songs are accompanied by instrumental ensembles. These include national anthems (such as “God Save the Queen”) and well-known hymns (such as “Abide with Me”). In one instance, an anthem and a hymn are sung in two languages (in Māori and English), the national anthem entitled “God Defend New Zealand” (mā. “Manaakitia mai Aotearoa”) and the religious hymn entitled “How Great thou Art” (mā. “Whaakaria Mai”). The Māori version is in fact a folk song (mā. waita) arranged polyphonically, at the service being accompanied by special chords and performed with hand gestures. The bilingualism is consistent with the wider policy of biculturalism in New Zealand.10 The Australian contingent does not show such sensitivity toward its aboriginal peoples.11 Its service is monolingual. For example, the anthem entitled “Advance Australia Fair” is sung by a female soloist in a popular style and the hymn entitled “Amazing Grace” is performed by a specially appointed chorus, the All Hallows Gallipoli Choir.12 The janissary band also presents a context in which songs are not accompanied by instruments. Although the “Janissary Prayer” (tr. “Mehter Gülbankı”) and the “Janissary Invitation” (tr. “Mehter Cağırı”) involve chants without instrumental backing, a number of other prayers are traditional in mehter performances. These are not performed at the Gallipoli commemorations. They include the call to prayer (tr. ezan), which forms part of the “Mehter Gülbankı” in some renditions. They also include prayers (tr. dua-s) and hymns (tr. ilahi-s), religious items that are either intoned or chanted. Ritual formulae like “amen” (tr. “âmin”) and religious utterances like “God” (tr. “Allah”) frequently embellish the ceremonial occasion. Interestingly, the rhetorical manner of incantation is remarkably similar, whether intoned by the Muslims or the Christians present. Prayers are correspondingly delivered on a monotone. Speeches are specially crafted as poetry. Words are carefully chosen to evoke suffering and to foster redemption. Above all, the silence of



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remembrance enables the sound of nature to add its respectful voice to the order of service. The janissary band does not include one significant genre that concerns songs in war, the lament (tr. ağıt). This is surprising given that the mehter is principally concerned today with war and worship. However, the mehter still performs chants and prayers associated with the Bektaşi order. These include the orthodox expressions of sorrow performed at funerals such as the piece entitled “Only One” (tr. “Tekbir”) in the makam Segâh by the composer Buhurizade Mustafa Itrî Efendi (1640–[1712]). They also include the piece entitled “Funeral Invocation” (tr. “Cenaze Salâsı”) in the makam Hüseynî by the dervish Hatib Zâkirî Hasan Efendi (d. 1623). In the past, the Bektaşi order had its own repertoire of ritual laments. Chief among these was the mersiye, a musical genre traditionally employed by Shīʿah-s to commemorate the death of ʿAlī at Kerbala (Iraq). As spiritual cousins of the Bektaşi-s, the Alevi-s today perform the mersiye to honor their saint, the thirteenth-century mystic Hacı Bektaş Veli. For both groups, the improvised ağıt (by women) and the composed ağıt (by men) have a commemorative function. The janissary band was exceptional in its exclusion of laments. Two types are foregrounded at Gallipoli ceremonies. First, the sung lament is wailed in Māori (mā. waita tangi). It is a genre entitled “salutation” (mā. “karanga”) that is performed in turn by two females, each exchanging greetings as doorkeepers to the afterlife. The style is strident and the recitative is syllabic. As is usual, there are few breaks in the melody or the text. The melodic line is for the most part horizontal, featuring a cadential descent at appropriate caesuras. Importantly, the chant incorporates a sobbing cry that is typical of wept songs cross-culturally. Second, an instrumental lament is performed by a lone piper in Highland dress. Entitled “The Flowers of the Forest,” it is a standard number played at remembrance ceremonies on ANZAC Day. Although rendered here in a stately manner, it is metric and syncopated. Unlike the sung lament, its structure is strophic and its contour is arched. While the lyrics are not sung here, the text of the lament concerns the murder of Scottish soldiers by English invaders. WAR DANCE The Māori chant and the piper’s lament represent two types of ritualized choreography at the centennial celebrations. First, the Māori salutation (mā. karanga) involves a number of hand gestures, a quivering (mā. kakapa) of the right hand during performance. According to McLean (1996: 82), green branches were traditionally employed by female elders in such greetings. Today, the hand waves are realized by both women and men. Further, one

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vocalist is dressed conventionally in a dark cape made from kiwi feathers (mā. kahu kiwi). The chant is framed by a male instrumentalist playing a Māori trumpet (mā. pūtatara), a conch shell that was historically an instrument of status as well as an instrument of war. The karanga is part of a larger ceremony (mā. pōwhiri) that welcomes visitors to a sacred place in Māori culture (mā. Marae). The rite involves greetings (such as touching noses [mā. hongi]) and welcomes (such as slapping thighs and raising arms). A formalized encounter (mā. wero) between males is reenacted with weapons. Songs are sung and speeches are made. A feast completes the festive occasion. Action songs form a central part of the welcome ceremony. From hand gestures to accompany songs and arm movements to mark salutations, Māori song represents a significant locus for interrogating the borderline between song and dance. Most popular are the song written during the war entitled “The Waves are Breaking” (mā. “Pōkarekare Ana”) and the dance performed originally as a martial exercise called “Poi[toi],” the former uses hands to create meaningful gestures and the latter employs balls to display physical dexterity. Arranged polyphonically, both genres are popular at touristic reconstructions of the pōwhiri. More controversial is the song and dance entitled the “challenge” (mā. “haka”). Traditionally performed by men and women as entertainment (such as dances at weddings) and in ceremonies (such as laments at funerals), the haka has become exclusively identified with war dances by men that involve foot-stamping and body percussion, facial grimacing and tongue extension. Today, the responsorial chant and the aggressive display of the haka have become synonymous with a sporting ritual enacted by the rugby team of New Zealand, the All Blacks. Second, the piper’s lament is also choreographed. For ceremonial occasions, a lone piper stands to attention often playing the bagpipe after a ritual silence and a bugle call in honor of the dead. For military parades, many pipers march in formation, playing in unison to the beat of the drum. Like in the Gallipoli celebrations, they often perform at ceremonies that commemorate the fallen. In particular, the bagpipe plays a central role in military tattoos. Developed from the “taptoe” ritual in Flanders during the eighteenth century, the present tattoo was formalized into a martial spectacle after the Second World War (1939–45), when military bands gathered in a concerted exhibition of marching precision and musical might. The [Royal] Edinburgh Military Tattoo attained a preeminent position among international tattoos, the massed sound of pipes and drums becoming a sonic symbol of Scottish militarism. In addition to the colorful display of Scottish tartans and the musical performance of Scottish marches at the event, the complex choreography



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of marching formations is especially popular among audiences around the world (see Wallace [2006]). War dances occupy an important position in the Scottish tradition. In particular, the sword dance accompanied by a highland piper is regularly featured in Scottish festivities (such as the Highland Games) and Scottish competitions (organized by the Scottish Official Board of Highland Dancing [SOBHD]). Along with the dance called the “Highland Fling,” it is one of the few war dances that survive, the dances called the “Dirk Dance” and the “Lochaber Axe” for example, no longer being extant but being mentioned in manuscript sources. Like similar dances in England (such as the “Long Sword Dance” among Morris Dancers) and Ireland (such as the “Line Dance” performed by the Wexford Mummers), the sword dance in Scotland was formalized and sanitized for public display. Under the influence of dancing masters during the “long”-nineteenth century, sword dances in Scotland have been embellished with hand gestures and standardized with dance steps more suited to the drawing room than to the battlefield. Today, these dances are more commonly performed by women than by men in national competitions. Although a world apart, Māori chanting and Scottish piping demonstrate some intriguing similarities at the Gallipoli celebrations. Both styles have a diminished status at the event since they are represented here uniquely as musical expressions of loss in war, the salutation (mā. karanga) by the Māori vocalist and the lament by the Scottish instrumentalist having a singular function in this musical commemoration. Despite traditional dress being adopted, no attempt is made to replicate the wider contexts of music and dance associated with both traditions. Where the Māori karanga is part of a wider ritual (mā. pōwhiri) that embraces celebration as well as commemoration, the Scottish piper belongs to a broader tradition that encompasses song and dance. Again, where the musical contour of the Māori chant (with its descending line) and the Scottish lament (with its arch shape) are distinctive, the musical form of the Māori hymn and the Scottish march are equivalent, the sacred genre and the military piece being arranged homophonically and structured strophically to suit the harmonic tastes and the metric expectations of a “western” audience. In movement as in song, the Māori war dance (mā. haka) and the Scottish sword dance have undergone other transformations. In terms of gender, the haka is performed today exclusively by men, its musical function and its gendered role in Māori culture now reduced to a militaristic display of male aggression. The sword dance in Scotland has also changed. Once performed by men as evidence of military prowess, it is now danced mostly by women as a staged exhibition of balletic skill. This gendered translation is revealed in

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other areas. A man participates on stage in a ritual traditionally reserved for Māori women. Women play in a pipe band, a role that was usually reserved for Scottish men. Interestingly, the change over time in gendered distinction as it relates to traditional dances can be compared with the consolidation in time of gendered equality as it relates to contemporary marches. That is, the national dances of the Māoris (performed by men) and the Scots (performed by women) are often gender specific, and the international marches of New Zealand and Great Britain are not gender specific (being performed by men and women alike). This divergence in gendered practice is also found in military maneuvers. At the Gallipoli commemoration, the janissary band and the military band play two types of music to accompany two types of marches, the former being asymmetrical, the latter being symmetrical. The difference relates to distinctive concepts of meter in which a Turkish style (tr. ­alaturka) often employs complex cycles (tr. usûl-s) and a non-Turkish style (tr. alafranga) usually uses simple patterns. At the closing parade (tr. geçit töreni), an alafranga meter (4/4) is performed. It accompanies both the military personnel who march with the Turkish army and with the non-Turkish forces. Following a brass fanfare, soldiers mark time while waiting to salute Erdoğan and Prince Charles on the podium. By the left, they march. Although there are slight variations in step and salute, all units follow a national flag and a regimental standard, symbols of martial affiliation that are lowered when the salute is taken. While they march together to the same tune, they do not march together in the same attire. Here, national dissimilarity is displayed visually and international similarity is revealed audibly. The distinction between sight and sound is most notably found during the guard of honor. In contrast to military marches that usually employ choreographed steps with music, military salutes often use choreographed actions without music. Where marches customarily involve movement over space, salutes normally feature movement in situ. The guard of honor at the Helles Memorial is a good example. Naval cadets (accompanied by a piper band) approach the commemorative monument at a ceremonial pace. They are ordered to halt and they are called to attention. Shuffling into position, they form two parallel lines. They present arms. They give a salute. As dignitaries at the service, Prince Charles and Erdoğan inspect the troops trailed by an officer carrying a sword. Still standing to attention, they listen silently to the national anthems of Britain and Turkey. Turkish soldiers and Australian soldiers adhere to similar conventions (with some variations) when laying wreaths (at the Martyrs’ Memorial) or when forming a catafalque party (at Lone Pine), respectively. Like the guard of honor, they follow orders in silence.



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ART OF WAR The commemoration of war at the centennial ceremonies is a celebration of art. From the red wreaths laid by heads of state at the soldier’s monument to the red carnations laid by visiting dignitaries in the soldier’s graveyard, color pervades the order of service. Be it the symbols of nationhood (such as flags) or the signifiers of status (such as swords), or be it the apparent expression of innocence (in the form of children in costume) or the explicit appearance of authority (in the form of adults in uniform), the visible reinforces the audible in a singular interpretation of spectacle. That is, commemoration is an art of war. In particular, the varied and vivid costumes of the janissary musicians are contrasted with the identical and neutral uniforms of the Turkish soldiers; however, Turkish cavalrymen dressed in military attire from the Gallipoli Campaign are worthy of notice. Between the parades and the presentations, narrators call out in Turkish and English the program as it progresses. Only cameraman and photographers upset the strict design of the theatrical production. The air display at the event is an excellent example of the art of war. The airshow is performed by the seven members of the acrobatic team called the “Turkish Stars” (tr. “Türk Yıldızları”). As an aesthetic experience, the art of the display is truly spectacular. The red and white of the Turkish flag is emblazoned as paint upon the aircrafts’ fuselage and emitted as trailers by the aircrafts’ engine. The two colors are visible when the planes are upright (as white) or inverted (as red). The two colors intersect when the planes are in a synchronized role or in a combative formation. As a technical achievement, the craft of the display is extremely impressive. One of the few teams to fly with supersonic aircraft (the NF-5 fighter bought from the Royal ­Netherlands Air Force), the group performs the usual moves of climbs and loops. However, the barrel role by one plane over two planes in a synchronized inversion is extraordinary, the art and craft of the Turkish Stars justly receiving excited applause from the audience below. The air display is also a good example of artifice. Two simulacra are juxtaposed during the show, one that is visible and one that is audible. In the first, a large screen replays the manoeuver. It recalls an experience for those who have missed the action. The repeat is in slow motion. In the second, an enthusiastic commentator retells the manoeuver. He describes the roll executed or the formation completed. He prepares the audience for the next event by entreating onlookers to look right or left. He commands the onlookers: “manoeuver!” (tr. “hareket!”), “ready!” (tr. “hazır!”) and “now!” (tr. “şimdi!”). The planes roar past. They are gone before they are seen. As Baudrillard (1981) might contend, the replaying and the retelling of the acrobatic display are not mere copies of an amazing spectacle. In sight and

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in sound, they recraft the real to create the hyperreal. The visible symbols of nationalism (seen as color on the screen) and the audible signs of militarism (heard as commands over the tannoy) call into question the pacific intention of this commemoration. This assemblage of symbols and signs has another level of semantic obfuscation. Two languages are employed to convey two interpretations of remembrance: one in English and the other in Turkish. In English, the narrator extolls the “importance of peace over the world” especially among the “brotherhood of nations.” Here, the air display operates in the sky as a metaphor for “spreading [the] wings of peace” on the earth. Although somewhat farfetched, the narrative is probably aimed at representatives of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) who are present at the centennial celebrations. These include senior envoys from Britain and Canada. As an important member of this intercontinental alliance (and with the largest standing army in Europe), Turkey aims to reinforce its commitment to the protection of democratic freedoms in the “western” world. At a time of increasing instability in the Turkish hinterland, Erdoğan has not always cooperated with his “western” allies in combatting the rise of religious fanaticism and in stemming the flow of displaced migrants. For this, he has been widely criticized by the international community. In Turkish, the narrator presents a different narrative. Although he adopts a conciliatory tone in English, he assumes a triumphalist attitude in Turkish. Getting more and more excited as the airshow progresses, he admires the “enormous courage” (tr. “muazzam bir cesaret”) and the “sustained courage” (tr. “yüreklerin taşıyanları”) of the pilots. After one especially dangerous fly past, he compares the pilots to Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] since “our stars retain in their hearts a love of country and nation” (tr. “yüreklerinde vatan ve millet sevgisi taşıyan yıldızlarımız”). As the planes approach to complete their final manoeuver, he quotes from the famous poem by Ümit Yaşar Oğuzcan (1926–84) entitled “I am thinking about Mustafa Kemal” (tr. “Mustafa Kemal’i Düşünyorum”). He emphasizes a specific line: “Each soldier is like Mustafa Kemal” (tr. “Her askeri Mustafa Kemal gibi”). Citing another army favorite, he ends with the lines: “Soldiers do not die, they cannot be killed!” (tr. “Asker ölmez öldürülemez!”). He continues: “As flowers open on the mountains, so too martyrs unfold in [our] hearts” (tr. “Çiçek olur dağlarda açar, şehit olur yüreklerde açar”). The reference to Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] at the commemorative event is contentious. Although one reference to Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] is made in English by the narrator, it concerns peace and not war. As a condensed expression of foreign policy by the first president of Turkey, it is today rendered using the following formula “peace at home, peace in the world” (tr. “yurtta barış, dunyada barış”). Although slightly different from the



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original, it positions Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] as a man of international diplomacy and not as a man of national hegemony. In Turkish, the narrator portrays a different reading of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk]. This is the Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] who defeated the Allied forces. This is the Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] who is a model soldier and a patriotic citizen. Most importantly, this is the Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] who founded a secular state. However, this is not the religious state that Erdoğan envisages. Where the narrator espouses a secular nationalism, Erdoğan advocates a sacred nationalism, both positions being supported by military might. Indeed, Erdoğan was widely lampooned in the press for foregrounding religion in the centennial celebrations. In his understanding of this commemoration, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] had no role.13 However, the media criticism of Erdoğan with respect to Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] must be understood in time and place. In time, Erdoğan had already broadcast (April 20, 2015) a short film on Turkish television in commemoration of the Gallipoli victory. Entitled “A Centenary Ballad” (tr. “Yüz Yıllık Destan”), the video clip is adorned with the symbols (such as minarets) and the sounds (such as the call to prayer) of religious observance. It also focuses on the sacrifice of Turkish soldiers from different parts of the Ottoman Empire. As the principal protagonist, Erdoğan recites a prayer (tr. dua) written by the nationalist poet Arif Nihat Asya (1904–75), a poem (published in 1967) that exhorts God not to abandon a Muslim land without protection. The following lines are especially revealing: “My God, don’t leave a land that nurtured Islam without Muslims! My God, give us strength ... don’t leave us without a wrestler on the field of jihad!” (tr. “Müslümanlıkla yoğrulan yurdu / Müslümansız bırakma Allahım! / Bize güç ver ... ciha[t] meydanını / Pehlivansız bırakma Allahım!”). In place, Erdoğan had already recited the poem by Asya throughout Turkey. In Istanbul, he delivered the prayer to two million supporters. At the end of each couplet, the crowd shouted with one voice “amen” (tr. “âmin”). The horde is almost hysterical with national fervor and religious zeal. This is not the first time that Erdoğan has used a religious text for political ends. Since 2013, he recited works by Asya in broadcasts and at rallies. In particular, he has emphasized the centrality of God to jihad (tr. cihat) for the preservation of a Muslim state. Although he explicitly views the original Gallipoli Campaign in terms of a jihad against foreign invaders, he implicitly sees the forthcoming election campaign as a jihad against secular opponents. There is an element of divine transcendence in his performance. Where Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] created a secular nation, Erdoğan will recreate a sacred state. In the “Centenary Ballad,” a portrait only of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] appears without comment at the end of the film. As if to show, an end for Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] that marks a beginning for Erdoğan.

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A SOLDIER’S LAMENT Meaning at the Gallipoli commemoration is devolved to signs and symbols and deferred in time and space. The seamless narrative of the ritual production discloses a number of paradoxes that call into question the integrity of the event as a pacific gesture in international relations. Principal among these is a musical interlude in the televised representation of the centennial celebration. As the international delegates are transported the short distance between the Martyrs’ Memorial above Morto Bay (that commemorates the Ottoman dead) to the Helles Memorial near Cape Helles (that commemorates the Commonwealth dead), the national network (Türkiye Radyo ve Televizyon Kurumu [TRT]) broadcast footage of sailors singing the iconic folksong of the Gallipoli Campaign called “Çanakkale Türküsü” (see Example A.1.1, Text A.2.1). Fronted by the now-ageing chanteuse and one-time eurovisionista, Candan Erçetin (1963–), the piece was recorded and produced by the Turkish Naval Forces (tr. Türk Deniz Kuvvetleri) as a way of showcasing its most modern vessels and its most powerful weapons. As a televised interlude that was screened on TRT 1, the clip was clearly intended for a national rather than an international audience. The entr’acte is entitled “Salute Our Martyrs” (tr. “Şehitlerimize Selâm Olsun”). After an extended improvisation on the folk lute (tr. bağlama sazı), the camera descends upon the Martyrs’ Memorial. The sun is bright and the sea is calm. A war veteran (tr. gazi), the retired NCO (tr. emekli assubay) Necdet Erdinç, hand-on-heart sings the first line of the folksong: “Çanakkale içinde vurdular beni” (en. “In Çanakkale they shot me”). His interpretation is lugubrious. The camera lingers on his badges. One reads “Kıbrıs Gazisi” (tr. “Veteran of Cyprus”). One reads “Muharip Gazi” (en. “Veteran Warrior”). He sports campaign medals. Above him, nine soldiers fire a volley as a mark of respect. The next lines are sung by sailors on the TCG Nusret (an original minelayer used to counteract the naval assault on the Dardanelles). The captain of the vessel, Deniz Yüzbaşı Burak Kendar, sings on the bridge: “Ölmeden mezara koydular beni” (en. “They buried me alive in a grave”). His rendition is secure. In response, his crew on deck lament: “Of gençliğim eyvah” (en. “O! Alas [such was] my youth”). Their performance is not quite so secure. The next four verses are choreographed in a similar fashion. The antiphonal texture allows the film to introduce officers and sailors in sequence, soloists being accorded the full accolades of rank and name. Women as well as men are foregrounded. Cadets as well as seamen are included. During instrumental interludes that punctuate each verse a warship (TCG Oruçreis) plies the Atlantic Ocean and a corvette (TCG Büyük Ada) sails the Marmara Sea. A submarine (TCG Perveze) plunges into the Aegean and a helicopter



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hovers above the Mediterranean. There are shots of ships on maneuver and aircraft in formation. Flags fly gloriously over stunning seascapes, all honoring the Turkish nation. Even soldiers of an amphibious unit and workers at a naval dockyard have their chance to sing a line of the folksong. After a musical excursion to a naval academy, Erçetin warbles the final stanza at the Maritime Museum (tr. Deniz Müzesi) in Istanbul. Predictably, the movie returns to the Martrys’ Memorial. There, the war veteran Erdinç salutes the fallen when a guard of honor commands: “dikkat” (en. “attention”), “selâm” (en. “present”), “dur” (en. “arms”). Although intimately associated with the Turkish experience of the Gallipoli Campaign, the “Çanakkale Türküsü” is a strange choice to celebrate the nautical might of the Turkish navy. First, “Çanakkale Türküsü” is a song about a land war on the Gallipoli Peninsula and not about a naval encounter in the Dardanelles Straits. Here, it is worth pointing out that Turks celebrate the naval victory in the Dardanelles Campaign over the Allied fleet (March 18, 1915) and they do not commemorate (usually) the Allied landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula (April 25, 1915). Second, the “Çanakkale Türküsü” is a lament about the tragedy of war and it is not a song about the triumph of victory. In this version of the piece, the song talks of death in terms of “rows of willows” (tr. “sıra [sıra] söğütler”) where “brave lions lie beneath” (tr. “altında yatıyor aslan yiğitler”). A further reference to a cypress tree (tr. selvi) evokes a similar image of “those of us who are engaged and those of us who are married” (tr. “kiminiz nişanlı, kiminiz evli”) being buried in a mass grave. In this televised rendition of the “Çanakkale Türküsü,” two versions of the folksong are combined. Four verses draw upon a song that was collected (c. 1952) by the music folklorist and radio presenter Muzaffer Sarısözen (1899–1963). It was originally performed by the “musical poet” (tr. “saz şairi”) İhsan Ozanoğlu (1907–81) and features seven verses. The strophes that speak about “my lungs were rotting [and I was] vomiting blood” (tr. “çiğerlerim çürüdü kan kusa kusa”) and “the waters that are flowing with blood” (tr. “al kan olmuş suları”) (so much so that they cannot be imbibed) are noticeably missing from the video clip. One verse draws upon a different version of the “Çanakkale Türküsü.” It was written as a march by the female composer “Kemanî” Kevser Hanım (1887–1963). It is called the “Çanakkale Kahramanlarını Hatırası” (en. “[In] Memory of the Dardanelles Heroes”). Although the reference to mass graves in terms of willows (tr. söğüt-s) in the first or cypresses (tr. selvi-s) in the second is shared but slightly different, the allusion to husbands and fiancés appears only in the composition by Kevser. The televised adaptation of the “Çanakkale Türküsü” calls into question the singular connection between a song and a war. It suggests that there are a number of versions of the famous folksong that have been transmitted orally. As Çakır (2003) shows, these variants reveal that two numbers, which are now

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called the “Çanakkale Türküsü,” existed at the time of the G ­ allipoli Campaign; one by Kevser (published in 1915) and one by “Destancı” Mustafa (published in 1915). As Çakır (ibid.: 20-1) also shows, there are important connections between the two pieces, especially in the repetition of certain themes (such as “ümidi kesti”) and stereotypical formulae (such as “Çanakkale içinde”). It is this overlap that demonstrates another point: the “Çanakkale Türküsü” reiterates certain motifs that can be found earlier in the vocal repertoire associated with the Ottoman-Greek war (1897) and the Ottoman-Balkan wars (1912–3). For example, “ölmeden toprağa koydular beni” is replaced with “ölmeden mezara koydular beni” where “toprağa” means “in the ground.” For example too, “çiğerlerim koptu kan kusa kusa” is substituted with “çiğerlerim çürüdü kan kusa kusa” where “koptu” means “snapped.” Çakır interrogates the canonic status conferred upon the “Çanakkale Türküsü.” He has two anecdotes to relate. First, the “Çanakkale Türküsü” was sung during recruiting sessions before the Gallipoli Campaign. Reproducing the contents of a letter that was written by a school boy in Çanakkale to his mother in Istanbul (September 29, 1914), Çakır (ibid.: 16) writes: “A few days ago soldiers were walking on the streets. They were singing: ‘Çanakkale içinde aynalıçarşı / Anne ben gidiyorum düşmana karşı’.” That is, the “Çanakkale Türküsü” was sung by soldiers before the Gallipoli Campaign. Second, Çakır (ibid.: 30) questions the provenance of the “Çanakkale Türküsü” collected by Sarısözen. In the TRT Archives, Sarısözen is recorded as having notated down the folksong in Kastamonu (in northern Anatolia). However, Ozanoğlu has a different story to tell. Because Sarısözen could not find a representative folksong from the Gallipoli Campaign, Ozanoğlu transcribed himself a version of the “Çanakkale Türküsü.” He sent it to Sarısözen by post. Bearing a postmark from Kastamonu, the folksong was subsequently but incorrectly catalogued as being from “the Kastamonu region” (tr. “Kastamonu yöresi”). Music helps unsettle further the unquestioned relationship between a genre and an event. In the televised version of the “Çanakkale Türküsü,” distinctive styles are set to accompany different strophes. The first verse is arranged using folk instruments such as a long-necked lute (tr. bağlama sazı) and a frame drum (tr. daire). The second verse foregrounds brass instruments. The third verse introduces “western” instruments such as a flute and a guitar. The fourth verse is characterized by “eastern” instruments, a plucked zither (tr. kanun) and the end-blown flute (tr. ney). A violin (tr. keman) and a bowed lute (tr. rebab) are added to the mix. Finally, a clarinet in the style of “commercial music” (tr. “piyasa müziği”) completes the heterogeneous lineup. In direct opposition to the pristine pedigree of the “Çanakkale Türküsü,” the video clip juxtaposes the “west” with the “east” (alafranga with alaturka), the past with the present (the acoustic with the electric). The result is a



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recreation of the cacophonous sound world associated with an imperial past instead of the unsullied sound world characteristic of the national present. WAR AS PEACE The video clip conjoins harmoniously the traditional (in the form of a folksong rendered) and the modern (in the form of a navy displayed). It renders believable the threat of war in the semblance of peace. Here, music provides an unquestionable medium for clothing conflict in the mantle of conflict resolution. It proclaims that war is every day and that war is acceptable. The musical texture allows for the performers to display a unity of purpose, the antiphony conveying group consensus, the harmony displaying group solidarity. Even the eclectic arrangement of musical styles serves to address the diverse tastes of a national audience. However, the musical performance is not perfect, the choirs are not always in unison and the singers are not always in tune. Paradoxically, this enables further to humanize the inhuman. Whereas the musical performers are not of equal talent, they are also not of the same rank. Some are officers, some are sailors. Some are combatants, some are non-combatants. The video clip helps to portray naval recruits as ordinary Turks—Turks who happily sing a soldier’s lament. Music also presents an unwavering pathway for delivering a seamless narrative. The narrative is not just one about the acceptability of war. It is also one about the inevitability of change. The video portrays a resurgent Turkey on the high seas, a Turkish nation at ease with its militaristic past and its imperial tradition. The video clip shows that the past is forever present, the musical texture revealing that the hybrid styles of the Ottoman past are once again to be heard in the cinematic displays of the Republican present. The musical setting allows Turkish listeners to engage comfortably with a once fragmented history, a history that is no longer divided into an Ottoman epoch and a Republican era, where sultans were replaced by presidents and where the sacred was displaced by the secular. Indeed, the musical arrangement of “Çanakkale Türküsü” embraces the heterogeneous character of the Turkish nation, a neo-Ottomanism where diversity is possible under the unifying crescent of Islamicism. Here, it is noteworthy that an Islamic warrior (tr. gazi) frames a video clip that is dedicated “to our Islamic martyrs” (tr. “şehitlerimize”). Erdoğan is the principal architect of this Ottomanist revival. He is also a chief supporter of the Islamist resurgence. The centenary commemoration of the Gallipoli Campaign afforded the Turkish president with a unique opportunity for upholding his reactionary agenda at a national level and for displaying his martial prowess on a world platform. That Erdoğan was able to

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bypass the thorny question of the centennial commemoration of the Armenian deportations to boot shows a political astuteness, however deviant it might appear to the international community. However, Erdoğan has overplayed his hand. The show of soldiers and sailors, of royalty and diplomacy has not stemmed the economic stagnation and the political uncertainty that has plagued the Turkish president. The refugee crisis continues and the terrorist threat is undiminished. At the centennial commemoration, the spectacular show of music and pageantry does little to conceal the precipitous predicament of the Turkish nation. It also does little to hide the martial character of a peaceful event. Like the video clip of “Çanakkale Türküsü,” music here serves to disguise war in the guise of peace. It is noteworthy that the musical interlude featuring the “Çanakkale Türküsü” foregrounds the navy and not the army. It was the army and not the navy that was victorious in the Gallipoli Campaign. It is the army and not the navy that is the bulwark of the NATO alliance. Yet, the glorification of the Turkish navy in the entr’acte is reminiscent of an older fascination with maritime power (see chapters 2 and 5). In the arms race that heralded the outbreak of war, it was the navy and not the army that was the symbol of Ottoman pride. Further, it was the navy and not the army that benefitted from German warships seeking refuge from Allied attack in Turkish waters. It happened at the start of the war. It caused the start of a war. The boy in Çanakkale who writes about the “Çanakkale Türküsü” reminds us of this: “English and French battleships patrol the approaches to the Dardanelles. It is said that they will shell [our positions].” The letter was written two days after the closure of the Straits by German personnel who were guarding the Dardanelles.14 NOTES 1. These were the heads of state from Azerbaijan, Bosnia, Djibouti, Macedonia, Mali, Montenegro, Niger, Northern Sudan, Pakistan, Qatar, Senegal, Somalia and Turkmenistan. Senior representatives from Australia, Great Britain, Ireland, Moldova, New Zealand and Romania (among others) were also present. See “Çanakkale Dünyaya Örnek Olsun” in Hürriyet April 25, 2015. 2. An extended recording of the centennial commemoration at the Martyrs’ Memorial entitled “Şehitler Abidesi Törenleri” on April 24 (2015) can be found at the following web address: www.youtube.com [Access Date: December 30, 2015]. Media coverage of the event was extensive be it in Australia (see, e.g., Sydney Morning Herald [April 26, 2015]) or Turkey (see, e.g., Milliyet [April 25, 2015]). Even in Ireland, the centenary commemoration received attention (see, e.g., The Irish Times [April 25, 2015]), especially since Michael D. Higgins as president represented the country at the event. However, media coverage of the ceremony in French and German sources was often negative. In Der Tagesspiegel (April 25, 2015), Armenian



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demonstrators are pictured protesting against the Armenian genocide in front of the Reichstag (Berlin). Entitled “Regierung der Türkei verärgert über Joachim Gauck,” the article concerns the Turkish annoyance at Johachim Gauk, the German president (s. 2012–7) who refused to attend the hundredth anniversary of the Gallipoli landings on a date that coincided with the hundredth anniversary of the Armenian genocide. Interestingly, the news item also provides coverage of the Turkish reaction to the German snub. 3. The Irish from the Republic of Ireland have been reluctant to attend commemorative events that honored Irish soldiers in the War. Although Jeffery (2015) argues otherwise, the Irish have been critical of the overt expression of British militarism that typically characterizes such events. This changed when the then president of Ireland (Mary McAleese [s. 1997–2011]) sought to recognize the Irish contribution in the War. For example, she presided over the unveiling of a relevant memorial in Suvla Bay (Gallipoli) in honor of the Tenth “Irish” Division (2010). With the Queen (Elizabeth II [r. 1952–]), she also opened the Messines Peace Park on the Western Front (2011). With this new development in mind, Jeffery examines the erection of war memorials and the foundation of military associations that honor or memorialize Irish soldiers who fought in the War. Of interest, he argues that remembrance rituals that commemorate the war have served to unify rather than divide a country that has long been tormented by sectarian politics (see, also, chapter 7 and the Coda). 4. On April 20 (2015), Erdoğan broadcast a video clip on different Turkish channels in commemoration of the Gallipoli victory. For a commentary in English and a screening of this video, see “President Erdoğan’s Gallipoli ‘Prayer’ Stirs Debate” reported in Hürriyet Daily News (April 21, 2015). The reference to jihad in the prayer is particularly relevant since Erdoğan had earlier referred to the campaign against the Allied landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula as “jihad” (tr. “cihat”). It is noteworthy that Erdoğan had previously recited this prayer by Asya at political rallies. See, for example, a video of a relevant meeting in Istanbul (2014) at the following web address: vimeo.com/90282173 [Access Date: October 24, 2015]. See, also, chapter 2 for a fuller discussion of jihad in the War. 5. The whole speech by Mehmet Görmez can be found on the official website of the Diyanet İşleri Bakanlığı at the following web address: www.diyanet.gov.tr [Access Date: October 24, 2015]. In particular, the following statement is noteworthy: “We remember with compassion our brothers who perished here a hundred years ago and who came from Damascus, Baghdad, Beirut, Cairo, Skopje, Sarajevo and Caucasia” (tr. “Yüz sene önce Şam’dan, Bağdat’tan, Beyrut’tan, Kahire’den, Üsküp’ten, Saray Bosna’dan, Kafkasya’dan gelen ve burada canlarını veren kardeşlerimizi rahmetle anıyoruz”). It is noteworthy that a number of cities in Europe and Africa mentioned by Görmez were originally part of the Ottoman Empire. However by the time of the Gallipoli landings, Cairo, Skopje and Sarajevo were no longer affiliated with the Ottoman State. More significantly, Görmez does not commemorate explicitly the Allied dead. Although, the presidents of Bosnia and Macedonia are present (thereby explaining the references to Sarajevo and Skopje), the president of Pakistan is also in attendance, presumably honoring the South Asian troops who fell during the campaign on the side of the Allies.

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6. See Farmer (1912: 12–4) for a discussion of musical instruments used by the Saracens during the crusades. Citing a crusader, Farmer recounts: “The musical display of the Saracens is described [...] as comprising trumpets, clarions, horns, pipes, drums [and] cymbals, a prodigious array creating a horrible noise and clamor.” He argues that these instruments were employed to convey military signals and to indicate strategic positions. See, also, Farmer (1930: 136–44) for a speculative discussion of the Arabian influence on European organology during the Medieval period. Farmer (ibid.: 136) summarizes the issue as follows: “The influence due to the Arabian culture contact in respect to musical instruments was far wider than has been previously acknowledged.” See Reynolds (2015) for a critique of the Arabian influence as proposed by Farmer. 7. See Jäger (1996a) for a discussion of Turkish music and Turkish musicians in Central Europe during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. See, also, Jäger (1996b) for a relevant entry on janissary music both inside and outside of Turkey. 8. See O’Connell (2005, 2013) for a discussion of the terms alaturka and alafranga. In particular, see O’Connell (2010b) for a historical overview of janissary bands (as representative of “eastern” music or alaturka) and brass bands (as representative of “western” music or alafranga). Broadly speaking, an oral method of musical instruction in the janissary ensemble was replaced by a literate means of musical transmission in the brass band, both “western” or alafranga musicians and non-“western” or alaturka musicians now being required to read music, be it a standard style of musical notation (in alafranga) or a modified form of musical representation (in alaturka). Today, all professional musicians in “western” “classical” music (alafranga) and Turkish “classical” music (alaturka) are required to demonstrate exemplary skills in musical literacy. See, also, chapter 2. 9. See O’Connell (forth.) for a consideration of the saz as a symbol of Alevi belief. 10. For a general discussion of biculturalism in the context of a plural society with respect to New Zealand, see Mulgan (1994: 20–49). For a nuanced reading of biculturalism from a musical perspective, see Johnson Ed. (2010). 11. See Curthoys (2009) for a critical review of Australian attitudes toward Aboriginal recruits. In particular, she examines the controversy surrounding a specific club in New South Wales that did not allow Aboriginal veterans entry into the Returned Servicemen’s League (RSL). 12. All Hallows Gallipoli Choir is a specially appointed choral ensemble from Brisbane (QLD). The choir regularly performs on the anniversary of the Gallipoli landings at the dawn service at Anzac Cove. The choir is also featured in the first performance of the Gallipoli Symphony (see chapter 7). 13. See Kant (2015) for a consideration of contested memories as they relate to the centennial commemoration of the Gallipoli Campaign. Like me, she shows how the ceremony, which celebrates the beginning of a national modernity (in the guise of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk]), is being replaced by a ritual that commemorates the end of an imperial tradition (in the guise of Erdoğan). She also highlights the issues surrounding the date of the centennial commemoration, it being held on April 24, 2015



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instead of April 25, 2015. See, also, chapter 7 for a comparative study of commemorative events that were held on the same day in Armenia and Turkey. 14. Çakır (2003: 16) reproduces the relevant letter in full. In it, he recounts the conscription of schoolteachers in Çanakkale into the armed forces. Apart from mentioning soldiers who sing the “Çanakkale Türküsü” in the streets, he repeats the boy’s desire to view a naval assault on the Dardanelles by the Allied warships: “I would have liked to see this bombardment” (tr. “bu bombarımanı görmek isterdim”) the boy states. However, Çakır relates that the boy will soon be evacuated, returning to Istanbul to be with his mother. It is noteworthy that the relevant letter was apparently sent on September 29, 1914. That is, the correspondence postdates the unauthorized closure of the Dardanelles by a German officer on September 27, 1914. In contravention of the Treaty of Berlin, this closure was viewed as an act of war against the Triple Entente. Despite this illegal act, the declaration of war was not precipitated by this unilateral act of aggression. It would be more than a month before the Ottoman Empire would come out on the side of the Central Powers (see chapter 2).

Chapter 2

The Holy War

The sky is threatening. The sea is turbulent. Black competes with white in the draughtsman’s hand to capture the truculent tableau. In front of the hilltops that frame the narrows, a battleship fires a broadside at an entrenched position. On shore, a canon on the ramparts returns fire. Smoke billows across the Dardanelles. A lone flag flutters somewhat nonchalantly above the fray. It is not clear whether the colors are German or Ottoman. It guides the viewer away from the land to the sea: from the defenders who represent the Central Powers to the aggressors who fight for the Triple Entente. However, no man is portrayed in this inhuman vision of the inferno. Only one ship and one canon are featured. Yet, there is a sense of dark foreboding and immanent carnage in the picture entitled “Kampf vor den Dardanellen” (en. “Battle before the Dardanelles”). Sketched by the German artist Ulrich Hüber (1872–1932), the lithograph appeared in the German periodical Kriegszeit (March 10, 1915), a broad sheet that featured expressionist portrayals of the War from a German perspective (see Figure 2.1). The print is accompanied by a poem. It is a German variant of the Don Juan “Canto VIII” (1823) composed by George Lord Byron (1788–1824). Verse seven is appended to the relevant print. It is quite different from the original. It is not written using the Italianate ottava rima of the Byronic epic where each strophe adheres strictly to the rhyme structure [abababcc]. Rather, it adopts a simpler but not entirely consistent arrangement [aaaaaabb].1 Also, the Byronic flair for satire is missing. The poem matches the anxious emotionalism of the expressionist movement. It speaks of: “Air, earth and water are allayed by a fiery rain” (gr. “Luft, Erde, Wasser bannt ein Glutenregen”) and of a “Shore [that] spits ore, piece by piece, like Vesuvius” (gr. “Das Ufer speit, vesuvgleich, Stück auf Stück Erz”). It talks about “when the Armada moved into position, armed” (gr. “Als der Armada panzer sich bewegten”). 29

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Figure 2.1  “Kampf vor den Dardanellen”—Ulrich Hüber. Permission provided by Skala.

Hit, “the Muslim forts were stirred into action / And, the return of fire was given” (gr. “das sich die forts der Moslem regten / Und das dem Feuer Antwort ward verlieh’n”). Like the original verse, this poem has a Turkish theme, the bombardment of an Ottoman fort from the sea. Like the original too, this poem envisions



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the slaughter of the resident population when the enemy’s attack is complete. However in the original “Canto,” around forty thousand Turks were killed after the strategic town of İsmail[ye] (on the Danube) was taken (on December 22, 1790) during the Ottoman-Russian War (1787–92). However in the variant, Hüber must have known that the first bombardment of the Dardanelles by the Allied navy had already faltered when the verse was published. He must also have known that the Ottoman defenders had not been slain. Perhaps, Hüber wished to depict the Byronic vision of cataclysm to be found in the original verse (verse: 7): “Then one vast fire, air, earth and stream embraced” [line: 5] when “the whole rampart blazed like Etna” [line: 7]. This explains the reference to Vesuvius in the German version [line: 7]. However, Hüber does recognize that “the armada regrouped backwards” (gr. “die Armada konzentriert sich rückwärts”) [line: 8]. That is, he acknowledges that the Allied battleships had retreated.2 That the picture (and probably the verse) by Hüber appeared in Kriegszeit is noteworthy. It was one of many artistic leaflets (gr. Künstlerflugblätter) by expressionist painters that were featured in the periodical (1914–6). Affiliated with the modernist movement known as the “Berliner Secession,” these artists were asked to provide an artistic interpretation of the war for propaganda purposes. Generals are featured and soldiers are portrayed (often sketched by Max Liebermann [1847–1935]). Comic characterizations of the British [sea] lion and downtrodden representations of the Russian bear appear in cartoons (often penned by August Gaul [1869–1922]). There are eight lithographs in the broadsheet by Hüber. In every instance, a maritime theme is depicted, be it a battle on the high seas (February 3, 1915) or a ship off the Arabian coast (March 3, 1915). While Hüber was not noted as an expressionist artist, his representations of blazing guns and exploding ships, of submarines at sunset and sailing boats in sunshine, conjure up extreme emotions and contrasting feelings: the terrors of naval warfare are set against the delights of naval life. The Germans set a model in propaganda for the Ottomans to follow. Enamored by all things German, the minister of war (s. 1914–18), [İsmail] Enver Paşa (1881–1922), organized a group of Turkish artists to depict their impressions of the Gallipoli Campaign. In addition to writers (such as Ahmet Ağaoğlu [1869–1939]) and painters (such as “Çallı” İbrahim [Çallı] [1882–1960]), a musician Ahmet Yekta [Madran] (1885–1950) was among the retinue.3 Departing from Istanbul (July 11, 1915), the group spent seven days travelling around the battlefront. Apart from a poetic anthology by İbrahim Alâeddin [Gövsa] (see Gövsa [1926]) and an extended article by Hamdullah Suphi [Tanrıöver] (published as installments in the newspaper İkdam), little came of this endeavor (Köröğlu [2007: 825–]). The group (here called the “İstanbul Heyet-i Edebiyesi”) is also featured in the journal entitled the “War Magazine” (tr. “Harp Mecmuası” [1331 [1915] / 3: 43]). Alongside

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a poem by Hakkı Suha [Gezgin] (1895–1923) entitled “In the Trenches” (tr. “Siperlerde”), the artists are depicted visiting a trench (in Seddülbahir) and a headquarters (above Arıburnu). The reference to the Harp Mecmuası is important since the quality publication was modeled after equivalent magazines in Germany, such as Kriegszeit. The German connection did not end there. The value of film (see chapter 6) and the role of museums (see chapter 4) in the war effort followed a German precedent. Germans were active agents in military reform. German officers, affiliated with the German Military Mission (established in 1883), were sent to Istanbul to train army cadets. By the outbreak of the war, there were more than seventy personnel directly involved in this martial endeavor. However, there was international consternation at this new desire for Prussian militarism in the Ottoman Empire. In particular, Russia feared an Ottoman thrust with German assistance into its Asiatic heartland. Britain and France feared for their colonies in the Middle East. They all dreaded the closure of the Dardanelles. As if to realize the Germanic aspiration for an “empire in the sun,” German engineers were employed in and German financiers underwrote the construction of the strategically important Berlin to Baghdad railway (see McMeeken [2011]). In short, the early twentieth century saw a rapid expansion of the German community in Istanbul. It was a veritable mania for Alamanîa.4 However, this thirst for the Teutonic was not universally lauded. True, Enver Paşa had been trained in the Military Mission. As military attaché in Berlin (s. 1909–11), he had whetted his desire to emulate Prussian militarism. However, other stakeholders in the Ottoman government were less keen, some wishing to forge links with Britain (especially in the maritime arena) and others hoping to continue connections with France (especially in the financial sector). Yet, there were two issues that muddied the waters for the Triple Entente. First, the Ottoman Empire was heavily in debt. It was Germany who offered the best terms for a bailout. Second, Britain and France (among others) had negotiated in the past favorable arrangements with successive regimes. Known as “capitulations,” both countries secured preferential economic terms and special legal rights for their subjects in the Ottoman Empire, two areas of foreign privilege that were exploited by irredentist movements eager to be freed of the Ottoman yoke. Not stained equally with the taint of colonial exploitation or political subversion, Germany seemed to offer the only hope for securing the survival of an empire. THE DECLARATION OF WAR Germany had one condition. The Ottoman Empire had to declare war in favor of the Central Powers. At first however, the Ottoman position



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was not clear. As Shaw argues (1977, 2: 310), different members of the Ottoman Cabinet had distinctive connections with the warring parties: [Ahmet] Cemal Paşa (1872–1922) favoring the Triple Entente by way of supporting the maritime interests of the Naval Mission (under the direction of Sir Arthur Limpus [1863–1931]); Enver Paşa favoring the Central Powers by way of backing the terrestrial concerns of the Military Mission (under the control of Otto Liman von Sanders [1855–1929]). However, this ambivalent position disguised a harsh reality: the strategic alliance between France and Russia (1897) to counterbalance the dual alliance between Germany and Austria-Hungary (1879) left the Ottoman Empire isolated. This isolation was exacerbated when Britain and France declared an Entente Cordiale (1904). Exposed to Russian hostility without protection from its traditional allies, the Ottoman administration sought solace in its Germanic neighbors, who themselves feared total encirclement if the Ottoman Empire were to side with the Triple Entente. As usual, intrigue prevailed. Enver Paşa signed an agreement with Germany (August 2, 1914). The agreement was negotiated in secret with the German ambassador to the Porte (s. 1912–5), Hans Freiherr von Wangenheim (1859–1915). As Zürcher argues (1994: 116–9), the defensive alliance had two outcomes. First, it showed that the Ottomans were still able to negotiate as equal partners a treaty with a great power. Significantly, Britain and France had refused a similar advance from another cabinet minister in the same year (Shaw [1977, 2: 310]). Second, it showed that the Ottomans were unaware of German strategy, believing that the Central Powers would focus their attention on Russia, which had mobilized (August 1, 1914) specifically to redress the Austrian invasion of Serbia. Further, the Ottomans did not realize that the German advance would occur in the “west” (in accordance with the Schlieffen plan), thereby ensuring that Britain would enter the war (August 4, 1914). This was a strategic blunder since Britain like France (but in contrast to Germany) had colonial interests in the Middle East. Britain also had a naval presence in the Mediterranean. Although the Ottomans were more concerned with the naval strength of neighboring states in the Aegean (such as Greece), they looked to Britain (among others) to build new vessels. With the failure of Sultan Abdülhamit II (r. 1876–1909) to invest substantially in the Ottoman navy (in contrast to his success at financing generously the Ottoman army), the Young Turks sought to reverse this trend by commissioning two dreadnoughts (called the “Sultan Osman I” and the “Reşadiye”) from the British companies Vickers Ltd (in Barrow) and Armstrong Ltd (in Newcastle), vessels that were to be delivered in August, 1914. The matter was rendered more urgent by the recent delivery from Italy of a heavy cruiser (called the “Averoff”) to the Greek navy at a critical

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moment in the Balkan wars (1912–3). Although the Reşadiye had already been launched in September, 1913, Britain failed to hand over the ships to the Ottomans, the British requisitioning both vessels (August 3, 1914) before the outset of their war with Germany. The Ottomans were indignant. First, Britain was not officially at war with Germany, the ships being commandeered on August 3 and war being declared on August 4 (1914). Second, Britain was not at war with the Ottoman Empire since the agreement (August 2, 1914) between Enver Paşa and Wangenheim was concluded in secret. As yet, this agreement had not been ratified by the Sultan and the Kaiser. Third, Britain did not pay compensation for the requisitioned ships; this despite both vessels being paid for. For the Ottoman public, the perfidy of Britain was a double blow. They had contributed substantially to a subscription fund specifically organized by the Naval Association (tr. Donanma Cemiyeti) to finance the modernization of their navy (see chapter 5). To this end, wages had been deducted, donations had been accepted and collections had been organized. For the Ottoman public too, the two ships represented a popular pride in maritime power, a means by which the Greeks could be stopped in the Aegean and the Italians could be halted in Tripolitania. The Germans were quick to act. Following a skirmish against French positions in Algeria (August 3, 1914), two cruisers (called the “Goeben” and the “Breslau”) retreated to the Dardanelles pursued by the British navy (August 11, 1914). Under the orders of Enver Paşa, the German ships were granted safe passage in contravention of Ottoman neutrality. Upon the recommendation of Wangenheim, the two cruisers were bought by the Ottoman government and their crews were inducted into the Ottoman navy, Goeben and Breslau being renamed “Yavuz” and “Midilli,” respectively. Wilhelm Souchon (1864–1946), the squadron commander of the German ships, was appointed admiral of the Ottoman Navy. Upon promotion, he immediately reorganized the naval ministry by elevating German officers and by advancing a German agenda, apparently without consulting his Ottoman allies. Souchon even organized a sortie against the Russians without the full knowledge of the Ottoman cabinet, bombarding Odessa and Savastapol in the Crimea (October 29, 1914). In this way, he ensured that the Ottoman Empire entered the war on the side of the Central Powers. The Germans probably did not act alone. Although the full details are not entirely clear, it is probable that Enver Paşa played a significant role in the military escapade by Souchon. Certainly, Shaw (1977, 2: 312), Zürcher (1994: 119), Mango (1999: 135) and Aksakal (2008) assert this opinion. Further, Enver Paşa had actively solicited German diplomatic advice (by way of Wangenheim) and German military assistance (by means of the



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German Military Mission). For the Entente, the huge presence of German advisers in Istanbul was especially worrying, German gold now filling Ottoman coffers and German military now manning Ottoman defenses. The situation came to a head when the German commander of the Dardanelles, Weber Paşa (Erich P. Weber [1860–1933]), closed the Straits without Ottoman approval (September 27, 1994). This in itself was an act of war as free passage through the Straits was guaranteed by international convention (1871). However, many key players were not kept informed of contemporary developments. For example, Cemal Paşa, as the minister of the navy, was not told in advance of the naval raid on Russian ports by Souchon. In truth, the Germans were not popular, either with the Ottoman public or with the Ottoman army. For many, the arrogance of Prussian officers in the Ottoman forces did not help. Also, there was a lingering admiration among the Ottoman populace for the traditional allies of the Ottoman Empire, namely Britain and France. To this end, the Young Turks had been careful not to show an official preference for any side before the conflict (Shaw [1977, 2: 309]). No, Enver Paşa had to move with stealth by securing German assistance in preserving the Ottoman Empire. To do this, he had to provoke the Triple Entente into declaring war. For the Germans, the Ottomans offered the possibility of a strategic alliance given the growing stalemate on the western front. This, they duly did with Russia making a war declaration on November 2, (1914), followed by Britain and France on November 5, (1914). It took another six days for the Ottoman government to respond. On November 11, (1914), Sultan Mehmet V (r. 1909–18) declared war. Sultan Mehmet V also approved a fatwa (tr. fetva) calling on Muslims to wage jihad (tr. cihat). Read out by the Şeyhülislam at the Topkapı Palace (where relics of the Prophet were housed), the Sultan hoped to incite a holy war against foreign infidels in colonial territories. Here, Britain, France and Russia all governed substantial Muslim peoples. Interestingly, the fatwa was probably not legitimate given the Ottoman alliance with a Christian faction, the Central Powers. While the success of the fatwa was limited, it raised two important issues. First, the Sultan was also Caliph, a religious title that dated back to the earliest moments of the Ottoman Empire (during the fourteenth century) but a position that was exploited by Sultan Abdülhamit II to reinforce his authority in non-Turkish lands. The proclamation also validated an Ottoman wish to challenge foreign concessions (called “capitulations”) and to default on foreign debt. Second, the Sultan mirrored the position of the Kaiser. During his second visit to the Ottoman Empire (1898), Kaiser Wilhelm II (r. 1888–1918) declared himself to be the protector of Islam.5

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DEUTSCHLAND ÜBER ALLAH In truth, Kaiser Wilhelm II was an unlikely Islamophile. Many anecdotes attest to his interest in Islam and his respect for Muslims. In a partisan critique of Turkish and German relations, the author Edward F. Benson (1867–1940) provides an idiosyncratic explanation for this Islamo-centricism on the part of the Kaiser (see Benson [1917]). Entitled “Deutschland über Allah” (a satirical take on the opening line of “Das Lied der Deutschen” [1841]), the writer views the Ottoman Empire as a German colony, with German soldiers running the Ottoman military and German entrepreneurs dominating the Ottoman economy. According to Benson, Germany was exploiting Ottoman industry and Ottoman agronomy to furnish its war effort in Europe, leaving the Ottomans both impoverished and malnourished. Further, Germany was fostering indebtedness by providing the Ottoman Empire with loans and bonds, thereby securing “new conventions” for the German Empire to replace the “old capitulations” of the colonial powers. Benson views this strategy as a bid to carve out a German empire in the Turkic heartland of Asia, a panPrussian parasite feeding upon its pan-Turkish host. Here, Benson is invoking a contemporary discourse about culture and change. There were two strands to this, one that involved cultural diffusion, and another that concerned cultural evolution. Both strands had their exponents in Germany, namely Fritz Graebner (1877–1934) and Carl Becker (1876–1933), respectively. In the first category, scholars believed that all cultures could be traced to a single point of origin, a culture circle (gr. Kulturkreis) whose cultural traits diffused outward over time. The Turks represented one such circle while the Germans represented another, with pan-Turkism and pan-Prussianism providing the ideological basis for validating colonial expansion. In the second category, scholars argued that cultures evolved over time in a similar fashion. Using comparative techniques, they evaluated the evolutionary status of different cultures with Europe occupying the pinnacle of cultural evolution and Africa residing at the base of the cultural pyramid. Of note, the “orient” was located at an intermediary position in this hierarchical arrangement, its people like its religion in need of modernization and “westernization.” Benson alludes to the colonial status of the Ottoman Empire and the colonizing intent of the German Empire. There is some truth in this observation. In particular, German orientalists had been co-opted by German politicians to devise a theory of evolution consistent with a contemporary drive toward German colonization. To satisfy this vision of imperial grandeur, German orientalists focused on Islam not only to subvert the colonial ambitions of their enemies but also to advance a new understanding of religious observance in cultural evolution. Here, Becker played a critical



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role. In his comparative study of Christianity and Islam (1907), he explored the historical formation of both religions, showing how Christianity and Islam were heirs to a shared Hellenic past. In contrast to other colonial powers, Berker argued that Germany should at first embrace Islam (rather than Christianity) to nurture its own colonial ambitions and to dissuade its colonial adversaries. Importantly, Berker was made the first director of the Kolonialinstitut in Hamburg (1908). Benson fails to mention one issue: jihad. Like Becker, he did not recognize the significance of a holy war in colonial territories. However, Kaiser Wilhelm II did as a means to win the war. Since around one hundred and forty million Muslims resided in the territories of the Triple Entente (McMeekin [2011: 3]), the German ruler knew that a Muslim insurrection in Entente territories would be highly disruptive. It would divert resources away from the existing fronts. It would subvert mobilization in the enemy forces. To this end, the Kaiser approved a special camp for Muslim prisoners of war in Berlin. Called the “Half Moon Camp” (gr. “Halbmondlager”), inmates were given preferential treatment as an incentive to change sides and to wage jihad. In addition, publications were issued and lectures were organized at the camp to highlight the merits of engaging in a holy war on the side of Germany. The indoctrination had little success with many recruits deserting when leaving the security of internment for the reality of war. Two Germans played a key role in this venture. First, Wangenheim as an ambassador sought to realize the orientalist ambitions of the Kaiser. Already a seasoned diplomat (with postings in Mexico and Greece, among others), he was personally chosen by the Kaiser to lead the delegation in Istanbul, his brief being to seek a treaty with the Ottoman “Porte” and to provoke a campaign against the Triple Entente. This he did with the approval of the Kaiser and with the agreement of Enver Paşa. Like the Kaiser, Wangenheim envisioned a German empire in the “east,” an empire founded around the Hijaz Railway, linking Berlin with Baghdad via the Bosporus. Not only did this aspiration have an economic dimension (with German funds being allocated to Ottoman projects) but it also had a strategic component; that is, the Hijaz Railway enabled the Germans to bypass the Suez Canal. In this way, the Central Powers could access the oil reserves in the Persian Gulf and threaten the supply routes to the Indian subcontinent. Second, Max “Frieherr” von Oppenheim (1860–1946) wished to satisfy the jihadist objectives of the Kaiser. An orientalist and an adventurer, he used his position as a part-time diplomat and as a part-bit archeologist to advance his vision of pan-Islamicism, where the vassal peoples of the Triple Entente rose up in a holy war against their colonizers. Although, at the time, the concept of pan-Islamicism was subject to critical scrutiny

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among German intellectuals, Oppenheim wrote a memorandum about inciting revolution among the Muslim subjects of Germany’s enemies. Published in Berlin (October, 1914) when there was still doubt about the entry of the Ottoman Empire into the war, Oppenheim recommended that the Caliph declare jihad, that the Ottomans advance on the Suez Canal and that the Bedouins be solicited for support, among other suggestions. Publishing pamphlets (under the auspices of his Nachrichtenstelle) and disseminating propaganda (by way of Nachrichtensäle), he aimed to enflame Muslim ire with stories of imperialist atrocities and to nurture Muslim support with reports of Germanic victories. Wangenheim was clearly aware of Oppenheim. Although the former did not fully subscribe to the grandiose plans of the latter (especially with regards to a Persian alliance), Wangenheim agreed with Oppenheim about the need for a Muslim uprising in colonial territories, even so far as to mounting a proOttoman demonstration in which representative prisoners from the armies of the Triple Entente were ceremoniously displayed at the Germany embassy in Istanbul at the outset of war. For both Germans however, the declaration of a holy war had an unsavory dimension. One of the relevant fatwas (there were five in total) exhorted Muslims to attack Christians, a decree that was realized in practice when Armenians were massacred (especially in Asia). It is noteworthy that Wangenheim was one of the first to report the atrocities (see chapter 7), not condemning yet not condoning the pogroms in deference to his Ottoman allies. Later, Oppenheim (although part Jewish) would demonstrate an equivalent ambivalence toward another atrocity in Europe, the annihilation of the Jews by the Nazis. As is widely known, the Kaiser was not consistent in his attitude toward other creeds and other races. Although he paraded his support for Muslims (jokingly being called “Hajji Wilhelm”), he also displayed at the same time his backing for Jews, especially Zionists in Germany who were trying to establish a homeland in Palestine. Significantly, he met the Zionist leader Theodor Herzl (1860–1904) during his visit to Jerusalem (1898). While he advocated jihad against his rivals in Africa, the Kaiser was happy to provide assistance in suppressing a Muslim revolt in East Africa (1889). Uprisings in Togo and Cameroon were similarly crushed. In fact, the Kaiser was both quixotic and irascible. Dismissing his chancellor (Otto Fürst von Bismarck [s. 1871–1890]) in part for his careful approach to foreign policy, he set about expanding his empire by favoring Islamicism or Zionism when either ideology suited. Here, the orientalist Becker and the adventurer Oppenheim appealed to his romantic inclinations by presenting Germany with a favorable Islampolitik, one that was more “Deutschland über Alles” than “Deutschland über Allah.”



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KAISERLICHER MUSIKDIREKTOR However, there was one area where the Germans did not dominate. This area was music. Following the abolition of the Janissaries (1826), an “eastern” instrumental ensemble (mehter) was replaced by a “western” military band. With the growing appreciation of “western” music (tr. alafranga) at the expense of “eastern” music (tr. alaturka) among Ottoman rulers, Italian bandmasters (such as Giuseppe Donizetti [1788–1856] and Callisto Guatelli [1820–1899]) rather than German maestros were invited to direct the new military ensemble, this despite the presence of Prussian advisors in the Ottoman army since the time of Sultan Mahmut II (r. 1808–39). The situation did not change during the Tanzimat era (1839–75), with Italian impresarios vying with French entrepreneurs to dominate “western” music in Istanbul both in the realms of music for the army and music for the theater (see O’Connell [2013]). Although musicians from the Germanic empires visited Istanbul as a new destination in concert tours of Europe (see below), the Germans remained subordinate to the Italians earlier and to the French later in their contribution to music-making in the Ottoman capital. The situation changed with the arrival of Kaiser Wilhelm II. As the only head of state to be received by Sultan Abdülhamit II, the Kaiser made three official visits to the Ottoman capital. Although he had been advised by the chancellor (Bismarck) not to aggravate his Russian neighbors by forging an agreement with the Ottomans, he ignored this council thereby cementing an alliance between Russia and France which effectively encircled his new state. His visits were celebrated with pomp and circumstance with brass bands playing a central role in ceremonial rituals. One anecdote is worthy of comment. On the first visit (1889), the Kaiser was apparently entranced by the gyrations of a Circassian dancer in the imperial harem. According to McMeeken (2011: 9), this experience of “oriental” allure ignited the Kaiser’s interest in Islam. However, Turkish sources suggest another version of events. It was the Kaiserin (and not the Kaiser) who visited the harem, causing a certain degree of embarrassment with her failure to follow protocol (see İrtem [1999: 185–7]; Açba [2004: 25–8]). On the second visit (1898), the Kaiser formally attended a choral performance at the German School (October 18, 1898). Conducted by the German musician Paul Lange (1857–1919), the Kaiser used his considerable influence to promote his countryman at court as the new director of the naval orchestra. Although the Kaiser was more concerned with strategic matters in the political realm (such as pan-Islamicism) and the economic arena (such as the Hijaz Railway), his intervention on the part of Lange was decisive since it initiated a German school of music noted for its rigor in terms of learning and

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its professionalism in terms of practice. The fact that the Kaiser had already appointed Lange as the kaiserlicher Musikdirektor (1894) is instructive since the emperor recognized officially the contribution of the musician to the musical life of the expanding community of German residents. While Lange had been living in Istanbul since 1880, the Kaiser’s visit ensured the artist’s standing among his musical competitors, who were usually Italian or French.6 Lange was certainly a fascinating figure. Graduating as an organist from the Institut für Kirchenmusik (Berlin), he was invited by the German Embassy in Istanbul to teach music at the German School and to play organ in the German Embassy. It is noteworthy that he was instrumental in the negotiations surrounding the construction of an organ (completed in 1884) in the Evangelische Kirche. Finding work also in Armenian and American institutions, he is famed for his establishment of a music academy in Pera (1888), where he gave piano and voice lessons to students of non-Turkish origin. In this capacity, he was recognized as the first Leiter des Konservatoriums. He also arranged soirées for his students, often in the German club called “Teutonia” (see below). One of these performances was reviewed (March 12, 1889) by the Italian artist, Bartolomeo Pisani (1811–93). The review was not entirely complementary, the reviewer noting that Lange supplemented his piano accompaniment with additional instruments to disguise the monotone character and the poor tuning of his instrument. Lange is also remembered for his role as a bandmaster. Initially directing the Municipal Band (tr. Belediye Bandosu) and the Artillery Band (tr. Tophane Bandosu), he was recruited (1909) to lead the naval band (called the “Ertuğrul Mızıkası”), an ensemble that was originally conducted by “Binbaşı” Faik Bey ([1870]-[1910]), a graduate of the Imperial Music Academy (tr. Muzıka-ı Hümâyûn) who was removed from service for ideological reasons. As Tuğlacı (1986: 83, 88) shows, military reform during the reign of Sultan Abdülhamit II was used to weed out musicians on the grounds of old age and/or new ideas. In the Ertuğrul Mızıkası, Lange perfected a regimented approach to military music by requiring proficiency in musical literacy and excellence in marching order. Following a precedent set by Kaiser Wilhelm II, he dressed his band in handsome uniforms, augmenting its members with foreign musicians to ensure quality. The band became famous for its regular performances, operating both as a “classical” orchestra and as a military ensemble. For his extended service to military music, Lange was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel (tr. kaymakam). Lange had other talents. As a conductor, he was the first to promote German repertoire in Ottoman concerts. Earlier (during the 1880s), Lange organized concerts on Turkish themes, performing with students from his academy relevant compositions by Mozart (such as “Rondo alla turca” [KV 331]) and Beethoven (such as “Marcia alla turca” [op. 76]), among others (Baydar



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[2010: 140–1]). Here, Lange was alluding to a long-standing Germanic fascination with the Ottoman “orient” where musical exoticism was employed as a covert medium for articulating political dissent (see Locke [1991]; O’Connell [2005]). Later (during the 1890s), Lange enlarged an Italian orchestra along Germanic lines, creating a symphony orchestra consisting of seventy instrumentalists and a symphonic choir composed of two hundred voices. He was the first conductor to perform large orchestral works by Beethoven and major operatic works by Wagner (Aracı [2013: 35]). For the most part, these performances took place in the Teutonia Club (in a special concert series), but the German Embassy and the German School were also venues (Baydar [2010: 271–3]). As a composer, Lange wrote many marches. Some of these relate to historical events, such as the “Edirne March” (tr. “Edirne Marşı”) that celebrated the recapture of Edirne (1913) by Enver Paşa during the Second Balkan War (1913). Others were clearly patriotic such as the “Motherland March” (“Vatan Marşı”) or the “Barbarossa March” (tr. “Barbaros [Hayrettin Paşa] Marşı”). Of course, Lange wrote works for the ensembles where he was a bandmaster such as the “Ertuğrul Cavalry March” (tr. “Ertuğrul Süvari Marşı”) for the Ertuğrul Mızıkası or for the positions where he was resident such as the “Yıldız Infantry March” (tr. “Yıldız Piyade Marşı”) at the Yıldız Sarayı. Although some compositions remained unpublished (Kosal [1999: 77]; Baydar [2010: 149–50]), Lange does not appear to have written a march in honor of the reigning Sultan. This is surprising given his favored position at court. It is also surprising given that foreign bandmasters usually honored their imperial masters in this manner. For example, Guatelli (as Guatelli Paşa) dedicated his “Ottoman March” (tr. “Osmaniye Marşı”) to Sultan Abdülaziz (r. 1861–76). Of course, Lange wished uniquely to inculcate a love of “western” music among his Turkish hosts. This was not an easy task. In particular, a coterie of Italian musicians attempted successfully to thwart his plans for opening a music conservatory. Through jealous intrigue, this project suffered on two fronts: first from a lack of students and second from a dearth of funds. Although Lange was promised financial support from imperial coffers, the assured monies were not forthcoming. Accordingly, Lange sought the patronage of Sultan Abdülhamit II, whose love of “western” music is widely recognized (Özasker [1997: 19–20]). However, the Sultan was unable to help fearing a revolt among his camerata of palace musicians. Here, Kaiser Wilhelm II intervened. Hearing Lange on his first visit (1889) and meeting Lange on his second visit (1898), the Kaiser was impressed with the honesty of the musician, a chance encounter where Lange had made a negative evaluation of the Kaiser’s compositional ability. For his bravery, the Kaiser secured a professional position for Lange at the Ottoman court.

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MUSIC ACROSS BOUNDARIES For Lange, the fight was not yet finished. Although he was made the director of music at the palace, he was obliged to forego his professional activities outside of the palace. Alas, Lange was not to benefit from this arrangement. In 1908, the Young Turks deposed the Sultan. In 1909, the Sultan abdicated. As a friend of Sultan Abdülhamit II, Lange was tarnished by association, the bandmaster being forced to leave his current position at the imperial court but being unable to recover his former place in the diplomatic community. The German Embassy offered no assistance. Fortunately, Lange benefited from the intervention of Sultan Mehmet V. In 1910, he was reappointed to Yıldız Sarayı both as a music director and as a music teacher. By this time however, his health was in decline. Unlike other Germans, Lange was allowed to remain in Istanbul after the Treaty of Mudros (1918). Soon after (December 2, 1919), he died. Unusually, he was granted a state funeral for his extended service to “western” music in the Ottoman Empire. During his long career, Lange crossed a number of significant boundaries. He worked both in sacred (as an organist) and in secular (as a pianist) contexts. He was employed both by native patrons (especially in the Ottoman court) and by non-native sponsors (especially among the diplomatic community). He performed both in civilian ensembles (as a conductor) and in military bands (as a bandmaster). He even grappled with distinctive styles, at times advancing a German reading of romanticism by teaching “classical” works by German composers in his “music conservatory” and by advocating a German understanding of nationalism by teaching folksongs of German extraction in his school choirs. Indeed, Lange had a different career from his European contemporaries, musicians either who were brought from abroad to work in the palace orchestra (Muzıka-ı Hümâyûn) or who were resident in Istanbul working as professionals in the European community. Here, Lange crossed the biggest boundary of all. Through public performances, he made “western” music accessible to the Ottoman public. For this, he was greatly esteemed. Lange set another precedent. He showed that German musicians could work in Turkey and that Ottoman musicians could study in Germany. Here, Musa Süreyya Bey (1884–1932) followed Lange in crossing boundaries. He was bi-musical, conversant with the performance of alaturka and alafranga. The son of a famous composer, “Giriftzen” Âsım Bey (1852–1929), Musa Süreyya learned Turkish (such as the ud) and non-Turkish (such as the piano) instruments from an early age. In 1910, he was sent to Berlin funded by the state to study music theory at the Königliche akademische Hochschule für Musik and music performance at the Stern’sches Konservatorium. Returning to Istanbul (1915), he taught in a number of schools before being appointed



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the director of the music academy (called “Darül’elhan”) when it was reopened (1924). As a composer, Musa Süreyya was also bi-musical writing works in alafranga (such as marches) and pieces in alaturka (such as şarkı-s). Some of these compositions were hybrid, such as the Turkish song with piano accompaniment entitled “Complaint” (tr. “Şikâyet”). Surprisingly, Lange and Musa Süreyya have received limited attention in the scholarly record. However, they are not alone among the other musicians who crossed boundaries. For example, the violinist Ahmet Cevdet [Çağla] (1900–88) received an excellent training in both alaturka (from “Musullu” Hâfız Osman Dede [1840–1918]) and alafranga (from Andon Andonyadis [d. 1938]). To advance his career, Ahmet Cevdet received a stipendium from the Ministry of Education (tr. Maarif Nezareti) to study music pedagogy and music performance in Berlin (1916–8). Here, his training as a teacher and as a performer resonated with the musical qualifications of Lange and Musa Süreyya. After the war, Ahmet Cevdet was obliged to return prematurely to Istanbul where he was employed by the alaturka ensemble called the “Darüttalimi Musiki Cemiyeti” and (later) by the alafranga orchestra in Istanbul Radio (tr. İstanbul Radyosu). Notably, Ahmet Cevdet was one of the modernists who attempted to “westernize” alaturka, adapting western techniques in the performance of an “eastern” tradition. For this attempt to fashion a hybrid style, he was not always lauded (see O’Connell [2017]). Lange, Musa Süreyya and Ahmet Cevdet initiated a musical dialogue across borders. From Turkey, music students were sent to Germany to train either as teachers or as performers. Mahmut Ragip [Gazimihal] (1900–61) is a representative example. Having rejected alaturka in favor of alafranga, Mahmut Ragip studied “western” music in Berlin at the Stern’sches Konservatorium (1921–5), studying violin with Issay Barmas (1872–1941) and conducting with Alexander von Fielitz (1860–1930). He was also acquainted with the comparative musicologists Curt Sachs (1881–1959) and Erich von Hornbostel (1877–1935), scholars who would influence his desire to become an ethnomusicologist. Mesut Cemil [Tel] (1902–63) is also a representative. Like Mahmut Ragip, he studied musical performance at the Stern’sches Konservatorium (1920–4). Unlike Mahmut Ragip though, he would continue to perform alaturka as a professional. With Mahmut Ragip, he fraternized with Sachs and Hornbostel, Mesut Cemil being employed for a time as an assistant in the Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv. Following Mahmut Ragip, Mesut Cemil would take an active interest in ethnomusicology by representing Turkey (with Raûf Yekta Bey [1871–1935]) at the Cairo Congress of Arab Music (1932). From Germany, musicians came to Turkey during the 1930s to take up employment at the music conservatory in Ankara. Many of them were Jews fleeing Nazi persecution. Following in the footsteps of Paul Hindemith (1895– 1963), they set up a world-leading center for music performance (under the

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direction of Ernst Praetorious [1880–1946]) and music theater (under the leadership of Carl Ebert [1887–1980]). Like other Jews, they were invited by Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938) to improve the standard of teaching at Turkish institutions such as Istanbul University (tr. İstanbul Üniversitesi). In this, the Turkish president was emulating the enlightened policy of Sultan Beyazit II (r. 1481–1512), who rescued Jewish refugees from Spain who were escaping Christian oppression (1492). As I show elsewhere (O’Connell [2015a]), the later migration of musicians was not entirely successful. Either, Turkish exponents of alafranga were made redundant by German “classical” musicians at the conservatory in Ankara. Or, alafranga artists (who were Turkish) displaced alaturka performers (who were also Turkish) at the conservatory in Istanbul. Here, Adnan Saygun (1907–91) is a good example of a “western” composer who was forced to move from Ankara to Istanbul. By 1938, the musical dialogue between Turkey and Germany had turned sour. The German artists were viewed as haughty while the Turkish musicians were considered to be resentful. A similar feeling of animosity developed in other institutions (see Shaw [1993: 10]). However, this was not the first time that international discord had developed between Germans and Turks. After 1914, the army was the source of similar rancor. Now dominated by German officers under the auspices of the Military Mission, the secrecy of military tactics was not always secure and the aims of military action were not always uniform. In particular, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] was especially ambivalent about the benefits of having German soldiers in the Ottoman army, an ambivalent attitude that would prove to be grounded during the Gallipoli Campaign (Mango [1999: 155–6]). To bolster morale, the Kaiser (October, 1917) and the Sultan (December, 1917) visited Istanbul and Berlin, respectively. In his final trip to Istanbul, Kaiser Wilhelm II made a strategic visit (for military purposes) to Gallipoli and undertook a strategic meeting (for political reasons) with the Şeyhülislam. Music played a key role in these visits. In Istanbul (1917), ceremonial events were accompanied by a “western” orchestra (the Muzıka-ı Hümâyûn) and an “eastern” ensemble (the Mehterhane-i Hakanî). The Kaiser especially enjoyed a performance by the janissary band (Karacagil [2013]). In Berlin (1917), the Ottoman delegation included the palace orchestra. Under the direction of the violinist Osman Zeki [Üngör] (1880–1958), the orchestra made its début on the international stage, visiting Austria, Bulgaria and Hungary as well as Germany. Consisting of sixty musicians, the group played a range of compositions by German composers (including Beethoven, Wagner and Weber). Although reviewed positively, concertgoers were surprised to hear alafranga works and not alaturka numbers. Here, they expected to hear examples of military music performed by the janissary band. By challenging an established stereotype of Turkishness, Osman Zeki showed that



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Turks could be like Germans by playing German music in German venues. However, the orchestra retained one allusion to its Turkish identity. To the surprise of audience members, each player wore a fez (tr. fes). COMMERCIAL CONCERNS The dialogue across borders was not confined exclusively to the realm of music-making, be it in the exchange of musicians across national frontiers or the performance of styles across musical boundaries. Commerce also played a key role in Ottoman-German relations. Although Germany was not a beneficiary (at first) of the capitulatory system (whereby foreigners were not subject to Ottoman laws and were exempt from Ottoman taxes), it acquired concessions through its support for infrastructural projects (such as the Hijaz Railway) and through its production of military hardware (by way of Krupp). Through its financial arm (the Deutsche Orientbank), it participated in the administration of Ottoman debt and it invested in the exploitation of Ottoman resources. During the war, it financed the purchase of agricultural products (such as Tobacco) to supply the German war effort in Europe and it underwrote the distribution of financial products (such as gold) to sustain the Ottoman army in Asia. Following the Allied occupation of Istanbul (1918), the bank was closed.7 The foundation of the Deutsche Orientbank (1909) must be understood in the context of a growing German “colony” in Istanbul. According to Somel (2009: 48), the number of Germans in Istanbul increased from one thousand (1850) to three thousand (1900).8 Apart from officers attached to the Military Mission, these residents were for the most part merchants and craftsmen (especially in the professions of baker and tailor). The German concerns were so successful that a specially designated bazar was founded, the German Bazar (tr. Alman Pazarı), where luxury goods and fashion items could be purchased. Brand names, such as the warehouse called “Tiring” (for clothing) and the shop called “Carlman” (for confectionary), continued to trade in foreign products even during the darkest days of the war (ibid.: 50). In true Teutonic fashion, the traders were organized into the German Artisans’ Association (the Deutsche Handwerkerverein), a professional society that was founded in 1847 and that was renamed “Alemania” in 1912. It is noteworthy that Lange directed a male choir associated with this organization in the Teutonia Club. The German community congregated around a number of institutions. Chief among these was the Teutonia Club. Founded in 1847, it changed location during the nineteenth century on account of the numerous conflagrations that plagued Istanbul. In 1897, the rail engineer, Otto Kapp von Gültstein

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(1853–1920), constructed a new building with a neo-classical façade on Galip Dede Caddesi (Pera). Within, it featured a small theater suitable for musical events. However, concerts were exclusively open to club members and their guests. Even before Lange, the Club had hosted (since 1881) the German Male Choral Society (gr. Deutsche Männergesangverein) under the direction of Oscar Dethier, a German musician who was also the director of the Tophane Mızıkası and the Hermes Society. In addition, the club regularly hosted amateur performances by members of the German community (Baydar [2010: 271–6]). Apart from concert performances at the German embassy (completed in 1877), German musicians also performed sacred works at the Evangelische Kirche (consecrated in 1861) and choral works at the Deutsche Schule (opened in 1868). These were the official venues for the display of German culture. Apart from German performances of alafranga at other venues in Istanbul (such as the Union Française and the Tepebaşı Bahçesi), German residents frequented a number of popular venues where music was performed. Intellectuals and journalists gathered in the Strasbourg Brasserie (tr. Strazburg Birahanesi), a select venue where Turkish politicians would also meet (after 1910). The Sponek Bar was a less salubrious locale patronized by the German hoi polloi noted for its cheap fare. In 1896, it was the venue for the first screening in Istanbul of a movie in public. However, this claim to cinematographic fame is disputed (Scognamillo [1990: 12]). On the fashionable Rue de Pera, female instrumentalists of Germanic extraction performed light music in the café orchestras of established venues like Café Flamme and Concordia. As Somel notes (2009: 53–7), these female musicians often hailed from impoverished backgrounds in Central Europe. In Istanbul at the time, it was considered immoral for women to perform music in public. Perhaps, the most enduring legacy of the German “colony” was the Bierhaus (tr. birahane). Although beer had historically been sold by a number of nonGerman concerns since 1839, the birahane replaced the meyhane as the watering hole of choice for the German community. In contrast to the “eastern” meyhane, the “western” birahane was European in orientation where French (rather than Ottoman) was spoken and beer (rather than rakı) was imbibed. At first, the birahane was a pretentious affair, being patronized by the local bourgeoisie and served by the resident Levantines. Gambrinos Birahanesi in Pera was an excellent prototype (Koçu [[1947] 2003:129–32]). With time, the birahane lost its status, now catering to sailors and soldiers who were passing through. Such was the fate of the Kafkas Birahanesi. Located near the railway station in Sirkeci, it originally attracted punters fresh off the Orient Express. By 1900, the locale was demoted from a brasserie to a bar. Now called: “Steinbruch” (tr. “İstaynbroh”), it catered to the most destitute of the German inhabitants (Somel [2009: 53]).



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The birahane symbolized a major transformation in Ottoman attitudes. Although it represented an important change in native views about alcoholic consumption, it also represented a significant modification in Ottoman feelings about the Germans. During the nineteenth century, France was considered to be the nation of culture and Germany was seen as the nation of industry. Where France was international, Germany was national. During the twentieth century this attitude changed. Books in Ottoman about Germany multiplied, be they about military strategy, national character or philosophical discourse. Textbooks about the German language flourished, catering to the growing interest in learning about German culture. At first, German was taught only in the military academy (1886). Later (1908), German was taught in schools (as an alternative to French) and in the University (tr. Darülfünun), where twenty lecturers were recruited from Germany specifically to teach literature. In Istanbul, German culture was visible (in the form of buildings designed by German architects) and audible (in the form of concerts featuring German composers). However, one area of Germanic culture in the Ottoman Empire is often overlooked. It concerns German-speaking Jews who fled to the Ottoman Empire to escape the frequent pogroms in Eastern Europe during the nineteenth century. While the Ottoman Empire had sheltered Jews of the Ashkenazi rite since 1550, it is better known for its succor of Jews of the Sephardi rite since 1492 (see above). Accordingly, the Sephardim rather than the Ashkenazim dominated politically and economically (see O’Connell [2011b], [2015a]). That is, until the nineteenth century when a new group of Ashkenazi Jews arrived under the auspices of the capitulatory system. Protected by foreign guarantors, they excelled in the areas of banking and trade by receiving preferential treatment in the realms of taxation and legislation. At first, these middle-class Jews mediated between Vienna and Istanbul. However, a new axis arose between France and Germany, the Sephardim following a French reading of educational advancement (through the Alliance israélite universelle) and the Ashkenazim following a German understanding of intellectual enlightenment (through the Hilfsverein der deutschen Juden). David Markus (1870–1944) attempted to mediate this intra-denominational divide. Born in Novgorod (Russia) and trained in Bonn (Germany), he was invited to establish an educational foundation and to supervise a religious establishment in Istanbul.9 In the former, he was appointed principal of the Goldschmidt Schule, a school founded (1870) with the specific aim of inculcating German values among the resident Ashkenazim. In the latter category, he was appointed Rabbi of the new synagogue in Yüksek Kaldırım (opened in 1900). Both institutions were located at the heart of the Ashkenazi community in Galata. Not content with his limited remit, Markus aimed to advance the educational opportunities available to all Jews by founding a

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network of high schools (in association with the Jewish organization B’nai B’rith) with the explicit aim of bringing the Ashkenazim and the Sephardim closer together, in terms of both educational attainment and religious observance. Although the schools followed the educational model of élite lycées in Turkey (such as Galatasaray Lisesi), Markus had trouble in finding suitable buildings and in locating sufficient funds.10 JEWISH ENTREPRENEURS Business was a principal subject taught in the B’nai B’rith. Ancillary subjects like mathematics and languages were also studied. The educational philosophy was consistent with a wider aspiration toward cultural conformity that found its origins in Jewish Enlightenment (called “Haskalah”). As part of this movement, Jews embraced the study of secular topics (such as art and science) in a bid to advance personally and to assimilate culturally. An excellent knowledge of German was a key principle advocated by the movement’s fathers. In this matter, German rather than Yiddish became the language of commerce, a language of choice that advanced the professional prospects of Jews especially in Eastern Europe. In religious circles, Markus was an example of a Russian Jew who benefitted from his German education. In economic terms, Sigmund Weinberg (1868–[1930]) was an example of a Polish Jew who benefitted from his German connections. Coming to Istanbul (before 1890),11 Weinberg opened a shop (c. 1895) called “Gülistan” in Bahçekapı where many musicians of the day visited (Vecdi Seyhun cited in Ünlü [2004: 84–5]). Weinberg is remembered for two important reasons. First, he was the first entrepreneur to screen a movie in public (see above). Of interest, he chose the Sponek Bar as his venue. Employed as an agent for the French company Pathé Frères, he showed mostly newsreels and comedy items after the première séance. To remain competitive in the face of growing competition from rival companies, he regularly upgraded his projectors to ensure quality and clarity (Erdoğan and Göktürk [2001: 533]). He founded the first cinema in Pera (1908) when electricity was finally available following the deposition of Sultan Abülhamit II. Still active in 1942, the venue was called the “CinémaThéâtre de la Maison Pathé Frères” (in Turkish called “Pate Sineması”). Weinberg was later appointed head of military cinema (see chapter 6), a venture initiated by Enver Paşa following his trip to Germany (1909). Called the “Central Army Office of Cinema” (tr. “Merkez Ordu Sinema Dairesi” [MOSD]), Weinberg screened a number of patriotic films. However, his plans were frustrated when actors were conscripted (to fight on the front) and when he was deported (as a Romanian national).12



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Second, Weinberg was perhaps the first resident entrepreneur to sell sound recordings. Although the first commercial recordings had been sold by international concerns since 1900 (Strötbaum [1992a: 149]), technicians and entrepreneurs were rarely Ottoman residents. For example, the American producer Fred Gaisberg (1873–1951) compiled (1904) the earliest collection of commercial records in the Ottoman Empire for Gramophone. Four years earlier, the American sound engineer William Sinkler Derby recorded one hundred and sixty-seven items for the company.13 However, Gramophone employed Weinberg as its local representative (1908) to make significant inroads into the Ottoman market. Given the auspicious date, the discs featured marches and songs in celebration of the constitutional revolution. But, Weinberg already had competition. Two German companies were recording local artists. In Weinberg’s correspondence to the head office of Gramophone (London), he bemoaned the growing strength of Odeon Records and Favorite Records (ibid.: 156–7). He implored his superiors in Britain to send a sound engineer immediately to counteract the circulation of sound recordings by these German companies. In this matter, Strötbaum suggests that Weinberg’s anxiety might have been overstated (ibid.: 169). Two brothers represented the most significant competition for Weinberg. Known as the “Blumenthal Brothers” (tr. “Blumenthal Biraderler”), Julius Blumenthal (1865–1946) and Hermann Blumenthal (1864–1932) came to Istanbul from Cairo following the Anglo-Egyptian War (1882). Like Weinberg, the Blumenthals were German-speaking Jews from Eastern Europe. However unlike Weinberg, the Blumenthals moved to Egypt from the Caucasus to escape anti-Semitic prejudice. Where Weinberg was a Romanian national, the Blumenthals were Ottoman subjects. In an interview with the son of Julius Blumenthal (cited in Ünlü [2004: 175–80]), the cultural historian Gökhan Akçura (1951) noted that the Blumenthals were originally agents for Zonophone (1902), a German company that was taken over by the British company Gramophone (1904). The brothers then signed a contract with Odeon Records (c. 1904),14 where they recorded Turkish, Ladino and Greek numbers. The recordings were made in Istanbul and produced in Berlin. As local agents (rather than as company employees), the Blumenthals were able to identify the best artists and to maximize market share. As local entrepreneurs, Odeon came to have a competitive edge over Gramophone (Vernon [1995]). Here, it is instructive to compare the musical repertoires that were recorded by the rival entrepreneurs. In a catalog for Gramophone (dated September, 1908) and published in Salonica, Turkish artists are represented such as the dönme instrumentalist “Udî” “Selanikli” Ahmet Efendi (1868–1927) and the Jewish vocalist “Mısırlı” İbrahim Efendi (1881–1933). However, much of the catalog is devoted to alafranga items (such as military marches and patriotic anthems). In addition, popular numbers such as kanto-s and folk

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songs such as türkü-s are itemized. In a catalog for Odeon (undated) and published in Berlin (c. 1911), only Turkish artists are featured (Strötbaum [1992a: 181]), including the vocalist Karakaş Efendi (d. [1920]) and the instrumentalist “Neyzen” Tevfik [Kolaylı] (1875–1953). Of especial interest, Weinberg and the Blumenthals represented distinctive understandings of classicism. For Weinberg, “western” music was usually privileged with the accolade “Concert Record,” discs with a purple-brown label featuring marches or operettas, among others (Ünlü [2004: 153]). For the Blumenthals, “eastern” music was afforded pride of place, the brothers highlighting in a special series and with a special size (27cm, 35cm) the eminent artist Hâfız Sami Efendi (1874–1943) (ibid.: 181). The Blumenthal Brothers were best known for their foundation of a record factory. Planned as early as 1910 (when the brothers had become dissatisfied with Odeon [ibid.: 183]), the Blumenthals not only realized their dream of manufacturing recordings in Feriköy (1911) but also established their own independent label, Orfeon Records. They had two strategies. First, they recorded major artists. In particular, they made artistic recordings of the international virtuoso, “Tanburî” Cemil Bey (1873–1916). Although other companies had recorded this celebrated musician, Orfeon Records collated an impressive collection of “classical” recordings (1912–[1916]). After the death of the performer (1916), these were itemized in a special booklet (not published by Orfeon Records) that featured sixty-seven discs (each 27cm in size).15 Second, they recorded popular genres. For example in Catalogue No. 2 (undated),16 Kurdish songs and Laz airs are included. Military marches and orchestral works are itemized. Folk items and “classical” numbers are listed. Monologues and kanto-s are mentioned. This catalogue has a democratic appeal, engaging male and female artists, covering vocal and instrumental performers. Germans played a key role in this eclectic celebration of Ottoman taste. Before the war, they provided engineering assistance in the construction of the record factory. During the war, they exported materials to assist in the manufacture of recordings, a feat made possible by the maintenance of a land link between Istanbul and Berlin. Even when food was short, records were plentiful. While export figures during the war are not provided, Gronow (1981) shows that Germany was a principal exporter of recordings and gramophones to the Ottoman Empire, exporting around one hundred and fifty thousand discs to Turkey in 1912 alone (ibid.: 283). Critical here was the dominance of German companies (such as Odeon Records and Favorite Records) before the war. Following the declaration of war, British (such as Gramophone) and French (such as Pathé) concerns were excluded from operating in the Ottoman Empire,17 leaving German companies a freehand to expand market share. Even where local entrepreneurs (such as the Blumenthals) presented credible competition,



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they had to rely on German industry for supplies and German expertise for technicians (Ünlü [2004: 185]). Of course, Weinberg and the Blumenthals were not the only Jewish entrepreneurs in the recording industry. As Ünlü shows (ibid.: 239–46), other Jewish businessmen were also active in Istanbul. In particular, Jak Grünberg (1872–1936), a Jewish migrant whose family hailed from the Ukraine, worked for the Blumenthal Brothers (1906–16) before becoming the representative for Odeon (c. 1926). Like the Blumenthals, he was involved in other entrepreneurial activities, the Blumenthals selling automobile products, Grünberg selling electrical appliances. It is noteworthy that Orfeon Records and Odeon Records had their own orchestras that made discs of klezmer music. For example, the Orfeon Orchestra recorded a wellknown number entitled “Turkische Yalle Vey Uve” (1912) while the Odeon Orchestra made a rather esoteric piece entitled “Kleftico Vlachiko” (1908).18 As Davidow writes with reference to a relevant collection of early recordings (published [1997] by Arhoolie Folklyric),19 the Odeon example was actually recorded for Odeon Records in Istanbul by the Orchestra Goldberg, a klezmer band that apparently made only two recordings. GERMANIC COMPOSERS These were not the only examples of Jewish music made by record companies. Indeed, Odeon Records and Orfeon Records signed contracts with Jewish musicians playing alaturka rather than alafranga. These included the eminent vocalist “Edirneli” Haim Efendi (1853–1938), who recorded secular and sacred works in Hebrew, Ladino and Turkish. There were many others. However, there are only a few examples of Sephardi musicians who performed or composed alafranga works. These included Şentov (Santo) Şikari (1840–1920) and İzak Algazi (1889–1950).20 Much more important were the Jewish artists of Germanic extraction who composed marches for the Ottoman establishment, dedicating individual pieces to the reigning Sultan for financial gain or personal prestige. Here, it is important to examine the place of Jewish artists in another Germanic land, Austria-Hungary. There, Emperor Franz Joseph (r. 1848–1916) showed an especial tolerance toward his Jewish subjects by granting them equal status as Austrian citizens (1867). Like Kaiser Wilhelm II later (1898), Franz Joseph even visited Jerusalem (1869) in explicit recognition of Jewish religious institutions. For this, the Emperor was widely venerated.21 Why did Franz Joseph support the Jews? At the time, the Emperor had to stem the fragmentation of a cosmopolitan empire. In contrast to the Slavs (among others), the Jews represented a significant group loyal to the

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Hapsburg dynasty. For their part, the Jews viewed the Emperor as a protector against the growing wave of anti-Semitism that flourished in Vienna during the 1880s, a groundswell of conservatism that was spearheaded by the Christian Socialists. Despite the intervention of the Emperor, a racist mayor (Karl Lueger [1844–1910]) was elected in Vienna (1895), his tenure, when finally accepted, lasting thirteen years (1897–1910). Although some scholars are skeptical about the Emperor’s motives in supporting Jewish concerns (see, e.g., Beller [1989]), others emphasize the philo-Semitic character of the Emperor’s actions (see, e.g., Wistrich [1990]). Even here, the Jews occupied in the Emperor’s eyes an ambivalent position since they were liberals (rather than conservatives) and they were pro-German (rather than anti-German). That is, the Jews implicitly contested the dynastic integrity and the territorial unity of the Hapsburg Empire. Two empires shared similar problems. Like the Ottoman Empire, the Hapsburg Empire was an anachronism. Under external pressure from German imperialism and under internal threat from Slavic irredentism, the Hapsburgs (like the Ottomans) had to implement constitutional reforms brought about by popular revolts (1848) and military defeats (1866). Like the Ottomans, the Habsburgs prevaricated, Franz Joseph only succumbing to liberalizing legislation that affected civic equality and territorial partition (1867) nineteen years after his investiture. Here, a comparison between the Emperor (Franz Joseph) and the Sultan (Abdülhamit II) is appropriate. Both rulers were autocrats. Both rulers sought to assuage the decline and fall of their empires. Both rulers fostered a benevolent relationship with their Jewish subjects. Of significance, Franz Joseph (rather than Kaiser Wilhelm II) is honored at Yüksek Kaldırım, a synagogue that was financed by the Austrian (rather that the German) government and a synagogue that replaced an earlier place of Jewish worship called the “Austrian Temple” (gr. “Österreicher Tempel”). Built in 1900, the synagogue acknowledged the fiftieth anniversary of the Emperor’s reign.22 Music played a key role in this dialogue across empires. Although the orientalist fascination with the alla turca phenomenon had mostly waned by the nineteenth century, a new appreciation of alafranga cemented an old relationship between Vienna and Istanbul. At first, musicians from Austria-Hungary performed in the Ottoman Empire. In this matter, Franz Liszt (1811–86) set a precedent by undertaking a number of concerts in the Ottoman capital (1847), at once establishing Istanbul as an important stop on the European circuit. He also initiated a Hungarian school of Ottoman music (see Baydar [2010: 73–122]) that featured the composer Alessandro Voltan (known in Turkish as “Macar Tevfik” or in English as “Tevfik the Hungarian” [1853–1941]) and the virtuoso Géza Hegyei (1863–1926), among others. Critical here was the migration of Hungarians to the Ottoman Empire, refugees who had



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participated in the 1848 revolution but who had fled eastward following the defeat of the Hungarian patriot Lajos Kossuth (1802–94), who had been for a short-time regent-president of the Hungarian Assembly (s. 1848–9). The Hungarian exiles wished to honor their Ottoman saviors. As officers, Hungarians were recruited into the Ottoman Army on the condition that they converted to Islam to avoid aggravating Austrian (and Russian) sensitivities. By a circuitous route,23 “Macar” Tevik benefitted from this professional compromise through the intersession of his Muslim uncle who was a marshal in the Ottoman Army (known in Turkish as “Mehmet Ali Paşa” and in German as “Karol Detroit” [1827–1878]). True to his Hungarian roots, “Macar” Tevfik sent his pupils (such as Stephan Elmas [1862–1937]) to study with Liszt (his former teacher) at first in Weimar and later in the Budapest. As musicians, Hungarians composed works in honor of their Ottoman protectors. Following a precedent set by Liszt (who dedicated a “Grande Paraphrase” to Sultan Abdülmecit I [r. 1839–1861]),24 resident and non-resident Hungarians alike dedicated musical works to Ottoman rulers. For example, Toni von Görög (in Istanbul) and Eduard Donáth (1865–1945, in Budapest) published military marches in veneration of different Ottoman dignitaries (see Baydar [2010: 75]). The Hungarians were not alone in their penchant for musical adulation. In Vienna, members of the Strauss musical dynasty composed works in honor of Ottoman rulers. In particular, Eduard Strauss (1835–1916) dedicated his “Homage Waltz” (gr. “Huldigungen Walzer” [op. 88]) to Sultan Abdülaziz. Two versions were published, one for piano (1872) and one for orchestra (1873). Wishing to acquire imperial approval, Eduard Strauss approached the Sultan through the Ottoman Embassy in Vienna (1872). Acknowledging the dedication, the ruler bestowed upon the composer (1873) the Order of Mejidieh (tr. Mecidiye Nişanı), a distinction granted to foreigners for outstanding services to the State (see Eğecioğlu [2008]; see, also, the Prelude). Not to be outdone by his younger brother, Johann Strauss II (1829–99) composed a waltz entitled “Fairytales from the Orient” (gr. “Märchen aus dem Orient” [op. 444]) that acknowledged the fiftieth birthday (1892) of Sultan Abdülhamit II. Eager to add to his growing hoard of international honors, Johann Strauss II also received a Mecidiye Nişanı from the Sultan by way of the Ottoman ambassador in Vienna (1895). “Märchen aus dem Orient” was premiered long after Sultan Abdülhamit II visited Vienna (1867). Another work by Johann Strauss II was written after Franz Joseph visited Istanbul (1869), a trip to the Ottoman Empire that reignited an Austrian fascination with Turkish fashion. Entitled “Indigo and the Forty Thieves” (gr. “Indigo und die vierzig Räuber”), the operetta is a typical example of an established subject, a seraglio setting for an alla turca romp (see Crittenden [2000: 121–7]). Musical ideas from another era are reworked

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(such as unison textures and asymmetrical phrases) and musical artifacts from an exotic instrumentarium are reused (such as cymbals and drums). Following in the wake of musical compositions with an Islamic flavor (such as the “Egyptian March” [gr. “Ägyptischer Marsch” [op. 335]]),25 the operetta by Strauss was an immediate success. However, the work highlighted the cosmopolitan character of Strauss’s output that raised questions about the cosmopolitan character of Strauss’s pedigree. Since Franz Joseph also visited Palestine and Egypt on this trip, the operetta seemed to confirm the non-Aryan attributes of Strauss’s identity (see Lang [2014: 107–29]). Of course, Johann Strauss I (1805–1849) had already dedicated a musical composition to an Ottoman dignitary in Vienna (1837), a waltz entitled “Ball Rockets” (gr. “Ball-Racketen” [op. 96]). However, he was not the composer of the polka entitled “Constantinople” (1849).26 Dedicated to Sultan ­Abdülmecit I, the piece was written by Isaac Strauss or the “Parisian” Strauss (1806–88), who sometimes signed himself as J. Strauss for commercial reasons. It was the “Parisian” Strauss rather than the “Viennese” Strauss who was awarded a commemorative ring by the Sultan (see Eğecioğlu [2006]). Like his son, Johann Strauss I flirted with exoticism.27 Early on, he composed a “Chinese Gallop” (gr. “Chineser-Galopp” [op. 20]), a composition that sounds more European than Asian. However, Johann Strauss I was known for his exotic looks in appearance and his exotic antics on stage, his visage like his behavior being described as “Moorish.” Although partly Jewish (Beller [1989: 23]), Johann Strauss I (like his progeny) was an internal “other” who experimented with an exotic alterity both in music and dance (see Lang [2014: 109]).28 THE HOLY WAR On the borderland between Islam and Judaism, the Strauss family embraced two continents in music. Although partly Jewish, they seemed to embody the twin attributes of Jewish Vienna, the informality of the coffee house and the hedonism of the operetta stage. In the Hapsburg Monarchy, where everybody was an outsider (Beller [1989: 238]), music enabled the Jews to assimilate as Austrians. However, the music of choice was lightweight, a sound reminder of the Viennese inclinations toward slovenliness (gr. Schlamperei) and vitriol (gr. Schmäh). However, it was precisely these musical qualities that were proffered by an Austrian Emperor (as a mark of integration) and preferred by an Ottoman Sultan (as a symbol of modernization). Music also enabled the Jews to assimilate as Germans, allowing them to adopt musically the language of Enlightenment. As Austrians, Jews were in an ideal position to benefit from the economic arrangements between an Austrian Empire and the



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Ottoman Empire. As German speakers, they were in a good situation to profit from the recent ascendency of Germanic culture in the Ottoman Empire. At the outset of war, Jews were not alone in benefitting from this Germanocentricism. German musicians too were active as educators and as performers. In particular, one musician received German and Ottoman patronage. Here, Lange was promoted by Kaiser Wilhelm II to Sultan Abdülhamit II, the German wishing to cement his relationship musically with the Ottoman. However, this was no mere expression of “Ala-manîa.” Rather, it was a prelude to the “Allah-mania” that followed the declaration of war, a German strategy aimed at fomenting revolt among Muslim subjects in the colonies of the Triple Entente. It was for this reason that the Kaiser visited the Ottoman Empire (1898). However, an earlier visit (1867) to Vienna by Sultan Abdülaziz and a return visit to Istanbul (1869) by Emperor Franz Joseph created an older friendship, one in which Austrian music rather than German might was nurtured. Here, the pro-Jewish inclinations of the Emperor must be compared with the pro-Islamic tendencies of the Kaiser, both rulers supporting distinctive minorities in a strategy that was as artistically productive as it was militarily destructive. There are two depictions of this “Allah-mania.” First, there is a visual portrayal of holy war in Kriegszeit (see Figure 2.2). Penned by the German expressionist Ernst Barlach (1870–1938) and appearing in a winter edition of the periodical (December 16, 1914), the lithograph apparently shows a crazed jihadist wavering his scimitar with murderous intent. The figure is as uncouth as it is unsettling. His face is distorted and his attire is disheveled. The sketch bears a simple title “Der heilige Krieg.” There is no explanatory text appended. Bearing in mind that a holy war had been declared the previous month by the Şeyhülislam (November 14, 1914), the implicit reference to a German-Ottoman alliance seems clear. In the same year though, a book bearing the name “Der heilige Krieg” was published in Karlsruhe (see Schaeffer [1914]). Featuring patriotic poems and nationalistic songs, the anthology is clearly aimed at arousing German ire against the atrocities perpetrated by England and France. In contrast to the print called “Der heilige Krieg,” the book entitled “Der heilige Krieg” is more Ala-manîa than Allah-mania.29 Second, there is a verbal allusion to holy war by Byron. In “Canto VIII,” Byron describes the Ottoman resistance to the Russian siege of İsmail[ye]. Cries of “Allah” and “Hu” accompany Turkish counterattacks (verse: 8). Turkish defenders fight to the last man believing that as martyrs they will immediately enter paradise to await the embrace of “dark-eyed houris” (verse: 1114). While Byron’s reading of Islamic martyrdom is somewhat problematic (Cochran [2006: 25]), Byron is essentially concerned with using an orientalist text for political ends. For example, Byron lampoons the British attitude toward famine in Ireland thusly: “Read your own hearts and Ireland’s present story / Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley’s glory” (verse: 125). The reference to

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Arthur Wellesley (1769–1852) is especially pertinent. Elsewhere, Byron speaks of Don Juan as an Irish soldier, a man of Punic descent destined: “To battles, sieges and what kind of pleasure / No less delighted to employ his leisure” (verse: 24). That is, Don Juan, here represented as an Irish adventurer, was not the only “Irish” soldier to fight in a foreign army against the Ottoman Empire.

Figure 2.2  “Der heilige Krieg”—Ernst Barlach. Permission provided by Skala.



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NOTES 1. The end rhyme is as follows: -ten, -ien, -ten, -h’n, -gen, -h’n, erz, -ärts. That is, the rhyme pattern very roughly imitates the ottava rima of the Byronic original. However, the rhyme pattern is more correctly represented as follows: [abab1a1b1cc]. Given that the first six lines of the verse end with the syllable -en (or its equivalent), I have chosen to represent more simply the rhyme structure as follows [aaaaaabb]. The pentameter arrangement of this verse also approximates the metric structure of “Canto VIII.” 2. It is not clear whether Ulrich Hüber wrote the German variant of the verse mentioned here. The name of the author is not given. The only attribution is as follows: “nach Byrons ‘Don Juan’, VIII Gesang.” However, the author may not have referenced the original verse in English. In a standard German translation of Don Juan (by Gildemeister Ed. [1845]), the second line of the verse is realized as follows: “Vorwärts gegangen vor die Batterien.” In the English original, the second line reads: “Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises.” The difference can be explained in terms of scansion since the German translation follows faithfully the ottava rima of the original. It is noteworthy therefore that the German translation by Gildemeister employs the word “vorwärts” and the German variant by [Hüber] uses the word “rückwärts” at significant moments in the narrative; in the first the naval column “advanced forwards in front of the battery” and in the second the armada regrouped backward. In this way, Hüber suggests that the Turks were defeated in İsmail[ye] but were victorious in the Dardanelles. 3. In 1916, Ahmet Yekta returned to Çanakkale where he collected the famous dance entitled “Harmandalı Zebeği.” Later, Ahmet Yekta also composed two of the many compositions called “Independence March” (tr. “İstiklâl Marşı”) that were written after the foundation of the Turkish Republic (1923). 4. Alamanîa is one spelling for Germany in Ottoman Turkish (tr. Osmanlıca). Another spelling for Germany is Almanya. The latter spelling is more commonly used. It is conceivable that Alamanya was an attempt by some Ottoman Turks to emulate exactly the pronunciation in French of the French word for Germany (fr. Allemagne). 5. Many sources suggest that Kaiser Wilhelm II declared himself to be the “protector of Islam” (see, e.g., McMeeken [2011: 16]). In the relevant declaration however, the Kaiser states in the German text “that the Kaiser will be forever the friend” of all Muslims (and their Caliph). Here, the Kaiser uses the German word for friend (gr. Freund) rather than for protector (gr. Beschützer). The Ottoman version of the declaration is more poetic. It asserts that Muslims “will always be a syllable in the sentence of the German Emperor” (tr. “Alman İmperatoru cümlesinin daima bir hece olacaktır”). See a copy of the pertinent declaration at the following web address: www.vlib.us/wwi/resources/archives/images/i040701/images/Pamphlet.jpg [Access Date: August 15, 2016]. 6. The life of Paul Lange has received limited attention. Apart from the scholarly sources mentioned in the text, Alimdar (2016) provides very little new information. As mentioned in the Prelude, Alimdar presents only a cursory coverage of musicmaking among the German community in Istanbul during the late Ottoman period.

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See, also, Schlegel (1992) for a short but pertinent biography of Paul Lange in German. Noteworthy, Schlegel draws upon archival sources held by and personal interviews conducted with descendants of Paul Lange in Germany. 7. See “A Century of Deutsche Bank in Turkey,” a booklet that was originally published by Deutsche Bank (2009), at the following web address: www.db.com/ turkey [Access Date: August 15, 2016]. 8. These figures do not include Austrian residents in the Ottoman capital. They also do not include German-speaking entrepreneurs, who serviced the German community in Istanbul, among other communities. Many of these businessmen and bankers were Jews escaping anti-Semitic prejudice in Eastern Europe (see below). Further, these figures also do not include German soldiers and German assistants who were present in the Gallipoli Campaign. The total is estimated at one thousand five hundred German personnel who may have been doctors and engineers in addition to being combatants. Of course, it is important not to forget the fifty-one officers who served under the Ottoman flag at the front. It is calculated that about two hundred Germans were killed and seven hundred and fifty Germans were wounded. For a compilation of relevant memoirs and memorabilia, photographs and films of the Gallipoli Campaign from the German perspective see the following web address: www.gallipoli1915.de [Access Date: October 1, 2015]. 9. See Frayman, Grossman and Schild Eds (2000) for a study of the Ashkenazi community in Istanbul. Published to mark the centenary of the synagogue in Yüksek Kaldırım, the authors provide a biography of Dr David Markus in Turkish (ibid.: 23–6) and in English (ibid.: 69–71). Interestingly, Jews from Austria-Hungary originally invited Markus to Istanbul. Many of the Jews from Austria-Hungary came to the Ottoman Empire (in the late 1800s) to benefit from the capitulatory agreement between the two empires that favored subjects from Hapsburg territories. Perhaps coincidental, the date of this immigration from Austria-Hungary during the late nineteenth century corresponded with the rise of the Christian Socialists in Vienna. 10. Frayman, Grossman and Schild Eds (2000: 26–8, 71–3) provide an overview of the foundation of the B’nai B’rith in Istanbul based upon the testimony of its first president (appointed 1911), Joseph or Yosef Niego (1863–1945). Like Markus, Niego wished to foster better relations between the Ashkenazim and the Sephardim in Istanbul by way of education under the auspices of the B’nai B’rith. Like similar “foreign” institutions in the capital, the schools were closed at the outset of the War, requiring Markus and his colleagues to find new premises. 11. According to Gökmen (1991: 149), Weinberg opened a photographic studio in No. 28 Yüksek Kaldırım (1890). The relevant advertisement (published in French) emphasizes a Germanic connection: “Fabrication d’Appareils et Accessoires pour la Photographie. Représentant des meilleures fabriques D’AUTRICHE ET D’ALLEMAGNE.” However, Gökmen (ibid.: 78) suggests that the shop opened even earlier (c. 1885) without providing evidence. Another Weinberg was also in the photographic business. Also a Jew with Romanian nationality, Jean Weinberg owned a photographic concern called “Photo Français.” He was active in Istanbul and Ankara after the Armistice. He had to leave Turkey for Egypt (c. 1932) following the



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legislative restrictions (Law No. 2007) placed upon non-Turks working as professionals in the crafts and services (including photography). It is possible that Sigmund and Jean were related. 12. It is ironic that Weinberg had to leave Istanbul when Romania entered the War on the side of the Triple Entente (August, 1916). Although most sources state that he was Polish (tr. Leh), the term “Leh” was commonly used in Turkish sources to denote a Jew of the Ashkenazi rite (personal communication with Maureen Jackson, October 3, 2015). The term could also signify a Jewish convert to Islam (see above). Since Romania denied citizenship to its resident Jews until 1919 (despite the provisions of the Congress of Berlin [1878, Article 44]), it is unclear why Weinberg adopted Romanian citizenship if he were born in Poland. As a German speaker, it would have been more advantageous to become a citizen of Austria (given its favorable concessions with the Ottoman Empire) or of Germany (given its economic relationship with the Ottoman Empire). Further, Weinberg represented both Austrian and German commercial concerns in Istanbul. While there is limited evidence available, it is not inconceivable that Weinberg was one of the two thousand Jews who were naturalized in Romania between 1866 and 1904 (see “The Legal Status of Jews in Romania” at the following web address: www.romanianjewish.org [Access Date: September 15, 2015]). Of interest, about a thousand of these Jews were granted citizenship after Romanian independence (1878), that is a few years before Weinberg came to Istanbul (personal communication with Roderick Lawford, October 2, 2015). 13. See the discography by Hugo Stötbaum (date of publication not provided) of Turkish and Greek records compiled by Fred Gaisberg for Gramophone (1904) at the following web address: www.recordingpioneers.com/docs/ [Access Date: October 1, 2015]. Of particular interest is the detailed discography of relevant recordings including matrix numbers and catalogue numbers (ibid.: 6–10). The correspondence in German between Istanbul, London and Vienna is also relevant as it details the number of recordings made and the financial arrangements decided (ibid.: 3–5). Most noteworthy, the competition from Odeon is foregrounded: that is, at the time when the Blumenthal brothers were the Odeon representatives. 14. The discographer Paul Vernon notes that the Blumenthals were also the agents for Odeon Records in Egypt (see Phonographische Zeitschrift [1903, 22: 305]). Signing a contract with the company (c. 1904), the brothers secured the services (1906) of Shaykh Salāma Ḥijāzī (1852–1917), originally a religious performer who greatly influenced the development of music theater and film music in Egypt during the twentieth century. In Turkey as in Egypt, the brothers benefitted from a technological invention (the double-sided disc), a cost-effective development that was employed by Odeon in its marketing strategy (see “Odeon Records: Their Ethnic Output” at the following web address: www.mustrad.org.uk/articles/odeon.htm [Access Date: September 20, 2015]). See, also, Racy (1976: 33–5). 15. Following the death of “Tanburî” Cemil (July 24, 1916), a commemorative catalog was published by Feniks Matbaası (Galata). Entitled “Orfeon Record: Catalogue spécial des disques artistiques du célèbre artiste Tanbouri Djemil Bey,” the publication not only outlines the musical innovations of the master but it also recognizes the emergence of a “Tanburî” Cemil school with its own “Tanburî” Cemil style. In this

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matter, it acknowledges the role of Orfeon Records for preserving on sound recordings the musical legacy of this virtuoso (İsmail Akçay cited in Ünlü [2004: 201]). 16. Ünlü (2004: 186) correctly states that this catalogue was published after the foundation of the Turkish Republic (1923). Following immediately on from the first catalog (which ends on the Sequence No. 457), Catalog No. 2 (which starts on the Sequence No. 458) features numbers (such as “Independence March” [tr. “İstiklâl Marşı”]) that indicate a recording date after 1921 (when the march was officially adopted as the national anthem on March 12, 1921). It has a Catalog No. 13298. However, many items by established performers show catalogue numbers from an earlier period. For example, recordings by the eminent vocalists Hâfız Osman ([1867] [1932]) (such as Catalog No. 10483) and Hâfız Aşır (d. [1930]) (such as Catalog No. 10596) are contemporaneous with recordings made by “Tanburî” Cemil for Orfeon. The relevant schedule of recordings by “Tanbur[î]” Cemil can be found at the following web address: www.recordingpioneers.com [Access Date: September 24, 2015]. Here, it is clear that discs with catalogue numbers over 10,000 and 11,000 were probably recorded between 1912–3 and 1914–[5], respectively. Discs with catalogue numbers over 12,000 were probably made after 1918. For example, the recordings by the Ertuğrul Band (tr. Ertuğrul Bandosu) of the English (Catalog No. 12759) and the French (Catalog No. 12757) national anthems were probably made (for obvious reasons) for a foreign audience resident in Istanbul during the allied occupation (1918–23). 17. The history of the Gramophone Company is complex and convoluted. It involves lawsuits and takeovers. Although based in Britain, the Gramophone Company had sizeable interests in Germany. During the War, imports from and export to the Central Powers stopped. Of course, the Ottoman Empire was subject to similar restrictions. However, German entrepreneurs still continued to use the moniker “Gramophone” in their sales advertisements, a label that would endure after the war in the form of the “Deutsche Gramophone.” See Martland (2013: 205–36) for an excellent history of the record industry in Britain during the War. For a concise overview of the Gramophone Company from the perspective of industrial history, see the following web address: www.gracesguide.co.uk [Access Date: October 2, 2015]. Here, it is somewhat surprising that Ünlü (2004: 151–6) does not mention the diminished role that the Gramophone Company played in the Ottoman Empire during the war. 18. The title of this piece “Kleftico Vlachiko” is noteworthy. The Klephts (gk. Kléftes) were Greek rebels fighting against Ottoman oppression. They sheltered in the mountainous regions of northern Greece. Although the Aromanians in this region (Epiros) speak a dialect of Vlach, they are rarely considered to be Klephts. Further, the relevant recording has a Romanian feel, more akin to the Romanian genre doïna than to the Greek style kléftiko. The recording features an expert soloist, performing on a cornet. Listen to a sound recording of “Kleftico Vlachiko” at the following web address: www.youtube.com [Access Date: September 25, 2015]. That the recording is considered to be klezmer adds an additional cultural layer to this beautiful performance. See, also, Herzfeld (1982) for an in-depth discussion of Klephts in Greek folklore. I would like to thank Nicola Maher for providing this valuable information (personal communication with Nicola Maher, October 1, 2015).



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19. Ari Davidow wrote a review of this album. Entitled “Klezmer Music: Early Yiddish Instrumental Music, 1908–1927,” he provides a positive assessment of the recording. The review can be found at the following web address: www. klezmershack.com [Access Date: October 1, 2015]. 20. I would like to thank Maureen Jackson (personal communication with Maureen Jackson, October 1, 2015) for allowing me to cite a conference paper presented by her at the Society for Ethnomusicology annual convention in Indianapolis (November 15, 2014). Entitled “Making a Musical Living: The Versatility of a Mediterranean Jewish Composer,” her paper concerned the compositional output of Şentov (Santo) Şikari. Concerning the alafranga compositions of İzak Algazi, see O’Connell (2015a), among others. 21. Wistrich (1990) presents an authoritative summary of the cult status ascribed to Emperor Franz Joseph by Viennese Jews. See, also, Beller (1989) for a discussion of the Jewish contribution to cultural developments in Vienna (1867–1938). Interestingly, Beller provides a broad definition of “Jewishness,” allowing him to interrogate issues related to political affiliation and artistic production. Here, he offers a good account of relevant music composers, music theorists and music historians with a Jewish connection (ibid.: 24–6). He concludes with the following statement: “The awkward but inescapable conclusion seems to be that it was indeed its Jews which made Vienna what it is in the realm of modern culture” (ibid.: 244). For a specific overview of music in Vienna, see Bostein and Hanak (2003, 2004). I would like to thank David Wyn Jones for his generous recommendation of these important references (personal communication with David Wyn Jones, September 16, 2015). For a pertinent study from an ethnomusicological perspective, see Bohlman (2008). 22. The synagogue at Yüksek Kaldırım was financed by an Austrian consortium headed by Herman[n] Goldenberg (see Frayman, Grossman and Schild Eds [2000: 19, 64]). After an extensive search, the only candidate who suits the profile of an Austrian donor is Hermann Goldenberg ([1832]–1902), who died in Vienna at the age of seventy. According to his death notice (in the Neue Freie Presse [January 8, 1902: 16]), Goldenberg was the director of Fratelli Goldenberg, a confectionary business based in Austria-Hungary that had a shop in Galata (Österreicher Lloyd [1902: 170]). See, also, Agstner and Samsinger Eds. (2010) for an extended coverage of Austrian concerns in the Ottoman Empire. 23. See Baydar (2010: 79–89) for the coverage of relevant sources on “Macar” Tevfik. These include a monograph by Gazimihal (1955). It is noteworthy that “Macar” Tevfik was also called “Venetian” (tr. “Venedikli”), perhaps on account of his aristocratic connections and Italian ancestry. At the time of his birth (1853), Venice was still part of the Austrian Empire (until 1866). “Macar” Tevfik adopted the title “Macar” when he married a Muslim (and moved to Izmir). However, his family had been fraternized by Franz Liszt (a Hungarian) when they were resident in Vienna, a musical association and a national identity that had benefits for an aspiring artist in the Ottoman Empire. 24. In “Letter 51” (dated February 22, 1848) of the Liszt correspondence in the Library of Congress, Franz Liszt confirms that he had received the published version of his “Grande Paraphrase” that is dedicated to Sultan Abdülmecit I (see Short Ed. [2003: 50–2]). Although no date is featured on the published score, the date of

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publication is significant since it predates the defeat (1849) of Lajos Kossuth and the flight of Kossuth supporters to the Ottoman Empire. Had the score been published at a later date, the dedication could have indicated an acknowledgement by Liszt of the Ottoman support for Hungarian exiles. As discussed above, European artists (even non-Hungarians) adopted the title “Hungarian” (tr. “Macar”) to benefit from the favorable attitude toward Hungarian musicians in the Ottoman court. I would like to thank Kenneth Hamilton for his authoritative assistance with dating the relevant score and with accessing the pertinent correspondence (personal communication with Kenneth Hamilton, September 17, 2015). 25. The “Ägyptischer Marsch” or “Egypytischer Marsch” was composed in the same year as the tour by Emperor Franz Joseph of the Middle East (1869). Apart from his visit to Istanbul and Jerusalem, the Emperor officiated at the ceremonial opening of the Suez Canal (November 16, 1869), upon the invitation of the Khedive of Egypt, Ismā῾īl Bāshā (r. 1863–79). Originally entitled “March of the Circassians” (gr. “Tscherkessen-Marsch”), the march was first performed during a burlesque entitled “To Egypt” (gr. “Nach Ägypten”) written and directed by the actor and librettist, Anton Bittner (1820–81). As a representative example of an alla turca composition, the march is characterized by melodic arabesques and metric syncopations. Brass and strings are set in a dialogic exchange. Snare drums and cymbals provide a militaristic flavor. At times, a triangle is prominent. A male chorus sings nonsense syllables in unison. Notably, a picture of the Khedive on parade in front of the pyramids is featured in the piano arrangement of the march. 26. Repeating a popular misconception (see, also, Tuğlacı [1986: 208–10]), Kosal (1999: 92) states that the polkas entitled “Constantinople” and “Souvenir du Bosphore” were composed by Johann Strauss. He also states that “Constantinople” was dedicated by Strauss to Sultan Abdülmecit I. However, he fails to clarify which Strauss (whether father or son), since both polkas were composed in 1849, the year when Johann Strauss I died. Eğecioğlu (2006) clarifies the issue, showing convincingly that both works were composed by Isaac Strauss (not Johann Strauss), a Parisian conductor who sometimes called himself Jules Strauss or J. Strauss. Originally called Raphaël Israel, his father adopted the name “Strauss” following the imperial decree in France that concerned Jewish names (1808). As a professional musician, Isaac Strauss was prominent in Paris, when Johann Strauss I was famous in Vienna. To benefit from the nominal association, Isaac Strauss wrote to the Ottoman consulate (in Marseilles) requesting that he be allowed to dedicate a collection of compositions to Sultan Abdülhamit II. He signed the letter “Strauss à Paris.” 27. Johann Strauss I composed a number of pieces that could be described as “exotic.” These included works based on “gypsy” subjects such as the “Gitana Galopp” (op. 108) and the “Zigeunerin Quadrille” (op. 191). Some of his compositions were named after neighboring states such as the waltz entitled “Erinnerung aus Deutschland” (op. 87) and the “Ungarishe Galopp” (op. 36). Apart from the “Chineser Galopp” (op. 20) with its percussive effects in a rather implausible imitation of chinoiserie, he also composed an “Indianer Galopp” (op. 111), a fast polka based upon his imagined reading of dance among Native Americans. Of interest, a Turkish Waltz was included in a collection of musical compositions that was published (1837) in New York to coincide with the coronation of Queen Victoria (r. 1837–1901). The Turkish Waltz



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in question was dedicated to the Duchess of Kent (1786–1860), the Queen’s mother. Another item in the collection is entitled “Queen Victoria’s Waltz.” A similar collection was published (1838) in London entitled “Huldigung der Königin Victoria von Grossbritannien” (Scott [2008: 134]). 28. Lang (2014: 107–29) devotes a whole chapter to the issue of Johann Strauss as a Jew. Critical here is the contemporary conflation of the Moorish with the Jewish in the popular imagination. In addition, she argues that Strauss was an exotic insider reflective of the heterogeneous makeup and cosmopolitan character of Vienna’s ­Jewish community. 29. There is another poetic collection called “Der heilige Krieg” (see Buchwald Ed. [1914]). In contrast to the poetic anthology of the same name (mentioned here), the book looks at war more from a religious perspective, the poets being intent upon saving the merits and the morals of the German Reich for perpetuity.

Chapter 3

Old Gallipoli

I am sitting in the scullery with my mother at her home near Killarney (Ireland). The light is poor and her sight is failing. She is old now, acutely aware of her legacy. As the only surviving member of an ancient line, she has inherited a large archive of family manuscripts. Many of these documents are very old. They include treaty terms and land deeds, marriage settlements and final testaments. They also include diaries and genealogies, and of course many letters. I am drawn to a collection of letters hidden in a large envelope. It contains the correspondence of her uncle, William or “Billy” MacCarthyO’Leary (1894–1916), an Irish soldier who served on the Western Front and in the Gallipoli Campaign. The letters are truly horrific. They describe the appalling conditions in the trenches on both fronts. Here, Billy relates his fear of large rats (“as big as cats”) that infest dugouts. He bemoans the stench of decaying corpses that envelops trenches. Most chilling of all is the bland communication from the War Office stating that Billy was “missing presumed dead.” Even after a century, I still feel the shock of its receipt (see Figure 3.1). One letter is separate from the others. It is written in Billy’s hand. In addition to complaining about the experience of discomfort while in the frontline trenches and the completion of fatigues while in rest camp, Billy continues (see MacCarthy-O’Leary [unpubl.]): “The vile smell of putrefying bodies is beyond imagination, it may be bad in France, it cannot be so bad as [it is] out here, this being such a hot climate. The trenches are in nearly every case nothing less than graveyards. Under our parapets lie dead bodies by the score, in some cases, arms, legs etc. actually stick out from the trench itself [and] that is what turns me sick. To have to live [and] feed in such trenches for days is horrible. In the Turkish trenches that we captured on June 28th, I saw the most terrible sights. In one case, the body of a 65

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dead Turk had shriveled to a complete skeleton. There he lay in the trench itself. The Turks had made no attempt to cover it up or throw it over the parapet; fancy living in such surroundings.”1

Figure 3.1  “Billy MacCarthy-O’Leary”—Unknown.



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This letter is dated July 31 (1915) and is addressed to his first cousin, Talbot or “Tolly” Considine (1884–1937). Because of its graphic content, it is different from the letters sent by Billy to his mother. Recovering in an Egyptian hospital from a gunshot wound, Billy had time to reflect frankly upon his wartime experiences in Turkey. He was clearly shocked by the living conditions on the Gallipoli Peninsula (which he calls “the Peninsula”). In the letter, he complains about the searing heat and the menacing mosquitos. He moans about the putrid water and the inadequate food. Apart from writing about the continuous cacophony of enemy guns and the devastating loss of fallen comrades, he takes a moment to reminisce about the geography of a warfront. On one side, he describes the mayhem of battle (be it in terms of the impregnable position of enemy trenches or the strategic location of defensive ravines). On the other side, he wonders at the tranquility of the Dardanelles, the rolling landscape being favorably compared by him with the undulating topography of his home, Ireland. What was Billy doing in Gallipoli? As an Irish Catholic, he was one of the many Irishmen who volunteered for service in the war. In this, he believed that that he was fulfilling a patriotic duty. By fighting for Britain, he would achieve Home Rule for Ireland, a promise secured from the British Government by the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party, John Redmond (1856–1918). Like Billy, Redmond was an Irish Catholic from an old family.2 Unlike Billy though, Redmond was in a quandary. Following the long tradition of constitutional nationalism, Redmond wanted to establish a devolved government in Ireland. However, Redmond had a problem. Ulster Protestants did not want to be tied to a devolved legislature that was dominated by Irish Catholics. By means of a popular contract (the Ulster Covenant [1912]) and backed up by a powerful militia (the Ulster Volunteers [formed in 1912]), Redmond was faced with the prospect of a divided Ireland, a northern sector dominated by Protestants and a southern sector dominated by Catholics. Like other members of his class and his creed, Redmond was greatly opposed to this solution.3 The declaration of war (August 4, 1914) offered a possible answer. By uniting all Irishmen against a common enemy (namely, Germany), Redmond believed that he could secure Home Rule by showing loyalty to the crown while at the same time ensuring independence for his homeland. There was a certain degree of brilliance in his strategy. By uniting a unionist militia (the Ulster Volunteers) with a nationalist paramilitary (the Irish Volunteers [formed in 1913]), he sought to create a unified force called the “National Volunteers” (also cleverly called the “Irish Volunteers”) that both supported the war effort and subverted religious rivalry. For a time, this strategy worked. By April (1915), one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers from Ireland had volunteered to serve in the armed forces against the Central Powers (Foster

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[1988: 471]). However, Redmond made a fatal mistake. On September 20 (1915), he promised “to pledge the Irish Volunteers to support the war effort where ever needed” (ibid.: 472). In other words, he agreed in principle to offer Irish soldiers as cannon fodder in the cause of British interests. Redmond supported the formation of a “new army” organized by his fellow countryman, H. Herbert, Lord Kitchener (1850–1916). In Ireland, the “new army” (also known as “Kitchener’s army”) envisaged the formation of three new divisions (the Tenth, the Sixteenth and the Thirty Sixth), these in addition to the eight permanent regiments that were already on the island following the Cardwell Reforms (1881).4 Although Kitchener had envisaged creating new battalions in their own right, volunteers were also recruited into the “old” as well as the “new” army. For example, the Royal Munster Fusiliers was formed in 1881, an amalgamation of two regiments which had originally served in the private army of the East India Company. While the First Battalion of the Royal Munster Fusiliers was stationed in India at the outset of the war, the Second Battalion was based in Ireland. Following a successful campaign, five hundred recruits were enlisted, the military unit now numbering around a thousand soldiers ready to repel the German advance into Belgium. The battalion was speedily posted to the Western Front (August 13, 1914). Billy was one of these soldiers. Receiving his commission (August 15, 1914) soon after the declaration of war, he joined the Royal Munster Fusiliers at the Battle of Mons (August, 1914) and the defense of Givenchy (December, 1914). On each occasion, the Second Battalion was almost decimated, and would not be bolstered by substantial reinforcements until after an official visit by Redmond to the battlefront (November 15, 1915). By this time, Billy had already been seconded to the First Battalion, which had arrived in England back from India (January, 1915). With his regiment, Billy set sail for the Dardanelles on the SS Manitoba (a Canadian vessel) from Avonmouth (May, 1915), stopping enroute in Gibraltar and Malta. He was allowed off in Valetta (the Maltese capital) to visit wounded soldiers from his regiment. He heard about the terrible slaughter experienced by the Royal Munster Fusiliers when they landed at Cape Helles (April 25, 1915). More than seventy percent of the original unit was killed. It was Billy’s job to inspire the fresh troops under his charge, many of whom were not battle hardened.5 The official narrative is different from the unofficial recollection. In the authorized account, Irish reinforcements were tested on the field of battle. They were terrified by the pounding of weaponry and overwhelmed by the ferocity of counterattack. None of this appears in Billy’s testimony. He emphasizes his optimistic spirit, writing anachronistically that he is “cheery as chafe” after bathing in the sea and that he had “a topping time” after receiving gifts from home. At times, he impugns the “Germans as terrible Huns”



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for “cowardly acts”; at others he recognizes the “Turks as fine fighters” who exhibit military skill and display chivalrous conduct. He criticizes his Greek assistants (whom he believes to be spies) but he admires his Australian allies, impressed by their physique but disparaging about their accent. While he reiterates the standard complaints about food and fatigue, there is a confident resilience in the letters composed, Billy relying on his firm faith and his combat experience to ensure his continued survival. However, he does caution “the Gallipoli show is no picnic as people first imagined it would be.” MUSIC IN A CONFLICT Music plays a tangential role in the correspondence of Billy MacCarthyO’Leary. Although not a musician, Billy peppers his letters with musical anecdotes. On board ship, he describes a soirée where he performs anti-German songs.6 During the Allied landings (April 25, 2015), he talks about Irish soldiers singing “Tipperary” when drowning in the sea or when falling on the beach. In this context, he notes the battle cry of the French (fr. “Vive la France!”) but does not mention the battle cry of the Turks (tr. “Allahuekber!”). Billy describes concerts by military bands while recovering in hospital. He also complains about the screech of an old gramophone during his stay in rest camp. Further, Billy is certainly not an ethnomusicologist. When recounting his experience of an Arab wedding in Port Said (Egypt), he writes with an imperialist disdain (November 12, 1915): “There was a native wedding going on in Arab Town last night—a fearful noise [with] beating of drums and blowing of trumpets every now and then. Awful—this ceremony of marriage merrymaking lasts for 3 days.” However, Billy does provide some insight into the role of music in a conflict. He alludes to the function of songs during warfare in solidifying a national identity (such as “Tipperary” for the Irish) and for expressing an international distaste (such as “A Silly German Sausage” against the Germans). He talks about the role of brass bands for providing therapeutic entertainment but he does not talk about the function of military ensembles for promoting patriotic fervor. Yes, he highlights the sounds of battle cries but he fails to mention the sounds of battle calls, be they whistles or bugles, drums or pipes. Surprisingly, he does not recollect the call to prayer (tr. ezan) chanted from the Turkish trenches. However, Billy uncovers the sound world of a multicultural campaign. He recalls the grate of an Australian accent and the cry of a French charge. He details the clatter of an Arab wedding and the delight of an English sing-along. However, Billy has other talents. He is a cartographer and a caricaturist. Indeed, his poem entitled “The Rattle of Battle” shows some talent.

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At the battlefront, there is no mention of song in Billy’s correspondence. For him, there is little to sing about and even less to talk about. Only one song survives from the Gallipoli Campaign in the oral tradition among the Irish volunteers. It is entitled “Old Gallipoli’s a Wonderful Place” (see Example A.1.2, Text A.2.2). Composed anonymously in two stanzas, it considers, first, the strategic aims of the Gallipoli Campaign (i.e., the capture of Constantinople), and second, the deplorable conditions on the Gallipoli Peninsula (especially with respect to food and drink). There is a satirical edge to the piece: soldiers are ordered to capture the elevated outpost in the peninsular interior called “Achi Baba” (tr. “Alçı Tepe”) in expectation of an Ottoman defeat. However, that is what is anticipated and not what is achieved. The song indicates the ground-level recognition of a military stalemate among the Irish recruits “that lasts till Doomsday I think.” But like Billy, the soldiers “never grumble, they smile through it all,” while thinking with empty stomachs about “where old Gallipoli sweeps down to the sea” (see, also, Pegler Ed. [2014: 311]). The lyrics of the song called “Old Gallipoli” are set to the melody of an Irish classic entitled “The Mountains of Mourne” (see Table 3.1). Written by the Anglo-Irish composer William “Percy” French (1854–1920),7 “The Mountains of Mourne” concerns a critical commentary upon British society by an Irish emigrant who is working in London. Two lines in the two songs are almost identical: the line that concerns extraneous practices in a foreign land, in the first song as “we don’t grow potatoes or barley or wheat” and in the second song as “they don’t sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat;” the other line that references a recognizable landscape in Turkey, “where the old Gallipoli sweeps down to the sea” is set against a familiar backdrop in Ireland “where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.” Although the poetic scansion does not quiet correspond, the two songs reiterate an observation in Billy’s letters that concerns the beauties of the Gallipoli coastline that are comparable with the splendors of the Irish seaboard. There are intertextual connections between the Gallipoli song and the Irish ballad. Although the text of “Old Gallipoli” is seemingly apolitical, the melody of “Old Gallipoli” is decidedly political since it references the subversive lyrics of the “The Mountains of Mourne.” For example, in verse four, the Irish migrant catches sight of the English king “from the top of a Table 3.1  List of Melodies Composed by William Hawes that are Discussed in the Text Title ‘Old Gallipoli’ ‘Mountains of Mourne’ ‘Carrigdhoun’ ‘Bendemeer’s Stream’

Author Unknown Percy French Denny Lane Thomas Moore

Composer [William Hawes] [William Hawes] [William Hawes] William Hawes

Example A.1.2 – – A.1.4

Text A.2.2 – A.2.3 A.2.4



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bus,” the worker looking down on the monarch saying “I’ve never known him, but he means to know us.” Despite acknowledging that the Saxons had once oppressed the Irish, the protagonist still cheers the sovereign saying “god forgive me, I cheered with the rest.” The ambivalent position on the part of the narrator is further unsettled by the following couplet which seems to indicate a possible reconciliation between Ireland and England: “And now that he’s visited Erin’s green shore/ We’ll be much better friends than we’ve been heretofore.” But on whose terms, he implicitly questions: “When we’ve got all we want, we’re as quiet as can be / Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.” There is an important inconsistency in the song. Published in 1896, “The Mountains of Mourne” predates the accession of an English king (King Edward VII [r. 1901–10]) to the throne by five years. As monarch, King Edward VII made two official visits to Ireland (1903 and 1907) to assuage the upsurge of nationalist support for Home Rule and to counteract the unionist desire for Irish partition. In contrast to his mother (Queen Victoria [r. 1837–1901]), who was commonly derided in Ireland as “The Famine Queen,” King Edward VII (as Prince of Wales) had already achieved a certain degree of popularity (for his love of the Irish countryside) and attained a justified reputation for licentiousness (for his love for an Irish woman). That is, he had regularly visited Ireland both officially (as in 1861) and unofficially (as in 1858), the visits being widely celebrated in the press. Notably, most of his Irish subjects applauded these royal tours, which often coincided with critical moments in Irish history (such as insurrection [visit in 1848] and war [visit in 1900]). However, French is more interested in social parody than in historical accuracy. He is especially celebrated for his satirical characterizations of a British upper class from the perspective of an Irish underclass. In “The Mountains of Mourne,” social classes are juxtaposed (navvy with royalty) and national loyalties are problematized (Irish vs British). Aesthetic preferences are compared (especially with respect to fashion) and living conditions interrogated (the country life vs the city life). French playfully subverts social hierarchies, the migrant looks down on the monarch, the minion rides on transport, and the master (presumably) walks on the street. Of especial interest, the narrator does not seek the acknowledgment of the narrated. Rather, a king attempts to know his subject, a major inversion of the traditional relationship between a royal and a commoner. It is noteworthy that the English king is differentiated from the Saxon invader, being cheered (“god forgive me”) by an Irish nationalist. That King Edward VII was the son of a Saxon prince (Albert, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha [1819–61]) adds a further layer of irony to the text. The ironic is accompanied by the ambivalent. As Anglo-Irish (his family settled in Ireland during the seventeenth century), French is both Irish and

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English. Born into the Anglican confession, French is (technically) neither Catholic nor Protestant. His ill-defined position in a well-defined conflict adds another level of semantic uncertainty to the Irish ballad. It is this ambivalence that must have resonated with the Irish recruits in the Gallipoli Campaign. By setting the text of “Old Gallipoli” to the tune of “The Mountains of Mourne,” the melody tells a different story than the text. While the words of “Old Gallipoli” are anodyne, the tune of “Old Gallipoli” calls into question the central issue of identity. That is, Irish soldiers (who are mostly workers) fight for a Saxon king (who is in actually German) against a foreign foe (with whom they have no quarrel), whose stunning landscape resembles a familiar vista along the Irish Sea. Importantly, this coastal view transcends a strategic divide in Ireland by encompassing the north and the south, by unifying Protestant and Catholic.8 MUSIC IN ANOTHER CONFLICT The tune tells another tale. The melody of “Old Gallipoli” and “The Mountains of Mourne” was used in an earlier ballad entitled “Carrigdhoun” (see Text A.2.3). It was written by the romantic nationalist Denny Lane (1818– 95),9 a Cork man who was a junior member of a revolutionary group known as “Young Ireland.”10 Published in the radical newspaper called “The Nation” (February 15, 1845), the text concerns the flight (1691) of Patrick Sarsfield (1660–93) to France at the head of an Irish force following the defeat of the Jacobite army in the Williamite War (1689–91). Commonly known as the “Flight of the Wild Geese,” around three thousand two hundred soldiers sailed on twenty vessels from Cork to Brest (McGarry [2013: 65]) upon the invitation of King Louis XIV (r. 1643–1715). As detailed in the Treaty of Limerick (1691), the defeated militia was surprisingly allowed to enlist in the French army, thereby setting a precedent for Irish soldiers who were Catholic gentry to fight in continental wars during the eighteenth century. In this, they experienced a divided loyalty, a fidelity to a shattered nation but an allegiance to a foreign state. “Carrighdhoun” tells the tale of one soldier, here called “Donal Dhu” (ir. “Donál Dubh”). Also called “The Lament of the Irish Maiden,” the song recounts a love affair that blossoms in summer but that withers in winter on the banks of Cork Harbor (at Carrighdhoun) and on the hillside overlooking the River Lee (at Ard-na-Lee). The female protagonist celebrates the “treasure of [her] heart” (ir. “a stór mo chroí”) and commiserates the anguish in [her] heart (ir. “ochón mo chroí”), using the formulaic language (such as ochón) of an Irish lament (ir. caoineadh).11 The song is an allegory for the rise and fall of a Gaelic nation, a land and a people that have been destroyed by



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the Saxon invader. However, there is one hope for this lost love. By joining the “fleur-de-lis” (namely, the French army), Donal will once again restore spring flowers to his forlorn lover. Although “the hawk has flown” with the Wild Geese, he will return with his compatriots to liberate Ireland from the wintry blast of English oppression. “Carrigdhoun” helps makes sense of the Irish condition. For the Wild Geese (in the eighteenth century) who were mostly Catholic, the song laments the flight of Irish soldiers into forced exile, where they could take up arms for a foreign power or where they could enter the church as Catholic priests, both paths of professional advancement that were denied to them in their homeland on account of the arduous provisions of the Penal Laws.12 For members of Young Ireland (in the nineteenth century) who were mostly nonCatholics, the song foretells the establishment again of a national legislature (something which had failed with the closure of the Irish parliament [1800]). In this, it foresees the eruption of a violent revolution (the so-called “Famine Revolution” [1848]) in which Young Ireland was quashed. For the Irish volunteers (in the twentieth century) who were Catholic and Protestant, the song speaks of divided loyalties; that is, it tells of Irish recruits who fought in the Gallipoli Campaign on the side of the Allied forces with the promise of Home Rule that was never realized. However, this is not the end of the tale. “Carrighdhoun” references a hero of Scottish derivation and not of Irish extraction. It also memorializes a victory over rather than a flight from a royal adversary. Donal Dhu or “Black Donald” (sc. “Donuil Dhuidh”) is the principal character of a poem composed by Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832).13 Entitled “Piobar of Donuil Dhuidh,” the text concerns a piper who summons Donal to battle at Inverlochy (Fort William). At its opening, Scott writes that his composition concerns the first Battle of Inverlochy (1431) where Donald Balloch MacDonald (d. 1476), chief of the clan MacDonald, repulsed the royal army of his enemy King James I of Scotland (r. 1424–37). Although the historical accuracy of Scott’s poem is subject to scrutiny, “Piobar of Donuil Dhuidh” was first published (1816) in a collection of “Lyrical and Miscellaneous Pieces” called “Albyn’s Anthology,” a volume that featured musical arrangements of Scottish melodies by Alexander Campbell (1764–1824). In contrast to other poems, the tune for this particular ballad is not included in the original publication. In “Carrighdhoun,” the reference to a poet who was a Scottish unionist (namely Scott) by an author who was Irish nationalist (namely Lane) seems surprising. On the one hand, Scott was a staunch advocate of the Act of Union (1707), a parliamentary treaty that established the joint kingdom of Great Britain by uniting the Kingdom of Scotland with the Kingdom of England under a single monarch. On the other hand, Lane was a resolute supporter of

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the Repeal Association (1830–48), a nationalist organization (under the leadership of the Catholic agitator Daniel O’Connell [1775–1847]) that sought to repeal the Act of Union (1800) between Ireland and Great Britain. However, both writers demonstrated a religious tolerance in their writings: Scott as an Episcopalian (out of choice) to his Presbyterian countrymen and Lane as a Catholic (out of necessity) to his Protestant compatriots. Both writers too drew on a romantic view of history where two conquered peoples (viz., the Scots and the Irish) represented two Gaelic cultures that had been decimated by a common English foe. However, this is also not the end of the tune. “Carrighdhoun” is sung today to the melody of “Bendemeer’s Stream” (see Example A.1.4, Text A.2.4), a sonnet that appears in the first part of an “oriental” romance entitled “Lalla Rookh” or “tulip cheek” (pr. “laleh rokh”). The sonnet like the romance was written (1817) by the Irish bard, Thomas Moore (1779–1852).14 Moore is principally famed for his poems on Irish themes that he often set to arrangements of Irish melodies, ancient airs which had been played by Irish harpers and which had been recently transcribed by the Irish collector, Edward Bunting (1773–1843).15 However, the songs in Lalla Rookh were written to suit the exotic text. For example, the music for “Bendemeer’s Stream” was composed by the musical entrepreneur William Hawes (1785–1846), who, at the time of writing, was working at the Chapel Royal (London). In a contemporary publication (The Monthly Magazine [1817, 44: 243]), his musical setting was reviewed favorably, being considered “an air of novel cast” where “the fascination of the poet […] has been caught by the musician and that the sound is, most universally, an echo of the sense.” However, the structure of the melody betrays the disposition of the writer. In “Bendemeer’s Stream,” the melodic form is arch shaped. The melodic structure is AABA. While the melody features disjunct intervals in ascent (with a hint of a minor pentatonic), the phrase structure (in four bars) and the triadic leap (in section B) disclose a harmonic consciousness based around the chords IV, V[7] and I. Significantly, a natural seventh (indicative of a harmonic sense) rather than a minor seventh (indicative of a modal sensibility) appears at important moments in the melodic architecture. The musical setting by Hawes of “Bendemeer’s Stream” is very different from the musical arrangements by Sir John Stevenson (1761–1833) in Irish Melodies, a collection of poems by Moore the first seven volumes of which Stevenson set to music. Where Hawes attempts unsuccessfully to evoke an “oriental” feeling in “Bendemeer’s Stream,” Stevenson tries more successfully to cultivate an “occidental” flavor in Irish Melodies. Tellingly, Hawes is clearly unaware of “the pathetic mode of Isfahan” that is referenced in the text and explained in a footnote by Moore.16



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In summary, “Old Gallipoli” embodies within itself multiple registers of Irish identity. By using “The Mountains of Mourne” as a melodic frame, “Old Gallipoli” references both the social subversion of an Irish immigrant (in “The Mountains of Mourne”) and the political sedition of an Irish rebel (in “Carrighdhoun”). It tells a tale of defeat (in “Carrighdhoun”) and of victory (in “Piobar of Donuil Dhuidh”), the former being written by an Irish nationalist (Lane), the latter being penned by a Scottish unionist (Scott). It recounts stories about divided loyalties (Irish versus English) and different religions (Catholics and Protestants). It talks about the realities of war (in “Old Gallipoli”) and the fantasies of love (in “Bendemeer’s Stream”). Above all, “Old Gallipoli” is sung to a melody that was composed by an English musician (Hawes) for an Irish balladeer (Moore) to suit the musical tastes of a foreign audience. In many respects, it is a fitting tune for Irish soldiers to sing on a Turkish campaign as it juxtaposes the local with the global, and it melds the “occident” with the “orient.” AN IRISH ALLEGORY Moore was one of the first writers in English literature to interrogate the “west” from the perspective of the “east” using narrative poetry. Although George, Lord Byron (1788–1824) had already published representative examples of “eastern” poetry (such as the poem called “The Giaour” [1813]), Moore suggested the idea of an “oriental” epic to his publishers at an earlier date (1812), agreeing with Longmans an exceptional sum (viz., three thousand pounds Sterling [Kelly 2006: 116]) in advance and sharing with Byron (probably unwisely) his artistic intention.17 Entitled “Lalla Rookh,” his composition reflects the exotic proclivities of the Regency period (1811–20), of which the Brighton Pavilion (restored 1815–23) is a shining example. Moore wrote a poetic work that was around five thousand and five hundred lines in length. Divided into four tales, his piece concerns two protagonists (a Moghul princess from Delhi [called “Lalla Rookh”] and an epic singer from Kashmir [called “Feramorz”]). It covers narrative themes that encompass love and duty, tolerance and prejudice; the central problem of an orthodox religion (namely Islam) coming into contact with a heterodox faith (namely Zoroastrianism) informing the narrative exegesis. Moore struggled for many years writing Lalla Rookh. Unlike Byron, he had never traveled to the “east.” Unlike Byron too, he had previously occupied himself with national issues rather than with international affairs. Although Moore engaged in an exhaustive perusal of extant sources in preparation for his mammoth composition,18 he complained frequently

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in his letters about confusion and motivation (see Vail Ed. [2013]). Even before publication (May 27, 1817), he suffered from headaches and colds that were probably psychosomatic. However, Lalla Rookh was a major success. In the first year, seven editions were published. It received rave reviews in the Edinburgh Review and the Monthly Magazine. The poem was in continuous press for over thirty years, producing for Longmans a handsome return on its original investment (Kelly [2006: 130–9]). The work was translated into many languages. Indeed, Lalla Rookh was the inspiration for an oratorio entitled “Das Paradies und die Peri” (1843, op. 50) by Robert Schumann (1810–56) and for an opera entitled “The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan” (1881, ----) by Charles V. Stanford (1852–1924), among others. Moore was at first ambivalent about the “occidental” significance of his “oriental” excursion. True, he mentions fleetingly in a letter to Byron ([November 30], 1813) that his “eastern” tale would contain “a parallel with Ireland” (cited in Vail Ed. [2013: 72]). However, it was Byron who noted the “oriental” condition of Irish nationhood. In his dedication to Moore that appears at the opening of the poem entitled “The Corsair” (1814), Byron exudes: “It is said […] that you are engaged in the composition of a poem that will be laid in the East; none [other than you] can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters may be found there” (Byron cited in Coleridge Ed. [1904, 3: 223–4]). Later, Moore acknowledged the national sentiments “to be found there” (that is, in the “east”). In the introduction to a later edition of Lalla Rookh (1841), Moore equates Mokanna in “The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan” (section one) with an Irish demagogue (O’Connell) and Hafed in “The Fire Worshipers” (section three) with an Irish revolutionary (Robert Emmet [1778–1803]) (Moore cited in Lennon [2004: 157]). Moore is clearly aware of the poetic topoi in Persian literature. In “Bendemeer’s Stream,” he reiterates a number of times the Persianate tropes of the rose (pr. gol) and the nightingale (pr. bolbol). The sonnet speaks of divine separation in a paradisiacal garden (pr. golestan), the lover wrested from the beloved, the singer wrenched from her muse. It is noteworthy that there is an element of poetic simulacrum between “Bendemeer’s Stream” by Moore and “Carrigdhoun” by Lane. In the former, the bower of bright roses hangs over “Bendemeer’s Stream.” In the latter, the leaves of dark trees tremble over the river called “Owen na Buidhe” (ir. “Abhainn Buidhe” or “Abhainn Buí”). Flowing into Cork Harbor, the river marks the spot from whence the Wild Geese sailed to France. In addition, both poems speak of seasonal change, a summer of love and a winter of discontent. However, in the two poems there



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is a promise of salvation “where the fragrance of summer [remains]—when summer is gone” (in “Bendemeer’s Stream”) and where “the soft April showers and bright May flowers, will bring the summer back again” (in “Carrigdhoun”). Lane follows Moore in other ways. The principal protagonists in “Bendemeer’s Stream” and “Carrigdhoun” are women. In contrast to ­ expectation, a woman rather than a man occupies the central position of the “lover” in relation to the “beloved.” Unusually, a heroine rather than a hero laments the demise of Ireland (under English occupation) but foresees the resurrection of Ireland (after Irish liberation). The authors reiterate similar themes. For Moore, “Bendemeer’s Stream” is an allegory that encodes political criticism in an Islamic space, the words of the ballad alluding to Irish sedition in a non-Irish location. In this way, the poet safely avoids censure. For Lane, “Carrigdhoun” is also an allegory that articulates political dissent in a Celtic place. In keeping with the Irish tradition of visionary poetry (ir. aisling), “Carrigdhoun” tells the tale of a failed rebellion by Jacobite supporters. Further, Moore and Lane speak of fragrant branches that blossom in spring. They talk about gentle brooks that are transformed into violent torrents in winter. In short, they foretell the arrival of peace in Ireland after war. Why did Lane emulate Moore? At the time of composition, Lane was a member of the revolutionary group called “Young Ireland,” a movement that was especially critical of Moore’s output. In particular, the activist Thomas Davis (1814–45) dismissed Moore for his tiresome allegory,19 his sectarian religion and his Jacobean politics (Davis cited in White [1998: 59]). In Davis’s view, Moore lacked a virile tone and manly passion. He believed that Moore was exclusive (in terms of price) and elusive (in terms of meaning), his nationalism appealing to the aesthetic expectations of an aristocratic coterie. Unlike Moore, Davis called for a narrative structure that was clear and concise (Davis cited in [Leith] Davis [2006: 177]). He also called for a poetic style whose meaning could be understood equally by the Celtic and the Saxon populations in, and the agrarian and the artisan classes of Ireland. According to Davis, Moore avoided the martial character of Irish music. By following Moore, Lane succumbed to the despondent representation of a dying nation, by composing a wailing dirge and by writing an imprecise allegory. However, Lane produced a ballad with a historical theme. From the perspective of Davis, Lane wrote a historical ballad that is grounded in truth and informed by knowledge (Davis [[1846] 1998: 231–40]). In different sources, Lane and Davis recall the flight of the Wild Geese (from Ireland) and commemorate the formation of Irish regiments (in France). However, there is a difference of purpose between the two authors. Where Lane laments the exile of Irish soldiers after the Williamite War, Davis celebrates in prose and

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in song the success of Irish mercenaries in continental battles. In his essay on the Irish Brigade (ibid.: 89–93) and in his ballads about the Irish Brigade ([Davis Eds] [1845]), Davis applauds Irish gallantry in the following manner: “The Irish are a military people—strong, nimble, and hardy, fond of adventure, irascible, brotherly, and generous—they have all the qualities that tempt men to war and make them good soldiers.” That is, Davis advances a militant position that is absent in Lane. Further, Davis advocates a robust masculinity that is missing from Lane. Indeed, Lane was not a principal contributor to the revolutionary voice of Young Ireland, The Nation. However, Davis was (see Table 3.2). Where one ballad by Lane is included, forty-three poems by Davis are featured in the collection entitled “The Spirit of the Nation” (see [Davis Eds] [1845]). Of particular relevance, The Spirit of the Nation was published by The Nation. Viewed as a scholarly revision of an earlier work, the book brings together one hundred and twenty-seven ballads (many arranged for voice and piano). The edition includes linguistic information on names (ibid.: 327–32) and places (ibid.: 332–40). The section on phrases (ibid.: 321–6) demonstrates the philological aspirations and antiquarian pretensions of the editors (who are not named). The preface bears the indelible imprint of Davis’s editorial hand. It recognizes the anticipated popularity of the new edition as “a new season when manhood, union and nationality, would replace submission, hatred, and provincialism” (ibid.: v). Noticeably, “Carrigdhoun” by Lane is excluded from the volume, its tone (as an allegory) being too feminine, and its tale (about a Jacobean defeat) being too sectarian.

Table 3.2  List of Ballads Written by Thomas Davis that are Discussed in the Text Title

Sung to the Tune

Author

‘Battle of Limerick’ ‘Ballad of Freedom’ ‘Celts and Saxons’ ‘Clare’s Dragoons’

‘Garryowen’ – – ‘Viva La! [The French are Coming]’ – – ‘Irish Molly, O!’ – ‘A Volunteer Song’ [‘Boyne Water’] ‘The Swaggering Jig’ ‘Protestant Boys’ –

Thomas Thomas Thomas Thomas

Davis Davis Davis Davis

303–5 161–3 191–3 290–2

Thomas Thomas Thomas Thomas Thomas

Davis Davis Davis Davis Davis

213–5 60 264–5 5–6 32–5

Thomas Davis Thomas Davis Thomas Davis

220–3 316–9 78–80

‘Fontenoy’ ‘Girl of Dunbuidhe’ ‘Green above the Red’ ‘Lament for O’Neill’ ‘Native Swords’ ‘Oh! The Marriage’ ‘Orange and Green’ ‘O’Sullivan’s Return’

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A COLORED PAST Color permeates the narrative of “Carrigdhoun.” Meaning “brown rock” (ir. “carraig donn”), “Carrigdhoun” juxtaposes colors in alternative verses. The heath and the trees are green at Carrigdhoun in spring. However, the heath is brown and the trees are bear at Carrigdhoun during winter. The main river at Carrigdhoun is “Owen na Buidhe,” which means “yellow river” (ir. “abhainn buidhe” or “abhainn buí”), whether gurgling as a stream or rushing as a torrent.20 Further, the main protagonist (Donal Dhu or Black Donald) is represented as dark, while the principal emblem (the heraldic symbol fleur-de-lis) is represented as bright, both shades being associated with non-Irish contexts (Scottish and French, respectively). In addition, contrasts in light appear in the different strophes; in the first, the sun shines bright; in the second, the clouds are dark. Here, it is possible that Lane played with two transliterations of the word “lee.” Either he attempted to represent the English spelling of the river “Lee,” which means “poem” (ir. “laoi”), or he tried to reproduce the Irish spelling of the word “lee,” which means “sheen” (ir. “lí”). Color has a wider significance in the Irish tradition. In visionary poetry (ir. aisling), the black little rose (ir. an róisín dubh) is a principal theme in Jacobean poetry. Often attributed to the great poet Antoine Ó Raifteiri (1779–1835), the poem is an allegory that concerns the destruction of the Gaelic order by a Saxon foe. Here, the “Black Róisín” (sometimes pronounced “Róisín Dhu”) represents Ireland where a male lover sings to his female beloved. In “Carrigdhoun,” the gender roles are reversed. The “Black Róisín” (ir. “Róisín Dubh”) is replaced by the “Black Donald” (here spelled “Donal Dhu”). The change is not just one of color, it is one of status. Now a vanquished woman is replaced by a victorious male. However, the transformation may have been strategic. Lane probably succumbed to the paternalistic prejudices of his publishers (in The Nation). By replacing Róisín Dhu with Donal Dhu, he achieved the required masculine conversion of an allegorical tradition not only with poetic finesse (by keeping the prosodic structure) but also with discursive effect since the poem references explicitly a dream of nationhood and alludes implicitly to a Jacobean tradition. By contrast, color is not foregrounded in most of the poems by Davis. In The Spirit of the Nation ([Davis Eds] [1845]), the color green is sometimes mentioned with respect to a coat or a flag (when referencing Irish soldiers [ibid.: 137, 292]) and to woods and to dells (when referencing the Irish countryside [ibid.: 38, 142]). In one instance, the colors green and red (representing the ongoing conflict between Ireland and England) are juxtaposed (as in the poem entitled “[The] Green above the Red” [ibid.: 264–5]). In another instance, the colors green and orange (representing the unified voice of Catholics and Protestants) are brought together (as in the poem entitled

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“Orange and Green” [ibid.: 316–9]). For Davis, the relationship between color and meaning is explicit. When mentioned, Davis avoids the suggestive use of color in allegorical settings and, in doing so, evades the overwrought metaphors of Moore (and by extension Lane). For Davis, gold is money (ibid.: 80) and bronze is a weapon (ibid.: 104); black signifies night (ibid.: 106) and grey connotes age (ibid.: 246). However, color appears significantly in one poem by Davis. In the ballad entitled “[The] Girl of Dunbuidhe” (ibid.: 60), the author ostensibly compares a peasant with a monarch, a girl whose beauty and manner are comparable with those of a queen. Her white brow is set against her raven hair. Her pale cheek is compared with her fruity lip. Davis concludes with the following hope: “Again love, we’ll meet / And I’ll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.” Like Lane, Davis presents here an allegory, Dunbuidhe being the site where an Irish prince (Domhnall Ó Súilleabháin Bhéara [1561–1618]) was defeated (1602) by an English queen (Queen Elizabeth I [r. 1558–1603]). That is, Davis laments a battle lost but prophesizes a battle yet to be won. Like Lane, Davis references the color yellow (ir. buidhe or buí), yellow fort (ir. dún buí) in the latter, and yellow river (ir. abhainn buí) in the former. In the collection, yellow is mentioned in place names and tune titles. As a prominent color in the Irish imagination, it occupies an ambivalent position. Davis wrote another poem about Ó Súilleabháin Bhéara or O’Sullivan Beare. Entitled “O’Sullivan’s Return” (ibid.: 78–80), the piece concerns the return in a dream of the Irish prince to his home. Having fled to Spain after his defeat at Dunbuidhe, Davis fantasizes that O’Sullivan Beare sailed back to Ireland with an army that was paid for and armed by the Spanish crown. However, the host was thwarted off the Irish coast by an immense storm with the principal protagonist drowning along with his retinue. While the account is fictional, “O’Sullivan’s Return” represents just one of a number of poems by Davis that remembers Irish wars against English invaders. These include the song entitled “[The] Battle of Limerick” (ibid.: 303–5), which concerns a victory by Sarsfield at the Siege of Limerick (1690) during the Williamite wars. They also include the eulogy entitled “[The] Lament for [Owen Roe] O’Neill” (ibid.: 5–6) which concerns the death, reputedly by poisoning, of Eoghan Ruadh Ó Néill or Owen Roe O’Neill (1585–1649) during the Cromwellian wars (1649–53). The poem mourns the loss of a great leader during a national crisis. Davis also wrote about battles abroad. In particular, he composed poems about the Irish regiments in continental wars. In his ballad entitled “Fontenoy” (ibid.: 213–5), Davis celebrates the victory of Irish soldiers over their English enemies (1745), the Irish fighting for the French, the English fighting with an Allied consortium. The poem recounts (with reasonable accuracy) the fierce encounter between opposing forces eager to maintain (on the part



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of the French) or obtain (on the part of the Allies) the strategic town of Fontenoy (Flanders). Although surrounded on three sides, the Allies failed to admit defeat. As Davis recounts, the day was saved by six regiments of Irish soldiers who reputedly cried “Remember, Remember Limerick!” in recollection of a treaty broken (the Treaty of Limerick [1691]) and “Down Down with the Sasanach!” in recognition of Saxon perfidy. In another poem entitled “Clare’s Dragoons” (ibid.: 290–2), Davis immortalizes the leader of the Irish forces at Fontenoy, Charles (O’Brien) Lord Clare (1699–1761). The stirring chorus ends with the following lines: “Viva la the rose shall fade / And the [s]hamrock shine forever new!” Davis wrote about defeats at home and victories away from home. However, he narrated here the military escapades of Irish soldiers who were Catholic and Jacobite. Davis also composed a number of poems about interdenominational amity. Like the piece “Orange and Green …” (see above), one poem in particular advocates a unified voice between north and south, between Catholic and Protestant. It is written as a volunteer song to commemorate the formation of the United Irishmen (1791). Entitled “Native Swords” (ibid.: 32–5), Davis bemoans the role of religious difference in thwarting national unity by saying: “Religion’s name, since then, became our pretext for division.” According to Davis, defeat at home (following the Treaty of Limerick) and victory abroad (at the Battle of Fontenoy) has relayed Ireland’s story to the world. He inquires: “Why Ulster e’er should Munster fear” (i.e., the north being afraid of the south) since “Religion’s crost, when union’s lost” (i.e., religion does not benefit from disunity). By arming the United Irishmen he concludes: “And now, thank God! Our native sod / Has native swords to protect it.”21 Davis also wrote a number of poems that concern international suppression. Commenting on imperialism during the nineteenth century, he is especially critical of the conquest of subject peoples in North Africa and Central Asia. In the poem entitled “[A] Ballad of Freedom” (ibid.: 161–3), Davis celebrates the success of resistance fighters in Algeria against France, Afghanistan against Britain and Circassia against Russia. With extended footnotes that concern culture and context, he compares the fight for freedom abroad with the struggle for independence at home. In his words: “Like Moor, Pushtani [Pashtun] and Cherkess [Circassian], they soon would have their own / Hurrah! hurrah! It can’t be far, when from the Scindh [Indus] to Sionainn [Shannon] / Shall gleam a line of freemen’s flags begirt from freemen’s cannon.” There is a subtext to this narrative. The revolt in Algeria (1835–47) against the French is by an enlightened slave (ʿAbd al-Qādir [1808–83]). The insurrection in Afghanistan against the British (1839–42) is by a hereditary emir (Dōst Moḥammad [1793–1863]). Here, the twin attributes of slavery and royalty help to underscore Davis’s argument with patriotic effect.

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AN IRISH EMPIRE The Irish battalions at Gallipoli are part of this historical narrative. As Davis predicted, they were fighting abroad for liberty at home. As Irish Volunteers, they represented a unified cohort of Catholics and Protestants battling against a common enemy. As Irish soldiers, they had already achieved distinction by stemming the German advance on the Western Front at Étreux (August 27, 1914) and by capturing Turkish trenches in the Gallipoli Campaign at Krithia (July 1, 1915). For this victory, one Irish soldier was awarded the highest military distinction (the Victoria Cross). However, now the Irish troops were fighting for the British in Asia and not for the French in Europe. As Redmond intended, they were supporting the British in the war to win freedom from the British after the war. This alteration of allegiance requires explanation. It involves a political change in France following the French Revolution (1789–99). It also involves a social change in Britain after the Relief Act (1793). While Ireland remained a colonial outpost of Great Britain, the Irish participated in the colonial project of the British Empire. The Irish Brigade (fr. La brigade irlandaise) was disbanded during the French Revolution. Although historically separate, the regiments (like other foreign combatants) were integrated into the French army. Having pledged allegiance to the French crown (a hundred years before), royalist members of the Irish Brigade joined the British army. However, senior officers in the French brigade had to accept junior positions in the British forces. This was possible given the positive legislation in favor of Catholics by way of the Relief Act. This enabled Catholics to buy freehold land and to occupy professional positions. Catholics also achieved a limited degree of suffrage. The legislation was accompanied by a Militia Act (1793), which allowed Catholics the right to bear arms. In this way, Catholic soldiers could be recruited into the British army. The timing of these reforms was not coincidental. On the one hand, France threatened Britain with military aggression, the republic declaring war on the kingdom (1793). On the other hand, France menaced Britain with revolutionary insurrection. Here, Irish Catholics presented French revolutionaries with a volatile locus for provoking sedition. However, Irish Protestants joined Irish Catholics in rebellion. Following the suppression of the United Irishmen by the Irish government (1794), the organization underwent a radical turn as a republican movement. Two uprisings ensued (1798), one in the south (led by Catholics) and one in the north (led by Protestants). Both were crushed by government forces with indiscriminate violence. Two attempts at a French invasion of Ireland were quashed, either by bad weather (1796) or by poor organization (1798). The rebellion resulted in the end of home rule (following the Act of Union). It left in its wake the elusive promise of emancipation for Catholics and the



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enduring taste of separatism among republicans. However, Britain had other worries. With the meteoric rise of Napoleon Bonaparte (r. 1804–14, 1815), a new threat to its shores was posed by a newly established imperial France. As in the past, Britain had to divert troops to maintain the peace in and to prevent the invasion of Ireland. Also, it had to face the growing number of Irish recruits to the Irish Legion (fr. La légion irlandaise) in the imperial army (see McGarry [2013: 191–214]). Less well documented is the recruitment of Irish soldiers into the British army. During the Napoleonic wars (1804–14), around a quarter of all recruits in the British forces were from Ireland (see Kennedy [2013: 62]). Although precise figures are not available, the number of Irish recruits as soldiers and as sailors exceeded one hundred thousand (ibid.: 5). Many of these were enlisted by ballot in militia (ibid.: 137). However, others were press-ganged into service. Irish troops served in the military campaigns of the Peninsular War (1808–15) and in the major victory over Bonaparte at Waterloo (1815), in both instances fighting with distinction under the expert command of Arthur (Wellesley) Duke of Wellington (1769–1852), a field marshal of Irish extraction (see chapter 2). Wellington would later become prime minister of Great Britain and Ireland (s. 1828–30, 1834). Though some Irish Catholics served as commissioned officers, most were recruited into the ranks where they were offered one shilling a day for their services. Not for the first time, Irish recruits in the British army would be treated as cannon fodder in a foreign war.22 Throughout the nineteenth century, Irish soldiers fought in the imperial wars of Great Britain. As Jeffery argues (Jeffery Ed. [1996: 336]), a disproportionate number of Irish recruits were enlisted in colonial forces. In particular, nearly half of The Bengal European Regiment (a military force attached to the East India Company) was of Irish extraction (1825–1850). The regiment went through a number of transformations, being recalled “The Royal Bengal Fusiliers” (1861) and “The Royal Munster Fusiliers” (1881) following the military reorganization of British troops on the subcontinent (see McCance [[1927] 2015]). The regiment was involved in many campaigns in South Asia (Innes [[1885] 2012]), including the First Anglo-Afghan War (1839–42) against Dōst Moḥammad (see above) and the Siege of Lucknow (1857) during the Indian Rebellion (1857–8). Later, colonial campaigns in Sudan during the Anglo-Egyptian War (1882) and in South Africa during the Second Boer War (1899–1902) involved these and other Irish troops. With growing criticism by Irish nationalists of British imperialism (Jeffery Ed. [1996: 95]), the number of Irish recruits in the British army decreased dramatically during the Second Boer War. However, the nineteenth century witnessed two important developments that would influence Irish participation in the colonial project. First, the Great

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Famine (ir. an Gorta Mór [1845–52]) resulted in the decimation of the Irish population through either starvation or disease. Approximately one million died and one million emigrated. By the outbreak of the War, the total population of Ireland had almost halved, from around eight million (1840) to four and a half million (1910) (see Foster [1988: 323–5]). Second, the British Empire facilitated population exchange. Although many Irish emigrants chose eventually to live in the United States, most migrated to the British mainland and to the British colonies (such as Canada and Australia). Here, the expansion of the British Empire coincided with the industrial revolution, Irish workers being required to facilitate industrial growth and to buy industrial products. In this way, it could be argued that they actively participated in their own economic subversion. That being said, depopulation must be factored into recruitment. While the proportion did not change, the number of Irish soldiers serving in the British army did (Jeffery Ed. [1996: 94]). The Irish engagement with the British Empire is seemingly paradoxical. That is, the colonized became the colonizer. In the army, Irish soldiers suppressed subject peoples in the name of British imperialism. In certain conflicts, Irish troops went into battle against each other. In the Second Boer War for example, the pro-Boer Transvaal Irish Brigade fought against the proBritish Royal Dublin Fusiliers (Bartlett and Jeffery Eds [1996: 22]). Similar situations occurred in the Peninsular War and the War. In the church, Irish missionaries converted conquered peoples in the name of the Catholic Church (Kenny [2004: 113–8]). Like their contemporaries in the Protestant missions, they viewed the British Empire as God’s empire (see Carey [2011]). That is, “the churches were essential to the creation of a Christian consensus which supported the expansion of the British world through the planting of religious institutions in every conceivable corner of the empire” (ibid.: xiv). Here, the Irish missionaries were supremely adept (in contrast to other missions) at training priests and teachers, and at providing entrepreneurs and administrators in their consolidation of a spiritual empire (ibid.: 124). For two centuries, the Irish have faced a conundrum: either fighting for the British yet rebelling against the British or benefitting from imperialism yet critiquing the imperialist. Perhaps, music helps clarify this inconsistent position. Where Irish soldiers sung about their military adventures in foreign wars, Irish activists wrote about their military defeats in national campaigns. Here, the distinction between oral transmission and literate composition is crucial. In the oral tradition, a ballad like “The Green Linnet,” the text references an ambivalent critique of Napoleonic imperialism by an Irish soldier abroad. In the literate tradition, the lyrics of a song like “O’Sullivan’s Return” (by Davis) provide an explicit criticism of English colonialism by an Irish revolutionary at home. In this convoluted world of divided loyalties, [Percy] French presents a satirical insight into the Irish condition. In the song entitled



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“The Mountains of Mourne,” social conventions are challenged and national affiliations are questioned. By extension, the ballad entitled “Old Gallipoli” allows for a nuanced interpretation of Irish identity. As a song about home while abroad, it is also a ballad about the “west” in the “east.” IRISH ORIENTALISM “Old Gallipoli” is a song about colonialism. It is also a song about orientalism.23 On the one hand, the text of “Old Gallipoli” concerns the colonial intentions of a “western” power (the British Empire) in an “eastern” realm (the Ottoman Empire). On the other hand, the tune of “Old Gallipoli” makes reference to an “eastern” register in a “western” tradition. Here, the role of contrafactum in Irish music is especially important. That is, the lyrics of “Old Gallipoli” (by way of intertextuality) emulate the colonized disposition of the Irish diaspora in the British Empire. However, the melody of “Old Gallipoli” (by way of simulacrum) alludes to the allegorical representation of Irish nationhood. While much has been made of the effeminized character and the naturalized nature of Irish alterity in the English imagination (see Lennon [2004]), “Old Gallipoli” provides a rich locus for exploring multiple levels of Irish difference where allegory (in “Bendemeer’s Stream” by Moore) and parody (in “The Mountains of Mourne” by French) suggest different ways in which the colonized Irish were “orientalized” by the colonizing English. The Irish participated in this process of exotification. As Lennon argues (ibid.: 5–57),24 the Irish rearticulated a standard narrative of their “oriental” roots. Founded upon oral epics that were canonized in ecclesiastical annals (see Prelude), they viewed themselves as the Scythians of the “western” world, an Asiatic people that had apparently migrated to Ireland by way of Egypt and Spain. Here, the anecdotes about invasion are of interest since a manuscript called “The Book of Invasions” (ir. “Lebor Gabála Érenn”) collated oral texts from a variety of quasi-historical sources to establish a singular past for the Irish people (as early as the eleventh century). Central to this process was the final conquest of Ireland by the Milesians, either a military offensive from Spain (by Milesius) or a naval escapade from Greece (by the Miletians). In this invented history, the Irish linked themselves to a biblical past (by way of exile) and a “classical” culture (by way of erudition), the Phoenicians providing a useful link (through settlement and enterprise) to legitimate a respectable pedigree for an ancient people. The English responded negatively to this Irish history of exoticism. As Lennon points out (ibid.: 5–57), the English either questioned the origin myth of an “oriental” ancestry espoused by the Irish. In this way, they hoped to establish a racial bond between England and Ireland, and an unquestionable

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reason for England to invade Ireland. Or, the English highlighted the oral provenance of this “eastern” past believed by the Irish. Accordingly, they wished to emphasize the relative superiority of English refinement over Irish vulgarity, a questionable rationale for England to civilize Ireland. In the English mindset (ibid.: 54), the Irish were no better than the Turks since both peoples relied upon bards (and not on books) and both peoples were idolatrous since the Irish were Catholic (not Protestant) and the Turks were Muslim (not Christian). Indeed, the Catholic church was unfavorably compared with the Muslim mosque (ibid.: 146) and the Irish priest was improbably equated with the Turkish mullah. Although each nation had distinctive interpretations of what constituted civilization and barbarism, an orientalist trope persisted in expressive culture, both in Ireland and in England. Irish balladeers invoked this tradition of “orientalization.” In “Bendemmer’s Stream,” Moore encodes an “occidental” critique in an “oriental” idyll (see above). Probably not intentional, he sets his narrative in a colonial outpost where his sons would be posted as officers (1840 and 1841), the eldest with the Twenty Second Foot and the youngest with the East India Company (Kelly [2006: 228–9]). In Lalla Rookh, he draws upon an orientalist tradition of antiquarianism by providing extended footnotes on geography and history, on language and religion. In this way, Moore renders the surreal more real. Interestingly, it was Byron and not Moore who recognized the “western” significance of this “eastern” romance. In “The Mountains of Mourne,” French too emulates an orientalist stratagem. By reversing the authorial role of the colonizer with the colonized, he ridicules the “manners and customs” of the English. That is, he follows an established practice of writing pseudo-letters in the name of “oriental” dignitaries, visitors from the “east” who wrote critically of their experiences in the “west” (Lennon [2004: 123–30]). Surprisingly, Davis too was carried away by this fashion for “orientalization.” Although he was critical of the orientalist preoccupation with allegory (by Moore) and parody (by French), Davis is captivated by the mythical narratives of Irish origins. Perhaps influenced by Moore’s (1835–45) encyclopedic study entitled “The History of Ireland,” Davis emphasizes the Milesian origin of the Irish people and the Phoenician character of Irish culture. In the poem entitled “Celts and Saxons” ([Davis Eds] [1845: 191–3]), Davis explored the heterogeneous makeup of the Irish race. While recognizing successive invasions of Ireland by the Saxon and the Dane, by the Belgian and the Norman, he recounts the mythical genealogy of the Celtic race: “Here came the brown Phoenician / The man of trade and toil / Here came the proud Milesian / A hungering for spoil.” He goes back even further: “As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand / Long drifting down the Nile / Built up old Egypt’s fertile land / For many a hundred mile.” He concludes: “So pagan clans to Ireland came,” joining their wisdom and their fame to build a nation [from].



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Davis probably viewed Irish music in orientalist terms. This is surprising since he condemns the effeminate tone and doleful feeling of Moore’s “oriental” imaginary, be it in terms of melodic setting or poetic structure. In his essay entitled “Ethnology of the Irish Race,” Davis ([1846] 1998: 80–9) congratulates Mr Forde of Cork (i.e., the music collector William Forde [1796–1850]) who “disproves the European origin of our music, and reduces it to an original construction here, or to an [e]astern source. If [e]astern, we could have got it from the [o]riental Christians, or [p]agans].” However, Davis admits that this research is ongoing (ibid.: 83). This discussion of Irish music is framed by a wider consideration of Irish culture, Davis (citing a lecture on the subject [probably in 1844] by William Wilde [1815–76]) using material culture (such as architecture) and physiognomic evidence (such as phrenology) to interrogate the European or Asiatic provenance of successive invaders. Tellingly, Davis does not critique the “ancient” provenance of Irish music, a sonic pedigree with orientalist overtones that was much vaunted by contemporary antiquarians. At the time, the music collector Edward Bunting (1773–1843) represented the authentic voice of Irish music in his latest edition of The Ancient Music of Ireland. Originally plagiarized by Moore but subsequently venerated by Davis, Bunting (see Bunting Ed. [1840]) provides musical analyses and practical terms for a select group of Irish harpers whose music he transcribed at the Belfast Harp Festival (1792), among other locations. Of the extended historical essays that are featured in this volume, the chapter on the harp and the bagpipe in Ireland is especially interesting (ibid.: 37–59). Written by the poet Samuel Ferguson (1810–86), the author examines the iconographic representation of an Irish harp without a fore pillar on a sculptured cross. Noting its Egyptian morphology, he surmised that the [Irish] harp “is really a variety of cithara or testudo, derived through an Egyptian channel through Sythia, will at once be apparent. There can be no question … that at a very early period, a strong tide of civilization flowed into the [e]ast of Europe from the Nile.” From thence, the instrument came to Ireland (ibid.: 50). Of course, Bunting wished to combine the philological and the organological in his critical edition of Irish music. However, even he betrays the pseudohistorical predilections of his generation. Apart from the Egyptian and the Sythian moments in the harp’s evolution, Bunting (ibid.: 82–100) organizes the tunes of his collection into a hierarchy that ranges from the “very ancient” (“first class”) through the “ancient” (“second class”) to the “modern” (“third class”). In contrast to Davis (who wished to portray Irish music as male and merry), Bunting gives a prominent position to dirges, in Davis’s opinion (see Davis [1846] 1998: 217) despondent airs unable “to content a people marching to independence.” Of interest, Bunting indicates that these pieces should be performed “moderately quick.” Foregrounded here are exotic genres such

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as the “caoineadh” or “lament” (ir. “caoineadh”) and the “cronan” or “drone” (ir. “crónán”). In his glossary, Bunting (see Bunting Ed. [1840: 31–6]) details more than fifteen words for music. Most are not used today. By focusing on the progression of harps from an Egyptian hearth to an Irish home, Bunting marks Irish music as pre-modern and Irish culture as non-European. HEARTH AND HOME The past is forever present in Ireland. For Moore, the past in the “orient” helps explain the moribund state of Ireland in his present. For Lane, the past in the “occident” helps predict the sublime possibilities for Ireland in his future. In “Bendemeer’s Stream” and “Carrighdoun” two moments of a national eschatology are revealed, the death and the resurrection of the Irish nation. In his apocalyptic vision, Davis foresees a violent disruption before “a nation once again.” For Davis ([1846] 1998: 216–20), music operates as a functional means to garner support for political ends (see, also, White [1998: 58]). For Davis (ibid.: 28–38) too, history must be co-opted to unite a divided people where different colors represent different denominations: green for Irish Catholics and orange for Irish Protestants. Against England, Davis only sees red. That Moore was Catholic and Davis was Protestant is especially revealing since each poet plays into a distinctive stereotype of the Irish character, the Celt as the “oriental” fantasist and the Saxon as the “occidental” realist. Further, these binary constructs appear in song as gendered practice (effeminate vs masculine) and martial record (passive vs active). Such apparent contradictions were ripe for parody. In “The Mountains of Mourne,” French subverts the social norms and the political expectations of his British audience. However, he does not go further. Had he done so, he would have satirized Irish Protestants (in United Ireland) who, as the original colonizers, were seeking Irish independence from British imperialism by means of violent rebellion. He would have also derided Irish Catholics (in the Repeal Association) who, as the original colonized, wished for Irish devolution in the British Empire by way of constitutional reform. That Redmond had sought Home Rule without war (at home) by engaging in war (abroad) is especially ironic, the constitutional nationalist agreeing to send Irish volunteers to assist Britain in the War. However, “Old Gallipoli” addresses inadvertently such paradoxes. The song accepts without question Irish soldiers in the British army, the colonized actively supporting the colonizer. It also considers it natural that Irish recruits would fight in a British expedition. Of course, it was natural since Irish soldiers had enlisted in British regiments for over a century.



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In the topsy-turvy world of Irish identity, Billy MacCarthy-O’Leary was not confused. As Irish Catholics, his family had fought (on the wrong side) in the endless wars that marked the thrust of English conquest. Yes, his family signed the Treaty of Limerick to save ancestral lands. Because one forebear did not pledge the required oath of allegiance to the crown, these lands were later forfeited. As “Wild Geese,” his family participated in the continental wars on the side of the Catholic powers (especially in the armies of Austria and France). One ancestor in particular (Daniel Count O’Connell [1743–1833]) was known famously as the “last colonel of the Irish Brigade.” He was both a general in the French army and a colonel in the British army. That is, he was demoted in England (when exiled from France) for reasons of race and religion (see [Mary] O’Connell [1892]). Billy’s ancestors were active in the Anglo-Egyptian War and in the Second Boer War (see above). They even enlisted in the East India Company, in a regiment that would later be called the “Royal Munster Fusiliers.” Billy was at home in Gallipoli. His letters show that the landscape was familiar. His comrades in the Royal Munster Fusiliers were also at home there. The song “Old Gallipoli” confirms this sense of intimacy. Yet, the song provides a text for uncovering a subtext in the letters. As a soldier in the British army, Billy was an unlikely colonial. As a Celt in the British Empire, Billy was an implausible “oriental.” Like his Irish compatriots, Billy believed that he was descended from “eastern” stock. Relayed to him from birth, the recognized genealogy of his family situates Billy’s hearth in the “east,” one line descended from Noah and the other from Moses. Although clearly invented to suit the professional advancement of Billy’s forebears at court during the eighteenth century, his family tree seems to confirm the “eastern” provenance of his Irish ancestors. In this track record to the mystical past, Phoenician entrepreneurs and the Milesian invaders appear, as do Scythian hordes and Miletian settlers. With Troy in view across the Dardanelles, of course Billy was at home in Gallipoli. NOTES 1. Similar accounts of trench warfare were written by other Irish soldiers. For example, [Sergeant] James Summers who had enlisted with the Inniskilling Fusiliers recalled an equivalent situation in the Turkish trenches during the same offensive: “In the trench I came out of it was shocking to see the dead. There lay about 3,000 Turks in front of our trench and the smell was absolutely chronic. You know when the sun has been shining on those bodies for three or four days it makes a horrible smell. A person would not mind if it was possible to bury them. But no, you dare not put your nose outside the trench, for if you did you would be a dead man.” See “The Irish VC: An Alternative Narrative of Irish History” by John Dennehy at the following web address: www.theirishstory.com [Access Date: January 3, 2016].

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2. John Redmond was of Norman extraction, a Catholic family that had been resident in Ireland since the twelfth century. Like the MacCarthy-O’Learys, the Redmonds had lost their estates during the eighteenth century. Like the MacCarthyO’Learys too, the Redmonds were Jacobites who had fought in the Williamite War (1689–91), the relevant ancestors joining the “Wild Geese” on the continent to enlist in Irish brigades. By way of commercial gain and military advancement, the Redmonds were able to buy again an estate in County Wexford as a base for engaging in political action. Following in the parliamentarian footsteps of his father (also called John Redmond [1802–65]), Redmond was elected MP for New Ross (1881) with the support of Charles Stewart Parnell (1846–91), a constitutional nationalist who became the acknowledged leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party (1882). With Parnell’s fall from grace (on grounds of adultery), Redmond became party chair (s. 1891–1918) and successfully oversaw the passing of the third Home Rule bill called “The Government of Ireland Act” (1914). The Act was suspended after the declaration of war. See Finnan (2004: 1–30), among others, for a concise overview of Redmond’s political career before the outbreak of war. 3. While Britain mobilized, Redmond originally agreed to offer the Irish Volunteers for the defense of Ireland (August, 1914). With the increasing threat of violence between Protestant and Catholic that was exasperated by gunrunning, Redmond’s stratagem served to unite the Ulster Volunteer Force (active from January, 1913) in the north and the Irish Citizen Army (also called the “Irish Volunteers”) in the south (formed in November, 1913) against a common foe. However, Redmond subsequently committed the Irish Volunteers to serve in any operation against the British enemy, agreeing to the formation of the Tenth and the Sixteenth “Irish” Divisions and the Thirty-Sixth “Ulster” Division with tragic consequences (September, 1914). In contrast to other parts of Great Britain (January, 1916), conscription at first was not enforced in Ireland. However, it subsequently was and failed (April, 1918). After the Easter Rising (April, 1916) and the execution of its leaders (May, 1916), anti-British sentiment and pro-German support erupted in Ireland. This resulted in the growing success of the nationalist party called “Sinn Féin” in local (1917) and national elections (1918). See Foster (1988: 461–93) for an in-depth analysis. See Finnan (2004: xix–xxi) for a pertinent timeline. 4. The Cardwell Reforms were a series of measures enacted to improve efficiency in the British Army. These covered a number of important areas including the structure of command, the length of service, the purchase of commissions and the nature of discipline. In reaction to Prussian aggression against France during the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1), the British Government, under the premiership of William E. Gladstone (s. 1868–74, 1880–5 and 1886), sought to develop a professional army comparable with that of the modern force in Prussia. As part of this process, regiments were localized (usually by county) to secure recruitment and to nurture allegiance. Accordingly, the Royal Bengal Fusiliers became the Royal Munster Fusiliers (1881): one battalion based in India and one battalion (as reserve) in Ireland. See Innes ([1885] 2012) and McCance ([1927] 2015) for relevant histories about the Royal Munster Fusiliers. 5. McCance ([1927] 2015: 57) provides precise figures for the dead and wounded. He states: “Out of the 1,000 men who left England on March 16, 1915, there only remained 314: out of these 155 had been wounded and returned to duty.”



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He also provides (ibid.: 55–8) information on the arrival of reinforcements. The First Battalion of the Royal Munster Fusiliers was supplemented by an additional twentythree officers and around six hundred soldiers (referenced as “other ranks”). In particular, he recounts the attack on “Bruce’s Ravine” (also called “Gully Ravine” [tr. “Zığındere”]) in which Billy was wounded (June 28, 1915). McCance recounts (ibid.: 55–6): “This advance was a magnificent sight, the men never wavering or losing their formations under heavy artillery or rifle fire.” By the end of the day, what McCance calls “Sigir Dere” (tr. “Zığındere”) was in British hands. However, such optimism disguised the growing fatigue of soldiers in the Gallipoli Campaign during June (1915), when issues related to health and diet negatively affected morale among the rank and file. Further, the continuous attack and counterattack throughout the month achieved little territorial gain (see Moorehead [1956: 209–27]). 6. Billy MacCarthy-O’Leary mentions explicitly that he sang a song entitled “Belgium Put the Kibosh on the Kaiser.” The piece was composed (1914) by the vaudeville artiste Mark Sheridan (1864–1918). It was especially popular during the early years of the war (Pegler Ed. [2014: 245–7]). Billy mentions only the first line of the number: “A silly German sausage / Dreamt Napoleon he’d be.” However, some of the lyrics are particularly apt. One verse references the flight of German warships to Turkey (August, 1914): “We chased his ship to Turkey / And the Kaiser startled stood” (see, also, chapter 2). Another verse mentions German subterfuge in Ireland: “While Ireland seemed unsettled / ‘Ah,’ said he ‘I’ll settle John’ / But he didn’t know the Irish / Like he knew them later on” (see chapter 7). That Billy was sailing with his Irish regiment to Turkey to fight in a campaign against a German-Ottoman alliance, suggests that the song was entirely suitable. 7. French was a composer and a painter, who was born into a privileged family of Anglo-Irish extraction at Cloonyquin House (Roscommon). Graduating eventually from Trinity College Dublin with a degree in civil engineering (1881), he was at first employed by a local railway (as an engineer) and a county board (as a surveyor of drains) before becoming a journalist, with regular columns in The Jarvey. However, he is most famed as an entertainer, presenting comic caricatures of Irish migrants (resplendent with colloquial expressions typical of “stage Irish”) in theaters at home and abroad. See Daly Ed. (1922) for the personal memoirs of French. See O’Dowda (1981) for a short biography of French based on interviews and writings. 8. In his memoirs (Daly Ed. [1922: 65]), French recounts the inspiration for his lyrics: “Looking (northwards) at the range of the Mourne Mountains from Skerries (near Dublin) one clear afternoon I found myself repeating ‘The Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.’ This line kept recurring to me until one day it wedded itself to an old air.” He asked his musical collaborator W. Houston Collisson (1865–1920) to arrange the music. In the published anthologies, the relevant old air is attributed either to French as the composer (O’Dowda [1981: 118]) or to Collisson as the arranger (Healy [1966: 167]). However, Healy (ibid.: 65–8) provides a short analysis of the final piece showing how Collisson arranged the “traditional air” differently from Lane (in his setting of “Carrigdhoun”) by altering the metric structure or, in his words, by “doubling up on the notes” (ibid.: 66). However, the arrangement of “Bendemeer’s Stream” by Hawes is not mentioned in any of these sources.

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9. Denny Lane was an activist, an administrator, a businessman and a (sometime) politician from Cork who contributed to the published voice of Young Ireland, The Nation. A close associate of Thomas Davis, he wrote (using the pseudonym “Donal na Glanna”) poems and articles for the newspaper that concerned Young Ireland and its relationship with the Repeal Association. For his part in the Young Ireland Rebellion (1848), Lane was jailed for four months. See “The Denny Lane Papers” at the following web address: www.corkarchives.ie [Access Date: January 7, 2015]. Here [Item: 72b], the song entitled “Carrigdhoun” is called “The Lament of the Irish Maiden, A Brigade Ballad.” There are some very minor differences between the published version of the song and the draft copy of the poem. 10. Young Ireland was a political organization that broke away from the Repeal Association (1842). Believing that the constitutional nationalism of Daniel O’Connell was not effective in realizing political devolution, Young Ireland espoused a romantic nationalism in line with its revolutionary counterparts in Europe. By way of The Nation, Young Ireland appealed to a broad audience by advocating an Irish independence that was inclusive, hoping to incite Irish Catholics and Irish Protestants in violent revolution against a common Saxon foe. In this matter, poems and songs were published regularly in The Nation with the aim of nurturing nationalist feeling among its readership. Notably, the Young Ireland Rebellion coincided with the “Year of Revolution” throughout Europe (1848). See Foster (1988: 310–7) for a concise overview. See Fenton (2010) for a study of the Young Ireland Rebellion. See Duffy (1881) for an insider’s account of the Young Ireland movement. 11. In the original version of “Carrigdhoun,” Denny Lane adopts a number of conventions with respect to the representation of Irish (ir Gaeilge). For example, he spells “ochón mo chroí” as “ochone makree” and “a stór mo chroí” as “oh stor makree.” In the published version of “Carrigdhoun,” the editors represented these two traditional formulae in Irish song, respectively, as follows “ochone mo chroidhe” and “a stór mo chroidhe.” The change may reflect the editorial aspiration of Young Ireland to represent Gaelic correctly in relevant publications (such as The Nation). I would like to thank Diarmait Mac Giolla Chríost (personal communication, June 12, 2017) for his advice on the contemporary representation of Irish orthography. For example, my use of “buí” (instead of “buidhe”) for “yellow” and “dubh” (instead of “duḃ”) for “black.” In this matter, I followed the precedent laid out in Ó Dónaill (1977). 12. The Penal Laws represent an extended body of negative legislation against Roman Catholics in Ireland and Britain. Beginning with the Act of Supremacy during the reign of Henry VIII (r. 1509–47), the laws were at their most punitive in Ireland during the eighteenth century, this despite the favorable terms agreed at the Treaty of Limerick (1691) that allowed Irish Catholics to retain land and to refuse apostasy. As early as 1692, the Irish parliament (an exclusively non-Catholic body) began to renege on the treaty’s provisions by not allowing Irish Catholics to own land and to enter the judiciary. Catholic priests were exiled and Catholic schools forbidden. Restrictions were placed on horse ownership and arms usage, among others. Of importance, non-Conformists in Ireland (also known as “Dissenters”) were subject to similar restrictions. See Foster (1988: 205–11) for a somewhat partisan overview of the Penal Laws.



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13. Sir Walter Scott was widely read in Ireland during the nineteenth century. As Lockhart (1837, 3: 272–4) recounts, Scott relished Irish humor, his memoirs and his writings showing the historic relationship between Ireland and Scotland (especially the Highlands). When Scott visited Ireland (1825), he received a tumultuous reception in Dublin Castle, among other venues. However, his writings show a racist tendency since he believed that the “gay” Irish (through loss of patrimony) had degenerated to a state comparable with that of the African slaves in the West Indie[s] (ibid.: 272). According to Scott, this accounted for their humorous disposition; that is, in contrast to the dour Scots with their Highland traditions. See Wright (2013) for an extended biography of Scott. See Pittock Ed. (2006) for an evaluation of Scott’s reception in Europe. Surprisingly, Ireland is not foregrounded in this edited collection. 14. Thomas Moore was one of Ireland’s most renowned poets. A prodigious author, he is most famed for his songs on patriotic themes which were published in an extended collection (covering ten volumes [1808–34]) called “Irish Melodies,” with most musical arrangements by Sir John Stevenson and some by Sir Henry Bishop (1786–1855). He also wrote biographies (such as The Life and Death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Vols 1-2 [1831]) and histories (such as The History of Ireland, Vols 1-4 [1835–45]), in addition to articles, memoirs, odes and romances, among others. See Moore Ed. (1877) for an edited anthology of his own poetical works. See Dowden Ed. (1964) for the published letters and Vail Ed. (2013) for the unpublished correspondence of Moore. See Kelly (2006) for a scholarly yet readable biography of Moore. 15. Edward Bunting was an organist from Belfast. He is most famed as a collector and as an arranger of Irish music, transcribing and publishing the repertoire of Irish harpists in three volumes (see Bunting Ed. [1840]). He was instrumental in organizing the Belfast Harp Festival (1792) at a time of a cultural renaissance in Ireland. Understandably, he was perturbed by Moore’s plagiarism of many tunes that appeared in the first volumes of Irish Melodies (1808–9). See Johnston (2003) for a biography of Bunting. See Ní Chinnéide (1959) and White (1998: 44) for a critical analysis of the musical sources in Irish Melodies. See Moloney (2000) for an introduction to and a catalogue of the “Bunting Manuscripts.” See Moloney (1996: 310–42) for an in-depth evaluation of the musical terminology used by Bunting as it relates to harping practice. See Boydell (1996) for a related study of the harp as a symbol of nationhood in Ireland. 16. In “The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan,” Moore Ed. (1877: 29) wrote: “Though shrinking still, she came; - then sat her down / Upon musnud’s* edge, and, bolder grown / In the pathetic mode of Isfahan** / Touch’d a preluding strain, and thus began:” In footnotes Moore adds: * “Musnuds are cushioned seats reserved for persons of distinction.” **“The Persians, like the Ancient Greeks, call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, &c..” See, also, Moore’s consideration of “the pathetic measure of Nava” in “The Fire Worshippers” (ibid.: 100). 17. See Kelly (2006: 92–101, 175–4) for a discussion of the relationship between Moore and Byron. Due to their unseemly content, Moore was famously a reluctant participant in the burning of Byron’s memoirs (ibid.: 181). 18. When writing Lalla Rookh, Moore had access to a library in Castle Donington (Leicestershire), a town close to his rural retreat in Kegworth. Through an earlier

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connection, he visited the extensive collection at Donington Hall, the new seat of the Anglo-Irish peer Francis (Rawdon), Lord Moira (1754–1826). Correctly, one source suggests that Moore drew upon D’Herbelot’s famed “oriental” collection entitled “Bibliothèque orientale” (see Kelly [2006: 132]). In his extended notes (Moore Ed. [1877: 483–96]), Moore mentions this source (although not the edition) along with a myriad of “oriental” scholars (such as Sir William Jones [1746–94]), travel writers (such as Lady Mary Montagu [1689–1762]) and music specialists (such as Gambattista Toderini [1728–99]). Conducting research at the same time as Moore in Donington Hall was John Shakespear (1774–1858), a proficient orientalist who was a protégé of Lord Moira. 19. Davis was a prolific author and a principal founder of Young Ireland. Composing ballads that were published in The Nation, he sought to promote an inclusive nationalism by uniting Irish Protestants and Irish Catholics against a common enemy. It is noteworthy that he himself had a mixed background, his father being a Welsh doctor (with a military commission) and his mother being an English settler (with Gaelic connections). Dying from scarlet fever at a young age, Davis is today recognized as one of the main exponents of Irish independence in the popular domain. See Mulvey (2003) for a biographical study of Davis. See [Davis Eds] (1845) and Davis ([1846] 1998) for published collections of songs and writings by Davis. 20. Yellow is a significant color in the Irish imagination. Towns named “Athboy” or “yellow ford” (ir. áth buí) or settlements called “Bawnboy” or “yellow enclosure” (ir. bábhún buí) represent Anglicized corruptions of a Gaelic original. Mountains with names like “Knocboy” or “yellow mountain” (ir. cnoc buí) and hills with names like “Drumboy” or “yellow ridge” (ir. droim buí) reiterate a linguistic principal. The color yellow informs the Anglicized pronunciation of current settlements in Ireland like Aghaboy (for yellow field), Boherboy (for yellow road), Curraghboy (for yellow marsh), Glashaboy (for yellow streamlet) and Magheraboy (for yellow plain), among others. Interestingly, the color yellow (sc. buidhe) also features prominently in Scottish cartography. 21. There are other poems by Davis (see [Davis Eds] [1845]) that advance interdenominational accord. Most inventive is the piece entitled “Oh! The Marriage” (ibid.: 220–3). It concerns the marriage of two men, a southern Catholic and a northern Protestant, two versions of an Irish man who are conjoined in a nationalist nuptial, the lover himself being the beloved. It is worthy of note that the object of affection has hair of gold. Here, the color gold is interchangeable with the color orange (as in the poetic rendition of the Irish tricolor [ibid.: 316–9]: green, white and gold [or orange]). In this context, gold signifies an Orangeman; that is, a “yellow man” (ir. “fear buí”) in the Irish vernacular. Further, the s[o]bject of affection is called “Eoghan.” In a footnote, Davis explains the derivation of the name: “Vulgo ‘Owen’; but that is, properly, a name among the Cymry (Welsh).” Here, Davis wishes to emphasize that not all of the British are Saxon. Of course, Eoghan in Ireland is the equivalent of Owen in Wales. It is important to note, by way of clarification, that Davis (the second name of Thomas Davis) is a Welsh name. 22. Irish soldiers at Gallipoli complained that they were always at the front line. In a letter from an officer in the Tenth Division (here called the “Royal Irish Regiment”) this claim is explicit: “The Irish are always at the front. Whatever is on they say ‘Send



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the Irish; they are the boys to get the Turks on the run.’ No one knows what we went through, only we who were there. We suffered much and were badly handled. But it’s all coming out now. We were four to five days without a drink.” See “The Irish VC: An Alternative Narrative of Irish History” by John Dennehy at the following web address: www.theirishstory.com [Access Date: January 9, 2016]. 23. Percy French wrote his first song as an “oriental” romp. Entitled “Abdul Abdulbul Amir,” the whimsical narrative concerns a dual between a Russian aristocrat (Count Skavinsky Skavar) and a “Mamluk” dignitary (Abdul Abdulbul Amir). Although the textual reference to a Persian Shah (rather than an Ottoman Sultan) is not explained, French composed the ditty for a smoking party at Trinity College Dublin (1877), where he was a student. Because French did not copyright the original version, the song was plagiarized and modified. In the version of the song published by John Blockley (1886), the author and the arranger of the piece are given simply as Ali Baba. This “eastern” bauble has been especially popular with amateur singers (see Fuld [2000: 84]). A cartoon version of the piece entitled “Abdul the Bubbul Amir” (1941) provides a comic representation of a forgotten conflict between the “east” and “the west,” either (and most probably) the Russo-Turkish War (1877–8) or (and less likely) the Crimean War (1853–6). 24. Lennon (2004) presents a cogent overview of Irish orientalism as it relates to literature. Unfortunately, he only mentions music obliquely (ibid.: xviii). However, there is an extensive discourse about music and the “east” with respect to pseudohistory, be it the Milesian references in the praise poetry of the harpist Turlough O’Carolan (1670–1738) or the Phoenician references in the musical writings of the composer Seán Ó Riada (1931–71). Most controversial is the work of Bob Quinn (1935-), whose book entitled “The Atlantean Irish” (2005) links Irish music to North Africa by way of maritime routes. Although widely criticized, Quinn has initiated a taste for self-orientalization among Irish singers especially in the “old style” of vocal practice (ir. sean-nós), where some vocalists have consciously employed tunings and ornaments in their minds considered to be representative of an “oriental” palate. This is a big topic and worthy of an independent study in its own right.

Chapter 4

Mehter in the Museum

It is January but it is warm. I am walking down Republic Street (tr. Cumhuriyet Caddesi) from Taksim Square (tr. Taksim Meydanı) in Central Istanbul on my way to the Military Museum (tr. Asker Müzesi). The sun glares off the sentinel skyscrapers. The traffic blares along the tumultuous thoroughfare. Through fissures between edifices, I glimpse momentarily the Bosporus (tr. Boğaziçi) far below, the iridescent sheen of the sea is tantalizing. It is a distant calm away from the unruly throng. On my right, I have just passed Gezi Park. The protests ended long ago. On my left, I can just make out the apartment in Elmadağ where I lived. The Hilton Hotel and the Radio Station (tr. Radyo Evi) are still there, bringing back memories of pleasure and work. I am now in Harbiye, long ago remembered for its parades and maneuvers. I think nostalgically about the military bands that also performed there. Today, a military barracks towering above is a cogent reminder of its martial history: as is, the Military Museum next door (see Figure 4.1). The old entrance to the Museum is closed. Had I made a mistake? “Was the museum closed?” I asked a sentry. The soldier pointed at a concealed notice and gestured toward the new entrance. My voice was countered by his silence. His gruff manner indicated that I was not the first person to ask this question. I walk toward upmarket Şişli (“swishy Şişli” in common parlance) and turn right. True to its militaristic function, the museum entrance is heavily guarded. I am frisked and scanned. Coins are excavated from pockets and a camera is relieved from its pouch. However, hordes of schoolchildren pass through the barrier without notice. Would I dare to point out the obvious inconsistency? Perhaps not, soldiers are after all soldiers. I pass into trim parkland filled with ancient guns and modern fighters. The vista eastward toward the Asian shore is truly magnificent. Paying an entrance fee (reduced for my speaking Turkish), I notice a display of Turkish medals. 97

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Figure 4.1  “The Military Museum”—John M. O’Connell.

Yes there it is, the same Order of Mejidieh (tr. Mecidiye Nişanı) that I found in the medal collection at home (see the Prelude). The Military Museum is housed in the former residence of the Military Academy (tr. Mekteb-i Harbiye). Founded (1834) by Sultan Mahmut II (r. 1808–39), the Academy aimed to prepare army officers for contemporary warfare in imitation of European schools. Using the Lancaster Method of inter-student tutelage, graduates were instructed in the sciences (both formal and applied), literary aptitude and religious instruction taking a prominent position in the curriculum (see Eser [2012]). In addition, military skills (such as riding and navigation) were rigorously inculcated (often by foreign instructors). Following the foundation of the Turkish Republic (1923), the building became vacant (since the Academy moved to Ankara [1936]). Although requiring considerable attention, the residence was earmarked for the Military Museum, which had previously been housed in a Byzantine church, Hagia Irene (tr. Aya İrini). However, the transfer from one location to the other was somewhat chaotic by way of the Maçka Arsenal (tr. Maçka Silahhanesi), among others. The current Museum was finally opened in 1993. The architect, Nezih Eldem (1921–2005), was responsible for the restoration of and the displays within the Museum.1



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The Museum boasts of featuring fifty thousand items. These are displayed in more than thirty rooms apportioned equally between the ground floor and the first floor. In addition, long corridors that circumvent the entire building showcase paintings of Ottoman battles and portraits of Ottoman rulers. Only notable victories are here portrayed and worthy Sultans are thus honored ([Wendy] Shaw [2003: 192]). Painted by the Polish orientalist Stanisław Chlebowski (1835–84), some of these were originally commissioned for the Mekteb-i Harbiye by Sultan Abdülaziz (r. 1861–76). The Museum is huge. Items displayed range from spears to swords, rifles to revolvers. The armor exhibit is especially impressive with its tortoise shield and chain mail. A small room is devoted to the Mekteb-i Harbiye in which Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938) is represented as a plastic model with his classmates. The mannequins are seated behind desks dressed smartly in contemporary attire. While I examine the curriculum of instruction (posted on the wall), a schoolboy pushes aside the dummy of Atatürk, dons the fez of the future president to take a selfie. Evidently, patriotism can be fun. Along the dark corridor, up the winding staircase, I reach my quest. Two rooms are devoted to the Gallipoli Campaign. For the Museum, the range of artifacts is untypically international. A regimental standard (used by the Ottoman Army) and the White Ensign (used by the British Navy) are exhibited. A German helmet and an ANZAC cap are displayed. A variety of uniforms from different countries are shown. The memorabilia range from field phones to telegraph lines, from mining picks to bayonets. A canteen and a bread bag demonstrate that life was not easy on the front. A picture by a Turk and a drawing by an Australian provide different perspectives of the same conflict. A photographic album featuring German and Turkish officers in a cordial concourse is showcased (perhaps because of its rare occurrence). A model reconstruction of the battlefront dominates one room. From the Turkish viewpoint, it features the Allied landings on the Gallipoli beaches (April 25, 1915). In the foreground are rows of trenches. In the distance are lines of warships. In between, carnage prevails. As time is passing, I have to race by the many rooms devoted to the War of Independence (tr. Kurtuluş Savaşı [1919–22]). The manuscript collection will have to wait for another visit. However, I pass a room discretely tucked away from the other exhibition spaces. The room is called “The Armenian Question” (tr. “Ermeni Sorunu”). An additional “with documentary evidence” (tr. “belgelerle”) is appended. The room is unlit but some of the cabinets have lights. The display shows photographic evidence of death and destruction, the contorted bodies of Turkish Muslims apparently slaughtered by Armenian Christians. The atrocities are said to have taken place in Erzurum and Van. Another plate shows an Armenian gang being apprehended for the murders. No dates are given. No names are provided. The inevitable executions are not

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portrayed. Significantly, the accompanying labels only proffer information in Turkish and not in English (as is usual in the Museum). Suddenly, an attendant interrupts. He shouts “closed!” (tr. “kapalı!”). I withdraw meekly while the attendant yells into his cell phone using the same commandeering tone. The cackle and kafuffle of children now destroys my peaceful pèlerinage. I follow their sound to the concert hall (tr. konser salonu) where the janissary band (tr. mehter takımı) will perform. Before I get there, I notice an exhibition of musical instruments in the foyer. Instruments of the mehter are on display, including a kettledrum (tr. kös) and a naker (tr. nakkare). An ancient kettledrum is placed in a separate cabinet. A trumpet without valves (tr. boru) and an oboe with reeds (tr. zurna) are also featured. A jingling johnny (tr. çevgân) and a processional staff (tr. baget) occupy another space. However, the light in the foyer and the glass over the exhibits make photography difficult. Surprisingly, other instruments are mounted. A horn and a tuba belonging to a brass band are exhibited. So too are bugles from England and Australia. Further, a double-headed drum (tr. davul) used in folk music is shown and a snare drum used in military music is showcased. Indeed, the eclectic mix of musical instruments reveals the diverse range of musical identities that characterized taste in the late Ottoman Empire (1826–1922). I retreat to the concert hall. It is packed. There are no seats available in the auditorium (with a seating capacity of around five hundred). Instead, I clamber down the steps. In fact, I am in the ideal position to document the proceedings. Teachers urge their charges to silence. The anticipation is palpable. To the cheers of a delighted audience, the janissary band marches around the hall moving with its irregular gait. The troupe aligns itself into a crescent shape. The lineup is exactly the same as the mehter company that performed at the centennial commemoration in Gallipoli (see chapter 1). The ensemble is identical and the repertoire is unchanged. Following the commander (tr. çorbacıbaşı),2 who is accompanied by his armored guards, flag carriers and standard bearers, the instrumentalists march into the arena six-by-six in standard formation. That is, the trumpeters (tr. boruzen-s) come before the oboists (tr. zurnazen-s), the drummers (tr. davulzen-s) come after the cymbalists (tr. zilzen-s). Behind the conductor (tr. mehterbaşı), the jingling johnny (tr. çevgân) and the kettledrum (tr. kös) frame the musicians. THE JANISSARY BAND It is remarkable that the janissary band manages to provide a consistent performance every time (see Figure 4.2). The troupe normally gives two concerts in the afternoon each day at the Museum (with the exception of Mondays and Tuesdays). In addition, the ensemble performs at national events and in



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Figure 4.2  “The Janissary Band”—John M. O’Connell.

international festivals. Recordings have been made and films have been produced. Billed somewhat incredulously on the Museum website “as the oldest military band in the world” (tr. “[d]unyanın en eski bandosu”),3 the group never seems to get tired of repeating the same repertoire; marching order is always tight, musical rendition is always dependable. Such discipline can be explained: The mehter at the Museum is affiliated with the General Staff Command (tr. Genelkurmay Başkanlığı). Most members are junior officers in the Turkish army. The commander (tr. çorbacıbaşı) is both a senior officer and a conservatory graduate (Kahramankaptan [2009: 48–9]). The distinction in rank is reflected in costume. Consistent with a nineteenth-century depiction of the ensemble,4 the head of each instrumental section wears a red uniform while the rank-and-file sport a blue tunic. The history of the janissary band at the Museum is quite convoluted (see Tuğlacı [1986: 22–8]). Although the mehter ensemble was originally dissolved following the capitulation of the janissaries (1826), it was revived (1911) during the Young Turk period (1908–18), the military band now appealing to the jingoistic sentiments of a nationalist coterie. Under the direction of Celâl Esat [Arseven] (1875–1971), the musical troupe gave its first concert at the Tepebaşı Kışlık Tiyatorsu (February 16, 1912). The company

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was formally recognized (1914) as the Imperial Mehterhane (tr. Mehterhane-i Hakanî) and attached to the Military Museum (then in Hagia Irene). There were public debates about the ensemble setting and the repertoire choice of the new ensemble (Sanlıkol [2011: 32]). These were largely resolved by introducing a new set of regulations (1917 [see below]). Contemporaneous with the closure of the Military Museum in Istanbul (1936), the troupe was again disbanded. Like other expressive forms, the ensemble was restored as a state body (1952).5 With the opening of the current Military Museum in Harbiye (1993), the janissary band has once again found a permanent home. Interestingly, Raûf Yekta Bey (1871–1935) was the first to review (see Raûf Yekta [1912]) the début performance of the revived janissary band. Noting the presence of distinguished personages from the Ottoman capital at the event, he cites from a brochure circulated by Celâl Esat before the concert.6 He quotes: “This is the first time that the history and music of the ‘janissary band’ (tr. ‘mehter mısıkası’) has been organized both as an object of study and as a medium for performance.” From the outset, he is moved with emotion to express his “affectionate appreciation” (tr. “takdir bir muhabbet”) for the concert organizer, Celâl Esat. This is where the adulation ends. In a lengthy tirade, he criticizes the publication, especially the claims of its author to emulate Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921) in the harmonization of Turkish music. For four pages and two issues, Raûf Yekta emphasizes the difference between “eastern” music and “western” music in terms of texture (homophony vs polyphony) and tonality (microtonal vs diatonic). He is especially critical of Celâl Esat’s wish to save Turkish music by means of modal harmonization (tr. ahenklendirmek) and metric simplification. Raûf Yekta says very little about the actual concert. He does not talk much about ensemble setting. He says nothing about performance enactment, be it in terms of marching order or military dress. However, he does mention that clarinets and oboes were used instead of the traditional zurna since Celâl Esat was unable to find zurna players who could read music.7 Speaking about the performance of two instrumental compositions (here called “ara peşrevleri”) in the makam-s Suznâk and Suzidil (no composers are mentioned),8 Raûf Yekta wonders how the polyphonic arrangement of these “classical” works could be viewed as “our music being saved from its primitive condition” (tr. “musikimizin hal iptidaî’den kurtularak”). He viewed this transformation as soiling (tr. tevsih) and offending (tr. mesaat) our music. Raûf Yekta reserves his most strident attack until the end. Commenting on the performance of an instrumental peşrev in the makam Rast by “Giriftzen” Âsım Bey (1852–1929), he commends the kemençe soloist ([“Kemençeci”] Anastas Efendi [d. 1938]) for his “great skill” (tr. “büyük bir maharet”) but he condemns the piano accompanist (a mösyö Radelia) for his indelicate vamping.9,10



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This review by Raûf Yekta was instrumental in the transformation of the janissary band. When the mehter ensemble was recognized as the Mehterhane-i Hakanî (1914), “western” instruments were excluded and harmonized arrangements were rejected from the troupe and the repertoire, respectively. Finding authentic compositions for the restored band was especially difficult since the oral transmission of relevant pieces had been truncated between the time of capitulation (1826) and the moment of restoration (1911). Raûf Yekta suggested a mehter march that had been transcribed by a French musician during the eighteenth century, Charles H. de Blainville (1711–69). Published in the context of a treatise on Turkish music (ibid.: 57–67), the “Marche des jannissaires” (de Blainville [1767: 64–5]) is written with four sections (tr. hane-s) and features a metric modulation in the final section (on the next page). Directly below the “Marche,” de Blainville placed another piece. Misspelled as “guideyorum” (tr. “gidiyorum”; en. “I am going”), the transcription employs a different key signature and time signature from the “Marche.” In the original text, it is not clear whether this transcription is also a janissary composition. However, the janissary band required more musical works. Although Sanlıkol (2011: 34) argues otherwise (suggesting that similar pieces had survived in the Turkish “classical” repertoire for longer), Sanal (1964: 286) states that mehter compositions had not lasted in the oral memory that covered three generations. As a recognized authority on Turkish “classical” music, Raûf Yekta apparently agreed with this position since he recommended a historic rendition of a janissary march not by a Turk but by a Frenchman. He even provided a transcription of the janissary march by de Blainville near the end of his music review in the journal Şehbal. However, Raûf Yekta must have known of references to martial music in manuscript sources since he wrote about these and his colleague, Hüseyin Sadettin [Arel] (as “Bedî Mensi” [1880–1955]), analyzed these in the same journal and in the same year. Later, Sanal (1964) attempted to identify the relevant items by examining titles (such as “Field” [tr. “Alay”] and “Standard” [tr. “Sancak”]) and meters (such as semaî harbi [12/8] and çenkharbî [10/8 or 12/8]) with known associations with mehter practice.11 The composer Ali Rıza [Şengel] (1880–1953) was invited to direct (as mehterbaşı) the Mehterhane-i Hakkanî (1914) by the director of the Military Museum, “Ferik” Ahmet Muhtar Paşa (1861–1926). As part of a wider initiative for greater public engagement at the institution, the reformed band abandoned military attire in favor of authentic dress copied directly from a published representation (1863) of the janissary band by Arif Mehmet Paşa (1808–65). According to [Wendy] Shaw (2003: 197), the mehter ensemble performed daily outside the museum, the troupe represented (ibid.: 199) in her monograph on Ottoman museums showing a

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three-man section (tr. üç katlı) rather than the nine-man section (tr. dokuz katlı) of traditional practice. A kettledrum (tr. kös) is surprisingly missing in the lineup. In addition, the mehter ensemble was featured on postcards sold by, and mehter instruments were portrayed on a prominent medallion painted in the Museum. The mehter troupe performed for benefit concerts and provided accompaniment to silent movies (after electricity had been installed). As [Wendy] Shaw argues, the films shown were not always of a martial character. Ali Rıza was charged with expanding the repertoire of the Mehterhane-i Hakkanî. Marches were composed for the ensemble by contemporary composers like “Muallim” İsmail Hakkı Bey (1866–1927) and Ali Rıza.12 A number of traditional suites (tr. fasıl-s) from the “classical” repertoire of Turkish music were also learned and performed (Sanal [1964: 286]). A collection of works specifically for the janissary band was published (1918) by the son of Ahmet Muhtar, Sermet Muhtar [Alus] (1887–1952). As Sanlıkol (2011) highlights, no marches are represented in these scores. For the most part, historic compositions ostensibly by canonic figures are featured. That is, with the exception of two “classical” works by Ali Rıza, a kâr in the makam Suznak and a beste in the makam Canfeza. Sanlıkol notes that many of the compositions represented were transcribed into “western” notation from original scores in Armenian script (tr. Hamparsum notası). As he also argues, military marches probably did not play a significant role at the time in musical performances by the mehter ensemble. Rather, Sanlıkol suggests that marches only became core repertoire when the janissary band was once again revived (1952). MUSIC FOR WAR The foundation of the Mehterhane-i Hakanî coincided with the outbreak of the War. Marches were needed to rouse patriot fervor. Accordingly, marches were composed. Chief among the composers was İsmail Hakkı, the artist writing an estimated thirty-six marches in his lifetime (Üngör [1965: 53]). Chief among the marches was the “Mehter March” (tr. “Mehter Marşı”), one of many marches written by İsmail Hakkı during the war (see Example A.1.5). Indeed, Üngör (ibid.: 17) describes the “Mehter Marşı” as “supremely melodious” (tr. “fevkalade melodik”). Today, it is still one of the most popular Turkish marches. The music is suitably martial (in the makam Mâhur), an ancient mode that is widely characterized as lively (tr. şuh) and strong (tr. sert), among other descriptors (Öztuna [1990, 2: 11]). In his bid to restore the status of the makam Mâhur in the Turkish repertoire (see below), İsmail Hakkı wrote more than twenty-seven pieces in this mode (ibid.: 1: 408).



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The “Mehter Marşı” is usually performed in the usûl sofyan (4/4) or in the usûl nim sofyan (2/4), related meters that are supremely suited to military parades. The lyrics of the march were written by the museum director, Ahmet Muhtar (see Text A.2.5). Entitled “Gâfil ne Bilir,” the text is divided into two strophes, each of which is composed of three couplets as is typical of the sixline stanza called “müseddes.” Every couplet (tr. beyt) consists of two lines (tr. mısra), each of which is subdivided into four feet: three composed of four syllables and the fourth comprised of two syllables. The prosodic structure (tr. aruz vezni) can be characterized using the current convention in Turkish poetry as [--..] for three feet and as [--] for the fourth foot, a poetic meter called “Bahr-i Hezec.”13 The rhyme structure can be represented as [aaba], with the final syllables in lines one, two and four of verse one (for example) ending in [ve] gâyı, [sa] fâyı and [se] mâyı. Noteworthy is the distribution of specific words between two feet. For example in verse one the words “bi-lir,” “ga-zâ” and “yi-ne” are found in two different feet. With one exception [line: 1], there is no such dislocation of the poetic text in verse two. Conflict plays a significant role in the text. There are references to battle (tr. cenk and vegâ) and war (tr. cihat and gazâ). There is a poetic dialogue between the divine as “the throne of the sky” (tr. “arş-ı semâyı”) and the mundane as “the face of the earth” (tr. “rûyi zemin”), between the “the creator of the world” (tr. “halakk-ı cihan”) and the “war of jihad” (tr. “harb ü cihat”). There is a distinction between the past of “our ancestors” (tr. “ecdadımız”) and the present of our “men” (tr. “merdân”). The military values of duty (tr. farz) and honor (tr. şân) are extolled. Religious obedience “to the path of God” (tr. “Allah yoluna”) and “the promise of victory in the Qur’an” (tr. “Kur’anda zafer vâded[iyor]”) are beseeched. Between the strophes there is a subtle difference in language and meaning. In the first, the language is oblique and the meaning mystical. Words like yearning (tr. şevkî) and intoxication (tr. neşve) pepper the text. In the second, the language is direct and the meaning clear. The difference is one of heaven and earth, of God and man. The music of the march is clearly crafted to the poetry. Each line of poetry encompasses eight bars of music, most lines usually being separated by an instrumental interlude (here called “saz”). Every line is subdivided into two hemistiches, the first at the beginning of the first foot and the second at the beginning of the third foot in the prosodic arrangement. In this way, poetic meter matches musical meter. The symmetry is matched in the syllabic configuration. Throughout the piece, long syllables are set to quarter notes and short syllables are matched with eighth notes. That is with one exception, the final syllables of each line cover the length of a bar, the two syllables usually being a minim rather than a crochet in length. The symmetry is reinforced in the melodic arrangement. Each line either starts

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on the note g1 (tr. gerdaniye perdesi) or the note d1 (tr. neva perdesi). The relationship between the notes g1 and d1 is announced at the beginning of the opening instrumental introduction (tr. aranağme). It gives the march an anthemic quality that is suitable for a bellicose genre. The march is written in the makam Mâhur. It is a descending makam, usually starting on the opening note (tr. giriş) g1 and emphasizing the dominant note (tr. güçlü) d1 before ending on the final note (tr. karar) g (tr. rast perdesi), as it does here. The relationship between the opening note and the dominant note gives the composition a harmonic quality, the association being prominently emphasized right at the beginning of the instrumental introduction (tr. aranağme). Further, disjunct intervals that usually cover a major third hint at a triadic sensibility. In addition, a chromatic scale in some versions of the piece [bars: 33–4, 65–6] bespeaks further of a harmonic consciousness. However, the use of f1 natural (tr. tîz acem perdesi) in the approach to e1 (tr. tîz hüseynî perdesi) is typical of this makam.14 It is noteworthy that the range of the melody is wide, covering a major tenth in the vocal part (from b1 [tr. tîz buselik perdesi] to g [tr. rast perdesi]). As is usual in Turkish composition, there is a brief modulation to another mode (makam Hicazkâr) in the third line (tr. miyanhane). The choice of the makam Mâhur for the march is noteworthy. Out of the five mehter pieces in the makam Mâhur featured in the book entitled “Mehter Music” (tr. “Mehter Musiki”), four are considered by Sanal (1964: 181, 200, 216, 218) to have been composed before the eighteenth century. The fifth (ibid.: 293) is the “Mehter Marşı” by İsmail Hakkı. Except for the “Mehter Marşı,” all of the other pieces in this makam are taken from a treatise by Cantemir ([1700]). Looking by way of comparison at Wright’s (2000: 108–15) insightful analysis of the Cantemir corpus, the “Mehter Marşı” does not feature the dominant position of the e1-a1 tetrachord in this mode. Rather, the “Mehter Marşı” shows a terraced structure with d1 (tr. neva perdesi) operating as a pivotal note between the upper and lower registers. However, İsmail Hakkı does retain the characteristic f1 natural (tr. tîz acem perdesi) when approaching e1 natural (tr. tîz hüseynî perdesi) [bars: 31, 63]. It is noteworthy that İsmail Hakkı wished to add the makam Mâhur as an alternative makam in the confined modal palate of contemporary nightclub musicians (Özalp [1986, 2: 35]). The march is written in the usûl nim sofyan (2/4). In some versions of the piece it is written in the usûl sofyan (4/4). The difference is not significant, each line either being represented by eight bars or four bars using the syllables [düm tek] (over two crochets) or [düm teke] (over four crochets), respectively. What is significant here is this: the march does not use the meter usually associated with the janissary band, the usûl düyek (8/8). This metric cycle is normally realized with a syncopated swing as [düm tek tek düm tek].



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There are variations (Sanal [1964: 53–7]). As Sanlıkol (2011: 37) points out, the usûl düyek was superseded by the usûl sofyan. With reference to another march by İsmail Hakkı in the makam Rast entitled “Army March” (tr. “Ordu Marşı”), Sanlıkol compares two publications separated by fifty years where the piece is listed. In Elçioğlu ([1909]), he notes that the “Ordu Marşı” in the usûl düyek is by İsmail Hakkı. In Eren (1959), he shows that the same “Ordu Marşı” in the usûl sofyan is by “Muallim” Kâzım [Uz] (1872–1938). Sanlıkol has an important project. He demonstrates that marches played a limited role in the early repertoire of the Mehterhane-i Hakanî. Only two compositions can be verified, the “Mehter Marşı” by İsmail Hakkı and the “Ordu Marşı” by Ali Rıza (ibid.: 37). Further, he notes that only one march in the usûl sofyan and twenty-six marches in the usûl düyek are listed in Elçioğlu ([1909]); that is, out of a total of thirty-six marches itemized. Sanlıkol does not stop there. He challenges the established representation of war meters (tr. harbi) in the janissary repertoire. In particular, he questions the configuration of the usûl çeng-i harbi, especially the designations (6/8) (Cantemir [[1700], 2: 127]) and (10/8) (Ezgi [1953: 283]). Rather, Sanlıkol suggests that çeng-i harbi is a musical style rather than a metric structure, military music that was performed with cymbals (ibid.: 50–4). He also challenges in similar terms the representation of the usûl semaî-i harbi as (12/8) (Sanal [1964: 48]). However, he fails to mention the appearance of the usûl semaî-i harbi as a discreet metric cycle in Cantemir ([1700], 1: 133).15 MUSICIANS IN WAR That being said, Sanlıkol (2011: 38) makes an important observation. He questions the direct link between the janissary band (as musicians) and the janissary corps (as soldiers). Like other scholars, he argues that there was a distinction between mehter musicians who performed ceremonial duties as “official mehter-s” (tr. “resmi mehterân”) and those who provided celebratory tasks as “unofficial mehter-s” (tr. “gayri resmi mehterân”). As Feldman (1996) shows, the difference encompassed issues related to instrumental practice, performance context, social function and economic organization, among others. Sanlıkol (2011: 39) argues further that the representation of the mehter ensemble as exclusively martial was a “western” construct, a non-Turkish interpretation of a Turkish ensemble that connected Turkish music with Turkish warfare. During the eighteenth century, this distinction was reinforced by “western” composers who enlivened alla turca compositions with janissary marches (ibid.: 40–2). As I show elsewhere (O’Connell [2005]), Turks appropriated this orientalist reading of Turkish culture. During the nineteenth century, Turkish music (now spelled “alaturka”) was

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differentiated from “western” music (tr. alafranga) using the same language of “eastern” alterity to be found in “western” discourse. Yes, Sanlıkol recognizes the possibility of this appropriation. He also recognizes the role of the military in this process. Two soldiers were central to the restoration of the janissary band as a military ensemble. First, Ahmet Muhtar was a military historian, who wished to reinstate the mehter ensemble as a symbol of military prowess. A specialist in gun warfare, he had already founded a military museum in Yıldız Palace (tr. Yıldız Sarayı) with the authorization of Sultan Abdülhamit II (r. 1876–1909). After a tour of Europe, Ahmet Muhtar recognized the role of military museums for instilling patriotism at a time of crisis. Indeed, Turkey had already experienced a crisis in the form of a revolution (1908) and would experience another crisis with the declaration of war (1914). The janissaries provided an ideal model for conjuring up martial glory during the Ottoman past. First as mannequins and later as actors, the janissaries interacted with visitors. In this context, the janissary band presented an additional accouterment for pubic engagement at the Military Museum ([Wendy] Shaw [2003: 199]). Second, [İsmail] Enver Paşa (1881–1922) was entranced by the janissary band. Like Ahmet Muhtar, he believed that the mehter ensemble was historically an integral part of the janissary corps, combining music and war in the defense of a now shattered empire. At his wedding (1914), Enver Paşa featured a mehter troupe during the reception. As his wife Naciye Sultan (1898–1957) would later recall: “The wedding was very crowded. Also, there were as many onlookers as there were guests. On one side, there was an instrumental ensemble and on the other side, there was a janissary band, which was playing music” (Naciye Sultan [1990: 39]). Enver Paşa also used the mehter ensemble for diplomatic occasions. For example, he co-opted the services of the Mehterhane-i Hakanî to play for Kaiser Wilhelm II (r. 1888– 1918) on his third visit to Istanbul (1917). First, the band apparently played the “Turanian March” (tr. “Turân Marşı”) at the Military Museum. Then, they provided a military spectacle for an appreciative Kaiser during a banquet at the Chalet Pavilion (tr. Şale Köşkü) in Yıldız Sarayı (Karacagil [2013: 125]). There are many other such accounts. The repertoire of the janissary band on these occasions is worthy of note. At the Military Museum, the Mehterhane-i Hakanî performed a march with a profoundly pan-Turkic theme, the Turanian origins of the Turkish people in Central Asia. Although called the “Turanian March” in some sources, it was probably not the “Turân Marşı” that is performed today by children. This simple song is also called the “Homeland March” (tr. “Anayurt Marşı”) or an “Uzbek Folksong” (tr. “Özbek Türküsü”). Rather, it is possible that the march performed before Kaiser Wilhelm II was the “Turanian March” (tr. “Turân Marşı”) called “March of the Turkish Race” (tr. “Türk Kavmînin



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Marşı”). Written in the makam Rast by Ahmet Muhtar as a janissary march for the Mehterhane-i Hakanî (see Example A.1.6), the lyrics concern the glories of Turkey and the Turks (see Text A.2.6). Critical here is the origin myth of Turanianism. That is, “the home of the Turkish race is five thousand years of age” (tr. “Türk kavmînin beş bin yillık yuvası”). It was “the hearth of our ancestors” (tr. “dedemizin ocağı”), it is the “homeland of our sons” (tr. “oğulun anayurdu”). It is worth comparing the “Turân Marşı” with the other march whose lyrics were composed by Ahmet Muhtar, the “Mehter Marşı” (see above). The former march is written in quantitative syllabic meter (tr. hece vezni) and the latter march is set in qualitative syllabic meter (tr. aruz vezni). The former employs the unpretentious language of folk poetry while the latter uses the stylized language of “classical” literature. The difference in textual setting is also manifest in the semantic domain (clear in the first vs opaque in the second) and the ideological inclination (Turkist in the first vs Islamicist in the second). Indeed, the “Turân Marşı” highlights the nationalist desire for a Turkish Empire (in the Asiatic heartland) but the “Mehter Marşı” showcases the religious obligations of jihad (tr. cihat) (on the European front). Indeed, both marches feature a distinctive tension in the Ottoman Empire during the Young Turk era, a racialized conception of man that is evident in the “Türk Kavmînin Marşı” and a radicalized notion of God that is clear in the “Mehter Marşı.” In contrast to the “Mehter Marşı,” the music for “Turân Marşı” was also written by Ahmet Muhtar. However, there are some commonalities between the two marches. In both, the text is neatly arranged into strophic structures, three couplets in the “Turân Marşı” and six couplets in the “Mehter Marşı.” In both, each line is divided into feet composed of four syllables; that is, with the exception of the final foot. In both, each foot in the poetry generally corresponds to a specific bar in the music where the interface between words and music is often arranged as one syllable to one note. In both, a rhyme format is maintained, [aa+bb+cc] in the first and [aaba+aaba] in the second. While the pieces are composed in different but related makam-s (the former in the makam Rast, the latter in the makam Mâhur), the two marches feature similar metric cycles, the usûl-s sofyan and nim sofyan. Indeed, the musical architecture of the two compositions is similar, the notes g (tr. rast perdesi), d1 (tr. neva perdesi) and g1 (tr. gerdaniye perdesi) occupying a prominent place in the architectonic structure. The “Turân Marşı” addresses a particular ideal. In contrast to the ideology of Islamicism (tr. İslâmcılık) evident in the “Mehter Marşı,” the “Turân Marşı” espouses the principles of Turkism (tr. Türkçülük). From the outset, the text emphasizes a Turkish rather than an Ottoman identity, the word for “Turk” (tr. “Türk”) being repeated four times in the short text. The word

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for “Ottoman” (tr. “Osmanlı”) is not featured. Pride in being Turkish is also prominent. That the Turk (as “we”) is “most glorious” (tr. “pek şânlı[yız]”) is mentioned four times in the final couplet. Noteworthy here is the placing of the fourth foot in this couplet. Where the usual prosodic setting in the first and third couplets (as syllables per foot) is [4+4+3], the final line of the march is different. Like the second couplet, it is arranged as [4+4+4+3]. Musically, the phrase structure is also disrupted; in the first couplet there are eight bars, in the third couplet there are seven bars. Although seemingly asymmetric, the final foot announces that it is indeed “the Turk [who] is very glorious” (tr. “Türk [-] pek şânlı”). In the “Turân Marşı,” Ahmet Muhtar invokes a number of conventions in folk poetry. By setting some lines in eleven syllables, he alludes to the syllabic structure [4+4+3] of the epic tradition (tr. destan) according to the rules of quantitative syllabic meter (tr. hece vezni). By setting the some lines in fifteen syllables, he suggests the qualitative syllabic arrangement of divan poetry (tr. divan edebiyatı). That the text is written in couplets rather than in quatrains suggests an urban rather than a rural genre. Indeed, the poetic setting of the second couplet could be read as [4+4+4+3] in folk poetry or [--.-ǀ--.-ǀ--.-ǀ--.] in “classical” literature (a meter called “Bahr-i Remel”). Here, Ahmet Muhtar follows a contemporary trend among Turkish poets of a Turkist persuasion, poets who sought to simplify song texts using Turkish words. Accordingly, Ahmet Muhtar uses words like “homeland” (tr. “yurt”) and “hearth” (tr. “ocak”), “nest” (tr. “yuva”) and “meadow” (tr. “ova”) with a distinctly Turkic provenance. As Ahmet Muhtar also does, the same poets sought to “turkify” poetry by employing syllabic meters derived from the folk tradition. THE SYLLABIC POETS The move by Ahmet Muhtar from Islamicism (evident in the “Mehter Marşı”) to Turkism (apparent in the “Turân Marşı”) must be understood from an historical perspective. At the beginning of the Young Turk period, Muslim and Christian, Turk and Greek alike embraced constitutional reform. The revolution seemed to confirm again the heterogeneous ideals of Ottomanism (tr. Osmanlıcılık) where all Ottoman subjects irrespective of creed or race were equal in the eyes of the law. With the rapid decline of imperial territories in Europe and Asia during the twentieth century, a Turkish nation dominated by a Turkish people seemed the only solution left to replace a diminished Ottoman Empire. The nationalist impulse was also driven by the non-cooperation of minority groups in the democratic process (Shaw [1977, 2: 301]). Where Ottomanism had sought to nurture the support of non-Muslims (the majority



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being Christian) mostly inside Turkey, Islamicism had attempted to foster the support of non-Turks (the majority being Arabs) mostly outside Turkey. Like Ottomanism, Islamicism seemed to be redundant in a constitutional era that was characterized by nationalism and secularism. [Mehmet] Ziya Gökalp (1876–1924) provided an intellectual platform upon which these nationalist sentiments could be voiced. Although born in Diyarbakır (in the Kurdish part of Turkey), Ziya Gökalp was a dynamic advocate of Turkism, especially in the realms of language and culture.16 In the linguistic arena, Ziya Gökalp argued for a purified Turkish (tr. Türkçe) freed from the Arabic and Persian influences to be found in Ottoman (tr. Osmanlıca). In the cultural domain, Ziya Gökalp called for the study of Turkish practices, a reconnection with the Turkic heartland in Central Asia and a disconnection from the Muslim hinterland in West Asia. As a nationalist and a modernist, Ziya Gökalp advanced the synthesis of the national with the international where Turkish culture was refashioned following “western” principles. Although renowned as an educator (he was a sociology professor) and as a politician (he was a congress representative [s. 1909–18]), it was his monograph on Turkism that brought Ziya Gökalp enduring fame. Entitled “The Principles of Turkism” (tr. “Türkçülüğün Esasları”), Ziya Gökalp (1923) pronounced that Ottomanism and Islamicism had no place in a “turkified” and a “westernized” nation state.17 Ziya Gökalp was also a poet. To disseminate his brand of Turkism, he wrote poems in a style that was accessible to all. He composed these mostly using native words and folk meters. A collection of poems entitled “Red Apple” (tr. “Kızıl Elma”) is representative (Ziya Gökalp [1914]). It concerns a mythical land in Central Asia inhabited by the Turkic ancestors (called “Oğuz Türkler”) of modern Turks. Here, the red apple operates as a symbol of universal sovereignty that was bestowed upon the Turkish people. The poems are set in different folk genres using distinctive folk meters. For example, the poem entitled “Unification” (tr. “Tevhid”) is written as a folksong (tr. türkü). It is arranged in five strophes, each with four lines. Every line is arranged in seven syllables. Each stanza features a single-end rhyme with the exception of the refrain (a religious invocation reminiscent of zikir). The text concerns a mystical reading of society where faith in God (tr. Tanrı) and belief in homeland (tr. vatan) are not separable. Of interest, the word for God is Turkish and the word for homeland is Arabic. Another poem is also representative. Entitled “Attack without Hesitation!” (tr. “Durma Vur!”), the poem is again written in the style of a folksong, this time set in eleven syllables and not in seven syllables. Typical of the folk genre called “koşma,” each line is arranged in two hemistiches and is realized in the following manner [6+5]. The five strophes contain five lines consisting of distinctive stanzas [lines: 1–3] and a refrain [lines: 4–5]. The last refrain is

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slightly different from the others. In every stanza, there is a terminal rhyme on the final syllable. The language is clear and vernacular. The text concerns the arrogance of Greece, presumably in a naval arms race with Turkey that preceded the war. It calls for the Turks to wake up by building ships and engaging in commerce. Turks need to open factories and enter professions. With respect to the army and the navy, Turks should seize everything that is progressive in the “west.” A final entreaty urges Turks to know Turkism (tr. Türkçülük) and to worship God (tr. Tanrı). In Kızıl Elma, Ziya Gökalp published a distinctive poem entitled “Turân” (see Text A.2.7). Similar in notion to the march by Ahmet Muhtar called “Turân Marşı,” “Turân” concerns the ancient glories of the Turkish forefathers, whose history circulates with pride in the veins of the poet. Like other poems in the collection, Ziya Gökalp uses quantitative rather than qualitative syllabic meters. However, “Turân” is more complex in conception than the other poems. It is written in three stanzas with a terminal refrain. The first and the second strophes contain five lines, while the third strophe is composed in four lines. For the most part, each line consists of fourteen syllables that are usually arranged in the following format [7+7]. However, the second and third lines of verse one contain fifteen syllables. Here, the relevant hemistiches are set as [7+8]. Further, the consistent layout of syllables is disrupted in verse two [lines: 3–5] and verse three [line: 2]. The rhyme structure is also uncharacteristic, verse one and verse two as [abacb] but in verse three as [abba]. The refrain has a single terminal rhyme. In “Turân,” Ziya Gökalp alludes to this inconsistency. He takes pride in his Turanian ancestors, based upon gut feeling rather than scientific fact (tr. “çünki ilm için mübhem”). The reason for this distinction is founded in historiography, where Caesar (tr. Sezar) and Alexander (tr. İskender) are glorified but Genghis (tr. Cengiz) and Attila (tr. Attila) are vilified in historical representations of the past. In this cleavage between “west” and “east,” between mind and heart, the syllabic structure is violently disrupted. In verse two [lines: 4–5], the words “in being seen” (tr. “görün[-]mekte”) and “that is evident” (tr. “nüma[-]yan”) are divided between two hemistiches. That is, it is not seen nor evident that Turkish history was so. In the same verse [line: 3], slander and dust are mixed between two hemistiches in “the window frames” (tr. “çerçeveler[-]de” of the past), one that is European and the other that is Asiatic. In verse three [line: 2] and the refrain [line: 2], his heart as “my heart” (tr. “kal[-]bim”) is broken and the eternal (tr. müeb[-]bet) is traduced. In this way, Ziya Gökalp conveys that his homeland is neither Turkey nor Turkestan but Turân. Here it is worth comparing the poem by Ziya Gökalp with that of Ahmet Muhtar on a Turanian theme. Both poets use quantitative syllabic meter in a novel manner. For Ziya Gökalp, fifteen syllables rather than fourteen



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syllables appear in verse one [lines: 2–3]. For Ahmet Muhtar, fifteen syllables rather than eleven syllables feature in verses two [lines: 1–2] and three [line: 2]. Where Ziya Gökalp disrupts the syllabic arrangement to convey emotional intensity, Ahmet Muhtar expands the syllabic setting (in verse three [line: 2]) to express patriotic zeal, for both his Turkic past and his Turkish present. Both authors use a shared vocabulary, the words “glory” (tr. “şân”) and “heart” (tr. “gönül”) among others appearing in the two texts. However, Ziya Gökalp rather than Ahmet Muhtar employs a rich variety of non-Turkish words, more reminiscent of court literature than folk poetry. Words of Arabic extraction like pulse (tr. nâbız) and noble (tr. necîb) pepper the poetic text. Words also of Arabic derivation like vague (tr. mübhem) and inspired (tr. mülhem) are used alliteratively in imitation of an erudite precedent. In “Turân,” Ziya Gökalp seems ambivalent toward the central tenets of Turkism, purity of language and integrity of culture. In this poem, he melds the folk (by way of poetic meter) with the “classical” (by way of poetic language). His text is both accessible in certain passages (such as in the refrain) and remote in others. Indeed, “Turân” was an early poem, which had already been published (March, 1911) in another journal (Genç Kalemler) before appearing in Kızıl Elma. In it, there is a sense of a heterogeneous compromise between the peoples of Turân, non-Turks cooperating with Turks in a unified commitment to an Islamic empire. For Ziya Gökalp, the Turks were the dominant force in this Asiatic league of Muslims. Like Ahmet Muhtar, Ziya Gökalp reveals a shift from Ottomanism to Turkism. Comparing over time the marches of Ahmet Muhtar with the poems of Ziya Gökalp, there is a noticeable change in the style of language, in both there is an evolution from Ottomanism (as in the “Mehter Marşı” and “Turân”) to Turkism (as in the “Turân Marşı” and “Durma Vur!”). TURANIANISM AND TURKISM The shift in ideology from Ottomanism to Turkism is easy to explain. 18 Following the Balkan wars (1912–3), Turks realized that non-Turks were disinterested in continuing as Ottoman citizens (Zürcher [1994: 134]). During that conflict, nation was pitted against nation within the confines of a crumbling empire. The romantic yearning for a Turanian homeland was replaced by a realistic search for a Turkic empire. Although Turân was a historical territory in Persia, Turanian became a hypothetical language outside of Persia. According to the linguist Max Müeller (1823–1900), Turanian encompassed those languages that were not Indo-European. At first many Asiatic languages were classified as Turanian but subsequently only Turkic and Ural-Altaic languages were bestowed with the accolade. Here, the Finnish ethnologist

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Matthias A. Castrén (1813–53) played a principal role in recognizing the linguistic connections between Altaic peoples. Other linguists such as the German Wilhelm Schott (1802–89) and the Hungarian Ármin Vámbéry (1832–1913) made equivalent connections between Hungarian and Finnish, and Hungarian and Turkish, respectively.19 However, it was Ziya Gökalp who first advanced the Turkic character of pan-Turanianism in imitation of and in opposition to pan-Slavism (ibid.: 133). The Slavic connection is important here. Many exponents of pan-Turanianism were Turks who were born in the Russian Empire. In particular, Yusuf Akçura (1876–1935) was a Tartar from the Volga. He is principally remembered for his article in the expatriate newspaper called “Turk” (tr. “Türk”) which was published in Cairo (1904). Entitled “Three Types of Politics” (tr. “Üç Tarz-ı Siyaset”), Yusuf Akçura explored the distinctive merits of contemporary ideologies in Turkey, namely: Islamicism, Ottomanism and Turkism. Proposing a Turkist solution to imperial decline, he dismissed Islamicism as unworkable in an Asiatic heartland that was already ravaged by colonial incursions from European powers. And, he rejected Ottomanism as injudicious in an Ottoman Empire that was now undermined by minority radicals with European support. Yusuf Akçura was also the editor of a Turkist journal entitled “Turkish Homeland” (tr. “Türk Yurdu”). By way of nationalist institutions known as “Turkish Hearths” (tr. “Türk Ocağı-s”),20 Yusuf Akçura was able to disseminate his vision of a Turkic Empire in Central Asia to a general audience where Türk Yurdu was widely available in the reading rooms of these nationalist clubs. Of course, it is simplistic to characterize ideological discourse in Turkey along the lines of Islamicism, Ottomanism and Turkism. Indeed, contemporary politics were more complex (ibid.: 131–7). Here, music provides a significant medium for interrogating the nuances of political affiliation. Yes, “Turân Marşı” by Ahmet Muhtar demonstrates linguistically the strident nationalism of the Turkist position. Yes too, the “Mehter Marşı,” also by Ahmet Muhtar, shows poetically the heterogeneous compromise of the Ottomanist camp. However, the musical arrangement of the “Mehter Marşı” calls into question the singular relationship between style and ideology. As mentioned previously, the music for the “Mehter Marşı” was written by İsmail Hakkı. It is traditional (in terms of modal setting) yet untraditional (in terms of harmonic sense). It is written as a “western” genre (viz., a march) but arranged using an “eastern” mode (viz., the makam Mâhur). It features the religious language of an Ottomanist past and the vernacular language of a Turkist present. Above all, it advocates a holy war of an Islamicist persuasion, a jihad proclaimed at the outset of the War. Ziya Gökalp too demonstrates an ideological ambivalence. While “Turân” ostensibly advocates a pan-Turanian solution to Ottoman fragmentation,



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the piece shows elements of an Ottomanist perspective instead of a Turkist inclination. As noted above, the poetic language employed by Ziya Gökalp in “Turân” is complex rather than simple, the extensive use of Arabic words suggesting an Ottomanist compromise between the Arabs and the Turks. Further, the poetic structure utilized by Ziya Gökalp in “Turân” is not consistent since the length of lines changes between strophes and the number of syllables alters between lines. Intriguingly, Ziya Gökalp rejects Turkey and Turkestan as his homeland. He even includes the Turkish people in this context. Rather, he considers that “Turân: It is a great homeland and an eternal country” (tr. “Vatan büyük ve müebbet bir ülkedir: Turân”). It is noticeable that Ziya Gökalp does not personalize his affiliation with Turân. For example, he states “the homeland” (tr. “vatan”) rather than “my homeland” (tr. “vatanım”). Here, lies the critical distinction between pan-Turanianism and pan-Turkism, the former includes Turks (with others) but that latter excludes non-Turks (as others). Ziya Gökalp shows this move from pan-Turanianism to pan-Turkism in Kızıl Elma. With the exception of “Turân,” the poems in this collection employ folk genres and folk meters. Here, the poem entitled “Durma Vur!” is characteristic in that it follows consistently the formal structure of a koşma and employs regularly a vernacular style of Turkish. The poem entitled “Tevhid” too is seemingly representative in that it emulates the strophic structure and the syllabic arrangement of a türkü. However, “Tehvid” is somewhat unorthodox. The title of the poem is both non-Turkish (ar. tawḥīd) and non-secular. As the name suggests, the poem professes the oneness of God in Islam. The refrain reiterates the profession of monotheism (ar. tahlīl) among Muslims: “There is no God but Allah!” (tr. “Lâ-İlâhe İlla’llâh!”). It is a mantra (ar. dhikr; tr. zikir) that is also intoned in mystical rituals to attain unity with God. This is the intention. At the opening, Ziya Gökalp frames the title of the poem with the following: “Tevhid: according to a mystical gathering” (tr. “Tevhid: içtima-ı tasavvuf’a göre”). Ziya Gökalp seemingly integrates the mystical with the political in “Tevhid.” In the poem, Ziya Gökalp questions the central tenets of Islamicism; that is, there is only one place for one God in the motherland. All else is polytheism, here expressed as the polygamous relationship of alternative creeds that include nationalism and patriotism. Using the language of Sufism, Ziya Gökalp proposes the unification of the supernatural with the natural where the immaterial and the material intersect as distinctive manifestations of the divine within. He employs the imagery of “the eye that is born inside” (tr. “bir göz doğar içeride”) to call for the equal veneration of God and homeland where “sovereignity, consensus and the Qur’an” (tr. “örf, icma, Kur’ân”) coexist as a singular expresseion of a national belief system. In contrast to “Durma Vur!,” “Tevhid” employs many words that are not Turkish.

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The words kesret (en. excess) and vahdet (en. solitary) are of Arabic origin, placed on adjoining lines to provide an internal rhyme. The words canan (en. beloved) and penâh (en. shelter) are of Persian derivation, terms with an esoteric connection. Ziya Gökalp is usually revered for presenting a sociological reading of Turkish culture. In The Principles of Turkism, Ziya Gökalp (1923) argued that Islam in contrast to nationalism belonged to an earlier stage of civilization (tr. medeniyet). Invoking the ideas of Ferdinand Tönnies (1855–1936) concerning community (gr. Gemeinschaft), Ziya Gökalp viewed civilization as international and culture (tr. hars) as national, the former was malleable but the latter was immutable. Usually represented as an evolutionary trajectory from the tribal through the imperial to the national (see, e.g., Shaw [1977, 2: 301–4]), Ziya Gökalp’s tripartite reading of Turkish history is often misinterpreted from the perspective of Cultural Darwinism. Rather, Ziya Gökalp advanced a synthetic approach to cultural change. For him, religion belonged to the people (tr. halk). It was a cultural expression of nationhood that required reformation rather than rejection. Accordingly, he argued for the separation of “church” and state in imitation of a modern nation. That is, he proffered that Islam should not be abandoned in a new Turkish state. Rather, it should be reconfigured to suit the rationalist imperatives of Turkish nationalism (Zürcher [1994: 136]). Yet, Ziya Gökalp is sometimes confusing. In “Durma Vur!,” Ziya Gökalp is pugnacious in a Turkist manner. He entreats Turks to develop rapidly using progressive ideas drawn from the “west.” With reference to the Greek threat, Ziya Gökalp encourages Turks to “strike against our old slaves who shame us!” (tr. “vur, eski kölemiz, utandır bizi!”) by accelerating arms production and increasing industrial output. He implores Turks to “adopt new trends” (tr. “yeni revişe gir[sin]”) by “building up an army and a navy that will oppress” (tr. “sıkıştır ki ordu donanma yapsın”). In “Tevhid,” Ziya Gökalp is zealous in his monotheism yet enlightened in his mysticism, two ways of religious being that were characteristic of Islamicism. As Sirriyeh ([1999] 2013: 112– 23) points out, Ziya Gökalp attempted to meld Sufi philosophy (especially the ideals of Ibn al-ʿArabī [1165–1240]) with French sociology (especially the work of Émile Durkheim [1858–1917]) to articulate a new philosophy for the Turkish people. Even in “Turân,” Ziya Gökalp adopts an ambivalent position, at first appearing to promote the romantic ideals of Turanianism while at the same time adopting the linguistic stratagems of Ottomanism. ARMY OF ISLAM Ziya Gökalp was not alone in his advocacy of multiple ideologies. Enver Paşa too flirted with distinctive viewpoints. Like Ziya Gökalp, Enver Paşa



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was a leading figure in the Young Turk movement, both men being elected to the national council as members of the Committee of Union and Progress (tr. İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti). Like Ziya Gökalp also, Enver Paşa was a modernist, Ziya Gökalp by way of French intellectualism and Enver Paşa by way of Prussian militarism. Indeed, Ziya Gökalp and Enver Paşa valued the role of Islam in a Turkish state and the Turkish army, respectively. In this context, Enver Paşa was instrumental in encouraging Kaiser Wilhelm II to support Turkey in its war preparations. As Rogan (2015: 48) argues, ­ aliphate Enver Paşa realized the efficacy of jihad in defense of the Muslim C (now based in Istanbul). In the colonial encounter with Italy during the Tripolitanian War (1911–2), Enver Paşa described the Libyan volunteers as “fanatical Muslims who see death before the enemy as a gift from God.” As the son-in-law of the then Caliph, Enver Paşa was especially venerated there. However, Enver Paşa may also have been circumspect about the declaration of a Holy War (see, also, chapter 2). In contrast to Rogan, Aksakal (2012: 298) suggests that Enver Paşa used the notion of jihad to obtain German support (especially in the forms of military hardware and economic investment). However, he prevaricated when a jihad was actually declared (November 14, 1914) at the outbreak of war, believing that the Germans as infidels were also subject to the same terms of religious vilification detailed in the Islamic decree (tr. fetva). Yet, Enver Paşa subsequently organized an Army of Islam (tr. [Kafkas] İslâm Ordusu), a militia composed of Azeris and Turks who retook Baku from the Entente forces (1918). The Army represented a wider foray by Enver Paşa into the Turkic heartland where Turkish Muslims were united at first against the British and later against the Soviets. Starting in the Caucasus (1914) and moving to Central Asia (1917), Enver Paşa attempted to realize his pan-Turkist dream of a new empire in Turân, a land that was both peopled by Turks and governed by Muslims. The janissary band fulfilled the imperialist dreams of Enver Paşa. The mehter band was an integral part of the foundation myth associated with the Ottoman Empire. Citing Evliya Çelebi (1611–82), Sanlıkol (2011: 25) suggests that a mehter ensemble was presented (1289) to Osman Gazi (the founder of the Ottoman Empire [r. 1299–1326]) by Sultan Alaeddin (the Selçuk ruler of Anatolia [r. 1298–1302]). In this way, a music ensemble came to symbolize royal might in an expanding realm. Related to this, the mehter[hane] replaced the nevbethane as the principal medium for musicmaking and time keeping (ibid.: 24).21 That is, the janissary band was a local version of a larger phenomenon that was found throughout Asia. As Ho (1991) argues with respect to the nevbethane (ma. nobat) in Kedah (Malaysia), the nevbet was a symbol of kingship that was used both to provide musical accompaniment for royal ceremonies and to officiate at prayer times in an Islamic court.22 That the nevbethane (like the mehter[hane]) represented

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martial potency in the Muslim world was especially appealing to the erstwhile “pretender” of Turân. To garner the might of music and military, Enver Paşa sought to recruit mehter musicians during the War. Enver Paşa, as minister of war (s. 1914–8), decreed that janissary bands should form part of the Ottoman Army. Entitled “Regulations that Concern the Organization of a Mehter Ensemble in the Imperial Army” (tr. “Ordu-yu Hümayunda Mehter Takımlarının Teşkiline dair Ta’limatnâme”), the decree was published by the war ministry (1917) and signed by Enver [Paşa]. As Sanal (1964: 286–7) shows, the main points of the relevant instructions were as follows: the mehter ensemble should be attached to those battalions (composed of three or four companies) where trumpets and trumpeters are already serving. The janissary bands should include the following instruments namely: clarinet, horn, zurna (both large and small), davul, nakkare, zil and çevgân. After the mehter troupes are in place, the instrumental combination trumpet and fife is forbidden. Further, military signals are to be performed exclusively by horns. Sanal (ibid.: 288) also illustrates how each ensemble is to be arranged in marching order, woodwind instruments on the left and percussion instruments on the right. Sanal (ibid.: 287–90) reproduces a complete transliteration of the original decree. Of the fourteen items listed, a number of points are worthy of consideration. Item 7: upon the command “march!” (tr. “yürüyüş nizamı!”), the principal trumpeter (tr. boruzen) with the rank of sergeant (tr. çavuş) should carry a jingling johnny (tr. çevgân) ahead of the mehter ensemble, the other musicians holding the rank of corporal (tr. onbaşı). Item 8: when the order “stand at ease” (tr. “rahat yerinde”) is given, the çevgân holder should imitate rifle protocol by holding the instrument over his right shoulder. When the order “attention!” (tr. “hazır ol!”) is given, the çevgân should be held with the right hand vertical and parallel to the right chest (see, also, Tuğlacı [1986: 25, 26]). Item 9: the War Ministry will publish songs and marches suitable for performance by the mehter ensemble. It also reserves the right to approve those pieces that might be considered “to be without moral character and good manners” (tr. “mugayir-i adap ve meslek olmayan”). Provocatively, Turkish music is called “alaturka” rather than “Türk musikisi” here. Items 10–2 are of especial interest. They concern the training of mehter musicians in the new detachments. Item 10: “an educational committee” (tr. “he’yet-i ta’limiyye”) will be established to oversee the standard of musical instruction especially with respect to musical literacy in instrumental practice. Further, mehter musicians (along with their educational committees), whose units are in the vicinity of Istanbul, will be sent to the capital for musical instruction. Here, there is no mention of these musicians studying



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with the janissary band that was already established in the Military Museum. Item 11: the instruction of vocalists should be separate from the training of instrumentalists. Great care must be undertaken in the selection of “vocal artists who are proficient in alaturka [music]” (tr. “alaturka musikiye aşina hanende”). Item 12: time should be allowed for the training of singers who have been unable to achieve the appropriate level of performance required for their “service to the singing profession” (tr. “hanendelik hizmeti”). Where necessary, singers (with good voices and musical training) can be selected both from inside and outside of the mehter ensemble. Sanal (1964: 287) found no evidence that janissary bands played on the battlefront. Bearing in mind that the War was almost over when the above regulations were decreed, there would have been little time to organize let alone train qualified musicians for the regimental bands. However, Sanal (ibid.: 291) does mention that a mehter ensemble was subsequently founded by Halil Nuri [Yurdakul] (1898–1970) in the National Army (tr. Kuva-i Milliye) to boost morale during the War of Independence (1919–22). With respect to the military status of the janissary band, [Wendy] Shaw (2003: 198–9) makes an important observation: “Originally, janissary bands had used music to inspire soldiers in battle. In contrast, the performances of the mehter band [at the Military Museum] were divorced from actual battle and served instead to inspire national feeling among the general public as well as soldiers about to leave for the front.” In this capacity as a non-belligerent unit, the mehter band toured widely to ignite patriotic zeal and to entertain wounded soldiers. Further, the mehter troupe was involved in recruitment and fundraising. Yet, the janissary band had military status. During the War, musicians could fulfill their military service by joining the mehter ensemble at the Museum. Chief among these was “Neyzen” Tevfik [Kolaylı] (1879–1953) who was ordered by Ahmet Muhtar to direct the mehter troupe as its principal instrumentalist (tr. saz başı). A brilliant musician (he was also a poet and a mystic) with a recalcitrant personality, “Neyzen” Tevfik was not happy about being conscripted. As Ergün (2001: 21–2) points out: “As he admitted himself, ‘Neyzen’ Tevfik was not satisfied with his appointment as director [of the instrumental section]. Later the brother of ‘Neyzen’ Tevfik would recollect, ‘he became angry and would fight with Muhtar Paşa over any issue [however small]. These incidents became so frequent that [‘Kızanlıklı’] Cevat Bey (the Military Governor of the Istanbul) had to step in so that Muhtar Paşa could be freed of the Neyzen.”23 Indeed, other musicians were drafted into the janissary band. For example, the popular instrumentalist “Arap” Emin Bey served as the principal zurna-ist (tr. zurnazen) in the mehter ensemble.

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MEHTER IN THE MUSEUM The intervention of “Kızanlıklı” Cevat on another occasion was also important (Değerli [2005: 18–9]). As an old friend of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk], he was asked to supply a janissary uniform from the Military Museum to the future president, who had been invited to a masked ball while stationed in Sofia (1914). As Military Attaché to the Ottoman delegation, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] found himself sidelined in the intense negotiations among the corps diplomatique about Bulgaria’s strategic position within the European alliances, the country being urged to side with either the Triple Entente or the Central Powers. To impress with maximum effect, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] decided to dress as a janissary, a tangible symbol of Ottoman strength in the past to counteract the widespread impression of Ottoman weakness in the present. The janissary uniform was secretly requisitioned from Istanbul and hastily dispatched to Sofia. Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] duly mesmerized the distinguished audience, winning first prize at the charity event and securing direct access to the inner circle of resident diplomats.24 A photograph of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] in his janissary attire graces many biographies of the Turkish president (see, e.g., Kinross [[1964] 1999: 206]). The anecdote about Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] in Sofia suggests that the janissaries in the Museum had become a benign expression of Ottoman diplomacy. Not as yet a military band at the war front, the mehter ensemble too had become a pacific body of musicians involved in ceremonial occasions and fundraising events. However, the story about Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] in Bulgaria reveals another side that is more sinister, a secret network of military associates that was involved in protecting Turkish interests abroad. Called the “Special Organization” (tr. “Teşkilât-ı Mahsusa”), the body originally operated covertly in the Balkan wars, being involved in setting up the Temporary Government of Western Thrace (tr. Garbî Trakya Hükümet-i Muvakkatası). The temporary government operated on Bulgarian soil (1913), playing a substantial role in the peace negotiations that followed the conflict (Zürcher [1994: 114–5]). That Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] and “Kızanlıklı” Cevat were both members of the organization is especially revealing (Keleşyılmaz [nd.]), since the former was able to call on the services of the latter to complete successfully a seemingly anodyne task. However, the association was anything but inoffensive. In 1914, the Teşkilât-ı Mahsusa was formally recognized as a military organization. It was closely associated with Enver Paşa. At first, the group attempted to incite jihad in the Russian Empire and the British Colonies (especially in India [see Keleşyılmaz [1999]]). Later, the group was involved in the extermination of Armenians (Zürcher [1994: 121]). Since records were destroyed, the exact culpability of the Teşkilât-ı



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Mahsusa in this terrible atrocity is still hard to evaluate. Suffice it to say, both “Kızanlıklı” Cevat and Ziya Gökalp were tried after the war for their association with the underground militia.25 Both men were exiled to Malta (1919). Enver Paşa was sentenced to death in absentia. What is significant here is this: Turanianism and Turkism were not simply ideologies of national affiliation. Rather, they were belief systems about blood and race that were profoundly chauvinistic and xenophobic. Whether espoused by a military administrator (such as “Kızanlıklı” Cevat) or by a cultural activist (such as Ziya Gökalp), Turanianism and Turkism were the precursors of Geopolitics (gr. Geopolitik), a Turkish version of the fascist will to conquer and to destroy. The mehter in the Museum was implicated in this extreme form of nationalism. In particular, the musical compositions associated with this janissary ensemble show a change from an Ottomanist compromise to a Turkist confrontation. For example, the lyrics of the marches entitled “Durma Vur!” (by Ziya Gökalp) and “Turân Marşı” (by Ahmet Muhtar) are latent with bellicose intent and nationalist zeal. The text of the poem “Turân” (by Ziya Gökalp) espouses a form of Lebensraum, a living space for the Turkic peoples in Central Asia. Even Islamicist poems like “Tevhid” (by Ziya Gökalp) and Ottomanist marches like the “Mehter Marşı” (by Ahmet Muhtar) find a place for the advocacy of political extremism with religious endorsement. While the musical arrangement (modal versus harmonized melodies) and poetic setting (quantitative vs qualitative meters) of these works call into question the simple relationship between style and ideology, it is notable that the German Kaiser Wilhelm II and the Turk Enver Paşa were unified in their romantic vision; that is, they called for a new empire in the Asiatic heartland made possible by the Muslim obligation to fight in a holy war (see, also, chapter 2). NOTES 1. [Wendy] Shaw (2003: 185–207) provides an excellent coverage of the history of military museums in Turkey. As part of a wider consideration of museology in Istanbul, she examines the politics of display as they relate to the placement of objects and the choice of images. In particular, she interrogates the writing on labels appended to specific artifacts by showing how written representations of featured items disclose ideological prejudices related to political difference and national affiliation. Her observations about the public ownership of museum spaces are especially compelling be they in the performance of historical figures (through living models) or in the presentation of historical ensembles (through live performances). See, below, for her consideration of the janissary ensemble (tr. mehter) in Turkish museums.

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2. Sanlıkol (2011: 39) argues that the title çorbacıbaşı is a modern invention. However, the name “mehterbaşı” or “sermehterân” was the traditional title accorded to the leader of the mehter ensemble. According to Sanlıkol again (ibid.: 27), a drummer (tr. nakarezen) or an oboist (tr. zurnazen) could claim this honor. 3. The official website in Turkish for the Military Museum can be found at the following web address: www.askerimuze.tsk.tr [Access Date: February 29, 2016]. 4. Sanlıkol (2011: 87) reproduces a visual representation of the mehter ensemble from a nineteenth-century source. Featured originally in a pictorial anthology by Arif Mehmed [Paşa] (1863), the plate shows six sections, each with nine players. Only instrumentalists are represented. The musicians are arranged in a circle with a çevgânist (tr. çevgânzen) and a zurna-ist (tr. zurnazen) standing in the middle. Only the nakerists (nakkarezen-s) are seated. Notably, there is no kettledrum (tr. kös) featured in the lineup. The most important musicians are numbered in the plate. They include the ensemble leader (tr. mehterbaşı ağa) playing the oboe (tr. zurna). In the English edition of his book, Sanlıkol incorrectly inverts the relevant plate. 5. About the same time, the Mevlevî sema was revived as a tourist attraction (1953). With reference to the janissary band, Tuğlacı (1986: 25–8) has an interesting anecdote to relate. When Celâl Bayar (1883–1986) attended the funeral of King George VI (r. 1936–52) in his official capacity as Turkish president (s. 1950–60), he was especially impressed by the display of military bands and pipe bands during the ceremonial proceedings. Accordingly, he recommended that a janissary band be reestablished in Turkey under the auspices of the Turkish armed forces in imitation of the British model. Old band members were consulted about music and ritual. Costumes were designed in imitation of a relevant plate to be found in the nineteenth-century anthology by Arif Mehmed (see above). The janissary band gave its first concert (1952) in anticipation of the quincentennial celebrations organized to mark the fall of Constantinople (1453). Since then, the mehter ensemble has expanded from three sections, through six sections and eventually (1968) to its current strength of nine sections. 6. Sanal (1964: 285) in a footnote provides a full citation for this brochure. Celal Esad Bey. 1911. “Türk Musikisinin Teşvik ve İhyâsı Maksadile Celal Esad Bey tarafından İlk Defa Olarak Üzere Terti[p] ve İhyâ Edilen Tarihi ve Musiki Müsamere Dolayısı ile Türk Musikisi ve Yeniçeri Mehter Muzikası hakkında Mütalâat.” İstanbul: Matbaa-i Haayriye ve Şürekası. Because I was unable to access the original pamphlet, I have not included this citation in the Bibliography. 7. Gazimihal (1939: 21–2) noted that trombones were also featured in the instrumental lineup. 8. Sanal (1964: 285) states that the following instrumental composition was performed at the concert: the peşrev in the makam Rast (in the usûl devri kebir) by “Giriftzen” Âsım. He also states that a further two peşrev-s were played in different makam-s, one in the makam Suznâk and the other in the makam Suzdilarâ. According to Sanal, a collection of pieces (presumably as a fasıl) in the makam Zevkutarab was also featured in the program. With the exception of the first, these other compositions



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were presumably not by “Giriftzen” Âsım. See Öztuna (1990, 1: 117) for an extant list of compositions by “Giriftzen” Âsım. 9. Raûf Yekta provides little information on the piano accompanist, a mösyö Radelia. However, this does not stop him from censuring the artist. Raûf Yekta expresses his concern that Radelia does not understand the musical form of an instrumental peşrev. That is, he destroyed the essential spirit of the composition by adding inappropriate luxuriance (tr. kuvvet) and embellishment (tr. latâfet) to the harmonic realization of the piece. In particular, Raûf Yekta calls into question the harmonic consciousness of the pianist, a foreign musician who is clearly unaware of the distinction between the makam Rast and the makam Bestenigâr when using major and minor chords. This enables Raûf Yekta to present a scientific analysis of chordal progression that might be suitable in Turkish music. Needless to say, Raûf Yekta reprimands Radelia in the following manner: “Perhaps if you had by chance discovered this knowledge, you may have wished to avoid this situation.” 10. Concerning mösyö Radelia, Gazimihal (1939: 22) suggests that a Mr B. Radeglia was commissioned to provide a harmonized arrangement of the musical repertoire to be performed by the janissary band. It is probable that this artist was Vittorio Radeglia (1863–), a “Levantine” composer of Italian extraction who was born in Istanbul (Öztuna [1990, 2: 207]). A graduate of the Conservatoire de Paris, he originally had a position in the Imperial Orchestra (tr. Muzıka-ı Hümâyûn) before accepting a place as a founding member in the music conservatory called the “Darül’elhan” (1917). He retained his post at the institution when it was reopened (1923). He is famed for writing “western” compositions on Turkish folk themes. He is also noted for writing an operetta called “Şa’ban” using Turkish modes (tr. makam-s) and meters (tr. usûl-s). It is noteworthy that Radeglia worked with Ali Rıza in the staging of this work. “Şa’ban” had its début performance in Vienna (1918). 11. Sanal (1964) organizes his study around composers who were known to be members of the mehter ensemble. He draws upon two important sources compiled by Ali Ufki (1610–75) using “western” notation and Dimitrie Cantemir (1673–1723) using alphabetical notation to access the musical sources. He also draws upon the work of Suphi [Ezgi] (1869–1962) and Hüseyin Sadettin [Arel] to ground his thesis. While he mentions Limondjian Hamparsum (1768–1839) using Armenian script as a possible source for janissary music (ibid.: 378–82), he fails to note that the bandmaster Giuseppe Donizetti (1788–1856) used this system of notation (tr. Hamparsum notası) to train his adepts (1827), musicians who had previously been members of the janissary band. See O’Connell (2010b) for a relevant discussion of musical notation used in Turkish instruction. See, also, Feldman (1996) and Wright (2000) for a brief consideration of mehter musicians in the Ottoman court and mehter music in Ottoman sources, respectively. 12. Akdoğu (1989: 82), in his Bibliography of Turkish Music (tr. Türk Müziği Bibliyografyası), states that mehter compositions by İsmail Hakkı and “Neyzen” [Ali] Rıza were published by the Military Museum by way of its in-house press, Müze-i Askeri Yayınları (1911). Although I have not been able to find these scores, İsmail Hakkı did publish marches for military bands in the series entitled Askeri Musiki Bandoları Notası. For example, his “Army March” (tr. “Ordu Marşı”) was item five

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in a number of military works that were published (1916) by the Military Press (tr. Matbaa-i Askeri) as opposed to the Military Museum Press. 13. The prosodic structure is usually realized using the following syllables: [Mef’ûlü / Mefâîlü / Mefâîlü / Feûlün]. As Öztuna notes (1990, 2: 202), the metric arrangement is one of the twelve prosodic meters in Bahr-i Hezec. The usual manner of representing this meter is [--.ǀ.--.ǀ.--.ǀ.--] and not as [--..ǀ--..ǀ--..ǀ--]. However, it is clear that the standard representation of this prosodic structure would not work in the “Mehter Marşı,” where there is a direct correspondence between musical meter and poetic meter. For other examples of poetry arranged in this idiosyncratic manner, see “Aruz Vezni Kuralları” at the following web address: www.izafet.net [Access Date: October 8, 2016]. 14. The realization of the makam Mâhur by İsmail Hakkı is conventional. In contrast to popular practice, İsmail Hakkı does not replace the note buselik [b] with the note segâh [Bb] in descent to the note rast [g]. In this way, İsmail Hakkı distinguishes between the makam Mâhur and the makam Rast. See Öztuna (1990, 2: 10–2) for a critical overview of the makam Mâhur in historical sources. See, also, Wright (2000: 108–15) for a musical analysis of the makam Mâhur in the Cantemir Collection. Interestingly, Wright (ibid.: 114) finds that the note tiz segâh [Bb1] rather than the note tiz buselik [b1] is emphasized in the upper octave of the makam Mâhur. Further, see Kaygusuz (2006: 51–2) for an idiosyncratic realization of the makam Mâhur by İsmail Hakkı in his publication entitled “Perfected Music Lessons” (tr. “Musiki Tekâmül Dersleri” [1926]). 15. Sanlıkol (2011: 50–4) surprisingly fails to cite Wright (2000: 523). With reference to the usûl semaî-i harbi, Wright notes the unlikely juxtaposition of the usûl semaî-i raks (en. the dance semaî) and the usûl semaî-i harbi (en. the war semaî), the former represented as ten units (and twenty units), the latter as twelve units (and twenty-four units) in the relevant schedule of metric cycles to be found in Cantemir ([1700], 1: 133). In a footnote, Wright argues that Sanal’s realization of the usûl semaî-i harbi as (12/8) is appropriate since it takes into account the fanfare material suited to the makam in question, the makam Rehavi. Here, Wright is referring to Sanal’s (1964: 185–6) representation of the semaî in the makam Rehavi by Cantemir ([1700], 2: 127). However, Wright does not comment on the usûl çeng-i harbi either here or in his Collection of Notations (see Wright [1992]), perhaps because it only appears as marginalia in the Cantemir original (ibid.: 2: 127). It is noteworthy that Sanal (1964: 48) argues that the usûl semaî-i harbi is a later version of the usûl çeng-i harbi. See, also, Tura Ed. (2000) for a facsimile copy of the Cantemir treatise. Confusingly, Tura (ibid.: 2: 459) lists the relevant composition as a semaî in the makam Rast rather than as a semaî in the makam Rehavi (even though the original title of the piece in Ottoman states otherwise). 16. Ziya Gökalp initiated a trend in Turkish poetry. By using syllabic meters and vernacular Turkish in the articulation of patriotic sentiment, his followers became known as the “Five Syllabic Poets” (tr. “Beş Hececiler”). They were: Farul Nafiz [Çamlıbel] (1893–1949), Enis Behiç [Koryürek] (1891–1949), Orhan Seyfi [Orhon] (1890–1972), Yusuf Ziya [Ortaç] (1895–1967) and Halit Fahri [Ozansoy] (1891– 1971). Probably the most famous of those poets to employ syllabic meters was Yahya Kemal [Beyatlı] (1884–1958). In contrast to the other Syllabic Poets, Yahya Kemal



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melded quantitative syllabic meter (tr. hece vezni) with qualitative syllabic meter (tr. aruz vezni) to fashion a new expressive form, one where an Ottoman style of “classical” poetry retained its poetic voice in the Turkish Republic by adapting to the vernacular conventions of folk poetry. 17. For a critical evaluation of issues related to modernization and “westernization” in Turkish music, please see my recent monograph (O’Connell [2013]). 18. Köroğlu (2007) noted a shift from Turanianism to Turkism in the writings of Ziya Gökalp. He explains this transformation in terms of political circumstances. With the Ottoman defeats in the Balkan wars, Ziya Gökalp sought to envisage a new Turkic homeland in Asia rather than to recover an old Ottoman homeland in Europe. This new homeland was Turân. However, the Russian incursions into Anatolia during the War (1915–6) militated against forming a new Turkic state in the “east.” Accordingly, Ziya Gökalp developed a new ideal (tr. mefkûre) based upon establishing a national culture in Turkey (Turkism) rather than dreaming about an imperial civilization in Asia (Turanianism). However, Turanianism was not forgotten by him after the establishment of the Turkish Republic (1923). In his groundbreaking work entitled “The Principles of Turkism” (tr. “Türkçülüğün Esasları”), Ziya Gökalp (1923) advocated the alliance of Turkish nations in Central Asia, nation states that were unified by one language and one culture. 19. For the seminal work on Turanian languages, see Müller (1854). For a musical study of Turanian songs, see Zempléni (1916). For a physiological reading (using phrenology) of the Turanid race, see Rocine (1910). Needless to say, the concept of Turanianism was co-opted by radical nationalists during the twentieth century to validate the racial supremacy of individual peoples. For example, the racist ideology that informed the anthropological research of the German academic Ilse Schwidetzky (1907–97) is representative. Notably, Schwidetzky (1950) published a volume entitled “Turanid Studies” (gr. “Turanid Studien”). See, also, Köroğlu (2007: 52) for a discussion of Turanianism as it relates to Hungarian and Turkish nationalisms. 20. It is important to note that Yusuf Akçura was not alone in these nationalist endeavors. Two other Turks of Russian extraction were also involved: the Azeris Ahmet Ağaoğlu (1869–1939) and Ali Hüseyinzade (1864–1940). All three ideologues shared a belief in pan-Turkism, a movement that expanded rapidly following the collapse of the Russian Empire (1917). Like Ziya Göpalp, these men hailed from the borderlands of the Ottoman Empire, being acutely aware of the fragile position of Turkic peoples in many parts of Asia (see Zürcher [1994: 131–7]). 21. Nevbet (also spelt as nöbet) is the Turkish spelling of a Persian word nowbat (also spelt as nowba). Generally speaking, the nevbet (as nevbethane) referred to an instrumental ensemble that performed in royal courts throughout Asia to announce prayer times and to accompany lifecycle festivities. Feldman (1996: 181–2) also shows that the nevbet (as the nauba al-murattaba) was a cyclical form in Central Asia during the fourteenth century. Apart from the widespread dissemination of nevbet (spelt as nobat) ensembles in Malaysia (see below), there is a long tradition of nevbet performance in India. For example, the nevbethane (spelt as naubat khānā or nakkar khānā) was a specific building for nevbet musicians in the subcontinent. Before its destruction, the naubat khānā in the Red Fort (Delhi) was a representative example. According to Meilu Ho (personal communication, March 28, 2016), “there is only

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one surviving naubat khānā in India. It is in the town of Nathdvara (Rajasthan), where it is housed at the entrance of a Hindu temple.” 22. According to Meilu Ho (personal communication, March 28, 2016), the Malaysian nobat is unique. As a symbol of statehood, the nobat is played for the coronations of the King of Malaysia and the rulers of the nine sultanates. It is noteworthy that the word nobat is employed in the act of investiture by means of nobat (ma. dinobatkan) and in the act of ruling by means of nobat (ma. menobat). Further, the nobat has sovereign status, its sound demarcates sovereign territory and its existence ensures sovereign power. As in India, the Malaysian nobat in Kedah has its own “house,” the Nobat Tower. I would like to thank Meilu Ho for her willingness to share this valuable information. 23. Ergün (2001: 22) recounts another anecdote that concerns “Neyzen” Tevfik and Enver Paşa. When the commander of the German forces in Romania (presumably [field marshal] August von Mackensen [1869–1919]) visited Istanbul (probably in 1917), Enver Paşa (as was his habit) invited the janissary band from the Military Museum to perform at his mansion for the occasion. In this performance, “Neyzen” Tevfik operated as the director of the ensemble (tr. mehter başı). “Neyzen” Tevfik also brought along his small ney (tr. nısfiye), playing Turkish music for the pasha and the marshal. Mackensen was so entranced with the impromptu concert that he invited “Neyzen” Tevfik back to Romania, where the instrumentalist is believed to have made a number of solo presentations as a neyzen accompanied by a pianist. 24. Mango (1999: 129) provides a different version of this story. He suggests that Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] sought the permission of Enver Paşa to acquire a janissary uniform from the Military Museum. After his appearance at the relevant ball, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] wrote to his friend Kâzım [Özalp] (1880–1948) conveying his gratitude for helping out. In the letter, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] apparently wrote “that he had been the center of attention at the ball, and that questions about his dress gave him the opportunity to speak at length of the military prowess and past victories of the Turks.” Citing Aydemir (1963, 1: 188), Mango admits that many of the anecdotes about Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] in Sofia were fabricated. Here, it is unlikely that Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] contacted Enver Paşa about the janissary attire given the enmity between the two men, the latter not wishing to advance the career of the former. As a school friend of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] and as a close associate of Enver Paşa, “Kızanlıklı” Cevat was in an ideal position to facilitate the successful realization of the illicit transaction. 25. See Dadrian and Akçam (2011) for an in-depth coverage of the trial involving members of the Special Organization (tr. Teşkilât-ı Mahsusa), including the testimonies of Ziya Gökalp and “Kızanlıklı” Cevat. See Koçak (2006) for a transcript of the trial proceedings. As Koçak also points out, today there is very limited documentation left about this secretive group. Some of its members were tried for their part

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Hybrid Turks

The time is morning. The month is April. Cemil Bey (aged 36) is at home in his summer mansion (tr. yalı), which is located on Büyük Ada in the Marmara Sea. His wife (Süyhelâ Hanım [aged 25]) is having an affair with his doctor (Muvaffak Bey [aged 30]), both anticipating his timely demise from a deadly illness. The dalliance is not discreet. The illicit liaison is discovered by different members of the family. His sister-in-law (Şevika Hanım [aged 25]) spies with binoculars (from a window) on the couple while they frolic in the garden. His son (Kaya [simply “a child”]) snoops on the couple (from behind a sofa) while they cavort in the drawing room. As a respectable delegate in the national assembly (tr. me’bus), Cemil has much to lose. However, he is weary of his political responsibilities (to a Turkish government) and his social obligations (to a bourgeois existence). He is concerned with the “western” lifestyle that is preferred by his wife and by the “eastern” lifestyle that is proffered by her father (the diplomat, Ma’ra Bey [aged 55]). Cemil occupies an uncomfortable position between the European cosmopolitanism (tr. Avrupalıcılık) of his unfaithful spouse and the Ottoman cosmopolitanism (tr. Osmanlıcılık) of his respected elder. As an advocate of Turkism, Cemil wishes to maintain a Turkish household, one that is pure rather than hybrid, one that is not polluted by the modern tastes of the “west” or by the traditional values of the “east.” In this tussle between “west” and “east,” intrigues abound and arguments erupt. Conversations are overheard by chance and confessions are disclosed by stealth. The action is also riddled with relatives, revealing a complex web yet a precise taxonomy of Turkish relationships such a man’s father-in-law (tr. kayınpeder) and a woman’s sister-in-law (tr. yenge). However, Cemil’s home is decidedly European. Cemil takes a shower or a “douche” in the morning (tr. sabah “duşu”). Muvaffak plays “bridge” in the evening (tr. “briç”). Excessively decorated with marble 127

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and glass, his house boasts of “western” accouterments such as a deckchair or chaiselongue (tr. şezlong) and a footstool or taboret (tr. tabore). Cemil is conscious of this vulgar parody of “western” taste.1 In conversation, his family greets each other in French rather than in Turkish saying “bonjour” and “au revoir” instead of “günaydın” and “güle güle.” Words of exclamation (such as “bravo!” rather than “aferin!”) or terms of endearment (such as “mon ami” rather than “canım”) pepper the dialogue. In action as in speech, Cemil is especially critical of his wife, Süyhelâ. He complains about her European manners (tr. Avrupa terbiyeleri), going out shopping alone (without permission) and entertaining gentlemen (without discretion). In his view, this is not the behavior of a Turkish lady who is married to a Turkish statesman. Cemil is acutely aware of conflicting identities in his household. He aspires to be national while his wife appears to be international. He claims to be Turkish while his wife does not. During a conversation about national allegiance, Süyhelâ reveals that her father is Circassian (tr. Çerkez) and her mother is Greek (tr. Rum). In other words, she is only “half Turkish” (tr. “yarım Türk”). Yarım Türkler (lit. “Half Turks”) is a play about Turkish identity. Written by the poet and novelist Aka Gündüz [Finci] (1886–1954),2 Yarım Türkler is a drama about national purity and cultural hybridity during the late Ottoman Empire at the outset of the War (1914). Cemil is the aggrieved cuckold and the enfeebled hypochondriac who tries to balance his espousal of nationalist principles in his job with his concealment of internationalist attitudes in his family. The play is long, covering more than a hundred pages and set in three acts (each with multiple scenes). However, the timescale is short, the drama apparently being set during the course of one day where Acts One, Two and Three correspond to the morning, the afternoon and the evening, respectively. The directions for staging are specific but economic. There is one room (used as a drawing room, a dining room and a bed room). The props are minimal. The cast is small. However, the production requires the recreation of a bourgeois paradise that is at once expensive yet at the same time tasteless. In Yarım Türkler, there are two moments when the complex issue of Turkish identity is debated. In Act One (Scene Six [ibid.: 47]), Ma’ra the diplomat is asked who he is. He replies “they say I am Ottoman” (tr. “Osmanlı diyorlar”). When interrogated about his nation (tr. millet), Ma’ra avoids the question by stating “my grandfather was born with regret in Kastamonu” (tr. “büyük babam ma’teessüf Kastamonu’da doğmuş”). Kastamonu is a provincial city in Anatolia. Trying to get the diplomat to claim his Turkish nationality, Ma’ra is further questioned about the birthplace of his father, Ali Paşa. Ma’ra retorts: “[He was] also from there but with much gratitude he quickly escaped” (tr. “O da orada ama çok şükür kapağı çabuk atmış”). Implicit in these replies is that Ma’ra is ashamed of his provincial background, now



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being proud to call himself Ottoman in Istanbul. However, he has been tricked. His interrogator concludes: “In that case are you Turkish?” (tr. “O halde Türksünüz?”). Clearly caught out, Ma’ra responds with irritation; “[It is] unavoidable. Yes monsieur” (tr. “Zaruri. Ya mösyö”). In Act One (Scene Five [ibid.: 27–8]), Ma’ra is also quizzed by about Turanianism. When speaking about the pseudo-history of the Turkist establishment, Ma’ra emphatically states: “If it were possible to turn the clock back, I would not wish to return to the Turân, the Şran, the Kırgız or the Kurguz of your political party. Instead, I would go directly back to my youth in Paris.” Here, Ma’ra Bey subverts the political idealism of Turanianism using meaningless alliteration to mock its principal territory and its subject people, namely Turân and the Kyrgyz. When asked about a utopian world, his ideal past is decidedly “western.” He states: “It would be in Venice, in Paris or on the beaches of Nice” and not in a world where “Turkish men wear turbans and Turkish women wear veils.” With a sideward blow at religious conservatism, he continues on about Turân: “It is a world that stinks of the absurd, of henna and of kohl. It is not worth [three] pence.” Here, Ma’ra implicitly equates Turanianism with Islamicism. Ma’ra is clearly an Ottomanist rather than an Islamicist. In his lines, there are very few references to Islam such as in stock phrases of salutation (e.g., “peace be with you!” [tr. “selâmünaleyküm!”]) or in common words of exclamation (e.g., “God!” [tr. “Allah!”]). Rather, he adopts the circumloquacious tongue of an Ottoman bureaucrat by employing frequently words of Arabic origin such as “ma’teessüf” (en. “with regret”) and “zaruri” (en. “unavoidable”), among others. Where the dialogue of Süyhelâ is clear and Turkish, the discourse of Ma’ra is opaque and Ottoman. However, Ma’ra and his relations are obviously Muslim. With the possible exception of the housemaid (Eleni) and the nursemaid (Marika), the main protagonists have Muslim names, even Süyhelâ (with her Greek ancestry). However, there is no discussion of adultery or of divorce in religious terms, although these are the principal themes of the drama. Rather, Ma’ra and Süyhelâ occupy distinctive positions in a secular household, a home that is essentially Ottoman and evidently bourgeois. Ma’ra represents a distinctive type of Ottomanism. He is a character directly out of the nineteenth century, “a man of the Tamzimat” (tr. “Tanzimat adamı”) who actively cultivates “western” manners to advocate a cosmopolitan modernity. In contrast to Süyhelâ however, Ma’ra presents an Ottoman reading of Enlightenment, one in which the “west” is selectively invoked to improve the “east.” His lines positively drip with “alafrangized” pretense, he constantly using French instead of Turkish with an accent that is not always secure. In the Ottoman transliteration, his use of French is often hard to decipher. When encountering the adulterous pair by chance,

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he exclaims (ibid.: 27): “Tien. Tolomond eʿtisi” (fr. “Tiens. Tout le monde est ici”). A footnote in the text provides the Turkish translation. Further, Ma’ra performs extracts from Italian operas. In his first appearance on stage, he sings the aria “La donna è mobile” from the opera Rigoletto (1851) by Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901). Cemil Bey is not impressed. Closing the door to reduce the clamor, he entreats (ibid.: 28) Ma’ra to sing a Turkish türkü rather than an Italian şarkı. THE NAVAL SOCIETY Yarım Türkler is a play about deceit, be it in the marital chamber (as in the case of Süyhelâ and her Europeanism) or in the national assembly (as in the case of Ma’ra and his Ottomanism). It avows Turkism as the appropriate solution to the rapid decay of the Ottoman Empire and the gradual encroachment of European imperialism. In this, its author Aka Gündüz was a vigorous exponent of Turkism. Being exiled to Salonica by Abdülhamit II (r. 1876–1909) for political subversion, Aka Gündüz was an editor of the journal Genç Kalemler (see chapter 4), the publication that first featured the poem entitled “Turân” (1911) by Ziya Gökalp (1876–1924). Like Ziya Gökalp, Aka Gündüz was a firm believer in language reform since he sought to write Turkish in a clear manner and simple style. Here, his characterization of Ma’ra as a verbose yet pretentious Ottomanist is meant to be disparaging. Like Ziya Gökalp too, Aka Gündüz despised the slavish imitation of European fashion among his Turkish contemporaries. Again, his representation of Süyhelâ as a tasteless and deceitful Europeanist is supposed to be damning. Yarım Türkler was first performed just before the war (August, 1914). Although the play was actually published five years later (see Aka Gündüz [1919]), Yarım Türkler was one of three dramas by Aka Gündüz (the others being the Honored Assassin [tr. Muhterem Katil] and Turkish Blood [tr. Türk Kanı]) that were staged in the Şehzâdebaşı Millet Tiyatrosu in aid of the Naval Society (tr. Donanma Cemiyeti). The Donanma Cemiyeti was a charitable organization that was established to fund the expansion of the Ottoman navy, a fleet that had failed to stem the growing hegemony of Greece in the Aegean Sea (especially after the Battle of Elli [1912]) and the colonial expansion of Italy in the Aegean Islands (following the Tripolitanian War [1911– 2]). Originally formed (1909) as the Ottoman Navy League (tr. Donanma-yı Osmanî Muâvenet-i Millîye Cemiyeti), the charity was formalized and politicized (1913), at the same time being renamed simply “[Osmanlı] Donanma Cemiyeti.” At first, subscriptions to the Donanma Cemiyeti were voluntary. Following reorganization, a month’s wage was deducted from the salaries



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of workers in the public sector to subsidize the construction of Ottoman battleships. The Donanma Cemiyeti was successful on two counts. First, it helped to finance shipbuilding at home (in the Imperial Shipyards) as well as abroad (in Germany and in Britain). Second, it operated as a propaganda tool for the ruling party (the Committee of Union and Progress [tr. İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti]), which seized power following a coup d’état (1913).3 Through its journal (Donanma [Mecmuası]), the Donanma Cemiyeti was able to relay stories of military might and naval prowess, the use of the latest technologies in modern warfare receiving extended coverage in many issues. The Donanma Cemiyeti had offices throughout the empire. According to the Donanma Mecmuası (issue 38, [April, 1329] April, 1913), there were fund raising events as far afield as India and America. Indeed, Armenians and Greeks were frequently featured as event organizers in the earliest issues. After the declaration of war (1914) however, the question of a shared heritage in “the Muslim world” (tr. “âlem-i İslam”) was foregrounded in relevant publications. By this time, the Donanma Mecmuası focused principally on cultural affairs and social concerns (since no ships could realistically be purchased from abroad). The Donanma Cemiyeti is especially significant as a populist platform for articulating patriotic sentiment. After its inception (1910), two battleships were purchased from Germany and renamed the “Barbaros Hayrettin” and the “Turgut Reis.”4 A further four destroyers were also bought from Germany (1912). All ships were paid for (in part) with money raised by the Donanma Cemiyeti. The names of the ships reflected the generosity of their benefactors. Despite the humiliating defeats against Greece and Italy (see above), a further two dreadnoughts were ordered from Britain. These were purchased with international loans (worth around two-and-a-half million Turkish Lira) taken out in anticipation of future funds collected by the Donanma Cemiyeti. In tandem with naval reforms (which were enacted under the supervision of Sir Arthur Limpus [1863–1931]), the two warships would add substantially to the maritime superiority of the Ottoman Empire in the Aegean. However, the two vessels were requisitioned by Britain following the declaration of war. Worryingly, the Ottoman admiralty not only lost two warships but it also received no compensation for the payments made (see chapter 2). The Donanma Mecmuası provided a mouthpiece for venting public outrage against this illegal confiscation. Schoolchildren as well as grandparents had made self-sacrificing contributions to the Donanma Cemiyeti. Sailors had been sent to Britain to commandeer the ships. A celebration was organized in Turkey to receive the vessels (Shaw [1977, 2: 309]). The first sign of trouble was featured in the Donanma Mecmuası (issue 53, [July 14, 1330] July 27, 1914). It stated that the delivery of the battle cruiser named “Sultan Osman I” was delayed by three weeks, the warship requiring additional

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tests. Significantly, the relevant article in the Donanma Mecmuası cites an unnamed source in an Austrian newspaper (the Neue Freie Presse) for this information. Perhaps coincidentally, this news was released just before Austria declared war on Serbia (July 28, 1914) and Germany signed a (secret) treaty with Turkey (August 2, 1914). However, the illegal seizure of the Sultan Osman (along with the Reşadiye) was only announced in the Donanma Mecmuası (issue 57, [August 18, 1330] August 31, 1914): that is, nearly a month after the original sequestration of the ships by Britain. The opening headline of the relevant issue announces: “Sorrowful News: If you inspect the heart of any Muslim today, you will find the sorrowful news that resides within. This sad news concerns [Sultan] Osman I and the Reşadiye. Every man who is Muslim must not hesitate in expressing openly his deepest anger against England. Today, all Muslims and Turks are united in a common cause; to rise against the violent actions by and the psychological taunts of [the British against the Turks] which are opposed to state government and legal contract.”

An imaginary picture of the Sultan Osman gliding through the blue waters of the Marmara Sea is featured on the front cover. A caption underneath reads: “Our Beloved Dreadnought which was Violently Seized.” The journal “knows that the picture will bring great comfort to its subscribers from the pain, the regret and the evil they have suffered [with the loss of the two battleships].” The small paragraph ends with a verse from the Qur’an (sura 26: 227), a verse that concerns saving the righteous and denouncing the sinful. The timing of the announcement in this edition of Donanma Mecmuası is worthy of comment. In the three issues of the journal that were published between Donanma Mecmuası (issue 53, July 27, 1914) and Donanma Mecmuası (issue 57, August 31, 1914),5 there is no mention of the dreadnoughts Sultan Osman or Reşadiye. There is also no mention of their seizure by the British. Further, there is also no reference to the arrival of the German cruisers Goeben and Breslau in the Marmara Sea. However, there are pictures of these cruisers in Donanma Mecmuası (issue 56, August 17, 1914), the two warships here called by their Turkish names, “Yavuz” and “Midilli.” The plates are featured in an article about the Tripolitanian War, a piece that seemingly illustrates historic war maneuvers by the Yavuz and the Midilli against the Italian navy in the Aegean Sea. In this issue however, there is no indication of the German incursion into Ottoman waters (August 7, 1914) or the transfer of German ships to the Ottoman navy (August 8, 1914). The omission requires explanation. The Donanma Mecmuası became a mouthpiece for the unionist junta (in 1913). Since [İsmail] Enver Paşa (1881–1922), as minister of war (tr. harbiye nâzırı) (s. 1914–8), wished to delay the declaration of war in favor of the



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Central Powers as along as possible, the Donanma Mecmuası accordingly failed to feature the momentous events that occurred in the Ottoman capital during August (1914). Had the general public known about British perfidy with respect to the Ottoman dreadnoughts, there would have been a righteous call for revenge. Had the general public been aware of unionist intrigue with regard to the German cruisers, there would have been a populist crusade to declare war. As it was, the relevant issue of Donanma Mecmuası (issue 57, August 31, 1914) not only announced the confiscation of the Sultan Osman and the Reşadiye but also explained the transfer of the Goeben and the Breslau to the Ottoman navy, the two vessels to be called “Yavuz” and “Midilli,” respectively.6 So as not to disappoint its readers, the journal foregrounded the speed and the firepower of the ships, emphasizing that their maritime specifications were comparable with their British counterparts.

THE NAVAL PLAYERS The transfer of the German ships to the Ottoman navy is rendered explicit in the next issue of Donanma Mecmuası (issue 58, [August 25, 1330] September 7, 1914). In a poem entitled “Yavuz and Midilli,” the poet Necmeddin Sahir [Sılan] (1891–1992) draws the connection between the two vessels and the two navies: “It is a magnificent honor that [the battleships] called ‘Goeben’ and ‘Breslau’ gave their hearts to [the warships] called ‘Yavuz’ and ‘Midilli.’ O beloved homeland! It is Yavuz who departed for the sea with a respectful farewell. [S]he, who is a Turkist of the highest caliber, is the great ruler [of the waves]” (verse: 7). Necmeddin Sahir then goes on to consider the ways in which the Yavuz might recover Ottoman territories that were recently lost to the Greeks (such as Crete [1908]) and the Italians (such as Rhodes [1912]). In this campaign, Midilli (as the smaller ship) plays a limited role. Covering twenty-eight verses, the poem exhorts the navy to “take revenge against the enemy” and in doing so “save the honor, the purity and the sovereignty” of the Ottoman state (verse: 28). However, revenge against an English enemy is the main objective. Necmeddin Sahir exclaims: “Look at that vile nation which seized the Sultan Osman and the Reşadiye. Behold the enemy today, the English people. So then, bring perpetual damnation ‘upon that perfidious nation’ (tr. ‘o kahpe millete’)” (verse: 2). Stating that the Ottomans had been deceived and that the English should be cursed, Necmeddin Sahir turns his attention to a new ally: “The Germans who are noble hearted and greatly esteemed.” After designing a glorious flag that bespeaks of great honor, Necmeddin Sahir implores: “Take our standard and place it upon [the masts] of the Geoben and the Breslau” (verse: 4). Yet, he warns against forgetting about the nations of Islam

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in this new imperial alliance. Although Necmeddin Sahir mentions Turkism (verse: 7) and Turân (verse: 20), his use of elusive language is decidedly Ottomanist and his inclusion of religious vocabulary is typically Islamicist. Indeed, Necmeddin Sapir adopts an inclusive strategy by encompassing in poetry the “three kinds of policy” (tr. “uç tarz-ı siyaset”) as articulated by Yusuf Akçura (1876–1935) in late Ottoman society (see chapter 4). It is worth comparing this poem by Necmeddin Sahir with an earlier poem by Aka Gündüz. Published also in Donanma Mecmuası (issue 55, [July 28, 1330] August 10, 1914), the piece by Aka Gündüz is written in colloquial Turkish and arranged in free verse. Entitled “Caravan” (tr. “Kervan”),7 the narrative is a dialogue between the soul (tr. ruh) and the heart (tr. kalb). It ostensibly concerns a journey into the wilderness to save refugees from the horrors of war. However, the text can be read on a number of levels. First, it references the terrible suffering of migrants who fled to Istanbul following the Balkan wars. Second, it signifies the cataclysmic demise of the Ottoman state during the early twentieth century. Third, it suggests a mystical dialogue between man (tr. kul) and God (tr. Allah), where transcendence is achieved after a catastrophe and where a nation emerges from the ruins of an empire. Here, the juxtaposition of opposites helps clarify the mystical dialogue between earth and heaven; that is, a brother (tr. kardeş) converses with his sister (tr. hemşire) and the moon (tr. ay) rises after the sun (tr. güneş). The poems by Necmeddin Sahir and Aka Gündüz are very different. On the one hand, Necmeddin Sahir presents an explicit account of a military exchange between Germany and Turkey. In addition, he fires a pugnacious broadside against Britain from Turkey. On the other hand, Aka Gündüz offers a mythologized reading of war, where seas overflow with blood and flames reach to the sun, thereby precipitating a flood of orphans and refugees. By offering the migrants sanctuary in his caravanserai (tr. kervansaray), he foresees a new bloodline for the Turkish people, a veritable life after death. The two poems are distinctively structured. “Yavuz ve Midilli” is strophic. Each stanza is neatly arranged into four lines and each verse has a regular end rhyme [abab]. However, “Kervan” is dialogic. The narrative is improvisatory and shows no consistency with respect to meter or rhyme. Indeed, the semantic construction in not linear since the reader is required to understand backward by reading forward. That being said, it is Aka Gündüz rather than Necmeddin Sahir who writes in a conversational style by using Turkish that is pure and vernacular. Yet, Necmeddin Sahir and Aka Gündüz have a similar message to tell. Both writers allude to a Turkist future in a Turanian land, Necmeddin Sahir (explicitly) and Aka Gündüz (implicitly). Published less than a month apart, the two poets approach the inevitable question of a global conflict in a different way. Where Aka Gündüz alludes to an apocalypse, Necmeddin Sahir



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announces the cataclysm. Bearing in mind that war would subsequently be declared (November 11, 1914) and that jihad would then be proclaimed (November 14, 1914), Necmeddin Sahir anticipates that the Ottoman Empire will join the Central Powers against the Triple Entente by more than two months. Although Enver Paşa had made a secret pact with the Germans (August 2, 1914), his colleagues in the despotic junta were still prevaricating about Ottoman participation in the War. The internal decision to fight was only made on October 25, 1914 (Zürcher [1994: 118]). Given that Donanma Mecmuası was by then an official voice for the unionist government, it is surprising that the poem “Yavuz and Midilli” was not censored before publication given its bellicose content and jihadist spirit. There were other poems published in the Donanma Mecmuası. There were also plays announced in the Donanma Mecmuası. There were historical plays advertised in the journal like the work entitled “Selim the Third” (tr. “Selim-i Sâlis”) by the mehter enthusiast Celâl Esat [Arseven] (1876–1971). There were also revues mentioned like the piece called “Theater Audition” (tr. “Tiyatro İmtihanı”) and vaudevilles featured like the drama named the “Gentleman of Istanbul” (tr. “İstanbul Efendisi”). In addition, poetry readings were listed and monologues detailed. Apart from cinema screenings and lecture presentations, a specially designated theatrical troupe was highlighted in the Donanma Mecmuası. Called the “Ottoman Naval Society Performance Company” (tr. “Osmanlı Donanma Cemiyeti Heyet-i Temsiliyesi”), the dramatic troupe performed twenty-four plays in 1914 alone (Yalçın [2002: 299–303]). Some of these were Turkish translations of well-known dramas such as the play entitled “Die Räuber” (tr. “Sevdâr-ı Eşkıya”) (1781) by the German author Friedrich Schiller (1759–1802). Others were Turkish revivals of patriotic plays such as the piece called “Love of the Motherland” (tr. “Vatan Aşkı”) (1914) originally adapted for stage by the Armenian dramatist Mardiros Mınakyan (1839–1920). A performance of Yarım Türkler by Aka Gündüz was featured prominently in the Donanma Mecmuası. The play was reviewed in the journal (issue 65, [October 13, 1330) October 26, 1914) by the actor and critic Müfit Ratip (1887–1920). He provides a concise overview of the plot focusing in particular on the ideological conflict between the Europeanist lifestyle as espoused by Süheylâ and the Turkist way of living as advocated by Cemil. Well aware of the ongoing antagonism toward the Greeks by the Turks among his patriotic audience, the critic also emphasizes the ethnic differences between the married pair, the wife with her Greek ancestry and the husband with his Turkish pedigree. Müfit Ratip provides an insightful characterization of the main protagonists. He portrays Cemil as the sickly Turk with nationalist principles and Süheylâ as the artless Greek with vulgar sensibilities. In addition, he represents the doctor as immoral and indecisive. However, the strategic role of

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the retired ambassador (Ma’ra) as the flamboyant Ottomanist and the female relation (Şefîka) as the committed Turanianist are underplayed in this review. The review of Yarım Türkler by Müfit Ratip was not all complementary. Praising the first two acts for their truthful portrayal yet composed representation of a contemporary issue, Müfit Ratip is critical of the final act. He writes: .

“In the third act, the author loses the plot completely. The playwright is extremely oppressive and very cruel when he does not think that it is feasible for a thinking man like Cemil and a thoughtless woman like Süheylâ could have a life together. In this act, we are unable for once to discern Aka Gündüz’s powerful sense of drama. As soon as the curtain is raised, a loathsome and ugly scene awaits us as the doctor puts on his shirt again [presumably after an intimate encounter with Süheylâ].”

Müfit Ratip finds this scene out of character with the rest of the play. He also considers that the anger displayed and the madness shown by Cemil in this section to be unconvincing. That being said, Müfit Ratip complements the cast, especially the Turkish actor Nurettin Bey as the neurotic Cemil and the Armenian artiste Dülgeryan Efendi as the hapless doctor. BENEFIT CONCERTS The production of Yarım Türkler mentioned above was staged eleven days earlier in the Şehzâdebaşı Millet Tiyatrosu on Friday (October 15, 1914). It was part of a fundraising venture by the Donanma Cemiyeti to collect donations for the victims of an earthquake in Burdur (October 4, 1914). Among the notables present at the event was the crown prince Yusuf İzzettin Efendi (1857–1916), who represented the palace. Also present were the politicians [Ahmet] Cemal Paşa (1872–1922) and [Mehmet] Talât Paşa (1874–1921), who represented the government. Of the triumvirate then in power, Enver Paşa was noticeably absent. An overview of the formal occasion was published in the Donanma Mecmuası (issue 64, [October 6, 1330] October 19, 1914). In the pretentious language of court protocol, the anonymous article reiterates congratulatory addresses made by the dignitaries present. For example, Yusuf İzzettin stated with some banality: “It cannot be denied the influence that theater has on moral conduct. I wish to see this art developed in the country. This evening, I greatly appreciated the play that was staged. I recognize the service [of this drama] for civilization and development.” Yarım Türkler was not the only item featured at the fundraising event. There was a lecture (tr. konferans) on the virtues of jihad in those Muslim lands that were colonized by European powers. It was hosted by the assembly delegate for Izmir, Mehmet Ubeydullah [Hatipoğlu] (1858–1937). Mehmet



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Ubeydullah was later famed for inciting jihad among subject coreligionists in South Asia during the War. Following an eloquent address where he sought to maintain peace while being prepared for war (presumably at home), he continued: “Muslims who live under the yoke of foreign domination should rise as soldiers [in the defense of Islam].” He also noted that “those who are violated and destitute under the black veil of European civilization” were a danger not only to themselves but also to their religion. He concluded that jihad “was the only way forward for the salvation and the unity of Islam.” Bearing in mind the context (in the presence of many dignitaries) and the date (a month before the call for jihad) of this address, Mehmet Ubeydullah clearly reflected the sentiments of his distinguished audience. Music played a central role in this charitable occasion. The entertainment (tr. müsamere) opened with a concert by the specially appointed Donanma Band (tr. Donanma Bandosu). The band was followed by a performance of Turkish music by “an chamber ensemble” (tr. “ince saz takımı”). Although the ensemble is not named and the program is not detailed, the group performed “a fasıl that was delicately harmonious” (tr. “bir fasl-ı rakîk-i ahengdâr”). The performance received the “approved favor” (tr. “nazar-ı takdir”) of the crown prince “who condescended with noble kindness” (tr. “iltifat necibaneleri buyurmuşlardır”) to demonstrate his appreciation for the anonymous group. In the previous issue of the Donanma Mecmuası (issue 63, [September 29, 1330] October 12, 1914), the advertised program features the Darüttalimi Musiki Heyeti as the unnamed ensemble. In addition to the play (by Aka Gündüz) and a lecture (by Mehmet Ubeydullah), a monologue (with Eliza Binemeciyan [1890–1981]) is also itemized. Like the actors in the play, the musicians were decorated by the crown prince, probably receiving the commemorative medal called “the donanma contribution medal” (tr. “donanma iane madalyası”). In addition, the crown prince donated a hundred Lira toward the earthquake fund. This was not the only time that benefit concerts were organized in aid of the Donanma Cemiyeti. Like other performers (such as Ali Rıza [Şengel] [1880– 1953]) (in 1909), the Turkish vocalist Münir Nurettin [Selçuk] (1899–1981) made his début (in 1914) at a fundraising event for the Donanma Cemiyeti. Taking place in the Apollon Sineması (in Kadıköy), the following memoir by the music enthusiast Osman Şevki [Uludağ] (1889–1964) is noteworthy: “Although just a boy, Münir [Nurettin] demonstrated the tasteful feeling of a great man. … This youth, who was sitting in front and on the right-hand side of the ensemble, sang alone the kâr-ı nev by İsmail Dede [Efendi]. The moment he began to perform ‘gözümde dâim …’ [the first words of the piece], his voice was manly yet fresh. He did not alter the contours of his face as is normal. Without wrinkling his expression, he reached the highest octave without difficulty” (cited in Kulin [1996: 18]).

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In a souvenir photograph taken to mark the occasion (see O’Connell [2013: 79]), Münir Nurettin is seen sporting a donanma iane madalyası on his jacket. The context of this performance is interesting for two reasons. First, the venue (then called the “[Kadıköy] Kışlık Apollon Tiyatrosu”) hosted a number of events in aid of the Donanma Cemiyeti.8 In August (1914), for example, it featured a French play called “The Lady of the Camelias” (tr. “La dame aux camélias”) by the French author Alexandre Dumas [fils] (1824–95), a work that was originally published as a novel (1848) and subsequently adapted for the stage (1852).9 In Kadıköy (1914), the play was presented in its Turkish translation (tr. Kamelyalı Kadın) by the Millî Osmanlı Tiyatrosu. Second, Münir Nurettin made his début in association with a musical society called the “Darü’l-Feyz-i Mûsiki,” one of the many musical groups that flourished during the Young Turk period (in Turkish called the “İkinci Meşrutiyet” [1908–18]). Founded by “Üsküdarlı” Ethem Nuri Bey (d. [1919]) and held in the mansion (tr. konak) of the recently deceased Ali Şâmil Paşa (1855–1908), Münir Nurettin received formal instruction in Turkish music, learning and performing around ten fasıl-s with the music school (Öztuna [1990, 2: 275]; O’Connell [2013: 82–3]). The connection between the naval society and the music society deserves further scrutiny. Following the establishment of a constitutional democracy (1908), freedom of expression was permitted and freedom of association was allowed. This enabled publications to thrive and societies to mushroom without the fear of governmental interference. In this context, the Donanma Cemiyeti (founded in 1909) and the Darü’l-Feyz-i Mûsiki (founded in 1908) represented two instances of democratic empowerment. Other instances in the world of theater and music included the Millî Osmanlı Kumpanyası (founded in 1909) and the [Darü’l] Musiki-i Osmanî (founded in 1908), respectively. In addition to the performance of plays and concerts, these organizations witnessed the growth of specialist publications (such as plays for the theater and scores for music). Further, illustrated journals (such as Şehbal) and nationalist periodicals (such as Türk Yurdu) catered to a growing interest in the performing arts that transcended religious distinctions and gendered boundaries. This of course does not include the widespread dissemination of poems and monologues (to be recited by actors) and anthologies and methods (to be used by musicians). A war and a coup interrupted these artistic activities. During the Balkan wars (1912–3), the music society called “Musiki-i Osmanî” was closed on account of its members being conscripted into the army. That is, the music society did not have enough students to train in its school (called “Musiki-i Osmanî Mektebi”). Following the military coup (1913), the Donanma Cemiyeti was secretly taken over by the unionist junta, the society now operating under the auspices of the Ministry of the Interior (Shaw [2006: 587]). While



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Nykiel ([2011]: 3) questions this assertion, it is noteworthy that Talât Paşa, the then minister of the interior (tr. dahiliye nâzırı), played a prominent role during the official ceremonies that accompanied the première performance of Yarım Türkler. Not only did he present the actors with bouquets but he also distributed cards on behalf of the Ministry. Implicit here is the transformation of the Donanma Cemiyeti from a private society to a government body, an established organization with an extensive network of regional contacts. That is, the Donanma Cemiyeti presented an ideal opportunity for disseminating unionist propaganda. MUSIC FOR THE STAGE The Donanma Cemiyeti Heyet-i Temsilesi was not averse to staging productions with a political message. Apart from Yarım Türkler for example, Aka Gündüz staged two other plays (1914), one with a Turkist message (entitled the “Honored Assassin” [tr. “Muhterem Katil”]) and one with a Turanian theme (entitled “Turkish Blood” [tr. “Türk Kanı”]). However, productions with an Ottomanist bias or an Islamicist perspective were usually not featured by the company. There was one exception. It was a “vaudeville” (tr. “vodvil”) entitled the “Gentleman of Istanbul” (tr. “İstanbul Efendisi”) (1913) written by the Turkish playwright Musahipzâde Celâl [Musahipzâde] (1868–1959).10 Although most sources state that İstanbul Efendisi was first staged by an Armenian troupe called the “Benliyan Company” (tr. “Benliyan Kumpanyası”) in 1917 (see Çorumlu [2012: 43]), the play was actually premièred by the Donanma Cemiyeti Heyet-i Temsilesi three years earlier (Yalçın [2002: 301]). In a biographical note on his theatrical productions, Musahipzâde Celâl (cited in Hançerlioğlu Ed. [1970: 40]) confirmed that İstanbul Efendisi (along with another play) was being rehearsed by the Donanma troupe as early as 1913 upon the insistence of Cemal Paşa. İstanbul Efendisi was billed as the first musical to be performed on the Turkish stage. The music was written by the Armenian educator, Leon Hancıyan ([1857]-1947). Here was an eminent music specialist, who had studied with many masters of the alaturka tradition (such as Dellâlzâde İsmail Efendi [1797–1861]) and who had in turn taught the rising stars of the alaturka tradition (such as Refik [Fersan] [1893–1965]). Apart from his educational services in aristocratic salons, Leon Hancıyan was a founding member of the music school called “Musiki-i Osmanî” (see above) and of the drama academy called “Darülbedayi-i Osmanî” (founded in 1914). His life included a stint in the army (as a pharmaceutical assistant) and a period in exile (when he taught in the Sofia Conservatory). In life as in music, Leon Hancıyan was an Ottomanist. He was fully conversant with alafranga and

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alaturka. He performed in Muslim contexts (especially in Mevlevî tekke-s) and in Christian churches (especially in Armenian choirs). He was both a musician and a musicologist, with interests in “western” and non-“western” musics. As Aka Gündüz might contend, Leon Hancıyan was a quintessential yarım Türk. Musâhipzade Celâl might also be called a “yarım Türk.” That is, İstanbul Efendisi concerns an imperial past and a cosmopolitan community. Set in Istanbul during the reign of Mahmut I (r. 1730–54), the play brings together a colorful range of contemporary characters be it the Armenian tailor (called “Agop”) or the Jewish grocer (called “Yuvan”), the Turkish Kadı (called “Salvetı”) or the Thracian blacksmith (called “Bekir”). The plot concerns a love entanglement between the Kadı’s daughter (Esma) and her ineligible suitor (Saf). However, Salveti wants Esma to marry a provincial notable (Dilaver), who elopes back home with his rustic sweetheart (Dilaram). The ending is not happy. However, the plot is raucous. Salveti the Muslim wants to punish Yuvan the Jew, whose business premises are untidy in the market. However, the Kadı cannot find a law enforcer to execute the appropriate punishment (a bastinado). Aware that the Kadı is out to enforce commercial proprietary, other tradesmen attempt to flee the bazar without success. The result is a thrashing for all. When whipped, each man cries out at a different pitch thereby creating the notes of a song.11 İstanbul Efendisi is more than just an alla turca romp about interdenominational relations. It is also about class politics, religious principles and gender preferences. Salveti the upper-class Turkish Kadı wants to demonstrate his social control over Yuvan the lower-class Jewish tradesman. Salvati the devout Muslim male attempts to impose his religious beliefs upon the heretical Muslim female, “Çengî” Afet. That, Salveti is a logical man and Afet is a superstitious woman plays into the traditional stereotypes of gender identity in Ottoman theater. That Afet (a dancing girl) is able to outsmart Salveti (a local magistrate) in matters concerning money and truth serves to upset the patriarchal norms of Ottoman society. In fact in the first production of İstanbul Efendisi, the female protagonists were played by women and not by men, mostly Greek or Armenian artistes who also worked as popular singers (tr. kantocu-s) often in disreputable locales.12 While foreign divas had graced the operatic stage and local chanteuses had featured in operetta productions, İstanbul Efendisi was one of the first alaturka dramas to see women playing women on stage. İstanbul Efendisi is a traditional style of Turkish theater, called “ortaoyunu” (a play performed on a central stage). In İstanbul Efendisi, Musahipzâde Celâl draws upon a number of stock characters in Ottoman theater, including the African nurse (tr. bacı) and the dancing girl (tr. çengî). In contrast to contemporary productions, İstanbul Efendisi is in part improvised and in part



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composed. The production requires actors to sing and to dance, the original numbers being written in Turkish and Greek, Armenian and Georgian. In contrast to contemporary productions too, İstanbul Efendisi is about an Ottoman past and not about a national future, where a real empire was in decline and imaginary nation is to be realized. To achieve this, Musahipzâde Celâl undertook research at the newly opened Museum of the Islamic Foundations (tr. Efkaf-ı İslâmiye Müzesi) to ascertain the manners and customs of Ottoman society during the eighteenth century. Here, he attempted to replicate the correct manner of address and the authentic style of attire among his actors. Later, Musahipzâde Celâl ([1946] 1992) published his findings in a book entitled “[Everyday] Life in Old Istanbul” (tr. “Eski İstanbul Yaşayışı”). İstanbul Efendisi employs a traditional style of Turkish music. In keeping with the usual practice of ortaoyonu, some of the characters play musical instruments including a tambourine (tr. def) by Yuvan and an oboe (tr. zurna) by Safi. Also authentic is the instrumental ensemble that plays Turkish folk music and Turkish “classical” music on stage. In the past, a janissary ensemble sometimes accompanied the proceedings (And [1985: 351]). However, the original music for the première performance is no longer extant. Since İstanbul Efendisi was published more than twenty years (see Musahipzâde Celâl [1936]) after its début, there is no exact information about the repertoire performed; only that it was multi-lingual and multi-cultural. Yet, İstanbul Efendisi was revived by Musahipzâde Celâl during the early Republican period (1923–38). This time, a new set of songs by contemporary composers are featured, especially four numbers by Sadettin Kaynak (1895–1961). That being said, there are two macaronic songs (one in Turkish-Georgian and the other in Turkish-Greek) and two “classical” numbers (by İsmail Dede Efendi [1778–1846] and Tatyos Ekserciyan [1858–1913]) in the revived production. Their presence suggests a continuation of repertoire. In contrast to tradition, women again played women. İstanbul Efendisi was often criticized by contemporary critics. Unlike Yarım Türkler, İstanbul Efendisi is romantic and nostalgic. Unlike Yarım Türkler too, İstanbul Efendisi does not overtly espouse a political position. Where Yarım Türkler features the performance of “western” music (tr. alafranga), İstanbul Efendisi celebrates “eastern” music (tr. alaturka), be it in folk songs or “classical” compositions. Indeed, Musahipzâde Celâl was lampooned by the theatrical connoisseur İlber Ortyalı (1947–) for the author’s “strange conservatism” (tr. “garip tutuculuk”) at a time when most playwrights were concerned with social affairs and political issues (cited in Çorumlu [2012: 45]). Yet, there are some similarities between Yarım Türkler and İstanbul Efendisi. Both dramas address the notion of cultural hybridity, Aka Gündüz by way of “western” modernity and Musahipzâde Celâl by way of “eastern” tradition. Again both productions demonstrate a critical distance

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on the part of the authors, Aka Gündüz as a Turkist observer looking “west” and Musahipzâde Celâl as a Europeanist commentator looking “east.” Indeed, it could be argued that Musâhipzade Celâl adopts the position of a “western” orientalist by exoticizing his imperial past and by sensualizing his cosmopolitan place (ibid.: 44).13 Aka Gündüz and Musahipzâde Celâl address the same issue of hybridity from different perspectives. Seemingly representative of different positions in contemporary politics, Aka Gündüz (the Turkist) and Musahipzâde Celâl (the Ottomamist) occupy two poles of an expressive continuum that extends from the “west” to the “east” in contemporary theatrical productions. On the one hand, Aka Gündüz epitomizes the widespread regard for “western” theater in Ottoman culture, be it operas in the royal palaces (such as Yıldız Sarayı) or melodramas in popular theaters (such as Varyete Tiyatrosu). These productions were often presented in foreign languages. On the other hand, Musahipzâde Celâl continued an older tradition of “eastern” drama, be it in the realm of puppet theater (tr. karagöz) or improvised drama (tr. ortaoyunu). Notably, Musahipzâde Celâl adopts the conventions (such as the central role of opposing protagonists) and the formats (such as the conversational manner of dramatic exegesis) to be found in these genres.14 Between Aka Gündüz and Musahipzâde Celâl, a wide variety of theatrical forms existed, ranging from praise singers (tr. maddoh-s) to mendicant poets (tr. aşık-s), from female artistes (tr. kantocu-s) to female impersonators (tr. zenne-s). These performances were usually conducted in local languages. HYBRID MUSICS In Yarım Türkler, Aka Gündüz presents a utopian view of a Turkist society. In İstanbul Efendisi, Musahipzâde Celâl offers a realistic interpretation of an Ottomanist world. Although Yarım Türkler is set in the present and İstanbul Efendisi is set in the past, it is Musahipzâde Celâl rather than Aka Gündüz who provides a representative reading of everyday life in Istanbul during the Young Turk period. As in İstanbul Efendisi, Istanbul was extremely cosmopolitan. Among the resident Muslims, there were Arabs, Kurds and Turks, among others. This of course did not include the flood of Turkic refugees who escaped from wars in the Balkans and the Caucuses (see McCarthy [2001]). Among the resident non-Muslims, there were Christians (especially Armenians and Greeks) and Jews (of both the Ashkenazi and the Sephardi rite). In addition, there were European expatriates, often entrepreneurs from Italy and France who had settled in the eastern Mediterranean usually to escape persecution at home. These Europeans were not always Ottoman citizens. They



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were classed as Levantines. More recently, Austrians and Germans came to the Ottoman capital as soldiers and traders (see chapter 2). As in İstanbul Efendisi, Istanbul was still multilingual. Although Ottoman Turkish (tr. Osmanlıca) was the principal language of intercourse, Arabic among Muslims (for ritual purposes) and French among Europeans (for commercial reasons) were widely understood. Of course, each ethnic group had its own language be it Kurmancî for the Kurds or Mingrelian for the Laz. The sounds of an Ottoman cosmopolitanism were widely spread but specifically located. Greek was often heard in Fener while Armenian was usually spoken in Kumkapı. Among resident Jews, Ladino was often heard in Balat while Yiddish was usually spoken in Galata. As Jackson shows (2013: 17–48), the connection between sound and space was subject to change, especially when social mobility enabled individuals to move from religious ghettos to desirable locations. This veritable Babel was visible in contemporary catalogs and advertisements when as many as five languages could be featured simultaneously. It could also be witnessed in print media where newspapers in Ottoman and German or journals in Ladino and French (among many others) were part of the visual landscape of everyday experience. As in İstanbul Efendisi, Istanbul was still multidenominational. Among Muslims, Arabic was intoned (as in Qur’anic recitation [tr. tecvid]) or invoked (as in the call to prayer [tr. ezan]). However, Turkish was often employed by mendicant proselytizers or heterodox sects (such as the Alevi-s). Among Jews, Hebrew was used in ritual observance and Ladino was reserved for paraliturgical practice (see Seroussi [2009]). In both religious contexts, ritual chant was usually set to Turkish modes (tr. makam-s). Indeed, Jews of the Sephardi rite emulated Muslims of the Mevlevî sect by performing religious works in a choral setting (called “Maftirim”). As Seroussi (2001) observes, many Jews participated in music-making associated with Mevlevî lodges. Among Christians, a variety of languages and musics were to be heard. For example, Greek cantors chanted in Greek using Byzantine modes and Catholic prelates recited in Latin using Gregorian chants. Further, Armenians developed their own polyphonic tradition in sacral contexts. With festivals and parades,15 with bells and drums, the heterogeneous tapestry of sacred sounds was both visible and audible to the Istanbul populace. As in İstanbul Efendisi, Istanbul was still multi-musical. Like drama, music can be roughly understood with reference to a “western” style (tr. alafranga) and “eastern” style (tr. alaturka) of expressive culture. Concerning alafranga, instrumental ensembles (such as orchestras) and military troupes (such as bands) played an important role in the public expression of a “western” modernity in the civic realm and the martial domain, respectively: that is, in addition to the representative examples of music theater mentioned above. Concerning alaturka, instrumental ensembles (such as the ince saz takımı)

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and military troupes (such as the janissary band) demonstrated an ongoing engagement with an “eastern” tradition that extended from the meyhane to the museum. Like theater, it is important not to forget another axis of musical production, the continuum that existed between the folk and the “classical.” Here, language as much as music was an important determinant in the definition of a genre. In song for example, the rural türkü was believed to be pure but the urban şarkı was considered to be hybrid. Where the former employs a vernacular Turkish, the latter uses a composite Ottoman. This is precisely the difference between Yarım Türkler and İstanbul Efendisi. In the former play, Aka Gündüz celebrates the pristine language to be found in folk sources. However, he is critical of the hybrid language, be it the use of French in bourgeois salons (the Europeanist position) or the use of Ottoman in aristocratic mansions (the Ottomanist position). In the second play, Musahipzâde Celâl acknowledges in song the numerous languages spoken in urban settings. While applauding cultural diversity in music, he advocates cultural uniformity in language since his characters employ a colloquial Turkish (often using regional dialects) that both his actors and his audiences understand. In both plays however, there is an implicit recognition of musical hybridity in theory and in practice. Following Ziya Gökalp, Aka Gündüz in theory advocated the harmonization of folk melodies to develop a national style. Following “Muallim” İsmail Hakkı Bey (1883–1923), Musahipzâde Celâl in practice supported the polyphonic arrangement of urban songs, especially when İstanbul Efendisi was revived during the early Republican period. Then, its vocal repertoire was turkified and it musical arrangement was “westernized” by the Austrian convert to Islam, Friedrich von Statzer (1906–74). As in Yarım Türkler, Istanbul was multicultural. While it would be easy to read cultural difference in terms of a “western” style enjoyed by Europeans and an “eastern” style preferred by Ottomans, the music-cultural reality was much more complex. There were Turks who performed alafranga (such as Ma’ra singing an aria in Yarım Türkler) and there were Turks who performed alaturka (such as İrfan dancing a köçekçe in İstanbul Efendisi). Indeed, there were Turkish artists who transcended stylistic boundaries. Take, for example, the great Turkish virtuoso, “Tanburî” Cemil Bey (1873–1916). Although a “classical” exponent of alaturka, Cemil experimented with folk sounds and folk instruments in the creation of a syncretic style (O’Connell [2001]). He also toyed with “western” principles by using melodic sequences and polyphonic textures in the construction of extended improvisations (tr. taksim-s). Others, like Refik, emulated his precedent by developing an “alafrangized” alaturka in instrumental practice (O’Connell [2013]). As I have already noted (see chapter 4), a similar synthesis occurred in vocal performance, İsmail Hakkı composing marches using triadic rules and arranging songs employing harmonic concepts.



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As in İstanbul Efendisi, Istanbul was multinational. Each ethnic group in the Ottoman Empire had its own folk repertoires and religious rituals, for the most part distinctive in terms of language and music. However, each group came together in the realms of either alafranga performance (especially in theatrical productions) or alaturka (especially in concert performances). In this respect, alafranga and alaturka provided alternative lingua franca, different ways of being Ottoman musically at the end of empire. Like Turks however, non-Turks traduced stylistic boundaries. Take, for example, the Armenian educator, Leon Hancıyan (see above). Trained in alafranga as a chorister in a polyphonic choir, he taught alaturka in music schools and theater academies. He also transcended genre categories since he arranged music for stage (such as İstanbul Efendisi) and he prepared actors to be musicians. Leon Hancıyan is just one of many non-Turkish musicians who catered to the hybrid tastes of Istanbul society. Among these can be included the Jewish cantor İzak Algazi (1889–1952) and the Armenian composer Bimen Dergazaryan [Şen] (1873–1943). They also included the Levantine musician Vittorio Radeglia (1863–) (see chapter 4). The recording industry catered to the multiple styles of Ottoman taste. As Strötbaum (1992b) shows, record companies sought to sell their products to niche markets, especially in Turkey and Egypt. Publishing catalogs in Arabic, Armenian, Greek and Ottoman, the American company called “Favorite” sought to secure market share among different nationalities in the Ottoman Empire. Gramophone followed suit. In a special catalogue published to mark the reestablishment of constitutional democracy (1909), Gramophone featured a list of recordings in the following languages: “Turkish, Greek, Armenian, Albanian, Serbian and Spanish [Ladino]” (cited in Ünlü [2004: 151–2]). Even during the early Republican period, a heterogeneous range of genres is apparent. In the Orfeon Catalogue ([1923]) and the Odeon Catalog ([1926]) for example, “classical” compositions (such as a kâr and a semaî) and the folk genres (such as divan and dağı) are advertised: that is, in addition to dance numbers (such as zeybek and sirto), theatrical pieces (such as kanto and karagöz) as well as orchestral numbers (such as quadrille and march). As I show elsewhere (O’Connell [1996: 374]), this eclectic palate of musical styles did not survive Turkist scrutiny. MUSIC AND MOBILIZATION The issue of a Yarım Türk was especially foregrounded during the War. Where Muslims had traditionally been recruited into the Ottoman army, the reformulation of the millet system (in 1856) and the establishment of a constitutional democracy (in 1909) enabled non-Muslims in theory and

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in practice, respectively, to be conscripted. As Zürcher (1998) argues, this presented problems on behalf of Muslims (who were skeptical about arming non-Muslims) and of non-Muslims (who were indifferent about supporting Muslims). The issue came to a head during the Balkan wars, when Christians (especially Bulgarians and Greeks) were expected to fight against their compatriots in Bulgaria and Greece. Further, there was the pressing issue of irredentism, when Christians (especially Armenians) were engaged in an ongoing struggle for national determination. Exemption (by way of a special tax) was one means of avoiding recruitment. Another way was the adoption of a different nationality, Bulgarian for Bulgarians or Greek for Greeks. However, the Jews were left in a quandary. As yet, they had no homeland to call their own. Till then, the Ottoman Empire was still their home. There was another problem. The Ottoman army was a Muslim army where God and man came together in the guise of holy war. When a jihad was proclaimed at the outset of the War, it theoretically excluded the recruitment of non-Muslims into the Ottoman forces. Further, the traditional practices of the Ottoman army were Muslim. For example, the ritual prayer (tr. salât-ı havf) was made before attacking and the war cry “Allah! Allah!” was yelled when attacking. Since non-Muslims represented around twenty percent of the Ottoman population when war was declared (ibid.: 446), they could pay the requisite exemption fee (tr. iane-i askerî) or they were drafted into non-combative units (to perform fatigues). There were other exemptions applicable to all Ottoman citizens. Senior members of the judiciary and the administration were exempt. So too were religious leaders of all denominations. Although the relevant legislation was overturned (1916), Istanbul residents could not be drafted into the armed forces. The proliferation of exemptions became so serious that only seventy thousand soldiers were conscripted per annum before general mobilization (ibid.: 447).16 Music played a major role during recruitment. On formal occasions that marked warlike intention, brass bands were prominent, be it at the declaration of war outside the War Office (tr. Harbiye Nazareti) or at the proclamation of jihad in front of Fatih Mosque (tr. Fatih Camii). Brass bands also played a ceremonial part in the celebrations that accompanied the transfer of German ships to the Ottoman navy and the departure of Ottoman ships against the Russian navy (see, also, Beşikçi [2012: 51]). More significantly, musicmaking was an integral component of military recruitment in the provinces. Since many conscripts were illiterate (and therefore unable to read posters and pamphlets), an instrumental duo consisting of a drum (tr. davul) and oboe (tr. zurna) was dispatched to relay noisily the terms of conscription throughout the countryside (ibid.: 86). Music also featured during the spectacles and the rituals associated with recruitment (ibid.: 90). Indeed, musicians feature prominently in the propagandist imagery associated with the draft such as



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Mevlevî dervishes playing flutes (tr. ney-s) or karagöz characters blowing horns (see Koloğlu [2015]). There were a number of musical compositions associated with mobilization. Chief among these was the song entitled “While Going to War” (tr. “Cenge Giderken”). It was written by Mehmet Emin [Yurdakul] (1869–1944) as a patriotic poem at the time of the Greek-Turkish war (1897).17 It was set to music by the renowned composer Zekâi Dede (1825–97). It was subsequently renamed the “Song of the National Soldier” (tr. “Millî Asker Şarkısı”). As Beşikçi (2012: 87) notes, the piece was sung by conscripts when leaving home for military service. “Cenge Giderken” is a folksong. Typical of the destan genre, each line (four lines per verse) has eleven syllables [4+4+3] and each strophe (five in total) has an end rhyme [aaab]. For the time of composition (1897), the poem is remarkable. It is written in a vernacular Turkish rather than in a hybrid Ottoman. In the first line (“I am a Turk” [tr. “Ben bir Türküm”]), it identifies the soldier as Turkish rather than as Ottoman. Given that Turkism was not as yet recognized as an official ideology, the poem “Cenge Giderken” is both visionary and revolutionary.18 “Cenge Giderken” can be read in terms of a secular nationalism or a sacral cosmopolitanism. In the original, the poem foregrounds the religion and the race of the Turks: “I am a Turk, my religion like my race is exalted” (tr. “Ben bir Türküm dinim, cinsim uludur”). Words for “my homeland” (tr. “vatanım”) and “my nation” (tr. “milletim”), for “my home” (tr. “evim”) and my country (tr. “yurd[um]”) are prominent. In the original too, the poem avoids references to Islam. The holy book is called “the creator’s book” (tr. “yaradanın kitabı”) and not the “Qur’an” (tr. “Kur’an”). God is named “Tanrı” and not “Allah.” Like Muslims, Christians and Jews could identify with the religious content of the composition. While the word “witness” (tr. “şahîd”) could be understood to have Islamic connotations, the word is set beside “my God” (tr. “Tanrım”) rather than simply “God” (tr. “Allah”). Even the allusions to a slave (tr. kul) and a beloved (tr. yâr) suggest a mystical pluralism that might appeal to the patriot sentiments of all Turks, be they Muslim or non-Muslim.19 There is another composition by İsmail Hakkı that is specifically associated with mobilization. Like many others, it is called “Motherland March” (tr. “Vatan Marşı”). However, “Summons to the Army” (tr. “Çağırır Askere”) is appended to the title. Composed in the makam Hicazkâr and the usûl sofyan, the march was recorded by Orfeon Records. Accompanied by a studio ensemble (tr. studyo heyeti), Hâfız Yaşar [Okur] (1886–1966) is the vocalist. With a catalog number [No. 10201], the disc was probably recorded between 1912 and 1913 (see chapter 2, n. 16). Notably, this recording was made before the general call for mobilization (August 2, 1914). Although most likely composed to summon volunteers during the Balkan wars, the “Vatan Marşı” was equally appropriate as a recruiting number to mobilize conscripts during

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the War. The first line is as follows: “Look your country is calling [you] to the army” (tr. “Çağırıyor askere bak vatan”). Typical words like sacrifice (tr. kurban) and glorious (tr. şânlı) are emphasized. At the end of the four-line stanza, Yaşar shouts: “long live my motherland!” (tr. “yaşasın vatanım!”). Recordings were one means of disseminating militarist propaganda. Concerts were another. İsmail Hakkı was especially famed for staging live performances in the open air throughout the War (see Özalp [1986, 2: 34–6]; Kaygusuz [2006: 201]). He also developed a standardized concert format with a carefully considered program. Musicians (around thirty five in total) were arranged in a semicircle, instrumentalists seated in the front and choristers standing in the back. Every musician was required to read music from a music stand. In the middle, İsmail Hakkı conducted the ensemble with a tambourine (tr. def). Each musician wore a standard uniform, a double-breasted and navy-blue coat. In fact, İsmail Hakkı was the first to refer to such performances as “concerts” (tr. “konserler”), alaturka now following the conventions of alafranga in the invention of “a classical style” (tr. “klâsik bir üslûp”). Of course, not everyone was enamored by this “westernization” of Turkish music. True to form, Raûf Yekta Bey (1871–1935) lambasted İsmail Hakkı for his modernizing initiatives (see Özalp [1986, 2: 35]), especially from the perspective of musical sources (that were inauthentic) and musical practices (that were hybrid). Poor İsmail Hakkı. He was criticized by conservative exponents of alaturka (for his hybridity) and by progressive advocates of alafranga (for his parody). If İsmail Hakkı were to be caricatured by Aka Gündüz in Yarım Türkler, he would be portrayed both as Ma’ra the Ottomanist and as Süheyla the Europeanist since he was never able convincingly to meld the “east” with the “west,” in terms of either polyphonic arrangement or “classical” setting. At his most vitriolic, Raûf Yekta attacked İsmail Hakkı for his lack of musical knowledge and social standing (see O’Connell [2017]). Yet, it is clear that İsmail Hakkı was immensely prolific. His vocal compositions ranged from the rural (such as the folk genre [türkü]) to the urban (such as the “classical” song [şarkı]), from the sacred (such as the religious hymn [ilâhi]) to the secular (such as the cabaret ditty [kanto]). His instrumental compositions were equally varied. Most importantly, he transcended the rigid distinction between alaturka and alafranga by composing hybrid forms (such as marches) and by creating hybrid spectacles (such as operettas). Indeed, İsmail Hakkı was himself the archetypal yarım Türk. ARTISTS IN WAR İsmail Hakkı was a key figure during the Young Turk period. From benefit concerts to theatrical productions, from music societies to music schools,



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İsmail Hakkı played a major role in confirming musically the cosmopolitan character of Ottoman society during the early twentieth century. Like Musahipzâde Celâl, İsmail Hakkı relished the heterogeneous sound world of the Ottoman capital by patronizing Armenian educators in music establishments (such as Leon Hancıyan) or by sponsoring Jewish composers (such as Nesim Sevilya [1856–1949]) in private settings (Jackson [2013: 33]). When war was declared, İsmail Hakkı was instrumental in the musical restoration of the janissary band either by composing marches to be performed by or by recommending musicians to be employed in the ensemble. Although Musikii Osmanî was closed during the Balkan wars, İsmail Hakkı was able to save janissary musicians from the front. Following a precedent set by the Imperial Band (tr. Muzıka-ı Hümâyûn), İsmail Hakkı ensured that the janissary performers remained non-combatant artists affiliated with (rather than part of) the armed forces. Although Enver Paşa wished otherwise (see chapter 4), it is unlikely that any janissary troupes saw active service. Musicians in the Imperial Band were not so lucky. When the Ottoman army was restructured to facilitate the rapid promotion of qualified soldiers (1908), the musicians of the Imperial Band lost their status as non-combatant officers (Tuğlacı [1986: 84, 89]). Accordingly, they enrolled in the Military Academy to graduate as professional soldiers. During the Balkan wars, many were killed. Later (in 1915), Enver Paşa conscripted band members to fight in the Gallipoli Campaign. However, most musicians were unprepared for active service (ibid.: 87, 93). Accordingly, they received intensive instruction in military maneuvers and martial music. At the time, there was no formal institution to complete the task. Further, foreign artists like André Antoine (1858–1943) in the theatrical world and Sigmund Weinberg (1868–[1930]) in the cinematic world were (or would be) expelled. Hastily, a varied collection of teachers was cobbled together including Alı Rıza from the janissary band to teach French and Paul Lange (1857–1919) from the naval band to teach history. It would be two years before a music conservatory (tr. Darül’elhan) was founded (1917) so that musicians could be trained properly as soldiers.20 The fate of the musician soldiers on Gallipoli front was tragic. Attached to the Star Battalion (tr. Yıldız Taburu), many were slaughtered at the Battle of Krithia (1915). As Tuğlacı notes (ibid.: 87, 93), recruits were often old (exceeding the legal age for conscription). Only with the intervention of Sultan Mehmet V (r. 1909–18) were some musicians relieved from active service. They were not the only artists to suffer professional dislocation. In the theater, actors of military age were also recruited. This had two outcomes. First, only small productions could be staged, often featuring women rather than men. Since new plays were not commissioned, only adaptions and translations were presented.21 Second, new students could not be trained at the Darülbedayi-i Osmanî (Özön and Dürder [1967: 119–23]), either because

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of the dwindling finances at the drama school or the forced conscription of potential graduates. Despite this (in January, 1916), the music and the drama departments at the institution were able to present together a staged performance entitled “Unsound Foundation” (tr. “Çürük Temel”) in aid of soldiers’ families (ibid.: 123). Only the film industry prospered. With the patronage of Enver Paşa, a cinematographic department was founded in imitation of a German precedent ([Nijat] Özön [2013: 51]). Called the “Central Army Office of Cinema” (tr. “Merkez Ordu Sinema Dairesi” [MOSD]), MOSD was headed by the German-speaking entrepreneur Weinberg (see chapter 2). MOSD had two remits. First, live footage was recorded by its film crews at the battlefront. These films were then screened at the cinema in the Military Museum often accompanied by the resident janissary ensemble ([Wendy] Shaw [2003: 199]). Second, live recordings of theatrical productions were also filmed. In particular, staged performances by the Benliyan Company were shot such as the operettas called “Horhor the Chickpea Seller” (tr. “Leblebici Horhor”) and the “Marriage of Himmet Ağa” (tr. “Himmet Ağanın İzdivacı”). When Weinberg was exiled (1916), MOSD continued its remit of recording public spectacles (such as the destruction of the Russian Monument [1914]) and official ceremonies (such as the visit by Kaiser Wilhelm II [1917]). Among these, a film entitled the “Battles of Gallipoli” (tr. “Çanakkale Muharebeleri”) (1916) was screened. NOTES 1. See O’Connell (2005) for a discussion of “western” parody in Turkish music and Turkish fashion. 2. Aka Gündüz is the pen name of Hüseyin Avni [Finci], a Turk who was born in Alasonya (Elassóna in modern-day Greece). He was a prolific author, whose career spanned the late Ottoman and early Republican periods. Failing to graduate from the military academy in Harbiye (on medical grounds), he studied law and the arts in Paris. Upon his return to Istanbul, he was exiled by Sultan Abdülhamit II to Salonica for his Turkist agitation. There he founded the journal Genç Kalemler, a periodical that published Turkist writings by contemporary ideologues (such as Ziya Gökalp [see chapter 4]). Like Ziya Gökalp, Aka Gündüz sought to compose literature using a purified and simplified form of Turkish. Following the War, Aka Gündüz (like Ziya Gökalp) was tried and exiled to Malta (1919). Surprisingly, Yarım Türkler was published in the year of his incarceration; that is, five years after its première performance in association with the Naval Society (tr. Donanma Cemiyeti). When freed, Aka Gündüz held a number of government positions, for example being a member of parliament (s. 1932–46). See Yücebaş (1959) among others for an overview of the life and works of Aka Gündüz. As a point of clarification, the writer Aka Gündüz [Finci] should not be confused with the musician Aka Gündüz Kutbay (1934–79).



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3. Gök (2008) has analyzed the contributions made by different branches of the Donanma Cemiyeti in Anatolia. In particular, she notes the systematic organization of fund raising in the provinces, where volunteers traveled to the remotest regions of Turkey to secure contributions. The donations varied depending on wealth (figures for 1913–4 are reproduced [ibid.: 89]), the largest amount coming from Aydın in western Anatolia (around four million para) and the smallest amount coming from Van in eastern Anatolia (about eleven thousand para). She shows how local newspapers were used to name and shame miserly contributors; that is, by publishing comparative schedules of local payments (town by town). Interestingly, the Donanma Cemiyeti at first advocated an Ottomanist perspective by securing monies from donors who were non-Muslim as well as Muslim. This is evident in the early publications of the Donanma Mecmuası. This changed after 1913, when the Donanma Cemiyeti became an official arm of the Committee of Union and Progress (tr. İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti). After this date, the Donanma Cemiyeti espoused a Turkist ideology. At this time too, individual payments to the Donanma Cemiyeti changed from being a voluntary donation to a covert taxation, especially among the professional classes (see, also, Nykiel [2011]). 4. Nykiel ([2011]) provides a concise summary of the purchases (complete with contemporary costs) made on behalf of the Ottoman navy in Germany. He also provides technical details about the displacement and the speed of relevant vessels. It is noteworthy that the names of the destroyers ordered from Germany reflect the generosity of the contributors to the Donanma Cemiyeti. These include “Model of Patriotism” (tr. “Nümüne-yi Hamiyet”) and “Souvenir of the Nation” (tr. “Yâdigâr-ı Millet”). See Noppen (2015) for an in-depth coverage of warships in the Ottoman navy (1914–8). However, Noppen does not present new information about the Donanma Cemiyeti that cannot be found in Shaw (2006, 2008), Gök (2008) or Nykiel ([2011]). 5. The Donanma Mecmuası used three calendric systems: two Ottoman (called “hicrî” and “rumi”) and one European (called “milâdî”). To avoid confusion, I employ the European system to discuss clearly the relevant timeline. However, I also provide below (as is conventional) dates for the published issues which are discussed in the text using the rumi calendar: issue 53, July 14, 1330; issue 54, July 21, 1330; issue 55, July 28, 1330; issue 56, August 4, 1330; issue 57, August 18, 1330. For some reason (which is not apparent), issues 56 and 57 were published a fortnight (instead of a week) apart. 6. Having lost two dreadnoughts through British duplicity, the article in the Donanma Mecmuası continues: “Our affectionate standard is turned towards the Yavuz. The Goeben, which previously belonged to Germany, is not just a cruiser in our waters, it is considered to be a great battle cruiser. Although it is declared by the Germans that it can achieve twenty eight miles per hour,” it is comparable with the performance of similar ships in the British navy. It is noteworthy here that the connection between the Goeben and the Yavuz is not specifically clarified. Importantly, the anonymous author adds: “The Germans do not wish to discuss these issues,” they perhaps not wanting to upset the delicate negotiations with the unionist triumvirate with regard to a strategic alliance in the War. The article states that a financial transaction was undertaken to insure that the Yavuz became part of the Ottoman navy. Crucial

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here is the audience in question. That is, Turkish and Muslim subscribers (rather than non-Turks and non-Muslims) would benefit from this strategic expansion of naval power. 7. The word “caravan” (tr. “kervan”) is a common theme in the literary output of Aka Gündüz. For example, the word “kervan” appears in the expression “dogs may howl but the caravan passes by” (tr. “it ürür, kervan geçer”), a phrase that means approximately “you cannot stop progress merely by barking.” It is used by Aka Gündüz in a poem entitled “pass by my brave one!” (tr. “geç yiğitim, geç!”), a poem that was published in the journal Alay (issue 5, [February 7, 1336] February 20, 1920). For example too, in an article that was published in the newspaper Hâkimiyeti Milliye (January 28, 1932), Aka Gündüz writes as a journalist about the radical reforms during the early Republican period under the caption “The Cadre and the Caravan” (tr. “Kadro ve Kervan”). The title means approximately, “the political establishment and the revolutionary steamroller.” In certain writings, the use of the word “kervan” by Aka Gündüz is double-edged, representative of either a higgledy-piggledy circus or a highly organized camp. It can reference the tragic state of the national “caravan” but at the same time signify the heartfelt love of the nationalist “caravan.” See Aka Gündüz (1930: 81). 8. According to Gökmen (1991: 25), the Apollon Sineması was opened during the summer of 1915. This would imply that the début performance by Münir Nurettin cannot have occurred before that date. However, the Apollon Sineması had long existed as a performance venue, being owned by Greek entrepreneurs. Called “Halkidona Theater” after the Greek name for Kadıköy (gk. Chalkédón), it had a large auditorium consisting of boxes arranged in three tiers. After its construction ([1873]), it hosted a number of Greek and Turkish performances. Later, it was renamed the “[Kadıköy] Kışlık Apollon Tiyatrosu” and was still staging dramatic productions at the outset of the War. As the oldest theater in Kadıköy, it was considered to be a chic venue. As such, it was an obvious location for a concert by Münir Nurettin in aid of the Donanma Cemiyeti. Of note, Münir Nurettin continued to perform concerts in this venue when it was later called “Hale Sineması” (see O’Connell [2013, 2017]). 9. La dame aux camélias was first performed in Istanbul (1882). Staged by the great stalwarts of Turkish theater Güllü Agop (1840–1902) and Mardiros Mınakyan, the play was regularly staged in the Ottoman metropolis during the late nineteenth century in its French original or in its Turkish translation. Of course, La dame aux camélias was transformed into the libretto for La Traviata (1853) by Giuseppe Verdi, a work that was premiered much earlier in Istanbul (at the Naum Tiyatrosu) during the 1855–6 season (Aracı [2011: 35]). 10. Musahipzâde Celâl is a very different author from the Turkist writers featured in this chapter. He was not interested in the contemporary preoccupation with Turkish nationalism, providing instead a historic representation of everyday life in the Ottoman Empire. Accordingly, I have labeled him as a conservative Ottomanist rather than as a radical Turkist, a label that he may (or may not) have approved. As a productive playwright, he is considered to be one of the most important figures in Ottoman theater during the Young Turk period. A direct descendant of the Ottoman composer Şakir Ağa (1779–1840), Musahipzâde Celâl melded Turkish traditional theater (such



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as ortaoyunu) with Turkish traditional music (both “classical” and folk). Apart from İstanbul Efendisi with music by Leon Hancıyan, Musahipzâde Celâl wrote the librettos for a number of operettas that were composed by prominent Turkish composers, the piece entitled “Tulip Period” (tr. “Lâle Devri”) with music by İsmail Hakkı being especially noteworthy as the first theatrical production where women were allowed to attend (premièred in 1921). See Tuncay (2004) for a consideration of the Ottoman style that was fostered by Musahipzâde Celâl. See Hançerlioğlu Ed. (1970) for an edited compilation of plays by Musahipzâde Celâl. 11. In a recent production of İstanbul Efendisi by the City Theater of the Istanbul Municipality (tr. İstanbul Belediye Şehir Tiyatrosu), a hilarious rendition of this musical punishment was staged in Istanbul (August 22, 2009). Screaming out the notes to the song entitled “My Suffering Nightingale” (tr. “Çile Bülbülüm”) by Sadettin Kaynak, the prisoners respond musically in turn to the lashes meted out by the Thracian blacksmith (Bakir), who wields his hammer against the soles of his prisoners as if playing a xylophone. For a view of this performance, see İstanbul Efendisi at the following web address: www.youtube.com [Access Date: April 15, 2016]. 12. See Hiçyılmaz (1999) for a historical introduction to the genre called “kanto” and the performers called “kantocular.” In particular, he documents the female stars of the tradition, some of whom also performed in contemporary plays and operettas (such as Avgani Hanım and Virjin Hanım). He also documents (ibid.: 14–6) the hybrid language used by the performers (who were usually Armenian or Greek) and he furnishes (ibid.: 62–145) a copy of extant kanto-s, many of which have Romani themes (such as the kanto entitled “Gypsy Kanto” [tr. “Çingene Kantosu” [ibid.: 102]]). Like İstanbul Efendisi, the kanto tradition was revived during the early Republican period. 13. In a blog about İstanbul Efendisi, Sinem Özek (posted in 2011) makes a similar observation about Musahipzâde Celâl being an Ottoman orientalist. Written a year before Çorumlu (2012), there is a disconcerting overlap between the text presented by Özek and research provided by Çorumlu. That being said, Çorumlu makes some important observations about the relationship between İstanbul Efendisi and the dramatic genres karagöz and ortaoyunu. For an overview of İstanbul Efendisi by Özek, see the following web address: elcinkiray.blogspot.co.uk/2011 [Access Date: April 20, 2016]. See, also, O’Connell (2005) for a discussion of Turkish orientalism as it relates to Turkish music. 14. In İstanbul Efendisi, Musahipzâde Celâl adopts the central position of oppositional characters to be found in karagöz and ortaoyunu. That is, the male Kadı Salveti and the female Çengî Afet mirror the adversarial protagonists Karagöz-Hacivat (in karagöz) and Kavuklu-Pişekâr (in ortaoyunu). Further, the conversational character of dramatic exegesis replicates the “conversation” (tr. “muhavere”) to be found in traditional Ottoman theater. Traditional also are the names of the characters, where Dilâram means “sweetheart” and Dilâver means “courageous” (in İstanbul Efendisi), and Kavuklu means “the turbaned man” and Pişekâr means “the clever man” (in ortaoyunu). That is, the name of each individual matches the character of each person. Further, there is an inter-textual relationship between the play İstanbul Efendisi and the genre ortaoyunu in the form of the character named Çelebi. See, also, Çorumlu (2012).

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15. In the Orthodox and Catholic confessions, Easter and Corpus Christi featured public processions. Among Greeks, in particular, Carnival (gk. Apókries) presented an important opportunity for displaying musically a unique identity. Apart from Byzantine chant, a special ensemble composed of Greek instrumentalists played popular numbers in an alafranga idiom (such as Neapolitan songs). Called “Students of Istanbul” (gk. “Estudiantina Polítika”), the male musicians performed on “western” instruments, especially the mandolin (Ünlü [2004: 166–74]). On such occasions, Romani performers (both musicians and dancers) entertained holidaymakers on outdoor excursions to such locations as the Göksu on the Asian side of the Bosporus (see, e.g., Alus [[1943] 1994: 119–22]). Of course, Ramadan (tr. Ramazan) afforded opportunities for nocturnal activities after the daily fast. These entertainments included traditional theater (such as karagöz performances) and traditional music (such as alaturka concerts). It is noteworthy that the plays and the concerts mentioned in the Donanma Mecmuası mostly occurred during the month of Ramadan (July-August, 1914). 16. Zürcher (1998) provides a comparative analysis of the rates of mobilization for different nations. Where the Ottoman Empire achieved a rate of four percent of its population by 1915, France achieved a rate of ten percent of its population by the same date. At the outbreak of war, the Ottoman army numbered c. two hundred thousand soldiers. By comparison, the Austrian army numbered four hundred thousand and the Russian army numbered a million men. As Enver Paşa estimated, full mobilization of the Ottoman army was very slow, issues relating to poor infrastructure and inadequate supplies hampering the recruitment process. The preparation for war was also hindered by Enver Paşa’s disastrous campaign on the Russian front (1914–5) when the Ottoman army lost more than seventy thousand men. See, also, Beşikçi (2012) for an in-depth consideration of mobilization in the Ottoman Empire during the War. 17. Mehmet Emin was yet another Turkist author. Like many ideologues, he was exiled by Sultan Abdülhamit II for his political activism (in his instance being sent to the eastern city of Erzurum). A member of the Committee of Union and Progress (tr. İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti), he was a founding member (along with Ahmet Ağaoğlu [1869–1939] and others) of the Turkish Hearth (tr. Türk Ocağı) and an editor of its journal called “Turkish Homeland” (tr. “Türk Yurdu”). According to Köroğlu (2007: 128, 219), Mehmet Emin was an inveterate propagandist, so much so that soldiers carried and read his poems on the Gallipoli front to boost morale. Like Aka Gündüz, Mehmet Emin served on a number of occasions as a member of parliament. See Tansel Ed. (1969) for a compilation and analysis of poetic works by Mehmet Emin. 18. “Cenge Giderken” was set to music in the makam Hicaz and the usûl aksak by Zekâi Dede apparently in the last year of his life (1897). Given that “Cenge Giderken” was published in a Salonica newspaper during that year, it is not clear how the composer obtained the poem. A transcription of the piece here entitled “Motherland Song” (tr. “Vatan Şarkısı”) was published by the İstanbul Konservatuvarı Neşriyatı (Ezgi Ed. [1940: 51]). On another page (ibid.: 56) the poem is featured. The lyrics of the song are slightly different from the original. In verse three: “I won’t let the Ottoman flag be taken” (tr. “Osmancığın bayrağını aldırtmam”) is replaced (here in verse two) by “I won’t let the Ertuğrul flag be taken” (tr. “Ertuğrulun bayrağını aldırtmam”). Of course, Ertuğrul (1191–1281) was a founding father of the Ottoman Empire.



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Ertuğrul is also a name given to Turkish warships. Further, “my God” (tr. “Tanrım”) is swapped with “my Mevlana” (tr. “Mevlam”) and “son” in Arabic (spelled “evlâd” in Turkish) is replaced by “son” in Turkish (tr. “oğul”). There is also a small difference in verse order. Here, it important to take into account the editorial input of Suphi Ezgi (1869–1962), then the director of the Society for Fixing and Classifying (tr. Tasnif ve Tespit Heyeti) in the Istanbul Conservatory (tr. İstanbul Konservatuvarı). As a point of clarification, “Cenge Giderken” is different from the “Oath March” (tr. “Ant Marşı”) composed by the music educator Mehmet Zati [Arca] (1864–1943), although both pieces begin with the same words “I am a Turk” (tr. “Ben bir Türküm”). 19. There are different versions of this poem. As Karabulut (2011) points out, the prophet Mohammed (tr. Muhammed) replaces the “Divine Creator” (tr. “Yaradan”) in some versions. The relevant line reads as follows: “I won’t let Mohammed’s book be removed” (tr. “Muhammed’in kitabını kaldırtmam”) rather than “I won’t let the divine Creator’s book be removed” (tr. “Yaradanın kitabını kaldırtmam”). As is obvious, this reference to the Prophet is specifically aimed at Muslims. Accordingly, Karabulut provides a reading of the poem that is both Islamicist and nationalist, more in keeping with imperial autocracy than national democracy. In other poems, Ottoman (tr. Osmanlı) replaces Turk (tr. Türk) in the first line of the poem (after 1908) to suit the Ottomanist sensibilities of the Young Turk period. That is: “I am an Ottoman” (tr. “Ben bir Osmanlıyım”) rather than “I am a Turk” (tr. “Ben bir Türküm”). As Kiras (2015) notes, the different version of the poem was disseminated in school textbooks. However, this version of the poem upsets the original poetic setting [4+4+3] since “Ben bir Osmanlıyım” consists of six syllables and “Ben bir Türküm” is composed of four syllables. As a matter of clarification the poem entitled “While Going to War” (tr. “Cenge Giderken”) is also called “A Voice from Anatolia” (tr. “Anadolu’dan bir Ses”) in the original publication by Mehmet Emin that was published in the newspaper Asır (1897). There it was part of a wider collection of works entitled “Poems in Turkish” (tr. “Türkçe Siirler”). 20. When the Darülbedayi-i Osmanî was opened (1914), it featured a music as well as a dramatic section. In the standard literature on the institution, the musical remit of the academy is rarely foregrounded (see, e.g., Özön and Dürder [1967: 117– 30]). Surprisingly, Öztuna (1990) does not provide a separate entry for the school. That being said, some prominent musicians were affiliated with the Darülbedayi-i Osmanî including the alaturka specialists İsmail Hakkı and Raûf Yekta, and the alafranga experts Viktor Radeglia (see chapter 4) and Paul Lange (see chapter 2). Moving between different locations, the music section was finally closed in March (1916) on account of the War. 21. This is evident from the theater schedule for 1915 (see Yalçın [2002: 303–4]). By comparison with the theater schedule for 1914, there is a remarkable decline in public performances of dramatic works during 1915, both in terms of quantity and quality. As Özön and Dürder (1967: 122) bemoan, the staging of “adaptations” in particular by the Darülbedayi-i Osmanî during the War set an unfortunate precedent for future theatrical productions made by the drama academy. As an example of this, the musical entitled “Çürük Temel” was an “adaptation” of the play entitled “La Maison d’Argile” (1907) which was originally written by the French playwright Émile Fabre (1869–1955).

Chapter 6

Sound Bites

We have heard it. We cannot forget it. Jack shouts: “What are your legs?” Archy cries: “Springs. Steel springs!” Jack yells: “What are they going to do?” Archy shouts: “Hurl me down the track!” Jack bawls out: “How fast can you run?” Archy screams back: “As fast as a leopard!” So begins the film called “Gallipoli,” Uncle Jack training his nephew Archy to become a worldclass sprinter in the Australian Outback. Of course, the film is not essentially about an athlete nor is it a film principally about an Australian. It is a movie about the futility of war, when an Australian athlete is forced to attack through English incompetence a Turkish trench during the Gallipoli Campaign. The film ends with the same words. This time, Archy repeats the mantra to himself before going to his death. He starts: “What are your legs?” … He finishes: “As fast as a leopard!” But adds: “Let’s see you do it.” The film concludes with a still of Archy shot at the finish line, as if in a race but instead of his life. Gallipoli is a classic example of the new wave in Australian cinema, a renaissance (1970–85) that saw directors and actors from Australia achieve international recognition.1 Directed by Peter Weir (1944–), Gallipoli was filmed (1980) and screened (1981). Although concerned with the ANZAC landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula, the movie was shot for the most part on a beach in South Australia, the extras being recruited from among local fishermen in Port Lincoln and resident soldiers in the Australian Defense Force. The actual budget was quite small (around three million Australian dollars). However, the final result is outstanding. From the trench formations to the military attire, from the recruiting parade to the gala ball, Weir recreates with impressive detail the life and times of Australian recruits at the dawn of Australian nationhood, when the Commonwealth of Australia was created (1901). Surprisingly, only a third of the film (roughly forty minutes) is 157

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devoted to the military encounter in Gallipoli, the rest of the movie (roughly seventy minutes) charting the travels and the travails of two volunteers from Australia to Turkey via Egypt. Gallipoli focuses on two protagonists. Archy Hamilton (played by Mark Lee [1958–]) is the idealist, a stockman from the country who wishes to achieve glory as a sportsman. Frank Dunne (played by Mel Gibson [1956–]) is the pragmatist, an entrepreneur from the city who wants to find fame as a gambler. Archy and Frank run against each other at a race meeting. Archy wins the race and Frank loses the money. Thus begins an unlikely relationship between Archy the impressionable royalist of Scottish descent and Frank the cynical nationalist of Irish origin, the former willing to serve an English monarch but the latter unwilling to support an English empire. With conflicting motives for volunteering, the two journey together across the desert to enlist. They travel together across the ocean to fight, first training in Cairo under the pyramids and later landing in Gallipoli on the beaches. As battle approaches, Archy allows Frank to take his safe place as a runner behind the lines. Archy is slaughtered and Frank is saved. The final still of Archy shot is also one of crucifixion. Gallipoli is based on a true story. The tale recounts the life and death of two brothers from Western Australia, Wilfred Harper (1890–1915) and Gresley Harper (1884–1915). As in the movie, the two volunteered for active service by joining the Tenth Light Horse Regiment, the regiment being posted to the Gallipoli Peninsula in May (1915). Having survived two months, the brothers took part in the Battle of the Nek (August 7, 1915), a major assault on the Turkish positions in the high ground called “Sari Bair” (tr. “Conkbayırı”) during the August Offensive (August 6–8, 1915). As in the film, there was a bombardment of the Turkish trenches before the attack. As in the film too, there was a delay between the barrage and the assault, thereby allowing Turkish troops to return to their trenches. The result was a massacre. Like Archy, Wilfred was in the third wave to go “over the top.” Like Archy too, Wilfred “was last seen running forward like a schoolboy in a footrace, with all the speed he could compass.”2 For both men, the tragic outcome was inevitable. However, Gallipoli is not entirely true to the story. Unlike Archy Hamilton and Frank Dunne, the Harper brothers were both killed in the Battle of the Nek, in one account dying in each other’s arms in front of the Turkish trenches. More significant is the representation of English incompetence. In the film, an English officer (called “Colonel Robinson”) is made culpable for the catastrophic delay between the barrage and the charge. In the battle, an Australian colonel (John Antill [1866–1934]) was in fact responsible for the faulty chain of command, an ANZAC officer who was too old and too inept for the post. At the time, Antill was only temporarily in charge of the brigade. In fiction, the salvo is made from land, in reality the shelling was made from



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the sea. Due to confused reports, Antill refused to halt the relevant attacks on the Turkish trenches, thereby ensuring the needless slaughter of more than three hundred soldiers. Since the strategic maneuver to unite Allied forces along the Gallipoli coastline had already failed, the Battle of the Nek was completely unnecessary. Indeed, Gallipoli is a harsh indictment against the English. At one level, the film celebrates the individuality of the Australian nation, now disengaged from English rule. Here, the notions of mateship (fostering male bonds) and larrikinism (subverting social conventions) are foregrounded in the film, two attributes characteristic of a distinctive Australian identity. At another level, the film denigrates the imperial project by questioning the Australian involvement in a British conflict. In Cairo, British officers are stereotyped as arrogant. Australian soldiers are represented as uncouth. The difference is marked in language and by behavior. However, the characterization of both groups is not convincing. The English accents are too embellished and the Australian dialects are too exaggerated. Indeed, the English conform to a contemporary construction of British identity in the Australian imagination, the manner in which Australian soldiers might aspire to become English officers. Further, the Australians soldiers not only parody the English. They also denigrate the Egyptians. That is, the colonized become the colonizers in action and in words. At times, the ANZAC recruits are violent toward and disdainful of their Arab hosts. In Gallipoli, there are two reasons for this disparaging representation of English soldiers. First, the film was financed by R&R Films, an Australian company that was founded by the film producer Robert Stigwood (1934–2016) and the media mogul Rupert Murdoch (1935–). Of importance, Rupert Murdoch was the son of Keith Murdoch (1885–1952), an Australian journalist who was famed for his negative representation of British strategy in the Gallipoli Campaign. Although not a war correspondent, [Keith] Murdoch got permission to visit the ANZAC troops on the Gallipoli Peninsula (September 2, 1915); that is, he arrived after the devastating battles in Suvla Bay (throughout August, 1915). [Keith] Murdoch was shocked by what he saw. He was appalled at the living conditions, by the debilitating sickness and the dreadful squalor, by the terrible food and the terrifying danger. While this was the first time he had visited a war zone, [Keith] Murdoch decided to send a damaging report about nepotism and mismanagement in the British high command to the Australian prime minister, Andrew Fisher (s. 1908–9, 1910–3, 1914–5). His report was later published in British newspapers. Second, the film involved the Australian historian William Gammage (1942–) as a military consultant. As an expert on the War, Gammage followed in the footsteps of the Australian correspondent Charles Bean (1879–1968) in recreating the lives of ordinary soldiers at the battlefront. In his famous book

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entitled “The Broken Years,” Gammage (1974) interrogates the personal testimonies of around a thousand Australians who served in the Middle East and on the Western Front (1914–8). In contrast to Bean however, Gammage uncovers the fears as well as the hopes of regular combatants. He talks about deserters as well as heroes. He recounts the nerves before attack and stench after battle. Despite “the trenches red with the lifeblood of my comrades” (ibid.: 80), Gammage (ibid.: 84–113) takes time to provide a commendable impression of the Turkish troops. He describes the playful exchange across trenches between the Turks and the Australians. He portrays the Turkish soldier as a “gentlemanly opponent” and as the “whitest fighter” (ibid.: 94). However, he reviles the British for the social chasm that existed between their officers and their men (ibid.: 85). HISTORY IN A FILM Gallipoli must be understood in its time and place. Filmed only five years after the Vietnam War (ended in 1975), Gallipoli is not just a movie against war but it is also a movie about commemoration. That is, the film does not attempt to reiterate the cynical attitude toward world conflict held by contemporary Australians. Rather, it seeks to understand the motives behind volunteering for and the responses to fighting with the Australian Imperial Force (AIF). Here, the film charts the gradation between Australia as a colony and Australia as a nation to emphasize two points: wars should not be fought but war-makers should be honored. However, there is another point. Australia had long questioned its position as an independent nation in The Commonwealth (established in 1949), where an English queen was still considered to be an Australian monarch, a head-of-state who was able to exercise special powers without a democratic mandate. Further, changes in economic ties (with the dismemberment of monetary union [1972]) and citizenship rights (with the abolition of subject status [1982]) upset the close relationship between Britain and Australia. As a focus for Gallipoli, the Battle of the Nek was an interesting choice. The skirmish was both pointless and pitiless. However, the encounter was small scale by the standards of the Gallipoli Campaign. With around four hundred casualties in total, the confrontation was not comparable with the massacres experienced by the Allied armies (with eighteen thousand casualties) and the Ottoman troops (with ten thousand casualties) in the battles of Suvla (August 9–12, 1915) and ANZAC (May 19–20, 1915), respectively. In fact, the Battle of the Nek was part of a wider stratagem. With British forces landing at Suvla Bay (August 6, 1915), the ANZAC forces were scheduled to undertake diversionary attacks to draw Ottoman troops away from the



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principal assault. First, the New Zealanders were to capture the peak called “Chunuk Bair” (tr. “Conkbayırı” [261m]). Then, the Australians were to take the shoulder named “Lone Pine” (tr. “Kanlı Sırt”) and to advance along the ridge called “Russell’s Top” (tr. “Yüksek Sırt”). So as to protect the Suvla offensive, the ANZAC forces were to form a strategic flank in the high ground to the south of Suvla Bay. As Gallipoli shows, the ANZAC advance was poorly coordinated. The New Zealanders did not reach Chunuk Bair. Unknown to Allied intelligence, the high ground was well guarded (Erikson [2010: 150]). However, the Australians did take Lone Pine. To facilitate the New Zealanders, Antill agreed to continue on with the Battle of the Nek as planned: that is, with two objectives in mind. The Australians should take the hill called “Baby 700” (tr. “Kılıçbayır” [180m]). In reverse order to the original scheme, the Australians would then support the New Zealander advance toward Chunuk Bair by attacking the promontory named “Battleship Hill” (tr. “Düz Tepe” [c. 200m]). At four in the morning, the bombardment commenced. It lasted half an hour. However, it did little damage to the enemy trenches which traversed the Nek and which terraced up Baby 700 (Van Emden and Chambers Eds [2015: 51–8]). To add to this formidable defensive position, the Australians lost the element of surprise. By delaying the scheduled assault, they allowed the Turks to prepare for an attack and to man their guns. The result was catastrophic. As Gallipoli does not show, there was a serious breakdown in the chain of command. It was [General] Frederic Hughes (1858–1944) rather than [Colonel] Antill who was in command of the Light Horse Brigade. However, Hughes left Antill in charge at the battlefront since Hughes had limited experience of frontline engagements and Antill was a veteran of colonial encounters. As is clear from the Battle of the Nek, Antill wished to indulge his enthusiasm for frontal assaults. Further, it was Antill rather than [Lieutenant Colonel] Noel Brazier (1866–1947) (Major Barton in Gallipoli) who noted the early termination of the marine bombardment. In his version of events (Noel Brazier cited in King [2003: 165–7]), Brazier does not mention the important delay between the ending of the shelling and the beginning of the charging. In his words: “The regiment took up position in trenches at four [in the morning] when bombardment commenced. Bombardment continued to four thirty when a murderous machine gun and rifle fire upon our parapets commenced.” It was Antill who ordered Brazier to “Push On!” In the end, Brazier consulted with Hughes who agreed that the assault should be terminated.3 In contrast to Gallipoli, the Turks had a different version of events to relate. For the Turks, the Battle of the Nek was a minor victory. Unlike the Australians, they suffered no casualties. They viewed the battle as a small skirmish

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in a major push by the ANZAC forces to expand the Allied perimeter and to capture the Ottoman heights. Although the battle at Lone Pine was extremely bloody, the ANZAC advance toward the hills Chunuk Bair (tr. Conkbayırı) and Hill 971 (tr. Kocaçimen Tepe [303m]) was the principal concern of the Ottoman forces. At stake, of course, was the Allied dissection in two of the Gallipoli Peninsula. Yes, Lone Pine served to divert Turkish reserves away from the central trust of the ANZAC advance. However, it also served to consolidate Ottoman troops in the area, troops that could be used against the Allied assault in the elevated territory nearby (Erikson [2010: 148]). Soon (on August 8, 1915), these troops would come under the unified command of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938) when he took control of the newly formed Anafarta Group (tr. Anafarta Grubu). There is something missing in Gallipoli. Only Australian soldiers and English officers are portrayed in the movie. True, Turkish troops play a cameo role as prisoners on the beaches and as fighters in the trenches. However, Gallipoli does not show the multicultural composition of the adversarial forces. At the Battle of the Nek, a Welsh company (of the Royal Welch Fusiliers) also attacked the Turkish defenses from the right flank. It too was decimated. The Battle of the Nek was part of a wider outbreak from the ANZAC enclave (August 6–10, 1915). Called the “Battle of Sari Bair” (tr. “Conkbayırı Muharebeleri”), subject peoples from the British Empire were involved. They included Māoris in the New Zealand Division and Gurkhas in the Indian Brigade. There were also Sikhs and Muslims from the Punjab in the British ranks. On the Turkish side, Arab regiments played a critical role in the August Offensive and, indeed, in the Gallipoli Campaign (see chapter 7). Other nationals, be they “Senegalese” or Indian, French or German, Scots or Irish, demonstrated the heterogeneous character of opposing belligerents in the Gallipoli Campaign. There is something else missing in Gallipoli. The film gives only a fleeting impression of the appalling conditions suffered by the Allied troops in the Gallipoli Campaign. There is only a cursory representation of water provision and food consumption. The poor quality of drinking supplies was one of the chief causes for the proliferation of debilitating diseases (such as dysentery and typhoid) suffered by Allied soldiers. The other was poor sanitation. The monotonous diet of army rations (mostly bully beef and biscuits) did not help. Soldiers were further weakened by lice. They were plagued by flies and overrun by rats. The problem was compounded by dead soldiers who were left to rot in no-man’s-land. Apart from the appalling stench, the effect upon Allied morale was palpable. The result was sick soldiers rather than active soldiers. The weather did not help. The summer was exceptionally hot and the winter was unusually cold. In both instances, the Allied troops were unprepared for the climatic extremes. What with trench foot and shell shock, Gallipoli



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the film does little to characterize the horrific circumstances of Gallipoli the campaign. Gallipoli does get one thing right though: the representation of past times at the front. It provides a correct impression of living conditions with soldiers bivouacked in caves randomly cut out of a steep cliff. It also gives an appropriate sense of the fatigues undertaken, such as the distribution of water bottles in the trenches and the offloading of essential supplies on the beeches (although this service was probably completed by Indian recruits). Indeed, the swimming scene is entirely apposite, with men rollicking naked in the water for entertainment and for cleanliness. However, it is surprising that playing football is not represented in the movie since it was an important past time for maintaining fitness and for instilling confidence. Indeed, there was a football pitch in Cape Helles and there was a football match in Suvla Bay (August 6, 1915), soldiers playing the sport rather than engaging the enemy. Other activities in the film such the distribution of food parcels, the writing of personal diaries and the playing of board games were faithful recreations of historical accounts. MUSIC FOR A FILM Music played an important role in Gallipoli. In the film, Major Barton listens ruefully to a 78 recording on a gramophone the night before he marches out to the Battle of the Nek. It is the aria commonly known as “The Pearl Fishers Duet” or “Below the Sacred Temple” (fr. “Au fond du temple saint”) from the opera entitled “The Pearl Fishers” (fr. “Les pêcheurs de perles”) (1863) by Georges Bizet (1838–78). It is a song between two fishermen (Nadir and Zurga) about the sanctity of male comradeship united in friendship through the intersession of a Brahmin goddess. In Gallipoli, the duet is employed to celebrate the unbreakable bond between two men, Archy and Frank. However, the duet by Nadir and Zurga is also a song about male treachery since the divine goddess as a human seductress becomes the object of their affection, inevitably breaking the solemn oath and instilling a jealous rivalry between them. In the movie as in the opera, one man overcomes his envy by sacrificing his life for the other man, Archy in the infantry charge and Zurga on a funeral pyre. In Gallipoli, Barton unconvincingly sings along to the words of the aria: “Au fond du temple saint paré de fleurs et d’or” (en. “Below the sacred temple adorned with flowers and gold”). He gets right though the next line: “Une femme apparaît” (en. “A woman appears”). He whistles along with Nadir: “La foule prosternée la regarde, étonnée” (en. “The prostrated crowd looks at her astonished”). However, the lines are not about male friendship.

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They are about unrequited love. As he drinks champagne with one hand, he writes about love with the other, apparently an intimate letter to his wife. As the soldiers snigger at their besotted officer, the scene ends with a nighttime shot of the Gallipoli shoreline from the sea, like a stage setting for an operatic production of The Pearl Fishers. However, there is one problem with the recording. It was made as an LP (rather than as a 78) about forty years (recorded in 1953) after the Gallipoli Campaign. Featuring the tenor Léopold Simoneau (1916–2006) as Nadir and the baritone René Bianco (1908–2008) as Zurga, it is a renowned rendition of the exquisite aria. There is one iconic piece of music in Gallipoli. It is the Adagio in G minor (op. 4) apparently written by the Baroque composer Tomaso Albinoni (1671–1751). Arranged for strings and organ during the twentieth century (published in 1954) by the Italian musicologist Remo Giazotto (1910–98), the work underscores the powerful sense of pointless tragedy that is portrayed in the film. The Adagio opens and closes the movie. It accompanies the titles and the credits, which are all crafted in blood red using gothic script. The composition is most effective when it is employed toward the end of the picture. It is featured when the Tenth Light Horse Regiment is rowing quietly toward Anzac Cove, the haunting music emphasizing the fear felt by the men. As a portent of death, it appears again when Frank visits in hospital his mate Snowy (played by David Argue [1959–]), an infantryman who has been fatally wounded. It makes its final appearance when Archy completes his ultimate race. It ends with a single gunshot. The last snapshot of Archy audibly as well as visibly suspended in time. There is another piece of music in Gallipoli. It is the electronic work using synthesizers called “Oxygène” by the French composer and performing artist Jean-Michel Jarre (1948–). Only “Part Two” of the composition is used here. Where the Adagio operates as a leitmotif for solemn destiny, Oxygène operates as a leitmotif for frenetic activity. Oxygène is employed to accompany an overland race across the bush between Archy on foot (barefoot) and his nemesis (Les McCann played by Harold Hopkins [1944–2011]) on horse (bareback). Archy wins but the outcome is uncertain. The composition frames a friendly sprint across the desert to the pyramids by Archy and Frank. The friends reach the finishing line together. However, it is in the final scene where the electronic is juxtaposed against the acoustic. As Frank tares furiously across the trenches as if to the tune of Oxygène, Archy contemplates quietly in the trenches to the music of the Adagio. Although Frank carries a message to save Archy, he is too late. The third wave has already attacked and Archy is just killed. Destiny is served and the Adagio has won. That being said, Gallipoli features many different styles of music. Of course, there are the contemporary ballads that are performed or sung during the film. The first is a patriotic song entitled “For Auld Lang Syne! Australia



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Will Be There” (also called “Australia’s War Song”) written by Walter “Skipper” Francis (1886–1957), a popular songster from Wales who had spent time in Australia before the War. It is a pastiche number with musical references to “La Marseillaise,” “Rule Britannia,” among others (see, also, Watt [2014]). Following a showdown between the Australian and the German navies in the Indian Ocean (November 9, 1914), it was recorded in Britain by Francis ([1915]) for Regal Records (Catalog No. G6869). As in the film, the piece was sung by family members of or played by brass bands when Australian troops sailed abroad to fight in the War. Particularly memorable in the movie are the words when the troopship departs: “But England home and beauty have no cause to fear / Should auld acquaintance be forgot? / No! No!, No! No! No! / Australia will be there, Australia will be there.” The second is a vaudeville number entitled “If England Wants a Hand Well Here it Is!” (1915). Written by the English lyricist Charles Vaude (1882– 1942) and composed by the Australian publisher Joe Slater (1872–1926), it was recorded in Britain by the prolific artiste Harrison Latimer again for Regal Records (Catalog No. G6881). The lyrics are especially jingoistic. England calls Australian soldiers to preserve the liberty and the destiny of the British Empire. Following an introductory bugle call, it summons Australians to respond to “the bugles [that] are loudly calling and drums [that] are calling too” by volunteering to enlist. In this way, Australians will “show the world [that] we’re Britons too.”4 In the film, the song is sung to subvert its sense. Failing to salute their superiors, Frank (and his mates) mock English officers by singing verse two of the piece. Riding donkeys but pretending to be cavalrymen, they sing the refrain: “If England wants a hand well here it is!” wearing monocles and waving clubs in a poor imitation of a martial stereotype. In this way, they show how Australia will assist England. Inevitably, bands play a prominent role in the music for Gallipoli. In particular, a brass band is featured at a recruiting event in Western Australia for the Tenth Light Horse Regiment. The band plays the wartime favorite called “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” (1912) which was composed by the songwriter Jack Judge (1872–1938). It was made famous by the Irish tenor [Count] John McCormack (1884–1945), who recorded (1914) two verses of the song for Victor Records (Catalog No. B15415). In the film, a drunkard wearing a bowler hat belts out the refrain while waving a Union Jack. Following a race in which Archy and Frank compete, a drummer and a bugler (mounted on a Trojan horse) summon the assembled athletes to enlist. There are other bands in the movie. A pipe band in military dress plays the wellknown Scottish tune entitled “Cock O’ the North” while Australian troupes alight in Perth onto a troopship. Surprisingly attired in a blue uniform,5 the pipe band is actually called the “Athol and Ulster Pipe Band” from South Australia.

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There are other forms of music. Two waltzes by Johann Strauss II (1825– 99) are featured in the gala ball for nurses in Cairo. They are “G’schichten aus dem Wienerwald” (en. “Tales from the Vienna Woods” [op. 325]) and “Rosen aus dem Süden” (en. “Roses from the South” [op. 388]). In the film, it is clear that Archy is not comfortable dancing these. However, the orchestra is especially remarkable for the time since three of the instrumentalists (playing a violin, a violin and a flute) are women. In the encore, the male conductor fashionably directs the café orchestra with a violin. Another piece of music is an extract from the “Centoni di sonata No. 3” (op. 64) by Niccolò Paganini (1782–1840). In contrast to the original, it is played solo (and not as a duet for violin and guitar) by an Arab violinist who has some difficulty with the appropriate style for and suitable interpretation of its rendition. The musician plays the piece in a seedy dive in Cairo, a café that probably doubles up as a brothel.

MUSIC AT THE FRONT Music for Gallipoli the film provides a framework for understanding music during Gallipoli the campaign. Although Brian May (1934–97) composed the musical score, it is the sound effects in the movie that are most memorable. Here, the sound recordist Don Connolly (1929–2013) was especially important. From the whistle of the steam engine to the horn of a troop ship, from a muffled footstep in the desert to a barking dog in the farmstead, Connolly offers the sonic material to match the visual canvas created by Weir. By combining the audible with the visible, both men were able to produce an emotional intensity at the end of the picture by juxtaposing the still as silence with the still as portrait when Archy is shot. Further, Connolly recreates the sound world of the Egyptian interlude, where music becomes noise, and noise becomes music; respectively, from the bang of the tambouring (ar. riqq) or the beat of the drum (ar. darbuka) to the inoffensive harmonica that is played among the screaming wounded and the religious chant (ar. tajwīd) that envelops the soundless pyramids. As in the Gallipoli movie, gramophones played a tangential role in the Gallipoli Campaign. They were a valued commodity. When he finally sailed for Gallipoli, for example, John Macmillan (like Major Barton) “took along his most prized possessions, a wind-up gramophone and a selection of 78 rpm records, which he played in the trenches” (John Macmillan cited in Hamilton [2012: 77]). A soldier (like Barton) in the Tenth Light Horse Regiment, Macmillan was apparently photographed in the ANZAC trenches listening to his Decca, a machine famed equally for its portability and its quality.6 In addition to musical “sideshows,” gramophones were also to be heard in



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the Turkish trenches (Wilkie [[1924] 2014: 36]). They are mentioned as a welcome distraction by English convalescents in hospital ([Her] Bert Lee cited in Lee [2015: 56]) and by French officers in their mess (Charles-Roux [1920: 264]).7,8 On a number of occasions, gramophones were used as booby traps. When retreating from the ANZAC positions (December, 1915), “a gramophone, wound up with record on, ready to be started, was left in one dugout—so contrived that the end of the tune meant the death of the listeners” (Norman King-Wilson cited in Hart [2013: 417]). In Gallipoli the film, there is no singing at the front. In Gallipoli the campaign however, songs were sung and chants were intoned. During the Allied landings in Cape Helles and at Anzac Cove (April 25, 1915), respectively, Irish soldiers rushed to the beach singing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” by Judge (see above) and Australian troops approached the shore singing “This Little Bit of the World Belongs to Us” by Edwin “Dryblower” Murphy (1866–1939) (Fitzsimons [2015: 261]). Singing songs about home, both troops were under heavy fire at the time. Apart from the extensive accounts of music-making on board ship (see, e.g., Lee [2015: 26]) and musical entertainment while on leave (see, e.g., Hamilton [2012: 59]),9,10 there are many anecdotes about musical past times on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Citing a Francis Twisleton for example, Kinloch recounts (2005: 169): “At night the ANZACs could hear the Turks opposite them talking and sometimes singing to the accompaniment of a mouth organ. [They] enlivened the trench life with various well-known tunes including the ‘Marseillaise’ and ‘Tipperary.’”11 Surprisingly missing from Gallipoli the film is the role of song in ritual practice. Among the Allies, Christian services were held on Sundays, with hymn singing sometimes banned (as on June 6, 1915) in the ANZAC sector so as not to attract enemy attention (Hamilton [2004: 152–3]). However, regular services with congregational singing were allowed in other parts of the Gallipoli Peninsula. Reginald Gale’s recollection is typical: “One Sunday evening a padre arrived in our camp and handed out hymn books to all of us who happened to be around. It was dusk and already too dark to read, but it gave us a nice feeling to hold the books. We had no musical instrument, of course, but that was not too important because all the hymns were well-known ones and the singing went quite well. […] Perhaps it was because we lived so close to the next world that we were emotional. We ended with ‘Abide with Me’ and the background of small arms fire no doubt added to the sincerity of our singing” (Reginald Gale cited in van Emden and Chambers Eds [2015: 279]).12

From Gallipoli the film the ritual chants of Muslim worship are also missing. Yes, Allied soldiers consistently represented the terrifying sounds of an Ottoman attack. The recollection of Ivor Margetts at Wire Gully is typical: “The Turks did everything imaginable to raise their courage, blowing bugles,

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shouting ‘Allah’ and shooting like hell” (Ivor Margetts cited in Carlyon [2001: 275]). However, this representation is simplistic. Ottoman troops were frequently led by a Muslim imam, holding a sword in one hand and a Qur’an in the other. Two chants were standard during an assault: the cry “Allahuekber!” (tr. Tekbir) and “Lâilaheillallah” (tr. Kelime-i Tevhid). Of course, the imams performed other ritual duties in the trenches such reciting the “Victory Sura” (tr. “Fetih Suresi” [sura 48]) from the Qur’an (tr. Kur’an-ı Kerim) or by praising the Prophet (tr. mevlid). If qualified, they might also recite a dirge (tr. mersiye) at funerals or chant the ezan at prayer times. For many authorities, the imams played a crucial role in maintaining morale among the Ottoman troops during the Gallipoli Campaign (see, e.g., Tutkun [2015: 616–9]). Interestingly, brass bands play a prominent role in Gallipoli the film and Gallipoli the campaign. Be it at recruitment rallies or during embarkation ceremonies, brass bands are correctly portrayed in terms of both repertoire and rendition.13 Yet, when leaving for Gallipoli, brass bands serenaded Allied recruits and when attacking in Gallipoli brass bands should have accompanied Allied assaults (Fitzsimons [2015: 369]). However, this did not happen. By contrast, Ottoman troops employed brass bands to instill courage. In a suicidal assault on the ANZAC positions (May 19, 1915), the Ottomans charged without supporting fire to the tune of martial music and to the cry of religious chant.14 They lost ten thousand men (Hamilton [2012: 67]). Attempting to understand the courage of the Ottoman enemy, Sir Ian Hamilton (1853–1947) “emphasized the influence of a military band concealed in a forward position which had played martial music throughout the action” (Sir Ian Hamilton cited in Kinloch [2005: 136]). That being said, brass bands performed on a daily basis behind the lines either to rehabilitate the Allied wounded (see chapter 3) or to entertain the Ottoman troops (Erickson [2010: 200]). In Gallipoli the film, there is only a brief reference to bugles. As in the movie, a bugle and a drum were commonly used to solicit recruits in wartime. However, bugles played an important role in the training for and the realization of the Gallipoli landings, be it to warn of an incoming shell (Hart [2013: 444]) or to summon support for a flagging advance (Carlyon [2001: 207]). Bugles were sounded when troops were to be recalled or when ships were to be abandoned (ibid.: 50, 233). Indeed, ANZAC soldiers were trained to recognize a range of bugle calls that encompassed different types of marching (for the infantry) and distinctive styles of riding (for the cavalry): that is, in addition to the standard calls at dawn (the “Reveille” or the “Rouse”) and at dusk (the “Last Post” or “Taps”), among others (Hamilton [2012: 60–1]). Where the Allies generally used bugles for signaling, the Ottomans always employed bugles when attacking. The ANZAC accounts of an Ottoman assault are very similar: “The Turks blew bugles, sounded martial music, shouted ‘Allah, Allah’ and died” (ibid.: 67).



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However, Gallipoli the film may have a point to make about the use of bugles during Gallipoli the campaign. From contemporary accounts, it is clear that the complex array of bugle calls in battle maneuvers was outdated, more appropriate to the Battle of Waterloo (June 18, 1815) than to the Battle of Krithia (May 8, 1915). Carlyon (2001: 311) was especially scathing. In his account of the French advance toward Achi Baba (tr. Alçı Tepe), he writes: “The spectacle belonged to the heyday of Napoleon, though not the outcome. This was all about pageantry and derring-do—and failure. Drums and bugles and lines of men in red and blue uniforms and white cork hats, lovely to look at, the way peacocks are when they spread their iridescent tails, and so easy, so very easy to shoot.” For Carlyon, the bugle and drum formation (like the display of regimental attire) was inappropriate in modern warfare. Of course, the bugle was not the only instrument used by ANZAC commanders. Like in the movie, trench whistles were more usually employed to signal an attack against the Ottoman foe.15 MUSICIANS IN A WARZONE Gallipoli the film gives no coverage of the musicians who fought in Gallipoli the campaign. Perhaps, this is because many buglers were required to relinquish their bugles before embarking for the warfront. As Hamilton (2012: 64) notes with reference to an order issued to the Light Horse Brigade in Cairo (May 11, 1915), “all trumpets and bugles will be withdrawn, packed and handed over to the Camp Commandant.” Instead, instrumentalists were issued with rifles and bayonets like ordinary cavalryman. In acknowledgment of the distinctive character of warfare in Gallipoli, cavalry horses were also left behind. However, it is clear that buglers were active in the warzone simply by the number of buglers killed or by the number of bugles abandoned. During the armistice arranged to bury dead bodies that were decomposing in no-man’s-land (May 24, 1915), Kinloch (2005: 142) notes: “Most of the dead were Turks.” However, he continues: “In front of the Walker’s Ridge line lay an Australian bugler, a mere boy, with his bugle slung across his shoulders.” Bugles among other artifacts were scattered everywhere.16 However, one instrumentalist from Australia became famous at the battlefront. He was [Sergeant] Ted McMahon ([1895–]), a cornet player from Boulder in Western Australia. Attached to the Sixteenth Australian Infantry Brigade, McMahon regularly performed to his comrades both at the battlefront and in the rest area. He was remembered by both sides. In one account, a Turkish officer recalled an Australian “trumpeter” from across the trenches playing a piece entitled “Un peu d’amour” (en. “A Little Love”). This was a popular number written by the Italian composer [Stanis] Lao Silésu

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(1883–1953), which the officer had heard in Istanbul (apparently in 1912).17 In another account, an Australian officer remembered how McMahon serenaded both sides at dusk with lengthy renditions of “Silent Night,” among others. During these performances apparently nobody fired, the Ottomans like the ANZACs applauding the Australian musician (Lumsden McKinley cited in Latham [unpubl.: 40]). In addition, McMahon was occasionally invited to perform in campfire concerts with other musicians. Before the Allied assault at Suvla Bay (August 9, 1915) for example, the cornetist played the catholic hymn called “The Rosary” (Ted McMahon cited in Holden [2014: 102–3]). Yet, it is easy to overemphasize the importance of music-making among the ANZAC forces in the Gallipoli Campaign. True, senior commanders, like Sir John Monash (1865–1931), noted the ways in which music boosted morale before battle especially at the end of the campaign (ibid.: 102). However, the well-known adage by Charles Bean that there were “no songs on Gallipoli” may have some truth. Although authors like Holden might think otherwise,18 Gallipoli was different from other theaters of war. There were no public houses or music halls behind the front lines as in France. Essential supplies for attack and sustenance for survival were prioritized over and above other non-essential items, such as instruments and gramophones. With the endless confrontations and the perpetual fatigues, with the debilitating sickness and the appalling nutrition (not to mention the constant fear of injury or death), ANZAC soldiers (much like other Allied combatants) were not in a position to engage regularly in campfire concerts simply because they were exhausted from inhuman effort and they needed to shelter from incoming fire. In this context, the few references to music in the extensive body of ANZAC literature in the form of letters and diaries, albums and memoirs suggest that music-making in the warzone was exceptional rather than commonplace. A mouth organ that is noted at the front (Lee [2015: 96]) or an accordion that is pictured behind the front (Latham [unpubl.: 24]) indicate that such musical instruments were unusual and, therefore, worthy of documentation. As a musician, McMahon would be expected to comment critically upon the sound world that enveloped Gallipoli. Apart from his own musical activities in the trenches, McMahon only mentions one concert that was specifically organized to boost morale (Ted McMahon cited in Latham [unpubl.: 34]). That being said, other combatants did write about improvised sessions by both sides be it among Indian troops (who “hold concerts on their own and make a most unearthly noise”) or among Ottoman soldiers (who “hold concerts in their trenches [which] were even worse”). He continues, “like our fellows, they had their concerts in bomb-proof shelters.”19 What did ANZAC bandsmen do in Gallipoli? As Beeston ([1916] 2012: 16) argues with respect to bandsmen in combat: “Very few people think when they see the band leading the battalion in parade through the streets, what



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happens to them on active service. Here bands are not thought of; the instruments are left at the base and the men become bearers and carry the wounded out of the front line.” In their capacity as stretcher bearers, many bandsmen were slaughtered. For example, Ekins (2015) talks of the New Zealand Third Battalion at Lone Pine. Citing Wren (1935), Ekins (ibid.: 124) noted that “the battalion had boasted a fine brass band but it was now left with too few men. He tells of a stretcher bearer who did ‘superhuman’ work and when finally hit said ‘Leave me. Leave me. I’m done’.” Similar accounts of depleted manpower were told with respect to bands in the Royal Marines and the Irish Fusiliers. However, the Ottomans also faced a similar crisis. Like their Allied equivalents, Ottoman bandsmen were bearers as well as orderlies (Erickson [2011: 32–3]). Many were massacred. Indeed, bandsmen did not only serve in the warzone. Among the Allies, brass bands serenaded fresh troops on board ships to calm their nerves before a battle (van Emden and Chambers [2015: 55]). They even saluted passing ships from friendly nations with musical broadsides. Again, pipe bands entertained wounded soldiers in field hospitals to lift their spirits. There is even an iconic image of the Scottish piper, Archibald Monk, piping Australian nurses to their hospital stations on Lemnos (August 8, 1915).20 Of note, pipe players, in contrast to brass players, were allowed to bring their musical instruments to the battlefront (Gillam [[1918] 2013: 70]). Perhaps Moorehead’s (1956: 330) portrayal of “a pipe band parading on the shore, an immaculate colonel […] raising his hand to salute the flag at sunset” is somewhat overstated. Yet, there are many accounts of Scottish pipers involved in the assault against enemy positions, be they Andrew Buchan piping his Scottish comrades “over-the top” or Kenneth MacLennan leading his Scottish compatriots toward the enemy trenches (Setton and Grant [1920: 31–3]). Buchan was killed and MacLennan was decorated (see Figure 6.1).21 However, there was a serious cost to this musical bravado. By the end of the Gallipoli Campaign, there were only a few Scottish pipers who had not been injured or killed. They were reorganized into a piping band consisting of twelve pipers and six drummers (October, 1915). Under the capable command of [Colonel] Charles Maclean “of Pennycross” (d. 1948) and under the auspices of the Fifty Second Lowland Division, the band performed in Cape Helles to raise the morale among the Scottish troops billeted there. The group was famed for its rendition of the traditional air called “Hey Johnnie Cope,” a piece “which could be heard quite distinctly on a quiet morning in the firing line, right up till within a few days of the final evacuation of the Peninsula” (ibid.: 149). Perhaps, this was the band which Reverend Ewing (1917: 83) recalled when undertaking a pastoral tour of the Scottish troops in his care “the shrilling of the bagpipes and the clanging of the French bugles” accompanied a bombardment of the Turkish positions on Achi Baba.

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Figure 6.1  “Scottish Piper at the Battle of Krithia”—Allan Stewart. Permission provided by Alamy.

Of course, it is important not to forget the composers who wrote pieces for the war zone or who composed works on the battlefield. In the first category, there were two Ottoman composers who wrote marches specifically for the Gallipoli Campaign. These were the Armenian composer Bimen Dergazaryan [Şen] (1873–1943) and the Turkish bandmaster İbrahim Mehmet Ali (1874–1936). Bimen Dergazaryan composed an alaturka number written in the makam Rast and the usûl muhammes (see chapter 7). Mustafa Ali wrote an alafranga piece arranged for piano and voice. It has a key signature (G minor) and a time signature (2/4). There were also other compositions written specifically for the Gallipoli Campaign.22 In the second category, there were two Allied composers who fought in the Gallipoli Campaign. One was the Australian Frederick “Sep” Kelly (1881–1916) who wrote an elegy while in the trenches for Rupert Brooke (1887–1915), a poet who died (April 23, 1915) before arriving at the Gallipoli Peninsula. The other was the Englishman William D. Browne (1888–1915), an accomplished pianist and an aspiring composer who was killed during the Third Battle of Krithia (June 4, 1915).23 POETRY IN MOTION Gallipoli the film has a musical quality. When the film was reissued (in DVD format [2005]), the entrenched commentary describes the film as lyrical and



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poetic, Weir employing sound effect and visual setting to complement the economic narrative. For example, in the underwater scene when the naked swimmers avoid incoming shellfire or during the landing scene when the frightened soldiers anticipate heavy gunfire, Weir achieves a sonic impact (as shrapnel penetrates the shallow water) and employs a visual tableau (as searchlights scan the dark horizon) that, when combined, are innovative and powerful. The minimal dialogue also features musical attributes. There is a recapitulation at key moments, be it the reiteration of the opening mantra by Archie (“As fast as a leopard”) during the closing scene or the repetition of the friendly exchange between Archie and Frank (“I’ll see you when I see you;” “Not if I see you first”) when the two mates separate to realize distinctive fortunes. In short, the film is about an interpersonal relationship in sonata form with an exposition (in Australia), a development (in Egypt) and a recapitulation (in Turkey). However, music is not foregrounded in the explanatory dialogue that accompanies this special reissue. While the aria by Bizet and the waltz by Strauss are mentioned, the musical pieces are referenced in relation to a prophetic vision of disaster during battle and an incongruous experience of merrymaking before death, respectively. Indeed, it is the cinematographic potential of sound (rather than music) that is discussed in detail. This omission probably represents the major accolades bestowed upon the sound editors of (rather than upon the music consultant for) Gallipoli at the Australian Film Institute Awards (1981). Yet, it is the music that reviewers mention. In one IMDb blog (posted on September 28, 2006), the reviewer (an educator who used Gallipoli to teach history in class) cannot imagine a better musical setting for exploring the gradual development of a close friendship in a wartime setting. Again, English reviewers of Gallipoli praise the emotional impact of the musical context while being critical of the historical content. Predictably, American reviewers view the music in Gallipoli as too romanticized and Turkish reviewers reference the music for Gallipoli only in passing. Concerning the Gallipoli Campaign, film is not the only medium to explore a musical register. Literary sources are replete with metaphoric references to the music of war. For example, the roar of gun batteries (“we walked up to the nullah to the music of the batteries” [Ewing [1917: 163]]) and the bombardment of naval cannons (“This morning we had some lovely music from a couple of cruisers” [Archie Crow cited in Olson [2006: 176–7]]) are equally described as music. Rifle fire and bomb explosions are similarly equated with music (“just the ordinary night music, and day too for that matter” [William Malone cited in Crawford [2014: 263]]). Again, the sounds of war are portrayed as “the hellish music that was being played on the hilltops” (Charles Duke cited in Hart [2013: 105]). Even the drone of an airplane and the hammer of a smithy (Carlyon [2001: 20]), the eloquence of a reporter (“the thrilling music of Ashmead-Bartlett” [ibid.: 305]) and the rustle of a harness (“the music of the chains” [ibid.: 142]) are all described as having a musical character.

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In particular, the song of war is frequently used to represent metaphorically the sound of battle. Like music, song is employed to describe shell fire during the day (“Earth and stones were flying, while the song and crash of shells were terrifying” [Ewing [1917: 84]]) and shell fire at night (“There is something very weird and ‘awesome’ in the song of these heralds of death as they sped through the darkness” [ibid.: 100]). In a similar fashion, song is invoked to portray “the pattering song of a machine gun” (Hugo Throssell cited in Hamilton [2012: 149]) or “the shriing song of rifle fire” (William Malone cited in Crawford [2014: 263]). Strategic errors are sometimes conceived of as song; be it “the swan song of lunatics” (to describe another attempt to breach the Dardanelles at the end of the Gallipoli Campaign [Arthur LyndellBell cited in Hart [2013: 400]]) or “the siren call of this beach” (to portray the strategic futility of the ANZAC landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula [Carlyon [2001: 20]]). Some even argue that Lone Pine was probably named after a song (Mackay [1937: 14–5]).24 Song is especially prominent in poetry. Vocal genres like a sonnet (as in “Fragment of a Sonnet” [1915] by Rupert Brooke) and an ode (as in “Lines for an Ode” [1915] by Brooke) that concern the loss of youth and a love of England were both written by the poet while enroute to Gallipoli. A dance (“Dance” [1915] by Brooke) is also included in the relevant collection. Again, vocal genres like a song (as in “Song of the Dardanelles” [1915] by Henry Lawson [1867–1922]) and an epic (as in “An Epic of ANZAC” [1915] by Richard Graves [1897–1971]) show the poets in a more jingoistic light, both authors describing the terror experienced and the heroism demonstrated by Australian soldiers during the landings at Anzac Cove (April 25, 1915). Here, the distinction between a “classical” idealism (on the part of Brooke) and a nationalist fervor (on the part of Lawson) is especially noteworthy. In this musical class of poetry, there were also Songs of Embarkation (1914) (by Edward Harrington [1895–1966]) and the Songs of a Campaign (1917) (by Leon Gellert [1892–1977]), among others.25 Gellert was one of the most enigmatic poets of the Gallipoli Campaign. Sometimes described as “Australia’s closest approximation to a Brooke or [a] Sassoon,”26 Gellert (whose family came to Australia from Hungary) employed his time as a convalescent (in hospital recovering from a shrapnel wound) by writing poetry about his experiences as a soldier during the Gallipoli Campaign. His collection entitled “The Songs of a Campaign” won critical acclaim and national awards. Of the eighty poems published in the relevant volume, the poem called “The Diggers” (dated July, 1915) is especially poignant.27 Ostensibly describing soldiers digging a trench (“They’re digging and singing, and swiftly they’re swinging” [line: 3]), the poem reveals that the soldiers are in fact digging a grave (“They dig and they sing and they think I’m dead” [line: 9]). No longer swinging or singing, the diggers: “They



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Table 6.1  Textual Analysis of ‘The Diggers’ by Leon Gellert (Dated July, 1915) Line Verse 1 1 2 3 4 Verse 2 5 6 7 8 9 Verse 3 10 11 12 13 Verse 4 14 15 16 17 18

Text

Syllable

Rhyme

The diggers are digging, and digging de[-]ep, They’re digging and singing, And I’m asle[-]ep. They’re digging and singing and swiftly they’re swinging The flying earth as it falls in a heap.

6+4 [6+5] 6+4 [6+5] 6+6

a a b

5+5

a

And some of it scatters and falls on my head; But the diggers dig on. They can only dig. They can only sing and their eyes are big. Their ey[-]es are big and heavy as lead. They dig and they sing and they think I’m dead.

6+5 6+5 5+5 4+5 [5+5] 5+5

a b b a a

The diggers are digging, and filling the hole. They’re sighing and singing. They pray for my soul. I hear what they say, and from where I am lying, I hear a new cor-p[o]ral calling the roll.

6+5 6+5 5+7 [6+6] 5+6 [5+5]

a a b a

But the diggers dig on and fill in my bed. They diggers dig on, and they sweat and they sweat. They sigh and they sigh, and their eyes are wet. The brown earth clatters and covers my head; Then I laugh and I laugh, for they think that I’m dead.

6+5 6+5

a b

5+5 5+5 6+6

b a a

sigh and they sigh, and their eyes are wet” [line: 16]. The poem concludes: “The brown earth clatters and covers my head / Then I laugh and I laugh, for they think I’m dead” [lines: 17–8]. There is a subtle musicality in “The Diggers” by Gellert (see Table 6.1). There is a wonderful counterpoint between the active states of digging and swinging, of flying and lying and the dormant states of deep and heap, of lead and dead. Although seemingly written in free verse, the poem is carefully crafted. At first sight, it appears as two strophes, each verse containing nine lines. At second glance though, each strophe can be subdivided into two verses, the first consisting of four lines, the second consisting of five lines. There is a regular symmetry in the rhyme pattern. Verse one and verse three have the following pattern [aaba]. Verse two and verse four have the following pattern [abbaa]. There is also an internal rhyme in verse one and verse three [lines: 1–2, 10–1] on the words “digging” and “singing.” The musicality of the poem is further enhanced by consonantal alliteration using the letter “d” (such as: “The diggers are digging, and digging deep”) [line: 1]) and the letter “s” (such as: “They’re sighing and singing, They pray for my soul” [line: 11]).

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However, the syllabic structure of “The Diggers” is irregular. For the most part, each line consists of ten or eleven syllables. These are usually (but not consistently) divided into two hemistiches arranged in the following manner [5+5] or [6+5], respectively. There are two exceptions. First, the opening two lines consist of ten syllables rather than eleven syllables. These are arranged in the following manner [6+4] and not as [6+5]. To provide symmetry, the reader is required to extend into two syllables the words “de-ep” [line: 1] and “asle-ep” [line: 2] to give the impression of depth and death. Second, the final line of the poem [line: 18] consists of twelve syllables. In contrast to the final lines of verses one, two and three (each consisting of ten syllables arranged [5+5]), the last line of verse four is arranged [6+6]. Here, it emulates the prosodic structure of another line [line: 3] that is also composed using twelve syllables and arranged as [6+6].28 The implication here is that the diggers are singing [line: 3] while the dead are laughing, at death [line: 18]. SOUND TRACKS The macabre character of the poem entitled “The Diggers” is reflected in the morbid fixation of the film called “Gallipoli.” Here, both creative works suggest a comfortable compromise between the living and the dying, be it the diggers singing at the dead over a grave (in the poem) or the soldiers communing with the deceased in a trench (in the film). It is this fascination with human mortality that suffuses another film by Weir. In a Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), Weir explores the disappearance of three schoolgirls during a school outing in Victoria (c. 1900). Like Gallipoli, there is an element of mystical foreboding that permeates the movie’s narrative, the sonic and the visual foretelling the inevitable outcome of death and destruction. So too, both films relate their stories of youthful innocence in cataclysmic circumstances, in one being faced by unnatural forces (in Picnic) and in the other resulting from human error (in Gallipoli). Although Picnic now seems dated and Gallipoli still seems fresh, the two films look at interpersonal relationships, be it in terms of a homoerotic intimacy (in Picnic) or a homosocial “mateship” (in Gallipoli). However, Gallipoli the film must not be viewed in isolation (see Table 6.2). The film about ANZAC troops in the Gallipoli Campaign was screened two years after a film about German soldiers on the Western Front. Although the movie entitled “All Quiet on the Western Front” had originally been screened in 1930, it was adapted for a television audience (1979) and, in this medium, disseminated its anti-war message to an international audience. Like Gallipoli, All Quiet ends with an evocative moment, the principal protagonist (Paul Bäumer played by Richard Thomas [1951–]) being shot by a sniper while innocently sketching a bird. In contrast to Gallipoli, music plays a limited



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role in this production of All Quiet. In this film, the soundscape is reserved for the rumble of shells and the rattle of guns, the screams of the injured and the moans of the terrified. Here, bird song in the trenches offers a dulcet reprieve from the noise of battle. Like Gallipoli, All Quiet ends with a shot, a shot of an innocuous activity but a shot with a terrifying outcome. Gallipoli the film was screened in the same year as Chariots of Fire (1981). Both films concern a sporting rivalry between two athletes. As in Gallipoli, in Chariots one runner is an idealist (the Scottish amateur sportsman called “Eric Liddell” played by Ian Charleson [1949–90]) and the other is a pragmatist (the Jewish professional athlete called “Harold Abrahams” played by Ben Cross [1949–]). Both films also foreground the power of male comradery, in Gallipoli on the battlefront and in Chariots on the sports track. Although not a war film, Chariots explores the internal conflict experienced by every competitor: that is, the spiritual war against the self to achieve physical transcendence. The film also looks at the battlegrounds of class difference and religious intolerance during the interwar years. In contrast to the sullen music (ostensibly by Albinoni) that frames Gallipoli, Chariots features an elevating soundtrack (by Vangelis [1943–]) that endows the competitive athletics with divine integrity. Where the music for Gallipoli seems to presage death and defeat, the music for Chariots serves to affirm life and liberation. Table 6.2  List of Documentaries, Dramas and Films that are Discussed in the Text Date 1999 1979 1985 1984

Title All the Kings Men All Quiet on the Western Front Anzacs (TV Series) The Boys of the Dardanelles

Director Julian Jarrold Delbert Mann [Multiple] Richard Dennison

1980 1981 1964 2013 2015 1981 2012

Bruce Beresford Hugh Hudson Turgut Demirağ [Multiple] Michael Rymer Peter Weir Tolga Örnek

2005 1964 1987 2002 1975

Breaker Morant Chariots of Fire Çanakkale Aslanları Çanakkale Yolun Sonu Deadline Gallipoli (TV Series) Gallipoli Gallipoli: Frontline Experience Gelibolu-Gallipoli The Great War (TV Series) The Lighthorsemen Mons and Gallipol (TV Series) Picnic at Hanging Rock

Tolga Örnek [Multiple] Simon Wincer Terry Shand Peter Weir

1931

Tell England

Anthony Asquith

2014

The Water Diviner

Russell Crowe

Company BBC-WGBH ITC Entertainment Nine Network Australian War Memorial SA Film Corporation Twentieth Century Fox And Film Warner Brothers Foxtel Networks R&R Films Alba Home Vision Ekip Film BBC, CBC, ABC, IWM RKO Pictures History Channel Australian Film Commission British Instructional Films RatPac Entertainment

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Of course, Gallipoli the film was not the first film about Gallipoli the campaign. Already in 1915, film footage from the battlefront was recorded by both sides. On the part of the Allied forces, Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett (1881– 1931) filmed scenes that mostly feature Anzac Cove and Suvla Bay (MayAugust, 1915). In association with Charles Bean, he made a twenty-minute documentary entitled “With the Dardanelles Expedition: Heroes of Gallipoli.” The silent film includes footage of a shell bombardment on Lone Pine and of a periscope rifle at Quinn’s point. It also includes the site of an airplane crash (on the Island of Imbros) and the recording of an armored car (in Cape Helles). Intriguingly, the daily life of ANZAC soldiers is foregrounded, from the ANZAC dress to the ANZAC diet, from the ANZAC dugouts to the ANZAC trenches. The film was first shown in London (January 17, 1916). It was subsequently labeled by Bean (1919). A digitized version of the movie was made by Peter Jackson (2007). No longer silent, the soundtrack features a religious masterpiece by W. Amadeus Mozart (1756–91).29 Following the War, it is surprising that Turkish cinematographers did not make a motion picture about Gallipoli (tr. Çanakkale). True, there is footage made by Turkish filmmakers of military activities behind the warfront including shots of camels and mules, infantry and cavalry. In this footage, there is no documentation of fighting or suffering. Apart from two recreations of the Gallipoli landings staged for newsreels in Australia (1915),30 the first major film about the Gallipoli Campaign was made in England and not in Turkey. Entitled “Tell England” (1931), the movie was an antiwar reading of a contemporary novel by Ernest Raymond (1888–1974), part of which concerns the Gallipoli Campaign. The film was filmed in Malta and codirected by Anthony Asquith (1902–68) and Geoffrey Barkas (1896– 1979). The following year (1932), Tell England (as Çanakkale 1914–1916) was screened in Istanbul. Although Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] was present at one showing (at the Opera Sineması [January 22, 1932]), the film was not a success much to the president’s chagrin. Apparently, the price of tickets was excessive.31 The fiftieth anniversary of the Gallipoli Campaign witnessed the release of a major film by Turkish cinema. Entitled “Çanakkale Aslanları” (en. “The Lions of Gallipoli”), the movie is a romantic drama about a relationship between a Turkish officer and an English nurse. Filmed on location, the movie was directed by Turgut Demirağ (1921–87), a graduate of the USC School of Cinematic Arts. Noted for its battle scenes, the sound track for the film features a powerful score (composed by Nedim Otyam [1919–2008]) that employs traditional instruments (such as a reed flute [tr. ney]) and foregrounds traditional genres (such as a vocal lament [tr. ağıt]). The anniversary was also marked by an English documentary called “The Great War” (1964).



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Of the twenty-six programs made for the series,32 one was devoted to the Gallipoli Campaign (No. 9). It features original footage from the AshmeadBartlett collection. It also includes interviews with Gallipoli veterans and sounds that simulate battle. Apart from its theme music (composed by Wilfred Joseph [1927–97]), the documentary is especially noteworthy for the alliterative character of its commentary (narrated by Michael Redgrave [1908–85]). The hundredth anniversary of the Gallipoli Campaign witnessed the release of many films. These are mostly in English or Turkish. In English, one movie is musically noteworthy. It is called “The Water Diviner” (2014) and tells of the search by an Australian farmer (Joshua Connor played by Russell Crow [1964–]) for his three sons, who went missing during the Battle of Lone Pine (August 6–9, 1915). However, one son survived. To find his missing child, Connor travels to Turkey during the War of Independence (tr. Kurtuluş Savaşı [1919–22]). In the film, the musical portrayal of war (composed by David Hirschfelder [1960–]) is particularly impressive. Musically, metronomic ostinatos imitate programmatically the sounds of a Turkish train under Greek fire. Non-“western” instruments are subtly integrated with “western” instruments. Turkish vocalists performing religious vocalize (such as Qur’anic cantillation [tr. tecvid]) and Turkish instrumentalists playing on ceremonial instruments (such as the Mevlevî reed flute [tr. ney]) endow the musical score with an Islamic register. In this sonic communion of the Turkish and the non-Turkish, between Muslim and non-Muslim, new friendships are forged between former enemies.33 In Turkish, one film is also memorable. Entitled “Çanakkale Yolun Sonu” (en. “Gallipoli: The End of the Road” [2013]), the movie concerns two brothers who become snipers during the Gallipoli Campaign. The film explores the interpersonal relationship between siblings in war, the older one who is a veteran and the younger one who is a novice. Crucially, it portrays a fleeting moment of cowardice among Turkish soldiers. It also represents sympathetically a Greek recruit who is fighting in the Ottoman army. Yes, the battle scenes are dramatic. Yes, the love entanglement is consuming, an unlikely relationship developing between an illiterate villager (Muhsin played powerfully by Gürkan Uyun [1974–]) and an educated urbanite (Behice played unexceptionally by Berrak Tüzünataç [1984–]). However, the historical detail is sometimes inaccurate.34 Further, the musical score (by Mert Oktan) is disappointingly anodyne. The usual musical topoi of aerophones (such as the double-reed mey) and chordophones (such as the short-necked cura sazı) evoke emotional intensity and national identity, respectively. And, the orchestra repeats relentlessly a confined vocabulary of string techniques (such as glissandos and tremolos) to indicate tension and terror.

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SON ET LUMIÈRE Gallipoli the film was not the only movie made about the Australians at war. Gallipoli was released just after Breaker Morant (1980) (a picture about Australian carbineers in the Second Boer War [1899–1902]) but before The Lighthorsemen (1987) (a picture about Australian cavalrymen in the Palestine Campaign [1917–8]). Concerning Gallipoli the campaign,35, 36 there were documentary films (such as The Boys of the Dardanelles [1984]) and television series (such as The Anzacs [1985]). Recently screened, the Australian film entitled “Deadline Gallipoli” (2015) is especially fine. Exploring the difficult relationship between an English journalist (Ashmead-Bartlett) and an Australian correspondent (Bean), the movie charts the power of human compassion to assuage the horrors of war. A musical instrument (the mey) plays a tangential role in the plot. It is played by a Turkish prisoner in an ANZAC trench. Witnessed by Bean’s companion, the Turk is apparently killed while fleeing. When Bean returns to Turkey (1919), he finds the musical artifact. In the final shot, the mey is displayed prominently in the archival collection of war memorabilia assembled by Bean. It is a symbol of an enduring friendship between adversaries. The Australians were not alone in making films about Gallipoli. The British too have produced excellent dramas and documentaries. In particular, the drama entitled “All the King’s Men” (1999) examines the disappearance of the Sandringham Company at Suvla Bay (August 10, 1915). Although the movie is principally concerned with politics at court, an erotic entanglement between an officer and a soldier allows for the interrogation of a “classical” inclination (the Iliad by Homer is quoted) and a romantic ideal (“The Soldier” by Brooke is recited) that drove aristocratic volunteers to serve in the Gallipoli Campaign. Again, the documentary called “Mons and Gallipoli” (2002) provides a concise overview yet individual interpretation of the Gallipoli Campaign. Produced for the History Channel, military experts argue that poor resources rather than poor commanders resulted in military defeat.37 In contrast to similar documentaries, the Turkish perspective is not examined, either in terms of interviews with Turkish veterans or quotes from Turkish memoirs. However, the piano music (featuring compositions by Frédéric Chopin [1810–49] and Franz Schubert [1797–1828], among others) that accompanies the narrative seems singularly inappropriate. The Turks have also made excellent documentaries about the Gallipoli Campaign. In particular, the bilingual documentary entitled “Gelibolu-Gallipoli” (2005) (produced and directed by the Turkish cinematographer Tolga Örnek [1972–]) supplies a balanced appraisal of two opposing perspectives, the Ottoman and the Allied.38 Presenting documentary evidence from personal testimonies and professional contributions from both sides, the long



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movie (lasting around two hours) brings together original photographs and representative paintings, specialist interviews and informative anecdotes to offer a new and fresh representation of the Gallipoli Campaign. While there is a noticeable bias toward the ANZAC perspective (this, in part, being reflective of the primary sources available),39 the Ottoman materials demonstrate a humane revaluation of an antagonistic relationship between rival forces. However, the music is of an uneven quality. While “western” instruments represent the Allied position and non-“western” represents the Ottoman position, the orchestral score (performed by the Prague Symphony Orchestra) is unvaried and unsuitable. In particular, the dominant texture of parallel intervals and the incessant ululations of screaming choristers detract from a full appreciation of this important piece. Of the numerous films made about the Gallipoli Campaign, there are a number of common themes. In many movies, there is a focus on innocence lost, be it an Australian from the Outback or a Turk from Anatolia. There is also a recognition that nations had been founded (such as Australia and New Zealand) or would be formed (such as Ireland and Turkey). Musically, Turkish instruments (such as the mey and the ney) endow music scores with an “oriental” difference but also provide cinematographic narratives with a familiarizing empathy. In addition, the call of the aerophone matches the cry of the vocalist often to signify musically death and destruction. Sometimes (but not always successfully), alaturka is melded with alafranga to show a musical dialog between opponents. However, there is one important difference between the Turkish and the non-Turkish representations of the Gallipoli Campaign. Where most movies foreground tragedy and suffering, for the Turks (unlike the Allies) the Gallipoli Campaign was not pointless. The Turkish heartland had been invaded by enemy forces. There was no option but to fight. And, of course, the Turks won. NOTES 1. Moran and Veith (2006) use the words “art film” to describe this renaissance in Australian film. 2. The quotation is taken from Bean Ed. (1920–42: 617–8). However, it is also repeated in a number of memoirs including Hamilton (2012: 99) and Gariepy (2014: 234). See, also, the entry for “Harper, Gresley Tatlock” in the RSL Virtual War Memorial at the following web address: rslvirtualwarmemorial.org.au [Access Date: May 30, 2016]. 3. See Hamilton (2015: 94, 178, 231) for a discussion about the poisonous relationship between John Antill and Noel Brazier. 4. For a list of musical works on the Gallipoli Campaign by contemporary composers, see “War and Peace in Australia” at the following web address: trove.nla.gov.

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au [Access Date: May 30, 2016]. These songs (which are available online) include “Daddy’s in the Dardanelles” (1916) by Roger Cameron and “Heroes of the Dardanelles” (1916) by Reginald A. Stoneham (1879–1942). As a point of clarification, the song entitled “Gallipoli” (no date of publication is provided) by James E. Dodd is different from the number called “Old Gallipoli” (see chapter 3). 5. The band consists of sixteen instrumentalists, each dressed in a blue shirt and a blue beret. This is not uncommon for pipe bands in South Australia. In the film, it is not clear what tartan is worn by the band members. According to Williams and Fraser (see web address below), the band no longer exists. Noticeably, the Athol and Ulster Pipe Band is not acknowledged in the film credits for Gallipoli. For a fuller discussion of bagpipes used in movies, see the following web address: fraser.cc/pipes/movies. html [Access Date: May 15, 2016]. 6. For pictorial evidence of gramophones used in the Gallipoli Campaign, see King and Bowers Eds (2005: 100, 201). See, also, the Australia War Memorial at the following web address: www.awm.gov.au [Access Date: May 17, 2016]. One plate is especially noteworthy (Catalog No. A04502). Taken by Bean, it shows a gramophone being played at the front line. One of the soldiers in the plate bears a striking resemblance to John or “Jack” Macmillan. At the same web address (Catalog No. A03561), an unnamed photographer (probably Bean) took a picture of a “highly prized” gramophone being played to wounded patients at a hospital on Lemnos. Significantly, only officers appear to be enjoying the recordings. Further, and at the same web address (Catalog No. G00262), an unnamed photographer portrays a naval captain who apparently used a gramophone to entice inquisitive Ottoman soldiers into his line of fire. 7. The relevant text for the English convalescents is as follows: “There is a gramophone in the camp and it is our turn to have it here today. ‘Lauder’s song’, ‘Tosti’s Goodbye’ and lots of records which are fine.” The extract is taken from a letter (dated September 16, 1915) written by [Her] Bert Lee while recovering in hospital on Lemnos ([Her] Bert Lee cited in Lee [2015: 56]). 8. The relevant text for the French officers is as follows: “On s’invite à dîner d’une popote à l’autre et l’on va écouter le phonographe de M. l’intendant. Car M. l’intendant Poullot a eu l’heureuse idée de faire venir de France un phonographe excellent et des disques nombreux” (Charles-Roux [1920: 264]). 9. [Her] Bert Lee writes in a letter (dated August 14, 1915) about the musical activities onboard ship shortly before arriving in Lemnos. “A dance is on today at 2.30pm—Can you imagine anything so crazy on a troopship? And on the hottest day possible. I don’t think a single soul is interested, and it will end up with a sing-song as the piano is on deck” ([Her] Bert Lee cited in Lee [2015: 26]). 10. Alexander Turnbull writes in a letter (undated [probably, April, 1915]) of the musical entertainments available in Cairo while on leave. He states: “The encampment resembles a township in a way with roads through it and shops here and there, and each regiment has its own canteens and stores. There are no restrictions as regards to drinks, and there are also picture shows and music halls going every night and some of the turns at the latter are really very good[.] [M]ost of the artists are French or Italian so we cannot understand what they are singing” (Alexander Turnbull cited in Hamilton [2015: 59]). For a more colorful (and possibly more truthful) account of



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musical as well as non-musical entertainments while on leave in Cairo, see Fitzsimons (2015: 122). 11. See Watkins (2003: 74–6) for an examination of the song entitled “Tipperary” in relation to marching soldiers of different nationalities during the war. However, he only mentions the Gallipoli Campaign once in his innovative and interdisciplinary study of music and the War. Although questioned by Watkins, see Holden (2014: 101) for a discussion of songs (including “Tipperary”) sung by Australian soldiers during frontal assaults.There are other descriptions of music-making in the Gallipoli Campaign on both sides. For example on the side of the Allies, [Her] Bert Lee comments about musical sessions in the trenches. He writes: “We have had two concerts at six pm while in the dugouts in the gully ravine which we have made into a small sort of amphitheat[er] with an earth platform. The chair is taken by one of our captains— the talent is not too bad. I was astonished at the music one chap got out of a mouth organ” ([Her] Bert Lee cited in Lee [2015: 96]). For example, again, on the side of the Ottomans, Tutkun (2015: 619) notes with reference to the performance of folksongs outside the trenches that: “Siperlerde eksik olmayan bir diğer eğlence kanağı da yanık sesli askerlerin söyledikler türkülerdi;” that is, in addition to the performance of military marches behind the front line to maintain morale. See, also, Özdemir (1998) for a romanticized history of the Gallipoli Campaign where music at the battlefront receives some attention. 12. See Roynon Ed. (2012) for the war diaries of Kenneth Best (1887–1981), who was the chaplain for the East Lancashire Brigade during the Gallipoli Campaign (from May 2–September 25, 1915): that is, with a brief respite in hospital having contracted enteric fever. See, also, [Louise] Oswin Ed. (1920) for the diaries of Creighton Oswin (1883–1918), who was the chaplain for the Twenty-ninth Division, among others. Look, in particular, at Oswin’s ambivalent attitude toward church services on the front line. In discussion with members of his congregation, he writes: “U-thinks services are quite incongruous with fighting. He says the whole business is so absolutely bloody, and we try and collect men and sing hymns. We are all a little tired of hymns. A-disagreed, thinking the services were a great relief and meant a lot to the men.” Surprisingly, Oswin agrees with U (rather than A), suggesting that religious services were inappropriate on a battlefield. It is clear from the narrative that Oswin is already weary of the shelling and the fighting after ten days on the front. A description of hymn singing during a communion service can be found in King and Bowers Eds (2005: 101). See, also, Laugesen (2012: 97–8) for a discussion of hymn singing and the distribution of hymnals (by the YMCA) during the War. 13. It is noteworthy that the film composer Brian May (1934–97) started his career as a conductor in the Australian Broadcasting [Commission] (ABC). Beginning with the ABC Big Band in Adelaide (1957) and moving to the ABC Show Band in Melbourne (1969), May was in a good position to represent the musical repertoire of brass bands in the film Gallipoli. In particular, May showcased the Show Band in a number of television programs before focusing on his career as a film composer. For an overview of the life and work of May, see Hannan (2010). 14. The Turkish representation of this assault is worthy of consideration. As Tutkun (2015: 369–72) notes, the Second Division (replete with fresh recruits) was

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sent to the front from Istanbul to support a massive attack on the ANZAC positions. Headed by Hasan Askeri [Yücekök] (1868–1938), the division was composed of untested soldiers, including (probably around) three thousand students who had been inspired by the pugnacious rhetoric of [İsmail] Enver Paşa (1881–1922) (Çolak [2015: 86–99]). On the morning of the frontal assault, Hasan Askeri apparently decided to locate a divisional band in the forward trenches (Erikson [2010: 106]). Following the order to charge, along with the clamor of bugles and the blare of trumpets, the band played the “Motherland March” (tr. “Vatan Marşı”) to accompany the slaughter. The soldiers sang the march (learned at school as children) during the assault. In most sources (see, e.g., Erdemir [2009: 153]), the relevant march is considered to be the “Regimental March” (tr. “Alay Marşı”) in the makam Rast by “Miralay” Rıfat Bey (1820–88). It begins with the line: “My mother raised me” (tr. “Annem beni yetiştirdi”). It was originally composed for the Yemen Campaign (1871–2). However, there are other motherland marches. They include the “Vatan marche” by “Muallim” İsmail Hakkı Bey (1883–1923), a piece that was a popular recruiting song at the time (see chapter 5). As in other cases, it is difficult to verify the musical accuracy of individual testimonies. 15. Trench whistles were sometimes pitched differently to facilitate communication between an officer and his soldiers. In addition, a discrete system of whistle signals was employed by sailors. Called the “bosun’s whistle,” the instrument was employed to call specific duties or to pipe honored guests. It is important to recognize that horns as well as bugles were used by ANZAC troops. In addition, a trumpet (called “boru” in Turkish) formed a significant part of the Ottoman instrumentarium. Surprisingly, I have been unable to find references to the Turkish oboe (tr. zurna) in the Gallipoli Campaign, an instrument that was intimately associated with warmaking in Ottoman campaigns; this despite the attempt by Enver Paşa to revive this double-reed aerophone as part of his unrealistic ambitions for the janissary band (see chapter 4). For a recent consideration of bugles and whistles among ANZAC troops see the following web address: www.abc.net.au/news/2015-04-11/instruments [Access Date: May 15, 2016]. 16. Carlyon (2001: 352) describes the terrible scene in greater detail. With reference to representations of the armistice in the same location, he writes: “Well, there are plenty of photographs; men in shirt sleeves bend over swollen bodies; others hold white flags; swords and bugles and rifles and shovels and scraps of webbing lie scattered over the dwarf oak.” Of course, most of these bugles belonged to Turkish instrumentalists and not to ANZAC buglers since most of the dead being buried during the armistice were Ottoman casualties. 17. The time line for this anecdote is somewhat questionable. As Latham (unpubl.: 4) suggests, the Turkish officer had danced to the tune in Istanbul (1912). It is not clear whether he was accompanied by an orchestra or by a recording. However, “Un peu d’amour” was first published as a piano piece by Chappell (1912). As “A Little Love, A Little Kiss,” it was later recorded (1913) by [Count] John McCormack (1884–1945) for Victor (Catalog No. 64343). Many other singers recorded the piece in its English version. It was also recorded (in the same year) by studio orchestras, such as Prince’s Orchestra for Columbia (Catalog No. 39093). In addition, the piece was arranged for and recorded by solo instrumentalists (such as flautists).



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18. In a short chapter entitled “No Songs on Gallipoli,” Holden (2014: 96–110) re-evaluates the assertion by Charles Bean that: “On Gallipoli there was no concert party.” Unlike other theaters of war, the institutionalization of the “concert party” was especially difficult on the Gallipoli Peninsula due to physical constraints and operational considerations, the twin problems of noise and safety militating against the successful realization of music-making. That being said, Holden notes that hymns were sung and gramophones were played at the front. Although he provides little in the way of new information, he details the performance of a haka before battle by Māori troops and confirms the singing of a song during battle by Allied soldiers. Predictably, the song in question was “Tipperary.” For a general discussion of the “concert party” during the War, see Watkins (2003). See, also, Laugesen (2012: 99) for a brief discussion of a concert party brought to a close by enemy gunfire during the Gallipoli Campaign. 19. See the unpublished manuscript by David Cloughley entitled “The Riverton Boys” (Cloughley Ed. [unpubl.: 22]). See, also, an excerpt on trench concerts that were performed by Indians and New Zealanders on the Gallipoli Peninsula in the chapter entitled “The Finest Type of Coloured Men” (Stanley [2016: 132]). On a similar issue, see an interview with Chris Latham in The Sydney Morning Herald (April 3, 2015). 20. To view this iconic image of Archibald Monk leading the Australian nurses, see the following blog spot: lemnosgallipolicc.blogspot.co.uk [Access Date: May 30, 2016]. Designed by the Lemnos Gallipoli Committee, the site also provides information on the pipers who were killed in the war. Probably relying upon information presented in Pipes of War by Setton and Grant (1920), the blog suggests that twenty-five pipers were killed in Gallipoli. Given that a total count of five hundred deaths among pipers during the war is usually considered to be accurate, the figure for Gallipoli is remarkably small, especially given that pipers were killed there by deadly disease as well as by enemy fire. See, also, the newspapers article by Shân Ross entitled “Tunes of Glory” which was published in The Scotsman (February 23, 2014). 21. A picture of Kenneth MacLennan (see Figure 6.1) appeared in a fortnightly publication on war heroism entitled “Deeds that Thrill the Empire.” Painted (c. 1916) by Allan Stewart (1865–1951), it shows MacLennan playing his bagpipes during a frontal assault in the Gallipoli Campaign. See, Fox (2015: 104, 185) for a discussion of this and other pictures in his recent monograph that concerns British art in the War. See, also, Thacker (2014) for a discussion of British art, literature and music during the War. 22. See Küçüköncü (2013) for a detailed discussion of the “Çanakkale Marşı” by Mehmet Ali. Like Üngör (1965) before him, Küçüköncü recognizes that Mehmet Ali composed other marches of relevance to the Gallipoli Campaign including the “Kumkale Marşı” and the “Seddülbahir Marşı.” Apart from the “Kumkale Marşı,” the music for many of these compositions is lost (ibid.: 14–5). 23. “Sep” Kelly, William Browne and Rupert Brooke were all part of the Hood Battalion, a newly formed reserve of naval volunteers who unconventionally operated as soldiers rather than as sailors. In addition, Kelly was conductor of the battalion band. All three artists volunteered for service in the Gallipoli Campaign. However, Brooke contracted a fatal illness two days before the Gallipoli landings. He was

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hastily buried on the Island of Skyros. See Sellers ([1995] 2015) for a history of the Hood Battalion in general and for information relating to Brooke’s death in particular (ibid.: 59–67). As Latham describes (unpubl.: 30–1), Kelly began to write his Elegy in Memoriam Robert Brooke (originally arranged for string orchestra) at the front. As Kelly himself states with reference to Brooke’s grave: “The modal character of the music seems to be suggested by the Greek surroundings as well as Rupert’s character, some passagework by the rustling of the olive tree which bends over his grave” (“Sep” Kelly cited in Latham [ibid.: 31]). The début performance of the Elegy (now arranged for piano and violin) was given by Chris Latham (playing violin) as part of the “Flowers of War” series in a concert entitled “Re-sounding Gallipoli” (on April 12, 2015). 24. Mackay (1937) suggests that the battleground called “Lone Pine” was named after the popular song entitled “The Trail of the Lonesome Pine.” Originally a show tune presented on the American stage, it was recorded by a number of artists (1913), including a popular version by the prolific duo Henry “Burr” (1882–1941) and Albert Campbell (1872–1947) for Columbia (Catalog No. A1315). For a fuller description of “The Trail of the Lonesome Pine,” see Tyler (2007: 64–5). However, Lone Pine was also called after a solitary pine tree that survived the terrible slaughter on the upland promontory. Symbolically, a single pine tree grows in the same location today (see Plate 7.2). Perhaps, Olson (2006: 59) is correct when he clarifies the issue with respect to the naming of Lone[some] Pine in the following manner: “A stunted pine tree stood on the southern shoulder [of the ridge]. Artillery observers named it ‘Lonesome Pine’ after the popular song. To the infantry it was simply Lone Pine, the name by which the entire southern shoulder would later be known.” As a matter of clarification, the geographical feature called “Sazlıdere” probably means “the valley with rushes” rather than “the valley of musical instruments,” since the Turkish word “saz” can equally be translated as “rush” or “musical instrument.” 25. In the extended corpus of poetry written during the Gallipoli Campaign, music features prominently in the extant output. Vocal genres like ballad (e.g., “The Ballad of Suvla Bay” by John Still) and lament (e.g., “A Dugout Lament” by TA Saxon) are typical. Musical instruments such as trumpets and bugles are frequently mentioned. In particular, music is often equated with the natural world be it trees which sing as minstrels or waves which sob as mourners, following the evacuation (see, e.g., “Last to Leave” by Gellert). Birds (for reasons of nostalgia) and rivers (for reasons of memorialization) are sometimes endowed with a musical register. Of course, bullets still whine and rifles continue to splutter, shells shriek and cannons roar. Sometimes, onomatopoeia is employed by poets to illustrate “the eerie whistle of bullets Tiu! Tiu! Tiu!” (taken from “On the Ridge” by Still) or to describe “where the deadly bullets me-ow” (taken from “For the Gallipoli Peninsula” by J. Stewart). The sonic attributes of echo and silence are suitably developed by certain artists. For a representative example of poems composed in English during the Gallipoli Campaign, see [[Lady] Jill] Hamilton (2003: 51–138) and Noakes (2006: 109–21). For a typical anthology of relevant poems in Turkish composed during or after the Gallipoli Campaign, see the following web address: www.antoloji.com/canakkale/siirleri/ [Access Date: June 15, 2016]. See, also, Korkmaz (2014). 26. For an official biography of Leon Gellert, see “Gellert, Leon Maxwell (1892– 1977)” at the following web address: adb.anu.edu.au/biography [Access Date: August



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15, 2016]. In this entry by Gavin Souter (published in 2006), Gellert is favorably compared with Brooke and Sassoon. 27. Gellert first published his collection entitled “Songs of a Campaign” in 1917. However, many of the poems were composed prior to publication, with the dates of particular items being appended at the end of relevant compositions. Like Brooke, Gellert’s poetry is suffused with a “classical” idealism. For example, the poem called “Lemnos Revisited” (dated August, 1915) references the plains of Troy and the achievements of Achilles. Again, the poem called “Again the Clash is East” (dated April, 1915) makes a similar comparison between the Gallipoli Campaign and the Trojan War. Like Lawson however, Gellert’s poetry also has a patriotic flavor. For example, the poem entitled “The Australian Muse” (undated) extols the virtues attached to composing songs in celebration of a youthful nation. It is noteworthy that the titles of some poems and the contents of many poems by Gellert reference musical genres (such as the poem entitled “A Song”) and musical instruments (such as lyres and trumpets), respectively. See Gellert (1918) for an illustrated edition of Songs of a Campaign. 28. There are a number of other syllabic irregularities in “The Diggers.” For example, the syllabic configuration of the fourth line in verse two [line: 8] is seemingly asymmetric, being composed of nine rather than ten syllables arranged in the following format [4+5] rather than [5+5]. If the word “eyes” (as one syllable) is elongated to “ey-es” (as two syllables), the prosodic symmetry is again restored. This makes sense given the apparent sorrow expressed by the diggers. I would like to thank Jake Phipps (personal communication, May 27, 2017) for clarifying that this literary technique is known as “catalexis.” 29. The masterpiece in question is an excerpt from the Requiem in D Minor (K. 626) (also called the “Mozart Requiem”) by W. Amadeus Mozart. For a representative overview of original footage from the Gallipoli Campaign, see “Gallipoli on Film” at the following web address: aso.gov.au/titles/collections [Access Date: July 1, 2016]. 30. For a discussion that concerns the two reconstructions of the Gallipoli landings, see Byrnes (2012) at the following web address: forum.gallipoli-association.org [Access Date: July 1, 2016]. 31. Çanakkale 1914–1916 was widely advertised in contemporary newspapers (during January, 1932). As a well-crafted movie (with sound and music), the film portrayed the Ottoman defenders in a sympathetic light. Indeed, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] had encouraged students to see the production in the Hale Sineması and the Millî Sinema before its official première in the Opera Sineması and Artistik Sineması (January 20, 1932). Expecting a large turnout, cinema directors organized a special tram service (running every five minutes) from the Istanbul neighborhoods of Fatih and Maçka (Akşam [January 20, 1932]). They were sorely disappointed as the last matinee was screened prematurely on January 24, 1932. When Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] reputedly questioned cinema managers about the poor attendance at the relevant séance, he was informed that a cinema tax had made ticket prices too expenses (Gökmen [1991: 68]). As is clear from newspaper advertisements, the popularity of other films was not similarly discomfited. It is noteworthy that the screening of Çanakkale 1914–1916 is not mentioned in the standard accounts of Turkish cinema (such as, Scognamillo [1990] and [Nijat] Özön [2013]). See, also, “Çanakkale

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Destanı” by Mihtat Atabay at the following web address: www.haber.com [Access Date: October 1, 2016]. 32. The Great War (1964) was broadcast by the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) in association with Imperial War Museum (IWM), the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) and the Australian Broadcasting [Commission] (ABC). 33. The Greeks are not favorably represented in The Water Diviner. During the train attack in the film, Greek soldiers are portrayed as uncouth and uncompromising. Accordingly, Greek reviews of the movie are not complimentary, especially in light of the devastating attack (1922) against Greek (and Armenian) properties in Smyrna (tr. İzmir) purportedly executed by Turkish troops (1922) during the Graeco-Turkish War (1919–22). See, for example, the article by Karl Quinn on Armenian and Greek protests against The Water Diviner in The Sydney Morning Herald (April 23, 2015). In the relevant conflict, the number of deaths recorded varies widely depending upon the source. See Milton (2009) and Sakayan Ed. (2006) for representative accounts in English and German, respectively. See Ureneck (2016) for a critical account of Smyrna 1922 in terms of genocide. Inevitably, Turkish audiences liked The Water Diviner (called, in Turkish, “Son Ümit”) for its sympathetic representation of Turkish residents in Istanbul during the Allied occupation (1918–22). However (and ignoring history), most reviewers criticize Russell Crowe for his unlikely portrayal of an amorous relationship between a portly Australian farmer and a beautiful Turkish hotelier. 34. There are a number of historical mistakes in the film Çanakkale Yolun Sonu. The landings at Anzac Cove (which in reality occurred at dawn) were filmed in broad daylight. ANZAC soldiers are called “English” (tr. “İngiliz”). A Union Jack rather than a White Ensign is hoisted on a battle cruiser. A Blue Ensign rather than a Union Jack flies incorrectly above Australian positions. Trenches at the battlefront are inappropriately spacious and comfortable. Most disappointing, the representation of Allied officers is monochrome and uncomplimentary. In one instance, an ANZAC officer is portrayed as hysterical. Here, it is a pity that Turkish actors unconvincingly play non-Turkish characters. By contrast, Ottoman officers are predictably considered to be humane and enlightened. That being said, the mobilization scene in an Anatolian village appears to be accurate; so too does the recreation of military life behind the Ottoman line seem correct, especially with respect to everyday nourishment and military attire, to religious ritual and impromptu entertainment. Crucially, a traditional lament (tr. ağıt) is performed to commemorate a dead comrade. However, the dead soldier in question is a Christian who is given a Muslim burial. These small errors are somewhat surprising given that Çanakkale Yolun Sonu was officially sanctioned by a government body, the Turkish Ministry of Ministry of Culture and Tourism (tr. TC Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı). 35. “The Boys of the Dardanelles” is also the name of a contemporary song. The documentary in question features other popular numbers including “Waltzing Matilda” (1903) and “Heroes of the Dardanelles” (1916). The film confirms that ANZAC soldiers attacked enemy positions during the Gallipoli landings “amid the singing, and the swearing and the cheering ... .” 36. “The Anzacs” was a television series that followed the fates of an Australian battalion during the War. The Gallipoli portion of the program is unmemorable in terms of its both historical content and musical soundtrack.



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37. “Mons and Gallipoli” is part of the World War One: The Centenary Collection. Featuring interviews with a number of military experts employed at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, the documentary challenges many assumptions about the Gallipoli Campaign. In particular, it argues that the lack of military (such as artillery) and administrative (such as telephones) supplies led inevitably to the Allied defeat. Further, it suggests that fresh troops without frontline experience were used, the best soldiers being reserved for the Western Front. In contrast to many published histories, the experts contend that Sir Ian Hamilton was an excellent choice to serve as commander of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF). However, the lack of essential supplies and the quality of raw recruits undermined Hamilton’s ability (or the ability of any officer in his position) to win the Gallipoli Campaign. The scholars are especially critical of the ANZAC forces, dismissing Australian and New Zealand soldiers as a “disorganized mob.” In addition, the documentary presents new information on the strategy behind the landings at Suvla Bay. The film concludes with lessons learnt. First, the Ottoman army lost many of its best soldiers at Gallipoli (with serious consequences for future campaigns in the Middle East). Second, the Allied army trained many raw recruits at Gallipoli (in preparation for the forthcoming engagements on the Western Front). 38. The English version of Gelibolu-Gallipoli is entitled “Gallipoli: The Frontline Experience” (2012). Surprisingly, Jeremy Irons (1948-), as the principal narrator, provides an unconvincing rendition in English of the Turkish diaries recounted and the Turkish letters reread. In this respect, it is a pity that the principal narrator (Zafer Ergin [1942–]) in the Turkish version of the documentary did not read out the Turkish materials instead; that is, Ergin narrating the relevant sources in Turkish along with English subtitles. 39. In Gelibolu-Gallipoli most of the primary sources used were written by Australians or New Zealanders. At the time of screening (2005), these were widely available in published media. However, equivalent sources written by Ottoman soldiers were few. Where extant, these were usually written by Ottoman officers (who had to be literate). The majority of Ottoman conscripts (mostly rank-and-file) were not literate, amounting to ninety percent of all Ottoman troops.

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We arrive at the Nek. It is little more than a car park, a tiny sliver of deserted land, a narrow col on a broken ridge. The original trenches, which separated the opposing armies, are just visible. The monument in memory of the ANZAC dead is surprisingly small. By comparison with other sites of commemoration on the Gallipoli Peninsula, the Nek is unimpressive. Looking around, I can see that I am not alone in being disappointed. However, the views northward toward Suvla Bay (see Figure 7.1) and southward toward Cape Helles are breathtaking. From here though, Anzac Cove, which is five hundred feet below, is not visible. While a fleck of water and a flick of light threaten to drown our tour of the ANZAC graveyards, the tour guide rallies his weary flock of Australian tourists with a hilarious rendition of Archy’s last moment in the film Gallipoli: he hums the sad tune and he receives the fatal shot, arms outstretched in cruciform. Then, rubbing his eyes, he sobs: “boo hoo hoo.” He laughs at his own caricature. We laugh too. Our guide is none other than a recognized expert of the Gallipoli Campaign, Kenan Çelik.1 The escort of choice for diplomats and presidents (as he is more than willing to relate), Çelik has been conducting tours of the Gallipoli Peninsula for decades. However, his narrative is still polished, historically informed yet humorously delivered. Beginning with the coiffed cemeteries at Anzac Cove, we ascend to the gardened graveyards at Lone Pine. My companions race to photograph the massive promontory overlooking Anzac Beach (called “the Sphynx”) and the solitary tree growing in Lone Pine (see Figure 7.2), two markers of ANZAC memory embedded in the Gallipoli landscape. The tour continues upward. We marvel at the pagoda that commemorates the Turkish dead at The Chessboard. There, the words of the folksong called “Çanakkale Türküsü” are emblazoned upon a statue. We end at Chunuk Bair. I take time to find the headstone of William Malone 191

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Figure 7.1  “Suvla Bay from the Nek”—John M. O’Connell.

(d. 1915), as much for his Irish ancestry as for his musical ability. His grave overlooks the Aegean Sea on one side and the Marmara Sea on the other. What a panorama to envision for eternity. The setting is serene. The scenery is spectacular. However, the tour of the Gallipoli Peninsula presents a sanitized version of the Gallipoli Campaign. A century after the battle, gravestones gleam and grasses glimmer. Pine trees clothe the rugged hills, providing sanctuary to shelter the dead and secreting perfume to cleanse the fallen. This is war tourism at its best and at its worst.2 A singular narrative conjoins the Australians and the Turks. War has been replaced by peace, a new harmony espoused by two nations. Old foes are now new friends. Both countries have thrust aside an imperial yoke, be it the British Empire for the Australians or the Ottoman Empire for the Turks. The tour tells this story. Mostly ANZAC soldiers are commemorated and usually Turkish troops are memorialized.3 There is little evidence of other religions (such as Sikhs among the Allied forces) or other races (such as Arabs among the Ottoman armies) being remembered. A statue of a Turkish conscript (affectionately known as “Mehmet”) carrying a wounded Australian combatant (colloquially known as “Johnny”) says it all. Like the message it relates, the statue is larger than life.



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Figure 7.2  “Lone Pine”—John M. O’Connell.

My Australian companions are not deceived by this moving display of memorials. Many of them are clearly versed in the critical literature about Australian militarism that is emerging in the ANZAC cannon (see below). One asks: “Where are the graves of the Arab conscripts who fought in the Ottoman army?” Another inquires: “What happened to the Greek residents who lived in local settlements?” Çelik is prepared. To the first he replies, Muslims (whether Arab or Turk) were mostly buried in unmarked graves. To the second, he confirms that all inhabitants on the battlefront (whether Christian or Muslim) were evacuated. However, he does not mention the obvious points: To where and by whom? Such questions could disclose disturbing truths about the relocation and extinction of Ottoman minorities at the time of the Gallipoli Campaign.4 Rather, Çelik sidesteps the obvious. He states that Turkey (like Australia) is a nation of migrants, with Tartars being settled in the regional capital of Çanakkale and Bulgarians being housed in the port town of Eceabat after the War. As he confirms, Çelik himself is descended from these immigrants. There are historical reasons for the complicit relationship between the Australasians and the Turks. Following the negotiations with Greece at the Treaty of Sèvres (1920) and the renegotiations with Turkey at the Treaty of

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Lausanne (1923), the ANZAC governments were offered a terrestrial enclave on the Gallipoli Peninsula to honor their dead. In contrast to the recognition of simple cemeteries accorded to the British and the French, the ANZAC nations were allowed to possess a sizeable parcel of land (4.5km in length by 1.5km in width). It is known as the “ANZAC Estate.” Sagona Eds (2016: 192–21) argue that there were two reasons for this generous donation by the Turkish administration. First, the relevant sector was rugged and, therefore, unsuitable for cultivation. Second, the pertinent segment had an emotional significance for the antipodean dominions, which were at the time undergoing a national transformation. Even then, there was an internal conflict among representatives of the Imperial War Graves Commission (IWGC) who wished either to retain the original layout of wartime cemeteries or to consolidate the dispersed location of wartime graves into larger units. Consolidation won over retention. Although Charles Bean (1879–1968), among others, wished to retain the clear relationship between burial and fatality (and, in doing so, preserve intact the geography of a battlefront delineated in crosses), the official architect of the Commission, Sir John Burnet (1857–1938), was not so convinced (ibid.: 214–6). Since many graves had suffered degradation (due to inclement weather) and many crosses had been removed (possibly for firewood), Burnet proposed the construction of a limited number of major sites that could operate both as cemeteries and as monuments (see Figure 7.3). The strategy had two benefits: first, the resting

Figure 7.3  “Anzac Cove”—John M. O’Connell.



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place of unknown soldiers could be commemorated; second, memorials were constructed on an incline to facilitate drainage. In contrast to commemorative sites on the Western Front, Burnet chose to construct walled enclosures with a central monument. On each monument, a cross was carved out in relief. Within the compounds, stone plaques marked the graves of known soldiers (with names and ranks inscribed). These were laid out in regular lines, giving a human texture to the architectural fabric. The result is magnificent if contrived. The Turks built their own monuments (ibid.: 240–3). In contrast to the neoclassical uniformity of the ANZAC graveyards (which were constructed by Burnet during the 1920s), the memorials to the Ottoman dead were not uniform. During the Gallipoli Campaign, a number of monuments were quickly erected to mark the naval victory in the Dardanelles (March 18, 1915) and the land offensive at Lone Pine (August 6–9, 1915). As a representative pillar, the monument at Çataldere is somewhat improvised, a sandstone column built by army engineers (c. 1915) to memorialize the Ottoman assault on ANZAC positions (May 19, 1915). Like similar edifices, the structure features shell cases and artillery tubes (ibid.: 234). It was only in 1934 that an official memorial was built by the Turkish government (ibid.: 238). Called “Mehmet Çavuş Abidesi” (en. “Monument to Sergeant Mehmet”), the construction aimed to match the symbolic importance attached to equivalent sites erected in memory of the ANZAC dead. Since then, Çanakkale Şehitleri Anıtı (en. the Memorial of the Çanakkale Martyrs [opened in 1960]) and 57’nci Alay Şehitliği (en. Cemetery of the 57th Regiment [opened in 1992]) have more recently assumed a commemorative role. Memorials were followed by rituals. The first Turkish monuments attracted small visits by local dignitaries (ibid.: 222–3), usually political representatives or military figures brought to celebrate the naval victory over the Allied fleet by Ottoman artillerymen. Students and scouts featured prominently in these early festivities. The first ANZAC monuments also drew a limited crowd (ibid.: 216–7), especially when important sites (such as the memorial at Chunuk Bair [1925]) were officially opened. The massive pilgrimage to the war graves on the Gallipoli Peninsula is more recent (ibid.: 218–21), for the Turks it coincided with the military dictatorship of Kenan Evren (s. 1980–9), for the ANZACs it corresponded with the contemporaneous release of the film Gallipoli (1981). To foster political and economic ties between Australia and Turkey, senior politicians from both countries now collect together on ANZAC Day (April 25) to commemorate national sacrifices (at Anzac Cove) and to celebrate international relations (at Hisarlık Tepesi). Here, memorial and ritual serve to underscore the official narrative of defeat and victory as it is proffered by ANZAC sources and Turkish histories, respectively.

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REMEMBERING Remembering is sometimes partial. For the most part, Australia and Turkey have dominated the commemorative events on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Recently, the bi-partisan relationship is evident in the realms of archeology and historiography. In the former category, an archeological study of the ANZAC battlefield under the auspices of the Joint Historical and Archaeological Survey (JHAS) has been published by scholars from both countries (see Sagona Eds [2016]). Although one New Zealander (the war historian Ian McGibbon [ibid.: 98–137]) is featured among the fourteen contributors to the edited volume, his coauthored submission is quite small and seemingly tokenistic. The volume aims to present a balanced overview of the ANZAC and the Ottoman battlefields from an Australian and a Turkish perspective. It evaluates the relevant sites and the collected artifacts using the latest techniques in cartography and photography. It is an impressive document. Most noteworthy, it includes an extended section on “classical” antiquity from the perspectives of both archeology and mythology. By implication, Gallipoli is considered to be the new Troy where the Allies hope to repeat Achilles’s victory and the Ottomans aim to revenge Hector’s defeat. This is where archeology intersects with historiography, the latter category. Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938) visited Troy (1913) following in the footsteps of Alexander III of Macedon (r. 336–23 BCE). Even at that stage, he foresaw a seaborne threat to the Aegean coast from the west (ibid.: 33). Later, Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] would revisit the Greek victory at Troy to emphasize the Turkish victory at Gallipoli. Accordingly, the Trojan War became part of a new narrative in Turkish history (ibid.: 34). In this bid to meld the “east” with the “west,” some historians have also attempted to find a common ground between opposing histories: that is, between the representation of the Gallipoli Campaign in Turkish and in English. Following a precedent set by Oral (2007), Erickson (2010) published a monograph entitled “Gallipoli: The Ottoman Campaign.”5 Often reproducing maps and documents to be found in Turkish sources, Erickson presents in English the Turkish perspective. In doing so, he repeats a standardized narrative mapped out by Turkish historians. His account is too adulatory of the Turkish position but insufficiently critical of the Turkish canon. Of course, music has played its part in national displays of remembrance. Apart from the annual rituals that commemorate musically the naval defeat in the Dardanelles (March 18) and the military assault on the Gallipoli Peninsula (April 25), music has played a key role in centennial celebrations, be it in terms of concert performances or in terms of orchestral compositions. As a concert performance, “Re-Sounding Gallipoli” is noteworthy. Bringing together musical numbers associated with the Gallipoli Campaign in a single



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event, the concert program aimed to represent the different countries and distinctive empires involved, ranging from Newfoundland to New Zealand, the British Empire to the Ottoman Empire. Staged at the High Court of Australia in Canberra (April 12, 2015), the performance was dominated by an Australasian focus with contemporary numbers (like “Australia Will Be There”) and traditional ballads (like “Invercargill March”) showing the bias toward an Australian and a New Zealand repertoire, respectively. Yes, the program includes a “Senegalese” drummer and a Māori singer as if to appear culturally inclusive. Yes, too, the program contains two Turkish compositions, a march (“Vatan Marşı”) and a song (“Çanakkale Türküsü”). However, “Re-Sounding Gallipoli” still manages to confirm an antipodean fixation with the Gallipoli Campaign. The cornet player Ted McMahon from Western Australia is especially foregrounded in the concert program, with two pieces of his musical repertoire (which he is known to have played on the Gallipoli Peninsula) itemized, “Un peu d’amour” and “The Rosary.” In addition, McMahon’s picture graces the front page of the concert brochure. Also, his cornet is portrayed inside the relevant pamphlet. In an article that appeared in The Sydney Morning Herald (April 3, 2015), Chris Latham (the director of “Re-Sounding Gallipoli”) describes in greater detail McMahon’s contribution to music-making during the Gallipoli Campaign. Apart from playing “The Rosary” during a concert party (see chapter 6) or performing “Silent Night” during the “Last Post,” McMahon also played quietly (using a handkerchief as a mute) to his mates in rest areas away from the battlefront, thereby providing entertainment while avoiding detection. Here, Latham repeats the instances when McMahon was applauded by enemy soldiers or when McMahon caused a momentary ceasefire during an instrumental solo. McMahon’s cornet was played in “Re-Sounding Gallipoli.” To increase interest in the concert performance, a number of musical instruments (including whistles and trumpets) were advertised in the media. In The Canberra Times (April 12, 2015), for example, Paul Goodchild (1961–) (a trumpeter with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra) is pictured at the Australian War Memorial (Canberra) playing McMahon’s cornet. That evening at “ReSounding Gallipoli” (in addition to the items mentioned above), Goodchild played on the same instrument a contemporary number called “The Trumpeter” (1904) (by Airlie Dix [1862–1911]), a song that McMahon accompanied during a camp concert. Two issues cloud the publicity surrounding “Re-Sounding Gallipoli.” First, the aspiration toward musical pluralism in the concert programing is overshadowed by a national chauvinism in the concert advertising. Second, the musical interest in the concert schedule (with its diverse range of musical items) is eclipsed by the musical advertisement of second-rate numbers. This is a pity since “Re-Sounding Gallipoli” is carefully researched and tastefully realized. In particular, the concert brochure

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is informed and informative.6 It is beautifully illustrated with drawings and watercolors by the Gallipoli artist, Leslie Hore (1870–1935).7 As an orchestral composition, the Gallipoli Symphony also represents a musical collaboration between Australasia and Turkey. Again under the directorship of Latham, the Gallipoli Symphony like “Re-Sounding Gallipoli” is part of the “The Flowers of War” series which is sponsored by the Australian Government, among other international bodies. It was premièred (August 4, 2015) in Hagia Irene (tr. Aya İrini), a former church in Istanbul but now a museum.8 Like “Re-Sounding Gallipoli,” the Gallipoli Symphony attempts to incorporate the musical traditions of the Aboriginal and the Māori peoples while at the same time addressing the musical tastes of the Australasian and the Turkish nations. The result is not always successful. Constructed as a musical narrative (in twelve movements) that traces the Gallipoli Campaign from the ANZAC and the Ottoman perspectives, the composition hopes to demonstrate “that nations that were once at war can come together in peace and harmony” (Latham cited in Gallipoli Symphony [2015: 4]). The same cliché is repeated: music as a metaphor for intercultural understanding. Accordingly, an Australian didgeridoo is set against a Turkish saz, an “eastern” mode (tr. makam) is harmonized in a “western” manner. The Gallipoli Symphony had a shaky start. At its début, the accuracy of the brass section was frequently faulty (this, in a composition, with many fanfares). The intonation of the Turkish singer was consistently inaccurate (this, in a country, with outstanding vocalists). Yes, the Australian didgeridoo (played by William Barton [1981–]) and the Māori pūtātara (played by Horomona Hora [1978–]) added local color; as did the Turkish flute (tr. ney) (played by Ömer Tekbilek [1951–]) and the Turkish zither (tr. kanun) (played by Bahadır Şener [1975–]). However, there was no sense of a musical synthesis in this multiauthored composition; no overriding evidence of the “[f]ourths and fifths, the notes we know best from the Last Post” (ibid.: 3). Of course, these intervals are heard but they are not fully integrated into the compositional process. Rather, a major fourth (sometimes an augmented fourth) and a minor third at times provide structural cohesion. However, many contributors to the Gallipoli Symphony did not follow this musical paradigm. This was a mistake. The overall result is disappointment: an overdose of unmitigated melancholia. Yet, there are glimpses of musical enlightenment in the Gallipoli Symphony. The movement entitled “The Invasion” by Kamran İnce (1960–) is rather compelling. Here is a composer who intuitively understands the difference between a monophonic (representative of the “eastern” perspective) and a polyphonic tradition (representative of the “western” perspective). He is careful when setting microtonal modes against diatonic scales, judiciously voicing dissonant intervals to avoid disharmony. While he



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retains a modal sensibility (tr. makamsal), he follows a harmonic pathway, choosing a Turkish mode (the makam Kürdî) that matches a “western” mode (the Phrygian modus). There is a lovely moment when in dialogue a ney converses with a kanun. In turn, the ney talks to a flute. A zurna measures the pace with a repeated ostinato covering two tones. Later, there is another moment when tonality is disrupted. A bi-tonal texture emerges between the Turkish and the non-Turkish instruments. This is musical warfare at its best, where music depicts conflict both as dissonance and as consonance. In this section, the heterophonic embellishment on the Turkish saz is traditional yet apposite. FORGETTING Some things are best forgotten. The première of the Gallipoli Symphony in Istanbul is perhaps one of them. While the début in Australia (November 24, 2015) of the orchestral work received positive reviews,9 there are few equivalent assessments of the début in Turkey (August 5, 2015). For the most part, the Turkish reviews amount to little more than announcements (in local newspapers) or credits (in government agencies).10 That is, the first performance of the Gallipoli Symphony was quietly forgotten by the Turkish media. The problem probably lay in two-quarters. First, the Turkish orchestra was clearly under-rehearsed.11 Second, the Australian conductor (Jessica Cottis [1979–]) was apparently uncomfortable, especially with the successful integration of the Turkish and the non-Turkish elements. In one movement (“The August Offensive” by Andrew Schultz [1960–]), the metric interplay between instrumental sections was not succinctly delivered. The outcome was sloppy. Perhaps, the fundamental issue lay with the composition itself. As a collection of individual movements to be played independently, the Gallipoli Symphony is hard to realize in performance as a single entity. There are a number of assumptions associated with the Gallipoli Symphony that require interrogation. Like “Re-Sounding Gallipoli,” music is viewed as therapy. As Latham contends: “The whole point of it is that I’ve had this belief that music’s true role is to heal people” (interview on the ABC with Kim Lester, March 5, 2015). Citing the instrumentalist McMahon, Latham continues: “Ted McMahon speaks of that fascination of music soothing the breasts of war-hardened men.” That is, McMahon believed that: “The charm of music had cast a spell over all, and for a time the war was forgotten.” The pacific potential of music is clearly articulated in the Gallipoli Symphony. The penultimate movement is a choral number entitled “Future” by the Australian composer Graeme Koehne (1956–). It speaks of a new brotherhood between former enemies: “We will come again as friends not foes.” It speaks

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about unity in unison: “We will sing again our voices as one.” That is, the composition alludes to a “[f]uture, one of love and lasting peace.” Interestingly, the text is delivered in English and not in Turkish. The “Special Feature” that accompanies the DVD of the Gallipoli Symphony contains interviews with relevant artists and composers. Some talk about unity. For example, the Australian composer Peter Sculthorpe (1929– 2014) alludes to the three prominent notes in the “Last Post.” These inform his movement entitled “Thoughts of Home” (especially the triadic melody that is played on the mouth organ). They also allude to the three nations represented in the Gallipoli Symphony, namely Australia, New Zealand and Turkey. Others talk about peace. In particular, the Turkish instrumentalist Tekbilek paraphrases Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk]’s supposed tribute to the ANZAC forces by stating: “These children are ours now because they are here.” Although not quite accurate, Tekbilek refers to a monument that was erected in Anzac Cove where Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] is quoted as honoring the ANZAC dead. As an open address to Australasian mothers, Atatürk states: “You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom, and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.” Forgetting is not forgotten in this “Special Feature.” In the composition entitled “He Poroporaoki” (en. “[Saying] Farewell”) by New Zealand composers Gareth Farr (1969–) and Richard Nunns (1945–), Nunns speaks about the iconic sounds associated with Māori aerophones that have been forgotten since the nineteenth century. In the coauthored composition, Nunns attempts to combine familiar music (such as the hymn called “Po Atarau” [en. “Now is the Hour”]) with an unfamiliar sound (created by traditional instruments associated with Māori rituals [mā. taonga pūoro]). The outcome is a haunting work that commemorates the largely underrepresented contribution of Māori soldiers in the Gallipoli Campaign, dissonant overtones representing the Māori position and consonant melodies representing the Pākehā perspective. Notably, “Po Atarau” was historically sung as a farewell hymn to Māori troops when departing for the war front. However, it is surprising that Nunns does not incorporate traditional gestures of farewell in Māori chant. These include the song of farewell during a welcome ceremony called “karanga” and the song of farewell at a funeral ritual called “tangi” (see McLean [1996]). It is noteworthy that Latham is not interviewed in the “Special Feature.” However, the musical director of and a musical contributor to the Gallipoli Symphony, Latham, is missing from the extended lineup of artists and composers. In particular, there is no discussion or analysis of the composition entitled “One Hundred Seconds for One Hundred Years,” the twelfth movement that ends the orchestral work. Yet, the program notes inserted with the



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DVD are not so forgetful. In them, Latham (cited in Gallipoli Symphony [2015: 10]) describes his work as an ending which “combines western and Turkish tuning systems and Islamic and Christian cultural markers, demonstrating through music the coming together of Ottoman and modern Turkey, Maori and Pakeha New Zealand cultures, indigenous and modern Australian cultures into a harmonious whole.” Following a brass fanfare constructed around the principal tones of the “Last Post,” the piece features a descending scale upon which non-“western” musicians improvise. Unfortunately, the result is cacophony rather than harmony. As a musical metaphor for intercultural understanding, it is striking that the musicians do not end together. The conductor is ignored. The audience is left unimpressed. The Gallipoli Symphony advocates heteroglossia.12 It is a musical composition written in a number of musical dialects. However, the Gallipoli Symphony also discloses an authorial intention, the rewriting of history in veneration of the ANZAC myth. Here, the inclusion of the non-“western” is seemingly tokenistic, an ornamental gloss placed upon a “western” edifice. Established composers from Australia and New Zealand dominate the artistic lineup. With the exception of İnce, the Turkish contribution is lightweight (Tekbilek is a little-known folk artist and Demirkan is a second-tier popular musician). Further, the ethnic markers of Australia (in the form of the Aboriginal didgeridoo) and of New Zealand (in the guise of Māori aerophones) are colonial stereotypes, readings of musical difference according to the dominant aesthetic of a dominion power. The twelfth movement of the Gallipoli Symphony reinforces the asymmetric relationship between the dominant and the dominated. The piece is characterized by a descending scale: diatonic and major. The musicians improvise (however incongruously) around this musical core. The music lesson is obvious: the dominance of a “western” language over and above non-“western” dialects. How, then, does a musical language reveal authorial intention? The Gallipoli Symphony is another construction of an ANZAC narrative performed to assuage the guilt of colonization in Australasia (the subjugation of the indigenous peoples) and to forget the ignominy of defeat in Gallipoli (at the hands of an Ottoman army). It is a musical work that is for the most part sponsored by Australian concerns.13 The orchestral composition reinforces the heroic reading of ANZAC history, one, if Andrews (1993) is to be believed, in which journalists played a part. ANZAC troops are described by Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett (1881–1931) as “a race of athletes” (ibid.: 57) and “magnificent manhood” (ibid.: 60) in his embroidered account of the ANZAC landings. Bean also bought into the ANZAC myth, rarely commenting in his dispatches about instances of cowardice among and moments of murder (such as the slaughter of prisoners) by ANZAC troops (ibid.: 53). Indeed, it was yet another journalist, Keith Murdoch (1885–1952), who stoked the fire of

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anti-British sentiment among Australasian audiences, blaming British commanders rather than ANZAC soldiers for a military catastrophe. What Andrews argues (ibid.: 8-39) is as follows: Australians at the time believed themselves to be British. Like New Zealanders, many Australians were born in Britain. Like New Zealanders, many Australians studied in British schools and attended British churches. For new colonials in the Antipodes, Australasian history was British history. The ANZAC nations were tied to Britain both economically and politically. As members of the British Empire, they were bound by treaty to fight in British wars. As the jingoistic ballad declares when Britain needed Australia: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot / No! No!, No! No! No! Australia will be there.” In the Gallipoli Symphony, this imperialist connection between Australasia and Britain is forgotten. So too is the imperialist attitude among ANZAC troops during the Gallipoli Campaign. The British notion of racial superiority was ingrained in ANZAC soldiers, so much so that racism was rampant among ANZAC soldiers in the playgrounds of Egypt (ibid.: 47–51). This racist attitude also informed many contemporary accounts of Middle-Eastern music.14 In the Gallipoli Symphony, musical tastes may have changed but musical prejudices are not forgotten. MILITARISM The British connection here should not be overlooked. As the Australian historian Reynolds (2010: 106) reminds us, a militaristic spirit pervaded the British dominions during the Edwardian era (1901–10) where emergent nations were effectively defined by their military success in colonial wars (for example, in the Second Boer War [1899–1902]). Here, the martial values of manhood and heroism, sacrifice and service were fostered to test the warlike status of individual states. As another historian Lake (2010: xxiii–xxxiii) argues, the same sense of militarism has been associated with the ANZAC myth. Although the Gallipoli Campaign is rarely mentioned in early histories of Australia, she contends that the ANZAC spirit has been resurrected recently by a number of Australian governments that try to normalize Australian participation in foreign wars (such as the Second Gulf War [2003–11]). Accordingly, monuments have been built and institutions have been founded to promote the militarization of Australian history. As a representative establishment, the Department of Veterans’ Affairs (DVA) has been instrumental in promoting relevant projects in the cultural sphere. Significantly, the DVA sponsored the Gallipoli Symphony. Reynolds and Lake are the principal contributors to an edited collection entitled “What’s Wrong with Anzac?” In it, they interrogate the original



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ANZAC myth as it was espoused by Bean (1916) in his book entitled “The ANZAC Book;” that is, citizen soldiers from the Australian Outback who championed the Bushman values of comradeship and independence. Rather than seeing ANZAC soldiers as innocent victims in an imperialist conspiracy, Reynolds and Lake see Australian troops in particular during the Gallipoli Campaign as killers, racists who advanced a white policy at home (especially against the Chinese in the labor market) and who engaged in an anti-“black” prejudice abroad (especially against the Arabs in the Middle East). Surprisingly, Bean was implicated in promoting both positions.15 In this context, the cultural aspects of evolutionism that concerned race and state ensured that a white people inhabited almost exclusively a white land. That this people and this nation was an integral part of the British Empire guaranteed that the Australians (as British colonials) and Australia (as a British colony) occupied a privileged position in the global order. Australia was not alone in promoting this version of British militarism. During the twentieth century, it was one of a number of former colonies to acquire dominion status in the British Empire. Like New Zealand and Newfoundland later (in 1907), Australia (in 1901) became a self-governing country in the new Commonwealth of Nations. However, (and unlike Canada) it was not at the time considered to be a sovereign dominion. However, (and like Canada) it was recognized as a federation. Despite the technical differences in dominion status, Australia like the other dominions was bound both economically and politically to the mother country, the United Kingdom. Like the other dominions too, Australia owed allegiance to a British monarch. Most importantly, Australia, like the other dominions, was required to send troops in defense of the British Empire. This helps explain the presence of dominion troops among the Allied forces during the war. This also explains the existence of dominion troops (such as the Newfoundland Regiment) on the Gallipoli Peninsula during the Gallipoli Campaign: that is, in addition to the ANZAC contingent. Militarism still plays an important role in the commemorative events that mark the Gallipoli Campaign. Be they by Canadian or British soldiers, Australian or New Zealand sailors, the rituals of remembrance invariably involve prayers and speeches, marches and parades. A minute of silence is followed by a fanfare (usually the “Last Post”). Wreaths (often red poppies) are laid by dignitaries at suitable memorials. Flags are flown and salutes are given. Inevitably, brass bands blare. Where Scottish regiments are revered or Irish brigades are honored, pipe bands offer their plaintive paeans with resonant drones, each played by pipers sporting kilts that sway to the air of a lonesome tune. While there are differences in the hymns chosen and the poems selected, the costumes worn and the drills performed, there is invariably a martial unity in the enactment of a sacred ritual. The impression is one of the

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church militant from an imperial past. The sound is bellicose in its advocacy of peace. Then the mantra is repeated in sterile tones by a solemn congregation: “We will remember them. We will remember them.”16 However, we did not remember them all. When Ireland became a sovereign dominion within the Commonwealth of Nations (thereby being known as “the Irish Free State” [1922]), the country aimed to relinquish its ties with British militarism in the staging of commemorative rituals.17 Although Armistice Day (on November 11, 1919) had been celebrated in Ireland (as in other parts of the United Kingdom) prior to Irish independence,18 it was used by the British army to demonstrate its military might during the War of Independence (1919–22). After the Irish Civil War (1922–3), a new schedule of commemorative events was proposed. These ceremonies mostly celebrated significant moments in the nationalist calendar. Chief among these was the anniversaries of the Easter Rising (1916). On the tenth anniversary (1926), for example, troops gathered under a sea of flags, now green and orange instead of blue and red. Soldiers stood to attention. Artillery saluted the dead. Flowers were laid and prayers were read. Bands played and warriors marched. In these commemorations, British militarism was simply repackaged as Irish militarism. However, Irish militarism was not invented at the dawn of the Irish nation. Indeed, there is a long tradition of Irish parades, be they democratic processions during the nineteenth century in favor of constitutional reform or military marches during the twentieth century in the expression of religious difference. While the fife and drum bands had traditionally marked a unionist dissent against a nationalist independence, brass bands and pipe bands provided a common currency for articulating alternative religious and political identities, even if the kilts were different and the tunes were distinct. Yet, there was one difference after the partition of Ireland, Irish soldiers from the northern part were remembered but Irish soldiers from the southern part were forgotten (see Myers [2015]). Although many believed that they were fighting for Home Rule, Irish soldiers from Southern Ireland who fought in the War were ostracized as traitors after Irish independence. Unlike their Northern Irish counterparts, Southern Irish soldiers were mostly not compensated (with war pensions) or commemorated (with remembrance rituals). Such honors were exclusively reserved for a new hagiography in Irish history, the veterans of Irish independence. Song provides a medium for expressing the complex character of Irish militarism. In particular, the song entitled “The Foggy Dew” (1919), which was probably written by Charles O’Neill (1887–1963) to commemorate the Easter Rising, captures the conflicted loyalties that affected Irish soldiers during the War; that is, either to fight for Britain in a global conflict or to fight against Britain in a local uprising (see Text A.2.8). Two lines of the song capture this



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conflict: “Right proudly high over Dublin town they hung out the flag of war / ‘Twas better to die ‘neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud el Bahr.” There is another reference to the Gallipoli Campaign. It talks about the pointlessness of Irish deaths in foreign lands when Irish soldiers should be fighting at home beside the heroes of the Irish uprising: “But their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves or the shore of the [g]reat North Sea / Oh had they died by Pierce’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha.”19 Had they done so: “Their names we will keep where the Fenians sleep ‘neath the shroud of the foggy dew.” There is an Edwardian militarism that infects “The Foggy Dew.” Men are valiant in the face of death. Men are gallant in the cause of freedom. Death is glorious when the yoke of slavery is released. Brave men fight, despite the odds, against “Britannia’s Huns” (usually a contemporary moniker reserved for Germans). They fight to make reel “perfidious Albion” (usually a French expression used to describe English deceit). The lyrics have a musical dimension. “Armed lines of marching men” are not accompanied by musicians. In contrast to the marching parades of the Ulster Volunteers, when the squadrons pass by: “No fife did hum nor battle drum did sound its dread tatoo.” Rather a bell sounds the Angelus (a Catholic call for prayer) or the requiem (a Christian call for remembrance). The piece has the typical character of a rebel ballad. Characteristic motifs frame the narrative, beginning with: “As down the glen one Easter morn” and ending with: “Ah, back through the glen I rode again.” The common theme of blood sacrifice by a fearless few is traditional. PACIFISM However, “The Foggy Dew” may reveal more subtle semantic registers (see Table 7.1). The title of the ballad is not new, there being other songs in the folk repertory called by that name. For long, the name has intrigued students of folklore with respect to different songs entitled “The Foggy Dew” (or their variants). As Randolph (1992: 262) suggests, the words “foggy dew” might Table 7.1  List of Songs in English that are Discussed in the Text Title ‘The Foggy Dew’ ‘Old Gallipoli’ ‘Carrigdhoun’ [Original Version] ‘Carrigdhoun’ [Current Version] ‘The Shores of Gallipoli’ ‘And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda’ ‘The Green Fields [of France]’

Lyrics Charles O’Neill Unknown Denny Lane Denny Lane Michael Swan Eric Bogle

Tune ‘Moorlough Shore’ ‘Mountains of Mourne’ ‘The Foggy Dew’ ‘Bendemeer’s Stream’ ‘Gallipoli’ ‘Waltzing Matilda’

Date 1919 1915 1845 1890 1962 1971

Eric Bogle

‘No Man’s Land’

1971

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have two meanings, one denoting a sexual encounter (the forced loss of virginity) and the other connoting a terrible plague (the inescapable transmission of disease). Both meanings are relevant in the Irish version of the ballad. In the lines: “While Britannia’s Huns with their long-range guns sailed in through the foggy dew,” the text envisages the rape of a young nation by an imperial master. It also envisages an Irish host attempting to escape infestation by an English parasite, a black death destroying Gaelic culture. That a British gunboat called “Helga” shelled rebel positions while sailing up the River Liffey during the Easter Rising, gives the ballad both a mythical significance and a historical valence. “The Foggy Dew” is also the name of a traditional tune. Although the words of “The Foggy Dew” are not set to the melody entitled “The Foggy Dew” (see Example A.1.7), there are a number of intertextual connections between the ballad and its setting. Chief among these is the reference to the Wild Geese, Irish soldiers who were driven from Ireland during the seventeenth century to fight in foreign wars (see chapter 3). In the ballad entitled “The Foggy Dew,” these Wild Geese are forced to fight in the British Army believing “that small nations might be free,” a reference either to the invasion of Belgium by Germany or to the liberation of Ireland from Britain. The ballad entitled “Carrigdhoun” was originally set to the melody called “The Foggy Dew,” a traditional tune that appears in Bunting Ed. (1840, 2: 109), among other sources (see Example A.1.3). However, “Carrigdhoun” is also about the Wild Geese exiled to fight in continental wars (see chapter 3), this time in the French army. Significantly, both ballads are laments for Irish soldiers who die in foreign fields. Both ballads envisage the return of Irish warriors to fight for Irish freedom. The musical relationship does not end there. The ballad “Carrigdhoun” is also sung to the melody “The Mountains of Mourne,” a tune that is associated with the war song “Old Gallipoli” and connected with the orientalist verse “Bendemeer’s Stream” (see chapter 3). Here it is noteworthy that the ballad “The Foggy Dew” and the song “Old Gallipoli” both reference the Gallipoli Campaign, from the perspective of either Irish soldiers involved in a nationalist uprising or Irish troops engaged in an imperial expedition. In both numbers too there is an ambivalence expressed toward Irish militarism, be it the misguided idealism of Irish troops buried in Suvla Bay or the sarcastic realism of Irish troops engaged in Achi Baba. Reminiscent of “Bendemeer’s Stream,” there is an orientalist tenor in both pieces where “The Foggy Dew” alludes to an “eastern” shore and “Old Gallipoli” references an “eastern” campaign. That the text of “The Foggy Dew” is set to the tune of “Moorlough Shore” further subverts the ideological integrity of the nationalist message, since “Moorlough Shore” is a colonial song about an Irish “soldier” in the British navy.



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The text and the tune of “The Foggy Dew” attest to the complex positionality of Irish participation in the Gallipoli Campaign. In the text, Irish soldiers in the Allied armies are apparently traitors to their homeland. In the tune, Irish soldiers in the British forces are improbable patriots to their empire. Where the lyrics of “The Foggy Dew” espouse a nationalist perspective that is exclusively Irish and Catholic, the melody of “The Foggy Dew” (as “Moorlough Shore”) alludes to an imperialist position, where an Irish soldier is mourned by his “English” sweetheart, presumably a proscribed match made between a Catholic boy and a Protestant girl by a river bank in Ulster. Of note, a version of “Moorlough Shore” is entitled “Maid of the Mourne Shore,” Mourne in Northern Ireland simultaneously referencing “Old Gallipoli” (by way of “The Mountains of Mourne”) and “The Foggy Dew” (by way of “Moorlough Shore”). Within this cacophonous convolution of Irish identities, Irish soldiers appear critical of yet complicit in the imperialist project. Here, “The Mountains of Mourne” provides an excellent medium for interrogating the paradoxical nature of Anglo-Irish relations. Other songs that concern the Gallipoli Campaign are less polyvalent. Especially popular is the number entitled [The Shores of] “Gallipoli” (1962), an anti-war song that was made famous by the Irish band the Fureys with Davey Arthur (recorded in 1984). The song concerns an Irish soldier who is killed in the Gallipoli Campaign. Like “The Foggy Dew,” the text (in the guise of a bereaved father) asks why the volunteer “fought for the wrong country” and “died for the wrong cause.” Instead, he should not have “marched to foreign shores when the greatest war of all was at home.” However, there are some inconsistencies in the lyrics. The lad embarks from Dun Laoighaire rather than Kingstown (as it was called in 1915). The youth sings rebel songs somewhat incongruously while departing for the War, “his head erect” and “with a glint in [his] eye.” Further, the rhyming scheme is inconsistent and the melodic setting is unexceptional. As a representative piece that commemorates the War, “Gallipoli” is not comparable with similar compositions that were performed by the Fureys such as “The Green Fields of France” (recorded in 1979). Of course, “The Green Fields” of France concerns an Irish soldier who was killed on the Western Front and not on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Unlike “Gallipoli,” though, there is no reference to divided loyalties, be they Irish or British. Rather, it is a plaintive ode to the futility of all wars. Notably, it was originally written as “No Man’s Land” (1971) by Eric Bogle (1944–), a Scottish-Australian songwriter who is also famed for composing another anti-war number called “And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda” (1971). The “Waltzing Matilda” by Bogle is a song about an Australian recruit (presumably a Bushman from the Outback) who is wounded badly in Suvla Bay. Losing both legs, he is distraught: “For no more I’ll go waltzing Matilda.”

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“Waltzing Matilda” marks his heroic departure as a fresh recruit and his tragic return as a wounded veteran. Also, the band plays “Waltzing Matilda” presumably on ANZAC Day, when his comrades as “old men march slowly, stiff and sore / The forgotten heroes from a forgotten war.” He asks: “What are they marching for?” Nobody knows and nobody cares. There are a number of connections between “The Green Fields” and “Waltzing Matilda.” Both songs reference well-known ballads, the “Flowers of the Forest” in the former and “Waltzing Matilda” in the latter. Both pieces are musically informed, a pipe band is mentioned in the first and a brass band is talked about in the second. Both numbers address the futility of war, be it a lament for a fallen soldier in “The Green Fields” or the anguish of a wounded trooper in “Waltzing Matilda.” Both ballads demonstrate careful craftsmanship with respect to rhyme structure and melodic setting. Both songs are extremely popular and widely recognized. That being said, each piece offers a unique insight into the ritual of remembrance, the white crosses in “The Green Fields” and the veteran columns in “Waltzing Matilda.” In his compositions, Bogle implies that commemoration is itself an act of war, with music helping to perpetuate an ongoing cycle of violence. That is, the beat of the drum in “The Green Fields” and the call of the tune in “Waltzing Matilda” disguise the demonic wolf of militarism within the sacrificial lamb of pacifism. Here is where pacifism intersects with militarism. This is something that the musician Bogle and the scholar Lake recognize. They both understand that acts of commemoration may disclose a martial imprint in the production of a pacific message. First, Bogle wrote “Waltzing Matilda” during the Vietnam War. Rather than singing about Australian soldiers dying in a contemporary conflict, he chose to write about the Gallipoli Campaign after hearing military bands in Canberra playing “Waltzing Matilda” on ANZAC Day. He was struck by two issues. How few people then commemorated the Australian fallen. How different governments manipulated remembrance ceremonies to fulfill an ideological agenda. Although he believed that ANZAC Day was an anachronism, Bogle was stunned at how “Waltzing Matilda” had become implicated in a nationalist agenda, a means of validating Australian militarism on the world stage. The result was a new version of “Waltzing Matilda.” Second, Lake (2010: xxxii) critiques Australian militarism by showing how commemorative events associated with the ANZAC spirit have desensitized Australian attitudes to war and silenced Australian criticisms of war. For her, commemoration has become celebration. CELEBRATION Twenty years after “Waltzing Matilda” by Bogle, the Australian prime minister John Howard (s. 1996–2007) declared that ANZAC Day should become



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a day of celebration (2001), a celebration of the values that were unique to the Australian character (such as sacrifice and mateship). By then, ANZAC Day (April 25) had replaced Australia Day (January 26) as the de facto day of national observance. In doing so, it enabled Australians to bypass their historical connections with the British and their historical obligations to the Aboriginals since Australia Day had become intimately connected with a colonial past and a colonizing past, respectively (McKenna [2010: 103–32]). Further, ANZAC Day enabled Australians to overcome the nagging issues of divided loyalties (national versus imperial) and ethnic divisions (“white” versus “black”). As Lake argues (2010: xvi), ANZAC Day is today bound up with the militarization of Australian history, a celebration of Australian achievements on the world stage and of Australian sacrifices against global terrorism. In this transformation, “Waltzing Matilda” by Bogle was censured (McKenna [2010: 126]) because ANZAC Day was no longer forgotten. After 2001, the day was remembered and celebrated. Australia and Ireland are not the only countries to ruminate over problems related to divided loyalties and ethnic divisions. Turkey, too, has had to come to terms with an imperial past (the Ottoman Empire) and a national present (the Turkish Republic). It has also had to come to terms with a multicultural empire that morphed into a monocultural nation. In all three countries (but in different ways), the transformation was accompanied by violence. At the same time that Australians began to celebrate ANZAC Day, the Turks started to commemorate the “Day of the Fallen” (tr. “18 Mart Şehitleri Anma Günü”) as “a milestone in the history of humanity” (Atabay, Körpe and Erat [2016: 233]). Following a forest fire (1994) that decimated the Gallipoli cemeteries, a Peace Park (tr. Barış Parkı) was built to commemorate the “Dardanelles spirit” (tr. “Çanakkale ruhu”) in imitation of an ANZAC precedent. The Park not only celebrates peace among former adversaries but also commemorates “the heroism and sacrifice of our nation” (ibid.: 233). Predictably, annual ceremonies are often accompanied by a naval flotilla and an air display (see chapter 1). As in Australia, the centenary of the Gallipoli Campaign was widely celebrated in Turkey. Like Australia, there was a proliferation of educational exhibitions and academic symposiums, military parades and political rallies all of which reveled in the Turkish victories on the Gallipoli Peninsula. As one correspondent noted when critiquing the excessive output of Turkish documentaries and Turkish films made to coincide with the centennial commemorations: “When did everyone become so patriotic and ready to provoke the masses into absolutist valour” (The Guardian, May 9, 2013).20 That is, the Gallipoli productions presented an opportunity where “local pride can tip over into nationalism” and where filmmakers can forge a career “as some cinematic town crier for a geopolitically resurgent Turkey” (ibid.: 2). This is exactly what happened in Turkey and Australia when both countries

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celebrated the hundred-year anniversary of the Gallipoli Campaign. However, there is one difference. A century ago, Turks celebrated their victory but Australian lamented their defeat. For the Ottoman Empire, the Gallipoli Campaign represented a major triumph after a long line of humiliating loses. The Turkish victory in the Dardanelles was instantly relayed by telegraph and telephone. National newspapers (such as İkdam and Tanin) published long articles (as would be expected) of the Ottoman success, especially given the unbeaten record (that dated back to the Battle of Trafalgar [1805]) of the British navy. Contemporary accounts talk of jubilation in the streets of Istanbul with Ottoman flags draping every building and a banner reading “Çanakkale Geçilmez” (en. “The Dardanelles will not be Breached”) striding two minarets of the Sülemaniye Mosque in Istanbul (Tutkun [2015: 137]).21 A commemorative poem entitled “Çanakkale Şehitlerine” (en. “To the Dardanelles Martyrs”) by Mehmet Akif [Ersoy] (1873–1936) was hastily penned and a celebratory march called the “Çanakkale Marşı” by “Kemanî” Kevser [Hanım] (1887–1963) was quickly composed.22,23 Interestingly, the musical life in Istanbul was hardly affected.24 Yes, there was a German exhibition accompanied by a German band featured at the Military Museum. Yes, alaturka ensembles (such as the Darüttalimi Musiki Heyeti) and alafranga bandmasters (such as Paul Lange [1857–1919]) continued to ply their trade in local cinemas and neighborhood theaters.25,26 However, non-Muslims are noticeably absent in the historical representations of victory celebrations. This may reflect the ambivalent attitude of many Armenians and Greeks towards an Ottoman triumph over the Allied navy in the Dardanelles.27 Tragically, there was a swift response to any hostile displays of divided loyalty. Over the next month, many (especially Armenians) were massacred for their apparent treachery. Yet, one Armenian composer would subsequently write a nationalist march that celebrated the naval victory in the Dardanelles. Recorded by Orfeon Records (Catalog No. 13385), Bimen Dergazaryan [Şen] (1873–1943) composed his “Dardanelles March” (tr. “Çanakkale Marşı”) probably after the declaration of the Turkish Republic (October 10, 1923). The reference to “republic” (tr. “cumhuriyet”) (verse: 6) and to a “warrior” (tr. “gazi”) (verse: 6) in the lyrics indicates a direct allusion, respectively, to the Turkish Republic and to Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk], who at the time was titled “Gazi.” In addition to a refrain, the text is arranged in six strophes [each with four lines] and set in syllabic meter [seven syllables per line]. The melody is composed in the makam Rast and the meter arranged is in the usûl muhammes. The composition is unremarkable. However, the lyrics are revealing. Bimen Dergazaryan openly announces his ideological preferences in favor of an Ottoman victory. He declares as an Armenian that “we are all allies” (tr. “müttefikler hepiniz”) (verse: 1) and that “we are [all] the grandchildren of



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the ancient Turks” (tr. “eski Türk ahfadıyız”) (refrain). He talks as a Christian about martyrdom (tr. şehit[lik]) and jihad (tr. cihat) (verse: 4, verse: 2), two descriptors usually reserved for Muslims. He proclaims (somewhat incorrectly) how “enemy ships” (tr. “zehirler”) and foreign “armies” (tr. “ordular”) were both turned back from the [Dardanelles] Straits (verse: 3). He rightly confirms though that “all the eyes of the enemy” (tr. “duşmanın hep gözü”) were pointed in the direction of Istanbul (verse: 5). As “sons of the motherland” (tr. “vatanın evlatları”) “we understood this situation” (tr. “anladığız bu sözü”) (verse: 5). Although the author of the text is not provided, it is clear that the “Çanakkale Marşı” by Bimen Dergazaryan demonstrates the complex positionality of non-Muslim minorities who survived the slaughters and the deportations that attended the demise of the Ottoman Empire. This is a recording about divided loyalties. There is another recording about ethnic divisions. Circulated around the same time as “Çanakkale Marşı,” the “Çanakkale Muhaveresi” (en. the “Dardanelles Conversation”) was also recorded by Orfeon (Catalog No. 12853).28 It is a comic monologue by the storyteller, “Meddah” Sururi (1874–1934). The narrative concerns the ways in which different ethnic groups that were (for the most part) resident in the Ottoman Empire might counteract the Allied attack in the Dardanelles. In the tradition of theatrical improvisation (tr. ortaoyunu), Sururi encapsulates the dialects and the habits of stereotypical characters, be they the Jewish grocer (tr. Yahudi) or the Persian pastoralist (tr. Acem), the Albanian farmer (tr. Arnavut) or the Kurdish porter (tr. Kürt). All the stock characters provide their own bizarre solution to the matter in hand, such as sinking ships with buffalos or closing the straits with leeks, scaring the enemy with shouts or tricking the invaders with saddles. In the end, the central figure called “Hoca” (en. “Teacher”) entreats his multicultural and (presumably) multidenominational retinue to pray for God’s intercession. Bimen Dergazaryan and Sururi represent different aspects of the same issue, the complex interaction of a minority group with a majority population. Where Bimen Dergazaryan espouses a Turkist position while currying favor with a national homogeneity, Sururi cultivates an Ottomanist perspective while critiquing unfavorably an imperial heterogeneity. That Bimen Dergazaryan is an Armenian Christian and Sururi is a Turkish Muslim adds substance to the nuanced character of interethnic and interdenominational relations at the end of the Ottoman Empire. Bimen Dergazaryan adopts a strategy of ideological conformity similar to that of other minority musicians, such as the Jewish cantor İzak Algazi (1889–1950).29 Like İzak Algazi, Bimen Dergazaryan was summoned to perform for Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk]. Like İzak Algazi, he was discomfited by the experience (Göyünç and Çiçek [2005: 127–9]). On the other hand, Sururi adopts a strategy of ideological nonconformity akin to that of other majority artists, such as Musâhipzade Celâl (see chapter 5). Here, the

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farcical representation of Ottoman minorities in “Çanakkale Muhaveresi” and İstanbul Efendisi is remarkably similar. Both pieces seem outdated. Yet, both artists articulate a dissonant register in the predominant narrative of ethnic purity and religious integrity that emerged in the Turkish Republic. COMMEMORATION The difference between celebration and commemoration is subtle. Sometimes the words are used interchangeably, especially when referencing remembrance ceremonies in honor of the fallen during the Gallipoli Campaign. Both words are appropriate when used to express the sorrow and the joy felt by Australians and Turks who were once enemies but who are now friends. However, there is one instance where commemoration cannot be mistaken for celebration. It is the massacre of Christian minorities (especially Armenians) during the Gallipoli Campaign. The mass killings are rarely recognized in the annual cycle of commemorative rituals. That is, until the centenary commemoration of the ANZAC landings. When the Turkish president Recep T. Erdoğan (s. 2014–) changed the date of the centenary celebrations by one day (from April 25 to April 24, 2015), there was an international outcry since the new date coincided with the centennial commemoration of the Armenian exterminations (April 24, 2015) (see chapter 1). For rescheduling the occasion, it is noteworthy that Erdoğan was criticized not only by erstwhile enemies (such as the Russian president, Vladimir Putin [s. 2012–]) but also by steadfast friends (such as the German president, Joachim Gauck [s. 2012–7]). At stake is the redefinition of slaughter as genocide. The Turks have steadfastly refused to recognize the Armenian massacre as an Armenian genocide. They argue that the Armenian losses were a tragic result of a devastating war when approximately five million Ottoman subjects were killed. Increasingly, friends (such as Germany) as well as the foes (such as Russia) have formally declared that the Armenian slaughter was an Armenian genocide. Here, the position of the Germans is noteworthy. Already tainted with the historical legacy of a Jewish holocaust, German politicians have recently come to acknowledge the complicity of German diplomats in the deportation of Armenian civilians during the War.30 The position of the Australians is less clear. Although ANZAC soldiers (as captives in Anatolia) witnessed the slaughter of Armenian men in a number of camps and although ANZAC troops (on campaign in the Caucasus) protected Armenian women from extermination by Ottoman irregulars,31 the Australian government (under threat from Turkey) has prevaricated about formally recognizing an Armenian genocide or from officially commemorating the Armenian dead (on ANZAC Day).



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Amidst the claims and counterclaims, the accusations and the denials of a contested past, one thing is constant: the ritual of commemoration. Surprisingly, Armenia and Turkey commemorate their victims of war in a similar fashion. Both countries remember their dead at spectacular monuments that are built in a brutalist style at commanding locations, the Armenian Genocide Memorial that overlooks Yerevan and the Turkish Martyrs Memorial that dominates Gallipoli. Both sites were subsequently redesigned as parkland, the former as a memorial complex and the latter as a peaceful retreat. Both sites contain walls of remembrance and museums for commemoration. Symbolically, fires of recollection burn eternally in one but occasionally in the other. The rite of commemoration in both countries involves international delegates. At the centennial event they included the French president François Hollande (s. 2012–7) in Armenia and the Australian prime minister Tony Abbott (s. 2013–5) in Turkey. Speeches were made and wreaths were laid. At each ceremony, a minute’s silence was observed. In Armenia priests offered invocations while in Turkey imams recited prayers. In both, soldiers were visibly present. Music played a prominent role during the centennial events. In Armenia, a mixed choir of adults sang a religious work entitled “Divine Liturgy” (am. “Badarak”). Arranged using medieval sources, it was written by the Armenian composer Gomidas Vardapet (1869–1935). In Turkey, a mixed choir of children performed popular numbers in three languages; English, French and Turkish. At both occasions, children were prominent. A young Armenian instrumentalist played the double-reed aerophone (am. tsiranapogh) during a religious procession while a young Turkish vocalist sang a solo during a ceremonial interlude. However, there were differences. Where the Armenian ceremony emphasized choral numbers, the Turkish event foregrounded instrumental compositions, especially jingoistic marches in alaturka (that were performed by a janissary band) and in alafranga (that were performed by a brass band). While relevant works in the vocal repertoire (such as the traditional song entitled “Çanakkale Türküsü” and the popular song called “Çanakkale Geçilmez”) were offered, these were presented in a mediated format. By contrast, the Armenian choristers were live, their voices embellishing polyphonically the ritual solemnity of aggrieved remembrance and unrepentant declaration. Musically they proclaimed: “I remember and demand.”32 There are two songs that are intimately associated with the centennial commemorations in Armenia. The first is a popular number entitled “Don’t Deny.” Released in English, the song was scheduled to be performed by the group called “Genealogy” at the Eurovision Song Contest (May 23, 2015). While the lyrics of the song are suitably anodyne, the video of the song is anything but. At one level, a boy and a girl seemingly implore each other not to deny their mutual attraction. At another, the two singers appear to lament

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at a wall of remembrance (presumably in the Armenian Genocide Memorial). Further, the clip features shots of family life contemporary with the Armenian deportations (1915). As the song progresses, the crowded salon gradually clears. Near the end, only empty seats remain. The refrain says it all: “Don’t deny, ever don’t deny ... You and I.” Apparently addressed to Turkey at the time of the centennial commemorations, the song caused pandemonium. After changing the title from “Don’t Deny” to “Face the Shadow,” Genealogy was allowed to perform in the competition. They did fairly bad. It is instructive to examine the publicity surrounding “Don’t Deny.” On the Eurovision website,33 Genealogy states that the song, which is here called “Face the Shadow,” is “a powerful anthem about peace, unity and love.” In a video clip deposited on the relevant website, the group explains that each singer (six in all) represents the Armenian diaspora on five continents. A sixth vocalist represents Armenia by herself. In the grand finale, each singer finds his or her adopted homeland on an imaginary globe. The message is: Armenians may be dispersed but they have one genealogy. To dispel any other interpretations, the group asserts that “Face the Shadow” addresses the central theme of Eurovision 2015, “Building Bridges.” That is all well and good. But the musical performance is not as harmonious as the publicity intended. The singers do not always sing in unison. The choreography is sometimes uncoordinated. The diction is often awful. No amount of pyrotechnics on stage can improve the outcome. Despite the politics behind the performance, Turkish and Armenian flags are waved ecstatically during the final applause.34 The second is a religious chant entitled “Lord Have Mercy” (am. “Der Voghormia”). Composed by Gomidas Vardapet as a polyphonic arrangement of a medieval chant for his Mass, the piece was performed at the centenary ceremony by a mixed choir while celebrants cast bouquets at the basalt slabs that encircle the eternal flame. The piece is especially poignant. And, there is a story. When Gomidas Vardapet was rounded up as part of the Ottoman assault against Armenian dignitaries (April 24, 1915), he is reputed to have sung “Der Voghormia” in front of his captors. So entranced were the Ottoman jailors by his exquisite performance that they were momentarily halted from carrying out their shameful task. Unfortunately, the truth did not quite match the tale.35 Gomidas Vardapet was so traumatized by his abduction that he sank into a permanent state of psychological trauma (Balakian [2009: 66]); from which he never recovered. Fortunately, he was freed after his forced deportation to Çankırı in Anatolia. Surprisingly, his release was championed by the Turkist novelist Halide Edip [Adıvar] (1884–1964) as well as by the American ambassador Henry Morgenthau (1856–1946).36,37



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Why was Gomidas Vardapet abducted? Here was an Armenian priest who collected Armenian folksongs and conducted Armenian choirs. Unlike most of the Armenians targeted, he was not a merchant or an academic, a politician or a journalist. True, there were a few poets and a number of thespians among the dignitaries who were imprisoned (around two hundred and fifty in total). True, there were also clergymen in the round up, a move intended to deprive the Armenian community of its established leadership. However, Gomidas Vardapet did not fit the bill. He was at best a reticent priest, receiving the scorn of the ecclesiastical hierarchy for his monetary interests and his secular ways. There were also questions about improprieties of an amorous nature. And, he had an international profile, having studied in Europe and having toured throughout Europe (with his choir called “Kusan”). He had even performed for the Turkish junta (probably on March 18, 1915) in a nationalist celebration of Turkist ideology (see n. 24). Most notably, he was beloved by the international community in Istanbul, especially by the Germans and the Americans who were still resident in the city. MUSIC AS MEMORY As the music critic Michael Church correctly asserts: “For Armenians, music is memory.” Writing in The Guardian (April 21, 2011), Church states that Gomidas Vardapet was “the soul of the nation” since he collected, preserved and arranged Armenian folksongs. Comparing the Armenian composer with the Hungarian composer Béla Bartók (1881–1945), the journalist emphasized the role that Gomidas Vardapet played in transcending the ethnic distinction between Armenian and Turk by way of folk music, a music culture shared by the two peoples. However, it was not just folk music that brought Armenians and Turks together. They both shared a common interest in a “classical” tradition. This is where Bimen Dergazaryan is important. Where Gomidas Vardapet excelled in a national variant of a “western” “classicism,” Bimen Dergazaryan espoused an imperial style of an “eastern” “classicism.” Yet, both composers had to develop musical strategies to obviate the nationalist prejudices against resident Armenians in Ottoman Turkey. This is why Gomidas Vardapet performed for a Turkist organization and Bimen Dergazaryan composed for a Turkist audience, respectively, at the end of an empire, at the dawn of a nation. The issue of divided loyalty requires investigation. Both Gomidas Vardapet and Bimen Dergazaryan appealed to a national audience of Armenian subjects. They also appealed to an international audience, be they foreign

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residents who were lovers of alafranga (Gomidas Vardapet) or Turkish subjects who were admirers of alaturka (Bimen Dergazaryan). Although both artists were choristers and both composers were contemporaries, Gomidas Vardapet and Bimen Dergazaryan moved in different circles, the former among the diplomatic community and the latter in the mystical realm. Further, Gomidas Vardapet had a formal training (by means of literate transmission) in “western” music and Bimen Dergazaryan had a traditional education (by way of oral transmission) in “eastern” music. Yet both musicians had important connections among the ruling élite. omidas Vardapet was a good friend of the nationalist poet Mehmet Emin [Yurdakul] (1869–1944), among others. Bimen Dergazaryan was a featured artist in the musical evenings organized for Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk]. Although their careers straddled the divide between empire and republic, Gomidas Vardapet and Bimen Dergazaryan faced the same problem: either to adhere to the imperial consensus of the traditional order or to follow the nationalist defiance of the modern age.38 Perhaps, the problem of divided loyalty is simply a matter of representation. The words are usually employed to describe a subaltern group, a “fifth column” who were capable of treachery as well as loyalty. The question must be asked then: who employs the words “divided loyalty” to describe the political affiliations of a minority group? Perhaps, the answer lies elsewhere in a different empire and with reference to a different people. Like Armenian musicians, Irish soldiers in the Gallipoli Campaign were also faced with the issue of divided loyalty, fighting at the same time for an empire and a nation. Yet, it is the Irish rebels (and not the British) who accused these Irish recruits of disloyalty. Such a negative assessment of Irish treachery in the Gallipoli Campaign was relayed in songs like “The Foggy Dew” (by O’Neill) and “Gallipoli” (by the Fureys). But, such ballads were written after the Easter Rising. At the time of the insurrection, it was the Irish rebels rather than the Irish recruits who were viewed as disloyal, both to their country and to their empire. The Australians too have faced a similar conundrum with respect to divided loyalty. During the War, Australian soldiers were both British and Australian. Acquiring dominion status, Australia was bound to, yet freed from, British control. Recruitment songs like “Australia Will Be There” (by “Skipper” Francis [1886–1957]) disclose the dual positionality of Australian volunteers. However, it was much later that Australians questioned their martial contribution to the imperial project, ballads like “Waltzing Matilda” (by Bogle) emphasizing the futility of war in the cause of global supremacy. Yet, music has played an important part in inventing a singular narrative for



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Australian nationhood. Here, the “ANZAC spirit” has provided inspiration for concerts (like “Re-Sounding Gallipoli”) and for compositions (like the Gallipoli Symphony). By extension, military heroism is remembered but ethnic cleansing is forgotten. Commemoration becomes celebration and pacifism disguises militarism. Turkey has followed Australia in celebrating its own brand of the “ANZAC spirit.” Called the “Dardanelles spirit” (tr. “Çanakkale ruhu”), Erdoğan has called upon Turks to reignite the spirit of Gallipoli in order to foster unity and to counteract sedition at a time of political turmoil.39 NOTES 1. Although last updated on October 23, 2009, the personal webpage of Kenan Çelik can be found at the following web address: kcelik.com/about.php [Access Date: August 4, 2016]. It is noteworthy that Çelik is credited in many documentaries and publications about the Gallipoli Campaign. 2. See Graff-McRae (2006) and Edwards (2009) for relevant discussions that concern war tourism in Ireland and France, respectively. See, also, Scates (2006) for an ethnographic study of war tourism as it relates to Australian backpackers visiting the Gallipoli Peninsula. 3. See Kant (2015: 157–8) for a discussion of symbolic cemeteries in the Gallipoli Peninsula. Noteworthy here is her analysis of a new cemetery (opened in 2007) at the Martyrs’ Memorial, a section of which is specifically reserved for non-Turkish combatants who died in the Gallipoli Campaign. Kant contextualizes this development in relation to the resurgence of Ottomanism and Islamicism in Turkey. Headed by the Turkish president (Recep T. Erdoğan [1954-]), the cemetery provides a tangible expression of multiculturalism in the Ottoman Empire, where Arabs and Kurds (among others) fought alongside Turks in the defense of a shared homeland. Excluded in this lineup are Armenians and Greeks, who also fought in the Gallipoli Campaign on the Ottoman side. See Rodenwaldt (1921: 12) for a reference to Armenians and Greeks (as well as Jews) who served as medical orderlies in the Gallipoli Campaign on the side of the Ottoman defenders. See, also, the Coda. 4. Morgenthau ([1918] 2012: 86) was especially critical of the deportation of Greek residents from the Aegean Coast, including the Gallipoli Peninsula. He estimated that more than a hundred thousand Greeks who lived on the Aegean littoral were forcibly evicted from their homes either to the Greek islands or the Anatolian interior. The chief claims against these Greeks were as follows: they supplied the enemy and they spied for the enemy. Both accusations were in part probably true. As would be expected, Erickson (2010: 39) is less concerned about the fate of nonMuslims on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Citing records from the American Embassy in Istanbul, he estimates that more than twenty thousand Greeks were “evacuated” to Asia Minor. He states that the commander of the Third Corps, Esat Paşa [Bülkat]

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(1862–1952), oversaw these expulsions. See Atabay (2010) for the ethnic composition of Gallipoli residents before the outbreak of War. In his chapter, he argues that more than two-thirds of the relevant population was non-Muslim. See Akçam (2012) for a consideration of the Greek deportations (among others) from the Gallipoli Peninsula as “a crime against humanity.” See Çetin (2010) for an alternative interpretation of non-Muslim deportations before the War. 5. Later Broadbent (2015) would also publish a similar monograph in English that looked at the Gallipoli Campaign from the Turkish perspective. 6. The concert brochure for “Re-Sounding Gallipoli” can be found at the following web address: www.dslk.nigelkeay.com [Access Date: August 4, 2016]. A short review of the concert by Clinton White appeared in CityNews (April 13, 2015). 7. Leslie Hore was an officer in the Eighth Australian Light Horse Regiment. Arriving on the Gallipoli Peninsula (May 26, 1915), he was wounded in the Battle of the Nek (August 7, 1915), Hore being one of the few officers to survive the terrible attack. Hore is noted for his artistic depictions of everyday life during the Gallipoli Campaign. His paintings recall the multicultural character of the imperial forces at Anzac Cove. Indian muleteers are depicted. Gurkha soldiers are represented. Māori camps are featured. In particular, Hore captures the beautiful landscape of the Gallipoli Peninsula, especially the stunning sunsets and the rugged terrain. For more information on the life and work of Hore, see “An Artist at Gallipoli” at the following web address: www.gallipoli.gov.au [Access Date: July 15, 2016]. 8. The Gallipoli Symphony was recorded live (August 4, 2015) by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) as part of the ABC Classics Series. Introduced by the sports broadcaster Stephanie Brantz, the televised program is resplendent with orientalist allusions, from the call to prayer to the whirling of dervishes. The début concert was reissued as a DVD (2015) under the title “Gallipoli Symphony: A Creative Journey.” With program notes written by Chris Latham, the orientalist theme is reiterated, this time with a Byzantine twist. Such moments of “eastern” mystique are embedded in the orchestral composition, non-“western” instruments and non“western” sounds providing a tokenistic gloss in different movements. It is noteworthy that these non-“western” elements are rarely integrated into the compositional process. In doing so, they underscore the secondary status accorded to non-“western” musics in the Gallipoli Symphony. 9. The début of the Gallipoli Symphony in Australia was positively reviewed in the Australian press. For example, in the music magazine Limelight (November 28, 2015), the reviewer Madeleine Dale highlights the programmatic character of the orchestral composition. In this performance, she is less critical of Jessica Cuttis’s role as conductor. In fact, Dale congratulates Cuttis for bringing unity to a disparate range of musical styles and narrative themes. This may reflect a more considered reading of the composition by Cuttis and a more professional rendition of the work by an Australian orchestra (the Queensland Symphony Orchestra). However, Dale is unable to provide a critical overview of the Turkish elements in the Gallipoli Symphony. Further, she says little about the variable quality of some movements in terms of compositional standing. Given the canonic status accorded to the Gallipoli Symphony in Australia, a critical review of the orchestral



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composition may have been difficult especially in a year that celebrated the centenary of the Gallipoli Campaign. 10. For example, a short article about the début performance of the Gallipoli Symphony (tr. Gelibolu Senfonisi) appeared in the Turkish newspaper Radikal (August 5, 2015). Apart from noting that individual movements of the orchestral composition had been performed each year at Anzac Cove (between 2005 and 2015), the journalist only mentions the première of a Turkish piece at the concert called “Hope of the Higher Heart” (in Turkish called “Barış Umudu”) by the Turkish popular musician Demir Demirkan (1972). The article does not give any musical assessment of the Gallipoli Symphony, which had been premièred the previous evening. A picture of Cuttis with the governor generals of Australia and New Zealand (among other dignitaries) appears with the article. For example, too, a piece about the Gallipoli Symphony is featured on the official website (dated August 7, 2015) of the Çanakkale Municipality (tr. Çanakkale Belediyesi). Again, no musical assessment of the début performance is proffered. See the Gelibolu Senfonisi at the following web address: www.canakkale.bel.tr [Access Date: July 17, 2016]. 11. The Turkish orchestra in question is the Istanbul State Symphony Orchestra (tr. İstanbul Devlet Senfoni Orkestrası). 12. Here, of course, I invoke Bakhtin’s linguistic concept of heteroglossia (1934), where different types of speech (or dialects) operate within the realm of one language. Translated to music, distinctive styles of world music function within the purview of a single sound system, namely “western” “classical” music. See Vice (1997) for an overview of Bakhtin’s works and theories in English. 13. The ABC recording (in DVD format) of the Gallipoli Symphony was sponsored by a number of Australian agencies. These are, the Australian Government (Department of Veterans’ Affairs [DVA]), Quantas Airways, the Queensland Government, the ANZAC Centenary (Queensland) and the Queensland Performing Arts Centre. Here, it is noteworthy that three institutions are based in Queensland, a state noted for its conservative outlook. Only one New Zealand body (the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade) and one Turkish department (the Ministry of Culture and Tourism [tr. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı]) are listed on the DVD cover. However, in the relevant brochure, the Topkapı Palace Museum (tr. Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi) is credited, presumably for allowing the début performance of the Gallipoli Symphony to take place in the Hagia Irene (tr. Aya İrini). 14. The Eurocentric attitude toward Arab and Turkish music is evident in the testimonies of Billy MacCarthy-O’Leary (see chapter 3) and ANZAC soldiers (see chapter 6). Even a musical connoisseur like the New Zealand commander, William Malone (1859–1915), is not devoid of cultural prejudice. In Egypt (March 15, 1915), Malone (William Malone cited in Crawford [2014: 138]) describes attending a service at the Basilica in Heliopolis (“as did most of our soldier Catholics”). He continues: “A queer ceremony, [five] priests officiated. One was a [b]ishop. He wore his hair long, down to his waist, unbound. A choir sang in Arabic, queer music. We could not make head or tail of anything. It was not at all devotional and I would not have gone if I had known what it was like.” Unfortunately, Malone’s account does not quite make sense. The Basilica in Heliopolis had just been founded (1911) as a Roman Catholic institution, with the Tridentine Mass then being conducted in Latin (as was usual throughout

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the Catholic world). It also boasted a new pipe organ, presumably to accompany polyphonic choirs and ritualistic interludes. What Malone describes here appears to be an Orthodox ceremony at the (sometimes called) “basilica” in Heliopolis (see Baladi [2012: 307]), where Greek would have been chanted and Arabic would have been sung. 15. See Williams (2003: 243–4) for a discussion of Charles Bean’s unfavorable attitude toward Jews and Germans during the War. In particular, Bean was especially averse to the appointment of Sir John Monash (1865–1931) as commander of the Australia Corps (1918). Like other critics, Bean was concerned with the non-Christian background (he was Jewish) and the non-British ancestry (which was German) of Monash. 16. “We will remember them” is an extract from a poem entitled “For the Fallen” by Laurence Binyon (1869–1943). As Roberts (2015: 16–7) notes, it is the most famous of the remembrance poems. As he also shows, there are many other poems and readings suitable for remembrance events. 17. See Jeffery (2000, 2015) for excellent studies that concern the politics of commemoration in Ireland. Noting the national amnesia in the Republic of Ireland towards the War, he suggests that remembrance services were actually held throughout Ireland during the 1920s. He suggests that Irish neutrality during the Second World War (1939–45) and Irish bias during the “Troubles” (1968–98) hardened attitudes towards commemorative rituals that were modeled on martial displays of British imperialism. Since the Good Friday Agreement (1998), Jeffery notes that the War has again been commemorated both in Northern Ireland and Southern Ireland. Indeed, he argues that commemorative events have provided a neutral space for Protestants and Catholics alike to remember together the Irish fallen in all wars. For a critical reading of the hundredth anniversary of the Easter Rising, see the Coda. 18. A film of the Armistice celebrations was made by British Pathé in Dublin (November 11, 1924). Of interest, the Union Jack is hoisted above the General Post Office (GPO). It is noteworthy that vast crowds of Irish subjects came to participate in the victory festivities. For a short clip of this film, see “Armistice Day” in Dublin at the following website: www.britishpathe.com [Access Date: July 30, 2016]. See, also, Jeffery (2000: 107–43). 19. The two patriots who are mentioned in this ballad are the poet Patrick or Pádraig Pearse (1879–1916) and the politician Cathal Brugha (1874–1922), both of whom were on active duty during the Easter Rising. As is well known, Pearse was executed by firing squad (May 3, 1916) for the leading role that he played in the rebellion. See, also, the Coda. 20. This review, which concerns recent films about the Gallipoli Campaign, is provided by The Guardian critic, Phil Hoad. In it, Hoad cites a review article on Turkish films by Emine Yıldırım in the Turkish English-language newspaper Daily Zaman. Since the relevant archive of published items in Daily Zaman has been closed down [Access Date: July 30, 2016], I am unable to furnish here the original citation. 21. Morgenthau ([1918] 2012: 60) also states that the Dardanelles victory was celebrated with bunting in the form of flags. Although he notes: “The police went around, and ordered each householder to display a prescribed number of flags in honor of the event.” Fearing another assault by the Allied forces, he continues: “As a matter of fact, neither Germans nor Turks regarded this celebration too seriously.”



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Indeed, Morgenthau may be correct in this observation since contemporary sources (such as newspapers and journals) do not highlight prolonged celebrations when the defeat of the Allied navy in the Dardanelles was announced. See, also, Rogan (2015: 141). 22. The poem entitled “Çanakkale Şehitlerine” by Mehmet Ekif [Ersoy] (1873– 1936) was set to music (1933) by Sadettin Kaynak (1895–1961) as an elegy (tr. mersiye) in the makam Segâh. The piece is often sung at commemorative events that celebrate the Turkish victories in the Gallipoli Campaign. 23. See Sarı (2016: 55–63) for a comparative study of the poem entitled “Çanakkale Marşı” by “Destancı” Mustafa [Şükrü] and the composition entitled “Çanakkale Marşı” by Kevser [Hanım]. See, also, Çakır (2003) for an in-depth study of “Çanakkale Türküsü.” For an extended examination of another “Çanakkale Marşı” by İbrahim Mehmet Ali (1874–1936), see Küçüköncü (2013). For a general compilation of poems that concerns the Gallipoli Campaign from the Turkish perspective, see Korkmaz (2014). In this anthology, the famous poem entitled “Çanakkale Şehitlerine” by Mehmet Ekif can be found (ibid.: 99–102). See, also, chapter 6. 24. Around the time of the naval victory, there were a number of venues advertised where music-making was featured. These included the Turkish Hearth (tr. Türk Ocağı) and the Military Museum (tr. Asker Müzesi). Generally speaking, musical performances formed a central component in variety shows or cinema screenings. In one instance, an organ (tr. org) is scheduled to accompany a film in the Military Museum (İkdam [March 15, 1331] March 28, 1915). In the newspaper İkdam, the schedule of musical events the week before and the week after the naval victory is remarkably similar. 25. In the newspaper İkdam ([March 5, 1331] March 18, 1915), Darüttalimi Musiki Heyeti is the only musical ensemble advertised. It is scheduled to perform in the Turkish Hearth (tr. Türk Ocağı) in Beyazit (Istanbul). As the fourth item in the program, four musicians (who are named) are advertised to perform “an eastern concert” (tr. “bir şark konseri”) in (the makam) Tarz-ı Cedid. In the first item, the “author” (tr. “muharrir”) Ağa Oğlu Ahmet (presumably Ahmet Ağaoğlu [1869–1939]) is listed to lead a discussion on a national theme entitled “What do we want?” (tr. “Biz ne istiyoruz?”). In the fifth item, Halide Hanım (presumably Halide Edip [Adıvar]) is programed to give a talk entitled “What is Turkism” (tr. “Türkçülük Nedir?”). A public reading on martyrdom (item three) and a slide show on Turkish furniture (item four) are also included. Notably, the concert of “eastern” music by the Darüttalimi Musiki Heyeti is the only Ottomanist number to be itemized in the program. Since the Türk Ocağı usually offered musical performances (at the time) by musicians with a Turkist affiliation, it may be important that the words for a mode (tr. makam) or for a suite (tr. fasıl) are not provided. For those unfamiliar with musical terminology, “Tarz-ı Cedid” could be read either as the name of a makam or simply as “[in] a modern style.” Further, the name of the ensemble Darüttalimi Musiki Heyeti is not given in the advertisement. 26. In the newspaper İkdam ([March 10, 1331] March 23, 1915), the German music director, Paul Lange, is scheduled to direct the brass band of the imperial vessel called “Ertuğrul” in a benefit concert to raise money for the families of soldiers (see chapter 2). The only information about the concert is as follows: Lange will present a

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program of the “most distinguished” (tr. “en güzide”) and inspiring (lit. “spirit caressing” [tr. “ruhnevaz”]) pieces. The performance is to be followed by circus numbers featuring acrobats and clowns. As the program is to be held in the newly opened Variety Cinema (tr. Varyete Sineması), a movie is also planned after the interval. 27. See, for example, Rogan (2015: 165–8) for a consideration of the open support shown by resident Armenians for an Allied victory in the Dardanelles. The support was understandable given that Greeks at first and Armenians later were already subject to deportations, especially in strategically sensitive areas like Thrace and Galicia (ibid.: 163–5). See, also, Morgenthau ([1918] 2012: 78) for a contemporary discussion of the issue. Although fully committed to the Armenian cause, he notes: “That the Armenians all over Turkey sympathized with the Entente was no secret.” He continues with a well-known adage: “If you want to know how the war is going ... all you need to do is look in the face of an Armenian. If he is smiling, then the Allies are winning; if he is downcast, then the Germans are successful.” Elsewhere (ibid.: 61), he suggests that many Turks also would have welcomed an Allied victory in the Dardanelles. 28. The transcription of “Çanakkale Muhaveresi” into modern Turkish was provided by Robert Anhegger and Cemal Ünlü (1991) in a special series of the journal Tarih ve Toplum (covering January [85: 9–21], February [86: 88–97], March [87: 163–71] and April [88: 231–41]). In these articles, the authors provide written transcriptions of similar monologues (that were recorded 1912–32). The authors use the recordings as a medium for understanding contemporary issues as they relate to culture and history. Of relevance here is their discussion of ethnic stereotypes that were featured on sound recordings circulated during the late Ottoman Empire and the early Turkish Republic. 29. See O’Connell (2011b) for a discussion of ideological conformity among Sephardi Jews during the early Republican period (1923–38). See, also, O’Connell (2006) for an equivalent discussion of musical conformity by a Greek chanteuse during the same period. 30. Trumpener (1968) has documented the correspondence between German diplomats in Istanbul and German bureaucrats in Berlin as it relates to the Armenian massacres. In particular, he argues that German diplomats adopted a passive attitude towards the atrocities fearing a damaging rift between the Ottoman government and the German Reich. However, Trumpener does show that German diplomats repeatedly made complaints to the Ottoman authorities about the treatment of Armenians during the War. These complaints usually fell on deaf ears, Turkish leaders telling their German allies that the Armenian deportations were an internal matter. While there were a number of German philanthropists who actively lobbied the Armenian cause (such as Johannes Lepsius [1858–1926]), generally speaking their intervention was considered to be a nuisance by Wilhelmstrasse. Trumpener argues that German diplomats, in particular, were more worried about the propaganda value of the Armenian extermination for the Triple Entente. For the German Reich, too, there were also economic considerations, among others. It is important to note that German politicians in the Bundestag (Berlin) recently voted to recognize officially the Armenian genocide (June 2, 2016). See Morgenthau ([1918] 2012: 96–102) for a first-hand account of German attitudes towards the Armenian atrocities among the corps diplomatique. See Gust (2013) for a more recent consideration of the Armenian genocide using German sources. See Ihrig



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(2016) for a historical study of German opinions about the Armenian exterminations, from the time of Otto Fürst von Bismarck (s. 1871–90) to the time of Adolf Hitler (s. 1933–45). See, also, Werfel (1933) for an influential novel in German about the Armenian pogroms that was published at a critical moment in German history. 31. For eyewitness accounts by ANZAC soldiers of the Armenian deportations while in captivity, see Babkenian and Stanley (2016: 84–101). 32. “I Remember and Demand” (am. “Hishum Em Ev Pahanjum”) was the official mantra for the centenary commemoration of the Armenian genocide. It is also the title of a song of remembrance with the same name. Composed and performed in Armenian and English by Paola Kassabian, the song extols the world to recognize the Armenian genocide (“and yes it was a genocide”). It also calls for Turkey to “recognize” and “apologize” and “admit to crimes.” It is a catchy number with a simple message. Surprisingly, the song is not featured on the commemorative website at the United Armenian Council for Commemoration (Los Angeles [UACLA]), where other videos that observe the Armenian genocide are downloaded. See music videos dedicated to the Armenian genocide at the following web address: www.uacla.com [Access Date: August 1, 2016]. 33. See Genealogy on the Eurovision Song Contest website at the following web address: www.eurovision.tv [Access Date: August 5, 2016]. 34. It is interesting to look at the Armenian result for its Eurovision entry. Genealogy was scored thirty four points in all, placing the group sixteenth in the overall field of twenty six. By way of comparison, Azerbaijan received forty nine points and was ranked twelfth. In 2015, Turkey did not participate in the contest apparently being dissatisfied with the rules that related to voting procedures. However, Azerbaijan did. Noticeably, Azerbaijan gave no votes to Armenia and Armenia gave no votes to Azerbaijan. Indeed, the voting records on the Eurovision website show that the juries in Armenia and Azerbaijan unanimously ranked each other last. However, both countries gave their top mark (twelve points) to Russia. In this way, political rancor is perpetuated (however absurdly) in the musical domain. For a full breakdown of relevant results, see the following web address: www.eurovision.tv [Access Date: August 1, 2016]. 35. The dialogue to be found in internet chatrooms proffers this romanticized version of Gomidas Vardapet’s arrest. In reality, Balakian (2009: 73) states that, as a fellow prisoner, Gomidas Vardapet performed “a melancholy and heart-wrenching” rendition of “Der Voghormia” during Mass while incarcerated in Çankırı. Since everybody (including Balakian) was terrified, the author admits that: “We all cried like boys, cried over loved ones left behind, cried over our black fate, our nation’s misfortune; we cried over the bloody days we had just passed, even without knowing that we were on the brink of unprecedented storms of blood.” Such an admission would help explain the iconic status ascribed to “Der Voghormia” in the musical commemoration of the Armenian genocide. 36. In Turkish accounts of Gomidas Vardapet’s incarceration, the nationalist writer Halide Edip [Adıvar] is frequently mentioned as interceding with [Mehmet] Talât Paşa (1874–1921) and Morgenthau on the Armenian’s behalf. See, for example, Çalışlar (2010: 121). Mehmet Emin [Yurdakul] (1869–1944) is also mentioned in this matter. However, Halide Edip’s philanthropy is hard to explain, especially since she

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was involved in the enforced conversion of Armenian children to Islam; that is, when she agreed (1916–7) to run a Lazarist orphanage called the “Collège Saint Joseph” in Antoura (Beirut). As Panian (2015) reminds us, Halide Edip was also instrumental in the enforced turkification of the resident orphans with savage brutality, especially when they spoke Armenian. For her own account of this “civilizing” project and “charitable” endeavor, see Halide Edip (1926: 431–71). See especially Halide Edip’s concern about the forced conversion of Armenian orphans in Antoura to Islam (ibid.: 428–30). To be fair to the nationalist author and erstwhile educator, Halide Edip was shocked by the appalling conditions in the Lebanese orphanage. 37. In the extant sources, there is some confusion as to who brought about the release of Gomidas Vardapet from his terrifying incarceration in Çankırı. Citing [Aram] Andonian (1946–7), Kuyumcjian (2001: 118) suggests that Gomidas Vardapet wrote directly to the American ambassador, Henry Morgenthau, to intercede on his behalf. For his part, Morgenthau ([1918] 2012: 87) states that: “I knew many of these men and therefore felt a personal interest in their misfortunes.” Although Morgenthau provides a convoluted narrative with respect to dates and times, he approached [İsmail] Enver Paşa (1881–1922) (apparently in May, 1915) on behalf of some Armenian prisoners who had been deported earlier. Enver Paşa responded: “Only recently I gave orders for three Armenians who have been deported returned to their homes” (ibid.: 91). As in other instances, Morgenthau records his conversations as if in real time using inverted commas. However, Kuyumjian (2001: 131) provides a different account. Quoting Altıntaş ([1995]: 24–5), apparently without accessing the Turkish original, she suggests that Gomidas Vardapet (along with seven other captives) was released ([April 24, 1331] May 7, 1915) by Talât Paşa and not by Enver Paşa. One issue needs careful consideration though: Morgenthau was both anti-Turkish (considering the Turks to be primitive) and anti-German (considering most Germans to be complicit). His horrific account of Armenian slaughters must also be tempered by his reliance upon the evidence of secondary accounts from American consuls and American missionaries who may themselves have been antagonistic towards Turks and Muslims. That being said, his narrative provides some insight into the chaotic circumstances that provoked Turkish leaders into acts of appalling brutality against the Armenian population (among others) after the naval victory during the Gallipoli Campaign. 38. See Poulos (2014) for a study of Rum composers as it relates to Turkish and Greek relations from the perspective of tradition and modernity. For him, noise signified an imperial tradition of musical coexistence whereas music represented a national modernity of musical separation. He argues that the formation of the Bosphorus ensemble (1986) was a crucial moment in the nostalgic recovery of a shared sound world occupied by Greeks and Turks during the Ottoman Empire. Although not foregrounded here, Armenians and Jews (among others) also actively participated in this cacophonous world of an imperial aesthetic. 39. In an article by the Turkey correspondent for The Sunday Times (July 31, 2016), Louise Callaghan argues that Erdoğan is attempting to revive the “Gallipoli spirit” so as to unite his followers against the perpetrators of a failed coup (July 15, 2016) and, in doing so, consolidate his control over dissident voices in government. Since the unsuccessful takeover, Erdoğan quickly purged suspected members of the



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judiciary and the military (among others) on the grounds of their potential links with his archrival Fethullah Gülen (1941–), who is based in the United States and who is blamed (by Erdoğan) for the botched insurrection. However, it was Bilal Erdoğan (the son of Erdoğan [1981–]) and not [Recep T.] Erdoğan who is quoted by the Istanbul News Agency (among others) as couching the popular uprising against the military coup in terms of the “Gallipoli spirit” (tr. “Çanakkale ruhu”). For the pertinent speech by Bilal Erdoğan on the “Çanakkale ruhu,” see the following web address: www. istanbulajansi.ist [Access Date: August 5, 2016]. Although the Turkish president had invoked the “Gallipoli spirit” in speeches prior to the attempted coup d’état (especially during the centennial celebrations), it is paradoxical that the Turkish victory in the Dardanelles Campaign preempted a spate of secularizing and “westernizing” reforms in the Turkish Republic (under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk]). By contrast, the “Gallipoli spirit” that is espoused by Erdoğan is very different in character. It anticipates a return to the Islamicist ideologies and the Ottomanist values of an imperial past. For a live recording (made on March 19, 2015) of the Turkish president speaking about the “Çanakkale ruhu,” see the following web address: www. youtube.com [Access Date: August 5, 2016].

Coda

The Gallipoli Spirit

The semāʿī Muḥayyar by Jamīl Beyk al-Tambūrī has just ended. It is a favorite number that is frequently performed by the Middle East Ensemble in UCLA. Following the lead of the distinguished professor Jihad Racy (1943–), the group plays an Egyptian version of the well-known “classic” that was written by a Turkish virtuoso (tr. “Tanburî” Cemil Bey [1873–1916]). The tuning is distinct and the meter (ar. semāʿī taqīl) is different. Above all, the style of rendition is conspicuously “Arab,” demonstrating texturally the localization of an imperial repertoire that spread throughout the Ottoman Empire during the early twentieth century. Here, the sonic mirrors the social since the eclectic palate of Ottoman music reflects the cosmopolitan constitution of Ottoman society where Christians as well as Muslims, Arabs as well as Turks both played and enjoyed the same music. The Middle East Ensemble emulates the heterogeneous consensus of Ottoman practice. Different religions are represented and distinctive nationalities are present. At the time, Muslims performed with Jews, Palestinians played alongside Israelis. There are many others. At first glance, the music ensemble seems to provide a harmonious model for promoting intercultural understanding through music-making. At second glance, the view is different. I am sitting beside Aram (Arkun). I play the violin (Arab style) and Aram plays ud (Turkish style). I am Irish and Aram is Armenian. We are both conducting doctoral research on Ottoman topics, I on music, Aram on genocide. We study with the same professors. Recently, one of our mentors has been vilified by the Armenian community for his anti-Armenian bias. His home has been attacked and his office has been ransacked. There have been student rallies against him. He is Stanford Shaw (1930–2006). As a revered authority on Ottoman history, Shaw (1977) published a history of the Ottoman Empire and the Turkish Republic that sidestepped the thorny issue of the Armenian massacres. As a Jew, Shaw emphasized instead 227

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the enlightened policies of Ottoman rulers who famously welcomed Jewish refugees (among others) fleeing religious persecution in European states (see, e.g., Shaw [1991, 1993]). Alternatively, Shaw criticized the Christian residents of the Ottoman Empire (such as Armenians and Greeks) for their anti-Semitic prejudice, especially at times of severe crisis (such as during the War). In a calm manner, Aram details the case against Shaw. He talks about flawed analyses. He also speaks about partisan interpretations. He even states that Shaw plagiarized material for his mammoth study of Turkish history.1 But this is not the “Professor” Shaw that I knew and admired, the Shaw who advised me during my doctoral exams and who assisted me in my doctoral research. I am torn between my liking for Aram (as a person) and my disliking of Aram (for his perfidy). After all, we study with the same master. The exchange with Aram required reflection on my part. What was the evidence for the Armenian massacres? After all, many Armenian artists continued to perform in the Ottoman capital during the War, this despite the arrest of the Armenian composer Gomidas Vardapet (1869–1935) during the roundup of Armenian dignitaries (see chapter 7). What was the difference between an Armenian massacre and an Armenian genocide? After all, Shaw recognized that Armenians and Turks alike had perpetrated terrible atrocities. Was it simply a matter of semantics or was it more a question of numbers? Aram has an answer for both questions. First, he argues that Turkish authorities destroyed archival evidence that confirmed the mass deportation and the systematic slaughter of Armenian subjects during the War. Although an Armenian massacre was noted by independent commentators (see chapter 7), the evidence for the extermination of Armenians by them was often based on second-hand accounts rather than on first-hand observations (see, e.g., Morganthau [[1918] 2012]). This is the argument proffered by Shaw and the position held by (many) Turks. Second, he provides a definition of genocide that is detailed in the relevant declaration of the United Nations (1948).2 Called the “Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of Genocide,” Article 2 specifies two criteria essential to the definition of genocide: a] “the intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group” and b] the killing, the harming and the destruction of these groups. In addition, the relevant article includes the forcible transfer of children and the violent prevention of propagation. To constitute a genocide, both the intention to commit (category a]) and the action to execute (category b]) mass murder must have occurred. COMPARISONS I ask Aram how the Armenian massacres could be defined as an Armenian genocide. Yes, the mass murder of Armenian subjects in the Ottoman Empire



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encompassed all the categories detailed in category b]. However, “the intent to destroy” the Armenian people (at the time) had not been adequately proven since written documentation was unavailable and oral testimony was insufficient. I invite Aram to compare the Armenian genocide with the Irish famine (1845–52). Both resulted in the death of more than a million people. Both occurred because of negligence on the part of a ruling élite, the violent deportation of the Armenians by the Turks and the enforced subjugation of the Irish by the English. Both catastrophes caused a massive exodus of the Armenians and the Irish to other lands, North America being a favored destination for the two peoples. However, Aram points out that the Irish famine was triggered by a natural disaster whereas the Armenian genocide was instigated by human intervention. That the English had intentionally deprived the Irish people of their land and that the English had systematically destroyed Irish culture at its roots did not seem to count. Importantly, the Armenians and the Irish are sometimes represented by “revisionist” historians as active participants in their own subjugation. Perhaps, Shaw (1977) (for the Armenians) and Foster (1988) (for the Irish) could justly be criticized for their reactionary viewpoints, each scholar downplaying the enormous calamity inflicted upon minority groups in the Ottoman and the British empires, respectively. Recently, two studies appear to confirm that genocide took place in the two states. First, Bardakçı (2008) published a notebook compiled by the minister of the interior, [Mehmet] Talât Paşa (s. 1914–7). In it, Talât Paşa enumerates carefully the number of Armenians at the time living in different provinces of Anatolia (c. 1917). Chillingly, the population of Armenians had declined by seventy percent following the successful implementation of the deportation law (tr. tehcir kanunu).3 Second, Coogan (2012) looks at the Irish famine from the perspective of the UN declaration. He argues that the English systematically discriminated against and dehumanized the Irish with impunity. At a time when Ireland exported food abroad, the Irish starved at home from lack of sustenance. Through famine, the English could finally rid Ireland of the Irish. Of course, it is easy to revisit the past using legislation that was specifically ratified to prevent another holocaust. Further, the relevant laws on genocide were updated in Rome (2000) and Stockholm (2004). However, Coogan (ibid.: 229–31) invokes the original accord to interrogate the genocidal status of English misrule in Ireland. His thesis is simplistic if compelling. He argues that the Irish did not need to starve since there was plenty of food in Ireland. By invoking Article 2 of the relevant convention, he argues (ibid.: 31) that the deliberate infliction “on [a] group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part” should be counted as genocide. Further, Coogan points out that unfavorable economic policy and hostile political leadership militated against a humane solution to a terrible tragedy. Like the Armenians, the Irish starved. Like the Armenians, the Irish were

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forcibly deported, many dying of hunger and disease on the “coffin ships” that plied the North Atlantic. However, it is also easy to condemn the English and the Turks out of hand, many of whom offered charitable assistance to the Irish and the Armenians, respectively. The Irish and the Armenians shared one important condition in common: a collective amnesia with respect to an appalling tragedy. Many scholars have noted how the Irish (see Fegan [2002]) and the Armenians (see de Waal [2015]) chose to forget rather than memorialize their terrible pasts,4 both peoples sharing a sense of shame (for their loss) rather than furnishing the sword of rage (against their foes).5 At home and abroad, both peoples chose to focus on their futures rather than on their pasts. This was especially so among the Irish and the Armenian diasporas in North America. Later, the Irish like the Armenians would seek to revisit the great catastrophes of their histories. Here were two ancient civilizations that were systematically destroyed by their imperial tormentors at the fringes of Europe. The issue of genocide has been raised by the Irish (with respect to the famine) as well as by the Armenians (with respect to the deportations). Such claims have not gone without contest, especially among apologists for the British perspective (see, e.g., Gray [1995]) and for the Ottoman viewpoint (see, e.g., Şahin [2015]).6,7 Music played a central role in the commemoration of the two atrocities. In Ireland, the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the Irish famine was commemorated in song. Of especial interest, the piece entitled “Famine” by Sinéad O’Connor (1966–) is widely critiqued. It is a rant in the form of rap. Appearing in an album entitled “Universal Mother” (1994), the singer provocatively asserts that there was never a famine in Ireland since the “Irish people were only allowed to eat potatoes” while other food was “shipped out of the country under armed guard / To England while the Irish people starved.” This allows O’Connor to explain the debilitating conditions of alcohol misuse and sexual abuse in Ireland as symptomatic of an unresolved trauma. To solve this native predilection for self-destruction, she continues: “if there ever is gonna be healing / There has to be remembering / And then grieving.” The song features a direct quote from the number entitled “All the Lonely People” by the Beatles (1966). Used as a refrain, O’Connor has an answer to the question: “Where do they all come from?” They come from Ireland. In Armenia, the hundredth anniversary of the Armenian genocide was also commemorated in song. There were many relevant compositions. Most are in Armenian or English. Often composed using the same title (“Armenian Genocide Song”), they range from the popular to the “classical,” melding non-“western” and “western” instruments, mixing acoustic with electronic sounds. They often begin with bells tolling. They are frequently accompanied by religious chant. Iconic pictures of the Armenian landscape are



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portrayed and horrific photographs of the Armenian massacres are displayed. The number entitled “April–1915” (composed in 2010) by the Canadian instrumentalist Vatche Arslanian is typical.8 It features bells and synthesizers, a flute and a guitar. It talks about pain and fear, grief and tears. It speaks about never forgetting and never forgiving. Although the Turks are not mentioned in the lyrics, the song calls for retribution. The refrain is explicit: “Till the day will come to make you pay.” Until that day of reckoning “when the sun will rise again,” Arslanian asks: “Do you think you’ll find a place to hide?” The moment of resurrection is anticipated by an upbeat riff on the electric guitar. It is worthwhile comparing the musical commemoration of the Irish famine with that of the Armenian genocide. On the one hand in “Famine,” O’Connor is self-obsessed. Only once does she blame England for the famine in Ireland. Rather, she contends that forgetting about the famine is the source of Ireland’s woes, from the political division of the state to the schizophrenic condition of the nation. For her remembrance and forgiveness are the keys to salvation. On the other hand in “April-1915,” Arslanian is self-assured. For him the enemy is without (in the guise of Turks) and not from within (in the form of Armenians). In contrast to O’Connor, he entreats his audience never to forget or to forgive. Where O’Connor is apparently ashamed of her Irish origins, Arslanian is overtly proud of his Armenian identity. Even the tone of each song is different, the hard rap of despair in the first and the soft rock of hope in the second. However, O’Connor ends with a note of optimism. Quoting the taoiseach Jack Lynch (s. 1966–73, 1977–9),9 she talks about a unified Ireland characterized by the humane values of tolerance and forbearance. The Irish and the Armenian positions seem opposed. Whereas O’Connor calls for the Irish to stop blaming the English for their suffering, Arslanian invites the Armenians to blame the Turks for their distress. However, the Irish and the Armenians come together on the world stage at the time of the Gallipoli Campaign. Just before the Allied landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula (April 24, 1915), the Armenians in Van defended the city against the onslaught of Ottoman aggression (starting April 19, 1915).10 The siege was a victory. However, the result was a defeat in the sense that the Armenian “revolt” was probably used by the Ottoman administration to justify the systematic massacre of Armenians. After the final evacuation of the Gallipoli Peninsula (January 9, 1916), the Irish in Dublin rose up against their British oppressors on Easter Monday (April 24, 1916). The rebellion was quashed. However, the execution of the rebellion’s leaders was counterproductive since it cemented support for the nationalist cause that led eventually to Irish independence; but at a cost: the division of the island (into two parts) and the continuation of a conflict (for eighty years).

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CONNECTIONS Surprisingly, the Armenian victory in Van is not widely celebrated in music.11 Since the siege of Van is best described as a pyrrhic victory, the massacres in Adana (1909) are more generally memorialized, the song entitled the “Lament for Adana” (am. “Adanayi Voghperke”) being an especially poignant example. A Turkish version entitled “Adana Ağıtı” of the same piece is also performed as an instrumental solo by the Romani clarinetist, Türkan Kandıralı (1957–). On the other hand, the defeat of the Irish in Dublin is extensively commemorated in song. Apart from the ballad entitled “The Foggy Dew” (see chapter 7), the uprising is remembered in a number of rebel songs including “Banna Strand,” “James Connolly,” “The Row in the Town,” among others.12 The militant character of such songs is neatly encapsulated in one number entitled “The Soldier’s Song.” Although written earlier (1907) by Peadar Kearney (1883–1942), the piece was sung by the Irish Volunteers during the Easter Rising. The chorus begins: “Soldiers are we, whose lives are pledged to Ireland.” The same chorus in Irish is usually performed as the Irish national anthem entitled “Amhrán na bhFiann.” It is this brand of militarism that harks back to another register of Irish identity (see chapter 3). While the Irish and the Armenians have much in common in terms of national character and religious affiliation, the Irish more than the Armenians take pride in their bellicose past. In this, they conform more to the consensus of an imperial tradition. Like the British and the Turks, the Irish have adopted the trappings of a colonial militarism in the centennial celebration of a defeat at home (the Easter Rising). A hundred years on, a military parade is accompanied by brass bands and war pipes to mark the hundredth anniversary of the rebellion. Wreaths are laid at the Garden of Remembrance and speeches are made at the General Post Office (GPO). A tricolor is lowered to the beat of a drum. The “Last Post” is sounded. The national anthem is sung. There is a fly pass by the Irish Air Corps. Twenty one cannons salute the fallen. The whole event is an impressive display of military might (in terms of weapons brandished) and martial precision (in terms of marching order). It is noteworthy that the Irish president, Michael D. Higgins (s. 2011–), was present at the centennial commemorations of the Gallipoli Campaign (April 24, 2015) and the Easter Rising (March 27, 2016). With respect to the Gallipoli Campaign, Higgins was clearly uncomfortable with the expression of imperial strength that was displayed at the event (see chapter 1). With respect to the Easter Rising though, Higgins was more at ease. He inspected the guard of honor with a regal formality. In an interview with the journalist Nick Robinson (March 26, 2016),13 Higgins talked about the “generosity of spirit” toward the anniversary on both sides of the Irish border. Quoting the



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hermeneutic notion of “hospitality” (see Ricoeur [2006]), he spoke of the “hospitality of narratives” where opposing representations of Irish history are welcomed and not rejected. However, there was an inhospitable sting to his narrative. While recognizing the significant role played by the parliamentary tradition in obtaining reforms in Ireland, he believed that constitutional politics was ultimately ineffective in securing autonomy. Higgins stated: “I do think that without 1916, and the events that surrounded it, we would not have achieved our independence.” Of course, Higgins is not alone among Irish people in believing in the ultimate power of the cartridge box over the ballot box. In the interview, he implicitly invoked a romantic notion of blood sacrifice deployed in the cause of national freedom. However, his opinion is not universally held. The former taoiseach John Bruton (s. 1994–7) provided a more sober reading of the Easter Rising. In a speech delivered at Iveagh House (March 28, 2016),14 Bruton argued that the Easter Rising was unnecessary. Ireland had already achieved Home Rule two years earlier (September 18, 1914) through the efforts of John Redmond (s. 1900–18) and John Dillon (1851–1927). Further, the Easter Rising proclaimed an independent republic consisting of thirty-two counties (rather than the current twenty-six counties), the relevant proclamation of independence making no attempt at addressing the dissonant position of the Unionists in Ireland. Bruton concluded that the Easter Rising was a “recipe for endless conflict” where violence was celebrated and democracy was violated. In this context, Bruton noted that the commemorative rituals of the Irish Republic celebrated the “glories” of erstwhile warriors rather than the achievements of hardworking politicians. Here, it is worth interrogating the inhospitable narratives associated with celebration and commemoration in Turkey and in Ireland. Like the centenary commemoration of the Gallipoli Campaign (see chapter 1), the centennial celebration of the Easter Rising discloses war in the guise of peace. Yes, there are peace choirs at the two events, the Peace Choir (tr. Barış Korosu) in Gallipoli and the Island of Ireland Peace Choir in Dublin. However, both performances feel tokenistic and appear amateur. Yes, there is also the compassionate rhetoric espoused by two presidents (namely, Recep T. Erdoğan [s. 2014–] and Higgins) that concerns the humanity and sacrifice of fallen combatants. In Ireland as in Turkey, these soldiers are often considered to be martyrs. At each event, the structure of the ritual is almost the same. The substance of the addresses is remarkably similar. Indeed, Erdoğan and Higgins equally espouse a “generosity of spirit” by making new friends of old enemies, the Allies for the Turks and the Unionists for the Irish. However, the spirit was apparently not generous enough. That is, there was no official contingent from Armenia in Gallipoli and there was no official representation by the Unionists in Dublin.15

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Importantly, the celebration of the Easter Rising and the commemoration of the Gallipoli Campaign underscore the continuation of a radical nationalism in the guise of ethical humanism in Ireland and Turkey. However, this ethical humanism also has a religious slant.16 In some ways, the Easter Rising for the Irish and the Gallipoli Campaign for the Turks can be viewed as a holy war (see chapter 2), ensuring freedom of worship for Roman Catholics in Ireland and Sunni Muslims in Turkey, respectively. Ireland like Turkey would become a secular state. However, it is important to note that creed as well as race would become the defining characteristics of both Republics. Although the Irish did not have an equivalent concept of Turkism, they would have sympathized with the Turkist notion of “half Turks” (tr. “yarım Türkler”) where the “half Irish” calling themselves the “Ulster Unionists” or the “Anglo-Irish” had no place in a unified Ireland that was purely Irish and solely Catholic (see chapter 5). In fact, it is this version of his “hospitality of narratives” that Higgins implicitly advocates, a monochrome form of Irishness where religious deviance is violently repudiated. It is noteworthy that the leader of the Easter Rising, Pádraic Pearse (1879–1916), is especially remembered for the following words: “Bloodshed is a cleansing and sanctifying thing.” When speaking to the Irish Volunteers (November 25, 1913) about the armed mobilization of the Ulster Volunteers (1912), Pearse stated: “I am glad that the Orangemen have armed, for it is a godly thing to see arms in Irish hands.” He continued: “I should like to see any and every body of Irish citizens armed. We must accustom ourselves to the thought of arms, to the sight of arms, to the use of arms.” Admitting that we may kill the wrong people, he concluded: “The nation [that] regards [blood] as the final horror has lost its manhood. There are many things more horrible than bloodshed; and slavery is one of them.” The speech was subsequently published as an article entitled “The Coming Revolution” (see Pearse [[1913] 2012: 77–84]). In it, Pearse speaks about a prophet and a messiah. He talks about “a new baptism and a new life of grace” where the Irish people (like Jesus Christ) will “rise again immortal and impassible” (ibid.: 79). As is well known, Pearse offered up his life in front of a firing squad (May 4, 1916). In death, Pearse achieved immortality by taking his place among the pantheon of Irish martyrs. What is noteworthy is this: Pearse espoused the same notion of manhood to be found among ANZAC volunteers who fought in the Gallipoli Campaign (see chapter 6). As McGaughy (2015) reminds us, an equivalent construction of masculinity was valued by volunteers from Ireland and Newfoundland who also fought in the Gallipoli Campaign. In short, war defined men in the business of empire. And, Irish men had tested their masculinity in imperial conflicts before (see chapter 3). Further, Pearse talks about baptism and resurrection, the accouterments of a holy war in the service of national salvation. Australians and Canadians who fought in the



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War could empathize with this perspective. So too could Turks, who would soon discard the Ottoman Empire for a Turkish Republic. Here, celebration and commemoration seem to be bound to the eschatology of nationhood: the death and resurrection of a new state at the end of time. THE GALLIPOLI SPIRIT Celebration and commemoration can indeed become instruments of war. Although it is easy to identify the martial character of such rituals in terms of militias represented and weapons displayed, music also plays its part in perpetuating a state of war even during times of peace. Of course, the memory of war is incited through the performance of popular marches and traditional laments. Of course too, the “Last Post” and the national anthem have become the essential ingredients of ceremonial etiquette. And, the obligatory silence is standard fare. The same memory is evoked in the choice of instruments such as bugles or pipes, drums and cymbals. Here, the centennial commemoration (or the centenary celebration, if preferred) of the Gallipoli Campaign presents an ideal opportunity for exhibiting martial strength in musical formation. As noted in chapter 1, brass bands and janissary ensembles provide a context for showcasing instrumentalists in war. In addition, Muslim chants and Christian hymns suggest conciliatory moments of interdenominational accord among former enemies. Only the soldier’s lament (as “Çanakkale Türküsü”) reveals the true meaning of the event: the representation of warfare as normal and as acceptable. Commemoration of the Gallipoli Campaign has become a celebration of the “Gallipoli spirit” (tr. “Çanakkale ruhu”). Erdoğan is its principal advocate. The “Gallipoli spirit” of the Turkish president involves a nostalgic reflection upon the imperial values of an Ottoman past. In this past, Turks and Armenians co-existed, Muslims and Jews co-habited in a realm apparently characterized by ethnic accommodation and religious harmony. In the centennial commemoration of the Gallipoli Campaign, Erdoğan reminded us that Arabs and Kurds also played a critical role in the Ottoman victory over the Allied invaders. In contrast to the usual representation of Muslim minorities in the War as “backstabbing Arabs” and “shirking Kurds” (see Şimşek [2015]),17 Erdoğan wants to recover again a Muslim heartland in the “east.” It is an Islamicist thrust in an Ottomanist guise. However, the “Ottomania” of Erdoğan is different from its historic precedent. He conflates the monoreligious aspect of Islamicism with the multi-denominational characteristic of Ottomanism to call for a hybrid culture composed of “half Turks” (tr. “yarım Türkler”). Had Erdoğan read the play entitled “Yarım Türkler,” he would have recognized that Islamicism and Ottomanism do not mix (see chapter 5).

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The “Gallipoli spirit” is a Turkish version of the “ANZAC spirit.” Both ideals have resulted in the erection of monuments and the foundation of institutions. Both uphold the core values of tolerance (toward old enemies) and comradeship (among new friends). Both envisage soldiers as innocent victims in an imperial conspiracy, be it under the auspices of a Turkish junta or the British command. As Lake (2010: ix–xx) suggests, the “ANZAC spirit” (much like the “Gallipoli spirit”) serves to normalize war, providing an ideological platform upon which new conflicts are legally justified. Actually, she contends that the Australians (much like the Turks) were killers and racists. Perhaps, the “generosity of spirit” proffered by Higgins at the hundredth anniversary of the Easter Rising can be read in a similar fashion. He talks about the “heroism and the humanity” of the fallen. However, he forgets to mention that the majority of deaths involved innocent civilians. Higgins also praises the “hospitality of narratives” at the event but he fails to reference the “inhospitable narrative” of violence and intolerance that was explicitly espoused by the nationalist leaders of the rebellion. The ballad entitled “The Foggy Dew” has something to say about remembrance rituals: “No pipes did hum, no battle drum did sound its dread tattoo.” In contrast to an established tradition in the British army, the Easter Rising was not heralded in with a bombastic display of pomp and circumstance. However, the centennial commemoration of the Easter Rising was. It was an Irish event swathed in the ceremonial cloth of British militarism. Although explicitly critical of empire, Higgins did not seem phased by the paradox. Why should he be? The Irish had actively participated as soldiers abroad for more than three centuries. As imperial subjects, Irish soldiers played a significant role in the colonial projects of the British Empire. To prevent trouble at home, Irish regiments were stationed abroad, especially in South Asia. This was the case with the Royal Munster Fusiliers. When sent to the Gallipoli Peninsula, the regiment (which included my grand uncle, Billy MacCarthyO’Leary [1894–1916]) was comfortable with the military tradition of Irish recruits and the “oriental” location of Irish campaigns. So much so that “The Mountains of Mourne” in the “west” was seamlessly transformed into “[The] Old Gallipoli” in the “east.” NOTES 1. Aram Arkun published an obituary of Stanford Shaw for Armenews (December 26, 2006). In it Arkun refers to Shaw as: “An academic who denied the Armenian Genocide.” The obituary is carefully wrought, the author balancing the achievements of the scholar with the flaws of his scholarship. Noteworthy, Arkun deplores the violent acts committed against Shaw. However, he dismisses that these acts were



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anti-Semitic by intent, a claim which Shaw believed. Yet, there is an affectionate tenor in the published piece, Arkun recognizing that Shaw was perceived as a “garrulous grandfather.” This is the Shaw that I too recognize. Further, Arkun details the enormous number of published outputs completed by Shaw in his lifetime. 2. See Suny and Göçek (2011) for an in-depth consideration of the UN declaration as it relates to the definition of genocide with respect to the Armenian people. 3. Bardakçı (2008) provides a complete transliteration of the original document. He also furnishes a facsimile copy of the notebook, which is clearly written and carefully crafted. On one page (ibid.: 108), Talât Paşa enumerates the current population (c. 1917) and the original population (c. 1915) of Armenians. Excluding Istanbul (where the resident population of Armenians did not change [c. 80,000]), the proportion of Armenians surviving is around ten percent (c. 97,000), that is when the number of “foreign” Armenians (c. 68,000) is excluded from the original total (c. 1,030,000). See, also, de Waal (2015: 51–2) for a summary of Sarafian’s (2011) analysis of the demographic data. It is noteworthy that de Waal (2015: 53–4) states with respect to the relevant notebook that there is “no archival paper trail that directly incriminates Tal[â]t Paşa ... with a clear order to exterminate the Armenians, rather than merely ‘relocate’ them to Syria.” That is, de Waal argues that the notebook does not demonstrate conclusively the intent on the part of Talât Paşa to commit genocide. 4. De Waal (2015: 91–110) provides a nuanced reading of Armenian amnesia with respect to the “Great Catastrophe” (am. “Medz Yeghern”). He suggests that the twin factors of trauma and shame were responsible for the silence over and the forgetfulness of the Armenian deportations. However, there were other issues involved. In Soviet Armenia, ideological censorship enforced the silencing of dissonant viewpoints and Marxist idealism imposed the forgetting of ethnic difference. In Turkey, cultural reforms resulted in new forms of amnesia. With the adoption of a new alphabet (1928) an old history (associated with the Ottoman Empire) could be forgotten and a new history (associated with the Turkish Republic) could be written. In addition, the surname law (1934) ensured that all Turkish subjects were nominally Turkish. Of course, there were many debates among Armenians about the memorialization of the mass murder. And, there were a number of literary works in German (see Werfel [1933]) and Russian (see Mahari [[1966] 2007]) that commemorated the Armenian slaughter. 5. It is important to recognize that song provided an important medium for recalling the horrors of the Armenian massacres in folk memory. Verjiné Svazlian (1934-) collected relevant pieces by Armenian survivors (see Svazlian [2004], among others). She classified these into five categories which included songs of 1] mobilization, 2] massacre, 3] bereavement, 4] patriotism and 5] occupation. In addition, twenty two musical transcriptions are provided (ibid.: 617–40). Interestingly, many of these songs are in Turkish. See, also, de Waal (2015: 94–5). Of importance, the book entitled “The Armenian Genocide” by Svazlian (2011) was published in Turkish as “The Armenian Genocide” (tr. “Ermeni Soykırımı”) (see Svazlian [2013]). It is a best seller. 6. Göçek (2011) provides a critical appraisal of Turkish attitudes towards the Armenian genocide. First, she argues that Ottoman officials actually recognized that the Armenian deportations had occurred. However, these administrators defended

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their actions against minority communities on the grounds that the Ottoman Empire had to survive. Second, she contends that republican commentators emphasized the role of Armenians who murdered Turkish civilians (1919–1923) and who assassinated Turkish diplomats (1970–1980s). For them, the Ottoman past was forgotten at the dawn of the Turkish Republic, where a new Turkish history was invented to conform to the modernist aspirations of the new nation state. The mass murder of Armenians simply never occurred. Third, she identifies a post-nationalist historiography that critically examines the cultural contribution of Turkish minorities to the Turkish state. Within this category, the slaughter of Armenians has been investigated by Turkish historians. In addition to Fatma Göçek, Taner Akçam (1953–) is especially prominent. See, for example, Akçam (2006, 2012). See, also, de Waal (2015). 7. Rubinstein (2004) provides a neutral assessment from the perspective of Jewish studies for the definition of genocide. With respect to the Irish famine he concludes (ibid. 89): “The Irish famine cannot in truth be described as an example of genocide, but nor, in truth, was it nineteenth-century Britain’s finest hour.” Allocating only four pages of his discussion to the Irish famine, he devotes a substantial portion of his work to the Armenian genocide. He compares (ibid.: 136) the Armenian deportations with the Jewish holocaust as follows: “The deportations were carried out with historical brutality, in ways which were earlier like the Jewish [h]olocaust a generation later.” With respect to the Irish famine however, Rubinstein notes (ibid.: 87) that nationalist activists and radical historians have sought to redefine the Irish famine as an Irish genocide for political reasons. Others have observed (see, e.g., Hovannisian Ed. [2009: 191]) that the Jewish holocaust, the Irish famine and the Armenian deportations were sometimes taught together as examples of genocide in American universities. 8. See “April–1915” at the following web address: www.youtube.com [Access Date: December 20, 2016]. 9. The relevant speech by Jack Lynch was given in response to the growing threat of nationalist violence in Northern Ireland. In a speech broadcast on the national network (Raidió Teilifís Éireann [RTÉ]) on the eve (July 11, 1970) of the annual parades by the Unionists, Lynch repeats his government’s position about using force to bring about Irish unification. He stated: “There is no solution to be found to our disagreements by shooting each other. There is no real invader here.” As in the song by O’Connor, he continued: “We are all Irish in all our different kinds of ways / We must not, now or ever in the future / Show anything to each other except tolerance, forbearance and neighborly love.” Of course, this speech was delivered at a very difficult moment in modern Irish history, coming as it did at the beginning of the “Troubles” (1968–1998). For a recording of the relevant broadcast, see “Call for Calm on Eve of Unionist Parades” at the following web address: www.rte.ie/archives/2015 [Access Date: December 31, 2016]. 10. De Waal (2015: 55) makes a perceptive comparison between the siege of Van and the uprising in Dublin. Like Dublin (a year later), Van was represented as a heroic resistance against an imperious foe by the defenders and as a treacherous rebellion against a traditional ally by the aggressors. For the Irish, the German connection with the Easter Rising was the focus of especial criticism at home and abroad. For the Armenians, the Russian link to the Van siege was considered to be extremely problematic for most Turks and for some Armenians. That the hero of Van, Aram Manukian (1879– 1919), as governor of Van (s. 1915–7) was violently autocratic in his treatment of



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Christians and Muslims alike (ibid.: 56–7) adds a further layer of fratricidal confusion to the established narratives of this revolt. See, also, Mahari ([1966] 2007). Whether the siege of Van (started April 19, 1915) was instrumental in the mass deportation of Armenian intellectuals (April 24, 1915) is still hotly debated (ibid.: 57–60). 11. In the extended compilation of folk songs that concern the Armenian genocide that was collected by Svazlian (2011), Van is rarely mentioned. Where Van is featured in a song text, it references a nostalgic reflection on a cherished birthplace or a critical longing for a lost homeland (called “Vaspurakan”). Only in the Turkish song entitled “Burası Van’dır” (en. “Here is Van”) (ibid.: 565, 619) are the issues of slaughter and bloodshed foregrounded. That being said, the personal testimonies of Armenians who survived the deportations do refer to the siege of Van (1915) as a heroic episode. For an excellent study of Armenian music and Armenian identity in diasporic locations, see Alajaji (2015). 12. For a musical anthology of the Easter Rising, see Greaves (1980). Listen, also, to the album entitled “60 Irish Rebel Songs,” a set of three CDs specially compiled to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the Easter Rising. For an authoritative study of the songs of Irish rebellion, see Zimmerman ([1966] 2002). 13. See “Easter Rising: Irish President Michael D. Higgins” at the following web address: www.bbc.co.uk/news [Access Date: December 30, 2016]. 14. See “John Bruton: His Full Speech Denouncing the Easter Rising” at the following web address: www.newsletter.co.uk/news [Access Date: December 20, 2016]. 15. The same week, Higgins had to cancel an official visit to Belfast to commemorate the Easter Rising (scheduled to take place on April 8, 2016). Since there was limited support from the Unionists to honor the occasion, the Irish president stated that he did not wish to become embroiled in a political controversy if the occasion did not receive cross-party support. See The Irish Times (March 31, 2016). 16. See O’Connell (2015b) for the consideration of a religious humanism in Central Asia with respect to the Aga Khan Humanities Project (AKHP). 17. Şimşek (2015) provides an insightful study of Turkish historiography with respect to the War. Focusing on the contribution of Arabs and Kurds to the war effort, he contests the official narrative that portrays Arab recruits as unreliable and Kurdish recruits as idlers. Showing how the Turks have sought to view the Arabs as “others” and the Kurds as “Turks,” he argues that the Arabs, in fact, did not usually identify with the Arab Revolt (1916–8) and that the Kurds did actively participate in Ottoman campaigns (such as in the Caucasus [1914] and Mesopotamia [1915–8]). Recently, Erdoğan has sought, for political reasons, to emphasize the contribution of Muslim minorities (including Kurds) in the Gallipoli Campaign. There is even a hymn in Kurdish that apparently memorializes the contribution of Kurdish troops on this front. See “Çanakkale İlahisi” by Grup Dergah at the following website: www.youtube. com [Access Date: July 15, 2016]. Like other scholars, Şimşek argues that there were few Kurdish troops in the Gallipoli Campaign. However, he demonstrates that there were substantial Arab forces on the Gallipoli Peninsula in the form of the Seventy Second and the Seventy Seventh Divisions, among others. See Adanır (2011) for a consideration of non-Muslims in the Ottoman Army. See, also, Torosyan (2012) for an influential translation in Turkish of the memoirs written by an Armenian officer who fought in the Gallipoli Campaign.

Appendix I

Sheet Music Examples

Appendix 1.1  ‘Çanakkale Türküsü’. Lyrics by Anon.

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Appendix I

Appendix 1.2  ‘Old Gallipoli’. Lyrics by Anon.

Appendix 1.3  ‘Carrigdhoun’. Lyrics by Denny Lane.



Appendix I

Appendix 1.4  ‘Bendemeer’s Stream’. Text by Thomas Moore.

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Appendix I

Appendix 1.5  ‘Mehter Marşı’. Lyrics by Ahmet Muhtar Paşa.



Appendix I

Appendix 1.6  ‘Turân Marşı’. Lyrics by Ahmet Muhtar Paşa.

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Appendix I

Appendix 1.7  ‘The Foggy Dew’. Lyrics by Charles O’Neill.

Appendix II

Lyrics ‘Çanakkale Türküsü’. Lyrics By Anon. Verse 1: Çanakkale içinde vurdular beni, Ölmeden mezara koydular beni, Of gençliğim eyvah!

Verse 2: Çanakkale içinde aynalı çarşı, Ana ben gidiyor[um] düşmana karşı, Of gençliğim eyvah!

Interlude: Verse 3: Çanakkale içinde bir kırık testi, Analar babalar ümidi kesti, Of gençliğim eyvah!

Verse 4: Çanakkale içinde bir uzun selvi, Kimimiz nişanlı, kimimiz evli, Of gençliğim eyvah!

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Appendix II

Verse 5: Çanakkale içinde sıra [sıra] söğütler, Altında yatıyor aslan yiğitler, Of gençliğim eyvah!

‘Old Gallipoli’. Lyrics by Anon. Verse 1: Oh, old Gallipoli’s a wonderful place, Where the boys in the trenches the foe have to face, But they never grumble, they smile through it all, Very soon they expect Achi Baba to fall. At least when I asked them, that’s what they told me, In Constantinople quite soon we would be, But if war lasts till Doomsday I think we’ll still be, Where the old Gallipoli sweeps down to the sea.

Verse 2: We don’t grow potatoes or barley or wheat, So we’re on the lookout for something to eat, We’re fed up with biscuits and bully and ham, And we’re sick of the sight of yon parapet jam. Send out steak and onions and nice ham and eggs, And a fine big fat chicken with five or six legs, And a drink of the stuff that begins with a ‘B’, Where the old Gallipoli sweeps down to the sea.

‘Carrigdhoun’. Lyrics by Denny Lane. Verse 1: On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown, The clouds are dark o’er Ard-na-Lee. And many a stream comes rushing down, To swell the angry Owen na Buidhe. The moaning blast is sweeping past, Through many a leafless tree. And I’m alone, for he is gone, My hawk has flown, ochone mo chroidhe.



Appendix II

Verse 2: The heath was green on Carrigdhoun, Bright shone the sun o’er Ard-na-Lee. The dark green trees bent trembling down, To kiss the slumbering Own na Buidhe. That happy day ‘twas but last May, ‘Tis like a dream to me. When Donal swore, aye o’er and o’er, We’d part no more a stór mo chroidhe.

Verse 3: Soft April showers and bright May flowers, Will bring the summer back again. But will they bring me back the hours, I spent with my brave Donal then? There’s but a chance, he’s gone to France, To wear the Fleur-de-Lis. But I’ll follow you, my Donal Dhu, For still I’m true to you mo chroidhe.

‘Bendemeer’s Stream’. Text by Thomas Moore. Verse 1: There’s a bower of roses, by Bendemeer’s Stream, And the nightingale sings ‘round it all the day long. In the time of my childhood ‘Twas sweet like a dream, To sit by the roses and hear the bird’s song. That bow’r and its music I ne’er can forget, But of when alone in the bloom of the year. I think, ‘Is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?’

Verse 2: No, the roses soon withered that hung o’er the wave, But the blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone. And the dew was distilled on the flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer - when summer is gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year. Thus, bright to my soul as ‘twas then to my eyes, Is that bow’r on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.

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Appendix II

‘Mehter Marşı’. Lyrics by Ahmet Muhtar Paşa. Verse 1: Gâfil ne bilir neşve-i pür şevkî vegâyı, Meydân-ı celâdetteki envar-ı safâyı, Merdân-ı gazâ aşk ile tekbirler alınca, Titretti yine rûyi zemin arş-ı semâyı.

Refrain: Allah yoluna cenk edelim şân alalım şân, Kur’anda zafer vâdediyor Hazret-i Yezdan. Verse 2: Farz eyledi hallak-ı cihan, harb ü cihatı, Hep cenk ile yükselmede ecdadımın adı, Dünyaları fetheyleyen ecdadımız el hak, Adil idi hıfzeyler idi, hak kı ibadı.

Refrain: Allah yoluna cenk edelim şân alalım şân, Kur’an’da zafer vâdediyor Hazret-i Yezdan.

‘Turân Marşı’. Lyrics by Ahmet Muhtar Paşa. Couplet 1: Türk kavmînin beş bin yıllık yuvası, Güzel vatan sanki cennet ovası.

Couplet 2: Güzel iller yeşil bağlar dedemizin ocağı, Türk oğlunun anayurdu gönül bağı bucağı.

Couplet 3: Pek şânlıyız pek şânlıyız pek şânlı, Halk gözcüsü yurt bekçisi türk oğlu türk pek şânlı.



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‘Turân’. Text by Ziya Gökalp. Verse 1: Nâbızlarımda vuran duygular ki tarihin, Birer derin sesidir, ben sahifelerde değil, Güzide, şânlı, necîb ırkımın uzak ve yakın, Bütün zaferlerini kalbimin tanininde, Nâbızlarımda okur, anlar, eylerim tebcil.

Verse 2: Sahifelerde değil, çünkü Atilla, Cengiz, Zaferle ırkımın tetviç eden bu nasiyeler, O tozlu çerçevelerde, o iftira amiz, Muhit içinde görünmekte kirli, şermende, Fakat şerefle numayan Sezar ve İskender!

Verse 3: Nâbızlarımda evet, çünkü ilm için mübhem, Kalan Oğuz Han’ı kalbim tanır tamamiyle, Damarlarımda yaşar şân-ü ihtişamiyle, Oğuz Han, işte budur gönlümü eden mülhem.

Refrain: Vatan ne Türkiyedir Türklere, ne Türkistan, Vatan, büyük ve müebbet bir ülkedir: Turân.

‘The Foggy Dew’. Lyrics by Charles O’Neill. Verse 1: As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I, There armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by. No fife did hum nor battle drum did sound its dread tattoo, But the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey’s swell rang out through the foggy dew.

Verse 2: Right proudly high over Dublin town they hung out the flag of war, ‘Twas better to die ‘neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sedd el Bahr. And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through, While Britannia’s Huns with their long-range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

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Appendix II

Verse 3: ‘Twas Britannia bade our Wild Geese go that small nations might be free, But their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves or the shore of the [g]reat North Sea. Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha, Their names we will keep where the Fenians sleep ‘neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

Verse 4: But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear, For those who died that Eastertide in the springing of the year. And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few, Who bore the fight that freedom’s light might shine through the foggy dew.

Verse 5: Ah, back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore, For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more. But to and fro in my dreams I go and I’d kneel and pray for you, For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.

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Index

Page references for figures are italicized 57’nci Alay Şehitliği (en. Cemetery of the 57th Regiment), 195 Abbott, Tony, prime minister of Australia (s. 2013–5), 3, 213 Abdülaziz, Sultan (r. 1861–76), 41, 53, 55, 99 Abdülhamit II, Sultan (r. 1876–1909), xvii, 17, 33, 35, 39–42, 52–53, 55, 62n26, 108, 130, 150n2, 154n17 Abdülmecit I, Sultan (r. 1839–61), 53, 54, 61n24, 62n26 “Abide with Me”, 12, 167 accordion, 170 Achi Baba (tr. Alçı Tepe), 70, 169, 248 actor, xxii, 48, 62n25, 108, 127–55, 157, 188n34 Adagio in G minor 164 Adana, 232 “Adana, Lament for” (am. “Adanayi Voghperke”, tr. “Adana Ağıtı”), 232 “Advance Australia Fair”, 8, 12 Aegean, xxix, 20, 33–34, 130–32, 192, 196, 217n4 Africa and African, 4, 25n5, 36; African nurse (tr. bacı), 40; East Africa, 38; North Africa, 81, 95n24;

South Africa, 83 Ahmet, “Udî” “Selanikli” (1868–1927), 49 Ahmet Ağaoğlu (1869–1939), 31, 125n20, 154n17, 221n25 Ahmet Cevdet [Çağla] (1900–88), 43 Ahmet Muhtar Paşa, “Ferik” (1861– 1926), 103–5, 108–10, 112–14, 121, 244–45, 250 Aka Gündüz [Finci] (1886–1954), 128, 130, 134–35, 137, 139–42, 144, 148, 150n2, 152n7, 154n17 alafranga, 4, 9, 16, 22, 26n8, 39, 42–44, 46, 49, 51–52, 61n20, 108, 129, 139, 141, 143–45, 148, 154n15, 155n20, 172, 181, 210, 213, 216. See also Ottoman, “western” “classical” music Alamanîa, 32, 57n4; Alemania, 45; Allah-mania, 55 alaturka (it. alla turca), xxxvn9, 4, 9, 16, 22, 26n8, 39, 42–44, 51, 107, 118–19, 137, 139–41, 143–45, 148, 154n15, 155n20, 172, 181, 210, 213, 216. See also Ottoman, Turkish “classical” music 271

272 Index

Albert, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (1819–61), 71 Albinoni, Tomaso (1671–1751), 164, 177 Alevi, 10, 13, 26n9, 143. See also Bektaşi Alexander III of Macedon, also called Alexander the Great, (r. 336–23 BCE), 196 Ali Rıfat [Çağatay] (1869–1935), 6 Ali Rıza [Şengel] (1880–1953), 103–4, 107, 123n10, 123n12, 137, 149 allegory, 72, 75–80, 85–86 alliance and ally, xiv, xxxi, xxxvn13, 1– 2, 18, 24, 25n5, 33–35, 38–39, 55, 69, 81, 91n6, 120, 125n18, 134, 151n6, 167–68, 171, 181, 183n11, 196, 210, 222n27, 222n30, 233 Alliance israélite universelle, 47 Allied and Allies, xxix, 25n5, 80, 161–62, 168, 171, 180, 189n37, 222n27; Allied armed forces, xxvii, xxix, xxxi, 4, 7, 19, 21, 27n14, 31, 73, 159–60, 162, 167–68, 170, 178, 185n18, 188n34, 189n37, 192, 195, 203, 207, 210, 220n2, 221n21; Allied music and musicians, 172; Allied occupation of Istanbul (1918– 22), 45, 60n16, 188n33; Allied offensive, xxv, 24, 162, 168, 170, 211, 235; Allied position xxxi, xxxvn13, 181. See also Australia, ANZAC, Britain, New Zealand All Quiet on the Western Front, 176–77, 177 All the King’s Men, 177, 180 “All the Lonely People”, 230 “Amazing Grace”, 12 “Ambassadorial March” (tr. “Elçi Marşı”), 7 ambivalence, xxiv, xxx–i, 33, 38, 44, 52, 71–72, 76, 80, 84, 113–14, 116, 183n12, 207, 211, 216

amnesia, xix, xxiii, xxxivn6, 220n17, 230, 237n4. See also forget Anafarta Group (tr. Anafarta Grubu), xxxvn11, 162 “And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda”, 205, 207–9 Anglo-Egyptian War (1882), xvii, 49, 83, 89 Anglo-Irish, 70–71, 94n18, 207, 234 Antill, John (1866–1934), 158–59, 161, 181n3 Antoine, André (1858–1943), 149 ANZAC (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps), 3, 99, 157–89, 191, 194–96, 198, 200–203, 219n13; ANZAC armed forces, xiv, xxxi–ii, 7, 158–62, 168–70, 176, 178, 184n15, 188nn33–35, 189n37, 192, 200–203, 212, 219n14, 223n31, 234; ANZAC breakout (August 6–9, 1915), xxxi, 160–62; ANZAC cannon, xxii, 193, 201–3; ANZAC music and musicians, 170, 184n16; “ANZAC spirit”, 202, 208, 216–17, 236. See also Allied, Australia, Māori, New Zealand Anzac Cove (tr. Arı Burnu), also called Anzac Beach (tr. Anzac Koyu), xiv, xxix, 7, 26n12, 164, 167, 174, 178, 188n34, 191, 194, 195, 200, 218n7, 219n10 ANZAC Day (April 25), 3, 13, 195, 208–9, 212 ANZAC Estate, 194–95 The Anzacs, 177, 178, 188n36 Apollo Cinema (tr. Apollon Sineması), 137–38, 152n8, 187n31 “April-1915”, 231 Arab and Arabs, 5, 8, 31, 69, 111, 115, 159, 203, 227, 235, 239n17; Arab armed forces, 162, 192–93, 217n3, 239n17;

Index

Arab music and musicians, 26n6, 43, 69, 142, 166, 219n14, 227 Arabic (ar.), xiii, xvii, xix, 2, 4, 4–5, 11, 111, 113, 115–16, 129, 143, 145, 155n18, 219n14 “arcadia of sacrifice”, xxii archeology, xxxi, xxxvin15, 196 See also memory aria, 130, 144, 163–64, 173 Arkun, Aram, 227–29, 236n1 Armenia and Armenians, xxxii, 4, 40, 131, 142, 146, 149, 188n33, 210–11, 213–15, 217n3, 222n27, 223n34, 223n36, 227–32, 235, 237n2, 237n4, 238n10, 239n17; Armenian actors, 135–36, 139–40; Armenian commemoration, 27n13, 210, 213–14, 230; Armenian demonstrations, 24n2, 188n33, 222nn30–31; Armenian deportations, 24, 212, 214, 224n37, 229, 237nn3–4, 237nn6– 7, 239n11; Armenian genocide, xiv, xxvii, 1, 4, 25n2, 38, 99, 120, 126n25, 212, 222n30, 223n32, 223n35, 224n37, 227–31, 236n1, 237nn4–7, 239n11; Armenian music and musicians, 139–40, 143, 145, 153n12, 172, 210, 213–16, 223n32, 223n34, 224n38, 228, 230, 239n11. See also deportation Armenian (am.), xiii–iv, 104, 123n11, 141, 143, 145, 223n32, 224n36 Armenian Genocide Memorial, 213–14 “Armenian Genocide Song”, 230 “The Armenian Question” (tr. “Ermeni Sorunu”), 99 Armistice Day (November 11), xxiii–iv, xxxivn5, 204, 220n18 “Army March” (tr. “Ordu Marşı”), 7, 107, 123n12 Army of Islam (tr. [Kafkas] İslâm Ordusu), 116–19 Arslanian, Vatche, 231

273

Artillery Band (tr. Tophane Bandosu, Tophane Mızıkası), 40, 46 artists in war, 12, 29, 31–32, 148–50, 198, 218n7 art of war, 17–19 Ashmead-Bartlett, Ellis (1881–1931), 173, 178–80, 201 Asia and Asian, 4, 9–10, 32, 36, 38, 45, 54, 82, 85, 87, 97, 109–10, 112–14, 117, 121, 125n18, 125nn20–21, 154n15; Central Asia, 81, 108–9, 111, 114, 117, 121, 125n18, 125n21, 217, 239n16; South Asia, 25n5, 83, 137, 236; West Asia, 111, 217n4 Âsım Bey, “Giriftzen” (1852–1929), 42, 102, 122n8 Asquith, Anthony (1902–68), 177, 178 Asya, Arif Nihat (1904–75), 19, 25n4 Athol and Ulster Pipe Band, 165, 182n5 “Attack without Hesitation!” (tr. “Durma Vur!”), 111, 113, 115– 16, 121 “The August Offensive”, 199 August Offensive (August 6–8, 1915), 158 Australia and Australian, xvi, xxii, xxvi–viii, xxxii, xxxvn14, 12, 24nn1–2, 69, 84, 99–100, 157–89, 191–93, 195, 197, 199–210, 212– 13, 216–17, 217n2, 218nn9–10, 219n13, 236; Australia, dominion of (created 1901), 157, 203; Australia, gendered constructs, xxxvn14, 78, 159, 176, 201–2, 209, 234; Australia, Queensland (QLA), 218n9, 219n13; Australia, South Australia (SA), 157, 165, 182n5; Australia, Western Australia (WA), 158, 165, 169, 197; Australian armed forces, xxii, 16, 69, 157–62, 165, 167, 169–70, 180,

274 Index

183n11, 188nn36–37, 189n39, 192, 196, 203, 207–8, 216, 218n7, 220n15, 234; Australian cinema, 157, 159, 173, 177, 178, 180, 181n1; Australian journalism, xxxi, 159, 180, 218n9; Australian music and musicians, 169–70, 172, 174, 197, 199–200, 207, 218n9. See also Allied, ANZAC Australia Day (January 16), 209 Australian Aboriginal, 26n11, 198 Australian Broadcasting [Corporation] (ABC), 183n13, 188n33, 218n8 Australian Defense Force (ADF), 157 Australian Film Institute Awards, 173 Australian Imperial Force (AIF), 160 Australia War Memorial, xv, 177, 182n6, 197 Austria[-Hungary] and Austrian, xxvi, xxxiiin1, 23, 51–54, 58nn8–9, 59n12, 61n22, 89, 132, 143–44, 154; Austria and Serbia (1914), 33, 132; Austrian defeat (1866), 52; Austrian uprising (1848), 52. See also Hapsburg, Hungary Austrian Temple (gr. Österreicher Tempel), 52 Baby 700 (tr. Kılıçbayır [180m]), 161 bagpipe and bagpiper, 7, 9, 13–15, 73, 87, 171, 172, 182n5, 185nn20–21, 232, 235, 236 Balkans, xxix, xxxi, 142 Balkan wars (1912–3), 22, 34, 41, 113, 120, 125n18, 134, 138, 146, 147, 149 “A Ballad of Freedom”, 78, 81 “Ball Rockets” (gr. “Ball-Racketen”), 54 band and bandsmen, xxiv, 6–9, 41, 137, 143, 149, 165, 170–71, 182n5, 183n13, 204, 205, 207–8, 210; bandmaster, 6, 8–9, 11, 39–42, 123n11, 210;

brass band, xxi, 4, 8–10, 14, 26n8, 39–40, 42, 60n16, 69, 97, 100–101, 122n5, 123n12, 137, 146, 149, 165, 168, 171, 183n13, 184n14, 185n23, 203–4, 208, 213, 221n26, 232, 235; fife and drum band, 8–10, 118, 204–5, 251; pipe band, 7, 10, 14, 16, 26n6, 69, 122n5, 165, 171, 182n5, 203–4, 208. See also janissary “Banna Strand”, 232 Barkas, Geoffrey (1896–1979), 178 Barlach, Ernst (1870–1938), 55, 56 Bartók, Béla (1881–1945), 215 battle cry, 69; French cry, 69; Irish cry, 81; Turkish cry, 11, 69, 146, 168. See also chant battlefront, xxvi, 31, 68, 70, 99, 119, 150, 159, 161, 169, 171, 177–78, 183n11, 188n34, 193–94, 197 Battle of Culloden (1745), 9 Battle of Fontenoy (1745), 81 Battle of Mons (August 23, 1914), 68 Battle of the Marne (1914), xxviii battleship, 24, 29, 31, 33–34, 131–33, 151n4; Barbaros Hayrettin, 131; Breslau, also called Midilli, 34, 132–35; Goeben, also called Yavuz, 34, 132–35, 151n6; Reşadiye, 33–34, 132–33; Sultan Osman I, 33, 131–33; Turgut Reis, 131. See also Naval Society Battleship Hill (tr. Düz Tepe [c. 200m]), 161 Bean, Charles (1879–1968), xxii, 159– 60, 170, 178, 180, 181n2, 182n6, 185n18, 194, 201, 203, 220n15 Becker, Carl (1876–1933), 36–38 Bektaşi, 10–11, 13.

Index

See also Alevi Belfast, xvi, 93n15, 239n15 Belfast Agreement (1998), 3 Belfast Harp Festival (1792), 87, 93n15 Belgium, xxvi, 3, 68, 206 “Below the Sacred Temple” (fr. “Au fond du temple saint”), 163–64 “Bendemeer’s Stream”, 70, 74–77, 85, 88, 91n8, 205, 206, 243, 249 Benliyan Company (tr. Benliyan Kumpanyası), 139, 150 Berlin, xv, 25, 32, 37–38, 42–44, 49–50, 222n30 Berliner Secession, 31 Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv, 43 Berlin to Baghdad railway, also called the Hijaz railway, 32, 37 Beyazit II, Sultan (r. 1481–1512), 44 Bianco, René (1908–2008), 164 Bierhaus (tr. birahane), 46–47 Binemeciyan, Eliza (1890–1981), 137 Bismarck, Otto Fürst von, chancellor of Germany (s. 1871–1890), 38–39, 222 Bizet, Georges (1838–78), 163, 173 Blumenthal Brothers (tr. Blumenthal Biraderler), 49–51, 59nn13–4 B’nai B’rith, 48, 58n10 Bogle, Eric (1944-), 205, 207–9, 216 Bonaparte, Napoleon [Emperor] (r. 1804–14, 1815), 83 Bosporus (tr. Boğaziçi), 37, 97, 154n15 The Boys of the Dardanelles, 177, 180 Brazier, Noel (1866–1947), 161, 181n3 Breaker Morant, 177, 180 Britain and British, xix xxii, xxvi, xxxi, 16, 18, 24n1, 31–35, 49–50, 55, 60n17, 65–95, 117, 122n5, 126n25, 131–32, 134, 159–60, 165, 177, 180, 185n21, 194, 202, 204, 206–7, 209, 216, 220n15, 230–32, 238n7; British armed forces, xiv, xxi, xvi, xxxii, 3, 5, 34, 82–84, 88–89, 90n4, 99, 151n6, 159–60, 162, 204, 206–7, 210, 236;

275

British delegation, 2–3, 7; British strategy, xxix, 34, 91n5, 132–33, 159. See also Allied, England, Ireland, Scotland British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), 177, 188n32 British Empire, xxv–vi, 9, 82–85, 88– 89, 120, 162, 165, 192, 197, 203, 220n17, 229, 236. See also colony “British Grenadiers”, xxi broadcast, xv, xxii, 177, 188n36, 238n9; Australian broadcast, 8, 177, 183n13, 188n32, 199, 218n8; Turkish broadcast, xv, 1, 5, 19, 20– 22, 24n2, 25n5, 199, 213. See also film Brooke, Rupert (1887–1915), 172, 174, 180, 185n23, 187nn26–27 Browne, William D. (1888–1915), 172, 185n23 Brugha, Cathal (1874–1922), 205, 220n19, 252 Bruton, John, taoiseach of Ireland (s. 1994–7), 233, 239n14 Budapest, 53 bugle and bugler, 6, 8, 14, 69, 100, 165, 167–68, 171, 184nn14–16, 186n25, 235 Bulgaria and Bulgarian, 44, 120, 146, 193 Bunting, Edward (1773–1843), 74, 87–88, 93n15, 206 Burnet, Sir John (1857–1938), 194–95 Bushman, 203, 207 Byron, George Lord (1788–1824) Café Flamme, 46 Cairo, xix, 25n5, 49, 114, 158–59, 164, 166, 169, 182n10, 219n14 Cairo Congress of Arab Music (1932), 43 calendar, xiii, 151n5, 204 Caliph and Caliphate, 35, 38, 57n5, 117

276 Index

call to prayer (tr. ezan), 5, 12, 19, 69, 143, 218n8 Canada and Canadian, 18, 68, 84, 203, 231, 234 Çanakkale 1914–1916, 178, 187n31 Çanakkale Aslanları (en. The Lions of Gallipoli), 177, 178 Çanakkale (en. Dardanelles, Gallipoli), 22, 27n14, 57n3, 178, 193 “Çanakkale Geçilmez” (en. “The Dardanelles will not be Breached”), 210, 213 “Çanakkale Kahramanlarını Hatırası” (en. “[In] Memory of the Dardanelles Heroes”), 21 “Çanakkale Marşı” (en. “The Dardanelles March”), 210; “Çanakkale Marşı” by Bimen Dergazaryan [Şen], 210–11; “Çanakkale Marşı” by İbrahim Mehmet Ali, 221n21; “Çanakkale Marşı” by “Kemanî” Kevser, 21, 210, 221n23 “Çanakkale Muhaveresi” (en. “Dardanelles Conversation”), 211–12, 222n8 Çanakkale Şehitleri Anıtı (en. Memorial of the Dardanelles Martyrs), 195 “Çanakkale Şehitlerine” (en. “To the Dardanelles Martyrs”), 210, 221nn22–23 “Çanakkale Türküsü” (en “Dardanelles Song”), xxv, xxxii, 20–24, 24n1, 191, 197, 213, 235, 241, 247–48 Çanakkale Yolun Sonu (en. Gallipol: The End of the Road), 177, 179, 188n34 Çankırı, 214, 223n35, 224n37 Cape Helles (tr. İlyas Burnu), xix, xxix, xxxi, xxxiiin4, 7, 20, 68, 163, 167, 171, 178, 191 capitulations, 9, 32, 35–36 “Caravan” (tr. “Kervan”), 134, 152n7 Cardwell Reforms (1881), 68, 90n4 “Carrigdhoun”, also called “The Lament of the Irish Maiden, A Brigade

Ballad”, 70, 72–73, 76–79, 91n8, 92n9, 92n11, 205, 206, 242, 248–49 cartography, xxviii, 94n20, 196 Çataldere, 195 Catholic, 143, 154n15, 170, 205. See also Irish Catholic Caucasus, 49, 117, 212, 239n1 Celâl Esat [Arseven] (1875–1971), 101–2, 122nn5–6, 135 celebration. See commemoration Çelik, Kenan, 191, 193, 217n1 Celt and Celtic, 8–9, 77, 86, 88–89. See also Ireland “Celts and Saxons”, 78, 86 Cemal Paşa, [Ahmet] (1872–1922), 33, 35, 136, 139 Cemil Bey, “Tanburî” (1873–1916), 50, 59nn15–16, 144, 227 Cenotaph (London), xxiv, 3 “A Centenary Ballad” (tr. “Yüz Yıllık Destan”), 19, 25n4 centennial. See commemoration “Centoni di sonata No. 3” 166 Central Army Office of Cinema (tr. Merkez Ordu Sinema Dairesi [MOSD]), 48, 150 Central Powers, xiv, xxix, 27n14, 29, 32–35, 37, 60n17, 67, 120, 133, 135. See also Triple Entente Cevat, “Kızanlıklı”, 119–21, 126nn24–5 Challenge (mā. Haka), 14–15, 185n18 chant, 4, 10–15, 20, 143, 167–70, 200; Christian chant, 7–8, 154n15, 178, 183n12, 185n18, 203, 213–14, 220n14, 230, 235; Muslim chant, 4–5, 11–12, 59n4, 69, 111, 115, 142–43, 148, 166, 168, 179, 235, 239n17. See also battle cry, lament, song Chariots of Fire, 177, 177 Charles, Prince of Wales (or Prince Charles [1948-]), 2–3, 4, 5–6, 16 The Chessboard, 191

Index

Chlebowski, Stanisław (1835–84), 99 choir and chorister, 11, 23, 41–42, 45– 46, 140, 145, 148, 181, 213–16, 219n14; All Hallows Gallipoli Choir, 12, 26n12; German Male Choral Society (gr. Deutsche Männergesangverein), 46; Island of Ireland Peace Choir, 233; Peace Choir (tr. Barış Korosu), 4–5, 4, 7, 233 Chopin, Frédéric (1810–49), 180 Chunuk Bair or Sari Bair (tr. Conkbayırı [261m]), xxviii, 7, 158, 161–62, 191, 195 Churchill, [Sir] Winston (1874–1965), xxix Circassian (tr. Çerkez), 39, 62n25, 81, 128 civilization (tr. medeniyet), 86–87, 116, 125n18, 136–37, 230 Clare, Charles (O’Brien) Lord (1699– 1761), 81 “Clare’s Dragoons”, 78, 81 “classical” and classism, xxxivn4, 40, 46, 50, 85, 144, 148, 195, 215, 230; “classical” antiquity, 85, 174, 180, 187n27, 196; “classical” canon, xxiv; “classical” literature, 109–10, 113, 125n16; “classical” repertoire, 42, 102–4, 145; “classical” style, xxv, xxxivn8, 148; “classical” suite (tr. fasıl), 104, 122n8, 137–38, 221n25. See also “western” “classical” music, Turkish “classical” music “Cock O’ the North”, 165 colony and colonial, xxv, xxxii, 35, 55, 114, 117, 130, 201; Australian, 159–61, 201–3, 209; British, 9, 32–23, 84, 120, 203, 236; French, xxvi, xxxv, 32–33;

277

German, 36–38, 45–46; Irish, 82–89, 159, 206, 232. See also British Empire color, 17–19, 79–82, 88, 94n21, 232, 248–49; black (ir. dubh), 72–75, 79, 92n11; brown (ir. donn), 79; yellow (ir. buidhe or buí), 76, 78, 92n11, 94n20 Columbia Records, 184n17, 186 commemorate and commemoration, xv, xxiii–vii, xxxi–ii, xxxivn5, xxxivn8, xxxvn13, 137, 200, 203–4, 212–15, 235; commemoration in Armenia, 212–13, 223n32, 223n35, 230, 237n4; commemoration in Australia, 160, 191–95, 208–9; commemoration in Ireland, 25n3, 77, 81, 204, 207, 220n17, 230–33, 236, 239n15; commemoration in Turkey, 1–24, 24n2, 24nn4–5, 26n13, 188n34, 195–96, 209–10, 221n22, 233, 235. See also remember, ritual commerce, 45–48, 112; Jewish commerce, 48–51. See also sound recording Committee of Union and Progress (tr. İttihat ve Terakki Cemiyeti), 117, 131, 151n3, 154n17 Commonwealth, 7, 9, 20, 157, 160, 203–4 community (gr. Gemeinschaft), 116 comparative linguists, 113–14, 125n19 concert, 40–41, 46–47, 69, 101–2, 122n5, 122n8, 126n23, 154n15, 221nn25–26; concert, benefit, 104, 136–39, 148, 221n26; concert format, 148; concert hall (tr. konser salonu), 100; concert party, 170, 183n11, 185nn18–19, 197; concert performance, 8, 46, 145, 196–97;

278 Index

concert record, 50; concert tour, 39, 44, 52. See also “Re-sounding Gallipoli” Concordia, 46 Connolly, Don (1929–2013), 166 conscription, 27n14, 90n3, 146, 149–50 “Constantinople”, 54, 62n26 Constantinople, 70, 122n5, 248. See also Istanbul contrafactum, 85 Cork, xvi, 72, 76, 87, 92n9 “The Corsair”, 76 costume, 17, 55, 203; janissary costume, 7, 99, 101–3, 120, 122n5, 126n24; military costume, 3, 16–17, 40, 157, 165, 169, 178, 188n34; traditional costume, 9, 13–14, 141, 165, 182n5, 203–4 Cottis, Jessica (1979-), 199, 218n9 coup d’état, xxix, 131, 225n39 cultural evolution, xxxvn14, 36, 113, 116 cultural hybridity, 128, 141 culture (tr. hars), 116 cypress trees, xxv, 21 “Dance”, 174 dance, 9, 13–16, 39, 54, 57n3, 62n27, 122n4, 124n15, 141, 144–45, 154n15, 182n9, 184n17 Dardanelles (tr. Çanakkale), ix, xxvii– xxix, xxxvn13, 1, 67, 89, 225n39; Dardanelles, assault on, 20, 27n14, 29–34, 30, 211; Dardanelles, fortification of, 24, 29–35; Dardanelles, victory in, 21, 57n2, 195–96, 210, 220n21, 222n27. See also Gallipoli Darülbedayi-i Osmanî, 139, 149, 155nn20–21 Darül’elhan, 43, 123n10, 149 Darü’l-Feyz-i Mûsiki, 138 Darülfünun, xxviii, 49 Darüttalimi Musiki Cemiyeti, 43, 137, 210, 221n25

Davis, Thomas (1814–45), 77–82, 78, 84, 86, 92n9, 94n19, 94n21 Day of the Fallen, (tr. 18 Mart Şehitleri Anma Günü), 209 Deadline Gallipoli, 177, 180 declaration of war, xxix, 27n14, 32–35, 38, 50, 55, 57n5, 67–68, 90n2, 108, 117, 131–32, 146 Dellâlzâde İsmail Efendi (1797–1861), 139 Demirağ, Turgut (1921–87), 177, 178 Democratic Party of the People (tr. Halkların Demokratik Partisi [HDP]), 2 Department of Veterans’ Affairs (DVA), 202, 219n13 deportation, xiv, 24n, 211–14, 217n4, 222n27, 222nn30–31, 228–30, 237n4, 237n6. See also Armenia deportation law (tr. tehcir kanunu), 229 [Dergazaryan] Bimen [Şen] (1873– 1943), xiv, 145, 172, 210–11, 215–16 Deutsche Orientbank, 45 diaries, xv, xxii, xxviii, 65, 163, 170, 183n12, 189n38 “The Diggers”, 174–76, 175, 187n28 Dillon, John (1851–1927), 233 Disorder, xxiv divan: instrument (divan sazı), 10; poetry (divan edebiyatı), 110; song (divan), 145 divided loyalty, 72–73, 75, 84, 207, 209–11, 215–16 Divine Liturgy (am. Badarak), 213–14, 223n35 Dix, Airlie (1862–1911), 197 Diyanet İşleri Bakanlığı (en. Department of Religious Affairs), 5, 25n5 Diyarbakır, 111 dominion, 194, 201–4, 216 Donal Dhu (ir. Donál Dubh, sc. Donuil Dhuidh), 72–73, 79, 92n9, 249

Index

Donizetti, Giuseppe (1788–1856), 39, 123n11 Don Juan “Canto VIII”, 29–31, 30, 56, 57n2 “Don’t Deny”, also called “Face the Shadow”, 213–14 Dublin, 91nn7–8, 93n13, 95n23, 205–7, 220n18, 231–33, 238n10, 251 Durkheim, Émile (1858–1917), 116 early Republican period (1923–38), xiii, xv, xxxii, 141, 144–45, 150n2, 152n7, 153n12, 222n29. See also Turkey Easter Rising (April 1916), 90n3, 204, 206, 216, 220n17, 220n19, 232– 36, 238n10, 239nn12–15 East India Company, 68, 83, 86, 89. See also India Ebert, Carl (1887–1980), 44 Eceabat, 2, 5, 193 Edirne (1913), xxix “Edirne March” (tr. “Edirne Marşı”), 41 Edward VII, King (r. 1901–10), 71 Edwardian era (1901–10), xxxvn14, 202, 205 Egypt and Egyptian, 1–2, 49, 54, 58n11, 59n14, 67, 69, 85–88, 145, 158, 166, 173, 202, 219n14, 227 “Egyptian March” (gr. “Ägyptischer Marsch”), 54, 62n25 “Ein bißchen Frieden”, 10 [Ekserciyan], Tatyos Efendi (1858– 1913), 141 Eldem, Nezih (1921–2005), 98 Elegy in Memoriam Robert Brooke, 172, 186n23 Elizabeth I, Queen (r. 1558–1603), 80 emotion, xxxivn6, 102, 167; emotion and expressionism, 29, 31; emotion in memory, xxiv, xxvi; emotional intensity, 113, 166, 173, 179 England and English, xxxiiin3, 9, 13, 15, 24, 55, 65–95, 100, 132–33,

279

157–60, 162, 165, 167, 172–74, 177, 178–80, 205–9, 229–31. See also Britain, Ireland English (en.), xi, xiii–v, xix, xxviii, xxvvn12, 4–5, 12, 17–18, 24n4, 52, 57n2, 58n9, 75, 100, 122n4, 179, 184n17, 186n25, 188n33, 189n38, 196, 200, 205, 213, 218n5, 219n12, 220n20, 223n32, 230 Enver Paşa, [İsmail] (1881–1922), minister of war (s. 1914–18), xiv, xxix, xxxvn11, 31–37, 41, 48, 108, 116–21, 126nn23–24, 132, 135–36, 149–50, 154n16, 184nn14–15, 224n37 Erçetin, Candan (1963-), 20–21 Erdoğan, Recep T. (1954-), president of Turkey (s. 2014-), xiv, 1–7, 4, 16–19, 23–24, 25n4, 26n13, 212, 217, 217n3, 224n39, 233, 235, 239n17 Ertuğrul, xxxi, 40–41, 60n16, 154n18, 221n26 Ethem Nuri Bey, “Üsküdarlı” (d. [1919]), 138 ethnomusicology, xxiv, xxvi, xxxi, xxxivn6, xxxivn8, 43, 61nn20–21, 69 Etreux (August 27, 1914), 82 eurocentric, xxvi, 219n14 Europe and European, xiv, xviii–xix, xxiv, xxvi, 4–10, 18, 25nn5–7, 36, 38–39, 42, 45–49, 52, 54, 58n8, 62n24, 82, 87–88, 92n10, 93n13, 98, 108–14, 120, 123n10, 124n18, 127–28, 130, 135–37, 142–45, 148, 151n5, 215, 228, 230 Europeanism (tr. Avrupalıcılık), 127, 130 European manners (tr. Avrupa terbiyeleri), 128 Eurovision Song Contest, 10, 20, 213– 14, 223nn33–34 Evangelische Kirche, 40, 46 Evliya Çelebi (1611–82), 117

280 Index

Evren, Kenan, president of Turkey (s. 1980–9), 195 exemption fee (tr. iane-i askerî), 146 exotic and exoticism, 8, 41, 54, 62n27, 63n28, 74–75, 85, 87, 142 expressionism, 29, 31, 55 “Fairytales from the Orient” (gr. “Märchen aus dem Orient”), 53 “Famine”, 230–31, 238n9 Farr, Gareth (1969-), 200 Fatih Mosque (tr. Fatih Camii), 146 Favorite Records, 49–50, 145 female impersonators (tr. zenne-s), 142 Ferguson, Samuel (1810–86), 87 fifth column, 216 Fifty Second Lowland Division, 171 film, xxiii, xxvii, xxxi–ii, xxxvin15, 5, 19–20, 32, 48, 58n8, 59n14, 101, 104, 150, 157–89, 163–66, 191, 195, 209, 220n18, 220n20, 221n24. See also broadcast “First Post”, 8, 168. See also “Last Post” Fisher, Andrew, prime minister of Australia (s. 1908–9, 1910–3, 1914–5), 159 flag, xvii, 6–7, 16–17, 21, 29, 45, 58n8, 79, 81, 100, 133, 154n18, 171, 184n16, 203–5, 210, 214, 220n21, 251 “Flowers of the Forest”, 13, 208 “The Foggy Dew” (ballad), 204–7, 205, 216, 232, 236, 246, 251–52 “The Foggy Dew” (tune), 205, 206–7 folk, xxv, 51, 144, 153n10, 205, 237n5; folklore, 21, 60n18, 205; folk music, xxiv, 4, 100, 141, 144– 45, 201, 215; folk poetry, 109–15, 123n10, 125n16; folk song, 5, 9, 10, 12, 20–23, 42, 49, 50, 108, 111, 141, 145, 147– 48, 183n11, 191, 215, 239n11.

See also song “Fontenoy”, 78, 80–81 “For Auld Lang Syne! Australia will be There”, also called “Australia’s War Song”, xxxv14, 164–65, 202 Forde, William (1796–1850), 87 forget and forgetting, xxii, xxxi–ii, 133, 144, 157, 172, 199–202, 230–31, 236, 237n4, 249. See also amnesia France and French, xvii, xix, xxi, xxv– vi, xxviii–ix, xxxiiin1, xxvn13, 4–5, 10, 24n2, 32–35, 39, 47–50, 55, 62n26, 65, 69, 72–73, 76–77, 78, 79–82, 82–83, 89, 90n4, 142, 154n16, 170, 182n8, 194, 205, 207, 213, 217n2, 249; French armed forces, xxxvn13, 24, 72–73, 82, 89, 167, 169, 182n8, 206; French music and musicians, 39–40, 103, 164, 171, 182; French theater, 138, 152n9, 155n21 Francis, Walter “Skipper” (1886–1957), 165, 216 Franz Joseph, Emperor (r. 1848–1916), 51–55, 61n21, 62n25 French, William “Percy” (1854–1920), 70–72, 70, 84–88, 91nn7–8, 95n23 French (fr.), xiii, xv, xxxvn12, 5, 24n2, 46–47, 57n4, 58n11, 60n16, 69, 128–29, 138, 143–44, 149, 205, 213 French Revolution, 82 Friday worship (tr. cuma namazı), 5 funeral, 13–14, 42, 122n5, 163, 200. See also lament “Funeral Invocation” (tr. “Cenaze Salâsı”), 13 “Future”, 199–200 Gaba Tepe (tr. Kaba Tepe), xxix Gaelic, xix, 72, 74, 79, 92n11, 94nn19– 20, 206.

Index

See also Irish (ir.) Gaisberg, Fred (1873–1951), 49, 59n13 Galicia, 222n27 Gallipol (tr. Çanakkale): Gallipoli landings, xix–xxi, xxvii– xxxi, xxx, xxxiiinn3–4, 1, 3, 21, 25nn4–5, 26n12, 69, 99, 126n25, 160, 167–68, 173–74, 178, 185n23, 187n30, 188n34, 188n36, 189n37, 201, 212, 231; Gallipoli Peninsula, xiv, xvi, xxv– xxix, xxx, xxxii, xxxvn13, 1–2, 21, 25n4, 67–70, 83–84, 157–59, 162, 167, 171–74, 185nn18–19, 186n25, 191–97, 203, 207, 209, 217nn2–4, 218n7, 231, 236, 239n17; Gallipoli victory, xxvii–viii, 3–4, 19, 21, 25n4, 161, 196, 210, 220n18, 224n37, 235. See also Dardanelles Gallipoli, xvii, 157–69, 172–73, 176– 78, 177, 181, 182n5, 183n13 “Gallipoli prayer”, 3 Gallipoli Symphony (2015), xxvii, 26n12, 198–202, 217, 218nn8–10, 219n13 Gambrinos Birahanesi, 46 Gammage, William (1942-), 159–60 Garden of Remembrance, 232 Gauck, Joachim, president of Germany (s. 2012–7), 25n2, 212 Gaul, August (1869–1922), 31 gazi (en. warrior) , 20, 23, 210 “Gazi Osman Pasha March” (tr. “Gazi Osman Paşa Marşı”), 10 Gelibolu-Gallipoli, Gallipoli: The Frontline Experience, 177, 180, 189nn38–39 Gellert, Leon (1892–1977), xi, 174–75, 175, 186nn25–27 Genç Kalemler, 113, 130, 150n2 gender, 15–16, 79, 88, 138, 140 genealogy, xix, xxiii, xxxiiin2, 65, 86, 89 Genealogy, 213–14, 223nn33–34

281

General Post Office (GPO), 220n18, 232 General Staff Command (tr. Genelkurmay Başkanlığı), 101 genocide, xiv, xxvii, xxxi, 1, 4, 25n2, 188n33, 212–14, 222n30, 223n32, 223n35, 227–31, 236nn1–3, 237nn4–7, 239n11 geopolitics (gr. Geopolitik), 121, 209 German (gr.), xiii, xxxii, 24n2, 143, 150, 188n33, 237n4 German Artisans’ Association (gr. Deutsche Handwerkerverein), 45 German Empire, xxvi, xxxii, 36–37, 121 German Military Mission, xxxiii, 32–33, 35, 44–45 Germany and German, xv, xxvii, xxxii, xxxvn10, 25n2, 29–63, 67–69, 72, 90n3, 91n6, 99, 117, 121, 125n19, 131–35, 151n4, 151n6, 162, 205–6, 212, 215, 220n15, 220n21, 224n37, 238n10; German armed forces, xxviii–xix, 4, 24, 27n14, 68, 82, 99, 126n23, 132–33, 143, 146, 151n6, 165, 176; German culture, xxvii–viii, xxxvn12, 39, 46–47, 135, 150, 210; German diplomacy, xxix, 33–34, 37–38, 222n30; German music and musicians, xxvii, xxxii, xxxvn12, 29–63, 69, 210, 221n26 “G’schichten aus dem Wienerwald” (en. “Tales from the Vienna Woods”), 166 “The Giaour”, 75 Giazotto, Remo (1910–98), 164 “Girl of Dunbuidhe”, 78, 80 Givenchy (December, 1914), 68 “God Defend New Zealand” (mā. “Manaakitia mai Aotearoa”), 12 “God Save the Queen”, 12 Goldschmidt Schule, 47 Gomidas [Vardapet] (1869–1935), 213–16, 223nn35–37, 228

282 Index

Good Friday Agreement. See Belfast Agreement Görmez, Mehmet, 4, 5, 25n5 Graebner, Fritz (1877–1934), 36 Graeco-Turkish War. See War of Independence gramophone, 50, 69, 163, 166–67, 170, 182nn6–7, 185n18 Gramophone, 49–50, 59n13, 60n17, 145 “Grande Paraphrase”, 53, 61n24 Greece and Greek, xxxivn4, 22, 33, 37, 60n18, 69, 85 110, 112, 127–55, 186n25, 188n33, 193, 210, 217n3, 228; Greek antiquity, xxiv, 93, 196; Greek armed forces, 33–34, 60n18, 116, 133; Greek deportations, 217n4, 222n27; Greek music and musicians, 142–45, 152n8, 153n12, 154n15, 179, 222n29, 224n38 Greek (gk.), xiii–iv, 49, 59n13, 141, 143, 220n14 “The Green Fields of France”, also called “No Man’s Land”, 205, 207–8 “The Green Linnet”, 84 Grünberg, Jak (1872–1936), 51 Guatelli [Paşa], Callisto (1820–1899), 39, 41 Gully Ravine, also called Bruce’s Ravine (tr. Zığındere), 91n5, 183n11 Gurkhas, 162, 218n7 Hâfız Sami Efendi (1874–1943), 50 Hâfız Yaşar [Okur] (1886–1966), 147 Hagia Irene (tr. Aya İrini), 98, 102, 198, 219n13 Haim Efendi, “Edirneli” (1853–1938), 51 Half Moon Camp (gr. Halbmondlager), 37 Halide Edip [Adıvar] (1884–1964), 214, 221n25, 223n36

Halil Nuri [Yurdakul] (1898–1970), 119 Hamilton, Sir Ian (1853–1947), xxviii, xxxi, 168, 189n37 [Hancıyan], Leon Efendi ([1857]-1947), 139–40, 145, 149, 153n10 Hapsburg, 8, 52, 54, 58n9. See also Austria harmony and harmonic, xxxivn6, 15, 23, 74, 102–3, 106, 114, 121, 123nn9–10, 137, 144, 192, 198– 99, 201, 214, 227 Harper, Gresley (1884–1915), 158, 181n2 Harper, Wilfred (1890–1915), 158 Harvey, PJ (1969-), xxiv Hawes, William (1785–1846), xi, 70, 74–75, 91n8 Hegyei, Géza (1863–1926), 52 Helga, 206 Helles Memorial, 7, 16, 20 “He Poroporaoki” (en. “[Saying] Farewell”), 200 Hermes Society, 46 “Heroes of the Dardanelles”, 182n4, 188n35 Herzl, Theodor (1860–1904), 38 heteroglossia, 5, 201, 219n12 “Hey Johnnie Cope”, 171 Higgins, Michael D., president of Ireland (s. 2011-), 3, 7, 24n2, 232–36, 239n13, 239n15, High Court of Australia, 197 Hilfsverein der deutschen Juden, 47 Hill 971 (tr. Kocaçimen Tepe [303m]), 162 Hindemith, Paul (1895–1963), 43 Hirschfelder, David (1960-), 179 Hisarlık Tepesi, 195 history and historiography, xxv, 23, 71, 74, 86, 97, 196, 201–2, 204; family history, xxii; film as history, 160–63; invented history, 85, 95n24, 129, 183n11, 237n4, 238n6; official history, xxi–ii;

Index

revisionist historian, xxiii, 229 Hollande, François (s. 2012–7), 4, 213 holocaust, 212, 229, 238n7. See also Jew holy war (gr. heilige Krieg, tr. cihat), vii, xxxii, 29–63, 56, 114, 117, 121, 146, 234. See also jihad “Homage Waltz” (gr. “Huldigungen Walzer”), 53 Home Rule, 67, 71, 73, 82, 88, 90n2, 204, 233 Honored Assassin (tr. Muhterem Katil), 130, 139 Hore, Leslie (1870–1935), 198, 218n7 “Horhor the Chickpea Seller” (tr. “Leblebici Horhor”), 150 Howard, John, prime minister of Australia (s. 1996–2007), 208 “How Great Thou Art” (mā. “Whakaaria Mai”), 10, 12 Hüber, Ulrich (1872–1932), ix, 29, 30, 31, 57n2 Hughes, Frederic (1858–1944), 161 “Huldigung der Königin Victoria von Grossbritannien”, 53, 63n27 Hungary and Hungarian, 44, 52–53, 61nn23–24, 125n19, 174. See also Austria Hüseyin Sadettin [Arel] (1880–1955), 103, 123n11 hybrid musics, 142–45 Hybrid Turks. See Yarım Türkler Hyde Park, xxii Ibn al-ʿArabī (1165–1240), 116 İbrahim Efendi, “Mısırlı” (1881–1933), 49 İbrahim Mehmet Ali (1874–1936), 172, 221 identity, xxvii, xxxii, xxxivn6, xxxvin15, 54, 61n23, 154, 179; Armenian identity, 231, 239n11; Australian identity, 159; Irish identity, 69, 72, 74, 85, 89, 232;

283

Turkish identity, 45, 109, 128 ideology, xxxvin15, 38, 109, 113–14, 121, 125n19, 147, 151n3, 215 “If England Wants a Hand Well Here it Is!”, 165 imperialism and imperialist, xix, xxxi, 9, 38, 52, 69, 81, 83–84, 88, 117, 121, 130, 202–3, 207. See also nationalism Imperial Music Academy (tr. Muzıka-ı Hümâyûn), 40, 42, 44, 123n10, 149 Imperial War Graves Commission (IWGC), 194 İnce, Kamran (1960-), 198, 201 “Independence March” (tr. “İstiklâl Marşı”), 6, 57n3, 60 India and Indian, xxi, 5, 25n5, 37, 62n27, 68, 83, 90n4, 120nn21–22, 131, 137, 162–63, 165, 170, 185n19, 218n7, 236. See also East India Company “Indigo and the Forty Thieves” (gr. “Indigo und die vierzig Räuber”), 53 “The Invasion”, 198 “Invercargill March”, 197 Ireland and Irish, xvii–xxx, xxxii, xxxiiin2, xxxivn5, 3, 10, 15, 24nn1–3, 65–95, 158, 181, 192, 201, 204–5, 206–7, 209, 217n2, 220nn17–18, 229–34, 227–39; Irish armed forces, xxi–ii, xxv–xxix, xxxii, xxxiiin1, xxxiiinn4–5, 3, 25n3, 56, 65–95, 162, 167, 171, 203–7, 216, 227–39; Irish famine, 55, 71–73, 84, 229–31, 238n7; Irish music and musicians, 77, 85– 88, 93n15, 95n24. See also Britain, Celt, England, Ulster “I Remember and Demand” (am. “Hishum Em Ev Pahanjum”), 213, 223n32

284 Index

Irish (ir.), xiii, xxxiiin2, 72, 76–77, 79–80, 84, 85, 92n11, 94nn20–21, 95n24. See also Gaelic Irish Brigade, 78, 82–83, 84, 89, 90n2, 203 Irish Catholic, xix, xxi, 3, 67, 82–83, 88–89, 92n10, 92n12, 94n19. See also Catholic Irish Protestant, 82, 88, 92n10, 94. See also Protestant Irish Volunteers, 67–68, 82, 90n3, 232, 234 Islamicism (tr. İslâmcılık), 1,12, 23, 37–39, 109–11, 114–16, 121, 129, 134, 139, 155n19, 217n3, 225n39. See also Ottomanism, Turkism Islamic State (ISIL) (tr. İslam Devleti [IŞİD]), 2 İsmail Dede Efendi (1778–1846), 141 İsmail Hakkı Bey, “Muallim” (1865– 1927), 7, 104–7, 114, 123n12, 123n14, 144, 147–49, 153n10, 155n20, 184n14 İsmail[ye], 31, 55, 57n2 Istanbul, xv, xix, xxviii–ix, xxxivn8, 19, 21–22, 25n4, 27n14, 29–63, 97– 126, 127–55, 170, 178, 184n14, 184n17, 187n31, 188n33, 198–99, 210–11, 215, 217n4, 219n11, 221n25, 222n30, 225n39, 237n3. See also Constantinople İstanbul Efendisi (en. Gentleman of Istanbul) 135, 139–45, 153nn10– 14, 212 İstanbul Heyet-i Edebiyesi, 31 Istanbul Radio (tr. İstanbul Radyosu), xv, 43 Istanbul University (tr. İstanbul Üniversitesi), 44 Italy and Italian, 29, 33–34, 117, 130– 31, 142; Italian armed forces, 117, 130, 132–33; Italian music and musicians, 39–41, 61n23, 123n10, 130, 164, 169

İzak Algazi (1889–1952), 51, 61n20, 145, 211 Jacobite, 72, 77, 81, 90n2 James I, King of Scotland (r. 1424–37), 73 “James Connolly”, 232 janissary, 9–11, 39, 101, 107–8, 120; janissary music and musicians, ix, xxvii, xxxii, 4, 4, 6–13, 16–17, 26nn7–8, 39, 44, 97–126, 135, 141, 144, 149–50, 184n15, 213, 235. See also band, military music “Janissary Invitation” (tr. “Mehter Cağırı”), 11–12 “Janissary Prayer” (tr. ‘Mehter Gülbankı’), 11–12 Jarre, Jean-Michel (1948-), 164 “Je suis un enfant de paix”, 5 Jew and Jewish, xxxi, 38, 44, 47–48, 51–55, 58nn8–12, 61n21, 62n26, 63n28, 140, 142–43, 146–47, 177, 211, 217n3, 220n15, 222n29, 224n38, 227–28, 235, 238n7; Jewish entrepreneurs, xxvii, 48–51, 140; Jewish music and musicians, xxxii, 43, 51, 60nn18–20, 142, 149. See also holocaust, Poland Jewish Enlightenment, also called Haskalah, 47–48 jihad (tr. cihat), 19, 25n4, 29–63, 105, 109, 114, 117, 120, 135–37, 146, 211. See also holy war, martyr Joint Historical and Archaeological Survey (JHAS), 196 Joseph, Wilfred (1927–97), 179 Judge, Jack (1872–1938), 165 Justice and Development Party (tr. Adalet ve Kalkıma Partisi [AKP]), 2 kaiserlicher Musikdirektor, 39–41 Kampf vor den Dardanellen (en. Battle before the Dardanelles), 29, 30

Index

Kano, xix kanto, 49–50, 140, 142, 145, 148, 153n12 kâr-ı nev, 137 Kay, John, prime minister of New Zealand (s. 2008–16), 3 Kaynak, Sadettin (1895–1961), 141, 153n11, 221n22 Kâzım [Uz], “Muallim” (1872–1938), 107 Kelly, Frederick “Sep” (1881–1916), 172 Kevser [Hanım], “Kemanî” (1887– 1963), 21–22, 210, 221n23 Khartoum, xix Kitchener, H. Herbert [Lord] (1850– 1916), 68 “Kleftico Vlachiko”, 51, 60n18 klezmer. See Jewish music Koehne, Graeme (1956-), 199 Königliche akademische Hochschule für Musik, 42 Kossuth, Lajos (1802–94), 53, 62n24 Krithia (tr. Kirte), ix, xxxi, 82, 149, 169, 172, 172 Krupp, 45 Kurd and Kurdish, 2, 5, 111, 142, 211, 217n3, 235; Kurdish armed forces, 2, 9, 239n17; Kurdish music and musicians, 9, 50, 239n17 Kurdish (kr.), 143, 239n17 Kyrgyz (tr. Kırgız), 129 lament, xxxii, 1, 7, 9, 13–15, 20–23, 186n25, 206, 208, 213, 235; Irish lament, 1, 72–73, 77, 78, 80, 88, 92; Turkish lament, 13, 168, 178, 188n34, 221n22, 235. See also chant, funeral “Lament for Adana” (am. “Adanayi Voghperke”, tr. “Adana Ağıtı”), 232 Lane, Denny (1818–95), also called Donal na Glanna, 70, 72, 92n9, 92n11, 205, 242, 248–49

285

Lange, Paul (1857–1919), 39–46, 55, 57n6, 149, 155n20, 210, 221n26 “Last Post”, 4, 6, 8, 168, 197–98, 200– 201, 203, 232, 235. See also “First Post” late Ottoman period (1826–1922), xv, xxxii, 57n6, 100, 128, 134, 150n2, 222n28. See also Ottoman Latham, Chris, 185, 197–201, 218n8 Laz, 143 Lebensraum, 121 Lemnos, 171, 182n6, 182n9, 185n20, 187n27 Levnî (d. 1732), 12 Liebermann, Max (1847–1935), 31 The Lighthorsemen, 177, 180 Limpus, Sir Arthur (1863–1931), 33, 131 Liszt, Franz (1811–86), 52–53, 61n23– 24 Lone Pine (tr. Kanlı Sırt), 7, 16, 161– 62, 171, 174, 178–79, 186n24, 191, 193, 195 Longmans, 75–76 “Lord Have Mercy” (am. “Der Voghormia”), 214 Louis XIV, King (r. 1643–1715), 72 Louis XVI, King (r. 1774–93), xvii Lueger, Karl (1844–1910), 52 lute, 10, 20, 22 Lynch, Jack, taoiseach of Ireland (s. 1966–73, 1977–9), 213, 238n9 MacCarthy-O’Leary, William or “Billy” (1894–1916), 65–67, 66, 89, 91n5, 219n14, 236 Maclean, Charles “of Pennycross” (d. 1948), 171 MacLennan, Kenneth, 171, 185n21 Mahdi, xvii Mahmut I, Sultan (r. 1730–54), 140 Mahmut II, Sultan (r. 1808–39), 39, 98 Mahmut Ragip [Gazimihal] (1900–61), 43 “Maid of the Mourne Shore”, 27

286 Index

Malone, William (1859–1915), 191, 219n14 Malta, 68, 121, 126n25, 150n2, 178 Māori, 198, 201, 218n7; Māori armed forces, 162, 200; Māori dance, 13–16, 185n18; Māori music and musicians, xxxi, 7, 10, 13–16, 197–98, 200–201; Māori ritual, 13–16. See also ANZAC, New Zealand Māori (mā.), xiii, 12 march. See military music “Marche des Jannissaires”, 103 “March of the Standard” (tr. “Sancak Marşı”), 7 Maritime Museum (tr. Deniz Müzesi), 21 Markus, David (1870–1944), 47–48, 58nn9–10 “Marriage of Himmet Ağa” (tr. “Himmet Ağanın İzdivacı”), 150 “La Marseillaise”, 165, 167 martyr (tr. şehit) and martyrdom, xxxivn4, 18, 20, 23, 55, 210–11, 221n25, 233–34. See also jihad Martyrs’ Memorial (tr. Şehitler Anıtı), 2, 16, 20, 24n2, 213, 217n3 May, Brian (1934–97), 166, 183n13 McCormack, John [Count] (1884– 1945), 163, 185n17 McMahon, Ted ([1895-]), 169–7, 197–99 Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF), xiv, 189n37 Mehmet Akif [Ersoy] (1873–1936), 6, 210 Mehmet Çavuş Abidesi (en. Monument to Sergeant Mehmet), 195 Mehmet Emin [Yurdakul] (1869–1944), 147, 154n17, 155n19, 216, 223 Mehmet Ubeydullah [Hatipoğlu] (1858–1937), 136–37 Mehmet V, Sultan (r. 1909–18), 35, 42, 149

“Mehter March” (tr. “Mehter Marşı”), xxvii, 104–10, 113–14, 121, 124n13, 244, 250 Melodrama, 142 memoir and memorabilia, xv, xxi–ii, xxvi, xxviii, xxxi–ii, 58n8, 91nn7–8, 93nn13–14, 93n17, 99, 137, 170. 180, 181n2, 239n17 memory and memorial, xiii–xxxvi, 1, 3–4, 10, 16–17, 25n3, 73, 103, 186n25, 191–95, 200–203, 213, 215, 230, 232, 236, 237nn4–5, 239n17, 249. See also archeology, oral transmission Mesut Cemil [Tel] (1902–63), 43 metaphor, xxvi, xxxivn6, 18, 80, 173– 74, 198, 201 meyhane, 46, 144 Middle East Ensemble (UCLA), 227 Milesius and Milesian, xix, xxxiiin2, 85–86, 89, 95n24 militarism and militarization, xxxi–ii, xxxvn14, 9, 12, 18, 202–5, 208, 217; Australian militarism, xxxvn14, 193, 202–4, 208–9; British militarism, xxiii, 14, 25n3, 202–5, 236; Irish militarism, xxvii, xxxii, 204, 206, 232; Prussian militarism, 32, 117. See also peace Military Academy (tr. Mekteb-i Harbiye), 47, 98, 149, 150n2 Military Band of the Second Army Corp (tr. İkinci Kolordu Bölge Bando Komutanlığı), 5 Military Cross, xxi military maneuver, 6–7, 16–19, 20–23, 203, 232 Military Museum (tr. Asker Müzesi), xxxii, 97–126, 98, 150, 210, 221n24 military music, 4–16, 21, 40–44, 49–53, 100, 104–14, 118, 121, 123n12, 144–49, 155n18, 172, 183n11,

Index

184n14, 185n22, 197, 204, 208, 210, 213, 235. See also janissary, song Militia Act (1793), 82 Millî Osmanlı Kumpanyası, 138 Millî Osmanlı Tiyatrosu, 138 Mınakyan, Mardiros (1839–1920), 135, 152n9 Ministry of Education (tr. Maarif Nezareti), 43 Ministry of the Interior (tr. Dahiliye Nezareti), 138 mobilization, xxvi, xxix, 33, 37, 90n3, 145–48, 154n16, 188n34, 234, 237n5 Monash, Sir John (1865–1931), 170, 220n15 Monk, Archibald, 171, 185n20 “Mons and Gallipoli”, 177, 180 monument. See memory Moore, Thomas (1779–1852), 70, 74– 77, 80, 85–88, 93nn14–18, 243 “Moorlough Shore”, 205, 206–7 Morgenthau, Henry (1856–1946), 214, 217n4, 220n21, 222n27, 222n30, 223nn36–37 Morto Bay, 20 Moses, xix, 89 motherland or homeland (tr. vatan), 18, 111, 115, 135, 147, 148, 211, 250 “The Mountains of Mourne”, xxv, 70–75, 70, 85–86, 88, 91n8, 205, 206–7, 236 mouth organ, 167, 170, 183n11, 200 Mozart, W. Amadeus (1756–91), 40, 178, 187n29 Müfit Ratip [Bey] (1887–1920), 135–36 Müller, Max (1823–1900), 113 Municipal Band (tr. Belediye Bandosu), 40 Münir Nurettin [Selçuk] (1899–1981), xiv, xvi, 137–38, 152n8, 187n8 Murdoch, Keith (1885–1952), xxxi, 159, 201 Murdoch, Rupert (1935-), 159

287

Murphy, Edwin “Dryblower” (1866– 1939), 167 Musahipzâde Celâl [Musahipzâde] (1868–1959), 139–42, 144, 149, 152n10, 153nn13–14, 211 Musa Süreyya Bey (1884–1932), 42–43 museum and museology, xxiii, 32, 97–126, 144, 198, 213 Museum of the Islamic Foundations (tr. Efkaf-ı İslâmiye Müzesi), 141 Musiki-i Osmanî, [Darü’l], 138–39, 149 Muslim. See chant, gazi Mustafa Kemal [Atatürk] (1881–1938), xiv, xxvii–viii, xxxi, xxxvn11, 6, 18–19, 26n13, 44, 120, 126n24, 163, 178, 187n31, 196, 200, 210– 11, 216, 225n39 Naciye Sultan (1898–1957), 108 Napoleonic wars (1804–14), 83–84, 169, 210 nationalism and nationalist, xix, xxiii, xxxi, xxxivn5, 1, 3, 18–19, 42, 55, 67, 71–77, 92n10, 94n19, 101, 111, 114–16, 121, 125nn19–20, 128, 135, 138, 147, 152n7, 155n19, 158, 174, 204, 206–10, 215–16, 223n36, 231, 234, 236, 237nn6–7, 238n9. See also imperialism National Volunteers. See Irish Volunteers nation (tr. millet), 18, 133, 145, 147 Naval Society (tr. [Osmanlı] Donanma Cemiyeti), 34, 127–55. See also battleship Necmeddin Sahir [Sılan] (1891–1992), 133–35 Nek (tr. Cesaret Tepe), 158–63, 191, 192, 218n7 nevbet and nevbethane, 117, 125n21 Newfoundland, 197, 203, 234 New Zealand and New Zealander, xiv, xxii, xxxii, 3, 14, 181, 196–97, 203, 219nn13–14; New Zealand armed forces, 161–62, 171, 189n37, 203;

288 Index

New Zealand culture, 12, 26n10, 201–2; New Zealand music and musicians, 12, 16, 24n1, 185n19, 189n39, 197, 200–201. See also Allied, ANZAC, Māori nightingale (pr. bolbol), 76, 249 Noah, xix, xxxiiin2, 89 North America, 229–30 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 18 Northern Ireland. See Ireland Nunns, Richard (b. 1945), 200 O’Carolan, Turlough (1670–1738), xxxiiin2, 95n24 oceanography, xxviii O’Connell, Daniel (1775–1847), 74, 92n10 O’Connell, Daniel Count (1745–1833), xxxiiin1, 89 O’Connell, Maurice (1889–1949), xix, xx O’Connell, Seamus (1863–1925), xvii, xix, xxi O’Connor, Sinéad (1966-), 230–31, 238n9 Odeon Records, 49–51, 59nn13–14 “Old Army March” (tr. “Eski Ordu Marşı”), 7 “Old Gallipoli”, xxv, xxvii, xxxii, 65–95, 182n4, 205, 206–7, 236, 242, 248 “Olive Branches” (tr. “Zeytin Dalları”), 5 “One Hundred Seconds for One Hundred Years”, 200 O’Neill, Charles (1887–1963), 204, 205, 216, 246, 251 “Only One” (tr. “Tekbir”), 13, 168, 250 opera and operetta, 41, 50, 53–54, 76, 123n10, 130, 140, 142, 148, 150, 153n10, 153n12, 163–64 Opera Sineması, 178, 187n31 Oppenheim, Max “Frieherr” von (1860– 1946), 37–38

Ó Raifteiri, Antoine (1779–1835), 79 oral transmission, xxii, xxv, 9, 21, 26n8, 70, 84, 85–86, 103, 216, 229. See also memory orchestra, 39–46, 50–51, 53, 123n10, 143, 145, 166, 179, 181, 184n17, 186, 196–201, 218nn8–11 Order of Mejidieh (tr. Mecidiye Nişanı), xvii–viii, xviii, 53, 98 Order of St Louis, xvii Orfeon Records, 50–51, 59nn15–16, 145, 147, 210, 211 organology, 26, 87 orientalism and orientalist, 8, 52, 55, 94, 99; German orientalism, 36–38; Irish orientalism, xix, xxvii, xxxii, 85–88, 95n24, 206; Turkish orientalism, 107, 142, 153n13 Örnek, Tolga (1972-), 177, 180 ortaoyunu, 140, 142, 153n10, 153nn13– 14, 211. See also theater Ortyalı, İlber (1947-), 141 Osman Şevki [Uludağ] (1889–1964), 137 Osman Zeki [Üngör] (1880–1958), 6, 44 O’Sullivan Beare, Domhnall (1561– 1618), 78, 80, 84 ottava rima, 29, 57nn1–2. See also poetry Ottoman and Ottoman: Ottoman armed forces, xiv, xxv, 9, 33–45, 53, 99, 118, 130–33, 145– 46, 149, 151n4, 151n6, 154n16, 170, 179, 182n6, 189n37, 189n39; Ottoman debt, 32, 35–36, 45; Ottoman-German relations, 29–63; Ottoman minorities, xxxi–ii, 55, 110, 114, 127–55, 193, 211–12, 216, 229, 235, 238n6; Ottoman music and musicians, 42, 52, 145, 227. See also alaturka, alafranga, late Ottoman period

Index

Ottoman-Greek war (1897), 22 Ottomania, 235 Ottomanism and neo-Ottomanism, 1, 5, 7, 12, 23, 110–16, 129–30, 217n3, 235. See also Islamicism, Turkism Ottoman (ot.), xiii–iv, 2, 57n4, 111, 143 “Ottoman March” (tr. “Osmaniye Marşı”), 41 Ottoman-Russian War (1787–92), 31 Otyam, Nedim (1919–2008), 141 “Oxygène”, 164 Ozanoğlu, İhsan (1907–81), 21–22 Paganini, Niccolò (1782–1840), 166 Palestine, 38, 54, 180 parade and procession, 1–27, 62n25, 97, 100, 105, 143, 154n15, 157, 169– 70, 203–5, 209, 213, 232, 238 paradisiacal garden (pr. golestan), 76 parliamentary delegate, 127, 136 parody, xxii, xxv, xxxii, xxxvn4, xxxvn14, 29, 71, 85–86, 88, 128, 148, 150n1, 159 Pathé (tr. Pate), 48–50, 220n18 peace and pacifism, xxxi, 3, 4, 7, 10, 18, 23–24, 77, 83, 128, 137, 181n4, 192, 198–200, 204–9, 213–14, 217, 233, 235. See also militarism “The Pearl Fishers” (fr. “Les pêcheurs de perles”), 163–64 Pearse, Patrick or Pádraig (1879–1916), 220n19, 234, 252 Penal Laws, 73, 92n12 Persia and Persian, 37–38, 76, 93n16, 95n23, 111, 116, 202, 211 Persian (pr.), xiii, 74, 76, 116, 125n21 peşrev, 102, 122nn8–9 Phoenicians, 102, 122nn8–9 photograph and photography, xv, xvii, xix, xxi–ii, xxviii, 17, 58n8, 58n11, 99–100, 120, 138, 166, 181, 182n6, 184n16, 191, 196, 231 Picnic at Hanging Rock, 176, 177

289

Pisani, Bartolomeo (1811–93), 40 “Po Atarau” (en. “Now is the Hour”), 200, 215 poet and poetry, xxi–ii, xxvi, xxxii, 18, 203, 210, 220n15–16; Australian poetry, 172–76, 186n25, 187n27; German poetry, 29–30, 55, 57n5, 63n29; Irish poetry, 69–81, 69, 73–81, 86–88, 92n9–10, 93n14, 94n21, 95n24, 220n19; Turkish poetry, 19, 32, 105, 109–15, 119, 121, 124n13, 124n16, 127– 55, 216, 221nn22–23. See also ottava rima, prosody Poland and Polish, 48, 59n12, 99. See also Jew popular music, xxiv–v, 4–5, 22, 49–50, 140, 154n15, 165, 186n24, 188n35, 207–8, 201, 213, 219n10. See also song Port Lincoln, 157 Praetorious, Ernst (1880–1946), 44 Prague Symphony Orchestra, 181 Prince Henry of Wales (1984-), 2 propaganda, 31, 38, 131, 139, 148, 222n30 prosody, 79, 105, 110, 124n13, 176, 187n28. See also poetry Protestant, xiv, 3, 9, 67, 72–75, 78, 79– 85, 90n3, 92n10, 94n19, 94n21, 207, 220n17. See also Irish Protestant psychology, xxiv public engagement, 103, 108 puppet theater (tr. karagöz), 142, 145, 147, 153nn13–15 Putin, Vladimir, president of Russia (s. 2012-), 4, 212 Qur’an (tr. Kur’an-ı Kerim), xiv, 4, 5, 11, 105, 115, 132, 143, 147, 168, 179. See also sura

290 Index

R&R Films, 159, 177 Racy, Jihad (1943-), 227 Radeglia, Vittorio (1863-), 102, 123n10, 145, 155n20 Raûf Yekta Bey (1871–1935), 43, 48, 102–3, 123n9, 155n20 Raymond, Ernest (1888–1974), 178 “Red Apple” (tr. “Kızıl Elma”), 111–15 Redgrave, Michael (1908–85), 179 Redmond, John (1856–1918), 67–68, 82, 90nn2–3, 233 Refik [Fersan] (1893–1965), 139, 144 Regal Records, 165 Regency period (1811–20), 75 reiteration, xxvii, 173 Relief Act (1793), 82 remember and remembrance, 1, 3, 13, 18, 25n3, 25n5, 40, 48, 80–81, 97, 114, 169–70, 192, 196–99, 203–5, 208–9, 220n17, 230–34, 233. See also commemorate, ritual “Remembrance Day”, xxiv Remembrance Sunday, 3 Repeal Association (1830–48), 73, 88, 92nn9–10 “Re-sounding Gallipoli”, 186n23, 196– 99, 217, 218n6. See also concert “Reveille”. See “First Post” review and reviewer, xxxvn14, 26n11, 40, 44, 61n19, 74–76, 102–3, 135–36, 173, 188n33, 199, 218n6, 218n9, 220n20 Rigoletto, 130 ritual, xxxivn6, xxxivn8, 3, 6–8, 13–16, 37, 122n5, 145–46; Christian ritual, 167, 205, 213, 219n14, 252; commemorative ritual, xxvi, xxxi, xxxvn13, 1–27, 195–96, 200, 212–13, 235–36; Muslim ritual, 10–13, 115, 143, 146, 167–68, 188n32. See also commemorate, remember, silent

River Clyde, xx–i, xx, xxxiiin3 róisín dubh (en. black rosette), 79 Romani, 153n12, 154n15, 232 Romania, 24n1, 48–49, 58nn11–12, 60n18, 126n23 “The Rosary”, 170, 197 rose, 76, 81, 166, 249 “Rosen aus dem Süden” (en. “Roses from the South”), 166 Rosselson, Leon (1934-), xxiv “The Row in the Town”, 232 The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo, 14 Royal Irish Fusiliers, 171 Royal Marines, 171 Royal Munster Fusiliers, xxi, xxxiii, 68, 81, 83, 89, 90nn4–5, 236 Royal Welch Fusiliers, 162 Russell’s Top (tr. Yüksek Sırt), 161 Russia and Russian, xxvi, xxix, xxxvn13, 4, 31–35, 39, 47–48, 53, 55, 57n2, 81, 95n23, 114, 120, 125n18, 125n20, 146, 150, 154n16, 212, 223n34, 237n4, 238n10 Russo-Turkish War (1877–8) Saint-Saëns, Camille (1835–1921), 102 Salonica, 49, 130, 150n2, 154n18 salutation (mā. karanga), 13–15 “Salute Our Martyrs” (tr. “Şehitlerimize Selâm Olsun”), 20 Sanders, Otto Liman von (1855–1929), 33 Sargsyan, Serzh [s. 2008-], 4 Sarısözen, Muzaffer (1899–1963), 21–22 Sarsfield, Patrick (1660–93), 72, 80 satire. See parody Saxon, 71–72, 77, 78, 79, 81, 86, 88, 92n10, 94n21 Saygun, Adnan (1907–91), 44 Schiller, Friedrich (1759–1802), 135 Schlieffen plan, 33 Schubert, Franz (1797–1828), 180 Schultz, Andrew (1960-), 199

Index

Scotland and Scottish, 9, 13–16, 73–79, 93n13, 94n20, 158, 162, 165, 171, 172, 177, 203, 207. See also Britain Scott, Sir Walter (1771–1832), 73–75, 93n13 Sculthorpe, Peter (1929–2014), 200 “Sebastopol March” (tr. “Sivastapol Marşı”), 10 Second Boer War (1899–1902), 83–84, 89, 180, 202 Second Gulf War (2003–11), 202 Second World War (1939–45), xxiii, 14, 220n17 Seddülbahir, 32 Şehzâdebaşı Millet Tiyatrosu, 130 semaî (ar. semāʿī), 11, 103, 107, 124n15, 145, 227 Sermet Muhtar [Alus] (1887–1952), 104 Şeyhülislam, 35, 44, 55 Shaw, Stanford (1930–2006), 227–29, 236n1 “The Shores of Gallipoli”, 205, 207 Sikh, 162, 192 silent and silence, xxi, xxiii–v, xxxiii, 4, 6–7, 12–16, 97, 100, 166, 178, 186n25, 203, 208, 213, 235, 237n4. See also ritual “Silent Night”, 170, 197 Silésu, [Stanis] Lao (1883–1953), 169 Simoneau, Léopold (1916–2006), 164 sites of memory (fr. lieux de mémoire, milieux de mémoire), xxv, xxxivn8 Slater, Joe (1872–1926), 165 Smyrna (tr. İzmir), 61n23, 136, 188n33 Sofia, 120, 126n24, 139 “The Soldier”, 180 Soldier’s Memorial (tr. Mehmetçik Anıtı), 3 “The Soldier’s Song” (ir. “Amhran na bhFiann”), 8, 232 song and singer: 10, 23, 75–76, 95n23, 95n24, 119, 140, 142, 165, 184n17, 197–98, 213–14, 230;

291

“classical” song, 43, 130, 137, 144– 45, 148, 163–64, 173; folk song. See folk; military song. See military music; national song, 4, 6–8, 12, 16, 49, 60n16, 232, 235; popular song. See popular; religious song. See chant, lament, ritual “A Song of Peace”, 5 “Song of the National Soldier” (tr. “Millî Asker Şarkısı”), 147 Souchon, Wilhelm (1864–1946), 34–35 sound recording, xv, xxv, 49–51, 59nn13–19, 145–48, 163–67, 182nn6–7, 184n17, 186n24, 207, 210–11, 222n28. See also commerce Southern Ireland. See Ireland Special Organization (tr. Teşkilât-ı Mahsusa), 120–21, 126n25 spectacle, 3, 14, 17–9, 108, 146, 150, 169 Sponek Bar, 46, 48 stage and staged, xxvii, xxxi–ii, 5–6, 15–16, 54, 91n7, 127–55, 164, 178, 186n24, 214 stalemate, xxviii, xxxi, 35, 70 Star Battalion (tr. Yıldız Taburu), 149 “Star Spangled Banner”, 10 Steinbruch (tr. İstaynbroh), 46 Stern’sches Konservatorium, 42–43 Stevenson, Sir John (1761–1833), 74, 93n14 Stewart, Allan (1865–1951), 172, 185n21 Stigwood, Robert (1934–2016), 159 Strasbourg Brasserie (tr. Strazburg Birahanesi), 46 Strauss, Eduard (1835–1916), 53 Strauss, Isaac, also called the “Parisian” Strauss (1806–88), 54, 62n26 Strauss I, Johann (1805–1849), 54, 62nn26–28 Strauss II, Johann (1829–99), 53–54, 166, 173

292 Index

stretcher bearers, 171 Suez Canal, xix, 37–38, 62n25 Sülemaniye Mosque, 210 sura, 5, 11, 132, 168. See also Qur’an Sururi, “Meddah” (1874–1934), 211 Suvla Bay, xxxi, 25n3, 159–61, 163, 170, 178, 186n25, 189n37, 191, 192, 205–7, 251–52 Syllabic Poets, 110–13, 124n16 Syria, 2, 237n3 Sythia, 87 Talât Paşa, [Mehmet] (1874–1921), minister of the interior (s. 1914– 7), 136, 139, 223n36, 224n37, 229, 237n3 Tanzimat era (1839–75), 39, 129 Tartar, 114, 193 tattoo, 9, 14, 236, 251 Tekbilek, Ömer (1951-), 198, 200–201 Tell England, 177, 178, 187n31 Tenth Light Horse Regiment, 158, 164–66 Tepebaşı Bahçesi, 46 Teutonia, 40–41, 45 Tevfik Bey [Kolaylı], “Neyzen” (1875– 1953), 119, 126n23 “Tevhid”, 111, 115–16, 121, 168 theater, 39, 44, 46, 48, 59n14, 91n7, 127–55, 210. See also ortaoyunu “This Little Bit of the World Belongs to Us”, 167 “Thoughts of Home”, 200 Thrace (tr. Trakya), 120, 222n27 Three Types of Politics (tr. Üç Tarz-ı Siyaset), 114, 134 “Tipperary”, xxi, 69, 165, 167, 183n11, 185n18 Tönnies, Ferdinand (1855–1936), 116 Treaty of Berlin (1878), xxix, 27n14, 59n12 Treaty of Lausanne (1923), 194

Treaty of Limerick (1691), 72, 81, 89, 92n12 Treaty of Mudros (1918), 42 Treaty of Sèvres (1920), 193 Triple Entente, xiv, xxix, 27n14, 29, 32–35, 37–38, 55, 59n12, 135, 222n27. See also Central Powers Tripolitanian War (1911–2), 117, 130, 132 Troy and Trojan, xxxivn4, 89, 165, 187n27, 196 “The Trumpeter”, 197 tuğra, xvii “Turân”, 112–18, 121, 125n18, 129–30, 134, 251 Turanianism, 109, 113–16, 121, 125nn18–19, 129“ Turanian March” (tr. “Turân Marşı”), also called “March of the Turkish Race” (tr. “Türk Kavmînin Marşı”), 108–10, 112–14, 121, 245, 250Turkestan, xix, 112, 115, 251 Turkey and Turk, xiv–v, xxi, xxvi–ix, xxxii, xxxvn12, 1–27, 29–63, 65–70, 75, 82, 86, 91n6, 95n22, 97–126, 127–55, 157–58, 173, 178–81, 191–225, 227–39; Turkish armed forces, xxv, xxxi, 1–27, 89, 99, 101, 117, 119, 158– 62, 169, 171, 178–79, 184n17, 188nn33–34, 191–93, 227–39; Turkish minorities, 2, 5, 44, 52, 110, 114, 209, 211, 227–39; Turkish music and musicians, xxxii, 26n7, 44, 97–126, 137–38, 141, 145, 148, 150n1, 153n13, 167–68, 179, 181, 184n16, 201, 218nn9– 11, 219n14, 224n38, 227, 239n11; Turkish refugees, 134, 142. See also early Republican period turkify, 110–11, 144, 224n36 Turkish (tr.), xiii–v, xix, xxviii–ix, 173, 179, 183n14, 186nn24–25, 222n28, 223nn36–37, 239n17

Index

Turkish Blood (tr. Türk Kanı), 130, 139 Turkish “classical” music, 26n8, 141, 144, 148, 153n10. See also alaturka, “classical” Turkish Hearth (tr. Türk Ocağı), 114, 154n17, 221nn24–25 Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism (tr. TC Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı), 188n36, 219n13 Turkism (tr. Türkçülük) and pan-Turkism, 36, 109–17, 121, 125n18, 125n20, 127–45, 147, 150n2, 151n3, 152n10, 154n17, 211, 214–15, 221n25, 234. See also Islamicism, Ottomanism Türkiye Radyo ve Televizyon Kurumu [TRT], 20, 22 türkü, 50, 111, 115, 130, 144, 148 Ulster, xvii, xxxivn5, 67, 81, 165, 182n5, 207, 234. See also Ireland Ulster Protestants, 9, 67 Ulster Volunteers, 67, 90n3, 205, 234 Union Française, 46 unionist junta, xiv, 132–39, 151n6 United Irishmen, 81–82, 88. See also Ireland United Kingdom, 203–4. See also Britain “Un peu d’amour” (en. “A Little Love”), 169, 184n17 Unsound Foundation (tr. Çürük Temel), 150 Unwin, Edward (1864–1950), xxxiiin3 Vámbéry, Ármin (1832–1913), 114 Van, 231–32, 239nn10–11 Vangelis (1943-), 177 Variety Theater (tr. Varyete Tiyatrosu), 142, 222n26 “Vatan Marşı” (en. “Motherland March”), 41, 147, 184n14, 197 “V” Beach (tr. Ertuğrul Koyu), xix, xxi, xxxi

293

Verdi, Giuseppe (1813–1901), 130, 152n9 veteran, xxi, xxiv–v, 20–21, 26n11, 161, 179–80, 204, 208, 219n18 Victoria, Queen (r. 1837–1901), xvii, xix, 62n27, 71 Victor Records, 165 Vienna, 47, 52–55, 58n9, 59n13, 61nn21–22, 62n26, 63n28, 123n10 Vietnam War, 160, 208 volley, 6, 20 Voltan, Alessandro, also called Macar Tevfik (1853–1941), 52–53, 61n23 “Waltzing Matilda”, 188n35, 205, 207–9, 216 Wangenheim, Hans Freiherr von (1859– 1915), 33–34, 37–38 War Office (tr. Harbiye Nazareti), 65, 146 War of Independence (tr. Kurtuluş Savaşı [1919–22]), 99, 119, 179, 188n33, 204 War Requiem, xxiv war tourism, 192, 217n2 The Water Diviner (tr. Son Ümit), 177, 179, 188n33 “The Waves are Breaking” (mā. “Pōkarekare Ana”), 14 Weber, Erich P. (1860–1933), also called Weber Paşa, 35 Weimar, 53 Weinberg, Sigmund (1868-[1930]), 48–51, 58nn11–12, 149–50 Weir, Peter (1944-), 157, 166, 173, 176, 177 Wellington, Arthur (Wellesley) Duke of (1769–1852), prime minister of Great Britain and Ireland (s. 1828–30, 1834), 54–55, 83 “western” “classical” music, 26n8, 40, 42, 44, 219n12. See also alafranga, “classical”

294 Index

Western Front, xxvii–viii, xxxvn13, 25n3, 35, 65, 68, 82, 160, 176, 189n37, 195, 207 “While Going to War” (tr. “Cenge Giderken”), 147, 154n18 whistle, 69, 166, 184n15, 197 Wild Geese, 72–73, 76–77, 89, 90n2, 206, 252 Wilhelm II, Kaiser (r. 1888–1918), xiv, 35–41, 44, 51–52, 55, 57n5, 108, 114, 117, 121, 150 Williamite War (1689–91), 72, 77, 80, 90n2 With the Dardanelles Expedition: Heroes of Gallipoli, 178 A World Requiem, xxiv Yarım Türkler, xxvii, xxxii, 127–55, 234–35 “Yavuz and Midilli” (tr. “Yavuz ve Midilli), 133–35 Yıldız Palace (tr. Yıldız Sarayı), 41–42, 108, 142

Young Ireland, 72–73, 77–78, 92nn9– 11, 94n19 Young Turk period, also called İkinci Meşrutiyet (1908–18), 101, 109–10, 138, 142, 148, 152n10, 155n19 Young Turks, 33, 35, 42, 117 Yüksek Kaldırım, 47, 52, 58n9, 58n11, 61n22 Yusuf Akçura (1876–1935), 114, 125n20, 134 Yusuf İzzettin Efendi (1857–1916), 136 Zekâi Dede (1825–97), 147, 154n18 zikir (ar. dhikr), 111, 115 Zionism, 38 Ziya Gökalp, [Mehmet] (1876–1924), 111–17, 121, 124n16, 125n18, 126n25, 130, 144, 150n2, 251 Zonophone, 49 Zoroastrianism, 75 Zülfikar, 10

About the Author

John Morgan O’Connell is an Irish ethnomusicologist with a specialist interest in cultural history. Founding the program in Ethnomusicology at Cardiff University, he has also taught at Otago University (as a Lecturer in Music) and the University of Limerick (as a Senior Lecturer in Ethnomusicology), holding visiting positions at the Queen’s University Belfast and Brown University, among others. His publications concern in principle the musical traditions of the Middle East with a particular focus on music in conflict and music in application. He is currently working on a monograph that concerns music in Ireland during the Great War.

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